#the pain + the sight of blood + the exhaustion + the hunger.. and yet still i have been through worse and lived

[algolstare]

the one and only good thing to come of being dragged under the tide of the past which completely consumes the present, all my senses and mind, is that at least it more readily brings me to that state of being where i am strong (because i have to be) and i endure (because there is no other way) and the burden that cannot be carried or put down can be carried after all, and my world as evil and terrible and unlivable as it is can be lived in after all, and i have no need of reason or meaning or a light at the end of it - only to force myself to keep going, keep going, keep going.

[maiko-san]

Catnap + Dogday x Reader (Part 6)

<<< Part 5

Relationship : Fluff

Warning : ⚠️ Mention of blood, mild amnesia ⚠️

Recap : After inhaling the red smoke, you find yourself awake in Catnap's hidden room. For some reason, you don't remember what happened before you got here....

Yet again, you wake up from your slumber. You let out a groan and massage your temple.

Your head is throbbing and your whole body aches for no reason. Probably you slept on the wrong side of the bed— wait.

This is Catnap's room.

You're laying on his large cat bed and you begin to question yourself...

Why are you here?

You remember being in the infirmary after you exhausted yourself with work. But something doesn't feel right and you swore something happened after.

You try to remember what had happened but nothing came up, everything is a blur.

It made you feel frustrated.

A sharp pain in your head makes you jolt as you hisses in pain. You decide to ease yourself from thinking too much.

"Catnap?" you called out for the feline mascot.

Silence.

Where did the cat go?

You look around the room and notice a tray with medicines on them with a few bottles of water.

You pick up the pills and it was the prescription given by the doctor for your headaches.

You didn't think twice and took the pill so it will make your headaches go away.

After that you lay back down on the soft bed, you can return to your office after your headaches goes away.

As much as you want to walk back to your office, you don't want to stumble around like a drunk idiot and hurt yourself.

You close your eyes and rest....

Purr...purr...purr...

You hear soft purring in your ears, you slowly open your eyes and purple fur fills your vision.

You knew who it was and it is Catnap.

Hugging you close to his body with one arm over you as he purrs softly in his sleep. His body is curled around you in a protective manner.

You unconsciously bring your hand up and rub the feline's head, causing his purring to become louder.

"Star..."

Catnap's eyes open as he stares down at you, he shifts a bit to give you some space.

"How....are you...feeling?"

"I feel a little bit better...hmm...I remember being in the infirmary, did you bring me here Catnap?"

"Yes...I brought you here.... the infirmary bed is...bad...and not good for sleeping"

You hum at his response as you continue to pet him, Catnap closes his eyes and accepts the affection he's receiving from you.

You smile at the sight of the purring cat, you quite enjoy petting him and the other SC. They were made to comfort children in the orphanage after all.

You lift yourself off the bed and stretch yourself, "Well, I guess it's time for me to go back to my office!" this caused Catnap to snap out from his purring state.

"You can't!"

This causes you to flinch slightly at his sudden change of tone, "Why?" you questioned the cat.

Catnap froze, why didn't he think this through? He doesn't want you to go back to your office and see the massacre.

Also, the risk of losing you to the other toys is high.

"Everything.... already closed down"

Catnap said. It's entirely true that it's already past closing time. The playcare and the cable car usually shut down after 9:00 p.m. The only people who have access to everything are the night guards.

"What?! It's already past 9:00 p.m.?!"

You were shocked. You've slept that long? Catnap nods as you rub your forehead, guess you have to sleep in for the night huh.

You pucker up your lips before your stomach lets out a loud growl indicating your hunger.

Catnap's ears perk up at the sound as you smile sheepishly, "I haven't eaten since afternoon...I do remember leaving my lunch on my table" you hummed.

"I'll go get it!"

Catnap said as he stands up on all fours. Before you could question him, Catnap jumps up to the hole above leaving you inside the room.

"Huh?! Catnap, wait! Take me with you!"

You called out for him but to no avail. You let out a sigh as you stare up at the entrance on the ceiling. This room is easy to get in but hard to get out.

You have no choice but to wait for Catnap to come back.

You wait...

and...wait...

waiting....

What's taking Catnap so long?

You wish there's a clock in here and you don't have a watch to tell you the time. You assume he was gone for 15 minutes now.

Then, you hear something and it comes from the hole.

"Catnap?"

Something large drops down onto the cat bed, causing you to flinch. It was a blue box with a star on it. It has a crank on its side too. Is it...a music box?

For some reason, you feel the sense of deja vu.

You stare at it for a while, narrowing your eyes at the box.

You just couldn't keep your eyes away from it, if you do something bad would happen.

You and this mysterious box are engaged in a staring competition.

A few minutes pass and nothing happens but that uneasy feeling hasn't left your guts.

Then, the box begins to wind up and plays the well known 'Pop's goes the weasel'

'Get. the. f*ck. outta. there!'

As soon you take a step back, the lid pops and comes out from it, was a monster with razor sharp teeth and claws covered in fresh blood.

By the blessing from the god, you somehow slip and avoid getting eaten by the red headed monster.

"Sh*t!"

That's the only thing you could cry out as you quickly get to your feet and run.

But...where?!

The box monster springs itself towards you like a charging bull, you scream out in fear as you yet again dodge it but it manages to scratch your leg.

You fall on to the ground as you watch your leg bleed, the box monster stalks towards you with hungry eyes.

Your body begin to shakes in fear.

There's no way you can survive this, there is no escape!

As the monster lunges at you, you feel something sharp hooking itself on the back of your shirt and drags you high up.

The box monster was surprised as you are, it let out a frustrated roar as you feel yourself being dragged away by a strange force.

A/n : I know it's a short chapter but I want to leave a cliffhanger.

Also, the Reader had mild amnesia but having it doesn't mean that she forgot her entire identity!

It is only the memories of the previous event were wiped out and she only forgot the event of her being kidnapped and the hour of joy.

But she does remember being in the infirmary, resting.

[aklaustaleteller]

Like A Barge At Sea

Since Klaus admitted to infidelity, the harrowing pain of losing her family, her happiness, and her love has Y/n clutched in its arms, crushing her in its tight grip for what felt like was going to be forever. But will Klaus be able to hold a certain grudge against her for long? And if he can, then should he have?

Warnings - Quite mean arguments, mentions of heartbreak, infidelity, killing and blood. Word Count - 4.4k

Now, once again, long time no see, everyone? I'm so sorry it took me a month to get back to you with this -- the second part to 'Said Yes To Heaven'! I can't even believe I'm writing this and I'm sure you can't believe your eyes either fjskbf. In case you haven't read the first part, I highly recommend that you do! Also, thank you to everyone who pressed me for a part two, without you, this fic would not have happened!! And finally, I really really hope you enjoy reading this!!

A week had passed since Y/n confronted Klaus about the infidelity, and he had said admitted to it as if he hadn't been the one in wrong.

She had desperately been wanting to move out, to get away from him but for the sake of their little girl, and her only, she just moved out of their shared bedroom and into one of rooms for the guests.

Klaus was home less and less, probably to avoid her but not absolutely absent because of his undeniable love for Hope. Y/n just wished that he’d have kept the same love for her as well.

But that didn't mean that whatever of a relationship that was left between them was just mean, petty taunts and narrow-eyed glares. Because even now, there were stolen glances, sneaky grazes of touch, one losing their identity in the other one's eyes until the latter one would blink hastily to disguise the sudden shine in their eyes and move on with their day without daring to steal a glance even just one more time.

And now, instead of the staring bringing a maroon glow upon their cheeks, it brought forth a wave of rage to coarse through their stiff bodies because how dare the other one look so longingly at them while clearly being red handed?

Right now, Y/n was sat in Hope's nursery, breastfeeding her in the middle of night when Klaus had come to wake her up about her hunger. Her gaze was set upon her daughter, whose eyes were merely open in even slits anymore.

Perhaps that was because Klaus hadn't left once Y/n had come into the nursery. He was sitting on the floor a little far from the rocking chair she was on, his arms around his knees as he hugged his legs close to his chest.

Y/n didn't have it in her to ask him to leave. Maybe because she was exhausted, or because she didn't quite trust her voice to not give out on her. Every sparing minute that she spent with him in her sight, she wished so badly that he hadn't gone on and messed everything up.

How could he had done it? How could the man, so paranoid regarding his family that he threatened his ex-girlfriend with her life to stay far away from his home, had gone on to bring infidelity into his relationship with the same woman? It was beyond Y/n's comprehensive limits, she feared.

Y/n hadn’t told anyone, in fear of the ‘one gasp and then, how did it end?’ that she’d receive and further on, have to answer. She wasn’t at that level of acceptance, yet.  

With each glance that she spared at him, with her guards low, all she wanted to do was curl up into a ball and sob hysterically because he had stolen away her nights, her love, her perfect little family and her happiness from her. He had stolen himself, and everything else from her and she wasn't sure if she was coping so well with all of it.

She couldn't raise her gaze because she knew that he was already looking at her, with those green eyes swarming with something she refused to recognise as love. She had to begin taking in deep breaths because the mere thought of looking into his eyes was making her eyes sting.

And, once what felt like the millionth minute, passed in overrated comfortable silence, Y/n was sure that she heard a choked back sob escape Klaus. And that was enough to make the tear in her eyes to deceive her and fall upon the soft clothing on Hope's little frame.

Another tear fell then, and Y/n had to at the end, sniffle, and that made Klaus sprint out of the room.

Broken down in sobs, Y/n held herself together within a white-knuckled fist and put a fast asleep Hope back in her crib, pressing another kiss somewhere on her face before she too, hurriedly walked out of the room towards the guest room, losing herself throughout the entire way with shaking shoulders and held-within sobs that wreaked havoc inside her chest and held her throat with an iron-tight grip.

—

"Can we talk for a bit?" Y/n spoke monotonously, looking straight ahead instead of looking at Klaus, who looked as worn down as if he'd sparred with a dozen people.

She almost asked him about it, out of an old habit, but held her tongue.

"I'm not so su--"

"It's about Hope," Y/n cut him off, looking into his eyes for a split second before he broke the contact first.

He sat down on the sofa’s farthest end with a huff, looking at the ground.

"I don't want what's going on between us to affect Hope," she began, and that had Klaus raising his gaze with such accusatory eyes that Y/n wanted to scream at him for that itself.

"She's growing up too fast. I don't wish for either of us to miss out on her childhood, maybe her first words even," with a quivering voice, she finished, rubbing her sweaty palms on her jeans.

His jaw was clenched, and she wanted to scoff because of the attitude that held his frame so uptight.

"I'm well aware," Klaus began, his eyes holding distance in them. "I'm her father as well, you see? I don't need you teaching me parenting now."

Scoffing, Y/n shook her head. This was not the way she wanted this to go.

"It clearly seems like you do, since you're barely home," she said curtly, daring him to look her in the eyes and then pretend that he hadn't legitimately cheated on her.

Klaus got up at that. "I would be home more if it weren't for your looming presence!" He exclaimed, raking one hand through his hair before clutching it on the back of his head.

"My looming presence!" Y/n shouted, completely taken aback before hurt began to settle it. "You cheated on me, you bastard!"

"I'm not doing this tonight," Klaus mumbled before he disappeared into the master bedroom.

Eyes turned blacker than her worst nights and the golden rim of an eclipse shining through, Y/n clenched her fists to the extent that she almost wanted for her knuckles to rip open the skin stretching upon them. Brimming with a burning hate, she harshly wiped the tears off her cheeks.

"I hate you!" She screamed, breaking down into sobs when Hope's wailing tore apart the house and Klaus slammed the door shut after showing to Y/n the sight of Hope clung onto his chest as he lulled her.

"You're okay, little wolf," she heard him whisper. "Just a thunder, s' all," he cooed, and Y/n held her head tightly, crouching, wishing to rip her ears out or rip his throat out.

But most overwhelmingly, she felt guilt swallowing her contorted face. She'd gone to talk about saving Hope from the trauma of her parent's failed marriage, and then proceeded to produce a blood-curdling scream knowing the little one was sensitive to the smallest of sighs.

And then Klaus' hateful glare looking down upon her flashed through her mind and she raced out of the house before realising that there was no one she could run off to.

So, upon returning, she sat on the porch of their home, tears icy on her skin as she cried with a shaking body, eyes set on the open sky while everything inside of her begged for all of this horror to be taken back and for her intricately built family to be returned to her.

—

Klaus' eyes hurt, for the never-ending pain wouldn't stop seeping through the cracks in his eyes on the nights when all he wanted was to give in to peace by lying down in his lonely bed with his wife and their little wolf, once again.

And it feels unfair that he's the one losing his mind, the one who's been robbed of his entire life when she's the one who crumpled his heart in her fist by throwing an allegation of infidelity at him.

He hadn't cheated. And he knew that saying this to Y/n would end both of their miseries, but he couldn't quite bring himself to it. What would he say now, since he didn't deny her the very night she'd confronted him about it?

Still, he remembered the tiredness weighing down her eyes and tension twisting each one of her features in a stoned manner. So innocently, she'd asked him after taking a shuddering breath – "did you sleep with Aurora?"

The horror in her eyes had been evident when the love-sickness had drained down his whole posture and his eyes had transitioned from confusion to hurt to a cold, empty gaze in a matter of seconds.

He waited for her to apologise or to break out laughing, saying she was just joking, for a couple minutes. But when she kept on staring at him with wide eyes that held nothing but shock and betrayal in them, he'd swallowed the lump in his throat, accepting that that was just how it was going to be.

"Yes. Yes I did," he'd spat, hoping the anger lacing his tone would make her think. Think that of course he hadn't, how could she think of him in such a way? But she instead slapped him across the face with flared nostrils and tears streaking her cheeks and sped away.

He'd lost control that night and raced away from home as he transitioned into his wolf with one final leap into the forest.

He'd howled the loudest in a long, long time, that night. He'd felt it resonate through his chest and leak through the corners of his eyes as he'd moved through the forest with the wind, leaving behind traces of his tears.

But, upon returning, he realised that maybe he'd been a little too dramatic. Maybe, he'd just cried wolf. He'd showered and hoped that after dinner, they could sit and be civil about it all and work through his hurdle together.

But when he saw her hurting, the knife in his chest twisted deeper as he realised just how easily she'd believed it to be true.

Leaving it to rest for a couple days, Klaus kept on hoping that she'd see for herself what she'd been doing and come around to him. But she never did, and he felt himself fading away day by day.

The previous night, he'd been sitting by the window in the master bedroom, watching over her crumbling figure out on the porch and hating himself for having done this to her. And with resolution, he'd straightened his back and turned away, reminding himself that he wasn't the one with tainted hands.

And despite that, he'd gone over to check whether she'd fallen asleep or not, and then he’d carried her back to the room, laying her down beside Hope's crib while he went to sleep on the sofa in the corner of the room. 

—

Y/n was limping. 

In a flash Klaus was standing in front of her, holding onto her shoulders and looking down at her leg which seemed a little crooked. 

“What happened?” Klaus asked, eyes set on the trail of blood that had seeped through her pants, staining it. 

She shook off his hands then, turning to walk away and up the stairs. She could’ve sped up, but she also should’ve been healed by now considering the fact that she was a hybrid.

Taking advantage of the situation, Klaus sped in front of her, just a step above her on the staircase. He flinched when her eyes flashed golden, but due to reflex, he knew his eyes had flashed as well when he saw the reflection in her sombre eyes. 

“C’mon, tell me,” he whispered, hoping that she’d drop the attitude and just answer him for once. 

“I don’t know,” she began, and Klaus’ shoulders visibly relaxed. “I was running, then something came flying at me and hit me on the leg,” she shrugged, and Klaus could hear that she wasn’t breathing necessarily enough. 

So he backed up a couple steps, and leaned on the railing of the staircase. 

“But you should’ve healed right away,” Klaus pushed, the wheels in his head turning while a frown settled deep between his brows. “Unless…”

“It was a sneak attack,” Y/n finished for him, sighing. 

“Were you turned when you were running?” Klaus asked, moving closer to her as anger began tightening his features and the muscles in his arms flexed under the thin shirt when he fisted his palms. 

“Yes, Klaus.”

It felt strange, the way she said his name with no emotion lingering on it. But Klaus shook off the feeling, pushing it to the back of his head to dwell on it later in the night. 

“So you must’ve caught a sniff!” Klaus exclaimed, hyped that they were getting somewhere. But then he deflated, “if it were someone you’ve met,” he trailed off, now biting his lip. 

“I did, catch a sniff,” Y/n began, standing up straighter as ferocity came ablaze in her eyes. 

