#imagine his stubbl- GUNSHOTS

[septic-salad]

New revivebur design just dropped,,

Also giving credit to @ryemackerel for inspiring my like. Everything in the first image,, and for being moral support, love you king 😁😁

Anyways I think I would make out with revivebur sloppy style if you really think about it

#imagine his stubbl- GUNSHOTS #wilbur soot #dream smp fanart #c!wilbur #my art #revived wilbur #dsmp revivedbur #revivebur #wilbur dsmp #dsmp #dsmp wilbur #wilbur dream smp #dream smp #cwilbur #c!wilbur fanart

[theharrowing]

Dollhouse 💛 17: Good thing for confidentiality agreements, yeah?

Hoseok’s job is simple: He enters the host’s body, he confiscates or terminates the target, and he gets back into his own body by dinnertime, easy peasy. Until a client comes along who becomes as obsessed with his life as he becomes with theirs, and the lines between their realities begin to blur.

PREVIOUS | INDEX | NEXT

💛 Hoseok x Namjoon, Jungkook x Yoongi, Hoseok x Namjoon x Yoongi

💛 word count: 10.7k

💛 hired assassin au, sci-fi, body swapping, graphic violence, infidelity, body dysphoria, lgbtq, smut, fluff, angst, poly, nsfw, smut, 21+

💛 chapter warnings: description of gunshot wound & pain, emotional infidelity, oral sex, anal sex, lots of messy feelings

💛 beta read by @neoneunnajimin​ 

💛 posted july, 2022 | read on ao3

Hoseok slowly opens his eyes, blinking from the bright fluorescent lighting and squeezing them closed as if to try to will some of the light away. He feels like shit. He has never been shot before, and his whole body aches. He groans and attempts to sit up more, but he is hooked up to too many tubes and wires, and there is a hot, stabbing pain in his side making him feel disoriented from even the slightest movement.

"Whoa," Namjoon's voice comes from Hoseok's left, followed by a large, warm hand pressing firmly into the center of his chest. "Hey baby, try not to move too much, alright? How are you?"

Hoseok relaxes in a partially-seated position and turns his head to find Namjoon in a large wooden chair with deep green faux leather upholstery. It looks uncomfortable as hell, and Hoseok wonders how long he has been sitting in that thing. Judging by how disheveled Namjoon is, with stubble on his chin, Hoseok is guessing it has been a while.

"What day is it?" Hoseok asks. 

Namjoon chuckles softly. "You've only been in here for twelve hours, Seok. It just feels like ages. They already operated and took the bullet out, and you were brought back in here about two hours ago."

"Damn, here I thought your five o'clock shadow was an indication that you've been sitting bedside for days, waiting for me. Twelve hours is far less romantic."

Namjoon laughs, and this time it reaches his eyes. "Speaking of romantic, I hear Yoongi-hyung went guns blazing to rescue you. We should get him a nice gift basket or something for his heroics; he may have saved your life."

"A gift basket?" Hoseok tries to laugh, but it hurts, and he winces as pain shoots from his left hip throughout his entire body. Hoseok hisses and tenses up, muttering, "Fuck."

"Easy," Namjoon says, rubbing a hand over Hoseok's arm. "You know, those baskets of like, wine and cheese and shit?"

"No," Hoseok responds, trying not to laugh too much. "That sounds great, though; look into it."

Both men chuckle softly, and then silence falls over the room. Hoseok thinks back to the storage unit, to Yoongi shooting the man who held a gun to Hoseok, to Yoongi picking Hoseok up and carrying him. To Hoba.

"Are Yoongi and Jeongguk still here? Wait, am I still on the coast or are we back in Seoul?" Hoseok asks, and Namjoon chews on the inside of his mouth.

"We're still on the coast. And they are. Your boss has been in and out of here, waiting for you to wake up and forcing them to trail around behind her. I promised to call her the moment you came to, but I figured I would give you a moment to relax. She seems very antsy, though, and the guys don't seem to be doing any better."

The Boss is antsy. She is never antsy. Hoseok sighs and nods. "May as well call her. I don't want to keep them waiting too long. I imagine Yoongi and Jeongguk could use some sleep."

"Fair," Namjoon mutters, pulling out his phone. He taps around on the screen, then holds it to his ear. She must have picked up on the first ring. "Yeah, he's awake and seems to be of sound mind,” Namjoon says into the phone. “Sure, I'll leave and give you some space."

Hoseok sighs. Of course, Namjoon has to exit the room for their conversation, but he doesn't want to see him go. Having Namjoon's deep, calming voice be the only thing he hears is a dream in his state. But he also wants to see the other two guys badly. 

"Alright, baby, I'm going to grab a coffee and something to eat. I'll see you later." Namjoon leans down and gives Hoseok a gentle kiss, and Hoseok feels a swell of affection as he smiles against Namjoon's lips. 

"Go to the hanok and rest," Hoseok mutters. He feels guilty imagining Namjoon has been waiting for twelve hours for him to wake up. "I'll be okay alone. I'll probably sleep more; the pain is starting to creep up, and I imagine I'll need to call for medication soon."

Truth be told, the pain is doing more than creep up; it is starting to throb, hot and angry at his side. Hoseok has never felt anything quite like it before, but he wants to wait to hear what The Boss has to say before a nurse comes to medicate him, in case it makes him drowsy.

"I should," Namjoon says as he stands. "Now that you're awake, the exhaustion is hitting me. I'll be back after I've eaten and slept, alright, baby?" 

Hoseok nods and smiles sweetly at Namjoon before he leaves, feeling relieved that he is being reasonable rather than insisting on staying at the hospital more than necessary. But Namjoon is always reasonable; that is one of the many things Hoseok loves so much about him.

The door to Hoseok's room swings open, and he sees The Boss enter hastily with Jeongguk and Yoongi behind her. All three of them look like they haven't slept a wink, and Hoseok feels bad about that. 

"Hoseok-ssi," The Boss says, taking Namjoon's chair and sitting so forcefully that air hisses out of the cushion. She wears a long black dress with little round cloth buttons that run up the center of the chest, and it covers her from neck to wrist to ankle, like some kind of seventeenth-century ghost from an American film. "Thank fucking god you're okay."

Namjoon closes the door behind him, and Jeongguk and Yoongi pull up chairs to sit somewhat beside and behind The Boss. Both men wear the same standard black button-ups tucked into black slacks that they wore during the mission. Their hair is tousled messily, and neither makes eye contact with Hoseok.

"Turns out our Jeongguk-ssi was correct that everything was a decoy. We have reason to believe the real shipment came to Busan, and we have men looking into that right now. The body count from inside the storage unit was six men on their side and eight on ours; they had the advantage, hiding in the dark. Hoseok-ssi, I feel terrible that you were injured."

Hoseok shrugs, though the movement sends another sharp pain through him, and the dull, persistent ache burns hotter. Hoseok's body reflexively bends to the left as he winces and squeezes his eyes shut. 

"Hi, nurse," The Boss calls through some device, Hoseok assumes. "Yes, our patient is awake, and he needs some pain medication. Thanks!"

"As I was saying," The Boss continues, and Hoseok keeps his eyes squeezed shut but nods to indicate that he is listening. "We need to figure out next steps, especially with you in this condition. They say recovery could take up to three months, and I'm afraid we don't have that kind of time on our hands."

Three months. Hoseok's head spins at the thought. "Did anything vital get hit?" he asks. "Three months seems like a long time."

"Luckily, no. No organs, that is. Your hip bone was chipped, but not in a way that will affect movement. You lucked out. I imagine you'll be up and running in a month."

Hoseok opens his eyes to find Yoongi and Jeongguk still staring ahead, faces downturned and exhausted. The Boss sits forward. 

"Once we're able to move you to our facility in Seoul, I want you and Yoongi to jump."

Yoongi's head shoots up, giving The Boss a surprised look.

"Are you sure?" Hoseok asks. "Yoongi is a better shot than I am."

"Yes, I am sure," The Boss says. "I need you on the field immediately, and I have a feeling Jeongguk will be more of a target to them than Yoongi, what with kidnapping Jeongguk to try to send a message, and all that; they may try to send more of a serious message next time. His body may be more vulnerable."

This is too much for Hoseok all at once, with the throbbing in his side growing. The pain is so intense, Hoseok feels nauseated. He closes his eyes once again and tries to steady his breathing. 

"C-can't they handle it?" Hoseok mutters, feeling himself slip quickly into nothing but a pain-addled shell of a man. Where the fuck is that nurse?

"You are my employee, Hoseok. Not them."

"B-but, the d-dads," Hoseok mutters, not sure what he is even talking about at this point, though whatever his point is, he knows he wants to get it across.

The door to the room opens, and quick footsteps round Hoseok's bed. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut, and the pain in his side burns so hot, Hoseok thinks perhaps his ears are ringing. 

"Glad to see we're finally awake, though not glad to see there's so much pain," the nurse says. "Which one of you is the husband?" 

Hoseok laments sending Namjoon home now that there is official business to be discussed, possibly about his condition or his discharge, but then he hears a deep, raspy, "I am," and feels grateful for Yoongi. Grateful and a lot of other complicated feelings.

"Do you two mind excusing us?" the nurse asks, and Hoseok opens one eye to see The Boss huff and stand from her chair, muttering, "Let's go, kid," to Jeongguk. 

Yoongi moves to the chair closest to Hoseok and takes his hand in both of his, and Hoseok wonders if the touch alone is already causing the pain to subside or if the nurse has just put him on a morphine drip. Whatever it is, it feels safe and comfortable, and Hoseok closes his eyes with a smile.

"It looks like mister Jung’s vitals are all good, and there don't seem to be any complications from the operation, so we are willing to move him to a facility in Seoul. Mister Jung’s boss said there is a certain hospital she would like to have him moved to. Is this something you two are okay with?"

Yoongi gives Hoseok's hand a little squeeze, and Hoseok nods. "Whatever she suggested is fine with us," Yoongi says. 

"Wonderful," the nurse responds. Her voice and footsteps seem to be traveling around the room, toward the exit. "We'll begin that process, then. I'll let the doctor know how mister Jung is doing, and once he wakes up again, we'll put a plan in place."

"When I wake up again?" Hoseok asks. 

The nurse hums in response. "Your body is under an incredible amount of stress, mister Jung. We expect that plus the drowsiness from the morphine to knock you out. We'll be back in six or so hours to check on you and get you moving."

"Sounds good," Yoongi says, though his voice holds a deep sadness, portraying anything but good.

The door to the room opens and closes, and all is silent. Yoongi lets out a deep sigh and squeezes Hoseok's hand. "I was so worried we lost you," he mutters.

Hoseok opens his eyes to find Yoongi with his head down. "Hey," he says, "look at me."

Yoongi slowly lifts his head, and his eyes are red and full of tears. Hoseok wants to pull Yoongi close and kiss him and tell him everything is fine, but he cannot do any of that, so he offers a small smile. 

"You saved me," Hoseok says. "Don't be sad."

"You were shot because of me. Because of Jeongguk, because of our fucking fathers. I can't believe it was a decoy; I feel so stupid."

"Hey, none of that, hyung. You didn't know it was a decoy. Even with Jeongguk's inkling, we didn't know. But now we know what they're up to, and we can formulate a better plan. Meeting them at the docks was foolish; what is this, a TV drama? We should have thought it through better. It's everyone's fault."

Hoseok is surprised by how clear his mind is and notes that the pain in his side has mostly turned into a weaker dull throb. He wonders how much time he has before the medication pulls him back down into blissful darkness.

"Although I disagree with putting you back on the field, I'm willing to let you use my body," Yoongi says. "Whatever it takes."

"Sure you just don't want Namjoon to give you sponge baths in my skin?" Hoseok asks with an attempted smirk, feeling his face begin to lag from the pain meds. 

"An added bonus," Yoongi chuckles. "But not the goal. I just want to help you in any way I can, Hoba."

There it is again. Hoba.

"What's Hoba?" Hoseok asks. The room is beginning to fog and shift, but Hoseok does his best to keep his eyes on Yoongi. 

"Just a nickname," Yoongi mutters, eyes falling to his hands, which still hold onto one of Hoseok's.

"But what does it mean?"

Yoongi looks up and gives Hoseok a soft smile, and although his face is beginning to blur and smudge, he is so beautiful. 

"You know the English word 'hope'?" Yoongi asks.

"Yeah."

"It's like that."

Hoseok nods slowly, trying to wrap his mind around what Yoongi is saying, but it doesn't make sense. "Why?"

Yoongi shrugs and smiles wider. "It just makes me think of you. Ever since this whole...affair, I have started to feel a sense of hopefulness, having you and Namjoon in our lives. You really have no idea how much you have done for us."

"Hope?" Hoseok says in English, trying to sort it out. 

"Yeah," Yoongi mutters as Hoseok closes his eyes and slips away from consciousness. In English, Yoongi says, "You're our hope, Hoba."

When Hoseok wakes again, he assumes he is in the same room; nothing looks different about it. Standard hospital room with white walls, white paneled ceiling and off-white linoleum floor. Everything feels sterile and disarmingly bright. Beside Hoseok, in the same wooden chair with faux green leather upholstery, is Yoongi, and he has his head down on the bed, asleep.

The pain in Hoseok's side is incredible, and as soon as he feels a sharp ache course through him, he hisses and squeezes his eyes shut. Yoongi stirs beside him and clears his throat before muttering, "Nurse" into the same device as before, Hoseok assumes. 

"Hoba, are you okay?" Yoongi asks. His voice is deep and raspy from disuse, and Hoseok hates how relieved he is to hear that very voice in a time like this. He reminds himself that when it was Namjoon's voice, he was just as glad and tries to push the thought away altogether. 

"Yeah," Hoseok says, "just hurts."

"They want to start moving you today, so we need to get all of that sorted out. I called Namjoon earlier to come meet the doctor, and he should be here any moment; I figured your actual husband should be here for all that."

"Thanks," Hoseok mutters softly. 

The door to the room opens and closes, and Hoseok opens an eye enough to see that it is a nurse, and not his husband, then closes his eye again. The pain feels so intense, Hoseok worries the room might spin if he opens his eyes again. 

"I have some pills for you, mister Jung," the nurse says in a shrill, chipper voice. 

"Okay," Hoseok groans as he attempts to sit up.

Yoongi places a hand on his chest the same way Namjoon had and holds him firmly against the bed. "You're already sitting up, Hoba, don't strain yourself.”

The top half of Hoseok's bed does happen to be in a partially seated position, so Hoseok concedes and relaxes. Although he is not fully sitting up, this will have to do; he really shouldn't be trying to move so much. Hoseok opens his eyes and the nurse hands him a small paper cup with two pills, which Hoseok takes in his right hand and dumps into his mouth; then, she takes the small paper cup and hands Hoseok a plastic cup of water which Hoseok uses to wash down the bitter tablets. 

The nurse excuses herself, and Yoongi's hand is still on Hoseok's chest, warm and comforting, and Hoseok thinks about what he said before he had fallen back asleep.

"What do you mean, I'm your hope," Hoseok asks, saying the last two words in English.

Yoongi chuckles, and Hoseok lifts his gaze to see him smile. Yoongi is so pretty, even with his hair a mess and unclean and with marks from the hospital blanket on his cheek. Hoseok watches as his lips part to reveal his toothy smile with pink gums sticking out and it warms his heart. Yoongi begins to reply, and the door opens, pulling him off course. 

"Hey baby," Namjoon says over Yoongi's shoulder, and Yoongi retreats his hand from Hoseok's chest as his smile falls. "Hey Yoongi-hyung, thanks so much for being here with him."

"Of course," Yoongi mutters and turns to smile at Namjoon. 

"I'll take it from here if you guys want to get some rest before we head back to Seoul."

Yoongi nods and gives Hoseok a soft, sad smile, then stands to leave, and Namjoon watches Yoongi exit before taking the seat next to the bed.

"How are you feeling?" Namjoon asks. 

"Tired," Hoseok says, "in pain. I woke up moments ago, and the nurse brought me pills, so perfect timing."

Namjoon hums and nods. "I was going to come sooner, but Yoongi-hyung insisted that I rest more. He sure is protective."

Protective. Hoseok wonders if that really is all that it is. 

"Do you feel rested?" Hoseok asks.

Namjoon hums and shrugs with a half smile. "Yes and no. It's hard to rest when your husband is in hospital recovering from a bullet wound in his hip, but I did my best."

With fluffy, clean hair and a shaven face, Hoseok can see that Namjoon at least made an attempt to feel normal, which makes him happy. 

"The Boss wants me to jump with Yoongi and continue working. On one hand, I feel like I need more time; maybe it's just the pain, but I feel exhausted mentally. But on the other hand, we need to get the job done."

Namjoon hums, and he knits his brow with concern. "I wonder if you'll feel better in hyung's body. Physical exhaustion can cause mental fatigue."

"Possibly," Hoseok mutters. "Yoongi isn't completely sold on the idea, but I mentioned you'd be giving my body sponge baths, so perhaps he'll agree."

Namjoon chuckles and shakes his head. "What are we going to do with us?"

Us. Hoseok's mind races to thoughts of the four of them, tangled together, all sweaty and moaning. "I have no idea."

Getting back to Seoul is easier than Hoseok expected. He and Namjoon ride in a helicopter while The Boss, Yoongi and Jeongguk drive. By the time Hoseok is in his new suite and all settled in, everyone arrives.

The suite is nice. It looks like a hotel penthouse, but with hospital equipment in the living room. Rather than a couch, Namjoon has a bed beside Hoseok's hospital bed, and they have every amenity they need with a small kitchen included. There is also a master bedroom with an en suite bathroom. 

While at the hospital, Hoseok was hooked up to catheters, but now he has full range of motion and the ability to use the bathroom freely. The prospect, he has to admit, is a bit terrifying. Luckily, his husband works in physical therapy and is eager to help Hoseok get up and start walking. 

"Tomorrow morning, we'll discuss jumping," The Boss says from the doorway. "For now, settle in and let us know if you need anything. I have aided Namjoon-ssi in clearing him from work, for the time being, so he'll be here with you. But if you need staff, of course, they're a button push away."

Hoseok nods and thanks The Boss, and when she leaves, Yoongi and Jeongguk approach the bed where Hoseok is angled into his standard seated position and feeling decent, pain-wise.

"Want us to stay too?" Yoongi asks. 

"I would accept the assistance and the company," Namjoon responds. "But only if it's not inconvenient."

Yoongi shakes his head and waves Namjoon off. "We just need to decompress and grab some clothing from our places. We can stop at your place too if you'd like, or you can go once we come back."

Namjoon nods and considers the plan. "I'll go home for what Hoseok and I need once you guys return."

And with that, Yoongi and Jeongguk leave, and Namjoon begins to look around the suite, opening cabinets and the refrigerator. There is food stocked for them, and he takes out his phone and thumbs around. 

"Yoongi-hyung is good with food," he mutters to Hoseok from across the room. "I'll tell him what we have in case he wants to grab more on his way back."

Of all the ways this could have gone, Hoseok is thankful for the small community that has somehow manifested itself around them. Yoongi and Jeongguk deciding to play nice and be part of their lives is something Hoseok would not have expected all those mornings ago when he was blackmailed for sexual favors by the two of them in the hotel suite.  

Hoseok closes his eyes as Namjoon continues to explore, and he smiles, enjoying the soft ambiance of drawers and cabinets opening and closing while Namjoon hums and mutters to himself. It is not their home, but anywhere can feel like home with his husband around. 

"Jeonggukah," Hoseok calls toward the bedroom of the suite where Jeongguk has been since the moment they returned. There are rustling noises, then Jeongguk appears in the doorway in his classic black hoodie and joggers with his eyes on the floor. 

"You haven't said a word to me," Hoseok says. "Come tell hyung what's wrong."

Jeongguk sighs and kicks at some spot on the floor, then he pushes himself away from the door frame and approaches. Namjoon had pulled a cozy burgundy armchair up to the side of the bed earlier, and Jeongguk sits down on it with a huff.

"All of this is my fault," Jeongguk mutters. 

Hoseok attempts to sit up more, but pain shoots through his side, and he halts his movement and lets his limbs go limp like a starfish. "Look, this is not your fault, okay? You had no way of knowing how this would go. Mistakes happen."

"Mistakes happen?" Jeongguk repeats, and he sounds furious. "You almost fucking died, hyung. That's more than a mistake!"

Jeongguk's hands grip the chair's armrests, and he stares ahead at some spot on Hoseok's bed with tense, sharp features. 

"Jeonggukah," Yoongi says from the doorway of the bedroom. He is standing in a black t-shirt and grey sweatpants, and his arms are crossed over his chest. His hair is fluffy and clean, falling over one of his eyes and Hoseok curses his current condition because, god damn, if Yoongi isn't incredibly fuckable.

"No," Jeongguk snaps back, standing from the chair. "Nothing either of you say will make any of this suck any less. I fucked up and almost got you killed, and now you," Jeongguk turns, whipping a hand out to point to Yoongi, "are going to be put in even more danger while Hoseok uses your body! And I'm supposed to just fucking sit here and pretend everything is okay!"

Hoseok wants to say something to comfort Jeongguk, but he knows it is pointless to try when he is this upset, and he doesn't necessarily disagree with Jeongguk’s frustrations. Sure, he doesn't believe this is Jeongguk's fault, but everything else is valid.

"Jeongguk," Yoongi says softly, "please stop shouting, baby." 

Jeongguk hides his face in his hands and shuffles back to the bedroom, knocking into Yoongi on the way, and Yoongi turns to him and closes the door behind them. The room is silent, and Hoseok feels terribly alone. 

The ebb and flow of life in the hospital suite feels cozy within the first twenty-four hours, though tension still hangs in the air. Namjoon helps Hoseok get up and walk around a bit, especially to the bathroom with his IV pole in one hand, rolling at his side, and Yoongi and Jeongguk mill about, preparing food, watching television on the living room bed, and being a couple just as they would if nobody else was around. 

Namjoon insists Yoongi and Jeongguk use the main room rather than hole up in the bedroom because he likes the company, and they all sit on the bed beside Hoseok's small hospital bed with snacks.

Yoongi and Jeongguk almost fall asleep in the living room, but a nurse knocks and enters to check on Hoseok and bring him pain medication, and they both sit up, looking uncomfortable. Once the nurse leaves, they go into the bedroom and close the door, and Namjoon turns off the television.

"I'm tired," Namjoon mutters, curling on the bed to face Hoseok. Hoseok reaches a hand out, and Namjoon takes it, engulfing him in comfort and warmth. 

"Sleep, baby," Hoseok mutters, feeling tired himself.

A knock on the door rouses Hoseok, and he attempts to stretch before shooting pain radiates from his hip throughout the rest of him. A nurse enters with more medication, and Hoseok swallows it down, then the nurse leaves.

Hoseok turns to tell Namjoon he needs to use the bathroom and finds the bed empty. He clears his throat and considers calling for Namjoon, but he figures he is probably in the bathroom and rests his head against his pillow, waiting.

A soft giggle comes from the bedroom—Jeongguk, no doubt—and Hoseok closes his eyes and swallows a lump in his throat, trying not to think about them and their bodies and what he would like to do to them. But his mind wanders quickly, thinking about Yoongi. Yoongi's sharp, feline eyes. Yoongi's large pale hands and knobby, pink knuckles. Yoongi's cock. 

Hoseok groans, feeling his cock harden despite his need to relieve himself. He looks toward the bathroom, noticing the door is open and vacant, and suddenly, he can't help but wonder if Namjoon is in that room with them and what they would possibly be giggling about. What if Namjoon woke up bored and horny and knocked softly on their door so as to not wake Hoseok, he wonders. What if Namjoon has already forgotten about his broken husband, who can't shit without assistance, in the arms of the other two. 

The thought of Namjoon—tan, buff, and taller than both Yoongi and Jeongguk—laying spread out on their bed with Yoongi between his thighs, cock nestled in his tight, eager hole with one twitching leg slung over his shoulder while Jeongguk rides his face, muffling his deep, raspy moans with his pussy sparks panic in Hoseok, and tears prickle the backs of his eyes. 

Voices carry once more from the room, but Hoseok can't make them out, and he begins to feel frantic. He has to use the bathroom, and he can't just lay out here all night while his husband gets fucked by two other men; he will piss himself in no time. 

So, Hoseok sits all the way up, grunting at the dull, hot pain in his side and begins to fling the blankets from his torso and legs. His right hand has a little more mobility; it is the left hand and arm hooked up to the IV pole and mobile monitor. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and carefully puts his weight onto his feet, inching to the edge of the mattress with deep breaths. 

The armchair had been pushed off to the side and there is a bluish-grey rug beside the bed that Hoseok sinks his toes into, and he stands slowly on shaky limbs, feeling trepidation quake through him as he puts his weight down on his feet and begins to stand. One hand grips to the IV pole for dear life, and the other bunches the pale blue sheet on the bed into a fist, and he takes one more deep, shaky breath as he stands, pulling his butt from the mattress. 

Hoseok feels fucking ridiculous—like a cartoon fawn attempting to stand on ice—and his legs tremble beneath him harder and harder the more anxious he becomes. More voices travel from the other room, and what the fuck is so god damn funny, Hoseok wonders—what on earth are they doing in there that is so fucking great, without him? 

The mental image of Namjoon on their bed comes back to Hoseok, and as he attempts to take a step forward, his foot twists to the side, and the wheels of the pole he's holding push too quickly across the floor. Fear surges through Hoseok as he tries to right himself but overcompensates and falls to the right, cursing loudly as he topples over. 

Hoseok's knees and hip land on the rug but his shoulder and head hit the hardwood, bringing the pole down with him in a loud crash and clatter. Hoseok yelps and whines loudly, against his better judgment—he did not want to be found like this. Not by Yoongi and Jeongguk, naked and giggling, and especially not by his husband doing god knows what behind that closed door with the two of them. 

The bedroom door slams open, and quick footsteps come from the room to Hoseok. Hoseok curls in on himself, tears falling from his face as the room spins, and he slams his eyes shut, saving himself from seeing his husband at a time like this. But it is not Namjoon who wraps his arms around Hoseok's shoulders and sits him up.

"Hoba, baby, are you okay?" Yoongi's deep voice mutters, and Hoseok clings to him like a buoy in the middle of the ocean, gripping onto Yoongi's shirt and burying his face in the crook of his neck. 

Hoseok's head spins, and he feels like he is going to vomit. "Need to pee," he mutters weakly, and Yoongi lets out a soft chuckle followed by a sigh.

"You should have called me," Yoongi says, still just as soft and calming, with a gravelly undertone. 

"N-namjoon is—"

"Namjoon went out to get some fresh air," Yoongi says. "He couldn't sleep, so he went for a walk. You must have been too tired when he told you."

Hoseok does not remember being told anything, and he sighs, feeling defeated and confused.

"Let's get you on your feet, okay?" Yoongi asks, and Hoseok nods. 

Every muscle in Hoseok's body feels rubbery and useless, and Hoseok grits his teeth as he wills his body to stand, leaning on Yoongi more than he would like. He can't put much weight on his left side without pain shooting through him, so he favors the side that presses into Yoongi. The sound of another door opening fills the space, and plastic bags hit the hardwood floor in a loud whoosh and thud. 

"Hoseok!" Namjoon's voice calls, and Hoseok, for some inexplicable reason, begins to cry. 

More warm, strong arms wrap around Hoseok and keep him steady on his feet. His side only somewhat aches, but the room spins around them, so Hoseok keeps his eyes closed. 

"He tried to get up on his own," Yoongi informs Namjoon as they keep Hoseok balanced on his feet. "I think he was trying to get to the bathroom."

"Hoseok, baby, I told you I was stepping out; why didn't you call for Yoongi and Jeongguk?" Namjoon asks sweetly, with no hint of annoyance, just concern. Hoseok can feel a thick cloth belt wrap around his upper ribs while Yoongi holds him still.

"He seems kind of out of it," Yoongi answers for him, grunting through his words. "I think it's the combination of the medication and a lack of food in his system." 

Hoseok wonders what time it is. Hell, he wonders what fucking day it is. 

"Alright, Seok, we're going to start walking," Namjoon says, and Hoseok nods, opening his eyes just enough to see his feet in front of him. 

"Left," Namjoon says, and Hoseok takes a step with his left foot. 

"Now right," Yoongi says, and Hoseok takes a step with his right foot.

Back and forth, Namjoon and Yoongi walk Hoseok to the bathroom, and then Yoongi's arms snake away from Hoseok's body, and Namjoon holds onto him a little tighter with one hand on the belt around his ribs. Hoseok holds onto the bathroom door frame and looks out into the room, allowing it to teeter before steading as his eyes land on Yoongi, walking away. 

Then his gaze finds Jeongguk, standing in the doorway of the bedroom, frozen still with his eyes on the spot on the floor where Hoseok fell. He can't help but wonder if Jeongguk stood there the entire time.

Hoseok rolls Yoongi's shoulders back and adjusts his tie, then turns to look at his body lying on the hospital bed, with Namjoon at his side. 

"Are you sure about this?" Hoseok asks in Yoongi's deep, raspy voice and watches as his own body shrugs. 

"I'm in good hands," Yoongi responds in Hoseok's voice, sending him a weak smile. 

Hoseok nods and smiles between Yoongi and Namjoon, who is seated on his bed at Yoongi's side, then he looks across the room at Jeongguk, who stares out the window. Jeongguk has not said much of anything in Hoseok's presence since the conversation they had an indiscernible number of days ago, and he barely looks at him either. 

"You guys have this monitor, which will track my movements," Hoseok announces, still not used to the way Yoongi's voice sounds in his ears. " Jeonggukah, stay at the ready in case we need you, as well."

Jeongguk nods and mutters, "Heard," but doesn't look Hoseok's way. Good enough, Hoseok thinks, and he turns to leave. 

According to The Boss, the shipment came into Busan and was put into storage there. The old men—who are still being held at a high-security government facility—refuse to speak, so Hoseok is going to attempt to break into Yoongi's family home and get information from his computer since the Jeon equipment seemed to only relay decoy information. 

There is a chance that security is stationed at the Min family home, though The Boss has sent agents to surveil the property and has reported that, aside from a maid coming and going over the last several days, there has not been any movement.

Monitoring equipment is set up at the hospital, similar to the equipment that The Boss has in her office, which allows Yoongi to see through the eyes of the host body—his own body, in this case—to aid with the mission. 

"Do you think The Boss watched us fuck like this?" Yoongi asks Hoseok through their mind link, and Hoseok scoffs. He has barely gotten outside of the hospital, and already, Yoongi is being a menace.

"It's likely," Hoseok responds, biting back a grin. 

"Good thing for confidentiality agreements, yeah?"

Hoseok shakes Yoongi’s head; he doesn't really want to think about it. 

The Min family home makes the Jeon family home look like a Barbie dream house. It is a huge angular cement building that looks more like a prison—if a prison was designed by Kim Swoogeun. Passcodes, thumbprint scans and a retina scan are all needed to get from the gate to the front door, and Hoseok half expects to see armed guards inside the home. He is surprised when it seems empty.

"The maid should be away by now. If you happen to see her, bow and don't look her in the eye," Yoongi instructs via mind link. "The study is through the living room, up the stairs on the right, and down the hall, to the far right."

Hoseok follows Yoongi's instructions and walks through the main foyer of the home to the expansive living room straight ahead and finds two stairwells, one on the left and one on the right. He can't help but marvel at the place—rich mahogany woods, gold and crystal light fixtures. Paintings of old Korean men adorn the walls, and various sculptures and ceremonial vases accent different areas. This is the home of a man with an enormous amount of money.

"What about your mother?" Hoseok finds himself asking. 

There is a pause before Yoongi responds, "Buried in the family plot. She won't bother you."

Oh. 

Hoseok takes a deep inhale and makes his way to the staircase on the right. Although The Boss ordered an entire team of armed men to wait outside just in case, Hoseok feels an overwhelming sense of trepidation wash over him as he slowly makes his way through the large home. He half expects the place to be boobytrapped, waiting for a painting's mouth to open and shoot a poison dart into his neck. 

At the top of the stairs, Hoseok turns right and walks down a long corridor to the furthest door on the right. More paintings and fancy sconces line the walls, and Hoseok can't help but wonder if Yoongi's childhood room is here somewhere, studying each door he passes. 

"It's on the other side," Yoongi says, surprising Hoseok. "Up the left staircase."

"Was I thinking that loudly?" Hoseok wonders, cringing inwardly.

"Nah," Yoongi responds, and Hoseok thinks he may hear a chuckle. "I could just tell you were thinking it."

Hoseok considers dwelling on what Yoongi says but reaches the door he is looking for and decides it is something he will have to unpack later. 

"111354," Yoongi says, and Hoseok types the code into the keypad and hears the lock click open. "Enter slowly with a hand on your weapon, just in case."

There is that just in case again, and Hoseok's heart pounds. He already has Yoongi's hand hovering over the Glock on his hip, but he welcomes the warning. With the toe of Yoongi's shoe, Hoseok pushes the door open slowly and hangs back in the doorway, then glances around the room, tightening his grip on the handle of the gun as he takes a step forward. 

"It's empty," Yoongi says, and Hoseok locks his eyes on the computer to the left. Hoseok makes his way over, pulls a thumb drive from his pocket and takes a seat.

Hoseok can't bite back the smile that tugs on Yoongi's lips when he takes a step into the bedroom. He had gotten all the information they needed from Min’s computer and installed tracking software, and Hoseok decided to reward himself by indulging in a little snooping. 

The room has been abandoned, and there is a layer of dust on everything, but sunlight sneaks through the sides of the drawn curtains, giving everything a golden glow. Posters of punk musicians, rappers and basketball stars cover the walls, and on the abandoned desk, a stack of photographs sits.

"You had mint hair," Hoseok thinks, lifting a photo of Yoongi in a leather jacket and white band tee with hoop earrings in each ear and light green hair falling over his forehead. 

"I did," is all Yoongi thinks in response. 

Hoseok sets that photo down and picks up another and feels Yoongi's heart beat heavy in his chest. "Wow," is all he can mutter as he studies the photo of Yoongi with dark hair curled on one side and crimped on the other. He wears a multi-colored bomber jacked and has dangly silver earrings in each ear. Hoseok is certain he has never seen anyone so beautiful in his life. 

"Alright, that's enough," Yoongi grumbles in Hoseok's mind, but Hoseok continues to stare at the photo. 

"Hyung, you're so fucking pretty," Hoseok says aloud, under his breath.

"You're lucky your husband stepped out; might make him jealous," Yoongi responds.

Hoseok had forgotten about Namjoon. But then again, Namjoon was so anxious he left the room as soon as Hoseok approached the compound. Yoongi said he went into the bedroom with Jeongguk to watch television. Reluctantly, Hoseok decides he should probably get out of there and return to his body.

The Boss is at the hospital suite when Hoseok returns, and she wears a long black dress with a subtle floral pattern that covers her from neck to wrists to ankles. She has a chair pulled up to the foot of the hospital bed, and Hoseok and Jeongguk sit on the bed next to Yoongi, who is still in Hoseok's body, in the hospital bed. Jeongguk still won't look at Hoseok or Yoongi at the moment, but at least he is present. Namjoon is in the bedroom.

"Excellent work, you two," The Boss says, looking between Hoseok and Yoongi. "It's a shame we didn't get this information sooner." Hoseok hears Jeongguk let out a deep sigh and considers consoling him, but now is not the time. 

"Seems they had a hunch we were tracking the Jeon computer from the start and did all of their correspondences through Min. The shipment should still be in Busan; the men were given direct orders not to put the drugs on the streets in the event that the old men were arrested. It seems your fathers anticipated already being let out on bail."

The Boss looks through her report and clears her throat. "The exact location is still unknown, and must have been communicated another way so we will have to do some digging, but as long as this information is also not a decoy, the good news is that we have some time. The agency is going through their cellphones to see what they can find. In the meantime, Hoseok-ssi can focus on his recovery, and the two of you can start to brainstorm. We need to find this dock."

And with that, The Boss gets up, moves the chair back to where she found it against the wall nearest the hospital bed, and leaves. Jeongguk gets up and walks out behind her, muttering that he is going to go for a drive and that he will be back later, and Hoseok lays in the bed and rolls toward Yoongi, letting his eyes drift over his own pale, sunken face. 

Yoongi smiles, tugging Hoseok's heart-shaped lips into something soft that touches his eyes. "Nice work, Hoba," he mutters. 

Hoseok wishes he could gaze back at Yoongi and see Yoongi, not himself. But he doesn't want to jump back into his broken body, either, and he frowns at the injustice of it all. 

"You should go into the bedroom and fuck Namjoon," Yoongi suggests, and Hoseok's focus snaps back to his own face, finding his lips tugged into a smirk.

Namjoon, Hoseok thinks, that's right. Namjoon is still here.

"Yeah?" Hoseok responds, feeling arousal pool in Yoongi's body.

Yoongi raises Hoseok's eyebrows with a smirk and says, "Yes."

