#why does he look so hot digging a grave

[polkadotjohnson]

After Thought (2013)

[youryanderedaddy]

When Life Gives Lemons

tw: female reader, technically non con because of stealthing, baby trapping, breeding, obsessive behavior, reader being a bit rude

You couldn’t believe the irony of your life. You were about to break up with your immature boyfriend, and he still managed to be grossly late to the date, unconsciously digging his own grave deeper. You had put on your best white shirt and the tightest skirt you owned, and you even went through the trouble of booking the latest hipster coffee shop close to the centre. He had been fifteen minutes late, to be exact, and when you brought it up, he simply shrugged a long sleazy smile, dragging his skeleton - shaped metal rings against the edge of the table.

“All in due time, princess.” He took a sip off his coffee - a single shot of espresso with no creamer, as always. “All in due time.” He repeated, reaching in his pocket for a pack of off - brand cigarettes. He really couldn’t afford any of the fancy ones. Once the cigarette was lit, he slowly brought it to his lips and inhaled deeply, letting his head relax against the chair. His thick neck tightened as he swallowed the deadly smoke, and even the sun seemed to avoid his messy dark locks, instead keeping the man in the shadows.

“What does that even mean?” You threw your hands around helplessly, sinking into your chair. “Don’t you want to know?” Axel teased, taking another puff. Although his expression was one of mild amusement, his sharp blue eyes were carefully following your every movement - wondering what will tip you off the most. “You know, you’re so fuckin’ hot when you’re mad, mami.” He smiled in a playful boyish way that once would have made you melt, but now only served as a reminder of his unserious nature.

“Stop playing around. I need to discuss something imp–”

“Shhh, don’t talk, babygirl. I need to show you something.” Axel interrupted, gripping the big guitar closer to his lap. ”I wrote you a song.” His thin fingers grazed the delicate transparent strings, forcing a catchy, although not fully polished melody out of the old thing. He took a deep breath, wetting his lips so the lyrics would come out softer. 

My girl knows how to set me

on flames she goes through 

the motions of the wind she

is a fireball, a fireball, on fire

“What the fuck, Axy.” You pounded your fists at the table, shaking the glasses and spilling coffee all over the wooden surface. You could feel everyone’s judging stare across your back, all of the other patrons were jeering and whispering about the two of you, and your cheeks were heating up by the moment. “I’ve told you countless times to stop writing those shitty songs. They don’t even rhyme, for fuck sake.” You whined, suddenly overwhelmed by helplessness. He was never going to change, was he? “This is exactly why I want to break up.”

The music stopped entirely. His dark sunglasses ended on the ground. 

“You wanna break up?” The musician repeated slowly, suddenly appearing awfully composed - so composed it made you look crazy. After that question he remained silent for a very long time, taking long drags off his cigarette while studying your face for any sign of your true feelings bleeding out. “Real’ funny, babe, real’ fun joke.” He forced a crooked smile, reaching in to squeeze your hand all the way through the table. “Now tell me, what’s wrong with the song? I stayed real’ late to compose it just for our date today.” He winked, which only made you feel worse.

“I am being serious, Axel. Let go of me.” Your tone turned icy and your ex boyfriend quickly released you, eyes filling with raw fear. “Wait, baby, we can talk about–”

“There is nothing to talk about. You’re such a child!” You blurted out, too frustrated to spare energy on fluttery words and sweet apologies. “I want to do my masters soon. You know I’m applying to Metwyorth - I can’t be seen hanging around with a high school dropout who does Saturday gigs for a living.” You continued, pursing your lips together. You knew you were being harsh, cruel even, but this was the only way to push him away. The musician could be awfully clingy, so you needed to be firm.

“A highschool dropout who made you scream your brains out.” Axel responded bitterly through clenched teeth, eyes growing dark with anger. You shook your head bashfully, avoiding his fiery gaze. “Sure, we had our fun,” You gestured vaguely at nothing in particular, trying to hide the shame blossoming on your sides. “But it’s time to wake up. I mean, be realistic. We live in different worlds.” You began to collect your things quickly, standing up to leave.

“Y/N!” He called out to you, causing you to turn back just for a second - you owed him that much for all the good memories you knew you both would have trouble forgetting. “You’re making a mistake. Please, think it through.” The man took a hold of your hand, caressing your fingers gently. “I know I can’t offer you much right now, but I really love you!” His eyes dilated, honest and clear like an untouched sea on a quiet day. 

“Goodbye, Axel.”

***

You meet him sooner that you’d like.

Two weeks later you’re drunk off your mind, dancing the night away with some of your girlfriends when you catch a pair of familiar eyes fluttering across your body from the other side of the room. It makes you feel hot all over - despite what you said back then, you felt each agonising moment of the break up. Even if the logical part of your brain knows you have no future with such a man, your body needs him, craves him. 

Axel keeps staring at you intensely, burning holes through your neck, your thighs, your lips. His yearning gaze lingers, completely miserable, and yet as lustful as the night he first wrapped his arms around you and claimed you as his. He can still feel your nails scratching his back red and bloody, sending shivers down his spine and setting fire in his loins. This staring game of yours lasts for approximately thirty minutes before he gives in and comes over to your table. He doesn’t say anything - doesn’t look at you or greet your friends, doesn’t even pretend to have any reason to approach you. He simply grabs you, swallows an airy pant, and drags you inside the bathroom.

You’re all over each other in no time. His hands are tangled in your hair and your nails are sinking into his warm flesh once again. You can’t breathe for a second, suffocated by a deep, longing kiss that he only spares you of once your lips start to turn blue. He licks your neck and bites at any spot vulnerable enough to steal a gasp out of you - and you return it by sucking on his collarbone until a purple hickey adorns his skin. You swiftly unzip his loose pants and start taking your dress off, but as you try to spread your legs, he turns you around facing the wall. 

“Fuck, I wanna do you from the back, princess.” Axel mumbles, one strong hand gripping your throat as the other gropes your breasts freely. You nod weakly, too turned on to comprehend any of the words he’s saying. “Ngh, wanna be able to pull your hair n’ shit.” His fist wraps around your ponytail, pulling slightly so you expose your neck to his teeth. You can already feel his throbbing manhood prob at your thighs, slowly moving towards your entrance. “Y-you have a condom on, right?” You manage to whimper through the little electric bursts of pleasure running through your whole body as he plays you like an instrument. He mumbles something like “yeah”, and in this state of mind that’s enough for you.

He starts sinking into your heat slowly, letting you adjust to his hard length inch by inch, then once you’ve settled, practically begging him to just give it to you, he begins thrusting painfully slow - really making you feel it going in and out, in and out in a perfect rhythm. Each time his cock brushes against your most sensitive spot, you’re reduced to a slick, desperate mess, but just as your thighs begin to go numb and you slip down, Axel catches both of your wrists and pins them to the wall, keeping you in place. You’re so wet you can hear the slap of skin on skin every time your gummy walls hug his member, but you’re too far gone to care about the nasty sound.

“F-fuck, baby, you’d be so fucking hot as a mother. Have you ever thought about it?” Your ex whispers against you, picking up the pace. You shake your head - kids have never been your priority, since you’re still so young and your education would always come first. “I thought about it. A lot, ‘n fact, when we were separated.” His heartbeat fastens. “Ugh, you’re still so tight, god…” His free hand dances at your hips, ogling and caressing any curve it can find. “When you dumped me, I was completely lost, ya know? Didn’t sober up for three days. But then I dreamt that I knocked you up accidentally. S-shit, did you just tighten up?”

Your whole body stiffens at his words. Your stomach fills with unexplainable dread - this whole conversation is turning you off, but somehow your body seems to have a mind of its own. 

“Q-quit it with the small talk, asshole.” You groan, pushing back so you’d get more friction between your legs. “Just fuck me, okay? I don’t need to hear your weird fantasies.” You hear yourself saying confidently despite the provocative position you’re currently stuck in - you can’t even see his face, but you know he’s probably laughing at your bossy comment. But instead he keeps blabbering on as if you’re not even there. “You were so beautiful, princess. So big and–” He bites his lower lip. “So fucking needy for me - just like now. You were dripping everywhere. You were so excited for our little baby.” He grunted hoarsely, reaching in to stroke your clit - and despite your best efforts, you let out a soft moan. 

“And we were a family - just you, n-ngh, me and the little guy.” Axel utters through clenched teeth, trying to hold out for as long as possible - savouring you in tiny little bites. “No stupid degrees or anythin’, just us two against the world.” He slows down further, now barely moving inside of you. It’s driving you crazy with anticipation - both his story and the way he’s fucking you. “And it made me think, we could really have all that - if it wasn’t for your stupid pride. All I need to do is knock you up. Just think about it.” The man grips your hips roughly, impaling you on his thickness. 

“Your tits will swell, your thighs will thicken; you’ll be so tired you’ll have to lay down all the time. You won’t even be able to touch yourself because of your belly.” He smiles at you gently, although you can’t see it. At this point you’re already so close to climax you can’t break through the cotton cloud haze that’s taken over your mind to truly focus. This is one of the reasons you had to break up with the musician - he could get you cockdrunk with a simple touch, and that vulnerability felt terrifying.

“And I will take care of you through every-” He kisses your cheek. “single–” He kisses you again. “step of the way.” He inhales deeply, thrusting in one final time before he spills inside you. “I love you, baby. I really can’t let you go.”

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

30 / 1.1k / soap soulmate au, part 7

...

The minutes tick by. You're alone with your thoughts. It's worse than before. But what are you supposed to tell him? All but the smallest thing you could give him would lead his entire team to Captain Graves, and you... you can't do that. You owe him a debt.

The door slams open and Soap walks back in, looking tired and angry. Before you can speak, he grabs you by the arm, drags you out of your chair, and then he's kissing you, pressing you up against the wall. His hands are in your hair and on your hips, his hard body against yours, his teeth finding the place where your neck meets your shoulder.

Everything about it is possessive, angry, desperate. One hand slides around to your ass. The other weaves tighter into your hair, holding you tight between him and the wall, his hips grinding into yours.

"Thought I was gonna have to wait till you stopped being so damn stubborn. You were never going to tell me, were you?" His soft growl is low, heated, and hurt. "You’re always gonna keep this to yourself. Even if it means letting me go to my grave."

He pulls you away from the wall and pushes you into the metal interrogation table with enough force to put you on your back. He advances on you. Straddles you. His mouth is hot and he's not giving you time to think. He's taking what he needs because he wants it, he's tired of waiting for it, and he's finally got you where he wants you. His teeth on your throat have you arching your back. His grip is tight but you don't want to escape.

His fingers dig into you. "Will you even miss me?"

You open your eyes, jolting in place. A dream, it was a dream. You're still cuffed to this stupid chair. You're hot and wet and there's a horrible knot in your throat.

The door slides open. That's what woke you--activity outside. A few people filter into the weapons closet briefly to grab rifles and sidearms. They hardly spare you looks. They leave; the voices outside begin to fade and you hear an engine firing up. Muted panic rises in your gut. They're about to leave. Are they leaving you here? Is Johnny gone already?

Then the door rattles softly and Johnny's familiar shape slips in. He glances back out the door, watching for anyone who might’ve seen him slip in before he closes it. You release a breath through gritted teeth.

"Mornin’.” Soap is suited up, radioed, armed to the teeth. Looking every inch the soldier he is. Your heart sinks. You're in deep. No matter how this situation turns out, it's not good for you. Whoever wins, you lose.

Instead of taking the chair, he circles behind you. You rattle your cuffs as he leaves your line of sight.

"Change your mind?" he asks you.

"No."

He chuckles. "Thought not."

He bends closer. Your heart races. You half-expect to feel his hands--your dream flashes through your mind--but then, to your surprise, you hear the soft clink of metal on metal. He pulls on the cuffs. One falls away. Then the other.

You get to your feet, curling and uncurling your fingers. "Why are you letting me go?" you ask, voice still sharp. "I told you I'm not helping you."

Soap looks bemused. It's like you don't know how to stop being belligerent even when you're not a hostage anymore. "Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. I’m under strict orders not to let you leave this room. But if you just so happen to vanish..." He holds up the key--the one he'd swiped from Ghost earlier. "That’d be fine with me.”

“What are you playing at?”

“There's a chance none of us will come back. Don't like the idea of you sittin' here like a rabbit in a trap for God knows how long." He holds out a neat little square of folded cash. When you don't take it, he reaches around and slips it into your back pocket. "There's a town four miles southwest of here. Set off in a half hour and you’ll get there before sundown. Take somethin' off the wall to protect yourself."

You stare at him, your frustration growing with every word he says. Why does he trust you enough to free you? Why? He knows very well you could pick up the first phone you see, call your Captain, and tell him everything. Hell, you could call Shepherd.

You tried your dead fucking best to show him who you are. Why doesn't he believe you? Does he think you're going to grab his hand and ask him to come with you--fuck the Shadows, fuck Las Almas, you know how to buy fake IDs and burner phones, you'll figure it out a day at a time?

Your throat tightens. You could obviously never say that. And if you did consider it, you'd bite your tongue because there's no way he'd accept. You have so much to gain from running away and he has too much to lose. He cares about his team too much.

He skims his gloved fingertips up your arm and goes to touch your cheek again, but then he hesitates and stops himself. You feel radioactive.

"How 'bout a kiss for the road?" he asks. He seems to decide on taking a strand of your hair and places it tentatively behind your ear. "Just in case."

Your hands tighten into fists. How dare he.

"Aw, c'mon. Don't make me walk away from you disappointed." He gives you a small, infuriating smile.

"If you want a kiss, then come back for it when you're done."

"Ah. Fair enough."

He brings his hands up to the sides of your face and presses his lips to your hairline anyway, leaning into you for a long, silent moment.

Then he's gone.

…

You sit cross-legged on that table for a long stretch of time, spinning in one hand the handcuffs that held you. You stare at that photograph and count the seconds. At thirty minutes, you set off, walking southwest.

...

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / part 6 / [part 7] / part 8 / part 9 / part 10 / part 11 / part 12

more Soap / masterlist tag

[glitchfiles]

get smart. [ljn]

pairing ⋆ bf!jeno x reader

word count ⋆ 1.8k+

warnings ⋆ SMUT MINORS DNI!, soft -> hard dom!jeno, desk sex, degradation, begging, nipple play, hair-pulling, spanking, finger-sucking, facial, …

note ⋆ i got new glasses and thought of this... nothing else to say...

“god, why did i get these?” you sigh, pushing your new glasses up your nose bridge as you scrutinise your appearance in the mirror. 

“what’s the matter, baby?” jeno interrupts your little pity party by lacing his arms around your waist.

“what do you think?” he takes a moment to evaluate your new look.

“they look… okay.” is all he says, with a shrug. 

“just okay?” you raise an eyebrow, unsatisfied by his lukewarm answer. he may as well have told you that you look like shit. “they make me look like a secretary.”

“i guess…” he starts but soon realises that he’s made a very grave mistake.

“you’re not supposed to agree!” you try to nudge his arms off, but he tightens his hold.

“but like in a good way, though!” he rushes to calm you down, the struggle quickly stops when he drops his head closer to your ear, “like a sexy, hot one?”

“nice save.” you roll your eyes, sulking with your crossing your arms.

“c’mon, if you were my secretary, i wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off you.” his voice drops an octave as he squeezes you closer. the warmth of his embrace and his breath against your neck has heat creeping over you, but you still attempt to act cold with him.

“i’d bend you over my desk every fucking day.” his lips ghost your earlobe before laying a kiss on your jaw. he looks up into your eyes through the mirror, eyes dark with lust, and coos into your ear, “should i show you how pretty i think they look on you?” 

you nod your head, fighting back a smile; he starts laying soft kisses along your neck, hands coming up to grope over your body. they slither under your oversized shirt, cupping your bare tits.

