#its the same but different. i was so very dead and just barely teetering into not dead and now im not dead and teetering into alive. i think | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

peralta-guaranteed · 3 years

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can you write something base on this incorrect quote? https://burnonyou.tumblr.com (stealing anons idea)

Amy's questioning "Babe?" called into the dark, but definitely populated apartment (the randomly thrown shoes and leather jacket over the dining chair are a dead give away) is only answered by a deep groan from the bedroom, one that sounds muffled through pillows, so she's not surprised when she finds Jake face-down on the mattress.

What's confusing is that he's still fully dressed, and clearly not trying to get to sleep, his hands balling up the blanket underneath him in frustration as he barely lifts his head when she sits down next to him and starts sifting through his curls.

"What happened?" Amy asks, and he lets out another groan.

"I am the most embarassing person in the world."

"Sometimes, yes." She smiles, because she can tell despite all the signs that this isn't as much of an episode as it seems. She knows him by now - knows how to read his overplayed shock and drama from the actual hurt and sorrow he hides so well. "What did you do?"

"I ran into Holt at the coffee shop, and he was reading this book, and I recognised it from your nightstand, so I asked him about it." Jake still mumbles into the pillow, and Amy almost forgets to listen as she feels a jolt of excitement about the knowledge that she and the Captain are currently delving deep into the same philosophical treatise she's been devouring after work.

"That doesn't sound embarassing."

"No, but he was like, really getting into it. I thought I'd get a short comment with five words I don't understand like always, but he started explaining it and talking about the last chapter and stuff, and then I was sitting down with him with my coffee and he just kept talking."

"Babe, that all sounds nice." Amy busies herself with one of Jake's longer curls, ignoring the tiniest bit of jealousy that Jake got Holt to 'geek out' over a book she herself was reading, but she could remedy that easily by mentioning it during their next meeting or something. She'd get her moment too.

"It was. It was really nice. We had, like, a whole moment. I kinda got into the book too. Because he liked it so much. It was cool."

Jake sighs, deeply, and Amy feels him tense under her hand.

"And then I called him dad."

"You've done that before, it's not that bad. I think he finds it more funny than embarassing."

"No, but this was different." Jake finally turns around, curls into a little ball as he presses his face against her thigh, and she resumes scratching along his temple down to his neck. "It was like, really personal. Way too much. Like, there was this moment, and then I went and did the stupid emotional baggage thing, and it ruined it all."

Amy can only smile as she imagines her Golden Retriever boyfriend in all his excited, tail-wagging happiness intently listening to Holt explaining something, getting sucked into the story as much as he always does when someone is really passionate about something. She sees them in that coffee shop she knows so well - Holt always sits in the same corner, too - talking and nodding and spurning each other on, and something tells her that there's nothing embarassing or moment-ruining about Jake's word association blunder. Not that it really was one - the few ‘Dad’s that have escaped him before where more mindless than anything, but she knows well enough that they were all meant with the same feeling, even if Jake wouldn’t be too happy to admit it to himself or anyone else.

"I really don't think you messed up, Jake." She tries to gently calm him. "It sounds like it fit the moment, anyway."

Jake only groans again as he presses his face even harder against her jeans.

-*-

“Raymond?” Kevin asks with hesitation, having found no trace of his husband in the kitchen or the dining room, where he’d usually expect to find him at this hour of the evening. But he’s been enarmored with the book he’d recommended to him a week ago, and so it is not quite as surprising to find him in the reading room. What is surprising is that he is not reading, the mentioned tome lying on the desk beside him instead, Cheddar at his feet, and his face in a clear state of a very hard to read emotion.

“Are you alright?”

Holt’s initial reaction is to apologise, as he is won’t to do when he’s bothering someone with an emotional outburst, until he remembers that he’s facing his husband, the only person in the world who he’s not ashamed to be emotional in front of, so he only shakes his head.

“I am afraid you will find me quite a mess tonight, Kevin.”

“What happened?” Kevin kneels down to pet Cheddar, who has dutifully trodded over to him for greetings, but not taking his eyes off of Holt, who sighs.

“Peralta met me at the coffee shop today, during my usual after work coffee break before the drive home.”

“He didn’t upset you, did he?”

“No.” Holt shakes his head, then leans it against his palm, a thinking pose that is rare to see and never fails to incite just the lightest spark of desire in Kevin when he gets to witness his partner so vulnerable and attractive at the same time. “Quite the opposite. He asked me about the book you recommended.”

“He’s surely not reading it.”

“No, it seems that Santiago is.”

“Ah.” Kevin nods as he gets up again, Cheddar returning to his seat at Holt’s slippered feet. That makes far more sense - he’d thought it might interest the young detective, actually, and had been thinking about sending her a message about the book, but then considered that their relationship was not yet at the level where one could simply leave reading recommendations in the other’s email inbox.

“I tried to summarise the book for him in a way he would understand, too, but then-” Holt shakes his head with a huff, almost a smile, and Kevin can’t resist stepping closer to the chair until he can lean against its armrest. “I- I simply lost control, and began talking about it without pause. It is a wonderful read, really. Even Peralta seemed interested - despite my treatise being longer than ten minutes, it kept his attention span.”

“That’s remarkable.” Kevin scoffs only a little, still teetering on his like or dislike of the young man.

“It really was. It felt quite - connecting, in a way. I think people would describe it as ‘being a moment’ between us, if you understand.”

