#which means the bleed from the right side of the room can no longer be removed

[rohirric-hunter]

Okay, actually on a second run of the Well of Forgetting I did the first boss fight in one try, so maybe it's not so bad once you get a hold of the mechanics. I can't imagine soloing it on a melee character, though

[rememberwren]

A Dichotomy of Thought || 3

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Further Parts

Johnny has a good day.

Tw: ableism; implied sexual assault

#

That night you dream about fucking the two neighbors in 5C.

It’s good sex, too. You can tell by the sweat slicking your skin and the ache in your thighs. You are naked on the big one’s lap, his huge hands on your hips while he bounces you on his cock. Behind you, the shorter one loops his one arm around your waist and grinds his cock against your bare arse. 

“Did Jesus send ye?” his voice rasps against the sensitive side of your neck. You tilt your head to give him more room to suck and kiss and bite. Then, as his hand slips down to tease where you need a soft touch the most: “Are you gonna finish me off?” 

The one beneath you cums, a flood of warmth deep within your aching cunt. His groans have you teetering on the edge of your cut of the pleasure. You lean down to kiss him, but before your mouths can meet, hands grip your hips and lift you free—his cock slides out with a wet rush of fluids, leaving you feeling cracked open and empty.  

Your boyfriend passes you on to his friends who are waiting for their turn with you, and then it is no longer a dream, but a memory. 

#

Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays are for physical therapy. Tuesdays and Thursdays are for cognitive rehabilitation. Both of these are paid for by the British government and accomplished in the ‘comfort’ of Johnny’s own home. Like that’s supposed to help; he’s going to have to sweat (literally) and bleed (probably figuratively), but as long as it’s on his own carpet, that’s quite all right. Johnny isn’t sure which he hates more, the physical or cognitive rehab. Both hurt, just in different places; one hurts the stump of his arm, the muscles of his shoulders and neck, his fake knee. The other hurts his pride, leaves him tired and second guessing his broken mind. 

The other scares him. It’s one thing to lose his arm—one terrible, traumatizing thing. But the idea that he’s going (or gone) simple is too much to take.

The cognitive rehabilitation therapist’s name is Anna. She wears horn-rimmed glasses and sloppy buns that Johnny fantasizes about gripping in his fist and throttling her with during their less productive sessions. 

By sessions, he means they play games together. Simon sits on the sofa in the living room pretending not to watch. He thinks he’s so fucking clever, turning his pages even, but Johnny knows. Simon’s gaze is a tangible thing, as physical as a touch, like a finger running up the back of his neck. There’s no hiding from it. You don’t get a name like Ghost without raising the hairs on some people’s arms with just your eyes. 

“It’s your turn, Johnny.” 

“I fuckin’ know it. Sorry—sorry.” 

Anna puts up a hand to stall his sorries. She is younger than he is; shouldn’t she be older? Wouldn’t that make this less painful? “Take your time.” 

It’s a simple matching game. There are less than a dozen tiles left on the board, and Johnny has seen most of them two or three times by now. He keeps forgetting their placements, even though he is burdened with the memory of having chosen them. 

His shaking fingers reach for a tile…a red car. Sweat breaks out on his brow. He’s seen this fucking Red Car no less than six times. His fingers hover over the board, moving from one tile to the next. Here? Or here? If he sees the Rose again, he’ll lose his head; he knows it. He can feel his blood pressure rising like the mercury in a thermometer, up up and away, blackness eating at the edge of his vision.  

Finally, with absolutely no idea where the other red car is, he picks a tile at random. 

Red Car. 

Johnny shouts out in triumph, holding up the tile for Simon to see. Even Anna—eternally unimpressed Anna—gives him a smile, infected by his joy. 

“Good job—now do it again.” 

Groaning, he picks up another tile. 

Rose. 

#

“Come lay down with me,” he says to Ghost after taking two of the green, oval pills that are the only things which take the edge off his pain. They make him so fucking tired, though—perhaps that’s their secret; if they can’t take the pain away, they’ll at least help him sleep through it. 

“Alright,” says Simon, putting his book down. He doesn’t bother marking his place; they both know he wasn’t reading it.  

The two of them slip into the bedroom. It isn’t much: a bed against the southern wall, the doors leading out onto the balcony—blinds pulled shut to keep out any hopeful rays of sunshine, a desk piled high with medical bills that the government will front. 

Johnny is pretty good about getting his shirt off with just one arm. He reaches up and back, gripping the collar, and tugs it off over his head in a smooth, fluid motion. He’s thinner after his three-month stint first in the hospital and then in inpatient rehabilitation, but he still looks good. 

He hates the stump where his arm used to be, but today he doesn’t even care. It’s a good day, a purely tolerable day. He presses himself against Simon and kisses him, the first true-kiss he can remember giving him since the accident, though his memory is not what it used to be. Simon’s hands—large and warm and strong—settle on his waist pulling him closer. It’s desperate and messy, too much teeth and tongue, neither of them quite settling into the old easy dance they used to be capable of; likely because they aren’t the same people anymore. 

“Fuck, I want you,” Johnny pants against Simon’s feral mouth.

“You can’t,” Simon grits out, dragging Johnny’s hardened cock against his own. 

“Like hell I can’t!” Though…already his knee throbs, a deep ache punctuated by glass-like shards of sharpness when he bends it. He could take it—but it would hurt. But fuck, what doesn’t hurt these days? “I need you, Ghost.” 

Simon grips him by the hair which has grown out too long and badly needs trimmed. He tugs back til Johnny’s neck pops uncomfortably. “You’ll take what I give you,” Simon says, sounding on the verge of madness, at least as desperate as Johnny feels. 

“‘n what? I can’t beg for more?” 

“Oh, you can beg,” says Simon darkly. 

He pins Johnny against the sliding doors of the balcony, rustling the blinds around his body. Knees bent to bring them to just the right height, he fists both their cocks in one large hand, his face buried in Johnny’s neck, muffling groans against his skin.

“Yes,” Johnny gasps, his nails digging into Simon’s back. “Yes, jus’ like that—fuck! Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t—“

Simon keeps jerking off his spent cock well after Johnny cums, even after he begins whining and pulling back, shoulders thudding against the glass doors behind him. Ghost makes Johnny fuck his fist through the sensitivity until he cums too, both their seed slickening his hand and turning the sound of his handjob filthy-wet. 

“Thank you,” Johnny sighs, blissed out. He doesn’t feel any pain, not in his stump or his knee or his head or anywhere. Maybe it’s the pills, but maybe it’s Ghost. Maybe it’s the relief of knowing they haven’t fucked up their relationship beyond all repair, that they’re still capable of loving one another like this. “I needed that. 

Simon feeds two fingers soaked in cum past Johnny’s full lips, relishing the way his hot mouth sucks the digits clean. He admits: “So did I.” 

He cleans them both up and they curl up on the bed together for Johnny’s afternoon nap—the doctors say all the sleep he needs is good for his brain. 

Simon doesn’t intend to fall asleep. But he does. 

And when he wakes, Johnny is not there beside him. 

#

You’re just thinking how cold it is out on the balcony, wondering if it is worth it to risk going back inside for a sweater, when the balcony doors from 5C open and out steps the man you almost hit with your car. He looks likely to be cold as well, wearing only a t-shirt and loose pants, his feet bare against the concrete. 

A cigarette is tucked in the corner of his mouth, unlit. He gapes at you, and it falls to the balcony floor. Glancing behind himself into the darkness of his apartment, he shuts the door with careful tenderness before bending down with a wince to pick up his cigarette. 

 The sleeve of his missing arm dangles innocuously. “I wasn’t expecting to see anyone out here.” 

“Sorry,” you say on instinct. It’s ingrained in you; a lifetime’s worth of apologies. “I can go in and give you some privacy.” 

“World’s big enough for two,” Johnny says coolly. There are chairs out here, but he doesn’t sit. Instead he leans against the doors with his good side and pretends to look out. It’s a lovely view of the parking lot. You do the same, except you can see the spot from here where you almost hit him with your car, and it makes your stomach turn. Speaking of: “Sorry about all that in the parking lot. My temper got the best o’ me.” 

“I’m the one who should be sorry,” you admit. “I was distracted. I can’t say it enough, I’m so—so sorry.” 

“Water under the bridge,” he says. He holds out the only hand he has left. “Johnny MacTavish.” 

You hold out your own left hand, shaking via air from the distance between your balconies. When you give him your name, he mutters it under his breath two, three, four times. 

“I’m going to forget that,” he warns you at length with a sad little laugh, fiddling with the unlit cigarette still in his hand. “It’s not you, it’s me.” 

“It’s alright,” you forgive. “It’s pretty forgettable.” 

Johnny frowns, putting the cigarette back in his mouth and working his hand into his pocket. His accent is so sweet to listen to, syrupy and dropping the consonants off of his words as he assures you: “Didn’t say that, did I, lass? Don’t get twisted.” 

Mollified and embarrassed in equal measure at his simple admonishment, you duck your head. 

“Got a broken brain,” he says in explanation, reaching up to tap the cigarette against the scars at his temple. “Forgot one of my own sisters’ names on the phone last week and she wept like a bairn. In my defense, I have several of them.” 

“I forget people’s names and I don’t have a head injury,” you say. 

Johnny snorts softly, the sound carried away by the wind.

He withdraws a lighter, one of the cheap disposable ones you can buy beside the registers at gas stations. His hand shakes as he tries to spin the sparkwheel once, twice, thrice, but no dice. Johnny takes a deep, slow breath, like a little boy trying not to lose his temper. He tries again, the familiar noise of steel rasping on steel, but no spark. 

You wait, patiently, eyes turned out toward the parking lot as he begins muttering curses beneath his breath. Anxiety itches beneath your skin. His building anger is a tangible thing in the air like heat thrown off by a lit flame or the smell of burnt rubber, tires squealing in the parking lot as you slam on the breaks. A man’s anger is familiar to you. It predicts pain. Your skin flashes hot and then cold, and you are just about to make a polite escape inside when: 

“Can you catch?” he asks, sending your gaze swerving to him from the parking lot.

“Can I—? Fuck!” you throw your hands up just in time, scrambling for the lighter even though he only tosses it underhanded like an easy pitch for a tee-baller. It slips from one of your sweaty hands to the other like a slapstick comedy routine, but it doesn’t clatter to the concrete nor does it fall off the balcony altogether. Holding it in your hand, you light it easily to make sure it works, missing the hungry, bitter expression that comes over his face when you do. “How? I can’t reach you from here.” 

“We can meet in the middle.” 

You can’t. Even with him outstretching from his side of the balcony and you from your own, there is a good half a meter of distance between you both. You can’t help but remember the other man’s words—I just want one fucking cigarette without worrying about him taking a swan dive off the balcony. 

“Be careful,” you admonish when Johnny slips a little, his ribs digging into the iron-wrought railing. He doesn’t have good balance, you realize. Does losing an arm fuck something like that up? The answer you don’t know: it fucks up everything. Taking a deep breath, you glance over the rail and take note of how high you are from the ground. High enough for a healthy splat should you fall…

“Forget it,” he says morosely, his brows low. He is the picture of dejection, a kicked dog. “Doctors say ‘m not supposed to smoke anymore anyway.” 

“Don’t they say that to everyone? Just—hang on.” Tucking the lighter into your pocket, you throw one leg over the railing. 

“What are yeh—you-uuu fucking nutter,” he laughs as you test the stability of the railing. It doesn’t shift or creak at all under your weight. Heart in your throat, you lift your other leg over, feet lodged in the narrow space between the railing and the concrete floor. Gripping the rail with a tight fist, you let your weight lean into the space between your balconies, reaching into your pocket to remove the lighter and flick it to life. 

Johnny looks like he could laugh or cry or both, stretching out his shaking arm so you can light the cigarette and then quickly bringing it to his mouth to suck it to life. 

“Yer crazy,” he says breathlessly, words tinted with smoke as he watches you scramble back over the railing and to safety. 

The sliding doors open. For a moment, you mistake the sound for being closer than it is—for being your boyfriend finally noticing how long you’ve been gone and coming to find you. He’s going to find you out here with Johnny and the same arguments will be born all over again—arguments about your disloyalty.

But it’s Johnny’s doors which slide open. The taller man comes out, the circles under his eyes standing out darkly  against his pale skin in the late afternoon light. At the sight of Johnny, an expression of raw, poignant relief comes over his face. 

Johnny drops the cigarette over the ledge of the balcony, face sheepish. 

“Was just meeting our bonnie neighbor,” says Johnny, slipping his arm around the other man’s waist. If there was any doubt left of what they were to each other, it disappears: seeing them together, you can see the magnetism that draws them together. They act like plants which turn toward the sunlight, except they are the sunlight. The bitterness inside you rises up in the back of your throat. “Grateful to be doing it without a car in between us. This is Simon.” 

“Nice to meet you,” says Simon. 

“You too,” you offer, like perfect strangers. 

You don’t find the lighter still in the pocket of your pants until later, when it is past midnight as you are collecting your clothes from the floor, aching between your legs and raw-eyed from crying. You flick the sparkwheel, watching the flame come alive. Glancing behind you, you make sure your boyfriend is fast asleep before creeping to your dresser drawers, opening the one with your socks, and shoving the lighter towards the back as far as you can. 

[mrspasser]

I'll lay my head down here

Sterek fanfiction Stiles needs a place to sleep. He chooses Derek.

Also available on A03.

image source

“I’m not sleeping on the floor again, you assholes!” Stiles throws a balled up burger wrapper at the infuriating werewolves who took over his intended sleeping space. 

Isaac bats the greasy paper ball away with a quick flick of his hand, hardly having to look at it. “You snooze, you lose, Stilinski,” he says meanly, as he snuggles deeper inside the couch pillows to drive his point home. “Besides, I gave up my bed, I shouldn’t be the one to sleep on the floor.”

Stiles perks up when an idea crosses his mind. Upstairs, in Isaac’s room, are Lydia and Cora. Maybe he could -

“Don’t even think about it, Stilinski!” Jackson cuts his unspoken thought off with one sharp remark. He glares at him from his spot on the couch he’s sharing with Isaac: one asshole werewolf on each side. The guy is extra touchy because Lydia picked Cora as a sleeping partner over him - which is more than fair, if you ask Stiles, both Lydia picking Cora over Jackson and Jackson being sour over getting the cold shoulder from his girlfriend.

“I’m sorry, Stiles, I don’t think you’ll fit,” Allison offers apologetically from his right. She’s squeezed in the large armchair with Scott, who’s already fast asleep and snoring softly. 

