#they plague my mind they eat at my brain cells i just keep thinking about them

[zephyrine-gale]

I recently got into Honkai Star Rail through you art and I was wondering what made you ship Blade and Dan Heng? Hope you have a great day ❤️

they had sprinklings of lore throughout the game and I love that! also the very first dan heng nightmare pv was 👀 that was the first thing that made me curious about their dynamic I'm also a sucker for dynamics that are a little unhinged and plague each other's dreams, gotta have a healthy balance of feral so the more intimate moments hit harder ajfjgkgh it's that friends to lovers to tragedy to enemies pipeline

it's that unrequited connection from someone forced to live because of past consequences, and someone who bears the weight of those sins but desperately wants to disconnect from the past. they're currently at their lowest rn but that just means they can only go up from here, and I'm really interested to see how they interact once they learn more about their past

their backstories are very much intertwined, alongside the high cloud quintet. I'll put some stuff that stands out to me below the cut!

Nowhere to Run lightcone

This isn't the first time he's seen this man. This man had become his own inseparable shadow. No matter how many times he runs this man through with his spear, the man always comes back. He can neither lose to this man, nor truly win. Though he wants to run away, there is nowhere to run.

Dan Heng's char story II

Very sus of u blade to chase after another man through countless planets and still recognize him after he's changed his appearance

Blade's char story II

The black-haired young man shivered violently all over, but still clutched onto the spear in his hands. He had no dragon horns, and his reaction was slightly less mature than he remembered... But he would never forget this spear, these eyes, and how cruelty burst out from beneath the mirror-like emerald calmness. His wounds began to heal. His irises flickered and fixed their gaze at the boy once more. Without hesitation, the boy made another flourish with the spear... "That's it." The one who showed no mercy to enemies - was you. The one who single-handedly buried the beloved - was you. The one who almost led the place called home to its destruction - was also you. He fell down again. The teen pressed his hand against his own wounds and retreated, until he was no longer in the man's sight. "Before I witness your death in person, we will meet again, ███."

the beloved = blade the blacked out name = dan feng/imbibitor lunae it implies they knew each other in the past, but DH doesn't remember. Blade doesn't remember much about his past either, only that his mara strikes are triggered by seeing his xianzhou friends of the past (he most likely doesn't remember them as friends)

They share a pair of bracers!

the entire Passerby of Wandering Cloud set is Blade lore! he's such a tragic character, he's been through quite a lot, you should give it a read if you have the time :'>

this one is the backstory for the dragon bracer:

It seems that pairs of objects have telepathic connections with each other. Though the unnamed only had one bracer in his possession, his fingertips could still faintly feel the temperature from the other. He closed his eyes, trying his best to extract any information about the other bracer from the tenuous connection, be it its location or master. A slender yet strong hand once wore the other bracer. That owner, whose sharp spear glinted with a cold light and flourished like shooting stars, once sparred with the unnamed. That owner also once shared company and drinks with the unnamed, the two of them simply gazing at the moon with no words exchanged. However, in the end, it was also this person who stubbornly adhered to their plans with the unnamed, turned the beloved into a monstrosity, and pushed all into an abyss of eternal hatred and remorse. Pairs of objects are destined for an eventual reunion. The long years of grudges and hatred between them should be savored, like ice-cold aged liquor, one slow sip after another until the bottle of resentment is finally empty. Would the wearer of the other bracer feel the same? The unnamed didn't want to know.

the unnamed = Blade = Yingxing

drinking under the moon together -> in cn this is very ceremonial bond/close relationship-coded. Yingxing and Dan Feng were close

Yingxing, a short life species craftsman

Yingxing has the bracer on his right arm and Dan Feng has the other pair on his left

They also share jade pendants (they look like they'd slot together, forming the head and mouthpiece of a cn lion)

This is a line from a vidyadhara egg, but I find the implications very fitting for them :'>

Yingxing created DH's Cloud-Piercer (as well as the other weapons for the High Cloud Quintet)

Blade's char story IV

He remembered that, decades ago, he came to the Xianzhou with a merchant vessel and was impressed by the superb craftsmanship of this place. The young man was obsessed to the point of forgetting to eat or drink, and spent his inspiration like he was running out of time. He forged hundreds of marvels, four of which were the most famous. ... The black-haired man with dragon horns used his water manipulation abilities to rejuvenate his allies, and in the next moment he bound the water upon his spear and used it to ran his enemies through.

Blade's iris shape is similar to IL's lotus motif. lotuses symbolize resilience and rebirth--fitting for both of them, though one came back wrong :'>

Blade | About Dan Heng:

It's been heavily implied that Dan Feng and Yingxing did something that caused catastrophe and resulted in DF being forced to molting rebirth + banishment, and Blade being cursed with immortality and banished.

Dan Feng trusted Yingxing enough to sneak him into the Scalegorge Waterscape and let him do research--into what? we're not sure yet, but since Yingxing is a craftsman, he's probably creating something from the ambrosial arbor?? or from something relating to the vidyadharas. Perhaps he got cursed with Shuhu's gift here?? or DF somehow gave YX immortality, who knows...

I think their plan may be related to what we learn from Imbibitor Lunae's companion quest

SPOILERS FOR IMBIBITOR LUNAE'S COMPANION QUEST

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There's a big focus on vidyadhara's immortality through molting but inability to reproduce, so any casualties in their numbers results in a permanent decrease in their numbers. Dan Feng's sin may be related to changing that (and failing, creating a dragon abomination that they had to fight against instead. although a whole separate vidyadhara was born from the catastrophe--Bailu).

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END OF SPOILERS

Big hc delulu hrs now

Maybe being around the High Cloud Quintet made Dan Feng realize he didn't have a legacy to leave behind, unlike them. Every high elder becomes like the former, they lose their own sense of identity. I'd imagine being around a group of friends with their own agency, who also saw DF as a normal person, made him realize he also wanted to break free from the high elder cycle.

Yingxing may have been DF's biggest wake up call just bc he's a short life species who has done so much, who achieved more than anyone could imagine in a fraction of a lifetime of those in the Xianzhou. DF saw a star shine bright and couldn't help but follow and maybe wish he'd never lose sight of it as well.

Maybe it was for the selfish reason that he didn't want to lose these memories of the people who truly cared for him--of the people he truly came to care for--that he committed such a grave sin

He was dehumanized by everyone around him, I wouldn't put it past him to just. Snap one day, break his cold and calm poise, cry of desperation and fear of losing something dear to him

This kinda became a DF thing but personally, while DH himself may want to distance himself from DF, they're still the same person with shared memories (that DH can't remember)

It's similar to how Blade distances himself from Yingxing because he can't fathom his former self becoming the monstrous thing he is now

I'm really looking forward to when they can both reconcile and put their past to rest

[ballorawan740]

SCP Scenarios: When they get scared by the reader (REQUESTED)

Main Masterlist | SCP Scenarios Masterlist | My Works Masterlist | Rules | Request | Socials | My Original Post

Requested by: @_Milla_7849_

SCP 073 (Cain)

I feel like Cain normally wouldn't be scared

Like if you made him watch a horror movie, he might flinch slightly but wouldn't be terrified of it

So when you try to scare him like a prank sort of way, he would flinch a little more than usual but would recover seconds later

Like that one time when he was alone walking down the hallway looking zoned out since he was thinking of something

And you just crept up to him like the sneaky little child you are and jumped onto his back

He did get a load yelp but realised it was you

Luckily for you, Cain didn't give you a lecture like before and actually laughed with you

However, if you were kidnapped or taken hostage or used for an experiment, it would obviously frighten him and he wouldn't forgive himself

So to prevent this, he would keep you within his line of sight at all times

Anyways, as I've mentioned before, Cain would probably also give you a tight hug after your little stunt and unbeknownst to him, the researchers recorded it for a laugh

Cain did give you a lecture but forgave you since you were so young and he couldn't resist those eyes

And the researchers did give you some sweets

SCP 076-2 (Abel)

Now, a warrior like Abel wouldn't be so easily frightened

Especially if it was a child, even more so if it's you since he knows you too well and has personally trained you from the age of 5

Basically, Abel would notice your movement and body language well since you're both stuck together

So you have devices a plan with your scientist friends to try and scare him

And yes, it's working

Because Abel got extremely distracted by Iris

Iris basically got yahooted into this mess and was told to wear a lingerie

Yes, you did scare him by shoving him into Iris

I wouldn't say he got a scare, but more like a surprise

Poor girl she just wanted to sleep

SCP 999 (Tickle Monster) 999 would most likely be scared the easiest out of everyone on this list

Aside from Glass

He's like a close second

Back to 999, you both were just chilling and wandering around the facility aimlessly

Because yall are boring (TBF you're both trapped in this giant mf blop of a building)

Anyways, let's just say that it was Bright and Clef who introduced you to the world of pranks and you guys thought it would be funny to scare our 999 here

Basically, yall decided to play dead and then pretend to turn into zombies with some makeup

Yes, it did work since you've managed to scare the living daylights out of 999

And he was about to have a cardiac arrest (if he even has a biological heart)

And yes, it almost ended in another breach

And 999 did give you a lecture on how to not scare people like that

He does sound like a grandpa though XD

SCP 682 (Hard to Destroy Reptile)

I would say that scaring 682 would be difficult, but I won't since he's already terrified of that rabbit

You, along with the other researchers, thought it'll be fun to pull a prank on 682 in form of a magic trick

It's a classic rabbit in the hat trick and yes, you did pull SCP 524 out of the hat

But, little did your tiny brain know, that rabbit basically eats everything, including itself

So you just watched 524 approaches the already terrified 682 and nibble on his feet

And yes, you and the other researchers laughed hard since he crawled up the wall to get away from the rabbit (I'm now officially adopting 524 as my other pet)

Sadly, 524 didn't stay for long since another doctor needed him for a test with Josie (yes, the cat)

682 basically shouted at you for doing such a thing on him, your dad

But you ignored him anyways since you knew he never meant what he said and he wouldn't be mad at you for long

SCP 049 (Plague Doctor)

Our bird boy here is pretty much neutral when it comes to being scared

Like, he can be quite unfazed by many things, so it's no surprise if you or any other SCPs tried to jump on him

So as part of an experiment, you and your friends had decided that you would try to play dead and see if 049 would be terrified

Well, 049 was somewhat concerned and when you carried on playing dead, he became scared since you weren't so conscious, or so he thought

Since you played dead extremely well for such a young child, he tried to see if he could fix you

And before he could do anything, you jumped up at him like Bonnie from FNAF

Yes, he looked like he jumped out of his skin and was so stunned that he just sat in the corner with his head down for an hour

You all had to check up on him and he said he was 'fine'

He wasn't

049 gave you a lecture about playing dead like that unless there's a dangerous SCP

SCP 035 (Possessive Mask)

Now, since 035 is a mask and is very much a master manipulator and an award-winning actor/actress, you would most likely be able to take on those traits from him

When you were younger, you were eager to learn from 035, who you see as not only your best friend but also an idol, so he taught you everything he could

As you got older, you've gotten better at manipulation and acting, so much so that even 035 couldn't tell if you were just being you from time to time

So one day, you've decided to prank your dad because you were hella bored (like you always are :((( cuz yall never be productive and just sit on your flat bum all day and watch YouTube, Netflix or play games then sleep)

You basically produced a fake body of yourself and wrapped it in a black bag and sent it to 035's cell

Then, you've got one of your researcher buddies to write a note of your passing and that you do love him very much

035 did receive the message and made sure that there was a dead body in the package

He was pretty much convinced that it was you since you were able to disguise the fake body like bone and flesh

Which of course scared him to death because he was about to attack everyone on site

Luckily you got there on time to stop him which freaked him out and yes, you've gotten a lecture about being such a prankster (You got grounded for life but that didn't stop a rebellious child like you)

At least everyone at the facility has gotten a laugh about it for the next 3 months

SCP 105 (Iris)

Pranking Iris wouldn't be hard, but that doesn't mean she's fazed, but not in a sense like 049 who wouldn't get a good scare from some SCPs which could do him harm

Iris is very much a self-aware and open-minded individual who has common sense (unlike you, who don't even move out of your bed or even use your non-existent brain cells)

She's very much like every other person you'll meet on the streets who wouldn't just believe the first thing that she hears since she is very much a rational person

So, if you want to devise a plan to scare her, it'll have to blend in with everything or be quiet out there with realistic effects

You'll have to use your head to think of a good prank to scare her, which you did since you've inherited her intelligence (that's a lie because you don't have any intelligence left in you)

As her child, you have decided to prank her by making her a fake copy of her camera but instead of her being able to control objects within the photo, she would end up destroying it

You gave it to her as a gift and she accepted it with suspicion since you don't normally get her anything and encouraged her to try it (you're such an ungrateful child)

Cain, Dr Glass, Dr Kondraki and a couple of others wanted to see as well, so they stayed and watch

Much to everyone's horror, the illusion camera did exactly how you designed it to and Iris was furious and saddened

Later on, you told her about the prank since you feel bad and she was extremely mad

So instead of grounding or lecturing you, she decided to have revenge

SCP 106 (Old Man)

Now, scaring this old man would be rather interesting because he doesn't seem too fazed by the other, more dangerous and unpredictable, SCPs

But, you can still scare him to a certain degree

I mean, he is an old man after all, so scaring him would be fun

As long as you don't give him a heart attack then it's fine I guess (cuz yall be evil for scaring such an old man)

So, you have decided to scare 106 by giving off little bits of harmless pranks at first so 106 would let his guard down for a moment

Like, giving him a box full of spiders (he's quite disgusted by them just like how he sees your face every time) and popping an air-filled bag (Don't lie, you've all done it and it's hella fun)

Later on, you would gradually move to play with the more dangerous things, such as getting him to look at a picture of 096's face (Probs ugly like yo-)

As time moved on, 106 seemed to be relaxed and expected you to bring him random things and soon realised that there was something off

You didn't show up to him for almost a week and he was ready to get his dad mode on

Luckily, some of the guards caught you with Abel and got 106 involved since they were afraid of causing a massive breach

106 panicked and picked you up, giving you a lecture on how you shouldn't be with other SCPs like Abel

You managed to tell him that you've befriended Abel and he was stunned and gave him the dad glare (you know the one where dads would give to warn others to not hurt their kids right?)

And because it's Abel, he would even make sure to be with you whenever you were with him which made it difficult for you to play with Abel because he might steal you away (Yes I'm looking at you right now kiddo, don't play with Abel)

So in conclusion, if the prank involves you being in a dangerous position, he wouldn't necessarily be scared but would start to panic about your safety

SCP 096 (Shy Guy)

I think 096 would be similar to 106 in a sense but less logical and unfazed

It's more like he would be pretty panicky every time you weren't there with him and his anxiety would act up (like you every time you're preparing for your exams where you didn't even revise)

Like if you were with Safe class SCPs, he would be more relaxed than you being with a Euclid class, but it kinda depends on who it is

If it was Cain then it would be fine, but if you were to be with 173, he would be quite wary at first and would tell you to try and avoid being with that peanut

So if you wanted to scare him, it wouldn't be too hard

All you had to do was to be with another Keter class SCPs and play with them

He would be extremely cautious and terrified if you were with one and knowing this, you've decided that playing with 682 instead of playing with Walter the rabbit (SCP 524 | He's my other pet), you've decided to go up and pet 682

When 096 got a hold on the commission on you being with that lizard, he ran out of his cell, causing a huge containment breach on the way like he's bulletproof, and went yeehaw with 682

All you did was sit there in confusion as they entertained you with some pole dancing

Basically, if you scare 096, he would go from anxious to paranoid to berserk then to we're all going down to hell and back again

Dr Jack bright

This mf right here is unpredictable af

Like in his own body, he would remain unfazed and would even go as far as pranking you back

I mean he still would act all fun and games but since he can possess multiple bodies, the outcome of him being scared would vary which would surprise him too since he wouldn't know

Unless he decided to possess someone he knows well, but he knows better than to do that

Dr Bright would most notably be scared, like everybody else on the list, if you were to put yourself in immediate danger, but since you were just as crazy as your dad, he would most likely go along with it until you deliver your prank

Like, you could be juggling knives while standing on top of 682's head while singing 'Painted Smile' by Madam Macabre (If you haven't heard it, you should, it's amazing)

Also, he would sometimes find you having your back faced towards peanut and still be fine after having your neck being snapped (Yall be like surprise mf)

Anyways, one time Jack had made a promise to you to meet you at a certain place and he was late

So you stormed into his office (like the entitled little nugget you are) and went 'tick-tock mf' to your dad

Well it worked and you showed him your trick with the Keter classes

By causing a containment breach and somehow you managed to bribe the Keter classes to perform with you

Let's just say that just because you've inherited his craziness doesn't mean that you could go as far as doing this prank

Bright was about to drop dead from a heart attack and he banned you from doing such things in the future

Dr Simon Glass

With Simon Glass, you could give him a fright relatively easily

Just because he's a psychologist and can read people rather well, he still would be terrified and paranoid about whatever you were planning on doing

Even if he told you not to

Like that time when you were told to not make toast because you can't cook and you almost burnt the whole facility and Glass stood there and said "I told you so" (he did ask for toast, as in toasted bread, not toasted humans)

Anyways, being the child of Simon Glass meant that you would learn a lot about the human mind and behaviour

He would teach you everything you were curious about and would sometimes ask Diogenes, Light, Kondraki, Cain and Iris to help teach you the things he wouldn't have much knowledge on

And sometimes Clef and Bright would appear and spoil you (not that Glass doesn't, he's just busy and trying to be the best dad he could by being anxious about you being alone in the facility with so many dangerous SCPs)

So this often meant that you, Bright and Clef would pull pranks on each other, usually on Kondraki and Iris

Except for this time, you've decided to pull a prank on your dad, Dr Glass

You've handed him over a realistic model of SCP 058 and he freaked out and called the MTFs

They've checked the model and realised that it was all fake and poor Simon had a heart attack from you

Simon was about to yeet that spider looking thing but it was able to move so he planned to carry you and yeet you both out

He did give you a lecture on doing that stunt and you did shed a few crocodile tears

And yes, Glass gave in and comforted you

He then went to grab Clef and Bright's ears and lectured them about helping you make the prank

Dr Alto Clef

I feel like Clef would be similar to Bright but without the whole process of changing bodies because of some curse

Like Clef wouldn't be all that scared since he's dealt with SCPsbefore and dies an extremely good job at it

So for Clef to be scarred for life, it'll either be an extremely dangerous SCP, he's drunk and/or high, he must care about you a lot and you must've been out of your mind to do something seriously stupid or you're evil enough to piss off a Simon Glass (Or all of the above if you're evil enough)

You would most likely want to take the easier and quicker route out of all the ones mentioned on the list which is to put yourself in an immediate danger

So you had asked Dr Bright for some help and so he did

Moments later, midway through preparing your prank, Clef came to Bright asking if he saw you and he did

However, they heard a familiar scream from down the hallway and they both rushed to your aid and soon realised that it's you

You were about to get eaten by 939 and they had to signal for the MTFs to help (Because you mfs didn't ask me for permission when you wanted to pet 939 D:<)

Clef gave you a big lecture and comforted you after he cooled down

Bright on the other hand wasn't so lucky as Clef wanted to murder him (But in his defence, you didn't tell Bright how dangerous the prank was cuz yall are as stubborn as a rock)

Dr Benjamin Kondraki

Kondraki would be pretty much average when it comes to being scared but with a little more logical since he works with the Foundation

He's that type of dad who would let you go to sleepovers every now and again as long as they weren't of the opposite gender (Unless yall are Bi, Gay, Lesbian, Pan, Alien, Basketball etc then he's screwed)

We support BLM and LGBTQ+ in this community and anyone who says otherwise must leave now

Heck, even our friends here, especially Kondraki, Glass, Bright, 999, Cain, Iris and Josie (SCP 529, my new pet) supports them

Anyways, back to the main plot

Depending on what age you're at and whether you were planning to prank him with the Foundation staff or SCPs will lead to a different outcome

Like if you told him you were dating someone he would've died right there and then

No dating until you're 50

Anyhow, you've decided that it'll be funny to scare your dad with Clef and Bright by getting his Bootyflies to shapeshift into various Keter class SCPs and acting like it

And yes, you somehow managed to persuade the Bootiflies to do just that

And no, Kondraki didn't know about this even though he found it odd that his bootiflies didn't obey him that day

You got Kondraki to sit down in a room with Clef while you and Bright was setting up everything

The bootyflies shifted into the Scarlet King and boy sis Kondraki called the MTFs and was boutta shoot him

Everyone in the room had to get him to stop and that it was just a prank (And by everyone I mean just you, Bright and Clef)

Kondraki did manage to stop and was boutta drag you out for a big girl/boy lecture

Well, he did but not before kicked Bright and Clef in their privates first

Needless to say, nobody wanted to prank Kondraki again (Shush, no you don't, yes I'm looking at you from behind the screen and I know that you'll do it again)

[kaiparker-avengerssmut]

Their Doll 11

Silent scream

B.Barnes x Stark!Reader, S.Rogers x Stark!Reader

series synopsis:  y/n Stark, all records of her non existent, and yet Hydra still find her. When she is kidnapped by a certain super-soldier and no one believes her, she finds herself searching for unexpected familiarity in her not-so-distant past.

Series Warnings: smut, violence, torture, swearing

Chapter Summary: y/n gets shut up

Warnings: mentions of violence, swearing

A/n: The timeline in this has been altered, as there I things I wanted to include but I also wanted this fic to follow the storyline/timeline of Winter Soldier and Civil war.So for purposes of this fanfic, Peter Parker was discovered by Tony at a much younger age - when he was bitten - and has been an intern with him since, almost like a protégée.(For the purposes of this story Peter was bitten much younger too - more like when he was 9 or ten rather than 14/15)

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

"Fuck you." I snapped, mustering all the saliva I could before spitting it at his face. He flinched back when it splattered over his cheek, his fingers swiping through the spittle before he was shaking it from them and standing back to his full height.

"It appears this one is never going to cooperate. If she won't give us information, why let our experimentations on her possibly...benefit the girl the the future?" The general spoke menacingly to the guards behind me. "How about way find a way to shut her up?"

My heat thudded so hard in my chest it was like someone was punching me from the inside, all air knocked from my lungs before I was being hoisted up to my feet again with two rough grips on my upper arms. My chest heaving, I coughed a ragged breath before composing myself. The glint of the silver blade in the corner of my vision sent my eyes bugging out of my skull and my mind into a flat panic.

So, I did what any rational person with my capabilities would do. I began to hum the deep melody - one a seldom sung - and a smirk crawled its way onto my now curved lips. Clearly, the general was prepared, but the two guards behind we weren't so lucky.

A desperate cry pierced my tune, harmonising with my voice as I heard the havoc I was causing. This was the first time I'd enjoyed a kill, the very first time I'd wanted to use my powers for such a horrific reason. I'd only ever used this part of my power a few times, but this was the only time I'd been fully lucid whilst doing so.

Some people want nothing more than to blow their enemies' brains out, and trust me when I tell you; It felt good.

However, luck was never on my side, and the General had come full prepared. He wasn't even affected, it must've been something to do with the funny earpiece he was wearing.

As my eyes met his, the General's face held non of the cocky, smug tones that I'd expect. No, the only word I could use to describe his old and crinkled features was pure ire, and it was directed at me.

"You conniving, vile little bitch!" He snarled, the flash of silver weeding a sense of utter and complete dread, tangled with fear inside of me, uprooting my confidence. I don't remember a lot after that, to tell you the truth. I know the blade sliced along my throat. I know everything was rained black. And that's about it.

...

Awakening with a gasp was the last thing I expected to happen. The sight of the blade risen in front of the general burned into my mind, almost as if it'd been scorned against my flesh. But here I was: awake, gasping for breath, completely surrounded by doctors I'd never seen before.

My hand instantly flew to my neck, a stinging sensation pulsing from the delicate skin. I hissed as my sweaty palm made contact with the bandage, the material corse and scratchy against my skin. As a doctor waddled over to me, needle in hand, I flailed desperately, a silent scream ripping from my throat.

Hang on a second-

Silent scream? I tried again, the shrill noise that should be tearing from me simply vanishing as it hit my throat. My eyes widened with the realisation, my bottom lip wobbling as I suddenly pieces together what had happened.

He said he'd have to shut me up, didn't he? The thought made me want to scream loudly, that the blade had touched my skin and left me with no defence.

They took away the hell they'd reigned upon me, something I'd wished I could be rid of for years, and now I was disappointed. Maybe this was their plan all along, that little voice in my head sang. The tears pricked at my eyes, which rolled back lazily as the scratch of the needle poked at my neck.

...

My calloused fingers ran over the cut tirelessly, trying to itch somewhere that I could never seem to find. I don't know how long I was sedated for, but since waking up the bleeding had stopped and there was now an offensive red line that slid horizontally across my neck.

Every time I touched it, it coaxed a wince from me, and yet that's all I seemed to do. It was like poking a bruise, I guess. The more it hurts the more you want to do it.

They'd returned me to my cell, clearly very little need for restraints against my weakened, starved and dehydrated body. I could see the flesh thinning on my arms, my ribs pressing painfully against my skin. Not only could I see the hunger, but I could feel it.

Manifesting, biting, gnawing hunger. The type that are you from inside out, devouring everything of you until the only thing you could think about was eating. Huh, I guess I was already at that stage then.

My eyes remained locked in place, glossy with the endless tears as I stared at the floor. If I really looked hard enough, the still wet blood smeared over the floors of the hallway resembled something close to strawberry jam. The thoughts of the sickly sweat substance spread over a perfectly toasted piece of bread, accompanied with a big glass of fresh orange juice and washed down by a large coffee made my mouth water. The booming rumble in my stomach made the groan, even more drawn out than expected when I remembered all I'd get to eat today: a small bread roll and a tiny glass of water.

Sadly, the sink in my cell did not contain drinking water. The liquid was so discoloured that I purposely avoided washing me hands, preferring to possible have my own germs coating my hands than whatever they were giving me. I'm not kicking you about, I genuinely think the water was filtered through a clump of fucking horse shit, mixed with fish guts and complimented with a hint of rotting fruit. If I could help it, I'd be dodging that water like the plague (if it didn't contain one already) for the rest of my life.

