#you should have used some of the few brain cells you have left before doing something stupid like this

[endlessfuckup]

Mildly Entertaining Vent Post *TW*

the family member who gave us fentanyl laced dab pens is now finding out the hard way that she should have listened to me when I warned her about it

I warned her the day after she gave them to us that they were laced with something and not from an actual dispensary

That it made me extremely sick and caused my mom to take a bad fall

And that she should not smoke them because she is on fucking parole for PCP possession/multiple DUIs and will not pass her mandatory drug testing if she continues to smoke them

i never accused her of intentionally giving us laced pens and i told her that i wasn't trying to start shit but that she needed to get rid of them and be careful who she gets from

she got really nasty towards me and tried to downplay it/tell me i didn't know what i was talking about

Reassured my mom(who is also a fucking idiot in this situation btw)that it was infact legit and tried telling me to stay in my lane

Guess whose mom got rushed to the hospital for a fentanyl overdose 2 days later?

And guess who's shitting bullets trying to kiss my ass and apologize now that she realized that shes gonna fail her drug testing and that the whole family knows about her "little" fuck up???

well bitch you fucked around and found out huh? 😂😂😂

shes apparently been trying to call me nonstop but i blocked her number the day she got nasty with me cause i do not have any patience for this kinda shit anymore

like motherfucker you are a grown ass adult you know better

it is not my fault you smoked so much pcp that it turned your brain into swiss cheese or that you are risking going back to prison because you violated your parole

cry me a fucking river you idiot

[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

Hello,

could you write a Hannibal fanfic soulmate AU. Soulmates can only see colour after they‘ve touched their soulmate.The reader is on a FBI case and meets Dr.Lecter, a few days after being introduced, they accidetanly brush and realise they are soulmates. The reader initially „rejects“ Hannibal, because she‘s scared/ doesn‘t want a soulmate. Habnibal get‘s jealous, because he thinks there is another man in the picture, shows up to her house and then maybe nsfw (Smut) If you are comfortable

Hannibal x Reader: Everything is gray

Warnings: smut, kissing, drinking, roughish sex, p in v, oral (f receiving), female anatomy, male anatomy, fluff, cursing.

Word Count: 3,9K ( whoops 😀)

He looks oddly out of place in his suit. You can’t help but stare at him as he moves around the room. You’ve become used to Hannibal's presence but it usually meant Will Graham was nearby. That wasn’t the case anymore. Not seeing that he was currently locked up in some cell at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. You’d been shocked when you’d found out but you’d been even more shocked when Jack told you Hannibal would be helping you with your current case during Will's absence.

“So he’ll be helping me indefinitely?”

“What makes you say that?”

You give Jack a look that says 'Do you think i’m stupid?’. He lets out a sigh, his hands moving across his face. You can practically see the frustration seeping from his pores. It's one of the reasons you agreed to Hannibal's help without a fight. Jacks going through enough shit as is. He doesn't need you making his life any more hellish than it already is. 

You look over to your left, eyes catching the way Hannibal bumps into Beverly and Brain. You look up at the ceiling trying to calm yourself before going over to them. Quietly you move the pictures they’d been observing to another table. They give you a confused look.

“Now you have more space. No need to be all up in each other's business.”

You can’t help but look at Hannibal as the words slip out of your mouth. They are directed to him after all. Something about the way he looks at you tells you he got the message: you’re here to help not to hinder. You move back to your original spot, eyes searching for the right door before pulling it open. You tug the tray out of its confines revealing the corpse of your current case. You don’t realize Hannibal is near you until it's too late. You bump into his body, causing his hand to rest on your back to steady you. 

“Dr Lecter you really should be more careful…”

Your words die on your lips as you stare at his eyes.

 His brown eyes. 

You glance down at his suit instinctively, eyes widening as you realize it's not its usual mixture of gray and black but instead a mixture of reds and oranges you’d never seen before. Your mouth has gone dry. You try to breathe in but it feels like there is no air in the room. Hannibal stares at you, taking in the color of your hair and the beautiful shade that makes up your eyes. A smile threatens to appear across his face but the feeling weakens when he notices the scared look you have plastered on your face. Your head snaps to the corpse near you, noticing the purple bruises that cover its body and its unusually pale tint. Before Hannibal can stop you you’re racing out of the room. 

You bust through the doors of the department attracting a lot of attention to yourself. You don’t care though. There is nothing in this world more important than the fact that you can see color. You finally reach the door that leads to the outside. Your legs ache as you run to it, arms reaching for the handle as you push it open in desperation. A broken sound makes its way out of your lips as the world fills your sight. Your eyes move from one side to the other trying to take it all in at once. You can see the green of the trees and the blue sky. Tears stream out your eyes as you allow yourself to revel in the beauty of the world. It's at that moment you realize what this means. 

Hannibal is your soulmate.  

Your breathing speeds up at the realization. You’d always hated the thought of having been “assigned” to someone from the moment of your birth. You thought it was ridiculous you needed to find your counterpart to be able to fully see the world as it was. And the thought that you had no say in the matter made you even angrier. For so long you’d wished to find your match but only if it meant it was someone you were interested in. Every time you met someone you enjoyed being around you tried to come in contact with them to see if you were soulmates and everytime it didn't work. And now here you were, standing in front of the FBI and trying to understand how Hannibal could possibly be your soulmate. You didn’t even know him! You had nothing alike. And yet he’d been made for you. 

You shoved your hand into your pockets searching for your key. Once you’d found it you stomped over to your car noticing for the first time the awful shade of yellow it was.

“Oh fuck me. I’ve been driving around in this?”

You groaned, tugging at the door and jumping into the driver's seat. You close the door, hands going to grip at the steering wheel. Your breath came rapidly. You wanted to scream. And that's exactly what you did. You belt your heart out inside your car until your throat feels raw. Once the anger seemed to have dulled down you moved the mirror so that you could see yourself. You took in the way you looked like in color. Your hands moved over your face as you took in your beauty, a small smile making its way to your face. 

Hannibal watched you from the outside of your car door. His heart flutters as he watches you take yourself in. You seem to enjoy what you’re seeing which makes him happy. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t also enjoy the sight of you. Before he can signal to you he’s outside you turn your head in his direction. The scream you let out is dulled due to your door being closed but Hannibal can still hear it well enough. You place a hand on your chest trying to recover from the fright he’d just caused you. When you open your eyes again they are full of anger. You stare at him with a rage he’d never seen before. 

“Can we talk?”

“No. Now move.”

“Please we have to-”

“Hannibal, I swear if you don’t move I'll run over your foot.”

He can tell you mean it. Against his wish he takes a step back. You turn your car on, quickly shifting gears before slamming your foot down on the accelerator. Hannibal watches your car speed out of the FBI parking lot and onto the street. He stays out until your car is out of sight. Once he can no longer see the yellow dot in the distance he makes his way inside. He walks back into the morgue and is met with curious glances.

“What the hell was that about?”

Beverly's shocked tone makes him turn to look at her, a fake smile plastered on his face.

“Some kind of emergency. She didn't say what.”

“Must have been in a hell of a rush. She forgot her phone.”

Hannibal's eyes moved over to Brain, gaze falling on the mobile in the other man's hand. An idea entered Hannibal's mind. One he simply couldn’t deny.

“Oh well you could give it to me. I’ll bring it over to her.”

“Are you sure? Don’t you live in the opposite direction of her house?”

“It’s not a problem.”

“Okay then. Well back to the matter at hand. Who is this guy?”

Hannibal's mind wondered as Beverly and Brain continued to speak of the corpse in the room. His pocket felt heavy due to the weight of your phone. He welcomed the feeling. It meant he’d get to talk to you after all. But not before he did some snooping of his own.

You’d stopped at the market on the way home. You left with a bottle of wine and a tub of ice cream. The second you made it home you uncorked the bottle and began drinking, not even bothering to grab a glass. It was only then that you realized your phone was missing. You tried to gather your thoughts,  a task that you found difficult due to the alcohol in your system. When you finally remembered where you’d left your phone you were in no state to drive over to get it. You accepted the fact that you’d have to grab it tomorrow morning. You settled on the couch switching on a random chanell as you stuffed your face with ice cream. It was then that the doorbell rang. 

Hannibal managed to guess your password on the fourth try. His finger moved over your phone, eyes moving over the various apps you had. He found your message app, opening it. He scrolled a bit until a name called his attention. 

Will Graham. 

You’d put a dog emoji next to his name. Hannibal couldn’t help but scoff. He opened the conversation noticing the last message was dated on the day prior to Will’s arrest. He read over your texts with Will. You two talked quite a lot. The messages were of various topics. Things of your life, things about Wills day to day. A lot of the massages happened at late hours of the night, a consequence of Will's nightmares. Whenever Will had a bad dream he’d text you to see if you were up. It seems you usually were because whenever he texted you in a few minutes you replied. Hannibal's heart ached as he continued to read your conversions with Will. You two seemed quite close. Far closer than mare coworkers. Was Will the reason you’d reacted so dramatically when you’d found out Hannibal was your soulmate? Were you in love with Will Graham? 

There was only one way to find out.

You stumbled over to the front door groaning as you opened it. You leaned on the doorframe vision slightly blurry as you looked at the figure before you. Hannibal noticed the exact moment you recognized him. Your face scrunched up into a grimace as you looked at him.

“What do you want?”

Despite your intoxicated state the words came out without slurring. 

“May I come in?”

You stared at him for a moment, arms crossing over your chest. You looked into his eyes once again, finding their beautiful brown shade. You nibbled at your bottom lip before letting out a sigh. You step to the side, allowing Hannibal to enter.

“Mi casa es su casa.”

Hannibal strode into your living room, his eyes falling on the movie that was playing. You made your way over to the coffee table grabbing the bottle of wine.

“You want some?”

“No thank you.”

“Great cause there’s none left.”

You broke into a laugh, stumbling across the living room into the kitchen. Hannibal went after you, taking in your drunk state. He figured now would be the best time to get an honest answer out of you. 

“Have you been fucking Will Graham?”

“What? The hell makes you ask that?”

“You two text quite a lot.”

“And how would you know that….”

Your eyes widened as your brain jumped into action. Hannibal watched the emotions move over your face. You opened and closed your mouth as you struggled to think of what to say.

“So you haven’t fucked him?”

“No i haven’t fucked Will Graham! In case you’ve forgotten he’s locked up.”

You turned to grab a cup of water, the need to sober up suddenly hitting you.

“Oh wait yeah, he's locked up thanks to you!”

You spin around expecting Hannibal to be on the other side of your kitchen but he’s not. Not anymore at least. He’s standing a couple of steps away from you. You gaze up at him with frightened eyes.

“I didn't hear you move.”

“You scared?”

“Of you? Please.”

You said it in a dismissive tone but Hannibal could see the way your hand shook. He grabbed the glass from your hand and placed it on the counter. You closed your eyes, feeling the warmth that radiated off him.

“Gosh you smell good.”

Hannibal froze at your words, his head moving to look in your direction. You had your hand covering your mouth, a small look of regret plastered on your features. 

“Sorry I'm a bit drunk.”

“But you meant it. Didn’t you?”

Hannibal could see the battle that was currently happening in your head. You wanted to push him away just as much as you wanted to tug him closer. He felt the same way about you but he was going to let you decide the next move.  You allowed your hands to rest on his chest, a small gasp leaving your lips as you felt your body hum from the contact. Hannibal felt it too, an indescribable feeling of completion washed over him.  The two of you stared at each other for a moment.

“Can I have my phone back?”

“Yes. Of course.”

Hannibal reached into his pocket pulling out your phone. He handed it to you. You grabbed the phone from his hand, your eyes never leaving his. He could feel the lack of your touch on his body. It was driving him insane. But as soon as the feeling came it went. You’d put your phone on the counter and guided your hands back to his body. He watched you move your fingers over the fabric of his suit jacket. Your fingers traced over the pattern that made up his suit.  

Hannibal's hand made its way to your face. He curled a piece of your hair around his finger. You glanced up at him. You’d been mad when you found out he was your soulmate but you didn’t really know why. Sure, you had very little in common but Hannibal had never done anything to make you dislike him. Well, other than getting Will locked up that is. You had been really mad at him for that but now, looking up at him as he took in your beauty, all that anger just seemed to slip away. You pushed yourself up a bit, hands gripping onto the lapel of his suit. Hannibal stood still as your face came closer to his. He could feel your breath on his lips due to the proximity. You batted your eyelashes up at him, pupils slightly wide as you tried to convince yourself this was a good idea. 

Something in the way he was looking at you seemed to break the last bit of hesitation you still had in you. Your lips met his, eyes closing at the feeling of his soft skin beneath yours. Hannibal's hand moved to grip the base of your head, deepening the kiss. You opened your lips to him, allowing his tongue to slip into your waiting mouth. Hannibal groaned into your mouth, his free hand moving to grip at your waist. He felt your teeth clash against his as the two of you fought for dominance. He knew you were a strong willed person but he wasn’t going to let you win that easily. You bit into his lip trying to regain control. Hannibal winced, the sudden metallic taste filling his mouth. You gasped as you realized what you'd just done. 

“Hannibal i’m so sorry i din-”

Before you could finish your sentence Hannibal let out a growl, his hand moving to lift you up onto the counter. You let out a yelp as you felt the cold marble beneath your barely covered ass. You looked up at him, eyes widening as you took in the wild look in Hannibal's eyes. He moved a step away from you, removing his suit jacket. You watched him push his sleeves up before beginning to sink to his knees. Hannibal looked up at you, his hand resting on your thighs. He could tell by the shocked look you were giving him that you weren't expecting to see him on his knees for you.  

“Open your legs from me dear.”

Without even thinking you did as he asked. Hannibal grinned as he caught sight of the wet patch on your shorts. He let out a small “tsk”, his hand moving to rub against your clothed cunt. You gasped at the feeling, eyes closing. The doctor smiled at the sight, his hand moving to wrap around the waistband of your shorts.

“Lift your hips.”

Once again you follow his instructions, allowing him to tug off your shorts and underwear. You watched him carefully fold your clothes before placing them beside him.  You pant as Hannibal inches himself closer to your bare cunt. His warm hands move over your thighs, stroking them gently for a moment. He can tell from your body that you're desperate from him but he won't give you what you want. 

Not until you ask him, that is. 

Something in your mind seemed to understand what was happening. The hand that was griping at the marble counter moved to cup Hannibal's cheek. He looks up at you, observing your chest move up and down quickly as you try to maintain composure. You call out his name, tongue jutting out  to wet your lips before speaking again.

“Hannibal, please give me what I want.”

“Oh now you want me huh?”

It wasn't fair. He knew it wasn't fair but he wanted to hear you say it. No. He needed to hear you say it. Needed verbal confirmation that you had accepted you were his. Then, and only then, would he give himself up to you. You let out an annoyed sigh, closing your eyes and shaking your head before looking back down at him. Your brows furrowed dramatically as you moved your body forward, allowing Hannibal to get a glimpse of your breasts. You didn’t miss the way he licked his lips at the sight, a smile tugging at your lips. 

“Please Hannibal. I want you.”

“Say it again.”

“I. Want. You.”

You barely had enough time to grab onto the marble beneath you, before Hannibal was dragging to the edge of the counter. You gasped as his tongue made contact with your folds. You threw your head back, hands moving to latch onto Hannibal's hair. He had his eyes closed, completely focused on the task at hand. You were a mess above him. Your mouth was open wide, pants and moans slipping from your lips like a symphony composed only for Hannibal's ears. Your hips bucked up onto his face,causing his nose to rub up against your clit. 

“Ah Hannnibal i-fuck-like that.”

He almost couldn’t breath due to how desperately he was eating you out but he wouldn’t want it any other way. Your hands moved to grasp onto his shoulders as you felt your orgasm begin to wash over you. Your body tensed as you gushed all over his face. Hannibal continued to lap at your cunt even as your body sagged backwards, head moving to rest on the wall behind you. Once he was fully satisfied he removed his face from your pussy, his hands moving to the floor as he lifted himself off the ground. You watched him grab the handkerchief from his suit pocket before using it to wipe off your cum from his chin. It was one of the fucking hottest things you’d ever seen. 

You wanted to kiss him but your body felt like mush. You put your hand out to him in a silent request for him to come to you. He did as you asked, his large frame moving to you in a calm manner. You groaned as you pushed your body off the wall, arms moving to wrap around his neck. Hannibal looked into your blissed out face, waiting for your next move. You pressed a light kiss to his lips. It was a lot less desperate then the first kiss you’d given him but he could still feel the need in it. He pulled away resting his head on your forehead. Hannibal listened to you breathing for a moment before pulling away so that he could look at your eyes. 

“Can you stand?”

“Wow, overconfident much?”

He hadn't meant it that way. Sure he knew he was skilled and you had just covered his face with your juices but he didn’t mean to brag. It was a genuine question. You hopped off the counter, your hands moving to rest against his chest once more. He was getting used to being this close to you. 

“See? I still have control over my legs.”

“Not for long.”

You gave him a quizzical look but before you could retort he’d flipped you around. You let out a grunt as he pushed your body on the counter, his hips slotting against your ass. You could feel the hard outline of his dick against your pussy. The thought alone made you clench around nothing. You heard him tug his zipper open before leaning his body over yours. You whined as you felt his dick against your pussy, head moving to the side so you could look at him. He placed a kiss on your cheek.

“This might hurt a bit.”

“Nothing I can't han-ah-shit!”

His size shocked you. You’d never stopped to think about that factor until now and it was safe to say you were truly surprised. Hannibal bottomed out with a groan. His hands moved against your ass caressing it for a moment before giving it a harsh slap. You let out a yelp, your cunt clenching around his dick. A laugh made its way out of Hannibal's lips. 

“You like it rough?”

“Fuck you.”

“You already are.”

Without so much of a warning Hannibal pulled all the way out before ramming back into you. Your mouth slacked open as he pistoned into you. Your nipples rubbed against the cold counter, the feeling only making you more aroused. Your orgasm started to creep into you again. It was alarming how fast he had managed to get you to cream around his cock. But that didn’t mean he was going to stop. Oh no. Hannibal would continue to fuck into you until his name was the only thing you could remember. 

Still even he had his weaknesses. 

So even though he wanted to keep you wrapped around him for days on end after a while his own orgasm started to wash over him. Your body was already sagged over the counter, the conteless of orgasms he’s pulled out of you making you weak. You were beginning to become over-stimulated but you wanted Hannibal to cum. You moved your head so you could see him. He was laser focused on the spot where your body connected to his, brows furrowed as he watched his dick move in and out of you. You called out his name with a broken moan. His head snapped up, eyes finding your tear stained face. 

“Please give it to me. I can’t- uhm- take it anymore.”

The look on your face was enough to get him going. You felt his seed fill your cunt as he moaned. His hips continued to buck against you as you milked him. You felt him lean forward, his chest coming in contact with your back as he tried to steady his breathing. His lips moved over your neck placing small kisses to the skin. 

“My girl.” 

“All yours.”

You’d been hesitant at first but now you are sure. You were made to be Hannibals. Your body knew it and your heart did too.

[adventuringblind]

Joint Coping

Lestappen x Reader

Genre: Angst

Dialouge: "Help me understand."

Summary: Max helps his partners learn to cope in healthy ways

Warnings: Selh-harm, unhealthy Coping, blood, Ferrari, Max being the sane one of the group

Notes: I would like to emphasize that this is a thing that does happen. I know because I've done it. This specifically is not something to be glorified at all. Self-harm done in groups can become competitive. This is a pretty toned down version of things I've experienced and it's less toxic. THIS IS NOT REACHING OUT. Just wanted to clarify :)

This is part of my 1000 follower celebration! Requests are still open if you'd like to participate (the link will take you to the request form).

Masterlist

Max knows something is wrong with his partners. It's like an itch in his brain he can't scratch. A sixth sense, if you will.

The two Ferrari drivers are struggling with their team. Every problem is their fault. They have become the Ferrari scapegoats. When they do poor, it's the driver. When they do good, it's the team and the car.

He's coming to the end of his patience. If he has to hear them self deprecate one more time he might actually consider making them stand in the mirror and say nice things about themselves. Can he fuck it out of them? Is that a possibility? He really doesn't know but is desperate and willing to try anything.

They both DNF at the next race. Max is a man on a mission through media and debrief. He needs to see that they are okay. At the very least not sitting through some kind of lecture a parent gives to a child.

He sprints to the Ferrari garage and runs into Carlos. Despite his injury that took him out of the season, he still comes to support his team and teammates.

"Carlos!" The Spainard spins around to face him. "Have you seen-?"

"They already left over an hour ago. Did they not text you?"

There are warning bells going off inside of his head. Something is clearly wrong and they aren't telling him about it. He's about to sprint away when Carlos stops him.

"Before you go, you should that there were some awful things said by their engineers and they looked really upset about it."

"Thanks Carlos."

Max is back at the hotel as fast as he can manage. He tried both their cells with no answer. It's killing him from the inside out with anxiety. He's probably just overthinking, but it'll feel better when he sees they are okay.

He keys the door open and doesn't bother taking off his shoes. The lights are off aside from the one in the bathroom. Maybe they decided a nice relaxing bath would do the trick. Max could also go for one. He pushes that thought aside for now.

He knocks gently on the door. "You two in there?" No response. Or at least - not one to him directly. There are a few hushed whispers, but nothing loud enough for him to hear.

He waits Aproximatley ten seconds before he can't handle it anymore and swings the door open. He expects to see fogged mirror and water on the floor. Instead he's met with the sight red wrists and thighs.

He's lost. Max Verstappen has no idea what to do.

They are stripped down to undergarments. Legs dangling over the side of tub. A switchblade in the hands of Charles. They both look teary eyed and doped out. Are they enjoying this?

God, he feels so stupid. Weeks of having Sex with no lights on, sweatshirts in hot weather, no swimming and doing private ice bathes away from trainers. He should've noticed. Max could've stopped this sooner. He wants to rewind and tell them to come to him instead of relying on this to get the through.

"Guess you caught us." Charles let's out a half assed laugh. "You gonna stare at us all night? Or can we get the yelling part over with? Last three partners left us when they caught it. I understand if it's to much. Not your burden."

Max had been a later addition. The two in the bathtub had been together since their teenage years. Had they been Coping like this for so long?

"Sorry about the mess. Relapses are hard. We made it all season until a month ago." She leans her head onto Charles' shoulder. How can they make this type of environment endearing? This is unreal and they need serious help. Which Max will eventually get them when he can get his act together.

He kneels on the floor in between them. Max is just now registering the tears on his cheeks. They'd been in pain for so long. It hurts him just thinking about it.

"I'm not going to yell-" he looks at one. "-I'm not going to leave-" he looks at the other. "But help me understand. I want to help."

"It's easier to do with someone else around. It's more therapeutic." The lopsided smile on the female's face is not helping Max. He has to many questions.

First, he gets them cleaned up. Neither of them flinch when he disenfects the wounds. They don't look at him as he wraps them in whatever gauz is in the first aid kit. They look ashamed as he puts the knife in his bag and rinses the tub.

The one that gets him, however, is the look of pure confusion when Max hugs them both so tightly. It's like they don't know how to respond.

They sit in a circle on the bed. It's comfortable and Max can see both their expressions clearly.

"I know the struggle." He starts. "Punishing yourself is better then someone else doing it, right? But I had Daniel there reminding me to reach out."

"It's just easier this way."

"Easier isn't better. Look at the state you're in. I'm not leaving, but I am getting the both of you help."

He followed through with this the next morning. Then looked supposed to see him when they woke up. He, and his childish mind, kissed all the cuts and scars. Every single one of them received proper treatment.

The female cried and thre her arms around Max. Charles had looked away in shame. The reasons they started this are still foreign to him, but that's not his priority.

He gets them help. All of them, mind you. They do group sessions as the three of them to find healthier ways to cope with each other.

Reasons seem to fade into the background because they don't matter as much. The important thing is that Max caught it in time. That he didn't lose them to their own minds. They are partners, and Max would be devistated to lost someone he loves to those dark places.

He rests easier now that the itch has been scratched. His partners are doing better. They smile and laugh at his stupid jokes again. A bit of confidence regained.

And Max reminds them daily that nothing is worth it if you have to destroy yourself for it. Drivers or not, he loves them regardless.

[ever-eilish]

Hii! Can you write a fic for billie eilish? Fem reader is scared of the dark and Billie cuddles us in bed to make us feel safe.

Scary

billie eilish x fem! reader

you are forced to face your fears, not meaning you have to do it alone

author's notes: this one is very sweet! i really enjoyed writing this, so I hope everyone likes it as well; thank you so much for your request, sorry it this is not what you wanted! once again, english is not my first language, so sorry for any mistakes! enjoy💕

warnings: reader has a panic attack, but I did not write much about it; overall is very sweet and pure fluff!

You don't know exactly when it started. You don't exactly remember being a scared child, or fearing the dark as much as you do now.

The only thing you know is that, after a certain age, night lights become increasingly useless in comforting you, and what started as 'just a night' of sleeping with all the lights on, has become a habit.

You knew that at some point in your life you would have to overcome this irrational fear of the dark, but you just felt like the time wasn't now.

The lights were on, obviously, as night fell behind your window on the right side of your queen-sized bed, and Billie was on your left side, her head resting on your chest, legs tangled together, as she did something on her cell phone, while you were just staring at the dull, white ceiling, while thinking about absolutely nothing, just enjoying the company of your beautiful girlfriend.

We should buy something to decorate this ceiling, you made a mental note, this being your first coherent thought in a few minutes.

Just as you were about to go back into the sea of ​​'thinking about nothing' while staring at the ceiling like a maniac, Billie's voice fills the room.