He waves her offer away. If he’d try to squish himself in the chair with them, neither one of them would sleep a wink all night. Same goes for the couple in the other available chair, although Stiles is more sure to survive the night with Scott and Allison than with Boyd and Erica. That only leaves - 

“You could try Derek?” Allison blinks innocently at him. 

Stiles huffs a laugh, letting the sarcasm bleed through in generous helpings. “Yeah, right.” He leaves it at that, too tired to hope to put up the proper facade of pretending to dislike the Alpha werewolf. Hey, we all deal with our crushes in our own way! Stiles has to do what he can when literally living with a pack of wolves, who can smell pheromones and who knows what else.

Eventually, he settles for stretching out on the rug that Lydia made Derek buy a while back. It’s not overly cushiony, but it’ll do the job. It’ll have to. Besides, he hasn’t had a proper night of sleep in four or maybe even five days, staying up researching and worrying most of the night. The Big Bad is dead, the worrying is over and his research paid off: he should be able to sleep now, right?!

At first, Stiles uses his hoodie for a pillow, yet after about twenty minutes he gives up and pulls it back on because he won’t be able to sleep if he’s cold. Derek patched up most of the holes in his loft and it’s actually resembling a nice apartment these days, but it’s still the middle of the night in February and Stiles is lying on the floor without a blanket or a pillow. He misses his own bed. His comforter. His pillow. His other pillow, the one that’s older than him and oddly lumpy, but it was the one that was in his mother’s bed until the day she died. It hasn’t smelled like her in a long, long time. Stiles has also washed it a couple of times during the years, he’s not that much of a pig, despite popular opinion. But it’s familiar and comforting and he still takes it with him for sleepovers with Scott. 

He considers whether or not he would’ve brought his pillow if this impromptu sleepover had been planned in any way. He’s known Scott since kindergarten, he’s his best friend. He wouldn’t say or even think anything bad about Stiles still needing a special pillow to sleep even when he’s almost twenty one years old. And while he knows most of the people in this room for five years or even longer and trusts them with his life, that doesn’t mean that they’re not a bunch of dickheads who will tease him every chance they get.

It’s a pointless thought exercise, because nothing about this sleepover was planned. They were supposed to kill that wyvern during the day, when it slept in his creepy little cave. That's what all Stiles’ research was for! He even found a way to kill the beast without having to hack it to pieces, which was nice because in the end he was against animal cruelty, you know? But then there were witches, two of them. They weren’t planned, neither was the ensuing fight in the woods. The unexpectedness of it all had left everybody antsy, especially the werewolves. And even though they recouped with a movie night and a nice pack pile, nobody wanted to be very far away from the others. Hence the impromptu sleepover that had Stiles sleeping on a rug, between the coffee table and the couch. Which wasn’t fair, because he totally knocked a witch out with his bat! He did his fair share and pulled his weight and what not. The least he deserves is a nice night of sleep.

Another hour later, Stiles is sore all over and chilled to the bone. There’s no way he can sleep like this. “Desperate times call for desperate measures,” he whispers to the leg of the coffee table that he knows has Isaac’s claw marks on it. 

As quietly as he can he makes his way upstairs on the rounding stairs. On the landing there’s three doors to choose from: the one on his left leads to Isaac’s bedroom, where Lydia and Cora are sleeping. The one in the middle is the bathroom - with a bath, for heaven’s sake, Derek has a tub! - and that leaves the master bedroom on his right. The Alpha’s den. Stiles has never been inside it. He even doubts if Isaac has set foot in the room very often, besides for cleaning purposes.

Stiles never really intended to go into Derek’s room, because despite what the others seem to think, he actually values his life. And his dignity. He thought it better to take a chance with the girls, take on the risk of Jackson wanting to kill him the next morning when he discovered Stiles had slept in the same bed as his girlfriend.

But…

The door to Derek’s bedroom is cracked.

Stiles can see inside. 

He can’t see that much, with it being the middle of the night and the only light coming from a gap between the curtains in front of Derek’s window. But the moonlight is just right, illuminating the sleeping form of the Alpha in the bed. A bed that is more than large enough for two people and Derek is neatly sleeping on one side of the bed. If Stiles is quiet enough he might even be able to slip into the bed without waking Derek. The werewolf got hurt pretty badly today and healing always takes a lot out of him. There’s a pretty good chance the guy is sleeping like a log.

Stiles takes a deep breath. He’s gonna risk it.

***

He didn’t think he’d actually do it, but after a few minutes of indecisiveness on the landing, Stiles quietly tiptoes into Derek’s bedroom. He rounds the bed to the unoccupied side of the mattress and gingerly lifts the tip of the blanket.

“You’re not getting in with your jeans on,” Derek says, without opening his eyes.

Stiles yelps and he’s already stammering halfway through an apology when he suddenly shuts his mouth. His back teeth actually click together. There’s a few seconds of silence and then: “You’d let me into your bed?”

“Not with your jeans on,” Derek repeats. Usually he wouldn’t do this, but he’s been listening to Stiles toss and turn downstairs for a while now and with all of his pack members sleeping peacefully, he’d like the last one to get some rest too. Besides, Stiles would continue to keep him up with his restless behaviour otherwise; Derek just can’t seem to tune him out. It’s been that way for years already, maybe even from the beginning.

“O-kay.” He can feel Stiles staring at him in the dark and he patiently waits for the decision he knows the boy is gonna make. No, not a boy. Stiles will be 21 this Spring. Derek has seen him grow up, literally and figuratively, along with the rest of his ragtag pack of teenagers. Stiles still wears jeans and plaid most of the time, but the garments don’t hang as loose on him as they did when he was 16. He’s grown into a handsome young man, with a good head on his broad shoulders. Derek counts himself lucky to have Stiles as part of his pack, to have him close. Not as close as he sometimes might wish, yet Derek is always conscious of not playing favourites. So he usually keeps Stiles at an arm length and takes care to treat him just like everyone else. It helps that the two of them elevated snark and banter to an effective communication style. Despite all the sarcasm and barbs, Derek is pretty sure there is no-one in his pack who sees through him like Stiles does. It was scary at first and it made him lash out, but Stiles stood firm. Derek is immensely grateful that he did.

There’s the rustling of clothing hitting the floor, jeans and a shirt, then the blanket lifts and Stiles scoots underneath. Derek feels him settle in behind his back, a foot or so away. “Thanks,” Stiles whispers in the dark.

“Go to sleep,” Derek grunts, eager to go to sleep and not think about the young man who is sharing his bed.

***

Derek’s bed is pretty comfortable, Stiles thinks to himself as he digs himself in. Oh, who is he kidding?! Derek’s bed is amazing. The mattress is just the right combination of firm and soft, the pillow hugs his head and shoulders just right and the comforter is warm but still light to the touch. It’s a million times better than his bed at home, even when he’s not counting the fact that he’s sharing the bed with a hot werewolf.

Yet Stiles can’t sleep. 

Yes, the pillow is heavenly. Yes, the mattress allows his tired body to finally relax. Yes, the comforter hugs him nicely. But there’s something missing and Stiles knows exactly what it is. His pillow.

He needs to hold something. He needs to be able to curl around something. Or someone, his traitorous brain suggests as he feels Derek move across from him.

“Why aren’t you asleep, Stiles?” Derek asks in that long-suffering tone he uses when Stiles is doing something to annoy him. Which is pretty often, although Stiles knows the annoyance is mostly for show these days. He has turned onto his back, his eyes glinting in the moonlight where they are looking over at Stiles.

“Can’t,” Stiles laments, trying to catch the comforter between his arms in lieu of his dearly missed pillow. It doesn’t really work, because the comforter also has to cover Derek’s bulk and there’s little left to use. Little to none, especially when Derek snatches the comforter back from where it was probably leaving a cold gap on Derek’s other side. The sudden move has Stiles sort of falling over from where he was laying on his side. He’s more on his front now, filling up the space that was between them at first. He can feel the warmth of Derek’s body from just a few inches away. It’s actually kind of comforting.

“Try harder,” Derek commands and he closes his eyes again.

Stiles thinks of answering ‘Yes, Alpha’, but thinks better of it. It might make Derek move again, to push Stiles out of bed instead of pulling him in to have a cuddle. So he stays quiet and closes his eyes, focussing his mind on the almost tangible presence of Derek’s bare shoulder mere inches away. Derek is warm and smells nice and if Stiles was a werewolf, he’s sure he’d feel even better about having his Alpha so close. Yet even though he’s not a werewolf, he still enjoys it. A lot.

He falls asleep.

He knows that, because he wakes up at some point, at an unknown hour of the night. He’s warm, so warm. And comfortable, even though his pillow is a lot firmer than he remembers it being. It also moves a little, because his pillow is Derek and the Alpha werewolf gently moves his arm in what Stiles suspects is a more comfortable position. He would panic about sleeping half on top of Derek if he were not so damn comfortable. It’s hard to keep his eyes open. Surely if Derek wouldn’t want him sleeping on him, he’d push Stiles off. Instead, Stiles feels Derek’s arm wrap around his back, accompanied by a soft sigh from the Alpha.

Stiles sleeps.

***

Derek is not the first to wake up, although he is certainly not the last. He becomes aware of the world with Stiles wrapped around his torso, his head pillowed on Derek’s chest. He’s only a little surprised by how good it feels to wake up like this and it takes a while before he brings himself to carefully move out of Stiles’ embrace. The boy mumbles a little, but doesn’t wake up. Derek watches him for a moment, standing beside his bed. He’s not sure how to feel about this, except for some embarrassment about wanting to crawl back into bed and slot himself back into Stiles’ arms.

Downstairs, most of the pack is still asleep. Isaac has his arms wrapped around Jackson’s lower legs, as if he’s cuddling a particularly bony teddy bear. Jackson is still asleep, even snoring softly. Scott snores too, curled around his girlfriend in the large armchair. In the other armchair, Boyd is watching him carefully, his arms wrapped around his sleeping girlfriend. 

“Morning,” the dark man rumbles quietly, not to wake Erica.

“Morning,” Derek answers, keeping his voice down as well. “Coffee?”

Boyd inclines his head in thanks and Derek ambles on to the kitchen, where he finds Lydia, immersed in a science journal. She has a cappuccino sitting in front of her, the cup half empty. “Good morning, Derek,” she says, briefly glancing up from her reading material.

“Morning,” he repeats, busying himself with the coffee maker. He brings a cup to Boyd when he’s done and returns to join Lydia at the table. He sits back in his chair, his coffee in front of him, to catch the rays of pale sunlight that slant through the high windows. It’s quiet in the loft, with most of the people still sleeping and the ones that are awake quietly starting up their day.

He sips from his coffee, listening to the sounds of Cora waking up and going into the bathroom. She comes downstairs not long after, dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt - same as her brother, her bare feet hardly making a sound. He points to the mostly full pot of coffee on the counter when she enters the kitchen and he gets a hair ruffle as thanks from his little sister. She pours herself a cup and leans against the counter, enjoying the sunlight on her face just like he is. 

It’s Stiles who comes down next, although Derek can hear from the way he drags his feet that he’s barely awake. Why he’s not sleeping in like he should be, is anyone’s guess. He expects Stiles to stop in the living room, to wake up Scott or maybe even Jackson if he’s feeling particularly cheeky, but he doesn’t. The footsteps pretty much make a beeline from the stairs towards the kitchen. Derek opens one eye from where he closed them against the sunrays to see Stiles shuffling towards him in his boxers and T-shirt, rubbing a hand over his face and yawning soundlessly. His hair is standing up on one side. He’s wearing socks, navy blue ones with a red line near the toes.

The werewolf opens his mouth to point his packmate towards the coffee maker, but before he can say anything, Stiles has reached his chair and slings a hairy leg over his lap. He plonks down unceremoniously and lays his head on Derek’s shoulder, arms wrapping loosely around his waist. 

“You were gone,” Stiles mumbles disapprovingly, his mouth moving against Derek’s collarbone. And just like that his heartbeat evens out and he’s fast asleep again.

Derek sits frozen in his chair, his heart beating loudly inside his ribcage. If Stiles were awake he could probably feel it pound against his own chest. His hands hover uselessly on either side, not knowing whether to wrap around Stiles or pick him up and toss him to the floor. 

Stiles is oblivious, his sleeping body moulding easily against Derek’s. He’s warm and pliant, just like he was when they were sleeping together in Derek’s bed. 

When he chances a look at Lydia across the table, she’s already watching him steadily with a sly smile playing around the corners of her lips. “Glad to see you two finally got your heads out of your asses,” she comments eventually, before primly taking a sip from her cappuccino and going back to her reading.

Behind him, Cora snorts quietly in amusement. She comes up at his back and puts a hand in his hair again, running her fingers through the short strands. It’s grounding and Derek only notices how much he needs that when she lightly scratches her nails across his scalp. 

“He’s cute like this,” his sister remarks and even though he can hear the humour in her voice, he can also hear the truth in her heartbeat. “Best not wake him up, big bro.” She runs her hand through his hair one last time and then she wanders off, leaving him to carefully wrap one arm around Stiles’ lower back.

Slowly, Derek feels himself relax. The loft is quiet and peaceful and Derek is in his own little bubble, with the sunlight on his face and Stiles in his lap. Almost automatically, he starts to rub his hand slowly up and down Stiles’ back. Aside from some sleepy snuffling, there’s no real response. Derek picks his coffee back up and slowly drinks it, tilting his face towards the sun. It’s a nice morning.

[livelovelizz]

now i'm no longer alone

jason todd x reader / fluff

tw: mentions of blood and a knife

“What the fuck.”

You try to swallow the lump that’s appeared in your throat. You know you must look stupid with your open-mouth stare, but you couldn’t help it. Really…

“What the fuck,” you repeat, scanning the figure in front of you. In the dingy hallway of your apartment complex, stands an out of place person. Red helmet scratched up, black tactical suit torn, and the most startling of all, the amount of blood pouring out from behind a hand.

“Hey, I don’t mean to rush this… but do you mind like—” the figure jerks his head and all you can do float aside to allow him to hobble through. You bite your lip and peek into the hallway. All that stares back at you is flickering LED lights and dingy wallpaper.

Letting out a shaky breath, you stare at the blood spots left on the floor as the door closes, latching it as quietly as possible. You turn the lock.

The injured vigilante you let in has made their way to your couch, draping themselves across it with legs falling off the sides. It’s silent, air tense, waiting for the other shoe to drop. You open your mouth, ready to start complaining when glistening liquid catches you eye. Clicking your tongue, you go to retrieve the first aid kit from the bathroom.

