#wringing it out like a rag over the sink

[halfdeadwallfly]

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[sixosix]

ONE LOOK (MEANT JUST FOR YOU) | WRIOTHESLEY

700 words of wriothesley visiting your home and pure fluff ensuing

Moving swiftly around the kitchen, the clinking of glass plates and glasses left you no room to detect Wriothesley's stealthy entrance. You only noticed him when you moved to wipe the table, only to see a broad figure standing by your doorway, a fond smile on his face.

The moment your gazes lock, Wriothesley takes it as his cue to gently shut the door behind him and make his way inside. He moves with some difficulty—limping, almost, and if you had been anyone else, you might not have noticed.

Your eyes track each movement. “Feeling unwell, Your Grace?”

“Yes, unfortunately,” he grunts out.

Despite that, his tone has this playful chipper to it that brings a smile to your face. You swipe over the table with a wet rag, leaving suds. “Anything that needs immediate medical attention? …Anything that you’ve kept from Sigewinne?”

“Don’t worry,” Wriothesley huffs a laugh, sinking against your couch. He groans out in relief as he melts. You wince upon hearing a crack here and there.

Wriothesley pays visits to your home whenever his schedule permits. While there are days when work keeps him occupied in his office, there are more than enough occasions where you can see that nothing has changed. This is still the same Wriothesley who shared affectionate moments with you in the comfort of your home and who flirted shamelessly and endlessly in his office at the Fortress of Meropide. He was never reticent about expressing his intentions and words. Good times.

You wring the cloth and let clean water run over your hands to wash the remaining suds off. You feel Wriothesley’s piercing gaze follow you around. “Want some tea?” You cast him a glance over your shoulder.

He flashes a wicked grin, able to look all regal even when he has his cheek pressed against your sofa’s headrest. “You know the way to my heart.” He shifts, extending one free arm outward as if preparing for a hug. “Though, I need you more than I need tea at the moment.”

A snort escapes you, diverting his attention from your stunned surprise at his shamelessness. “I’ll make you your favorite.”

Wriothesley says something about you’re his favorite but you tune him out in favor of not slipping and splashing hot water all over the floors you’ve just cleaned. He calls for your name again, dragging it out and wilting in defeat when you shoot him a stern and disapproving glare.

“Don’t distract me, idiot,” you say, watching the water steam and boil. As it does, you rummage through the cabinets for the cubes of sugar you’ve been buying more often because of that guy. “It’s not every day I was bored enough to take it upon myself to clean. I was taken by the burst of motivation.”

Wriothesley chuckles and thankfully lets himself enjoy the silence. The only sounds are the gentle padding of your feet around the kitchen and the clinking of tea cups against the table, all enveloped in a comforting atmosphere. Wriothesley's mere presence has the power to make anyone feel secure and at ease. It might be the broad shoulders or his feared name and title, or it might be the fact that he swore he would protect you as much as you protect him in sweet moments like this.

You place the two cups on the coffee table before him. Wriothesley then pulls you into his chest, causing you to yelp and tumble right into his waiting arms.

“Your tea is getting cold,” you say.

“Your lips look colder,” he says, his breath hot on the shell of your ear.

You narrow your eyes. “Wriothesley…”

He snorts, placing a kiss on your temple. “None of whatever you’re thinking, sweetheart. I just need you close.”

And keep you close he did. He has you trapped in his arms, but you feel far from trapped. You shuffle until your head is resting on his bicep, and you can meet his eyes. He’s silent.

“...Wriothesley.”

He fixes his heavy stare on your face, his own unreadable. “Hm?”

You press your hand against his jaw. “Is there something wrong?”

“God,” he murmurs, cupping your cheeks, “you’re so cute.”

Your heart flutters and threatens to flee from your chest. “I—I know. You should feel fortunate that you’re the only one who gets to hold me like this.” You try to sound haughty. It fails miserably at the warmth quickly spreading all over your face and your heartbeat, making you trip all over your words.

“I’m the only one, huh?” A gleam sparks in his eye, turning somewhat dangerous—fierce. “What I like to hear.”

for @naosaki with the chibi wrio pfp

[userautumn]

He knows he shouldn't, but Buck texts Tommy anyway. Once Jee is covered in chocolate and cookie crumbs, once she's drifting off to sleep against his arm with Moana playing softly in the background, he pulls up their text thread with his unoccupied hand and clicks on the message bar. He ignores the grey and blue messages that sit above, messages—warm, kind, and loving—that speak to a happier time and instead chooses to type out a quick message.

Jee misses you.

He sends off the text and then pockets his phone. Slips out of Jee's sticky grasp so he can start cleaning the kitchen before it's time to put her to bed. He's so deep in thought that he almost misses the way his phone vibrates in his pocket.

What did she say?

"Uncle Tommy come play?"

Tommy doesn't respond for a while, long enough that Buck gets to imagine his face, pinched and in pain, with tears in his eyes. Or maybe Tommy's just fine. Maybe Buck is the one pinched and in pain, emotional and so damn sick of crying all the time.

I'm sorry.

Sorry to her or sorry to me?

It's not fair. Buck knows it's not as soon as he sends it, but Tommy replies seconds later anyway.

Sorry to both of you.

Buck stares at the text until his screen goes blank, trying to decide which of the emotions he's currently drowning in that he wants to feel. He settles on anger.

If you were that sorry, you wouldn't have dumped me three days after our six month anniversary.

Never mind.

This was dumb.

I shouldn't have bothered.

Sorry to have bothered you.

Bye.

Goodbye, Evan.

Buck's heart lurches into his throat at the sight of his name on screen, his eyes widening and his breath quickening. An embarrassing rush of hope stirs deep in his chest before he can clamp down on it and it feels like breathing for the first time in weeks. Another text comes through immediately after.

Sorry. It's a habit. I'm so sorry. Goodnight, Buck. Please tell Jee-Yun that I hope to see her soon.

Buck stares for a long moment, then lets out a laugh, thin and mirthless, as humiliation—so much fucking humiliation—crawls up his gut, filling his mouth with bile and shame. Right. He should have known. Did know, probably, somewhere deep down in his gut. But Evan Buckley has always been a dreamer, a believer in the impossible. Even and especially when it costs him.

I'm not going to lie to her.

Tommy doesn't answer, and this time, Buck knows he won't. He slides his phone back into his pocket and stares down at the countertop. His hands are braced on the flat, smooth surface, the fingers of one hand slick with soapy water. He doesn't cry, but it's a damn near close thing. Hell, with the pain currently slicing and carving its way through his chest, he could probably scream with it, but he won't. He won't scare Jee and he won't wake the neighbors, he'll just... deal with it. Like he has been dealing with it, like he always deals with it.

Buck takes a deep breath. Then he grabs the dishcloth he'd thrown aside and walks back over to the sink. Dips the rag in hot, soapy water and wrings it out before returning to wipe down the counters once more. Whatever. All of this is just... whatever. Tommy breaks his heart—he lets Tommy break his heart—for the second time in a row and it's just fucking whatever. Right now, the kitchen needs to be cleaned and Jee-Yun needs to be woken up so she can brush her teeth before he tucks her in, and life does what it does best: it goes on.

He can cry about Tommy Kinard later. It's not like he gets much sleep these nights anyway.

[merakiui]

monops's reflection.

yandere!jade leech x (female) reader x floyd leech cw: yandere, nsfw, non-con, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, stalking, unrequited love, obsession, drugging, kidnapping/captivity, restraints, dark/possessive/violent thoughts, biting, blood, characters written as 18+ note - happy birthday, tweels!!! :D may you continue to be crazy.

Mostro Lounge is tranquil tonight, save for the occasional clinking of glass against glass and the soft melodies tumbling from your lips. You busy yourself with song while you wipe the surface of a table, bending forwards to reach the very back with the dampened rag. Jade finds himself eyeing your figure as you flit about, observing the way you wring the cloth free of excess water, your fingers curling into the sodden fabric as if attempting to strangle it. And then it’s promptly dunked into the bucket and wrung out again in repetition. He stands behind the counter and continues to dry the same glass he started on two minutes ago, its shiny surface reflecting his distracted countenance.

There’s something curious about you.

He can’t quite put his finger on what that something is. The more he analyzes you, the further he strays from a proper interpretation of your character. For a human who can’t use magic, you’re surprisingly selfless. You cheer your friends on in their academic endeavors, offering them your help whenever it feels like they might need it, and you carry your own weight at the lounge, boldly standing up to patrons who get too big for their britches. Jade wanted to pity you in the beginning, when customers had been rough and rude with you, but you’d dealt with every difficulty with a bright grin and a few choice words.

You’re strong; you never back down.

Jade sets the glass in its rightful place and reaches for another, all while keeping his mismatched stare on you. He wonders how much pressure it would take for you to finally snap. Would you still be able to smile then? Could you even manage to stay afloat in pessimistic waters with that blithe façade of yours? If he were to cut into you with knife and fork—with dreadfully sharp words and even sharper actions—would you allow yourself to bleed out? Or would you accept your fate and smile up at him from your porcelain plate, promising him you’ll patch yourself up because it isn’t a big deal?

When you act so cheerful, so blissfully ignorant to the beast who lurks behind, it sets a potent yearning aflame. A yearning to break you well beyond repair. A yearning to take that smile, chew it up, and spit it out until it’s the most devastated frown he’s ever seen.

“Good work today, Jade!” With a breathless huff—he wants to bottle that breath and each one that will follow—you set the bucket down and roll your shoulders. Exhaustion shadows your face, adding deceptive age to your youthful appearance. “Do you need any help?”

“I’m quite all right. Thank you, though.” He returns your smile with one of his own, the usual placid, tight-lipped thing that both eases and unsettles depending on the situation. His default expression, forever the same unless circumstances call for the other faces he’s stowed in his vast repertoire. “You’re more than welcome to head back if you’ve finished for the evening. I can handle the rest.”

“You sure?” The bucket is in your hands again, and you carry it over to the sink to empty the murky water into the basin. He notes the way your arms shake ever so slightly as you struggle to balance the heavy thing against the counter. “I don’t mind waiting here until you’re done.”

“Very well. In that case, I won’t take too long.”

He finishes drying the remaining lineup, arranging each on its respective shelf before wiping the counter for extra measure. He doesn’t have to do it, but he does. It never hurts to be clinically clean.

Floyd should be done with the stock count by now, he thinks, gazing at the door leading to the kitchen. I should check it just in case.

After folding his rag into a neat square and tucking it away, he strides over to the door, opens it a crack, and pokes his head inside. The kitchen space is devoid of life. With furrowed brows, Jade opens the door wider just as Floyd jumps out from his spot behind the racks. He’s holding the clipboard in one hand and flailing with the other. His attempt at a fright does nothing to startle Jade, but it does cause you to flinch back. You do that a lot. Jade’s noticed that you scare easily, often falling victim to Floyd’s pranks during your shifts. It’s all harmless fun, but sometimes Jade catches himself wishing for Floyd to push you just a little harder. A little rougher. Maybe one day he will and Jade will finally witness tears lining your lashes.

“F-Floyd!” you snap, humiliated. 

“Gotcha, Shrimpy. You always fall for it, y’know? Like a silly, stupid Shrimpy.” He passes the clipboard to Jade on his way out and adds, “Pretty sure everything’s correct.”

“Is it?” Jade peers at his brother’s handwriting. “If you don’t mind, I’ll review it once more.”

“Be my guest. Wasn’t really havin’ a ball fillin’ it out anyway.” He shrugs and then beelines for you, lifting you into the air with ease. He spins you despite your protests. Nasally laughter soon overtakes silence. Floyd has always been fond of your reactions; he eats them up as if it’s a special treat. “I wonder if you’ll get sick. You get motion sickness, Shrimpy? Tell me! Tell me!”

A covert smile stretches onto Jade’s mouth as he disappears into the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind him. While he goes over the numbers and corrects the errors Floyd’s made, he listens to you pleading with his brother to release you. Most of the numbers align with the remaining supplies and ingredients, and he adds his own notes in the margins so that Azul will know which are especially low and in need of replenishment. Checking his brother’s work isn’t a favorite pastime of Jade’s, but when it comes to the lounge and its success he’d rather look over a few numbers than watch sales plummet and listen to Azul’s endless slew of woeful complaints.

Once he’s made the necessary changes, he slips the sheet from the clipboard and heads back out. You’re in the process of chasing after Floyd, who’s holding your timecard above his head and dangling it like it’s a piece of bait. Part of Jade wants to enjoy the spectacle, but the other part is ready for the sweetness of sleep. For once he sides with the latter and clears his throat to get Floyd’s attention. 

“Ah, you’re already done?” Having lost interest in the game, he drops your card at once. It flutters to the floor, and he watches with wide, gleeful eyes as you swoop down to catch it. “That all we gotta do?”

“I believe so. Azul’s staying late, so he will lock up.”

Jade sets the inventory sheet on the nearest table for Azul to find before retrieving and filling out his timecard. Floyd hasn’t even marked his hours yet, and Jade exhales an empty sigh and takes the initiative to write it in for him. It’s always been like this. Jade looks out for Floyd, not only because they’re family and have always done so, but because there are some instances where he’s much too careless.

It has been noted that the two of them are a package deal. A duo. A pair. Inseparable twins who balance each other with varying levels of insanity. Their bond is unbreakable, having been built from blood and the will to survive ever since they were vulnerable elvers. Floyd is a reflection of Jade, and Jade is a reflection of Floyd; that’s how they have lived. Like day and night, sugar and salt, and light and dark, they operate like clockwork, expertly in time with one another.

The center of their relationship has always remained the same, and Jade suspects it will never change, even after they’ve acclimated to human society. They are predators with finely honed instincts, masquerading above the water as humans. With razored rows of teeth and an insatiable hunger for unpredictability, the two of them function in a domesticated world. In order to survive in such a foreign environment, Jade has learned that they need each other, which is why it’s so salient that they get along most days.

And much like night and day, like a person with a shadow, one cannot exist without the other.

“See ya tomorrow, Shrimpy!” Floyd flashes you a jovial grin as you take your leave, but there’s a mischievous glimmer in his eyes. “I’ll be waiting…”

“Um, yeah… H-Have a good night.”

With your timecard now in Jade’s capable hands, he’s free to observe your handwriting. There’s nothing special about the way you write, but it still manages to mesmerize him. Every loop of each letter, messily intertwining like frayed strings of fate, adds charm to the script. It’s obvious you tried and failed to sign your name in cursive, but the fact that you even bothered to do so is cute.

