#it has meat loaf so it's good

[winkwonkwankwenk]

Please do an Toji Headcannons Sfw+Nsfw if your not already working on it!✨️ Read your Gojo one and loved it hehehe TYSM ✨️❤️

Toji Head-Cannons!! (SFW & NSFW)

SFW

Not a morning person, wakes up grumpy and will sulk around until about lunchtime. Food makes him slightly better, so when you cheerfully set down the meal you made for him he can't stop the corners of his mouth from twitching up.

He's not exactly irresponsible, he just prioritizes...differently. Food first, money second, you third. When he notices he's spending too much time away he'll casually call you and act like he hasn't disappeared for week(s)! "I was busy, I'll be home soon." He says, knowing damn well he isn't coming home for another day or two.

His eyes give away his mood, so you can tell when he's happy even though he rarely smiles. They scrunch, and when you giggle at him they narrow. "What's so funny, Doll?" He'll ask, leaning in so your breath hitches.

He likes picking you up, he finds how small you are endearing. He purposely puts things you use on high shelves just to hear you call for him. He'll lean over you, chest pressed to your back and grin when you grumble. "What? I'm helpin'."

Heavy meat eater. Beef and pork are his daily diet, taking up most of his plate. When you whined to him about healthy habits he just grunted and rolled his eyes.

Definitely has a garden behind the house. It started as your hobby and then one day you came home to him shirtless in the sun, tilling the land and planting while humming to himself. From then on, you've let him handle all the crops. It keeps him fit and you...entertained.

He likes to kiss your shoulders when the two of you cuddle. He finds comfort having you close, although he'll rarely admit it. He always has an excuse on why he has to cling to you instead of just saying how he really feels. "It's jus' cold, don't make a big deal out of nothin' "

Bulks constantly, eating three courses every meal time. He gets hangry quickly, so if you don't cook trust the kitchen will be raided. You've come home to see him feasting on breadrolls, sometimes the entire loaf will be gone before you even use a slice for toast. He eats like a teenage boy going through puberty and sometimes you worry he'll eat your money too. The thought has crossed his mind once.

He's not broke, just extremely frugal. He doesn't even want to buy medkits. He'll boil water and pour it on a cut. You walked in on this once and he was confused as to why you were so panicked. When you explained how batshit crazy his methods were, he let you open the jar he had tucked away. There was at least five-hundred dollars in coins stored and when you asked him about it, he told you it was Megumi's college fund. Yeah right.

He wants a big family- but only with you. You're a good mother to Megumi, and he knows you'll be even better with a couple more kids.

NSFW

Taunts and teases you during sex, from degrading praises to purposely slowing his thrusts. He likes making you beg, especially when he edges you and your left pleading with him for pleasure.

He's got a monster and he never give you time to adjust. Once he's in, he's not pulling out. He'll start gentle for your sake but the moment he hears that first moan from your sweet lips he's done playing nice. "Come on...this much is nothin', take it like a big girl."

Wakes up hard, goes to bed hard, he's constantly horny. No matter how many times the two of you fuck in a day he wants to ram back in. He's insatiable, but you're to blame really. It's not his fault he's addicted to the way you squeeze his shaft with those slippery wet walls. How is he supposed to go more than ten minutes without you coiled around him?

The two of you got into a heated argument once, he bent you over and fucked you from behind until you caved. Who needs communication when you can have hot rough make-up sex? By the time he's done with you, you don't have the energy to stay mad at him. "Ready to admit I'm right?" and if you say no, the two of you go for another round.

Loves french-kissing you and making out in general. He does tricks with his tongue in your mouth but loses control when you suck on the scar on his lips.

He loves having you in his lap, especially when you're wearing a skirt. All he has to do is push your panties aside and push in- perfect. Being bigger than you has its perks, especially when it comes to holding you down as he thrusts up into your womb, fucking you hard and fast until you're a sobbing soaking mess.

He told your dad that you also call him daddy. He's no longer invited to family events.

He won't fuck you with his fingers because he knows how dirty they get from yardwork, so he uses his tongue and damn is he good at it. He loudly slurps up every juice spilling from your cunt, groaning and grumbling about your taste and scent. "Fucking hell, Woman..." is all he can manage to mumble, too pussy-drunk to say much else as he buries his nose between your folds.

His favorite petnames for you are Doll and Slut.

Will not wear a condom. Don't even ask. He gives you the meanest side eye when you even mention it. He wants to knock you up again, and there's enough space in the house for another kid. He'll consider condoms when you have five kids- maybe. "I'm givin' you all of this good cum and you want it wasted in a plastic bag? Ha."

He didn't see the point of aftercare but it grew on him, mainly because of how pretty you looked laid against him as he massaged your shoulders. You're his woman, and if cuddling after fucking makes you feel good, fine, he'll do it.

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#Wink writes 💗 #toji x you #toji smut #jjk toji #toji fushiguro #toji x reader #fushiguro toji #toji #jujutsu kaisen toji #jujutsu kaisen #toji jujutsu kaisen #jjk #toji headcanons

[sorcerous-caress]

I'm so jealous of Daniil. Having only played the Haruspex route so far in both game, each time I'm invited to the Bachelor's place I turn green with envy at how he resides at an actual proper house with a real room and a real bed.

A real bed with a whole bedframe. A pillow with an actual pillowcase!! His bed even has sheets!

He has WINDOWS. His house is in a nice neighbourhood, and his roommate is a very attractive woman. There is actual furniture in his room. Not one hint of fungus growing on the walls or rust!

Can you imagine living there as your lair? Spending the whole game knowing you have a real house with a real bed to go back to at the end of each night? Seeing Eva's face every day before leaving to do quests?

Meanwhile, Artemy is stuck in this dumpster room of an abandoned factory. Cuddling with rats on his makeshift bed, held by nothing but a wooden panel, some boxes and a dream.

A pillow so yellow it has its own ecosystem where bugs established real estate. Is that even a pillow or is it some random rock Artemy found and chucked in there? Is it a stale loaf of bread?? Why is it hard looking?

But no, you don't even get to keep the rock roach pillow because in P2, they take it away.

Fuck you Artemy, you had it good for too long. No pillow now because what are you gonna do about it?. Fold your mattress instead to have a resemblance of a faux sense of protection under your most vital organ during the long hours of death rehearsal that you call sleep.

Somehow, they made the bed even more unstable looking. As if that thin panel in the middle could hold Artemy's weight without caving in. Oh, and apparently, I ran out of boxes to use for furniture because the bed and the table have to share custody of the same box.

We have downgraded into barrels now, as you can see :) No, I don't know what they used to contain inside.

Waking up every day to Sticky's snotty face telling me not to spit in the wind and nagging me about cleaning up the week-old human organs thrown around that are stinking up the place.

THERE IS MOLD GROWING ON MY WALLS. RUST FLAKES FALL FROM THE EXPOSED METAL PIPES DOWN INTO MY CEREAL EACH BREAKFAST.

This single wall holds so much mold and fungus that they started crossbreeding and evolved into new, never seen before types of bacteria. Satan's asscrack is more hygienic than whatever biohazard plagues of Egypt this slab of concrete contains.

I live in the gutters. My only neighbours are an illegal gang of minors with a hatred for furries and another illegal gang but of adults this time who sell me bullets way above the market price. A dangerous neighbourhood where you can't have shit because SOMEONE STOLE MY BULL.

The basement I reside in has no windows, the smell is pungent and fucking vile down here. There isn't even a space for a bathroom.

This is my kitchenette/bathroomette/showerette/cupboardette/surgery tools disinfection stationette/sinkette/watercoolerette/toilette/fridge.

also my buckets yk.

One bucket for the makeshift bathroom, another for holding important organs and loose guts during surgery, a third one as a cooking pot for making tasty meat grub soup and the final one for murky water after sweeping the floor.

What do I use to tell them apart? Oh nothing :) I just mix em up every now and then, oppsie daisy.

Oh and the floors are CONSTANTLY wet for some reason. Yeah sticky slipped and almost broke his neck the other day so watch your steps.

There is also this eerie room with literal garbage and broken furniture right next to the entrance. Don't worry about it, sometimes I hear someone crying and screaming for help when I'm trying to go to sleep but it's just the factory being silly lol.

Now this? This is where the M A G I C happens. This is where Artemy the Menkhu makes his famous herbal remedies and natural mixtures. This is where the Panacea for the infamous sand plague gets made!

In a rusty empty food can.

Falling into a bucket with shit stains.

MEDICINE BABBYYY. GET YOUR WEAK SOFT BONED ASS BACK TO THE CAPITAL BITCH, THIS IS HOW REAL MEN MAKE REAALLL MEDICINE!! RAWRRRRR🦅🦅💥💥

Meanwhile, dickovsky has the view of the cathedral and polyhedron just around the corner from where he resides. He has a backyard with a lake, and all I have is a swamp behind my basement. I trudge through the mud each night, collecting weeds and herbs to mix and trade so I and the two orphans who adopted themselves into my life don't go starving.

Not to mention the gaggles of herb brides loitering outside and giving me a false bad reputation.

That dandy douchbag has a pharmacy, a grocery, and a tailor right next door. The closest establishment to my shrekcore place of resident is a dingy basement bar with shady drinks and no bouncer to check for ID, I saw two kids in there once.

Pov: a qt3.14 surgeon says his dad isn't home and invites you over.

#♡otherfandoms #♡pathologic 2 #♡pathologic #artemy burakh #daniil dankovsky #pathologic 2 #pathologic classic hd #the haruspex #pathologic

[doctorprofessorsong]

Destiel fic recs

Another round of brainrot. I hope they never fix what's wrong with me.

Beggars Would Ride by Tiamatv (Explicit, 118k)

You had me at Aladdin AU. When Dean Winchester is caught stealing, he's given one chance for freedom. Go into the Cave of Wonders, grab the amulet, and get out. Things don't go as planned. Now he's got a moody ancient genie to contend with. But maybe he can use up two of his wishes and then grant the genie his wish: to be free. What could go wrong?

This fic is an absolutely delight. I laughed so hard, especially at the fun ways Tiamatv played with the SPN canon and the Disney movies. But beyond the humor is some really fantastic world building and a beautiful story about finding your way when you feel trapped by life.

Genie Cas is very cute and grumpy and sassy, and it's fun to watch him start to care. And Dean has so much heart it will make you ache. Sam and Jess are disgustingly cute but both are also whip smart and fun. And Jo (Jess’ sister in this) is the knife girl of my dreams.

This one is hard to put down.

Tourbillon Dreams by kayliemalinza @kayliemalinza (Mature, 40k)

Dean uses Bobby's life insurance proceeds to buy a hoarders house stuffed to the brim with cursed and haunted objects. But when he finds a clock that also happens to be an angel, things take an unexpected turn.

It sounds cracky and there is some delightful humor, but this fic packs a beautiful emotional punch. Dean is in his peak caretaking, competency mode and Clockstiel is adorable and entranced with Dean in a way that is just immensely readable.

There is something starkly gorgeous about the way Dean and Cas are physically so different and yet they find each other in meaningful and beautiful ways.

Love Is a Meat Loaf Song by followyourenergy @followyourenergy (Explicit, 68k)

A reimagining of canon where Dean is never saved and becomes a demon. He's bored waiting for the apocalypse when he happens upon a certain blue eyed seraph and they decide to work together.

This fic has all the delightful sassiness you expect of Demon!Dean and especially when he spends time with his frenemy, Meg. It also has just absolutely amazing angel lore and a deep dive into Cas and his trauma. All of this is wrapped up in a soft love story about two beings finding each other and seeing each other and breaking down each other's walls.

It's the entire package of funny, sincere and romantic.

Where there is Darkness by quiettewandering @wanderingcas (Explicit, 91k)

I may have popped this on at some point when it was a WIP but I have to renew my recommendation if so. Dean and Sam are lighthouse keepers, but Dean keeps driving off the third member of their team until Cas shows up. But will they be able to overcome their past to carve out happiness?

This Dean and Cas are so delicious. I am deeply fond of them both. They are fighting against so much baggage and yet they find in each other something so special. Sammy is also perfectly oblivious in the best way. It's hard to explain what makes this fic special except that it is so engrossing, you will be slamming next chapter

Valley of God by ValleyDean @valleydean (Mature, 145k)

I know. I KNOW. The MCD tag is daunting in a fic like this but I promise that while it is accurate, then ending is softer than you think and it's really the way it should end.

So there are a few things about this fic that make it absolutely delicious. First, it really delves into Cas’ trauma in a really gorgeous way. We don’t have enough fics that look at his angel trauma (we can't for me tbh) and this one uses a religious cult situation to delve into it. Second, Dean and Cas in this fic are just so messy and delightful. Dean wants to believe that Cas is good so badly. Cas wants to protect Dean the same way. It's crunchy. Finally, the atmosphere is amazing. It's creepy. It gets under your skin.

Is it dark? Absolutely. But it's also amazing.

The Darkest Sunshine by StarlightOfFandoms @starlightoffandoms (Explicit, 35k)

If murder husbands is your thing, this one is a delight of a fic. Dean Winchester is the Righteous Man serial killer, a notorious murderer who goes after monsters (in human form). People who are guilty of abhorrent crimes. But when he goes after Cas, a professor believed to have murdered several students, he discovers an innocent man being framed. Together with Cas and his team, Dean decides to find the real killer. He just has to pretend to be Cas’ boyfriend until they succeed.

The fake dating trope in a murder husbands fic was a total delight. So was the fact that Dean doesn't work alone and has a full support system to go after the worst of the worst. It's an intriguing concept done really well. Dean in this fic is an interesting blend of sociopathic tendencies, a strong sense of justice, and a willingness to do anything for those he is loyal to. Cas is intrigued by Dean and accepts him as he is. It's a really great combination.

A Weed In Any Other Place by VioletHaze @scones-and-texting-and-murder (Explicit, 63k)

On the other end of the spectrum is this fluffy rom com. There is some angst, but most of it is soft, sweet falling in love along with supportive friends and family.

Cas is a writer. Well, Cas had a book published and now he's desperately trying to write his second while convincing himself the first was probably just a fluke. Writers block is a bitch. That is until his car breaks down and he ends up at a little shop called Winchester and Son. By some weird trick of fate, it's exactly what he needs. He has the most productive day in years sitting in their waiting room. So he comes back, and keeps coming back. The extremely cute mechanic with green eyes doesn't hurt.

Cas is a disaster at social situations in a relatable way. Dean is struggling to put away some bad lessons from his dad so that he can find what he wants instead of what his father pushed on him. Both have a lovely support system. Charlie, in particular, makes me deeply fond in this fic.

i like your shoelaces (thanks! i stole them from the president) by you-cant-spell-subtext-without (ayreisha) @you-cant-spell-subtext-without (Explicit, WIP, 33k so far)

My lovely Tumblr wife is back at it, writing the most delightfully chaotic fic based on Misha's prompt awhile back for President Cas and Fast Food Janitorial Staff Dean Winchester. It's a Cinderella story and in equal parts hilarious and adorable. Also it is a Dean-saster/Cas-tastrophe pairing which is always fun plus there's a 2 person love triangle situation.

Dean's stuck in a miserable job with his only escape being his love of How I Met Your Mother and the Tumblr blog he devotes to the fandom. But when a handsome man walks in one night after hours, things heat up. Too bad the man in question is actually the President.

It's a romp and a love letter to fandom.

#destiel #deancas #destiel fic recs #deancas fic recs #destiel fic rec #deancas fic rec

[rfswitchart]

Hunter's Comfort Food

I think, at this point, you all know my personal favorite Owl House headcanon. I shouldn't have to say what it is, you already know what I'm about to discuss. However, I am going to describe why Hunter loves what he does and maybe you'll adopt it as your headcanon too...

It all started when Hunter ran away from the Emperor's Coven Post-Hollow Mind. He'd been living in the paranormatorim in Hexside since, building a nest and living on snacks. Gus, having seen the former Golden Guard living so dreadfully, offers him his lunch, which, among other things, included a sandwich.

Hunter then helps Gus escape Adrian and the scouts, citing his reason for doing so being because Gus offered him food. When the illusionist questions him on it, Hunter says "It was a really good sandwich." As many have pointed out, Hunter's diet in the castle was probably miserable. On top of it, he was clearly malnourished, as several characters (Luz, Eda, Amity, Edric, Emira, Matt) have said. So it is assumed he didn't have a great time food wise, which is why he looked so happy eating that loaf of bread in King's Tide...

Yeah, look at him go. Happily chewing on some bread and being pleased as punch over it. And this is where my HC came to be, Hunter and Gus bonding over a simple offering of food. A kindness Hunter had probably never known until then, combined with something that probably saved his life or at the very least made him feel much better. I feel like that sole interaction weighed on Hunter's heart, and it made him fall in love with sandwiches. After all, without Gus' sandwich, he would have never been able to sit down and actually talk about how he was feeling about Belos. He wouldn't have bonded with Gus and helped the younger witch when he needed it most. Hunter developed an intensely strong bond with Gus, a friendship and brotherhood forged in love, trust, and sandwiches.

That said, I assume when they were trapped in the human realm, Hunter started looking into various types of sandwiches (with the help of Camila and Luz, of course.) Figuring out what the best meats and cheeses were. What kinds of vegetables go well with them (information he totally shared with Willow, obviously.) The best kinds of bread and condiments to compliment the other ingredients. I assume he learned about what foods he liked and disliked (boy loves himself some olives, btw.) Of course, this eventually lead to the ultimate creation. His pride and joy: The True Hero Sub. The culmination of his knowledge and understanding of foods that allowed him to create divinity between two slices of bread (well, shoved into a loaf of french bread, but hey, who's counting?)

Of course, this is a BIG sandwich. I know, that's the one I made myself. It is about 2' long (60.69cm for you non-Americans.) It is not something you can eat by yourself, and Hunter would never want to eat it alone. Because of this sandwich, Hunter came up with his philosophy on food; "Food tastes best when shared with others." So I assume the first time he made one, he shared it with the others. Definitely Gus, his sandwich brethren, and possibly Willow, someone Hunter would be thrilled to share his accomplishments with.

And this probably continued as he became an adult. I bet anything that Hunter has a series of sandwiches he brings with him to work. He maybe even wrote down his own cookbook of sorts for them. You KNOW anytime he had a new idea, Gus was the first person he told about it. He probably even made a book to make sandwiches to represent Cosmic Frontier characters (you know Gus AND Camila happily assisted him.) And that's my headcanon. A boy, his best friend, and a type of food that brought them closer and possibly even saved a life in more than one sense. In this house, we respect the Sandwich Bros. (Tagging @childlikegoblinqueen, @unniebeans, and @probablyhuntersmom, who I assume have also had this headcanon infect their brain for some time. *evil laugh*)

#the owl house #toh hunter #hunter noceda #toh headcanon #hunter deamonne #toh gus #gus porter #sandwich bros #hunter loves sandwiches

[ladythornofrivia]

MY SCAVENGER || Kylo Ren!Aemond x Rey!Reader

a/n: i’ve been thinking about what one-shot I should do next. Though I’m currently writing Saltburn fanfic, I love Star Wars. Even Reylo! Have fun reading! (Some dialogue in the beginning doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to the movie.)

warnings: interrogation, torture kink, lust at first sight, breeding kink, p in v sex, fight scene, violence, aemond has issues, loss of virginity, aemond is a d*ck, kink size, obsessive aemond, dom/sub, aemond not only uses the power of force on reader but also with his d*ck. Bl*wjob, degradation kink, creampie

pair: aemond x reader

Somewhere in the galaxy far away, the leader of the First Order, Aemond Targaryen, was hunting for the map that’ll lead him to Daemon Targaryen, the last Jedi ever existed. Or so he believed.

While Aemond knew the legends of his uncle and his journey as a Jedi warrior, but those who commanded under Aemond’s order and leadership, not a soul in a galaxy believed Daemon ever existed, not in the history textbooks or screens. The stormtroopers only meant to serve their skilled leader.

As young as he was, Aemond Targaryen is known for his cold and calculating nature. He kept his helmet on, under any circumstances, and wields a red lightsaber. Tall and lethal, no one really knew what he looked like—it left to the imagination far and wide, leading his troops picturing of his appearance. Aemond wouldn’t dare make his troops or his other commanding officers enter his private quarters.

In the galaxy, everyone feared him.

Until you.

A nobody living in the stories of galaxy.

Hunting for scraps and leftovers for the sake of small profit to keep on living. Finding rare scraps in Jakku, was meddlesome. A nightmare. Filled in stacks of desert sand and humid waves lingered and pierced your skin.