Flipping on the switch, you squint to adjust to the sudden brightness. You stare at yourself in the mirror. Mussed up hair from sleep, wrinkled pajamas, and a deep frown. You take in a deep breath to collect yourself. Right. Now’s not the time to be distracted by anything other than the problem bleeding out on your couch.

You rummage in the cabinet underneath the sink for a couple minutes, noises too loud for whatever fucking time it is. Behind a stack of toilet paper is where the med-kit is hiding, so it's quickly snatched up and you hurry back to the living room. The idiot is still in the same position, sans the red helmet, which has been tossed aside on the floor.

You shake your head and sigh. “You actually have to take off your suit for me to do anything.”

Blue-greenish eyes swipe to look over at you. They look distinctly glassy and out of focus. Concussion?

“You tryin’ to get me in bed already? At least take me to dinner first,” the mighty Red Hood responds, trying to smile but winces and carefully remains still. You bite your lip.

“Think you can move, or am I gonna have to cut the suit?” you ask, settling on the small sliver of couch left for you, pressing against his thighs. Opening the med-kit, everything gets set out in preparation.

There’s a groan and instantly you zone in on Jason’s face, twisted in pain.

“Just take it off. Trying to replace this shit is too annoying,” he grunts, slowly sitting up. You watch him closely, taking in every small twitch and tense muscles. Gently, hands are placed around his waist, slowly peeling back the top half of his suit. Jason’s been through this a lot. Too much, you think sourly. He forcibly relaxes and doesn’t move when his shirt finally pulls away from his wound. It takes several minutes, going slow and checking over everything, before his top is finally off of him and tossed on the floor somewhere.

His chest is littered with bruises and small scratches, but none of it compares to the gaping knife wound spanning from his ribs to waist. You’re not going to lie, the amount of blood along with how deep the wound is disgusting—you don’t want to know what muscle you’re seeing behind his peeled back skin—but you hold your breath.

Neither of you say anything. You’re focused on cleaning, disinfecting, and wincing as you feel and hear loose skin squish against the needle held in bloody hands. You only fully relax when everything is safely bandaged behind white gauze. Eyes dart up to Jason’s face, becoming slightly startled and embarrassed when you find him already looking at you. Maintaining eye-contact, you reach a hand up to his face, gently brushing over his cheek.

“Anything else I need to know?” you ask quietly, afraid to break whatever comfortable silence the two of you have. Jason takes in a deep breath and shakes his head, leaning into your hand. You don’t want to disturb him. He finally looks somewhat peaceful and not in too much pain after the many pills you shoved at him to take. “I’m going to get a washcloth and some clothes, okay? Don’t move.”

Jason flinches and wide eyes meet yours. “I was, uh, I wasn’t planning on staying,” he says, obviously confused. You stare into his eyes. He only stares back.

You quirk an eyebrow. “Do you honestly think I’m letting you leave this apartment in this state?”

“I’ve had worse, nothin’ to worry about your pretty head about, doll,” he grunts. He’s in the process of sitting up, but doesn’t get too far before a hand is pushing him back down.

“That doesn’t exactly make me feel better,” you dryly respond, “Now, you’re going to sit here and wait for me to come back, okay?”

There must be something showing in your expression because Jason takes a moment before relenting with a sigh. “Hurry it up then, I’m tired and want to sleep.”

You scoff. Honestly, the audacity of this man is astounding. You quickly gather clean clothes for him, random stuff he’s left here from past visits. Armed with a bowl of water and a washcloth, you’re ready to tackle the problem of wiping him down. By the time you make it back to the couch, Jason’s already discarded his pants and shoes. He smiles widely as soon as he sees you, wiggling his eyebrows. The washcloth you were holding is now hitting him in the face.

“Wha—Hey!” Jason pouts, “What was that for?”

The bowl of water is set down on the table, a little splashing over the sides. You look up to him. “You woke me up at an ungodly hour, bleeding out, made me fix you, and then expected me to wipe you down myself? Are you kidding me, Jason?”

You’re actually a little upset. It’s not that you haven’t seen him covered in blood before, but usually it’s not his blood he’s covered in. You knew what you were signing up for when you got together, but it doesn’t make it any less terrifying. A warmth wraps around your clenched fist and squeezes. You focus back into the present.

Jason’s looking at you with furrowed brows and a frown. You look down at your hands before you’re suddenly exhausted. Stumbling, you sit down next to Jason and deflate into his side.

“I–I’m sorry. Just…” you close your eyes and take a moment to collect yourself. “It’s just scary. Seeing you like that.”

Your chin is gently clasped and turned to look over to your lover sitting next to you. A thumb brushes against your cheek. “No, doll, I’m sorry. I know it’s a lot to ask of you,” Jason whispers, regret filling every word.

Shaking your head, you cover his hand with yours to keep him from pulling away. “Don’t. I would rather you come to me like this than I not knowing, with you in some dirty alley or safe house,” you reply and press a gentle kiss to his palm. “I just don’t like seeing you hurt.”

The exhaustion has finally caught up to you, dragging you down. You didn't really want to leave him alone, but a large yawn seizes you. Giving him another once, you deem it okay to leave him by himself.

“I’m gonna go to bed. Join me when you're clean,” you lean forwards and press a gentle kiss to his lips before silently making your way back into the bedroom. Too much has happened too early in the morning. Collapsing onto the bed, you take in a deep breath. You won’t go to bed without him, but your eyelids are heavy and begging for you to close them, so you do.

The next thing you know, the bed is dipping next to you while the blankets slowly cover you up. Not opening your eyes at all, you blindly reach out your left hand and wave it in the air until it makes purchase on something. A hand catches yours. Even with your eyes closed, you can basically feel the guilt he has for worrying you rolling off in waves. Gripping his hand tightly, you drag him down and press your body to his, keeping him in place. You're not chancing him leaving as soon as you fall asleep.

Your head rests on his chest, the gentle thump of his heart and rhythmic breathing is quickly lulling you back to sleep. In your last moments of consciousness, you feel his arm wrap around your back and a pressure on the crown of your head.

“G’night, doll,” he whispers. With him safely wrapped around you in the comfort of your home together, sleep is quick to find you.

fin.

[urfavslytherclawgirl]

Unusual Visit

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 900+

Warning: Swearing, only one POV, bruises, blood, needle (closing a deep cut).

Summary: Bruce breaks into your house wanting you to heal his bruises and because he wants cuddles.

You woke up with a weird noise coming from your living room and glass breaking, you got up and got a baseball hidden in your closet, mostly because Gotham isn't the safest city of all and because your boyfriend, Bruce, suggested you did it in case someone tried to break into your house.

"I have a bat and some internal rage I can use!" You announced slowly walking into your living room with your bat raised into the air.

"Calm down--shit--it's just me." A shaky but familiar voice said near a shadow, the further you walked the more you noticed Bruce wearing his suit and using the wall as support.

"Bruce! What happened to you?" You asked throwing the bat on the couch and walking towards your boyfriend, Bruce was hurt with blood going down his face under the mask and his suit almost ripped in a few spots.

"You should've seen the other guy." He laughed as you helped him lay down on the couch and take his suit off so you could see what was bruised, the longer you saw the more you got worried. He had a nearly broken rib, two purple bruises on his chest, and a deep cut on his stomach, his arm had a few purple spots and his nose was bleeding.

"I'll go get my first-aid kit." You announced walking away quickly and going into your bathroom, after getting it you kneeled down on the floor next to the couch Bruce layed on and opened the kit.

"I have a needle to close the cut and arnica ointment for the purple bruises, which one do you want first?" You asked as Bruce looked at the needle then at you.

"Do you know how to use that thing?" Bruce asked in true concern as you rolled your eyes, getting up and walking towards your kitchen to get a bottle of whiskey.

"Drink it, it's good for pain. And yes, I do know how to use it, Bruce." You answered handing him the bottle and getting the needle and nylon thread.

"I'll start in 3, 2--" you said before starting to close the wound on his stomach, Bruce whispered swears as you were to focused on the deep cut to care.

"Fuck, you forgot the 1." He pointed out making a face of discomfort looking at the cut.

"I know, it's a tactic I learned it with my doctor when I was a child. Every time I'd get a shot she'd do this, it helped a lot." He nodded and closed his eyes.

"All done." You said, making a knot with thread and cutting it with a pair of little scissors that came with the kit. You got up and went to your kitchen to get a pack of ice and a wet cloth.

You kneeled again and started to clean his mouth and nose full of blood then lightly pressed the ice pack on his nose. You got the palm of his hand and pressed it on the ice pack, meaning you wanted him to hold it so you could apply ointment on his other bruises.

After putting back the first-aid kid where it belonged you helped Bruce walk towards your bedroom and lay down on your bed.

"Get some rest, Bruce." You said sitting on the edge of the bed, he put his hand on your cheek, moving his thimb left and right.

"Stay with me, please." You nodded and got up from the edge of the bed walking towards the other side, you lay down next to him and pressed your chest on his back, wrapping your arms on his chest under his arm.

"Take more care of yourself, Bruce. I need you alive for us to be together." You whispered, making Bruce laugh then hiss in pain, you smiled and kissed his back, his scars.

[archangeldyke-all]

okay, hear me out… spiderman!sevika 😮‍💨

granted, i've never seen any of the spider man movies so this is all just guess work but... u are definitely onto something with this, anon.

men and minors dni

singed and silco, two scientists on the cutting edge of genetic modification and microbiology, joined forces three years ago to experiment with spiders in order to produce webs that could be used in surgeries to quickly close badly bleeding arteries.

you and sevika, their respective lab assistants, have been working together ever since.

while the two doctors make their rounds at various government agencies and universities, asking for grants to fund their research; you and sevika spend your days holed up in the lab together, studying spiders and looking through microscopes.

you guys have grown pretty close. your work is your life, sevika's is hers: you're both in the lab for upwards of twelve hours a day on average. which means that you guys know each other really well. you're lucky your lab partner is so attractive and charming. she's lucky that you remember to eat three times a day, and always drag her along with you.

you're there the night sevika gets bit by a spider that singed named 'shimmer.'

you're right by her side, watching in horror as the bite swells her hand up until it's the size of her face-- and then deflates and goes back to normal within a minute. you're there to gasp in horror as you watch sparkly blue streaks engrave themselves up sevika's left arm, onto her neck and jaw. you're there to catch her when she passes out, you're the first thing she sees when she wakes up after.

she comes back to work the next morning insisting she's fine and refusing to make eye contact with you.

she's obviously not fine. but you don't mention it.

you don't mention it when she starts coming to work with bruises and scrapes-- broken glass in her hair.

you don't mention it when a mysterious new vigilante starts making the rounds around town-- preventing crimes that just so happen to occur while you and sevika aren't in the lab-- apparently shooting webs and swinging away before anyone can get a good look at them.

you don't even mention the police scanner she brings in to listen to while the two of you work.

but when you get the lab one late night to check on some spiders you've been trying to get to mate and find sevika in a shredded red costume, bleeding profusely from her side-- you can't hold your tongue any longer.

"oh, for fuck's sake, sev!" you cry as you grab the first aid kit off the wall and rush over to her, pushing her hands away from the gash in her side. she's delirious from blood loss, her eyes glossy as she looks up at you.

"'m sorry. 'm gettin' blood everywhere..."

"fuck-- just-- sit back for me okay?" you ask.

"don' take me to the hospital... they'll take me away for tests 'n i'll never come back." she mumbles. your heart breaks for her and all the fear in her voice, and you nod, promising her. she passes out moments after.

you patch her up and get her out of her blood soaked costume, then lay her down on the little couch in your break room.

you don't take your sight off of her the entire night. you keep your eyes focused on the steady rise and fall of her chest, and you keep your mind focused on the scolding you're going to give her when she wakes up.

and when she does wake up, and seemingly remembers all that's happened, she immediately tries to cover it up.

"it's not what you think, i got robbed!" she says. you groan, resisting the urge to punch her now that she's injured.

"sevika, you can lie to yourself all you want, but i was there when you were bit." you say. she blinks.

"you...you've known the whole time?" she asks. you chuckle.

"you're not subtle!"

"i... why didn't you say anything!?"

"it was cute watching you think you were gettin' away with it." you say, shrugging. sevika chuckles a bit, and you kick her shin, sighing. "look, sev." you say. "so you've got superpowers. fine. you wanna be a vigilante? cool. but you can't-- you're gonna end up dead before you can do any real good if you don't have someone watchin' your back for you." you say. she sighs.

"i know..." she mumbles.

"and..." you continue. sevika raises an eyebrow at you and you huff. "i really don't want you dead, sevika. you're a good lab partner, and a better friend and..." you trail off shaking your head. "'s stupid." you chuckle.

you can hear sevika's throat click as she gulps. "what's stupid?" she asks. you huff. "the spider bite gave me psychic powers, y'know, i'll just figure it out myself." she says. you burst into laughter.

"no it did not." you say. sevika huffs.

"no, it didn't." she sighs. "c'mon just tell me!"

"sevika, it's stupid!"

"stupider than me being a fucking spider powered superhero?" she asks. you giggle.

"yes!"

"how is it stupider than that!?"

"because i'm not a spider-powered superhero, i've got a fucking crush on one!" you say. sevika's eyes go wide, and you cringe. "fuck-- forget it."

"will you be my sidekick?" sevika asks. you snort.

"that's even worse than a spider-powered superhero."

"but will you?" she asks. you shrug.

"if you pretend i didn't just say that." you offer. sevika snorts.

"that wouldn't work though..." she says. you look back up at her and she shrugs. "i was kinda thinking it could be like a sidekick/girlfriend/labpartner 3 in 1 kinda thing." she says.

you grin, and sevika smiles, and then-- she's kissing you. you don't know how you ended up in her arms-- you could feel the webs drag you toward her but you didn't get a good look at how she did it-- but you can ask later... when she's done kissing you.

taglist!

@fyeahnix @sapphicsgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner @shimtarofstupidity @love-sugarr @chuucanchuucan @222danielaa @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther @gr0ssz0mbi3 @ellsss @sevikaspillowprincess @leomatsuzaki @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai @vikasub

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Living Weapon Whumpee part 11

Warnings: forced living weapon/fighter, captive living weapon, war, bleeding & bullet wounds, several deaths

"I'll rejoin the fight as soon as I can once I get more ammo -- Leader's ambush took us all by surprise, and none of us were armed or ready for it.”

Whumpee paused, staring down at the lethal weapons in his hands. Was he really prepared to fight or even kill the very people that had made him into Weapon? But there wasn't time to ponder it. The longer he stayed here, the more innocent people would die.

