#the other day i lost over a hundred followers like all at once

[ilkkawhat]

has tumblr been acting strange on desktop for anyone else or am i just cursed

[solelifauna]

Oooh i really like that!!! The batfam who possessive,unhelthy protective toward each other except reader (fortunately or unfortunately 😅) I would like to know more about the other members too. What was the trigger who make them like that toward each other?

(Sorry if the english is bad , i'm belgian )

OHHHH, I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR SOMEONE TO ASK!!!

Oof, starting out with Bruce Wayne. This man has been through it. He'd already been a little obsessive, considering his response to his parent's death was to dress up as a bat and beat people up. This, plus how he vies for control so much it becomes an obsession. It starts off with Dick, his first son. He didn't really plan to become as attached as he did tbh, he just didn't want the kid dying out on the streets, seeking the same type of retribution he also once sought. Dick was, to say the least, tough to deal with. He didn't want Bruce as a dad, Dick already had a dad and he was dead. But as days and patrols went on, Bruce became B, and on certain nights when Dick wakes up trembling, B becomes dad. And that cements it. Bruce was now a dad.

Then comes Jason. The kid was a riot, having the balls to jack tires off of the Batmobile and having the audacity to hit him with the tire jack too! Bruce knew Jason would be his son then and there, no question. Sure, Jason was a bit scared now, but once he settled in, it felt like everything was in place. He never stopped being a riot, reading and coming up with quick quips like nobody else. Eventually, Jason came to find out about Bruce's night job, and bada-bing-bada-bang, the second robin was ready to take on the streets. Dick wasn't too happy but its fine, turns out Dick ended up loving the kid just as much as him. Which is why Jason's death completely sent Bruce over the edge. His boy, his, killed by that god awful clown. It takes everything in his body to not rip the joker in two.

"It wouldn't be what Jason wanted", he tells himself as he brutalizes another petty thief. He says as he nurses another glass of brandy. He says as he benches Dick and starts another screaming match. But he doesn't care, he can't lose another son.

Then incomes little Tim Drake. He almost gets whiplash when this tiny little boy enters his office, thick folder in hand with a determined look in his eyes. Tim drake says his piece,

"You're killing Gotham."

"You're killing yourself."

"You need a robin."

"I can be Robin."

Those words set him off. Jason. His precious son-dead because of his crusade. the word "no" leaves his mouth stronger than he intends. He doesn't remember much about the exchange after that, but he remembers Alfred escorting a glaring Tim Drake out of his office. The folder remains on his desk, pictures, and documents askew. He opens it once more half-heartedly, his gaze blurring with tears as he looks down. Pictures. Hundreds of them, ones of him and Dick, of Him and Jason, and dick and Jason. He cries silently in his study that night. But it doesn't stop there, Tim Drake is persistent. He tells him to stop, but there's no quelling Tim. He follows him on patrols, stopping him when he gets too violent, and calling ambulances while Bruce tries to dampen the rage in his body.

Eventually, everything blows up one day, he yells at Drake, telling him to get lost or else he'd end up dying out here, dying like Jason. Tim never does stop. Instead, somehow, he now finds himself spending his nights with another little black-haired, blue-eyed boy. This one smaller than the last. He doesn't grow attached this time, he swears he won't. But it's hard not to love the boy. His witty banter, his long rants, and his insane cognitive skills, making even Bruce marvel at him. He's not Jason, he reminds himself, but it doesn't matter. He finds himself loving Tim Drake all on his own. Dick on the other hand had come around to loving Tim faster than Bruce had. Tim was his bird, just like Jason was. Tim had earned his respect. And now three became four.

Then the Redhood appears, a duffle bag full of heads arriving with him. He takes Gotham by storm, crime lords being killed left and right. He's elusive, obious Leauge training instilled in him and something else. Something familiar. Then Batman gets a warning from Hood,

"Keep an eye on your new Robin. It'd be a shame if he ended up like the last one."

And just like that Tim, Robin, is benched, much to Tims's outrage. Hes sent to Titans Tower, far away from from Gotham, far away from Hood. Its too bad that doesn't stop the Hood from finding the little bird anyway. Green is swimming in his vision when he first enters Drake Manor, he knows his replacement isn't here, but he's hoping somebody else will be. In the end, Hood doesn't find the Replacement's parents, when hacking into their flight logs he finds out they've been in Honduras for the past four months. Puzzle pieces click in Hood's head as he gears up towards Titans Tower. There has been a change of plans, well, not completely. Bruce would learn his lesson, but his plans for Tim have drastically changed. He'd scare the bird, nothing more,

"No more dead Robins." He repeates, a new meaning to those words.

(P.S! I know canonically the Drakes were not abusive, maybe a smidge neglectful, but they loved Tim. And Tim loved them. they were good parents. This is all following fanon.)

He doesn't expect Tim to fight back, sure it's a pathetic try considering the amount of sedative gas he'd pumped into the building. He simply cooed as he stroked Timmy's hair, watching as the bird slumped into him. The last word leaving his mouth was a slurred "Ja'sn." And Hood, Jason is pleasantly surprised. What a smart bird. Some events happen in between, but eventually, Jason finds himself back at the manor, back with his family. Bruce and Dick don't let him or Tim out of their sights their first week back.

This is when Jason meets Stephanie for the first time. She isn't adopted, no, but he could see that she's family nonetheless. As much as Bruce reprimands her, he also urgently ushers her over to Alfred for a check-up, thanks to another one of her reckless stunts. She and Tim get along great, whilst she and Dick are a rambunctious bunch, making it their life's goal to give B grey hairs. She's a feral thing, fighting to prove to herself that she isn't her father. Again, she was a Robin too, if only for a few days, still, she was there. Jason ends up cuddled on a couch with her and Tim on either side of him, watching some shitty ass crime movie. He grumbles, but there's no heat behind his complains.

Then comes Cassandra Cain. Within hours of meeting her, it was a unanimous decision to take her in. With her background, her story, and her lack of speech, it would be difficult to send her off elsewhere. And now Bruce has a Daughter, and his boys have a sister. Its not common knowledge, but Bruce has always wanted a daughter, and Cass was a saint. She was sweet yet lethal, she cared about her brothers, often going out with Dick, and learning how to read with Jason, whilst she and Tim bonded over casework. And just like him and her brothers, she wouldn't dare let a hair on any of their heads be hurt. Once she gets more comfortable talking, she doesn't ever stop reminding Jason that she's the older out of the two of them. She and Dick bond over Ballet and Dancing, his gymnastics, and time spent in the circus making it possible for him to keep up/aid Cass with her newfound hobby. Steph and Cass are even more well off together, usually patrolling together, or Steph ends up dragging Cass along to plot her next scheme. Bruce watches in adoration.

Then you arrive. He's completely blind sided when Alfred says he has a call from CPS, saying he has a biological child. You're a small thing when you arrive at the manor, only eleven years old. But right now, he just can't get over the fact that he has a child, one that was of his actual blood, and you've just been dumped on his doorstep. He doesn't know what to do, so he just gives you an awkward pat before retreating into the cave. He cant deal with this right now, he has one too many high-profile cases going on at the same time, and now, everyone couldn't just walk and talk freely around the manor. He sighs into his hands, your timing really was poor, but he knows it isn't your fault. You're just a kid, a kid who lost her mom. But yet, Bruce can't bring himself to talk to you. Alfred keeps reminding him with a disappointed tone, and Bruce promises that he'll get around to talking to you, but he just never does. It doesn't help that he starts seeing you less and less. Unbeknownst to him, you've taken the hint that nobody really wanted you here, so you just stopped caring. And Bruce doesn't care enough to amend your thoughts.

Lastly comes Damian. His blood-son. The son of him and the woman he once loved, Thalia al Ghul. Sure, there was some love lost over the years but he still had feelings for her. How could he not? All those days spent training in Nanda Parbat, how could he not still love her if even just a little bit? And Damian? He's the living, breathing amalgamation of their love. It doesn't help that the boy is adorably feisty, and dangerous, but it's clear that he's still a kid seeking approval from his father and mother. He knew Tim was going to be ecstatic, finally, he wouldn't be the youngest (though he forgets that technically you were the youngest). It's an immediate catfight when Tim and Damian meet, though Tim doesn't take it to heart, he knows how League influence works. He does, however, put Damian in his place subduing him before everyone else comes down to see what happened. Immediately Jason grabs ahold of Damian, remembering him from his time in the league. He holds Damian in a possessive grip as he looks him in the eyes, green swirling in them.

"baby bat, its good to finally have you back."

"Tch, its good to see you too Akhi."

"Still Dami, you're new here, but we also have rules. No harming family. You touch Timmy or anyone else again, ill keep you locked up in my room." Jason says gently.

Damian only nods his head, familiar with his akhi's protective behavior. Tim was his brother then, and everyone else was family.

"I understand Akhi, no harm will come to Drake. I apologize, I did not know he was family."

Tim only flashes Damian a feral smile.

"No harm done Damian, you're not the fist person in the family thats tried to kill me."

Jason grumbles. Whilst Dick laughs. What a fucked up dynamic, am i right?

Of course, nobody really tells Damian you're a part of the family too. All Damian knows is that you're the only biological daughter of Batman, you are not considered family, and he must kill you to inherit his rightful place. What he didn't know, was that you were just a civilian, someone not even worth the effort. Still, the damage is already done. Damian expects some kind of punishment, however, he only gets a light reprimand and is let off the hook.

"He's still learning." They all say.

He ends up cuddled on the family couch in between his father and Drake, whilst Grayson, Todd, and Cass fight over what movie to pick. He doesn't see you anywhere.

'Good.' He thinks to himself.

You were of inferior breeding, weak and fragile. You had no place amongst them or anywhere else. Still, you were his half-sister, meaning he had some obligation to you. Sure, he hated being related to someone so weak, but hey, according to league customs, you were marked by his sword, meaning it was now his job to be your keeper. So, he'd make sure you'd stay at the manor and stayed out of trouble and out of the way.

Anyways, y'all are going to see more of their dynamics with each other and y/n in later chapters. Just wanted to drop this drabble. Thanks for this ask! I really enjoyed writing this.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Wicked Games 3

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: non/dubcon, cheating, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Steve Rogers

Summary: you had a one night stand. Or did you?

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

A week passes in a tense slog. Barrett continues his pandering penance and you wallow in irritation. You want to put it behind you. You want to get past it but every time you do, it just happens again.

If this was the first time, it would be easy but you’ve lost count of all the times you’ve had this fight. 

Your menial office work does little to distract. It only allows you to think about all the bullshit. The way Barrett dismisses everything you do and has to list of everything you don’t. The way he can’t see his own flaws or how you’ve never once rubbed his nose in them like a dog.  

Is it passive or weak or just acceptance? You can’t say. You just always put up with it.  It’s just easier not to make an issue of every little thing. Problem is, now it’s a big thing. 

When you come home, you’re worn out but you still have work to do. Dishes, tidying, cooking. Even your weekends don’t allow you must rest. You need to sort through the bills and go get groceries. All along the way, he’s in the way. You’re not sure he’s trying to help, more so trying to force his way to forgiveness. 

You grab a bundle of reusable shopping bags from the cupboard overflowing with them. It only took about a hundred of the things to start remembering to take them with you.  

As you shut the cupboard, Barrett’s on the other side of the oven. Watching and waiting. He’d be a lot more help if you didn’t have to tell him what to do. You forgot a mug and to him, that’s high crime, but he can’t remember to pay the power bill without six texts on the due date. 

“So... what’s going on today?” He smiles. 

It used to be that that smile made you melt. It would make all your troubles flutter away like butterflies. Now it’s just another irk. 

“Groceries.” You wave the fistful of bags. 

“Oh, cool, want me to come?” 

You nearly scoff. Every weekend you ask and every weekend he’s too busy. His pals want him to jam in their garage band or go fishing down at some dirty river. Another tick on the wrong side of the Pros-Cons list. 

“Sure,” you shrug. It’s easier to just let him come along. You don’t need another argument and you could use the extra hands. 

You shove the bags into the folded shopping cart and put your shoes on. He toddles behind like a lost child. You’re repress a glare as you grab your keys and purse. You’re going to have to talk this out sooner than later our you’re really going to hate him. 

He follows you out to the bus stop and you wait in silence. You had a car but it broke down last year. Ever since, he gets a ride off his coworkers or friends and you flash your bus pass. It’s cheaper than leasing a car, even a used one. 

You don’t know what stresses you out more; thinking about all the stuff he does or just thinking about your life. You get on the bus and sit near the back. He reaches over to grab your hand. You wince but don’t pull away. 

“Nice day,” he says. 

“Mhmm,” you grumble. 

His attempt at small talk doesn’t go much further. You get off at your stop and walk the block to the grocery store. You unfold your shopping cart and pull out your list. Barrett grabs a bag of gummy bears and dumps them in the cart. 

“Those aren’t on the list,” you say. 

“I know but it’ll be a nice treat for later. We’ll have some tonight after dinner.” 

“Oh, alright.” 

You factor in the extra cost and mentally cross off the avocado from the list. You can go without. You roll through the produce section and work your way down the list. Barrett trails behind you. 

You stop in the cereal aisle to grab a bag of oatmeal. As you stand, you flinch and cry out at a surprise peck on your cheek. Barrett puts his arm around your shoulder as he presses his lips against you. 

“What are you doing?” You ask. 

“Baby, giving you a kiss.” You look at him and he grins, “I miss you. I love you. I’m tryna be better, honey.” 

“In the grocery store?” You challenge. 

“It’s cute.” 

“Mm, it’s... let’s wait ‘til we get outta here. It’s starting to get busy.” You glance around at the other customers, hoping none of them noticed his little act. “How about you go grab some drumsticks? Flyer says they’re on sale.” 

“Oh, I can do that. Be right back!” He proclaims. 

He shuffles off and you shake your head and turn back to the shelves. The store brand on discount is all out. You hiss in disappointment. You search the rest of the selection. That’s the cheapest on the shelf and you really can’t stretch the extra dollar. 

You look up at the overstock along the top. It’s right up there but you’re just too short to reach. You give a poor attempt then stand flat on your feet. You peer up and down the aisle. You could find an employee. 

“Need some help?”  

You turn to face the stranger and give a start. They aren’t so strange after all. You know him. Well, not know-know him. Everyone in the city knows Steve Rogers, the Captain America. 

“Uhhh...” 

“What’s your brand?” He asks. “They don’t run restock until before closing. I usually come then, less busy but I got... ha, sorry, I’m rambling. What can I grab for you?” 

You lick your dry lips and glance at the shelf. You appreciate the help but telling Captain America that you need the cheapest bag on the shelf isn’t exactly dignified. You point to the price tag on the shelf and he reaches on his toes to grab the edge of the box on the top. He wiggles out a bag and stands flat. 

“Here,” he offers it with a handsome smile. “You know, it’s made at the same factory as the regular brand.” He taps the back of the bag, “exact same address. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re from the same lot.” 

“Oh, well, er... thanks,” you take the oats and put them in your cart. 

“No problem. Sometimes being a hero isn’t very glorious. Sometimes it’s just reaching the top shelf.” 

You force a chuckle. You’re sure the Cap’s life is all sunshine and rainbows. Must be a real ego boost to help the little people. 

“Well, I appreciate it, Captain.” 

“Steve,” he smirks and stares. Your lower your brows and look behind you. Is he looking at someone else? 

“Oh, of course. I should go find my husband.” You roll around him and try to shake off the awkward encounter. You look down at your list as you stop at the end of the aisle. 

“Hope he’s not lost...” Steve calls after you. He says your name and you crane to look at him. You meet his gaze and blanch. He turns and struts off without another word. 

You turn back to your path and slowly leave the aisle. How did he know your name? You replay the interaction and try to recall giving it but you can’t. Well, you’re not exactly thinking straight right now. It’s nothing. You’re just stressed. 

[deadghosy]

ੈ🎐༄˖°.〰˚✩彡

BEING BEST FRIENDS WITH AANG:

prompt: being the same age as Aang, mostly the avatar has it perks considering you two are polar opposites

🐚 ྀ࿓it’s dead ass funny seeing two 12 years argue who sheds more, momo or appa. Katara would have to pull you off of Aang before you slap this little Mr clean head ass boy.

🐚 ྀ࿓for shits and giggles, you have definitely got launched in the air. You were begging Aang to just launch you in the air. Because you always dreamed of it since you met this airbender.

🐚 ྀ࿓Aang is pretty much protective of you if you can’t bend. So if you are a non bender, you better believe this boy makes sure you are by his side at all times of the traveling. Even after he finishes the Hundred year war. He’s the avatar, of course there’s still petty ass people after him.

🐚 ྀ࿓now if you weren’t a non bender and had a bending skill of some sort, he is still protective of you. You could be a master at bending, and this dude will still make sure you are behind him in danger. You two are such a powerful duo when bending, now a good trio is you, toph, and Aang at all once.

🐚 ྀ࿓you two are basically platonic soulmates who are always found by each other. Like that one time you went to go shopping at a market, and Aang followed you secretly since it’s his job to protect you at all time. Or that one time you lost Aang in the crowd and he immediately found you by your voice in an instant.

🐚 ྀ࿓”I’m gonna kill that asshole…” “please don’t.” Those words basically describes your friendship with Aang. Literally after Aang got his grow spurt and he was taller than you, you better believe this now wise boy would put you on his shoulder to drag you away from fights.

🐚 ྀ࿓you are the chaos in the peace and he is the peace within the chaos. You two are two peas in a pond, yin & yang. You have your moments where it’s the opposite sometimes. But where’s the fun when you create the problems whilst Aang has to drag you away from causing more problems.

🐚 ྀ࿓smack his head…he dares you. He knows you do it for jokes. But this boy is tired of having red hand marks on his head and feeling the painful burn.. if you did one more time, he is actually putting you in rock time out. You could try to get out. But this airbender is making sure he is having a kick out of this.

🐚 ྀ࿓when training with Aang, he tries to go easy on while you don’t. Of course you care about Aang deeply like he does for you, but you ain’t no pussy. You literally used chi blocking on him cause he hesitated blasting you away with his airbending. At the end you had to smack his head for trying to not blast you. And of course he still didn’t learn his listen as he just dodges.

🐚 ྀ࿓Aang is very affectionate person, everyone knows that. So of course he is holding your hand, waist if you allow it, wrap his arm around your shoulder. He might not be that much of a touchy person, but it feels nice to have the person that’s like his other half by him.

🐚 ྀ࿓cuddles is a must if you or him have a bad day. Yes you once snored while trying to move away from the airbender in your sleep. Aang wasn’t letting that happen at all cause he pulled you to his chest as he falls asleep.

🐚 ྀ࿓random arguments with Aang is also a must as you two argue over the most stupidest things ever. Say for example, your favorite book was gone. So you accused Aang of using it for something actually dumb. Aang got offended as he dramatically gasp and blamed you instead for being so dense for not keeping up with your stuff. And that’s where you would tackle him and start hitting his head. Mostly smacking his bald head cause it’s funny😭

🐚 ྀ࿓this sweetheart of an airbender will teach you about his culture. Now if you are part of one of the nations, you teach him your nation of course. It’s like trading Pokémon cards for more Pokémon cards. He will probably do something so you can wear an airbender outfit, just so people can see you two are best friends for life. Literally.

🐚 ྀ࿓I can see you trying to ignore Aang for something petty, and Aang is not having it as communication is key. He will literally pick you up over his shoulder and put you down so he can talk to you face to face. He’s serious about you, so of course he’s not letting you be this petty.

🐚 ྀ࿓yk how Aang had his hair grown out, yeah you actually liked it grown out like that. It was cute and you told him that in confidence. At first he thought you were lying so you can make fun of it. But when he saw how you kept playing with his hair. He actually was thinking about keep his hair grown out like this. His darkish brown hair was suiting on him. He’d actually fall asleep with his head on you as you play with it.

🐚 ྀ࿓Aang will never forget the moment he almost went avatar state for you. All because you wanted to be reckless and almost died. A fire nation soldier tried to burn you alive, but you were quick to dodge it. While for Aang, he didn’t get a clear view to see if you dodged it or not. So this man’s tattoos glowed scared and worried. Mostly angry if you died as he was about to burn the solider. Kyoshi was telling him to. But that all stopped when you grabbed his shoulder. Aang stops to look at you and hug you tightly, his heart went back to normal sped.

🐚 ྀ࿓to end this off, you guys are practically platonic soulmates who are made to be by each other’s side. Aang agrees and you, you just nod while you stuff your face in food. And Aang eats calmly compared to you. So if you choke on your food, he is smacking the shit out of your back worried if you actually choke on your food.

[fraugwinska]

Could you do a backstory to Hard Day? Like, how Al decided to give up control, and the first time it happened 🥺🙏

Ummm... well, I may have gotten myself a bit lost in this one :D Idk, It's gotten quite out of hand, 2,5 k words... but...um yeah :D Praying you like it :> Attention - we cook with Chili, not salt today! (MDNI)

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

The hardest Day

„That's so unrealistic! I mean, in what world would a lion eat bugs instead of the fucking fat juicy PIG?!“

„It's a kids movie, asshole, shut up!“

The gang was sprawled out in front of the TV, blankets and popcorn everywhere. Charlie got her hands on a rare copy of 'The Lion King', and invited everyone to a 'nice, unproblematic, quiet' movie night. She didn't account for Angel's constant commentary, Husk's annoyed retorts to him or Niffty's gleeful giggling at the most unfitting scenes. Vaggie, frustrated by them, started adding to the chaos, sending scolding remarks in intervals at either of them, while Charlie tried to mediate in between songs – which she always sang along with.

You, however, were highly entertained – even though you didn't catch anything from the movie, just watching them was amusing enough. The only one missing was Alastor, who had 'business to attend' and was gone since breakfast ended.

He would've hated it anyway, you knew he had no interest in movies, let alone modern ones, and group activities like these were often straining on his patience. Although getting in the hotel last, you were the one who grew the closest to him. Why? You couldn't say definitively. Maybe it was because you never took his veiled jabs by heart. Maybe because you didn't treat him the way the others wanted you to – with care, with ignorance, with suspicion; but instead with respect, an open mind and without judgment. Maybe it was because you could challenge him – discussions about books you both read could last hours, with points given to either side equally – no winner, no loser, both richer.

You liked Alastor. Really liked him. You also had a silly, little crush on him, for a while now, but you kept that to yourself, nothing going further than a few flirtatious moments 'in good fun', calling each other 'doe' and 'buck' with a laugh. A joke between friends. Friendship, you decided, was enough for you, if it was for him.

The entrance doors slammed suddenly, making you all jump in your seats. Alastor stood at the door, looking... different. Stressed? You cocked a brow when you saw his eye twitch, while he sauntered over to the group.

„Al, do you want to join us? We're watching a movie!“, Charlie said absent-mindedly, her eyes glued to the scene of 'Can you feel the love tonight'.

Alastor gave the TV set a judgmental smile and waved his hand. „Tempting, but it has been a rather hard day, I'll just take a drink and retreat to my room, dear.“ He left the group and went to the bar, your pair of eyes the only one following him. Something was NOT right. His smile was tight, his eyes wider than usual, his movements almost jagged instead of fluid. Niffty had jumped to the bar too, insisting on helping Alastor by retrieving a glass for his whiskey from one the higher shelves. In her eagerness to climb and get it, she didn't watch her steps careful enough, resulting in a few delicate wine glasses sliding from the shelfves and breaking into a hundred tiny pieces. Alastor's reaction was as unexpected as it was worrying – he always had a soft spot for Niffty, laughing over her antics and chaotic energy, often encouraging her even to produce more mayhem. This time, however, he started to scold the maid, who blinked at him with a big, guilty eye and trembling lips.

„Such indignation, really Niffty. Clean the shards at once, and try not to remain to be such a clumsy clot.“, he almost hissed, grabbing the bottle and a simple crystal glass before striding away hastily. Your eyes followed his figure until he turned the corner to the staircase, then you got up and comforted the little demon, helping her sweeping up the glass pieces while she sniffeled tears away.

You let your gaze swipe over the group, completely ignorant about what happened with Niffty, and Alastor. Ignorant of the blatantly obvious bad mood of the deer demon.

Turning to Charlie, you whispered to her that you had a headache and would be going to bed, to which she just nodded. No one acknowledged your leave, all eyes on the screen and still bickering noisily. A bunch of friends, you are, you thought annoyed with a shaking head.

Three flights of stairs later, you reached Alastor's room. You pressed your ear to the door, and heard dull bangs, like something was thrown, and a muffled voice. You knocked, and the room instantly stilled.

„Alastor, it's me.“, you said loudly, brows furrowed. „Are you okay?“

A few seconds of silence. „I'm just fine and dandy my dear.“

You put one hand on the door. He normally would open it, to speak with you directly, face uncomfortably close to face, just the way he liked it. But it stayed close.

„You didn't look fine.“, you stated. You were ever so stubborn.

„Well, I am fine. Now shoo, darling, good night.“

You stood in front of the wooden divider, contemplating. You could just go. Leave him be, wait until tomorrow. See if he would talk to you then. But then, there was your gut. And it told you Alastor wasn't well. And that just didn't sit right with you.

„Alastor. Please, let me in.“

No response, just hint of the prickling feeling of static electricity on your skin.

„I know something is bothering you, and I'm worried.“

No response. You breathe in and out.

„I'm not going anywhere until you open the...“

The door flew open, a hand wrapped around your arm and pulled you into the room, violently. You stumbled and fell against a bookshelf, catching the fall with your hands to keep you upright. You heard a slam and a click – door closed, door locked. The static was everywhere now, flushing in waves over your body. You turned around -

Alastor was pacing like a wounded animal, he seemed fluffed up, as if every hair on his body had decided to stand up. His scleras were dark pits, blackest black, and in it his irises burned angrily in crimson flames, now focusing solely on you. The prey.

„So you came to test my patience too, dear?“, he snarled, his voice so distorted it ached in your ears. „It's not enough that that waste of cables destroyed two of my radio towers. Not enough that dozens of my most profitable souls have been rendered useless by an angelic bomb. Not enough that I not only had to put the disgraceful flat screened wretch back in his place, but also his vulgar boy toy and their brazen, attention-seeking brat.“

He grew in size as he ranted, you watched him reaching the ceiling, antlers scraping along the walls. „I manage my weakening territories, manage these imbeciles who think they can play overlords, I manage this sad excuse of a hotel, I manage the princess's unattainable ideas, and now, I also need to manage you, too, of all people? What a disappointm...“

„Stop.“

You held up a hand. Alastor growled, fluffing up even more, limbs cracking and static popping. „How dare y...“

„Stop.“, you said again. Your tone was calm, void of anger, or fear, neutral and steady. He stared at you, and you held his gaze. „Breathe, Alastor.“

You saw him fighting with himself. He fought against his instinct to oppose, to command, to put you into your place, to rip you apart. His elongated claws scraped over the floor, ripping deep ridges in the wood.

„Breathe.“, you repeated, firmer this time.

Slowly, gradually, Alastor shrunk. Breathed. Crumbled. Until he was back to his usual size and form, only with an exhausted expression.