It’s truly not that important, he reminds himself as he places the cards back where they belong.

“Shall we head back now?”

Floyd nods, stifling a yawn. As they walk through peaceful halls, he adds in a conversational tone, “Awfully boring when Shrimpy’s not around.”

Jade weighs that declaration and finds himself nodding in agreement. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

i. on a moonlit night, under an eave of twinkling stars, monops waltzes gracefully with the ghost of his other half. the shards of a shattered mirror reflect two sides of the same coin, of human and monster. when the clouds part and an ethereal beam encases the solitary monops, the illusion melts away into a fleeting dream.

Floyd is everything Jade is not: energetic, extroverted, and brash. Such adjectives can’t possibly describe Jade’s outward demeanor—the one he carefully orchestrates for public consumption. He’s polite and kind, soft-spoken and always wearing a smile despite the situation. He cloaks himself in a many-layered mask—a perfect predator with multiple disguises at his disposal. If he must shed a dozen skins to uphold his gentlemanly disposition, then he will gladly peel them away one at a time until he’s found one that fits flawlessly over bone. Jade could never hope to become what Floyd is, but what Floyd is not Jade is. And he is composed of qualities that reflect Floyd’s own behaviors. 

He’s not ashamed to admit what he lacks. This is just a facet of life. You can never truly have everything you want. If the world was fair, everyone would achieve their goals without adversity. Any aspiration, no matter how small and insignificant, requires an adequate fight to be worthy of achievement. Survival is not much of a dream, but it’s the only thing Jade’s ever known as he floats through the world alongside his brother. His dreams are Floyd’s, or so that’s what he’s always told those who enquire. He shares these things with him because he does not have any to call his own.

Not yet, at least.

And sharing—it’s a word he knows well. Everything that Jade owns, Floyd owns as well. They share the same face, the same room, the same clothes. They might even come to share the same lover one day, should they both find their hearts pierced by Cupid’s miserable arrows. Jade has never been against the concept of sharing. It’s an acceptable way of life for him. He grew up practicing the concept, and it has taught him how to coexist with others. Sharing is an extension of the bonds he’s formed.

Still, he’s avaricious in some aspects. Hopelessly so.

There’s no denying the difficulty that arises when one wishes to share in the turbulent waters of the Coral Sea, where the natural order caters to the strong and crushes the weak, but splitting the essentials is what guarantees survival. And if it’s worked so well in the past, why should he stop now? Therefore, sharing will always be a priority, even if their desires are fraught with selfish envy.

Jade is watching you again.

You’re sitting in the courtyard with Azul, gesturing wildly as you recount a story he can’t hear from where he stands behind a stone pillar. Azul’s expression is soft with amusement; his lips quirk up in laughter, and his eyes never leave yours. Your cursive may be a mess and you might be feeble in the face of danger, but you certainly know how to enthrall others. If Jade didn’t know any better, he’d suspect you to be a siren. Night Raven College would be the perfect hunting ground for a predator of that nature. Perhaps once you’ve charmed Azul you’ll devour his heart and leave a streak of gore in your wake.

That’s impossible. 

Jade is certain of this fact because he knows you’re not a predator. You are very much the harmless prey who has wandered into a den of ravenous beasts. He wonders if the thought that Azul may be dangerous ever crosses that empty, pea-sized brain of yours. He’s as much of a hunter as the rest of the students here, and with those eight tentacles of his he could easily send you to a watery grave. You wouldn’t have much of a chance to struggle, not unless Azul’s own benevolence grants you that futile hope. Thinking about it—about the thrill of a one-sided scuffle—has his heart racing, his palms wetting with sweat.

Oh, but you’re not meant to be Azul’s prey.

So get out of his eyes. Step off of the stage that entertains. Untangle yourself from unseen tentacles.

You are Jade’s.

From the moment the two of you crossed paths—from the moment you took up a job at the lounge and relied on him during your training—you belonged to him. 

And he’s not quite sure he wants to share you with anyone.

Perhaps that dumb smile of yours hides something far darker. Perhaps your blood wouldn’t taste as delectable as he once hoped if it’s already been tainted by Azul’s silver tongue. In his own paradise, an ideal world constructed within the confines of his mind, you wouldn’t look at another man, another woman, another person. Not another living thing. You wouldn’t speak to another man, another woman, another person. Not another living thing. You wouldn’t know the tastes of sweet poison or bitter love unless Jade chooses to bestow these flavors unto you. You would only see him, only taste him, only adore him with those wondrous eyes—eyes that are so impossibly strong even when the harshest of insults are thrown your way.

So get the fuck out of Azul’s eyes. Step off of the damned stage that entertains. Untangle yourself from unseen tentacles before Jade slices all of them off at the root.

These feelings ignite a perilous, potent spark deep within his chest. Seeing you smile at Azul in such a casual setting—it’s not right. This terrarium display is wrong. So wrong. 

The internal fuse has been lit and it’s nearing its inevitable implosion. Stop looking at him with those eyes. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

If Jade could, he would slice your smile off and keep it for himself. Pin it to the wall like it’s a rare species of butterfly, your wings having been severed from the sky.

You’re unbearable.

He fears you wouldn’t belong anywhere in his ideal world, for if you found yourself in the depths of the Coral Sea he wouldn’t allow you to surface.

The most confounding specimen I’ve ever encountered.

Azul is an only child. His mother and step-father would miss him terribly.

— — — 

Jade spies the delightful pep in your step as you skip past the bar later that same day. You’re balancing drinks and desserts on a tray as you make your way to a nearby table, and he’s immediately reminded of why he’s so drawn to you. You’re a puzzle he has yet to solve—an experiment he has yet to collect enough data from. If he could, he’d shrink you down to the size of his index finger and place you in one of his terrariums so that you could live out your tiny life amongst an array of plants. And Jade would be content to observe from above like a godly sovereign with the power to change your fate in a single snap.

Perhaps it’s not right to view you as a specimen or prey. Perhaps it would be better to regard you as a slab of meat, raw and uncooked, just waiting to be snatched up in his maw.

“Please enjoy!”

Your voice pulls him from his reveries. It’s a melody he’s come to savor in solitude. Naturally lilting, it’s the type of voice even the most jealous of souls would covet. He wants to reach deep inside your throat, grasp it for himself, and cradle it to his ear as if it’s a secret-spilling conch.

But claiming ownership of your sound isn’t enough. He wants to—needs to—devour your everything. Your body and soul, marking you as his, ensuring you’re kept under his thumb forever, seared into his own existence like a brand. Then your every breath will be his, and the blood that courses through your veins shall also become his. The darkest of reds might just suit you more than the aquatic hues of Mostro Lounge’s uniform.

Oh, what he’d give to paint you in vinous vermillion.

“Jade, could you cover for me? I’m going to take my break now if that’s okay with you.” Jade must have scanned your hopeful expression for longer than normal because you begin to fidget in front of him, toying with the hem of your apron. “Uh, that’s fine, right?”

“Yes, of course. Go right ahead.” He sends you off with his trademark smile, dusting his destructive thoughts away.

After you’ve retreated to the kitchen, he turns his gaze on the patrons, listening to the noisy din of laughter and chatter. He overhears a group discussing peculiar textbook titles and how most of them are unnecessarily convoluted and complicated. One of the students brings up a title that didn’t make any sense to him and he describes his surprise when he learned it was a book full of love spells and potion recipes. His friends, as all close friends often do, crack jokes at his expense, prodding for more information on who he intends to enchant. The conversation is bland and juvenile, but it does manage to strike a chord of curiosity in Jade.

Love.

Jade has never known the true meaning of romance. Such a thing does not exist in his perfect world. In some lonesome corners of the ocean, merfolk reproduce because they must. Because it’s the only way to survive. It will be like that for him and Floyd in the future, lest they find themselves ensnared in true love’s deadly trap and choose to reproduce for the sole purpose of fickle feelings. To mate out of love rather than obligation—it’s not unheard of and he isn’t opposed to it. Many humans adopt this way of life.

Jade would like to try it for himself, but he doesn’t know how. He’s never known the answer to this question—the one equation he could never work out. Is his heart too small, or is he incapable of comprehending the complexities of romance? Perhaps neither is true. When he considers the requirements that must be met to qualify love as love, he realizes the adoration he feels for you is not fluffy or innocent. Can such a grand obsession be classified as love if it’s dark and spiraling, condemning him to horrific visions? 

Jade does not gaze upon you with fondness. He looks at you as if you’re to be his next meal.

Even when he feels like breaking you would quell some monstrous urge within him, there’s another side that wishes to simply lock you away and protect you from the world and its inhabitants. Because it’s the world that will save you from him, but if you were imprisoned in his world, where it would be just you and him, no one could ever hope to reach you.

Jade isn’t entirely cruel. He would like to share his hobbies with you. He would like to live alongside you in the Coral Sea, tying his life to yours. It’s not an impossible desire, but he knows you wouldn’t be content with this arrangement. Not because it would be unwilling. Not because it would be Jade who has fallen for you and dragged you beneath the waves. It’s precisely because it’s the sea that you might object. You would have to adapt to life in a new, underwater environment. You would have to relinquish certain pleasures unique to the surface, abandoning your bipedal friends and family to live in isolation with him.

But isolation is better than the other terrariums that wait for you. He’ll smash all of them so that you’ll only know this one—the one with him.

Jade has been moving on autopilot for so long now that it finally occurs to him that you’re nowhere to be found. The longer he spends counting the lounge’s staff, the more his observations are proven true. You haven’t returned from your break, which is very unusual considering you’ve always been so diligent about time management. Responsible, that’s what you are. It’s one of the qualities that’s won Azul over. 

He surmises it has also shocked his heart with bolts of not-so-lovely lightning.

Despite the bustling, crowded lounge, he slips inside the kitchen to search for you. Usually Floyd’s crowding around you whenever you have a moment to spare, but he isn’t anywhere in sight either. Jade knows his brother and his mood swings well. When he isn’t feeling the lounge, he’ll escape elsewhere until his mood has been restored. He can understand and overlook Floyd’s absence, but yours is inexcusable.

The chefs are hard at work cooking up delicious meals, and all kinds of savory scents blanket the air. Jade glances at the knife block tucked away in a corner, filled with blades of varying sizes, as he passes. After watching you for so long, he’s learned that you often spend your breaks in the storage room, away from the eyes of customers and Azul. Perhaps the space has become something of a comfort for you, or maybe you just like taking shelter in the kitchen.

A sharp gasp joins the chefs’ clattering.

Jade’s stare snaps towards the storage room door. He frowns when he notices it’s been left ajar.

As he approaches, he can make out the sounds of rustling fabric and salacious gasps. He peers through the sliver into the dimly lit space, a single yellow eye spying a terrible scene. It takes a lot to stun Jade Leech, but the view before him is stunning in a very crooked way. It sends a shockwave rumbling through his body, temporarily freezing him to his spot. Unable to look away, to preserve his eyes and mind, he watches. Every inch of him itches.

Bile claws up his throat with acidic fingers.

You’re pressed against the shelves, skirt hiked high and panties pushed haphazardly to the side. Towering over you, anatomy pinned to yours in a sinful connection, is Floyd. His hands are gripping your wrists as he rocks forward to slot himself deeper inside. You search for a solid hold to steady yourself, burying your head in your arm to muffle your keening cries. 

“Please… It’s… S’too much. Hold on,” you babble, clinging like a koala.

Floyd leans in to nip at the shell of your ear, eliciting a shudder and a squeal from you. “Not happening, Shrimpy…” His lips travel along the length of your neck, pressing playful kisses into your skin. “You’re really so cute, you know that? So cute and soft… I can’t keep my hands off of ya.”

“We really—oh—really shouldn’t do—hah—this!”

Floyd hums, nonchalant, and slowly slides out of your tight, gummy walls. The tip of his cock prods at your pussy once more, glistening with the dew of your essence.

“Why not?”

“Seriously… What if someone sees us? What if—”

Your retort is cut short when he snaps his hips against yours, filling you in a single thrust. You crumple in his arms, tears gathering in your eyes.

Tears. Because of Floyd. Tears.

“So what if they do? I’ll get ’em good if they peep on my Shrimpy.” He licks a stripe up your neck and then sinks his pointed teeth into the area, hard enough to draw blood. You flinch against him, your pretty face contorting with a mixture of pleasure and discomfort while he laps up your blood. Floyd hums merrily, the sound coming deep from within his chest. “Shrimpy always tastes so yummy. I wanna do this aaall the time!”

“Wait, don’t leave any marks!”

“Oops. Too late.” Grinning boyishly, he grabs your chin and tilts your head up to meet his greedy lips. “Lemme kiss it better for ya.”

Jade watches you melt into the kiss, watches you become putty in his twin brother’s hands. Your eyes flutter shut for the briefest moment, only to flash open when Floyd begins to thrust into you. He sets a hasty, sporadic pace as he pursues an orgasmic high. Your sobs are swallowed in sloppy, open-mouthed kisses that leave you breathless and reaching. You claw at anything stable enough to support you, your fingers curling into Floyd.

A perfect fit.

While he stands there and takes in the sight of his brother claiming the angel he had hoped to someday make his, it dawns on him that the entire storage room is stained with the memory of you. Your smell, your existence, your everything—it lingers even when you aren’t here. It is imprinted on the walls and shelves; it is on Floyd. Your entire soul has been his long before Jade even laid eyes on you.

Now he knows why you frequent the storage room. Now he knows your secret.

He’ll open your torso and pry it out of you, crush it underfoot, and insert a new secret. A better secret. His secret.

Floyd finishes inside of you with a husky, satisfied groan, his arms wrapped possessively around your trembling frame while you bite back bawdy moans. Jade is overcome with a loathsome chill. You have never belonged to him. Not ever. Certainly not now.

“We should get back out there.” Your mumbling reaches his ears, subdued in the cramped storage room. “Before someone comes looking.”

“Don’t wanna. S’warm and cozy inside.”

“Floyd…” Greedy hands are roaming beneath your shirt. You squirm, attempting to pull yourself off of his softening cock, but he yanks you against his chest and holds firm. “We can do this again later. But right now I need to clean up and you have to work. If we take too long, someone will definitely come looking.”

Floyd rolls his eyes, unwilling to acquiesce until yellow crosses yellow. For a strained moment Jade holds his brother’s inquisitive stare, investigating his blank expression for an iota of emotion. The air stales between the both of them, unspoken accusations festering. And then Floyd’s dull hues brighten and a wide smirk blossoms on his lips.

