#there were bells. there was rumbling and grumbling.

[lightgaswaterelectricityrent]

waking nightmare. irl blonde man wasn't even at church at all

[some-bunniii]

My Charming Red Savior [3]

・❥ You finally meet Alastor’s friends, only to then find your tea party rudely interrupted by an angry mob.

| Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 |

x: no use of y/n.

~ 7.9k words

warnings: adult themes

“Um…hi?”

The group of demons scooted a few steps closer to you, anxious to get a better look at the unfamiliar face in front of them. Their expressions were mixed, suspicion, excitement, confusion. Their eyes scanned up and down your figure, and you suddenly felt awfully self-conscious.

You leaned back slightly from the onlookers, as much as Alastor’s hold on you would allow. His arm was snaked around your elbow, locking you in place, which was the only comfort in this very strange little world.

The Hazbin Hotel, just like that Imp and Alastor had described to you earlier in the day. The question is, how did you get here, exactly?

These demons didn’t seem unfriendly, or cruel. They just seemed shocked to see you here, most likely the same feelings you’re experiencing right now.

Did Alastor do that? He must have, but how? Through the ring?

And, what about your money, purse, wallet, and keys? Did that asshole run off with them after you vanished? You held back the urge to sigh, what a day.

“Alastor, mind explaining who this is?” The gray, shorter lady in front asked, arms crossed as she regarded you cautiously with a single eye.

Alastor only grinned mischievously, a small chuckle escaping his lips, before turning his gaze towards you. He tugged you forward gently, and your back straightened as you smiled widely.

“Well, isn’t it obvious with that charming smile? She’s my wife!”

Silence. Utter silence, so silent in fact, you swore you could hear gunshots ringing from a few blocks away.

Your eyebrows shot up, heat creeping on your cheeks as you processed his words. You side-eyed him, a question behind your glance.

Is he serious?

The platinum-blonde-haired woman's mouth dropped open, her eyes glimmering. That gray lady only reeled back slightly, eyeing both you and Alastor with even more suspicion.

“Whaaaaaa..?” The pink spider demon quirked an eyebrow, his gaze darting to a much shorter black-and-white feline man, who shot him a confused expression right back. The tiny Cyclops lady only jumped in place giddily, her hands to her mouth in glee.

It wasn’t until you felt a rumbling beside you, did you turn to find Alastor laughing, his shoulders shaking as he put a hand to his mouth.

The even more shocked faces in the crowd faltered, as they watched Alastor collect himself.

“Ah, to see your faces like this is quite amusing.” Alastor chuckled, taking a claw and lifting it to his eye to wipe a false tear.

“Real funny.” The winged cat grumbled, rolling his eyes. The woman in the red suit seemed to deflate, a frown on her lips. She looked like she was genuinely sad by the news. A similar pang hit your heart, before shaking it off. Right, he wasn’t your husband. It was just an act. You knew this, so why did you feel this way?

You heard Alastor clear his throat, before gesturing to you once more. “This darling belle before you is here because.. she is interested in redemption through the hotel!”

Huh? When in the world did that thought ever cross your mind? Your head snapped to him, and you caught the mischievous glint in his eye as the platinum-blonde lady in front of you beamed, the sparkle in her eyes almost blinding you as she bounced on her toes.

“Really?!” She squealed, before crossing the distance between the two of you. She leaned down slightly, meeting your gaze. “Hello! My name is Charlie, and this is my hotel! Although, I’m sure you’ve heard a lot about it already."

Oh, this must be that daughter of the imp. The one that appeared before you before the store you worked at had opened, the one that told you his daughter owned the Hazbin Hotel. She didn’t look like an imp, though. You shook that thought off for a moment as she conversed with you.

“Not really,” you confessed, “I only know about you through Alastor.”

“Well, I’d be pleased to show you around and give you all the information you need to make a decision.” Charlie reached out her hand, a welcoming gesture. You hesitated before your eyes flicked up to Alastor, a thousand questions in your gaze.

But, what about your things? Why were you suddenly thrust into this situation? When were you going to get an explanation of how exactly you got here?

‘Go along with it, we’ll talk later.’ Alastor’s eyes seemed to speak, behind that charming grin. Just like it did the first time you met him. At least, you hoped that was what he was saying. You were going to talk to him no matter what, anyway.

You slipped your arm from his hold and grasped Charlie’s hand, and she tugged you beside her as she walked towards the group of demons. You felt a bit nervous as you approached them, seeing as their eyes had been on you since the moment you landed in their lobby.

“These two are our residents at the hotel! This is Sir. Pentious.” Charlie gestured to the tall snake demon, his hood covered his face slightly as he smiled bashfully.

“It’sssss a pleassure to meet you, my dear!” He said, clasping his hands together, and you smiled warmly in return. Sir. Pentious seemed like a respectful, modest demon. A rare gem. He reminded you of Alastor but with a flare of innocence to him. Or, at least, less murderous.

Charlie turned slightly towards that taller, fuzzy spider dressed rather scantily. “And, this is Angel Dust. He was our first guest when we originally opened!”

“How ya’ doin’, toots?” He winked at you, that golden tooth catching your eye as it shimmered in the warm lighting. He seemed to exude an air of confidence and charm that attracted attention effortlessly. At least, he was the first person to catch your eye when you materialized in front of them. It might just have been the bright pink fuzz, though.

“This is Husk… Niffty… Vaggie…” Charlie continued, introducing you to the rest of the staff. You stood beside her, patiently waiting for it to be over so you could speak to Alastor. Who was standing a ways behind you, no doubt tracing your figure as you slowly met each member. Finally, when you had finished greetings, Charlie turned to you. “I think it’s time we do a little tour of the hotel, get you familiar with everything!”

Your smile faltered for a moment. Right, you weren’t totally done yet. As much as you wanted to learn more about where you just dropped into, you had a very, very long day. Your plush, weighted covers that were sitting patiently back at home were calling to you. Still, Charlie turned towards the opposite side of the room, before glancing behind and beckoning you to follow. You obliged, keeping pace with her as she began to speak.

She guided you through multiple different locations, the kitchen, the lounge, and the bar. Soon, you were walking down a long hallway, rows of doors facing both sides of you. Were all these rooms vacant? Seemed like the hotel wasn’t very popular, though you weren’t surprised.

It wasn't until you entered a large sub-room, with a very lavish mahogany-wood staircase, that you stopped in your tracks and looked at the large frame hanging above you. Splashes of color filled your vision as you gazed at a large painting on the opposite side of the stairs. It depicted a large glistening, blue lake nestled in a sunny clearing around rows and rows of lush trees. At the edges of the lapping waves, fawns danced with small winged children in fields of sunlit flowers. Some held their hands to their mouths, giggling in joy as they frolicked carefree in the afternoon breeze.

You gawked at the painting for a few more moments, your eyes tracing the perfect lines and forms of each figure. The wings of the angels looked like actual feathers, carefully crafted through paint tools by a skilled hand.

“Isn’t it amazing?” Charlie swooned beside you, gazing up at the portrait. You nodded slowly in response, it was a very beautiful painting. Is that what Heaven looked like? If that was the case, you didn't mind giving redemption a try anymore.

“Who made this?”

“One of our staff here, they are our newest addition to the crew! I’d introduce the two of you, but they’re attending an art show tonight. An auction, I think. I’m sure you two would get along great, though!”

Yes, maybe you’d like that. Charlie continued on her path, as you rounded a corner into another hallway, the lights of the lobby off in the distance. You exhaled a quiet sigh of relief. You could finally speak to Alastor about the questions reeling in your head.

When you entered the lobby, the rest of the crew had dispersed. Angel Dust was lounging at the bar, offering Vaggie a drink who declined it curtly. Husker was growling something to Niffty, who was attempting to stab a bug atop the bar counter.

Alastor hadn’t followed you on that tour, instead, you found him leaning comfortably against the side of a wall. He stood there, a microfiber cloth in one hand and his red-tinted monocle in the other. Gingerly, he brushed the cloth across the small surface, wiping it clean of any imperfections.

It wasn’t until his gaze lifted and met yours, that the cloth vanished from his hand, and he adjusted the monocle back on his face. He straightened, resting slightly against his cane as the two of you approached him.

“So, what do you think?” Charlie pivoted to face you, a large smile on her lips. She looked so hopeful, and you did not want to say anything to hurt her feelings. You glanced at Alastor, who stood a little ways behind Charlie. His eyes were unreadable, that small smile of no help. Great, you were on your own with this one.

“Well, I think the hotel is very pretty.” You responded slowly, choosing your words carefully as you spoke.

“What about staying here?” Charlie leaned in slightly closer, bouncing on her toes as she beamed at you.

“Um, about that, It’s a nice offer and all but…” Charlie’s face dropped, her eyes glistening as she visibly deflated before your eyes. You grimaced, before taking a step closer, apologetically waving your hands. “But, I’m just pretty exhausted right now, so I think a good night's sleep will allow me to give you a better answer.”

Charlie perked at that. Even if it wasn't a ‘yes’ it was still better than your full rejection. She nodded, “That works with me!”

“Wonderful!” A voice buzzed behind Charlie before Alastor appeared next to her. He turned to the apple-cheeked woman, before widening his grin. “It seems like our new friend is rather tired, so I will do the honors and show them to their room.”

Wait, room? As in, here at the hotel? That was not your original plan, but, if it meant you were finally able to speak with the red demon, so be it.

Charlie agreed, before waving farewell to you and joining Vaggie on the couch. You turned to face Alastor, and he offered you his arm. You felt like ignoring it for a moment, and just walking beside him. Some kind of payback for suddenly dumping you here and into the arms of strangers.

After a moment, you sighed in defeat and laced your arm with his. He turned you to a second hallway and began to lead you down the winding corridor. After you were out of earshot, Alastor cleared his throat beside you, before turning his head slightly to face you.

“I’m surprised to see you here so soon, my dear. I knew you’d appear eventually, with how easily trouble seems to find you.”

“I’ve been waiting to hear how I even got here in the first place.” You replied sternly, prodding him for an explanation.

“Why, the ring of course!” He spoke, gesturing to your bare finger. “I embedded it with magic that would take you to safety if you were ever to be manhandled again while I am not present.”

You were silent for a moment, contemplating his words. Alastor put some kind of spell on the ring to protect you? Had that been there since he originally placed it on your finger? Now you were beginning to understand the strange words he said back in the tailoring room when he mentioned the ring being a charm for good luck. Heat began to creep on your cheeks, as you realized how offly sweet that was of him.

“Well, then I suppose I must thank you. If it weren’t for you, I may have gotten more than just my money and bag taken.”

“Ah, so that is what it was. Well, you don’t need to worry any longer, my dear. This hotel is safe from any kind of danger.” He patted your hand assuringly as you walked, “Which is why I only offered the idea back there, as I believe it benefits you more than anyone here.”

Alastor did all this because he cared about your well-being? The ring, the teleportation, living here, the killing. All for you. Even, your “relationship” with him was just that. Your mind went back to when he had laughed in the lobby, like the thought of being with you was that big of a joke to tell all his friends. He could have just not said anything! And yet, he acted so gentle and kind to you, even asking for your permission to kill your boss, just for asking you on a date!

Sure, you’ve only met Alastor like, what, twice? So, you weren’t expecting such a serious step in a relationship to be taken so fast, nor anything similar. But, there was no way Alastor had been doing all this out of the kindness of his heart, he’s the Radio Demon.

There had to be a real reason. He hasn’t even communicated his feelings on the matter, does he expect you to read every thought behind his gaze? You frowned, irritation setting on your face.

“I’m surprised you did all this,” you start, taking a slight step away from Alastor as you slip your arm out of his hold, continuing to keep pace with his footsteps, “seeing as you think what I have experienced this past week is so funny.”

Alastor halted in his tracks, and you were jerked slightly as you were pulled back from the hold on his arm. He turned his head to you, his ears flattened slightly as he searched your gaze. He tapped his claws against his cane, fast and erratic as he observed you.

“Are you referring to what I said when I introduced you?” He questioned slowly, That smile creeping a little higher as he tried to keep up the charm. You crossed your arms, attempting a stern stance as you took another step back.

“Yes, I didn’t exactly expect to be the punchline to your dismissive jokes.”

“My intentions were not to make light of recent events, I can assure you,” Alastor cleared his throat, a nervous chuckle escaping his lips, “I simply wanted to gauge their reaction to such a statement, as I’ve spoken before, one must always be prepared for every situation. And, you must stop referring to them as my ‘friends’, I hardly know them.”

You didn’t have time to process his strange words before Alastor reached an arm out towards you, beckoning for you to take his hand. You only hesitated a second before crumbling, your fingers brushing softly against Alastor’s palm as he lifted your hand towards him. With one digit, he traced up your ring finger, before settling just above your knuckle. You hitched your breath, watching as a string of green light wrapped around your finger. It thickened, before a light green cloud of smoke poured from the light. Leaning down, Alastor lightly blew against your finger, and the smoke dispersed. Your eyes widened when that familiar, golden band began to glint against the hallway lights.

“There, now do you see? My words have been nothing but truthful, my doe.”

His fingers stayed on your hand a little longer, brushing softly against your knuckles, before he withdrew. You pulled your hand closer, twisting your finger until you could see it, that little rose-gold A etched onto the ring’s surface. A warm smile crept onto your lips as you inspected it. You kind of missed the feeling of it snuggled against your skin.

“Well, when you put it like that...” you trailed off, and Alastor grinned widely, accepting your response with a grin as he sidled close to you, motioning to the door in front of him. You turned, your eyes landing on the small 7 etched in gold against the wood. Was this your room?

“Am I staying here?” You questioned, turning to Alastor.

“Preferably, and it is a short distance from my room. Should you ever acquire my assistance, of course.”

“Where is your room?”

Alastor turned, one claw pointed directly across the little hallway towards a replica of your door. Okay.. his room was literally ten feet from you, he wasn’t playing when he said it was a “short” distance. Were you complaining, though?

Suddenly, a yawn overcame you, and your hand lifted to shield your gaping mouth as you sighed softly. God, you were awfully exhausted, mentally and physically. Alastor watched you rub your eyes, before he softened, that smile fading just a tad as his eyes glanced at the clock hung on the wall near your door.

“It seems like it has gotten late, I apologize for keeping you from your beauty sleep.” He bowed his head respectfully to you, withdrawing closer into the shadows. “I do hope you’ll consider the offer of staying at the hotel, better than the neighborhoods crawling with thugs back in the city.”

You nodded, smiling at him as your fingers snaked around the door handle. “I will think about it, don’t worry. I did find some interest in Charlie’s words when we went on that tour.”

“Wonderful. I bid you a good night then, my doe.”

You twisted the handle, backing slowly into the shaded room. You sent a small wave, smiling at him as you shut the door. Your surroundings were drenched in darkness, and you placed your forehead against the cool, wooden frame. You sighed, letting your muscles come loose finally in the quiet of your private domain.

Wow, what a day.

You awoke the next morning, dark circles under your eyes as you groaned sleepily from the rays of morning light hitting your face. The plush white covers slid around you, a large pillow in your hold as you pulled it close to your chest. You snuggled your face deeper into it, intent on falling back into blissful dreams.

Except, nothing came. Your brain just kept prodding you to wake, to rise from the warmth of your makeshift nest and greet the day.

‘To greet Alastor!’ It whispered excitedly, and you stirred again.

What time was it? Waking in a room different from yours always throws off your sleep schedule. Turning your head slightly, you eyed the digital clock on the bedside table. It was seven in the morning, you had slept for almost ten hours. Impressive.

Slowly, you rose from the bed, your arms lifting above your head as you took a big stretch. Yawning, you pivoted, your feet landing on the cold, unfamiliar wood floor.

You sat there for a moment, your eyelids lifting slowly as you let yourself wake naturally.

What was your plan today? It seemed like Alastor insisted on you staying at the hotel, as well as Charlie. But, you had a place of your own. One that you rented, but with all your stuff nonetheless.

You still had a job, but seeing as the Hazbin Hotel provided everything of necessity for free, it wouldn’t hurt to lessen your load and start working part-time. Plus, less Alan. Yay!

Maybe, you’d go home later, collect what you needed and come back. You could even see if Alastor would do his little teleportation trick, it wasn’t so bad being pulled around like that if it cut your travel time to only a few seconds.

It seemed like this was your new room too, which wasn’t so bad. There was a bathroom, a balcony, a dining table, and basic furniture. And, Alastor was right across the hall! You were surprised when he had placed you so close to his own living quarters.

Wasn’t your relationship just a farce, like he had joked in the lobby yesterday night? Maybe, he felt you’d feel more comfortable being near someone familiar.

Maybe, he felt more comfortable having you close to him.

These thoughts spun through your head as you got ready for the day. Your face was soaked with water as you reached for a hand towel on the rack next to the bathroom sink, the soft cotton refreshing as you sank your face into it.

Weirdly, there was a small stack of fresh clothes on top of your dresser. Also weirdly, in your size. Who could have put them there? You examined them anyway, finding them not too far off from your normal style before slipping into the garments.

Opening the curtains, you pushed open the balcony doors. That cool breeze brushed against your ears as you inhaled a deep breath. A smile playing on your lips as you let the warmth of a new day hit your cheeks.

It was nice here, actually. The hotel was far enough away from the streets that the smell of garbage and booze didn’t hit your nose as you inhaled the breeze again. You couldn’t hear the loud profanities or honking cars from all the way up here.

It was amazing. Maybe, staying here was going to be pretty good.

You left the fresh air draft into your room, as you walked to the door. Your fingers caressed the handle for only a moment as you hesitated, before you shook yourself and took a deep breath. The door slowly creaked open, squeaking as it inched backward. Your head slowly peaked out of the door, your eyes scanning down the hall, before eventually landing in front of you.

Alastor’s door. The wood was dark, walnut-brown with golden borders that glinted underneath the wall sconces. There was nothing unusual about it, but it was it being his door that made it stand out against all the identical rooms in this hotel.

Should you knock? Ask him for directions back to the lobby? No, that was going to be weird. You didn’t want him to think you were using him or anything. No matter how much of a gentleman he acted.

Instead, you simply slipped through the threshold and quietly shut the door behind you.

Okay… so you definitely remember your room being on the right side of the hall when you came here last night. Which meant the lobby was somewhere left. Nice, at least we’re getting somewhere.

Turning, you begin your trek down the long hallway. Your eyes would occasionally glance at paintings, or your reflection on wall-length mirrors, as you walked. It wasn’t long before you arrived at a larger sub room, with a few pieces of furniture like benches and side tables. There was a TV in one corner, with stacks of newspapers on a coffee table in front of it.

It seemed to be like a small lounge, and you noted that in your head for later. The problem was, the room then split into three separate hallways. Your shoulders dropped, and your lips curved downward at the sight. Why was this place hellbent on meddling with your biggest weakness?

Crossing the room to one corridor, you peeked around the corner. There was nothing familiar you could pick out from it, no distant noises that gave you an inking of a guess. You gulped, how exactly were you supposed to get back to civilization now?

“There you are, my dear!”

You turned, your back hitting the wall as you watched the red demon stroll towards you. He stopped a few steps away, a pleased look on his face at the sight of you.

“Alastor! I was hoping to catch a familiar face out here.”

“Well, aren’t you glad that face was me?” He beamed, extending his arm out for you to take. Without hesitation, you slid your arm into his hold, locking at the elbows.

“Of course! You are the only familiar face here, honestly. I might have forgotten your friends' names during the night.” You smiled apologetically.

“Don’t worry, they are quite colorful characters, these people. I’m sure you’ll figure it out soon enough.”

“They seem to be, although I'm not sure whether they like me yet.”

“Oh, I’m sure they do,” Alastor smiled, patting your hand assuring. “you exude a warmth and charm that it is impossible not to be drawn to.”

Heat crept into your cheeks, and you averted your gaze to the ground.

“Take those silly fellows that can’t seem to stop bothering you, always courting for your affection, my word, just practically begging for your attention!”

Well, that was a more positive light on what you’ve been through this past week.

“If those are the kind of people that want my attention. Then, maybe I don’t want any of it at all.”

Alastor was silent for a moment as the two of you continued walking, you felt his arm in your hold tense slightly. Was he thinking about something?

“Come now, my dear. There are plenty of individuals who would cherish every moment spent in your company, without resorting to such antics.”

You lifted your head and met his gaze, and he only continued to smile at you. His eyes were genuine, as he looked at you. One might even consider them soft. Is that how Alastor felt when the two of you spent time together?

You hadn’t spoken very much to him, at least on personal matters. But, with how the others in the hotel regarded him, it seemed he didn’t do that ever.

Has he ever told them about his mother or her recipes? Trusted them to fix his clothes, to care for him? Alastor seemed to put distance—figuratively and literally—between him and others.

But, with you? Well, calling a strange woman your wife the first time you laid eyes on her is rather bold and personal for such a man.

You felt flustered at the thought that you were the one Alastor chose for such things. You averted your gaze again, a sheepish smile on your lips.

“Thank you, that’s very kind.”

“It’s nothing at all. Why don’t you join me for some coffee? There is a patio right at the front of the hotel, it’s my favorite place to spend my mornings.”

He wanted to spend time with you? Well, you weren’t going to argue with that.

“Of course, I'd love to! You’ll just have to lead the way.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

The two of you walked in silence, as you passed through another long hallway. You could hear faint voices in the distance, growing louder at each step.

Was everyone else in the lobby? Would you have to greet them all again?

You saw the large threshold of the front room, and saw the glimpse of the large stained-glass front doors peeking from the corner. Right as you were about to walk through, Alastor nudged you to the side of the hall, and you turned to find a small set of stairs leading up a level.

You tried to memorize the path in your mind, for next time. The voices from the lobby grew more audible now, and you could hear what sounded like Charlie and Sir. Pentious speaking. A conversation about his path to redemption.

Isn’t that what they expected you to do now? Beg to Heaven to let you through the pearly gates because you repented for your sins? You doubted whether that was even possible.

As you neared the staircase, you turned your head to the lobby before looking back to Alastor. Were they just going to ignore the rest of the residents? You quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Are we not going to say hello to your friends?”

“Why bother? They have their routines, we have ours.”

You didn’t say anything to that, instead, just let him glide the two of you up the stairs towards a pair of glass doors. You could see the light-red hues of morning peeking from the drawn shades.

Carefully, Alastor twisted the handle and pulled open the doors, that cool breeze hitting your face as soon as you stepped through the doorway.

“Well, here we are.” He spoke, slowly unlacing his arm from yours.

In front of you, was a small tea table and a single chair staring out at the city. A few flowers decorated along the short, metal railing in porcelain pots. Their colorful blossoms swayed gently in the breeze, as you stepped up to the table.

“Do forgive me, my dear. I seem to have forgotten a seat, I'm not used to company up here.”

With a quick snap of his fingers, a second, identical chair materialized across the table. A small radio emerged from a small pool of green fog as it dispersed on a post at one edge of the railing. It played a soft, jazzy melody as you crossed the small balcony, before positioning yourself in front of the seat to sit.

“Please, allow me.” Alastor appeared beside you, one hand on the chair’s back as he pulled it out from the table.

“Why, aren’t you just a gentleman?” You teased, before lowering yourself onto the small cushion velcroed to the chair’s seat. You felt Alastor push you closer to the table, before he lowered himself slightly to meet your gaze.

“Now, what would you like to drink? Tea, coffee, orange juice? Anything you desire, my dear.” He spoke, smiling as his nails clicked rhythmically against the table.

You told him, and with another snap of his fingers, two pieces of glassware settled upon the table. A pitcher materialized in his hand, before Alastor lowered it to your cup and began pouring the contents.

It swirled around your glass, and you watched it settle as he poured it to the brim. Your eyes trailed his hands as the pitcher melded into a coffee pot, and you watched the dark, steaming liquid land into his glass.

He didn’t add any cream or sugar, and you watched in surprise as he settled into his seat without any modifications to his drink.

“You drink your coffee black?” You asked curiously, an eyebrow quirked as you tilted your head at him.

“Mm, yes. I find that it helps sharpen the senses, and heightens one’s awareness. In a place like this, one must always have control of their surroundings. Don’t you think so?”

You nodded, taking a sip of your drink as you listened. He was right, in a way, about needing to be prepared for anything in Hell. But, why continue to punish yourself by taking away the few good things you could have in such a depressing realm? Maybe, Alastor didn’t think there was any good in Hell.

Watching Alastor lift the coffee to his lips, you noticed the way his entire face softened as the bitter flavor hit his tongue. His smile was so very faint now, almost a firm line, but it seemed.. peaceful. His eyes were slightly lidded, in an expression of contentedness as the breeze tickled at the fur on his ears. The music was peaceful white noise as you sat there, hand underneath your chin, gazing at Alastor as he looked out at the city, a small smile on his lips. Oh, how you so enjoyed his lipped smiles.

It was like that for a few more quiet moments, as the sky continued to lighten until Alastor turned his eyes to you. You squirmed underneath his gaze, realizing you were caught mid-ogle by him. He regarded you curiously for a few moments.