Hoseok sits up and shimmies to the end of the bed, standing a little too quickly and feeling the blood rush to Yoongi's head. He definitely wants to fuck Namjoon, and he is curious about how it would feel in Yoongi's body.

"Actually," Yoongi says, and Hoseok turns to him once more. "You should fuck Namjoon out here. I want to watch."

"Namjoonah," Hoseok calls, standing at the foot of the bed. 

Namjoon opens the bedroom door a moment later and sticks his head out with a wide smile. "Hey guys!"

"Come here, baby boy," Hoseok says with a smirk. He lifts Yoongi's pretty hands and begins to loosen his tie. "I missed you; I want to make you feel good. Is that something you want?"

Namjoon steps out of the room and stands up straight. He is shirtless, just wearing dark blue basketball shorts, and Hoseok wants him so fucking bad. Namjoon's eyes trail between Hoseok and Yoongi, and with a shy smile, he says, "Are you Yoongi-hyung or Seok?"

Hoseok can't bite back the devious grin that Yoongi's lips pull into. "What if we kept that a secret? Would that be exciting for you, baby?"

Namjoon's face looks torn between worry and desire, and Hoseok begins to walk across the room, still loosening his tie with his eyes on Namjoon, tonguing the inside of Yoongi's mouth the way Yoongi would. Hoseok pulls the loose tie from around his neck and takes it in both hands, reaching up to wrap it around Namjoon's neck and pull him close. 

"What do you say, big boy?" Hoseok asks in Yoongi's deep, raspy voice.

"Yes, daddy," Namjoon whimpers, looking past Hoseok to Hoseok's body and back at him again. 

"On the bed, baby," Hoseok instructs, letting go of the tie, and Namjoon straightens out and nods his head weakly, then steps around Hoseok to approach the bed. 

"On the bedside table in the bedroom," Yoongi tells Hoseok via mind link, and Hoseok tilts his head to the side, finding a bottle of lube sitting right where Yoongi said it would be. 

"Can I have a kiss, baby?" Hoseok hears his voice ask as he enters the room, and he turns to find Namjoon leaning over Yoongi, gently pulling him into a soft kiss, then he turns back to the task at hand and crosses the room for that bottle of lube.

"Wait, will a nurse be visiting soon? Should we put a sign on the door?" Hoseok wonders.

"She came right before you returned, but maybe put the do not disturb sign out anyway? We have one of those, right?"

Hoseok chuckles to himself. He wonders if they do actually have one of those; this is not exactly a hotel. 

"I'll just call the nurse's station and ask not to be disturbed," He thinks.

As Hoseok returns to the main room with the bottle of lube in his hand, he finds Yoongi already on the phone while Namjoon has the hospital gown hiked up and is slowly stroking his—Hoseok's—cock.

"H-hi, yes, this is Jung Hoseok in room 709. I was hoping for some privacy for today, until the next medication run if," Yoongi hisses and squeezes Hoseok’s eyes closed, "i-if possible. No visitors, especially." There is a pause, and Hoseok watches Namjoon squeeze over the tip of his cock while his eyes trail across the room to find him. "Th-thank you," Yoongi stammers in Hoseok's voice and drops the phone. 

"Missed your cock, daddy," Namjoon whines, but he is looking at Hoseok. 

"How's the pain? Are you good?" Hoseok asks Yoongi.

"Manageable if I don't move too much; having your cock touched is great."

"How did you get my dick out before I managed to?" Hoseok can't help but ask. The pain has been so intense, getting off has been the least of his concerns. 

"Not my first gunshot wound recovery, Hoba," Yoongi's voice thinks back, and it stops Hoseok in his tracks. The thought of Yoongi bedridden with a gunshot wound terrifies and saddens him. Hoseok suddenly wishes he could have been there to help him. 

"Something the matter?" Namjoon asks, hand still on Hoseok's dick, with his eyes wide with concern.

Hoseok smiles and shakes Yoongi's head. "Everything is fine, baby boy. Keep up the good work."

Namjoon blushes, and he turns his attention back to Yoongi, who says, "What do you say, baby boy?" Namjoon's cheeks blush an even deeper shade of pink as he looks back at Hoseok and mutters, "Yes, daddy."

With the hospital bed pushed against the normal bed, there is hardly a gap between them, and although the hospital bed has wheels, it also has breaks, which Hoseok walks around to check, pressing his foot down on them and attempting to pull the bed, which does not budge. To his knowledge, the breaks have never been lifted since their arrival, but he likes to be certain. 

"I want you to keep stroking his cock while I prep you," Hoseok instructs, walking around to the bed. He tosses the bottle of lube down near Namjoon and begins to unbutton Yoongi's black dress shirt. "Can you do that for me, baby boy?" 

"Yes, daddy."

"That cock hasn't gotten attention in a little while, so take it nice and slow, baby. Be gentle with it."

"You son of a bitch," Yoongi thinks, and Hoseok smirks. 

"Yes, daddy."

Hoseok removes the button-up shirt to find Yoongi's chest bare. He fights the urge to stare down at Yoongi's torso, not wanting to give away to Namjoon who is in whose body. Namjoon gently strokes Hoseok's cock while watching Hoseok undress Yoongi's body, eyes following those nimble fingers Hoseok loves so much as they begin to undo the fly of the slacks.

As he pulls down Yoongi's pants, Hoseok does his best not to react when he reveals the smallest briefs he has ever worn. They are bright blue and hug Yoongi's body so tight, Hoseok fights the urge to stare at the erection tenting them. 

Earlier, when Hoseok returned from Yoongi's father's home, he went into the bathroom to piss and had to hold back laughter when he undid Yoongi's pants to find these, and now that he is getting a better look at Yoongi's pale legs sticking out from them, he holds back a lot more than laughter.

"Hyung is so sexy," Namjoon whines, and Hoseok looks up to find Namjoon eyeing him up. 

"Suck it, Hoba," Yoongi thinks.

"Complimenting hyung with your husband's cock in your hand?" Hoseok teases with a tsk. 

Namjoon grins and bites his lip, pouting between Hoseok and Yoongi. "My husband knows I'm obsessed with him."

"Suck it, Yoon," Hoseok responds.

Hoseok watches Yoongi widen his eyes, and he wonders if it is from the new nickname. They smirk at one another, and Hoseok approaches the bed, stepping out of the slacks and keeping Yoongi's tight little blue briefs on. 

"Gonna need to see you in these briefs as soon as possible," Hoseok thinks as he crawls onto the bed, onto his knees. 

"You like those, baby?"

Hoseok climbs behind Namjoon and rubs over his hips, looking over Namjoon's shoulders at himself. "I like these on you, daddy."

And Hoseok knows it is fucked up. He knows that he should not be looking over his husband's shoulders to stare into his own face, behind which is the consciousness of another man. He knows he should not place his hands on his husband's hips while speaking to another man in some scientific version of fucking telepathy, singling his husband out entirely. 

He knows this. But he cannot take his eyes off himself because he knows that inside that body of his, is Min Yoongi.

Hoseok wastes no time snaking Yoongi's fingers under Namjoon's hems and yanking his basketball shorts and the briefs. Namjoon lets out a soft gasp and tries to look over his shoulder, and Hoseok lifts an eyebrow at him while reaching for the bottle of lube.

"Not wasting any time with you, baby boy," Hoseok mutters in Yoongi's deep register. "It's been too fucking long."

Hoseok lubes up two of Yoongi's fingers and touches them to Namjoon's puckered rim without bothering to warm the fluid, and Namjoon whimpers, sucking in air as he says, "But it's been less than a week."

"For this pretty little hole, baby?" Hoseok says, dipping Yoongi's middle finger slowly inside. Namjoon hisses, and his legs tremble. "A week is far too fucking long."

Hoseok knows Namjoon's limits, but Yoongi's fingers are much thicker, and his knuckles are even thicker yet, so he takes it a little slower than usual, twisting Yoongi's middle finger as he works his way up to the knuckle. Namjoon whimpers and pants, making the sweetest sounds.

"A little faster baby," Hoseok hears his own voice say, sounding slightly fucked out. 

Hoseok sits high on his knees to see Yoongi with Hoseok's head resting against the back of the hospital bed—in its typical somewhat seated position—with his eyes closed and mouth hanging open. Hoseok pictures what Yoongi would look like in that position in his own body.

"L-like this, daddy," Namjoon whines, and Yoongi hums in response. 

Hoseok presses the first thick knuckle past Namjoon's rim, and Namjoon moans and leans forward from the sensation. "Too much, baby?" Hoseok groans.

Even from behind Namjoon, Hoseok can tell he is frantically shaking his head. 

"No," Namjoon whimpers, "S-so good. Need more."

"He likes your fingers," Hoseok thinks.

"And you?" Yoongi responds. "Do you like my fingers?"

"You know I love your fingers."

"Fuck," Yoongi mutters aloud. "God damn, you drive me crazy. So fucking sexy."

Hoseok presses a second thick, pale finger into Namjoon's ass and moans in tandem with him. It is true that he loves these fingers, and he feels practically hypnotized watching them squelch into Namjoon's ass and back out, smitten by the sounds Namjoon makes.

It doesn't take long to stretch Namjoon. By the time Hoseok is scissoring three of Yoongi's fingers, Namjoon is trembling so hard, he has one arm wrapped around Namjoon's thighs to hold him in place. Hoseok sits high on Yoongi's knees and pulls the tiny blue briefs down over Yoongi's cock, and stares down at it, losing track of all time and space. 

Yoongi's cock, leaking beads of precum that Hoseok wishes he could bend forward and taste. So thick, so long, and so, so pretty.

"Gonna fuck you, baby boy," Hoseok groans, taking Yoongi's cock in one hand and giving the head a squeeze. "You ready for me?"

"Please, daddy," Namjoon whimpers.

"Can you handle more?" Hoseok asks Yoongi.

"I want his mouth so bad, Hoba!"

Even via mind link, Yoongi sounds desperate, and it makes Hoseok chuckle softly. 

"Can you suck that pretty cock for me, baby boy?" Hoseok asks.

Namjoon scoots forward slightly and leans down. Judging by the pitchy, nasally sound that comes from Hoseok's mouth, Hoseok assumes his cock is now between Namjoon's lips. Slowly, Hoseok pulls Yoongi's fingers from Namjoon's ass, listening to Namjoon whimper low, muffled sounds around his—Hoseok's—cock. 

Hoseok squirts lube onto Yoongi's cock, hissing from how cold it feels, and slicks it up. Yoongi's cock is a bit thicker than Hoseok's, and he is generous with the amount, just in case his husband is not anticipating the girth. It dawns on Hoseok that Yoongi and Namjoon have already fucked, and Hoseok freezes, hand mid-stroke, as a myriad of images and emotions flow through him. 

Then, as if nothing has happened, Hoseok lines Yoongi’s cock up with Namjoon's rim, teasing the puckered skin with the tip. Namjoon moans more sweet, low, muffled sounds as Hoseok gently presses the head of Yoongi's cock into him. The feeling of Namjoon's tight rim nearly knocks the air from Hoseok, and he has to stop and take a breath before pressing forward more. 

Hoseok squeezes Yoongi's eyes shut and tries again, and as he pushes beyond the tip, Yoongi's entire body feels as if it may be ignited by thousands of tiny explosions. Since when has sex felt so good?

"Holy fuck, hyung," Hoseok thinks. "Are you really fucking sensitive?"

"Ah, you've never used a cock while jumped, have you?"

Hoseok pushes Yoongi's cock all the way into Namjoon's tight fucking hole, squeezing his hips tightly with Yoongi's fingers. He hadn't realized he had lolled Yoongi's head completely back, and he opens Yoongi's eyes to find himself looking at the ceiling."

"You feel what the body feels. I guess Jeongguk's pussy feels brand new to you regardless, so you wouldn't have known. But yeah, I'm super fucking sensitive. Don't expect to last long."

"Holy fuck," Hoseok whines, pulling Yoongi's cock out. "Holy fuck!"

Namjoon releases Hoseok's cock with a loud pop and croaks in a raspy voice, "Do you like m-my asshole, daddy?"

"Yes, I do," Hoseok whimpers in response. "So tight, baby."

Against his better judgment, Hoseok snaps Yoongi's hips forward, driving Yoongi's cock in deep. Both he and Namjoon groan loudly; the pleasure feels so amazing, so overwhelming, Hoseok is already on the verge of gasping for air.  

Hoseok sets a pace, fucking his husband nice and hard, but nowhere near as hard as he normally does. He cannot wrap his head around how Yoongi fucks the way he does with a cock this sensitive. He wonders if that is why Yoongi is such a deviant when it comes to his dick. 

"Now that I know you're so sensitive I'm going to overstimulate you until you fucking cry, hyung," Hoseok finds himself thinking. 

Yoongi's only response is to moan loudly. By the sound of his quickened breath and high-pitched whines, he surmises that Yoongi must be ready to come. 

"Be a good boy and swallow his come," Hoseok commands. 

Namjoon whimpers something muffled in response, and Hoseok decides that he wouldn't mind making everyone finish at the same time, so he reaches around Namjoon's hip, grabs ahold of his cock, and begins to stroke, collecting the precum from his tip.

This, of course, makes Namjoon squeeze the fuck out of Yoongi's cock, and everyone moans in tandem as Hoseok sees stars. He is definitely not going to last. 

"Come for me, baby boy," Hoseok commands as he strokes Namjoon's cock while picking up his pace. 

Yoongi comes, throwing Hoseok's head back against the hospital bed. He also winces and hisses, and Hoseok wonders if he is in any pain. He hopes that if he is, the pleasure is greater. 

Next is Namjoon. He is still muffled on Hoseok's cock—must be swallowing his come—when he moans and trembles so hard, Hoseok worries he might just fucking explode. Come squirts out over Yoongi's hand, and Hoseok does his best to collect it rather than let it drip on the bed as he continues to stroke his husband to completion. 

And it does not take long until it is Hoseok's turn. Namjoon's ass drains the life out of Yoongi's poor, thick, sensitive cock and Hoseok drops Namjoon's dick, not wanting to grip it too hard as orgasm rushes and rocks through him with a force he has never felt before. Hoseok thinks perhaps Yoongi's heart stops for a split moment as he stills and finds it impossible to inhale or exhale. 

Hoseok curses under Yoongi's breath, praising Namjoon while speaking absolute fucking gibberish. Once the high finally subsides and Yoongi's body stops shaking so hard, Hoseok pulls Yoongi's cock from Namjoon and falls back on Yoongi's ass, leaning with his clean hand against the mattress.

"Holy fucking shit," Hoseok pants, staring at the wall with wide eyes. "I've never come so hard in my fucking life," he thinks. 

"I'll change that for you," Yoongi responds. "I can make you so overstimulated it'll feel better than that, baby."

The vines that snake around his ribs squeeze tight, tight, tight, and Hoseok thinks, "I cannot fucking wait."

Namjoon leans forward, ass in the air and head against the bed, and Hoseok massages up and down Namjoon's hips and ass. "You were so good for us, baby boy," he praises, still attempting to measure his breathing. 

It dawns on Hoseok that Yoongi's hand is still covered in Namjoon's come, and he holds it up to his lips, licking what is left of the sticky, sweet release from Yoongi's pretty fingers. 

"I want a taste," Yoongi whines in Hoseok's poutiest voice and Hoseok chuckles and hobbles off the bed on shaky legs. He makes his way to Yoongi, tucking Yoongi's cock back into his tiny blue briefs, and holds the sticky hand out for him. 

Yoongi holds stern eye contact as he licks the come off his own fingers, and although it feels surreal to be looked at like that by his own face, Hoseok can sense Yoongi behind that gaze. He cannot look away.

Once Yoongi's fingers are licked clean, Hoseok makes his way to the bathroom to wash Yoongi's hands and grab a damp towel for Namjoon. He returns to find Namjoon on his side, sideways on the bed, smiling like an idiot. Hoseok wipes Namjoon down, then goes into Yoongi and Jeongguk's room to find something comfortable for Yoongi to wear. 

Their closet is hilariously all black and dark grey, and Hoseok grabs a loose tee and pair of joggers, sliding Yoongi's limbs into each garment and inhaling the scent of the room that is woody, musky, and sweet, and perfectly Yoongi and Jeongguk. He walks back into the main room to find Namjoon lying the proper way with his shorts back on, and he climbs into bed between him and Yoongi. They need to jump back into their own bodies, but they need Jeongguk to oversee it; Namjoon wouldn't have any idea what to do. 

"How's the pain?" Hoseok asks.

"Manageable," Yoongi responds, but he speaks through gritted teeth, and Hoseok can tell he is lying. 

"Bullshit," Hoseok mutters as he reaches for a heating pad that hangs over the foot of the bed and switches it on. He hands it to Yoongi. "Try this."

They lay and watch half an episode of some older drama before the door opens, and Jeongguk wanders in. He gives a weak wave and begins to walk toward his room. 

"Wait, Jeonggukah," Yoongi says, stopping Jeongguk in his tracks. He still will not look at Hoseok's body, and he turns with his eyes trained on the floor. "Can you jump us back?"

Jeongguk’s eyes meet Yoongi's, then Hoseok's quickly, and he blinks rapidly then nods. "Y-yeah. Hoseok, the other side is in here."

Beside Hoseok, Namjoon sits up with wide, confused eyes. "I thought you were fucking with me," he mutters, and Hoseok searches his face; is he upset?

"Wh—wait, really?"

Namjoon knits his brows, and he looks sad. Hoseok clears Yoongi's throat and says, "We'll talk about it in a moment," as he slides off the bed. 

One of the receivers is on the floor behind the hospital bed, and Hoseok walks around and picks it up while Yoongi lowers the bed to a fully lying position, wincing from pain as he is moved to a new angle.

"Take it slow," Hoseok mutters, watching with concern as discomfort paints his features.

Once Yoongi is fully lying, Hoseok positions the receiver on the pillow behind his head, pulls the stopper from the top of his head, and plugs Yoongi in. 

"I'll see you on the other side, hyung," Hoseok says as he leans in and kisses his forehead. 

Yoongi hums in response with closed eyes, and Hoseok turns to walk into the bedroom. He glances over to find Namjoon staring at him with a shocked expression. Namjoon closes his mouth and looks down at the bed before him when their eyes meet, and Hoseok continues walking into the bedroom. 

Jeongguk stands with his arms crossed, facing the wall, and Hoseok lies on the bed, uncorks Yoongi's receptor, and plugs the receiver in, himself. At least Jeongguk had the courtesy of picking it up off the floor for him.

"Ready?" Jeongguk mutters.

"Ready when you are," Hoseok rasps back in Yoongi's deep voice.

"Cool," Jeongguk says. "Jumping in 3..."

"Safe travels, pretty," Hoseok thinks. 

"2..."

"You too, Hoba."

"1."

A pop followed by a buzz is heard, and everything goes black. Hoseok feels suspended in space before he jolts awake and immense pain shoots through his side. He has the urge to sit up and curl in on himself, but he is stuck, so he lies writhing and shouting. 

Footsteps quickly approach, fingers unplug him, and Hoseok sits up, gripping onto his side and yanking the IV pole with another deep yell. He is embarrassed, but he can't help it; the pain is so sharp and so hot, the sound shoots through him before he can stop himself. 

"Hoba, are you alright?" Yoongi asks, and Hoseok feels his arms wrap around him. 

Hoseok tries but fails to wrap his mind around the fact that Yoongi is the one who came to him. Yoongi, who also experienced a jump, and who was also hooked up to a machine, is the one who ran to Hoseok's aid. Not Jeongguk, who knows how to unplug someone safely—although there is really nothing to it. And not his husband, who is literally sitting three feet to his right. Yoongi.

Hoseok opens his eyes and turns his head to find Namjoon staring off to the side, avoiding his gaze. Straight ahead, Jeongguk stands in the bedroom with his head turned toward the wall. 

All Hoseok can think to mutter is, "What the fuck," as Yoongi rubs his back and holds him tighter. "What the fuck."

tag list: @btsstan12​​, @dasexydevitt13​, @giriiboyy​, @moonleeai​​ ✨ comment or dm to be added to the tag list!

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#hoseok smut #namjoon smut #yoongi smut #jungkook smut #bts smut #bts poly #yoonkook #yoonkook smut #namseok #namseok smut #hoseok x namjoon x yoongi x jungkook #fic: dollhouse

[rainbowlack]

Hilson Fic Prompt: "Body Shots"

5–6 chapters.

Each chapter explores a different type of body shot:

Chucking something with the full force of one's body. This is when House and Wilson first meet, when a struggling Wilson breaks a stained glass mirror, gets arrested, and bailed out.

Drinking small alcohol beverages off of someone's torso. In which it is Wilson's bachelor party for his second marriage. House hires a male stripper to fuck with Wilson, and bets $30 that Wilson won't do body shots off oh him. Wilson, of course, takes the bet, so that he can fuck with House. However, with each shot, it gets more difficult not to imagine this lean, stubbled stripper as Wilson's (for lack of a better word) best friend. House, of course, had already betted $30 with every other attendee that Wilson would do body shots off of a male stripper.

Pictures of one's body. House has just had his infarction; here Wilson sees him at his most vulnerable, sees his raw beauty, and that very image, of what could be, of love itself—that image is what haunts and has haunted James Wilson since the meeting in New Orleans.

Gunshots. In which House's blood stains his office carpet, and Wilson must face the truth; they will both die some day, and he can't live another day without having known what it felt like—the sensations of loving Gregory House.

And then, two endings. Doing either or both would work:

Medical infusion. In which Wilson is getting chemo, at his most vulnerable, where Gregory House sees him at his rawest, and must face the same truth Wilson did.

Bodily fluids. They fuck.

#feel free to (aka PLEASE) use this prompt—just credit my idea and share the work with me C: #i wanna write this one day but i don't really have the energy or concentration to do so #self post #hilson #house x wilson #house md #james wilson #gregory house #highposting #storays

[pedrito-friskito]

I also would love a 🍑 for Matt thanks very much ✌️

you want spicy OH I GOT SPICY. this ran away from me a little bit but I ain’t mad about it 👀

I put this one in the kitten and the devil universe (you don’t really need to have read it to get it but I’m not gonna tell you what to do 😉)

what kind of man - matt murdock x fem!reader

warnings: SMUT. face-sitting/riding, oral (m and f receiving), dirty talk, I have zero regrets absolutely none

“Are you out of your mind?”

Matt gives you a lopsided grin, tilting his head deeper into his pillow as his hands skim higher up your thighs. You’re wearing his t-shirt, and his fingers move deftly beneath the hem, curling around your hip and rubbing your skin. “C’mon, kitten,” he says, voice low, rumbling through his scarred chest, “it’ll be fun.”

“Oh, I have no doubt it will be fun,” you reply, lifting a brow at the way his cock jumps beneath you. You’re only just out of the shower, only his t-shirt pulled over your head before he’d pulled on your hand and all but yanked you into his lap. “I’m more concerned for your safety.”

His smile just widens, and Matt moves — albeit slowly — to sit up, his hands skimming higher up your back, so big his fingers nearly touch along your spine.

“You shouldn’t be,” he chuckles, dropping one hand back to your thigh. His thumb runs the edge of the scar there, the gunshot from before Midland Circle, from before he…He presses into your flesh, dragging up, towards your core, and it makes your back arch, a quiet whine falling out of you. You see him pick up on the noise, head tilting to the side, mouth curving into a devilish grin. “A sweet kitten licked all my wounds, I’m a brand new man.”

You roll your eyes, reaching down to curl your fingers around his wrist, rubbing across the prominent veins beneath his skin. “You’re lucky we live in an almost sketchy neighbourhood,” you sigh, eyes dropping shut at the feeling of his thighs tightening beneath you. “Our garbage only just stopped looking like a crime scene.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the one picking up the slack,” Matt whispers back, leaning forward to press his face into your chest, nose pushing into your sternum. He’s right; since you’d found him half dead on the dock, you’re territory has basically doubled, and without your better half taking care of his side of the Kitchen, the crime and subsequent punishment has gotten to an almost alarming level.

But Matt had been literally on the brink of death when you found him. You were lucky Foggy had been forward-thinking and called Claire as soon as you called him. The last few weeks have involved double the nightly patrols, more bandage changes than you could imagine, and kissing Matt senseless any chance you get. With his injuries, you were cautious as hell, no matter how much you wanted him, but you also needed him to know how much you had missed him, how broken you’d felt without him, how glad you were to have him back.

Your other hand lifts to his head, tangling in his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. “You take such good care of me,” he continues, teeth nipping at the fabric covering your chest. “Just let me repay the favour, okay?”

You sigh. “Fine, but I swear to god, if anything hurts, you tell me and we stop, you understand?” you say, poking a finger in the centre of his chest. “I mean it, Matthew.”

“Would you just shut up and sit on my face, please?” he asks, and the tone in his voice sends a thrill through you, only made more intense by the way he curls both hands around your thighs and pulls you up towards his head.

There’s a bit of awkward shuffling; it takes you a moment to decide where to put your hands before settling on the headboard, fingers curled into the wood. Matt shifts his shoulders down the bed, palms rubbing at the backs of your thighs. His hair tickles your skin, and you sigh when he mouths along the sensitive skin between your legs. His fingers curl around your thighs, knuckles against the swell of your ass,  and you feel his jaw lift, stubble scraping before his tongue seeks out where you’re the warmest. 

He knows exactly how to work you, squeezing your ass as the very tip of his tongue dips into your entrance. You’re on fire in an instant, fingers digging into the headboard so hard you’ll be shocked if there aren’t marks left behind. You chance a look down, chin dropping to your chest just in time to see his eyes roll back, mouth curling into a grin as he drags his nose up your thigh. Your knees are shaking and you unhook one hand from the headboard to drop it into his hair, locking your knuckles in the strands. 

Matt laughs into your skin. “I said sit, kitten,” he chides, hands kneading your ass. “Not hover.”

“Matthew,” you start, but before you can get another word out, his hand smacks against your asscheek, the sound echoing through the room. You hiss, groaning when he starts to massage the spot before moving both hands to your hips. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

He pushes his head back so you can see his entire face, his already pussy-drunk expression making everything in you clench. “You can’t hurt me, kitten,” he whispers, the words thick and heavy as they reach your ears. “It’s not possible.”

Before your mind can even finish comprehending what he’s saying, repeating the words you’d said to him what feels like eons ago, his hands curl around your hips, his grip tight but not enough to hurt, and he yanks you downward.

Matt moans into you when your pussy covers his mouth, nose pressed to your clit, tongue flattening and laving at your wetness. You moan loudly, unable to stop the drag of your hips across his face, chasing the feeling, the way his own noises vibrate through your entire body. Your thighs go tight around his head, pulling at his hair until his shoulders almost rise off the bed. He’s using you as an anchor, pushing his body into yours as much as he’s pulling you into his.

“Fuck.”

It evolves into a string of curses, Matt’s name interspersed between rolls of your hips and sparks of pleasure through your limbs. He’s guiding you, directing you to use him just how he wants, angling your hips in the right way, dropping his jaw when he needs to, lifting his tongue at just the right moment. It just climbs higher and higher, your breath hitching in your chest. 

One hand drops, skimming down the back of your thigh while the other moves around, forearm settling into the cleft of your ass while his palm splays against the small of your back. You’re moving on your own now, back and forth across his jaw, babbling as that familiar coil in the dead of your stomach grows tighter and tighter, making every muscle in you taut beneath your skin. It makes Matt groan into the very depths of you, and when his noise turns familiar, you turn your head, looking over your shoulder, jaw dropping further at what you see.

He’s got his hand wrapped around his cock, stroking himself, harder than you’ve ever seen him. His tip is leaking, precum sliding between his fingers, only making it easier for him to pleasure himself while you use his face to chase your own high.

And seeing what he’s doing, seeing just how hot it makes him to have your pussy basically smothering him, that’s what gets you.

You cum with a hoarse groan, the noise scratching out of your throat as your chest caves, arching forward until your forehead rests against the headboard. Matt keeps moaning, letting go of himself long enough to reach his hand between your legs, dragging his fingers through your release, coating his hand with your wetness before reaching for his weeping cock once more.

Shuffling backward slightly, you loosen the hold your thighs have on his head, sinking down until your ass meets his chest, feeling the stuttered breaths that fall out of him as he keeps jerking his cock. His hair is a mess, sticking up in all directions from your hand being fisted at his crown and the friction between your legs. You take his face in your hands, thumbs swiping his damp cheeks, moving one hand lower to thumb at his lower lip. He rises into your touch, closing his lips around the tip of your thumb, sucking it into his mouth. You’re still tingling from your own orgasm, and that makes your whole body clench again, your stream of consciousness turning audible.

“Fuck, you look so pretty, Matty,” you murmur, carding a hand through his hair. He keens into your touch, twisting his head to get closer to you, eyes fluttering as he does it. “That felt so good, sitting on your handsome face like that.” He moans, and you glance back to see his knuckles go white around his cock, hips lifting into his own grip. “You really wanted me to, huh, baby?”

Matt nods with another moan, eyes rolling back in his head, and you can’t help yourself, lifting your leg over so you can slide down his side, positioning yourself between his legs, your gaze glued to the way he’s working himself. He’s almost methodical with it, curling his hand over the tip with every pass. 

“Fuck,” he groans, his voice hoarser than yours, “I’m gonna—” The sentence chokes off, something between a gasp and a breath passing his lips.

You can see it, the orgasm working through his body like an electric current, making his toes curl, the hand not curled around his cock fisting the bedsheets. His shoulders arch into the mattress, head tipping back, and right as he starts to cum, you lower your head, parting your lips and letting his pulsing cock slide into your mouth.

“Kitten,” he rasps, hand now wrapped around the base of his cock, giving you room to work, the other reaching for the back of your head, twisting in your hair. Your nickname is stuttered out, groaned so loud the syllables bounce off the walls. “Fuck, fuck, fuuuuuuuck.”

His cock twitches in your mouth, spurts of cum hitting the back of your throat as you sink down further, until your lips touch his fingers. You swallow down everything he gives, one hand curling around his thigh, raking your nails across his muscle. He only moans louder.

Once he’s recovered, once your breathing is matched to his, a steady in and out, you pull your mouth away, savouring in the small noise he makes as you do. He’s quick to reach for you, to grab your wrists and pull you onto his chest, nuzzling into you once you’re where he wants you, sprawled on his chest, legs slotting with his.

“Still think I’m out of my mind?” he whispers, the question pressed into your hair, coupled with the soft drag of his fingers along your arm.

You laugh, tilting your head back to kiss his jaw. “Next time you say sit on your face, Matty, I’ll listen, promise.”

He hums. “There’s a good kitten.”

—————

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[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

Words: 6,765 Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader Reader pronouns: she/her Era: Alexandria Warnings: Language, coerced marriage, gore, violence, sexuality, typical TWD stuff (recommended NC17+) A/N: This part is LONG! This is part of a series! Find the previous parts on the Masterlist! Summary: Safe in Hilltop, Daryl worries about Y/N and rushes her to the doctor.

Your name: submit What is this?

Daryl looked desperately at Maggie. You were completely limp in his arms, your head lolled toward his chest. “Where’s the doctor here?” he asked.

“This way.” Maggie, Sasha, and Enid hurriedly led the way to the medical trailer. Daryl glanced down at your face as he walked. You seemed to be breathing okay, but you were extremely pale.

Dr. Carson spun around as Daryl busted inside. He immediately dropped the papers in his hand and rushed over as Daryl rested you down as gently as he could on one of the beds. “What happened?”

Daryl shrugged. “Dunno. She just went pale and then she was out.”

Dr. Carson grabbed your wrist and felt for your pulse, keeping his eyes on the second hand of his watch. “Her pulse is a little elevated.” He looked at Daryl as well as the concerned faces of Maggie, Sasha, and Enid gathered around on the other side of your bed. He grabbed a blood pressure cuff and returned to your side.

Daryl’s expression was overwhelmed with concern. He brushed your hair off your face and anxiously chewed on his bottom lip.

“Do we have any guesses?” Dr. Carson asked, watching the dial on the cuff. He noticed that Daryl looked like he needed some treatment, too…

Daryl paused thoughtfully for a moment. “We just came from The Sanctuary,” he said darkly. “Escaped. If I had to guess, I’d say she ain’t been eatin’ or sleepin’.” He ran a hand back through his dirty hair. “And, uhh… she’s—probably some… some trauma. I dunno about injuries.” He realized that it was entirely possible you had lied to him about not being hurt. He shifted his weight anxiously, avoiding everyone’s eyes, and grabbed one of your hands gently in his. It felt small, fragile. You’d always seemed to be made of such strong stuff, Kevlar. This wasn’t right.

Dr. Carson nodded stoically. “Alright. Could be in shock. Why don’t the rest of you wait outside briefly? Enid, help me get her changed into a gown and checked over. We’ll hang an IV and get her hydrated, get some nutrients in her. Hopefully all she needs is rest.”

Daryl was hesitant to release your hand and stared at Enid and Dr. Carson as they rushed into action. Maggie noticed his unwillingness to leave and touched him gently on the arm. “Daryl. Come on. Let’s just wait outside a minute.” He shifted his weight back and forth, still staring down at your closed eyes and pale face. “Dr. Carson will take care of her. She’s gonna be just fine, but they need room to work. C’mon.”

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze and reluctantly rested it back down on your stomach, allowing Sasha and Maggie to lead him outside. When the trailer door closed behind him with a snap he flinched, and he immediately sunk down on the steps, hanging his head in his hands, elbows propped on his knees.

Sasha put a gentle hand on his shoulder. He tensed. “She’s gonna be fine, Daryl. Dr. Carson is really good. She probably just needs some fluids and rest.”

He showed no sign of having heard her. All he could think about was how this was his fault.

About fifteen agonizing minutes later, the creak of the trailer door behind him sent Daryl rocketing to his feet. He looked up to see Enid in the doorway. She stepped out as Sasha and Maggie, also waiting nearby, rose to their feet too.

“Her blood pressure and heart rate have stabilized but she’s still out. Dr. Carson says she’ll probably just wake up when her body is ready to.”

Daryl was pacing in front of the steps now, rubbing a hand over his mouth and the stubble on his face. “Is she, uhh—Did ya check her over? Is she—she hurt somehow?” he asked desperately.

Enid shook her head. “Nothing that we could see or detect. Everything looks fine. She’s probably just in shock and dehydrated.”

Maggie stepped forward as Daryl froze in place again, staring down at his boots. His face was dark. “Daryl—what happened? How’d you get out?”

His hands clenched into fists and he shut his eyes. He felt like he could be sick. “She, uhh—” There was a quiver in his voice. “She came there to get me out. She—before Alexandria—she was a prisoner there and, uhh—” He was having a hard time getting the words out through his emotion, his face screwing up and his jaw clenching. He looked up and met Sasha’s eyes. “She was one of his ‘wives’,” Daryl growled. “She did it to save her brother. But when I got taken, she went back.” He began pacing again, pressing a hand over his face. “She went back to him, to Negan. She went back in so she could get me out.”

That was all he could get out. He collapsed again on the steps and immediately began anxiously chewing his thumbnail again.

The gravity of what Daryl had just said was settling over Maggie, Sasha, and Enid. Maggie collapsed back against the planter behind her. “Oh my God,” she uttered. “I had no idea.”

Daryl shook his head and shrugged. “She didn’t tell anyone. She didn’t want anyone to know.”

Rage flashed in Sasha’s eyes. “That sick son of a bitch. Did he do something to her?” she asked Daryl.

Daryl shook his head, refusing to look at anyone, turmoil churning in his chest, guilt crushing him so much he felt like he couldn’t take in air. “Depends on what ya mean by ‘somethin’,” he growled.

“Oh my God,” Maggie said again, pressing a hand over her mouth.

Enid lightly touched Daryl’s shoulder. “Dr. Carson wants to look you over. At least the gunshot wound.”

“’M fine,” he barked back.

“Probably. But just let us check,” she said gently.

Daryl hesitated for a moment, but finally conceded and stood. “Fine. But I’m sittin’ right beside her ‘til she wakes up.” Enid nodded and Daryl followed her back into the trailer.

Outside, Maggie and Sasha exchanged another distraught look.

“I didn’t know. About her brother. About Negan—any of it,” Sasha said. “Did you?”

Maggie shook her head. “No. But she was always really private. Never talked about her past. I can see why. How do you even begin to explain somethin’ like that to someone?”

“Until she talked about The Saviors that day, here, I never—but even then she didn’t say—"

Maggie shook her head. “Goin’ back. To him. To that? Knowing what he’d done to our people. What he was capable of. I can’t imagine…”

Sasha nodded, wide-eyed. “Yeah… I mean, I knew she was a badass. I’ve fought walkers beside her but—” She shook her head again, her lips parting in disbelief.

“She did it for Daryl,” Maggie said quietly, smoothing a hand over her belly. _ _ _ _ _ _

Sometime later, Maggie went back over to the medical trailer to see how you were doing. When she got inside, Dr. Carson was taking inventory of the drugs in the cabinet and he nodded toward the far corner in response to her questioning look.