Both of them stared at each other in silence, before a certain realisation dawned upon Klaus and he opened his mouth only for no words to come out. 

“You’re right,” Y/n gritted her teeth, affirming Klaus’ unspoken conclusion. “I would’ve finished her off right there had you not… been on my mind,” Y/n stole her gaze from him then, looking down on the flooring from the sidelines of the staircase. 

Shaking off some of his anger to focus on his wife, Klaus offered her his hand. “Come, you’ll need the whole night to heal.” But when she refused to acknowledge it, he exhaled frustratedly. 

Still, when she took no action, Klaus picked her up like he had on the day they’d …said yes to heaven when saying yes to one another,  and carried her to the bedroom at a normal pace, just to agitate further. 

“Fuck you!” Y/n gritted out her last protest, hitting his chest one last time before he was lying her down on the bed and walking back out the door with a smile he wasn’t hiding well. 

He turned in the doorway then, looking at her with raised eyebrows. “Don’t try to clean up yourself, I’ll be back in a moment,” he nodded at her one last time before he was speeding away and out of the house in a flash.

Y/n, who was left behind feeling nothing but the static silence inside of her, moved so that she was sitting closer to Hope’s crib. 

She began thinking if, only for Hope, she should give Klaus another chance. But then, he hadn’t even asked for one. 

Caressing Hope’s head, Y/n slipped her fingers into her hair. The strands were only inches long so far, but it almost felt like her hair had grown overnight. That made Y/n’s chest heavy, realising that even after trying so hard, she had missed out upon the subtle things of Hope’s childhood, already.

And, that was because she had been wallowing in her own misery the whole time. 

She wanted nothing more than to put this blame on Klaus as well, but instead, Y/n brushed away her tears and lied down with Hope on top of her. 

The little girl was sound-asleep, but still she managed to fist Y/n’s shirt and snuggle closer to her. 

Y/n began to rub her back then, staring at the ceiling wondering what Klaus had gone out for. Maybe to confront Aurora for going too far, and crossing the line. Y/n felt herself shrink when she realised that the possibility of that was way too high for her liking.

She pondered as to why he hadn’t asked her for another chance. Why he hadn’t asked for her forgiveness or even shown in his actions that he felt guilty. 

Had he really been that desperate to get rid of her?

A tear slipped past her eyes and into her ear, and Y/n felt her face contort as she tried her hardest to not break down. 

Wondering how long he had felt that way about her, Y/n tilted her face on either side to wipe away the tears on her face on the pillow. She sniffled, and slowly and slowly, she felt herself crumple under all of her grief and anger, causing her to begin trembling.

So she put Hope back into her crib, and curled up on her side, facing away from her daughter as she broke down into shambles, all over again. 

She felt pathetic everytime she lost control like this, it was getting embarrassing and exhausting. She curled into a smaller ball as her throat began to burn due to the sobs she was fighting to hold back.   

Not confident whether she’d fallen asleep for a couple of seconds or through the night, Y/n lent up on her elbows to see it was dark outside. 

Turning to see the clock, Y/n instead saw Klaus, sitting up against the headboard, already looking at her. 

“What time is it?” She asked him, rubbing the sleep from her eyes after noticing that the clock had stopped again. 

“It’s midnight,” he smiled and Y/n panicked, instantly getting off the bed in order to reach Hope. 

“I fed her!” Klaus whisper-yelled before she could’ve picked the little one up, repeating himself when she looked at him frozen on the spot. 

“I’ve fed her before, you don’t need to be so shocked,” Klaus spoked defensively, turning on the lamp on his bedside table. 

Y/n sighed then, sitting back on the bed and shifting until she was also perched up against the headboard. They hadn’t been on the same bed in more than a month. Y/n began playing with her fingers, eyes set on her palms.

“Were you crying?” Klaus mumbled, intertwining his hands. 

Her breath hitched, she’d forgotten about that. “Doesn’t matter,” she answered curtly. 

“It does,” Klaus said. “To me, it does.”

Y/n scoffed at that, taking a quick glance at him before she looked away again, suddenly conscious about her bed-head and probably red-rimmed eyes that even felt a bit puffy. 

“Shut it, Klaus.” Y/n shook her head. “You don’t need to small-talk me.”

“I’m not –” he cut himself off, sitting back with a huff. “I need to tell you something,” he began, his teeth clenched due to unease.

“What?” Y/n’s body went rigid, preparing herself for whatever blow he was about to send her way. 

“I didn’t,” Klaus took a deep breath. “I didn’t sleep with her,” he exhaled sharply before going as still as a statue.

Y/n turned to look at him incredulously at first, before she opened her mouth to speak. 

“What?” She almost shrieked, it being the most unbelievable thing she could’ve ever heard in the moment. “Come again?” She pressed, leaning towards him and looking at him as if he had added insult to her injury. 

“I did not cheat on you,” Klaus repeated, looking at the wall ahead instead of looking at her.

“We can’t do this here,” Y/n said and the both of them sped to the living room’s sofa. Well, Y/n, as well as she could. 

“Are you hearing yourself, Klaus?”

He didn’t say anything, causing her to get up on her injured leg and start pacing around. 

“You are saying you didn’t cheat on me?”

Klaus nodded softly. 

“So, you didn’t sleep with Aurora?” 

Klaus looked up at that, holding her gaze as he said – “I killed her, actually. Tonight, that is,” he told her and Y/n’s face went pale. 

“Wha - you did what?”

“I killed her, Y/n. Hurting you was the farthest I could let her go,” he shrugged nonchalantly. “Should’ve done that the day she showed up the second time, now that I think about it.” 

“So – so why didn’t you deny me then? When I asked you about it?” Y/n came to sit beside him, still on the farthest end of the sofa, due to pain shooting through her leg again. 

“Why do you think, Y/n?” Now, he was losing patience. “I’m your husband and you chose to trust some clearly manipulative-vampire over me!” He shouted as lightly as he could, getting up.

But he stood still, unlike Y/n who’d been pacing around as if she’d been losing it. 

“So… you said yes out of spite?”

“Of course, I did!” He insisted. “And I was thinking that someday you’ll come around and see for yourself but you never did!”

Y/n’s jaw clicked. “For so many days, you’ve put the both of us through misery because of this?” Y/n began, getting angrier despite seeing clearly what he was trying to show her. 

“This is not about that! This is about the fact that you don’t have enough trust in me to know that not once in my immortal life would I ever deceive you!” Klaus felt like ranting, and he’d begun pulling on his hair. 

“I was insecure!” Y/n shouted, tears brimming her eyes. “I had given birth days before and some chick comes and tells me ‘she’d have married you as well had she known previously how good you were in bed’!” Her breath caught in her throat. “You couldn’t have expected me to come home and coddle you then!”

Klaus’ eyes were wide, and he was wondering if there was a way someone could kill a person twice. 

“You could’ve just told me that you did not and neither of us would’ve gone through this harrowing pain!” 

Tears were falling down like raindrops of a downpour on her cheeks, so Klaus took the final steps to get close enough to her on order to cup her face. 

He brushed away her tears with his calloused thumbs, hating the grief she held in her eyes still. Perhaps, he should’ve told her earlier. 

“Shh, it’s okay,” he whispered, pulling her into him as he held her to prevent her from breaking down into pieces. “We’ve got each other, haven’t we? We can come out of this together,” he said, holding her so still that he’d stopped breathing for a second.

Hiccups and sobs were flowing out of her endlessly, until only her sniffles were the sounds in the otherwise silent home.

“I can’t tell if I’m happy that you didn’t cheat on me, or - or,” she took a quick breath, hating how it was hardly reaching her lungs. “Or mad that you didn’t tell me sooner,” she spoke, finally wrapping her arms around him and clutching onto his shirt tightly. 

“I just hope you’ll trust me a little more after this,” Klaus whispered and felt her nodding vigorously against his shoulder. His heart picked up upon the realisation that he had her enclosed in his arms again. 

A chuckle rippled through his chest and he pulled her back, some of her hair strands still sticking onto him. He tucked them back, matting down her hair before he pressed a kiss on her forehead. 

When he backed away, Y/n slipped her arms around his neck before reaching for his mouth that was spread in a wide grin. 

“I hate you so much,” she laughed, pressing her forehead against his with her eyes closed, while Klaus gazed directly at her and pressed another quick kiss to her mouth.

“Like a barge at sea, in the storm I stay clear,” he sing-song’ed, attacking her face with multiple kisses when she cringed away. 

“Did you see how much Hope’s hair has grown?” Y/n asked him excitedly, eyes wide as saucers as she went back to sit down on the sofa. 

“I did! She’s going to have your brunette hair,” he pouted, putting one of his arms around her shoulder and pulling her into his side. 

She snuggled against his chest instinctively, albeit curling up into him while he rubbed his hands up and down her shoulder. 

“You were so vile the day my shout made her cry,” Y/n spoke quietly, her chest tightening and her eyes moistening again.

“I’m so sorry about that, love,” he sighed. “I hadn’t meant that. It’d just stung a bit that you’d think of me as a …bad father.”

“I hadn’t meant it in that way,” Y/n said, looking up at him. “You know I’d not want anyone else as a father for her,” she shrugged, a smile playing on her lips. 

“Such a good one you are that I might be inclined to think you should have another one to look after, a couple years from now, that is” she laughed, winking at him before breaking into a bigger laugh. 

“Shouldn’t have proposed the idea right now if you didn’t want one until another few years!” He whined jokingly, kissing her temple with some extra pressure.

The laughter died down then, and the both of them sat in complete silence. 

“You really were like a barge at sea, though,” she mumbled. “Was I the storm?”

“Hm, I guess?” He said, and giggled when she hit him on the chest. 

Y/n stared into the distance for a while, glad that the storm was over and that she had her life back. Even the thought of the utter misery she’d gone through, thinking she’d never have her family back again, made her shudder. 

“I love you,” Klaus whispered and Y/n looked up at him with a smile, squeezing his hand. “And, I’m sorry.”

“Forever and always, Klaus” she said, lying back down on his chest. “And I’m sorry too,” she went to press a kiss to his neck, but he moved to get off the sofa. 

“C’mon!” She protested, since she’d begun to think of catching up on some much needed sleep. 

“Alright, you need to take a bath to clean up whatever wound you’ve got going on,” Klaus proposed seriously, picking her up bridal style. 

Y/n gasped then. “Do I smell?” She questioned him, mouth still open ajar. 

“No you don’t!” He reassured her before a coy smile stretched across his mouth. “But I do need you to smell a bit more like you have mate,” he said with a grin, before pointing at himself upon putting her back down, now in the bathroom. 

“Oh, I really hate you,” Y/n mumbled bashfully, pretending to look away while Klaus began to get rid of his clothes.

[weirdfangirly]

Fatherless ─⊹⊱ ☆ ⊰⊹─

Dark-Fiction Central ©️

Dark!Joel x Reader

Summery: You offer yourself to a complete stranger in order to survive.

⚠️ : dark content. Dub-con. Age-gap (reader is not a minor). Dark Joel. Mean Joel. Loss of virginity. PiV. Slapping. Reader sees Joel as her dad. Painful sex. Joel enjoys seeing Reader hurt. Reader has daddy issues. Blood. Name calling. Degrading sex. Mention of suicide. Joel is NOT a hero in this one.

A/n: Well damn. If you want more, let me know.💓

─⊹⊱ ☆ ⊰⊹─

What a beautiful day to die, you thought when you opened your eyes this morning. You had spent the night in the woods—just like the night before, and the night before, and the night before...

You didn't dare set foot into the city. It was full with infected and raiders.

Sweat was dripping down from your forehead, even though you wore a light summer dress. Your legs were shaking from exhaustion, you were afraid they'd give in at any moment. You didn't know how long you had been wandering through the woods. Alone and lost. Your stomach was empty, as were your supplies. The only thing that kept you alive was the water from the river flowing through the woods.

Every day was a torment of uncertainty. You wandered between the many trees. You wandered with no destination in mind, with nothing in mind other than to put one foot in front of the other. Basic bodily functions like keeping your eyes open became harder with every passing day. The forest was rough and unpredictable, and you were not dressed appropriately. You were lucky that you hadn't broken an ankle with the footwear you were wearing. Yesterday you had stepped into a ditch and fell, you couldn’t find the strength to pull yourself out of it, so you just lay there and cried yourself to sleep.

Hoping to never wake up again.

Hunger made you grip your stomach in pain. You wished you could just cut it out, so that you didn’t have to put up with the cramps any longer. You had tried to catch squirrels and rabbits when your supplies became thin, but it was hopeless. You felt mocked by them. They led you deeper and deeper into the forest before seemingly vanishing into thin air, leaving you behind exhausted and still hungry. Your starving mind was trying desperately to come up with solutions. At one point you’d even eaten tree barks. Feeling full felt good, but it was short lived.

Suddenly your eyes caught something very promising. You stopped in your tracks, thinking that maybe this was yet another sick joke of your mind…

A berry bush.

Your eyes widened at the mere sight of the thick juicy berries. A miracle.

You ran to the berries. You couldn't remember the last time you had enough strength to actually run, but the mere thought of eating real food gave you the energy you needed to do that. You eagerly started to pick up as many berries as possible. Your hands were shaking in anticipation, your mouth watering, your mind running wild.

You were about to stuff the handful of berries inside your mouth when you suddenly heard the clicking sound of a gun.

*click click*

Your body froze.

„I wouldn't eat those if I were you.“, said a deep masculine voice.

The man was standing a few feet behind you, barrel of his gun aimed at you. The sight of you deeply confused him. When was the last time he’d seen a girl wearing a summer dress?

25 fucking years ago?

„Turn around.“, he said. „Slowly.“

You did what you were told, carefully turning around.

The first thing you saw was death lingering at the barrel of his gun. You slowly raised your shaking hands and looked up at your possible executor. A tall man, older than your father had been when he had passed. His old age didn’t match with his body. He had board shoulders and strong arms. His legs were long and steady. Fit. Invincible.

He looked like someone who would survive the apocalypse. Ruthless.

What a beautiful day to die, you remembered your thoughts from this morning—you weren’t so sure about that anymore…

He on the other hand, didn’t know what to think of you.

“Pokeweed berries..”, he pointed his gun at the berry bush behind you. “..are poisonous.”

“T-thank y-you.”, you stutter, unsure what else to say. You opened your palms and let the berries fall to the ground like little pearls.

It was comical that you were thanking the man who had a gun pointed at your face, but he appreciated your good manners.

“Now, tell me what are you doing on my land, girl.”, he demanded to know.

“I-I didn’t know...”, the last time you’d spoken to someone was your father. Your voice sounded brittle. You cleared your throat. “I-I didn’t know I was trespassing, s-sir.”

Joel had a way of dealing with trespassers; putting a bullet in their heads. No exceptions. He had never encountered a trespasser looking quite like you though. You were clearly malnourished—the gun in his hands weighted more than you. Your legs were covered in little scratches and nasty bruises. Your long hair were covering half of your face like a curtain—he could still make out enough to confidently say that you were too young and too pretty to be anywhere out here on your own. He saw no weapon on you neither. He raised his eyebrow when he spotted your painted toenails…You were wearing fucking sandals. You made no sense to him. Hadn’t you realised in what times you were living?

He could feel his pants getting tighter—which annoyed him greatly. It clearly had been a long time since he’d fucked a cunt when the mere sight of painted toenails and a pretty face excited him this much.

You were oblivious of what was happening inside the man’s pants. Your only worry was the gun pointed at your face. You wanted to run away, but your head was dizzy, your vision foggy, your stomach hurting and your mind running crazy.

It was a miracle that you were still standing at this point.

“Where are your people?”, he doubted you were traveling alone. You were probably just lost and people were already searching for you.

You shook your head.

“Bullshit.”, he spat. “Don’t lie to me, girl.”

He quickly scanned his surroundings, expecting someone hiding behind the trees and waiting to attack him. He took a step closer to you, which made you take a step back. “You gon’tell me that a girl like you is up here all by herself? I ain’t buyin it.”

“I-I swear, sir.”, you sobbed. “I’m…I have no one.”

Hearing the truth hurt. It took a lot of you not to break down crying. This was the first time someone had ever pointed a gun at you and it reminded you of the death of your mother. This is how she must’ve felt during her last seconds on earth? Scared and helpless.

Joel wasn’t sure if he believed you or not. By the looks of your physical state, it seemed to him that there was some truth behind your words.

“What’s in your backpack? Any weapon’s?”, he wanted to know. He thought about making you hand it over to him, but he doubted that you were carrying anything of use in it.

You shook your head. “Just my-my pocket knife.”

