#they’re so in love it’s sick and twisted I want to shake them like rag dolls

[anotherfallenchild]

Rewatched the 1940s magic gomens ep and it’s by far my favourite, my god they’re so…like both basically throwing themselves at each other and yet neither seems to realise it it makes me wanna scream.

Just a perfect ep to me

The fondness level Crowley has in this ep gives me brain damage and he does it all without even consciously really thinking about it he’s down sooooo bad.

Aziraphale keeps getting like shocked at just HOW down bad Crowley is as well it’s like you can see him testing the limits of just how stupid / far the shit Crowley is willing to indulge for him (there’s no limit)

The whole you trusted me and Crowley being like well you asked and it’s just ? Monumental.

[bibliocratic]

litany An exploration on endings. Or: all the ways it could have gone wrong and right.

jonmartin, spoilers for 200, content warnings in the tags

--

This is not what she thought victory would feel like.

Basira’s fingers tense and smart with overexerted aching when she stops to stretch them out. There is a geography of broken blood-vessels under the bruising that lies puddle-splotched over her hands which scrabble and claw talon-bent at the rubble. They are scored with scratches and tears where her exposed and dust-ruined skin has snagged on fractured brickwork.

She uncovers a foot first, as she pushes up and over the twisted mental of a window frame with an exhausted clatter. A trainer, the white doused with mud, the trailing laces caked stiff and russet. More heaving and hauling, her breath purging from her faster now – maybe, maybe, maybe, but she has lived too long now to believe in miracles. Overturning a fire-blasted section of what could have been once part of the imperious and grand stone stairwell, she reveals the leg the trainer is attached to, pulverised and off-angled by the weight of the collapse, the fabric of it drenched in soot. She peels back a cascade of plasterboard with a grunt, and there is a twisted pelvis, shattered ribs caved in under an acrid-smelling jumper. She’s not surprised at the dull punch of revelation, when she digs out hunched shoulders, coils of hair turned grey-white like swans’ down with the dust.

Martin is obviously dead. She hopes it was quick, fears it was not. His body lying stringless is curved around something, clutching it to him with his bruised and broken fingers. It takes many minutes of labouring, her spine seizing with complaint, sweat pooling at her brow and under her arms, but eventually she reveals Martin’s tender quarry, bundled up against his chest, blood-soaked from a wound long congealed. His own long and bloody fingers clenched and moored into the weft of Martin’s jumper.

She doesn’t need to check his pulse. She is cursed with enough sentiment to do so anyway. Crouching for a moment in the thick of the settling devastation, the fug of dust coating her nostrils, before she murmurs ‘I’m sorry’.

As she stands, she takes off her coat to lay it over them respectfully, the only shroud she can offer.

When her voice is composed, its cracks flattened out, she shouts the others over to tell them to stop searching.

--

The knife does not go in easily. There is force behind its thrust, a manic wave-shock of hysteric intent, and Jon’s lips part in a gasp as skin and sinew and flesh split. The noise wrenched from Martin is soiled with ruin, tremulous and saw-toothed, and he will never be able to forgive himself.

Jon’s eyes close. Peace of a sort granted to Magnus’ last and most beleaguered of Archivists.

And then they open. All of them, like the unfolding back of petals during blossoming, a meadow’s expanse of sight flowering on his face.

“No,” Martin whispers, the refusal almost lost over the tumult of the building around them. He pulls the knife out, and it drips onto the floor, making damp the material of his trousers. “No, nononononono.”

The wound presses together like lips, and then it is gone.

“I think it’s too late for that, Martin,” the Archivist says in that calm and reasoned voice of his.

--

It is a surreal, poorly-rendered mirror of before. A way the record of the world has slipped, juddered aground in a repeat. For all they have both changed, outgrown the casings of the people they were, for all they have endured both together and apart, it is a sick homecoming of sorts to stand again a second time round at the entrance to his hospital ward.

She’s brought supermarket flowers bunched in plastic, the last of a bad crop and too late to get the freshest, the stalks of baby’s breath drooping, the petals on the carnations mottled slightly and past their glory days. Jon lies submerged in sleep, the focal point in a placid storm of machines and wires. This coma chemically induced with no inkling of the supernatural, a last-ditch effort by the doctors to reduce the swelling on his brain. To give the body a chance to heal from the damage sustained during the collapse, his frame bludgeoned and punctured like a shrike-caught mouse, the smoke that has snarled like brambles in his lungs. The almost comically neat wound punched into his chest, nicking his heart.

She hopes his sleep is dreamless.

It takes him weeks to wake up.

“… Georgie?” he finally gasps out on an otherwise uneventful Thursday. His vocals are ribbed and scored with smoke damage. He’s sluggish as he blinks and turns and groans at the complaint of his body around him. “What – er?”

“Hey Jon,” she replies. “Good to have you back with us.”

She lets him acclimatise. Without his glasses, he squints and peers owlishly, like an inquisitive bird, absorbed by the novelty of his environment, the mundanity; the hospital-blue curtain that’s been pulled back around his bed, missing a few rungs and so hanging lopsided in places. The wilting flowers on the side table. The IV needles threaded into his arms.

“Did it work?” he asks finally.

“We think so.”

Georgie doesn’t add more. The conversation is one she knew they’d have, but it still feels like stepping out on frozen water. She is waiting for it to give beneath him, for the drop and drown in the unmoored cold.

His relief muddies in increments. His brow crinkling with a frown, glancing around again at the other beds. Their occupants dredged up and out and recovering from their private terrors, bringing the lessons of their landscape with them.

“Where - ?”

He looks up at her. The ice cracking.

“I’m… I’m so sorry, Jon,” she says.

--

“We made it. L-look, see, we’re – I don’t know where we are exactly, b-but that doesn’t matter, does it, because we’re together, yeah? We’re together and that’s… that’s what we promised.”

The blood is drying on his trembling fingertips, the crevices of his palm, and it flakes off like decaying leaf-fall. The front of his clothes is clogged and sodden, the slick slow to harden. The weight in his arms is making his shoulders scream but he can’t let go.

“We – we did it,” he repeats hollowly. Desperately. “We did it, s-so you can come back now. You can come back. Together, you promised.”

The winds of this new world blow as cold as the old one did, and it is Martin’s only reply.

--

“It’s for the best, Martin,” the Archivist says.

“Shut up,” his furious watcher snarls. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Don’t play st – Like him! Like he would! Using his voice.”

“It’s my voice. It’s me, Martin.”

Martin doesn’t respond to that. Their arguments are cyclical as roundabouts. He tells Martin he loves him. Martin tells him to fuck off.

The place where Jonah Magnus met his End, crumpled up on the dais of the Panopticon, has been cleared of blood. It distressed Martin to look upon, as evidence of his ascension rather than his capacity for brutality, so the servitors saw to its removal. The body he gifted to the mulch of the bone gardens, and the wailing growths flourished beautifully with the nutrients it bore.

The screams beyond the walls of the Panopticon cut off faster as he hastens them towards the End. He observes a world in its twilight. There is still torment, and it is unendurable and unfair but it will end under his reign, for good and for ever, and he will ensure that there is no more.

“You don’t have to stay,” the Archivist says. Considered. Gentle. “I know… seeing me like this is not what you wanted. I want us to be together while it ends, but I won’t force you.”

“And how is it any better out there?”

“It’s not,” he admits. “Here, I can keep you safe. I want you to be safe. I want you to be happy.”

“Well, you fucked up there then,” Martin snaps.

His anger is righteous and flint-spark, makes barriers that almost waylay his grieving. He looks at him, and for a moment, his gaze shakes. He will see nothing less than he expects to see, a man, unkempt from travel, a bit grubby. Coarse hands he has held, lines he has attempted to smooth. In many ways, this makes it worse.

Martin turns away, and the Archivist lets him go.

He needs time and they have more than enough of it now.

--

He is inconsolable when they dig them out. A horrible, anguished keening like he’s being struck, a gasping that violently gags and stoppers in his chest. His face twisted, blotching, his eyes swollen, and the picture he makes is ugly, rent-open, decimated, bawling into the body he’s crushed up against him. Rag-doll limbed. Ashen.

They can’t make him let go. His cries transform and degrade into wails, garbled wordless, the horizon of language lost. They aren’t even sure if he knows they’re there. The sound pouring out of him is frenzied, delirious and anguished by surviving the unsurvivable alone. He fades hoarse through the ruin he has made of his throat and then he just weeps into Jon’s chest, and still he will not let go.

Melanie’s the one that stops him using the knife the first time. Wrestling it from his grip more out of surprise than shock at Georgie’s shout, and her anger is poisoned with her panic, throwing it to one side and hearing it clatter, snarling that I’m not going to fucking bury both of you, you hear me, don’t even think about it, fuck you, you think this is what he would have wanted, you think we want to lose you too?

Martin doesn’t reply.

They are not fast enough to stop him the second time he tries.

--

There are two men, strangers to these parts, who moved into the village from elsewhere like seeds caught on breeze. They plant their roots in uneasy soil. They talk to no one, versed in polite but guarded pleasantries, their greeting smiles to-the-point and weathered like coastal walls to withstand even the most inquisitive of questioners.

The one who is tall has the pared-down appearance of someone who has lost a lot of weight through some wasting that gnaws upon him. A gauntness that accentuates the furrows and gulleys and crags of his face, worsens the snow-stark white of his hair. The one who is short has been formed naturally sharp in features, although the brown of his eyes is mellow, prone to distance and otherwise unremarkable. The rumour mill, that tumbles in cycles of chatter that rolls from suspicious to musing, supposes some great and devastating fire to account for the injuries on his hands and the exposed skin of his face and neck, the pocked divots like scattered spark burns, ragged scars from shrapnel of some kind.

The one who is short limps on a sturdy walking stick, fashioned from an oak branch divorced from its tree in a storm. Any travel ventured upon is slow and demonstrably an effort. His free hand clasped in the hand of the one who is tall, who decks himself in layers even in the mildest of weathers, whose eyes are biting as hailstones, awashed grey and framed with bruising as though his dreams are rarely kind.

They re-painted the outer walls of their house last summer, when the temperature wallowed sticky and dense and glorious. The tree in their garden has fruited its first pears, few and stunted but a start that promises better crops come next year.

There is the hope that the strangers are happy.

If they are, it remains nobody’s business but their own.

[amimimi]

reki and langa taking care of their drunk s/o

synopsis: headcanons about how reki and langa takes care of your drunk ass

pairings: langa x reader, reki x reader

warnings: underage drinking (drink responsibly pleath!), getting sick, drunk..ness, I use the word “sexy”

notes: school is beating my ass, so i wrote this just to lighten the mood. i want to have one out for joe and cherry tomorrow! and i also want to write one where you take care of them while they're drunk too! but omg pls drink responsibly tho! 😭 I apologize in advance for any spelling/grammatical errors!

REKI

PLS he'd be so stressed out

he's taken care of drunk friends before and didn't even bat an eye but when it's you, he's a lot more concerned because you're his bby <3

will probably laugh a bit at your antics and take cute pictures of you

but then you’d get sick and he starts freaking out and looking up common signs of alcohol poisoning njgksdkdhskf

so he’s closing up at dope with manager oka when he gets a call from your phone number

he’s a little worried when he picks up and it’s your friend that’s calling him, and not you

“where’s y/n? are they okay? why can’t they talk to me?” he spits out without even taking a breath

oka and him are standing outside the shop

oka has one hand on the grate as he stares hard at reki, obviously concerned

“oh they’re fine! we were gonna meet up with our other friends to go to a party, but they go too drunk. ” your friend tells reki breezily.

reki hears your voice in the background, tiny and slurred, and his heart squeezes

“yea, i’m talking to him right now!” he hears your friend say to you. “yea, he’s coming right now...you want me to what?”

“hey,” your friend says directly into the receiver, taking to reki now “y/n said they miss you and they wanted to know if you miss them back”

“yeah, i miss them a lot” reki answers easily, exchanging glances with manager oka, who’s still looking confused and concerned

“y/n, he said he misses you too...why are you crying again?” your friend sighs, and reki’s heart clenches in his chest. “yeah, just come pick them up...please. i’ll send you the address”

reki hangs up and looks up at manager oka, who’s waiting for an explanation

“could you please give me a ride?” reki begs him, clasping his hands out in front of him.

and of course, manager oka says yes

when they arrive outside your friend’s place, reki thanks manager oka for the ride

“are you sure you got everything from here?” oka asks slightly uneasy about the situation. all reki told him was that you needed to see him—urgently

reki fumbles to take off his seatbelt and opens the car door

“yeah! i’m fine! thank you very much!” he says frantically.

“okay, call me if you need anything” oka frowns.

when your friend opens the door for reki, he kicks his shoes off and immediately is like “where are they?”

he’s led into your friend’s bedroom, to see you laying on your friend’s bed, wearing a short dress

you're crying face first into a pillow, not even noticing when reki and your friend stepped in the room

“hey, look who came to rescue you!” your friend grins, stepping into the bedroom after reki.

you slowly look up and blink some tears away to see reki standing by the door, looking at you anxiously

“reki?” you hiccup, struggling to sit up only to fall back down with a squeak.

reki’s heart twists as he watches you, before rushing over to help you with open arms.

“i’m here, baby, i’m here” reki sits on the bed and he pulls you upright. you slump into his chest like a rag doll and rubs soothing circles into your back. “you are so dumb for this”

“am not!” you weakly protest into his chest, your voice muffled.

"are too" reki counters, pressing a kiss against your forehead.

" 'was an accident..." you murmur, nuzzling your face against his chest

"no it wasn't" your friend clicks their tongue as you groan.

reki thanks your friend for taking care of you and for calling him before taking you back to your place.

you live just two down blocks from your friend's place so reki doesn't see the harm in walking

he thinks it may even be good for you

reki gives your his dope sketch sweater because all you're wearing is that short halter dress

tries to walk with his arm wrapped around your waist for support, but you're sagging against him heavily

so he just gives your a piggyback ride the rest of the way home

"oh my god, you're not wearing a hoodie right now..." you slur into his shoulder

"yeah, because i gave it to you" he hoists you higher up on his back and you giggle

“oh yeah,” you say.

you’re silent for a bit, before you lift your head off from reki’s shoulder and to reki’s horror, shout “y’all! this man gave me his hoodie! i think he gotta crush on me!😩🙈”

“shhh!!” reki hisses, pinching your thigh, which only makes you shriek. “people are trying to sleep! who are you even talking to??”

“the audience!” you announce, your voice booming through the empty street. reki rolls his eyes, not even wanting try arguing with you

“okay, okay just shut up please”

“you’re embarrassed because i told the audience that you gave your hoodie”

“okay then, tell the audience how you were crying for me to come see you”

“i...don’t recall that”

when you both finally make it to your home, you’ve quiet downed a little and reki is slightly relived/unsettled

he’s carrying you to your room until your tighten your grip around his neck and whimper “reki, i don’t feel good...”

reki bolts to the bathroom before placing you in front of the toilet just in time for you to get sick

he isn’t grossed out (he has three little sisters and he’s taken care of them when they’ve been sick) but he is shaken up

reki holds your hair back with one hand and alternates between rubbing your back and supporting you forehead with another—ALL WHILE scolding you for drinking so much dhjdjdbdjd

“you need to drink more responsibly! you shouldn’t of even be drinking! you’re underaged! oh my god, what did you even drink? how much did you drink?”

he can’t help it, he’s so worried for you

he’ll stop scolding you if you start crying tho, like how can he be upset at that?

wipes your mouth and kisses your temple before asking if your feeling better

when you say yes, he holds you up by your shoulders as you brush your teeth and rinse your mouth

he does your skin routine for you as best as he can (you have so many steps, it’s ungodly)

reki changes you into something more comfortable for bed and orders you to drink a glass of water

you’re so out of it that you comply, reluctantly of course

reki sits beside on you on your bed as you look at him glumly while you sip from the glass of water

“ahh, don’t give me those eyes. i’m making sure you don’t prune up” he pouts back at you, smoothing one of your eyebrows down with his thumb.

when you finish your water, he takes the glass for you and sets it your bedside table

“you have painkillers right? you’re gonna need them tomorrow morning” reki sighs as takes his jeans off to slip into bed with you

“in my drawer...” you murmur, your eyes half shut as you lay on your side. “are you gonna go?”

reki folds his jeans and places them on your desk, before walking back over to you

“nope, i gotta watch you for the night” he smiles softly at you and you give a shaky sigh of relief that makes reki’s heart burst

“it’ll be like a sleepover” reki says, as he slips next to you and turns on his side to face you

“a sexy sleepover” you nod, and reki frowns

“no...”

“...yes”

“you’re drunk”

“—in love, as our dear Beyoncé puts it” you slur, slightly grinning. reki doesn’t reply, staring at you disapprovingly, and you croak out— “we be all night! looooveeee—”

reki grabs your face with one hand, looking somewhere between horrified and amused

“i can’t stand you, right now” reki’s shoulders shaking with silent laughter

“but you’re already laying down—”

“enough, enough! roll over!” reki hisses, he points in the opposite direction with his finger

you giggle but comply

you feel reki’s hands wrap around your waist as he snuggled up from behind, spooning you

“i promise you, you won’t be laughing in the morning” he whispers into your ear as you begin to drift off

LANGA

just one big “?”

googling “how to take care of drunk person” with one hand with his other arm wrapped around your waist

alternates between confused and concerned

if you get sick, langa will actually call an ambulance—you have to tell him that you’re fine and even then he’s reluctant

you, langa, and reki all went to a party after S

you and reki are kinda amped, but langa isn’t enjoying himself all that much

people shouting across the room, shoving into him, the smell of alcohol—it’s all too much for him

so he’s like “ mkay, i’m out 🚶”

so he makes sure reki stays with you before walking to an isolated corner in the backyard to get some air

it hasn’t even been 30 minutes when you and reki stumble over to where he sits, arms wrapped around each other’s necks and giggling

langa watches the both of you stagger up to him with weary eyes, he already KNOWS that his night is gonna get stranger

“your darling, y/n, is drunk” reki announces, trying to keep a straight face

“reki is too!” you protest, stepping on reki’s foot causing him to yelp.

langa. exe has crashed

he realizes that he has to take care of the both of you,,,and he has no clue how

langa sits up from the planter he was sitting on and grabs both of your arms

“we’re going home” he says flatly, earning whines from both you and reki

langa drags you both to the front yard, as the both of you struggle in his grasp

“langaaa~ we didn’t even get to dance!” you whine, trying to break free from langa’s grasp

“langa, man, the party literally just started—” reki protests, struggling to get langa to let go of his arm. “holy hell, you’re strong”

“yea...it’s kinda hot” you murmur, slumping toward langa, who continues to drag you through the front door and onto the lawn. “langa, you’re so strong and hot, thank you for dating me”

when he’s dragged you both onto the sidewalk, he looks both ways down the street before asking “who lives closest to here?”

all of sudden, reki pitches forward to be sick

“langa! he’s dying, do something!” you wail, beginning to cry.

langa grips the back of reki’s hoodie to keep him from falling face forward

“okay” langa sighs as you drunkenly sob into his chest and reki moans, barely supporting himself. “i’m calling an adult”

he calls hiromi and begs him to come pick all three of you up

the three of you wait, sitting on the curb

langa is sitting between you and reki, an arm wrapped around you as you murmur nonsense into his chest and a hand clasped on reki’s shoulder who’s seeming a bit more lucid

“i promise you i’m fine! i get drunk quick but it fades away! let’s go back in!” reki pleads, earning a frown from langa

“y/n is still drunk, and you should probably go home” he looks down at you with sad eyes when you whimper against his chest. “i shouldn’t have let them drink”

hiromi brings the company car, shouting at the three of you as langa loads you and reki into car

hiromi is mad as hell but he still gets out to help langa buckle you in

langa offers for reki to come over to his house so he can monitor both

but hiromi grudgingly offers to watch reki because he knows there is no way langa can take care of you both

so hiromi drops you and langa off, telling him to call him if anything happens

langa carries you bridal style in his room and sits down on his bed with you in his lap

you blink up at him sleepily at him, holding onto his shoulders for support

“i don’t think you should’ve been drinking” he whispers, steadying you with his hands on your waist

“i don’t think i should have either” you murmur, before smushing your face into his neck. “i don’t wanna be drunk anymore, how do i stop?”

you sound close to crying and langa feels his stomach twist with panic because fuck, he doesn’t know either

he holds you against his chest with one arm and hastily whips out his phone, googling “how to stop being drunk”

cut him some slack y’all, he’s TRYING

he sees a “cold shower”, “plenty of sleep”, and “hydration” in the top results

sports mode langa: activated

carries you into the bathroom to give you a cold shower, but then you abruptly get sick and langa is like “!!?!!$!!??”

like reki, he’s gonna hold your hair and pat your back, but he’s too shook to scold you

says strange, earnest things like “you’re doing great!” and “you’re being very brave, i’m proud of you!”

unlike reki though, he’s slightly grossed out about by v*mit but he continues to be a dutiful boyfriend

waits until your done and you slump back against him, half asleep.

he decides the shower isn’t a GREAT idea with you being this groggy

langa isn’t letting you move an INCH

brushes your teeth for you—like he makes you open your mouth and gently brushes along your teeth

carries you to bed (he likes carrying you, he isn’t gonna lie)

he gives you one of his long sleeves to wear to bed and helps you out your clothes

langa holds a water bottle up to you lips and even tips your head back gently sjduslsjxjisej he’s so <333

his bed is pretty small and he’s pretty lanky, so he tucks you in, making sure you sleep on your side

he kneels on the floor beside you, his upper body resting on his bed and his face right next yours

langa holds your hand and watches you as you struggle to stay awake

“i’m sorry” you croak and langa kisses your finger

“don’t be sorry, it happens” he assures you quietly, his face slightly softening.

you blink bearily as you take in langa’s face, glowing in the moonlight shining through is window

“you’re so pretty” you murmur, weakly gripping his fingers. “i wish you could see yourself right now”

langa softly smiles at you as drift off

he watches you the whole night as you sleep, making sure you don’t skip a breath

notes: i’m writing one for joe and cherry and i’m gonna post that real soon!

edit: here it is!

[spacestationdaedalus]

when my demons won’t let me be

or: not in his right state of mind, Jon accidentally compels Martin. It’s not okay, but it’s okay.

or or: i spend so much time reading sick fic and i finally wrote one of my own angst and plenty of hurt/comfort, warnings for canon-typical compulsion and descriptions of panic and disassociation

Martin wakes to a shifting of weight and a cut off breath. It's a hazy half-awareness, coming to him under a snowdrift, on a radio station drowning in dull static.

In a well-practiced motion, Martin extends an arm over the covers to rest on Jon's chest. He doesn't let the full weight fall, not yet. Enough for Jon to know he's there, a touch light enough that Jon can readily push away or lean into. It depends on the particular brand of nightmare, the terror that's chosen to follow him to sleep. Sometimes he sets Martin's arm aside with a gentle squeeze, sitting up against the headboard and taking comfort in the cool bedroom air and the sound of Martin's breathing. At least, in Jon's own words. Other times, he holds Martin's arm to his chest, taking comfort in the weight and warmth of it.

Neither of those things happen, though.

Jon rolls sharply, seemingly ignoring Martin's arm in favor of the other side of the bed. He curls around himself with a low whine, harshly cut off in the back of his throat.

"J'n?" Martin props himself up on one arm. Voice rough with sleep, but no less concerned.

Jon shifts, a back and forth movement that looks like it could be the shaking of his head. His shoulders are taut and trembling. He makes another sound that could be the beginning of a shout, and it brings Martin to full awareness. He moves his hands to Jon's shoulder before he has time to think, desperate to help, to comfort, to something.

"Jon, it's alright-"

“Don’t touch me!” Jon bursts out, dripping and full of static and oh oh oh. It cascades over Martin’s mind, oily and slick. His hands pull away like they've been burned, but numb and far off. As though belonging to a stranger.