When she rounded the curtain divider, she saw Daryl sitting at your bedside, leaning forward in a chair, anxiously chewing his thumbnail. His gaze was fixated on your face, but his blue eyes seemed unfocused.

Maggie stepped forward and lightly rested a hand on your arm. “How is she?”

Daryl shook his head almost imperceptibly and shrugged.

“Has she woken up at all?” Maggie asked him.

He shook his head again and straightened up in his chair. “Nah. Not yet.”

Maggie took in the worn and exhausted look on Daryl’s face, the bruises, the layers of dirt on his skin. “You should go get cleaned up. I’ll sit with her. Enid can show you where you can stay.”

He shook his head, leaning forward onto the edge of your bed with his elbows. “Nah. I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

“She’ll be okay,” Maggie said, but knowing better than to try to persuade Daryl to leave. Nothing short of sheer force would have moved him. “Are you alright?”

He shrugged vaguely. “Doc says I’m okay.”

“Good. That’s good. But not exactly what I meant.” She waited, but he didn’t respond. “I’ll bring you some food.” She rested her hand gently on Daryl’s shoulder and felt him stiffen beneath her touch, but he hardly acknowledged it. Once Maggie had disappeared around the curtain, he reached out and grasped your hand in his again. It felt a little cold, and he rubbed it gently between his palms. And he waited.

_ _ _ _ _ _

Dr. Carson came to check on your vitals again around midnight and found Daryl slumped over on the edge of your bed, his head resting on his arms. He jumped awake the sound of the doctor’s footsteps.

“Sorry,” Dr. Carson said softly.

Daryl rubbed the sleep from his eyes and glanced at your face. He rested his hand on yours again. “How is she?” he asked, his voice a gruff rasp.

The doctor finished listening to your pulse and your lungs, and reached for the blood pressure cuff. “All her vitals are good,” he said. “She went through a traumatic experience?” he asked, a glance at Daryl’s expression.

His brow drew down low over his eyes and his face darkened. He nodded.

“Then her mind and body probably just need time to be turned off for a while. And if she wasn’t sleeping or eating, she needs to recover the things her body’s missing.” He checked the level of the IV drip bag. “That’s what this is for.”

“Ya didn’t find—anything physical? She wasn’t beat up or—?”

Dr. Carson shook his head. “No. Nothing like that. Nothing like what you went through.” He paused, but Daryl showed no sign that he was going to respond. “You went through trauma too. Physical and otherwise. You should also get some rest,” he said kindly. “I promise she’s in good hands here.”

Daryl nodded. “I know. I just—she’d be here for me. So. I’m gonna be here for her.”

_ _ _ _ _ _

Daryl awoke to the sound of tweeting birds outside the next morning and slowly lifted his head off his arms, which were resting on the edge of your bed. He rubbed at his tired eyes and glanced over at you. He shot upright, his chair clattering back and squeaking on the floor. Your eyes were open. He grabbed your hand and you gave it a squeeze.

“Y/N,” he said, leaning over you. “Doc!”

You looked tired and a little groggy but you were awake, looking up at him. Your lips curved in a small smile at his reaction on realizing you were awake.

“Why the hell didn’t ya wake me up?” he asked you, studying your expression.

“Because you need sleep,” you said softly.

He rolled his eyes. “You’re the one in the damn hospital bed and you’re tryin’ to take care of me still? Stop,” he drawled. Dr. Carson arrived at your side and grinned down at you. “Good to see you awake,” he said, putting his stethoscope in his ears and listening to your heart and lungs. “How are you feeling?”

Daryl was standing anxiously at your side, rocking on his feet.

“Tired,” you said softly. “And a bit confused.” You looked back over at Daryl. “What happened? I remember getting here and then—nothing.”

He nodded, his nose nudging up slightly. “Ya just passed out all of a sudden.”

You frowned. “Oh. How long was I out?”

“Overnight,” Dr. Carson replied, letting the pressure out of the blood pressure cuff. “BP is normal.” He took in the color in your cheeks. “You look better. But I’d like you to stay here today and overnight again, just in case. We’ll keep giving you some more fluids and you need to eat and rest,” he emphasized. He put a hand kindly on your shoulder. “You’ve been through a lot. Take it easy.”

You looked back over at Daryl. His expression was disturbed and you felt a lump forming in your throat. You tried to swallow it but it didn’t budge.

“Are ya alright?” Daryl asked you. “Really?

You turned your eyes back up toward the ceiling and flashes of Negan surged forward in your mind. You could almost feel his hands on you, feel his lips on you. You shut your eyes tight and shrugged. “I don’t know,” you said softly. “But I will be.” You glanced back over at him. “Have you been here this whole time?”

He nudged his nose up twice in a nod. “Ya. And I ain’t leavin’. So dun even try.” He pulled his chair back over to your bedside again and sat down.

You studied his face, the bruises still glaring out at you. “You should go get cleaned up. And I hope you’ve been eating and—”

“I ain’t goin’ anywhere until you’re gettin’ out of here.” He held up a dirty plate though. “I’ve been eatin’. Sasha and Maggie keep shovin’ food on me.”

You nodded and sighed, feeling suddenly tired again. “Good. But you should shower, get some clean clothes that fit better…”

“Hey—” he said forcefully, grabbing your hand. You looked down at it in surprise. “I ain’t leavin’ ya in here alone.”

Your eyes flitted between his. “I’m okay. You can take care of you.”

He sighed heavily and shook his head. “Nah. ‘M good.”

Not too long after that, you drifted off to sleep again.

_ _ _ _ _ _

Daryl kept true to his word and slept slumped over at your bedside again despite your continued protests, waking every once and a while and studying your face, the relaxed pout of your lips. By the time you awoke the next morning and Dr. Carson came by, you were more than ready to get out of the medical trailer.

“You’re sure she’s alright,” Daryl asked, walking with Dr. Carson toward the door. You were changing into some clean clothes Maggie had brought by behind the curtain in the corner.

Dr. Carson nodded. “She is. She just needs to take it easy a while. Lots of rest and water. And you too,” he said, giving Daryl a sharp look. “You know where to find me if there’s anything you need.”

Daryl looked hesitant but he nodded. “Thanks,” he said gruffly. He pushed outside and found Enid waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

“Hey. Maggie sent me to show you where you and Y/N can stay.”

Daryl nodded, shrugging his hands into his pockets. “She’s just changin’,” he said. Enid nodded and they both patiently waited. The trailer door creaked open and you came down the steps looking like you were almost back to your old self.

“Good to see you up,” Enid said kindly, smiling at you. Enid showed you to a trailer that was sparsely furnished, but there was a bathroom and a couch and a large bed in one corner, along with a dining area and a little kitchenette. “We had other plans for this trailer but I think it will be better suited for you two for now, while you’re here. Unless you wanted to stay up in Barrington house,” she said.

“This is perfect.” You turned back to Enid. “Thank you.”

She nodded and smiled. “Maggie, Sasha, and I are just in the trailer right next door. It’s actually Jesus’ but he’s out on a run. But in case you need anything, that’s usually where you can find us.” She headed for the door but turned back with her hand on the doorknob. “I’m really glad you’re both here. And that you’re okay.”

You gave her a warm smile before she went out. The door snapped closed behind her and you suddenly felt completely lost, like you didn’t even know what to do with yourself.

You realized Daryl was standing close in front of you and you looked up, your eyes following up his broad chest, and landed on his face. He must have been able to read something in your expression.

He felt a constriction in his throat as you met his eyes and he finally realized how scared he actually had been when you had passed out. “Ya scared me,” he rasped.

You looked down toward your boots. “Sorry. I don’t know what happened.”

“I do,” he said. “Ya were so worried about me ya weren’t taking care of you.” His hands closed gently around your shoulders and as you looked up at him, into his blue eyes, you finally went to pieces, suddenly overwhelmed with everything that had happened. Tears poured down your cheeks and your shoulders shook as you tried to gasp in breaths, wanting to pull yourself together but feeling helpless to in that moment.

Daryl’s chest ached. He quickly pulled you against him and held you tight, feeling each hitch of your shuddered breaths. He just held you while you cried, squeezing his eyes shut against a few tears of his own born of rage and sadness and regret. And eventually your breathing evened out and smoothed beneath his hands, and you pulled gently back and wiped the tear streaks from your cheeks, looking up at him. He simply nodded.

You crossed the room and sank down on the couch, staring vaguely at the opposite wall, pressing a hand up to your forehead, leaning forward with your elbows on your knees for a long moment.

Daryl just stood a short distance away, chewing on his bottom lip… wishing he could read your mind.

At length you sat up again after rubbing both your hands down over your face. “I’m okay,” you whispered, seeing that he was still intent on you, his eyes narrowed. “Really.” You tilted your head in the direction of the bathroom. “You should go get cleaned up. I’ll be right here,” you said.

“Ya sure?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

Daryl grabbed some clean clothes and went into the bathroom and shut the door quietly behind him. He stared at himself in the mirror for a long moment. It’d been so long since he’d seen himself. He sighed heavily and stripped off his clothes. He turned on the shower and stepped into the hot stream of water, gasping at the sensation of it pouring over his skin, leaning his head back and letting it run over his face, soaking his sore and bruised body. He hastily washed his hair and scrubbed all the built-up dirt and grime from his skin, wincing a little as his hands moved roughly over bruises on his ribs and back from his last beating.

At length, Daryl came out of the bathroom. His wet hair was sending drops of water down to pepper his shirt. He looked so much better, just having gotten the dirt and grime rinsed off his skin and out of his hair and you couldn’t help smiling at him.

“Better?” you asked.

“Mhm,” he hummed.

You were waiting on the couch with a first aid kit and beckoned him over with a nod. He licked his bottom lip and huffed a little but wandered over and sat down next to you. You grabbed some alcohol pads and took his hand, the one with the split knuckles and swelling, pulling it over onto your lap. You cleaned it up and put some ointment on his knuckles. The whole time you felt nervous with his hand in yours and Daryl was feeling an obnoxious flutter in his chest as your fingers floated over his skin. He couldn’t take his eyes off you.

“You should have had Dr. Carson look at this—make sure it isn’t broken,” you said, pausing with the bandage in your hand.

“Nah. S’fine,” Daryl said.

You gave him a knowing look. “It could be a boxer’s break,” you said, starting to wrap the bandage gently over his knuckles and around his palm. “Happens when you punch a hard surface. Like a wall,” you said quietly. Your words suggested you knew exactly how he had injured his hand, that night after he had been forced to see you on Negan’s lap.

Daryl gulped and avoided your eyes. “Ain’t broken.”

You nodded. “Okay. There. Done.” You looked up at his face and realized he truly looked exhausted. “You need real rest,” you said. “Not locked in a cell rest or slumped over at my bedside rest.”

“’M fine,” he said, getting up and going over to the table to grab some food from the basket Maggie had left for you both.

Your brow furrowed and you gave him a look.

“What?”

“No,” you repeated, shaking your head. “You’ve been sleeping, or not sleeping, on a hard floor as long as they had you. And you haven’t slept properly since we got here.”

He stared at you with narrowed eyes, getting ready to argue.

“Daryl. I’m fine. And we’re safe. You can rest.” It was like your permission was the last thing he needed. You watched his shoulders visibly slump. He conceded. “Alright…” He walked over to the bed and laid down carefully. You could tell he was in pain when he moved and your brow furrowed.

He adjusted the pillow under his head. “Well, what are ya gonna do?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe go fill in Maggie. Tell her what happened.”

A shadow darkened his face. “I told her a little. After you were, ya know, with the doc. But not much.”

You nodded. “Okay.” You started toward the door and he sat back up halfway.

“Hey. Just—ya ain’t goin’ outside the walls, right?”

` ` You shook your head. “No.”

“Promise me,” he growled.

His concern was clear. You nodded. “I promise. Get some rest.”

Daryl watched the door close behind you and sighed, sinking back onto the bed and draping an arm over his eyes. Part of him wanted to ask you to stay… but what would he say? That he needed you nearby? Needed to know you were safe? That he wanted you right beside him… He wasn’t feeling brave enough for that yet no matter how badly he wanted it.

You walked to the next trailer over and the door was propped open, letting in the sunshine and a breeze. Maggie was sitting at the table eating a snack and looking over some papers. Enid was sitting nearby.

“Hey,” Maggie said, giving you a smile. “You look better. It’s good to see you out and about. Where’s Daryl?”

You nodded and shoved your hands into your pockets. “I convinced him to try and get some actual sleep.”

“Good. He needs it,” she said, her eyes turning a little sad. “Ya know, he completely refused to leave your side while you were out.” She gave you a pointed look and you felt your cheeks flush but you pretended you hadn’t heard her. “What’s up?”

“Umm, I just thought—maybe I’d fill you in on what happened. And I wondered if you knew anything about everyone back in Alexandria.”

She nodded. “To my knowledge everyone else back home is alright. Rick’s been scavenging for the Saviors. They’ve been making pick-ups so far for Negan. But supplies are getting scarce.”

You nodded.

“Come on and sit down,” Maggie said.

“Do you want me to go? I could—”

“It’s alright, Enid,” you said kindly. “No reason for you to leave. I don’t have anything left to hide at this point…” You heaved a deep breath and let it out. “I haven’t even told Rick any of this yet because before I could Daryl was gone. And I just went after him, to get him back. I didn’t want to wait another second.”

Maggie nodded and her brow furrowed as she listened intently. “He told us. Just a little bit. About what you did. You don’t have to tell us anything more if you don’t want to.”

“It’s okay. I—I think I’d rather just get it out, you know?” You related your story to her and Enid. You were grateful they didn’t interrupt you because you were afraid if you stopped you wouldn’t be able to start up again. You explained what you had done to get Daryl out, going back to Negan and being one of his ‘wives’ again. Maggie reached out and grabbed your hand, giving it a squeeze as her eyes filled with tears.

“My God. Y/N,” she said when you had finished. “He could have killed you on sight.”

You nodded. “He could have. But I had a feeling he wouldn’t. And he didn’t.” She squeezed your hand again.

Enid was looking at you with round eyes.

You felt your cheeks turning pink and shook your head. “I just did what needed to be done. To get him out.”

Maggie grabbed you suddenly into a tight hug, squeezing a little of the air from your lungs. “Thank you. For bringing him back to us. And you came back to us, too.” She pulled back and gave you a teary smile, which you returned. “I can’t imagine what you went through. But I’m just so grateful you’re both here.”

“Me too.” You got up and Enid stood to grab you in a tight hug too. You smiled at her a little awkwardly. “I think I’m just gonna take a walk around a bit. Get some air,” you said with a small smile.

“Alright. Take it easy, though,” she cautioned. “Doc’s orders.” You nodded and headed back outside.

You ended up in the stables, petting the horses and brushing them down just to pass the time. You were grateful for the distraction. Your mind wandered to Daryl frequently and you sincerely hoped that he was getting some peaceful rest. He needed it. He deserved it.

You noticed Sasha up on the wall, standing watch near the gate and you headed over toward her.

“Hey,” you said, nearing the top of the ladder. You were a little winded. You still felt weak. Daryl’s guesses to Dr. Carson had been correct. You had hardly eaten or slept while you were at The Sanctuary, and it had taken more of a toll on you than you realized.

Sasha turned and helped you climb to your feet. “What the hell are you doin’ up here? You’re supposed to be taking it easy!” she said.

“Yeah, I know,” you sighed. “I’m trying.” You looked out over the wall, leaning on the top of the logs. A few walkers were staggering in the field in the distance and Sasha raised her eye to the scope of her rifle to watch them. You glanced over at her. “How are you doing? After everything? And Maggie? Really?”

Sasha gulped and lowered the gun with a heavy sigh. She shrugged and you saw pain in her eyes when she glanced at you. “I’m alive,” she muttered, before turning her eyes back to the field in front of you. “Maggie is too.”

“Yeah,” you said quietly, catching her meaning exactly. “We just—have to keep going.”

She looked over at you. “Daryl told us what you did. I can’t imagine—”

You sniffled and averted your eyes with a shrug. “I just had to get him out of there,” you said.

She nodded and turned again to stare back out over the fields.

“Have you been getting any trouble from Gregory?” you asked. Sasha scoffed and rolled her eyes.

“That man is a useless weasel. But he’s stayed away from me. Maggie’s been dealing with him.”

You picked at a soft spot on top of the log in front of you with your index finger. “He struck me as a nutless slimeball,” you muttered. It actually elicited a laugh from Sasha and you joined her in a low chuckle, shaking your head.

“That’s accurate,” she said appreciatively.

“Hey!” A familiar, gruff voice down below. Daryl. “What the hell are ya doin’?” he yelled up at you.

“Uh oh. Busted,” you said in an undertone to Sasha. She laughed again. You went to the edge of the lookout stand and peered down at him. “You’re supposed to be sleeping,” you said.

He shrugged vaguely and continued looking up at you. You turned back to Sasha. “See you later,” you said. You climbed down the ladder and were met at the bottom by the archer’s intense stare.

“What the hell are ya doin’ up there?”

You shrugged. “Just talking to Sasha,” you said.

Daryl scowled at you and shook his head. “Ya shouldn’t be up there. What if some of them are out there watchin’? What if they see ya?”

“They aren’t out there,” you said.

“Ya don’t know that!” he said angrily.

You sighed and put your hands on your hips, staring down at your boots. “Okay. Alright. I get it. I won’t go up there again.”

“Good,” he spat back at you.

You raised your eyebrows at him. “Did you get any sleep?” you asked. He started pacing back toward the trailer and you fell in behind him. He only grunted over his shoulder which you interpreted as an answer similar to ‘not much’. “How come?”

“I just couldn’t, alright?” he said, irritation evident in his voice.

“Daryl,” you said, reaching out and grabbing his arm gently. “What’s wrong? Why do you sound… pissed?”

He stormed into the trailer and rounded on you suddenly. There was clearly something going on in his blue eyes, turmoil. He paced in front of the couch for a moment as you stared at him, trying to decode his sudden agitation. “How could ya—how could ya do what ya did?!” he demanded angrily. “How could ya go back to him? Ya let him—how could ya let him—put his hands on ya? Ya let him—how—” his voice broke and the anger that was there a moment before was gone, replaced by anguish.

You felt a sinking feeling in the middle of your chest, right between your lungs, as you suddenly understood that his anger wasn’t really anger.

He froze and chewed his bottom lip anxiously. There was a long pause where you could feel a bubble of tension growing between the two of you. He couldn’t meet your eyes. “M’sorry. ‘M so sorry,” he said gruffly. “You were right about going after them, after Denise. I should have listened to ya,” he said. “But I was so damn angry... And now… S’my fault you had to go back to him. S’my fault he—he had you to—” His jaw clenched and he looked away, forcing in a breath. “It’s my fault Glenn’s dead. There’s a whole goddamn pile of things that are my fault.”

“Hey—” You shook your head. “No. No, you don’t get to do that. Even if you hadn’t gone out there, Dwight might have come back and found us and Alexandria anyway. And Glenn—you weren’t holding the bat, Daryl.”

“Ya weren’t there,” he growled. “It was my fault. It was.”

“No.” Your voice was forceful. “It wasn’t. I might not have been at the line up with our people but I’ve been at one before and there is no way to know how many people would have died anyway. Negan’s like that. His men are like that. Could have been more or less regardless of whatever you did that you think got Glenn killed.”

Daryl turned away. He stood stock-still in the center of the room, his shoulders tense. “You can be pissed at me or at the universe or whatever you want,” you said. “I really don’t care at this point because I’m just so damn happy you’re not in there anymore. It doesn’t matter what it took. I was gonna get you out. Nobody deserves to be treated that way, especially you.” You sighed heavily and stared at his back and broad shoulders. “You have to know that. It was my choice to go back.”

Just then, at possibly the worst time, there was a knock on the door and you turned to answer it with a heavy sigh. The so-called “leader” of Hilltop, Gregory, was standing there on the doorstep. “Well, hello,” he said, nodding his head. You stepped back and peered at him with dislike. Daryl spun around to glare him down. “Aren’t—can I come in?” he asked.

You stepped back begrudgingly so he could take another step inside. He cleared his throat a bit awkwardly and then put his hands on his hips, looking around the inside of the trailer. You noticed that Daryl picked up a crossbow he must have gotten from the armory and started fiddling with one of the bolts, purposely fixing his icy blue eyes on Gregory. “Well, now, Margaret—”

“Maggie,” you corrected him.

“Right. Maggie,” he started again, seeming to quail a little under the tone of your voice, “has said that you two escaped from The Saviors compound. Is that true?”

“Why do ya care?” Daryl snapped, leaning back against the dining table.

“Well, I care because this is my place and I am hoping to continue to have a peaceful working relationship with The Saviors and—and—and I,” he stammered, “don’t think that is possible if I am harboring fugitives amongst my people. Not safe for—for my community, you see.”

Daryl stood up, his chin inclined. “And?”

“And,” he said, raising a finger, “and I came to tell you that—you’re welcome to stay the night but I want you gone tomorrow. I have to do what’s right for my people.”

Daryl stepped forward his chest puffed up. “Who’s gonna throw us out? You?” he growled. “Ain’t no peace with The Saviors. You’ll figure that out eventually. Or did ya forget ya made a deal with us to get rid of ‘em?”

Gregory leaned back away from Daryl, who was getting right up in his face. “We haven’t had any trouble until—until you people showed up,” he said.

“Really?” you asked, crossing your arms over your chest. “Remember Craig? Your man that they took? Who got him back? We did. You would have just let him die.” You scoffed.

Gregory glared at you and gestured vaguely with a hand. “Aren’t you his—his wife? Don’t you have some loyalty to—”

“Ya better fuckin’ watch what you’re about to say,” Daryl growled, poking a finger into Gregory’s chest and posturing at him. Gregory stepped back. “Ya don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about,” he growled.

“It’s alright, Daryl. He’s obviously an idiot,” you said.

Gregory looked affronted. “What? I don’t have to stand for this! I’m the leader here! This is my place,” he said, puffing his chest out now. “If you both aren’t gone tomorrow, I’ll—I’ll tell Simon about all of you when they come for their next pick-up!”

Daryl hauled a fist back and punched Gregory hard across the face. His head snapped back and to the side and he let out a moan and groan dramatically. “Kal!” he yelled, for one of the guards. “Kal!”

Maggie and Enid appeared in the doorway as you were holding Daryl back from hitting Gregory again, your hands on his chest as he yelled at him over you. “Ya threatenin’ us, ya son of a bitch!? Ya don’t know who the hell you’re messin’ with!”

“Daryl! Hey! Daryl! Stop!” It was taking all your strength to hold him back. You could feel every muscle in his strong chest tensed beneath your hands.

“What’s goin’ on?” Maggie asked, her eyes wide.

“This prick threatened us!” Daryl roared. “Threatened to tell The Saviors about all of us here unless Y/N and I leave tomorrow,” he spat.

“Daryl!” you yelled again. You finally clasped his face in your hands and made him look at you. “Enough.” He softened immediately, his chest heaving. He stopped trying to push through you and instead paced a short distance away after your hands slipped from him.

“You threatenin’ us now?” Maggie asked him. Gregory was a pitiful sight, clutching a hand to his face where Daryl had punched him. “Do I have to remind you who exactly is trying to solve your problem with The Saviors?” Maggie drew herself up to her full height again. “We aren’t goin’ anywhere. And you’re not tellin’ The Saviors a damn thing. Ya know why? Because you need us. Things are gonna go bad for you soon enough. And when the time comes, you’re gonna need us to save your ass. You’re gonna need us to save your community because we actually know how to fight.”

“Get the fuck outta here,” Daryl snapped at him.

Gregory gave everyone a parting glare and laid it on thick, actually limping down the stairs and moaning about going to see Dr. Carson. You rolled your eyes and exchanged a look with Maggie.

“Ya alright?” she asked you. You nodded.

“Fine.”

“Alright. We’ll talk tomorrow. Goodnight,” she said. You slammed the trailer door shut and turned to look at Daryl, who was still fuming.

“Ya shoulda let me hit him again,” he growled, grabbing his crossbow again.

“I think the one you got was good enough,” you said. You gulped at the lump in your throat. “Thanks for that. For standing up for me when he—”

“S’nothin’. That asshole dunno what the hell he’s talkin’ about.”

You nodded. “I’m tired,” you mused aloud.

Daryl nodded. “Ya. Ya need more rest. I’ll take the couch,” he said, setting his crossbow down and heading toward it.

“Seriously?”

His confused eyes snapped back at you. “What?”

You sighed. “Daryl, you’re not sleeping on the couch. Come over here,” you said, tilting your head. You walked over to the bed and pulled the covers back on one side, slipping underneath them. “I’ll take this side. You take the other.” You climbed into bed.

Daryl watched as you settled into the pillow, exhaustion settling over you. You could feel his eyes on you and you propped yourself up on your elbow. You anxiously chewed your bottom lip, wondering how much of what you were thinking that you should actually say.

“It’ll help me sleep… if you’re right here,” you said softly.

Daryl’s heart raced in his chest. How could he deny you that? And in truth, that was all he wanted, to be right there with you, knowing you were safe, asleep, beside him, out of the reach of Negan and his wandering hands. His mind wandered to what it would be like to have you fall asleep in his arms. He nudged his chin up a couple times. “Alright.”

“Thanks,” you murmured. You sighed and settled back into the pillow. You kept your eyes closed, but didn’t sleep yet, listening to Daryl softly moving about the room for a little while longer. Eventually you heard the soft rustling of fabric beside you and felt his weight on the other side of the bed.

He propped up the pillow and sat back against it on the headboard, his legs stretched out on top of the blankets, crossed at the ankles.

You smiled to yourself and finally allowed yourself to drift off.

#daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon twd #the walking dead #twd fanfics #daryl dixon drabbles #daryl imagines #daryl dixon x reader #fanfics #writers of tumblr #twd drabbles #sacrifice #daryl dixon series

[h0rnyshakespeare]

could you do a fantasy au with bakugou as a kitsune? you’ve just recently moved into a cottage in the woods to get away from your previous life, when you stubble across baku in a trap surrounded by hunters! you of course aren’t going to let some assholes hurt an innocent creature, so you devise a plan to get him free. you draw the hunter’s attention away from the caged baku, causing them to run off. you then get to baku, and are able to free him. though a slight problem, the hunters are coming back, and they see you messing with their ‘find.’ while you’re frozen in place, baku literally picks you up, and jumps into the trees, evading gunshots. he keeps you there until the hunters go away.

after all this drama, you start hanging out with the kitsune more and more. you two get closer as time goes on, and bakugou becomes more and more infatuated and protective of you. he’s touchier, softer, and overall more gentle with you. he even lets you touch his ears and tail. everything is all well and good when oh no, the hunters are back, and they’re out for revenge. while you’re at the cottage, they ransack your home, chasing you out into the woods. you’re sprinting, calling for bakugou as the hunters are gaining. just then, none other than the fox himself jumps in and beats the absolute shit outta the hunters. he then turns to you, worry as well as rage in his eyes. he sees they’ve hurt you, and that’s the final nail in the coffin for what he’s about to do. “Stay with me.” he pleads. “you don’t have a safe home anymore, and even if you did, i can’t promise your safety. i NEED you to be safe, okay. stay with me as my mate. i’ll hunt for you. i’ll protect you. anything, and you’ve got it.” you’re stunned. eyes wide, you ask him why. why does he care so much? nobody else ever did, so why does he, as powerful and as beautiful as he is. the answer isn’t as hard as you would think “it’s because i fucking love you...”

OKAY this is definitely long and more of a vent than anything but i think it’s so cute! just imagine cuddling with him as soft and as cute as he would be, hanging over you like a jungle cat. very nice, very nice indeed

kitsune!Bakugou x gn!reader (I couldn't think of a title, sorry)

Genre: Fantasy

Warnings: Swearing caz Bakugou, brief mentions of gunshots (that’s it I think?? But if there’s anything I missed please let me know)

Word Count: 2.5k

A/N: Tysm for requesting, this was such a cute idea! I’m sorry this took some time, exams are coming so my writing’s a little slow haha. I wrote this to be gn!reader but if anywhere implies otherwise please let me know :) And to everyone else who requested, I’m working on them!

Y/N: Your name

L/N: Last name

You had recently moved into a little cottage in the woods, not too far away from the main city, but enough to be away from the busy, commercial life you once lived. Others might disagree, but you felt more at peace among nature, like you were truly satisfied. You had never enjoyed living among many people, so you were excited to start your new life, out here in the woods. As you walked back to your cottage after taking a walk to familiarize yourself with your new surroundings, you heard a few voices up ahead. You groaned, not wanting to socialize with anyone, but before you could turn to take a different route to avoid whoever was there, you overheard one of the voices say, “We’re gonna get a fine amount of money for this creature’s fur, ya hear me? So make sure the trap is secure.” A couple of other voices mumbled in agreement. You frowned. Although you could not really make out what animal they had caught, you did know that whatever they were doing, it sounded illegal. You sighed. You did not want to confront anyone, but you made your way towards the voices. You saw three men surrounding a cage, holding… guns? “What have I gotten myself into?” you internally groaned, but it was too late to turn back now. “Um, excuse me?” you called out hesitantly. They turned at the sound of your voice, looking displeased. You smiled nervously. “Hi, um, it’s actually illegal to hunt in this area…” you trailed off, seeing their annoyance. “How would you know, you little punk? Go braid daisy crowns or whatever you do in this dump,” one of them sneered at you. You were slowly growing irritated, but you kept the smile on your face, determining to help whatever animal they had imprisoned. “Ok, well, I was going to let you know that if you walk a few miles from here, there is a hunting area. You guys aren’t the first hunters I’ve seen around here,” you lied through your teeth, trying to distract them to give you enough time to release the trapped creature. “If you check it out, I’ll forget I even saw you guys here, and no one will know that y’all were hunting illegally, ok? Plus, I’ve seen a lot of finer animals in that area.” “Maybe we should listen to her, boss,” one of the hunters said to the one who had spoken to you first. “I mean, it is just a fox, and if we’re caught…” he whispered the rest of his sentence to their leader, who in turn frowned. “Fuck, whatever. How far is the hunting area, kid?” he asked, the question directed to you. “Oh, um, about… 10 miles from here? In that direction,” you said, pointing. “You better not be lying to us,” the hunter glared at you, making you gulp. You tried to act nonchalant until they were out of sight, then immediately rushed to the trap. You gasped when you saw a beautiful fox with… tan, almost golden fur. You had never even heard of foxes that colour. The hunters were idiotic to listen to you and leave this amazing creature, but you were glad they did. The fox made a low, growling noise, snapping you out of your trance. “Ah, right, I’m sorry, I’ll let you out now, don’t worry,” you said, suddenly feeling stupid that you were conversing with an animal. You quickly set your attention onto setting it free. The trap looked complicated to deactivate, but you realized it was actually quite simple, and you managed to free the fox in no time. “There you go,” you smiled, “You’re free now.” Surprisingly, the fox lingered, studying you with beautiful carmine eyes. First tan fur, now red eyes? “You’re like something outta a fairy tale, huh? So pretty,” you said softly, gazing at it at wonder, when you heard distant voices shouting.

Crap. The hunters.

“You really thought you could fool us! There were no animals in that area!” “Ahaha fuck, I’m in trouble,” you murmured, thinking of a way to escape, when you remembered the fox was still here! “Hey uh, you really should get outta here-” you said, turning to find not a fox, but a man with fox ears and a- no wait, nine tails. Your eyes widened, freezing as you tried to process what just happened.

“Oi, dumbass, if you’re not gonna run they’re gonna get you, you know.”

“I- uhhh… well this is a weird dream,” you chuckled nervously. “Tch, idiot,” was all he said before picking you up bridal-style and running faster than the hunters could catch up. You felt something whizz past your ear. “HOLY FU- THEY’RE SHOOTING AT US!” you yelled, grabbing at the man’s collar. “Thanks for stating the obvious, dumbass!” he yelled back. “Now would you shut up so I can focus on not dying?” You quickly turned silent after that statement. Without warning the… man? fox? man fox?? suddenly took a huge leap into the trees, landing on a branch that somehow held his weight. You yelped, then quickly covered your mouth in order to keep quiet as you saw the hunters running past from underneath. “They’re gone now,” you heard the man speak as he set you down on the branch. The tree you both were on was sturdy, giving you a secure foothold. You turned to face him. “Uh, thanks for saving me back there, but I’m pretty sure you were a fox when I first saw you…?” “Tch. Humans really have gotten dumber over the past few years haven’t they. I’m a kitsune. Ya know what that is?” Your eyes widened. “A-a kitsune as in the ones in the fairy tales? The foxes who can shapeshift to humans, and have many tails…” you trailed off, feeling stupid that you had not noticed earlier. The kitsune smirked in response. “Yeah, and I have nine, meaning I’m the most powerful. You’re lucky I was there to save you.” “You saved me? Who was trapped in a cage, huh? If anything, you should be thanking me,” you huffed, annoyed. Who did he think he was? He said nothing, simply gazing at you with interest written all over the flaming pools of scarlet that were his eyes. You tried not to feel intimidated by them, not knowing what powers this creature possessed. You could not deny that he was beautiful as a human, alluring even, with blonde hair similar to his fox fur, and his body looked as if it were sculpted by gods. You gulped, forcing yourself to stop staring at all the scars scattering his bare chest. He smirked as if he knew exactly what you were thinking of, causing your face to heat up. “Where do you live, dumbass? I’m sure you can’t climb down trees.” You rolled your eyes, embarrassed that he was right. “Not far from here, I’ll manage.” “Don’t be ridiculous,” was all he said before he lifted you in his arms again, leaping to the ground and taking you home in no time. “I didn’t even give you directions,” you said, confused. He sighed. “I could smell your scent from here. Why do you live in the middle of the forest?” “Caz I want to??” you said. “That’s weird,” he responded. “Don’t you live here too though?” you retorted. You saw a smirk flicker briefly on his face before being replaced again with his bored expression. “I’ll see you around then, dumbass.” He said, turning to leave. “Wait!” you called out, immediately regretting it. Why’d I do that? But there was no time to question your actions as he looked at you, eyebrow raised. “Uh, I-I just wanted to know your name,” you said a little breathlessly. “Katsuki Bakugou,” he said, never breaking eye contact. “Bakugou, huh? Well, I’m Y/N L/N,” you replied. Bakugou shrugged. “I’ll be leaving then dumbass.” You huffed. “I literally just told you my name!” “And?” was all he said, before vanishing through the foliage of trees. You exhaled slowly, feeling a little disoriented. You had so many questions but decided not to think too much of the day’s events, instead opting for relaxing in your new home.

The next day, you decided to just hang out at home, yet you could not get the kitsune out of your mind, making you frustrated. “Ah, fuck it,” you mumbled, before heading out. You were not sure where you were going, but you walked in the same direction you did yesterday. “What are you doing this you idiot? What if the hunters find you again?” you thought, yet your body did not listen, continuing to walk in the same path. You did not run into anyone on the way. Unfortunately, that included Bakugou. You decided to just sit down under a tree and read the book you had brought with you. You had been peacefully reading for a while, the sounds of the forest soothing to you ears.

“Well fancy seeing you here.” You whipped your head at the sound of his voice. You saw the fox with tan fur you rescued yesterday. “Bakugou?” He transformed into his human form, grinning as he did so. “So, what’re you doing here, dumbass? Missed me?” You rolled your eyes. “You wish. I came here to relax for a bit.” “Whatever you say, dumbass. What’re you reading?” You showed him your book, causing him to snort. “What?” you asked, slightly irritated. What was his deal? “Your taste is so bland, I’m not surprised.” “Fuck off,” you responded. “As if you’ve ever even touched a book before.” “I have,” Bakugou said, raising his eyebrows. “Didn’t peg you as the type to read,” you said, getting back to your book. “Is that all modern-day kitsunes do these days?” Bakugou shrugged. “I’ve never met any others here.” You looked back at him, surprised. “So… you’re alone?” “Tch. I just prefer to be by myself.” You nodded. “Me too.” “Pfft, you? You look like someone who would love being around people, with how much you talk and all.” You glared at him. “And this is exactly why I like being on my own.” He raised his arms. “I guess I’ll leave then. Since you seem to really hate company, right dumbass?” “My name is not dumbass, it’s Y/N. Why’re you so rude?” you hissed. You were met with silence when you realized he had left. You could not believe you actually came out all this way just to talk to him, only for him to randomly leave mid-conversation. You huffed, shifting your position to get more comfortable. “I’m still here you know.” You jumped, hearing his voice from above you. “What the hell?” He snorted in amusement. “You really think you could get rid of me that easily, dumbass?” You rolled your eyes, but inside you felt secretly happy that he had stayed, and you hated it. “You’re so annoying,” you retorted, turning a page in your book, yet somehow not really seeing the words. It was quiet for a while, before Bakugou jumped back down to the ground, sitting next to you. “Read that for me,” he said in a tone unlike his usual one. “What?” “You seem to like this trash so much, so read it,” he said, making himself comfortable. You sighed. “Fine.”