...Fight one last time, and you will be free...

Flint's words echoed in his mind, and he felt something he hadn't felt in decades: hope.

"Well, Weapon? Whose side are you on?" Whumpee glanced back to Flint, whose pupils were dilated with fear -- fear of him, and he realized just how bold of a move it was for Flint to unleash the monster he'd been holding captive. A giant leap of faith. Of hope.

Whumpee strapped the leather sheaths to his belt, face hardening with practiced impassive stone. "...You really mean it? I do this, and I'm free?" He growled gruffly.

Flint nodded sincerely, and Whumpee turned toward the door.

"Then consider me your most deadly ally," he threw over his shoulder. He charged out of the prison, veering left and taking off down the hall. It wasn't hard to find his way through the maze of the foreign facility -- he just followed the sounds of gunfire and screams ringing in the distance, growing louder.

Whumpee's heart was pounding, ice-cold adrenaline flooding his veins as he slipped into the familiar composure of the honed warrior he was trained to be -- though this time, he was the enemy's living weapon. Leader was not his handler anymore.

He clung to the fractured memories he'd rediscovered, the feeling of the family Leader had taken from him -- and let it fuel him.

The terrified screaming rattled in Whumpee's skull as he drew near to the fight, so much like the screams of the innocent victims he'd taken in the past -- but this time around, he was fighting to save those people instead of eliminate them.

Whumpee rounded a corner and skidded to a stop. There was a path of destruction down the hall he was facing, bodies and blood on the floor amidst rubble and chunks of concrete from explosive blasts. Both from soldiers and civilians alike, children and mothers slaughtered alongside those who had tried to protect them.

He didn't hesitate as he ran down the hall, careful not to slip on all the blood and jumping over the bodies. But then a low groan caught his attention, and he paused to kneel beside an injured soldier -- still alive.

The soldier was bleeding heavily from several fatal bullet wounds, bleeding out fast. The man's gaze locked with Whumpee's, his eyes widening with fear.

"Weapon--"

"Which way do I go to find the other children and women?" Whumpee demanded before he could speak. "I'm on your side this time."

The soldier didn't have time to question if Whumpee was tricking him as he pointed a trembling finger down the hall. "Right... left... left..." He gurgled weakly, and then his eyes rolled back in his skull, and he went limp. Gone.

Whumpee took off, following the directions the dying man had given. The screaming and crying was so loud now, and he came barging into a giant room to find himself caught up in total chaos. At least two dozen men were engaged in close-combat, wearing the colors of their leader -- and he knew Leader's colors by heart, having worn them himself into battle countless times.

But despite all the action, Whumpee's arrival was quick to be noticed, his presence.

"Weapon's loose!" A bellowing shout warned. Flint's fighters grew panicked, faltering.

Whumpee could see a group of women and children huddled in one corner, Flint's men creating a line in front of them as they struggled to hold off Leader's fighters. Flint was right, hardly any of them were armed, wielding only blades and batons. They were losing badly.

...But Whumpee could change that.

A few of Leader's soldiers cast unconcerned glances Whumpee's way, expecting him to join and help kill the enemy... but the mood instantly changed when the weapon lunged forward -- and drove his blade in the back of a Leader's soldier.

Leader's men cried out in confusion, whirling around to face the new unexpected threat, and it was the perfect distraction for Flint's men to take advantage of.

"The freak's on our side!" A joyous voice howled, relief clear as day.

Whumpee snarled and tore through the fight, flinging men around like ragdolls with incredible strength, dangerous and powerful. Bullets hit his vest and ripped through his skin, but he plowed onward like the living battle machine he was, fighting without holding back. He crushed faces and skulls with his fists, severed arteries with his blades... no matter how much damage he was taking, he just kept going...

...And the tide slowly began to turn. Whumpee was giving Flint's soldiers a fighting chance.

⏪️ Back Next ⏩️

Masterlist

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @i-don't-know-sal @togzy

@whump-till-ya-jump @cravesunconditionallove @whumpwritinglover222

@silly-scroimblo-skrunkl

[moodymisty]

If I held konrad and pet his head and maybe ran my fingers through his hair then.. well it wouldn’t fix him but it might calm him down for a little while.

Also on a similar note may I request a konrad x reader?

[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 | 𝕬𝖔3 ]

Author’s note: eepy Konrad, coming right up.

Relationships: Konrad Curze/GN!Reader

Warnings: It’s Konrad Curze, Toxic ‘relationship’, Fear and vague illusions to abuse/threats of violence, I mean you're with Konrad like what did you expect lmao

The sudden sounds of heavy footstep and doors closing jolts you up out of sleep, and you rub your eyes just enough to see Konrad entering the dark room.

He was in another fight, you can instantly tell.

The clothes that Fulgrim had gifted him are disheveled and torn. Blood is dried in the corners of his mouth; His hair is even messier than it usually is. He walks with an awkward gait.

You wonder who it was with this time, as many of the Primarchs have been quite obvious in their unending hatred for him. You can more than understand why, though he doesn't hate them, oddly enough. But their punches do little more than fulfill his own martyring prophesy. Most of them look at him with little more than seething hatred, and you with pity.

“Konrad?”

You whisper hoarsely, still rough from sleep.

He approaches in the near pitch black room, rounding the massive bed. You hear his bare feet on the cold floor, his harsh and ragged breaths.

These moments are some of many that frighten you the most; With Konrad, they could go either way; You have no clue if he’ll snap, and in which way. Sometimes he'll wilt, other times he'll want to make you bleed so he'll forget his own suffering.

The massive bed meant for a man of his size still creaks with effort as he shifts his weight, and flops onto it. In the faint light, it's obvious the blood from his face staining the pillow, and the cuts on his body smearing onto the blankets and your clothes. You can also see him staring off into nothing, lost in thought. He shifts his jaw, and swallows what you presume to be a mix of spit and blood.

Laying on your side you shift upward slightly, leaning on your left elbow. Konrad has no response to your shift in movement.

Some of his hair is stuck to his face, either from blood or sweat, and you take your hand and gently rake it away from his forehead. Your finger glide along through his hair, and you feel his heavy arm pull off the bed and lay over your side, hand laying limp behind your back and holding you down.

You do the same motion again, and again, but you don’t say anything. You won’t risk it. Your hand brushes along his forehead, through his hair, and you can see his eyes shift behind his closed lids.

It’s after what feels like hours does he finally seem to be asleep, and you pull your hand away after tucking a chunk of hair behind his ear. You feel safe enough to sleep again now that he’s lulled, no longer teetering so close to the edge. Both a danger to you and himself. Whatever happened can be dealt with in the morning, or swiftly forgotten among the myriad of other times he's fought with his fellow primarchs.

Shifting off of your elbow to lay back down his arm follows you, still laying over your midsection. It dwarfs your smaller body, covered in a myriad of scars. You're glad he's more comfortable now, but a deeper part of you knows his comfort comes at the expense of your own. Perhaps that's why the other Primarchs pity you so.

You're one of the only things keeping Konrad's feet on the ground, but how much longer can you last?

It only takes moment for you to fall back asleep however, hearing the rare sound of Konrad softly breathing.

[spaceprincessem]

last day for robstar week and im pretty excited about this one. still set in that time of when the brotherhood of evil plot was going on. this is based around the song creatures in heaven by glass animals (which is such a good fucking song) and feels very much like a big robstar song so please go listen to it! also more robin angsat heh @robxstar

day 7 - playlist

it tears through my head, does it haunt you too?

never really said that i loved you, too

lucky, lucky you, 'cause i'm fortune's fool

such small words but they hit so huge

He’s almost there he’s almost there he’s almost there—

“You never said their tower shimmered.”

Robin’s hands come to rest gently at Starfire’s waist as he pulls away from the crook of her neck. There’s a mark in the shape of his teeth blooming beautifully against her tanned skin he desperately wants to trace with his tongue, but he tilts his head and looks out the small, attic window.

In the distance the Eiffel Tower is lit up in gold, sparkling against the Paris night sky. It’s memorizing to watch, even more so when Starfire is silhouetted in the light. She’s soft and warm beneath his touch, his fingers digging a little harder into her skin if only to hold onto this moment just a little bit longer.

He feels a little drunk.

Both from the champagne they bought and the taste of the alien space princess still hot and heavy on his tongue. 

It’s nearing three in the morning and their time is running out. Different missions on nearly opposite sides of the world hang over them like a cloud of doom. They were able to see each other only by chance and a little bit of luck and while Robin likes to follow rules when it comes to these sorts of things Starfire always seems to be the exception.

As soon as his ship lands his communicator is in his hand, the dial tone grating against his ears. 

It was a trap. 

All of their hard work — their sleepless nights and weeks apart — mean nothing now. The Brotherhood was always one step ahead, always lurking around the corner, and they were always going to beat Robin at his own game.

He has no one to blame but himself.

“Starfire,” his heart is in his throat, “are you okay?”

“I am,” she responds quickly, but slightly confused, “but I fear Argent is not.”

He waits for the rush of relief to wash over him, but it never comes. They are all in very real danger and he’s on an island in the middle of nowhere.

“Robin,” Starfire says after a moment, breath catching in her throat in the way it does when she’s nervous, “there is no one here.”

Stay where you are, I'm coming for you — is what he wants to say, but he never gets the chance. 

“I wish we had more time.” Starfire murmurs, finally looking away from the lights.

Her hands move to cup Robin’s face and he pulls her closer, the sheets falling into a messy pile around them. 

“It won’t be forever.” He says, has been saying the last couple of weeks.

Because they can’t keep living like this. It’s not good for them or any of the Titans. He knows they’re all ready to go home. He can see the light at the end of the tunnel and it’s the only thing getting him through the thought of leaving this tiny bed in an attic room in the middle of Paris with Starfire. 

“I know.”

Their foreheads touch, eyes fluttering close. 

They both have to go soon.

Robin thinks he should give them a better show. 

He should beat and pound at the glass until his knuckles are ravaged and his nails bleed. His blood should smear the prison they’ve put him in; a sign that he’s going to fight until the very end. 

Except, he’s alone right now. 

He can hear the fanfare going on through the wall and it won’t be long now, but he doesn’t really have the energy to give it his all, at least not until he’s out in the open. He’s always been a natural performer. 

Right now he lets himself fall apart.

He failed the Titans around the world. He failed his friends. He failed Raven and Cyborg and Beast Boy. He failed Starfire. And there’s some part of him, that deep aching part that lives right in the marrow of his bones, that tells him not to give up, but he’s tired. 

He lost.

Maybe he deserves this eternal punishment.

“I think I will be quite bored when all of you Titans are gone.”

Robin grits his teeth, hastily wiping at his eyes before Madame Rouge can see just how fragile he is. She waits for him to turn around, a knowing smile spreading across her face when he finally does. He’s surprised one of them has waited this long to gloat in private. He supposes the Brain wants a more public humiliation.

They don’t say anything for a while, the silence only broken by a chorus of insidious cheers from the other side of the wall. Robin’s not here to give her anything else, not that he has anything to lose anymore.

“She really was beautiful.” Madame Rouge says after another moment of heated silence. “Did you tell her that you loved her too?”

Robin’s jaw quivers with rage. 

This doesn’t belong to anyone but him and Starfire. 

He swallows back all his anger and hurt, but it doesn’t have anywhere else to go, so it sits like a weight in his stomach, threatening to drag him down to the core of the earth where he will vaporize into dust. 

“I love you,” Starfire says, kissing the corner of his mouth, “I love you.”

Robin kisses her back. He holds her tight and kisses her deeper, harder. The sweet taste of champagne mixes with the briny salt from the tears trekking down his face, but they don’t stop, they don’t stop.

“No?” Madame Rouge’s grin twists into something wicked. “Pity.”

She disappears before Robin can scream or fight or tell her to fuck off.

It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair. Because he does love her. He loves her so much it terrifies him sometimes. It’s always been so dangerous to love another person like that and not just because they’re heroes. Robin knows grief; it follows him like a shadow. He knows what grief can reduce you to, the monster it can make you become.

But loving Starfire is worth it.

He loves her.

He loves her.

He watches her leave through the open window, their fingers intertwined until the very last second.

It’s not until the shimmer from the Eiffel Tower catches his eye does he realize he never said “I love you too.”

Robin closes his eyes, fate accepted.

He told them it wasn’t over. That he wasn’t giving up.

But he gave up the moment Starfire was gone.

I love you too.

[autisticlancemcclain]

part one

———

Hunk’s not really a natural morning person. No one really is, he doesn’t think, and he already has to get up at stupid-o-clock in the morning for his job, so he likes to sleep in on weekends. He’s no Pidge, of course — if you let her that woman will literally slip into a coma on command — but if he doesn’t have to wake up early, he won’t.

In the city, where there is nothing but buildings and the air pollution is so bad it’s like a constant cloud over the area, that’s not a problem. In Lance’s woodland fairy-ass cabin, the sun shines straight from the window into his eyeballs the second it rises, and he’s up early.

He drags himself out of bed with a groan, glaring at Pidge who is entirely unbothered, because of course she is. He remembers when the three of them went on trips, growing up, and how he and Lance would wake up early for hotel breakfast and find Pidge still dead asleep. (They would proceed to have a competition to see who could stack more random shit on Pidge’s sleeping body before she woke up. She never woke up. A fuckin’ biblically accurate angel could descend upon them with the light of a thousand suns and Pidge would still be dead to the world. It’s honestly kind of hilarious, except right now Hunk is insanely jealous, so it’s not really funny.)

He digs through his duffel, looking for his X Files t-shirt because he is a dickhead and he thinks he’s funny (he is). Once he’s finally dressed for the day, he creeps out of the guest room — Lance’s cheeky warning from last night still ringing in his ears; he does not want another eyeful of alien dick, thanks — but the door to Lance’s (and Keith’s, he supposes) room is ajar, bed made neatly, lights off. They’re awake.

He pads down the hallway, peeking through at doors that are ajar but finding them all empty — washroom, laundry room, office, every single room with the lights off. He finally makes it to the kitchen, the last possible place where they could be, but there’s nothing. Curiously, he glances at the front door, but Lance’s dorky retro sneakers and Keith’s big combat boots are still there. Clearly, they’re both in the house, but where?

Deciding not to worry about it, Hunk starts digging through Lance’s fridge, pulling out eggs and cream and butter to make some breakfast. He’s pretty sure that all is forgiven for their less-than-stellar reactions to meeting a Real Life Alien, whom Lance is apparently boinking (which is much less of a shock than Hunk is pretending it is), but breakfast can’t hurt.