You studied him – you've never seen him like that. He never allowed anyone to see him as something other than 'the radio demon': Powerful, unshakeable, quick on his feet and always one step ahead. How exhausting it must be. To always have the control also meant to always carry responsibility, to always fear impending failure.

Your heart whispered to you, and you followed it's advice. It could be the most stupid thing you could do, but you decided to do it anyway.

„Come here, Alastor.“

He looked at you, unsure, suspicious. You sounded commanding, but not harsh. Inviting. Like a hand, reached out to someone trapped. For a moment, you almost thought you ruined everything – his eyes left yours, they fell to the ground as he shifted on his feet.

But then – steps. Coming closer. Stopping right in front of you. And suddenly..

His head on your shoulder. His breath on your neck. His voice in your ear.

„Sometimes I'm so sick of it all. Sick of maneuvering, sick of ruling, governing, planning...“

You touched his neck, he let you, caressing the soft skin, heated from his outburst, trembling slightly at the contact. It was intimate, baring this vulnerable part to you. You heart broke for him.

He pulled himself away from you, searching for your eyes. Finding them again, he took your hand, bringing it up to his face, guiding your fingers over his lips. He just said one word.

„Please.“

So much was said with this please. You heard every message. Giving up control, just for a bit, just with something he didn't care enough about to insist on ruling, could be a small bit of freedom. Letting himself be guided instead of leading.

“Kneel down, Alastor.”

His ears pressed flat against his head, but he did as he was told. He couldn't look you in the eyes. For once, you were the one towering over him. You took his face in your hands, pulling it so he looked up to you, seeing your warm smile before your lips met his.

His breath hitched, stuck somewhere in his throat.

You slid one hand to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, the other caressing his cheek as you tilted your head and deepened the kiss. Slowly, the rigidity melted away, he started to shift, lips no longer stiff but soft and molding against your own.

He tried to stand up, but you pushed him down, gently, definitively.

“Trust me to guide you, buck.”

He breathed, one, two, three times, eyes closed, grin tight.

“Yes, doe.”

Your own excitement took a back seat. You were filled with pure energy at the thought of crossing the line with him, having Alastor in a way you only dreamed about, convinced your relationship would never come this far. But. But this was not about you, for now. Maybe, another time. If another time ever came.

You lowered yourself on him, straddling him, so you were still 'taller', and rejoined your lips. You took his hands and set them on your hips, let them rest there while you buried yours in his hair, tugging lightly to bend his head back. His initial resistance lessened, and he gave in, exposing his throat, gray skin peeking out of his high collar. You let your mouth travel to his jawline, down to the small patch of delicate, thin skin, right next to his jugular. You felt him tense, felt his rising urge to protect himself from your potential strike. You let out a soft hum as you started to lick it, sucking gently, just a bit, just to make him shiver at the sensation. And how he did.

A moan, low and sweet like the strumming of a cello, escaped him, his hands crushing your hips by the force of his grip. It hurt, but you decided to ignore it. Little steps.

“Can you take more, good boy?”

His eyes snapped open, burning furiously. You met them with calmness, with a soft matter-of-fact-ness. Not smug, not mocking. A question. Proceed or Stop?

Alastor swallowed hot saliva. You could see he was getting overwhelmed, overstimulated, and yet, he had such a longing in his eyes, such desperation.

“Yes.”

One simple word. One spark, setting your body on fire. You tried to force your trembling fingers to steady, lifting yourself slightly off him to open his trousers. With every button, his breaths grew heavier, his grip on your legs grew tighter, claws already digging in your skin and drawing blood.

“Careful, buck. I'll need these in a moment.”, you said, placing both hands on his chest, pushing him flat on his back on the ground. He let you go, arms falling useless next to him.

You leaned forward, thanking any deity that would listen you decided to wear a skirt today, and placed a hand on his growing bulge. He hissed at the touch, cracking the floor as his fingers clawed into the wood of the floor instead your fleshy legs.

Freed from it's cage, Alastor's dick was already dripping with beads of precum, a sight to behold. You wrapped your fingers around it, feeling the warmth and bloodflow, it twitched in your hand. You stroke him, eliciting the most sinful noises from the demon under you.

You took a deep breath. One more, one question more, to make sure that he wanted it.

“Look at me, Alastor.”

He sat up on his elbows, looking more helpless than you've ever imagined he could. Even his smile wavered, threatening to break. You were looking for any signs of hesitation, disgust, resistance, regret. You only found desire. A want, a need, almost pleading eyes.

Your free hand pushed your panty away, enough to expose your lips, and you lowered yourself onto him, his length slowly entering you. He was big, you were tight. A bittersweet combination. Sparks flew before your eyes as he stretched you, but you were hypnotized by his eyes.

They were blown wide, returned to black, but the irises now flickering into dials, turning, left to right as he groaned. You moved, guiding your hips up and down, feeling yourself molding to his shape in the most delectable way, and getting drunk off the look on his face.

You increased the pace on which you pushed yourself on him, adding a little tilt of your hips to take him even deeper. His voice was reduced to a static-y mess, hums and groans and moans bleeding into each other. You placed both of your hands on his chest for more support, inevitably pinning him down. His hands flew to yours, threatening to push them off him, but instead, he entwined his fingers with yours, panting heavily.

It didn't take long for him to feel the pressure, unbearable and urgent, his release approaching at godspeed.

“Doe, I can't...”

Panic in his tone. He tried to put his hands on your waist to pull you off. You understood immediately – an upbringing in conservative times, decades of living by the rules of a gentleman, he was resisting against the thought of cumming inside you. You pushed his hands away.

“Yes, you can.”, you stated, smiling at him, a hint of wickedness in your eyes. “And you will.”

Your skilled movements and dedicated demeanor sent him over the edge immediately. Protests were futile as he came in you forcefully, you felt his cock pumping his seed deep into you, hot and thick as you rocked him through his orgasm. Your own high wasn't worth chasing, too far away to matter. You didn't even think about it – nothing could feel better than this.

Alastor ran his hands over his forehead, sweeping away beads of sweat as his breath calmed down.

His hand shot out to grab you, and, still impaled by him, he pulled you into his chest, invading your mouth with his tongue to kiss you possessively. As if to transfer the command, the control he had given up, back to him. Taking it from you.

For a moment you were scared. The positions had reset to their default. Would that mean he'd push you off? Say goodnight and never talk about this night again? Returning to the Status Quo. Friends, the end.

Alastor pulled your chin up to look at you. His thumb ran over your cheek, tenderly and full of care. His eyes answered every question in your mind. You weren't scared anymore.

[amaranthineghost]

I'LL LET YOU GO IF THAT'S WHAT YOU WANT ( lando norris. )

lando norris x reader

a little over half a year later when the season ended, they haven't found their way back. At least not on purpose, but the universe knows better than them

authors note: I was thinking of making a happy ending, but not everything always ends up that way </3 after this, I'll work on two max imagines and then I'll see what I can do while I'm on spring break

part 1 found here

IT’S BEEN EIGHT MONTHS since she last spoke to him.

two hundred forty-three days since she last saw that sad look on his face in the rear-view mirror as she drove away from the past she half-wished was her future.

five thousand eight hundred thirty-two hours since she last felt his touch, his arms consoling and unwilling to let her go and yet she still left.

three hundred forty-nine thousand, nine hundred and twenty seconds since the peak of his performance at the beginning of the season. now she watched as he tried and failed to be what he once was. maybe not a winner, or a champion, but he’d had her, which was practically equal.

but now he had lost her.

now she watched as the season came to an end. poor performance after poor performance after poor performance where not all races ended in crossing the finish line.

she never stopped watching, yet she could never reach out, and neither would he. he was always going to be ready to accept her back into his life, yet he knew she needed time.

but she didn't know if she could do it again, though at the same time she kept eyeing his life in envy because part of her wished she could live the way he could without being bothered by the media. part of her was jealous he could live his entire life in front of a camera and be so nonchalant about it.

scrolling through his socials, they still followed each other and it caught people's attention. she read through countless tweets, theories and rumors of their relationship still carrying on behind the cameras, and though she partly wished it to be true, she hated that it wasn't. the fans still wished, and she would too.

the random appearances in the paddock had come to an end, unfortunate for the fans who loved whenever she’d show up in support of her boyfriend, turned ex.

because now all she did was stay within the confines of her apartment building, shielded from the possibility of running into lando. she couldn’t handle bumping into him when she still felt as fragile as glass. she felt like she would shatter if she saw him again, no matter how much she wanted him back.

but living in monaco means you're bound to run into someone from his circle of life.

it felt bittersweet because she wanted him back so badly, to have him hold her in his arms and tell her they’d make it work. but it’d never happened, and truthfully, she hoped it never would. because she knew that if she saw him, she wouldn’t go running back into his arms as if making it work again was the easiest option. because really, if she saw him, she would run, not towards him but away, and she dreaded the fact that he would let her.

he’d watch the love of his life run from him rather than to him and be totally fine with it. because he knew that when the time was right, she would find him again, or he would find her, and only then she wouldn’t run from him.

but he feared for the day that he would realize that she was never coming back to him. he feared for the day where he would realize he shouldn't have let her go.

and he hopes for the day, though it may never come, where she does find the right time to come back to him. he prays for the day where he would make the right choice he should've made the first time.

because in the infinite universes that are said to exist, even if she never returns in nearly every one, he hopes to live the one where she would.

but he knows that if there's a universe where she comes back, even after his idiocy of letting her go to begin with, there's also one where this could've been avoided all together. a universe where he didn't have to watch her pack her bags while shuddering with sobs.

a universe where he wouldn't have to go without her for eight months, where his performance improved when she attended grand prixs.

the one he'd rather live with her than without.

it was unsure when they would ever see each other again. they'd gone this long without seeing the other, who's to say they ever would?

it was chilly in the streets of monaco, contrast to the usually warm, sunny climate the area was known for. she wore a thick coat while she walked down the sidewalk, past the seasonal market with nothing more than her phone, wallet and tote bag.

she needed to get out, to think. she couldn't stand being trapped in the box of her apartment surrounded by nothing but reminders of him. not that it was a bad thing.

she couldn't take another second overanalyzing the helmet he had left for her. she knew it was part of his plan to have her back. to make her want more helmets dedicated to her, which he continued to do despite her not being with him. she'd be lying if she said his plan was failing.

the hoodie, probably tied into the same plan, covered in his damn cologne he knew she couldn't get enough of. it had faded over time, becoming replaced with the smell of her instead. she didn't know what to think of it.

she considered purchasing that same cologne again, drowning the fabric in its fragrance. it wouldn't be the same.

she felt like she could breathe easier with the winter air rather than the stale air of her apartment. sure, she could've stepped onto the balcony, but it was always nice to find a way out of her apartment complex.

hands stuffed in her pockets, she wandered around aimlessly at the shops that lined the streets and stalls set up to buy from.

riddled with things that caught her eye, she couldn't help but stop at nearly every stall. it took an incredible amount of self control to not buy everything she wanted. she didn't have lando by her side to buy everything.

this was her life now. she had a job that she could do from home and it paid her rent. it was enough to live off of while she completed her last years of school before she started a career for herself. tiny little trinkets seemed good in the moment, but she knew long-term that it’d eventually hurt her financially, and besides she didn’t have that much space in her apartment.

she didn’t know how much time had passed. everything was a blur as she mindlessly walked on. she hadn’t noticed when she bumped her shoulder into somebody’s chest, and she had immediately begun to apologize.

“i’m so sorry, i wasn’t looking where i was—lando?” she recognized the curly-haired guy in front of her as she stood there frozen.

“hey, long time no see,” he spoke slowly and warily, looking her up and down at the changes of her appearances that occurred over the last eight months.

“uh—what are you doing here?” she questioned, stuttering over her words just slightly as she looked at him tensely.

lando looked around with a brow raised, hands in his pockets while he answered, “uh, i live here?”

she nodded, “right.”

the air was awkward as they stood in a tense silence. people ushered around them, occasionally bumping into them. they hadn’t known what to say to each other because they weren’t expecting this impromptu meeting.

“how’ve you been?” he broke the silence.

she nodded again, “fine, and you? i saw that your season wasn’t too good.”

he grimaced softly at her words, “yeah,” he scratched the back of his neck, “just some technical issues.”

“right.”

the silence was back and more deafening than the first time, standing awkwardly looking at each other didn’t help.

again, he was the one to break it, “could i buy you a drink?”

“isn’t it a bit early for alcohol?” she questioned, looking at the brightness of the sky before her gaze settled back down at him with a weird look.

he scoffed, “i mean the coffee shop down the street,” his voice was a half chuckle as he began walking, leaving her to follow.

“well, you’re unpredictable these days,” she fell into step with him as they walked side by side in silence.

it took all of two minutes for them to arrive at the coffee shop lando had mentioned. they could smell the aroma from a ways away, the door left open to let in the cool breeze.

the shop was warm and cozy, most tables were occupied except for a few scattered around. she reached for her wallet to buy herself a coffee, but he quickly shut it down.

“it's my treat,” was all he said before he walked up to the counter with his card in hand to order as she took the two seater by the window, setting her bag down on the ground. she watched the world from where she sat, the people walking by.

groups of friends, pairs that weren’t quite at the stage of being a couple, or the single person walking by every so often. all without crossing paths. it seemed crazy to her how so much could change because of a stranger on the street.

looking back to where lando stood ordering, she wondered what her life would’ve been if they hadn’t met. they wouldn’t have traveled the world, stayed out late on rooftops, or partied in clubs despite her hesitancy. he wouldn’t have dedicated nearly his whole career to her because she was forever a piece of him.

she realized how much she had meant when she saw just how much of her he still kept. he wore shirts with printed pink bows, the one gold bracelet he wore among the silver and fan bracelets given to him by her and he never took it off. the way he styled his hair in the way she taught him, the matching rings they still wore, the references of her personality on his helmet for every race rather than a specific track, her name on his car.

her name on his car.

her name printed in pretty cursive across the top of his steering wheel and the halo for him to see.

he still managed to include her in his life despite her absence because he considered her his lucky charm. having reminders of her anywhere he could would always manage to boost his spirits, but only her presence would boost his performance.

the chair across from her pulled out with an uncomfortable scrape of the legs against the floor. she grimaced slightly, but it quickly disappeared when she refocused on the hand that slid a mug filled with hot coffee to her.

clearly they were going to be here a while, judging from the mug and not a to-go cup. she watched the steam swirl into the air as she softly blew on it while lando sat across from her with his beverage of choice. she also noticed the chocolate-chip cookie in a paper bag he held.

he remembered her love of sweets. she took a sip of her coffee. he remembered her order to the finest detail. he still remembered.

“thanks,” she spoke quietly before taking another small sip of the hot beverage. it slightly burned her tongue and throat as she drank, but she didn’t care to notice.

she was sitting across from lando norris, the one person she had been hoping to avoid this whole time, and now she’s sat with him at a coffee shop they used to frequent when they were dating.

“you’re welcome,” he muttered, his saddened eyes unmoving from her face, watching every expression of hers unfold. “so, how have you been?”

“you’ve already asked that,” she stated simply.

“i mean,” he started, leaning forward with his arms crossed against the table, “how have you really been? i don’t believe for a second that you’ve been fine when i‘m barely holdin’ it together.”

she sighed, taking another sip and grimacing at the burn, “it’s been difficult, but i know it was for the best that we broke up.”

he nodded in response, his fingers circling the rim of his mug as he stared into it.

she spoke up again, saying the words he dreaded to hear, “and i think it should stay that way.”

his shoulders visibly dropped and he bit his cheek before he looked back at her with colorless eyes, “but—” he began when she hastily cut him off.

“i need you to let me go,” her voice cracked as she spoke and tears filled her eyes as she avoided his gaze, “you have to let me let you go, lan.”

“please, don’t make me do this,” he begged, leaning forward again with a look that could make her change her mind in a second.

“please, don’t make this harder than it already is,” she shook her head as the tears began to fall, “in another universe, it might’ve been me and you, maybe the circumstances would've been in our favor, but not in this one.”

“it’s just right person, wrong life.”

“i’ll find you in our next lifetime then,” he promises, his eyes brimming with tears. he tried his best to hold back, for her, “i promise.” he tried to remain strong, for her.

“I know you will.” she said simply, smiling through her tears as she pursed her lips, sniffling as she played with her fingers. “y’know, i'll always be your number one supporter, lan. i'll still cheer for you, just from behind a screen. in that other life, i would come to your races.”

“but even in this one, i'll still celebrate your first win, your first championship. i'll vote you for driver of the day, even if you’re dead last.”

he chuckled sadly at the last part, the corner of his mouth twitching with a smile, “how will i know for sure you didn’t get bored of watching me race?” his hand reached across the table, his tan slightly faded and his rings cold.

she rolled her eyes softly, “you’ll know. i promise.” she laid her hand on his, the last somewhat intimate touch they’ll ever have with each other because after he watched her stand, pocketing the cookie he bought. he watched her through the window as she walked into the crowd as if their paths never met.

he watched with tears in his eyes, silently crying as he watched the love of his other life turn her back on him forever. he let her.

because if there was one thing he knew how to do, it was letting her go.

part of her wanted him to chase after her, wipe her mascara-stained tears just like that regretful day in their old apartment because part of her still wanted him in her life. she wished she could still go back sometimes.

he wished she would just come back. he wanted to experience life with her, he wanted to win with her, be a champion with her.

but he lived in the wrong universe, and he was unsure if he'd ever see her in this life again, in the way he wanted. they would bump shoulders on the street, looking longingly for just a second as they ushered by in a hurry. not looking back, but never forgetting how much they had meant to each other for the time they were together.

how crossing paths, even for what seemed like the shortest time to them, changed the trajectory of their lives forever. they would subconsciously look for qualities of each other in the people they moved onto. telling stories to their kids and grandkids about the other in regretful tones because they wished it was the kids they had together that they could tell the story of their relationship to.

because now they were just strangers, she was just a name he would forever keep on his car, and he was just an old lover turned stranger she would send flowers to after every podium and win until he would retire.

—

taglist (found here): @slut4lrh @taylorslovesswifties13 @leclercdream

proofread by @foreveralbon <333

[woahjo]

The People We Became (Bakugou x Reader)

masterlist | ao3

Pairing: Bakugou x Reader

Summary: Zombie Apocalypse Au.

The world fell apart almost a year ago and you refused to go with it. Left alone and to your own devices in a world full of monsters, where the dead come back to life, you believe that maybe surviving isn't living.

When Katsuki finds you alone in the woods and on the precipice of collapsing from exhaustion, he decides to bring you back to the house his group calls home. Against your better judgement and hesitancy to become attached, you decide to stay. In this world, everyone has lost someone. No soul is spared the violence, and you start sleeping with Bakugou Katsuki to dull the ache. Somehow, peace finds you anyway, but not without sacrifice.

Chapter Content Warnings:  fem!reader, gender neutral pronouns, strangers to lovers, violence typical of zombies, blood, gore, romance, slow-ish burn (for the emotional stuff), angst, kissin', questions of identity, loss, grief, graphic depictions of death and/or violence, mentions and descriptions of starvation/exhaustion typical of an apocalypse setting, very slight implications of possible sexual violence typical of an apocalypse setting, derealization, depersonalization, weapons (guns, blades, and traps), loss of identity

All content warnings can be found on ao3 with the rest of the series.

Word Count: 14.4k — 53k total on ao3

A/N: it's finally done... i'm sweating. i screamed. i cried. i bled. you know the drill. i am posting this a little differently than my other fics and series. only the first chapter will be posted here on tumblr (this post), with the rest of it broken up into chapters and posted on ao3.. purely because it was originally meant as a one shot and i don't like posting chapters on tumblr. it's not built for that and im tired. anyway, im nervous this is my new baby and im pretty sure my soul is somewhere in here. if u read this, pls come tell me what you think.. it fuels me. enjoy, cry, sweat, or whatever else you do when you read. as always, thank you and i love you.

Two hundred and seventy six. It’s been two hundred and seventy six days since the world completely went to shit. You don’t really count the initial outbreak. The initial outbreak was relatively contained once people found out about it. You quarantined. You stayed inside. All it really took were a handful of idiots. Someone selfish. Someone who panicked and ran instead of facing the world honorably, and that was it. It only took days to lose almost every semblance of a normal life and a week to lose everything else. 

The light of your fire is dim, embers burning low as you sit in a foldable chair beside it. The chair is from a friend, someone you’re not with anymore and who went somewhere you couldn’t follow, and you've got a metal spatula in your hand. You're not sure why you grabbed it when you fled, but panic does weird things to the mind. You absentmindedly wonder why you’ve brought it along with you all this time. There’s no logical reason for you to tote the thing around. A friend had told you how strange it was that you thought to toss it into your bag and continue carrying it. This, along with a few other oddities, are all you managed to take from your house when the world fell to ruin. Everything else are things scavenged along the way or from people you'd met, joined, and lost. 

Maybe it’s because the spatula is somewhat normal, like somehow when you cook the game on your makeshift tin over your shitty fire, you can pretend you’re in your kitchen. A smash burger sounds good right now, with grilled onions on a brioche bun like the ones from the place by your apartment. 

The night is near silent and trees creak and crack like the hulls of great ships under heavy pressure, but the birds don't sing and nothing in the crowded wood you're taking shelter in makes a sound. Well, except for you and the gentle crackle of your fire. 

It’s easy to miss the noise that used to irritate you when the world goes quiet. You used to hate the sounds and lights of passing trucks when they’d cross on the street below your apartment window. Now, you’d do anything for the familiar comfort. The world is so dark and quiet, like it’s holding its breath and waiting for this to be over. The silence is almost too much, so loud that it hurts your ears. You huddle closer to the fire, craving its quiet sound. Focusing on it lessens the anxiety of the other noises. The ones you don’t want to hear. 

Your head is on a swivel. It has been for months. Ever since the outbreak, ever since the dead rose and began consuming and infecting the living, you've kept watch. A paranoid, never ending cycle that you suppose—if left on your own—will burn itself out. You swallow thick and return your attention to the fire, watching the tree line just in front of you for any hint of movement or monsters. 

A branch cracks just behind you. A swift sound, followed by rapid footsteps. You stand, quickly turning your head, only to see a figure a few feet away from you. They move quickly and the dancing light of the fire obscures their features from view. Their eyes, most importantly. You can always tell if someone is dead or alive based on their eyes and the sounds that their joints make. In this light, should this stranger have that milky white film over them, you wouldn't be able to tell. 

You make a small noise, something between a whimper and a shout, as the person comes to a stop in front of you and holds a flashlight directly into your face. You squint, panic in your veins as your eyes adjust as best they can to the sudden assault. It takes you a moment to realize that there is a gun pointed directly at your forehead. The living. This person is alive. You're not sure yet if encountering one of the dead would have been worse. 

"Shut up and drop your weapon," he says in a hurried voice. It's aggressive and threatening. It comes from deep in his chest, like somehow fear has gripped and mutilated it into something violent. 

You raise your shaky hands to your head quickly at the order, screwing your eyes shut in the beam of the flashlight. 

"It's not a weapon!" you shout, voice cracking. "It's a spatula. It's a spatula." 

The words are rushed and heavy, fear seizing your chest as you look down the barrel of the gun. The flashlight turns off, sending you back into the dark. Your eyes fight to adjust, catching the firelight that glints off of the barrel, and you begin to makeout the man’s features. He's big, blonde under the grime, you think. A man, not the best thing to encounter alone at night in times like these. 

You see him hesitate for a moment, eyes darting between you and the silver kitchen item in your hand. You drop it quickly, hoping to appeal to his humanity. 

"Do you have a weapon on you?" he questions, voice a little less urgent. 

You shake your head in response and then shakily look beside the chair, choking out the word “ground”. There's a knife there and a pistol with no bullets. You're a poor shot and you had run out of ammo the previous week. He glances at it, the gun still raised at you, and sidesteps to grab the two items. When he does, he cautiously lowers the weapon and you start to lower your trembling hands. 

Then, as if struck by some realization, the man stomps towards the fire and you jump as he does.

"The fuck are you doing lighting a fire this late?" he says angrily, opening the clip of your pistol. "And with no fucking bullets. Those things may be dead, but they can still fuckin' see. That's a good way to get yourself killed." 

He stomps out the fire as he talks, urgently stamping out what's left of the low-burning logs. 

"I didn't think there were many in the area," you justify, furrowing your eyebrows as you step away from him. 

"And that's a risk you want to take?" he says indignantly. You wonder briefly what business he has worrying about you. 

"What do you want?" you snap, "My food? Weapons? Life? What is it?" 

The man scoffs, "Jesus, none of that. I don’t want your shit." 

You narrow your eyes and take a step back. One thing this world has done is remove trust from every chance encounter, and that was already hard enough when the place was sane. 

"Not all people who camp out in the woods are good," he says. "But I sure as shit didn't expect to find someone like you alone lighting a damn fire. Stupid." 

"There were others," you say indignantly, like somehow that makes it better. "Force of habit, I guess." 

The man pauses for a moment as understanding passes between the two of you. It's a relatable feeling. Everyone has lost someone now. 

"Got a name?" he asks. 

You hesitate in giving it to him and the pause causes him to roll his eyes. “You want me to call you Idiot-with-no-bullets instead?” 

You give him your name and the man nods as if he likes the sound of it, turning it over in his head before inhaling. 

"I'm Katsuki," he furrows his eyebrows. "You're alone?" 

You nod, swallowing down the grief that pushes at your throat. 

"Wasn't always," you respond, "but yeah. Now, I am." 

He nods his understanding. 

"Come with me." 

"Where?" you say instinctively, a defensive edge to your voice. Katsuki looks at you as if you’re stupid, or maybe it's pity, like you're a wounded animal. Probably both. 

"Where the fuck do you think?" he retorts. "We've got a camp a little ways from here. I saw your fire from the watch post we have stationed." 

You look at him like he's a little crazy for even thinking to bring you. Kindness, especially the selfless type, is so rare now and you find it difficult to believe that he’s willing to take you there at no cost. 

He scoffs and rolls his head over his shoulder. "Look, we've got men and women," then he pauses. "Used to have children. We're not gonna hurt you. World's gone to shit, do you really wanna keep at it alone?" 

He's probably right. You've been alone for weeks now, exhausted for longer, and though your common sense tells you not to go off with a strange man in this kind of world, the promise of rest is far too tempting. You nod and glance back to your camp. A measly collection of supplies haphazardly put together. You suppose that it doesn’t look so promising. 

"We'll come back for it when it's light," he says. "I don't know about you, but I'd rather not spend longer in these dark ass woods than I have to." 

"Okay," you say. The presence of another person both sets you on edge and makes you feel the press of fatigue even more. A gun's barrel on your nose followed by the promise of safety and you're going with him? You must be stupider than a horror movie protagonist. "Do you take in a lot of strays?" 

Katsuki looks over his shoulder and you think you see him smile a little at the phrase. 

"If that's what you want to call it," he says begrudgingly. Then, with a softer tone of voice, barely noticeable with the quiet whisper you both have been speaking at. "I'm sure the others won't mind one more."

You nod a little and follow him through the wood, stepping over obstacles. Your eyes have adjusted to the dark, but you feel unsteady on your feet. Everything you’ve ever learned about this world tells you that maybe you shouldn’t go with him. What if they’re dangerous? It’s easy to lie about women and children, about a community that doesn’t exist. Or worse, it’s easy to fool yourself that where you are is good, but you don’t know yet if he’s the type to delude himself. He doesn’t seem it. 