And so began the afternoons you would spend with him. Every day, you would meet him under the same tree and read. Sometimes he would fall asleep next to you, exposing a more soft and vulnerable side of him, contrasting to his normally brash and rough personality. It was pretty sweet, and over time, your feelings for him only grew. You were not sure, but you felt that he too had become softer and gentler around you as time went on. He even let you pet his ears, blushing whenever you did so, trying to hide his flusteredness behind his colourful words. He even went as far as falling asleep on your lap in wolf-form, making you happy he could trust you with the more vulnerable side of him.

You were at home, about to leave to meet Bakugou, when you heard some commotion outside. You were about to check when you heard the door break open. “Find them!” you heard a loud voice say. Your blood ran cold. The hunters? Why were they so set on revenge? You heard something break as they stormed through your house. Before you could grab something to defend yourself, one of them burst into your room, causing you to freeze. “There you fucking are,” he said moving towards you, blocking the exit. Thinking fast, you opened the window next to you and jumped out. Thankfully, it was close to the ground, so you easily picked yourself up and you ran, not daring to look back, but you heard them shouting and running after you. You sprinted down the familiar path, calling for Bakugou as you did. “Goddammit, where are you Bakugou?” you yelled as the hunters gained on you, when-

“The HELL you fuckers think you’re doing, HAH?”

You had never felt so relieved to hear his voice. “Bakugou!” “Stay behind me,” was all he said before going absolutely feral. He beat them up in no time, then watched as they ran away in terror. When he made sure they were gone, he turned to you, anger dissipating, his eyes filled with worry. “You ok?” You nodded weakly, then raised your arm, showing him the wound you had gotten when one of the hunters had shot at you. “It’s not bad, don’t worry. The bullet didn’t hit me, just grazed my skin.” “Shit,” Bakugou cursed as he took your arm in his hand, examining it. “That’s definitely more than a fucking graze.” “It’ll heal, I’m good at first aid,” you said. Bakugou looked at you, incredulous. “Dumbass, this needs more than first aid, are you really that stupid? Don’t move,” he said as his hands began to glow. He positioned them above your wound, using his power to heal you. “Thanks, Bakugou,” you said when he was done. “Really, I appreciate everything.” “Katsuki,” he said, not looking at you. “Huh?” you said, confused. “Call me Katsuki, dumbass.” A playful smile made its way on your lips. “Sure, when you call me Y/N.” He chuckled, then looked at you with a serious gaze. “I want you to stay with me.” You looked at him, dumbfounded. “W-What? What do you mean?” “Your home isn’t safe anymore. Those hunters could come back anytime, I went easy on them. I need you to be safe, Y/N, I-” he ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “What would’ve happened to you if I wasn’t there? Just… please, become my mate Y/N. I’ll do anything for you, I’ll hunt for you, protect you, anything you want.” You were stunned, trying to process what he had just asked. “Y-You want me to be your… your mate? Why? And why would someone like you care so much about someone like me when no one really ever has?” He blushed, looking away to glare at the grass. “Fuck, I don’t know, maybe it’s caz I fucking love you, dumbass.”

#kitsune!bakugou #bakugou katsuki #katsuki bakugou #anime #bnha oneshots #mha oneshots #mha #bnha x reader #bnha x y/n #bnha x you #mha x reader #mha x y/n #mha x you #bnha fics #mha fics #katsuki bakugo x y/n #bakugou x reader #bakugou x you #bnha fantasy au

[soft-din]

now you hang from my lips (like the gardens of babylon)

summary: Din getting hurt one day might cause some feelings you’ve both been repressing to come to the surface.

pairing: Din Djarin x reader

word count: 1.4k

warnings: Just some mentions of gunshot wounds & such.

ao3 | masterlist

You had been hired by the Mandalorian to be a babysitter to his kid/mechanic for his ship a long time ago. It was an exciting life, going from planet to planet as he hunted bounties and you helped take care of him, the barely functioning Razor Crest, and his small green son. Over time, you had gone from allies to friends, and somewhere along the way you had started to develop some sort of feelings for the beskar clad warrior. A while back, he had even trusted you with his name (although he told you not to say it in public where others could hear). Din Djarin was a complex man - strong and fiercely protective, yet kind and compassionate. Hunting down quarries by day and a loving father by night. It drew you to him, making you want to know more about the human being underneath all the armor.

Din had been out on a job for the past twenty-four hours or so. You had been waiting at the Crest for him with the little one, expecting him to be back relatively soon, as he usually was, but not unduly worried. 

That was when he came through the entrance to the ship, staggering and groaning in pain.

You immediately got up from where you were sitting and rushed to help him, unable to filter whatever came out of your mouth in the moment. “Din, oh Maker, what have you done? You stupid Mandalorian, you can’t let yourself get hurt like this!” As you spoke, you were trying your best to help support the man’s weight as you made your way to the tiny ‘fresher inside the ship. 

“‘M…’m sorry,” Din managed to get out as you reached your destination.

“No, don’t apologize. Just be more careful next time,” you said, starting to collect the supplies you would need to help him. “Now, tell me what happened, if you can.”

“I...got shot in the side. Beskar didn’t block it. It was hunters...after the kid. I’ll need to go back out tomorrow if I want to find that quarry.”

“Okay. Don’t worry about tomorrow right now, alright? I need to help you get this cleaned up.”

Din nodded, and you started to remove some pieces of his armor in order to reach the skin you needed access to. Once that was done, you washed the wound (trying not to wince at the sounds of discomfort the Mandalorian was making) and got some bacta spray on it. You may have not been a professionally trained nurse - the field of mechanics was more your area of expertise - but you could clean a shot wound if given the right materials.

“How’s that?” you asked Din, trying to not let your eyes linger on the exposed, tan skin of his stomach. 

“Better,” he grunted. “Thank you.”

You gave a nod of acknowledgement and handed him back the pieces of his armor you had taken off to help with the injury. “Here.”

He took the pieces, and after a moment you heard a deep breath come through his modulator. “I’m...glad you’re here. With me. And the kid, too. Who knows where we’d be without you.”

The unexpected sweet words made your cheeks heat up, and you felt a sudden urge to be out of his proximity so you wouldn’t feel so flustered. “Well...thank you,” you said. “I’m glad I can be of help.”

*****

That night, you were lying awake in the dark and thinking about the day’s events. Din could’ve really gotten hurt, even worse than he did, and that thought really scared you. The very idea of losing him made goosebumps crawl all over your skin and a pang make itself known in your chest. 

Just then, you heard footsteps coming in your direction. But they weren’t the ones you were used to hearing - these were somehow lighter. It was the sound of bare feet in contrast to the sound Din’s boots usually made as he clanged throughout the Crest. His shoes must be off, you thought to yourself.

You heard him in the kitchen area, probably taking more pain meds or something of the sort. You were still curious, however, so you called out into the inky expanse around you, “Hey, Din? What are you doing?”

“Just taking some more stuff for the pain,” he replied back. His footsteps then made their way to your bunk, and you saw his silhouette in front of you - all of his armor seemingly removed, sans helmet. The realization that this was him being more vulnerable than he had ever been to you made your heart rate speed up, and you had to take a moment before speaking again.

“Oh,” you said quietly. “How...how are you feeling?”

“Pretty good for a guy who just got shot earlier today,” Din said, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes fondly at his strange humor.

“Well, I’m glad to hear that. Where’s the kid?”

“I put him down in his pram for the night.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

You heard him shuffle his bare feet in the dark for a moment before he said, “I guess I’ll be back to bed then. Sweet dreams.”

Something took over you then - the part of you that longed for him and his touch, the part of you that didn’t want him to ever leave you. “Can you...stay?”

Silence. 

Your brain went into overdrive, thinking that you overstepped, that he would be mad at you...but then he responded with a soft, “Yes. Of course.”

When he crawled into your bunk next to you, you tried not to overthink the situation, vowing to not let your emotions get the better of you. But then he settled down in the blankets and let out a sigh - a content one, not like the exasperated ones you had heard him use so often towards his son - and you realized all of that was pretty much out the window.

After several minutes of lying beside each other in the pitch dark, you decided to make a genuine effort to get some sleep. Just as you were about to try to doze off, Din spoke once more. “You can’t see me, can you?”

You couldn’t. But you could feel his body heat next to you, and hear his steady breathing. “No, I can’t.”

“Okay, good.” And that was when you heard the hiss and click sound of a helmet being removed, your breath getting caught in your throat. 

He was taking it off. 

Technically (to your knowledge at least) this wasn’t breaking any part of his Creed since you couldn’t see his face, but it made your head spin nonetheless. 

“It’s...usually not very comfortable to sleep with it on,” Din told you, and the sound of his natural voice set off happy butterflies in your stomach.

“I can imagine that’s true,” you replied, letting out a sound that was a mix of a laugh and an exhale.

You lay in silence for a few more moments. Eventually the man next to you said, “Thank you again. For...helping me today.”

“It was nothing, Din,” you assured him. “I’m always here whenever you need me.”

“I know, cyar’ika.” 

He moved a little closer to you then, and you tried once again to not let your mind get clouded by his close proximity. But then he leaned in, his face mere inches from yours, and said, “Can I kiss you?”

It was all you could do to breath out a “Yes, please” before his lips were on yours - warm and soft and a little chapped, causing you to be unable to think of anything else. The kiss was gentle, but with an underlying passion that made you ache.

You couldn’t see his face, but for the first time you could map out what he looked like in some way and you weren’t going to pass down the opportunity. As he continued to kiss you, you put your hands on his cheeks, feeling the slight stubble there. You then moved your fingers to his head, feeling the messy curls and pulling on them just the tiniest bit, your actions being rewarded by a slight moan from Din, making you smile in satisfaction. After what seemed like hours of simply being together in the unlit space, hearing your racing hearts and intertwining your legs, you finally drifted off to sleep - knowing that you would wake up with him beside you.

#i love him sO MUCH #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin #the mandalorian #my writing

[carry-the-sky]

crashing in a million years late to fill the prompt “kastle + indigo skies just before dawn” from @juniperfandoms. i’m so sorry for the lateness, but i hope you enjoy! :D

.

oh, you fill my lungs with sweetness,

and you fill my head with you.

.

Karen is used to waking up with the sun. Even before the Bulletin, before she was chasing down stories over cups of days-old coffee, eyes itchy with exhaustion as night bled into morning, even then it was just something she did. She’s never slept easy.

She doesn’t mind, though. There’s something about the way the city feels just before dawn, already restless and humming with potential energy. A new day—anything can happen.

.

There’s a bouquet of flowers on her desk at work. Roses—every last one of them white. Karen blinks at them, then bites her lip to cage the laugh that’s working its way up her throat.

He’s consistent, at least. She’ll give him that.

She can see a small piece of paper tied to one of the stems, and her pulse kicks up a notch. She remembers with stinging clarity what he told her in that hospital room, how resolute his rejection had been. Another door, slammed in her face. She should be furious with him, and she is, but—

But. Another part of her remembers light across water and his lips pressed to the hollow of her cheek, a stalled-out elevator and silence thick with all the words they couldn’t say to each other. Gunshots, his hands in her hair and the weight of him pressing her to the floor.

She trusts him. Always has, even when it didn’t make sense to. She still does.

The thought propels her forward, fingers grasping the note and eyes hastily scanning the words written there. There’s a familiar address, and beneath that:

Taking your advice.

.

He’s sitting on one of the benches when she gets there. She has to squint a bit against the sun, but there he is, one leg bouncing slightly and his hands clasped loosely at his knees. He’s staring across the water, away from her.

He looks the same. He looks like Frank.

“I have a phone, you know,” Karen says, and his head snaps in her direction. He stands as she approaches, one hand rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture that’s achingly familiar.

“Wasn’t sure you wanted to see me,” he says.

Karen meets his gaze. His eyes are as dark as she remembers, but there’s something else, a softness she hasn’t seen before. It makes her heart clench, all her resolve and quiet anger dissolving on her tongue. Before she can talk herself down, she’s surging forward and pulling him into a hug.

He’s warm, solid in her arms. Karen’s pulse flutters when his hands slide around her waist. His touch is hesitant, careful—like he’s afraid he’ll hurt her. She holds him a bit tighter.

“And now?” she asks, voice muffled slightly where her mouth is pressed to his shoulder.

She feels it when he smiles, his lips curving against her temple. “Still all heart, huh?”

They pull away at the same time, slowly. She still can’t quite believe that this is real, that he’s standing here with her, his face free of bruises and a wry grin tugging the corners of his mouth. It’s honestly more than she thought she would ever get again.

She says as much, sliding onto the closest bench. “What changed, Frank?”

“Me,” he admits. “Didn’t wanna admit it, but—I was tired. All my bullshit—I was tired of all of it. Started thinking about Lisa and Junior—if they could see me, Karen—“

She reaches for his hand, squeezes gently.

“You were right, yeah?” he says. “What you said, about life. How we’re just fighting not to be alone. Figured I was fighting for all the wrong shit.”

Her heart is in her throat. She hopes she isn’t imagining the look on his face, raw and vulnerable. Hopes she isn’t making something more out of this than what’s really there. She trusts him, yes—against her better judgment—but he’s pushed her away more than once. She needs to know that this means something.

“Frank—“ she starts to say at the same moment her phone alarm trills. He gently pulls his hand away, and she knows she isn’t imagining the way the pad of his thumb lingers on her wrist. She wants to reach for him again—instead, she fishes out her phone. She’s late for a meeting with a source, and she’s already rescheduled once.

“Work,” she says, trying to veil her disappointment. “I should probably go.”

Frank’s lips twitch. “Look forward to readin’ about it on the front page.”

“Shut up,” she says, but she’s smiling.

He glances down as she stands, then tilts his head to catch her eyes again. He looks like he wants to say something, lips slightly parted and his eyes on her, unflinching. It’s a stark contrast to the last time they were here, when he was still fighting his war, still scared. He’d walked away first—showing her he cared, the only way he knew how. He’s not walking away now.

“I’ll see you soon,” she says, more a statement than a question.

Frank’s eyes soften. “Soon,” he echoes.

It almost sounds like a promise.

.

He’s outside her apartment a week later, a bag of groceries in hand.

Karen huffs a laugh. “So, when you said you wanted to do dinner—“

She says it lightly enough, but she doesn’t miss the frown that flickers across his face, there and gone the next moment. “This okay?” he asks, and something twinges in her chest.

“Frank. I’ve been living off of ramen and wine for the past week. It’s more than okay.” She’s hoping that will pull a smile out of him, and it does. She’s suspended in the moment, the easy way his mouth creases into a crooked grin. Frank Castle, happy. She could get used to that.

He makes himself at home in the kitchen in a way that should be surprising, but isn’t. Karen can picture him cooking dinner for his family just as easily as he handles a gun. She knows better than most that Frank is more than what people say he is.

Before long, he’s got a pot of spaghetti boiling on one burner and vegetables sautéing on another, filling the room with a savory aroma. Karen’s not even a little embarrassed when her stomach rumbles in appreciation.

They eat on her couch. Neither of them says much, but the silence is comfortable. That’s something she’s always liked about Frank—he doesn’t talk for the sake of it. His words have weight, when he chooses them.

He refuses to let her take care of the dishes—“still old-fashioned, I see,” she jabs—so Karen settles back onto the couch, not quite sure what to do with herself. She’s been on her own for so long, she’s forgotten what it feels like to have someone else in her space—especially when that someone is the Punisher, making her dinner and cleaning her dishes. She casts a glance over her shoulder to see him forearms-deep in soapy water, scrubbing at a stubborn spot on one of the pans.

If someone had told her a week ago that this is how she’d be spending her evening, she would have laughed right in their face.

It’s still light outside, and warm for this time of year, so she grabs two beers and leads him up to her building’s roof. The sun is low in the sky, turning the clouds to cotton-candy. Familiar sounds fill her ears, the rush of traffic, horns blaring.

Karen turns to face Frank, holding up her beer. “To a delicious dinner that covered all the food groups,” she says. “My arteries thank you.”

Frank clinks his bottle against hers. “I’ll drink to that.”

“Seriously, Frank. That was the best meal I’ve had in a long time.”

“Yeah?” He looks at his feet, shifting his weight slightly. “I’m glad. Uh—not that you haven’t had a good meal, but—you know. Glad to help.” He blows out a breath. “Christ.”

“Easy, soldier,” Karen says, nudging him with her elbow. “Take a breath. You’re doing just fine.”

He glances sidelong at her, smirking. “Didn’t think I’d be this nervous to see you again. I feel like a goddamn teenager.”

“It’s me, Frank. I don’t bite.”

He bobs his head, then tips his drink back. Quiet envelops them again, but there’s a tension to it this time, an undercurrent of nerves.

“Can I ask you something?” she finally says.

“Shoot.”

Karen’s stomach churns. A warning sign, maybe, but she pays it no heed. “At the hospital,” she says slowly, tasting each word. “If Amy hadn’t walked in on us—what were you going to do?”

She isn’t looking at him, but she can feel his eyes on her like a brand. Warmth stirs low in her gut. So make it mean something.

He moves closer, reaching to take the beer from her hands. She’s dimly aware of him setting the bottles on the ground, and then he’s touching her, thumb sweeping the line of her jaw. He’s close enough that she can see the creases in the corner of his eyes, a faint shadow of stubble on his cheeks. His eyes dart to her lips.

“Frank,” she breathes, and then his mouth is on hers.

His lips are softer than she expects. She hums low in her throat, arms sliding around his neck to pull him closer. The world narrows to her pulse in her ears, the jagged hitch of Frank’s breath when he pulls back to look at her.

“That answer your question?” he rasps.

She ghosts her lips over his, once, twice. “I need some clarification on a few points.”

Frank grins and kisses her again. His tongue swipes her lower lip, hungry but not demanding, and heat fissures up her spine. She’s wanted this for so long—wanted him—and her heart thuds painfully beneath her ribs as she deepens the kiss. Her hands skate the side of his face and she buries her fingers in his hair, tugging just hard enough to sting.

He breaks away, his mouth trailing a line of fire from her jawline down the column of her throat. Karen gasps, letting her neck fall back. Somehow, he’s positioned her so that her back is against the building—both hands cradle her neck as he presses against her. Her hands are everywhere, sliding down his chest and grasping his waist. She never wants to stop touching him.

Her fingers drop to his pants, fumbling with the zipper, and Frank’s mouth comes crashing fervently back to hers. His fingers dig into her hips, tugging her skirt up so it’s around her waist. Then his hand slips below the fabric and skims the inside of her thigh. Her entire body spasms.

“Shit,” he hisses, dropping his head to the juncture of her shoulder. “We shouldn’t—not here—“

“I have a perfectly good bed downstairs,” she gasps, breathless.

His eyes shutter. “Fuck, Karen.” He tips his forehead to rest against hers. “You sure about this?”

Her heart is so full she thinks it might burst from her chest. She presses a whisper-soft kiss to his cheek, threads their hands together. “Two hands, right?”

This time, he doesn’t let go.

.

Karen wakes to darkness and an empty bed.

The sheets are tangled between her legs, cool against her bare skin. She draws them around her as she sits up. The other side of the bed is still warm. She sucks in a breath as pieces of the previous night spin behind her eyes like a kaleidoscope—Frank laying her down, his body above, beneath, around her.

Karen untangles herself from the sheets carefully, then feels around the room for her clothes. There’s a trail of discarded garments going down the hallway, and she flushes. They hadn’t quite made it to her bedroom, the first time. She gropes around in the dark until she finds something that feels like a shirt, and it’s only when she’s pulling it over her head that she realizes it’s Frank’s.

The grey of early morning presses behind her living room window, casting fractured shadows across the floor. Karen doesn’t see him on the couch or in the kitchen. Her pulse skips a beat. If he left without saying goodbye—

She’s giving the room another sweeping glance when she spots his silhouette on the fire escape. Grinning despite herself, she opens the window and crawls through to join him.

He’s perched on the balcony, wrapped in the throw blanket from her couch. “Hey,” he says when he sees her, voice gravelly with sleep. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

She shakes her head. “I’m an early-riser. I think the last time I slept past six a.m. was when I was in school.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She shuffles closer and Franks spreads an arm wide, draping half of the blanket over her shoulders as she settles beside him. The city is quiet, but there are stirrings of life—lights flicking on in apartments across the street, the rattle of a metal security gate as the bakery below opens up for the day. The sky above them is still dark, but the horizon blushes pink and indigo.

A new day. Anything could happen.

She’s not sure how long she stares out across the city, but she jolts a little when Frank’s lips brush softly against her temple.

“Easy,” he says, his breath warm on her skin. “I don’t bite.”

“Using my own words against me,” she murmurs, tilting her head to capture his mouth in a soft kiss. She starts to pull back, but he slides a hand around her neck and kisses her deeper, all heat and urgency. They’re both panting when they break apart.

“Nice shirt,” he says. “Looks good on you.”

“I swear to God, if you’re about to say it would look better on my floor—“

He tips his head back and laughs, and Karen swears it’s the most beautiful sound she’s ever heard. She’s momentarily lost in it, the effortless sound of his happiness. It’s enough to make her heart crack in half.

She doesn’t realize she’s staring until he nudges her gently. “Hey—you okay?”

Karen lays her palm on his chest. “Your ‘after’—I always pictured something like this.”

“What—me sitting half-naked on your fire escape?”

She smirks. “You, happy. The half-naked thing is a bonus.”

Frank slides an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close. “I pictured you.”

“Now that’s a line,” Karen says, curling up next to him. She wonders if she’ll ever get used to feeling like this, buoyant with happiness.

But that’s a question for another day.

#kastle #kastle ff #kastlenetwork #my fic #posting again because formatting was weird on the last one!

[slasherkisss]

CABIN FEVER - JASON VOORHEES X READER [CHAPTER 6]

Summary In an effort to remove yourself from your previous life in the big city, you move to Crystal Lake. The cabin you had inherited from your father makes the perfect place for a fresh start, however, there is a secret in these woods (and within yourself) that you must come to accept…and to love.

A/N I wrote this whole thing like a week ago but kept for gETTING TO POST IT BUT HERE WE ARE NOW ENJOY-

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Jason had taken to sign language well. Better than you could have thought, considering your teachings were less than impressive.

You were learning right alongside him, if you were being honest. The phrases and hand movements were as foreign to you as they were to him, the shapes of the letters that formed the alphabet difficult to formulate as you repeated spelling your name over and over with your hands, before switching to his so that he could see what it looked like. When he spelled his own name with the shapes of his fingertips you felt pride well in your stomach, praising him with kisses and holding him close in a hug that made him return it with vigour. The praise made him more eager to practice with you, the patience you showed him as the two of you continued blocky, awkward conversations with one another was a breath of fresh air. You imagined Jason as a child sometimes in those situations. With teachers sneering down at him and ridiculing him for not knowing one thing or another in their classes… The thought made your blood boil. It made you see red.

It wasn’t the case now, at least, and you were glad. It was a gratefulness mixed with a determination to communicate with the otherwise muted killer.

All the while your farm grew bit by bit as the springtime passed, new plants sprouting their perfect buds from the loamy soil and proudly sporting their flowers that would soon blossom into fruit. The tentative patch of carrots and onions you had planted were rooted neatly in lines, slowly curling their leafy above ground plants in perfect shapes as they evolved with time. Jason had, at some point, surprised you with chickens as well. He wasted no time in repairing the holes and uneven surfaces in the two chicken coops your land sported, allowing the new members of the family a cozy home for the seasons as they kept their open area neat and free of any pests that might serve as detriment to your precious crops.

You had grown fond of one chicken in particular. The beautiful Rhode Island Red hen had a wit and personality that made you fawn over her. The way she settled in your lap as you worked outside, content with your stroke of hands over her feathers, made your heart swell with pride. Her name, you had decided, was Roda. She approved the title with a ruffle of her feathers and a satisfied cluck, pecking at Jason’s fingers whenever he held them out to her curiously. He was startled at first, but soon grew to see it as a sort of love tap from her. You let him think that, not sure of what it actually was in the end, and not caring so long as she still enjoyed your lap.

She nestled herself comfortably against you even now as you worked in your garden, pulling out pieces of weeds from the bed of your lettuce with a hefty sight of exhaustion against your tongue. The day had grown warmer than the past week had been, signaling the slowly approaching summer that dared itself to be around the corner. You stretched your back, shooing Roda off of your lap and back to her coop as she gave an unsatisfied cluck at your actions.

“Sorry, Ro honey,” You apologized with a meek grin, “But I need to hurry! I have a date after all.”

Date… The word made you giddy. So giddy that you signed it to your chicken without much thinking about it. Bringing your hands together in the shape of ‘d’s to touch at the fingertips, pulling them apart, and then putting them back in small and quick movements. Once the two of you had learned the relationship end of signs, Jason was quick to awkwardly ask you out on a date. A walk through the woods and a small time on the edge of the lake to watch the water as it glittered in the springtime light.

Well, he didn’t sign exactly all of that, but it was what you imagined he had in mind. Regardless, it was romantic and you were all sorts of eager for the trip.

You moved to quickly change out of your farming clothes and into a better outfit for your date, choosing a bright yellow dress with a white bow around the center that accentuated your waist line. The pattern of white polkadots that dabbled the entire fabric made you feel bright as you did a small twirl in the outfit and smiled to yourself, slipping on your hiking boots underneath them in a look of something between cute and functional. Flats would have been nice, but, you wouldn’t want to step on any rocks and twigs in them. Besides, Jason would surely enjoy whatever you wore for him on this date.

Your cheeks flushed red as you imagined his face (mask, you supposed) upon seeing your look. It made you all the more eager to grab your backpack and head out of your house, making sure to close the door properly behind you as you moved.

The forest was beautiful that day, the leaves rustling their whispers into your mind overhead as the wind brushed through them like an old friend. The babbling of brooks dueted with the singing of birds as the world around you came alive, nature devouring itself in an ouroboros of beauty that had your chest swelling and your heart bursting as you admired the way the ground moved and grew so many unique things against itself. From the mushrooms that sprouted near the bases of trees to the grass patches that had been nibbled on by passing herbivores, the world was a beautiful thing and you couldn’t help a quick stop to admire it.

A spider, massive in its body, scaled up a tree you had stopped in front of. It burst itself out amongst the purple and white flowers you had been staring at, their shape bending with each step of the insect's heavy legs. You reached out, allowing it to crawl onto your hand as you sat up to admire the way it moved against your skin, giggling at the soft tickling sensation that pressed on your fingertips as a result. Tilting your head to the side, you moved closer to get a look at the being’s strange eyes and moving mouth, the appendages around its front pushing to taste and explore its new environment as you held it close.

A gunshot echoed through the forest, making you startle and drop the spider to the forest floor.

Your head whipped around, eyes wide as you searched the now deadly quiet forest for the source of the sound, your feet moving without thinking about it. Who was that? Jason didn’t know how to use a gun and he would never, unless it was to bludgeon someone… So that meant someone was here. That meant they fired a gun on his property without permission. That meant they were doing something bad. What if Jason was the one being shot? Would he be okay? Your heart raced faster than your mind as you found yourself pushing yourself faster and faster through the forest, biting your lip as you tried to keep your breathing even against the cold rushes of air that pushed passed you. Your dress caught on twigs, ripping at parts and the underbrush stung your skin as you threw your hands out to catch yourself in a trip.

Your palms met the raw wood of a tree, scraping them in the process and making you curse as you heaved a breath of air. Looking outwards through slightly blurred vision, you saw them.

The group of men were smiling to themselves, some missing teeth as they chewed on what you could only imagine to be tobacco. They had a couple of women at their side, slim little things with heels on and shorts all too small for the mosquito ridden forest of Camp Crystal Lake. You felt your mouth fall into a straight line, your heart beating faster as you gazed at the guns they held, some of the tips still smoking from the previous shot you had heard.

Beneath them a deer lay, her body splayed outwards in an unnatural angle and her mouth hanging wide open as blood pooled from her jaw. Her knees were bent so far back that they had broken under her own weight, her  chest giving what looked to be a final spasm before ceasing to move. Your heart ached suddenly, your stomach clenching with rage at these men who shot such a beautiful thing when the property itself was private. Your head reeled with anger, a deep and vocal frustration that growled outwards in a huff through your nose.

Without thinking about it too much, you stepped out of your hiding place.

“Oo, well well!” One of the men whistled and adjusted his hat with a laugh, “Looks like this place has somethin’ even better than venison don’t it! What’s a pretty little thing like you doing out here alone, sweet cheeks?”

You didn’t answer, your breath held for a long moment s your body shook with fear and rage all at once, you swallowed a forming urge to run away and pointed down at the deer in anger.

“You did this?”

“Sure did, impressive huh? One shot too!”

“Get the fuck out of this forest, all of you.”

The group looked taken aback, surprise apparent on their faces and one of the girls cursed a soft ‘what the fuck’ under her breath before she began to giggle, covering her lips to glance sideways at you. The man you had initially spoken with frowned, approaching you so that you could smell the alcohol on his breath as he raised an eyebrow downwards at you. The stubble of his beard was an uneven thing, his intense eyes making you cringe beneath him as you glared back up in frustration.

“What, you own this place or something?”

“It’s private property and I live nearby. I don’t appreciate poachers in a place that isn’t theirs.”

“Look here, missy, we got a license to hunt!”

“Not HERE you don’t!”

You shoved the man, making him stumble back in surprise as he glared at you, his teeth bared in anger as he pushed himself forward. You saw the massive contour of his torso before his hand grabbed you and shoved you back in return, pushing you into the dirt of the ground and making you cry out in surprise, your leg twisting slightly and digging itself into a sharp rock. The material split your shin open, blood dripping from the wound and down your leg. You whined, gripping the cut and holding it close to your body as you  bit your cheek and glared upwards.

There was a deathly silence that followed, the man grimacing as he raised his hand up, as if to strike you. You heard the women and his friends beside him snap at him to stop, the echo of their words falling flat on the enraged man above you. You bit your cheek as you waited for the pain of his assault to bare down on you, your body clutching handfuls of dirt and squeezing it into your nails as you refused to shut your eyes. You wanted to make him know that you knew what he was doing. You wanted him to know that you saw him.

But the assault never came.

The man looked beyond you instead, his eyes wide and horrified. No sooner had he gazed up and a single curse word of confusion left his lips did he fall to the floor before you. The axe that now embedded itself neatly in his skull covered you in a spray of blood as an artery divided itself beneath his skin. You felt the wetness of the crimson across your mouth and forehead, leaking down to your collar bone and across your dress as you exhaled a long, deep breath that you didn’t realize that you had been holding. Slowly, ever so slowly, you turned your head around to see what had just happened… Though, honestly? You already knew.

Jason had found you.

The ruckus had drawn him out of his waiting spot to the noise, the instinct alongside his mother’s voice to protect his home driving him more than anything else ever had. When he saw you bleeding in the dirt, the man’s arm raised to strike you, he felt panic rise in his chest. Panic mixed with protective rage to fill his throat with something akin to possession. Bloodlust decorated his insides like a picturesque landscape and the instincts that came with practiced precision filled his movements as he walked forward to pull the axe out of the dead man’s skull, spraying blood across himself as well. His breath heaved, heavy and set as he watched the group before him, standing dumbfounded at the death of their leader.

“You son of a b-bitch!” One man stuttered as he moved forward to try and defend himself against Jason, but he was small. He was weak compared to the behemoth of Camp Crystal Lake before him. Jason’s hand wrapped around his throat with ease. His legs kicked weakly as he was lifted off of the forest floor and, with one easy squeeze of his neck, the sickening crack of the man’s bones echoed through the screams of the others at his side. His body spasmed for a moment before falling limp, Jason tossing his half-hanging off head to the side before focusing on the remaining two women and man who had started to scramble away from Jason out of fear.

One met the same fate as the first, the axe Jason held thrown to lodge itself neatly in her cranium, making her companion scream as she scrambled away. She pushed herself off of the forest floor as the man she accompanied tried to grab his gun, fumbling with the safety in an effort to fend Jason off with it. The few seconds of lost time were his downfall, however, as Jason grabbed the rifle from his hand, only to turn the firing end over and shove it neatly through his throat. The machine came out the other side of his skull with ease, pieces of hair and skin falling like snow against the spring ground.

Every inch of you felt wet. The blood had seeped into your dress, staining the front crimson as the trail of viscera not your own dribbled down your brow and chin, the coppery taste of blood not your own making you gag slightly as you pulled yourself into a ball to watch the events of the world transpire around you. By the time Jason had pulled himself away from his last victim, eyes searching for the final girl whomst he had already let live for far too long, she was nowhere in sight. You could see the heave of his shoulders as rage burned inside of him. You could all but hear his mother’s voice echo with fierce frustration in the back of his head and yours, a shared coinsius that startled you as you bit your lip and watched your boyfriend begin his hefty push forward and after his prey.

Kill her, Jason! She hurt dear, sweet [Y/N]... Kill for her and for mother, Jason!

“J-J-Jason!”

Your voice was a weak ghost on the wind. You spit out trails of blood and skin as you spoke his name against your mouth’s will, teeth chattering and chewing down on brains all at once. Jason’s body froze at your town, though. His entire body rigid as he tried to organize the hefty gasps of his breath against his body.

He turned to you, the splattering of blood across his face mask churning your stomach as you stared into the holes of his eyes with dry lips and shaking breaths.

“I… want to go home Jay…”

Your voice was a pathetic whimper. A plea to nothing as you reached out to him, fingertips shaking as you begged with your form for him to drop it. Your heart ached with panic and your mind had only one reaction to the situation: Go. Get out. Go and be safe. Safe and away from this place filled with gore even though you knew, oh you knew, it would remain on you as it was. Trailing down your face. Splattering across your form. Your entire body shaking as you bit your lip and offered your other hand this time, both outstretched towards Jason in patient hope that he would listen to your plea. To protect you as he always had.

Jason cast one last long glance towards the forest where the woman had run, her bloody footsteps a testament to her movements, but with a sullen lack of expression Jason put the gun he was holding down and returned to you.

You were lifted up in strong arms. You could feel the steady movement of his chest as he breathed to keep himself calm, grip tightening sharp on your body as you were cradled against him. You snuggled into Jason without thinking about it, your nostrils assaulted by the scent of metal and wet, rotting, fleshy blood as you shut your eyes. Your hands felt around his chest, touching the wet texture of his shirt. Squeezing the droplets of blood out of his coat. Your hands found his bare skin and smeared the redness across him, making him shiver as some of the intestines you had against your skirt dribbled onto him.

Your legs shifted despite yourself. The ease with which he had lifted you up, cradling you so carefully even after such a scene making your body betray its fear, turning it into arousal instead as the two of you arrived to your cabin.

Jason put you down on the steps of the front, where you shakily opened up the door and entered on wobbly legs. The two of you together trailed stains of fresh blood across the hardwood floor, footprints of such vastly different sizes ingraining themselves on the oak panels as you all but fell to the floor for a moment to catch our breath, splinters digging into your palms as you scratched at the wood with manic intensity.

Jason fell to your side in return, a hand touching your shoulder with worry if you were okay. A head tilt and a gentle sign with one hand asking that same question. Your voice found no air with which to speak, so you simply began to sign in return:

‘I’m okay. Thank-you for protecting me.’

Jason stared with an almost incredulous look before returning the movements slowly, with shaky and careful gestures of fingertips to body parts as he offered his gesture in return:

‘Of course. I love you.’

This was enough to make tears well in your eyes as you threw yourself at him, shaky limbs falling around his neck and bringing him into a kiss that you swore you could feel through his mask. Jason was startled at the suddenness of it, but fell into the motions with practiced ease. Hands found your sides, smearing the blood on your soaked dress as he pulled you closer, the both of you a tangle of limbs on the floor as he leaned back to allow you more access to him. The gentleman that he was, even in this situation you could feel him giving you space. Offering you room to breathe should you need it and space to run should you crave it. Your hands gripped at his shirt tighter as your mouth pulled away from him. Jason’s eyes through the mask followed your body. Blood had smeared across your lips and down your face. You licked a small drop of it from the corner of your mouth as you held onto him, your bodies pressed together in a slick of arousal and gore.

His eyes snapped forward after a moment and his hands moved despite themselves, sturdy fingers sliding your dress up your form until your lower half was shown to him. Jason pulled himself up to admire the entirety of your shaking form: From your cut leg smeared with dirt and your blood to the stains of red that had patched themselves up your thigh after it had soaked through your dress… You were beautiful. More perfect than anything Jason had ever seen. His blood soaked hands rose to smear the liquid across your thighs some more, painting them darker red as you moaned and whimpered into his touch.

“Jason,” You whispered with breathy hunger, “Touch me, please.”