He shifts away from Jon and off of the bed, limbs moving robotically to pull back the covers, to move him away until his back meets the bedroom wall. Martin's hands are raised halfway, frozen in a caricature of comfort. A puppet on strings. He wants to move, shout, anything. But the gaze of eyes he can’t see bears down on him, an insurmountable weight holding him in place. Like a butterfly pinned inside a glass display case.

Jon is sitting up, now. Eyes (eyes, eyes, he's all eyes) blown wide, bright and glassy even in the low light of the room. His breathing is ragged and uneven in obvious panic. Even with his hands clenched tight in the front of his nightshirt, Martin can see they’re trembling. Martin’s heart aches and he wants to help but he can’t move and Jon’s eyes are still on him and he can’t breathe and it hurts. And he's afraid. He can hear his pulse pounding in his ears, the eyes are still watching him and it feels so much like burning paper and righteous anger and Elias's face and everything Martin had been trying to forget.

Jon brings up a hand to cover his mouth. Horror and panic clear in his eyes, which Martin knows are reflected in his own. Then Jon backs away, clearly unsteady on shaking legs. Martin's vision starts to blur (when was the last time he blinked?) but he hears Jon's steps fade into the hall. And Martin can do nothing.

The back of Martin's mind still using logic was hoping the feeling would fade once Jon wasn't looking at him. Unfortunately, Martin is used to being proven wrong. Face blank, body rigid, mind screaming.

Autonomy comes back to him slowly, a tingling in his fingertips that trickles down his arms and leaves an awful shakiness in its wake. Nerves making up for lost time, maybe. Trying to catch up with the adrenaline coursing through his veins. A grip Martin wasn't aware of begins to loosen from around his ribcage, and his first real breath in ages is a shuddering gasp. The force of it combined with the jelly replacing his knees sends him sliding to the floor, using the wall for support.

Martin breathes. In. Out. The first breath is molten in his lungs. His eyes water against it, and the second one is even worse. The third leaves as a sob that echoes back at him. In one last betrayal of his body against him, the tears spill over to drip down his cheeks. Martin rests his forehead against his knees and wills himself not to fall apart.

The Lonely was easy, in that regard. For months, Martin didn't have to worry about this kind of thing - the fear and anger and gaping misery that had been following them for so long. But evidently suppressing your trauma with more trauma wasn't a healthy coping mechanism. Go figure.

Leaving the Lonely was hard. Martin had spent most of the first 48 hours oscillating wildly between numb detachment and emotion so overwhelming he thought he would drown in it. Jon helped. He was patient, gentle, all the things Martin thought were too good to be true.

Martin forces himself up as soon as he's able. Maybe sooner, given the way the room sways when he stands. But it passes after a moment, and Martin goes to find Jon.

The house is dark. The occasional creak from the pipes and floors could be off-putting, but compared to everything else, it's benign. He uses fingers brushed against the wall to guide him down the short hallway.

"Jon?" He calls. The floor creaks in response.

Martin reaches the threshold between the hall and the kitchen. The haze of the moon behind thin clouds bleeds through the window above the sink, providing just enough light to see. Martin catches a shadow out of the corner of his eye, but it isn't actually a shadow, and Martin lets himself feel a hint of temporary relief.

Jon is tucked in the corner between two cabinets. Head buried against his bent knees, hands gripping into his hair in a position that mirrors Martin's from mere moments ago. Martin's heart leaps into his throat.

"Oh, Jon." Martin kneels in front of him, slow as to not startle him. If Jon notices, he makes no sign of it.

"Jon?" Martin reaches, but stops halfway. He doesn't want a repeat of before. His palm itches, but he keeps it airborne. Until he knows it's okay.

Jon makes a sound in the back of his throat, one that Martin hasn't heard before. His next inhale is strained and wet and - oh. 

Martin had never seen Jon cry before. Angry, upset, shaken, sure. But not this. It twists something awful and thorny in his chest. Martin wants to hug him, but he keeps the few inches between them.

"Don't-" Jon starts suddenly, and for an awful moment the hairs on the back of Martin's neck stand up on end. But Jon cuts himself off with a keening noise, and curls further into himself. His shoulders are trembling, either from holding back sobs or the biting chill of the poorly-insulated kitchen floor, Martin can't be sure. Probably both.

"I-I'm sorry-" Jon stutters, sounding like each word is a fight to get out. "I-I-I don't - I don't know…"

"Just breathe, Jon. It's alright."

Jon shakes his head against his legs. "N-no, you need to-" A sob cuts him off.

"Need to what, love?" The term of endearment slips out naturally on Martin's tongue. If Jon notices, he doesn't say so.

"Leave." The last word crackles slightly in the air, like static electricity threatening a shock. Martin freezes. The compulsion threatens to overtake him, but it's weaker than before. It rings in his skull, and Martin fights it back until it fades to background noise.

Jon whispers, barely audible. "I can't - I can't control it."

Oh.

"Alright, alright…" Martin bites his lip for a moment. Nods to himself.

"Okay, let's just - I'll ask you yes or no questions for now. You can, ah - just nod for yes and shake your head for no. Is that alright?"

Jon's face is still hidden, but that's alright. After a moment, he nods enough for Martin to discern the movement.

"G-good, okay-" Martin pauses, not immediately sure what question to go with first.

"Did you have a nightmare, earlier? Is that what scared you?" Martin silently chides himself for asking two questions, but hopefully it won't matter.

Jon nods.

"Has this happened before? The, uh-" Martin makes a hand motion, but Jon can't see it. "Th-the 'not being able to control the compulsion,' thing?"

There's a pause, then Jon shakes his head. Martin frowns.

"Alright, that's alright. Do you think you can look at me?"

Another pause, longer. Martin doesn't press as the seconds pass. Then Jon slowly raises his head.

Jon's eyes are wide, rimmed with red and dark circles more pronounced than they had been in the last few days. Tears are steadily dripping down his cheeks, flushed dark against his complexion. His lips are pressed tightly together, and Martin can see the barely contained panic mingled with exhaustion in every line of his face.

"Hey." Martin greets, feeling like a small victory. Jon quickly casts his gaze down and to the side, not meeting Martin's eyes. He also moves his hands to wrap around his torso, shivering harshly against the cabinets. Martin frowns again. He racks his brain for the seemingly mundane moments from the previous day. Jon talking less as the day had gone on, his less-than-already-finnicky appetite, going to bed early because he said he was a bit tired. Nothing individually out of the ordinary, not after the hell they'd dragged themselves through just to get here. But-

"Jon, is it alright if I touch you?"

Jon nods almost immediately, but still avoids Martin's eyes. Encouraged, Martin moves carefully to press the back of his hand against Jon's cheek. It's warm - hot, even - to the touch. Martin checks his forehead for good measure, feeling the heat before their skin actually makes contact. Martin's winces in sympathy, moving his hand back to Jon's cheek. He uses both hands, for good measure, to cup Jon's face, and wipe the stray tears still dripping from his lashes.

"Oh, love. You're burning up." Martin says, gently. "That must have something to do with it."

Jon's brow furrows. He brings his own hand up to his face, seemingly to try and feel his own temperature. Martin can't help the quiet laugh.

"First let's get off the floor. 's not exactly comfortable, yeah?" Martin offers. 

Jon doesn't react, eyes locked in a middle distance between the two of them. But then all at once his expression breaks, and he buries his face in his hands.

Jon doesn't react, eyes locked in a middle distance between the two of them. But then all at once his expression breaks, and he buries his face in his hands.

Martin's heart leaps into his throat. "Oh, hey, hey-"

Jon's words are muffled by his hands, and broken up by harsh, jagged sobs.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I-I didn't-"

Martin moves forward slightly so he can wrap his arms around Jon. He can feel the shivers wracking Jon's frame, and the heat radiating off of him in waves. Martin tucks Jon's head under his chin, and holds him.

"Hey, it's okay." And it's not a lie. Martin was scared - terrified, to put it lightly. He knows he can't just brush that fear away. But he's not scared of Jon, never has been, never will be. And Martin know Jon, knows him and loves him and knows that he loves him back. Martin thinks that this might be more complicated than that, but right now, with Jon coming apart on the kitchen floor, it feels that simple.

"I know you didn't mean to, Jon. It's alright."

Jon shakes his head weakly in protest. Martin can't make out his exact words, jumbled as they are. But he feels the intent behind them, with the way they reverberate in his chest.

"We can talk about it later, when you're feeling better. But I'm not mad, I promise." Martin runs a hand through Jon's hair. It might have been a braid when Jon first went to bed, but it's mostly undone now. "Right now, I'm just worried about you. That's a nasty fever you're running."

They stay like that for a few minutes more. Jon's form is still a trembling leaf in Martin's arms, shallow and uneven breaths punctured by the occasional apology and stifled cry. Jon's forehead is pressed into his neck, burning like a furnace against Martin's skin.

Martin almost asks Jon if he can walk, but instead-

"Jon, is it alright if I pick you up?"

Jon tenses, and Martin immediately regrets asking. But then Jon nods affirmative, relaxing slightly into Martin's hold. Oh thank god.

Jon fits easily into the bends of Martin's arms, one at his back and one under his knees. Jon's hands clench the front of Martin's shirt, tightening and loosening in an uneven rhythm as Martin stands. It's easy for Martin to carry him the short distance to the bedroom, mindful of the narrow door frames.

The quilt and sheets are pulled back from before, which is helpful now. Martin eases Jon onto the bed. He brushes Jon's hair away from his face in what Martin hopes is a comforting gesture. But Jon still has that faraway, panicky look in his eyes, and Martin has an idea.

"Don't move, alright? I'll be right back, I promise." Martin presses a kiss to Jon's forehead, hoping he heard and understood enough of that to not mind when he leaves the room.

Martin comes back with a damp cloth and a glass of water. And a bottle of pain reliever - one that Martin had originally picked up from the store as an afterthought, but is grateful for now. He sets the glass and bottle on the nightstand and sits gingerly on the edge of the bed. Next to Jon, who hasn't so much as shifted in Martin's admittedly brief absence. Martin lays a hand on Jon's shoulder, but after a moment, moves to Jon's cheek. An olive branch to Jon's clouded awareness.

"Alright, love. I'm gonna lay this on the back of your neck, okay? Can you lean forward a touch for me?" 

Jon doesn't move or otherwise react for a moment, and Martin is almost sure he didn't hear it. But then he pitches forward slightly, and Martin shifts so he can support Jon's weight against his shoulder. He brushes Jon's loose curls to the side, letting his fingers linger there for good measure.

"It's gonna feel really cold, but it'll help. Easy," Martin murmurs, placing the folded cloth on the back of Jon's neck. Jon flinches at the touch, hissing between a groan and a whimper. 

"I know, I know." Martin soothes easily, adding other words of comfort here and there, lost to his memory as soon as they cross his lips. He holds Jon close, taking the chance to comb his fingers again through Jon's bed-moussed hair. He knows Jon likes having his hair played with, so Martin ever so gently works his way through some of the tangles, careful never to pull too hard or too fast. Jon's breaths slow and deepen - still marred by the occasional hitch, but a vast improvement from before. He gradually sinks more of his weight onto Martin's shoulder, until Martin is sure he's the only reason Jon is still upright. But Martin doesn't mind.

"Better?" Martin asks, when Jon's trembling passes and his breaths sound less like someone on the verge of drowning. Jon clears his throat.

"I- yes." He rasps, hardly a whisper. The word pulls a cough out of him, but he keeps going. "Th- thank you."

"Of course." Martin says. He all but beams at the sound of Jon's voice, wretched as it sounds. He considers making tea, but something about the bonelessness of Jon's posture tells him Jon won't be awake long enough to see a cup finished. But he does grab the glass of water from the nightstand, and shifts so Jon can take it in both hands.

"Drink some of that for me." Martin presses, and Jon doesn't argue. Martin reaches for the pain reliever next, shaking two pills out and handing them to Jon. He seems surprised at first, but quietly offers a thank you as he takes them from Martin's hand.

"How are you feeling?" Martin asks. It feels like a stupid question, but one of those stupid questions that you just have to ask in lieu of anything else.

"I'm-" Martin knows Jon is about to say I'm alright and something in his face must stop Jon from finishing, because he cuts himself off with a sigh. He presses the heel of his palm into his eye, suppressing a wince. "To - to be honest, uh, quite terrible."

The frankness of it could almost be funny, but Martin's heart aches instead. "I'm sorry. The medicine should help, at least."

Even without his glasses, Martin can make out the two in the hour place of the digital clock on the nightstand, and yeah, it's time for bed.

"And some proper sleep."

Jon nods, eyelids heavy. Martin takes the half-empty glass from his hand, and encourages Jon to lie back with a gentle push. Martin joins him on the other side of the bed, pulling the covers back over the two of them. He leans, partially sitting up against the headboard, inviting Jon into the place at his side if he wants it.

Jon fills the space immediately, burrowing his face into Martin's shoulder. Arms curled in front of him, pressed into Martin's side. He sighs softly. Martin watches the last of the tension bleed out of Jon's face, eyes closed. Jon's fever leaves Martin's side overly warm in minutes, but Martin can't bring himself to mind.

He's sure Jon is already asleep, but-

"M-rtin?"

"What is it, Jon? Do you need something?"

Jon makes a negative sound into Martin's shoulder, shaking his head. It's quiet for a moment, save for their breathing.

"I love you."

Martin freezes, and the response comes as naturally as an inhale after an exhale.

"I love you too."

[arrowflier]

Something major feelsy for Ian and Mickey possibly inspired by this: The only Heaven I'll be sent to

Is when I'm alone with you

I was born sick, but I love it

This took a while because I'm still not satisfied with it, but I suppose that why it's a speedwrite! Warning: Terry style homophobia

“Get your sick homo ass out of my house!” Terry shouts from his chair. His eyes are wild, and spittle coats his chapped and broken lips. If his body allowed it, he would be shaking with rage, but as it is he can’t even turn his head away from the scene that provoked his ire.

That scene is as follows: Mickey puttering about the small kitchen of the new Milkovich house, putting together the unappetizing mush that is all Terry’s doctors say he can digest, while Ian opens the fridge to fetch the beer that Terry definitely shouldn’t have but won’t take his medication without. Unthinkingly, Mickey presses a hand to Ian’s lower back as they brush past each other, a casual intimacy that he gets to have whenever he wants, now. Ian leans back to drop a kiss behind Mickey’s ear as he walks past, and Mickey gets a brief second to cherish the exchange, now a common thing, before his father ruins it all.

He tenses immediately at Terry’s explosive reaction, hands tightening on the bowl he holds. He drops the spoon entirely, watches it clatter to the floor next to Ian’s boots, splashing them with lumpy brown sauce. He stares at it as his father’s voice echoes in the room, followed only by harsh breathing.

There on the floor, the lukewarm food looks like shit. The shit his father has put him through all his life, the shit he’s done himself. All of it, his whole shitty existence, dirtying his husband’s feet.

Ian reaches toward him with a cautious hand, and Mickey is suddenly aware of how hard his heart is pounding.

He’s had enough.

He takes a breath. Picks up the dirty spoon, wipe’s Ian’s shoes clean with the rag he would have used to wipe his father’s chin. Sets the bowl carefully on the counter, takes the beer from Ian’s hand and puts it there too.

Then he storms over to Terry, puts his hands on either side of his wheelchair, and leans in until he can’t stand to be any closer to his filth.

“Fuck you, dad,” he whispers in the man’s shocked face. “Good luck conning any of your other sons into giving a shit about you.”

It’s almost funny to see how wide Terry’s eyes can get when the rest of him can’t move, but Mickey doesn’t linger to watch. He goes to the door, throws it open, and looks back at Ian.

“You comin’?” he asks, and doesn’t wait for an answer before he walks out.

Ian follows.

His bravado fades as soon as the door closes behind them, cutting off Terry’s rancid shouts. Mickey takes two steps forward and sags against the porch rail like a puppet with cut strings, burying his head in shaking hands.

He can feel Ian's hand on his back, right between his shoulder blades, a grounding presence in the storm of his fucked up life.

Neither of them say anything, but eventually, Mickey's body relaxes enough for Ian to tug him away and down the stairs. They walk quietly through the detritus of the front yard and down the sidewalk, up the mirrored stairs of the Gallagher house. Ian opens the door and stands back, letting Mickey enter first.

Going inside is like coming home. It is coming home. Mickey had never lived in the house next door, but something about it had always reminded him of how he grew up, and Terry had never been a highlight of that experience.

The Gallagher house was different, with its warm colors and soft furniture, framed photos on the mantle instead of guns and knives and drugs. It calms him, calms them both.

But it still isn't quite enough.

They pass through the house like ghosts, sides brushing until the reach the staircase. They stop there, long enough to look at each other, and Mickey knows Ian can see the tears in his eyes that he'll never let fall. Ian lifts a hand to Mickey's face, just briefly, and he turns his head into it with half-lidded eyes.

Then they climb the stairs silently, Ian guiding Mickey by the hand, backing into their room to keep his eyes on Mickey's own. He lets go once they're inside just long enough to close the accordion door behind them and shed his bulky camouflaged jacket, taking his phone from the pocket and fiddling with it before dropping it on the dresser.

As he approaches Mickey again, takes him easily into his arms, the strains of a familiar song start to play from the tinny phone speakers.

Mickey laughs, and if it comes out a bit strangled, neither of them mention it.

"You're a sappy motherfucker," he murmurs into Ian's neck, and feels him nod.

“My lover’s got humor,” Ian sings along lowly, ignoring Mickey’s resulting scoff and swaying them both to the music. “He’s the giggle at a funeral.”

“Knows everybody’s disapproval,” Mickey chimes in reluctantly, pulling back to raise his brows. Ian huffs a laugh and pulls him closer.

“I should’ve worshipped him sooner,” Ian continues, and Mickey rolls his eyes as he leans further into him.

He breaks the lyrics to mutter “Not possible,” and Ian smiles in knowing agreement, bending down.

Their lips meet to the swell of the music, and it's like a release.

Mickey breaks, clinging to Ian's shoulders, mouth open as he gasps wetly into Ian's. Ian's arms around him feel like the safe haven he's never had, tightening around his waist until his spine bends with the need to be closer. Always closer.

"Mickey," Ian whispers against his lips, leaving his mouth long enough to brush fleeting kisses against his cheeks, his nose, his burning eyes.

"The only heaven I'll be sent to," Mickey murmurs back with the still-playing song, clenching a hand in Ian's hair to bring his face back down, "Is when I'm alone with you."

The kiss again, deep and sweet. Mickey's teeth ache with it, as he runs his tongue into the space behind Ian's like they can fuse through sheer force of will.

"Command me to be well," he offers next, and it's a lyric but so much more on his lips.

Ian backs them to the bed, falls over Mickey as they go down. Mickey lets himself be handled, lets himself be cradled in his husband's arms, one cushioning his head and the other glued around his waist. He gets one leg around Ian's hips, pulling him even closer, the other running down to twist somewhere around his knees.

He seals their lips together, and ignores the wetness on his face. He doesn't think of Terry, or his distant family. He doesn't think of the pain, or the terror, or the jeers at his perceived weakness. He just thinks of Ian, his husband, there with him, around him, inside him as his tongue slips back into Mickey's mouth on a sigh.

He gasps when they part for breath, faces still close enough that he can nudge his nose into Ian's cheek to whisper in his ear.

"Take me to church, Ian," he breathes.

And he lets himself go.

Take me to church/I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies/I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife/Offer me that deathless death/Good God, let me give you my life/Take me to church

[dean-samw67]

This is Hell

Chapter 15: Season 2 Episode 9

Warnings: SH, Death

Words: 2118

Harper approaches the camp, just leaving Daryl’s separate camp, as she finishes buttoning his shirt that she wore. Alexis was sitting on the ground, talking with Carl. She had a pile of flowers she picked from the field with Harper the other day. Harper combs her fingers through her messed up hair and crouches next to the kids.

“What are you doing?” She smiles at the two.

“I’m making a flower crown, for Beth, to help her feel better. My mom taught me how to make them.” Harper holds up her work of art.

“It’s beautiful. I’m sure Beth will love it.” Harper nods. “How about you, kid?” She gestures to Carl.

“I was just talking with her.” He looks at Alexis.

“What were you guys talking about?” Harper sits on the ground and crosses her legs.

“About everything. The world. What happened to us.” He answers.

“Why don’t we talk about something more fun?”

“Like you and Daryl.” Carl laughs. Harper shoots him a look.

“What about me and Daryl?” She crosses her arms.

“We heard Lori say something about you and Daryl having fun.” Alexis giggles.

“Well, Lori doesn’t always know what she’s talking about.” Harper rolls her eyes. “Don’t tell your mother I said that.” She warns Carl.

“You have been spending time there with him a lot the past week.” Alexis points out.

“Shush and work on that crown.” Harper scoffs.

“What kind of fun do you and Daryl have?” Carl asks. Harper stares at the two, not sure what to say.

“Kinds only for Adults.” Harper shakes her head.

“So you can’t tell us?”

“Not until you are older.”

“Boring.” Carl insults. Harper laughs.

“Shut it, Dork.” Harper teases. Carl sticks his tongue out at her and Harper returns the action, laughing together. She missed this. Moments where it didn’t feel bad.

“And… done!” Alexis holds up the crown. “Can we go take it to her?”

“Sure.” Harper nods and the two girls stand up. “You gonna come too?” She looks at Carl. He shakes his head. “Okay.” Harper leads Alexis to the house. They walk to the room Beth had been staying in. Beth wasn’t in her bed, which confused Harper since from what she knew Beth was still recovering. A crash from the bathroom makes Harper rush to the door, banging on it.

“Beth!? Open the door!” Harper knocks. “Alexis, go get Maggie.” Alexis runs from the room as Harper smacks the door. “Beth, please open the door!” Maggie and Lori rush in.

“Beth!?” Maggie begins twisting at the doorknob. She walks to the dresser and rummages through.

“Is there a key?” Lori asks.

“I don’t know.” Maggie sighs and returns to the door, trying to open it. Lori grabs the poker for the fireplace.

“Maggie.” Lori warns and steps in front of the door. She prys it open and Beth turns around, mirror broken, blood dripping from her wrist.

“I’m sorry.” She cries. Maggie rushes to Beth and hugs her before leading her from the bathroom. Harper takes Alexis out of the house.

“Will Beth be okay?” Alexis looks up at Harper.

“Yeah. She’ll be alright.” She hoped.

***

Everyone was standing together, discussing what should be done about Randal. Daryl was with him at the moment. Everyone falls quiet as Daryl approaches them, blood on his knuckles.

“He’s got a gang. About 30 men. Heavy artillery and they ain’t looking to make friends. They roll through here, our boys will be dead. Our women, they’re gonna wish they were.” Daryl explains. That final sentence made Harper sick to the stomach.

“What did you do to him?” Carol asks.

“Just had a little chat.” Daryl responds.

“No one will go near him. We have no choice, he is a threat.” Rick speaks up.

“So just kill him?” Dale steps in.

“If what Daryl is saying is correct, he needs to be. I don’t want him or his group around any of us. Especially not Alexis.” Harper shakes her head.

“It’s settled then. I’ll do it today.” Rick confirms before walking away. Dale follows after him. Harper walks over to Daryl and takes the rag, in his back pocket, out. She grabs her water bottle and pours a little water on the rag before taking his hand and wiping the blood off.

“I don’t want Alexis in harm's way.” She mumbles.

“She won’t be.” Daryl looks over at the little girl who was making something with some of the flowers she had left over.

“If something happened to her…” Harper starts.

“Nothing will.” Daryl assures.

“I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.” Harper finishes. “I already failed as a mother.” Daryl looks down at Harper as she cleans his hand. “It is my fault that Jillian is gone. I can’t fail Alexis too.”

“Ya won’t.”

