#the next thing i want to change is the flooring its like. not tile but like a laid sheet fake tile thing? idk

[000png]

i don't have any good pictures but i'm almost done painting my bathroom :D i painted the walls this green which i was a bit nervous about because i've never had any sort of green room period but it's really growing on me

[driverlando]

Jealous biker lando being over protective of waitress reader 👀

Dangerous Territory ── biker!lando x waitress!reader ✧.*

The diner hums with its usual late-night rhythm. The faint clatter of cutlery, the buzz of conversation, and the smell of frying bacon and coffee fill the air. You’re moving from table to table, a practiced smile on your lips as you top off mugs and serve plates. It’s late, and your shift is dragging, but it’s familiar, comforting in a way. The neon lights from the diner’s sign outside cast a soft glow over the checkered floors, painting everything in a warm, nostalgic light.

From the corner of your eye, you spot Lando in his usual booth, sitting with his back to the wall, one arm slung casually over the back of the seat. He’s always there at the end of your shifts, watching you, not in an overbearing way but in a protective, silent kind of presence. His leather jacket creaks as he leans back, his dark eyes tracking your movements with a kind of lazy interest. The dim lighting throws shadows across his sharp jawline, making him look even more dangerous than usual. He doesn’t need to say much; just his being there is enough to let everyone know you’re not alone.

You try not to focus on him too much, knowing that whenever your eyes meet, something sparks in the air between you. But it’s hard not to notice him, sitting there like a storm waiting to break, his motorcycle parked just outside, ready to whisk you away once you’ve clocked out.

As you move back to the counter, you feel someone’s eyes on you—a different kind of stare. A guy at the counter, someone you haven’t seen before, grins at you as you set a plate of food down in front of him. His smile is too wide, his eyes lingering on you a little longer than you’d like as you bring him his food. “Another burger and chips,” you say politely, sliding the plate in front of him, already moving to step back when he decides to lean in.

“You work here every night, darling?” His words are slurred but sharp enough to make your stomach turn. His eyes rake over you, from your waist up to your face, and the sleazy grin spreading across his lips sends a chill through you.

You force a smile, trying to keep things professional. “Most nights,” you reply curtly, turning away to tend to the next table, but his voice follows you, dripping with entitlement.

“You’re too pretty for a place like this,” he says, louder now, drawing a few curious glances from nearby tables. “How about you finish up here and I take you somewhere nice, eh? Bet you’ve never been treated right.” His voice greasy, oozing with an unwanted familiarity.

You freeze, fingers tightening around the coffee pot in your hand, trying to keep calm. “I’m fine, thanks,” you say through gritted teeth, praying he’ll get the hint and leave you alone.

But, of course, he doesn’t. “Oh, come on, sweetheart. Don’t be like that. I’m just trying to be friendly. How about I get your number?” He leans further over the counter, and now you can feel his breath on your skin, the stench of beer making your stomach churn.

You’re about to respond when you feel a shift in the air, a prickle of tension that’s unmistakable. Lando’s watching. And this time, he’s not staying in his booth.

From where you stand, you can see the change in everyone else—the way conversations pause, forks freeze mid-bite, and even the jukebox seems to fade into the background.

Lando’s not rushing. He never does. He walks with purpose, slow and steady, his boots thudding against the tiled floor with a deliberate weight. His leather jacket is half-zipped, the collar up, his eyes locked on the bloke at the counter with a look that could kill.

You’re caught between wanting to stop him and knowing better. Lando’s never been one to start trouble, but he doesn’t shy away from it either, especially not when it comes to you.

The guy at the counter seems blissfully unaware of the impending storm, too caught up in his own delusions of charm. “What d’you say, love? You can do better than this place, yeah?”

Before you can open your mouth, Lando steps up behind you, his chest almost brushing your back as he positions himself between you and the counter. His presence feels like a shield, his hand lightly grazing your waist, a silent gesture that says, I’ve got this.

“You’ve got about three seconds to leave,” Lando says quietly, his voice low and controlled, but there’s an edge to it that sends a shiver down your spine. The kind of tone that promises hell if the bloke doesn’t listen.

The man’s smile falters for the first time, but he tries to laugh it off. “Oi, mate, no need to get all worked up. We’re just having a bit of fun, yeah?” His eyes flick between you and Lando, clearly trying to assess if this is worth pushing.

Lando doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. “I’m not your mate,” he growls, his hand tightening slightly on your waist. “And she’s not interested. So, unless you want to be picking up your teeth from the floor, I suggest you leave.”

There’s a pause, thick with tension. Lando’s arm brushes against yours, a small but significant reminder that you’re not alone in this. His fingers twitch slightly, as if resisting the urge to do more, but his presence alone is enough to make the guy back down, finally clocking just how dangerous Lando is. He mutters something under his breath—something about not wanting trouble—and then fumbles to grab his jacket, to throw some money on the counter before practically tripping over his stool in his haste to leave. The bell jingles as it swings shut behind him, and the quiet that follows is almost deafening.

You exhale slowly, the knot in your stomach finally loosening. Lando’s hand lingers on your waist for a moment longer before he turns slightly, looking down at you. His jaw is still tight, his eyes softer now but still flickering with the remnants of protective rage.

“You alright?” His voice is gentler now, his thumb brushing your side.

You nod, offering a small smile. “Yeah, thanks”

Lando’s gaze softens as he looks at you, the intensity melting away now that the guy is gone. His hand moves to your waist, fingers brushing gently over your hip in a way that feels more like a reassurance than anything else. “Didn’t like the way he was looking at you,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough with protectiveness. “Bloke’s lucky I didn’t deck him.”

You laugh softly, though there’s a hint of truth in his words that makes you shiver. “You didn’t have to get up, I could’ve handled it.”

Lando raises an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yeah, but why let you when I’m right here?” he teases lightly, though there’s no mistaking the seriousness in his eyes. He’d do it again in a heartbeat.

You roll your eyes playfully, but you can’t deny the flutter in your chest at how easily he steps in when you need him. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” he says with a grin, tugging you just a little closer before pressing a soft kiss to your temple. His hand lingers on your waist as if he can’t bring himself to let go, even as you pull away to get back to work.

As you return to your shift, you can still feel Lando’s eyes on you, that quiet, protective presence watching over you from his booth. And though the diner’s back to its usual buzz, you feel safer, knowing Lando’s never far, ready to step in the moment you need him.

—

read After Hours here

[moodymisty]

ℭ𝔬𝔫𝔲𝔫𝔡𝔯𝔲𝔪 𝔒𝔣 𝔄 𝔙𝔦𝔠𝔱𝔯𝔦𝔵

Author's note: I have a few requests left to do but I really wanted to kind of do this sort of thing after a few asks brought it up. And the Victrix Guard designs fucking slap so, here. Part 1 of something maybe? I don't know guess I'll see how people respond.

Summary: Marcellus of the Victrix Guard has a crisis of faith.

Relationships: Marcellus(oc)/Fem!Reader

Warnings: Very vague references to lewd things, Digging into an astartes brain figuratively

"8th Company has requisitioned seven more landraiders, 2nd company needs another thunderhawk,"

Marcellus' ears picked up on your voice quickly this time, as you entered the massive room. Your Ultramarine branded robes are frayed at the bottom but in good shape overall- ornate and fitting of your stature. Unlike other chapters that allow their Administratum members to retain their original clothes, Ultramarines prefer they wear the deep blue that is symbolic of Macragge.

He watched with a bored interest, but as time goes on, the feeling yet again began to rise in him like water boiling in a geyser.

Why does his chest feel like this all of the sudden? He cleared his throat in the direction of the tiled floor.

No change.

He however still continued to watch you from his post as you flutter around, reading and writing papers. Commissars and Ultramarines give you orders, requests for more materials or arms. You shuffle around response times for fleets, combat data; Administraum taxes and tithes.

He watched you do it all with deftness- a grace and dedication- from his post at the entrance, silently.

He's spoken to you a handful of times; Thanking him for allowing you to enter and exit the room. A few times you've dropped things- and once he helped you pick them up, a gesture that made you smile and thank him profusely for the assistance. Your words stumbled off your tongue like they were just falling out, before your scurried away and leaving him with a feeling of, unfulfillment.

That moment is where he's traced this feeling back to. Where it all started. Ever since he crunched your parchments in his gauntlet to hand them to you, which you took with fingers so much smaller than his own and thanked him like he’d saved your very life- there was something in his gut that swirled like nausea.

First, he had tried the apothecary.

'All vitals come back normal, brother. You are in peak shape, as one would expect as a Victrix Guard. But if you are still feeling unsure, perhaps your ailment might be spiritual in nature. A visit to the chaplain would perhaps be your next option."

He had gone to the chaplain next, as suggested, walking through the nave as he approached the brother chaplain at the altar standing in contemplation.

'Brother chaplain. I might be in need of your guidance."

He turned to him, a peculiar and almost amused look on his face.

'Might? An interesting one.'

Marcellus adjusted his jaw and hesitated speaking for a moment; This feeling of unknown, of unsure nature, eats at him like a parasite.

'I feel, wrong. I have already gone to the apothecary and he said nothing is abnormal. He suggested that I, might need your guidance.'

He had listened to the chaplain's words with the utmost vehemence, prayed with him, remembered his vows as an Ultramarine- a Victrix Guard. He spent hours in that chapel the incense burning at his nose, the taste of its smoke coating his mouth- The Emperor’s glow casting over him through the stained glass mural.

He felt better afterwards. He rose from his knees and thanked his brother chaplain before returning to his duties. Perhaps a bit of righting was all he had needed. Doubt had planted its first seed in him and the chaplain was able to pluck it, righting his path back into the brightest of holy lights.

Three days later however, upon seeing you again, the feeling returned.

You nearly stumbled to your knees, a servoskull flying over your head. You quickly scurried to pick up your things and nervously laughed.

I am so sorry my lord, I seem to make a fool of myself in front of you quite a bit.'

Marcellus hummed, it coming out of his helmet with a distorted crackle.

'I suppose we cannot all be as deft and agile as those in Corvus Armor.'

You gave a soft laugh, smiling. When you stop why does he feel, disappointed?

'No I suppose not.'

You seemed like you were going to move on, but he impulsively speaks before he has a chance to catch himself.

'What is your name?'

You had hesitated, before uttering your name with a tilt of nervousness. He gave you his own, for no other reason that it fell off his lips without his control. Whatever his ailment is now coming for his ability to speak next, what in the name of The Emperor is next? His very ability to see?

Throne, what is wrong with him?

As soon as he could, he returned to the apothecary.

Once again, nothing was physically wrong with him. He'd begun to think maybe the apothecary was missing something. But he was the only apothecary aboard, one who’d served for over one hundred years- he throws the doubt of his brother away. That’s what this illness would want of him; To sow doubt.

He considered going to the chaplain again, standing outside of the chapel, but hesitated before making himself know .

If he keeps this up, what if the chaplain begins to suspect corruption? In a Victrix Guard? Even the mere suspicion would bring a stain upon him and his brothers.

He ended up entering despite the hesitation, and prayed in silence and solitude. For whatever was wrong with him to rear its ugly head so he could cut it off.

He returned to his post four hours later, the ash of incense on his armor.

He stood vigilant, though he feels the unconscious squaring of his shoulders as he noticed your approach.

'Greetings, Lord Marcellus.'

He found his eyes drawn to the shape of your lips. The soft skin, the peak of them under your nose, like the double head of his Aquila.

'Greetings.'

You passed by him, and he turned his head to continue following.

The way your hips gently curved was, interesting. You don't have the sharp lines and angles of armor, every part of you is this smooth, soft shape that confuses him. It’s so different, it felt almost unknown.

Marcellus abruptly bit the inside of his cheek, and pushed a sharp exhale through his nose. He doesn't understand why his eyes wander so. Yet again. He is lax in his fortitude- his faith. He is allowing trifling distractions possess his mind-

You're speaking to someone.

He watched you smile at the man. He can hear talk about the frigid air of the ship over other voices and the sounds of rattling pipes, and you laughed when he jokes about them turning to icicles. It's not until after the man leaves, that Marcellus realized how tight his gauntlets had gripped his shield until he loosens them with considerable noise complaint.

Staying stalwart at his post eats at him like a pack of rats, he can see his hearts rising and lowering in beats from the HUD of his helmet. When it is time for him to rotate out, he leaves with no parting words or even glanse.

He rushed to a corner of a random hall, tearing off his ornate helmet and allowing it to tumble across the floor.

His hearts raced in his chest, his throat is tight; His body is hot and his lower stomach is twisted in a knot.

Throne, it's getting worse. But he knows now.

It's you. You're doing something to him.

Anytime you are in his sight or in his mind is when this sickness overtakes him, when his body gets hotter and his hands almost feel like they're- Throne- like they're going to shake. His stomach tightens in knots, his skin feels like his blood is burning; He wants to tear off his armor and cure this indiscernible, throne-forsaken ache that overtakes his lower body.

He's never felt anything like this before. Bloodlust in the heat of battle sometimes felt similar, like fire was running through his veins, his hearts pumping hot blood. But this feeling is so much heavier, and isn't sated by the slaughter.

"Lord Marcellus?"

You let his name slip off your lips so gently, so innocently. He knows better.

You approached cautiously with your arms pulled close to your chest, tentatively looking at him.

"Are... Are you alright? I saw you leave quite quickly and forgive my prying I just, wanted to make sure you were-"

With a speed only an Astartes could muster he grasped your arm with a strength that has you yelping in pain, pulling you closer to him.

"Woman, what is this foul trickery you've placed on me?"

You looked up at him with eyes stricken full of fear, facing the full brunt of an astartes' booming voice. He could hear the fabric of your clothes scratch as you shook like a prey animal.

"Trickery? I, I have no idea what you're talking about!" He leaned inward.

“You know well! I feel this curse take over whenever you are close!”

He could already see the welling of tears in your eyes, shoulders rolled forward meekly.

Throne- damn that- he needs answers!

"I, I am so sorry for what I've done my lord, but I don't know what that is..."

Your arm shook in his grip, crippled by pain that surely radiates throughout your body. You've crumbled under his stare like a wounded animal laying down prepared to die- an expression he finds unfamiliar.

He let go of you. Your hand curled limply as you held it against your chest, unable to flex it without pain in your arm.

"Retrieve my helm."

Your eyes dart around his face for a moment before looking around, scurrying to pick up his golden helm off the ground and tentatively giving it over, while looking at the ground. He could see a few tears had fallen and stained your cheeks.

He took it with one hand, before leaving.

His quarters were the first place he thinks to retreat to. They're close, and he'll have a moment without the risk of prying eyes.

The walk there however is absent of such a mercy. Astartes look at him and the petulant expression on his face- he decided to put his helmet back on halfway there. Only when he reached the confines of his quarters did he remove it once more, hooking it onto his belt before sitting on the bunk as the metal let out a resounding groan of complaint.

His armoring suit felt like a gentle, teasing touch on his chest and back under his heavy armor. With each movement it sends jolts of something through his body as it brushed against his skin. He's never been able to actually feel it against him like this; Normally it feels like nothing. A second skin.

The sensation isn't... bad.

Marcellus shifted his jaw, feeling the muscles in his neck strain. He tries to ignore it, all of this, but time doesn't weather it in the slightest.

He wonders if you’re still crying.

"Lord Marcellus," A voice spoke over vox and interrupted a moment that had haken hold of his senses to a concerning degree. "You're needed on the deck."

Why must everything test him? What did he do, who did he scorn to have his mind fogged and in it for everyone to test his patience? Nothing works- it's only getting worse- his failure for letting the Emperor leave his mind and allowing it to darken.

"…I am on my way."

Marcellus rises to his feet- the mechanics of his armor let out a soft hiss.

He walked there with an overblown show of confidence, hiding his fear of the unknown underneath it.

What eats at him? He intends to find out.

[perseephoneee]

snow chase [ficmas day 10]

[klaus mikaelson x f!reader] beauty and the beast au

↳ masterlist ↳ ship exchange ↳ taglist ↳ ficmas 2024

warnings: longest thing i've ever written

author's note: my tendonitis is flaring up from writing this, but this might be one of my favorite things I've ever written, so it's totally worth it!! also maybe i should write more fantasy idek

playlist:

you make loving fun -- fleetwood mac

black friday -- tom odell

white winter hymnal -- fleet foxes

There was a wolf in the castle. 

Your sister was in there. 

You knew you shouldn’t have gone into the woods at night, but you couldn’t leave her there. Not when her daring was stronger than her weariness. Not when the schoolyard children pressured her into daring to see the Beast. Not when she might not make it to tomorrow. 

You hike your skirts up, lantern high, as you race towards the castle. Your cloak is barely enough to stave the cold. You have no real plan for when you get there. You don’t have the physical strength to fight the Beast. You have to hope you have something he wants instead. 

‘He.’ As if the Beast was a man. 

The castle was maybe once beautiful but was now worn with burned stone, and a drawbridge you were worried wouldn’t hold you. You made it across in one piece. You didn’t knock; what was the point? Why would he reward you for your politeness?

It wasn’t much warmer inside the stronghold. Your slippers made soft clicks on the tile. With a good dusting, the place would’ve been grand. You wondered who used to live here. You took a stairwell down. If your sister was captured, she would be in the dungeon. While having no experience in dungeons, you had never heard of one held up high. 

Your guess was rewarded with quiet sobs. 

You rushed to the first cell, the crumpled figure of your kin greeting you. 

“Y/N!” she cried, rushing towards the bars. You put your lantern aside to grab her hands. She looked unharmed. That was good. 

“I’m going to get you out of here, okay?” you whispered, looking for a key. There must be one somewhere. Your sister grew still, looking past your shoulder. The hairs on your neck stood on end, and you knew who was there without even looking. When you turned around, you were surprised by what you saw. 

He was much more a man than you imagined. When he stepped out of the shadows, you understood why they called him ‘Beast.’ His eyes were a deep red, his fangs long things that could rip you apart. Veins rippled under his eyes when he looked at you. You froze, holding your gaze. He grinned. 

“Look at what little bit brought in,” he crooned. “A friend.”

His voice was devoid of emotion. You found no comfort.

“I’m here for my sister,” you said with a confidence you didn’t have. He chuckled. 

“Sister? Your sister was the one breaking into my home,” he tssked, stepping closer. He wore a long black coat, the ends swishing against the floor. You didn’t balk from his gaze. 

“I’m sorry for her behavior,” you cautioned. “Please let me take her home.”

“That hardly seems fair.” He tilted his head, like a cat regarding his prey. You realized you were the prey. You gulped. He noticed. 

“Then take me.”

“Y/N, no,” your sister hissed, grabbing your arm through the cell grates. You ignored her. The Beast's grin grew wider. 

“Now, isn’t that sweet,” he smirked. Your heart rate picked up, and he perked up as if he heard it. He seemed to ponder your offer, weighing its merits in his head. His eyes were tinted gold when he looked at you next. “I accept.”

You heard your sister screaming, begging for him to change his mind, but you couldn’t hear her. She was a dull noise as you considered your own death while also your relief that she would be safe. You did your duty. You protected your family. 

He granted you a brief moment to say goodbye before he threw your sister outside, leaving you behind locked doors in a cold castle. The second he closed the front doors, the sound reverberating through the hallway, you were unsure what he would do to you. 

He moved faster than most humans. 

He had his hand wrapped around the back of your neck, tilting your head to look at him. You let out a choked sound as he held you. 

“You are mine now, pet,” he purred. “Let’s take you to your new home.”

He gripped your arm as he dragged you up the stairs and through the east wing. You would have bruises by the next day; you were sure of that. You glimpsed the outside through arched windows. You wondered if you’d ever see it again. 

He threw you in a room and, with one last calculating smile, slammed the door. It wasn’t the dungeon that much was obvious. It was a bedroom. Fancier than yours in the village. One four-poster bed, an armoire, and a little bathroom. You imagined you would stay here till you grew old and died. There was a window by the bed, advertising a very long fall. You imagined he put you here specifically to taunt you about being here forever. 

There was no fire, only the bed. You took off your shoes and climbed under all the covers in an effort to get warm. You shivered as tears fell until, eventually, you fell asleep. 

~

You were awoken by voices. 

You pulled back the covers, daring to look at who was in your room. 

A young girl, you assumed. She was quite mousy. Actually, her features were almost like a mouse. Maybe no human at all. Her nose twitched, and her eyes grew big as she saw you wake up. You both scuttled as far back as you could. You held a pillow protectively in front of you. 

“I’m sorry, miss!” she cowered, curled up by the door. Your brows drew together. “I didn’t mean to disturb you!”

“You’re…you’re fine,” you reassured. She was scared of you. That was new. 

“I came to see if you needed my assistance,” she trembled. You felt sympathy. She was as scared as you were. 

“Assistance?”

“Getting ready. Master requires your attention in the dining hall.”

Of course, he did. 

Your new mouse friend, Dahlia, stops trembling once you talk to her more. You have no clue about the horrors she has been subjected to because of the Beast, and you don’t press for information. She helps you wash up and even braids your hair back with delicate pins. The dress she supplies is nicer than you’ve ever owned. You wonder if maybe you should’ve left your sister here to experience these riches. You start to feel concerned for your psyche. 

Dahlia takes you to the dining hall. The castle isn’t any warmer than before. You think about asking for a fire but don’t in fear of how he might react. 

There’s a lovely array of food set up in the dining room. A long table with seasonal flowers in the middle and the Beast at the end. He ignores you as you sit down. 

There are other mice people. They bring you fresh juice, buttered bread, cuts of meats and cheeses, and other ripe fruits. You haven’t had this much food in a while. You eat a grape and suppress the urge to moan around the taste. You haven’t had this good of food your whole life. You eat some more before daring to speak. 

“Most people don’t treat their prisoners this well,” you say, taking a sip of your juice. The Beast looks up, a glint in his eye. “I was expecting torture.”

“Who says this isn’t?” he drawls. He has a book in front of him. He returns to the pages. “Lulling you into false security before I peel your skin off and use it as a coat.”

“I don’t think my skin would make a good coat,” you answer. “Maybe a hat.”

He looks up from his book. He looks confused. You take sick satisfaction in that. 

He makes you go back to your rooms after breakfast. Dahlia delivers some food around noon and then takes you back to the dining room for dinner. You don’t engage in any conversation this time. You eat your food (pork with roasted vegetables and a sweet sauce), and you are considered your captor. This is much cushier than you imagined your imprisonment. Still, you wonder if he wasn’t lying. Living in expectation of him killing you might be more torture than the act itself. 

Hours turn into days, and days turn into weeks. You manage to convince Dahlia to bring entertainment to your room. You both engage in a card game when she isn’t working. You find you like her a lot. She’s funny when she starts to be comfortable. She sneaks your custard from the kitchen when no one’s watching. You don’t ask why she’s a mouse, why the Beast is not a wolf or a man, but something in between. You assume no one would tell you. 

Autumn dissipates into winter. The castle is colder than before. You wake up with your breath a puff, your fingers tinged purple. You work up the courage to ask for warmth during your breakfast that morning. Up to this point, you occasionally would get him engaged in small talk. He would often insult you, glare at you or growl. You forget he’s not a man. 

You set your fork on your plate and look down the table to his figure. He’s reading again. 

“I have a request,” you say. He ignores you. “I would like a fire in my rooms so I won’t freeze to death.”

“What if that’s my plan?” he responds. He has no energy behind it. 

