#when they're gone you feel that space open up and you miss them

[thezombieprostitute]

Control

Summary: A big case puts Andy's life on the line.

Warnings: Guns, Mild violence, Talk of killing. Please let me know if I missed any.

Word Count: ~1.6k

A/N: Written for @darkficsyouneveraskedfor's Mafia AU Bingo. Prompts are: "Casually flashing a gun" and "Having a hit put out on you".

A/N2: Reader has no physical descriptors.

Andy was in a tough spot. A prominent member of the O'Donnovan family was on trial and, as Assistant DA, Andy was expected to play a big role for the Prosecution. Unfortunately that also meant increased security. The O'Donnovans were not going to make this easy for him and his team and were rumored to have put out a hit on him.

At least it was only him that was in danger and not his family; Laurie got Jacob in the divorce and left for Colorado. It was also a smaller space; he'd sold the house and found himself a simple apartment close to the office. In less than a year he'd gone from, what he thought was a happy family life, a loving home, to ordering takeout almost every night. Maybe he should look into those pre-made meal subscriptions YouTubers were always sponsored by.

His security detail walked him to his apartment building and left when he got inside, as per usual. His building was considered secure for several reasons. Security cameras at the entrances, walking (or running) distance to a police station. Building doors that required codes, not keys.

So imagine his surprise when he walks into his apartment and sees you on his couch, jacket open, casually showing off that you're armed.

"Have a seat, Andrew," you smile and gesture to his recliner.

"Are you planning on killing me?"

"Not at all," you shake your head. "In fact, I was hired to protect you."

Andy snorts, trying to hide his emotions, and enters the apartment. He locks the door behind him and hangs up his jacket, trying to appear casual. "And who are you?"

"Do you remember Father O'Leary?" Andy nods. Last time his life had been in danger, Father O'Leary appeared talking about favors owed to Billy, Andy's father. "I'm his protege," you inform him. "My methods are a little different, but they're effective."

"Is this really necessary?" Andy angrily sighs. "I've got protection."

"And yet, I managed to break in here without anyone noticing," you counter. "The MacAuley's have a vested interest in keeping you safe."

"The O'Donnovan's losing a lieutenant used to not mean so much," Andy muses, giving you a look. If he can get information from you, he might be able to use it to strengthen his case.

"I'm not at liberty to discuss matters," you smile, shutting him down.

"This is stupid," Andy asserts, his voice rising and his jaw tensing. "I don't need a babysitter!"

"I'm not so sure," you chuckle. "Tell me, when's the last time you had a home-cooked meal? How about the last time you got yourself some new clothes? You're at least taking care of your hygiene, but that's all because of work, isn't it?" Your smirk grows as you see the vein in his neck, the white of his knuckles as he grips the arms of his chair.

"You see, Andrew, I do homework on those under my protection so I can get a better idea as to the stupid things they might try that'll get them killed. You have the annoying habit of being a workaholic. You end up needing to order out and that opens you up to danger in more than a few ways. You're only ever at work or at home so you've got the same routine every day, making you easy to find, easy for a sniper to predict where you'll be and line up a shot."

"So you're saying I need a wife and a life?" Andy grunts.

Your face scrunches into a pained expression. "If that's your thinking it's no wonder Laurie left you."

Andy quickly stands up out of his recliner and yells, "don't you dare bring her into this! She broke my heart and you don't get to pin that on me!" You raise an eyebrow, unafraid at his outburst, and he feels the steam behind his anger dissipate into confusion. "I'm allowed to live my life however the hell I want. If it gets me killed, so be it. I've got nothing to lose. I'll be dead, but I'll still be my own man."

You let out some of the laughter you've been holding onto. "Oh, Sweetheart, you have no idea what you're doing, do you?"

He wants to lash out, yell more, but he sees your gun, still in the open, and opts to sit back down, his face red with rage.

"Good boy," you coo, making him wince. "Now, if you really, truly think you need a wife to keep you fed and cared for, I can't imagine the pressure you were putting on Laurie. Seriously, have you ever been able to take care of yourself?" He starts to say something but you cut him off. "Of course not, what am I thinking. First you had your mother making all of your meals, cleaning all of your clothes. Then you met Laurie and got her knocked up, making it easier for you to convince her into marrying you and caring for both you and Jacob."

"Why are you doing this?" he rasps.

"To make conversation, help you make changes that will keep you safe and, of course, to show you I'm the one in control."

"If I don't accept?"

"You don't have a choice on the matter," you smile. "I've taken the liberty of stocking your kitchen with stuff even you can cook. No more ordering out. Your security team will be getting orders to start taking you different routes to and from the office. Do not get into your car until you get an all-clear from me or them."

"It sounds like I'm a prisoner," he grumbles.

"You are. There's a number of people out there eager to kill you for a good payday. You have no say in this situation."

"I hate losing control," he grumbles.

"You're not losing control so much as you're giving it up," you counter. "Similar to how, whenever you step on a plane, you're giving up control of your safety over to the pilot."

"But that's me choosing to do so."

"Then think of it like being trapped in a burning building," you shrug. "A firefighter shows up, you give them control over your actions by listening to their orders and directions. Or would you jump out a window just so you can hold onto your illusion of control?"

"I'm not that obstinate," he gripes.

"No, but your damn close. So scared that 'losing control' will turn you into Billy that you keep every aspect of yourself on lockdown."

Andy looks away, his anger turning to shame.

"You probably grew up using TV shows as your model for what a good person should be, but that didn't play out so well in real life, did it? You went into a career where there are clearly expressed expectations for behavior, where the rules are all that matter and the consequences clearly stated."

He grips the arms of his recliner again.

"To be fair, it works for you. You're a damn good lawyer, otherwise the MacAuleys wouldn't care if you were killed or not. Hell, if it were Loguidice, they might actually make it easier for the hit to happen."

Andy snorts, caught off guard by the compliments, before fixing his facial expression. "What do you know of it?" he weakly protests.

"As I said, Andrew, I do my homework."

He sighs in defeat. "So how is this going to work?"

Your smile grows and you get off the couch, heading towards the kitchen. "For tonight, I've got some dinner prepared for you. Wasn't sure how long this would take, so I figured it would be good to have food ready to go into the oven. During the day, you'll be with your security team or at the office. I'll be watching you and your place during the nights. And if you're a good boy, I'll also teach you how to cook for yourself so you don't have to rely on frozen pizzas and delivery."

As you walk past, Andy tries to grab you but you're too quick for him. You take his hand, pull him out of his chair, and twist his arm behind him, forcing him onto his knees. You lean in close and whisper in his ear, "trust me, Andrew. It'll be better for everyone if you just behave for me."

Letting go of his arm, you push him forward onto his face.

"You need me alive and unharmed," he growls as he starts picking himself up off the floor.

You walk back in front of him and grab his chin, forcing him to look up at you. "I've told you what can happen for you if you're a good boy and behave. I suppose I should warn you of what'll happen should you choose to be a baby who acts out."

Your hand never leaves his chin as you guide him back into the recliner. When he's sat down, you put your hands on the arms of the recliner, essentially pinning him in place.

"If you decide to throw a tantrum, to not obey the rules that are keeping you alive, you're going to get some lessons on the differences between losing control, giving up control, and having control stripped from you. Do you understand?"

You can see the struggle in his eyes, the temptation to act out. You give him nothing and it's throwing him off.

"Fine," he snarls.

You smile and pat his cheek. "Good boy."

Tagging: @alicedopey; @delicatebarness; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @irishhappiness; @kmc1989; @lokislady82; @peaches1958; @ronearoundblindly; @thiquefunlover63

[suddencolds]

.~

[lenallu]

For a moment, I thought it was you.

Based on the text messages Zayne sends when you haven't opened the app in a long time. ❅ tags: angst, hurt/comfort ❅ word count: 2.4k ❅ synopsis: You go missing on the job. Zayne struggles with the thought that you might never come back. ❅ a/n: my first fic post!!!! I'm currently writing a part two, so let me know if you like this :)

"I saw a hunter wearing their uniform at the airport during my last trip. For a moment, I thought it was you."

His phone chimes when his message delivers. It takes him a while to look away, and he feels silly for it. It's been this long, and yet he has failed miserably to snuff out the habit of hoping you'll reply. He shoves his phone into his pocket, the weight of it tugging his jacket when it hits the bottom of his deep, wrapper filled pockets. Candy wrappers he pulled from your hands as you raved about the flavor, so he could throw them away for you later. 

You had been missing for just over three weeks when he put that jacket on again, and something totally irrational in the back of his head begged him to leave them in there. He shook his head. When did garbage become precious? You'll be back. His pockets will fill with the crinkled paper when you amble by each other's sides once again, soon. 

He decides to leave them in there anyway. He picks lint off the shoulder, lingering on the garment before pushing it back into his closet, near the back. He tries not to think much of that choice, and does his best to ignore the things his mind is trying to suggest.

He hears people talking on the street later that day, parroting rumors about a failed mission and 11 or 12 casualties, hunters. A team of them, sent out to do who knows what. You didn't tell him much about it before you left. You were legally barred from sharing details with civilians. It was standard safety protocol. He understood at the time, but now he wishes you could have given him something. Anything to figure out where you had gone, so he could go and get you himself.

A shrill meow sounds out near his feet, and yanks him out of his thoughts. He had stopped by a table of jewelry set up outside of a shop you used to stare at every time you passed by with him on your walks through town, but had lent all his focus to absorbing information from conversations that floated by. Scraping the world around him for any indication of you.

He stares at the cat, and recognizes her from the countless times you had reached down to pet her. You’d even started to carry loose treats in your pockets just for her.

He turns a ring from the table in his fingers, tracing over the small, sparkling embedded stones before setting it down. When you get back, he’ll remind you to check your clothes for cat treats before you wash them.

At work, none of his pens seem to stay put in his pocket. They're too busy whirling around his fingers, occupying his hands even when he isn't writing anything. He can't explain the fidgeting to himself or to his colleagues questioning gazes. He was a stable surgeon. A steady person. He started actively reminding himself of that, repeating it like a wish, as if it had stopped being true at some point.

🜺

A month and a half has passed. He sits tensely at his dining table, chin cradled in the space between his thumb and forefinger. The house is quiet like it always is when you aren’t there, but it bothers him more now. It unsettles him to think it might be like this forever, and he pleads with himself for the hundredth time not to go there in his head.

He started watching the news more often, almost religiously. The second he gets home and his keys rattle onto the counter, the tv is on. If the association releases any kind of statement, he doesn't want to miss it. 

A fatigued sigh blows from his nose after about an hour of menial news reports, and he's just about to get up to cook something when the newscaster's voice cuts out. 'Breaking news' flashes across the screen.

"We can't make any definitive statements, but we believe we were able to recover data of the last signals their watches sent out before everything went dark. Again, the location of this mission was incredibly remote and difficult to navigate, so this doesn't guarantee we will find them. That is all in terms of developments. It has taken a long time to regain access to our systems and grab those signals."

His eyes are wide, and all he can think about is storming your building and demanding information. He knows it doesn't work like that. He still considers it. He had hoped when an update finally came, he'd be sprinting through the door to his car to pick you up. The ghost of that hope lingers in his legs, and he doesn't know what to do with the residual energy. He feels utterly helpless.

🜺

Your body wakes before you, searing pain striking through your limbs. Your eyelids feel glued together as you struggle to open them, but once you do, all you see is white. Fear kickstarts the rest of your functions, and you start to regain sensation. Quick and panicked breaths scratch their way out of your throat as your eyes dart around. You become aware that you are encrusted in icy crystals, sunken about two feet into some snowy expanse. Moving proves difficult, but you manage. Snow slides off your form and you stumble and trudge forward with hardly any mental recognition that you are actually moving. Things are fuzzy. You're not sure you're even really alive.

You're not all there, if there at all, but you feel a tinge of what you loosely recognize as rage floating in you somewhere in response to the snow that never seems to end. That anger blooms in your chest as you plow through what seems like miles of pure white, and your body feels like it's stinging all over. It's all you have. 

This all just feels like an infinite dream. Maybe this was death. A cruel one, and maybe it came with a sentence. A punishment. Doomed to push through miles of numbing, freezing cold, thinking it'll end eventually, but it never does. All with half a mind, which is enough to feel the pain in your heart, but not enough to remember how to cry or scream or shout or plead. Condemned to carry a heavy sorrow that you don't even know how to put down.

Please let it end soon. You can't put the words together in your mind, but you feel them. You feel them for a while, until you don't anymore. You are none the wiser as your body collapses in a more shallow clearing.

🜺

Zayne doesn't even know how to describe what he just saw. Vocabulary wasn't an issue. He was well versed in nearly every medical term he encountered in the stacks upon stacks of textbooks and learning materials he revised in undergrad and beyond. 

It was you, but it wasn't. Your skin was nearly a shade of grey he couldn't even fathom on a living human being. That thought sunk something in him as soon as it passed through his mind. He stood there paralyzed as you were rushed past him, the team of doctors wheeling you shouting up a storm of vitals and medications. All of which, for the first time in Zayne's life, were incomprehensible. He couldn't make out a single thing they were saying, and not because it was unclear. He couldn't think at all. He didn't realize he wasn't breathing until Yvonne stood up from the reception desk to lightly lay her hand on his shoulder. A turbulent breath suddenly thrusted out of him like water through a broken dam, and he ignored Yvonne's voice calling out to him as his body carried him down the hall as fast as it possibly could.

He caught up, and grimaced at the sight of you. He catches bits and pieces of what the doctors are saying as you are rushed into a room and CPR protocols begin. At some point, a catheter is placed and they begin pumping you with warmed intravenous fluids. The door swings closed as a doctor rushes past, and the only thing that stops him from crashing through that door is Yvonne finding him again. He only looks at her for half a second before he's staring through the tiny window in the door. He wants to say something, but stands there in silence.

"She has a pulse." Yvonne addresses the worry she can see written all over him. She stares into the window with him, and her next words feel strange when they eventually come out. "They're doing everything they can." 

She's offered this line to countless anxious families, but never did she think a time would come where she'd be saying it to him. Greyson comes along at some point, having heard of the situation, and lightly gestures for Zayne to sit down. 

"She's gonna come around, Dr. Zayne. She’s in good hands. You know you're not in a state to do anything right now, anyways, or you wouldn't still be standing out here instead of in there. Come on." He says gently. "She'll come around."

Two hours pass, and he's beating himself up the whole time. He should be in there, saving you. He's studied all his life to do just that, and when the time came, he couldn't. Fear got in the way. He loved you so much it paralyzed him. When he looked at you today, grief crashed into him like he had lost you right there in that hall. He felt like a giant hole had been blown in his chest. He starts to sink in that powerless feeling. You’re here, and yet he still feels like he did when the news came on that night in his home.

Your hypothermia was severe enough that invasive procedures were required. Tubes were put in through your esophagus, which connect to an external heat exchange unit. Zayne clicks through your intake form, and through several tabs on the procedure they were currently putting you through. As he sifts through the information, there's a growing tightness in his chest and throat. It pulls tighter, and he tries to ignore the way his eyes are burning. Grief continues to brew inside him, venting out of his chest with periodical sighs as he scrolls, brows knitted. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if you don’t make it.

A knock sounds at the door of his office. It’s Greyson. He offers a tight lipped smile.

“She’s stable. The docs are done and her room is empty.” He hardly has time to finish his sentence before Zayne is up and moving. He hurriedly marches out into the hall and straight for you. All the energy built up over the last 2 months propelled him forward, but dissipated as soon as he got to your door. He’s not prepared when he does see you.

Your skin isn’t quite as ashen anymore. Color is returning to you, but you are clearly emaciated. His mind races with all the possibilities of the kind of trouble you might have been in, and it shakes him deeply. He stands at the foot of your bed for a while, idling. Almost in complete disbelief that he is seeing you again, and not in a body bag with a certificate of death being handed to him.

He pulls a chair up to your bedside. You’re covered in a few layers of thick blankets. He hesitates to touch you, but he reaches under the warm layers, feeling for your hand anyway. Out of pure need. He has to know it’s really you. 

He grazes something cold. His fingers find your hand, wrapping around it and squeezing lightly to warm you up.

He studies your sunken features as his heart starts to settle in his chest for the first time in months. The steady beeping from the monitor is music to his ears, lulling him into comfort as he settles into the chair, still holding onto you. You don't look well, but you're alive. That's all he needs. He falls asleep as he sits there for a few hours, the sky rolling into darkness outside. 

🜺

Your eyelids open with much less difficulty this time. Met with the sterile white of the hospital room, you panic briefly before realizing where you were. Your mind is still foggy as you blink lazily, comforted by the sheer warmth that envelops you. 

A soft noise comes from somewhere to your right, and the muscles in your neck ache as you turn your head to follow it.

Zayne. Slumped in his chair, head leaning toward one shoulder as soft breaths blow locks of hair from his face. Sunlight from the window falls over him, blanketing his features in warmth, and he’s the purest picture of paradise you’ve seen in a long time. The sight of him seems to activate some kind of primal instinct towards warmth, and adrenaline starts to pump into your blood. You long to hold him and ensure that this isn’t a dream, but you feel overcome with weakness, and you can hardly manage squeezing his thumb. 