I'm not really sure why, but my head snapped up in surprise why the door sprang open, a single guard entering.

"The general requires your presence." He deadpanned, eyes cold as eyes and sharp as a knife as they stabbed through me. I wanted to fight back, stay glued to the spot and snap back some snarky remark, but in my current condition I almost couldn't bring myself to care where I was about to be taken, or why for that matter.

I stood without a word, silently following the man until we reached an unfamiliar metal door. I found it almost laughable, really, that they'd reduced my strength so much, that no one even considered putting me any sort of restraints anymore.

The door was pushed open with a child-like whine emitting from its rusty hinges, the metal scraping over the concrete floor painfully. The guard simply grabbed my arm before tugging me into the room, letting the door shut behind his with a hollow thunk.

"Ah, she has arrived!" The general's voice exclaimed, a deviant smile spreading over his thin lips. "And just in time to meet Mr Pierce, too." He said menacingly.

I felt embarrassed, exposed, stood before the room of men. My hair was a mess, tears streaking my reddened face, eyes puffy from crying and the only clothes a wore was a now-battered hospital gown. My eyes darted around nervously, trying to avoid the blonde man sat before me, chin resting in his palm as he surveyed me.

"Why is this one...important?" The man asked, eyeing me up and down before his eyes seemed to fixate on my neck. The scar.

"This," the general spoke, but Mr Pierce kept his eyes on me, "is Miss y/n Stark." Mr Pierce's eyes widened ever so slightly, but it was barely noticeable.

"As in Tony Stark?" Pierce pondered.

"The very same." The general smirked.

"She seems awfully...quiet, for a Stark." Pierce said with almost a hint of disgust, eyes still glued to my shaking frame.

"That's because we shut her up." The general snapped, awfully harshly.

"Is that the scar? How fresh is it?" Pierce jabbed his questions, curiosity clearly becoming him in the moment.

"Indeed. Our doctors here are very good, Sir. They had her all patched up and out of bandages in just three days." The general bragged, shoulders back and head held high as if he was posing for a portrait.

"I see." Pierce mused, brows furrowed in thought. "What do you plan to do with her? Now that she can't tell you anything?"

"Oh, trust me, sir. She wasn't giving anything up either way," he paused, striding over to me and yanking my head back with a fistful of hair, my back mow  pressed to his chest and his mouth at my ear, "isn't that right, sweetheart?"he clarified, and I didn't hesitate to nod my head as much as his grip would allow.

"So why isn't she dead?" Pierce gritted, seemingly annoyed. "It's not like Tony's attached to her, he never looked for her and I've never even heard him mention her."

"But then they'll keep coming. I don't want the avengers on my back, and I'm sure you don't either." Pierce hummed in agreement. "She's with them - her and that Captain America guy arrived together - so why not use her to send a message?" The general suggested.

...

That's how I found myself tied up, wrists bound and gun to my head as I sat shakily in a chair in the middle of the quinjet. I had no clue how long I'd been since that day, but I do know that I had been sedated once again. The flimsy hospital gown allowed a shiver to chill me, skin  forming goosebumps as I sat before the open door or the quinjet.

"You will tell them exactly as I just did. Got it?" The general pressed, pushing the gun into my head hard enough to make by head throb. Tears biting at my eyes, I nodded furiously, now determined to live with the promise of being free again. "Good. Soldat, make sure she gets back to New York without being seen, I'd hate to have to spill more blood than we intended." The general demanded, a figure rustling its way out of the shadows at the edge of the room. A gasp tore from my throat at the sight of him - clad in black leather and arm as silver as the moon. The soldier - my soldier.

But he simple stared through me, eyes blank and clouded in a coldness I'd never had directed at me from him before.

"And make sure you don't fail this time, soldat." The general snapped. The soldier nodded solemnly, the echoing of boots thudding filling both their ears as the general walked off the ship.

[hercleverboy]

the right moment

spencer reid x reader 

summary ↠ for months, spencer has waited for the right time to propose to the reader. before he gets the chance, he gets in trouble in mexico.

category ↠ angst/fluff

warnings/includes ↠ prison reid arc,

word count ↠ 2.4k

“but if I sit in the rain, maybe I can drown in something other than my thoughts.” — j.w

For 8 months now, Spencer had been carrying the little velvet red box in his pocket. It was near enough always with him, almost weighing him down. For 8 months he had waited for the so called ‘right’ moment to propose to his long term girlfriend. Y/N was none the wiser, not even realising her boyfriend was even considering proposing, let alone had carried the ring around in every pair of bottoms he wore. 

Before meeting and falling in love with Y/N, Spencer thought all this talk about there being a ‘right’ moment to propose was silly. Wasn’t it just as easy as getting down on one knee and asking? 

Spencer liked to remind himself he once thought that way. How wrong he was. He couldn’t have guessed just how damn nervous he would get. Palms sweaty and breaths heavy, he was just so fucking nervous and he couldn’t figure out why. A big genius brain and he couldn’t  pull it together long enough to ask the woman he loved to marry him. The ‘right’ moment never seemed to come. Sometimes he looked at her, looking so beautiful in whatever dress she’d worn to date night and he thought, “Okay, this is it, I’m gonna do it” but his nerves got in the way and when he could finally breathe normally, the moment was gone.

As if he didn’t feel like enough of a coward, the relentless teasing from the team didn’t help. 

He’d walk in to the bullpen in the morning and be immediatley bombarded with questions. 

Garcia would be first, nearly choking on her morning coffee in excitment as he walked in. “Dr Reid!” She exclaimed, making Spencer wince and prepare himself. “As you know, I got lunch the other day with your gorgeous girlfriend, and couldn’t help but notice there’s still no ring on her finger.” She questioned. 

Spencer had simply chuckled, shaking his head. “Im working on it, Garcia.  I promise.” He hoped that his response had satisfied the team enough to leave him alone, but no. Derek emerged from the meeting room, a shit-eating grin on is face. 

“Hey there, pretty boy. You made that stunning lady your fiancee yet?” 

Spencer just shook his head and huffed. 

“You do plan on proposing sometime this decade, right Reid?” He teased, as JJ came up behind him. 

“You’ve still not done it? Come on, Spence!” JJ laughed. “Y/N will say yes, I’ve told you a hundred times!” She was the one Spencer had asked to go with him to chose the ring all those months ago. “That ring is too beautiful to sit in a box forever, so get on with it!” 

Whilst he pretty much always carried the ring with him, the only exception was in the field. It was much too precious to lose while chasing an unsub. Although as soon as they were on the jet on the way home, he would fumble with the box in his hands as he stared out the window. The team would share a look. As much as they teased him, they were really just trying to persuade him to do it. Though, they could clearly see how nervous the young doctor really was. It was sweet, as much as it was silly. Spencer feared rejection, but the team all knew Y/N well enough to know that she wouldn’t waste a second saying yes when he asked. 

He planned to make it a big moment, a fancy dinner, ending with them back at their apartment, with rose petals scattering the bed, the room lit with candles. But if it wasn’t his stupid nerves getting in the way, it was his work. 

First it was him nearly dying at the hands of Cat Adams. That night, he just felt lucky to be able to go home to Y/N, who was waiting with her arms open for him to crash into. Then it was Morgan leaving the team to be there for his son, which Spencer wholeheartedly understood. He knew that if him and Y/N had a baby, he’d definitley consider making the same decision. But again, after effectively losing his best friend, Reid figured it wasn’t the time for a proposal. 

Finally, the time came where he finally thought he’s was going to do it. He set a date, making preparations a week in advance. He ordered a dozen red roses and vanilla scented candles for the occassion, he planned their entire evening to a T. It would be perfect. Nothing could go wrong. 

but then everything did.

His mother was only getting worse, and he decided to make one last trip to Mexico before he proposed. Y/N knew where he was going, and whilst she understood it was for his mother, she couldn’t help but worry. He’d soothed her worries with a kiss to the forehead, promising he’d be back in a few days. 

Next thing he knew, he was being held in Mexico on murder and drug charges. Emily was there and he could see how hard she was trying to help, the rest of the team were aswell, but Spencer was clueless as to how he got there, missing periods of time from his memory. He was appreciative of the teams attempts to help but he knew how these things went. 

As he stared at the greying walls of the holding cell, he couldn’t help but regret not proposing when he had the chance. Now he might never get one. 

She was there to meet him when Emily managed to bring him back to Quantico, tears rolling down her cheeks as she hugged him tightly. He hated how the cuffs over his hands prevented him from holding her. He tried to soothe her, and Emily promised that everything would be okay. All he could think about was the little red box sat in his bedside table drawer at home.

He didn’t get to see her again until they were at the courthouse and he was denied bail. He watched how her face fell and the tears spilled as he was dragged away. He called out to her. “I love you so much.” and then he was gone.

He let her visit him in prison. At first he thought it might be selfish, he didn’t really want the men in there looking at her. But he needed to see her, she was the only thing holding him together, keeping him from completely giving up and falling apart. 

His eyes connected to hers through the glass that separated them as she took a seat, offering a smile that she hoped would reassure him she was okay.

“Hi.”

“Hey, baby.” He murmured, and his arms ached to hold her in any way, to even just graze his thumb over her fingers.

“I miss you.” She whimpered, and he could see how strong she was trying to be for him. He thought she was so incredibly strong. He knew he’d break down if the shoe was on the other foot.

“I miss you too sweetheart.” He said it as a promise. A promise he would get out. When he sat in his cell at night, he promised to himself every night for three months, that should he ever make it out he would waste no time getting down on one knee.

When he was finally free, she waited anxiously outside the prison, Garcia holding her hand comfortingly. He walked through the gates and it was mere seconds before she was running to him, throwing her arms around him. He’d held her so tightly, the light of his life, the first light he’d seen or felt in 3 months.  When they pulled apart he’d kissed her lips, just a peck that was over just as it started, but it was enough for the moment. 

“I love you,” He whispered, again and again like a mantra for only her to hear.

He wished they had more time, more time to be together and love one another, but right now they had bigger problems. Later he would kiss her for hours and hold her to his hearts content, but his mind was plagued with worry for his mother, his only focus was making sure she was safe. Spencer didn’t stop touching Y/N the whole ride to the BAU building, always touching her in some way. He’d been so starved of touch in that prison and being able to hold her was something he would never take for granted again. His arm was around her shoulders and he held her hand as they rode in the back of the SUV. She tried desperately to calm him, as she could see how panicky he was getting at the thought of losing his mother. She just kissed his hand reassuringly, and he was thankful for the gesture, kissing her forehead in return.

After they saved Diana and won Cat Adams little game, Spencer finally felt at home when he stepped through the front door of their home, Y/N by his side. It was late, but he didn’t want to sleep. He wanted to just be with her. He insisted they lay together in bed, and she told him everything he missed in prison that she couldn’t talk about during her visits. He just wanted to listen to her talk, to engrain the sound of her voice into his brain and hope he never had to go without it ever again. They laid there, her head on his shoulder and his arms around her as she rambled about nothing in particular. He didn’t pay much attention, instead watching her face. He reacquainted himself with the features he’d missed, the blush of her cheeks and the curve of her Cupid’s bow, her beautiful eyes and perfect smile. Spencer was convinced he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life and before he could even think about it-

“Marry me.” 

 Y/N had stopped rambling mid-sentence, shock covering her face. Her mouth dropped open, her eyes wide.

“W-what?” She asked, her voice a tiny whisper. 

He smiled, moving himself from underneath her. He turned to the side, and began rummaging around his bedside drawer.

She sat up, hands coming up to cover her mouth when she saw him. Spencer was on the floor beside the bed on one knee, red velvet box open in hand, showcasing the most beautiful diamond ring Y/N had ever seen. 

“Y/N. I love you. I’ve loved you for a long time now. I’ve been sure I wanted to marry you for a long time as well, ask the team, they’ll tell you I’ve carried this ring with me every day for nearly a year, waiting for the right moment.” He chuckled to himself. How stupid of him was that? “If prison taught me anything, it’s that time is so precious. In that cell I replayed every moment with you, every time I wish I’d got down on one knee and asked you then instead of waiting.  I was so scared I would never get the chance. Which is why now that I have it, I’m taking it.” He finished, and tears were beginning to well in his own eyes. 

“So, Y/N Y/L/N, Will you marry me?”

 “Yes.” She whispered, nodding frantically, and only once he’d slipped the ring on her finger did he realise he’d been holding his breath. He stood up as she moved to the edge of the bed to hug him. Her arms went around his neck and he held her securely at her waist. He lifted her from the bed, spinning her as they laughed. He noted that this was the most happiness he’d felt in months now. They pulled back as he set her down and she had tears running down her cheeks but he knew they were happy because of the smile on her face. She looked up at him, and he slowly leaned down, capturing her lips with his.

He realised that it was the first proper kiss they’d had in months, and in response his hands gripped tighter on her waist as the kiss got more passionate, her hands coming to trail down his chest. She could tell that he wanted to go further and so she pulled away. 

He pouted, and she smiled at him but he could see the concern on her face. 

“What’s wrong?” He asked quietly.

 “As happy as I am right now, Spence..” She trailed off, trying to figure out how to phrase what she wanted to say. “You just got out of prison. I know how difficult it was for you in there, and we’re going to have to talk about it sometime. I wouldn’t want to take advantage of you right now, it’s all still so fresh.”

He nodded his head. “I know we have to talk about it, just not tonight please.” His voice was tired and pleading. “But you’re not taking advantage of me, I promise. I missed you so much in there. Let me show you how much.” He murmured as he began to place kisses down her neck. 

“Are you sure you feel up to doing.. this?” She asked one more time, she had to be absoloutley sure. She’d missed him too, of course. Though the last three months of his life had been downright horrific and she needed him to be certain. 

He smiled against her neck at her concern, pulling back to look her in the eyes. “Yes, I’m sure. I know you’re worried and I’m so grateful that you’re so concerned but right now, I just want to make love to my fiancée. ” He mumbled, kissing her forehead in a sweet, reassuring gesture. 

She smiled, satisfied with his answer. Detatching herself from him, she sat on the bed again, moving backwards. “Well then, Dr.Reid. Get on with it.” She smirked, laughing a little as she laid on her back. He shook his head with a chuckle, moving to hover over her.

“Anything for you, future Mrs Reid.” He smiled at the name.

 “Oh, ‘Mrs Reid’, I like the sound of that.” She giggled, placing her arms around his neck. 

As Spencer looked down at her, his heart swelled with pride and happiness. He was finally getting his happy ending, and it was a well deserved one. He’d go through all the pain and suffering all over again if it would lead him to that moment. 

“So do I.”

[hatterstan-shameblog]

For the headcanon thing

I think Hatter likes to watch bad movies. Like the really bad ones. The ones that make you roll your eyes/laugh/cry at every single thing about it, doesn't matter if it's plot or acting. But you know what he loves more than watching those awful movies alone?

Watching them with someone else.

"hey, Mori, wanna watch a movie?"

"...no."

"c'mon, you'll like this one."

"no, I won't."

"...no, you won't. But I will enjoy your presence. C'mon bro, do it for the sake of bonding time."

"*sigh* fine..."

(inspired by real life events)

💕 Sleepover 💕

Rating: PG13 for language and alcohol consumption

Relationship: Takeru (Hatter)/Aguni

Tags: banter, friendly insults, Just Guys Being Dudes, drinking, swearing, love confessions (sort of), They Talk A Big Game But The Love Is There

Bangbangbangbangbang!

“Mori!”

Bangbangbangbangbang!

“Moooooori, let me iiiiiiiiiin!”

Clunk!

Click!

Creeeeeeaaaaaak!

Aguni opens his apartment door, wincing at the slap of summer heat that greets him as he does.

“C’mon man,” an overheated and impatient Takeru implores, “it’s miserable out here!”

“You bring me samosas,” Aguni asks, crossing his arms across his chest, “Because I’m not letting you in without my samosas.”

Takeru’s face twists into a look of shocked indignation.

“Would you really leave me—your best friend on this beautiful green Earth—to swelter and die on your doorstep in this blazing summer heat…all because I forgot the samosas?”

Aguni considers.

“No. I’d ask you to swelter and die in the parking lot. Neighbors’ll kick up a fuss if you block the stairwell.”

“Well it’s a good thing I got two orders this time,” Takeru shakes the bag enticingly, “so we don’t even have to share.”

“Someone’s splashing out,” Aguni murmurs, taking the bag from Takeru’s outstretched hand and standing aside so the man can enter his home, “Don’t suppose there’s a reason for all this…”

“Maybe I just wanted to be nice,” Takeru says flippantly, toeing off his shoes, “a little ‘thank you’ for welcoming me into your home.”

Aguni carries the bag of food over to his coffee table and sets it down, being careful not to disturb the place settings he had so thoughtfully arranged. Two plates, two spoons, two glasses of water—all neatly placed in the center of his new, sage-green placemats.

Hopefully nobody spills curry on them.

“You brought one of your weird movies again, didn’t you?”

Takeru rolls his eyes. Shoving his arm into his messenger bag, he rummages around its contents for a moment before yanking a dark, thin rectangle and holding it up for Aguni to examine.

“The 1977 horror classic, House,” he explains with an edge of exasperation, “is a critically-acclaimed work of art that has been inspiring both film fanatics and the average man for nearly half a century.”

“Straight from the back of the box,” Aguni mumbles, opening the stapled-shut paper bag and peeking at the containers inside, “Anyways, I thought you didn’t like scary movies.”

Takeru scoffs.

“Not sure what gave you that idea,” Takeru says, shoving his feet into his slippers—yes, his slippers, black velvet with red-and-gold dragons embroidered on the front because ‘I’m here enough to warrant my own damn slippers’ and ‘these are fucking awesome,’ “We saw Hereditary in the theater!”

“And you were scared the whole time,” Aguni points out, gingerly lifting their food out of the bag and arranging the containers on their respective plates, “You had to sleep with the lights on for a week. Screwed up your cat’s sleep schedule and everything.”

Takeru swans his way over to Aguni’s refrigerator and opens it, more or less sticking his whole head inside to examine its (admittedly meager) offerings.

“It’s not my fault that Ziggy is such a smart, beautiful boy who knows what ‘lights out’ means. And besides,” Takeru says while examining the bottle of white wine Aguni had put in to chill, “I’ll be staying here tonight, so it won’t be an issue.”

“So the cat gets to sleep, but I don’t?”

“You, my dear, get a evening of my company, complete with scintillating conversation, cultural enrichment, and—as we have already established—your very own order of samosas,” Takeru calls out from the kitchen, rummaging for a suitable pair of wine glasses, “And besides, I plan on sleeping deeply and comfortably knowing that any and all monsters would no doubt eat you first, giving me ample opportunity to flee the scene…”

Aguni lifts the lid off his curry, admiring the rich yellow hue and inhaling its bold spices. There are even a few extra chilis lying on top, which is a lovely surprise.

Takeru arrives at the table, glasses in one hand and wine in the other. He gives the spread a discerning once-over and then a nod of apparent approval.

“Anyways,” Takeru says, twisting off the top of the wine bottle (not without giving Aguni a look of distaste as he does it), “I’m a bit disappointed in you, Mori-chan. I thought you’d fight me more on this one…”

“It’s a losing battle,” Aguni concedes, sitting himself down in his usual spot and turning on the television, “I have too many brain cells and not enough patience to go through the usual theatrics.”

Takeru hands him a generously-full wine glass—not as full as his own, of course, but still more than what the average person might pour.

“This’ll help the brain cell problem,” he says with an over-enthusiastic smile, “probably the patience, too. Wine makes you sentimental.”

“Hmph.”

“See? It’s already working.”

“Yeah, well,” Aguni grumbles, taking a small sip of his beverage, “better get the movie started before I change my mind.”

Takeru begins his usual indignant grumbling as he fumbles with the DVD player. Aguni could help him, but, frankly, it’s entertaining to watch his friend struggle with the simple electronic setup.

When Takeru manages to get the tray open, he gives a small cheer of victory. Aguni stifles a smirk.

Hopefully the movie is this much fun.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

“Mori. Hey, Mori-chan.”

Aguni rolls his eyes, and then himself onto his side to face Takeru.

“What,” he grumbles, squinting in the dark as he tries to make out the other mans’ shape, “piano thing still got you upset?”

“It ate her fingers, Mori,” Takeru whisper-shouts, “and then it got the rest of her too! That’s enough to upset anyone!”

“It wasn’t even that scary,” Aguni mentions, shimmying his shoulders in order to find a more comfortable spot on his futon, “besides, you don’t even play piano, so you don’t have to worry.”

Takeru is silent for a moment—a blessed, beautiful moment.

“I guess you’re right,” he says after his brief contemplation, “but that’s not the only thing on my mind.”

“I’m guessing ‘sleep’ isn’t one of ‘em?”

Takeru scoffs. There’s a shuffling and fluttering sound from his neighboring futon as he turns to face his disgruntled companion.

“In due time,” Takeru says, “what plagues me now is more of a philosophical question.”

Aguni sighs.

“Remember the part where that guy got turned into a pile of bananas?”

“Yeah,” Aguni responds, “that was weird.”

“What if that happened to me,” Takeru asks, sounding genuinely concerned, “would I turn into a pile of bananas, or would I be a different kind of fruit?”

Oh, you’re different alright, Aguni thinks to himself, but he knows better than to say that out loud. Takeru’s using his ‘this is going to keep me up all night unless you give me a good answer’ voice, so Aguni starts thinking about how best to answer.

“I think you’d be melons,” Takeru concludes, “yeah…definitely melons.”

“Because of my round head and lack of hair?”

“No,” Takeru snaps, “well, that wasn’t my original thinking.”

Aguni subtly checks his phone—half-past one o’clock in the morning, too late to send Takeru home on a train to ask his cat these burning questions instead of him.

“Why,” Aguni asks, “do you think I’d be melons?”

“Well, like you, melons are strong and tough on the outside. Make a nice thud sound when you smack ‘em.”

“So do I,” Aguni mentions, “if you get the right spot. But I also hit back, so that’s not very melon-y, is it?”

“Hm. I suppose not. But,” Takeru says, “where you really start to resemble the melon is on the inside.”

“Inside, huh?”

“Yeah,” Takeru considers for a moment, “underneath all that tough rind, melons are soft. Sweet, too. Nothing fancy, they’re not trying to prove anything, they’re just…good. Like you.”

Aguni hadn’t been expecting something so…sentimental. It’s a touching departure from their usual quips and playful jabs, and it makes something warm and kind of familiar bubble up in Aguni’s heart.

“And also,” Takeru tacks on, “they’re green. And green is your favorite color! So it’s perfect.”

“I think you’d be a strawberry,” Aguni says after a beat.

“A strawberry? You mean only one?”

“Only one,” Aguni confirms, “but one of those fancy designer ones, the kind they grow in those hydroponic farms and sell in department stores for thousands of yen.”

“I heard about a guy who got murdered at one of those places,” Takeru says, “some yakuza guy who was selling weed on the side, someone put a hit out on him and used the body for fertilizer.”

“That’s…disturbing,” Aguni replies, “but that’s beside the point. Don’t you want to know why I think you’d be a single strawberry?”

“Is it because they’re red?”

“Sort of,” Aguni says, “Got a lot of seeds, too. Get stuck in your teeth pretty easily, if you’re not careful.”

“I am rather tenacious.”

“You are.”

Aguni considers his next words carefully. His relationship with Takeru is…complicated, and uncertain, and if anyone ever asked him what they ‘are’ he wouldn’t know how to answer.

“Strawberries are sweet. They’re sour, too. You’d know the flavor anywhere. And you…”

He pauses. Takeru, for once, doesn’t try to fill the silence with his own voice.

“…Well, those designer strawberries are all one-of-a-kind, just like you. So that’s why there’s one one,” he says slowly, “and I like strawberries. Might even, uh…love ‘em.”

“Oh, Mori…”

Something flops onto Aguni’s blanket—once, twice, and ah, it’s Takeru’s hand, and he’s looking for something. Aguni slips his arm from under the covers and covers Takeru’s hand with his own. This is apparently what Takeru had been searching for, because he pulls Aguni’s hand closer to himself.

“You know,” Takeru says, “now that you mention it, I think I might love melon, too.”

Aguni feels lips against the back of his hand—a soft kiss, gentle, a reassurance as much as an act of affection—and he’s glad for the dark of night that hides the blush of his cheeks.

“I feel better now,” Takeru announces, giving Aguni’s hand a light squeeze, “In fact, I think I’m falling asleep as we speak…”

“Hmm,” Aguni hums in agreement.

He’s still holding Takeru’s hand, and Takeru, his—neither seem too keen on letting go, at least, not for now.

[sleepdeprivedheretic]

Restrained

  Notes: I have no excuse, I just want a crack fic with smut treated seriously with Tai-chan to step on me the reader while looking down cockily. Humor, angst, fluff, splashed with pining dust :’) Also, I love Linkin Park.  

Setting: Reader-chan is a villain and is terrible at being one, cue ongoing physical and snark battles with Tai-chan.  

Warnings: Kinky Smut (So here’s what my unacknowledged, vanilla self, has tried to write and nobody has to read it but it’s here in the story: Dirty talk, safe words, possessiveness, edging, talk about inexperience, handcuffs, breeding kink, unsafe sex, Tai’s mean and leaves the reader unattended, but he feels bad afterwards, lube, somehow there’s vanilla, and fluff) and my weak emotions for Good Boys.  

……….

       You didn’t exactly chose the Villain life, it basically chose you. Cue your dad’s maniacal laughter, your mother’s evil smirks and her ways of teaching you how to go for the jugular since you were five...wasn’t the most heroic childhood.  You grew up distant away from others, living life learning how to avoid the law and training heavily to avoid losing a fight, your parents seemed to take that as a green-light and pushed you into the family business. Not like you could fight it, anyway. You were an outcast from day one, and had no close friends.  

That being said, you didn’t really like hurting other people or doing typical villainy stuff, but you liked fighting. It gave you a feeling of pushing all of your aggression and bottled up anger onto somebody without killing them, whether it be heroes, vigilantes, or hell, other villains. It wasn’t healthy, but you had nothing else, really.  

 Cue in the physical form of your recent excitement, the BMI hero who resembled a matryoshka doll and was kinda cute in his big form, no lie. The two of you had met near his agency with Sakura petals floating along with the breeze, and honestly it reminded you of a shojo manga. Well, him minding his own business until he’d seen your pathetic attempts at shoplifting.