“If I can’t even keep my own kid safe, then we don’t know that.” She lets her hands fall to her sides.

“Would ya stop? What happened to your daughter was an accident.” Daryl huffs.

“No it wasn’t. It is my fault she-” She is cut off by Daryl abruptly pressing his lips to hers, letting out a gasp of surprise. After a second he pulls back.

“Could ya shut up?” Harper tries to process what just happened.

“Why did you…?”

“I had to get you to be quiet somehow.” He shrugs before taking the rag from her hand and walking off. She watches after him, at a loss for words. Alexis walks up beside Harper.

“Are you and Daryl in love?” Harper’s head snaps to look down at the little girl.

“No!” Harper exclaims.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.” Harper laughs with a scoff.

“Why did he kiss you then?” Alexis looks up at Harper.

“I don’t know.” Harper shrugs.

“I thought people did that when they loved each other.”

“Not always.” Harper sighs.

***

Everyone was gathering to discuss more on what to do. Dale strongly disagreed with killing Randal. Alexis was upstairs with Jimmy. Lori walks in and Carl stands, not going upstairs. Everyone looks back at him.

“Go on, bud. Alexis is up there.” Harper nods. He huffs and storms to the stairs. “Hey!” Carl looks back at her. “Drop that attitude.” She lectures. He rolls his eyes and goes upstairs. “That boy is going to be one hell of a teenager.” Once the door upstairs is shut we start.

“So we just take a vote?” Glenn asks.

“Majority rules?” Lori suggests.

“Let’s see where everyone stands. Then we talk through the options.” Rick looks around at everyone.

“The way I see it, there is only one way to move forward.” Shane leans back against the fireplace.

“Killing him?” Dale scoffs. “I mean, why would we take a vote? It’s clear what the choice is.”

“If people believe we should let him live, I want to know.” Rick sets his hand on the back of the couch and leans forward.

“It’s a small group. Maybe, just me and Glenn.” Dale sighs. Glenn looks at Dale, guilt written on his face. Dale’s face drops.

“Look, I agree with you on most things. But this-”

“They have you scared!” Dale cuts Glenn off.

“He’s not one of us.” Glenn gestures to the door.

“We’ve lost enough people already. We don’t need to risk more.” Harper shakes her head.

“You know, Harper, I would have expected you to understand. That boy is a kid-”

“He is old enough to put everyone here in danger and understand what he is doing. I have a little girl to look out for.” Harper snaps.

“We can give him a chance to prove himself.”

“And let him walk around here? Let him around Alexis and Carl and everyone else we care about? I don’t think so.” Harper pushes herself off the wall she was leaning on.

“For once, I actually agree with Harper.” Shane nods.

“Maybe, you can drive him out farther. Leave him.” Hershel suggests.

“You barely made it back the first time.” Lori looks at Rick.

“We can’t risk our people.” Glenn agrees.

“If you did it, how would you do it? Would he suffer?” Patricia questions.

“Could hang him. Just snap his neck.” Shane says.

“Hanging won’t kill him quick enough if his neck doesn’t snap. He’ll suffer until he is out of breath.” Harper chews on her lip as she thinks.

“Harper’s right. Shooting may be more humane.” Rick stands up straight.

“And what do we do with the body?” T-Dog glances at Shane.

“Why are we talking like it is already decided?” Dale jumps back in.

“We been talking all day. Goin’ round in circles. You just want to go around again?” Daryl paces a bit as he gestures a circle with his finger.

“He’s right. This will just keep going back and forth if a decision isn’t made. No matter what, someone is going to be unhappy.” Harper nods.

“This young boy’s life is worth more than a five minute conversation!” Dale shouts. “Is this what we’ve come to!? Killing someone because we don’t know what else we should do with him? What was the point in saving him? How does this make us any better than the ones we are scared of?” It falls quiet as everyone thinks about what Dale said.

“We all know what needs to be done.” Shane breaks the silence.

“Dale is right, Shane.” Rick puts his hand up telling Shane to stop.

“I hate to admit it, but I agree with Shane. The last time I trusted people I shouldn’t have I lost my daughter and husband. The only reason I trusted you all is because of Lori. Hershel and his family because they saved Carl. I am not willing to put Alexis at risk.” Harper interjects.

“We haven’t come up with a single viable option.” Andrea adds.

“So let's work on it!” Dale exclaims.

“Stop! I’m tired of everyone fighting.” Carol butts in, everyone looking at her. “Make a decision, one of you, both of you, but leave me out of it.”

“Not speaking up, killing him yourself, there is no difference.” Dale points at Carol.

“Leave her alone.” Harper gets in Dale’s face. Rick pulls her back away from him.

“Now, that’s enough. Anyone who wants the floor, before we make a final decision, has the chance.” Rick pushes Harper back as he speaks. It goes quiet again.

“Isn’t there anyone who agrees with me?” Dale looks at everyone desperately.

“He’s right.” Andrea steps up. “We should try to find another way.”

“Anyone else?” Rick nods at her comment while glancing around.

“I’ve said my piece. I think he should be dealt with. If we let him free, roam around, I am taking that girl and leaving. I am not letting him be the reason something bad happens to her.” Harper speaks up before walking out of the house.

***

Harper was sitting by the fire that night, watching Alexis who was still making something with flowers. Carol takes a seat next to Harper. Harper glances at her before looking back at Alexis.

“I’m sorry.” Carol apologizes. Harper doesn’t say anything. “I know, what I said was wrong.”

“Good. You should know that.” Harper’s voice was cold towards Carol.

“I get you are mad at me. I just wanted to let you know I didn’t mean it. And hope you can forgive me, at some point.” Carol explains.

“Maybe, one day. That day isn’t today.”

“I understand.” Carol nods. Suddenly a scream in the distance grabs everyone’s attention. Harper stands and grabs her bag, pulling her gun out. She runs in the direction, along with everyone else.

“Help! Over here!” Daryl shouts, waving his hands. They all ran over to Daryl who was on the ground next to Dale, who’s stomach had been torn open, internal organs spilling out. Harper slows as she gasps and covers her mouth, tears welling in her eyes.

“What happened?” Hershel rushes over.

“Can we get him to the house?” Rick asks.

“He won’t make the trip.” Hershel shakes his head.

“Then we perform surgery here.” Rick confirms.

“Rick.” Hershel sighs and shakes his head.

“No!” Rick shouts. Alexis buries her face into Harper's side as she hugs her. Harper places a hand on Alexis’s back to console the crying girl.

“He’s suffering.” Andrea sobs. “Do something.” She looks up at Rick. He pulls his gun out, looking down at Dale with tears in his eyes. Rick stands there, hands shaking wildly, unable to pull the trigger. Daryl takes the gun from him and aims it at Dale’s head.

“I’m sorry, brother.” He says before a bullet goes through Dale’s head. Alexis jumps and Harper pulls her closer to her as they both cry.

Chapter 16~

This is Hell Masterlist

[occult-castiel]

The Same Page

This is my @destielsecretsanta2020 gift for @eclypseaf!!! The request was open, but bonus points for Miracle being present. So I wrote some post empty rescue fic!

This one honestly gave me a really hard time and I have no idea why. I hope you like it and have has an awesome christmas!

[Ao3 Link]

The portal spits them out in the dungeon.

Dean stumbles out first, a half step ahead of Cas. Human, malleable, and very much alive with one of the little dude's arms draped over Dean's shoulder.

Cas stumbles forward. Dean shoots an arm out in front of him, places a hand firmly against his chest. He maneuvers his other arms under his trenchcoat, grips his side firm.

His skins almost cool to the touch — much too cold to be safe. Not for a human, especially a brand new one.

And what if he's sick? Or gets sick and can't get better? Without his grace, there's a whole new set of worries. A bad flu that gets worse until he's gone, a hunt going wrong, fucking cancer. Heart disease kills pretty much everyone, doesn't it?

He takes a deep breath and focuses on the gentle thud of Cas' heart against his palm.

The last eight months haven't been easy. Not between the alcohol Sam eventually cut him off from, and the hunts getting sparse, and Jack being terrifying and gone until he wasn't.

Cas lulls his head to the side. His inky heart sticks to his forehead, and his blueberry-sweet eyes are unfocused but still manage to catch Dean's.

It's achingly familiar, and he smiles easy. "Hey there, sunshine."

Cas pinches his brows together as his head swims to stay upright. He slurs through some half-baked, nonsense question about coral reef bleaching, and Dean's so relieved he laughs.

Cas smiles at the sound, dazed and feather-light, but the joy is unmistakable.

It's the best thing Dean's ever seen. Fuck, he missed him. Missed him so much he didn't know what to do with himself.

Cas winces — what little help he was giving Dean in holding him up falls. He makes up the difference quick. Weak fingers curl around Dean's wrist.

"Sorry —"

"S'okay. Gonna —" he swallows hard. Tries to shove away the distinct pin-prick in his tear ducts that always means he needs to man the hell up. "Gonna get you to a bed, okay?"

Cas grunts, a pitiful noise that's mostly air and entirely feeble. "Tired."

"Rest then. It ain't far. I gotcha, buddy."

When he nods, his hair brushes Dean's neck.

It's not well thought out. The lack of work and overload of carbs haven't done Dean's muscles any favors. His joints creak and protest every step, but his room isn't far, and he'd be damned before he let's Cas feel like he has to do anything alone this time.

Miracle hops off the bed the moment the door opens.

Dean lays Cas on top of the bunched up blanket. Once he's down, Dean slowly works the trencoast and suit jacket off, his hands careful as they trail across the thin cotton of his shirt.

Cas shivers, and Dean wrestles to tug the blanket out from under him, Miracle nuzzling the side of his leg the whole time.

She's probably hungry. Or just wants attention. He hasn't exactly been available the last couple weeks, too busy with his nose in piles of research. But it all payed off.

Cas grimaces in his sleep, and it twists the cords in Dean's chest. He reaches his hand out and ghosts his fingers across the sweat-stained hair stuck to his skin, gently pushing it to the side.

He'd said it once, not more than a month ago, in the darkness of his room, Miracle tucked as close as he could get her.

He said he loved me, and I — I didn't say it back. But I do. God I do.

Dean trails his hand from his forehead to the flushed pillow of his cheeks. The other knuckles roughly at his eyes and comes back wet.

He has no god damn idea what he wouldve done without Miracle to talk to. Cause he could never get it out to Sam. Not those last moments. Not what Cas really means to him. Always too close to an edge of something larger than any apocalypse they've ever dealt with.

He traces down low enough to brush across Cas' wrist, the pained look still on his face.

Dean swallows, his heart hammers hard in his throat. Timid even though the guy is unconscious, Dean grabs his hand.

His mind blanks. Turns to complete static — a jumble of half-formed thoughts about every reason he ever told himself not to.

He's an angel. The worlds ending. Always ending. He doesn't feel that way. Can't, the equipment for it's not there. It's why he leaves, isn't it? And what the fuck could ever hope to start when it's all always falling apart? When they could fall apart.

Everyone leaves.

A flash of cold prickles down his back, and he tries to takes a deep breath. It goes down ragged. There was something he read once, about picking out a sense.

Cas' breath, slow and steady. The clink of Mircale's claws on the floor. A muted buzz from the florescent lights in the hall.

He breaths again, a little easier. His fingers curls into Cas' palm, and his finger twitch against Dean in response. The dent in his brows relax, his jaw goes slack.

"S'okay Cas." He squeezes. "Just... be okay."

When his phone rings, dumped and forgotten on the other side of the room, he isn't quite sure how to let go. Like the ligaments in his hand have cemented in place, forgotten the muscle memory to make the movements happen.

When the second call comes through, Cas mumbles something. Dean's shoulder slack, and he pulls his hands back, clammy and with a slight tremor.

It's Sam. There's a small tug of guilt — he should've called him the moment he put Cas down. He knows he would've been worried sick if Sam was the one that had to go.

Sam's relieved too, promises to buy stuff for dinner on his way back from where Dean went in the Empty about fifty miles out. And he must hear something in his voice, because he stresses to go watch a movie or something and let Cas sleep it off.

Of course he's right. They knew Cas would be out cold. But leaving the room is still hard, and he lingers in the doorway until he gets a good look at Miracle's mess of tangled fur.

He hasn't brushed her hair, since that's practically what the fur is, in weeks.

"C'mon girl."

He grabs the brush from the bedside table, casts on last look at Cas, and takes Miracle to the TV room.

She hops on the couch next to him, tail thumping with excitement.

"You wanna get pretty to meet Cas later?"

She nuzzles his hand, sticks her nose against the brush, and a little bit of the stress from today lightens up.

He flips on some netflix show about baking food, and talks to Miracle as he starts in on her snout.

It's ritualistic to touch on whatevers going on with her, at this point.

As her fur smooths, he tells her about the Empty. Its piss-poor lighting, the mind boggling way directions work, how it has this awful burnt-licorice and gasoline stench clung to the nothingness of its everything.

It kinda makes his head hurt.

Almost two full episodes in, he has all her fur neat and tidy, and his little monologue has circled back to Cas. She'd know a lot about him if she could talk.

"It's hard to believe he's really back. And — and maybe it'll be good. We could, I dunno, get you a yard?" He nods, smiles. "Yeah, I bet your spoiled ass would like that. The bunker ain't a place for pets."

Miracle leaps from the couch, and someone clears their throat from the door.

Cas stands in the doorway, hunched in on himself. Dark strands of hair twist up in random directions, and the casual clothes Dean left him fit snugly.

He looks... comfortable. Like he slipped into humanity ages ago, not this afternoon.

"Cas."

He tilts his lips up, tight and sheepish. "I see you have a dog now."

"Yeah. Miracle. She uh — she helped me." He motions vaguely to his head. "Might not be batting a hundred up here if not for her."

Cas glances down at her, and the tense smile softens. "I'm very grateful then."

Almost reverent, he scratches the side of her ear.

Dean shakes his head. Blinks. Two things he never thought he'd see side by side mixed with the insanity of the day make none of this seem real.

Deep breath.

"She can — she can be there for you too," Dean says. "If you need it. Dogs are great listeners. Even the Madonna types like this one."

Cas gives a contemplative hum. "They are both blonde."

He puffs a breath of air. It's easy to forget Cas actually knows what he's talking about now, sometimes. Even if he does still miss the point by a mile.

"It was your turn."

Cas raises an eyebrow.

"To, uh, pick a movie." He motions to the seat next to him. "If you want."

Cas runs his bottom lip between his teeth and doesn't look at Dean. Doesn't say anything either. Just nods, walks over, and sinks into the couch.

It's a respectable distance. Close enough Dean would be able to sense him, far enough away they won't touch.

Miracle curls up on the other side of Cas, head flopped on his lap, right next to his balled up hands.

"Is it over?" His voice is small.

Dean doesn't have to ask. "Chuck isn't aproblem anymore." Cas sighs, slinks down bonelessly into the cushions. "We figured it out, took his powers. Jack's fixing up Heaven with it. Says he's gunna do that, find a way to put Amara back together, and then come home."

"Good. I don't think I'm up to fighting standards." He rolls his head to the side. They're close enough Dean can make out each muscle in his neck when he swallows. "You didn't have to save me, Dean. I'd — made peace with that fate."

It's bullshit. It's bullshit and Cas has to know it. He almost tells him a much, but if he can't have that talk now, then he never will.

He licks his lips. It doesn't help the dryness.

"Did you mean it?"

It's a dumb question, but one he needs answered.

Cas doesn't miss a beat. "That and more." The serenity in his words is endearing as it is cutting when he adds, "But we don't have to address it. I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

It's Dean's turn to melt with relief. "Good — that's good."

Cas winces. "I understand if you'd like some space —"

He starts to stand up, and panic seizes Dean's chest like a vice grip. He grabs his wrist and Cas freezes.

"No! God no. Cas, it — it wasn't supposed to happen like that."

He looks confused, before some amount of understanding smoothes out some of the worried lines in his face. His eyes flick down to Dean's mouth for an instant. "How was it supposed to happen, then?"

"I thought, maybe on a hunt? Or — I don't know. Just... " some place I could say it back.

Its not good enough, saying it without saying it. Cas gave a speech. He saved Dean's life, saved the god damn world. All without knowing.

He shakes his head. Starts again. He had enough practice between thoughts he couldn't shove away and late night pet-therapy. "I thought you knew. Hell, I've been scared everyone knows. And if they did, you did too, right?"

"Subtly isn't always my strongest suit."

He laughs, and it's almost on the wrong side of sane. "Don't I know it."

He can do direct.

Slow enough that Cas has time to pull back, he runs his hand up his arm, cradles it against the back of Cas' neck. He leans across the small distance and kisses him.

It's clumsy and unsure, and Cas places a skittish hand on Dean's side like he's not sure what he's allowed to have even now, but their lips mesh together in a way that feels better than anything he can remember.

When they part, he's not sure either one of them are breathing. And he can't look at Cas, not when he says it. Not yet. So he presses their foreheads together, keeps his eyes fully lidded.

"I don't know how you could think you aren't worth saving. You — you're it for me."

"Dean —"

He shakes his head, and the tips of their noses brush. "I love you more than I know what to do with. You know that right?"

Bewildered, Cas says, "I didn't."

"Yean, well. Now you do."

He scoots back in place, flushed firm against the cushion. Their hands tangle together, and their knees are touching, and it's too much and not enough. But mostly not enough. Dean dares a glance over. Cas is staring at their hands, a pleased smile on his face.

And they're on the same page.

"I think you said something about a yard when I walked in?"

Instead of answering he says, "We should retire. I'm too old for this shit."

"Entirely?"

Dean shrugs. "A hunt here and there wouldn't hurt I guess."

"We'll talk about it later." He reaches over him, grabs the remote. "I think you said it was my turn?"

Dean grins, full and toothy. "Yeah, just no more romcoms, dude. I can only take so many."

Cas nods, curt and serious. "Of course."

He does anyway, and it's the best shitty movie Dean's ever seen.

[masonscig]

kiss it better

pairing | mason x sofía

word count | 3.6k

warnings | mentions of broken bones and blood. nose setting scene but not in gory detail. smut. minors dni

author’s note | i literally could not shut up with this one smh. anyways this is for day 6 of hot in wayhaven – worship. 

•─────────────────•

“Have you broken your nose before?”

She asks out of the blue, running a gentle stripe down the bridge of his nose with the pad of her finger.

He scoffs. “The better question is, how many times?”

She blinks, shaking her bangs out of her face. “I guess I hadn’t considered that.”

“Yeah it’s somethin’ you get used to after a while.”

“It can’t get easier, though,” she murmurs, reaching up to pull a strand out of his eyes. She holds her hand there, fingertips grazing the hair above his ear.

“What?”

“Breaking bones, I mean. It’s still painful, right? Even if it’s a little sting?”

“Yeah, the nose is nothin’. Just a pinch and it goes away as soon as it sets. Ribs on the other hand…” he trails off, grimacing. “Not fun.”

“You’re pretty brave to be running headfirst into missions knowing you’ll probably hurt yourself every time,” she smiles, tucking the same piece of hair behind his ear.

He rolls his eyes, unable to hold back a smile of his own. “Why’re you trying to flatter me all of the sudden?”

She laughs, crossing her hands over his bare chest, balancing her chin on her knuckles, her hazel-eyed gaze mischievous and warm.

“I thought maybe you’d let me practice resetting your nose.”

He cocks a brow at her. “You thought wrong.”

She leans forward over her hands, just enough that she has room to press a kiss on his bare chest.

“I could go another round, you know…” she trails off, easing her thigh between his legs, rubbing just enough that he groans and tightens his arms around her.

“You’d wanna fuck me anyways,” he teases, sliding her back up till they’re nose to nose.

She peppers a few kisses down the bridge of his nose, hovering when she reaches his lips.

“I think you’re underestimating my self control,” she whispers, grazing his lips with her own. 

He runs his palms down the swell of her ass to the top of her thighs, gripping the skin there. She sighs, but clamps her mouth shut. She pulls back, a soft giggle already bubbling off her tongue. “Nope.” 

“Do you hate my nose that much, sweetheart?” He chuckles.

“Oh, no, I love your nose,” she says, kissing it again. “I was just thinking that I learned how to reset a nose back in undergrad and I wanted to try it out again.”

“You know how to do that?”

“I think so,” she muses, shaking her bangs out of her face again. “A kid in my bio class sophomore year learned how to reset his own nose because he’d broken it a couple of times playing soccer. He showed us how on a CPR dummy once during class and I practiced a couple of times.”

“So you want me to be your dummy?”

“You’re already my dummy,” she flashes a smile, laughing when he grunts in faux annoyance at her. “If you don’t want me to, that’s okay. I like your crooked nose.”

She nuzzles his jaw with her nose, resting her head in the crook of his neck.

“Ugh,” he grunts once, and taps her ass. “Okay, get on with it. I don’t have all fucking night. I’ve got things to do.”

Sofía’s head pops back up, her messy bun springing with the sudden movement. “Wait, really?”

He shrugs. “I trust you.”

Grinning, she kisses him deeply, just as sweet as the first time she kissed him like this. He doesn’t normally think about past missions that much, but now he has reason to.

Yeah, he was in the hospital bed after fighting off Trappers, but he’d gotten a kiss that’d stuck with him more than any of his wildest sexcapades.

“Sit up, please,” she says, always polite, despite the fact that she knows he likes it when she’s rude.

He hasn’t had her fiery side aimed at him in a long time, and he’s not sure if he misses it (or if this version of her is his favorite).

Scooting so his back is against the armrest of the couch, he keeps his grip tight around her waist. She shifts, straddling him, her eyes fluttering at the brush of his cock against her.

“If you distract me, I’ll do it wrong,” she breathes, squeezing her thick thighs around him.

“Practice makes perfect,” he says, curling his hips ever so slowly, feeling himself slot between her –

“No. I wanna do this right,” she says, her brows furrowed in determination. “I’ll be right back.”

She hops off of him, stark naked, and tiptoes across the cabin to the kitchen. He’d never get sick of the sight of her.

He watches as she grabs an old rag from the drawer, a box of tissues, and a plastic bag, filling it with ice.

She bounds back towards the couch, her face bright.

“Sit with your back against the cushions, please,” she says, before tugging the blanket over his bare lap, straddling him again.

“Oh, so I don’t get the privilege of skin to skin contact? ‘S’kinda cruel of you,” he smirks.

“Ah, stop it. You get enough skin to skin contact with me,” she laughs, before combing her hands through his hair, gathering the top layer into one hand.

Yanking the hair tie out of her bun, she shakes it out, pausing to resituate her hair for a second before she’s onto the next thing.

She gently twists the elastic around his hair. “Is this alright?”

He’s watching her face, which is screwed up in determination to get it right the first try. “Mhmm.”

No one’s ever taken care of him the way she does. He’s always been averse to the idea of being babied (both in and out of bed), but maybe it’s because he hadn’t met a person who balanced the task of challenging him and caring for him the way Sofía did.

And now that he has that balance, he couldn’t really imagine his existence without it.

Deep down, he’s always craved this, he thinks, but figured that he was itching that scratch with physical gratification. No one told him how good sex is when the other person actually cares about you. Nate probably tried, but he wasn’t listening.

She brushes his hair off of his shoulders, runs her palms down his shoulders and chest. “You always look so handsome with your hair back.”

Compliments without ulterior motives didn’t come easy to him. For the longest time, when a person complimented him on his looks, he’d assume that was the ice breaker before tumbling into bed with them.

He’s gotten used to Sofía’s mindless affirmations, and he kind of… liked them.

It wasn’t hard for him to fall into the pattern of telling her what he liked about her. It was truly so damn easy to praise her.

While he muses, she tucks the old rag underneath his chin, splaying it out across his chest as far as it’ll go.

“What’s this for?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know if you’ll bleed or not.”

He chuckles. “Can’t remember the last time I had a nosebleed.”

“I still wanna keep you clean, dummy,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Hold out your hand, please.”