"Darling, did you know that penguins-" her speech is cut off when a large thunderclap hits the ground, making a huge sound throughout the house.

Before you could even process what was happening, the lights went out and everything went silent.

Your breathing hitches, your fear of the dark showing as you quickly begin to hyperventilate.

Damn, why did this have to happen right in front of Billie?

Despite not wanting to have a meltdown in front of your girlfriend of a few months, your brain quickly starts to go haywire due to the lack of light.

Billie quickly realizes what was going on, and although it's not a frequent topic in your conversations, she remembers having already heard you mention your 'irrational' fear of the dark, so in one swift movement, Billie lifts her head from her chest and sits down, pulling you to sit on her lap in a way that both of your legs were to one side and your body to the other.

"My love, breathe with me" Billie says, and begins to breathe slowly, hoping you will follow her example.

"I'm fine, it's just-" you are cut off by Billie placing a loving peck on your lips.

"Just breathe with me, okay?" she says, and you decide to follow what she says.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, and you could already feel yourself getting better, your breathing stabilizing and your fears calming as Billie rocked you back and forth in a calming motion.

"Feeling better?" she asks, her voice small and, although you can't see her face because of the dark, you could almost feel her big smile on her face.

"Yes" you answer almost in a whisper, partly because you're embarrassed for having a small panic attack in front of your girlfriend. Billie noticed your discomfort quickly and hugged you tighter.

"You have nothing to worry about, princess" she says "I love you and I want to see you well"

Even though both of you had already said 'I love you', hearing her say it so naturally still sends goosebumps and butterflies in your stomach, in the best way possible.

Suddenly, the dark didn't seem so scary anymore.

“I love you too,” you say, laying your head on Billie’s chest.

Maybe you could even get used to the dark, if it meant you had Billie to comfort you every time.

[havin-fun-imagining-twd]

Onstage

What - it's nothing to panic about, Lori's secret pregnancy, Shane's changes for the worse, Sophia gone for over a week, and now a barn full of walkers. It's fine. No big deal, nothing is wrong, so you're gonna step onstage and act like it. On the bright side, Daryl isn't stuck in a bed anymore!

When - the morning after Keep this dog asleep. (the night where Glenn discovers the barn in Season 2)

Who - this is part of the Slowpoke Series, which is a canon compliant slow burn Reader x Daryl. You're also Shane's younger sibling

Pronouns - she/her

TWs - a few cusses, panic, bad screenshots

References - lots, y'all, want the Masterlist?

Length - longer bc I've been awol, I've been dreading posting again, friends, so thank you much for reading. Kind feedback is always welcome :)

“Goodness. You two slept together.”

“Wha—Carol!” you squeak, accidentally splashing some coffee on your hands while you’re at it, to which Carol apologizes, “Oops!”

Glenn and you fell asleep beside each other, by the fire pit. You two must have conked out while staring at the barn.

Brr, the sun hasn’t warmed the day yet, you’re like an ice-pop.

“Wh’appened?” Glenn mumbles, still half-asleep in Dale’s camp chair.

Carl, freshly freed from the house and now officially back to the tents, also wanted to know, “What was the joke?”

“Sorry, couldn’t resist,” Carol whispers in your ear and wipes the coffee off your hand with a tissue she had in her pocket.

That ship has sailed, Carol!

Lori smiles and shakes her head, and hands Glenn a coffee cup. “Carol was teasing them about having spent the night out here. Must’ve stayed up far too late having fun.”

“‘Fun,’” Glenn groans to himself, blindly nursing his coffee. You notice he winces and reaches for the back of his neck when he tries to bend it forward. Must’ve slept on it wrong.

“How late did you guys stay up?”

“I don’t even know, little man,” you answer Carl while reaching out for a hug. “But ‘far too late’ sure is correct.”

He returns your reach and hugs you back, tucking his head down across your neck like he used to when he was little. You press a kiss to his temple and hold him awhile longer, not wanting to let go first.

It’s good to have started the day on an up-note. You’re already on guard this morning. Less so about the genuine, bona-fide barn full of walkers on the property and moreso that Glenn won’t keep the secret long enough.

Which is backwards, but…the worry is that Shane will, um, and, and— oh God, and Carl can’t go near it! What are you gon—

“—Here, Maggie left these for you two.” Lori has returned and plunks down what resembles an Easter basket filled with peaches.

“Wait, should you be lifting heav—” Glenn cuts himself off, apparently having woken up a brain cell and remembering the pregnancy is still a secret.

You run onstage and speak up for Lori. “That’s how her arms stay so toned. Can you believe she hand-whipped the cream for the ambrosia?” Solid improv.

Lori seems to tamp down on whatever frustration she’s feeling. “It’s not heavy, Glenn.”

“Mom can lift so much, that puny basket of peaches is nothing,” Carl tells him, apparently thinking Glenn was being dumb.

Rattled, it takes a moment before Lori recalls what she was talking about. “Maggie also gave us a bucket filled with tomatoes along with another big bowl of eggs. We have to find a way to thank them. They’ve done so much.” She sighs. “Even last night, we cooked the meal, but they provided the food. Meat, even. All we contributed food-wise was the field green salad and the two cans of creamed corn.”

You’ve got to keep it to yourself that by not revealing the Greene’s massive secret about a barn full of walkers, you’re certainly giving them some kind of fucked up recompense.

And like you said last night, there are worse things to be bribed with than food. In fact, you have no immediate plans to do anything other than sit here, miserably tired, in T-Dog’s camp chair and stress-eat peaches — and stick close to Glenn lest he get the urge to open Pandora’s box about that barn.

“Carl, Miss Patricia hopefully mentioned how the barn is unstable? They won’t even go near it, and we are forbidden.” You swipe a peach and have at it. The juice dribbles down your hand and chin. Carl smirks. You snort; at least he’s seen you look grosser. So, in a very ladylike fashion, you shove the rest of it in your mouth in one bite and immediately swipe another. “There’s some kind of vermin problem, too, and you don’t want none of them diseases rats and the like carry. Keep away.”

Mid-chew, you realize that you just lied flawlessly by slipping in truth. You’re not big on lying. In fact, you hate it. You don’t do it, or, at least you think you don’t? Do you?

This and the weight of last night’s inward decision that you made sits heavy in your stomach, making the peach sink like a rock.

You’re going to leave, with your brother. Shane can’t stay here, not when the news of the baby and now the barn gets out. You’ll even go to Fort Benning despite all your misgivings. Anything to keep things from imploding here when those secrets get out. Not, um, not that you’ll stay away forever from the group, just until, um…

Well, if looks are any indication, Glenn’s also busy being miserably tired and stressed. He was the one to discover the barn’s secret, first off. And he’s not good with secrets, and now has three to contend with. The pregnancy, Shane losing his temper and physically hurting you. And now, the stupid, stupid, awful barn.

“Did your head flop down when you fell asleep, Glenn?”

“It must’ve, it’s so stiff!” he mutters. “I can’t have a stiff neck when the…”

Smart, he knows not to finish the sentence and instead resumes warily eyeing the barn. You’re grateful your neck is fine and dandy, you’re in no fit state to mess up your neck or shoulder again. For real, by the grace of God, you’d fallen asleep nestled in T-Dog’s camp chair and your neck stayed blessedly straight and untwisted.

“We search for Sophia in groups, it’s all good,” you cover for him. Carl is still next to you, so the fewer questions, the better.

Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, but you’re restless. Seeking something to busy your hands with, you think to yourself you know what? Your friend could use a massage. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do, considering you slept together (lol).

Shoving the rest of the second peach in your mouth, you consider that slurping the juice off your hand may be a mite untoward, so instead you…wipe it on the clothes you wore all day yesterday and fell asleep in…such a feminine, classy woman. Didn’t even brush your teeth last night.

Whatever, a neck and shoulder rub is the least you can do for a friend you may not see again. “Glenn, I can do you a massage,” you offer.

“Wait. Really?”

“’Course.” Let’s face it, you may not see him again after you leave. Maybe no one here, just look at the track record of losing peop — oh my gosh, crybaby much? Get your butt back onstage and act fine.

“Can you, with your arm still wrapped like that?” he checks regarding your modified sling.

“Sure can.”

“Dude, that would be, like,” Glenn sighs, then you hear Lori call for Carl, who gets up and goes to his mother. “Thank you, that would be awesome, it hurts really bad,” your friend accepts.

“Eh, it’s the least I could do, considering last night we did,” pause for dramatic effect, “sleep together.”

“What the h—”

“—Bro, I know," you drone. "That’s what Carol joked about a few minutes ago. Didn’t expect that joke outta her, right?”

“Slept together, now I get it,” he cracks up halfheartedly. But in an instant, his gaze gets drawn right back toward the barn and resettles into uneasy, blatant stare.

That rattles you. Suddenly, you become convinced he’s gonna spill the beans before the one week (at least one week!) trial. For a few moments, you feel breathless, as in you can’t inhale enough. That happened last night, too, you figured it was because of the cold air.

You cough, inhale extra deep. The sensation goes away. But now you’re starting to get mad. As you rise from the chair, you’re more than conscious of your inner kettle beginning to simmer. Not gonna lie, you sound snotty when you comment, “Glad to see they didn’t learn how to jump as high as a hayloft and find their way out yet.”

“Y/N.”

In lieu of any new comeback, you start on his neck. Immediately and likely without meaning to, he lets out a thankful groan. That warms you, and you remind yourself he’s worried for a good reason and that you love your friend.

And, strangely, then you think back to how you did this for Daryl, gave him a massage. How pleasant the closeness felt, how strange it made your stomach feel. How he’d silently cried but was vulnerable enough to ask you not to stop…

And with the jokes about you and Glenn, you’re feeling some unpleasantly conflicting emotions. Full disclosure, you’d had some hidden and very unwelcome hurt feelings when you found out about him and Maggie. Residual, you reckon, from when you’d two had a little fondness (lol Dale) for each other.

Really, you know it’s just that you’re lonely and things are stressful. More than stressful.

“Wanna kick the ball around later with the others, see if the girls can’t beat y’all this time?” Together, Jimmy and he have been an unbeatable team so far, and you three girls want to change that.

“Anything to make the pharmacy trip suck less.”

Man, you’d forgotten all about that. It’s supposed to feature none other than Glenn, Maggie, yourself, and maybe T-Dog. “That’s still on?”

Glenn shrugs. “I don’t remember. And I don’t want to go today, let’s do it tomorrow or Monday.”

“Fine by me. Naught dire we need yet.”

He unexpectedly exhales in pleasure when you must’ve hit a spot he needs worked out.“I haven’t gotten a massage since, like,” your friend sighs again, and he sounds weighed down when he continues. “Varsity baseball in high school. Appa was really good at shoulder rubs.”

“Oh.” A memory about his dad might will probably spark a whole lot of memories, and he’s still iffy about crying in front of people. “Want me to stop?”

“Heck no.”

“Are you cool with crying? Massages sometimes do that,” you hesitate.

“What do you mean?”

“I meant the act itself can make folk cry sometimes.” Especially if memories get brought up.

“Make ‘folk’ cry?” he teases. "You already used the word 'naught,' too, bumpkin."

You pause the massage to give him a very light shove. “Shut up.”

Breakfast is eggs again, you can smell them cooking. The Greenes have been very generous with eggs. And, of course, now extra-generous with the peaches and some tomatoes, apparently. Maybe the thrill of yellow squash or string beans is in the future, too.

Ooh, or dairy. Oh my gosh, or red meat! Jimmy mentioned they’ve made a ton of jerky what with their cattle.

“G’morning,” you hear Shane behind you.

“Heya.”

“Morning, Shane.”

The razzing is clear in his tone of voice, but try telling that to Glenn as your brother says, “Lookin’ cute, you two. Didn’t know this was a thing now, I thought that ship had sailed.”

Yeahhhhh, Glenn wriggles away from your hands quicker than you can whine, “Shaney!” who simply cracks up, “Just teasing.”

“I’ll tease your face,” you wish you weren’t snickering back. “And you know my heart belongs to darling Theodore,” you add in an exaggerated accent.

T-Dog, unfortunately, hears, and utters a soft “Da hell?” aaand you cackle even harder. Surely he knows the not-so-secret secret that you think he’s a catch? Too old for you, but, like. What a gem.

“Glenn, my apologies.” Shane winks. “It’s too easy to rile this one up. And Dog, don’t worry.”

“It’s cool,” Glenn answers so awkwardly.

You scrunch your lips at your brother in an effort not to smile. He’s acting like himself again, the real Shane. You don’t feel as if you’re looking at a stranger, you don’t feel the urge to stay on-guard or stay onstage. “Proud of yourself?”

He shrugs with a lazy grin. “It is real easy to rile you up.”

“Mmhm, well I’m fixing to escape to Fort Benning right now, lemme just wash up first.” You insert this little seed in hope it takes root. He was planning to go there before things changed.

He was planning to go without your input or foreknowledge, too, but he was doing what he thought was best for the group. For Lori and Rick.

Until he didn’t anymore, according to what he said to Lori.

That night, the same day Daryl had almost died, was something else.

The things he said to Lori echo in your head, the confident flirting while she was visibly unreceptive and shaken.

Then you recall the way he’s been “pragmatic” and almost irritated about the continuing search for Sophia.

Then the way he blew up at you, hurt you.

And finally, how your first reaction to finding out there was a barn filled with walkers a mere one minute trek from where your people are sleeping in tents was to insist that the secret must be kept from Shane at all costs. That the secret had to stay that way because of what would happen if Shane found out.

Maybe it’s from sleeping too close to the campfire or because it was so chilly last night, but the breathing trouble is back. It's fine, this happened last night, it ended up being fine.

You cough a few times to try and inhale more deeply and ease the tightness in your chest, but you feel strange and a little nauseous. Maybe you're coming down with something.

“Lemme take over here — aw, Glenn, hey, sit back on down,” Shane insists to your friend who just tried to escape. “Heard you slept on your neck wrong. That shit stinks, man. But,” he holds out his hands and wiggles his fingers. “I got so much practice with massages from this one’s migraines, I might should switch careers. C’mon then,” he says lightheartedly.

The unease you just wrestled with lessens. This is the real Shane, the confident, even cocky, but goodhearted one.

Huh, cool, your breathing feels a little better, too.

He looks at you and points with his thumb toward the house. “The uh, the little one, what’s the blonde girl’s name again?”

“Soph—oh! Um, sorry, y-you mean ‘Beth,’” you stammer, all the mirth from a moment ago zapped.

The look in your brother’s eyes changes from easygoing to dampened to cold.

He tries to sound nonchalant behind a thin veil of both defense and offense. “Yeah, the, uh, the teenager. She asked for you.”

“Okay. Thanks.” You’d be off like a shot if there wasn’t another potential time bomb to worry about.

Glenn.

To your friend, you assure in truth, “He does give a mighty solid massage.” But when you lean over enough for him to see your face, you can feel your eyes darken when you hold the finger to your lips and set your jaw.

And as you make toward the house with your coffee and another two peaches, you’re grappling with the fact that, in an effort to keep Glenn quiet so everything won’t blow to pieces, you’re behaving not unlike the very person that you’re trying to prevent from igniting the explosion in the first place.

Another worry is the way you so easily slipped in and out of being onstage.

You’ve always been one to insist on truth and honesty. It’s a badge of honor you wear with pride, and even Daryl, prickly grump Daryl, has mentioned it and appreciates that about you.

And yet, look at your conduct over the past week or so. You can certainly lie, and be believable at it. You don’t like that.

Ew, gross, you’re getting nauseous again.

As you near the porch, Beth’s soft, clear voice calls your name, and she exits the house to meet you. “I got somethin’ for you. Can you come upstairs?”

“Sure. Your dress is cute!” comes out automatically. You’re still dazed and stressed. Her sundress really is pretty, though. Briefly, you consider how it would be nice to feel feminine again.

She leads you up the stairs, and it strikes you how odd it is that you have to go upstairs for whatever she’s going to give you, right? Then, you worry that it’s to do with the barn.

And you’re right.

Or, at least, you think you are. Maggie is upstairs when Beth brings you there.

The tightness comes back, so you focus on your breathing and will your stomach to chill out. You're onstage, you need to perform.

“Y/N, hi!” Margaret says this a little overly chipper, even though her appearance suggests that she’s had about as much shut-eye as you, if not less. “Sleep okay?”

“A-About as well as you, I reckon,” you answer with a hint of humor and only a trace of a stress stutter. Buying time with a few more coughs, before you get too defensive, you play it off as if Beth does not know that you and Glenn know. “We stayed up far too late and ate way too many peaches,” you say the girl. Which is the truth, you aren’t lying! You aren't lyi — nope, don't you cry! Stay onstage, stay onstage, stay onstage—

—As it so happens, now is when you recall how you are currently carrying two peaches in your hand, so your cheeks heat. The urge to cry goes away, so small win. “I ate way too many, at least.”

Beth giggles. “I love peaches, too. I had peach cobbler as my birthday cake two years ago. The ones we grow are so good!”

“Thank you for the basket of food, by the way, it was very kind.” Very kind bribery, please keep it up, we haven’t had this much available food in months, in fact, we’ll probably do anything you ask us if you let us stay here!

“There’s plenty more where the peaches came from. The season’s almost over, but we still have bushels left to pick, the hens haven’t slowed production yet, and we’re almost out of canning supplies we’ve done so many,” Maggie responds.

Beth is opening a big trash bag on her bed that looks like it’s filled with blankets, so Maggie takes the opportunity to lock eyes with you again. She mouths, “Thank you.”

For not saying anything? “She doesn’t know we know?” you mouth back.

She shakes her head.

You relax muscles you didn’t know you were tensing.

“Yay, I got it open without rippin' it!” Beth exclaims. “Y/N, Maggie and I had gathered up a bunch of clothes for charity, but that’s when things got, w-well,” she halts, unsure of how to describe the outbreaks. “The bad things happened, but, um, we, well, we still had all the donations bagged. Daddy and Shawn also…” She quiets at mentioning her deceased older brother and turns weepy.

Her big sister finishes for her. “Shawn donated clothes, too. And Mom.” She swallows. “There’s plenty to share with your group, is what she means.” Maggie nods her head at the bag on the bed, then to two others on the floor.

They're sharing...all of those?

You don’t get a chance to ask it because Beth is already answering. “When I saw how y’all looked, it was scary. The,” she starts, then stops. “Not that you were scary, I meant y’all must’ve been out there a long time. It’s scary to think about.”

“In your defense, I did look scary the first time you saw me.” Wild hair, sweat-drenched, sobbing, and covered in Carl’s and your own blood. Rough day.

But having been ‘out there,’ as Beth worded it, it’s not so scary when you’re with a group you trust. It even feels comforting to have them all. Which is when you consider how Shane and you will be back out there in a couple weeks, alone.

“Here.” Beth shyly points to the bag. “I wanted to offer for you to look through the bags first. If, if you want.”

The offer is (more) bribery to keep you quiet, which cools the warmth of the charity, but doesn't lessen the grateful tears you spill. Plus, yes, you all could use some fresh clothes, there’s only so much mending that can be done. And to be offered first dibs, even if it’s just to butter you up, is still being offered first dibs. “I’d love to take a look, thank you,” you say in earnest.

Beth combs through the bag and chats in her shy manner, handing you a barely-worn, calf-length dress that had been gift for Maggie, then a (pure wool?!) cardigan their mother had been giving away.

You find it hard to believe that she’s doing this as bribery, Beth doesn’t seem the sort to easily conceal things. She’s got an innocence that hits as genuine.

But, then again, you who hate dishonesty are apparently great at it. Who’s to say she’s not, too?

The breathlessness briefly comes back. You clear your throat and cough once.

Beth next, to your apprehension and then delight, has you try on the dress and cardigan (which shockingly fit). While retying the modified sling around your upper arm, Maggie keeps trying to catch your eye again in order to, you don’t know, communicate something via meaningful glance? But you don’t have the bandwidth for it, so return her look with a polite smile and shrug.

Her little sister then proceeds to gussy you up in a way reminiscent of how Amy did once at the quarry camp to see how Glenn would react. Gosh, was that only two-ish months ago, wasn’t it? Or has it been longer? It feels like longer.

Beth has manages a quick, respectable braided style for your hair, touches up your eyebrows for you, and even adds blush. She then claims that your hiking boots “look okay” with the ensemble and has you use the full length mirror in her closet to inspect the full results.

The dress is lovely, you have to admit. The neckline doesn’t dip too low bonus that it doesn’t show your bruise, the waist is defined, and it’s long enough past your knees to be comfortable. The length also helps lessen the lingering apprehension you have about showing natural (*cough cough unshaven*) legs.

You actually feel…pretty. Been a while.

It’s as if she knew you were yearning to feel girly again. If this is bribery, you welcome it. Worse ways of being bribed than with fresh food and a makeover from a genuinely sweet kid. And hey, since you have to be onstage so much, might as well dress nicely for the audience.

When you’re walking downstairs to bring your people the donations, Maggie murmurs in your ear, “Y/N, I didn’t put her up to any of this, it was all her.”

When you pull away from her, she's insistent. “It wasn’t her bein’ nice to keep you quiet. Remember, she doesn’t kn—”

“—Good mornin’, girls. What’s in the bags?” Patricia’s voice calls from the bottom of the stairwell.

“We had some clothes to donate since before Easter,” Beth answers. “I figured they could use ’em.”

“They certainly could. I’m glad I have plenty I brought from my house when we moved in.” You can see Miss Patricia in the hallway by the stairs, clearly wearing one of her late husband’s shirts over her dress. Her brows lift. “Seems you dolled your friend up some. You clean up nice, sweetpea!”

“Thank you, ma’am. I-I do feel like a lady again,” you allow, your cheeks again warming.

“Never stopped being one, as far as I’m concerned. Always kept your Ps and Qs,” she’s kind enough to maintain. “Oh, speaking of ladies, I don’t know how y’all are doing on girls’ supplies, but we should have enough to share while you’re still with us.”

“Margaret and I were gonna look for some more on the next drug store run tomorrow or Monday to make sure you’re well stocked.” Along with everything else on the list(s) that was forgotten when those two…got distracted.

Ugh, how different things would be if you’d gone along for that trip! None of this barn bullshit!

Again, you feel the need to cough to help you breathe better, so you cough twice and try clearing your throat.

“Uh-oh, sounds like cold and flu season is well on it’s way,” she muses. “Don’t let me keep you holding them bags all day, girls. It’ll be funny watchin’ your daddy react if one of them ends up dressed in his giveaways,” the woman comments wryly. “Now, I did intend to check on those stitches today, Y/N, so come see me later. Hersh is just finishing up with Daryl’s, in fact, then he’ll be all set to go, if you were wantin’ to see him out.”

Oh, right! Today is finally the day he’s leaving that room!

Carl, too, but he’s already out and has been wandering around outside as much as his energy and mom will allow (which isn’t very much yet).

Daryl, on the other hand, has been too dizzy and too ashamed to do much more than a trip around the perimeter of the house.

Carol and you cleaned his tent yesterday as a surprise. It was her idea, of course. She enlisted your help specifically because you twice mentioned not thinking his sweat smelled bad, which is weird, but, for real, it doesn’t smell bad to you. The cigarettes, on the other hand, ew.

“Are we not going today?” Maggie asks quietly about the postponed pharmacy trip.

With tact, you suggest, “We could all use some rest after stayin’ up so late.”

She peers into your eyes, then nods and adjusts her hold on the two bags in her hands.“That’s a good idea. I’m not up to it, either.”

Upon stepping back outside onto the front porch, Jimmy and Glenn are kicking the soccer ball around already. Glenn is keeping his neck taut as he and Jimmy go back and forth, but the pain must have lessened.

The irresistible urge you have to make light of everything seizes you, and you leap into matchmaker mode because, why not? You won’t be here much longer, and maybe Maggie and Glenn linking up will lead to the rest being permitted to stay. That’s what matters.

Oh, and, uh, because you love Glenn, and Maggie is kind…oh fuck, are you just a calculating, cold strategist?

The feeling that you’re running out of air and going to vomit returns, but you push yourself onstage and commit to the role. You have to keep your shit together.

“Ain’t he handsome when he plays? Good sportsmanship and confidence rolled into one.” You playfully hold a smile back when you glance at Maggie and giggle to hide your heavy breathing. “Also the shiny hair.”

“He does have great hair,” she softly agrees.

“Y/N, do you and Glenn like each other? I-I thought…” Beth’s face has paled.

Maybe that’s why you over-act when you exclaim, “Of course I like him, that’s why I’m such a great wingwoman for him.”

Margaret blushes. “Let’s get these bags to their camp.”

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

Him

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

“I can’t hunt?”

“You can do as you please,” the old man remarks. What, is he making fun of him? “But doing so while recovering from a concussion would be foolish, as would be heavy lifting or other strenuous activity, and that’s not considering your collarbone and ribs. I’m curious as to how you’d wield your weapon or bring back what you hunted, for one, if you would even make it off the property without keeling over.”

Daryl bites his tongue and keeps his words to himself. Well, fine! I can still bring that little girl back. She’s got legs, she’ll be able to walk on her own.

Hershel cleans up his stuff and stands. “Now, then, I’m sure you’re ready to finally see yourself out.”

“Damn straight,” is probably not the smartest response in front of the old man, what with the cuss word, but damn straight he is ready to get the hell out of there. Still, he remembers his manners. “Thanks for everythin’.” He even holds out his hand for a shake. Which is dumb because the guy’s hands are full.

Daryl…puts his hand back down and grabs the few things he had in there with him. Y/N once described the Dr. Farmer as ‘unreadable.’ Definitely is that.

Unreadable, Hershel drawls, “It’s good you’re on the mend,” and inclines his head toward the door. “After you.”