“I know it isn’t; you’re much cleverer than that.” He looks up finally. You calling him ‘clever’ was enough to get his attention. Bastard. “I’d also like access to the rest of the castle.”

“Are you in a position to make demands?” he growls. You know he could get to you and rip out your throat in a few seconds flat. You grip the arms of your chair to steel your nerves.

“No, I’m not,” you answer. “But I don’t think I’m being unreasonable. I haven’t tried to escape, have I?”

He considers your request. His eyes are an abyss that you wouldn’t want to drop into. You hope he doesn’t kill you for this. 

“You aren’t allowed to go to the west wing.”

That’s his only response. You blink and then utter a thank you. 

Somehow, there’s a fireplace in your room by nightfall. You imagine it’s magic. 

~

The first thing you do with your freedom is visit Dahlia. You can find the kitchen from the smells alone. 

The other servants scurry at your entrance. You feel bad for scaring them. Dahlia is rolling dough with another girl who looks eerily similar to her, mouse features aside. You ask if you can help, and they let you. 

You come to find out that the other mouse is Daisy, Dahlia’s sister. Their parents used to be servants in the castle, and they took over after. The confidence from your successful request allows you to ask them why they’re mice. Dahlia lets out a laugh, the most carefree you’d seen her. 

“I was wondering when you’d ask.”

“I didn’t want to be impolite.”

“A curse,” Daisy answers. She was in the process of making a roulade. “Master killed a village, and one of the elders was an enchantress. She cursed him to be stuck as a Beast. Unfortunately, the curse was put over the whole castle.”

“So everyone in the castle became…,” you trailed off. Mice were not beasts.

“We became our inner selves,” Dahlia finished. You wondered what your inner self would be.

“He’s not really a wolf, though, is he?”

“He is,” Daisy answered. “He’s just stuck in between right now.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that. You helped them finish preparations for the next day. You liked baking, it was soothing. Dahlia went with you back to your rooms to get ready for bed. You relished the feeling of finally having a fire. 

Sleep was elusive to you. After an hour of tossing and turning, you put on your slippers and decided to explore. The castle was huge, but you welcomed the feeling of getting lost. 

You found heaven when you pushed open an ornate door to the largest library you had ever seen. Stained glass windows decorated one wall, with rows upon rows of books going farther than you could see. You were happy to be tortured if it meant access to this library. After browsing the shelves, you found a book that interested you. There was a chair nearby with a fireplace, and you started a fire before settling down. 

You read for so long that the story merged with your dreams, and you found yourself asleep in the library. You woke up with the morning light, and the fire was already embers. The Beast was standing above you. You scrambled into a sitting position.

“I see you’ve made yourself at home.” He didn’t look mad. Merely commenting.

“I like…books,” you kissed your teeth, regretting your answer. Words were not your friend in the morning. 

“Breakfast is ready,” he said, turning on his heel and leaving the library. You blinked, unsure how to process his lukewarm response. You put your book on the chair and scurried after him, keeping a healthy distance. You kept quiet as you ate your breakfast. The Beast was reading the same book again. Your deliriousness emboldened you.

“What are you reading?”

He looked up again, mildly annoyed. He just held up the book. You saw the cover for The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. 

“Ah, Rintrah roars and shakes his fires in the burdened air,” you hum, taking a bite of your eggs. The Beast blinks in surprise. 

“You’ve read it?”

“I like the artwork,” you shrug. You shiver under his gaze. It’s the most interesting he’s been since you offered your place in exchange for your sisters. 

“Do you have a favorite piece?” he asks. 

“Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog,” you answer. He blinks in surprise again. You wonder how he perceived you before this. 

Shocking to everyone, especially you, you end up actually conversing with him the whole meal. He knows a lot more than you about art history, but you managed to keep up. He seems mildly impressed and intrigued by what you have to say. You wonder the last time someone, let alone a man had shown interest in what you had to say before instead of how you looked. 

You go back to the library that night. He’s waiting when you get there. You realize that you aren’t frightened of his appearance anymore. 

Neither of you say anything. He’s pulled up a chair next to yours. You sit in companionable silence as you read your books. At some point, you fall asleep again. You wake up in your bed the next day. You’re scared to think of how you got there. 

~

“I would like to show you something,” the Beast tells you over dinner. 

You have entered into a tentative friendship; that’s what Dahlia tells you. She says that she’s never seen him talk to anyone so much before if it wasn’t barking orders. You only talk about art and books. Never anything personal. You read together in the library at night, and then he walks you to your bedchambers. It’s eerily polite. 

“I hope it’s not something dead,” you mutter. He is still no less violent than when you first met him. There have been a few times where you’ve seen blood on his mouth. 

“That’s for another day,” he hums. You frown, but he doesn’t notice. 

You follow behind him after breakfast. It’s a room you haven’t been to yet. Probably because it’s just slightly over in the west wing, and your self-preservation skills have at least kept your curiosity at bay in the closed area. He holds the door open for you. You brush past him, your eyes widening as you take in the room. 

It’s an art studio. And it’s a mess. Like a studio should be. There are paintings everywhere. There’s one chair in the corner, an artist's stool, and a window looking out to the gardens below. It’s perfect. 

You take a closer look at the first painting. It’s of a young girl in a hallway. She’s caught in a moment, a secret on her lips. As if she’s fleeing a ball. The details on the pink tulle of her dress are dazzling, and her eyes are almost lifelike. You see the artist's signature.

“My sister,” he says behind you. You don’t remember when he got so close. 

“Your name is Klaus?” you ask, turning to look at him. He doesn’t make eye contact with you, still fixed on the painting. There’s a longing in his gaze. It’s one you recognize every time you look in the mirror. He misses her. 

“No one has called me that in a long time,” he says solemnly. Even with his fangs, the veins, and the eyes, he looks the most like a man than he has been in a long time. 

You move on to the next painting. It’s of a man sitting in a library, the only light coming from the moon outside. Even with the emphasis on the night, you can see the resemblance between the Beast– Klaus– and the man in the painting. 

“Another sibling?” you questioned. Klaus nodded. You take time looking at the rest of the paintings. Many more of his family. Some of the scenery. One of a wolf, blood on its mouth, its kill fresh underneath it. Even with its macabre nature, its the best one of the bunch. You wonder if Klaus knows he wears his heart on his sleeve. 

“Klaus,” you murmur. “Thank you.”

“The lighting is better in here if you need a place to read,” he coughs. You smile. This is him extending an olive branch. You realize you don’t fear him anymore. You haven’t for a while. 

You take him up on his offer, and you find yourself reading in his studio more often than not. You still read in the library at night. He joins you in the studio sometimes, usually painting. You try to sneak a peek, but he won’t let you see it. You learn to joke with each other. Dahlia is in disbelief.

“I haven’t seen him so…”

“Normal?” you venture. She’s brushing your hair out and applying a sweet-smelling oil. 

“Happy.”

You don’t know what to say to that. 

The next day, there’s snow. You open the window in the gallery to look outside, catching some flakes on your tongue. Klaus chuckles at you. You get one on your nose and shiver. 

“Would you like to go outside?” he asks. 

You find some warm clothes to bundle up in and follow Klaus to the gardens. He doesn’t bother changing. You get the sense that he can’t get cold. He watches you in mild amusement as you frolic through the snow. You explore the maze with him as your chaperone. He grumbles whenever you stop. At the end of the maze is a towering white oak tree. You take a seat below it, and Klaus joins you. 

“You’re overly trusting to someone who’s keeping you prisoner,” Klaus sighs. You roll up a snowball. 

“You and I both know that I stopped being your prisoner a while ago.”

Klaus doesn’t respond to that. He knows it’s right. You knew the first night he sat with you in the library. 

“You can return home if you wish,” Klaus breaths. You turn to him, brows furrowed. “You don’t have to stay here.”

He doesn’t say it as a demand. There’s insecurity in his voice. You realize he wants you to stay here. You think it must be lonely. You also realize that you haven’t really wanted to leave. You’ve never felt so alive in years. 

Courage emboldens you to bring a hand up to Klaus’ face. He turns slightly but doesn’t push you away. Your thumb brushes the veins under his eyes. His skin is cold. He opens his eyes to look at you. The red of his iris was the color of a bloody rose. You worried you might prick yourself if you looked any farther. 

You want to say something, but your voice has stopped working. You forget about the cold the longer you look at Klaus. He glances at you as if he’s unsure if you’re real. 

“Klaus–” you breathe.

The moment is ruined by a scream. 

Both of you are up in an instant, running back towards the castle. You are much slower than Klaus, and he growls with impatience. He picks you up and easily speeds towards your destination. 

Daisy is at the entrance across from the draw bridge, hand-drawn over her mouth. One of the servants that you had seen around the castle is crucified in front, a paper nailed to his chest with the message ‘nightfall.’ Your blood runs cold. 

“H-He just went out to get food and…” Daisy was hiccuping breaths. You rushed towards her and gathered her in your arms. She collapsed. You looked towards Klaus. All warmth from earlier was gone. The Beast was in its place. 

“It’s my fault,” you said. Klaus looked at you, confusion in his eyes. “The village has been split forever on what to do with you…me being here has given them enough reason. It’s a mob.”

“It’s not your fault,” Klaus murmurs. His fists are clenched. “They would have found some other reason, and I am the one who kept you are. I am the one who got Henry killed.”

A different King wouldn’t have known his servant's names. 

“You didn’t keep me here; I chose to stay,” you exclaimed. Klaus didn’t respond, jaw clenched as he looked at the body. The image was seared in your mind. You expected nightmares for the rest of your life. 

“Take her inside,” Klaus commanded. You dragged Daisy inside, back to the kitchens. You found Dahlia and told her what happened. Her face blanched as she took her sister out of your hands. You expected Klaus to search for blood tonight. You worried about your sister being caught in his wrath. 

When night fell, you wrapped your cloak tight around yourself and sneaked out the front of the castle. It was a dim memory of the last time you were on the draw bridge, and it felt strange to be returning to a place you hadn’t called home for a while. You made it back home, going through the backdoor of your house. 

Your sister was sitting by the fire, immediately sitting up as you entered. Emotions crashed through you as every feeling came rushing back. You didn’t realize how much you missed her. You both embraced each other, the tears coming naturally. 

“I thought you’d be dead,” she cried, pulling back. Your hands cupped your face, brushing over her hair, down to her shoulders. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine; you need to tell me everything.”

Your previous theory of the village finally having reason to attack was correct. It was all spearheaded by the town priest, who thought that the Beast was unnatural and had now taken one of their own. Apparently, they had found a way to kill him. Ice chilled your blood. 

“I need to go,” you murmured, grabbing your cloak to head to the door. 

“Are you serious?”

“I will be back for you, I promise,” you ran over and kissed her forehead. “I promise, just…trust me.”

Your sister had always known you to have strong judgment. She didn’t question you as you snuck out, breaking into a run towards the castle. You could see the fires already moving steadily closer, and you picked up pace. 

You ran smack into Klaus. 

“What are you doing out here?” he hissed, grabbing your shoulders. 

“I needed answers; they want to kill you,” you gulped air. 

“I guessed that.”

“I’m being serious,” you growled. He tilted his head, smiling slightly. 

“I know that, darling. Go back to the castle; I’ll take care of it.”

You flushed at the word ‘darling.’

“You can’t kill them, Klaus.”

“Whatever the hell not?”

“Because you’d be proving to them once again that you are the Beast they pretend you are.”

Klaus glowered at that, but he didn’t bite your head off. He knew you were right. His brows furrowed as he heard something, turning in the direction of the town. You wondered if he possessed super hearing in addition to speed. 

“They’re almost here. You need to go. Now.”

“I’m not leaving you.” You could hear the mob through the trees now. 

“Bloody hell,” he cursed. He dragged you after him, heading towards the castle. You were still worried he might kill all of them. Even if you weren’t terribly happy with your village at the moment. 

You ran through the snow, Klaus keeping a bruising grip on your arm. An arrow skidded past your ear, and Klaus pulled you down before you got skewered. 

“Kill her! She’s in league with the Beast!” a voice called out from the crowd. You wanted to scream at them, but their words set Klaus on edge. He picked up speed, basically carrying you back to the castle. He was slowed down, though, and you realized that when he saved you from the arrow, he was hit in the process. Blood ran down a cut on his arm. You had no time to yell at him about it or ask why he saved you before more arrows came flying after you two. 

Klaus had you both swerve, and you struggled to keep up his pace to the draw bridge. When you made it there, he pushed you across. You ran all the way across before realizing he wasn’t with you. He was making a stand at the front of the bridge. 

The mob was bigger than anticipated, but you didn’t care. You were hyperfocused on the fact that he was about to get himself killed. You ran back across, screaming at the mob. You jumped in front of Klaus. 

“He didn’t hurt me! You can’t kill him!” you screamed, arms out wide. Some of the townspeople stopped to listen to you. 

“He kills our kind,” one of the men in your town said. You recognized him as the butcher. Typical. 

“He hasn’t killed any of us. You killed one of his.”

That got some of them to shut up. You were happy to learn that critical thought wasn’t completely lost. 

“He will kill us as long as we allow him to live,” the priest said. Father Marcus stepped out of the crowd, a malevolent look in his eyes. You knew instantly that Klaus was just an excuse for his larger agenda. Nothing you’d say would convince him. He pulled out a dagger coated in a silver ash. You felt Klaus stiffen behind him. “In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost…I condemn you, Beast.”

You screamed as he threw the dagger, attempting to block Klaus’ body with your own. He pushed you out of the way, rolling back onto the bridge. You hit the wood on your shoulder, crying out at the sharp pain as Klaus dragged you across. With no sword, he ripped the ropes of the bridge at the end so it went plummeting down. You were stuck on the side of the castle with the mob staring at you. 

Klaus collapsed in front of the doors, a hand holding his chest. You let out a shriek as you saw the dagger sticking out of it. You rushed over, grabbing him before he fell. The doors to the castle open, and the servants inside look out in worry. You motioned at them to help you, and they assisted you in carrying him inside the front doors and away from the cold. 

The blood dragged behind him, tinting the snow. You collapsed in exhaustion when you finally got him inside. 

“Klaus? Stay with me. We’re going to help you,” you muttered, covering the wound on his chest. Several servants ran off to find medical supplies, while some stayed put in shock. 

“It’s no use, love,” he murmured. His skin was clammy, even in the freezing cold. 

“I won’t let you die for me,” you cried, tears mixing in with the blood. He laughed, devoid of emotion. 

“Dying for you will be the first good thing I’ve done.” He tilts his head towards you. You notice that his eyes are gold, not red. “Please allow me this.”

“I can’t watch you die,” you whisper. “Not when I’ve just gotten to know you.”

He envelops your hand with his own. His touch is warm. 

“You are worth living,” he rasped, his voice barely a whisper. “Live for me.”

You felt him grow still. Your breath caught in your throat as you attempted to hold back tears you knew would fall. You hit his chest as hard as you could, your voice raw in your throat as you screamed at him. You heard sobs from several of the castle staff, but it didn’t register to you. It didn’t matter. You didn’t realize how much he mattered until he wasn’t there. 

You pressed your forehead to his, breath hot against his cold skin. You leaned down, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. If it was the only kiss you ever received from him, you would cherish it in your heart for eternity. 

You sat back on your heels, wiping at your eyes. You saw his hand twitch, and you wiped your eyes again to get rid of the hallucination. A gasp from nearby lets you know it wasn’t a hallucination. 

Your eyes became as wide as saucers as you saw a soft gold hue take over his body. The dagger melted into gold dust, seeping into his skin. You watched in awe as the veins under his eyes faded into nothing, his fangs turning into normal teeth. A warmth returned to his skin. The gold continued out from his body, shimmering across the gray tiles. 

The castle transformed before your eyes. You couldn’t believe the transformation occurring before you as the pillars returned to white, cracks disappearing, colors as bright as what they once were. You watched in shock as the servants changed as well, their animal features melting into human ones. You saw Dahlia and Daisy, having arrived from the kitchens, softening into two young girls. 

Klaus groaned, the act of returning to life exhausting him. You helped him sit up, and he looked at the castle with the same awe you did. When he looked at you, his eyes were blue. 

“How…?” you asked, jaw dropped. Klaus didn’t answer you. He grasped the back of your neck, pulling you towards him and kissing you with the fervor of a reborn man. Your second kiss was better than your first, this time with the warmth that was missing from before. When you parted, he was grinning. It was the biggest grin you’d ever seen from him. 

“My curse was contingent on finding true love,” he answered matter of factedly. 

“So, you’re…”

“Alive.”

“And my…”

“If you need to take it slow, I understand,” Klaus joked. He joked. You were still processing everything as he helped you to your feet. Dahlia rushed towards you, thanking you for saving her. She hugged you, almost knocking you over. Daisy joined soon after her. The rest of the servants came in a second later until you were suffocating. 

“If I knew that just kissing a man would earn this much praise, I would’ve done it sooner,” you laughed. Klaus growled, seeming more like his previous self. 

“The only man you can kiss will be me, love.”

“Territorial much?”

“Only for things that are mine,” he purred. He pulled you away from the group into his arms. They didn’t seem to care; they were too excited about being themselves again. You were excited for them. 

Klaus was warm, and his skin was no longer at the same temperature as the outdoors. You loved his eyes before, and you loved them even more now. For a second, as he held you, he looked unsure. 

“Are you…” he trailed off. You smiled, kissing him again. You knew what he was asking.

“I’m yours,” you laughed. “As long as you’ll have me.”

“You?” Klaus smirked. “I’ll have forever.”

[cybrsan]

Treasure — J.WY [Pt. 8]

SUMMARY: It has been a long time coming.

PAIRING: Waterbender Wooyoung x Non-bender F!Reader

RATING/GENRE: M ; angst, fluff, eventual smut ; ATLA au, enemies to lovers

WORD COUNT: 3.4k

LINKS: Ode To ATEEZ Masterlist | Together in Harmony Masterlist | Cross-posted on AO3 and Wattpad

↞ Previous | Masterlist | Next ↠

Tap, tap, tap.

You don’t know how long it’s been since you ran away from the group and Wooyoung followed. The two of you have just been sitting on the floor in silence, the only sound being that of his fingers tapping restlessly against the stone tiles. The cadence of it is almost musical, or like a metronome keeping time.

You can tell that he wants to speak by the way he keeps looking at you and then looking away, but he is also trying to be respectful and give you the time that you need. 

The rhythm of his tapping is broken as he suddenly stops.

"Please, talk to me," he urges softly, reaching out to take your hand in his own. “What happened back there?”

“Is that really important? Shouldn’t we be trying to figure out a way to avoid becoming one of those Inkling things?”

“One thing at a time, Y/N.”

You swallow hard, unsure of how much you should share with him. You're torn between honesty and self-preservation, unable to voice the truth but equally unwilling to lie. So instead of answering, you raise your free hand and gently, very gently, run your fingers through the blue-silver strands of his hair, marveling at its softness. It’s something you have wanted to do ever since you first saw him.

He startles at first but quickly relaxes into your touch, letting his eyes flutter closed. You continue to run your fingers through his hair, the gentle motion seeming to soothe him. You can feel some of the tension leaving his body, his shoulders relaxing slightly. It's a tender moment, one that makes your heart ache with a mixture of affection and uncertainty about the future.

After a few moments of sitting in silence, you ask, “Woo, why are you guys looking for an hourglass?”

He sighs, his brow furrowing as he opens his eyes. You’re sure that he knows you’re diverting, but he lets you anyway. “You remember what I told you the night of the sand storm? About what happened between Hongjoong and I?” You nod and he continues, “Well, it has something to do with that. This hourglass is magic—it’s supposed to let you control the flow of time. He thinks we can go back to the day before he made the accusation.”

Your heart sinks. So they are looking for the Cromer. You try not to let the disappointment show on your face as you probe, “So… what? You think that going back in time will fix everything?”

“Won’t it?” Wooyoung questions, a vulnerable edge to his voice. You can tell he desperately wants to believe in this, that part of him needs to.

"Maybe." You hate the way his face falls, but you can’t give him a more definitive answer than that. Time is a difficult concept, especially when it comes to altering it.  “But do you really want to go back?”

“Of course I do!” he responds without pause. “It’s my fault that things turned out this way. If I can change it, why wouldn’t I?”

You take a deep breath, leaning your head back against the wall. You watch the balls of light flit around the ceiling beams as you attempt to collect your thoughts. Why are you trying so desperately to convince him he doesn’t want to go down this path? Is it to make your own chances of stealing the Cromer easier? Or is it something else?

"Do you really believe it's all your fault?" you finally ask. Wooyoung opens his mouth to respond but closes it again, seeming to really consider the question. “Like I’ve said before, Hongjoong knew your visions weren’t always accurate, yet he used you time and time again for his own benefit. He chose to make that accusation, knowing the risks, and then tossed you aside when things didn’t work out. He's as much to blame as you are, perhaps even more.”

"Is that what you think?" Wooyoung’s fingers tighten around your hand, the only indication that your words have affected him. You glance at him, finding his gaze fixed intently on you.

“That’s what I know. And you need to realize it too," you say emphatically, meeting his gaze with a determined one of your own. "You've been shouldering this guilt for far too long."

Wooyoung’s eyes glisten, his jaw clenched tightly as he tries to hold back the torrent of emotions threatening to break through. A single tear rolls down his cheek, tracing the contours of his face before disappearing within the folds of his shirt. He doesn't say anything, but the silence speaks volumes. Your words have made an impact.

“Hongjoong isn’t a cruel man,” he says, voice hoarse.

“I didn’t say he was. I see kindness in him. I see it in the way he cares for all of you, protects you. But power—and the stress that is often paired with it—has a way of twisting people.”

Wooyoung wipes at his eyes. "Maybe you're right. But even if you are, it doesn’t change how things ended up. It doesn’t bring back what was lost."

“What about everything you’ll lose if you do go back? What about…” You glance down at your intertwined hands, letting your sentence trail off as you swallow around the lump in your throat.

He follows your gaze, letting his fingers trace invisible patterns across your knuckles, his touch feather-light. He trails his hand upward, brushing over the pale silver of the scar on your arm, your permanent reminder of the sandwyrm encounter, and the look that crosses his face is so pained that it nearly breaks your heart.

“Us?” He finishes your sentence, the syllable so soft it is barely more than a breath escaping his lips.

His eyes are still downcast, focused on the visible reminder of the trials you've both faced. It's a complicated question and you’re grateful that he had the courage to voice it when you did not.

“We can find each other again,” he says, sounding so certain that it almost makes you believe him.

“But what if we can’t? We don’t know how the Cromer works. What if you don’t keep your memories when you go back? What if everything that happened just happens again? Or something worse?”

He stiffens, his fingers stilling on your skin, the unanswered questions hanging heavily in the air.

"I won't let that happen."

"But you can't promise that," you counter gently. "For all we know, it could change everything. I could still be indentured. Hongjoong’s punishment could become even more extreme than it was."

Wooyoung suddenly rises to his feet, pacing up and down the hall like a restless animal. The room suddenly feels too small, too confining for the magnitude of your conversation and the myriad of uncertainties that accompany it.

"I know," he finally says. He halts his pacing to lean against a bookshelf, running his fingers through his hair. "I know it’s risky. I know."

"But you still want to try?" Your voice comes out softer than intended, betraying the undertone of fear in your words.