“Fine, fine. We’ll get back to work now.”

An apocalypse rages within Jade’s terrarium heart.

ii. when he turns to the shards for a solution, the image that is offered is weak and hazy. if he is to live without his other half, he must find ways to fill in the blanks. and so it is said that the lonesome monops clutched the largest shard in a resolute fist and cut away the impression of his other half.

In some cases, Jade is Floyd’s shadow, a reasonable body double who is admired for his patience and persistence. Sometimes he’s the collar and the leash; other times he is meticulously unrestrained. Everything is an act, carefully curated for unsuspecting audiences. Floyd is all physical destruction. He is swift like a clean cut, devastating like a tsunami.

For the first time in a while, Jade cannot bear the face he sees in the mirror. It doesn’t feel like it belongs to him, for it is a reflection of Floyd. It’s a permanent reminder that the two of them are linked whether or not he fancies that. But Jade does not want to be the collar and the lash, nor does he wish to recall the day Floyd took yet another precious thing from him. This face is proof that even he cannot have anything for himself. It is evidence that he is bound to share and share and share until death. He will remain as the shadow, the dark, the salt, and the night for all of eternity, a two-faced creature lacking a true identity.

Neither of them addresses the elephant in the room. If Floyd shows any indication that he wants to bring it up, Jade sweeps the topic away before it can poison his mood. He knows as well as Jade does that it’s not worth bickering over, even if their hackles raise whenever they look at each other.

So Floyd’s been fucking you in the storage room. What’s so traumatic about that? Really, it shouldn’t come as a surprise, but the image still persists in his head like a ruthless phantom. He’s left lying awake at night, sifting through that memory and the ones that came before it for any inkling of what went wrong. Was it his own patience that cost him? Was it the fact that Floyd could charm you in ways Jade just couldn’t?

They have the same face. So why did you choose to love his other half?

Without Floyd, Jade feels incomplete. That’s his family—his only brother. He shouldn’t hate his kin, but he can’t just sit with envy and frustration and pretend as if it’s okay.

The mirror reflects his grim countenance, sneering at him with troubling familiarity. Cracks spiderweb along the length of the glass, extending outwards from where his fist landed. Pain sparks beneath bruising knuckles, masterfully hidden under the pristine fabric of a pure-white glove.

The terrarium is filling with foul things, and Jade doesn’t have enough control to stop the invasion.

— — —

“It’s been really slow today, hasn’t it?” you ask, looking to Jade for his input.

“I’ll admit it’s unusually quiet.” He glances at you, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. He’s tired, but it hardly shows. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No, not at all! I welcome the break. Still… It’s weird. Mostro Lounge almost always has lots of customers.”

“I suppose it’s less work for us.”

“Yeah, that’s true.”

Heaving a relieved sigh, you rest your elbows on the counter, content to watch the few patrons lingering in the lounge. Jade’s eyes travel along the length of your back, over the the dip and swoop of your spine when you bend forward, and he’s immediately brought back to the day he discovered you and Floyd in the storage room.

“I’ve got it!” you announce moments later, lighting up like a bulb. “The reason it’s so quiet.”

“Oh?” He raises a brow, feigning ignorance.

“It’s because Floyd’s not here. Everything’s super lively when he’s around.”

“Is that so?”

“Mhm. It’s a shame he’s not scheduled today. Oh, but it’s not so bad when it’s just the two of us. We’re a good team!”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“I’m happy we can talk like this. It feels like we never have the chance to speak during work and I’m always worried I’ll bother you if I try to start a conversation.”

“You couldn’t possibly bother me.” Jade pauses to ruminate on his thoughts before adding, “Well, you were awfully troublesome in the beginning. Ah, don’t look so upset. I’m only admitting my feelings.”

“Am I still troublesome?” You cross your arms over your chest, pouting.

You are. Very much so, I’m afraid.

“I tolerate you now.”

“That doesn’t sound any better!”

Jade chuckles. “It’s merely constructive criticism. Take it in stride.”

“Ugh. You’re the worst.” Despite that, a smile creeps onto your face.

It’s the same smile you show Floyd, so therefore it has no meaning. It’s not special.

Jade abhors it. He should be the one in that storage room with you. It should be Jade who touches and lavishes you with filthy praise before inevitable destruction. Consolation before bruises and bite marks. Sugar before salt. Love before lust.

You can’t possibly fit in his make-believe terrarium now—not when your heart lies with Floyd. Just what is his brother to you? What do you possibly see in him that you fail to see in Jade? They are the same. They are mirror images of one another. There is no difference.

So why won’t you look at him with admiration in your eyes? Eyes he’ll gouge out for beholding another man. Why won’t you kiss him in secret? Lips he’ll sew shut for touching a mouth that isn’t his. Why won’t you beckon him into that cursed storage room and pull him flush against you, joining together in bodily matrimony? A body he’ll cage to prevent it from fleeing. Why can’t you love him until the very feeling is leaking from your pores? Leaking like the blood that will run far and red when he transplants his love into your chest. Why must you associate yourself with the other half—the better half? 

The half that’s won.

It doesn’t matter if Floyd’s willing to share. Jade isn’t feeling charitable. He doesn’t want to cut you up into tiny shreds and share. You’re for his enjoyment. This is a non-negotiable fact.

Perhaps he’s the worst just as you claimed. Because if he was the best he’d have you. Because if he was the best he wouldn’t feel the need to mourn a gutting loss. Because if he was the best he wouldn’t feel the need to fall back on a nasty trump card. But when fair play fails, one must resort to sordid schemes in order to secure victory. You can’t expect to climb the corporate ladder without stepping on a few rotted rungs in the ascent, courtesy of those who came before.

It’s fine if he plays dirty. After all, his feelings have never been defined by purity.

“You seem tired. Would you like me to fetch you something to drink?”

“Mm, yeah. Could you? I’d hate to trouble you.”

“It’s not a problem. Will tea be suitable?”

“Sure. I could go for chamomile. I heard you’re great at making tea, so I know it’ll be good.”

“I still have much to learn, but I’m flattered you hold me in such pleasant regard.”

“I doubt you could ever fail. You’re always succeeding. I’m actually kinda jealous. How are you so good at—oh! Someone needs me at table three. Be right back.”

Jade nods, replaying your words in a loop. I doubt you could ever fail. You’re always succeeding. But he has failed. He’s failed and it’s eating him alive because you’re so close and yet out of his reach.

You spread your wings like a good social butterfly and abandon your place at the counter. Jade’s left to prepare your tea in peace. He chooses from the vast selection lining the wall—chamomile just as you suggested—and goes through the motions of filling the kettle with fresh water. He’s working on a time limit here, so he withdraws his magic pen, mutters the proper incantation, and waits for the telltale hiss. Even though he would like to prepare it with the utmost care, he must be hasty and stealthy if he wants to slip the special ingredient in without garnering unwanted attention.

Luckily, you’re trapped in a conversation with a friend and won’t be returning to his side anytime soon. That’s another trait he’s learned about you. Just like Floyd, you adore chatting. It’s not difficult to hold a conversation with you, especially when you’re the one leading it. You shine when you speak. He needs to snuff you before anyone else comes to seek your light.

Perhaps it’s this intoxicating quality of yours that caught Floyd’s heart. Jade can’t quite ascertain when he started looking at you from less-than-friendly angles or what the exact catalyst for your relationship with his twin was. It must have begun as a wicked fascination. An innate curiosity with the surface and its humans. How else could Floyd have fallen for you if he rarely spoke with you? Was it your strengths that earned his approval? Was it your humanity that left him impressed?

It’s not fair, but Jade won’t whine about it. He’s not a child. Whining won’t solve anything.

He must love you until you shatter.

The kettle whistles, thus yanking him from his innermost contemplations. He lifts it, minding the burning surface, and pours the water into a porcelain cup. Steam rises and furls like wispy, ghostly fingers. He could keep the vial hidden in his pocket and serve you a normal cup of chamomile. But the situation isn’t normal and he can’t just charm you as he normally would.

That didn’t work, so he must cross that method off his list and resort to what’s next. It’s only natural to fight for the thing you cherish most, so he shall do just that.

If Floyd hasn’t broken you yet, he certainly will.

You’re back at the counter just as he finishes stirring it in with the now darkening, tea-tainted water. Jade hands it to you, reminding you that it’s still hot. It’s an empty warning. He couldn’t care less if the liquid scorches your tongue. Let it burn, he thinks, his eyes narrowed as he watches you blow on it so it’ll cool faster. Perhaps then you’ll stop tangling your tongue with him.

Sometimes love is as unforgiving as the deep sea, turbulent and harrowing. Sometimes you must kill the one you love to truly understand the feeling—to dissect it down to the biological, scientific level.

Like always, he observes you while you drink the tea throughout the remainder of your shift. You look so sleepy, your eyelids fluttering and snapping open. You’re slipping; he can see it. Jade wonders what face you might show him later—what emotion will reflect in fragile eyes.

He knows it won’t be love, but that doesn’t stop him from hoping.

iii. separated from his other half, monops is unrecognizable—a hollow monster who has lost fractions of his humanity in a selfish effort to dispose of unnatural characteristics. he cannot hope to find his own personality amidst the mess in his tower, so he sits before the broken, bloodied shards once again. his other half meets him there, shattered and in pieces as he stares.

You shift in your sleep, just barely breaching the surface of consciousness. Jade placed you on his bed after carrying you from the lounge to his and Floyd’s room, where he proceeded to bind your arms and gag you. You look mostly peaceful tangled in his sheets, an oblivious thing who knows nothing of the mountains he’s had to scale in order to arrive at this point—at the glorious top.

Floyd’s not here, but Jade suspects he might have already known what was coming. They’ve always known how to read the other. Maybe it’s telepathy.

Or maybe not. They’re just aware of the other’s monstrosities. That’s all there is to it.

It’s then when your eyes snap open. Jade doesn’t bother to hide the smile crawling onto his face as he watches you come to, slowly assessing your surroundings. It doesn’t take long for you to start struggling once you’ve registered the tie binding your wrists together and the gag shoved into your mouth. Your voice comes out muffled, but your nostrils are flaring. Your eyes are widening. He can smell your fear—taste it on the tip of his tongue.

It prickles his skin, sets it on fire.

Jade sits primly at the edge of Floyd’s bed, content to study you from a distance. You’re writhing desperately in an attempt to loosen the restraints. He’s tied them well. It’s a technique mastered and put into practice. You’re not getting out of this.

“You fainted.”

You startle, turning your head to look at him. The fear seems to diminish for a moment before it returns in full force. Your glassy eyes are pleading: Why?

“It’s not wise to overwork yourself. You should prioritize your health more.”

Oh, is this it? Are those tears? Already? When he hasn’t even done anything to you yet? Have you really been this weak all along?

You try to talk despite the gag, and the attempt is so pitiful that Jade crosses over to tug it down from your mouth. Saliva strings from the gag. Messy.

“Jade! What the hell?! Why am I tied up? Why am I in your room?”

He frowns. “I’ll admit I’m rather…displeased.” He could unleash the torrent right now, but he won’t. Not yet. “Perhaps you might know why my mood has soured?”

“I… What? Is this because I fainted? Look, I’m sorry. I’ll take better care of myself. Please don’t make this a big deal.”

He tilts his head, confused. “I don’t quite care that you fainted.” He seizes your chin and forces you to meet his mismatched hues. “I care about the company you keep.”

“The company I keep? I don’t understand. What are you—”

“Give it some thought.” His fingers dig into your cheeks. Hard.

You yelp, attempting to pull away. He doesn’t release you. “I don’t know what you mean! Seriously, what’s all of this about? Did I do something wrong? Please… Please let me go.”

“You’re getting there.” He lessens the pressure on your jaw. “Come now. You’re so close.”

“Jade, please—”

“This is regarding your involvement with my brother,” he begins, and horror settles on your face. “Ah, so you are following. Wonderful.”

“Did you… Did you see us?”

“More than I ever wanted to see, yes.” He smiles thinly and releases you. “I thought it was such a dreadful, ugly thing to behold. My own kin lusting after the only thing I’ve ever loved to such a degree.” He swipes a faux tear from his eye. His voice drops to a threateningly low decibel next, and darkness passes over his features. He looks scarily grotesque. “It made me so ill. Seeing you in that closet with Floyd… Watching you talk to Azul—to everyone else—makes me so ill. I fondly contemplated the most troubling things.”

“W-What?”

“It truly is a conundrum.” He sighs as if unloading a heavy burden. “To feel so strongly for something that even love and hate become one and the same… I want nothing more than to strangle you whenever I see you with Floyd, with Azul, with anyone who isn’t me. I want to cut into your torso and make you suffer tenfold for what I’ve had to endure.” His fingers curl around your ankles, sliding down to reach your shoes. He unties the laces, sliding both from your feet. And then he’s grasping them, rubbing circles into your soles. “I want you to look at me no matter what, even when you’re a shredded, bloodied mess.”

“You… You’re joking, r-right?”

“Am I?” He smiles again, but it’s wider this time. Exhilarated. Excited. “Should we see who’s laughing when I sever your feet at the ankles? He peels your socks off next, tossing them over his shoulder. “Do you think that’s a fitting punishment?”

“Fuck no! You’re insane!”

He hums his acknowledgement and reaches for your skirt. Your heart drops into your stomach, every muscle tightening with raw terror. Instinctively, you kick out at him. Your foot slams into his chest. If it hurts, he doesn’t let it show.

“Don’t you dare touch me, you creep! Stay the fuck away!” By the third kick, he catches your foot. And he stares at it. Quietly. Expressionlessly. There is nothing in his face. That horrifies you. “Jade… Jade, I’m sorry. Can we please… Can you please stop this?”

“Am I truly that undesirable? You would rather have Floyd than me?”

“Yes, of course! Floyd’s not a fucking pervert like you!”

Jade’s laughter is sudden and short. It trembles through him like an earthquake. “Forgive me. It was so funny I just had to chuckle.” A smug smile takes up residence on his face. “Do you really think Floyd is so pure? That he’s the perfect partner all humans dream of?”

“He didn’t outright admit to wanting to murder me so, uh, yeah, he’s much better than your crazy ass!”

Jade squeezes your foot once before setting it down on the bed. He crawls over you, his hands snaking up your thighs. “That’s a shame. You’ll think differently soon enough. He just hasn’t given you reason to fear him yet.”

“I highly doubt—hey! Don’t touch there!” You struggle again, your breath coming in short, helpless huffs. “Let go of me. Please. Jade, let go…” Your voice trails off, spotted with distress.