“Yes ma’am.”

She plops the box of tissues in his hand, then the bag of ice on top of that.

“Okay, I’m not so sure if I’m strong enough to re-break your nose, Mason.”

Her hands are forming a triangle, her thumbs pressed together. She places her nearly cupped hands around his nose, massaging the bridge of it with a gentle touch.

“I think this might be for freshly broken noses –”

He cups his hand around hers and snaps his nose, just enough that it curves to the left.

“– Mason!” She jolts in surprise, and he raises a brow at her.

“You’ve got about ten seconds before it resets, sweetheart. Hop to it.”

He thinks she’s gonna bicker with him, but instead she springs into action, tightening her fingers around the bridge of his nose, squeezing lightly and pulling downwards towards the tip of his nose.

When he winces, she mouths a quick “sorry” and resets her hands, tugging down over and over, the sting nearly gone by the third round.

“It’s healed.”

She drags her hands till she’s cupping his jaw with both palms, inspecting his nose thoroughly.

“Oh shit, it’s actually straightened out,” she murmurs, her pretty, pretty face an inch away from his own. “Not bad for a rusty bio student, huh?”

“You did a great job, Sofía.”

At the mention of her name, she meets his eye.

He doesn’t use her name that often. When he does, it’s a reward for the both of them – she notices, and he gets to savor the taste of her gorgeous name on his lips.

“You haven’t even seen it yet,” she smiles, kissing the tip of his nose.

“Don’t need to,” he shrugs.

She snatches a tissue and delicately dabs away at his cupid’s bow. “Just a little bit of blood,” she murmurs. “You’re okay.”

When she says it, he actually believes her.

“Keep that away from me,” he gestures to the bag of ice balanced on top of the box of tissues.

“Fine,” she agrees, snatching the bag from his hand, before tearing it open and tossing a small ice cube in her mouth, crunching away.

“It’s just frozen water. I don’t get it.”

“It’s water that you can eat. What is there to get?” She laughs between chews, attempting to stand up.

He tosses the tissue box to the ground and flings the rag across the room with lightning speed, snaking his arms around her waist before she can react.

The bag of ice topples out of her hand and onto the wood floor, cubes littering the ground around them.

“Agh, really? You know I’m gonna have to clean that up, right?”

“Don’t care. I told you I’ve got things to do,” he smirks, turning up the charm as high as he can. She’s nearly immune to it at this point, but not completely.

“Okay, okay,” she laughs as he trails kisses up her collarbone and nips at her neck.

He stands with her still wrapped in his arms and flips them around. She’s sitting on the armrest of the couch and he’s on his knees in front of her, the thin blanket they’d been using abandoned on the floor with the ice.

“What… Mason…” she’s panting his name and he hasn’t even touched her yet.

“I wanna take care of you, now,” he mumbles against the skin of her inner thigh.

She hums as he kisses higher, each press of his lips to her skin eliciting a crescendo of soft whines.

When he makes it to the crease of her hip, she’s trembling in anticipation already. He wasn’t a fan of denial until her.

“Fuckin’ gorgeous,” he’s whispering, more to himself than anyone else.

“Thank you,” she responds, peering down on him with gratitude before his tongue even touches her.

“You don’t have to thank me every time I compliment you. Stop being so damn polite all the time,” he says, running his palms up and down her thighs.

When he made it back to her knees, he pushed them open wider, wider, till she was spread for him, wanting and waiting.

“It’s a reflex, I think,” she huffs, her stomach stuttering as he suckles against the skin of her inner thigh, face close enough to devour her.

“There’s no one to impress here, sweetheart,” he smirks, kissing and nipping at her flesh again. “I’m the last person you have to be nice to.”

He’s so focused on lavishing every inch of her inner thighs with attention that he doesn’t realize she’s staring at him, only catching on once she reaches down to brush a stray hair away from his face.

“Well, you’ve earned it,” she says, no hint of humor in her tone, just raw sincerity. “I’m nice because you mean a lot to me.”

He’s not used to this level of candor in any relationship he’s ever had. It’s not that he hates it or anything he’s just… not sure how to respond. He’s still learning.

“I dunno, I kind of miss when you’d argue with me. It was kinda hot,” he laughs breathily. Just as she’s about to give a bratty retort, he drags the rough pad of his thumb as slowly as he can from bottom to top.

She sucks the words back in and exhales a soft whine instead, her head lolling to the side when he circles his thumb on her clit.

“You… liked it when I stood up for myself?” She snorts, her laugh devolving into another moan. “I thought it was pretty unbecoming.”

“You know I don’t give a shit about what’s appropriate. All that matters is if we’ll ‘be coming’ or not,” he chuckles to himself at his joke, and she’s even giggling.

“Oh my god, you’re so corny,” she sighs, trying to concentrate on the conversation while he’s graduating to a finger (knuckle deep) inside of her. “Maybe I miss yelling at you just a little bit.”

“I wouldn’t mind if you bossed me around a little bit,” he smiles against her skin, pumping his finger slowly, curling it the deeper he gets.

“Like what?” She pants, grabbing onto the back of the couch for support.

“Tell me what you want me to do to you and don’t be nice about it.”

He’s watching her face, waiting for her reaction, and he’s excited. She’s always known what she’s wanted, but she’s too considerate.

He’d already made up his mind that tonight’s about her and her only. He’d gotten his fill earlier, and he could care less if he did again.

Mason wants nothing more than to make her come until she’s putty in his hands.

He knows he’s not good with words, so this is the way he’ll show her just how much he cares.

She’s screwed her eyes shut, focusing on the movement of his finger, so he encourages her again.

“What do you want, baby?”

She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth before releasing it. “Eat my pussy like you mean it.”

He grins, her no bullshit tone sending shockwaves down his spine straight to his cock. “Don’t have to ask me twice.”

His lips are around her clit as soon as the words are out of her mouth. He licks slow, soft stripes until her hips are grinding faster than his tongue.

He’s testing her – teasing her.

“I said like you mean it,” she pants, and he feels her palm pressing against the back of his head, his mouth and nose nearly submerged.

His tongue’s moving faster now, focusing every flick against her clit. She’s huffing a few soft “don’t stop”s and “right there”s so he knows he’s doing it just like she likes.

Her thighs clench around his face when she finally comes, and she digs her fingers into the back of his head. It stings, but it eggs him on.

“Oh my god – Mason – I’m –” She’s sensitive and barely able to get a grip on the English language, so he takes advantage of that.

He hooks his arms around her thighs and rises – she falls back onto the couch and he’s dragging her hips back until her pussy’s in the air, her lower back balanced against the arm of the couch.

She’s fully at his mercy in this position, and they both know it.

She’s flushed and her chest is heaving, her half lidded gaze watching as he bends down and hooks her legs over his shoulders, delving back into eating her once again.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” her voice raises an octave and she’s already tightening her legs around him.

They both know there’s another orgasm on the horizon and she’s barreling towards it, and he’s guiding there albeit roughly (just like she likes it).

He’s added two fingers this time, pumping in and out while he’s alternating soft and rough flicks of his tongue.

“Don’t you – dare fucking stop –” she demands between pants, grinding her hips against his face and mouth.

She shakes this time, just a soft tremble of her thighs, but he notices the soft tremors, already grinning to himself. He loves how much practice he gets in perfecting his formula – he’d gotten real good at making her come over the years and he was damn proud of himself for it.

She was the prettiest woman on the planet when she came, and he’d do anything to witness it over and over and over.

“Goddamn,” she groans, throwing an arm over her eyes.

“What, you don’t want another round?” He asks, still bent between her thighs.

“I don’t know if I can handle it,” she says through a breathy laugh.

“You can make it to three,” he murmurs, kissing her tender clit again, revelling in the way her hips bucked when he did so.

In a flash, he’s laid on the couch and she’s on her knees above his face, bracing her palms on the arm of the couch.

“Shit, Mason, why’d you move that fast –”

“Doesn’t matter, sweetheart. You up for another one?”

She sits back, ass on his chest, looking down at him. He can’t resist leaning up to grab the swell of her ass.

He thinks she’s going to say some sweet anecdote about the first time they fucked or something very Sofía, but instead, she’s not breaking character.

“I’m gonna ride your face till I’m spent,” she says, peering down at him, cheeks pink, bangs clinging to her forehead.

“Yes, ma’am,” he winks, before giving her cheek a soft push upright, and then he’s nothing but a means to get off, and he’s savoring every second of it.

She’s grinding against his open mouth, her chest heaving, her expression slack jawed.

The mix of groans and heavy breathing are echoing off of the walls. They’re both slick with sweat, their skin sticking and sliding against each others’ with each buck of her hips.

When her movements get erratic, he hooks his arms around her thighs and takes lead.

With each firm stripe of his tongue, she’s struggling to stay upright. She doesn’t manage to stay up, instead falling forward, bracing her forearms against the soft leather couch.

“Shit, keep going – just like that –” her words are unintelligible at this point, just a chorus of whines.

Her hips arch and stutter against his mouth and she goes limp, lungs heaving with effort.

He slides out from underneath her, gathering her in his arms while she catches her breath.

“What’re you doing?” she asks, voice hoarse, curling into his chest.

“Taking you to bed, whaddaya think?”

Her half lidded eyes widen and she shakes her head. “I can’t handle another one right now – let me rest up first, please –”

“– I mean to sleep,” he chuckles, kicking her door in, shuffling in sideways. “You’ve got tomorrow off so we’ve got plenty of time.”

“Oh, thank god.”

He slides her onto the bed and she lays back, making no move to get under the covers. The apartment’s in a perfect spot – the moonlight always manages to sneak into her room and dimly light it.

It’s streaking through the window, across the bed, her torso, her cheek, hitting the sliver of gray hair in her bangs. She looks ethereal, practically glowing on top of her dark comforter.

He knows he’s staring, and she’ll catch on soon, so he cracks a joke to play it off.

“So much for the self control you speak of.”

“Hey!” She laughs, chunking a pillow at him.

He catches it with ease, tossing it right back, it smacking her on the leg. “What? I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to say it.”

“You just hate when I’m right.”

“No, I just hate when I can’t resist you,” she rolls her eyes, patting the bed next to her.

He hops onto the bed, jiggling the both of them. “Sounds like a you problem.”

“Shut up,” she laughs, smacking his chest with her palm, cuddling up to his side.

Before he can tilt her chin up to kiss her, she’s already pressing her lips to his, the taste of her lingering on his mouth.

“Thank you,” she whispers when he pulls away.

“What’d I say about being polite?” He says, voice low, holding himself back from leaning in to kiss her again.

“Old habits die hard, I guess,” she smiles against his mouth. “You would know.”

His eyes flicker up to the crumpled pack of cigarettes on her nightstand (the ones that hadn’t moved from that very spot for months).

Needs turned into wants and wants turned into waning cravings which turned into the most futile efforts to match whatever the fuck Sofía does for him.

He’s still figuring out how to navigate this existence of his with her in it, but he knows he wants it to be like this for as long as she’ll let him stay.

And yeah, Mason’s awful with words, but as long as he can show her, he knows it’ll be alright.

[grumpyhedgehogs]

this tired old elegy

Summary: CC-5052 and a company of other clones bound for decommissioning are instead auctioned off to slavers on Tatooine. Or they would be, if someone mysterious didn't intervene. The resulting chaos stirs up memories Bly craves; CC-5052 thinks they might be best forgotten. Or: In which Bly is This Close to breaking out of the chip's control by himself and Obi-Wan shows up to give him that extra push. AO3.

Notes:  A scene that's been kicking around in my head for a while, of two ships passing in the night. Hinted Codywan and Blyla.

Warnings: Mild violence, seizures, slavery, mind control, grief. 

The clones of Kamino are dying out.

They’ve known this for a long time now. The Empire used them, wiped out the last of the Old Republic with them, and shunted them off, thrown out with yesterday’s trash when they weren’t useful anymore. CC-5052 has heard the horror stories, the ones the admirals always shut down if they heard them spreading among the ranks. Clones decommissioned before their time. Clones going missing, or going against orders in the field. Clones found with a single blaster shot to the head and no explanation for their deaths given. Clones pushed from active duty, given menial jobs or guard posts. CC-5052 heard CC-2224 has a teaching position now.

Disgrace is a clone’s lot, and it tastes sour in the mouth.

This though? CC-5052’s stomach turns over when the doors to the spaceport he and three of his brothers three other clones have been held in for days on end finally open. The air that buffets him is arid, dry and hot against his skin. Sand flings itself, clawing, searching, into his eyes, and CC-5052 coughs against the assault. It does little to help. He never thought for a second that he’d come to this end. It’s poetic in a way his Jedi the Traitor he served under would have found poignant once upon a time. Enslavement is how the clones of Kamino came into this world, so enslavement should be the way they go out, shouldn’t it?

Tatooine is a wretched planet, CC-5052 decides as he and his vode his family the rest of his company are led onto the calling block. The Empire has no use for him, and so it sends him to a useless place.

“One hundred credits,” the auctioneer offers, gesturing at one of the three other clones to CC-5052’s left. A hand raises in the air before them, and the auctioneer dispassionately raises the price by another hundred credits. And so it begins. Is this all there is for him?

I’m going to die on this dust-ball.

The crowd around them is sparse; the midday suns beat down on them all, slave and free sentient alike, and no one is immune to their rays. Most attendants are covered from head to toe in brown, black or white fabrics, wrapped up like mummified remains. Sunlight reflects off of any and all surfaces. A mother carrying a child’s metal cradle passes by on the edge of the crowded marketplace, and the shine off of the basket pierces directly into CC-5052’s brain. He hisses, air whistling between his teeth, eyes clenching. The pain rockets through his skull--it seems to be doing that a lot lately, random headaches plaguing his sleep. Migraines are not uncommon in the vode the clones, but he doesn’t want to examine what they mean. They’re far too often accompanied by a wave of grief that threatens to swallow CC-5052 whole.

His attention has wandered too far; the price has gone up five times since he last checked, and the auctioneer is getting excited now. They bounce on their toes, rattling off higher and higher numbers with a growing grin. As if this is just a good day at the market for them. As if it simply does not matter. As if they don’t matter.

What he thinks now is treason, of course. They are Empire property, were Republic property before that. If the Emperor saw fit to sell him off, who is CC-5052 to argue?

I hate him.

The thought nearly rattles every bone in CC-5052’s body with its intensity--but there is no time for him to examine its implications, because three things happen in very rapid succession.

First, an explosion goes off somewhere nearby and behind CC-5052; debris and sand sail through the air, pelting down on the crowd before the slave auction. The ground rolls beneath their feet, and CC-5052 has to stumble to keep his balance. The auctioneer does not have his luck, and trips right off of the platform, facedown in the dust. It startles a laugh out of CC-5052--Bly--but then he inhales more ash and coughs instead.

Second, the chains around his wrists loosen unexpectedly before falling away completely. His arms aren’t quite as burly as they used to be, from inactivity before the auction and from years of being shoved to the sidelines before that, so Bly’s CC-5052’s wrists slip easily between his manacles. Above the roar of growing fires and screaming citizens, he can just make out three identical thumps as the clones beside him rub raw skin that mirrors his own.

Third, through the confusion and panic setting into the crowd, the fleeing forms and those who have fallen prone and lain still, through the smoke and fire and noise, CC--Bly looks up and sees a hooded person beckoning to him. He can’t see their eyes, can’t see anything but brown fabric and smoke and a hand lifted in greeting, which turns its palm away after a second and crooks its fingers. There’s a tickle at the back of his mind, and, his migraine raging so badly that his vision wavers as he jumps down, Bly follows. His brothers are right behind him.

The stranger ducks and weaves through the enraged crowds, avoiding fire and danger deftly. There’s something almost comforting about slipping into their shadow, something familiar and warm that Bly almost doesn’t recognize. For a moment, Bly thinks wildly that the stranger probably has blue skin, but the thought evades him when he tries to examine it more closely.

They are outside of the city limits within fifteen minutes. The figure stops and waits for the clones to approach, never turning to look at them. Bly CC-5052 (Bly?) stops a few feet away, outside of arm’s reach. Just in case. Their head turns, but the hood obscures anything defining.

“Who are you?”

They shake their head. Fair enough.

Why did you save us?”

His brothers--clones--brothers shift on their feet behind him, anxious for the answer. The figure shakes their head again.

“Will you answer any of my questions?” Their shoulders hitch minutely and he gets the distinct feeling he’s being laughed at. For once, it doesn’t seem malicious. It’s refreshing, even if it does intensify the stinging behind Bly’s eyes. “Fine. What do we do now?”

At this, the figure finally reacts. They turn and point into the distance; Bly raises his eyes to the horizon, where a tiny homestead sits beyond the wavy hot air. Then the figure jerks their fingers towards the spaceport that lies in ruin behind them, then points to the sky, and clenches their fist, bringing it to rest in their flat palm. Then they flatten their fist and mime a ship's take-off.

“Lay low out in the Wastes and come back to steal a ship later.” Bly translates. The stranger nods.

Good enough for Bly.

~

The stranger lets them into what can be generously described as a hovel. There are four rooms in total, and the larder underground is nearly empty. It’s completely bare when he and his brothers are finished with it. There are no beds, only a slab of rock in the corner of one room with a threadbare blanket on it. It makes CC-5052’s heart twist in his chest. It makes Bly’s migraine even worse, so bad he has to sit down or trip over his own feet. Grief overwhelms him. He comes to with the stranger’s hand on his shoulder, and a clone--his name was Gardener, he was a Coruscant Guard, he was just a shiny when they blew it all to pieces--counting his breaths for him.

One thing at a time.

“You got anything to hunt with out here?” Bly asks when his lungs don’t feel like they’re the size of straws. The stranger hands him what amounts to a wooden spear.

~

Killing womprats takes all day and into the evening. Bly and his brothers--Gardener and Ink and Database, he knew them once--prowl back through the early twilight and drop them at the stranger’s doorstep. He tries not to feel like a cat bringing home a trophy.

~

“Body heat would keep you warmer than those rags,” Bly says as they settle in for the night. The stranger, who has not dropped one ounce of cloth from their figure the entire time, shakes their head and turns away. They leave the blanket for Ink to use.

The wind howls around them the entire night.

~

Taking the ship is easy; it’s small, privately owned. The slaver driving it won’t be missed. Bly wonders where the auctioneer got off to and how long it might take to find him.

CC-5052 wonders if he shouldn’t report back to the Empire for decommissioning. Bly rejects it. The migraine gets worse, howling in his mind like the wind does out in the Wastes.

The stranger freezes beside him where they’ve been keeping an eye out for any more crew the clones need to take down. A soft palm clasps Bly’s shoulder and the pain recedes.

He tries not to shake them off too harshly, but the last time someone did that, touched him like that--

She’s not here anymore.

Bly resolves not to go back. There’s nothing left in the Empire for him anyway.

They killed everything I ever loved.

He gets sick from the pain in his head. He wonders how long he’ll last on the outside. Something tells him, not long.

~

“We’re taking off soon.”

The stranger nods. Their shoulders are a stiff, hard line against the backdrop of the Tatooine horizon. Bly finds himself at a loss for words, and filled with a sudden desperation to speak.

He finds his voice, choking, hoarse. As the wind howls across the dunes, he has to raise his volume to be heard. “You could come with us.”

It has the opposite effect than he wants; they jerk back, settling into a more defensive posture. Bly raises his hands in submission, but can’t help taking a step forward. “We’re not going back to the Empire, if you’re worried. We--things happened to us there. Because of the Empire--we’re not who we used to be. But we’re free now, and we wouldn’t hurt--”

Sandstorms and windstorms happen quickly on this planet, and a huge gust nearly takes them both off their feet. Sand flies into his face for the second time in as many days, and, coughing, Bly reaches out and blindly finds his savior’s hand. He tugs relentlessly, fumbling his way through the sudden gusts and dust to the overhang where they’ve stashed the ship. He’s thankful his brothers are already on the ship; no one else needs to be caught up in this mess.

“Are you alright?” His gloves are covered in grime and it takes three or four swipes at his eyes before Bly gets his sight clear. He reaches out, catching hold of the stranger's arm as they cough and bend to spit out dirt a few feet away, face hidden by the low light here. Their headscarf has fallen from the wind, their hood flipped down for the first time. His hand brushes their shoulder, fingertips catching against the only exposed skin they have at the base of their throat, and the stranger flinches back instinctively--and then they turn to look at him.

Obi-Wan Kenobi looks older now. His voice is softer. “Commander Bly?”

“Jedi.” The death sentence falls from Bly’s lips without his knowledge and his vision wavers again. The next time the black spots clear away, Bly’s hands are wrapped around Kenobi’s throat and squeezing. The Jedi’s eyes bulge grotesquely, but then Bly’s hands loosen without his consent, flying down to pin themselves by his sides. He topples over and only Kenobi’s quick reflexes stop him from burning his face against the sun warmed sand beneath their feet. The force holding his hands down relents, as if surprised, and Bly scrambles back, his head pounding. CC-5052, who had been receding for days, weeks, maybe even years, surges against him and Bly retches as he lunges again.

Kenobi was always known for his keen battle sense, though, so Bly is hardly surprised when he’s sidestepped. He throws his weight towards the Traitor (Jedi-General-friend) again only to have his outstretched arm caught and folded around his own back. Kenobi lets CC-5052’s weight fall against his own chest, allowing them both to fold gently to the ground. Another arm wraps firmly across CC-5052’s chest, pinning his other arm to his side. Spittle and froth foam at his lips, choking him, but Kenobi does not let go.

It feels as if a rusted spike has been driven through CC-5052’s skull. Adrenaline is making him shake, as if he’ll fall apart.

“No, my friend,” Kenobi says, almost too quiet over the animal sounds caught in CC-5052’s throat. “You’re having a seizure. You’re ill. Whatever has been done to you--it’s breaking down.”

Bly jerks and spits and gasps his way out from under CC-5052’s influence in fits and starts.

“I--I didn’t--I didn’t mean to attack--”

“I can sense that, Commander.” When Bly fails to strain against his hold any longer, Kenobi’s fingers raise to tentatively touch his temple. “You’ve got pain, here, all the time. It intensified when you attacked, and your presence slipped away. Faded, like a radio signal from far off. Like--like Cody’s did.”

Bly doesn’t have to ask what Kenobi means.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and then something snaps and he can’t seem to stop. Years of torment, too built up to be pushed back. “I’m--I’m so sorry. I--I never wanted--we never meant to--I’m sorry.”

“You need not apologize, Bly.” Kenobi’s touch is soothing, as much as it prompts his migraine to rekindle.  “You need not be sorry. It was not you.”

Her face drifts before his eyes, overlapping Kenobi’s when he meets the man’s eyes. She loved Bly, he knows she did. Bly loved her too. Suddenly, it’s all-important to tell Kenobi of this, for someone to know, for a Jedi to know.

“I loved her.”

“She knew.”

It feels like absolution.

“We loved you all.” Bly says, the final, most agonizing confession. “We loved the Jedi.”

“We loved the Vode.” Kenobi assures gently. Then his fingers find Bly’s temple again and the world goes a pleasant, fuzzy white. “We loved you all too.”

It feels like a gift.

~

Bly wakes up with three of his brothers, a stolen ship, and only the memory of a stranger with a fading smile to account for his time on Tatooine.