The two of you walk for what feels like forever, even if it is only a little over half a mile. Your feet have been aching for days and every step you take feels like a blade into the heel. Katsuki seems steady, his gun secured at his hip and a large knife in his dominant hand. He doesn’t have the flashlight out, but he seems sure-footed and takes every step in stride, as if he’s too heavy to be swayed by any missed step. 

As you move, you can barely make out his back in the white tank top he wears. You use it as a landmark, following the glowing white as it catches the light from the moon. Like chasing a ghost through the trees. 

Then, the wood eases up. The trees grow sparse and the suffocating humidity of the forest eases into a more breathable, open-air breeze. Katsuki steps out into a clearing. It’s relatively small, for how large the world is, but it’s some of the most open space you’ve seen in a while. The feeling of stepping out into the tall grass, where you’re both visible to any wandering thing, sends a rush of fear through you. 

By the edge of the clearing, there’s a small house with a short steeple. It almost looks like a Christian church, but you get the sense that it’s likely a barn. That must be the watchtower and you wonder just how good the view of the forest is from up there if Katsuki managed to see the light of your fire. How many other people had seen your fires over the weeks and not made it out to confront you? How close had you come before to safety or annihilation? 

"Hey!" a girl's voice calls. "He's back!" 

In the near distance, you can see a large and dimly lit house. It looks a little worn down, but soft and hardly noticeable light emanates from it in a way that makes it seem inviting.You can’t make out its exact silhouette and night blurs just how broken-down it is, but you can tell that people live there in the same way you can tell when someone has just left a room. 

Someone runs across the field to you both. It looks like a man and a woman, maybe around Katsuki's age. They move quickly through the tall grass and for a moment, the urgency that they move with frightens you. You worry that your presence will ignite some protective sort of panic. You linger back, letting Katsuki grow a little farther from you as they call out to him. 

“Yeah, yeah," he half-shouts, no longer seeming to care about keeping quiet. Guess that's what happens when there's a group. "I found the fire I mentioned." 

The two come to a stop in front of him, resting their hands on their hips as they catch the breath they lost. 

"We started to get a little worried," says the girl. She's pretty, with big eyes and curly hair that looks like it probably used to be dyed. "You've been gone for a while." 

"Well, I'm back," he says. 

"And you brought a friend," the other man says, sounding shocked. His tone is noticeably kind. The boisterous type of kind and when he smiles, you can see that he has sharp canines. His hair is straight, sticking out in different directions, and tinged with red in this light.

"More like an acquaintance," Katsuki says. “I found them in the woods with a fire and an empty clip. Felt like their blood would be on my hands if I didn’t bring them back.” The red-haired man gives him a telling look and Katsuki scoffs in response and turns to the girl. "Get them settled, Mina, will you?" The girl called Mina nods and Katsuki takes off toward the house without another word. 

"You're lucky," she says, pausing when you flinch as she steps closer. "You're gettin' the last solo room in the place. Kirishima, is it set up?" 

Kirishima shrugs his shoulders. "You'd have to ask Izuku. He'd know all about that, but I can go check." 

Mina shakes her head and turns her attention to you, giving you a quick once over with her eyebrows pulled together.

"You must be tired.” 

When you nod, she gives you an empathetic smile and motions for you to come with her. "We'll fix that. You hungry?" 

"What do you think?" you manage, saliva pooling in your mouth. "Do you have food?" 

"Plenty," she smiles. "not quite enough for leftovers just yet though, don’t tell anyone." 

You smile awkwardly. Who on earth would you tell? 

"Sounds like a good deal," you say. 

You follow Mina up to the house. Around it, there are a few parked cars. They look like they could pull out at any moment, and through the dust covered windows, you can just make out supplies in the back seats as you pass. In the distance, you can see the fuzzy silhouette of the barn you’d assumed was a watchtower in the dark of the field and you figure that maybe it used to be a place to keep livestock. 

Mina doesn't say much to you as you pass through the field, and when you walk into the door, the first thing you notice is a large group of people seated at a dining table. They all look up at you when you enter and it's with a bit of shock that you register their faces as healthy. Well, healthier. These people live well. Something stirs in your chest, both anxiety and excitement at the thought of possibly having found somewhere safe. They blink at you for a moment, exchanging looks that all end up landing on Katsuki. 

"This is the group. Well, most of us," Mina says pleasantly and with a light huff. "That's Izuku, Denki, Ochako, Sero, and you already know the handsome guy on the end there. Kiri's probably checking to see if the room is half decent.." They all greet you with a glad murmur. "Group, this is..." 

She looks at you expectantly. When you tell them your name, you can't help but look at Katsuki who already knows it. He raises his eyebrows unconsciously and turns his attention to the glass in front of him. 

There’s an awkward pause as you stand in the doorway, suddenly conscious of just how dirty you must look. Remnants of an older world, you suppose. No one really worries about things like that anymore.

“Uhm…” you search for something to say, but your people skills seem to have left you. 

“You’re okay,” Mina says lightly. “Plenty of time to get to know you when you’ve rested and had something to eat.” 

Mina sits you down at a chair that she pulls in from the other room. It doesn't match the other ones in the dining room, but you suppose no one is really thinking of the decor in their house anymore. It's only now that you realize the house has electricity.

"You have power?" you say incredulously, looking at the center light in the dining room on its low setting. 

"Mhm," Mina hums as she sits down next to you and spoons a helping of vegetables onto your plate. "It's got a generator. We got lucky finding this place. I don't think many of us would be alive if we hadn't." 

Those listening in the group nod their affirmation. 

"It draws from well water too," she adds. "With the right care, the place practically runs on its own. Hard work but what isn't nowadays?" 

“Like you do any of the heavy lifting," Sero scoffs across from her.

"That's not fair," Katsuki adds with a slick smirk, "you know damn well none of our vegetables would be so well socialized if she didn't use them like a damn diary all day." 

The group laughs a little and Mina rolls her eyes and sits back in the chair. You avoid looking at anyone, shoveling the food into your mouth. You’re salivating an almost embarrassing amount, struggling to eat at a normal pace. There’s something about food cooked inside, about the way food tastes when you can smell it wafting in from the kitchen. 

"Don't worry," she turns to you, as if you’re at all concerned with the implication that she doesn’t do much work, "they know we’d hardly have vegetables at all if it weren't my job to tend them. I used to garden quite a bit before all of this." 

Sero tosses her a sideways glance and you get the sense that maybe it isn’t just her doing it. 

"Mina does a lot of the garden stuff," Ochako pitches in, her voice hesitant. "We all sort of just do what we can." 

You can’t really keep up with the conversation and instead just blink at her for a moment before turning back to your food. Maybe that’s rude, but you don’t have the energy to consider it. There’s food in front of you. Food that doesn’t taste like it’s been poorly slaughtered or rotting in a cabinet for months. 

The group at the table with you shifts back into what you feel is their normal conversation and you watch them through your peripheral. You can’t relax yet, maybe you never will. Always on watch with your guard up. 

They pass the dishes around the table, plates going from hand to hand over mismatched sets of silverware. The action feels strange to you. Your chest squeezes at the thought. Just a few weeks ago, you’d done this around a fire with the people you loved. You’d passed a too-hot-to-touch pot around a circle of friends, laughing quietly at the little moments of joy you could find. It feels far away now and jealousy rouses beside hope as you sit. 

“So, where did you come from?” Izuku at the end of the table asks. 

It takes you a moment to realize that he’s talking to you and there’s an edge to his voice that has everyone at the table sitting up with curiosity. You stare at him for a moment, exhausted and defeated and unable to muster the words. 

“Leave them be,” Katsuki says, looking up from his plate. “They just got here. They’re probably freaked out.” 

The table goes a little quiet, a hush falling over it. You look around as glances are exchanged before Mina stands up quickly and quietly claps her hands together. 

“I think,” she says with an awkward laugh, “it may be time for bed.” 

Mina turns to you. “I’ll show you where you can sleep.” 

You nod, standing up and turning to the group with furrowed eyebrows. You want to thank them, to tell them that you’re grateful for the meal and their kindness, but the words don’t come. Instead, you meet Katsuki’s gaze, grateful for the intervention, but suspicious at such forthcoming kindness. He scoffs a little and turns away. 

—

“It’s just up here,” Mina says as she guides you through the house.

You pass rooms with their doors ajar. They are lived in, with unmade beds and glasses of clean water on nightstands. It’s like something out of a life gone by, with a few less amenities. You can imagine a family moving through this house. Girls in school uniforms calling through the halls about a stolen hair clip. Now, you picture these people doing that. Living and not just surviving.

“The bathroom is across the hall,” she says. “You can take a shower if you want. I’ll leave a towel and some clothes in there just in case.”  

You nod. 

“No worries if you don’t,” Mina adds in a whisper. “When I first met everyone, I didn’t undress to bathe for days so… take your time. We won’t be offended.” 

She shuts the door behind her when she leaves and you stumble back onto the bed, shocked by just how soft it feels after spending weeks on the floor. It’s not much, but it’s nicer than anything you’ve experienced in the last nine months, and there's a working shower. You haven’t had a shower since everything fell apart and the layer of grime on your skin is so thick that you can feel it. You haven’t felt safe enough to properly wash since you’d lost the rest of your group, only stopping to rinse your body in streams you pass if the thought occurred to you. The idea of running water and a shower is near euphoric. 

You probably shouldn’t. It may not be wise to shower tonight. You still don’t know these people or what they’re capable of, but the temptation of being clean is too great and as soon as you hear Mina close the bathroom door and walk away, you hurry across the hall on the balls of your feet. 

The bathroom looks old and the sink is white porcelain, eggshell now with a lack of care. The shower has a bathtub in it and though it’s cloudy, there’s a mirror over the sink where you catch the first clear glimpse you’ve had of yourself in weeks. 

You don’t know who you’re looking at. The person in the mirror is nearly unrecognizable. Their eyes are wide and frightened, wild like an animal’s, and their face is covered in a layer of grime that looks like it can never be washed out. Their hair is unruly, sticking out in some areas and matted down with blood in others. This is a person you’ve never seen or met before. Someone you would have avoided only a year ago if you’d ever encountered them. 

You reach up to touch your face, running your hand over the dried blood that has made a home on the underside of your jaw. How long has it been there? Have you always looked so unwell? So sick in mind and body? The promise of a shower grows unbearably pleasant. 

The knob squeaks when you turn it, screeching as the pipes hum and clang to life. Water spits out in a few bursts before raining down from the faucet and hitting the back of the tub in a steady thrum. It sounds a little bit like music to you, constant and heavy, and it gives the impression of normalcy as you begin undressing. 

The fabric of your clothes sticks to your skin, peeling from your body in an unbearable and disgusting way. You don’t look at your body in the mirror. In fact, you avoid it entirely. Not recognizing your face was enough, but your body—a part of yourself you never really recognized—would drive you over the edge. 

Then, you pull the shower curtain back and stick your hand under the water, stepping into it fully with a deep sigh. The water is lukewarm. They probably turned off the heater to conserve power and allow the main generator to function for longer. That’s fine. Beggars can’t be choosers and everyone is a beggar nowadays. Besides, it’s warm enough outside that the water isn’t too cold as it is. In the winter, you probably wouldn’t be able to shower and the pipes might freeze entirely until the following spring. 

There’s a normalcy that you settle into as you wash your body. You return to muscle memory, running your hands over your skin and scrubbing the grime out. It’s simultaneously like the first shower of your life and as if you’ve been doing it every day. You return to a state of pleasant, familiar humanity as you wash away dirt that has built up for weeks. You feel as it pours off of you, see it run down your body onto the porcelain of the tub and swirl down the drain. It’s dirt and dried blood that has been caked onto your skin. You worry that even after washing, it will leave a permanent mark. 

The person in the mirror when you get out of the shower is in stark contrast to the person who went into it. They’re someone that you recognize. You could almost convince yourself that nothing ever changed. Your water-soaked skin is so familiar to you, that you could be getting out of the shower and dressing to go to work. If it weren’t for the look in your eyes, you could have fooled yourself. Something undefinable has changed in you, something that you will carry with you forever. You glance at yourself in the foggy mirror and think that there is no going back. 

The house is quiet when you dry yourself and open the bathroom door. You step across the hall on the balls of your feet, careful not to make any noise, and when you push the bedroom door open, you do a visual sweep to make sure that it’s safe out of habit. 

Your body is exhausted. You are so thoroughly tired that you think you could collapse at any moment, but when you sit down on the bed in your fresh clothes, you find yourself restless. This place is new to you and you’re unsure if the safe feeling is your mind playing desperate tricks on you or the real thing. The lamp by your bed is on, casting a yellow glow across the bedsheets and the dark wood furniture. Come to think of it, you didn’t get a good look at the house when you came in and the thought starts to bother you as you stare at the closed door to the hallway. 

Someone could be behind it. They could be waiting for you to lay down, to sleep, before doing something awful. You almost feel guilty for thinking this way about them. They’ve fed you, given you a shower, given you fresh clothes. Luxuries you weren’t sure even existed anymore, yet you’re sitting here doubting them, wishing you had your pistol or knife.

The bedroom door creaks as you open it. You wince, nervous that you’ve disturbed the quiet peace of the house and that everything will come crashing down as quickly as it seemed to come together. The hallway is dark, save for some light coming from under two doors at the end of the hall. One of them turns out as you creep past it to the stairs, and you hear the distinct sound of box springs squeaking as someone crawls into bed. You let go of the breath you’d been holding, straightening up as you relax into the late-night environment. 

The house looks old even from the inside. It gives the impression of having once been dirty and in near disrepair. There are dust stains and dull spots that no amount of scrubbing could get out. You can almost picture how this place may have looked when they found it and it’s entirely possible that it had been abandoned before the actual outbreak. Someone run out of their home for lack of money. What a trivial thing now. 

The stairs are sturdy, probably held together so well by the foundation of the house, and they’re made of dark wood. They’re steep too, the kind that a baby or old person might trip over, and you hold the railing to calm the shaking of your legs as you slowly feel your way down. You can see the light on in the kitchen from around the corner, spreading out onto the floor of the old fashioned drawing room. Dishes clink in the kitchen, like someone is washing them, and you jump a little at the noise as you creep around the corner. 

Kirishima is standing at the sink with his back to you, whispering something to someone beside him. The expanse of his back is broad, moving every time he goes to run his hand over the dish in front of him. Then, he turns to look at you and you see Mina pop her head around the corner. 

“Oh,” Kiri says, “did you need something?” 

You shake your head. “Not really, I just couldn’t sleep.” 

Kiri nods sympathetically as if he knows the feeling. “Well, you look like you feel a little better at least.” 

You pad over to where he’s doing the dishes and Mina offers you a soft smile and a knowing look. It all seems so normal. Doing the dishes, whispering quietly as they do. Something about it screams a kind of humanity you haven’t experienced in a long while, even with your last group. 

“Are you sure we can’t get you something?” Mina says, furrowing her brows. 

“Why are you all being so nice to me?” You ask. “You don’t know the first thing about me.” 

“Is there some reason why we shouldn’t be nice to you?” Kiri says over his shoulder. 

“No,” you shake your head. “I just think it’s reckless, that’s all. I could have been anyone.” 

Kirishima and Mina exchange a look. They glance at each other, like they’re debating on saying something, and then Kiri turns and rests his palms on the back of the sink. He looks at Mina. 

“We don’t usually decide to do this so quickly,” she admits. “We’re friendly, but nobody’s that friendly anymore.” 

Kiri nods his agreement and you listen quietly, trying to determine if they plan to toss you back out into the woods in the morning. 

“But, Katsuki doesn’t usually bring people in,” she continues. 

“He’s a little more closed off than the rest of us,” Kirishima adds. “He’s a good guy, just takes a while to warm up, is all.” 

“Mhm,” Mina says. 

“What does that have to do with me?” you ask. “This is nice and all, but I’m sure you get why I’m wary.” 

“He’s a good judge of character,” Kiri adds earnestly. “He doesn’t bring people in often, but when he does, he’s usually right.” 

You nod, not quite understanding. Sure, you don’t plan to do anything terrible. In fact, you’re content to accept their kindness and stay, if they’d let you. Anything is better than being alone, but their blind trust in one man’s judgment of character makes you uneasy. 

“He was alone for a really long time,” Mina adds. “A lot of us were. I got lucky meeting Kirishima early on, but Katsuki’s luck was a little less fortuitous.” 

“So you all just… happened upon each other by chance?” You ask. 

“Yeah, pretty much,” Mina says. “It was me and Kiri for a long time. Just the two of us. We’d found Izuku and Katsuki together a while later, but they didn’t seem to like each other all that much. We still haven’t really figured that out, especially because they’re so close now. Ochako and Sero ended up cornered together by accident. We found them just before we found this place, and Denki just sort of showed up here one day and promised to fix the generator in exchange for safety. That was months ago. We’ve been like this since.”

“So you’re all strays,” you say and Mina laughs a little and looks at Kiri. 

“Sure,” she says. “We’re all strays. There were others too. Shoji. Jirou. She was Denki’s girlfriend.” 

“I’m sorry,” you say with a frown. It feels pointless to apologize for the dead, if you get caught up in it, you’d be apologizing forever. 

“Don’t be,” Kiri adds. “But best not to bring her up. It was pretty recent and Denki’s only just started to get over it.” 

You swallow thick and nod a little. 

“Anyway,” Mina says, “we can’t really explain it. We just trust him. We trust Katsuki. That’s all.” 

“Hm,” you hum, understanding that to a degree. 

You trusted the people in your group. If they believed in someone, you were willing to as well, so you suppose you can understand a little where they’re coming from. 

“What are you talking about,” Katsuki rounds the corner, walking into the kitchen and putting his water bottle under the sink. 

“Nothing really,” Mina says. 

Katsuki furrows his eyebrows and then looks at you. He gives you a once over, taking in your new clothing before scoffing lightly. 

“Don’t you look cozy,” he says. “You get settled?” 

“When can I go get my stuff?” You ask. 

“Someone’s eager,” he says through lightly gritted teeth. “Didn’t I tell ya we could go in the morning? Besides, what’s there really to miss in that lot of junk?” 

“Katsuki!” Mina quietly chides. 

“I have things I care about there,” you say. “Things I’m not ready to lose.” 

Katsuki blinks at you for a second before swearing under his breath. “We’ll leave when you get up in the morning.” 

“You don’t have to come with me,” you say, frowning a bit at his sour attitude. 

“Like hell,” he scoffs. “What if the dead are waiting back there for you?” 

“I made it this far on my own,” you respond. 

Katsuki nods for a second. “I’m going. Come find me in the morning.” 

He walks off and around the corner. You hear him go up the stairs, followed by the distinct click of a bedroom door shutting. 

“Don’t pay too much attention to that,” Mina says. “It’s past his bedtime.” 

“You’ll get used to him,” Kiri adds. 

“Right,” you say, swallowing down your frustration in favor of trying to be appreciative of the help. You sway on your feet a little and then steady yourself. “I’m going to go to sleep. Thank you for the meal and the bed.” 

Mina and Kiri nod, but you don’t stick around to hear a response. Fatigue creeps up on you. It ambushes your senses and you go from feeling dream-like to delusional in a matter of moments. You make your way up the stairs, your body feeling heavy as lead, and wobble your way into the bedroom they’re letting you stay in. 

When your head hits the pillow, you’re out. The world around you fades to dark and just before you sleep, you swear that you can hear the sounds of cars passing on the highway. A busy night, Saturday maybe, and people go about their daily lives outside of the window the way that they always have. They live, never the wiser to just how quickly things fall apart and how little it takes for our humanity to leave us. 

— 

Mornings in this place are boisterous. The sun coming through the lone window in your room wakes you up and you can hear the calls of busy people getting to work outside. There are voices from the porch out front that your window looks over and though you can’t see them, you get the sense that they’re having a pleasant conversation. 

As you rouse, you come to the realization of just how exhausted you’d really been. They probably saved your life by bringing you to this place, feeding you, and offering you a bed. In hindsight, it’s easy to see just how little you had left in you. You get the sense now that you’d been running on an empty tank for days, slowly coming to an inglorious, gruesome, sputtering stop. 

Things seem a little clearer, like the sunlight is somehow less bleak than it had been the days previous and you feel a little bit like you have a new lease on life. There are no big emotions, no swells of hope or humanity just yet, and you dread the moment you are rested enough to let grief consume you. Right now, you can’t feel it, but there is a fear in you that as you get to know these people who live relatively beautifully in an ugly world, it will weigh you down so much that you’ll never be able to outrun it. 

You wonder if they’ll let you stay. They very well may not, even with the way they were talking last night. Strangers are more dangerous than they’ve ever been and if they ask you whether or not you’ve killed someone, you refuse to lie to them. Sitting up on the bed, you mull over the very real possibility that you could be back out there on your own again in a matter of days and you don’t even have that many good acts under your belt to plead your case. You’re just a person and you’ve done what you needed to in order to survive. Now, you’re not sure if that’s enough. 

You swallow thick, wandering over to the mirror on the dresser. It’s fogged, though less than the bathroom mirror, and you can make out your features a little better than you could last night. You feel a bit more sane, though you still don’t recognize the frightful and distrustful look in your eyes. Like a wounded animal. Inside your head, you acknowledge that you are completely different from the person you were two hundred and seventy seven days ago. 

The voices grow louder as you climb down the stairs, more secure on your feet than you felt last night. You can hear them talking about the generator, as well as a name you don’t recognize. 

“He should be back by now,” a woman says. “Shoto’s never gone longer than a day or two, max.” 

“We shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” another woman says with a worried bite in her voice. Mina, maybe? “We’re only a few hours into the day. He probably got holed up somewhere.” 

“Someone needs to go look for him,” a man says.

“And what? Risk getting yourself killed?” the first woman says. “No, it doesn’t make sense. We need you here.” 

“You’d rather we leave him to die on his own?” 

“No one’s fuckin’ dying.” 

You recognize Katsuki’s voice. 

“He’s perfectly capable of going on a gasoline run,” he continues. “He’s done it before.” 

“I should have gone with him,” says the same woman. 

“On that leg? You wouldn’t have made it halfway to town, let alone there and back,” his voice raises a little. “Don’t be stupid. He’ll be back.” 

You clear your throat and step around the corner. The group turns to face you quickly at the sound, their eyes wide for a moment before relaxing. You can’t sneak up on anyone nowadays. 

“Sorry,” you say, “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Is everything okay?” 

It’s not your business, but you ask anyway, wondering for yourself about the safety of Shoto. 

“Fine,” Izuku says, shaking his head. You recognize him to be the one who'd vouched for going after their friend. Katsuki takes a step away from the broad man as he says this. “Nothing for you to worry about. Did you rest?” 

Izuku smiles gently at you, his chest inflating a little at the question. The movement broadens his shoulders and you realize that he stands almost a head taller than Katsuki. You look briefly between the two of them before nodding. 

“I did,” you say. “Thank you.” 

“Nothing wrong with a little hospitality now and then,” he smiles and you can’t help but furrow your eyebrows at the distinct hesitance in his voice. 

“I don’t think we’ve met,” the woman standing across from Izuku says. “I’m Momo. Sorry I wasn’t there to meet you last night. I’ve been a little under the weather.” 

You introduce yourself to her and glance down at her leg. Her ankle is swollen and wrapped in a bandage. Her sneaker laces are untied at the top to make room for the swelling and you can see that she’s guarding that side of her leg. 

“Is it…?” you grimace, taking an instinctive step away from her. You almost feel bad for it, but sometimes good people make bad decisions when loved ones get bit. 

“No,” she says quickly, “no, it isn’t. Caught an edge in an old chain link fence on the property a couple days back.” 

Momo smiles slightly at you as if to reassure you. She’s really beautiful, with thick dark hair pulled back into a somewhat messy ponytail. Her eyes are bright, like she’s engaged in lively conversation, and you find yourself feeling a little sad for her. She’ll need medicine soon, if they can get it. Infections set in easily these days and you get the sense that even she knows that she may not have long without it. Maybe that’s something else their friend Shoto set out to find. 

“I assume you’ll be wanting to go get your supplies?” Katsuki says, cutting the conversation short. Maybe he could sense the sour turn of thoughts. 

“Ready when you are,” you respond with a nod. 

Katsuki glances at Izuku, who gives him a slightly disapproving look. 

“Someone get them something to eat,” Katsuki says. “...I’ll get my shit ready.” 

“Fig jam…” Mina mumbles as she motions for you to follow her to the kitchen. 

You oblige her, not exactly jumping to turn down a meal. She walks you into the kitchen and opens up a cabinet, where she pulls out a jar filled with a dark and seed filled paste. It’s a jam, sealed in a jar that looks older than what’s inside of it. The seal breaks open with a pleasant pop. 

“This stuff is so good,” she says to you over her shoulder, pulling out a package of crackers that have likely gone stale. “You won’t believe it.” 

She spreads the jam on a few crackers and sets it in front of you on a plate, pushing it across the counter towards you. 

“It’s fig jam,” she says with a smile. “Homemade.” 

You look down at the plate, your mouth watering at the prospect of something sweet like this. It’s been so long since you've had fresh jam. It could be as long as 10 years. You don’t think you’ve had it since you were a kid, when jam came easily and you preferred the processed brands at the supermarket to the ones your mom used to make sometimes. 

You raise the cracker to your mouth and stuff it in with little grace. The sweetness spreads across your tongue as soon as you bite into the stale cracker. It fizzes and pops almost, the sugar melting across your tongue as the seeds crack softly between your teeth. The smile that hits your face is completely involuntary and though you know that nine months ago, this jam wouldn’t have been much, today it is something extraordinary. 

Mina nods a kind of girlish agreement, like the way people used to when they had their friend try something at their favorite restaurant. 

“We got here in the fall. I want to say late October or early November?” she offers. “We were starving and there wasn’t enough food to feed all of us. By that time there were like… nine of us.” 

You listen as you eat your crackers. 

“This place was in such an awful state,” she laughs. “I mean, really terrible. But, it was big and there was a fig tree in the back. A little thing, probably only a few years old and it had fruit on it. We ate so many of them that if the world were normal, we’d have sworn off of them forever. When we realized that the house actually had some old food in it,” she interrupts herself “-nothing good, canned stuff mostly- we decided to jar up the rest of the figs so that they didn’t rot.” 

She smiles at you like it’s a pleasant memory, but you can only think about how hungry they must have been. Your stomach growls as you eat. 

“I know it doesn’t sound like much,” she says, “but for some reason it’s a really nice memory. Honestly, we’re lucky we didn’t die.” 

Mina laughs a little. 

“I mean,” she continues, “we didn’t even clear the area before we started pulling at the figs and throwing them into our mouths.” 

You tilt your head at her and furrow your eyebrows with a small smile. 

“You’re really forthcoming with information.” 

“You just seem a little hesitant, is all,” she answers. 

“Can you blame me?” 

Mina shrugs her shoulders but doesn’t really offer an answer. You assume it’s because she can’t, because Mina has the same doubts everyone carries with them in this world. All of the what ifs people would think about before they slept have become more prevalent than anyone would have ever liked. 