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

You

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

Dude, you had a panic attack.

It wasn’t too too bad, all things considered. Initially, you’d thought it was a mild asthma attack, but in hindsight, wow you were oblivious to all of the signs.

It started to happen when some of the group was going through the clothes, right after Maggie and you dropped them off and she left to do choring.

Lori was beside you, low-key beside herself trying to figure out how your people could “ever repay the family now?”

Next, T-Dog joked about the sizes being too small for him. “Ain’t sure what here I could fit that won’t result in a show for y’all.”

This is when Andrea murmured to Carol, “Reminds me how it’s been awhile.” The way Carol reacted clued you in that it might have been a sex joke. Especially given the way Andy next gave your brother a once-over as if you weren’t right there. You vividly recall licking your teeth and rolling your eyes.

Then Shane — and he did this without having seen Andrea do the once-over — nudged T-Dog in the ribs and began to unbutton his own top. “Worse things than a show these days, friend. And that there clean shirt is calling my name.” Naturally, he proceeded to swap garments right where he stood.

Per usual, Lori was more graceful than you. She ignored it as if he were her own brother acting like a frat boy, and merely continued to sift through one of the bags. She smiled upon finding something, tapped Carol on the shoulder, and handed it to her.

It’s been a week now since Shane betrayal to her and Rick. Even you’re still figuring out how to see him. The hopeful part is that he’s been leaving Lori alone. If his sights have indeed turned to Andrea, all the better.

Back to the moment, then you imagined what if he and Andrea got a little too close, did something foolish, and she ended up pregnant, too. Not that Lori’s baby is Shane’s, the baby is Rick’s regardless, but...

The tight feeling returned in your chest.

It was in the midst of this that Dale complimented you. “Kiddo, you’re all gussied up! Any occasion?”

“Mmhm, all dressed up for the ‘show.’” The nausea was back, plus a fun new notion of being observed by unseen persons.

Dale just nodded with raised brows, and you and he shared a look. Instead of tempering your fears, it piqued them. It wasn’t his fault, but Mr. Horvath’s expression started to mirror the way he stared into your eyes after catching Shane lose his temper and leave you with a bruise on your sternum.

The fears within you, the stress, the dread, all started roiling stronger and stronger. You cleared your throat, then coughed, but it didn’t help and you felt restless and, oddly, cornered.

And so, not knowing where to look therefore looking in all directions, you happened to spy Glenn staring at the barn. Again.

The air felt too…thin? And then you noticed Lori examining the torso of one of the shirts in the bag as if testing it for stretchiness or room. You could see the shadows clouding her face right before she abruptly put the shirt down. Then, there was Carol, holding up something that had clearly must have been Beth’s a few years ago, and it looked as if it would fit Sophia perfectly now.

It was just about then that your lungs simply couldn’t keep up.

“Kiddo?” sounded in your ear.

You may have panted something to do with “puffer,” referring to your largely unused inhaler. At any rate, instead of next going to the logical location of the RV to find the med bag, you made for the treeline. You didn’t want anyone near you, didn’t want anybody to see you, didn’t want a fuss, didn’t want to be touched, didn’t want anyone to even think about you, so you had to hide.

Panting, a numbness started to affect your fingers and spread to your torso and toes. You repeatedly coughed in an effort to break up whatever was making it hard to breathe. Once you started coughing, it dominoed. Your stitches were tugging at the forceful coughs, and soon, you were hacking. The hacking led to retching, one, two, three times. Tears started to fall.

“Baby, here,” came from your right and a warm, delicate hand touched the small of your back. Lori. She pressed the inhaler into your hand. “I shook it up, it’s all ready.”

Bending forward slightly to open your airways, you tried to exhale enough so you could take the dose properly as you clasped the trigger.

One puff. Hold breath in.

Your pulse thudded in your ears.

Another puff. Hold breath in.

The relief that usually comes with the medication wasn’t as apparent as it normally would be. It helped somewhat, but. You tried another dose.

More tears of frustration. You panted that you thought your were going to pass out. "F-Feels like m'gonna die," you may have also said. The phantom sensation of your hand being covered in Amy's blood returned. You recall wiping it with the hem of your dress, and Lori taking your hands, preventing you from continuing to do so.

Lori calmly instructed you to, “Try this with me, honey,” and slowly breathed in through her nose. You copied as best you could.

She then slowly breathed out through her mouth. You copied as best you could.

Over and over she coached you.

Things started to ease. Your pulse was still loudly thumping, but two doses of a corticosteroid will do that. In your escape, you’d made for the big rocks where you’d shared (sort of) a cigarette with Daryl. The stones felt nice and cool, and Lori’s gentle rubbing of her hand across your back was comforting.

“Been a while since you’ve needed the inhaler. ‘Decorative,’ you called it once,” she softly chatted. The sensation of not getting enough air wasn’t quite gone just then, but you felt pretty normal again.

“I reckon the cold and the smoke must’ve done me in,” you mumbled. Your throat was mildly sore after all the coughing. “It’s good it was mild.”

“Were you wheezing?”

“No, I…just couldn’t breathe enough or something.” You shrugged. “I don’t always wheeze when I need it.” Your nose was stuffy from crying.

She was thoughtful for a moment, and had begun to lightly scratch your back. “You and Glenn seem off this morning. I’ve seen you two tired before, but today you both seem…there’s something else going on, clearly. Did you two fight?”

“Not exactly.” It’s true. “We’re on the same page.” You weren't prepared to have to go onstage again, but just in case, you tried pulling yourself together.

“Was it about Maggie?”

You laughed genuinely. “Ha, not at all.”

Lori didn’t mirror your laughter or even smile in return. “Honey, I think you had a panic attack.”

At first, you protested. “Oh, it wasn’t that dramatic.”

“It looked different from where I was. But even still, it didn’t have to be or feel ‘dramatic’ to have been one, you know that.” The nonjudgemental straightforwardness in her voice, in her eyes, was enough to convince you that she could see straight into your heart and read what was there. “Y/N, is there something more going on?”

More than anything, at that moment, you didn’t want to lie to her.

But what could you do? Tell the truth, yes, 'the truth will out,' you know that. But you were convinced that telling the whole truth, right then, would be like lighting dynamite.

In your view, you would be exposing everyone to chaos and even violence, and you'd all seen too much of that already. And no, you couldn’t just tell one person because it never just stays with one person. Lori was/is not in any position to have more fear on her plate.

So what did you do?

You crawled back on that stage and you lied — by telling the truth.

“I’m worried he’ll talk.” Vague and a lie of omission, and maybe a little throwing your friend under the bus, but Lord have mercy on you, it was truthful.

Lori squeezed her eyes shut. “Me, too. Oh honey, I’m so scared!” she whispered, covering her mouth.

So scared of Shane, just like you are. “Rick won’t hold any of it against you. We all thought he was dead.”

She shook her head and stared at the ground.“But you saw how Shane behaved, you, you heard the things he said, Y/N,” she nearly hissed. “I don’t know who that man was, but it wasn’t Shane, just like when he had m—” then Lori cut off.

“When he had what?”

She shook her head again. “Seems Dale’s on his way over. He told me about what was going on so I could bring your medicine to you. He hadn't known what 'puffer' meant." And —oh, Y/N, I’m so sorry that you’re worrying yourself like this over my mistake! It's not fair to you.”

“Your kid ain’t a mistake, it’s so good that they’re here,” you replied in total honesty. First time all day.

Maybe she’ll be honest with you and spill whatever Shane did that she’s not being upfront about. Whatever it is could surely have been described in a sentence. “What else did Shane do, Lore?” It can’t have been that bad, or could it?

All she did was shake her head once more. “Like you said, he hasn’t been himself.

‘Hasn’t been himself.’ Fine. You’ve got secrets, too, so there’s no way on earth can you cast stones.

You stepped back onstage for hopefully the final time, and made yourself deliver the next lines. “That’s why we’re goin’ to Fort Benning.” Without you all. “Just him and me. Within two weeks, I hope?” The nausea still hadn’t gone away, and simply saying this brought it back.

Her brows sunk caution. “When was this decision made? I-I thought—”

“—I ain’t told him about it yet.” The bitter smile, you hadn’t been able to stifle. “Shouldn’t be hard to convince him, considering he was fixing to not so long ago.”

Lori’s apologetic tone wasn’t a put-on. “I’m so sorry he didn’t tell you. I had no idea you were left in the dark.”

That’s when some tightness came back to your chest, and your breathing turned faster again. “I know, Lore.”

She noticed. “Honey, hey,” she soothed, “breathe slowly, deeply." Her hand cupped your cheek. "His mistakes, his choices, his reactions are not your responsibility.”

“I know, b-but—”

“—And you don’t have to leave with him if you don't want to.”

“But wh—”

“—No buts.” Lori cupped your cheek, stood, and swiftly made toward Dale.

And here is where you hadn’t known she was going to be quite so straightforward with him.

In fact, you’d hoped she’d join you onstage and lie, too, but she behaved beyond reproach. “It was a panic attack, so please make sure to respect her privacy about it. I’ve got to check on the laundry.”

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

Him

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

Funny thing, he’s wearing the same clothes he had his accident in. He’s in the same stuff leaving that he had been when he got carried in there, except now they’re cleaned and mended.

It’s been good to be back outside, he prefers it. He can’t wrap his head around why some people can keep inside in front of a TV all day. You don’t get to hear or feel the wind indoors, can’t hear the birds and all that.

Now, he couldn’t say for sure, but stepping outside and knowing he didn’t have to go back in must feel at least half as good as getting freed from prison.

If prison was a nice-ass farmhouse without the risk of getting shanked or worse, obviously.

Merle would have some words if he heard Daryl say something like that out loud. Though, Merle was pretty settled when he was in lock-up. Fared fine.

His first view when he steps out into freedom is of Glenn and the teenage boy, kicking the ball around. Those two are straight into it and pay him no mind as he walks around them.

The rest of the group is around the picnic table, looks like they’re sorting laundry (?), therefore ain’t paying him no mind, either.

Phew.

This is good. He was wondering if Y/N was gonna parade him out or make it a big deal, but after hearing her and the other ladies talking in the hallway, she didn’t come back in. Works for him, he doesn’t like a crowd.

…But, like, where is she? He figured she’d be around, is all, but she ain’t by the table.

Ah, yeah, duh — she's probably still doing something with the girl that's about her age and her little sister. Still seems off Y/N and Glenn are only “five or six years younger” than him, but that’s what Y/N has said a few times.

The next thing he sees is Lori, who is swooping down the yard and toward the big rocks where he and T-Dog took a smoke break once. And where Y/N had her first try of a cigarette, too. Lori looks like a woman on a mission, damn. Dale is staring in the direction Lori is walking, those big-ass brows of his slanted downward. Wonder what that's about?

Over the sound of a few leftover end-of-season cicadas, he hears the normal drone of crickets, light talking from the group, the thunk of the ball getting kicked, a very loud crow, some cows mooing, somebody coughing, birds doing their thing, chickens clucking, the wind blowing. Mmm, good stuff. Being inside and hearing it just don’t sound as good as being right out in it.

Then, “Daryl!” comes from his left, and he sees Carol walking to him. She’s a good woman.

And now the memory of her kissing him on the cheek is making his cheeks heat up as quick as her steps toward him.

“I’ll carry those for you,” she quietly insists about his small pile of clothes. He lets her.

She’s been very, um, very attentive. Been having most of her meals with him, babying him as much as he’d allow, and all-in-all has been treating him extra after he had his accident.

There are more coughing sounds that he almost pegs as being Y/N’s, but when he looks back in the direction of the noise, there’s no one, just Lori off on her walk, and it wasn’t her doing the coughing.

“We moved your tent closer to the rest of us, so you would be closer to where we could help you.”

Closer. Great. Daryl wanted nothing less, but a kind gesture is a kind gesture, so he mans up and acts proper, grunting, “Thank you.” It’s not like they went and messed with his stuff, they just moved the tent, and for a real kind reason.

Glenn rears and kicks, sending the ball soaring. Damn, he's good.

“Now, it may smell and look a little different, but all of your things are still there.”

“Huh?” What’d she mean?

“You deserved a nice, clean place to go back to,” Carol explains. “Y?N and I cleaned up your tent.”

…

...

…they what?

He gets the weirdest image of himself as being onstage and forgetting whatever it was he was supposed to say next, leaving him standing there like a mouthbreather in front of the audience. And he kinda wants to cuss the audience out.

His first idea after learning Carol and Y/N was: What the hell, y’all been messing with my stuff? What gives y'all the right?

But, come on, even he had it in him to keep his mouth shut. They’d taken the time and effort to clean up his shit and it was probably as nice as when Carol had worked her magic in the RV. That's damned decent, in fact.

So, Daryl does not act like a jackass, and instead, remembers his lines and thanks Carol again.

“It was no trouble. How about I bring you some more breakfast once you’re settled in?” she quickly offers. See? Very attentive. And he didn’t do shit to have earned it, which made it more uncomfortable.

Aw shit, his cheeks feel all warm again. First around Y/N, now Carol? Maybe there is something to this whole concussion bullshit.

Or, maybe Carol done kissed you on the cheek and said you were a good man and that you did right by her little girl as much as a father should and that’s the best possible thing somebody could be told.

“Do you want some more coffee, too?”

I wanna to be left alone, lady. “Nah, m’great. Thank you.”

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

You

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

“Last night seemed to be an indication summer was officially over. But today,” Dale blows through his lips, “Well, we can already tell it’ll be a warm one.”

“Did we hit the first day of fall, yet? I forgot what date it is today.”

“No, that’s on the 21st. We’ve got some time.”

“Oh, wait!” you squeak (ouch, your throat is still sore from coughing). “Ain’t it the Holy Days for you still?” Rosh Hoshanah was sometime last week, but that one got sort of messed up because of everything that’s been going on.

Oh man, it was the day after Daryl got into his accident, wasn’t it?

Dale’s cordial expression falters. “Yes, it was last week.”

“Yom Kippur is soon then, right?”

“It’s on the 18th this year, yes. Two days away.”

There’s this very insistent raven that’s been cawing away. Or is that a crow? You can’t tell the difference. You can tell that you’ve bummed Dale out, however. “I’ve bummed you out.”

Smiling sadly, he concedes, “Jewish holidays are usually lonely ones in mixed company. And now, especially with it being the holiest time of the year, after everything…” He lifts his shoulders.

“I’ll do the fasting with you so you won’t be alone!” Ow, stop raising your voice so high. “Is it no food or drink at all on that day, or is water okay?”

A happier smile. “No food or drink — barring serious health concerns, of course, in which case, one is required to not fast.”

“No water must suck! When my lot do fasting, water don’t count.”

He nods his head once. “It’s all part of the atonement. It’s considered a blessing for us to fast for it.”

“And the feast after it is fun,” you sigh with a grin. You’ll enlist Carol and Lori to see about making him a yummy fast-breaking meal for the day.

This is what you needed. Dale didn’t press you regarding the panic attack, and has simply been keeping you company by the big rocks. You’ve haven’t had to go back onstage while he’s been sitting with you. You’d probably be content to stay here a good, long time if you didn’t have to use the toilet something major.

“Did you see if there was a pair of suspenders in the bags so you and Mr. Greene can match?”

“Is this your way of saying you’re feeling well enough to head back, or that you need privacy?”

“It’s my way of sayin’ I gotta go potty real bad.” You stand. “Suspenders are pretty cool, you can party like it’s 1899.”

“I actually quite like how suspenders look,” he chuckles, stretching and getting to his feet.

“Mm, they remind me of the Old West, I love ’em.”

Dale and you walk back until reaching the side of the farmhouse, whereupon you excuse yourself to head to the treeline and do your business.

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

Him

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

As soon as the heat starts to sink in, he unbuttons his shirt halfway and kicks his shoes off. Getting the socks off without hurting himself takes some effort, but it’s worth it. His stuff is so squeaky clean and fresh, he wants to avoid sweating the place up too quick.

His old pillowcase is gone, probably scrapped for dishrags seeing as it was pretty worn. In its place is a flower-covered one with soft, thick cotton fabric. There's some phrase about a 'woman's touch' that must apply here. Or, if Merle were here, prime Darylina ammo. Joke's on him, the pillowcase is soft as hell.

And being in there might seem boring, but it's 10 times better than being stuck in a damn bed and listening to music for days on end. Just cloud-watching through his tent window is fun enough for him.

In fact, it’s rad! He’s so psyched to not be in that room anymore!

Cloud watching, playing with his bolts, farting if he's gotta; he's content as can be. Seriously, he’s in such a good mood right now.

But as luck would have it, by the time he’s decided to see how easily a bolt can poke a hole through the mesh window (the answer is very easily, and it’s real satisfying) none other than Andrea herself appears at his tent door. The chick who shot him.

Now, she’s pretty as a picture and then some, but he doesn’t want his belly showing in front of her. If he’d been paying attention and heard her making her way to him, he would’ve buttoned up.

So, he tries out the same tactic as last night, when Carol walked in on him shirtless; maybe by not closing his shirt, she wouldn’t think about it? Or…fuck it, just about everybody has seen some part of him uncovered in the past week. At least there ain’t no scars on this side.

All he’s got to do is make like he’s onstage and that it doesn’t bother him having his literal nipples on display.

“Hey.” Andrea steps into his tent, looking like she is about to eat crow.

She hands him a book. He accepts the maybe peace-offering.

“It’s not that great, but…” she trails off, breathes out, and looks guilty as hell.

Y/N, Carol, and T-Dog all mentioned she’s been kicking her own ass for shooting him. Granted, he’s still a little pissed, and, yeah, real thankful that she’s a shit shot, but — she was trying to protect the group, right? Ain’t even her fault he got stuck in that damn bed. The concussion, split side, and broken ribs did that for him.

He figures he’s gotta make it clear that she’s off the hook without making her feel worse for being let off the hook. And, he thinks he knows just the way to break the tension. It’d got the librarian at his high school to laugh the first time he made the remark, which is probably why he was usually allowed to eat in there during lunch.

Now, he knows reading is still on the no-go list, don’t worry, Y/N, but he casually holds the book up and flips through the pages.

He’s gotta, it’s the setup.

It’s good that Andrea ain’t said nothing yet, because it’s the perfect opportunity for him to pretend to be dead-serious when he complains, “What, no pictures?”

The joke does the trick. Andrea smiles and relaxes. “I’m so sorry. I feel like shit,” she starts to go on, but he puts a stop to it.

Tucking the book aside as he settles down onto the pillow, he cuts in, “You and me both.”

“I don’t expect you to forgive me, but, if there’s anything I can do, I—”

He cuts in one more time, “—You were trying to protect the group. We’re good.” He means it.

But, ya know, just because things are chill doesn’t mean he can’t bust her balls a little, right? “But hey,” he stops her as she’s leaving. “Shoot me again, you best pray I’m dead.”

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

You

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

“It went great! Better than I ever expected.” Andrea takes a seat beside you on the log. Judging by the look of serenity on her face, it appears that the monkey she’s had on her back for the past week is finally gone.

“Good, m’glad.” You knew it would be fine, but Andrea was so nervous.

“And I have to say, I can see the appeal now.”

“What appeal?”

“Daryl was,” she thinks on the right word and picks: “Charming.”

Ah. You see what she’s trying to do. “Well, go tell him that, then,” you suggest, cool as a cucumber. She and Dale thought you and he had a romantic thing going on. Lol, nah.

“And he was funny!” she goes on.

You sip your tea. “Mm, he can be.”

“Not angry, or, or nasty.” She closes her eyes and breathes out a sigh of relief. “I was so worried about how it was going be.”

You tilt your head in partial agreement. He can be a dick.

Your job for the rest of the day, so Papa Dale done told you, is to be chill (yes, he used the word ‘chill’ and it was adorable). It’s your only responsibility today, seeing as he joined you when you went to check the highway spot for Sophia. She hasn’t found it, it’s untouched. Again.

So now, your job = keep chill.

“Are you helping with target practice later?”

Oh, right, and there’s that. You suppose you could continue helping Beth with drawing her weapon smoothly, keep drilling her never, ever forget to switch the safety back and forth.

But…maybe today, that isn’t your job. Maybe you need a rest from being onstage. “I think I’m gonna sit today out.”

“Is everything okay?”

“I just need a day,” you answer in too high a pitch.

Andy doesn’t inquire further. “How’s the little fuzzball?” she instead asks.

“Still sleeping,” you coo. The sluggish little chick you’d scooped up while quickly sprinkling feed-corn in order to feel useful is your insurance for keeping chill. Can’t not keep chill with a chick asleep in your lap.

“It must feel nice and safe wrapped up like that.”

“Mm.” The chick is nestled in a dishtowel, half its body also covered by your new cardigan.

“Y/N, have you not gone to visit him yet?”

“Not yet. He’d appreciate some time to himself, I reckon, after a week bein’ stuck in there and visitors and checkups at all hours.”

Glenn’s off doing farm chores with Jimmy, so he’s being kept busy and won’t be a concern. As for you, you’ve got your sleepy chick and are content to stay here on the log. You ate lunch, yet another peach (you’re up to six), just finished the leftover raspberries, and are now washing it all down with some fresh mint tea you made in honor of one of your best friends. She’d make her own mint tea and would call it ‘wild mint’ tea because it sounded exotic.

When Dale mentioned today’s date, you realized it was her birthday. She was the most confident girl you’d ever met, and a sweetheart to boot. You really hope she’s alive.

Andrea chuckles to herself. “I gave him that terrible book to keep him occupied.”

Book?? “A book?”

“I brought him The Case of the Missing Man,” she shares with a grin. “He can join the survivor’s club of those who’ve read it — Y/N, is something wrong?”

“Oh, um, nah, it’s all good, uh,” you are fumbling so hard right now. Cool, you’re feeling lightheaded again, cool cool.

It’s all cool. There’s no fire. Stay chill. “I’m gonna pop over and make sure he ain’t cracked into it yet, he’s, it’s, it’s not safe yet. C-Concussion and all.” Listen to you, smooth like butter.

“Oh shit.”

“Andy, don’t sweat. Even if he did start on it, like,” and you pause, because, “I don’t actually know what can go wrong, I didn’t ask Miss Patricia, but I’m sure it ain’t nothing serious!” You cup the (awoken and now loudly peeping) chick between your hands as you book it (pun intended?) to Daryl’s tent.

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

Him

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

For Y/N to glide over wearing a pretty dress, hair all fancy, and holding some little bird was not something he put on his bingo sheet.

“Hiya, Daryl.”

It takes him a second. “Hey.” Never seen her in a dress, is all. And with that little bird, he gets the image in his head of her bursting into song and the farm animals and forest critters doing a musical number with her.

He’ll *ahem* keep that to himself...

“I hope you’re enjoyin’ your new freedom! Mi—”

“—Who’s the little guy?” he had to ask first.

“It's a chick.”

Clearly. “Why?”

“It’s cute.”

She ain’t wrong. “…Can I see?”

“Yeah, it's adorable!”

He begins to get up, but she steps over faster than he can stand. She kneels beside his cot and, delicately, transfers the wrapped chick into his hands. He carefully unwraps the washcloth around it and slips his hand underneath it so sits on his palm with its teeny legs dangling through his fingers. It’s peeping like it’s getting paid for it, holy shit it’s so fucking cute.

“I came here wonderin’ if I might I borrow the, uh, the book Andrea just lent you?”

Ha, called it! The second Y/N found out he had contraband, she came to the rescue.

The chick quiets down, appearing to relax in his hand.

Maybe it’s because he’s in a good mood, but he smiles like a dipshit for a few moments before saying anything. “Nah, I wouldn’t dream of checking it out ’til you said it was fine.”

“Oh ha-ha,” she play-mocks, assuming he wasn’t being serious.

Eh, okay, maybe he was sorta razzing her, too. But he wants to come out on the other side of this whole concussion bullshit on the up, and if reading is still off-limits, it’s still off limits. He’s not gonna full-on disregard somebody who gives a shit.

“How’d ya end up dressed like that?” is his second question while he pets the chick lightly along its head with the feathers on his bolt.

“I wear this, like, all the time.”

“Oh right, yeah, you do,” he sarcastically responds. He tries to reach with his left arm to pick up the book under his cot, but gets a sharp twinge and surrenders that he can’t do that move yet.

Y/N snorts at the sarcasm and tells him straight, “The Greenes had some giveaways, so Beth gave me this outfit. Oh, thank you,” she says when he instead points in the direction of the book. She picks it up and hugs it to herself. “I do believe Carol put a few things aside for you to try on, too.”

“’Kay.”

Y/N looks pretty.

It’s nothing new, obviously her face is nice, but it's the whole blushing things that's annoying. Seems he's started blushing like a belle over all the damn women in camp these days. That really was some smack to the head he got.

He’s imagining himself as being back onstage again, forgetting his lines. He can ad-lib. “How you gonna search in that?”

“Ain’t like my ankles are tied together. Women have always been able to move, play, do manual labor of all sorts in dresses, corsets, stays, stockin’s, you name it,” she serves back with just enough fire that his belly did one of those good flippy-floppys. “That reminds me, Nervous Nelly came back! Did any of us tell you? She’s fine as can be, I fed her half a peach yesterday!”

Some of them baby hairs around her face are coming out of the braids. Her skin's got a sheen to it. And did she put pink stuff on her cheeks or something? Or is that because she was moving around a lot and it’s gotten warm out? Because her lips don’t look like there’s nothing on them but they’re nice and —

“—Dare, you okay?”

“Yeah. Tired.”

“You must be.” Why is she frowning? “You looked like you’d just got hypnotized or — you sure you feel normal?”

“M’fine, I just spaced out.”