“Of course.”, he murmured, getting more and more frustrated with you. What a stupid girl. Walking around like this not even armed. He lowered his gun and turned around.

“Get lost.”, he said, before walking away. “Before I kill you.”

You were standing there perplexed, hands still up. You watched him walk away. He was the first human interaction you had in weeks. Your first human interaction besides your family. You shook your head in disbelief.

He was leaving you.

Leaving you alone.

Leaving you to Die.

Alone with your hunger and pain.

Your only chance of survival was literally walking away from you.

“Wait!”, you called out after him, but he kept walking.

No, no, no.

You started to run after him, almost tripping over your own feet. You couldn’t let him just walk away like that.

You had to do something.

“Please.”, you begged, not even sure for what.

But the man kept walking. His face was stone cold, looking right ahead.

“Please, sir.”, you tried again. “Please don’t leave me alone. I’m…I’m hungry.”

You sounded pathetic to him—something Joel barely tolerated.

“Not my problem, girl.”

You grabbed his arm, trying to stop him from walking any further—big mistake. He turned around in a heartbeat and grabbed your wrist. Your wrist felt like a toothpick in his iron-like grip. His first instinct was to break your fucking arm, but he stopped himself from doing just that, reminding himself that you were just a stupid kid.

Tears started to swell up from your eyes and your plump lip started to wobble. Fear was written all over your face and you immediately submitted to his strength. Knowing it was pointless to fight against it.

“Ouch.”, a sob escaped your throat and you begun to cry. Fat ugly tears started to run down your doll-like face.

He frowned, disgusted by your weakness and himself for finding it arousing…He let go of your wrist and you collapsed to the ground. Your shoulders started to shake uncontrollably. “I-I miss my d-daddy.”, you suddenly hiccuped.

A wave of feelings washed over him. He was annoyed of your showcase of weakness in front of him—a total stranger. He wanted to pull you up and slap you across the face, to get you back to reality. He was angry at himself for feeling sorry for you, just because you reminded him of his daughter in one way or another. Equally as innocent. Sarah never got to get used to the brutality of the world, she died an angel. Sweet and pure. He hadn’t felt this type of emotion for a long time. Sadness. Sarah—No. He shook the thoughts of his past life away. You weren’t Sarah. You were a nobody. Just a stupid girl that clearly didn’t know what was good for her—because Joel clearly wasn’t, especially since his pants got even tighter after hearing you cry out the word daddy.

Sick son of a bitch.

He decided that every feeling was easier to deal with than sadnesses. He wanted to forget, so he grabbed you by the arm and pulled you up. He slapped you across the face. Hard. Pain shot through your body and made you shut up immediately. His slap had put you in some kind of shock like state. The only other person who had ever done this to you was you father.

His hit felt so familiar, you almost wanted to beg for more.

“Consider this a warning, girl.”, he whispered close to your ear. “Have you any idea, what a stranger with a gun could do to a girl like you during times like this?”

You didn’t say a word. Your brain was still trying to regulate the pain that was radiating from where his hand had collided with your face.

“Last chance, girl,”, he said, voice dangerously low. “Get lost, before I blow your pretty face away.”

After a pregnant pause, you opened your mouth to speak. “You find me pretty?”

He has called you pretty.

He frowned at your words. Bewildered at your question in a situation like this

“Do you?”, you urged to know.

“I slapped you a little too hard, sweetheart? Seems like you’ve lost you goddamn mind.”

“Keep me.”

“What?”

“Keep me.”, you repeated, now silent tears running down your face. “Take me with you, I’ll be good to you. I-I promise.”

Your words angered him deeply because they sounded so goddamn good to him.

“I don’t want to die.”, it came out as a whisper.

He grabbed you by your throat. If you were scared, you didn’t show it. Your eyes seemed dull, disconnected. You truly looked like a lifeless doll to him. He brought you closer to his face. Observing you intensely.

You were so easy, so submissive. He didn’t know what to feel.

“You don’t know what you are getting yourself into, kiddo.”, he whispered. You could feel his hot breath on you skin. “You will not like what you recive..”

And he was right. You didn’t know what you were getting yourself into. You didn’t know anything. Your father had kept you sheltered away from reality. You never left the parameters of your fathers farm. You’d never spoken to anyone but him since the death of your mother. You didn’t know anything about the real world—but you’d read books. Many of them. Romances. You once read that “the female body is the most powerful weapon against a man.” At first you didn’t understand, but now you do. You knew what men wanted…it was the only thing you had to offer to him in order to survive.

He waited for you to say something. To apologise and beg him to let you go, that it was all an misunderstanding and that you were just a stupid girl who didn’t know any better— but you stayed quiet.

He saw desperation in your eyes, behind all the dullness.

Fuck.

He tossed you to the ground like a rag doll.

He was circling you like a lion, while throwing his weapon aside.

The man crouched down and spread your legs. He pulled your dress up, revealing your clothed cunt. He could see the outline of your plump lips through the thin fabric of your underwear. He nearly fucking came just by the sight of it. He tore your underwear apart with a grunt.

This wasn’t at all how you’d imagined your first time to be. You’d hoped it would be more like how it was in your books; with a guy you trusted and loved. Sweet and innocent. Exciting and nerve-wracking. Silly and dumb. Kind and loving.

Sadly, your really looked different; The forest floor was rough and uneven. Sticks and stones poked you in the back. It was uncomfortable. The man in front of you, who was currently slowly unbuckling his belt, was twice your age and far away from being your boyfriend. In fact, he was a total stranger. You were hungry and utterly exhausted. You felt disconnected from the situation—which was a good thing considering what would happen next.

„Fucking perfect.“, he whispered. You watched him stare at your most private parts. You felt ashamed and closed your legs again, blocking his view. His eyes snapped up at you, frowning.

„Open them.“, he said calmly. Chest falling up and down.

The sight of him in a state like this scared you. You nodded, scared of the sudden shift of his energy, and opened your legs for him again.

„Try this again and I’ll fucking cut your legs off.“, he warned.

He was slowly losing himself, losing control. The rational part of him knew that what he was doing was wrong for so many reasons. He was taking advantage of an starving girl. You were young, he didn’t even know how old. Definitely way younger than Sarah would’ve been now had he not failed her...

Stop.

A sudden wave of rage overcame him. This had nothing to do with Sarah. You had nothing to do with Sarah. It pissed him off that you made him think about her while being in a state like this.

You shook your head in dread. „I-I just…I…can I know your name?“

You hoped that maybe if you knew his name that this would feel less dirty, more intimate…

“Shut up.”, he just hissed. He grabbed inside his pants and freed his member. Your eyes widened and you let out a little whine of protest.

It was your first time seeing a man’s cock. It looked unnatural to you. It looked wrong. Thick and veiny. Too big. It was painfully red, throbbing.

He rubbed his hand over your little cunt, sending a shockwave through your body. He then put his thick finger inside you to feel you up.

„Are you scared?“, he asked.

You nodded. Scared and hungry. So hungry.

„I can tell, you’re fucking dry.“, he murmured, annoyed. He spit inside his palm and stroked his throbbing cock—this was all the preparation you would get from him.

Without wasting any more time, he slammed his thick cock inside you—or at least he tried. The size of his cock was too much to handle for your body, your cunt was rejecting him, working against him—but Joel kept pushing, forcing his length inside you. All of it.

Meanwhile, you were chocking on your own screams.

“Good job, cunt.”, Joel praised after making you take all of his cock.

He watched you cry for a second. Your face was painfully distorted and you were holding tightly onto his forearms for support.

“Fuck!”, he hissed. You were so tight, it was almost painful for him too. Almost.

He started to fuck you hard but slow. He was on top of you, holding himself up on his hands. After a few of his thrusts your body’s natural instincts kicked in and your cunt started to become wet for him, making this feel even better for him.

“Do you like it, baby?”, he chuckled darkly.

You didn’t. You had started to remove yourself from the situation by focusing on the branches of the leaves above you. So pretty.

Joel didn’t like that. He wanted you here. He wanted you to learn—too see what happens to dumb girls like you if not careful enough. He slapped you across the face again. This time hard enough to cause your nose to bleed—he didn’t mean to do that, he was pumped full of testosterone and adrenaline.

“I said, do. You. Like. It?”, with every word his hips snapped into yours, hard. Seeing you bleed for him like that only made him want to hurt you even more. Your were so goddamn sweet.

You looked up. Your vision was blurry, but he still looked so handsome to you. “Yes, dad.”, you whispered, confusing him with your father.

You had missed being close with someone. You had missed being loved. You had missed the warmth of human interaction. You were alone and scared for so long now. You never wanted to go back to that—even if it meant to suffer.

Hearing you call him dad, angered him. He stilled abruptly and grabbed you by your throat, making you chocke. “M’not your goddamn father, you fucking whore.”

He spit in your face. How dare you call him dad?

„Say it.“, he demanded.

You tried to but he was choking you too hard. He removed his hand from your throat.

„Your-your not my dad!“, you choked out.

He continued to fuck you, but this time his thrusts were even more unforgiving. His hips snapped into yours, bruising you up.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry!”, you cried out. “Please, ah!”

Joel didn’t care about your cries. It only turned him on more. Your father had clearly never explained to you how dangerous this world was for girls like you. You were lucky that it was him fucking you. It could’ve been much worse for you. You should thank him really.

Joel was fucking you like a beast, grunting and hissing in your ear. His sweat was dripping down your neck. He was hot, yet you felt cold. He kept his unforgiving rhythm; hard but slow.

You didn’t know how long it took him to find his high and finish, but he eventually came all over your stomach and dress. Growling like a wolf. You didn't even realize it was over. You could still feel him all over you.

“Fuck!”, he needed a few seconds to calm down. Kneeling over you and trying to catch his breath. His half-hard cock was hanging out of his pants. He wiped the sweat from his forehead while watching you lay beneath him covered in his hot cum.

He raised an eyebrow when he saw that blood was dripping down from your abused entrance. He looked down at his cock just to see it painted with your blood…

“Virgin?”, he whispered. You were a fucking virgin?

“What kinda fucking virgin whores herself out like this?”, he hissed at you. He was still panting heavily.

You didn’t respond, too stunned with the mixture of emotions you were feeling.

He got up and put his cock away, mumbling words to himself. He picked his firearm up from the ground.

He looked down at you. You still hadn’t made any efforts to get up. Your dress was still rolled up, cunt on display, cum all over you. He felt disgust by his handiwork.

“Get up, girl.”, he said. “C’mon.”

“It hurts.”, you just whispered, looking up at the dancing leaves.

He crouched down and rolled you dress down, covering you up before helping you in your feet. You looked down at yourself, your virginity was dripping down your slander legs. Your cheeks turned red out of shame as if it was your fault.

He cleared his throat. “M’name is Joel.”

You looked up at him and cracked a small broken smile. “I’m very hungry, Joel.”

He nodded a few times. “I know. Can you walk?”

He felt bad for even asking.

You tried to make a baby-step forward and pain shot through your body. “Ouch.”, you hissed and cupped your private part.

“C’mon. Hold onto me. S’not far.”, he offered you his arm and you looked up at him for any indication that he was just messing with you and that he would push you away the second you would touch him.

“Thank you, Joel.”, you said and grabbed his arm for support, looking forward to your meal.

[lelianasbong]

Wyllstarion thought that’s rattling around in my brain—Wyll’s so willing to give anything for others, even if it’s something he needs, something he can’t afford to lose. So in the long term, if he gets into a position where he trusts Astarion enough to let him feed, it’s entirely possible that he offers himself up even when he shouldn’t—when he’s been injured, when he’s too weak and doesn’t have enough blood to be giving any away.

And Astarion, who has experienced attentiveness to his unspoken needs for the first time in 200 years because of Wyll, notices and stops himself, even though it goes against every instinct he has, and tells Wyll to rest instead.

HE WOULD BE THAT GUY. I hope you don't mind - I wrote a thing based off your thing.

Wyll coughed suddenly, the motion pulling at his wounds under carefully-applied bandages, causing him to grimace both in pain and at the memory of its source. Hours ago now - had it been hours? It must've been hours, the sun had set - he'd taken his own rapier to the gut after a frankly embarrassing display of being disarmed by his opponent in the melee.

He was laid up in their makeshift medical tent now, hurt but healing, his injured ego a small price to pay for his life.

He'd gotten too used to fighting creatures with more teeth than brains, wasn't prepared in the moment for an opponent that could match his wits, not in this barren hellscape where everything was more monster than man.

Sloppy, he thinks, angrier at himself than his enemy (long dead now - few could survive a githyanki silver sword to the skull, and gods if he wasn't grateful for that). He could hardly afford to be careless now, not with so many depending on him.

He vows to pull Lae'zel aside when he's back on his feet, ask her to spar, to encourage more drills and bouts of one-on-one sparring amongst their group in general. The better to brush up on his skills and endurance and test the limits of his companions' own.

They could use the practice, and not just because they'd had their asses summarily handed to them today.

Astarion was wan and bleary-eyed next to him, looking less ethereal in the moonlight than sickly, every bit the walking corpse he was in actuality. His features were drawn tight with exhaustion and pain - nursing several broken ribs, his left side mottled purple with angry bruises from a glancing hammer-blow that had his body ragdolling across the battlefield. It might've been comical if they hadn't narrowly escaped with their lives.

The vampire spawn was plainly exhausted and - and there was hunger there, too, his eyes a little wild with the sharp aroma of blood permeating the med tent, cutting through the noxious scent of sweat and stale air, the suffusive atmosphere of worry that hadn't much abated.

Shadowheart had spent herself patching them all back together and was finally resting, the candle in her tent snuffed out with a tired sigh. The camp was quiet except for Wyll's slightly ragged breathing, the muffled sounds of Karlach snoring into her pillow. Somewhere in the distance or the depths of his psyche, he heard the rushing of a river.

He wasn't feeling his best self. But he wasn't feeling his worst self either. A day of moderate hiking followed by getting his shit wrecked by marauders had him losing precious pints that Shadowheart had tried her damndest to get back in him, to some avail. The pain was tolerable. There were stitches in his side from where the blade had pierced his abdomen - Astarion's work. The lad was surprisingly deft with a needle, and hardly prone to fainting at the sight of blood.

Astarion, who hadn't yet left his side. Wyll wondered distantly if the scent of blood in the air was more a balm or tease for him - did it soothe, the way the scent-memory of the market in the lower city soothed Wyll? Cinnamon apple pie and brioche bread fresh from the ovens, the air suffused with saffron and cloves, spices of every sort peddled by merchants from Neverwinter to Chult. Or was it torturous, to be so near an ambrosia you could only half experience, to merely smell what you were forbidden to taste?

He wondered, but now was hardly the time to grill Astarion on the intricacies of his vampiric hunger. Still, he wasn't looking well. Apart from the extensive bruises and the shattered ribs that lie beneath them, his skin was waxy and clammy like a mortal with a cold sweat, eyes sunken deep in their sockets. Shadowheart could only perform so many miracles a day.

Feeding would hasten his healing. And Wyll wasn't feeling the worst he'd ever felt.

Fancy a nightcap? he thought, didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until Astarion stiffened beside him, subtle as the sun. A moment passed, the other man took a deep breath - necessary only insofar as it seemed to fortify him, his atrophied lungs didn't ache for air, did they? -

An unidentifiable look passed over his tired features before he schooled them into something more imperious, raising a dubious eyebrow. A cool hand landed on Wyll's arm, rubbing soothing circles in his bicep.

"You smell about as appetizing as bilge water, darling," he sniffed delicately, attempting haughty but finding that it didn't quite land. "I'd rather partake of fresh food, if it's all the same to you." He wouldn't meet Wyll's eye, and Wyll couldn't bring himself to comment on the tremor in hands or how very large his pupils looked in the lamplight.

Nor did he seem inclined to leave Wyll's side, and Wyll found that he couldn't bring himself to comment on that either. He chuckled tiredly instead, eyes falling shut, blessedly dark and drifting on the effects of a potent healing potion.

"Another time, then," he assented, mumbling through his exhaustion, "when I'm less rank and more appetizing."

He felt more than heard Astarion's answering laugh - curiously wet, but the threads of conscious thought were tenuous now and the observation escaped him as soon as it was noted, as the Blade of Frontiers drifted at last into a dreamless sleep.

[anarchy-and-piglins]

Techno's mother did not cry out for him when they dragged him out of the house.

Her eyes were distant, closed off. She knew what was about to happen just as well as he did. Before he was born, she had already resigned herself to the grief of losing a child to the woods.

It was simply his purpose.

The leader of the village passed a thumb over his forehead and left behind a trail of blood, telling Techno that he should be grateful.