He was there for a fight, and at first you overestimated him, thinking that he would go down quickly, but you were wrong. So wrong. You weren’t the best of the villains, but you held your ground, the both of you panting and sweaty and for the first time, you liked fighting against a hero.

Of course being a self-called villain full of dirty tricks up your sleeve, you were good at vanishing, leaving him to shout curses at you, but you didn’t care. From then on out, the two of you would continue ironically meeting in places. It was either you stumbling into him walking around town, eating Takoyaki, or him catching you...not doing anything villainous because you sucked at it, but you know, it’s the thought that counts.  

Then the snark happened.

“Where did you get your hero outfit? From the thrift store?” You quipped.

“As in a matter of fact, I did. Saw yer mom there buyin’ old man’s underwear, Sweetheart.”

Kami help you.

“You don’t even know my mom! But yeah, she’d probably do that.” You answered.

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah, she’s kind of weird.”    

      You weren’t on the top of the villain lists (or if you were on the list), but you were good at holding your ground, and he seemed to know of you, and thus seemed as if he was always making plans to run into you. You were no better. You had gotten into the habit of causing small trouble around his agency, and your battles were always lengthy, full of snark, and you admit you kind of liked to feel him push you against a brick building, leering down at you before the whole thing started.

Anyway, you’ve always managed to either escape or he’d just throw up his hands and turn and walk away in a frustrated huff, like that one time you fell flat on your face, accidentally dodging his spear-formed punch. It was one time, but he didn’t let you live it down, asking about your nose.

 Oddly enough, the other pro-heroes, Miruko and Hawks, would just glance at you, sigh and then leave, muttering something about idiots, Eraserhead would just guide the children away from the two of you with a blank look, and Endeavor would just avoid the two of your messy fights altogether, opting that he ironically wasn’t going to deal with “an old married couple”. Whatever that meant.

It didn’t stop smaller, weaker heroes from trying, though. Trying to be hotshots and bring you in. Of course, they failed. You didn’t listen to Linkin Park while training your ass out in the cold rain just to be brought down by some punks.    

Tai-chan, or what you’ve become calling him (thanks for Hawks just silently handing you a paper with his name on it, the absolute Wing-man), noticed. Although he was a hero and didn’t dissuade the young ones from chasing after villains, he did basically say that anybody around his area was his to battle. It melted your heart, a little.

It didn’t stop the two of your bantering and bickering, or sometimes he’d say something, trying to be serious but it comes out as silly, that you couldn’t help but burst into a fit of giggles and he’d get flustered, having a cute blush that you couldn’t help but just eat up.

It was like an odd addiction, you wanted to see more of him, even though it was through unhealthy things such as your fights, you wanted to hear more corny catchphrases, see his eye twitch of annoyance (you were a little shit), and finally, the both of you panting in defeat as he angrily munched on Takoyaki, snarling as you stole one, but let you have it, and so on.

You weren’t sure if you were becoming an unhealthy masochist, or you just really liked him. Perhaps both, because your heart would flutter every time you see him smile around his sidekicks from afar, and then clench because you were so far gone into the life of a villain, you knew that you could never have that life. Be a hero, or have him at least as a friend.

Such sad thoughts did plague you, and it must have shown through, because you would halfheartedly remark to his commentary or sometimes, you just wouldn’t show up for a day. He noticed. He was keen like that, and so to your surprise, he would take your fights more seriously, as if trying to keep you there, not letting you keep running away.

Honestly, it was a little sweet, but your poor heart was getting confused at your little game, and didn’t know how to honestly feel for him.      

Of course, everything must come to an end, doesn’t it?

 He was leering down at you with a cocky smirk, clothes ruined, showing off whatever he had, a boot stepping onto your chest, rain soaking through his soft hair and splattering your cheeks. An odd feeling came over you. Something you weren’t familiar with, but through your mask, you felt that it was safe to just take a mental picture and burn it forever within your brain.

 The fight was different. You were sick all week with the common cold, and when you returned from your little hibernation, weird gossip and rumors were littering about near the FatGum Agency. It was either you left him because you were getting bored, or you had found another hero to play with, or you were finally caught. Whatever it was, he seemed to be excited, relieved(?), and at the same time furious to see you. He demanded where have you been, and feeling increasingly snarky and not sure what to feel with your pining dumbass heart, you retaliated that you were on a vacation from his stupidity.

 Yeah, you lost.  

“Finally caught ya.” His voice rasped out and hot damn did that not help with the odd searing warmth churning within your guts. The feeling of losing always frightened you, for you weren’t sure whether or not your family would actually give a damn. Yet, you felt elated and calm. It was over, he could finally call the shots, and you could just sit in a jail cell and atone for whatever petty crimes you committed.

“So you have. How’s the weather up there, you giraffe?” You couldn’t help but ask, and the boot on your chest pressed a tiny bit down in annoyance, but he made sure that you weren’t hurting.

“Just fine. I think I stepped in shit, though.”  

You couldn’t help it. You began laughing, and to your astonishment, he did, too.

“I missed ya.” He admitted as the both of you calmed down. That surprised you.

“I thought you hated me?”

He gave you a look.

“You’re annoying, and persistent, but not evil. Like a flea, you keep on bouncin’ back up, and I can’t help but not dislike ya.” The words sent a warm tingling up your spine, and you found yourself smiling softly.

“I couldn’t hate you either, you know. You’re the only one,” You swallowed, and the continued as his eyes now focused onto yours. “who I can freely just be myself around with.”

“Whaddya mean?” The tone was softer, now, but ever so curious. Well, it’s a good time as any to release your tragic backstory while in the drizzling rain.

“My parents are both villains, and so I was raised as one. I could never be friends with heroes, or really anybody. I could never dream to be a hero, because of my background. It’s shady from the start, who in their right mind would pick a hero who could just end up being like their parents?”

 The words tumbled out of you, feeling the metaphorical weight be lifted off from your chest, as the rain quickened it’s pace. An uncomfortable silence washed over the two of you, and already you were regretting the word vomit that had just spilled out of your mouth. You said too much, you cringed inwardly. You should have just kept your mouth shut, now he’s going to pity you-

“You know what? Fuck it.” Your eyes widened with shock and confusion as the so-called “DadGum”  had just said one of the worst bad words.  

“Did you just-”

“Your parents can jump into the nearest jail-cell. You,” His eyes glinted with an unknown darkness that set your insides ablaze. “have two options. Either you can platonically become a hero-in-training  and live with me, or you can be mine. My hero-in-training, my roommate, my lover, just, mine.” He put an emphasize on the word, and your face flushed despite the chilly autumn rain.  

You would be surprised, but you oddly weren’t. Endeavor was right, the two of you were basically an old married couple, bickering and bantering, always staring at each other when one was sure the other wasn’t looking.

“Alright. I’d like us to try...um...being more than...rivals?” You stammered. He cocked an eyebrow.

“I didn’ just pour my heart out for ya so ya can deliver that. Try a lil’ harder.” He scoffed.  

“Fine, fine! I..I like you too-”

“Love.”

“Love, you too! I just...I dunno, always wanted to find an excuse to just be around you.”

“That’s sweet, an’ I love ya too, Sugarplum, but ya weren’t here for a whole week-

“I was sick with the common cold!”

“N’ then these shitty rumors started-

“Don’t act as if that’s my fault!”

“So I’m feelin’ a lil’ snappy an’ hungry today, but not for food.” He humored you.

“What does that mean?” You tested the waters, knowing the truth, already. He took his boot off of you, crouching down to give you a predatory smile.

“I won’ touch ya unless ya beg me, but our lil’ cat’n’mouse games have had me riled up, for a very, very long time.” He leaned in and whispered in your ear, and you couldn’t help but swallow thickly with want as he continued.

“N’ now we’ve discussed our feelin’s, I’m all just wantin’ to tie you to my bed.” He finished as he continued leering at you as if you were the sheep, and him the wolf. You didn’t blame him, you’ve been wanting this, too. It was a little fast paced, but several months of mutual pining would probably do that to you.

 “I mean, at least take me out to dinner, first.” You tried to joke. He just shrugged.

“Done.”

“What? I’m a villain! My family are villains!” You tried to argue. He gave a smile mixed in with a humorous look.  

“Villain? Last time I checked, starin’ at candy from the hand of a baby, isn’t puttin’ ya on any wanted list. You’re mine, now. Doesn’t matter what yer shitty family thinks. I’ll fight’em, too.” The sentence made your heart swell, feelings of joy and acceptance fluttered within your for the first time in a long time, and you let yourself give a warm smile. His eyes softened, as he helped pull you up to your feet, letting you lean against him as you maintained your balance.

    “Alright. We...we can just be a normal couple? How does this even work?” You tried out. He glanced at you.

“Yeah, we’re goin’ to jus’ be a normal couple. Well, you’re gonna train with me, so that we can eventually get ya a license. N’ you’re gonna kick your parent’s asses, not as a villain or a civilian, but as a hero.” He started off softly, but then a more rambunctious grin took over his face at the prospect, and to be honest, you felt like that was a good idea, spitting everything that they’ve taught you, back in their faces as you live life the way you want it, with your partner, of course.

Speaking of which.

“So...we’re just going to continue getting soaked?” You asked, trying to keep yourself from shuddering.

“Yeah, but not in the rain. C’mon, my place.” He gruffed, and you found yourself eagerly nodding.

You weren’t sure how this happened so fast. First you entered his apartment, shivering, then he said that your clothes needed to be washed, aaaaand you were here, on his bed, naked, chilled, and your hands completely cuffed to the post as he was staring at you with such a dirty, hungry look, you felt thrilled by it.

“You want this? Say no an’ we’ll stop.” He offered one last time.

“I want this.” You admitted, and he gave off an almost predatory grin as you watched in amazement of him shucking off his clothes at the pace of the speed of light. Hot damn, he was huge, and beautiful. He grinned at your unabashed stare, crawling towards you on the king-sized bed, opening your legs as he slotted himself between them.

“So pretty, and wet.” He chuckled, giving you little time to think as his thumb swiped at your leaking opening, causing you to gasp.

“I think that I’m gonna eat you out.” Was the only warning you were given as your legs were pulled further apart, and the next thing you knew, he was on you. Your hands jerked against the fuzzy handcuffs as you felt him licking long, hot, and wet stripes from your opening, to your clit. You couldn’t help but mewl as you subconsciously fought against your restraints, thighs trying to clench around him as he gripped them, keeping them apart as he suckled at your clit.

You felt helpless as he was giving you such an intense and dark stare while he was driving you to the edge, gauging your teary-eyed reaction while you bit your lips, hands squeezing onto thin air as you felt yourself getting closer and closer, hips bucking wildly.

Then, he stopped, and you growled into a pitiful whine, causing him to laugh.

“How does it feel, causin’ others to wait?”

You huffed. He seriously couldn’t be that petty!  

“Common. Cold.” You let out a hiss, and he gave you an unimpressed stare.

“Are ya givin’ me an attitude?” Was a warning.  

“Yeah, I am!” Like a bull, you ran right into that red flag. He grinned, a little darkly. It honestly would’ve scared you a little, if you weren’t so turned on.

“Yer still a lil’ too feisty. As much as I love it, I ‘ave other plans in mind.” He gave a false pout, and your stomach churned with awaited excitement in what he was going to do, next.

“I’ll be back. I’m going to the store. Be good, okay?” He gave your surprised look a dark smirk, and you couldn’t help but growl. The audacity! You loved him, but the audacity! You couldn’t help but look on with bewilderment as he gotten dressed, opening and closing the bedroom door shut as he left you all alone and tied up.

 You waited for what seemed forever, pissed off and bored out of your mind as you felt increasingly cold and still wet. You refused to cry. He said he’d be back, didn’t he? Then why do you feel so helpless and lonesome. You felt tears shed with relief and frustration as he finally opened the door to the bedroom, black bag in hand.

“Bastard!” You hissed, and he eyed you with a sympathetic expression mixed in with a little guilt. He got undressed and set the bag next to the two of you, crawling towards you and wiped away the wetness on your cheeks, kissing them and your mouth as he held a gentler expression. He held your chilled frame against his too warm one, nuzzling you as he soothed your ruffled feathers.    

“I know, Darlin’. I’ll make it all better for you, I promise.”  He kissed your nose as he gathered the blankets to surround your skin, still letting you be exposed, but at least you’ll be a little warmer.

“Do you wanna continue?”

“Yes.” You said without hesitation, feeling relieved after seeing his softer side, and still wanting release, and received a wet, dirty kiss. You moaned into it, feeling his hands rub your breasts, squeezing them rather roughly as he toyed with the nubs with his roughed up hands. He broke away too soon, leaving the two of you panting as his dark, feral look returned as he eyed you.

“Bought you a lil’ somethin’.” He turned away, rummaging through the bag. You eyed it wearily, hoping that he didn’t go too crazy. He pulled out a bottle of strawberry lube, that was good, and...your face flushed.

“Ever used these, before?” He held out the little vibrating bullets for you to see. You shook your head, and he chuckled.  

“You’re very vanilla, ain’t you?”  

“I-I…” You stuttered, but he kissed your forehead.

“What’s yer safe word?” He asked. Safe word? Why couldn’t the two of you have a normal first time, together? You thought about it.

“Grapes.”

“Why that word?”

“I hate them.” You shrugged.

“Fair enough. Alright, let’s get started.” He said lowly, opening the lube and bullets. He added some of the lube onto the bullets, attaching one bullet to your clit, and the other to your nipple with little pieces of tape. Yeah, you were confused, too, but he didn’t pay you any mind as he set the controller to both bullets to the side, flipping the switch to a low setting.

You let out a choked whimper as your clit was being stimulated, him leaning forward and enjoying the view of your wetness drenching the sheets.

“Such an eager slut.” He bit out almost darkly as his fingers spread open your labia.

“’M notta slut!” You protested, but it was on deaf ears as he had something else in mind. He generously poured a dime amount of lube onto his fingers, grinning down at you as the strawberry scent floated nicely in the room, mixing in with your own scent of arousal. You almost jolted as his lubed up fingers prodded the tight muscle to your vaginal entrance.  

“Damn, relax, you’re so fuckin’ tight.” He murmured, and through your lust-fogged brain, you wondered if anybody else knew about this side of “Dad-gum”. Although having a rough demeanor, he was gently opening you up, and you felt warmth blossom in your chest at the extra attention that he was giving you, glancing at you from time to time to see if you were alright.

You were more than fine. Five fingers deep, and a higher setting to the mini bullets, you were very close to coming. You rocked your hips in a desperate fashion, hands clenched tightly as the fuzz to the handcuffs prevented you from hurting yourself.

“You gonna cum?” He leered.

“Yes!” You bit out, and your stomach fluttered with excitement mixed with dread at that dark chuckle.  

   “Not yet.” He switched the vibrator off, and you swore you could hear yourself huff into an annoyed growl.  Tears of frustration threatened to spill, and he gave another sympathetic look. You swore that he was mocking you.

“It’s okay, alright? I’ll give you what ya want.” He kissed your eyes, holding your frame close to him as he then rubbed his cheek against yours.

“Patience, Baby. I’m hurtin’ too. Right now, let’s let ya cool down while I mark up this pretty skin of yours, alright?” He kissed you gently, and you were now aware of his own need. It was swollen and looked angry as precum was headily dripping onto the sheets. It twitched as you realized that he knew that you were staring. You licked your lips and he groaned with want.

“See? Hurtin.”. He then continued to do as he promised, kissing you slowly as his hands rubbed against your skin, squeezing here and there as your hands itched to touch him. He paid your whining no heed as he licked at the juncture at your neck, biting it harshly, suckling at the blossoming bruise as his dick twitched at your wanton whine and buck of hips. He kissed the spot gingerly, eyeing your debauched frame with greed as he lowered his mouth to another spot.

“Damned young punks, trying to bring you in. They should know better. You’re in my territory.” Bite. You winced, but keened with need as he lathered the blossoming bruises with gentle kisses.  

“Every inch of you is mine.” His eyes glittered almost darkly as he tore away from his work. Oh yes, you were looking nice. He didn’t do too much, but the love bites he imprinted onto your neck and clavicle helped soothe the possessive ache that he had. He knew that you wanted to touch him, too, and was thrilled at the aspect.

“You wanna touch?” He prodded. You keened into a hurried nod, not caring about your pride.

“Please.” What a cute sound, how could he refuse? He relented, and you were on him. It felt as if he was guiding you, letting your hands roam, doing your own squeezing at his stomach, biceps, and pecs while you kissed him feverishly. He basked in your attention, letting you claim your prize for being such a wonderful and patient Sweetheart. Of course he kept you from touching his dick, promising that another time, definitely, so you relented in favoring of returning his little marking game.

He swore he could come untouched by your less rough touch, eyeing him to see if he acknowledged that you were doing a good job, to which he couldn’t help but find that adorable, as well.

“You’re so good for me. So patient and sweet. I’m going to breed you, now. Would you like that?” He hummed, and you swore that your brain stopped and your core clenched with need. One sentence should not sound that hot, but it did.

“Yes. I would like that.” You answered a little too gently, and he hummed with approval, kissing you.

“If you don’t, remember that we don’t hafta do anything that you don’t wanna do. Remember your safe word?” He inquired, you nodded and told him.

“Good. You wanna be bred n’ dirty-talked? I gotcha some Plan B at the store, didn’t really think about condoms. Is that fine?”

You nodded, telling him that you liked both ideas. To be honest, you didn’t mind being marked up in such a way. Not with your pent up lust and feelings of love towards this sadistic Himbo of a man.    

“Lie on yer back. I wanna see ya.” He growled out, and you hastily complied.

“Now, tell me, how experienced are ya, really? Not hard to notice that you seem to be learnin’ a few things.” He gave you look in which you couldn’t decipher.

“It’s dumb.”

“No it ain’t. Doesn’t matter to me if ya have history.” He kissed your knee softly as his expression gentled, and you felt yourself relax.

“Your possessiveness says otherwise.” You tried.

“’Cause they’ve been houndin’ around what’s been mine in my territory. Your earlier experiences don’t count. You’re mine, now, and I’m planning on keepin’ it that way.” He smoothed your leg gently despite the dark edge in his tone of words. Really, you feel elated.

“So no judgment?” You inquired.

“None.” He promised.  You believed him. Feeling a bit more braver and relaxed, you could trust him with your secrets. You didn’t know a way how to make it less cringe-worthy to admit, but you wanted to tell him, anyway.

“I never really had to time or opportunity.” You found yourself saying, and that’s all he needed to hear.  

 His eyes flashed into something that you couldn’t decipher, but it didn’t matter. He wan onto you, kissing you slowly yet frequently, retouching every place where he could reach with a more gentle approach.

“Don’t make a kink out of it.” You groaned. He chuckled lowly.

“Why not? Ya get to do this, once.”

“It’s a social construct, and dumb. It’s not like my personality is magically going to change after having something within me.”

“I agree completely, Dearest, but I find it endearin’ and sweet that you’re willing to share this with me.”  

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” You huffed out softly.

“Might be, but my dick’s trying to convince itself to do the thinkin’.”

“Maybe you should let it, then.” You prodded, and he then gave you a dark grin.

“As ya wish. Don’t forget yer safe word.” Was the only warning you had.

 You were already loosened and wet, and although his actions resembled of that like an animal as he kissed you with fervor and biting some new areas, he was gentle when he decided that it was time for the main course. Coating himself with a generous amount of cold lube, he hissed as he turned on the bullet vibrators, letting you get stimulated as he breached your vaginal opening, teasing and prodding the muscle as it opened up for him.

You felt the hot, thick head of his dick slip inside with little to no restraint, surprising you as your legs widened further, allowing him to sink in further. He was big, and your walls had to stretch to accommodate him, but you wanted it so damned badly. It hurt so good, you thought. There was a little pain, but the delicious stretch heavily outweighed it, and it reached places that you didn’t know that just needed to be itched.  

Hot damn, did you feel stuffed.

“How are ya?” He then asked, and then you realized that he was fully seated inside, and you could tell that he was desperate and hot as you were.

“If you stop this time, I might actually kill you.” Your threat was light, but he swallowed thickly at the intensity of your stare and heated gaze of want.

“Good?”

“Wonderful. Move.” You all but demanded, but he eagerly complied, letting your too-tight walls massage him.

“Fuck! So tight. Might keep ya like this, re-tie ya to my bed. Fuck ya full n’ heavy.” He couldn’t help but growl out the words, being rewarded with the tightened clench of your walls.

“Ya like that? Bein’ my personal cocksleeve? Belly round n’ breasts heavy with milk?” His movements jerked faster as he squeezed your breast that didn’t have the bullet pleasantly buzzing against it. You couldn’t help but nod, arousal dripping onto the sheets as the bullet roughly buzzed against your clit, the both of you feeling the painful aching need for release. His hips were all but snapping to meet your thrusts, balls slapping against your ass, as he engaged you into a filthy kiss as the lewd sounds and scents echoed and filtered within the walls.

Your head felt light and the both of you were covered in a sheen of sweat, he opted to weave his hand into yours, holding it rather almost gently as he moved as if a man possessed. Yours hit first, gripping you and clenching you out of nowhere as you let out his name in a frantic shout, clutching onto him ever so tightly as your head fogged into a sharp relief that left you into tears from finally able to cum. He was no better, hips faltering as he felt you embrace your own orgasm, causing his mind to almost go blank as the movement of his hips bucked into a frantic state. He huffed out, calling out to you as he held onto you tightly, anchoring the both of you into a freight train of orgasmic bliss.

You whimpered out your oversensitive clit and breast, hitting the damned power button to those little bullets as you came down from your high. Taishiro collapsed next to you as the both of you were panting, trying to catch your breaths. You were so drowsy, but you really didn’t want to sleep in your own spunk and messes.

“Dirty.” You whined, and he laughed, kissing you.

“Let’s get cleaned up, then. Know ya don’t wanna, but you could seriously get an UTI if ya don’t use the bathroom.” You agreed, tearing off the bullets, and pulling your weakened state up to use the bathroom as he decided to lazily change the sheets, throwing the used sheets, toys, and the black bag in the corner, somewhere. He would deal with that, later.

He caught you as you stumbled into him from coming out of the bathroom. Gently, he maneuvered you to where you were snuggled up against him, a heavy blanket re-warming up your cooling skin as he hummed, gently playing with your hair as he kissed you softly.

“Ya good?”

“Tired n’ fine.” You mumbled, peeking up to look at him. He smiled gently.

“I looooove you.” He singsonged, earning him your own gentle smile and a soft kiss.

“I love you, too. Go to sleep.” You playfully griped at the last part, and he chuckled in compliance.

…………..

Bonus:  Yeah your parents were pissed, but you were a hero, and their opinions didn’t really count, anymore. They knew your potential, so they cleared away from you as you and your fiance moved into a safer city. End.

……….

 Here’s my poor attempt at being more versatile in writing kinky smut. Hope it’s not too much cringe, I’m usually too vanilla :’)  

[purefrostbyte]

Protecting You

Dabi and Hawks

Rating: Angst

Might do a part two

 Protecting You

  Dabi let a puff of smoke escape his lips as he stomped out his cigarette. He had been told to scout for recruits, his normal chore that he still had even though Shigaraki berated him about how many bodies he left by the end of the night. He had scoped out his normal places, dark alleyways and abandoned buildings known for being a hangout spot for delinquents and criminals. That was until you stepped in his way. You hadn’t noticed his presence, and if you had you sure as hell didn’t act like it. Dabi felt his mouth dry, why of all nights did you have to out tonight. Your h/c locks bounced as you walked in front of him, something seemed to plague your mind.

Your distraction was a fatal mistake, because you walked right into a less than pleasant looking group of older men. Who the minute they laid eyes on you were drooling at the mouth. “Hey pretty thing,” one whistled as you attempted to walk away. Dabi watched silently as one of them grabbed you and pulled you into the middle of their circle, causing him to ball his fists to stop the fire that threatened to blast its way through the alleyway. Dabi hadn’t heard what you said, but the men didn’t seem to appreciate it and now they were handling you with a lot more force.

Dabi was about to step in, roast the fuckers and then leave when vermillion feathers shot out from the sky. Dabi concealed himself in the shadows as Hawks scared the men away and landed next to you. “What’s a sweet little thing like you doing out tonight?” his voice held a smugness that Dabi so desperately wanted to punch out of him. “Call me sweet and I’ll bite you fucking tongue off Birdy,” you snapped and Dabi couldn’t stop the small fond smile that graced his face, still got your usual spunk and charm.

Hawks chuckled, “What’s got you so bitter tonight Y/n?” Dabi remember the fact you two were friends, and if it weren’t for you they probably wouldn’t have met back then. “I’m just really not in the mood for crap tonight Kei,” you sighed and looked at the stars, “What made you come find me anyway. You don’t normal patrol this side, and don’t give me the passing through the neighborhood crap.” Hawks lifted his hands in defense, “Alright you got me,” he dropped his hands, face twisting into a serious expression. “I need you to be careful, don’t go through dark alleys at night and don’t stay out to late.” You raised an eyebrow, “And why, oh why? Would I listen to you Chicken stick?”

Hawks let out a frustrated sigh, “Why are you so damn stubborn Y/n? Why can’t you just listen for once? If Touya had asked-“ “Touya has nothing to do with this!” You snap and Hawks takes a step back at your aggressive tone. “Y/n,” Hawks sighed, but you didn’t let him finish his sentence. “If I listen so much to Touya why don’t you bring him here and make him demand me huh?” Dabi and Hawks’ head both shot up at this accusation. Hawks throat was dry and you could hear the panic over take him. “What?”

You choke down a bitter laugh, “Is Rumi the only real fucking friend I have?” you sneered at Hawks, “She told me everything. Everything Keigo. He’s alive, he’s fucking alive and you and fucking Endeavor never said a thing to me!” Hot tears rolled down your cheeks and Hawks knew he fucked up. “Y/n,” he started, “I didn’t tell you because I knew you would go after him. He’s not the same as before. Y/n he’s dangerous now.” Hawks attempted to reason with you, but you were too far gone in your anger to care for logic. “Dangerous? DANGEROUS?! Hate to fucking break it to you Keigo but we are ALL fucking dangerous.”