She’s gonna have him do a thing, isn’t she? “Follow my finger for a little, please?” Ah-ha, see?

Pointer finger extended, he goes along with it for the 10 or so seconds it takes for the slight crease between her eyebrows to relax.

“Please stick out your tongue for me?” is her next request and, uh, why?

Well, he goes ahead and does it for her anyway. The hook ’em horns he makes at the same time are a sure sign he’s in a good-ass mood.

Y/N lets herself smile, then elaborates: “If it came out tilted, it’s a sign of stroke.”

Stroke? That’s a little much.“C’mon, you’re worried I had a stroke?”

She nods once. Her chest expands big as if she were inhaling really deep. “A smoker, extended bed rest, head trauma,” she quietly counts.

Is he hearing things, or does her breathing sound a little too fast?

“Can you point your toes three times?”

He point his toes three times, and yes, her breathing is a little too fast.

“Now please lift both arms parallel to the bed.”

He lifts both arms. The baby chicken is sleeping now and doesn’t wake with the motion.

“Okay,” Y/N whispers to herself.

“Tell me you’re not stressing out about nothin’.”

She blinks a few times and deadpans, “I would never.”

“Here,” he holds the chick near her face. “Get zen like this pipsqueak.”

“But you ain’t ‘nothing’ and you are at an elevated stroke risk.”

He’s only got the one word for her: “Zen.” The hovering motion he made with the chick was a fun touch, the little thing didn’t even mind.

Her expression suggests she’s trying to not smile, and, in a move he doesn’t anticipate, she leans forward to rub her nose on its beak. Her lips brush against his fingertips when she does and his train of thought derails.

Next thing, her hands are overlapping his as she gently takes the chick back and re-wraps it in the washcloth. “’Lil buddy you’re fine, you’re fine,” she coos. “I’ll grab you the hand sanitizer and leave you to some peace, alright man?” she addresses to Daryl, who's still a little distracted, so a grunt and a chin tilt is how he acknowledges this.

Merle would be laughing his ass off right now, goddamn. ‘Sweet lil virgin Darylina’ sounds about what he’d be cackling about.

Y/N flips open the cap with her thumb and squirts the hand stuff onto his palm. Smells like lemons.

So, he didn’t have that stuff before, meaning she’d likely been the one to put it in there when she’d cleaned his tent with Carol. “Hey, um, thanks for the surprise.” Damn, he’s awkward. Smells way better in here.”

“Carol is so wanting to help you in any way she can. I was in it just to see you end up with that pretty floral pillowcase. I had to stop her from hangin' the matching curtains,” she snickers, then waves him goodbye and, boom, leaves.

So…how long until his heartbeat and head stop racing?

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

You

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

Yet another stage performance today. You had to act like you weren’t distracted by how boyishly charming Daryl looked lounging there with his shirt unbuttoned to his hecking waist, good Moses. Then the way he snuggled the chick, how your legit lips bumped into his fingers?? He noticed your panicking and was all soothing and shit? Dude, and you were trying to sit like a dainty lady the whole time, too, what a poser.

Still, you think you were convincing. Oscar-worthy. Golden Globe. Emmy. Tony. Somebody hook you up with your EGOT.

Oh, and that little jab at his new pillowcase, aw yes, that was top tier friendzoning! Or — oh, it wasn’t interpreted as flirting, right? No way did you intend that! And hold up, no way he'd even care. It's Daryl.

You've earned a B- so far at being chill, you've got to get that grade up.

So, you are going to go pick fruit, alone, and you’re going to stuff your face because the show is over, you’re off stage for the rest of the day!

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[slowd1ving]

IV. REVISED: THE CONCEPT OF FRIENDSHIP .・゜DAN HENG NSFW

One of the theories pushed forward in this universe—a common conjecture between scientists throughout the stars—is that there are disturbances in a system that is being observed, versus one that is not. This is astutely named the observer effect. And this situation is the first proper example he’s seen of that. Dan Heng feels that as soon as he takes his eyes off you, you’ll phase back to a space between these dimensions, like some specter there are only myths about. when data nerd Dan Heng finds the forbidden dictionary and masters the hidden art: synonyms male! engineer reader warnings: eventual nsfw, kind of but not really spoilers to dan heng's backstory, amab reader

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

DRINKER OF THE MOON, DEVOURER OF DREAMS MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

PREVIOUS PART

There’s a certain art that comes with avoiding people, and Dan Heng has practically mastered it by now. From evading the monsters that habitually trespass on his path, to eluding the red-eyed man from Dan Feng’s convoluted past—no one can deny his experience in these twisted matters. 

Unlike his predecessor, he has no qualms in ridding himself of problematic situations by simply taking his leave. And though he may be labelled a coward, he can’t find it within himself to care. Honour and dignity is important—he’ll acknowledge that gladly—but making the pragmatic decision is something he’ll continue to prioritise. 

When you’re a fugitive, it’s all you have left. 

So, why hasn’t he left the Express yet?

A week prior, the brief vacation finally reached its conclusion and he stepped back onto the train. It was easy at first—you were busy reading over the contract negotiated by Mr. Yang with Argo-II for their bronze. There was no time for you and him to be alone. Not even in that fateful kitchen. 

His nightmares had ceased temporarily due to the lingering effects of the Argonian booze, so there was an easy excuse to save him from the regular nightly rendezvous. But at what cost?

All the rational cells in his brain are urging him to leave the Express far behind. It’s a honey-trap, they scream—he’s becoming too dependent on its security. There is also the pressing issue of your presence, but he’s intentionally avoiding thinking about it. 

He should leave. 

Dan Heng has overstayed his welcome. 

“—oh, Dan Heng, perfect. Do you remember where the information for the Migrides Embassy legislature was, from when I asked for it a few weeks back?” Himeko’s request jolts him from his reverie, and before he’s even aware of it, his deft hands pick out the correct file from the archive shelves. “We’ll use their own courts against them to uphold our honour.”

He frowns. I’ve gotten too acclimated to living here. 

“Are you feeling alright?”

The man in question tears his eyes away from the small bag that sits in the corner. It’s a sharp reminder of his obligations—moving on before he lands himself in an even bigger mess. 

“Perfectly fine, Himeko,” he bites his tongue, afraid that his sour mood will taint his polite words with curtness. 

She tilts her head, and her blood-like hair spills from her shoulders in a clean decapitation. The action is an ominous prelude to her next words. 

“You didn’t have an argument with him, or anything?” 

Sometimes, she’s also annoyingly perceptive. 

“No,” he replies carefully. “We’ve just been busy with our respective lines of work.”

“...If you say so.” It’s clear she doesn’t believe him, and the long look she gives him only reinforces that notion. He can’t bring himself to meet her eyes; they seem like they’ll unearth his unease about being near you, forcibly prying any reason from him. Behind his back, his nails dig into his palms. “The tension doesn’t suit you. Talk to him sooner rather than later.”

She exits the archives then, and he’s left wondering about the meaning embedded deep within her words. 

What tension? That dream was an error; like the fields of ‘Asphodel’, he would’ve never dreamt about you had he been in his right mind. 

Sure, he might be avoiding you, but he’s not tense. He’s my friend. The awkward feeling will dissipate in due time, so Dan Heng’s making the tactful decision to elude you and get over himself. And Himeko’s right, he reluctantly accepts. If he wants to inoculate himself against making things even weirder than they normally are, it’s necessary to ease back into the regular back-and-forth of friendship with you. 

Friendship—the word’s bittersweet on his tongue, for some strange reason. 

It’s both fortunate and unfortunate that he’s unable to see you for the next few days. 

After all, you personally descend to the Migrides cluster alongside Himeko—an unlikely pair, but one that absolutely makes sense—in order to finally beat the Embassy at their own game. It’s strange, though. Where he should find relief in his chest, there’s only a heavier, tighter burden to carry. 

It hurts. There’s no rhyme nor reason to his erratic pulse, not any more. For those few days, there’s not a trace of your presence and he’s growing listless. 

Contradictions. He’s full of them, forcibly driving a wedge between the two of you, yet he can’t deal with the overwhelming lack of you.

“You’re spacing out,” Mr. Yang cuts into his thoughts. There’s only a wooden chequerboard between them, but it feels more like a chasm that simply cannot be bridged. “And losing.”

Check. His rook is promptly sacrificed in the bloody battle, but it’s not like he’ll win. With a drawn out sigh, he tips his king flat onto the board. 

“There’s something on your mind, I’d wager.” Mr. Yang stares long and hard at the easy victory he’d gained—one of Dan Heng’s most embarrassing moments in chess, but it’s not like he’s particularly engrossed in the game. 

“What gave that away?” 

It’s a curt response; he’s tired of the constant reminders of you. Still, he holds onto the hope that maybe—just maybe—the bespectacled man isn’t referring to you like Himeko had. 

Mr. Yang simply looks at him with that flat gaze, and he loses that kindled ember of hope he nurtured. 

“Forget it,” he shakes his head, and for a brief moment Dan Heng feels relief that the topic has been dropped. 

“I’m sure you’ve got it under control. I’m sure you’re not running away from communication.”

Sometimes, he’s reminded that Mr. Yang is more sardonic than he lets on. 

And there’s something so hilarious in the way he musters up his courage to approach you first, only for you to slide open the door to the archives first. 

Thump. For a heartbeat or two, he’s spellbound by your return—yet he can’t bring himself to say anything. He ducks his head back into his book when you look over: piercing eyes glaring right into his soul. There’s a faint rustling of plastic against plastic as you slide out several files, though not a singular word from your lips. 

Aeons. He can feel his face heat up as the rough mixture of soap and metal hits him. You’re here, but he can barely think, let alone formulate any sort of sentence. 

When he looks up after a few minutes, you’re still there—and noticing his eyes on you, you give him a brief nod whilst you read over your selection. 

It’s too much. It really is. 

Dan Heng leaves the small room with paper trailing behind him and a pulse too erratic to be considered healthy—the rushed action elicits a small noise of surprise as he brushes past you. He avoids your eyes, but can’t evade the mandarins still clinging to your clothes and now his. 

The bathroom door is locked, yet your presence is etched onto his skin. 

This is friendship?—he scoffs. Friendship shouldn’t taste so bitter, not when his stomach is writhing uncontrollably. Not when he feels his tongue go leaden and skull grow heavy. There’s something wrong with him. It’s clawing from his insides—raw scars are left on tender flesh. 

Even when he knows the coast is long clear, it takes more than a half-hour for him to slink back to the archives. Why? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to know, not when the lingering remains of you still hover around the enclosed space. 

If he had one word to describe this feeling welling up inside, it would be torturous. 

Shameful. 

He can’t sleep. 

Long past the time he usually takes the first steps into the dream world—or in his case, the cacophony of nightmares—he’s still tossing and turning. It’s not the sticky heat that seems to plague him, but rather the anticipation of something finally happening that keeps him up. It’s stupid. His mind is hazy as he checks the time on his phone, yet not hazy enough to slip into that wreck of a slumber. 

00:34

His fingers tap mindlessly on the screen. Nothing. No messages, no mail, not even a scammer he could mess with for once. He’d work on finally updating and organising information about the smaller planets near Penacony, but even that’s barred from him via Pom-Pom’s stern insistence that there not be more than one sleep-deprived fool on this train. He doesn’t particularly wish to know the conductor’s wrath, so he does what they say. 

00:40

It’s a disgusting sort of lethargy. He can’t will his eyes to stay closed, yet he can’t bring himself to summon Cloud-Piercer either to numb his mind from his thoughts. 

He grits his teeth, and he can feel each molar grind against another. Bone against bone. 

Pathetic. 

He checks his phone one last time, and turns it off for good. Perhaps if he wasn’t so unlucky this night, he might have seen the message that came up just a few minutes after it powered off. 

01-04-XXXX

<Frankenstein & Co.> 02:59 > [robot.jpeg attached]  02:59 > Yeah this one looks like you lmao

<You> … < 03:04 Wow. You’re such a comedian. < 03:04 If you ever need a gig with the Masked Fools I’m sure they’ve got plenty of vacancies. < 03:05

03:05 > Cope bro 10:56 > Btw Welt picked up takeout from the Space Station 10:57 > Hurry up before I eat your share too

(+4 unread messages)

21-04-XXXX

<I’ll get you a satanic… mechanic> 00:55 > We’re both shit at communicating  00:55 > I’m coming to the archives in half an hour to put back the files, since I know you’re probably awake. Might as well talk it out.   00:56 > If you’re sleeping I won’t bother you  00:57 > We’ll just figure it out tomorrow I guess

Dan Heng has never been particularly fortuitous. Perhaps that’s why the message only gets delivered and not read. Perhaps that’s why he staves off the urge to check out his schedule for tomorrow in favour of rest. 

When they call him unapproachable, maybe luck also thinks of him that way. Sure, Dan Feng’s had his own share of misfortuned days, but tonight might just be the unluckiest night in this incarnation's life. 

When does it start?

In his memories, it might’ve been triggered by the gradual heat spreading across his limbs. His skin is molten across flesh: scorched to its very bones. Everything’s so tight—it’s no wonder that he throws his shirt into the corner next to him. He’s left breathing heavily in only sweatpants, and still they’re too cumbersome, too constricting. 

What’s the cause of it all?

It might’ve been catalysed by the dizzying feeling playing on his mind that started a while ago. He’s entranced: wandering through a fog that seems to have no end, all in the hopes of catching a glimpse of whatever’s making his heart flutter all hummingbird-like. 

Or maybe it’s the faint traces of you still clinging to the air. 

At first, he can’t quite pinpoint where it’s coming from. When he turns his head on his pillow, the strands of a clean soap grow stronger—so he reaches out. His fingers brush against soft fabric, and the man freezes with his fist clenched around your sweater. 

It’s yours. 

Somehow, your presence hasn’t yet been washed out from the threads. And for whatever damned reason, pressing it near his face is lulling him into a better stupor than that cursed drink ever did. 

It’s not enough. 

He buries his face in the material—by now, he’s practically drinking in all the intricacies of your scent. Inhale. Notes of orange peel, the subtle shift of soap, and the disorienting tang of diesel. Exhale. His mouth is half-open: too caught up in the throes of whatever this is to close. Unbearable. That’s what it is: a deep tension right below his navel that forces him to slowly lose his senses. 

One hand is firmly clenched around the fabric pressed to his face, while the other discards the stifling blanket that’s only suffocating him further. But as he does so, he accidentally brushes against the front of his sweatpants.

His heart skips a beat, then bangs against his ribcage particularly loudly. 

“Ah,” he gasps out. A chaotic pulse registers, deafening, along his ear canal. There’s a realisation that trickles honey-slow through his brain. It’s not like he’s explored this way of tiring himself out.

Aeons. 

He’s never felt so perverted. 

He’s never felt so conflicted. 

Was it not enough that he had that dream about you back on Argo-I? 

Aha must be gleefully orchestrating this twist of fate—he’s sure of it—as this defies rational thought. He should not be getting turned on to the smell of his friend that invades his senses and overwhelms him so completely. 

It’s not him, he justifies weakly. It’s just the feeling of there being another person. Well, with that sort of logic, Nous is itching to accept him into the folds of the Genius Society. 

There’s that strong, bubbling shame that lays heavy in his chest; however, the tightness in his lower abdomen is catalysing its destruction. It doesn’t help that he’s losing himself in the warm scent of you, and the shortness of breath that comes with covering one’s mouth and nose in thick fabric. No, it definitely helps. Shame aside, he somehow hasn’t crossed the precipice of perversion; the hand that isn’t lodged firmly against the material is merely resting atop his bare torso. 

He can’t bring himself to trail his fingers lower. 

It’ll help with sleeping, he rationalises once more. His head is heavy, and his self-control is slowly slipping as he keeps breathing you in. 

What would he say? If you saw him—face flushed, nuzzled into your clothing; chest bared with hardened nipples from both his arousal and the stream of cool air; sweatpants tight across his hips—what would you do? Would you leave in disgust (eyes trailing briefly across the body of what can only be called a pervert)? Would you curse him out in that rough voice of yours (then never speak to him ever again)?

Would you help him out?

The very thought of it makes his pulse bloom vibrant in his head—desperate to be heard, desperate to rip through his skull. It is also a sobering notion. 

He turns his body until he’s flat on his stomach with his face buried in the sweater currently draped over his pillow. The action is meant to rob his breath and calm his racing thoughts, but this really isn’t his lucky day. 

“Mmh,” he whines into the fabric when the pressure of his weight exerts itself right on his crotch. It was an accident, he later swears, but he can’t bring himself to move from this position. His mind is growing numb—not in the way he wants it to—but something so carnally perverse it brings an even greater flush to his face. 

Despite the futility of the gesture, he can’t help but squeeze his eyes shut in one last desperate bid for sleep. In his mind, he’s begging for slumber without having to resort to that. However, it’s fruitless: pointless in every sense of the word. Him attempting to relax even further just makes the warm sheets brush against his naked chest—and with his eyes closed, it feels more like hands gently cupping around the area. 

He gives up. 

He feels so much shame that he’s delirious on it as he grinds against the thick material of the futon. Dan Heng knows he shouldn’t be doing this—rutting himself against his bed desperately while his teeth leave small marks in your sweater—but the irrational part of his mind has long taken over. 

It’s not enough. It’s nothing more than a brief morsel of pleasure—far from being able to sate his hunger and quench his thirst. 

The hour is late enough that he doesn’t feel particularly cautious as he turns back to face the glimmering ceiling. There’s an unspoken rule on the Express: don’t step into the Archives once the light goes out. Therefore, he abandons the caution he usually employs in this small space and slips his cold fingers past the waistband. 

He hisses as his frigid hand wraps around himself, thumb brushing just past the leaking tip in a way that is simultaneously overbearing yet simply not enough. 

It’s not like he’s never done this before, but it was more of a perfunctory experiment rather than anything—and being chased by a homicidal maniac does little to get him off. 

His other hand abandons the plush material of your clothing to tug sharply at his nipples—jaw clamping down on the threads to prevent the rushed moan from leaving him as he rolls them with gelid fingers. He’s sensitive: every harsh application of pressure shoots straight through his neurons and into his brain, and that’s slowly frying. 

“Mmh—” he slurs around the fabric in his mouth, practically gagging on it as he paws at his tits. 

The garment obstructing his vision and airways feels so empty that he can’t help but assign some sort of meaning to it. What would it be like if it were replaced by him instead?—he thinks, and the very notion causes his cock to twitch within the confines of his fingers. Your hand might be twined through his hair just like this: tugging on the strands as you manoeuvre him to fit exactly against you. Your thighs might clamp around the sides of his face like this: locking him there while he takes you down his throat. 

It could be him, and the concept is shoved to some disused, forgotten corner of his mind with just a phrase. 

He’s just a friend, and the words taste bitter in his mind.  

As if to forget, his fist hastens its pace and he’s rocking his hips into the motion. It’s rough—nothing like how he usually would be so methodical with this. Then again, it’s clear that he’s not trying to emulate his own ways while his hand wraps around himself; but he doesn’t want to acknowledge exactly who he’s imitating. 

It’s still not enough.

The garment stretches taut across his motions: too constricting for him to reach that high that he senses clouding the edges of his consciousness. Before, these sorts of actions were experimental—not meant to induce pleasure or buzz his mind, but simply a perfunctory exploration of his own body. Yet now, it’s clearly evolved into him chasing the haze as though he’s nothing more than some slut. 

He hisses as he slips the waistband of his pants down with a tacky hand—the darkness enveloping him only makes the cold air sharp against his sensitive skin. 

The darkness also grants him reprieve; it reminds him that he’s alone in this moment, and no one will know of his sins come morning. 

An absence of light also leads to his other senses growing more profound. Neuroplasticity. The term refers to the nervous system and senses rewiring themselves due to various stimuli, such as losing a sense. 

Without sight, he can clearly hear the sticky shick-shick as he fucks into his fist. He can hear every shift of skin against skin—every lewd squelch when he pumps his hand downwards. He can hear the rustling of clothing as it adheres to the pre-cum spilling from his tip. He can hear each bitten groan as it leaves his lips, muffled against you. Or at least, your sweater. 

Most of all, he can hear the desperate drumming of his racing heart as it acclimates to his sudden hunger for ecstasy.

+8 unread messages

21-04-XXXX 

<I’ll get you a satanic… mechanic> 00:55 > We’re both shit at communicating  00:55 > I’m coming to the archives in half an hour to put back the files, since I know you’re probably awake. Might as well talk it out.   00:56 > If you’re sleeping I won’t bother you  00:57 > We’ll just figure it out tomorrow I guess 01:14 > You really should turn on your read receipts sometime 01:14 > I can’t tell if you’ve read these or not but I’ll assume you’ve seen them  01:14 > Since you’re usually still up and around at this time 01:15 > I’m almost done with writing up the Migrides report for the Society, so I’ll be there in like five to ten minutes? I’m turning right back if you’re asleep though 

His pulse damn near bursts out of his chests as he speeds the motions of his hands up: one clenched tight around himself, while the other draws crude circles into his hardened nipples. It’s not perfect, not by any means—it’s sloppy and undignified, so unlike how he is that he half-wonders what possessed him. 

But the rough, hurried pace allows him to dissociate from himself briefly. It’s not he who ravishes himself, but the careless approximation of you pressing hard against his weeping cock: jerking it this way and that as tears leak down his flushed cheeks. 

As he imagines you knelt between his legs, the debauchment—the shame—paints his cheeks a garish red. There’s no way to take it back; he’s already crossed a line he shouldn’t have, and he can’t stop himself from doing so. Every time he forces the image into the forgotten recesses of his mind, you’re there again: spreading his legs while you make a mess between them. 

He can’t stop. He can’t stop. You’re not allowed to stop, not when he’s almost trespassing the brink of pleasure. Hurriedly, he twists his hand—your hand—just so and his stomach heaves as though on a particularly rough starskiff. 

His skin feels feverish—on the very brink of delirium and madness—but there’s still something missing. 

More, his body begs. He’s so empty, and the feeling is so foreign he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Or, more accurately, he knows full well what to do, which is precisely why he’s so hesitant to even formulate the thoughts and go through the motions. 

Slowly, his fingers trail down the vertical dip in his stomach, past the valley of his waist, and nestle neatly between his spread legs. 

There are two crucial things that he’s unawares of, much to his detriment. One, that the time is precisely nineteen minutes past the system hour—the sand in the hourglass paves the path to your arrival. Two, the door to the archives isn’t nearly as soundproof as he thinks. Of course, he’s experienced this himself—hearing the bass thrum through the panels of your own door—but it’s not occurring to him that this applies to his own as well.

Instinctively, he muffles his whines and moans, just in case. But honestly, it’s hard to focus on cutting off his noises when he’s roughly jerking his palm while fucking himself on his fingers. 

It’s hard to focus on anything, except the faint trail of metal still lingering in the air. Human-loved liquor rarely weaves those blessed by Long into its viscous spell, yet somehow the merest whisper of your presence forces upon him unmatched drunkenness. 

And you’ll never know the effect you have on him. Not when he’s so painfully hard, not when he’s stuffing himself with his fingers and pretending it’s you. Sweat laves him tonight, and he is baptised in the filth of his own lust. 

“So close,” he slurs in his delirium. At least in the cover of the endless night, when the only light comes from the glow of data, his body is as honest as his thoughts. 

Which is to say, not very honest at all. 

There’s something missing—something so slight, yet profound enough to add a counterweight to his tipping into ecstasy. He can’t move past the precipice; blankness simply eludes him. Though, whenever he thinks of you, that path to hedonistic pleasure is that much clearer. 

The steady hum of data calibrating itself to Astral Express standards should be the primary sound washing over this enclosed space, but the low whir is delegated to the sidelines. He’s chanting your name in broken, garbled syllables; if it were any louder, there wouldn’t be any relative machine humming to speak of in the first place. 

In fact, the same word practically drowns out any other awareness he has of the environment. Maybe if he hadn’t been mindlessly spilling your name from his lips, he might’ve been just the tiniest bit luckier. 

Alas, Dan Heng’s soul is far less fortunate than one can imagine. 

This set of banal coincidences—a lack of soundproofing, his weakening senses, and his decision to turn his phone off for the night, him avoiding you—all culminate into his impending doom. 

In the first heartbeat following this revelation from fate, your footsteps slowly make their way from your room: feet sinking into plush carpet with a languorous sort of amble that doesn’t belie the neurotic twitch of your hands as you walk towards the person who’s avoided you successfully for however many days. In any other set of circumstances, he would’ve picked up on the tiniest of disturbances outside and nearby his door: down to the very buckles of your outfit clinking together, down to the creak in your boots as you shifted impatiently. 

In the second heartbeat, you pause outside the door—hand poised to knock in an awfully ironic mirror of him just a few months ago. 

How naive. If he saw this picture right now, he would’ve told himself to never board this Express. 

You pause outside the door, and it’s reached a point where the sounds escaping his parted lips are lulled. Or, more accurately, they escape with each exhale—natural as crying, to the point where one might think he’s having a particularly vivid nightmare. There’s nothing to suggest what’s actually going on.

This, therefore, is the last moment he has to not screw this up any further. 

But—

There is a very strong ‘but’.

—Dan Heng has already established his inaptitude for fortune. 

Had he seen you right now, he would’ve witnessed the turn in your shoulders as you accept the small noises as him just having a nightmare. Plausible explanation. There’s enough circumstantial evidence and midnight encounters to immediately come to that conclusion, then leave him to inevitably wake up on his own. 

However—however—you simply don’t turn away fast enough. Or, Dan Heng has the worst timing to ever exist. Maybe it’s the first reason for this calamity, maybe it’s both, but looking back on it, it was definitely the latter explanation. 