He doesn't wake. You huff, body going slack after a wholehearted, but futile attempt to move. You stare at the ceiling and breathe deeply, begging for only just enough strength. You turn your head to him again, and determination washes over you. You pull your hand free from his grasp, mustering up all the strength you have plus what you don't, and feebly tumbling out of bed onto his chair and him.

He startles and instinctually tries to catch you, his sleepy, bleary eyes becoming focused on you and expanding once he realizes it’s you, and your skin beneath his fingers. His expression breaks into so many things at once: sorrow, pain, relief and others you aren't even allowed to finish distinguishing before he pulls you into a suffocatingly tight embrace. The sight of the whirling storm in his eyes, maybe even just his eyes alone, were enough to choke you up. You let out an incredulous laugh as he squeezes you, and tears collect in your eyes. It’s the warmest you’ve felt in months.

You wrap your arms around his head, settling your cheek in his soft hair when you start to feel him shudder. Guilt crashes into him, for not being able to do more. He should have stormed into the Hunter's Association, he should have gone out and looked for you night and day, across states and countries. He should have taken care of you when you got wheeled in. He should have, he should have. 

Excruciating recollections of what happened to you on that mission start to creep into your mind as his warmth begins to thaw you from the inside, so you squeeze your eyes shut, and hold him tighter.

[captain-huggy-bear]

Clayton + Come back to bed

Gosh, to be the missing thing that wakes Clay up from his sleep... Ngl I unironically talk to the moon especially when it's full and call her 'moon-moon'...am I the only one who has a deep aching love for the moon? 1000 Followers Celly Currently ongoing 🥳🎉 Big requests/full fic/big idea requests are closed at the moment but drabble and prompt requests are still open. Writing Masterlist

Clayton wakes because of the empty space next to him, the space that you should be occupying. His eyes blink open blearily, rubbing at them as he pats the space next to him expecting to find that you've rolled away in the night, just out of reach. You're not where you should be. You're not in his arms, his face isn't tucked into your shoulder, your legs aren't twisted with his, your warmth no longer against him. The bed is cold in your spot like you'd been gone awhile.

When he can't find you, hand only patting empty space, Clay pushes himself up onto an elbow to look for you. It takes only a moment really, barely any time for his eyes to lock onto you like they're drawn to you. You haven't gone far at all, perched on the windowsill looking out the window, staring up at the moon.

He's quiet as he slips out of bed, the air is cold, too cold for you to be sat there like that without a blanket around you. Clayton pads across the floor until he's a shadow over you, reaching out gently, carefully, to avoid startling you as his hands fall on your shoulders.

You still jump, not expecting the warmth of his hands to cover your shoulders. They slide down your arms until Clay's chest is pressed to your back, face pressed against your neck like he wants to burrow into your skin.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you, baby." The kiss Clay presses to your jaw is so soft that you barely feel it, the subtlest brush of his lips against your skin. "Why are you out of bed?"

You sigh, but it's not heavy, no if anything it's a little whimsical and dreamy as you lean back against him. Clay's warm and it relieves a little bit of the chill you'd started to feel.

"Couldn't sleep, wanted to look at the moon for a little bit..." Your eyes are still centred on that bright orb outside. The moon is full, bright, unobstructed by clouds. Watching her puts a sort of ache in your chest that you can't ever quite explain, some sort of deep appreciation for how lovely that cosmic object is and how unobtainable, how untouchable too. When you can't sleep it always seems better to moon watch than wake Clay up with your tossing and turning. Sometimes you watch him instead, trace the features of his face with your eyes until you feel sleepy.

"Yeah?" One of Clay's hands finds your throat, just holding, resting, not squeezing. It's a reassuring weight that feels supportive as you lean your head back against his shoulder. A familiar weight because he always seems to put his hand there like clockwork.

"Mmm, she's pretty tonight," You hum as he presses a couple of kisses to your cheek and the side of your face, his lips rounding into a smile as he does so. He's so soft tonight, edges softened by sleep and the late night atmosphere.

"You're pretty tonight, baby." You can feel his smile against your cheek, murmuring the words into your skin in a lazy sort of way that exudes quiet confidence.

"Sweet talker." You admonish but still your cheeks grow hot under his lips, smiling tugging at the corner of your lips as your nose scrunches up.

"Mmm, only for you..." There's a pause as he nuzzles into your shoulder, hand flexing against your neck, "Come back to bed, baby, miss you." He's sweet and little clingy right now, the sort of Clay no one else sees...the sort of Clay you see in the midnight hours when he can let some of those walls down a little more for you. You like this Clay. The Clay that makes it known that he can't do without you, that doesn't hide the fact that he woke because you weren't there.

"Yeah?"

"Can't sleep when you're not there." He tugs you back against him, practically dragging you off the windowsill until your feet are back on the ground. Already planning on dragging you back to bed if he has to.

"Roadies must be tough, huh?" You huff out a laugh because you know he sleeps like the dead on roadies, you've seen the videos when he's shared a room with one of the guys. How hard it is to wake him up.

"I have to be real brave, sweet girl."

"The bravest." Your voice is silly, mocking almost but in a way that is still filled with affection. Teasing. It has him turning you in his arms until you're staring at the mess of his hair (finger already reaching up to fix it), the bags under his eyes, the soft way he's gazing at you.

There's a pause, a moment where you fix his messy bedhead and he just stares at you, takes you in. The silence is comfortable, familiar. You've never felt like you had to fill silence with Clay, both of you comfortable with pauses and silences, content not to just speak for the sake of it.

"Come back to bed."

"Okay."

You don't put up a fight at all, letting him guide you back to the bed. There's no force needed to drag you onto the mattress, no coercion as you wriggle back into his arms and cosy up to him. It's easy to fall into bed with Clay because it's like coming home, comforting and sweet. Whenever you're in his arms you feel so utterly safe like the world couldn't touch you, no one could hurt you. Between the smell of his cologne, the brush of his cross against your skin, the press of his lips on your shoulder and the arms wrapped round you like the best sort of weighted blanket, it was easy to start to drift off. Easy to fall into slumber with the moonlight still streaming in over the two of you, like some sort of fairy tale.

[divadepreshawn]

𝑨𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒏 𝑺𝒖𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓

Aaron Hotchner × fem!reader ×popstar

part four Haley didn't die in this universe, they're just divorced (let's make this poor man's past less traumatic)

Garcia will want to DIE when he finds out he missed the chance to see you up close. WC: 2 556

◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇

Aaron was sitting at his desk, staring at the card on the flowers, he wasn't sure how to react to it, it was a beautiful gesture – and a little scary –, he admits. You only had his first name and you managed – you wanted – to find him. It was a bittersweet feeling, he hadn't gotten involved with anyone after Haley – not that he was looking for someone, because that was his last concern. His priority now was Jack and work. Aaron didn't have the strength to hold grudges against Haley – it was hard at first, after all they had been together since they were teenagers. But he couldn't blame her for leaving.

A husband who was never home.

It wasn't her fault, it was his.

That's what he kept repeating to himself as a punishment, life is made of choices and consequences, he could have done more for the marriage – he should have done more. But he didn't and it ended.

"I know what you're thinking, forget it" Rossi's voice broke him out of his trance.

“I’m not thinking about anything.”

“Of course, there must be another reason why you’re looking at this arrangement as if it were the world’s greatest riddle.”

Aaron sighed, running his hand through his hair. “I can’t do this again and-”

“And nothing, the past is gone, it’s over.”

Rossi pulled up a chair and sat across from him.

“I’ll give you some advice, Aaron. The past is there to teach us, not to hold us back forever. You lie to yourself—interspersing work with the responsibilities of being a father—saying that you don’t need to move on, or meet new people, but I’ll present you with the facts. Jack will grow up, one day you’ll retire. When this is over, what’s left?”

He fell silent, looking away from Rossi and toward the flowers.

“You don’t want to repeat the same mistakes, I understand. Just the fact that you’re worried means you’ve learned from them.”

He points to the flower arrangement with a half smile.

“I’m not saying you have to get married and have ten kids with your secret admirer. I’m just saying that you should allow yourself to have a conversation that doesn’t involve murderers and school activities.”

Aaron lets out a weak laugh.

“I honestly don’t even remember how to do that.” He runs his hands over his face tiredly.

“I don’t think you need to, there’s someone who’s committed enough for both of you.”

“It’s complicated.”

“It’s not complicated, the problem is you.”

He frowns.

“But you just said-”

“Shut up and text me already.”

Aaron sighs, glancing at his phone.

“It’s been a week, what am I supposed to say?”

“Something like: hi I’m an idiot but thanks for the flowers.”

Aaron raises an eyebrow at the suggestion.

“I’m not going to write that.”

“But you should.”

“Okay, don’t you have to work?”

Rossi chuckled softly, pushing his chair back as he stood up.

“I always have time to tease you. Don’t overthink it, just text me—oh, and don’t forget my chair.” He left the room, closing the door behind him with a slight wave.

Aaron took a deep breath as he stared at his phone on the table, hoping his problems would solve themselves

It wasn’t as easy as Rossi made it sound.

It wasn’t just the fear of getting involved again—although that was a big part of it. The weight of his responsibility as a father and as a boss made any distraction feel like a threat to the fragile balance he was trying to maintain. Jack was his priority, always would be. How would he divide his attention?

What about work?

The work was never ending. He was always processing reports, psychological profiles and strategies to keep the team safe. He couldn’t make any commitments, having to leave everything behind when he had a case. Getting involved with someone would mean opening up space for one more worry, one more possible failure.

Life had hardened him, every loss, every difficult decision, every case that ended tragically.

What could he offer other than worries?

But there was a much bigger question than that that had been circling your thoughts since you gave him your number.

What did you see in him?

What – in twenty minutes of conversation – had been enough to make you want to stay? And, more than that, want to be part of his life – to the point of going to the trouble of finding out his name just to send him flowers?

Maybe it was because you were on high alert and since he helped you your brain only associated him with safety?

Do you have issues with your father?

Or maybe it was a moment when, without realizing it, he relaxed for a second and let out a genuine smile. But would that be enough for someone to want to insist?

He didn't see himself as attractive in the romantic sense. It wasn't that he didn't think he was handsome, but he never believed that his presence inspired anything other than respect—and often, fear.

His rigid posture, the controlled way he spoke, his almost always neutral expression—all of this created a barrier between him and others.

With Haley it was different. They met before the burden of responsibility that this job demanded shaped every aspect of his identity. In college, he smiled more easily, allowed himself moments of lightness—the young man who dreamed, who believed he could balance justice and happiness.

Maybe he wouldn't be able to have a relationship again—at least not now. But Rossi was right, it would be nice to talk to someone whose main agenda wasn't murder and preschool.

Before he could think too much, he picked up his cell phone and typed a message.

Still hesitant.

But not running away.

“Thanks for the flowers, but I have to admit, I’m still wondering how you found me. Should I keep an eye on you or offer you a job on my team?”

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You were exhausted.

Rehearsing in a warehouse since early morning, repeating the choreography until your feet were blistered, making arrangements, training your breathing to hit the notes while dancing.

The last few weeks before the tour are always chaotic, dancers rehearsing without rest, sound and lighting engineers adjusting the last details, the stage structure set up to rehearse the positioning.

Every decision was made by you – from the setlist to the fabric of the dancers' clothes. Not because you didn't trust the team, but because you refused to deliver a show that was inferior to the last. Each tour needed to be bigger, better, more impactful. The pressure came from all sides – but most of all, from yourself.

Everyone is stressed – you are stressed. And you needed to take a break before you start being a bitch.

Sighing, you stop what you're doing, folding your sweatshirt until it looks like a makeshift pillow. As soon as you lay down on the floor you realized two things – the floor was freezing cold and you were more tired than you thought.

“Are you okay?” Chris’s voice broke the silence.

��Uh-huh,” you hummed in response. “I just need a minute of silence, don’t let anyone talk to me, please.”

He hesitated for a moment, as if trying to gauge your mood before continuing – the scale was kill him, fire him or just curse him out.

“Remember the favor you asked to find your mystery guy?”

You frowned and opened your eyes.

“Yeah. What about it?”

“You’re kind of going to have to pay him back today.”

Your body tensed.

“The one who recognized him and gave him the information was an event planner. And he only works with important people – politicians, judges, government agents…” He paused to let you absorb the information before continuing. "Sort of… you're performing at his event tonight."

You whimpered, rubbing your temples as you sat down.

"You're kidding."

"I wish I was."

"What if you put on a wig and go in my place?"

Chris stared at you for a while, analyzing how much truth there was in the joke.

"I don't think it would convince anyone."

You sighed, Chris held out his hand to you - helping you up.

"How many songs?"

"Only three."

You nodded slowly, preparing yourself psychologically for a long night. These events were the worst - petty people who lived in a silent struggle for power, vying for your attention in order to gain support and publicity for their projects.

"I can't believe I'm doing this because of a man, a man who didn't even bother to save my number-" The sentence dies in your throat as soon as you feel your cell phone vibrate. Your gaze fell to the notification on your messaging app – unknown number.

“Thanks for the flowers, but I must admit, I’m still wondering how you found me. Should I keep an eye on you or offer you a job on my team?”

You bit your lip in a – failed – attempt to hide a smile.

“Honestly, your smile scares me a lot more than if you were hitting me.”

“Shut up.”

You quickly thought of a response.

“I’m glad you liked it, honey, but a magician never reveals his tricks. And yes, keep an eye on me, Mr. Hot – both preferably.”

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Justice Department Gala

A yearly – and very boring – event full of formalities, speeches and ego battles. An event that Hotch had completely forgotten about. While the members could decide whether to go or make up an excuse – all of which, without exception, chose the second option – unfortunately, as the team leader his presence was mandatory.

The hall was grand, lit by imposing chandeliers that cast golden reflections on the champagne glasses. Waiters walked discreetly among the guests, offering refined appetizers that Aaron had no interest in tasting. He had already exchanged greetings with politicians, judges and some senior agents, but he was at his limit.

That was when the music started.

Not only the usual violins, now there was a piano and a sound that he thought was a drum. As the soft introduction began, the stage lights dimmed – the floor filling with smoke. He frowned; there was no show on the schedule.

Then the lights focused on the center of the stage, and there you were.

He froze.

Your strong and impotent presence was enough to silence the room. The dress molded perfectly to your body – it was impossible not to pay attention to you, your presence was mesmerizing.

And then you started to sing.

Your voice filled the room, it was a perfect mix of strength and skill, reaching and sustaining high notes with impressive ease. He had already heard some of your songs when he researched you, but nothing compared to hearing you sing live. And for the first time he allowed himself to focus solely on the music – without considering it just as background noise.

“Remember those walls I built? Well, baby, they're tumbling down And they didn't even put up a fight They didn't even make a sound”

This was happening – unconsciously – after all.

The last note echoed through the hall and as the audience applauded, you gave a slight smile – mumbling a thank you – and bowed subtly before leaving the stage. He was in an internal battle, pondering whether or not to talk to you. But you had reached out to him, right? So the least he could do was apologize for not texting you sooner. Without realizing it, he was already heading your way – the unconscious does funny things sometimes.

As he got closer, he could see you – leaning against one of the walls –, talking to a group of men and their wives. Your smile was polite, but your eyes – especially when you looked at the man next to you – said: get me out of here. Aaron recognized you, he was the same one who picked you up at the store that day. Broad shoulders, rigid posture and observant – ex-military maybe. Definitely a bodyguard.

So you’ve come to your senses, he thought.

You nodded slightly, offering a half smile at something one of the wives said when your eyes landed on him. And then you smiled – not the polite, practiced smile you were giving the group. But a genuine smile, the kind that reached your eyes.

His chest tightened – an involuntary reflex he hadn’t experienced in a long time. He couldn’t remember the last time someone looked so happy to see him, and it affected him – probably more than he would admit out loud. You said goodbye to the group with a polite smile and started walking towards them.

“You know, I’m starting to believe it’s fate.” You tilted your head as you looked at him, your eyes shining with amusement.

He arched an eyebrow, curious.

“What?”

“Oh, you know, saving me from near-death situations.” You paused dramatically and started counting on your fingers. “The first time I almost got trampled to death. And now? I almost died of boredom.”

That got a genuine laugh out of him – something you did easily.

“That’s definitely something that could have happened, I didn’t know you sang at events like that.”

“I don’t sing. But this time I had ulterior motives. Let’s just say it was an exchange, as soon as I got your name.” You laughed at his frown, quickly correcting yourself. “It wasn’t illegal at all, I promise.”

Aaron tilted his head slightly, with an expression of disbelief – but the corners of his lips betrayed him with the beginning of a smile.

“Are you saying you negotiated a performance in exchange for information about me?”

You looked away with a thoughtful expression.

“It sounds pretty scary when you say it like that,” you muttered. “Anyway, that’s not relevant.”

He let out a low laugh. Rossi was right.

“I’ll make sure to check your background, although with your schedule, there wouldn’t be time to commit many crimes.”

“How do you know? - Oh my god, you researched me?” A disbelieving smile spread across his face.

He opened his mouth, ready to deny it, but quickly closed it. The pause was telling, he had given himself away.