His hand settles over your clothed pussy next. Two fingers press up against that sacred spot, tracing the area experimentally. “This is that warm and cozy place, yes?” You shake your head at him, lips trembling. He smirks, vicious and mean, and strokes slow, soothing lines up and down the outline. “Is it your safe day? Ah, but perhaps love is stronger than medicine. Stronger than all of the filth Floyd’s emptied in you. What do you think?”

“No… No, stop!”

“It really did sicken me—the thought of you and Floyd. Together. Forever. If you were to fall pregnant, I’d have to take a textbook to your stomach. The alchemy textbook. That one would inflict the most damage, you see,” he admits with a pleasant hum. He watches the spreading wet patch with predatory glee before gazing back at you. “But you’re not pregnant, right?”

“I’m not! I’m not!” You gasp when his fingers dip into the waistband of your panties, harshly tugging them from your skin. And then his fingers are inching towards your pussy. “What are you—stop! No, no, no! Floyd! Floyd, help!” You squirm beneath him, kicking and screaming. “Floyd! Floyd, help me! Please! Anyone—someone—please help!”

A shadow passes over your face for a second before his hand comes down upon your mouth to silence your incessant shrieks. Your sobs are softer now, each plea spoken into his palm. Jade exhales slowly, composing himself.

“You’ve said his name more than enough. Say it any more and I’m afraid I’ll have to remedy this bad habit. Just how much do you value your tongue, I wonder?”

Before you can even think of struggling further, he’s switching the positions. Sitting back against the headboard, he tugs you onto his lap. You try to get away from him, but he holds you steady. The gag is fastened around your mouth once more, tighter this time.

“Now, now. You’re not going to escape, so there’s no point in exhausting your energy. Pointless pursuits are never rewarded,” he chides, tutting. He pulls his magic pen from his pocket and flicks it in the air once. A mirror materializes, displaying your disturbed expression in the glass.

Your mind blanks out then, logic overridden with the intrinsic desperation to survive. Is that really you looking back? It can’t be. The (Name) you know has never looked this fearful. Her face has never been this warped with panic.

But then you feel something stiff prodding you from behind, and the horror triples. You squirm again, much more forceful, sobbing into the gag and shaking your head as if that will earn you a sliver of sympathy from him. He continues to hold you against him with one arm while the other reaches to pull himself free from the confines of his pants and boxers.

“We have the same face, so there’s no need to cry. If it really helps, just think of me as Floyd,” he teases, and it sickens you. Makes you feel so gross and filthy. You want to step out of your skin, travel to a place that isn’t here, disappear into the tile and never return. Tears trace down your cheeks in salty rivulets. You can only produce blubbery whimpers now. His erect cock curves up towards your stomach. Jade lifts your skirt to get a better view. The mirror reflects it all in crisp detail. “What do you think? Is it bigger than his?”

His knuckles trace your cheek, uncharacteristically tender.

“It will seem that way when it’s inside, won’t it?”

In response you shift in his lap, tugging at the tie tightly secured around your wrists, and he merely chuckles. It’s delightful, really, the way you move like captured prey. Your chest heaves when the fleshy head of his cock presses shallowly inside your pussy, sampling wet warmth. You pray it’ll end fast. You pray he’ll be gentle. You pray he’ll skin you alive so you’ll never have to spend another second in this body. Anything but this.

Jade doesn’t grant either of those prayers, for he lifts you up slightly, aims for home, and slams you down in one brutal thrust that punches the air from your lungs. You choke on your tongue, biting down so hard that your teeth split the skin on the inside of your cheek. Blood pools into your mouth. It stings, but nothing hurts more than the unwanted intrusion. Shamelessly, much to your horror, your walls affix to him in an attempt to accommodate his girth. Without intending to, you catch yourself in the mirror. The stretch is sinful, your pussy wrapped snugly around him, and he’s slotted all the way to the hilt.

It’s torture for you.

It’s a twisted relief for Jade. A triumphant euphoria.

He exhales a shaky breath, his lips peeling apart to reveal a row of sharp teeth. In the mirror he looks every bit the predator he’s meant to be: cruel and cutthroat, staking claim on a stolen prize. His fingers dig into the meat of your hips as he rocks you up and down, occasionally bucking his hips to meet your soft, plush ass.

“It’s strange,” he manages through his grunts and groans, his breath hot on your nape, “I imagined this would feel more gratifying than any other gruesome thrill. Mm, but it’s not—” he slams you down again, reveling in your muffled wailing, “not nearly enough.”

Your eyes, wet with tears, question his reflection. You watch with bated breath as he slides your collar away, leaning in to press his lips to your neck. Your pulse stutters in his mouth, a jittery, fearful thing.

He inhales the pungent scent of sweat and sex, the scent of your fear, the scent of himself on you. From head to toe, externally and internally, you are covered in him, wrapped around him, molded to his very shape. You’ve gone stiff in his arms, too frightened to move a single muscle, but it only serves to excite him more. He needs to bear witness to all of it—to every inch of you, stripped bare and wired with anxiety.

Needle-thin teeth prick your skin. You wince and squeeze your eyes shut.

“Does it hurt?”

Despairing and hopeless, you deflate against him. Your body shakes with every sob.

It hurts. It hurts so much. More than anything has ever hurt before. And Jade knows this because he isn’t gentle. He has no interest in being sweet. He bites to harm. To kill. To destroy.

Jade sinks in deep: his teeth in your throat and his cock in your guts. And it hurts.

“I’m glad,” he murmurs, his lips slick and spattered with crimson when he pulls away, breathing heavily. “I’m so pleased…”

The blood just won’t stop. It’s flowing in rivers, cascading down the juncture between neck and shoulder and staining your clothes. Did he bite something major? Oh God—are you going to bleed out? Are you going to die? Did he get that one artery—the throat artery—the whatever-the-fuck-it’s-called artery? Is that even possible? Why won’t the blood stop? Why do you feel so fuzzy—so faint? It really won’t stop. It’s an ocean.

It’s everywhere.

Jade pinches you to bring you back to yourself; his nails prick your thigh, imprinting crescent moons in skin, and it works. You surface, taking in big gulps of oxygen while your heart skips over itself. You can’t drift off even if you wanted to; your reflection is much too haunting, destroyed and debased in every possible way. It grounds you in reality, digs deeply.

“Pain is the most thrilling form of love. You’ve taught me something new. Thank you.”

From behind, peering over your shoulder, his reflection grins at you. Wildly untamed and blood-stained, he’s manic. Unhinged. Uncaged. His pupils are so large they nearly eclipse his heterochromatic irises, rendering both eyes beady and black. Two pits of a molten void—a starless outer space.

He looks just like Floyd.

[radioactiveparker]

The Boy Next Door - Mechanic!Eddie Munson X Fem!Reader (Smut) *Sneak Peek*

"Yeah, could you keep it down, please? I'm trying to sleep."

His eyes softened ever so slightly. "Sorry, sweetheart, I've got a deadline to meet, and I work through the day. It's the only chance I get to work on it." And he went back to work as if that was a good enough answer.

You scoffed, irritation slowly rising again. You told yourself it didn't matter how hot his grease streaked muscles were. "Listen, I've got a job interview tomorrow morning that I'd rather not miss because I overslept."

"Congratulations, I hope it works out for you." There was a strain in his voice as he tightened another bolt, oblivious to the point you were trying to make. You clearly weren't getting anywhere with this guy.

"How about a compromise then? You can keep working but just promise to keep it down?"

He looked up at you over the hood of his car with those big brown eyes that were hard to resist melting for. He raised his eyebrows challengingly before stalking towards you, wringing his hands on an old rag. Your heart quickened, and you refrained from squeezing your thighs together when he licked his pink lips and threw the rag over his wide shoulder. He towered over you, close enough for you to smell his manly musk and see the drops of sweat trickle down the delicious skin of his neck that you so desperately wanted to sink your teeth into.

"I'm afraid I can't do that, sweetheart. It's not exactly an easy task to do quietly." He spoke to you, but his eyes not-so-subtly gawked down your shirt (his vantage point giving him a direct view down it), only locking eyes with you when he had finished talking.

You resisted rolling your eyes - men were so easy to read. So you played into it. You arched your back slightly to push out your breasts, the cool breeze perking your nipples through your top, and rested a flirty hand on his bicep.

"Surely you deserve a break?" You stroked a finger down his arm teasingly and batted your lashes at him. "I mean, you said it yourself. You work all through the day, and now you're working all through the night? Even a strong, hard-working man like you needs to have a break sometimes."

His eyes lingered on your pouted lips, just long enough for you to catch him. His eyes darted around with every thought as he considered your proposition before staring at you intently. "If I do this for you, what do I get out of it? I'm gonna need some sort of compensation for the delay I'm gonna have."

You played with the hem of his tank top, tugging it playfully and revealing the defined muscles of his pecks. You were having far too much fun toying with this handsome stranger, and his devilishly good looks only made it that much easier to play your part. Besides, you thought he deserved it after causing you so many sleepless nights.

"I'm sure you can think of a way for me to thank you." You whispered seductively.

"You mean like a..." He looked around cautiously to make sure there was no one to overhear. "A you-know-what?" He whispered.

"A 'you-know-what'?" You laughed at his phrasing. "That all depends."

You spun in the direction of your trailer whipping your hair so he could smell the addictive scent of your shampoo. You swayed your hips as you walked back to your trailer. You were pretty sure that your ass cheeks were showing under your shorts, but that just made you all the more enticing.

"Depends on what?" He called, standing there like a lost puppy.