“Find anything of interest in your observation?” Alastor asked slyly, a teasing smile on his lips.

“Your ears are very fluffy” You blurted, before slapping a hand to your mouth. Alastor’s eyes widened slightly at your brazen response.

“Pardon?” He asked after a moment, the static in his tone thicker, hoarser, as the words left his lips. As if he couldn’t comprehend that was what you had landed on. Did no one ever compliment his ears? Correction, did no one ever genuinely compliment him other than to save their skin or to praise his power?

“Your ears, when the wind blows on them they puff out a little from the cold,” you practically whispered through your fingers, “I imagine if someone were to squeeze them, they'd feel so soft too, like squishing a plush teddy bear.”

You buried your face farther into your hands as those words left your lips, heat creeping onto your cheeks. Why were you thinking about touching his head? What happened to not taking too bold of steps? You did not need to overindulge him on what you thought of his ears. Jesus, you were embarrassing.

Peeking through your fingers, you saw Alastor averting his gaze, taking a sudden interest in some flowers near his chair. His ears were flattened slightly, as he adjusted the collar of his suit feverishly. His smile wavered slightly, flickering to a nervous expression. Was Alastor flustered by your comment?

“What an–ahem–unique perspective. My, you are such a charm, my dear, you truly have a way with words. Thank you for the compliment.”

There was silence again, as the tune from the radio seemed to grow slightly louder, drowning out your beating heart. You grabbed your drink, throwing your head back and downing the rest of it in one gulp. If only it was alcohol instead, so you could at least have an excuse for your comments. It was Alastor who spoke up again next, and you were relieved to be changing the topic.

“Tell me, now that you’ve gotten a little more familiar with it, what do you think of the hotel?”

“I think it’s… cute,” you answered softly, your finger circling the lip of your glass as you thought of more to say, “Charlie has a very large dream, and she seems to be the best one suited for the job with the influence she has. But, her residents…? Well, I wonder whether they have it in them to change, especially that–ah, what was his name–guy, Angel Dust? I could see Sir. Pentious being redeemed though. I’m sure he’d do good in Heaven.”

A small chuckle reverberated from Alastor’s throat as he closed his eyes, an amusing smile on his lips. You closed your mouth quickly, leaning back slightly. What was so funny about what you said?

“What?” You questioned, raising an eyebrow again as you crossed your arms.

Alastor cleared his throat, before meeting your eyes again. “Nothing, I just find the concept of a second chance awfully.. silly, you could say.”

“You don’t believe in sinners being able to go to Heaven?”

“Goodness, not at all.”

“But.. you’re helping run the hotel trying to do just that?”

“Well, yes, but it is just simple charity work. I had heard about this place on that noisy little picture box months ago, and how much the demons on the street laughed at it.” Alastor took another large sip of his coffee, adjusting his monocle slightly as he set the cup back down. “That is the problem, my dear. Every sinner in this city has had their chance at going to Heaven, back on earth. They lost it, and now, they’ll only laugh at the concept of such a thing.”

“What was life like for you?”

“Life?” Alastor raised his eyebrows at you, his claws halting mid-tap against the table's surface. His ears swiveled slightly to face you, his gaze curious.

You grimaced, you hadn’t meant to ask that out loud. Should you brush it off? Just because he told you about his mother and his radio show, doesn’t mean he was going to fill you in on his entire past. But, you were so curious! What kind of man did your false husband wake up to be every morning? What did he experience that gave him such pessimistic, ultra-realistic views?

“On Earth,” you clarified, straightening in your seat as you fidgeted with the glass in front of you, “What was it like?”

“Ah, you want to know more about the greatest era in mankind’s history? I’d love to indulge you on such a topic! You know, the first radio station was started in the 1920’s, and of course that only was the beginning of such a wonderful medium. I believe it was called KDKA, I remember exactly where I was standing when the first broadcast hit the radio, I believe it was about th–”

“No, I mean, what did you do on Earth, Alastor?” You interrupted, prodding him for a real answer. You weren’t looking for a history lesson, you wanted to know more about him.

“Me?” He sputtered, caught off guard by your question once more.

“What was your favorite thing to do when you were a child?”

Alastor looked like he wasn’t going to respond, for a moment. His eyes were squinting at you, reading your expression. Did he think you had some kind of ulterior motive? That you were going to take any information and sell it to the highest bidder against him? Your expression was genuine, however, and he only sighed. His brows furrowed in thought, as he recalled distant memories.

“Sometimes, my mother would send me to town for baking ingredients, and every time I'd choose the longest route, which was Frenchmen Street. New Orleans is famous for many things, art, food, but most importantly, music.”

“Music?”

“Indeed! Music is the heartbeat of New Orleans,” Alastor continued, a wistful smile playing on his lips as he delved into memories of his childhood. "I remember those days vividly, wandering that long, vibrant street, soaking in the melodies that filled the air. Jazz, blues, the soulful rhythms that seemed to draw in huge crowds like moths to a flame."

He paused, lost in thought for a moment before continuing. "And then there were the nights when the city truly came alive. My mother would take me to smoky jazz clubs, where the air hummed with energy and every note seemed to carry a story. I was captivated by the raw emotion of the musicians, their ability to weave tales with nothing but their instruments and their voices."

A flicker of nostalgia danced in his eyes as he recalled the details, those hidden, buried emotions rising out of him slowly. “I realized then how powerful such mediums truly were, they had the magical ability to perpetuate emotions, feed the crowds, and fuel the thoughts. Music is just another form of art, of course. I’m sure you saw our dear artist’s paintings, and I’m sure they stirred something in you, hm?”

You nodded slowly, leaning forward in your seat, enraptured in his words as they spilled from his tongue. Gosh, his voice was just so nice to listen to. That radio overlay that dripped from his tone was like white noise that tickled your brain with pleasure. You thought his laughs were cute, the way they crackled softly with static.

“I’m sure you would have been happy standing there for hours just to marvel at its beauty. Music can do the same, and when you’re a famous radio host like me,” Alastor gestured to himself, a prideful smirk on his lips, “You need that form of hypnosis to get all the listeners to tune in to the next broadcast, and to keep their interest. Without that power, I wouldn’t be as well known as I am now.”

You were sure he would still be well known for more than his radio broadcasts, with the reputation Alastor had with his… violent tendencies.

“There,” Alastor sighed, like a heavy weight was lifted off of his chest, “are you pleased with my response, my dear?”

“I think I am sated for now.” You responded with a smile, batting your eyelashes as you leaned back into your chair.

“Good, now, I believe it is my turn to ask you a question.” Alastor straightened, his claw clicking softly against the table in sync with the music buzzing in the background. You raised an eyebrow, nodding slowly in anticipation as he leaned slightly across the table.

“Have you decided on whether you are going to reside at the hotel and try redemption?”

You tensed, smiling wider as your mind raced. Sweat beaded on your eyebrow as Alastor looked at you expectantly. What was your decision? Sure, you’d get free room and board, it was no doubt safer than your home, and maybe, just maybe, redemption could actually work. But, was it enough to flip your whole life upset down, over what, a demon man who helped you out a couple of times?

“Alastor, I–”

Your voice was drowned out by a powerful explosion that rocked the patio, the radio fell from the railing and disappeared from sight, as the music faded with it. Your ears rang from the small blast, which had barely missed the wall of the hotel. Alastor’s head snapped to the source of violence, eyes narrowing as the figures of burly demons grew more visible as they approached. There were about four of them, who each held pistols, and a few rolled a grenade between their fingers.

“Angel Dust!! Come out here, you filthy skank!” One snarled from the group, fist raised towards the hotel.

“Ah shit!” You could hear the faint voice of the spider demon coming from the lobby, it sounded frantic as a head poked out from the large entrance doors.

“What did you do?!” You heard Vaggie growl, as another explosion rocked the side of the hotel.

“I sold em’ fake drugs! They thought they were buying coke, but I only gave em’ baking powder!”

“Angel, you idiot!” Vaggie snarled in response.

You shrunk back in your chair, your heart beating erratically and you watched a few more men gather on the hill. What was going to happen? Why did this always happen to you?

Alastor sighed exasperatedly, rising from his seat as he straightened his bowtie. He turned towards you, walking to your place across the table. Your hands were still resting on its surface when Alastor reached down and gently grasped them, before lifting them to your face. He laid your palms against your eyelids, adjusting your fingers to where only darkness greeted your vision.

“Just keep still just like this for now, my dear. I will be back in only a moment!” He replied chipperly, before you felt footsteps fade away from earshot. The silence didn't last very long, before your thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of screaming and strangled gasps. You felt the ground rumbling slightly under your feet, and you only shrunk deeper into your chair.

The screaming wasn't anyone familiar though, instead, it sounded like it was those drug dealers

“Yeah! Kick their ass, Alastor!” Angel Dust cheered from your left, and you perked.

Your fingers splayed slightly, as you picked between the gaps. Your vision was greeted with large, dark green tentacles that snaked in the air. They weaved around small figures who were scrambling across the clearing in a desperate attempt to survive. Some wrapped around the flailing demons, before pitching them far in the distance. Their screams faded as they disappeared from view.

You couldn’t see Alastor, but you assumed he was out of harm's way since the tentacles were doing a good job corralling the thugs. There were a few stragglers that managed to dodge his attacks, though. That became very obvious when a clawed hand reached over the railing, and you screamed as a dark gray, shark-faced man rose into sight.

He growled at you, as he landed with a thump on the old, cracked tile. A large knife was pulled from a sheath around his waist, and he twisted it between his fingers as he stalked up to you. You pressed yourself as deep into your chair as possible, your body frozen in terror.

“₩ⱧɆⱤɆ ĐØ ɎØɄ ₮Ⱨł₦₭ ɎØɄⱤɆ ₲Øł₦₲?” You heard a snarl of static from the ground, before a tentacle wrapped roughly around the shark demon’s body. His face morphed into a look of terror, right before he was flung away from the patio and beat into the ground by the large mass.

The gang of thugs were almost finished, as you finally exhaled a shaky breath. Your heart felt like it was about to burst, and your eyes darted around the area for any danger.

You shot up from the chair, scrambling to the doorway for safety. You stumbled off balance as the ground rumbled underneath your feet once more, your knees hitting the tile.

Growling in pain, you twisted your head to get a look at what had happened. Your eyes darted across them before you saw the small, cylindrical object fly towards you and land against the railing of the patio.

It erupted into a small ball of flame, before it burst into a large cloud of dark gray smoke, shaking the floor beneath you more violently as shrapnel flew. You tried to scramble away, as the large table was thrown to its side, and began to skid across the tiles towards you.

Your body couldn’t react fast enough to dodge the incoming object, instead, all you could do was throw your arms up and curl closer to yourself, screaming. Praying for mercy from the oncoming blow.

Except… nothing happened. The chaos still ensued around you, and the screams of terror and maniacal laughter still rang in your ears. You felt no pain, yet could still feel the breeze whipping against your arms as you held them up defensively. What just happened? You’re not like, double-dead, are you?

Slowly, you lowered your arms, planting them beneath you to help lift yourself from the ground. As you rose to your feet, your eyelids fluttered open.

The table was split in half, lying burnt on both sides of the patio. A slight trail of smoke wafted from their remains, and your eyes traveled across the tiled floor to what had caused the destruction.

Your eyes landed on an unfamiliar figure, their white overcoat swaying slightly in the wind as they regarded you. That platinum-blonde hair glinted in the morning light beneath the rim of his hat, and your eyes rested on those awfully familiar red cheek spots that stuck out from his pale face.

Your mouth dropped open, eyes widening, as the name of this strange man dawned on you. The image of the fallen angel, the most powerful man in the realm, stood before you.

Lucifer, the King of Hell, was leaning against the partially-destroyed railing. His arms crossed as he regarded your slightly battered form curiously.

“Did I miss anything?” The apple-cheeked man teased, sending you a charming grin. His demeanor was calm, and playful, despite the chaotic scene around him.

Would it be taken as disrespectful if you fainted right about now?

man i rlly dug myself into a hole with these titles huh x) i’ll think of something guys don’t worry. but can i just say how much i love throwing the reader into all this chaos, fun fun!

lmk what you think :)

taglist 🏷️

@the-tortured-poet @anonymousewrites @coleisyn @froggybich @chewbrry @watchinthestarz @mechanicalmari @luxmessorem @plapperlapapp @kottenox @cherry-cola-100 @the-shark-named-sharon @rae-pottah @just-trash-yeah-thats-it @corpsebridenightamare @nijiru @ourfinalisation @anuttellaa @nonetheartist @bunnypeew @cryptidghostgirl @hxzbinwrites @lunaramune @enigmatic-blues @thytorturedpoet @vanhelsingsbigtoe @mixplara @blue122 @zardward @loser-bby @sirens-and-moonflowers @diaouranask @luzzbuzz @theredviolets @the-attention-whore @rayanicaraynbow @girl-nahh-two @moonmark98 @asianfrustration13 @fairyv-ice @missam @beezgobuzzbuzz @valentique @dory-98 @mo-0-o @willow404 @laundrybear @karolinda007-blog @nightreverie

(it only lets me mention 50 of you?! im so sorry to the rest of y’all 😭😭 i’ll reblog it with more tags sksksjjsjsj)

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Postcards

Summary: Tom Bennett is sweet on the Post Office girl, but only dares to approach it just as he's conscripted for war | Word Count: 7.2k~ (oops) | Warnings: ww2, mentions of death, smut, fingering

A/N: A very VERY Happy Birthday to @ewanmitchellcrumbs <3 I hope you enjoy this and have a lovely day! ❤ And thank you so much to @theoneeyedprince for skimming over this 😘

“Get ‘im a cuppa, would ya darlin’!”

Her grandfather’s low baritone seemed to rumble through the floorboards so much so it made her eardrums throb, and she shook her head as she descended the creaky staircase at the back of the store room, running a hand over the collar of her dress to keep it flat.

“Yes, Granda,” she sighed, filling the kettle and placing it on the lit stove. Gone were the days when she was young, afraid of the tiny flame that appeared when her grandfather struck a match to light the gas. He’d always laugh at her concerned expression, chuckling that no grandchild of his was going to be such a ‘scaredy-cat’.

He’d had her lighting matches on the stovetop since she was eleven years old. No exceptions. 

A harsh but fair upbringing, given that she was his only grandchild.

She brushed a wavy lock of hair from her face, her pumps clicking on the floorboards as she let the water boil and joined him at the front of the post office. She rolled her eyes when she saw him struggling with the sack of post, grunting and grumbling to himself as elderly men often do.

“Get off, granda, let me.”

“Cheeky beggar! Can do it on me own, ya pesky-”

“Granda.” 

He finally turned, perhaps recognising the same tone he’d heard in his wife and daughter in years gone, and knew not to argue. She saw that when her grandfather, turned while bent over and withered with his years, with a smattering of white on his chin and waved sparsely on the crown of his head, had a cigarette hanging from his mouth, the end almost chewed right through with the effort he’d used in trying to lift what he easily could have several years ago.

He raised an eyebrow, bringing the cigarette from his age-weathered lips and blowing the smoke out, “Go on then. Tea on?”

“Course, it is,” she sighed, bending to pull the sack of post from the floor and into the corner to be sorted later. “I’ll do that later, you go upstairs”.

“Bollocks, will I. I’m staying ‘ere.”

Her grandfather was stubborn, though it was something they accused each other of being regularly. A family trait, some would say.

The postman, clad in his dark uniform trudged through the front door, ringing the bell with it. His satchel was empty and his cheeks were pink like the wind had been at them.

“The usual route please, darlin’”.

She nodded. “Cuppa first?”

“Yes, ta, milk, one sugar-”

“Yes, yes, I know,” she smirked, “same as every day.”

As the postman settled into the familiar chair, reserved for him if anyone asked, her grandfather gave a low grumble, shifting his weight with the slow deliberation of age. He looked over at his granddaughter, the same stubborn glint in his eye that she mirrored back at him.

"You're not still jawing, are you?" he muttered, taking another drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out in the ashtray like he had done a thousand times before.

The kettle whistled, and she moved with ease, pouring the steaming water over the tea bags, the rich aroma filling the small, worn kitchen. She added the milk and sugar to the postman's cup, stirring it with a practised hand.

"Here you go," she said, placing the cup in front of him. "Warm yourself up."

"Bless you, lass," the postman replied, wrapping his hands around the mug as if to soak in its warmth.

The grandfather watched the scene with a softened expression before he straightened, a hint of urgency in his voice cutting through the usual routine. "Put the sign out, will you, love?"

With a tired sigh, she set her teaspoon down and retrieved the sign her grandfather had already sorted that morning, today’s headline written in white chalk across the blackboard surface. She didn't usually pay it much attention, but as she held the frame in her hands, her eyes were drawn to it. One word stood out like a beacon:

‘Britain Declares War on Germany’

“It’s official now,” her grandfather mused, having clocked her shocked, mildly terrified expression, his voice carrying an air of aged wisdom. He had seen another war before this one after all, even then, he had been too old to actually fight in it.

Her breath caught for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in. "Today?"

"Aye, today," he confirmed, as if it made any difference, a solemn nod accompanying his words. "The world’s about to change."

She stepped outside, the gravel crunching under her feet as she made her way to the front of the shop. With a steady hand, she hung the sign where it would be seen by all who passed by. She stepped back as if to make sure the words were true and not a trick of the eye, and couldn't help but feel the gravity of the situation settling in. The world was indeed about to change, and their quiet corner of it would not be spared.

As she stood there, contemplating the significance of the headline, she heard the familiar sound of a bicycle approaching. Douglas pulled up, half-dismounting with a hurried air.

“Y’alright, Douglas?” she greeted him, her voice tinged with curiosity and concern.

Douglas’s eyes flicked to the sign, and he visibly flinched. A deep furrow appeared on his brow, and his jaw tightened, frustration evident in his tense posture.

“Not seen my boy, Tom, have ya?” he asked, a hint of worry in his voice.

“Fortunately not. Why, is he in trouble?”

Douglas let out a frustrated sigh. “Is he. If you see him, send him back home.”

She nodded, then glanced back at the sign, understanding the unspoken pain in Douglas’s reaction. “I will, Douglas. Take care.”

Douglas gave a curt nod, his eyes lingering on the sign for a moment longer before he mounted his bike again. He gave her a brief, strained smile, the weight of his past experiences clear in his eyes, and pedalled away. She watched him go, feeling the heavy burden of the news. He and Tom were alike in many ways, stubborn mostly though, and set in their ways once their mind was made up. But Douglas was gentler since the first war had changed him, and Tom was never the same after his mother. Turning back to the house, she couldn’t shake the feeling that their small world, like so many others, was on the brink of something monumental. Something far beyond their understanding.

The week passed in a blur of routine tasks and quiet contemplation. She worked diligently, covering the post office as her grandfather went off to the social club, seeking the comfort of familiar faces and shared memories. The steady stream of customers brought a sense of normalcy, yet the weight of the headline hung over her like a shadow, and many others as well.

Each day felt heavier than the last, as the reality of the declaration of war settled in. Conversations with customers often turned to the uncertain future, and the usual gossip was replaced with talk of enlistment and preparations.

As the afternoon sun began to wane one gloomy day, the door to the post office swung open with the chime of the bell. She looked up from the counter, her heart skipping a beat as Tom Bennett walked in. His usual carefree expression was absent, replaced by a seriousness she’d rarely seen before now.

She smiled. “Three guesses who you're skulking away from.”

Tom approached the counter, a faint smirk rose at the corners of his mouth, and his serious depression faltered somewhat. “Box of matches, please.”

She rang him up, the familiar clink of the register grounding her amidst the day's uncertainties. Even from here, behind the counter, she caught the faint scent of cigarettes on his weathered coat, for some reason making her head feel airy. As she handed him the matches, she couldn't help but broach the topic. 

“Heard you signed up,” she said, her voice gentle but curious. “What made you do that?”

Tom’s face hardened slightly. She knew immediately why but dare not say. “Don't carry on, had enough of this off Dad.”

“Not Lois?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

Tom let out a short, humourless laugh. “Nah. She can’t wait to see me gone.”

“How will she cope?” she smiled, attempting to lighten the mood.

Tom shrugged, pocketing the matches. “She’s tougher than she looks. She’ll be alright, both of ‘em will.”

Granda trudged past the doorway leading to the back room, leaving a large heaved sigh with a cigarette between his weathered lips. Tom nodded up at him, “y’alright, Granda? Keeping steady?”

She couldn't help but smile as she glanced back. Nobody called him by his real name, only ever what she had always nicknamed him, from a time where she was unable to say ‘grandad���. At first it embarrassed her, but now to hear everyone else call him Granda, well, it was endearing.

Her grandfather simply glared with hooded eyes, blowing smoke between his lips and permeating the air with musk, “bugger off, ya bone idle twat-”

He was still muttering things as he walked off and she gave Tom a face that showed she was trying her hardest to remain stoic.

“Your own fault really. Should know better.”

Tom chuckled, “Yeah, I should.”

From the first day she stepped behind the counter, Tom had made it his mission to tease and charm her, testing the waters with playful remarks and lingering glances. He would lean in close, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, just to watch her cheeks flush a delicate pink. It was a game they played, a dance of words and looks that neither was quite brave enough to escalate.

She found herself looking forward to his visits, the highlight of her day amidst the routine tasks of sorting mail and ringing up customers. Tom seemed to delight in the effect he had on her, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief as he leaned in close. “You’re going to spoil me with all this attention,” he’d say, and she’d laugh, trying to hide how much she enjoyed their playful but enigmatic banter.

Now, as Tom stood before her, the weight of his decision to sign up for the war added a new layer to their unspoken bond. The cheeky glint in his eyes was tempered by a newfound seriousness, and she felt the fragile line between them tighten and shift.

As she handed him the change, their fingers brushed, and she felt a familiar warmth rise to her cheeks. “You know,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady, “you’re going to make a right mess of things if you keep winding everyone up.”

Tom leaned on the counter, his smirk widening. “Oh, you like it when I wind you up. Admit it.”

She rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t suppress her smile. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Big word for a post office clerk-ow!” he teased, his eyes twinkling with mischief, rubbing his shoulder in faux offence when she smacked him lightly. If she were honest with herself, it was just an excuse to touch him.

“One of these days, your cheek will get you into real trouble,” she warned, though her smile betrayed her amusement.

Tom leaned in closer, lowering his voice. “Maybe I’m hoping you’ll be the one to give me a proper telling off.”

She rolled her eyes, busying herself with doing a recount of the till, mostly so that she could have something to do with her hands. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Impossible to resist?” he quipped, his grin widening.

“Impossible to deal with,” she corrected, though her cheeks flushed with a hint of colour.

Tom watched her for a moment, his smile softening, blue eyes flickering to the pile of post she still had to sort. “Got anything for me? I'll take it back on my way home.”

She hummed a laugh, shaking her head as she sorted through.. She always sorted the Bennett Household’s post separately, so she’d be prepared for another one of Tom’s spontaneous visits. “To face the wrath of Douglas?”

He scoffed, leaning back against the counter with a mock look of horror. “Don't make me laugh. I can handle my old man.”

“Brave words, Mr. Bennett,” she teased, handing him a small stack of letters. “But I’m not sure anyone can handle Douglas when he’s in a mood.”

Tom took the letters, their fingers brushing for a brief moment. “Guess I’ll find out soon enough,” he said with a wink. “I’m tougher than I look, you know.”

She smiled, feeling the familiar warmth spread through her. “I believe it. Just don’t go getting yourself into too much trouble, alright?”

Tom’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “No promises. Trouble seems to follow me wherever I go.”

As he turned to leave, he glanced back over his shoulder. “And don’t worry, I’ll come back before I ship out. Wouldn’t want to miss another chance to see you blushing for me.”

With that, he straightened and headed for the door, leaving her with a smile and a heart a little lighter despite the day’s heavy news. She watched him go, the weight of their unspoken connection lingering in the air. In her heart she knew she was afraid of truly letting him go, at the prospect of not seeing him walk through those doors every other day. Her heart felt like lead, deep in her chest, wondering if it was already too late, with war reaching their horizons, to admit how she really felt about the man who had just signed up to fight in it.

The days continued to pass in a blur of activity and mounting tension. The declaration of war had cast a long shadow over their small town, and everyone was feeling its effects. Life carried on, but the underlying anxiety was palpable.

A week later, Tom walked into the post office, a different kind of seriousness in his eyes. He held an official-looking envelope in his hand, and she knew immediately what it was.

“Got my papers,” he said, handing her a letter to post. “I’m shipping out in a few days.”

She felt a lump form in her throat but forced a smile. Don’t cry. “So soon?”

He nodded, looking around the familiar space of the post office.

“There’s a…leaving do at the Cross Keys, if you want to come and see me off with the others.”

And why on earth would she have said ‘no’. 