He’s so close. 

As he’s hastily sliding his hand up and down his weeping cock, while his fingers probe at unfamiliarity, your name slips from his mouth once more. These fateful sound waves ripple and poke past the wooden door, far enough to reach your ears and freeze your steps. 

“Dan Heng?”

He must’ve hallucinated it. But that’s your voice, so hushed and tender that his flesh throbs beneath his fingers. 

Shivers descend on his body—so profound his vision goes white for a brief moment—and thick ropes of cum spurt out onto his stomach. He’s so sensitive, but he needs so much more: rocking back onto his fingers while his slick walls clamp down onto them. 

“Ah,” he whines out, in tandem with the door opening. 

Finally. 

That grabs his attention, and his hips stutter to a grinding halt as his head turns to the side. Glossy eyes lined with unshed tears stare at the mirage to his right—it’s you, illuminated by the low glow of the data banks and the dim light in the background. 

No. 

You’re real. 

His breath hitches. Like a deer caught in headlights, he’s frozen; except in this scenario, it’s much worse than a quick hit-and-run. Dan Heng’s a mess right now. There’s globs of white pearled across his chest and stomach, there’s the fact that one hand is still cupping his hard dick, there’s still the image of the fingers of the other hand nestled deep between his legs. There’s the drool leaking from his parted lips; there’s his fucked-out, hazed expression complete with burning cheeks; and perhaps the most incriminating factor, there’s your sweatshirt still draped across his pillow.

Aeons. No amount of explanations will ever save him. It’s why he can’t bring himself to scramble to piece together his shredded dignity.

“Uh,” you begin intelligently. There’s some sadistic (wholly unconcerned with his own situation) part of him that notes that this is the first instance he’s seen of you being struck dumb like this. 

It’s dim enough that you need a moment to process it, but he watches your eyes adjust. You take in his half-naked state, exactly where his hands are still positioned, and finally, that damned sweatshirt. 

He swallows, but no words escape his mouth. And frighteningly enough, he can feel himself twitch against his cold palm. 

“I really wasn’t expecting this when I came to confront you about avoiding me,” you mutter, firmly looking elsewhere as he pulls the sheets so they cover his legs and sits upright. “Did I cause some crisis within you? Is your attraction to me the reason you’ve been so distant?”

“I’m not…” Distant? Avoidant? Attracted to you? 

“I’m not interested in my friend like that,” he replies thickly. “I just needed to sort myself—ah—out before I could continue that relationship.”

If this were anyone else, this conversation would’ve ended a few minutes ago. If he were any closer to you, he would’ve left this area as soon as possible. Maybe it’s because you’re so distant that it’s possible to keep talking like this, like he isn’t still getting off on your words and the texture of his sheets on his painfully hard dick. 

There’s the evidence of his shame on his cheeks—such a dark red he feels lightheaded. 

“Ah, right,” you nod in understanding. “Because I didn’t hear my name being called out, and that’s definitely not my jumper lying there. You’re not interested.”

“Exactly,” he lies. He can’t gauge what exactly you’re probing him for, but he knows that you’re offering a chance out of this mess. 

This was a mistake. He screwed up—letting his irrational mind entrance him with you. No doubt, this was all due to the strange dream he had back on Argo-I that catalysed this disaster. He’s not interested in you—his friend. 

“Dan Heng,” you breathe. “You’ve been evasive ever since we returned from the Argo.”

He stiffens, watching cautiously as you lean against the doorframe. 

“I’ll leave after you truthfully answer one question of mine.” Your cadence is casual enough that he can’t hear judgement nor disgust within. Just kick me out, he wants to say. If he could, he’d want to undergo rebirth this instant so he’d forget all about this. 

“Why aren’t you yelling at me?” he blurts out.

“Do you want me to yell at you?” you counter. “It’s natural behaviour for people, is it not, to release tension this way?”

And perhaps, it is your indifference that is the most galling facet of this situation. 

“What do you want to know?” he instead asks, rather coldly. Do anything other than look at me like that! But here you are, picking at your nails as if he’s not just bared his vulnerable body in your presence. 

It’s weird, so weird, and if the Masked Fools ever picked apart his memory and witnessed this scene… Well, he doesn’t even want to think about the numerous ways they’d publish it. This is perhaps the most humiliating and bizarre experience he’s ever had; worst of all, it appears completely one-sided. 

“Dan Heng.” You shake your head in disappointment. Slight mockery coats your tongue, and he flinches with the sudden heat in his abdomen. To think, you’ve never called his name in this realm before today—but the shame he’s experiencing has caused the sudden influx in your vocabulary. It’s hilariously, painfully ironic. “I was wondering why it was the Argo cluster in particular that triggered this.”

An ominous prelude to your question.

“You lied to me on the last day, didn’t you?”

The dream. The damned dream. You know. Somehow, you’re aware of what exactly it was that he’d dreamed. 

He holds his breath. 

“But I won’t be as cruel as to ask that just yet.” So what will you ask in its stead?

You shift until you’re at your full height, and he’s hyper aware of the piercing—knowing—glint in your eyes as you assess him. “Out of all your days at that bar, did you happen to spot the blinding red poster behind the counter?”

Now that you mention it, he does faintly recall the edge of crimson in the deep recesses of his memory. Mutely, he nods (after all, he doesn’t trust himself to not stick the final nail in his own coffin).

“Perfect,” you drawl sarcastically. “Then, can you tell me what was written on that poster?”

No. He finds that he can’t. And what is the reason for that? He doesn’t know. 

(He does know. For the same reason his blood chases the heaving gulps of oxygen, his gaze flitted only to you for that brief week—but that will go unacknowledged by him.)

“Archivist—” and it’s the first time you’ve used his title so callously, so bluntly. “—for someone whose job it is to collect information, you sure didn’t do a good job at knowing that overconsumption of anything is bad for your health.”

His fingers twitch. Shameful. How utterly shameful it is—how abhorrent—that even as your words cut through skin and flesh and reach tender marrow, his heart rate quickens with adrenaline. 

“Do remind me,” he mutters. Perhaps if he were a little wiser, he would’ve searched up the drink as soon as he left the Argo, ignoring the prickles of chagrin that pierced him as he thought about it. 

“Overconsumption of this particular drink can lead to migraines and hallucinations.” Yes, he faintly recalls the sound of those words as the bartender warned him about all those neatly lined coupe glasses. Just like a fool, he didn’t pay much heed to the warnings he heard as though it were mere alcohol. Easily handled, easily managed. Except it wasn’t. 

“That’s not all, is it?” For the first time, he can see your slight hesitation as you mull over the final consequence. 

“No. There’s also the ability to project into dreams that aren’t wholly your own.”

Oh. Oh. His mind reels. 

You were there, and you saw all of it. 

“You—” he cuts himself off as he notices you standing only a foot or so away, peering down at him as you reach for your sweater. Your scent invades his senses—so much more potent than the insignificant material bearing only traces of you. 

“I’ll be taking my leave.” You’re still leaning over him. The folds of your clothes brush just right past his naked torso, and he flinches back as though he’s been scalded by the proximity. “Thanks for confirming what I needed to know, friend.”

It happens as you’re beginning to move back. Unprompted, his hand reaches out to grab your wrist and you drop the sweater you were holding. 

Surprised, you stare at him with your lips parted. The distance is insignificant; in fact, he can feel the warm gusts of your breathing right on his collarbones. 

“So you do want me,” you comment smartly, and he averts his eyes to look anywhere but your laughing gaze. 

“I still don’t,” he mutters, but his voice quivers far too much to hold only truths. He’s my friend, and nothing else. 

“Then, should I go? Leave you to deal with this alone?” The words brush honey-sweet against raw skin—they brutally remind him of your position. You’re kneeling slightly on the futon, back bent a crude seventy degrees as you lean over his legs to grab your sweater once more. A rough palm is firmly planted by his side (he’s terribly conscious of the warmth it radiates) while the other is locked in his own grasp. 

“Are you offering?” he challenges: pure irreverence dulls his cadence. 

“If you ask nicely, I might help out my dear friend.” A crescent smile is present on your face; innocuous enough, but he can sense the sharpness just waiting to cut him. It was a mistake. Getting involved with the Express was a horrible mistake. Every time he inhales, he can smell those mandarins and the soapy scent of you—the metal, the caffeinated drinks, you. Even your terrible, doom-ridden smile has long turned sweet; the only danger it brings is the heated surge straight through his stomach. 

He’s willing to help. 

“And if I don’t ask nicely?” It’s not like him to be this brash, but Aeons know just how insane he’s feeling tonight. 

“Then I bid you good luck in whatever you were doing before,” you whisper, moving to disentangle your fist from his shaking fingers. 

And he admitted I’m just a friend too. 

Selfishly, he refuses to let your arm go. 

“Dan Heng?”

“If it’s just for tonight…” he exhales. After tonight, the regular back-and-forth would be reestablished, right? His bottom lip wobbles, and he catches your eyes flickering to the small motion. 

“You act like you’re doing me a favour,” you sneer. Is it normal for his pulse to accelerate as you look at him with such disdain? Is it normal for his heart to drop when you wrench yourself free of his grasp and stand to head to the door?

“Where are you going?” He hates how it sounds like he’s whining like some damn mutt, hates how hard he feels at the slightest hint of your displeasure, hates you for making him feel like this. 

“Locking the door,” you remark. “I’m not like you—so desperate that anyone can just walk in and see you with your legs spread.”

“Mmh,” he sighs out at each blunt syllable that leaves your cruel lips. He’s too far gone to feel shame about it; more accurately, you made him this way. Nothing’s in his head except you—his mind’s whirling as you kneel back down at his side, heart pounding desperately out of his chest. 

His eyes squeeze shut as you ghost closer; fear poisons his vessels as he moves back slightly. 

“No kissing,” he insists, since that will feel far too much like that dream. Something so intimate doesn’t belong here—his only goal is to break away from this night and resume his friendship as cleanly as possible. 

“Okay.” He can picture your raised brows as you wonder exactly what about a kiss is more amorous than the very act of intercourse. “Just the lips, or everywhere?”

Against his will, his face flushes a far deeper red than it had previously. Crimson is fading into your vision—as visible as his glossy, tear-lined eyes—and he knows you see it clearly. How can you not? After all, he can feel the heavy pressure of your gaze as you look directly at his face. Not his body, nor his clenched fists, but right at his face. Strangely, that feels far more intimate than anything else. 

“Just the lips,” he stammers. 

Aeons willing, his heart won’t stop anytime soon. While it feels like his very cells will collapse in on themselves with how hard his pulse thuds, he hopes they’ll continue enduring just a little bit longer. 

“Okay,” you breathe once more—except this time, he doesn’t hear it so much as feel it brush gently over his collarbone. Blooming like flowers, your mouth leaves a meadow behind on his clavicle; he can’t help but throw his head up to be closer to you, to allow you to mark him up more. 

Every place you suck a bruise into burns white-hot. He knows he should pragmatically stop you from claiming the base of his throat and above (if only to preserve his dignity when he faces the rest of the Express come morning) but he can’t bring himself to hide this: for one night, he lay in your arms. 

He knows that he should’ve limited you from placing your warm mouth anywhere. What will he do tomorrow? When he sees the blossoming violets seeping into his dermis in the morning, how will he look you in the eyes cordially while knowing it’s your fault? While he waits for his sore body to recover, how exactly will he maintain friendship?

“Don’t worry your pretty head so much,” you whisper, and oh, you must’ve seen the furrow in his brows while getting some air and admiring your handiwork in the dim light of data shelves. A palm splayed flat on his bare chest—warm, just like the man it’s attached to—pushes him firmly onto his futon once more, until his back hits his pillow and his elbows prop himself up. It’s a testament to your words: forget the turbulent thoughts, and just think about this moment. 

Pretty, he thinks drunkenly. He thinks I’m pretty. And though it’s, quite frankly, stupid to be flustered over that when there are plenty of better reasons to be flustered right now, he can’t help but squeeze his eyes shut even tighter at the word. 

Your mouth moves lower, teeth grazing the grooves of his abdomen—and his back arches into the sensation of soft lips. 

“Aeons— ah—” he moans as you lave your tongue across where the still-sticky rivulets of cum remain. To make matters worse, the rough pad of your thumb rubs callous circles against his nipple: sensitive from his earlier toying. But oh, it feels so much better than when he’d given them his amateur attention. He can’t help but shudder into the touch: so robotically precise he wonders whether you view people like your machines too. Does he do this with others as well?

The question creates a sickening, furious heat in his gut. One of his hands lifts and grips your shoulder, digging through the loose shirt you wear and into the firm skin beneath. 

He finally opens his eyes to look down at you—your brows slightly raised as you continue cleaning up the mess he made from the side, tongue darting out to catch every last drop—and his dick stiffens painfully from where it’s still covered. 

Salty, he thinks he hears you mutter to yourself. Maybe that’s the last straw, or maybe it’s you washing your tongue over your lips as if not to miss anything. Neither of those things matter—he needs you to expedite whatever you were going to do, now.

“Hurry– hurry up,” he gasps as your other hand brushes his hip bone, dangerously close to where the sheet covers. 

“So impolite,” you mock. Suddenly, that same hand wrenches the sheet down, and he lets out a groan as his naked flesh is bared to the cold air once more—he sees you don’t miss his reaction. “Not even a please.”

You’re the one who’s impolite, he thinks—ogling at him while you’re still fully clothed. 

“Sure have a lot of demands for someone who got caught calling out my name,” you reply, and it’s then he realises that maybe he didn’t think that at all. Still, with a fluid motion, you discard your shirt to the side and he’s left gazing at the expanse of your skin once more. Just like in that dream. 

“Now who’s ogling?” you continue quietly, but he’s much too fixated on seeing the bare flesh that unconsciously, his hand reaches back up to trace the plains of your shoulder. Then, his focus shifts as you reposition yourself so you’re practically straddling his legs, essentially trapping him under you. 

His tongue flickers out to wet his lips. 

Thankfully—thankfully—that’s not the thing you notice as your eyes finally trail down. 

“Mmh—” he whines as your calloused hand grasps his stiff cock. You’re gentler than he thought you’d be—though it’s precisely that sort of friction he’d been looking for in the first place. It’s almost cautious; you swipe your thumb across his leaking slit experimentally, and he can hear his own breathing become more rapid and shallow. 

“So pretty,” you murmur. “Just like the rest of you.”

He blinks, and suddenly he’s looking down to where your gaze lies: where your hand almost dwarfs his flesh, where his mushroom tip glistens from his earlier release, and where you’re slowly pumping it from shaft to base. 

Yes, he thinks, it is a pretty sight—but only because you’re in it too. 

He freezes. 

I can’t think that way. 

Dan Heng gasps as you remove your hand from him, shamelessly licking up the remaining liquid from your hand. The very sight causes his mind to go blank: body burning, stomach churning.  

“Why’d you stop—” he slurs his words, lids blinking slowly despite the scalding flush of adrenaline spreading through his limbs. “—not fair.”

Gently, you grab the hand that rests on your shoulder, pressing a small kiss to it while he hears the sound of a zipper. The sweet gesture forces his eyes open completely—if you moved any closer, you’d be able to hear his maddened heartbeat. 

“I’m not stopping,” you assure him. Warm fingers easily thread through his, and he gasps as your dick presses against his. His teary pupils can’t bear to look down—feel how you’re rubbing the pieces of flesh together in a dizzying rhythm.

Just like clockwork, he presses his freehand to the back of yours: stuck together in perpetual motion. He can hear the soft shick-shick as you move your palm up and down; feel the heat of your skin as it radiates into his own cold hands; see the faint smile as you stare at him beneath you. 

It feels so good—and normally, he’d never give in to the facetious pleasure that waits to slit his throat while he’s in its tender embrace. 

Pressing his lips together, he removes his hands from yours and loops them around your neck. If he feels closely, he can sense the steady race of your pulse—something that belies the surprise you hide in your languid expression. Like this, your body is forced closer to his (or more precisely, his body is forced closer to yours). 

You sigh out as his nails dig into your fragile human flesh; he’d think you were in pain had it not been for the small exhales you’d let out as you sped up your pace. When you hiss out—breathing shallow from him, from the man cursed to be Dan Heng—he can’t help but throb in your hold. 

He’s had that effect on you. Not anyone else, not those people pressed against you in the club who wanted your fragments, but him. 

“So infuriating,” you grind out with gritted teeth. He buries his face in the valley between neck and shoulder, breathing in the soapy scent from the juncture as your hands become harsher. Rougher. 

Dan Heng occupies his loud mouth by suckling right onto your neck—stealing his breath away while the pleasure builds up in the pit of his stomach. 

You lean back slightly, and suddenly the hand that was propping your weight up firmly grabs the side of his waist—and he thinks he can see the stars within the confines of these four walls. You notice—of course you do—the ragged panting coming from him, and he can see the grin forming on your face in his mind. 

How shameful. 

He stares back with crescent eyes and dark red cheeks lining them. 

“Pervert.” Two syllables. Two syllables, accompanied by a harsh squeeze of his side, before he comes undone. Arching into you with a choked cry, more strings of cum spurt from his tip: coating his stomach and yours with an unmistakable affirmation of your words. No, word (singular), because for whatever Aeon-forsaken reason, his body chose in particular to respond to your insult. 

Spit connects his mouth to your skin—face still in your shoulder as if to hide from you. His chest rises and falls rapidly: tits pressed against your own chest as he whines with the overstimulation. 

It’s no good. Your hands keep moving, and he’s still so painfully hard he can barely breathe. 

“‘M– I’m not,” he garbles, even as you poke at the sticky liquid dripping from his sides. 

“Are too,” you murmur, but the teasing doesn’t comfort him the way he thought it would. No, tomorrow when your regular back-and-forth is reestablished, he’ll only think of this night—how you feel on him, how well you touch his body. 

“Don’t stop,” he whimpers as you pause the movements that keep driving him to many brinks. 

“I’m not.” He’s putty under your hands as you twist his body with such deftness that he wonders where you get it from. Lugging around heavy machines certainly does leave you with some muscle there—he doesn’t realise the position he’s in until he feels your torso move against his plush ass. 

His chest presses down against the futon, face barely escaping the same fate as he turns it to the side to avoid suffocation. If he had to describe this situation, it would be humiliating—arched straight into the air with you kneading the soft expanse of flesh like it were fucking bread. 

It finally sets in. 

He’s about to get fucked by his closest friend in this cycle—and he hates how stiff the thought makes him. 

But surprisingly—since you’re so damn full of surprises—you instead part the sensitive flesh of his thighs and instead fill the gap there. He’s so empty, but in this position, your tip catches against his every time you drill into the space; that (begrudgingly) makes up for it. Somewhat. 

“Stop delaying it,” he groans as he feels more of his cum dribble down onto his sheets. What more do you want from him?

“Dan Heng,” you instead hover over him, grasping his waist like handlebars. He hates this so much—how easily you manoeuvre him, how good the pain of your nails feels against his touch-deprived skin. 

Most of all, he hates how depraved he feels—using his closest friend for this. 

“Has anyone ever told you how pretty your thighs are?” you groan above him, and he swears he can feel the vibrations right against his cock. “Or how gorgeous your waist is?”

It should be insulting. He’s a guard and archivist, not some object to ogle at under your heated gaze. Yet, contrary to his expectations, he can only suppress the violent urge to just cum on the spot from those words. You like his body. 

Not as a warrior, not as a weapon for the protection of the Luofu, but simply because he’s beautiful in your eyes. 

“No,” he replies through a breathy moan, clutching desperately at the shirt you discarded that’s lying right next to his face. You notice, of course. Nothing really escapes your sharp eyes, not even when it’s dark and he’s trying to hide. “I can’t say anyone has.”

“You’re so cute.” And when you say those three words, you press a quick kiss to the nape of his neck while one of your hands lazily jerks him off. 

However, that’s not what pushes him to the brink. It’s when you finish—hot streams dripping down his inner thighs as you let out a muffled groan right next to his ear. That’s when he shivers. That’s when his heart pulses extra loudly for one beat and his breath hitches. That’s when his body tightens and he spills once more onto his sheets. 

“Ah,” he gasps as he continues thrusting weakly into your hand. Your body’s heavy as you lean your forehead into his neck: warm breath tickling his nape and making his whole body shudder from the sensation. 

“Are— are you finally going to–” he’s cut off as you pull away from his thighs; scalding residue is left between them, and every time he shifts it squelches. 

“Man, your biology really is different.” He can feel you smile against his skin as you don’t let go of him. He’s practically caged in by your body at this point—but strangely, he doesn’t seem to mind. “Already eager to go?”

“Don’t avoid the question,” he grips the material of your shirt so tightly he can feel his nails dig into his palm. “Actually, don’t answer my question with a question of your own.”

“Still so vocal,” you shake your head slightly. Much too casually, you tighten your grip around him in a ring and he has to clamp his jaw shut so as to not let out any more wanton noises. He can’t give you the satisfaction of proving yourself right.

“You’re just too slow.” He doesn’t know why he’s provoking you. 

“You’re just too impatient,” you hiss. 

It’s worth it. It’s worth it when you nudge at his hole with your tip; worth it when you stretch him out just around the shaft. 

“Mmph— more,” he moans shamelessly at the burn. When he attempts to sink down further, your hands grip his waist in such a way that prevents him from moving an inch. It hurts, more than his fingers did—but he can’t help wanting to just take it. 

“You sure?” 

In one fell swoop, you bury yourself to the hilt in his tight hole—and he practically screams at the sudden intrusion. His body tightens almost immediately, yet the relief never comes when he feels your fingers tightly wrap around him to prevent release. 

Tears stream down his flushed cheeks, and he can clearly see the sadistic smile on your face as his glossy eyes meet yours—ruining his climax while there’s not a single speck of remorse in your ruthless gaze. 

“Fuck you–” he grits out. Stemming his tears is a futile attempt. 

“That’s your job,” you grin. Pulling out just so your tip remains, it doesn’t exactly take a genius to figure out what you’re going to next. “Remember, Dan Heng, patience is a virtue.”

He’s still reeling from the ruined orgasm when you slam into him again. The man swears he can feel you in his very throat as his chest tightens from the impact—and the broken moans he’s been suppressing come out once more at full volume. 

You don’t give him any time to adjust; rather, you set a pace so thorough that the gummy spot inside of him is hit every time. Still, there’s no mercy for him—your hand prevents his release on each occasion he gets close to it. 

He can feel your own body tense up. Maybe, as a gesture of goodwill, that’s when you finally let go of him and take hold of his waist once more. On his skin, your hand is tacky from a mixture of both you and him. 

Using both hands, you pull him into you just as your pelvis collides with his own flesh; with each plap of sticky skin against skin, he lets out a cut-off mewl that simply fades into the next. Over and over. 

This is a special form of madness. 

“Please, please—” he doesn’t even know what he’s asking for, only that it’s the only thing he can say at this moment. 

It seems this has some effect on you—he can feel your abdomen stiffen as you grit out a question. “Where do you want it?”

“Inside,” he breathes. Perhaps that’s your last straw. Perhaps his voice like this is too much for you; not even a minute later, he can feel searing rivulets seep deep into him—so warm and slippery. 

“Hng–” he moans out. The feeling’s too much. With a desperate sob, he’s finally allowed to cum too: an awful, mind-numbing sensation that wracks his whole body with ruined pleasure. His chest heaves up and down—milking you for all you’re worth as he continues to ride it out. If you look closely, you’d see his legs practically giving out as you loosen your grip on his waist ever-so-slightly. 

Your body looms over his trembling one, pressing kiss after kiss to his spine as he cries it out. 

Discordant breaths slowly dissipate into calmer ones—your comforting weight grounds him firmly to the present. 

When… did I start thinking that way?

As he’s soothed into stupor, he notices how your scorching palms slip from his sides and hold down his clenched fists—twining finger against finger in such a tender gesture he can feel his very shoulders deepen into carmine. 

You’re half-hard inside him, but he still needs so much more. When his sniffles die down, he notices you staring unabashedly at him: a mess, he’s sure, but he sees how enraptured you are. That, for some reason, makes the comment die down in his throat and replaces it with a poignant question. 

What do you think about me?

(But that’s not a question you should be asking your close friend, not when he’s firmly lodged within you with his chest pressed against your back.)

You rub circles against the slight veins that line the backs of his hands—rough shapes that somehow retain the essence of your mechanical certainty. It’s so fucking intimate he can’t help but feel his whole face burn: to the bitter point where he’s pressing it right against his tear-stained, sweat-stained pillow. 

“Want more,” he slurs, hissing sharply as you lean back far enough on your heels that you manage to seat him firmly in your lap. It’s so much deeper that he has to stifle his whines while you gaze at him with that annoyingly perceptive look. 

He’s reminded of your strength when you tug at his legs and manoeuvre him so he’s facing you, on your lap, while still stuffed full of you and his cum. There’s fat globs of white dripping from him in a frothy ring, but you clearly don’t care about any of that as you lean back on your palms impassively. 

“Your turn,” you prompt. 

And oh, as he feels himself get split apart at this angle, it’s a wonder he doesn’t fall apart at that instant. It hurts, relying on his legs to rise and fall on your dick—over and over—but by the Aeons he can’t stop his tears from being shed and his mouth from letting out some of his most embarrassing sounds. 

He’s so dizzy he almost collapses—but his hands digging into your trapezius muscles provides a tentative support to his shaky frame. 

“Jerk,” he gasps out as you palm him callously, meeting each bounce of his hips with your pelvis thrusting upwards. He can’t stop the whines that leave his spit-shined lips; every sticky skin-on-skin sound is accompanied by such. 