You skipped up the steps and peeked your head out the door. "On how good a night's sleep I get." You winked and shut the door.

~~~

Read it here

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Congratulations in 5K, wow that's amazing and I'm so happy for you!

Could you please write a Graves drabble (he doesn't get enough love) where he's just so absolutely in love with his SO? Like standing back, leaning against a door frame, and watching his partner do something as mundane as the dishes or drawing? Him softly smiling as his SO hums or does something subconsciously??

I love your writing. Thank you for being my comfort writer.

—Love Echoes In Silence

⇢ ˗ˏˋ 5k Drabble Masterlist ࿐ྂ

╰┈➤ ❝ [You can feel him watching you, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and a small smile. Humming to yourself, you listen to the birds outside the window.] ❞

You dip your soapy hands back into the water, grabbing another plate before moving it over to the side to rinse its white porcelain face—finally setting it down in the plastic dish rack. Shifting back over, you hum under your breath and grab another, snatching up the washing rag as well to get rid of any residual germs. 

You’d only been at this for about ten minutes; the dishes from last night were left for this morning on account of Phillip coming home early. You’d both had a soft supper with a few glasses of red wine before retiring to bed, where the man was still asleep in the ruffled sheets as his bare skin lay in the rising sunlight; his stomach to the mattress and his hair sticking this way and that. It had been a chore to sneak out from under his arm, but you’d done it nonetheless even if it had taken a few minutes. One delicate kiss to Phillip’s forehead later, you’d slipped into his large t-shirt and padded to the kitchen. 

So, here you are, cleaning up with a smile on your lips and sleepy heat under Phillip’s shirt. A slow hum echoing through the air. 

Another dish is added to the clean pile, and as you grasp one of the dirty wine glasses, you miss the small creak of the floor leading to the kitchen as you listen to the birds outside. 

Phillip rubs at his face with the palm of his hand, yawning slowly before he pushes back his hair and watches. He’s only in his sweatpants—the gray color bunched as the un-tied waistband hangs at his hips. Blinking at you, a slow twitch goes across the man’s lips as he leans to the side, his shoulder to the door frame. 

He doesn’t speak—doesn’t utter anything as his arms cross over his chest and you continue your shapeless tune. Phillip isn’t a good man; he isn’t worthy of care or compassion. He’s done things that will follow him to his grave, the one he’d been digging himself since long before he met you. But there were moments like these where the light hit your body just right; where the house was silent and the floors were soft underfoot. 

Tiny moments that echoed like a call to home. 

You place the wine glass upside down to let the water drip out, wringing out the wash rag and unplugging the sink. You’d only begun washing your hands when your ears twitch to movement. A smile peels your lips.

“Mornin’,” Phillip mutters into your hair, hands sneaking around you until you’re held back to a bare chest. 

“Good morning,” you whisper, flicking off the water on your fingers. Your heart is light. “Sleep well?” 

He hums, squeezing you gently. 

“Come back t’bed.” Your chuckle makes him smile, eyes crinkling. 

“Phillip, I just got up.”

“C’mon, Sweetheart,” he pleads but doesn’t give you time to respond, arms bending to capture your legs and the span of your shoulders. You laugh as he hikes you into his hold—carrying you before your arms snap around his neck; curling into him. “Up ya get.”

“Really?” Your amused voice makes him look at you, raising one of his pale blows as he smirks softly. He brings you back to bed, tendrils of hair bouncing along the way. 

“Up and disappeared. You always leave the men with cold sheets and a yearnin’ in their hearts?” You roll your eyes, giggling into his neck. “You’ll be stickin’ right beside me today, Doll. That’s an order.”

All you do is kiss the corner of his mouth before he drops you both back onto the mattress.

[scribeofmorpheus]

Bellanaris [Part 2]

N.B: The "Your hands are cold" moment is a call back to chapter 3 in Harellan. Though the plot about the Ring of Obliteration can be skipped over, it's the main plot behind "Not Some Fanciful Story", so read that first if you don't want spoilers (though I haven't posted the final chapter yet)! Summary: Lavellan is given a clue by Varric that Solas might have been in Rivain, searching for an artefact (takes place before "The Missing" comic). While there, she's betrayed by her Rivaini informant who is revealed to be a cult leader seeking revenge against "the Dread Wolf's Whore"--who he discovered was the Inquisitor because of old sketches Solas had left behind in the deep roads. The ring is destroyed in an effort to break the blood-magic-fueled block against the Fade. [Part 1] [AO3]

They had returned to the Fade, slipping past its membrane with ease.

It seemed impossible, and yet there they were, finally in that other world he had once wished for their spirits to be joined.

A torrent of emotions washed through her, wringing her spirit at the final crescendo.

Revas emerged disoriented.

Grateful for the sense of touch, her arm was still anchored to Solas’ shoulder when she stumbled backwards. He’d been quick to pull her towards him, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face under her chin.

Solas was bent so awkwardly, his weight growing heavier with each shuddering breath, his form sinking deeper into her embrace.

She had almost forgotten how tall he was. Perhaps he had grown taller in the years they’d been apart. Perhaps she’d shrunk.

From over his shoulder, she could see how different the Fade was from how she remembered it, how strange it was.

Not blinding as it had been the first time she’d been drawn in. And not tainted by the crippling fear and confusion of the Fear demon's powers the last time they’d both journeyed into it, side by side. But a different thing altogether.

This iteration of the Fade still affected her to her very core, but it was stripped of all the dangers she'd anticipated. No giant spiders or wailing spirits. Somehow new, faded beyond compare, but imbued with something ephemeral, just as powerful as any fear, maybe more so. It wasn’t frightening but familiar. Like coming home without the memory of ever having one. A warped understanding of belonging. One that was trying to reach out through the clamour of confusion and the ringing madness of concern. A snuffed flame trying hard to burn as it used to once before, a long, long time ago.

These were his sensations that were passing through her. The repressed emotions left behind from the one-man war still waging under his armour. Obstacles of atonement.

The entire expanse was exactly as he’d phrased it. Empty. Greyed. There wasn’t the weight of mist in the air, the dryness of summer, the crisp coolness of a breeze. It was simply still. An expanse of colourless light and shifting space.

They stood on what looked to be the solid ground of a floating ruin with incredible similarity to that of Skyhold.

As the Veil closed behind them—the last one they’d ever close together, side by side—she heard Solas sigh in deliverance before he sunk to his knees, slowly pulling her down with him.

Once they were grounded, Revas turned to him, panicked. She opened her mouth to speak, to utter his name, call to her heart, but she was unsure if her voice would carry. Then, as he wrapped his arms around his frame, his breathing turning ragged, eyes shining with what should have been the glassy violet of a lavender field, she found her focal point. Doubts be damned.

She placed her hand upon his cheek, meaning to wipe the tears that had begun to flow as ardently as a waterfall, but the image had conjured that same feeling she had in Crestwood; when she’d been left alone with her reflection, bare-faced, hurt. That had been one of the few times in her life when the only solace for her pain had been to sit in the misery.

Suddenly, a large halla statue rose from a sea of empty void, bringing with it the faintest of colour. The kind of crystal blue that had built the waters of Crestwood.

Without knowing how, she managed to make her will manifest in the Fade.

Solas, too weak and bloodied to notice this, let out another heart-wrenching sob. He could not keep up the guise any longer, he could not feign being the ageless beacon of determination she had always seen him as.

With little effort, he collapsed onto her, his head resting against her folded thighs.

“It’s okay,” she whispered into his ear before placing a kiss to his temple, and then to his cheek. “You fought long enough. We both did. Rest now.”

“Vhen’an… I am so sorry,” he whimpered, hand gripping her sides with such strength, such care. “All those years you spent… All the things I never got a chance to tell you. So much pain! And I am the cause.”

“And despite it all, we endured.”

“But I turned away!” he shrunk further into himself, knees rising up to press closer to his chest. He had shut his eyes too tight, like a child afraid.

When she was younger, she had often imagined grabbing him by the cuff, bitter and enraged, demanding answers to all the questions that refused to leave her in the dead of night. Why was it so easy for him to leave? Was she not enough? Did he dream of her? But now, now there was just the old pain, the subtle sting.

“Did you? Truly?” she tucked her fingers under her jaw and pulled his face towards her. “Open your eyes, my love.”

He did. They became transfixed on the scars across her face, the ones she had gotten after he’d removed the vallaslin, after she’d adorned the Ring of Obliteration from Dorian, after Varric’s first letter that led her to Rivain, when the Fade had been closed to her.

Revas fought the urge to turn away and hide the discomfort which resided behind each line and curve that had been made by the necromancer’s blade. Though it had been years, the trauma lingered. On bad days, it made it difficult to face old friends or walk past polished mirrors. On the good days, it was the scar she used to remind herself that all things can heal with time given the right impulse.

Refusing to hide behind her hair as she had done out of habit throughout the years, Revas’ index finger trembled above the curling lines scarred into her forehead, “It happened a long time ago.”

“I know,” he sighed, tears rolling on either side of his face. He balled his hand into a fist in the air, biting down hard enough to form tension in his jaw. And then another sob eked out, “I should have been there to stop it…”

“Don’t say that,” she kept her voice steadfast in the face of the brewing storm inside her. Seeing pain was a daily occurrence for her, but nothing cut her as deeply as seeing it come from him. O, how foolish she’d been when she was younger and full of anger. How foolish indeed, if this was what she had once wished upon him, Yet, she had been right. For them to share these moments, the dinan’shiral had to break him. Lightly, she explained: “Without these scars, I might not have been able to share this with you. You see, I know you never truly turned away from me. You showed me that.”

Revas thought back to Rivain and the Cave of Misfortune, to the strange figure that had interrupted Regillus' ritual that attempted to tap into remnants of the Fade magic she had once possessed. The same figure who’d taken an arrow to the side as Sera unknowingly stuck Revas’ saviour with an arrow. A scar she was sure she’d find if Solas removed his armour.

“There was a time when I had been trapped,” she recounted. “A stranger in a strange land, seeking remnants of her past, trusting those I knew little of, risking the little time of peace the world felt obliged to offer me. And when I found it, what I had been unintentionally searching for—that love you undoubtedly carried, etched so beautifully on countless pieces of paper—I knew I had found what I was looking for. Proof. Proof that you still cared. And when I awoke on that ritual table, alive, able to dream again… I knew it had been you who saved me. I do not know how you sensed me with the ring, but I am grateful you did. You gave me more time to be with those I loved. You made me realise my mistakes. And I could only hope to do the same for you… before it was too late.”

“A spirit such as yours could not remain shrouded from me forever,” he reached up to touch a stray curl that had slipped from behind her ear. “I hear your song, even when there is nothing but the quiet. Rare and marvellous… the life we could have shared had I not been so blinded by my duty—”

“There is nothing but time for us now,” she reassured him. “This is the end of the dinan’shiral, for us both. This journey, these first steps that have never been shared between two of our kind before, we make our own. La ghilana ma var lath. We choose this. Together. And together we will form a bright and lasting new world. Even here.”

“How can you be so certain?” he sighed softly.

“Look,” she gestured to the world slowly forming around them.

A pantheon of shining new pathways and hopeful young colours bled into the grey. Muted, ever-so-slightly fading, but still filled with the promise of blooming deeper, perhaps into shades of things other than regret, that was the first sign. Perhaps the green of envy or joy would creep as the vines did in Skyhold. Then maybe the yellow of warmth, like Josephine’s silk dresses, would sway with the passing of time. And then red of passion and blood—desire and rage—that colour she was certain would bleed through. Beyond that, the possibilities were endless.

Where he saw nothing, Lavellan saw a canvas still forming.  

“Try as I might,” he shuddered, enraptured at the golden shimmer that formed far off in the horizon, “I could never manifest colour.”

Softly, she pressed her lips to his, imbuing their kiss with every emotion she carried, good and bad, and the sky above them turned a shade brighter.

“This is the power of our love.”

Hearing those words, seeing the introductions of colour, Solas relented whatever reservations he may have had and simply wept under the shelter of his lover’s gaze.

[pray4saint]

HI

idk if i have even requested anything from you before, but i <3 your work, so do with this what you will (and if you will) : james taking care of fem!reader when she's throwing up or even just has a cold :)

james taking care of his sick!gf!reader

masterlist & descrip. pg. 13+. fem!reader. established relationship. sick!reader. depictions of illness.

a/n. ugh yes i've been waiting for a request like this also HII / this isn't the best but i wanted to get something out for you dearie :]]

the first time you'd sneezed, james ignored it, figured it was just allergies. when you'd complained about being freezing despite the warm weather, he gave you his jacket and brushed it off. when you'd told him you were feeling a little sniffly, he gave you a wad of tissues and rubbed your arm, again brushing it off.

it wasn't until you were knocking on his door, covered in sweat, barely clothed, after lights out, just before he was going to turn his own lights out and go to bed that he knew something was really wrong. ”jamie..” you whined, hitting the door with your palm flat yet again. he sat up, placing his book on the table and strolling over to the door. he opened the entry point and looked you up and down. he looked tired, and he was, but he looked it much more than he was. ”doll, are you okay?” you shook your head at him and he motioned you inside, moving out of your way.

he walked you back to his bed, watching carefully as you sat down and tried to catch your breath. as he took in how you looked before him, he realised that you were sick, and the previous little comments you'd made throughout the day were starting to make a lot more sense.

your eyes were trained on him as he got down on his knees between your legs and he placed his hands on your upper thighs. ”can i get you anything princess? water? other clothes maybe?”

his alert concern and care was so quickly changed from his previous tired state and even with how much you felt like shit, it still made your heart flutter a little bit and your lips twitch up into a small, weak smile. then another wave of pangs hits across your body and you're groaning, falling over into your boyfriend's pillows. he's quick to follow you with his eyes and hands.

he looks around the darkened room before you finally speaks. ”jamie, i think m'gonna throw up..” your voice is low, barely above a whisper but james hears it all. ”alright.” he rubs up and down your arm. ”d'you want to go to the restroom?” you shake your head no. ”are you sure you're gonna throw up?” again you shake your head no. ”jus' have the icky feeling of it..” he nods slowly, ”ah, okay.” james' hand moves up to your face, palm on your cheek for a second. ”princess you're burning up.” he looks at your face scrunched up while his hand moves up, back of it against your forehead. ”i'll be right back okay? don't go anywhere.” you wanted to laugh, to say, as if i could, but you coughed instead, the dryness in your throat burning along your spine and up into your head.

james left your side and in the moment he was gone, you felt as if you were freezing, teeth chattering quietly, shivers and goosebumps ran up your arms, your legs trying to curl up into the rest of your body.

in the restroom attaches to the dorm, james was staring at himself in the mirror, waiting for the water in the sink to get cold, dry rag in hand. he moved the cloth into the flow of water, making sure it was fully soaked before turning off the faucet and wringing the rag out.

”here we go princess.” your boyfriend returned and as soon as he was sat on the floor again the heat returned to your body as well. he folded the rag into a rectangle and laid it on your forehead.

after a few moments of the cooling, you had started to doze off, and james watched with a smile. he shook your arm so he could tell you one last thing. ”i'm gonna grab a few things but when i come back, i'll be right here all night. okay?” with your eyes closed, you slowly nodded yes, trying to keep the cloth on your forehead. ”jamie?” you mumble out, and james' head snaps up from looking at the floor, humming. ”thank you for taking care of me. i don't know what i'd do without you.” he smiled, and although you couldn't see it, you could feel it radiating off of him.