Hawks sighed, “Y/n, please I’m begging you, don’t go after him. I-We- Y/n none of us want to lose you.” You scoff at him, “You say that like he’ll kill me.” Hawks growled in anger, you stubbornness becoming too much for him to handle right now. “He fucking could Y/n!” You stiffened, you didn’t want to believe it, and it hurt to know deep down that Keigo was telling the truth. “Y/n he isn’t Touya anymore ok! And I’m not about to watch you wreck yourself believing in him, when all he will do is hurt you!” At this point Hawks was full on yelling at you, something that he never liked doing due to your childhood, but right now he needed you to hear reason even if it meant he would end up breaking you a little bit.

You stare at the ground intensely, not wanting to look at Hawks. Tears made puddles on the floor and it hurt Keigo to see you like this. “Y/n-“ “I think its best if you go.” He was taken back by your request, he didn’t know what to do or say, “Y/n listen I’m sorry for yelling-“ You turned away from him and started walking off and it broke Keigo to watch. “Y/n at least let me walk you home!”

You didn’t listen, walking with your head down and disappearing around a corner. Hawks sighed before leaving, knowing that you didn’t want to see him in the state you were in. Dabi slipped out of his dark corner as Hawks flew away and then set off following you. Now he knows why you had been so distracted earlier.

He watched you from afar, keeping distance as to not alert you but close enough that he could see your body shake with each sob you let pass your lips. It broke his heart to watch you, knowing he couldn’t comfort you because it would just end in a mess. Hawks was right, he was dangerous now and he wasn’t prepared to bring that danger to you. He’d rather die.

He watched silently as you slumped into your apartment building, waiting patiently to see which apartment you owned. When he saw lights flicker to life and you appear by the window to stare at the sky, he knew you were safe and bonus he also now knew where you lived. He was about to turn away, give up recruiting for the night and turn in. Life had different plans it seemed.

He was thrown into the side wall of the alleyway under your window, a vermillion feather to his throat. Golden eyes, filled to brim with anger and something that could only be described as possessiveness, stared back at Dabi. “Leave. Her. Alone.” Hawks growled, feather sharped and pressed hard to Dabi’s throat. Dabi growls, he never liked how possessive Hawks got over you and the two had always been at each other’s throats about it. “Give me a good reason to Bird Brains,” Dabi challenged and Hawks only grew angrier, “Don’t you see how much you have destroyed her already? Was leaving and faking you death not enough pain for her that you’re just gonna waltz back into her life as if you’ve done nothing wrong?”

Every fiber in Dabi’s body was on fire with anger and he threw a strong right hook against Hawk’s jaw. “You little shit,” Dabi seethed as the two started wrestling and throwing punches and kicks at each other. “You don’t think I don’t know that? That it doesn’t eat me alive every fucking day? I made my choice and I have to live with the consequences, yeah I get it. I know I fucked her up and it kills me every fucking day knowing it!”

The two were battered and bruised, still fighting and yelling at each other, they didn’t notice you come down from the fire escape by your window. You watched their stupid fight, listened to the anger and sorrow both had and you were done listening to it. “Enough!” You said firmly, catching their attention and causing the both to pale. “You two are gonna get yourselves caught like this. Are you two still that fucking dumb that you share one whole brain cell between you?” The two slouched and looked at the ground, feeling like they were being scolded like a child would. You let out a tired sigh before turning back to the fire escape ladder and beginning you ascend. The two were still sat on the ground muttering before hearing you call, “Get your asses inside now, before I drag you by the ears.” The two silently followed your command and sis as they were told, climbing up into your apartment.

First time I’m writing for Tumblr in awhile, kinda feels nice. If you have any requests I’m more than happy to hear them. Been bored and wanting to write but having no inspiration kinda stops that. Leave a request in the comments or dm me, really don’t mind.

xoxo

[comic-brew]

Anemos

Summary: Grief is like a toxin, invading your every pore and spreading like the plague, leaving behind nothing but a jade black painted husk. Hollowed out, resembling more of a dead shell than a man.

Notes: Another last minute @jaytemisweek2020 fic! I really am incorrigible. Song: Anemos by Katherine Duska and Leon of Athens. I'm sorry in advance

Reading time: 18 mins (2.2k words)

Warnings: dealing with grief, fake character death, angst angst angst

Or read here on ao3!

***

Hurried wind, blowing forth

"Hey, Princess... It's Jason."

The phone had already started recording, the whooshing sound of passing vehicles was simply a miserable undercurrent to his already bitter voice.

He looked around at the city's skyline. It seemed so familiar from his spot on the rooftop, yet the empty, discarded bottles of scotch in the far back reminded him just how bloody different everything was. How it would never be the same.

"Well uh.."

He trailed off, coughing dryly and staring at the seconds passing on the screen. He scrambled to find the right words. He had so much to say -too much- so he might as well end up saying nothing. It didn't matter anyway.

"It's Wednesday today. We… we had plans for this morning. We were gonna grab breakfast at that terrible diner that you somehow like so much. Shaw's."

He chuckled bitterly.

"I seriously don't know why you like that crap. I'd rather eat Dick's cooking than go there again, and that should be saying something. Although-"

His eyes glistened under the moonlight, tears fighting to be spilt out of their glacial blue. Jason tried to swallow back the lump in his throat. He had to do this.

"I would relieve Quraq all over again if it meant getting to be dragged there -or anywhere- by you again- I-"

His voice broke, bent like a flower's rachis crunched beneath a boot. Jason finally gave way to the tears, flowing in beads across his cheeks. He put the phone down for a second, to brush away the salty waterfalls.

Hurried wind, he whispered to me: 'stay

"You know what? This is stupid"

A small scoff evaded his lips. A little insane. Perhaps a bit more of a sniffle as his kevlar enhanced shoulders drooped even further down.

He sat back down on the cement. Plopped the phone down on the ground next to his helmet, his forehead burrowed in his hands. Perhaps to hide the pain, to keep it locked inside. Trying to hold the weight of his head so that his neck wouldn't have to. It felt so heavy. Everything was heavy and fuzzy, thick and inky like a bog eager to consume him.

There was no bog, of that he was sure. So.. that left only the gaping hole in his chest.

Yeah, that should be it.

Dark matter was devouring him, sucking him from the inside, to make up for the absence of a heart beneath his ribcage.

I'm becoming one with the wind now

Lifting his head up from his gloved palms, he rested his fingers on his chin. Limbs huddled closely together, in a small bundle of 6 foot tall boy. A small bundle screaming in despair, even without the air tingling at his vocal chords. His every cell was radiating anguish, Jason could almost reimagine the bleak stench of death encompassing his meager existence.

He drew in a deep shaky breath, shuddering at the sudden chill blowing against his body. He kept shivering even after the soft gust had dissipated.

Blow forth with the wind, a kiss piercing me like a bullet in the middle of the night

The sharp 'ping' indicating the halt in the recording was almost lost amidst the cacophony of horns and shouts rebounding from the city streets. Gotham highway was hazardous on normal days. Only a more terrible place for grieving souls, even above it and by the familiar coldness of a gargoyle made of stone.

Jason would push this all aside and bury the pain deep down, he really would. But he didn't- he didn't get to say goodbye. His eyes welled up once more as he gazed solemnly down at the passerbys, going about their lives while his felt almost frozen in time.

Seconds weren't ticking anymore when the clock on his phone was pointing at midnight all of a sudden. Tears had been closely followed by sobs as he gulped down the last drop of liquid numbness.

It didn't numb the pain nearly enough.

At the final hitch of his breath, Jaso let his feet dangle from the edge of the rooftop as he was picking up the bloody device with Artemis' name and smile displayed, captured for eternity in an almost mundane moment of joy that he recalled being so heavenly.

It was at the beach. He remembers the feel of sand and wet hair between his fingers, remembers the soft crashing of the cerulean waves and how those same waves felt against his bare skin, and how his skin felt encompassed in her warmth.

Take me far away from here, you're the only one dressing me in light amidst the darkness

Jason remembers the tender whispers of nothings that held more value than all the knowledge in the universe. Those everythings now were truly nothing, if not for sharpened blades slashing deep into his skin. The faint aftertaste of salty lips and a smile so lovely in his eyes it could outbrighten the midday sun, now simply reduced to the shine of a katana embedded in his chest.

Twisting.

God… Why does it hurt so much?

He started another recording. The words kept nagging at his brain, they needed to be let out lest they ate away chunks of his soul. His soul that had already been split in half, drowned out in the haziness of regret and guilt.

His hand shot up to wipe at the tears but they were already dried roads carved into his flesh.

Grief is like a toxin, invading your every pore and spreading like the plague, leaving behind nothing but a jade black painted husk. Hollowed out, resembling more of a dead shell than a man.

I'm becoming one with the wind now

"It's me again. One more and I'll let you rest" he paused. "I promise"

Taking a deep ragged breath, searching his mind for any and every final bit of strength and courage, he continued.

"I-I love you, princess. I love you so damn much"

He sighed.

"I should have said it sooner, but my fucking trust issues… I just- I just thought we had more time"

This time when his eyes flooded he let the tears flow freely. There was nobody there to see them, nobody there to ask.

Nobody

My dream, my secret, sink me deep into the wind

"And it fucking hurts that you're gone, you can't even begin to imagine just how much... I don't- I don't think that much pain is able to be measured. Every time I even think of you my heart is just.. shattered -no- shredded into a million pieces I know I'll never be able to put back together"

If he was gonna do this, he was gonna do it right. No holding back on his emotions, no use trying to conceal the aching claw impaling his heart, stopping it from thumping in the right rythm. Broken, every attempt at pulsing was as good as a heaving sob of loneliness.

Broken..

"A thing that breaks is never the same, huh?"

The words were said in a somewhat joking manner but his lips hadn't got the energy nor will to twitch into a smile. His muscles felt like marble, securely tight into place no matter how much his brain ordered them to unclench. The pain tugged at his soul, wanting to pull him down, down below and sink him right through the murky depths of its abyss, until pain was all he could sense.

>I want the pain in my eyes, the ashes, the fire

The pain was close- he was already starting to asphyxiate, he wasn't prepared to hold his breath when his head was pushed underwater.

"And Biz.. he misses you a lot too. He's obliterated, and that's putting it mildly"

His voice was rasped and broken when he next spoke, the ever growing lump had almost clogged his throat.

"Please come back"

It was merely a whisper, the exhale of his final breath of hope assuming a material from. The desperate last stand of a wildflower against the harsh cold of winter. Jason closed his eyes, shutting out the harpies' eerie songs reminding him that she's truly gone, drifted away with a wind that never quite got to caress his skin.

I'm not afraid, you're here now

Next thing Jason knew was he'd been yelling, shouting loudly for the words to beat the lump and the anxiety. The air rising up his throat clawed against his trachea but he didn't care as long as his feelings weren't lost with the breeze. Even if the person they were aimed at never got to receive them.

His passion finally died out, turned to ashes smoldering miserably beneath his scarred flesh. Who would know when he saw him, that the most painful of his scars was the one nobody could ever trace with the pads of their fingers.

I want to last another breath in the deep

The sorrow was starting to become unbearable as that wonderfully radiant smile disappeared from the screen, belonging to a different lifetime. One that ended when the spark of fire wavered in her emerald eyes, much alike the fainting last flame on the wick of a candle.

With frantic movements he fumbled to whip out his pack of cigars and lighter. He held them in front of his chest, staring holes in the nicotine filled package, guilt settling in the pit of his stomach. Artemis never wanted him to smoke and continue ruining his lungs, she didn't want him to let the it slowly chip away at his health. He hadn't felt the mellow sensation of his worries evaporating and blending in with the smoke in months. She was all he had needed to feel whole.

I'm not afraid, you're here now

The guilt was drowned and lost beneath the pain as Jason placed the cigarette between his lips and set it aflame.

Artemis wasn't there anymore to care.

***

"Just- I know it's hopeless, but if it happened to me, then why do the people I love keep dying?"

Even the mechanical sound of the recording couldn't dim the pain that laced Jason's voice, bitter like a bird that broke its wings.

She let a stray sniffle escape her.

"First Roy, now y-you.. Is this some short of sick joke, universe?! Alright, Jason, you come back, so you can get attached to people and witness everything fall apart so you can feel it. Yeah, the irony wouldn't have worked if I hadn't died, right?!"

The pointy lines of the recording ascended, indicating the increase in volume. Still, there was no way to show the despair with which he clung to the rage.

She pushed back the tears.

"Oh, Arty…"

He was crying.

The tears fought harder to be freed, somehow proving to be even stronger than an Amazon.

I want to run, to leave, go to the open sea

"I have no fucking idea what I'm supposed to do!" the voice uttered. That deep timbre that could soothe and comfort her in a heartbeat was reaching her thorn studded, tying her insides in a knot.

She started weeping quietly. A duet for two broken hearts.

There was a big pause in the sound, yet the needle kept running to reach the end of the voicemail, she was beginning to fear that tinted in pure anguish would be his last word she'd cherish in her memory.

A snort interrupted her abrupt panic. She wiped at the tears as she let old memories be carved into her brain.

I want to touch the sun before I fade in the dark

"Look at me. I'm ranting in a voicemail meant for you. I must be fucking delusional but... I still- I still believe you'll hear all of this someday.."

Her chest heaved with increasing difficulty as the guilt gradually consumed her. He was mourning the loss of her, oblivious to the fact that her heart was still beating, and aching with every poisoned word.

He was going to hate her, but she preferred the man she loved to be able to loathe her, than to take this futile love to his grave.

I'm becoming one with the wind now

She would protect her little one, no matter the cost doing so already relayed upon her heart.

"Well I.." he begun, clearing his throat. "I guess this is goodbye" he said softly, cautiously, and the message ended with a pained 'I love you'.

Artemis murmured back a goodbye. Her breath caught on her throat, she had to exert herself to convince her lungs to draw another sharp intake of air.

She stared at Jason's contact before she'd have to dispose of her phone and everything that bound her to her previous life. She gave the picture of the man a tight lipped smile, tears running down her skin as she muttered an 'I'm sorry'.

I'm not afraid, you're here now

A finger hovered above a tear tainted delete button as wreaked sobs echoed throughout the dark room. The dark room where the shadows danced a walz of death and chaos, giggling under the starlight pouring in from the only window.

Someday.. Perhaps someday she could see her love again.

The finger came down and the shadows danced no more.

I'm becoming one with the wind.

[vanaera]

The Constellations of the Big and Small Spoons

[Moodboard created by the amazing @jhspetitegf] Synopsis | You’re sick and your roommate’s gone for her hometown for the next days so your bestfriend, Jeon Jungkook (who loves you cares so, so much), plays nurse for the entire night. What he did not expect is to find himself also burning hot–moreover on your bed with your body intertwined with his. (OR: you and Jungkook’s single brain cells try to make sense of the night except Jungkook has his heart-shaped and yours, well, is just plain weird…or not? ) Characters | Jungkook x  reader (Football player!jjk x writer + childhood friend!you; college!au + bestfriends to lovers! tho more like idiots to lovers) Genre | So much FLUFF (welcome to the TPAHR Universe) Wordcount | 3.3k A/N | Sorry for my inactivity guys, uni’s been a little too hard on me lately :(((( Anyway, here’s something I made as a gift for all my hons who patiently waited for another installment of this drabble series. Have fun reading and Happy Jungkook Day!

Read more of football!jk drabbles in The Prince and His Rose

               The inky skies of the midnight haze are already sweeping across the room and yet, Jeon Jungkook feels the sun, even in its absence, is cursing him to the depths of hell. Scorching heat laps at his back, making him sweat even when the AC is blasting frigid air to his toes. A beaming glow, hot like the blinding afternoon daylight, seems to seep between his lashes, keeping his eyes excruciatingly wide open in the wake of the night. In this ungodly hour, such beam of light is non-existent, but Jungkook still feels it and he can’t do anything about it.

               “You’re still a…awake, Kook?”

               Jeon Jungkook can’t do anything about this heat when its very source is lying next to him–too close to him. Your legs are wound around his, your arms looped around the dip of his waist, and your breath fans against his nape, he could practically feel his baby hairs rising in succession.

               However, at your question, the only thought taking up every space in his mind is the question: What does he do now? Does he answer you? Should he pretend to be asleep? Or, do he–            

               “A-am I being too clingy? S-sorry…” Jungkook feels you withdraw your arms and he panics. He immediately turns on his side, not caring about the sheets of your bed uncomfortably tangling around his legs.  Jungkook’s hand shoots from his side, wrapping around your wrist that you have retreated back to your chest.  He sees the surprise written on your face and he instantly unclasps his hand, keeping them crossed across his chest, just like your current position.

               “N-no! You’re not clingy…I just,” Jungkook sighs and decides to let honesty play his cards. “I suddenly felt…weird.”

               You look at him, eyes peering into him and he gulps. But before he can explain himself, you have already opened your mouth and asked, “Wh-why? Is it because of me? I-I’m sorry…”

               Jungkook bites his lip as his heartbeat start to thunder loud and clear behind his ears, an imminent sign the songs in his chest are about to play anytime soon. He stares at you, drinking in your bleary eyes and furrowed forehead. If he’s gonna be honest now, everything about his current position is indeed all because of you.  

***

               It started with you overworking yourself again into the first month of the semester and Jungkook only knew about this when your common friend, Park Jimin, texted him you’re absent in the communication class you share with him. And Jungkook knows you care too much about your academic standing, with your scholarship and all, to tick off at least one of your course’s permitted leaves.

               “It’s not that bad,” you told him once you woke up and saw his worry-streaked face, his form crouching next to your bedside, but Jungkook begs to differ. First of all, he found you slumped on your desk that afternoon hair uncombed, clothes unwashed, lunch pack you probably bought for the day still untouched, and a mess of papers splayed around your head, with a stray piece even covering your face. And second, he realized you’ve come down with a flu the moment he  noticed your labored breaths and felt your skin burning up. So of course, this is bad. Jungkook frowns at the careless shrug you give him and it deepens when you tried to laugh at the situation and told him you’re fine and he should go back to his dorm even when you’re tucked up in your sheets, face pale, and voice hoarse like death.  

               Of course, he didn’t listen to you. With the years he’s grown with you, he always knew you easily get sick and take too long to get well. He would always hear your mom’s exasperated voice next door when she scolds you for getting drenched under the rain or standing too long under the sun. All of these were for the best of you, ten-year-old Jungkook found out, because when you turned seven, you got hospitalized for five days after coming down with an illness from just playing under the rain with him for an hour. As soon as you got discharged, your mom asked him to keep an eye on you if you ever try to pull off some stupid shit again. With three years ahead of you in age, Jungkook easily accepted such responsibility and for the next ten years, he zealously kept his promise to your mom.

               So now with you sick and your roommate gone for her hometown for the next two days, there are no further questions to be asked. Jungkook will stay by your side for the night. Three years of coming-and-going to your dorm is enough for him to memorize that every Wednesday, your RA does not do her rounds. His butt is safe for tonight from momentary bad landings on the ground whenever he has to escape from your window.  

               Taking care of you is easy. He knows playing along with your whines will get him to make you eat the food he nearly cut a finger for in preparation. Asking you to tell him another run-over of your stories is the key to coax you to ignore your work for the mean time and take a shower. Finally, letting you ramble about the most random things is the ultimate power move to get you into bed and tuck you under the sheets. He still goes for this technique even though he ends up with the most ridiculous ideas plaguing him in his sleep like that time you wondered what if the Cerberus has its body reversed: instead of three heads and one body, it has one head and three bodies.    

               However, this night was different from the other nights he played nurse because this is the first time the power move did not work on you.

               “Come lay next to me.”

               “What?!” Jungkook whips his head to you, fingers frozen in the middle of arranging the papers on your desk.

               “Come lay next to me,” you repeat, voice still soft but the conviction in it clearer. Jungkook straightens his back and faces you with a deadpan stare. The usual “No, Y/N, I won’t lie next to you. I have some blankets. I’ll sleep on the floor,” is already on the tip of his tongue. But as soon as he took a step towards you, your ultimatecounter-atack is played out in front of him: you with your puppy eyes and your bottom lip jutted out in a pout. Jungkook immediately freezes. Such sight used to affect his soft spot for you that will have him willing to consider your request back when he only saw you as a friend. But now–damn, not only does it affect his soft heart, it also instantly attacks a part of his brain–a part where he lets his feelings cloud his rational thinking and is most of the time occupied by you (in short, his whole brain–just kidding).  

               So there is no surprise Jungkook will only manage to squeak, “What?” amidst the tornado going on his body and the gigantic flash of red ready to take over his cheeks.

               Unaware of his interior war with himself, you only fixed your gaze on him and said, “Come lay next to me. I’m feeling too cuddly and…lonely. Yeah, lonely. I didn’t manage to talk with anyone yesterday and I crave some human connection, which also only made me miss my bestfriend more.”

               Jungkook is still rooted in his position, still giving you that troubled expression (brows knitted together, face flushed, lips parted in a weird semi-scowl, semi-smile that sometimes troubles you yourself), so you muttered, “Promise, you can leave my side as soon as I fell asleep.”

               Jungkook bites his lip but wordlessly goes to your side of the bed to raise his hand to your direction, pinky jutted out. “You promise?”

               You grin at him. “Aren’t we already too old for pinky swears? You’re making me look like I’m destroying your conscience by just asking you to keep me company.”

               “Because you do–Goddamn it, Y/N, just promise me or not?!”

               “Fine, fine, fine, I promise,” you interlock your pinky with his and seal the deal with a kiss on your thumb. “There, so can you know lay next to me? So I can also end your agony as soon as possible?”

               “Damn, woman, you’re so demanding.” Despite such remark, Jungkook concedes and goes to the other side of your bed. After he finally tucks himself next to you with your blanket pulled to his chest like you do, he fixes you with a begrudging frown. “There. Satisfied?”

               You laugh, “Yeah, so much!” You pulled his right arm closer to you, spreading his palm open to slot your fingers between the spaces of his own. Giggling at your now-intertwined hands, you turn to his side and look up at him. “Don’t you feel reminiscent of sleeping like this when we used to have sleepovers in your house?”

               “Yeah, totally. Can you now sleep?” Jungkook answers with an annoyed huff, facing away from you and you only giggle at him.

               “Okay, grumpy StarKook,” you chortle. “Remember not to get too close. You may get sick, too, and you can’t have that for tomorrow’s practice.” Drawling on your words, you pressed yourself further on your side of the bed to create more space between the two of you. 

               It is only when your soft snores fill the room that Jungkook breaks from his stiff position. He turns to your side, facing your curled-up form. The circles under your eyes have become darker than last week and your collarbones protrude on your skin a little too much for his liking. And he hates himself for not noticing anything earlier. He hates himself for missing out too much on you these days. He hates himself for making it up to you only now. But most of all, he hates himself for his inability to just outright say to you that he no longer sees you as just a friend but a person who’s unknowingly owned his heart.

               He hates how he can’t easily return the sweet sentiments you generously pour on him. His lips conditioned to say the opposite of what his heart meant in fear of losing you with the burden he’s impending to give you once you knew everything about the songs in his heart. And even if he tried to make up for his poor choice of words with his actions, he hates how his progress is close to nothing in trying to make you see the way he sees you whenever you feel insecure, un-loved, un-qualified to live in the world. Because, you are so, so much more than the faults you always see in yourself.

               So, even if Jungkook feels he’s still far from touching your heart the way you did his when you helped him realize his own passion, he won’t stop trying. Even if sometimes he gets easily knocked off his feet and rational thoughts fly away from his head the moment his eyes just as so much meet yours–Jungkook won’t stop loving you.

               Jungkook sees the way you suddenly shift closer to him, forehead scrunched and lips frowning in discomfort. He raises his hand and awkwardly pats your hair. That seems to do the trick as the lines on your forehead smoothen out, your lips curving into a small smile. Jungkook then feels a squeeze on his hand and his heart instantly warms into a soft mush at the way you managed to keep yourself far from him so as not to infect him, but still near enough for you to reach him.

               Jungkook’s about to sweep away the strand of hair that has fallen astray on your face when–

               “Ko-ook, I…felt so bad today.”

               Jungkook immediately tucks away his hand back to his chest. Your eyes are still closed, chest heaving evenly with your breaths so Jungkook’s not sure if you’re just sleep-talking or just letting him off the hook of what he’s about to do. Nevertheless, he replies, “W-why?”

               “Be…because I can’t write these days and I…and my studies take up too much of my time and I just–I don’t knoow, feel like I’m not improving at aall.”

               “I–,” Jungkok gulps “Well, I can help you with your studies?”

               “No offense, Kook, but I don’t trust you with my pa-papers…My program is a reading course and you a-already sleep halfway through a five-paged short stooory.”

               Jungkook laughs, “Okay, touché.” Damn, even in your drowsy state you still roast him well.

               Despite his small chuckles, you continue on, still serious. “Bu…but what if I can’t find the time to wri–write anymore and end up not getting any of my stories published?”

               Almost instantly, Jungkook replies, “You will get published.” Among all of the things he has agreed with, this is the only one he can be a hundred percent sure of.

               “How did you know?”

               “Because I know you will. And because I’ll make sure I’ll be the first person to buy a copy of your book.” Jungkook squeezes your hand, smiling.

               “You…you promise?”

               “Now look who told me we’re getting too old for pinky promises.”

               “I just sai-said promise, you know. You’re the only grown-up who still likes pinky promises–Whatever, do you promise or not?

               “Okay, okay, I promise.”

               “Hmmm,” you yawn turning on your side of the bed, “It’s already laaate so feel free to sleep on my bed, Kook. But if you still want to go to your dorm and rest, you can leave me now. I’m already sleepyyy. Thank you again for the night.”

               “Okay, I’m finally free!” Jungkook chuckles but he doesn’t make a move to leave. Not yet. He turns to look at your sleeping figure, eyes drinking in the curves and dips of your body. Jungkook shifts an inch closer to you, his hand poised near to your back. He aches to caress the soft tuff of hair in front of him but Jungkook keeps his hand to himself. This is enough for now. He just wants to prolong his opportunity to be with you like this, to have you close to him without worrying about the possible consequences of his feelings. A soft smile graces Jungkook’s face as he sighs.