As he cracks and whisks the eggs, pouring them into the hot frying pan, he begins to hear a steady squeaking noise, like the creaking of a porch swing. He quietly moved the eggs off the burner, inching close to the big window over the sink and peeking out.

Ah. There they are.

Lance sits with his feet tucked up onto the porch swing, curled into Keith’s side. Keith has a big arm over his shoulders, clawed thumb gently brushing his bare arm, as he rocks the swing back and forth. His poofy black hair and fluffy ears brush the low-hanging roof of the porch with every swing.

“Things are gonna be different, now,” Lance murmurs, turning slightly to press a kiss to Keith’s shoulder. Keith is quiet for a while, his only reaction being a slight quirk of his lips, showing the barest hint of crooked incisors and a sharp fang. His smile, coupled with the near reverent way he looks at Lance, makes his whole face look softer.

“Different doesn’t mean bad.”

“No. But it won’t be just you and me.”

Keith shifts, gently guiding Lance upright to sit on his own. Once Lance is no longer leaning on him, Keith ducks his head, pressing an obnoxiously loud kiss to his cheek that startles bright laughter out of Lance.

“It’ll always be you and me, baby,” Keith says, grinning openly now, “only now everyone else gets to see how much I love ya.”

Lance rolls his eyes, trying to seem exasperated, but happiness bleeds off him, so obvious anyone can see.

“Sap.”

Hunk steps away from the window as they start to banter, smiling to himself. He hasn’t seen Lance this happy in a long time.

It’s good to see him smiling like that again.

———

“So,” Pidge says, once they’ve all eaten and are talking a slow walk through the woods since it’s so beautiful out, “there is not a single chance that I will be able to keep this —” she gestures to Keith and Lance as a whole, wiggling her fingers at Keith particularly — “to myself.”

“I mean, you could definitely try,” Lance points out.

“Not gonna happen,” Pidge dismisses. “Aliens are real. I’m tattooing it to my person.”

“I mean, alien is subjective,” Keith mutters, more to himself than anything. “Y’all are the weird ones, out here on your own. Everyone else is pretty chill with each other.”

Lance pats his shoulder.

“Pidge has a bit of a point,” Hunk says, glossing right over that because that’s a lot of information for one weekend. “Your mom calls once a week, dude, and I’m a shitty liar. You know that. Before I could claim plausible deniability, but yesterday I saw more than I ever wanted to see in my life. If Marcela asks me why you’ve been shanked up in your hippy cabin for months I will not be able to choke down the truth.”

“It’s not hippy,” Lance mutters. It’s Keith’s turn to pat him placatingly on the shoulder.

“I mean, we could maybe head back with y’all to the city,” the man — can Hunk call him a man? Is that alien racist? What are the rules here — suggests. “I’ve been wanting to meet your family for a while, so that would work out, right?”

Lance frowns thoughtfully. “I suppose since the cat’s out of the bag…”

Pidge clears her throat, stopping to lean against a tree. “Uh, New York is weird, sure, but not ‘show up with an alien and no one will ask questions’ weird, man.”

Hunk tilts his head. “Actually…”

“Shush, Hunk, I’m trying to make a point.”

“Oh, no, I can just be human for a bit,” Keith assures, as if that’s at all a normal thing to say. “I would have done it for you guys if we knew y’all were coming. I imagine that would have prevented all the screaming.”

Pidge nods thoughtfully. “What the fuck,” she says.

Completely oblivious to — or maybe just uncaring of — her tone, Keith holds up a finger. “Hold on a sec.”

He closes his eyes, and for a moment nothing happens, and then he starts to shimmer, slightly, like the air around him is warping, like light is blurring. It’s hard to conceptualise, so Hunk squints on reflex. When the strangeness starts to settle and Hunk relaxes his face, a regular dude is standing in Keith’s place — significantly shorter than before, although still taller than them all, pale-skinned, with regular human ears and features. His hair is still in its thick black braid, and he still has a scar on his left cheek, but it’s a faint pink instead of purple.

“You’re a regular dude,” Hunk observes. “Damn.”

Lance smirks. “A sexy dude.” He reaches over and squeezes Keith’s ass with the subtlety of a seagull eyeing a young child’s french fry.

“I’m going to go gouge out my eyes with a random stick,” Pidge says pleasantly. Lance snickers at her.

“Make sure it’s poison oak so it hurts more.”

“Make sure you catch these fucking hands, you hippie dweeb.”

“Alright,” Hunk says, clapping his hands before those two can get into it any further. (If they get the chance they’ll argue about nothing for hours, and Hunk would really like to keep his will to live). “Let’s make our way back, okay? Lance can call Marcela and then we’ll head back to the city tomorrow.”

———

The next day, they’re all stuffed into Hunk’s Jeep, speeding down the backroads (safely!) as Mariah Carey plays softly from the speakers, because Hunk has excellent taste. Hunk taps his fingers on the steering wheel, along to Lance’s quiet humming. He catches his best friend’s brown eyes through the rearview mirror and grins. Pidge is turned almost all the way around in the passenger seat, just staring, dead-eyed, unblinking, at Keith.

Keith clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably. Hunk can’t blame him. He’s known Pidge for years and years and years, and sometimes her glares still make him sweat, if she stretches them long enough. And she’s been thoughtfully glowering at Keith ever since she woke up enough to use her brain. (They left the cabin at the crack of dawn so they could make it back to the city in good time. Pidge wasn’t happy about it.) She’s just — looking at him, blankly, as she slowly finishes her third pre-prepared travel mug of the nastiest instant coffee known to man, brewed with Red Bull. Lance, who has been trying and failing to ignore her, looks like he’s debating reaching over and closing her eyes for her. He’s glowering right back.

It’s a little funny.

“Is this a human thing?” Keith asks, finally breaking the silence. “The staring?”

“Ha!” Pidge crows, pumping her fist. “I win!”

Lance protests immediately. “No way! He doesn’t know the rules!“

“Fair’s fair,” Pidge says smugly. “He squirmed. He spoke up first. I win. That’s how it does. What, does he get special treatment? Is nothing sacred anymore?”

“This game is so dumb,” Lance grumps, but doesn’t argue any further.

“Game?” Keith whispers.

Lance pats him on the thigh. “Inside joke. Don’t worry about it, baby. I’ll explain when Pidge can’t eavesdrop and sabotage our strategy.”

Keith nods seriously, as if that is normal. Hunk grins. Keith’s going to fit in just fine.

“So,” Pidge says, tone still haughty. “Now that I have won, I get one question that you must answer truthfully.”

It’s a stupid game they play. When they’re curious about something, they just start — staring. Wordlessly. At whichever one of them is doing the thing they’re curious about. Whoever breaks first has to answer the question, and you’re not allowed to lie. None of them remember who started it. Or even when it started.

But, to Pidge’s earlier point, the game is sacred. Rules are rules.

“Okay,” Keith says slowly, when Lance fails to explain further. “What’s your question?”

“How are you planning to explain to Marcela why you’ve been hogging her darling youngest son’s attention for six months? I mean, you’re not the worst person anyone has brought to Sunday family dinner. Nothing you could do will ever be worse than the time Marco brought home the girl he met when she stole his car and then she stole his car again while everyone was eating. But, you know. Still. I would have a defense attorney present, personally.”

Hunk catches Lance’s eye in the rear view mirror again, and they both look away hastily to avoid bursting into giggles.

Poor Marco. No one is ever going to let that one go.

But then the rest of Pidge’s frankly pot-stirring question hits, and panic descends upon Keith’s face just as pure annoyance descends upon Lance’s.

“Oh my God, your mother is going to kill me,” Keith breathes.

Lance reaches over and pinches Pidge as hard as he can. She screeches. Hunk rolls his eyes.

“Stop freaking out my boyfriend,” Lance orders.

“Hunk, he pinched me!” Pidge whines.

“You deserved it,” Hunk says easily. That makes Pidge whine louder, because apparently she’s regressed about fifteen years. Hunk strains to hear over the sound of Pidge muttering about all the ways she’s going to get Lance back.

“It’s going to be fine,” Lance tries, rubbing a visibly panicking Keith on the back. “My mother is barely even homicidal. She’s very welcoming.”

“I am more afraid of your mother than NASA,” Keith responds, and Hunk has to stop himself from laughing out loud.

Lance smacks Keith — way gentler than he is capable, Hunk would like to note, Lance can pack a lot of violence into that wiry frame — in the back of the head.

“I can’t believe you’re letting that goober get to you. Pidge is messing with you because of who she is as a person. My mother will be ecstatic to meet you.”

“If you say so,” Keith agrees reluctantly, rubbing the back of his head and pouting.

The rest of the ride passes uneventfully. Pidge refrains from actively freaking Keith out, if only barely, and the four of them alternate between chatting and loudly singing along to Hunk’s excellent assortment of road trip music. By the time they finally enter the hellscape that is New York City roadways, they’re all so tired of being in the car that none of them have the energy to even hum, let alone tease each other.

“We’re two minutes away,” Hunk hears Lance murmur as he pulls into the McClain’s neighbourhood. “Take a breath, mi alma. All will be well.”

Keith flashes a smile at Lance, squeezing his hand. It’s tenser than the one Hunk witnessed yesterday morning, but no less loving, no less trusting.

“Okay.”

Hunk doesn’t even fully pull into the driveway before the front door is thrown open, and several people come rushing out, yelling in a mix of Spanish and English and honestly some words that aren’t language at all, just excitement.

“Tio Lance! Auntie Pidge! Uncle Hunk!”

Sylvio and Nadia are the first to make it over, yanking open the car doors and throwing themselves into the vehicle. Pidge barely manages to prevent Nadia from braining herself on the gear shift. Hunk ruffles her hair fondly, quickly exiting the vehicle and accepting the tight hug from Lance’s father, Miguel, and the myriad of other relatives. Veronica socks him hard on the shoulder, because she is a menace, so Hunk grabs her around the waist and throws her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. She yells at him in a way that does not at all hide her fondness.

It’s a ritual.

It’s not until they’re all finally gathered inside, cramped together in couches and armchairs and random places on the floor, that Keith is yanked from the metaphorical shadows.

“Who’s that?” Sylvio asks, pointing at Keith with absolutely zero subtlety. He smirks, looking tauntingly to Lance. “Tu nooooooviooooo?”

Lance looks back haughtily. “He is, actually. So there.”

“Damn. Can’t believe someone that hot managed to put up with you for so long,” Rachel teases immediately. She reaches out a hand to high five the twins. They slap her hand gleefully.

“All of you are horrible,” Marcela admonishes, placing a gentle hand on Lance’s head. Lance looks at her gratefully, then sticks his tongue out at his sister and niblings. “I’m sure Lance worked very hard wearing this poor man down,” she continues with a wry grin, making Lance squawk in betrayal and everyone else laugh. “Don’t discredit his work!”

“Nobody in this house loves me!” he laments, putting a dramatic hand on his forehead.

“I do,” Keith says quietly. Easily.

Hunk has known Lance, and by extension his family, since he was an infant. He’s been near these people as long as he can remember, attending Sunday dinners and birthdays and Christmasses.

Never in his life has he seen them get so quiet so quickly.

Keith is completely oblivious to the silence that has dawned around him. Around them — he has eyes only for Lance, and Lance only for him, like the entire rest of the world is empty except for the two of them. “I love you,” he repeats. Like the words are truer than anything. As true as the sun rising, as the stars twinkling. He says ‘I love you’ like it is objective fact, like there is no possible universe in which Keith does not love Lance.

“Ho-ly shit,” Veronica mutters.

“Holy shit indeed,” Hunk whispers back.

Marcela claps her hands sharply, startling everyone. “Dinner will be ready in a moment,” she says, transparently changing the subject. “All of you, come help set the table.”

———

“So,” says Miguel, once everyone has settled at the table and taken a few moments to stuff their faces — nobody can cook like the McClains. And Sunday family dinners are a serious affair, especially with Lance back for the first time in months. “We got a little caught up, when you all first got here. I don’t believe we were all acquainted?” He looks pointedly at Keith, then at Lance, who hurriedly swallows his bite of food before straightening up.

“This is my boyfriend, Keith,” he says to the table at large. “And Keith, this is my family.” He points to each of them in turn, naming them and giving them a second to wave hello before moving on. “And of course you already know Hunk and Pidge.”

“Believe me, we’re well acquainted,” Pidge mutters, then says “Ow!” when Lance very obviously stomps on her foot under the table. “I’m just kidding, you bully.”

“Hi, everyone,” Keith says awkwardly. He shifts his arms, like he’s not sure if he should wave or what.

Lance takes pity on him, patting him on the arm and speaking up on both of their behalf. “Sorry for not bringing him around sooner. He’s a newcomer, so we’ve been trying to get him situated. He’s a little…out of this world. Culture shock, and all.”

Hunk’s jaw drops. He looks at Lance incredulously — that may have genuinely been the worst pun he has ever heard in his life — and Lance’s mouth is twitching, like he’s fighting off a smirk.

What a shit.

“Oh?” Miguel asks, interest piqued. “Whereabouts are you from, Keith?”

Keith cuts a semi-panicked look at Lance, who just shrugs. “Pick somewhere,” he mutters, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

“My, um, my father’s from Texas,” Keith finally manages.

“Hey, cool, I have an ex girlfriend from there,” Veronica says.

“You have an ex girlfriend from everywhere, Lou Vega,” Marco says immediately.

Veronica doesn’t even blink at him. “None of my girlfriends have ever stolen my car twice, though.”

Marco shuts up immediately.

Poor Marco.

Everyone starts dogpiling on Marco immediately, because they always do. (In everyone’s, including Hunk’s, defense, it’s the kind of situation you never come back from). Keith looks relieved at the distraction, happy the conversation has moved from him as everyone chats about everything.

“Hey, Lance, can you pass me the pepper?” Hunk asks, as the rest of the family chatters on.

“Sure.” Lance sets down his fufu, wiping his hands on a napkin and grabbing the pepper shaker. He reaches across Keith to hand it to Hunk.

The next few seconds happen in what feels like slow motion.

Lance’s hands, greasy from handling his food, slip on the smooth glass of the shaker as he tries to hand it off to Hunk. The shaker drops on Keith’s plate, shattering on impact and releasing a cloud of pepper straight into Keith’s face. Keith, obviously, inhales a lungful of it. In his body’s effort to expel the pepper from his lungs, he lets out a great sneeze, so powerful it shakes the table.

So powerful it knocks the human form right out of him, making him huge and purple and fluffy again.