A small gathering was held at the local pub to send off the men who had conscripted to do their bit. It was a tradition of sorts, a way for the community to come together and show their support. Friends and family gathered, raising their glasses to wish him well and offer their prayers for his safe return. It was all bright faces, pink cheeked from ale, clinking glasses and all. And all she could do was watch from her seat. Watch him. As if she wanted to print the very image and soul of him into her mind on the off chance he might not return to her, or if he already had a sweetheart to write to, and wouldn't spare a second glance to her.

The pub was filled with laughter and conversation, but she could see the sadness in everyone’s eyes. As the evening wore on, people began to drift away, leaving behind a quieter, more intimate group.

Tom found her sitting at a corner table, nursing a drink. He slid into the seat next to her, a playful glint in his eyes. “Mind if I join the prettiest girl in the room?”

She rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t help but smile. Tom looked around, then back at her. He was antsy, she could feel his nervous energy a mile away. He was probably annoyed as well. Douglas hadn’t come to the pub that night, and there was always something in Tom that craved his approval. “Got anything you want to say to me before I go, or are you just going to miss me in silence?”

She looked down into her lap, tracing her thumb over the rim of her glass, taking a deep breath before speaking. “I don’t know what to say without sounding like a fool, Tom.”

“Then be a fool. I won’t mind.”

Her chest was all tight with anxiety when she finally had the courage to form the reply, looking up into his blue eyes, “this place just won’t be the same without you.”

She’d always seen Tom a certain way. Sure. Cock of the walk. Ever since his own mother died he’d almost put on this thick outer layer that was impenetrable. But here, sat with half a beer left in his glass, tapping his fingers against it nervously, his eyes gave way to something more vulnerable. They both know he was off to go and do something important, that he needed to feel valuable in some way, and this was his way of proving it. But his expression showed that he was also a young man, like so many others, who was afraid. 

“I won’t miss much about his place.”

Her heart sank a fraction, deep, forming a pit in her stomach. And it seemed Tom sensed it, as he twisted his body to face her, nudging her arm with his elbow to grab her attention again.

 “But I will miss you. Especially you.”

She looked up, meeting his gaze. The pub was nearly empty now, the noise reduced to a low murmur, and she suddenly felt uncomfortable in her chair, fingers twisting the hem of her skirt in a gesture of uncertainty about herself. “Tom, I–”

His lips pressed to hers in a gentle, tentative kiss. It was a moment they had both imagined countless times, but reality was far sweeter and more poignant.

When they finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against hers and chuckled softly. “About time we stopped dancing around it, isn’t it?”

She could laugh. Cry even. 

Tom sensed her surprise and something that lingered deeper, but his bravado didn’t allow him to approach it, but it was enough that his thumb brushed a wayward hair from her face. “Had to get that in before I left. Didn’t want to regret missing my chance.”

She let out a relieved, breathy laugh. One that expelled all the tension from her body for a moment. Her eyes never quite left him, as if in wonder. And she was hit with the endless thought that she did not want this moment to end, she didn’t want him to leave. But knew she could never ask that of him.

“Promise me you’ll write,” she said instead.

A classically-Tom Bennett smirk rose to his face. He always did that when he saw the colour rise to her face. “I might.”

They both laughed lightly, with some uncertainty, when she swatted his shoulder. That attitude would get him in trouble, if not with her.

“How about I do you one better,” he started, “I’ll come back, and we’ll have our time.”

She knew then she could ask no more of him. She felt a mixture of hope and fear, knowing how much she was already relying on his return, how much she already craved it. But in response to his weighty promise, she nodded softly, her eyes feeling heavy with tears she did well to keep back.

It almost felt cruel, to have this moment the day before he would leave her for the seas. There had been no time…

Tom’s cheeky grin returned, albeit with a touch of tenderness. “Good. Now, let’s get you home before I change my mind and decide to stay here with you.”

She wished he would. 

It was only when she was at her doorstep, watching him walk away, the darkness gradually enveloping him, that she finally took a deep breath, clutching the memory of his kiss and the promise of his return close to her heart.

The days following Tom’s departure were filled with a bittersweet mixture of hope and anxiety. She busied herself at the post office, trying to keep her mind off the worry gnawing at her. The routine tasks that once felt mundane now served as a distraction from the ever-present uncertainty.

On the morning Tom was scheduled to ship out, she was on shift, sorting through the morning post with a heavy heart. She couldn’t bring herself to go to the docks to see him off, knowing it would be too much to bear. Instead, she stayed at the post office, her mind wandering to thoughts of him, imagining his cheeky grin and the promise in his eyes.

After a fortnight, she was giddy with joy when she was sorting the post and saw her name amongst the pile, she nearly gave herself a papercut in her fervent attempts to open the letter, wanting to see his words, in his hand, it would give her happiness beyond belief.

Little Miss Postie, You wouldn't believe the state of things here. It's a lot different from our quiet little town. The lads are a good bunch, though, mostly, and they’ve already learned to put up with my jokes. They’ve got no choice, really. It’s either that or Hitler and I wouldn’t like those odds. I miss seeing your face every day, the way you blush when I tease you. You remember that night at the pub? I bet you do. I wasn’t joking about regretting not kissing you sooner. Let’s just say I’ve had some pretty vivid dreams since then. Don’t worry, I’m keeping my head down and staying out of trouble. Mostly. But it’s hard not to think about you when I’m supposed to be focusing on training. The open sea allows a man to think a bit too much, and every time I see the stars at night, I think of you. And, well, there’s not much else to do out here except think… and maybe imagine a few things I shouldn’t put in a letter. Write me back soon. Tell me everything. And don’t leave out the parts that make you blush. Yours, Tom

She sat at the counter, Tom’s latest letter in hand, a smile tugging at her lips as she read his words again. The warmth of his cheeky tone and the sincerity of his affection made her heart flutter. She knew she had to reply, but she wanted to make it special.

Rising from her seat, she walked over to the display of postcards near the entrance of the post office. The assortment included scenic views, cheerful illustrations, and wartime propaganda. Her fingers brushed over each one until she found a postcard that seemed perfect—a World War II specific postcard featuring a charming drawing of a sailor in uniform, waving from a ship, with the words “Keep Smiling and Carry On” printed in bold letters.

She took the postcard back to the counter and carefully penned her reply, choosing her words with care and affection. When she finished, she read it over, her cheeks warming at the bolder parts. With a satisfied smile, she addressed the postcard and prepared to send it off.

Dear Tom, I’m glad to hear you’re getting along with the lads and keeping them entertained. The town isn’t the same without you, and I miss your cheeky grin and those comments that always get under my skin—in the best way, of course. I hope you continue to write to your father and Lois, they miss you greatly. I’ve been thinking about that night at the pub too. More often than I should admit. Sometimes I catch myself smiling like a fool. Granda thinks I’ve gone mad. He’s just a few pennies short of putting me away. Since you were so forward in your letter, I suppose I can be a little brave too. I’ve had a few dreams myself, some of them involving a certain navy man and that uniform you hate. I’m looking forward to seeing you out of it as much as in it. Stay safe, Tom. I can’t wait for your next letter. Yours, ‘Little Miss Postie’

Little Miss Postie, I knew there was a reason I liked you. I couldn’t stop smiling when I read your letter. And blushing? Don’t worry, I’ve been doing plenty of that myself. Don’t tell anyone though or I’ll tell everyone you’re lying. I can’t wait to get back and see if those dreams of yours are as good as mine. Maybe we’ll have to find out together. And as for that uniform, well, I’ll make sure to wear it just for you. But you might have to help me out of it later. I promise, I’ll make it worth your while. Training is tough, and they’re keeping us on our toes, but thoughts of you keep me going. The lads are starting to wonder why I’ve got this goofy grin on my face all the time. I’ve been telling them about you—well, only the parts that won’t make them too jealous. They all say hello, by the way. Take care of yourself, love. And keep those letters coming. They’re the best part of my day. Yours, Tom

Her reply was affectionate, written with that telltale blush to her cheeks that Tom would have made fun of her for. Every scratch of the pen on paper, telling him that him blushing at her letter would be their little secret, and that he shouldn’t give the lads too high of expectations of her, made her heart feel as light as air. And as she signed off the letter, urging him to come back to her, she would not let that little whisper of uncertainty grow at the back of her mind. And as she turned over the postcard, appreciating the watercolour design on the front, she thought of his face when, and how she imagined it would light up when he received it. Just as hers does.

She waited for a response. But none came.

She found herself anxious, restless. Had she said something wrong? Gone too far? Scared him off with her incessant affections and flirtations? Surely not, she thought. But the lack of any real response had tensions rising in her gut, and the seed of doubt had long been planted.

As the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, she checked the post every morning with a mix of anticipation and dread. Each time the mail arrived, she sifted through the letters, hoping to find one from Tom. But there was nothing. No letter, no word. Her heart sank a little more with each passing day.

Her grandfather and the regular customers noticed the change in her. She became quieter, more introspective, holding onto the hope that Tom would keep his promise and return. The thought of his words, “I’ll be back, and we’ll have our time,” became her lifeline, the thing that kept her going through the long, uncertain months.

Sometimes, she'd allow herself a trip to the house Tom used to inhabit, remembering the times she'd pass by on her way to the post office and spot him leaning against the doorway, smoke blowing from between his curled lips, amused to see the way she was watching him. 

She'd hand Lois the post, come in for a cuppa, sometimes Douglas would say a quick hello as he was passing through the kitchen. But whenever she saw him, she was reminded very much of Tom, thousands of miles away from her, and the way his eyes crinkled like Douglas’ did when he smiled.

Every morning, she performed her duties with a determined smile, greeting the postman with a hopeful glance, on the off chance that some letter had accidentally ended up at Douglas’ home, only to be met with a sympathetic shake of the head. She would take a deep breath, steel herself, and continue with her day, refusing to let despair take hold. If she ever let it stick, it would swallow her whole.

It was funny how life had a way of testing people in their worst times.

Granda had always been stubborn. So much so that even when she told him she would put out the sign in a moment, he was too impatient. She only found him later, collapsed alongside the sign for that day's news. But no news seemed as important to her as that very minute, knelt beside her dying grandfather and shouting at passerbys for help.

If her little town was good for anything, it was community. Her grandfather left enough to cover the costs for the funeral, but all who remained put in as much as they could so that they could give the very beating heart of their slice of peace a good sendoff. Her grandfather would have hated it, everyone snivelling and crying over him. But it took the edge off her grief to see that he had touched the hearts of so many, despite his grumpy attitude.

At least, she thought, she wouldn't have to let go of the post office and go work in a factory. This small slice of peace was all she had left of her grandfather. And she counted her blessings that he had left her a good amount in his will, and what remained of his savings.

She only hoped that this brief didn't come in pairs. And she couldn't help but think of Tom now she was truly alone, running the post office by herself, her loneliness only exacerbated by the fact she only had herself to make a brew for in the morning now. She has the most vivid nightmares about the day someone would come and break the news that he wouldn't come back.

Then, one crisp morning, as she stood behind the counter, sorting the latest batch of letters, the door to the post office swung open with a familiar chime. She looked up, her breath catching in her throat as Tom Bennett stepped inside, dressed in his navy uniform, looking weary but very much alive.

Their eyes met, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. The weight of all the months of worry and hope melted away as he crossed the room, a tired but genuine smile spreading across his face.

“I told you I’d come back,” he said softly, his voice carrying the same mix of cheekiness and sincerity that she had missed so dearly.

For a moment, she stood frozen, unable to believe her eyes. Then, in a rush of emotion, she ran around the counter and threw herself into his arms. As she hugged him tightly, the dam of her emotions broke and she began to sob uncontrollably. He smelled of cigarettes and the sea, a mix of salt and smoke that was uniquely him. The scent brought a rush of memories and emotions, grounding her in the reality of his presence. His uniform carried the faint tang of saltwater, a reminder of the long months he had spent away from her, battling the elements and the enemy.

Tom hugged her back, a bit confused by the intensity of her reaction. “Hey now, what’s all this? I’m back, aren’t I? In one piece and everything.”

She laughed through her tears, clutching him even tighter. “You look terrible in that uniform,” she said, her voice shaky but filled with affection.

Tom chuckled, a familiar warm feeling pooling in her gut, rubbing her back soothingly. “Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t join the navy for the fashion. Besides, I was hoping you’d be so happy to see me that you wouldn’t notice.”

She wiped her cheek, feeling like air was finally making its way into her lungs. “Y-You didn’t write me back. I thought I'd lost you too.”

“I’m sorry, love. I never meant to leave you in the dark. It was just complicated out there, I–”, Tom furrowed his brows, his head cocking down at her slightly. “Too? I—”

He only had to look around. It was never usually this quiet. And she saw the realisation dawn across his war-hardened face when he spotted the framed picture of Granda on the counter.

“Oh, no,” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. “When?”

“A few months ago,” she said softly, her voice thick with emotion. “Stroke. The tobacco must have caught up with him.”

Tom’s expression softened, and he pulled her into a tighter embrace. “I’m so sorry, love,” he whispered, resting his cheek on her head, “you're more a soldier, doing all this on your own.”

She held onto him, his presence like a balm for her aching heart, growing stronger every day around the pit that was grief. “I didn't feel very strong.”

Tom didn't reply. He hadn't felt very strong himself either. And she knew from the way his large hand rubbed her back to comfort her, that there was more to his easy-going facade than he wanted to let on. And he knew for her equally, that the months were tough on her own, and that she was still healing.

“Missed you so much,” she confessed, pulling away slightly to look up at his half-worried expression, “it felt like I was losing both of you at the same time.”

Tom sighed, a light, almost pretty sound from his lips, his gaze drifting down slightly to her lips, as if he were just remembering all the details he didn't want to admit he'd forgotten all those months at sea.

“Don't cry.” His thumb lingered, swiping away a tear from her under eye, before he lightened the atmosphere with his smile, “I'd prefer to see you blush again. Suits you better.”

She couldn't help a smile breaking across her face, and the warmth that crept up her neck made her feel like a schoolgirl.

Tom winked. “There it is.”

Before she could respond, he leaned down and kissed her, softly at first, as if testing the waters. Her hands instinctively found their way to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his uniform as she kissed him back, the warmth of his lips against hers sending a shiver down her spine.

She pulled back slightly, a playful protest on her lips. “Tom, we’re still open…”

He gave her a devilish smile, turning around to flip the sign on the door to ‘Closed’ and locking it with a swift motion. “Not anymore, we’re not.”

He wasted no time, pulling her back into his arms, his lips growing more insistent and passionate. His hands roamed her back, finding the familiar curves and contours he had missed so much, but had no time to explore before he’d left. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed this,” he murmured against her lips, his voice thick with desire.

She felt her own longing mirror his, her body responding eagerly to his touch. “Show me,” she whispered, her breath hot against his skin.

Tom’s grin turned wicked as he trailed kisses down her neck, his hands exploring with newfound urgency. “I've been dreaming about this,” he murmured against her skin, his breath hot and tantalising. “Every fucking night.”

She laughed softly, feeling a delightful mix of anticipation and excitement. “Tom Bennett, you are impossible.”

He gave no reply, his fingers already working on the buttons of her blouse. His movements were deft, practised, as if he had imagined this moment a thousand times over. She gasped as his hands brushed her skin, the sensation sending sparks of pleasure through her body. 

His lips found hers again, their kiss deepening as he pulled her blouse free, letting it fall to the floor. “Yeah, but I knew you’d come around,” he said with a cheeky grin, his hands sliding to her waist and pulling her closer.

Their kisses grew hungrier, their bodies pressing together with an urgency that had been building for months. She reached for the buttons on his uniform, her fingers trembling slightly in anticipation as she worked to free him from the fabric. He shrugged off his jacket and pulled her into his arms again, his hands caressing her bare skin and breasts through her brassiere, sending waves of heat through her.

She sighed, her head falling back as his lips trailed down her neck, his kisses leaving a path of fire in their wake. “Tom,” she breathed, her hands clutching at him, needing more.

“I know, love,” he whispered, his voice a soothing balm. “I know.”

He lifted her effortlessly, carrying her to the small sofa in the back of the post office where she sometimes took breaks. Gently, he laid her down, his eyes never leaving hers. Their movements became a dance of passion and longing, each touch, each kiss, a testament to the months they had been apart. Tom’s hands explored her with a reverence that made her feel cherished, loved.

As if by muscle memory from those dreams he would write about, his knee slid between her thighs as his hands roughly bunched up her skirt to her hips, two fingers tucking between them to tease her bud through her knickers.

“Tom,” she gasped, her body arching against his.

“Shh,” he soothed, his lips capturing hers once more. “I’ve got you.”

She was enraptured by the way he nipped at her lips, that she only realised he had pulled the gusset of her underwear aside when he gently, but insistently, pushed two fingers inside her, crooking upwards and finding that rough, sweet spot with unyielding precision.

He swallowed every sound she made, every now and then a grunt of approval slipping past his own lips as he stretched her open on his fingers, his pace teasing. Her fingernails left crescent moon shaped welts in his now bare shoulders, the muscles tensing beneath them.

Tom hummed against her lips, pleased with himself. “Not so shy now, are you?”

His teeth slid across her neck, no doubt marks left behind, but she couldn't even focus on that with the way he was insistent on teasing that wild spot inside her that made her body feel like white, fluttery flames.

“I've missed your reactions…especially this one.”

His thumb joined in his ministrations, applying gentle but firm pressure to her bundle of nerves in tandem with his fingers plunging in and out of her wet heat. And if her face hadn't been buried in his shoulder, she would have cried out, embarrassed at the sounds she and her body was making. Tom however, seemed to revel in it, his hand soaked with her arousal as she teetered on the edge.

The tightness in her gut spiralled as she clutched him tighter, her body aching pleasantly with the force of her peak rushing through her, all while Tom grinned and didn't falter, as if to watch her linger on that border of pain and pleasure.

Before she had even fully come down, his fingers were gone and she felt she was able to fully breathe again. Her flushed expression snapped open to him as he pulled her thighs towards him, on the sofa, and watched as he righted himself and slid his belt through the loops of his trousers, a sound that made her belly flutter.

He raised his eyebrows, pulling his trousers low enough to free himself and leaned over her again. “Missed me that much?”

She laughed, and hid her face, the dull ache still thrumming through her body ignited again as the head of is cock parted her folds and nudged her bud. “Tom-”

Warmth crept to her face again when his hand turned her face towards him again, his pupils near eclipsing the blue with want as he sheathed himself within her, holding her there to watch her expression as her walls stretched to accommodate him.

In any other scenario, she would want to slap that self-impressed look off his face, but not now, not when it felt this good.

His eyebrows barely furrowed, struggling to keep his composure. “Christ, you're so fucking tight—”

His words shot straight to her core, clenching around him and eyes slipping shut as he began a tortuous pace, like he hadn't gotten to this part in his dreams before. His arms wrapped around her like choking ivy, pushing her body to his with every needy thrust, his breath hot against her neck and the metal of his identification tag cold against her chest.

For a few brief moments, the world outside the post office ceased to exist. There were only the two of them, reconnecting in a way that was both familiar and new. Tom's cheeky comments and playful touches had yielded to blend seamlessly with his genuine affection, creating a moment that was perfect in all its imperfections.

She can feel his hips growing tired the closer he gets, and if she is being truthful, the cooling sensation of the buckle of his belt and the friction it gives her is only flinging her to the edge right alongside him. And when he breathes her name all shaky and low like that, she can't help herself, and she lets go again with a choked cry, the second sneaking up on her so quickly it feels like she never really recovered from the first.

With a stuttered groan, mirrored by his own hips, he crushes her in his arms and pushes forward as hard as he can, burying himself as deep as he's able as he comes hard nestled in her silky walls. She held him on top of her, his weight a comforting reminder that he was real, that he was here. Her fingers gently traced the contours of his back, feeling the warmth of his skin, the rise and fall of his breath.

Her heart was still racing, but not just from their shared passion. It was the sheer relief, the overwhelming sense of having him back in her arms after so long. Every night of worry, every day of longing, all melted away in this moment.

She buried her face in his hair, inhaling the familiar scent of him, mixed with the faint hint of the sea. Tears of relief welled up in her eyes, but this time they were tears of joy, of profound gratitude. And she wanted to say so much, but whenever she tried, her throat closed up, not wanting to interrupt this quiet, loving slice of peace in her arms. For the first time in months, she felt whole again.

When he finally pulls back, breathless and flushed, Tom rests his forehead against hers, his eyes filled with love and mischief, her his voice low and intimate. He means to say so much more. The depth of his feelings, the fears, and the nights he had spent longing for her, it all threatened to spill out, leaving him vulnerable in a way he wasn’t used to. She saw it, though, in the way his eyes darkened with emotion, the unspoken words lingering just beneath the surface.

“I think we might need to close early more often.”

General Taglist: @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blackswxnn @blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch

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[bodythieves]

horny cowboy content warning - mdni

(grinding and such, it’s kinda long too)

this is just downright pathetic.

How were you supposed to be anything but pathetic, though? With Arthur Morgan sitting before you, a delicious heat from the fire that licks your back in waves, and a knot in your belly that just wouldn’t come undone? To add to that, Arthur’s hands are all over you. Calloused, thick fingers, moving along your sides and your ribs. The man’s hands continue due north, pushing between the soft fabric of your shirt and your sun-beaten, tired skin. He pushes your button up away, and it falls to the dirt, and you don’t give one damn.

You never have, you never would, and you never could.

The cicadas sing loudly throughout the New Austin night. Arthur would complain, he always complained, big old baby. But you, you liked it. If it were up to you, you’d sit and listen to the cicadas and crickets and katydids sing and gladly take up a dime an hour doin’ it.

Apart from the critters of the night, there was a sweet, misconstrued mess of mumbling breaths between your lips and Arthur’s. A gentle clang and clack of spurs, belt buckles scraping against one another as you slid your way up from your kneeling position in the dirt. You were slotted between his legs, hands braced on either side of him. Palms pushed so deep into the dead wood of an abandoned wagon’s step, you could’ve sworn your flesh had been worn raw.

You had been begging him. On your knees, jeans pressed forcibly into the dry dirt beneath them, whimpering like a lost dog. Only time you rarely found yourself on your knees, was when you were praying to a god you didn’t quite believe in, about things you were in quite desperate need of.

“I can’t take it no more,” you shuddered out, your voice sounding so fraught and pitiful, you could hardly even recognize it yourself. You rolled yourself forward again, that wicked scrape of belt buckles making your skin’s hair stand at attention.

Arthur didn’t seem to register what you said. That, or he was down right ignoring you- probably both. Wouldn’t be surprised if it was both. However, his hands did drop from your rib cage, and went to grab your rear, his fingers now splayed in the pockets of denim there. You could hear him let out a gruff groan, his head ducking low and against your shoulder as he pulled you up into his lap.

Instinctively, your knees spread, and made themselves right at home beside Arthur’s hips, the crotch of your jeans now snugly pressed against the engraved metal that fastened Arthur’s leather belt taut against his waist. Settling into the position was easy, this dance now familiar between you and Arthur, like you didn’t even need a beat behind you to fall in to the rhythm. Arthur was quick to press his hips against yours, the wagon’s step shifting beneath the two of you.

“Hell’s bells, you smell damn good,” he grumbled lowly, damn near inaudibly, that thick tone rumbling through your shoulder and collar like a thunderclap.

“Vanilla,” you mumble in response, taking in a deep breath as you turned your head down and to the left, nose deep into Arthur’s hair. He’d been letting it grow out. You didn’t mind it. Made it easier to tug on. “Off the trees.. gotta do what you can with what.. what ya-”

Whew. God damn. Spit it out already.

It didn’t matter. Arthur wouldn’t let you finish your sentence, he didn’t wanna talk. Not right now, damn it. Talking would surely serve to irritate him, and you weren’t really in the position to be using words. You could barely even form a coherent thought; just sitting there, miserably grinding your apex against his belt, huffing and puffing, your jeans feeling as if they would snap from how tight and stiff your stomach felt.

It was almost like you had blacked out for a second, your thoughts swimming around in a wild current and then finally coming to as Arthur pulls your head down for a kiss, one hand moving from your rear to wrap around your waist and hold you down against his groin. The man huffed lowly, kissing you with brandy-wine and tobacco still on his tongue, his arm clutching your bare torso tight, his hips lazily moving upwards in a search for you. You, loving the friction that that damn belt brought, pushed your rear down and grabbed on to his shoulders for a moment.

“Christ,” you breathe out, your stomach now as hot as the flames that warmed your back. Your movements became more and more anguished, your hands moving to find Arthur’s shoulders. Bitten and jagged nails dug into the man’s shoulders, your sighs filling his ears. You didn’t even need anything more than this, and evidently, neither did Arthur.

“Ain’t present,” The cowboy caviled, pulling away so he could let his head fall back. His arm was still locked around you, holding you in position. He, on the other hand, shifted and spread his legs. Arthur’s trousers were growing exponentially tighter and more uncomfortable, his own breathing now rasped and shaking.