“take it off for me,” he removes your glasses, holding them as you tug your shirt over your head, leaving you in just your panties until he carefully places them back on your face. “so sexy,” he groans. the sight of you has his tongue swiping across his lower lip, hands trailing up from your curves to wrap around your body again. 

he begins to knead at your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples teasingly, making you mewl. your head lolls back against him, and he takes the opportunity to graze his teeth against your neck, drawing more sounds out of you. the feeling of him nipping at your neck combined with him playing with your chest has you reeling.

“turn around for me, baby.” you turn to face him, your eyes lock for a second, and then his lips smash against yours. instinctively, your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him in deeper as his tongue slides over yours. 

his hips cant forward as he lets out a moan into your mouth, growing bulge grinding against you. he pulls away, biting at your lower lip. the hazy expression on your face makes him smirk, dazed and waiting for what he does next. 

“feel what you do to me,” his fingers slip under the waistband of your panties, digging into your hip as he presses his centre further into you. he presses his lips against yours again but only briefly, criminally so, but you can’t complain as he brings a hand between your thighs. a finger glides over your core, jeno lets out a chuckle as your hips jerk forward impatiently. 

“baby, please.” you huff as he withdraws his hand.

“isn’t it ‘sir’ to you?” jeno teases, while pushing your glasses up your nose mockingly.

“i’m not letting you roleplay being my boss, jeno.” you scoff at your ridiculous boyfriend. “just shut up and fuck me, you perv.” you whine, rushing to take matters into your own hands, haphazardly working at the drawstring of his sweats. 

“since when did you tell me what to do?” he tuts, swatting your hands away, “you want it? then go ahead, bend over and beg for it.” he nods his head in the direction of his desk to the left of him.

“thought you said you’d bend me over it.” you challenge him, butterflies fill your stomach as his eyes narrow, making you feel small as they bore into you. 

jeno could be the sweetest man on earth if you behaved, but you weren’t quite in the mood for that today; if you wanted to get nasty, he was more than happy to do so.

your breath catches in your throat as his hand approaches it, delicately wrapping around.

the sight of his jaw clenching almost makes your heart beat out of your chest. you feel yourself become light-headed as the web of veins on his upper body becomes more prominent as he tries to hold himself back a little longer; the menacing aura emanating from his makes your knees grow weak. your teeth sink into your lower lip, and you can’t stop your thighs from pressing together.

“and here i was trying to be nice, got some new glasses and you think you’re clever now.” he chuckles, but his expression hardens as his hand slips to the back of your head and firmly seizes hold of your hair. a whimper slips out of your lips as he cranes your head back. 

"don't get smart with me, slut." he spits out before dragging you to the other side of the room with ease.

he no-so-gently guides you to stand in front of his desk; he forces you to arch for him by digging his thumbs into your lower back. your forearms come up to support your weight as he lays himself over you, caging you between his body and the table.

“if i tell you to bend over, you fucking do it. understand?” his nose brushes against your cheek as he snarls into your ear, leaving it there as he waits for a response that doesn’t come. “i asked if you understand, slut.” he punctuates the sentence with a slap against your ass. 

“fuck! yes!” your head droops as you yelp.

“wasn’t so hard, was it?” he stands up straight.

“no,” you reply instantly this time, hoping your obedience will grant you mercy; you think maybe you’re in the clear as he rips your panties down your legs, leaving them to hang at your knees - not caring whether you kick them off or not, which you do. but it doesn’t; he slaps you again, making you gasp out. his hand smooths over the stinging skin, then moves between your legs, fingers spreading your lips open.

“like it when i boss you around, huh? dirty girl…” digits ghost along your slit to be pleasantly greeted by sticky arousal - his roughness evidently having had quite the effect on you; this wasn’t even the half of it, you knew that well.

he replaces his fingers with the tip of his cock, thrusting up to brush it against your clit. your hips keen back in need.

“tell me how bad you want it.” jeno groans, pushing his hips forward as your own comeback, coating his cock with your wetness. 

“please, i’ll be so good for you.” your mouth runs on its own. the feeling of him between your folds drives you towards the verge of insanity. “need it so bad, please fill me all the way up.”

there’s no hiding the way he twitches at the sound of your pleas; as much as he wanted to torment you further as punishment for your bratty behaviour, he needed you just as much. he quickly pushes into you, burrowing himself deep despite how tightly your walls tense around the thick intrusion.

“thank you,” you whine as you feel his balls press against the backs of your thighs.

nails dig into your hips as he rears back and jerks into you; your eyes screw shut as you struggle to adjust to his size. 

“sucking me in so deep, baby.” he muses, spreading your ass cheeks apart to watch the way your cunt grips around him with each drag intently. “love getting split open by this big dick, yeah?”

“god, i love it! i love your cock so fucking much, please don’t stop.” you start meeting his thrusts, reaching a hand back, desperately trying to pull him in harder. he catches your wrist, pinning it behind your back. 

“such a greedy slut,” he slows down, grinding his cock into you even deeper and making your mouth fall wide open as he brushes against a spot that makes you see stars. you have no time to recover before he starts hammering into you; the room fills with the sound of choked moans, skin against skin and the slick sound of him stretching your cunt. 

his free hand skims over your cheek before he inserts his middle and index fingers into your mouth. you can’t help but swirl your tongue around them, he grunts at the feeling of it, strengthening his grasp on your wrist.

“yes, yes, oh shit! right there, baby!” your voice comes out garbled as you drool over his fingers, wet strings dripping off your chin and landing on the wood below. 

“gripping me so tight, gonna cum? fuck- feels so good.” he bounces you on his on and off of his cock like you’re a toy, using your arm as leverage. you can only ball your hands into fists, nails cutting into your palms, as he pummels you closer and closer to release.

“‘s too much, i-i-” your eyes roll to the back of your head as you cry out, back arching painfully as your legs tremble beneath you as you gush all over his cock. he can only manage a few more thrusts, your warm, convulsing walls doing their best to coax his load out of him, but he has other plans. 

just as you feel yourself about to crumble flat onto the desk, jeno sharply takes ahold of your hair once again, bringing you to kneel on the floor. long, spit-covered fingers wrap around his cum-soaked cock, tugging swiftly at it in front of your face. his grip on your locks tightens as his head falls forward.

“oh f-uck,” he shudders, desperately chasing release. “look at me, that’s it.” 

you lock eyes with him, batting your eyelashes up at him expectantly. his rising moans become contagious - you can’t help but mirror them. the moment your mouth falls open, tongue poking out, and you begin to bounce on your knees in anticipation is when he loses it. 

“gonna cum, gonna-” he can’t look anywhere but your face as thick ropes of cum land on it. most of the fluid lands on your brand-new spectacles, just as he wanted.

“look even prettier with my cum all over your glasses.” he breathes heavily while wringing the last few drops of cum out of his cock, before slapping it against your cheek, smearing the gooey strings over your lips. 

“i hope you know how to clean cum off glasses well.” the realisation of how gross what you had just let him do was hit you like a ton of bricks. 

“don’t worry baby, i’m an expert.” he wiggles his eyebrows at you. reminding you that he too wore glasses at one point in his life…

“of course, you are… freak.” you shudder thinking about the experiences that brought about such expertise.

★ thanks for reading! i have another fic done and coming soon!! in the mean time, feedback and requests in my inbox would be greatly appreciated <;3

© glitchfiles

[yanderenightmare]

Deku - Midoriya Izuku

TW: NSFW, dubcon, f!reader, asshole Hero Deku

Just thinking about Deku’s fangirl.

How lucky you felt when he took you home after you’d asked for his autograph in a bar – thinking about the expectations you had, how many times you’d imagined Hero Deku singing sweet praises in your ear as he made sweet love to you oh-so-softly – and thinking about how hard you choked on your spit when you understood just how far away those fantasies were from the truth as he fucks you like you’re shooting a hardcore porn-video.

His hand presses down hard on your face, mushing your head halfway into the white hotel pillow while his other hand fists the band of your skirt to keep you up in a pretty slope as he pounds your puffy cunt only in harsh slaps – hips clapping your ass as he uses your skirt to pull you back to meet the sharp thrusts as though you’re but a means to an end to make him cum.

Oh, but you’d been Deku’s number-one fan for years, and you’d been so giddy and excited as he’d paid for the hotel in the reception, feeling so lucky and honored, unable to fathom how any of it was even happening. Biting your lip with shy eyes blinking sheepishly, thinking of how sweet and gentle he would be in bed – so, so, so surprised when he had you pushed flat against the elevator wall with two of his fingers hooked on your tongue to make you yelp out a moan while his other hand found your cunt and squeezed the mound as though staking a claim.

You don’t really enjoy it when it’s rough – it scares you, to say the least – but this is the number-one hero, and you’re not so confident to protest when you feel you should be grateful that he’s at all touching you – even though it feels like he’s running your stomach through.

Looking over your shoulder, you can spot tattoos you’ve never seen on screen, the tribal kind that you’d expect to see only on gang members and otherwise other types of bad guys you’d not want touching you at all. He’s also wearing chains, the slim silver kind douchebags wear and compare. He’s even got fat rings on his fingers, digging into your skin where he pressures down on your face with his thumb hooked in your cheek to keep you singing mewls for him while he swings into you from behind harder and harder each time – grinning when watching how you grip the sheets in whitened knuckles as your whole body jumps on every impact.

He tips you over after a while, but missionary had never felt so threatening as he immediately locks your throat in a fist – his lips ghosting your parted ones with grunts and hot air, green eyes salaciously enjoying the show of you gasping for breath as he fucks the moans right out of you in harsh and deep strokes hitting you in new and tender places – forcing your toes to curl in the air, thighs hiked on his hips.

His other hand holds the top of your head, blunt nails push smilies into your scalp – and it all just smothers you enough to make you cry as his lips and teeth graze your cheek with a leer. “I like my sluts like this- submissive. Taking it like happy little whores in love with getting dick in their wet cunt.”

It’s not the type of sweet talk you wanted, but still, his low and gravely grunting voice forms a fist in your belly and makes you tighten on the fat shaft that has you speared. He groans at the tightness, biting your cheek as his hips stutter, shooting his load inside you without warning.

You’re in shock. Feeling the sweat between your bodies and the warmth of it inside you. You can only stare blankly up at the hotel ceiling fan and halfway wonder why you’d not thought better of it when he’d booked you into such a cheap and sleazy place.

You hear the popping of the Sharpie, but it doesn’t register. Nor does how he pushes the felt tip of it down in the softness of your tit. He scribbles something – cap held between his lips and teeth as he asks, “Wha’ was’h your name again?”

You mumble it dumbly without asking yourself why as he writes the letters on your skin. You don’t flinch when he pulls his phone from the nightstand and takes a picture with the flash on. 

He doesn’t stay for long.

Actually, he doesn't stay at all. He doesn’t even shower before pulling his pants on and leaving with his shirt draped over his shoulder.

You look in the mirror after willing yourself to get up.

Your chest reads Deku, number 47, then your name.

tip-jar: Kofi

[yandere-romanticaa]

I'm just imagining how scary Akutagawa would be whenever he would threaten you with his ability but he wouldn't ever actually go through with it... Not fully, at the very least.

Whenever you misbehave the man just has a habit of getting Rashomon to scare you off, its long, black talons hanging right over your head as you cower in fear as he just stares down at you, his face devoid of any emotions. "You should have learned the rules by now." he'd say, his voice cold and unforgiving. You would always find yourself gulping and sweating bullets, it was impossible to look up at him let alone gather the courage to speak.

"Talk."

There was no room for weakness. Akutagawa would never allow you to be weak. He was strong, he was fully aware of that plain and true fact. Because of that fact, he knew that he needed to make you stronger, he needed to prepare you for the true horrors of this world. If you can't even defend yourself against him then how the Hell were you going to go back into the wild out there, unprepared like a little baby? He can't protect you forever.

His eyes widened at the realization as he felt his heart break a little.

...he can't protect you forever. He wants to. He really, truly wants to. He will be gone, sooner rather than later. Are you happy about that? Does it bring you satisfaction knowing that the man who so cruelly kidnapped you already had one foot planted in his grave? He laughed bitterly at the thought. He gave you a closed eyes smile but he could still sense your confusion.

Honestly, you were so easy to read, it was downright humiliating.

Akutagawa can't let anyone else read you like that. For once in his life, he wanted something to be his. Death may be the one thing which was going to tear the two of you apart but he had no intentions of making an exit from this world before leaving his mark.

"Stay still." he said as he finally opened his eyes.

"This is going to hurt."

Without missing a beat, Rashomon tore into your arm as you screamed in pain. It was sharp and sudden, the hot white pain was so intense that it clouded all of your senses. You could feel its teeth dig deeper and deeper into your flesh as fresh blood started to pool all over you, staining everything in its path. Akutagawa remained quiet once more as he let his ability carry out his bidding, all the while thinking how oddly pretty you looked like this.

Even if you were in pain, red truly was a beautiful color on you.

After what felt like a century, the pain morphed into a more numb feeling, as if the ability wanted to go easy on you. The sharp teeth did not cease until the words "PROPERTY OF AKUTAGAWA" were etched onto the entirety of your arm, droplets of blood decorating your soft skin and it was all Akutagawa's to enjoy.

Allowing himself a rare moment of softness, Akutagawa crouched down to your level, gently took your arm and planted a gentle kiss at the back of your wrist, right above the pulse point. That place was a favorite of his, feeling your beating heart brought him great joy. He needed to patch you up quickly but he once again allowed himself to be selfish just more as he decided to indulge himself in your being.

He didn't know how much time he had left. That was exactly why he needed to make every moment count.

🤍 TAGS: @yanroma, @oneoftheprettynerds, @misdollface, @sxy0ung, @rosemary108233, @c4xcocoa, @gettinshiggywithit, @ophticcus, @lakxcpsta, @ranposgirlboss, @robinaxolotl, @acornwinter, @enomane, @ishqani, @satohruu, @bluepeanutharmony, @ficsreblogs

[rosaleelovesdilfs]

“Mama I’m In love with a Criminal” pt 1/?

MDNI, smut, kidnapping, mild Stockholm syndrome, mentions of ex mental abuse, daddy issues CLEARLY (lol) , mentions of murder and gore, and stalking. (If I forgot something I’m sorry!)

“Cooper what the FUCK!” You say as you’re leaned over, sweating digging a grave. What am I doing?

“Just keep digging.” He looks over at you, butchering the body. You gag, it’s so gruesome to watch his process. You know his process very well, but helping? Why the FUCK are you helping?!

Oh, yea…you’re in love with a fucking criminal, The Butcher.

Then:

“Welcome in! How can I help you?” You say putting on the most artificial smile.

“Vanilla cold brew, no ice, extra cream, two pumps of caramel, and foam on top.”

You have gotten used to no “thank yous” or “please”. Just put on a smile and do what they say.

“Yes Ma’am will that be all?” You ask in the most polite tone.

“Well did I say anything else? Yea that’s all.” She states.

“Apologize to her, she’s just doing her job…” a tall man in a firefighter uniform says. The lady looks at him and immediately flushes. “Oh uh yes sir. My apologies Cooper. I’m sorry” she says curtly to you.

Of course, Cooper Adams. I mean who didn’t know him? He’s the chief firefighter, polite, tall, and very fucking hot. “Hi Mr. Adams what can I do for you?” This time, without an artificial smile.

“Oh please, call me Cooper. I’ll just do a straight black coffee. Thank you sweetheart.”

Sweetheart…fuck is he dreamy. You hand him his coffee and his receipt to sign. When he hands it back, it has a number on it.

“I’m uh-hosting a thing at the station. Maybe if you could somehow cater? Call me.” He smiles as he turns around and walks out. That smile…it’s so perfect, too perfect.