It was adrenaline. It was fear. It was a sick, twisted beauty that you found upon staring down at the behemoth of a murderer after he had splattered you with the gore of four separate people. It made your body tingle and your mind wander with sensitive, careful arousal that amplified as Jason’s finger pushed itself up into your core, soaking your panties in blood before pulling them aside to play with your slick folds. His breath picked up now, shaking as he felt you from the inside. As he painted your walls with the blood of his victims in a hungry, voracious manner. Two fingers slid into you as he picked up his pace, twisting them as you instructed. Moving them in the way he knew you liked it.

You mewled his name as your hips rocked against his body. You felt the cleft of his dick on your ass and you moaned at the feeling. The blood and your slick made the most sickeningly beautiful sound as he played between your legs, making you clench and gasp as your orgasm began to creep up on you.

You whined when his fingers pulled out, pouting before yelping as his hands grabbed your hips in a white knuckled grip and pulled you up.

“Jason… “ You murmured as you saw the wild in his eyes. The hunger that came with seeing you so beautiful painted red. You shuddered, legs trying to support you as his dick was freed from his pants and you were positioned over it. Despite his animalistic nature that had suddenly opened up so loudly to you, you could feel his hesitation. His unsureness of the situation as you reached out to cup his cheek, smearing more of the blood of the people on him and scooping some on your finger. Without much thinking about it, you licked it off of your hand and sucked down on your index finger, swallowing the coppery blood off of your skin as you looked at him in the eye, the communication of acceptance warm in your body as Jason’s breath grew ragged and he lowered you down onto his cock.

You moaned at the feeling, the stretch impossibly wide and physically difficult to handle as you whimpered and squirmed on him, pushing down and adjusting your hips so that you were able to lower yourself at your own pace. Meanwhile Jason’s body was shaking, the feeling of your tight heat overwhelming him as he threw his head back, splattering still wet blood across your walls as you pushed yourself to take more of him with wet whimpers and tears building in the corners of your eyes, falling soon to stain a trail of clean across your bloody face. Your hands scratched at Jason’s chest, your form falling forward on him for support as you bit out his name in syllables so sweet Jason swore he was in heaven.

Once your body was finally used to the girth of him, you moved your hips testily. No able to take all of him in at once, it was a simple movement to pull out from the tip and then slide yourself back down, the blood an unfortunate but helpful lubricant in your endeavors as the two of you shook and moaned at once. Jason’s large hands held your hips again, his body pushing you further down on his cock in a way that made you scream with both pleasure and pain, your cervix not ready for so much at once. His fingertips dug deeper though, bruising white knuckled grip halting as he waited for you to say okay. To give him instruction on just how you wanted him to move, even though his body wanted to begin on its own.

“It’s… Okay,” You moaned beautifully above him, “You can keep going Jason… Make love to me, darling.”

No sooner had you said it, spit dribbling out your mouth and your body impossibly full, that he began to match your movements. Hips touched hips as he all but pulled you off of him and slammed you back down, your rag-doll form useless against his strength as he held you close. As he fucked you deep and perfect and near. Your floor was smothered in blood now, pools forming beneath the both of you as your leg’s wound left unpatched. As the sweat washed the blood from your body and the scent of sex overwhelmed that of the blood itself.

“Jason! Jason! Ja-ayson oh-” You moaned desperately in his ear as your orgasm built in your stomach, “I’m going to- mmm - Good boy yes-yes-yes-yes-ah-!”

You clenched around his dick as you came, your body releasing the desperate want for him in a flood that made Jason gasp and moan, fucking you faster and with little rhythm to his movements before stilling inside of you. There was nothing to fill you, no sperm to echo in the cavern of your uterus as he shuttered and gasp. Only a strange coolness, like air hitting somewhere in your body, before his dick grew flaccid within you, the softness doing nothing to ruin the thick, beautiful feeling of being full as you rested atop your killer with heavy gasps for air.

Jason’s hand touched your head, looking down at you with concern as he remained inside of you.

You smiled back, exhausted and bloody but okay as you sighed.

“I’m alright, love… We should get cleaned up though, okay? I… I want to go to bed as soon as possible today. It was… a lot.”

Understanding, Jason stood, lifting you with him so that the both of you remained connected. You giggled as you felt his dick twitch within you, still not quite ready to let go of your warm cunt just yet as you were moved to the bathroom at a slow, careful speed. You shut your eyes, holding him close as you hummed in his ear.

Perhaps for a moment you could forget about what happened. As you washed yourself with him… Perhaps it wouldn’t even happen again!

Oh, you wish you weren’t so naive.

#jason voorhees #jason voorhees x reader #Friday the thirteenth #Friday the 13th #cabin fever series #cabin fever #slasher x reader #slasher imagines

[fox-fic-and-ink]

Kinktober Candal

A special kinktober/birthday surprise! Candal with hair pulling (which I love but only one of them has hair dagnabbit!)

   Andal’s gasp bounces off the ceiling and is still echoing, gunshot loud, in his own ears when Cayde starts to growl beneath him.

   “Good?”

   Traveler help him, Andal forgets there’s a whole damn metal hand tangled up in the back of his head and he tries to nod. It yanks several hairs out in sharp, little spikes but it isn’t exactly a pained noise that rips through his throat.

   “Harder?”

   Cayde’s hand is already winding closer to the scalp.

   A quick lick of his lips and a heavy swallow against his craning neck and something vaguely affirmative manages to squirm past Andal’s bobbing Adam’s apple.

   “Shit, Andal! When you make those noises-”

   Sharp lip plates scrape at the stubble beneath his jaw and set the man’s skin on fire.

   “-it makes me want to eat you alive.”  

   Dark eyes have already rolled to the back of his head so the Hunter Vanguard can only imagine the bright grin pressed to his throat. The heat and weight of Cayde’s very well-lubed cock teases the equally-lubed space between Andal’s cheeks. He chases that cushy rod half blindly, whines when it barely glances off his rim. Whines harder when Cayde tugs on Andal’s hair to keep him from trying to line them up again.

   “You gonna let me?” The Exo husks as he nips behind Andal’s ear. “Gonna let me wreck you?”

   “I’m trying to!”

   Cayde has the audacity to laugh at him in Andal’s most desperate moment. “No, you’re trying to bully my dick into you. I want to take care of you. Are you gonna let me?”

   The tight grip on his hair eases for the space of a single deep breath. Fingers massage gently, soothing the stressed skin and offering a promise of tenderness somewhere down the line if Andal will give up the control first.

   A single, metal finger twirls dark hair and tugs once, sharply, between finger and thumb to ask the question once more.

   Are you gonna let me?

   Always.

   Spine bowed, Andal pants and knows his whole body must look a sight as it struggles to catch up with the words that spill out of his mouth. “Do it! Do it, please. Shit, Cayde! Wreck me. Split me open and eat me up. Do whatever just-”

   Andal’s scream sticks in his throat and then smothers out fully when he’s flipped by the rough grip in his hair and shoved face-first into the pillow. Instantly, his hips are back and up, searching for Cayde’s. By the time the Exo slides home and splits Andal open like he begged, the room is filled with the sounds of slapping bodies, punched-out moans, and- like always- the breathless laughter of two daredevils madly in love.

.

.

.

*Kinktober prompts end Oct 31!!! See pinned profile post~*

#kinktober #Kinktober 2020 #The Hodgepodgining #candal

[leahxx129]

Tragedy of Butterflies (Peter Quill x Reader)

Hi there. Quick personal note: it appears that the personal thing I’m struggling with at the moment will go on for around another month, but I have lots of story ideas and will try to write & post some. 

As for the story... I feel like that Chris Pratt is the most underrated Chris from all the MCU Chrises, so I wanted to show a little love for him & one of his more famous character.

Summary: As a result of the Snap, Peter Quill dies in your arms and your heart shatters to pieces since you’ve been secretly in love with him for quite a while now. What happens 5 years later when everyone is brought back to the battle field, including some very unexpected people? 

Warnings: cursing 

Word count: 1.630-ish

You have no idea how much time has passed since the wizards brought everyone to the field and the guy with the shield commenced the battle against Thanos, but you’re pretty sure about one thing - within the next couple of minutes you’re going to suffer an excruciating death.

The creature knocked you over in a blink of an eye, you never even saw it coming, and both of your machetes flew out of reach. You can brush one’s handle with your fingertips but it’s still a far stretch... You desperately try to take in a few punches, but the damn thing is clawing at you with a foaming mouth, wanting to tear your throat out like a freaking otherworldly Cujo, so the majority of your energy is invested in self-defense. Even through the beast’s grumble you can hear the battle screams and death rattle of warriors trying their best to defeat the other army and fail at it.

Your arms are getting numb and a strange mixture of calmness and serenity dazes your mind. Maybe death wouldn’t be the worst-case scenario. You’re tired and you’ve certainly done your fair share over the years… Then his face flashes before your eyes and you relinquish every single thought of surrender in an instant.

He always demanded everyone to call him Star-Lord, but to friends he was Quill and to you, only Peter. You can’t just go down like this, you owe putting up a real fight to him. That’s the least you could do since you were unable to save him the first time you all faced Thanos…

You’ve known Peter since you were a little girl. You happened to be in the hospital when his mom died and followed him outside just to accidentally be snatched by Yondu as well...

He was nothing but a silly boy to you for a very long time – he would pull your hair, try to frighten you by telling ghost stories or play mean pranks on you... Then one day you suddenly realized he became so much more, and the mere fact that you had no clue how it happened scared the crap out of you.

Naturally, this escaped his notice, so every time he obtained a new notch in his belt, you died a little inside and swore an oath that you’d never be one of his conquests. An oath you broke not long after having sworn it... You fell so miserably in love with the man that you let yourself turn into his occasional bed warmer because even a relationship like that was more than nothing. At least that’s what you made yourself believe to help you sleep at night...

His lips felt incredibly soft as he peppered your neck with featherlight kisses in the dark.

His fingertips almost made you catch on fire when they traced your skin under the covers.

And the way he whispered sweet nothings into your ears when nobody else was around brought you to the verge of losing your goddamn mind every single time.

You found him completely and utterly intoxicating. Peter was addictive like a drug. And you lived for the high.

For a short period of time it looked like as if he was beginning to return your feelings, but then Gamora showed up and shattered every illusion to a thousand pieces. You couldn’t blame her - it’s not like she demanded Peter to shower her with his attention. But you couldn’t blame Peter, either, because Gamora was close to perfection… so, all you did was blaming yourself and pretending to be happy for the slyest thief in the galaxy day after day.

Truth be told, every night when you closed your eyes you imagined how it would feel like if the Zehoberei woman just simply got out of the picture, but with God as your witness, you never wished for her departure to be this way. When Thanos revealed on the Titan that he’d murdered her, the confession broke Peter and seeing him like that broke you.

Then came the Snap.

Peter pulverized in your arms and you would have given everything in the entire galaxy to trade your life for his. Later on, you joined Rocket and you’ve been by his side ever since as he appeared to be the only one to share your grief and understand your pain, but more importantly, he was the only other remaining member of the guardians and being close to him reminded you of better times.

Your fingers inch a bit closer to the machete’s handle but when you try to flick it in your direction the only thing you manage to do is just push it farther away.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” you yell as a generous amount of the monster’s saliva lands on your neck a second later. “Could this situation get any worse?”

The answer comes right away when the thing overpowers you and you feel a set of razor-sharp teeth sink into your shoulder. The scream ripping from your lungs makes your own blood run cold. You close your eyes and await the next – and probably the last - lash out but it never comes. Instead, you hear a gun shot and the beast collapses onto you. Realizing that you’re still alive and kicking, you push it off and freeze at the sight of your savior. He’s standing far away, face not visible, but you could recognize that stance anywhere.

“Peter?!” you scream his name and hope he heard it through all the turmoil.

The stranger touches the side of his mask to reveal the face you haven’t seen in the past five years but dreamt of every single night.

Not minding the shoulder wound you jump to your feet and start limping towards him, picking up the pace when you see him do the same. Within a couple of seconds, the distance is closed, and you fall into his arms, tears streaming down your face. The familiar minty scent invades your nostrils and you can feel his stubble tickle your face. It’s him. It’s really him. You hug him even tighter.

“Peter…” you lean away a few inches to be able to look into his eyes but before you can say anything, he crashes his lips onto yours, leaving you completely dumbfounded. You kiss him back, nevertheless.

“What was that for?” you ask after breaking apart, shielding your genuine curiosity with a small smile.

“I love you.” He breathes against your lips, panting heavily.

Your eyes widen.

“Okay, I must have a little monster saliva clogging my ears because what I heard was that you love me and that cannot be the real reason.”

He lets out a chuckle.

“I don’t know about the saliva sweetheart, but you heard me right.”

You eye him suspiciously.

“I don’t get it.”

His signature lopsided smile appears on his face, but his gaze radiates sadness. You remind him of what his mom used to tell him about the tragedy of butterflies. Their wings are exquisitely beautiful and yet they can’t see them, just as you can’t see your own beauty and worth.

“I’ve loved you for quite a while now, Y/N.” he caresses your cheek with his thumb. “When we became friends…uhm… with benefits… I-I thought it was better than nothing, so I went along. But deep inside I knew it was not enough for me. And I couldn’t imagine a galaxy where someone like you would seriously be interested in someone like me. So, when Gamora showed up I decided to move on and try to develop a healthy relationship with somebody else… so much for that, huh?”

“Oh, Peter…” you begin but he hushes you.

“Ssshh, okay, just let me finish please.” He takes a deep breath, obviously struggling to hold back tears. “I cared for her. I really did. But when I woke up in that strange place, do you know who’s name I was screaming for hours? Yours. I loved her but I’m in love with you. Promise you’ll never leave me, please.”

You open your mouth to respond but a series of gunshots rip through the air missing your head just by inches and one of Thanos’ mutant soldiers collapses behind your back.

“I’m really glad you two idiots have finally figured your shit out but we’re on a battlefield right now and I can’t keep on saving your asses while you’re having a heart-to-heart!”

Nebula’s familiar voice provides an explanation for the shots but when you both turn to her direction, she’s not alone. You can feel a knot form in your stomach.

“Gamora?” Peter asks incredulously.

“Who’s this guy?” the person in question turns to Nebula with a clueless facial expression.

“He was hitting on you in an attempt to forget how desperately in love he was with the girl he’s holding right now.”

Gamora’s eyebrows fly up.

“Wow… and the me in this dimension didn’t see through the situation? No wonder she’s dead.”

“This dimension? What’s going on? Is she from a different one?” you find your voice and address the question to Nebula.

“We don’t have time for this. I’ll tell everything after this is over... you know, on the off chance we survive...” She flashes a mechanic smile and disappears with her sister.

Peter is still staring at the place where they stood just seconds ago. You gently put your palm on the side of his face and make him look you in the eyes.

“I promise!” you vow and kiss him hungrily.

There are two things you’re hoping for at the moment - you want to survive this battle more than anything so you could be with Peter and you also pray that Gamora’s return won’t affect a single thing.

#peter quill #reader #peter quill x reader #Starlord #mcu fic #mcu #fanfic #guardians of the galaxy #gamora #end game #nebula

[unfolded73]

Near-Death Experience (1/1) - schitt’s creek ff

Patrick of the past is able to see what his future might hold if he can find the courage to seek it out. (ao3) Rated Teen, 4600 words.

Notes: I don't know, I just have a thing for past versions of characters getting to see what their future holds. Okay yes, I've put Patrick in peril again, but it's just a device to allow him to have an out-of-body experience. He'll be fine. The character of "Debby" is inspired by Michael on The Good Place.

_____________________________

When the sickening cracking sound rings out through the rural Canadian forest, the first thing Patrick Brewer thinks about as he plunges into the icy pond water is what the headline will be in the morning paper.

Local man fall through ice, dies

or maybe

Stupid local didn’t understand basics of ice thaw, dies

or perhaps

Climate change claims life of sad local man

Then he imagines his parents, dressed in black and crying at his funeral. Perhaps bitterly regretting that they didn’t have a second child, a backup child. All they had was this one kid, and despite the fact that they kept him “alive ‘til twenty-five,” like they always used to joke, it still feels like he was a waste of their resources. As it turns out he only made it five more years. They should have had a child who stays indoors and knits scarves and does not follow stray dogs out onto frozen ponds like Patrick apparently does.

It’s only as he slips beneath the icy surface that he finally thinks of Rachel, his fiancée. And if he feels just the tiniest bit of relief at the idea that at least he won’t have to go through with marrying her, well. Maybe that’s the hypothermia talking.

~~~

“Patrick.”

He blinks open his eyes, and then immediately closes them again because everything is very, very bright.

He licks his lips and clears his throat and speaks. “Where am I?”

“Mmm, that’s a bit of a difficult question to answer,” says a woman’s voice. “This place doesn’t really have a ‘where’.”

Patrick makes another attempt at opening his eyes, this time with a little bit more success. Not that it explains anything. He is looking at a tall, angular, middle-aged woman in a gray pantsuit, and beyond her… well, nothing. An infinity of whiteness stretches off into the distance.

An Infinity of Whiteness, good name for that overly earnest rock band you tried to start when you were sixteen, his traitorous brain supplies.

“What do you mean?” Patrick asks.

The woman shrugs and smiles and clasps her hands together. “I think it’s best that for the time being, you not worry overly much about where you are. It will distract from the things I need to talk to you about.”

Patrick is turning in a circle, looking for some other landmark in all of the nothingness. He casts his mind back, and memory strikes him like a punch to the stomach. How he was out for a morning run when he saw a stray dog stranded out on the pond. How he stopped and walked out to try to lead the dog back to shore, memories of the countless hockey games of his youth making him confident of his safety. And then a crack almost like a gunshot and a tumble into frigid water.

“I’m dead, aren’t I?” Patrick asks the woman.

She winces and see-saws her hand back and forth. “You’re not dead, but you’re not not dead. It’s a bit dicey at the moment.”

Patrick nods, feeling weirdly calm about the news that he’s dead. Or dying, anyway. “Cool,” he replies flatly.

“Look, I try not to intervene in the lives of people, I do. And most of the time it’s not like I even can, you know?” He doesn’t know, but Patrick nods. “But this is one of those unique situations where I can interact with you. I mean, you’re probably not going to make it, but you might!” She gives him a cheery smile and a thumbs up. “And if you make it, this might help you.”

“Who are you?”

“Wow, you’re just full of complicated questions today!” Her perky voice feels a bit like it’s piercing into his brain, and Patrick brings a hand up to pinch between his eyes as she continues talking. “As for a name, why don’t you call me Deborah. Or Debby? I like Debby. It’s not my name, but you wouldn’t be able to pronounce my actual name.” She laughs. “As for what I am, I mean, some religious traditions would probably call me an angel? But that’s not really accurate. Demon is closer, but that has a negative connotation that I’m not a fan of.” She wrinkles her nose while Patrick gapes at her.

“You don’t look like you believe me,” Debby says.

He lets out a breath. “What I believe is that I’m hallucinating. That this is random electrical impulses from my brain as it’s denied oxygen.” He read a book about it, about alternative explanations for the things people report as near-death experiences. It’s comforting, knowing that’s all this is, even if it doesn’t bode well for his chances of survival.

The woman — Debby — taps a manicured fingernail against her teeth. “I’m not sure if you believing that is particularly helpful for me? I mean, it probably means you’ll do less screaming, which is good. I hate it when they scream. But I kind of need you to believe in the reality of what you’ll be seeing if it’s going to get your life on track.”

“Wow, that’s not ominous at all. What am I going to be seeing?”

With another smile, she snaps her fingers.

Patrick’s vision blurs and there is a rushing sound in his ears and when he is able to focus on his surroundings, things are still very bright. But this time the brightness comes not from an infinitely white room but from sunshine coming through big panes of glass. Through the window, he can see the pant legs of someone up on a ladder, most of their body out of sight above the view from the window. He turns, and absorbs the fact that he is in what looks like some kind of store. A tall man with black hair is across the room, his back turned as he works at one of the shelves. There are cardboard boxes everywhere, as if the store is being set up for the first time. Bottles sit out on a large table that dominates the middle of the room. Half the shelves are empty.

All in all, it is a very specific and yet somehow mundane hallucination.

Then he watches himself — another version of himself, that is — come out from a doorway with another box in his arms.

“Don’t worry, they can’t see or hear us,” Debby says.

“Okay,” Patrick replies. He wasn’t worried about that, on account of the fact that it’s all imaginary.

“So this is your near future,” Debby instructs like she’s a tour guide.

“David, where do you want these bottles of toner after I put the labels on?” imaginary Patrick asks.

The man he calls David turns and comes over, inspecting the bottles. Patrick’s first impression of the man is of eyebrows and cultivated stubble. “So I want the labels closer to the top than the bottom, so that the bottom of the label hits the bottle exactly at the halfway point,” David says, indicating on the bottle full of pale liquid with a hand adorned with several silver rings.

“Uh huh,” the other Patrick says. “And then where do you want me to put them after they are precisely labeled to your exacting specifications?”

David raises an expressive eyebrow at Patrick’s sass, his mouth slightly open as if he’s trying to formulate a comeback. Then he gestures to a shelf, his hand fluttering. “Over there.”

“Okay.” Patrick watches his other self watching David go back to the shelf where he was working.

Patrick turns to Debby, who is watching them too. “In my near future, I’ll leave my lucrative job in financial planning to work retail?”

“Well, yes, but that leaves out some steps. You leave your lucrative job because you want to escape your old life and move away. Put some distance between yourself and that girl you couldn’t seem to stay broken up with. Then you become a partner in this store because something attracted you to it. Or someone,” she says with a wink.

Patrick looks back at David, his broad shoulders contained within a fuzzy white sweater with black stripes. His other self is focusing on affixing labels to the bottles, but his eyes are straying over to David too, at least four or five times in the minute that Patrick spends watching them.

“Oof, the sexual tension is thick in here,” Debby says, clapping her hands together on each of the last three words.

Patrick feels himself blush, which is weird — why would he be blushing in a hallucination? “Oh, I’m not… you know.”

Debby blinks at him, uncomprehending.

“Gay,” Patrick continues. “I’m not gay.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Look, I won’t claim to understand what attracts one human to want to rub their body on another human’s body. All of it seems disgusting to me. But if you’re saying that you aren’t interested in that one,” she says, pointing to David, “because he’s male, well…” She laughs. “Wait until you see what’s next.”

Debby snaps her fingers again, but at first it doesn’t seem like they’ve gone anywhere. Except the store is organized now, Patrick realizes. The boxes are gone and the shelves are full, sunlight still streaming in through the windows, albeit at a different angle. It’s the golden hour before sunset and everything in the store gleams in the orangish light. His future self (or so Debby wants him to believe) is there again, standing behind the cash register and counting out the till.

David comes out of the back of the store and saunters toward the front. He wears a long sweater and black skinny jeans, and he exudes a kind of effortlessly cool vibe that Patrick isn’t sure he’s ever encountered in the real world. When David reaches the front of the store, he flips the sign to closed and locks the bolt. Patrick can’t help but stare at his graceful hands as they go through this practiced motion. Then David sort of shimmies his way over to the fake Patrick at the cash register, a smirk on his face.

Without looking up, the other Patrick says, “Don’t distract me, David; I’m counting.”

“Who said anything about distracting you?” David says as he positions himself behind Patrick, bending over enough to rest his chin on Patrick’s shoulder.

“Hmm,” Patrick says and he sounds annoyed, but the smile on his face is anything but. He continues to count.

Then David angles his head and drags his lips along imaginary Patrick’s neck, making his eyelashes flutter, and the visual makes a flash of heat burn through Patrick like a sudden brush fire.

“See? Are you sure you don’t like men?” Debby asks. “It looks like you like this man, at least.”

“This isn’t real,” Patrick whispers, but he can’t take his eyes off the two people behind the cash register. The way the other Patrick gives up on counting and spins around, pinning David against the white-tiled wall and kissing him, slow and filthy. The way that David’s hands, those graceful hands that Patrick watched on the door, slide down the other Patrick’s back to his ass.

“Yeah, this is where it would help if you weren’t quite so analytical about this experience, because if you don’t believe this is really in your future, then honestly, this is kind of a waste of time for me.” Debby shrugs. “Although it might be a waste of time regardless, because you might die in that cold water. Gosh, human bodies are so fragile! It never ceases to amaze me.”

“Thanks for reminding me that I’m dying,” Patrick says, but his gaze doesn’t leave the two men making out behind the cash register. “Aren’t they worried about people seeing them?” he asks, his eyes darting quickly to the window.

“Doesn’t seem like it,” Debby says, and then she gives him an exasperated sigh. “I hoped this might unlock something for you. Why you aren’t happy with Rachel. Why you’ve never considered yourself a sexual person. Why you spent so much time in Brian Richardson’s dorm room when you were at university. Surely some pieces are clicking into place right about now.”

Across the room, the other Patrick breaks the kiss and takes a step backwards. “We have to finish closing, David,” he says, his voice rough.

“Do we, though?” David backs into the doorway of the room behind the cash register and shimmies his shoulders again. “Actually, I think I might need your help with some inventory in the back.”

Fake Patrick only seems to hesitate for a second before he follows David, pulling the curtain closed behind them with a firm flick of his wrist.

“You could go watch,” Debby says. “Like I said, there’s no way for them to perceive your presence.”

Patrick’s face flushes even hotter as he imagines what he might see behind that curtain. “What? No, why would I— I don’t want to— I’m good out here.”

Debby shrugs. “Suit yourself. I know I don’t want to watch. The way you humans put your mouths — which you eat with! — on any and all of each other’s body parts…” She shudders theatrically while a million images flashed through Patrick’s brain. He shakes his head, trying to banish them.

“This can’t be my future,” he says.

“Why not?”

He tries to ignore the sound of a moan and a muffled thump from behind the curtain, and imagines the leap that it would take to quit his job, to break up with Rachel for good, to move to another town, and get into a relationship with a man. None of it seems like something he is capable of, much less all of it.

Still, there is a part of him that also doubts that his brain, even in its dying gasps, could invent anyone like David. He’s unlike anyone Patrick has ever encountered before. He is…

He is, for one thing, unspeakably hot.

Oh.

“Ready to go?” Debby asks.

Another moan comes from the back room.

Patrick nods. “Yes, please.”

She snaps her fingers again.

They are at a baseball field; a small one, the kind you find in community parks, with one measly set of metal bleachers and the grass worn thin in several patches. Patrick spots himself immediately at shortstop, gesturing for the infield to shift position as a left-handed batter comes up to bat. Patrick’s team wears green and white, the words Cafe Tropical in script across the front. There’s a runner on first, edging toward second as the pitcher prepares to throw. Then the pitch — the tink of the metal bat against the ball as it bounces across the infield toward the other Patrick. He fields it easily, flipping the ball to the second baseman who spins and gets the batter out with an accurate throw to first. A cheer goes up, and Patrick quickly realizes it’s the last play of the game.

After some spirited congratulations of each other and from the opposing team, Patrick watches himself walk toward the bleachers, where David is engrossed in conversation with a dark-haired woman in a plaid shirt.

“Hey,” he says, plopping down on the bleachers next to David and putting an arm around him.

David looks up, surprised, one hand curled around a can of soda. Patrick again notices the silver rings on his fingers as the sunlight catches them. “Oh, is the game over?”

The other Patrick laughs, seemingly amused by David’s obliviousness. “Yeah, the game’s over.”

“Did you win?” the woman asks.

“We did, Stevie,” Patrick says, “I turned a game-winning double play.”

David kisses him. “Great job, honey. Or, I’m sorry? I don’t know what the appropriate reaction is.”

The other Patrick smiles fondly at him. “‘Great job’ was correct.”

“Patrick!” one of the other players calls. “We’re headed to the Wobbly Elm for drinks. You in?”

“Yeah, I’ll catch up,” he responds. Patrick looks at David. “I think I’m going to go get drinks with the team. You wanna come?”

“Actually, Stevie and I were going to watch…” He turns and looks at his friend. “What was it?”

“Carnival of Souls,” she says, a wicked smirk on her face.

“Mm, sounds fun.” The other Patrick kisses David on the cheek. “You coming over tonight?”

“Depends; am I in for some more of that repressed homoerotic locker room roleplay?” David says with a leer, leaning toward him with a hand resting high on the thigh of his white uniform pants.

“Oh my god,” Stevie says, sticking out her tongue in disgust. “I don’t need to know about that.”

The other Patrick rolls his eyes. “Probably not, now that you’ve told Stevie about it.” He kisses David on the cheek again. “Let yourself in if you want; I probably won’t stay out too late.” With a little wave, he hops off the bleachers and follows his teammates to the parking lot while David and Stevie set off in a different direction.

“Why did you show me this?” Patrick asks Debby.

“I wanted you to see that you have a well-rounded life here.” He’s still watching the other Patrick in the distance, who at that moment throws his head back and laughs at something one of the other baseball players says. “That you’re comfortable in your identity, because I thought that might be something you’d worry about.” Her voice sounds softer, more serious, more knowing than it has up until now, and Patrick turns to scrutinize her. “Okay look, I’ve paid enough attention to humanity to understand that someone who has been in denial about his sexual identity might assume certain things about what he might have to give up to live as an out gay person. I’m just showing you that you don’t have to give anything up.”

He thinks about that for a second, as he turns to look in the direction that David and Stevie disappeared.

Debby nudges him with her elbow. “You’re starting to believe this is real, huh?”

Patrick shakes himself. “No. No, I’m not.” He isn’t. None of this is real. Angels, demons, a handsome man with perfect hair in a long-term relationship with him… no.

She crosses her arms and looks up at the sky. “Okay. Let’s try this.” She snaps her fingers again.

The kitchen he’s standing in is empty, sunlight filtering through large windows and giving everything a warm, comfortable feeling. Cabinets painted a deep blue contrast against white tile, and Patrick starts to walk around the space. “No one’s here,” he says.

“I might have gotten the timing a tiny bit off,” Debby says.

Patrick goes over and looks at a stack of mail on the edge of the counter. The envelope on top bears his own name, with an address in Schitt’s Creek. He’s never heard of such an unfortunately named town.

Finally, thumping footsteps reach his ears, and a few minutes later he sees himself in sock feet, pajama pants, and a white t-shirt, holding a phone up in front of his face to look into the camera.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” future Patrick is saying into the phone.

“Don’t be smug, Patrick; it’s unattractive,” comes a familiar voice from the phone. Rachel.

Patrick catches a glimpse of her face on the screen as future Patrick walks by, a flash of tousled red hair and freckles. He sets the phone down on the counter and reaches for the electric kettle. A gold band on his left ring finger catches the sunlight. “I can’t help it if I’m always right, Rach.”

Patrick can’t stop staring at the wedding ring. Is he married to—

Rachel groans. “Whatever. That’ll teach me to call to thank you for something.”

The other Patrick fills the kettle and sets it on its base, flipping the switch to turn it on.

“How’s Nathan?”

“He’s good. Actually, that’s, um… that’s the other thing I was going to tell you. He asked me to marry him,” Rachel says.

A wide grin breaks out on future Patrick’s face as he picks the phone up again. “Rachel, that’s fantastic. I’m so happy for you guys. I mean, I assume you said yes?”

Patrick, tiptoeing as if it matters, positions himself so he can see Rachel’s face in the phone in his doppelganger’s hand. She is rolling her eyes. “Of course I said yes. Did you think you’d scared me off engagements forever? Kidding,” she adds quickly.

“Very funny.”

“I might even invite you to the wedding,” she says, “if you’re nice to me.”

The other Patrick looks regretful. “I wish we’d rekindled our friendship sooner. I would have liked you to be there when David and I—”

“Not sure I would have been ready for that last year, to be honest,” she says with a wince.

“Fair enough.”

“But now that I’m marrying someone more handsome than you…”

The other Patrick barks out a laugh, unfazed by the insult. Patrick can’t help but marvel at the way they are still able to tease each other in spite of what must have happened. “He’s also taller. And, I presume, less gay.”

Now Rachel is laughing, and Patrick is so amazed by the sight of their laughter that he doesn’t notice David coming in until he’s crowded up next to future Patrick so that he can peer into the phone. “Hi, Rachel,” he says, a sleepy rasp to his voice. He’s wearing black sweats, the words ‘Radical Feminist’ across his chest in block letters.

“Hi, David.”

The kettle starts to whistle, and Patrick hands the phone — and thus the conversation — over to David so that he can go make tea. David grabs the phone with his left hand, and Patrick can see a matching wedding ring on his finger. It’s all so neat and tidy, and it makes him irrationally angry. Or maybe in light of the fact that he’s currently dying in a frozen lake, the anger is completely rational.

“I get it,” he says, stalking over to Debby. “I get to marry someone I actually want to be with, and Rachel doesn’t end up hating me forever. It’s a perfectly cozy, domestic scene.”

She wrinkles her brow at him. “Isn’t that… good?”

“Yeah, it’s fucking fabulous. And highly improbable.”

Debby taps her fingers against her chin in thought. “Odds that you end up marrying the first man you fall for, are… 1.4% — you’re right, pretty slim, but even improbable things happen sometimes. Odds that Rachel forgives you after three years are high: 71%. You were best friends, so it’s not that surprising that you eventually got past it.”

He turns and looks at them again. David is still talking to Rachel, and Patrick puts a familiar hand on David’s hip as he moves around him to get to one of the cabinets. He pulls two mugs down, kissing David quickly on the cheek as he moves past him again.

Unable to watch anymore, Patrick walks out of the room, wondering what the rules are of his place. Can he wander anywhere in the house he wants to? Can he leave through the front door and walk down the street? If he goes far enough, can he find evidence to prove that this isn’t really the future? Some inconsistency? Some glitch in the matrix?

He pauses at the fireplace, eyes glancing over the wedding pictures arranged in nice frames on the mantel. He and David stand side-by-side in formalwear in the largest photo, smiling for the camera in front of a floral backdrop. In another, they’re flanked by Patrick’s parents on one side and what must be David’s on the other (although David’s mother — if that is his mother — looks like she’s dressed for a costume party). Everyone looks impossibly happy. He stares at his parents’ faces, looking for evidence that they’re disappointed in him, perhaps. He can’t see any.

Continuing on through the house, Patrick finds the bedroom.

He stands over the bed, looking down at the rumpled sheets and pillows, his imagination running away from him and his cheeks flushing hot. He doesn’t want to imagine the kinds of things he does in this bed with a husband (or maybe he really, really does want to imagine it). Sex aside, this is the place where he goes to sleep every night and awakens every morning with David at his side. It’s… a shockingly appealing idea.

He looks up to see Debby watching him.

“So say this is real,” Patrick says to Debby, feeling his heart pounding in his chest at the idea that a man like David loves him — loves him enough to marry him. Loves him enough to befriend his ex-fiancée. Loves him enough to share all the good and bad things about him.

“It is,” Debby says.

“Why show it to me? Will I wake up remembering all this? My supposed future?”

She winces. “No, that would make it all too easy. Or possibly it would drive you mad. But you’ll retain something, I hope. I’ve seen it happen before. You’ll retain enough to know that the life you’re living isn’t the right one, and that you need to make a change. Look, it’s not an exact science, but… oh hey, look at that!”

“What?”

“You’re going,” she says.

“Like… I’m dying?”

“No, silly. You’re going back. You’re going to live.”

~~~

Patrick’s head is on David’s chest, his hand possessive on David’s hip and their legs tangled together. Even though it was only a week apart, even though they’ve now made up in every way they can, it’s still such a profound relief being with him that Patrick feels dizzy. Of course, that could also be the post-orgasmic fugue state he’s in.

“Can I ask you something?” David whispers into the dark of his bedroom.

“Yeah.”

“You said you’d broken up with Rachel a bunch of times. What made it stick the last time?”

Patrick tilts his head back to look up at David. “I ran away and moved here.”

“Right, but what made you do that?”

“Oh, right. I guess since I’ve been avoiding the Rachel topic, I’ve also never told you about the time I almost died.”

David turns suddenly, tipping Patrick off of his body. “I’m sorry, what?” David asks in a high-pitched voice.

Patrick rolls his eyes at David being upset that past-Patrick was in danger, as if it isn’t self-evident that things turned out okay. “I walked out on what I thought was a solid frozen pond. Turns out, not so solid.”

“Oh my god.” David rubs Patrick’s shoulder sort of manically, the way he often does. It’s a gesture that seems like it’s intended to soothe Patrick, but Patrick is starting to suspect David does it to soothe himself.

“Fortunately, some guys saw it happen and were able to lie down on the edge of the break in the ice and pull me out. They called an ambulance and, long story short, I was okay.”

“Okay. What does that have to do with Rachel, though?”

“The accident, it gave me some clarity, I guess? I came away from it with this restlessness that I couldn’t explain. I ended things with Rachel and quit my job and packed up my car and a few days later, I got the job and the room with Ray.”

David kisses him. “I guess lucky for me that you almost died, then.”

Patrick smiles, snuggling into David’s chest again. “Lucky for both of us.”

#schitt's creek ff #schitt's creek fic #david x patrick ff #david x patrick fic #my fic

[arianakristine]

So, I really did not except Ready or Not, horror-comedy that it is, to hit me with a ship. 