Deserted land has been your home. And in your home, inside the AT-AT Walker, after you scratch another tally mark on the metallic wall, you cooked a loaf of bread and fried vegetables and scraps of thin meat. You wondered when your life will begin anew with reborn purpose. A nobody, in the galactic space, hoped your family would return.

You hoped that your life isn’t meaningless.

Jakku has been destroyed; in chaos, you’re forced to leave—of taking refuge, but more companions in your journey agreed that Jakku is nothing but a junkyard, and there you met a legendary shooter and a Wookie Warrior. But the plans failed.

For Aemond Targaryen spotted the map to Daemon Tarygaryen’s location. But the expectant acquirance wasn’t the astromech, droid BB8, rather, something far more interesting.

Aemond captured you—after minutes of chase and defense in the thickened forest. “Bring the girl,” he ordered, as your body fell to unconsciousness by the force, as he carried you and fled away with his ship, brought you to the First Order base, entrapped in metal straps as soon as you woke up.

Luminous lights and thick air provoked your tightened lungs to breath and your skin had broken a perspiration.

The doors opened, unveiling a tall, dark figure between the gaps of archway. Stomping on his shoes echoed until became nothing.

“Where are the others?” you asked, rasping, eyes hazed.

“You mean the murderers, traitors and thieves and cravens you call friends,” he said, taunting, his voice was nearly a merry. “You’ll be in such a relief that I have no clue to where they are.”

The reflection of his mask stared back at you. “You still want to murder me—challenge me,” he assumed.

“Well, that’s what happens if you’ve been chased and captured by the monstrous creature in a mask,” you snapped, low voice laced with venom.

His mask has taken off, long silk strands of silver-blond hair flowed over his chest, as the violet eye and the substitution of his sapphire gleamed at you. For a second, you never thought that your captor is skilled fighter, but it’s also young—young and handsome. His milky skin aglow, a good correlation to his deep stone wedged on the empty socket of his amputated eye, lined with scar that is faded. Outline of his jaw sharpened, shadowed as he strode closer to you.

Thundered, his mask dropped at a nearby stand, the grey sand flew and dissipated as his lithe frame inched closer.

“The droid,” he said, almost frantic. “Tell me about the droid. I know the droid has the map to Daemon Targaryen. Ever heard of him?”

Looking at his eye, you shook your head, “Never heard of him,” you answered, the illuminated lights flashed over your eyelids each time you blinked.

Aemond inched his face closer. “Your heart beat is pounding awfully loud.”

“Must be the heat,” you retorted.

He chuckled. “What a clever liar you are. But not clever enough. Now, tell me about the droid.”

“He’s a BB Unit with a Selenium Drive with a Thermal Hyperscan Vindicator.”

“It’s carrying a navigational chart, which the droid possesses the map.” His head tilted. “You, a scavenger, living on Jakku—a deserted planet with nothing to offer.” His face leaned closer. “You know I can take what I want.”

You swallowed, eyes flicking at his smooth pink-colored lips.

“My,” he said, licking his lower lip. “It appears you have some sort of interest in me, showed no signs of fear.”

You looked away, face reddened from the strict heat in the room and the huskiness in his voice. His hand outreached to your side temple, though no contact. You felt the Force strengthened and battled against the mobility of your system.

“You’re lonely. Alone and desperate. Waiting for someone to show up and rescue you. Waiting for someone to lead you out from the land, from the galaxy and into the great land with trees and life. I can sense the anger…not only that…something far more…delicate…in the matter based on your compromising position,” he cooed.

You resisted, of course, but your energy drained quicker.

His body leaned back, taking a good look of your exasperated form. “Tell you what, I’ll release you, but only if you can give something to me, in one condition.”

You (e/c) locked onto his. “And what would that be?”

Only the corners of Aemond’s lips curled.

“Please, no,” you begged, wrists tied up behind your back while Aemond was sitting on a spare chair, his thick and lithe legs spread wide while you’re in between them, knees already hurting.

“Shhh, trust me, my little scavenger,” he cooed again, his gloved hand flattened behind your head and dragged it downward. “So, are you going to be my good woman, or do I have show you the force again?”

Gulping, you succumbed at his voice. Maybe another way of his “force”.

“Good woman,” he praised, and unzipped his black trousers, his long and thick cock sprung out it nearly hit your cheek below the eye. “Sorry, darling, my cock couldn’t help but to view at the sight of you,” he said, smirking, tugging your locks, hauling you closer to his engorged tip, leaking. Your lips opened, taken his length in, choking. It felt as if your eating a whole uncut rod—or a thicker lightsaber. “All trapped underneath me, my power. The force within can’t abide much later.”

Gagging proceeded in your throat, but you took his length in precarious and fervent care.

“That’s it,” he groaned, his other hand flicked, the force brought your head down further to the end of his swollen cock, his large balls. “Argh! That’s…it.”

It was impressive for him to not only deal with a woman with capable resistance, but also has a coy nature she has been hiding—a tease.

The force no longer hostage you; your mouth watered as you took his cock well, swallowing the taste of his flesh, his warm flesh. Oh, how delightful. You never dealt a Jedi or a commander to have desirable or naughty urges. But you figured that even the force cannot contain beastly urges of a man. Aemond was one. But, has he ever been a woman before you? Jealousy pitted down on your heated belly, flickering.

It felt so wrong, but, your heart was aching for him, despite “meeting” under the matters of selfish urgency and a brink of death.

Aemond sighed, his silver-blond locks befallen on his broad and lean backside, his throat bobbed, heaving and sighing at your warm and slick mouth.

“Your thoughts are troubling you again,” he said. “No, I have never been with a woman.”

You doubted. Tortured at the thought of a previous woman, a torture where a previous woman might do better than you—an inexperienced scavenger.

“I never lie,” he said. His index finger flicked, and the hair ties on your head casted, your longish locks flowed, nesrly covering up your breast. “In fact, I never did.”

Semen spurted in your slippery mouth.

“Take it all in, darling,” he encouraged, hearing your throat quenched its thirst, smothered in his slick and spurt of his thick semen.

The room became hotter as Aemond strapped your wrists above your head onto the prison bed.

“Stay still, woman,” he grunted, his lips inched downward to yours, seeing if the pace of his breath matched with yours.

Your chest steadied from a grasping breath you tried to behold with gentleness. Aemond sensed it, too.

“You’re steady…Good.” And plunged his suppled lips to yours, caging your soft ragged breaths, playing your tongue with his, heavy sighs played out in the air, his palm snuck in your cloth, smooth fingertips tracing the lines of your stomach, the soft steep of ribcage.

“With you under my protection, nothing can go wrong, little scavenger,” he said, his tucked hand withdrew, and flicked a sharp movement, and your clothes shred and tossed across the room under his Force.

Gasping, Aemond silenced your lips again under a deep passion. A sheer underwear tucked your maidenhood. Frustrated, Aemond snatched and ripped in one swoop, his cock engorged twice, hardened, his throat dried and croaked at the sight of your flawless beauty, picturing the lines of stretch marks on your lower belly from the swollen pregnancy. Aemond thought beforehand that if the First Order has been under siege, in one way to promote a difficult position that couldn’t diffuse, he needed an heir, an heir of a stronger, faster and more calculating version of himself.

“Hold on, scavenger, I’m sure this will be painful for you, but you’ll grow to love the feeling of my cock, grinding inside your walls. How do you feel now, little woman? Are you willing to give an heir for me?”

You gasped. There was so much life ahead of you. Unsure of his words, you were sure he’s crazy to know that one, obtaining pregnancy is scandalous—especially if a father is a notorious leader. He could be killed, and could be tortured or his enemies will use you and the child to proceed their victory to reach Aemond.

Gulping and vibrating under him, you uttered. “Why me?”

Your heart is torn in half. What if Aemond is only using you as a spare time hobby? What if he’ll soon find a lover who’s more beautiful and mature and not childlike like you, and for you to be thrown in the dark and be forgotten? Numerous possibilities rushing in your mind—and halted—when Aemond said, “I won’t betray you. Betraying is the enemy’s job.”

“But you’re the enemy,” you remarked.

“In this room, you’ll only see the real me, as the real Aemond, a beast hidden in a skin of a man,” he murmured. “I must have you,” he grunted, pushing his cock into your constricted folds, pumping and sliding in a tremendous pace that the bed rocked.

Moans ascended in the roofs, Aemond’s quiet grunts entered through your ears. Your legs wrapped around his slender waist, bobbing as his powerful thrusts electrified your drenched walls.

Your eyes lulled, but Aemond grasped your face and aligned it to his, violet eye narrowed. “Look at me as I fuck you good—heavy and fast. Your belly will soon swell with a future Jedi, a more powerful warrior than any good-for-nothing troops in the galaxy.”

His legs ached as his one hand untied the knot on your wrist and hauled your body up for you to snuggle him, bed rocking continuously as your voice rasped, airily sighing with your eyes closed, almost seeing pink stars swirling in your closed lids, your mouth sucked Aemond’s neck, offered a low hiss through his teeth.

“That’s it, my good angel,” Aemond purred,the flat of his large hands enveloped and motioned against your naked back. The heat in the room faded, the coldness bumped into your bare flesh; the air condition is activated, encouraged your warm bodies to go at full speed.

“Aemond,” you moaned, head threw back.

Aemond’s pace became sloppy, staggered at you calling his name. “Say it again, my darling scavenger. Say my name.”

“Aemond…Aemond,” your hips gyrated, in pleasurable heat.

His lips curved. “I knew you would love it eventually.”

“Need you to come…inside me..in me…on me…in my mouth or face. Fuck me good,” you begged, corner of your lips salivating, tongue buds prickling, in hopes to taste his cock again.

But you missed the part where Aemond’s eye gleamed in darkened shade, in secret thrill.

Grabbing your hips, nails deepened and bruised your flesh and bones as his thrusts shoved harder, sending your voice wailing through the roof. You were sure that the Stormtroopers would stop and listen over your voice. Aemond couldn’t care less; he loved seeing you like this.

“Almost there, my scavenger,” he groaned, kissing your cheek, last few rounds set in; your arms slightly flailed yet gripped around his neck, face nuzzled onto his lean neck as he blasted hot white liquid inside you.

Kissing on several spots on your face, Aemond tugged your body down with him, with your side profile pressed against his chest, his hand rested on your back head while the other brushed your back.

“The child will soon grow into you,” he reminded.

“What about the droid?” you asked, puzzled.

Aemond scoffed. “Forget about that damn droid. It is you who I am enamored to, who I am now devoted to.”

“Is this the power of force?”

“No, this is my love yearning for someone—for you, my sweet,” he said. “The force is neither the army nor the galaxy. The force is within us, and only us can gather. The force can sometimes break us.”

“You didn’t break me,” you noted, admiring his sapphire eye.

Aemond smiled. “No, but you tamed the force within me.”

And you both shared a tender kiss under dimmed light.

Taglist: @daonenonlysandman @toodlesxcuddles @kittendoll05 @omgsuperstarg @xcharlottemikaelsonx @paninisstuff @danika1994 @angeljcca @marvelescvpe @kukulyarva @namelesslosers @heavenly1927 @snh96 @herathedreamer @fandom-maniac-anime @httpsmenace @velunis @nananeptune @domithebomi @moonseye @valeskafics @faesspace @rxixo31 @tm-starr @xinthia19 @popsycles @naiaaramena @aleemendoza2425-blog @letmehavemyfictionalmen @aracelipf @ammo23 @blackswxnn @buccini555 @watercolorskyy @taangie @wolfdressedinlace @qardasngan @justyelena @jolixtreesunn @runekisses @jmii722 @colored-tr-panels @evergreen9083 @foggypeacestarlight @dixie-elocin @galactict3a @momowhoo @saturnssrings @dani5216 @liannafae

#fanfiction #fanfic #x reader #reader insert #reylo #rey #kylo ren #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #star wars #disney #hotd #hotd x reader #house of the dragon #ewan mitchell #ewan nation #writeblr #ao3 #archive of our own #smut #fluff #tumblr #multifandom #asoiaf #may the force be with you #aemond #aemond targaryen x reader #reylo au #writer

[weird-an]

Of course Prince Harrington is just another brat. Brought up spoiled rotten and without ever touching the dirt and blood the real world outside of palaces and lush gardens has to offer.

"I don't know why my father thinks you have to protect me," he bitches. "And can we call it a fucking day? It's already pretty dark and we'll reach Hawkins tomorrow."

Billy rolls his eyes. As if the Prince is able to fight what lurks behind the trees. He has probably never seen a spider monster or Demodog. Billy has the scars to prove that reality hurts.

It's not his usual work. Escorting royalty.

Billy is a mercenary. A sword you can buy, a tool to use if you've got enough coin. He knows most people hate him or are scared of him, most people think of him as scum except when they need him.

But apparently a lot of the Kingsguard were killed by the Demogorgon. Desperate times, even for rich people, but at least the pay is good.

"C'mon, it's time for dinner," Harrington says again. It's a luxury to have regular meals, but he doesn't know that. For him it's normal.

Camaro neighs as if to agree. What a traitor.

Billy wishes he'd already have enough coin to leave for California, to finally see the ocean again. But no, he's still stuck in Indiana doing whatever contract he can find, after Neil fucked him over and took most of his money.

Camaro stops at a clearing. Billy hears water running nearby. He sighs. If his horse agrees with the Prince, it's probably time to stop.

He slips Camaro half of the carrot, the last piece of food he has on himself. He's getting paid once they arrive in Hawkins. Times are tough, so Camaro and him eat the same shit. Doesn't matter as long as he gets to leave some day.

He starts to make a fire. Doesn't want Harrington to moan about getting cold next.

When the flames begin to shine bright and orange, eating their way through the wood, the darkness of the night is already surrounding them.

Harrington points at the log of wood he's sitting on.

Billy chews on the carrot and stares at the Prince.

"Do you want some cheese?" Harrington asks. He digs through his bag, pulling out different cheeses, a loaf of bread and a few dried meats.

The few noblemen Billy escorted in the past never asked. Never shared. Didn't even talk to him, if it wasn't necessary.

Billy raises a brow. Maybe this is a joke? Like when he was little and Neil showed him his dinner and fed it to the pigs instead to Billy.

"It's r'ly g'd," Harrington says, cheeks already stuffed full. He holds out a piece of bread.

Billy's stomach growls. Fuck it. He takes the bread and sits down next to Harrington. He's wearing expensive fabrics underneath his masterfully crafted coat. Billy's own armor is covered in scratches and dents.

He groans. The bread is delicious. Harrington shares everything with him. The cheese is strong, melting on his tongue. He hasn't realized how hungry he had been.

"Thanks," he mumbles.

"I don't know how you do it," Harrington says. "The whole day on horseback. My ass is so sore! What about yours?"

Billy fights back a laugh. The last time his ass hurt was after a visit to Heather's brothel. She knows his preferences and stayed silent, sending her hottest men to his room whenever he's in town.

"You get used to it." It's not really a lie. The riding Billy got used to. The loneliness? Not really. He's glad he's got Camaro. Better a horse as a friend than none.

"A toast to your firm ass then." Harrington grins at him, eyes twinkling. He hands Billy a wineskin.

He's pretty, Billy thinks. Big brown eyes, fluffy hair. He wonders if it feels as soft as it looks. Probably, with the fancy soap he smells like.

"Cheers." He takes a sip from the wine. It's better not to think about it. This is just a job after all.

Harrington's knee bumps against his. He doesn't move away.

When they lay down on the bedrolls, Billy listens to the cackling fire and watches the stars shining bright above him.

"I'm cold," Harrington groans.

Billy knows he shouldn't. No fucking way the Prince is cold. His blanket must be way better material than Billy's.

"Come over then," he hears himself say.

Harrington doesn't hesitate. Suddenly warm arms are around Billy's chest. The Prince's breath ghosts over his ear.

Billy turns his face around. Harrington's lips are right there, soft and hot against his own.

Maybe it's not the worst job he has ever taken.

#come on guys #prince harrington #i mean #they both know their way around a sword #camaro the horse can you see it #harringrove #billy x steve #billy hargrove #harringrove ficlet #steve x billy #tw food issues #tw child abuse

[dulcesiabits]

where the stars fall.

summary: in the middle of the zombie apocalypse, you and your childhood friend, Childe, and his little brother try to survive amidst the wreckage of a broken world. things take a turn for the worse when you meet a stranger who shatters what you think you know of the world.

notes: 11k words, author's notes, descriptions of violence, murder (specifically through the use of a gun and of an unnamed stranger), unhealthy relationships, angst with no comfort

It’s the end of the world, and your childhood friend is the only person you have left.

Glass crunches underfoot as you and Childe slip in through the broken window of an abandoned grocery store. There’s not much left on the shelves: a stale loaf of black, furry bread, a forgotten wrapper, a dusty row of cracked children’s toys. Everything good has already been scavenged by other survivors.

Like most other grocery stores you’ve scavenged, the broken fridges buzz with flies swarming rotting meat. The remaining fruits are so moldy they’ve permanently stained the shelves with their decaying juice. The smell barely registers anymore; you’ve long since gotten used to the scent of the world dying.

Childe gestures at you and then the left side of the store, before pointing at himself and waving at the right side. His meaning is clear; you nod, and the two of you separate.

You pad noiselessly down the aisles, eyes wandering over the remains of a forgotten life. You’ve ended up in the beauty section: crusted lotions, murky shampoo, eyeshadow palette spilling their candy-colored guts all over the floor. 

You stare longingly at the shampoo bottles, but you can’t take any. It’s an unaffordable luxury, even though you’ve forgotten when you took your last bath. The heating and electricity in most houses is failing, and the encroaching winter means the outside water sources are out of the question.

The dry goods section is desiccated. Most of the food is gone, but there is one stale sleeve of crackers left. You drop it in your backpack, grinning at the lucky find. 

You straighten, before your eyes fall on a door labeled “employees only.” There might still be something worth scavenging there. You pull out the kitchen knife you keep sheathed in your pocket, the blade glinting dully as you crack open the door.

The room is dark, save for a cracked light that flickers off and on in aimless intervals. There’s a clock on the wall, frozen permanently at 2:13am, and a table in the corner where employees must have taken their breaks, alongside a microwave and– lucky for you– cardboard boxes still piled up on storage shelves. You hurry over, pulling one down. Nothing but dust, more dust– aha! A crinkled bar of chocolate. It’s still sealed, but it would be a perfect present for Teucer. 

Something groans behind you, and the hair on your arms tingle. Your heart pounds as you tightly grip the handle of your kitchen knife, whipping it out as you spin– just in time to see a baseball crack through the zombie standing over you.

Blood and rotting flesh fall to the floor in wet chunks as Childe hits the zombie until it collapses to the floor. Then he hits it again. And again. Its arm twitches, and Childe smashes the limb until the bone cracks. He doesn’t stop, even when the zombie stops moving, not even when it’s just a pile of meat and pooling blood.

Childe isn’t even breathing hard when he drops his arm. His eyes are hard flecks of ice as he stares down at the zombie. For a second, he looks like a stranger.

“You okay?” Childe whispers, his gaze melting into something familiar and warm, and the familiar concern coloring his voice brings him back to you.

 The two of you try to limit communication to wordless gestures and hand signals when you’re traveling outside; noise risks attracting zombies. “I’m fine,” you reply.

Childe nods, before looking over you up and down carefully, as if to confirm the veracity of your statement himself. He takes your hand without a word, lacing your fingers together. The blood on his hand smears over your combined fingers, rust and iron seeping into the folds of your skin.

But it’s Childe. You won’t pull away. You can’t, even if you hate the feeling of blood.

He doesn’t let go of your hand the whole time the two of you carefully make your way out of the grocery store, slinking down streets, sticking to the shadows and pausing to listen to the shuffle of undead feet. You keep a grip on your kitchen knife and Childe’s hand never strays far from his baseball bat, but it’s an uneventful trek back to the hotel where you’ve set up a temporary base.

The entire first floor is a wreck, the former grandeur blighted by blood and smashed furniture, wallpaper peeling off in strips, the patterns in the carpet hidden by layers of grime and dirt. The room you’ve chosen is up on the third floor; neither you and Childe have bothered to venture farther up the hotel stairs beyond that.

The electronic locks and elevators have long since broken, and the door of room 302 creaks open easily. Inside, Teucer is fiddling with a radio in his hands, a ratty blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a flashlight shining like a beacon next to him, huddled by the foot of the farthest of the two beds in the room. He looks up at the two of you, his eyes bright and expectant.

It’s not until Childe securely closes the door behind him that Teucer finally launches himself at his brother, arms clinging tightly. “You’re back!” Childe barely has time to ruffle his hair before Teucer tears himself off and falls into your arms instead. 

You pat his back, and a crackled voice emanates from the radio in Teucer’s hands. You can just barely make out the broken words; it might as well be a broadcast from another planet.