Still grinding your hips, pushing yourself against his bulge and buckle, you watched him like he was the pure picture of desire. Light hair tossed back and disheveled, stuck to the sides of his head from his sweat. You always liked how New Austin treated him. His thick brows pushed upward and he gritted his teeth, jutted out his lip, his stubble making the expression all the more attractive. Opening his blues to catch your eyes and let out a throaty groan, you felt yourself start to come undone, the mixture of eye contact and bare chests against one another making you feel absolutely drunk with lust.

Then, the grinding. You hissed and jerked in his arm, which only rewarded you with a closer tug to his body. Arthur continued to buck beneath you, but no longer lazily. Rather, with conviction and confidence, like he wanted you to get off like this. Bare chest, jeans clad tight, spurs clanging, and in his lap.

Like he wanted to get off like that, too.

notes: I DID IT. IM ABOUT TO PASS OUT BUT I DID IT. no proofreading no plot just this. enjoy goodnifht.

[multifandomsish]

A/N: an au where Buckys a mechanic, requested by anon 🫶🏻

pls don’t hate me for how short this is but i wanted to get it out 😭

i wanted to leave this one kind of open and not a lot of detail! i feel like with how i decided to end this one, there’s definitely options for it to keep going if this is popular enough 👀

MY REQUESTS ARE OPEN!! please send me a request for any Marvel character! or vikings characters too! i’m open to just about any request!

TW: flirting, shyness, embarrassment, kissing.

-

A warm summer day seemed like the perfect time to go for a drive, but that was proving to be a bad idea as your car rumbled angrily rolling into the parking lot of a small town mechanics shop an hour and a half from where you live. “This has to be just my luck..” you grumble to yourself as you step one foot at a time out of your car, pushing the door closed and walking around, heading towards the shop.

You definitely stood out here with your tight fitting gym leggings and sports bra top, your typical gym attire that felt normal to wear in a gym of strangers working out just like you. But now that you were the only person dressed like this, you felt a small bit of insecurity boiling in your stomach at the thought of eyes on you. If you hadn’t needed help with your car to get back home, you wouldn’t have even made the stop but you felt you had no choice but to have it quickly checked out.

All of the car bay doors are open but not a soul is in sight, the assumption passing through your mind that everyone may be in the office of the shop hidden behind darkly tinted windows. A bell jingles just above your head as you push the slightly heavy metal and glass door open, the smell of oil and something hitting your nose. It takes a quick sweep of your eyes to see there’s three men behind the long desk in the center of the room, another man standing in the doorway leading to the garage where they work. It seems as though your presence makes the atmosphere go quiet.

The man standing in the doorway to the garage catches your eye, almost makes your heart skip a beat at the sight of him. He has beautifully messy brown hair and striking blue eyes, gorgeously muscled arms that are crossed over his tight broad chest. You’ve never seen anyone like him and you really wish you could get a better look at the name patch on his black button down work shirt that’s completely opened, exposing a white tank underneath. The only letters on the patch you can see are a B and Y, your brain wracking for names.

As your brain is trying to piece together a name, you offer a quick and soft friendly smile to the men, clearing your throat gently. “Hi uh- I was.. I was having some issues with my car while on a drive and this was the closest shop I could get to. I was afraid it may breakdown, is there anyone that might be able to take a look at it?” You get out, shyness taking over your senses as your cheeks begin to feel warm, knowing they’re slowly beginning to glow red.

Out of the corner of your eye you can see the man in the doorway shift his weight on his feet as you maintain eye contact with the man right behind the desk. “Why of course ma’am, Buck, you mind going with her and seeing if we can’t help her out?” The man politely asks, clean blonde hair slicked back and just as piercing blue eyes as, who you assume is Buck, has. He’s the one to make a move, pushing himself off the doorway he’s leaned against and taking a step forward, unfolding his arms.

“Of course, not a problem.” Buck offers you a friendly smile as your eyes meet his and it feels as though your stomach does a thousand flips in just seconds. You already know with as awkward as you are, this may not end very well.

You follow behind Buck, just a few steps away, back out of the shop door and towards your car in the small parking lot. “So, what’s going on with it?” He speaks up, the sound of his deep warm voice making your bones tingle.

“I uh.. I was driving down the highway when it started to shake and it kind of smelt like something was burning. Then the check engine light came on the further I drove so I decided it was best to try and find a shop somewhere as close as I could.” You explain, unlocking your car and handing Bucky the keys. You watch as he gets in the driver seat, flipping the key in the ignition just enough to turn the dash on.

After the check engine light comes on, he gets out and motions for you to wait just a second before heading towards one of the open bay doors. He grabs a little handheld machine from what you presume is his area of work before heading back towards you to plug in this machine to your car in hopes it’ll tell him exactly what the check engine light is for.

As he’s waiting for the machine to load you have a second to watch his features and look him over, admiring the way the sun glistens off his skin and makes his hair shine too. You can see the peak of pale white skin under the sleeve of his work t shirt he’s wearing, a line where his tan starts and ends, making a smile form on your lips.

He glances up just seconds before the machine loads, to catch your eyes on him before you quickly look away in embarrassment, wondering if you’d just been caught being a creep. Though in Bucky’s mind, he’s dying to get a good look at you just as you have him.

“Hmm, this isn’t good..” Bucky says once he’s looked down at the handheld, reading what it’s telling him. “You’re having transmission problems.” He explains, glancing back up at you for a second. Your eyes widen then lower as you listen to him, nodding your head.

“That’s expensive isn’t it?” You ask with a soft laugh, pushing your stray hairs out of your face as you glance your car over. “Is it possible for me to make it home? I’m about an hour and a half away.” You ask, chewing on your bottom lip afraid of the answer.

Bucky makes a soft noise with your second question, eyes meeting yours and he shakes his head with a soft chuckle. “You might be lucky to make it another thirty to forty five minutes, but not the whole way home.” He says, unplugging the machine and standing up, eyes drifting down your body as you’re not paying attention to him.

“Let me go talk to my boss, Steve, and see if we can’t work something out to where we can fix your car and get you home for the night, okay?” Bucky offers, sensing a feeling of stress coming from you though it seems to ease with his offer.

“Oh you don’t have to do that! I wouldn’t expect for you to have to worry about getting me home, that’s sweet though, thank you.” You tell Bucky, a giddy smile on your lips at the thought of him going as far as to getting you home safe.

Bucky chuckles and he shakes his head, rough hand running through his hair as the two of you make your way back towards the shop. “Steve might actually write me up if I just let you be to figure it out yourself.” He grins, looking to you. “And anyways, helping a pretty girl like yourself is no weight on my shoulders.” He offers a playful wink that makes your cheeks heat again.

With the nerves that Buckys wink has sent through your body, you stumble over your own two feet stepping back into the shop, nearly face planting onto the stained tile flooring but a strong hand catches you from behind, pulling you into his broad body to bring you back into a standing position. Even more nerves run through you, but the good kind of nerves. The kind that make you yearn for the feeling again and again.

“Watch your step darlin, don’t need you takin a trip to the hospital too.” His breath fans across your ear but you steady your feet to take a step away from him to maybe calm the pounding of your heart in your chest, trying to feign a prideful smile.

“I’m okay, I got it.” You laugh, Bucky hesitating a second before he steps around you and towards the desk where Steve is watching the two of you intently, a knowing smirk on his lips.

Bucky leans half across the desk so there’s little space between him and Steve, keeping his voice fairly low. “Listen, her cars having transmission issues. It’s gonna need a decent fix and she’s an hour and a half from home, let me give her a ride and I’ll work on the car for the night.” Bucky whispers, watching the way Steve’s expression grows even more knowing.

Steve slightly glances around Bucky at you, standing there glancing around the shop waiting room like a lost duck. He gives a soft little laugh and he nods his head at Bucky. “Go ahead, just, hurry back. You do have work to do. No dilly dallying.” Steve says, raising his brows at Bucky and Bucky grins wide at his friend and boss. “You’re the fucking best, man.” He nods, patting Steve’s shoulder and turning around back to you with a smile.

“You okay with me giving you a lift? Of course as small as this town is, a taxi won’t come all the way out and take you back.” Bucky says and you shrug your shoulders. “Id really appreciate a ride back.” You nod, smiling at him and he pulls keys from his pocket.

“You can grab whatever you need from your car, we should be done with it in a day or two depending on everything wrong.” Bucky states and you head back to your car as he heads around the building to pull his old model Chevy around to the front. With your purse and gym bag from the trunk, you climb in the passenger seat of Buckys truck, him patiently waiting for you to settle and get buckled before pulling onto the highway and back towards your town.

-

[madhatterbri]

Brotherly Love | D.P.

Summary: Reader is Drew's sister, and she is dating Damian Priest. He promised her that he wouldn't cash in on her brother and well.

Author's Note: Congrats, Damian girlies. Here is some angst. ❤️

Tag list: @theworldofotps @plentyoffandoms

One!

Two!

Three!

The arena erupted in cheers as your older brother defeated Seth Freakin' Rollins for the championship. Tears poured down your cheeks as you watched your brother. He sat in the middle of the ring by his fallen opponent soaking it all in. The ring announcer makes it official by calling your brother the new champion.

The referee grabbed the belt to present it to Drew. All his years of hard work paid off. He was champion during a time they couldn't have anyone in the audience to a sold out night 2 of Wrestlemania. Your brother sat on his knees as the referee handed the belt to him. Drew buried his head in the belt.

He celebrated with Kaitlyn and you before turning his sights on CM Punk. The two men had been going at it since your brother injured the man at Royal Rumble. Your brother climbed on the table and towards the Chicago native. Words were exchanged, and suddenly, CM Punk attacked your brother.

His arm was not as injured as once thought. He took off his brace. The crowd started to chant for him. Your brother laid on the floor in pain, but at least he was champion. You found out it wouldn't be much longer.

Your boyfriend's music suddenly played through the arena. The purple flames hard to ignore. Your stomach sank when you saw him running down the ramp with his briefcase in hand. He promised not to take your brother's dreams away from him.

Around the ring, the archer of infamy ran until he collided the purple suitcase to your brother's head. Drew fell like a sack of potatoes on the floor. He appeared dazed and confused.

"I'm cashing in! Right now!" Damian yelled and handed the suitcase to the referee. He had waited long enough, and his time was running out. Judgment Day needed this win after they were stripped of their tag titles the night before.

Damian turned his sights to the wounded prey before him. This was the perfect opportunity to strike. CM Punk practically handed him the championship. The promise he made you was out of his mind. He only had one thing in mind, championship gold.

Damian helped your brother off the floor and pushed him in the ring. The crowd was cheering so loud you could barely hear Samantha on the microphone. Your brother could barely defend himself. In his daze, he started to slowly stand up, but Damian was already above him.

The bell rang, and Damian went to work. He grabbed your brother by the neck and hoisted him in the air. With a loud noise, your brother's back connected to the ring. Damian crawled on top of your brother and lifted his leg. The countdown began again.

One!

Two!

Three!

You hoped your brother would have had enough strength to kick out, but it was over. Your lying boyfriend was now the champion. He stole your brother's spotlight. Damian cheered in the ring as CM Punk laughed from commentary. Your lover continued to cheer and grabbed the belt from the referee. He left the ring to celebrate with the other members of his group. Rhea and Damian were now on the top of the division.

"I'm sorry, princesa," he grumbled when you met up with him that night. He was getting ready to celebrate at the hotel bar with his crew. "Judgment Day was starting to look weak, and we had to capitalize and win tonight,"

"You promised me!" You cried out in anguish. "You promised that my brother would have his moment,"

"I promised Judgment Day that I would get the belt tonight. They are my family,"

The conversation went to a dead stop. Tears filled your eyes, making your surroundings blurry. You could feel your heart break. Your stomach felt heavier than it had a few minutes ago. Damian kissed the top of your head.

"I had to, princesa. One day, I hope you will understand," he whispered and left you alone with your thoughts in the hotel room.

[herenya-writes]

To Kneel at Your Feet

So, uh, I tried my hand at a little Dreamling fic when a particular image wouldn't get out of my head.

~1850 words, Rated T (violence, non-graphic injuries, a bit of foul langauge), pre-relationship Dreamling set a few months after Dream escapes the fishbowl but before he's told Hob who he is

When a shadow fell over him, Hob figured he was fucked. Well, even more fucked than he already had been.

The day had started pretty normal. Term was over for the summer, and he had finally finished the last of the marking the night before, so he had let himself laze in the sunny patches of his bed until almost noon when the grumbling of his stomach drove him to the kitchen for food. The rest of the day had been syrupy slow, with a light frisson of anticipation running through. He was meeting his Stranger tomorrow morning for brunch, their first pre-evening meeting and the fifth one they had had since his Stranger had returned. So it was with a spring in his step that he had gone through the rest of the day, chatting with Mrs. Giles up the road about whether he could buy a few cases of her jam to serve at the Inn, taking a stroll around the park, mixing up a batch of scones. When Sasha called in sick, he had gladly picked up their shift bar-tending at the Inn, and even that had been lovely. A faster pace than the rest of his day, sure, but the night had been full of familiar faces and easy laughter.

He had been closing up the Inn and wiping down the last of the tables when the bell above the door rang. He didn’t get out so much as a word before the bullets were flying.

He managed to dodge them for a good while, but even his immortal body got tired of crouching and diving eventually. Plus, there were three of them, all armed, and only one of him. He had a bat and an array of knives behind the bar and an assortment of weapons in his flat above, but he didn’t see how he could get to either of those places unscathed. He’d survive, of course, but that could cause even more problems depending on how smart these thugs were.

His next dodge had been a bit too slow, and as he slid behind the sturdy oak of one of the booths a bullet buried itself in his shoulder. He snarled at the pain and pressed a hand to the wound on instinct. His immortality meant he’d survive no matter how many times these assholes shot him, but it didn’t stop him from feeling the bite of metal burrowing into his flesh.

It was as he was leaning against the wood, listening for footsteps and considering his options that a shape blocked the light above him. He swore and held up an arm to guard his face on instinct, but when he looked up it wasn’t one of the thugs he saw.

In the muted light of the Inn, his Stranger stood, clothed as always in his black coat, jeans, and boots, a minuscule frown pulling at his lips.

Without thinking, Hob grabbed the hem of his Stranger’s coat and yanked him down. His Stranger went, and a millisecond later bullets soared through the air where he had been standing.

“Sorry, friend. You chose a dangerous time to stop by,” he gasped. He had grabbed his Stranger with his left arm, and the bullet wound in his shoulder was protesting loudly.

His friend’s face took on a pinched expression, brows furrowing in a way that would have been adorable in another situation.

“You are injured,” he observed, his voice deep and rumbling like distant thunder. Hob could listen to that voice all day, and despite the circumstances he could feel his heartbeat slowing at just those three words. “You are not healing as you should.”

Hob blinked and looked down. Damn, his Stranger was right. One of the side effects of his immortality was that any injuries he sustained healed rapidly. Serious stuff like disembowelment still took a long (and excruciatingly painful) time to heal, but the process happened much faster for him than a normal human. He had been stabbed in a knife fight once in his second century of living and by the time the other fellow had hit the floor the only evidence of the wound had been the blood on his skin and the tear in his shirt. A bullet hole should have shown evidence of closing by now, but it was still gaping open and bleeding freely.

“At least I won’t have to cut the bullet out later,” he joked, but the tremble in his voice ruined his attempted levity.

“There are very few weapons in this world or another that could harm you so,” his Stranger declared, and something like lightning flashed in his eyes. His expression turned stone cold, and in a fluid movement he rose to his feet and turned toward the gunmen. Hob scrambled up after him, biting back curses, but he stopped short when he realized there weren’t any bullets flying through the air.

In the space of a blink, all the shadows in the room seemed to lengthen and gather around his Stranger, and Hob swore he saw recognition begin to dawn on the face of the lead thug as his Stranger stepped forward and extended one pale arm.

“Servants of the Morningstar, by what edict do you walk the Earth and seek the life of one to whom Death has denied her gift?” His Stranger’s voice buzzed with barely-restrained power, and something deep in Hob’s human brain told him to run and hide. He stayed where he was, though, and so did the gunmen, even as they trembled in obvious fear.

“Dead or not, the glory of claiming an immortal’s head for Lucifer’s throne room is undying,” the one in the middle declared. Hob was almost impressed with how even their voice was.

“You have attacked him in his home, unarmed and unaware of your challenge. There is no glory here, hellspawn.” His Stranger spat the word ‘glory’ like it was vinegar on his tongue, and all three creatures (he had thought they were human, but now he could swear an outline of fire flickered around them) recoiled. Still, they didn’t flee.

“He is unclaimed, Dreamlord. Glory or not, he’s ours for the taking!”

The shadows in the room deepened impossibly, and the air pressure dropped fast enough that Hob’s ears popped and every hair stood on end. His Stranger took a menacing step forward, standing directly between him and the gunment now. When he spoke, the power in his voice shook the floorboards and set Hob’s very bones buzzing.

“Is that so? Allow me to correct that oversight.”

His Stranger threw back his coat, and it melted into a midnight black robe. The folds of the fabric were ablaze with swirling galaxies that seemed to spill into the shadows that surrounded him. The power radiating off him now was equal parts strange and familiar, like hearing a song for the first time but immediately knowing the chorus. Any unease Hob had felt settled at once, even as the gunmen began to quiver and keen in dismay. His Stranger spoke over their sounds of distress, his voice firm and unyielding. In that moment, Hob had no doubt that he could make any declaration and reality would bend itself to reflect his will.

“I, Dream of the Endless, Shaper of Forms, Oneiromancer, Prince of Stories, King of the Dreaming and Nightmare Realms, declare Hob Gadling to be under my protection. Harm him and know the unfettered wrath of the Dreaming.”

Hob had been a lot of things in the past 600-plus years. He’d tried his hand at just about everything that had held his attention for longer than a week, and he had even been decent at a fair chunk of it. Hell, he’d even been knighted once! Right now, he probably had enough wealth squirreled away in stashes across the world to keep him living comfortably for the next two hundred or so years. At his core, though, he was nothing more than a peasant.

His knee hit the floor before his Stranger even finished speaking, and he barely felt the way the movement shocked his still-bleeding shoulder. All he could do was gaze up at his Stranger, awe, in the oldest sense of the word, flooding him. Dream of the Endless. His Stranger had a name. His Stranger was a king.

He wasn’t sure what happened with the thugs after that. There was a moment when the Inn got so dark all he could see where the pinpoints of light in his Stranger’s eyes and the galaxies swirling in his robe, and the next the light had returned and his Stranger had turned that fathomless gaze on him.

He lowered his eyes. “My king.” His tongue was heaving in his mouth, and his throat was sand paper. There was a spit of crimson blood, his blood, on the hem of his Stranger’s robe.

“You would kneel and call me king? Even after the wrongs I have committed against you? I did not even grant you the courtesy of my name.” Power still rumbled in his Stranger’s voice, but it was leashed now in a way that sent a spark racing up Hob’s spine. God help him, but he had always loved a bit of danger.

He risked a glance up and saw his Stranger’s perfect lips twisted in a frown, his brows drawn together like Hob was a puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out.

“I don’t need anything from you that you aren’t ready to give, my friend. You came back to me, and that was more than I could ever hope for.” Those words strayed a bit too close to another truth—that he would have waited forever just for a glimpse of his Stranger’s face, just to hear a single word from his lips—but Hob wasn’t about to start lying now, not when this magnificent creature, this otherworldly lord, had deemed him worthy of his time and attention despite all odds. His Stranger had returned after over 100 years to sit in a pub and listen to Hob ramble about airplanes and smartphones and humanity reaching the moon. How could anything he had to say possibly have captured the attention of a king with no doubt a million other duties to attend to?

His Stranger regarded him, galaxies swirling in his black eyes to match the ones dancing across his robe. Hob tore his gaze back to the floor for fear of falling in.

“Rise. You owe me no servitude or obeisance, Hob Gadling.”

Hob wanted to disagree, but he kept his mouth shut and did as his lord bid. He bit back a growl of pain as he stood, and in a blink his Stranger was there, long arms wrapped around his shoulders and holding him up with unnatural strength. Together, they hobbled up the stairs to his flat, and his Stranger laid him gently on the couch and let Hob grip his hand too tightly as he dug out the bullet lodged in his shoulder, seemingly uncaring of the way the crimson blood stained his pale fingers.

[spectres-n-soap]

Times Long Since Past - Soap x You x Ghost

Content Warnings - Angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, therapy, pregnancy

A/N - Not gonna lie when I say I nearly cried writing this part.

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

The therapy office was located in a strip mall that had obviously once been a 1950s era housing estate in the past. You glance around the parking lot before Simon places a hand on your shoulder and pulls you from whatever pit you were trying to sink into. “Don’t stress.” He mutters and you roll your eyes.

“When in the history of the world did that ever make someone not stress?” You ask and he shakes his head but you can see his eyes crinkle just slightly. You sigh and look at the general area where the office was as your hand rests on your stomach. “Do you really think this will help?”

Simon nods, “It helps.” You sigh again before you nod and begin walking towards the office. A bell jingles over the door when you enter the office, Simon not far behind you and keeps the door open for you so it doesn’t bang into you. The receptionist smiles at you, a well practiced kind smile as she gestures for you to come forward. The waiting room was comfortable, only one other person sat in one of the chairs mindlessly flipping through the magazines. 

“Name?” The woman asks and you try not to let the happiness in her voice grate on your soul. Would you be happy like her again? You give her your name and she nods as she types it into the computer, “Date of birth?” You mindlessly rattle it off and give her the time of your appointment (in fifteen minutes) and she smiles at you, “Alright, if you could fill out these forms,” She passes the forms on a clipboard with a pen. “And take a seat. The doctor will be with you shortly.”

You waddle over to the nearest seat and sit down before you start to fill out the form. Its basic questions and you recognize them all from your psych evals in the military. You bite your cheek before you begin to fill them out truthfully. When you finish, you hand the clipboard back to the receptionist and sit back down. 

The therapist is nice. Clinically nice. You want to scream and rage as he calmly asks questions about what brought you here. His voice is perfectly level and you can’t even use it as an excuse for the reason you think he’s judging you. “It's not my job to judge, it's my job to help.” He says when you hesitate to answer.

“I lost someone very close to me.” You answer, picking over the words carefully because you and Johnny hadn’t put a label on it before he had died. Your stomach lurches at that sudden thought and you squeeze your hands into fists. 

“I see. Was this person the father of your child?” He asks and you nod tightly. The thought still leaves an awful taste in your mouth.

“He died in action.” You take in a shaky breath, “He didn’t even know.”

“Let's start there. If at any moment you feel uncomfortable we can stop this session.”

You leave not feeling better or worse but like a small weight had been lifted from your chest. As you walk back out into the waiting room with the therapist, talking about the date of your next appointment you see Simon. You freeze, having totally forgotten he had promised to wait for you the entire time. He inclines his head at you and you're brought crashing back into reality. 

You climb into his car and as he turns it on he offers to buy some lunch. “Got any cravings?”

“I’m pregnant. Of course I have cravings.” You grumble, “Mexican food. From this little hole in the wall place.” He hands you his phone, which is all kinds of busted up but the screen still works so he hasn’t replaced it yet, for you to type the address into.

You take a seat at one of the outside tables and a young man hands you both a small menu. The smell from inside the restaurant makes your stomach rumble and apparently the baby is into the smell too because they kick at your stomach. Hard.

You wince and bow your head a little as you hiss out a “ Fuck. ” You don’t see the way panic shoots through Simon but you feel his hand grab yours. You don’t pull away.

“Are you okay? Are you in pain?” He asks and you shake your head.

“The baby just decided to do some kickboxing, no big deal.” You let out a tight laugh that hardly seems to convince Simon. “Simon, I’ll tell you if it hurts okay? Promise.” Those words seem to put at ease and the arrival of your waiter draws attention from the way his ears turn pink.

Lunch is quiet between the two of you after that moment partially helped by the way you sort of shovel the food into your mouth. You can’t help the small moan that leaves you as you bite into enchilada and Simon coughs on the sweet soda he had been drinking.

You and Simon arrive back at your flat, takeout box in hand because your eyes were bigger than your stomach and you had ordered another enchilada and he places it in your fridge as you settle down onto the couch. Exhaustion pulls at you despite the good sleep you had gotten last night and you hardly notice when Simon places the throw blanket on your lap.

“You know… you still have some gifts to open.” Simon mutters and you look at him with bleary eyes and make a noise of confusion before you look at what he has in his hands. The gifts from the MacTavish family. Your stomach sinks and your throat closes up at the sight. You sniffle but reach for one of the soft green green eyes.

Inside the first one is a little soft green dinosaur onesie and a few baby books. One of the books has a couple of lullabies and nursery rhymes. The other is easy recipes to make during the first couple months with the baby. More onesies in the next one, soft blues, pinks and yellows, a teddy bear and a card with a heartfelt message from his sisters. Of course a few items such as a milk pump and a diaper bag are already filled to the brim with items.

Just as you think you’ve finished opening everything, Simon hands you a card and one more bag. “The cards from Mrs. MacTavish, the bag is from me.” He clarifies although he really didn’t need to. The bag was a soft gray. You open his gift first and genuinely laugh when it's a onesie with little skulls. You shake your head at his gift before you set it to the side. You carefully pull the card from the envelope it was in and open it. A couple pictures fall onto your lap but you read the message first.