Now:

After you’ve finished digging the grave you look over at Cooper. “What’s um-what’s next?”

“I need you to help me carry these pieces and put them in the hole. Got it?” He says walking over. “I’m sorry that you are having to do this…” he kisses you on the head. He’s not fucking sorry. He enjoys you helping. Enjoys having someone see the true him, The Butcher he’s always been. He loves having you get your hands dirty, and after this? After this he’ll join you in the shower and fuck you senseless. Fuck all the anger, emotion, and stress out.

You nod to him, doing as he says. You don’t really want to find out what would happen if you said no. Does he love you? Are you just a toy to him? Let’s be honest you don’t care. You’re in love with him, his flaws, his perfections, everything.

“Okay put these on.” He hands you a pair of gloves. You put them on as you help him carry the pieces of the body to the grave you dug. After all the pieces are in there, he starts to fill it back up. He’s done this countless times, always leaving a little piece of the victim somewhere for the police to find. He loves this little game, knowing people fear him, have nightmares about him. While people are having nightmares about him, what he may do, you’re inside his bed straddling him. Kissing him, riding his cock while he praises you.

“Good girl. You did so good tonight helping me.”

Then:

You dial the number left on the receipt.

“Hello?” His voice comes on the other end. His voice is like liquid sex, so smooth, so perfect. Too perfect.

“Hey! It’s y/n from the coffee shop. You mentioned something about catering…? You do know we don’t have much food correct?” You slightly giggle.

“Would you be mad if I said that was a lie just to get a pretty girls number?”

You fluster and get agitated just at that comment. “Oh really? And if I said I was mad?”

“Then I guess that would be an issue.” You hear him smile on the other end. “So now that I have your number, would you wanna go out sometime? Go anywhere you want.”

How could you say no? You’re not gonna say no to the chief firefighter that’s single and fucking hot. “Yea sure. Hey listen, there’s a rock concert actually in a week and my friend bailed…would you maybe wanna go? I don’t know what music you like but-“

“Yes of course I’ll go.” He cuts you off.

“Perfect it’s next Wednesday. Pick me up at 8:00.” You try not to scream with excitement.

“Okay see you then sweetheart.” He hangs up.

Concert day…

“You ever been to a concert before?” I ask. He gets sweaty and uneasy.

“Oh yea once. It was a long time ago though back when I lived in Philly.” He says looking around.

“Oh cool, that’s cool. I’ve been to a few but this is my first rock one.” You look up at him, still looking around paranoid. “You okay…?”

“Oh yea, just a lot of people.” He wipes his hands on his jeans and smiles down at you. “I’m having fun though, I promise.”

The concert ends an hour later and you get back to your place. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t want him to grab you and kiss you. You wanted him to kiss you like a starving man in all honesty.

“I had fun, thank you for coming with me.”

“Of course, I had fun too.” He pushes a piece of your hair behind your ear. You look up at him almost begging for him with your eyes. He can read your expression and leans in to kiss you. This was what you dreamed of, what you saw in the movies and the books you read.

You unlock the door to your house with him still on your lips.

“Fuck cooper.” You moan into him. He starts shedding his clothes, folding them neatly as he did so. You do the same with yours. You don’t know why he’s so neat with them, but did it matter? Before you know you’re on the couch with him between your legs, licking and sucking at your pussy. You grasp the couch and moan. This was heaven. This man’s lips, tongue, hair, everything was so perfect. For a moment your gut tells you something’s not right, but why listen when there’s a deeper knot building. His thick fingers teasing your entrance, pushing but not yet.

“Cooper…cooper fuck I’m close!” You grab his hair and tug which pulls a moan out of him.

“Good girl, take my tongue like the good girl you are.” He says looking up and returning to suck your clit.

His words hit you like a bus, your orgasm closely following. He continues until you’re squirming in his hands, the way he likes it. He likes when you struggle…

Who knew this would lead to you being his accomplice? Who knew he had this all planned out from the beginning?

“Turn around. Hands on the table.” He wasn’t asking, he was commanding. You have never done this on the first date, so why now?

“Yes sir.” You looked back at him smiling. The smile was hiding how nervous you were to take him all in. He smacks your ass leaving a stingful mark. He massages it with his hand after while massaging your clit. Next thing you know he pounds into you without warning, letting out a moan. “Fuck you feel so good baby. You’re gonna be good and take me all…”

You pant and let out almost incoherent moans and words as he relentlessly pounds into you, all while massaging your clit. “Come on baby you’re squeezing me, let go, come all over my cock.” Not long after you reach your climax, he follows right behind.

He cleans you up and kisses all the marks he left, praising and apologizing all at once. “You did so good for me.”

You fall asleep like that, in his arms. It was comforting but something was just nagging at you.

The next morning you both decide to go get breakfast at a new place up the street.

“So Cooper, how long have you lived here?” You ask curious.

“About four years now. Left Philly awhile back.” He almost looks around, trying to avoid your eyes as he says this.

“How come you left?”

“Hey I have to get going the station is calling me. Emergency. I’ll call you later okay?” He rushes to get up and kisses you on the forehead before he’s out the door. What the fuck was that about?

Now:

You quickly help him clean up the rest of the evidence at one of the safe houses he has. “Cooper, exactly how many people have you killed…?” You didn’t know if this was the first time, or the 10th time.

“This is my 13th victim. The other twelve were back in Philadelphia. My um- my family I’m not sure where they are. They are under witness protection. That’s why I chose this small town, no one would know who I am? I could tell you always thought something was off, something was not right, but yet here we are.” He starts to walk over to you. “I knew something in you could do it, you could be a good girl and help me.” He kisses me and touches me with his bloody hand. That wont last long. He has clinical OCD which means he can only be like this for about five minutes. Everything’s always constructed and achieved perfect. Too perfect.

All you can do is nod. Your brain and gut is telling you to turn away, go to the police as fast as you can. Your heart…it’s telling you to stay. To protect Cooper. You are officially an accomplice to this. You couldn’t run if you wanted to…this is what he wanted all along. For you to fucking HELP so you were stuck with him?! What the fuck did you get yourself into.

Im not quite sure how many parts I am going to do. I am going to aim for 3 though!! I hope y’all enjoy the first part :)!!! The second part will be out Sunday most likely!

@coopers-bunny @babygorewhore @cryobabyy @thebutchersbitch @hereforthehitsbaby @amethystblackkchaos @rainingrabbits89-blog @lustskitty69

If I forgot anyone I’m so sorry please just remind me in the comments!

[dazed-and-confused23]

For Better or for Worse

It's come to my attention that there aren't nearly enough people giving our boy Charon love. So here is my submission.

Summary: After a close call with Talon Company, you and Charon patch each other up back in Megaton. Charon comes to terms with his feeling for you and does something about it.

Warnings: none? Kissing and Charon being a sweetheart.

Masterlist

"I told you to let me take point," Charon grumbled. He sat beside you, a scowl on his ghoulish face as he wound stained bandages around your shoulder. His mistress had run into trouble, not thirty minutes into their outing today, and had to turn right back around to run back to Megaton like a dog with its tail between its legs. He'd just spent the better part of an hour digging lead out of you.

Your lips screw up in a pout, "Why? So you could have been shot instead?"

Charon gives you a deadpan look, his milky blue eyes annoyed, "Yes."

"No!" You hiss right back and glare at the Ghoul, "Just cause you're supposed to protect me, doesn't mean you need to take a bullet for me, Charon."

He ignores you in favor of focusing on tucking the end of the bandage in and then sits back. The two of you have been together going on three years now, and Charon still couldn't wrap his head around how kind you were to him, how much you cared for him. He would turn the world upside down for you if you gave the order.

But you never ordered him. You told him that you refused to own a slave, but you would like a friend. And while the contract you held made things difficult, you always tried your best to do right by Charon.

"I don't like seeing you get hurt," Charon admits after a moment and looks at you out of the corner of his eye. He isn't well versed in feelings and emotions, had always preferred to shove those down until he was numb, but he wanted to try. For you.

"You're important to me, more than just an employer. More than a friend."

Charon didn't know, or maybe he didn't remember what love felt like, but he thinks what he feels for you might be it. You worry and infuriate him at every turn, but seeing that mega watt grin when you find a preserved magazine in some ruins made it all worth it. His heart would pick up speed whenever you hung off his arm, cheeks feeling hot when you pressed yourself against his side.

"It's not right, and it's inappropriate of me, but I love you, _."

Charon doesn't know what he's expecting, backlash, or disgust, most likely, but not for you to throw yourself at him, headless of your injury. He catches you easily, dull blue eyes going wide when you wrap your arms around his neck and hold him tightly. He clutches your waist, unsure what to do.

"I've loved you for a long time, Charon. I was just too scared to say anything," you admit, and your words are like basking in the sweet glow of radiation. He pulls you away, needing to see your face, but you're just smiling, eyes full of elation and adoration for the ghoul.

Charon licks his lips, "Can I kiss you?"

"Please."

The feel of your smooth lips against his ruined one could put him in the grave. The sweet exchange is everything and more than what Charon imagined it to be, and you aren't shy in showing him exactly the way you like it. When you pull away to smile down at him, his only regret is not telling you sooner.

[caranfindel]

Walker fic: Die young, stay pretty

When I saw episode 1.17 of Walker, “Dig,” I knew I needed a version with more whump. So here it is.

~~~

Emily was right, as usual.

“I wouldn’t ever dig my own grave.” Cordell had said that once, years ago. They were watching some forgettable movie (was it about cowboys? or maybe gangsters?) with a man being forced to dig a shallow grave at gunpoint. “If I’m gonna get shot anyway, why would I go through all that first? I’d just say no and let them shoot me then and there. Let the goons dig the hole.”

“But what if you wanted to use that time to think?” Emily had said. “To come up with a plan? Or to give someone else time to come rescue you?”

He’d laughed and pulled her closer. ”I’m the cavalry, sweetheart. No one’s gonna rescue me. I do the rescuing. Nah, I’d just call his bluff and say go ahead and shoot me, you dumbass goon. And keep in mind, you’re gonna have to dig a hell of a big hole if you wanna hide all this.”

But she had been right, as she always was. Because now he’s being held at gunpoint by a couple of - a couple of goons, the only word for them is goons - and he’s digging a hole that is surely meant to be his grave. And he’s watching and waiting for his opening. After all, he was right about one thing: no one’s going to rescue him.

Goon #1 is closer. Goon #2 is distracted, watching for someone, rifle slung over his shoulder, but Goon #1 is focused. Cordell’s knee buckles and he pauses for a moment to lean the shovel against the edge of the pit, to sweep the sweat out of his eyes and breathe for a little bit. Partly to stall for time but mostly because he’s fucking exhausted and everything hurts. After the truck rollover, the forced hike to this clearing, and digging the pit at gunpoint, he feels like someone spent an hour beating the crap out of him.

Goon #1 narrows his eyes at him, then leans over and rests the barrel of his gun against Cordell’s temple. The metal is cold, even in the stifling Austin heat, and Cordell can feel his pulse pounding against it. He holds his hands up in surrender and picks up the shovel again.

When the person Goon #2 is watching for does show up, Cordell isn’t surprised that it’s Stan. Half of him has been hoping Mendoza was mistaken, or lying. That it was all a misunderstanding that could be explained away as easily as Geri’s connection to the money was explained away. But the other half of him recognized immediately that Mendoza was telling the truth. And that half is ready to finally get revenge, to finally look into the eyes of the person responsible for Emily’s death as he wraps his hands around their throat.

The biggest surprise, though, is when Stan drags a body out of his truck. Any remaining hope Cordell has about his old friend being innocent vanishes completely. He continues pushing the shovel into the ground, one eye trained on Goon #1.

Stan doesn’t speak to him. Doesn’t even look at him, really, and that’s a bad goddamn sign. Because if you’re going to kill a longtime family friend, murder him in cold blood and leave him in a shallow grave, it’s going to be hard to look him in the eye. Instead, Stan starts yelling at Goon #2 about plans gone wrong and needing time to think.

Out of the corner of his eye, Cordell watches Goon #1’s revolver dip lower as he’s distracted by the argument. When Goon #2 angrily shoves his rifle at Stan, Cordell makes his move. He swings the shovel into Goon #1’s solar plexus, knocking him into the pit. He grabs the guy’s gun with one hand and his neck with the other, pulls him in close, and pushes the barrel into his chest. One shot and Goon #1 is down.

He wheels toward Stan and Goon #2. The goon is running toward him, so Cordell takes him out with a shot to the core. Then his right arm explodes in a white hot flash of pain and the gun drops from his numb fingers. Stan is looking down at him from the edge of the pit, rifle trained on him.

“Sorry, son. I’m gonna need you to put your hands behind your head.”

“I’m kinda defenseless here, Stan.” Cordell’s right arm hangs limp and useless at his side. Blood runs down his fingertips, pattering onto the broken earth. He nods toward the body lying next to Stan’s truck. “What about that guy? Was he defenseless too? When you killed him?”

“That was an accident.”

“And Emily? Was she an accident?”

Stan sighs. "I didn't want anything to happen to Emily. You have to know that, Cordell. I never would have hurt her if I had a choice, not for the world. But there was nothing I could do. She saw something they didn’t want anyone to see, and that was that. If I had tried to save her, they would have killed me and her. I couldn’t save her.”

“Sure,” Cordell says. He somehow manages to sound calm, even though everything inside of him is screaming. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Stan is still pointing the rifle at his chest. So this is it, then. Stan killed Emily and he’s about to kill Cordell and no one’s ever going to know. He wishes he’d told someone about his suspicions before he went running off on his own. He wishes he’d had a chance to hug his kids one more time, to say goodbye to his parents and his brother. He wishes a lot of things.

“I’m sorry it has to end like this,” Stan says. “I hate to do this. I really do.”

“Well, I’m sure it gets easier every time,” Cordell snaps. Time stretches out. He hears his own labored breathing, and the gentle drip of his blood hitting the dirt. He can almost hear his own heartbeat.

Then Stan’s mouth twitches into something that’s part smile, part grimace. “No,” he says quietly, “I don't believe it does.”

(I’m sorry, Em. I tried.)

There’s another bright burst of pain, and a thump in his chest like he’s been kicked by a horse. Cordell slumps against the side of the pit and then slips down into darkness.

~~~

“Hey, cowboy.”

They’re lying in a big bed. Not their bed, not their house. There are wooden beams running overhead and gauzy white curtains covering a glass door that opens onto a balcony. He can hear sounds from outside, music and happy voices floating up into their room. Emily’s head is on his shoulder, he’s running his fingers through her hair, and they’re barely paying attention to the television. There’s a movie on, gangsters or cowboys or something.

“You remember this place?” she asks.

He does. “That hotel in San Antonio, on the riverwalk. We came here for our anniversary. This is where we saw the movie, the one where the guy was digging his own grave, and I said I wouldn’t do that.”

“But you did.”

“Yeah, I did. And it didn’t matter. I didn’t come up with a plan and nobody rescued me.” He puts a finger on her chin and tilts her head up for a kiss. “It’s okay, though. At least I get to be here with you.”