But I suppose with a blonde bride who grew up in foster care and is kickass, with a weak but self-preserving groom, and his stubbly curly-haired self-loathing brother? This was only inevitable.

@skagengiirl, I also was taking into account letter L of this prompt, but it turned into something a lot longer to get to that point.

Title: Ready or Not  Summary: AU. On her wedding day, Emma thinks she has finally found a family. But  her groom is a mess of nerves, her new brother-in-law is distracting, and her in-laws are requesting a game at midnight. If this is what it takes, she can deal with a game of Hide and Seek, right? Note: Strong language, blood, violence, death, and attempted-sacrifice tw? I guess? Also time resetting. This is so not my usual gremma feels kinda fic (but it also kinda is). Taking a little from OUAT, a lot from Ready or Not, and then throwing in a fix-it because why not. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

*

 *

                The actual wedding was a blur.

                She had expected it would go quick, but it was like a gunshot how fast it went by, almost like a joke. She barely even registered it until the sun was low in the sky and she was getting final photos with her new family in.

                She is married. She has a husband. She has a family.

                She stands with her hands clutching her bouquet, held smile aching, her in laws over each shoulder. Once the last flash ends, Mr. Gold rushes off to his colleagues. Mrs. Gold squeezes a hand on her shoulder. “Dear,” she says sweetly, her voice more softly accented than her husband’s. “You are doing amazingly.”

                Emma feels a buzz of excitement, and she almost kicks herself out of how eagerly she laps up compliments from her mother-in-law. “Thanks. I think I’m keeping it together. Glad I don’t have to get used to it,” she replies, to which Milah bristles and shakes her head.

                “Well, the Golds still get a lot of attention on an everyday basis, and you are marrying my golden child,” she says with a laugh. “But if you stay in the right circles, you are correct. You won’t have to keep that frozen smile quite so long.”

                She turns and catches Neal’s eye briefly, and he lifts a glass in acknowledgement before turning back to his sister. The redhead is relaxed next to her brother, smile easy. “I’m just glad to be gaining this family,” she admits softly. She needs Milah to know how much this means to her, how much she loves her son and how eager she is to fit in. She’s never fit in before.

                Milah tilts her head and studies her with a smile, hand reaching to touch her chin. “Your vows were beautiful. Neal didn’t tell us you were brought up in foster homes. Not that he tells us much of anything these days.”

                She freezes, and meets her green eyes head on, trying to see there was any judgement there.

                “Ah,” Milah says simply, and chuckles. She winks at her. “I see. You think your blood isn’t blue enough. Don’t worry; they said the same thing about me.”

                “They did?” she asks. She feels oddly unmatched next to Milah’s sophisticated demeanor, and couldn’t imagine her being anything other than this composed, no-nonsense, elegant woman.

                Milah smiles, incisors sharp and bright white. “Stand tall. And fuck ‘em,” she says simply, and then nudges her arm as she leaves the staged area in front of the fountain.

                She plays with her rings, waiting a little anxiously for the next family member. Her brother-in-law hops down the stairs, drink predictably in hand. He sets it on the ground, loose curls falling over his stubbled face, before he joins her. His suit is immaculate and his posture straight despite the sharp smell of whiskey clinging on him. He rests a hand on her spine gently to turn her towards the photographer before dropping it just as quick, and a familiar tingle shoots through her at the action.

                She glances up at him quickly, eyebrow quirking. The Golds are not an unattractive group, but Graham is just … a lot. He looks handsome today, just as handsome as she’d first noticed when Neal had first introduced them weeks ago. It was too bad he leaned so heavily on his vices or else something in his sweet, genuine personality may have changed her mind about which brother she preferred.

                She’s kidding, of course.

                At least mostly.

                “So,” he says, accent tickling her ears. “You’ve decided to stay.”

                His words from the bedroom, as she was practicing her vows, come back to her. Not too late to flee, you know. You don’t belong in this family. And I mean that as a compliment.

                She actually believes he meant that; he was always a little self-loathing, and loved to jump with an insult or two when it came time to mention the entirety of the Gold clan. And he had almost looked mad at his older brother for choosing to marry her, though she must have imagined that. As much as Graham seemed to loathe his family, he loves his older brother a whole lot. But he’s told that joke before, something along the lines she should run screaming from their family, and sometimes it didn’t quite feel like a joke.

                “Observant,” she replies with a nod. Her fixed smile turns to a smirk, and she looks up at him. They’ve always had an easy banter, and she needs a little of that right now. She still feels like a frayed nerve around the rest of the family, too afraid she’ll screw something up and they’ll see just how broken she is. “You look pretty lucid, all things considered,” she states.

                Graham presses his lips into a firm line, those soft cobalt eyes more haunted than amused.

                “Mr. Gold, Mrs. Gold, please look here!”

                She flinches at the technically correct but strangely stated titles.

                Graham’s lip quirks up and he is almost back to his old self. He nods toward the camera. “Quick, smile pretty.”

                She blinks and wants to smack him or something to get him all the way back, but instead does as asked.

                She feels eyes on her as the camera flashes, and she turns her head to find one of the relatives, Aunt Cora, she thinks, staring daggers at her. Shivers unnervingly light up her spine, and Graham shifts to catch her expression.

                “Oh, don’t worry,” he says matter-of-factly under his breath through gritted smile. “She’s just trying to figure out if you’re a gold-digging whore. Y’know, like my wife.”

                She makes a sound half-way between a giggle and a snort, shaking her head with the realization that he is probably drunker than she first assumed. “Don’t let her catch you saying such flattering things,” she admonishes, teasing in her tone.

                Graham smirks and the back of his hand brushes hers as he gives a mock wave in the direction of his wife, who is currently staring down her nose disapprovingly at them. “Oh, she knows exactly how I feel about her,” he says coolly.

                Her brow knits a second and she’s a moment away from pressing further before she remembers: pictures. She smiles once more, but ponders his statement a little. Truly, there seems no love lost between Graham and his icy wife. She wonders what put it there. She’d never met the woman before today. Graham … he seems to be completely sickened by her presence. With how distant Milah and Rupert are from each other as well, she wonders if it is just the strain of the very institution of marriage.

         ��      Neal and her will never be like that, she vows silently.

                Neal didn’t seem suited to the Gold legacy when she first met him, even though he stands to inherit it all. He had been distant from his entire family, except Graham, for almost two years. She guesses that’s what drew her to him in the first place. His outsider-status met up with hers, even if his wealth put them on different tiers. Now she sees just how nicely her groom meshes with the station and tradition. He is laughing with his sister and mother, easy smile on his face. His family loves him, and he fits.

                She wants to fit, too.

                It had been a whirlwind of only three months, and now his ring sat on her finger as he welcomed her to the higher echelon. She didn’t care about the money, but the big, traditional, perfect family … that was something.

                Now that she sees them all together, she can see that Graham, on the other hand, still doesn’t seem to belong. The alcoholism aside, his features and mannerisms and personality are just intrinsically different, enough to be noticeable. And the way the rest of them interact with him: distant, cool. He is definitely the black sheep.

                Neal had said that his brother takes after his mother, and that was the problem. Rupert Gold had married three times, but Milah was both first and last. His lovely second wife Belle had died just after their wedding, from what Emma understood. Graham had been lucky enough to be born just before it, though scandalously just after the first divorce was finalized, as Neal would whisper with a grin.  

                She idly wonders if Graham thinks it an insult the way his wife seems to blend into the darkly pristine family.

                She won’t put a strain on their relationship by mentioning how much she likes that difference in Graham, and how vaguely disappointed she is that she doesn’t see it anymore in Neal.

                “You look beautiful, by the way,” he whispers.

                She looks up, but he isn’t looking at her. He still looks sad, and she wonders if it is just the drinking. She ignores the way the compliment bolsters her. “Thanks. You’d clean up nicely, if you’d lay off the whiskey for a bit.”

                He huffs a laugh that doesn’t meet his eyes. “Well, guess you’d just have to imagine, then.”

                She poses for the last couple pictures, and doesn’t startle when he takes her hand for a few. Part of her remembers the warm feeling when they’d first locked eyes, and how her grip on Neal had faltered. She remembers the easy way they meshed, the silences that were a little heavier and more meaningful than they should be.

                She loves Neal. She is married to him. She will spend her life with him.

                She needs to stop thinking about his brother.

  *

                  “Your little school-boy crush is starting to wear thin.”

                Graham doesn’t glance up at his wife, and instead continues watching his brother and his new bride posing for the last photos. He doesn’t rise to her bait, though irritation flickers through him. He loves Neal. He would never do anything to hurt his older brother, and that includes hiding his affection for his wife. At least, anything that would be considered inappropriate.

                He’s not surprised that she sees it, though; to manipulate someone, you have to know how to read them.

                She sniffs and leans over the terrace, lips pursed. “She’s pretty enough. In that ‘last call at the dive bar’ sort of way.”

                He half rolls his eyes and picks up his drink, finally turning away. He doesn’t need to defend her. Emma is stunning in her wedding gown, just as she has been in leather jackets and blush pink dresses and flannel pajamas.

                He knows he likes her too much. Beyond just the physical attraction that couldn’t be helped, something in her was just … she matched. And she was such a good person, despite the past that she believes makes her unworthy.

                Which is why he is absolutely pissed at his older brother right now.

                He has always loved Neal. He was the only good one in their dominion. The naïve one maybe, but the good one. Graham had bent over backwards to get Neal away from the family, helped him move as far across the country as possible. Helped to remove him from the sacrifices it meant to be a Gold. Even married first, so Neal wouldn’t feel obligated to add to the family line.

                The less they add to this family, the better.

                For him to do all this and Neal to still bring back this beautiful, strong, innocent woman with the intention to be married … he doesn’t know where he went wrong.

                He wishes he were more callous. Maybe he’d have made a move on her, stolen her away, given her another option. He’d seen it once, in her eyes; if he gave her the option, she might have made another decision.

                But he could never do that to Neal, and he could never do that to Emma. Good matched with Good, and he definitely wasn’t that. No, he likely deserves the marriage he has. And Emma deserves much more than any of them.

                He’d hoped Neal would tell her before the wedding. Graham knows he should have told her, too, but he needs Neal to. There’s still has a chance he will; Neal has until midnight to get her out.

                Prove it to me. Prove to me you’re still the good one.

                “She’ll never be one of us, you know,” Regina says, breaking his thoughts. She plucks the drink out of his hand. She takes a swallow, then stares down at her with her penetrating gaze.

                He sneers. “Of course not, dear. She has a soul.”

                Regina certainly does not.

  *

                  Just past midnight, Emma finds herself with a black box in her hands, at the edge of a strangely shaped table, in between her husband and his brother. Across the table, dark eyes measure her up from every angle.

                She swallows and doesn’t jump when the side pocket clicks out, and she quickly scoops up what was inside.

                Emma looks down at the card in her hand, Hide and Seek in a loopy script. She turns the card to show her new family, a smirk on her face. “Seriously?”

                She’s a little taken aback when her husband doesn’t chuckle along with her. Instead, Neal has gone white as a sheet, staring blankly at the card in her hands before his gaze seeks out his father at the head of the table.

                “Everything … okay?” she asks, a little confused.

                “Ah, yeah,” Neal says, and scratches the back of his neck. A stiff smile suddenly plants on his face. “Of course.”

                Mr. Gold rises with a pleased expression and claps his hands together. “Ah, Hide and Seek!”

                The chair creaks beside her and she turns to her new brother-in-law, expecting at least his weird sense of humor, especially in light of the liters of whiskey he’d been ingesting all day. Instead, his face is grim and resigned, the only time Graham has ever refused to look at her.

                Her brow furrows and she shakes her head, wondering if she’s imagining the anticipatory look on the others’ faces. “Are we really going to play that?”

                Gold smirks. “Those are the rules,” he says jovially, tongue trilling against the ‘r’ slightly.

                She was feeling a little ridiculous as she slides the card back and forth between her fingers. She just wants to tear her designer dress with the million layers off, fall into bed with her new husband, and learn what it means to be a married woman. Everyone is looking at her expectantly, though, and she knows she can’t beg off. At least not yet. “So, then … who hides and who seeks?”

                “It’s your initiation, dearie,” Gold says and stands, grabbing his cane along the way to approach her. “You get to be the one to hide.”

                She doesn’t love his tone, the too-eager glint in his eye. She hates this Games room with the animal heads glaring down on her. She hates the designated chair by the fire that no one can sit in. She especially hates feeling everyone staring at her with bated breath (except for Graham, who still can’t look).

                But she guesses she’s playing hide-or-freaking-seek.

                Hopefully the game will be quick.

                She shrugs and follows her father-in-law. “There’s no way to win, then, right?” she asks.

                Rupert grins. “Stay hidden ‘til dawn.”

                She sniggers and shakes her head. “Ah, no thanks. I get a head start?”

                He follows her chuckle, but it seems darker. “Certainly. Count of a hundred.”

                “Oh, wait,” she says before she leaves, and turns back with her champagne to the others. “To Mr.,” oh, what was his name again, “Uh, Deash?”

                They raise their drinks and grin as they toast back, though Graham is staring blurrily at the table. “To Mr. Deash!”

                *

                  She feels numb when Clara falls to the floor, sputtering from a half intact face. Her breaths come sharp, and her fingers are ice cold as Neal grips her hand.

                It could have been her. It should have been her.

                She hears someone skid into the room, triumphantly screeching, “I did it! I got her, Daddy!”

                “Zelena, you shot the maid!” Gold sharply fires back. “And what were you thinking, aiming for the head? She must be alive for the ritual!”

                “Does she look like she’s in a giant wedding gown, Zelena?” Graham’s voice cuts in sardonically from somewhere further away.

                “Oh,” Zelena says, and Emma can hear the frown in it. “Well, it still counts, right?”

                Emma’s breaths sharpen further. Dead. She’s dead. She was right there, and she’s dead.

                She hears not-too-steady footsteps enter the room. “Yeah, let’s be done with this shit,” Graham says, voice tinged with relief.

                “No.” The venomous voice could only be Aunt Cora. “It has to be the bride. Those are the rules.”

                Those are the rules. The bride. Her.

                She doesn’t pay attention to the rest of the clipped jabber. She just knows now that everything she was expecting, the fitting in, the family, is now gone.

                When they leave, dragging the body away, and Neal ushers her into the servants’ corridor, she turns big eyes on him. “What?” she breathes, unable to form any other syllables. She feels sick.

                Neal’s eyebrows jump up. She sees calculation behind his expression before he begins pleading.

                Tradition. They have to kill you by morning. Babe, I’m sorry, but you wanted to get married. If I told you before, you never would have married me.

                The more he explains, the more her heart sinks. She thinks she has already lost all her love for him in those words, even when she tries. She tries to press her lips to his and feel that same passion she’d felt just hours earlier.

                Did you ever love me at all, she wonders, when he leaves her to turn off the security cameras.

                She doesn’t think she wants to know the answer.

                The bottom of the dress rips under her shaking hands, and she stands on sneakered feet. Stay hidden ‘til dawn, right? Neal is helping her escape. That has to count for something.

  *

                  When she enters the study, she is alone. The fire is roaring, and she hides behind a column as she tries to listen out for the Golds. She took a wrong turn or something. She needs to find the service kitchen, wait for Neal to disable the security system.

                What she doesn’t expect is the hidden door at her side opening, Graham coming face to face with her.

                Her chest is rising and falling rapidly, and she knows she must have a crazed look in her eyes.

                His sister just murdered someone, and she thought it was her. This family is trying to kill her.

                Graham’s face is surprised, to be sure, but strangely impassive. His tie is undone and he is holding the strap of a shotgun over his shoulder. He hesitates a beat, and then steps into the room.

                “I just came to get a drink,” he mumbles, and moves slowly to the pool table.

                She can’t steady her breathing, but something in her relaxes. Graham. Her Graham, he tried to tell her, didn’t he? Not too late to flee. He’ll help her. She knows it.

                He crosses to where the open bottle of Wild Turkey is resting. He blinks, lashes skirting across his cheek, and doesn’t look at her as he pours a fifth of bourbon into a crystal glass. “I have to call the others,” he says softly, his accent pooling regretfully around the words.

                “No, Graham, no. You don’t,” she whispers forcefully. Her nails dig into the wallpaper, refusing to move. “No, Graham, please. You can help me.”

                He sighs, such resignation in his whole body. He takes off the gun and leaves it on the table. “This doesn’t end well for you.” He pours a separate glass. “I just don’t want to be the one to serve you up.” He holds it out in offer.

                She is glued to the wall, and her eyes widen even more. No. Graham … he likes her. She can see it all the time. She had almost coaxed the words from him once, in a too-cramped almost-inappropriate space when she had wanted to hear it. Even if he won’t admit it, he likes her. And it’s not just some creepy ‘lusting for his brother’s girlfriend/wife’ situation. It’s real. He likes her. “Graham,” she says forcefully. He’s drunk. He needs to snap out of it. “I’m begging you.”

                He stares downward, the glare of flames flicking across his face and highlighting the perspiration coated over his angular features. He briefly looks at her, before turning his gaze to the painting of his father on the wall. “I’m really sorry about all this,” he says mournfully. “I can give you a ten second head start.”

                She inhales sharply. No. “Graham.”

                He refuses to look at her, but he also refuses to count.

                She wants to scream and shake him. She almost does, but changes her mind last minute. Fuck this, fuck him, fuck everyone. Does she actually know anyone? She runs out the door.

                “One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Two and a half one-thousand.”

                The numbers fade as her sneakers pound against the polished floors, as fast as her feet can carry her. Is he really going to call them to her?

                “She’s in the study!”

  *

                  Regina rushes in with her gun on the ready, but slumps when she only sees her drunken husband.

                “You lost her?!” she exclaims, disgust in her tone.

                Graham swirls the alcohol in his glass and barely nods. He doesn’t look at Regina, bile filling his throat. He swallows it down with the liquor. He sighs. “Indeed.”

                Regina lowers her gun and sneers derisively at him. “You’re pathetic.”

                He raises his empty glass in a toast and nods sharply. “Indeed.” He rises and walks to the decanter, not even glancing back at his wife.

                “You failed. And do you know what happens when you fail, Graham?” He says nothing, and she sets her hands on her hips. “Can you at least pretend to care?”

                He pours another drink and squeezes one hand into a fist. “Do you remember,” he begins, and makes sure his glass full. “When I told you about this?”

                Regina pulls her shoulders back, dark eyes gleaming with loathing.

                He wants to laugh but refrains, and his smile is feral. “You didn’t even blink. You couldn’t wait to sign your soul away.”

                Regina had wormed her way into his life, through lies and guilt and ploys and outright blackmail. But he’d prepared her, told her everything about his family and the game they’d have to play for her to be part of them. He’d told her of the chance, the possibility that they’d hunt her down, sacrifice her to the God of the Underworld to retain their wealth.

                There had been more than a small part of him that hoped she’d pull the wrong card, and he could admit to a flicker of disappointment when she’d pulled chess instead.

                The game has only been drawn twice in his lifetime. He’d only seen it in action once, too young for the actual participation, but he knows full-well what happened that night. Even still, he had hoped to see that loopy script when Regina had turned her card over.

                He knows, ultimately, that he could never be the one to end her, even if he had been prepared to see it through. Maybe that’s why he’s resigned himself to being locked to the woman for life; penance for his past deeds and dark wishes.

                He isn’t prepared to see it through for Emma.

                Regina smiles, cold and sure. “I’d rather be dead than go back to what I was. And you, the fuck-up-lesser-Gold, were an easy out.”

                “Love you, too, honey,” he says sarcastically. Then, with more conviction, he levels his gaze on her. “She doesn’t deserve to die.”

                “That’s not your decision.”

                He chuckles and swallows back his drink. “I hope she kills us all.”

  *

                  “Well, she’s out,” Milah says flatly, watching the dark of the garden from her window.

                Graham smirks and places his gun on the table. “Ah, so. It’s been fun. What do you say, we divvy up the wedding gifts at brunch tomorrow?”

                “Do you think this is a game?!”

                He is slammed into the wall by his father, and he has a flash of fear before he settles back into the detachment. Rupert Gold is usually in control, cold and horrific, perhaps, but rarely quick to act. He sees a sort of madness in his gaze now, and wonders just how far he can push it. He stares into his father’s eyes and can’t help but bite out, “yeah. Hide and Seek, right?”

                He pushes him again and Milah only looks on with her deep green eyes. She pities him, maybe, but she doesn’t speak up. He is not her son, and he is certainly not her golden child.

                Neal and Zelena walk through the door, called by the commotion.

                “Don’t you realize, boy?” Rupert bites out. He gestures to the window. “If she lives until dawn, we all die!”

                He smirks, and shakes his head. He looks to Neal, trying to see if he can discern how safe Emma is by his expression alone. Neal refuses to look at him, and Graham prickles. “That’s what we deserve.”

                Gold levels him with a cold stare. “I want you out of the way. Go take the bodies to the pit.”

                “Zelena, go with him,” Milah urges. Not surprising, since his little sister is the reason the two maids are dead.

                “Ah, clean up duty for the fuck-ups,” Graham mutters, and wonders if he should drink more. He’d probably feel a hell of a lot less. It’s certainly an attractive option when what you feel sucks.

                “But—Daddy,” Zelena whines, but he shushes her.

                “Listen to your mother,” he says dismissively to his youngest, but places a hand on her shoulder and guides her out of the room. “And dearie? Try not to kill anyone else along the way.”

                Graham closes his eyes, wondering if ‘sickened but not surprised’ is his usual state with this family. When they open, his brother is staring. He nods to him, lips in a firm line. Neal will help keep the others away. Emma will get the chance to escape.

                Maybe he actually didn’t fuck it up this time.

  *

                  “Do you really believe that?”

                Graham turns his head to his sister, away from the body of the woman she killed. He feels completely impassive, and he knows without follow-up what she is asking. “Yes,” he says simply, and lugs the body into the pit. “We deserve to die. All of us.”

                “No,” Zelena says roughly. “I don’t. My kids don’t. My kids don’t deserve to die, Graham.”

                For the first time, conflict stirs in him. He considers it a long moment.

                He loves his nephews.

                He doesn’t doubt the curse is real, so, yes, they deserve to be destroyed, all of these damn adults. Generations of this game has passed, and their debt is long overdue.

                But what about the boys? Felix is nine, and Peter is only seven. They are innocent in all this.

                And yet, so is Emma.

                He sighs, unable to say anything to his sister’s point. Then, there is a rustling from one of the stalls. “Peter?” he calls, watching as his nephew pulls himself from the hay, swaying, a welt over his right eye.

                “Peter, baby, what are you doing up?” Zelena cries, and kneels next to him. She rests a hand on his forehead, inspecting the forming bruise.

                “I followed her here,” he says proudly. He lifts his chin. “I shot her with the gun I found.”

                “You—what?” Graham stutters, his blood freezing, horrified. What was Peter thinking? Is she already gone? His mouth goes slack, and he doesn’t know how to process this. He’s seven. “Why would you do that?”

                He frowns and pouts. “That’s what you all were trying to do!”

                Zelena grins and hugs him to her. “Oh, baby, I’m so proud of you.”

                “I’m so proud of you, Graham.”

                He is instantly six years old, shaking and frightened, Milah’s hand on his cheek. Neal is behind him, safe and locked in the closet. He can only stare as his new uncle is dragged into the Games room by his father and grandfather, his screams echoing off the walls. He catches a flash of the man with the blue-flamed hair in the chair by the fire, and his Aunt Cora is drying tears off her cheeks as she abruptly straightens, grip on the dagger tightening by the side of her satin skirt.

                He hadn’t cared, had he? He had seen the bolt lodged in his uncle’s stomach, had heard him begging him to keep quiet. And yet, Graham had still called for the others, told them where he was.

                He let them sacrifice him. It was his fault.

                It was the only time Milah had shown any gentle affection towards him, just like now is the only time he’s seen his sister with any maternal instinct.

                His stomach churns violently, and he has to look away.

                What shade of fucked up is his family?

                “Graham, Zelena!” he flinches at the sound of his father bellowing. “Get back to the house. We’re going to need to start the ritual. Sidney’s found her and is bringing her back.”

                *

                  It’s closer to dawn, she thinks. The stars are still visible and it’s still dark out, but it’s been dark for hours.

                All things considered, she’s been productive if not successful in her attempts to escape.

                She has managed to crash a pot of boiling tea over the butler’s head so she could break out the kitchen door. She has managed to sock that little shit Peter in the face after he shot a hole in her palm. She has managed to crawl out of a pit of dead goats and human skeletons, a nail through her injured hand for her efforts. She has managed to tear through the wrought iron gate and run to the street with only a ripped slash through her side, even if the only result was a tirade of swears at the damned fucker that didn’t stop his car for her. She’s even managed to wake from the tranquilizer dart Sidney hit her with, managed to flip his car into the woods.

                She certainly hopes it’s closer to dawn, with all the shit she’s been through.

                Her head is throbbing as rips herself from the wreck, and feels herself scream more than she actually completes the action.

                Fucking Sidney.

                She has a half second to breathe before there is a rustle in the trees.

                Shockingly, it’s Graham. He is stumbling a bit, hand on his shotgun, cobalt eyes wide in the glare of the headlights. He pauses, and takes in the scene. “Déjà vu,” he says, exasperated.

                “Graham,” she replies, breathless.

                He shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You know, I came out here to get away from the madness, to get some peace and quiet. Thanks for crashing into it. Kinda shocked, given your shy, delicate sensibilities.”

                “Graham,” she repeats, uneasy smile crossing her face. She can’t even respond to his lame attempt at humor. She remembers the swell of affection that could have been more and knows she isn’t wrong about him. She knows she isn’t. “You don’t want to kill me.”

                He pauses and looks at her seriously, suddenly very sober. His gun is still pointed down, nowhere near facing her. “No, I don’t.” He looks distressed. He shakes his head. “I like you, Emma.”

                He admits it, for the first time. She blinks back tears, and she fleetingly wonders what may have happened if he admitted it before she was married. All his thinly veiled warnings are suddenly clear in hindsight, and she wishes so hard that she had pressed for more detail, either from him or from Neal. She reaches forward, and then immediately drops her hand. “So … so, let me go.” She nods, he will, he likes her. “Okay?”

                “I’m weak,” he says with such conviction, something he’s obviously been told a million times over. He shuts his eyes and gives a short shake. He raises the gun. “I can’t.”

                Her blood runs cold.

                “You’re a good guy, Graham,” she says vehemently, pleadingly. He is, isn’t he? Always. An alcoholic, a little dorky, but good. Glaringly, exceedingly good, she’s felt that. “You’re a really, really, really good guy,” she continues, as if trying to convince him of it.

                “It’s the curse. I—I can’t let my entire family die because of you,” he says earnestly.

                “What, Graham, no. That’s – you can’t really believe that’s true! No one is going to die. It’s bullshit. This whole curse, the whole ritual, its bullshit!”

                “No, it’s not, Emma. I’ve seen it,” he says plainly.

                She wants to rip her hair out and scream in his face. “You’re better than this, Graham!” she argues.

                He looks pained, then almost angry. “I am not who you think I am.”

                She swallows, but doesn’t dare take a step back.

                He chuckles humorlessly and rolls his eyes up. “Neal was the one who got out. If anyone was to save you, it wouldn’t be me. It would have been him.” He stares at her, and his deep eyes are swimming with tears that don’t dare fall. “Just ask my wife. She’ll tell you how heartless I am.”

                The muzzle is at her shoulder, but he isn’t pulling the trigger, and the kick of the powerful weapon would put the bullet in the trees anyway. It’s as if he’s afraid to hurt her. It’s ridiculous, to be fair: she is hurt enough, blood loss making her faintly dizzy, and the dress that she had painstakingly chosen is ripped and stained with violence and dirt and smells strongly of past sacrifices, and that’s not even mentioning that his whole family is trying to kill her. “Graham,” she tries, one last time. “You have a heart.”

                He shakes his head, so utterly mournful.

                Then the shotgun swings instead of fires, and she almost welcomes the blackness.

  *

                  He looks down at the blood-splattered bride, chest heaving. She almost looks peaceful, and he wonders how she can still look so lovely after all that has happened. He swallows thickly, and wishes that things were different. He wishes he was different. But he can’t take the time to consider any of it. His shoulders slump. “You can come out now.”

                His father moves around the trees, looking surprised. He is leaning on his cane, but he doesn’t limp despite the uneven terrain. “You knew I was there?” he asks.

                Graham barely shows his teeth as he puts his gun back over his shoulder. “I’m drunk, not blind.”

                His father grins, shiny and manic, and looks down at Emma. “I do apologize if I startled you during such an … intense conversation, son.”

                He says nothing, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He’s been in this family long enough; he knows when to shut up and play his part.

                “You did well, for once. Let’s bring her back for the ritual.” Rupert pulls out a coin, heads or tails, to determine how to drag her back up to the house.

                Graham shakes his head and pulls her up in his arms, letting her head rest against his chest. She settles against his heart, her breaths only slightly labored. Her left hand is wrapped in lace, dripping blood, and a gash is visible on her side. He presses his lips together, subconsciously pulling her tighter to him. He grimaces and looks up at his father. “Tradition, right?”

                Gold stares at him a long moment, that deep stare that says he is not seeing his child but someone else. “You’re doing the right thing, son. I always knew you had it in you.”

                Graham raises his brow and gives him a long look but says nothing.

                His father could never lie so well.

    *

                                  She wakes on the table where the game started.

                She is lashed, ropes tied at all limbs. She pulls, and fights against the bonds, but she is properly strapped down and can’t squirm enough to get any leverage. A muffled scream tears through her, and she knows that she is trapped.

                All the Golds stand above her, save Neal. They are cloaked in hooded robes, the patriarch chanting something in Latin. They look unnatural, not the people she’d seen earlier today and had been so willing to let into her heart, flaws and all. These couldn’t be the same people that were going to be her family.

                A silver chalice is being passed around, and she watches as Regina licks a thick line of dark red blood from her lips with anticipatory delight across her face; she looks the most eager to see her dead.

                She finds Graham’s eyes in the midst of it all. They look hollow, the depth of them suddenly endless. He brings the chalice to his mouth, and doesn’t break his stare before it is passed along.

                She wants to scream again around the gag in her mouth, but the ache in her chest says more.

                She had believed in him. Even more than Neal, she had believed in Graham. That realization breaks her heart more than anything else.

                What’s worse is some traitorous part of her that is still screaming to believe in him.

                Gold’s chanting is reaching a crescendo, a call and response from the others. He begins to raise the dagger above his head, and thunders, “hail Hades!”

                Graham is watching with dark eyes, suddenly a bit of life in them. She has only a moment to register it before Gold bubbles up with vomit, blood staining down his fancy clothing. Milah quickly follows suit, and the rest grab their bellies, eyes wide.

                “Poisoned!” Cora shouts accusingly before she doubles over herself.

                “You son of a bitch,” Gold growls under his gagging.

                Graham smirks as he unlaces her binds, and barely ducks away from the weakened swing of his father’s last ditch effort to punch out at him. Everyone else is still retching, diving into corners to keep away from the ceremonial table.

                She goes to work as soon as her hand is free, helping loosen her injured arm as he moves to the ankles.

                He helps her up with an embrace around her waist, hoisting her until she is steady on her feet and they are both running.

                “Did you …?” she asks breathlessly. Did he just kill his family for her?

                He shakes his head. “No, I just gave them a nip. I googled it. They’ll shit weird for a week, but they’ll live.” He pulls her into an enclave beside the staircase and they crouch down to listen for the rest as she watches one of the hooded figures run through the hall, gagging as he went.

                She stares at him, heart tugging. Soft locks curl across his forehead and she has an urgent need to sweep them back. Instead, she smiles. “I knew you’d help me,” she whispers.

                He looks back down at her, as if looking at her for the first time. His face softens, warms, and she falls a little in love with him. “I didn’t,” he replies softly.

                She shakes her head and smiles at him. “See? You have a heart.”

                He cracks a small smile back to her, more genuine than any before it. He shrugs. “All I knew was that someone, at some point, had to burn it all down.”

                She takes a sharp breath, and looks down at her injured hand, wrapped up in lace.

                “I’m glad it’ll be you,” he whispers.

                She’s in his space, gaze locked with his. She wants to tell him that she’s glad it’s him, that he’s the only one with a soul in this damn family, that she wishes she met him first, something.

                He closes his eyes and chuckles slightly, and carefully takes her broken hand in his. “I would have never married you.”

                Maybe it’s the most romantic thing she’s heard in her life.

                *

                    It doesn’t matter.

                In the end, it doesn’t matter that she thinks they made a wrong decision.

                They turn the corner, on the way to the exit, and Regina is at the ready, a gun in her hands.

                Emma freezes, and Graham moves quicker than either woman can think, quickly trading places with her.

                “Graham,” Regina utters harshly, accusation and anger on her breath, dark hair matted to the side of her face.

                Graham shifts quickly, carefully, to block her fully from the brunette’s aim with his body. She disappears behind him, and Emma leans back against the door frame, feeling exhausted and panicked, and she wants so much not to fight any more. She just wants out.

                “Regina, Regina, no,” he demands, though his tone loses its edge with the desperation behind it.           

                “Move,” she demands. Regina stares a long moment, and shakes her head as she glares at her husband. “She has to die.”

                “No,” he repeats and holds one hand out as if the action itself could stop her. “Things have to change, Regina.”

                “You’re leaving me for her.” Regina’s eyes damn with realization. “You really don’t care if I live or die.”

                He holds up his hands, and takes a step forward. “You really don’t have to—“

                The shot rings out and the bullet clips through his neck. Emma isn’t even sure if she cries out as he stumbles to the ground.

                All she knows is that she is enraged, and she leaps forward before Regina has the chance to pull the trigger again. Three shots fire harmlessly into the walls and ceiling before Emma gains control. Coldly, she turns the barrel back to Regina and pulls the hammer. It clicks hollowly, out of bullets, and Regina lunges, but Emma is faster. She slams her with the pistol once, twice until she is on the ground.

                She raises her chin, proud, until she hears a choked gasp behind her. She spins and the gun clatters. "Graham.”

                She falls beside him, fingers going to the thick, warm blood pumping from his neck. She can feel the life draining out of him. “No, Graham!” she says, panicking.

                He has just the right amount of worry, of love still in his eyes but he can barely speak beyond the blood filling his lungs. “Go.”

                “Graham,” she cries, and presses harder. Maybe if she keeps the pressure.

                He weakly grasps her wrist and tugs. “Go,” he chokes out again, barely able to make out the syllable.

                She nods once, hot tears spilling over her cheeks. “Thank you,” she cries and leans her forehead against his. She wobbles to her feet, forcing herself to remember the danger. She leaves him behind.

                She doesn’t look back, but feels like part of her is missing when she rounds the corner.

                So of course that’s when she sees Milah, barely ducking away from the arrow shot her direction. “You don’t deserve this family,” she grinds out, colder than she’s ever been.

                It’s not near over. And now every cell in her body is demanding that she fight.

  *

                  Neal’s face is … lost.

                Emma watches as he approaches her, her good hand soaked with the mixed blood of his mother and Graham and her own. She is still panting, feeling crazy. She drops the box on the ground, and it clatters loudly next to Milah’s body.

                She rises, but doesn’t walk towards her husband. “Neal … I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” It was deserved, but she did just kill his mother.

                But he doesn’t look towards the smashed ruin of his mother’s face. He is like a lost little boy as he aimlessly steps forward. “Yeah, I’m sorry, too,” he says weakly. His eyes shine with tears. “Graham’s dead.”         

                She stares, wondering if it hurts worse to have seen him dying or to have his demise confirmed now.

                Neal finally looks at his mother, and he shakes his head a little. “You won’t be with me after this, will you?”

                She feels stricken. No. Of course not. Your family is trying kill me, and Graham was the only one really helping and now he’s dead. But she doesn’t answer, not sure where he’s going with this.

                He takes a step forward, and cups her cheek in his hand. She wants to remember what it was like, to feel loved by him, but leaning into it does not make her feel that warmth.

                Cobalt eyes and a gentle squeeze was more than she had ever felt with Neal.

                But maybe this is goodbye, and he is letting her escape like he has promised all through the night, and he is letting her go.

                But then his other hand reaches to her other cheek, and he presses. Hard. Harder.

                “Neal, Neal, you’re hurting me,” she hisses out.

                She watches the exact moment he changes, and he flips around, holding her tight to him. “She’s in here!”

  *

                  This time, there are no hoods. No bindings. No gag.

                Somehow it is even worse to see Neal standing above her, chanting, in the remains of his tuxedo, Graham’s blood splattered across the white of his expensive dress shirt.

                She is held down by the remaining family, even Zelena’s two boys have taken hold of her leg. She should be weak with blood loss, but when she sees Neal raise the dagger, ready to pierce through her heart, she gets the sudden energy to move and the dagger plunges through her shoulder instead.