“The jam is good,” you say, trying to be friendly in the same way she is. “Even if it is months old.” 

“Things keep well in jars,” Mina defends softly, smiling a little as she gets another out of you. 

This place feels like a little slice of paradise. A blessing from whoever lived here before and kept a garden stocked with vegetables. From someone who lived in an old house with stables and well-water, who kept canned food past its expiration date. It feels almost too good to be true, like these people live in a bubble bound to pop. 

“You ready?” Katsuki thuds into the kitchen with an empty backpack slung over his shoulder. 

You turn, startled by his sudden appearance and nod as you quickly finish chewing the last cracker. Katsuki furrows his eyebrows as he watches the way you scarf it down. 

When you stand from the table, Katsuki turns on his heel to make for the front door and you follow with a light step. Mina says something about staying safe, but you don’t respond, glancing once over your shoulder at the girl. 

It’s strange, the world has made you wishy-washy and uncommitted. You never used to be like that, never so distrusting as to second guess someone’s kindness the moment your back is turned to them, and you’re certainly not the type to be friendly one moment and closed off the next. Now though, you find that doubt creeps in easily through cracks and any foundation that didn’t exist before, seems to be swallowed before you can finish building it. 

Katsuki leads you back across the small clearing you’d come through the night before. It looks different in the day, almost romantic, and it lacks any of the ominous feeling it had the previous evening. He steps over mounds in the dirt from moles and gophers that have made lawns their new home and you try to mimic his steps, sinking occasionally into a particularly soft patch of dirt. Every now and then, Katsuki glances behind him to check that you’re still there and you offer him a forced smile that he never returns.

You catch up to him when you hit the trees, sticking close at his side like something will come and take you away if you’re not. It’s unintentional, but you don’t have a weapon on you. Your knife is back at your makeshift camp, along with the unloaded pistol and your trusty spatula. 

“How do you know where we’re going?” You ask in a whisper. 

Katsuki tosses a look at you over his shoulder. “I’m good with directions.” 

His tone is clipped, like he’s pissed about something, and your expression sours at it. Sure, you get it but it irritates you to some small degree. You hadn’t asked him to come along. In fact, you’d have been fine getting back here to collect your stuff on your own. You’d have asked for a knife and set out without a second thought, if only because being alone in the woods with some guy was less preferable than doing it by yourself. Of course, some guy also probably saved your life, but you’re not quite ready to relinquish your trust completely. 

“Thanks for coming,” you decide. A peace offering. 

Katsuki doesn’t answer and you furrow your brows a little bit. You wonder if he’s always been like this or if the end of the world brought on the loss of his manners. 

Then, he stops, taking you by the arm and pulling you down beside a bush. You gasp and he puts his hand over your mouth to silence you. There’s the urge to bite him, to catch the fleshy bit connecting his thumb and pointer finger between your teeth and bite down till he bleeds, but you stop when you catch what he’s looking at. 

Two of the living dead crouch by a tree, clicking their tongues as they eat something just out of sight. You furrow your eyebrows, eyes widening at the horror of it. For some reason, seeing them always brings about a round of momentary shock. You’ve yet to let go of the hounding thought that they used to be people and sometimes have to reorient yourself to the world you’re in now. 

You catch Katsuki’s eye behind you, his calloused hand still clasped over your mouth, and nod your head. It’s a silent communication that you’ve seen what he has and he removes his palm from your face to grab a knife tucked into his belt, passing it to you quickly. 

The two infected haven’t noticed the two of you yet, but they will soon, if only by the smell of your flesh which has yet to rot. You hear Katsuki let out a breath, as if to calm his heart, and do the same. There’s time to look at them like this and you’re struck by how human you can pretend they are in your head. Well, you suppose they were human once, now they’re a disease using someone’s skin as a mask. 

Infected people aren’t quick, that’s one thing to be grateful for. Back when the outbreak first started, the CDC had released information on what to look out for in those who might have contracted the virus. The first was obviously a bite wound from another infected person, but you can tell from other symptoms. Early symptoms are average. Body aches, fever, lethargy, and delirium. All things you might see with a nasty flu. Then, infection of the wound site, twitching, foggy eyes—like low-grade cataracts—that develop within a matter of hours or days, severe disorientation, aversion to food, insomnia, with the final symptom being a coma that no one ever wakes up as themselves from. 

These are the symptoms that people are conscious for. The ones they feel. The sickness that people tried to nurse others back from. There is no coming back though, not alive at the very least. The virus attacks the nerves throughout the brain and body, that’s what causes the twitching and convulsions. It’s what ultimately kills us, and it's what they think causes the bodies to come back. 

Most infected will crack when they move. It’s the cartilage breaking down as the bones grind together and crack as they’re weakened from the marrow out. They twitch like rabid animals, unable to keep masterful control of their bodies because they are run like puppets from the brain stem. You don’t know if they think. If somehow the people they used to be are still in there, unable to stop themselves from consuming and spreading the virus to others. All you really know is that they twitch and click, functions of the brain that still remain. Tiny impulses sent through the synapses. You imagine it to be like the way you twitch when you sleep, an arm here or a leg there, the way someone might call out with their voice to a room with no one in it. 

Maybe the infected think they’re dreaming. A nightmare that they never wake up from, like those of us who have to put them down. You could see it as a mercy from that perspective. You have an easier time rationalizing putting a knife in someone’s skull if you convince yourself that they’re silently begging for it. 

Katsuki shifts his weight and looks at you. He mouths the words no guns and you nod, briefly wondering where the fuck he thinks you could have gotten a gun from. 

Then, you kick off and run with Katsuki towards the infected. They don’t really have time to begin moving towards you both. You’re faster than them, but you hear the crack of their legs as they stand from their crouched positions, pulled in at the idea of their next meal.

Katsuki takes the farther one, sinking the knife into the soft spot of its temple with relative ease. You switch yourself off and take the one closest only a few moments later, sending your blade through the top of its skull. That happens to you when you have to do this. You turn yourself off for a bit, just so that you don’t have to remember the way it feels to hit the soft part of someone’s brain. You didn’t used to do that, only starting when you realized that there’s no going through this world anymore without it. 

Katsuki wipes the blood on his pants. It’s brown, no longer oxygenated, and the area around you begins to reek. You notice, but for some reason the smell of decomposition doesn’t register in your brain and you continue on behind him. 

There are a few beats of silence, save for twigs breaking under your feet, before Katsuki speaks up. 

“You okay?” It’s barely above a whisper and you wouldn’t have caught it were you not listening for the distinctive crack of human bones. 

“Yeah,” you say, continuing forward. 

The campsite rounds into view and in this light, with your full night’s sleep under your belt, you can see just how pitiful it looks. A tent that you’d hastily put up before nightfall, the remains of your stamped out fire, the folding chair which has since been knocked over, and your weapons on the floor covered by a few leaves disturbed by the wind. 

You snatch them up and move to grab your backpack out of the tent. The inside is shitty too and your torn sleeping bag hadn’t even been rolled out yet. You pick up the bag, returning to the folding chair as Katsuki begins to take down the tent. The polyester and nylon blend zips together as he makes quick work of folding it. Then, he kicks some dry brush over the remains of the fire, like he’s covering your tracks. 

“The next person that comes through here might not be alone,” he says plainly. “And they may have more bullets than you did.” 

“Right,” you respond. Your voice sounds a little far off and you settle your backpack on your shoulder in one quick motion. 

“Got everything?” 

You nod, following him as he heads out in the direction you both came from. The two of you pass the bodies of the infected you’d killed. The smell has permeated the air, lingering like how it does in cities, only less pungent. Their fogged eyes stare blankly at nothing, expressions plain and unreadable. You pass and try not to think much about it. 

Katsuki is a few feet ahead of you and he doesn’t glance back to make sure you’re following. You could leave now and never get attached to these people. You could head off in another direction and never have to think twice about it. No more worrying about who you could lose, about who’s next to become one of the sick masses. Just you by yourself. Then, when you finally kick the can, someone else can put you down the way you did to those strangers. 

Is there really a point to it anymore? To community or living in general. No one is as they once were. Does that make it fantasy to live in their beautiful bubble? Could you even find it in yourself to pretend again, to make nice and play house in that place? They saved your life, sure. They fed you, clothed you, bathed you, but for what point? Tomorrow, you could end up back in the woods, lighting fires with twigs you found in the brush, paranoid that someone would find you or the fire would spread. 

You watch Katsuki’s back as he moves, shoulders shifting with each step. His shirt is stained, white turned eggshell from the wear and tear of time. It seems so off to you that he looks relatively clean, like he lives well. 

Fear strikes you as you realize that your rambling thoughts have merit. Anything you fear now has become real and loss is so tangible to you that you can squeeze it in your hand. They could turn you out. Tomorrow night you could begin the starve and step all over again, moving from place to place, talking to yourself, filling your hours with paranoid thoughts like these that plague you when you’re alone. Is that worse than loss? If you’re alone long enough, you’d probably forget what you’re missing. Losing anyone else could make the wound fresh. For now, the hunger wins out. 

Katsuki jogs ahead of you to get to the house. Momo is on the porch waving him in and he hurries up the steps and bursts through the front door. As you approach, you can hear voices, some of which are relieved, others hurried. When you enter the room, you find a man standing there whom you’ve never seen before, Shoto maybe. 

“A plus one,” the man looks up, tilting his head at you in an odd way. 

“Katsuki’s,” Kiri says with a low smirk. 

Shoto’s eyes widen as he peers at his friend, clutching what looks like an injured shoulder. Katsuki just huffs his irritation. 

“Well, that’s rare,” Shoto says. 

“What’s rare?” Katsuki spits. “They were in the woods with a fire. What was I supposed to do? Let ‘em die?” 

“Maybe,” Shoto says, a light smile creeping onto his features. Then, he turns to you. “What’s your name?” 

You give it to him and he nods his head, tilting it at you again. 

“How long are you staying?”

You’re not sure how to answer that question. In fact, no one is, and it feels like more of a test than it does a genuine inquiry. Kiri and Mina exchange a glance and Katsuki tosses a somewhat dirty look towards Shoto. Ochako gives Shoto a knowing glance and Sero and Denki shift uncomfortably on their feet. Then, Momo clears her throat, spurring Izuku to say something. 

“Shoto,” he says. “You’re probably hungry, you should eat something and lay down. Ochako? Could you take a look at his shoulder?” 

“Sure,” the girl says softly, giving a closed mouth smile to Shoto as she takes him by the arm. 

She glances at you as she passes, almost like she’s too embarrassed to look at you fully in the face. You suppose this is what happens when people are forced to think about whether or not they will potentially leave someone else to die. It’s like the trolley cart question and though in this case there is always the possibility of a better outcome, it’s not likely in this world. 

“Just until I’m rested,” you add with a small tilt of your head. “A few days.” 

Shoto looks at you over his shoulder and gives you a small smile. It’s funny, you can see kindness there. His actions aren’t kind, but you can feel that he has kindness in him, though his rudeness stems from something different than Katsuki’s, you think. Like he’s strange in some way. 

“I’ll start on dinner,” Sero says. “Kiri, give me a hand.” 

The group disperses and you head upstairs without speaking to anyone else. A few days to rest and then cut the first people you’ve spoken to in weeks loose. What sort of idiot gives up something like this to avoid a little awkwardness? Not that you necessarily had your mind made up. You wonder briefly if you’ve just sealed your own tomb. 

—

After dinner, you go upstairs to sleep after eating as much as they would offer you. Your stomach has ceased its constant growling and the shakiness that comes with hunger has receded almost entirely into the background. The bed is soft, with a slight dent in it from whoever slept in here before. The thought unsettles you that they’re probably dead now, but you try to push it from your mind as you steel yourself for what comes within the next few days. 

You had volunteered yourself to leave. To what? Save yourself the embarrassment of pleading? Did you even want to plead? Why are you regretting not asking to stay? These people don’t know you, what trust can you have built with them in only a few days? Your skin crawls at the expanse of possibilities in front of you after so many weeks without any. 

You think that if you let yourself walk away, you’ll probably die. You’re out of bullets and don’t know where to find any food except by luck. You can try to catch prey, but prey hides whenever infected are around, and they’re everywhere nowadays. It’s spring, water wouldn’t be a problem, but running water has its clear comforts. Then, there’s the possibility of loss. You’d come to care for these people if you stayed, you know it. 

You furrow your eyebrows and look at the ceiling. There’s really no choice to be made. You’ll let them make it for you, even if you don’t know them. It’s their house and you won’t walk in uninvited or try to take it. You’re not about to become a monster just because the world is full of them now.

The darkness grows and your eyes drift to the dim light wandering in under the crack of the door. Hushed voices whisper in the living room, you can hear them. It’s a heated discussion, lively, but deliberately quiet. It’s been hours since everyone went to bed, yet you get the impression that many people are chiming in. You’re too nosey to leave it be. 

You open the bedroom door silently, turning the cool knob with a wince as it clicks out of place. When you peer into the hallway, every upstairs bedroom door is open with the room empty. The light is coming from down stairs and around the corner, and you can see shadows move as you inch closer to the source. 

You pause at the top of the stairs, knowing that they creak, and crouch by the bannister to listen. You’re out of sight. The only way they’d know you’re listening is if you made a sound, but you won’t. You’re good at being quiet. 

“We don’t even know them,” someone says in a rushed whisper. “We don’t know what they’ve done before.” 

“Everyone’s done things they’re not proud of now, Shoto,” a woman adds. It’s Mina. She’s spoken enough to you that you recognize her voice. 

“I agree with Shoto,” says another woman, her voice higher pitched. She sounds guilty and her voice is tight as she speaks “We have no clue who they are. They could be dangerous.” 

“You mean like me, Ochako?” A man adds. “I could have been dangerous.” 

The group grows quiet for a moment. 

“No,” Momo says. You recognize the cadence of her voice. “Shoto might be right, Denki. It’s been nearly six months since you got here and the world has changed a lot. We don’t- we can’t know for sure.”

“Can we really know anything for sure?” Another man adds, Kiri.

“What about you guys?” Shoto says, presumably to the rest of the group. 

“I don’t know.”

“I’m hesitant, but I don’t know either.”  

“Jesus,” another man with a baritone voice, harsher than the rest. That’s Katsuki, the first voice you’d heard of the group. “You guys make me a little sick.” 

“That’s not fair,” Ochako says. 

“No,” he interrupts. “It is fair. You guys want to… what? Send them back out there to die?” 

“It’s not like that,” Shoto says.  

“It is like that,” he says, raising his voice and then lowering it back to a whisper. “You didn’t see them when they got here, Shoto. They- they didn’t look… shit. The rest of you, you saw them. You really want to send them back out there to fuckin’ waste away? I don’t know about you all, but I won’t do that to a person.” 

There’s a pregnant pause.

“Katsuki’s right,” Izuku says with a bit of conviction, like he’s finally made up his mind. “Sending someone out there alone is a death sentence. How does doing that make us any better than the people we’re trying to protect ourselves from?” 

“What if there are more of them?” Ochako says quietly. “What if they’re not alone?” 

“Trust me,” Katsuki says, “They were alone.” 

“But what if they’re not?” She insists at a whisper, a bit of shame creeping into her voice. “What if people come for us?” 

“See?” Shoto says gently. “There are so many what-ifs.” 

“That works the other way too,” Mina adds. 

You don’t listen to hear the rest of their conversation. They’re going to run themselves in circles debating about you. They’ll go around and around and land on whichever argument ends with the most votes. They’ll convince each other of one thing and it will happen totally out of your control. 

The bedroom door shuts with a low click that makes you wince again. You think about the people who went to bat for you and the people who didn’t. You don’t blame those who opposed. You’d have probably reacted similarly if your old group were still alive and you understand very clearly why they do it. One person’s stupid reaction can be catastrophic and they don’t know enough about you to be certain that you’re not one of those stupid people. It’s how the world went to shit in the first place and though nine months ago you’d have surely condemned someone for making the same decision, you know that fear has warped humanity beyond comprehension. You didn’t get it until you lived it. 

Still, Katsuki’s humanity feels intact somehow, more so than yours at least. His response is something you probably never would have said under the same conditions and you can’t help but feel some sort of fondness bloom in you for him. Call it connection, gratefulness for his willingness to stick his neck out for you, a trauma response. You still feel it. Mina and Kiri had said that Katsuki was a good judge of character and that’s why they were willing to back him. You wonder briefly if maybe Katsuki sees something in you that you don’t recognize in yourself anymore, or maybe something you don’t expect other people to recognize. What is it that he wants so badly to protect? 

Someone stomps down the hallway, heavy boots against the old creaky floors. You hear the steps recede down the hallway, maybe a door or two down, before it shuts quickly. The sound makes you wince and you listen as the house grows quiet and then hums quietly with the sound of others coming upstairs a few moments later. Someone pads to the end of the hall, pushing the door open. 

You hear a woman’s voice, so muffled that you can’t make out what she’s saying. Then, you hear the sound of a man’s affirmation before the bedroom door shuts and the visitor moves back down the hall to a separate bedroom. Information passing through the house. 

Someone is moving around in a room below you and you figure that there are probably bedrooms downstairs as well. From the outside, you’d never guess that the place could house ten people. Inside though, the bedrooms are small. That’s probably why so many can fit. You’d guess that the place used to have multiple generations living in it, or maybe even rented out rooms to people for a few months. It sort of has a boarding house feel to it, like many people have come and gone even before people stopped staying in one place. 

That’s a good thing to call it, the boarding house. It certainly has that sort of feel to it, many of its spaces undeniably communal. 

You turn over in the bed, facing the bedroom door. The lights have gone out completely now and the house is quiet save for the occasional creak or thud from someone preparing to sleep. It’s been a long while since the sounds of living have been so prevalent near you. You’re eased by the sounds of the house settling, a familiar reminder of what living used to be. Your group had been on the road long before you lost them and the comforts of an interior are almost overwhelmingly nostalgic. You’re better rested to notice it now and shutting your eyes, you savor the feeling. 

—

“Need some help?” You say. 

Denki turns around, grease smeared across his nose where he likely wiped it with his dirty hands. He’s holding a wrench in a glove so tattered that it hardly counts as a glove anymore. He looks startled, amber eyes widening before he uses his forearm to brush stray hairs out of his face. The rest of it is pulled up into a messy ponytail, revealing the moist back of his neck. 

“Oh, sure,” he says, a bit surprised. “Do you know how generators work?” 

He crouches back over the machine and you step up behind him. 

The machine is rusted near the bottom and between the exposed winding pipes. Its paint has chipped away, leaving the weather-damaged metal open for you to see. On the side, a fan-like piece spins slowly in circles and the machine whirs and sputters softly as it… generates power, probably. 

“Not quite, but an extra pair of hands is always helpful,” you say softly, passing him a tool he’d been reaching for. “Did it break?” 

“No,” Denki says, “but it’s probably on its last legs. The thing’s almost as old as we are, probably older, so it’s good to tune it up a bunch.” 

You hum your agreement, tilting your head as you stand and watch him work. 

You’re not necessarily comfortable with Denki, but he feels like a safe person for some reason. Maybe it’s because he’s got a sort of ditzy, non-threatening vibe to him. You can almost distinctly picture him tripping over his own feet and something about that makes you feel considerably safer than someone who wouldn’t. That and he was the first person you’ve come across this morning who you don’t think distrusts you too badly. 

“Are you dodging something?” Denki smirks up at you from his crouch. 

“Who on earth would I be dodging?” you snort a bit defensively. 

“Shoto,” he says with a light smile. “He put you in a tight spot the other day.” 

“Yeah, well,” you say, glancing over your shoulder. “It wasn’t anything he didn’t have a right to ask.” 

“Right, but it sure was rude, huh?” 

Denki laughs to himself a little and you’re surprised by how easygoing he is. You subconsciously begin to categorize him with Mina and Kiri. The dichotomy of this group baffles you a bit, but you can certainly see all nine of them as a collective. Tightly knit and well acquainted with the habits of others. 

“Oh!” He exclaims, “I have something you can do for me.” 

You tilt your head. 

“There’s a bucket over there,” he says, pointing absentmindedly to a shitty plastic bucket against the side of the house. “We use the water from the creek as coolant. It’s not factory grade, but it does the trick. You wanna go fill it up and bring it back for when I’m done tuning this thing up?” 

You furrow your eyebrows, not sure where the creek he’s talking about is. 

“The creek is just over there,” he points behind the house to the edge of the treeline. “I know you can’t see it from here, but if you walk in a straight line, you’ll hit it. Katsuki should be down there too, so you can use him as a landmark.” 

When you don’t immediately answer, Denki whines a little. 

“I mean,” he says, “I’d go myself, but-” 

“I’ll do it,” you laugh a little and Denki seems surprised that you do. 

“Really?” 

“Yeah,” you shrug. “I’d like to pull some weight at least while I’m here. Plus, I offered.” 

Denki mumbles his pleasure and you walk to the bucket without another word and set off in the direction Denki pointed. You’re much more willing to go out to the treeline now that you have a knife back at your side. 

The walk to the trees is longer than it looks, like how sometimes the horizon looks like something you could reach out and climb up onto. The walk stretches with each step you take and you become a little more understanding of why Denki didn’t want to do it himself. But the walk is actually pleasant, the warmth of mid May collecting evenly on your skin as the humidity grows more intense with the sun. 

You wonder what Katsuki would be doing by the creek. Maybe he’s fishing, or crouched over himself sharpening an arsenal of knives that you think he might keep in a roll attached to his belt sometimes. You’re not sure why, but Katsuki sort of has that expression to him. He’s handsome, but the scowl projects something hostile that makes him seem unapproachable. 

As you cross through the middle of the clearing, you could almost imagine that this is a normal day. Humidity collects on your skin, making you sweat a little as you dodge gopher holes and soft spots of dirt. It almost feels like summer camp, if it weren’t for the looming idea that you’re contributing to something you may not be a part of. Denki’s attitude though, has you hoping for a more favorable outcome, if you want to call it that. 

You’re only a few steps into the line of trees when the earth dips into a sand-lined ravine. The trees leave room for the sun to beat down on warmed rocks, making the area seem brighter with their subtle reflection of the light. The noise of the creek drowns out the sound of your footsteps and you shuffle toward where the earth flattens just before the water starts. A little ways to your right, you can see Katsuki sitting on a rock in the sun, his hands dipped into a large bucket. You narrow your eyes as he pulls what looks like a cloth out of the water, rubbing the fabric together before dipping it in the cool water of the creek.

As you approach, you realize what it is that he’s doing. It’s laundry. On the other side of him, you can see a bin of what look like dirty clothes and water-soaked clean ones. Talk about misjudged character. 

“Katsuki,” you say as you approach him, the bucket still empty in your hand.

He squints up at you, shifting his face so that it's in your shadow. 

“You’re still here,” he says plainly, returning to his task. 

“Clearly,” you respond, watching as he runs his fingers over the next piece of clothing in the bucket. 

“Why are you down here? Did Denki pawn the generator water onto you?” He says, like he’s somewhat frustrated. “He does that shit to anyone he can.” 

You shrug your shoulders and continue to stare at him. 

“Are you just gonna stand there?” He huffs out. 

“You’re doing laundry.” 

“Yeah?” he furrows his eyebrows and looks at you. “So?” 

“Nothing,” you say. “I just didn’t expect that.” 

“Yeah well,” he stops for a moment like he’s struggling to find the words. “It needed to be done. Figured I might as well.” 

“How progressive of you,” you joke with a straight face. 

He looks at you out of the corner of his eyes and sighs, not justifying your comment with a response. You find yourself smiling a little bit. 

“If you’re going to linger, sit down and do it,” he says. “You’re creeping me out.” 

You oblige him and sit down on a rock next to him, far enough that you’re not touching, but near enough to hear him if you speak in a low voice. For some reason, you feel a sort of kinship with Katsuki. You’d thought longer than you’d like to admit about his willingness to vouch for you and find that you want to live up to his expectation of your goodness, even if it’s not what you believe yourself to be anymore. Maybe it’s because you’ve slept well the past few nights and feel more like yourself, but there’s a certain casualness to conversing with him that you enjoy. He’s not looking at what you could be, but rather what you’re showing him that you are. His lack of doubt in that is something you find relatively attractive. 

You watch his arms out of the corner of your eye in between gazing at the treeline and the sky. Your field of vision catches on them, his sleeves cut short to expose his biceps, a bit muddied near the elbows where the mud has begun to stick. 

Katsuki doesn’t seem all that bothered by your presence, but now and then you’ll catch the sideways glance he gives you, almost like he’s trying to figure out exactly why you’re lingering. 

“How long have you been with them?” You ask, more as a way to fill the silence. 

Katsuki’s hands pause as he thinks about answering, then, they continue their steady pace. 

“A decent amount of time,” he says. “I met Izuku first, probably in November just before Mina and Kiri. The rest came later.” 

You furrow your eyebrows. 

“No offense,” you start, “but you don’t really seem like the group type.” 

“And you don’t seem like the type who’d be alone,” he retorts, like your statement was stupid. 

You press your lips into a tight line, not really knowing how to respond. 

“Sorry,” he says, shaking his head a little. 

“Were you?” 

“What? Was I sorry?” He furrows his eyebrows at you. 

“No,” you shake your head. “Were you alone? Before Izuku.” 

He goes silent. You’ll take that as a yes, but you regret asking a little. It had just slipped out. If someone were to ask you something like that, you’d probably react the same way. That’s just as well, you don’t really need to know him like that anyway. 

You wonder briefly if anyone does. He seems closed off, but Mina and Kiri spoke about him a few days prior like they knew him well. Well enough at least to allude to a history you’ll likely never be privy to. Then there’s Momo, who whispers little things to him that he answers in kind. Curiosity gets the better of you, if only to tease. 

“Do you have a girlfriend?” you ask and Katsuki’s response is to rest his elbows on his knees and let out a dry laugh. 

He turns his head and looks at you from the side. “And what the fuck are you asking me that for?” 

“Just curious,” you say. “Is it Momo?” 

“Momo?” He makes a sour face at you. “Yeah, right.” 

“She’s pretty,” you say. 

“Sure is,” he responds dryly. “If you’re into the mom type.” 

“What? You’re not into moms?” You grin a little and Katsuki furrows his eyebrows at you. 

“So you do have a personality,” he scoffs a little. 

There’s a pause. You haven’t felt this in a while. The feeling of bonding with someone new, compatibility on the human level that feels nearly instant. 

“I’m kinda serious though,” you say, tilting your head down to catch his eye. “Do you?” 

You’re leaning a little closer to him now.

“You seen any nice restaurants to take a person out to these days?” he questions, clearly a little frustrated with you in the way someone gets when they’re a bit amused. 

“You don’t have to take someone out to a restaurant to fuck them, you know?” You laugh a little. 

Katsuki’s lips part and he swallows like his mouth has gone dry. 

“Yeah, well,” he starts, looking away from you. “I’m a romantic. Sue me.” 

He’s just full of surprises, isn’t he? You find that you’re captivated by this feeling, this humanity, that exists in him. It’s something alive between you both, something left behind from the old world, and you crave it the same way you crave food. 