Emily looks at him with sad dark eyes and doesn’t say anything.

~~~

Liam Walker spends his entire life watching his brother defy death. Cordell is always climbing things he shouldn't climb, taunting animals he shouldn't taunt, swimming in the pond on the south forty acres even though Daddy had warned them about snakes, inventing insane games with Hoyt Rawlins like truck surfing and rake jousting and chicken played against an angry bull. Die young, stay pretty, he always says. And if you survive, chicks dig scars, Hoyt always responds. Cordi considers himself invincible, and every day Liam fears he’ll be proven wrong.

But it isn't until Liam is ten years old that he starts seriously expecting his brother to die. Cordell gets arrested for something stupid, some ridiculous prank that involves breaking and entering and a fire and God knows what else, and their father lets him stew in the county jail overnight before bailing him out. The next day, Daddy is furious. Mama is horrified. And Liam stands in the hallway, listening unnoticed as they both light into his brother. “You're a goddamned idiot! You could have gotten yourself killed!” Cordell stands there and takes it, head bowed, but when he heads back to his room he winks at Liam and says "Die young, stay pretty, right?"

It doesn’t stop when Cordell graduates from high school; the stakes just get higher. Liam spends years waiting for his brother to return from Afghanistan in a flag-draped box. And then the undercover shitshow that almost feels like a passive suicide attempt, like some kind of subconscious mission to follow Emily into the dark. And the silent months at the end of it waiting for the phone call saying he'd done it; he'd died young.

All of this is to say that when Micki calls and says Cordell's truck has been found, wrecked and empty, Liam's second thought is he obviously got out, so he's just walking around somewhere in a daze; we'll find him and he'll be fine. But his first thought is maybe this is the day; maybe he finally did it.

Micki tells them all to stay home and let the proper authorities take care of it. Liam and his father ignore her. Abilene says she’ll stay at the house with Stella and Augie. "Someone needs to be here in case he comes home," she tells them. "You know how your daddy is. He'll get a ride from a friend and come strolling up here asking what's for dinner." And she might even believe it. But Liam can see on Stella’s face that her thoughts mirror his own. No, that's not how he is. How he is, is that he goes out and does something reckless, something crazy, something dangerous, and disappears, and you just sit and wait for someone to come tell you he's dead.

“He’s fine,” Liam tells her. He puts on his best everything will be okay expression, the one he wore for the kids so frequently when Cordell was gone. “We’ll find him. He’s fine.”

He almost believes it himself.

~~~

When Liam and Bonham pull up at the scene of the wreck, Micki greets them with an eyeroll. "Someday, one of the Walker boys is gonna do what I tell him to do."

"Maybe someday," says Bonham. "But not today."

The truck is a mess. Liam can’t imagine Cordell calmly getting out and walking away. "His phone's buried in here somewhere," Micki says. "I can hear it ringing when I call him. Things go flying around in a rollover. So it's possible he couldn't find it and he just started walking."

"But you don't think that's what happened," says Liam.

She pauses, as if considering how much to tell him. “Well, there’s this.” Micki motions them over to the driver's side and points to a scrape of grey paint. "Has he been in a wreck lately? Because this looks like he was hit by another car."

Bonham clenches his fists. "This is new. Someone did this? You think someone ran him off the road on purpose?"

"We don't know," Micki says. "It's entirely possible that it was an accident, and the other driver gave him a ride, maybe took him to the hospital. But no one has heard from him and he hasn't shown up in any local hospitals or walk-in clinics yet, so I think we're going to assume that isn't what happened. If it turns out I'm wrong, we'll just be pleasantly surprised. Right now we're calling in a search team and setting up a grid." She keeps talking, something about APBs and grey vehicles with red paint, but Liam is distracted by something on the ground. A long line scratched through the grass, as if gouged into the dirt by someone’s boot heel. It points away from the wreck, off into a line of trees about a hundred yards away.

"He went this way!"

Bonham and Micki turn to him, confused.

"Here, look. He used to do this when we'd play hide and seek, when I was little. He always left me a clue.” It took a long time for Liam to realize his big brother was doing it on purpose. For years, he just took pride in his observation skills. “He made this same mark for me. He pointed me in the right direction."

“All right then,” Bonham says. “We go that way.”

Micki puts a hand on his shoulder. “Wait. We’ll have a search team here in just a minute. We should…” She trails off, looking toward the trees. “No. Let’s go find him.”

~~~

They keep their eyes on the ground as they walk, looking for more lines scraped into the dirt. After five minutes or so, Liam is afraid it wasn’t an intentional signal after all, but Bonham spots the next one. Cordell is out here somewhere. Out here and signaling for help.

Micki stops to answer a radio call from the search team when they arrive on the scene, and Bonham slows down after several minutes of walking, so Liam is the one who crests a ridge first and sees it. A clearing. And in that clearing, a large mound of dirt that looks too much like a grave. He yells something. Later he won’t remember what it was, Cordell or Daddy or fuck, or something else. All he remembers later is that he’s screaming when he runs, is still screaming when he falls to his knees at the edge of the pile of dirt, when he sees the hand.

It isn’t Cordi’s hand. The fingers are too short and the hair on the back is too heavy, too dark. But it’s a man’s hand sticking out of this makeshift grave. Liam grabs it and pulls, but the rest of the man doesn’t budge. He starts frantically scooping away the loose dirt with his hands, revealing an arm and then a chest. Then he feels someone hit the ground next to him.

His father’s voice. “Oh God. That’s not -“

“No! Help me dig!”

In a moment Micki is there on her radio, giving coordinates and talking about shovels and an ambulance. Liam and Bonham manage to uncover the man’s upper body. His face has the grey cast of someone who’s been dead a few hours. Liam has no idea who he is, and honestly doesn’t care, because it’s not Cordell. He leans over to grab one arm and Bonham grabs the other. They’re finally able to pull the dead man out of the dirt, and Liam hears his father’s quick intake of breath as they see what was underneath the body. Who was underneath the body.

Cordell is leaning against the side of the pit as if he’d been seated and then slumped over in sleep. The body on top of him apparently shielded him from much of the dirt. He’s covered in dirt and what looks like blood, but the soil that was shoveled into this godforsaken hole didn’t cover his face. There was air there, at least for a while, if he was alive to breathe it.

They dump the dead man unceremoniously at the edge of the pit. Liam jumps into the hole and kneels next to his brother, putting his fingers against his throat. The man they just pulled out was cold, but Cordell’s skin is still warm. And there, against his fingertips - a flutter of movement. And then another, and another.

“He’s alive!” he yells. “Daddy, he’s still alive!”

Bonham had been moving slow and stiff, but he jumps into the pit with the agility of a decades-younger man. Together they frantically shove dirt away from Cordell. Micki’s there now, warning them to be careful, to wait for EMS, but Liam and his father know one thing - they’re getting Cordell out of this goddamn hole. Once they’ve cleared enough of the dirt away, Bonham grabs his legs and Liam bends Cordi’s torso forward so he can slide behind him. He grabs his arms and tries to get into position to lift his brother out of the pit. But when he lifts, Cordell wakes with a gasp of pain.

Liam eases him back as gently as he can, kneeling next to him. “Cordi,” he says. “You’re okay. Everything’s okay.”

Cordell’s eyes flicker open for a moment. “Liam?” His voice is faint and hoarse.

“Yeah, it’s me. You’re okay.” Which is a lie. Cordell is not okay. He’s not as grey as the body they pulled off of him, but his face is pale and his lips are faintly blue.

“Micki!” Bonham yells. “Where’s the ambulance?”

Micki doesn’t answer, but Liam looks up to see her several yards away, at the top of the ridge, facing away from them. She’s waving her arms to catch the ambulance driver’s attention. It must be close (please, God, let it be close).

Liam turns back to his brother. “Tell me what happened. Where are you hurt? Who did this?”

Cordell coughs wetly. “Stan. It was Stan Morrison.”

”Stan Morrison? What the - why? Why would he do this to you?”

Cordell opens his eyes and grasps at Liam. “He killed Emily. Tell Cap…” He stops and tries to take a deep breath. It triggers another wet cough. “Make sure James knows. He confessed. Stan killed Emily.”

Liam looks up and meets his father’s eyes to make sure they heard the same thing. Because that can’t be true. It can’t possibly be true.

“If I don’t make it…” Cordell coughs again. Blood splatters onto his lips, and bloody foam trickles from the side of his mouth. “Tell him. Tell him to talk to Mendoza. She was a witness, so Stan killed her. Promise, Liam. Make him talk to Mendoza.”

“Shut up. You can tell him yourself.” But Cordell’s eyes close and he goes silent.

The EMTs arrive and Micki pulls him away from his brother. “Let them do their job. He’ll be okay.” And then more officers are there and there are phone calls to be made and a statement to be taken (what do you need? I dug my not-quite-dead brother out of a grave and he says a family friend did it and also murdered his wife, for fuck’s sake, that’s all I know) and suddenly Liam looks up and sees the ambulance bouncing back toward the road. Bonham watches with him as it moves over the ridge and out of their sight, then slumps against a squad car. He looks pale and wiped out.

“Micki?” Liam says. “You think someone could give my dad a ride back to his truck?”

“I don’t need a ride!” Bonham snaps. “I’m fine.”

But Micki sees it too. “Mr. Walker,” she says, “They’re taking Cordell to Dell Seton hospital. I’m sure you want to get back to your family as soon as possible and get everyone over there. Let one of the guys here give you a head start by driving you to your truck.”

He acquiesces. “Yeah, yeah, okay. You coming?”

“I, ah.” Liam turns to Micki. “I’ll meet you there, if Micki doesn't mind giving me a ride. I need to call Larry James.” And this is true, but it’s equally true that he needs to drop the everything will be okay expression for just a bit.

~~~

By the time they all get to the hospital, Cordell is already in surgery. He's fine, the surgeon tells them afterward. He’s going to be fine. He had a couple of bullet wounds, a punctured lung, broken ribs, damage to his shoulder that shouldn't be permanent. Lost a lot of blood. But he’s going to be fine.

This time, anyway.

~~~

Only two visitors at a time are allowed into Cordell's room, so Stella and Augie go in first. Liam paces. Bonham retreats to the end of the hall to make a call. Abilene sits alone on the ugly burnt-orange vinyl bench. She's the toughest woman Liam knows, but right now she looks like a broken baby bird. She digs in her purse for a tissue, and Liam realizes tears are streaming down her cheeks. He sits next to her and puts an arm around her shoulder. “Mama, he's gonna be fine. There's no reason to cry.”

“Oh, Liam,” she sighs. Her voice is shaky. “I just don’t know why this family has to go through so much. After Emily, and you, and Cordi and Hoyt. I don’t like my babies being hurt. I can’t stand it.”

Liam resists the impulse to reach up and touch the scar where Stella cauterized his gunshot wound. “Well, maybe this is it. Maybe we’ve used up all our bad luck, and there’s nothing but good times ahead.”

Abilene laughs a shaky little laugh. “Maybe so. It would only be fair.” She wipes her eyes and puts on her own everything is okay face as Stella and Augie step out of the room.

Daddy must have been watching, because he ends his call quickly and takes Mama's hand to escort her into Cordell's room. Liam puts his arms up and the kids snuggle next to him, one under each arm, like they used to do when they were worried about their dad. When Liam was pretending not to be worried about him too.

"The guy who shot him is still out there," Stella says, and Liam suddenly realizes he doesn't know what they've been told, if they know an old family friend murdered their mother and then tried to kill their father. No one talked about Stan in the waiting room, and these kids are used to their father being a target. It's so fucking unfair. They shouldn't all have to spend their lives waiting for something horrible to happen.

"It's okay," he says. "I'm going to stay here tonight to keep guard. No one's going to hurt him."

~~~

Mama and Daddy take the kids home, and Liam finally opens the door to Cordell's room. It's dim - all the lights are off except a light over the sink - but he can see his brother well enough. The blood and dirt have been washed off, revealing cuts and bruises to his face. His chest and right arm are heavily bandaged, with a wound drain snaking out from his bandaged chest. An oxygen canula is taped under his nose.

"Hey, Stinker," Cordell says. "You all right?"

"Am I all right? Jesus, Cordi." Liam sits in the small side chair and angles it so he can see his brother's face. "How do you feel?"

Cordell tries to speak again, but falls into a coughing fit. Liam grabs the plastic water mug on the bedside table and holds the straw up to his lips. Cordell presses one hand against his chest incision and takes a small sip of water. "You talked to Larry James?" he says.

"I did. But I didn't know much. He said he'd send someone to talk to Mendoza, and he'll be up in the morning to get your statement. What the hell, Cordell? You said she was a witness?"

"Yeah. Stan was involved in some shit. Emily saw it." He closes his eyes and sighs. "I'd rather not talk about it right now. I'm kinda..."

"Yeah, no, sure. I'll hear it in the morning anyway. I'm going to stay here tonight."

"What do you mean, stay here? Go on home, man. You look like crap."

"Yeah, I don't think so. There's a man out there who wants to kill you. Think I'll hang around and make sure he doesn't."

"For fuck's sake, Liam. There's no reason to think he's going to come up here and finish me off."

Liam stands. His pulse pounds hot against his branded scar. "And yesterday there was no reason to think he was going to shoot you and bury you in a mass grave. But he did it, Cordell. And I'm not giving him the opportunity to do it again!"

"Liam -"

"No." Too loud, he's in a hospital and he's too damn loud. "Could you, just once in your life," he hisses, "stop trying to die?"

Cordell blinks in shock. "Okay," he says softly. "Okay. Stay here, if it makes you feel better."

"It does." Liam sits again, a little embarrassed, a lot relieved."You know, you can give up on that whole die young, stay pretty plan,” he says. “It's too late. You're old."

Something painful flickers across Cordell's face, and Liam immediately regrets whatever memory he unintentionally dredged up. Emily, Hoyt, their whole lives ahead of them. But then his brother smiles a faded ghost of a smile. "Maybe so," Cordell says. "But I'm still pretty."

Liam pats his ankle. "Yeah, I guess. For such an old guy."