“Research is too strong a word,” he replied, straightening up, “Let’s just say it was enough to get you informed.”

Liar.

You arched an eyebrow as you crossed your arms.

“Oh, is that what they call it these days?”

He scratched his throat, dismissing it with his hand.

“Anyway, that’s not relevant.”

You stared at him for a second, pretending to let it go before a mischievous smile spread across your lips.

“It’s not relevant? Because I think it’s very relevant, who has to keep an eye on who here?”

“We’re strangers, okay; let’s skip to the next part,” he said – in a failed attempt to maintain his composure. But there was an amused glint in his eyes.

“So you have topics? How many are we talking about, Agent Hotchner?”

Aaron crossed his arms, trying to keep his face impassive – despite the amusement clear in his eyes.

“You’re annoying.”

“I know,” you agreed softly, “But something tells me you like it.”

He looked away for a while, silently organizing his thoughts. Frowning, he returned his gaze to you.

“Of all the things I have to deal with, oddly enough, you’re the least annoying.”

You laughed, crossing your arms in mock offense.

“Was that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Initial apology.”

Your gaze softened, an amused chuckle escaping your lips.

“You’re terrible at this.”

“I know"

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English is not my first language are sorry for any mistake

If you have any ideas to contribute to the sequel I will be happy to receive them :)

tag: @duchesz @midnghtprentiss @jazzimac1967 @queenofnothng @leathynn @camihotchner @yourallaround-simp @pastelpinkflowerlife @padlockedheartsreading

[trippinsorrows]

ltye: unpretty

authors note: well, this got a lil heavier and definitely longer than i intended. though, i hope at least some of you enjoy it. ❤️

warnings: angst, smut, violence, brief scene of csa, and strong theme of mental health

words: 6.5k

song inspo: unpretty by tlc

masterlist

I wish I could tie you up in my shoes.

Make you feel unpretty too.

I was told I was beautiful,

but what does that mean to you?

-----

Solana is having a good day.

A good week, she'd even argue.

A bit surprising, though appreciated.

It's only been a few weeks since she completed residential treatment, and while she was most certainly trepidatious about transitioning to being back home full time, that concern has been unfounded.

It's been wonderful being back with her husband, friends, and sweet puppy. Even with visits, more than a few from her husband especially, while she was gone, it wasn't the same.

The swell of sadness that filled Solana every time she had to say goodbye, the bittersweet kiss Roman would place on her forehead when he had to leave in the wee early hours. It was hard. She wanted to see him, but that parting portion was rough, to say the least.

However, not exactly knowing how things would play out upon her return was something that gnawed at her, created a level of anxiety, though she's beyond grateful it ended up being unnecessary concern.

Being back has been phenomenal, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

Dropping her bag on one of the benches separating the set of lockers, Solana starts to pull out her water bottle and headphones. It's not a training day, but she'd decided to head over to the Warehouse and get a little session in, missing the adrenaline and strong feeling she receives from training and moving her body.

She goes to open the locker to deposit the rest of her items in said space when she hears conversation, laughter and footsteps.

Solana looks over to see two women dressed in similar workout apparel as her own, though their slim but curvy figures seem to fill said outfits out in a way that Solana's doesn't. They just fit better.

And look nicer.

Each with contrasting complexions, one a deep, rich chocolate, the other lighter, caramel in tone, though each equally stunning. They're talking among themselves when the one with a lighter complexion casts Solana a glance. She does a double take, looking Solana over from head to toe.

"You're Roman's new wife, right?"

At over six months of marriage, Solana isn't sure she'd still consider herself his "new wife," but she's also not one to be caught up on semantics, either.

"Yeah," she finally answers. "I'm Solana." She offers a small smile and then almost awkwardly offers her hand for a handshake. Both sets of women just stare at her extended hand with a hint of confusion and disinterest. Solana clears her throat, pulling her hand back, feeling a bit silly.

"That's pretty," the other one says. It feels insincere. The two turn their attention away from Solana to open their own lockers.

Solana pulls out her phone to find a playlist but also just wanting a distraction of sorts. The entire air of the locker room seems to have shifted and not in a good way.

"You're lucky, you know."

Solana looks up from her phone, surprised to see the lighter tone woman leaned back against the lockers.

Solana frowns. "I'm sorry?"

She snorts, shaking her head, looking over at her friend. "Of all the men I've slept with, Roman will always be number one on that list."

Shoulders slumped, small smile now dropped into a frown, Solana has a hard time responding. Doesn't know what to make of what was just said. "What?"

The woman sighs almost dreamily, looking at her friend. "Don't you agree?"

The other woman makes a sound. "You already know it." Solana's blood grows cold. "That man had me speaking in tongues every time."

Every time? Solana suddenly has a hard time staying present for the unexpected turn in conversation.

"Oh, you don't mind us saying that, right?" One of them asks in that same insincere tone from earlier. She then laughs and shrugs. "I mean, everyone knows how Roman was. That he only got married cause he needed an heir."

"How's that going by the way?"

"Chantel." A faux type of scolding voice, followed up with continued fake concern. "Ignore her, though you do seem….not exactly like his type, so I'm cur—"

"What is that supposed to mean?" Solana fully intended for her voice to come out significantly more assertive than it did. She sounds so small.

Another fake look of innocence. "I'm just saying, you're so…quiet and passive…and everyone knows Roman is anything but."

The other woman smirks eyeing Solana once more. "He fucks, and he fucks hard. Likes it rough."

"Kiesha," Chantel scolds, providing the name of the woman with the lighter complexion. "Stop. That's her husband. Of course she knows that already." She tilts her head to the side, twirling a piece of her hair. "Right?"

Solana swallows. The jovial disposition she had is all but depleted, replaced with a concoction of sadness, confusion, anger and a shit ton of insecurity.

"Just how he likes when you caress his balls when sucking him off."

"Kiesha!" Chantel laughs, her friend joining in, the two of them clearly getting off on this. On making Solana feel so small and insignificant. "No, I'm sorry, that's way too much."

It is. It absolutely is.

Overcome with emotion, and not wanting to cry in front of these two cruel women, Solana finds herself gathering her items, rushing out of the locker.

"Wait, don't leave," one of them calls after her, laughing once more when Solana is out of view of them, standing by the door. She goes to rip it open to leave but can't help but listen to their continued conversation.

"Oh my God, I can't believe Roman really settled with someone like her. She's so fucking sensitive. And those scars? Hello? Ever heard of plastic surgery?"

Snickering followed up with, "I know he liked his women thick, but that's not thick. She's just fat. Did you see her stomach?"

"Girl, I thought she was just bloated."

"Baby, I've seen bloated. That ain't it. Sis needs to hit that cardio 7x a week."

"I wonder if she ever feels heavy on top of him."

"You know she does. He probably had to up his workouts just to make sure her big ass don't smother him."

At that, Solana has more than enough, rushing out the locker room without another word.

My outsides look cool

My insides are blue

Every time I think I'm through

It's because of you

------------

Roman has a long, late day, which means he won't make it home until later than usual. Solana is immensely grateful for this one thing that would typically make her a little sad, a little lonely, bored, even.

But, that's not the case.

It's not the case, because having time away from him is necessary. It's necessary, because it gives her much needed time to think.

To overthink.

By the grace of some higher power, she's able to hold it together until she gets home, expertly playing off her premature departure from the Warehouse as the result of not feeling well. An excuse, thankfully, bought by Bautista.

But, the minute she's home, in the privacy of her master bathroom, that's when it all comes out. The tears. Sitting on the floor, back against the locked door, Solana cries into her knees.

She's worked so hard the past few weeks to build herself back up, to sound out the negative voices, to silent her inner demons. And, for the most part, she has. At no point does she ever consider harming herself or does she desire to harm herself, she just has a sudden, strong dislike for herself.

For her body.

And insecurity. So much insecurity. In her appearance. In her sex life.

Solana learned a long time ago about her husband's promiscuity, so that was of no surprise.

It's now the nature of that promiscuity, however, and how it vastly contrasts their sex life, that has her mind racing.

Not to mention the women. So beautiful. Their curves generous but attached to a nice, slim frame. Solana knows her breast and ass are big, but so is everything else about her figure. Slim thick is what she's sure those women would be categorized under.

Nothing about her is or ever has been slim.

It's a thought that brings about another set of tears.

Not only does she not fit the mold and standard for what Roman typically went for, the sex they have isn't even close to what pleases him.

Nothing about their intimacy has ever been rough or hard. He's always been so gentle with her, which is exactly what she needs, but it never crossed her mind as to if it's what he needs.

Has he been satisfying my needs and negating his own?

A terrible, heavy thought that only makes her feel worse.

Solana has only ever wanted to make her husband happy, the same way he's made her happy. She thought she did, or maybe she just wanted to believe it.

Believe that what she was doing was enough, but clearly, it isn't.

Solana tears through the growing lingerie collection she's compiled over the past few months, largely thanks to Naomi and Bayley's encouragement. A part of her wants to reach out to them, to ask for their advice. Even Melina and gang.

But, she doesn't. She can't. It's way too personal and between her and Roman.

Solana has to do this on her own.

Finally, she settles on a one piece from Savage X Fenty. A short skimpy dress with beautiful lacing on the bosom part and material that flows and conceals her stomach area.

It's a sexy yet modest and shows just enough but not too much, because while she knows Roman has already indicated he hadn't noticed her weight gain, she certainly has. And, she's definitely noticed it in her stomach.

So, until she can get some of the weight off, she'll just have to be a bit more mindful with how she dresses.

Dinner is easy to make, Solana opting for a less complex, less time consuming recipe, as she has to have Dulce taken care of, as well as her everything shower and her hair to complete before Roman gets home. And, she does.

She manages it all.

Has the foot hot on the plate and on their dining room table when he walks in the door. It's a bit rushed, Solana can acknowledge that much. Roman is really good with asking about how her day was, giving her the space to share. It's always appreciated but not necessary. Not tonight.

Tonight is about him and pleasing him.

So, when dinner is completed, Solana rushes to put away the leftovers and heads upstairs to get ready. She'd already cleaned the kitchen while waiting for him to get home, which ended up being a great decision.

Allotted her just the right amount of time.

Dulce sleeping peacefully in her bed in another room, Solana, dressed and nervously fiddling with her dress and hair, waits for Roman to finish in the shower.

She listens for the telltale signs. The sound of the water shutting off, the sink running, towels and dirty clothes being tossed into the hamper.

They all point to one thing.

Roman is barely out the door when she untangles her legs and moves to kneel on the bed. "Hey."

His warm brown eyes drink her in, Solana a bit self-conscious, holding in her stomach that can't even be seen through the short, opaque gown. "Hey…" He moves toward her, lifting his gaze from her body to her face. "Are you—"

She doesn't let him finish. Just grabs him by his shoulders once he's close enough and smashes her lips onto his. Assertive. She has to be assertive.

Roman naturally returns the kiss though eventually pulls back, looking down at her. "You alright?"

"Of course," she answers, not even really be paying attention to the question. "Just…just missed you, that's all." Not a lie. She always misses her husband when he's not around.

Solana grabs him by the back of the his head, pressing their lips together once more. Unlike most times, instead of his tongue entering her mouth first, she beats him to the chase.

Solana is grateful when he moves his hands to her waist, moving them so that he's laying on top of her. She's also appreciative of the way he starts to kiss her back with equal fervor and desire.

But, it's when one big hand moves under her dress, clearly eager to pull it off, she stops him.

"I—I wanna keep it on," she explains with a hint of stammering. Solana tries to play it off with an objectively weak excuse. "I've—I've been a bit cold all day."

Roman casts her a doubtful and confused expression. "Cold?"

Solana ignores him, grabbing his face and starting to kiss on his neck.

"Sol—"

Once again, he's ignored as Solana moves her hands to slide off her underwear, tossing them to the side as she switches their positions so she's on top straddling him. She goes back to kissing him, hard, borderline aggressive, body moving against his. A hand trails down his chest, going to grope him through his boxers.

"Baby, slow down," Roman breathes, though the erection in the palm of her hand would indicate he's right where she wants him.

"Why?" She questions, voice filled with innocence. And before he can actually answer, she's informing, "I—I wanna try something different tonight."

"Different?" He's frowning as she peppers kisses against his bearded face. "How?"

She licks her lips, looking him dead in his face. "I—I want you to fuck me from behind." At that, Roman's expression shifts once more to a perfect mixture of surprise and confusion. "Doggy style? That—that's what it's called, right?"

Roman is quiet at first, an unexpected, slightly discouraging response for something she hoped he'd be more excited about.

"Solana…."

She shakes her head, pulling him, once again repositioning them so they're both kneeling on the bed. Her back pressed against his solid front. "Come on," she urges, taking his big hands and bringing them to her breast. "This is what I want."

Right?

She has to ignore that question sitting in the back of her mind and instead focus on bringing one hand to the back of Roman's head, forcing it downward just enough to indicate she wants his mouth on her. Wants his kisses on the column of her neck.

Needs them.

"Please," she whimpers when Roman starts palming her chest, his thumb flickering over her hardened nipples. "Need you…"

Her words do something, Roman tugging on the thin strap of her gown, freeing her big breast from the loose confines, continuing to caress her, as her mouth falls ajar from the delicious sensations.

"Solana," he breathes against her neck, one hand leaving the swell of her breast to tease at the material of her gown, scrunching it in his hands. She places her hand over his, expertly guiding it down to the space between her legs, a preferred placement away from her stomach. "Baby, we can have sex but not—not like that."

At that, she frowns, turning her head to look at him. "Why?" No time given is for an answer, as she's already shaking her head. "It's—it's fine. It's what I want."

Solana attempts to demonstrate her readiness by once again repositioning them.

Or, herself.

Solana moves to her hands and knees, looking back at her husband to see him continuing to look just as lost and torn as he's been since stepping out the bathroom. "Let's do it," she urges. Solana has completely ignored and bypassed the instant shift of her excitement to something heavier. The way that pit in her stomach deepened, as well as the heaviness in her chest. But, it all comes to a sick boiling point when she redirects her attention to the headboard before her and feels Roman's hand near her hips.

It all comes together, trigger a horrifying, devastating flashback.

A rough set of hands holding her own, much smaller and tinier, up against the headboard. The tips of her fingers bloodied from being dug into the walls she attempted to use as anchors while being dragged. A tremendous amount of pain, a pain she's never experienced coursing through her body, and the loud, heavy panting and groaning accompanying another set of hands on her hips. Clammy, sweaty, nubby nails digging into her flash.

"Please!" She screamed and cried, her throat practically raw from the mental and physical exertion. "Somebody please help me!"

"Solana."

It's like a slow transition. The way Solana is pulled back from such a darker, heavier period of her life. The way Roman's hands, gentle and comforting, are placed on her cheeks. His gaze, concerned and worried, focused solely on her. "Baby, you're safe. It's fine."

Two words.

Safe and fine seem to finalize the return, allowing her full recognition to settle. She's no longer on the bed, instead standing to the side of said, her husband directly in front of her.

What?

How did she....

She breaks away from him, eyes clenched shut, hands on either side of her head. "I'm good."

"Solana-"

"Really," she argues, opening her eyes. "I'm—I'm okay." His contrite gaze never leaves her, even as Solana moves back over to him. "I'm fine now."

"Baby…"

Her hands are on his chest, looking back towards the bed. "We can—"

He places his hands on her wrists, gently lowering her hands. "Solana, you're not fine."

"I am," she asserts. Never mind the tears starting to blur and burn her vision. "I—I can do this."

"Sol—"

"I just needed a minute—"

"Solana." Roman's voice is loud, traveling through the room, effectively cutting through her defenses. "Solana, baby, look at me." It takes a good minute, but she eventually does. His eyes soften instantly. "You're not fine."

Profound, truthful words.

She's, in fact, not fine.

"I'm—I'm sorry." It cracks, shattering to the floor despite the best of her efforts. Her voice is low and heavy. "I thought—I thought I could do it." She shakes her head, attempting to look down. "Why—why can't I do it?"

A loaded question with no simple answer. Just layered reasons.

And, he doesn't offer her one. Just continues to hold her as she cries silently into his chest.

They remain like that for a few, good minutes before he finally breaks the silence.

"Solana, I need you to talk to me. I need to know what's going on." Roman is a man always in control, always one with his head above water. But, even she can't deny how concerned he sounds. Scared, almost. "Are you…."

"No," she responds, pulling back, wiping at her eyes. "It's…it's not that."

Suicidal.

He's asking if she's feeling suicidal.

"I promise," she whispers, taking his hand and leading them back to the bed. Solana sits down, legs crossed, only remembering then that she'd discarded her underwear.

Something Roman didn't forget, as he subtly moves the blanket over her lap to cover her bottom half.

Her heart swells for a different reason.

She loves him so much.

"I—" She starts, playing with the material of her dress. "I went to the Warehouse today, and….and I ran into these two women that you….that you used to sleep with."

Solana looks up and hates to see the flash of guilt in his handsome face. He has nothing to feel guilty about.

"What did they say to you?" His eyes read guilt, but his tone is an expertly managed can of anger. He's angry at whatever was said, and it's obvious he knows something was said, which means she can't deny it.

Can't lie to him.