                She barely registers the pain, too much in too short of time, all on the same damn arm, and she uses the leverage and the shock to yank it out of her. She leaps onto her feet and turns on the family with it raised in challenge.

                She thinks Gold looks the most surprised, mouth open and eyes wide.

                “But—“

                She screams in rage, poising the weapon at a better angle. The family all look perplexed, and Neal’s face is still colored in frenzy.

                “Dawn!” Cora calls suddenly, and they all look out the window in fear.

                The light of day falls on them all, and they cower for a moment until … nothing.

                “Nothing?” Victor asks, then looks around. He points to his wife in accusation and self-righteousness, and Zelena only cowers over the kids. “I knew this was all bullshit!”

                “What do we do with her, then?” Regina bites in.

                Rupert looks confused, and glances to his sister with a shrug of bewilderment.

                Cora shakes. “I know it’s too late, but I won’t fail him. The girl still dies!” she screams and raises her axe.

                And she immediately explodes.

                Emma begins to laugh. She feels like she can’t do anything else as she watches as one by one the family just … combusts. She is soaked with blood and viscera, and can’t stop the hysterical laughter escaping her. Victor, Zelena, Rupert.

                It is an extra feeling of righteousness to see Regina burst after she pathetically pleads for her old life. Emma’s eyes close as she grins at the justice in it.

                Was this winning?

                “Emma, no, Emma.”

                She turns to her husband, the only one left.

                His eyes are wide, crazed, pleading. “No, Emma, I don’t want to die.”

                “Neither did I, you selfish fuck,” she bites out.

                “No, see, you made me better! And—and he’s not taking me! Don’t you see? We can leave together! I can get a do over, and it’s because of you, right?”

                “Oh, Neal,” she says and shakes her head. For the first time since the game began, she feels pity for him. He looks pathetic. She slips off her rings. “I want a divorce.”

                He explodes as soon as the platinum hits him, but she barely looks. She braces herself on the table, and wonders if she should feel more than this … numb.

                She survived. But this doesn’t feel like winning.

                She stumbles out of the room, and then falls, cross-legged, into the middle of the floor. Graham’s body is still in the hallway, hand slack at his neck. She stares a long moment, then crawls to him, cradling her useless arm to her chest.

                He looks asleep, save for the drying blood across his cheek and half-hidden under his fingers. She pushes back the hair on his forehead. “Thank you,” she whispers again, and tears track down to cut through the gore on her face. She has saved herself, ultimately, but would she had even gotten this far without his help?

                “Graham … you have a heart. You’re the only one in your family to claim that,” she says, and brushes back his hair soothingly. She can’t do anything more than that, wrath and betrayal and pain hidden beneath the actual sorrow she feels as she looks down on his face.

                She hears footsteps shadow her into the hall, the smell of ash and sulfur following. She looks up, and there is a figure with blue-flame hair and a nasty grin.

                She stares at him blankly a heavy beat. “Mr. Deash, I presume?”

                His grin widens, and he looks down at the wrecked body in her arms, considering. “Want to play another game?”

  *

                  She wakes back in the Games room, card flimsy but solid in her hand. Her dress is pristine, lace sleeves intact and pure white again. Neal is beside her, Zelena and Victor opposite, Gold at the head, Milah smiling at his side, Regina cool and sneering.

                She looks up, and lastly catches Graham’s eye next to her.

                He has that look, that look of dread and realization, but he is looking at her this time.

                “Emma—“

                “Oh, Hide and Seek!” Rupert exclaims.

                She stands, grateful not to wobble, and squeezes her left hand open and shut a few times. “Those are the rules, right?”

                Her mouth forms a firm line. She will put on a show for Hades, but she will right her wrongs. She’ll win this time.

                Fuck you, Mr. Deash.

  *

                  When the hidden door opens in the study, she is ready.

                She fists her hands in the collar of his shirt and pulls him close. “You remember,” she accuses.

                He swallows visibly and nods.

                “You die,” she says.

                “Yeah,” he answers.

                “They die,” she admits, unsure if he knows. He was gone before it happened. “Neal tries to complete it. I escape. I live ‘til dawn, and they all die.”

                He looks down at her, cobalt eyes catching the reflection of the flames. “Yeah.”

                There is silence a few beats. It feels like a final question. He had been ready to save her before he knew that his family – his parents, his sister, the boys, Neal – they all would die violently. Would he still be willing to save her knowing that they will be wiped out?

                He shakes his head, haunted. “He should have told you before he asked.”

                She nods, quick to agree. They could have avoided this whole night if Neal had told her before he bent on one knee, and they could have all made it out in one piece. “Yeah. You could have tried better to, too, you know.”

                He barely nods, though she can see some doubt in him. “He was always better than me. I wanted to give him a chance.”

                She waits through the heavy silence, grip unfaltering in the heavy fabric of his dress shirt.

                He swallows visibly, and leans down fractionally. “We need to get you out of here,” he says softly.

                She feels her heart twist and swell, affection swirling in her belly. She steps on tiptoes to press a kiss, solid and firm, on his lips, like she hadn’t the chance to the loop before. She falls back to watch his face.

                He is stiff a moment before he takes in a ragged breath, and then his hands press at the small of her back, over untarnished lace and silk, as he yanks her lips to his again, holding her close as he deepens the kiss to shape something more desperate and longing.

                “Do you need a divorce,” he ponders when they part. “When your wife murders you?”

                She inhales and exhales a short laugh. “I don’t know. Do you need one when your husband tries to sacrifice you to Hades?”

                His winces, mirth suddenly gone from his face. She supposes it still feels wrong; he put Neal up on a pedestal for so long, his perfect older brother. She closes her eyes and rests her head on his chest, hoping he takes the apology for what it was.

                “I still wouldn’t marry you,” he murmurs over her head.

                “I wouldn’t marry you,” she counters and peers up with him. She rests her hand over where he bled out, rubbing softly against the whole, unblemished skin. “But I’d be willing to spend some lifetime with you. Like, a lot of it.”

                He smiles at her so gently, and takes her left hand in his, skipping past her rings and brushing over where her bullet wound had been. “First we have to win.”

                Oh, right.

                Murder-family.

                Need to deal with that first.

  *

                  This time, they watch the sun rise over the trees together, on the steps of the sprawling mansion. They share a bottle of scotch, passed back and forth between bloodied hands. She lets him mourn, and she allows herself to mourn a little, too. She can’t cry yet, and she suspects that he can’t quite manage either. It’s fine; they have time.

                She expects they’ll be doing a lot of that: mourning. Shared trauma has a reputation for being long-term.

                 “Shouldn’t I have combusted at this point?” he asks artlessly as he squints into the daylight.

                She sniffs and shakes her head. “That wasn’t the deal,” she answers simply.

                He rests backwards onto the steps with one arm draped over his eyes and coughs hoarsely. He has a bullet hole in his shoulder now, but she likes it a hell of a lot better than one in his neck. “You didn’t tell me why we got a do-over,” he says without accusation.

                She takes a final gulp and then settles next to him. She tugs an arm over his stomach and pulls her body inward, and he takes her automatically closer. She rests her head over his heart and presses her injured hand over his wound. “I didn’t sell my soul, if that’s what you’re asking,” she says dryly.

                He laughs, deep and effortless, and then rocks his forehead on her temple. Sirens scream in the distance, slowly approaching, but neither of them pay it any mind. “Ah, my guess would have been the first-born.”

              �� She snorts and sighs. She looks up at him, catching his dark blue eyes made darker with the blood of his family covering his face. She uses her thumb to smear off some on his cheek, as delicately as she is able. For all the horror of it, he’s here. So all she can offer is a shrug. “He likes the game. It gave him a second chance to be entertained, which he wouldn’t have had with all the Golds dead.”

                “And you? You won. Why play it again, risk it again?”

                She sits back up and he half follows, leaning up on his good arm.

                It’s a fair question.

                She’s a little worse and a little better this time. Her leg is sliced open from the swing of Cora’s axe, but her side is unscathed. Her hand is still blown through and she still has the wound in her shoulder, mirroring his almost exactly, but she’s without any head injuries from the car crash. Things didn’t happen quite the same, and it was indeed a major risk.

                She stares down at a ring hand that never had time to leave a tan line. “Surviving at this level is different, obviously, but surviving isn’t new for me. All my life, I’ve learned how to survive,” she says softly. She turns to him and sees the light and life in his eyes, and she smiles. “But this time I wanted to save, too.”

                His eyebrows shoot up, and she can read every bit of why me in his gaze without him saying a word.

                “You saved me. I wanted to save you back,” she asserts softly.

                He grabs her hand and pulls her back down into his embrace, waiting for the storm of police to invade the lawn. “That make you my Savior?”

                “Might make you mine,” she counters, and he grins and pulls her down for a kiss laced with iron.

                Maybe she’s found her family after all.

 end.

#gremma #gremma ff #ready or not au #graham humbert #emma swan #violence tw #death tw #blood tw #alcohol abuse tw #attempted murder tw #(and by now you know that this is not my usual) #anti neal #anti regina #the rest of them are pretty awful too but the only real anti are those two #weirdest family yet #grace and daniel are emma and graham I don't make the rules

[radstag-ghoul]

Chapter 1: The Alley Cat and Scarecrow

Wendy was definitely lost, of that she was sure. For the past hour she had been roaming the ruined streets of Boston, evading raiders, feral ghouls, Gunners andl Super Mutants, whilst trying to find Diamond City. The map on her PipBoy was no use now however, the screen having staticked out about an hour ago, leaving her to follow the crumbling highway above.

She was also sure she was as good as dead unless she found a better place to hide. Scarcely daring to breathe, the woman continued to cower behind the ruined truck, the tick, tick, tick of the Super Mutant Suicider pacing around on the other side just loud enough for her to hear.

"Where'd human go!" The mutated being bellowed. Wendy flinched, her grip tightening on the pipe rifle in her hands. Her luck at avoiding conflict had finally ran out it seemed. Just five minutes prior she had run into a band of five Super Mutants. Two of them she had managed to take out, though two of those that remained, she realized too late, were much more deadly. She had already seen what the first suicider had done, to one of its own comrades who had gotten too close, so she knew she had no chance against the remaining monster. She had been partially caught in that first explosion, thrown violently against a wall, and judging from the sharp ache in her left arm and side with each breath she took she'd wager she had broken a rib or two and her arm. Not to mention she was covered in numerous burns, her Vault jumpsuit riddled with scorch marks. She had also been seperated from Dogmeat in the blast, unsure if the faithful hound had even survived. Poor dog. I can't even look for h-shit! She looked around frantically, as the ticking grew steadily louder. "Gonna find you! Gonna kill you!"

Then, she saw it. Her salvation. From the corner of her eye, the glow of a neon sign. In her panic she hadn't noticed it before, but now it seemed bright as day to her eyes, beaming proudly the word "GOODNEIGHBOR" with an arrow pointing to the right. Don't know where that goes, but sure as hell better than sitting duck here. Saying a silent prayer to whatever god was listening, Wendy peeked over the hood of the truck, attempting to gauge if she'd be able to make it before she was spotted-just in time to look the angry Super Mutant right in its beady, dark malevolent eyes.

"There you are!" It bellowed, dashing towards her as fast as its thick, muscled legs could carry it.

"Fuck!" Wendy screamed, turning tail and running towards the sign and where it pointed. She could hear the ticking speeding up, practically behind her accompanied by the loud plodding steps. Up ahead she could see a door, with another neon sign above it. Though with a sinkimg feeling she realized she wasn't going to make it in time. So this is how it ends, blown to hell by the fucking un-jolly green giant. Never even made it to Diamond City. Shaun, I'm so-

The loud booming pop of a gunshot sounded off from somewhere atop the wall of "Goodneighbor", a bullet whistling over her head towards the monster behind her. Hearing a strangled grunt and a loud thud Wendy would wheel about, to see her pursuer lying dead on the ground, blood pooling from its ruined left eye, the mini nuke it had been holding having rolled a short distance away, no longer in danger of being detonated.

What in the goddamn...? Looking back to the wall, she saw no one there who could have fired the shot. Several moments later however Wendy heard a voice-distinctly masculine and somewhat annoyed- calling over the wall "Well? You gonna come in and thank me?"

"Uh...sure." She called back, Well, if he saved me guess that for sure means they're friendlies in there. I hope. Taking a deep breath, she would cautiously limp towards the door, slowly opening it and slipping inside.

The first thing she noticed was the man just clambering down from the wall, a sniper rifle holstered on his back-a thin wisp of smoke still wafting out of the barrel, indicating him as her savior. Bald with a patchy stubbly beard upon his chin, he wore the same style of black leathers and jeans she had come to associate with the bands of raiders she had tangled with. Which of course already made her uneasy, along with his sleazy smile. He took a drag from the glowing cigarette in his hand as he looked her over, taking in her current sorry state.

The second thing she noticed was the location she was in: what appeared to be a town of some sort-if it could even be called such. Two shop fronts stood across from her, and to her left a building she remembered from a middle school field trip-the Old State house. In the shadows of the building Wendy could see two people standing together, face to face, quietly conversing with eachother-the one with their back turned to her wearing a long red coat of some sort, and what appeared to be a tricorn hat. The one that faced her was decked out in metal armor, a woman, her head shaved bald save for a single, long crest of copper colored hair that fell in a wave over the left side of her head.

She continued to stare for several moments, distracted from the one who had killed the suicider-though her attention was jerked away from the pair as he spoke up, his voice just as sleazy as his smile "Now now, you can properly thank me, eh? Hows about some payment for saving your ass. And of course y'gotta pay for...insurance as well, being a newcomer and all."

Wendy blinked, "Um, excuse me? Insurance?" Is he for real?

"You heard me." He sounded more aggressive now, a more demanding tone to his voice. "All newcomers gotta pay insurance. And like I said, you owe me." He smirked.

Wendy felt the flush of red hot anger rise in her as she shook her head at him, "I don't have that many caps, and I need 'em!" She snapped, narrowing her eyes at him. "Why even shake me down now? What was the point of saving me when you coulda just picked over what was left of me?"

"Caps have worth, irradiated, melted metal don't. That's why. Not very bright, are you?" He sneered, tapping ash from his cigarette as he started walking nearer, blowing the smoke in her face. "Now, I ain't saying it again...you hand over everything you got in them pockets or 'accidents' start happening to ya. Big, bloody accidents." He patted the rifle on his back, baring his teeth in a threatening grin.

"Fuck off," Wendy snarled, with as much venom and malice as she could muster, raising her pipe rifle to point at him, satisfied when she saw him flinch at the unexpected ferocity. "Or you're the one that's gonna have a big, bloody accident." In the back of her mind she knew it wasn't a good idea. She was already tired out and injured, practically on the verge of falling over right there, though she was doing her best to hide it as she glared unwaiveringly back at him.

From the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of red approach, accompanied by a voice- slightly gravely, somehow smooth, yet with a subtle edge of command to it. "Whoa, whoa. Time out."

Finn flicked his gaze to the man, taking a step back from Wendy as she too turned her attention to the newcomer-the red coated stranger who had been standing in the shadoss. Though as he now stepped out of the gloom, Wendy had to hold back a gasp as she saw his face. Beneath the tricorn hat atop his head, the man looked to be bald, the entirety of his face and the rest of his head and visible skin covered in burns and scar tissue. Half of his nose had fallen off, leaving two bare nostrils in place of a proper proboscis. The outer lobes of his ears were likewise missing, along with most of his lips. Dark brown, nearly black eyes bored into the man, seeming devoid of either white or pupil. The coat he wore looked extremely old fashioned-a colonial frockcoat, completed with black trousers, a frill collared shirt underneath, and most amusingly a tattered old American flag tied around his narrow waist like a sash. "Someone steps through the gate the first time, they're a guest. You lay off that extortion crap." That dark gaze fell upon Wendy, a slight worried frown tugging at his scarred lips, so quick she thought for a monent she was imagining it. "This one especially, look at her, she's shakin'. Must've been through some shit to get here."

Wendy blinked, realizing she was indeed shaking, trembling slightly, though neither from her ordeal or from Finn's threats. No, it was this strange, scarred man that now made her shake, much to her embarassment, as she fought not to look away from such an inhuman gaze, scarcely daring to blink. What is he? Is he one of those...things? He looked somewhat like the feral Ghouls she had fended so far, though much less zombie-like, decrepit and decayed looking, and clearly more intelligent and sane. He must be one of those normal Ghouls Preston mentioned.

For the briefest moment Wendy saw a flash of fear in Finn's eyes at the approach of the Ghoul, though he tried hiding it, puffing his chest out and crossing his arms "What d'you care? She ain't one of us!" He growls "'Sides, I saved her ass, she owes me!"

"What, no love for your Mayor, Finn?" The Ghoul huffed slighty, pretending to be offended. "Also I don't think she owes you anything. You were just being a good neighbor, right? So let her go." There was an edge of steel to his voice this time as he glared at Finn, never once breaking eye contact. If Wendy herself had been on the recieving end, she would have caved instantly.

Finn, however, wasn't as smart, as he took another step towards "the Mayor", dropping the butt of his cigarette and grinding it under the heel of his boot. "Y'know what, you're soft, Hancock." He gave a dark chuckle, staring right back unflinchingly at him. "You keep letting outsiders walk all over us, someday there'll be a new mayor." He cast his gaze at the town around him for a moment, trying to catch the eyes of those watching. Though everyone seemed to be carrying on with their own business, Wendy could see many people glancing their way every so often. The woman in combat armor was the only one who seemed to have her full attention focused on the scene, smirking as she leaned against one of the shop walls.

Hancock gave a small sigh, his expression softening some as he seemed to drop the "tough mayor" act. "Come on, man, this is me we're talking about." His lips curving into an easy soft smile, he started walking towards Finn. "Let me tell ya something..." He extended a hand to the man, placing it on his shoulder as if he were about to pull him into an embrace. Finn looked uneasy, though uncrossed his arms, letting his guard down at the Ghoul's familiar, friendly tone.

Wendy saw different however, as she saw the glint of steal behind the Ghoul's back. She didn't even have time to cry out in shock as Hancock drove the blade of a knife into Finn's chest, not once but twice, his smile twisting into a savage grin. Finn gave a strangled cry, his face frozen into a mask of shock, anguish, and betrayal. As the man toppled over, twitching and gasping as his life ebbed away and the blood pooled under him, Hancock uttered a loud tsk tsk tsk, wiping the bloodied blade on a rag he produced from somewhere within the frock coat. "Now why'd you have to go and say that, huh? You're breaking my heart over here." Raising his gaze from the dying man, those dark orbs focused on Wendy, that worried frown having returned. "You alright, sister?"

Wendy swallowed hard, struggling to find her words after witnessing such an unexpected, brutal act. "I-I, uh, th-thanks?" She stuttered stupidly, wheezing some. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off some, her side was starting to scream with pain, making it much harder to breathe. With alarm she noted her vision starting to swim, as her knees shook violently, threatening to give way beneath her. "Jus...need a mo'..."

Hancock blinked, walking nearer to her, reaching out a hand as if to steady her. A hand still spattered with Finn's blood. Already he sounded somewhat distorted and far away to her, seeming to grow and stretch further and further away "Shit, I'm gonna take...as a 'no'. Listen...a stimpak...y'need...it easy?"

Thats all she heard as she crumpled to the pavement beneath her, the stress and strain of her injuries and ordeal finally catching u to her. As her vision blurred and darkened, she heard a few last words before she slipped into unconsciousness

"Poor little Alley Cat..."

* * * * * * *

Hancock swore loudly, rushing forward to try to catch the woman before she fell-too late, sadly. He should have expected that to happen eventually given her current state. It was pretty damn impressive she didn't collapse as soon as she stepped through the gate. "Shit..." He sighed as he knelt beside her, calling over his shoulder to Fahrenheit as he heard her approach "Think she's gonna need more than one stimpak. Medex too. Also, got any radaway on ya? Feel like she's gonna need it. Poor Little Alley Cat..." He murmured.

The woman's right side was covered in burns, most second degree but several third, splotching her Vault jumpsuit with scorched holes. Judging from the faint glow that lingered around them, Hancock could tell they were nuclear in origin. Thought I heard a Suicider. But no boom. Must've ran into more than one. Amazin' she's still alive.

Fahrenheit scoffed as she stood beside him, tossing him the requested meds "Don't you think it's a little too soon for that?" She joked, refeeing to his...untraditional use of the chem when it came to 'spending time with his smoothskin friends' "Don't think she's exactly up for it either."

Hancock shook his head, tsking as he nimbly caught the syringes and Iv bag, scarcely having to look"I'm sure there'll be plenty of time for that later, but it's for a much more practical use now. She's fucking coated in radiation burns." Taking the cap off the medex syringe, he'd slide up the sleeve of her jumpsuit, wincing in sympathy as the woman whimpered and stirred, the material rubbing against one of her burns. Sliding the needle into her vein, he'd push slowly down on the plunger, before slowly pulling it out, tossing the empty thing aside.

The woman lay still once more as the drug kicked in, seeming to fall deeper into unconsciousness. However, her eyes slowly fluttered open, glazed and unfocused, staring directly into his. Her trembling rosy lips parted, as she croaked out a single word. "Sc...are...crow..." Her eyes slipped shut again, as her breathing deepened, passing out for good.

Hancock blinked, not sure what to think of that. "Huh...alright then." This one's got "very strange" written all over it. Wait...111? As he continued to look her over he noticed the numbers sewn along her collar, announcing what Vault she hailed from. "Heya, Fahr, ya ever hear of a Vault 111? That even in the Commonwealth?"

Fahrenheit leaned in closer to inspect the Vault Dweller herself, silent save for a long hmmm before she'd straighten again, shaking her head "Can't say I have...she's a looker though, eh?" She joked, refering to the burn scar and white blotched skin that marked her right cheek. "Ain't the first time she's been burnt this bad."

"So it seems." Taking the radaway now Hancock ripped it open with his teeth, carefully pouring some over each of her wounds, confident there'd been enough time for the medex to put her out for it. After that he would stick her in the shoulder with both stimpaks, before he'd stand, motioning to two of the Neighborhood Watch who lingered nearby "How's about instead of rubbernecking ya make yourselves useful. You, carry her over to the Rexford, tell Claire she needs a room. If either her or Marwoski give ya shit, tell em I'm footin her bill."

He watched as the one he indicated rushed forward to scoop up the petite woman, grumbling under his breath as he hurried off towards the hotel with her. Hd nodded tothe other, jerking his thumb towards the still-warm corpse of Finn "You, take out the trash. Get that scuzzball out of my sight." Turning, he'd walk back towards the State House, not even bothering to watch the other Ghoul drag the would-be mugger away, making a note to check in on the odd woman later. "Now, Fahr, what were you saying about Pickman's Gallery ag-hmm?" The Ghoul stopped, his hand hovering over the knob of the door as he heard scratching at the town gate, as if some sort of animal were trying to get in. Then several moments he could gear barking, carrying over the wall from the otherside. Curious, Hancock strode over, throwing open the old blue door-his knife at the ready first in case of trouble.

A blur of brown and black fur tore past him, causing him to cry out in surprise as the beastie ran across his toes "What the hellM He blinked, watching the dog run further into town, heading in the direction of the Memory Den and Hotel Rexford. "...Huh. Well, betcha 50 caps that dog has something to do with her." Chuckling, he shook his head, closing the gate once more as he strode back towards Fahr and the Old State House. "Now, you were sayin'?"

* * * * * * *

Wendy awoke with a start, her eyes flying open to stare at the peeling, cracked, burned ceiling above her. Her mind spun in confusion, as she tried to process where she was and what happened through the clinging, groggy haze of sleep. Boston. The Super Mutants. Someplace called Goodneighbor. Hancock.

Suddenly something wet and cold brusher against her hand, accompanied by a soft whining sound. Uttering a small gasp, she turned her head to look beside the bed, to find a familiar canine nudging at her hand. "Dogmeat!" She exclaimed, scrambling to sit herself upright. The dog gave a small, happy bark in reaponse, jumping up on the bed. Laughing, Wendy flung her arms around him, not even minding the sloppy wet licks he gave to her scarred cheek "Oh, thank God...I thought you were a goner. Who's the bestest goodest boy?" She crooned, scratching him behind the ear. Dogmeat whined happily, squinting his eyes shut and leaning into the touch.

As she lavished attention on her canine companion, Wendy allowed herself to look around the room, taking in her unfamiliar surroundings. She appeared to be in what was once a hotel room, reduced to decrepitcy and decay by the ages. The bed she lay in was nothing more than a lumpy old mattress on a rusted steel frame, with an old straw pilliw and a patched up blanket thrown over it. A wobbly old chair sat by it, upon which her pack and rifle rested-much to her relief. An old dresser was pushed against the far wall, with a smudged up mirror, covered mostly in cracks. Atop it, an old electric lantern hooked up to a small battery provided the only source of light in the room, casting all but the corners of the room in dim, flickering light. Those remained draped in shadow, as well as the area around the doorway-where she saw a glowing red dot, reflected by dark orbs above them: eyes, dark and inhuman, that watched her from the gloom.

Wendy's blood ran cold at the sight, the hairs on the back of her neck raising. With a snarl she reached for her rifle, fight-or-flight kicking in as she decided she would kill whatever was in the room with her, before it killed her. She raised the gun, pointing it right at those eyes, her finger hovering over the trigger.

"Whoa, whoa, easy there!"

Wendy faltered at the familiar, scratchy voice, as two heavily scarred hands appeared from the dark, raised palm-out in a placating gesture. A moment later, Hancock stepped into the lantern-light, a lit-cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth-the source of the red light she had seen. "There's no need for that. We're all near-civilized here, yeah?"

"Y-you?" Wendy sputtered, lowering the rifle. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Hancock shrugged as he dropped his hands back to his sides, taking a drag from his cigarette before speaking "Well, was here to check up on ya. Had some of the Neighborhood Watch bring ya over after you passed out, gave you a stimpak and some medex." Walking over, he carefully picked up her pack from the chair, placing it on the bed. He'd drag the now empty chair over to himself, turning it backwards before plopping in it, his thin legs straddling it and his arms crossed over the backrest. Smoke curled from the edges of his mouth and the remnants of his nostrils, the wisps slithering wraith-like along the skin of his disfigured face. "Didn't expect any of that Heh can't say I really blame you though," He chuckled "Wouldn't wanna see this mug after I just woke up. Either way, you're definitely doin' better than before I'd say."

Wendy took a deep breath, taking a moment to calm her nerves as she set the gun down on the bed near her relocated pack "Sorry...and, uh, thanks for bringing me here. Er, though I'd like to know where exactly 'here' is." She fought not to shudder at the almost unworldly sight before her, telling herself it was just a smoke trick. And of course the Ghoul's appearance in general.

Hancock tapped his fingers against the back of the chair, raising a hand to take the cig from his mouth, tapping the ash from it. She noticed that a couple of his finger nails were missing, those of his pinky and ring finger. "That'd be the Hotel Rexford, home of the best beds and best chems in Goodneigbor-well outside of my personal stash. Paid for the room myself, so don't worry about Claire coming to collect. Well 'least for another two nights." He didn't seem put off by her earlier reaction to his arrival. If anything he seemed amused, a smile tugging at the corners of his burnt lips.

Wendy snorted, quirking a brow "The best beds? I'd hate to see the worst..." Jokes aside, she was surprised at his generosity. Something's up here. "You treat all newcomers this nicely?" She scooted closer to Dogmeat, who appeared to have dozed off, curled up by her side. "Or am I special?"

The Ghoul chuckled, his smile widening "Heh, you're a sharp one. In a way, yeah, you are special. Not everyday a Vault Dweller comes walzting into Goodneighbor. And from a Vault I've never even heard of? Well, y'can understand why my interest's been piqued. Wouldn't do to have you croak in the gutter before you even answer my questions. Though honestly, even if you were just another dirty, desperate drifter? Still woulda done it." He shrugged "You needed help, so I helped ya. Simple as that."

"Yeah...I s'pose that's fair enough. So...what do you want to know?"

The Ghoul shrugged, raising his cigarette to his lips again, inhaling the pungent smoke. "Eh, was actually thinking I'd let ya ask your own questions first. Sure you gotta be curious too, Vault Dwellers always are. It'll make things smoother when it's my turn too. So shoot." He waved his hand in a 'go ahead' gesture, before crossing his arms over the chair again. He wpuld rest his chin upon them, watching her intently as she spoke, his tricorn casting his face in shadow.

Wendy blinked, not having expected that. Taking a moment to gather her thoughts, she decided to start with something she hoped wouldn't offend him, but she wanted to confirm, "So...you're a Ghoul?"

He nodded, seeming if anything pleased by the question, his smile widening to a grin. "That's right. Like my face? I think it gives me a sexy, king of the zombies kinda look. Big hit with the ladies." His voice shifted to a low purr, as he leaned in slightly closer, flashing her a wink.

Wendy swallowed, finding herself blushing, much to her surprise. She coughed and flicked her attention back to Dogmeat, scratching behind one of his ears. "Uh, y-yeah. Sorry, just you're the first I've seen that's not..."

"Feral?" He finished, smoke trickling from his nostrils. "Yeah, I guessed. But, listen. Lota walking rad freaks like me around here, so ya might wanna keep those kinda questions on the lowburner. Not everyones okay with em. Now, what else ya wanna know?"

Wendy looked back up at him, hoping the last of the redness had left her cheeks. Come on, he's a walking corpse... "What was with that Finn guy?"

Hancock let out a long sigh, shaking his head in disappointment "Ah, Finn. Well until recently he was one if our best fighters...could drop a Suicider from-eh, well, from what I've heard you already saw. Really gonna miss him next Super Mutant Attack that rolls around...eh, well, anyhoo, he was getting too big for his britches. Wasn't really leaving me any choice. Way he was challenging me, threatening newcomers, had to make a mayoral show of strength. Though, I hope that incident with him didn't taint your view of our little community." He smiled again, his dark eyes twinkling, "Goodneighbor's of the people, for the people, ya feel me? Everyone's welcome."

"Thanks for that. Goodneighbor, eh? That's the name of this little town?" Wendy mused.

Hancock nodded, his voice full of an almost fatherly pride, "That's right. We cobbled this little neighborhood together out of the freaks and misfits that just won't fit in anywhere else." He flashed her another wink, (and to her embarassment she began to blush again) "You make enough friends here, you'll call this place home soon enough."

"Ah, well...I probably won't be staying that long." Wendy admitted, feeling somewhat guilty. Despite herself, the more she sat talking and joking with him, the more she was starting to like the Ghoul.

He shrugged, seeming none too disappointed at this news "So? Doesn't mean you'll be gone for good, right? You might come back someday. Life's weird like that." Taking one last pull from his cigarette, hed lean over to stub the glowing butt out in a nearby ashtray, smirking as he settled in his chair again "Anymore questions?"

She fell silent for several moments, pondering what to ask next. "Just one more...what's your story, Hancock?"

Hancock laughed, grinning widely "Ooo, how I love to hear you say my name finally. Well, it's my favorite subject. I came into this town like...a decade ago? Had a smooth set of skin back then. While I was busy making myself a pillar of the community I would go of on these...like...wild tears..." He seemed to gaze beyond her as he reminisced, expression unreadable before he'd sigh, soft and fondly "Ah, I was young. Any chems I could find, the more exotic, the better. Finally found this experimental radiation drug. Only one of it's kind, and only one hit left..."

Wendy's eyes widened slightly, quickly putting the pieces together "And that's what made you...y'know?"

He nodded, shifting slightly in his chair "Yep. Oh man, " He sighed again, his eyes losing focus for a moment as he chuckled "The high was so worth it. Yeah, I'm living with the side effects, but hey, what's not to love about immortality?" He smirked, his eyes glimmering from under the shade of his tricorn.

"Wait, you're immortal?" Wendy gaped, not sure wether he was pulling her leg or not. "But how?"

Hancock shrugged again, waving his hand in a wishy washy gesture "Well...not exactly. Ghouls just age really, really slow. Something about the rads, maybe? Who knows."

Wendy took a minute to let all this information set in, not sure what to think of it. "Huh. Well, immortal or not, you're a helluva risk taker, Hancock."

He chuckled again "Only have one life, why not try it all? Now then," He leaned in closer to her, his eyes focused intently on hers. "So hows about we start with a name?"

Wendy found herself lost for a moment in those dark pools, caught off guard by the direct eye contact. "W-Wendy," She stuttered, before clearing her throat, doing her best to steady her voice "My name's Wendy. Wiggin." She stuck her hand out towards to Ghoul, offering him a handshake. Damned if I make it seem like I'm scared of him.

Hancock smirked, taking her small, pale hand in his larger, scared one, giving it a hearty shake "Wendy Wiggin...heh, I like that. Wiggin. Pleased to make your lovely accquintance."

Just as she expected, it felt rough to the touch, ridges of overlapping scar tissue rasping against her palms. She tried not to shiver at the sensation, finding it not unpleasant but definitely odd. And as he called her 'lovely' she had to fight not to blush for the third time in her conversation with him. Lovely? He sees the thing on my cheek, right? "Heh heh, well I wouldn't call it that..."

As she was about to release his hand, however, her vision suddenly turned white, before several quick, dreamlike images flashed through her mind:

An old shack on the shores of a small lake, two young boys running beside it.

One of the boys, now a man, smiling in a disturbing way, inhuman and long.

A syringe, filled with a small amount of green glowing fluid, held by a trembling hand.

A body swinging on a noose, a crowd cheering below.

And Hancock, his back turned to her, as they both stood on the roof of an unknown building, a fiery mushroom cloud rising into the sky before them...

Wendy gave a small gasp, returning to her senses as she quickly jerked her hand out of his grasp. She could tell from thestrange unfocused look in his eyes, howenver, that she was too late. What did he see? Me probably, or something about me. Fuck!

The Ghoul shook his head as if to clear it, blinking it confusion as he raised a hand to scratch at his bald scalp "Eh...shit, sorry for zoning out there. Jet flashback," He offered an apologetic smile, chuckling sheepishly. "Now where was I...oh, right. Your turn to tell your story."

Wendy gave silent thanks to whatever diety had given her such luck, glad to have avoided a topic she didn't want to discuss. They'll all drive me out of here...know he said this place was for freaks, but they gotta have limits. "Alrighty...just fair warning, itsa little...wild. Not really expecting you to believe it "

Hancock laughed, gesturing to himself "I'm used to more than a little wild. Lay it on me, I'm all ears."

Wendy nodded, taking a deep breath, silent for a moment before she started. "The Vault I'm from...111...it was some sort of cryongenic storage-thing. To tell you the truth, I'm...pretty fucking old. Like, before the War old. See, when the bombs fell, we didn't know that, my husband and I. We thought it was gonna be yknow, a proper Vault. Seemed like it at first, when we all rushed in. Hell, I was still so stunned I didn't even notice all the red flags. They had us step into these 'decontamination pods', me in one and the husband and baby in the other. That's the last thing I remember, looking through the glass at them in the other pod. Then everything went cold and dark..." She trailed off, taking a breath to steady herself before she started the next part of her unfortunate tale.

Hancock continued to watch her, scarcely blinking, though she could see the displeasure and anger in his eyes "Lying to a bunch of people like that...that's seriously fucked up. And they had you on ice this fucking long?"

Wendy nodded "Yeah...and from some of the shit I found on the computers of the 'scientists' who were supposed to be 'studying us', they intended to never let us out. Theu were gonna leave us behind once the radiation cleared. Luckily fate was as unkind to them as they were to us...they all killed eachother before they could even be let out. Tore eachother to pieces like animals according tp the logs."

Hancock nodded approvingly, chuckling darkly "Bastards got what they deserved then."

"Heh, yeah. Anyways...we probably would have been frozen in there forever, but someone broke it

Though they didn't come to save us. They..." She found this part difficult to tell, turning her gaze to her own hands fidgeting in her lap "They thawed out mine and my family's pod. They didn't unlock mine though. Two of them, one of em in white suits...the other one bald. He...h-he tried to take Shaun from Nate...my son...my husband. Tried to trick him, but Nate knew something was up. Wouldn't give him our son. So he...that bastard he...he..." She growled, clenching her fists as she fought back tears. "...killed him." She finally managed to get out, holding back a sob. "Killed him and took my baby. And I couldn't do anything to stop em. Could only pound on the glass...and scream. Then they put me back on ice...until the pod broke, and I was free...though it was too late..."

Hancock's gaze had softened, one of sympathy as he shook his head "That's vile...no parent should have to go through that. And your husband...so, I'm guessin' be plan is your lookin to hunt down the sacks of shit?"

She sniffled, embarassed as she wiped a tear off her ruined cheek with the back of her hand. "Yeah...I'm giving 'em hell when I find them. But that's just the problem, I don't even know where to begin looking. I was pointed in the way of Diamond City, but got lost." She sighed, raising her arm and Pipboy attached- the screen still fuzzed with static, much to her chagrin"This thing keeps fritzin out on me. Map on it won't work. So I got lost...ran into some Super Mutants. Managed to take out the smaller two of them, but then...those explosive ones-Suiciders you called them? Came charging at me. One of them blew up, fucked me up, lost Dogmeat," She patted the snoozing pup's head, illiciting a soft grunt from him, "Could only run from the second. Almost got me too...but Finn got him first. Luck I guess, in a way. So....that's how I found myself here."