[ateezmakemeweep]

you’re the one that i want (part 18)

word count: 5k

angst (tw: abuse)

(part 17) (series masterlist)

tag list: @chogiout ; @psshwa ; @yeocult ; @seongghwaa ; @cherryeonii ; @chaoticbanqtan ; @8teenee ; @nczenniez ; @atinyarmyx1 ; @mingtopiaa ; @chubsluda ; @joongiebug ; @mochibabycakes ; @jisungity ; @skz-on-my-mind ; @nlost21 ; @myonlyaurora ; @closer-stars ; @kuaenam3g ; @byungaji ; @floweryjh ; @joeycheungg ; @lostscenarios ; @atinyxtopia ; @sanisms ; @kpopnightingale ; @simpforhyunjin ; @89staytinyzen21 ; @lokicaramel ; @hwaxbum ; @sakura-uji ; @songsoomin ; @toffee-hwa ; @deobitiful ; @hyunjeansuniverse ; @clown-teez ; @i-know-you-know-lee-know ; @tiny-whatsername ; @fairieofeternity ; @yixing-jaehyun ; @sleepyseonghwa ; @revehosh ; @atletino ; 

if you thought your hangover was gonna be the worst part of your saturday, you were sadly mistaken. because you hadn’t accounted for the emotional turmoil you’d be in over seonghwa, remembering how you could barely rip yourself away from him when you saw san run outside looking for you. 

the blonde had all but snatched you away from the boy and gave him a nasty look, his ex friend looking at him with a defeated look in his eye before leaving you two alone. 

“what happened?” he asked quietly, his small hands on your face wiping at your tears. you shake your head as the salty wetness leaks from your eyes, shaking your head before collapsing against him.

“can we please just leave? i can’t be here anymore.”

san takes your hands in his, looking over at the squeak of the door and stiffening when he sees wooyoung; their eyes meet and san can’t help but think back to the conversation he ran from, the black haired boy pulling him into a spare room so he could talk to him in private. 

but it was always in private and san was getting sick of it. he knew he didn’t want his friends knowing about how...in depth their relationship was and he was okay with that; if he wasn’t ready for them to know, that was fine, he understood. but to hide their friendship? something completely pure that everyone knew was a thing since they were kids?

he listened to the excuse that they would know, that they would see their lingering gazes or subtle touches and find out what changed in both of them that summer. but san pushed the boy away and cursed at him, being grabbed back roughly which led to a screaming match that ended very similarly to yours. 

“me either,” he says to you, pressing a kiss to your head before walking you guys down the block to wait for your uber. 

you slept at san’s house and you both now attempted to get down a stack of pancakes as you regretfully filled each other in on what the hell happened last night. 

“well, so much for not taking their shit,” san whined, a tiny snort leaving your mouth before your eyes widen in realization. 

“oh, my god, hyunjin! i feel so bad, i didn’t say goodbye to him.”

“he asked me for your number but i...didn’t know if you’d want that so i told him  i’d talk to you first.” 

you let out a sigh, feeling a tugging at your heart because you liked him. he was sweet and funny and it was just a bonus that he was so fucking handsome. but you weren’t good for him right now and he definitely deserved better. someone more attentive and not so hung up their stupid summer love. 

“thank you,” you tell san softly, smiling as you lean against him on the couch. “but i don’t think that’d be a good idea right now.” the blonde nods his head knowingly, stretching out on the couch before patting his lap. 

“let’s spend your first day hungover right,” he said, making you giggle as you settled your head on him. he laid the blanket out over you and played with your hair as you watched a movie marathon, his gentle touches lulling you to sleep before you woke a few hours later.

you felt a bit better but still had a lingering headache, the walk home from san’s house making the pounding in your temples resurface. 

and then, as if today couldn’t make you feel any worse, your parents car in the driveway made your heart sink and stomach twist anxiously; what were they doing home? they weren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow afternoon. 

and the second they see you stumble in with your clothes from last night in hand and san’s sweatpants and sweatshirt, it begins. their questioning and shaming and harsh words, asking you where the fuck you were last night and if you were whoring around while living under their roof.

“i was with san, my coworker.”

you mentioned him once or twice at dinner but are sure they don’t remember; your mom had been in unusually good spirits that night, talking your ear off and smiling at you. 

but today’s reaction is very different, a snide laugh as she asks if he’s your new boyfriend now; “moved on from your beach boy it seems,” she says snidely. 

your eyebrows pull together, swallowing the need to defend yourself because it won’t even matter and you’re tired. you’re just so tired of everyone and everything today, wanting nothing more than to lay in your bed and fall asleep again. 

you shrug your shoulders and bow your head, attempting to walk past them. but your dad has other ideas, grabbing your arm roughly and pushing you against the wall. your head bounces off the white paint and you wince at the pain, a quiet “ow,” causing him to scoff. 

“your mother was talking to you, don’t be disrespectful.” don’t be disrespectful, he says, after bashing your head into the wall. 

“i don’t know what she wants me to say.”

“how ‘bout telling us about what you did last night,” she hums lowly, standing next to your dad in a way that makes you feel completely ganged up on. 

because even though you always are, it’s really bad right now. the obvious irritation between them about to be taken out on you, something about the look in their eyes making you very unsettled.

“i told you i was with my friend,” you say quietly, completely submissive and exhausted at the idea of conflict.

but her eyebrow raises at the same time your dad rolls his eyes, watching you carefully as he looks down at your clothes in your hand. “why are you in his clothes? did you sleep there?”

you bite the inside of your cheek, looking down at the floor and hearing your mom throw her head back in laughter. “oh, y/n...” she says mockingly, your body flinching away when she reaches out to stroke your hair. “what has happened to you? sneaking out with boys when your parents are out.” 

and then suddenly, you fall to your knees as she tugs the strand harshly. you let out a cry and wonder why the fuck they’re doing this to you. why they always feel the need to hurt you and make you feel horrible. 

why did they have a child? did they just wanna feel powerful, see how much they could disrespect and neglect another human being?

“i- i didn’t do anything bad.”

and even though you were just yanked down to the floor, you dad grabs your arm roughly and pulls you up. your wrist nearly snaps as he yells in your face, asking if that’s the case, why do you seem hungover right now?

your skin turns even more pale and he shakes his head, his hold on your wrist tightening to the point where tears prick your eyes.

“you’re hurting me,” you whimper out. 

you feel like you say that a lot these days but no one ever seems to care. they just keep hurting you, his hand yanking you away from your mom before a prompt slap across your face. 

“we didn’t think you’d do this if we went away but here you go, proving us wrong and betraying our trust.” 

a tear rolls down your cheek and it only appears to infuriate him more. he goes to slap you again but you quickly move away, cracking your head into the corner of the wall and letting out a loud yelp.

your hand flies to your head where you know is gonna bruise, but your dad rips it away again. his hand gets tighter and tighter around your wrist to the point where you think he’s about to fracture it, whimpering out for him to please please stop. 

“we won’t warn you again, y/n,” he growls lowly, something painfully shifting in your wrist and making you cry out again. “don’t give us fucking trouble and we won’t have to do this.” 

you meet his gaze and see nothing but anger and rage and disgust looking back at you, getting shoved away from him and falling onto your butt in the dark hallway. your parents loom over you in a way that makes you think they’re gonna continue their assault on you, kick or slap you some more and really make you regret doing this. 

but they only look at you before walking into the kitchen unbothered, panic stirring in your chest before you scurry backward into your room. you close and lock your door before resting your head against it, silencing your cries into your knees.

you drown out the sound of your parents screaming and yelling at each other, jumping when harsh banging and insults are shouted through your door. calling you all sorts of names and cursing at you like you can even hear them through your pounding ears.

you feel a bump forming on your head, making the throbbing ache in your temples ten times worse. you try to move your wrist but wince at the sharp pain that rushes through it, trying to breathe through your ragged cries and sobs.

you can’t do this anymore. 

you can’t keep walking on eggshells and dealing with these outbursts that leave you battered and bruised and hurting. can’t keep making excuses for them that you were in the wrong and deserved some sort of punishment. that because this happened, they might not hit or yell at you for the next few days.

your phone buzzing in your pocket causes you to jump, your heart soaring at the idea of seonghwa’s name popping up right now; he saved you last time from them so maybe he’ll do it again. 

but it’s san asking if you got home okay attached with a selfie of him on his couch with a pout. you can only send him a heart back before moving to seonghwa’s name, your shaky fingers typing out a message to him. 

but then as you stare at the three pathetic words, you can’t find it in yourself to send it. instead, you throw your phone across the room and bury your face in your arms. because if you told him clear as day in words that you needed him and he ignored it, you don’t think you’d ever recover.

it’d make your desperate attempts to calm your breathing even more difficult.

but it feels as if you can’t breathe even into the next day, not once leaving your room to eat or get a drink of water; you only pee once and that’s when you take a drink from the faucet, splashing cold water on your face and wincing at the bruise on your head and deep, red markings on your swollen wrist. 

and even though you spend most of that sunday sleeping, you can’t find it in yourself to go to school on monday. 

you woke up and couldn’t imagine dealing with anything, schoolwork or teachers or avoiding seonghwa. you text san that you won’t be in school but will be there for your shift at 3:30, knowing you’ll have to be out of the house to not tip off your parents. 

because you think if they catch you in another lie, they’ll make your throbbing head and wrist feels ten times worse. 

“jesus christ, y/n, were you running like 20 miles an hour when you hit into the cabinet?” 

you knew it was cliche but you had to think of something. 

because the egg on your head looked as bad as it felt and you knew san was gonna question it. so a breathy little laugh left your mouth as you shrugged, redness creeping on your face as you easily lie to san about being clumsy. 

“there’s clumsy and then there’s reckless, y/n, let me get you a-”

“san,” you hear a familiar voice growl. and it’s at that moment your head snaps up and you see seonghwa’s face fall, looking over you before his eyes widen when he sees your head.

“where were you?” he demands as he walks toward you, not even noticing san’s hands on you as panic sets in on his body. what happened to your head? that bump hadn’t been there when he saw you two days ago. 

he knew something was wrong when he didn’t see you in homeroom. he felt it in the pit of his stomach and his mind hadn’t stopped racing since then, becoming even more frantic when he saw san sitting alone at lunch. 

he couldn’t explain why but the memory of seeing you with your parents swarmed his mind, the look of fear in your eyes and the way your dad was so quick to jump up and tower over you in your aunt’s backyard.

"i know she's your sister so i'm not implying anything," he said bluntly over the table, the cup of chamomile tea she always offers him but he rarely drinks next to him. "but she's so scared to go back to them and i...do they hit her?"

"they're assholes, seonghwa, i'll be the first to tell you...but i don't think they would physically harm her." 

he held on to your aunt’s words all day but right now, they’re no longer comforting him. not with that way you’re practically shaking under his gaze and how that bump appears to just grow bigger and bigger. 

“i...i wasn’t feeling good this morning.”

his eyebrows pull together and he moves closer, reaching out to take your face in his hand. you hold your breath as he turns your head to the side, assesing your face carefully as tears prick your eyes because this is too much. he can’t find out, he can’t see you break down and finally admit what’s been haunting you since the day you were born. 

“does this have something to do with it?” 

your eyes apprehensively meet his and you swallow nervously at the look in them, blazing with hot determination and it’s then you realize there’s no getting out of this. that he feels something is wrong, the same way he was always so in tune with how you felt and read you so well. 

you’re saved by the ding of an oven in the back room, the cookies san put in twenty minutes ago needing to be taken out to cool. it’s the perfect excuse to rip your face away from seonghwa and shake your head, mumbling to san that you’ll get them before leaving the boys. 

seonghwa waits until the door closes to look at his old friend, the blonde looking at him with an unreadable expression. 

“what did she say happened?” 

san purses his lips to the side, biting the inside of his cheek before reluctantly speaking; he can tell the boy is frantic and plagued with worry. he’d been like that at lunch too, he noticed, bouncing his leg or rocking anxiously in a way he knows he does when he’s unsettled. 

“she walked into a cabinet.”

seonghwa rolls his eyes as he lets out a groan, his hand falling into a fist so he doesn’t punch the counter and make san angry; but holy fuck, is he serious? is he really buying that?

“do you actually fucking believe that?” he snaps, san’s face immediately pulling into confusion; why wouldn’t he?

“why the hell wouldn’t i?” he questions, looking at seonghwa who’s gotten considerably more anger and agitated. 

but it’s then the boy realizes you probably didn’t tell him about your parents.

about how they treat you and how many problems you have with them. he hasn’t seen the way they look at you or act around you, doesn’t have this overwhelming inclination that they did that to you, something that’s about to make him lose his shit if it’s true.

“seonghwa? why wouldn’t i? why would she...why would she lie?”

seonghwa bites the inside of his cheek before the door swings open, your eyes meeting his before you place the plate of cookies down. you can feel the tension in the air, san’s eyes on seonghwa while his are on you. 

“can i talk to you outside for a second?” seonghwa asks you quietly, your eyes widening as a lump forms in your throat. you get unnerved when instead of butting in, san only looks between you and him with curious eyes. 

you look at seonghwa and shake your head, feeling tears burn the back of your eyes. “i don’t think that’s a good idea, i have to do this-”

“i’ll do it,” san says, something about seonghwa’s words and intensity making him, surprisingly, side with the boy who’s hurt you so much. because he can see clear as day the concern and desperation in his gaze. you snap your head to look at the blonde and his gaze softens, attempting to give you courage through his eyes. 

you let out a sigh of defeat before walking out from behind the counter, you and seonghwa’s arms bumping as he opens the door for you. you lean your shoulder against the glass window with your head casted down, your eyes focusing on the scuffs in seonghwa’s shoes. 

he allows the silence for a few seconds before softly calling your name, a shaky exhale leaving your mouth before you look at him.

“what happened?” 

you press your lips together so you don’t cry out, begging the tears not to fall as you shake your head. “nothing, i walked into a cabinet.” 

seonghwa’s jaw tightens as he looks away from you, air blowing from his nose as he lets out a scoff. 

“what did i say about lying to me?”

you can’t even find it in you to say something snarky or roll your eyes, looking up at him with glossy eyes. “i’m not lying,” you say quietly, your lower lip wobbling and eyes becoming wet. 

his eyes soften as his eyes roam your face, taking a step closer as he takes your face in his hands. “then why are you about to cry?”

“i’m not,” you snap, moving your face out of his hold before you step back. “always seems to happen when you’re around though.” his eyes narrow at the way you turn defensive, knowing while there’s truth to your words, that’s not what this is about. 

there’s something more tugging behind your eyes, backing away from him and dropping your gaze because he knows the power you both hold over each other is too much.

“i won’t deny that, baby, and i’m sorry but that’s not it,” he says, reaching out to tug you closer to him. a breathy sigh leaves your mouth as you feel your resolve breaking, his eyes on you too much because you just want to melt into his soft touch. 

but if you do that, you’ll break completely today. and it’s already all too much for you. 

“please tell me what happened,” he says quietly against your head. “remember what i said? whenever you needed me, i’d be there?” 

you can’t help but laugh as you pull yourself away from him because that’s not fucking fair in the slightest.

“did you just remember that? where was that memory months ago, seonghwa?” 

he licks at his lips anxiously, knowing that you have a point. but this is completely different. this is a matter of you being harmed and that’s something he cannot stand. 

“this is different and we both know that, y/n,” he says quietly, his hand raising to touch the bump on your head again; but you move away before he can make contact with you.

“can you only be the one that hurts me?” you suddenly snap, not even realizing the words as his hypocrisy irks your broken spirit. but that sounds like an admission of some kind to him, his dark eyes flaring as he walks closer to you.

“so someone did hurt you,” his deep voice, your teary eyes rolling as you move away from him. 

“of course that’s what you got out of that,” you laugh out humorlessly, shaking your head before your eyebrows pull together. “yes, seonghwa. someone did hurt me. a cabinet.” 

he lets out a huff as he tries to reign in his anger, his jaw clenching at the way you snap at him. 

“baby, i know you’re mad and i get that. but you need to fucking stop-”

“you need to fucking stop,” you yelp, your voice breaking as the tears behind your eyes surface and voice wobbles. “you...can’t keep doing this. why can’t you just leave me alone? i...we said we were done and it was going well so why all the sudden are you-”

“who. hurt you,” he asks, stepping forward and taking your face in his hands. his thumbs rub over your wet skin before he reaches up to the bump on your head, wincing as a quiet whimper leaves your mouth. 

“tell me. talk to me, baby.”

your lower lip wobbles at the softly spoken tone of his voice, setting off every memory in your brain from when he’d sound like that in your bed. with the sun streaming through your open balcony doors as his breath tickled your neck. or quietly spoken into your salty skin on the moonlit beach.

when it seemed as if you two would never have to face anything that bad and could just kiss and laugh in the sun or behind closed doors.

“please stop,” you whisper quietly, shaking your head as you’re smacked back and forth with anger and sadness and defeat. “it doesn’t matter.”

“how can you say that?” he growls lowly in your ear, anger ripping through him. 

how could you really think it doesn’t matter when he’s here ready to kill the person who did that (even though he already has a good idea of who it was). he holds your wavering gaze before letting out a sigh, his thumb caressing your face softly in a way that makes your chest feel heavier. 

“tell me, y/n. don’t lie to me. you know it never fucking worked.”

except it did, you think. it did work and you need it to keep working. but you feel yourself breaking down because of him too and you’re not sure how much longer you can put it off.

your tongue peeks out to lick over your lips anxiously, shaking your head at him.

“i can’t,” you say quietly, voice barely above a whisper. 

he tightens his hold on your face, desperate and pleading as he breaths out your name. you can’t tear your gaze away from him no matter how much you want too, feeling your eyes grow more and more wet.

“seonghwa, it’s not-”

“hey, you creep! why do you keep following her?” 

both your heads snap back, your eyebrows pulling together when you see two girls standing outside the cafe. and it’s not until she stalks forward and her friend grabs her hand that you recognize the both of them from the party.

“jojo, you can’t just-”

“she was cornered by him and crying last time,” the girl says, looking over you with concern in her eyes. “we just wanted croissants and now we have to-”

“i’m not cornering her, i’m trying to talk to her,” seonghwa snaps, this abrasive girl’s timing absolutely fucking terrible. “so why don’t you mind your business?”

“why don’t i mind my business when i see an asshole like you constantly in this girl’s face?” she snaps back, her friend’s desperate pleas telling her to stop. you even try to tell her it’s okay before seonghwa growls again, his hands dropping from your face as he asks who she is to say that shit. 

“seonghwa, it’s fine, she’s just trying to-”

“what’s going on?”

the four of you look at san whose blonde head is poking outside the door, the tension in the air thick. he’d been watching you both closely through the window before he noticed you two snap your heads away from one another, a dark and irritated look crossing seonghwa’s face he knew was not a good sign.

“this asshole is harassing her again!” 

“this asshole knows her, unlike you,” seonghwa argues back, “so seems like you’re the fucking creep.” 

your hand grabs his arm to pull him closer to you, his head snapping back and face immediately softening when he sees the tears in your eyes, knowing the last thing you want right now is more conflict .

“oh really? because it seems like-”

“it’s fine, she’s okay,” san softly assures the girl. “he was just leaving anyway. y/n has to get back to work.” seonghwa looks at the blonde who immediately shakes his head, a stern look in his eye that actually causes him to sigh. 

seonghwa looks down at you again, frowning at the sad look on your face. he wipes at your face with his thumb before lifting your chin. “we’ll talk more tomorrow, okay?” and because you know you probably don’t have a choice, you let out a sigh and nod your head. 

it takes him a few seconds to pull himself away from you, the bump on your head and sadness in your eyes making his stomach knot. he gives the mouthy girl a dirty look before thanking san quietly, the two girls not saying a word until seonghwa’s a few feet away. 

“jojo! you have to stop doing this,” the smaller girl says, smacking her friend in the arm before turning her gaze to you. “i am so so sorry. she knows no boundaries and she’s only trying to help but-”

“it’s okay,” you laugh out humorlessly, shaking your head as you wipe at your face in embarrassment. “he really was just talking to me. but i...i do tend to cry in his presence.”

“well thats sucky of him,” jojo says. a small smile coveing your face as you nod, moving your gaze to the san. “i’m sorry,” you say softly. but the blonde only shakes his head and opens the door wider, ushering you three in with dimply smile on display. 

“did you guys say you wanted croissants?” you ask the girls, both of them nodding guiltily. you smile softly as you prepare them and san rings them up, the three of them talking quietly. 

“so they just told me they saw you and seonghwa at the party too?” 

“yeah,” you say, plopping down the two plates with a sigh. “when he had me pinned against the wall insisting he loves me.”

“now that,” jojo says, croissant raised to her mouth with her eyebrows raised, “sounds interesting.”

“oh jesus christ, jo, please learn to respect boundaries,” the other girl says, smiling dismissively as she’s about pull them away. but then something in you causes you to speak again, maybe because you’ve never had girls to ask their opinions on and they seem like the best option you could get. 

“i know you barely know me and this might be weird,” you find yourself saying,  “but it’d be nice to get another perspective from someone who isn’t....him,” you say, turning around to see san stealing his 4th cookie from the jar. 

“please!” jojo squeals, pulling up two chairs to the counter as her friend politely nods; she’s more shy and reserved but open nonetheless, introducing herself as bo-ra and insisting you don’t have to delve into your personal information despite the way her friend has inserted herself into it twice now. 

you giggle softly, your sad spirit oddly lifting in the presence of these two strangers. but there’s something comforting about them, interested in the perspective of two girls who you also know will have two very different thoughts. 

“so let’s hear it!” jojo says excitedly, plopping down in her seat not at all prepared for the story she was about to get. 

a story of summer love and a budding relationship, where you two truly opened up and let each other in. where it seemed as if maybe two months was enough time to fall in love, if the look in your eye or smile on your face as you retold it wasn’t a good enough indication.

san watched with a frown as you recounted the memories, your voice twinged with amusement as you told them about surfing before your eyes turned teary, explaining how the days counting down till the time you had to leave were miserable. how sad and heartbroken and upset you were that you’d no longer be together.

“so you could only imagine my surprise when i saw him in my homeroom,” you tell them, jojo and bo-ra clutching onto one another, two more croissants gone. 

“shut up!” jojo squeals, “that’s crazy!”

“there are so many other places you could’ve moved!”

“i know,” you say with a small smile before it quickly falls off your face. “but you would’ve thought he never saw me in his life. he just...completely avoided me.” and getting through the past few months with him was a whole lot harder and sadder to hear, hurt laced in your tone that makes san rub your back gently.

“and i get it, i do, i came out of nowhere and probably shocked him. but...for him to act like that? why...it makes me feel like he lied the whole summer.”

“exactly!” jojo says. “and like what’s the big deal? he has to keep up some stupid fake image? that’s literally sick of him. what the fuck?”

“there could be more to it, jo, only they really-”

“SICK!” 

you smile sadly as you shrug your shoulders, looking at bo-ra who’s biting down on her lip. “be honest,” you tell her quietly, seeing the hesitation on her face. “i blurted all of this out after knowing you for five minutes because i wanted girl’s opinions.”

“well we’re friends now, that’s for sure,” she giggles. “but i don’t know. it’s definitely not right what’s he’s doing obviously and he doesn’t deserve for you to forgive him so easily. but i will say that he probably prepared himself for leaving you more than you know. he probably came home and had already checked out of his emotions and seeing you again caught you him off guard.”

you bite the inside of your cheek as you nod your head. 

“even so, though, he shouldn’t treat her like this. he knows she’s upset and he’s so easily avoiding her,” jojo says. but san only lets out a snort and shakes his head. 

“definitely not easily. if he’s not watching her, he’s begging her to talk and listen to him. it’s obvious to everyone he likes her but when it comes time to admit it, he’s a-”

“stupid teenage boy. and admitting it is what matters so he’s really dropping the ball,” jojo says. and all three of you can agree with that, nodding your head with a sigh. 

“yeah. i don’t know,” you sigh out. “because i really do...care about him. and i know he cares about me too. he was just so... good, you know, and i miss him even though i see him everyday.”

it’s a sentiment that you’ve thought about all too much these past few weeks, how you see the same face and hear the same voice and have your body react to him the same way but still miss him. miss his smile and soft touch and sweet words that without fail made you feel better. 

“maybe tomorrow, without interruption, you can get it all out in the open. for good,” bo-ra suggests. “no more back and forth. really get everything out and tell him you guys have to come to a decision. either forget about everything for good, for real this time, or be with each other again.”