"Just…." She doesn't necessarily want to verbatim relay what was said. Just a general gist. "How you like to have sex. Your…your preferences."

With that uncomfortable disclosure, she doesn't look over at him. Keeps her head down.

And keeps talking.

"I'm not like that, Roman." Her voice cracks, the tears returning once more. "I don't look like them, and I don't—I don't know how to please you like they can." She sniffles, a single tear spilling over. "I thought—I thought I could, but—I can't."

A heartbreaking realization that even after months of hard, difficult work, some shackles of her past remain locked, forever tethering her to that violated little girl she just can't seem to fully set free.

"Solana." He repeats her name for what feels like the hundredth time tonight. Except, she won't make him wait, won't ignore him like she did the previous times. Solana looks up at him, seeing he's moved closer, close enough to touch her. And, he does.

Roman is gentle with how he cups her cheek, his thumb brushing away her tears. "Solana, I love you." There's something about the way he says it that tugs at her heart. Desperate, almost. Like, he's in need of her to know and understand this.

Because, he is.

"All I see is you, all I think about is you," he continues, displaying a level of vulnerability no one outside of the four walls of their bedroom could ever be privy to. "I love you in a manner that scares me sometimes, because it's something that completely consumes me in a way I'm not used to."

It's the perfect sentiment, because it's exactly how she feels about him. Roman consumes much more of her headspace than probably what's healthy, and Gail has hinted as such in a couple of sessions. Has brought up the term "codependent" once or twice regarding her relationship with Roman. It's not something she can really deny either.

Solana knows she can be very needy with him, that she is in fact dependent on him in many, many ways, but the truth is that she's gone so long feeling unloved, unwanted and even touch deprived that it's hard to see what's so wrong with that.

What's so wrong with loving him to the extent that she does.

With wanting him the way that she does.

It feels….it feels like she deserves it.

Like she deserves to have him.

"And as far as those bitches go." His tone switches to something harsher, a sense of hatred swimming in his eyes only to settle just enough to avoid making her feel like she's on the receiving end of any of that vitriol.

"I fucked them. All I ever did was just fuck them." Solana nearly winces at the disgust imbued in the set of words, 'fuck' and 'fucked.' Not even directed toward her, but it's enough to hurt even her feelings from an empathetic standpoint. And then he's back to being that considerate, tender man who gives her life meaning. "I make love to you. Every single time, because I love you. They meant nothing to me. I felt nothing for them." A vow. "I feel everything all at once for you."

Again, shared sentiments. She feels the same way. The exact same way.

Roman's hand moves down to the strap of her dress. He must have adjusted it at some point, or maybe she did. Somewhere in between her trying to be something she isn't and him yearning to remind her she's fine just the way she is. "And as far as looks…" His finger gently trails down her arm. "None of those bitches even come close to you in that department, Sol. In any department." Her eyes begin to flutter shut as he travels his finger down to under the swell of her heavy breast. "You are the single most beautiful woman I've ever fucking seen." Head lolled back, her breathing is slightly staggered as he starts kissing on her neck, transitioning to gently caressing her breast. "Just thinking about you and this perfect ass body you have drives me fucking insane, makes me hard as fuck…"

One hand moves to his muscular bicep. "Roman…." So breathy and whiny almost, Solana feeling a shift in her emotions and an all too familiar sensation between her legs with the way he's touching her right now.

"Let me make love to you," he implores, holding her by her hips, kissing down her chest. "Let me show you how much I love you."

It's the return of that pleading and desperation. His dire need and eagerness to do away with any and all doubt and insecurity on her end.

A request she won't deny him.

Solana grabs his face, their lips centimeters apart, her eyes never leaving his. "Yes."

A single word is all that's needed. The passion and fervor from earlier is fully returned but with a sense of normalcy and them. It's so them the way Roman manages to carefully guide her on her back, big hand both exploring her body and ridding them both of the irritating clothes that separate them.

It's so them in how he, even with his hardened member brushing against her wet, velvety lips, still stops and asks if she's sure. Always gaining her consent.

The way he receives that consent and gradually fills her, both of them clutching onto one another, moaning and moving in sync. The way he pistons in and out of her, the depth and angle bringing tears to her eyes for a new, much better, pleasurable reason.

The way her nails sink into his back, her mouth open and closing on his shoulder as he buries his face in the crook of her neck.

"Perfect," he breathes into her skin, Solana's ankles locking above his ass, tethering him close to her. "You're fucking perfect, sweetheart."

Continued and whispered words and statements of affirmations, his voice praising and worshiping her the same way his body does. Because there's an almost reverence in the way he makes loves to her, like each carnal thrust of himself into her is an imprint of all his love and devotion.

An unending, bottomless supply.

Solana cries out, her back arching off the bed as he switches angles, hitting and reaching that part of her. "Oh my God…"

"Tell me what you need, baby." His hand moves up and down the fat of her hip and the back of her thigh, his mouth returned to hers. "Tell me what to do, and I'll do it." Her eyes temporarily shut from the overwhelming nature of it all. "I'll do anything for you, Solana."

Words she knows. Sentiments and loyalty she already knows. Roman has done nothing but shown her time and time again how far he'll go for her. Even from the day he decided to take her as his wife, he's protected her. Warning Xavier and Wes not to hurt her.

Even before he ever loved her, he protected her. And that protection has only grown and metamorphosed into something so pure and beautiful.

And, that hasn't changed. Even with everything that's happened. With her attempt. With her regression with her mental health. It hasn't changed. He hasn't changed.

Their love hasn't changed.

Solana moves to push his hand away, her eyes opening and never leaving his as she rolls them over, switching positions so she's on top. A small hiss leaves her parted mouth from the transition. He suddenly feels significantly deeper in the best way possible.

She leans forward, hands moving up his chest as she starts to grind against him.

"You," she finally answers. "All I need is you."

It's all she'll ever need.

Roman's hand moves to her ass, squeezing and evoking a sensual, whiny moan. He tugs her down just enough to connect their lips in a passionate kiss, one that feels like the sealing of an oath and promise.

"You have me." His eyes shut, his forehead pressed against hers. "You'll always have me."

But if you can't look inside you

Find out who am I to

Be in the position

Tto make me feel so

Damn unpretty

----------

Locks and Lashes is one of the most popular salons in the city. A full service stop that provides hair styling and various beauty services. It comes only second on the list of best salons in the state, Bayley's company, Role Models, sitting comfortably in the number one spot for the past decade.

Locks and Lashes, often referred to as L&L, is owned by Chantel Davis and Kiesha Ford, two longtime best friends turned business partners. Known for impeccable taste and only offering the highest quality of services, it's only when getting to know the two of them, and when the camera aren't on, that one becomes privy to the fact that their undeniable outward beauty doesn't extent inward.

Vain, conceited, callous, they're the mean girls one believes get left behind in high school only to be found in the workplace.

But, alas, despite hideous personalities, the women have made names for themselves.

Have done quite well. Even preparing to launch and open their third location in less than 5 years.

Quite well indeed.

Salon bustling with a plethora of customers and many more to come, the day has barely started, the clock shy of striking noon when the bell above the door chimes, signifying the arrival of another guest.

Shyla, a pretty young college student working one of her two jobs, a necessary to afford her heft tuition, looks up with a rehearsed smile only for it to drop.

"What?" Confused and slightly nervous, she sees a man, a boulder of human, dressed in all black. He's with two other men, smaller than him but still formidable looking.

Shyla swallows. "H—Hi. Welcome—" She's cut off when the biggest man says something, finger against his ear before he holds the door open, allowing another patron to enter.

A woman, short in stature, dressed in a bodycon gray dress that hugs her generous curves. Her exposed arms reveal several scars, horizontal and thin, similar to slash marks. A gray Birkin bag is on her arm, along with a stack of Van Cleef, Louis Vuitton, Tiffany and Co, along with other designer brand bracelets on both wrists. Not to be outshined by a stunning wedding ring that's practically blinding.

The woman walks forward, lifting her expensive Gucci glasses off her face. Up close, Shyla can make out the faintest hint of another scar over her right eye, though it's well concealed under her beat face.

Shyla hasn't the slightest clue who this woman is, but easily, she's someone the young Marketing major envies.

Greatly.

"Hi," she introduces, her voice sounding exactly how Shyla anticipated given her small stature. "Are Chantel and Kiesha here?"

It's not until the woman gives an expectant look that Shyla realizes she's staring. An embarrassing thing, for sure. Granted, it's pretty hard not to gawk at this woman who is clearly someone important considering her entire outfit has to easily total at about half a million dollars along with the fact that she's flanked by literal bodyguards.

"Uhhh…." Shyla has to blink and shake her head to reorient herself. "I'm sorry, do—do you have a meeting or…." Shyla can't recall either of the owners mentioning any sort of plans for today. Not to mention, most of their business meetings take place elsewhere.

Never the salon.

The woman slides off her glasses and places them in her bag before answering casually. "I'm here to return a favor."

Shyla frowns.

A favor?

Shyla doesn't have time to consider such a strange response, because next thing she knows the fire alarms are going off. She's half expecting the sprinklers to activate right away as well, but no such thing.

"Fire! Everybody out!" The large man shouts as customers begin to panic, flocking out in droves. Everyone except for the woman and the other two guards, one of which, Shyla realizes, is holding a bat.

"What—"

"Go," the woman orders, placing her bag on the counter while looking past Shyla. "This doesn't concern you."

Turning around, Shyla realizes the woman is looking at Kiesha and Chantel who have come out of their offices in the back of the salon.

"What the hell is going on!" Kiesha shouts at the same time the woman moves forward, blocking their trying to leave or, at least, see what's happening.

"Not you two."

Once again, Shyla is prevented from questioning further when the large man approaches her.

He looks at her, voice surprisingly kind. "Get out of here, kid."

Shyla looks between the stranger, her bosses, and the large men who are either intent on no good—or something worse—and for the first time, in a long time, she chooses herself.

She leaves.

Standing in front of the two women who triggered her in a way she hasn't experienced in a while is a conflicting thing for Solana. She feels a hint of confusion, some satisfaction, and a hell of a lot of anger.

The alarms suddenly stop beeping, the silence briefly interrupted by the sound of the door shutting, signifying the departure of the last innocent.

Good

Solana has no intention on causing any harm to anyone who doesn't deserve it.

Including the kind, unassuming receptionist who couldn't have been older than 22.

Solana makes a note to make sure, after this is all said and done, she's set up with another job.

Maybe Bayley can take her on.

Chantel looks at Solana, recognition dawning. "You're…you're—"

"Exactly," Solana interrupts, moving to walk past them but not out of hearing distance. She looks around, taking in the opulent design. The luxury of it all. One things certain, they have a nice place.

Or, had.

Kiesha, however, seems less shocked and more pissed. "What the fuck do you think you're doing here?"

Solana ignores her, noticing the bar in the middle of the salon, wines stacked and practically full. She walks over, grabbing one, reading Domaine de la Romanée-Conti Grand Cru. Solana makes a face, lifting the bottle, "this looks expensive." And before either can respond, Solana pitches it against the nearest wall, red liquid dripping and staining the white, marble walls.

Both women shout with shock and fury. "You crazy b—"

"Finish that sentence, and I'll make sure the next thing to splatter like that bottle will be the both of you."

A small smile falls on Solana's face as the two women look toward the front door where another has entered.

Roman stands tall, dressed in all black, black shirt, dark jeans, black shoes. Even expensive black shades that he pulls up, revealing an equally dark menacing gaze that would make even her cower. But, she knows better.

Knows why he's so pissed.

Solana walks over to her husband, and the minute she's close enough, he tugs her against his chest, crashing his lips onto hers. For a second, Solana forgets they have an audience. The way he kisses her is all-consuming and captivating, trapping her in a world where it's just the two of them.

A place she loves to be.

A requirement for oxygen is the only reason for them separating, Solana certain her lips are nice and swollen. Roman looks down at her with that look. That look that lets her know exactly what awaits her when they get home.

He chuckles, running his thumb across her bottom lip, one hand planted firmly on her ass. Roman then looks over at the now seething Chantel and Kiesha. "If it was up to me, I'd fuck her right here in front of you and make the both of you bitches watch."

A blush rises up Solana's face. She certainly wasn't expecting him to say that. Just like she most definitely could never get with something like that.

Even this is a bit much for her, though well deserved.

Solana pulls away, taking the bat from one of the guards as she moves over to the register area. One look between it and them, a small smile on her face as she swings it down, breaking it instantly with one effective hit.

"You see," Roman starts as Solana smashes another register. "My wife told me what you said to her, that you upset her." Solana transitions to the shelves filled with hair products, bashing them in. "And when you upset my wife, you upset me." The other two guards, minus Bautista, also starting to destroy and vandalize the salon.

"And, it's never a good fucking idea to upset me." Roman finishes in an eerily calm voice, as Chantel starts stammering and stumbling.

"R—Roman, we didn't—" She's cut off and on the ground, Kiesha gasping to see Solana behind them, having taken the bat to the back of her friend and business partner.

"Only I can call him Roman," Solana asserts, ignoring the sound of Chantel whining and crying on the floor. "You two call him The Tribal Chief."

Kiesha swallows, watching Solana move back over to the wine shelf, throwing, tossing and smashing bottle after bottle.

"Please—" One of them cries, Solana isn't sure who, too caught up in the high and sweet taste of revenge. She's not a vindictive person, not even a violent person, but she is someone who's tired of letting people walk all over her.

Letting people hurt her.

No more.

"This is our life's work," Chantel moans, still on the ground, tears spilling down her face.

"You think I give a shit about that?" Roman sneers, doing his best to maintain his anger, focusing on his pride as his fine ass wife regains her voice and power. "That I ever gave a shit about either of you?"

It's the real issue here. The one Roman is not afraid or uncomfortable with calling out. They're upset they got cut off and are jealous of Solana, thus taking it out on her.

Big mistake.

Kiesha sniffles. "My—my Tribal Chief—"

"Be quiet," Solana mutters, walking past the two women, intentionally shoving Kiesha along the way. Looking around, Solana can't tell where the chaos starts and ends.

The place is all completely destroyed.

"You have two other locations," Solana reminds, tossing the bat to the side. All of that swinging took a lot out of her. She's tired, not to mention her chest is sore. A strange thing but also not considering her breast have been on the sensitive side lately.

Weird.

"They did," Roman corrects. Solana looks over at him, partially confused, but he keeps his gaze on the distraught women, coldly informing, "they're both currently being burned down to the fucking ground."

Chills form up and down Solana's arms. Roman didn't tell her about that part of the plan, though she can't lie and say she feels bad for them.

She doesn't.

Not at all.

Grabbing her purse off the counter, Solana bends down in front of them both, seeing how Chantel attempt to scurry backwards. Head tilted, the wife of the Tribal Chief asks in the calmest voice. "How's that for quiet and passive?"

Not wanting or needing a response, she straightens back up and walks toward Roman who initially takes her hand. The guards are all gathered, Bautista holding the door open. The door that's glass is entirely shattered.

Along with the front windows.

"By the way." Solana pulls out her Cartier sunglasses, sliding them over her eyes. Looking back at them, Roman's hand now placed comfortably on her ass, Solana smirks, "he loves when I'm on top."

[le-clair-de-lune]

for the lovely anon from this request: !Jealous Edmund Pevensie but shes a queen of Narnia too and they're "enemies."

hope you like it!! ended up longer than expected!! Since there was no specific time you wanted, I just based it during 'Prince Caspian'

You awoke to a still atmosphere, only the soft breaths of your friends to signify life. You hated it. You missed the life that once surrounded this place. The whispering of the trees as they danced, the laughs that echoed through the forests, the community that once made Narnia no longer existed.

Guilt washed over you as you thought of your friends, your people, you had abandoned them. And now you return a thousand years later, not as the mighty Kings and Queens they told tales of, but as helpless teenagers.

After you had left the first time, all you had longed for was to return. Now? you feel out of place, as if you are of no use.

Returning from your thoughts, you stretched your arms out with a groan. Sleeping on the forest floor was definitely not easy on your back. You rubbed softly at your eyes before they widened, eyeing the empty space Peter had once occupied.

Worried thoughts filled your head as you ran towards his makeshift bed, searching for any signs of what could have happened before reaching for the person closest to you. Who just happened to be Edmund.

"Wake up!" Edmund groaned at your vigorous shaking slapping at your hands "Get UP"

His eyes opened to see your panicked face. "Get the hell off of me" he scoffed shoving you causing you to fall back.

Normally you would have fought him for this, but you had other things on your mind. "He's gone" you exclaim pointing to where his brother should have been.

This caught attention, quickly rising grabbing his sword. As you moved to get up, Lucy and Susan had began to get up at the ruckus. All four of your froze when you heard the sound of clashing metal through the trees.

Edmund grabbed you by the wrist, pulling you up, both of you frozen in place when your chests brushed against each other. Your eyes widen at the closeness before shoving him with a scoff. "Let's go"

Following your 'Dear little friend', as Lucy so affectionately called him, you were lead to the scene. Peter battling a boy that seemed to be about your age, a handsome boy at that.

"Peter" Susan shrieked, gaining there attention.