My bairn was a lot of trouble during those first few months. I hope yours doesn’t come with the same mischief for the sake of both of you. I know there is nothing I can say to ease the pain or the hole that Johnny left in you but you’re not alone. You’ve been given a beautiful gift whether he knew it or not. You’ll always have a piece of my wee boy and you’ll always be welcome in my home. I’ve made a few copies of pictures of when Johnny was a wee bairn for you. Welcome to the MacTavish family.

You glance down at the pictures, tears in your eyes as you look through them. You couldn’t help the small laugh that left you at one of the pictures. Chubby baby Johnny pouting in his chosen outfit but the others make tears fall from your eyes. You rub your thumb over one of the photos of him smiling up at the camera, chubby hands holding his foot up.

[turretistrying]

Infected/Zombie Reader helping RE men (Leon K., Carlos O., & Ethan W.)

Somewhat based on that one zombie reader post by @qdbs-writes because honestly it was really cute and this idea has been bouncing in my brain for a bit. I’m going to preface that I’ve only played RE2R, but I have a vague understanding of the RE lore and stories, i’m only doing these three because I know them the best, if I knew chris better I would’ve added him

(this is just a suggestion but here’s what’s damaged on your zombie body: right eye gone, right cheek crewed off, left shoulder nearly gone, and several bites all around)

Leon S. Kennedy (RE2)

You’re one of the many, many, people who fled to the RPD to escape the growing hoards of zombies, unfortunately you were infected early on and hid out in one of the many storage rooms as you succumbed to the virus

…but your conscious stays somewhat intact, sure every thought is slower and less verbose but you still have some of it left, speaking is hard as well but you can speak to some degree

you stay on the third floor, observing Marvin and eventually Leon once he comes in

You’re enamored as soon as you see him, so you decide to try and help him as he goes through the entire RPD, placing some ammo here, some boards there, in general helping out behind the scenes despite how slow you move

This slowness bites you when you go down to the main hall to place a green and red plant you had found next to the typewriter, since Leon had been limping for quite awhile around the RPD

You gently place the two plants (still in the containers, you can’t grind them up due to the shakiness in your zombified hands) but you hear Leon coming down from the second floor library so you try and shuffle back into a room to hide again, until you hear the click of his gun

You turn around and see Leon, gun raised to likely give you a headshot like he’s given to plenty of the other zombies around (you know since you’ve seen plenty bodies with exploded heads..)

So you just, start shuffling backwards with arms raised in peace, mumbling ‘sorry.. sorry.. please, no.. hurt’ as best you can with your undead voice, which comes out pretty rough

Leon was about to shoot you but as soon as he saw you back away and mumble what sounded like human speech and not just growls and rumbles, so he lowers his gun slightly, tilting his head at you

You escape into the west office, and Leon fully lowers his gun and then looks at the plants you left him (he uses them, he’s not an idiot to ignore a healing item when he’s been at ‘danger’ for 2 hours)

When Leon unlocks the Goddess statue you come out from hiding and softly approach, and hand him some ammo and healing items “good.. byye..” you say to him look at him with your singular eye (you lost the other one when you got infected) before starting to walk off

Leon watches you walk away, about to hide again and he hesitates before saying “Wait, would you… like to come with me?”.

He watches you turn slightly and grumble “..you.. sure?”

He nods at you and you walk back up to him, and follow him as he goes down the stairs

Bonus:

During the G-3 fight you help by throwing yourself at him and stab one of the eyes with a knife Leon gave you, smiling in triumph when you stab an eye fully

Ada is very cautious and nearly shoots you several times, she thinks you’re just in the early stages of infection and she doesn’t want you killing her pawn (leon) before he gets the virus for her

When you get on the train Claire and Sherry are a bit wary of you but during the trip they start to like you, Leon’s account helps a lot as well

Carlos Oliveria (RE3)

Similar to Leon’s, you’re one of the people who fled to the RPD and got infected, and hid in a storage room (this storage room was clearly for all the Christmas decor… the bells gave it away)

You picked off the bells and kept them in a small box, as well as stealing post-it notes and a pen from the west office

From the second floor you watch Carlos and Tyrell make their way in, watching them scope out the place

As soon as you saw Carlos, you muttered under your breath “he..h.. scruffy..”

You noticed he was having a hard time with the Lickers, so you decided to make use of the bells you took, throwing them down hallways out of sight of Carlos so the Lickers chased the noise

He heard the chiming, making a remark like “The hell is that coming from?”

After awhile of doing this, you decided to just gift Carlos the bells

You place them on a desk with the brightest sticky note you could find

He finds it, noticing the stark contrast of the gloomy environment of the RPD, and reads the note

‘For the licks! Hold tighy in hnd then throw, it loud so they chse! : )’ was written on the note, it was hard to read being a shaky and messy handwriting but he got the general idea, chuckling at the squiggly smily face on it

He opens and sees 4 tiny golden bells

He looks around, hoping to maybe find who put it there but finds nothing, nothing but a hunched over dead (?) zombie next to the desk “Whoever put this here, Thanks, and thanks for probably being the reason for saving my ass a few times”

He leaves and you say to the air “no.. problemmm..!”

You start following him around and so he eventually notices you, and nearly shoots you on the spot before you move your hand to ring the golden bell you kept and attached to a string as a necklace

He relaxes a bit but keeps his guard up until he realizes that you’re just an innocent smart (questionable) zombie!

Bonus:

Before realizing that you weren’t gonna hurt him, he really thought you were because you kept staring up at his head… In reality you just really wanted to pet his hair, but because words are hard when you’re a zombie and you didn’t wanna get shot you just didn’t say anything

(You eventually did get to touch his hair, muttering a “soooft.. so.. soooft!”)

In that helicopter cutscene when Nicholai is about to shoot Jill, you jump from nowhere and tackle the guy by the neck; Carlos shouts in exclamation “Hell yeah! Get him!” before Nicholai punches your jaw right off (ouch)

Ethan Winters (RE7)

In this case you’re kinda like Ethan if he didn’t get all his memory and body transferred (does.. does that make sense???)

Since the moment Ethan stepped into the Baker House, you’ve been watching him

While you can’t remember most of your past, you know you were human like him, and watching him brings you a sense of… comfort. So you watch as he explores the house, trying to find Mia

Sometimes you forget what you’re doing and make noise, making Ethan more paranoid as he goes through the house (you felt bad every time you accidentally spooked him)

Watching him getting attacked by Mia was a nightmare, and you felt like you shouldn’t intervene… until Mia stabbed him in the hand

You emerged from the shadows (and mold..) and pulled her off of Ethan, giving a soft growl at her before she tried to attack you. You sidestepped and pushed her into the wall, which caused her to knock her head against the wall and faint

You stared down at her before turning to Ethan, who was a bit put off by your appearance

“You’re… hurt. Follow.” and you start walking to where a first aid liquid was hidden away and hand it to him

After patching him up you go over to the boarded up door and started to remove the wood with ease, before Mia got back up and threw Ethan through the nearly open door. You yelp (with some scratchiness) at that before running up to try and help, but then Ethan swung an axe into her neck.

You look at him and see the horror in his eyes at what he’s just done, you reach out to touch his back before slightly withdrawing; “you… oo-kay?” You asked in a low voice, and he shook his head before standing up and making his way deeper into the house, fully ignoring you after that.

So you follow, wanting to make sure he’s okay. He’s the only thing human in this house (for now)

Then Mia comes back again, of course, stabbing Ethan in the hand with a screwdriver this time. You run up and start trying to pry it out of the wall and his hand, before you see Mia coming with a chainsaw. She slashes with the chainsaw, cutting you in half at the shoulder before hitting Ethan’s wrist.

You blackout for awhile, coming to after about an hour as your body of mold stitches itself back together into one solid form again

Submerging into the mold, you reform in the living room adjacent to the nightmare dining room, seeing the back of Ethan tied in one of the chairs

You carefully untie him from the chair, before being noticed Marguerite pulled you up by the hair unto the table

You reach into a clump of mold and pull a smoke bomb before pulling Ethan out of the chair and away

From there on you helped him the best you could

Bonus:

You alway try and take the hits for him, he’s still fleshy and human, you can take it! He’s still worried for you despite the fact you can patch yourself back together.

When Ethan dies and becomes mold, you feel bad for him. You don’t tell him, since if he thinks he’s still human, then he’s still human to you.

After the BSAA comes you don’t know what to do, you assume you’re going to be left there or be experimented on… but Ethan calls your name (that you told him at some point, it’s one of the only things you have left from before being molded) and gestures you to come with him, you come close before fearfully looking at Chris, but he just nods and lets you on the helicopter.

OKAY WOW this is… something. I don’t know. I kinda gave up in that last one despite Ethan being my favorite next to Leon. I really hope, that this is good, im some way, amd i hope i didnt totally screw the canon, ahhh. Hope people like thissss,,, would’ve done art but i’ve got art block

[forlorn-crows]

𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒉𝒚 𝒎𝒂𝒚 𝒅𝒂𝒚 14: 𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒚 𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒌

pairing(s): mountain/cumulus words: 829

special shoutout to @belle--ofthebrawl for the original inspo for this prompt. cause we all want snackies from a big schweepy guy <3

✿

“Luluuu . . .” Mountain’s congested voice carries weakly down the hallway. The bed creaks as he no doubt flops over to the other side of the mattress where she once was, his whine of disappointment sounding soon after. The air ghoulette shakes her head, pushing the door open. 

“What’s wrong, sunflower?” she coos, placing the steaming mug of honey green tea onto the nightstand. 

Mountain’s face scrunches up into a frown, eyes squeezing shut. His cheeks bare imprints of his pillow, and when he lifts his head up she can see his upper lip is shiny with mucus, and the corner of his mouth coated in drool. His ear flicks at the disheveled hair falling over it.

“You lef’ me,” he mumbles. “Woke up and you weren’ cuddlin’ me.” Clearly, he’s still highly feverish, if his combination mumbling/whining is anything to go by.

Cumulus just smiles. She thinks it’s cute, Mountain complaining like a human man with a cold. He’d never be so whiny otherwise.

“I went to get you more tea, baby,” she soothes, whipping up a cool breeze to waft over his forehead. He hums and plops his chin down onto the pillows. Cumulus huffs a laugh and sits down beside him. “You were snoring up a storm, didn’t think you’d wake up before I got back.” 

“Hmpf.” Mountain tosses the blanket over his head and turns around dramatically, pretending to shut her off. 

“I bring you tea, and this is the thanks I get?” she says, mock offended. 

There’s a pause. The earth ghoul peeks his head around his shoulder, side-eyeing her and the mug. “ . . . wha’ kind?”

Cumulus smiles softly. Leans in a little like she’s telling a secret. “Green tea with honey. A lemon slice. Don’t tell anyone, but I also put a dash of honeysuckle syrup in it, because I know my baby loves it.”

Mountain trills, ears perking up. “Gimme,” he demands, shuffling to sit up against the approximately five different pillows he’d stashed for optimal sleeping. He holds his hands out and scrunches them in the air. Cumulus hands the mug to him carefully to make sure he doesn’t drop it.

“Aethe warmed the water for me, so if it’s too hot, I’m innocent,” she chirps.

Mountain’s mouth turns down and his eyebrows turn up in the middle. “Aww,” he says appreciatively. He smiles down at the steaming liquid. “Aef . . .” 

“You know he always has to help.” 

Mountain hums in agreement. He takes an experimental sip, groaning when the hot tea slides easily down his throat. He takes a big gulp and closes his eyes after, sighing heavily and smiling at the ceiling. “Yummy,” he compliments. “‘S nice. Warm.” 

“I’m glad, baby,” she lilts, running her nails through his hair. It earns her a happy rumble, Mountain’s tail pitching up the blankets where it’s buried under the many layers. They share a pleasant, quiet moment: Mountain sipping on his tea and Cumulus scritching in all his favorite places. 

The peace of it is nearly broken, however, when Mountain’s eyes start to droop, and he nearly tips the mug over into his lap when his grip starts to go as lax as his jaw. 

“Oh!—hun, you’re gonna—” the air ghoulette saves the mug just before it slips from his fingers, hardly spilling a drop. 

Mountain snorts and jolts his head upright. “Huh?” 

“Didn’t want you to spill,” she says, setting the mug back onto the nightstand. “Sleepy boy.”

He blinks slowly, eyes lingering shut for just long enough that Cumulus is momentarily convinced he’s fallen right back asleep sitting up. “You made me seepy,” he accuses. Leaving out the ‘l’ like a kit unable to pronounce it any other way. 

Cumulus cuddles up, tucking him back into the blankets and pulling him to her chest. “Maybe seepy pup needs his rest then,” she says softly, scritching around his horns this time. He grumbles, but goes down easily. “There you go, baby,” she smiles. The grumble turns into a purr soon enough anyway, so it’s safe to say it was all token protest. 

Mountain mumbles something, twisting his body so he faces her instead. He looks up at her expectantly, despite the fact he aimed all of his words directly into her belly. 

“Yeees?” 

There’s that pout again, fever-addled brain continuing to render him as hopelessly cute. “Kissy, Lus,” he says, as if she heard him perfectly clear the first time. He wriggles his face closer to hers. 

“You’re sick. Nooo kissy on the lips.” She boops him on the nose with her finger. “You may have an air kiss, and I’ll make it feel just like the real thing.”

Mountain grumbles again, squinting at her.

“Sicky equals no kissy. I promise you as many kisses as you want when you’re better, okay, baby?”

The earth ghoul flops onto his back with a sigh. The end of it catches in his throat, though, and he’s sent into a coughing fit, squashing any further complaints. 

𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒈 ✿

[egrets-not-regrets]

After Stormbreaker: One Good Thing

A Night Lord mer, Ghilus, after being injured in the fight with the Grey Knight, finally finds his bonded among the harpy caretakers.

Author’s Note: Ghilus is totally normal. I promise.

Tagged: @shadowfirecat , @kit-williams , @bleedingichorhearts , @barn-anon , @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

@sleepyfan-blog , @bispecsual , @c-u-c-koo-4-40k , @ms--lobotomy , @whorety-k

@gra93fruit-blog , @i-am-a-dragon34 , @felinisnoctis

Kiri entered the section where her next patient was with some trepidation. She’s heard rumors of Night Lord mers from others in the colony. Generally residents of the deep sea, they exist in small shoals known as “claws”. They were rarely seen unless in two situations: you were the prey they’re hunting and the sight of them was the last thing you saw, or during their biannual equinox song when the Night Lord shoals gather on their rocks to sing. The colony had lost a few members to Night Lord mers before and Kiri’s heard one of the gannet harpies mention they had spotted the feathered pelt of their brethren decorating the armor of a Night Lord merAstartes once.

Ghilus was this one’s name. He was brought in heavily injured, physically and according to one of the gannet seers, psychically as well. Apparently he has fought against the Grey Knight’s psychic attacks, and such use of the mers own magic unfortunately could cause physical harm to themselves as well. While healing potions supported the physical healing of these injuries, they couldn’t do much for the psychic whiplash psyker mers received. The apothecaries advised letting the mers’ own healing abilities do that on their own.

Her feathers started to raise in alarm when she found the bed empty with no mer to be seen.

“Ghilus?” She called cautiously, putting down her basket of healing supplies. Kiri shuddered at the thought of a Night Lord swimming loose among the colony. Perhaps it is a better idea to let Zariel or Osteron know. She was about to leave when someone snatched her up from behind. A large hand clamped over her mouth before she could scream. Feathers flew as Kiri panicked and thrashed about, trying to escape her captor.

There was a low growl, “Stop struggling, woman! I’m not here to hurt you!”

She froze in surprise and concern, his presence and voice pulled at her soul, the core of her magic. This must be what a bond felt like, judging from what Lana had described. The voice then started to hum, the sound rumbling through her bones. Instinctively, she started to relax in his hold.

“I… Ghilus… Please…” She wasn’t sure what she was trying to say, words were all but a mouthful jumbled on her tongue. Kiri wanted him to stop humming yet his song was so… so… enticing, comforting, hypnotic , lulling. She could feel him starting to curl around her. Her instincts were screaming that this was a predator, she must fight back, must escape, must defend her child! Yet, his song’s melody and subvocal chords echoed in her soul, tempting her to sing with him.

“I found you, finally.” Ghilus purred and buried his nose into her crown, “You could feel the draw too, couldn’t you?”

Kiri, scared of what would happen, wasn’t sure how to answer. Her stiff silence gave away her doubt.

He added, insistent, “I could hear our souls resonating the same song. See it even. Surely you could feel it.”

“I… do.” She agreed reluctantly, unsure if she should encourage the Night Lord mer to continue.

“Good. Clearly, you’re my bonded.” he mumbled, content to nuzzle into her neck. She could feel his lips pull back into a smile against her skin. Alarm bells started ringing in her head at the scent of blood in the air. Her neck and back feathers start to mat against her skin. Kiri knew it wasn’t her own blood.

“Ghilus?” She started to struggle, trying to open her wings to break his grasp, “Ghilus! Ghilus! You need to let go!” Worry coloring her voice.

“No.” He grumbled, only tightening his hold

Kiri insistently pushed against his corded arms, “Ghilus! Please! You’re bleeding, let me take care of it.”

It took twenty seconds more, but the Night Lord mer eventually relented. Her feathers moved as he huffed petulantly, “Fine.”

Kiri smiled slightly at his response. He was so childishly clingy, she couldn’t help but be reminded of Kona. Her smile soon turned into a frown. That also brought on another problem, now that he’s her bonded, could she could trust Ghilus not to hurt her daughter or attempt to get rid of her to compete for her attention? He was still incredibly dangerous and she did not know him at all. Kiri put that uneasy thought in the back of her mind to think about later, redressing his wounds came first. She’ll have to deal with one thing at a time.

His grip loosened enough that Kiri was able to turn around and take a step back to better assess his injuries. The bioluminescent lights that dotted along his lateral line and his body blinked like a trail of stars. She thought him beautiful if he and his brethren weren’t so frightening, but she understood the truth behind the warnings about getting hypnotized by their lights as the last thing you experience. However, Kiri also noticed the wounds on his chest and stomach reopened from whatever physical exertion he put his body through. She looked at him in dismay, “Your nose is bleeding and you’ve opened those wounds again! What were you doing?”

“Looking for you.” He stated matter-of-factly, staring at her with his big dark eyes.

Kiri sighed, then used her wings to herd and sweep the clingy Night Lord mer towards the bed. Just like herding an unwilling Kona to bed at night… “Get back on the bed so I can take care of you, please.”

A quiet purr tickled the feathers by her ear holes after she said that.

Ghilus allowed Kiri to herd him to his bed. He stared as she wet a clean cloth and gently cleaned the blood from his nose. The intensity of his gaze made her shiver; but there was another emotion, a touch of something else she couldn’t quite put a claw on. She brushed the pieces of his dark hair away from his eyes, softly chiding him, “The apothecaries said you overtaxed your psyker abilities. You should’ve given it a rest.”

His lights blinked lazily as the pleased Night Lord mer chuckled and nuzzled into her claws, “It was worth it, I found you. I have you taking care of me now.”

Kiri breathed a sigh of exasperation, but a small smile crawled onto her face, “I guess.”

Ghilus memorized the sight of his bonded harpy’s bemused smile, pleased that the stink of fear finally dissipated from her. Normally, he would savor the stench of fear in his prey’s last moments. But the moment he grabbed her, the panic, the spike of fear: he nearly recoiled from the scent. He didn’t expect to react so viscerally, nearly wanting to wretch when that was added to the psychic-induced headache he was suffering from. That must be due to the bond’s effects he figured, but the soothing calm that came after, once his harpy calmed down, was worth the pain. He found his bonded. His to keep and no one else’s.

Ghilus relaxed as his bond strummed with a gentle steady pulse, a balm to his psychic-induced headache, calmly watching Kiri fuss over him. He didn’t know why she had been so worried. The aches and pains, and the nosebleeds were normal symptoms after using his psyker abilities that he had long gotten used to. But, there was something in the way that she worried and cared for him in their short time together, cemented the fact that they were meant to be, in his mind.

When Kiri started to clean and redress the wounds on his chest and stomach, Ghilus snaked his hand around her waist, his hand running over the warm skin underneath her feathers, locking her in place beside him; grinning, when she startled at the sensation. She was so gentle and tender in her care. And so warm. His purrs grew louder when her claw or feathers brushed over the ports on his body. Ghilus didn’t even remember the last time he had received such tender treatment from someone and not even needing to fight other members of his Claw for them.

“You don’t have to hang onto me. I’m not going to disappear.” she jokingly commented.

His dark red tail loosely wrapped around her leg as he replied, “You are my bonded. The one good thing that I get to have. Why wouldn’t I want to hold onto you?”

Kiri flushed at his words, her feathers puffing slightly from embarrassment. It had been a long time since she had been shown such intimacy since her mate had been lost to the sea years ago. It was strange, yet she couldn’t say it was entirely unwelcome. Another part of her also realized how lonely and touch-starved Ghilus must have been.

“You are clingier than my child.” Kiri quickly shut her mouth after she blurted out the off-handed comment.

Ghilus frowned at her sudden nervous reaction, “Why are you frightened?”

Kiri tried to back out of his embrace only to find the Night Lord mer had tightened his hold. It was better to talk about this now rather than later perhaps, “You won’t hurt my child, would you?” she asked, her voice tense with worry.

Ghilus huffed, looking insulted, “Is that what you’re afraid of?”

“Yes.” Kona was her life, her baby, the only remnant left of her lost mate. If Ghilus ever went after her hatchling, she would defend her with her life.

He could hear the unease and resolution in her reply and scoffed, “I won’t hurt your child. I have standards unlike some of my brethren. Besides, her bonded won’t let any harm come to her.”

“You mean Kalium?”

“Yes.”

Ghilus was willing to care and provide for Kiri and her daughter since her daughter means so much to her, if it meant keeping Kiri by his side. And as much as he didn’t care for Kiri catching the Iron Warrior’s scent due to his proximity to her daughter, it did make it easier that the Iron warrior was there to also protect them as well.

Kiri relaxed when she heard Ghilus’ answer, but was surprised that Kalium was Kona’s bonded mer. It did explain Kalium’s behavior and Kona’s attachment to him, however. Perhaps in time, she could trust Ghilus fully, once she gets to know him better.

“I see.” she replied and smiled at him, “Thank you. Your answer reassures me.”

“Of course.” He hummed, pleased with her answer.

He continued to purr contently as Kiri redressed his wounds, nearly falling asleep under her ministrations.

All too soon, he felt her gentle patting on his cheek, letting him know that she was done. She passed him a healing potion and some Astartes nutrient bars which he consumed.

“I have to go, but please rest to let your wounds heal properly.” Kiri said.

Immediately, he pulled her into his lap unwilling to let her go, “You’re not leaving.” He mumbled into her feathers.

“Ghilus, I have to. I have other patients to tend to. I will come visit you tomorrow.” she chided him.

He growled, “I’m your bonded. You should stay here with me.”

“Ghilus, release me.” This time her voice was louder, more stern.

The mer pretended not to hear her. Kiri started to fume, her feathers puffed in agitation as she tried to open her wings to break free from his hold, “Ghilus, I know you can hear me! This is not funny!”

“Ghilus, release the harpy and let her do her job.” Osteron’s commanding voice rang out, “Or else it will be Zariel or I to treat you tomorrow in her stead.

Kiri breathed a sigh of relief, feeling thankful for Osteron’s passing interference.

“Fine.” The Night Lord mer grumbled and muttered under his breath about the injustice of it all, but nonetheless acquiesced to Osteron’s command. Before he let Kiri leave though, Ghilus nuzzled and rubbed his face into Kiri’s neck and chest, instinctively trying to impart his own scent onto her feathers.

Kiri shuddered as his teeth brushed her skin and tried to push his face away, “What are you doing?”

He nipped her clawtips in warning. The harpy hissed and pulled her claw back.

“Letting others know that you’re mine since I won’t always be there with you.” The Night Lord growled possessively while he continued to nip and lick her throat.

Kiri whimpered as she started to feel flushed from his touch, “That’s enough. Please stop.”

She yelped when Ghilus bit down hard onto the base of her neck, growling lowly, “I’m your bonded. I will protect you and your child better than any harpy can. All other mers will know you are under my protection, just stay still let me do this.”

Kiri did as he asked, letting the Night Lord continue to scent her to his hearts’ content.

Finally satisfied with his handiwork, Ghilus released her from his grip, giving her cheek one final nuzzle, “I will wait for you.” he said.

He purred when Kiri nuzzled him back and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, “I will visit you tomorrow.”

******************

Both mother and daughter were sleeping soundly in their nest when Ghilus found them again. Kona opened her eyes and curiously watched as the bioluminescent lights twinkled like stars on his body. She was about to wake her mom to the strange mer’s presence when he placed a finger on his lips with a grin, then patted her head to tuck her back under her mother’s wing. Kona didn’t resist and soon fell back asleep, listening to the low humming melody coming from the mer as he curled around them.