For the second time in his life, Hunk watches the entire McClain clan go completely silent, staring at Keith in total shock.

“Well,” Lance says weakly, making a face that Hunk can only describe as defeated. “I told you he was out of this world.”

[wolfpawzjakey]

Prompt - It Was All a Dream.

Jercy.

Brief description - Percy wakes up in the infirmary of Camp Jupiter and thinks that he dreamed of Jason's death and funeral, but Reyna and Annabeth, who were next to him, tell him that it was real... And Jason is really dead.

I will be very glad if you answer :)

Thank you thank you 🤲🏻

So, I wrote this without editing and rereading it. Writing ideas vs actually writing is hard. I’m working thru a writing block so thank you for sending this to me because maybe I’ll actually write something in full again one day 😎 (im crying under the shades)

-

Percy wasn’t unused to death. He was well accustomed to it in fact. He’d neared it himself on many occasions. He’d killed others with him own hands and actions. Death weighed on him, but living his life meant he had no other choice but to deal. Death wasn’t a friend or an enemy, he’d always fear it but knowing its certainty had made it a more comfortable burden to have.

But this death, this death had his system on high alarm. It was too soon, too much of a surprise for him to be able to process what was happening but it was right in front of him. Here he was, watching the life drain from the eyes of his boyfriend, the person he loved the most. It was not meant to happen right now, it couldn’t be happening right now.

But now? He could feel the blood between his fingers mixed with the gritty texture of the dirt from the ground as he tried so hardly to stop it from seeping out as fast as it did. His throat and chest is filled with cement and razors as his voice reaches his own ears like he’s underwater. He can feel the blood seeping into his keens from where he kneels aside Jason’s fading body while Jason’s eyes fight to focus on Percy or anything actually. His words are distorted, he can’t even make out what he’s saying to Jason but he knows it’s filled with dead end attempts as reassurance (both directed at Jason and himself… mostly himself). And gods, the thing he feels the most is Jason’s breathing coming to a slow stop, he feels as his chest starts to shake and stutter, and how each breath becomes less frequent and more spaced apart. How his last few breaths make his chest rise so high before falling like there’s a weight holding his lungs down. Then he sees his eyes dull entirely, no longer that human like glistening that reminds you someone’s alive. He looks silently at Jason’s still body, a body that is so familiar but now so pale and dead eyed. It’s like he’s somehow looking at a stranger now, because there’s just no way that Jason would leave him like this. There’s no way. So, he just sits, hands still pressed over the no longer bleeding wound. Jason’s still warm, he couldn’t possibly be gone.

When he’s shaken from the trance he’s fallen into, all hell breaks loose. He screams and sobs, holding on as his friends desperately try to pull him off. His hands slip away from Jason’s body… and then he’s sat up, eyes frantically searching the new surroundings for the horrific scene he’d just been in. His hands are clean, he’s not wearing the clothes he was in, there’s no blood anywhere on him. And then there’s Annabeth and Reyna, they’re looking at him with concern which means he must’ve been the one in danger right? Because Jason couldn’t be dead, right?

No, no, Jason wasn’t dead. That had just been a dream, it was easy to convince himself that he’d just be able to get up and go into another room of the medical bay and Jason would be there, healing just like him if he wasn’t just out elsewhere. Of course, Jason was fine. Relief flooded his body and coursed through his veins because of course Jason couldn’t be dead. Percy has had these types of dreams again, why wouldn’t it happen now too?

“Percy?” That was Annabeth’s voice, “Perce, are you okay?”

“I think so.” He says, sigh heavy as it leaves his lungs. “I don’t feel that much pain anywhere, I think I’m okay.”

“That’s… good.” She says back, but her smile stays sad, and that’s never a good side. Reyna looks closed off too, which is also not a good sign, but he just couldn’t understand why? Had he been injured that bad? Had something gone wrong when he was?

“Percy,” Annabeth starts again, her voice is guarded and gentle, it’s not unlike Annabeth but again, it’s not usually a good sign. “I’m asking more so… are you okay? After what happened?”

What happened? Panic flashes through him, fast paced images of Jason’s lifeless body and his body all over Percy, but that, it was just a dream right? “What do you mean ‘after what happened’? Annabeth, what happened?”

Her face falls and Reyna’s darkens more than he thought it could. “Percy, I’m sorry but Jason’s dead. You were inconsolable, you fainted after we’d tried to take you away. But… he’s gone.” And Percy’s world shatters again.

He doesn’t yell and cry this time, he doesn’t struggle and nor does he get up to leave the room, he just sits there. Annabeth wouldn’t lie about this, Reyna wouldn’t let anyone lie about this. It was real. The dream in its entirety was real. The grit and slide of blood and dirt between his fingers. The iron scent of the blood that soaked into his jeans. The harsh and slowing breathing echoing through the room. It was all real.

[ninkaku]

kill me, leave me… i won't judge you for what you choose. / oda ^_^

dazai's careful calculations cannot prepare against the unpredictability of beings no longer human, that can no longer be controlled and manipulated with the same means as those still sound of mind and body. he's smart, too clever for his own good. his own downfall is his self - assuredness and confidence that he knows he is always right — here, he realises his own foolish arrogance has made him blind to odasaku's evident suffering, too sure on their broken ideal that they would survive this, outlast this together in friendship and in brotherhood bonded by blood spilled into their own palms. he can trace this back to when it happened, to the moment and the seconds exactly and he wonders why, in knowing what would follow, that he chose to ignore it and take odasaku's casual smiles for honesty when he could have pushed to look him over, should have, but didn't. how stupid of me to think he would live forever by my side. now he recognises it, the way in which the undead flinched from odasaku's form when he pushed dazai into the room, the way their fingers slid from holding their grip onto him — tainted flesh, where dazai exists with blood warm and free - flowing and alive, odasaku's life has already become forfeit to their primal urges and they ignored him in favour of chasing true prey. if dazai's fingers hadn't found purchase in his shirt to drag him in before slamming the doors closed, he would have been lost to him, but maybe that would have served them both better. because then dazai wouldn't have questioned why the undead showed him no interest, why they kept straining to reach for him when odasaku blocked their path, he wouldn't have seen what he could no longer ignore, what is now their undoing.

he wastes precious moments sitting in silence, staring blankly at odasaku's wound, exposed for the first time and taunting him, chewing on his wobbling bottom lip so hard that it bleeds copper onto his tongue, that he swallows as easily as the things rattling the chains at the doors behind him, locks that can only do so much to hold them back, and in the eventuality of death and crude rebirth, one of their kind already exists in the room with him, yet to emerge. pushing the heels of his hands into his eyes with such a force he sees stars, dazai expects for the nightmare to be over. he's never thought much of god, but surmises that this is what it must feel like when non - believers turn faith into desperation just to stop death's crushing heel — he thinks he understands it now. then he moves, muscles screaming radio static as he frets, hands hovering over the wound but not daring to touch as dazai realises that for the first time, he doesn't know what to do. mind a blank, dark ocean. roaring waves of unhelpful thoughts that serve to offer him nothing, because this is unfixable. odasaku's voice is the light piercing through stormy waters, a call to a home quickly destroyed, warm firelight soon to be extinguished. kill me, leave me. he says on a quiet exhale, fading quickly now that the performance is through, both of them on the floor but only one of them slumped against the wall and sinking further into it with each passing second. dazai lets his gaze flicker to his face, too kind and too pale. not enough blame behind his eyes, too understanding and devastating to look at for more than a moment, and so he faces the wound instead and wills a solution to become present. i won't judge you for what you choose. and in the certain honesty of his tone, the level at which he tries to reason with him to make dazai's choice easy for him, rises dazai's irritation. “ shut up. you're fine. ” he's not fine, through thick lines of marred skin that no longer knows how to bleed, dazai knows this is fatal. “ we can, let me think—-- ... ” he releases a quick breath as he turns, because he knows the axe is somewhere, but as he shuffles on his knees and reaches to grasp it in his fingers, a broken sound escapes him on a stuttered breath because it is futile to think that he can remedy this. he has to steel himself as he turns back to face odasaku, pointedly avoiding looking him in the face as he shakes his head, resolute to an idea he hasn't yet properly formed.

“ if i just—--then it won't spread, and you'll ... ” ideas that might have worked if he had paid more attention in the infection's first stages, if odasaku had said something, but the sight of the wound, an ugly and twisted thing that has rooted and made home in odasaku's skin tells him that they are too late. he is too late, because he didn't know. wasteful seconds of silence, and then he speaks, quiet and with the conviction of someone who knows he stands to lose everything without ever having grasped it, almost drowned out by the snarls and yowls that have become their constant background noise. odasaku's voice blends in with their ugly chorus, and dazai understands what disemobodied tune of suffering they're singing. he lives it. “ you're an idiot, you know that ? ” voice thick and forced, axe in his fingers clattering to the concrete as he deflates, bringing his gaze to odasaku's filled to the brim with unanswerable questions. why isn't it me? why can't it be me? “ why didn't you say something ? i would've, we could've ... (fixed it?) why didn't you tell me ? you didn't have to die. ” dazai, a bottomless well of emotion and yet unfeeling to it, words cracking on a tone he doesn't recognise and chest tight, aching — vision blurred and eyes wet, the feeling running all the way down to his neck and soaking the bandages laid there. grief, as he has yet to know it. he wipes at his face with his too - long sleeve, surprise in the knit of his brow and unwilling to give a name to the surge of desperation that has left him untethered. but even the rawest display of emotion does not reach his eyes, dark and shining with unshed tears pooling at their corners, as though unsure of what is happening to his own body, confused and angry and frightened by it. odasaku has rid himself of the choice to live in simple ignorance of accepting help, but he presents dazai with the choice to take his life, or leave him as something trapped in stasis between the dead and the living, as if it's a choice at all. “ i don't know what to do. ” from here, without you. dazai, in all of his genius, is useless here as he is right now. his grand schemes and whims do not serve him, a cavity in his chest is opening and squeezing his lungs against his ribcage, making it difficult to breathe and to think — a choked sound in the back of his throat that escapes and is swallowed down quicker than any decision he has made before now, as he inches closer in search of something he can't have, shouldn't have hoped to keep and lets odasaku fall into the empty warmth of his arms instead, keeping him upright. “ odasaku ... ” a sniff, involuntary and he frowns, neither of his proposed options settle within him but this, “ i'll stay with you. ” i'll wait with you.

[vulpeskorsak]

Day 22 of Whumptober 2024: Restless

No. 22: BLEEDING THROUGH BANDAGES Tourniquet | Reopening Wounds | “Oh that’s not good.”

AO3 got banned in my country and VPNs have not been working well on my PC lately, so I am not going to post these there for now. But hopefully I can do that at some point.

This is taking place in my own DnD/fantasy world.

Barnaby is a fungal mage who loves mixing drinks. A mycologist mixologist, if you will.

This is a moment from his teenagehood.

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

Restless

Barnaby shambles out of his room leaning heavily on his new cane to walk around a just little. He has had it for a week now but he just cannot get used to it. He has been explained how to use it properly a couple times but that method is clearly not working now that he has grown even weaker and his leg is in even rougher condition due to the experimental treatment they have been trying on him which involved cutting some mushrooms off him which did not help much but left him with fresh stitched up wounds and a lot of pain.

He has gotten tired of sitting or lying in bed all day. The muscles on the healthy side of his body ache from inaction. This little walk might hurt like hell but he feels so relieved and free that it is worth it. He wonders if he will ever get to climb a tree again or if he will just die in a few more weeks. Nothing the doctors have done to him has helped in the slightest, though he was told he is a rarely resilient patient The Plague is taking its time with him. Which does not necessarily mean he will get better. Just that it will take much longer for the infection to kill him.

He has been told his natural magic is to thank. He had no idea it was awaken until his illness has begun. Everyone in his family can cast spells, so him and his parents have just thought he was a bit of a late bloomer when it came to those powers.

Apparently, no. His magic was just very hard to detect. They classified it as "Adaptive Shapeshifting". They said, it would change his body subtly in response to his physical needs or danger but since he was young and, therefore, just developing his magic, it was too weak and minor to notice in most cases.

This revelation was supposed to be one of the most important moments of his life. He would start getting lessons with a private teacher and getting ready to attend an Academy to hone his magical skills further.

He tried feeling excited but it was futile in the face of his upcoming demise. He has neither strength, nor time to learn even the basics. What is the point of trying then?

His cane catches on a crack in the ancient castle's floor, sending him forward and down and the cane clattering to the ground. He barely manages to catch himself with his hands, so he does not smack his face into the floor.

He feels a sharp tearing pain in his right hip as he tries to get up as well as warmth spreading around there and soaking through his pants. Soon enough he is sitting in a small puddle of his own blood.

"Oh that's not good…" He mumbles to himself, grabbing the cane and leaning on it heavily, as he forces himself to get up.

He finds he can no longer lean on that leg without searing pain, so he turns around and begins to walk back to his room at an even slower pace.

His doctor will chew him out for this for sure, he thinks.

He is right.

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

On and Off

Two sides are having a pissing match. The other four (and maybe Thomas) try to get them to chill the fuck out and/or apologize. It goes about how you'd expect. - diamond-blade

also! did a quick look and realized that I've posted consistently every week for going on three years now which uhhhhh wow time is passing

but I've realized that i want to work on some of my original projects and i'm struggling right now to find time to do both fics and do that so i wanted to ask and see how y'all would feel if I took a bit longer to post stuff or took a brief hiatus

nothing firm yet just casting my net

Read on Ao3

Warnings: an argument/possible unsympathetic logan and/or janus but nothing major

Pairings: none

Word Count: 2377

"Thank you, Logan."

"Of course. I'm happy to help out both on and off camera."

And that could've been the end of it, had Logan not caught Janus trying to hide a scoff. 

"Well," Logan says as the Sides rise back up into their own living room, "I'd say that went well."

"Yeah!" Patton rubs his hands together, smiling gleefully around as the rest of them shake off the 'personas' they wear for filming with Thomas. He adjusts his glasses and claps his hands. "Oh, it's so nice to be filming with all of us again, it's been so long!"

"Wait, has it really?"

"I think so, I mean, it's been since…"

"Oh, shit—"

"Language!"

"Sorry, Pat," Virgil apologizes, "but yeah, I think it's been since…Remus's introduction?"

"No, no," Logan corrects, "technically the five-year anniversary is the last time we were all involved in a filming process."

"Wait, but weren't we technically all involved in—you know what, I'm just gonna look it up."

Janus rolls his eyes. "Regardless, Patton is right. It's been…not unpleasant."

Virgil slowly raises his eyes from his phone. "Was that sarcasm or no?"