Katsuki continues scrubbing the clothes, rubbing the fabric together and then dunking it in the bucket before plunging it into the freshwater creek. You’re not sure why you do it, but the next time he looks at you, you kiss him. 

It’s not as if you like him, but it’s something to feel. Some remnant of the butterflies you used to feel on dates and the kiss makes you feel like you could be close to human again. You pull away almost as soon as you put his lips to yours and you can tell that the expression on your face is one of surprise.

Katsuki blinks for a second, looking at you with his brows knitted together. The expression doesn’t leave him as he places a wet hand on the side of your face to kiss you again. It’s an anxious kiss, confused and slow but—like someone riding a bike for the first time in years—it quickly becomes something familiar. Muscle memory that you both let yourselves sink into. 

You can feel his expression as he kisses you, something between confusion and desire, like his own actions are perplexing. You feel the same way, hesitant, but reaching in the dark for the promise of some sort of normalcy. You want to feel like a person again. You haven’t felt it in so long and you push yourself against him as the ache swells in you. 

The two of you continue like this for a moment, Katsuki’s fingers pressing lightly into the skin of your neck. You moan softly as his tongue slips into your mouth, taking a sharp inhale at the sensation of skin on skin. The sound of the creek drowns out the clicking of your mouths, but you can feel the way he hums into your mouth. They’re little sounds, involuntary ones driven by the nervous, desirous feelings inside of you both. 

Then, Katsuki pulls away, swallowing thick as he takes his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment. You appreciate the way they look. They’re swollen, anxious to continue and keep forgetting where you really are. He drops his hand from your face with a sigh and almost seems like he comes back to himself. You do the same, moving back into an upright position. 

“Denki will want that water soon,” he clears his throat and motions to the empty bucket by your feet. 

“Oh,” you say, laughing a little. “Right.” 

You stand, dusting off the back of your pants and dunking the bucket into the water. It sloshes, the liquid hitting the back of the plastic with a satisfying elastic sound. You begin to walk away without another word, heading down the way you came to climb up the gentler part of the slope. 

“Hey,” Katsuki calls softly. “You should stay. We talked it over last night. You can if you want to.” 

The last part, he says facing the wash, his hands moving as if he hadn’t said anything at all. You don’t respond, knowing that the obvious answer is already yes. 

Dread settles in your stomach. It’s an icky, swirling feeling that threatens to make you double over. You climb up the bank, the water in the bucket sloshing as you move through the trees and enter the clearing. The feeling doesn’t dissipate, growing as you leave the cover of the trees. You probably wouldn’t have kissed him if he’d asked you that earlier. 

The boarding house comes into view and you can see Denki sitting beside the generator, conversing with who appears to be Shoto. They turn and Denki waves you down, Shoto turning away and starting around for the front of the house. 

Denki jogs to meet you, taking the bucket from your hand. You flex your fingers as the weight is removed, wincing a little at how stiff they feel. 

“Jeez, what took you so long?” Denki laughs and with your new information, you understand his willingness to be friendly with you a little better. 

“I asked Katsuki for his life story,” you respond dryly, following him back to the generator. 

Denki looks over his shoulder and laughs at you. “Did he tell you?” 

You pause for a moment, watching as Denki unscrews something and pours the water in. 

“Nope,” you say. “Not a thing.”

Click Here to go to the second chapter and find the rest of the series on ao3. The remainder will not be posted on tumlbr, but please feel free to reblog!

[randomchaosyay]

Muichiro Tokito- Remember

Warnings: Angst Sandwich! Canon typical violence

Angst-Fluff-ANGST

I had an urge to write this thought

Welp this has been in my drafts for months figured I might as well post it

Sort of part 2

—————————-

You loved Muichiro and Muichiro loved you. Every moment you two could, you spent together, hand in hand, everywhere. Anyone who knew either of you knew that where one of you was the other was sure to follow. Everyday was blissful. Pure, kind, and sweet.

You’d always get flowers and candy from him, always your favorites and you’d give him his favorites. He was so sweet and kind, never forgetting a thing about you. Oh, how in love you two were.

Until it happened. Yuichiro died. He was killed, by a demon. Muichiro’s memories were gone. He didn’t remember anything or anyone, not even you. You tried to remind him. Oh, how you tried. He didn’t know you, and he simply didn’t care.

Then you were separated. Muichiro went off to kill demons, not even sparing you a goodbye. Then again, perhaps you were the one foolish enough to wish for a goodbye from the boy who didn’t even know you.

You had decided then what you were going to do. Maybe it was a suicide mission, or perhaps it was a foolish desire to see him again, at least once. You had chosen to join the demon slayer corps.

It was two years before you saw Muichiro again. You spent days and hours just training, you survived the final selection, killing every demon that passed your path. You let your sadness and rage consume you, ruthlessly killing any demon.

By the time you became a hashira you had killed well over one hundred demons, but you refused to become a hashira until you’d taken down at least one of the twelve kizuki. Then the day came. You encountered the Lower Moon 6 and after a tough battle you came out on top, though you had some permanent scars down your arm.

Now finally, finally, to the delight of Ubayaka-sama, you had decided to become a hashira.

All the Hashira were present for your initiation ceremony, many were wary, for they had heard stories from the ones who were partnered with you on your missions. How you’re ruthless in killing demons yet so very kind off the battlefield.

Once you reached the ceremony, to your surprise, Muichiro was there. A hashira, how were you even surprised, you’d expect nothing less from your Muichiro. Not that he was yours anymore.

Everyone was kind and welcoming in their own way, surprisingly enough to everyone you became fast friends with Sanemi, well, as close as you could get to being friends with Sanemi anyways. Muichiro was a different story

Muichiro was always spacing out and he would forget things. He still adored looking at the clouds, often he’d steal you away from your training to gaze at the sky with him, that was all before of course.

He didn’t remember you, which stung more than you thought.

Walking around the hashira compound you thought on what to do. You were unsure of whether you should remind Mui of who you were or if you should leave him alone.

Lost in thought, you didn’t notice the boy in front of you. Pausing your stride only, when you had run into Muichiro.

“Oh! Sorry!” You said to Muichiro, apologetically.

“It’s alright,” he responded his tone soft, like he was here, but he wasn’t. He reached his hand forward towards you, not noticing the look of shock on your face. “You have a leaf in your hair”.

You tried to calm your heart as Muichiro plucked a leaf out of your hair. You weren’t sure what your poor heart had expected, or why it was beating so very fast.

After that, you and Muichiro would somehow end up seeing each other often. May it be in the halls or simply around the compound, you’d end up running into each other all the time. Maybe that’s why you made such a foolish decision. Maybe that’s why you decided, that you would try to win his heart, once again.

Whenever you’d see Muichiro now, you’d give him his favorite snacks or maybe his favorite flowers. You’d think of him on your missions and bring him back little trinkets from wherever you went.

Perhaps that’s how Muichiro came to like you again too. Secretly he enjoyed receiving your little gifts, enjoyed the attention. He actively sought you out, never admitting to it of course.

He’d be around you when he didn’t have a mission, following and waiting for whatever you had to say to him next. He’d watch the clouds with you when you two just felt like being lazy. He’d let you play with his hair when you were feeling down, adoring the way you’d smile when you were done styling it.

A few weeks later, you and Muichiro were closer than ever. Once he was back from his mission you were thinking of confessing to him again. Your thoughts drifted off to him once again, like they often did when he was gone. Though this time, your crow broke you out of your thoughts. It cawed at you, telling you to report back to Ubayaka-sama for another mission.

You reported back to the demon slayer headquarters, met with a hoard of about 10 demon slayers of the lower ranks. Entering Ubayaka-sama’s room you got down on your knees and payed your respects to him. As he let you rise, he explained the situation, there was an unranked and unreported threat on a peak not far from here and he needed you to go exterminate any demons, the lower ranked slayers were also being sent with you due to a shortage of the higher ranks.

The journey there was short once you had gathered the essentials, the other slayers good company on the way there. Yet you still missed Muichiro, you looked forward to him being back, to spending more time with him. You really did love him.

You reached the small mountain with the others and climbed half way up, pausing immediately. The hairs on your neck stood up straight, something felt wrong, dangerous. Though you had paused, half your group hadn’t, perhaps the ones used to hashira’s doing their own things.

It took only a moment for their bodies to be sliced in half. They didn’t even have a chance to scream. Blood drenched into the ground where they had once stood. Five bright and capable demon slayers, gone in the blink of an eye. Two screamed and tried to run the other direction, their heads were severed from their bodies. All that was left were you and three others, one of whom was hurling into the bushes right next to them.

You had to calm down, you had to focus. As the next one was killed, you spotted it. The weapon of murder. Small quick blades stabbing growing then retracting, slicing through your fellow demon slayers. As the blades retracted, you followed it back, yelling at the remaining two demon slayers to hide behind trees and get shelter. You dodged through the ones being shot out at you. Finally you reached the source, a vaguely humanized demon with six arms and legs made of goo. The blades that killed your comrades grew and retracted from his teeth.

The battle was hard fought, your stamina was running out. You had him, you nearly had him. Your blade was so close to his neck. So why? Why had one of the demon’s blades pierced your flesh, hitting vital organs and twisting on the way out. You were going to die. You were going to die and you wouldn’t be able to protect anyone. You wouldn’t be able to protect Muichiro. Muichiro. You’d miss him.

Just as you’d accepted your fate becoming demon food, a blur of blue and black flashed behind it. A slice and the demon was dead. Muichiro. He was here. He ran to you and held you in his arms. He was warm. Oh so warm.

“Muichiro,” your voice called out weakly, “you’re here. Before I die Mui, I have to tell you”

“Stop talking, it wastes energy. And you’re not going to die.” He cut you off as he wrapped a torn off strip of his haori around your midsection.

“I love you.” You knew you weren’t going to make it out of this so you have to tell him now while you still could. You had loved him as long as you could remember.

Your breaths are shallow and weak. Chest barely rising again. You were going to die. Die because he was a bit too late to save you. Just a minute that’s all it would’ve taken. Suddenly Muichiro remembered, memories of you and him came flooding back to him. Memories he didn’t even know he had.

“Muichiro,” you called again, snapping him out of his reverie. “please don’t forget me”

With that his attention was solely on you again as you bled out. You didn’t open your mouth again. Your eyes glossed over. You didn’t take another breath. You were dead. You had died in his arms. And there was nothing he could do about it.

“I love you too” He said, with tears running down his cheeks. He didn’t tell you that earlier. Why did he never tell you that earlier? Why why why. He had months, ages to tell you. So why now when you were dead and gone. He’d never get to hear your voice, your laugh. He’d never get to see your adoration filled eyes as you looked at him. He’d never get to feel your touch again, your hands playing with your hair softly.

He loves you, he always will. You used your last bit of strength to ask him not to forget you. A waste. After all, what good was his memory if he wasn’t to remember you? Remember you he would, he’d rather die than not.

[macfrog]

brother | joel & tommy

massive thank-you to @elliespuns who was kind enough to send me so many gorgeous photos of joel and tommy to choose from for this piece. i really, really appreciate it, lovely 🤍 forever indebted to and forever obsessed with you!

pairing: joel miller & tommy miller summary: tommy visits his brother's grave. warnings: lots of grief, brotherly love (but sad), spoilers for tlou2 word count: 900 words

masterlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🤍 | posted first on ao3!

We brought you home in a mottled sheet.

Pathetic, right? I know it, brother. I’m sorry for it. Shit, I’m sorry for all of it.

It’s the best we could find – the best they could find. The kids, I mean. I couldn’t’ve found my own two feet when they eventually managed to wake me. The room swelled into focus and everything was doubled, everything swaying side to side, all violent like.

I could hardly string a sentence together. My head felt heavy with blood, hearing still shot to hell. The first thing I did was look for you.

And oh, Jesus, Joel, did I see you.

I spat the words out in a sob. Be careful with him, I said. I couldn’t get to my feet quick enough; couldn’t reach you with my shaking hands. That’s my goddamn brother, you hear?

He’s my brother.

They found an old pallet and made a sled out of it. We tied it to Old Beardy’s breastplate and let him lead you home. Figured the old timer’s used to the weight of you by now, right?

He kept shaking his head the whole way, kept huffing these deep, achy breaths. I’d never heard him do that before – none of us had. Like he was in pain, almost. I don’t know if horses know grief like we do, Joel, but it sure seemed like he knew. He just…knew.

The gray lump of you jolted and jerked behind him. The more I looked, the more I felt like throwing up, and still – I couldn’t look away from you.

The shape of your head – this crimson bloom where your skull had been broken. Square shoulders, sturdy chest. Long legs and boots still laced – the way you once taught me. Make bunny ears, twist ‘em around each other. Yeah, just like that. Now, pull.

Tall frame, protective frame. Used to plant yourself between me and anything you thought might hurt me. Used to wrestle with me in the backyard, stomach my damn windmill punches like they were nothing.

Man, I don’t know how you ever taught me to throw a half-decent one, but you did. Mom would call us inside and you’d pat my back and say good job, little brother.

Good job. What kinda fucking job did I do this time, huh? When it mattered? Where was I, when my brother needed me most?

On my goddamn ass, that’s where. Blacked out. I couldn’t get to you, no matter how hard I tried.

I tried, Joel. I swear to you, I tried.

It was all of it, all at once. The blizzard, the woman, the room – Christ, that room. So much blood I felt it lining the inside of my lungs. So much that I can still smell it, taste it, like it’s become me. Like everything I look at is tinged red; the color of rust, the color of rage.

The room, where I became just the one. Lost something in my sleep. Hit the ground with a heavy thud, swam back to the surface to find I was short. Something taken. Something stolen.

And I’ve been without you before, Joel, but at least I always got to give you a piece of my mind on the way out.

You remember summer camp, that year I was real homesick? I don’t know what it was. Maybe just knowing you were all those miles away. You remember I wrote you about a hundred times? Jesus. I know you’re laughing, too.

I spent that whole summer with a smile pinned to my face. Counting down the days. I’d turn over in my sleeping bag, pick at the skin on my thumbs and wonder what you were up to. Wonder if you were missing me as much. Wonder if you’d thought about me at all that day.

Well, here I am. Wondering much the same.

I miss you, Joel. I don’t know what to do with that. There ain’t no bus home at the end of this; no big brother and his dirt bike waiting for me in Austin. It’s only been a week, I know that – but my ears won’t stop ringing, and I haven’t stopped looking for you.

It wakes me at night. This pain in my chest, like I’m swimming for that surface over and over, and all I ever do is drown. I wake saying your name. The doctors say it’s just bad dreams, just part of the process, but I know what it really is. I’m calling on you, and you never come.

It’s about damn time I realized you ain’t never gonna come. You’re never coming back. Not to me, not to this place. You’re on a path I can’t follow, brother. We’re on our own from here on out.

Goddamn it, Joel. Why the hell’d it have to be you?

Maybe if we’d gone a different route that day. Maybe if we’d spent a little longer in the stables. We were tryna outrun the weather, sure, but we could’ve spared a few minutes. Shit, I would’ve spared anything, if it meant I’d still have my brother.

Sun’s coming up over the mountains. I better get going. Got a mighty long journey ahead of me. I’ll make things right, Joel, I swear.

Go on, now. I’ll bet your Sarah’s waiting.

See you round, brother.

[space-cowgirllll]

Wildflower

a/n- I'm super sick and might have written this in a NyQuil induced haze lol but I've been obsessed with this song lately and I just couldn't help myself and then these pictures pop up on my Pinterest??? I had to.

Reader is not a girls girl in this I'm sorryyyy.

You're already awake when she starts to stir, laying on your side staring out the small window across from the bed. The pretty blue and pink pastels of the sky are in the early stages of transitioning into a vibrant orange as the sun starts to rise.

This used to be your favorite time of the day. Listening to her breathing mixed with the birds chirping through the small crack in the window. Happy to wake up to her legs intertwined with yours, the warmth radiating from her body against your back. Now? The once comforting feeling of her breath at the nape of your neck sent chills down your spine, her tattooed arm felt like a hundred pound weight around your waist.

A gentle kiss is placed on the back of your head, followed by a mumbled good morning. The old bed creaks as she shuffles to the edge. Your body follows her movements, rolling over to face her. Her short hair is sticking straight up in certain spots from how much she'd tossed and turned all night. She was overdue for a haircut. You watch as she sits there, shoulders slumped and staring at the wall lost in thought. There are dark circles underneath her eyes. It was getting harder to pretend you didn't notice. 

"Are you hungry?" You whisper.

She shakes her head as if she just remembered you were still there and you frown. She hadn't had dinner last night either. "We have to go see Tommy today." 

Ellie gives you a small smile, her fingers run down the bare skin of your arm. You tense when she leans down. Lips just a hair's breadth away from yours when you turn your head to the side, hands pushing against her chest. She huffs when she's met the skin of your cheek instead.

"At least let me brush my teeth first Els." you giggle halfheartedly when she rolls her eyes. Her lips curve up in a grin.

"Okay, weirdo." she moves to press a quick kiss to your hairline instead, giving your hip a small squeeze.

"I'm going to go get Shimmer ready." She speaks into your hair. "I'll meet you at the gate?"

You nod silently, watching her slip out of the room and into the bathroom down the hall. The smile slips off your face the second you hear the sound of water running. 

--

You shift uncomfortably in your seat, eyes focused on the table in front of you. Your hands fidget with the frayed edges of the napkin. To your left, Maira chatters with a couple of the older women in Jackson. You'd been laughing as they shared stories about their lives before when you hear it. A knot in your stomach forms at the sound of her voice, tightening as she gets closer. Your hands clench into fists on your lap. A hand on your arm makes you jump, your knee bumping against the edge of the table. Maria watches you with a knowing look on her face. 

You give her what you think is reassuring smile, but judging by the frown on her face, she's not convinced. You chew on the inside of your cheek wishing you'd been able to stay back at the farm. In your peripheral you check on Ellie. She's hunched over what seems to be a map, while Tommy points to different areas on it. He talking excitedly about something, the determination on his face scares you. 

The last time you were all in the same room together you'd been standing in the sidelines having a drink with Jesse. You happily watching your best friend dance with Ellie, while he avoided looking Dina's way. 

Today, the seat next to hers is empty and the three of you avoid each other as best as you can in a town with a population of three hundred people. 

The ten month old in Dina's arms wiggles around as his chubby hands bang on the table. Little babbles reach your ears over the hum of conversations around you. You chance a quick look at him. It's bittersweet to see so much of your friend in JJ's sweet face. There's a dull pang in your chest, knowing Jesse deserved to be here, watching his son grow. God, you could use a stupid joke or two of his right about now. He'd never let you and Ellie live this down. 

Your eyes involuntarily move to Dina. She's deep in conversation with Jesse's mother. It had been months since you've seen her, and even longer since you'd spoken. You were too ashamed to ask anyone how she was doing knowing it would immediately get back to her. Your closest friend had become a stranger and it was all your fault. But what could you say? Sorry I got involved with your ex girlfriend five months after you broke up, let's still be friends? She'd probably punch you in the face. She had done it for less.

You press your lips together, fighting the bout of nausea that crawls up your throat. Your chair scrapes loudly across the floor, but you don't even care at the looks it earns you. With a rushed goodbye to the women, you book it outside. The humid air does little to help your already clammy skin, your tank top sticking to your back in the most uncomfortable way. 

The doors of the dining hall burst open just a moment later, startling you. Ellie storms out followed by an equally angry Tommy. His lips pulled down in a scowl. She doesn't even seem to notice you're there, striding right past you.

"What the fuck, Tommy?" You whisper shout at the older man, making no move to stop in fear of Ellie getting too far ahead. He just grumbles an apology, a fleeting look of regret on his face as he heads back inside.

Your feet slip slightly as you pick up the pace, the ground still muddy from an unexpected storm the day before. Ellie doesn't even seem fazed by it as she powers through to the stables. She has the decency to look embarrassed when she sees you following, and you try to ignore how much it hurts to know she'd completely forgotten you were there. 

The silence leaves you alone with your thoughts longer than should be allowed. You spend the whole time thinking so hard it feels like your head is going to pop. Remembering how upset Dina had been after the breakup, unable to deal with all the stress of dealing with a grieving partner while navigating the loss of her child's father shortly after finding out she was pregnant. The late nights where you held her as she cried. When no one had heard from Ellie for weeks, you made the trip up to the small farm she and Dina shared for those first short weeks of their return from Seattle. You found her sitting on the porch looking worse for wear. Her attempts to kick you out were futile. It started off innocently at first, you heading over to help her clean or look after the couple of sheep she kept around. Making sure she at least tried some of the food you'd bring over. Ellie was happy to let you do most of the talking, giving her the rundown on whatever the rumor mill was churning that week. 

It had taken months before the Ellie you knew slowly started making an appearance. Her art slowly appearing around the house, the strumming of her guitar becoming background noise while you prepared dinner. The first time she cracked one of her lame jokes you'd stared at her like she'd grown another head. 

Before you knew it you were practically living at the farm and one day when Ellie asked you to just stay, you listened. The look of betrayal on Dina's face as you moved what little you owned out of your house haunted you some nights.

It had been easy to ignore it in the beginning, the guilt overshadowed by the attention Ellie gave you. These days you can't shake the thought that maybe she'd kept you around because she was scared of being alone.

You reluctantly tighten your grip on Ellie, watching the profile of her face as she leads the horse onto the trail that goes back to the farm. She looks back at you, lowering one of her hands to squeeze yours resting on her waist. Try as you might, you had never been the best at consoling the girl in front of you.

As you look back over your shoulder, you contemplate how stupid you'd look if you came back to Jackson alone with your tail tucked between your legs. 

--

"Ellie! Sit still." 

"I am!"

The two of you are crammed into the tiny downstairs bathroom of your home. Her in a chair, you behind her with your hands in her hair. The room is silent, safe for the occasional snipping of the scissors. 

"I told you to just wait for me." You mumble as you try to fix the messy uneven strands at the back of her head. 

"You were taking too long."

"Well you can kiss that little half up bun of yours goodbye." The small pout on her face makes you laugh.

She'd gone a little wild with the scissors this time. Her once shoulder length hair now a shaggy cut that kept the hair off her neck. You huff as she moves her head from side to side, making it harder to keep cutting. She hums in approval.

"Not bad." 

"I'm not done yet." You whine, letting her pull you to sit on her lap.

Her chin props on your shoulder, smiling at you in the mirror. "It looks fine. Thanks babe." 

You rest your head against hers, admiring the way the morning sun coming through the window brings out the red in her hair.

The sweet moment is ruined by your treacherous thoughts. Remembering that night a little over a year ago. You'd showed up to Dina's one night after patrol to find the two girls in the bathroom as she trimmed Ellie's hair. It had been just before the two left for Seattle to chase after Tommy. Ellie had been a mess, staring off into nothing as your friend combed through her hair. 

And amidst all the chaos in her life you saw the way her eyes lit up when Dina looked at her. The flush of her cheeks whenever they locked eyes. Watching them interact had always felt like you were intruding on something.

"Oh I love this song!" Ellie cranes her neck, listening to the soft music coming from the record player in the living room.

Your chest tightens, the burning sensation from earlier returning. As she hums quietly, you think back to the day Dina had found the record in an old music store while on patrol. She'd probably left it behind. It was one of her favorites too, and if Ellie knows it, she doesn't show it. 

There was so much of Dina intertwined with Ellie. The two had been friends for years before they dated. They made far more sense than you and Ellie did. Some days you wondered if she ever even truly saw you. 

Would there ever be a moment that was just your own?

--

You lay there in the middle of your shared bed,  knees tucked into your chest with the covers up to your chin. Ellie's side of the bed cold and empty when you woke. Just as it had been every night since her argument with Tommy. The one you still knew nothing about, being brushed off every time you asked about it. You'd gotten used to her reserved nature over the past months, but this was different. There were still smiles and kisses thrown your way, but those no longer felt genuine.

The house is unusually quiet for Ellie not being in bed. No guitar being played or the quiet hum of the tv downstairs. Quickly slipping into one of her old hoodies, you notice that her jacket and backpack are gone from their usual spot. In a panic, you rush down the stairs. The ratty sneakers you constantly begged her to get rid of are missing from where she threw them every night after kicking them off.

Without even thinking you run towards the barn barefoot. The animals startle at the loud groan from the old door being opened but you pay them no mind as you move towards the small stable near the back. When only one horse pokes its head out to greet you, your blood runs cold. It wasn't Shimmer.

She left.

You don't even have to energy to cry, too in shock to truly process that Ellie's gone. Muddy footprints track inside the house, ruining the floors you had just cleaned before bed. You don't even realize you're in the kitchen until you collapse in one of the dining chairs. 

It isn't until hours later, when the sun finally starts to rise that you see it. The singular scrap stuck to the fridge underneath an old magnet she'd stolen from Joel. You recognize her the swirls of her messy handwriting as she apologizes for leaving. She'd gone after Abby. Her words start to blur as tears spill over, smudging the ink as they land on the paper. You angrily swipe at your face as you reach the end, staring at the three words she'd underlined twice before promising she'd see you soon. 

I love you.

No she didn't.

[eddis-not-eeddis]

How To Stop Killing Conversations

Talking is hard. People are confusing. Making friends is difficult, and interacting with coworkers is tortuous.

You want to make friends, you want to reach out, but it's hard and every time you start a conversation it dies, or limps along until both you and the person you're talking to are looking for excuses to kill it and put it out of it's misery so you can both escape the increasingly awkward situation.

As an introvert who has suffered a lot of social anxiety in my time, let me share a few tricks I've learned over the years going through hundreds and thousands of excruciatingly painful conversations until I found something that works. I've kind of distilled the process.

ALWAYS ASK A QUESTION!!!

The first thing is to always leave your partner an opening. You need to let each other talk for a conversation to get off the ground, but it's more than that, really. You need to actively encourage each other to talk. The best way to do that is to ask questions.

Here are two examples of an introduction: Example A

You: Hello.

Them: Hello.

You: Nice to meet you.

Them: Nice to meet you too.

Example B

Y: Hello, nice to meet you, how are you? T: I’m doing well, yourself?

Y: I've been really well. How are you liking the weather?

T: I'm so happy the weather's finally getting cooler, I'm looking forward to pumpkin spice season. Do you like lattes?

Do you see how in Example A the conversation wasn’t going anywhere? It just kinda died, because there weren’t any openings for new topics, whereas in Example B, there were openings to keep the conversation going.

But what do you do if your conversation partner is as socially inept as you were two minutes ago and doesn't play along? All is not lost.

Example C

Y: Hello, so nice to meet you, how have you been doing?

T: I'm doing well.

Y: That's great, are you enjoying the nice weather, then?

T: Yeah. I'm glad it's finally fall, I'm looking forward to pumpkin spice lattes.

Y: I love pumpkin spice lattes! Pumpkin spice anything, really. I recently got the best pumpkin spice candle at the shop down the road, have you been there?

Even if they don't leave you an opening, you can usually make one. It may be difficult, especially when they don't give you much to work with. This is where having a go-to script is a life-saver--me, I always default to talking about the weather, so when in doubt, you can do that.* The important thing right now is to keep fostering the conversation, so once you bring up the weather, segue into a question. When they answer the question, make a brief comment or observation from your own experience and build off of that comment or observation to ask another question.