Hancock was silent for a minute, his head tipped down, face obscured by the brim of his tricorn "Well you're right about one thing, that's certainly one hell of a story. To think you're that old...heh, only people who can claim that honor are older Ghouls. I'm still a young whippersnapper." He shook his head, sighing as he raised it to look her in the eyes again "But speaking of these...vermin again, I think Diamond City is your best bet at finding 'em. I have an accquintance there whose good at getting to the bottom of shit like this. Nick Valentine. Bonus, he could probably give that Pipboy of yours a lookover. Guy's got a way with tech." He gave a wry chuckle, causing a brief moment pf confusion for Wendy.

There's a joke here I'm missing. "Do you know the best way to get there from here? A way that preferably takes me past as few...friendly locals as possible? Though think I need a little time before I head out. Really need to stock up...get a new outfit." She sighed, refering to her ruinied jumpsuit, poking at one of the holes on her sleeve.

He nodded again "Sure, when time comes I'll draw you up a rough map. Heh, almost wanna go out with ya myself, but sadly can't leave. Up to whats left of m'ears in 'mayoral duties'...bleh." He made a distasteful nose, uttering a short, bored sigh. "Speaking of, I'd best get to it." He got to his feet, the chair creaking loudly "Thanks for telling me your story...I sincerely hope you get justice. And find your son."

Wendy smiled, incliningh er head briefly "And many thanks to you for helping me.

*******

Hancock shook his head again, trying to get rid of the strange feeling that still clung to him, annoyed at the white that still lingered at the edges of his vision. Some flashback...if it even was that. As an experienced junkie, he was no stranger to weird side effects from chems. But that had been something entirely different.

Closing his eyes and rubbing at his temples, leaned against the wall of the hallway as he tried to remember what he had seen....

A young girl, a mere infant, ginger curls spilling from atop her head, a white blotch marring her right cheek, clothed in a black dress. She was held in the arms of a likewise dressed older woman, her hair the same orange shade. Both of them stood before an empty coffin.

The same girl, older, cowering in the corner of a school yard as children threw rocks and sticks at her, screaming "Witch! Freak!"

A man in an old soldiers uniform, golden haired and handsome faced, smiling as he held a ring out.

A red haired baby, smiling up as he lay in his crib, reaching for the spinning mobile above him.

The same man from earlier, but this time a single bloody hole in the middle if his forehead, his wide brown eyes forever open and staring in horror.

And finally, Wendy standing atop the Mass Fusion building, a savage grin on her face as a nuclear explosion occured before them, her eyes in contrast strangely pained.

Opening his eyes, Hancock shook his head again, cursing and mumbling to himself. It's probably just your fucked up brain making up shit based on what she just told you. Her husband, her kid....but...she didn't say shit about the stuff I saw of her as a kid...I'm guessing that was her. Or that last part. What the fuck? And even then...saw it all before she told me all that...Bah ..I needa drink. Shit's gonna do my head in.

As he sauntered into the lobby Clair shot him a nasty look from her spot behind the front counter, her arms crossed. “So when am I getting what’s owed for that stray upstairs? Your people said I’d get the money. Mowarksi’s gonna-”

“Alright, alright. Enough. Told you I’d fork it over when I was done here.” Sighing in annoyance, he reached his handinto his frock coat, fumbling for the hidden pocket he kept caps in. Counting out thirty of them, the Ghoul strode over, placing the money atop the desk. “See? Let it be known John Hancock’s a Ghoul who always pays his debts.” With a wink and a two fingered wave he sauntered out of the lobby into the street outside, pulling a pack of cigarettes from a different pocket. Sticking one of the smokes in his mouth, he’d light it with an old gold-plated lighter from within his pocket, taking a drag. Giving a small cough he began walking away from the hotel, steering his way towards the Third Rail.

What a day, what a day…

#fallout #fallout 4 #fallout fanfic #fallout fanfiction #fanfic #fallput 4 fanfic #fallout 4 fanfiction #hancock #fallout 4 hancock #john hancock #john hancock fallout 4 #Wendy Wiggin #chapter 1 #sole survivor #goodneighbor

[bowieandqueen11]

Hit / Barry Berkman Imagine

Request: Hey there! I would love to see a Barry Berkman x Reader where Barry gets wounded during a hit and the reader has to help patch him up. Angst and fluff galore! ❤️ I love the way you write, btw! 

Thank you so much love that’s so sweet, and I’m so glad Barry’s so popular!! I’ve had so many requests, and it’s so nice because my undying love for Bill Hader needs some kind of release XD <3

Warning: Strong (very strong) language!!

‘Don’t point that gun at me. Come on, man, don’t point that gun at me. Just put it down.’

‘I told you this would happen Barry. Fuck you for thinking I’m out of options.’

‘Hey, fuck you man. I swear, I’m going to kill you Fuches, one way or another.’

‘You always were so emotional. So wrapped up in that little head of yours with your perfect life and your perfect girlfriend and your perfect fucking Mr Cousineau.’

‘If you ever come near me again, I’ll shoot you man. Fuck!’

Senses sharpened with adrenaline, Barry takes a sharp, crisp breath, straining to hear with every ounce of his concentration. Not quite silent. Cool air whispered through his apartment’s ventilation system, a dull buzz as it rattles the flimsy yellow cotton curtains that allows in the chill midnight breeze, the pavement cold and cracked underneath the pale moonlight. A damaged and rusting water heater in the basement sends out sharp pops in background. The refrigerator’s compressor hummed as it switched on near his unmade bed, making his skin bristle and filling the air with tension so thick and nerve wracking you could slice through it with a knife.

Stepping forward, his thick emerald green shirt slick against his back with hot trickling beads of sweat, Barry cocks his gun, furrowing his eyebrows as he says, ‘for the last time Fuches, get the fuck out of my apartment and leave me alone.’

‘Sorry kiddo, but this one’s personal.’

‘Jesus Fuches, Y/N is going to be home any minute!’

‘Good, kid, good. Will give us a chance to properly meet, huh?’

White and red streaks flash before Barry’s wide eyes, his hands shaking white as they refocus their grip on the gun, his heart beginning to hammer in absolutely fury as Fuches just smirks, holding one hand up as one sneakily reaches down to the back pocket of his jeans.

‘Well I say meet... I doubt there will be much time for that when she sees you for who you really are. A killer. A piece of shit, Barry.’

Before anyone could blink, bullets started splaying through the air, Fuches firing a trembling warning shot that sent soft floating feathers tumbling out of the duvet, landing around Barry’s boots as fear covered his features, yelping slightly as he turns on his wheels and splays against the window pane, hoisting his leg up as he nearly tumbles over the cracked wood. The cream lampshade wobbles beside him as he kicks it in his haste, the tattered shot shade cracking to the floor with a sick thud. Barry grimaces as he falls behind the bed, anger radiating from every fibre of his being as his long fingers land heavily against his stomach, trembling as he slowly pulls them away from the hole in his shirt, disbelief clouding his vision as little fat blood droplets drip down along his wrist and land on the gold buckle of his watch like tears.

The bullet wound was so small. Somewhat ragged around the edges but barely bleeding even. The exit wound must be on his back somewhere. If it weren't for that hole and the ice cold freeze that begins to burn his blood, coupled with the blood that begins to soak through the material like a dirt blotch, he may think he had come away without a nick. But Barry had been in the army long enough to know a gunshot when he heard one, and when the pain began to blind him as he tried to stumble to a stand, falling to his hands with a dying groan, he knew it was more serious than he had feared. Taking a deep, painful breath, not even noticing the hair that tumbled down onto his eyes, he blinks back the tears that well in the corners of his eyes as his throat begins to constrict, begging the lightness in his head to disappear, begging himself not to pass out until he had reached the sofa. Crawling slowly forward on his knees, he manages to rustle his way to the living room, collapsing through the door and against the white leather sofa, not noticing the swiping red stains that remain when he removes his arms from the cushions trying to lever himself up.

~

‘Jesus FUCK Barry, what the fuck, why are you bleeding out on the sofa!??’

‘Is that... is that a bullet wound!? I go to work for one day and you manage to get shot? In your OWN APARTMENT?!’

Barry tries to open his eyes, but all you can see are the gold flecks that you love so much that whirl behind the dilated irises, his eyes bloodshot as they try to focus on you. He believes himself to be tenderly placing one of his thick hands onto your forearm as your hands flicker over his shirt, pulling up the material quickly and apologising profusely as he groans. He believes himself to be softly stroking against your skin, his thumb doing figure eights over your goosebumps in order to try and calm you down. It killed him to see you this frightened, to see your eyes panicking wildly as your hands close down over his wound, his own blood soaking into your fingertips and down onto the wooden floor as streams of swears leave your mouth. His lips twitch upwards into a grin as he thinks, ‘that’s my girl.’ But in reality, his hand clamps down heavily onto your arm like a slap, and your mind starts to whirl at the sudden motion. Reaching up to cradle his head softly, gentle moans bubbling out of his lips as the corners of his eyes furrow familiarly at your touch, you press a dozen kisses to his forehead, ignoring the smudges of blood that are left behind by your thumbs as you leap up to grab some supplies.

When he finally wakes up to a dim light shining over his face a few hours later, Barry feels lost. He isn’t 100% sure where or who he is, until he sees your face swim into his vision, panic stricken but also very angry.

‘Y...y/n’, he manages to mutter, making as if to lean up onto his elbows but you only push him down again, keeping your fingers splayed against his chest as you look down to check he hasn’t leaked through the sterile bandages. Bloody thread and stained tissues lie flooded on the floor as if a hurricane had burst through the room, and Barry closes his eyes, biting his bottom lip in frustration as he remembers what he put you through.

‘Y/n..., y/n, I’m so...I’m so sorry, I swear, I never meant for this to happen.’

‘Save it Barry’, you say stopping him, leaning down slowly to place a gentle kiss against his lips, enjoying the little pained moan that sounds against your own as one hand reaches up to cup his hair. When you pull apart, you run your hand down to scratch lightly through his thin stubble, flicking of flecks of dried blood as he gazes at you, doped up and far away.

‘It can wait for later. First, you need to rest.’ 

#bill hader #bill hader imagine #barry #barry hbo #barry berkman #barry berkman imagine #barry imagine #barry hbo imagine #barry block #barry block imagine #barry (hbo) #fuches #barry x reader #barry berkman x reader #barry block x reader #barry angst #barry berkman angst #barry block angst #barry fluff #barry berkman fluff #barry block fluff

[mere-mortifer-writing]

Close Quarters

Pairing: Lucifer/Reader; Lucifer/OFC

Rating: Explicit. This is pure filth lmao

Summary: You're stuck in a closet with Lucifer. That's it, that's the plot. Enjoy! x x x  The fact is, the closet really is tiny and with her standing up they would be nose-to-nose if it weren’t for the height difference. He's more than a head taller than her, and this close she would need to barely move to kiss the column of his neck. Her eyes follow the line of tendons under his skin from his jawline, down to where his shirt obstructs the view.

Unable to resist the pull of his gaze, she raises her eyes to meet his. “Hi”, she says again, as softly as the atmosphere requires. Her stomach is already tied up in knots. Lucifer's smile softens, and he angles his head so that their lips are even closer together. “Hello, there."

Tags: Dirty talk; Slow sex; Shy!Reader; Attempt at humour; Semi-public sex 

You can also read it on Ao3

She knew it was a bad idea even before leaving her house.

Honestly, a blind date? Her? Recipe for disaster, obviously. She still doesn't know what compelled her to accept to go to dinner with some random guy that her best friend works with - actually, she knew why: it was to stop her cries of “you seriously need to get laid!”

And sitting at a table of the restaurant, still blissfully alone after an hour and a half, she realises that the guy had stood her up. Which would be very sad, possibly even a hard blow to her self-confidence, if only cancelling plans didn't always give a rush of endorphins: the anxiety that had clawed her all week disappears; her shoulders relax, the high heels she's wearing don't hurt anymore.

She doesn't even give a fuck that she's sitting alone at a restaurant, that's how good the prospect of good food and her favourite book (she had it in her purse, just in case) without a stranger sitting with her feels.

Also, there's this man, a few tables from hers, that with some luck she'll be able to stare at without being seen.

He's sitting with a dark haired woman, but he's so magnetic she barely notices her presence. He's got dark hair, perfectly styled, and stubbles that shadow his strong jawline. She risks another glance at him a minute later, hoping against hope that he doesn't notices, and catches a view of his profile while he talks with the sommelier. He's smiling, a bit lasciviously, looking at the other man from underneath his lashes.

Is he-is he flirting with him? Chances are he is, considering how the sommelier is blushing - and, really, it makes sense. If she was that hot she would flirt with anything and anyone just to see them all flustered.

He looks like a Hollywood actor.

No, better, he looks like Hollywood actors look in your head when it's the middle of the night and you're thinking of that super hot scene that was your sexual awakening as a teen.

In other words: too good to be true. She is probably just making him up, actually.

Fuck, her friend is right - she does need to get laid.

In the meantime, she will not deny herself the small pleasure of imagining, in graphic details, all the ways she could ruin the expensive suit he's wearing.

Which is obviously when a gunshot resonates in the room, scaring the shit out of every client.

Because this is her life: she can't think “hey, I'd like to have sex with than man” without God going like think again, bitch and sending someone to shoot the place!

She thinks this while scrambling away from her table, fight or flight instinct kicking in before she has time to think. “Flight” wins, hands down, because you don't bring uncomfortable heels and lack of military training to a gunfight.

“Lucifer Morningstar!” someone screams behind her back when the shooting stops. “You're a dead man!”

The oh-so-hot man from before is still comfortably lounging on his chair, idly drinking from his wine glass. “Am I now? That's news to me.”

The woman who was dining with him is standing protectively close to him, wearing the smile of a shark ready to kill some innocent baby seals.

Get the fuck out of here, a rational voice in her head says.

“Door. Too far.” she mumbles to herself, eyeing the scene and the feet of panicked clients and staff exiting the restaurant. She is hiding behind some decorative plants, on her hands and knees.

Great sentence structure. Hide, then, go, come on!

And so she crawls away, praying not to be seen, towards the staff-only part of the restaurant.

***

She ends up in some sort of service closet inside the kitchen, comforting both in size and the silence that closing the door shut brings.

There's a distinctive smell of soap in the air, and the only feasible place to sit are some packages of toilet paper, but you know what that tiny supply closet doesn't have?

Menacing figures dressed in black shooting everywhere.

It feels like a home, already.

She stays there for a while, listening desperately for the distant screams and noises of things breaking to stop - or at least for police sirens to come closer.

And for a while nothing changes, but then the door to the kitchen bangs open and for a second she thinks this is it, this is how I die.

Killed in a dusty closet that smells like a hospital.

“Stay here!” a woman's voice intimidates.

“But, Maze-” A man this time, British, the tone of a child that got denied his favourite candy.

“No but's, I'm not gonna let you get killed!”

There's the sound of two pair of feet moving - oh no, oh no, please no - closer to her hideout and she has literally nowhere to hide, so she slaps a hand on her mouth and tries to do her best impression of a cardboard cutout. She manages to shut off the light, though - not that it will do much.

The door of the closet wrenches open, and she doesn't have time to think before a tall figure takes up the little space left, almost falling over her.

The door closes again, lock clicking into place with violence. “And you stay the fuck in there, Lucifer, am I clear?” the woman says, and then nothing more.

Lucifer?, she thinks. The man I was imagining in compromising positions few minutes ago?

And then, after fixing her priorities: the one they were shooting at?

“Like a lock can stop me…” Lucifer (what kind of parents-) is muttering to himself, but his words trail off. His shoulders tense, his head snaps to the side, but she can barely see all this in the low light that filters from underneath the door. “Oh, but I have company. Hello, there.”

He finds and flicks on the light switch a second later, turns to see her still sitting on - on toilet paper, of all things.

Fuck her life, honestly.

“Um, hi.” She gives him a little wave. The effort not to stare at his crotch, which is at less than 20 centimetres from her face, is using up all of her social skills - she doesn't nervously giggle only by the grace of God.

His eyes light up, and a boyish smile replace the frown on his face. “You're that cute girl from before! What a pleasant surprise”, he purrs, biting his bottom lip as he does a once-over of what he can see of her figure. “And you're at such an interesting angle, too.”

He called you cute, the high-schooler in her notices.

He's thinking of you sucking his dick!, screams what's probably still the high-schooler in her, but this time with more hormones involved.

Ah, the duality of (wo)man.

“I guess that's me, yeah”, she manages to say. “And you're...Lucifer?”

“That's right, Lucifer Morningstar. Mind coming up here?” He offers her a hand, that she gratefully takes, and he helps her back on her feet.

There's a strength behind the gesture, hiding under the smooth material of his suit, that makes her head spin for a second.

That, and the fact that the closet really is tiny and with her standing up they would be nose-to-nose if it weren’t for the height difference. He's more than a head taller than her, and this close she would need to barely move to kiss the column of his neck. Her eyes follow the line of tendons under his skin from his jawline, down to where his shirt obstructs the view.

Unable to resist the pull of his gaze, she raises her eyes to meet his.

“Hi”, she says again, as softly as the atmosphere requires. Her stomach is already tied up in knots.

Lucifer's smile softens, and he angles his head so that their lips are even closer together. “Hello. Can I know your name?”

She tells him.

He says it back, pouring his British accent all over it, tasting its sound on his lips. “Is that right?”

She nods, because she doesn't trust herself to talk, trying to calm herself down. Impossible not to think how he would say it in another context - or, not even in another context, just 10 minutes from now, 5 minutes if she has it her way…

She must be blushing furiously by now, but maybe he notices how nervous she is because he mercifully doesn't comment on it.

Nervous? Weird way of spelling 'turned on’.

“You're alright, yeah? I'm sorry for all this - those men are here for me. Worry not, my friend is taking care of them.”

Right on cue, some muffled screams filter through the door.

“I figured. But I'm fine, yeah”, she reassures him. She doesn't know where to put her hands, where the fuck does she put her - “Uhm, does this happen often to you? Getting shot at, I mean.”

“People like to try, sometimes, yes. It has never been a problem until recently”, he adds in a more irritated tone.

This guy is probably dangerous, she thinks, he's like a mafia boss or something.

...Do I really wanna fuck a mafia boss?

“I think we'll be stuck here for a while. Say, how should we spend this time together?” he says, his big brown eyes shamelessly set on her lips.

Yes, yes she does, apparently, so much so that the desire gets stuck in her throat, renders her speechless for a moment before sliding down, hot and heavy, to her stomach and then even lower.

“How should we spend this time”?

What a stupid fucking question.

He knows what he's doing, the bastard. This beautiful, infuriating man who looks so perfect she's starting to think he's just an hallucination. Eyes too dark, voice too smooth. She's never been one to lust after a man in a suit, always too uncomfortable around them and their aura of confidence to find them attractive...but Lucifer's legs are long in his tailored Prada trousers and she is - she is, at the end of the day, just human. What is the saying? Flesh is weak?

Yeah, she does feel pretty weak at the moment.

Actually, she's gonna pass the fuck out if he keeps looking at her lips like that and expect her to do something about it. It's a miracle she’s even still standing!

“We- we could get more comfortable”, she finally says, after what feels like a year but were probably just a few seconds of her staring at him, mouth open like a dumb, sexually frustrated fish.

“Oh? How so?” Lucifer presses their bodies closer, and shimmies a little, as if to show her that there isn't any space left in their hideout. “Not much to do about that, I'm afraid.”

Flush against him, from her breasts on his toned chest to one of his legs pleasantly slotted between her thighs, she needs a second to get her brain back online. She feels hot all over, and the sound of her own heartbeat is deafening in her ears.

His thigh is so tantalizingly close to where she really wants it - the thought of the friction of his trousers against her already-soaked underwear is maddening.

“Of course, I could hold you up if you want to”, he adds, feigning innocence. The effect is somewhat ruined by the low timbre of his voice, but mostly by the feeling of his cock hardening against her stomach. “I'm sure it'd feel better than standing in those awfully pretty shoes of yours.”

Lucifer's hands rest nonchalantly on her waist, his thumbs stroking comforting circles on her ribs - and wow, his hands are big, aren't they? Her breasts would fit perfectly well in his palms, like they were made to touch her there, and then lower, lower, to cover the expanse of her stomach, and then to finally cup her over her underwear…

“Still with me?” he asks gently, bringing her back to the present.

“What? Yeah, I'm still...here. With you” - what the fuck was that, even? Get a grip! - “I had something else in mind, actually?”

“Do tell.”

“Mh, there's that little glass panel on the door? It's too low for you but if we switched positions I could look through it”, she explains. “So we can see who - uh, enters the kitchen?”

Okay, alright, she pleads the fifth: she just wants to 1) feel him pressed against her back, and 2) hide her face from him to calm her nerves. Sue her.

Lucifer doesn’t seem concerned with the faulty logic behind her plan, though; doesn’t ask questions like “What we would we even do if we saw someone enter the kitchen?, or “How would that make us any more comfortable?”. He just smiles, and looks quite delighted at the proposition.

“That’s a wonderful plan!” he lies, but with a playful tone that tells her he’s ready to humor her. “I’m particularly interested in how this change in positions will happen.”

And she’s very interested, too, if ‘interested’ is an euphemism for ‘turned on out of her mind’. To be fair, his mind seemed to also have gone in the same direction as hers, if the tongue-in-cheek smile he gives her is any indication: there will probably be some grinding involved.

Hopefully, a lot of it.

“Shall we try, then?” he asks, and doesn’t wait her response before making his grip on her waist stronger to tug her against him. His thigh slides higher and presses right against her core, where she desperately needed pressure; she gasps at the feeling, wondering in the back of her mind if he can feel how wet he is through the leg of his trousers.

“Oops, my bad”, Lucifer says, but doesn’t seem sorry at all, because he does it again, making her bite her lip hard enough to bleed in the effort of silencing a moan. She answers “no problem”, or maybe just rolls her hips against him on her own, who knows? Definitely not her.

The pressure of his leg eases right after, unfortunately, and the two of them try to rotate on their place without stepping on each other's feet until her back is now facing the door.

“Yay, we’re halfway there”, she murmurs against his neck, using talking as an excuse to move her lips on his skin. Lucifer laughs breathlessly in her hair and lets her hands sneak under his open jacket to rest against his sides.

Fuck, fuck, he’s perfect, she thinks, a wave of desire hitting her squarely in the chest. She wants him so much she can barely think, and she realizes - hearing how fast his heart is beating, feeling how laboured his own breathing is - that Lucifer wants her, too.

The realization is intoxicating and helps her relax under his touch.

She likes the he’s not being all calm and collected; she likes the thought that he will gladly come apart in her arms with no shame.

“Now's the fun part”, he says, arching an elegant eyebrow at her. His hands leave her body to sit on the door behind her, effectively caging her in. She doesn't mind one bit.

The closet was obviously made to accommodate only one person at a time, because they are squeezed close enough that turning around will be quite the...intimate experience.

She has never been this excited for something in her entire fucking life, she swears.

“Here goes nothing” she giggles, and thankfully Lucifer seems to find it more endearing than annoying.

She slides her hands up from his waist to his chest, in an unnecessary move studied just to feel his abs contract under her fingers, and then takes them away from his body altogether. She tries to disentangle their legs, and Lucifer reluctantly helps her by moving his toned thigh away from between hers - for the pleasure of literally no one in the tiny room.

Finally she can turn around - and God bless high heels because her hips are at just the right height to drag against Lucifer's clothed erection with every move.

“Bloody-” she hears him hiss when her they're finally back-to-chest and her ass presses deliciously on his cock. He feels so hard she doesn't know how he's still coherent.

“You have to agree” - she wiggles her ass a bit with the pretence of fixing her position - “this does feel more comfy.” Being able to hide her face is making her bolder.

Behind her, Lucifer bites back a groan by pressing his lips in her hair. His hands flex into two fists and relax again on the cold surface of the door.

“My pants don't feel that comfortable at the moment, I'm afraid”, he murmures directly in her ear. His voice is so low and grumbly that she can feel his chest vibrate against her back with every word. “I'd apologize for this” - he pushes his erection more firmly on her lower back - “but you haven't complained even once, so. Also, can you blame me?”

She makes a questioning sound, lost in the feeling of his lean body flushed on hers.

“Close contact, the thrill of possibly being caught - also, you're wearing lip gloss and your hair smells awfully nice…” He kisses the soft skin behind her ear, playful. “A better man than me couldn't resist.”

She can feel blood rise to her cheeks again, and she hides her charmed smile behind her hand. He's got this seduction schtick down to a t, doesn't he?

The entire thing feels surreal. Stuff like this doesn't happen in real life, you don't just find yourself stuck in a closet with Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome singing your praises in the sexiest British accent she has ever heard.

“Say,” he continues, oblivious to her line of thought, “before the Bad Guys stormed the place, were you dining by yourself?” One of his hands disappear from her line of vision to shift her hair all on one side.

“I-yes, I was by myself” she says with what little voice she has left. Lucifer's lips kissing her neck are doing wonders to make her forget about the failed blind date. ‘The guy - oh, that's nice - uhm, the guy didn't show up.”

Lucifer knee slides between her legs until she gets the idea and spreads her thighs to accommodate his better. The friction of his trousers against her clit is heavenly even with her panties still in the way - and, oh, she realizes after a few second that she was absentmindedly grinding against him.

“He stood you up? Obviously didn't know what he was missing.” His hand splays over her stomach and then slides down, until he can gather the soft fabric of her dress in his fingers. “What a rude, bad man”, he says, voice breathless with arousal. He keeps his touch feather-light on her inner thigh, making her shiver and bite back a moan.

She wants, needs him to touch her, her hands are shaking with the strength of the feeling. Maybe he is the actual Devil, she thinks, because this is straight up torture.

But she will not beg him: she has a feeling that Lucifer would just want to hear her being desperate for him a while longer if she did.

“But love, you're in luck - cause I'm much, much better anyway.” He leaves another heated kiss on her neck and moans when his fingers finally, finally, touch her where she wants him. “Fuck, darling - you're so wet.”

Wet? She's dripping, she probably completely ruined the leg of his trousers - and she would be mortified if Lucifer wasn't acting like that's the hottest thing he has ever seen.

His fingers have sneaked inside her panties while she was busy grinding her ass against his straining erection and now he's doing - things on her clit that makes her see stars in seconds.

“Mh, what I would do to you if we were in my bed”, he whispers in her ear. Two of his fingers slide easily into her, and they both shudder at the feeling. His free hand goes to the side of her face to angle it towards him, so he can kiss her lips even at the awkward angle. “All naked and flushed and tangled in my sheets. I'd bury my head between your legs, would you like that?”

She gasps at the words, at the image that paints itself in her head. His fingers crook inside of her, just right, and her her hands are shaking so much she can't even properly hold onto him.

Lucifer keeps talking in that grumbly voice of his, lips so close to hers they're almost kissing at every word. “Would you - fuck, would you close your thighs and keep me there... tug my hair, moan my name, all pretty and desperate? I would love it if you did,” - his touch is as frantic as she feels, his free hand roaming everywhere he can reach but returning, always, to gently hold her jaw - “you'd have to beg me to stop - but I would keep going until you came again, and again...like now, oh fuck, you're close, aren't you? Just let go, love, le-”

She kisses the end of the sentence right of his mouth, right when all the tension coiling hot in her belly snaps, leaving her knees week and mind blank.

Lucifer supports her through the shock waves with a strong arm around her waist. He kisses her much like he was talking seconds before: languid, full of promises, and with a thinly-veiled urgency that, more than anything else about him, makes her stomach tie up in knots.

Oh, isn't he so, so lovely? All dark eyes and low voice and clever fingers-

Mh, she's probably a bit high on endorphins.

“You alright, love?” he asks when her legs stop trembling with the force of her orgasm.

Never been better, she wants to say, but “Nnngh” is all that comes out of her mouth.

“I'll take it as a yes.” She can feel him smirk against her neck. “Are you up for more?”

She almost starts sobbing then and there.

So she could just tell him that she is not, in fact, up for more and Lucifer would just be like ‘It’s quite alright, no problem. Excuse me while I try to make my pants less tight in the crotch area’?

Fuck, that's so hot.

She wants him inside of her, like, yesterday.

“Hell yeah, I am” she says with her face still abandoned against his chest, which is not very sexy of her, but also the best she can do at the moment.

He smiles at that, all bright-eyed and red-lipped because of her kiss, stealing her breath away without even trying.

“That's the spirit”, he says, and dips his head down to lick a hot strip on her neck. One of her hands comes up to sink in hair to keep him there, feverish lips attached to her skin, and he responds with a breathless chuckle and a bite.

Things get - a bit blurry, after that. When she'll inevitably tell her friends about what happened, arrived at this part they will not manage to get more that a dreamy sigh out of her.

When her head momentarily clears and she manages to open her eyes, she finds her hand still grasping at Lucifer's hair - too strong, probably, but when she moves to let him go he makes this annoyed sound at the back of his throat -, and him finally unbuttoning his pants.

There's a rustling of fabric, some movements that she can't see because there's no space to turn, and then Lucifer's hand are back on her hips. “Ah, dat 'eels much better”, he says - or tries to, because the...oh, the condom he's holding with his teeth makes things more difficult.

His hands keep her still while he pushes himself against the line of her back so she can feel him, really feel him, with two layers of fabric less between him and her, pressed against her lower back.

Fuck, she wants him so bad she feels it in her stomach, in the spaces between her ribs, in the knot stuck in her throat. The emptiness of not having him inside her is a physical ache.

“Give me that”, she manages to say, and takes the packaged condom from his teeth to open it with shaky fingers. “Hurry up.”

“Bossy - I like it.” The warmth of his body disappears for few second while he hunches her dress up to expose her legs and ass. “Oh, hello. Pretty from every angle, I see”, he says appreciatively.

She can't resist arching her back and wiggling a little.

He laughs low in his throat. “Yeah, yeah, you minx, you already got in my pants. No need to put on a show”, he teases her - but he doesn't waste a second more before sliding her panties down to her ankles.

She would panic about her choice of underwear but 1) she absolutely does not remember what she put on and 2) they already hit the ground. No reason worrying now.

“Lovely”, Lucifer sighs behind her, and both his hands go at her hip bones, thumbs digging in her lower back. He raises her to her tiptoes - because he's too tall for her despite the high-heels -, so close to finally, finally-

She notices she's still holding the condom. “Wait”, she says in the moment of pure panic that only forgetting a condom can bring. “Wait, fuck, the- the thingy, here, before we forget.”

“What thin-oh, I see.” He takes it from her hand. “Of course, common courtesy and all. We could not use it, but I don't want to give a bad example”, he says, conversationally, while he rolls it on.

What does that even mean?, the rational part of her thinks.

If he doesn't fuck me in the next two seconds I'm going to cry, screams the rest of her mind.

But she’s not thinking anything anymore a few seconds later, because Lucifer is sliding into her in one long stroke. She’s so wet and ready that he’s bottoming out before either of them can get used to the sensation, and he breathlessly moans against her parted lips like he wasn’t expecting her body to take him in so easily.

The hand that’s not pressing on the door goes to clutch his jacket, touch the feverish skin of his naked thigh, slide against his ribs until Lucifer takes a hold of it and guides it back to his hair.

“Keep it there”, he half-growls half-mumbles while sinking his face in the crook of her shoulder. He bites there, softly, when he pulls out and she instinctively tightens the grip on his dark locks.

He pushes back in, then, with a practiced roll of his hips that melts her brain and makes her brokenly stutter his name.

Lucifer sets a slow pace, just how she likes it - and how can he read her body so well to even know that she likes it slow and deep and intense?

She thought that there would have been urgency behind every thrust, that he would finally chase his own orgasm after ignoring his own needs to concentrate on hers.

If nothing else, they should hurry before they get interrupted - by the police, by that strange woman he was dining with, anyone.

Instead he revels in every broken sound that leaves her lips, in how her legs shake every time his hips are flushed against hers again.

“Say, would you mind- oh, ungh” - his words fade out into a muffled growl at a particularly hard thrust - “would you mind if I left some marks?” He licks a hot strip on her neck. “I just want to eat you up”, he explains, playful smirk so wide on his face she can basically hear it.

Marks? As in, hickeys? Oh, oh, yes, she wants them. She wants to touch them and hiss in pain and think of him, in the days to come; she wants a physical reminder that she had such a stunning man in her arms.

She nods, probably letting out some affirmative sound - not that she would notice, not through the pleasure clouding her mind and the burning-hot feeling of him inside her.

His white, perfect teeth bite that spot behind her ear that she could swear has never been that sensitive before; and that's the last sensation she chooses to focus on before she closes her eyes and let's Lucifer have his way with her.

Not that she was, like, complaining. Quite the opposite.

Some time later, she could not for the life of her tell how long, his clever fingers slide from her waist to down between her legs.

“I want you to come like this, while I'm inside of you” he murmures, breath hot on her skin. His fingers stroke circles on her clit, while the heel of his hand presses gently on her lower abdomen - and she would bet that he can feel himself move in and out of her under his touch. “Feel you get even more tight around me, pull me closer. Would you like that?”

“Yeah, yes, oh Go-ah!” - he bit her a bit too hard, but he immediately soothes the pain with a feather-light kiss - “Keep doing...yeah, fuck, that. I-I'm close”, she stutters, bold and desperate and impatient, because she wants to see how he looks like when he comes. Wants to know If it's going to be her name rolling off his tongue, if his grip will get strong enough to leave bruises, whether or not his knees are going to give out like hers certainly will. “Are you? A-Are you close?”

He leaves a wet kiss on her cheek, and exhales there, eyelids heavy and brows furrowed, “I'll be right behind you, love. But you first.”

And then he renews his efforts to make her eyes roll back in her head in pleasure.

She falls off the edge soon after at a particularly slow drag of his fingers, when he's so deep inside of her she knows she'll feel empty for days after.

Her muscles clump around him, keeping him there, while her legs lose all strength and it's only his arms that keep her upright.

True to his word, he follows suit. Lucifer comes moaning her name, certainly putting up a bit of a show for her enjoyment - not that she can complain, with how pretty his lips look forming an almost pained ‘oh’.

So she kisses him, when his eyes flatter back open and their breathing start slowing down, because she can't believe he's right there to kiss her back.

***

“These trousers are a lost cause”, he's saying while they try to get decent.

She still doesn't have strength in her hands, but thankfully all she has to do is lower her dress. And pretend she'll have no problem walking out of there on high heels in a few minutes.

“Yeah, I mean”, she responds, “so is my underwear.”

Lucifer raises one eyebrow and smirks. “Then take it off, love. You can stuff it in my back pocket for safe keeping.”

She opens her mouth to say something, although she can't decide what's more appropriate between “hot” and “gross”, when the tell-tale sound of an angry woman in high heels resonates in the kitchen outside.

One second later the knob of their door falls to the ground with an offended thump!, and the door is wrenched open for the second time in the evening.

It's the same dark skinned woman that she was dining with Lucifer, and also apparently beating the shit out of armed men. She looks at her, then shifts her disbelieving gaze to Lucifer. “Really? When did you manage to get a girl in here?”

“I was here first, technically”, she explains. Lucifer nods innocently while slipping out of the room. “That's true, Maze. It was quite the effort, fitting both of us in there both.”

“I think you fit in alright”, Maze replies.

She would blush, but she's still too high on endorphins to care about her freshly-fucked look. Especially when seeing Lucifer's “just had sex” own look is almost a religious experience - messy hair, rumpled clothes, marks of lipstick everywhere. Would it be rude to take a photo?

“We gotta get out of her, fast”, Maze continues. “I called in one of your favours to keep the police busy for a while - you're welcome, by the way. But they are one their way.”

She starts tugging Lucifer away, ignoring his outraged easy, this shirt's Armani!

He turns to her when they're almost out of the kitchen. “Come to my club one of this days, will you? It's called Lux, I'm sure you've heard.” He winks at her, seemingly not giving a fuck about the cops as much as he wasn't fazed by getting shot at. “I believe I made some promises about a real bed, didn't I?”

And then he's out of the door.

But apparently not of out of her life.

A real bed, uh?

***

23.15 - From: BFF <3 > So??? How's the date going?

23.17 - To: BFF <3 > heyyyy omg the guy didn't show up fuck you very much btw but also like,,, thank god, you know?

23.17 - From: BFF <3 > He didn't show up? D: I'm so sorry! What happened? You're writing like you're drunk.

23.18 - To: BFF <3 > drunk on life babyyyyyyy> srry my brain is still mush because i came like twice if you can believe it lmao

Hope you guys like it <3 Any feedback is more than appreciated!

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