(part 19)

[sanababes]

Saviour pt. 2

Pairings: g!p reader x Lee Gahyeon

Warnings: a/b/o dynamics (alpha!reader & omega!gahyeon), soft smut that makes me soft :D

-----------

Your heavy but long strides echoed throughout your house, an unreadable expression was written on your face as you gripped the almost-wrecked phone in your hand. This simply happened after a certain message was sent from Gahyeon, "Y/n, I need you right now."

Since the incident from the party, you promised Gahyeon that you'll protect her from anything, suddenly having a feeling of responsibility for the latter wasn't new to you. But rather, it's possible that you have another reason for it.

You learned that the omega only lives in a tacky and unlovely dormitory, her parents are also miles away from her which results in her lack of contact with other people except for a few friends. And by that, you proposed to let her live in your mansion since there's a lot of unoccupied rooms. It took a while for her to fully decide but she agreed nonetheless.

But right now, nothing was running on your mind except for Gahyeon's well-being.

"Where is she?" you glanced at Jeongyeon, the latter was clearly trying to keep up with your quick steps.

"Gahyeon is in her room, Miss." your servant answered. "She doesn't want any of us to come in and insisted that she wanted to see you, and you only."

Your worries ceased for a bit, but it wasn't enough to calm your nerves wholly. Gahyeon is not the type who'll pull up something like this unless it's really necessary.

You pressed your lips together before drawing one in to run your tongue over it. You can feel your heart thump against your chest tremendously as you reached out slowly to grab the door knob. Giving Jeongyeon a one last look, you nodded your head and dismissed her before twisting the door open.

"Gahyeon–"

Her mellow scent immediately greets you, but it was stronger than before and a hint of her arousal almost made your knees weak.

Your hand that grips the door knob loosen itself as you took a whole lot of willpower to walk inside Gahyeon's room. Her pheromones filled the whole place, then you looked around to see her balled up in the corner, soft whimpers left her plump lips. You can hear muffled sobs coming from the latter which made your heart ache for a bit.

"Gahyeon-ah, I'm here. Stop crying, okay?" You held her into your arms whilst kissing her forehead softly.

You can feel her clutch onto your shoulders, her face also finding its way into the crook of your neck. Her body is slightly trembling so you decided to carry her carefully to the bed.

"Y-Y/n… I don't feel s-so well," she mumbled, almost inaudible but you managed to catch her words. 

You sighed lowly before proceeding to check her temperature, she's a little warmer than usual and you promptly looked down to check on the wet patch by her crotch, you perceived that it was her own slick, before letting the girl melt into your own embrace.

Gahyeon wrapped her arms around your neck and began to calm down from her cries earlier. You propped your arms between her sides so your weight wouldn't crush on the latter too much. 

"You have a mild fever, it's better for me to get some wet towels to cool you off." you explained, knowing it wasn't really the whole truth.

The girl beneath you just replied with a whine, shaking her head in the process. You just huffed out a breath then shoved your head into the pillow near Gahyeon's head, wishing it to help in minimizing the amount of her pheromones that you're currently inhaling.

"Y/n," Gahyeon suddenly calls out.

You instantly hummed, letting her know that she'd got your attention.

"Can you let off your scent for me…?"

You let out a noise of confusion, your eyebrows furrowed as you stared down at the blushing omega. Her hands unconsciously gripped your triceps while she waited for your answer. You almost cooed at the sight, but you tried to compose yourself.

"Huh? There's no need to do that and uh, you're just a little sick right?" you stated with such concern.

Gahyeon just chuckled softly at your statement, she already knew what's happening to her. It's just the thought of being vulnerable and susceptible to other alphas made her overthink as soon as her first heat took place. 

But she knew that you'll be there for her.

"Stop lying, I know that I'm in my heat cycle." the omega said which caught you off guard.

'I guess she's aware of it already…'

You sighed in defeat before reluctantly emitting your scent slowly but surely, not wanting to overwhelm Gahyeon. Muffled hums came from the girl as she buried her face deeper into your neck, the feeling of her lips against your skin made you shudder lightly.

"Is this enough?" you asked, hesitating at the moment.

Gahyeon just replied with what you discern as a moan, your face flushed immediately and you practically melted due to the latter's influence. 

You decided to distract yourself by playing with the purple locks of the omega, tangling them gently into your fingers, then untangling them back again before scratching her head to form a sense of comfort. You knew how hard it was for omegas when they're in heat, you knew too well from the experiences you had in the past. It makes them suffer, and your scent can be the least that you can do for Gahyeon.

You winced internally as the sweet and calming scent from the omega was starting to take a toll on your body. The aching tightness in your slacks wasn't doing any good for you too. 

'Just relax, Y/n. You're here for Gahyeon's comfort and not for your own…'

You closed your eyes in silent agony, slowly resting your head into the pillow once again.

"Y/n, a-are you alright?" you heard Gahyeon whisper, her hot breath fanning against the shell of your ear. 

"Of course, I am... How 'bout you?" you managed to say without stuttering.

Gahyeon just laughed breathlessly, you were curious as to why you've met her hooded gaze. 

"You're really selfless, aren't you?"

"Uhm to strangers, not really, but if they're someone I dear the most then I suppose I might be."

Her hands slid up to your cheeks then she began to caress them tenderly, making you lean into her touch. Her eyes reflect a beauty that you can only see, you couldn't help but to fall deeper with or without context. 

The next thing that happened made butterflies erupt from your stomach… Gahyeon pulled you in for a kiss.

Her mouth slotted perfectly into yours, your body weakened as your lips danced against hers. When you mustered the strength to pull away, you looked dazed as ever. 

This made Gahyeon giggle as she pecked your lips again, "I love you, Y/n."

Her words made you flash a bright smile, one that she will treasure the most. 

"Really? Well, I- uhm, I love you too…" you avoided her gaze sheepishly, a small bit of your pride for being an alpha is injured as you can't help but to feel soft for the omega below you.

'I can't bear to watch Siyeon's and the other girls' reaction once they know about this...'

Gahyeon suddenly whimpered as she began to breathe heavily, she felt warmness creep beneath her skin and waves of heat ignited and burned through her core. She was visibly panicking as you tried your best to ease her frustrations. 

But then, nothing was working anymore. Your scent still couldn't calm her down and you tried all possible solutions, you had no choice left.

All of a sudden, you remembered your previous conversation with Chan.

"What if those alternatives don't work? I know that sometimes, heats are very hard to handle."

Chan took a sip of his tea that you had just prepared. He had an apologetic smile on his face before answering, "Then you'll need to leave her alone as she suffers for a week."

"...There's one more way though, but I'm sure it will never even be one of your options," he added.

You shrugged your shoulders, "I wouldn't know, unless you tell me."

He chuckled lightly and leaned back on his seat.

"Then, you'll have to mate her."

Unbeknownst to you, your knuckles turned white from the deadly grip you had on Gahyeon's bedsheet. 

"I can't… do that," you mumbled under your breath.

Gahyeon lets out a yelp when she accidentally brushed her core against your bulging crotch. You also flinched at the touch but that wasn't your priority at the moment, you were still in conflict with your thoughts.

"Y-Y/n, I can't h-help it anymore…"

You were about to ask what's wrong when a sharp pain in the junction of your neck and shoulder interrupted you from doing so. You bit back a moan as your ragged breath fanned across Gahyeon's shoulder, her shirt's neckline reveals the luscious flesh and almost reached her breasts.

"You just marked me," you uttered with amusement.

The omega gasped in realization and began to blabber tons of apologies, you just chuckled and grabbed her wrists before pinning them above her head.

"I want to help you, Gahyeon-ah" you pressed a soft kiss on her lips. "It will be much more painful if you keep resisting your heat and there's nothing I can do–"

"Then, just take me!" 

Your eyes widened at her sudden bluntness.

"Are you sure? I have some suppressants and inhibit–"

"No, I don't need any of those," Gahyeon peered up through her lashes, hands bunched up on the waistline of your blouse. "I'm ready…" she purred softly.

You immediately leaped into action, discarding all of Gahyeon's clothes while trailing kisses on her chest, down to her midriff, until you reached the wetness between her legs. The latter's breath growed heavier as you began to lap on her slit whilst pinning her hips down by wrapping your hands around her thighs. You groaned at the sweet taste of her slick, licking up her clit and swirling the working muscle around the swollen bud.

"You taste so good, baby girl." you hummed to the omega as her back arches off and her eyes closed in ecstasy.

You moved your tongue faster as you kept your eyes focused in Gahyeon's each and every move, the thin layer of sweat on her body emphasizes the contraction of her muscles in her abdomen, and her arched and glossy neck makes her look pretty as ever.

"I-I'm close! Y/n, ngh~" Gahyeon moaned desperately as she reached down to tug on your hair.

You rubbed her sides in a comforting manner, and within just a minute, the girl came down from her high while loud whines and moans spilled out from her mouth. Her body twitches as you continue to lick her through, then she grabbed one of your hands and pulled you up to meet her with a passionate kiss. Her tongue dipped into your wet cavern as she sneakily draped her arms around your neck. You let her take control for a while, your hands sliding down to caress the soft flesh on her chest. Gahyeon moaned at the contact, you took it as an advantage so you pulled away and began to nip and suck on her neck, leaving light bruises but you didn't dare to mark her fully without her consent.

Carrying on with your duties, you started to leave kisses on her mounds. Taking one of her nipples into your mouth whilst fondling on the other. At the same time, Gahyeon's cute little noises made your heart swell. It makes you more eager to pleasure the girl as she goes through her first heat.

The omega suddenly nudges her thigh between your crotch, teasingly rubbing her knee against the hardened member beneath your pants. You abruptly groaned at the touch, Gahyeon even thought that you're going to push her away but thankfully, you let continue and even grinded against her thigh.

"Y/n, fill me up please~" she cooed, her cheeks reddened as she gnawed on her lower lip.

You looked up and hesitantly hovered your hand over the zipper of your slacks, "Are you really sure? No backing out or something– hey!"

Gahyeon was too impatient to even care right now, she cuts you off and began to undo your pants and removed your boxers immediately after. You huffed out a breath that you've been holding as she started to pump your cock against her hands slowly. The look on her face didn't take so long to make you fully hard in her touch, deciding that she'd waited so long, you pushed her back down to the bed and guided her hands onto your back for her to hold on.

"Tell me if you ever want me to stop, okay?" you pecked her lips and she quickly responded with a nod.

"What's your safe word, baby?" Gahyeon blushed at the given nickname but she answered immediately.

"Pink."

You smiled softly before rubbing the head of your length in her folds, letting her slick cover the tip as you pushed yourself in, inch by inch. Gahyeon immediately clenched her walls around you, your breathing hitched at the feeling. 

You began thrusting in a comfortable pace as hushed moans were elicited from the both of you. The omega wrapped her legs around your waist and pulled you closer so she could bury her face into your neck, it was something she found as a source of your familiar warmth.

"Fuck," you moaned out while hitting Gahyeon's sweet spot repeatedly.

You can hear the girl chanting your name as you began to ram deeper inside her, you just couldn't help it due to her warm and tight, velvety walls that kept you going. 

A low groan came from you when you felt Gahyeon sinking her nails into your back, "Ahh, Y/n~ I'm cumming!"

You can hear strangled whines from the latter as your hips started to stutter. You can feel her walls clenching around your cock which made you breathlessly moan against the skin of her neck. 

"That's it, baby. Cum for me."

You thrust became slower but it still touches all the right spots of the writhing omega beneath you. She lets out a deep breath as her orgasm shoots through her core. Then you glanced down at the slick oozing from her cunt, pulling out gently before pumping your hand vigorously on your cock as you tried to reach your own high. 

"Oh god…" You growled huskily, letting out strings of white rope into the bedsheet as Gahyeon watched you fervently. You had your head thrown back in pleasure while a groan of the omega's name left your lips. You slowly collapsed beside Gahyeon and let your breath steady, earning a chuckle from her.

"Ughh, I think my back stings…" you mumbled which didn't go unheard by the latter.

She lets out a small giggle before climbing on top of you and slipping your softened shaft inside her with a single thrust. You grunted in surprise as she felt your cock throb not-so-slightly.

"Relax, my saviour. I just think that keeping you warm might calm you down," She whispered teasingly before planting a kiss on your cheek and rested her head on your chest.

Your body just became stiff as you tried not to move too much, and at the same time, Gahyeon's consciousness floats away and she quickly falls asleep in your hold. You sighed in content while wrapping your arms around the omega's petite frame, and it didn't take long before you joined her fast asleep.

(a/n: yay! my first work of 2021 😌 thank you for waiting patiently HSHSHS i know that you guys anticipated for this so I'M HERE TO SERVE RIGHT NOW)

[speechlessxx]

Bring Him Light - ix (King!Steve Rogers x Reader)

Chapter Summary: The voyage that promised you safety had been a lie.

Warnings: TRIGGERING CONTENT IN THIS CHAPTER, A lot happens in this chapter! Major (and minor) CHARACTER DEATH, This chapter is hella heavy (heavier than I meant it to be), injury to reader, MISCARRIAGE, blood, SEXUAL ASSAULT, descriptions of wounds, A LOT OF BLOOD, 

Word Count: 3.3k

In case it wasn’t clear yet...

TRIGGERING CONTENT AHEAD

<- Last Part -=+=- Next Part ->

The silence of the night was interrupted by the loud clattering of the guards’ boots against the tiled floors. Doors were being opened and slammed shut. Servants and nobles woke up startled when the armored men burst through their chamber doors, searching for one woman… You.

“Find her!” The king’s voice boomed throughout the castle. No one could tell if his tone was full of anger or concern. The two seemed to blend into one loud growl that barked orders at everyone in sight. Perhaps… it was neither emotion… Perhaps it was simply desperation. “Find her now!”

But you were long gone by the time Lord Barnes had relayed Natasha’s confession.

As soon as the sun set and the moon rose high into the sky, you and Wanda made your escape. Not wanting to be seen, nor heard, you abandoned your shoes. Your bare feet were silent against the cold floors as you both ran out of the castle and towards the docks.

You were surprised to see that Brock was nowhere to be found. In his place, stood the older Lord Pierce, who introduced you to the sailor who would escort you to Wakanda. The sailor was a man who only went by the name “Stern”. He was a pudgy older man who smoked a strange pipe that emitted a woodsy, lemongrass-like smell.

You didn’t like the way he eyed you and Wanda. His eyes shamelessly looked over your friend’s chest which made her shrink behind you. He had wandering hands that were bold as he pulled you into a tight hug, feeling up your body. He pressed a sloppy, wet kiss on your cheek.

Pierce explained that Brock’s estate suddenly needed his attention and that the lord rushed over during the day to handle the matter, but he wished you a safe voyage. For some reason, you didn’t like the way “safe” sounded in Pierce’s mouth. It almost felt as if it were insincere – like the words of a politician.

Minutes had passed and Natasha was nowhere to be found. Although you wanted to wait, both Stern and Pierce advised that the longer you wait, the slimmer your chances at escape became. He promised he would protect her from the king’s wrath as best as he could, even offering to steal her away to York. Reluctantly, you and Wanda agreed that it was best to leave… Besides, Natasha was being courted by James Barnes, one of the king’s oldest friends. Her safety was nearly guaranteed by that fact alone.

So, Pierce ushered you and your friend onto the boat. You thanked him and asked him to thank Brock for you just before the boat set sail.

You watched as the towers of Ameera, Brooken’s castle, faded into the distance as the boat brought you closer and closer to safety – or, what you thought was safety.

Hours into the voyage, you were dry heaving over the side of the boat with Wanda pulling your hair away from your face. You weren’t sure whether to attribute the nausea to your pregnancy, or the violent sways of the boat, or your minor head injury from being pushed down the stairs. Whatever was causing this bout of sickness, it made the trip twice as uncomfortable.

Eventually, you had collapsed due to the exhaustion. Your head laid in Wanda’s lap as she pet your locks, humming a soft lullaby to comfort the both of you. The boat would jolt side to side and Stern would let out a stream of curses. Although it seemed as if the strange man couldn’t expertly maneuver a boat, he did swear like a sailor.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

“Tell me!” Steven ordered. His hand gripped his sword tightly as he glared at the red-headed woman who cowered in her lover’s arms. “Tell me why she left. I don’t want to hear James’s words. I want to hear it from you.”

“She was convinced she couldn’t stay here.” Natasha said, her voice shaking as she trembled. “You had hurt her – multiple times… and your people turned on her the moment it seemed appropriate for them to. She was afraid and she was offered help, a promise of safety in Wakanda. She thought she had to take it. She felt as if she was in danger.”

“By whom?” Natasha looked up at Lord Barnes, who gave her an encouraging nod. The king’s tone was unamused. He was worried for you. “Lady Romanova, who offered her help.”

She gulped. “Lord Pierce and Lord Rumlow.” She glanced at the king’s hands which gripped the hilt of his blade so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. “I tell you this because I fear they don’t have good intentions with the queen. She’s vulnerable, impressionable. I think they’re feeding upon her own fears.” Steven’s grip loosened as he raised his eyebrows up at her, questioningly, prompting her to continue. “And there’s another thing… She’s pregnant, your grace, with your child.”

“What?” James muttered in disbelief. She hadn’t told him this beforehand.

Steven’s face dropped entirely. His worry tripling. You had fallen from the stairs, pushed by one of the ladies of his court, who he stripped of all her titles as punishment. Now, you were missing. Your disappearance aided by two men he knew were conspiring against him. You may have thought you were in danger in Brooken, but you had no idea how much danger you put yourself in by putting your faith in these two men.

“Take one of our fastest ships and sale towards Wakanda. It’s only been hours. They couldn’t be far.” Steven ordered Lord Wilson. He was a loyal friend and was an expert at sailing. He trusted no one more. “As for the rest of you, find me Pierce and Rumlow. Now!”

»»————-　⚜　————-««

(TRIGGERING CONTENT AHEAD)

You woke up to an earsplitting shriek. Your body was thrown haphazardly onto the wooden deck of the boat. Your head was heavy and dizzy, vision a bit unfocused, but you could make out two bodies feet away from you. When your vision began to clear, you realized it was Stern on top of Wanda, who was screaming your name and pleading for the man to get off.

“Get off of her!” You screamed, scrambling to your feet and wobbling over. The boat rocked beneath you. You pushed him, but you were too weak and tired – exhausted and injured from your fall the day before.

He reached out a hand and shoved your stomach, hard. You fell to the ground with a loud thud. You groaned in pain. Wanda screams were muted when his hands wrapped around her throat. She clawed at his wrists, desperately trying to break free.

With blurry vision, you searched the boat. Your head turned side to side, trying to find anything. The sunlight was reflected by a sharp blade behind the man’s body. You scrambled to pick up the dagger which already had blood dripping from it.

You screamed as you plunged the dagger into the man’s back several times as deep as it could go. The man backed away from Wanda, standing to his feet. She scrambled away with what energy she had left.

“You little bitch.” He moaned. His hand reached over to cut that you left. He winced as he withdrew and saw the blood. Stern stomped over to you, the boat rocking with his steps. You screamed as he twisted your wrist, the blade dropping from your grip, clattering onto the wooden floor. Stern was in your face, the stench from the pipe filled your senses, suffocating you. “I should’ve raped you first.”

He pushed you onto the ground again and threw himself over you. His hand grabbing at your skirts. You screamed and tried to push him off. Over the loud crashing waves, you heard fabric ripping. You sobbed and braced yourself, turning your head to the side and squeezing your eyes shut.

But nothing happened.

You heard a choking sound as warm liquid spilled over your face, some of it finding its way past your lips. A coppery taste filled your mouth. It reminded you of when you’d bite your lip or your cheek too harshly and it would bleed.

You opened your eyes to see Stern sporting a long, deep gash that split his throat open. The cut went from ear to ear. He scrambled to his feet, spluttering blood everywhere. Behind him stood a heaving Wanda, her hand covered in the same liquid that painted your face – the dark crimson of blood.

Her skirts were ripped and exposed her legs that had blood dripping down. She had her own pool of blood that collected in the fabric of her dress. She sported her own gash on her stomach. She fell to the ground as the boat rocked one way as Stern knocked himself overboard.

You found what little energy you had to crawl over to your friend who was bleeding out from her wounds. You cradled her head onto your lap, pushing her hair away from her face. She was pale – paler than she normally was – as she stared up at you.

“Wanda…” Your voice cracked. “Stay with me…”

“This… this was a… this was a mistake.” She muttered. Her hand wrapped around your wrist, giving you a squeeze. The blood on her hands left a print over your scarred skin. Her voice was weak as her strength began to wane.

“I’m so, so sorry.” You cried.

She gave you a soft smile and reached up to wipe your tears. Wanda took a deep breath and shook her head. “We shouldn’t have left…”

“I know… I’m sorry…”

“No, no…” Wanda smiled, gently. “Listen… The king loves you… Whether you want … to believe that or not. He does…” Her breaths were ragged, struggling. “I see it in the way he looks at you.” You saw the bruises that Stern’s fingers left on her throat. “He loves you, (Y/N)… Allow him to…” The muscles on her face began to droop as her arm slumped to her side. Her eyes glazed over as they stared lifelessly up at you.

You let out a scream.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

The sun had set, and you were left shivering in the cool breeze of the ocean. You covered Wanda’s body with a tarp you found. You washed your face with the salty water as best as you could, scrubbing the scum’s blood off of your skin until your skin felt raw.

You weren’t sure how to sail, so you let the boat rock aimlessly.

Sanctuary in Wakanda must’ve been a lie. Pierce had lied. Brock had lied to you. They played you. Was this their plan all along? To rape you and your ladies just before killing you all in the middle of the sea?

You stared into the depths of the water. The hue of the water reminded you of Steven’s eyes. A deep ocean blue with specks of green. You missed his eyes. The warmth they gave when he smiled. The way they sparkled when he spoke to you. You missed his voice and his touches. His lips. You missed him.

Monster or not, you love him.

Suddenly, the dull pain in your stomach made itself prominent as your adrenalin ceased. It was sharp and striking, knocking the wind from your lungs. Your hand flew to the pained area and you winced. Your eyes widened with fear. “No…” You begged to whatever god was listening. “No, please… no.”

You tired to stand… Perhaps you could walk off the pain, but it raked through your body and made you collapse once more. Fresh tears began to roll down your eyes as you felt a warm liquid drip down your legs. You didn’t need to see it to know that it was blood.

“Over here, my lord!” Someone called out. There was a light in the distance. Another boat speeding towards yours. You didn’t recognize the voice, but you recognized the sail. The crest of House Rogers proudly displayed along with Brooken’s flag.

“Queen (Y/N)?” Another voice called out. A figure emerged as the nose of their boat gently bumped against yours. Samuel Wilson. His eyes were wide as he tried to train them to look into the night. “What’s happened?”

It was dim and the only light the night provided was the moon and the lanterns of his own boat, but with his many years on several battlefields, he could recognize the stains of blood anywhere. Your boat was covered in it. The tarp that harbored your friend’s body underneath was stained with it. Your ripped dress, too.

You didn’t need to answer. He knew.

Sam helped you onto their boat. He shook off his coat to wrap around your shivering body. You asked for him to retrieve Wanda as well, wanting to give her a proper burial. The ride back to Brooken was silent. You weren’t sure whether to be relieved to be going back or to be petrified. Steven must be so angry with you.

“Are you alright?” Sam asked. He genuinely cared. He really did.

You shook your head as another bout of sobs erupted through you. You held your head in your hands and wailed into the night with no care of whether the men on the boat judged you or not. You had lost one of your best friends and your baby all in the span of a day.

You were broken.