***

               Your eyes flutter open when you feel a sudden movement against your skin. The first thing that registers in your mind is that you’ve practically latched yourself onto Jungkook – lips pressed on his nape, arms looped around the dip of his waist, and feet slotted against his calves. What worries you though is your bestfriend is barely breathing. With the way his abdomen feels taut beneath your fingers and the soft expanse of his neck trembling under the space where you managed to press your nose against, you’re sure he’ll pass out anytime soon from holding his breath inside for too long.

                “You’re still a…awake, Kook?” You called out, withdrawing your arms back to your chest, legs back to your side of the bed. “A-am I being too clingy? S-sorry…”

               Jungkook suddenly moves away and then he’s now facing you. “N-no! You’re not clingy…I just,” Jungkook sighs, “I suddenly felt…weird.”

               “Wh-why?” You mutter softly, brows furrowed. You then realize he must have been unable to leave just like you promised because you’re hugging him too tight in your sleep. You immediately brought your gaze down, apologetic. “Is it because of me? I-I’m sorry…I probably hugged you in my sleep and didn’t let you leave and go back to your dorm, and I’m sorry–”

               Jungkook shakes his head and looks at you, wide awake now. Of course, everything about this night is because of you. He’s feeling all these things because of you–you who stupidly neglect your health for the sake of studying, you who whine at him yet successfully convince him to join you on your bed, and you who look so endearingly beautiful even when you’re sick and can barely keep your eyes open. Of course, it will always be you.

               “No, it’s not because of you,” Jungkook breathes out.

               But he won’t admit it to you.

               “It’s because of me.”

               Because he’s also at fault for dragging his chances tonight for too long and you are yet to know the reason why. Especially, not now–not this way.

                “I got sleepy, too, so I just decided to sleep, and then I suddenly woke up when I felt you, uh…hugging me like that,” Jungkook clears his throat. “I-it’s just–I felt a bit queasy about you hugging me from behind.”

               You blink at him. “You feel weird being the small spoon?”

               Jungkook almost chokes on his own spit. “W-what?” Are you talking about spooning in bed? Where are you going with this conversation?!

               “I mean,” you huff, “most guys I talk with complain about their partners’ hair smothering their faces when they are the big spoon. And, it’s not like I purposely hugged you just to find out whether you like being the small spoon or not, I just unconsciously hugged you FYI. But then again, why don’t you like being the small spoon? You used to like it when I am the big spoon in our sleepovers.”

                “…When the hell did that happen?”

               You narrowed your eyes at him and Jungkook laughs. Huffing, you turn your back to him, facing your side of the bed. “Nevermind, deny it all you want when we know your mother still has pictures of you snuggled in my embrace. Anyway, it’s good that I woke up on time. You should have woken me up when you felt me hug you. You need to stay far on the bed or else you’ll get sick too and–”

               A thick arm drapes across your waist and a firm chest presses behind your back. You feel Jungkook’s knees slot next behind yours, his warm toes sliding beneath your cold feet. Before you can let out a squeak in surprise, you hear the voice of your bestfriend, rumbling right from his chest.

               “I don’t want to be small spoon. I like to be the big spoon. So I can protect you at night.”

               Chuckling, you try to ignore the searing warmth that has suddenly taken over your chest. Your ears also feel incredibly hot now, because of the cold, because of Jungkook–you don’t know, but the only thing you’re sure of is you like this warmth. Probably way more than you should. Grinning, you said, “Protect me from what?”

               “From nightmares and bad people. Now be quiet and go to sleep, peanut.”

               “Okay, okay, but…you have to let go now, Kook. You’ll also get sick–”

               “Don’t wanna. I never get sick,” Jungkook murmurs against your hair, “I have the Jeon Effect.”

               “Hmm’kay, suit yourself. Don’t let me tell you ‘I told you so.’” A beat passes and then you mumble something against your pillows–something Jungkook would have easily dismissed if not for one word that added to the flame in his heart.

              “Goodnight…prince.”

                It only takes about two minutes to have you snoring softly again in his arms. Jungkook releases the breath he’s been holding and lets his stiff shoulders drop in resignation. He presses himself closer to you, his arm draped across your waist moves as he finds for your fingers and intertwines it with his.

               Pressing a tender kiss on the back of your head, Jungkook mutters, “Goodnight, my princess.”

 Epilogue

“Mom,” Jungkook whispers on the phone, “Do you really have pictures of Y/N spooning me from behind?”

“Well, yeah…I didn’t know you knew I have copies of those, I only showed them to Y/N. Why did you ask?”

“N-nothing. Just checking.”

“Oh…kay. By the way, I also have photos of you spooning Y/N from behind. It’s so cute seeing you have turned around and switched your places. Ahh, I miss the toddler version of you. So cute!”

“Kook, are you–achoo!–talking with someone?”

“Oh shucks, mom, I have to go now. Bye bye, love you.” Jungkook ends the call and turns on his side to face you. “It’s just my mom, checking up on me.” But before you can ask him how’s his mom, Jungkook lets out a massive sneeze. He could feel your stare on him as he grabs some tissues from your tissue box–only to end up with insufficient three tissues and an empty box.  He grins at you. “Can you hand me more tissues?”

Your lips pull into a straight line as you reach for the tissue box by your desk “Here. See, Jungkook? I told you to leave me yesterday, Now you’re sick, too.

“It’s okay. At least now I get you to focus all your attention on me.”

“W-what?”

“N-nothing.”

A/N pt.2 | So hi hons! Thank you for reading this installment!!! I’ve been down the couple of days because of so MUCH school work and…I feel like I’m not improving at all given with the sudden efflux of feedback to my recent writings :((( Hence, sorry if I kept you guys waiting for too long…Anyway, I hope I’ve progressed a little bit with this installment! Thank you for always supporting me and reading my stories! 

P.S. If you also want to leave me some love, I have my arms wide open in my ask box ~( ;  ^  ; )~

All Rights Reserved © Vanaera. Reposts, modifications, and translations of content are not allowed without direct permission.

[turtle-steverogers]

Trust Fall

oh hello, a fic?

warnings/disclaimer: race is going through a moral dilemma in this fic.  i’m not trying to make a political statement or anything, nor do i agree or disagree with the conclusions in this fic, i’m just tryna get into this specific character’s mind given the situation he’s in.  warnings for death mentions, crying/guilt,,,,cuz of course, terrorism mentions (nothing graphic, it’s just there), and guns and stuff

ship: sprace

word count: 1754

editing: no

-

Race remembers reading once in a Time article that: “Evil isn’t easy”.  The search had been on a whim.  A heat of the moment, one in the morning google search after his first day out in the field.  Really out in the field.  As in, the first day as a member of the Joint Terrorism Task Force where he was trusted to shadow a case.  

Details of that mission were unimportant now that four years had passed, but he’ll never forget how it ended.  The feeling of triumph once they had busted the terrorist cell and the almost giddy satisfaction of knowing that they won when he pulled the trigger on those men.  But man never forgets his first kill.

Sure, in the moment, it had felt good.  That particular cell had been a nasty one.  Lots of innocent civilians died at their hands.  But they were still humans with lives and heartbeats and neurons firing and really, he shouldn’t have tried to humanize what were ultimately murderers to the worst degree, but he couldn’t help but do so.  It was innate and the notion was clear.  Race had killed them.  He had taken lives that day.

So, that night, after returning home to his boyfriend (now husband), Spot, and smiling his way through a hasty dinner, then excusing himself halfway through Up to throw up said dinner in their hall bathroom, he’d googled it.  “What happens in your brain when you kill someone?”

It’s just the way Race functions.  If he can understand his thought processes- what’s happening in his brain when he’s performing an action, the ultimate why- then he can stomach whatever it is that’s plaguing him.  He lives by that: logic.  It makes sense.  

Spot’s always said that surprises him.  Apparently, outwardly (or at least outwardly when he isn’t working), Race doesn’t come across as super logical.  When Spot had told him that, Race had been a little offended, but ultimately it didn’t matter.  As long as he knew when to put on the serious front, he’s fine.

Beyond that, Race seems to have a knack for surprising Spot.  Namely, when Spot found out his actual job was with the FBI, specifically one of the most secretive and risky branches.  JTTF was no organization to be fucked with.  Yeah, for about 24 hours, Race was certain Spot was going to break up with him for keeping such a huge thing from him.  But after the confusion and fear had subsided, they were okay.  Thankfully, Spot respected his need for privacy in most work related matters.  They were okay.

Anyway, Race remembers seeing the first line of that goddamn Time article, “Evil isn’t easy”, and rethinking all of his life choices.  All he’d wanted were the straightforward facts on what happened in his mind when he pulled those triggers and what he got was an existential crisis that hasn’t quite ended, because what he was doing as a Special Agent wasn’t evil, right?  No, they were the ones tasked with the precarious job of stopping evil, so they couldn’t be the evil ones.  But they were still killing, weren’t they?  And that was evil. 

Halfway through the article, which chalked up to be mostly about serial killers and psychopaths and nothing that could remotely justify Race’s own actions, he’d clicked out and cleared his history, then chucked his phone across the room and nestled into Spot’s side.  Spot just grumbled a bit and pulled him closer in his sleep.  In the moment, that had been enough to rest Race’s mind, even a fraction.  But now, as Race points his gun between the eyes of the leader to a terrorist cell that had nearly blown up Union Station and pulls the trigger, feeling the way his heart beats too fast, but his hands remain steady, the familiar pit of guilt rises in him.  

XXX

The rest of the day passes methodically.  Paperwork, debriefing, more paperwork, coffee break, quick shower in the agency’s locker room, even more paperwork.

Finally, the case is done.  Or at least, Race is done with it.  It still has to go through some final wraps, but that’s for his superiors to worry about.

On the ride home, some of the feeling that had previously left Race’s body, leaving him vacant and robotic, begins to return.  By the time he pulls into his parking space across from Spot and his’ brownstone, he’s shaking.  The reaction is purely physical, though.  He still feels numb.  No pits in his stomach or lumps in his throat or jaws clenching to keep from crying.  

His mind is white noise, but his body is on fire.  His palm and pointer finger tingle where the gun had been nestled, the pressure from pulling the trigger seemingly still there.  His legs feel restless and he flexes the muscles in his thighs, trying to relieve some sort of instinct to fucking run and never stop.  He clenches the steering wheel hard enough to turn his knuckles white, allows himself thirty seconds to breathe, then turns of the engine.  One more deep breath later, he’s crossing the street and pulling out his house key to let himself in.  

Spot is in the kitchen when he enters, hovering over the stove and wearing one of the aprons Race’s Ma had gifted them a couple Christmases ago.  He looks up when Race perches himself at the kitchen counter and smiles, gesturing to one of the pots on the stove.

“Hey, you hungry?  I’m making some split pea soup.  There’s little hotdogs in the fridge that we can put in if you’re feeling frisky.”

Race had managed to calm himself down to the point of feigning normalcy, but his chest is still vibrating and the thought of eating food makes his stomach churn.  

He must pause a second too long to answer Spot, because he looks over again, frowning, “Hey...you okay?”

Race sighs.  He can’t share details of his work, but after their argument when Spot had found out about the whole FBI thing, he’d promise to at least be as honest as he could.  Besides, as much as Race’s job told him not to trust anyone, all good relationships are built on trust and Spot deserves the dignity of Race’s.

“No,” He says.  

Spot’s frown deepens and he gives the soup one more stir before turning off the stove and moving the pot off the burner.

“Rough day?” He asks.  His tone is conversational, with just the right amount of sympathy.  Race appreciates it.  He knows Spot worked long and hard on how to talk to Race so he would open up to him.

“Yeah,” Race says, finally feeling some of the emotions that had previously been sidelined returning.  He takes a shaky breath, feeling a little hot around the eyes all of a sudden, “Awful.”

Spot leans over the other side of the counter, reaching out a hand to cover Race’s, “Can you talk about it?”

And can he?  Race has had bad days before, hell the number of times he’s wordlessly curled himself into Spot’s chest and cried while his partner held him is almost embarrassing.  And each time, Spot asks if he can talk about it and each time he refuses.  But it hurts.  God, it hurts so bad and sure, Race has talked about this shit to his field partner, Dasilva, before, because he gets it, but right now all Race wants to do is tell Spot.  Get it out to a third party who isn’t involved in this messy shit.  Hear that it’s okay.  Or hear that it’s not and just have the truth already.

And yeah, he does trust Spot.  No, he’s not going to tell him details, he’s not disloyal to the Bureau, but he trusts Spot enough to tell him this.  He needs to tell him, he needs to-

“Did you know that I’ve killed people?”  He asks.  

Spot squeezes his hand and takes a measured breath.

“Never for sure,” He says, honestly, “But I’ve figured that it may come with your job.”

And now Race feels so small and vulnerable and he drops Spot’s hand and in a moment of pure longing- for comfort or just for Spot, he doesn’t know- he reaches up and tugs at the front of Spot’s shirt.  Spot gets it right away.  They’ve gotten to the point where reading each other is second nature, as familiar in their minds as the english language.

He crosses around the countertop and pulls Race into his arms, rubbing a soothing hand up and down his back as he cries.  It feels good to cry knowing Spot knows what he’s comforting him for.  The fact that he’s willing to hold Race this close, despite knowing what he’s done- what he’s had to do- speaks volumes.

“I hate doing it,” Race says, voice thick and muffled by tears and Spot’s shoulder, “I’ve had to do it so fucking much and I hate it and I try to justify it, but I never can in the end because I can still see them- every fucking one of them- in my mind.”

Spot hums, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, “Let’s go to the couch.”

Race nods, allowing himself to be guided to the couch in the living room.  He cries for a few more minutes, Spot holding him close, until eventually the breakdown tapers off.  

“I can’t imagine what you have to do, Race, or how you must feel,” Spot says, “And I can’t provide reasoning behind it any more than you can, because really, there shouldn’t be reason in this world for you to be in that position in the first place.  But what you do, you do because it’s your job.  You’re keeping a huge fucking number of people safe.  Maybe there’s no justification for this shit on either side, but that’s just the fucked up way of this fucked up world.  You do what you have to in the moment to keep people safe in the long run.”

“I’m not a bad person?” Race asks, still working to take measured breaths.

And whether Spot thinks so or not, he says, “No,” firmly.

And gradually, the rest of the tension in Race’s gut lets up.  He’s not okay, not really.  But now that the weight has been pressing down on his chest for so many years is not a secret he has to keep from the person he loves the most, he can breathe a little steadier.

-

again, this is purely fiction 

thanks for reading, chiefs!

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[notaparty-trick]

All Those Senseless Scars - Chapter 1

By @notaparty-trick​ for @asyouleft​

@friendly-neighborhood-exchange​

Rating: T

Relationships: Tony Stark & Peter Parker, May Parker & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones & Ned Leeds & Peter Parker

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, May Parker, Pepper Potts, Michelle Jones, Ned Leeds

Summary: There is a rule to the way Peter lives now. He didn’t know it at first, but he learnt it.

It’s simple.

To earn what he needs to survive, he has to make sacrifices. --- Peter Parker's life is derailed when he's kidnapped and kept in a white-tiled room with nothing: no windows, no cameras, no food, no water, no phone, nobody else. Only his own thoughts keep him from losing his mind. If he asks for anything, he must take punishment. Tony Stark will stop at nothing to bring him home.

Archive Of Our Own link here

There is a rule to the way Peter lives now. He didn’t know it at first, but he learnt it.

It’s simple.

To earn what he needs to survive, he has to make sacrifices.

---

When he wakes up, he knows he’s been out for a long time. There’s a cotton-wool quality to his train of thought.

He’s in a white cell.

And he’s completely naked.

“Oh my God, oh - what the…?” 

He rushes to get up from the floor and cover himself, jamming himself into a corner. “Shit.” 

His heart judders violently in his chest. There’s nothing to see, nothing at all, nothing but the white tiled walls of his prison. No window. No camera. No food, no water, no guards, no clothes, oh God.

What did they do while I was out?

But he isn’t in any pain that he can notice. Even with his enhanced healing, it’s unlikely he was asleep for long enough for complete healing to take place, so he thinks - he thinks - he’s safe in that respect.

Not in any other.

He’d been in the Spider-Man suit when they took him; the fact that his mask is no longer on him means they already know a lot more about him than he’d like.

He’s utterly clueless. He knows nothing; nothing, except that he’s trapped.

“Hello?” he calls tentatively, then desperately. “Hello! Is anyone, is anyone around? Please - I need--”

In under ten seconds, his calls are answered by the clang of the door opening.

Peter faces bad guys on the daily. He slips on his cocky persona like a second skin now after over a year of patrolling Queens. But it’s a whole lot easier when he’s in the suit. Instead, he instinctively huddles away from the four masked figures that storm into his cell.

There’s an overload of adrenaline pulsing through him stirred through with the dregs of sedatives which makes it impossible to think straight. He’s at a loss for quips.

“It’s alright,” issues a voice. Peter can’t tell who’s speaking behind the masks, but the tone is bafflingly soothing. “We’re here to reason with you.”

Peter prepares himself for a lengthy monologue detailing the way in which Spider-Man had wronged them, but it doesn’t arrive. One of the figures simply asks, “What would you like?”

It’s mystifying. Peter stays silent.

“Would you like some clothes?”

“Yes,” Peter can’t help but blurt, despite every ounce of logic he’s ineffectually grappling for like grains of sand, despite his sixth sense that cries out a never-ending chorus of danger danger danger danger.

The group nods in tandem.

And then, in precise, almost mechanical movements, they tear Peter from his corner and drop him so his face hits the floor. Then there are hands all over him, pressing his back and legs and arms to the ground, and he fights them - but finds he can't. His strength is gone.

A slew of panic grips him in its hold so violently that the room twists sickeningly around him.

The floor is freezing against his bare skin. He’s noticing now just how cold the whole room is. 

The hands on him are rough and unsympathetic. But the taser is worse.

Before Peter even has a chance to speak, to protest, it's jammed into his side and activated. Peter's brain whites out instantly with the agony. It's too much. It has his limbs juddering against the floor, his mouth open in a scream he can't even find the wherewithal to let out, a heated pressure in his brain building and building and building upon itself until he’s sure it’s about to shatter his skull, ricocheting off the walls and battering him yet again, more pain, more pain.

There's a second of silent respite. Eerily quiet. He drags in ragged breaths.

Then it begins again.

Peter has no sense of time. It makes the torture feel endless.

After they're finished with him, he doesn't move from the spot where he'd been held down, every fibre of his body reeling, shorting out, fizzling with the aftershocks of the electricity.

"Now you've had your punishment, you can have some clothes. This is how things will work here. Once you have made a sacrifice, we will give you what you ask for."

“What, what are you - what do you want?”

“We want to test you. You have remarkable capabilities. We will discover just how remarkable they are.” 

A pair of boxers is tossed into the cell as the masked group leaves. Peter crawls over to them and pulls them on through a bout of tremors, feeling the sour sting of shame enveloping him.

He knows that this is bad. Worse than bad, it's - a whole host of other words that he can't summon from his frazzled, drugged mind.

His kidnappers don't want money or leverage. They just want to break him.

So he resolves not to let them.

The group enters his box in intervals he presumes are daily - maybe twice a day, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know anything. They ask him politely if he'd like anything, and he doesn't ask for anything. They don't touch him.

Apart from their entry and exit, there's nothing. There's his box and himself. White, silent, tiny. Maybe ten by ten feet. Nothing.

So he fills up the nothing with talking.

"Actinium, aluminum, americium, antimony, argon, arsenic, astatine," he reels off. "Barium, berkelium, beryllium, bismuth, bohrium, boron, bromine."

He knows the elements. They're comforting but don't hold the bittersweetness of memories of before.

"Stay safe, kiddo," Tony called towards Peter as he rushed into the elevator that would take him out of the Tower and home before May could have his ass for being late to dinner.

The last words he'd said to Peter.

He climbs on the walls and ceiling, hammers at every inch of the tiling, bloodies his knuckles doing it, but he's only human now.

"C'mon," he grits, slamming his side into the wall. "Please, c'mon."

It won't give.

He sinks to the floor, still wracked with jitters, and cradles his head in his hands.

"Don't cry, Peter. Gonna use up water. Stop it, stop."

And, after knuckling his eyes until they ache, he manages to stop.

He knows that an inactive person can survive up to a week without water and almost a month without food. Mostly, that’s what he has to worry about, as well as the cold, which isn’t so severe as to give him frostbite but is enough that within his first few hours in captivity he becomes used to the incessant chattering of his jaw and wonders where the aftershocks of the taser end and the shivering begins.

That, and going insane.

“Cadmium, calcium, californium, carbon... cerium, cesium, chlorine... chromium… uh - cobalt. Cobalt. Copernicium. Copper. Curium.”

Peter likes to talk. He’ll talk whether there are people to listen to him or not, but he’ll admit that he prefers getting to talk to other people. He starts to miss it like hell, actually.

“You know what I should’ve done?” he says aloud, grinning, “I, I really should’ve brought my Chemistry homework with me. I’m so behind. And I’m supposed to be, like, the big science guy, right?”

Flopping to the floor, no longer noticing the coldness of it, he lies limply there for a moment, trying to wrangle his thoughts. “Or I could’ve just done it when I was supposed to. Would’ve cut into my patrol time, though, so, um - hm. Ugh, indecisive.” Affecting the upright demeanour of Captain America in his PSA videos, he crosses his arms: “Choose a thing, Mr. Parker.” 

He laughs at himself, but it comes out wrong. It sounds too loud, too close to a sob.

“Choice is great, isn’t it?” he muses, watching the white ceiling. “One day, when I - yeah. The next thing I choose, it’d better be something awesome. Let’s make a deal. Yeah, okay, sure. The next thing, the next thing I choose to do is gonna be - monumental. Nice word. You could fool people into thinking you, thinking you take English. Eh, who am I kidding? I’m not an English kid. Look at me.”

He’s sobered by his own words.

When he grows tired, he sleeps on the ceiling. He doesn’t have a bed, and it feels just a little safer up there.

There are a lot of things he doesn’t have. His phone is nowhere to be seen. No shower or sink. No toilet. No clothes but his boxers. No mirror. No toothpaste. No friends.

The low-grade fuzziness of his brain doesn’t abate with time although he isn’t injected with anything else and doesn’t eat or drink, which leads him to believe the drugs are being circulated in the air of his cell. It would explain the masks, too.

The guys who took him really have it down to a tee. It’s terrifying.

And it wears down on him.

Thirst is an awful thing. It drags greedy claws down his parched tongue, reminding him every minute of the dryness of his throat. From his chapped lips to the very depths of his stomach there festers a growing sickness, a sensation of shriveling from the inside out until his skin begins to split and talking becomes painful. He does it anyway, clings to his own words because they’re real and solid and won’t jump out and scare him like the nightmares that begin to haunt him even while he’s awake.

On what he hopes is the third night after he woke up in his box, he wakes with a jolt from a dream of a thousand faceless beasts tearing away at him and falls from the ceiling. The moment he tries to get back up, he passes out.

The hunger begins to plague him too, gnawing at his muscles and weakening them. Standing is effortful. It becomes more and more tempting to ask for something as the days creep by and Peter feels himself falling apart.

“Palladium, phosphorus, platinum. P… Polonium? No. Uh. P-L. P-L… plutonium. Polonium. Potassium, protactinium, praseodymium - I mean, praseodymium, protactinium… you know what, shit. I don’t care. Don’t care about the elements--”

Imagining a telephone is sitting on the floor beside him, one of those old-fashioned plastic ones with a curly cord, he sticks his fingers against the side of his head in the universal position to indicate holding a phone and dials a number in his head.

“Hi, May,” he rasps. “Don’t come over, I’ve gotta clean up a bit first. Yeah.” He chuckles. 

If he listens hard enough, he can pick out an amused reply. 

“Are you good? I’m good. You know what you could do, though? Bring some paint. Or some colourful furniture. Anything but white. It’s boring as heck.”

He squeezes his eyes shut against a thundering headache, feeling the skin around his eyes cracking, his heart fluttering wildly, scalpels of hunger piercing his sides, his thoughts becoming formless, untamable things.

“May?” he falters. “Can you tell Mister Stark to come and get me, please? I don’t wanna… what am I supposed to do?”

The group enters on the fifth day. Peter is lying on the floor where he’s been for an unfathomable period of time.

“Would you like anything?” asks one of the masked people.

“Water,” he whispers. “Please. Water.”

He braces himself for the taser this time, but it’s a boot that meets his side instead. Another. A flurry. A stampede.

You get beaten up all the time on patrol. But it’s different when it’s just him, weak, pathetic, unable to stand, half-naked, against these four figures that become tyrannical gods to him as they hold him in the air by his hair, his neck, and beat him bloody.

Peter can do nothing to shield himself from the blows - and moreover, if he does it will jeopardize his chance of getting the water he needs so badly. So, swallowing back a rush of shame, he just takes it.

He can’t help the noises that escape him, however: the grunts as boots connect with his stomach, the whimpers at hands yanking at his hair, the groans as fists clad in brass knuckles meet his face over and over and over again. Blood pours from his nose, trickles from cuts across his cheekbones, temples, eyebrows. He feels a rib snap.

A water bottle is placed by the door as the group leaves. There are maybe 300 millilitres inside.

Peter lays on the floor and watches his blood pool slowly on the pristine tiles.

After twenty agonising seconds of dragging himself across the floor, he reaches the bottle, fumbling desperately to unscrew the cap, and takes a greedy swig of the liquid, at first moaning in relief at the way it gushes down his throat, then regretting his haste as he retches it right back up.

“Crap, Peter,” he mumbles to himself, arms trembling in their effort to hold him off the now-slippery floor. “Stupid. God. Shit. Stop swearing.”

Although his every instinct screams for him to down the water, he forces himself to take small sips. When there’s about half left, he pulls the bottle away and reluctantly caps it, saving the rest.

Then, ignoring the mortification that swells up in him at the prospect of what he will do next, he bends low to the puddle on the floor and laps up every drop of moisture he can find.

He’s a wild animal. He’s insane.

When he’s finished, he lets his arms and legs give out under him and grits his teeth against excruciating waves of pain from his battered body.

It’s simple, really. He endured the punishment; he was given what he asked for.