(Maybe, just maybe, he’ll actually get old. Maybe Liam can make that happen.)

~~~

Please note that, though I’m posting this after s4, I actually wrote the vast majority of it during s1. In other words, I buried him first.

[revivif-y]

Also posted on ao3.

---

Fabian doesn’t know when it started to hurt.

It’s the little things, you know? The stupid things that feel like nothing to everyone else but feels like iron weights to him. Things like Sklonda mussing up Riz’s hair with a grin, the proud look in Sandra Lynn’s eyes when she looks at Fig, the way Gilear worries and worries and worries and the way Jawbone hugs Adaine.

It feels scalding to look at, sometimes. Boiling hot water poured down his throat that he’s forced to swallow down. There’s a deep, roiling shame that reverberates through him in these moments– a feeling that cooks him alive and leaves him thrashing for escape. He can’t stomach it, can’t swallow back the acid and the jealousy and the jagged bitterness that threatens to cut through.

He reigns it in, best as he can– averts his eyes when Ragh and Lydia share a look, focuses hard on his breathing when Gorthalax says “That’s my girl!”

He digs his nails into his palms when the Thistlesprings fuss over Gorgug, tries his damndest not to stare when they pull out bandages for his scrapes after practice. He leaves, mentally, checking out every time because the affection feels like thorns, gnarled and tearing at him if he thinks about it for too long. 

(Because he wants it. He wants it so, so bad that the absence feels like it’s eating him alive. Chunks of flesh torn away as his bones flake and crumble, a void where his chest should be.)

(It doesn’t hurt, most days.)

(But other times it’s all he can feel.)

Fabian breaks, sometimes. Only sometimes, not all the time– only when he’s fallen far enough that he thinks he can change anything.

When Fabian breaks, (chest heaving with stuttering breaths, palms clammy and his mind swimming) he calls people. A truly pathetic display he’s glad only he can witness.

Calling his Mama is one thing: Fabian lets it ring, feels the droning ringtone vibrate in the air, the sound measured as he dry heaves in his room. Calls once, then twice, then three times. Over and over until the sound lulls him to sleep or he’s worked up enough that this makes him shatter his phone against a wall.

She always apologizes for missing them, after. There’s always something– another stroke of good luck for Gilear, she was asleep, she was partying, she was sunbathing, she was drunk– always, always something, but when he checks her Crystalgram it says she posted it while he called and that. That.

It breaks him. Chips away at him further, shards shattering into splinters pulverized into dust. It shatters him, eats at him, rends him limb from limb as he screams in his empty manor and wonders why.

He thinks of calling his Papa, sometimes. At his lowest, at his darkest and most wretched. He thinks of broadcasting his misery onto all of Hell for even the slightest chance that he will answer– that Bill Seacaster will race to his voice like a beacon and tell his son that everything will be okay. That there is nothing wrong with him and that he loves him and that he is never, ever alone.

…It’ll never happen, though. Contrary to popular belief, Fabian knows how to be realistic.

(His Papa loves him. He does. Fabian knows he does.)

(Just not that much.)

He tries not to put too much stock into these one-sided calls– tells himself that no parent would drop everything for their kids, would come running if they called, kill the Devil just to return home. No parent would do that, it’s unrealistic and certainly not for someone his age.

He’s the man of the house. He’s the man of the house.

(“I told my dad about you guys,” Riz told them, once, his voice soft yet so happy. “He said he listens, you know, every time I go to his grave and talk. I only really tell him the cool shit, but…”)

(Riz grins, wide and toothy.)

(“He told me to tell him about the mundane, too.”)

It takes a few seconds for Fabian to realize that the wheezing, ragged breaths in the room are coming from him.

The thing is. The thing is.

The thing is that Fabian doesn’t know what’s wrong with him.

Harsh, ragged crying spills past his lips, spikes of pain blooming from his palms. They’re reddened and his nails are bloody but he doesn’t care– Fabian rips off his eyepatch, stares at scarred skin and an empty eye socket and cries.

The noise he makes is broken, almost animalistic as silver hair covers his face, sticking to his skin. He feels like a wound, oozing and raw and searing with pain. He feels broken. He feels like something unworthy of love, the kind that stays hidden in the basement because the rot of him is too ghastly to stomach.

Questions rattle and whirl around in his head– a hurricane of sinking ships and splintering wood, blood pooling in the waters.

Questions like why and why not and why can’t I have that. Questions like is it me, is there something wrong with me, is it something I’ve done wrong. Questions become statements become I would change myself if I could. I would mold myself into what you wanted if I could. Teach me how teach me how teach me how teach me how.

I would if I could and I want to be loved. I want to be loved and I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know what’s wrong with me and I wish that I did because then I could fix it and I’ll be worthy I’ll be loved and I’ll be wanted.

There are sharks under the water in his mind, sharp teeth and smelling blood as Fabian bleeds, bleeds, and bleeds.

Why don’t you want me? He wants to scream. At the grey, thundering skies, at the endless, unfeeling torrent of rain. He thinks of his Father, battling devils in the fiery realm of Hell. He thinks of his Mother, lounging in the sun and giggly with wine, relaxed and happier while Fabian’s at home. He thinks of them, and he thinks of Sklonda, of Gorthalax, of Sandra Lynn and Gilear and Jawbone and Lydia and all the others that love their children like they’re gifts and not a curse. 

He thinks of the way his Mama looks at him and his chest rips wide open as the sharks rip and tear at his flesh. He thinks of how far away her love feels and how he misses his Papa and he’s drowning, drowning, drowning.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Fabian wakes up. He looks like a wreck.

He pushes himself to his feet. His palms sting, his throat dry and raspy.

It’s just another bad day, Fabian tells himself, dull-eyed as he drinks mouthfuls of water, wiping at his lip. It’s just another bad day.

Fabian wakes up, just as alone as when he passed out.

…It’s okay. It’s okay.

(That’s the only thing it can be.)

[valiantstarlights]

[Dreamling Week Day 6: Sick] In Sickness

It's a fluffy sick fic featuring eldritch goo Dream of the Endless idk what else to tell you

CW: if you're fine with Dream being an eldritch being, then absolutely nothing. 😊 Enjoy! 🖤

Hob stares at the large black puddle of goo that flooded most of the living room. He just got back from work and found Matthew perched on a branch near his flat, looking as frantic as a raven could get.

Said raven is now perched on Hob's shoulder, eyeing the mess on the floor gravely.

Hob had been warned that Dream is 'in a state,' but he didn't exactly expect that 'state' to be liquid.

Because it is Dream on the floor, Hob can see that very clearly. Though the goo simply looks like dark glittery slime poured over the floor to the uninitiated, Hob recognizes a couple of nebulas on its surface. There, by the telly, is the Horsehead Nebula, there by the bookshelf that contained none of Shaxberd's works is the Trifid Nebula, and just by Hob's feet is the Lagoon Nebula.

"Darling?" Hob calls out, unsure if he's going to get an answer. This is his first time encountering Dream like this. "Are you alright?"

No answer.

He looks at Matthew a bit helplessly. "Do I just...scoop him up with my hands?"

Matthew fidgets. "Definitely don't vacuum him."

"Why the hell would I--"

"Well, why are you asking me? I don't know this shit! I was literally a human a year ago!"

Hob pinches his nose. They were like blind drunks stumbling down the street together. "Is he even sentient like this?"

The dark puddle vibrates, and Hob feels Matthew's talons dig into his shoulders from the jumpscare. He himself almost drops his suitcase. "I can hear both of you," the puddle grumbles, "and you are making too much noise for my liking."

"Oh, sorry, love," Hob says, his boyfriend instincts suddenly awakened at Dream's sulky morning voice. "Did we wake you?"

"I want some of your chicken pot pie."

"Chicken pot pie." Hob repeats. His brain is still processing the fact that his boyfriend is a literal puddle of goo on the floor. "Yeah. Okay. Let me just get some ingredients from the shops real quick. Can you get to the bedroom while I'm gone? I don't want to step on you when I return."

--

He leaves Matthew...not in charge, but overseeing goo Dream's long and arduous trek to the bedroom.

He hears the raven mutter something about this being like hell all over again.

Hob ignores that because he has a different set of problems to tackle.

--

Hob's panic sets in as soon as he gets out of the car carrying all the ingredients for chicken pot pie, as well as some other food and drinks good for sick humans.

Once the pie is done cooking and cooling down a bit, how will he feed Dream? Where is his mouth? Does Hob just...pour it on the goo and hope for the best?

What if that were the equivalent of dumping hot soup on his boyfriend's lap?

--

"Any improvement?" he asks Matthew, who has kept an eye on Dream while perched safely on the back of the couch.

Hob checked, and Dream's form is thankfully all contained in the bedroom, still looking like a lake of stars.

"Nope. But he says he wants you to make extra crusts because he likes that. I would also like some extra bits to snack on, if that's alright."

"Sure." Hob goes to do just that. Chicken pot pie for the boyfriend and a lot of extra crusts for the boyfriend and his raven.

No problem. This is all totally normal and fine.

--

"Dream? Darling? The pot pie is done."

The puddle looks a little smaller in size, and Hob can see a couple of hill-like formations near the middle of the mass. He hopes it's a sign that Dream is slowly getting better.

At his words, one of the islands move closer to him, like a shark. Its progress sends ripples throughout the lake.

"Finally," the island nearer to him says. Its peak splits open to reveal the inside of Dream's human mouth. "Feed me."

At this point, Hob isn't even questioning anything anymore. All he knows is how to be a good boyfriend, so he's gonna do just that.

He sits down at the very edge of the lake near the hill with the mouth, and scoops up a portion of the pie, making sure to blow on it before feeding it to Dream.

The hill hums in appreciation.

"Good?"

"Delicious," Dream's mouth says, before opening once more, like a baby bird waiting to be fed. "More. I want a larger portion of the crust this time."

Hob couldn't help the smile that bloomed on his face and obediently gets more of the crust for the next bite.

--

"What kind of juice do you like?" Hob asks, a few hours later. The goo now looks less like a puddle and more like gelatine that didn't set properly. It was on the couch, bundled up in one of Hob's soft knitted blankets, watching an earlier season of Game of Thrones with Matthew.

"What kinds do you have?"

"Uh, orange, apple, and pineapple. Oh, and I still got some banana milk from the Korean grocery store, if you prefer that. Or almond milk."

"All of them."

Hob and Matthew share an alarmed look behind gelatine Dream's back. "What, an equal amount of all those drinks together in a single glass?"

"Yes."

Hob looks heavenwards and prays for a little more sanity before complying.

And just for fun, he goes down to the Inn and gets a blue cocktail umbrella and a heart-shaped drinking straw to put in gelatine Dream's very questionable drink.

Gelatine Dream hums in delight and tells Hob he loves him.

Hob beams and kisses the top of the gelatinous mass, while Matthew chokes, very possibly because the scene on TV is Hodor...doing his thing, and that always gets to Hob.

(Matthew chokes because he is disgusted, he is revolted--)

--

Something thick and long, like an anaconda, slithers into bed with Hob, and it is only through his 600 plus years of living in this world does he calm his frantically beating heart and open his arms so big ass snake Dream can curl up next to him.

"I hate being sick," the snake hisses, its huge dark head tucking itself under Hob's chin. "I can't hug you like this."

'Please don't wrap around me and squeeze me to death,' Hob does not say. "I think you're adorable," he murmurs instead against Dream's coils, and kisses the nearest scaled skin in front of his face.

--

Dream is mostly back in his human form come morning, but he still dripped viscous dark liquid wherever he goes. It reminds Hob of Howl Pendragon from the Howl's Moving Castle Ghibli movie.

"How are you this morning, darling?"

"Wretched," Dream says as he drips onto his fry up. Hob mentioned preparing porridge for him as they got up earlier, only to be informed by Dream that he fucking hates porridge and would hurl it into the sun if he could. And so Hob cooked some fry up instead. "Must you go to work?"

Hob, already running late and in the process of putting on his shoes, stops and looks back at the pathetic picture Dream makes. He is sadly looking down at his perfectly cooked eggs, dripping dark sludge on the sun-yellow yolks.

"I'll call in sick," Hob decides, and takes his phone out to do just that. The department head is going to verbally flay him alive for only giving notice at the last minute, but nothing is more important to him than Dream. Hell, they could fire him over the phone and he'd be fine with it.

Dream hugs him around the middle as Hob puts his briefcase down, ruining his white dress shirt. Hob hugs him back and kisses the top of his head.

It's fine. He'll just buy another shirt, or get another job. But Dream is irreplaceable.

--

"Have I told you that you are the best thing that has ever happened to me?" Dream asks him a couple of days later, when they're both lying in bed after two rounds of fantastic sex, celebrating Dream's full recovery.

Hob kisses him on the nose and cuddles him closer. "Maybe once or twice in the last 24 hours," he says. "But it never hurts to tell me again."

--

Dream shyly hands him an unbreakable ceramic mug made from the sands of the Dreaming. It says, "The best boyfriend across all of time and space," in Dream's handwriting.

It takes Hob a solid month to stop grinning like a fool.

[glaciertea]

Masterlist here

Tales the Songs Weave

Ch.18<< >>Ch.20

Notes: You reflect, you reflect on everything and nothing all at once.

Chapter 19: Entrapped Laments

Word count: 6.5K

That's it.

                     That's how it ends.

Grimly and anticlimactic.

You've been lying down, staring at the ceiling for what feels like hours, days even.

You tried not to be shocked; you should've seen this coming from a mile away, but here you are, sobbing your tear ducts dry until you wilt to become a stale zombie.

You can't even recall how you ended up in your bed in the first place. The last thing you remember was being in front of the door, allowing the dullness of damn all to consume your inner torments. 

Your apartment is buried in the shadows of the night, and your eyes are glassed with endless sorrow. 

Why? Why did he end it? You tried not to believe it was your fault. You trusted your instincts into thinking it was other factors.

Well, it was mostly you skewing your mind in a direction where it was something you wanted to hear, not needed. You only did it to make yourself feel better. To give yourself this distorted narrative that things are just in a rough patch, but with a little care and time, they'll go back to normal.

Well, as plainly vanilla as it could get with someone like he is. 

Was. 

Having to start thinking of him in the past will be a strange, unaccustomed response. To think back instead of thinking forward.

Which is funny—how many forward-looking outlooks were there? You try to remember if there was any deliberation about a probable future between you two. You certainly know you've voiced your desire to stay together, but now that you consider it, were there any times he mentioned a foreseeable life for you both?

You really tried to dig into your memory bank. There was that conversation you had about how you'd both raise kids if you were to have any, but was that more of a theoretical train of concepts? Rhetorical inclinations because of the tender and vulnerable moment shared before landing on that subject?

Would he have wanted kids with you? Every time you have… had sex, he has… had those primal urges to finish in you. It was very rare when he pulled out.

But that could mean anything. Maybe he has a fetish for nutting in his partners to stroke that massive, dumb ego. Some sense of accomplishment knowing the person he's with will allow him to go ahead and release in them because ‘he's just so hot,’  ‘our babies will look so cute,’ or ‘he would be such a good father to my future kids.’

You weren't projecting.

Did he really want a life with you? Everything that happened seemed so authentic and full of bliss. Did he really want to be with you in the first place?

Well, he was the one to make the first move, so that had to be something. Or maybe he did that because of the vulnerability shared before it.

Was anything real between you two?

Glancing over your alarm, the annoyingly lit green numbers sting your retinas as you hurriedly wipe away the pathetic tears for that man.

It's a quarter to six, and you have work in less than two hours. You thought about sneaking in some sleep. And if questioned about your fatigued state, you could make up an excuse that it was a restless night because you were so excited to come into work.

You would've won the best costume award for your zombie-like appearance.

The minute you stepped in the door and up to the counter, one could immediately see the appalling anger ready to burst just from Ronnie's gaze.

“I knew it! That fucker!”