Sam wrapped his arms around you, letting you muffle your cries into his chest. Your tears stained his shirt, but he paid it no mind. He glanced down at your legs, seeing the red spirals of blood. His heart sank to his stomach as he assumed the worst.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

“Your grace! Your grace!” A servant boy ran through the king’s chambers. The king laid wide awake on his lonely bed, staring up at the canopy over him.

“What is it?” He asked, sitting up. The boy was sputtering words, no coherent sentence forming. “Out with it, boy!”

“Lord Wilson is back … There’s a body in a tarp and another woman asleep. I didn’t see who the woman was.”

Steven’s heart dropped. His anxiety peaking.

You couldn’t be dead… The thought alone broke his heart.

He rushed out of his room, almost knocking the boy to the floor. It was as if he were experiencing déjà vu as he ran through the corridors towards the infirmary. It was the only place they would put a body.

He caught a glimpse of Natasha’s red hair disappearing as the doors shut behind her. Sam had walked out.

Sam grabbed his arm and shook his head. He heard Natasha scream, “No!”, followed by a loud sob.

“Sam – “Steven tried to push past his friend, but the lord’s grip was like iron.

“You should know…” Sam muttered, his voice so low only the king could hear. “Lady Wanda had been … assaulted… She was stabbed and she died from her wounds.” Steven felt guilty for feeling relief, but the body in the tarp had not been his wife. Who could blame him for being relieved? “Steve …”

“What happened?” Steven snapped. “Why will you not let me in?”

“I’m not sure what happened on that boat.” Sam whispered. “But it was covered in blood. Your wife’s dress was torn. I saw her legs with blood dripping down them.” Steven’s blood began to boil – like his friend, assuming the worst.

“Who was on that boat? WHO DID THIS?”

“She didn’t say. She was exhausted when we found her – cried herself to sleep, poor bird.” Sam explained, shaking his head. “I cannot be certain if a similar assault happened to your wife, Steven, but…”

The doors creaked open. Natasha’s red hair popped out. Her eyes red and puffy, face wet with tears. “The queen is awake… If you would like to speak with her, your grace?”

“I do.” Steven nodded. Sam bowed before leaving his king as did Natasha.

You looked tired. Dark circles rimmed around your eyes. One of your wrists was wrapped in a bandage. “My love…” Steve said so carefully as if he were afraid his voice alone would shatter you. You were staring up into the ceiling, tears running down the sides of your face. “My love…” He repeated as he slowly walked over to your side.

“She’s dead…” You whimpered. “She died because … I wanted to run.”

“I know, my love… I’m sorry.” Steven didn’t know what else to say. “What happened?”

A broken sob escaped your lips as you brought your uninjured arm over your eyes and cried into it. Steven rushed over and made you sit up, wrapping his arms around you tightly. You allowed him to hold you as you cried into him, trembling with each sob. You missed how his warmth engulfed you. It gave you a sense of security – of home.

He shushed you, running his fingers through your messy hair. “It’s alright… You’re alright now… You’re home. You’re safe with me.”

“Am I?” You asked, choked with a sob. “Am I truly safe here in Brooken?”

“I will strike down any threat towards you. I swear to you on my life.” Steven said.

“I was pregnant.” Steven’s heart dropped. Was. “Perhaps it was the stress or… or the struggle when S-Stern was on top of me.”

“Did … Did he … ?” Steven couldn’t bring himself to finish the question.

“No.” You shook your head, reading his mind. “Wanda saved me just before she bled out.”

“Stern?”

“A sailor Pierce hired to take bring us to Wakanda… I should’ve trusted my instinct.” You scolded yourself. You blamed yourself. How could you not? If only you had listened to your suspicions, your instincts before… Maybe Wanda would’ve been alive… Maybe your baby would’ve survived. “I lost the baby.” You cried into Steve’s chest.

“It’s okay.” Steven said, rubbing your back, soothingly.

“It’s not!” You screamed.

“I am thankful you are alive. We have a lifetime to bring children into this world. My concern is for you, (Y/N).” Steven pulled you from his chest, his hands cupped your face as his thumbs brushed away your tears.

“Do we? Do we have a lifetime? Or will you grow tired of me like Margaret or Sharon because I cannot give you an heir?”

“What?” His face scrunched up with confusion. What did his past wives have to do with you providing him with an heir?

“You killed Margaret… stabbed her in the heart after growing tired of rejections for she did not want a child… You beheaded Sharon in front of her admirers because you were jealous others preferred her – “

“Where did you learn this?” Steven interrupted.  

“Do you deny it? Do you deny that you killed your past wives?”

“No.” You tried to push him away, slamming your hands into his chest and screaming for him to leave. “Stop!” He shouted. “Stop it, (Y/N)! Stop!” He grabbed your wrists gently, cupping them into one large hand. He was cautious with your injured wrist, not applying too much pressure for it to hurt. Steven didn’t miss the way your eyes glinted with fear. “Who told you this?”

“Pierce and Rumlow.”

“They’ve lied to you.”

“But you just admitted you murdered them – “

“I did… for good reason.” Steven sighed. “We’ve been played. They’ve been turning you against me feeding you half truths and half lies… I did kill my wives, yes. Because they were working to overthrow me… House Carter was working with Thanos.”

“What?” Your brows furrowed. You were dizzy. It must’ve been the stress from the horrific events that you experienced. You felt betrayed, confused, conflicted.

“It’s time I tell you the truth.”  

[purplecatghostposts]

I'm having a very hard time remembering if I asked this or not yet, so if I did, please forgive me! But a request: Benrey comforting Gordon from a panic attack? Like an unusual fluffy twist where this is normally something the other way around and just as odd but Benrey is the one being soft ?? ? thank you;;

Don’t think I ever got a request for this so no worries! But let’s GO

—

It’s nearing 10PM and the power goes out.

Benrey’s breath hitches when it does. He’s in the middle of brushing through his hair as the lights go out. He can hear his own heartbeat through his chest and even as his night vision kicks in, he still finds dread in his heart.

This is fine. Benrey’s done this before, he can do it again.

Doesn’t mean it’ll be any easier than before.

Carefully, Benrey steps out of the bathroom and into the hall. Last he checked, Gordon was baking in the kitchen, he should still be there. Even so, Benrey hesitates and he hates that he does.

The guilt never goes away. It settles in Benrey’s chest, a weight that pulls him down until he’s not sure he can move.

“Benny?” A soft voice cuts through the silence. Not Gordon’s, but rather his son’s. Benrey’s head snaps in the direction of the voice, and spots him instantly. Joshua stands in the doorway of his room, eyes wide and alarmed.

“What’s going on?” Joshua asks, not quite afraid but definitely confused. He’s always been a tough kid, something he gets from his Dad.

Joshua first, Gordon second, Benrey decides. Joshua likely won’t take long anyways. “‘S just the power, lil man. Lights are gonna be off for a bit but don’t worry, alright? Ol’ Benny’s gonna keep you safe.” Benrey hesitates, carefully choosing a next course of action. “How ‘bout you go hang out in me ‘n Gordie’s room? We’ll be there in a sec. I just gotta help ‘em out. He doesn’t have cool eyes like me.”

It’s only a half lie and Benrey gets away with it. Joshua nods, carefully heading towards the bedroom across from his own and slipping inside. Benrey watches him to make sure he doesn’t trip but Joshua makes it okay. He sighs in relief and turns to the stairs that lead to the kitchen.

Benrey descends down the stairs slowly. As soon as he reaches the last step, the floor creeks and he hears a distant whimper in response. Benrey sucks in a breath, knowing what comes next, and speaks.

“Hey, Gordon?”

“S-stay away...” Benrey gets in response. He scans the room in the direction the voice came from and finally spots him. Gordon has his back against the floor cabinets and holding his prosthetic arm close to his chest. He trembles like he’s unable to stop. “Don’t- don’t come any closer!”

“I... I won’t come any closer unless you want me to, alright?” Benrey promises. The only response he gets is ragged breathing. Benrey can’t tell if he actually heard or not. “What uh... What do you need me to do?”

Benrey tries not to sound desperate but he hates seeing Gordon this way. Gordon’s fear of the dark is product of his biggest mistake. He shouldn’t have to feel afraid anymore- he’s safe and Benrey’s gonna make sure he’s safe for as long as he lives. But it’s not like either of them can just forget it happened and Benrey knows that. There’s no erasing the past, only mending and softening the present and future.

“It’s... It’s too dark- I can’t- I can’t see!” Gordon chokes out. Responsive- a good sign.

Benrey nods, he can fix that at least. “Okay uh, hold on.”

Benrey sucks in a deep breath and lets the Sweet Voice flow out of him. Pink to Gray bits begin to light up the apartment, dimly at first but when Benrey keeps singing, the quantity almost makes it feel like the lights are at least halfway on. He stops to breathe and waits.

Gordon’s form stops shaking as he focuses on the Sweet Voice. The sound and lights are usually a good way to ground Gordon and they help especially now. He reaches out, trying to grab one like he has tried countless times before, only for it to turn to mist in his hands. Nonetheless, touching the Sweet Voice can have effects and with this combination of positive feelings and a gentle calm, he relaxes. Gordon rests his head back on the cabinet, breathing deeply.

“Pink to Gray-” Benrey starts to say at last, only for Gordon to cut him off, finishing the translation.

“-Means I want you to be okay.” Gordon’s eyes turn to meet Benrey’s. He doesn’t quite smile but he looks like he wants to. “You- you really like that one, huh?”

“It’s helped you in the past. Figured it would do it again now.” Benrey nods, shifting in place.

Gordon pauses before beckoning him over. Benrey doesn’t hesitate to slide over next to him and sit down. Benrey’s almost shoulder to shoulder with him but leaves an inch of space between them, just in case. Gordon stares at the floor, deep in thought.

“These... These power outages are really starting to be the bane of my existence, huh?” Gordon jokes lightly. Benrey gives a smile in agreement but doesn’t quite feel like laughing. “I... Thank you, Benrey.”

“‘S nothing.”

“You- you always say that but...” Gordon lets out a short laugh. “I don’t think you realize what it means to me? If you weren’t here... God, I don’t even know what I’d do. I can’t imagine.”

“Then don’t.” Benrey has imagined it one too many times. It makes him feel sick to his stomach. “You don’t have to imagine it because... Because I’m here, okay? And ‘m not leaving.”

Benrey hesitates to reach out but Gordon reads him like a book and nods. Benrey carefully cups his face, searching his eyes. The touch doesn’t just further ground Gordon, but Benrey as well. “You- you okay? Feelin’ good?”

Gordon gives a short but firm nod. “Still pretty jittery but that’s pretty normal for me... Honestly I could really benefit from laying down.”

Benrey finally grins, getting up. “Perfect. C’mere, let’s head to our bedroom. Don’t think Joshie wants to be alone anymore either.”

Gordon smiles at the mention of his son and takes Benrey’s hand when he offers it. Benrey guides him through the darkness, lighting up the way with pink and blue Sweet Voice as he does. Neither of them need to translate that one, they both know it by heart.

Gordon gives Benrey’s hand a light squeeze, his own version of ‘I love you’ that gives Benrey a fluttering feeling in his heart.

As soon as they open the door, Joshua comes running at them, tackling them with a hug. “Daddy! Benny! You’re here!”

“Told you we’d be.” Benrey grins, ruffling his hair. “You old man wants to lay down so let’s head over there.”

Joshua nods, letting go and launching himself onto the bed, laughing when he bounces. Benrey cackles before making sure to light up the room with more Sweet Voice. Gordon relaxes more and more with each passing minute.

The three of them lounge on the bed, talking until sleep takes them. The lights come back on a few hours later but by then, they’re all in too deep a sleep to notice.

—

Hopefully that was the kinda thing you were going for! I hope you enjoyed this and thank you for the request!

[felswritingfire]

Umm new follower here. I would like to ask if your are still doing the hand holding prompts??? Could you do it with Shinya? Pleaseeeeeeeeee I would really like read something like it. Many THANKSSSSSSSSS

G-

*throws angst*

You never specified a number so I went CRAZY- 

If you wanted something fucking fluffy tho, feel free to send another message! 

But I give you two prompts for the price of one UwU

TW: violence; mentions of blood; the start of a panic attack; mentions of broken bones; psychotic behavior (Perun)

#5. Reassuring Squeeze

#4. The last time

Your chest trembles, the weight of the situation finally crushing down onto you as you realize there’s no way out of this. You can hear the pained cries of your friends- the frantic yelling as they’re rounded up and placed in… You can’t see much through the crack in the wall, but you’re more than positive it’s an amphitheater. Or at least similar to one: it sits deep in the earth, the seats that descend into it are curved into a long arch, all of them pointing to a middle that’s white marble- a stark contrast to the burning smoke and charred remains of buildings and people that surrounded. You can see your friends and almost friends being placed in seats, all bound in chains and all of them looking exhausted. Some continue to struggle even as they’re dragged out- but a sudden slam of the head against the marble usually cuts the struggling in it’s steps. 

Your eyes strain to look at your Summoners- all of them having been treated to the same process: you note that Kengo still hasn’t moved, a red splotch on his temple where he got struck by Temujin. Toji's head keeps tipping back and forth (you would be grateful to Sanat that he had kept his strength in check, but your chest is burning hot with anger and desperation- you have no forgiveness in you). 

You can feel your eyes burn as you lean back on your calves, the soreness of your knees lost on you as a broiling guilt sits heavily at the bottom of your stomach. Your nails dig into your thighs. You feel sick- your mind feels hazy, muddled, as everything begins to spin. Each breath you take gets shallower each breath you suck in. Your chest is hurting-

“(Y/N)-” it takes you a moment, but you look up, still trying to control your breathing. Shinya is shuffling closer to you, Cupid on his shoulder looking worse for wear (an oddly clear side of your mind is surprised that they let him keep him with him. Some fucked up power move, you’re sure); the tiny angel stares at you with big eyes, Shinya holding him back with a bruised hand as he moves to hop to you- “Is- is it ok to touch you?”

You can see the way his shoulders tremble, how red his eyes are. He’s as bad as you. You nod your head- your hands reaching out to him. 

He takes you in his arms, his touch so light that you feel like glass. Maybe you’re as fragile as glass right now- because you feel yourself melt into his chest and the tears you were fighting back so hard before slipping down your cheeks. You can feel Cupid slip down Shinya’s shoulders to rest in the crook of your neck- so close you can hear the unnatural creak to his wings and suddenly you know why they let Shinya keep Cupid. 

Your heart throbs as you feel his chest tremble and Cupid nestle further into your neck, his tiny hands grasping for the strands of your hair, a wet patch grows against your neck where Cupid has his face buried against. You bring a shaking fingers up to cradle Cupid's body, as gently as you can muster (he cooes at the contact), as your other hand comes to rub against Shinya’s back. “It’s alright,” you croak. “It’ll be alright.”

Shinya hums, forced and uneven, as he pulls away from you and laces his fingers with yours. You feel a pang of worry when you notice that he can’t curl his ring and middle finger, they sit at an odd angle and a black bruise that spans from the tip of his fingers to the middle of his palm. “You’re always so strong-” he squeezes your hand (at least to the best of his abilities) and rests his forehead against yours- “always so brave no matter what. It’s one of the things I love about you.”

Cupid’s hair tickles you as he nods his head, nuzzling against your cheek. “No,” you say, breathless with a giggle. “I’m not brave at all- just stubborn.”

“Braveness comes in all shapes and sizes, my Darling.”

You giggle again, pressing yourself closer to him as he untangles your fingers and instead wraps his arms around you. Cupid slips from his home beside your neck to wedge himself between your’s and Shinya’s chests (minding his wings). The three of you rest like that, basking in the contact with each other despite the overwhelming ache that throbs in your heart for your friends. You note that the sounds of struggling have died down; you raise your head, Shinya’s hands resting on your waist and Cupid crawling back up to sit on his shoulder. You move to look back out the crack in the wall when the sound of scraping metal startles your attention to the heavy metal door that sits on the far side of the room. 

You move back to Shinya, putting your body between him and the little angel that glares at said door from his shoulder. You feel him grasp your hand, squeezing with what strength he has left. You can feel your palm grow clammy with sweat as the door swings open with a sombre groan. 

Perun’s heavy footsteps echo through the otherwise silent room. You glare up at him, the grin on his face ugly and sadistic. “Hello, little bird.” He kneels down in front of you making a gesture that one would make at a scared dog to get them to come to them. “I hope you’re comfortable- you are at the peak of luxury here after all.” It’s mocking how he says it: sarcastic and demeaning. 

You don’t say anything instead choosing to continue glaring at him. 

“Ah? Going to give me the silent treatment?” He lets out a long sigh, leaning back on his haunches as he lets his eyes drift around the room, an easy smile on his lips. You felt tense as you waited for him to make a move. His eyes drift back to you, the corners of his eyes crinkle and the creak of worn leather reaches your ears before a white pain bursts against your cheek and a thundering crack bounces off the concrete walls of the room. 

You barely feel the way your head collides with the floor, Shinya’s voice muffled as he cries your name. His grip slips from your hand as you’re suddenly hoisted up by your hair- you’re almost afraid you’re going to be scalped, the pain is so searing. You feel tears wet the corners of your eyes as your head is wrenched back, your neck bending at an awkward angle making it hard to breath. You feel his breath ghost against your cheek. “You better watch yourself or your two little angels over there won’t have a happy ending.”

A sharp yelp and a panicked chirp catches your attention and you can see Temujin sitting on top of Shinya, knee pressed against the middle of his back as he pulls Shinya’s arm at a painful angle, his eyes murderous as he focuses on the struggling man beneath him. Volkv has Cupid in a tight hold in his fist, squeezing too tightly and causing the tiny cherub to let out painful chirps. 

“N-no! Don’t!” You choke, struggling to orient yourself enough to push towards the two. Your vision bursts with colors as you pinch nerves in your neck.

“Shh, shh-” Perun hushes, his free hand moves to caress your check, the rough leather hurts your raw skin. “Don’t cry, don’t cry- You can’t look weak in front of your soldiers down there- now can you?”

You let out a pained wheeze as his tilts your head back further. 

“Well?”

“I wouldn’t cry in front of you anyways.” It’s broken but you hold a satisfaction for the pure venom that bleeds into the words. 

Perun laughs, nuzzling his head against the side of your neck. You feel sick. “Good, good-” you let out a ragged breath as he finally lets go of your hair, your head falling viscously forward- “you’ve alway been such a good pet, haven’t you? Just for me.”

You glare up at him again, though now you're seeing two of him. He grabs the back of your neck, dragging you up to your unsteady legs. 

“Temujin. Volkv. Let go of those two would you?”

You breathe a sigh of relief as Temujin and Volkv both let go of Shinya and Cupid (Volkv having tossed Cupid onto Shinya’s back). 

Perun’s other hand quickly latched onto your arm and twisted it behind your back, the bones creak painfully. You hiss and he digs his chin into your shoulder, his teeth brushing against the skin of your neck. You grimace- you felt dirty. “This is all your fault you know?’ He whispers, grip tightening on your arm. “I have to reset the loops- I have to fix them, you know? If only you had done right in the beginning. None of this would be happening.” He’s dragging you out of the room as he continues to speak, you kick your legs, your heels catching on the pavement of the floor. 

You watch as Shinya lunges towards you just to be caught by Temujin and Volkv and dragged back. You’ve never seen him struggle so much- never heard him raise his voice so much. You feel heart breaking as the door shuts on him with a resounding clang as you cling to the last bit of warmth from him against your palm. Trying to pretend that the overbearing warmth against your back is Shinya.

[vercopaanir]

In For a Credit

The Lovely Moons, Chapter 19

Masterlist

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Blind!Reader

Summary: Fellow Mandalorians teach you how to handle weapons.

Words: 3.5

Rating/Warning: G, I think. Some references to death.

Notes: So, this originally was going to include a lot more. However, the chapter was nearly 7k words, and I didn’t feel like it was fair to post the entire thing because so much happens. So it will be split up. The nice thing is that the next update will be on Monday night. Thank you all for your patience and support!

AO3

The Tribe is a working society, and you quickly become fascinated in the opportunity to occupy yourself. You are no stranger to work, and the constant inner need to be doing something of value, to be useful, to earn your way is so ingrained that it borders restlessness. The morning when the Mandalorian says he’ll be taking his collected bounties to Greef Karga in town, you look up from the book where your fingers pause over the raised indentations of braille, tilting your head. Corde and Venka follow your eyes upward, nibbling at their food, and watching him curiously.

“What should we do while you are away?”

He pauses his adjusting of his vambrace, glancing between all of you, four pairs of expectant eyes, and he explains that there exists many skills that the Tribe hones together as a collective, from fighting to healing to child rearing.

Watching the small green infant play with his stuffed bantha toy perched on the warrior’s lap, you straighten your back and lay your hands on your knees. As a servant and slave, you have performed a variety of tasks. You can clean, cook, mend, garden, and farm. As a handmaid, you’ve developed skills that were fine tuned for a lady of an older age. You’d taken care of her hair and nails, you’d seen to her correspondence, fetched her tea, and kept her company. Having taken care of children before, you knew your strength as a caretaker is hard to rival, blinking at the three children surrounding you.

But this was a chance to learn something new .

A decision settles within you, and you hold your chin level.

“I would...like to learn about weaponry.”

The Mandalorian’s visor trains on you for so long, you think perhaps you have said something wrong. You begin to wonder how you can explain away the whim when he stands suddenly, placing the baby in his pram. He clicks a button on his vambrace to program it’s tracking before holding a hand out to help you to your feet. Venka and Corde shove the remainder of their breakfast in their mouths to follow behind you both as he leads you through the passages of the enclave. The child floats between you and the siblings, large inky eyes blinking curiously.

“Will we get to learn, too?” Corde asks, her eagerness palpable.

“No. But there are foundlings here that you should find. They can teach you games I’m too old for,” the Mandalorian grunts, and she gasps, rushing around to stop in front of you both. You feel his fingers tighten over yours when you both halt suddenly.

“Can we go find them now?”

You hesitate, the idea of the two children disappearing somewhere in the tunnels making you uneasy, but the Mandalorian tilts his visor down at her, taking her measure. “So long as you stay together, and do not leave the covert.” Corde’s eyes light up, but before she can bolt away as if on an invisible speeder bike, the Mandalorian grabs the back of her collar, keeping her in place. He squats down in front of her, still slightly taller in stature, and you hold your breath as you watch them. “I mean it, ad’ika,” he repeats, his voice pitching deeper in warning as he looks down at her. “Promise me.”

Venka is quick to promise, holding a hand over his heart with a bowed chin as if taking an oath for life, and Corde nods so fast her hair comes loose from her braid. “We promise.”

“Go.”

You watch their small shapes disappear from your line of sight, the slap of the shoes you’d sewn them echoing off down the rocky walls of the passageway. They will not be alone, you remind yourself, forcing down the nerves twisting your stomach. If the beskar clad warrior at your side trusts his people to watch over them, you will, too. The Mandalorian watches them until they’re out of sight, nearly jumping out of his armor when you slip your hand in the curve of his elbow.

“And where will you be sending me?” you ask softly, walking alongside him when he seems to remember his feet. He lays his other gloved hand atop your fingers, and you think he might be smiling.

“You said you wanted to learn about weaponry.”

You never see him without a weapon, his blaster ever present against his hip or the ominous rifle slung across his back like a saint’s marker. It is not a leap in judgment to assume protection is important to him beyond his profession, and knowing what you know now, you realize the level of trust he holds for you when he had shown you the weapon’s locker aboard the Razor Crest.

But the memory of how helpless you’d felt holding the blaster and aiming at Toro Calican had not left you. The blurry recollections of Cantonica leave you sick, and you silently wonder, at night when you are alone with your thoughts, if things could have been different had you not been such a foolish thing. That is something Mandalorians are not-and now, you are determined to change it.  

“I would like to not be so afraid of weapons,” you finally manage in a quiet tone, resting both hands on his arm now and leaning your weight into him. He inclines his head in your direction. “I think fear is disrespectful for something that can save your life.”