"But I don't want to make it about me. Doing that's bad, right?"

This is why that questions are important. If you haven't been asked a question, you kinda have to make it about you, you don't have a choice. But to keep from being an attention hog, follow up your shared experience or anecdote with another question.

Example D

T: I love pumpkin spice lattes

Y: Me too. I had the best pumpkin spice latte the other day at the cafe down the road, have you ever been there?

Now you've circled the conversation back around to them again, and you aren't taking the limelight. Sharing an experience is so important, you're trying to show that you understand, that you sympathize, that you relate.**

This really is the most important element of being a good conversationalist. You have to keep asking questions.

The one other thing I will touch on is introductions. DO NOT get into turn based combat.

Example E

Y: Hello

T: Hello

Y: Nice to meet you

T: Nice to meet you too.

Y: How are you doing?

T: I'm fine. You?

Y: Me too.

This will kill any possibility of continuing a conversation. Instead, get it all out of the way all at once, if at all possible.

Example F

Y: Hi, it's nice to meet you, how are you doing?

This is good, but this is better

Example G

Y: Hi, nice to meet you, how are you liking the weather?

Don't ask how they are doing, or if you do, before they can answer, follow it up with your placeholder (weather etc.) so they have to say some thing like

Example H

T: I'm fine, and I'm really liking the weather.

or

T: Not so great, the weather sucks.

Either of those options are much easier to work with than your basic "I'm fine."

Usually, if you can get past the introduction, you can get a conversation going. And then, even if you don't end up hitting it off with the person you're talking with, you at least don't leave the conversation feeling like you've died a thousand tiny deaths.

In fact, if you get past that introduction, you may have just made yourself a friend.

Remember folks, basically everyone around you is more afraid of you than you are of them, and in this benighted age no one has been taught conversation skills, so we are all pretty much in the same boat. (Unless you were born an extrovert, in which case we are all deeply envious and would probably kill you if we didn't need you in our sad and lonely lives so much.)

Have grace for one another, and for yourselves because talking with people is difficult.

Go forth, and stop killing conversations.

*If you are one of those awful people who likes to brag about how you hate small talk and only want to talk about important and meaningful things, I have one question: Do you ever have a conversation that lasts long enough to become meaningful? I thought not. Small talk is an important skill. Develop it.

**This is how you deal with sad or difficult situations too. When you want to show you sympathize with someone going through a hard time.

Example:

Y: How are you doing?

T: Not very well. My dog died last week.

Y: Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that. My own dog died last year and I still miss her a lot. How are you handling it?

Now you've circled the conversation back around to them again. You aren't making it about you.

If y'all want, next time I can share how to extricate yourself from a conversation.

[runariya]

YANDERE! JK whose a psychiatrist AND reader who is mentally well but was made to believe otherwise because jk started liking her

(yandere) part of the prompt game pairing: psychologist!Jungkook x f!reader genre: yandere, dark romance warnings: yandere, feeling of being watched, doctors who don't really help, helplessness, obsession that causes paranoia and manipulated thoughts, lmk if I forgot smth (I hate writing warnings ugh) word count: 2.149

a/n: okay, I'm just about to hit 'post' and realised I've been writing about a psychologist instead of a psychiatrist JK because...I'm an idiot who apparently can't read properly...sorry about that...I'll just change the pairing now...yeah...🙂🔫

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You are healthy. 

Or at least, you had always thought so, in the steady rhythm of your days, in the mundane details that make up the hours and the moments, until that phantom—the one you can't see, but feel, like a hand hovering just above your skin—begins to press more insistently into your mind. 

You feel it at first like the gentle breath of a ghost trailing behind you. A curious thing, a thing you brush off as silly paranoia, the kind of absurdity that creeps up on a person too invested in late-night thrillers, or perhaps, if you're honest with yourself, one too many sleepless nights.

But soon, it no longer feels like the innocent remnants of poor sleep. The feeling grows heavier, sinking into your bones, blooming behind your eyes in long hours of hypervigilance that leave you restless and agitated, constantly glancing over your shoulder, wondering if the air behind you has really shifted or if the eyes boring into your back are real.

It follows you everywhere—the sensation that there is something, someone, just at the edge of your awareness, observing you with an intensity that makes your lungs constrict. You carry it with you to work, on the train, through the streets bathed in the pale morning light, and even to your home, where the walls that once felt safe now seem too thin to protect you from whatever it is that haunts you, watches you. 

And it's absurd, surely, it's just stress—life, after all, is an insidious thing that wears you down in invisible ways. You're certain of it at first, convinced you can rationalise it away, as though it's merely a fleeting anxiety that will dissipate if you ignore it long enough. 

You tell yourself this is nothing out of the ordinary, perhaps an accumulation of fatigue, of too many restless nights and too little time to catch your breath. But the feeling doesn't leave, and no matter what you do—how many times you lock the doors or close the curtains tightly at night—there’s always a part of you that is aware of it.

Eventually, your concerns lead you to doctors who listen to you with patient faces and half-hearted nods, while you describe the sensation that gnaws at your peace. They wear the professional masks of sympathy, of understanding, and yet their dismissals are almost clinical in their detachment. 

They tell you it's just stress, just the byproduct of modern life, their voices smooth and rehearsed. They offer suggestions—meditation, yoga, perhaps a temporary prescription, all the usual platitudes that barely touch the surface of your growing unease. You leave their offices feeling no lighter, no more reassured, and the burning of that gaze—always unseen, always just out of reach—remains.

But then, on a rainy Saturday, when the grey skies press low and the city feels submerged in a kind of melancholic stillness, you stumble across a flyer. It seems unremarkable at first, just another sheet of paper stuck to a lamppost among hundreds of others—of lost cats, of yoga classes, and of flatshares. But something about it catches your eye. It feels...personal, somehow, as though it has been placed there just for you, amidst the drizzle and the low splashes of the streets. 

‘Dr. Jeon Jungkook,’ it reads in neat, almost delicate handwriting, though the letters carry a subtle darkness to them. ‘Psychologist specialising in anxiety, paranoia, and delusions.’ 

Beneath that, a phone number, handwritten as well, as though it’s not meant for just anyone. You hesitate for a moment, feeling the flutter of something indefinable in your chest, a strange overwhelming sense of dread and hope. It's peculiar, how desperate you’ve become, how this small, simple thing feels like a lifeline now. Perhaps...perhaps this is it. Perhaps Dr. Jeon will listen to you, truly listen, in a way no one else has.

You call, and he answers almost immediately, his voice deep, rich with warmth that flows through the receiver like honey meant as bait for bears. There is a brief exchange of pleasantries, an odd kind of relief settling in your chest as you speak to him—he doesn’t sound hurried, doesn’t cut you off, and most importantly, he doesn't dismiss you. 

It feels like you hit the jackpot, that perhaps, this is the one person who will take you seriously, who will understand. When you mention your availability, expecting an appointment weeks away, he surprises you by offering you one for later that same afternoon. The coincidence is too perfect, but you brush that thought aside—how lucky you are, after all, that he has a slot open just for you. 

The hours until your appointment crawl by, each minute making you more anxious but somehow optimistic too, thinking this might finally be the help you desperately need. 

And then you find yourself at his office—a small, elegant building tucked away on a quiet street, its windows large and clear, spilling soft light onto the pavement. Inside, the waiting room is tastefully minimalist, a neutral palette of greys and whites, the scent of lavender and cedarwood filling the air, calming your racing mind for a while. 

And then there he is—Dr. Jeon, who appears younger than you’d expected, his dark eyes bright yet somehow secretive, a glint of something you can’t quite place shining beneath his pleasant exterior. He is handsome in a way that feels almost illegal, like he’s meant for a stage, the sides of his head buzzed short, piercings, tattoos and jewellery adorning his tall built. His smile is gentle, though there is something about it that feels slightly... off, as though the corners of his mouth hold a secret only he knows. He invites you into his office, and there’s an undeniable grace in the way he moves, the way he gestures for you to sit, the way he folds himself into his own chair with an ease that seems almost rehearsed.

"Tell me," he begins, his voice low, soothing, yet there’s an intensity in his gaze that makes you feel as though you are laid bare before him, as if he knows more about you. "What has been troubling you?"

And so you speak, halting at first, unsure of how much to reveal, but soon the words come tumbling out—every anxious thought, every fleeting glimpse of movement in the shadows, every sensation of being watched. 

You tell him how it has consumed you, how it has twisted your life into something almost unrecognisable, and how no one has believed you. But as you speak, he listens, truly listens, leaning forward ever so slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. There is no interruption, no dismissive remarks, just the feeling that he is absorbing every word, every emotion, every fibre of your being, with an almost predatory focus.

"You're not imagining it," he says softly, once you've finished, and the words strike you like a physical blow, leaving you panicking, trembling, silently gasping for air. "What you're feeling is real."

The relief that floods you is overwhelming, calming your panic attack in an instant, almost enough to bring tears to your eyes. Finally, someone who understands, and you dismiss the feeling that there’s something more beneath his words, something darker.

"You’re not well," he continues, his voice almost a caress, soft and soothing in ways that should leave you suffocating. "But I can help you. I’ve worked with many patients like you—people who are misunderstood, dismissed by others who cannot see the truth of what they’re experiencing."

There is something about the way he says *truth* that makes you shift in your seat, though you cannot quite place why. His eyes flicker, almost imperceptibly, with something you felt while being watched, something possessive, as though the knowledge of your vulnerability excites him in some way. But you push that thought aside, chalking it up to your overactive imagination, to the paranoia that has been eating away at you for weeks.

Dr. Jeon leans back slightly in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, his fingers steepled in front of his lips as he watches you with that same intense focus, as though you are the most fascinating puzzle he has ever encountered. 

"You’re going to need more than just this one session," he attests, his tone gentle, but leaving little room for argument. "This… condition of yours, it’s complex, deeply rooted. It will take time—many more sessions, in fact—for us to work through it properly."

His words are like a binding contract, though you don’t remember agreeing to anything. There’s an undeniable pull in his voice, an authority that you find yourself drawn to, even as a small, quiet part of your mind screams for caution. But you want to believe him. You *need* to believe him. And so you nod, agreeing to the additional sessions without fully understanding why.

He smiles again, that same unnervingly perfect smile, his eyes softening with something almost affectionate as he watches you. There’s a lingering pause, as though he is savouring the moment, as though he is drinking in the sight of you, fragile and desperate for help, his help. 

"Don’t worry," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "I’m the only one who can help you. No one else will understand you the way I do."

There’s something unsettling in the certainty of his words, in the way he speaks them as though they are an undeniable fact rather than a simple reassurance. But you find yourself nodding again, agreeing because there is no alternative, because the weight of his gaze makes you feel as though you have no choice.

As you leave his office, there is a strange sense of both relief and unease swirling within you. Relief, because finally someone has validated your fears, someone has told you that you are not losing your mind. But unease… unease because there is something about Dr. Jeon that doesn’t quite sit right with you. Something in the way he spoke to you, in the way he looked at you, as though you were not just a patient, but something more. 

You shake the thought away, convincing yourself that you are simply overthinking it, that this is just another symptom of your paranoia. You tell yourself that you are lucky to have found him, that he is the help you’ve been searching for all along.

But as the days pass, and the sessions with Dr. Jeon become more frequent, more intense, you begin to notice the ways in which his presence seems to have seeped into your life. It’s subtle at first—small things, like the way he always seems to know exactly what you’re thinking before you say it, or the way he seems to anticipate your needs before you even voice them. 

There is a strange intimacy to your sessions now, a closeness that feels almost suffocating, and even after weeks, you can’t quite place why. He never touches you—never crosses that professional boundary—but there is something in his eyes, in the way they follow you as you speak, that feels almost...obsessive. 

And then there are the coincidences—those strange, inexplicable moments where you see him in places he might but shouldn’t be, not in this frequency. 

Once, you caught a glimpse of him in the crowd at the supermarket, his eyes locking with yours for a brief moment before he disappeared into the throng of people. 

Another time, you swore you saw him in the park, watching you from a distance, though when you blinked, he was gone. It feels as though he is everywhere now, as though he has somehow become the very thing you consulted him for.

But whenever you bring it up to him, he smiles that same calm, reassuring smile and tells you that it’s all in your head, that your paranoia is playing tricks on you. And you believe him, because you want to believe him, because he is the only one who has ever taken you seriously, the only one who has ever made you feel understood.

Yet, little do you know, that understanding is your undoing. Little do you know, that his presence in your life is not coincidental, that he has been watching you long before you ever picked up that flyer, long before you ever knew his name. 

Little do you know, that Dr. Jeon Jungkook’s obsession with you is not born out of a desire to help you, but rather to possess you, to draw you deeper into his web until there is no escape. 

Little do you know, that each session, each soft-spoken word of comfort, is another step towards him, until you are utterly, irrevocably trapped, thinking that you need him to get better, ignoring that…

You are healthy. 

[hheaven-sentt]

devotion

summary: because love doesn't quite capture it | leon kennedy x partner!reader

word count: 2.4k

warnings: depictions of injuries, angst if you squint, mentions of alcohol consumption, yearning, mutual pining, partners to friends to lovers

notes: BACK FROM THE DEAD W A VENGEANCE. my semester has finished and my second one doesn't start until january so i will be posting for once. college is kicking my ass like all the time so it puts everything else on pause for me anyway ily all | ao3

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

The dress feels itchy against your skin. You don’t want to go to this event, so you can’t imagine how Leon feels. He doesn’t even like when you thank him for doing the dishes, so you wonder how he might behave up on a stage to receive a medal. You stretch behind you, reaching for the zipper. Wordlessly, Leon turns to you and zips it up himself. Of course he does; that’s just Leon.

“This is weird,” he says. It’s barely a whisper, breath dusting over your shoulder as he says it. You nod with a sigh.

“I wouldn’t say weird,” you return. You watch his eyes in the mirror. They hover somewhere on your forehead. “Not normal, but not weird,” “I think it’s weird,” he says, and steps away. You nod again, because what else can you say?

Working with Leon has its ups and downs. He’s too quiet some days, and you have to fill in the gaps yourself. Or he’s too loud–sometimes without even saying anything–and you have to figure out how to deal with it. Or he’s just Leon; he laughs and jokes, he helps cook dinner, he doesn’t talk about work. You like those days the best. Had you seen these versions of Leon when you were assigned to him almost ten years ago, you would’ve laughed. Ten years ago, you couldn’t imagine being this close to someone, to care as much as you do about someone you’re paid to be around.

You suppose there’s layers to it, layers you haven’t fully unraveled yet. You know only a few things for certain: Leon is your partner, he is also your unofficial roommate, and you care about him more than you care about others.

“Are you ready?” he asks. He’s standing in the doorway of the bedroom, the light from the hallway making him look like an angel descending to relay a message from God. You swallow and nod.

“Just need my shoes,” you say, moving to the bed and sliding your shoes across the floor to be in front of you. Leon bends down without a word to help you fasten them.

When he looks up at you, he looks less like your partner and more like someone you’re meant to love. An ache resonates within you, a need to reach out a brush your fingers through his darkened hair. He shifts his gaze to your upper arm. Gingerly, he runs the tips of his fingers over a scar that spans from your elbow to your clavicle. It’s ugly and red, courtesy of the nasty burn you’d sustained there a few years ago. The ridged skin is unfeeling as Leon skirts his hand across it, tracing it from your elbow to your shoulder.

“I remember when you got this,” he says absently. His fingers dance across your skin, and you wish the scar didn’t run so deep so you could feel his ministrations. “Thought I’d lost you,”

He says nothing more, just stands up and offers his hand to you to help you off the bed. You take it, and he hauls you up with ease. He twists out of the room like a ghost. You follow him, like you always do.

The scar is one of a few you’ve come to own. You remember the day you got it, too. For whatever reason, you replay the moment in your head over and over in the taxi on the way to the gala. It makes your skin burn.

It was supposed to be a normal day, a normal mission. Go in, extract, get out. Three simple steps that you had done a hundred thousand times before. Leon stood beside you, always offering to enter a room first. You’ll admit, years removed from the situation, you should’ve been more careful, should’ve listened to what he was saying. But you were so angry at him. You felt weak, unnecessary. You remember shoving past him and through a door you hadn’t known was connected to a trigger. Almost as soon as your boot touched the concrete on the other side of the threshold, your hearing went out. It felt like you were standing miles away from a nuclear blast, and you had felt the effects of the delayed shockwave. You were knocked to the ground in an instant, but you didn’t feel pain–not yet at least. When you woke up in the hospital a day later, Leon was asleep in the chair beside you.

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” he’d said. You vowed not to.

“Do you think they’ll at least have an open bar?” he says now, drawing you back into the world. You turn away from the window of the cab to look at him. He’s staring at his hands, forcing a small smile.

“They better,” you say, reaching over and settling a hand on his shoulder. He looks at you. “It’s the only reason I’m going,”

This turns his smile genuine, and he even offers an eyeroll. You squeeze his shoulder, bracelets jingling with the motion. His eyes are on you, and you feel as hot as fresh sin. You hate this; hate that he makes you feel this way, hate that he is so beautiful, hate that you can’t seem to shake this deep seated love you harbor for him. You miss him when he looks away and you remove your hand.

The gala is overwhelming. Leon stays near you, hand hovering near your own. You wish he would reach out and take it. You debate the consequences of doing it yourself.

Breath hot on the shell of your ear, Leon whispers, “You think our taxes went into this?”

You suppress a laugh, tightening your lips into a thin line to fight a smile. “I wouldn’t be surprised, but I’ll pretend like this was all donated,”

“You can consider taxes a donation if you really think about it,” he says, gliding across the floor with you toward an empty table. You snort.

“I think that depends on what your definition of donation is,” you say. He pulls out your chair for you before pushing it in, then takes his own seat beside you. His legs are angled toward you like he only plans on talking to you.

“I think you underestimate my ability to bend definitions to suit my needs,” he says. You laugh again.

You like this version of Leon, and you know that it won’t last very long so you should hold onto it while it’s here. An old jazz song rings out from the speakers across the hall, and the lights catch his eyes just right. They’re really blue, as true blue as blue gets. They’re your favorite shade of blue. If you could paint your living room that color, you would. It’s a soft blue, like the crest of a wave blue, like the sky just after dawn blue, like two perfect oceans set into his skull. There’s a hairline scar that runs between the crows feet of his left eye, one you ache to reach out and trace.

That’s the best way to describe how you feel when you look at Leon: aching. It’s desperation, an aching need to touch and hold. It’s not exactly love, but you don’t have another word for it. Maybe devotion? Looking at him feels like the first time a child sees a kitten. You’re like me, soft and lovable, and we should stay together.

“Have you listened to anything I’ve said in the last few minutes?” Leon asks, putting a hand on your knee that brings you back to the gala. You suck in a breath and shake your head. He smiles wide. “Quit staring at me, makes me feel like I’ve got something on my face,”

“You’re pretty,” you say before you can stop yourself. Maybe pretty is the wrong word, but you don’t know what the right one would be. He’s handsome, sure, but handsome doesn’t encapsulate the way his lashes flutter against his cheekbones or the way he blushes when you smile at him. “Sorry,”

He’s grinning now, giving your knee a squeeze. “You flatter me,”

An hour later, and he’s being called up on stage by your director, who intends to decorate him. You’re beaming with pride, even though you know Leon is dreading this moment. He stumbles across the stage. Cameras are flashing, and you can almost see Leon cringe between photos. He’s off the stage a few minutes later, heading straight for you. You grin more, knowing that he’s choosing to seek solace in you, in your company. He wraps you in a stiff hug that loosens as it endures. You laugh into his shoulder.

“Don’t let me do anything heroic ever again,” he mumbles, burying his face into your neck. You bark a laugh.

“Yeah, okay,” you agree. “I’ll make sure to step in next time,”

In an act that surprises you, Leon tugs you toward the dance floor. You must look wildly confused because he explains, “Just this once. Just one dance,”

You agree, not that you could deny even if you wanted to. He’s looking at you like you’re someone he’s meant to love, like you’re more than just his partner. His hand slots against the curve of your waist like it was made specifically to be there. He’s warm and smiling, and you think maybe he’s had a bit too much champagne. But you like him like this. Who knows when you’ll see him like this again? You stare at him, intent to memorize his features and the way the light catches on the bridge of his nose.

“You’re staring again,” he whispers. You smile sheepishly.

“Never seen you like this,” you reply. He bows his head to chuckle. “Not sure I’ll ever get the chance to again,”

“I’m sure you will,” he says. “You’re the one who brings it out of me,”

You roll your eyes. “I’m more convinced it’s all the free champagne we’ve been drinking,”

“You can believe whatever you want, sweetness,” he says, spinning you. “I’m telling you the truth,”

You’re both giggly and joking the whole way home. Leon has you wheezing about something you can’t remember as you step into the apartment. Tears rest at the corners of your eyes. You shove him playfully. He follows you from room to room like a puppy, making you giggle and flash a smile as you clean up for the night.

You crash onto the bed, warm and light from the night, and reach to take off your shoes. Leon stands in the doorway, watching you. The light from the hallway gives him a halo. Your feet ache as you release them from their prisons, and you glance up to see Leon smiling at you. You return it with the cock of one of your brows.

“You’re pretty,” he says by way of explanation. You feel heat snake up your body. His hands are stuffed into his pockets, hair slightly messy from where he’s run his hands through it, and the first few buttons of his shirt are undone. If you weren’t as shy as you are, you’d probably move to touch him.

Instead, you huff a laugh and toss your shoes to the floor. “You flatter me,”

When you stand and begin to move around him, he grabs your elbow. “I mean it,”

Perhaps, in another life, you would see this as a win. The man you’ve spent most of your life following around and yearning for seemingly returns your affections, and you are about to deny him. Admitting it out loud makes it real, makes it mean something. What happens the next time something goes wrong out there? The next time he does something heroic? Everything will be much too real, and much harder to bury. You blink at him, looking at him for what feels like the very first and last time. He’s still Leon; scruffy stubble, blue eyes, and warmth. He’s still Leon, teetering on being your Leon, and you’re not going to let that happen. You, again, are going to deny yourself from what you want.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. You take in a shaky breath. He’s still holding you, but his touch is a ghost on your flesh.

“Leon, I don’t know-”

“You know that one Frank Sinatra song?” he interrupts. You gape at him.

“Why did you ask if you won’t let me answer?” you huff, crossing your arms over your chest. He returns his hands to his pockets.

“Predicted where it was going, figured I’d circumvent it,” he admits, the corner of his lips turning upward slightly. “The song he sings with his wife?”

You shrug. “Maybe? What’s your point?”

“I love you,” he says. Your body goes cold. “That could be the stupidest thing I’ve ever said, but I feel like you should know that before you make whatever decision you’re about to make,”

Your face breaks out into a grin, and you laugh in spite of yourself. “I’m sure you’ve said stupider,”

Whatever worry was on Leon’s face dissolves, and a real, full smile splits across his lips. He takes your face in his hands. He holds you delicately, like you’d break under the slightest pressure. To be fair, you feel like glass at the moment–if glass could have legs made of rubber.

“This makes it real,” you say. He swallows. “No going back, no forgetting, no pretending. When something happens, it will be real,”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” he whispers. “It’s worked out for us so far,”

You’re not sure who closes the space first, but it matters little after it’s happened. His lips are gentle and giving against your own. Your hands splay against his sides, using his suit jacket to pull him closer. His hands wind into your hair. There’s a desperation behind his movements, one you’re all too familiar with. After what feels like hours, he breaks from you, leaning his forehead against yours. His breathing is labored, you can feel it in his strong chest beneath your hands.

“This is real,” he says.

“We take risks for a living,” you say. He opens his eyes to peek at you through his lashes. “What’s one more right?”

He grins and kisses you again.

[loveharlow]

COMPANY POLICY

PAIRING‧₊˚ Rafe Cameron x Fem!Reader

SYNOPSIS‧₊˚  [2.7k] Caught red handed stealing from Cameron Development, Rafe Cameron's assistant finds herself in a sticky situation...

WARNING(S)‧₊˚  non-con/dub-con, smut, swearing, power play, blackmail, slight dom/sub dynamics, unprotected rough sex, allusions to pregnancy, cheating (?)

A/N‧₊˚ part of my angstober event!

˗ˏˋ rafe masterlist ˎˊ˗

YOU HELD YOUR ARMS CLOSE TO YOU AS YOU WALKED THE PATH UP TO THE COMPANY BUILDING — Cameron Development. It was midnight on the dot and the night air was chilly. Normally, you’d be in bed by this time, tired and exhausted after running errands for Rafe Cameron all day long with little to sometimes no break. Being his assistant wasn’t exactly anyone’s dream job, but it kept your lights on.

For some reason, the man had called you into the office, saying there was an issue that was urgent and had to be handled immediately. He had an edge to his voice, one that should've been your first warning to not walk into that building.

As you skipped up the steps to the building, still hugging yourself, you pushed the door open and followed the only light that was on down the hall. His office door was cracked and you could hear him mumbling to himself. Reaching the semi-open door, you pushed it open, the wood creaking as you did so.

“Mr. Cameron?” You called quietly, spotting his tall frame hovering over his desk — palms planted firmly on the wood and hair ruffled as his eyes ran wild over the small pile of papers on the desk. Your voice broke him out of his muttering daze as his eyes slowly rose to meet yours. His movements were slow and calm, his wild eyes meeting yours.

His movements were slow and calm, until they weren’t. Within seconds, he’d crumpled up the papers in his hands and rounded his deck to tower in front of you and grab your upper arm, bringing you impossibly closer. You could see him a lot more clearly now — he was visibly strung out and angry. 

You gasped at the rough contact, immediately trying to tug your arm away which only prompted the irate man to tug you closer. 

“What’re you-”

“How much?” He huffed out, infuriated. His jaw was clenched tightly.

You were sure you looked lost and confused, more scared than anything. Rafe had a knack for treating his employees like shit and you were no exception to his rage now, it seemed. But you’d never been at the receiving end of his abuse until this moment. It was frightening, to put it mildly.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about-”

“How much fucking money did you steal from me?” He gritted through his teeth. You stuttered to find the right words and he took that as a sign to continue berating you. He released his grip on you to uncrumple to documents he was holding, using one hand to push you against the wall behind you as the other practically shoved the printed matter in your face. “Five-hundred and twenty-six thousand...” He started, voice rising with each word. “Five-hundred and twenty-six THOUSAND dollars. That’s how much money has been withdrawn from my company and deposited into shell companies — companies that do not fucking exist!”

You looked away from him this time. You honestly didn’t think he’d find out. Or at least find out that it was you. Five-hundred thousand was pocket change compared to what he was bringing in yearly and Rafe was careless, so you didn't think he'd notice and if he did, you assumed you'd be able to lie on the spot. Clearly, you'd misjudged both him and yourself.

He’d put you in charge of the books when it became too much paperwork for him one day and you just happened to realize that your paycheck could’ve been much higher than what it was but you knew he’d never give you a raise. You’d worked with him for almost 2 years and had never even seen the chance of a promotion. Who was Rafe Cameron to acknowledge his employees or their efforts?

It wasn't like you'd taken it all at once. It was over the last couple months that you'd misplaced the funds into shell companies and collected it at later dates for your own personal gain.