“Ronnie, I didn't say anything. It was a long night. Couldn't sleep. It happens.”

“That has you looking like you just stepped out of a grave after many, many years?!”

“Rough nights can spring up on anyone, Ronnie. You've seen them on me before, so this isn't a first.”

She scoffed. You figured she wasn't going to buy into it. “I'm going to kill him. Where does he live? I know he works for some shitty tech corporation. Which one? Which building is it?”

She banged on the counter with her knuckles, trying to calm herself. “This fucker. I told his ass—I told his ass to not drag you down on his ship, but he did it anyway!”

Your head slightly tilted up at that. “What did you tell him?”

“I wanted to tell you about Sunday, but I held off for your sake, which I now regret doing.”

Your weary eyes peered into her choleric ones. 

“He came by with the box of materials you gave him when he first came here. Asshole attempted to return them during your break, but I told him not to even think about destroying anything that was built up and that he better get his shit together.”

You felt your body want to give in. Crumple to the ground and slowly dust away until there is nothing left. 

He was planning this.

He was planning on walking away, but for how long? How long was this on his mind? How long did he have that wrapped and tucked like a gift you're trying to hide from a kid before Christmas? There's a singe in your eyes as you feel them threatening to well up until you roughly dry them away.

“Did... did he say anything?”

Ronnie shook her head. “Told him we had no space, and he just swiped the box up and left without a single peep, like the bastardly coward he is.”

You didn't know what to say. What thoughts can you even conjure up after being told something like that? He came here and couldn't even face you. It didn't help that when he was visiting your job during the last week of his weird state, he only stayed for less than thirty minutes. 

Not to even mention how he would stroll into your place for an hour, barely say anything, and then depart until the next evening.

You might as well have had your eyes ripped from your sockets to have not foreseen this.

“And the fact that he broke up with you knowing you had work. I swear, the nerve of some people!” Ronnie snarled and turned to her shattered and dispirited employee and friend. “I hate what he's done to you. I should've just thrown in my two cents like I always do. I should've done it. Did he at least give a reason as to why?”

Even though all he bitterly spewed was incomprehensible for you to digest, you weren't going to expose his other life, no matter how much misfortune he battered you with.

“He merely told me it would be better to go our separate ways.”

Ronnie tapped her fingernails on her tablet; the only sound was the clacking against the screen. “And?”

“And that's it. He wanted a break, and here we are.”

That answer wasn't acceptable to her. “You know it's easy for me to find him.”

“Ronnie, please don't.”

“Don't have the last name, but I can go off the first. I have a face to the name.”

You're too tired to draw your boss back down to earth. She can be very petty when a discrete occurrence permits it. And her pettiness is telling you that this was one of those times.

“It was messy. He came in, didn't sit down, and just blurted out that we needed to break up. He went on a tirade about something that didn't make sense and told me…” a knot tangled in your stomach as you rewound his comments and synthetic, devastating explanations. Your eyes were slightly sheening before you wiped them. 

Ronnie was tight-lipped, patiently letting you take your time, but bearing that crazed wrath for Miguel.

“He told… he–he told me I shouldn't ex-exist.” Even just uttering those words made you want to vomit. 

A fracturing crack came from below as Ronnie involuntarily smashed her screen. She was doing all in her power to not go full ballistic, her face puckering to stow it shut.

“Why I can't stand some guys. Always, always the luscious ones, isn't it?” She glared up, as she could tell how sapped and worn you were. 

“I don't know what to do, Ronnie. I know it's only a guy. I shouldn't be getting this upset over him."

“No, if he was nothing but a pitiful lover, then yes, I would've said move on and much more, but this dude came into your life and was beaming these contagious rays, then randomly closed that curtain. He was the match to your firecracker, but he seemed to have gone excessive and hosed it down at full force.”

She could see the deflation with every word she snared. She hated seeing her favorite this way. “Go home and relax for the rest of the week. I'm visiting you tonight after work with comfort snacks and ‘so bad, they're good’ films. I'll also close up shop early Saturday, and I'm taking you clubbing.”

You staggered at the freely given vacation offer. Shaking your head, you began to place your bag down, taking out its contents to start working. “No, it's okay; I'll be fine. You don't have to come over or give me the days off.”

“No, you're getting the time off, whether you like it or not.” Ronnie tried to enforce it, but you wouldn't listen as you pursued your incohesive blubbering.

“And besides, the rest of the whole week? You would have to deal with Freya and Jax, and I know you can't stand them. They don't do much to help you out anyway. I just need a few pick-me-ups, that's all!” You gathered up some magazines that were randomly piled on the surface, pretending to fix and stack them. 

“I can handle them myse-”

“And besides, my day off is tomorrow, so there's my rest day. And you don't have to come; I'll be okay. He's just a guy; things like this happen; it's all a part of life. Life!”

Ronnie narrowed her eyes, observing your erratic shift in movements and tone. 

“You know what's funny about life? Life has paths that can weave and swerve without you realizing it! There's so many ways it can go! Not just one! You may never know when things can have you on top of the fucking world before it yanks you right down to the pits of–!”

“Y/N!”

You yielded. Your chest was rising heavily, everything pounding from your head to your toes. Your items were strewn across the wooden surface, and a magazine you held was crumpled with tiny rips on the edge of the cover. You dropped the paperback and entangled your hands, digging into your scalp.

“I'm sorry, I'll–I'll pay for it.”

“It's a magazine. We have multiples of this issue.” Ronnie woefully eyed your current nature and tightly embraced you. “I'm coming over tonight with the best junk food; you will be taking this week off, and we will have a damn good time clubbing. I'm not going to sit back and have you slip and decay away. I'm not.”

You stayed muted, your lifeless eyes beginning to seep out tears. You returned the hug; albeit lackluster, it was still comforting. 

You knew it'd hurt. 

You knew the misery would arrange a huge, pleasant resting nest right in your gutted heart, mind, and soul, needing the full capacity of every centimeter of your being. The more you disjointedly vented to Ronnie, still trying your best to exclude the Spider-Man business, the more sketchy his excuses became to you.

Ronnie eventually sent you off; her blood pressure was skyrocketing. She felt her own heart crunch, and she wasn't even the one who received his horrible comments and arguments. She was ready to find him, tear him apart, and beat him.

It was difficult walking back, especially when passing the gardens. You made your best efforts to speedwalk by it, but that misery made sure to slam its brakes, forcing you to gaze upon a now squashed and destroyed memory. You had to choke back many more cries, refusing to garner even a lick of attention. You turned a fifteen-minute trip home into nine. 

You didn't bother to change out of the clothes you were wearing when he dumped you. As you wallow in despair on your sofa, half listening to one of the albums you gifted him, your brain reeled itself into rewinding last night, no matter how hard you tried to veer away.

A physical wound won't go away the next day. Most certainly, a mental wound wouldn't pack its bag and leave when one wanted it too. For some, it can come with ease.

You thought of Ronnie, an individual who can seemingly move on from one relationship to another. If someone breaks her heart, she will twist and snatch the pain out, gladly replacing it with a new one until the pattern repeats itself. It wasn't a very… healthy coping mechanism, as you expressed your concerns about it, but right now, you envied that technique. 

You envied the ones who could deal with heartbreak with such ease. That vicarious sense of seemingly disregarding the instigator as if they were just another snotty-filled tissue made you jealous.

Why must this hurt? Why can't you just let him go? You both barely dated for a year, so why was this such a difficult feat to handle? Why did he have to make every day feel so special? Was that simply the honeymoon phase? Was any of that true love or just a quick and simple fling?

Your hands found your face as you whimpered before bawling your eyes out. Your shuddering breaths filled the air as you rocked back and forth, trying to cool yourself as much as possible.

It was impossible. 

It's still too fresh. Straight-out-of-the-oven fresh, that will sear one's tongue if they bite into the meal. You thought about the five stages. Denial is the first, and you certainly can feel it raging within. Then your brain had an idea. Maybe you can speed up the process. 

You said it yourself with the advice you gave him when he broke down to you about all the wrongdoings in his life. 

The ones you took the time to hear out and accepted them because you didn't care. You did care, but in a way where one can acknowledge that humans make mistakes. You took them with so much propriety. 

You aggressively shook your head, not wanting to drive yourself down an irrational, winding mental rampage. 

Does healing begin with yourself? Does it come with time? Your previous relationships eventually did, so it has to, right? 

Right?

You stood up and stomped into your bedroom, knowing exactly what particular thing to grab. Scanning the room, your eyes landed on the vase with rosy, pink tulips and snowy, white daisies that sat perfectly healthy and radiant from the day he surprised you with them. 

You took extra time caring for them. You wanted to see them keep their beautiful colors. You wanted to see them strive and keep that potential they had in their lovely fragrance and presence. You took every second, minute, hour, and day to make sure they knew their value and worth. You wanted to be there for them. You wanted to be there for him—them. 

You wanted to be there for… them.

You hastily yanked it up, making your way back to the kitchen, and ripped them out of the vase, dumping them right into the trash bin. This was certainly a faster way to get to the second stage of grief. You were speeding up the healing process by beginning it with you.

But then you found yourself immediately pulling them back out, washing any food off them, and muttering apologies about how they didn't deserve the treatment that he caused. How they don't deserve to suffer the fate you’re going through. You tried to rearrange them neatly and prettily. It wasn't as plausible, but it was still decently okay.

You sank to the damp floor, clutching on the vase, slumped yourself on a cabinet, and stayed there. Even when the record ended, you didn't budge an inch. Not even when there was knocking at your door and a call of your name, not a speck of movement. The knocks eventually became banging, with Ronnie exclaiming it wouldn't be her first rodeo entering a locked place with only a credit card and bobby pin.

You stumbled up and wobbled to the door swiftly to prevent your irrepressible employer from having the cops gang up on her. She held up a giant fast food bag in one hand and desserts and snacks in the other. She did seek to interrogate you about the vase you held, but held off as this was a night for you to ease some burdens.

That night, you and Ronnie laughed and yelled at your TV at the ridiculousness of the films while stuffing your faces with fries and your favorite ice cream. You talked about everything under the moon, excluding him, even though he lingered in the corner of your mind. You shoved it there, but he was hidden in plain sight.

Ronnie made herself even more comfortable by spending the night, cuddling, and chatting in your bed. 

“You know, I haven't been in your place in so long. I have forgotten how much stuff you got from the store.” She stroked your hair, scanning the cozy abode you had made throughout the years.

“They are interesting. And besides, it's fun digging into things from the past. Remember that one time I dressed up in clothes from those Leopard Tunes magazines?”

“My God, how could I not forget? You did look good in those camo pants.” She wanted your mind anywhere else. 

Eventually, you began to quietly weep until you dozed off. It felt nice at the moment, but even with the rest of the week off, you were still alone.

You mostly slugged around your place aimlessly, letting your music override your endeavors to forget him. It wasn't easy at first, due to the fact that you purposely kept choosing the records he was supposed to have, looping them non-stop, when you finally found the strength to shove them back into his drawer.

You remember the first present you snuck into it. It was a gift card to a restaurant you discovered that made killer empanadas and other delicious cuisines. How he swung himself to the establishment and purchased a week's worth of food, as you playfully chastised him for spending it all in one day, as he munched on the fried pastry with muffled praise. 

“Stop it!” You nearly snapped your own personal vinyl before carefully placing it down next to the turntable.

You prefer silence now.

The couch was your only security. Or that's what you like to tell yourself. 

The only time you got up was to use the bathroom or grab another bag of fruit gummies. You didn't even realize Saturday night had rolled around when you heard the shout of your name and the thumps on the door once again. Ronnie nearly keeled over when she registered that you haven't changed out of your clothes since Tuesday (you caved in and told her the exact day)  or how the ghostly stagnant space never left.

After using her work hierarchy, she had you take a nice, hot shower. She dolled you up with makeup and picked out some tight jeans and a red tank top she brought for you. She wanted to accentuate your figure, and it surely worked. She boosted you up with all sorts of compliments all the way to the club. At the moment, it was nice, but he was still there.

The entire time, you tried to have fun. You didn't want to ruin Ronnie's efforts at cheering you up, but it was difficult. The strobing lights and new-age techno music didn't exactly match your solemn mood. You tried to follow along to the tunes, but nothing came of it. 

You observed the scene, eyeing your boss hitting on some guy before she pointed to the booth you sat in. You clutched your drink as they made their way over. With another man in tow. 

You considered giving the ‘moving on quickly’ a chance.

It didn't help.

The two dudes were overall jerks. It started off with normal conversations asking about how you and Ronnie met, your job, and how long you've stayed in Nueva York. The basics. Then it started to snowball when every other word out of their mouths was how you and Ronnie were lucky to be “the winners,” as they skimmed over all the other “fine babes” for you two.

It only made you think of the first encounter with Miguel. How awkward he was, but still so pleasant. Well, as pleasant as one could be after being lunged up onto a bed that's less than twice his size. 

Ronnie snapped you out of your daze and took a hold of your wrist, irate at the now overly befuddled guys, practically screeching about how they're being pigs and not one woman would sleep with them even if they were the last ones stranded on earth. You were just as hazy, but you took the spontaneous escape with a stride.

“The two were such bastards. Fucking lowlife degenerates!” She dipped and weaved you both out into the cool and humid bustling outside of partygoers trying to enter. “And I saw him in your eyes.” 

You didn't mean to make it obvious. You didn't want to. 

Ronnie offered to take you home. You slowly nodded, with no other words exchanged, and made your way to her car.

Your head was against the cold window glass the entire ride, viewing the twinkling lights as the city passed by. Ronnie spied on your deteriorating state, suggesting that she spend the night again. You deny it, thanking her for all that she's done for the past week.

“These scars will just need some time, you know?”

“Just… I'm here for you; remember that, alright?” She parked in front of your apartment building, the pitter-patter of rain plunking against the vehicle's roof.

“I know. Thanks, Ronnie. I'll see you on Monday.” 

“Here, take my umbrella.”

“I'll be okay.” You opened the door, wishing her a good rest of her night and a farewell.

You went straight to your bed and laid there. Time will heal all. It has to. It must.

Days turned to hours. Minutes into seconds. Hours into days. Everything has merged into one. 

You would come into work late, appearing frail and worn. You would make up for the lost time by overworking yourself to consume your brain with other insignificant images and thoughts. 

You would go until you were dead exhausted, go home, sleep in, come into work, labor away, and repeat the process until you decided when you were feeling better. You have to heal. This was the only way. 

You were managing. Lies. 

You were fine. Lies.

Ronnie was severely worried about your mental health, but you were surviving. You were okay. Lies. Lies. Lies.

It was going smoothly. You had your routine. Nothing was going to break you from it, and nothing was going to deter you from this healing.

Then one night, right as you were ready to fall asleep, a slew of cash was randomly deposited into your account. Perplexed, you texted Ronnie, pleading that she doesn't need to boost your pay and that you'll send the money back. She was confused, more so when you told her the price, and then she was really flabbergasted.