“... Gov… Facilities… North… Repeat…. North… Nat… tate of… gency… Repeat… Govern… North…”

Nothing you haven’t heard already. The radio has been playing the same message, over and over, for the past few months. After all, it’s only the promise of potential safety and protection that drives you and Childe to travel so far north. That, and resources are dwindling with each new city and town the three of you encounter as you follow the voice promising safety.

“I have something for you,” you say, and fish the bar of chocolate out of your bag. 

Teucer’s eyes light up as he unwraps the treat. “Oh, wow!” He pauses, staring at you and then Childe, and breaks the bar into three uneven pieces.

He offers a chunk to you. You hold up your hands. “Teucer, it’s okay. That was for you.”

Teucer pouts. “Well, you gave it to me, so it’s mine now, and I get to do what I want with it. And I want to share it with you.”

You hesitate, before accepting the chocolate with two fingers. It’s softening already, leaving soft smudges on your hand. When you pop it into your mouth, it melts like a dream, flooding a sweetness into your system you haven’t tasted in months. Maybe you’ll never taste this sweetness ever again.

“Anything happen while we were gone?” Childe asks casually. Teucer fiddles with his radio again, illegible voices warbling in and out of focus like ghosts from a distant plane of existence.

“Nope,” Teucer chirps. “Just a few zombies passing by when I peeked out the window, though.”

“Teucer, I told you not to do that. What if one of them sees you?”

“Why not? I was careful, and I wanted to see when the two of you were going to come home.”

“Well, we’re home now, and Teucer is safe. Everything’s fine, so no arguing. We need to head out tomorrow, anyways,” you interrupt gently. “I think we’ve stayed here long enough.”

The two brothers nod at your words, and when they do that, Teucer looks just like an echo of Childe. Same messy hair, same freckles, same mischievous gleam in their eyes. You head towards the bathroom. If you’re lucky, there might be a trickle of tap water left if you turn on the sink.

“Wait! Aren’t you going to play something today?” Teucer chirps.

“I’m not…”

“You always said a good violinist should practice everyday so their skills don’t rust,” Childe adds. “Come on, aren’t you a professional?”

“The noise might draw an entire hoard of zombies to our door,” you say.

“The walls are soundproof,” Childe says.

“Just one song,” Teucer says. “I’ll even let you choose which one!”

You let out a little sigh before moving towards your violin case, snugly hidden by the side of the bed. It’s an unforgivable vanity, you know, to carry this with you. An extra weight, when you should have a bag full of rations or cold weather supplies instead. But when you were fleeing your home, facing threats from the undead and other desperate survivors alike, it had been Childe who shoved your violin into your hands. The electricity was failing. The water was tainted. Food was running out. And yet, Childe had handed you your instrument. 

“We can’t take this with us,” you tried to reason with him.

“Don’t leave it behind,” Childe said curtly. “You love it, don’t you?”

You had grasped the instrument in your hands, a lifeline in the rising tides. 

It’s not as if the world has any rooms for violinists now, no matter how good you are at playing. Bach and Tchaikovsky can’t save you from dying, and all the concert halls have turned to ash. 

But when you fling open the lid, the glossy wood gleaming in the low light, when you tighten the bow and reverently run the horsehair along your amber rosin, when you attach your shoulder rest and bring it to your chin, it doesn’t feel like a mistake at all. Your violin slots under your chin perfectly, right where it belongs.

You pluck at the strings, turning the little knobs, listening, adjusting the pitch, and then you raise your bow letting the first few sweet notes sing in the air, before you launch into a short, bouncy waltz.

It almost feels like it used to, in a way that it hasn’t in a long time, and you’ll never feel again: you, and Childe, in Childe’s own living room. You force him to listen to you practice, something you’ve always made him do, even if he can’t even name all the notes on a sheet of music. Teucer is on Childe’s lap, too young to really pay attention, blinking sleepily in the afternoon light, which shines on you like a spotlight. It’s a poor audience, but this audience of two has always been your favorite, even if you dream of sold out stages and prestigious awards. 

The memory is painful, and you shove it back down, with everything else you can’t bear to think about. There is no past for you. There’s only here, and now. There’s Teucer, smiling, old enough to finally pay attention. And there’s your friend– the one who knows you best– Childe. He’s listened to you from the beginning, and he’ll listen to you until the very end.

Childe watches you, the same way he’s always done: face turned towards you, rapt. He’s listening to you play, but it feels like it’s you he’s paying the most attention to, not your music. As if in this dying world, you’re the only one who can save him.

The three of you steal out of the hotel in the blue light of dawn, the cold a bitter chill as you creep down the stairs and make your way to the highway again. You have a map, but following the local highway is the easiest way to proceed to your location, a manmade road marking your path to safety. Cars bead the roads in one long necklace of crushed metal and metal corpses. 

The cars are the remains of panicked people who tried to leave town as fast as they could, but the sheer flood of people meant the roads had easily jammed and cars idled in place. The lucky ones, who got out quickly, rode their cars until they ran out of gas before abandoning them. The others discarded their trapped cars to idle and rust as they fled on foot. And the unlucky ones, like you, Childe and Teucer, have no choice but to run as far as your legs could carry you.

Teucer is sandwiched between you and Childe as the three of you walk in silence. The world is so quiet now, a silence that has its own weight and texture. Nothing works, and there’s no one to talk to. You can’t even speak to your companions unless you want to risk the attention of zombies or other survivors.

Teucer’s portable radio hangs limply in his hands, and he lets out a raspy little cough. Instantly, you turn to him, a hand on the top of his soft curls.

Teucer shakes his head, and gives you a thumbs up. You and Childe glance at each other, before Childe sweeps Teucer onto his back. Teucer digs his heels into Childe’s sides as a protest to be let down, but Childe continues resolutely forward.

You let out a little sigh. It’s a familiar sight; ever since Teucer was a baby, Childe was always reaching for his brother with his chubby hands, holding him close to him like a treasure. You like Teucer, but you’re an only child; you can’t imagine what it’s like to have a sibling you love so much.

The road is long, winding and endless in front of you, but even the monotony of your travel can’t stop you from pricking your ears, listening for the shuffle of feet, or a long, winding groan. It’s not safe out in the open, and unease prickles your skin.

You pass a car, and a zombie slams its hands against the window, rotting fingers leaving stains on the glass as it claws at you, eyes sunken. Your stomach shrivels, and you bite your lip to prevent your startled cry from escaping. You can guess what happened here: someone was bitten by a zombie, escaped in a panic, but had turned before they could get very far. Still, the eyeless face turns your stomach. That could be you, if you’re not careful enough. 

In the next moment, Childe takes your hand, lacing your fingers together. You look at him questioningly, but he simply smiles in return. Maybe it’s a habit from the time you’ve spent together, but Childe is always reaching for your hand. To reassure you, to reassure himself, or just to comfort you.

Childe takes care of you. He knows your moods before you do, valiantly throws himself in front of any perceived threat to you, and wants to solve all of your problems. When you were little, when he sensed you were upset, Childe used to throw rocks at your bedroom window until you let him in. He reminds you a little of a dog, but if you tell him that, he would only grin.

You sigh, but before you can even signal your thanks, a low, broken shout pierces the air. Instantly, both you and Childe tense; you grab your knife and jerk out of his grasp as you run towards the voice.

There’s a young man lying against a car, a snarling zombie snapping its jaws at his face. The young man is holding it back with his gloved hands, but he’s quickly losing purchase. There’s a gun a few feet away from him; he must have been caught unawares.

Before you can think, you dart towards the zombie and angle your knife through its neck and into its brain. The zombie howls; the noise isn’t good. It could attract more of them– but then the zombie’s voice cuts off abruptly. It totters and slumps over, and then you see why: the young man has somehow shoved a knife within the zombie’s mouth.

“Fuck,” the young man mutters. He’s still slumped over on the ground.

You hold out your hand. “Are you okay?” you mumble.

The young man looks derisively at you, before slowly rising to his feet. “Yeah. I had it under control.”

“If you say so,” you say doubtfully.

“Hey, is everything okay?” By now, Childe has caught up with the two of you, his baseball clutched tightly in his hands. Teucer is trailing behind him.

“Yeah,” you say. “This guy was in some trouble, but it’s okay now.”

Childe kicks the body of the zombie, and you flinch at the weight of the sound. “Okay, great. Let's move on, then.”

“Wait.” You turn back to the young man. “Do you need any medical treatment? Did the zombie get to you in any way?”

“Are you asking me if I have a zombie bite?” the young man says contemptuously. “What would you do if I did? Going to stick your knife into my throat?”

“If they won’t, I will,” Childe says, his smile still pleasant. “They saved your life, so the least you can do is verify that you’re not a threat to us.”

“I just want to know if you’re okay,” you persist.

“I said I’m fine,” the young man says. “You know, do you want to draw the zombies to our location? Why don’t you both just shut up, and then we can all move on, hm?”

“We saved your life,” Childe says. “You don’t think you owe us for that?”

“They saved my life, not you,” the young man interjects. “And I don’t owe you anything for sticking your nose in my business.”

“Why don’t you come with us?” you suggest. Childe and the young man both look at you like you’ve sprouted a second head. “I did save your life, and there’s safety in numbers. You’re heading north, too, right? To the government shelter? We could help each other out.”

“Don’t just assume my plans,” the young man mutters. His mouth puckers, as if he’s swallowed something sour. “Fine. If you’re so desperate for my assistance, I suppose I can accompany you for a while. We can call it even that way. But don’t expect any favors from me after that.”

You nod. “Okay. What’s your name?”

The young man eyes you distrustfully. “I suppose… you can call me Scaramouche.”

After introducing yourselves to Scaramouche, who makes sure to collect his gun, the four of you set off. Scaramouche lingers a bit behind your group. Childe, for his part, keeps a tight grip on Teucer’s hand, who keeps trying to look back at the stranger. Neither men look particularly happy.

Maybe this is a bad idea. Still, even if Scaramouche does become a threat, he’s easily outnumbered; he can’t risk using his gun without drawing in zombies with the sound. Besides, if you just left him to wander by himself after a zombie attack, you’d worry over him. This is for your own peace of mind.

The next town descends into view before sunset, a place whose name was lost when all its inhabitants fled. A town without people isn’t really a town at all. Crumbling buildings, deserted cars, broken windows and overflowing trash on the streets: every place looks the same now. This might as well have been the place you left this morning.

A few zombies prowl the streets. The four of you avoid main roads and storefronts, and it’s at this point that Scaramouche leads your little group. He must be familiar with the area, because it’s not long before you reach a residential district, and Scaramouche nods his head at a nondescript house, with intact windows and a sturdy door, which you go up to open.

The lock is stuck, but you strike at it with your knife until it loosens. The three of you step into what looks like someone’s living room: leather couches, bookcases, widescreen television. The books are dusty with disuse, game consoles lying lifeless on the ground.

You, Scaramouche, and Childe sweep the premises, but there’s no zombies– or other survivors– in the place. It makes sense; most people fled as soon as they could, when the weather was still favorable. You, Childe and Teucer are part of the stragglers, the last few people still on the road. Other survivors aren’t common to encounter anymore, and those that are left are quick to look at each other with suspicion and hostility, if not aggression.

Scaramouche’s reaction is normal, all things considered. To him, you’re probably the odd one out. The world has turned to shit. It takes some measure of courage, tenacity, cunning, or even selfishness to survive. You can’t fault anyone for what they do to live.

But still. You can’t imagine completely turning your back on other people. After all, you and Childe have been supporting each other all this time. Neither of you could have made it this far without each other.

“I’m taking a bedroom upstairs,” Scaramouche says abruptly. “Don’t bother me unless you need me.”

“Get some rest,” you say. You set your violin case carefully down onto the floor, but Scaramouche pauses to watch you as you do.

“What the hell is that?”

“My violin,” you say simply.

“Really?” he says, scowling. “A violin? Do you think this is a school field trip? Are you going to subdue the zombies through music?”

“We could also subdue the zombies by tying you up and throwing you to them as bait,” Childe says pleasantly, stepping in front of you so you’re hidden from Scaramouche’s view.

You can still see him, though, and Scaramouche rolls his eyes at Childe’s words. He  must not be in the mood for a fight, because he disappears up the stairs without another word.

“Gov… north… natio… state of… gency… repeat…” Teucer is fiddling with his radio again, cross-legged on the living room, and the sound echoes in the small space. He coughs as he adjusts the antenna, wiping his running nose with the back of his sleeve. 

“Are you sure you want him with us?” Childe says quietly, so that Teucer can’t overhear.

You lightly grasp his hand, and Childe curls his fingers around yours. “He could be helpful. We can at least stick with him for a few days.”

“Got it. We’ll do what you want to do. But if he ever tries to hurt you or Teucer, then I’m going to take care of him.”

The way Childe says it leaves you no doubt that he’ll make good on his threat the second he perceives Scaramouche has turned his back on your group. Even when you were younger, you always thought Childe was like a pack animal: friendly and warm to anyone in his inner circle, but unrelentingly distant to anyone outside of it. 

You remember the zombie that had almost attacked you at the convenience store yesterday, and the way Childe hadn’t stopped hitting it, not even when it stopped moving. 

Childe relishes violence in a way you can’t understand. He was quick to pick up a weapon the second the zombies started showing up, and hasn’t put it down since.

He’ll make good on his threat. You can read it in his eyes alone. Hopefully bringing Scaramouche along isn’t a mistake.

Over the next few days, as the four of you continue to travel north, you’re still trying to make sense of Scaramouche. 

He has a sharp tongue, and he’s not sociable whatsoever, but he never ignores your questions, even if there’s a scathing reply on his tongue more often than not. He pulls his weight, finding his share of supplies and sharing them with the three of you. And more than that, he dispatches zombies with ease. Scaramouche moves as fast and merciless as Childe, smashing brains into the pavement and aiming bullets directly at undead hearts and spines that cause the corpses to crumple to the floor, his silencer muffling all sound.

Maybe you’re the odd one, because you can’t stop thinking about how these zombies used to be people, with hopes and dreams dashed before they knew what happened to them. Still, there’s no time for regret; you have to do what you can to protect the people you love.

Overall, it’s nice to have another person around to hunt for resources, to watch your back when you’re out, or to have someone back at your makeshift bases to help look after Teucer.

And, surprisingly, it’s Teucer who Scaramouche seems to get along with the most. He’ll listen to Teucer ramble on, and spend more time with him than either you or Childe.

“He’s a nice guy,” Teucer tells you simply, when you ask him about Scaramouche. “I don’t think he’s really that mean. Sometimes he looks a little lonely, though.”

One night, Teucer’s radio breaks, the voices sputtering to a stubborn halt. Neither you nor Childe have any experience with machines, and not even Teucer’s crestfallen look can will the two of you to bring it back to life.

“Maybe I should just hit it a few times,” Childe mutters, turning the machine over and over in his hands.

“Are you an idiot? Give that to me,” Scaramouche snarls, snatching the radio out of Childe’s grasp.

The three of you watch as Scaramouche doctors the radio, unscrewing the back and checking the wires. A second later, sound crackles through the machine, a faint voice mumbling words you can’t hear.

“These things wear out easily,” Scaramouche barks at Teucer. “Try to keep it from overheating.”

“Thank you!” Teucer throws his arms around Scaramouche, who keeps his arms dangling awkwardly in the air before patting Teucer once, his hand gently curling around his head. He seems familiar with children, and it makes you wonder if he has– or had– a little brother before.

“That was sweet of you,” you say to Scaramouche, when he passes by you and Childe. Teucer is adjusting the radio’s buttons again, trying to find any sort of signal.

“I didn’t do it for you,” he says, scoffing. “I would hate to see that brat crying, that’s all. It would attract the undead.”

“Sure,” Childe breaks in easily, smiling. “You’re big brother material, you know.”

“Shut up,” Scaramouche snarls.

Scaramouche is an enigma, but he’s an asset. It’s only when Childe quietly murmurs that he hasn’t noticed any signs of zombie bites or symptoms of infection on Scaramouche that you can bring yourself to trust in him a little more.

“I still think he’s bad news,” Childe tells you in a quiet voice, when Scaramouche is busy entertaining Teucer in the room over. Teucer’s laughter drifts through the wall. “There’s something off about him. The sooner we ditch him, the better.”

“Teucer likes him,” you say.

“Teucer is young.”

“Are you sure you’re not jealous of him?” you tease, elbowing Childe in the side.

He shakes his head. His eyes are distant, staring at somewhere far away from you, some place you can’t join him in. Childe has that look often these days, and it’s the same one he has whenever he sees a zombie and his hands flex on his baseball bat.

Maybe it’s the apocalypse, or maybe it’s always been a part of him. But it’s frightening, because he’s never been unreachable to you. If you just whisper his name, he’ll usually come running straight to your side. But when he gets like this, you wonder if your voice will reach him at all. You take his hand instinctively, as if to ground him back to your reality, and Childe squeezes your hand in return.

He’s here. He’s here, even if the rest of the world falls to ruin, and he’ll always take your hand.

“I just have a bad feeling,” Childe says.

“We’ll be careful,” you promise. 

Childe closes his eyes, rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand. “Okay.”

Maybe he’s trying to ground himself with your touch, too, so the two of you stay in that position for a long while longer, where you simply soak in each other’s presence, lost in your own thoughts.

As you travel over the next few days, the temperature turns frigid and the ground icy, and the four of you stick to camping out in empty buildings. If you’re lucky, the houses might have an indoor fireplace to huddle around. If not, then you make do with thick, lonely, faded blankets forgotten in closets. If you can’t make it to town, there’s always cars to break into and huddle in for the night. It’s been easy to avoid zombies with the cooling weather; frost gathers in their joints, and they move more slowly. On cold enough nights, you can’t see any at all.

It’s in one of the countless abandoned homes you pass that the four of you stop by for the night. You’re huddled by a fire pit, blankets curled over your shoulders, having pushed the couches closer to the hearth to trap the heat. There are framed pictures over the mantelpiece, of a blond family: two daughters, one with a ponytail and another with pigtails, a mom, a dad. You wonder if they’re alive. Then you turn your head back to the fire, flames flickering in a slow dance, and makes it hard to think of anything else.

Teucer is asleep, his head on Childe’s lap. You’re curled up on Childe’s other side, shoulders touching. Scaramouche sits farther apart, his shoulders hunched, legs folded under him.

“Okay, spit it out. Are the two of you dating?” Scaramouche says suddenly.

“What?” you hiss.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice? All the touching? And he–” Scaramouche jerks a thumb at Childe– “Keeps acting like the two of you will die if you’re apart for a single moment.”

“We’re not dating. We’re just friends,” you say defensively, even as Scaramouche raises an eyebrow. “I’ve known him since I was born, okay? We grew up next to each other.”

Scaramouche rolls his eyes. “Oh, how sappy.”

“Are you interested in us?” you challenge, annoyed. “That’s a weird thing to bring up all of a sudden.”

Scaramouche lets out a short barking laugh. “Hardly! You two were just so annoying to watch. I needed to know for sure.”

“Well, now you know,” you say tersely. “We went to the same school all our lives. Our families were friends. But we’re not dating.”

Teucer lets out a series of coughs, stirring in his sleep. His coughing has gotten worse over the last few days. If it doesn’t get better, you’ll need to stop and look for medicine. All of you freeze, and Childe strokes Teucer’s head softly.

“You guys can talk, but try to keep it down,” Childe says. Under the shelter of your blanket, hidden from Scaramouche’s gaze, his pinky grazes yours. You link them together. There’s something intimate about the gesture. Maybe it’s because you’re doing it in secret, right under Scaramouche’s nose.

Scaramouche stares into the fire, unblinking, his gaze reflecting the flames. “So you’ve known him your whole life.” His voice is quieter now, and you try to match his low tone.

“We went to different colleges, though,” you say. “I was majoring in musical performance. Childe and Teucer were visiting me during spring break at my apartment when…” Your voice trails off. There’s no reason to look back to the past. It’ll kill you. It’ll kill you if you stop moving forward, if you think about the family you’ve lost, the stage you can never return to.

“Yeah, we were visiting them when the apocalypse broke loose,” Childe interrupts easily, continuing for you. “We waited a while before fleeing, and we’ve been traveling ever since we heard about government shelters in the north.”

“And what if those communications are lies?” Scaramouche says. “And there’s nothing up there? Or what if it’s a trap?”

“Then we’ll make do,” Childe says. “We’ll survive.”

“It’s easier if we’re together,” you add.

Scaramouche scoffs. “Sure.”

“What about you?” you ask. “Where did you come from?”

“Nowhere,” he says tersely.

“Sure. You just popped out of the ground,” Childe says. “No family? No friends?”