”anytime princess, i'm sorry you're feelin' so crummy.” you smiled when he pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles, letting the sleep finally get to you.

pray4saint© do not copy, translate or repost my work without my express permission.

[mamamittens]

Oh, Sweet Child of Mine (Thatch AU End)

Platonic Yandere Thatch & G/N Reader

Main

Warnings: illness and drugging.

Word Count: 1,676

There were a great many things that you’d never be.

The tallest.

The strongest.

Free from this Yonko crew.

Sick.

This was simply reality as you’ve long since come to accept it—or… perhaps… in one particular case, refuse to accept otherwise. There would be none of that--! That--! Sniffling and sneezing nonsense from you! Nor wheezing and coughing!

Never happened and would never happen again.

Which is why, when you woke up to a coughing fit against Kotatsu’s suddenly very bristled fur, you knew it was nothing. Neither was the slight heat to your cheeks—you just felt embarrassed for startling the poor baby is all. Nothing a bit of cold water to your face couldn’t fix after consolation scritches to a cute pair of twitchy ears. Kotatsu’s rumbling purr rattling your lungs as the sweet kitty nearly flattened you beneath his hefty weight.

You grimaced as mucus rattled in your lungs with a particularly deep breath.

Absolutely nothing to worry about at all.

The cold water soothed the ache behind your eyes and you resolved to see how soon you could learn to breath underwater just to maintain the pleasant sensation when there was a knock on the door.

Ah. Shit.

“Ye—hng—! Yeah!?” You started to cough and quickly cleared your throat.

The door opened and you looked to find Thatch scowling as Kotatsu brushed past him.

“How did you… never mind. Hey, there!” Thatch grinned, “Ready to help make breakfast?”

You scowled, instantly knowing that was a very bad idea.

If you were sick—not that you were but if—then helping make food would just spread it to the whole damn ship.

It was rather unfortunate that ‘forced bonding’ time was part of your ongoing grounding that seemed to be an excuse at this point.

“I—henghk!” You started but quickly broke off into a cough, tucking your face into your elbow as the jerky motion took over your whole body. Your lungs screaming with every jar and face growing hot with exertion.

“Oh shit, are you sick?” Thatch asked in concern, walking up to help steady you as you rode out the harsh motions.

“C-Co—heurgh—urse not! D-Don’t say stupid things like th-at!” You sputtered, still wheezing a little.

Thatch snorted, lips quirking as he grabbed a rag from the sink and poured cold water over it. After wringing it out he pressed it over your hot face.

“Welp, there goes my plan for the day. C’mon. Back to bed. I’ll bring oatmeal in a bit.” Thatch cooed, laughing a little as you whined and huffed.

“Not sick!” You denied.

“Oh really? Does that mean you’re going to spend time cooking breakfast with your big brother?” Thatch teased, easily forcing your trembling body to sit on the bed. You gave him a nasty look.

“I should sneeze on you.” You hissed. Not deterred in the slightest, Thatch grinned cheekily.

“What good would that do if you’re not sick, huh?” Thatch pushed you down and settled the blanket back over you. “I’ll pick up some cold medicine to take with your oatmeal.”

Huffing, you tried to sit up only for Thatch’s hands to press firmly over your shoulders.

“Noooooooo! Not! Sick!” You denied petulantly. Thatch snorted and quickly retreated.

“Sure thing, kiddo.” You groaned as he closed the door and locked it.

Great. Now you couldn’t run off and hide somewhere even if you wanted to. All you could do was lay there, definitely not sick, and wallow in misery. Wet coughs plaguing you when you started muttering bitterly to yourself. Somewhere in between feverishly hoping Marco doesn’t learn of your condition to mother hen you to death and that Thatch gets the silly idea that you’re sick out of his head, you must have passed out.

Time moved in a thick, hazy mass. Fitful sleep muffled under static and heat. You woke feeling somehow worse than before if you even fell asleep to begin with. The ship heaving underneath you in harsh motions that clashed chaotically with the pulsing headache behind your eyes.  

The sound of locks sliding muffled under a thick layer of cotton as the door opened broke your confused thoughts.

“Heeeey~ Got your food.” Thatch’s voice drifted in from the light softly.

“…noooooo.” You whined, burying your face into the pillow as the door closed and there was a soft shuffling.

You hated being sick. It made your head fuzzy and anxiety to crawl up your spine. You felt Thatch’s hand curl under your head and shoulders as he lifted you up with a pitying huff.

“Geez, sweetie, I wasn’t gone for that long and you’re already feverish.” Thatch murmured, carefully propping you up when all you wanted to do was bury your head in your pillow. You shuddered, leaning against him with a low whine. “Aw, c’mon now. You gotta eat and then you can go back to sleep, deal?”

You sniffled, throat tickling as you rubbed your eyes. Thatch felt more like a rock against your side as he gently passed a bowl over to you. It was definitely oatmeal, flakes of fruit on the top, it’s weight warm between your trembling hands.

You…You could remember the last time you got sick. It was while you were in your early days of the marines, your devil fruit very new and you slept in the barracks. A bug went around and you managed to dodge it until after everyone else had already gotten through it. So you were quarantined to prevent another go around the entire base. It was a miserable week where your fever raged and you sweated clean through your pajamas several times over. The medicine they gave you not enough to knock you out, so you were… sort of awake the entire time. Not that you had a coherent thought for a majority of it. Food mostly consisted of clear soup from a can and crackers.

You woke up clinging to your pillow so damp you thought you’d overslept and someone dumped a bucket of water over you.

You ended up in the medical bay for another three days from dehydration.

Maybe it was the fever, the cold chills that rocked your body, or the soft and sweet scent of a very light oatmeal. But something dripped down your nose—not snot, thankfully. But thick tears that splashed onto your oatmeal.

You looked up at Thatch, barely able to see him clearly without your glasses and through your tears, and sniffled.

“You’re such a good big brother.” You whispered thickly before he could say anything about your state. He looked shocked and conflicted. Expression twisting between delight and something bordering on upset rage.

He cleared his throat.

“It’s just oatmeal…” Thatch reassured you, brushing away your tears. You kept crying anyway despite his efforts, quickly eating the oatmeal that had a suspiciously familiar taste that had nothing to do with breakfast.

You could not believe you were saying this but…

“Thank fuck you drugged this. I don’t wanna be conscious right now.” You whined, eating a bit faster as he choked while still crying. It tasted a little different this time. Likely the cold medicine he mentioned before. Good. You never liked the bitter taste of medicine and Thatch knew what he was doing when it came to food. When you finished, you looked at him with the saddest expression you could muster. “…could you stay with me? Just until I fall asleep, Thatch?” You asked softly.

He sighed, smiling with a nod as he slid into the bed beside you, pulling you up against his chest. His arms firm and reassuring around your aching body.

“Alright, I was planning on hiding from Marco for not telling him you were sick anyway.” Thatch chuckled.

You closed your eyes, curling closer as you laughed.

“…I meant it…” He squeezed your shoulder and whispered into your ear.

“I know, sweetie. Go to sleep now.”

--*--

You shuffled into the kitchen, your illness having long since passed with Thatch managing to escape with only a short bug.

There were several others at work with Thatch looking over the list of supplies, planning the day’s meal with mutterings under his breath. With a quick wink to the surprised chefs, you slipped in close and hugged him.

“—need to use those beans before—shit!” Thatch blinked in shock, head whipping around to see you smiling up at him.

“Morning, brother. Where did you want me for ‘family bonding activities’?” You asked with a playful huff. His expression fell as he clearly froze in shock. A tad nervous you broke him, you glanced around to the others that were clearly laughing at him.

Before you could say anything further, you were snapped up into a tight hug as Thatch laughed.

“You called me brother!” Thatch crowed gleefully. You wheezed in his embrace, arms locked to your sides as he bounced around in victory.

“Ack! T-This isn’t the first time!? Why are you losing your shit?!” You screeched indignantly, kicking your legs as you tried not to laugh. He’d think he could do this sort of thing all the time if you did.

“But you were sick! It doesn’t count then!” Thatch denied. You huffed, glaring down at him.

“Do you think I’d call just anyone ‘brother’, ever?” You hissed, face hot. “Who do you think I am?! I should demote you back down to Twin-Blade for this.”

Thatch’s expression twisted into horror as he quickly put you down and held you to his chest.

“No! Please don’t go back to those cold, distant days!” Thatch bemoaned, resting his cheek on your head.

Despite huffing and squirming, you hugged him back with a soft, hidden smile.

“…fine. I’ll forgive you, brother.” You said quietly against his chest. He squeezed you gently with a pleased sigh.

“Thanks, sweet pea… ready to help make breakfast?” He asked, finally pulling away with a bright, beaming smile.

“Yeah, I am.” You smiled back, pushing up your glasses again.

[blindmagdalena]

Our Blood's Gone Bad

summary: 18+ 1.2k homelander x queen maeve. biting. marking. hate sex. pure angst.

These days, they only fuck after they fight.

an older fic that I realized belatedly I had never actually posted to tumblr! enjoy. 🖤

Somehow, no matter what choices she makes—or thinks she makes—they always end up here.

Maeve is riding Homelander on her knees, fucking herself on his cock so hard that even the reinforced steel beams of his bed are groaning. She can't remember what had sparked the argument that got them to this point, not with every snap of his hips knocking the thoughts from her mind.

She prefers it that way.

He’s sitting up, face buried in the crook of her neck. She’s the only one he can fuck like this. He can finally let go of restraint and chase as much pleasure as he wants. He can’t break her, though god knows she wants him to.

His lips brush along her skin in series of kisses, featherlight despite the brutal way they grind into one another. With a hand in his hair, Maeve gives a sharp yank. “Use your fucking teeth,” she hisses. It wrings a groan from the back of his throat.

They weren't always like this. There were times she could make love to him without needing it to hurt. Nowadays, she treats his tenderness like an insult to be immediately remedied by violence.

Viciously, he complies. He sinks his teeth into her skin, holding her firmly in place with his arms at her back, hands hooked over her shoulders. He bites until he feels her titanium skin nearly give way. He eases back just shy of cutting through it, drags his tongue across the mark it leaves. Like those that came before it, it won’t last long, but he likes to admire them while they linger. Mine.

Maeve will always be his, if only because they both know they will never find this in another person. No one else will ever be strong enough, durable enough, or damaged enough. He owns this part of her. The unbreakable woman who wants nothing more than to be shattered to pieces. Maeve isn’t satisfied. She shoves him down hard, surprising him enough to break his hold. He lays sprawled back against the bed, eyes wide and blown black with arousal. She isn’t the only one who enjoys the fight. She covers his mouth with her hand, practically shoving the side of it between his teeth. “Harder.” Breathing harshly through his nose, Homelander bites down hard, catching the meat of the side of her hand just below her pinky. He watches the way she grunts, still bouncing herself on his cock, desperately chasing her release.

He moves his hands to her thighs, taking hold of her and digging his fingers into the muscle, dull nails biting crescent-shaped wounds into her skin. That makes her moan. The sound goes straight to his cock.

“Fuck, I said harder,” she grits out, her other hand braced on his chest. Their bodies colliding sounds more like combat than sex, impact after impact.

It electrifies every cell in his body, makes him feel like he’s going to erupt with the force of an atomic bomb. He squeezes her tighter and obeys her, biting down until he feels a coppery wet gush spill into his mouth, down his chin.

Maeve gasps with it, an angelic sound compared to the usual rough grit of her voice, and her orgasm suddenly peaks. His eyes roll back, a whimper leaving him. She’s so fucking tight, seizing around him like a vice. Homelander comes hard, back arching beneath her. His ragged moan is muffled into the palm of her bleeding hand. She takes him for all he’s worth, still rolling her hips, riding out the aftershocks of her own orgasm. She takes her hand suddenly from his mouth and grips the headboard instead, her head tipping back, eyes closed. Even when he makes her come, she can’t offer the courtesy of looking him in the eye. “Maeve,” he rasps, exhaling roughly. She hasn’t so much as slowed. She’s still grinding down against him with the same fervency they began with, and his pleasure is beginning to walk the razor's edge towards pain. “Jesus fuck, Maeve– ” “Shut up,” she growls, finally looking down at him. She plants both hands on his chest, leaving a bloody handprint on his bare skin. “Would you just shut the fuck up for once.” Homelander opens his mouth to protest, to snap something equally snide, but he doesn’t get the chance. Maeve drops down and presses her lips to his.

Whatever he had thought to say dies completely, his eyes falling shut. He moves his hands from her thighs to her face, cupping it briefly before pushing them back into her long hair, holding her with all his fucking might. He can’t remember the last time she kissed him. He’s going to savor it, despite the way his spent cock aches. She’s moving too fast, too hard, eating up the way he keens into her mouth. His expression twists. It fucking hurts, but he doesn’t want it to stop. He pulls her closer to him, tangling his hands in her hair, pretending for just a moment that they still love each other. Pleasure and pain spiral up in equal measure. Homelander feels like he’s coming undone with it, muttering incoherently between needy, hungry kisses. Eventually the onslaught of sensation merges into blinding white heat that feels like the aftershock of an orgasm, a second one wrenched from him alongside a sound that comes suspiciously close to a sob.

Maeve comes again, gasping her pleasure into the wet heat between them. The spasms of her cunt pull another pained noise from him. With a heavy breath, she lifts herself off of him, rolling onto her back. She scrubs a hand over her face before letting it fall to the bed. The two of them lay like that for a long moment, Homelander collecting himself while Maeve busies herself with lighting a cigarette. He fucking hates those things, and normally he’d have something to say about it, but right now he finds himself speechless. After a few more minutes of that, she rolls off the edge of the bed, cigarette dangling between her lips, and starts getting dressed. He frowns, rolling onto his side to watch her. “Hey,” he calls, but she doesn’t look at him. “Maeve, c’mon. Stay. For a bit. For more than four fuckin’ minutes,” “I have shit to do,” she responds curtly, avoiding his gaze. He scoffs. “Getting shitfaced, you mean?” She doesn’t respond. She’s already almost fully dressed. “Oh, would you cut the crap, Maeve? You think your life is so fucking hard. You’re a god. That shit’s beneath you,” he says, giving a vague, dismissive gesture. “Stay with me. We’re good together, you know. You just don’t want to admit it.”

At that, she looks sharply at him. He can’t discern her expression. She looks tired, irritated, but there’s also something uncomfortably empty in her eyes. This time, he's is the one to look away, discomforted by the hollowness of her stare. “It wasn’t always like this," he says, a quiet petulance in his voice. “Yes it was,” she responds, the venom in her voice replaced with an aching exhaustion. She makes her way to the door. “You just don’t want to admit it.” She doesn’t slam the door, but she might as well. The sound of it echoes too loud in his ears. Homelander is left cold, alone, and bitter.

[myveryownfanfiction]

18+ MINORS AND THOSE WITHOUT AGE IN BIO DNI

prompt from @creativepromptsforwriting:

"You almost died!"

"I think we should really focus on that 'almost' part."

tags: @eclecticwildflowers, @illiana-mystery

warnings: mention of death, swearing, blood, injury

I slammed the door to the apartment we were using, Eliot flinching at the noise. Hardisons head popped up from the couch and Parker paused in front of me. I stood staring at Eliot, ignoring Nate and Sophie opening the door.

“Eliot.” I growled. He flushed and went wide eyed. Everyone was still as the tension grew in the air. “You dumbass.” I marched over to him and drew my hand back. Eliot flinched and I paused. “How could you?”

“(Y/N).” He whispered, eyes roaming behind me at everyone else. “Can we not…”

“what? Afraid your friends will hear?” I snapped. “Afraid they’ll find out that you actually care about someone enough that you’re scared when you piss them off?” Eliot swallowed thickly and brought his gaze back to me. When he shifted his weight, I sighed and turned to everyone else in the room. “Can we have the room?” Nate nodded and started to usher everyone out. Hardison took a little bribing but he eventually left.

“look (Y/N)…” I hit Eliot’s arm and he immediately grabbed it. “Ow. Hey ok. What’s wrong?” He turned back towards the sink and continued wringing out the rag he’d been holding to his eyebrow.