“Suddenly she’s quiet.” He taunted, throwing the papers to the floor. “Look at me,” He demanded, but you refused. He took that as a sign to grab, more like yank, your chin in his direction. “Where’s my money?”

“It’s gone, most of its gone…” You muttered with tearful eyes, speech slurred due to how he had your cheeks pressed together. You weren't lying. You'd spoiled yourself with the money. Shopping, grocery runs, furniture...

“I trusted you. You think I’d let any of those lousy, dumbasses touch my assets? No. But clearly…clearly I made a lapse in judgment with you.” He reprimanded. “You’re a damn thief.” He spat as he let go of your face, so harshly it prompted some of your hair to obstruct your field of vision.

Your heart was racing like crazy. Your hands had been clawing at the wall he had you pinned to, eyes following his pacing frame. “I can pay it back. I’ll pay it all back-”

“Oh, I know you will.”  He scoffed darkly. “But clearly, your word can’t be taken for it so, I’m going to need… collateral.” Rafe sounded much less angry now. But his tone was still clouded with an air of darkness that made the hairs of the back of your neck stand up. Suddenly, he was in front of you again, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear — a much softer touch compared to the previous ones.

“Take your shirt off.”

You were dumbstruck, mouth falling open at his demand.

Surely, he couldn’t be serious.

“Mr. Cameron-” You tried.

“Sir.” He corrected.

“...Sir,” You repeated, taking the hint. “I have a husband. Not to mention, you’re my boss. I’m sure there’s another way-”

“There might be...” He cut you off, the knuckle of his index finger trailing down the length of your neck as he licked his lips before speaking again. “Unfortunately for you, I want to do it my way.” He rasped. “So, take your shirt off.”

This was wrong. On so many levels was this wrong. He was your boss — your sick, deranged boss. You may be a thief but this was ludicrous. Was the terror in your eyes not enough assurance for him?

You gulped as you looked into his eyes, letting a few beats pass before moving your shaking hands to the hem of your shirt, pulling the fabric over your head and hesitating to let it drop to the hardwood floors of his office. 

Rafe eyed the valley of your breasts that was revealed by your bra, a small smirk forming on his features at the sight. When one of his hands came up to cup one of them through the material, you couldn’t help but cringe slightly at the touch — it was foreign and it felt so… dirty. You wanted to just say fuck it and dash out of his office — shirtless and all. But you knew that would only cause more trouble — he’d ruin your credibility and career, destroy your marriage, and God knows what else.

So when the man used the hand that had been trailing your neck to untie your sweatpants, you stood as still as a statue and let him. The loose apparel falling easily to the ground, pooling around your ankles, leaving you half naked in front of your superior.

“I never took you for the criminal type, y’know…” He whispered into your ear. “I always thought you were so obedient. The things I thought about doing to you whenever you nod when I give you an order, watching you rush around the office in your skirts just to get whatever I need done finished…I never thought watching you do whatever I say would be so fun.” He cooed and you couldn’t help but feel trapped at this moment.

Just how long had Rafe been pining over you? You suddenly wondered if this was really collateral or just a way of getting something he’d always wanted.

Was it both?

The thought ran around in your mind as he roamed the length of your body — calloused hands outlining the curve of your ass, palm trailing over your clothed core. You didn’t even fully register when his thick fingers pushed the fabric of your panties to the side, one digit gathering the wetness that had gathered before being quickly pushed inside. You whimpered lowly at the intrusion, instinctively closing your legs but Rafe wouldn’t allow it, using his knee to hold your legs apart.

His lone finger poked and prodded at your g-spot, forcing light moans out of you that you tried your best to keep low. You hated the way your body responded to his touch — the faint squelching sound you could hear as he pumped his finger in and out of you. A lone tear rolled down your cheek, small whimpers escaping your lips before he harshly pulled his finger out of you and took a few steps back, allowing you to close your legs.

But the racing and thumping of your heart within your rib-cage didn’t stop there, tearful eyes watching as Rafe’s hands moved to his belt. The metal clanking against itself as he undid the object and abandoned it to the floor. 

In one swift motion, his entire demeanor changed as he grabbed the hair on your head that he could reach, practically ripping you off of the wall that you were clinging to. You yelped as the man did so, using your tresses as a makeshift leash, pulling your body towards his desk as you struggled not to trip over your pants that were still wound around your ankles. Using his deadly grip, he shoved your face into the wooden surface, swiping papers and office supplies out of his way.

You hissed the contact, a small ache blooming on your cheek as your own hands were planted on the wood as well in awkward position due to how he had you pinned down.

The hand in your hair never left your body as it trailed down to pin you against the slab by the back of your neck instead. Your body jerked as he used his free hand to force your panties down your legs, leaving the material wound around the middle of your thighs.

You don’t even know when he found the time to pull down his own pants during his manhandling, only starting to internally panic, realizing the weight of what was happening when you felt the warmth of his tip rub against your sex. You tried to wiggle out of his grip, causing yourself more pain the more you moved.

You pleaded with him through labored sobs as your fingers clawed at his work space, leaving faint white marks in your wake. You didn’t even know what you were saying — a string of useless pleas falling on deaf ears.

Your fighting only came to an abrupt stop when you felt his dick push past your entrance, biting down on your lip as a small pinching feeling radiated from in between your legs at the unwelcome intrusion. You felt every ridge and vein as he took his time settling within you. The man behind you let out a gruff groan while the hand he’d used to guide himself inside of you moved to capture your waist, pulling you further onto him.

When he pulled his hips back only to slam back into you, you couldn’t contain the watery scream you let out. It felt like he’d punched you in the throat, fucking into you as if you weren’t a living thing. You could feel each and every time the tip of his cock would hit your cervix, the desk beneath you bruising your abdomen with each forward thrust that slammed you against the wooden fixture.

"Please! I can't-"

"Shut up." He immediately cut off your protests, voice curt and nasty. "I don't wanna hear you speak."

Nothing about his movements were pleasurable. His grip on your waist had grown tighter, so tight that his short nails were digging into your skin, feeling like miniature knives against your side. The hand on your neck followed, squeezing the nape of it until you were gasping for air between each cry and shriek.

The sound of his skin slapping against yours, the feeling of his pelvis meeting the curvature of your ass with each thrust made your chest feel tight. You hated the way you could feel yourself clenching around him, a familiar sensation building in your lower half. 

Before you could even attempt to stop yourself, your hands were curling into tight fists as you came around him with a pitiful cry. But Rafe wasn’t done just yet, and you laid under him as he continued pounding into you at a borderline animalistic pace. The desk screeching against the floorboards after a particularly, brutal jolt. You were quickly becoming sensitive, the friction causing your clit to ache as a tingling sensation spreading throughout your body.

It was only a few moments before he rammed into you for the final time, his hips stilling as they pressed against your backside, the feeling of him spilling into you almost making you sick. He didn’t bother being quiet as he held you flush against him, making sure to empty himself completely with a few soft pumps into you afterwards, pulling out with not an ounce of care, eliciting a wince from you as he did so.

He roughly released both holds he’d had on you, not saying a word.

You could hear the rustling of fabric and his heavy breaths behind you as you gathered yourself mentally. You didn’t move, not an inch until you heard his voice again.

“Get up.” You sniffed. Not wanting to irritate the man any further, you used your arms to push yourself up to stand straight on shaky legs. You didn’t turn around as you carefully bent over and pulled your pants up, trying you hardest to ignore what you felt running down the inside of your thighs or the way the fabric of your underwear felt against your swollen clit.

All hopes of not having to look at the man who’d violated you were shattered as he rounded his desk to sit in front of you, planting himself in the chair as he opened the laptop that he was lucky hadn’t been thrown from the desk in the harsh turn of events.

You stood in front of him with your head down. You didn’t bother to wipe the tears from your face, fix your hair, or check for bruises that you were sure you had and would have to find some way to cover up. You just watched liked a punished child as he opened the device in front of him, typing and hyper focused on the screen. You wondered how he could be so unphased.

He was like that for a few passing moments until he’d seemingly gotten what he needed, pulling the USB drive from the side of the machine that you'd just noticed, leaning back in his chair as he fiddled with the small stick. His face was flushed red and his hair was all over the place.

“Do you know what this is?” He asked, out of breath but still managing to sound smug. You had an idea. But you hoped you were wrong. So, begrudgingly, you shook your head side to side. “It's our movie. I know it’s not the best angle because, well...” He motioned towards a corner of his office, prompting you to shift your sights in his line of sight, spotting a camera mounted in the corner, so small it was just barely visible but you knew from the placement it probably had a view of the entire space. Your heart dropped, slowly turning back to your boss to find him eyeing you with such a predatory gaze that it made you shudder.

“Don’t look so scared. No one else will see it, so long as you get my shit back.” He spat. “But I gotta admit,” He started, getting up from behind his desk and coming to stand next to you, his lips dangerously close to your ear. “Fucking you was much better than I ever imagined.”

His words had you choking back on your own saliva, swallowing harshly and refusing to look at him as you stared straight ahead with a disgusted snarl on your face. One of his hands swiped lightly across your torso as he left your personal space, opting to sit half-way perched on his desk. Fiddling and examining the memory stick like a prized possession before looking up at you with half-lidded eyes and an unsettling grin on his features before speaking.

“You can see yourself out.”

That was all you needed to hear before your feet were rushing you away from him, barely stopping to snatch your shirt up off of the floor before making a bee-line out of his office. You struggled to put your shirt on as you practically sprinted through the doors of the building so fast, you wouldn't be surprised if you had it on backwards, hot skin immediately bitten by the night air.

Your breathing never calmed as you rushed to your car, struggling to unlock the door, throwing yourself into the vehicle when you finally managed to. You sat there for a few seconds, staring ahead at the street and breathing like a mad woman before you lost all control — punching and slamming on your steering wheel, a long string of curses leaving your lips before you were bursting into tears, sleeve-covered hands coming up to cup your face as you cried into them. 

You hated yourself and you hated Rafe. You had nowhere to go from here. Rafe's words made it clear that you wouldn't be quitting any time soon and what the hell were you going to do about your husband? Rafe had a full length tape of you, bent over his desk as he did what he pleased and no matter what you knew happened in that office, Rafe had Kildare in the palm of his hand.

It didn't take a genius to know that Rafe Cameron would bend that video to his very will. This whole thing made you look bad, a thief and a cheater.

Your hysterics didn’t last long when you realized that even though you were in your car, that man was still just feet away. You’d still have to see him the very next day and every day after that, but right now you just wanted to go home and you didn’t even know if you really wanted to do that — to climb into bed with your husband who had no idea what had just happened, knowing not only that your future was tainted but technically, so was his. 

You didn’t waste any time in starting your car, nearly whipping into the curb at the speed at which you pulled off. Watching streetlights and stores pass by.

It wasn’t until you passed the pharmacy, bright neon red sign lit up in the dark, that you felt your stomach drop.

You’d been off birth control for months now, wanting to try for a baby with your husband.

And in the middle of the night, you found yourself praying that a loss of dignity and aching legs were the only things Rafe Cameron just sent you home with.

General taglist; @livlaughquinn 

JJ Maybank Taglist; @ronnieissupermegafoxyawesomehot @maybankslover 

Event Taglist; @timmytime17

feedback is appreciated! thanks for reading.

©loveharlow

[crownofgildedlilies]

wishin' you were kind enough to be cruel about it -> cool about it [2]

in which: a son of Jupiter can't remember the life he lost to time and circumstance. or the daughter of mercury he lost, too.

pairing: jason grace x daughter of mercury!roman!reader

warnings: you guessed it! more angst and cursing!

word count: 6.4k

a/n: did not mean for it to be this long but, im obsessed.... no like u don't understand. so much to be said! inbox/comment to be added to the taglist!

one [two] three four

At least you had the comfort of preparing for war to distract you.

Armor polished to perfection, swords sharpened, denarii in your pocket to pay for passage to the Underworld, should you meet your end facing an endless army of monsters that couldn't die.

Really, how Roman of you to seek the blissful nothingness at the start of battle.

You knew the exact number, down to the minute, of how long it had been since you had last seen Jason. But if someone were to ask you how many days Percy, Frank, and Hazel had been off on their quest, you would have stared at them blankly.

And even as you readied for war, your eyes had a glossy look to them, pinned on a fixed point just above the horizon.

"Don't let the legionnaires see you like this," Dakota had murmured in your ear as he adjusted the straps of your armor. You knew he had a point, but hated him for saying it, anyways.

What did it matter? The legionnaires had already seen you in hysterics in the camp center, tearing through the place in search of Jason. They wouldn't be surprised to see you were still not right, even with the promise of military glory.

But it didn’t change the fact that he had a point.

You were a centurion for a reason, and not just because the great Jason Grace followed you like a shadow. You needed to be strong and brave and ruthless, because that was what a Roman leader should be.

And the reason you became a centurion was apparent the moment you stepped onto the battlefield, New Rome at your back and your brothers-in-arms at your side.

See, the giants hadn't taken into account how much anger and fear you had bottled up inside you, uncorked with the first swing of your sword and spilling out over their armies.

Violence untethered, one of the now-retired centurions from the First Cohort had once described the way you fought. Brutal. Efficient. Roman.

And if you had been untethered before, when you still had Jason at your side—

The casualties on the Roman side were few.

You had taken a couple of big hits, but you welcomed the pain. The first actual bite of something other than heartache felt almost like a relief, like a promise that you were not trapped in a body that could only grieve.

The rest of camp may have been rejuvenated by Percy's retrieval of hundreds of Imperial Gold weapons, but all you could do was grit your teeth and limp back into the city.

The cries of 'Praetor!' that echoed after you, announcing Percy as Camp Jupiter's second leader, felt like they were twisting a knife in a wound long infected and left to rot.

Jason was praetor. Jason.

You liked Percy, you really did. He was funny—or at least, you would have thought so, if you weren't constantly looking for the next excuse to leave camp and search for Jason—and kind. He had Roman bravery, if not a little rebellious, which the Mercury in your blood seemed to enjoy.

Percy might have even been your friend, in another life. One when you had met him with your hand tucked in Jason’s, the son of Jupiter the levelheaded side to your double edged sword.

And at least you trusted Percy a whole lot more than Octavian.

"These... Greeks," Octavian hissed the word, lips curling in distaste. The day after the battle, still bruised and wounds leaking blood, you found yourself in the forum, dressed in a toga wrapped over your armor. You still couldn’t put too much weight on your ankle, and the shoulder on your shield arm was swollen. "You're an even bigger fool than I thought if you trust them."

You rolled your eyes, but bit down the dramatic gag. If Jason had been there, he would have been very pointedly ignoring you—because you had been guilty on more than one occasion of making more and more ridiculous faces in an attempt to make him laugh.

And after the third time you had gotten him to break his stony facade, Jason had implemented a 'no looking at you during meetings' rule, which he more or less succeeded in executing.

Or less, being the key words.

"Talking about fools," You murmured, and from beside you, Dakota jammed his elbow into your side so harshly, you almost yelped. In his defense, you hadn’t told him about the Cyclops that had probably broken your ribs, but you wished he hadn't hit you where you were so sore.

"Look, they're my friends up there." Percy gestured widely towards the open air roof as he spoke. You found yourself studying the skies, as if the flying Greek trireme Percy claimed would be arriving might suddenly appear out of thin air. "I trust them, and you voted me praetor. Doesn't that count for something?"

"It's something, alright." Octavian scoffed. You rolled your eyes again, almost growing dizzy with the movement.

A bad habit during meetings, Centurion, Jason had chastised you, once, with a smile so warm it didn't feel like a punishment. The two of you had just left the forum, still wrapped in your togas, your hand curled around his forearm as he led you through New Rome and towards a bakery you favored.

Wouldn't happen if you let me challenge Octavian to combat, Praetor, you had fired back, and in a moment of weakness, pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw before darting off ahead of him, giddy.

Soldiers, not lovers, you had to remind yourself. No matter how much you wanted, you couldn't force Jason to be anything he wasn't ready to be—or maybe what he just wasn't.

Octavian's watery stare landed on you, snapping you back to the moment like a rubber band pulled taut.

"I can hardly imagine you support this, Centurion? With Jason Grace gone—"

"Do not," You snapped, breath coming out in short, labored spurts. Violence untethered, indeed. "Neither I nor you get to decide who is praetor, and the spot was open—"

Your voice cracked. It tasted like a lie. The spot wasn't open. It belonged to Jason, just as your heart and tears and smiles did.

"—and Percy Jackson was raised to the rank after receiving glory in battle." You recited. You hoped it didn't sound like you had practiced in the bathroom mirror that morning, trying to make it seem like you believed it, even if you had. "I seem to recall a certain Apollo legacy cowering beneath my shield during the second Cyclops onslaught, don't you, Augur?"

And maybe it was a low blow, calling a Roman's battle bravery into question, but Jason had always been your bridge to your self-control.

"I—no—it—!" Octavian stammered, flustered, and Percy laughed. Dakota and several of the other centurions Octavian hadn't managed to blackmail or brainwash to follow him pressed their palms over their mouths to suppress their own chuckles, and even Reyna was struggling to bite back a grin. "You think you'll still hold rank as centurion, come the next election?"

He was threatening you, you realized, and you would have hauled off and socked him in the mouth, consequences be damned, if a shadow hadn't crossed over Octavian's head, darkening the whole of the forum.

Twisting your gaze up, heart hammering, you found a flying Greek trireme.

Percy was right.

And maybe he had been right about something else, too. Something you hadn’t dared to consider.

While Percy was dropped at Camp Jupiter, Jason might have been carted off to Camp Half-Blood.

Mercury swiftness blessed you once more as you took off, darting out of the forum before Reyna could finish saying dismissed.

There wasn’t much that could have stopped you, not even the bitter cold of crashing through the middle of a Lar.

You didn’t even bother pausing to shout an apology to Cassius, glowing purple and claiming to curse your bloodline for such an insult.

If you have been able to breathe, you would have told him your bloodline already felt a little cursed.

There was shouting, but you barely could hear it over the buzzing in your mind. You felt like you were going to vibrate out of your skin, eyes squinted, head tilted up, and fighting against the sun for even a glimpse of your missing half.

“Helmet on, fall in line,” Dakota tugged your arm, pulling you back to his side. You felt a little, a lot, frantic—felt desperate—but Reyna was already struggling to get everyone to fall in line, and she had given you so much leeway in the past months, that you stepped beside your fellow Fifth Cohort centurion.

“I left my—“ Left my helmet behind, you would have said, but Dakota shoved the metal piece into your hands. With buzzing fingertips, you placed on your helmet, adjusted the straps of your armor that were already perfectly done up.

Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. Seconds ticked by like hours, limbs swimming through thick air like you were in a dream. From your spot nestled between Dakota and Paulette from Fourth Cohort, tucked under the hull of the flying trireme, standing behind Percy and Reyna, you couldn't see any of the ship's occupants.

But then they dropped a rope ladder, and your heart stuttered in your chest. Nails bit into your palms, your own fingers the culprit, and you forced yourself to stretch out your hands in an attempt to keep the bleeding to a minimum.

Jason, please, Jason, I need you, oh, gods, please—

It was like a mantra, repeating on a loop in your head. Tears stung at your eyes, overwhelmed by just the sheer possibility that your golden haired love could be so, so close to returning to you.

The first body began to climb down the ladder. A girl, with yellow hair dragged into a ponytail. In front of you, somehow, you heard Percy inhale sharply and you realized it must have been Annabeth.

The only person he remembered from his past life, until he had drank the gorgon's blood and gotten his memories restored. Unease trickled through you. There wouldn't be such a quick fix for Jason.

A second girl descended the ladder after Annabeth, with choppy brown hair, baggy clothes, and a wicked dagger at her hip.

You started to doubt Percy's theory. Maybe Jason hadn't been taken by Juno or Hera or whichever deity you felt like blaming. Maybe he was stuck somewhere else, alone, and hurting, and you were—

A purple shirt appeared over the side of the ship, atop a set of broad shoulders you could have recognized blind.

Jason.

Your Jason.

Home, to you, at last.

A gasp shuddered through you as he started to climb down the rope ladder and into New Rome. You started to step forward, but Roman training froze you to your spot as Reyna pinned you with a look that screamed 'don't break rank, not in front of Octavian,' which would never be enough to keep you from reaching Jason.

But still, you stalled.

It didn't mean you stopped staring, your eyes tracing his form from head to toe, trying to see what changed about him, what was still the same.

The scar on his lip, the sky blue eyes, the golden rays of his hair. It was exactly as you remembered, except for the hair, which had grown out just slightly. You liked it better, but you would never tell him. You knew how much he liked to keep it short, in regulation.

Look at me, please, you begged him in your mind, because you were forbidden to say the words. Another boy scaled down the rope ladder, but you paid him no attention. Jason, Jason, Jason.

It was dizzying. In all the years you had loved him, never had it felt so much like a compactor was pressing in on your chest.

Their group approached, four rag-tag demigods, three Greeks and a Roman. It sounded like the set-up to one of the awful jokes you used to tell Jason when you were stationed on guard duty together, just to pass the time and see him shake his head with a smile.

Reyna stood tall before you, strong and powerful and part of you wanted to push her to the side and race into the arms of your lost soldier.

Why hadn't he looked at you yet?

This was it, the moment you had been dying for, for months. When Jason finally came back to you, his eyes locking with yours, rules and regulations tossed aside as he wrapped you in his arms so tight your toes left the ground and his mouth slotted over yours, a kiss nearly a decade in the making.

Fear and emotion clogged your throat, and you had trouble swallowing around it. Didn't he see you? He knew you always stood between Dakota and Paulette, just to the right of the second praetor—his rank, formerly, now given to Percy Jackson.

But, there—his blue eyes scanned the row of centurions lined behind Reyna and Percy, starting with the First Cohort and making his way to you. Oh, how you were going to scream and cry and hold him later, all as punishment for making you worry—

Jason's eyes passed over you, carrying on towards Dakota like you were nothing more than another face in the crowd.

Fear and routine and fear of your routine were the only things stopping you from tearing off your helmet and slamming it into his chest, demanding to know who the hell he thought he was, scaring you so thoroughly for months and then acting like he didn’t know you.

But then you remembered Percy, and how he hadn’t been able to remember anything.

That couldn’t be right, no, Jason loved you. And maybe it wasn’t in the way you loved him, but hadn’t Hadlee, the daughter of Venus, gone on and on the other night about different types of love? You knew with a certainty you had never felt before that Jason loved you, even if it was only in the sense of friends.

The way fellow soldiers would die and bleed and get torn to shreds for each other.

You had gotten upset when he asked what else was there for the two of you to be. Now, you would trade every scrap of pleasure and freedom for the chance to be only soldiers with Jason Grace for the rest of time.

You pressed your arm tight against your side, elbow pointed in and poking at the unhealed, unchecked injury from the Cyclops. At first, you had refused to go to the medics because they were still all cheering for Percy to take place at praetor.

Then the pain just became a good enough distraction from losing Jason, even if it didn't really work.

These thoughts and more swirled in your mind as Jason introduced himself and the Greeks he had arrived with. Annabeth, Piper, Leo, Coach Hedge. The names meant nothing to you, but still you memorized them, because they were important to Jason.

He and Annabeth took turns explaining the quest they were on. You only understood half of what they were talking about, because every time someone other than Jason even attempted to speak, their voice was drowned out by the sound of your blood rushing in your ears.

Gaea is rising. Giants trying to wake the earth mother. Need to go to the Ancient Lands to stop them.

You gathered enough to know that whatever was happening was bad. They needed Jason, your Jason, and the fate of the world was more important than the heartbeat pulsing in the tips of your fingers.

Wasn't it?

Miles and miles away, maybe already in the Ancient Lands, you heard Reyna's voice cut through the static.

Let's discuss over a meal, she had said, your stare watching the relief wash over Jason's face. You were certain no one but yourself noticed the minute reaction on his behalf. At least, you had hoped. We reconvene in the city proper for a lunch. Centurions, dismissed.

There it was, that permission you had been waiting for.

Your helmet was torn from your head before Dakota even had time to slouch, shoulders dropping from the stiff way he held them while in formation.

It clattered to the ground beneath you, and you might have even stubbed your toe on it as you stepped forward, desperate for proof that you weren't imagining things. Your soldier was home, gods praise, he was home and within arms reach.

The rank of centurions behind you remained still, anticipating the long awaited and bitterly fought for reunion between two of New Rome's finest, the two soldiers that rarely ever separated, but spent six and a half months apart.

You surged forward. Jason stayed still. You understood what was happening, but you wanted to pretend for a moment longer.

"Hey, soldier," You breathed, voice tight and eyes burning. You clenched your hands into fists, then splayed your fingers wide, stretching, desperate to reach out and touch.

But you were on very uncertain ground. You had to wait for him to make the first move, even if it killed you.

"If the legion weren't here, I'd kick your ass for making me cry." You settled on saying, knowing that he would understand just how much you missed him.

Once, during a particularly violent round of training, Jason had caught the underside of your jaw with the blunt end of his lance. Nothing had broken, which considering Jason's strength, had been both a shock and a blessing, but you hadn't been able to control the tears that sprung to your eyes and raced down your cheeks in pain.

I did this to you, he had lamented, torn between anger at himself and grief for having hurt you. His aching in his words had been nearly enough to get you to resent yourself for feeling pain. I should have been more careful. Next time, I will.

His hands had been cradling your face, turning in it ever so gently to the side to inspect the bruise already forming on your jaw. His touch on your skin had felt like too much, but now you were realizing it had never been enough.

Next time, I'll be faster, you had promised hooking your leg around the back of his and shoving into his chest, sending him sprawling backwards and landing square on his ass in a move that never would have been possible if he hadn't been distracted by your tears at his hand.

You had barely cried then. What would he say, now, learning of the hysterics you had been reduced to?

“Er, do I know you?” Jason asked, stammering, flush coating pale cheeks you could have drawn from memory.

The simple question felt like being dunked in an ice bath, then held under while your lungs filled with water. It had to be some cruel joke, some wicked nightmare you would surely wake from any minute.

Know you? Did Jason Grace know you?

The question was almost unnecessary. Laughable, even. Seven months earlier, if someone had asked that question, you would have cracked a grin. Jason would have been by your side, naturally, and been offended by the insinuation that he didn't.

And then he would have proceeded to list off all of your favorite things, in alphabetical order, organized by category.

The idea was laughable. He knew you. He had to know you.

“Jase?” It was pathetic, really, that that was all you could muster. A breathy, pained whisper of the nickname you’d given him when he was being stubborn about taking care of himself and you poked out your bottom lip to try and convince him to rest.

Most times, it worked.

Now it just hurt.

“Sorry,” He shook his head, darting a glance to the curly haired Latino boy wincing at his side, your stomach dropping to somewhere around Pluto’s palace. “I don’t remember, well, anything, really.”

How foolish had you been? Percy had remembered Annabeth, sure, but Annabeth was his girlfriend. What were you to Jason?

Just another soldier, like he had claimed the day he went missing.

Just another soldier. Only ever soldiers.

And the worst part was he looked genuinely apologetic. You wished he could have scoffed and waved you off, like some prissy, no-good asshole that turned up his nose simply because he was the savior of the world and had earned so much battlefield glory he practically reeked of it.