Though Peter is half-sure he’s already lost his mind, he does know that he needs to make a plan, to rationalize his situation as well as he can with his fuddled brain. Escape is not an option, and neither is refusing punishment.

He swallows and tastes blood.

“Here’s what’s, here’s what’s gonna happen, Peter. Okay? Just get stuff you really, really need. Okay. I’ve got water for tomorrow. Just… uh, ask the day after. And food. No more clothes.”

His rambling words become his life plan.

He’s forced to make adjustments the next time the group visits, however, when his half-full water bottle is taken from him.

Desperation overrides him. He lunges at the figure who holds the bottle, sticking his fingers to it. “Don’t! Please, don’t take it--”

Almost the moment he touches them, an ear-splittingly piercing whistle assaults Peter’s ears, forcing him to unstick himself in favour of dropping painfully to the floor and cramming his hands over his ears. Whatever drug he’s being fed in his cell hasn’t taken away a fraction of his enhanced senses: the noise drills clean through his eardrums and rattles his weary brain in his skull. He bites back a cry of pain. He doesn’t know why; he already looks utterly pathetic.

There’s no water that day.

The next, he asks for food. After breaking his arm, the group gives him a cheese sandwich that tastes better than anything he’s eaten before, even though he has to eat it with one hand.

His white box is steadily getting dirtier, painted with bloodstains, sweat, even puddles of piss. At least there are colours now, not just white, white, white.

“I’m doing great,” he reassures himself after he’s counted twenty visits from the group. There are forty lash marks across his back. He knows; he felt every strike of the whip. But at least he received a blanket in return. It was too cold, so he strayed from his plan. 

He’s been tased and beaten again, had his nose and collarbone and forearm and fingers broken. Every movement he makes hurts somewhere, so he stays still.

“Mister Stark is, he’s, he’s on his way. He’s, uh… fixing his hair. Like he always does when he, when he gets out of the suit. To look cool. When he comes - God, it’s gonna be so nice. I don’t care about his hair. I just... want him.”

He feels closer to a carcass than a human being.

“Get me out, Mister Stark. Get me out, Mister Stark. Why haven’t you come?”

The feral desperation he’s finding it harder and harder to tamp down rears its head again, and he finds himself crying out with all the volume his torn-up throat can muster. “Mister Stark, please - I can’t stay here, going crazy, they’re gonna kill me. Save me . ”

It seems like the world is laughing his face when the group enters the twenty-first time and he’s asked, “Would you like to see Tony Stark?”

“What?” he croaks.

His mind can’t comprehend the thought. Tony Stark darts around his mind, turns itself inside out and emerges in his consciousness shrunken and frayed around the edges like it’s been washed too many times.

“Would you like to see Tony Stark?”

“I, uh…” even attempting a few words of conversation feels foreign to him. “Is he there?”

There’s no response from the group. 

Peter is faced with one of the most frightening choices of his life.

He could accept the punishment on the off-chance that Mister Stark was really there and risk being hurt for nothing; or he could refuse and risk letting Tony down if, by some crazy chance, he was out there and needed Peter to come to him.

Locking his jaw to offset the tremors there, he shuts his eyes.

“Okay.”

Though he braces himself for the instant onslaught of punishment, instead he finds himself being hauled up from the floor and dragged towards the invisible outline of the door. The door. 

He whimpers at unforgiving hands yanking at his bad arm, making an aborted attempt at scrambling to his feet. He’s too weak, too injured. And at the same time, he’s nearing the door, the door that hasn’t let him out in twenty-one days but swings open now.

Peter can’t quite determine whether this is real or not.

His heart awaits the inevitable punishment, thudding restlessly in his chest, but he’s entranced by the door closing behind him, revealing more tiles, a corridor, his arm throbs, tiles, pain, tiles. He reels.

The moment they turn the corner, an abrupt spreading of warmth at the base of Peter’s neck jolts him out of his daze of shock and compels him to lift his heavy head and meet the eyes of a man restrained by two guards, a man facing him, a man who sees him.

“Kid! Hi, kid. It’s me. What did you do to him? Pete. Pete. I’m here, hey?”

“Mister Stark,” Peter breathes.

There’s worry in his eyes, as clear and piercing as a blade. Peter assumes he looks pretty crappy. He doesn’t feel it just now, however. All his thoughts are occupied with Mister Stark Mister Stark Mister Stark , taking his breath away, melting away pain to reveal dizzying relief.

This is why he doesn’t notice at first.

Not until he hears, “Don’t you fucking dare! Kiddo!”

Before he can attempt to jerk away from the hands keeping him in place, they tighten, another pair clamping over the top and bottom of his head so he just barely glimpses a match held to an approaching blowtorch.

Punishment always arrives.

It isn’t panic or desperation that overwhelms him in this precise moment, as time slows down and Tony’s cries of distress are suspended across milliseconds so the minutiae of his reaction rises, falls, intensifies in arcs that are distressingly beautiful. It’s an ugly conglomeration of a thousand pockets of hopelessness accumulated over twenty-one days, a Frankenstein’s monster of pure despair.

“No,” he moans uselessly, hanging limp from the hands. “Don’t do it. I can’t.”

“Kid?”

Peter sobs and yet can’t produce a single tear. “Mister Stark.”

“Kid, you’re gonna be okay, you hear me? Just - look at me. Look at--”

Once, Peter came out of a patrol with a knife in his back, a moderate concussion and a torn hamstring. It was nothing compared to this.

The blowtorch is turned on the side of his face.

Peter screams, long and loud and raw, and the noise ricochets off the tiles and hits him anew. Unparalleled agony. He can’t turn away, no matter how desperately his mind screams for release.  

He will never forget just how awful it feels. The memory of it will imprint upon his mind forever, just as the white light of the instrument now sears his vision through his screwed-shut eyelids.

He feels his flesh melting.

“Kid! Fuck! Don’t - I’m gonna kill you fuckers - get away from him!”

With a flicker, the torch cuts off. Peter can’t breathe, juddering violently against the hands that still hold him and fruitlessly opening and shutting his mouth. The aftershocks of the pain present a different form of horror entirely.

“Breathe, Pete,” comes a voice half-muffled by the violent ringing in his ears, a painfully kind voice, a voice he’s supposed to be safe when he hears. “Breathe through it. C’mon, kid.”

The first breath Peter manages to drag in is torn to shreds, shrivelled by tears he’s unable to shed.

“Kid,” Mister Stark calls again; the syllable is lost in the splintering of his own voice.

Peter manages a small whine.

“Now, Stark, what’s all this about making a deal?”

It’s a new voice, encroaching on Peter from behind and sending his crazed danger sense ringing off the hook.

With his chin forced upwards, Peter recognizes Norman Osborn instantly.

It all fits: the drug that took away his powers, the pristine tiles, the experiments.

He crouches before Peter and taps the newly burnt side of his face. It’s gentle but overwhelmingly painful all the same; Peter chokes on his breath.

“Get your fucking hands away from him, Osborn,” snarls Mister Stark. “This isn't what I’m here for.” Peter has never been more glad of his presence, as little as it seems to affect the punishments he’s given.

Osborn picks up on the grip the guards have on Tony with a smirk, rising to address him. “I can see that. I must say, I’m surprised you turned yourself in. What a sacrifice for this little boy.”

“Quit the fancy footwork.” Mister Stark sounds breathless, wild. “Are you gonna let him go or not?”

It’s only now that Peter’s brain catches on to what Tony is attempting to do.

He does his best to speak around the fried nerves on his face and the haze of shock he’s still trapped in, but all that emerges are pitiful, slurring murmurs. “D’n, m’s’r st’r. D’n t’n y’self in.”

Mister Stark understands the source of his panic and smiles brokenly at him. “It’s gonna be okay, kid. Don’t you worry.”

“N. Pl’s d’n.”

“No need to panic, Peter,” Osborn soothes sickeningly, “We don’t want anything to do with Stark.”

“No. You’re gonna take me and leave him alone,” Mister Stark grits out with impressive stubbornness.

“Don’t you understand, Tony? This boy has strength you can’t imagine. Resilience. We’re making groundbreaking leaps in research.”

Tony is thunderous as he jostles his guards. “This is not research. Give me the kid, or so help me, I’ll--”

“You’ll what?” laughs Osborn.

Something splinters in Tony’s eyes; behind it, Peter sees a plan.

“I’ll tear this place up.”

Before Osborn or any of the masked guards can react, Tony’s glasses flash bright blue and he yells, “FRIDAY, torch them!”

Peter’s mind disconnects from the flurry of what happens next. He’s tackled to the ground and cradled tightly; a fiery blast envelops the room; a chorus of shouts is cut off by silence and a persistent buzzing in his ears.

After twenty-one days of nothing, there is everything. It’s too staggering for him to comprehend for a minute or two.

There’s dust in the air. He watches it settle with eyes that have forgotten how to blink.

Finally, his mind creaks back to life, running on fumes but present enough to tell him that it’s Mister Stark who is wrapped protectively around him. A frenzied glance around the room shows heaps of crumbled tiles, fire, prone bodies.

Dead bodies?

“M’s’r s’rk,” he coughs, hearing his voice dimly as if piped from speakers a hundred feet away. He finds the presence of mind to push at the man’s limp shoulder with his good hand. “G’t up. Y’ g’tta g’t up.”

Mister Stark’s eyes are shut and won’t open.

“Pl’s, m’s’r s’rk...”

Although Peter knows what he has to do, he dreads it.

Sucking in as much air as he can, he shifts himself onto his haunches and heaves his mentor over his shoulder.

The airborne drug has worn off to a degree now he’s outside his cell, returning a little of his strength to him, but the screaming of his injuries has in no way quietened, and he’s pitifully weak from cold, hunger and thirst. He staggers at the weight of Tony against his collarbone and arm, swallowing a cry in fear of waking any of the bad guys, but pushes on, inching towards the end of the corridor.

“C’m’n, Pe’r,” he breathes, fumbling at the doorknob with his one good hand, his bad hand stuck to Tony’s back despite the way it pulls at the snapped bones with every movement he makes. “Sh’t. C’m’n.” 

It’s open. It’s open.

He pulls himself one-handed up a ladder, his legs shaking beneath him, and shoulders open a circular trapdoor.

Outside, there is light.

Peter can’t help but collapse to his knees. The sky is there, wrapping him in an embrace that spans the heavens, cornflower blue and picturesque. Grass and trees glow green. And just fifty feet in front of them both is a roaring, seething freeway.

The noise hits Peter like a brick wall, like a fist with brass knuckles, like a strike from a whip. It surrounds him and invades his ears until there’s nothing but noise, noise Peter can pick apart in overwhelming detail: the friction of tires against tarmac, the smallest particles of grit tossed back and forth by lines of cars and vans and lorries with grumbling engines spitting plumes of carbon dioxide, a mechanical spray of pungently soapy water across a windshield, a chorus of laughter from a family whizzing by in an old Volvo, the tap of a cigarette against the rim of a half-open window, and people, people, people, people, passing him in their clamorous multitudes.

Setting Mister Stark down in the grass with as much gentleness as he can manage with his battered body and thundering heartbeat, Peter flounders, groaning at the grass stalks pricking his bare knees, hearing his breaths speeding up, recalling the sizzling of his skin under the blowtorch, unable to distinguish between the myriad of sensations assaulting him. Sight becomes sound, touch becomes smell, and each crowds his vision with hazy grey and sends wild tremors along the length of his limbs.

Peter’s going to explode.

But he doesn’t.

He recognizes the sign on the freeway. Although the text is painfully bright and jumps back and forth in front of him, he makes out the location. Only about two minute’s drive from the Compound.

He had been certain all good fortune had deserted him the moment he’d been thrown into his box, but today he wonders if someone is looking out for him after all.

All he has to do is walk, but walking has never been so difficult.

“Y’ g’tta go, Pe’r. Y’ c’n d’ it.”

Peter lurches to his feet, yelping when it jolts his back and collarbone. His vision whirls in front of him, spotted with black patches, but he does his best to pay no heed to his brokenness, lifting Tony tremulously over his shoulder.

Every step pains him, wears him out; he wonders every time he puts one foot in front of the other whether it’ll be his last step, whether his body will give up on him, and he comes close, stumbling and falling, but hauls himself back up.

He has to reach the Compound. It’s branded across his mind, the most important thought he has in there, and it keeps him going.

He’s getting out. He’s going home.

Fire licks at his face and knees and arm and fingers and collarbone and back and torso. Everywhere.

Between gasping breaths, he croaks encouragement to himself. “N’ly th’re. Y’ go’ this, Pe’r. Pl’s, keep goin’.”

He walks until the black spots have almost taken over his field of vision. Just as his knees give out under him yet again, he blinks and recognizes the sleek glass-and-steel buildings that he’s now among.

The Compound.

Too exhausted to speak, he simply gets back up, keening at the agony of movement, and carries on. He’s only a few hundred feet away. Two hundred. One hundred and fifty. He prays FRIDAY will alert someone when they get there.

One hundred. He thinks he can make out the doors now, although he can’t hold his head up for longer than a moment and his vision is no good.

Exhaustion has taken on a new meaning for Peter.

He hardly notices that he’s crossed the threshold until the door hisses shut behind him and there’s a muffled, muted sound he thinks could be the frenzied clicking of high heels on a staircase. 

“How did this - Peter? Peter, honey?”

It’s Pepper.

The tone of her voice is blissfully familiar, dissolving the hold of adrenaline on his body and leaving it limp.

“I’m here,” he tries to say, but all that escapes his mouth is an incoherent whimper.

“Peter…” Pepper calls again, the heels drawing close, but he can’t hold on any longer. He doesn’t need to: he’s safe.

Darkness overtakes his vision and he collapses onto the carpet.

[thewhiterabbit42]

Breakfast in Bed

A sequel to Home

Pairing: Gabriel x Winchester!sister reader Summary:  Gabriel starts his morning by savoring one of his favorite meals.  You.   Written for:@spnkinkbingo Square Filled: Domestic Word Count:  1791 Tags/Warnings: Fluffy feels, oral sex (female receiving), pleasuring awake

It’s amazing how you already know he’s not there in the space beside you.  You don’t even need to check, your arms heavy at your side as sleep keeps your thoughts slurring muzzy.  

“Babe… what’rydo...?” 

Gabriel’s surprised you manage to get that many words out before you slip back out of consciousness, though he can feel the way some parts of your brain are beginning to shake off the fog at the light pressure his mouth leaves as he presses a series of kisses down the center of your body. 

There isn’t as much activity as he pushes your T-shirt up to your chest, exposing the softness of your stomach.  Though, he aims to fix that, but before he does, he takes a moment to admire you, breath ghosting over you in warm, short waves. 

Your skin, however, feels everything, from the sear of his fingers as he palms your waist to the gentle flick of his tongue, warm and wet along your hip.  He can hear your nipples harden, cloth fibers giving the faintest of stretches as peaks form through your shirt.  

He notes with pride the way goosebumps radiate from his touch, your brain cells firing in ways that suggest pleasure rather than alarm. 

You draw the comforter up to your elbows, mistaking everything for a chill. 

He smirks.  "Can't have that, sweetheart."

His hands emerge from beneath the covers, gently cupping your breasts and drawing a breathy sigh from you.  He loves every inch of your curves, how the lean hardness of your old life has faded beneath soft, well-nourished contours.  He could spend hours appreciating them, but that's not on the menu for this morning.

His thumbs begins tracing a wide arc, starting at the edges of soft swells before moving toward the center.  Round and round they go at a maddening pace, drawing your senses into awareness and making them stand on end despite the fact that you're still so very not awake.  

Your body knows, a petulant whimper catching in your throat. Your need sparks; beautiful, fleeting hues across synapses that remind him of clusters of Christmas lights.  You arch into his touch as he continues, feather light, drawing out the colors as he keeps himself just shy of reaching taut nubs.    

They never reach them, and the spectrum that flares when he pulls his hands from your chest resonates closer to frustration.  

That almost rouses you.  Definiately arouses as he listens to the cadence of your heart get a little faster, your blood rushing lower.  

You mumble something that suspiciously sounds like dick, though it’s hard for him to tell.  

His lips give a wide stretch before descending upon your naval, hands teasing along your waist.  They hook beneath the band of your underwear, dragging it down as his fingertips drink in the smoothness of your skin.  

Cotton whispers along your thighs which shift in response, and he leaves the garment bunched around your knees.  He could just snap them away, but you don’t like that.  You want everything to be as normal as possible, and there’s something oddly rewarding to him about doing it all the “hard” way.  

It’s been easier than he thought, living like a human rather than just pretending to be one.  No magic snaps.  No shortcuts.  No mojo whatsoever (save the occasional indulgence in the bedroom), though he still doesn’t understand the need to spend so much time away from you.  

Sure, you both have a keener appreciate for the time together, but he would regardless, knowing that your lifespan will pass by him in the blink of an eye.  

He hasn’t told you that.  He’s not sure how to, because he knows how difficult it is for you already.  You try so hard to keep your insecurities hidden, but he can’t help but pick up on the questions that plague your mind late at night when you think he’s sleeping.  

How long before my youth fades and I no longer catch his eye?

How long before the novelty wears off and he grows tired of me? 

When will he realize he deserves so much more than I can give him?

He doesn’t.  If anything you deserve more, but he has yet to find a way to make you believe that.  

But, most moments you’re happy.  With him.  Together.  And that’s all that matters.  

He brings his mouth down at the edge of your hip, smiling at the way you wriggle as he hits a sensitive spot.  He’s spent hours mapping them out, each one of them seared into his mind.  What really amazes him is the way you’ve diligently memorized his as well, as much as you can anyway, given the limits of human cognition.  

He’s never met anyone who’s so focused on him.  On what he likes.  His thoughts.  His feelings.  It’s like he’s as much your world as you are his, and he almost doesn’t know what to do with that.  

Pleasure, however, now that’s an area he knows.  

By the time he’s scraping his chin against your thigh he’s wearing a full on grin, the familiar tickle lighting up cells across your body and mind in ways he’s never seen with anyone else.  It’s like you recognize him on a whole other level.  With every fiber of your being, you brighten to him and only him, whether or not you’re awake. 

When his tastebuds hit your folds you’re aware enough to hum, and your sweet tang erupts across his awareness like the finest of nectars.  Your legs part unconsciously as he tongues deeper, gliding along your slit to lap up the juices already gathering there before lifting higher.  

It isn’t until he reaches your clit that you finally float into consciousness, pleasure exploding across your neurons like fireworks in the night.  

You gasp, hand shooting straight beneath the covers as your instincts immediately take over.  A fullness spreads through his chest at the way your fingers simply slide through the tangle of curls at the back of his head, fondly stroking, when months ago, you would have wrenched him off you in panic.

“Mmm,” your fingers tighten in his hair as you arch into him.  “Whatcha doin’ down there?”

“Just having some breakfast in bed,” he purrs before getting back to business. 

He knows what you like, working his tongue around the sensitive bundle of nerves as his hands reach back up to your breasts.  There’s no teasing this time as his fingers head straight for pebbled peaks, brushing lightly to watch those scintillating colors burst into flames before he gives your nipples a light pinch.  

“Fuck, Gabe,” you groan, legs shifting as you try to shimmy your panties low enough to catch it with a foot.  

He reaches down, assistance given in the quick snap of elastic.  It draws a small white flicker of discomfort through your desire before quickly being drawn into it.  

Your range of sexual appetites has been a pleasant surprise.  You like roughness as much as tenderness, the day and mood determining where along the spectrum you lay.  Right now, you’re happy to let him take the lead, knees eagerly falling open with their freedom as you wait for his next move.  

“Take your shirt off,” he says.  “I want to see you.”

You do, without hesitation, and before the garment even hits the floor he feels his chest stop moving.  

It amazes him, how you're still able to do that.  He's had many attractive paramours over the years, but looks have only held his interest for so long.  Kali held his interest far longer than anyone, her tenacity reeling him back in every time he thought he might be ready to move on.

But you are different.  As cliche as it sounds, you are the embodiment of beauty on every level possible, your mind and body lethal in their own right, but add your heart and soul to that mix and you are nothing short of stunning.  

He can't imagine a time where you won't steal his breath or send a tremor of nerves dancing through his system.  

“You’re so fucking beautiful, you know that?”

“Shut up."  It's a knee jerk response, false irritation trying to cover the shy tiny tint that blossoms across your face and tugs at the edge of your lips.

You've gotten much better at accepting compliments from him, and he's noticed it's only in the moments you feel vulnerable that you revert to deflection.

"You're such a dork - stop looking at me.”

He wonders if you realize just how many places you blush when you’re embarrassed?  It’s not just your cheeks that get a dusting of pink, small rosy patches springing up across your chest and highlighting the tops of your breasts.

One day he'll find out just how many other shades he can paint your body on words and looks alone.

“Seriously, Gabe, if you don't get back to business, the only place you'll be dining this morning will be Louise's diner."

He holds back a chuckle, knowing his amusement would only rub salt into the rawness you feel beneath his gaze.

“Somebody’s demanding before they’ve had their coffee."  He infuses just enough sarcasm to toe the line of snarky, a place he finds you feel the safest when exposed. 

"Yeah, well…" You begin talking as he settles between your legs, hands smoothing up the back of your thighs as he hooks your knees over his shoulders.  

"You knew what you were getting into when you -- ohhh."

You groan as the flat of his tongue immediately finds that sensitive spot again, licking broad strokes in ways he knows gets your blood flowing.  

“Ah - You're too good at this."  You throw your head back into your pillow, rocking yourself into his face.

He pauses, just to be a shit, his tongue freezing in place.

"Ith thah a complain'?" He smirks, watching the glow of vivid colors flare bright with burnt copper as he takes it another step further and withdraws his mouth.  "Because if it is, you're welcome to--"

"Eat me, choir boy."  You're only partially joking, fingers grasping strands of honey, tightening their grip before pushing him back into position. 

This time he does chuckle, vibrations jolting your brain waves back to desire as he wisely doesn't argue.  His goal isn’t to tease you, for once.  Not much, anyway.  

No, today is about savoring.  You.  These simple moments where he can pleasure you awake in the comfort of a home you’ve created together, a place where you can slip back into an endorphin-soaked haze without being interrupted while he whips you up an actual meal. 

But first, he needs to finish his.  After all, they say breakfast is the cornerstone of the day.

ALL the tags:

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[madamslayyy]

Log Cabin and A Brewing Fire Part II (Trevante Rhodes x Reader)

Pairing: Nebraska Williams ( Trevante Rhodes) x Reader

Warnings: none for this chapter

A/N: here’s part two. This will be a series and it is SLOWBURN. If you haven’t please read PART ONE HERE just so it’ll all make sense. Thank you guys so much for tuning in!!!

~*~

Knock, Knock

You were currently in your favorite snow boots, bubble rain/snow resistant jacket, and a pair of black jeans knocking on Nebraska’s door. He never kept it locked but you were trying to enforce some boundaries on yourself. Even if he was a guest, you couldn’t just barge into his room whenever you felt the slightest inclination.

He’d been here a total of three days already and if you were being honest, you could hardly feel any change since he’d arrived. His presence was so small and mute, most times you forgot he was even there. You figured whatever it was that was plaguing him mentally, it couldn’t help that he was by himself so much here.

So you were actively going to try and work with him. Get him out and talking, maybe even about why he feels the way he feels. Which is what brought you outside of his door now. You woke up with the brilliant idea for the two of you to take a walk in the snow, hoping it would give you both a chance to at least get to know each other.

Knock, knock, knock, kno-

Nebraska opened the door midknock and you wanted to sink into the ground at the sight of him. He was shirtless, chest and abs glistening with water droplets, his face, neck, beard, etc, were also soaking wet and there was a towel hanging loosely around his hips. It was obvious he’d just stepped out of the shower.

“Yes ma’am?” He said lowly, snapping you out of your shocked state.

“Oh you don’t have to call me ma’am! You really don’t even have to be formal at all! Unless that’s what you’re comfortable with. Then by all means do whatever you like but calling me ma’am isn’t... like.... necessary or uh any..... thing....” you trailed off. He said nothing, silently waiting for you to continue with whatever brought you to his door.

“Well anyway, I was wondering if you’d like to join me for a hike this morning. The weather is beautiful at the moment and I thought it’d be nice for you to see the area. New England has some of the most beautiful woodland areas around.” You smiled, forcing yourself to look at his nose and not search for a print below.

“Alright,” he said.

“Great! Amazing! Um, I’ll just meet you downstairs then whenever you’re ready!” You chirped and walked away leaving him to get dressed.

You went and sat on the sofa of your living room, watching the snow gently drift down through the huge window looking outside. You couldn’t have been sitting there for even ten minutes when you heard his heavy boots trudge downstairs, fully dressed in jeans, combat boots, a long sleeve shirt, snowcap and a thick winter jacket. He dressed in all black, as did you and it almost looked like the two of you were matching.

“Ready?” You quipped and he nodded. So the two of you set off.

The walk began quietly as the two of you headed out the back door, through your yard and out to one of your favorite trails. The sun was shining bright, providing a little warmth to the two of you as you trudge through the snow.

“So tell me about yourself Nebraska,” you started, shoving your gloved hands in your coat pockets to keep warm.

“Not much to tell,” he said solemnly. You’d anticipated such an answer and thought ahead.

“Well then let’s start in the beginning, where are you from?”

“Born in Louisiana, moved to Nebraska when I was 7.”

“Oh so that’s where you get your nickname from huh? Pretty cool,” you smiled. He said nothing.

“So what made you join the army?”

“It fit. I was strong, followed directions well, thought I was making a difference.”

“Well my Uncle thinks the world of you, raves about you all the time.” You saw the corners of his mouth turn up in a small smile.

“He’s always looked out for me..... probably even when he shouldn’t have,” his tone dropped and you could hear a hint of sadness in his voice. Well more sadness than usual.

“Hey, it’ll be alright,” you said and you decided to take a big risk and pat him on the back. You might as well have been patting a wall with how hard it was.

The two of you walked a bit more in silence before a loud ringtone broke the quiet around you. Nebraska reached into his back pocket and pulled out his cell phone, answering it immediately.

“Aye. Yeah? Yeah. Yeah. Yeah..... yeah. Mmhm. Okay. See you then.” He hung up the phone and you looked at him curiously, the unspoken question hanging in the air.