You don’t know what the two of you are, or how you could classify your relationship with Wooyoung. What you do know is that you don’t want to lose him, or the others. For the first time since you were a child, you have a home again. You have people that care about you. Maybe that’s selfish, but you would be the first to admit you are a very selfish person.

He doesn't answer for what feels like an eternity but, finally, he pushes away from the shelf and turns to look at you. His gaze is unreadable, a stormy sea trapped under dark lashes.

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” His shoulders sag with the weight of his indecision. "All I know is that I can't bear all of the regret and guilt I feel anymore. I need to be able to do something, to fix it.”

“The past…” you pause, trying to make sure you’re being mindful of the way you say this.  “The past is like a ghost; it haunts us. We all have regrets and mistakes we wish we could erase. But we can’t let our past dictate our future. We can learn from it, we can honor it, but it is not meant to be something that holds us back.”

You think of your own past, the way you have been letting it guide you and determine your path. The memories of indentured servitude, the fear of losing your freedom again, the scars you bear... they've all shaped you, yes, but they don't have to define you.

“We need to learn how to let go.” You hope the words mean as much to him as they do to you.

“You’re right,” he admits. “I understand what you’re saying. But understanding and accepting are very different things.”

“Different,” you agree. You stand and slowly approach him, stopping only when you're close enough to touch him. You place your hand on his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart beneath your palm. “But not impossible.”

“Y/N…” he whispers your name like a plea, a prayer.

One of his hands comes up to cradle yours where it rests over his heart, and the other reaches out to caress your face, his fingers tracing the path of your cheek as if committing the feel of you to memory. His gaze lowers to your lips and you feel your breath hitch in anticipation. There's an unspoken question in his eyes, one that you answer by leaning into him, letting the space between you shrink until your lips are a hair's breadth away from his.

Before either of you can close the gap, a shout echoes through the halls. You and Wooyoung jump apart and, after exchanging a quick glance, both hurry towards the source of the commotion. As you round the corner, you're met with a tense standoff. Hongjoong is facing both San and Seonghwa, sparks flickering from his fingertips thanks to his barely restrained frustration.

“Woah, woah, woah,” Wooyoung says, rushing to stand in between the group. “What the hell is going on?”

“What’s ‘going on’ is that these two are cowards,” Hongjoong hisses. “After all the work we’ve put in, everything we’ve sacrificed, they think we should just give up.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Seonghwa interjects. “I just think we need to find another way.”

San scoffs. “Well, maybe Hwa isn’t saying that, but I am. If that makes me a coward, so be it. Hongjoong is right—we have sacrificed a lot. Y/N almost died. We’re in the middle of the most dangerous desert in the world, in some ancient library protected by some giant owl guardian that can turn into stone at will, hundreds of miles away from our homes and our loved ones. Enough is enough.”

“San has a point,” Jongho says. “The owl said we can’t take anything from the library, so even if the Cromer is here, it won’t be of any help to us. Unless we can hang out here until the next full moon.”

“Yeah, that’s not an option,” you interject. “We don't want to become Inklings, remember?”

Hongjoong’s eyes narrow. "And so that’s it? We just walk away? Leave everything we've been working for behind?"

“Everything you’ve been working for—”

Yeosang puts a hand on San’s shoulder, interrupting him. “Arguing isn’t going to get us anywhere.”

Seonghwa nods in agreement. “Joong, I understand your frustration, but we need to be smart about this. There has to be something or someone else out there that can help point us in a different direction.”

“There are no other leads,” Yunho says. “We’ve got to at least admit that. It took us months to even find out about Pandora, and then twice as long to track it down. In all that time, we would have heard about something else if it existed.”

“If our only option is to keep going or leave, I say we leave,” Mingi adds. “I have too much to lose.”

"But you're forgetting one thing," Wooyoung interjects, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes shifting between each person before finally resting on Hongjoong. "We aren’t quitters. We don’t just give up, especially not on one of our own. We should see this through until the end."

You feel a flicker of surprise that he’s siding with Hongjoong, but when you catch the look that passes between them, the way Wooyoung visibly brightens under the leader’s approving gaze, you realize that perhaps his decision isn't as surprising as you thought.

Siding with Hongjoong and Wooyoung might be your best chance to find the Cromer yourself. If they're determined to keep searching, you can use their resources and knowledge to your advantage. Plus, staying close to them will allow you to act quickly when the opportunity arises. You try to ignore the stab of guilt the idea brings along with it.

"I'm with Wooyoung. We've come too far to turn back now," you reiterate, your voice steady in the tense silence that has fallen over the room. “I know I have. San is right—I almost died for this. Hell if I give up now.”

"We push forward," Hongjoong declares, his tone final. But the fire in his eyes dims just a little, his voice softening as he adds, “But I won’t force anyone to stay. I value everything you have all done for me and if you choose to leave now, I won’t blame you.”

His words hang in the air, heavy with the gravity of their implications. The room is silent for a long while.

Finally, Seonghwa steps forward. "I won't leave," he says, his voice firm.

San grunts, his brow furrowed in thought as he looks at Seonghwa. For a moment, it seems like he might argue, but then his gaze softens and he nods slowly. “Alright," he concedes. "I’m not happy about it. But I won’t abandon you guys, no matter what happens.”

"I second that," comes Yunho’s voice. "This may be hopeless, but we're a team."

Everyone else follows suit until all that’s left is Mingi. He sighs heavily, his gaze traveling from face to face. He finally relents with an exasperated groan. "Fine. I won't be the one accused of abandoning the mission. You guys would never let me live that down.”

The tension in the room dissipates slightly, replaced by a sense of renewed determination. Hongjoong nods, a small smile of gratitude on his face. "Alright, then. Let's get back to work. We'll cover more ground if we split up. Seonghwa and I will stay here and try to figure out a way to deal with the guardian. The rest of you should head out and try to find the Cromer.”

As the group disperses, you unsurprisingly find yourself pairing off with Wooyoung. You both head towards a section of the library you haven't explored yet, and he gestures toward a room filled with display cases.

“Let’s start here.”

You nod, heading toward the nearest case. The dust coating the glass is thick and undisturbed, a testament to how long it has been since anyone entered this room. You wipe it off with the sleeve of your robe, revealing the contents inside. Three pendants catch your eye, each etched with a distinct symbol: a crescent moon, a coiling snake, and a radiant sun. Alongside these, a tiara sparkles with precious gemstones. You imagine that this alone could have probably bought out your contract—too bad you didn’t find it before the deal you made.

Wooyoung moves to the cases across the room from you, his gaze raking over the worn items tucked neatly inside of each. An assortment of ancient scrolls, a detailed map of an unknown land, a statuette of some long-forgotten deity…

“It’s not here,” he murmurs, his voice echoing slightly in the otherwise silent room. He pauses briefly, his gaze lingering on an old scroll adorned with intricate calligraphy and faint drawings. He deviates from the mission momentarily to unfurl the fragile parchment. “Oh, Y/N, look—a waterbending scroll. It must be centuries old.”

Curiosity piqued, you abandon your own search and move to peer over his shoulder at the scroll. An array of swirling, complex lines traces out the forms for a waterbending technique you don't recognize. "Incredible," you breathe, your fingers itching to trace the ancient script.

“But it’s not what we’re looking for,” Wooyoung says, folding it carefully and placing it back into the case.

“Wait, you should try it out before we move on.”

His eyes travel from you to the scroll and back again. “We might not have time. It looks complicated, and I don’t know if I will be able to master it quickly.”

"Have a little faith in yourself," you encourage, your hand squeezing his for reassurance. “You’re an amazing waterbender.”

He brightens at your words, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a smile. He looks back down at the scroll with renewed determination and nods. “Okay, I’ll give it a try.”

He uncorks the water pouch at his hip, the liquid leaping to his call and hovering in the air before him. Carefully, Wooyoung mimics the illustrated movements, the water weaving and spinning through the air. He struggles at first, sweat beading on his brow. But as he persists, his movements become more confident and, eventually, he perfectly matches the forms on the scroll.

The water lashes out like a whip before segmenting into separate sections and condensing into spheres. With a flick of his wrist, Wooyoung sends them hurtling through the air like liquid bullets, each one shattering against the far wall with explosive force.

Wooyoung laughs. “Holy shit. That’ll come in handy during our next sandwyrm fight, huh?”

You laugh too, a mix of elation and disbelief bubbling up from your chest. Without thinking, you run over to him, throwing your arms around him in a tight embrace. The momentum of your movement spins you both around, and as you come to a stop, your eyes lock. The air between you shifts, and before you can process what's happening, he's kissing you.

His lips are soft against yours, moving with an urgency that sends shivers down your spine. You feel his hand come up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your skin. He threads the fingers of his other hand through your hair, pulling you closer as if he can't bear any distance between you. Time seems to stand still, the rest of the world fading away into the background.

It isn’t until the room shakes slightly and the sound of stone grinding against stone reaches your ears that you and Wooyoung break apart. Your eyes dart around the room, searching for the source, when you notice a beam of sunlight hitting a particular spot on the far wall. To your amazement, a hidden door slowly creaks open, revealing a secret chamber beyond.

"Well," Wooyoung breathes, his eyes wide with surprise. "That’s not creepy at all."

“We should check it out,” you say, grabbing his hand and attempting to pull him after you.

He resists, tugging you back into his chest. “You sure you don’t want to just stay here and continue this…?”

You take in the sly curve of his smile and the twinkle in his eyes and, as much as you want to give into him, you know that if you stay here you might miss your opportunity. “We can continue this after we get out of this damn library.”

Wooyoung chuckles, his breath warm against your cheek. "Fair enough. Let's go explore this creepy secret chamber, then." He intertwines his fingers with yours, giving your hand a gentle squeeze before leading the way into the dimly lit room. As you step inside, the grinding sound of stone against stone fills your ears once more. You both turn just in time to see the hidden door slowly closing behind you, sealing you in darkness.

You sigh. “Fantastic.”

NETWORKS: @kflixnet @pirateeznet @cromernet @wonderlandnet @cultofdionysusnet

TAGLIST: @nebulousbookshelf @ad0rechuu @seonghwaddict @sanniesbunnie @fruitcakebin @kickti @hwasflower @kibs-and-bits @wooya1224 @tournesol155 @ja3hwa @pocketjoong-reads @lovandr @yeoyeoland @huachengsbestie01 @baeksofty @deltamoon666 @yessa-vie @mlysalt @skteezcursed @vannabanana1995

[therhythmafterthesummer]

Herbie (M) ~Bang Chan | 02

Pairing: Mechanic!Chan x F.Reader Themes: Smut | Fluff | Friends to Lovers (kind of) Word Count: ~5k | AO3 Synopsis: As it turned out, your hot mechanic friend also had a crush on you. After rocking your world in his repair shop’s office, you wake up the next day on his bed in his clothes, ready to spend a lazy morning together. [This is a second and final part to Herbie]. Warnings: curvy/chubby reader · pet names · this is like super domestic · graphic depictions of intercourse (smut warnings under the cut).

Due to all the abovementioned warnings, this story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors please do not interact.

Author’s Note: does it count as friends to lovers if they already fucked and were planning to go on a date???? i honestly don’t know lol. but anyway, i felt like writing the morning after the events of Herbie, so here we are ! i think i’ve gotten all the wiggles out with this one, so for now i hope this remains as a two shot~

Smut Warnings: oral [F.Rec] · nipple play · protected penetration (piv) · honestly there’s hardly anything to warn about this is all so soft

Disclaimer: the story represented in this work does not represent Stray Kids in any way; anything described in this story and all actions performed by the characters are purely fictional, this was created just for good fun.

You could feel movement all around, you could hear movement all around. The gentle rustle of fabric, soft tapping sounds on the tiles, the flow of water… You weren’t really sure if you were fully awake and actually noticing these things, or if you were still dreaming. All you knew for sure was that the pillow under your head, the one between your thighs, and the duvet over your frame were incredibly soft and comfortable.

After a long while, you felt movement again, and then you felt warmth. 

The gentle feeling of plush lips on your forehead brought your senses back to the land of the living, and, in a second, you remembered. Herbie had died on you, Chris had saved you once again, he’d made you feel loved and wanted and cared for in just a few hours, he’d brought you to his place and talked with you until you both were too tired to keep your eyes open, he’d given you one of his t-shirts to wear to bed, and right now, he’d just kissed your forehead and he was pulling away.

“Where you going…?” You mumbled, blindly reaching for him.

Chris chuckled, leaning in and pressing a kiss on your cheek. “I have to walk Wolfgang. I’ll be back in no time, you continue sleeping. Hm?”

A pout made its way onto your lips, but you hummed in agreement anyway, because there was no way you’d stop him from taking Wolfgang on a walk. Wolfgang deserved all the walks.

With one more kiss to your forehead and a ‘be right back, beautiful’, Chris left the room, and after a few minutes you heard the front door open and close behind him. You changed positions, laying on your other side–taking special care to move the pillow between your legs with you, because there was nothing more comfortable when you had big thighs than having a pillow between your legs when you laid on your side.

As you laid there, only half awake, your brain started recounting the events of the night. You’d been at Chris’ place a couple of times throughout the past handful of months, but never this late, and never this long. You’d always been comfortable with him, but yesterday, sitting face to face on his sofa, with Wolfgang napping on the floor right by your feet was just something else.

It was nice to be able to talk so freely with him, even more than you were already doing before. The topics ranged from what you were going to do with Herbie, to commenting on whichever show you both had been watching these days, and even to heartfelt confessions.

‘Always knew I was attracted to you, but I’m gonna be fully honest, the moment you kept talking to me after our two hour video call where all I did was ramble about Pokémon, I knew there was no going back for me’, Chris had told you, and you had simply laughed, telling him how oddly specific that was, to which he also laughed and offered a ‘you’re laughing, but I’ve seriously had people ghost me after something like that. Some just don’t get it!’

You clearly fell asleep again, because the next thing you registered was Chris slinging an arm over your waist and pulling you back to his chest. You vaguely registered the ‘welcome back, baby’ that came out of your mouth, just like you vaguely registered Chris’ lips on your neck, pressing soft kisses on your skin while he mumbled a ‘thank you, pretty’.

You laid there in Chris’ arms for a while, until he started to snore and you started to feel like you really needed to go to the bathroom. Chris was holding on tight to you, so you had a bit of difficulty pulling yourself away from his embrace. He seemed to barely even register it, his snoring remained steady as you walked past a sleeping Wolfgang, out of the room, and into the bathroom.

After relieving yourself and splashing a bit of water on your face, you cringed a bit at the fact that you couldn’t apply your moisturiser, but as you looked at the brand new toothbrush Chris had given you last night, sitting right next to his in a cup on the sink, you figured it was a small price to pay for being here. You looked at yourself in the mirror, admittedly smiling a bit like a fool as you remembered the events of the night again. Sigh, I’m down bad, bad, huh? was all you could think while a small giggle passed your lips.

With a fresh face, an empty bladder, and a minty mouth, you finally made your way back to Chris’ room, yawning and stretching a bit before you finally tucked yourself back under the covers to find a pouty Chris looking at you with only one eye open. You just smiled at him and gave him a quick peck before you snuggled closer, tucking your head under his chin.

Chris hummed, bringing an arm under your neck to curl around your shoulders, just as he took a hold of your thigh to hoist it over his hip and push a leg between yours, essentially tangling your limbs together so you could be as close as possible. Even if it was just a simple gesture, your heart was racing, feeling just so incredibly full.

“Would it scare you off if I told you I like waking up with you on my bed?” Chris mumbled against your hair, leisurely dragging his hand up and down your bare thigh as he spoke.

“It takes a lot to scare me off”, you chuckled, giving in to the urge of attaching your lips to his collarbone. How could you not kiss him there when he was shirtless and his skin looked just so incredibly kissable? And even more so when the gentle morning light filtering through the drapes was enough for you to see his skin flush with each peck of your lips.

After a few moments of you just kissing Chris’ collarbones, his chest, his neck, you felt the warmth of his hand leave your thigh, only to appear again on your chin. He tilted your head up a bit to get you to look at him. There was such a sincere smile on his lips, you just weren’t sure where to focus, on that smile, on his brown eyes, or on the barely perceptible freckles under them. You just couldn’t help the heat that spread over your face at the sight.

“You’re so incredibly beautiful, you know?” Chris leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “And cute”, another one on your cheek bone. “Pretty”, and another on the tip of your nose.

Heat pooled in the pit of your stomach, just with his words and his gentle kisses you could feel minute shivers running up and down your spine and the fine hairs on your arms stand on end. Before you could even say anything, Chris was kissing you, slowly, tenderly savouring you. He returned his hand to your thigh, squeezing all the way up, holding you tight against him as he finally reached your bum to sneak his fingers under your underwear so he could grab a proper handful, eliciting the tiniest moan to fly past your lips and get lost in his mouth.

You brought your hands to his head to card your fingers through his hair, lightly scratching his scalp as you went, and, with a groan, Chris moved, gently pushing you onto your back as he laid on top of you, not stopping the movements of his lips against yours for a second.

With a hand still tangled in his hair, barely pulling the strands, and the other roaming his back, you just let yourself enjoy the feel of him pressed against you. His warm skin under your hands, his weight on you, his lips on you, there was honestly nothing else on your mind other than Chris and his warmth.

Finally detaching himself from your mouth, Chris trailed kisses all the way to your neck, where he settled to suck and nibble on your skin, making you squirm and whine softly. One of his fingers twisted on the side of your underwear as he continued his motions on your neck, seemingly in no hurry to take the garment off at all, almost like he was doing it just to keep his fingers busy, or even to tease you a bit–if that were the case, it was certainly working.

Trailing all the way back up your throat, his mouth found yours again, and he kissed you deeply, pushing his tongue inside your mouth as soon as you parted your lips for him. He was wearing only his boxers, so you could feel him already hard against you. That, coupled with his kisses, with his hold on you, had wetness pooling at your core, all combined had lewd noises escaping your mouth.

When Chris finally untwisted his fingers from your underwear, he propped himself on one elbow for leverage, moving his hand up from where it’d been pressed against your hip, slowly dragging it all the way up to your ribs, bringing the hem of the tee you were wearing with it, encouraging goosebumps to raise on your skin with the soft movement.

“Mind if I take this off?” Chris mumbled against your lips, pressing a brief kiss on your lips for good measure.

You just shook your head, giving him the go-ahead. If he didn’t get you naked now you were sure you’d combust, you never thought you’d ever needed anyone in your life quite like you were needing Chris at this very moment.

Chris shuffled a bit, moving to kneel between your legs just as he took a hold of the hem of your t-shirt, carefully pulling it over your head, leaving you in nothing but your knickers.

“Fuck…” You could see his eyes jump all over you, taking in the sight of your bare chest, and it occurred to you then that he hadn’t seen your full naked body last night. He might’ve ravished your cunt like a starved man, but that didn’t seem to stop him from blushing at the sight of your bare breasts. “Look at these…”

Cupping your tits, Chris squeezed them gently, kneaded them, just overall felt them in his hands, warming you up, and you couldn’t help but flush. 

“Thought you were an ass guy”.

Chris’ eyes snapped back up to yours, and he laughed, but the movement of his hands didn’t stop. “Baby, I’m an everything guy. Fuck, wish I had more hands. Wanna touch you everywhere”.

His comment made you laugh, too, but the sound quickly caught in your throat as soon as his thumbs dragged over your nipples.

He did it again, with a bit more pressure this time. The action had heat creeping on your face, and you couldn’t help but bite your lip to contain the obscene sounds that were threatening to come out of your mouth. Chris, on the other hand, looked absolutely delighted.

“You’re sensitive here, too, huh?” He had a smirk plastered on his face, and whichever thought that was crossing your mind completely flew out the window the second he started to roll your nipples between his fingers, applying the tiniest bit of pressure, just enough to make you close your eyes and your thighs twitch. “Don’t hold back, gorgeous. Let me hear those pretty noises I know you can make. Hm?”

You didn’t think you could flush any further, but here you were, feeling heat everywhere. On your face, your neck, between your legs… And the feeling seemed to intensify the further he worked your chest, the further you let quiet noises slip out of your lips as you barely held his gaze.

“Chris?”

“Hm?”

“Want… Want your mouth”.

As soon as you said the words, Chris dived, gently sucking one of your nipples into his mouth. You simply moaned, threading your fingers through his hair once again to further push him against your chest. With his mouth on one nipple and his fingers on the other, his motions had sparks of pleasure coursing through your body, shooting straight to your now aching core.

Chris focused on your chest for a while, shifting his mouth from one nipple to the other occasionally to provide equal attention, mumbling mindless words of praise in between, ‘gorgeous tits… So soft here, huh…? Wanna kiss you all over…’ effectively driving you up the wall. You yourself could hear the desperation in your voice whenever you moaned or whined or whimpered under his tongue, and it was right when you were close to begging for more that he finally detached his mouth from your chest entirely, swearing under his breath.

In one swift movement he’d yanked your underwear off, pushed your legs apart, and found his way between your thighs, attaching his mouth to your clit and sucking on it. The movement was so sudden you just couldn’t contain your sounds of delight, what started as a moan ended as an incredulous laugh that Chris matched immediately, the rumble of his laugh enhancing the tingles of pleasure that extended to all your limbs. He removed his mouth from your heat only long enough to shift his weight so he could lay comfortably on his stomach, take a hold of the back of your thighs, and push them towards your chest to get better access to your centre.

As soon as his mouth resumed its motions between your legs you sighed, melting completely under the gentle nudges of his tongue.

After bringing one of your thighs over his shoulder, Chris blindly reached for your hand. As soon as he found his target, he took a hold of your hand and brought it to his head, and you couldn’t help but chuckle softly as you dragged your fingertips over his scalp.

“So you… Like it when I play with your hair?”

Chris just hummed in response, with a hint of a smile in the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, sucking a tad bit harder on your clit to make his point. You just laughed, not because it was particularly funny, but because it was the only way your body knew how to express the feelings coursing through you right now. And when you tugged on his hair, he just buried himself deeper, closing his eyes and humming once again, a sound of unadulterated satisfaction that had fire burning deep inside of you.

He was moving just so leisurely, like he had all the time in the world to be just here, right between your legs, a complete contrast to how borderline desperate he’d been last night. Every time he opened his eyes and looked at you, you could barely even hold his gaze, the slow but precise licks and sucks and kisses had your head swimming, had you quietly moaning and whimpering as you got lost in the stars twinkling in his eyes.

Much like yesterday, he looked at you with want, need, hunger, but in a different way. A softer, gentler way that somehow also had your toes curling, had you throwing your head back in glee, and had your heart growing ten sizes in your chest.

Detaching his lips from you briefly, Chris got a finger in his mouth, thoroughly coating it in his saliva to then bring it to your entrance, pushing it in to lightly massage your sweet spot as the hand he had on the thigh over his shoulder kept squeezing your flesh.

You could feel your legs start to tremble as he added more fingers, as he increased his speed, stuffing you full of three of his digits while his hand moved up your thigh to rest on your lower belly, kneading and gripping the soft skin in tandem with his mouth on your clit and his fingers in your cunt, and you honestly were starting to think you’d died and gone to heaven. 

You genuinely weren’t sure how long Chris spent working you up, touching you, kissing you, fucking you open with his fingers, kneading your soft flesh with his hand. It could’ve been seconds, minutes, or even hours, but neither of you seemed to mind or care at all; all you cared about was the feel of him between your legs, the smell of his shampoo on the pillow below your head, his hair between your fingers, and how incredibly close he was getting you to your impending release.