----

The boy, Caspian, seemed to have taken a liking to Susan based on the looks they shared. But you said nothing of it whilst walking to where the army Caspian had gathered were.

Once Peter stopped to Caspian you immediately pulled him into a hug before slapping him upside the head. "You arse!" you exclaim, as he rubbed his head "I thought something happened to you"

He smiled sheepishly before apologizing, only to stop mid sentence when his brother roughly pushed past you.

"What the hell, Edmund" you gasped

The boy turned towards you, walking backwards as you approached him. "You were in the way" he shrugged

"You were in the way" you mimicked sticking out your tongue "Piss off"

As you both bickered, with shoves and eye rolls, which became more aggressive with each passing moment, Caspian turned to the others. "Are they always like this?" he whispered worried.

The siblings rolled their eyes, before nodding.

----

You were a family friend of the Pevensies. Your mothers had become friends due to you and Edmund being in the same class.

During the war, both your parents had been deployed. Your mother a nurse, and your father on the front lines. With no other close relatives you were taken in by the Pevensies. Much to Edmunds dismay.

You never got along with the boy. You both always had different views and opinions. That along both of yours competitive nature, did not mix well. You always ended in an argument.

The arguments got worse over time, to the point you couldn't stand being near each other.

The only time it had simmered down was during you life in Narnia, in fact you had both found that, more than once, you found pleasure in each others company.

Then you returned to your world. At it went back to the way it was.

----

"Oh shut it, you imbecile" you rolled your eyes having enough of Edmund's antics, walking towards Peter.

You had made it to the tomb.

"Oh yeah, go back to Peter" he let out, a look you hadn't seen before in his eyes. "Love Peter, don't ya?"

"Wha-"

"Peter's best friend, care about him so much" his voice growing louder.

"Why are yo-"

"Why don't you just go marry him?" he seethed

Your eyes widened at his words. "What are you talking about?"

He scoffed walking towards you "Oh please" he rolled his eyes "I thought something happened to you" he pouted mimicking you "I was soooo worried. I love you Peter. You mean so much to me. Why don't you just shag alre-"

You hand collided against his cheek. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

His eyes caught your glossy ones. "I-"

You walked away, not wanting to any more from him.

----

You heard footsteps behind you, whipping around prepared to shoo off Edmund. Only your eyes met those of the young prince instead.

"Are you alright you majesty?"

You let out a soft laugh, "You don't have to call me that"

He sighed clearly glad at your kindness.

"Would you like to join me?" you asked moving over.

You both sat in a comfortable silence. "I grew up hearing stories of you" He shared with a chuckle. "Stories of your travels, the way you took down the White Witch, do you know what each story mentioned?"

"Why not?" you shrug, no harm in hearing some stories.

"The bond you all had, the love you all had for each other, and" he paused looking at you "The love you and Edmund held for each other"

"W-what?" you sputtered "No" you shook your head "We can't stand eachother, we- we hate eachother"

"Well" Caspian smiled amused "People who 'hate' each other, don't look at each other the way you do."

You stayed quiet, looking over all the interactions you had with Edmund. The way you felt about him. Perhaps Caspian was right.

"The way we look at each other?" you questioned

Caspian nodded.

"The same look you and Susan share?" you cheekily smiled

Caspian grew pink but stayed silent. He was luckily saved by a cough behind you.

Edmund.

"I should go review the plan" Caspian left with a nod.

The room grew silent once more as you turned away from Edmund.

"I'm sorry" he sighed. "I don't know what I was thinking, I just-"

"You were just... jealous?" you cut him off

His eyes widened before he made his way in front of you. "Perhaps"

Your head shot up, locking eyes with him.

"Really?"

"Mhmm, I didn't realize it at first but" he kneeled in front of you "But I care for more deeply than I thought." he took a deep breath before letting out a quiet "I love you"

When he did not hear your voice, he turned away prepared to be turned down.

Your hand reached for his cheek, forcing him to look at you. "I love you too" you let out before meeting his lips.

The kiss was passionate, all the years of pent up emotions released in a single moment.

You were the one to pull away, resting your forehead against his.

"All the years of arguing, and we could have been doing this instead" he smirked.

"Shut up, Ed" you shoved him softly.

[er9tic]

@into-the-jeggyverse ; february 24 , dream ; wc 845. as always , special tag for @loonsloon my beloved <3

"Where'd you go off to just there?" Regulus is reeled back into his surroundings again , far from the shadows that consume his senses . He hums at the light stimuli of skin brushing against the bony prominence of his shoulder , and turns his gaze away from the ceiling.

"Hm?" His eyes dilate at the sight of James, laced in their fluffy sheets with the sun's amber glaze caressing over him. It's a blessing, how good he looks, and Regulus falls to worship it every time. "Nowhere in particular. How did you sleep?"

James turns to his side, and Regulus meets him when he does the same. They face one another, with contagious smiles beaming in the privacy of their own home. Their home, it was a marvel how good that sounded on the tongue when it was reality.

"Pretty good. All that work yesterday knocked me right out." He leans into James's kiss, soft and passionate. Warm.

"You're always the one going on about how you like it rough."

"I like taking you apart piece by piece," James exclaims. Regulus leans into his hands that weave through his hair, brushing them with admiration. "And then rebuilding you back up again in the mornings like this."

Regulus scoffs, shaking his head. "You can also just say that you like how I sound when you take me apart."

"I know." James laughs softly, leaning in for another brief peck to his lips again. "But it sounds much more poetic that way, don't you think?"

He's always been the more romantic out of the two. A wielder of words, whereas Regulus exhibited his love in touch. Actions such as this. James leans further into his kiss again, props himself onto his forearms to hover over him, bring himself closer.

Regulus melts into the kiss, as always. He has this ability to be whisked away into a cosmic existence when James kisses him. When James does anything to him, but the kisses grant a different kind of ascension.

He almost whines when James pulls away, but makes up for it with his hands cupping his face, diving into his hair, massaging his scalp gently. They press their foreheads together, James does this thing where he rubs his nose against Regulus's own. It's cheesy, but nobody is around to witness it and it feels safe to smile, do it back, soak himself up in the affection he's lacked his whole life.

"Promise me you'll never go." Regulus whispers in the little space between them. The words brush against James's lips, and his eyes open to gaze upon the soft layer of concern Regulus belays.

"Where would I go?"

"Anywhere." Regulus says quickly. "I'm a difficult person, a lot could happen."

"A lot has happened, love. I'm still here."

Regulus swallows. A lot has happened. They've been through ups and downs back and forth, forced apart, brought back in together. But there's a deep pit in Regulus's chest, a hole that feels empty, like a portion of him is missing. Like there's an inevitability Regulus cannot avoid and no amount of promises could keep them safe from it.

"Let's get some sleep again, yeah?" James offers, and Regulus nods, kissing him back again before the mattress sinks in to James's weight beside him. He turns his head, looking at him as James readjusts their sheets.

They're safe. It's warm. James is beside him, here as he always has been. Regulus presumes it's just his anxiety speaking, and presses his fist into his sternum, rubbing at the dull ache. He'll sleep it off, closes his eyes and wills it to be gone when he wakes up again.

Regulus does wake up again, with an uncertainty towards how much time had passed. But he wakes up to a cold breeze brushing against his face, and the night sky still prominent behind the glass window. It takes him a couple of minutes to blink the deep slumber away, the heaviness that has him in and out of the sleepy daze, but soon he rises back to consciousness when more coldness wraps around him.

There's no sunshine that seeps through his window like a golden waterfall, and no warmth that Regulus is used to being emitted from the man beside him. His arm falls to his side, and surprisingly right onto the pillow he'd just watched James lay his head on.

But there's no head, nor is there James. There's no warmth, or sun. There's no dent in the mattress where his head had been resting, or tangle of his sheets on his right side. It's all untouched, and cold. Empty.

It has been empty, Regulus remembers now. James hadn't slept in this bed for months now, and Regulus only saw him in dreams. Dreams where his promise remained kept, where the inevitability couldn't reach to penetrate it. Dreams where James was around, and alive, and death couldn't take him away just yet—though it had always been waiting, patient and inevitable, a shadow at the edges of every promise. Even one as strong as this one.

[meazalykov]

beneath the surface

sydney lohmann x reader

summary: you wanted support from anyone, even if it had to come from the girl who hated you.

warnings: enemies to lovers, homophobic family mention, angst, comfort

authors note: this might be my favorite one I've written in a while, enjoy ❤️

from the moment you first stepped onto the pitch at bayern munich, you thought that something about sydney rubbed you the wrong way.

maybe it was the way she seemed to effortlessly glide through training sessions, always a step ahead of you, or perhaps it was her sharp tongue that cut through any conversation you attempted.

whatever it was, it didn't take long for you to realize that the two of you would never be friends.

it wasn’t just that you were different. you were both incredibly passionate, fiercely competitive, and determined to make your mark on the team. but where you saw passion, sydney saw arrogance.

where you tried to assert yourself, she saw an opportunity to knock you down a peg. the rivalry was born out of mutual frustration, each of you unwilling to back down, refusing to show any sign of weakness.

the tension only grew with each passing game, every comment dripping with sarcasm, every interaction tinged with disdain.

you kept telling yourself it was because you were both just too similar, both too stubborn to ever really get along.

but deep down, there was a part of you that wondered if maybe, just maybe, there was something more to it. something you were too scared to acknowledge.

when the international break rolled around, you were looking forward to the time away from sydney. the space would do you good, give you a chance to clear your head and focus on your game without the constant friction.

you got along with your national teammates well, and a few of them are aware about your "problem" with the german midfielder-- the problem being your denial about your feelings towards her.

they figured it was something that you'd have to figure out on your own.

but that plan was shattered the moment you received the ball from your central midfielders in the second-half of a friendly.

when you went to shoot the ball into the goal, you felt the sharp pain in your knee, the one that knocked you to the ground and sent your world spiraling.

the ball flew into the audience and people were shocked about your miss, until they saw you clench your knee while laying on the grass.

you had a torn acl. the words told from the doctor felt like a death sentence.

nine months out, maybe more. no soccer, no team, no escape from the thoughts that were beginning to suffocate you.

and now, here you were, back in munich lying in a hospital bed after the surgery, staring at the sterile white walls, wondering how everything had gone so wrong.

your club teammates were all away, scattered across the globe representing their countries.

you’d never felt more alone. the pain in your knee was nothing compared to the ache in your chest, the overwhelming fear that you’d never be the same player again, that you’d be forgotten, left behind as the world moved on without you.

none of your family could be here in munich with you.

correction, they didn't want to be here with you.

ever since you've came out as lesbian to your parents years back, they've wanted nothing to do with you or your football career. this is a main reason why you moved overseas away from them-- you can't be yourself if they're near you again.

you try to push those thoughts away, but they keep creeping back in, filling your mind with doubt and dread.

you’re so lost in your own misery that you don’t hear the door open.

it’s not until you hear a soft cough that you glance up, startled to see sydney standing there, a hesitant look on her face.

for a moment, you just stare at her, unable to process why she’s here, in your room, of all places.

your first instinct is to snap at her, to tell her to leave, but the words die in your throat when you notice the slight tremble in her hands, the uncertainty in her eyes.

she doesn’t look like the confident, sharp-tongued girl who’s been your nemesis for months. she looks…nervous.

"hey." she smiles lightly. she crosses her arms together as she looks at you, before moving her eyes down to your knee in the cast.

you didn't speak, nervous that she might use this opportunity to weaken you more.

“i’m here to support you,” she says, her voice quiet, almost unsure. it’s the last thing you expected to hear, and you feel a pang of confusion mixed with something else—something you don’t want to name.

why would she be here? what does she get out of this? you want to ask, but the loneliness is too overwhelming, and the idea of someone, anyone, being there for you is too tempting to resist.

instead of pushing her away, you nod, your voice coming out shaky as you say, “thanks.”

the silence stretches on, heavy with things unsaid. you’ve always hated the silence with sydney, always felt like it was another battle you needed to win.

but now, in this tiny hospital room, it feels different. it feels like a truce.

sydney lingers by the door for a moment before she finally takes a step closer, her eyes searching yours. again, you can’t help but flinch, nervous about what she might do or say, half-expecting her to use your vulnerability against you.

but she doesn’t. instead, she just stands there, waiting, as if she's giving you time to come to terms with her presence.

“i don’t get it,” you murmur, your voice betraying your confusion.

“why are you here? i thought you… i thought you hated me.”

sydney’s expression softens, and for the first time, you see something other than anger or annoyance in her gaze.

“i never hated you,” she says, the words so soft you almost miss them.

“I am sorry. i just didn’t know how to deal with how i felt.” sydney continues.

your heart skips a beat, and you feel your stomach twist into knots. there’s a part of you that’s known all along—known that the tension between you two was more than just rivalry, more than just competitiveness.

but you’ve been too scared to admit it, too scared to acknowledge that what you felt for sydney wasn’t hate at all.

“i like you, sydney. more than i should have. and i know you didn’t feel the same, so i tried to bury it, to forget about it. but it never worked.” you say, without really thinking, the words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them.

you expect sydney to recoil, to look at you with disgust or pity, but she doesn’t. instead, she moves closer, her eyes never leaving yours.

“you think i didn’t feel the same?” she asks, her voice tinged with disbelief.

“why do you think i pushed you so hard at bayern ? i didn’t know how to handle it either.” she lightly smiles, awkwardly.

you don’t know what to say. your mind is racing, trying to piece together what’s happening, trying to make sense of this sudden shift in your reality.

but before you can respond, sydney is reaching out, her hand hovering over yours for a moment before she finally takes it, her touch sending a jolt of warmth through you.

“i brought you flowers and pastries,” she says, her voice a little stronger now, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her lips.

“i figured you could use some cheering up.” the taller girl says.

for a moment, you forgot about your injury-- and why you were laying down in the hospital bed in the first place.

you were aware about sydney's leg injury, and why she is here in munich and not in iceland with the rest of her german national team.

what sydney did is a simple gesture, but it feels monumental, like a bridge being built between the two of you.

“thank you.” you say, for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself smile, just a little.

sydney smiles back, and the tension in the room seems to melt away. it’s not gone entirely, but it’s different now—softer, more manageable.

when she hands you the large bouquet of flowers and pastries, you set them aside and gesture toward the bed.

“do you… want to watch something? there’s a really bad reality show on that might be fun to laugh at.” you comment.

it’s an invitation, a tentative step toward something new.

sydney hesitates for only a moment before she nods and climbs onto the bed beside you. the two of you settle in, the awkwardness slowly fading as you share a blanket, the closeness feeling surprisingly natural.

as the show plays in the background, you feel sydney’s arm brush against yours, and before you know it, you’re leaning into her, resting your head on her shoulder.

it’s the first time you’ve ever let yourself be this close to her, and it feels… right.

sydney doesn’t pull away. instead, she shifts slightly, wrapping an arm around you, holding you close. and for the first time in weeks, you feel a sense of peace wash over you, the fear and loneliness ebbing away as you allow yourself to just be, here in this moment, with her.

maybe things will be different now. maybe this is the start of something new, something better. but for now, you’re content to just be here, wrapped up in sydney’s warmth, letting yourself believe that, for once, everything might just be okay.

hope you love this as much as I did <3

my master list is here if you want to read more fics <3

[monayen]

Raturday thought 🐀

If you ever managed to befriend the ratmen they would exploit that for everything it’s worth. Nesting at your house, raiding your fridge, taking anything that looks interesting like games or comics.

It’s just in their nature to be greedy and it’s up to you to teach them manners (or domesticate them really). If you don’t they’ll walk all over you

this was infact sent quite a few raturday's ago. whoopsie. just general hcs with them living with you, might make a more detailed version of how each ratman are some day

The perfect freeloaders. They'd completely overwhelm and take over your place as soon as you open your doors to them

It's not like it's malice — it's in their nature. They can't help but begin to nest and hoard. Your space is bigger than what they're used to, and you make them feel so safe

They’re not entirely self-serving, not when you provide them with pretty much everything they need. You'll begin to notice that they expect your generosity, wearing your patience thin with begs and nags

They see you as an infinite supply, not having to worry about risking their lives for beer or chips. Not when they can whine for a restock every week, which you always kindly oblige to :-)

Your house is now theirs too, which means everything in it is free game. Every shiny, even semi valuable item has since gone "missing", and metal cutlery has to be put away for the sake of not having to eat with your hands for every meal

As much as they’re greedy, the ratmen also develop an intense attachment towards you. Their hoards and nests include scents of you —socks, shirts, underwear. Even things you use, like hairbrushes or blankets will be stolen

You won't be able to go anywhere without them following behind. as they can’t bear to be separated from their dear provider for even a moment

If you sit down on the couch, they’ll climb up next to you, wanting to be as close as physically possible. It’s like their world revolves around you (it does), and they’ve made it their life’s mission to stay within arm’s reach at all times

And since there are 5 of them, you can bet you'll never have a lone moment with them as your "roommates"

[hyuuukais]

⋆₊‧⁺˖⋆˚.⋆ ͙͘͡★ LOOK UP TO THE STARS

pairing ▪︎ han jisung x fem reader

synopsis ▪︎ sent out on a mission to a neighbouring QZ that's gone radio silent, y/n falls into the hands of a post-rebellion group after things go terribly wrong. giving up on rejoining her squad, she joins the group on a trek to find a missing member, the group leader's sister. what's supposed to be a not-so-simple trip out and back to their base becomes a one-way ticket to the end of everything they know.

warnings ▪︎ general, mention of feeling like a burden (not yn), vomiting (not in detail)

MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS | NEXT

CHAPTER THREE ▪︎ A QUIET NIGHT IN (6.2k)

Near-death experiences appear to have become your thing, having had another near miss when you're suddenly attacked in a wooded area by a small group of infected. At least that time you were able to save yourself, proving you can get out of a sticky situation if needed. Han has teased you relentlessly, only stopping when Chan tells him off. Even with Hyunjin he picks on you, but you give it to him as well.