And that's when it popped up. That's when his face appeared.

‘I’m sending you this for the bedsheets and mattress. I hope you've been doing well.’

This bastard.

You wanted to throw a fit. Nearly two weeks. You were doing so well for that long. Now he has the nerve to arbitrarily become this mindless ‘sugar daddy?’ He was arrogant and dense. You directly sent it all back, along with a message stating you don't want or need his money.

‘I've already replaced the sheets and all. I've survived before you, and I can continue on without.’ You didn't replace the mattress.

‘Right. I'm sorry.’

‘Yeah.’

You needed some fresh air. You had to get away from it all. Why? Why would he randomly text you? Especially when the first message back is him sending cash for something so fruitless as linen? Why did he mosey along, ruining these moments of alleviation? Why couldn't you hate him? That would make things much smoother. But here you are, heart drumming unevenly after seeing his name and stomping out of the building to escape from it all. From him.

Rain. How fucking cliché.

You began to wander aimlessly until you found a destination. 

Why does the sky shed its lament for you? You didn't want it to pity you. You needed it to pity him. He’s the root. He's the one who put you both through this.

You released a shaky breath. Who were you fooling? Why couldn't you be angry all of a sudden? Why couldn't you scream? Kick? Anything?

The rain was masking your tears, as you couldn't tell the difference. You felt so numb. Lying and suffocating all these thoughts because you didn't know how to open up the lid.

Is this how he goes about life every day? Suffering from your own inner demons all because one can't face them? You knew you certainly couldn't, no matter how much you toiled on convincing yourself.

You continued your walk when you began the descent into that hellscape rabbit hole. You slithered back to that night, triggering everything he threw at you unanticipatedly instead of the usual waves. You hated how that endless loop occupied your mind. You tried to bluff your way through, but you knew you were trapped.

You shouldn't exist because you're not ‘part of his canon?’ You need protection? From what? Him? Others? Yourself? That whole canon debacle?

You didn't necessarily get a full answer. All those reasons he dropped didn't add up. You don't understand his Spider-Man drivel; you never could, but you withhold the judgments because that's who he is. Though he seemingly couldn't separate or differentiate the two lifestyles.

He lied to you. He lied to both of you. You contemplated if he was forced into a corner to bite that intractable bullet. You desperately craved to believe that, but from how it deteriorated, he made an unbending choice for all, the royal we.

You tried to make sense of the logic behind it, but every turn was a dead end. 

You're an anomaly? You shouldn't exist?... Why were you born then?

You debated if that was existential. You concluded it was, and that was the last thing you wanted when attempting to solve a puzzle with different pieces from an overflow of different boxes. You can't make it work.

Or maybe you can, and it'll be this beautiful, monstrous amalgamation.

The rain picked up; maybe it understood something you couldn't feel. Your clothes were heavily drenched as you journeyed onward, but you didn't care. Ronnie offered that you show up during later hours for the next week or two after demanding that you participate in more self-care activities. She's sympathetic to the ones she loves and takes pride in helping them. 

You don't know how long you've been going, but you came to a halting stop in front of a certain bench. You desired to venture to the gardens but didn't want to take the risk of explaining your situation to an employee or passerby about why you were soaking in your pajamas.

Yeah, your nearly seven-foot-tall now vampire ex-boyfriend dumped you, hollering how you essentially shouldn't exist and that you'll only be there to self-reflect on your true purpose in life. 

Surely it wouldn't raise any concerns.

As you sat, the raindrops were sticking to your rear, dousing your already ruined bottoms. A flash of lighting and timid rumbles of thunder settled into the skies. You wrapped your arms around yourself in a feeble hug, discovering how alone you truly are in this moment. You appreciate your boss, but there's only so much she can feasibly accomplish on your self-guiding voyage. 

You can't casually go into a full, unambiguous conversation with anyone. This is an inescapable burden you have to face by yourself. How you must bear that information that you were going to be the cause of the world seemingly perishing away. 

How he left all that on you.

You were the reason, not him; even though he was in the relationship too, it was somehow your fault. 

When a star dies, it explodes into a supernova, turns into a black hole, or can create new stars.

This one became a black hole.

He was destroying it all. He did destroy it all. You shouldn't have fallen in love; then what were his actions conveying? It doesn't make sense. If life is basically predetermined, why did he start a meaningful connection with you? Wouldn't he also effect that canon event situation? How did your existence become an inconvenience to him?

You don't belong here. You still couldn't cloak your head around that; in fact, you couldn't do it for none of it.

You were his scapegoat. How he blamed you for doing normal, everyday things. You aren't some form of destiny, and you aren't a puppeteer. You're just an individual who wanted him to be okay, to have him forget about his worries, even if it was for one measly day.

Or maybe he was right. 

Maybe your relationship wasn't meant to be. It doesn't excuse him tacking all the blame on you. He was going all in as well. You sink your back on the bench, knowing you're going to catch a cold, but you didn't care. 

Your eyes start to scan the scenery. The burnt orange dims from the streetlights, the pond with no animals, the shrubs with blooming flowers being pelted with water to keep them going, the trees sweeping alongside the battering rains, and...

And a familiar figure in a Spider-Man suit sitting on a bench across from you. 

Miguel appeared as a child with his hand in the forbidden cookie jar. A deer in headlights. The night you accidentally first saw him in that get-up.

Despite the heavy rain, you both managed to catch each other's gazes. Your heart nearly blasted out of your chest. Not even the speediest racecar could compete with how fast it was racing. You closed your eyes, then pinched your arm, breaking a bit of skin, hoping you were just dreaming, and once again overslept. But when you opened them, he was still there, visible as can be. 

With a stroke of horrible luck, the rain began to let up, seemingly mocking you. You hated how clearly you could see his face now. He was gawking, his mouth agape, like he was trying to speak to you. 

You wished for him to say something. You dared him to express anything with the blazing leer you directed towards him. You refused to remove your inhospitable attitude.

You wanted him to do it. You desperately wanted him to call out for you.

You're still staring. Why is he such a coward? Ronnie was right. Yet, you're one to speak if you couldn't do what you wanted him to do. 

His lips move once more, but he catches them. You wouldn't know what to say or what questions to ask. Well, you did, but you didn't have the willpower to achieve it. 

You doubted that you would both move. You learned that you're both very headstrong, unbending to crack, and will hold your stances. Rather, it was for something as simple as spoiling one another while the receiver tried to deny it or as big as someone who would try to wedge in between you two.

How ironic that the one who did successfully wedge in between was the one you trusted most.

You both were stuck in a staring contest as your eyes started to sting. Was it from not blinking or the tears threatening to well up because of him?

Say something. Say anything.

You could tell his talons were digging into the wooden seat; you surveyed that knee vigorously judder. You gripped onto the edge of the bench, repulsed that your own hand wanted to help soothe and rub the troubles away.

His lips were pursed firmly as the rain stopped. You could hear the grating emitting and the sweeping winds whooshing in your ears, but they were also stinging at your eyes. You fought to keep them open, your eyelids twitching uncontrollably. He wasn't moving. He was straining himself, and you knew. You wanted him to break first. You needed him to.

But you broke and shattered all over.

You yelled out and slammed your eyes shut, rubbing them fiercely. Blinking rapidly at the wet, muddy ground as you attempted to get some moisture back into them. You jerked your head up as a scowl formed on your face.

He was gone. 

You hated how he continued to prove Ronnie's point over and over. He is a coward. Running at the first signs when things go downhill.

You refused to cry. You refused. You stayed seated for the next twenty minutes, until you finally opted to just go home. 

When you made it back, you stormed straight into your bedroom, not even remembering how you grabbed one of his shirts, but you did. You hugged it close to your chest and fell asleep.

Unbeknownst to you, he was still there. He was there, making sure you were safe and okay. That he will still care for you even when he's not there with you.

As another week passed, you lazed on the couch swiping through online dating profiles, another attempt to rush the healing business. This was a way for you to get some control back, whatever that may have been.

It hasn't been the best of luck, especially when you jumped the ship for the first guy who swiped right on you. He wasn't that bad-looking, and the conversations you held were decent, so you decided to meet him at some restaurant downtown. 

And it was a horrible time. 

It didn't help that you technically didn't really get to know him. It was only enough to clear your mind after the park incident, but you regretted your poor intuition and lack of judgment due to being desperate.

He was more of a talker, which didn't seem bad at first, but he wouldn't allow you to get a single word in, and he nearly ate all the food off your plate. You couldn't remember the rest as it was a blur, but you recalled texting Ronnie to save you from it.

She rescued you after paying for your meal, and you both went to get ice cream fudge sundaes. You didn't mention him at all to her. Rambling about everything, how it was a silly date, and you'll discover a better pick.

But you didn't want to pick another. You didn't want to mindlessly search over and over because he still lingered. No matter how much you persist in trying to remove him from your thoughts, he always finds a way back.

You needed something back. Stumbling up to your feet, you slogged through the clumps of candy wrappers and bags from cheap snacks, clothes you mindlessly tossed on the floor, not even bothering to pick them up, and several empty soda cans and half-finished or barely touched water bottles.

In your room, you eyed the flowers, whose petals began to fall off. Grabbing a water bottle, you poured the liquid into the vase, gently stroking a tulip.

“It's okay. Just because I'm withering doesn't mean you have to as well.”

Satisfied with the given amount, you flopped to your knees and eyed a certain drawer you left untouched. Taking a hold of the handles, you wrenched them open and absently glared at the clothes and objects, daggers of grief and solemnity cascading on your heart and mind.

Pulling each item out one by one, you ridiculed yourself for reminiscing. Have you forgotten the words he spoke to you? What all he threw at you that night? The actions he took upon himself that led him up to those final moments?

You needed something back, and you were going to get it.

Gathering up all the records, fabrics, picture frame, and the lavender spray bottle, you marched out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, right up to the bin. You were ready to take it all back. You were prepared to sonic boom your way to a mended soul. You are ready to take back that control. You needed this.

You were ready.

Suddenly, you were back on the couch, his contents left sitting on the coffee table as your thumb hovered above his name. You were dazed as you clicked it and began typing.

‘Hey…’

Don't. Why are you doing this? You know this is wrong; you didn't want to.

‘Hey.’

Why did he respond so quickly? Don't, don't. You needed to take back that control.

‘I forgot you have a bunch of stuff still over here. Do you want to pick them up?

Stop. Stop. You know what will happen, so why are you trying to give in?

‘I will come by and grab them. And I'll drop off the key and your things.’

Fuck. Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck you. You shouldn't be crying; you can't, but you couldn't stop the endless, flowing streams.

‘Okay, just text me when you're coming by so I can have them ready.’ Your eyes darted up to the table, then back down on the screen.

You remembered during your schooling days when you learned about the dark, blue parts of the ocean. If you accidentally fall into one, you get sucked into an abyss. They warn you about avoiding them by staying in the light, crystal-blue parts. But those parts have been tainted. Why would you ever want to be near a singular spot of transparency if you know that there is more out there to be discovered? Even if that small section is open and clear, what about the others that are purposely hidden?

He's still texting. The three dots have been going on for over a minute now.

You shouldn't be curious. You shouldn't care. You don't want to care. You won't care.

‘Okay, I will.’

Your phone slipped from your hands as you gripped your hair.

“Please tell me, Miguel. Please tell me your true thoughts. Please tell me you still love me; even though you never spoke those words, every action you displayed said it for you.”

You can't feel your face anymore. Was it from the tears? Or the lack of emotions?

At this point, that split second of control you audaciously acquired was snatched. Snatched away like a thief to a jewel.

What have you done? What devastation have you scorned upon yourself?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@ella-janehaven @prozacgooble @sanguwuxyoonbummy

[lorirwritesfanfic]

What Loss Feels Like

Book: Bloodbound Characters: Lily Spencer, Jax Matsuo, Kamillah Sayeed, Adrian Raines, MC - Samantha (mentioned) Rating: E Word count: 867 Reading time: ~3min Summary: After Samantha's passing, Lily pays a visit to her friend. Based on the prompts: @lilyspencerappreciationweek day 5 - Lily's Friendships/Relationships/Family / @choicesnovchallenge: Dia de Los Muertos

Author’s notes:

Samantha is a creation of this author. The other characters are owned by Pixelberry Studios;

This piece is set between the end of book two and beginning of book three;

I apologize in advance if Lily's characterization seems off. It's been a while since I played Bloodbound.

Warning: This piece contains descriptions of blood and death. Reader discretion is advised.

"No! No! No!" Jax cries out. Hot tears stream down his face torn between anger and pain as he holds Samantha in his arms. 

He isn't alone though. The same pain begins to spread from her chest to her entire body. And it's also on Kamillah's and Adrian's faces as Samantha's blood pools down the floor. A pain so intense, worse than any physical pain she ever had.

"It can't be..." Lily tells herself as she sinks on the floor next to her best friend's body. But reality hits her hard as her pants get soaked by Samantha's blood. The pain somehow grows stronger. 

Her hand touches Samantha's. "She's still warm," she murmurs. But for how long? Who knows... Does it even matter at this point?

While Adrian goes feral trying to punch Gaius's tree and Kamillah holds him back, Lily hears something strange. Using his sword, Jax cuts his arm and holds Samantha’s head towards the gash on his wrist

"Dude, what the hell?!" Lily says as she slaps Jax’s arm.

"She needs my blood. It’s the only way…" Jax mumbles.

"Stop it right now!" Kamillah shouts.

"Jax, stop it! You can't do that!" 

Lily tries to shake him away to no avail.  

Jax ignores everyone else and presses his wounded wrist against Samantha’s parted lips. 

"You don't know if that's what she wants," Kamillah tried to reason.

"I'm not gonna lose her! I can't lose her!" Jax croaks. 

"Let him do it," Adrian says.

Kamillah and Lily look back at Adrian, who somehow seems as calm as usual, despite the bloodshot eyes. One can't even imagine he was furiously kicking a tree a minute ago.

"But we don't know if—"

"She asked me to turn Lily. Maybe she thought about being Turned at some point," Adrian affirms.

Lily looks at Samantha's body as Jax attempts to feed her with his blood. Samantha wanted her to live so badly she got Adrian into a messy fight with the Council. Sam fought tooth and nail for her to be part of a clan. Maybe she would've considered. She just didn't have time to talk about it.

"Keep feeding it," Lily says.

"Not you too..." Kamillah grumbles.

"Maybe she wanted this! She wanted it for me. Why wouldn't she want it for herself?"

"She asked Adrian out of desperation!" Kamillah snaps.

"And so are we!" Lily wails.

Kamillah turns away as she discreetly wipes a tear from her cheek with one finger then says. "Fine."

Two days later

A crescent moon lights up the graveyard as Lily walks calmly towards Samantha's grave carrying a vase of flowers and a large bag. She doesn't know anything about how Samantha wanted to be buried. It never crossed their minds to talk about such things, but Samantha certainly would appreciate having her favorite flowers on her grave.

"Hey, bestie..." Lily smiles ruefully as she puts down the vase and sits. "I brought you some violets."

Taking a trowel out of the bag, she starts digging a small hole on the floor and takes the flowers off the vase.

"I know what you're thinking, but I did my research on gardening. I know what I'm doing." 