“No one worth talking about,” he says. “Everyone is dead or gone.”

You nudge Childe’s hand with your own, signaling him to drop the issue, and Childe falls silent. There’s no point in pushing Scaramouche about things he doesn’t want to talk about. No one has a happy story these days.

Scaramouche’s eyes drift to your violin case, positioned snugly on the couch. “I can’t believe you’re still carrying that thing with you. You might as well use it for scrap wood,” Scaramouche says.

“I am not doing that! It’s important to me. I know it’s inconvenient, but I can’t just leave it behind.”

“That’s just sentimental drivel,” Scaramouche snarks.

“Maybe it is, but it’s my decision to live with, not yours,” you reply evenly.

“It’s nice to have a little music sometimes,” Childe breaks in. “Not that I know if you understand what it’s like to do things that make you happy. Do you do anything other than glower and scowl?”

“Shut up. You act just like their dog. You’re both hopeless.” Scaramouche stands, still clutching the blanket tightly around him. “I’ve had enough for tonight. Don’t bother me.”

When he stalks off, you lean your head on Childe’s shoulder. “Thanks, Childe.”

“That’s what family and friends are for,” he says lightly. “We look out for each other, especially now. I’m always here for you.”

You really don’t know what you would do without him. Scaramouche’s words stung, not the least because you used to have a crush on Childe when you were younger. Everyone has always teased you about how the two of you were going to wind up dating, but those childish ideas have no place in this dying world. Romance is an embarrassing indulgence, worse than your violin, and love doesn’t seem like the right word to describe what the two of you mean to each other.

It’s like there’s a string, knotted somewhere in the hollow of your heart, tying you to Childe. And everytime his heart beats, you can feel the tug of that string, a reminder of someone who’s more of you than you yourself are. If either of your hearts were to stop, then the string would snap, and the searing pain of that loss would kill you.

No, love isn’t the right word at all. 

“You can sleep. I’ll keep watch,” Childe whispers, and your eyes drift close. You can almost feel the ghost of lips brushing against your forehead, but you’re too sleepy to tell for sure.

The next day, Teucer wakes with a fever burning his skin and shortening his breath. You help Childe carry him to a spare bedroom and pile up the blankets against the chill, but it’s not enough. You melt ice and snow outside into water which Childe uses to dip rags into and cool Teucer’s forehead.

The two of you have been by his side for hours, trying to coax water and stale crackers into Teucer’s mouth, but he only turns away. At some point, Scaramouche has come to hover wordlessly by the door. There’s a tight, almost worried, expression on his face, but you don’t have time to pay attention to him and his shifting moods.

“The fever might still go down,” Childe mutters, but he’s talking more to himself than he is to you. “It’s not that bad yet.”

“We’ll need medicine,” you say. “I’ll go find some. You should stay here and look after him.”

“By yourself?” he says tersely.

“No, Scaramouche will come with me,” you say resolutely. 

“I never agreed to do that,” Scaramouche says, the first words he’s said since he’s shown up.

Childe stands, grip tightening around the rag in his hands to the point his knuckles turn white. “I don’t have time for you right now. Teucer is sick, you asshole. You can either help us or keep your shitty opinions to yourself.” Scaramouche holds Childe’s gaze in one long, hard unblinking moment. You tense, wondering if you’re going to need to shove them apart.

Scaramouche is the first to duck his head. He glances at Teucer’s prone form, then glances away again, too fast for you to decipher the emotion in his eyes. “I’ll go. He needs the medicine. Besides, they–” he jerks a thumb at you– “Would probably die without someone to look after them.”

You bite back all your complaints at his tone. There’s no time for fighting, not when more important things are on the line. “Fine. Then we’re going to head out right now to look for supplies.”

The wait to grab your gear and trek outside is short and tense. The air is bitterly cold, causing your breath to cloud in the air as the two of you slink down sidewalks and alleyways, scanning for any sign of zombies. Snow and ice slick the ground, and the sky has a sickly gray pallor to it, like unhealthy skin.

The nearest grocery store is a half an hour walk away. In the silence, you’re acutely aware of Scaramouche next to you. This is the first time you’ve been alone with him since he started traveling with you. His steps are surprisingly elegant, his posture graceful. Something about him doesn’t strike you as a typical college student; maybe he was a dancer? It wouldn’t surprise you.

But Scaramouche’s past, which he clearly doesn’t want to share with you, isn’t important right now. What is important is Teucer.

The grocery store, once you arrive at it, is as dilapidated as all the others; they were some of the first places to be scavenged. This place reminds you a little of the one you had explored with Childe, almost two weeks before. You shrug off the thought and gesture to the left side of the store, pointing at yourself, and then the right side of the store, pointing at Scaramouche. He nods, and the two of you separate.

Your heart beats an anxious rhythm in your chest as you peer at the shelves, looking for the telltale glint of plastic bottles and wordy labels. You need basic fever medication, or, hell, you would even take an over the counter painkiller. Anything to relieve Teucer’s pain. Without a doctor or proper supplies, if anything were to happen to him… no. You don’t want to think about it.

You browse the shelves, stepping over fallen merchandise, dirty stuffed animals and books with their pages splayed open like ribs. Nothing. Maybe you would make your way to Scaramouche’s side of the story instead; you’re clearly in the entertainment section, and the medical supplies might be further off. 

You round the corner, and run right into a man in a puffy winter coat. You stumble backwards, hands already reaching for your knife, when the man throws his hands up.

“Whoa, take it easy,” he murmurs. 

Despite his words, you keep a hand firmly on the hilt of your knife. You’re close enough that if he makes any suspicious moves, you can easily threaten him or disarm him. The man must realize this, because he backs away a few short steps. 

He has winter boots scruffy with snow, and days old stubble around his neck. His eyes are red and heavy with dark eyebags, his face drawn with exhaustion, and his hair is greasy. You probably don’t look any better.

“Who are you?” you ask.

“Just someone trying to survive,” he says lowly. “I could ask the same of you.”

“Well, it’s the same for me,” you murmur. You can’t sense any signs of aggression or hostility from him. 

“I’m not a threat,” he says again. “Don’t be hasty, stranger. Please. There’s no need for violence. Look. I don’t have any weapons.” He waves his hands again, keeping them spread in front of him.

“How do I know that for sure?”

“Because I’m tired of fighting with every other person I’ve run into. I know the world is shit, but we don’t need to treat others so poorly,” he says, and there’s a creeping edge of genuinity to his voice.

You let out a little breath, then sheaf your knife. Still, it’s close enough that you can grab it if the man turns out to be dangerous.

“What are you doing here?” you ask.

“Looking for supplies. Same as you, I presume?”

“Yeah,” you say softly. You’d be a fool just to trust him based on appearance and kind words alone, as much as you want to believe in his good intentions. It’s probably better not to clue him in on the most vulnerable member of your team.

“Are you by yourself?” the man asks. “Hey, so am I. If you want, we could–”

A soft click of the gun echoes in the air. Both of you tense. “Too bad for you, but they aren’t alone.” Scaramouche digs his gun against the back of the man’s head. His posture is loose, casual, even, as if the man in front of him isn’t trembling like a rabbit.

“What are you doing?” you hiss. 

“Something you’re too stupid to do,” Scaramouche says disdainfully. “Really, I can’t believe you would lower your guard when there’s a threat in front of you.”

“He isn’t a threat!”

“He just wants you to let your guard down,” Scaramouche reasons. “You have no idea what he’s planning to do.”

“I wasn’t planning anything! I just thought– if they were alone, we could just team up– I didn’t have any other intentions!” the man insists, voice shaking. “I won’t do anything to you two, okay? I’ll leave the two of you alone. I promise. Just let me go.”

“And why should I trust that?”

“I’m just trying to survive! Come on, man. You know how it is these days.”

“I know exactly how it is these days,” Scaramouche says, and pushes his gun against the man’s head again.

“Scaramouche,” you say tensely. “Leave him alone.”

“Why? So he can turn around and betray us?”

“I won’t do that. I promise I’ll just go,” the man pleads. “If we see each other again, I won’t even talk to the two of you. Promise. Come on. Just cut me some slack.”

No one breathes. The moment stretches out, distorting before your eyes, stretching into an agonizing infinity. You might have always stood here, watching Scaramouche and this stranger, rooted to the spot, as civilizations rose and fell with a roar in your ears.

“Scaramouche,” you whisper, trying to plead with him again.

Scaramouche momentarily links eyes with you, his gaze as hard as his gun, and the man slowly reaches his hand down– towards his pocket? You can’t tell– you don’t know what he’s doing– and then – before you can say or do anything at all– Scaramouche’s trigger finger flicks and, in the next instant, the man is falling, blood spraying from his head in a wine-red arc, and it’s sickening how graceful the spill is, how the calm the man looks as his eyelids flutter and his mouth slackens, and Scaramouche is quietly slipping his gun back into the holster on his belt.

You couldn’t hear the sound of a gunshot at all. His silencer must have been on. And that’s the worst part, really, how easy it is. How quickly death passes, in seconds, like a butterfly alighting on a branch before flying away again.

This is the way the world is, and you want to cry or laugh or scream, but nothing comes out of your throat at all.

There’s blood. Warm and wet. Spreading in a pool by your feet. The man has fallen down, face first, and his wounds gapes open at you. You don’t even know his name.

Scaramouche crouches down by the man, digging into his coat pockets, before pulling out a switchblade. He flicks the blade out, his smile ghostly in the silver reflection.

“Knew it,” he whispers. “This fucker was reaching for this.”

The moment breaks, and you grab Scaramouche by his jacket, slamming him against a metal shelf. Your breath is heavy and fast, and you can feel the pounding of your own blood through your veins, resounding in your head, louder than thought. You can see the reflection of your own wild animal eyes in Scaramouche’s. 

His eyes are dark and reflect nothing, not even his own thoughts, like a sheet of black glass you can only pound your hands against, over and over.

“What the fuck,” you spit out. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with you?” he drawls. “You should thank me.”

“He was innocent,” you say quietly. “You don’t know if he was reaching for his knife or not. He was just lowering his hands.”

“Really? Be honest with yourself,” Scaramouche says. “What else could he be reaching for?”

“Maybe he wasn’t reaching for anything at all. You don’t know that he was going to grab his knife. You had a gun to his head!”

“People do desperate things in desperate situations. You’re naive,” he says, spitting out the word like a curse.

“And you’re a bitter asshole.” 

You could tear his throat out right now. You could slam his head against the wall until it bleeds. You could do anything to Scaramouche right now, but it wouldn’t matter. A stranger is dead, and you will never know what he was really doing in his final moments.

For the first time, you understand what Childe feels when he raises his weapon against a zombie. 

“Are you going to threaten me all day? Don’t you have more important things to worry about?” Scaramouche says.

Scaramouche is worse than any undead threat. Childe is right. Bringing him along is a mistake. But no matter how you feel, there’s more pressing matters at hand. You clamber off of him, and he dusts down his winter jacket, before throwing something at you. 

You catch it with ease. It’s a bottle of fever medication for children, orange pills encased in thick plastic, happy fruit shaped mascots dancing in front of the packaging.

“I found that. So let’s go back. The noise might have drawn zombies near us,” Scaramouche says.

Before you leave, you manage to cover the corpse with a ratty white blanket that you found shoved in the corner of the grocery store. It’s not much, and you can’t give him a real burial, but the idea of leaving his open body to the air feels wrong.

The silence is suffocating on your way home. Neither you nor Scaramouche speak much to each other. There’s nothing to say.

Back in the house, Childe is still crouched over Teucer’s bedside, holding his brother’s hand and speaking soothingly to him. He probably hasn’t moved since you stepped out of the house. You don’t know where Scaramouche went when you both returned. You don’t want to know.

“You’re back. Are you okay?” Childe asks. 

He knows something is wrong without you saying anything, like some sixth sense or an animal’s intuition. When you sit next to him on Teucer’s bed, he lifts a hand to cup your face. He scans you carefully, as if looking for any sign of visible wounds.

“Childe. If there was someone who we didn’t know was a threat or not, what would you do?” you whisper.

“Easy. I would do what you wanted to do,” Childe says cheerfully. “And you’d probably want to help them.”

“But what if I was wrong?” you press. “What if I trusted someone I shouldn’t have, and then you and Teucer got hurt because of it? Would it be wrong of me to have done that? Should I just have left them alone?”

“I don’t know,” Childe says. He’s stroking soothing patterns on your cheek now, his fingers dancing across your skin. “We wouldn’t know they’re dangerous until they betray us, right? And it would be their fault for betraying you, not yours for trusting them. Besides, if anyone hurt you, I would just kill them.”

“Is it really that easy?” you ask. Killing others, being killed. Trusting others, distrusting them.

Childe shrugs. “Why wouldn’t it be? We take care of each other, right? If you mess up, I’ll cover you. And if I mess up, you’ll do the same. Why? Did Scaramouche say something to you? Want me to punch him?”

You let out a shaky little laugh. “Sort of. Something happened, but I can’t… talk about it right now. I’ll tell you later.”

Childe lets go of your cheek, and before you can react, softly kisses your forehead. His lips are dry and cracked, but what surprises you most is how gentle that single touch is, how cognizant he is of every inch of you. He handles you like you’re more precious than gold, more rare than diamonds.

“I’ll watch over Teucer, so get some rest. Thanks for getting the medicine for me.”

“I’ll take over in a little bit,” you say.

Childe waves a hand in return, and you stumble down the halls. You touch your forehead, where the kiss burns, marking you forever in some intangible way. 

Maybe Childe is your salvation, as much as you’re his. You believe in him more than any god out there, anyways, and if you are to pray, it would be to him. Childe is the only one who will answer your prayers.

By the next morning, the medicine has reduced Teucer’s fever somewhat, but there’s still no point in traveling when he’s too sick to move. For the next two days, all of you are stuck in that house. You and Childe take shifts watching over Teucer. You don’t know where Scaramouche is; he hasn’t shown his face in a while.

In fact, you’re starting to wonder if he’s left permanently. You’re absently polishing your violin in the living room on a slow afternoon, when Scaramouche walks right through the doorway. He’s wearing a backpack, his jacket buttoned tightly to his throat. 

“Do you still plan on bringing that thing with you?” he says.

“Yes. There’s no reason not to. Besides,” you add, “It’s not your business what I decide to bring with me or not. It doesn’t affect you.”

“It’s going to weigh you down,” he says.

“No more than anything else I bring with me,” you say evenly. “It was my dream, you know? To play at a concert hall. To become a famous musician.”

“You’re foolish.”

“What’s your problem?” you ask. “If it bothers you that much, you don’t have to come with us. We can go our separate ways. There’s no reason for you to stick with us anymore.”

“You want to know why? It’s because I knew someone who was just like you. A foolish idiot, who was abandoned by his mother, and then fell into a group of people who he thought he could trust. He thought he could trust them because they saved him, because they were kind and believed in the goodness of others. There was a little kid with them, too, who that boy really cared about. But then they all ended up dying because they trusted the wrong person, and that idiot was left all alone. That’s why I can’t stand you. I can’t stand anyone like him,” he spits out. 

“But it isn’t the boy’s fault for trusting the others,” you argue. “It’s terrible that all of that happened to him, but the one who betrayed him is really at fault.”

Scaramouche laughed. “Well, that’s just the way the world is, and it’s semantics to argue otherwise. The stupid boy shouldn’t have trusted anyone in the first place, and he wouldn’t have gotten hurt. It’ll be best if you learn that before long, instead of clinging to your stupid dreams. Everyone will leave you eventually, you know.”

Something about his phrasing prickles in your mind. Scaramouche, you notice, is wearing boots indoors. He usually takes off his shoes before entering rooms.

Something clicks in his hand. It’s his gun. The silencer is off. For a single moment, you hold your breath, wondering if Scaramouche is going to shoot you in cold blood, right here and right now, and you’ll end up like the stranger in the grocery store.

But no– he doesn’t even look at you. Instead, he heads towards the front door. You don’t even close your violin case as you follow him.

Unease weighs down every step. “What do you mean? Scaramouche? What are you doing with that?”

He doesn’t bother replying before he opens the door, a gust of cold winter air swirling around you. The night sky is bitterly black and cold, like the bottom of the ocean. “You know, I always hated your fucking attitude. Oh, the world is a good place! Oh, you can trust others! Oh, Childe is always going to help me out!” he says, but there’s something gentle about the cruelty in his voice. Like he’s really doing you a favor. “Someone has to put you in your place.” 

“Scaramouche–” Your words are cut off as he raises his gun and fires it into the sky. Once. Twice. Three times. The sound richots off the houses around you and into the depths of the neighborhood, like the toll of a church bell.

And then– groaning. Faint groaning and shuffling, carrying over the wind. In the distance, darkened shapes lurch toward your door, lumpy shadows that are too numerous to count. Congregants, summoned by Scaramouche’s call.

Scaramouche has summoned a zombie hoard to your location. The knowledge hits you just as Scaramouche leaps out the door, giving you one last smile. There’s something bitter curling along his grin, but you don’t have time to interpret the meaning before he waves his gun in a single farwell.

“Good luck,” he says mockingly, and vanishes into the night.

You slam the door closed, heart pounding. Oh god. What are you going to do? The backyard– that’s your best option. You can escape out the back. But, shit. Teucer. Teucer is still recovering. You can’t move quickly with him still sick- and the cold weather could make him worse.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Someone pounds down the stairs. Childe is by your side in an instant, grabbing your shoulders. 

“What happened? Are you hurt?” His eyes are wild, and his fingers cut into your shoulders. “Where’s Scaramouche?”

“He left,” you say numbly. “I’m fine. He didn’t hurt me. It’s just–” Something slams against the door, a wet thud that echoes into your bones. Multiple bodies are beating against the door, and Childe peeks through the peephole. He glances away, his hand around his mouth, and you look, too: it’s an endless sea of corpses. Scaramouche must have summoned the entire town to your door.

“Fuck. Did he do that?” he whispers. There’s an odd edge of elation to his tone, like a puzzle piece that doesn’t fit quite right in your current circumstances. 

“Yes,” you say, and Childe takes your hand, pulling you along, up the stairs. 

“Focus!” he hisses, grabbing onto your face, pulling your gaze up to him. In this moment, the only thing you can focus on is Childe’s eyes, pure and open, like the endless expanse of the sky. “I know he did something shitty, but focus! We have to survive. We have to make a way through this. Okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper.

“I’m here. I’m here for you.”

“You’re here,” you repeat, and Childe lets you go. You slap your cheeks, shaking your head. There’s no time to regret, to mourn, to scream. There’s no choice but to keep moving.

For the next few moments, you and Childe pack two backpacks, shoving them full of whatever supplies you can carry.

You head into Teucer’s bedroom next, where he stirs weakly. “What’s going on?” he mumbles.

“Emergency. We have to go now,” Childe says lightly. Teucer holds out his arms obediently as Childe helps him into his jacket, tenderly shoving a hat on his head, tucking it around his curls of hair.

“Can you walk?” you ask Teucer.

“A little.” His speech is still slurred with fatigue and illness. He’s in no condition to move, but you have no choice.

“I’ll carry you if you get tired,” you say. “Childe and I can take turns.”

He nods, and Childe picks him up. Teucer curls his head into Childe’s shoulder. You grab his radio off the bed stand, and Teucer grips it tightly, close to his chest like a heart.

“You need to put on your jacket, too,” you whisper to Childe. “What, are you going to run out like that?”

Childe smiles. “Not at all.” He guides the two of you to the backyard door. For now, the immediate vicinity is free of zombies: yellowed grass, a barren tree with skeletal arms piercing the sky, a wooden gate with a fragile latch at the very end. In the darkness, you can’t make out anything beyond the fence. It’s better that way, because you know all you see will be zombies piled everywhere.

Childe helps Teucer pull on his backpack, and you slip on your own.

“Not bringing your violin?” Childe asks quietly.

“There’s no room for it,” you say bitterly. Scaramouche is right about that, at least. It’ll just slow you down at this rate. 

Childe sets Teucer down at your words, carefully pulling out a chair for Teucer to lean against. “Wait for us for a little bit, buddy. We’ll be right back.”

Teucer nods absently, and slumps on the chair. He’s playing with his radio again, the static crackling through the air.

Childe guides you to the living room, where your violin case is still open on the floor. He bends over and picks up the rosin, running one thumb over the closed plastic cap, before handing it to you. “I’ll bring you your violin later,” he says. “So just take this with you for now.”

“Childe. What do you mean? You’re coming with us, aren’t you?”

Ever since you were young, Childe has been unable to lie to you. You know him too well for that, and you grab his elbows at the look in his contemplative look in his eyes. He must know better than to try now, because he only smiles at you. His smile is– it’s excited, almost, as it has been since he first saw the zombies around the house. You want to throw your rosin at his fucking face. 