By midday, everyone is tired, wordlessly begging Chan to let them take a rest. There's a long, hidden driveway creeping up a small hill that you spot up ahead. The surrounding area is quiet enough you should be able to hike up and take a break inside whatever building awaits.

"Hey." You jog up to Chan. "Up there. The houses around here are super spaced apart, so why not hole up in one for an hour or so? We can take out any infected and take turns keeping a lookout."

Chan eyes you, then swings around to face the others with a nod. "Everyone! We're gonna head up here, yeah? Take a look around for any infected and settle down for a while. I want to keep going before the sun goes down though, so do what you need to do in the time you have."

"Race you up there." A voice whispers into your ear; Han.

And so you run, and run, and run, side by side until you finally surpass him. Your laughter fills the air as you smack your hand on the door of the small house atop the hill, breathing heavily as you stumble inside. A pair of hands grab you from behind by the waist, lifting you off the ground and making you laugh even more.

"Let me go!" You manage to cough out between giggles and deep inhales. "Hyun-"

But it's not Hyunjin; it's Han.

"You can't do that," You blush, pushing him away. "Don't do that."

"Don't do what?" He smirks as he walks past you, peeking down the hallway to the right. "Make you laugh?"

"Be... intimate," You scold, following him down the hall.

There's a small set of stairs leading to three bedrooms, a bathroom, and an open closet at the end of the hallway. You step into the last bedroom, right before the closet. Clearly, it used to be a little girl's room, the name 'Hanni' painted in big yellow letters above a bed littered with worn plushies. You pick up the one closest to you, a floppy monkey missing an eye, and stare down at the photo on the nightstand. In the photo are two adults lifting a young girl up between them, undeniably happy. A heavy weight sits on your chest, and you find it hard to look away.

When you do finally tear your eyes off of the photo and go to leave the room, Han is leaning in the doorway. His breath catches when you find him staring at you, standing up straight and shoving his hands in his pockets. Blinking back unshed tears, ones you didn't realize even formed, you sit on the girl's bed. You don't invite him to sit with you, but he comes over anyway. The bed dips with his weight next to you.

"Remind you of your family?" He asks, voice softer than you thought it could be.

"No," You sniff. "No, it doesn't. I barely remember my family."

"Me too," Han says, genuine. "But Chan and the others have been my family for as long as it matters." He tries to meet your eyes, but they're glued to the monkey in your lap. "They could be yours too... if you let them."

"I don't think so." You shake your head. "Seungmin fits in fine here, but me?" Now you meet his eyes, placing the monkey aside. "Part of me thinks I'm better off alone. Yes, I have Hyunjin, and what we have is fun... but I know if it came down to it he wouldn't pick me over any of you."

Han just nods. "I feel that way too sometimes- about myself, not you. And we all know Hyunjin thinks Chan only values him for being a skilled fighter. Jeongin is constantly thinking he's not doing a good enough job because of his limited medical practice, yet being the designated doctor. We all have something."

"Why are you being so nice right now?" You sit further back on the bed, legs stretched out in front of you. "I thought you'd agree and say I should leave or something."

"Contrary to popular belief, I don't hate you." Han follows your actions, sitting back next to you. "It's fun to press your buttons."

"Oh, screw you." Laughing, you toss the discarded monkey at Han's chest.

He grabs the toy as you hit him with it, hands overlapping. For a moment, your heart speeds up, stuck on him. Your hand falls away when someone starts calling your names through the house, shuffling off the bed to join the others. Ignoring the way your heart is still pounding and the way your palms sweat, you greet Hyunjin with a peck on the cheek. He smiles down at you, replying with one on your temple. Soon after, Han emerges into the main room you're all standing in.

It's small, the living space, with a half-wall separating the kitchen ahead. To the left is a dining room with a long oval table, chairs knocked over, with table cloths and placemats moth-eaten. Remnants of a broken vase are scattered overtop, but plates set for dinner intact. You wonder what the family who lived here was like; were they about to sit and eat when the outbreak happened?

"We'll stay here for an hour or so," Chan announces. "I'm going to take a look around the perimeter, any volunteers wanna come with?"

You raise your hand.

"Alright. Y/n and I will go while the rest of you check the house and make sure it's safe. If anything goes wrong, you shout for us." His hands brush over his sheathed weapons. "We'll try and be quick. If we aren't back before the hour is up, assume we're dead and move on."

"Cheery," You whisper to Hyunjin, wrapping your arms around his neck.

"As always," He sighs, pressing his lips onto yours for what could be the last time.

-

Sticks and leaves crunch underfoot, no clear path to walk on. Chan walks slightly ahead of you with a hand on his gun, pausing to carefully mark trees with orange tape.

"Why the tape?" You asked before when he said he needed to grab something from his bag first.

"Knowing our group, someone'll wander off. This is so they know they've gone a bit too far and should probably head back," he said. "We might end up staying the night."

"How come?" You asked.

"To rest up fully," he said, only partially truthful.

There was more to it, something troubling him or one of the others who regularly confide in him. Something you weren't in on. Moments like that is what made you feel misplaced, like you weren't supposed to be apart of this journey. You should have left when you had the chance. Leaving now would be unfair to the group and you knew that; no matter how you felt, you needed to help them get to Chan's sister as much as you can.

"When'd you and Han meet?" You try to make conversation. "He said some stuff that made it seem you've known each other a long time."

An absent smile graces his features. "Ah, say ten years ago? He was a scared, angry little kid with a sharp eye. Still don't know where he learned to shoot so well at such a young age."

He stops to mark another tree, giving you take a second to look around. You're not too deep into the woodsy area, still able to make out the shape of the house if you squint hard enough, and you've made it almost all the way back around. There's been no sign of people or infected alike, birds chirping and squirrels chattering being the only noises. The sun has already started to set, golden beams hitting your bodies through the branches and creating a halo on Chan's head.

Hyunjin greets you at the door when you return, having offered to take first watch while the others take a break. Chaeryeong is out on the back porch occasionally strolling into view through the glass double doors leading to the wide backyard. Taking a seat next to Jeongin on the old, holey couch, you close your eyes with a sigh. No one bothers the two of you until Felix comes by with plates of previously canned food he made while you were on the verge of passing out. You take it gratefully, inhaling it rather than eating it.

In the corner of your eye, Jeongin rubs his leg around his right knee and calf, eyes shut in concentration. When he stands to head outside for some air, you notice the slight limp he walks with. It's barely noticeable, each step intentional. You don't ask about it when he comes back inside and sits back down, leg outstretched.

"Heading to bed yet?" Han swings his gun down onto his lap as he sits on the armchair to your left.

"Soon," You yawn, opening your eyes with difficulty. "I have to switch out with Chan in a couple of hours."

Before Han can reply, Hyunjin sits next to you on the arm of the couch and places a soft kiss on your forehead. You can practically feel Han rolling his eyes, getting up and walking away irritated. Why is he always like this? The moment you and Hyunjin do anything, he's annoyed.

"Is he like, jealous or something?" You sit up, arms crossed as you watch him slide the double doors open and step out, immediately striking up a conversation with Felix.

"Probably, but that's not our problem." Hyunjin slides into the spot between you and the arm, effectively squishing you.

You sigh. "Have you guys ever gotten along?"

"What? We get along fine," Hyunjin looks at you confused.

"Could have fooled me." Hyunjin opens his mouth, but you cut him off before he can start. "I'm gonna get some sleep before my shift, okay? See you later."

With a quick peck on his lips, you leave Hyunjin alone. The last thing you need right now is a deep-dive into Han and Hyunjins friendship, tired enough to sleep for a few years at least. Your brain is mush, not unlike a zombie's you imagine, unable to think full sentences anymore until after you've taken a chance to rest.

By this point in the day, everyone can tell you aren't leaving until early morning if you can help it. The sun has descended almost fully, leaving the world in hues of blue as night takes over. Other than you, Jeongin is the only one who hasn't taken a shift to watch yet. You figure he'll be paired with you, him switching off with Felix when you wake up. Drifting to sleep is easier than you thought it would be, brain turning off and leading you into a dreamless rest. When you do wake, there's a slight ache in your leg, but you ignore it as you rub the sleep out of your eyes and head to the front door where Chan should be.

"Listen, I don't want you getting hurt," Chan's voice is low, easily heard from where you stand by the open door. He hasn't noticed you there yet. "Let us take watch and go back inside, okay? I saw the way you were earlier, I know it's bothering you."

"I can deal." Jeongin sounds frustrated. "I don't want to be a burden-"

"Hey," Chan cuts him off sharply. "Don't ever think you're a burden. Never. Because you're not, you just need some extra rest, yeah? Bad days happen."

"Fine," Jeongin sighs and you open the door, pretending you heard nothing.

"Chan, you heading in?" You ask.

He nods. "Jeongin's feeling a bit under the weather, so Felix is gonna keep watch of the back a little longer until Chaeryeong is awake."

"Sounds good," you force a smile. You want to know what's wrong, but you don't want to press either. "Sleep well guys. The bed at the end of the hall has some plushies that are comfortable to lay your head on if you want."

-

Late in the night, you hear a distant cry. Instantly your gun is in your hand, knife in the other as you gaze out into the trees and down the hidden driveway. Although it sounded fairly animalistic, you know by now you can't take the chance of ignoring it. The sounds of the infected wandering the world varied from almost human, to sounds you can't compare to anything but the stuff of nightmares. When you hear the cry again, louder this time, you jog down the steps of the front stone porch and around the back, whispering to Felix. Chaeryeong is still asleep, but should be waking up soon to switch out.

You find Felix on the other side of the yard, weapon drawn and focused on the surrounding woods. Did he hear the same sounds as you, or did he hear something else back here? Hoping it's the former, you approach him quietly, careful not to scare him by accident. He must have seen you coming, holding up a hand behind his back to signal you to stop, and you do, bringing you own weapons up. The cry is louder again, but ever so slightly different than the one you heard.

"Lix, I think we need to get inside," You whisper, inching closer. "I heard something in the front too."

"If it's only two, we can take them out," He whispers back. "Any sign of more and I'll head in. You should probably go back to the front."

Frustrated with his answer, you obey and go back to your position. You're about to walk down the driveway when you see them; easily thirty infected beings are headed your way, but have yet to spot you. With a hand over your mouth, you crouch down by the wall of the house, moving as fast as you can to where you left Felix alone. As you turn the corner, you can see him backing away in the same crouched position as you. When he starts moving back to the house, you make eye contact and he makes a gesture with his hand to get back inside. Like you were going to do anything else.

Once inside, he breathes deeply as if he'd been holding his breath and you do the same. Outside, zombies are starting to emerge from the trees and wander across the yard. There's too many of them to be able to leave the area safely, opting to find everyone in the house and let them know the situation. Felix leaves to report to Chan, knowing he'll likely be with Jeongin and Han, and you go to find Chaeryeong sleeping on the same kids bed you did, waking her with a small shake and telling her to get to the others in the main room. Next is Hyunjin, but you see him exiting another bedroom with Chan, Jeongin, and Felix.

"Where's Han?" You make sure to keep your voice low. "Wasn't he with you guys?"

Chan shakes his head, jaw clenching. "Nope, he's the only one unaccounted for." He ushers everyone further into the house and down the hallway, stopping in front of the first bedroom on the left. "Everyone stay in here. Use the furniture to block the door in case some stragglers get inside and cover up the window. Stay low and out of sight, stay quiet, and most importantly, stay together, okay?"

"You're making this sound like you're not coming," Chaeryeong points out.

"Because I'm not, and before you can protest," he holds up a hand. "Jisung is family to me. I need to make sure he's safe."

"He's family to all of us," Hyunjin steps in. "And so are you."

With a sigh, Chan looks down. "I know."

"Let me go," You say, maybe a bit too loud.

Seungmin's head pops up sharply. "Absolutely not."

"If anything happens to me, it won't be nearly as devastating as it would be with Chan or Han," you look away from the others, losing courage just a bit from their stares. "I'm quick and I'm quiet when I need to be and will be in and out like that. He can't have gone too far anyway."

"Y/n, you can't seriously-" Hyunjin starts, but is cut off by Chan holding up a hand again.

"She has a point."

The others avoid your eyes now, nonverbally agreeing that you should be the potential sacrifice. Really nice to have that confirmed. Without another word, you leave the group, about to leave out the back doors when someone grabs your wrist.

"See you later?"

You give Seungmin a sad smile, knowing later isn't likely. "See you later."

A chill runs down your spine, from the cold or the sheer amount of infected, you don't know. From what you learned in your time at the QZ, the undead don't see as well at night and you need to use that to your advantage, whether it's true or not. Everything you've learned has become questioned knowledge; were they feeding you lies, always planning on sending you out to die? Or did any of the information you learned mean something?

Belly to the grass, you shuffle forward on your forearms in the direction Felix mentioned before you left the building. Of course, out of all people you were risking your life for it had to be Han Jisung. Not Hyunjin, not Seungmin, not even Chan? Han? Really? When you find him and are back safely, you are gonna rip him a new one for being so careless. What happened to the buddy system? Too good for him, apparently, too confident in his abilities.

Up ahead, you spot his gun lying among the sticks and leaves by a tree and your heart drops. Closer, you can see claw marks a couple feet up the tree trunk, a ripped piece of clothing hanging from a branch further up. Half of it is painted red, soaked in blood, and breathing is suddenly difficult. You're about to stand up carefully, a plan to climb the tree, but the minute you're in a crouched position an infected walks right by you. You stay still, letting it pass. Thinking you're in the clear, you look back at it only to find it staring at you and now you do stop breathing. It's head tilts, observing, but doesn't move. After what feels like years, it turns back around and continues on it's way.

Releasing a deep breath, you make your way up the tree slowly. Thankfully the branches get stronger the higher you go, and you're more confident the infected won't hear you climb faster.

"Y/n? What the fuck?" You nearly fall off your branch at the sound of Han's voice. "What are you doing out here?"

Securing yourself on the same thick branch he sits on, you look at him with wide eyes. "I could ask you the same thing!"

You shift around, now straddling the branch.

"I had to take a bathroom break, is that so bad?" He huffs.

"Yeah, it is. At least, when you don't tell anyone or take anyone with you and make everyone worried because a giant horde of zombies came out of nowhere!" You whisper shout at him, furious. "Chan was gonna come out here looking for you."

"Why didn't he?" Han's eyebrows furrow.

"Didn't think it was worth the trip," You frown when he gives you a dejected look. "Kidding. I volunteered since he's too important to the group."

"Again with the self-sacrificial shit." He rolls his eyes. "I can tell you now the horde is starting to thin. I'm not seeing nearly as many as I did running up this tree like a squirrel."

You snort. "You know, you kinda look like a squirrel."

"Felix says the same thing," Han shrugs. "We should be able to sneak back soonish."

You remember the cloth hanging from a lower branch. "Did you get bitten?"

"No," He shakes his head. "Just a scratch."

Lifting his leg over the branch, you can see the rip in the thigh of his cargo pants and the cut underneath.

"It looks worse than it is."

"Doesn't look bad to me." You lean back against the trunk as he swings his leg back over, taking the same straddling position as you. "Just a scratch really."

"Okay Miss Leg-That-Got-Crushed." He rolls his eyes again, and you seriously consider pushing him off your shared branch.

Looking down, you can barely see the ground below and wonder how Han can be so sure the zombies are leaving the area so soon. It's been what, an hour? Taking a chance, hoping he's not wrong, you begin your descent. You're careful and slow as you go down, teeth grinding together when a boot makes contact with your fingers at one point. You use your other hand to punch Han's ankle until his foot finally moves.

Once you hit the ground, you're immediately on your belly again and taking in your surroundings. Han is next to you in the same position, but after a few minutes you get up into a crouch, no sight of infected in your vision.

"Huh," You whisper. "Where'd they all go?"

Your question is answered as soon as you break through the trees. There's a smaller crowd of infected fighting their way into the house, clawing at the back doors with fervor. You stop walking, grabbing Han's arm as he readies his gun.

"No, stop it." You examine the group. "Gunshots will alert others in the area if they haven't already. Take this." You hand him a knife. "We need to be smart about this or neither of us will live to see the sunrise."

Taking your knife in his hand, he nods and follows your lead as you circle around to the back of the group and whistle once, twice, until you've got the attention of a few in the back. The night gives you the advantage of misleading them, whistling the few that notice you away. They stumble down the steps of the porch, hands clawing the air in search of you. You whistle again. Two break off from the group, about five, and you signal to Han to go left. You watch him sneak up from the back, and you do the same to the one on the right. Quick and quiet, you take them out with a knife to the back of the neck.