"It is an honor to be chosen for this," the leader said. His voice did not waver. He had sent off so many before him. Techno looked him in the eyes, unable to feel scared.

When he was little, he once asked his mother why they didn't just... leave? She had spoken vaguely about the fertility of these lands, the bountiful harvests that meant they would never know hunger. The clean waters in the river thriving with fish, the blossoms on the trees bursting with fruit. She had told Techno all of it, all the reasons that living there was a blessing.

And yet she failed to justify the price at which that blessing came. The reason he was born.

The woods hungered.

In the middle of the night, those trees called out with ravenous appetite to be fed. The townspeople send their sacrifice. And when the morning came, they would find nothing but the bones were left.

It was easier to know who would be sent so there was no risk of growing attached. Every decade, a child was brought into this world to bear the burden. Techno had spent his entire life locked up in his room. His mother fed him and had pity enough to entertain him with stories through the solid oak door. She said she did not want him to die knowing /nothing/ of this world.

But she wanted (no, needed) him to die all the same.

"Do not take it off." They fastened the blindfold around his eyes. "Do not look at them, or they will make your death slow and painful. You'll want this to be swift."

Techno nodded, feeling the leader's hand squeeze his own one last time.

The grass was cold beneath his bare feet, slightly wet with dew - a prelude to a sunrise Techno wouldn't get to witness. He walked, the wind pulling at his hair, stumbling without sight. Deeper, deeper.

As if his heart could hear them calling for him, for their chosen one.

And when he collapsed onto his knees, it was not exhaustion that pulled him down but their powers that made his shoulders heavy.

"He's not scared." One of them spoke, petulant. They sounded younger and boyish. Techno couldn't describe it.

"He's not. Admirable."

"Or fucking stupid. Does he not know he was sent here to die?"

"I do," Techno said. He could hear the very earth go quiet. He was told not to speak to these beings either. But he refused to go quietly. If he could not change the inevitability of his death, he could change the way in which he died. It was the only thing Techno could ever control.

So he had made a vow to himself that he would not be afraid. He would go with his head held high.

He flinched when a hand cupped his cheek, tilting his face up. He wasn't supposed to be able to see, because of the blindfold. But the woods cared not for human reality. Techno felt like he could picture perfectly the man observing him, long blond hair and piercing blue eyes. Dark wings of midnight feathers stretching from his back. The slight stubble around his chin and the dimples in his cheeks when he smiled in amusement at Techno's stubbornness.

The two behind him, not human either but projecting themselves for the moment painfully mundane. But all wrong, just in a way that it made Techno dizzy if he tried to focus too hard on it.

"He's different," the man said.

"Didn't you teach us not to play with our food," the one who hadn't spoken yet sighed.

But the man just held on, grip a bit tighter. Techno was blind again, the vision melted away, but he felt like their images had been burned into his mind. A razor-sharp smile broke the man's face. "I don't think he's food."

"They gave him to us, though?"

"True." The man hummed, pleased. "They gave him to us. But perhaps those silly humans mistook his purpose."

The woods hungered. But Techno was much more concerned about what would happen if they sunk their roots into his flesh forever.

[lycanlovebites]

with each blood moon I feel that animal I am grow stronger.

When the moon begins waxing full the animal inside me begins to whisper and howl. 

He yearns, we both know this, but I cannot let him free. 

Not yet.

I see him in my moonlit shadows when I stand alone in my room. 

He swishes his tail, flashes his teeth and talons. 

I wish to run. To be free with the moonlight on my fur and blood in my teeth. I want to taste it on my tongue, hot and wild. Just as we are, animals, beasts. You do as well. I see that look in your eyes, the way your own talons twitch at the sight of blood. you are animal too. Just as me, just as me. 

He’s right. 

I admit it to few, but I yearn as he does. When the moon  transforms, so do I. 

My teeth itch and ache to snap closed around my beloved’s throat. 

My fur grows course and full over my skin. I am grateful for the cover.

My talons grow sharp and curved. 

 My tail comes and oh, how I have missed it. 

With the blood moon comes my hunger. 

I used to believe it made me weak, constantly aching and turned into a pained, exhausted creature in heat. I  hated the blood that wept from me. 

Most of all I hated how the humans around me did not see my transformation.

I snapped and bared my teeth at them when they got close, spoke down, pitied me. I used to run and hide away from everyone else, resting in the shelter of my den like an animal about to die. 

But over time the blood moon has given me strength. Perhaps I’ve grown into what was always there, or perhaps the blood moon is as fluid as I am. 

I am still pained. But these are shifting pains now, a means to transformation, not ‘just cramps’. I hunger not simply for food but something deeper. I yearn for blood on my tongue and flesh and meat in my teeth, staining my talons and snout. I yearn to bite, to hold close and tight and drink it in. 

I yearn for skin against my fur, to hold someone tight in my claws, to drink him in until the red on my teeth and his neck bleed together and the lines between us blur. I want to take him in my embrace as mine, all mine. 

I want to be his. to belong. to feel his back against mine during long nights. I want him to take me in his teeth as I do him, unafraid and his, all his. 

The blood moon makes me feral with lust, for blood or otherwise. That much has not changed.

But I have begun to embrace it. I do not hide it from myself anymore, ashamed, feeling like nothing more than a little animal in heat. No, I celebrate the rush and power it gives me, hold it close to my heart. It moves me to create out of passion, a desperation to let it free. Honestly, I am the most productive artist during my blood moon. 

I do not love my blood moon. I would trade it if I could. But for now I am comfortable with it —as well as any beast can be when their organ bleeds and pains them, driving them mad with hunger, I suppose. 

I used to hate it not just for what it did to me but because of the humans around me. They celebrated it, said it made me a woman.

But I wasn’t a woman, I was just a little kid. I was just a pup. 

To me it was nothing to celebrate, not then. It meant people saw me as more mature, or weaker when I bared my teeth at them. Stop being so upset over it. You’re being so emotional, are you on your period or something? 

The blood that falls from me and through me doesn’t make me a woman. It makes me a beastly wild thing, yearning for blood and touch, but that’s far better to me than being called something I’m not. 

In the end, the blood on my thighs simply means that: blood. It doesn’t mean I was suddenly an adult, not really. It doesn’t make me frail, or “too sensitive”, or “more mature.” It is simply a blood moon, and it happens the same way the moon changes, going in phases and shifting, just a thing of nature. It doesn’t mean anything more than what it simply is. 

Humans  see it as a big momentous joyous thing. I suppose it can be. After all, you bleed from your organ. Every month. That is not something to take lightly. but it’s not a celebration (to me at least.) it’s not the beautiful delicate thing companies and influencers make it seem. It’s horrifying, it can be scary, it’s painful, and it can make you a beastly thing (if you’re like me), but it’s normal. It can be beautiful in the way a lightning storm rolling in the horizon is, powerful and scary, as natural as the moon itself, but it is not pretty. 

It is normal and natural. But humans confuse this with being mundane and often minimize it. They weaponize it, saying you’re just so emotional and cranky today. 

They were throwing a tantrum today just because of this. They must be on their period or something. 

I don’t care if you have cramps, you have to stay in class, you’ll just have to wait. 

They call you weak and emotional and then say oh but you’re so strong, you can’t call out today, just push through it, I believe in you! You should be able to take it. 

Humans make the mistake of tying it to gender. (They do that to a lot of things, actually.) A blood moon happens to many kinds of people, and it affects us all in different ways. No wrong or right way, there’s only the way you are.

My blood moon gives me the gift of transformation. For better or worse. I’ve come to enjoy the power it gives me, learned to channel the insatiable  lust into art and satisfying myself and feeling the strength my teeth and claws give me.  I revel in the transformation because it means I am no woman but rather a beastly creature, beyond the human idea of what they think I am. It confirms what I know I am: not human, and certainly not a woman. I’m not an ethereal being, pure and innocent or perfect, not the way people seem to wish people like me are. I am inhuman, I am wild, and I am unafraid of the blood and viscera that stains my teeth and hips and talons. I’m of flesh and blood, a mere animal like all other humans. I refuse to be the delicate feminine thing people wish me to be, all because my body is what they see as a woman’s. No one should be if they don’t wish to be. I refuse to be that. I revel in my fur and flesh and bones because it makes me real. It makes me alive.

[stolencrownsofplenty]

A Long Way from Home - Closed Starter w/ @electricea

A harsh, sharp ringing sound pierces through the ram’s ears as the cloak of night coats them in its cold embrace.  They wake from the darkness of their dreamless slumber with a start, their hooves practically scrambling to find some purchase underneath them to stand.  The dim glimmering light of their faint crown’s crimson gaze does little to help them take in their surroundings, yet through the faint crinkles of the ripped open some type of fragile sack,  full of rotting food no less, they had crashed onto did more than let them suspect that they weren’t in their home church; and nor were their followers around, for they only known so for their body feeling as heavy as their lack of sleep, they were alone.  Or they could only recall as much, since the explosion that made them fall into the random portal had somehow jumbled with its mind a little.  Weren’t they taking a long run around the roads of Silk Cradle, or had they confused the face of an enemy for a friend?  Either way, it seems like they had landed themselves in some type of waste pile, these odd tony barrels made of this silver metal surrounded them as they slowly tried to take in their surroundings.

The Emperor lets out a pained huff, their breathing feeling shallow in their chest as they clutched a hand to their wounded side.  Ah, heretics… It would appear they did get injured from that odd explosion, their body wasn’t even healing itself away from the apparent blood.  A free hand scarps against the hard rock of what appeared to be squared red stones transformed together in the shape of a wall, being the little bits of foreign items that kept them from falling upright.  Where in their name were they?  Their ears perk up at the faint yelling of civilization and the odd screams of beeps coming from the other side of this long outdoor hallway.  Goodness, if there were people nearby, they’d be lucky if any mortal wouldn’t be scared off from the likes of their appearances.  

They smelled like rotten eggs, their fur was a mess, and they weren’t in their best appearances to charm a stranger with the state they were in.  They were still lucky to have their old crimson veil to cover up the likes of their mutilated dark features, but even then they could only hope to even find someone who could at least keep their hunger for devotion sated.  At home it often came plenty.  Yet who knows if Gods were even regular in the lives of this odd world?  They were in no condition to heal themselves properly and-

The loud snapping of a fallen branch stirs them from the confines of their thoughts, that familiar pinch of adrenaline being quick to swerve their attention about them.  Their ears immediately perk up.  The sight of their old dagger being the first to take shape in their hand.  “Who goes there!”  The tired ruggedness of their true, deep voice spills through gritted teeth.  Damn.  They did not miss the exhaustion of being a total mortal like this!

[drabbles-mc]

Fresh Start

Gabriela Castillo x Nacho Varga

For the loveliest @hausofmamadas as part of the Rare Pair Exchange!

Warnings: 18+, language, blood/injury, light angst

Word Count: 5.4k

A/N: I just really really love that I got to write these two together. I love them. I adore them. No one can take them from us, Kay. The braincell is alive and well. 😌

Niche Crossover Taglist: @narcolini @garbinge @withmyteeth @justreblogginfics @cositapreciosa

He’d driven until the car gave out. Then he walked until his legs had done the same. He had no idea where he was—somewhere in California he was pretty sure based off all the license plates he’d seen while he was on the road. Where in California? He couldn’t even hope to guess. Everything looked the same in the dark anyway.

He hadn’t shown up to the diner because he was hungry, although underneath all the pain and exhaustion he was sure that hunger was there somewhere. But it was one of the only places that had lights on, one of the only places that seemed like it was open and also maybe even a little bit safe.

He collapsed before he got his hand on the door, crumpled right into a heap on the sidewalk. He was fighting to keep his eyes open, fighting even harder to try and say something, maybe even call for help. It was like his voice had stopped working, and he didn’t know if that was because everything in his body was shutting down, or if it was because he’d gone so long without speaking that he’d nearly forgotten how to.

When she appeared in his narrowing field of vision, he was certain that it meant he was dying. There was no way that she wasn’t an angel sent there to take him to whatever was next for him. He could just barely register the warmth of her hands on his face. He saw the way her lips moved, but he couldn’t hear what she was actually saying. He tried to look at her for as long as he could before his body gave into the exhaustion and everything went black.

Gabriela knew better than to try and patch up a man who needed far more than just bandages and stitches from her. She knew so much better. That was the whole reason she found herself at the complete opposite end of California from where she’d started just a few short years ago. And yet, when she saw him go down outside the door of the diner, she couldn’t stop herself from rushing to his side. If she didn’t try, then what was the point of any of it?

Once she took in the sight of him, she knew that it was going to be more than just a caring act from a good Samaritan if she helped him. There was a familiar knot in her gut that told her that this man, whoever he was, whoever he ended up being, didn’t just turn up outside the diner because he got lost on a long drive.

Pressing her ear to his chest, she listened intently for a heartbeat, relief coursing through her when she heard it. She managed to get him back to consciousness, but barely. He was beyond out of it, not that she expected anything better than that.

“Come on,” she said, her voice quiet but strong, “we have to get you help.”

If she had still been the same woman she was a few years prior, she would’ve called 911. But she wasn’t so naïve anymore. Some things, she’d learned, you just don’t call the cops about. And even though she didn’t have all the details, or any details, really, she had the feeling deep in her gut that this was going to be one of those things.

Going through motions that felt far too familiar for comfort, she draped his arm over her shoulders before looping hers behind his back. He was able to contribute just enough to the efforts to get himself off the ground, but Gaby was doing most of the legwork once they were up. It wasn’t pretty, or graceful, but she managed to get him to her car and somehow into the passenger seat.

He was fading in and out the whole time, still half-convinced that the woman in the driver’s seat beside him was some manifestation of the grim reaper, there to usher him into the next life by speeding down backroads in her beat-up coup.

When she got him into her apartment and laid out on the couch, he passed out again. She expected that, just glad that she didn’t have to try and half-carry him anywhere else for the time being. He had one arm dangling off the edge of the sofa, the backs of his knuckles resting against the floor. Both his legs were on the cushions, but barely. She looked at him, trying to see past the dirt and dried blood. She was looking for anything fresh, anything that could actively be killing him.

Taking a deep breath, she ran her hands back through her hair before starting to carefully undo the buttons of his shirt. Most of the blood on it seemed dried, but she wanted to be sure. When the shirt fell open, she saw the white a-tank that he had on beneath. There was more blood staining that, but it still looked like most of it was dried. She lifted the bottom hem of the tank top, just enough to confirm that any injuries that he was dealing with, any cuts or gashes, were old enough to have begun to scab over.

She frowned as she looked him over, all the bruises that littered his abdomen. There was nothing fresh that she could see, so her assumption that what got to him was the exhaustion. Whatever blood he lost combined with the fact that he probably hadn’t stopped to rest or eat or drink much of anything in longer than any person should’ve.

There wasn’t much more that she could give him at this point. She thought about getting a cloth with some warm water and soap to start at least cleaning off his face. As she looked at him, it crossed her mind that it probably wouldn’t wake him up. There wasn’t much that would cause him to stir at this point.

Her movements were gentle, the way that they always were. She dragged the washcloth across his forehead, his cheekbones. Each swipe took away another layer of dirt, of sweat and blood that had dried and tried to etch itself into his skin. The small snake earring dangling from his ear moved each time the cloth cleaned away another layer. The frown on her face softened the more she cleaned him up. She knew that she shouldn’t build out a life for him before she’d even heard him speak, but her mind couldn’t help but to wander.

When she’d cleaned off his face as best she could, she stood up and pried herself away from him. She tossed the rag straight into the trash, the sinking feeling that no matter how much bleach she used, she would never see it as clean again. She took a quick shower, just enough to feel like she’d rinsed off the day. She threw her clothes into her hamper, pulling on an old t-shirt and shorts to sleep in. Part of her knew that she could just sleep in her bed and that she would most likely wake up before the man passed out in her living room, but it felt wrong to try and do so. Grabbing a pillow and the blanket off her bed, she went back to the living room and curled up on the chair beside the couch, the one that was usually reserved just for reading.

The sun hadn’t fully crept up over the horizon when Gaby came to. The light coming through her apartment windows was minimal, gray. She didn’t even want to check the time, didn’t want to involuntarily do the math to see how little sleep she’d gotten.

Then she realized what had pulled her from slumber so soon. The events of the night before all came rushing back to her, her eyes widening slightly as she turned and looked over at her sofa. She was expecting to see the man still passed out, but he wasn’t. He was sitting upright, looking just about as confused and unsettled as she felt in that moment. His hands gripped tightly onto the edge of the couch cushion as he watched her.