“There are too many zombies around the house right now. Someone needs to be a distraction so the others can get away.”

“But it doesn’t have to be you!” you say desperately. “I can stay, too. I can help you. Isn’t this how we’ve always done this? You and me. We can do this together.”

“Someone has to take care of Teucer. I can’t risk him,” he says quietly. 

“God damn it!” Tears are streaming down your face, and you can’t even wipe them away. 

For a second, you imagine leaving Teucer behind. You’ll drag Childe with you, and just the two of you can leave. Childe has to survive. He has to. He’s the only one in this world you care about anymore.

But Childe would never forgive you if you do. And you would never forgive yourself. How can you think like that? Teucer is a child. You were there when he was born. 

Childe presses his thumb to your face, catching your tears. “I’ll catch up to you guys. I won’t die.”

“You don’t know that! What’s wrong with you? You can’t just leave us like this!” You hold out your hand to him, hoping that he’ll take it, but Childe only looks at it quietly. He doesn’t move to take it. It’s a rejection, your first rejection from Childe.

“I’m not like Scaramouche. I’ll come back to you. I won’t betray you like that. Trust me,” he says. “I’m going to keep both of you safe.”

He kisses you. He kisses you, and all your bubbling complaints are swallowed by his lips. Your hands are trapped against his chest. He kisses you once, and twice, over and over, like he’ll die if he pulls away. Your kisses are salty with your tears. Childe licks your bottom lip, and you finally shove yourself away from him, because you’ll drown in his arms otherwise.

“You promised,” you whisper. “So you better keep it, or I’m going to come back and kill you myself.”

“I’ll always come back to you,” Childe says. “It’s you and me, right?”

You walk back to the dining room, where Teucer is sitting sleepily. Childe has his baseball bat in hand. He kisses his brother’s forehead once. 

“Be good, Teuce,” Childe murmurs. 

“Where are you going?” 

“I have some business to take care of. But I’ll catch up to you soon.” And then, in a low whisper, tha only you can hear, “don’t look back,” he says.

You finger the rosin in your pocket. “I won’t.”

You head out in the backyard, Teucer’s hand in your own, the night air so cold it sears your lungs. You can hear the shuffle of zombies through the fence, too numerous to count. 

You and Childe stare at each other through the glass door for one final time, and then he’s gone, running towards the front door. You head towards the gate, heart hammering in your ears as you listen to the shuffle of zombies. You’ll wait until the noise dies down enough to make a break for it, when he’s drawn most of the attention to himself.

A minute passes. Another. The zombies are slowly lurching past you. There’s noise from the front of the house, but you don’t want to think about what’s going on there. 

When it’s finally silent enough, you burst out into the street, Teucer’s hand in your own. The two of you run, and run, and run.

You don’t know how long you run. At some point, Teucer falters, and you sling both your bags to your front, and pull him onto your back, and keep going, his arms tight around your neck. His forehead burns against your neck. His fever must be flaring up again.

“My brother…” Teucer whispers reedily in your ear. 

“He’s right behind us,” you lie, tears burning your throat and choking your words. “I promise.”

You keep running. You keep running, even when your legs are screaming and your lungs are burning and your breathing is uneven. You keep running until you can’t feel anything anymore, not the ache of your arms or Teucer’s weight on your back. In the endless darkness, you keep going, because if you stop now, then you’ll turn right around and go back to Childe and render his sacrifice meaningless.

Is this your fault? Should you have never trusted Scaramouche and just left him there to fend for himself when you first saw on the highway? Maybe you should have stuck your knife in his ribs yourself the second he pressed his gun to a stranger’s head.

Childe might be dead already. He could be dying right now. But, no, Childe has promised to come after you. He never breaks his promises. He’s always there for you. And now you’ve left him behind, in a zombie swarm.

You remember his smile, too, the way he never hesitates to beat against zombies until they’re pulp on the ground. As much as he loves you and Teucer, he loves the violence of a dying world, too. Does he fight because he wants to protect you, or does protecting you give him an excuse to fight?

Resentment bubbles in your chest, trickling along with your tears. How can he ask you to leave him behind? How can he look excited at the thought of going single handedly against a swarm of zombies?

You can never ask him now.

The world is a cruel place. Your family is dead. Or worse, they’re alive but you’ve abandoned the aunt and uncle who raised you to their fate, without even heading back to your hometown to check if they were still alive. Childe, at least, had the decency to want to go home until it was too late to go anywhere but north. You just wanted to run. 

You should have smashed your fucking violin into pieces when you had the chance, instead of carrying it with you all this way. There’s no concert halls left, no audience, no one who cares about your dead dreams.

Something crackles in your ear. Teucer’s radio, turned so low only you can hear. “Gov… north… repeat… state of emergency… shelter…”

Keep going.

But why are you going? What’s left for you?

Keep running. 

But what if there’s nothing left? What if everyone is dead, and there’s no one up north to help you?

Keep moving forward.

It’s snowing. You don’t know when it started, but snow clings to your lashes like frozen tears. You stumble over something hard, and you crash into the ground, skidding along the icy dirt. You keep a tight grip on Teucer the whole time, and his radio goes silent as it shatters on the floor, into cold metal stars.

“Teucer?” you whisper, but all you can hear is his labored breathing. If he stays in the cold for any longer, he might really die.

Maybe you should just stay here and die with him. You’re too tired to move. The cold is numbing your joints, seeping into your body. You’ve run for so long. You can’t run any more.

“Look,” Teucer whispers in your ear, and you force your eyes up.

In the distance, a bright light glimmers, a firefly in the winter. A fire, or a flashlight. You can’t tell, but you do know what it means. Other people. You’ve found other people. But there’s no guarantee they’ll help you. Maybe they’ll rob you, leave you for dead in the snow. How can you trust anyone else now?

Scaramouche has betrayed you. Childe is… no, Childe isn’t dead. He’s promised you. He’ll come back for you. If you die here, then you can’t wait for him. If he comes to find you, and you’re not there, then you’ll have betrayed him in the worst way.

Childe can hurt and betray you all he wants, but you can’t hurt him.

And Teucer. Teucer is right here, on your back, still clinging with his fragile arms. Still believing in you to keep him safe.

Your rosin is in your pocket. You force a gloved hand into your jacket pocket to feel its worn edges. You’ve used the same one for years, to coat your bow so it can glide over your violin strings, wearing it down to almost a sliver.

You take a breath. Then another. And then you get up, and you head towards the light.

#liya writes #genshin impact #childe #childe x reader #tartaglia #tartaglia x reader #x reader #genshin impact x reader #childe genshin impact #tartaglia genshin impact

[faytelumos]

Rescue

I have absolutely no idea why I hadn't planned on posting this.

---

Hero closed the fridge door again, empty-handed. Their options were meager and time-consuming, and they didn't have the energy tonight.

They limped to the cupboard and opened it, their eyes falling to the crackers. They pulled out the box, and it felt like they were on their last sleeve. They… could probably hold off. It was late enough by now they could just go to bed. They could save the crackers for breakfast. If they combined it with a coffee, they could probably make it through to the afternoon.

They set the crackers back in the cabinet and closed the door. They flicked off the lights as they hobbled past, keeping a hand along the wall for stability and guidance. Their stomach growled despondently, and they limped into their room. Falling into bed was a relief, and they were exhausted enough to fall asleep within half an hour.

Their front door opened.

Hero flinched awake, heart pounding, ears straining. Was it a dream? Were they imagining—

Someone was moving in their living room. In their kitchen.

Hero slowly got out of bed, trembling, breathing hard. They strained, avoiding putting their weight on their bad leg, and did their best to sneak to the door. They turned the handle carefully as the intruder opened their fridge. Ha, were they only here to steal groceries? Then they came to the wrong apartment.

The light was on in the kitchen. Hero braced a hand on the door, moving slowly, deliberately. Closer, quietly, so they could see the open fridge door—

Villain turned away from the fridge, grabbed a jug of milk off of the floor, and turned to put it in the fridge.

Hero stared as Villain packed eggs and ground beef and a head of lettuce and a bunch of carrots into the fridge. They looked to the front door, which was again closed, to the doorframe that looked perfectly intact. They looked to the grocery bags, to the meat and vegetables on the counter, next to the stove.

"Are you going to keep hiding like a shadow?" Villain asked, closing the fridge and putting away pasta and rice and condiments. Hero hesitated before limping into the light.

"What are you doing here?" Hero said lowly. They tried their best to stand upright, to be threatening. If the organization knew they'd let Villain into their home, there'd be hell to pay.

Villain paused, then looked over their shoulder at Hero.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" They shook their head, turning back to the cupboards. "Get off that ankle." Hero bristled.

"Get out of my house," they threatened. Villain wiggled their fingers and ooed mockingly.

"Oh, my, I'd better not cross the starving, injured, sleep-deprived Hero." They packed away a loaf of bread. "I'd be in for a real thrashing."

"I mean it!"

Villain closed the cabinet door sharply, looking directly at Hero. Hero flinched at the sharp sound and movement.

"Sit. Down."

"Make me," Hero whispered. They knew they weren't good for a fight right now, but if they didn't try—

Villain marched straight for them. Hero took up a modified stance, keeping their weight off of their bad leg, and when Villain got to them they struck. Villain deflected the blow with ease and then grabbed Hero sharply by the ear.

"Ow! Ow!"

"Shut up."

Villain pushed them back into a chair, then went for the stove. They turned on the heat and drizzled some oil Hero didn't own into a pan. Hero watched, a little mesmerized, as Villain started cutting up an onion. They did something weird, not cutting it all the way through on one side, and they didn't so much as sniffle as they chopped it up into little pieces. Then they dumped it into the pan, and Hero listened to it sizzle as Villain got started on a tomato.

"What are you doing?" Hero asked again. Villain barely spared a look over their shoulder.

"I'm making you something to eat." Hero blinked, breathing deeper around the tension in their chest.

"W-why?" Villain dumped the diced tomato into the pan next, then grabbed some spices Hero had never seen before.

"Because you can't heal a sprained ankle on crackers and soda."

Hero looked down at the tabletop. Why was Villain doing this? Was this a ploy? It had to be a trick; they wanted something. If Hero ate this, they'd owe Villain.

"Whatever it is you want me to do, I won't," they rasped.

"You mean eat a proper fucking meal?" Villain said smartly without turning. They stirred the veggies Oh, jeez, it already smelled great.

"This is a trick," Hero whispered.

"The only trick is getting the horse to drink water," Villain replied. Hero's stomach growled loudly at that moment. There was barely anything in the pan and it already smelled amazing.

"I, you can't fool me," Hero tried weakly. "I'm, you can't just buy me with food." Villain laughed, throwing their head back slightly as they did.

"Oh, baby," Villain chuckled, looking to Hero in the weak light, "even if you were right, you'd be wrong." They just kept chuckling, and Hero watched as they opened up a package of ground beef.

Hero watched, once again hypnotized by the sight of Villain's cooking. They added in the meat and continued to stir intermittently, adding more spices and smelling the pan along the way. The kitchen was soon full of the warm, mouth-watering scent of it, and Hero's stomach growled desperately.

There was a catch. There had to be a catch. Six hours ago, Villain was dancing around Hero like they were a mere pest. The fight had been over almost before it started, and Villain had walked all over them. And now they were here, in the middle of the night, chopping cilantro on their counter.

But, God, it smelled so good. And Hero was so hungry. When was the last time they'd had a proper meal? With more than two food groups?

"What do you want?" Hero rasped. "For the food?"

"I want you to stop asking me stupid questions." Hero shut their mouth, watching the quick way Villain roughly cut the greens. They were more precise with the lettuce next, and then they stirred the pan again before producing taco shells and warming them in the steam from the meat. A moment later, they opened a bag of shredded cheese.

Hero sat silently as Villain flicked off the heat and scooped the meat into the shells. They sprinkled on some cheese and cilantro and a more generous amount of lettuce, producing four tacos in quick succession. They set them down, dug a plate out from a cupboard, and then Hero was looking at four hot, loaded tacos right in front of them.

They didn't spare another thought to the cost, lifting up the first carefully. They took a bite, mindful of the loose way it was all packed.

It was amazing. Warm and just barely spicy and crisp and soft and crunchy and —

Hero took another bite, and another. They were halfway into the second when Villain sat down before them.

"At least someone appreciates my cooking," Villain grumbled. Hero slowed down, the reality coming back to them now. They swallowed what they had and put the taco back down, and Villain's sharp eyes snapped to their face. "If you ask me one more time what I want from you, I'm going to strangle you," they growled.

Hero snapped their mouth shut again.

"I don't want anything from you," Villain growled. "You need someone to take care of you. Because the people who employ you clearly don't." Hero frowned.

"They're good to me."

"Then why did they let you fight me on a sprained ankle?" Hero opened their mouth to mention the shortage of heroes lately. "Why do they continue to postpone your weigh-ins?" Hero faltered. How did Villain even know about that? "Why do they pay you in peanuts?" Hero gritted their teeth. "Why don't they send someone to check on you? To make sure you're okay? Why don't they have you in therapy?"

Hero looked down, their vision. They didn't know how to ask for a raise. And they'd called to see a therapist so many times. But nobody cared. Nobody ever took the time to care.

Hero sniffled, reaching up and covering their face. Villain shifted, and then Hero was being pulled into a tight hug.

"You're worth more than this," Villain hissed, their arms wrapped around Hero's head. "You don't deserve this. I can see it wearing you down."

Hero gritted their teeth, fighting the tears, but their throat was beyond sore now, and they sniffed and shook in Villain's tight hold.

"All I want," Villain rumbled, "is for you to get what you deserve. Because it's not those shit stains at the organization."

Hero whimpered softly, losing the fight with their tears. Villain let go and knelt down, and they wiped away Hero's tears with both hands as Hero sat and shook and sniffled pathetically. Villain looked over their face, hands on their cheeks, and Hero closed their eyes as Villain leaned in, kissing their forehead firmly.

"I meant it when I said I'm not fighting you anymore," Villain said against their skin. "I can't keep facing someone who doesn't deserve my wrath." They kissed Hero again, firmer this time, and Hero put their hands over Villain's. Villain pulled back, wiping at another tear. "Now eat your damned food," they whispered.

Hero nodded, sniffing, and slowly turned to their plate again. They continued to eat through the threat of tears, sniffing and struggling to swallow past the lump in their throat.

It was the best food they'd ever had.

#Fayte writes #hero and villain #hero x villain #writeblr #writing #tacos #I probably decided I didn't achieve the feeling I was going for #which is eating with a face packed full of emotion #because I've eaten through tears before and it's definitely a whole thing #but I still think this is good enough to share #even if it didn't actually end up being as good as I wanted #barely edited #caretaker villain

[saturnsorbits]

On Watching the Man you Love, Love Someone Else

Fandom: My Hero Academia, Warnings: Period-esque, Angst, The Bastardisation of a Longer Piece I'll Never Finish. Word Count: 4k.

Summary: Set to pull the job of a lifetime, Sero's band of wayward thieves are left short when Camie runs off. But could her leaving be the catalyst for more than just a new plan?

A/N: It genuinely hurts a little to let this piece go. I worked on the idea for a while, and really did fall a little in love with this Reader, but ultimately the idea just wasn’t meant to be finished in a word count I could commit to. This piece has so much potential, I’m just not enough of a writer to properly do it justice… I’ve tweaked some pieces, the conversation that occurs with Sero at the end was originally supposed to take place between Reader and Cammie for example - but this is as cohesive as I could get it. Anyway… I hope at least someone enjoys this…

'Gone.'

A chair hits the floor, wood creaking as the legs snap and splinter.

'Fucking gone.' Sweeping an arm across a table, Sero sees the end to a bottle of wine and two half-full glasses. They smash and paint the floor red. 'Fucking – fuck!'

'With all due respect...' Standing in the doorway to the office, Shinso ducks a rogue paper weight as it's hefted at his head. It cracks against the brick behind him before dropping to the floor and rolls until his boot comes down on it. '… It was just a matter of time before she took off again.'

Sero's head snaps up from where he's hunched over his desk. His arms are shaking, hands marked and scratched from his tantrum as he forces out a breath through gritted teeth. 'Don't patronise me right now.'

'Is it patronising to just state a fact?' Shinso arches an eyebrow.

Sucking a long breath up through his nose, Sero inhales until his lungs begin to burn. 'I'll bury a stiletto in your skull.'

'You're not quick enough.'

'I'll -.'

'Stop threatening me, when we both know you're just upset that you've proven to be too uninteresting to entertain your lady-love again.' Bending at the hip, Shinso snatches the paper weight from under his foot and tosses the stone in his hand. With an amused boredom, he slips a small pocket knife from the rim of his boot and begins to scratch. 'What did she take this time?'

'Her shares of the last score, half the dried meat, the last mill-seed loaf, two of the expensive dresses and the...' Biting the inside of his cheeks, Sero's eyes drop to the floor. 'She took the Todoroki.'

A laugh bursts from Shinso's chest. 'Good fuckin' riddance.'

'I liked that painting.' Sero growls. 'Almost lost my fucking head stealing it too.'

'Oh, I remember...' Biting down his smile, Shinso licks at his lips and clears his throat. 'Worry not brother, we still have a game ahead.' He snickers. 'Maybe we'll be able to snatch you another.'

Sero seethes, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he grinds his teeth until he feels the molars catch. 'The game's pretty much fucked now that Camie's taken off again.'

'No.' Shinso shakes his head. 'I know it's hard for you to think beyond yourself sometimes, but there's more than just one woman in this piss-poor little gang of ours capable of playing a darling Duke's daughter.'

Setting himself back down in his chair, Sero sighs. He digs a knuckle into his eye. 'Make sure she's ready for the first touch tomorrow morning. I don't want us to spend any longer on this than we have to.'

With mock decency, Shinso folds himself over in a low bow before standing and stretching out his shoulders. 'Certainly... Now, I'll leave you to your moping, my Lord. Feel free not to trouble us while you're constitution has you acting so pathetic.' A wide grin takes his lip, but before Sero can think of rising from his chair in another fit of anger, Shinso tosses the paper weight straight at his head. 'Catch.'

Snatching the stone from the air, Sero flips it over in his palm exposing the rough outline of a broken heart and a crude crying stick figure on his knees beside it. He's too slow as he hefts it back at the now closed door of his office.

Shinso's footsteps retreat, echoing around the cold stone of the corridor beyond; his low laughter following close on his heels. Sero slams a fist on his desk. 'Fucking bastard!'

'The Queen of Thieves has -.' Kirishima wobbles as he descends the stairs into the kitchen, you in his arms, with only Tetsutestu's hand on the broad of his shoulders to stop him from toppling over.

'For the love of -.' Bakugo hisses. Spinning around from his post in front of the stove, he digs a fist into his hip and glowers. 'Keep it down.'

Tipping you out of his arms, Kirishima slinks toward Bakugo. His head dips, cheeks glowing soft as he slips his arms around the smaller man and plants a kiss on his cheek. 'Sorry, baby...'

'He might be sorry...' Skipping up to the large, oak dining table set central in the room you unhook a large, bulging coin purse from your shoulder and empty it out onto the table. Coins of gold and silver clatter onto the wood, flowing from the bag until the entire surface of the table shines. '… But, I'm not. We're celebrating.'

Bakugo's eyebrows dip. 'You ran a score.'

'We did.' You beam. 'Stole a bunch of machine parts from Ingenium's.'

'Ingenium's is protected by the League.' Venom drips into Bakugo's voice, his teeth grinding as he levels a spoon with your head. He's about to shout, the vein in his temple already bulging, but before he manages to bark, you're grinning.

'And -' You lift a palm to stop him. 'When poor little Tenya wakes up in the morning and discovers that his four gold pieces a week to the League hasn't stopped his precious shop from being turned over, he's going to look elsewhere and who else do we know who has a reputation for keeping thieves away?'

Bakugo tries not to let it show, but pride makes his chest puff out and his eyes shine. 'I should be mad that you're whoring my boyfriend out as hired muscle...'

'But...' Your eyebrows dance on your forehead. 'But, you've just put the biggest score I've seen all year on that bloody table -.'

Kirishima pecks at Bakugo's cheek again, twisting from where he had been dipping his fingers in the bubbling soup on the stove behind his boyfriends back. 'Don't forget the bank notes. We've got bank notes too...'

A snort breaks from Bakugo's chest. '… And guaranteed us another solid four gold a week, so -.'

This time it's Tetsutetsu who breaks into Bakugo's speech. 'We put our prices up two weeks ago. It's eight pieces now. Seemed fitting since there's two of us; an not just one bruiser like the other gangs are offering.'