The bodies fall silently, using your own body to help bring them down. The other three are nearing the tree line, which you could leave them to wander away, but you know they'll just come back if you mess this up. With a knife in each hand, you get close enough to throw them expertly into the skulls of the two closest to you. You're about to take out the last one, but something flies past your head, nailing it in the middle of the forehead, body falling limp. You look back to see Han bringing down a slingshot with a smirk on his face.

You retrieve your knives from the fallen bodies and rejoin Han, whistling again. This time, more detach from the others, a group of about eight.

"Shit," Han whispers beside you. "That's... a lot at once."

"I have three knives to throw and another I can keep on me, how much ammo do you have?"

He pats a small pouch tied to a belt loop. "Enough. I refilled this thing before we left and have only used it once."

You nod and wait until the group has broken up, one straying away from the groups of three and four. "Which group do you want?"

"Four."

"You only want four to prove something," You say, eyeing him. "Don't lose something instead."

Before he can respond, you're off to where the group of three has wandered to the left side of the house. Three knives, three chances. The first is a success, the second landing too low into the back and you curse yourself, throwing the last into its skull as it turns around. The third spots you, having gotten a little too close for the night to cover you. A low growl leaves its mouth and it stalks toward you.

"Now or never," You say to yourself, ready to dodge an attack.

Something grabs you from behind; the straggler. How do you keep getting yourself in these situations? Good fucking job.

Hooking a leg behind the straggler, you're able to send the two of you backward, hitting the ground hard enough that it lets go of you. Sharp nails pierce your skin as you roll away, drawing blood when you rip your arm out of its hold. Dirt comes up as it digs its hands into the earth, crawling toward you. With a hard kick to the head, it stops moving long enough for you to have time to stick a knife under its chin and through the mouth, blood pouring down your hand. You can hear the other coming for you, standing up with a death grip on your knife. It makes a move to grab you, but you successfully dodge, landing a slash to its arm. Dark blood seeps through the fabric of the flannel it wears, the arm rendered useless from the depth of your attack.

"C'mon Y/n, just one more." You run at it, jumping on its back and yanking the head back by the hair, slashing its neck all in one swift movement.

When you get off the body, you see Han moving toward the porch steps and your eyes go wide. Is he seriously going to take the rest on himself? There are about six left and you can see the four already did some damage, red streaks running down the side of his face from his hairline, and the slight limp worse.

"Dammit, Han."

It doesn't take much for the infected to notice Han when he first steps up, the wood underneath breaking under his weight with a loud crunch. With the sun starting to rise, they spot him almost immediately. Why isn't he moving? Then you notice- his foot is stuck. Oh, you are so going to tease him for this later. That is, if there is a later.

Jumping over the edge of the porch fence, you whistle again and gain the attention of three of the infected, the other three descending on Han. Dodging left and right, scratches here and there, you get to the top of the steps where the infected are almost on him. He has his slingshot out, but slips backward, still trying to free his foot, and lands on his back, weapon flying out of his grip. Your knife pierces the back of the closest one's neck, yanking the body back so it doesn't fall and knock the others onto the man you're trying to save.

"Look, I'm saving your life for once!" You shout over the infecteds gargling and crying.

"Shut it!" is the only response you get.

The next one slips down a step, sending the one closest to Han directly on top of him. It's about to take a bite, but Han is quicker, grabbing its head, and snapping its neck. You're about to send your knife through the hundredth skull of the night, but a force knocks you into the fence. You almost forgot about the others. As you hit the wood, your breath is knocked out of you, and your knife, out of your hand.

The infected that pushed you cages you against the fence and you think back to the bridge. If you try and pull the same stunt, at least you won't fall as far. But this one seems to be smarter, faster, not taking the time to scream at you, but instead dives into your neck. There's barely any time to process, sticking your arm in between your bodies right before contact. Saliva drips onto your skin, running down your shirt. It pushes forward, desperate for a bite of sweet flesh.

"Han!" You shout; you need to know he'd at least make it out.

"Right here!" His voice is oddly close. "Hold on just a bit longer!"

This is it, you think as its mouth gets closer and closer to your neck, I'm gonna die. In front of Han Jisung.

Fighting back tears, your arm shakes under the weight of its strength, begging you to give up. In this world, it's inevitable, no? Why not let it take you out sooner than later?

"By the way," Han grabs the infected from behind. "You're not allowed to die."

He makes eye contact with you as he snaps its neck, your chest heaving. You stare at him with wide eyes, taking in the amount of blood on his body, not that you look any better. The way he looks at you, his own chest rising and falling in the same quick manner, makes you squirm.

A door slides away, and Chan steps out of the house. You don't have to look at him to know he's angry, pushing Han by the chest to look at him.

"Where were you? Explain yourself, now."

"Nature called at a bad time?" Han tries to joke, but his half-smile falters under Chan's gaze. "I'm sorry, I really didn't think I'd be out so long."

"God, at least tell someone where you're going next time!" Chan brings him into a crushing hug. "We thought you were dead."

"Me? Dead?" He breaks the hug, face tinged red. Although, that could honestly just be more blood. No, it's definitely a blush. Hard to tell. "Please."

Chan finally looks at you, jaw clenching at your state. You must look a lot worse than you feel with a stare like that. What you don't expect is Chan to approach you, to give you the same tight hug as he did Han. You don't hug back at first, too stunned by the sudden physical contact, but as he starts to pull back, your arms wrap around his back.

"You smell bad."

"We all smell bad," You laugh.

You hold on longer than you mean to, not realizing just how much you miss physical affection. Thinking back to sharing beds with Yeji and Yuna, teasing Minho and him holding you at night to keep you warm before you got to the QZ; it's hard to stay together in front of Chan, and you think that's why he lets you be the one to break the hug. Now you have Hyunjin, but it isn't the same.

"I needed that," You say low, looking down at your feet.

"C'mon," He puts a hand on your shoulder, leading you to the door. "Let's get back inside. Sun's almost up, gotta head out soon."

Giving him a tight smile, you head to the small bedroom to grab your bag where you left it on the bed. As you turn to leave the room, you spot the stuffed monkey hanging half off the bed. Should you be taking unnecessary items with you? No. But will you be shoving this monkey into your bag for future times of comfort? Absolutely.

Everyone is already gathered outside by the time you get there, securing weapons, tightening bag straps, whatever they need to do before officially leaving. The sun isn't quite up yet, leaving a chill in the air and making you shiver, wrapping your jacket around you better. Your arm stings where the fabric rubs against where the infected scratched; you should probably put a bandage on that.

"How's your leg?" You walk up to where Han is sitting on the ground, Felix dressing the wound at his hairline with Jeongin behind him.

"Better now that these two did something about it." He winces as Felix puts alcohol on the open cut, cleaning the blood running down Han's face while he's at it. "How's your arm?"

"Your arm?" Jeongin quirks an eyebrow at you.

"Right, about that." You put your bag by your feet and take off the right arm of your jacket revealing the dried blood underneath. "Got scratched during everything last night and almost forgot about it until now. I saw you guys with the medical supplies and thought I'd grab a bandage."

Jeongin grabs your upper arm gently, examining the three scratch marks. "Y/n these are pretty deep, sit down and I'll sew you up."

"Are they?" Sitting down, you take another look and see fresh blood trickling down the side of your arm. "Oh shit, I guess they are- ah."

It stings when Jeongin uses the same alcohol Felix used for Han on your arm, biting your lip and eyes squeezed shut. The pinprick of a needle is felt soon after and you fist the end of your jacket with your free hand to avoid digging your nails into your skin. Someone is rubbing at your back, but you still can't open your eyes to see who it is.

"You're doing good," you recognize Hyunjin's voice in your ear. "Almost there. That's it."

When there's a pat on your arm, you open your eyes and your fist unclenches. Where there used to be an angry, red wound, is now a white wrapping with a tinge of blood seeping through in the middle. Although your arm is still sore, you ignore it, putting your jacket back on and standing with Hyunjin's help, not that you need it.

"Ready to go?" Chan asks loud enough for everyone to hear.

You're about to follow him down the driveway when you remember something fairly important.

"I forgot something," You blurt. "I'll be quick so you can keep walking."

Chan nods. You jog back around the house, seeing the bodies of the infected scattered across the yard in the oncoming daylight. Making your way to the ones on the left side of the house, you notice something as you get closer; a nametag is pinned to one's shirt reading Hanni, one that you killed last night. A cold feeling runs down your body as you take in its- her- apron, the name long rubbed off the chest. Her nails are painted a chipped baby pink, a silver band on her left ring finger.

Suddenly, you feel ill. The world is moving although you are still and nausea hits you in intense waves as you come to a realization, something you should have had in mind before. These things you fight were once real people with real lives and real families, not creatures who spawned one day with evil intent. No, they all had to turn into this, and you feel so sick. With a shaky hand, you grip under her chin and pull you knife out, sheathing it at your thigh. As dark blood trickles out of the hole you made, you hunch over at her side and heave.

"Why are you taking so damn long- oh shit, are you okay?"

"Why do you keep seeing me at my most embarrassing moments?" You wipe your mouth, avoiding his eyes.

"To keep you on your toes," Han says, crouching next to you. "Seriously, are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You literally just threw up."

"I'm fine," You insist.

"Vomit, anger, first thing in the morning," Han strokes his chin, pretending to think hard. "Hyunjin didn't...?"

"Oh, what the fuck is wrong with you?" You smack him in the shoulder, but barely contain a laugh. "No, it's just... kind of hit me that they were like us once. Her name's Hanni, like in the bedroom. Do you think she was visiting home?"

"Try not to think about it, it makes them easier to kill." Han stands up and sticks a hand out; you take it. "Not that it's easy."

You retrieve your other knives quicker, not stopping to look at the man attached to one. When you rejoin the group at the end of the driveway, Chan gives you a funny look. It's like he can sense when something's wrong, and you hope he can't read minds.

Like that, you're on the road again. You notice neither Han nor Jeongin are limping anymore, and that Chan has a new wrapping on his left forearm. Chaeryeong is wearing her hair up, revealing a tattoo you hadn't noticed before of a lightning bolt, the rest hidden underneath her collar. The sunrise has popped over the horizon and into your eyes, but you can't help but notice how the golden rays bring out the freckles on Felix's face or the glow of Hyunjin's skin. Seungmin walks beside you, stoic as ever, but when Jeongin says something to him quietly, you catch a glimpse of his wide smile and can't contain your own.

These are real people, your people, whether you feel it completely or not yet. They have their histories, their lives, their secrets and desires and fears and loves. And so do you, and so do the people lying dead in a backyard kilometers behind you now. Right now, you hold onto the view of the people around you, and you hope that will be enough in the end.

---

notes ▪︎ how are we feeling so far? these people rlly can't catch a break, huh...... lol. it only gets worse from here, so, yk. :33

─── taglist : @chaeryred @toplinelix @channie-143 @staysinbloom @manuosorioh @hanjisunglover @xxstrayland @puppyminnnie @hanjsquokka @kpopsstuffs @ot8girlfie @quokkabite @linoslawayslinos @reapers-lover @hyunjinslittlestar @kiki0113 @nishiriks @nxtt2-u

[olderthannetfic]

All this fic deletion wank has been rough to read, personally. Not in a "I find this upsetting" kind of way, but a-- I, as an author and creative, am now confronting a lot of my regrets kind of way. When I was younger I deleted fics because of harassment. And here I am over a decade and a half later, dealing with having removed my work from circulation again. In a different way, but the impact is mostly the same. Last year I put over 30 fics in a locked archive, the reason being once more because of mistreatment by people within the fan space they were for. I did it this way because I deeply regret deleting my old fics. They were part of my journey, and while a lot of stuff I find deeply embarrassing is still up on Fanfiction.net, it's not all of it. I wish I still had things to look back on, if only to remind myself that all the effort I put into writing actually led me somewhere. I've grown a lot as a writer, and it's sort of like... Not having any candid photographs of myself in my teen years. A piece of my life is just no longer viewable and only exists within memory that grows hazier over time. But when I deleted a bunch of fics in my teens, I felt extremely justified in doing so. I was angry and hurt and wanted to be vindictive. And I regret it. I didn't really come to regret it until I lost a lot of fic in strikethrough. Gone, overnight. And I still mourn those fics because my laptop they were stored on got borked and I no longer had copies. It suddenly clicked that even if I felt justified, a loss is still a loss. And it sucks. From where I'm sitting, I see both sides. I feel like sometimes withdrawing completely from a fandom is a valid thing to do. But I learned a valuable lesson about deletion over the years as I've watched more things crumble and disappear. It was an incredibly painful thing for me to lock away a bunch of fics last year, and I felt like I needed to for a lot of reasons, but I didn't want to delete things like I had before. I thought, in some way, I'd found a compromise. I give copies out. I open the archive for people to download what they miss. Because this felt like the only way to give myself some peace without completely destroying so much work and harming the people in the community who weren't part of the problem or reason I withdrew the way I did. But the more I read these takes, the back and forth, the vitriol and various perspectives, the more I wonder if I'm ready to let go of some of that pain from how bad things got in that fan space and open the archive again. You mentioned people who don't care, or treat having passion for your hobbies as a bad and/or cringe thing being boring. And something about that struck me. I poured so much of my heart and soul into those fics. Years of my life spent learning and churning out work and challenging myself to tackle narratives I never would have dared to dream of. I became a better writer over the course of creating them. Keeping them in the Restricted Section of my library hides away some of the work I'm most proud of, and even if I had what felt like good reasons to do so, I'm glad I learned the lessons I did when I did and kept them on the Archive even if they're hidden right now. It was my "right" to hide them, but I guess I've come to the conclusion here, watching this wank unfold, that the person I'm harming the most by keeping my work private and out of the hands of the community, is myself. That's my art. And I *am* proud of it. And I shouldn't let anyone take that from me. So thanks for letting the topic breathe. I gained a lot of perspective from it.

--

Aww.

[carry-the-sky]

go spin the wheel, see where it lands—

Here's the thing about time: it's always running out. He felt it even as a kid, this urgency moving through him, around him. Always just ahead. He'd catch up, if everything else would just slow the hell down. But there are rules, and rule number one is that time tends to be, well, linear. Directional. Things get a bit messy when it's not.

Four seconds. That was rule number two, and the consequences for breaking it are— bad. To put it lightly.

He doesn't exactly have a choice. Or, he does, but if it's between breaking the rules or not, watching everything he loves get ripped away or digging in, claws first— well. He knows a thing or two about fighting dirty.

So, no, it's not a choice. It's immutable, like gravity. Time. A strict progression from cause to effect.

Ekko breaks rule number two.

And the line becomes a circle.

.

He thinks it's a dream, the first time. What else would it be? She fell. She's gone.

She's here now, though. Whole and happy and here, running a hand through her chopped-short hair. That single streak of magenta hits him where it hurts, square in his chest. You can't feel pain in a dream, can you?

"You're back," she says, without looking up. She's lying on her stomach, sketchbook open, a whirling kaleidoscope of color on the page in front of her. "Took you long enough."

"Was I gone?" Ekko says.

She actually laughs at that, the sound filling up his ears, warm and bright. "Benzo was starting to worry, not that he'd ever admit it. Big ol' softie." Her hand flashes, chalk sticks arcing across the page. "You seem to have that effect on people."

He shakes his head. "I don't. I'm not—"

She scribbles faster, fingers stained pink and blue and every shade in between. "You know, for a smart guy, you're kinda dumb."

"Ouch."

"I still like you, though."

This is a nice dream. Maybe the only nice dream he'll have again.

"I miss you," he says, dredging the words up from some sunless space inside him. "I didn't tell you before."

Her hand slows to a stop. From where he's standing, Ekko can only see a few snatches of detail on the page; a fuchsia smile, twin blue braids.

"I'm right here, buster," she says, not looking up. Grinning softly at her hands. "Never left, actually."

The circle wobbles, shifts out of focus. Time and space folding in on each other like paper cranes.

When he blinks, Powder is gone.

.

Too late. It's always, always too late.

.

"It's you," she says, the next time.

They're somewhere green, somewhere he's never been. A part of the Undercity that doesn't exist where he's from, that never existed.

"Uh." He blinks against the sun. "It's me, yeah."

"Seriously?" Beside him on the lawn, she pops up on an elbow, scrutinizing him. "You still don't get what's happening? Sheesh, hopping dimensions really does do a number on the noggin."

Okay, this is a weird dream. Still, as long as he keeps her talking, as long as he has sun on his skin and grass beneath him, he doesn't really care. He'll take weird. He'll take whatever he can get.

"Noggin, right," he laughs. "Synapses. Drunk slugs."

Powder scrunches up her nose like she's trying not to laugh. "Alright, I give. If you wanna dance around the giant elephant in the room, be my guest." She turns her head into her arm, a shield from the sun. Between them, their hands brush in the grass, pinky fingers tangling together. "Next time, though."

Ekko hums, content. More than that— happy. Overflowing with it. Then he frowns. "Wait. Next time?"

Paper cranes, folding in and in and in.