“you almost died!” I screamed at Eliot as I hit him again. “You almost died and I had to sit there and hear it over the comms!” Eliot caught my hands easily and started to rub his thumb over my knuckles.

“I think we should really focus on the ‘almost’ part.” He whispered. I tried to tug my hands out of his grip but Eliot held fast. “Hey. Look at me. Look at me.” Eliot ducked his head to hold my gaze as I looked down. “Sure I almost died. But I’m a hitter. The best in the business. They can’t kill me.” I shook my head at him.

“el…” I whispered as I finally looked back up at him. Eliot dropped my hands and cupped my cheeks, wiping at the tears that had spilled. “You’re more than a hitter. You know that.” Eliot smiled at me before kissing my forehead. “But I worry anyway. Best in the business or not.” Eliot nodded and he pulled me close, wrapping his arms around me tightly as I cried into his shoulder.

“I know.” He whispered. “I know.” Leaning his head against mine, Eliot held me as I cried. “I’m sorry.” I pulled away, wiping my cheeks as I gazed at Eliot.

“no you’re not.” I said softly. “You’re not because if you hadn’t put yourself on the line, Sophie and Parker would have been caught. Nate would have had to abort and hardison would only have half a drive.” Eliot watched me carefully as I reached up to play with his hair. “And I would have had to go back in there to plant the transmitter that would allow Hardison to access it remotely. All running a higher risk than the one we took.” Letting my head fall against his shoulder, I hugged Eliot tightly. “I’m sorry for going off on you.”

“don’t be.” Eliot chuckled. “You have every reason to worry about me just like I have every reason to worry about you.” I pulled back to look at him.

“you worry about me?” I asked. Eliot nodded, kissing my nose.

“all the time.” He responded. “It goes both ways you know.” I chuckled and Eliot smiled. “Besides it’s fun to see the looks on their faces when you do that.” Leaning into him again, I sighed as he rubbed my arm.

“so you want me to keep doing that?” I asked, closing my eyes and savoring the moment.

“yes please.” Eliot laughed.

“will do.” I agreed as he pulled me tight.

[hottpinkpenguin]

The Way of Winter - Chapter 2

Joel Miller series Reader insert (gender neutral, future chapters will likely read as female) A/n: takes place at the end of episode 6 (spoilers if you haven't seen!). I took a few liberties with the location. Taglist: @missdragon-1 @this--is--music @caravelofthesun @ishouldclean Word count: 2,661 | Tags: slow burn | Warnings: none

“I thought you said you could save him!”

The girl’s shriek cut through the howl of the wind outside. You dabbed at the wound on Joel’s stomach with a rag soaked in vodka, trying to staunch the bleeding enough to see what you were stitching. 

“I said I could stitch him,” you corrected her calmly. “Now hold the light still.” 

The girl - she still hadn’t given you a name - held the kerosene lamp aloft over your shoulder next to Joel’s exposed stomach. You’d gathered his blood soaked shirt up around his armpits. His entire torso was stained with dried blood, his face so pale he looked almost corpse-like. He’d managed to stay semi-lucid for most of the ride home, but his condition had deteriorated fast within the last half hour. By the time you’d rode Rambo into the stable, Joel had been completely unconscious, his pulse faint and fluttering. It had taken all of your remaining strength to haul him in and splay him across your kitchen table. The cabin around you looked half-destroyed, dishware spread across the floor amidst dribbles of Joel’s blood.

“Isn’t that going to save him?” the girl asked, her voice rising in pitch.

“We’re about to find out,” you replied, threading the fishing line you’d soaked in alcohol through the end of a fishhook and knotting it. You were far from a doctor, although you’d stitched enough of your own wounds to know that these supplies would get the job done. With a deep breath in, you pinched the flesh near the ragged edges of Joel’s stab wound enough to pierce it with the fish hook. He moaned softly, his body tensing reactively to the pain, although he didn’t wake up fully. The light above your shoulder wavered slightly, and you heard a damp splat as the girl vomited on the floor next to your feet. You ignored her, pulling the fishing line through the wound until the knotted end snagged on his skin. You worked quickly, the fish hook weaving in and out of his skin as you knitted opposite sides of the wound together like a corset, stopping every fifteen or twenty seconds to dab away the blood. The sewing went faster as more of the wound closed up. You tied off the loose end, giving the wound an appraising look. It was crude, and would most certainly leave a scar, although the stitches seemed to be holding appropriately and the bleeding was visibly lessened. 

You let out a shaky exhale and wiped the sweat on your forehead with the back of your hand. 

“Is he going to be ok?” 

You turned to the girl. She looked ghostly in the harsh light of the kerosene lamp, her eyes wide as silver dollars as she waited for a reply. You felt exhaustion and the fading jitters of adrenaline wearing on you, your hands trembling slightly as you reached for the lamp, placing it down on the table next to Joel’s head.

“I don’t know,” you replied, standing and walking over to the potbelly stove in the center of the room. Earlier that day, you’d filled four massive tubs with water from the deep basin sink in the kitchen and let the cold water heat next to the ever-roaring stove that heated the cabin. On especially cold nights like this, you had to rely on the basins for your washing, drinking, and cooking water instead of using the sink and risk freezing the pipes. You plunged your hands into a basin of pleasantly lukewarm water, scrubbing Joel’s blood from your knuckles and from under your fingernails. 

Grabbing a clean, dry towel from the overhead clothes line that spanned the width of your cabin, you dunked it in the same basin, wringing it out before returning to the table where Joel lay on his back. He was still as pale as freshly driven snow, but his breathing seemed to have slowed and evened. You used the fresh, damp towel to sponge his torso clean, redunking it in the same now-bloodied water basin you’d washed your hands in. The girl watched you warily in the dim light. 

“How’d you learn to do that?” she asked quietly, nodding in the direction of your crude medical handiwork. 

“Necessity. Like I said, anyone who lives out here has to figure stuff like that out for themselves.” You unbuttoned Joel’s shirt and shimmied one of his arms out of it, then the next. You tossed the balled up shirt into the water basin, making a mental note to add salt to the water to help wash out the stains. 

“There’s a sweatshirt in the top drawer over by the bed,” you called over your shoulder. “Pull it out for me, would you?” You heard the dull sound of wood-on-wood as the girl opened the chest of drawers where you kept your meager collection of clothing. A few seconds later, she appeared next to you, the dark sweatshirt in her hands. You took it from her, and with her help slid Joel’s head through the neck opening and his arms through the sleeves. 

“Alright, we gotta move him.” She raised her eyebrows at you in surprise. 

“We can’t let him sleep here?” she asked, looking around the small cabin. 

“No. He needs to stay warm, I want to keep him close to the fire tonight. Besides, if he rolls over, this is a lot farther to fall than the cot. Just pull the cot over here, we can get him down onto that and then slide it over the floor.” 

The girl moved quickly, dragging the camping cot you used as a bed over from its usual corner of the cabin next to the kitchen table. She peeled back the four layers of blankets and sheets you slept with to the innermost layer, shedding the pillow from the head of the cot to the ground so as to give you both the broadest space possible to work with. The cot had a ground clearance of only a few inches, a drop of almost two and a half feet from the table where the unconscious and newly sewn Joel lay like a pile of bricks. Your arms were already screaming from the strain of trying to keep him in the saddle, and you knew that your young companion wouldn’t be able to lift a full-grown man’s weight. 

She noticed your eyes calculating the drop from the table to the cot. 

“We could tip him into it?” she offered. 

You exhaled slowly, considering the options. You couldn’t risk bending him at the waist and popping his stitches, otherwise it would be a relatively simple operation that could be done in stages. Even though you didn’t think tipping the table and letting him roll down into the cot was a great solution, it was about the best you could do. After a moment, you nodded. You moved the seating bench you’d used to stitch Joel up out of the way, replacing it with the cot. The girl circled to the opposite side of the table, her hands poised on the edge as if ready to push.

“You come over here, help keep him still and give him a soft landing.” She obliged, switching spots with you. 

“Ready?” you asked her. She nodded solemnly. You threw your weight against the edge of the kitchen table. You could feel every muscle up and down your back screaming in protest as the table slowly rose up on one side. Joel’s limp form began to slide slowly across the smooth, wood surface. The girl braced his descent with her hands, guiding him as gently as possible towards the cot. You continued to push against the table, willing your muscles to put one last push in before you let them rest. With a gentle thud, Joel rolled off the table and landed squarely in the center of the cot. You caught the table before it tipped over on top of him and guided it back down to the ground. Its surface was stained with blood and the floor around it was littered with bloody rags, your bait and tackle box, and a half-empty bottle of vodka. The place looked like a battlefield medic station, and you supposed in reality it wasn’t all that different. 

From the other side of the table, you watched as the girl gently situated Joel’s head on your pillow, pulling the covers back over his body. Her actions were tender and gentle. 

“You sure Joel isn’t your dad?” you asked. She shot you a withering glare. 

“He’s not,” she muttered sullenly. Once she was satisfied with the quality of his sleeping arrangements, you moved two of the water basins away from the edge of the stove and helped her drag the cot with him in it next to the cabin’s only heat source. When the cot was in its final position, the two of you sat back on the floor, panting with exhaustion. 

You motioned in the direction of the only chair you had in the cabin - an old fabric recliner you’d covered with multiple blankets to make up for its sagging cushions. 

“You can sleep there,” you offered. 

The girl’s eyes traveled gratefully to the chair back to you. 

“What about you?”

You motioned to the floor on the opposite side of the stove. There weren’t any other soft surfaces to find in the small, one-room cabin. 

“Who’s going to take watch?” she asked as she wearily stumbled in the direction of the chair. 

“Watch? What do you think we need to watch for out here exactly?” 

She looked at you with those dark, mistrustful eyes, and you got the distinct impression that those eyes had seen much more than her age implied. 

“For people.” There was a hollowness in her reply that made your skin crawl.

You stood and grabbed a few spare towels from the clothesline, folding them into a neat stack that you took over to the cleared space on the floor opposite the stove from Joel. You paused before laying down to add a few logs from the dried woodpile to the stove. When you finally did lay down on the floor, you could feel a shadow of the coming morning’s aches in your shoulders.

“I’ve lived here alone for six years,” you told the girl, sensing from the way her eyes bored holes in the side of your skull that she wasn’t going to let the matter drop so easily. “We don’t need a watch.” 

You let your eyes flutter close as you willed your wrenched-up muscles to relax. The girl didn’t answer you, but in a few breaths you heard the chair creak as her weight settled in it. Aside from the merry cackling of the fresh logs popping in the stove, you let the rhythm of two sets of breathing carry you off to a fitful sleep.

**read chapter 3 here let me know if you'd like to be tagged if you like this series, check out my Joel Miller masterlist for other works

[canelablutegel-cave]

Whumpril 3: Shame

This one was very rushed and features a Whumpee who was passed from one Whumper to the next. I might edit it later.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” they sobbed, backing into a wall, their hands wrapped around their head to protect it from any blows that might come their way.

The Whumper stood and looked disapprovingly at the scene before them. A broken vase on a freshly mopped floor, the flowers crooked and bent from the fall, “What are you waiting for? Clean it up.” they snapped, stepping over the vase and trembling Whumpee.

The Whumpee nodded heavily and began to pick up the flowers.

“No!” the Whumper stomped their foot, and the Whumpee dropped the stems. “You don't deserve to touch the beautiful flowers, use gloves and put them in your quarters.”

The Whumpee nodded and pulled out a pair of thick rubber gloves, they were hard to work with, but those were the only ones they had. They mopped the floor with a rag and collected the pieces of the vase.

“Bring the broken parts of the vase too.” The Whumper commanded.

Whumpee nodded and scooped the fragments and flowers into their arms, they stood, bowed to the Whumper, and scuttled out of the room.

They reached their quarters, a small, dark, jail-like cell, with only the light from the hallway to guide their way. They delicately placed the broken stoneware on a rickety table and propped up the flowers in it. The petals and stems drooped, held down by the Whumpee’s mistakes. The Whumpee did their best to lift the flowers, but it didn’t work, nothing worked. They went back into the house to clean some more.

When they returned, the Whumper stood outside of their room, calmly reading a book. They tried to turn their gaze down, but the Whumper forced them to look into their eyes. “Take off your shoes.”

The Whumpee let out a breath, one that almost formed into a “Why?” but they knew better. Stupid Whumpee, they knew better. They leaned against the wall for support and pulled off their shoes.

“And socks.”

The Whumpee took off their socks, folding them neatly in the shoes and stepping onto the cold cement floor. They looked at the Whumper, expectantly.

The Whumper quirked a brow, “What?”

The Whumpee looked down, nervously wringing their hands. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you need.”

The Whumper rolled their eyes, “Just go to bed.”

The Whumpee shortly bowed, “Thank you,” and went into the room. They stopped a few inches from the door. A small, confused hum escaping their lips.

“Don’t clean up anything.” The Whumper sneered as they closed the door.

The Whumpee flinched when the door slammed shut, their shoulders tensing, they expected the touch of their previous Whumper to trace their shoulders, but thankfully, they only felt their currant Whumpers eyes on their back. The Whumpee took a step forward, then another, then… A sharp pain shot up their leg, they knew this pain, it was glass. Their breathing became heavier, their eyes widened. They looked back at the Whumper.

“Keep going.”

The Whumpee gulped and set their foot down, the glass sinking deeper into their flesh with each second. They winced as they shifted their weight to take yet another step, and another, and another. The small room seemed to become longer with each painful step after agonizing step. The Whumpee put their hand against the wall and felt for their bed. Well, it was less of a bed and more of a pile of rags they collected during their stay here. They collapsed on it, moving into a criss-cross position. They couldn’t see much in the room besides the little bit of light from the door, but from the glimmers on the ground, they found that the glass was shaped to be like a flower, the same flower from the vase. This Whumper was certainly more creative than the last. They looked up and met the Whumper's eyes.

The Whumper sneered, “Don’t break anything again.” and turned off the light, leaving the Whumpee in the dark in a room of hazards.

[weshallc]

Old Skool Turnadette FanFic Alert!

When is the Wedding?

Happy birthday my best china! @fourteen-teacups 🥰🎁💝🎂

You are the Doc to my Grumpy, the Amelia to my Juliet, the Cathy to my Kelly, the Caroline to my Gillian, the Audrey to my Helen, the Sister Julienne to my Trixie.

I'm having a moment, so let's roll the fic!

This fic obeys no rules. So you snooty lot who couldn't possibly read something without a specific POV and perfect grammar that so many of us find so difficult and all the rest of it. This fic is not for you. It's for my mucker!

CHAPTER ONE

Half past ten on January 25th 1959.

“Hello, it’s just us.”

Sat at the kitchen table, Peter Noakes looked up from bouncing his baby son on his knee and shared a smile and a wink with Freddie’s mother.

“Why does she always say that? Does she think we’ve given a key to every waif and stray in Poplar.” Whispering as the front door slammed shut.

Camilla scowled at him from the kitchen sink and flicked the tea towel resting on her shoulder towards him in warning. “I think she is still getting her tongue around the ‘us’ part. Sort of trying it out on her friends until she feels comfortable saying it in company.” 

Camilla smoothed down her apron and pushed her chestnut hair behind her on alert ears. “And Shelagh is not a waif and stray. She is our house guest.”

Peter grinned at his wife’s indignation and couldn’t help himself.

“I think it’s because she knows how flustered you get when Dr Turner visits, and is giving you the old heads up. So you can plump the cushions or wipe down the kitchen surfaces.”

“I have never heard such outrageous nonsense in all my days, Peter Noakes!” Camilla ranted, wringing out the freshly soaked dish cloth. “I do not get flustered over any man, whether he be a respected GP or an annoying police constable.” She quietly fumed, taking her wrath out on the countertops with the wet rag.