This time Bakugo does laugh. He throws his head back, shoulders bouncing as he slips from Kirishima's hold and stalks towards you. Opening his arms, he wraps himself around your waist and lifts, spinning you around once before letting you back to your feet. 'If I were into women I'd kiss you breathless, you little fucking genius.'

You giggle and lace your hands behind his neck. 'I'd love to take all the credit, but -.'

'But she was the mastermind behind it all...' Kirishima beams. 'We just stood by and looked scary.'

Tetsutetsu offers. 'We helped lift the machine parts too!'

'It was a joint effort.' You concede, letting Bakugo drift back to the stove, after ordering the boys to set the table.

'What's this?' Shinso appears at the bottom of the basement stairs like a ghost. His hair is wild, torn back as if he'd been caught in a gale and the usual bags under his eyes are deeper and more pronounced.

You look up, half way through scooping another handful of coin back into your pouch. 'A score.'

Leveling you with a bored stare, Shinso raises his eyebrows. 'I'd gathered that much. I was -.'

'Ingeniums.' Bakugo cuts in. 'They can explain over dinner. Sit.'

Shinso obliges, slipping into a seat at the table. 'I have news of Mina.'

That perks everyone's ears.

Producing a letter from his inner jacket pocket, he brandishes it in the air. 'She seems to be enjoying the sea air down south, says she's learned a lot from Midnight.'

Bakugo snatches the letter, quickly skimming through the neatly written hand. He hums. 'Established some links with the Mirko company – could be useful.'

Reading over his shoulder, Kirishima snatches the letter as soon as Bakugo's eyes reach the bottom. 'I miss her.'

'Me too.' You sigh. 'She'll only be gone another month...'

'And we can welcome her back with a score.' Shinso grins, his crooked teeth nipping gently at his lower lip.

Eyebrows furrowing, you glance around the table. 'But -.'

'You're to the play the Duke's daughter instead.'

'I -.' Part of you wants to argue, but you know there's no point. There's only one reason that you're to take the roll of the Duke's daughter, after all.

'I'll take a look at the dresses tomorrow, see what we've got that fits... I can always adjust one of Camie's.' Bakugo offers.

The conversation dissolves then, the room filling with plans and laughter as the bowls we're cleared away and a plate of freshly baked cookies took their place on the table. Bathing in the revelry of having the crew, mostly, all together, you barely notice as the sun begins to slip from the sky leaving the kitchen soaked in the soft glow of lamp light. It isn't until Bakugo yawns, declaring it bedtime, that everyone begins to slowly make their way to their retrospective rooms.

Bakugo heads off first, Kirishima dutifully in toe behind him as they slip into one of the backrooms where a small, stuffed mattress awaited them.

Shortly after Tetsutetsu turns in, slipping into a his coat and swiping a singular golden coin from the stash as he trots back up the stairs, presumably on his way to find something comely to warm his bed for the night.

Lastly, it's Shinso, who offers you a knowing look when you dish out one last portion of soup and dutifully turn towards the upper bedrooms.

He rolls up his sleeves and sighs before dipping them into the soapy water filling the sink, listening as your steps echo as you climb. No-one comments on the empty chair at the head of the table.

Wrapping your knuckles on the office door, you balance the soup dish on your wrist while trying to shove open the door he's evidently jambed shut. Sometimes, you really do wish he where less fickle.

'I brought you food...' Your voice is low, sweet in the back of your throat as you edge into the room and spot him laying on his bunk.

'You didn't come down for dinner.'

Sero grunts, not moving his eyes from the ceiling. 'I'm not hungry.'

'Hanta... You can't keep doing this to yourself. You've barely a week of starvation in you and we're coming up on day three.'

'Just leave me.'

'Listen, I know -.'

'Know?' He sits up then, eyes burning as he fights the tick in his jaw.

'Please. Tell me what you fucking know...' Tongue licking at his back teeth he growls, spitting his words at your feet. 'You're probably loving this, aren't you? She's gone. I'm as good as bloody kept now, aren't I.'

'I don't.'

'Don't act stupid, Dearest.' He coos, but there's no fondness in his tone. 'I know how you look at me. Gods, if I all, but stretched out here and welcomed you to bed I bet you'd ride me out of sheer desperation while I laid back and thought of her.' A murky laugh bubbles in his throat as he cocks his head to one side, legs spreading in mocking invitation. 'That brother of mine seems to enjoy sharing his pallet with you often enough, maybe you're in want for a change of cock.'

Cocking your hip, you dig a fist into the fat there. Your nails dig into your palm, carving out raw half-cresents in the skin. 'Have you finished?'

'Ha. Have you been practicing that? If I'm inclined to forget half of my life, you're almost a semi-decent imitation.'

'I know you're hurting, Hanta. All's I'm asking is that you -.'

'You really shouldn't try so hard, y'know... To be her. Take it from a mummer himself, you'll never come close to the real thing.'

'I'm not trying to be her. It's you who wants that, Hanta. Not me. If she where me, she'd be the one stood here trying to stop you from starving yourself to death like a pathetic divorcee and I'd be off somewhere else doing God only fucking knows what...' You collect yourself, if only just and place the bowl on the floor at your feet. 'Now eat. One good meal won't get in the way of you being love-sick.'

Turning on your heel, you bite your lip. It's all you can do to stop the tears. The marks on your palm sting, but even that is a dull comparison to the claw marks now inflicted across your heart. You've barely reached the bottom step when you hear it, a scuffling that gets your hopes up, before a loud bang shatters them once more. You don't bother to hear what is muttered in the dark after it, you don't care to know.

'He's a mean bastard...' You whisper to yourself, violently clearing your face before stepping foot back in the kitchen.

Shinso is still there where you left him, a pile of newly clean plates by his side.

'Sorry for abandoning the chores.' You force a smile, rolling up the sleeves of your shirt as you prepare to dip them into the sink. Shinso just chuckles. He dips a new plate into the water and hisses.

'S'nothing. He still acting like a kicked puppy?'

''fraid so... Matter of fact.' Pulling your hands back before they hit water, you pluck another bowl from the cupboard and set about spooning out another helping of soup from the pot still bubbling on the stove. 'Would you mind taking him up another dish? He won't take anything from me and I'm pretty sure I heard him toss the last down the stairs. I'm rather hoping you'll have more luck.' Once the bowl is full, you slip it onto the table and reach for a loaf of bread.

Cracking it in half, you lay it on a plate. 'I'll finish up here.'

'I -.' Shinso sighs, wiping his hands on a chequered rag.

'It's fine, really.'

There it is, that forced smile again. Shinso chews the inside of his mouth.

'We're already a hand down tonight, what's one more? It's been a while since I've had the kitchen to myself.'

'As his brother, it pains me to say this, but he really isn't worth half of the trouble.' He takes the dishes from the table and cocks an eyebrow at you as you busy yourself with the ones already in the sink.

You laugh, snorting before shooting Shinso an equally as amused look. 'Says the man who routinely puts himself in harms way for said brother.'

'That's different.' He deadpans. 'He's never picked up a habit of making me cry.'

You drop the dish in your hands. 'I'm not -.'

Now, it's Shinso's turn to snort. 'I know how long it takes to get from here to his room and back again and you where about ten minutes too long, even with all the vile things I can guess he spat at you. Plus...' He reaches up and smooths his knuckles across the curve of your cheekbone. 'Your cheeks are red.'

'I -.'

'I'll take him the soup, but I'm doing it for you. He could starve for a week longer for all I care.'

'Thank you, 'Toshi.'

'You're one of us. We look after our own...' He grinds his teeth, tipping his head. 'Or at least, we're supposed to.'

Sero rolls his eyes as soon as soon as the door is kicked open. He's laid back on his bunk, arms folded underneath his head, eyes trained carefully on one particularly large spot of mould on the ceiling. 'Just because a different man holds the spoon, doesn't mean I'm more likely to eat'

Not bothering to pause, Shinso marches across the room in barely two strides. 'Just as well I haven't brought you a spoon then, isn't it?' He tips the bowl onto Sero's exposed stomach.

Sero yells, scolded.

'You, Sero Hanta, are the biggest cock I've ever fucking met.'

Wincing through the radiating burn, Sero manages to huff out a cocky snort. 'Why, thank you.'

'She's just trying to help'

'Well I don't fucking need it.' Reaching under his bed, Sero snatches up his discarded nightshirt to clean the spill from his skin. 'Nor, do I need you soiling my bed clothes.'

'Be glad it's just soup.'

Sero opens his mouth to speak, but is quickly silenced again by his brothers glare.

'You break her little heart twice a day and she doesn't trouble you with it and yet, every time Cam runs off – somehow it's her that bares the brunt.' Shinso folds his arms across his chest. 'She's a nice girl, Hanta... She's family.'

'Ah, so you are fucking her after all.' He chuffs. 'What is it? Jealous she's still got a taste for my cock?'

A growl builds in the back of Shinso's throat, the muscle in his jaw flaring as he grinds his teeth. 'I'm going to pretend to have misheard what you're attempting to insinuate for your own fucking good... Get a grip of yourself before I have to knock some sense into your myself.'

'Consider me fully scolded.' Sero clicks his tongue. 'Is that all you came here to do?'

'She's done your half of the washing and made preparations for tomorrow night; thought you could do with a few nights off. So you can mope here all week for all anyone gives a shit.'

Sero sits up at that, his eyes wide. 'She's supposed to be doing the first touch tomorrow -.'

'And she's still offered to do your half of the choring... ' Shaking his head, Shinso sighs. 'She's more than you deserve. That's for damn sure. Without her, we'd fall apart.'

Sero pauses. Chewing the inside of his cheek, he swings his legs over the side of his bed and sits up. 'Is there anymore soup?'

'Yeah.' Shinso chuckles, gesturing the bed. 'In a puddle on your blanket by the look of it... If you want a fresh bowl, you'll have to get it yourself.' He strides off towards the door, but stops at the door to turn back over his shoulder. 'And you best be as gracious as a fucking priest when you do.'

The water is scolding your hands. Your wrists have vanished, lost below the soapy bubbles as you fish for the last bits of cutlery lost in the sink. Behind you, the stairs creek making the muscles of your back tense even as you try to keep your shoulders relaxed. Maybe it's the years you've lived together, or the fact that your heart skips a beat each time you hear him, but there's no mistaking the foot falls for anyone other than Sero Hanta.

He appears, shirtless, at the foot of the stairs, but doesn't press into the kitchen.

You ignore him. Focusing instead on the burning of your hands as you pluck a fork from the water and begin to clean it.

Sero clears his throat.

Still, you clean.

He sighs, stuffing his hands into his pockets before approaching the stove. Lifting the lid of the pot, he inhales through the steam that leaps from inside. 'Do you mind if I -.'

Turning, you absently pass him a bowl. 'There's still some clean spoons in the draw.'

'Thank you.'

You nod.

Spooning a decent helping of soup into a bowl, Sero takes his time choosing a spoon. It's mindless work, a waste of time as his mind whirrs – trying frantically to come up with something, anything to say to you.

The thing is, Shinso's right. You are more than he deserves and then some, but he's never been good with sweet things. That's why him and Cammie work so well.

They don't.

With you, there would be the possibility of a future. One that involves a quiet life, without crimes and games, a small house and weekly breakfasts with Bakugo and Kirishima, fuck... Children, a pretty little stone shining on your delicate finger.

He could give you all of that, but he can't give you what he knows you really crave.

He doesn't turn around when he speaks, instead, he hangs his head and talks to cream of his soup. 'You know I wish it were different...'

'It isn't that hard not to be a cunt, Hanta.'

'You know what I mean.' He winces.

You chuckle, but its a cruel noise that trickles off of your lips. 'So what is it? You wish I didn't yearn for your affections, or that you loved me like you love her?'

'Yes, well...'

Yanking your hands from the water, you splay your palms on the cold surface beside the sink. You're used to this, the numbness that so often overtakes you. The knowledge of your unrequited affection is like a balm, a prickling salve that serves not to sooth, but to prolong your suffering.

If you were able to let go, you would have, but you've loved him since you first laid eyes on him all those years ago when two scared children had come together for scarce more than survival.

'I sound bitter, I didn't mean -.'

He chuckles. 'You did. It's okay. I think that might be the normal thing.'

'What?'

'To hate me. To, to -.'

Your eyebrows furrow, your heart giving out in your chest as you consider a world in which his assumption might me true. 'I don't hate you.'

Turning finally, Sero leans back against the wooden surface of the kitchen counter. He licks his lips. 'You should.'

You lift your head, twisting until you can look at him.

At first glance, you'd be forgiven to think that his eyes were black, but on closer inspection, or under the right light, the faint, deep chocolate of his iris' shimmer – soaking up the light around each of his blown pupils. Now, with them trained on you, you're allowed to bask until you lose your nerve. Dropping your gaze, you tangle your fingers with one another. 'I could never.'

A sadness washes over him. 'You'd be better off finding refuge under Kaminari or Monoma.'

'Hardly a satisfactory refuge...' You chuckle, letting the noise lighten your mood.

He shares in your laughter, before allowing the sound to die on the back of his throat. Turning back to the counter, he palms the bowl of soup and slips a spoon into his pocket.

In two short steps he stops in front of you. His spare hand reaches out, curling around your shoulder. The tips of his fingers dig gently into the flesh and muscle covering your shoulder blade as his thumb smooths over the dip of your collarbone: caressing. Your skin blooms for him, heat rising through you as you allow yourself to think of all the other touches he could gift you, but any further thought is silenced as the gentle press of his lips touches to your forehead. Lingering, his lips hover barely a millimetre above his kiss.

'You deserve better than me.' He whispers it into your hair line before stepping away.

You feel the chill of him leaving, feeling an odd sense of abandonment and longing settle bone deep inside of you as he crosses back across the kitchen, towards the stairs. He's talking, but you don't quite register the words, not even as he calls your name.

'Forget the touch tomorrow. We'll scrap the job. It was a terrible plan anyway...' He hums. 'I think I should take some time away, let Bakugo and Shinso handle things for a while, maybe.'

He's gone, almost at his room, you'd guess by the time you leave your trance. Your fingertips find his kiss, touch gently against the skin there and feel the warmth of his lips as it slips, absorbed by your skin.

You smile.

He might not be able to give you what you want, what you crave. But, you'll always have this.

A singular, sorrow-filled kiss.

-> Masterlist

#Sero x Reader #Sero Hanta x Reader #Sero Angst #MHA x Reader #saturnsorbits #saturnscribbles

[mothertaeraesa]

zb1 as summer activities

pairing: ot9 x gender neutral reader

genre: blurb format, nonidol verse, summer au, fluff

warnings: slightly suggestive in matthew's, yujin's can be read as platonic or romantic

word count: 1.5k

kim jiwoong | camping

The smell of smoke and wood wafts to your nose, as you peek your head up from the top of the hammock that’s attached to two red maples. You watch Jiwoong silently while he chops a few more pieces of wood before tossing them on top of the roaring flames from the fire pit. Discarded pans and dishes are off to the side from the filling dinner of meat and ramen that your boyfriend had so generously prepared all by himself. You had insisted on helping him cook and clean, but Jiwoong, ever the gentleman, made sure you didn't lift a finger at all this trip and had done everything himself. "Woongie," you call faintly. "Yes, my love?" Jiwoong pauses his movements and gives you his full attention with a smile. "Come cuddle with me and then let's make s'mores?" The man drops everything and hurries over to you, nearly toppling on top of you before planting a kiss to the crown of your head. "Anything for you."

zhang hao | pool party

"Marco!" Sounds of "polo" are shouted back in various pitches and noise levels, as you and your friends splash around in the water. Blue skies bleed into hues of oranges and pinks while you all have spent the whole day getting wrinkly in Ricky's pool. Feeling thirsty from all the games, you slip out and grab your towel, drying off before sitting on the edge while sipping your cold drink from the cooler. You watch Taerae get attacked by a closed-eyed Matthew as a finger taps your thigh. Hao stands waist-deep in front of you with his mouth open, making indistinguishable noises, but you catch onto what he wants. Pouring the rest of the drink in his mouth, you discard the can to the side before leaning down to plant a peck on the man's lips. The drink lingers with the faintest taste of chlorine, but it's only a momentary thought, as Hao's laugh fills the air while he suddenly tugs you by the hand back into the water.

sung hanbin | blueberry picking

It’s sunny and swelteringly hot outside. Sweat drips down your forehead, and you can’t help but wipe it with the back of your hand in slight disgust. You wonder how you ended up here, a somewhat crowded blueberry patch during such a humid summer day. But then you glance over across the bush at Hanbin who has a wide and excited grin on his face. “Look at this one!” He exclaims excitedly, holding up a big, ripe blue one for you to see. You nod at him, an enamored look in your eyes. You guess that you could deal with the bugs and uncomfortable stickiness on your skin if it means seeing Hanbin happy like a kid in a candy store. You both fill up two large buckets with the sweet berry and take them home, making blueberry pie, muffins, tarts, and jam.

seok matthew | carnivals

The bright lights from the tents down below look like twinkling stars from up above, as you, Matthew, and the giant stuffed bear that he had won squish into the ferris wheel cart. You eagerly point out all the places you both had been that night when you get a better view, and Matthew watches you adoringly with a smile. When you're finally at the top, he snakes an arm around your waist before leaning in for a long kiss. "You know about the rumors?" He murmurs quietly against your lips, eyes locked onto yours. Heat rises to your cheeks at the close proximity as you shake your head silently. "They say that if you kiss on top of the ferris wheel, your relationship will last forever." The man goes in for another, taking his sweet time before peppering delicate kisses across your jaw until his lips linger by the shell of your ear. "I guess that means you're mine for eternity."

kim taerae | farmer's market

You and Taerae walk hand in hand through the rows upon rows of stalls selling everything from freshly baked goods to blooming flowers. A loaf of sourdough, ruby red apples, prosciutto, some cheese, and a blanket sit in your tote bag on Taerae's shoulder for the picnic that was planned for later. The two of you had made it a habit to wake up early on Sundays to take a walk, go to your favorite cafe for brunch, and then head over to the weekly farmer's market. There was something domestic about the little routine you both had fallen into, and you definitely didn't mind the quiet coos that grannys would offer on the street about how much of an adorable couple you two were. Taerae suddenly stops in front of a booth selling mason jars of wildflowers and instantly hands the owner some cash, insisting you pick out your favorite with a kiss to your temple.

shen ricky | beach day

The sound of waves crashing against the sand are like white noise in your ears, as you lay out under the beating sun. Your skin feels warm from spending the afternoon outside, but you sense a presence and jump a little at the cold drops that fall onto you. “You gonna come in the water?” Ricky asks while a hand runs through his hair, more droplets hitting you as he shakes his head like a wet dog. “Maybe in a little bit,” you reply, taking in the sight of the blonde boy before you. a thin silver chain falls down the slope of his neck and rests just above his bare chest. His swim trunks fit him well and are in a light rose shade that he had boughten after you had offhandedly mentioned that you thought he looked good in the color. “Like what you see?” There’s a slightly smug tone in his voice as he catches you staring. “You look nice.” In one swift motion, Ricky picks you up and throws you over his shoulder with ease, moving towards the water and threatening to drop you in unless you give him a better compliment than just “nice.”

kim gyuvin | dog walking

"Buttercup, please don't bite eumpappa's ear!" You hear your boyfriend's voice before you see him, but the sight before you causes Gyuvin to whine as you nearly double over in tears. "Babe, how did this happen?" The brunette gives a sheepish smile, tips of his ears red, while you help untangle him from the many dog leashes wrapped around him. Gyuvin had decided to take up dog walking as a summer side job to make some extra money to take you out on dates. He had thought it was a brilliant idea considering that he already walked eumpappa, so what were a few more pups? Well, a few more soon turned into five which then turned into eight, and although Gyuvin was too prideful at first to ask for your help, you eventually got the call to meet him outside of his apartment complex with the promise of ice cream in return. You supposed it all worked out in the end, as you got to spend time with cute puppies and your even cuter boyfriend.

park gunwook | camp counselors

Gunwook throws a glance over at you once and a while, finding it cute how your face scrunches up in concentration as you make your bead bracelet. Originally, the boy had come over to sit next to you, but you had banished him to the other side of the arts and crafts hall, declaring that he wasn’t allowed to peek at what you were going to work on. So here Gunwook was, pouty and a bit sulky, as he waited patiently for you to finish whatever you were doing so he could spend some time with you. The second he sees you snipping the thin string with scissors, he rushes over like an eager puppy. “Here, I made this for you.” Taking his large hand in yours, you slip the bracelet that adorns your name onto his wrist. Before you can say anything else, Gunwook repeats the action, wordlessly giving you the one he had made too. You peak at the letters with a smile. Gunwook.

han yujin | lemonade stands

"Yujin, aren't you a little too old to run a lemonade stand?" Slowly pulling your sunglasses down and peering over them, you stare a bit incredulously at the boy sitting in the children's chair that's clearly too small for him. "I-I'm just helping out my cousin..." He manages to stutter in a bit of embarrassment, rubbing the nape of his neck and avoiding eye contact. You readjust your sunglasses and notice the little girl coming back out of the house with a plastic pitcher filled to the brim with the citrusy drink. "I'll take three." You say suddenly, pulling out the proper amount and handing it to Yujin, as he snaps out of his daze. The little girl perks up at the influx of business, eagerly pouring three cups. You leave a generous tip in the plastic jar and hand her one of the cups before taking a seat in the grass of the lawn beside Yujin. Sipping on the cool liquid, you extend the extra cup to him with a smile.