Nothing had ever tasted sweeter than Chris’ name on your tongue once he finally pushed you over the edge, nothing had ever felt as satisfying as the way he softly sucked and licked at your clit to drag the very last wave of pleasure he could out of you. Your body slumped when you started to come down from your high, and your legs twitched a bit when he placed one final kiss on your clit and removed his fingers from your still sensitive walls.

Chris kissed his way up your body, lightly sucking on your skin as he went until his mouth found yours, leaving you breathless with the passion of his kiss and the slow grind of his hips against your core, surely getting his underwear drenched in your juices as he continuously dragged the outline of his erection over your folds. He didn’t seem to mind or care at all, in fact, he seemed to be just completely lost in the feel of you under him, in the feel of your tongue against his own, and the feel of your fingers gently running down his back.

“Baby…” You mumbled, resting one of your hands on his shoulder and the other on his round bottom. “Baby, need to breathe”.

Chris chuckled, pulling his mouth from yours to repeatedly kiss your cheeks, finally stopping the movement of his hips between your legs, but keeping himself flush to your body. “Sorry”.

“No, you’re not”, you laughed, still slightly breathless, but you hugged him tight anyway.

“No, I’m not”, Chris gave you a cheeky smile, looking absolutely pleased with himself, and, honestly, while you still felt pleasure coursing through your body from your orgasm, you just couldn’t find it in you to pretend to be mad at him.

Pulling himself off of you fully to give you a breather, Chris got rid of his underwear, and you propped yourself on your elbows to just look at him in all his glory, broad, strong, naked… 

“You’re unfairly handsome, you now?”

Chris giggled, a pink tint coloured his cheeks, and he shook his head side to side while he found his way between your legs once again, kneeling on the bed, sitting back on his heels and looking down at you with an incredibly fascinating mix of endearment and lust swimming in his eyes. Scooting as close to you as he could, he placed a hand on your thigh just as he brought the other close to his mouth to spit on it. After spreading his saliva all over his shaft, he finally closed his fist around his length to leisurely stroke himself.

“I wholeheartedly believe you’re the pretty one in this relationship”.

A teasing smile spread on your face, and you quirked a brow at him, ignoring any possible self-deprecating comment your brain immediately came up with at that moment, choosing instead to focus on holding back the laugh that was threatening to come out of your mouth. “Oh? So we’re in a relationship?”

“If you want to be”, Chris tightened his hold on your thigh, but kept the movement of the hand working his cock the same slow, steady pace.

“Do you?”

“I do”, Chris answered in a heartbeat, giving you a genuine smile, an adorable smile that made his eyes disappear and his dimples show on his cheeks, and you were sure your heart was about to burst out of your chest.

You replied confidently anyway, because if there was one thing that Chris made you feel was confident, and fearless. “I do, too”.

Chris was about to say something, but whatever it was died on his tongue, replaced with a groan when Wolfgang suddenly jumped on the bed and found his way towards you, sniffing you and attempting to lick your cheeks, making you laugh while you tried to pull away.

Chris let go of his cock immediately, taking a hold of Wolfgang’s collar to keep him from jumping on you and crushing you. “Dude, this is quite possibly the worst moment for you to show affection. Go away”.

Wolfgang, however, took this as a sign to start playing, shifting his attention from you to Chris in a heartbeat and trying to jump on his shoulders, hitting your leg with his wagging tail in the process. “Dude!”

You honestly couldn’t stop laughing.

“Come here, you giant twit”, Chris scooped Wolfgang into his arms. With admittedly a bit of difficulty since his dog kept trying to play while Chris held him, he got out of bed and left the bedroom entirely. You could hear Wolfgang’s tail hitting the walls as they went, just like you could hear Chris lecturing him. ‘You can’t do this to me. You gotta understand the act of making puppies is very, very sacred. Think of the bro code, dude. You can’t just interrupt and jump on my girl like that!’

Your laughs turned to soft chuckles, and you reached for your eyes to wipe the tears that had collected at the corners. Shuffling could be heard in the living room, and then you heard running water.

After a moment, Chris came back into the room, huffing in annoyance, and ruffling his hair. The sight of his length half hard and bobbing between his legs with every step was oddly amusing to you.

“What’d you do?” You asked as soon as Chris was back into your arms and nestled between your legs so he could kiss you.

“Gave him a scolding and a Kong filled with treats to entertain himself”, he mumbled between kisses, propping himself on an elbow.

The cold feeling of his still slightly moist hand dragging down your side made you shiver.

“Don’t scold Wolfgang. He’s a good boy, he just wants to play”, you chuckled, speaking between kisses.

“What about me?” Chris pulled himself away from your hold, reaching for his nightstand. “I wanna play, too, but I can’t if he’s here”.

“Got performance anxiety?” You watched Chris rummage the first drawer of his nightstand, where he clearly didn’t find what he was looking for.

Chris chuckled, opening the second drawer and rummaging the contents there, too. “Why? Wanna get fucked with an audience? Can’t give you that, babe. I want you all to myself”.

He finally found what he was looking for, a condom, which he immediately opened and rolled over his once again fully hard length. “Besides, doesn’t it unsettle you a bit to have Wolfgang specifically watch us have sex?”

“Only if he tries to get involved”, you chuckled.

“Freaky, huh?”

You licked your lips when Chris got comfortable between your legs again and started to drag the head of his cock up and down your slit. “Not even close to being the weirdest thing about me”.

“True”, he chuckled. “The way you wash the dishes both fascinates me and puzzles me to this day”.

He just kept dragging the tip of his length all over your cunt, spreading your juices around, stopping at your entrance sometimes but not going in. He was very obviously teasing you, and you couldn’t help but whine. “Babe…”

“What?” He grinned at you, brushing your clit with his tip briefly, only to dip back down to tease your entrance.

“Christopher”, a pout made its way onto your lips, just as you rolled your hips to try and get him to go in. Sadly, it didn’t work. If anything, it only made Chris giggle.

“God, you’re just so cute”, he was giggling still, and you would’ve probably said something about it, had he not eased himself into your heat with one swift movement, filling you up fully, making you gasp. 

Chris leaned into you, propping himself on his elbows to plant a kiss on your lips. You simply hugged him close, caressing his lower back, softly tracing the dimples there with one of your fingers just as your free hand made its way to his bum again, squeezing once he started to move, ever so slowly.

“So, so cute”, Chris mumbled against your lips, and you just hummed in response. 

Parting from your lips, he started a trail of kisses from your cheek to your neck, mumbling between each press of his lips against your skin. “So soft, too…”

He dragged his hand up and down your thigh, squeezing sporadically, keeping that slow pace of his hips. “Tight…” 

You couldn’t help but whine, your brain once again turning to putty with every drag of his cock against your walls, with every tight squeeze to your soft flesh, with every love bite he left on your skin… Bringing your other hand to his buttock, you grabbed a handful in each hand, revelling in the way Chris groaned against your neck and how his pace picked up the tiniest bit.

A part of you–a very needy, greedy part of you–wanted to beg him to go faster, to go harder, but another part of you simply wanted to enjoy his slow and precise movements, especially when Chris seemed to be enjoying it all just like this.

As you dragged the tip of one of your fingers up his spine, he swore under his breath and kissed you, so deeply you weren’t sure what had you involuntarily clenching around him, if it was the feeling of his tongue against yours, or his cock stretching you open and hitting the utmost sensitive areas within your walls.

Detaching himself from your mouth, Chris pressed his forehead against yours, the lack of barrier letting your soft moans freely spill from your lips.

One of his hands found yours, linking your fingers together, holding it tight and pressing it to the mattress as you mindlessly whispered sweet nothings to him. How good he felt inside of you, how well he was fucking you open, how handsome he was… Anything and everything that came to your hazy mind, all while Chris just groaned lowly, sounding just so incredibly lost in the feeling of you and your body it almost made you lightheaded.

Burying his cock as deep as he could, he stilled, catching your mouth in a heated kiss when you buried your hand in his hair and tugged.

“Sit on me”, Chris mumbled against your mouth, pressing a brief kiss on your lips right after for good measure.

You simply nodded in response. The sudden lack of his body heat, of his length inside of you, of his weight on you, almost gave you whiplash, but you moved regardless, and as soon as Chris was on his back, you straddled him, keeping yourself lifted enough to align his cock with your entrance.

You couldn’t help but moan once he was back within your warmth, just like Chris didn’t seem to be able to hold back his groan of satisfaction when he was snugly buried to the hilt. Bringing his hands to your hips, he squeezed hard on your soft flesh, swearing under his breath as he took in the sight of you fully sitting on his lap.

“Fuck, look at you–” He all but choked on his words as soon as you started to move, bracing yourself on his chest for leverage so you could bounce on his cock.

“Was this what you’d imagined?” You asked, admittedly a bit breathless. “During your–Fuck… Your hip thrust sets?”

“Baby…” Planting his feet firmly on the bed, and with his tight grip on your hips, Chris started to thrust up, so suddenly you fell on your elbows at either side of his head, moaning loudly. “It’s… So… Much… Better”, he emphasised each word with sharp thrusts, hitting your walls just right, making you whine.

You tried your best to match his pace, bringing your hips down when he brought his up. You could feel your soft flesh rippling every time your bodies collided, and you honestly couldn’t contain the sounds that were flying past your lips as Chris kept relentlessly ramming into you.

“You’re a fucking dream”, Chris groaned, pulling one of your arms behind your back and holding it in place with one of his strong hands to keep you flush against his body, chest against chest, while his other hand moved from your hip to grab a handful of your ass. “You take it so fucking well, fuck…”

All you could do was whine as you buried your head in the crook of his neck, attaching your lips to his throat in an attempt to muffle the pathetic sounds that were coming out of your mouth. As soon as your free hand made its way into Chris’ hair and tugged, he groaned, and his hands tightened their hold on you in response.

The longer you stayed there taking a pounding, the longer your clit rubbed against his lower abdomen, the more you felt your sanity slip between your fingers, leaving nothing in your mind but Chris and his cock ramming into you and his hands holding onto you.

You wanted to tell him how close you were, but you honestly weren’t sure if the words came out of your mouth at all. All you knew for sure was that after one particularly hard thrust you finally found your gratifying relief, mindlessly biting on Chris’ shoulder to somehow keep your mind a bit grounded through it all.

You vaguely registered Chris swearing, loudly, repeatedly, until the hand on your rear pushed you flush against him and the most delicious sounds flew past his lips as he came. You clenched around him, somewhat on purpose, somewhat because he just sounded so incredibly hot when he groaned and moaned so close to your ear you just couldn’t help your body’s reaction to him.

“Fucking hell…” Chris mumbled, turning his head enough to absentmindedly press kisses on your cheek, finally letting go of your arm and your buttock so he could wrap his arms tightly around your waist, holding you close.

You turned your head fully, catching his mouth in yours for a slow, gentle kiss, moving the hand that had been held on your back to softly caress his cheek while the other simply played with the more than mussed curls on his head. 

You both laid there for a moment, until Chris muttered a ‘gimme a sec, baby. Gotta get rid of this fucking condom before I go soft and cum gets everywhere’. 

So you got off of him, dropping to the side to catch your breath as you watched him leave the room to dispose of the soiled latex and come back in less than a minute. As soon as he was back on the bed he asked you to lay on top of him again, and you did, chuckling a bit once you straddled him and rested your weight on him.

“So this is why you wanted me, huh? So you could use me as your own personal weighted blanket?”

Chris just laughed, wrapping an arm around your waist and burying a hand in your hair to softly massage your scalp. “How do you even come up with this stuff?”

“I’m a part-time comedian”, tucking your head under his chin, you couldn’t help but sigh, feeling content, and immensely satisfied.

Chris hummed, placing a kiss on the top of your head. “And a full time cutie”.

You pulled yourself away from his neck briefly, regarding him with a smile before you kissed him.

“Have you ever had Venezuelan food?” Chris asked as soon as you pulled back from the kiss, softly caressing your back.

“No, why?”

“There’s this really good place in the city centre I think you’d like… Was thinking maybe we could go there tonight”.

You quirked a brow at him with a teasing smile on your lips. “For our date?”

“God, yeah”, Chris giggled, blushing a bit as if he hadn’t just fucked you dumb, and somehow the sight of him blushing made your face heat up as well. “For someone so dense, you’re incredibly confident sometimes, you know? No wonder you got me all smitten like a fool”.

“Ohhh, you’re smitten?” You couldn’t help but tease him further.

“And like a fool. That’s a very important part”, Chris grinned at you.

You kissed him, because why wouldn’t you when he was so cute and hot and his lips were so kissable? Especially when he was almost glowing with the after-effects of his high, and when he was looking at you with borderline sparkly eyes.

“I like you so much, Chris. It’s embarrassing”, you mumbled against his mouth, pressing another kiss on his lips to emphasise your statement.

“At least we can be embarrassing fools together”, Chris giggled, but the sound quickly turned into an annoyed groan as he felt the bed dip again when Wolfgang jumped on it, carrying a penguin plushie in his mouth, doing little hops, and wagging his tail so fervently all you could do was coo and laugh.

Herbie had indeed been a bad financial investment, but, at this very moment, all that monetary loss seemed to pale in comparison to how happy and full you felt. As you rolled off of Chris and he lunged at Wolfgang, essentially wrestling with his dog while he laughed, you were more than certain that it had all been worth it, and that you were more than ready to build your romantic relationship with Chris.

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[daflangstlairde-art]

"A Noble Occupation" Chapter 2, 7936 words

Summary:

The shame burned. Dream felt as though everyone knew. Knew that he was a failure, that he needed something additional to work (and he was already worse at his work than he'd like). Knew that he wasn't the beacon of happiness and hope that they believed in, that they needed, that they loved. That he was something flawed, which felt sorrow and exhaustion and shame. — Dream acquires a new coping mechanism. It's not a very good one.

Credits, warnings and additional info on ao3.

—

It… became a habit, as shameful as that was.

On lighter days, when his emotions weren't exhausted enough and therefore reached him, Dream would… well, first he would busy himself. When there was nothing obvious that needed him (uncommon occurrence), he sought out how to be helpful, how to be of use. When there was little of that (very rare occurrence), he trained with his teammates, or made preparations.

When that ended and he was home, Dream still looked for ways to make his time worthwhile. Even cleaning was better.

But when he was at a loss on how to do that, and he was thinking and feeling things the Guardian of Positivity shouldn't be… he drank.

The experience didn't get more pleasant, but he grew accustomed to it. The same way he'd learned to bear wounds. The same way he'd learned to bear his own bad emotions.

Go to the store. Internally writhe in shame as he got a bottle of alcohol (wine, since he was most familiar with it). Sometimes he lied that it was for a friend or a gift. Go back home.

Drink it all as fast as possible.

Get hit with the effects all too suddenly.

Feel miserable. Throw up. Go to bed. Sleep like a log.

He learned to keep a glass of water at his night stand. He learned to set an alarm so he wouldn't sleep until noon. He learned to take headache meds in the morning so his functionality wasn't impaired.

It wasn't a big deal, really. It rarely happened, once every several weeks at most.

It helped him sleep, when he did it. It helped him, well, drown his sorrow — make it dull and fuzzy, allowing him to wake up the next day and pretend like none of it existed in the first place, because it shouldn't have existed in the first place.

He was a Protector of the entire Multiverse. If this made him better at his job, at giving the people what they needed in a way that didn't affect them negatively at all, what's the harm in it?

—

Dream should get a mat or something. For his bathroom. The floor tiles were cold.

At some point, he figured it was easier to just drink in his bathroom, since he was inevitably going to end up throwing it up.

The floor… wasn't particularly comfortable, but that's fine. Dream just had to sit here for a bit. Knees pulled to his chest, breathing steadily. Waiting for the alcohol to kick in properly, for the nausea to really rear up. Everything was already fuzzy and tilting, so it was on its way.

And then his phone rang.

Dream winced. He felt his metaphorical heartrate pick up, because it was late, and today had been easier, so this had to be an emergency, and he was a useless mess–

"Hey Dream!" Blue's voice came through.

"Blue?" Dream swallowed. Oh, he hadn't yet… experienced talking to anyone in this state. And he knew alcohol changed the way people spoke. Stars, he really hoped Blue wouldn't pick up on it. He really, really hoped that.

Blue was one of his best friends. One of his teammates. He was… so nice. He genuinely… cared about Dream, not just– about what Dream could do for him, not just about Dream's role. Blue was a good person.

What would he think of Dream? Would he be disappointed?

Dream would not be able to handle that.

He couldn't let Blue know.

"–always for some emergency or another, soo I thought I'd just… you know… call to chat! Just as friends," Blue spoke. His voice was… calm and cheerful. No emergency.

His words caught up to Dream. He wanted to… chat. As friends. That was important. Dream… didn't want Blue to feel like they're just co-workers. They were friends. Blue mattered a lot to Dream.

He was right. Dream had to make more time to spend with his friends. As friends. The last thing he wanted was for them to feel like… like he didn't care about them because he spent all his time helping other people instead.

(He had to have learned from his mistakes. He had to.)

Dream exhaled through his nose, trying to string together a coherent reply. Come on, he wasn't that drunk. Liven up!

"Yeah," he agreed, nodding even if Blue couldn't see. "I– I also… I'd enjoy spending time with you too. As friends,"

"Yay mweheheh!" Blue exclaimed, and Dream huffed in mirth at his endearing laughter. "Unless you're tired, that is– oh no, did I wake you up? I should've asked if you were available to talk first, gah, please prioritize your rest–!" he rushed out.

Dream shook his head. "No, no, I'm available," he spoke slower than the other. It's like the words were fuzzy in his mouth. It was weird. But it didn't sound weird, at least not to him.

"Oh! Okay then, great! Anyway. I'm making dinner!"

Dream hummed. "What're you making?"

"Vegetable cream soup!!!" Blue exclaimed.

That simultaneously sounded really tasty and made Dream remember the upcoming nausea.

"Sounds lovely," he focused on.

"Uh-huh! I hope so. You can try it tomorrow! It's a bit pot. I'm making it with the usual ingredients — you know, carrots and onions and potatoes, but I also decided to add cauliflower because I quite enjoy cauliflower–"Blue started rambling. He enjoyed cooking, as was characteristic of many versions of Papyrus. Funnily enough, Dream had caught him and Horror discussing food prep in the middle of a fight once or twice. It was bizarre. Dream wasn't against it though.

He didn't… think hating Nightmare's gang would solve anyone's issues. He wished he could help them instead. They… hngh. People hated them for ruining and destroying, which was understandable. Dream also, well, highly disapproved of their actions. But they were people, too. And, occasionally, he could feel their hurt. And there's no way being with Nightmare helped.

He exhaled. Maybe someday, he'd figure out a way to help them too. If he tried harder. If he was better.

…Ah, he wasn't listening to Blue. What a friend he was. How could he help Nightmare's gang if he couldn't even be enough for one of his best friends?

"–with an egg, and then it's going to be all done. What about you, what are you up to??" Blue asked curiously, because he was a good friend.

Agh. Dream would have to lie again. He felt… ashamed and guilty. What should he answer?

"I was… cleaning earlier," he answered. He did clean just a little.

"Cleaning? Tsk tsk tsk Dream, I told you to go home and rest," Blue said, light-hearted, more teasing than anything. Though there was soft, disguised concern in his words.

Dream winced. He swallowed. He almost reached for the bottle again before he remembered it was already empty. It was really getting to him. As always, it left him feeling odd. Fuzzy at the face. Nauseated.

"Sorry," he said, sort of by reflex.

"N– it's alright," Blue was quick to assure, and then he paused for a moment. "Are… you alright, Dream?"

Oh no.

Good going, Dream, you couldn't even compose yourself enough for one phone call. Blue just wanted to spend time with you, and now you're making it all about yourself and your problems which you shouldn't be having in the first place. Selfish.

Ugh, and the wine wasn't helping him at all. Dream felt… messy, when he should be the pinnacle of put-togetherness. He couldn't cry now. He couldn't.

"I'm okayy," Dream tried to put a sincere inflection to it. He'd mastered that long ago, except now, it fell oddly, drawing out the end of the word just a bit. Dammit.

Blue was quiet for another moment. Dream had to fix this.

"…Dream, you can ta–"

"I'm just a bit distracted, sorry," Dream lied, "Planning. You know how it is. …Sorry for interrupting you," he winced.

"…Right," that didn't sound like Blue believed him. Dream hunched in on himself. He felt sick. "Just–" Blue took a breath, "–don't stay up all night planning, okay? …Take care of yourself. Please. You don't have to– …You… you'll need the strength, so we can, uh, help people the best we can!"

Right. He was right. Dream was so selfish to be doing this.

"…You're right," he agreed softly. "Thanks for the chat, Blue. I really enjoyed it. Can we… I… I really appreciate you as a friend, you know?" he swallowed. "We should… hang out more. I'm sorry we don't hang out more. I'm s– I… I think I'm gonna go to bed now," he finished on a bit of a lame note.

"I'd love to hang out another time," Blue said all warm, and Dream knew he meant it. "But right now, you going to bed will make me even happier! Good night, Dream! See you tomorrow!"

"Good night," Dream returned quietly. After a beat, the call ended.

Dream let his hand down, blinking bleary at the wall. The silence lingered. He was alone.

He shuffled over to the toilet to throw up so he could go to bed.

—

He was growing too accustomed to the alcohol. One bottle wasn't making him as sick. He had to get two.

The shame burned. Dream felt as though everyone knew. Knew that he was a failure, that he needed something additional to work (and he was already worse at his work than he'd like). Knew that he wasn't the beacon of happiness and hope that they believed in, that they needed, that they loved. That he was something flawed, which felt sorrow and exhaustion and shame.

…He was finding more varied places to get the alcohol from.

—

Several days later,

"Dream!" Ink grabbed him by the shoulders.

"Ink?" Dream was immediately aware, "What is it, why did you call me, are you alright?" did Error go too far again, did Dream need to heal him? Was an AU being destroyed?

"Oh I'm great," Ink waved a hand, and then once again grabbed Dream, "But I really really really need your help!"

"Yes? Of course!" Dream would always help his friends.

"I need you," Ink said gravely, "to have a beach day with me."

Dream stared back at Ink's intense stare.

He resisted the urge to sigh. That'd be rude. And he wasn't really irritated with Ink anyway. Both because he didn't feel irritation, and also because it was Ink, Ink was like this.

"Come on pleeasee! It's really important!" Ink shook him a little. "It's for one of my stories! It has to be realistic. I stayed up all night thinking of plot points to put to the test,"

It still often baffled Dream how Ink could use up his time and energy for fictional stories like this. Then again, he'd… learned Ink perceived real people as fictional too. And besides, he wasn't Dream. Other people needed breaks and hobbies to function and to feel alright, so it was justifiably important. Even if Dream, personally, wouldn't dare.

"…Right," he replied carefully. "How long is this going to take…?"

"Uhhhmmm about a day, less even, so it's basically nothing," Ink shrugged. "We'll leave if there's an emergency, too, I promise,"

Okay, that eased some of Dream's worry. And it's not like this was the first time Ink hauled them away to do stuff relating to his stories. Last time was a few months ago, a camping trip in the mountains. Blue enjoyed that one. Dream did too. He held the memory fondly.

"Okay," he relented with a sigh and a smile. He'd rather be used by his friends.