"Dummy," he thinks he hears her say before she disappears.

.

"So when you said 'hopping dimensions', you meant—"

"Yeah."

"And that means—"

"Yeah."

Ekko spins in a circle, arms thrown out wide. "But— how? All of this, the lab, the tech— it shouldn't exist here. Heimerdinger made sure—"

"Hey, you're the genius," Powder says. "I just live here."

Four seconds. He lets it sink in for four seconds—she's whole, she's happy, she's here, at least in this tiny pocket of space and time—before he's crossing the space between them and pulling her into a bruising hug. Her breath puffs out in mild surprise, and then she's hugging him back, arms cinching tight around him. I won't forget this. But he's already started to. He drops his head to her shoulder, breathing her in, every tiny detail. He won't make the same mistake twice.

Her eyes are wet when they untangle. Ekko swipes at his cheek to find that his are, too.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm so sorry. I thought I saved you, but it wasn't— I wasn't—"

"Don't," she says fiercely. "Don't do that. Not with me, not here. I meant what I said, okay? You're a good one, Ekko. You don't give up on people. If I'm— if the other me is— then there was nothing you could've done to change it. That was always gonna be how the story ended."

The tears are a river, streaming salt down the slope of his nose and into his mouth. "I was too slow. I'm always too damn slow."

Powder's hands are on his face, her lips kissing the salt from his cheeks, his eyelids. "The boy savior," she murmurs. "It's not your job to save everyone, you know. But I love you for trying."

She's fading, or maybe he is. Time and space, a never-ending anomaly. But there are constants, too, things that keep the universe spinning. Rules worth breaking.

He feels it, this time. It's like someone's scooping out his insides, rearranging his atoms. Like he's being wiped clean, unmade. Hollowed out so that some other him can be stuffed into his skin. Four seconds is all it takes, or maybe four million.

I love you. I love you, too.

.

He tells her for real, when he sees her again.

"I know," she says, elbowing him in the ribs. Her cheeks are dusky-pink. "Following my lead, huh?"

He looks at her, really looks. Every detail; the dainty point of her chin and the dusting of freckles across her nose and her eyes, big and bright and blue.

"Always," he says.

.

Time and space. Paper cranes, folding and unfolding, creasing the lines of reality. Some rules can't be broken, but they can bend a little.

Here's one: when you die, you stay dead.

.

He must be dreaming. She's standing right in front of him, in this dimension, on this plane of existence, real and whole and here. Her hair is still short, all of it blue.

Four seconds. He holds his breath for four seconds, and then: "Jinx."

"Hey, buster," she says.

[jilyandbambi]

So I don't necessarily think Daniel was malicious towards his daughters, but I do think he has said explicitly on the show that neither of his daughters are speaking to him currently. That suggests total estrangement. Beyond that, Daniel was a junkie. He may have wanted to be a good father, but drugs mess that up pretty hard and pretty fast.

Respectfully, Anon, you're missing my point.

I'm not trying to negate what the show has alluded to re: Daniel's backstory and relationship with his family, what I'm saying is that, with so little to go on wrt Daniel's backstory and given that it is still totally plausible (to the point of being quite common, if you can believe it) for one to have a great deal of love for a parent with a history of substance abuse, neglect, or one you've decided to go no-contact with, the accepted Daniel's Kids Hate Him fanon feels flat and lacks appropriate nuance (and imagination!!! which is more annoying to me, personally) for the fandom of The Complicated Relationships Show.

I know children (even grandchildren) of addicts whose parents still managed to create good memories with them even as they battled addiction. Are these relationships dysfunctional? Yeah. Were these good parents? Jury's out. But imperfect or even bad parenting doesn't mean it was all bad, all the time.

On the subject of Daniel's estrangement from his daughters, the fandom bases this on one throwaway line Daniel says during a highly charged rant at Louis, who has been baiting him off and on for days. What does Daniel say right before "My daughters don't even talk to me?" Some snarky remark about legacies being for execs and assholes in loafers (paraphrasing). I got news for you, peeps, two-time Pulizer winners who teach Masterclass seminars and who go through the trouble of publishing an autobiography/memoir care very much about their legacy, despite what they might say in the heat of the moment.

BUT, even if one wants to interpret this one throwaway line literally and run with the notion that both of Daniel's daughters have gone no-contact with him, the show's canon still leaves the "when's" and "why's" of this estrangement wide open.

Who's to say this has always been the case? What if it's recent?

Terminal illness affects families in different ways; what if one daughter couldn't deal with the news and is coping by ignoring him, and the other cut contact bc she doesn't agree with Daniel's decision to continue living independently instead of moving in with her or into an assisted living facility? What if the news of Daniel's diagnosis caused his kids to start smothering him as though he was already in hospice until one day he snapped, said some messed up things, and demanded they give him space, so they're giving it to him (albeit not the way he wanted it).

What if it has nothing to do with the Parkinson's? What if one kid is a semi-homeless addict globetrotting around the world just like Daniel did back in the day (if we assume DM chase happend) and is just so caught up in doing her own thing she doesn't even think to call anyone in the family, much less Daniel? What if the other kid has a partner who doesn't like Daniel and Alice (if she's real) and since marrying this asshole has distanced herself from her family?

What if--as I said in my original post--they're simply really fucking busy being grown and having their own lives and don't have time to reply to Daniel's 90 million daily texts, and "My daughters won't even talk to me" is just Daniel being a surly, dramatic old man who's had it with the depressed vampire he's ranting at, and also wants his girls to be faster texters?

Or, Daniel was a druggie fuckup who was too strung out to ever meaningfully bond with his daughters who, now grown, actively despise him. <- Sure. The popular theory works, too, obviously but there's no reason this has to be THE go-to fanon explanation since

We!! Don't!!! Know!!!! anything concrete about Daniel's past aside from his Pulitzers and drug use. So why not get creative and have fun with the blank canvas while we can?

[cupidkenji]

Silent Earth

Now playing: Silent Earth - Josephine Illingworth they saw the silent earth, and they felt it breathe Pairing: Tyler Joseph x gn!reader CW: none really, fluff, missing him on tour Summary: Mornings with Ty when he's back from tour :( Disclaimer: Reader is always thought to be fat in my stories cause chubby readers aren't loved enough. Reader is not physically described here at all but they're envisioned when I'm writing to be bigger. WC: 1.8k bro TOP has had me in a chokehold since the start of October and I'm just now remembering I can write. Shoutout 11 year old me for being a fan I hope you're proud.

The air in the rising hours felt crisp, and nearly frosty. You’d left the windows open the night before in hopes of welcoming the chill, knowing that you and him both ran hot, and slept better when it was cold inside. October was rolling to a close, and you didn’t know how many nights remained before the snow came and forced your windows shut. He had told you once that he liked the nights so frigid because you relied on him for warmth, finally cool enough beneath the duvet to require his body heat to remain comfortable. You’d practically fuse to him this time of year, overlapping any bear skin that you could, like you were trying to siphon the warmth right from it. He never minded, he looked forward to it. He seemed to reciprocate mindlessly, giggling at the noises of surprise you elicited when he’d roll you onto him before going to sleep or at the sudden draping of his arms over your shoulders whenever you were distracted. 

You’d settled into this pocket of domesticity - admittedly - faster than you should have, relying on that routine of sweeping winds and the spirit of Autumn to push you and him closer than you were in the Summertime. Even as he and Josh began their work on Clancy, you hadn’t remembered just how deep the loneliness perforated you when he was touring. Digitally, you were as in the know as possible, with videos of different venues being sent and endless declarations of his ache to be home - to be with you. It was hardly sustainable, both of you feeling the pull back to your shared space no matter where in the world he performed. It was what it was. Both of you knowing intently where your shared roots were planted, doing the best you could to keep them watered from afar. You didn’t sleep as well, he hardly slept at all. Times like these found both of you on call until the early morning, talking about nothing just for the sake of hearing the other. Feeling each other the best you could, metaphorically stretching your arms out as far as possible. The only thing that kept you reaching to close that gap was sheer desperation, pleading for just a moment of interaction. 

Both him and Josh had been devastated at the streak of years that went by with no shows. You were sad for them, but the two of you settled into yourselves during that time. Happy and homely in the life you shared, and you couldn’t find a way to be truly saddened at the time you got to spend with him. They’d gone back on tour not too long ago, tossing their finished album into the sea of fans who’d been waiting for years with open jaws. You couldn’t be happier to see him re-enter his element, going to the opening nights they played near you and wishing them well with teary eyes when they’d left Ohio for the next year. Like always, you’d allowed yourself time to wallow. A couple days to process the temporary loss. Your fingers seemed to itch with the desire to pry open your stomach and stuff it full of something fluffy, something to satiate that swirling puddle of dread that burrowed into you when he was gone for so long. It was earnest and hardy, it was a sense of incompleteness. In a way you were grateful for it because of how vibrant it made the reunions. Whenever he came back, it was like your lungs opened up to finally let air back into your body. He touched you, and seemed to simply sap that feeling from your bones.

You could still feel the phantom sensation of that misery fleeing you as you laid next to him. He and Josh were on an off week, back at home for a bit before going back up North to do the next leg of shows. You’d seen him for the first time in months last night, been able to mold yourself to him again, and slept the best you had your whole life. Now, you were awake before him, propped up slightly on the headboard and just looking. Whenever he caught you staring at him, he’d jokingly chastise that you’d turn him to stone if you looked any harder, but you could never help yourself. The tours were always taxing, you’d heard it time again on your calls, but it was different seeing the way he wore it when he came home. His voice was always a tad raspier, shoulders a tad more slumped, and the circles under his eyes begging for sleep that would actually revive him. Not the shaking tour bus beds or the cheap hotels, but the bed that was shared between the two of you. He was the most ethereal sight you’d ever seen. The sun was christening the floorboards, creeping over his bare chest and making his resting face almost glow in the gold of the light. It was nearly angelic, watching the illuminated room rouse him from the well deserved sleep. You were almost sad to watch him be pulled from it, but you missed him like hell, and the thought of losing time to slumber wasn’t one you liked. 

You meant to greet him good morning as he woke up, felt it bubble up in your throat, even. You’d heard those slight groans of returning consciousness, though, and watched him stretch and fully open his eyes, and simply couldn’t force it out. The warmth that pooled in your stomach at feeling so fully at home after being deprived of it reached up and yanked the words back down before you could say them. You were so captivated by his very existence, that you only smiled slightly, a small upturn of your lips to express the elation pumping through you. He could sense it as he awoke, either the absence of you in his arms or the presence of your eyes on him, and he turned his head toward you. Still lying on the pillow, he rolled over to face you.

He saw your awestruck face, with eyes that were glistening a little with pure adoration and fondness, and he chuckled at the sight. “Good morning.” It was light, and a bit rough both from sleep and residual exertion from tour. It settled silently into the natural ambiance of your still bedroom. 

You smiled a bit wider at the sound, laughing breathlessly at the look of amusement on his face. “Sorry. I know I’m staring.” You nudged him with your leg at the reference, his fingers coming up to trace gentle shapes on it as he smiled at your words. 

“Mm, you are.” It was a bit snarky, and he kept his hand moving on your leg. “But it’s ok. I actually missed it while I was gone.”

You feigned shock at his words. “Really? I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Not worried I’m going to turn you to stone anymore?”

He laughed, a slight giggle that sounded so at ease you nearly cried from how much you felt the absence of it when he was away. “I don’t think I’d mind it.” You raised your eyebrows in question. “Yeah, I mean - if you turn me to stone, I’d just have to stay here forever, and I already want to do that. No problems here.” 

Your face wrinkled in a mix of cringing and laughing at such a cheesy remark so early in the morning. “Wow, that was so smooth.” You remarked, sarcastic and attempting to be deadpan before breaking and chuckling through your response, the man beside you already laughing. 

You put your palm on top of the fingers tracing your thigh, opting to hold his hand and caress the back of it with your thumb. “How’d you sleep?”

You saw his other hand travel up to his head, familiarly fidgeting with the strands of his grown out buzz cut. The angle seemed a bit awkward with his head still resting on his pillow, but it was a subconscious habit, and you doubt he even noticed it. “Indescribably good.” He emphasized, dramatic in tone but still holding a sense of sincerity. “I actually slept. I’ve been so used to waking up or not sleeping deep enough. I think I just passed out last night.”

You giggled at that. “You did. I looked over and you were out.”

“Hey, you can’t blame me for that.” He looked down to where you were holding his hand. “I haven’t been home in forever. It’s like the sleep deprivation caught up with me when I saw you were here and ok.”

Your brows furrowed at that. “I get that. But we talk every night, Ty. You know when I’m home.”

“No - I know.” He paused for a moment. “It’s like, consciously I know you’re fine, but when I’m so far away I can’t feel it like I usually can. I worry about it, you know subconsciously. That you’re not ok somehow and I don’t know because I’m not here.” You go to voice your rebuttal, but he continues his explanation. “When I’m home, everything just…falls into place. I know you’re safe, so I don’t have to worry about anything.”

You exhale, heavy and sympathetic. The same anxiety keeps you from sleeping deeply, haunted by thoughts of his bus crashing or someone wanting to hurt him. You don’t know what to say. You decide, instead, to move back down from the headboard and lay against him. Circling his torso with your arms and slotting yourself in his open arms. “You don’t have to worry. I’ll be waiting for you to get home, yeah? Promise.”

He took his now free hand and held your shoulder with it, pressing you tighter against him. Squeezing lightly in acknowledgment of your words. “Can’t promise that, honey.”

You sucked in a breath, lining your words with more sarcasm. “Too bad.” You brought your hand up to his chest, palm flat against it as you dug your chin into the back of it to look him in the eyes. “I’ll always be here, you know? I love you.” No matter how many years you shared with him, the words always felt slightly foreign leaving your mouth. Nerves still lined your stomach at the thought of willingly giving him so much of yourself. You always pushed through, though. The feelings you held were so blinding, and so overwhelming that they practically spilled from your lips anyways. No matter the words you said, they were always flowing steadily over the rim with the love you had for him. 

The light in the room reflected off his pupils, the depths of brown in his irises shining with the comfort of being home, the innate correctness of the two of you together. He didn’t know how he’d ever lived without it. “I love you more.”

[jelzorz]

For the ficlet requests, Rayllum, pre-6x07 opening, what they might've been talking or thinking about before the episode opens with the kiss

190.

They don't spend a lot of time talking.

Admittedly, there isn't much to say: it's all kind of there and laid bare the moment Callum kisses her again and afterwards, words don't feel like enough. They kiss, and kiss some more, soft lips and gentle hands and trembling breaths on goosepimpled skin. The hours pass, as slippery and smooth as star-silk, and then the dawn breaks and Rayla wakes with the softest light in her eyes and her head upon Callum's chest.

"Hi," he whispers.

Rayla giggles. "Hi," she murmurs. "Not a dream then."

"If it is, I'm never waking up," chuckles Callum, pressing a kiss to the space between her horns. "Look." He points a finger to the stained glass, coloured light spilling across the desk by the window.

"It's beautiful," says Rayla.

"Yeah." Callum smiles. "I've never seen the sunrise from so high. Wanna go watch it?"

"Mm. Later." Rayla tilts hers her head up to face him and presses a kiss against the corner of his mouth. "Kind of want to stay here a bit longer. Is that okay?"

"More than okay," he says, his fingers tracing nonsense patterns over her skin. She shivers pleasantly at the sensation and snuggles further into his warmth. "I really missed you," he murmurs. "All of you."

"I missed you too," whispers Rayla. "That whole time I was away, and even when I came back... All I ever thought about was you."

"There wasn't... anybody else?"

She shakes her head. "How could there have been? I saw you in everything, and it was bad enough that I..." She squeezes her eyes shut and takes a breath.

"Oh, no, I—" Callum grimaces awkwardly then, and when Rayla glances up at him, his cheeks are red and his eyes are cast bashfully towards the floor. "I just... last night was—I've never done... any of that before."

"Oh."

"Yeah.".

There's a pause. Then Callum laughs, and because he laughs, Rayla laughs, the tension broken, all the guilt and regret and complexity gone again like it was never there at all. They haven't really spoken about all of that either, but it doesn't matter. Not really. What matters is that they are here and together, and there's nothing about it that really needs to be said. Rayla shifts and kisses him deeply anyway, another apology, another assurance, another promise on her lips.

"It was my first time too," she admits shyly.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Another pause. Another breath. Then they're both giggling again, giddy as lovers should be, at peace in each other's arms. Rayla sighs, relishing his warmth, his touch, his heartbeat beneath her cheek, and smiles. "Was it what you wanted?"

Callum grins into her hair. "All I ever wanted was you. Even if we hadn't... you know. It wouldn't have mattered. I'm just glad we're here. Together."

"Yeah." Rayla breathes in, the air crisp and clean and full in her lungs, the ache between them gone and replaced with warmth. "I love you," she tells him, because what else is there to say? It's so simple and so true, even if the words don't feel big enough to encompass it.

Callum's chest rises. His heart misses a beat. He lets out a breath. "I love you too," he says, and Rayla knows that it's the same for him, the words too small for the strength they carry.

The sun rises higher. The quiet settles over them once more. There are no more words.

There don't have to be.