[the-lost-girl-in-the-tardis]

A chance meeting.

(Aka I'm bored and messing about with ideas.)

The ninth Doctor.

Weeping Angels:

The bookshop is quiet this late in the day. Just shy of an hour before closing. Some patrons are muttering amongst themselves. Sometime to you to make their final purchases. Others begin to wrap up whatever they were doing on computers and laptops.

You hum to yourself as you check in books. Stacking them in the rolling cart to later be shelved. The dimly lit room is bathed in the red light of the setting sun. There is a comfortable warmth in the air. The last remainder of a warm summer day.

After a while you stand. Popping your back after having sat down in one spot for so long. You began directing the customers out. Wishing the regulars a good evening as they leave.

When the door bell chimes one last time you sigh. Flipping the open sign to close as you locked the door.

Silence. Save for the distant rumbling of cars and the howling dog.

You still had to clean up. Gathering bits of trash from people who couldn't see the clearly labeled trash can. You stacked coffee filters back up. Open a new container of tea. Made a note to buy more syrups and more creamer.

You began to hum to yourself again. Half mumbling the words to the Beatles Blackbirds as you swept.

"Take these broken wings and-" Youpaused. Your broom had hit something solid behind the curtain. The yellow straw curled around stone grey feet. You laid the broom against the wall.

Your fingers met the sun bleached blue curtains you hadn't remembered closing. Having opened up all the curtains and windows to let in a breeze. The bookshops ac had broken a week ago and David still hadn't found someone to fix it.

"What are you?" The words left you in a mumble. The curtain rings scrapped against the metal curtain rod when you drew the fabric back. What sat before you was an angel esque statue. It's hands were over its eyes.

Something about it felt off. An age old instinct inside you yelled. Raged against your new age brain. You reached your hand out despite this. Grazing your fingers against the back of the hand of the eerily warm statue. You shivered. Swallowed thickly.

With your hands now on your hips you huffed. Tutting your tongue as your grumbled. "David and his weird decor choices." No doubt he had hid the damn thing behind the curtain to spook you. It wouldn't be the first time and it certainly wouldn't be the last.

You reached for the broom. Shivering as a soft breeze blew through the open window behind the statue.

It would just be your luck that you had to sneeze in that moment. Having forgotten to take you allergy pills that morning.

As you were wiping your nose with your handkerchief you just happened to glance up. Only to let out a curse and stumble back into an old bean bag. The statue had moved. Honest to god moved.

You shot to your feet. Eyes not moving from the statue as you walked backwards.

"Acho!" You and your luck. Maybe that's why you never won the lottery. The statue had moved again. A table sat between the two of you. The statue was grinning. Arm outstretched. Reaching towards you. You were close to panic. Hands shaking and palms sweating. You were cold despite the summer warmth.

You curse again when the lights began to flicker. A few bulbs in the children's section actually busting. Loud pops of glass had you flinching.

"I don't know what you are." You spoke. Reaching for a book left on the table. "But i'm not going to be that person who gets got in the first few minutes of a supernatural episode."

The book arced in the air. Smacking against the against the angel uselessly. The pages fluttered. Flew like confetti as the book exploded. More lights pooped. Slowly making its way towards the two of you.

You got the feeling that this thing liked your fear.

You began backing up again. Hands flailing behind you to guide your way. More lights burst. You hand meets the cold brass doorknob. You pushed the button to unlock it.

Nothing.

You tried again.

Nothing.

You jumped when you heard the whirring on the other side. Then the muttering of a man. Stupidly you looked away. Only to scream when the angel was right in front of you.

The door opened with a too cheerful "Ding!" And you fell into the arms of a man. The smell of leather heavy in your lungs.

"Hello!" The man spoke. His voice was accented.

"Hi." You spoke out quickly. Voice high with panic. Eyes still on the angel inside the book shop even as the man helped you to your feet. "You uh. You wouldn't happen to know what that thing is would you?" The man slammed the door closed and you got a proper look at him.

Leather jacket. Red shirt. Dark jeans. And a weird glowing pen in his hands. The sound of the whirring earlier obviously as he waved it around the door.

"That was a weeping angel. Quit lucky you." He pointed his pen at you before pocketing it. "I'm the Doctor by the way." He grinned.

"Y/n." You drew your name out as you spoke. A little more than confused. Both of you jumped when the door began to rattle.

"This is the part where we run. Come on!" The man, The Doctor. You'd ask Doctor who later. As it was it grabbed you hand and pulled. Leading you down the street as the world began to plunge into the night.

The Tenth Doctor:

Alien Invasion :

You had been painting when it happened. Sat out in an open meadow. Canvas only half filled. You wondered sometimes if it was still there. A burst of color in your otherwise greyed world.

The aliens had come without warning. Nothing save for the breaking of the atmosphere as their ships descended down to Earth.

You hadn't bothered to gather your things. Only turning and running before the behemoth of a creature could spot you.

Your truck had died over halfway through on the drive back. You later learned it was caused by an emp blast from the aliens. And so you ran.

It was late by the time you had gotten home. Both in the day and...

Still you could not think of it. Lest you make it more real. More tangible.

You chose to believe that they were ok despite the rumours surrounding the labour camps. You had been one of the few. The only who were outside those camps. The alien cities. Everyday was a fight for survival. Both against them and your fellow human.

As of right now though the squabbles have settled. At least amongst each other. Instead all of that fight was focused on one man who stood in the center of the room. Dimly illuminated by old oil lamps.

He called himself the Doctor and asked how he could get into the heart of The Capitol. The Aliens main base. A place that promised nothing but death.

"I have a friend there. Donna Noble. I need to get her out." There was a series of scoffs. Laughter. And uproar.

"Ya. You and everyone else here mate." A dark haired man spoke. You never bothered to learn his name. Or any others. To many people to lose to get attached. You had lost enough already.

You watched from your little corner in the room. Eyes fixated on the man as he tried to reason with someone. Any one in the room. There was something about him. They way he carried himself. When he circled his trenchcoat curled around his long legs. Brown eyes were darkened in the dim lighting. His lips were bit raw with worry. His shoulders tense.

"Please. Your the last group of people." Someone cut him off. The Doctor blew air out from his cheeks. Brows furrowed. He scowled. A type of anger you had never seen before flashed across his face. His mouth opened. Lips curled around teeth.

Until you stepped forward.

"I'll help." You told him. It wasn't some loud affair when you spoke. Quite the opposite. Your voice was quiet. Hoarse from lack of use. And when you moved closer to him Dian pulled at your sleeve. You shook her off. "I'll help." You spoke again. Wanting to clear away that look of disbelief from his face.

If it had been your family there. You would want help to.

.............

You were glad that you had helped him. Watching him interact with his friend. Donna had thanked you as well when it all settled down. At least now humankind will be able to re-build. Because of the Doctors efforts the Aliens had been driven away. Catapulted back into the skies where they had come from.

You had never met a man before that could instill so much fear with his name alone.

That left you here. Sitting well away from everyone as you sketched for the first time in a long time. Some skill had been left behind but the rest was still there.

You drew them. Happy. Smiling.

It hurt your very soul. Broke your heart. Even after all of this you still couldn't find them. And you had no one else to lean upon.

The pages darkened and his voice sounded in your ears. As did the sweet perfume you had first smelled as Donna sat beside you.

"What about you y/n? What are you going to do know that the earth is saved." You said nothing at the Doctors words. Merely shrugging your shoulders and closing the sketchbook before they could see what. Who you drew.

"Same thing I have been." You spoke quietly. Not looking at either of them as you looked over what had once been the Aliens Capitol. "Traveling. Moving." Alone.

You could see Donna look up at the Doctor from the corner of your eye. Such a kind and worried look on her face.

Then the Doctors hand on your shoulder. You look to see his face near yours as he bent down.

"Then how about traveling the universe? The stars? Lots more to draw than what's out here."

The Eleventh Doctor:

Crash Landing:

You are walking along the old graveled road to your home. Rocks crumbling underfoot as you go up the familiar trail. It's one you've taken for years now.

The air was cool and crisp. Sweet in your lungs as you breathed it in. In the distance you could hear the croaking of frogs. The chirping crickets. Here and there there was an owl. The sounds were comforting. Familiar.

Something was different about this walk though. Just. Have you ever walked into a room and it just felt different? Only to later learn that your friends or siblings had moved all the furniture a few inches to the left? That's what it felt like right now. That everything that you have seen for the last 15 years was moved a little to the left.

You took a step. Then paused. Ears straining to hear what you are no longer hearing.

The woods around you have fallen silent. No frogs, crickets. Nothing but the wind winding through the trees and the soft lapping of water on the shore from a nearby lake.

You turned on foot. Hand held light briefly lighting up the road, then the trees as you moved. You glanced up and into the sky. The moon was full and round. Almost bright enough that you didn't need the flashlight.

The air blew softly. Picking up with it the scent of wild flowers. It curled around you. Blowing around strands of hair and fluttering your open jacket.

You swallow thickly. Nervous. That was a new feeling on this road. This walk. Nervous. As if something was about to happen.

You stood on the spot for a few minutes. Eyes glancing about as you tried to find something tangible for this feeling. You drew in a breath. Held it. Then let it out.

!VAWHOMP!

You screamed when it came crashing through. It flung up wet earth and rock. Broke trees and it screamed. Yelled. A large blue box crashing and spinning into the Earth.

It landed some feet away and all you could do was close to hyperventilate. You body shook and your heart threatened to break your ribs with its rapid pounding.

The air was thick with the smell of freshly turned earth and wood. Normally it was comforting but.

The box made a noise.

"I... What?" You bag fell to the ground as you began to move. You almost fell into the trench it had made twice before you reached it.

The box made a wheeze.

You hand was on its side before you could think. Fingers running along the rough wood.

Curiosity got the better of you.

With some difficulty you clambered up on it. Skinning your knee in the process. After about a minute and some cursing and grumbling your were on it.

Police Call Box.

What was that?

Was that a door handle? It felt warm when you wrapped your hand around it. Pushing in did nothing. Pulling up on the other hand.

Smoke bellowed out when you opened it. It was thick and reeked of burnt motor oil. The door squealed on its hinges as it flopped to the other side. A bright light filtered through that smoke and for a moment you hoped that whatever you just breathed in wasn't toxic or radioactive.

Instead your lungs burned and you coughed. Hacking like that one time you had stupidly tried a cigarette when you were young. You waved a hand in front of your face trying to clear away some of the smoke. When it finally stopped bellowing out in thick clouds you stuck your head over the opening.

"How on gods green earth." You mumbled and leaned forward some more. Up an on your knees with your hands on the other side of the door way to brace you.

At a sideways view was the stranges thing you had ever seen. Some type of console you assumed a was in the center. Leading up to it was a walkway. At the end of the walkway was a man in a white shirt and suspenders. His face must have matched your own.

"How do you fit all of that in here?" The man shook his head. He was leaning on the consol thing. Rope in hand. He was coughing heavily every so often.

"How did you get up there?" He questioned back. You shrugged your shoulders.

"If you throw the rope I can catch it? There's a log out here I can tie it to." You offered. Questions can come later. And did you have a lot of them now.

[charcoalgrayswriting]

Just Hold Me Part 1

Let Us Just Pretend

Bell/Adler if you squint

Words: 2603

Summary: After the events of Solovetsky, Bell has been overworking themselves, much to Adler's displeasure.

Jolting from their sleep-deprived daze, they blink blearily down at the papers in front of them. They knew the second they ceased to be useful, they would get a bullet to the head. It was this fact that pushed them to work tirelessly, hands cramping as they wrote, attempting to decipher Russian codes. They had to be good enough. Their life depended on it. 

A steaming cup of tea was placed in front of them, and they glanced up at Adler, emotionless behind his signature shades. He was probably just waiting for an excuse to kill them, to tie up his last loose end in his hunt for Perseus. 

They grunted in thanks, pulled out of their focus, only just now realizing how thirsty they were. The cups' warmth seeped into their hands, cold and slow to react because the safehouse had sub-par heating that was rarely enough to warm the building to a livable temperature. Truly, the CIA spared no expense. 

Letting the steam warm their face they savored the soft herbal smell and the feeling of the warmth against their cheeks before downing the drink in a few gulps, eyes watering as it burned their mouth and down their throat. They could track the path it took through their body, feeling the heat spreading slowly through them. It was nice. Like a hug. 

When was the last time they had been hugged? 

Turning back to their work, again they buried themselves in the codes and ciphers, mind frantically searching for clues and connections. Adler hovered behind them, and they pretended not to feel his gaze on their back like a brand, silently and irrevocably marking them as his. 

A few minutes after they had consumed the tea, they really began to feel tired, slumping forward before jolting back up, the letters and numbers on the page doubling and blurring as their eyes unfocused. Pinching the skin of their wrist between their fingers, they attempted to focus on their work again. 

“Bell,” Adler’s voice rumbled from behind them, and they flinched. 

Bloodshot unfocused eyes turned to look at him, swaying as they craned their neck to face him, blinking in the harsh fluorescent light of the safehouse. 

He was much closer than they thought he was, only a few inches away from them, a hand on the back of their chair. 

Blinking up at him, they huffed, “Yeah?” eyes threatening to close, despite not wanting them to. They still had work to do. 

“You should get some rest, you haven’t slept more than three hours since we got back from Solovetsky.” he was right, they had returned from the islands over a week ago, but they needed to be useful. 

“I’m fine.” they dismissed him, turning back towards their work. This had to be a test, somehow, some way.

“Like fuck you are,” Adler’s hand landed on their shoulder, solid and warm as he spun them around on the metal chair. They swayed, black dots swimming in their vision as they gripped the back of their seat for support. 

“Fuck off,” they grumbled, swatting at his hand and missing completely. It stayed, squeezing their shoulder tighter in a once comforting grip. 

“I’m giving you a lift back to the hotel, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way, but either way, you will be sleeping in a real bed tonight.” for someone supposedly attempting to take care of them, he sure made it sound like a threat. 

They scoffed, “Wow it almost sounds like you care.” 

“God damnit Bell,” he almost yelled, and they shrink back into themselves. Not noticing, or just not caring, Adler reached under their armpits and yanked them up, sending their chair clattering to the ground as they stood. 

The quick ascension made their head spin and their knees buckled almost as soon as they put their weight down. Grappling for Adler, they wrapped their arms around his neck, the only thing keeping them from crashing to the floor was him. 

“You call this fine, Bell? You can’t even stand by yourself.” he scoffed, wrapping an arm around their waist, and an arm around their shoulders, pulling them flush up against his warm solid chest. 

Their chin landed hard on his shoulder and they inhaled the comforting scent of cigarettes and whatever cologne he used, his hair tickling their temple. As soon as the scent hit them, they relaxed in his arms. A Pavlovian response artificially implanted in their brain. 

“I just need to–” they weakly pushed at his firm chest, but Adler cut them off, holding them still. 

“What you need is to sleep.” His tone changed from one of annoyance to one of concern, “C’mon Bell, you’re running on fumes.” He shifted them in his arms, sweeping their feet off the ground, one arm braced against their back, the other under their knees. 

“Put me down you fucking bastard!” they shouted, words slurring ever so slightly, as they struggled against his iron grip. Unfortunately, they were running on fumes, and their disjointed flailing did less than nothing. 

Staying stoically quiet, Adler simply tightened his grip on them, marching towards the safehouses exit. Their pathetic attempts at deterring him did nothing to stop him as he carried them outside into the frigid air. 

Opening the car door, he tossed them none too gently into the passenger side. Slamming the door on them, he hurried around to the driver side. 

Attempting to orient themselves, their head spun as they sat up on the seat. By the time they had recovered enough to get their bearings, Adler had already locked the car doors and was pulling out of the back alley the car was hidden in. 

“You fucker,” they grumbled, flopping down against the seat, head sliding towards the window, feeling the chill radiating from it. Might as well settle in, they were already in the car, and no matter how hard they fought, sleeping in a real bed did sound nice. Not that they would tell him that. 

“You need rest if you’re going to be effective Bell.” Adler admonished them, and they laughed brokenly, choking on a sob, leaning against the window of the car, eyes listing closed. 

“Oh so that’s your play,” Adler gave a confused grunt, so they continued, voice cracking and words slurring, “Gonna keep me in working shape ‘till I’m all used up, then put a bullet in me.” they sighed, keeping their eyes closed, sinking into the comfortable leather of the seat they dozed on. 

“C’mon now Bell, it’s not like that.” one of his hands snuck over and grabbed theirs, warming their cold fingers in his firm grip. It was nice, almost felt like he cared. 

“Don’t bother Adler. I’m a loose end.” they sighed, clumsily attempting to pull their hand away from his, and failing, before muttering. “The second Perseus is dead, I will be too. We both know I wasn’t supposed to survive Solovetsky.” 

He was silent for a moment, only the sounds of the city filling the silence between them, “That’s what you think? S’ why you’ve been burning the candle at both ends?” 

Listlessly, they replied, “My life is determined by my usefulness.” The rest of the ride was silent, at some point, Adler turned on the radio, and soft German singing filled their silence. Weaving in and out of consciousness, they thought that the ride was taking longer than it should, but was too comfortable to care, or to open their eyes. 

When the car came to a slow stop and Adler killed the engine, they knew it was time to open their eyes. But they couldn’t bring themselves to do it, even when they heard his sigh and felt his warm hand leave theirs. 

Adler must have been feeling kind, because he caught them before they fell out of the car when he opened the door they were leaning on. Grumbling, he picked them up from the seat he had tossed them onto, slamming the door shut with his hip. 

God, that should not be attractive, They thought to themselves, allowing their head to rest under his chin, looping one of their shaking arms around his broad shoulders. They watched the scenery go by through heavily lidded eyes. 

“Gonna go in the back entrance, don’t want people seeing you and asking questions.” Adler explained, entering through an employee door. Instantly, their body was surrounded by warmth, even warmer than the car. Maybe they had died, and this was Heaven. They probably wouldn't be going to Heaven. 

“Just tell ‘em I’m drunk.” they snorted, nestling further into his comforting hold, closing their eyes against the bright lights. 

Just for tonight. They promised themselves, unconsciously relaxing into him. 

“Close enough to the truth,” Adler murmured, pressing his lips to the top of their head. 

“Th’ fucks that mean?” they asked, cheeks flushing. Obviously because of the sudden warmth, and not his actions. 

“Mmm,” they felt his chest rumble as he declined to answer, pushing open a door that led to a dimly lit staircase. “Most people use the elevators nowadays, so we can mostly use these things unseen,” he informed them, beginning a slow, steady ascent up the stairs. 

“Doesn’t answer my fucking question,” they grumbled, not really expecting an answer from the cryptic bastard anyway. 

The asshole just huffed a laugh in response. They weren’t sure how many flights of stairs  he climbed, but they did notice when he stopped climbing them, his steps evening out. 

Listening to him fumble for the key to the door, they kept their eyes closed. When the pair entered the room, they were quickly deposited on the large plush bed. 

Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea, They acquiesced, curling into a ball where they laid, not bothering to undress or get under the covers. 

“Bell,” Adler groaned, and they pried an eye open, staring at his exasperated expression. 

“Mmph?” they grunted, not bothering with words. 

“You gotta get some pajamas on before you sleep.” 

“Oh f’c ‘ff,�� they groaned, closing their eyes again, listening to Adler’s long-suffering groan. The sound of a door clicking open and closing was almost interesting enough to force them to open their eyes, but they stayed shut, already halfway to sleep, thinking Adler had just left them. 

A few seconds passed before the door opened and closed again. Surprised, they listened to the sound of his feet shuffling across the carpeted floor, the mattress dipping as he sat down at the bottom, pulling one of their legs onto his lap. 

Grunting in confusion, they craned their neck, eyes squinted as they watched through blurry vision as Adler began carefully unlacing their boots. 

“Wh’t r’e you doin’?” they grumbled, head flopping back down, limbs refusing to respond to them. He still didn’t respond, seemingly entirely focused on removing their boot. Once the first one was deposited on the floor, he grabbed their other leg and repeated the careful process. 

Finished, he let them go, and they curled back up and were about to get comfortable before a bundle of clothes hit them in the face. 

They startled with a yelp, eyes flying open as they jolted, ready for an attack. Blinking blearily, they stared at the clothes in front of them, a white mens undershirt and a pair of red and black plaid flannel pants. 

Locking eyes with Adler, the pair engaged in a staredown, neither willing to break first. When their eyes began to water, they blinked, looking away with a defeated sigh. Clumsily, they sat up and began to shuck off their turtleneck. 

Jolting, Adler made a distressed noise, and they couldn’t do anything other than roll their eyes as they looked up at him, top half on, half off. 

“You’ve seen me in less,” they grumbled, finally pulling the tight fabric over their head, messing up their hair. Receiving no response from the man, they huffed, beginning to shimmy out of their jeans. 

Once they had removed their top layer, they were left in just their underwear and amusedly, Adler still refused to look at them. Stripping the rest of their clothes, they sat naked on the bed, swaying. They reached for the clothes he had brought them, shimmying into the soft, well worn pants. 

After wearing jeans for so long, the soft loose fabric felt heavenly against their skin, and they rushed to pull on their top, hands trembling slightly. As they pulled it over their head, they inhaled and stopped short, letting the top fall down their torso, arms still up in the air. 

It smelled like him.

“This yours?” they accused, glaring at Adler, who glanced back over at them, face giving away nothing. Sometime, when they had been changing, he had too. 

Shrugging nonchalantly, like this wasn’t a major gesture, Adler grunted, “Couldn’t find yours.” 

“Coulda jus’ asked.” they squinted suspiciously at him before laying back down, snuggling on top of the warm comforter.

Adler gave a put upon sigh as they closed their eyes again, “Bell,” he groaned, and they heard him begin to walk towards them. 

Grumbling, Adler flipped back the covers, “Gonna make me do everything for you?” he scooped them back up in his arms before gently placing them on the uncovered section of bed. 

They allowed him to situate them on their back, leaning into his gentle touch. When he pulled away, they pried open their eyes, staring up at him. 

He looked so different like this, glasses off, hair disheveled, wearing an old olive t-shirt and worn gray sweatpants. They could almost call this, soft. Domestic. 

As if he could read their mind, his face softened, and Adler brushed a lock of hair away from their face before he tucked the covers around them. Unable to help themselves, one of their arms snuck out from the heavy comforter, clumsily grabbing ahold of his shirt, just before he pulled away. 

Looking down at their half-lidded eyes, Adler hummed, taking their hand in his. It was rough, calloused from years of hard work in the field. 

They tugged at his hand, cheeks warming. “Stay,” they whispered, looking away from his intense gaze. 

“You are in no condition–”

“No! Not… not like that.” they stuttered, “Just hold me close until I go to sleep.” they blinked up at Adler, and could see his hesitation. 

Disappointed, but not surprised, they slowly began to withdraw their hand from his. Scrambling, Adler gripped them tighter, and they looked back up at him. 

“Scoot over,” he demanded, and they smiled up at him, just a small thing. Complying, they shuffled over, watching as he sat on the edge of the bed. 

He stared down at them for a few seconds, “You sure?” 

They groaned, rolling their eyes again, “Let us just pretend, if only for tonight?” they blinked up at him, eyes wide. 

He is silent as he slides in next to them, rolling onto his side to face them. They copied his movement, hesitantly snuggling into his open arms. Placing their head under his chin, they allowed Adler to roll onto his back with them now half laying on top of him, their only protest a small squeak. 

Slowly, they melted into his embrace, muscles relaxing as they rode his chest up and down. A contented sigh left them as Adler began to play with their hair, his hand warm and firm against the back of their neck. 

His chest rumbled underneath them as he whispered, “I’m not pretending,” just as they tipped off the cliff of wakefulness and into the deep ocean of sleep.

Part 2 will be Adlers POV of this interaction

Banner from @cafekitsune

[nicobicobee]

Mephistopheles x GN! Reader

Part two

Warnings: Some suggestive content, sassy as hell MC, MC is implied to be shorter than Mephisto, Mephisto is an asshole

A/N: my asks are open for requests! I don’t do anything past suggestive as that is all I’m comfortable with! As of rn it’s just obey me!

“And MC will be paired with…” the teacher glanced down at the sheet of paper on their desk, “Mephistopheles.”

Several of the demons in the room groaned, grumbling about how they wanted to be paired with you and why does that pretentious asshole get to be paired with you.

Mephisto seemed unbothered, however. If anything, he was irritated.

The project was a simple one for seductive speechcraft. You had to learn what their partner likes, figure out what makes them weak in the knees…

And use those weaknesses to your advantage.

It was less of an assignment and more of a competition.

As everyone dispersed to join their partners, you and Mephisto both stayed in your seats, gazing at each other from across the room. Neither made any move to stand.

This was a battle of will.

And you were not going to lose.

Finally, Mephisto rolled his eyes and stood from his seat. He made his way over to you with a graceful stride that made you want to punch him in the face and sat himself down in the seat next to you.