#zb1 scenarios #zb1 imagines #zb1 x reader #zerobaseone #zb1 fics #zb1 fluff #zb1 drabbles #boys planet scenarios #boys planet imagines #boys planet x reader #boys planet #kim jiwoong #zhang hao #sung hanbin #seok matthew #kim taerae #shen ricky #kim gyuvin #han yujin

[thetriumphantpanda]

Ghost Of You | J. Miller (Chapter Five)

Series Summary / Grief is a strange thing. In the beginning it had been all-consuming. There wasn’t a moment of the day where you didn’t cry, didn’t ask yourself why it couldn’t have been you instead. And no-one ever explains the guilt you feel when it isn’t anymore. When it’s just a dull ache and you can finally breathe again, when you can start letting people get close to you again. People like Joel Miller.

Pairing / Joel Miller x Widow F!Reader

Word Count / 3.7k

Warnings / FLUFF. ACTUAL FLUFF AND SOME HAPPINESS. Talking about suicide, mourning and descriptions of grief and depression. And a little surprise right at the end that I will not spoil for y'all.

Authors Note / Okay. I LOVE THIS CHAPTER SO MUCH. I have to admit when I wrote it I actually made myself cry and that's no word of a lie. I am having so much fun fleshing this story out and I hope that the slow burn isn't too slow for y'all but I promise these two are moving in the direction we want them to move in - I PROMISE YOU. If you enjoy this then I would LOVE to hear from you - Comments, reblogs and asks genuinely make my day.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

A week later, your garden is abuzz with life. Tommy has dragged the kettle grill from his garden into your own and is currently trying to get the coals to light, Joel is standing over his shoulder trying to get him to listen to what he thinks will work. You giggle to yourself when Tommy follows Joel’s instructions, and the flames catch. Younger brother yet again bested by his older brother’s knowledge. 

Maria is stepping out of the kitchen with plates and cutlery, placing them on the table, where Ellie is sat curled on the chair with her nose in a book. She’d come to the library on Monday and switched Artemis Fowl for the Chronicles of Narnia, another good choice in your opinion, and she’d spent most of the last thirty minutes with her nose stuck in the book. 

“Here you go, honey,” Maria pushes a glass of blackberry wine into your hand, “Shane sent us a bloody crate of this stuff, he’s made so much this year.” 

You clink your glass with her own and take a sip, letting the sweet liquid fall down your throat. You have to admit it was getting better with every year. The first year Shane had proudly debuted his wine it was way too sour, everyone apart from Tommy had been too polite to tell him so. The next year, it had been drowned in enough sugar to give anyone diabetes, but now he was getting the hang of it, and with the sun starting to lower in the sky and all your favourite people, apart from one, around you, you had to admit you thought you were happy. 

You’d spent all day cooking side dishes that you’d saved up your ration cards for. Potato salad, a slapdash attempt at Greek salad, just without feta and balsamic vinegar, you’d even made a fresh loaf of bread. Maria and Tommy had brought meat to grill – there were steaks from the last lot of cows to have been slaughtered, chicken that Maria had skewered with peppers, and even burgers and sausages. Your luck to have found this place never failed to amaze you. You could convince yourself all this was back on the street you’d lived at in California before outbreak day. Ellie had even attempted to make a pie as dessert. She’d lifted the cloth covering the pastry when she’d knocked on the door, Joel in tow. 

“It’s apple, because I remember you saying that was your favourite,” You’d smiled and pulled her into a quick hug, “Joel insisted on a whole pastry lid though, something about it being better than the lattice.” 

You’d looked him in the eye, “Well, Joel is outnumbered here, but we’ll let him off for tonight.” 

He’d dipped to kiss your cheek as he’d walked in through the threshold, passing a bottle of whiskey to you, “If you set that in the freezer it’ll be nice and chilled for something to drink after dinner.” 

Once the flames have died down and the coals are embers, you watch Tommy set the chicken skewers on the grill. You head inside and pull your sides out of the fridge, cutting slices of bread. There’s a tiny amount of butter left which you also pull out, setting everything on the table outside, watching as Ellie’s eyes bulge at foods she’d never experienced before. You smirk at her, whispering that she’s welcome to try anything she wants but to make sure Joel doesn’t catch her, sure that he’ll chide her for her manners. 

You go back inside and pull another plate out for Tommy to set the cooked meat on and fill two tumblers of whiskey for the two of them, setting them on the empty plate to take them down to the men. 

“It never fails to amaze me how much cooking on fire takes you men back to the dark ages.” You joke, holding the plate out for Joel to take a glass, which he does gladly, neither him nor Tommy enjoying Shane’s homebrewed beer much by the looks of it.

You hand Tommy the plate once he’s taken his own glass, “Didn’t Sarah always used to say the same thing?” Tommy asked, Joel nods in agreement, “Somethin’ about being cavemen.” 

You laugh and leave them to it, heading back to the table where Maria and Ellie are talking together. As you sit down you can tell that Ellie is attempting (and failing) to get Maria to let her try her wine. 

“You don’t want this, trust me,” You smirk, sitting down on the chair next to her, “I’ve been drinking my entire life and it’s already going to my head.” 

You make polite conversation around the table for a little while until Tommy is walking towards you with a plate full of grilled meat. He sets it down before he sits down next to his wife, Joel taking the other unoccupied chair opposite you. Within moments, plates are full and you’re all eating in silence. 

Joel watches you intently as you cut a slice of steak. He watches as your eyes close and your head tilts back a little until a little groan falls from your mouth. He can’t stop his brain from thinking how much he’d like to be the one making your eyes close and your head tilt back like that. God, he really was getting old if a singular glass of whiskey had him thinking like this. He drags his gaze from you back to his own plate of food, so you don’t catch the darkening of his eyes. 

“Tommy, Jesus Christ, I haven’t had steak like this in so long.” You’re praising his brother, breaking off a slice of bread to dip into the dripping that’s come from the resting steak. 

Everyone is silent as you make your way through the rest of the meal. Once you’ve all eaten your fill there’s less left that you thought there would be, everyone obviously making the most of the rare luxury of meat. 

Ellie insists that although you’re all fit to burst, you have to try a slice of apple pie and you’re thankful you did. She’d done an absolutely fantastic job of it on her own and you couldn’t help the swell of your heart as she’d grinned when you told her it was just as good as the one you’d made together, backed up by everyone else around the table. 

Maria and Ellie do the dishes together, packaging up leftovers for everyone to take home with them for the next day as Joel and Tommy start a small fire on the grass of your garden in a small drum that you don’t dare ask where he got it from. You tell Ellie about your days camping with your dad, toasting marshmallows and getting sticky when you tried to pull it off the toasting stick. 

You drink whiskey for the first time in ages as you swap stories across the fire and you can’t help but smile. You love this little bunch of people, the five of them, sat around, keeping you company, making everything seem just that little bit easier. 

You glance to your left a little while later, Ellie is asleep, resting her head on her hand. The conversation has lulled a little, Maria and Tommy are holding each other’s hands, glancing at Ellie too. 

“I think I’m ready to call it a night,” Maria speaks, “We’ll take Ellie back to yours Joel, you stay here and finish your drink.” 

He’s just poured himself another glass of whiskey from the bottle and is cradling it in his impossibly large hands. He nods, gently waking Ellie to tell her that Maria and Tommy will walk her home and he’ll be back soon once he finishes his drink. She doesn’t argue, standing up with a yawn. 

“Thanks for today,” She says to you, bending down to your chair to give you a quick hug, “I’m glad you liked the pie.” 

You smile at her and say that you hope you’ll see her soon, bidding her a goodnight. She gives Joel a hug too, telling him not to stay out too late because he’s an old man. He snorts but agrees he won’t stay long. 

Maria and Tommy also give you a hug, insisting that you stay put instead of standing. And then they’re all gone and it’s just you and Joel sat around the fire. It’s quiet, the silent never uncomfortable between the two of you. 

“Can I ask a question?” You ask quietly, once the silence becomes too much, looking down at the glass of whiskey in your hands. 

The fire is warm, even if its flames have died down. It’s casting a gentle orange glow across Joel’s features which makes him look soft, even more welcoming than normal. 

“Of course you can.” He replies, sipping his own drink. 

“How long did it take for you to feel okay again?” You can’t look him in the eye, can’t look at him altogether, it’s a personal question, one you never thought you’d feel okay asking, but the wine and whiskey have made you brave, “You know, after Sarah?” 

He’s silent for a long time. Long enough that you wonder if you’ve upset him. You’re about to open your mouth to apologise for overstepping a line when he speaks, “It wasn’t time that did it,” He answers, thinking back to the last time he’d said those words, it’s still true, “It’s more about what I found that made it easier.” 

You’re running a finger around the rim of your glass trying to distract yourself but you can feel his eyes on you, “It never goes away, not really,” He sighs, “Not to make you feel even worse about things, but it shrinks a little, until you can remember all the good things about that person, instead of how much it hurts that you don’t have them anymore.” 

“What was it like for you?” You look at him now and fuck he’s pretty. No amount of grief would deny the way your stomach flipped when you see him in this moment. The flickering orange light of the flame illuminating the shadows of his face, his eyes are darker than normal, and you think you might just drown yourself in them if you look any longer, “What was your grief like?” You look away, trying to ignore the lump in your throat. 

You watch as he leans his elbow on the arm of the chair, resting his fingers on his mouth as if he’s contemplating what to say to you, “I couldn’t see the point of life without her anymore,” He speaks softly, “Sarah was gone, the world was gone, so what was I still doin’ here, you know?” You nod, because you do know. You know all too well. “In those first few days after I tried to kill myself,” You let in a sharp inhale of breath, which he doesn’t acknowledge, “I was ready, I wasn’t scared, but I flinched, and for twenty years I always wondered why. Why did I flinch when I pulled that trigger?” He’s silent again for a while and you want to reach out and offer your hand to him, but again, you don’t, you keep it in your own lap, “I guess what I’m tryin’ to say is that it won’t always break your heart, but I think you already know that,” You nod in agreement as you close your eyes, “You’ve just gotta find the next thing worth livin’ for.” 

You want to tell him you’re sorry, but when had that ever helped you? No amount of sorry from anyone was going to bring your respective people back. You’d always thought that saying sorry was a cop out anyway. Something someone said when they didn’t know what else to say, so you didn’t. 

“You know, it never even crossed my mind.” You muse, mostly to yourself than anything else. 

“What didn’t?”

“Killing myself,” You reply almost immediately, “I think now that it would have been the easiest thing, I could have been with him, I wouldn’t have been here to listen to everyone gossip about me, I wouldn’t have spent a year of my life practically locked in my house, but it never once crossed my mind.” 

“You wanna know what I think?” He asks, watching you as you nod, “I think that’s because deep down you knew you’d be okay, whether you realized it or not,” He’s reaching for the nearly empty bottle of whiskey to top his glass up, “I know it hurts, sweet pea, trust me, but you’ll know what love is again someday.” 

It’s such a striking thing for him to say that it catches you completely off guard. Outside of the handful of times this evening that you’ve caught yourself thinking of how utterly beautiful a man Joel Miller is, you’ve never thought about finding someone else. Mark was meant to be your one and only, you’ve vowed to each other that was the case, signed your names on a piece of paper to the same effect. ‘Til death us do part. It’s silly but when you’d uttered those words to Mark, you’d always imagined dying together. Old age, hands held, drifting off together. In reality it hadn’t been old age, but you’d held hands, right until the bitter end, but then you were left here, all alone, and he was gone. 

“You know those romantic movies we used to watch before?” 

“You used to watch.” He interrupts, a small smile on his face. 

“Alright, those romantic movies I used to watch,” You let out a little giggle, “Whenever someone died before their time, they would inevitably get just the right amount of time to tell the person they loved that they wanted to move on?” Joel nods that he knows what you’re talking about, “I guess I’ve always thought I needed his permission, not really just to find someone else, but to move on and live my life again.” 

“Did you need his permission for much when he was around?” He asks. 

You shake your head, “He was always so laid back, even when we were on our own out of the quarantine zones, we were a team, but we understood each other, understood what we both needed, so no, not really.” 

Joel speaks without a pause, “Then you just need to ask yourself for permission then.” 

Silence falls between you both again. You’re staring at the flames in front of you and draining your glass of whiskey. It was never your favourite, you didn’t like the way it burnt on your tongue or the feeling of it settling in your stomach, but like anything in this world, it was the case of any port in a storm. Joel follows suit and drains the last of his drink. 

“I should really be gettin’ back,” He speaks softly, “But thank you, for today, it’s been one of the nicest days I can remember.” 

You both stand up, Joel taking the empty glasses and you taking hold of the whiskey bottle with the last bit of amber liquid in the bottom. He walks in front, stopping to drop the glasses in the sink which you insist you’ll wash up yourself. You set the whiskey bottle on the side and follow him to the front door. 

He pauses before he can turn the handle and open the door and you wonder what’s going on. Joel is the kind of man who is always sure of his actions, never falters, but his hand is outstretched and he’s not moving. You’re leant against the wall on one shoulder at the bottom of the stairs that lead to the top floor of your house when he turns back around to you. 

“I think he’d want you to be happy, sweet pea,” He breathes, “You have too much love in here to not give it to anyone else.�� His fingertips are brushing the space between your breasts where your heart is, and you wonder when he got so fucking close to you.

You look up and he’s looming over you, those beautiful brown eyes looking directly through yours and into your soul. His hands are cupping your cheeks. Those rough and calloused palms are warm against your skin which had cooled in the evening air. You can’t quite believe it but you’re tilting your face up towards him and he’s leaning his down towards yours and before you know it, his lips are pressed to yours so softly you might cry. You can sense his hesitation but as your eyes flutter closed, you’re pushing yourself onto your toes to press your lips more firmly to his. 

And then it all comes crashing over you. The moment you close your eyes, it’s not Joel’s face in your mind, it’s Mark’s. It’s his hands cupping your face, they were softer than Joel’s. It was hit scent you could remember through your nostrils, not the smoke and musk you could smell of Joel. Your hands are fisting the lapels of his jacket as you pull away, pulling in a sigh as he rests his forehead against yours before pulling himself away. He’s still close enough that your hands are still on his jacket, but he’s dropped his hands from his face. 

“I’m sorry, Joel,” You whisper, shaking your head, “I can’t.” Is what you murmur. 

He drops his head and steps back from you, making your hands drop from his jacket, he’s turning on his heel and heading to the door with a mumbled apology. 

“Joel!” You call out before he has chance to shut the door behind him, he turns and faces you, “I’m not saying never,” You confess, “Just not right now.” 

You watch as a flash of hope appears on his face and he’s giving you that signature lop-sided smile, “I’ll wait, sweet pea.” And then he’s gone. 

*

It’s late and Joel can’t sleep. He’s been tossing and turning since he got into bed an hour ago, replaying the events of the evening in his mind. He’s trying to blame his irrational choice to kiss you on the whiskey, but he knows it isn’t true. Every day he’s seen you since you sat down and ate strawberry pie together, he’s wanted to kiss you. Wanted to kiss the sadness and the grief out of your body and put you back together again. It had nothing to do with the whiskey and everything to do with you. 

The way you’d asked him about his own grief, so quiet and unsure as to whether you were overstepping a line. The way you’d listened to him talk about wanting to end everything but didn’t offer an apology or the look in your eyes that told him you felt sorry for him. The way that every time he spoke to you, you opened up a little bit more, let him in a little more. Hell, even the way you’d winced at every mouthful of whiskey. It was all you. And it had been a dumb fucking decision. 

He could hear the break in your voice as you’d told him you couldn’t, like you were afraid of letting him down. He couldn’t stop thinking about how you’d said, ‘Just not right now’ and his stupid smile at your words. He didn’t want to push your boundaries this much, didn’t want you to think you owed him anything. He just wanted to make you less miserable. 

He runs a hand over his face and grumbles to himself. He knows sleep won’t find him now. His head won’t shut up and all he really wants to do is run to your front step and tell you he’s sorry, that you don’t have to make him feel better by telling him to wait if you don’t mean it. He’ll never forget the spark of electricity down his spine when your lips touched him, or how he craved to push his whole body against yours when your hands had pulled at the lapel of his jacket, but he doesn’t need you to feel like you must want him back. 

If only he knew that you were led in your own bed, a few streets over, in a similar state of insomnia. Led in your bed, staring up at the ceiling, wishing that Mark’s face hadn’t been at the forefront of your mind when you’d closed your eyes. That’s what does it, what fills your body with panic. That you wished for the first time that you didn’t think about him. You’d wanted it to be all Joel, consumed by him, you didn’t want Mark’s face in the back of your mind. 

Tears roll down your cheeks and onto your pillow. Your brain is telling you that soon enough he won’t be there. You keep wishing he wasn’t, and he won’t be, you’ll forget about him, forget the shape of his body against yours, the sound of his voice in your ear, and surely that’s not right. Surely you should always want to remember him. Your first love, your first everything, really. 

Joel was a good man. One of the best you’d ever had the pleasure of knowing, and he didn’t deserve someone who wasn’t able to give their all, someone who would always close their eyes and see their dead husband. You couldn’t make him wait for you, but could you let him go? Could you let Joel go? The man who had fixed your rotted porch step just because he didn’t want you to hurt yourself. The man who didn’t push you for insight into your grief, just stood there and let you be, letting you share when you were ready. The man who had been through the same kind of loss as you and had been walking around for the last twenty years knowing he failed at ending it all. 

You run a hand over your face and decide that no, you couldn’t let him walk away, but you weren’t quite ready to let someone in like that. You needed to speak to him, to lay all your cards on the table for once, and that scared the shit out of you. It was time to put your big girl pants on and face the music. 

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#Joel Miller #Joel Miller smut #Joel Miller Fic #Joel Miller fanfic #Joel Miller fanfiction #joel miller fluff #joel miller angst #the last of us #the last of us hbo #pedro pascal #tlou #tlou smut #tlou fic #tlou hbo #Joel Miller x you #Joel Miller x reader #Joel Miller x female reader #Joel Miller x f!reader #GOY #Joel Miller Pedro Pascal

[shanastoryteller]

Happy birthday

Modern the untamed? The one where Wei wuxian is friends first with Lan Xichen

a continuation of 1

Sophomore year the administration had tried to exert some type of control over them by putting the three of them all in different lunch periods.

That had resulted in two of them cutting a class every single day so they could all have lunch together. Xichen either missed study hall or band, neither of which required his attendance and so his uncle was only moderately apocalyptic about him missing, and the only person Mingjue had to answer to was his cousin, who frankly didn’t give a shit, so skipping class was easy for him too. Wei Wuxian had the worst of it, because while he could ace statistics and chemistry in his sleep, Aunt Yu took every excuse possible to punish him and Uncle Jiang could only redirect her so many times.

Both Xichen and Mingjue had just offered to come to his lunch permanently, but that wasn’t fair and it wasn’t like Lan Qiren wasn’t punishing Xichen, he just wasn’t being as vindictive about it. So they took turns.

Not having lunch together wasn’t an option because that meant letting the administration win and that was unacceptable. The next semester they’d put them all in the same lunch, accepting that they actually caused less trouble that way, and had done so ever since, so it was a battle well won.

“Do you think this is a bribe?” Wei Wuxian asks as they sit at their customary table under the oak tree. They’d gotten into two physical fights and one prank war to claim it freshman year from the seniors, which may or may not be when the rumors about them first started. “Putting us in the same lunch as our brothers.”

“It’s probably just saving them a headache,” Xichen answers, taking out his healthy lunch that he brought from home. Wei Wuxian snags it to start distributing the rice and pickled vegetables between him and Mingjue’s plate and Mingjue leans over to dumb the cheese sticks and questionable meat loaf from their plates onto Xichen’s.