“Mind if we cut this hike short?” He didn’t really seemed to be asking but looked at you expectantly anyway.

“Yeah sure, that’s fine,” and with that the two of you began to walk back. You were quiet but you couldn’t help your mind from wandering. Your curiosity was literally burning in the back of your brain and you were dying to know who it was he was meeting.

But if he’d wanted you to know he’d have told you. So you kept the inquiries to yourself.

The two of you made it back to you house and in your driveway was a gigantic red flatbed truck with a tarp in the back. A white man with blonde hair and an equally blonde blonde mustache hopped out of the vehicle. The first thing you noticed was how tall he was. He was clearly one of Nebraska’s army buddies.

“McKenna,” Nebraska grinned and this had to be the first time you’d seen a genuine smile on his face since he got here. It was absolutely breathtaking, he had slight dimples that flared and his teeth were perfectly white and supremely straight. His eyes crinkled in the smile and you could see he was genuinely happy to see him.

“You’re hard to track down. General (Y/L/N) really put you in the middle of no where huh? This his niece?” McKenna said turning to you.

“Yeah. Y/N this is Captain Quinn McKenna.” The Captain extended his hand to you and you took it lightly.

“Pleasure to meet you ma’am. Not staying long, just stopped by to drop off this old hunk of metal,” he laughed, winking at Nebraska.

“Hunk of metal?” You questioned. McKenna pulled back the tarp on the back of his truck to reveal the sleekest motorcycle you’d ever seen. You didn’t know much about motorcycles but this was was big, black and shiny so you had to assume it was well taken care of.

“Couldn’t let this baby rot away on the base, now could I.” McKenna quipped then he and Nebraska lowered it down on the ground together.

“Thanks Cap,” Nebraska grinned.

“Don’t mention it, Williams. To anybody. Ever. Especially the General, he’d have my head if he knew I handed you your mobility.” McKenna said tossing Nebraska a helmet.

“Be careful on that thing. And hurry up and get your ass back to base, we need you.” McKenna slapped Nebraska’s back and then headed back to get in his truck, pausing before he got in.

“Y/N,” he nodded throwing you a curtesy wave before taking off. That left you and Nebraska alone again and the silence fell over you two once more.

“Well that was awfully nice of him,” you smiled. Nebraska nodded once but said nothing, turning his attention to his bike.

“Well I’m gonna go start breakfast. Would you like anything?” He shook his head no and you continued on the the kitchen.

You made yourself a bowl of sweetened granola and oats then sat on your windowsill languidly picking at the meal, only really stomaching a few bites before tossing the rest out. You had work in a couple of hours and decided to go ahead and start getting ready for that.

~*~

You got home from work much later than you usually do, sinking into a chair in the living room as soon as you stepped through the door. You were exhausted and it seemed the museum was always more popular this time of year increasing your work load. That and the fact that you had three new exhibits coming in and two old exhibits moving on had you more stressed than usual.

You were too tired to eat dinner and decided to just head to bed. You were almost to your door when you heard the undeniable sound of someone grunting. Specifically a male grunt. There was also a lot of heavy breathing and the headboard squeaking as it tapped against the wall. You felt your veins ice over thinking the worst.

Of course you’d never outwardly told Nebraska he wasn’t allowed to have female.....’company’ but with him only being here a total of four days even you could admit that was moving pretty fast.

You couldn’t control your feet as they slowly made their way to his door. It was cracked and you gently pushed it open a smidge, hoping to catch a glimpse of the girl he was with. This New England town was only so big and you pretty much knew almost everyone here, so whoever his partner in crime was, you were bound to at least know who she was.

You peaked through the crack, your moral conscious screaming at you otherwise. What you found before you couldn’t have shocked you more.

He was doing crunches on the side of his bed. His force and bulk making the bed squeak as he did one after another. He was shirtless yet again and his body was glistening with sweat.

You couldn’t help the sigh of relief from washing over you and he heard it, causing him to pause. You pushed the door all the way open and began walking in before he had he chance to turn around so it wouldn’t look like you were spying (even if you obviously were).

“Heyyyy..... what are you still doing up?” You asked nonchalantly as you leaned against his open door.

“Couldn’t sleep.” He said out of breath.

“Really? Because you actually look pretty sleepy,” you noted, finally getting a good look at his eyes with him on the ground. Upon further inspection, he almost looked like he hadnt slept in days.

“I, uh, I don’t sleep at night.” He said, standing up.

“Why’s that?”

“Can’t seem to catch it.” He shrugged, grabbing a towel off his nightstand. It looked like he was about to take a shower.

“You know I used to be the same way then I- HEY! I’ve got an idea! Why don’t you sleep in my room. There’s fairy lights, an oil defuser, rain sounds, who knows maybe that’ll help you get to sleep. That’s what I do instead of counting sheep.” Maybe swapping rooms would help him feel a little more at ease, plus you didn’t mind sleeping in his room if that meant he’d get some proper rest. You always enjoyed the window view from his room better anyway.

“Umm... I don’t know..... Let me think on it,” he said hesitantly and you know he wasn’t really going for it but at least you tried.

“Okay well let me if you change your mind. Good Night,” you said turning towards the door.

“Night.”

~*~

A nice long hot shower later and you were in bed in your t-shirt and underwear on, languidly reading your latest novel when you began to drift in and out of sleep, finally sub-coming to your own slumber.

You could vaguely register Nebraska’s massive frame entering the room and laying down next to you.

“You changed your mind?” You asked groggily.

“Yeah,” was all you could remember he said and then you fell back asleep, too tired to make the trip over to his room. Even though the bed had plenty of room, Nebraska was all the way at the opposite edge, once again trying to make his presence barely know, as if he were trying to disappear.

~*~

A/N: Hey y’all, thanks for reading!! Let me know what y’all think so far!!! As always I’m tagging my Trevante Gang!!! Let me know if you’d like to be tagged as well!!

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[trashcanband4]

Father Daughter Duo Ch.7

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3  Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6

Chapter Title: Making mistakes. Pairing: Eventual Darylxoc. Setting: The Prison. Warnings: Rape, Non-customary situations. Word count: 3,822.

I shot straight up in the bed and a sharp pain shot through my head causing a high pitched yelp to escape my lips. I pulled my stiff body off of the bed and to the dirty mirror over a small sink. The dirty shirt I used to wipe it with smeared the layers of dust enough that I could make out my reflection. A bright red streak of blood was leaking from the new half inch cut in the middle of my forehead near my hairline. It dripped off the tip of my nose and into the sink. I was too distracted by the reflection in the mirror to do anything about the blood.

There were dark circles around my naturally wide eyes that made their light blue color look brighter than usual. My thin lips where dry and cracked and my caramel brown hair, that I used to keep smooth with the help of a flat iron was now a tangled mess of loose waves that hung around my too thin face. I let my eyes fall on the small droplets of red liquid that splashed against the bottom of the sink.

"Ya do know yer bleedin' right?" the gruff voice that filled my cell pulled me from my daze and I glanced over to see Daryl standing in the cell doorway. I rolled my eyes, turned back to the mirror and started wiping at the blood with my hand. "Here." He stepped into the cell and extended a red shop rag out to me that I just stared at wondering why he was helping me. "That’s bleedin' pretty bad." He said observing the blood that still pored down my face. He huffed out an aggravated breath when I didn't take the rag and reached out to press it to my head. My hand shot up and jerked the rag from his hand before he could touch me and I backed up as I pressed it to the cut. "Forgot ya don't like to be touched."

"Sure you did." I said sarcastically and walked around him out of the cell. "What's the plan for today? Aren't we supposed to go look for food and medicine or whatever." From my view over the rail I could see the empty room below.

"Na yer old man talked Rick into lettin' everyone enjoy this for a few days." I was relieved to hear that, it meant more time for us to get settled and make sure there aren't any chinks in the armor of the prison. I moved the rag off of my head to feel more blood slid down it.

When I got down stairs I quickly figured out that it was still early, because only Rick and Hershel were sitting at a table in the holding room. Hershel was eating so I motioned to my head "Would you mind taking a look at this when you're done? I can't get it to stop bleeding." I asked and he sat his plate down, went to his cell and came out with his medical bag. He pulled up a chair for me to sit in then another right in front of it for him.

I felt blood trickle down my face when he removed the rag. "Oh that’s pretty deep. You're going to need stitches." I just nodded at him. He started digging in his bag and pulled out a needle and thread. I had never needed stitches before and I was nervous. "This is probably going to hurt more than necessary. I don’t have anything to numb you with first." 'Great' I thought sarcastically to myself. I squeezed the bottom of the chair every time the needle went into my skin. It hurt my hands where the blisters were, but I didn't mind because it took my mind off the pain that was shooting through my head.

When Hershel was finished the bleeding had stopped and I had four stitches in my head. "This is going to leave a scar isn't it?" I asked and he nodded his head. "Oh well, it'll just add to the collection." I reached up touching the razor thin cut on my neck that was already starting to heal then looked at my hands. I shrugged off my comment and grabbed a granola bar off of the table that had breakfast foods scattered across it and headed outside remembering that I had left my converse in the guard tower that I had slept in the other night. I preferred them over the heavy steel toed boots that I had been wearing and was ready to give my feet a rest.

I was humming as I walked up the tower and opened the door to the office. What I saw made me want to rip my eyes out. Glenn and Maggie were completely nude going at in on top of the desk. Their shocked looks matched mine before I slammed the door and ran, like I always do. And like always, I didn't know where I was going until I was there. I ended up in my cell curled up in the corner crying my eyes out. I was sobbing so hard that I couldn't breath and shaking so bad that I couldn't move.

Why did he have to hurt me? Why did he have to make me feel this way? Why can't I forget that it happened? Why did my father have to bring him into the prison with us? All the unanswered questions constantly plagued my mind like the walkers themselves. All those painful memories I couldn't forget were in the back of my brain always stabbing, drilling and chipping away at me every second of the day. I just wanted it to stop.

One of my knives was lying on the floor next to my feet and I picked it up with a shaky hand and flipped it open. The sharp, shiny blade reflected the blue line that ran up my arm and when I pressed down the warm red liquid of sweet release leaked down my arm and onto the floor mixing with the salt water that fell from my face. I had pressed the blade to my other wrist and started making a jagged cut to let every ounce of life drain out of me when the knife was snatched out of my hand.

I didn't even look up to see who had taken it from me. I just let my head hang in shame. "Bailey. Bailey look at me sweetie." I couldn't look at my father, not even when he grabbed my chin and pulled my face up brushing my hair out of the way. "Somebody help!" I had never heard my father sound so panicked. "What have ya done?" I still didn't look at him.

"Why won't you let me do it? I just want it to end. Why won't you let me make it stop?" I don't know how he understood my shaken weeping words, but he did.

"Because I love ya too much." Rick and Daryl came rushing into the room. "She slit her wrists." that’s all it took for me to be lifted off of the floor by Daryl and taken down stairs to Hershel. I was laid on a bed in a lower cell as Hershel worked on my wrists. When he was done I had stitches in both wrists that were covered with cuffs of cloth. I don't know how long I laid there zoned out before the soft touch on my shoulder made me talk. "I'm so sorry Bailey Bug."

"Don't touch me." My words came out emotionlessly flat. I knew it hurt him because I knew my father, but I didn't care. "You should have just let me go through with it."

I felt the pressure of his arms on the bed as he got closer to me and brushed my hair out of the way even though it wasn't in my face. "Ya know I can't do that. Ya saw what loosing yer mother did to me. I can’t loose ya too." I made myself look at him.

"Then why did you leave me to rot with a rapist? Why did you choose that night of all nights to start drinking?" My voice wavered and tears pooled in my eyes.

"I didn't choose that night to start drinking. I had been drinking for about two weeks before that." I reached up and grabbed the upper bunk in an attempt to sit up, but the pain that radiated from my wrists made me drop back down on the bed. My father tried to help me sit up but I batted him away and used my elbows to push myself up. "I know, that's not what ya wanted to hear, but it's the truth."

"I never saw you drink before that, ever." My father had never been a drinker, he was always a smoker. "When were you planning on telling me about this habit of yours?" When he didn't say anything I knew that he never meant for me to find out. "And why did you start doing it in the first place? Did you just wake up and decide 'Hey, I think I'm going to take up alcoholism today'?"

"The older ya get the more ya look like her." Did he mean mom? "Ya got everything from her. Her eyes, her pretty long bridged nose, her hair. The only thing you got from me is yer eye color and yer attitude." So he started drinking because he missed mom?

"I miss her too, but Dad…" he wiped a tear off of his cheek and looked at me with watery eyes. "Promise me you won't drink anymore."

"I promise." I looked down and started playing with my bandages. "Will you ever forgive me?" I didn't know what to say. So I told him that only time would tell. "Alright, well why don't you try and get some sleep?" I laid back down on my side facing away from him and gave in to the sleep that I had been fighting for who knows how long.

When I woke up my father was gone and Beth sat in a chair in the corner. I really didn't know how to act around everyone else, especially now that everyone knew I was a freak. "Hey." I greeted her as I sat up on the side of the bed. "Where's my father?"

"He went to help the others move the bodies out of the court yard." I asked her how long I had been in this cell. "All together, a day and a half." It felt like I had been in there longer than that. "Do you want to live?" I was shocked. I hadn't expected this mousy girl to be so…blunt. "Because if you don't, I'm not going to stop you." She tossed my pocket knife into my lap. I picked it up and looked at her with wide eyes. Why was she talking to me like this, weren't you supposed to be nice to the suicidal person? She smiled sweetly when I tossed the knife aside. "You do want to live don't you? If you didn't, you would have cut deeper than that."

I let more tears slide down my face as soon as she left the cell. I just sat there and let them fall telling myself the whole time that this would be the last time I would cry over this. That I couldn’t let what happened to me dominate my life and turn me into an unpredictable, uncontrollable ball of emotions. When I had completely calmed down I went upstairs and dug through my bag till I found a cuff bracelet that I had picked up at one of the houses we stopped at. It was wide enough to cover the bigger bandage on my right wrist.

It was made of black and brown leather with a silver cross in the center of it with flat stud accents. It looked like something a biker would wear and I had planned on just giving it to Dad, but now I used it to hide one of my mistakes. I didn't have anything to hide the other one so I guessed I would just have to deal with it. I gathered up my loose hair and managed to tie it up in a bun before I switched the tank top I had been wearing for a thin blue quarter sleeved shirt that covered most of my arms, and then changed my blue jean shorts for a pair of tan cargo pants. After a quick look in the mirror and a swipe under each eye in an attempt to wipe away the dark circles that I couldn't cover up I headed outside.

The change of clothes did nothing to erase the fact that I probably couldn't do anything to help the others. When my father saw that I was out and about he came over to me and gave me a side hug that made me cringe away. I had never been the hugging type, side hugs included. I wanted to tell him to get off of me, but I held myself back. "Hey, Bay, ya okay?"

"As long as you promise to stop asking me that, yeah. I'm fine." His eyes fell over my change of clothes.

"Where'd ya get the spiffy bracelet?" Spiffy, really? I told him what house I got it from as if he would remember it. "Ah, okay." I knew he knew I was only wearing it to cover up my wrist, but he didn't point that out.

"Is there anything that I can do to help?" I asked and he looked around him as if he was literally looking for something to occupy me. His gaze landed on Lori where she sat at a metal table watching everyone else hauling bodies to a pile outside the fence.

"Maybe go keep Lori company?" he said making t sound more like a question then a suggestion. "She looks like she could use it." I nodded and walked over and sat down on the ground, because my sore wrists wouldn't allow me to push myself up onto the table where she sat.

"You on medical leave too?" I asked and she cracked a small smile. I didn't really know what to say to her. If I should ask her about her pregnancy, or if I should just let her do all the talking. She didn't seem like the Chatty Cathy type.

"Something like that." I started picking at the uncovered bandage out of the need to do something with my hands. "Are you feeling better?" it wasn't 'are you okay', but it's just as bad.

"Yeah. Never better." It was a bold faced lie and she knew it. "How are you?" I looked up at her while she looked out at Rick. "I know it's none of my business, but what's going on between you and Rick?" Her eyes snapped over to me.

"It's a long story." I looked around at all the bodies that scattered the field. "And it's complicated." What wasn't complicated now days?

"I think we have time for a story." She looked over at me with a warning look. "Or it could me none of my business." I said turning back to watching the people.

"Have you told Daryl your little story?" I knew what she was talking about with out her having to elaborate. I also caught the bitter tone in her voice.

"Yeah, he knows."

"And…?" she asked pressing for more detail.

"And he said he would stop looking for him." That was really the only thing I knew to tell her.

"He believed you?" Oh lord please tell me she didn't think I was lying for the attention. I told her that Daryl did believe me. She just scoffed.

"So, are you scared?" I asked changing the subject without her following. "About the baby coming?"

"Look at me." I did. "Do I look scared to you?" her tone said no, but her eyes were screaming out for help. I shook my head no before I looked out over the field to see everyone walking to the prison. I must have slept for most of the day because when I looked up the sun was about an hour from setting and I guess that they were heading in for the day, but it felt like I had just gotten out of that place. Lori turned to me when I didn't get up when she did. "Are you going to stay out here?" I just nodded. "Okay, well Sean and Rick don't want you to be left by yourself, so." She said with a shrug before she turned her back and walked off.

I didn't care if my father wanted someone with me or not, I wasn't going back in that stuffy place. I just sat there and watched them all disappear inside. It apparently didn't take them long to realize that I wasn't in there, because T Dog came walking out of the building and over to me. He handed me a bowl before he walked over to the table and hopped up to sit on it. "What? Did they make you to come guard me?" I asked not disguising my distaste for the whole idea.

"Yeah, I think this was more of your pops idea than Rick's." I snorted. "He's only doing it because he loves you." I let a sarcastic laugh escape my lips.

"He's doing it because he wants me to be the same robotic daughter I was before we got here." He shook his head like he had known us for more than just a few days. I just ignored him and changed the subject. "Oh hey uh, sorry I didn't dance with you the other night."

He waved me off, "Pfft, I'm not worried about that." That actually made me feel better about not dancing with him.

"Did you even want to dance with me or did my father talk you into asking me?" he laughed and scratched the back of his neck.

"I uh…" it didn't occur to me until then that he might have actually been interested in me. "He asked me to, but it didn't take much talking." Oh, uh, crap this was awkward.

"I'm sure you're a great guy and all, but…" How do I tell a man I don't like him because I'm too damaged?

"Na, I get it. Daryl's the logical choice. You're white, he's white." I couldn't stop the laugh that erupted from me. "What’s so funny?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to laugh." I took a moment to make myself stop before I finished my explanation with a semi straight face. "I’ve had Crushes on..." How do I phrase this without sounding like I was raised in a raciest household, “Guys of color, before.” I said with a awkward shake of my head. He crossed his arms over his chest and cocked an eyebrow at me. "So it’s not a skin color thing. It’s more of a I’m to fucked up to be with anyone right now thing." I said then ate the last bite of food out of the bowl and set it aside. “I only danced with Daryl for one reason.”

"To get Sean to leave you alone about it?" I nodded and looked at the sun that was slowly sinking behind the trees. "You should know that Daryl wouldn't have danced with you if he didn't want to." Uh, okay? Was that supposed to make me feel special, or was it a warning that I should keep a watchful eye on him. Either way I didn't like where this conversation was heading.

"So can we agree to just be friends?" I asked cutting the conversation short and picked up my empty bowl.

“Sure. Just friends.” He stuck his hand out to me and I gave it a quick shake before I turned my back on him and headed inside.

"Thanks for babysitting me." I told him and he chuckled before we started walking to the building. When we got inside my father was the only one left in the holding room. T-Dog walked past me heading to bed. "Night, T." I called and he waved to me over his shoulder. I then turned to where Dad was walking toward me. "Hi Sean, I'm alive and completely unharmed and I'm going to bed now g'night." I quickly avoided his attempts at talking to me and walked quickly to the cell block and was running up the stairs when I slammed into Daryl at the top.

My foot slipped off the top step and I grabbed onto the railing at the same time Daryl caught my shoulder and pulled me up right. "What's the hurry?" he asked as he let me go and gave me room to go around him.

"Dodging the warden." I replied wryly and rubbed at the wrist of the hand I had grabbed the rail with. He chuckled as I walked past him to my cell. I couldn't stop thinking about what T Dog said about Daryl. About how Daryl wouldn't have danced with me if he didn't want to, but it damn sure looked like Daryl really didn't want to.

I wasn't sleepy so I just sat down on the bottom bunk and pulled my journal out of my bag and started writing. "Whatcha doin'?" Daryl's unexpected voice at my cell made me drop my pen on the floor and snap the book shut.

"None of your business." I said with a glare.

"Have ya always been this jumpy?" he asked after biting at his nails.

"Have you always been this sneaky?" I countered and he smiled.

"Touché." I felt the corners of my lips slide up in a hint of a smile. "How's the wrists?" I held my bracelet free wrists up for him to see.

"Still there." I let them fall back into my lap. "Not trying to be completely rude, but why on earth do you care?" He didn't answer. "Beth already made it clear that she could care less if I died, and I'm sure everyone else feels the same. So why are you asking me about my wrists?" he shrugged.

"Guess I have a habit of cleaning up my brothers messes." That’s all I was to him? Just another one of his brothers messes that he thought he was responsible for fixing?

"So you only care because you feel obligated to?" he just shrugged. His overuse of the noncommittal action made me feel like throwing my boot at his head. "Well consider me the first mess that you don't need to clean up." I saw a brief flash of emotion on his face before it returned to the same glaring look that he always had if he wasn't smirking. "Now if you don't mind I'd like to get some sleep." He left my cell just as silently as he had come.

I felt tears stinging the backs of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I climbed up onto the upper bunk and tried to fall asleep, but it never came.

Tags:  @jodiereedus22 @mtngirlforever @zzeacat @winchester-angel @moodygrip @hells-mistress @lighthope08 @sapphire1727 @luisadontcurr @ilkaeliseb @twdeadfanfic @ravengalaxia @1lluminaticonfirmed @my-current-fandom-is @coffeebooksandfandom @lonewolf471 @gruffle1 @mblaqgi @calumstuffs @beltzboys2015-blog @neontiger007 @sourwolf-sterek32 @dixonluvv @dotslabyrinth @kayln97 @art-flirt @cbarter @chocolatealmondmilkk @chocolatealmondmilk-blog  @daryldixonandfrogs @feartheendlesssummer @brooklynalpha @topsykretts92

[damienthepious]

So I Heard You All Like Lizard Kisses

Keep Your Head Above The Blue

[ao3] [Companion piece to Toss and Turn In Undertow and A Little Remedy]

[Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Lord Arum, Sir Damien, Rilla, The Keep

Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, Suicidal Ideation

Summary:  In a relationship, you take care of each other. Before that, you have to learn that it's okay to let yourself be taken care of.

Notes: Extra warnings because I am a nervous bean: there's discussion of medication, discussion of eating habits which might be triggering for people with disordered eating, and a glancing mention of the possibility of self-harm, but no actual self-harm.

The narrative voice in this is very mean at times which is ENTIRELY in the head of the viewpoint character and not my own opinions to be perfectly clear. Also I am in no way a psychologist- I HAVE depression, but I'm not on any medication myself and I can't afford therapy, so like, I did my research but I'm just doing my best here. A lot of the... bad thoughts here are cribbed from my own brain. Projecting mental illness onto your fave fictional characters: it's what ya do!

Title taken from the song Library Magic by the Head and the Heart, 'cause I literally don't know how else to title shit at this point. ]

-

Arum feels the creep of darkness in his veins, some days. It’s part of who he is; a monster, born of the darkness and belonging to it, and there are times when it crawls beneath his skin and settles there, weighing his muscles until he can’t make himself move from the petals of his bed.

The world is too loud. Too full of conflict and pointlessness and chatter, and he wants the weight within him to seep out and curse the world dark, and silent, and easy.

In the time since Damien and Amaryllis, the feeling hasn’t lasted more than a few days at a time, thankfully. Arum, for the most part, can always wave it away as a bad mood or momentary distraction. Eventually, though.

Eventually it lasts. Eventually it creeps in, and it settles down to nest. He manages a few days without arousing suspicion in his mates. He is too curt with them, too distracted, but he apologizes and they believe easily that he only made himself over-tired, working late into the night and then oversleeping. They still have enough difficulty parsing his reptilian expressions that he can convince them that it is nothing more than exhaustion. Only exhaustion, and not a hollowness as if he is a termite-infested tree. For a few days longer he responds too slowly and they pull a little harder, trying to draw him out. Amaryllis holds his hand across the table when they eat together, an anchor he feels very distantly through a sort of fog. Damien recites a poem when they finish eating and Amaryllis laughs beside him at all the moments she should, and Arum can’t even remember the words the moment they are past.

They are so bright, his humans. They look right together, and Arum is-

He thinks, out of nowhere, that Damien would have been better off if he had only carried through with that knife in the cell. If Damien had merely taken the blade, and pushed. It would have been better for everyone. The two humans could go back to how they had been before Arum interfered. The Keep would have produced a new familiar and the new creature would certainly have done a better job than Arum had; they would not work the Keep to killing itself, would not be so filled with conflict and casual cruelty and this dull, unending weight-

The thoughts pass as easily as Damien’s story, when they are done, and he doesn’t mean any of it. Not really. He knows the Keep would have died if he and Sir Marc had not been here to protect it, and even if he does not feel it he knows that Amaryllis would likely have not forgiven Damien his murder, but there is a small, heavy part of Arum that remains convinced that it would have been easier to just let go.

If I still had the Hermit… he thinks, sluggish even in his own head, but he does not allow the thought to close. It is a pointless hypothetical, and it’s not as if there is any guarantee it would work even if he did.

He slips off alone, finds a shadowed corner for the Keep to grow him a place to rest, curls into the petals and wills himself unconscious.

When he wakes, Damien’s hands are pulling the petals back open, filling his dark little space with dappled green light, and Arum can barely summon the energy to blink the stars from his eyes. Damien says something, curious, and it feels important, but Arum simply… can’t.

Damien says something else, quieter, and then he’s climbing into the petals as well. He’s too close for Arum to ignore, suddenly, warm-blooded heat and blessed softness and he cups the sides of Arum’s head in his palms. He gently settles closer until their legs are tangled together and they are pressed forehead to forehead, and Arum feels just a little more solid, a little more real.