“Hi,” she said, her voice soft from sleep, but it also had the caution someone would use when trying to soothe an injured animal. Anything to make sure that they didn’t get hurt if it tried to lash out.

“Hi.”

“I didn’t know where to bring you,” she started to explain. “You…you passed out at my job last night.” She twisted her fingers into her blanket as she nodded towards the bloodstains on his clothes. “I, um, I didn’t know what happened, so I didn’t call anyone.”

He looked down at himself, brows knitting when he took in his actual state. “Right. Um. Thank you.”

“I’m Gabriela.”

His eyes wandered back up to her face. “Nacho,” the name came out before he could think better of it.

As soon as he heard what he’d said, he closed his eyes, chin tucking down towards his chest. He knew better than that, but the name rolled off his tongue before he could think of it. It was hard to lie to someone who had a face and eyes as kind as Gaby did. It was too late to take it back now. Trying to fumble and recover somehow would only put himself deeper into the hole he’d just dug.

There was a tiny lift to the end of Gaby’s mouth as she looked at him. There was something vaguely familiar about him even though she knew for a fact that she hadn’t ever met him before. Maybe it was just the look in his eyes. Something that reminded her of a life that she’d left behind.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, a small air of amusement in her tone.

It was just enough for Nacho to be able to catch it, enough to get him to look back over at her. He wanted to make some remark to the effect of, “It might be too soon to be saying things like that,” but he was painfully aware that he wasn’t in the position to be shooting down any spare kindness that anyone was willing to give him.

“You too.”

Nacho kept meaning to leave. He knew that he should. Whoever this girl was, whatever life she’d had for herself before he came tumbling into it, he knew that he didn’t deserve to be any part of it. The hours ticked by and it turned into a day. One day turned into two. After four days he forgot to keep counting. But he meant to leave. He really did.

Gaby never did get around to asking him where he came from, what had happened to him that landed him in a heap on the sidewalk outside the diner. Sometimes she wanted to. When she would see him freeze up at headlights coming in through her apartment windows, when his head would snap towards the sound of someone knocking on the door of the other apartments that she shared a hallway with. People didn’t end up like that because things for them had gone well. Sometimes when things were quiet, and good, and he was helping her cook dinner at the end of a long day, she thought about asking him about all of it. But it just never felt right enough. Maybe that was the lingering strands of naivety that she hadn’t managed to grow out of.

There was never a conversation about him leaving. There was never one about him staying, either. He just did. That first night after they’d introduced themselves, Gaby made a comment about the fact that the couch pulled out into a bed, and that was the end of it. She’d come out in the morning and it would be restored to its former glory, blanket and pillows stacked at the very end of it. Neat as they’d ever been. But they never talked about it.

Most of those first couple weeks were just them existing together in surprisingly comfortable silence together. That, or Nacho would listen to her talk about what happened at work. She’d get home late from her shifts at the diner, but he was almost always still up.

“I had to give him stitches,” she said with a shake of her head, wrapping up a story about one of the cooks slicing his finger open.

“Stitches?” Nacho repeated back. “You know how to do that?”

She chuckled softly as she got a glass of water for herself. “Of course I do.” She walked over, taking a seat next to him on the couch. “I used to be a nurse.”

The explanation didn’t do anything to sate his curiosity. “Used to be?”

That was the first time he saw real sadness cross Gaby’s face. It felt like it sent a real, physical pang of hurt through him to see her like that. He wanted to take the question back, tell her to forget that he ever asked. But it was too late—she was already telling him what happened. Honest in a way that he could never even hope to be.

“I used to live on the border,” she said, looking down at the glass of water in her hands, “and then I moved to Lodi for nursing school. I worked there for a little while after I graduated. Things got…bad, dangerous. The person I cared about the most wasn’t who I thought he was.” She shook her head as she thought back on it all, memories she tried so hard to push from her mind. “So I left. Moved again. Started over again.”

“I’m—”

“It’s okay,” she cut him off. “I’m used to it.” She laughed softly but it was more of a sad sound than anything else. “I’m good at it now.”

“Would you ever go back?” He paused. “To nursing, I mean.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.” Taking a sip of her water, she finally forced herself to look Nacho in the eyes again. A tiny smile worked its way back onto her face. “Lucky for you though, hm?”

He chuckled, nodding. “Very lucky.”

“If you’d gotten to me sooner you might not have scarred so much,” she said, nodding towards his torso, the scar running across his stomach covered by the t-shirt that he was wearing.

“Too bad I didn’t know where I was going.”

It was the perfect time for him to finally say something, tell her at least the good parts of his life before all of this. He knew now that she wasn’t ever going to bring herself to ask him. Whether it was out of respect or something else entirely, he didn’t know. He wanted to tell her. Part of him wanted to tell her everything, lay it all out on the table. Each night went by and he tried to figure out if the risk was worth the reward—telling her everything and having her accept him regardless would send him clean over the moon. But telling her everything only for her to decide that she wasn’t going to let him be the reason that she would have to start over again wasn’t something that he was ready for, wasn’t something that he thought he could handle.

He couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not yet. “Really think the scar is that bad?” he asked, humor in his voice as he lifted his shirt up enough to expose it.

She let out a real laugh at that. Shaking her head as she playfully swatted his hand, causing his shirt to drop again. “Cállate.” She finished off what was left in the glass before standing up to put it in the sink. “Plenty of girls love it. You’ll be fine, hermoso, don’t worry.”

The smile that spread across Nacho’s face was involuntary, as was the warmth that went through his chest at her words. He found himself shaking his head, just as much at Gaby as at himself. He was still on the brink of chuckling to himself when she turned back around to face him.

“What?” she asked, still smiling.

“Nothing,” he replied, not sure how to answer with the truth of what he was thinking in that moment.

She raked her fingers back through her hair, pushing it all behind her shoulders. “I’m going to bed.” Walking through the living room to get to the door to her bedroom, she rested her hand on Nacho’s shoulder for a moment as she went by. “Goodnight, Nacho.”

He almost lifted his hand to place it on hers, but he stopped himself. “Goodnight.”

He watched her disappear into her bedroom, shutting the door softly behind her. The warmth that lingered in his chest was battling it out with the pervasive thought that he didn’t want to be another person who made her start over. He couldn’t be the next man who cost her something like that.

It was a few days later when Gaby walked out into the living room, her phone pinned to her shoulder as she spoke to Nacho. “Do you think you could help my cousin at his shop today?”

Confusion flooded Nacho’s features. “What?”

She shook her head. “It’s just him and one other guy right now and he called out.” She saw the way that he was still very clearly lost. “Cars. He’s a mechanic.”

“Gaby, I don’t—”

“You got my car running last week.”

“I’m not a mechanic. I know a little bit, but—”

“I’ll owe you,” she said, clearly desperate to help her family.

Nacho sighed, knowing that there was no way the conversation was going to end with him not helping. Nodding, he gave in. “Okay. Yea. I can try to help.”

She let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you so much.”

Nacho watched and listened as she got back onto the phone with her cousin. There was something comforting about listening to the two of them converse. He could only hear one half of the conversation, but even so, the sound of her laughing, of her going back and forth with him in Spanish, it was heartwarming and heavy all at once. He thought about his dad. He could only imagine what the man would think about the situation Nacho was in now, what he’d have to say about it.

Trying not to get lost in the thoughts of it, he pushed himself up off the couch so he could grab his boots and get ready to leave. He didn’t get far before Gabriela came back over to him, throwing her arms around him in a hug.

“Thank you,” she said, speaking more into his chest than anything else.

It took some doing, but he finally let himself hug her back. “It’s fine.”

Pulling back, she beamed up at him. “He’s excited to meet you. I’ve told him all about you.” She laughed when she saw the panic flash across Nacho’s face. “Don’t worry, hermoso—I only told him the good things.”

It became another one of those things that they never really talked about. One day never seemed to stay just one day with them. His whole adult life Nacho seemed to constantly find himself getting in over his head, landing himself in situations that snowballed no matter how much he tried to fight it. This was the first time it felt good, though. For once the spiral felt like it was going upwards instead of down. Instead of accidentally landing himself in a mess that he couldn’t get out of, it almost felt like he was starting to build something resembling a life for himself. One that had a very pivotal centerpiece to it.

He got home one evening and she had beaten him there. She had her music on loud as she moved effortlessly around the kitchen, pulling something together for dinner. Her hips swayed and even though he couldn’t hear her, Nacho was almost certain that she was singing along with the words that played.

When she turned around and saw him standing just inside the door, she gasped. The shock on her face quickly faded, nerves dissipating as she laughed and turned the volume down just slightly.

“I tried to say hello when I walked in,” he came to his own defense, a smirk on his face as he toed off his boots.

She chuckled, the lid to a pot in one hand and the other on her hip. “I’m sure.”

Walking over, he scanned over everything that she had on the stove and the countertops. “Can I help?”

She gave him a once-over. “You can go clean yourself up,” she suggested with a laugh. “I don’t want motor oil getting into my tamales.”

Nacho chuckled and shook his head, but he didn’t put up any real fight about it. “I’ll be right back.”

She hummed in acknowledgment. “I’ll be here.”

He only got a few steps out of the kitchen before she turned the music back up. Looking back over his shoulder, he couldn’t help but to watch her for a few more seconds as she went right back to dancing and cooking.

The air of intimacy between them was unlike anything Nacho had ever experienced before. And he didn’t even think that Gaby was even going out of her way to create it. That’s just how she was—soft, inviting. The closest he’d ever physically been to her was when she hugged him. Once. He’d spent years weaving in and out of relationships and situationships with other women, but none of them had ever felt so comfortable. All of that and he was still spending every night on the couch.

“Here,” he offered with a quiet chuckle as he reached over Gaby for plates on a shelf that was nearly out of her reach, “I got it.”

She laughed, letting her head drop in mock shame as Nacho reached over her. “Thank you.”

They navigated their shared space so easily. Brushing hands and arms, soft laughs crossing in the air between them. He wondered if Gaby felt it too. Wondered if she was like him, not saying anything about it for fear of shattering the fragile bubble around them.

“Thank you,” Nacho said as he was cleaning the dishes after dinner.

Gaby tilted her head slightly a smile on her face. There was a hint of confusion in her expression as she said, “I should be thanking you.” She laughed. “It’s nice not always having to be the one to do dishes all the time anymore.”

One end of Nacho’s mouth tugged up into a smile for half a second. “No, I mean, thank you. For,” he took a deep breath, “all of it.”

Recognition flooded her face. Walking over, she leaned back against the counter that was beside the sink. Even if Nacho was having trouble looking her in the eyes, she didn’t share the same hesitation. “You’re welcome.” There was a long pause between them, Gaby waiting for Nacho to finally say whatever was on the tip of his tongue, Nacho waiting for her to switch topics or walk away so he wouldn’t have to say it all. Then Gaby continued. “I’ve never asked, because I know what it’s like to try and leave everything behind. It’s not easy.”

Nacho chuckled before he could stop himself. “No, it’s not.”

She waited for him to look over at her for a moment before saying, “Maybe it’s too late for me to ask. Maybe I should have asked weeks ago. But do I need to be worried?”

He shook head. “No.”

She studied his face closely as he said that. That was a promise that she’d heard before and she still had to watch her whole life crumble down around her. “You promise?”

“Promise.” He meant it. He felt like he was as safe as he was ever going to be existing in the little universe they’d created for themselves. But he also knew that if he even heard so much as a murmur, felt even the slightest change in the wind, he’d leave. He owed her at least that much.

She let the word hang between them for a moment before nodding. “Okay.” Reaching over, she rested her hand on his shoulder. “Thank you for the dishes.”

The smile on his face was small, almost shy after all of that. “You’re welcome.” He let her get a couple steps away before he spoke up again, mouth acting independently from his brain. “That first night…”

The silence that took over the apartment was suffocating. It lasted for a few agonizingly long seconds before Gaby’s soft footfalls could be heard, slowly making her way back over to him. She didn’t say anything, just finding her place against the counter once more. Her eyebrows lifted, a silent invitation for him to keep talking.

“That first night,” he started again, hoping to get the full sentence out this time, “when I saw you, I thought I was dying.” He couldn’t stop the bit of a chuckle that found its way into his voice as he ended the sentence.

Gaby, despite herself, had to smile a little at that too. “I thought so too.”

“That’s fair,” he said with a nod. “But, when I thought I was dying,” his eyes were focused intensely on the plate that he was washing, “and I saw you, I swear I thought you were an angel or something.”

Gaby laughed. It wasn’t the first time that she’d heard something like that. When she worked at the hospital, tending to people who were in crisis, fading in and out of consciousness and some of them very much on the brink of dying completely, there had been more than one patient who said something to that effect. She always took it in stride, and she did this time too, but it felt different hearing it from Nacho. Maybe because it was the first time that either of them spoke about that night at all.

“Not quite,” she told him, her voice soft.

“I don’t know,” Nacho shrugged as he set the dishes in the drying rack, “I think I had it right.”

She rolled her eyes but she was still smiling. “You’re sweet.”

“You saved my life.”

“I don’t think you were dying,” she countered, her voice still light. “I think you were exhausted and dehydrated.”

“No, I mean,” he shut the sink off and dried his hands, “the rest of it, too.”

She smiled, not quite sure how to respond to what he was saying. So many times over the previous weeks she thought about bringing it up, but it never went quite like this when she played it out in her head. She watched him closely as he leaned back against the counter right beside her.

“I’m glad that you found me,” she said, giving him credit where he truly felt that none was due. He turned his head to look at her and she added, “And I’m glad that you stayed.”

The only way that Nacho could explain what he felt at the sound of her words was saying it was as though his heart had tripped over its own feet. The beat got knocked off-kilter, nearly tumbling down a flight of stairs as he let himself feel the weight of what she’d said.

“I’m glad too,” he finally forced himself to speak, his voice coming out as barely a whisper.

They stood there beside each other for a moment. The outsides of their arms pressed against the other’s, contact running all the way down to where the outsides of their feet were just barely touching. There was something in the way that Gaby hardly ever seemed to shy away from looking him, or anyone really, in the eyes. Sometimes Nacho thought it was because she had nothing in the way of shame resting on her shoulders, nothing that would make her feel like she shouldn’t meet someone’s gaze. He wondered what that was like.

His eyes averted from hers, but just for the briefest moment as they wandered to her lips. She had a soft smile on, something that seemed so constant and natural for her. It was far from the first time that Nacho looked at her when she was like that and thought about kissing her, wondering what it would be like to be able to taste that kind of softness and comfort.

It wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed his mind, but it was the first time he made a move to do something about it. Reaching over, he cupped the side of her face before he could make himself stop. His thumb grazed along her cheek, eyes studying every aspect of her face, like he was admiring but also looking for any sign that he should quit while he might’ve still been ahead.

She didn’t pull away. There was no doubt or hesitation present in the way that she gently leaned into the contact, pressing cheek to palm. Her eyes shut, a little too long to be a blink. When she opened them again, looking up at Nacho through her eyelashes, he thought that he was going to sink clean through the floor beneath them.

His voice trembled slightly, sounding like a man that he didn’t even recognize as he whispered a soft, “Gaby…”

She reached up, threading her fingers with his. “Mhm?” she hummed.

He didn’t know if he actually had words ready to say in response, but if he did they all fell to the wayside. Leaning in, he carefully pressed his lips to hers. It was soft, tentative, nervous in a way that he hadn’t been around a woman in a long time. Part of him was still expecting her to pull away, but she didn’t. She leaned into him, her hand moving to rest flat against his chest. The erratic beating of his heart thrummed against her palm, and he could feel that same warm smile curl her lips as she continued to kiss him.

It was everything he could’ve ever wanted it to be and more.

He was keenly aware of everything about her, the way her hands slid to interlock behind his neck, the way she gently pulled him so that he was in front of her, putting her between him and the counter behind her. Nacho’s hands dropped to her waist for a moment before sliding up, fingers splaying across her back as he fought the urge to grip onto her shirt and pull her tighter, like she was at risk of slipping away from him.

She felt it, too, the tension that was beginning to rear its head as his lips moved against hers. She pulled away, not far, just enough so that she could look him in the eyes and make him look at her.

“Hey,” she brought her hand to his cheek, “you’re okay.”

His shoulders sagged in relief as she voice washed over him. He let his forehead drop to rest against hers, eyes drifting shut for a moment as he tried to soak it in, not just feel what she was saying but actually believe it too. Her fingertips were so soft as they trailed down the side of his face, pads of her fingers as they roamed over the stubble that was beginning to grow in again.