“As much as I’m happy to accommodate such undemanding and pleasant company. We waited so long for a home of our own, so we could move out of Nonnatus, and now it seems like Nonnatus has come to us.”

Camilla turned and looked at him properly. “You really are the most patient of men. But, I couldn’t see her go back to that frightful boarding house and all those dreadful gossips, after what occurred at Christmas. I don’t think, young sir, minded too much giving up his room for a few weeks.” She nodded at her son, who was looking alternatively between his parents intently, like he understood every word.

“And I agreed there was no other suitable arrangement, with Nonnatus awaiting the wrecking ball and, as you say, every snoop worth their while, observing the comings and goings at the flat over the surgery. I just wonder when we could revert back from Noakes’ Home for Wayward Nuns back to Noakes’ Love Nest.”

“That’s enough. They will hear you." Camilla was beside herself. "Hopefully, we will find out in a matter of moments. They had an appointment with the vicar at All Saints this morning.”

The lull in their own conversation made the voices behind the kitchen door echoing from the passageway audible, if not discernible,

Peter broke the silence, much to Camilla’s delight, as she didn’t want to be accused of eavesdropping. When she hadn’t been able to make out a single syllable.

“If this goes on much longer, I’m going to have to arrest the pair of them for loitering with intent.”

“It’s not a boarding house. She doesn’t have to clock in and out with us. We didn’t issue a curfew. Well, at least I didn’t.” She looked at Peter accusingly and then got back to wiping down the kitchen table and picking up her husband's half-drunk cup of tea, throwing the remaining liquid down the sink.

“I hadn’t finished that!” Camilla didn’t hear him as she rearranged the fruit in the crystal bowl. Someone she couldn’t quite place had bought them it for a wedding present.

“I’m sorry to have to be the one to break it to your mummy, but she definitely does suffer from occasional bouts of flustration. Doesn’t she Freddie?” Peter diagnosed, addressing his son, who responded with a gurgle of approval. "Maybe we could ask the good doctor for a second opinion ?”

Peter’s grin widened. He looked like a naughty schoolboy scrumping apples, rather than a doting husband, but in that moment, he was both.

The wet cloth landed on PC Noakes’ head just seconds after the kitchen door opened and an apologetic voice chimed, “It’s just us.”

After a lot of silent but meaningful looks between all parties and the missile safely deposited in the sink, Peter had a fresh cup of tea set before him, as did everyone else. Freddie, who had been watching the morning’s events like he was reporting for the Poplar Gazette, was now sitting on the new addition to his family's knee, observing events from a different angle.

Freddie didn’t really know if he preferred a pink wafer to a bourbon. But he was mildly affronted no-one had asked if he had a preference. He kept trying to grab the pretty pink one out of the hand of the person they called Auntie Shelagh, but she was quick, and said “No” in such a sing-song voice he forgave her.

They were talking again about the weather, crocuses (whatever they were), something called whooping cough, which sounded much more fun than the frowny faces suggested. One of those awkward silences occurred again. That was always his cue. Gurgle, make spit bubbles, form fists, shake arms and giggle. It works every time. Like a charm. Eventually, Mummy found the courage to speak.

“Would it be so very out of turn? If one enquired how your appointment went this morning.”

Shleagh and Dr Turner glanced at each other in that ‘we know a secret sort of way’. It looked like he was about to take hold of her hand, but there were too many obstacles in the way like pink wafers, teacups, a baby and proprietary.

The look Shelagh gave Dr Turner reminded Chummy of an old retainer of her father's who began every sentence with “Permission to speak, Sir?” She caught Peter’s eye. The telepathic consensus was; how long will that last? It was received and understood between them.

Chummy’s attention was distracted when she noticed how tight Shelagh was now holding her son. He seemed very content and his eyes were closing, so all was well.

Shelagh began, “Dr Turner and I have set a date to be married at All Saints' church on the second Saturday in February.”

“So soon?” Exclaimed Peter, ignoring an imaginary dishcloth hurtling towards him.

“Well, yes,” Shelagh replied in the tone of a pregnant schoolgirl with a father brandishing a shotgun rather than an ex-nun with a penchant for purity. “We were hoping for March, to give young Timothy time to grow a wee bit stronger, but of course Palm Sunday and our Lord’s resurrection must always take precedence.”

Peter noticed Shelagh gave Dr Turner that look Camilla gave him when it was his turn to talk. He thought to himself he was only mastering that level of communication, but the Doc picked it up straight away. What a pro!

“That left us with the option of an April wedding, which seemed like an eternity away.”

This time, he took her hand as it warmed itself on the teacup.

Peter smiled to himself. He knew that eternity. He was actually experiencing that eternity right now. Most new fathers understood the consequences of a new baby entering their lives. But no-one had prepared him for a baby at the bottom of the bed and an ex-nun in the next room and the effects on his wife's libido.

“Here here.” Peter cried, “Carpe diem, Doctor, carpe diem!”

Peter’s joy was short-lived when he realized everyone, including a sleepy Freddie, were now staring at him.

“So when’s the wedding?” He meekly asked.

[kxllerblond]

cont. x / @t-errifier

Like some restless animal in a cage, Clark needed stimulation. He needed constant enrichment lest he start biting at the bars and anything that dare to come close-—so to speak and non-literally, of course. A daunting task to most was just what Clark Thompson sought on the daily. Did he do so gleefully? Of course not. A neat and clean monster he was, a monster capable of not complaining about every facet of his waking existence...he was not.

Take him back a decade or so and maybe this would have been out of the ordinary. A bloodied and murderous clown-—had those come back? God, how out of the loop was he with the current trends?-— come to him docile and receptive enough to accept some pestering and fretting over from the clean freak of a demon spawn. Yeah, sure. At this point in his life...why not?

❝-—Darling, your hobbies and pursuits are your own business but I really must tell you that runnin' about in this costume with this amount of gore caked on is something you can really only skate by with in October. Beyond that, I hope you either have a very nice life insurance policy or you're supernaturally inclined. Because you're going to get swiss cheesed at some point by a SWAT squad in the middle of a bridge or something. ❞

Bloodied gloves were set in a neat pile, the rag taken again to the sink to wring out and dampen once more. ❝-—Which would be fine, it's a very dramatic way to go out and I'm sure that would fit your...aesthetic. The only issue being I fear they did it that one time...or several? with The Joker. Like, the comic character. And god, how tacky to go out the same way a fictional clown did. Why, I'd be in pieces over that from beyond the grave if it were me. ❞

He turned the hands over to inspect his work, wrinkled his nose slightly at the nails. Were he to have more time and not be entirely unsure if said murder clown would strike out at HIM...he'd have grabbed his manicure set and cleaned those as well.

❝ All that to say, I understand your appearance is very loud by default...but some subtly in other areas would not hurt. ❞

Hands finished, the cambion watched as they were dropped back to sides. And then there was the face...

Clark took a step back, one arm crossed over his chest and the other hand at his chin as though he was some painter reflecting on an unfinished painting.

❝ I'm not going to be able to salvage the face paint. I can fade a good bit of the blood, maybe buff it out some. At best, I think the lightest foundation I have is a pale porcelain to fill any gaps. And I'm assuming you don't carry a greasepaint touch-up kit on your person...❞

[scribeofmorpheus]

Bellanaris [Part 2]

N.B: The "Your hands are cold" moment is a call back to chapter 3 in Harellan. Though the plot about the Ring of Obliteration can be skipped over, it's the main plot behind "Not Some Fanciful Story", so read that first if you don't want spoilers (though I haven't posted the final chapter yet)! Summary: Lavellan is given a clue by Varric that Solas might have been in Rivain, searching for an artefact (takes place before "The Missing" comic). While there, she's betrayed by her Rivaini informant who is revealed to be a cult leader seeking revenge against "the Dread Wolf's Whore"--who he discovered was the Inquisitor because of old sketches Solas had left behind in the deep roads. The ring is destroyed in an effort to break the blood-magic-fueled block against the Fade. [Part 1] [AO3]

They had returned to the Fade, slipping past its membrane with ease.

It seemed impossible, and yet there they were, finally in that other world he had once wished for their spirits to be joined.

A torrent of emotions washed through her, wringing her spirit at the final crescendo.

Revas emerged disoriented.

Grateful for the sense of touch, her arm was still anchored to Solas’ shoulder when she stumbled backwards. He’d been quick to pull her towards him, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face under her chin.

Solas was bent so awkwardly, his weight growing heavier with each shuddering breath, his form sinking deeper into her embrace.

She had almost forgotten how tall he was. Perhaps he had grown taller in the years they’d been apart. Perhaps she’d shrunk.

From over his shoulder, she could see how different the Fade was from how she remembered it, how strange it was.

Not blinding as it had been the first time she’d been drawn in. And not tainted by the crippling fear and confusion of the Fear demon's powers the last time they’d both journeyed into it, side by side. But a different thing altogether.

This iteration of the Fade still affected her to her very core, but it was stripped of all the dangers she'd anticipated. No giant spiders or wailing spirits. Somehow new, faded beyond compare, but imbued with something ephemeral, just as powerful as any fear, maybe more so. It wasn’t frightening but familiar. Like coming home without the memory of ever having one. A warped understanding of belonging. One that was trying to reach out through the clamour of confusion and the ringing madness of concern. A snuffed flame trying hard to burn as it used to once before, a long, long time ago.

These were his sensations that were passing through her. The repressed emotions left behind from the one-man war still waging under his armour. Obstacles of atonement.

The entire expanse was exactly as he’d phrased it. Empty. Greyed. There wasn’t the weight of mist in the air, the dryness of summer, the crisp coolness of a breeze. It was simply still. An expanse of colourless light and shifting space.

They stood on what looked to be the solid ground of a floating ruin with incredible similarity to that of Skyhold.

As the Veil closed behind them—the last one they’d ever close together, side by side—she heard Solas sigh in deliverance before he sunk to his knees, slowly pulling her down with him.

Once they were grounded, Revas turned to him, panicked. She opened her mouth to speak, to utter his name, call to her heart, but she was unsure if her voice would carry. Then, as he wrapped his arms around his frame, his breathing turning ragged, eyes shining with what should have been the glassy violet of a lavender field, she found her focal point. Doubts be damned.

She placed her hand upon his cheek, meaning to wipe the tears that had begun to flow as ardently as a waterfall, but the image had conjured that same feeling she had in Crestwood; when she’d been left alone with her reflection, bare-faced, hurt. That had been one of the few times in her life when the only solace for her pain had been to sit in the misery.

Suddenly, a large halla statue rose from a sea of empty void, bringing with it the faintest of colour. The kind of crystal blue that had built the waters of Crestwood.

Without knowing how, she managed to make her will manifest in the Fade.

Solas, too weak and bloodied to notice this, let out another heart-wrenching sob. He could not keep up the guise any longer, he could not feign being the ageless beacon of determination she had always seen him as.

With little effort, he collapsed onto her, his head resting against her folded thighs.

“It’s okay,” she whispered into his ear before placing a kiss to his temple, and then to his cheek. “You fought long enough. We both did. Rest now.”

“Vhen’an… I am so sorry,” he whimpered, hand gripping her sides with such strength, such care. “All those years you spent… All the things I never got a chance to tell you. So much pain! And I am the cause.”

“And despite it all, we endured.”

“But I turned away!” he shrunk further into himself, knees rising up to press closer to his chest. He had shut his eyes too tight, like a child afraid.

When she was younger, she had often imagined grabbing him by the cuff, bitter and enraged, demanding answers to all the questions that refused to leave her in the dead of night. Why was it so easy for him to leave? Was she not enough? Did he dream of her? But now, now there was just the old pain, the subtle sting.

“Did you? Truly?” she tucked her fingers under her jaw and pulled his face towards her. “Open your eyes, my love.”

He did. They became transfixed on the scars across her face, the ones she had gotten after he’d removed the vallaslin, after she’d adorned the Ring of Obliteration from Dorian, after Varric’s first letter that led her to Rivain, when the Fade had been closed to her.

Revas fought the urge to turn away and hide the discomfort which resided behind each line and curve that had been made by the necromancer’s blade. Though it had been years, the trauma lingered. On bad days, it made it difficult to face old friends or walk past polished mirrors. On the good days, it was the scar she used to remind herself that all things can heal with time given the right impulse.

Refusing to hide behind her hair as she had done out of habit throughout the years, Revas’ index finger trembled above the curling lines scarred into her forehead, “It happened a long time ago.”

“I know,” he sighed, tears rolling on either side of his face. He balled his hand into a fist in the air, biting down hard enough to form tension in his jaw. And then another sob eked out, “I should have been there to stop it…”

“Don’t say that,” she kept her voice steadfast in the face of the brewing storm inside her. Seeing pain was a daily occurrence for her, but nothing cut her as deeply as seeing it come from him. O, how foolish she’d been when she was younger and full of anger. How foolish indeed, if this was what she had once wished upon him, Yet, she had been right. For them to share these moments, the dinan’shiral had to break him. Lightly, she explained: “Without these scars, I might not have been able to share this with you. You see, I know you never truly turned away from me. You showed me that.”

Revas thought back to Rivain and the Cave of Misfortune, to the strange figure that had interrupted Regillus' ritual that attempted to tap into remnants of the Fade magic she had once possessed. The same figure who’d taken an arrow to the side as Sera unknowingly stuck Revas’ saviour with an arrow. A scar she was sure she’d find if Solas removed his armour.

“There was a time when I had been trapped,” she recounted. “A stranger in a strange land, seeking remnants of her past, trusting those I knew little of, risking the little time of peace the world felt obliged to offer me. And when I found it, what I had been unintentionally searching for—that love you undoubtedly carried, etched so beautifully on countless pieces of paper—I knew I had found what I was looking for. Proof. Proof that you still cared. And when I awoke on that ritual table, alive, able to dream again… I knew it had been you who saved me. I do not know how you sensed me with the ring, but I am grateful you did. You gave me more time to be with those I loved. You made me realise my mistakes. And I could only hope to do the same for you… before it was too late.”

“A spirit such as yours could not remain shrouded from me forever,” he reached up to touch a stray curl that had slipped from behind her ear. “I hear your song, even when there is nothing but the quiet. Rare and marvellous… the life we could have shared had I not been so blinded by my duty—”

“There is nothing but time for us now,” she reassured him. “This is the end of the dinan’shiral, for us both. This journey, these first steps that have never been shared between two of our kind before, we make our own. La ghilana ma var lath. We choose this. Together. And together we will form a bright and lasting new world. Even here.”

“How can you be so certain?” he sighed softly.

“Look,” she gestured to the world slowly forming around them.

A pantheon of shining new pathways and hopeful young colours bled into the grey. Muted, ever-so-slightly fading, but still filled with the promise of blooming deeper, perhaps into shades of things other than regret, that was the first sign. Perhaps the green of envy or joy would creep as the vines did in Skyhold. Then maybe the yellow of warmth, like Josephine’s silk dresses, would sway with the passing of time. And then red of passion and blood—desire and rage—that colour she was certain would bleed through. Beyond that, the possibilities were endless.

Where he saw nothing, Lavellan saw a canvas still forming.  

“Try as I might,” he shuddered, enraptured at the golden shimmer that formed far off in the horizon, “I could never manifest colour.”

Softly, she pressed her lips to his, imbuing their kiss with every emotion she carried, good and bad, and the sky above them turned a shade brighter.

“This is the power of our love.”

Hearing those words, seeing the introductions of colour, Solas relented whatever reservations he may have had and simply wept under the shelter of his lover’s gaze.