Lan Qiren is convinced that school lunches are filled with plastic and poison and pesticides. Which is probably accurate, but it still tastes better than pickled vegetables. Most days.

“Someone warned me against sitting here,” Nie Huaisang complains as he slams is tray down. “Which means now I’m required to have lunch with you in order to gain some extremely dubious street cred.”

“I’m only here because Nie Huaisang is,” Jiang Cheng says, even though he sits across from Wei Wuxian at the opposite end of the table. “Don’t get used to it.”

Wen Qing has this lunch period too, but she always spends it in the lab. Maybe he can entice her to eat lunch sometimes, because Jiang Cheng will definitely sit with them then.

“Hello,” Xichen’s extremely hot brother says as he sits down. He has an identical lunch box to Xichen’s, except he apparently eats all of his himself. That’s deranged. He’s lucky he’s so beautiful because it makes up for the pressed khakis and awful food choices.

It’s a tragedy that A-jie has the lunch after them, especially because it’s the same one that the Jin degenerates have. Wen Ning has that one too, but he’s not much protection.

“Can we beat up Jin Zixuan?” he asks.

“Yes,” Jiang Cheng, Mingjue, and Nie Huaisang all say at once.

Xichen sighs. “Can we at least have a good reason first?”

Very hot brother – his name is Lan Wangji, and Wei Wuxian should probably start using it – looks at them all with faint disapproval.

That’s hot too, actually.

#okay i'm giving in and breaking up both of the cursed posts i guess #trying to keep everything in one post was an atrocious idea but we live and we learn #prompt answers #prompts are closed #asks #forestandstardust #untamed

[sea-owl]

Ohhhh if you’re taking writing prompts how about enemy chefs to lovers Polin?

Before I get into this, let me clarify that I am of the belief that if they don't try to kill each other at least once, then it's not enemies to lovers. Now that that's out of the way, this gives me an idea. Also partly inspired by @thekatebridgerton post of the siblings being embodiments of the 7 (8) deadly sins.

Penelope grew up in a family where every generation, one child would be born to be eaten by the gluttonoust demon whose domain bordered her family's ancestral lands. Well technically they were raised to be the one who cooks for the demon but when it always ends with them being devoured instead it doesn't really matter does it?

Typically, this role should have been taken on by the second born, Penelope's older sister Philippa, but instead, Penelope's mother had convinced her father to make Penelope the sacrifice instead.

"You're smarter than your sisters," Portia had told her the night it was announced. "Clever. If any of you have a chance of killing the demon it is you Penelope."

From that point on, Penelope learned how to make different dishes from things like mince pies, biscuits, and her personal favorite eclairs. She knows how to prep all different kinds of meat from farm raised animals to game to fish. She knows which fruits are ripe and which still need time. Portia made sure Penelope knew how to use a knife and which plants mixed well for flavor and which would end a life if mixed together.

"Remember, Gluttony will always want to consume more," Portia would remind her daughter. "There is no such thing as never enough."

Finally, on the day of her 18th birthday, the day came where Penelope would present her first meal to the demon. She decided to go with a fish covered in a basil and lemon cream sauce. Some roasted potatoes and vegetables. A loaf of dark bread, wine, and mixed berry eclairs for dessert.

All that was left was to bring it to the forest and pray he eats it instead of her. Carefully, she packed everything into a basket. She had to be at there by sunrise after all.

"Pen wait!" Penelope's youngest sister, Felicity, called out. The eleven year old ran down the stairs with a package in her arms.

"Litty!" Penelope exclaimed. "What are you doing awake? The sun has yet to rise."

"I wanted to give you your birthday present," Felicity said, holding up the package.

Penelope set her stuff down and carefully opened the gift. Inside was a beautiful set of kitchen knives. Every single one sharp and ready for use. "Oh Litty."

Felicity hugged her sister. "The blacksmith promised me they are extra sharp. So maybe, maybe you can come home soon."

Penelope hugged her sister tighter. Even if she could get rid of the demon it wasn't guaranteed she live too.

"I'll try," Penelope promised.

That seemed to be good enough for the eleven year old as she gave Penelope one last hug before waving her off.

In the forest, where Penelope was to meet her new master sat a table directly over the border between her family's lands and the demons. It is where her relatives in the past have presented their first and often times last meal to the demon of Gluttony.

It is where Penelope sets up the meal as the first rays of light spill across the land behind her. It is also where Penelope sees her new master for the first time.

Gluttony honestly looks like any other man Penelope has seen, a rather handsome one, but still a man. Penelope would put him at around 6 feet with dark chestnut hair and green eyes. His beauty, though, screamed dangerous to Penelope. Like a poisonous snake whose pretty colors serve as a warning to the venom they carry.

Now that snake sat across from Penelope at the table.

"Ah are you my new mortal?" Gluttony asked.

Penelope bowed her head. "Penelope Featherington, my lord."

The demon picked up the fork Penelope placed and dug in. He let out a moan tasting the food. "Delicious, and thank you for not poisoning it like some of your other relatives."

Well that's one plan Penelope shouldn't rely on.

Gluttony bit into the eclair. "Are you not eating?"

Penelope shook her head. This had to be some sort of test, right? Gluttony doesn't share. "No, my lord, I know sharing food isn't something you do."

Gluttony's eyes lit up. "I don't share huh?"

Penelope found herself on her back, staring up into green eyes. A piece of the eclair was being pressed into her lips. The same piece that Gluttony held in his own lips.

What is he doing? Gluttony always wants more so what is he getting more of out of this?!

Penelope found herself frozen on the grass. She tries to command her hand to reach for anything that can help her. She can't breathe. She opens her mouth to take a deep breath, but that only entices Gluttony to push the eclair further in.

Penelope felt her hand brush against her basket. Somehow, she reaches inside and grabs the handle of one of Felicity's gifts. Her grip firmly secured Penelope plunges the knife into the demon's side.

Gluttony, still on top of Penelope looks down at his side.

Oh shit. Well, she's definitely getting eaten.

"Lord Gluttony I-"

Penelope is cut off by the demon's chuckle.

"Gluttony is my sister," the demon said, looking back down at Penelope. Without even flinching he pulled out the knife. "I'm Wrath."

Penelope's eyes widen. "But the food-"

The demon Wrath only smirked. "I'm a growing boy, and you mortals have such delicious food."

Colin grinned down at the little mortal underneath him. Oh, she had no idea of the courting ritual she just initiated by stabbing him. He's going to have fun playing with her.

#bridgerton #polin #the cook and the demon #colin bridgerton #penelope featherington

[annie-creates]

The biggest star

Pairing: Queen Ravenna x reader

Genre: fluff

Words: 1500

Note: It's another International Women's Day so let's celerate with something a little different this time, I got inspired by the Pearl's quote. There's not many Ravenna fics being written so I hope you'll like this one.

With the early morning sunrise you got out of bed ready to feed the few animals you took care of at your parents’ farm and prepare the dough for a fresh loaf of bread. Every morning started like this, ever since you could remember. You took care of your responsibilities and duties, cleaning around the house or taking care of some gardening. Your mother prepared all the goods you were going to be selling at the town market that day and your father tended to the fields and cattle.

“Don’t forget to get all the fresh eggs.” Your mom reminded you as you prepared today’s commodities.

“Yes mother.” You nod, no matter how old she had a habit of reminding you of everything, just to be sure.

The road to the town square was bumpy as always but lucky enough you didn’t live far away enough to encounter any robbers or muggers. There was a stall by stall, your neighbors selling baked pastries or meat. Your family’s business was more in eggs, milk and vegetables. You helped reach, pack and hand over packets amongst packets of goods, happy that today is gonna be a good day for your business. With the money you make you’ll buy other things you weren’t able to provide for yourself like flour or leaven.

“Mother, can I go take a look around?” You begged tired of standing in one place all day.

“Fine, but don’t take too long.” She waved you off.

Your eyes sparkled with joy and you took off exploring the town you knew all too well already. Back when you used to go to school you traveled here by foot almost daily, but since you turned thirteen you were tied up at the farm with work. You’ve learnt to read and count, but there wasn’t much more needed in your life. You lived day by day identical to the previous one and it was incredibly tiring to you. You wanted to see more of this world. Live in all the places the merchants who sometimes visited your town told everyone about.

As you neared a group of women with one of the queen’s guards in the middle, the gathering peaked your interest. It was known that queen Ravenna wasn’t one to visit around or get out of her castle too often, and the same was true for her guard. Sure, some of the lower ranked soldiers always overlooked gatherings like this, but this man’s uniform proved he was ranked much higher and was one of the closest to the queen, so his appearance was certainly unusual.

“Slowly, ladies, you all can take your chance tomorrow.” He commanded the crowd giving out some instruction slips. “Here, you, take one too.”

He pushed a pamphlet in your hand as soon as you got close enough to be within his reach. Reading the few lines written on there, you learned that the queen is looking for a handful of new maids and ladies fitting at the court to keep her company. Could this be the chance you’ve been waiting for? All the ladies chatted around you about how interesting and undeniable chance this was. One that comes only once in life. That got you convinced, even if they didn’t choose you in the end, you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself knowing you passed on such a chance.

When you got home that evening, you prepared dinner with a bit more enthusiasm and ate faster than anyone has ever seen you do before, ready for this day to end so the next one can begin. You took care of braiding your hair before going to bed to have some pretty waves in the morning, cleaning your face and brushing your teeth extra good. As you went to bed, you took a moment to pray to the universe.

“Please lord, make me the biggest star the world has ever known. So that I make it far, far away from this place.” You didn’t know what star you wanted to be, but as far as it got you a different life, you didn’t care.

You could hardly sleep from the excitement for the next day, rising even before the sun could and running around your chores the fastest and best you could. You got out your best dress you only used for weddings, funerals and church visits, hoping it would be good enough for the queen. Will you get to meet her? From what you heard her grace and beauty was like no other, and her magnificence preceded her. Ready for breakfast and to get to the part of town stated at the pamphlet in time, you arrive at the table.

“And where are you going off to in your best dress?” your mother wondered.

“There’s a selection for queen’s escort today in town, I thought I’d give it a shot.” You admitted unsure of your parents’ reaction.

“Queen’s escort? You?” she scoffed. “You better not slack on your duties because of this nonsense.”

“Of course not mother.” You didn’t expect your family to be supportive of your goals but it still stinged.

When you finally arrived at the town hall where the choosing was taking place, there were some more guards and other officiants. You’ve learnt they are the ones responsible for the first selection, picking only a few of the dozens of girls who auditioned to come to the castle and start learning all the tasks that come with living along the queen. Some would be then chosen as maids, some would find themselves amongst chefs or seamstresses and only a few would get the chance to become the queen’s escort. Or you could fail completely and they’ll send you back home as fast as you came.

As they picked and chose what girls to take with them and who to turn down, the lucky ones squealed with happiness and the other ones cried. When it came to your turn, two of the men examined you with eagle eye, finally deciding to let you pass. A big rock fell off your heart so hard it must have been heard through the hall. You were in. You were gonna come to the castle and learn to become one of queen’s closest people. You couldn’t believe your luck. As you stepped in their carriage and let it take you towards your new destiny, you hoped to not let anyone down, especially yourself.

As you arrived at the castle and got settled in crowded rooms for servants and valets, another harsh regime started. You spent days and weeks learning and observing all the different tasks performed around the place. Every night you went to sleep exhausted and every morning you had to get up with a smile on your face. But as some of the girls started falling off your hard endeavor started to pay off. After a few weeks you started learning around the queen, your first meeting being unforgettable.

“Good morning.” She greeted you from her throne and you all bowed low. “I see we have some great adepts here. I hope you all will raise to the occasion and become wonderful.”

She was fierce and strong, that much was evident. All the stories of her beauty fell short as she looked like the embodiment of an angel to you. It was a moment you couldn’t get out of your head for a long time and every time your training got hard, you reminded yourself that this is exactly what you’re going through all this for. To serve the queen however she pleases. Her charm and grace hardly left your mind and with every meeting you worshipped her more and more. You were so smitten with her character and glamor you felt like you could hardly breath sometimes.

After two months spent with the queen you all were finally done with your training ready to become permanent residents of the castle. You hoped and prayed wherever they assigned you you’d get to meet her at least sometime. Only being in her company would make you eternally grateful. You didn’t know if you could live it the same place knowing she could be right behind the wall yet never seeing her really. Some of the girls who became your friends over the time were sent to the kitchen, some became maids and charladies. There it was again, the stone on your heart hoping to not be sent home after all your efforts, hard work and dedication.

“And you.” The queen herself stood in front of you in all her beauty. “How would you like becoming my personal escort?”

Your eyes lit up with her offer, hardly believing what your ears were hearing. Little did you know your infatuation with her impressed her and she too enjoyed your particular company. This was going to be the start of a wonderful future for you both.

“Yes, my queen.” You bowed to Ravenna stepping towards your new exciting life.

#queen ravenna fluff #queen ravenna #queen ravenna x you #queen ravenna x reader #snow white and the huntsman #snow white #charlize theron x reader #charlize theron x you #charlize theron

[mcflymemes]

THE AMAZING SPIDER-MAN PROMPTS *  assorted dialogue from the 2012 film

i know things have been difficult lately, and i'm sorry about that.

don't make promises you can't keep.

i thought it was great what you did out there. stupid, but great.

if you can do good things for other people, you have a moral obligation to do those things.

is that a knife? is that a real knife?

anyone has a problem with that can talk to me.

everyone was there but you.

something is very wrong.

this is my responsibility. i have to fix it.

i think i know what you're feeling.

you know, in the future, if you're going to steal cars, don't dress like a car thief.

i can't do this. i can't do this...

my weakness. small knives. anything but knives.

you leave right now. that is an order.

you should see the other guy.

i feel kinda pukey and... just emotional. i keep crying. it's brutal.

you seriously think i'm a cop?

oh come on, how dare you?

no one seems to grasp the concept of the mask.

it won't happen again, i promise.

let me ask you a question.

where do you go? who does this to you?

you've been living with so many unresolved things.

if anyone's destined for greatness, it's you.

i can't sleep.

you're my hero... and i love you.

i can't see you anymore.

i think most people would say he was providing a public service.

did you get expelled?

why didn't you tell me you didn't like my meat loaf?

we all have secrets: the ones we keep, and the ones that are kept from us.

i just did 80% of your job. and that's how you repay me?

where have you been?

you have to get out of there right now.

i was wrong about you. this city needs you.

oh, i'm in trouble.

people are gonna die!

what did you call me?

you are a lot like your father.

you're gonna make enemies. people will get hurt. sometimes the people closest to you.

did you ask her out?

secrets have a cost. they're not free. not now, not ever.

you think we're just sitting around eating donuts with our thumbs planted firmly up our asses?

i've been bitten.

don't make me have to hurt you.

oh. you saw a video on the internet? well, then the case is closed.

don't you ever think about leaving that filthy box in my kitchen.

where are you headed?

i can save them. i can cure them.

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[echo-goes-mmm]

Moonflower #9

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Warnings: mild disordered eating

Only a few hours into the night, Kit woke up hungry. 

He had noticed that humans ate less than fae, but he’d gotten used to nothing at all. He thought he could manage on a light diet, but Kit had not seen luck for over a year.

He got out of bed, picking up his discarded clothes. 

Mistress had said he could eat when he needed to, and Kit’s stomach felt empty and demanding. 

He didn’t want to wake anyone. Kit was lower than a servant; he had no right to ask anything of the staff. And they might talk.

Kit stepped out into the hall.

Sir Maxus and a lady knight stood outside Iris’s door, dressed in leather armor.

“Where’re you going?” asked Maxus.

Kit hesitated. “The kitchen,” he admitted.

“I’ll walk you over.”

The silence was uneasy and awkward. 

Kit at least knew that Brennan: 

1. Didn’t trust or like him

And

2. Was very loyal to Iris

He didn’t know anything about Maxus, who was only behind Brennan in how often he was assigned to the queen.

“So…” said Maxus, “do fae have knights too?”

“I suppose. It’s not exactly the same duties, but the Prince has knights.”

“Prince? No king or queen?”

Kit shrugged. “Not for a long time.”

“Oh.” 

The torches on the wall sconces danced, casting warm light out into the hall. The castle was quiet and still, and Kit looked out the windows to see the stars.

The kitchen was just as silent, and Maxus leaned against a counter, watching.

Kit rifled through the storage. He found a cut of meat, wrapped up and fresh, and it made his mouth water. It was just one of many similar cuts, and they wouldn’t miss it, right?

There were berries in a jar, and the best find was a covered pitcher of heavy cream chilled in the dairy.

Kit poured some cream into a ceramic cup before putting the pitcher back. 

He didn’t bother with cooking, or finding cutlery, instead tearing off strips of meat and eating it raw.

He savored each bite. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine that he was eating after a hunt, in peace. At home.

But Maxus’s presence ruined the illusion. 

Kit shook out the berries into the palm of his hand, and he ate the whole pint.

He slowly sipped at the cream, until it was gone.

Kit wiped the juices of the meat off the marble counter, and washed the cup and jar as best as he could.

Maxus walked him back to the royal wing without comment.

___________________

Iris didn’t say anything in the morning. He half expected Sir Brennan to confront him, but it seemed Maxus didn’t report his midnight meal.

Kit decided not to mention it to his Mistress. She had given him permission to eat, after all. Plus, Iris was so busy with other things and thoughts; she didn’t need more to worry about. 

Especially something unusual that could cause gossip.

___________________

The next night, he woke up hungry again.

Maybe it was a good sign that his appetite was returning in full swing. He didn’t even get dizzy in the kitchen the night before.

Maxus and the lady knight were stationed in the hall again.

Sir Maxus walked Kit to the kitchen.

“Aren’t you eating enough during the day?” he asked as Kit tucked into a loaf of bread, cheese, and more delicious cream.

Kit put down the cup. 

“I- I mean, I’m not judging or anything, I’m just wondering. You look really hungry.”

Kit looked away, fidgeting.

“Is the appetite a fae thing?” Maxus asked gently. “You guys eat more than we do?”

Kit nodded, his ears turning pink. He didn’t want to say it out loud. He was a foreigner, and even though mortals were just as strange to him as he was to them, it was unwise to draw attention.

He was at their mercy, after all. He was a slave.

“Maybe you should talk to Christine? To get bigger portions or something?”

Kit shook his head. He knew Iris’s aunt already judged him for declining wine, and someone had put salt in his food. Either on purpose, or an accident, it didn’t matter. Mortals just did food differently, and he was the outlier. 

He imagined the looks he’d get if his plate had twice the amount of the people sitting next to him.

“It would embarrass my Mistress,” he whispered, unwilling to break the serene quiet of the kitchen.

“If you say so,” said Maxus, unconvinced. “Still, just… write Chef a note or something, so she doesn’t wonder about the missing stuff.”

Kit nodded. “Yes, sir.” He could do that.

They walked back after Kit cleaned up, in silence.

___________________

“You’re looking better,” commented Iris the next morning.

“Hm?”

She gestured to his face as she ate her toast.

“You have some color in your cheeks. That’s good, right?”

“Oh. Yes.”

He did feel better. It was small, almost unnoticeable, but he didn’t feel so bad when he got up in the morning. Magic was still out of reach, but it would surely come soon.

Kit picked at the crumbs on his plate. He eyed the small pitcher of cream that came with the coffee pot on the breakfast cart.

Mistress left to do her makeup, and Kit waited until she was out of the room to drink it down.

He snuck a spoonful of sugar, the only thing better than cream, and a thought hit him.

He was keeping secrets, wasn’t he?

Even if it was just the hunger in his belly, it was something he was keeping from Iris.

The deal demanded loyalty. Painfully vague.

What was loyalty to the deal? Could he even stay quiet about this? Would the deal’s magic force him to reveal it?

He wished he was in the position to negotiate when he accepted the terms.

“Ready to go?” asked Mistress.

Kit nodded. 

There wasn’t a painful jolt of magic, or a strong compulsion to blurt out his secret, but a warning pricked at the back of his mind.

The deal’s magic had decided it wasn’t betrayal. Probably because he had permission to eat, and Iris hadn’t told him to tell her when he ate.

Still. He was on thin ice.

Kit bit his lip as they passed the royal portraits on the wall.

Maybe he’d tell her. Eventually.

taglist: @paintedpigeon1 @cupcakes-and-pain @loserwithsyle @cepheusgalaxy @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @virtualbreadtale

#if you're wondering: Brennan is day shift and Maxus is night #Not always but usually #when there's a lot going on scheduled in court both of them will show up #and they sometimes switch shifts if something comes up in their personal lives #and they do get days off and vacations #but theyre very much in Iris's inner circle of guards #my writing #whump #slavery whump #moonflower series #fae whumpee #royal caretaker