Tilting her chin up just slightly, she kissed him again, tender and quick. Nacho smiled, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he’d started to hold. He pulled her closer, not out of fear, but because it just felt like the small span of space between them was too much. Gaby melted into him, hands on the sides of his neck, the tips of her fingers just barely interlocking behind.

“Come on, hermoso,” there was gentle laughter in her voice as she pushed against him, separating herself from the counter so she could start pulling him out of the kitchen, “let’s go to bed.”

It was a strange moment when Nacho realized that the couch wasn’t going to be bed. His eyes only drifted away from Gaby for a moment, looking back at where his blankets and pillows were all still stacked so neatly at the end of the sofa. But then he felt the way her fingers trailed against his palm and all of his attention went back to her.

He let her pull him across the threshold and into her room. He didn’t even have it in him to look around, his eyes fixed on her and her alone. As she flicked on the lights of her bedroom, the only thing Nacho could think was that he hoped that, just like everything else about them, this wasn’t going to be just one night.

[leggerefiore]

Vampirism

cw: blood drinking, vampires

kinda doing some Halloween based things but seeing as I usually write about monsters lmao

~

You watched as the Vampire Lord worked tirelessly at his desk. One might think they'd have few things to do in the modern era, but you knew that was untrue. Ingo always found methods of busying himself with things. Between running the subway system of Unova and managing vampire business, it seemed he was never without a document requiring his attention. His bat-like wings rested close to his body while he bit his lip.

Suddenly, a thought hit you.

“Ingo… When was the last time you fed?” you asked. He had not drunk from you in days, and you had not seen him go out to find blood for a while either. His features looked tired, but now you questioned whether it was from exhaustion or lack of food. If it was that, you were immensely concerned about his health. You understood his work was important, yet you wanted nothing more than for him to be happy and healthy. This was partly because you were his blood mate; the other half was wanting to avoid Emmet whining and crying about you not watching his brother.

His pen stopped scribbling against the paper as he turned to look at you. The moon's light shined beautifully through his office windows as your words weighed on him. Iridescent seas of mercury blinked before he stood. “Too long…” Ingo realised, “Oh, dearest, I'm sorry for worrying you. I simply got too busy to remember my destinations.” He seemed genuinely embarrassed and distressed despite his unmoving facial expression. The lovely eyes of his swelled with emotion. You tsk'd your tongue. This was no good.

Dark circles clung under his eyes as rubbed at them. His sleeping must have been restless, too. You had felt that he was tossing and turning beside you at night, but you kept it to yourself. Being alive for centuries could leave you with unpleasant dreams, you knew. Still, in the present, he needed to eat something. It was clear as he swayed while he stood. Easily, you presented your wrist to him. “Eat away, Ingo,” you smiled. Your blood helped more benefits for him than anyone else's due to your status. He swallowed.

“I couldn't,” Ingo shook his head and denied you, “It's cruel of me to use you as a personal supply of food.” You mimicked him with your head and pushed your hand closer to him. “Well, I don't mind,” your words were spoken with ease, “Come on, you need to eat. You're visibly unwell.” He bit his lip, but saw there was no way to ignore his hunger. An apology was murmured as he gently brought your wrist to his mouth. Fangs pierced through your skin with a practised precision. You flinched at the slight pain and shuddered at the feeling of your blood being sucked away from you.

Your precious sanguine quickly entered Ingo's system as he drank from you. Heat bloomed in your face when he let out a slight moan from the taste of your blood. His wings spread out and more was consumed from you. Just as you were beginning to worry about him taking too much, he pulled away. He licked the small crimson droplets that formed from the twins holes in your wrist. Quickly, it clotted and became invisible from sight. You sat down in a chair as your head spun. Definitely starved. You wished he wouldn't do this, but were always happy to help him.

“I apologise once more, my love,” he leaned down over you to press a kiss to your temple, “I am ever so thankful for your help… In the future, I will work to prevent this from happening again.”

“I swear, you do this every so often to just get a drink of my blood,” you joked and wrapped your arms around his neck. The coolness of his skin sunk into you, but you didn't mind, having grown used to his lowered temperature long ago.

“I do not,” he quickly retaliated, cheeks blooming with colour, “I get too involved in my work that I forget to feed. It's a bad habit I need to quit.” You nodded and pulled him to you, peppered kisses to his cheek.

“Mmm, I'll forgive you if you carry me to bed while flying,” you offered. He sighed.

“As you wish, dearest.”

[worstghost]

A Message

Michael Myers imagine

Word count: 475

The girl wakes up from a nap alone.

From the corner of the room, Michael watched her body with some sort of amusement. She was sprawled like a star fish on the bed, just the way he had left her, even now without his hands holding her down. His core flexed at the thought.

Her bare chest drew heavy breaths as if the poor girl couldn't get anything to her lungs. She was truly worn out. Naked and bruised, and satisfied.

Not an hour ago, he had left her, awake and panting, to find something to busy himself with. A silent stalk around town was tempting, and so he went without so much as a glance in her direction. She didn't mind, too exhausted to even open her eyes.

Michael approached the bed, fully dressed now, mask returned to his face, and knife gripped in his calloused fingers. He sat on the edge, pausing to when she started to stir. When she relaxed again, he began to gently, very gently, trace the tip of the blade down the center of her chest. Following the line of her spine, without drawing blood just yet.

She was still sleeping, or pretending to, out of fear. Either way he was too interested in playing with her skin to care. He brought the blade back up, pressing it flat against her nipple and her body jerked at the cold steel. But still slept.

He loved the sight of that, and he'd be sure to go back to the other one in a minute. For now he continued drawing shapes, barely pressing the tip to her navel, then smearing the drops of blood with the blunt back in a slick line up her abdomen.

Never had he been so patient, but something was driving him. Arousal or hidden bloodlust, he didn't know. His breath got heavy the more he cut, leaving tiny nicks and cuts in beautiful symmetry on her skin.

When he was finished, she was covered in droplets, barely even enough to scar. It had somehow made it's way to his hands and mask, as if he was finger painting. Michael only stopped when the hunger was unbearable, he didn't want to risk giving in and plunging the blade through her ribs just to see the blood.

She woke up a few hours later, body aching and skin burning. She twisted to sit up, hissing at the sting on her stomach. The room was dark as she led a hand down her sternum to find the cause of pain. Her hand touched sticky, almost scabbed, dried.. something.

The girl jumped up to find the light and turned herself towards the mirror hanging from her closet. The panic was only for a moment, the blood had dried and the cuts weren't deep. She almost smiled, tracing a shaking finger over the crudely drawn heart on her breast.

[dracopetal]

@hp-fruit-fest​

read on ao3

wc: 749

Pairing: Draco/Harry

Long fingers pluck a blackberry from the bramble bush, and place it onto a pink tongue. Rolling it around his mouth, savouring the sweet-sour taste, before biting it with white, sharp teeth, and it goes pop in his mouth.

Another. Pop. Purple-red juice drips down his chin, coats his teeth. Thorns cut his skin as he picks them, but he barely feels the sharp pain.

Draco is ravenous; transforming is always hard, always leaving him exhausted and starving. He could eat for a hundred years and still not be satisfied.

It’s still only dawn, the golden sun just beginning to rise on the horizon, and the doors will still be locked. He’ll have to wait to get back in.

No matter. Draco lies on his back in the grass, the dew soaking his skin, and closes his eyes in the shade of the bramble bush, occasionally reaching up to pluck another blackberry, slowly feeding the hunger.  

His body aches, and his skin feels tight, but at least the taste gives his senses something to focus on.

The sun rises higher. Golden rays touch his skin. It’s a deceptive sight: it’s not warm, it’s a chilly spring morning, but his blood is warm enough from the wolf, and he thinks he could lie there until his lips turn blue and he wouldn’t even notice.

He picks another berry, swallows it without chewing. A few birds twitter nervously around him, curious but wary. Draco feels something uncomfortable settle in his stomach. He doesn’t really remember what he does when the wolf takes over, but the birds remember, clearly.

He thinks about the red coating his teeth, juice from the berries. And what else?

Draco groans from deep in his chest like an animal, and a small, brave bird that had been creeping towards him disappears into the air.

He stares up at the sun until it stings his eyes, then he rolls over, chest to the earth, and smushes his face into the wet grass, breathing in the scent. It cools the burning under his skin, soothes the instinct of the wolf inside to tear through his human skin, soothes the burn of want, desire, until it is settled, quiet and muzzled, trapped somewhere under his ribcage. Waiting, patiently, for the next full moon.

That’s how Harry finds him later, whether minutes or hours Draco doesn’t know, isn’t counting.

Draco can smell his approach; he smells strongly of broom polish and mud, but he doesn’t stir. Twigs snap under Harry’s ratty trainers, and the sound makes Draco want to snarl. But he doesn’t.

“Hey,” Harry says when he’s close, like he always does. Hey. A shadow falls over Draco. He opens his eyes and stares at the mud caking Harry’s trainers.

A snap and a rustle of leaves above him, and Draco knows without looking that Harry is picking the bramble bush. Wants something to do with his hands. He can’t sit still for hours like Draco can, he always needs to be doing something.

Harry chucks one in the air and catches it in his mouth. Draco hears him moan quietly, the sound almost silent. He can imagine juice dripping down Harry’s mouth, begging to be licked off. Sweet-sour taste on his tongue. Pop.

“Are you ready to get up now?” Harry says. Draco’s body feels stiff after lying in the wet dirt. He’s hungry, still. He makes a noise that isn’t a word but isn’t animal, either.

Harry reaches out a hand, fingers stained purple, and Draco reaches for it. He lets Harry pull him up, even though he could easily drag him down into the grass with him. Harry doesn’t comment on his nakedness, on the cuts and bruises that litter his body. Later, Draco knows that he’ll wipe away the dirt and bandage up his wounds, all without comment, because that’s what Harry does.

In Harry’s other hand roughly a dozen plump round berries. Draco reaches forwards clumsily, limbs not quite his own yet, and snatches some of them, shoving them quickly into his mouth.

“Hungry, then?” Harry asks, more rhetorical. He offers up the rest of the berries, and Draco savours them, eating them one at a time, rolling them around his mouth and over his teeth until they explode in a mess of red-purple on his tongue.

Harry leads him back up to the house, and Draco pops the last of the berries with his teeth as he crosses over the threshold, into the warmth.

[beedreamscape]

The post-Blight encounter shortly rewritten and fluffed up with Loquaerryn angst and well... fluff.

Laerryn's head pounding hard enough that she doesn't hear them walking in.

She feels sick to the point of throwing up — which she did already, nothing but the bile of her empty stomach — which comes with a hunger she has successfully ignored up until now. Wetness on her nape and chattering teeth accuse a high fever, even in the stale cold of the labyrinth, sucking all of her energy, but damn it if she isn't gonna drag her burning and exhausted body to try and do something to stop the city she- they love from damnation.

She looks through notes, maps, prototypes, and manuals with blurry wet eyes looking not for answers — not even the most deranged minds could've predicted a situation such as theirs — but for a flick of inspiration that'd guide her through the pitch darkness she finds herself in. She's trying her best to recall what the betrayer god had said, but all her thoughts are stained with the image of Loquatius' body at the foot of the tree laid over a pool of his blood. Tries to focus on something anything other than the guilt of leaving him behind, other than the emptiness she felt the second he truly died, other than this excruciating pain.

She doesn't have much time left so from the suffering and the remnants of her sense of duty she harvests motivation. She's doing it for him, for her own heart, for his heart.

Just once, Laerryn, don't fuck up, she cries to herself. This one time try and do it right.

Extremely hazed out in grief and heat, she doesn't even budge at the soft-spoken "Darling" that comes from behind her, quite certain her mind's playing tricks on her.

It's only when Patia's clear and sonorous voice calls for her that she believes this isn't just an illusion. She turns at once, aware of all of them on the peripheries of her vision but laser-focused on Loquatius and his grey-white glow.

She barely breathes as she runs into his arms, can barely maintain her knees straight as their mouths meet in a soft kiss.

She holds his face, the distinguishable silky softness of his skin against her palm. "You're alive..."

A half-smile appears under his glittering tears. "I guess."

She steps back to see that, not only is he still as naked and barefoot as when the tree exploded, his blood's still leaking from hundreds of paper-thin cuts, now equally smeared all over her. The sight doesn't horrify her as much as imagining his pain does, and as much as it makes her shiver, the deeply metallic smell of it keeps her grounded in reality. He's alive, barely but nonetheless.

Her sobs return in full force. "I'm sorry. What have I done? Then I left, I left again! I'm so sorry."

He holds her face, making her look into the deep blank of his eyes. "Shush, no, no! You had no idea! I don't know how— I don't know what happened..."

Patia's voice is gloomy when she speaks again. "Zerxus brought us back."

Laerrynn feel out of sorts when she turns to see them, yes, Patia and Nydas are both covered in their own blood, thick dark red blotch on the side of his stomach and half of her arm missing magically stitched together at the elbow, but it's Zerxus in the pristine of his armor and the thick curled horns on his head that make her wrathful.

There are punches thrown and discussions that steal her attention for those precious minutes, but nothing she can't participate in while minimally tending to Loquatius.

She removes her deep purple wrapping cape and helps him cover himself, careful with his cuts, then searches her drawers for a vial of healing potion, nothing potent, just enough to rescue her in a minor emergency, and turns it into his mouth — all the while fervently discussing with Zerxus. It'd be funny if it wasn't tragic, somehow the scenario feels familiar from a few in happier days when her dear friend was still around.

///

She's used to holding the world up on her shoulders, yet at this moment the world is burning against her back and thoughts are darting left and right in her head, ramifications of possibilities branching out to all sides in an entanglement she's trying to undo as the prophecy is spoken and ideas emerge and die down again.

She's facing the waterwall where Zerxus claims to have seen the Lord of Hells earlier that day when she feels Loquatius' hands massaging her shoulders. "I don't mean to put any pressure on you, dearest, but you're the heart and brain of this city, and if you don't... I'm sorry, that didn't come out very encouragingly."

"It did, it did." She inhales deeply.

"You're burning," he says in her ear, massaging her harder.

"I'll be fine in no time. Losing you all did an instant number on me."

His breath smells sweet and coppery. "Are you hurt?"

"You died, Lo-"

"Are you hurt?"

"I got knocked back but nothing I can't handle."

He rests his head on her back. "I wish we could just... a selfish part of me wishes we could just disappear from all of this."

"But we can't... we can't..." Even if she were to take the world itself and transport it across dimensions, the demons and Betrayers would still be stuck onto them like leeches. Maybe the world didn't have to be hurled away, perhaps— "...but they can!"

She turns to him, to them. "I'm getting a really bad idea."

And in this mix of arcane inspiration, backed confidence, and perhaps a hint of arrogance, they lay out a plan or a resemblance of one. She is a capable woman, overqualified even, and her great machines still live and thrive, loaded with seven years worth of arcane energy. But she's also confident in the people surrounding her in their capacities, each crooked yet fitting each other like bizarre cogs in a well-oiled machine.

And the most indispensable piece, glowing with magic, overflowing her system with power:

Loquatius' hand never leaves her waist. "I have no clever plan to solve anything, but I do have a duty to our people, to report what's happening. I can get word down to Cathmoíra." A gleam of hope burns in his eyes. "We can save a lot of lives. If I—"

He doesn't get to finish and barely sees Laerryn coming his way before their lips are already on each other. For a few seconds, in the intensity of their kiss, in the high of her taste, he can pretend the world isn't ending, their friends aren't watching, and there's no duty to fulfill — there's just a man and his wife kissing, lithe tongues, bodies pressed together, arcane energy in a natural flow between them. Natural yet intentional, as a pleasant heat sparks within her flesh, she becomes aware of the spell he cast on her and moans into his mouth.

Zerxus clears his throat a second time which drives Laerryn to press Loquatius a little harder against herself, a mixture of laughter and a grunt comes from his lips. He's amazed at himself for wanting her at a time like this, but not enough that he perplexes himself, seeing as the desire haunts him since the first time he laid eyes upon her.

When they're done, Zerxus proceeds talking but neither of them looks.

Loquatius rests his forehead on hers. "When we're done saving Toramunda, I'll take proper care of you."

"And I'll let you."

Which would be odd an answer were they anyone else, but he understands where she comes from and smiles.

"I would appreciate that. I fell for a force of nature, foolish of me to believe I could ever tame it."

[primalvessel]

He hadn't meant to do it, truly. Despite his biting words and angry tone, he never hated the scions or the warrior as much as heade them believe -- they're all he had left, despite their relationships being nonexistant with him. Where else would he go, but here? Where else would he be accepted, even begrudgingly, but here?