He can’t go as fast as he wants, nor can he go as high as he wants, but that allows him to observe the irritated glint in your eyes as you duck your head. 

“What are you— ah—” he whimpers as your teeth graze his puffy nipple; his back curves into an arch unconsciously to press his tits more to your face, and he can’t help but feel embarrassed at how easily his body responds to your motions. 

As your tongue laves wet circles round the areola, while your hand roughly strokes him and you fill him up so, so good, he clutches at your body for dear life when he feels that familiar feeling building up in his stomach. 

“So close,” he bites out, shuddering in your grasp as you bite lightly around the nipple. Combined with the twisting motion of your hands, and the irresistible smell of sweat and metal bleeding from your skin, it’s no surprise that he cums in glistening ropes: painting your skin once more. 

More tears leak from his eyes as you don’t slow down. Well, you do, but only to use the tight grip he still has on your shoulders to push him down so he’s under you once more. You resume just as quickly; by this point, it’s clear you’re chasing your own release. 

Beautiful, he thinks through hazy eyes. 

He glances to the side briefly, spotting the bag he vowed he’d carry out of here in time—then back at you. 

There’ll be more passengers. More people, vying for your attention like this. Will you treat them like this? Like friends, as he’s so aptly put it?

He pulls himself closer to you, watching as your eyes widen in brief surprise at the sudden proximity. 

“What’s wrong?” you murmur. “Want me to–”

You’re so considerate it makes him sick. Is this how you view friendship too?

Where is the boundary?

Gradually, you bring your hips to a slow roll as he continues staring directly at you. He almost whines at the loss of motion, but the dilated look in your pupils is enough to keep him sated. 

Need him. He squeezes tight around you; as soon as your eyelids flutter shut, he kisses you on the lips chastely—the brief contact of your lips against his is enough to almost make his eyes roll back in delight. 

Your eyes practically flinch: blown open in abject surprise as you stare at his bashful, flushed expression. He definitely can’t leave, but Aeons this attention makes him want to retreat back into himself. 

“Dan Heng,” you whisper. “What happened to your rule?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he mutters. “Not anymore.”

He’s not expecting you to immediately cup his face with a shaky hand, kissing him feverishly while you continue grinding against him languidly. The salt on your lips—the taste of himself—is enough to have him cum against you one last time in weak, watery spurts. 

He moans into your mouth: hands clutching at you for dear life while you shudder with your own climax. Never has he felt so spent; not even after hours-long battles. Sure, he’s felt cold detachment from the blood on his palms, but he’s burning at the moment. A veritable comet streaking right across the galaxies, made of all the cold ice he can imagine—but lit up as white-hot as a star. 

If he had to explain the feeling of prodding his tongue into your warm, wet mouth, it would most likely be the best sensation he’s ever experienced. He can’t stop: too drunk on your taste to think about anything else save you. 

When you have your best friend’s dick in you, it’s pretty hard to think of him as just a friend. 

“Not going anywhere,” he mumbles into the scalding skin of your neck. “I’ll stay right by your side.”

“What—changed your mind about us just being buddies?” you query mockingly, running your fingers into the valleys above his hips. This weight; it feels safe being caged in your arms like this, as though he’ll sleep without nightmares every night he’s entrapped like this. “Felt too good for a friends with benefits situation?”

“Shut up,” he huffs, weakly poking at your arm. “Don’t want you treating your other friends like this.”

He can feel you stifle your laugh. 

Perhaps, if he really looks at it, the standard TUL dialect definition of friendship applies to this situation. Mutual trust and affection. 

“Okay, okay,” you accede. There’s a fluttering sensation in his chest that accompanies his reddened cheeks, and it’s not due to the strenuous activities from a moment prior. “You’re mine, then.”

The clumsy framing somewhat fit at the beginning, but no longer. 

And if he really looks at it, he should reread the whole dictionary to make sure he doesn’t misunderstand any more of these concepts. 

　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　   ☾

[plague-karm]

Right time to analyse this shit because god dammit I have been silently making theories about this show the second I saw the premise I’m about to become the most annoying person on the planet on god so LETS GOOOOOOO-

First things first the animation looks fucking phenomenal (let Kevin Temmer cook, that man can do no wrong). Also Caine the guy ever, he is the silly and I love him wholeheartedly, he’s just a fucked up little guy who’s living his best life fr.

And also NEW CHARACTER HELLO.

They do be circling though.

THE SILLIES ARE HERE LETS FUCKING GOOOOOOOO 🎉🎉🎉

Smiling Gangle spotted ten seconds before disaster, no thoughts head empty indeed.

ALSO I WASN’T EXPECTING STUFF OUTSIDE THE CIRCUS BUT IT’S A WELCOME SURPRISE WHOA

They have come to steal your credit card information.

The thoughts I had of Ragatha being the lone brain cell keeping everything together were completely correct I CALLED IT- (it has been said by Gooseworx that she has been there the second longest so she’s probably gotten used to the zaniness by now…maybe)

A door that leads to a void?

Maybe it has something to do with this room in the teaser trailer? Possibly.

Tumblr sexyman spotted.

''If there was a way to leave I'm sure we'd have all left by now''

They're ✨suffering✨

This caught me off guard when I first saw it lmao (holy FUCK I love Zooble's design, they're everything to me).

''Welcome to your new home...AND your new body...''

So they're aware that they were human before they entered the circus? That's interesting considering what happens in a few seconds (I'll get to that soon). It's also worth mentioning that Gooseworx has stated that their clothes ARE a part of their bodies.

Case in point...

At the end of the character introduction compilation Gooseworx posted to their YouTube channel Pomni is heard saying something along the lines of

''How do I...take this...headset off?!''

I saw a few people theorizing about her talking about a VR headset and that was how she entered the circus to begin with (I had the same thoughts until very recently). However, considering how much of the visuals and character designs are based on old media (also a teaser image was set up as the menu screen for a retro game), I'm beginning to think that this isn't the case.

So it's incredibly likely that Pomni is actually talking about her jester headpiece since she can't take it off.

This scene is probably the first time Pomni sees her new body, pinwheel eyes and all.

''I'm fine with whatever, as long as I get to see funny things happen to people''

I love him he's so unbothered.

I'm sad that we didn't get to hear any dialogue from them but I can't wait to see them in the pilot! Kinger is love, Kinger is life.

''After a while you start to realise that you really can't leave, and constantly chasing an unattainable goal will start driving you a little crazy''

She's a little fucked up actually wow who saw that coming.

It sounds like Ragatha tried to leave a few times and just resigned to her fate after a while, her description DID say that she was the ''sweetest little optimist in the digital circus'', so maybe she's told the others that escaping is impossible and that they should make the best of their situation instead? (Also the framed picture of the right looks like some kind of void, a lot of void imagery here).

Also, Gooseworx released this image a short while ago and it has the same background that Ragatha had while she was talking so she's DEFINITELY talking to Pomni here.

''OH GOD! WHY CAN'T I REMEMBER MY NAME?!''

EXCUSE ME? Okay time for some more speculation. I knew that their names definitely weren't their real ones but I wasn't expecting them to forget them!

Now, since the premise is said to be centred around Pomni and the others getting messed with by AI and their traumas, maybe instead of forgetting what their names were, they actually REPRESSED their memories from when they were human due to the trauma they went through? (Which would include their names)

I don't buy that they've COMPLETELY forgotten who they were (Zooble is aware that the body they're in isn't the one they used to have so I'm guessing everyone else knows that too.)

I'm guessing that their human lives absolutely SUCKED and they've now repressed their trauma to the point where they can barely remember who they were in the human world, this is just speculation.

''Thank goodness this is all a dream, right Pomni?''

What a sassy little guy (it's so weird hearing Michael Kovach sound so reserved, he's normally feral as hell playing these kinds of characters). The little mannequin symbol on the door is probably there for when new people stumble into the circus.

She's definitely seen some shit, I wonder what it could be though?

OH MY GOD THERE'S MORE OF THEM 😭

Wow this background looks...oddly normal. The only thing I can think of this being is Pomni witnessing a flashback of her human life before she showed up in the circus.

''You completely lose sight of who you are and why you're even alive and when you reach your breaking point something REALLY terrible can happen''

OH? Okay speculation time again. This is the closest hint we've gotten to what exactly one of the gang's traumas could be. Ragatha may have forced herself to stay positive in really shitty situations during her human life which likely lead to a lot of negative thoughts which eventually lead to her doing...something, I'm not sure what though, maybe it lead to her losing an eye? (Maybe her new body represents that?) I'm not sure. Maybe this is why she's been in the circus for as long as she has, instead of dealing with her feelings and existentialism, she instead continues to try to be someone who's more adjusted than they actually are.

Again, this is all just speculation, maybe it's just an Infinity Train type of thing where they can't leave until they learn to accept what they went through and how to work through it healthily idk.

WHAT THE HELL IS THAT? Well, I'll tell you what I think it is.

I think it's this weird tar like tentacle thing from the teaser trailer, I don't see what else it could be.

And I'm 90% sure that whatever it is, it's connected to this room, and I think that THIS is gonna be where we'll be seeing what the gangs traumas are (Ragatha looked TERRIFIED when she was grabbed so if this was the case I wouldn't be surprised). I'd also like to speculate that this could possibly be another AI. There's Caine, Bubble, and whatever the hell those little shape creatures are, so it's very likely that other AI does exist, we just haven't seen them yet.

But who knows? I'm probably looking too much into it.

Woah new background, he is angy.

I would go into another theory I have about how their designs may hint at what trauma they have but I've spent over an hour writing, compiling trailer screenshots, and speculating every individual frame while suffering with chest pains I wanna go to bed

Holy shit that took WAY longer than I thought it would. I cannot WAIT to watch the pilot, this show has become one of my most anticipated projects of the year over the last few months and I can't wait to see what it has in store.

TL;DR: The trailer looks fire 10/10 can't wait for the inevitable Pomni plushes.

[captain-mj]

Hiii i wanted to ask If you want to make a Part 3 to the Alien Thing (SoapGhostRoach)

maybe Roach or Soap find out that Ghost is in his mateing phase and want to see what that does to him?

Or maybe Roach still needs more infos so He takes... a closer look at Soap and Ghost?

Yeah I can write another part for it

Part 1 Part 2

Soap had been thinking recently. On his planet, interspecies relationships (from his own planet, not others) were fine as long as they weren't serious. His planet was an anomaly in that no predator species really thrived so most species looked a lot like him with only very small differences. None had managed to get sentience at the very least. It was part of what made his new... partners so exotic he supposed. Nothing like it from where he was from.

Sex was treated differently as well. It was common to have casual sex since interbreeding was impossible. He had long since understood that with Roach, monogamy was more serious. Though harems occasionally existed throughout their history, it did not seem the natural state of them, as they paired up more often than not. There were so many rules to their courting. Dates, something called third base and also asking permission from your partner's family. It was all so strange.

Then there was also a matter of Ghost. His species also used to have harems, though they never quite left it.

The part that Soap had been entertained by was that it was not based on sex or gender. Or even species. They had been building harems of their own species for years before they started going out and exploring the universe. Soap had been surprised when Ghost had been so insistent about their rules around consent. Anyone else, he may have assumed it was naivety, but with Ghost? He believed him. To take away one's choice was an act punished by the worst thing they could due to each other.

Tear the criminal to shreds publicly.

Ghost had proudly told them he had been a part of some of those trials and Roach and Soap had almost started salivating.

Today, Soap and Roach were anxious. Something had happened. Something never before seen or heard of.

Ghost took vacation time.

It wasn't much, just three days, but it wasn't even while they were on a planet!! They were just on ship!

Roach had never seen Ghost take off work. Most people refused to take work off while the ship was moving anyway because there was usually next to nothing to do for long periods of time, so this was extra strange.

Soap hummed. "Maybe we should bring him something? He has to be sick if he's taking off, does his species have an equivalent to salad?"

Roach thought it was very fun Soap would consider salad a food for sick people, but decided he could ask more about that later. "Humans do soup. Would his version be something with raw meat? Seems the best for him."

They put their brain cells together and brought him a steak. Was it unoriginal? yes, but sick people don't need fancy stuff.

Roach went in to his chambers first, one of the few people to have a master key. He went to announce his presence, Soap close behind, but both quickly shut up.

Ghost held the pillow tight over his face. There was no way he could breath easily based on the death grip he had on it. His other hand was furiously jacking off.

It was the most vocal either had seen him. He whimpered and whined and barked just loud enough to get it through the pillow.

"You called off work to jerk off?" Soap joked, though he was now bright red.

Ghost sluggishly reacted to them. He moved the pillow. Beautiful maskless face on display. There was a layer of exhaustion to him that was abnormal. "Fuck off. I was finally fucking close." He sounded miserable, head thrown back. His hand stopped though and he rolled his wrist to get the soreness out.

Roach swallowed, feeling a tiny bit out of his depth. "You okay?"

"Mating season." Ghost hissed at them, tail thrashing angrily. "Please, neither of you are going to want to be around me for the next two days so just get lost." He finally got the idea to cover his body up.

His hand started up again and it was clear the way he was doing it, this had been going on a while and his frustration was mounting.

Roach and Soap exchanged glances. Actually making eye contact.

Soap nodded at the door and Roach locked it. He turned around to see Soap slowly joining Ghost, taking the pillow from his face. Ghost looked at him, groaning.

"Please don't torture me, Johnny." His voice was barely above a growl now. He couldn't imagine the amount of strength to simply put the words together.

Soap put his hands on Ghost's shoulder. "Don't worry, Simon. Just want to help you out."

No sooner had he gotten the words out did Ghost flip them over. He fucked between Soap's thighs, pressing them both tight into the mattress until it was hard for Soap to breath.

Ghost rutted between his thighs until he finally, finally came. He groaned with pleasure and kissed Soap breathless. "Thank you, thank you, fucking hell. I'll do anything just keep letting me do this." His hips only stuttered before continuing.

Roach hummed. "Ghost. You told me that your mating season had minimal effect on you. I would say this is not minimal effect."

Ghost groaned. "It's hitting a bit hard this year, I'll admit."

Soap purred. "Can't say I mind. I have some time I can put in. If you need to be coddled."

Ghost growled but Soap squeezed his thighs and quickly shut him up. He rested his head on Soap. "I do..."

"You do what?"

"...need to be coddled. I thought I'd be fine but please, I need help." He sounded so sad and miserable.

Roach gently ran his fingers through his hair. "You should've said something. We could've helped you." He glanced at Soap's face. "Happily."

Ghost whined. "It's improper. I'm rutting against you like a fucking..." He buried his face in Soap's neck.

Roach hummed. "Continue. Please. I have notes to..."

Ghost groaned. "Gary... please... Can you just pretend you like me? No fucking experiments."

Roach paused. He almost said something, though he wasn't sure what words he could possibly string together. Maybe an apology? He never intended to make Ghost feel that way! Though maybe he should've realized sooner.

But before he could get it out, Soap was turning Ghost of him. "Hey now. You poor thing. What gave you that idea?"

Ghost huffed and his tail lashed. "You two are quite a bit more compatible than I am..." He yanked Soap up and buried his face in his chest. "I'm not like either of you guys."

Roach quickly joined him and kissed Ghost's face all over. "Oh, love. I'm so sorry."

They quickly managed to pin Ghost down and Roach kissed him gently. "I have some vacation time. We'll all put it in. Promise. I think I have some things i need to make up to you."

Ghost relaxed and nodded, panting. "Please..."

They took turns stepping away to inform their respective bosses. Neither wanted Ghost to be alone too long. Roach pushed Ghost so he was laying down and he started to ride him, cupping Ghost's face and smiling at him. He maintained eye contact and if he thought Ghost was gone before, it was nothing compared to now. His pupils expanded until they almost took up the color.

"Course I love you, Simon. Thought you knew that." Roach ground down and Ghost growled, yanking him closer.

"You guys aren't going to be able to walk for the next week."

"I look forward to it."

[yesbutmakeitgay]

Once Upon A Time I Used To Know A Girl

Chapter 10

Carol Danvers x Reader

Masterlist | This work's masterlist | AO3

Summary: A peek into what Carol has been up to during these trying times.

Angst, Slow Burn, Amnesia.

Word count: 778

A/N: Officially halfway through the fic!!!!

I Tried To Write, But It’s Killing Me Inside

Carol lands her ship on the strange planet and veils it, you both get out all geared up and ready for the last minute mission. The place is hot and sandy with big rocks scattered around, it almost looks deserted.

The Captain scans the area with her eyes, "We should split up to cover more terrain," she instructs, "keep your comms on and meet back here in 15." You give her a nod and do as you're told.

Carol starts walking after she sees you leave, sensing something off about the environment. A couple of minutes go by and she hears you through her ear piece, "Carol, I think someone's here," you whisper.

"Send me your coordinates." She receives some signal but it's too choppy to understand, "Can you hear me?" Her voice growing desperate, "Angel?"

Static.

She turns around as quickly as she can to get back to you, but when she does, she finds a small army of full body armored soldiers waiting for her. They start charging at her with weapons of all sorts and she gets to work on every one of them. When she thinks she's almost done, backup shows up with even bigger weapons. It takes her more than 15 minutes to get through all of them, but when she does she flies back to your meeting point.

She arrives, but doesn't find you there, panic starts to set in her mind. She follows your footprints in the sand until they disappear somewhere down the path. She keeps going and sees a body in the distance, lying against a rock. Upon closer inspection she realizes it's you, unconscious, fully bruised, head bleeding, uniform destroyed.

"Angel?" Her voice is drowning in despair, when you don’t show a reaction she picks you up and rushes you back to the ship. She pilots it as fast as she can to get you to the compound.

"Please wake up." But the next time you did, you didn't know who she was.

Carol takes the Skrull memory device off and gets out of bed, Goose following behind her. She's wearing sweatpants and a Nine Inch Nails t-shirt that she probably hasn't changed all week, there are dark circles in her eyes.

She's been off duty since her last mission and she hasn't left her Louisiana home at all in that time. Her ship is parked in the backyard, veiled and untouched.

As she gets to the kitchen her cell phone starts ringing, she doesn't even look at who's calling before she silences it. "They keep calling," she rasps to Goose, annoyed. She makes coffee and puts some takeout leftovers in the microwave.

They sit at the table with breakfast, "I shouldn't have told her to split up," she mutters into her coffee, "it's all my fault." Goose just meows in return, already having had this conversation everyday for the past few weeks, "I should have known." Carol can't seem to think about anything else, she feels crushing guilt and grief for what happened, but also can't muster the courage to face you.

She picks up a newspaper in an attempt to distract herself. She blinks a few times to get her stinging eyes to focus, but gets stuck rereading the same sentence over and over again, failing to get her brain to process the words. Another call pulls her out of her thoughts, coming through her intergalactic device, "Val," she grumbles, before turning it down. After that, she gives up on the newspaper.

When she's done eating she takes the rest of her coffee to the porch to get some fresh air, Goose sits right beside her, "I should have gotten to her faster." The memory of the mission never leaving her mind, always trying to find a way it could have gone differently, "How did I let this happen?" She’s all out of tears, traces of the past weeks still marking her cheeks.

A third call starts ringing, this time, on her landline. She runs to stop it, but she's too late, the call goes to voicemail, she's about to delete it until she hears Kamala's voice, it is sweet and caring and full of kindness.

"Hey, I know you know we've been calling, please pick up, please, so we can talk. Whatever it is you're trying to achieve, it's not working, you're hurting her a lot more by not being here. You can just come by the compound, we can set something up. You owe it to her. Okay, um, goodbye."

Before even thinking it she pulls the phone cable out of the wall, regretting it immediately, "Fuck!" she yells into the empty house.

Chapter 11

Clap if you missed Carol Danvers!

Tags: @graniairish @carols-photonblast @thelittleliars @unicorniusfallapatorius @prplepeony

Let me know if you wanna be tagged :)

[pompomqt]

Journey to the West Chapter 45

The Three Great Immortal Daoists creating rain with the power of a mountain of paperwork and going through the proper channels:

Sun Wukong creating rain with the power of bullying gods and dragons:

In this chapter of Journey to the West with @journeythroughjourneytothewest, Sun Wukong and friends are challenged to a little rain making competition. So let's get into it shall we?

We begin this chapter where we last left off, with a young Daoist running off in fright to grab the Three Immortals. In the meantime Sun Wukong pinches Pigsy and Sandy to make them shut the hell up, so by the time all the Daoist's file back into the room they have composed themselves and are able to mimic the statues. Anyways the Daoists come in to find all the offerings eaten, but apparently no one actually here, so they make the assumptions that their prayers managed to summon the three pure ones down to earth. The three immortal daoists decide that they should take the opportunity to ask for some holy water and elixir while they have their attention.

So the immortals start up their ritual again, and our three disciples are left in a rather awkward situation. Monkey eventual decides to cut them off and say that 'aw geez, they would love to help they really would, but they just back from the Immortal Peach Festival, so now really isn't a great time. Would they be willing to take an I.O.U on the whole immortal elixir thing?' The three immortals are really insistent that they really want that elixir though. So before they can start praying for another few hours, Monkey cuts them off again and says 'Fine, you guys win. I'll get you some golden elixir. Just give us a few moments of privacy and a couple of vessels.'

So the Daoists leave the room, and before Pigsy or Sandy can ask where they are supposed to get some golden elixir from, Monkey whips it out and starts filling the container with monkey pee. Sandy and Pigsy of course gleefully follow suit. After they've filled their containers with some... ahem 'Holy Water' they call the Daoists back in, who immediately decide to give it a taste test. The Daoists remark that this holy water doesn't taste very good, and smells remarkably like hog urine. Unable to contain himself anymore, Monkey proudly declares they they just drank the urine of the Monks of the Great Tang. With that they exit stage left pursued by angry Daoists.

Pigsy, Sandy and Monkey all make it back to the Buddhist temple in one piece and rest up until morning. When morning arrives the three of them go with Tripitaka to get their travel papers certified, just in case this kingdom tries any funny business against Tripitaka. And sure enough, the King takes one look at these currently un-enslaved bhuddist monks and immediately goes to call some guards to remedy that situation. Luckily one of the kings advisors actually has a few brain cells knocking around in his skull, so he tells the king that these monks are from super far away and probably went through a boatload of demons to get here. So they must have some serious power, so it's probably best not to mess with them.

So the king agrees to hear them out to avoid a hassle, but just as he's about to sign their travel certificate, the Three Immortals burst in to yell their objection. The Daoists explain to the king that these hooligans have been causing nothing but trouble since they arrived yesterday- freeing their slaves and killing the slavers, destroying their property, making them drink monkey pee, ect. Which honestly I'm surprised they were willing to admit to that last one- if it were me and I were tricked like that I would never admit to it even under pain of death lol. Anyways, Monkey takes it upon himself to be their legal counsel and objects to these charges. Saying there is no witnesses or proof of any kind, to prove any of this. Also, if they did do it, how is it that these super powerful immortals weren't able to stop them?

Thankfully the king is a bit of a dimwit, so this successfully confuses him. Luckily for the king though, before he has to try and use his brain to sort this all out, someone comes in and tells him that there is a village requesting rain from the Three Immortals. So the king decides to solve one problem with another, and challenges the pilgrims to a rainmaking competition. If these bhuddists can succeed where the bhuddists of this country failed twenty years ago and summon some rain, they'll be free to go, but if they can't they are all gonna be beheaded. Sun Wukong, who's made it a sort of habit to bully the dragon kings into giving him rain whenever he needs it, is fine with this plan.

So the challenge is on, and the Daoist's are up first. And just to make sure there is no funny business, like the Daoist's trying to take credit from them for the rain, Monkey has them explain what they are going to do. So Tiger Strength Immortal explains that he is going to strike his tablet four times to summon the wind, cloud, lighting and rain respectively while his fifth strike will call the rain off. Monkey has never seen this before so he sticks by Tripitaka to observe the situation.

So the Daoist's get to work with a really elaborate set up and tons of paperwork. Eventually though they are ready to get this show on the road and Tiger Strength Immortal strikes his tablet for the first time, and sure enough a breeze starts up. Monkey decides to shut this nonsense down and leaves a duplicate in his place next to Tripitaka so he can check out what's really going on. Monkey immediately spots the cause of the wind, which is a couple of minor gods. He explains the situation to them and tells them if they like all their bones where they are to help him instead of the Daoists. The wind gods of course agree and call off the breeze. Seeing the wind cut off, Pigsy of course takes the opportunity to heckle the Daoist's.

Sun Wukong also takes the time to intercept the other minor gods who come to assist in making the storm and convinces them to help him instead. He also learns that the Daoist's are able to make rain like this by filing all the right paperwork and getting approval from the Jade Emperor. Seeing how there is no storm yet, the Daoist's start getting desperate and call for the big guns- the four ocean dragons. Which isn't a problem for Sun Wukong since he's coerced all those guys before.

Now that Monkey has everyone he needs to create his own storm, he comes up with a signal, where he'll point his staff into the air to summon each part of the storm similar to how the Daoist's were using the tablets. Plan in place, Monkey returns to Tripitaka and boo's the Daoist's off the stage before pushing Tripitaka up instead. Monkey tells him to just recite some sutra's or something while he handles the rest. And sure enough Monkey doesn't leave Tripitaka high and drive, for as soon as he starts up the Heart Sutra, Monkey begins summoning the storm. And what a storm it is, the gods hold nothing back in creating this tsunami of a storm, probably because they're afraid Monkey might hit them if they don't give it there best.

It's a bit to much though, and soon enough the King is calling for him to turn it off, which Monkey does so in an instant with one last signal to the gods overhead. Either way the storm certainly impressed the king, and he is more then willing to certify their travel certificates at this point. The Daoist's however aren't willing to take the loss. The Daoist's explain that the dragons were probably just requested somewhere else first, and were just late to show up, but that the storm was still theirs. Which... isn't completely wrong I guess.