"YES!" Ink threw his hands up.

And so here they were. Having a beach day.

It wasn't some private beach — there were a bunch of monsters around, but it was very far from crowded. It made Dream feel less like everyone would be looking at him and disapproving of this unearned leisure.

They'd already gone into the water, which wasn't awfully cold. And either way, the sun was high up and hot, seeping warmth into Dream's bones. The air held a gentle breeze that smelled of salt and sand and seaweed.

"Ink, pass it!" Dream hollered, grinning.

"Incomiiing!" Ink laughed, turning so he could pass the ball to Dream. With a running start, Dream jumped to dunk it past the net.

Blue laughed loudly at that, whistling. Error couldn't be assed to rush to catch the ball, even if he was literally a few paces away from it.

Blue had the idea that they play beach volleyball, but they'd needed a fourth person. Ink ended up nagging the Destroyer until he finally agreed, though he wasn't exactly passionate about it. Still, it was really fun. Error made up for his lack of involvement by cheating. This was the third ball Ink had drawn, haha.

And honestly?

Dream was having fun. Even with just the four of them, he was having a great time. All those fighting skills turned out to be useful — agility and precision and team coordination. Both teams were about evenly matched, making the game just engaging enough. Though weirdly, Dream didn't feel drained by all the movement and emotions.

The other monsters around the beach were relaxing, wafting off pleasant contentedness. Blue and Ink were as cheerful as ever. Even Error, as much as he complained about the sand, didn't seem to loathe it too much (likely because he was sort of friends with Blue and was familiar Ink).

It all left Dream collapsing onto his towel with a grin that was so big it ached against his face and a pleasant buzzing in his bones. This was yet another memory he'd hold near and dear.

("Thank you," Dream said to Ink quietly, but from the heart, as they all were sat to eat lunch during a brief break.

Ink chuckled, sharing a brief glance with Blue. "Anytime," he nudged Dream with an elbow.)

.

.

.

…Unfortunately, Dream remained a mess.

He was trying to sleep, he really was. He'd gone to bed over half an hour ago and he'd stayed there. Feeling lighter after a fantastic day. Calmer. More put together. Hopeful, the positivity inside him fresh and sincere, braced to live.

But he just… couldn't sleep. Which, to be fair, was far from new. Actually, he struggled to sleep most of the time. Which wasn't ideal since he got to bed, hm, maybe once every three days, but he was still fully functional so it must be all he needed.

Dream sighed, rolling on his side. Purple teddy bear held to his chest as always.

He wanted to sleep. Bad dreams or not, selfish or not, he was tired and he needed energy to bring his best for the Multiverse. Simply laying around certainly wasn't better.

He didn't understand why he couldn't sleep. He felt so cozy and comforted after the day at the beach. Filled with an unmarred warmth.

…Maybe…

…Hm. Did he need to drink an entire bottle every time? Maybe… drinking only a little would be fine. Just enough to dull his hyperawareness. What's so different to using melatonin pills?

Carefully, still a little ashamed, Dream got out of bed.

His head didn't even hurt in the morning, so it must've been fine.

—

It's really not that bad. Dream remained Dream, the Guardian of Positivity, member of the Star Squad, Protectors of the Multiverse. He was just as reliable, endlessly and gladly inspiring hope in everyone around him. Everyone knew how Dream was. Dream helped and asked for nothing in return. Dream always saw the best in people. Dream determinedly kept his stance in the face of terror and destruction. Dream embodied goodness, in everything he did, everything he was. Always smiling sincerely, reaching out his hands. Dream and all that he was belonged to the people. He served his role dutifully, humble and dedicated, glad and proud.

After years, he'd eventually settled into this balance. Always outputting as much productivity as he could, and always looking to do it more. A worn routine.

This was just… another… tiny part of said routine. He never dared to overdo it — he never drank around people, the same way he never cried around people. He never did it two days in a row, never even did it twice in the same week. He was always very careful that he wasn't needed when he was… uhm, in that state. He didn't… always drink himself to sickness, some nights it was just to help him sleep.

No one was noticing. So it was fine. Dream was ensuring he was highly functional and stable. He could get out all these unwanted emotions and thoughts, flush them down the toilet, and then continue as if it wasn't needed in the first place.

Until he was taken off-guard.

His phone was ringing.

Dream picked up immediately, desperately hoping this was just Blue or Ink wanting to chat. Because here he was once again. Dressed in pajamas, on his bathroom floor. Staring at the swirling and swimming tiles with over one bottle of alcohol in his system. Waiting for the sickness to come and pass, as usual.

"Yeah–?"

"Dream, emergency," Blue's alarm was audible over the line. Dream's rolling stomach sank. "Nightmare and his gang attacked–"

"On m' way, give me– minute," Dream hauled himself to his feet, and promptly regretted it as sharp reflux burned his throat. He pushed it down.

To his credit, his awareness sharpened a bit, as he listened to Blue give him the details of where to go and what state they were in. Ink was already there, and he heard Blue go through one of his portals. At that point Blue had to hang up to engage in combat as well.

In the meanwhile, Dream tried to gather himself into something semi-functional. He knew he looked terrible when drinking, and he was far from dressed for fighting, he had to hurriedly put on more combat-appropriate clothes so he wouldn't earn himself unnecessary wounds or impede his movements. He also took barely a few short seconds to splash his face with cold water.

As always, his mind kicked into habit as soon as he heard 'emergency'. Settling into familiarity. Forcefully jammed into strategy and pragmatism, away from sorrow and pain and all those distractions.

In about a dozen minutes, he arrived at the described location, more specifically in a version of Waterfall. The teleportation made his stomach do uncoordinated flips but Dream barely even noticed it, because he spotted Killer and Dust both engaging Blue in combat and jumped in to deal with at least one of them.

"Dream!" Blue exclaimed in relief.

"Here," Dream called back, parrying the swing of Killer's knife with his staff. Sometimes Killer preferred regular ranged attack bullets, but it seems today (or, tonight, according to the Omega Timeline's cycle) he was more for close-ranged combat. Which was fine because Dream was experienced in both.

"Well look who deigned to join!" Killer spat laughter in Dream's face, gladly engaging him in a fight. He was as vicious as ever, relentless and dirty with his attacks. Dream was used to him and knew to keep his guard up at all times, responding with fast, precise blocks and attacks of his own so as to not allow him openings to abuse.

Or… he was used to Killer.

But as they fought, and Killer kept taunting him as he usually did, Dream was… having a harder time than he should be.

It felt like he was reacting on time, except again and again, Killer managed to steal hits from him that Dream should've been perfectly capable of handling. His reflexes were… fuzzier than he'd like. In a normal fight, they would still hold up, but again, this was Killer. Nightmare had picked out the members of his gang for clear reasons.

Everything was just a little uncoordinated. Just a little unstable, like they were fighting in shallow water even though they were still on dry land, like Dream couldn't manage his footwork. Each hit that landed jarred Dream, even though the pain was muffled as well. Dream was lacking.

…And Killer was catching onto it.

"Heheheee did we catch you off-guard, dreamboy?" he jeered as he slammed his blade against Dream's staff once more, undistracted by his own words. "Are you losing your spark?"

Dream didn't reply, focused on matching him beat for beat as much as he could. Though that wasn't uncommon. He wasn't much for mid-fight banter. That was more Ink's thing. It's why Killer liked fighting Dream specifically. He wanted to crack his composure.

"You're sloppy," Killer hissed, grinning, dodging and slashing in the same movement, "Not usually your style, Mr. Perfect!" he mocked.

And he was right. Dream excused the rushing of his metaphorical heart on the adrenaline.

"This is who our enemies are? Pathetic," Killer successfully managed to slam the hilt of his blade against Dream's wrist, which weakened the grip on his staff, allowing Killer a wide swipe that landed despite Dream's attempt at dodging. Dream registered absentmindedly that, thankfully, it wasn't a lethal wound.

"What is up with you?" Killer crooned. "Am I scaring you, sunshine? Was this a bad time? Or…" he paused, in a dangerously considering way.

Dream's gut wrenched. His eyes widened, just the tiniest bit that people usually would not notice.

But this was Killer. Killer, when he wasn't drunk on violence and pain, could be terrifyingly observant. He was like a shark sensing a single droplet of blood in the water.

Killer barked out a hysterical laugh.

"Are you drunk?!" he loudly marveled.

Dream was too late to catch the wince he made at that. It was just the confirmation Killer needed.

"Oooohohoho oh this is incredible!" Killer laughed, fiercely back to attacking. "Your Guardian, everybody! A drunkard! I knew I could smell something familiar!" he declared it all loudly, even if there was nobody here to hear except the two opposing groups. And the echo flowers.

But even though there were no civilians here to hear, Dream was violently cringing inside. Please, no, he begged, please just let me handle this and go back home.

"What, got sick of living the life anyone else would kill for?!" Killer mocked, abusing his new knowledge to gain the upper hand in their fight. Dream was even sloppier, struggling to keep up with him, backing up as Killer pushed onwards. "I'm embarrassed to even fight you, Dream! Tsk tsk tsk!"

Usually, Dream mentally shielded himself from Killer's and Nightmare's and everyone's negative remarks as much as he could. Usually he knew the point of their words was to get to him, him specifically. To weaken his resolve, to hurt.

So why was it getting to him now?

Horrifyingly, Dream realized he wanted to cry.

All Killer needed was for him to stumble for a moment, and then Dream cried out as a knife was plunged directly into his chest. Killer seized the opportunity, shoving him towards the wall with it so he could push the blade in up to the hilt.

As soon as he accomplished it, he twisted the knife, Dream letting out another highly pained sound, and then ripped his knife out to let him bleed.

Dream, uncoordinated, sloppy, hurting, overwhelmed, slid down to the ground, trying to at least breathe. Everything was spinning, and the back of his throat stung sharply and discontentedly.

Dream didn't even process Killer lifting his knife and summoning four blasters with the same gesture, laughing hysterically above him. He flinched and cowered pathetically as a second shape jumped between them, and it was the final push as he leaned forwards and retched on the ground. Or… he aimed for the ground but didn't quite make it. The humiliation burned as he saw he caught the bottom of his pants and his shoes and it was gross and he wanted to cry. He was shaking.

"–eam are you okay?!" Blue's worried voice floated in from beside him, and Dream squeezed his eyes shut, pulling his knees closer in, hiding his face in them.

He was collapsing in the middle of a fight. His friends needed him. He was letting them down. He was letting everyone see his composure break. He was broadcasting his weaknesses, his wrongness to their enemies. What was wrong with him? Why was he like this? Why couldn't he just work?

Adrenaline and shame and sheer overstimulation wracked him inwardly and he felt sick, he felt so sick, he was going to throw up again.

"Dream, hey, hey, listen to me, it's okay, focus on my voice," Blue spoke. He was– he was kneeling next to Dream, blocking his view of the rest of the fight. If both of them were dealing with Dream's mess, then Ink had to be handling the rest on his own. And Ink was strong and incredibly capable, he was creative and didn't let things get to him, but Dream was letting him down.

They were both going to be disappointed in him. The thought felt like getting stabbed in the chest again.

Dream– Dream couldn't do this. He was a disappointment. He was a useless. A mess. He was a failure.

In barely a flash, he was back in his bathroom, bending forward to throw up into the toilet. Everything was spinning, and he clutched the bowl to stop the shaking of his hands. His face felt hot with shame and the blubbery tears breaking out of their prison.

Dream was struggling to breathe. It felt like his rib cage was made of stone, and he couldn't breathe in right. He was– he was trying to gasp in air but every inhale got cut off sharply, he couldn't breathe, everything was vibrating like pins and needles.

Dream let his forehead thunk down on the toilet seat, the cutting breaths starting to sound more like hiccups, like sobs. He couldn't get himself under control, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't even think. It was all just a barrage of emotions he shouldn't be capable of even having, uselessness and panic and sorrow and self-hatred and guilt and disappointment and shame shame shame. He was a ruin. He felt so damn sorry the Multiverse depended on this thing.

Suck it up. Pull yourself together. Handle this. Be better. Be better!

But he couldn't. He couldn't. Every desperate attempt to pull himself together only made him more overwhelmed, only made him feel more incapable. He wanted to claw out the emotions. He wanted it out.

It hurt as he retched into the toilet again, acidic magic trailing down his chin. It was gross, it was so gross, he hated it. He hated the way his uncontrolled sobs echoed in the bathroom. He hated the way he couldn't even get up, trembling and weak and aching all over. He hated hating, he shouldn't even be capable of it.

How was he going to sleep like this? How was he going to look his friends in the eyes like this tomorrow? How was he going to look at anyone? Maybe they wouldn't know how much of a useless disappointment he was, if Nightmare didn't broadcast it to the whole Multiverse, but Dream would know. It would be in the background of all his actions, following him, never allowing him to forget because he had to remember his mistakes, he had to learn from them, he had to be better.

Who would need– who would want a Guardian of Positivity who wasn't even positive?

He tried to reign in the sobbing, he tried, he swore he tried. He always tried so, so hard but it was never enough. He was never enough. People always needed more, there was always more to do, he always had to be more. He couldn't even stop crying, when he shouldn't be crying in the first place.

Dream raised his hands, slamming them into the sides of his head. Just stop it. Just stop it. You're the one that messed up, you're the one who always messes up! It's your fault! It's always been your fault! Why are you crying? How dare you feel sorry for yourself you useless thing? People suffer constantly, and here you are, sniveling!

"I'm sorry, 'm sorry," Dream blubbered incoherently, not even sure to who. It was just– instinct, deep inside him. Sorry that he was wrong, sorry that he wasn't enough, sorry sorry sorry.

The tears didn't stop coming. It's like every tear he'd ever repressed was coming back for him with vengeance. He just kept crying and crying and crying, like he was trying to hold back the tears with his own hands but they just kept slipping through. How was he supposed to calm anyone else's tears when he couldn't even deal with his own?

He was made to help people, it was the definition of his existence to exist through others and for others. If he couldn't be theirs then he was nothing, he was as good as de–

"–shh, shh, it's okay,"

Dream jumped as a hand was placed on his shoulder, no, no, what? There wasn't supposed to be anyone here, he was alone, he–

"Dream, it's okay, it's alright," Blue was kneeling next to him, keeping up a stream of reassurances, and the sudden shame Dream felt, like someone had grabbed his nonexistent intestines and squeezed.

"Blue– you– n– m– I–" he stammered, words slurred in a way he hated.

"It's okay," Blue insisted, "Look, look at me, hey," his hands came to cup Dream's face, and Dream felt borderline scared as he looked at Blue's gaze. It was gentle, but sure. "You're okay. Everything is okay. Stop thinking, just– breathe with me, please?" he said.

More tears bubbled into Dream's eye sockets because he couldn't, he couldn't–

"I need you to remind me how we did it, please? Please? How did we do it? How do we breathe deep?" Blue tried desperately.

He needed Dream. He needed Dream's help, and that's all Dream's shattered thoughts could focus on. His friend needed him.

Dream forced himself to gasp in air even as it burned, his chest and his throat.

"There we go, that's right," Blue encouraged, still holding his face, keeping Dream's eyes on him. "I think I'm remembering, keep showing me, okay?"

Dream gasped for air again, and Blue followed, inhaling deeply. Much more steadily than him. Dream tried to hold the breath but it burned and escaped him, and Blue held and exhaled with him, although slower.

Dream was still shaking with sobs but he pushed through, hands clutching tightly onto nothing, forcing himself to breathe in, hold, breathe out, hold, repeat. Blue following him beat for beat.

They barely spent a few minutes that way before another presence joined them and Dream flinched, his already unsteady rhythm knocked off again.

"It's just Ink, it's okay," Blue reassured quickly. "He's got some medical supplies–"

Dream's eye lights snapped back to Blue in alarm, "Who's hurt?" he asked immediately, still struggling with cohesion.

Blue's face saddened, and that only panicked Dream more. There was someone injured who needed his help and he was sitting here freaking out–

"You are," Ink said next to them and flicked Dream's head with two fingers. Dream startled at it. He saw Blue send Ink a look at that, but he sensed no regret from Ink.

His mind grappled to process the words.

He was? He was what? Hurt?

…Oh wait. Yes. He was hurt. Killer stabbed him in the chest, he was still bleeding from it.

And then– then he'd–

More tears and shame pricked at his face. He shook his head insistently, though he wasn't sure what he was trying to convey.

"Dream, please let Ink help," Blue pleaded, worry lacing every word.

Dream hated to make him worry, especially over him, so in guilt, he relented.

With shaking hands, he removed his capelet and his shirt so it would be easier for Ink. Looking at it now, the wound was bad. It wouldn't kill him, it would take a lot to kill him, but it was bad. His blood dripping down from his severed ribs. It'd soaked into his clothes. It explained the burning of his breathing only partially.

"It's going to be okay," Blue lifted his face up again. "Just let Ink heal it, it's going to be okay Dream,"

He shouldn't be the one reassuring Dream. Ink shouldn't be the one cleaning his wound carefully to heal him. Dream should be the one taking care of them, not the other way around.

"I'm sorry," he whispered through hiccups, not even flinching as Ink gently cleaned his wound out with rubbing alcohol.

However the smell reached up to Dream's nose and nausea rolled in his stomach.

He shoved himself away from Blue to gag, pressing a hand to his mouth because he'd hate himself even more if he threw up on his friend.

"Whoops, sorry about that," Ink said casually, assuming he'd done something wrong.

"Not– not your fault," Dream reassured him, struggling to breathe through the nausea.

"Oh, I thought that's what we're doing? Apologizing for things that aren't our fault?" Ink said with a mischievously innocent smile.

Blue whacked his shoulder. Ink showed no regret, chuckling.

Dream was trying not to throw up again. He didn't usually vomit this much, but he usually stayed in his bathroom with little physical strain too.

He really, really wished they didn't see him like this.

"Oh, you still feel sick?" Ink spoke again, pushing himself to his feet, "I'll be back in a mo, keep an eye on him," he told Blue and then disappeared through a swipe of inky magic.

"Okay–" Blue exhaled through his nose, picking up the cotton and the rubbing alcohol, "I'll treat your wounds for now then, is that okay?"

Dream stared at the plastic bottle of rubbing alcohol. Just the thought of the smell made him feel sick and ashamed and guilty, like he wanted to hide under his blanket.

"Oh–" Blue looked down at the bottle and then put it down.

"No, no, it's fine–" Dream was quick to reassure. His words were slightly clearer even though everything still felt like pins and needles. He was still intermittently hiccuping and sobbing, breathing shakily. And bleeding.

"No, we'll think of something else," Blue insisted, and Dream cringed. He couldn't even give it to them to not be a difficult patient. Way to burden your friends with what shouldn't even be their job, Dream.

He reached for the plastic bottle. He could patch his wound up himself, it was far from the first time.

Blue grabbed his wrist.

"Dream." he said sternly, and Dream couldn't help but hunch in on himself at the tone.

"Sorry,"

Blue breathed in and out in a measured manner.

"It's okay, I'm not mad at you," he said gently, and Dream could feel he wasn't. Mostly, he felt– frustration, worry and care, and sadness.

"Are– are you okay?" Dream asked. He didn't want Blue to feel frustrated and sad and all.

The frustration reared up at that, and then Dream felt it get intentionally shoved down.

"'S okay to be frustrated," he reassured, hand reaching up to Blue's shoulder in sloppy comfort.

"I'm–" Blue exhaled, "I'm not frustrated because you've done something wrong," he explained, "I just– I want to help you but I don't know how, and I'm... frustrated you're not letting us,"

Oh.

"Sorry," Dream mumbled, "I'm– I'm alright,"

"You're not," Ink reappeared, and Dream saw Blue wince at the bluntness. "Maybe this will help though?" Ink crouched down next to them, holding out a blister pack to Dream.

Dream let go of the rubbing alcohol, so Blue let go of his wrist. He accepted the blister pack, reading the name on the back.

'DETOX' and underneath, in smaller letters, 'active charcoal'.

"Charcoal?" he frowned.

"Yup!" Ink exclaimed. "It helps draw out, uh, bad things from your digestive system! Like food poisoning. Or alcohol,"

Dream stiffened, deeply uncomfortable and ashamed. Maybe they'd just heard Killer. Maybe they'd connected the dots. The two bottles still remained in the bathroom, after all, which is where they were sitting right now.

"I, I–" he scrambled.

"You don't have to explain yourself," Ink cut him off with a raised hand. "If you think that'll help, take it. You can even take two, it's not dangerous," he pointed at the active charcoal pack Dream held.

He hesitated.

"...Okay," Dream accepted, popping two out and swallowing them dry. It didn't taste like anything. He was thirsty. He felt completely drained, which didn't help the shaking and the wooziness.

"Wanna know what would help right now?" Blue spoke, and Dream looked at him hopefully.

"What?"

"Telling me how this upsets you so I can think of something else?" Blue pointed at the bottle of rubbing alcohol tentatively.

Dream cringed again. He should just tough it out. He was making things needlessly complicated, when he should be the person that makes things easier.

...But... Blue said it would help.

Dream took a wobbling breath in, then let it out. He was still blinking tears out of his eyes. Even though they weren't wracking through him anymore, he couldn't stop them.

"It's– the smell," he admitted quickly.

"Oh! Psh, well that's not a problem," Ink said easily, for some reason unraveling his (very long and thick) brown scarf that he loved. And then, bizzarely, he started wrapping it around Dream's neck, pulling it up so it rested over the lower half of his face too.

When Dream breathed in through his nose, all he could smell was Ink's natural scent, ink and paint and cloth.

"I– but what if I throw up again?" he looked up at Ink, voice small, eyes wet.

Ink stood with his arms crossed, smiling.

"You realize I throw up when I get overwhelmed, like, half the time, right?"

...Oh.

They were being… so nice. Showing him so much care, even though they shouldn't. But because they… wanted to?

It made him want to cry all over again, expression wobbling. They were so nice, and warm. He could feel their care.

"Thank you," he said softly to both of them.

"Anytime!" Ink beamed. "So is it gonna work?"

"I– yeah, I think so," Dream nodded, raising a hand to press the scarf to his face.

When Blue brought a cotton swab soaked in rubbing alcohol to try cleaning his stab wound again, the smell didn't hit Dream's nasal cavity, it didn't make him want to bend over and retch.

They spent some time in the quiet like that. Blue and Ink cleaning up his wound, healing it, and dressing it in a practiced manner. There were still tears half-heartedly streaming down from Dream's eyes, no matter how much he wiped them away with his hands and tried to hold them back.

He could feel the ache of the wound settling in, sharper now that it wasn't covered up by alcohol and adrenaline, but it wasn't more than what he could handle. His metaphysical stomach felt desolate, and he was so thirsty, but he worried he'd just throw it up again. Exhaustion tugged at his limbs and his eye lids, from the amount of energy he'd wasted in throwing up and freaking out.

And in the middle of a fight, too. And his teammates had rushed after him to help him, oh stars.

"What about Nightmare's gang?" Dream suddenly piped up in alarm.

"Oh don't worry," Ink waved a hand, "I ditched them at Error's," he cackled. Blue snorted.

Oh. Okay then.

"Good job," Dream praised them both. He really couldn't ask for better, more capable, more reliable teammates. Friends. "And… thank you. And– I'm–" his mouth wobbled more, and he tried to breathe the uprising tears away. "I'm sorry, I... I just– this–" how could he explain this? How could he justify himself?