So when his claws in a flurry of anger & fear tore open the throat of the closest person to him, he could only describe the sensation of realization as a bullet straight to the gut.

It had been in the middle of combat, lovek had been cornered and pressed into a wall. He had nothing to help him, no gun, no scythe, not even a small dagger. All he had were his claws, sharp and thick, far more dangerous than people might assume they were. It reminded him of a time long, long, ago, where he hunkered on the ground in exhaustion and hunger, waiting day in and day out, until his prey grew silent, sleepy...

He began to shred his enemies, snarling deeply, with reckless abandon. This was life or death, and it seemed lovek still had a fight to survive left in him.

This mindset made him terribly dangerous, made him forgetful of where he was. Who he was. What he was. So when a hand moved to touch his shoulder, all lovek could do was turn and strike it's owner so deep in the throat its a wo nder his prey could even cry out in pain.

"oh god, oh god," was all lovek had said as he fell with maru, pressing his monstrous hands to his throat like it'd save him from bleeding out. He should be dead, with all this blood immediately appearing, but he isn't and lovek can save him, lovek can fix this.

"don't! Don't!" Lovek screamed, and suddenly the world was completely different. Suddenly lovek was in complete darkness, not a soul to be heard, panting barely heard breathes while fumbling around in the dark.

He grabbed for maru, he moved over him like this was life or death, and pressed his hands to maru's throat like he had in his dream just to make sure it was whole. A sob, broken and agonized, shook itself out of lovek's chest, tears he didn't even realize he had shed dripping down on his hands as they gripped tighter, like if he didn't maru would spill apart for real this time.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please," he tried to whisper, but without his aid he sounded louder than expected. He sniffled and shook, before bending his head down against his hands and maru's throat.

/ hi.... Lovek having a ptsd nightmare after falling asleep beside maru on accident and maru waking up maybe thinking that lovek is trying to choke him or smth

While Maru wasn't a light sleeper who woke at every movement (definitely couldn't afford to be given some of the places he'd had to find sleep over the years), he also wasn't a particularly deep sleeper either even when he'd drifted off knowing that he was somewhere safe. So when Lovek began to shift, it didn't disturb the peacefully sleeping Miqo'te.

The scream did though and he jerked awake with a start, lips parting to question what was going on, disoriented and with his sight not yet adjusted to the dark. All he managed to get out was a gurgle as the Viera's hands closed around his throat.

Still struggling to get his bearings after being woken so suddenly, panic whited out his mind as his breathing was cut off almost completely and he gurgled, hands automatically rising to pry the hands from his throat.

Squirming beneath his assailant - because in the chaos he hadn't yet registered that it was his bedmate - he sputtered and clawed at the hands around his throat, legs kicking and knees thudding against Lovek's back, not that he had the awareness he needed to realise that.

Lungs were burning, head buzzing, he was fading fast.

With the last of his strength and having managed to thrash into a position that offered some leverage, he pushed at the Viera's arms to loosen his grip and finally succeeded in shoving Lovek off him.

Immediately sucking in air, the Miqo'te gasped, scrambling blindly backwards. He could barely hear it over the ringing in his ears as he coughed and rubbed at his throat, realisation finally dawning on him.

"Lovek? What the fuck?" he demanded but it came out like a ragged croak and barely understandable. It sent him into another fit of hoarse coughing during which he was finally able to make sense of what he was seeing.

Lovek was terrified.

Of what, Maru couldn't even begin to guess. The reason didn't really matter though and for several agonisingly long moments there was nothing the Miqo'te could do about it either.

Only once he was breathing more evenly did he scoot a little closer, head pounding and throat raw. He extended a hand as if towards a frightened animal, open and inviting.

"Hey it's okay. Lovek it's alright," he rasped as gently as he could, belatedly realising that if Lovek's aid wasn't in, he probably wasn't going to be able to hear him.

Maru remained on the bed though, free hand rubbing at his aching throat.

Lovek was definitely going to have left a mark.

[allmightluver]

**bnha spoilers** I'm just sat here with renewed realisation of what All Might is going through. 40 years. /40 years/ he held and refined that power and dedicated his every waking (and sleeping if Vigilantes is anything to go by) moment towards the goal of defeating AfO and creating a society in which people could feel happy and safe. And now as it turns out AfO is still alive, society is broken and he has given a literal piece of his soul to this young boy leaving himself with only phantoms

Yes. I don’t think people quite grasp what all he’s going through.

It’s been shown recently to us that some, if not most, heroes have underlying ambitions in becoming a hero. Whether for money, glory, fame, popularity, doesn’t matter. They’re ultimately in it for themselves. Toshinori’s intentions from the beginning have been the most pure- he wanted to be a symbol that people can look to and know things will be ok. A symbol of hope. This boy was only around 14 years old when he decided this. What kind of 14 year old sees the world that clearly? Sees that people have no hope, that a veil of darkness covers them. The only thing I can think of is- Toshinori did not have a good childhood. Something had to have happened to a boy that young to stop seeing the joy in life so early, and see the world’s flaws. Truthfully, I believe he was an outcast- due to his quirklessness. Most likely an orphan, perhaps abandoned by his parents, as we’ve never seen him have any family. I do truly believe Toshinori has been alone all his life. I don’t doubt more could have happened to him as a child before he met Nana. 

Some may argue that Izuku is the same age, and therefore it shouldn’t be that hard to see why Toshinori wanted to be a hero at such a young age. BUT, Izuku had someone to look up to, ever since he was a child of four years old, to inspire him to be a hero his whole life *cough cough* All Might. Izuku also was quirkless, much like Toshinori, and an outcast because of it (hence where I assume Toshinori was much the same). But ultimately, Izuku wanted to save people because he saw his hero do it. It really wasn’t until Izuku was a bit older, has been in UA, has been on rescue missions, has seen what the heroes see, that I think he’s truly realized how dark the world really is. Toshinori didn’t have that. He didn’t have someone to inspire him as a child, someone to look up to, a hero to inspire him to help others. At that time, heroes hadn’t become as popular as they are in present times. Toshinori saw the world for what it was, on his own, at a tender age. I think that day Nana ran into this blonde hair kid, she eyed him up, noticed his scraggly form, looked into those captivating blue eyes, and saw a man who’s lived through the world’s horrors- experienced the worst it has to offer-, and wants to save everyone he can from the same fate, all in a 14 year old boy. 

Then after only a few short years with the woman he saw as his mother, she’s killed in front of him because of his own weakness- he wasn’t strong enough yet to protect her. The only other person his life, Gran Torino, literally abused him. He beat him to a pulp, taking his own emotions out on a teenager, and I doubt Toshinori said anything of it. He probably thought he deserved it. He’s still afraid of Gran Torino to this day, remembering the beatings and expecting more for his failures- even if he doesn’t know what they are surely he’s at fault for something, but he’s the only person who’s stood by his side for this long. Even while at a distance, and spouting nothing but criticisms along the way. But Toshinori had to put aside his own emotions to be that hope for everyone. He left everything he knew to go to a new country on his own, to learn how to be a hero, to be that hope for someone.

Vigilantes showed us just how hard he worked. Toshinori literally stayed awake with no sleep for days on end- 3 in the chapter I’m referencing- because people needed help, people needed saving, and no one else stepped up. He fought villains, rescued civilians, repaired damage, cleared rubble, (even accept and eat food that was against his dietary restrictions after his injury) whatever the public needed, all while draining himself further. He worked himself to the point of exhaustion because he had no help, once literally falling asleep while mid-leap across the city because he simply could go no further. 

^^These happen in succession of each other^^

No one stepped up to say “Hey, Mr. Number 1, you’ve been working hard lately. Let me help you!” No one tried to take over his position. Even the Number 2 hero, Endeavor, never tried to take some of his burden. His only goal was to try to be better than All Might in terms of power- he was never trying to be the hero that the people relied on All Might for. Everyone relied on him when things looked grim. He was the back up plan. And all of this happened before Toshinori’s injury. 

The only thing he ever wanted to do- help people- he can’t do (at least the way he’s always known how to). The ability to save people has been taken from him in the most gruesome way. He was finally able to fight the man that killed Nana, and in a rage that I’m sure echoed with all of the emotions of the previous users, he smashed that man’s head like a grape. But not without consequence. Several organs are gone. The pain is excruciating. He wears that man’s mark on his body for the rest of his life, never truly able to rid himself of the filth.

Then we have Nighteye’s betrayal. The man that helped him as a sidekick, the man that grew to be his only friend. Now some people may ask why Toshinori flipped like he did to Nighteye looking into his future when he was concerned about him making it through his injury. What I believe is Toshinori didn’t want to know when he would die (and really, who does). Now he knows he’s on a time limit, knows the clock is ticking. Time is running out to keep the world at peace, and with him as he is now, how long can this go on? 

I think the betrayal, doing something that Toshinori specifically asked him not to do, is what hurt the most. How can he trust Nighteye anymore? He already can only count on one hand the people he can trust, let alone befriend.

He’s wasted away into a skeleton, a shell of the man he used to be. He can’t over exert himself without his only lung bleeding in protest. It’s canon in the side books that he really doesn’t eat much, which isn’t good for his diet without a stomach now (he’s supposed to have several small meals a day). He is quite literally punishing himself by starving. (Granted, he doesn’t feel hunger anymore.) He’s a sick man, beyond medical help at this point. They can only stabilize him and hope for the best. For five years now he’s in constant pain, every day. He loses blood like sweat. Surely his veins are bruised and collapsed with how many times he would have needed to be hospitalized. Whether from losing too much blood, being too dehydrated or starved from “forgetting” to eat, or an organ failing as body continues to fall apart. “...even as my body rots and grows frail...” - Toshinori People are bound to stare at him as he walks down the street. A tall, willowy, skeleton with a grimace on his face and blood stains on his clothes as he coughs up more into his own hands. There would be the ones who outright ignore him when they walk by, the people who offer pitying smiles and sympathetic glances or just outright stare, and then ones who are afraid of his appearance- children screaming at the mere sight of him and running to their parents to hide from the monster. Each one is another knife in Toshinori’s side, an ache in his chest. If only they knew who I really am.

Losing Nighteye took a toll on his hero work as well. Mirai was a huge help in the past, and took care of all Toshinori’s paperwork, while also reminding him to take care of himself. Without him, Toshinori was even more buried beneath his responsibilities. Plus, now he was on a time limit. He even snapped briefly in his first meeting with Tsukauchi, accidentally revealing himself as All Might because he was under too much pressure, and telling the detective he literally couldn’t handle doing everything by himself (who graciously took over the paperwork side of things for him). 

He was living a double life now, having to lie to people left and right about who he was while in his small form, about how he became so sickly, why he was here in the first place who the heck is this skinny old guy. Surely he had multiple visits to the doctor while continuing to repair the damage done by AFO (there’s a limit to how much the body can handle at once. And things I’m sure continued to fail as time went on). Then he would be bedridden for as long as the doctors could keep him strapped to a bed, until he couldn’t take the people’s cries for help any longer, and would jump into action. (It’s also revealed he has something of a super hearing- able to hear danger- which may have been a form of danger sense of OFA that was never fully unlocked?. Either way, he surly could sense disasters happening while he could only lay and heal from his latest surgery. Those poor doctors must have had to re-stitch him several times). People blame him for not preparing society for his retirement, that he failed in passing on the torch so to speak, but in reality he did everything possible to keep society from falling for 40 years, doing all within his power just to keep things afloat. He is only one person. One human being, he can’t do everything despite trying to. Society failed All Might.

People blame him for not being a good teacher. He didn’t exactly have the greatest teacher himself to learn from. He’s never had to teach anyone anything, he just punches! He’s learning. And for his own credit, he’s an incredibly wise man, he has years of experience under his belt, and an intelligence score of 6/6, scoring up there with Nezu! He may not always have the right way to bring something up, but he’s doing his best. Yet even he blames himself for Izuku not being able to control his quirk better. Every time the boy hurts himself, it’s just another tally on the chalkboard of Toshinori’s failures. He himself knows the boy deserves better, better than him. Useless. Pathetic.

Then his friend from America, Dave, essentially became a villain trying to preserve Toshinori’s legacy after Toshinori told him about his injury. Dave went behind his back, threatened people, injured people (pretty sure people died), all for Toshinori’s sake. Something he didn’t want to begin with. Having to put your only other friend in jail for trying to help you surely couldn’t have been easy.

Oh, by the way? All For One isn’t dead. All Might will fight him again, publicly, have his weakened form exposed to the world, and have his own emotions toyed with as he finds out about his master’s grandson in the villain’s hands. Would Nana hate him for leaving her son alone like she’d asked, and dooming her grandchild to be raised by the greatest villain? Could he have done anything to save him? But Toshinori isn’t allowed to feel, he has to smile and push his own feelings aside once again, because there’s a villain to be fought, and only he can fight him. Despite coming out on top, he’ll have suffered severe head trauma, broken left arm, destroyed right arm, and several cuts and bruises that are sure to scar. And then, his quirk, the only thing that’s been allowing him to help people, the gift given to him that he carefully held for 40 years and molded into his own until his very consciousness was permanently carved into it, blows out like a match in the wind. And he’s done. Used up. Empty. Broken. Hollow. Alone, again.

He overhears his student, Bakugo, admit that he blames himself for All Might’s retirement. If he hadn’t been captured, All Might wouldn’t have had to save him, and he wouldn’t have had to fight AFO. Of course Toshinori knows that’s not true, his time was about to run out anyway. It would have happened one way or another. But how can he explain to this child that he wasn’t the cause of his hero, the world’s greatest hero, fighting for his sake, bleeding for his sake, being forced into retirement to keep him safe. Every time Bakugo sees the bandages covering Toshinori’s body is another reminder of the pain and sacrifice Toshinori willingly gave to keep him safe. Toshinori wasn’t held when his mentor died. He wasn’t told it was ok to be sad, that grief and mourning was a natural process, that it takes time to heal. He wasn’t told it was ok to cry. Instead his feelings were beaten out of him as he wondered if Gran Torino blamed him for Nana’s death. He already blamed himself How then, does he comfort a child mourning for him? For what he lost.

And then he gets the call to come to the hospital. Mirai, Nighteye, his old sidekick friend, has been gravely injured, much like he himself was only a few years ago, and most likely won’t survive the night. And to his horror, Nighteye is happy to see him, smiles at him, says he doesn’t hate him for what happened, only wants Toshinori to be happy. He can’t accept that, at least let him apologize, reconcile his sins before it’s too late! But it is. Another fractured piece of his heart gone.

Of course, seeing your students beat up and their arms completely destroyed must have hurt. Instead of being able to save these kids, they’re the ones that hurt themselves to save everyone else. And if Bakugo had kept OFA, things could have been very different (especially with what we know now of OFA and people with quirks). Toshinori wasn’t mad at Izuku for transferring it away, he’d never regret choosing Izuku, and I believe he still would have stayed by Izuku and Bakugo’s side should it have stayed in Bakugo, doing whatever he could to help.

As he tells Aizawa, “I’ve decided to live,” -that statement seems so melancholy, besides obvious reasons. It sounds more like another task he has to accomplish. He didn’t die he was supposed to die with the AFO fight, and now the whole life he lived is over. The world has no use for him anymore. If not for Izuku, he’d have nothing left keeping him here. But because his boy made him promise to live, he’ll do so. Though it almost seems like he says those words with regret. “I’ve decided to live.” Not, “I’m going to live!” “Nothing can kill me!” “I won’t go down without a fight!” No. “I’ll live if I have to, only because you asked me to.” The man is obviously and outwardly depressed. He has so many things against him. No doubt has severe PTSD, anxiety, among others. Not to mention his own physical health. Every day hurts. It’s painful to be alive. Why would he torture himself if he doesn’t have to? For you, my boy. You’re the only thing keeping me here. The only light in my dark world.

He tries to help Izuku find out the previous holder’s quirks, to help his boy in any way he can now that he’s worthless, and goes days on end without sleep, running his body into the ground. He even forgets Christmas. Only to find that by giving the boy the same gift he had received, he may have just doomed him to an early death, among psychological torture (danger detection). (Granted, he really doesn’t know how everything works, and he’s afraid to talk to anyone about it). His boy could live only half a life.

It’s only been a few months since he retired, and society has fallen into shambles. People are blaming him. People are dying. He watches helplessly as his colleague fight his fight for him, and end up battered, bruised, crippled, dead. He students, his boy, battle the monster he should have killed. Children are bleeding. This shouldn’t happen. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Is everything he worked for, everything he fought to protect, to build up, to inspire, is all for naught?! Did he live a foolish dream and doom the world? Was all the the friends he lost, tears he shed, the organs he destroyed, the pain he endures on a daily basis from the hole in his side, and the blood he continues to bleed every day, for nothing? The public, the ones he protected for so long, mourn his absence, but surely there are those among them who also blame him. The statue from his last fight in Kamino one that he never asked for was decimated in a mock of his catch phrase- the one that was supposed to give hope.