So rather then arguing with that rather true logic, Monkey instead just suggests another competition. If the Daoist's can compel the Dragon Kings to show themselves, they can take the win. The King is of course all about this plan since it means he'll get to see a real life dragon, so he orders them all to try. The Daoist's confess that they can't do that, and suggests Monkey give it a try. So Monkey gives a shout to the dragons floating overhead and orders them to reveal themselves, which they dare not disobey.

So the dragons all show themselves and the king is delighted by their presence. After a while he dismisses them and says he'll hold a special mass for them another day. Wukong repeats the dismissal and the Dragon Kings make themselves scarce. And with that we end this chapter of Journey to the West.

Current Sun Wukong Stats: Names/Titles: Monkey, The Stone Monkey, The Handsome Monkey King, Sun Wukong (Monkey awakened to the void), Bimawen (Banhorseplague), The Great Sage Equal To Heaven and Pilgrim Sun. Immortality: 5 + 94,000 years Weapon: The Compliant Golden Hooped Rod Abilities: 72 Transformations, Cloud-Somersault, Ability to transform his individual hairs, super strength, Ability to Summon Wind, Water restriction charm, and the ability to change into a huge war form, ability to duplicate his staff, ability to immobilize others, the ability to put others to sleep, and the Fiery eyes and Diamond Pupils, intimidating horses, churning large bodies of water, sleeplessness, seizing the wind, enhanced smell, discerning good and evil within a thousand miles, Spirit Summoning, lock picking, object transformation, distance reduction and vanishing in a flash of light. Demon Kill Count: 9+ Unknown Number of Minions Human Kill Count: 1008 God's Defeated: 22 + Unknown number Defeats: 5 Crime List: Robbery, Murder, Mass Murder, Arson, Theft, Coercion, Threatening a Government Official, Resisting Arrest, Assault, Forgery, Employee Theft, False Imprisonment, Impersonating a Government Official, Treason, attempted murder, failure to control or report a dangerous fire, desecrating a corpse, breaking and entering, trespassing, violating Tree Law, looting corpses, trading counterfeit goods, criminal threat, animal abuse, Assisting or Instigating Escape, Damage to Religious Property and contaminating a substance for human consumption Cry Count: 7 + 3 fake cries Mountains Trapped Under: 4

Current Tang Sanzang stats: Names/Titles: River Float, Xuanzang, Tang Sanzang, Tripitaka and the Tang Monk Abilities: Curing Blindness, making branches point a certain direction (allegedly), reciting sutras, pretty privilege, memorization and Heart Sutra. Cry Count: 21 Tight Fillet Spell Uses: 31 Paralyzed by fear: 5 Bandit Problems: 2 Kidnapped by demons: 6 Falling Off Horses: 8

Current Bai Long Ma Stats: Names/Titles: Bai Long Ma (White Dragon Horse), Prince of the Western Ocean, and third prince jade dragon of the dragon king Aorun Abilities: Transforming into a human, a water snake, and a horse, eating a horse in one bite, flight, Magic of Water Restriction, Singing, and Sword Dancing. Cry Count: 1 Crime List: Arson, and Grave Disobedience. Contributions to the plot: 2

Current Zhu Wuneng Stats: Names/Titles: The Marshal of the Heavenly Reeds, Zhu Wuneng (Pig who is aware of ability), Zhu Ganglie, Pigsy, Idiot and Eight Rules. Weapon: Rake Abilities: 36 Transformations, parting water, fighting underwater, cloud soaring, size enhancement and CPR Demon Kill Count/Kill steals: 2 Kidnapped by Demons: 3 Human Kill Count: 1 Failed Flirtation/romances Attempts: 3 Cry Count: 1 Crime List: Sexual Harassment, Murder, Kidnapping, arson, defamation, Damage to Religious Property and contaminating a substance for human consumption

Current Sha Wujing Stats: Names/Titles: The Curtain-Raising General, Sha Wujing (Sand Aware of Purity), Sandy and Sha Monk Weapon: Monster Taming Staff Abilities: Fighting underwater and Cloud soaring. Demon Kill Count: Unknown number of minions. Kidnapped by Demons: 2 Human Kill Count: 1 Crime List: Breaking a Crystal Cup, murder, desecration of a human corpse, Damage to Religious Property and contaminating a substance for human consumption

[thelittleangel]

would you maybe write rick grimes x gn!reader? maybe rick takes them in after woodbury because they tried to help maggie escape.

could u make it super angsty like reader gets hurt or sick at the prison.

Les oiseaux en cage

tags: rick grimes x gender-neutral reader, gender neutral reader, angst, hurt/ comfort, reader has amnesia

warning: amnesia, angst, hurt / comfort, reader passes out, reader has amnesia

note: thank you, thank you, thank you so much for this request!!! It makes me so happy!!! I hope I wrote a story that fulfilled your request!

I have very few memories of my time in Woodbury. I remember being captured. And being told the rest of my group left me. I remember when Maggie and Glenn came. I remember hearing them beating Glenn through the walls, and my whispered conversations with Maggie.

The rest is just a dark pit.

The last thing I remember about that place is gas pouring into the room and someone yanking me up by my arm.

I don’t know why they let me stay with them. But I decided pretty early on that I was going to be useful during my time there. I didn’t want to be cut loose, to be forced to survive this world alone.

So I’ve been helping out a lot.

And I don’t stay in the dark.

I clean and repair weapons, clear areas of walkers, and I’ve been working on a secret project of my own.

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

I’m working on this special project when I hear my name being called. It sounds urgent. Rushing over, the sun’s in my eyes. I’m burning up and I just realized I haven’t had any water.

My head spins, and there’s a pressure that I’ve never felt before.

Next thing I know, I’m on the ground.

I hear someone call out my name as the world fades to black.

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

The next few days were hazy. Moments of consciousness, followed by long periods of sleep. Sometimes someone would be there with me, sometimes I would be alone.

When I finally came to, it was dark. I quickly sat up, running to the door. Someone grabbed my arm, gently pulling me back into the cell.

I whipped around, grabbing whoever was behind me and slamming them against the wall.

Rick stared back at me, quiet and confused. I let him go, stepping back into the light of the moon shining through the windows. “You’ve been asleep for three days. You’ve been working almost nonstop. I don’t ever want to see you do that to yourself again.”

I avoided his gaze. He turned to me and said “Why do you do that to yourself anyway? Work yourself to the bone, going for so long without water or rest?”

“To prove that I belong here.”

When I finally looked up at him, he had a disconcerted look on his face. He breathed out a sigh. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone here. You’ve done so much for so many of us. Maggie and Glenn especially.”

“What are you talking about?”

“When you tried to save them.”

I walk back into my cell, my head spinning. “Rick, I don’t remember a lot of my time in Woodbury. And I don’t remember if I ever tried to James Dean my way out of there.”

“Regardless, you were with them when we found you. Glenn says you tried but were caught.”

I sat down on my bed. I feel the tears start coming, and the fog in my brain feels so thick. He kneels down in front of me, his hand a reassuring weight on my cheek.

He gently wipes my tears away with his thumb before speaking.

“You belong in this group. You belong with us. I don’t ever want you to feel like you have to prove that you belong here.”

“You should get some rest.” He stands up, patting my shoulder before walking out of the room.

“Rick.”

He turns around, his face barely visible in the moonlight.

Looking down at my hands, I was almost embarrassed to ask him for this.

“Could you please stay with me?”

His lips twitch upward. He slowly walks over to my bed and takes off his shoes. He sits beside me, and I lay down. He places a gentle hand on my arm.

I look up at him, watching his eyes as I fall asleep.

[iamvegorott]

Magicians Don't Need Superheros Pt9

First: Link Prev: Link Next: TBA

----------

Marvin was more than ready for sleep. He was ready to get these shoes off and strip from his streetwear into some pajamas. Worries about having his exact clothing in his exact size in the room didn’t exist because pure exhaustion took over. Thoughts could be for morning Marvin. Morning Marvin can start trying to figure everything out, start asking questions, and learn what his life is now. Morning Marvin was not current Marvin and current Marvin was too busy throwing himself into bed to care about anything else anymore. 

Marvin covered himself with the thin blanket that he left on the bed, the other one still discarded on the floor. He laid on his back and closed his eyes, ready to be unconscious for however long his body wanted him to be. 

A minute passed.

Ten minutes passed.

An hour passed.

“You have to be shitting me,” Marvin said after opening his eyes and staring at the ceiling. 

Why can’t he sleep?

Marvin assumed the second his head hit the pillow that he’d be out but instead, he felt a strong wave of discomfort, making it so he felt wide awake now. 

Great.

Just…great.

He didn’t give up on sleeping though. Marvin stayed in the bed and closed his eyes again. Maybe he just needed a few minutes to calm down and then he’ll sleep.

Two minutes passed.

Twenty minutes passed.

Two hours passed.

“Damn it.” Marvin sat up in frustration. He wasn’t even sure what time it was but he knew it was nowhere near time for the others to be awake, the house was likely asleep, and now Marvin, the one who had been internally begging for rest, was staring at his wall when he should be dreaming. 

Marvin cursed more under his breath as he rolled out of the bed and started pacing the room. Maybe he could wear himself out some more? He’d be willing to sleep on the floor at this point. Speaking of the floor, he saw Jackie’s jacket sticking out of the mound that was the blanket. Jackie probably wanted his jacket and phone back. 

Would it be too odd to return it right now?

Marvin pulled the jacket out of the blanket and took the phone out as well. He had used his magic to transfer electricity from other devices to keep the phone charged. It was a pretty neat trick of his but Jackie likely wanted to put the phone on its proper charger. 

Returning Jackie’s property was the only reason why Marvin left his room and went across the hall. He wanted to put them back on even ground and that was all. He wasn’t knocking on Jackie’s door at who knows what hour to see if the other could help him sleep. Not at all. He didn’t need help. He just wanted to clear his conscience. 

“Marvin?” Jackie’s voice was thick with sleep as he opened his door. 

“Well damn.” Marvin blurted out, having not expected to see a shirtless Jackie. 

Man definitely worked out.

“You okay, man?” Jackie scrubbed at one of his eyes. 

“Wanted to give that back to you.” Marvin held out the jacket and phone. 

“Um…thanks?” Jackie blinked a few times before taking the stuff. “You sure you good? Like, it’s two in the morning and you’re bringing me my stuff?”

“I’m good,” Marvin said. 

“Can’t sleep?” Jackie put his phone into the pocket of his sweatpants and tossed the jacket aside into his bedroom. “Room feels not safe despite it looking like what you’re used to?”

“Stop sounding smart, it’s weird.” Marvin wasn’t sure how to feel about Jackie being able to call it out like that. Even Marvin didn’t put that together until after Jackie had said it. 

He was right. Something about the room felt wrong, almost dangerous. 

“I’m allowed some moments. I do have a few brain cells that work.” Jackie chuckled. “I have an idea, follow me.” He gestured with his head as he stepped out of his room, closed his door behind him, and started down the hall. Marvin decided to go with whatever it was that Jackie had in mind, he really was willing to do anything for some sleep. 

“I swear if you make warm milk, I’m going to try my luck in the park again,” Marvin said after being led into the kitchen. 

“I mean, it can be a part of the plan if you like milk in your tea,” Jackie said as he opened a cupboard. 

“You’re going to make me a cup of tea?” Marvin hoisted himself up to sit on the counter. 

“Hen got me this like melatonin tea when I first got here. We figured out that I need a lot of that stuff in order for it to work but it works how it should for the other Septiceyes.” Jackie pulled out the box of tea bags. “Well, most of us.” 

“Anti?” Marvin asked.

“Yeah. He won’t drink it so we’re not sure but I feel like he’d be like me with it.” Jackie opened the box and paused. “I thought you hadn’t met him yet?” 

“He introduced himself into my bedroom when we parted.” Marvin rolled his eyes. “Is he always that annoying or was he just being extra about it?” 

“He’s always like that.” Jackie laughed, opening the electric kettle and checking how much water was in it. 

“I’m surprised you told them about your falls, he was having a great time bringing those up.” Marvin saw Jackie pause again. 

“I didn’t tell them about those. All I ever said was that you got away and when I learned your name. I didn’t go into detail beyond that.” Jackie said.

"Then how-" Marvin stopped himself. That was another thing for morning Marvin to handle. "So no fun details for the others?"

“Kind of embarrassing to admit I got pushed off a roof and blinded by my own hoodie.” 

“I’d apologize, but I’m not sorry,” Marvin said with a grin. 

“A hero’s job is never easy but the outcome is always worth it.” Jackie turned on the kettle and went to a different cupboard. 

“Why are you like this?” Marvin asked with a laugh. 

“Trauma,” Jackie stated and now he was the one grinning when he saw the concerned look on Marvin's face. “My girlfriend turned into the moon.” Marvin opened his mouth to say something else but stopped when the reference clicked. Unknowing that Jackie's joke was covering the truth of the first statement. 

“That's rough, buddy,” Marvin said and rolled his eyes when Jackie made a victorious sound. 

“I was going to make you binge-watch that show if you hadn't seen it yet.” Jackie pulled out a dark red mug and sat it on the counter next to Marvin's leg. 

“I haven't seen the show, I just know the joke.” Marvin shrugged. “What?” He added when Jackie stared at him in disbelief. 

“Now we have to watch the show. No choice. I'll tie you down if I have to.” Jackie said as he placed one of the tea bags into the mug. He looked at Marvin and Marvin just looked back at him. There was a pause and Marvin saw how each passing second caused Jackie’s face to go redder and redder as the silence allowed his last sentence to repeat in his head. “Not like that!” Jackie blurted out. 

“I didn’t say anything.” Marvin laughed.

“You made a face!” Jackie gestured at his own with that comment.

“This is just my face.” Marvin protested and he laughed harder when Jackie squatted down to hide himself and groaned in embarrassment. “I can’t believe you’re being so inappropriate, Jackie.” Marvin teased and he was going to fall off the counter at this rate with how strong his laughter was at Jackie groaning again. 

“I’m not-oh, thank God.” Jackie was saved as the tea kettle started its high-pitched tune. He straightened back up, picked up the kettle, and poured the steaming water into the mug. “Milk? Honey? Sugar? This stuff’s a little bitter so you might want an extra kick to it.” Jackie spoke quickly, showing his strong want to completely leave that previous conversation. 

“A splash of milk and some honey, please.” Marvin let the conversation change and he found himself watching Jackie put the tea together. 

For someone that ‘didn’t make the tea’, he was sure more than willing to make one for Marvin without batting an eye. Jackie also seemed to be going out of his way to help. Was it because that was just who Jackie was? Especially with the whole ‘hero’ thing he had going. He was probably like this with everyone else. But Marvin couldn’t help the thought that Jackie was being helpful because he felt responsible for Marvin since he was the one who brought him there. Marvin didn’t want to be ‘someone’s responsibility’ he could handle himself.

Well…could he?

When Marvin first arrived Jackie had made sure he didn’t freeze and brought him food and he had taken Jackie’s phone. Jackie had been the one there when everything came crashing down and he broke…

Marvin stopped himself and shook his head a bit, getting those thoughts to leave. He needed to give himself a lot more credit. If Jackie hadn’t arrived, Marvin would have figured it out. He always figured things out. 

“Tea time,” Jackie said with a grin, holding the mug toward Marvin, and pulling him fully back into the present.  

“Thank you.” Marvin took the offered mug. He sat there for a moment, staring down at the steaming drink. 

“Do you-um-you wanna watch a movie in my room until the tea kicks in? Just so we’re not, like, sitting in the kitchen in the middle of the night for a while.” Jackie suggested, grabbing himself a small bottle of chocolate milk from the fridge.

“Sure.” Marvin bounced off the counter. “As long as it’s not a superhero movie.” He said with a teasing smirk.

“What? But that’s all the best ones I got.” Jackie protested, walking back to his bedroom with Marvin. 

“I’ve only seen one or two and don’t have enough to see the draw to them.” Marvin shrugged, stepping through the door Jackie held open for him. 

“Then that means you have to start watching them to form a true opinion.” Jackie chuckled. “There’s like so much to get invested in.” 

“If you say so.” 

Jackie’s bedroom wasn’t too shocking considering how he was. It wasn’t a mess but it wasn’t perfect either. It almost had an organized chaos to it, like if someone else tried to find something, they’d get lost but Jackie could find it in an instant. He also wasn’t shocked by the posters and figurines in the room as well. 

“You can jump up on the bed,” Jackie said as he picked up a remote from his bedside table and turned on the TV that hung on the wall in front of the bed. “I’ll sit at my desk.” He added while Marvin got on the bed.

“At your desk? This is your room.” Marvin moved to one side of the bed leaving a space beside him. Jackie’s bed was a fairly big one, they could honestly fit another person on it and still have plenty of room for each of them. 

“Yeah, but I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable or something. My chair’s nice.” Jackie said, turning the movie on.

“I’m not kicking you off your own bed.” 

“It’s fine, I don’t-”

“Get your ass in the bed, Jackie,” Marvin said sternly.

“Okay.” Jackie gave up and ‘got his ass in the bed’ as Marvin had put it. He sat on the very edge of it, looking like if he sneezed, he'd fall off. 

“I don’t have cooties,” Marvin muttered and took a sip of the tea. 

“Like I said, I don’t want you-” Jackie stopped when Marvin grabbed his arm and pulled him closer to him. 

“It’s not like we’re sitting in each other’s laps. It’s like being on the couch together, just with our legs out. It’s only odd if you make it odd.” Marvin stated and drank more of his tea, leaning back and getting comfortable. “What film did you put on?”

“Spider-Man.” Jackie adjusted so he was sitting up and not awkwardly leaning. Marvin did have a point. They were just sitting together, nothing to really think too much into. 

“So shocking.” Marvin clicked his tongue, smiling and just letting himself relax.

If he didn’t get to sleep, at least he’ll get some kind of rest. 

[kitthenameless]

I finished my BG3 evil durge run!

Evil runs were clearly not the intended vision, judging from how spotty the content is. But I did see some new stuff, and the new ending cinematic goes hard. (I did the evil Tav ending.) Overall, I had a lot of fun really leaning into the evil, and getting a whole little movie in the end was a nice finale.

Also this was my first Tactician run, though I had 5-6 people for most fights, and my durge could fly. Still, was a higher difficulty than I've done before, so *pats self on back*

Anyway, here's the summary of my Act 2 and Act 3. Warning for general spoilers and evil ending screenshots at the end!

Not much happened in Act 2. Killed Isobel but spared Aylin and managed to get her and Jaheira to join camp. Poor Gale tried to save the gnomes by opening their cell once the guards were all dead, but they just died outside. Astarion broke up with Durge (Remiel), but there were never feelings involved anyway. I made a whole post about my mess of a Myrkul fight in which I decided to loose a spectator instead of reloading lol. Other than that, they did what they had to do and moved on, leaving the lands cursed.

Then it was onto Act 3. Memories rushing back after the coronation, Remiel decided to go give the Archduke a little private visit. Gortash warned him not to come back without the netherstones, but he doesn't take orders from Gortash. And he needed to remind him of that ;-)

In the city, I couldn't figure out how to kill the people on the list without initiating combat with everyone nearby, so the group started kidnapping people and taking them to the sewers to kill them there. The fact that you can technically do that (by exploiting fast travel) is a lot funnier to me than it should be. Also met this mysterious man!

Continued doing evil things. (Skip this paragraph if you don't care about the list of evil choices.) Got into the Murder Tribunal, sacrificed Jaheira, and killed Valeria to become an Unholy Assassin. Killed Thrumbo. Went to the Society of Brilliance where they found a massacre and met the gith egg baby all grown up. Made a deal with the hag. Broke into House of Hope just to steal Raphael's valuables and kill his boy toy. Handed Aylin over to Lorroakan, because Remiel figured it'd be easier to bring Lorroakan under his thumb than Aylin. Handed Shadowheart over to the Sharrans. Did not help Astarion ascend because he didn't want him to have that much power. Still killed Cazador and the spawns though. Regretted killing the spawns when all the Gur kept calling it a kindness and praised him for doing the "right" thing.

And of course he killed Orin. But he rejected daddy because he decided he wants to do evil for himself.

The only person Remiel has a soft spot for is Gortash. He doesn't want to mind control him, he wants to rule with him sorta, but he still wanted the power for himself and couldn't have Gort getting in the way. So when they met at the Morphic Pool, he (in my headcanon) knocked him out or used poisons to put him to sleep. He even left his crossbow and a healing potion. (But of course they acted like immature children before that.)

Skipped the entire courtyard with invisibility. Got to the final bit of brain quickly, but I failed all attempts to hit it at the Morphic Pool, so it had full HP, and it got dicey at the end. The few characters still alive just barely managed to win before their platform was obliterated.

And then Remiel betrayed everyone and took control of the brain... and the world. *muahahahaha*

The end 🙂 Gosh I love his evil faces lol.

Mods: Kylin's Heads. Silver's Hair Pack. Slutty Closet. Glitzy Horns. Heroes never die - Angel Wings. One of Astralities's skintone mods, I think. Y-Shaped Autopsy Scars. Lokelani's Lavish Livery.

[wraith-caller]

🌤️+☔?

🌤️Share your favorite piece of dialogue from your WIP.

"Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? You little boy playing men's games of subterfuge and sabotage? I told you in no uncertain terms what would be wrought by her and still you let her lead you on. Is that all it took? A good fuck and a few nice words? Should I have tried that instead?" Darian asked.

Rogier wasn't pathetic enough to look away. Or maybe too oblivious, as Darian had said, to do so. "So I am as mortal as everyone else. Susceptible to the same weaknesses as any other."

"No," Darian said. "Not any other. These are yours. You presumed so much. That you held the reins even as she wrapped them tighter around your throat, even as I tried to pry them off. And you were such easy prey to a thing like her. She saw right through every one of your pauper's grins and light-hearted airs and knew what you really were. Empty and miserable and begging someone to crawl inside and drum on your withering little heart so that it might beat again. Does she tell you that you're a good boy, the way mother never did? That you aren't as horrible as she always said?"

Darian rained the blows on him that he couldn't rend with his fists. And Rogier knew he was sick because he would have preferred the latter in every single way. He could guess at the amount of hours it would take for a broken nose to heal. He could not guess how long it would be before the echo of Darian's cutting words stopped bleeding in his brain. "Tell me what to do, then," he begged through gritted teeth, furious and desperate. "If you knew so well back then, tell me now."

"Rot. It's what the rest of us are left with. Why should you be any different?" Darian spat back and retreated to the other side of the cell, dropping into the corner and refusing to look back at Rogier.

☔Is there a fic concept you have that you'd like to just explain and share because you're not sure you'll ever write it? If so, what is it?

One of my posted fics, "in the shadow of his smile" began as a story where, after the events of the game, rogier is invited to Stormveil years after Nepheli took over. he's basically buried his trauma of almost dying there(in this au he was blighted but had his legs amputated and was able to survive), and has been avoiding ever returning. but he goes there in order to prove to himself he can, and things get fucked up and weird for him. it split off into the modern au that's been posted bc it turned into a thing about family trauma, but id like to go back sometime and flesh out this original version some day.

[the-name-is-z]

SKELETONS | ch. 23

daryl dixon x f!oc

masterlist

a03 link

Summary: The group and their new companions find out how well they function as a unit, until their little expedition clearing the prison goes sour. Warnings/Information: AMC's The Walking Dead OC Insert | 18+ Advised | strangers to lovers; the slowest of slow burns; gore; angst; horror; humour; m/f; killing walkers; man some people are fucking thick; explanation of walkers; threats; discussion of gangs; discussion of murder; brutal murder a la Harry Warden (with a pickaxe); betrayal; ethically unsound machete murder; begging for one's life

Chapter 23 - Bloodshed

Daryl started gathering things they could use as weapons, laying out what they had on one of the tables. Rick soon returned, leaving T to pack things away with Carl, and they were left to battle alongside the prisoners.

“Why do I need this, when I got this?” Tomas asked, holding a crowbar in one hand and his gun in the other.

“You don’t fire guns. Not unless your back’s up against a wall. Noise attracts ‘em, really riles ‘em up.” Daryl explained lowly.

“And unless you have a box of bullets in your pocket it’s not gonna make much of a dent.” Iris added, pushing her lips at the six round revolver.

“We’ll go in two by two.” Rick decided, gesturing at Andrew. “Daryl will run point with Iris. I’ll bring up the rear with you. Stay tight, hold formation no matter how close the walkers get. Anyone breaks ranks, we could all go down. Anyone runs off, they could get mistaken for a walker, end up with an axe to the head.”

“That’s where you aim. These things only go down with a head shot.” Daryl added sharply.

“You ain’t gotta tell us how to take out a man.” Tomas scoffed. Iris and Daryl made eye contact, saying more than any words could. These idiots knew nothing, and they’d get themselves killed. Hey, that just meant more food for the group.

“They’re not men. They’re something else.” Iris said pointedly. “Just remember to go for the brain.”

Daryl led the way down the hallway, following signs toward Cell Block D. Iris held her flashlight up, her other hand gripping a machete. The prisoner’s shuffled impatiently behind them. Loudly.

“Man, it’s too damn dark in here.” Oscar grumbled, gripping an axe clumsily.

“Hold it up high out in front of you.” Daryl whispered, motioning where he should adjust his stance. “You’re gonna hear them before you see them.” There was a soft clicking of a stone or pebble down the hallway.