Taking a small box of fertilizer from the bag, she opens the box, mixes it with the sand then places the flower roots on the small hole.

"I don't know if this is what you wanted, but you like violets. It's gonna look nice, right?" She says, covering the flower roots with her hands and using a small watering can to water the soil.

"We never talked about this stuff. We barely had time to talk about normal stuff lately..." Lily looks down as she washes her hands. "But we should have, you know? We should have talked about death, bucket lists, final wishes, memorials... We should have!"

Her eyes well up as she looks at Samantha's picture. "Maybe then I would know if you wanted to be Turned."

A gentle breeze brushes her skin as she collects herself. "Jax tried, but we don't know if it worked. That's killing him. He's a mess, by the way. Adrian and him are emptying Raines Corp drink supply. You'd hate it to see them like this." 

"Kamillah said Turning takes time, that we have to wait a while... But the waiting is just..." Lily shakes her head as she cries once again.

"It shouldn't have been you... I don't know how much it'd hurt to lose anyone else, but... Would it be this painful?" Lily croaks. "It hurts so much, bestie..."

As she cries out, the wind blows stronger, rustling the leaves. A sweet yet spicy smell seeps through the hair, as though it rustled some flowers nearby or somebody sprayed perfume in the air. The scent kind of reminds her of Samantha.

A few minutes pass by until she finally calms down, finding some comfort in the silence of the night and in the smell. 

"Well... That's pretty much it. We're all a mess. Everything is a mess. I don't know what's going to happen next. But I'll keep fighting with the gang. We'll fix this. For you."

Lily then stands up, cleans up the dirt from her pants and gathers everything, placing it back in the plastic bag. 

"I hope you do wake up eventually. Luckily, not as a feral." She crosses her fingers. "Whenever you're ready, I'll be waiting." She then smiles at Samantha's picture on the grave. "Good night, bestie."

With that, Lily takes the plastic bag and walks away.

[stabbysideblog]

His face is partially lit by the campfire. The flickering flame throwing different features into sharp relief: dull upturned eyes, careworn wrinkles, scattered freckles, twisting bent hands, chewed lips.

"I think..." he pulls out the sentence as if the amount of seconds between fragments would be indicative of how logical the next half would be. As if that infinite moment would be able to pick up all of his puzzle peices and set them right. But you can only go so long before the end of the paragraph, so he finishes the sentence. "It's not that he made me miss him. It's that I don't want to not miss him because that feels like choosing. Like all of it was a choice I made. I don't know if that's better or worse."

----

Ardent runs in the shallow waves the sun framing him golden. He laughs full and joyful as the tide pushes him stumbling into the wet sand. His fingers dig in pulling out sand dollars and seaglass. His hair is misted glittering thousands of false diamonds. His cheeks pinched red as he races a crab out of the sand.

Sam watches from his island on the shore. A wide green umbrella for a canopy and picnic blankets for the floor. He watches as his husband dances with the wind. His chest rising and falling not with panic or fear but joy and freedom. He looks beautiful, he looks perfect, he looks like the past year of artifice was well worth it. He looks like a server saved.

~

It's hot and cold and hot and cold. Or maybe it's neither and you've just forgotten how to classify as abstract a measurement as temperature. You do know that your skin does not like whatever it is. There is a pressure above you and a constant beneath you and you shift on it. You want the waves to stop, the hot and cold and prickly and dull and loud and quiet to stop. You don't want to be so conscious of the weight of your vessel. There is a presence and there is a vibration you somehow recognize as sound. Nonsensical but continuous, low and soothing. You stop shifting to feel something deep and forgotten bubble up. Too much too fast you sink into the constant as relaxation blossoms through your veins.

~

You kneel next to the grave hand darting out to brush away the leaves. "I'm back. I know you hate me but I'm not going to leave you alone. I brought flowers, your favorite type." You place them in the vase squeezed in with last weeks bouquet. "The garden is going good. It's not as big as ours used to be but that's fine. It's fine I promise. Soon it's going to be time to harvest it. I-I." You swallow around the lump in your throat. "Is it weird to say I don't miss you? Maybe I just don't miss being you. I know this is all terrifying to you but it's different and it's good. You didn't have to hate me to have it be good." You pause. No reply. Duh. "I still talk to people. We both. We both deserved to live. You didn't have to kill me to deserve it and I hate that I had to kill you to exist." You adjust crossing your legs. "I don't know why I'm trying to convince you. I don't need your approval if that's what you're thinking. I'm perfectly fine without a tacit nod of approval from someone who can't even be a ghost." Your hand traces over the inscription in the wooden gravestone. "When I die which one of us will be the ghost?" You stand up brushing your pants off. There is work to be done.

"Goodbye Ardent. I promise I'll come back next week."

[watchingspnagain]

Rewatching Lazarus Rising

Welcome to “CAAAAAS!: A Supernatural Rewatch Blog” with Lor and Mace!

 Up today, s4e1: Lazarus Rising.

  “Dean pulls a Buffy and has to dig his way out of his own grave, gets splashed with holy water by Bobby, and mistaken for Sam’s boyfriend by Ruby. And that’s all great and all, but…CAS!!! CAAAASSSSS!!! ahem Um, also Castiel makes his first appearance on the show, claiming responsibility for Dean’s Easter parade.”

 Below is a log of our real-time reactions as we watched. Remember that there may be spoilers for any part of SPN’s 15-season run here. Note also that the nature of our conversation is adult and thus it may contain adult language and themes.

 [and we begin:]

 Lor:

 bounce bounce bounce

 Mace:

 YAS

 Lor:

omg pause

 Lor:

i have no sound

 Mace:

 omg compy, look here

 Lor:

okay fixed.

 Lor:

41:20 left

  Mace:

 okay i’m there

 Lor:

copper boom

 Mace:

 copper boom

 Lor:

jeez. okay, cas, come soothe my furrowed brow

 Mace:

 HAHAHA

 Lor:

omg the eye stuff

 Lor:

I FORGOT

 Mace:

 yeah

 Lor:

and his chokey breathing

 Mace:

yep

 Mace:

 they buried him with his lighter

 Lor:

crawls in coffin with him, absolutely not making the situation worse

 Mace:

 SNORK

 Lor:

OF COURSE THEY DID

 Lor:

can't go to the underworld without your lighter

 Mace:

 he and Buffy could TALK about STUFF

 Lor:

YAAAAAAS

 Lor:

the haaaaaaaaaands

 Mace:

 and give dirty looks to Willow and Cas from across the room

 Lor:

LOL

 Lor:

they have an EXCEPTIONAL dental plan in hell

 Mace:

 SNORK!!!

 Lor:

GAAAAAAH THIS SHOT

 Mace:

 Dean will not AT ALL be bitter about Buffy spending her time in heaven/nirvana

 Lor:

NOPE

 Lor:

not even a little

 Mace:

 omg those BOWED LEGS I CANNOT

 Lor:

YAAAAAAS

 Lor:

I love that the sign says keep the cooler door closed and he leaves it open

 Mace:

 SNORK!!

 Lor:

don't turn on only the hot water, you dope

 Lor:

mmmmmm HAND PRINT

 Lor:

HI CAS

 Mace:

give him some slack, he’s readjusting,

 Mace:

 YAS

 Lor:

LOL

 Mace:

 ah, only the essentials then, eh? Dean?

 Lor:

SNORK

 Lor:

he needs reading material

 Mace:

 yes because he just reads the articles

 Lor:

correct

 Mace:

 yes, Dean, run from one set of windows to the other

 Lor:

yeah, he's a little disoriented, the muffin

 Mace:

i suppose so

 Mace:

 oh BOBBY

 Lor:

YES

 Lor:

he is NOT amused

 Mace:

 poor Dean

 Lor:

omg their faces

 Mace:

YES

 Mace:

 aw, this is adorable. the first time Dean has come back from the dead and Bobby isn’t experienced at it yet

 Lor:

"you're about the closest thing I have to a father"

 Mace:

 OOOF

 Lor:

YES

 Mace:

 simpler times

 Lor:

yeah

 Lor:

I love that he winces a little before he makes the cut

 Mace:

DUDE WHY CUT THERE?!

 Mace:

 YES

 Lor:

the palm of your LEFT hand, Dean, come on

 Lor:

lololololol the holy water

 Mace:

 or, like the other side of the arm

 Lor:

yep

 Mace:

 oh Dean, your pants are on fire

 Lor:

YEP

 Lor:

Dean is sus

 Mace:

YEP

 Mace:

“dammit Sammy"

 Mace:

 “this force, this presence” that’s your boyfriend, DeanDean

 Lor:

YEP

 Lor:

you'll recognize him soon, hon

 Mace:

 “what don’t I know about that kid"

 Lor:

ooooof Dean calling out someone else about their drinking

 Lor:

YES

 Mace:

 yeah, read the room, Dean, he lost his SON

 Lor:

HE DID

 Lor:

"heya, Sammy"

 Mace:

BOYS

 Mace:

 Ruby looks pretty good in those undies

 Lor:

she DOES

 Mace:

 “I look fantastic” HAHAHAHA

 Lor:

SUPER stoked we're finally to Ruby 2.0

 Lor:

LOLOLOLOL

 Mace:

YAS

 Mace:

 it’d be great if she could take over for Laurel, too [Ed. On Arrow.]

 Lor:

LOL

 Lor:

it WOULD

 Mace:

 “are you two, like, together?” “what?” this doesn’t fit.

 Lor:

well, they're pretending she's not Ruby, right?

 Mace:

if she’s Ruby and Sammy knows she’s Ruby, then that doesn’t work

 Mace:

yes but Sam’s reaction just doesn’t seem right

 Mace:

 i just don’t like the writing there

 Lor:

yeah, it should be more like "ooooh riiiight I'll play along"

 Mace:

 yep

 Lor:

bc it's not like they thought he was gonna show up

 Lor:

it was a nugget of the lord, dean!

 Mace:

 HAHAHAHA

 Lor:

I really like that shirt of Sammy's

 Mace:

yeah, this would have been a huge shock and they wouldn’t have had the presence of mind to pretend that smoothly

 Mace:

 YAS

 Lor:

yeah

 Lor:

SAMULET

 Mace:

THE NECKLACE

 Mace:

 YAS

 Lor:

YAAAS

 Lor:

LYING

 Mace:

 too soon, Sammy

 Lor:

RIGHT?

 Lor:

like let the man have a burger first

 Mace:

 Is this the first time we get Dean looking in a mirror like this?

 Lor:

oooo MAYBE

 Mace:

 (his eyes are SO GREEN)

 Lor:

although.... I think I already have a mirror tag going, so maybe not?

 Mace:

ooooh

 Mace:

 DOUCHE HER UP

 Lor:

(YAAAAAAAAS)

 Mace:

HAHAHAHAHA

 Mace:

 omg the LOOK he gives Sammy

 Lor:

I LUFF HIM

 Mace:

“really?”

 Mace:

 HAHAHAHAHA

 Lor:

YAAAAAS

 Lor:

it almost makes up for him saying "I almost forgot" about Baby. HE DID NOT

 Mace:

(I would SO get him into things like Tori Amos through sheer stubborn determination)

 Mace:

 right?!

 Lor:

(YAAAAS)

 Mace:

 well, it has been forty years, though

 Lor:

(sit down, Dean, it's time for some Ani DiFranco)

 Lor:

PFFFT

 Mace:

(SNORK)

 Mace:

she is gorgeous

 Mace:

 and saucy

 Lor:

she IS

 Lor:

the look Bobby gives her

 Mace:

too bad Cas gets jealous and burns her eyes out

 Mace:

 YES

 Lor:

LOLOLOL

 Lor:

he knows she groped him under the table

 Mace:

of course he does

 Mace:

 Dean, you shouldn’t assume it was a him

 Lor:

"she's gonna eat you alive"

 Mace:

 “YOU ARE NOT INVITED”

 Lor:

RIGHT? Jesse was definitely a girl

 Mace:

 DEFINITELY

 Lor:

LOLOLOL

 Mace:

 “he didn’t touch me there” not yet, at least

 Lor:

LOLOLOLOLOL

 Lor:

he would never. not without taking him to dinner first

 Mace:

 SNORK

 Lor:

he DID SAY, Pamela

 Mace:

 and she DID ask. several times.

 Lor:

"castiel or whatever"

 Mace:

 oh Dean

 Lor:

his perky nipples lolololol

 Mace:

HAHAHAHA

 Mace:

 self objectification as defense

 Lor:

YEP

 Mace:

 I smell Fault of John here

 Lor:

YYYYYEP

 Mace:

 “the smarter brother’s back in town” HAHAHA

 Lor:

I love that Dean is obsessed with Cas in relation to Sam before he even knows who he is

 Lor:

LOLOLOLOLOL

 Mace:

 YES

 Lor:

tsk Sammy, sneaking off in Baby

 Mace:

 yeeeah

 Lor:

lookit him sleepy

 Mace:

 YES little muffin

 Lor:

oooooof

 Mace:

 yeah

 Lor:

that scene always gets me

 Mace:

 yeah

 Lor:

poor Dean all on the floor with the glass falling on him

 Mace:

 yeah

 Lor:

"we could choose life"

 Lor:

BOBBY

 Mace:

 YES

 Lor:

oooof Sammy

 Mace:

yeah

 Mace:

 bounces

 Lor:

YAAAAAAAAS

 Mace:

 (I think the title of this one should just be CAAAAAASSSSS)

 Lor:

(YEP. I was thinking that too)

 Lor:

oh Sammy

 Mace:

 right?

 Lor:

Bobby swinging his legs!

 Mace:

 YAS

 Lor:

Dean fiddling with the knife

 Mace:

 YES

 Lor:

EEEEEEEEEEEEEE

 Mace:

 YAAAASSSSS

 Lor:

AAAAAAAH LOOKIT HIM

 Mace:

CAAAAASSSSSSS

 Mace:

 ADORABLE LIL NUGGET

 Lor:

he enters the room and SPARKS FLY

 Mace:

 YAAASSS

 Lor:

"GRIPPED YOU TIGHT AND RAISED YOU FROM PERDITION"

 Mace:

 THERE IT IS!!!

 Lor:

aw, stab at first sight

 Mace:

SNORK

 Mace:

 FIRST FINGER-TO-FOREHEAD

 Lor:

HIS EYES ARE SO BLUE

 Mace:

 THEY ARE

 Lor:

YAAAAAAS

 Mace:

 that’s what Dean’s thinking

 Lor:

YEP

 Lor:

he comes in and starts flipping through their books I LOVE HIM

 Mace:

 YAS

 Lor:

"you have no faith" aaaaaaaaaah

 Lor:

WINGS

 Mace:

OOOOOOF

 Mace:

WINGSS

 Mace:

YASSS

 Mace:

 BOUNCES MORE

 Lor:

LOL YES

 Lor:

"buddy, next time lower the volume"

 Lor:

try whispering in his ear, Cas

 Mace:

HAHAHA

 Mace:

 Cas, do NOT tell Dean he isn’t special

 Lor:

HEAD TILT

 Mace:

he already has issues in that area

 Mace:

 YAS

 Lor:

he does

 Mace:

“good things do happen, Dean” “Not in my experience"

 Mace:

 aaaaand that’s the relationship

 Lor:

"you don't think you deserve to be saved"

 Lor:

"we have work for you"

 Mace:

 YEP

 Lor:

YES

 [after the episode ended:]

 Mace:

 OOOF SOOO GOOOD

 Lor:

BOUNCEBOUNCEBOUNCE

 Lor:

YES

 Mace:

 bounces and sings “CAS IS HERE CAS IS HERE”

 Lor:

like, I'm supposed to believe that entrance WASN'T tailor made for everyone AND DEAN to fall in love with Cas?

 Lor:

pfffft

 Mace:

 RIGHT?!

 Lor:

joins in singing CAS CAS CAS like a baseline

 Mace:

HAHAHAHA

 Mace:

 I remember the first time through the show I was hot for DeanDean until this episode, and then it was like, Oh. OH. HOLD UP. I THINK I HAVE ANGEL FEVER.

 Lor:

LOL

 Mace:

 my love for Sammy was slow to emerge, but it’s no less true for that

 Lor:

nothing could ever diminish my love for Dean. I made him scooch on the couch a little so there was room for one more

 Mace:

 see, that’s why you deserve him more than I do. I’ll just sit over here on Sammy’s lap while secretly oogling the members of the couch

 Lor:

in a sliiiiightly more serious take, I think Dean and Cas are almost a unit for me at this point? like, you can't fully understand either of them without the other, so

 Lor:

SNORKLE

 Mace:

 agreed. (although for me, in my mind, it’s a trio)

 Lor:

(that works too)

[tomepact]

“you are not wrong .” he sputtered out the words in gasps. his wounds were grave and his consciousness rapidly fading. he couldn't quite see hymnal's face ... but he felt him, this time, under his grasping hand. the fires of the inferno calling; he held onto hymnal's shoulder tight for just one more moment. “i- i'm sorry ... for this - for everything ... - that it has to end this way – but it is not your fault but mine. and you are not wrong! ... to trust, to believe ... to help ... to care for and love people even when they disappoint you - ... it is not wrong. you didn't do anything wrong ... not a thing! please don't let this change you. not that part of you ... ”

the mind does strange things in times of intense troubles.

hymnal's mind takes him back, to sitting among the pews of the temple that had been his home. a cleric speaks prayers over them, reciting old hymns, and his hands are clasped and his head is bowed. it is a memory in a memory, because he remembers remembering something else: the face of a man desperate in the middle of a burning battlefield, holding onto hymnal like he's a lifeline.

aid those who are without guidance.

hymnal had started crying so hard in the middle of service that he had been led out of the room. he didn't know why, at the time, but it's all painfully clear now.

the same man lays at his feet now, burning blood seeping into his clothing and the ground and into the roots of the dark trees over them. his wounds are grave, inflicted by a combination of magecraft and the sword that hymnal clings to like it might be the last prayer he has in this world. above him is the only source of light illuminating them, a bead that spins into a halo behind his broken horns.

in another life, it's vespin's claws that are buried in his chest, grasping for the heart of a champion before the world becomes ash around him. this time, however, history rights itself -- the champion of good wins this battle.

you are a fool. you trusted him, and look -- look at what has happened again.

he hiccups over his next breath, trembling all over. he is no experienced knight in this life. here, he was not raised in the hallowed halls of grand cathedrals to walk the path of righteous anger.

here, he was a boy from a farming village wearing armor from another time.

vespin's hand grips into his shoulder, in the place where the pauldron meets the chestplate, and those fingers dig in almost painfully tight as he speaks. hymnal has to strain to hear him over the ringing in his ears. (he only learns later that the strain is because he's crying too hard, that the sobbing sounds are coming from himself.)

" i should have listened. i should have-- "

he should have stayed on the path from the beginning. or he should have run at the first opportunity. he should have done something.

please don't let this change you.

" i'm sorry -- i'm -- "

the fires burn too hot to hang onto vespin for too long. he tries, clinging to his arm until the flames lick up the exposed parts of his arms and he's forced to draw back. eventually, he's left alone in the dark, clutching his arms against himself as he tears the gauntlets off and tosses them to the side.

he's not sure how long he sits there before someone else comes along to find him -- time here doesn't move, not the way everything else does, and between memories of old and new, he can't stop crying.

(hellfire, it seems, never stops burning. the scars remain, black veins in the gold and white marble, and they hurt. they always hurt.)