He didn't want to lie to them. He hated lying. Especially to his friends.

"I thought it would help," his voice broke against his will. He stared at the floor, starting on the damned crying again. Get a hold of yourself, Dream. "I was trying to– I thought it would–"

Wordlessly, Blue reached over and dragged him into a hug. A second later Ink flopped into the embrace too, both of them sandwiching him like endearing annoyances.

Dream was… a bit stupefied. Here he was, drunk (post-drunk?), having botched a fight. Vomited magic dried on the bottom of his pants (he'd kicked his shoes off). Sitting with his best friends on his bathroom floor, an undignified mess in all ways.

And they just… hugged him.

Blue's arms around him were solid and strong, an unflinching aura of care. Ink had a steady calm presence, for all his hyperactivity, never overwhelming Dream with emotions due to their artificial nature.

They were… so warm.

Dream pressed his face to Blue's shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut painfully. Blue rubbed his back, as much as he could with Ink there at least.

"It's okay," Blue comforted him gently. "You're okay. Everything is alright. You didn't do anything wrong, alright? You can let it out,"

Dream shook his head.

"Heeyy! There's room for only one emotionless Protector!" Ink whined, "Don't infringe on my copyright!"

Dream laughed wetly at that.

"I'm– but it's wrong," he argued, daring to voice his inner turmoil. Uncertain how exactly to describe the way he felt about it to someone else. "I– I wasn't made to cry," he tried.

"I mean, you can cry though, right?" Ink pointed out. "Sounds to me like you were made to do it, then,"

And… and Dream couldn't really argue with that. He was left speechless.

"Come on, what do you always tell other people?" Blue guided. "What do you say when someone's crying?"

Many things. But among those things,

"That it's... normal, and... healthy," Dream replied, quiet, uneasy. "But I'm not– it's not the same,"

"Why not?" Blue exclaimed. "Didn't it feel nice just now? Letting it out? Everything that was built up?"

…Miserably, Dream had to admit it did. Like there had been a dam accumulating inside of him, turbulent and heavy, metric tons of tears built up. And finally, he'd let some of it out. He was exhausted, and ashamed, but he did feel… eased, in a way.

"You're allowed to cry, Dream," Blue insisted softly. "Heck, you of all people should get to cry!"

"Don't worry, we won't tell anyone," Ink said in a jokey tone, "It's going to be a Star Secret,"

"Yeah, Ink will probably forget in a day," Blue teased.

"Heeyy!" Ink complained with no upset behind it, instead amused. "Maybe you should forget it too, did you consider that?"

"Nope! I'm a magnificent keeper of secrets, mweheheh!"

Dream giggled wetly. They were so nice. He sobbed again, muffling it into Ink's scarf. He loved his friends so, so much.

"There we go," Blue encouraged, amused but sincere. Patting his back gently. "Do you still feel sick? Do you think we can move to your room–?"

"Yeah, it's alright," Dream swallowed.

"Dream,"

"No– it is, it really is, I– I want to change my clothes," he insisted, it was the truth.

"Alright, Ink, move a little please,"

Ink complained and there was a bit of shuffling. Dream also got ready to disengage from the hug, but instead he was taken off guard as Blue lifted upwards, still holding him. Easily picking Dream up, making him yelp. Jeez, he sometimes forgot how much sheer physical strength Blue had.

Blue cackled, having definitely done that on purpose.

Dream sighed in feigned annoyance, but considering how tired he was, he honestly appreciated the lift to his bed where Blue deposited him. Ink happily trailed after, and flopped down right beside him.

"Do you need anything else? Where are your clothes?" Blue hovered, still on his feet.

"I can get it," Dream pushed himself up.

"Noooooo," Ink complained, wrapping around him like a squid.

"Guys,"

"Dream,"

"Just–" Dream sighed, "please? I swear I'm better," either from the DETOX or he'd thrown it all up, or both. And from the sheer comfort and positivity of his friends. He was just… tired. So tired.

But… not in a hopeless way. Rather in a really sleepy way.

Blue was visibly unsure, but relented, sitting at the bed. Dream smiled at him. Ink unlatched from him, letting him get up. He got into pajamas, brushed his teeth because yuck, and also went to get himself a glass of cold water from the kitchen. He drank it slowly and crossed his fingers, hoping he wouldn't throw up again.

He lingered in his kitchen for a moment, just… breathing. His body was tired. Heavy and dragging. It was so much more than simple lack of sleep. It felt like he'd bled out. Not just literally. A part of him dreaded how this would all crash down on him tomorrow.

And he was still highly in danger of crying.

…But…

…Maybe, he was made for it. Maybe, it was good and healthy for him. That's what Ink and Blue thought. And Dream both trusted them and trusted their view. They were some of the most truly kind, capable, honest, caring, dedicated– ah, he could go on. Point was: he appreciated them. Maybe... maybe he should take them as a guide instead.

It was a bit terrifying? Because what if he was wrong? What if Dream was daring to go against everything that'd kept the multiversal balance intact this far?

…But he hadn't been enough, this far. So... clearly something wasn't working. It was time he tried to change things up Just a little. For the sake of goodness.

(And maybe, just a little, for his own sake.)

Dream refilled the glass, taking it with him. Pattering back to his bedroom.

Ink and Blue were still laying there, their collective aura easy and light and warm, though with mix-ins. They were chatting about something. Ink was holding up the purple teddy bear, making it move as though it was acting out their conversation.

Dream passed by and primly snatched it out of his hands.

"Heeyy!" Ink protested, and then his mental track switched as he grinned, "Oh I'm so happy you kept him!"

"Of course I kept him," Dream rolled his eye lights. "He's a gift from you doofuses,"

"Mweheheh!"

"I like his ribbon," Ink pointed out. "Purple and yellow, complementary colors,"

…Yeah.

"Dream. Bed. Sleep. Don't make me make you," Blue threatened.

"I dare you to try," Dream grinned.

"Oh Dreamy Mr. Guardian," Ink clasped his hands together theatrically, making his eyes big and sparkling, "I need aid remembering how to get into bed, can you please show me–!"

Blue mercilessly whacked him over the head, making Ink kick his feet and laugh loudly.

Blue sent Dream a glance, but Dream was laughing too. He wasn't particularly offended. Partially because it was Ink, but mostly because Ink was... pretty accurate with it, haha. Oh stars.

Oh so benevolently, he flopped into bed, laughing quietly as he got dragged in for cuddles. Holding the plushie close.

Tomorrow, the shame and guilt would crawl up his spine. Tomorrow, he was probably in for… difficult conversations.

Tonight, instead of alone, Dream was held by his teammates, his friends, listening to them chat and breathe, and he felt... alright. Tonight, instead of lying, Dream had cried and it was alright. Tonight, Dream slept alright.

[itsnotzka]

Hi diddly ho!

This is just a small, simple piece. It was originally meant to be a bonus chapter for another story of mine, but somewhere along the way (two damn years later lol), I changed my mind 😌 But I finished it, thanks to that!

No warnings, no spoilers.

Read the whole thing on Ao3:

(or here, under the cut ↓)

“I have no idea how you do it,” she murmurs, her voice seems to smooth away the edges of my wandering thoughts.“When you make coffee, it tastes different.”

The cold floor bites at my bare feet, a contrast to the warmth coiling up from her steaming mug. Morning sunlight spills through the window in golden ribbons, dust motes drifting lazily in their glow. A distant car horn blares once, then again. A dog barks. The coffee machine clicks off. The tiles are freezing. Why am I barefoot? I don’t like being barefoot.

“Different?” I echo, dragging my focus back to her. “Different how?”

Her lips curl downward in a small, almost imperceptible frown as she taps her chin, lost in thought.

I notice she’s wearing my shirt. It hangs loosely on her, and the dark fabric seems to deepen the color of her eyes—like the sky just before a storm. I wonder, does she choose my shirts because she likes them, or simply because she knows I do?

What did she really mean by ‘different’?

Another bark, this time louder. That’s the neighbor’s dog, isn’t it? The one that doesn’t like me. Why doesn’t she like me? I tried to be nice. I even offered treats once. Perhaps she senses I don’t quite belong here. Somehow, even in this familiar neighborhood, I can’t shake the feeling of being an outsider.

“Different,” she repeats with a chuckle, then hums as she takes a slow sip. “Good different. Makes me want to make you make me coffee every day.”

I laugh at her words. Her eyes twinkle over the rim of the mug like little galaxies caught in the morning light. Wasn’t I meant to take out the trash? My feet protest the cold floor with every step, and the pale tiles shimmer in the morning light. I pause as the chill reminds me to find my socks. Did I even turn on the heating? 

I should remember about the trash. 

Galaxies. They’re still staring at me.

“Oh?” I drag out a chair to sit in front of her.

I freeze before I do. Coffee. I had a cup of coffee, too. I glance around the kitchen. 

Why do I always lose my coffee?

The dog barks once more. Does she sense I’m thinking about her? Why exactly doesn’t that dog like me? Other dogs don’t mind me. Maybe it’s the neighbors. Maybe it’s because I blocked their car once. I apologized, didn’t I? Does a sincere apology not count for anything these days? Maybe I should’ve brought them cookies. Do they even like cookies? What if they’re allergic?

“Looking for this?” Her voice suddenly draws me back.

I blink, focusing again on the present.

She nods toward the coffee machine. Right next to it, my mug sits, steam curling from its surface like a smug little specter.

Logical, isn’t it? 

I exhale sharply. “Right! Thank you,” I laugh, reaching for ir. “Sneaky little devil, always hides from me.”

“For sure! Remember to never underestimate the power of a cup of coffee, hun!”

I tip the mug a little too much. Coffee spills over the edge, splattering onto the cold tile, some onto my bare feet. I groan, doubly annoyed—first at the mess, then at my lack of socks. Though maybe it’s for the best. Wet socks are a special kind of hell.

Like the one reserved for people who talk in theaters.

The stain spreads, seeping into the grout like ink bleeding across a page. A Rorschach test in shades of caffeine. What does it look like? A bird? No, a dog. Neighbor’s dog. Maybe the vague outline of some country. If I tilt my head—

I step forward and plant my foot directly in the spill. Warm liquid squelches against my skin.

Fantastic. 

With a sharp exhale, I set my mug down and grab a paper towel, swiping at the floor in a few quick motions.

Somewhere in the background, she hums. A soft melody, half-formed, like a thought slipping just out of reach. I know that song. I know it, don’t I? What is it? It’s on the tip of my tongue. No, not my tongue—my brain . Or maybe both. Can something even be on the tip of your brain?

I crumple the paper towel and move to toss it. The trash can groans open. It’s full.

Of course it is.

Remember. The damn. Trash!

With a sigh, I lower myself onto the chair across from her. She watches me over the rim of her mug, one brow slightly raised. That look—amused, but knowing.

She reaches for my hand, pats it gently. Her skin is warm, smooth against mine. Then, still humming, she stands and drifts toward the counter.

Right. My damn coffee.

I sigh again. She just smiles, winking.

Apparently, it’s one of those days, where everything seems to slip away.

"Isn't that yours?" She sets the mug in front of me.

I offer a tired, bitter smile but only nod, wrapping my fingers around the warmth.

I take a sip—too hot. It burns my tongue just enough to be annoying, and I don’t react fast enough to stop it. That’ll bother me all day. Or five minutes. Hard to tell.

She’s still humming. I know that song. I should ask, but I don’t. I don’t know why. 

I want to figure it out on my own. 

The air smells like coffee and sunlight. Can sunlight have a smell? Not really. But I swear it does. Warm, golden, like something familiar, something comforting. Maybe it’s just dust warming up in the beams of light. Isn’t it too much dust, though? I should clean the apartment.

Didn’t we just clean?

‘Just’ is an exaggeration, I realize. It was over a week ago.

She shifts in her seat, pulling her legs up, knees to her chest, mug cradled between both hands. She always holds her coffee like that. I wonder if it’s for warmth or just a habit. I wonder if she even notices she does it.

“What?” she asks, eyes crinkling with amusement.

“What?” I echo.

“You’re staring with that look of yours. Like a deer in the headlights.”

Oh. I am.

“I—” I start, but the words don’t show up. They scatter before they reach my tongue.

I lift my coffee again. Cooling now, but still warm.

“Just… admiring the view,” I say, half-joking. Except it isn’t a joke at all.

She snorts, shaking her head. "Smooth."

A flicker of a smirk, barely there before she hides it behind the rim of her mug. The shirt, my shirt, slips off one shoulder as she shifts, and just like that, my thoughts derail completely.

The way fabric folds. The way collarbones look in morning light. The asymmetry of it all. One side bare, the other covered. Isn’t asymmetry more interesting? Almost symmetrical but not quite—does that make something more beautiful? Or unsettling? And why? I should Google that later.

I wanted to figure out something else, didn’t I?

What was it?

Oh. Right. The song.

"What are you humming?" I ask before I think.

She blinks. "Huh?"

"The song. You’ve been humming it for the last five minutes."

Or longer?

"Have I?" A pause, then a soft chuckle. "No idea."

I swallow hard. No, no, no. 

That kills me. My whole body protests the lack of an answer. Now that I know she doesn’t know, it starts driving me insane.

It’s stuck in my head now—the melody I know but can’t name.

Another sip of coffee. The warmth is nice. Comforting. It does taste good. 

She tilts her head, watching me. “You okay?”

I nod. A little too fast. A little too mindlessly. “Yeah. Why?”

“You just…” Her gaze softens. “You look like you’re somewhere else.”

I chew on that. She’s not wrong. I’m always somewhere else. And right here. And nowhere, all at once. Like my brain is a crowded room with too many conversations happening at the same time, and I can only half-listen to each one. Too many things to think about, and the seconds are so short.

I shake my head, as if that’ll clear it. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

Loaded question. About everything and nothing all at once—the smell of the air, the half-remembered song stuck in my head, the chill of the tiles beneath me, the existential dread of forgotten Google searches. The fact that I still haven’t taken out the trash. How my tongue still tingles from the too-hot coffee.

How do I even explain that? It’s physically impossible.

So I just shrug. “Just… stuff.”

She laughs—quiet but knowing. Her fingers brush against mine. “That’s a dangerous pastime, isn’t it?”

I exhale a small laugh through my nose.

She reaches across, tracing slow circles over my knuckles with her thumb. Soft. Warm. The noise in my head doesn’t stop, not entirely, but it dims it, like a radio turned down instead of off.

My coffee is the perfect temperature now, that fleeting sweet spot between scalding and lukewarm. I savor it.

Then—like a stray lightning bolt—clarity strikes.

“Hurry, Hurry.”

She blinks. “Excuse me?”

“The song,” I say, triumphant. “It’s ‘Hurry, Hurry’. Air Traffic Controller, isn’t it?”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “It is?”

I nod, grinning. 

Her eyebrows lift in surprise, then she lets out a soft laugh. "Oh, yeah... I guess so. I’d never know! Must’ve heard that one from you the other day."

I exhale, relieved. The damn itch in my brain is soothed. The mystery is solved. No more nagging sensation, no more half-formed thought lurking just out of reach. A small, ridiculous victory, but still—a victory.

The world outside still stirs. Another honk, a door slamming, the faint murmur of a passing conversation. The neighbor’s dog, ever-vigilant, yaps twice, as if to remind me she’s still there. Still hating me.

I’m a cat person, anyway. 

I take another sip of coffee, stretching out the moment of this unexpected peace. 

Maybe that’s what I’ve been missing. The moments in between, the ones that don’t shout for attention but still matter. I should focus on that. The way coffee tastes in the morning. The way her voice lingers in my head even after she’s stopped speaking. The way she looks in my shirts. The way days feel softer with her in them. The way she never judges me. 

Well, except for the occasional muffled laugh when I bump into a doorframe. Or that slight flicker of disapproval in her eyes when she realizes I’ve forgotten to eat.

I should tell her that. Not now, but sometime.

She shifts, stretching her legs out under the table until her toes brush against my foot. A small, absent-minded thing, but it makes me smile.

“Yeesh!” She gasps, jerking back. Your feet are freezing!”

“Are they?” I chuckle, wiggling my toes. Or trying to, at least. I can barely feel them. “Didn’t notice.”

She shoots me a knowing look, equal parts unimpressed and amused. Maybe she can read my mind? Some of it, at least. 

Then, with a clink, she sets her coffee down and leans in, propping an elbow on the table.

“Oh, honey, before I forget,” she glances at me. “Did you remember to take out the trash? It’s been full for two days now.”

Shit. 

[arahusk]

Courtesy of the Chef Characters/Pairing: Alastor/Husk, Sir Pentious Word count: 2276 Ao3 mirror: [here]

-

When Husk opened the hotel’s kitchen door in the afternoon, he didn’t really expect to find Alastor already there, cooking at the stove with a jaunty tune and an odd spring to his step.

He also hadn’t expected the numerous amount of weird shadow tentacles to be streaming out from his boss’s back, all of them holding some sort of ingredient or cooking utensil.

“Husker! You’re actually awake and not wasting the day away in a drunken stupor!”

Husk stared. Then, he began to back away. “You’re right. The stupor sounds good right now.”

He really should have expected one of those damn tentacles to reach out and grab him by the wrist.

“Nonsense!”

A mistake to let the situation get to him as it did. His free hand had reached out to the door jamb, embedding his claws in the wood deeply. Feet planted themselves on the floor, all while the tendril around his wrist played some good old fashioned tug of war.

But the floor was made of smooth tile, and the wood was of such cheap quality that his claws had crushed right through it to hit air. That, and the tentacle that was made of horror and nightmares was stupidly strong.

And, it was too soft. Like velvet, or silk. Husk gritted his teeth as he was forcefully slid forward to be right next to Alastor. A simmering pot boiled on the stove, smelling of spices, but Husk could hardly bring himself to care.

“You can be my taste-tester, after all. I haven’t had a poison scare in a few years but, you never know!”

“That’s stupid. And I’m not hungry.” Husk shook his wrist, but the tentacle had only coiled itself around his arm. The touch made him shiver, enough that even his voice was changing pitch. “Grr, haven’t you tied me up enough this week?!”

Alastor was still turned away, as if the only interesting thing in this entire kitchen was the pot full of whatever he was making. Another tendril hovered just by his boss’s head, clutching a bottle of cloves to sprinkle into the mysterious concoction. 

“Hm, probably needs a bit more than that.”

God dammit, this was another of his stupid little games again.

“I’m not going along with it this time, alright? So you can just—”

He cut himself off as another tendril swayed past him, holding a large butcher knife in its clutches. It had been much too close, sharp edges nicking at his fur, and Husk catching the reflection of his own bright eyes in the blade. He was still.

The knife was then gently placed in Alastor’s waiting palm, who then proceeded to cut some carrots into thin slices over a cutting board.

The game was already in play and Husk was losing, fast.

He tried not to let himself play the part of the fool anymore. Whether that’s more yelling, or struggling, or just anything that would make his boss think was so deeply amusing. Even though he was turned away, the man’s ears were sharp. They’d pick up anything.

So, Husk would just not do anything then. He’d stand there with the stupid tentacle wrapping itself around him, and be as boring as possible. Even if whatever Alastor was cooking smelled pretty good.

He winced inwardly. Come on, Husk.

But maybe, this could still work. Alastor kept his eyes on the meal he was crafting up, even letting another tendril go up to him and hold what looked like a cookbook, flipped to a certain page as Alastor hummed while he read. It was almost ludicrous to watch. Radio Demon, horror of Pentagram City, who ate other Overlords for lunch, was being so goddamn domestic and using his unexplainable powers to do the chores.

And keep Husk’s bounded soul in line.

Husk looked to his shoulder, seeing the end of the tendril edge just past it, like it was sentient. And maybe it was, for all he knew. It had been years, and even now, he still barely knew all of what made Alastor tick, what made his powers manifest, and just why he kept someone like Husk near him.

Another soft touch over fur. Husk shivered again. He didn’t want to think about times that were similar to this, not the door closing and the tendrils pulling his arms back and his voice just—

He tried to clamp his lips shut, but his body was already responding to the touch.

He can’t be doing this here. But last time he’d just been messing with Husk in the main parlor of all places. Why would this be any different?

Husk moved his arm slightly, and the tendril didn’t tighten like he feared, but it slid, and it was warm. 

Maybe this was worse actually.

“I’ve been trying a new recipe but I’m not sure if it’s working. I suppose if this is a bust, I could always just redo it.” Alastor shrugged, closing the book and then using a cooking spoon to stir the pot’s contents. “But it would be such a shame for this food to go to waste.”

Husk knew a sound was going to leave him already, and had to swallow it down. The end of the tendril pressed against a chin, slightly lifting it. Playful. Soft.

No. Whenever Alastor would pull off something like this, at least they would be somewhere private.

Husk shuddered. All he had to do was not care about it, but the tendril’s movement was like a caress. A caress that overstimulated and made him lean against the edge of the kitchen counter. His free arm reached around to grab his other one. He looked at the floor.

“Not… not in the kitchen,” Husk panted out, feeling the tendril writhe over his fur even more. “Please…”

He saw Alastor’s eyes shift to him, for a second. The smile stayed on, as sharp as a knife. Then he looked back to the pot that he continued to stir.

Husk knew now that he’d already lost this game the moment he walked through the door.

Knees buckled. He would have fallen and probably hit his head on the counter were it not for another tendril that snaked through the air for him. It wound around his waist, lifting him up slightly so that his toes just barely touched the ground. The other tendril around his arm still slowly caressed him, finding the spots that made Husk weak, that already knew from times before.

A flap of his wings, which were free and uncaged, but they didn’t do much. Just a rustle of feathers, along with a strained gasp leaving Husk’s throats as shadows embraced his body like a lover.

“Just… let’s go to my room, or yours. I don’t care. Not here where people can…” He risked a glance toward the door, slightly ajar. It couldn’t even lock now, because his claws had broken one piece of it in his desperation. “Al, please.”

He hated being this sensitive to it, a discovery that Alastor had kept using to his advantage over and over. There were some things that Husk could hardly say no to, and they were more than just booze or a chance at the card tables. He flattened his ears as one tendril slipped underneath a suspender strap, then down to his legs that shook fiercely, like they would snap off at the knees at any second.

It was embarrassing to respond like this, to beg for it while Alastor continued to cook and not even look at him.

Why did he want Alastor to look at him in the first place?

And then, a sound left his throat. A little louder than he wanted, a little more desperate. Husk clenched his fists, but he was held up in the air, limbs slowly getting stretched like some kneading massage. “Just stop. Too much.”

The soft end of the tendril that had been playing near his chin, that had been writhing and touching him, then slipped past his lips so quickly. He barely had any time to react besides a muffled gag, a breathy gasp.

“Don’t choke now,” said Alastor who was now, finally, finally , facing him.

The tendril was also so sensitive on his tongue. It didn’t taste like anything, as it never had. The shape sometimes felt like mist, moving so smoothly into his mouth that it was almost addictive. Husk closed his eyes, trying to push away the idea that his voice only sounded louder in his ears, that he was losing sense of what was up or down. But he felt hands place themselves against his knees, felt them shift up his legs until they rested over his waist, until they sat him up on the counter, all while the tendrils that streamed out from Alastor’s back kept holding him up slightly, sliding over him, and touching him, and—

The first time Husk had felt them, he had been a sobbing mess, hands and shadows engulfing his body until all of him was spent. Maybe he’d built up some tolerance since, but it still wasn’t enough. Husk bent his neck to the side, feeling the tendril move deeper through his mouth. A breath ghosted over his neck.