“It’s coming!” Axel shouted, urgently shushed by Rick. Daryl held up a hand as the snarling got louder, the walker’s shadow illuminated on the hallway wall. They stumbled around the corner slowly, and Daryl held up a finger as he began to count. The prisoners had other ideas.

Big Tiny led the charge as they all started screaming, weapons raised high as they charged the walkers. Rick, Iris and Daryl stood, watching half in amusement, half in horror as they held the walkers and beat them as if they were alive. Holding their arms back, pickaxe to the stomach, kicking them on the ground. Axel stabbed the walker in the gun about sixteen times, and it still wrestled against Big Tiny’s hold.

Iris shoved past him in frustration, stabbing the walker through the eye while Big Tiny stumbled back. Daryl shot an arrow through the other, the commotion coming to a swift end.

“Let’s go.” Rick grumbled, motioning them onward. They kept going, pulling back into formation, where they found a few more. 

“It’s gotta be the brain.” Daryl announced loudly. “Not the stomach, not the heart— the brain.” He shot it through the head, the body crumpling to the ground.

“I hear you. The brain.” Axel replied. Another walker staggered forward, Oscar stepping up to bat. He bashed the axe down into it’s head, and the walker went down.

“Like that?” He asked, moving back as more came around the corner.

“Uh-huh.” Daryl agreed. Axel took the next one, stabbing the sharpened end of a broomstick through it’s face. Rick took care of the last, wielding the machete with practiced expertise.

“Stay in tight formation. No more prison riot crap.” He instructed. Axel, Andrew, Oscar and Tomas were on the front line, taking them down as they flooded into the hall. They started to let a few through, easily taken care of by Iris, Daryl and Rick. Big Tiny stood at the back, and they let him handle a couple, but one came up behind him, an exposed bone tearing straight through his flesh. He screamed in pain, Rick whipping around to help him, but it was too late. Mortally wounded with walker blood inside him. Tomas turned, using his gun to fire off three shots, taking care of the last walker.

“Oh shit.” Iris murmured as the shots echoed. Tomas stared defiantly at Rick, who glanced back at him wondering what the fuck he’d just done. He stood there, like a kid who enjoyed breaking the rules, feeling proud of himself. “Prideful, ignorant fuck.”

“What did you just call me, bitch?” He asked, whirling around and raising the gun. Daryl shoved him back.

“You shut the fuck up while we handle this!” He spat. Rick turned Big Tiny around, pulling the coveralls down to examine the wound.

“I’m telling you, I don’t feel anything. It’s just a scratch.” Big Tiny assured.

“I’m sorry, man.” Rick murmured.

“I can keep fighting!”

“You cut that old guy’s leg off to save his life.” Andrew protested.

“Look at where the bite is.” Rick replied.

“Guys, I’m fine!” Big Tiny cried. “I’m fine. Just, look at me— I’m not changing into one of those things.”

“Until you are.” Iris murmured.

“Look, man, there has to be something we can do.” Oscar argued. “Why don’t we just lock him up?”

“Quarantine him!” Axel piped up.

“We gotta do something. Why are you just standing there? We gotta save him!” Andrew urged.

“There’s nothing we can do.” Rick replied lowly.

“You son of a bitch!”

“I’m alright—“ Big Tiny was quickly cut off by a pickaxe to the head. They all stood wide-eyed as Tomas stood over him, blood spattering everywhere with each swing. He was covered in it, the walls were covered in it. Daryl turned to Iris with a wary look. Tomas stood straight, panting as blood dripped from his hair. Well, if there was one way to make Iris feel extremely unsafe at the drop of a dime, he’d nailed it.

They continued onward silently, none of them comfortable enough to address what just happened. Iris took point while Daryl started slipping further back to flank Tomas. Just in case. Oscar was beside her, which was fine, since he was doing quite well comparatively. Axel was shaking in his boots behind them.

“You see the look on his face?” Daryl whispered to Rick as they brought up the rear.

“He makes one move…” Rick muttered.

“Just give me a signal.” Daryl agreed. Iris pushed open another door, her and Oscar splitting on opposite sides of the room as they moved into the laundry area. She came around after they’d checked it out, and it seemed secure enough until they moved on.

There was one large double door on the right side of the room, locked shut with walkers pushing roughly against it. Daryl closed the door to the room so no one could sneak up on them and they all faced their next way out.

“Rick?” Iris called quietly, looking at the shelves of laundry. Clean towels and sheets galore. He looked over at her in question and she jerked her chin at the rack of textiles. For Lori? She mouthed. His face softened at the notion and he nodded, shooting her a grateful look. Iris nodded, pulling over a clean laundry bin and gently placing the clean sheets and towels in. She’d put it in a safe place and get it on their way back. Rick tossed the set of keys on the floor at Tomas’ feet.

“I ain’t opening that.” Tomas spat.

“Yes, you are.” Rick replied. “If you want this cell block, you’re gonna open that door. Just the one, not both of them. We need to control this.” The doors rattled as if in answer, groans and rotted hands slamming against the metal. Tomas glanced back at Andrew briefly before going forward and unlocking the door. It let out a loud clank.

“You bitches ready?” Tomas asked, placing his hand on the handle. He yanked on it, but it didn’t budge. Again, nothing. “I got this.” There was one more tug before both doors flew open, the walkers on the other side flooding in.

"I said one door!” Rick yelled.

“Shit happens.” Tomas snapped in reply. Iris grit her teeth, sending herself forward with knives blazing. The walkers outnumbered them, but the dead bodies piled up pretty quickly. Daryl brought out the crossbow, taking a few from a distance so they didn’t pile up too high. Tomas swung too close and Rick ducked, just barely dodging what would have been a decapitating blow. Tomas stabbed a nearby walker in the back of the neck, throwing it at Rick before diving back into the fray.

“Iris!” Daryl yelled. Iris was closer to Rick on the side where he fell and she jumped over a few dead bodies, yanking the walker off of Rick and putting it out of its misery. She helped him to his feet and they turned back, just as the prisoners laid waste to the last of the swarm. Rick stood across from Tomas, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“It was coming at me, bro.” Tomas excused with a shrug.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” Rick replied shortly. “I get it. Shit happens.” Though, it came out of his mouth like a warning. They stared at one another, waiting for the other to back down, but they didn’t. Iris glanced at Rick and knew what was coming. With one quick swing with the machete in his hands, the blade cleaved Tomas’ skull into two halves, blood dripping down into his lifeless eyes.

“No!” Andrew yelled. Tomas’ body slid off of the machete as he hit the floor, Andrew crying out as he swung his bloodstained baseball bat at Rick. He guarded easily, planting his foot into Andrew’s gut and sending him across the room.

“Easy now.” Daryl warned softly as he trained the crossbow on Andrew. He scrambled to his feet, ducking down the newly cleared hallway and bolted.

“I got him.” Rick assured, chasing after him. Iris let out a loud exhale, looking between the two remaining prisoners.

“Get down on your knees.” Daryl ordered. Oscar put his hands up, carefully placing the axe on the floor as he knelt.

“We don’t have no affiliation to what happened!” Axel cried nervously. “Tell him, Oscar!”

“Stop talking, man.” Oscar replied hopelessly, shaking his head. Iris had the feeling that he’d learned it was pointless to plead your case to a stubborn jury. Daryl was nothing if not stubborn, but Iris had a feeling Axel was telling the truth. 

She let him train the crossbow on them both, Axel kneeling to the ground quickly. She stooped down beside Tomas’ body and turned him on his side, inspecting the tattoo on the inside of his arm. She hadn’t gotten a good look at it until now, and felt sick when she saw how familiar it was.

“It’s a gang tattoo.” Oscar said quietly, nodding to the body.

“I know.” Iris replied. While it wasn’t the coiling snake and white magnolia flower many of her family members had sported, she recognized the heavy script logo of a hardcore street gang. They were notorious, did a lot worse things than anyone Iris knew. Her family was mostly a motorcycle club. Tomas was likely pretty entry level. The tattoo hadn’t oxidized long. 

“You know it?” Oscar asked, looking up at her. Iris pursed her lips.

“I’m familiar.” Was her only response. Her fingers itched to reach for the patch that was burning a hole in her pocket. It wasn’t long before Rick returned alone, Andrew nowhere in sight. He immediately trained his gun on Oscar.

“We didn’t have nothing to do with that.” He said calmly.

“You didn’t know?” Rick asked, huffing. “You knew. Daryl, let’s end this now.”

“Sir, sir, you gotta listen to me, please!” Axel pleaded, staring to tear up as Rick turned abruptly, pointing his gun every which way. He had a crazed look in his eye. Sure, someone had tried to kill him, but he needed to cool it. “It was them that was bad. It wasn’t us.”

“Oh, that’s convenient!”

“You saw what he did to Tiny. He was my friend. Please, we ain’t like that. I like my pharmaceuticals, but I’m no killer.” Axel continued. “Oscar here’s a B and E and he ain’t very good at it, neither. We ain’t the violent kind, they were! Please, I swear to God! I want to live!”

“Rick.” Iris said lowly, leaning up against the wall with her arms folded. He looked to her, eyes still wide with adrenaline. She raised an eyebrow. “The man’s about to piss himself. I think we’re good.” Rick exhaled, turning back to Oscar, who, to his credit, didn’t flinch one bit.

“What about you?” Rick asked. Oscar blinked slowly, looking right up at him.

“I ain’t never pleaded for my life. And I ain’t about to start now. So you do what you gotta do.” Oscar replied calmly. Rick was breathing hard.

“Rick.” Iris repeated. He sucked on a tooth, turning away and fiddling with the safety of his gun.

Eventually, they moved through the halls to Cell Block D. It was empty, save for the bodies. It was clear someone, presumably a guard, had opened each of the cells, one at a time, and executed each prisoner, just like that. Old blood looked almost purple on the floor. At least they had the luxury of dying human.

“Oh, man. I knew these guys.” Axel mumbled, his lip quivering. “They were good men.”

“Let’s go.” Rick said quietly, to Iris and Daryl. 

“So you’re just gonna leave us in here? Man, this is sick.” Oscar murmured.

“We’re locking down this cell block. From now on, this part of the prison is yours.” Rick replied lowly. “Take it or leave it, that was the deal.” He strode off back into the hallways.

“You think this is sick?” Daryl asked them as he turned to go. “You don’t wanna know what’s outside. Sorry about your friends, man.” He jerked his chin at Iris. “C’mon.” She turned back to Oscar and Axel, pressing her lips together.

“I’m sorry about Big Tiny. And this.” She said quietly, turning to follow. “A word of advice? Take those bodies outside and burn them.”

When they returned to Cell Block C, it was quiet, a little unsettling. Rick’s keys jingled as he walked. Iris held the basket of clean linens on her hip, walking straight to Lori’s cell and leaving it at the end of the bed.

“Hershel stopped breathing. Mom saved him.” Carl said, looking up as his dad came over.

“Its true.” Glenn nodded. Rick passed his son the keys. 

“Still no fever.” Lori murmured as Rick stepped into the cell. Hershel was still out on the bed, but he looked pretty okay, all things considered. Everyone gathered around as his eyes fluttered open slowly.

“Daddy?” Maggie asked, tears in her eyes.

“Daddy!” Beth cried, sinking to her knees at his bedside. Rick removed the handcuff from around his hand, and Hershel grabbed his hand in thanks, saying nothing. The two sisters held each other as they cried, relieved. It was a relief for all of them, really.

-

TAGLIST:

@heidiland05

@ryoujoking

@catlalice

@maxinehufflepuffprincess

@lowkeyhottho

@fadingpalacebonkpsychic

[mslanna]

Almost Doesn't Count

Chapter 23 of Be My Guest now on AO3

In which Raphael inopportunely fails to use his single brain cell, Tav gets s big dose of Should Have Seen That Coming and MsLanna fucks lore five ways from Friday before running for the hills.

To Tav's surprise, answers to their letters arrive. Gale sends a whole sheaf detailing everything that happens in Waterdeep. Untouched by the destruction that ravaged Baldur's Gate, life there is easy. His tower stands, Tara forgave his long absence. He fills pages with anecdotes about his students. The gifted ones he functions as a warning to. And the less talented ones he guides onwards with unwavering support and patience.

He ends with a flamboyant and heartfelt invitation, promising to host Tav whenever and for however long they want.

Of course Tav accepts. They will visit, as soon as they can, as long as they want and see his new life, watch him teach and wield magic. All places are equally far from home if you can use a portal to get there.

Astarion wrote less excessive about what went on in Baldur's Gate. He still looks for a way to walk under the sun again and Tav’s heart hurts for him. They cannot wait to follow the slimmest of leads with him. Soon. Once their little problem is taken care off, his is next.

It’s a comforting thought and as solid a plan for the future as Tav can currently conceive of. They will do absolutely everything. At once. It is easier to think about what they will do once Mephistopheles is dead than worrying constantly about the battles and possibility of losing.

Lae'zel's letters read like update reports on her campaign against Vlaakith. Tav takes to drawing little maps and diagrams to keep things partly straight. It occupies time and lets their answers appear not utterly incoherent.

Wyll confirms Tav’s intel that the devils of Avernus leave him and Karlach alone, which doesn't keep Karlach from not leaving them alone. She has a shit list a mile long and with nobody stopping her, she goes hog wild. The main repercussion seen to be offers to fix her infernal engine to get her out of Avernus again. So far, no luck.

There are even a few lines from Karlach who doesn't want to say much because she's sure Raphael reads every word.

It's something Tav hasn't even considered. They discard the thought quickly again as well. On the one hand, they wouldn't mind. On the other hand, they don't believe he'd do it. The stuttering exchange of words with the outside world fills some of the hole Haarlep left behind.

And Tav can't keep away completely. But the visits are short. They brim with unease and the incubus has more fun things to do than endure the awkwardness between them.

Haarlep themselves shrugged the incident off completely. Nothing in their behaviour indicates they cashed in on their friend, if Tav ever was one, for their own advancement. Only natural, they call it and ask Tav to return the favour any time. But for the human it is a breach that runs deep and keeps them teetering.

And then, just like that, the time has come. Tension that rose over days peaks and submerges the House of Hope. Anticipation and exhilaration run rampant. Everybody balances on the knife's edge – dominance or defeat, the decision looms.

"It is not the end, my love," Raphael keeps assuring Tav that clings to him, "but the beginning. Everything will change but for the better. Have a little confidence in the future – or at least in me. Would I attempt this if I could not prevail?"

Tav shakes their head, rubbing it against the fabric of his doublet. The colours are subtly changed – darker, less blue, more red. Change is heralded in their devil's looks as much as everything else.

"Then let us prepare for the final victory over my father." Raphael drops a kiss onto Tav's head and pushes them away a little. In the gained space, hellfire embraces his change into fiend form.

Tav sighs and can't help but smile. He is resplendent. They run loving fingers over the blackened bones encasing golden hellfire. Raphael is a glorious beast in this form and they regret they didn't get to see him fight like this except as opponent.

The three-skulled head lowers to them, it's mane of fire wafting behind. So close to him the air smells of hot iron and dead ashes. Tav inhales deeply as they place a hand against the white bone.

The final "adieu" is already reverberating in Tav's bones but they don't want to spill it. So they climb onto the bed instead to stand next to the crown of Karsus. Their fingers follow the familiar black lines of Raphael's chest unwilling to let go. Such a foolish longing and yet overpowering.

"Can I come with you?" they ask, longing dilating their eyes and words.

"Of course, you can," Raphael replies gently. "Will you die if you do?"

Tav averts their eyes and wipes at them angrily. "Yes," they breathe. Yes, I will."

"Stay then." Black claws pinch Tav's jaw and gently turn it to face the devil. "Be safe as you always were and I will be back."

Tav bites their lips and shores up their tears for later. There is a battle that has to be fought. They pick up the crown that never felt this heavy in their hands before. But this was the last time for a while. If all went well. Which it would. It had to. There would be a break, time to breathe after this.

"Adieu mein Herz, ich kann dich nicht begleiten." Tav's voice breaks and they cannot continue. "Promise me you come back,” they breathe instead.

"I promise." The long tongue lolls out of the snout, licking over Tav's face. "For you."

Tav presses a last kiss on their devil before he turns and leaves.

The air leaves with him and Tav crumbles on the vast bed. Maybe they should have asked for a spot of stasis just to be numb while time passes anyway. Instead it is up to them once more. They scald their skin in the bath, feeling the full expanse of their body, crab red and hurting in an explicable pain that can be controlled.

The soft sheets are scarping on the sensitive skin after wards, another physical experience to overpower the brain. And the pillows and sheets still smell of Raphael and that must be comfort enough.

They wake and wander the House of Hope. The archivist is rearranging the items on display.

"Raphael will bring more treasured items with him from Mephistar," he says. "He will find the archive well prepared."

Tav stares at the empty pedestal where the Orphic Hammer once lay. It makes sense. Raphael has to know the vaults of his father, at least to an extent. There must be things in there he lusted after for centuries.

They watch the bustle for a while before they meander on. But the House of Hope is only so big. Inevitably, Tav ends up in the boudoir. The world calms for the duration it takes them to reach the bed from the entrance. A familiar calm not yet disturbed by a familiar face.

"Will you not stay?" Haarlep asks and pats the sheets beside them. "One last time."

Tav feels the irresistible pull of the incubus. They yield and climb onto the huge bed, sitting at the headboard next to the incubus. Haarlep wraps a protective wing around them and silence falls.

"I will remember you," Haarlep finally says. "When this is all over and long gone; when humans are distant memories and Faerûn a mythical country that exists only in legends told by molluscs. That's more than most humans get. Just so you know."

Tav leans against them with a sigh. It means nothing. Maybe it means something in the grand game that is life. But they recognise an outstretched hand when they see one. "I hope the molluscs are smarter than me and see through your machinations then."

"Oh, they wont." The incubus laughs. "But, as you were, they will be happy for the duration of the game. Me, a generous dispenser of happiness. Isn't that something?"

"Your happiness doesn't come without a cost," Tav murmurs. "It comes with strings attached."

"Oh, sweet little mouse, every happiness does." Haarlep wraps an arm around Tav's shoulder. "There is only one story and that story is that somebody has to leave first. You have to die one death in the end. And so many smaller ones in advance. Take your pleasure where you can."

"The way you do?"

"I decided when to leave first." Their tone is light. "It makes everything so much more convenient."

"But then it turns into a race. A race to leave first." Tav shakes their head. It's no way they want to live. "That race knows only losers."

Unthinking they peck Haarlep on the cheek before extracting themself from their wing and climbing off the bed.

Tav wanders into the library. Infernal will stay in integral part of their life and there is always more to learn. Those devils turned their language into a weapon and Tav doesn't plan to cut themself publicly.

It's unclear how many devils know or suspect Tav understands. They keep their head down and their mouth shut as yet. But one day all the hells will know. By then, Tav intends to have mastered at least sentences of medium length that are acceptably complicated in grammar.

It doesn't matter that Tav can't really concentrate. They repeat every paragraph as often as necessary. When their head hurts and the eyes start to droop, Tav folds their arms over the book, places their head on them, and closes their eyes. It's uncomfortable. But the alternative it to start studying again.

The door doesn't bang open. The fiend entering, closes it as deliberately again and strides towards Tav with confident, measured steps. The human raises their head, sleepy befuddlement replaced slowly with recognition. They beam and climb onto their desk to rise closer to their devil's height.

"Raphael."

The whisper is a prayer and an affirmation. The skulls grin back and for a moment the tongue lolls out of the central one. Long claws mesh into soft fingers as he leans down to touch his forehead against Tav's. It lasts only a moment before the human wraps their arms around the incandescent body.

Then the devil straightens, lifting Tav off the desk and they wrap their legs around his waist. "You're back," Tav murmurs against the hot bone. "It is over."

"Es ist Vollbracht." The words rumble through Tav's body in an avalanche of safety. Burning wings close around them and the towering figure makes its way through the House of Hope, cradling its prize close. Victory is to be celebrated. The library won't do.

Tav snuggles against him like a cool centre to his world. Finally all his. Finally safe. Nothing but a lavish feast will do to herald this state of perfection. When he unwraps the wing-made cocoon a little, Tav looks up and meets his muzzle with soft lips. He has hells to bring to heel and order, but this takes precedence.

# # #

Avernus is lacking in sunrises. Tav wakes anyway. The room is also lacking in Raphael but they will cut him some slack. He won a decisive battle and made time to spend with them afterwards instead of politicking. They stretch feeling the welcome soreness throughout their body.

For a golden intermezzo, they stay under the blanket, engulfed in the warmth and lingering smell of Raphael. Then they jump up. The rest of their life awaits. And it looks utterly glorious.

The door to his study stands open when Tav emerges from their suite. They peer inside and Raphael cuts the conversation with the attending three devils short. He smiles and Tav wonders how long it was since last they saw him him this relaxed. Secure in himself and his life. To think that their safety meant so much to him, made Tav's heart skip. They allow their body to follow suit and bounce into the study.

Their devil rises to meet them halfway around the desk. "Recovered?" he asks and his index finger gently pries Tav's collar from their throat to reveal a crescent of angry red teeth marks framing their shoulder. "You should have said something.

Tav smiles. The bite hums in a circle around their shoulder, saturated with luxurious memories. "I did." They capture the devils hand and press a kiss on his knuckles. "Not sure about the precise wording, but I am certain 'please' was involved."

"It was indeed." Raphael reluctantly retracts his hand. "What do you need?"

"To know what happen." Tav steps into his personal space. "To know how he died."

"It will be my pleasure." With a swift motion, he sits them on the desk, fingers tracing their face. "Where to begin. We fought a long and hard battle before we reached his palace. My father holed up in the end, maybe hoping for a siege.

"But his home was my home as well. And children will build their own secrets, unsupervised, neglected, ignored. Underestimated." He says the last word with a deep satisfaction. And Tav smiles up at him, enchanted, happy, at home. He traces their lip with his thumb. As it should be.

"Mephistopheles had nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run that I could not access. His last, most loyal guards, I slayed before his eyes all but one who I turned, right under my father's nose, took trusted loyalty and made it mine." The memory is sweet on his lips, a moment to savour for eternity.

"He was at my mercy. Bargaining as all devils will. You should have seen it. The great Mephistopheles, brought low by a cambion." The surge of power he felt then echoes through Raphael. "He offered me anything, everything I wanted in exchange for his life."

"My contract?" Raphael looks down at the human’s hopeful eyes.

"Of course." The curve of Tav's face is soft in his palm. Of course his father offered the contract. One of his last trumps. One that didn't save him in the end. "He offered me everything I had already taken by force. Offered me fealty even, to reverse our roles. And I will not lie, I did consider it. To have him at my disposal, at my mercy for however long it takes for me to tire of it."

He smiles and kisses Tav's forehead. "Then I thought of you and he received and undeservedly quick and painless end.”

"Thank you." The tremor in Tav's voice burrows deep into his chest. "So it is finally over."

"It is." Raphael wraps an arm around them. "You are safe now. I won't let anybody hurt you."

"And I promise not to sell my soul again." Tav snorts slightly and looks up at him with a lopsided grin.

"Don't worry, that can't happen."

"Can't?" Tav leans back further for a better view.

Raphael slips his index finger under their chin. "You already sold your soul, remember?"

"Yes, but Mephistopheles I dead. The contract is void."

"Unless," Raphael smiles, “the devil is killed by another devil. And that devil decides to uphold the former commitment. Your soul is in safe hands."

Tav's face freezes, then a furrow creeps over their brow. "You took my contract?"

"Of course."

Tav doesn't reply. For a long while they just stare at him. Of course. There is nothing of course about this. They were meant to be free. Mephistopheles' death was meant to free them. Not bind them to somebody else. Not even Raphael.

"Why?" they finally ask.

It is Raphael's turn to be dumbstruck. He looks down at the little mouse, finally well and truly caught. Finally all his. What answer do they expect when this has been their truth from the day they stayed with him in his House of Hope? "To keep it safe, of course. To keep you safe."

"I am safe." Tav shakes their head. "Here with you and in Faerûn."

"So you plan to go back."

"Of course. I want to visit all my friends and help them if I can. I left a life behind and I want it back." Tav blinks and breathes deeply. "The House of Hope is my home, I think of this," they gesture around, "as my home. I will always come back."

The news doesn't go down well and Gale's words echo in Tav's mind. They reach up to cup the devil's face with one hand. "Just as you always come back. I love you and I am yours – body, heart and mind."

"But not soul."

Silence falls and Tav tries to wrangle their uproar of emotions. This is not how it is to go. This is all wrong. They need to get through to Raphael, but their words are slipping through their mind like snakes through sand.

"You want to be here," Raphael finally says. It is only half a question.

"Yes."

"With me."

"Yes!"

"As it was before. Willingly. Body, heart, and mind."

"Yes." Tav murmurs. Hope flares up that they are finally getting somewhere. "But I never wanted to be bound to you by a contract!"

"What difference does it make?"

Tav stares at him, looks at the devil they know as if they see him for the first time. He sees no difference. To love is to possess and if that is impossible to obsess. "If you don't know, I don't think I can explain it to you."

The wobble of their lip is quelled by Tav biting down on it hard. They taste blood but it is a welcome counterpoint to the tears rising in their eyes.

"You are mine," the words fall from his lips hard and final. "You want to be mine."

Tav shakes their head. "Not like that, not like a – a thing. I wanted to be yours but like a commitment, not like a possession." They draw themself up with a long sigh. "If I have to spend eternity here after my death, I better go and see something else until then."

Their shoulders hunch up yet Tav turns away anyway. "Goodbye, Raphael."

The words are soft lest their voice break and Tav walks out of the study with measure steps. They don't turn around or stop until they reach the foyer, calling up the portal to Baldur's Gate. Casting a last, blurred glance around their home, Tav steps into the darkness.