“I would rather have been paired with another demon,” he retorted, venom lacing his tone, “At least then I could have had somewhat of a challenge.”

“And I would have rather been paired with Lucifer,” you spat back with just as much venom, “At least then I could have a somewhat decent conversation.”

A growl rumbled from Mephisto’s chest and your head turned so fast you swore your neck cracked.

“Did you just growl?!” you asked incredulously, “Down, boy!”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a dog!” Mephisto snapped.

“Don’t growl like a dog and I won’t! Do you want to get this stupid assignment done or not?” The bell rang and you started tossing things in your bag with entirely too much force, but you were too angry to care.

“Meet me in the newspaper club room after school.” Mephistopheles stood and exited the classroom before you could say anything further.

You silently cursed your teacher for pairing you with that pretentious asshole as you exited the room, weaving your way through the crowd of demons to get to your next class.

—

The day flew by entirely too fast for your liking, and soon enough you were standing in front of the RAD newspaper club’s room. The very last place you’d like to be.

Granted, you were a little later than intended due to Lucifer holding you up for a moment to talk to you after you had told him you would be home late, and one of your succubi friends stopping you with and invite to go drinking with her and some others that you had to turn down.

Finally, you pushed the door open and stepped inside.

“You’re late,” Mephisto stated, his voice coming from a room off from the main area that you assumed was his office.

“Probably because I don’t want to be here.” You took a bite out of the candy bar that Beel had given you, holding the chocolate bar between your teeth as you threw the wrapper in a nearby trashcan.

“I’d like to get this over with sooner rather than later.” His voice was closer, and when you turned around Mephisto stood in front of you.

He tilted your head up with a gloved finger, a cocky grin spreading across his lips at the way your eyes widened.

Green eyes scanned your face, searching for anything that would give away that you were enjoying this. Once the surprise had worn off and you composed yourself again, you simply stared up at him as though you were challenging him.

Mephisto was not one to turn down a challenge.

He leaned down so that his lips were nearly touching your ear, “Would you like to make this easier for me, or would you perhaps like to do things the hard way?”

His voice sent a shudder down your spine and you took a full step back, glaring at him. Your face was warm, but you blamed that on the anger. There’s no way this guy flustered you.

No way in hell.

You took a step forward so that you were closer to Mephisto and grabbed his ridiculously fancy tie, yanking him down to your level, “Maybe you need to learn that not all humans are susceptible to your silver tongue.”

Your main intention was to express your discontent, enraged by the mere thought that he assumed you would be that easy to charm. To your delight, Mephisto’s cheeks turned a dark shade of pink and he averted his eyes. You grinned mischievously and let go of his tie, blinking up at him innocently.

What you didn’t expect, however, was how Mephisto lingered. His eyes trailed to your lips. He was so entranced, as if a spell had been put on him that made him so infatuated with you that he couldn’t help but fall to your charm. That charm of yours that had stolen the hearts of 9 demons, an angel, and the most powerful human sorcerer.

Just as Mephisto leaned forward, you turned your head so that he missed, instead kissing the corner of your mouth.

“You’re gonna have to try harder than that, pretty boy.” You grinned, poking his chest and lightly pushing him back.

Mephisto scoffed, straightening up and fixing his tie, “Don’t think you’ve won this game, human.” he said the word like it tasted bad in his mouth.

“You’re the one who was staring like a lovesick puppy, Mephisto.” You reached up and flicked the strand of hair that fell in his face.

“It was an act, of course. This is just an assignment— you are just an assignment.” Mephisto crossed his arms and looked down at you.

“Whatever you say, loser. I still figured more out about you than you did me.” You turned and picked your bag back up, walking towards the exit of the newspaper club room.

“Where are you going? We’re not finished!”

“I’m going home. ‘m sick of dealing with you,” you shrugged, pushing the doors open and walking out.

Maybe one day you’d decide you’re done with this strange game he’s trying to play with you. Today was not that day.

[jack-o-phantom]

short description

A small thing for the Stone Guardians AU or the Gargoyle AU. From Moon's pov, I don't write often and don't have enough creative writing talent to go further then a few passages, If I could I would.

Of course it's all experimental, so any thoughts or additions are welcomed!

The air held it's weight as the warm noon clouds casted over. A structure built tall and courageous now stood with no support. That is what the guardian thought, as it swung it's tail once, almost like the bell to grandfather clock. Here he stood like the building he guarded, a forgotten relic overtaken by mother earth from the ground up.

Thick skin, or rather, stone made its body bare the weight of the years so quietly, not even the birds nest that called the top of his head home was disturbed by it. There wasn't a reason to move for it, a simple twitch or grind of stone to stone tested if even itself was still alive, that was all that needed. The left of it though, perched its counterpart brazen with a crest dedicated to the life giving fire that was the sun.

Unlike his own grim appearance, this guardian's stone was clean, almost polished look to his limbs. Carved into it's arms though we're engravings left by sculptors long dead and forgotten to a markless grave stone. As the guardian stared longer, the more its own stone worked away to accomplish old movements.

The birds nest that littered his head came undone with claw on stone. Its counterpart had reached over their stone pillar, seemingly busy cleaning off moss and debris from the crown of rubbish. The guardian stood still, letting it clean away to a hollows hearts content. A rumble low and slow, lazily dragged across the floor, disapprovingly from them.

The guardian knew what that was, seemingly wanting to live what looks are to itself, is too much for the counterpart. A statue, yes, but living against the erosion of mother earth was simple for pebbles and stone. Under the watchful eye of its sun half, the stone of moon grumbled low.

Nothing ever creeped nor snuck around their area. Keen eyes ever wasting their time to a threat that has forgotten them, and their petty conflicts. There was no reason, but alike the stone they were carved from, they held a role frozen in time.

Whatever to disrupt them was only plotting away in the greenery, unsuspecting of their own presences to an unfortunate meeting.

[whatsnewalycat]

Designated Person | Chapter 5

Pairing: Francisco "Catfish" Morales x F!Reader

Chapter 5: Fever

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Series Summary: When posting bail for Frankie Morales, your former employer and former lover, you unwittingly designate yourself as his third party custodian during his pre-trial release. Your often tumultuous relationship with him is given a new set of rules and put to the test. Can the two of you co-exist peacefully, or will you crash and burn?

Word Count: 8.7k+

Content / Warnings: Reader POV, infidelity, past romantic & sexual relationship and related flashbacks, food, viral infection (influenza), respiratory infection, hospitalization, asthma, inhaler, bb girl gets sick, frankie gets to mother hen a little, fever dream, alcohol, bar, heavy angst, not a universe where covid-19 existed, manipulation

Notes: Hey, buddy. If there are any inaccuracies in the realm of medical science and hospitals and all that jazz, let's collectively ignore that, ok? Perfect. Thank you for reading!!!

[ Tag List ] [ AO3 ] [ Spotify Playlist ] [ Series Masterlist ]

Yesterday afternoon, after Emmaleigh returned from school, she complained that her whole body hurt. Alarm bells went off in your head. You studied her face and noticed that her cheeks were rosy and she looked dazed. 

“Are you feeling ok?” you asked, pressing the back of your hand to her hot, sweaty forehead. A grimace rolled across your face, “You’re burning up, Em.”

She barely mumbled a response, then trudged over to the couch and laid down. 

The boys were soon to join her, getting lethargic as their temperatures skyrocketed. All three Howard children took turns coughing their sickness into the air. You did your best to stay away from their germs while you accommodated them, but should have known that the future was already percolating in your immune system. 

“I’ll work from home tomorrow,” Marla told you when she got home, “I just hope they didn’t get you sick.”

Well, guess what?

They got you fucking sick. 

It started with small things: a tight soreness in your throat, aches shooting from deep within your muscles like you did a full body workout the day before. 

When Frankie walked through the front door, he took one look at you in your blanket cocoon on the couch, then at the TV playing King of the Hill, and asked, “What’s wrong?” 

“I think my kids got me sick,” you informed him. The words tickled. A coughing fit erupted in from your chest. 

His boots clunked to the floor, one at a time, as he probed, “You ok?”

“I’m fine,” you shook your head, then swallowed the thickness in your throat. 

“Are you sure?” he took a few steps towards you, narrowing his gaze, “You look like shit.”

“Aww, you’re so sweet,” you deadpanned. 

He approached the couch, brought the back of his hand to your forehead, and grumbled, “You feel warm.” 

“Oh my god. I’m fine,” you groaned, pulling the blanket over your head, “Go away before I get you sick.” 

Frankie sighed and retreated into his bedroom. 

When you woke up this morning, the sky outside was still dark. You were still on the couch, wrapped up in your blanket. A layer of sweat lined your skin, but you shivered from the perceived cold. 

It felt like a fucking Mack truck hit you. 

The first deep morning breath to stretch your lungs caused them to seize. A fit of coughs ripped your body in half. You sat up, struggling to draw breath between each new wave of coughing. 

Frankie wobbled into the living room, wearing just a pair of navy blue boxers, his hair all sleep-mussed, as he sat down beside you and smoothed his palm against your back. His groggy morning voice rumbled from his throat, “You ok?” 

Your entire respiratory tract felt constricted. The tempo of your heart hastened. You shook your head back and forth, shoulders jumping with each cough, and put one hand up in the shape of an L, curling your pointer finger down repeatedly. 

“Do you need your inhaler?” he asked. 

You nodded and managed to gasp out, “Purse—room—”

He jumped to his feet and rushed out of the room and returned a few moments later, elbow deep in your ratty canvas tote bag, muttering under his breath, “How the fuck do you find anything in here?”

Finally, he pulled the inhaler out and you snatched it from him, shaking it for a moment before popping the cap off and sealing your lips around the mouth piece. You inhaled a few puffs of albuterol and felt it start to take effect, lungs calming, shifting their violent spasms into smaller, more manageable hiccups. 

Frankie sat down next to you and rubbed your back in slow, soothing motions. It should have felt good, but the gentle touch sent ripples of pain across your skin. You whimpered, “Everything hurts.”

“You’re not going to work today,” he declared.

“No,” you confirmed, “Marla is with them. Don’t have to go.” 

“I’m staying with you,” he said then.

You pouted, shoulders slumping as you looked over at him, “Don’t—”

Sternness creased his forehead, “It’s not a question.” 

“I can take care of myself,” you protested weakly. 

He raised his eyebrows and blinked at you, as if to reaffirm that this was non-negotiable. 

“Fine,” you murmured in defeat. 

A small, victorious smile crossed his face, “Atta girl.”

> MARLA: > We all tested positive for Influenza B, FYI. How are you feeling? 

< ME: < I think I caught it :( 

“It’s the flu,” you inform Frankie in a croaky murmur. 

His eyes don’t part from the TV when he says, “Told ya.”

You want to shoot a glare at him, but find your energy reserves depleted. The bones in your wrist cry out when you tuck the phone beneath your pillow. A whine squeaks from your raw, tight throat. 

“Do you wanna lay down in your room? Might be comfier there,” he suggests. 

“No TV,” you grumble. 

His mouth folds into a thoughtful frown. He taps his fingers against his lips, then looks over at you, “I can set it up in there.” 

You study his face, “Really?”

“Sure,” he shrugs, then rises to his feet, “Need help getting up?”

“No,” you insist, but when you sit upright, your head starts to spin and throb. With a pathetic whimper, you pinch the bridge of your nose. 

Frankie stares down at you expectantly, but a spin cycle tumbles your brain in its centrifuge. You can’t stop it. He holds his hand out, a wordless offer of assistance. 

You swat it away. 

Frustration boils your blood. A wave of wet coughs bubbles up your throat. 

I don’t want your fucking help. I can do this myself. I don’t fucking need you. 

You try to stand, but your legs are wobbly and collapse under pressure. Your hands ball into fists and you hit the couch cushion on either side of you as hard as you can, which isn’t very hard, then choke out between coughs, “I—fucking—hate this—”

Frankie’s face sags with pity, “Do you need—”

“No!” you try to yell with authority, but it comes out this pitiable, gurgling, wheezy word that crushes your spirit. 

Your shoulders shake from the force of your coughing. You slump over into yourself and bury your face in your hands. 

Frankie returns to his seat beside you and hands you the inhaler from the coffee table. You grab it and take a few puffs, then try to calm down as the albuterol works at your inflamed airway. 

“We should go see the doctor,” he says quietly. 

You manage to meet his gaze and pout. His eyes are pleading, but you shake your head, “I’m fine.”

“You can barely breathe—”

“I’m fine,” you repeat. 

His jaw cocks to the side and he grumbles, “You’re so fucking stubborn, you know that?” 

“Never heard that before—” you take a gulp of air, “in my life.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he chuckles, then stands again, “Ready?”

You nod and get to your feet, the sweat-drenched throw blanket draped over your shoulders like a cape as you tiptoe through the house, to your bedroom, where you collapse on top of your covers. 

Frankie talks to you while he gets everything set up, muttering things about fevers and breathing. Your eyes follow him as he does this, but you ignore his reminders to drink from the water bottle on your side table and take the Tylenol he set next to it, because you’re pretty sure he’s not even real. 

After getting the TV set up, he turns it on and resumes your King of the Hill marathon. He makes you sit up to take the Tylenol and chase it with a half a bottle of water, then leaves for a few minutes. He returns holding your phone in one hand and a bowl of soup in the other. 

You grimace at both items, but take your phone. Frankie sets the steaming bowl of soup on your nightstand and asks, “Do you want me to leave?”

“Aren’t you—” you yawn, cough, then finish your sentence, “worried you’ll get sick?” 

He frowns and shakes his head, shoving his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, “I got a flu shot.” 

Your skepticism must be etched into your face, because shifts his weight to one leg and explains further, “Angie makes us get them every year.”

“She’s so responsible,” you admire. 

He shifts his weight to the other leg and runs a hand through his messy hair. Your head swims, and again, you’re struck by the sense that this isn’t real. You’re flattened into 2D. A flipbook cartoon. Everything seems to be moving in slow motion and far away.

“I get it. Why you chose her,” you mumble breathlessly, snuggling in closer to your pillow and blanket, letting your eyelids flutter closed, “So pretty, and fun, and has her shit together,” a cough interrupts you, and when you regain your stamina, you hum, “She’s awesome. I get it.” 

Frankie doesn’t say anything, but as you’re drifting to sleep, you feel him tug your covers out from underneath you and tuck you into bed. 

When your eyes open again, the room is much darker. You sit upright and look around. Everything seems familiar, yet completely foreign. Your bedroom, but veiled. Hazy, almost. 

And quiet. 

So fucking quiet that your pulse echoes in your head. 

“Frankie?” you call out into the darkness of your open doorway. 

He doesn’t respond. 

Unease settles in your gut, heavy and hard. A boulder lodged in your intestines. You swing your feet over the side of your bed and press the soles of your feet against the hardwood floor. The floorboards creak when you tiptoe across the dimly-lit room to the doorway. 

Then you pause and study it. 

It looks ominous for some reason. Bigger than it should be. 

As you step through it, you move through a slick, shiny membrane, which gives way to your entry with little resistance. It leaves a gummy residue on your skin. You try to wipe the remnants from your arms, grimacing at how viscous the clear fluid feels against your hands. 

This is when you notice your surroundings are no longer dark. You squint up and look around.

Sunlight pours in through a windowed dome that stretches high above you. Beyond it lies a long, glass tunnel. Moisture from the humid air settles on your skin atop the layer of doorway residue. 

Trees and bushes of all shapes and sizes fill the space. Some with thick, waxy leaves. Some adorned with colorful, blooming flowers. Crowds of faceless people mull about on a terracotta path that winds through the enclosure. None of them seem to notice you standing there in your pajamas. 

The butterflies notice you, though. 

Monarchs, tiger-like stripes sectioning off orange, their wings tipped with a thick black outline and dots of white. Paper Kites, their chalky white wings appearing luminous in the sunshine, black spots and stripes contrasting the bright glow. Owl butterflies, huge by comparison, their wings decorated with circular patterns in many shades of brown. 

Dozens of others flutter around you, a wide variety of species, each one breathtaking in their own right. A few land on your arm when you hold it up.

You smile, then the familiarity of this place dawns on you. The butterfly house. 

Frankie took you here occasionally when you were still together. Sometimes with Sarah, sometimes without. Far enough away from Kissimmee and Orlando that he wouldn’t run into anyone he knew. 

When the two of you were here, it felt like you were a normal couple. He held your hand while you walked the paths. Murmured sweet nothings into your ear as you marveled at the foliage and butterflies. 

Your attention snags on something in the path ahead of you, yanking you from your bittersweet nostalgia.

A white t-shirt stretched across his broad, hunched-up shoulders. Dark curls poking out from beneath his ragged hat. His slightly off-kilter, halting gait as he pushes a stroller in the opposite direction. 

“Frankie!” you call. 

He doesn’t react. Nobody reacts. 

You start after him, calling his name over and over again, but he doesn’t turn towards your voice. Your stomach starts to churn. Swollen, gray clouds roll across the sky and tone the conservatory a dim, moody gray. 

“Frankie, what the fuck?!” you pant when you catch up to him, vocal chords wavering, giving away the state of your frayed nerves. You grab his arm and spin him around, then take a step back. 

It’s not Frankie.

The older man before you has a thick white mustache brimming his frail, wrinkled lips. His shortly-trimmed white hair stands straight up from his scalp. You have to crane your neck up to meet his cold, gray eyes. 

The smile that stretches across his face churns your stomach. Goosebumps prick your skin. 

Your eyes flick from his to the stroller. 

It’s empty. 

You shake your head, taking another step back. Hot tears pool in your eyes and turn the world around you blurry. 

When you look back to the man, he seems even taller. Your heart hammers in your chest. One message broadcasts through your brain: GET THE FUCK OUT. 

You retreat backwards. Only a few slow steps at first, but your feet pick up the pace quickly when you see his arms. 

His fucking arms. 

They stretch after you, but his body doesn’t move. 

Panic spikes your bloodstream. 

You sprint in the opposite direction, away from him, your feet pounding against the empty pathway. Everything is dark now. Like the sun burnt out. 

His slender fingers dig into your arms. He clenches down, pulling you back towards him, dragging you over the terracotta pathway as you struggle to escape, screaming, “No no no, No! NO! N—”

Your body starts to shake, then your eyes snap open and meet Frankie’s, all wide and glazed with distress. He’s hovering above you, hands on your shoulders, his voice hoarse as he whispers, “Hey, are you ok?”

When you meet his gaze and understand that he’s real, your face crumbles, and you try to sob with relief, but your breath catches in your throat. Your hands fly to your neck. The gasps that are able to pass through the constricted airway are shallow. 

It feels like you’re a fish out of water. 

He grabs your inhaler from the nightstand and shakes it, flinging the cap off with one hand as the other guides you to sit up. You take a few puffs, and it makes it easier, but your throat is still tight. Lungs still feel three times too small. 

“We’re going to the hospital.” 

It’s not a plea, or a question, or a request like it was earlier. He’s making a statement of fact.

He marches from the room and comes back with the straps of your purse held up in a stranglehold, “Is your insurance card in here?” 

You nod and swallow hard. It hurts like your throat is an open wound. Tears burn behind your eyes and roll down your cheeks. Your breaths come in short little wheezes that unleash a flood of adrenaline into your heart. 

“Ok,” he says, strides to the nightstand, throws your inhaler and cell phone inside, slings the cross-body strap over his shoulder, and looks at you. 

His face droops momentarily and his eyes get all watery and red, then he hardens his features and tells you, “It’s gonna be ok, sweetheart, ok?”

You shake your head and open your mouth to let your worries spill from your lips, but nothing comes out except a gasp for oxygen. 

“Right now I just need you to try and stay calm. I know it’s hard but you have to try, alright?” 

His voice is low and quivering. You search his face and understand that he’s worried, too, so you nod.

“Ok, let’s go, mamacita,” he rumbles.

You want to tell him that he can’t drive. That he can’t risk going to fucking jail because of you. But you don’t. You can’t. 

Frankie pulls the blankets back and the air feels like ice against your skin. Shivers shoot across your body, making your teeth chatter. He lifts you from the bed with a groan. You hook your arms around his neck and try your hardest to hold on.  

When you get to the Emergency Room, you’re barely coherent, so Frankie fills out the intake paperwork for you. He talks to the triage nurse, who brings you back to be checked out.  

Everything sort of blurs from there.

The nurses check your vitals, take some swabs, and ask a bunch of questions that, between your foggy mind and Frankie, are mostly answered. A doctor comes in and talks to the two of you, returning shortly thereafter to advise that you’re being admitted to the hospital for overnight treatment and observation. 

You’re wheeled to another department and hooked up to an IV, an oxygen tank, and all kinds of different monitors. Your hospital room is like a revolving-door of medical personnel, but Frankie holds steadfast by your side throughout the chaos. 

During a moment of quiet, when just the two of you remain in the room, you look at him. 

He sits in a squeaky armchair he pulled up next to your bed, elbows resting on his knees, chin propped up in his palm, staring up at the TV as he flips through the limited channels on hospital cable. 

You swallow, then clear your throat and croak out, “Frankie?”

His eyebrows shoot up and he turns to meet your eyes in question. 

“Can you—hand me—my phone?” 

“Yeah,” he leans over to grab your purse off the couch, sifting through it for a moment before fishing out your cell phone and handing it to you. 

When you grab it from him, your hand drops to your side. You blink slowly at the sight, unable to comprehend why you can’t lift it. Your brow furrows and you frown at Frankie, whose features are all creased with concern. 

“Do—do you need help?” he asks. 

It’s like your bones are both weightless and infinitely dense. Your head is swimming but a deep fatigue keeps you pinned to the bed. You manage to nod. 

He plucks the phone from your tenuous grasp and probes further, “Do you… want me to text people to let them know?”

You nod. 

“Sisters, brother, Mom, Dad, all them?” 

You nod. 

“Marla?”

You nod. 

“Rory?”

You scrunch up your nose and shrug. 

“Anyone else? Friends?” 

You pause to think about this, but mostly you’re just thinking about how sad it is that your only friends that aren’t family are him and Marla. You shake your head, then furrow your brow and rasp, “Ralph?” 

“I told him what’s going on already,” he informs you, then inquires, “What’s—uh, what’s your passcode?” 

Your shoulders slump and your guts twist when you realize you have to tell him this embarrassing information. Something you never thought he’d have an opportunity to discover. You swallow hard, wincing at the pain from your tight throat muscles, then admit, “07–25–19”

He searches your face as his brow creases, eyes softening into a pained expression, “Sarah’s birthday?”

All you can do is shrug. A testament to how pathetic you feel. 

He holds your gaze for another beat, then drops it to your phone and starts tapping away. You let fatigue curl around your consciousness and drift off into sleep. 

Occasionally you wake and hear him talking to someone, either to a person on the phone or to hospital staff in the room. Once, you wake and think he’s talking to himself, his forehead pressed against his clasped hands. 

Later, you swear you hear a doctor tell Frankie, “Your wife seems to be stable, but we will have to keep her for a few days to continue treatment.”

Your eyes blink open and you see Frankie nod in acknowledgment, then ask, “Is she gonna be ok?”

“She’ll be just fine,” comes the response, and you watch tension melt from his shoulders. 

You want to stay awake, to ask him questions like: A few days? and Did the doctor just call me your fucking wife?

More so, you desperately want to reach out and hold his hand. You want to tell him you’ll be ok, to thank him for taking care of you. To thank him for caring at all. 

But your body holds you hostage. Your joints are all super glued in place. Muscles disconnected from your brain. A weight bears down on you, tugging at your eyelids, lulling you back to sleep. 

The next time you wake, the room is dark and quiet. 

First, you hear the equipment hooked up to your body. The faint beeping of monitors. Gears whizzing and turning, the buzz of machines at work. 

Then, you hear a snore. You turn and see Frankie still sitting in the armchair at your bedside. Your heart jumps in your chest and your throat lets out a little yelp of surprise.

Frankie starts awake at the noise, his legs jerking upwards in reaction, falling from their place propped up on your hospital bed. A stiff beige blanket falls from his chest as he sits up straight. He takes a deep breath, which you envy, and looks around the room, then blinks sleepily at you. 

“Hi,” you whisper. It comes out scratchy and dry. The tickle in your throat makes you start coughing. Every heaving, choked breath shoots a wave of pain across your body. 

He grabs a hard plastic water bottle with the hospital’s logo printed across the center and holds it in front of you. You lean forward to seal your lips around the straw, take half a dozen big swallows of ice cold water, then lay back. 

“That was fucking awesome,” you gasp. For the first time since you’ve been admitted, it doesn’t feel like something is actively squeezing the air from your lungs. 

Frankie chuckles at this, then brings himself closer to meet your eyes in the darkness, asking you in a low, quiet voice, “How’re you feeling?” 

“Like I could run a mile,” you joke. 

He smiles wide and genuine, dimples pricking his cheeks, and shakes his head, “There she is.” 