But that wasn't like Jason. No, not only did the jerk have to be the strongest, most strategic soldier you had ever had the pleasure of fighting alongside, he was also one of the nicest.

Holding open doors, comforting the new, young, arrivals, braiding your hair for you to keep it out of your face that one time the stomach bug had torn its way through the Fifth Cohort. You had spent thirty-six straight hours bent over a toilet, and Jason had been there through all of it.

I don't remember, well, anything, really.

But you had never just been anything to Jason. Sometimes, he looked at you and you could almost convince yourself that you were his everything.

Dakota, of all people, a little hopped up on kool-aid, came to your rescue. Knotting his red-stained fist in the back of your toga, he tugged you back into the line of centurions, using his body to block Jason from your line of sight.

And you would have expressed your thanks, if you had been able to express anything beyond total heartache.

“No one would blame you if you snuck out,” Dakota lowered his voice, ducked his head close to your ear, and that snapped you out of your stupor.

“And leave my legion?” You glared sharply at him, glad for an excuse to funnel out some of your anger, though you felt a little bad that Dakota had been your punching bag the last six months. Really, you owed him. “I don’t think so. I’m fine. Just… shocked. I’m good.”

Dakota winced. Usually, you were ace at lying.

Who tied Octavian’s shoelaces together?

Not me, you’d dutifully shake your head.

Who broke curfew and snuck into the city to retrieve little Julia’s stuffed teddy from Octavian’s sacrifice pile?

I’d never, you’d claim, aghast.

Who’s head over fucking heels, dizzyingly in love with Jason Grace?

Not my type, you’d hold a hand over your heart, scouts honor.

But a simple I’m fine?

Even Frank Zhang couldn’t pretend to not know you were lying through your clenched teeth, and he pretended like he had never found you sobbing outside bunkhouse after curfew one night, a few days following his arrival at camp.

How had Jason forgotten you? It didn’t feel real, but everything felt like too much.

Maybe Dakota had a point. Maybe you needed to get out.

"Come," Reyna ordered, breaking the silent tension that had been building as Greeks and Romans alike stopped to gawk at your conversation with Dakota. "Let's eat."

You picked your helmet up out of the dirt, a dutiful little soldier with lungs full of glass shards.

You were supposed to be strong.

You were supposed to be strong, but you were just a kid.

Ten years old to be exact. Tears stung at your eyes, burned their way up your throat. You could have vomited. You might have already.

You're a thief and a monster, the other kids at school had claimed, words like bullets as they lobbed pencils and crumbled paper and anything they could get away with at you.

A thief, you would admit to being. You couldn't help it, fingers moving almost of their own accord, always finding the easiest target, the shiniest reward. It didn't matter that you always returned everything you took. No one wanted to be friends with the freak that managed to lift the teacher's wedding band off her finger in kindergarten.

A thief, you were.

But a monster? Monsters were the creatures that clawed at your window at night. Monsters were the odd shapes in the grass your mother never managed to see. You weren't a monster. You were ten.

"Hey, we're not supposed to be back here."

The voice of another child cut through your misery, and you sharpened your glare to pin the intruder to his spot. You recognized him, because he was the type of guy that had called you names in school. Tall—for a kid—and built like an athlete. Tan skin, blond hair, blue eyes.

You were pretty sure his name was Jake Greene, or something.

"You're back here," You reasoned, waving a hand littered with scabbed knuckles around for emphasis. Here being the stretch of unwatched grass behind the Mess Hall, a little place you had discovered on your second day and realized it was secluded enough that no one could see you cry.

Now, a week in, you discovered that it was secluded enough that no one could see you cry, but Jake Greene.

He looked around uncomfortably, like he was just then realizing that he, too, was breaking the rules. Slowly, he glanced over his shoulder, as if checking for witnesses, before trodding through the plush grass to sit beside you, legs stretched out in front of him while yours were pulled tight to your chest.

You checked the ground quickly, relieved to find you hadn't actually vomited.

"I'm Jason. Jason Grace." He introduced himself, as if your eyes weren't bloodshot and face blotchy and cheeks wet with tears.

Not Jake. Noted. Now that you thought about it, you didn't think there was a Jake at Camp Jupiter. Not one that you had met, yet, at least.

You nodded, hoping Jason, Jason Grace would get the hint that you wanted absolutely no fucking part of whatever nice guy routine he was putting on. Even if he was one of the few to approach you since you had arrived, bloody and starved, at the camp's borders, Lupa and her pack deciding you worthy.

This one is feisty, you could have sworn the alpha wolf had snarled a grin at the older centurion who found you. Young, but strong willed.

You didn't feel strong willed. You felt like you missed your own home.

You had to remind yourself that your own home hadn't wanted you and your new home was a Roman military camp.

"Your father is Mercury, right?" Jason tried again, this time earning a sharp glare.

It was easier to be angry than it was to be vulnerable, wasn't it? Wasn't that why you always bit the hand that fed you, got sent to the literal fucking wolves at ten years old?

Jason Grace didn't flinch at your hatred. Hatred? That wasn't the right word. You didn't hate anything or anyone but the schools and teachers that had convinced your mother that you were too difficult to deal with, that you needed to be sent away.

Can I come back for Christmas, Mom?, you had naively asked, not understanding why your mother was crying as you rolled to a stop outside a crumbling, wooden house in Sonoma.

A week later, you wondered if your mother was still crying. Or maybe she was enjoying the peace of no longer getting calls from schools or policemen about you.

You wished you could wipe your hands clean of yourself, like Mom had. Maybe you would understand why everyone in your life always seemed happier after they had gotten rid of you.

"It's not so bad here, I promise," He tried, again, and part of you had to congratulate him for not giving up. You would have. "I cried, a lot, when I first got here."

"You?" The exclamation fell past your lips before you could help it, and Jason's own twisted into a victorious grin. He had a scar, on the side of his lips, shining pearly white in the sun, set against his skin.

"Me," He confirmed. Sure, you had just met the guy, had been calling him the wrong name for a week, but he didn't seem like the type to cry. "I did come here when I was two, though."

You didn't know whether to gasp or swat his arm in retaliation, so you did both, finally uncurling from the ball of fear and hatred you had woven yourself into.

"You're really good in training," Jason complimented, taking your childlike assault in stride. You nodded, picking a few blades of grass out of the ground, right at the roots.

"I used to fight in school," You offered, if it was that simple. But punching your bullies was a whole lot different than locking sword and shield.

In the bunkhouse, the boy in the bed across from you was a son of Ceres, the goddess of the harvest. Your first night, in an effort to make you stop crying, rambled on and on about plants. How to properly care for different crops, what too little sunlight did to a flower, and how a tree could be dug up from the ground, roots and all, and planted somewhere else to live a perfectly normal, perfectly long life.

You stared at the blade of grass in your hand, feeling very much like the plant, your roots floating in the middle of nowhere by the hand of some unseen, unforgiving god.

But maybe you could plant your roots, too.

"If I don't make it here," You whispered, little kid voice hoarse. "Then that's it for me. I don't have anywhere else. I'll have to live on the streets. I've done it, once. Made it a whole week before Mom found me."

Part of you regretted the words as soon as they left your lips. What had Lupa shown you about weakness? It got you killed. It got you punished.

But Jason didn't sneer. He pursed his lips in a thin line, scar shining even brighter with the movement.

"I don't know my mom," He confessed, suddenly just as weak as you. Frowning, you tried to figure out why he was saying it. Big, strong—at least to ten year old you—Jason Grace should not have been any kind of weak.

Nodding, you didn’t have anything to say. But you felt the connection build, just two weak children, forgotten by their mothers.

“But I know you,” Jason offered, the admission warming something in your chest involuntarily. And you knew in that moment that maybe you were scared, but you weren’t alone.

At least Jason Grace knew you.

You grinned, then. A far cry from the glares and snarls everyone else you had come across had received. The ones that even he had been victim to, at the start of the conversation.

"Well, Jason Grace," You stuck out your hand, and he clasped your forearm like a good little Roman. "You're never getting rid of me, now."

The smile he gave you in return was a little lopsided, and when he dropped your arm and glanced over his shoulder, you remembered that your not-so secret hiding spot was off limits.

"Just don’t tell anyone we were back here, please.”

If you had thought your mood was bitter before the trireme arrived, it was nothing compared to the sulking, sorrowful mess you currently were.

For starters, you had somehow been shoved and duped into the seat beside Octavian and across from Jason. You didn't really want to see either of them, at all, at the moment.

Secondly, and you may have been reading far too much into things, but the second girl the Greeks arrived with, Piper, was sitting entirely too close to Jason. You wished that you had a good enough reason to not like her, but with your rotten luck, Piper McLean had been an absolute sweetheart despite your best efforts to act like a dickhead.

And it wasn't like Jason had ever actually been yours, ever.

Third. The plate the sprites dropped in front of you was filled with all of Jason's favorite foods. You weren't sure if it was your will or the sprites that made it happen, but you felt like tossing it all away.

Maybe you would dump it in Octavian's lap. It might make you feel better. It certainly was worth a try.

Finally, there was one aching thought echoing inside your mind relentlessly. The last conversation you ever had with your Jason had been an argument. You had walked away from him, a little petulant, entirely unnecessarily. And you had lost your soldier boy.

Because the Jason seated across from you at the Dining Hall in New Rome was not the same one that wrote out your to-do lists for you on neatly lined paper, offering to tag along with you while you checked them off.

He was just Jason, not yours.

And that hurt far more than you cared to admit.

“Centurion, you must be ecstatic,” Octavian crooned, his sickly smirk pinned on you. You felt a whole lot of things, but ecstatic wasn’t one of them.

“How so, Augur?” You huffed, even though you knew it only invited trouble. Across from you, Jason and Piper clearly had one ear on the conversation.

"Well, you have been inconsolable with our dear Jason Grace missing," Octavian said, as if he really cared about you. More heads started turning in your direction, and you found your fingertips inching to do something that would really get you in trouble. "You were a mess, honestly. Looking like—"

"That's enough," Jason interrupted, even though he didn't have any memories of you.

At least he was still the same horribly perfect sweetheart he had been before he left. His months with the Greeks—all of them watching you with mixed emotions—hadn't turned him sour.

"Oh, you should have seen her, Jason!" Octavian was going now, flourishing in the attention and you hated him, hated him so much your cheeks burned as bright a red as the kool-aid trapped perpetually in Dakota's hip flask. "Crying, every night. She even has—"

"I said, enough, Octavian,"

"—has a key to your bunkroom!" The augur finished, and if you had been able to think of anything beyond your embarrassment or frustration or fear that you were totally, irrevocably erased from Jason's mind, you would have remembered Octavian's threat, earlier, before the trireme arrived. He was just exacting his twisted form of justice.

Embarrass me in front of the Senate, and I will destroy you in front of Jason Grace, you could practically hear him sneer.

"Wait," The Greek named Leo narrowed his eyes at Jason before darting them to you, a grin on his lips that screamed trouble. "Did you two use to date?"

"I don't know," Was Jason's clipped, short reply, his cheeks dusting pink as he fixed his attention on your face. He studied you like he didn't understand you, which was ridiculous, because sometimes it felt like you and Jason shared a heart.

"No," You grunted, shoving your plate forwards, glare fixed on the stupid cherry tomatoes rolling atop the porcelain that you despised and Jason adored.

"We never could figure out if that was the truth," Octavian slanted a look to you, smirking. "But I guess we don't have to worry about that now, do we Centurion? Since he has no memory of you, of—"

Faster than what would have been possible, if your father had been anyone different, you lifted the knife set beside your plate and slammed the tip into the wooden table, between two of his fingers. He screamed, and the plates on the table rattled.

Weapons were forbidden inside the Pomerian Line, but dinner knives were only utensils.

The whole table fell silent. And maybe the whole Dining Hall, had, beyond Octavian's spluttering and cursing and calling for your trial before the Senate for attacking an Augur.

And maybe if Percy wasn't glaring at Octavian, and Reyna hadn't been the one to slip you Jason's key, he might have had a case against you.

"Praetors," Standing, you bowed your head to Reyna and Percy, and though every muscle in your body screamed to pay the same respects to Jason, you couldn’t get yourself together enough to meet his eye. How could he not know you? "I request to be dismissed."

"I will come find you later." Reyna nodded, intelligent eyes shimmering with understanding, and you never realized just how much it hurt to be pitied by her. "We’ve got much to discuss."

"Yeah. Uh, lots." Percy nodded, looking between you and Reyna like he couldn’t quite figure out what he was missing. But then his attention snagged on Jason, seated across the table, and you saw it all—the understanding, the pity, the sorrow—pass over his face. "Wait—"

Annabeth jammed her elbow into his side, and you met her eye briefly. She might have been the only one who understood even a fraction of what you were going through.

But at least Percy remembered her, and he had loved her freely, before.

“Later.” You confirmed through clenched teeth, turning swiftly to try and find a spot far enough from Jason Grace so that his lack of memories didn’t hurt.

You weren’t sure such a spot existed.

Your feet carried you deeper into the city, walking past store after store. You couldn't stomach going into much of them, every bakery and café and bookstore holding some memory of Jason. Far more memories than he held, of you.

You weren't sure how much time had passed before you heard the first explosion.

And Roman training kicked in, instantly, as you raced towards the forum, where the Greek trireme was firing on your city, the one you had only just saved from and army led by a giant.

Fall in! You shouted, organizing legionnaires, your mind and your instincts at war. And you knew Greeks and Romans were at war, too. Protect the city!

You barely were able to glimpse the dark haired boy, Leo, manning the ballistae attached to the side of the ship before it took off, rocketing through the skies, even with Roman firepower slamming into the hull.

And as the trireme disappeared into the distance, fear tore through you.

Because you knew Jason. You knew he was on that ship, with his new friends. You knew he was sailing off with them, bound to a quest that meant saving the world, if what they said was to be trusted.

And you knew what came next.

Jason Grace, loyal to the end.

You were going to have to kill him.

a/n: did not mean to give reader such a tragic backstory but I kinda love it... im so curious to know what ur fav part is, bc I cannot decide. ty for reading this much and plz let me know what you think!

tag, you're it: @aezuria @tayswiftlovebot @bonnie-tz @folklorefantasies14 @sunshine-of-ur-life @irwinchester@bellamysnatblida @saph-nic @auroraofthesun1 @helloimamistake

[tiredofthehumanlife]

Honey(s) I'm home and very sad!

Barbie dolls: Roommates! Rosekiller x gn!reader

Word: 2.6k

Summary: uh you have a rlly rlly bad day and your lovely roommates make you feel better with cuddles and ice cream

Warnings: uh Barty dresses slutty?, eating mentioned and particuly described (ice cream), undefined retaliationship you're roommates but also crushing but also affectionate but also not talking Abt it idk stop asking, I lost like three hundred followers bc I was super depressed so to those three hundred people you suck I think🫀 so actually I take that back new information has come up and turns out its a Tumblr glitch my bad, you sleep in Evan and Barty's bed for like three seconds, Evan smokes, Barty hates fiction books and reads self help and nonfiction instead, Evan's very cleanly, Barty's very not that, idk do you guys actually rlly even like me or whatsittoya, kisses very cutesie, you cry, uh extremely brief mention of fighting

Hard days were never something that you truly expected. Sure you could picture all the worst possibilities and know that something bad will happen but you still never catch the full feeling of your reaction until you're sitting in it. You don't particularly want to show your upset but at the same time, you haven't turned your lips up in hours. The whole day just went downhill from the start. Once you start to think of the specifics you feel tears well up in your eyes. You just needed to get home. That's all. 

You weren't going to cry on the way home you'd do it in the safety of your own walls. You hoped your roommates, Evan and Barty, were in their room. You couldn't face them like this, you needed to hold on to the last bit of dignity you still had with them. You could never keep a hold of yourself with them. You snorted in your laughter even though their jokes weren't that funny. You fell over your words and came away from your conversations wishing you could try again. You stared too hard and ended up getting caught. You'd share too much information in an attempt to impress them. 

All you wanted was to go home, curl up in your blankets, and cry until you felt like a raisin. You felt the weight of your day double as you slipped your key into your front door. You hooked your keys onto the key holder on the wall. You shrugged your coat off, throwing it at the coat tree. You felt your tears building up as your walls slowly slipped away. The familiar home relaxed them even then you wanted to hold strong until you got to your room. You couldn't toe your shoes off fast enough, getting so frustrated you reached down and yanked your shoe off. You flung it at the shoe rack, ignoring that it wasn't anywhere near the other one you had slipped off. 

As you left the foyer, stepping towards your bedroom, Barty and Evan’s door opened. Barty leaned against the frame, crossing his arms over his chest. His sweatpants were riding low on his hips, showcasing his happy trail. His shirt was butchered and jaggedly cut along the bottom of his rib cage.

“Hey baby, have you ever tried that cake-” Barty paused when he saw the anger and tears pulling at your face. He straightened up, dropping his arms to his sides. 

“What's the matter?” Barty asked. You shook your head and waved him off. You could easily slip away now, get to your room before Evan found out. Barty could let something like this slide but not Evan. Evan must've been summoned by your thoughts because just as you thought you could get away scot-free Evan’s hand slid over Barty's shoulder. His form appeared after that, slipping next to Barty past the doorframe. He furrowed his eyebrows at you. You grumbled incoherently as you realized you weren't going to be able to get out of this one. 

“Are you okay?” Evan asked. You hated how easily Evan was able to massage away your wall with just his tone. You had been holding the tears back so well too. Just a few more minutes and you could’ve made it to your room. You wanted to just say ‘yes’ and to retreat your room. You wanted to swallow your tears and act mature… by hiding your feelings, obviously. Unfortunately what you wanted and what Evan's presence caused was something entirely different. 

Something about him just broke your walls so easily. It wasn't his tone, it wasn't his words, it wasn't his charming attitude, it was just him entirely. Evan could just lay his eyes on you and you were falling apart at his feet. You wondered if maybe Barty felt the same. 

Your throat tightened with sadness and your eyes welled with tears. You shook your head, looking away from him. Evan’s breath hitched and covered it up with a hum. He stepped around Barty and held his arms out for you. You didn't bother fighting the urge to hide in them. You wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek into his shirt. Evan’s arms warmed your back, it pushed you closer to tears. Evan hummed, the vibrations comforting you. 

You felt Barty's hand join at your back, rubbing up and down. You let the tears go, crying into Evan's sleep shirt. Barty’s hand continued its comforting circles. You let it all go, all the frustrations of the day. Evan and Barty didn't stall for a second. They let you choke it all out, your shoulders shaking with tears. 

A few minutes later, your tears slowed. You sucked in a breath, pulling away from Evan. Evan drew his hands away from your back, cupping your face instead. Barty didn’t move his hand, continuing to rub circles on your back. You steadied yourself with your hands on Evan’s waist. 

“Do you want to lie down?” Evan asked, raising an eyebrow at you. You nodded, feeling the urge to slink back into his arms again. Evan released your face, slipping his hand into yours. He tugged you towards his and Barty’s room. You ignored the gnawing feeling that you were intruding. Barty stayed back, the sounds of him shuffling towards the kitchen behind your head. Evan nudged his bedroom door open with his foot, dragging you after him. 

You were rarely in Evan and Barty’s room. How frequently did one really need to be in their roommates’ bedroom? Not very. You’d ventured in once or twice before when Barty asked you to get something, or when Evan overslept and you had to nudge him awake so he wasn’t late for work. Though Evan rarely overslept anyway. 

Some nights you’d wake up with a deep desire for water, wandering for the kitchen with your eyes closed. You pull down a glass, fill it, and take a sip before noticing Evan’s presence. You still have your lips on the edge of the glass, halfway through the motion of tipping it up.

Evan was frozen on the windowsill, a lit cigarette still half between his fingers. The moonlight made his eyes shine like the way you’d catch a marsupial stealing your garbage in the middle of the night. His thumb flicked, making the bright cigarette bounce and the dark ash fall outside the window. You raised an eyebrow, lowering your glass. Evan sniffed, pulling his hand to his mouth again. He sucked in a deep drag of his cigarette, the end’s color glaring in the dark room. You kept your eye on him as you chugged the rest of your glass, finishing off the water completely. Evan stuck his hand out the window again, tilting his head back as a plume of smoke floated above his head. You set your glass in the sink deciding to wash it in the morning. 

“You know if you wake up in the middle of the night with intense thirst, it means you’re dehydrated,” Evan said, his voice still quiet from his distance. You groaned, flipping him off and shuffling back to bed. You ignored his chuckle behind you, still too tired to think of a good quip. 

Evan dropped your wrist, dragging your attention back to the moment. Their room was messy, but not terribly. It was a little obvious who was the messy one. The clothing on the floor you had only seen Barty wear and the large pair of black boots thrown at the foot of the bed were definitely his too.

Evan’s shoes were precisely set next to the door. The dresser shoved in the back corner seemed like his too, with multiple books stacked on top. All fiction, Barty couldn’t stand fiction novels.

You could easily deduce which side of the bed was whose, the right, closest to the door, had a pillow on the floor, and the blanket was skewed and clumped. The left had a pillow tilted but on the mattress and the blanket was set straight. The nightstand on the right had a tented book that appeared to be a self-help book on romantic relationships and a knocked over cologne bottle, the cap missing. Barty seemed to be about three chapters in, if that. You raised an eyebrow, slowly turning to Evan. Evan pressed his lips together and shrugged. 

“Barty’s a little messy. I’ve learned to live with it.” Evan muttered, his hand flying out to set the tipped-over cologne bottle on Barty’s nightstand upright. You hummed, still glued in your spot. Evan ignored it, stepping over Barty’s boots to get to his side of the bed. He slid under the blankets, smacking the mattress next to him on Barty’s side. You joined him, picking Barty’s pillow off the floor on the way there. You tossed it onto the bed, laying down and dropping your head on it. Evan let out a huff through his nose and gently brought his hand to your face, tracing the lines of your face. You closed your eyes and let your mind and body rest now that you were finally home. 

It probably wasn’t a good thing that you associated your sense of home with your roommates. It’s an obvious connection but maybe not to this degree. Your apartment didn’t feel whole without them.

At some point, they were going to pack their bags and move, or maybe you would, either way, you’d be without your two very peculiar roommates. You’d miss their strange habits. You weren’t sure you could find another roommate who would walk around the house on all fours if he got too sleep-deprived and your other roommate who would use stares as a form of communication. You weren’t sure if you could move on from your freaks of shared living quarters friends. They made you feel free and utterly comfortable. You knew they wouldn’t judge you for any of the slightly odd things you did because they did far worse things. 

You shouldn’t feel so attached to these two and yet here you were, snuggled up in their blankets. You weren’t going to even think of the strange urge to lean forward and kiss them both that washed over you far too frequently. Evan’s hand slipped away, instead pulling your hand away from your chest to hold onto it himself. You felt sleep pulling at your mind, his soft fingertips on your skin slipping away. Your lungs filled and released like a rocking wave with ease. Your body stopped moving, joints going rigid with sleep. 

And then Barty slammed open the door, the doorknob knocking back into the wall. You jolted, your rest shattering like a glass vase. You sat up on your elbows, looking back at the door. Evan sat up straight, annoyance weighing his brow down. 

“Barty!” Evan chided, staring at the man in the doorway with disbelief. Barty turned around with three bowls cradled in his arms. A spoon was held between his teeth, his foot jutting out to find the edge of the door. He hooked the back of his heel over the edge, kicking his leg back to close the door. Barty tried to respond, the spoon in his mouth making it choppy. A few strings of guttural sounds slipped out from behind his teeth, making the general shape of a sentence. You let them stir in your head for a moment, trying to decipher them. 

Evan shook his head, not understanding a lick of what Barty said. He turned to you, to see if you caught it but you doubted you could’ve caught it if there wasn't a spoon in his mouth. You threw a hand up, giving up entirely. Barty let out a scoff, joining you two at the side of the bed. He set down one of the bowls on his nightstand, next to his book. He leaned down over his bowl, tilting his head to the side. Barty opened his mouth, letting the spoon clatter inside the bowl. You sat up, looking inside to see his favorite ice cream inside. Barty stuck the other two bowls out to you and Evan. You gently took it from him, looking between Evan and Barty. 

“I didn’t have hands, it’s hard to be quiet when you’re opening a door with no hands,” Barty said. His hand flapped, silently telling you to scoot over. You scooted into Evan’s side, leaning back against the bed frame. Barty flung himself into the mattress, making you and Evan bounce up and down for a moment. You stared at Barty in displeasure with your rather cold bowl in your hands. You pictured the moment from outside your view, Barty’s relaxed and stretched frame on the bed. You and Evan glaring while bouncing with your bowls held away from you. You would’ve laughed if your nap hadn’t been rudely interrupted. Barty sat up, pulling his bowl off his nightstand into his lap. He stuck his spoon into his ice cream, bringing the spoonful to his mouth. He looked up and paused in his eating. 

“What?” His words were muffled by the ice cream in his mouth. You sniffed, turning to look at Evan. Evan shook his head at Barty. 

“We were peacefully sleeping, Barty,” Evan said, still accepting the ice cream and pulling his spoon up to his mouth. You decided they had no problem with eating in their bed, scooping out your own bite. 

“Yeah in my bed. That I paid for, thank you for your service, Barty. We love you, Barty. You’re so sexy, Barty. Please, Barty, let us repay you for your kindness. That’s what I want to hear out of your mouths right now, not complaints.” Barty said, tipping his voice up to mock your voices. You glanced at Evan to make sure you heard right. You kept your eyes on your ice cream as you readied another mouthful. 

“I’m not saying that.” You muttered before taking a bite into your mouth. Evan hummed in agreement. 

“You must’ve forgotten to take your pills this morning because I would never say that.” Evan frowned, licking his spoon clean before taking another bite. Barty quickly swallowed his scoop before faking a gasp. 

“You don’t love me? Wow okay, I see how it is.” Barty joked, a smile playing on his lips. Evan froze, staring at the blanket to run back through Barty’s words. He dropped his spoon into his bowl. 

“Well, no. I do love you. I take back what I said.” Evan said, keeping his eyes on Barty to make sure his point was taken seriously. Barty cooed, leaning forward over your lap. He puckered up his lips and you leaned back. Evan met him in the middle, pressing a kiss to Barty’s lips. You stifled a groan at being trapped both between and under them. 

“Gross. I have feelings too, you know.” You muttered, trying to look anywhere but the kiss between your two rather attractive roommates. They pulled back from each other, returning to their original seats. You felt your shoulders relax, knowing the discomfort was finally over. You looked down at your bowl, stabbing your spoon into your ice cream again. You are startled at the feeling of their lips pressing against both your cheeks in two brief kisses. They pulled back returning to their ice cream. 

“We love you too,” Barty muttered before taking another bite of his ice cream. You hummed, swallowing down the true feelings you could bring up. Barty was the first to finish his bowl, setting it on his nightstand. He took the silence as a sign for him to tell you both about his day in extreme detail. You didn’t mind it. Barty was entertaining and it distracted you from your terrible day. You actually enjoyed laying in bed with them, eating ice cream, and watching Barty fling his arms about to explain his day. At one point he got up to act out how’d he‘d pummel Evan’s boss if he didn’t give Evan a promotion soon.