"I don't think it was, kiddo, but—"

"Oh, for crying out loud, yes, I had fun."

"I don't know, Patton, it still seems like—alright, alright, hey, hey!" Virgil holds his arms up to defend himself from Janus's pillow-wielding arms. "Enough! I give, I give!"

Janus sniffs as he sets the pillows down, trying and failing to hide the fond smile on his face, when his attention catches on the twins. "Roman? Remus? Are you two alright?"

Both of them startle, as if they'd forgotten everyone else was in the room. Roman recovers first, quickly putting on a bright smile and waving his hand nonchalantly.

"Yes, of course, my dear snake, we're both alright."

Virgil narrows his eyes. "You know we're done filming now, right? You don't have to keep doing…that."

"Maybe that's just how he feels," Remus shoots back as Roman blinks, "how about you keep your nose out of it?"

Patton raises his hands. "Whoa, kiddos, let's take a second."

"Remus, are you…good? Is something wrong?"

The twins exchange a quick look before Roman takes a deep breath. "Character bleed."

Logan makes an ah sound as the rest of them look around in confusion. "The twins—as Creativity in general—have a harder time 'leaving the filming space,' so to speak, and so it can be harder for them to leave the 'characters' they portray for Thomas's videos."

"Thank you, Logan."

"Of course. I'm happy to help out both on and off camera."

And that could've been the end of it, had Logan not caught Janus trying to hide a scoff.

"Is there something you take issue with, Janus?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing," he says in a tone that belies just how much there is, "just…marveling at your capabilities."

"Okay," Virgil mutters, "that was definitely sarcasm."

"Indeed." Logan draws himself up a little taller. "Speak plainly."

"Oh, and I'd never dream of disobeying an order from you." Janus holds a hand to his chest and gives him a look. "After all, we all know just how important you are."

"I am important. We all are. Has that not been the crux of the latest discussions we've had with Thomas?"

"Mm, yes. Important. Invaluable." Janus examines an imaginary speck of dirt on his gloves. "Where would we be without your priceless font of wisdom?"

"Okay, guys—" Roman steps forward, raising his hands—"I don't know what this is about, but—"

"I also don't know," Logan interrupts before Roman can finish, "Janus, why don't you tell us what this is all about?"

Janus mock-gasps, holding his hand over his mouth. "Logan? Doesn't know something? What a travesty!"

"Janny," Remus says, voice oddly serious, "don't do that. What's your beef with Logan?"

"Have you seriously not noticed?" Janus gestures around, mock attitude disappearing in a flash. "All of you, you're just letting him get away with it?"

"Get away with what?"

"He keeps insinuating that he's the most important character! On and on about how much we don't listen to him, or overlook him, and all of this and it's insufferable!"

"Whoa, wait, hang on—"

"No," Janus interrupts, "you know it's true."

"We're building up to his character arc," Roman says, "of course he's going to have a bit more prominence in the videos, we've been over this, we did the same thing for you! And Patton! And Virgil!"

"Oh, please, I never spent an entire meeting all smug with a stick up my ass about how important my character was to the narrative."

"I have never once," Logan says gravely, "attended any of our meetings with Thomas with a stick up my ass."

"But you don't deny being smug about being important!"

Logan's brow pinches and he straightens his tie, standing to his full height. "There is a difference between being smug about one's own self-importance and being confident in one's worth. Though I wouldn't expect you to know the difference."

Janus's expression twitches. "And why not, O Wonderful Logan who Knows All Things and Can Do No Wrong?"

"Simple. You embody the sense of self-preservation that only seeks to protect, defend, and better itself. Your very existence prompted the Selfishness versus Selflessness arc to begin with. It follows that you wouldn't recognize the difference between a healthy sense of self and an unhealthy one."

"Logan," Patton says, "that's not fair, he—"

He falters when Janus starts laughing.

"The truth," he crows almost triumphantly, "at last! God forbid we have nuance, god forbid anyone express themselves differently to you, god forbid someone try and offer insight when they're not you."

"If you'll recall," Logan says, voice sharpening, "all of your attempts at teaching something have ended in failure or other disastrous consequences."

"Because they were scripted to be that way. And oh, look, let's remember, who argued for that? Oh, that's right, it was you!"

"The closest you got to succeeding was when you impersonated me."

"And yet I managed to accomplish something that you didn't in all the episodes beforehand."

"Do you now understand how building stories works? It takes time to resolve issues, it takes work, you need pacing—"

"And a villain to defeat, right?"

Logan's silence is telling.

"That's what you've made of me, isn't it? Just some bad guy to be redeemed? A snake, tempting you all away from the path of righteousness," Janus hisses, glaring around at all of them, "while he gets to stand there unquestioned?"

"My role is to provide clarity. Yours is to obfuscate. Or have you forgotten, Deceit, the way in which you were introduced?"

It's Janus's turn to fall silent as Logan raises his chin.

"You impersonated Patton, Morality. You manipulated both Creativities to your own end, using Roman to ingratiate yourself with Thomas and Remus as the consequences for disobeying you. You held Virgil's past and secrets over him and yes," he finishes in a near growl, "you impersonated and attacked me."

He takes a step closer.

"You have always used us as a scaffolding to climb to get closer to Thomas, closer to the center of the videos. Don't forget that."

"And what exactly have you been doing?" Janus stares defiantly back at him. "Do you know how many videos are just you versus another Side? Do you know how often you're defined by your disagreements with all of us? Do you know how often you are the one who needs to be taught instead of teaching?"

He scoffs.

"You talk about what I've done to Roman and Remus but at least I know what I've done. You, you just pretend to be the impartial one who never takes a side, always about what's logical, what's right, never acknowledging the nuance in what you pretend is unquestionable."

"What do you want," Logan asks suddenly, "we finish filming and immediately you pick a fight with me, what are you getting out of this?"

"Because you're creating the very situations you keep decrying!" Janus throws his hands up. "Your whole arc, the things we've been seeding into the videos, they were by and large your ideas! Half of the things we pitch and script have come from your brain and then when we film and release the videos, you sulk about how much you're being overlooked and how frustrating it is to have us not listen to you!"

Logan draws himself up but remains silent.

"You can't construct the narrative to do something and then be all 'boo hoo, the narrative is ignoring me and overlooking me,' that's not true! Don't act like some terribly mistreated tragic hero when it's you who's put yourself in that situation." Janus glares at him. "I'm sick of you acting like you're the overlooked and underappreciated character when you're the one advocating for the plot points in the meetings like you're the most important character!"

"Well, maybe I am!"

The room goes quiet in the aftermath of Logan's shout. He steps even closer to Janus.

"You said it yourself, we don't examine how Logic can be subject to bias even though it claims to be impartial. We've yet to explore how important it is to examine your own biases that you don't even know about yet. So yes, maybe I am the most important when it comes to that, maybe I'm the only one who can do that."

"How dare you," Janus says lowly, "how dare you accuse me of being nothing but selfish when you gladly stand here and appoint yourself the most important?"

"I've never had to claw my way to importance using the misfortune of other Sides that I myself inflicted."

"And yet it's taken you this long to have an arc of your own?"

"You don't start with the biggest arc, you—"

"Oh, the biggest arc? Getting a bit self-aggrandizing, are we?"

"You would know! Was there a boundary you didn't cross on your quest to be featured more prominently?"

"No, because if you'll remember, we all participated in making sure my arc would work for everybody. I asked—"

"You're a new character! You needed to fit with all of us, you needed to—"

"Conform to what you wanted, I see, I see, oh, it's all becoming clear now. You're right, Logan, you really do provide clarity."

"I will not be blamed for the ignorance of others!"

"Oh, you're calling me ignorant now? You really do just devolve into insulting others' intelligence when you don't get your way, don't you?"

"It's not an insult if it's true."

"So I could call you an egotistical hypocrite and that wouldn't be an insult?"

Logan's eyes flare with orange. "Don't you dare—"

"Enough!"

A blinding flash of light fills the room and everyone winces. When it fades, Roman and Remus are standing between the two of them, Roman's arms out to Janus to hold him back, Remus's feet braced to keep Logan at bay.

"Both of you stop it," Roman says firmly, "you're both being ridiculous."

"Looks like we're not the only ones suffering from character bleed." Remus stands up, giving a warning look to Logan as he lets him go. "You two need to remember that we're not actually fighting each other, we're all working together on a project where we play characters with opposing viewpoints."

"But he's—"

"Stop," Roman says, raising his voice and cutting Janus off, "you just picked a fight for no reason. I don't care if your concerns were valid or not, there was no reason to act on them like that in front of everyone."

Janus glowers but lowers his head.

"If you felt like you weren't being heard in the meetings or if you wanted the opportunity to have a teaching role in upcoming videos—" here Janus's head snapped up, for he didn't realize Roman had realized— "you can bring that up at the meeting in a way that isn't this."

"And you," Remus says before Logan can look too smug, "can get right off that high horse of yours."

"But I—"

"You're not blameless in this either," Remus says, "Janus is right. You've been acting a bit too big for your booty shorts recently, especially in scripting meetings. You talk all big about how you want to write your arc and make sure that this story gets told and then you mope about how your character is getting ignored on camera. And then you treat us, not our characters, us, like shit because of the narrative that you wanted to write. You can't have it both ways."

Logan avoids Remus's gaze as he fiddles with his glasses.

"Now," Roman says, "we're all going to go get out of character and decompress for a while, and then when we're all ready, we can have a discussion about the videos. Whether or not we go to Thomas can be decided later. Yes?"

A small chorus of 'yes's from around the room. Patton and Virgil make eye contact and sink out quickly, probably to go decompress together and talk about what just happened while they redo Virgil's nail polish. Roman gives one last warning look to Janus as he opens his mouth to say something.

"I'm sorry, Logan."

Logan looks up.

"I shouldn't…I shouldn't have picked a fight like that. That was rude."

Remus looks at Logan who swallows. "I'm…sorry too. I…I've been excited about getting an arc after so long and I guess I...got over-excited."

"Go decompress," Remus says to both of them, "we can talk this out later."

Both of them sink out, each giving apologetic and hopeful looks to the other. As they go, Roman shakes his head.

"It feels fitting that we're the ones with the most fraught dynamic on camera and the least fraught off camera, doesn't it?"

"You're telling me. Part of me wants to send them to therapy before we keep working on Thomas's fake video one."

"Is that the Logan part of you or the Janus part of you?"

"The part of me that wants to go fuck around in the Imagination before we have to sit through another 'I feel' meeting."

Roman groans sympathetically before a manic gleam comes to his face. "Race you there!"

"Hey, no cheating!"

General Taglist: @frxgprince@potereregina@gattonero17@iamhereforthegayshit@thefingergunsgirl@awkwardandanxiousfander@creative-lampd-liberties@djpurple3@winterswrandomness@sanders-sides-uncorrect-quotes@iminyourfandom@bullet-tothefeels@full-of-roman-angst-trash  @ask-elsalvador @ramdomthingsfrommymind@demoniccheese83@pattonsandershugs @el-does-photography @princeanxious@firefinch-ember@fandomssaremysoul@im-an-anxious-wreck@crazy-multifandomfangirl @punk-academian-witch@enby-ralsei@unicornssunflowersandstuff@wildhorsewolf @thetruthaboutthesun @stubbornness-and-spite @princedarkandstormv  @your-local-fookin-deadmeme @angels-and-dreams@averykedavra @a-ghostlight-for-roman @treasurechestininterweb  @cricketanne @queerly-fluid-fan @compactdiscdraws@cecil-but-gayer@i-am-overly-complicated@annytheseal@alias290@tranquil-space-ninja @arxticandy @mychemically-imbalanced-romance @whyiask@crows-ace @emilythezeldafan@frida0043 @ieatspinalcords @snowyfires@cyanide-violence@oonagh2@xxpanic-at-the-everywherexx@rabbitsartcorner @percy-07734@triflingassailantofmyemotions @virgil-sanders-the-gay-emo@cerulean-watermelon@puffed-up-bees@meltheromanstan@joyrose-fandomer@insanitori@mavenmush@justablah65@10paradox10@uhhh-hi-there-i-am-nervous@cutebisexualmess@bella-bugatti-frogetti-baguetti @ultrageekygirl  

[sapphire-weapon]

Intereshting… do you still think that way? I mean, you think people who write fanfiction are so detached from reality that is scary?

(Side note: I’m genuinely interested if you would’ve been a writer if you didn’t grow up w such fandom…idk prejudices?)

honestly, it's a relief for me that that stigma is dead in fandom, and modern fans can have fun in ways that I wasn't allowed to. so -- no, I don't think that self-shippers are detached from reality at all. if anything, I'm jealous.

but homie it's all good, you don't gotta worry about me. I got my own AO3. I've been writing fanfiction since I was 7.

I'm just paranoid about self-inserting (or being perceived as doing that).

so, here. would u like a snippet of an EagleOne fic that I started and have since abandoned involving Leon going to visit Ashley the night before her dad leaves office?

here u go, friend

-

Stopping just outside of her bedroom door, Leon closed his eyes and took another slow, steadying breath. He could feel his pulse beat at his temples and behind his eyes, and his hands in his pockets felt unsteady as the tips of his fingers tingled. Suddenly, it seemed as though the shoulders of his suit jacket were too tight, and the knot of his tie was overly constrictive at the hollow of his throat. In some ways, he almost felt like he was back in high school, trying to psych himself up to ask out the girl he liked.

It was stupid. Ridiculous, even. He was a grown-ass man now, and Ashley wasn't the cute girl in his Algebra II class. Ashley was just… Ashley. She'd already seen him bleeding and sweating and exhausted and covered in actual literal human shit. What was he so afraid of?

Opening his eyes and steeling his nerves, Leon raised his right hand and lightly rapped his knuckles against the heavy wood of her bedroom door.

At first, he was met with only silence. One full second passed without sound or movement. Then another. And then a third.

On that fourth beat, he heard some light shuffling from behind the door. And on the fifth, Ashley's voice finally called out, muffled and confused.

"Who is it?"

"Room service," Leon called back.

There was another extended pause then, followed by some more shuffling. A few seconds later, the door to her room swung open to reveal a very confused-looking Ashley, who practically had the words "what the fuck?" etched into the wrinkles of her furrowed brow. She clearly hadn't been expecting any visitors; her blonde hair — which was a bit longer than he remembered it being — was still damp from what Leon could only assume was a recent shower, and she was dressed only in a black band shirt and beige pajama shorts. If he hadn't known any better, Leon would've sworn he'd just knocked on the door of her college dorm room.