Now he can feel his own vestige speaking with Izuku in the OFA realm, even with out OFA in his own body anymore. His clock as nearly reached it’s limit, Nighteye’s prediction is due any day now. The only thing he wants is to see his boy smile at him, to give him some shred of hope. Yet the child remains unconscious, and Toshinori can’t even hold his hand from the bandages covering his arms. Will he still be able to fight? Is there any coming back from this now? Did I break him?

With all Toshinori has been through, I’m honestly surprised we haven’t seen him just outright break down. Anyone, anyone, else should have crumbled under the pressure of holding up the world for 40 years alone. And instead of being able to pass it on to someone when he can no longer bear its weight, it simply falls to into the abyss. People don’t credit All Might enough for everything he’s done. Most don’t realize the sacrifices he’s made. His character is so unbelievably profound and deep, it’s more than just the “I am here!” people focus on. He’s a deeply troubled, layered, complex character. And I can’t find fault within him.

[bibliocratic]

clear the area jonmartin, post-MAG200 content warnings in the tags

They earn their ending. A happy-ever-after beyond the gaze of any eyes.

Jon endures his abdication. This world has no Archivists, has need of none, the thankless crown of Knowing finally unburdened from his shoulders. The blood washes off Martin’s hands with soap and scrubbing and scalding water. They live.

The end. In conclusion. Fin.

-

Jon’s new scar, the packaging of his skin split ragged from collarbone to sternum, fades like sun-caught paint. A maw of red pursing to a gummy primrose pink, settling into a rough cartography of white.

The first few months are hard. Brimstone flare-up silences and ice-pick shouting, open-handed forgiveness and closed-fist weeping. They drain themselves to husks with anger and worry and grief until there is enough space for better things to grow there in their stead. Jon’s nightmares were a nightly stormfront to bear, sweated sheets and dawn fanfares of panic and dread, but he is learning now, with the space for his ribs to expand, that it is ok for them to breathe here.

Jon digs up the garden with a rusty trowel until it is a bumpy canvas of mulch and soil, dirt tucked under his fingernails and decorated with smudges up to his elbows. He hums while he irons their shirts in front of the television, thoughtless and senseless with tune.

Martin has tried to, but the sound goes down the wrong way.

-

Martin is happy.

-

It isn’t the sight as such, that might sit as a film over his vision to tinge his waking sepia. The reddest thing they own is a terracotta plant plot brimming with raggedy thyme that lives a precarious cliff-top existence on the kitchen windowsill. He observes Jon’s face in all its variations, even pained – when he snags splinters in his fingers, when he stubs his toe on the stone front step and swears damnation – and his response is sympathy tempered by admonishment.

It’s not the sensation, not really, that might tremble on his skin. Martin’s palms tend to dryness inside their homely bubble of creaky central heating, hemmed in by boisterous coastal winds. He handles bread knives and butter knives and steak knives and carving knives without the muscle memory of other blades, and he thinks he might be getting pretty handy with his oven experimentation.

It’s the sound. It wakes him, the noise lingering like the echo of a slap.

The slick punch of metal into muscle. A tooth-bared, tense-jawed gasp.

Resurfacing to shocked consciousness, he would be seized by a frenzy, to know, to check. His scattering hand scrabbling for the lamp with such force he hit it off the nightstand to roll in a giddy clatter, throwing off the covers to rapidly pollute both of them with the outside air. Jon would be rocked from sleep, groggy, panicked, and Martin’s words would not come, a train of thought trying to race full steam where no one had laid tracks, so it would be just the two of them, exhausted and upset and amping the other up in misery.

Now, upon his rousing, Martin knows not to turn on the light. He does not check. The aftermath of punch-gasp curls in his ear, and he inhale-exhale-inhales with the ferocity of mantra, and clamps the threatened tears in the clench of his teeth.

He does not wake Jon.

-

“How did you sleep?”

“Oh, you know me. Like a log.”

-

He is happy. He is. Why wouldn’t he be?

--

Jon rumbles like a rusty mechanism with snoring whenever he drops off on his back, and he mumbles accusatory when Martin coaxes him to his side. Martin finds black hairs on his pillowcase, in the shower plug. Jon is a vista of experience since the Eye left him, who gets hungry and tired and grumpy and drunk and silly and fed-up and giggly. Jon searches him out with the surety of magnets, and loves him, loves him, loves him. He seals kisses to Martin’s new landscape of extensive scars. Their disagreements, when they surface, are as meaningful and lasting as stones skipped on water.

Martin wanted this. He wants this. The rhythms of domesticity fading to foam on an untroubled shore.

He is out of practise with happiness, that’s all. It doesn’t come to him like breathing. He needs to till the earth of it, shelter its seeds from a thousand circling crows until it bears harvest.

He just has to try harder.

-

Night-time.

An episode or two of something simple, Jon nodding off like a capsizing ship before the credits. Encouraging him up in grousing, unwilling increments, rubbing out the nettle sting of pins and needles up his own arm. Check the locks, the light switches. Brush teeth. Pyjamas. Put his phone to charge, read until Jon succumbs to sleep. Click the light off, pushing Jon onto his side so his mouth doesn’t dry. Jon squirming around like a fastidious octopus until he has at least half his limbs hooked over Martin.

The dark creating shadow play. In the absence, Martin colouring in the gaps with lurid shades of disaster.

A creak – the rattle of a door downstairs, an intruder unfastening the back door, transferring their weight upon the staircase. A unfamiliar scent – the recollection of smoke-stench in his nostrils, the acrid promise of gas, the ferrous pungency of blood. The rain will flood their house to drown them. The wind will blow their roof in. Jon hooks his leg around Martin, the skin void of hair where Daisy’s mouth had almost torn it off, and all he can envision is the ways this could be destroyed as he watches.

Bundle Jon close. Ignore the rain, the itch at the bottom of his stomach, the queasy roil of his fear. Drift into unkind sleep populated with its garden of earthly terrors.

-

Martin is… not happy. Not exactly. And that’s fine. It’s fine.

-

Jon is happy.

-

Jon, rubbing at the compression lines around his hips, the accusatory splay of the top button refusing to budge closed:

“I can’t fit into my jeans.”

Martin enfolds him from behind, planting his palms over the slight paunch of Jon’s stomach, filled out through sensible eating and small indulgences and a hunger that will never be ravenous but has restored its human qualities.

“Hmm. It’s a good look on you. Healthier.”

“Or it’s middle age.”

“Or it’s eating things that aren’t tea and meal-deal sandwiches.”

“Or other people’s terror.”

“Oh yes, you’re right, I completely forgot about your subsistence diet of eldritch and unbidden horrors in a luscious wholegrain wrap, forgive me.”

Jon laughs at that. The sound has not yet lost its novelty for either of them.

He shifts, turns, his arms a buoy around Martin’s stomach.

“You’ve lost weight.”

“Must be all the clean air,” Martin quips. “All that healthy living.”

-

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

Martin wakes up.

When his heart has wound down from the pace of its gallop, he extricates himself from Jon’s grip. It is a laborious task to find the places where they’ve joined in the night and pull them apart, like separating fabric snagged on rosebushes.

He gets some water from the cold tap in the kitchen. Sits heavily on the sofa, the room cossetted by the gloom.

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

His hands shake.

He doesn’t go back to bed.

-

He isn’t happy, but he could grow to be. He could. He could. He just isn’t trying hard enough.

-

Some days, he feels like he’s waiting for the ice to give under them.

Check the passers-by as they walk. Anyone familiar, any teeth filed too sharp, anything animal or blood-shot, any eyes that glance too deep.

Check the oven. The gas knobs are angled to off but a leak is not impossible in a house this old, their alarm might malfunction, they might fall asleep and some spark from a plug socket could catch and incite a conflagration.  

Check the window latches. The opening wide enough for a body to squirm through, the claws of a Hunter marring the sill. Wriggling infestations that invade through the letter box, the keyhole, the gap under the door where the wind can whistle through.

Check. Check. Check.

-

Jon is happy. Jon has a job, work friends, a hundred small luxuries that he has struggled to earn. Jon is happy, so why can’t he be? He went through so much less, the blood washed off easily with soap, what the fuck does he have to cry over –

-

Martin has always crafted his masks from scrap, tongue out in concentration, piecing things together in low light, a make-do-and-mend of his own devising. His early efforts, the paper mâché and glue easily cracked before he learned to shore up his constructions. He has a small collection garnered over years.

The quiet-voiced, muffled-stepped, muted-smiled creation of a Good Son.

The zipped-mouth, no-refusals-no-complaints-yes-of-course-how-high earnestness of the Good Employee, the desperation sanded off the edges so no one could see.

The I’ll-get-the-first-round friendliness, the open-handed, open-hearted, too-naïve Good Colleague.

This new mask forms in increments, in the same way a rising mound of dirt marks the extent of a grave being dug.

He doesn’t mean to. It’s just he’s better at not talking about things. He always has been. And it is an ugly, easy comfort, to slip back into bad habits.

And Jon is happy.

All the things Martin does not wish to permit the light to touch he compresses inside like shaken soda. The rot in him deepens structural, the places where he papers over moulds and fungal speckles with the distraction of their new life. His smile parades simple, contented, cheeky, teasing, and there is a meticulous artistry in each. He sketches interest, paints joy, manufactures irritation out of the clay of nothingness that he allows himself to feel instead of the overwhelming rush of everything else.

I love you, his mouth murmurs, laughs, sighs, groans, and that at least is always true.

The mask of a Good Partner slips on tailor-made.

-

They find their nine-to-fives. Jon’s job is uneventful, boring, and nowhere near an Archive. He works in a registry office for the council, filing and organising and he’s cheerfully lied on his CV in order to get it. He gets the bus and texts Martin grumpy faces and GIFs summarising his mood when he gets suck in the commute or some idiot parks in a bus lane, he has a couple of colleagues he likes and a greater number that he tolerates, he gets a hot chocolate from this universe’s overpriced multinational chain on his lunch hour. When he gets home, he complains with delight at the mundanity of his dissatisfactions, regales Martin with tales of meagre drama.

Martin gets a cleaning job at a school. It is monotonous, dull and safe. Martin loses track of the time easily, quagmired in his musings. The children are wary of him and his visible scarring but it doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would. The teachers are friendly enough, as well as the other cleaning staff, but he does not make friends. They’ll have to move anyway, if anything finds them here, if the Fears emerge again.

Martin tries not to feel like he’s waiting.

-

He wants to have a good night’s sleep.

-

“I’ll have breakfast at the school, don’t worry.”

“There were some leftovers from the canteen, so I’m kind of full.”

“It was one of the teacher’s birthdays, you know, Denise? Heh, might have had a bit too much cake. I’ll pop this in the fridge for later though, it’ll keep till tomorrow.”

“I’m just not that hungry tonight, Jon.”

-

He feels sharper when he doesn’t eat. It is uncomfortable, a scratched-out, hollowing sensation, but things focus more. He can control nothing else but this, and it feels good, to have this mastery over himself when so much is beyond him.

He drops down notches on his belt and tells Jon it’s all the walking he’s doing.

-

The world continues to happen to them. He goes to the cinema with Jon and picks at popcorn and encourages Jon’s outraged opinion. He meets Jon’s mildly interesting work friends and plays nice and excels at small talk, and he drinks half a cider that he nurses over the evening because it’s making his head fuggy. His body communicates its sharpness to him and he gains grim satisfaction from ignoring it. He goes to work and goes home and doesn’t sleep and goes to work and goes home and doesn’t sleep.

Martin does his best at living, and his mask doesn’t slip.

-

“You seem tired,” Jon pries his words out carefully, picking them out of his teeth as one would scraps. “Is… is everything ok?”

“Yeah, sure it is. Why?”

“…  you seem a bit down today. Recently. Is anything… is there anything you want to talk about?”

“I’ve just been working too hard. Been a while since I had to do double-shifts, heh, I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“If you’re sure?”

Jon shifts to a different position where he’s sat on the sofa, his legs tucking up under him. Martin endures his questioning gaze with practise.

“Yeah, I’m all good.”

Martin delivers a hand-crafted smile that’s gilded heavily with guilelessness and reassurance. He watches as Jon believes him and hates himself.

-

“You know… You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but you can – you know you can talk to me, Martin?”

Martin’s eyes focus on Jon’s chest at the point where a knife once sunk in, and doesn’t reply.

-

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

Martin wakes up.

Jon has twisted over onto his back again, rattling like a chain-smoker’s cough with his snoring. They were quiet that evening, tangled up in their own thoughts, but there is none of that distance in sleep. During the night, Jon’s wormed himself out of the covers with a single-minded determination, his restless legs squashing the duvet to the bottom of the bed on his side, encouraging Martin’s to follow suit.

He’s shirtless, his top chucked off to pile unceremoniously on the floor. The temperature is ripe with a burgeoning summer heat, and Jon tosses and complains if he’s overwarm, and Martin didn’t think he’d get to feel the drudgery of another lived summer. He’s shirtless, and the room is palled in sweltering dark that softens the vague shapes of the wardrobe, the chest of drawers, the knickknacks of the life they’re building together. He’s shirtless, and Martin cannot see where the scar is, the only scar of Jon’s he has ever thought ugly, but he knows it is there. That he put it there. That he could just as easily be waking up alone.

His body pains him to live in it. His stomach tight and bottomed out empty.

He is so so tired.

Martin’s heartbeat does not slow down. His chest constricting, and he swallows, a sharp sound hiccupping in his throat. He stifles it with a forceful sniff but more come as a painful spasming wave, and he has to sit up if any air is to dribble into his lungs.

He should get up. He has to get up, do this in the bathroom, doubled-over the sink, stifling his weakness where it cannot be witnessed. He cannot do this here.

Punch. Gasp.

His burning face is soaked as he bunches up his sleeves against his reddening eyes. A calming exhale drains out shaky, moulds itself into another loud sob. He plants his hands over his mouth, screwing his eyes closed, and this will pass, he’s fine, this will pass…

“Martin?”

I’m sorry to wake you, he thinks to say. It’s nothing, go back to sleep, stop looking at me Jon, I’m fine, I’m fine, it’s nothing, it’s nothing…

His shoulders start to shake.

“Martin?” Jon repeats slowly. And the ice creaks and cracks and Martin gasps and then it breaks, and the force of his damned-up grief is tidal, catastrophic and he sobs into his hands.

“It’s… it’s alright – it’s… it was a nightmare, that’s all, ‘s alright…”

“It’s not!” Martin bubbles out, the words mashed to a wail in his hands. “It’s not, it’s not, it’ll ruin this…”

“Hey.” Jon brings his arm around Martin and he buries his head in the bony crook of his shoulder because he does not want to meet Jon’s eyes. “What do you mean? Martin?”

Jon rubs at his back. Martin’s body betrays him in a hundred ways as it collapses around him. His weeping wrings him out, dry-mouthed and headachy and trembling when he subsides into shivery breaths.

“Talk to me,” Jon says. “Please.”

“You’re so happy,” Martin sniffs out. “I-I want you to be happy, god, o-of course I do. Things are, they’re good, they’re good and we won, s-s-so why does it feel like I’m still holding my breath? I-I go to bed and I’m frightened of every noise, and I wake up and I’m terrified that someone somehow could take this all away, and I can’t sleep, and I-I’m tired, Jon, I’m tired of holding my breath, and it’s all – it’s all so much a-a-a-and I can’t – ”

“Oh, Martin – ”

His words fail him then. Jon holds him up and his arms do not loosen.

“We-we’re going to fix this,” Jon says after a long while. “I promise you, together, we’ll – we’ll talk to someone. You aren’t alone in this. Together, alright, we’ll do this together. We’ve survived – everything else, we can get through this too.”

“I don’t know if I can believe you,” Martin says, too drained to avoid honesty.

“…Maybe not yet,” Jon says after a pause. “That’s OK. I can wait.”

I’m sorry, Martin attempts to say but Jon presses a kiss to his forehead.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Jon says. He strokes Martin’s sweat-soaked hair.

“… Can we talk? Tomorrow? You don’t have to tell me everything, but… I’d like to be there for you, if you want me. If you’ll let me.”

Martin nods because he doesn’t trust his gummed-up throat. Jon takes that as an answer.

Dawn comes in slowly enough but they see it in together.