“What’s wrong?” Damien murmurs, his voice finally piercing the fog, and Arum hates himself because he has no answer. Nothing is worse than it has been, he has no reason for this grayness that clings to him, no curse and no cause-

Arum curls his tail around Damien’s back to pull him closer, giving a rumbling purr deep in his chest to let the knight know that he has been heard, even if Arum can’t make himself respond.

Damien relaxes into the embrace, though Arum can still taste the worry on him. “Arum,” Damien begins softly, “I don’t wish to- to overstep. You aren’t ill, are you?”

Arum smiles wryly, dishonestly, then just barely shakes his head. They are close enough that Damien can feel the movement anyway. “Not ill,” he manages in a dry, cracked voice. What he wants to say is that there is nothing wrong with him at all, but- clearly that isn’t true. Clearly he is flawed in some way, or he could just- rise, speak, become more himself again. “Nothing physical.”

Damien nods, as if somehow this is the answer he was expecting. “Rilla has been… worried,” he says, and Arum pretends not to wince. “She said that you- you had a look in your eye like you did when you were on trial. When you refused to defend yourself.”

Arum supposes that he felt similarly then, when he thought that both Amaryllis and Damien were lost to him, when he thought that he would be personally responsible for their deaths as well as the deaths of their entire species if all went according to the Senate’s plan- but at least then he had reason. Now, the weight is formless.

He can’t understand the shape of it, and so he cannot lift it.

Expressing any part of that feels exhausting, though, not to mention too embarrassing to stand, so Arum only sighs.

“I am worried about you as well,” Damien admits.

“Don’t, takatakataka.” Arum growls low in his throat, clutching him closer.

“I do, though. Of course I do. I…” Damien pauses to laugh, a little roughly. “I know what it is like, to fight a battle with yourself that no one else can see, even if my own thoughts plague me quite differently than I believe yours plague you.”

Arum thinks, this does not feel like a fight, and shakes his head.

“Arum… both Rilla and yourself have been… instrumental in holding me steady when my fears betray me, in keeping me from succumbing to the falsehoods with which my mind tries to torment me. I only hope that you will trust me- trust us to care for you in return, when you so need.”

Very distantly, Arum thinks that he should be riled to offense by the very idea that he needs help, needs care, but he can’t grasp the anger in his claws, can’t make it stay. Damien’s body heat is radiating into the space inside the flower, permeating Arum’s scales, making him sleepy again despite the many hours of rest he must have had between dinner and now.

“I only wish for you to be safe, and happy,” Damien says, a keening note in his voice. “And for you to know that you are loved.”

Arum’s throat suddenly feels tight, his eyes hot, his ribs constricting around his thudding heart, and he reflexively closes his eyes before they can do something ridiculous. Damien must have felt his body stiffen, though, because he makes a sympathetic noise, one arm wrapping around Arum’s waist and the other cupping his jaw just gently.

“Oh, my lily,” Damien says in a whisper, “I wish I knew better how to help you.”

Arum grits his teeth and growls, as if that will make it better when he feels the tears at the corners of his eyes.

“Anything you need from me, anything at all-”

“If you say another word I swear I will bite you, honeysuckle,” Arum says in an embarrassingly uneven voice.

“If that helps you in any way, so be it,” Damien declares, and Arum chokes on a laugh that devolves into something else. He nips Damien’s ear so as not to make himself a liar, then presses his snout into the crook of Damien’s neck where it is warm warm warm and he is surrounded by the scent of leather and vanilla and the faint hint of Amaryllis that clings to his skin as well, where he can just breathe as his poet holds him and pretend that he is not debasing himself with something as ridiculous as tears. Damien makes a humming noise and Arum is close enough to feel the vibration of it, soothing and overwhelming at the same time. “There, love, I have you,” he says in a gentle sing-song, stroking his hands down Arum’s back. “I have you. You are unpracticed, I think, in allowing others to take care of you, so I do not hold your reluctance against you. You must know, however, that I have learned from the very best in the art of care and comfort, and so you may take from me whatever you need. I will still be here when you are yourself again, and I will love you the whole way through.”

“And if I-” Arum’s breath hitches and he buries the noise in a more intentional sounding hiss. “If I cannot lift this fog from my mind, honeysuckle? What then? My entire long life this has sat on my shoulder like a parasite and struck whenever it pleases, and then I am merely- this. Wretched and empty and unshakably tired-”

“Do you love me less when my tranquility leaves me, Arum?”

“Of course not,” Arum growls quickly, buffeting his cheek against Damien's. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I do not ask for the purpose of coaxing comfort for myself,” Damien says, “but only to make the point. You are suffering, Arum. It is not your fault, and it does not change how I feel about you. I love you even when you are unhappy, my lily. I love you when you are tired, when you are irritable and stubborn, when you are distant, when you need affection but are too proud to admit to it.” Damien chuckles when Arum growls at that. “I love you, and nothing will change that.”

Arum breathes slow, the tightness in his throat easing as Damien’s hands stroke gentle circles on the scales of his back.

“Is there any more room in there, or is it a bit too crowded?” Rilla says, muffled from outside the flower-bed, and Arum jolts in surprise. Damien smiles, putting a hand on the petals around them and pushing until the flower blooms wide, allowing Rilla to quirk an eyebrow and smile down at the two of them tangled together. “Looks cozy,” she says.

“Amaryllis,” Arum mutters, eyes flicking nervously away. It’s bad enough for Damien to see him acting this atrociously weak (he can still feel the wetness of tears on his face, ridiculous), but for his shortcomings to be laid bare before the both of them-

Rilla’s smile softens, and she lifts a little tray he hadn’t noticed yet. “I brought coffee and breakfast. Thought some caffeine might help, at least a little. Keep?”

The Keep gives a short soft song and raises a little shelf of vines beside the flower so Rilla can set the tray down, and she thanks it before she climbs onto the petals beside the lizard and the knight, gently shoving them to make room. She pushes until they’re halfway sitting, Damien sideways in Arum’s lap, an arm around his back. Then she slots her own arms neatly around Arum from the other side, kissing his shoulder and humming softly.

After a moment she pulls a hand back and grabs one of the steaming mugs, and then she presses it firmly into his hand. Ordinarily he prefers tea to the bitter beverage Amaryllis enjoys so much, but… he is tired, and he trusts Amaryllis to know how to mend things. He flicks his tongue through the steam and takes a mildly begrudging sip.

“So,” she says after a long moment of quiet, sliding her fingers through his own and squeezing his hand. “Do you want to talk about what’s been going on with you lately?”

Arum takes another sip to delay answering the question, but she’s still looking expectantly at him when he finishes. “Not particularly,” he grumbles, and then he hugs the knight in his arms possessively. “Our little poet said more than enough for the both of us already.”

And Arum is grateful for those words; they feel like bright spots amid the grey, points of light he can summon back through memory, but Arum does not know how to put that gratefulness to words of his own. He does not share Damien’s skill.

“I think…” Rilla sighs, “I think you should try to talk about it anyway, Arum. I know it’s difficult, I know you’ll hate to do it, but… I think it could help. Or, at least it will give us an idea of how we can help.”

“There isn’t anything wrong,” Arum growls. He winces the moment the words leave him.

“That… does not seem quite true, my love,” Damien says gently.

“I cannot tell you how to help me,” he exhales, ducking his head. “because I do not know what is wrong with me.”

“Okay,” Rilla says. “Okay. So- what are your symptoms, Arum? There are a few things I can infer, but I’d rather not assume anything.”

“Symptoms, I’m not ill-”

“Humor me,” Rilla says, her thumb pressing lightly on the back of his hand. “Please.”

He hisses out a long breath. “I… it…” he cannot find the words to explain the grayness, the weight. Instead, he tries to think what came with them; how other parts of his life have suffered when this thing strikes. “I have been… having difficulties keeping my mind attentive, I suppose. I cannot work on my projects, and I… I don’t care much for any of them. I have eaten because you expect me to dine with you, but I have not felt hungry, though I know I should have. And I am weary, Amaryllis.” His eyes slip shut, defensive. Saying all of this – admitting this much weakness – if this were anyone but Amaryllis and Damien he would sooner cut out his tongue. “I am weary to my bones. Even now, despite all rest. Too weary to lift my head, at times.”

Rilla inhales, deep and steady, and when she exhales she breathes out, “Thank you. I know that’s not the easiest sort of thing to talk about.”

Arum grumbles noncommittally under his breath, then finishes the coffee and sets the mug aside so he can ensure that two of his hands are free to hold each of his loves.

Rilla squeezes his hand after another long pause, almost like a warning. “I think you have depression, Arum,” she says, her tone blank and professional.

“What?” Arum says, spine going rigid, and then, “Don’t be ridiculous.” And then, “It’s not- I couldn’t possibly-”

The Keep warbles a triplet of dawning realization, and Arum scowls as his tail lashes a denial.

“Mental health might not be my exact area of expertise,” Rilla admits wryly, “but I do have a little experience at least, and I can recognize common symptoms easily enough. Have you-” she hesitates, “have you been thinking about- hurting yourself?”

He flinches, genuinely surprised. “No, of course not.” He pauses. “I- not hurting myself. Nothing- nothing so- nothing so active.” Arum can feel Damien’s posture going bit by bit more tense in his arms, but- “Only- only I have perhaps been thinking of- of moments when- this is impossible, Amaryllis. I can’t talk about this.”

“Take your time, my lily,” Damien murmurs roughly, his face hidden against Arum's shoulder. “We aren’t going anywhere. Take your time.”

“… I have been thinking more than is normal about death in the general sense,” he admits in a detached voice. “About times when I was close to death. About- about what would be different, if I…”

“Arum,” Damien breathes, his hands warm and steady against Arum’s chest. “Oh, love-”

Rilla nudges Damien’s shoulder with a hand before he can get too carried away. “All of what you described just now lines up really solidly with depression.”

“But there is no reason for me to-”

“That’s not how it works, Arum.” Rilla smiles, the expression a little strained, a little pained. “Sometimes the brain just- doesn’t function the way it’s supposed to, same as can happen to the body.”

“As we all, by now, are aware,” Damien adds wryly.

The Keep sings a trill of trust, of hopeful warmth towards Amaryllis and her skill, and Arum sighs deeply.

“If that is your diagnosis, doctor, then I must trust to it,” he rumbles quietly, and Amaryllis breathes a laugh at the word doctor. “But what does that help? I- so I know the name, but-”

He can know the shape of it, now. That thought makes him pause, brow furrowing.

“There are some pharmaceutical treatments of varying effectiveness for depression in humans,” Rilla says, voice slipping back to professional for a moment, “but trying to figure out how to modify those for the brain of a reptilian magical construct is- it would be a bit much, even for me. Too far outside my usual wheelhouse, unfortunately. But,” she says when he tries to turn his face away, “but knowing will help, Arum. Knowing, and talking about it, which- don’t make that face at me!”

“I simply don’t see how demeaning myself will be of any use at all.”

She flicks the tip of his nose and he gives a little snarl automatically. “If Damien got stabbed when he was out doing his knight nonsense it wouldn’t be demeaning himself to come tell me he needed me to stop the bleeding and treat the wound, Arum.”

“You said not moments ago that you don’t have a way to treat-”

“I said that I probably wouldn’t be able to make medication that would work for you. That doesn’t mean that we can’t figure out ways to help you. And telling us when you’re hurting is only way for us to even begin that process.” Arum huffs, and Rilla scowls in response before she stops herself, taking a breath and then quirking a small smile. “See? Even this. You’ve- you’ve been so- I’ve missed arguing with you.” She pauses. “I’ve just missed you. I know you’ve been here, it’s silly, but-”

A pained noise slips from Arum’s mouth without his say-so. “Amaryllis. I- I apologize. I did not expect… I did not think this would persist for long enough that either of you would notice. It was not my intention to- to cause you worry.”

“We’re always gonna worry about you,” Rilla says softly. “That’s part of the deal. You care about someone, of course you worry about them.”

“That…” Arum scrapes his claws lightly, carefully down Damien’s back, and nuzzles his snout against Amaryllis’ temple. “Yes. I have learned that quite well.”

“Promise you’ll try to talk to us when it gets bad like this, Arum?”

“I will… try,” he says, wincing. “As our poet so gracefully put it, I am unpracticed in allowing others to care for me. But I will try.”

“And we will do what we can to help,” Damien says. “If you need be reminded to keep yourself fed, if you need be be told that there are people who care about you, if you wish to sleep for hours in the sun and have meals and affection brought to you, if you need distraction from darker thoughts…” Damien lifts his head just enough to press a kiss to Arum’s jaw. “Anything at all, if you only ask. We love you. If there is anything we can do to make your life less difficult- that is what love is for, my lily. Love is a path walked side by side, a journey you ease by taking it together, step by difficult step.”

“And step one, I think,” Rilla says, “is for the three of us to actually eat the breakfast I brought before all of it gets cold. And I don’t care if you’re hungry, Arum, you need to eat too.”

“No, I…” Arum gives a single breath of laughter. “I do feel somewhat hungry this morning, as it happens.”

Rilla smiles, bright as morning, and Arum can’t help but nuzzle against her cheek until she chuckles and places a kiss at the corner of his mouth. She taps the tip of his nose again, then, teasing, before she untangles their limbs and starts passing her loves the food she and the Keep prepared.

Damien asks a question about one of Rilla’s experiments as he blows across the top of his tea to cool it, as if this were any other morning, and Rilla sighs dramatically before she launches into her answer. Arum eats, and listens, his mouth curling into a slow smile of his own.

There is warmth and sunlight and laughter, there is the gentle pleased song of the Keep, there is filling food and a long unmapped day ahead of all of them, and Arum feels-

Arum feels more than he has in near a week. More than he knows what to do with.

He is not fixed, his mind is still unmended and may sink down again without warning. He knows that none of this will be easy-

Not easy, but Amaryllis and Damien are determined to make it easier, to hold out their hands for Arum to lift himself with. That is better than was true yesterday, Arum thinks. It is one more step, a stumble and catch, down this path they are walking together.

-

[End Notes: Hope you enjoyed! I'm going to count this as complete, but there's a chance there will be two companion pieces to this one, because I want to see each of our flowers being taken care of lovingly and tenderly. I just related most to the way Arum needed it, so his came the first and easiest.]

[pick-a-paint-brush]

The response to my french revolution/ captive prince AU were so positive, thank you all! I give you the first chapter! this is my first experience in really writing a fanfic so wish me luck. But first a quick disclaimer- the story doesn’t 100% line up with an historic timeline, nor is it entirely historically accurate so keep that in mind.

Paris, 1823

Damen walked confidently, though he was still hesitant. The city was beautiful. Paris was at its best in early spring, the trees green and color blooming everywhere. He walked along the Seine, the afternoon light reflecting on its surface, the Ile de Cite and the great Notre Dame coming up on his left. He grappled with his decision. Throwing everything away on a day that the wind felt quite so good on his face, that the sky was that particular shade of blue felt wrong in a way. Ungrateful.

He stopped, will he ever see the sky again? With the Paris sky endless above him, he thought of home. Where the sky collided with the expanse of the ocean in a clash of blues. I might never see the ocean again, he thought.

But it did not matter, Jocelyn was right. The regent had to be stopped. How could he, Damen, call himself a protector of the people of this city and do nothing. The regent provided just enough food to keep the people from starvation, just enough services to keep them from the plague. And the people were thanking him! Thanking this monarch who kept them just alive enough so that they weren't dead. He coaxed them into forgetting their true goal- equality, freedom, fraternity.

Damen had once had the privilege of living life to its fullest, he knew that the people of France were simply surviving, not living. He wanted them to have more. And so, the regent had to be stopped. Jocelyn had formed the plan. “Challenge him to a duel, he won’t be able to refuse and keep a semblance of authority”. Damen liked the idea, it was honourable, sword against sword and a chance to free them of this burden. “But how can I get near him, he never even leaves Versailles”. But Jo always had an answer “He has left it this week, he's in the Palais de Luxembourg for a couple of nights, I heard it from a whore on St Germain de Pres ”.

So that was where Damen was heading, crossing the Seine towards the magnificent gardens, His sword strapped to his waist. He passed the watch a couple of times but kept his gaze straight, giving them no mind. He arrived at the gardens with the sun lowering on the horizon. He sat on a bench overlooking the side entrance to the Palais, where he guessed the regent would exit for a discreet walk in the gardens with his retinue.

He sat and waited as the sun disappeared and darkness came. He felt the righteousness in this choice. It did feel like the right thing to do. It was only natural that he was getting cold feet, there was no way to know what the consequences will be. But he could also feel his confidence, his bravery and strength, the morality in the path he chose. He was ready.

He felt the sensation of danger from behind before he heard a clear voice say “you are under arrest for high treason”. His sword was out of its sheath and in the guards throat before he even got up. But two more were already behind him and he turned to engage them. As he did so he felt a heavy blow on the top of his head.

Damen slowly opened his eyes to what he soon realized was utter darkness. He blinked several times, he saw nothing but a thin line of light on the floor in front of him. A door, probably. His right wrist was cuffed to a wall behind him, the metal tight on his skin. The air was heavy and smelled of mildew as if he was underground. A dungeon.

Damen tried to gather his brains and recall how he had gotten there, remembering a guard coming up behind him and then nothing. It was like they knew he was coming, the guard had mentioned treason. What was he talking about? He hadn't done anything yet. No one knew he meant to do something at all, expect for Jocelyn. Dread started to kick in, he's surely going to the rope. He’ll be dead by dawn, if dawn hadn't come already.

Time passed, for Damen it felt like hours upon hours. He started feeling the need for movement. More time passed, hunger came, an uncomfortable albeit familiar feeling. What was he doing there? What was the point of leaving him in a dark cell for what felt like a full day, with no explanation and no sentence.

And then, the sound of a key in a heavy lock woke Damen up from the stupor he had fallen into. He was alert at once. People and light flooded in from the open door. There were four of them, bringing bright torches with them. Damen blinked with his adjusting eyes. Three armed and in uniform, soldiers. One, holding his hands casually behind his back, his clothes gleaming with golden thread, a courtier. They stood in the opening to his cell, a short distance from him, far enough that with his chained arm he could not touch them. Damen was watching them with open fury.

“Hello” said a deep voice. “I’ve heard from a very lovely lady that I would be receiving a visit from you”. Damen squinted, trying to get a better look at the speaker and said nothing, not comprehending. “Light the lamps” ordered the voice, and a soldier moved to light the torches hanging from the wall. More light, enough that damen saw his visitor clearly. Red silk coat, dark hair and beard, gold in his clothes, gold around his neck, gold on five of his fingers. Gold on his chest, where an honorary badge rested over his heart. When damen recognized it he jerked and felt a sharp pain in his restrained wrist. Royalty was standing before him. The speaker was the regent of France.

The regent spoke again “This lady had a tale about a group of rebels who were still not pleased, despite everything I have given for the people of this city.” Damen couldn’t help but snort. The regent stopped talking and advanced on Damen who was taken aback by the regent's quick advance, but still looked defiantly into his eyes. The regent pulled his hand back and before Damen knew it he slapped a ringed finger across his jaw. It hurt. The regent was a strong man and he put effort into the blow. Damen spat blood on the floor, now he was really angry.

“Did you have something to say?” asked the regent, he kept his hands a hair’s breadth from Damen’s face as if the proximity will keep the pain fresh. In a way it did, Damen could feel the ghost of a touch on his tingling jaw. But he wasn’t afraid, and he was angry. He swallowed more blood and said “The people of france have tasted freedom, and they will have it once more”. The regent buried a finger into Damen’s bruised cheek, making him wince.

“What an interesting thought” continued the regent, “any way, you might want to listen to my story I believe you’ll find it interesting. As I was saying this lady- beautiful golden curls, says she knows you quite well”. All at once Damen stopped breathing. His heart, already beating fast from the moment the regent entered the cell, started pounding against his chest. Blood rushed to his ears, it was hard to hear what the regent said next. “She gave me some useful information about a certain group of rebels. Told me this group was gaining followers, that the people of Paris looked up to these usurpers. she also told me-” the regent paused. He had damen’s full attention, the ache in his jaw now accompanied by a pressure in his chest that was making its way up his throat. “That this group will be meeting in a certain tavern tonight at sundown”.

“No!” damen exclaimed, lurching forward. The chain on his wrist clanged loudly. “I’m not finished” continued the regent calmly, as if he was disturbed in the retelling of his day in the gardens. “Lastly, she told me a special friend of hers that could help me a great deal was coming straight to me, thanks to her persuasion. And to challenge me to a duel of all things. I refuse by the way.”

Damen was seething. he could feel hatred like a weight on his chest, towards this man, but also towards...

“I’ve decided we’re not going to deul, instead we’re going to have a mutually benefiting relationship”. Damen understood, he didn’t even have to hear the regent say it. “You’re going to help me, tell me everything you know, do anything I say”. Hopelessness settled on Damen, he felt close to tears from the injustice of it all. “because if you don’t, all your friends will die in front of your eyes”.

Damen breathed once, twice, a third time, swallowed against the feeling in his throat and forced his gaze upwards. “You will kill us all, no matter what I do”. The regent looked down inquisitively. “I won't” he answered “I think you will learn that I am a reasonable man. Your men will be imprisoned, they will serve their sentence, then they will be released”. Damen had no choice, it didn’t even matter if he trusted this wretched man’s word and the regent knew it. If there was a chance, slight as it may be, to save his men, Damen will do it. “Okay” it came out strangled, forced out of his throat like bile.

“Marvelous” said the regent as if a business deal had been struck “you will bathe, you will eat and rest and then you'll talk”. Confusion must have showed on Damen’s face because the regent added “You see, I am a reasonable man to those who obey” he turned to leave. Turning his head around as he stepped outside, he said “If we’re going to help each other, I would like to know you name”. That confused Damen, did she not tell them his name? Why? what else did she keep to herself?

“Jacques” Damen replied with all the contempt he could muster.

“Funny” said the regent, and left the cell.

A bucket was brought down for him to bathe, then a meal of simple bread and clean soup, which he finished in one gulp, then a pallet that would make him more comfortable. Through it, Damen felt numb. His mind was in loops. Jo, his group, escape, Jo, his group, escape.

Jo, Jocelyn. He couldn’t believe it. Damen trusted blindly, he knew this, Nic had told him so countless times. And yet, he was so sure with Jocelyn. He knew her to be cold, detached, he just hadn't thought her heartless. The feeling in his chest was familiar. This betrayal bearing the shadow of that of his brother’s, in his teen years. Rendering him without a title and without a home. And yet, she could have utterly ruined him. She had information that would send him directly to the gallows, faster than he could utter a word of dissent, but she did not tell it.

Then there was his group. “Les Corbeaux”- the crows. Scavengers, street rats. Damen had befriended each of them, then he had rallied them. The thought of one of them being hurt - it turned his stomach. Lastly, the thoughts of escape. he knew his hands were tied, literally and figuratively, with his friends imprisoned. But he couldn’t help it. The concept of cooperating with the regent, although forced to do it, shook him to his core. His mind supplied him with an unhelpful list of possible escape plans. he called on his restraint, not to act on any of it. He would first have to find out where he was, and where his men were. Then maybe escape would be possible.

The next time the door opened it again woke Damen up from a doze. And again a couple of soldiers and a courier entered. The latter was speaking as he entered “My uncle must be confused, why else well he let a Corbeau live inside these walls”, the torches were lit and a heavy silence fell.

The courtier's bright hair shon gold in the torchlight. He wore harsh blue clothing and a silver circlet on his fair hair. When Damen caught his eye a peculiar look flashed on his face, which was fine boned and pale. For a mere second Damen could have sworn he saw surprise and something akin to terror on that face. But in the blink of an eye the features transformed into a look of deep disgust.

For Damen it felt as if he were facing a ghost. It was like he was back in the chateau he had broken into six years prior. Bright summer sun shining on expensive wooden floors, dust billowing in the sunlight, mirrors gleaming around him, the sound of birds and the smell of summer bursting in from an open window. Damen thought then that the place wasn’t suited for the violence that occurred that day. He remembered blood dripping out of his shoulder, he remembered staring at it in shock, he remembered the weight he put on his sword when he drove it into his opponent's chest.

The courtier, who was of course the new Dauphin- prince Laurent, spoke. “Hello, peasant. I have come to inquire as to the reason my uncle visited a lowlife such as yourself, and in the dungeon no less”. Damen noted that the prince's face was flushed, his speech muddled by drink. He also noted that his eyes were bright even in the dark cell, but above all he noticed the arrogance in his voice and manner. Every bit the spoiled aristocrat that Damen imagined him to be. “I could inquire the same about you, mon cher” replied Damen, he might deal with the regent. He wasn't going to indulge his spoiled nephew. The prince raised a slender eyebrow “oh I see, breaking you will be so much fun”.

Damen took a beating, his torso was now full of dark bruises to join the one on his jaw. His body felt tender, but he had lived through worse. The encounter with the crown prince made his heart boil. He was everything Damen hated about the aristocracy in the form of a young man. Arrogant, cruel and cold. And he had promised Damen in a sweet voice that he will be visiting again in the morning. Which Damen supposed was near, though keeping time was difficult.

In the time he had to think Damen decided on a plan, or an idea that might lead to a plan. He will call on all of his self restraint, he will play nice with this ice prince and then he will weedle what he could about the location of the other prisoners. He didn’t know then, didn't count on the prince being quite so infuriating.

He entered Damen's cell looking alert, showing no sign of waking up after a night spent drinking. The guards entered next to him, looking at Damen as if daring him to make a move. The threat of a beating still fresh on his body. “Are you ready to cooperate?”.

Damen calmed his breathing and looked into those blue eyes. “Yes” he breathed out.

“Good” said the prince, “but first, I ask that you leave us alone” this to the guards. They looked taken aback but left the cell and closed the door behind them.

For some reason, Damen's sense of danger only intensified the moment he was left alone with the Dauphin. His heart started beating rapidly as Laurent took a seat on the ground in front him. A prince in full splendor, crouching on a dirty floor with a commoner, it put Damen on edge. He sat just close enough that Damen thought if he reached out he could touch him. He lowered his eyes and stared at the filthy floor between them.

Then the Prince spoke. “I know who you are Damianos”.