Within seconds, her expression switched from confusion to surprise, and she took a half-step back as the realization of what — or, rather, who — she was looking at seemed to finally sink in.

"Leon?" she asked breathlessly, her tone that of complete and utter disbelief.

He shoved both hands into his pockets and offered her a quiet, nervous, close-lipped smile. In truth, he didn't really know what to say to her. It wasn't as though he'd come here with a plan — or that he'd planned to come here at all.

"Hey," he offered simply. "Been a while."

It took her a moment to react, but when she finally did, her entire demeanor changed. Ashley's eyes lit up as a wide, genuine smile split her face. She nearly toppled over in her shock and excitement, with both shoulders jerking forward before she seemed to catch herself with a hand on her chest. It was as endearing a spectacle as Leon had ever seen, and he barely noticed the edges of his mouth tug further upwards into a more pronounced smile.

"Oh my god," she exclaimed.

Before all three words had even left her lips, she'd closed the distance between them, throwing her arms around Leon's shoulders and pulling him into a tight hug. And just like that, all of the anxiety and tension that'd been building up in him since President Graham's request vanished. A wave of relief came over him as her body crashed into his, and he suddenly had to wonder what he'd been so worried about in the first place. Chuckling a bit, he was quick to hug her back, and he even leaned down the slightest bit so that she wouldn't have to overextend her posture.

As they both settled into place, Leon couldn't help but notice just how well they fit together — how the contours of her body molded perfectly into his, as though she was the missing piece of a puzzle. It wasn't the first time he'd had this thought — this was something he'd felt all the way back at that very first time he'd caught her out of the window of the church in Spain, but back then, he'd eventually chalked it up to a combination of adrenaline and hyperfocus.

Neither were present here, and as the seconds ticked by in a hug that was going on much longer than it probably should have been, Leon was slightly alarmed at just how little he wanted to separate from her. He dragged his open palms down the length of her back in a gentle, comforting little motion, as he tried desperately to ignore how the sheer intimacy of her breath rolling against the side of his neck made him feel some type of way that he wasn't at all ready to acknowledge yet.

"I was scared I was never going to see you again," she whispered. Her voice was quiet and vulnerable, as though she'd just told him a secret that only he was ever meant to know.

Leon felt her words more than he heard them, and he felt himself wince in response. That horrible, oppressive guilt he'd felt earlier crept back into his awareness, slithering into the center of his chest and coiling around his heart. The weight of it was almost like an anchor, threatening to pull him down to the floor and leave him helplessly stranded there.

It was then that he finally broke the hug, but he didn't pull away from her completely. He kept his hands resting gingerly at her sides, and as she slid out from his embrace, her own palms came to settle on his biceps.

"Oh, come on," he said while putting on his best poker face. "You didn't really think I'd let you leave without saying goodbye, did you?"

A look of genuine unease spread across Ashley's delicate features, and her eyes shifted to the side, avoiding his gaze. After a second, she offered him a nervous, half-hearted smile and the weakest shrug he'd ever seen.

"Honestly?" she said. "At this point? … Yeah, kind of."

The sides of Leon's neck grew hot, and an embarrassed flush traveled up towards his ears. He'd never been good at reacting to people calling him out on his bullshit, and Ashley's close proximity to him made it even worse. He took a deep breath through his nose and dropped his head slightly as though to hang it in shame. The next time he spoke, his voice was quiet and gentle, as though he was returning the secret she'd told him earlier.

"I'm sorry, Ashley," he told her. "I didn't mean to disappear on you like that. It just… kind of happened that way."

"It's alright," she said in a tone that told him that it was anything but.

With that, she took a full step backwards, pulling away from him completely — though, her right hand stayed on his arm, traveling downwards until she was able to wrap her fingers around his wrist.

"Come on," she said. "Come inside. People will talk if they see us out here like this."

He nodded numbly, and she released her grip on him. Without a word, he followed her into her bedroom and quietly shut the door behind him.

[kendrene]

For @birgittesilverbae who didn’t ask for this but is getting it anyway.

***

“How long has it been since you’ve slept?”

Light, she must be dead on her feet for not realizing Shannon’s been slowly, steadily regaining her senses.

“I don’t need sleep.” Mary’s reply is automatic. Her gaze doesn’t rest on a single spot for long. It roves from one place to the next and the next and the next. The door that hasn’t managed to unlock itself since she last checked it — a handful of heartbeats ago, give or take. The narrow window, still securely latched the way it had been when they'd left this same room earlier in the day.

“Even though you can go without sleep longer than most, it doesn’t mean you should. You need rest, too.” Shannon calls out from her sickbed, and Mary should be annoyed by words she’s heard a thousand times over, but finds herself instead relieved. If Shan is this pedantic, then it means she’s on the mend. It means she won’t—

Her heart gives a sickening lurch, and Mary stops herself from thinking the sentence through.

“I’ll sleep once you feel better.”

“I’m better now.” Shannon plants both elbows on the mattress, heaving herself halfway to a sitting position to demonstrate. Falling back with a miserable groan, and an echo of her pain, sharp and tinted crimson, ricochets through Mary.

“Oh yeah, I can see that.” Mary slides off of the stool she’s been perched on and stalks across the room, aiming to check that the dressing around Shannon’s ribs hasn’t come loose from her shifting. Tries to, at least. The wound on her thigh, patched up in haste after she’d tended to Shannon, turns Cat Crosses the Courtyard into Cat Pitifully Waddles.

“You’re injured, too.” Shannon’s second attempt at sitting up is thwarted by Mary’s hands closing around her shoulders, squeezing. Pinning her in place. Mary doesn’t have to lean any of her weight into the touch, and that is itself another source of worry. Shannon may be an Aes Sedai, but she’s always valued the more physical aspects of training, too. Her lean frame is corded with muscle.

She’s more than a match for Mary’s own strength, and better at hand-to-hand combat than some of the Tower Guards are. Proficient enough, at any rate, to bodily throw Mary across a room should she put her mind to it. Which she is particularly successful at doing, because Mary’s own knowledge of leverage and chokeholds and such is. Well. How should she put it?

It’s kind of shit.

“It’s nothing.”

“You’re hurt. I can feel it. Don’t you dare tell me it’s nothing.”

Mary rolls her eyes. Damn the stupid Warder bond.

“I’ve washed it.” Under Shannonìs pinched stare, Mary withers a little. “And bandaged it.”

“Mary—”

“You were sort of bleeding out, okay?” There’s a desperate note to the words Mary wishes was as easy to scrub clean as Shannon’s blood had been to rinse off of her hands. “I was a bit preoccupied with that.”

“You need to take care of yourself while I can’t. You promised — no, you swore to me you would, when I bonded you. And right now I can’t —” Shannon gestures, aggravated. “I can’t do anything. Can’t protect you, can’t Heal you, or—” She struggles weakly against her grip, breath ragged, and Mary doesn’t need the invisible bond tying them to understand the emotions agitating Shannon’s heart. She’s felt them too. Helplessness. Defeat. There are places an Aes Sedai must go where her Warder cannot follow. And there have been times in which Mary had been right by Shannon’s side, and at a loss on what to do.

The most recent being their blood-soaked afternoon. The dirty alley — one of the many that surround the richer district housing Cairhien’s Royal Palace — uneven cobbles slick with things Mary had done her best not to think about knelt amid the squalor. Both of her hands pressed to the gaping wound on Shannon’s side. The nondescript cloak she had been wearing, rigid within seconds with spilled blood, and Mary desperately trying too keep what was left of it from pouring out.

“Shan, Shan. Hey.” Ignoring the twinge in her leg, Mary lowers herself on the bed, arm snaking around the back of Shannon’s head to prop her up. “You’ve kept me alive more times than I can count. Let me return the favor, yeah? It’s only fair.”

“I—”

“Shannon.” Mary cards a hand through Shannon’s sweat-tangled hair, closes in until the tips of their noses are touching. The fit is awkward, the bloody bed too narrow to accommodate the two of them with anything resembling comfort, but Shannon leans in too, until all the parts of them than can be, are flush together. “If you die I die, babygirl.”

Shannon fists a handful of Mary’s coat.

“Could say the same for you” Her breath leaves a damp sheen on Mary’s lips, and then Shannon kisses her.

It’s not the best kiss they’ve ever shared. Mary thinks distantly that it may be the worst. Shannon’s strength, the burst of it that animated her enough to argue, is consumed like the wick of a candle burnt too fast, leaving only a smear of wax behind. The moment they come apart, she tilts forward, and were it not for Mary’s solid form, her arms cushioning, halting the fall, Shannon’s trajectory would lead her straight down to the floor.

“You go back to sleep, alright?” She negotiates Shannon’s listless body back onto the pillows and extricates herself, hissing when too much of her weight lands on her bad leg. “I’ll keep you safe, I promise.” They feel like empty words, an emptier promise. Mary says them all the same.

“You’ll take care of your leg is what you’ll do.” Shannon’s voice may be pain-laced, but it is as unwavering as Mary’s heard it any time her Aes Sedai was called before the Hall. “Or I won’t go to sleep.”

“Blackmailing now, are we?”

“I’m not.” Shannon has managed to burrow so deep under the blanket the inn provided, Mary can barely see her face. She sounds amused, sort of, and the small spot she inhabits at the base of Mary’s skull, when poked, confirms the intuition. “I’m just telling you how it’s gonna be. You can think of it like an order, if that makes it easier for you to see sense. I’m commanding you — an Aes Sedai to her Warder. Stitch up that wound, Mary.”

“I can—”

“You can barely stand to be upright.”

“Ah, ah. I see what you did there.”

“I’m glad you find it amusing, sweetheart. My point—”

“If you’re gonna say it still stands, I fucking swear, Shan.”

“Well I would walk it across.” Shannon fights with the blanket, lifting it and peeking under. “But I think I’m a bit indisposed.”

“Ugh. Fine.”

Shannon is right.

The gash on Mary’s thigh has gone from mild annoyance to grating discomfort to radiating a near constant throb. She has a hard time ignoring it. “I’m going to need more water.” She hates the idea of leaving Shannon alone even more as she says it out loud, but calling on the innkeeper or one of the girls working here would be worse.

Mary is pretty sure they had been left for dead in that back alley after the ambush, still surer nobody saw her carry Shannon inside. She can’t be certain there aren’t people around, ready to report on them, though.

Cairhien is full of spies at the best of times.

//

“How about you mask the bond until I’m done?” 

“How about you never ask that again?”

“You’re already in pain, Shan, that’s all I’m saying. You don’t need to feel mine, too.”

Mary is back on the bed, injured leg stretched out in front of her, heel to the floor. A low stool sits within easy reach, and on it is everything she needs. Shannon’s sewing kit, repurposed for the task, a bowl filled with warm water, the ceramic so chipped in places it’s a miracle there aren’t any leaks. A fresh towel, and next to it, Mary’s favorite undershirt, cut into strips.

“We’ll buy you another.” Shan says, following her gaze. “There’s a seamstress one road over I’ve heard good things about.”

“I’m sure the Blacks won’t mind us doing a little shopping.”

“You can’t know—”

“I do know, Shan.” The air solidifying around her. The back of her head slammed against rough brickwork, and her body held there while a knife hacked into her leg. Shannon’s prone form inches away. It might as well have been miles. “I couldn’t move. I couldn’t get to you.”

“That close, Mary? I would have felt a Sister channel.”

“Even if they had an angreal?”

“There’s no recording of such a thing in the archives.”

“That the Tower knows of.”

Shannon pauses. Her face remains carefully neutral, but from the way her jaw is working — tighten, release, repeat — Mary knows she’s chewing the inside of her cheek to bits.

“That the Tower knows of.” She admits in the end, tone sour.

“So it could have been the Black Ajah.”

“The Black Ajah—”

“Spare me the official Tower-approved version of the truth, would you?” Mary dabs a corner of the towel in the water and sets to cleaning out the wound again. Flakes of dry blood fall away from the gash, and it starts to bleed again, albeit more slowly than the first time she did this. “Those weren’t thieves. Cutpurses don’t kill people.”

“Let’s assume you’re right.” It’s as close as Shannon is willing to admit to the existence of something the Tower has spent centuries denying, and Mary doesn’t press her. “All the more reason to stitch yourself up. Quit stalling.”

“I have been, haven’t I?” The wound is as clean as it’s gonna get. Mary tosses the towel, now spotted red, aside. Her fingers close around the needle. She licks her lips. “I’m not the best at sewing.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” Warmth drips into her from their bond. Mary’s shoulders unclench. The death-grip she has on the needle loosens. “I’ll still love you even if the scar turns out a little crooked.”

//

In the liminal space between full night and earliest morning, somebody knocks on their door. Three short taps. A pause. Three more.

“Mary.”

“I heard.” She’s already out of the bed Shannon insisted they share, crossbow loaded and pointed at the door. Breathe in. Breath out. A creak from the far end of the corridor where the stairs are. Then nothing.

“I think they’re gone.” Mary shoots Shannon a look. “Can you channel?”

“I can hold the Source.” Shannon must be already, because her forehead is beaded with sweat. “Not for long.”

“Hope it’s enough.” It should be a good sign that whoever it was, knows Blue Ajah codes, but after the day they’ve had, Mary is disinclined to trust. Shannon can insist it wasn’t Black sisters in that alley. Mary knows it was.

Crossbow raised, she goes and unbolts the door.

“It’s a letter.”

“Bring it over.”

The letter, no more than a scruffy-looking folded piece of parchment, really, is coded, too.

“What does it say?” Mary’s never been good with ciphers. Shannon had tried to teach her on a journey to the Borderlands, only to throw up her hands in defeat three lessons in. Mary’s good at practical stuff. Give her a broken saddle and she’ll mend it. A crossbow that shoots askew she’ll find a way to fix. But cloak and dagger shit is what got her mother in trouble in the first place. She doesn’t fancy it.

“We are summoned back to Tar Valon.” Shannon’s tone betrays nothing. The bond is a tangle of a hundred different things. “Posthaste.”

“Who is it from? Shan?”

“The Amyrlin.” The hearth inside their room has been barren and dark since the prior night, Mary too tired, too achy to do anything about it. A sudden spark ignites; the pieces of wood placed in the firebox catch quickly, orange-red flames licking high.

Shannon feeds the paper to the flames, watches it curl, crumble to black. Laboriously scoots herself to the edge of the bed. “Tamra Ospenya calls us home, Mary. She doesn’t say why. Help me up.”

//

They are an hour out of the city, Shannon’s horse trailing riderless behind them, when all the bell towers in Cairhien begin ringing at once.