There was always a chance for things to go wrong. Husk still remembered the knife that had floated so near his face, that had shown the terrified look in his eyes. And that was always the game between them, to see where the balance would shift from pleasure to pain, from affection to some form of soft horror.

He hated how, deep in the recesses of his mind, further and further until he buried it away with drink, that he enjoyed the excitement of it. The panic. Like a euphoric high that he kept chasing over and over again.

Husk moaned around the tendril in his mouth, feeling the other reach into his pants to grasp at heat. And Alastor’s fingers rubbed tiny circles in his waist, watching him unravel with all the fascination of some obsessive scholar. Another deep thrust, nearly sliding down his throat—and  then that tendril slid out, making Husk gasp for air. It hung before his eyes, wet and dripping from his own saliva. 

He couldn’t even speak, already exhausted in what must have been a new record. He could only hang there, panting as Alastor looked on. It wasn’t over though. The other tendril was clutching at him beneath his pants, making his chest rise up and down. 

Husk already conceded that he lost. He still tried to swallow his moans, even as his tail swished just next to Alastor’s leg, entwining around it slightly.

Then, a hand gripped his chin, facing him as he continued to pant, as his body continued to shake.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to cut this short.”

He barely could comprehend what Alastor meant until he heard the door creak open.

Maybe it was supernatural, or just Alastor had such a keen control over things that it made Husk look like a shambling zombie in comparison. The tendril still on him slid away like smoke. Hands lifted off his face, turning him away so he faced the counter. Back on his feet, shaky as he was, his own hands placed themselves on the counter so he could stand. And Alastor was now right in front of his pot once more, where he went back to stirring like he’d never even left.

The door continued to creak, opening inward. Then came out the most irritating hiss in Husk’s memory. “Ohhh! I thought I sssmelled something good!”

Oh for Christ’s sake.

But if there was anyone who would be too stupid to pick up on what just happened, it would be Sir Pentious, failed supervillain in the making.

“Just in time, my good man! I experimented with a new twist on my jambalaya recipe! Husker helped me out with it quite nicely. Here, have a taste!”

When Husk looked out of the corner of his eyes, turning half his body away until his excitement finally wore down, he took a guess.

Alastor had definitely poisoned that pot. Maybe Pentious would die, maybe not. Either way,he’d have a nasty stomach flu for sure.

His boss liked playing games with many people, even if they were of different stakes.

“Wow! For me?” Pentious looked gleamy-eyed (hat included) as he graciously took the spoon Alastor offered. “You’ve been so kind to me lately… after all that I’ve done…”

“Yes, yes, it’s very beautiful. We’re in a hotel for redemption, after all.” Alastor waved away Pentious’ annoying grievances. “Make sure to take a big bite!”

At that, Husk cleared his throat, trying to get the feeling back in his mouth. Pentious turned, as if just now noticing he existed.

“Ah, and what did you add to the meal, my fellow peer’s minion?”

Husk, still half-turned away, wiped at his chin. He saw Alastor’s eyes from behind Pentious, a soft red, draped in shadow.

“You’ll have to find out, won’t you?” Husk answered, knowing he didn’t sound normal, knowing it would probably take half the day before his knees stopped feeling like putty. He’d only been entertainment for the chef, his sole contribution to whatever life-ending meal Sir Pentious was now gulping down.

Maybe if he hadn’t just been edged to near oblivion, Husk might have shared a little sympathy for what the snake demon would soon endure. But that was what Alastor did, exhausting him to the point he could barely care about much else.

And Alastor had always been much better at games than Husk ever was.

[owl127]

I love your sports fics!! Can you write one (preferably in the Clexa universe) where Lexa has to get off before the game or else she doesn’t play well because she’s all horny. Im indifferent as to if it’s another locker room based fic, or it could be Lexa and Clarke are rooming together at an away game and Lexa keeps waiting for Clarke to fall asleep so she can mastrubate and Clarke ends up hearing and helping her out. Also I love the football world but whatever

(Ao3)

You have a routine. It is a meticulous process, though parts of it are spontaneous. The candles, the warm bath, the classic music, they all play the perfect part in relaxing your muscles and mind, preparing your body for the battle to come. You will demand perfection from yourself tomorrow at the game, so when you can, you take your time to prepare.

The water is borderline scalding as it fills the ostentatious hotel bathtub. The team went all out with the reservations, and you are grateful for the extra leg room. Your phone chirps lightly to Rachmaninoff Piano Concerto as the vetiver candle hits its earthy undertone. The fluffiness of your robe rubs against your exposed skin as it falls to the floor, leaving pleasant goosebumps over your things and arms. It’s perfect.

You’re halfway into the tub when a loud knock resonates from the bathroom door, making you slouch water on the pristine white tiles.

“Yo, Lexa!” Clarke, your loud roommate for the night, knocks again as if you didn’t hear the first time she almost brought the door down. “I’m going to get smoothies with the girls. Do you want to come?”

Why would they want smoothies right after dinner? Tall players like Clarke seemed to have an endless appetite. “Lexa?” Clarke’s large, goalkeeper hands smack the door again, and you finally respond, “No, thank you! Have fun!”

Clarke grunts an affirmative, and you wait until the bedroom door closes with a far away thud. Laugher and heavy steps die down the hallway, and the air calms. You trace the water with your fingers, drawing invisible patterns in the rose-scented bath. Music plays quietly, and finally, you relax. You let your eyes close, bundling up one of the many available white towels behind your neck, taking a deep breath.

You wake up with a high note from your phone, surprised at the song. You must have napped, the water lukewarm on your skin. The rustic, golden faucet squeaks as you open it to fill up with warm water. It falls next to your feet, almost too hot, but you enjoy the small torture, the decadent warmth. Your feet rub together while you stretch, the towel around your shoulders sliding down to soak into the tub. It must have been at least a thirty-minute nap with how stiff your neck is. Long fingers run over the tight ropes of your muscles, and you sigh at the pressure. Your fingers linger, the touch initially soft, but growing in pressure and expansion, exploring your collarbones, ribs, until they brush your breasts underwater, and you bite your lip.

It’s not unheard of, you argue with yourself to detox your association of pleasure with guilt that was hard coded into your brain. It’s not unheard of for sexual pleasure to be used for muscle and mental relaxation. So when you’re in the mood, you add an extra step to your pre-game routine.

You wait for the music to change from the boisterous major chords to the intriguing minors, which escalates beautifully. The water is a couple of degrees higher, the turbulent sound of the stream mixing with the song. You open part of the cold water and switch inside the tub so the thick stream hits your neck, with the velvety touch like a warm, large hand on your skin. It’s irrelevant to dwell on thoughts of large, freckled hands, or the day you found out your team’s starter keeper had freckles on her hands at all. Always hidden in her colorful gloves, you remember the moment in the break of dawn of the training room when long, freckled fingers curled around the chest bar to press an unsurprisingly heavy set. But you block these recurring thoughts because Griffin is a colleague at best, an annoying teammate at worst, and you have no intention of unbalancing team dynamics like that. So you do not think of the warmth of large hands on you as you close your eyes and touch your peaked nipple. Instead, you search through your memories for the audiobook you listened on the way to the away game, the trashy sapphic novel of girls fucking in a car. Faceless, fictional characters are safer than the thought of Griffin’s dimple, so that is your focus as you feel yourself slick between your folds. Sometimes you wonder if you would make more noises with a partner, but by yourself you are quiet, biting on your lips as you spread your legs as far as the tub allows you. The built up steam helps in your fantasy as you remember the rough voice in the audiobook begging, “fuck me hard, babe.” The music swells and so does your clit, and you feel the rush of an approaching orgasm, your toes curled on white porcelain, the water’s touch warming up your nape, and then—

“Lexa?”

You grunt to swallow the moan threatening to slip through. “You alright? You’ve been in there for a while.” Griffin’s voice is low and concerned, her large knuckles touching the wood softly as she knocks. “Lexa?”

“I’m okay,” you force out, croaking the words above the music and the shame burning your chest. “I’ll be right out!”

“Okay.” Some shuffling, and the creaking of mattress coils from the bedroom.

You slump down into the water and turn it to cold.

Something brings you back from unconsciousness, and you blink in the barely lit room. There is an undetermined source of light to your left, so you turn to face Griffin’s bed. Unsurprisingly, the goalkeeper fell asleep watching some show on her tablet, and the mix of lights take over the bedroom as your eyes adjust. Clarke sleeps soundly, her headphones lost inside a wild mane of sun-kissed blonde hair. You don’t want to stare, but the single source of light is right in front of Clarke’s face, dancing with hues of red and blue on her freckled skin. Your cheeks are warm, and maybe the light wasn’t the only impulse waking you up. Part of you wants to blame the impromptu tub nap, but the growing warmth in your lower belly claims you’re up because of other unfinished business. You watch Clarke, but not because you want to, but yet to judge how deep asleep she is. The woman snores quietly, a delicate expiration every time her lungs empty the air against her loose curls. Her mouth is slightly open, surrendered to sleep, and her limbs are scattered over her queen bed. You judge she’s dead to the world, and wonder if you can get away with touching yourself very quietly and very quickly. Since you are known for your efficiency, you ignore the rising alarms in your mind and shove a hand between your sleep shorts. Thinking of Clarke while touching yourself right next to her is too much, so you turn your back to her and close your eyes, focusing on the sensation of your fingers gliding through your folds.

The AC and the faraway, muted noise of Clarke’s discarded headphones combine with soft gasps that insist on leaving your pursed lips, but your bet is that nothing will awaken the goalkeeper. You try, you really do try to think of anything but the woman asleep next to you; you think of the smut books you indulge yourself into when the need strikes, or memorable past lovers, but those damn freckled hands keep coming back, and you feel yourself getting wetter at the thought.

Maybe just a peek won’t hurt.

You turn around on the mountain of pillows in your bed, snuggling close into the multi thread sheets, your skin hot against the soft fabric. Clarke remains immovable, chest rising and falling softly under a cotton shirt you want to touch, her nipples poking it and begging for your mouth. You lick your lips at the mere idea of your mouth on Clarke’s skin, soaking through your panties as your fingers struggle to find space in your haste. The hand spread on Clarke’s stomach twitches; the fingers shaking for a second, and you wonder how those fingers would feel inside your mouth, or inside of you. One of your own fingers complies with the idea, and you muffle a moan on your pillow. You got your fill, so you should turn around and finish this by yourself, but your eyes continue to take, take, and take, cataloging every detail of the magnificent creature that is Clarke Griffin. Her hands, the strip of pale skin under the messed sheets hugged tightly over a hipbone, the long line of her neck sneaking into her strong jawline, the dark into her eyes as she stares at you with such intensity you might—

Fuck.

The colorful hues of Clarke’s tablet reflect on open, alert eyes. Her lips part and she arches an eyebrow, watching, judging your moves; the sudden freeze of your hands under the sheets, the air that feels heavy as you gulp a loud breath.

You want to say something, and you want to disappear, suspended in between as Clarke’s eyes take your entire body up and down once, twice.

Her mouth twists to one side, a shadow of a smirk. She caught you.

You wonder if moving to Germany and buying a new identity would solve your problems. But any thoughts of identity theft and a recluse life in Berlin evaporate as Clarke deliberately slips one of her hands inside her pajama bottom. It is a purple string shorts sitting loosely on her muscled thighs, stretching to accommodate the largest hands you’ve ever wanted to be inside you.

She doesn’t move, though. Eyes as dark as you’ve ever seen them stare at you, waiting. Her headphones pool around her neck, and you notice how her nose flattens with a harsh exhale. She’s waiting for you. Silently, she lets you know that it’s your call.

You manage to convey a small nod, and it grows in vigor as you give consent. Your foggy brain can’t offer more than that desperate nod, and you hope Clarke understands. Clarke smiles, small and sweet, unbefitting of what you’re on the precipice of doing, and then bites her lips and plunges right in. You don’t hold your moan this time and she gasps, dark eyes shutting as her hands explore what your mouth desires.

You’ve never done this before. God, you almost never masturbate, but this? Touching yourself as you watch your crush’s hand move under unspeakable purple shorts, her breath catching every time a whimper escapes you; you must be dreaming. It’s the conclusion that keeps you going, that brings your hand to renewed gusto, that brings you closer. Fuck, you’re going to come watching Clarke touching herself.

You make a wish then, a small plea for one day for it to be your hands touching Clarke.

“Lexa,” she breathes because of course Clarke would ruin this with words. “Lexa, fuck, you’re gorgeous.” Or maybe not ruin this. You moan again as you fuck yourself with two fingers. You think about how thicker and longer Clarke’s fingers are, and how they would fuck you silly instead.

“I can make that happen if you want,” Clarke says, and you realize words were possible even in your frenzied state. “You’d look so good taking me.” An indescribable noise leaves your mouth, and you will die swearing you didn’t, but you whimper at Clarke’s words, nodding, touching, feeling. “Yeah, baby, let me hear you come,” she continues speaking because of course there’s no way to make her stop talking once Clarke is on a roll. Midway to the race for pleasure, you notice that in truth, you enjoy it. You like Clarke’s voice urging you on, telling how beautiful you look while you touch yourself, how wet you make her. “Lexa,” her voice is high, and you snap open closed eyes to watch as Clarke’s face contorts in bold pleasure, and can she, is she—

“I—I’m going to come for you,” she says and closes her eyes, hands lost in her sheets, and you cannot do absolutely anything else but follow her.

You come moaning Clarke’s name as she shudders on her pillow. There are few things you are sure of in your life, and that you will never forget Clarke’s face at the frozen moment of utmost pleasure is one of them. It does not simply push you to your own orgasm, it barrels you down the cliff like a runaway bison herd, and you meet pleasure in a new, flashing light, your tight muscles spamming in bliss, your toes pushing against the sheets, your mouth muffled over white linen.

Your breath is loud and wet as you slowly come back to yourself, your heart desperate and loud in a rib cage that doesn’t seem able to hold it inside. For a moment you almost forget you didn’t reach this alone, but reality and shame crash on you as a tired voice asks, “Lexa?”

Heat warms your cheeks. You clear your throat and face Clarke, watching the pink in her face blooming to her neck. “Yeah?” you say, gauging her reaction, doubt creeping in as endorphins fade from your bloodstream.

“Was this okay?” It is not always that Clarke Griffin has a small voice, but it’s how she asks you, shy and unsure, and you want to untangle the knot between her eyebrows.

“Yes.” You’re the captain. It’s your job to show certainty, even when you have no idea of what to do.

“Do you,” Clarke says and pauses, moaning softly as she takes her hands out of her shorts. Your eyes follow the wet digits, eagerly taking her in as she licks her own fingers in deliberate fashion. After your affirmation, the shy girl is gone. “Do you want to do it again? I can come over.” Her eyes dart between your beds. “If you want.”

You are sure of another thing now: you, Lexa Woods, are in trouble.

[the-local-lurker]

Ectoberhaunt Day 17: Blood

Danny tries to find a reliable method to clean his ectoplasm contaminated blood from his clothes - there's a reason his parents always wear hazmat suits.

(748 words... and an illustration!) (a fair warning: it's probably not very good, I'm just trying to practice)

_______

It started out simple enough. He changed into his human form after a nasty fight and before he knew it, the side of Danny's t-shirt was soaked red with his blood, giving off strange green glints every now and then. Unfortunate, but not that bad. 

Or that's what he thought, until he tried to wash it and realized that nothing worked. Not the usual things he used, and not even the tricks he found on the internet. Soap, water, baking soda, soaking, hydrogen peroxide, bleach…

“Ah!” 

Bleach was a bit surprising.

Danny jerked his hand away from the sizzling brownish mess that was gradually eating away at the poor fabric of his favorite t-shirt, almost knocking over the white canister of bleach nearby with the sudden movement. Good thing that he had a few shirts like that. 

He shook his fingers, slightly reddened and stinging from where they came into contact with the substance. It took him about a second of watching it bubble and increase in volume to deem it a lost cause and to hurriedly stuff it into the ecto-waste bag from the lab, whatever material it was made from thankfully withstanding the corrosive effects of the chemicals. Despite his swift action, a few leftover bubbles made it onto the floor, and proceeded to pop almost immediately, leaving nothing but a few small indentations in the tiles. 

“… Man. I can't believe I use this thing regularly.” Danny mumbled, shooting a look at the canister. 

So, that is a bust then.

Shaking his head, he stood up and lifted it, he should put it back in its place. And get rid of that bag. 

The next morning, Danny frowned at his closet in irritation, looking at the splotchy stains visible on a couple of his t-shirts. He had four clean ones left, and a few on which the blood wasn't that noticeable or easily covered. One would think that with how fast he heals, this would be far less of a problem, but no. That would mean things going well for him for once and we can't have that.

... He'd have to get this figured out soon if he doesn't want to dodge even more questions, if only about why he suddenly insists on doing his laundry by himself.

Well, he'll think about it in school. Not much else he can do about it for now. He grabbed some clothes and quickly got ready. Shortly, he was leaving through the front door, yelling out a quick goodbye to no one in particular – it pleased him a little when he heard his parents respond from the basement – and headed out. 

The walk to school was uneventful, and it was kind of sad how this was becoming a reason to feel uplifted. By the time he stood before the looming building, he still had time to spare, perfect. 

____

“It sucks. Better outcome–no effect, worse outcome–when I tried bleach, it got all corrosive.” Danny threw up his hands in frustration as he walked to class with Sam and Tucker. 

“Well, then you've got no other choice but to try random stuff until you discover something that works... What abooout… baking soda? Peroxide? Too obvious… lemon juice?” suggested Tucker, reading from his PDA.

“Nah, I tried all of that, among, like, twenty other things. I'm pretty sure there are literally no methods left,” answered Danny, sounding equal parts irritated and resigned.

“Even that detergent thing your parents made specifically for ectoplasm?” 

“Yep. That smudged it a little, I think, but it's not really enough to be useful,” 

“Have you tried stuff like sea salt or sage? Y'know, old school ghost purifying things? Might work on that too.” Shrugged Sam.

"I didn't. But that's..." Danny paused briefly, considering, before nodding: “that's worth a shot. Where do I get it?” 

Sam grinned. “I've got you covered. I'll bring it to school tomorrow. You better take some rubber gloves or something though. If it works, it's not a stretch to say that it'll work on your skin too."

“Got it. Thank you, Sam, you're a lifesaver.”

____

What the hell, it works.

It took a few tries and combinations with other washing supplies, but finally, it works! 

Danny will have to remember to thank Sam again after he's done with this, the relief he felt when he saw the dark spot gradually smudge and lose its saturation was stronger than he'd care to admit.

No more worrying about this particular problem.

Good.

[mothonmeth]

"Confront it? What do you mean?" Shapey was gone for a moment. "Shapey!?" Clay heard a noise behind him. "Well, if it isn't the asshole who ruined it all?..." Clay looked worried and saddened... "Orel...I didn't mean it." But he held his ground. "Are you absolutely certain about that? You sure seemed keen on it back at that trip." Clay held back the urge to snap and become angry. To drink. "I am... I want to change, and I'm gonna do it. No matter how long it takes me to."

Orel chuckled in a snobby fashion. "I bet you will. We'll see about that... Everything else in that brain of yours will be hard to face. I'll be at the end." Orel walked downstairs, and vanished. Clay said quietly... "I miss you." He walked downstairs, finding Shapey in the kitchen. "She used to clean too much." He said. Clay looked confused. "What do you mean?..." Shapey said with a scoff, "She used to sweep the damn grass for crying out loud..." Clay listened to how his own town had an influence on Shapey. "Oh..." Shapey then froze, listening. "Quiet. She's coming."

Clay began to speak, "Wh!?- who's she-" Shapey climbed onto the table and covered his mouth. Down came Bloberta into the kitchen. She scowls at Clay. "It's you..." Bloberta spoke with a tone full of scorn... Shapey removed his hand from Clay's mouth. Clay said not a word. Bloberta walks closer to him. "What's the matter? Don't have the energy to speak?..." She smiled. Shapey whispered to him. "To get rid of her, you have to stay resilient." And so, he did. Bloberta realized her taunts weren't working. She scoffs again. "Fine. Be that way." She began to clean under the floor tiles.

Shapey and Clay went outside. The neighborhood felt odd. "Where's Orel?..." He asked. "He won't be here until the end of your journey...if you make it."

The duo went to their next destination. Forghetty's Pub. "The place you went to get away. To see Danielle." Clay looked around. He reached for the highball, when Shapey stopped him. "No." Clay becomes confused and slightly annoyed. "And why not?" Shapey's face darkens. "If you drink, the wolf will come." Clay backed away. "...what's the wolf?"

"It's your supposed 'true nature'. If you take even one sip, he will come and absolutely destroy you. Don't. Drink." Clay sighs. "Alright, alright..." The bar had an uneasy atmosphere about it. Just like the house, it also was destroyed and disorganized. "My mind...is a scary thing."

Clay watched as Shapey left. He walked behind the counter and began to destroy the alcohol bottles. The Wolf came out from behind him, trying to attack. But Clay did not falter, he broke the glasses in its face, it snarled and yelped every time.

Once he broke the final glass, it walked off.

But Clay knew that he would have to keep doing all of this, that this was only the beginning.

[p0orbaby]

I’ll wait

summary: right person, wrong time

warnings: alcohol

a/n: to the person who asked for this, I went slightly off request. I hope you still like it

word count: 829

-

It’s hard finding the courage to admit your feelings. Especially when you don’t want to ruin a friendship as deep as her one with you.

She fawned over you from a distance. Then became a friend to you up close. It was nice, to an extent. To have any sort of relationship with you was a privilege. But she couldn’t help but feel ashamed of it. Hiding what she felt for you in order to keep you near.

But something changed. Over time you distanced yourself. She didn’t know why. Perhaps mission fatigue or maybe something too complicated for her to understand.

So she let you drift. If you love something, let it go.

-

Loving someone who doesn’t love you back is difficult. One of the most arduous things to do. Watching them be happy, but not with you. Laughing at someone else’s jokes. It was painful.

That’s why you decided to cut her free. Like a mite on a summer's day.

She seemed to enjoy his company more anyway.

Watching them together became routine after a while. Like peanut butter and jelly, Wanda and Vision just…worked.

It frustrated you and elated you both at once. How they fit each other so well. Wanda deserved someone like Vision. He was caring and kind and devoted to her. And it wasn’t as if you didn’t think you could give her what she wanted. What she needed. You just didn’t want to be the one to disappoint her if you ever failed.

He’d catch you staring at them over her shoulder sometimes. It’s not like you were doing it on purpose. They just so happened to be in the same

room as you at the same time. There’s only so many times you can look at the ceiling before it becomes suspicious.

But he never seemed to mind. He’d smile and wave, prompting Wanda to turn around to see who he was looking at. Her eyes would land on yours. She smiled at you too. But it was never as wide as Vision’s.

All was well for a time. You’d found a rhythm, a routine. You’d smile at them in corridors and engage in small conversations at dinner. Civil was the wrong word to use. Nothing bad had happened between any of you that needed to be patched over. Perhaps, content. You were content with how things were.

Then everything became gray. Like a cloud had started to follow Wanda around. Before, her presence brought sunshine and rainbows, it now brought storm clouds and bullets of rain.