Warmth spreads across your chest and you hum, reaching out to him with your non-intubated hand. He takes it in his own, grazing his thumb across your knuckles as he sighs, “You scared the shit out of me today.”

“Sorry,” you murmur. Your eyes meet his and hold steady. There’s a spark of something in the space between you. It’s sweet and meaningful and makes your bones buzz. Like a battery clicks into place and completes the circuit. 

He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, then shuts it when a nurse toddles into the room. Your heart jumps like she caught you in the middle of doing something you weren’t supposed to be doing. On instinct, you drop Frankie’s hand and look at her with wide eyes. 

The plump, middle-aged woman just gives you a cheery smile and says, “Oh, you’re up! Do you mind if I turn the lights on and check you out?” 

You shrug, “Sure.”

Frankie excuses himself to go to the bathroom. The nurse takes your blood pressure and presses a stethoscope to your bare back through the parted hospital gown, humming and noting her findings in your chart. She checks all the readings on the machines you’re hooked up to and jots those down as well. 

She leaves for a moment to get a new bag of IV fluid. You glance around the sterile, sad looking room. It holds an air of faux comfort. Mass-produced landscape artwork framed on the wall, furniture all upholstered in a shiny, pastel green fabric, countertops and floors as white and spotless as porcelain. 

You squint at something on a tabletop in the corner. A vase of yellow roses. The nurse re-enters the room and hangs the bag of clear fluid on your IV pole. 

You blink at the flowers a few times, just to make sure you’re not imagining them, then ask her, “Are those for me?”

The nurse’s face twists up in amusement at your question, and she snorts, “No, they’re for the other sick girl.” 

Her sarcasm is justified. 

Frankie walks back into the room then, and you ask, “Who sent those?” 

“Rory,” he tells you, crossing paths with the nurse as she leaves. 

Your lip curls, “Oh.”

“Christ, do you even like him?” he chuckles, but studies your face in a serious way that makes you think he genuinely wants to know. 

The answer would require more breath than you’re able to give at the moment. 

Rory. 

You should like him. Hell, you should be falling head over heels for him. He’s dedicated, confident, loyal, respectful, and attractive. His dick is big and he knows how to use it. He takes you out on dates and performs chivalrous gestures, like holding doors open, pulling your chair out, and bringing you flowers.

He checks off so many boxes. But you don’t feel that spark, that thing, that Diane Barrows talked about in It Takes Two: 

That can't eat, can't sleep, reach for the stars over the fence, world series kind of love.

That’s what you want. 

And every time you see Rory, you think maybe it’ll change, that he’ll grow on you, but your discomfort in his presence only seems to get worse. You think you should probably dump him, but you’re not sure if it’s the right call or not. 

Because what if you’re just so used to the exhilaration of your toxic relationship with Frankie, that you don’t yet understand how it feels to be treated right? What if you’re just in need of repair? What if you just need to learn to be in a normal relationship? 

Because what if Rory is the last chance you have for someone to love you? 

So, instead of answering Frankie’s question, you observe, “That chair looks uncomfortable.” 

“Correct, it’s really fucking uncomfortable,” he nods and lets out a little chuckle. 

Your teeth catch on your tongue and you clamp down on it a few times as you consider this, then release it and tell him quietly, “You don’t have to stay.”

“I know,” he leans forward, pressing his fingers to his lips, and shrugs, “I—I want to, though.”

Your heart skips a beat. Heat bubbles up the middle of you, creeping up your neck, onto your cheeks. 

You reach out and take his hand in yours, then pull it closer. He lets you do this, and his brows knit together as he stares down at your interlaced fingers. Neither of you say anything. You wriggle onto your side and yawn. Fatigue sinks into your muscles and tugs at your eyelids.

“I don’t think I’d trust myself to be there while you're here,” he admits after a while. 

You blink your eyes all the way open and study his face, “Why not?”

Frankie shrugs, “You’d be here alone. I’d have no idea what the hell is going on with you,” he scoffs and shakes his head, “Fuck that.” 

A sleepy smile stretches across your face, “You’re sweet.”

He doesn’t say anything, just grins and holds your gaze. Your stomach flips and you ask, “Wanna sleep up here?”

“I’m good here,” he responds with a yawn, pulling the scratchy looking blanket up to his chin as he kicks his feet up onto your hospital bed, “Thanks, though.” 

It sort of makes you sad, but your eyes flutter closed and you murmur, “You’d get tangled up anyway.” 

“What?” he laughs. 

“The tubes,” you explain, “Fuckin’ everywhere.” 

He snorts and squeezes your hand. Silence settles over the room. Your mind wanders to the fragments of conversations you overheard between intervals of sleep. 

“Frankie,” you murmur. 

He grunts in response. 

“Did you tell them—that we’re married?” 

It’s quiet for a moment, and you’re not sure he’s still awake, until he says, “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want them to make me leave,” he says. 

You hum in acknowledgment. Ignore your heart’s stuttering beat. 

“Wha’d my family say?”

“Everyone said they hope you feel better soon. Asked us to keep them posted. Leah’s gonna call to see how you’re doing tomorrow.” 

You yawn and nod, then ask, “Are you leaving tomorrow?” 

“You tryin’ to get rid of me?” he chuckles softly. 

“Mmm no,” you tug at your clasped hands and tuck them under your cheek, “But, Sarah—”

“It’s fine, mariposa. Just get some rest.” 

The nickname twists your stomach like a dishrag. You haven’t heard it cross his lips in ages. The one he used in those tender moments where you felt him let you into his heart. Only to be shoved away at the next given opportunity.

Fuck, it was like clockwork. 

There was one day you were laying next to him in his bed, in the spot his wife slept each night. He traced your naked body with his fingertips and rumbled, “You’re the only one who understands me, mariposa.” 

His eyes were warm and glowing in the sunlight streaming through the window. When he met your gaze, you saw something there. Adoration etched into his features, radiating through his touch as it skated across your skin. 

“Really?” you breathed. 

He searched your face and nodded solemnly. Drew you closer and kissed your lips. Your chest ached deep and wide with love. 

Not a crush. Not lust. Not infatuation. 

Real, true, pure fucking love. 

So you told him. 

“I love you.”

His touch ceased. He pulled back, furrowing his brow. You watched his face shift from confusion, to surprise, to worry. 

Then he shook his head and whispered, “I… can’t.”

It felt like you were dropped from a 10-story building and pancaked onto the sidewalk. Your nerves started to buzz and twist. You didn’t know what to do, how to convey the panic building in your chest. So you stared at him. 

“You—you know we can’t be together like that,” he said, his tone warm and reassuring like the words he was saying weren’t ripping you apart, his wide eyes frantically scanning your face, “Right? I mean, I’m—I’m married, and Angie—I love her—”

The knife in your gut twisted. 

“I know,” you nodded, flashing a reassuring smile, but rolled out of bed and started to get dressed, facing away from him so he couldn’t see the tears brimming your eyelids. 

“Come on, you knew what you were getting into when this started.” 

Salt in your wounds. 

Obviously you knew he was married, and he never made you promises of running away together. But you really thought that this was more to him than sex. 

You swore you felt it. 

When it was just the two of you, he would joke with you, and cuddle with you, and kiss your forehead, and hold your hand, and tell you things… intimate things.

Things about his upbringing. About his absent, alcoholic father, and his mother who did her best but struggled desperately. How he was an only child split between households when his mom finally had enough and divorced his dad. 

He told you about his time in the service, time he spent overseas fighting a war for his country, then for the highest bidder. How he took lives, destroyed communities, and sold years of his life to make the rich even richer. 

He told you about how, just a year prior to that afternoon in his bed, he went on an independent mission to South America with his brothers in arms. It went tits up. He watched one of his best friends get shot in the fucking head. They had to drag his body through the Andes, along with millions of dollars seized from a drug kingpin. Most of the money was lost, and the residual earnings of this expedition were given to the deceased’s family. 

He told you about how, he realized afterwards, the cost wasn’t worth it. The value of his friend’s life exceeded that of anything they would have brought home. 

He told you this in a matter-of-fact way. His voice was calm, shoulders level, back straight. And his eyes… they were so far away. Like he was there again. 

You recognized yourself in his detached gaze. In the subtle tensing of his body. 

You thought his telling you these things meant he trusted you with them. You thought him telling you these things meant he was placing his heart in your hands. 

And there were other things. 

He held you like he was abandoned at sea and you were a life-preserver buoying him to the surface of choppy waves. He kissed you like he was starved for affection. Fucked you like it was his last day on Earth. 

You thought it meant something to him. 

This is it, you thought, this is love. 

That can't eat, can't sleep, reach for the stars over the fence, world series kind of love.

You were astounded that you could have read him so wrong. Of all the things you’ve been uncertain of in life, you genuinely didn’t think this was one of them. It flipped your worldview upside down. 

You felt naïve. Foolish. 

Of course he can’t love you.

Of course he doesn’t love you. 

“I know,” you managed to choke out while pulling your shirt over your head. 

“Hey,” he said softly, trying to get you to look at him. 

“It’s ok, Frankie, really,“ you shook your head and tucked your hair behind your ear, then tiptoed into the bathroom, where you allowed yourself to cry silently for five minutes. 

When you emerged, he was sitting on the couch drinking whiskey. Sarah was still napping. You sequestered yourself in the kitchen, painfully aware of Frankie’s presence in the next room. 

When Angie got home, he kissed her hello right in front of you. Made a big show of it. 

And you hated her. 

Envy is probably more accurate than hate, you think, in retrospect. At the time, all you knew was it seared your insides like hellfire when he touched her. You wanted to dig your fingernails into her cheeks and rip her pretty face right off of her skull.

You picked up your purse and plastered on a mask of neutrality, “Well, I’m off. Have a good weekend, guys.” 

It almost slipped when your gaze caught on Frankie’s. He wore this pained expression like this hurt for him, too. 

You broke eye contact and rushed out the door to your car. Once inside, you screamed at the top of your lungs into the steering wheel. Your throat burned raw with territorial rage, and rejection, and heartbreak. 

You kept thinking of that fucking look on his face. That fucking nickname. His faux intimacy. Your stupidity in thinking he felt the same as you. 

On your way home, you went to your favorite spot, Bubba’s. 

The establishment’s owner and namesake, Bubba, was working, as he often was on Friday nights. You selected one of the many empty barstools and sat down, running your hands over your face, releasing a deep sigh. 

Bubba nodded in your direction, “Whiskey coke?”

His voice was gravelly and carried bass from deep in his chest. 

“Yeah,” you muttered and dug your phone from your purse, then sent a text to Leah, and another to Marlene, telling them about the recent turn of events in your pathetic life. 

Bubba kept his sharp blue eyes on you as he made your drink, burning a hole into your profile. You noticed, and bunched your fist against your face, trying to conceal your puffy eyelids, your wet cheeks, your shaky breath. 

“Do I needta kick someone’s ass, er what?” he asked as he placed your whiskey coke on a coaster in front of you. Bubba laced his wiry gray eyebrows together and leaned against the bar, beer belly pressing into the counter. 

You snorted at him and shook your head, avoiding his gaze by looking up at the sports news show on the TV, “I’m fine.”

“Ok,” he shrugged in a disbelieving manner, “You just let me know if you need anythin’, darlin’.” 

“Sure thing,” you murmured, raising the straw to your lips. 

When your phone started ringing, you were three drinks deep. Your mind was starting to bend and blur, the booze supplying a much needed reprieve from reality. 

Your heart stuttered when you saw his name populate your phone screen. Then your face flushed with indignation. 

“What?” you answered in an icy tone. 

“Where are you?” he asked. His words were all huddled together. Spoken too close to the speaker. He was drunk. 

“Why do you care?” you scoffed. 

“Needta talkta you about somethin’,” he mumbled, “Where are you?”

“You sound shitfaced, Frankie,” you frowned at your empty drink, stabbed the ice with your straw, then looked around and locked eyes with Bubba. He nodded in acknowledgement and started to make you a new drink. 

“Jus—jus—jus, shut the fuck up and tell me where you are—”

“Hey, fuck you,” you yelled in return, unable to stop the rage from bubbling up inside you. 

A big sigh crackled over the speaker, then he adjusted his tone to something less severe, “Sorry—soooo sorry, sweetheart. But I needta talk to you, please.”

“You’re talking to me now, Francisco.”

There was a long pause, then he mumbled, “I wanna see you.”

“You’re not driving.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I miss you.”

Tightness radiated across your chest. Heat tingled up your throat, into your sinuses. You swallowed hard. 

“Please, baby,” he croaked, “Please.”

“Bubba’s,” you sighed, then hung up. 

Frankie strode through the door ten minutes later. His movements were overly fluid, spilling over the edges of his body’s limits when he came to sit next to you, “Hey.”

Bubba eyed Frankie from afar, but didn’t approach him to ask if he wanted a drink.

“Please tell me you didn’t drive here,” you hissed, searching his face. 

“I didn’t drive here,” he grinned, crossing his arms, leaning forward onto the bar. 

“Frankie—” you protested. 

“No, wait—wait, listen,” he grabbed your hand and kissed your palm. 

You winced at the sharp pain that twisted your heart. He didn’t notice, just pressed your unresponsive hand against his cheek, against the grain of his patchy beard, and drew his eyebrows together, “I’m sorry.”

“You already said that,” you blinked. 

“Don’t be mad at me, sweetheart,” his voice was raspy and low as he searched your face with those puppy dog eyes that tugged at your heart strings, “Please, I don’t want you to be mad at me.”

You released a heavy sigh, “I’m not mad at you, Frankie. I just—I don’t know, I thought…” 

Your shoulders slumped as you dropped your gaze to your drink. 

“Hey,” he squeezed your hand, kissed your palm, and pressed it against his cheek again, “What we have’s really special to me. But I—”

“Can’t, I know,” you mumbled and pulled your hand away. 

He cocked his jaw back and forth, then leaned closer and asked, “So is this it then? Are you done with me?” 

You knew that if you said yes and he’d accept it. This would be over and you could walk away with your dignity still intact. You could find a new job and gracefully bow out of the Morales household. 

You knew that if you said yes you’d never have him again. Never again would you feel the heat of his desire, or hear the joy of his laughter, or taste the sweetness of his affection. You knew that you’d be forfeiting any chance to make him fall in love with you. 

It was so desperate and raw, the way you wanted him to love you. 

“I should be the one asking you that,” you rolled your head on your shoulders to look at him. 

He held your gaze and furrowed his brow, “Why would I be done with you?” 

You scoffed, “Because I’m apparently a fucking idiot.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re not an idiot,” he groaned, then draped his arm around the back of your barstool, leaning close, “You are clever, and—and beautiful, and—”

His compliments flipped your stomach upside down. You raised your eyebrows, “Ok—”

“Shhh,” he pressed a finger to your lips, “Let me finish.”

You swatted his hand away playfully, while he just grinned and leaned closer, “And sweet, and generous, and funny, and kind of a fucking brat, honestly—”

“Excuse me?!” you gasped. 

“—But I like that about you! I do. You’re fucking amazing,” he told you, and by now his breath was hot against your cheek, and he murmured, “I don’t want you to go anywhere, sweetheart. I mean that.”

You met his gaze and held it. A palpable energy flowed between his body and yours. His eyes flicked down to your lips and a rumble sounded from the back of his throat. 

Then he kissed you. It was this slow, lingering kind of kiss that only made you want more. You balled his shirt in your fist and tugged at it, kissing him deeper, harder, more urgent.

Kissing was like that with him. Hungry. Passionate. Thrilling. 

He stood from the barstool to get closer to you, to get a better angle against your lips. His fingertips dug into your waist and filled you with a hot, gooey ache. 

“Stay with me tonight,” you breathed against his mouth, “Please.”

He nodded, “I can do that.”

It would happen almost every time. You would misread his affection and lust for love, get too deep, pry yourself open. Only for him to remind you of your place in his life: a mistress. 

That’s all you were. 

And now… you’re friends. 

These heated sparks of something more you think you feel from him, it’s wishful thinking. 

You let go of his hand and roll over to face the opposite direction. 

When you’re sure you hear his breathing slow to a pattern indicative of sleep, you release the hurt held hostage in your body. The way you allow yourself to cry is cautious and guarded. Quiet, metered sniffles as tears roll hot down your cheeks. Only once do you lose yourself, choking out an audible sob that thankfully doesn’t seem to wake him. 

You’re not sure exactly when, but eventually, exhaustion wins over your agitated body and you drift into unconsciousness. 

Leah calls you sometime after breakfast and your AM antiviral infusion, but before lunch. When she calls, the room is vacant. Frankie is out with Benny, who’s giving him a ride to your house so he can grab some things.

“Hey,” you answer. 

“Hey, how are you?” Her voice is honeyed and sympathetic. It makes you crinkle your nose. 

“Good,” you answer reflexively, then backtrack, “Well, not good. Y’know.” You laugh nervously and it catches in your throat, making you cough. 

When it ceases, Leah asks, “Do you know when you’ll get discharged?”

“Probably tomorrow. If I keep getting better,” you tell her, looking up at the old game show playing on TV, then admit, “It was spooky.”

“It sounds like it. Frankie was freaking out when I talked to him.”

You frown, “He was?”

“Yeah,” she chuckles, then stops and says, “Sorry, it’s not funny.”

“No, it’s hilarious that I–couldn’t breathe,” you scoff and roll your eyes, then inquire further, “How was he freaking out?”

“Well, I told him I’m a nurse, right? And he just starts asking me all these questions about asthma, and the flu, and asking if he waited too long to take you, all that,” she stops and takes a sip of, what you’re assuming is, coffee, then continues, “It was kind of sweet.”

You hum and nod, even though she can’t see you.

“I was expecting him to be a total dick from what you’ve told me about him. He’s the married guy, right?” 

“Yeah,” you confirm, glancing over to the armchair he slept in last night, “Since he stopped drinking, it’s… been different. I think. I don’t know,” you shake your head, then bring your attention back to the TV screen, “I can’t trust my judgment with him.” 

“Are you guys—”

“No,” you interject. 

“Did you tell him about the—”

“Nope,” you cut her off again. 

She grumbles in frustration on her end, then sighs, “Are you bringing him to Rachel’s wedding?” 

“Maybe. If he wants to,” you frown as you consider this, “I might have to, actually. With the… parole thing.”

“Since she wants us all there for the whole stinkin’ week, yeah, probably,” Leah scoffs, then adds, “I’m so ready for it to be over with. She’s being a total bridezilla. You know how she gets.”

“Do I ever,” you mutter. 

The door opens, and your eyes flick towards it. Frankie walks in with a backpack slung around his shoulder and nods at you in greeting. His dark curls look damp under his hat, and his gray t-shirt clings to his body in a way that makes heat creep up onto your cheeks. 

Then you notice a brown paper bag crinkled up in one of his hands. The scent of deep-fried food fills the room.  

“Is that Leah?” he asks.

“Is that Frankie?” Leah asks.

“Yeah,” you respond to both of them, then ask Frankie, “Did you bring me food?”

“Yeah,” he grins, holding the bag up like a trophy. Your mouth starts to salivate. 

“I can let you go,” Leah says, “Just wanted to check in with you and see how you’re holding up.”

“Thanks,” you look down at the IV implanted in your hand, “I’ll keep you posted, ok?” 

“Tell Frankie I said hi.”

“I will. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

You hang up and toss the phone aside, “She says hi.”

“I like her, she’s nice,” he drops the backpack to the ground and hands you the bag of greasy food. 

“Fuck yes,” you groan as you pull out flimsy containers of french fries and chicken strips.

“You did not look happy to have oatmeal for breakfast,” he chuckles, then sits in the armchair next to your bed and unzips the backpack, “I brought your book, your notebook, and, um…”

He pulls out a stuffed panda bear. You momentarily forget the fragile state of your lungs and gasp, which pulls a cluster of coughs up through your respiratory system. Through the fit, you reach out and snatch it from his hands. 

It’s plush and squishy and fills you with joy when you hug it to your chest. 

Frankie’s face simultaneously lights up and creases with concern. He leans forward and rubs your back, “Ok, ok, settle down.”

“It’s,” cough, “so,” cough, “cute—”

“I’m under strict orders to tell you Benny helped me pick it out,” Frankie reclines in the chair and crosses his arms over his chest. 

Once you catch your breath, you smirk and waggle your eyebrows at him, teasing, “Oh, really? Benny did that—for me?”

“You’re hilarious,” he rolls his eyes and grabs the TV remote, then kicks his feet up onto the hospital bed. While you eat chicken strips and snuggle your new stuffed animal, he flips through channels, eventually settling on NASCAR, which lulls you back to sleep. 

Tonight, family dinner is taking place in your bed. 

Which sounds sexual, but it’s not. 

You’re freshly discharged from the hospital, and Frankie spent the last two nights sleeping in an armchair, so you agreed that some intensive comfort time was needed. The TV has been playing movies back to back all day, and now the two of you lay under the covers, in your pajamas, with a big pizza box between your bodies. 

When the credits for Fantastic Mr. Fox start, Frankie pauses it and rolls on his side to face you, “We’re still doing this part, right?”

“Yeah,” you yawn and follow his lead, wriggling onto your side, nuzzling against the stuffed panda bear. Your nose crinkles at the greasy pizza box and its remaining 3 slices.

“Hang on,” he mumbles, then sits up and moves the box onto the floor beside him. 

When he returns, he settles closer to you. His dark irises flick about your features, then anchor onto your eyes with intensity. Your stomach flutters and heart swells. 

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat like he’s preparing it for the words he’s about to say. He takes a deep breath, then confesses, “I really thought I was gonna lose you,” he shakes his head, “And I was… so fucking terrified.” 

The proof is in his voice, low and trembling and unsure. It occurs to you then that this man has faced critical situations, of which the overwhelming majority of people never dream of facing, with the kind of certainty and bravery that got him out alive. He’s not easily shaken. 

But he was scared of losing you. 

“You’re not gonna lose me,” you search his face and reach out to him.

He takes this offering, interweaving his fingers with yours, laying your clasped hands in space between you, “I know that now, but… fuck, I keep thinking about what would have happened if I wasn’t here. If I had gone to work, or—or if I didn’t live here, and things were still...”

His jaw clamps shut and gnashes from side to side as he averts his gaze, “I don’t know. If things were still… bad between us,” his eyes flick to yours and he shakes his head, “I don’t think I could live with that.”

Desperately, you want him to say more. You want him to deconstruct his carefully curated statement and lay it out for you. You want to ask: And what the fuck does that mean exactly? What are you trying to tell me without telling me? 

But you’re still weighed down by the pull of fatigue’s gravity. Your throat is raw and lungs are cramped. Every muscle in your body still holds residual aches and pains. 

Your lips part to speak, but you recant the words in your throat. Instead, you whisper, “Thank you for taking care of me, Frankie.”

“No problem,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting in a sad kind of smirk, before folding down into a frown. His gaze is far away. Thoughtful. He runs his free hand through his mop of dark curls and releases a heavy sigh, “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I care about you a lot. And… these past few weeks, they’ve been really hard,” he furrows his brow, then meets your eyes, “But they’ve also been really good, because I’ve been able to spend them with you.” 

All the air is sucked from your lungs. A cough surfaces from deep in your chest and you smother it in your stuffed panda bear. He watches you and waits patiently for you to recover. 

When you do, you admit quietly, “Did you know that you’re like… my only friend?” 

“I am, really?” he raises his eyebrows. 

A self-deprecating smile stretches across your face as you nod, then shrug, “I mean, Marla and my siblings don’t really count. They pretty much have to tolerate me.”

“And I don’t?” he teases, flashing you a playful grin. 

His comment pokes at a tender spot in your brain. Your lip sticks out in a very real pout and you whimper, “Ouch.”

“Oh, come on,” he chuckles and scoots closer, beckoning you into his arms. You take this olive branch and wriggle into his embrace, letting your forehead rest on his chest as he hugs you and murmurs into your hair, “You know I love you, right?”

Both of your bodies go rigid the second it leaves his mouth. You feel his heart start pounding rapidly against your skin and he stammers, “I—I mean—like a friend—”

You wince at the pang that shoots through your damaged heart. The words you’ve always wanted to hear him say. With a caveat. 

So typical.

Maybe it’s because the flu still has you in its clutches and you’re fucking exhausted, or maybe you’re just becoming numb to it all, but you let out a little snort and say, “I know what you mean.” 

He seems to relax at this. 

Neither of you move from the comfort of this embrace. In fact, you nuzzle in closer to him, letting your heavy eyelids drift closed as you yawn, “I love you, too, Franklin.”

His tongue clicks against his teeth and you feel him shake his head in feigned annoyance. You just know he’s rolling his eyes, too. His irritation makes you grin with satisfaction. 

A heavy fog settles over your bodies. When you start to succumb to it, and you’re right on the edge of sleep, Frankie presses a kiss into the top of your head, then mumbles something unintelligible. 

But before you can respond, dreamland has consumed you.

[ Next Chapter ]

MORE NOTES: Big inspiration for this chapter from the songs "SEVEN" by Rainbow Kitten Surprise and "Nobody Gets Me" by SZA.