He moves his hand, the warm leather covering your fingers that rest on his forearm, and there is a feeling he seems to radiate that washes over you. The backward set of his shoulders, a near defiant tilt of his chin, and you’re surprised when he comes to a brief stop in the middle of the passage. The child coos from his pram, blinking owlishly between you both and perking his ears upward.

The Mandalorian turns you toward him with a gentle, crooked finger beneath your chin. You expect him to say something, his thumb grazing your chin in such a slow, delicate sweep. Your eyes feel heavy as his other fingers uncurl against the warm flesh of your neck, sliding to cup the side of your throat beneath the thick veil of your hair. You keep your eyes upon the shine of his visor as he leans his beskar covering to whisper over your brow, and the complete tenderness in such careful, quiet movements makes your heart speed up. You think he must feel it, your pulse fluttering beneath his fingers where he’d once sunk his teeth out of passion born from fear and admiration, and you swallow hard at the memory.

For a single, still moment, you think he may take your hand and drag you back to your quarters.

The sound of approaching boots has the Mandalorian calmly stepping back from you, and whatever spell had blanketed you both is broken. Feeling flushed, you drop your head away as a fellow Mandalorian passes by both of you, nodding towards your bounty hunter in silent greeting. You draw some hair behind your ear, looking back at the child who grins up with all of his teeth at you as if privy to a joke you hadn’t heard.

The tunnels that interconnect are not twisting or turning as much as you expect. They are large, wide and windy, and you try to remember your way back the way you’d come to begin memorizing the layout. You give up just before the Mandalorian stops in front of a short flight of steps hewn into the rock. He wordlessly offers his hand to you, and in the distance you hear two male voices bantering back and forth.

The armory is large, spanning the same length as the Razor Crest at least, and it is filled with every kind of weapon of all shapes and sizes. Blasters, rifles, blades, and contraptions you have never seen before. There are lights ensconced upon the surface of the rock walls that allow your vision more opportunity to open to your surroundings, and you follow behind the Mandalorian as he comes to stop near a large bench littered with blaster parts, tools, oil, and dirty rags.

Across from you are two Mandalorians, and they stand upon your entrance. The slightly shorter warrior wears armor the color of moss with so many silver nicks and dents that you wonder if he hadn’t been thrown down the side of a cliff face. The taller, broader of the two is covered nearly head to toe in dark grey armor that’s shined to a shimmering gleam. You smile uncertainly, feeling shy as you stand just behind the Mandalorian.

Well. Your Mandalorian.

“Su cuy’gar,” greets the green armored warrior, his thick accent making you tilt your head. “Didn’t think we’d see you here again.”

“That’s because you don’t think much,” shot the grey armored Mandalorian, putting his hand out to grasp the forearm of the man beside you, shaking firmly in welcome. His voice is much smoother, deeper, and you can’t help but feel intimidated a bit by the magnetic presence when he turns his reflective visor upon you. “Tion’cuy?”

The Mandalorian rests his hand upon the small of your back, ushering you to stand properly beside him as he gives your name. “This is Briinx,” he tells you, nodding to the Mandalorian in green before gesturing with his hand to the other. “And Rhalaz. They are valued warriors, firearm instructors for foundlings, and the covert’s mechanics.”

“‘Mechanic’ makes it sound like we’d tinker with any ship that flies in, Djarin. We modify weapons that you can’t quite get through strictly legal means,” Briinx says, twirling a vibroblade between his gloved fingers. “I think we’re artists.”

“No, no,” Rhalaz shakes a hand, sounding completely put off. “Weapons sing. We are musicians, if anything.”

“Then we’d be conductors-”

“Look,” the Mandalorian sighs loudly, interrupting what you assume is going to turn into a conversation he’d rather not be a part of. “You have someone who wants to learn about weaponry. Think you can stay focused long enough to teach her something?”

“I’m offended you think otherwise,” Briinx says suddenly, dropping the blade on the workbench without ceremony. You can’t help the small smile tugging at your mouth. “We might bicker like an old married couple-”

“You are a married couple,” the Mandalorian growls.

“-but we always deliver,” Rhalaz quips, tilting his helmet towards you before settling his visor on the bounty hunter at your side, almost predatorily. “We’d be happy to teach her, but...well, why aren’t you teaching her? Cuyir dar gar riduur?”

Your eyebrows lift curiously when the Mandalorian goes completely still beside you, and you suspect that he stops breathing. The three warriors stare each other down for such a long, tense moment that you’re afraid to even blink. You can’t begin to guess what the implication is of what was spoken, but when the Mandalorian’s hand curls against your back, you feel his unease.

“Sa jate sa,” he finally mutters, staring steadfastly forward. His voice is full of annoyance, bristling and testy. “I have business today, and she wants to learn. Any more questions?”

Briinx puts two hands up in surrender, and Rhalaz’s helmet shakes with laughter.

The Mandalorian turns you both away from the other two warriors, resting one gloved hand on the middle of your back and inclining his helmet down towards you. “I’ll be back by the evening to find you.”

A small furrow forms between your brows, and you tilt your head. “I’m sure I can find the children if I just ask-”

“No!” You jump at his sudden whisper, blinking rapidly when he almost shuffles nervously. “No, I’ll...I’ll come find you.”

You frown after him, his shadow disappearing up the short flight of steps with a snap of his cloak. When you turn around, the other two Mandalorians survey you with their arms crossed across their chests. In for a credit, in for a pound, you think. You take a deep breath, folding your hands in front of you and stepping forward. You haven’t held many conversations with people since you left the cantina outside of the Mandalorian or the children, and it feels very odd.

“Ever held a blaster before?” Briinx asks, picking up one of the hand guns from the workbench that shines beneath the light. It looks freshly oiled and cleaned, and you swallow at how dark and foreboding it seems in his gloved hand.

“Yes,” you murmur, thinking of Toro Calican’s blurry form lying dead on the floor of the Razor Crest’s hull. “And I’ve shot one, too.”

“Well you’re already ahead of most of our students,” Rhalaz chuckles, seeming to sense your discomfort. His tall frame comes around the bench, and he pulls out a stool for you to sit on, patting it.

As daunting as the idea of learning weaponry seems, the two men are accommodating teachers with very different styles. Briinx is more hands on, insisting you hold every weapon, part, or tool you learn about while Rhalaz gives you in-depth explanations for what the parts of a blaster do, how a flash grenade detonates, and even the benefits of using blaster energy versus slug bolts.

“Blasters don’t have the same kickback as a slugthrower,” Rhalaz says, bringing down a long rifle that you immediately recognize. Your face must betray you, because he chuckles and sets the firearm in your hands, braced across your lap. “Where do you think Djarin got his rifle from?”

“I’ve never thought about it,” you admit, feeling the weight of the amban sniper weapon. The familiar pronged end feels awkward and precarious as you heave the gun upward, testing the weight.

“One of my favorites,” Briinx chuffs from across the bench, coming around to show you how to brace the stock pad against your shoulder. He fixes your hands, tilting your head up from hunching over, and correcting your overall posture with a sharp eye.

“Disruptors are one of the most dangerous kinds of weapons. They can short circuit an entire space station if you know where to aim,” Rhalaz tells you sagely, watching his husband adjust your stance.

You swallow hard, wishing you could put the rifle down and far away from you. “What would you need such a thing for?”

“For short circuiting a space station,” Briinx huffs as if the notion is obvious.

“This model and its modifications use more energy than your average blaster, so it...well-”

“It disintegrates people,” Briinx deadpans, moving your hand that cups the stock beneath the gun further out to give your grip balance.

You gape helplessly. “D-Disintegrates?”

“Or electrocutes, if you don’t want to kill the target,” Rhalaz sighs, seeming annoyed with the other Mandalorian. “That’s what the prongs are for.”

“It sounds like these should be banned,” you mumble as Briinx comes behind you to straighten your shoulders once more. You shudder to think what the Mandalorian would need such a weapon for.

“Oh, they were,” he chirps, tilting your head up again. “Now, see this here? It’s the scope. Allows a sniper to see his target from miles away.” His glove floats over the eyepiece and turns the dial. “It’s got heat sensors, too. Maybe Djarin will take you out sometime so you can see for yourself.”

You frown curiously, leaning forward to press your eye to the scope. It’s not nearly as blurry as you expect, and when he flips the dial again, your vision lights up with various shades of color. Rhalaz walks to the far end of the room into the darkened corner of the armory, and you see his heat signature fill the screen. He waves, fluttering his fingers so you can see him.

Excitement tingles along the back of your neck at actually being able to see what has been described to you, and you can’t help the small smile that curves your lips. “Oh.”

“We don’t give these to just anyone, mind you,” Briinx stipulates, patting the crown of your hair as you sit back. “Djarin only got one because he’s the best sharpshooter in the covert.”

“Really?”

It occurs to you that you know very little about the Mandalorian’s skills as a warrior. You had seen him move with precision and even witnessed his deadly reflexes, but you’d never actually seen him fight. The few times he’d killed, you had not been conscious enough to witness it.

“Can’t fight hand to hand worth a damn, but we all have our helms to wear,” Rhalaz sighs dramatically, earning a grin from you as Briinx takes the rifle from you and opens the barrel with a satisfying crack. “Alas, if you do learn to shoot, it should be from him.”

“I...I shot someone once,” you confess, and the armory goes very quiet. You don’t know if it’s from your confession itself or the tone of regret you can’t keep out of your voice. You take a deep breath, your eyes watching as Briinx’s gloves cradle the rifle like you might cradle the child in the crook of your arm. “It...he was going to kill us.”

A firm hand on your shoulder draws your eyes up to the shimmering stormy grey helmet, and Rhalaz tilts his visor down to try and meet your gaze. “There is honor in defending yourself, vod’ika. And the ones you love.”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” you whisper, curling your hands in your lap. Your heart begins to pound, face flushing with a cold sweat appearing behind your ears. The words must sound so foreign to seasoned warriors as the ones flanking you, and your quiet confession sinks your shoulders. How could you claim to be the companion of a Mandalorian when you couldn’t even protect yourself?

Surprisingly, Briinx is the one to allay your fears.

“No one wants to truly hurt another,” he says with his unique accent, his green helmet tilted conspiratorially towards you. “And if they do, they are the ones you should keep in your line of sight.”

Rhalaz nods once, grim and somber, and you frown gently. Had you not been able to fire the blaster at Toro Calican, would the Mandalorian have been able to gain the upper hand? Would the child still be safe? The two questions chill you, chasing the flush from your face, and you decide that you would never be in the position to ask such things again.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” you murmur, conviction making the words sound stronger than what you truly feel, but you straighten your back and breathe deeply. “But...I want to protect my child. The children. M-My clan.”

Rhalaz thumps his fist once on the bench, and Briinx chuckles happily, “ Mandokarla! ”

“That we can help with.”

When the Mandalorian descends the steps that evening, you are sitting on the workbench, legs crossed at your ankles as you work to put a WESTAR-34 blaster pistol back together after taking it apart. Briinx stands with his back against the wall while Rhalaz holds several throwing knives in one hand, balancing one in his other. a

“Don’t forget to slot the spring in. You don’t want to jam it, because that will wear it down.”

Thud.

“Your aim is getting worse, old man,” Briinx chides, a teasing note in his modulated voice. “I’m supposed to be able to deflect it, and you have to at least try to hit me.”

The Mandalorian clears his throat, and you look up with a bright smile in greeting, swinging your ankles from your perch.

“Djarin! Welcome back. We did half your job for you,” Briinx declares just as a knife thunks against the side of his helmet, skittering across the floor. “She’ll make a deadly ver’verd yet.”

“Of that, I have no doubt,” the Mandalorian deadpans, inching around behind Rhalaz as he gears up to throw another knife at his husband. You smile wide as the Mandalorian approaches you, and one hand comes to rest on the bench beside your thigh, the other resting on his belt. He leans his weight on one foot, visor tilting toward you. “Having fun?”

“I like this one,” you declare to him, your hands deftly slotting the slide over the barrel and finishing the job. The blaster gleams nearly platinum beneath the light, weighing it in your carbon smudged hands. “It’s very light.”

“You have good taste,” the Mandalorian compliments, taking the pistol from you thoughtfully. You watch with fascination as his gloved hands expertly charge the slide, tilting his head. He looks back up at you. “They teach you how to handle it?”

An offending huff comes from somewhere behind him, but you grin proudly. “I know how to put it together, take it apart, clean it, and reload it.”

“Good.” He straightens, offering a hand to you that you take gratefully. You didn’t realize how much you’d miss his companionship until you were apart, and you squeeze his fingers with a gentle sigh. That is, until he speaks next.

“Now stand up, and I’ll show you how to shoot it.”

-

Mando'a Translations:

Ad'ika - little one

Su cuy’gar - "You're still alive." A greeting or form of hello.

Tion'cuy? - Who's this?

Cuyir dar gar riduur? - Is she not your wife?

Sa jate sa - As good as

Vod’ika - Little sister

Mandokarla - Showing guts and spirit, the state of being the epitome of Mandalorian virtue.

Ver’verd - mercenary

-

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[weakzen]

Left on the detective’s desk, a single red rose and a note written in precise handwriting:

Alex,

What happened to you - you didn’t deserve it. You can be loved, if you let yourself.

Happy Valentine’s Day

(yolo experimental style; alex/mason, early established relationship, angst and fluff; no direct mention of abuse, just oblique circling and fatalistic thoughts; rated m for mason; also on AO3~)

Even though I didn't finish reading it, even though I hid it from sight, imprisoned it in darkness, cast it to the depths of the bottom drawer until the end of shift, when it would be possible to smuggle the thing into the break room recycle bin without risking Tina's eyes or interrogation, that stupid fucking note has somehow still managed to reach up through all those heavy files and twist my stomach into knots.

For hours.

Plucking my nerves hard enough to make my hands fucking shake too. Typos in every report, backspace key pulling overtime without pay. Not helped by eyes that won't stop stinging. Armpits that haven't fully dried either, along with a weird chill, shivers that persist despite the sweater and the cranked-up thermostat.

At least the rose is gone. Snuck it into the arrangement on Tina's desk, the one I get her every year.

It looks better surrounded by friends.

It was nice to see it on the desk this morning

(Can still smell it perfuming the air.)

And if I could get rid of my thoughts as easily, I would. Because after half a day of chasing them in circles, I still can't figure out who the fuck sent that goddamn note, who the fuck would write something like that—say shit like that, to me—who could possibly fucking think or know or say anything about that, or that I-I, that I—

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckingfuck.

That sickly feeling wrenches again, hard enough to jerk me forward over the desk, face buried in my hands while my breathing shudders into something unsteady and vaguely gasping.

Fuck.

It can't be Tina.

It can't.

It should be, but it can't.

The writing's not loopy enough to be hers, and it's not slanted enough to be Verda's, and the damn thing isn't covered in nearly enough heart stickers to be from Felix. We all should know. Nate's been sighing nonstop for the past week, scraping them off every available surface in the Warehouse—except for the lacy pink one Felix managed to sneak right between Adam's shoulders.

And the glittery red one I pressed covertly to Mason's ass.

(Maybe not so covertly. Found a few hearts stuck to my underwear later when I slipped outta my jeans, and the secrets of how the fuck he pulled that off are still locked behind his smirk.)

A smile tries to pull at my lips, but the tightness in my gut warps it crooked.

Another shuddery breath.

It can't be from Adam either. If he had something to say to me, he'd just say it, preferably after he finished laying me out on the mats, all sweaty and sucking down air from another session of his gentle ass-kicking. Nate, however, would write a note to me. Has written a note to me. Has written many notes to me and still not made a dent in that stack of expensive stationary, and although the card stock was silk cream, the pigment obsidian night, and the calligraphy swooping in almost a dead ringer, I know it can't be from Nate because he would never leave a rose with his words, not the ones meant for me.

But there isn't anyone else.

There's Mason

And it can't be from him.

It's not his handwriting, to start. I think. I'm pretty sure. I've never actually seen his writing, but I can't imagine it would be anything resembling neat or careful. It's gotta be complete chicken scratch. All cramped and illegible. He's left handed too, barely patient enough to sit through a stoplight, much less give ink the time to dry, so there'd be definitely be smears, and there weren't any smears. At all. Can't be him.

Not to mention he'd never do anything like this.

Don't know why he keeps coming to mind anyway. Just because we're…

Together

—for now.

Doesn't mean he'd ever say anything like that—

He already has

(He did. He said I deserved better and I believe him, but I don't, I can't.)

—only because he'd say differently if he knew.

If he really knew.

He'd say different and I'm not gonna fucking tell him and it doesn't fucking matter anyway, it doesn't. Shine's gonna wear off soon enough. Novelty, satisfied. Boredom, returning. And at least the conversation won't be awkward, just… blunt. To the point. A first for us both, in topic, if not style.

I've never been dumped before, at least not in a romantic sense.

Another breath. Another shuddery breath.

Wonder how it's gonna feel.

(It's gonna suck.)

No fucking shit.

If it can't last, why agree to it at all?

I rub hard at my eyes, grinding palms into sockets.

If it can't last, why not tell him anyway?

Because I already fucking know! Don't need to hear it from him, don't wanna hear it from—

If it can't last, why does it matter what he thinks?

“…Stupid fucking note.”

It was nice to see it on the desk this morning

(Someone took the time, wrote it, left it in here. Someone cares.)

Someone's playing a sick fucking joke, more like.

What if it's genuine?

I scoff ragged, squeezing fingers around the back of my neck.

(Tina cares. So does Verda. The whole team, so many others, I know, and I believe them all but I don't. I can't.)

What if you didn't deserve it?

I did. I stayed and I did. My fault. Fucking stupid, like he always said.

(All Mason ever speaks is care. In a thousand different ways of touch, in silence, in lingering looks, he cares.)

What if you can be loved?

What if you can?

A brittle laugh wheezes past my lips and shoots toward something hysterical, boosted by acid burn and cloying petals and that churning, churning tightness. My shoulders hunch high around my ears while the sound pitches even higher, lungs immolated and screaming along, nails digging, cutting crescents as I shake and curl tighter, smaller, compacting into stiffness hard enough to rival diamonds, every muscle verging on a cramp and my throat is stinging and my eyes are on fire, hot, wet, and the door is closed, the blinds shut, and maybe I could just— this time— if I stayed quiet, I could—

I could—

But I don't.

I swallow once, twice, suck down, blink it away, then snap upright and get back to work. There's too much shit, not enough time.

Never enough time, not for that.

For you

(Remember to eat lunch.)

I don't.

I don't really remember talking to anyone either. Or finishing paperwork. Answering email. Clearing the inbox backlog, digital and otherwise, but the stack depletes, the numbers go down, Tina gives me shit from the doorway, and soon the peripheral lights tick off overhead in the foyer, a mop bucket rattles its rounds, darkness crept into my office at some point for a visit and now it's here to stay, just its quiet company along with the monitor blasting eye strain, clacking keys, tight shoulders, a headache, and then—

A familiar ass plops down on my desk and scares the shit out of me.

I jerk back in the chair, wheels rolling, hand over heart to keep it from pounding free and Mason looms above it all, bathed in harsh blues, deep shadows, a deeper frown, and eyes that refuse to obey the rules of any ambient illumination.

Right now? They're crinkled soft, even as they scrutinize.

He looks… worried.

When did he even open my door?

“You okay, sweetheart?”

“…Yeah,” I mutter. A lie, an obvious one, but I fight the urge to glance away and dare him to call me out anyway. “You need something, sunshine?”

A muscle in his jaw twitches. “You're late.”

“For what?”

We didn't make plans.

“Getting home.”

Fuck.

I sigh, slumping in the seat, and now I'm looking away, now I'm backing down, running a hand through my hair, mussing and tangling, just like he always does when he's uncertain.

And when the hell did I start doing that?

“Yeah, I'm still behind on shit from my vacation. I was gonna stay late tonight, try and catch up…” I explain, because Tina and I also didn't make plans this year.

(Because she's been marinating in smugness ever since I sighed and told her about the relationship. Because she dropped that shit-eating smirk earlier—that I remember, at least—dripping suggestion all over my office as she waggled her brows and winked and made obnoxious kissy faces until I shoved her out the door, but not before she told me to 'have lots of fun tonight, Alexandra.')

Sure.

“Sorry I didn't text. I… forgot.”

That tightness in my stomach does another loop, and I huff a quiet breath.

Stupid fucking note.

Mason folds his arms. “…The fuck is going on with you?”

Concern blunts the teeth of his words, not that there's any real bite. There never is, not with him, but I tense up anyway, expecting it, expecting to be ripped open.

Blood and pain.

I'd tense up no matter how he asked.

It's okay

(He's not Bobby.)

“Nothing,” I reply, folding my arms, eyes down, “just…”

It's okay

(He's not looking to hurt.)

Probably will anyway, but fuck it. I already know his answer.

Let's just get it over with.

“You didn't leave me a valentine earlier, did you?” My gaze snaps to his. “On my desk?”

Mason scoffs. “Why the hell would I do that?”

This time, it stabs instead of twists, higher up, somewhere in my chest. Something sharp instead of dull.

Disappointment? …Relief? I'm not sure.

Just that it stings.

And it's nighttime, so maybe he feels it too, and maybe that's why he unfolds his arms and shifts toward me, boot heel dangling by the bottom drawer while his voice drops to a softness that matches his accent. “What it say?”

“Nothing,” I repeat, even quieter than him. “Just someone fucking with me. It doesn't matter.”

It does

(Shouldn't lie, not to him. Don't need to. Don't want to, don't like it.)

Mason doesn't like it either, but he doesn't push it. Neither do I.

We look away from each other.

The office swelters around us, too stuffy, too small. Too silent and uncomfortable now to stay. I roll forward to save my work, then turn the computer off and Mason's already waiting for me by the door, a dark silhouette framed by distant fluorescent, my coat and bag hanging off his arms. He pulls me in while I put it all on, yanking me by lapels before abandoning them for the sweater on my lower back, the loose hair at my nape. His lips brush against mine in slow movements, soft nibbling, and he's whispering something to me with it all, with the strokes of his fingers and the circle of our chins, but I can't quite hear.

So ask

(He'll answer—and he won't lie.)

I swallow, then I do.

“…What kind of kiss was that?”

“Dunno.” He shrugs beneath my hands, breath tickling my face. “I want you to feel better.”

“Oh.”

A shadow flits behind his eyes.

“…And if he's still bothering you, I'm gonna break his fucking jaw again.”

I chuckle softly. “Pretty sure it wasn't him this time.”

“Good.” Mason nibbles another kiss, then smirks. “Might still do it anyway.”

That gets a laugh from both of us, one that sprawls into a pause, grey eyes locked to mine while our grins fade out and our breath catches on everything unspoken and nameless rushing in to take the space.

Honesty. It's what I try to speak. Trailing up from the emotional ooze, raw and sticky.

I hope he can fucking see it, hear it cry, but I wipe it off and whisper the words into shape anyway, cheeks flaming, just to be sure—

“I'm sorry, I just… I don't wanna talk about it now.”

—and he answers me with a brush of his mouth, with his tongue parting my lips, with the way he teases into me before licking deeper, the way he jerks our hips together then shoves, a knee between my thighs, my back into a wall, a door frame, a sharp corner, a low groan rumbling up his chest directly into mine and I hear it all this time, in his breathy panting at the edge of our kiss, the firmness in his fingers angling my face to his, the solid heat of his cock pressed hard against me, grinding slow while I cling tight and moan, I hear it all, but he sucks my lip in with a sharp inhale, rolls me around his mouth before releasing with a drag of teeth, and he murmurs it aloud anyway, just to be sure—

“I know, sweetheart. It's fine.”

—then he nips down hard, and it's hard not to smile, hard not to laugh, harder still not to nip that asshole right back, so I don't.

Hold back, that is.

Our lips are swollen and sore by the time the station door swings shut behind us.