Vision was still by her side. But now an arms length away. She’d brush his hand off her shoulder. Turn a cheek to him when he went to kiss her. Relationships have rough spots. Even the best of them. A few days and they’ll be fine. A couple of weeks at a push.

You’d heard them arguing late one night. On the way down to the gym to clear your head, they were in a vacant office. The door left ajar.

The words space and crowding were used. Wanda needed room to breathe. Vision was confused as to where this was coming from. Maybe if he’d paid more attention then he’d know why. You can see the greater picture from a distance. You would know.

The door slammed shut and footsteps clicked against the tiled floor. The door to the gym swung back and forth on its hinges.

-

She’d arrived alone to Tony's New Years Eve party. Not unusual, not really that unexpected. Vision never liked parties, Wanda did. Him turning up and leaving after an hour or so.

She seemed to flourish without him there.

A drink or two later you found yourself on the balcony. Taking in the glittering lights of the city. Breathing in the cool air that spoke promises of a fresh start. A figure appeared next to you as a shadow.

She asked why you’d been avoiding her. You said you were giving her space. She said she wished Vision had given her that sooner.

They’d broken up, you found out as the wind kissed your cheeks. Cooling your alcohol flushed skin.

Wanda didn’t seem much phased by their separation. She’d lost a friend, that was really the main source of her problems. Being friends with your ex, no matter how calmly it ended, is a can of worms she’d rather keep tightly sealed.

She shivered in the breeze. Your jacket was off your body and over her shoulders without a word. She smelt like cedar, fig and coconut. Her eyes shone bright under the stars.

Vodka soda painted her lipstick covers lips, you realised. Your hands found their new favourite place at the base of her spine. Wanda was soft. Her touches, her gasps. You always thought she might be. You’re glad you can finally say she is.

“You waited,” she whispered. Eyes fluttering open, body pressing closer to yours.

“I’d have waited forever if I had to”

[foryiujeans]

too many nights.

synopsis. those nights of him coming back late with missing your presence snuggled in bed but everything changes when you’re gone.

pairings. ex-lover!ricky x fem!reader.

warnings. slight angst, crying, suggestive.

word count. 4k

general taglist. @forsobeans

“i want to stop.”

"i want to stop," you mumble, not sure if it's coherent.

with that, you flee to your room, covering your mouth to keep the sobs from coming out. you slam your bedroom door behind you, barely making it to your bed before you collapse on it. nausea works its way through you and you fight to keep it down, but it feels like your own body is fighting against the stupid choice you just made.

it's not even a minute later when your bedroom door flies back open and ricky barges in. you glance up at him, not even caring how horrible you look, and find that he almost looks just as bad as you. his face is beet red and his cheeks are wet with tears that tear you into pieces.

"what the hell are you talking about? why are you breaking up with me?"

"ricky, i told you to leave."

"no. i’m not leaving until we talk about this."

he moves toward you and gathers you up in his arms. he holds onto you tightly like you're a life raft keeping him afloat. when you feel his whole body shaking, you hate yourself.

"talk to me," he pleads into your hair. "let me in."

"i’m not good enough for you.," you cry. "you deserve so much more than I can give you. all i do is bring you down, and I can't live with myself for doing that.”

he gets down on the floor next to you and grabs your hand, holding it tightly. when his cracking voice penetrates your brain, the tears flow a little harder.

“just follow your dreams, ricky. become an idol, i have my own things to do too.”

the high comes down much quicker than you'd like. the feelings and sensations of existing in the real world start to tingle along your nerve endings. With a sigh, you lean your head back against the bathroom cupboard and close your eyes. while the cold tile underneath you starts to form, you feel wetness on your cheek.

bringing your hand up to your face, you pull it away to discover that you're crying. dropping your hand on the floor, you don't hear the front door opening or the subsequent calling of your name. you’re too focused on the fact that you've self-sabotaged. again.

no matter how much you say you don't want to keep doing this, you find that you can't stop. chasing that amazing high is always too alluring. it’s too desirable, and that's one of the many things that scares you.

loving shen quanrui.

you never moved on from the guy since last year. actually, since seven months. the eventful memories of you both doing so much activities with each other and enjoying every little details of it.

“y/n,” someone nudged your side, “we finished the tutor session, let’s get bubble tea.”

looking to your side, you see your friend, kim gyuvin already standing up and han yujin beside him, with their bags slung on their shoulders, waiting patiently for you while you were spacing out.

you quickly stood up and dusted the invisible dust on your pants. taking your totebag over your shoulder and stood up to exit the tutoring centre. you trailing behind the two boys and felt the cold breeze of spring blowing onto your face.

tugging on yujin’s sleeve, you sighed, “mid-terms is around the corner, i’m tired.”

“relax, cheer up and enjoy bubble tea with your two favourite boys.” the boy smiled down at you proudly and gyuvin hummed beside you.

the three of you entered the bubble tea café, you giving your order to gyuvin while he orders and pays it for you and yujin, considering it as a stress relief gift after studying too hard. you and yujin had found a spot near the window as the male takes out his phone and took a photo of gyuvin queuing to post.

you then felt like a familiar sharp gaze was looking at you. as you turned your gaze from yujin to the person, you felt your heart stopped beating.

you felt this lingering look since you both met again about a month ago when he suddenly got the new position at this entertainment in front of the college you go. even though you both had mutual friends, it was definitely a surprise to you, seeing him for the first time since you both parted a few years back. the fact that he still looked as handsome as ever, it was hard to not stare when you're around him.

the handsome face you ever missed so much.

the breakup wasn't bad. for you. both broke up mutually with no guilt or shame. perhaps, the timing wasn't right back then but if there was another chance, ricky wouldn't mind trying again because every time he sees the rain, he thinks of you. you adored it, and if you both hadn't broken up watching the rain together, he would've moved on.

you were enjoying this moment though, looking into each other's eyes. it was like those nights getting lost with time from studying together back then. it was only a wish that things would work just like the old days because you hadn't been in a relationship since with ricky. you could almost lose it when he smiled from your thoughts.

“signature bubble tea for our lovely y/n.” gyuvin then sat beside yujin who was already sipping on his drink.

a smile adorned your lips, thanking gyuvin and poked the straw through the cup. feeling the gaze was still on you, shifting in your seat shyly. ricky adored that small but genuine smile of yours at even small gestures.

“uhm, i’m going to call my mom for five minutes.” you excused yourself to go upstairs and out the porch of the café to pick yourself up.

a figure’s shadow appeared from behind you, almost towering your own shadow on the cement ground. you turned around and saw that blonde hair of theirs that you had adored fluffing and ruffling it up in the past. those cat-like eyes staring deep into yours. you shifted slightly, holding onto the railings.

when ricky clears his throat, your eyes flicker back to him and you try to keep the guilty expression off of your face. the look on his face is clear. he’s been trying to get your attention for a while and you haven't even noticed.

he turns his head to look in the direction your eyes have been glued, and you quickly sat straight. he can't. he can’t see what it is that's got you so distracted.

"y/n, long time no see." you immediately say, pulling his attention back to you. “how are you?"

your answering hum is quiet, noncommittal. his heart drops into your stomach in response. the relationship the two of you have is good. almost too good. if you mess this up, you'll regret it forever, so you need to get it together and focus on whatever else to do.

still, your eyes flicker back across the buildings.

back to him.

ricky must feel your stare burning a hole into the side of his face because he glances in your direction. When your eyes meet, it's like all the breath is gone from your lungs. his gaze is like a gentle caress along your skin, and he wants nothing more than to sink into your embrace.

"what are you doing here, graduated yet?" ricky asked. he leaned over the wooden railing like you before you turned around and leaned onto your back so you're facing him.

"it’s more quiet here than in there." you motioned the two loud boys in the café you went with before you both laughed.

he took a deep breath and sighed. "trainings been harsh."

"really?" you asked. "never knew about it till now."

ricky nodded, then he trailed his eyes on the gaps on the floor of the porch, hoping to get his thoughts straight. "did you finally find a real reason why we broke up?"

there was a gush of nostalgia running through you and you couldn't find the words to answer it.

ricky noticed, yet he knows you're a deep thinker so sometimes, it takes a while for you to have a complete answer.

"sorry if I made it awkward." he bit his lips to lean away from the weird feeling in the air.

“that, i don’t know how to answer it,” you said, eyes leaving his, “maybe i thought you found someone else and wanted to focus on your career.”

"can’t we feel vulnerable for once?" ricky asked. his gaze into your eyes was mesmerizing as you remembered. his body was heating up and you didn't know if his words were letting your guard down or if it was his touch, his hands that were resting softly on your back. "i have so much to tell you." he confessed in a blazing whisper.

"no, you don’t."

"yes, i do." he frowned.

"well, fine."

"please, please, listen to me." ricky was desperate, you could hear it in his voice. you let him continue as he gazed back into your eyes, wondering if you could hear his heart as he confessed. "i missed you. i was excited to see you again after so long but i didn't know if you wanted to be with me again because we're so friendly and-" he paused with a frown, "you’re a stubborn girl.”

"quanrui, sometimes we don't like things and have to change and move on." you tried to fight back. your grip stayed and you weren't sure if you were holding onto him or yourself.

"are you also doing that?" he asked and damn. you were caught in the throat. no words but thoughts ran through you because he could see it in your eyes.

one thing you knew is that you never moved on from ricky, not one bit. you were missing the nights where you both spend and cuddle together. you were missing his soft spoken words that encouraged you throughout your day. just like ricky, he missed your warm embrace colliding with his own. he missed your daily routines together.

slowly, ricky reached his head up towards you and pressed his lips onto yours.

his hands pushed your back closer to him, settling you close to the railings so he could move his lips against yours. his kisses were gentle, which made you crave the feeling more. you couldn't help to move along with him, smooching while you hovered over him to fix your knees. your arms locked him there as his hands gripped the railings between your body to keep you leaned against them.

your heads switched sides as if your minds were as one. in that brief moment, his hot breath kissed your cheek before your lips connected again. the desires you both wanted were burning against your soon-swollen lips and for a moment, ricky could feel himself being a complete wreck for you because everything was too familiar. you were falling apart in his embrace as your fingers found their way to his hair. it was such a habit that you almost bit his lips from the session.

"i miss you so much." ricky managed to breathe before he let out a chuckle with the tremble of his voice tickling against your lips. you were out of breath by then so when you pulled back to see those loving eyes of his, you thought maybe gyuvin was right: you should just go with what your heart is telling you.

"are you cold?" he asked when he noticed your hands hiding in your sleeves. "do you want to stay here for a bit before you go?"

"no." you declined his offer with a smile. "i’m gonna go and i still have your number so,.”

you blushed. he stopped himself from offering his hand since they're warm. he nodded once with his lips pressed tightly into a tiny smile. "see you later then. watch out for the weather."

“thanks. see you soon." you sighed softly. you gave him one last smile before walking away and downstairs to your friends.

he still remembered everything you’ve done together.

like how he was making your heart flutter, remembering all of the things you wanted to do when you were still with him. you hadn't done those things because it would be most perfect with him, you'd still think so. or like how he warmed you up without holding you close to him, or how he made you think everything was going to be about you and him.

too many nights for you both to be this close again.

a/n ! thank you so much for reading and giving me requests. i’m thankful that you guys enjoyed reading it and giving all the notes and support. i do not own any characters, music or pics given, will definitely work harder for the next ones !

happiest birthday to shen quanrui ! 🤍

signing out, miaaa hihi !

[wandering-winchesters]

Darkest night

Dean x reader.

Word count: 1,083

Trigger warning: grief, death

Synopsis: the reader finds out someone she loves passed away, Dean comforts her. Masterlist

AN: Requests are open! Please send them to me. If you’d like to be added to my tag list, please let me know!

I have always been able to tell when my walls are creeping up. I always know when I am starting to shut down and returning to the darkness that I’m all too comfortable to reside in when it overwhelms my senses.

I glance down at my phone, laying haphazardly on the floor, where I had dropped it after receiving the call that changed the course of my night. Hours had passed since that call ended. Yet, here I am, sitting on the cold tile floor. Pins and needles ran up my legs and all through my toes. Yet moving, was not a priority.

I was alone. Sam and Dean were gone on a hunt, not set to return any time soon. I had stayed behind this trip, in order to try to catch up on some sleep and recover from the nightmare of the last hunt.

Ping

I jump, snapped out of my thoughts as Deans name popped up on my phone, he had texted me. I try to gather the energy to just unlock my phone and read what he had sent, however, it did not come. I close my eyes, embracing the burning feeling that follows. Tears. So many tears have fallen in the last few hours. The sleeves of the shirt I’m wearing, soaked through with my tears, my cheeks raw, from wiping those tears away.

I’m almost grateful to be alone, not wanting anyone to see me in this place of utter weakness and sorrow. Dean would certainly poke fun, or think less of me. We have all lost people that we love, yet when it happens to Dean or Sam, I would not find them slumped on the floor of the bathroom. For hours at a time. Sobs rack my body, I don’t bother to try and keep them in. What’s the point?

I am so wrapped up in my thoughts I do not hear the impala pull up to the bunker. I miss the sounds of the boys making their way inside, dropping their gear and calling out my name. In fact, if it had been a demon or something less friendly, then it probably would’ve gotten the jump on me.

As it is, the door to the bedroom creaks open and I freeze. Unaware of who is making their way towards the bathroom.

“Y/N?”

Dean, it’s Dean. He knocks before calling my name again.

“I’ll be out in a bit, I’m okay.” I say, having to clear my throat a few times in order to get the words out. My voice raw and quiet.

“Y/N, let me in. I know you’re not really okay sweetheart. I could hear your sniffles from a mile away.” I can hear the concern in his voice, the way he calls me sweetheart. The name he saves for me when he’s worried about me.

“It’s unlocked, De.” I say, my voice barely a whisper. The door slowly creaks open and I hear him sigh as I keep my eyes trained on the floor. I can hear him move towards me shortly before his boots come into my line of sight.

“What’s going on, Y/N?” He questions as he squats down in front of me, placing a hand on my knee.

I shake my head, the words failing me as the tears continue to stream down my face. I shudder, biting my lip as his hand cups my face and pulls my chin up, making me look at him.

“I got a call, they’re gone De.” I whisper, communicating the message that had caused me to spiral hours before. All of these years, all of the things that I know how to stop. Yet death, still something out of my control.

“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry. I should’ve been here for you.” He sits down next to me now, tugging me into his embrace. He guides my head into the crook of his neck while his hand works its way into my hair.

My body ached when he moved me, my muscles cramping after sitting on the floor for as long as I did. Completely overwhelmed and shutting down to my surroundings.

“I don’t know what to do De.” I mutter, my tears finally slowing. I try to tune out every thought and emotion and just focus on the embrace of my best friend. The smell of his cologne, the way his hand gently works it’s way through my hair.

“Just breathe sweetheart, it’s gonna be okay. I’ve got you. ‘M here.” His grip on me never loosening.

The next few hours are a blur. I’m not sure when he got me up off the floor of the bathroom. Or when he tucked me into bed.

But here I am, hours later staring at the ceiling, having awoken a little while ago from a nightmare.

I pull the covers back, snagging a blanket from the end of my bed and wrapping it around my shoulders before walking down the bunker hallway. I wander to Sam’s room, planning to ask him how the hunt went and to just talk for a bit to get my mind off of my thoughts. My plan changes once I see his lights are all off and I can hear quiet snores from the other side of his door. I silently tip toe my way back to my room, not wanting to disturb either of the boys rest.

“Y/N, you okay?”

I jump, almost losing my balance, caught off guard by Dean standing in the doorway to his room, sleep marks still covering his face as he gazes at me with tired eyes.

“Yeah, I’m good Dean. Just couldn’t sleep.”

He yawns, opening his door the rest of the way and extending his hand towards me.

“C‘mere, my beds too big for just me anyways.” I begin to protest but he shoots me a look. “You can either walk yourself to my bed or I can carry you there, your choice sweetheart.” He winks at me, gesturing for me to come towards him.

I oblige, and quickly cross the threshold into his room and climb under the warm sheets that I’ve come to love more than my own.

He climbs in next to me, quickly pulling me into his embrace. I allow my senses to be overwhelmed by his being once again.

“Thank you.” I whisper, almost too quiet for him to make out.

“Always, Y/N.” He yawns, his eyes fluttering shut as he cradles me against his chest.

[sirthisisa-wendys]

hiiiiiii hellooooooo!! can i request part 2 of start over : rindou x reader? i love it so much! i wanna know what happen after rindou comes home. what will happen to reader? does he treat reader good after the argument. or reader get treated even worse than before? and i would like to know what will reader do next. will she stay with rindou, or leave him? or maybe rindou realizes his mistake and changes? i hope u have a nice day! and sorry for my bad English :)) <3

Done done and done!

Start Over (Part 2): Rindou Haitani x Fem!Reader

wc: 1.4k

tw: smut, angst, drugs

masterlist

Thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk.

The table in the foyer thumps against the wall as Rindou grips your hips and fucks into you from behind.

Thunk, thunk, thunk. "Fuck..."

If you were to look up, you'd see your reflection: tired, eyelids dropping, hair wrapped around your husband's hand. And Rindou would look back at you with his soulless eyes, each supporting two black holes willing to swallow you whole.

Thunk... thunk...

"Ah," Rindou hisses, baring his teeth as he cums inside you. The rattling of the table stops, and Rindou's hand releases your hair slowly. He says nothing as he pulls out, leaving you dripping on the freshly-cleaned tile floor. He zips up, smooths his hair, and straightens his jacket.

"I'll be back home at seven."

You press your hands against your forehead and remain bent over at the waist, knuckles turning stark white as your fingers ball into fists. You can't hear the door shut over the incessant ringing in your ears or the shame flooding your brain. You don't even feel anything anymore. It's just you in that damned prison, cum sliding down your thighs as Rindou makes his way toward his job, and you remember your place in his house as his wife.

You only move from your position when you remember the maid is coming soon, and that barely spurs you into action to clean up or make yourself look presentable.

The woman is barely thirty, but she knows your situation better than most, it seems. Most mornings, she makes you green tea instead of coffee and helps rearrange whatever furniture has been displaced - whether out of Rindou's anger or lust, it didn't matter.

When you finally emerge from the bathroom, you find her wiping the foyer clean and bent over where you stood earlier, swiping at the floor carefully. You say nothing as you pass by her, but that doesn't mean you're not sharing any thoughts or knowing glances.

The day is empty - void of meaning until Rindou reappears with his bored look and neediness. Your days are spent roaming about the house, doing mundane things like reading or sunbathing, and not thinking about much else.

When the baby finally reached the age where he could be sent to a care center, you did it immediately. Why raise a child in such a hostile environment? What good would that do except breed resentment in a house full of it?

"Sorry, Mrs. Haitani," the maid interrupts your thoughts. "I haven't cooked breakfast yet. Would you--"

"No," you reply, sipping at your tea. "I'm not hungry." The woman pauses, but shuffles off in the end, leaving you to mope about. And for the second time today, a thought breaches your false sense of peace.

I could leave.

This thought is a daily occurrence, almost like clockwork with its precision and volume. Every day, you think about it at least twice. And every day, you glance at the cameras set up to monitor the house... from the inside. And every day, you shrug the idea off. If you wanted to leave, it would have to be well-planned. But every time you tried to plan it, Rindou would ease up for some reason. He'd nuzzle your neck and kiss you to death in the evenings, then murmur sweet words to you at night and kiss you goodbye in the mornings.

And it would all be perfect for a little while until--

Your phone rings suddenly. The only number that's allowed to call in or that you're allowed to call pops up, and you press the device to your ear. "Yes?"

"I want to go out to eat tonight," Rindou croons, and you can visualize the smile on his face. "I'm thinking... Nobu."

Your stomach growls at the thought of sushi, and you huff a laugh. "What time?"

"You pick, baby. I want you to dress up. Can you wear the green dress tonight?"

"How about eight o'clock?"

"Sounds good. See you soon, my love." The sick feeling returns when you hang up the phone and turn to look at the stairs. As you travel up the steps, you recollect something you found in Rindou's things as you did the laundry. It was a small but fancy pill case, and five pressed, white pills lay inside with numbers on both sides.

You'd left it alone out of fear, but as your mind works, you reason just one couldn't hurt. Whatever it was, if it came from who you assume it came from, then perhaps it was something like a Xanax tablet or... whatever else Bonten sold. Rindou had never been visibly hyped up in front of you, and if these were his pills, well... maybe you would understand him better.

You slip one into your mouth without overthinking it and wander into the closet, intent on looking for your green dress out of the million and one others.

But soon, your head begins to swim, and you feel dizzy. You stumble, hands grabbing whatever to steady yourself, and a box of shoes comes tumbling down onto the floor in slow motion. Your body pitches and your vision dances, and before you can cry out for help, a deep sense of euphoria washes over you.

And you feel good.

Whatever Rindou has been hiding, you muse. This... this is different.

You lay on the floor and sink even deeper into the feeling, allowing the brief moments of reprieve and pleasure to wash over your body. "Rindou," you murmur, blinking slowly. "Rindou, you never told me you were hiding something that would finally make me feel good..."

Unbidden, his face swims in your vision, and you try to wave it off, but your fingers touch the skin, and Rindou's face isn't happy. His black holes for eyes are worried, but you see no reason for that. You finally feel good. Why would he ruin this for you by being upset?

"How long have you been laying here?" you hear him yell, but your body doesn't respond to him like it usually would.

"Don't know," you admit, trying to shrug. "Don't care."

"Fuck." Rindou disappears, then reappears with the pill case, his eyes searching yours frantically.

"Why are you so upset?" you wonder, but Rinodu isn't listening. Instead, he's squinting at the pills. "You need your glasses." He still doesn't respond. "Don't you hear me talking to you?"

"Where did you get these?" His voice is sharp, cutting through your pleasant emotions with bitterness.

"Your pockets," you reply, smiling. "You brought them to me." Rindou closes his eyes, inhales, then exhales deeply. "Are you mad at me?"

"No," Rindou finally says, his eyes opening. "No, I'm not mad."

"Good. I'm hungry. Are we still going to Nobu?"

"No," he repeats.

"But I'm hungry. I'll even wear the dress if we--"

"No," Rindou says a third time. You shift up a little, trying to feel your muscles. "We can't now. Let's get you to bed." You protest a little as Rindou picks you up, but you're quickly silenced as your feet drag across the carpet and into the bedroom once again. Rindou tucks you into the bed with care, patting the covers and sitting beside you. There's a look in his eye you can't describe, but it's enough to make you wish you could.

"'M sorry," you slur, mouth forming a slight pout.

"No, I'm sorry." Rindou pats your hand absentmindedly, staring off into space as you blink. "You should rest for a while. I'll make sure everything is taken care of."

You can't help but nod. Rindou stays there - you feel him shift only a few times, but overall, he remains there in silence. You're not sure when you drift off, but when you awaken, the room is dimly lit, and Rindou is beside you, reviewing documents in his pajamas.

"Rin," you croak, throat aching for water. He senses your need immediately and produces a water bottle, uncapping it for you to take and drink from. The effects from the pill are abating, and feelings come back to you like a trickle of water flowing through a crevice. "What did I take?"

"Doesn't matter," he grunts, stroking your hair. "It won't happen again."

"But--"

"It won't. Happen. Again." The short words he has with you make you sink into the bed. He returns to his papers, though the hand on your head doesn't stop petting you carefully. "Get some sleep for me."

You have no choice but to obey.