He nods, silently, because he can tell that the big reveal is yet to come, the story of emotions across Holt’s face moving to the finish line - his husband is a wonderful storyteller, but sometimes he does push the act to its limits.

“And then Peralta got lost in his reply to me, as well, and called me Dad.” Holt says in a much quieter voice than before, and Kevin can tell from the slight quiver of his lip that he’s fighting back tears.

“You’ve mentioned him calling you that before.” He tries to be gentle, to not upset him any further, knowing full well that those mentioned situations meant more to Holt than maybe he himself was willing to admit yet.

“Yes, but not- I think not in this way.” Holt presses a finger to his lips for a second, as if he’s searching for the right words. “Usually, it seems more like he is forgetting himself when he says it, simply substituting me as an authoritative person for a father figure. But this time, it felt quite... emotional. Like I had been bestowed the title properly.”

Kevin’s hand finds the top of his, laying flat on the armrest between them, and gives it a soft squeeze, barely appropriate now that they’re alone in their own home.

“He looks up to you, Raymond. I wouldn’t be surprised to know that you’ve gained that title quite a while ago.”

He feels his husband take in a sharp breath, and lets go of his hand immediately.

“And I think you’d suit the title quite well, too. For Jake.”

#my writing #ficlet #fic #B99 #Brooklyn 99 #raymond holt #jake peralta #captain dad

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razrbladekiss · 3 years

Text

Tyrants | Chapter Five - Consolation

WORD COUNT: 5.8k

WARNINGS: Mentions of murder, grief, the aftermath of that death...all that Jazz! Plus a lil moment I’ve been fucking itching to include.

Chibs's breath was stuck in the middle of his throat, jutting thickly the more he thought about Opie cradling Donna's sallow cheeks as she bled out onto the gravel.

It'd cut deep, this one.

So many bodies he had bared witness to over the years. So many lives lost and souls snatched and whatever else right before his undaunted eyes--but nothing really hurt as much as that.

Because he knew what it was like. How it maimed a man. How it felt like his world was hurtling toward the chasms of hell during the moments after arriving at the scene and seeing his wife there. Dead.

Cold and dead and lonely. And completely gone.

Guilt resided, too. It was true tangible remorse for the simple proficiency of; that should've been me.

It happened with Diane--it happened to Chibs's wife, the mother of his kid, and the one true light in his life right after Isla. And it should've been him.

It was brutal, the way it happened tonight. It was fierce and heartless and Chibs knew in a flash that those bullets struck the wrong skull.

He couldn't bear the reverberation anymore, the gutturals from Piney's son who'd just lost his wife for no good reason during a drive-by in their quaint little town. The town that'd swelled wickedly with corruption these last few weeks.

Stahl was at the scene before he left. Looking pensive, actually. She looked guilty.

Chibs's basic instinct had landed the blame at her door--put the blood on her hands--but he kept his mouth shut for fear of what'd happen next. He didn't think that SAMCRO could handle this.

Because this wasn't a product of Mayan or Niner rivalry. He wasn't stupid--he knew that his President had something to do with this.

This was cultivated from the seeds sown by June Stahl, the pips planted so very deeply into the mind of Clay Morrow which forced him to believe that Opie Winston was a rat.

And he wasn't. He'd never sell his club out--no matter the damage, the pain inflicted upon him--and he'd never dream of pinning the fault on his brothers.

But he had to look a little bit closer to home if he wanted those answers. If he wanted to know just who sniped Donna--a completely innocent woman caught in the most ferocious of crossfires--he had to turn to someone that he knew was culpable of such activity.

Chibs's heart ached. It impaired him so very deeply that the only thing he could visualize on the ride back to Jax's house was her face.

Her face that dripped blood. Saturated crimson plagued his thoughts and forced his stomach to churn vociferously. He felt sick now.

He felt sick because Opie had lost his wife, Piney had lost a crucial member of his small family, and her kids had lost their mother. The woman that had worked so tirelessly to provide a life for them, to love and care for them unconditionally no matter what.

Opie was strong, he knew that--but he didn't know if he was strong enough to handle this. This crippling weight, this hurt and the idea of what could've been done differently.

Because so much could've happened to prevent this.

His tongue had become inoculated with bile, acrimonious ire for whoever the fuck was to blame for such unnecessary brutality--and, really, Chibs knew that he didn't have to look much further than Isla's favorite blue-eyed heathen this time.

And that broke his heart because of the pedestal she held that man upon. The pedestal she'd always held him atop, so fucking highly, too.

She knew that he was bad--an inherently bad human being--but he was just Tig. Her buddy. Clay's right hand that, really, he'd always count on. No matter what. And he'd always deliver the king's request, too.

Tig was the one that Isla called when her car broke down on the freeway and she needed to get home in time for Gemma's dinner.

The one she turned to for cheering up because he always knew how to crack a smile and get through to her.

The one that she strangely respected the most. Nobody really recognized what it was about that man that had Isla overjoyed when in his presence, she just was. And that was part of his charm.

But her father was anxious, now. Worried that she would take this news--if it came to light--badly. Because it was going to break her heart, regardless.

It was how she would handle it, which was the true hardship.

"Christ." Chibs's voice struggled to materialize, gesturing to his daughter passed out on Jax's couch. "How long's she been sleepin'?"

Mascara and eyeliner and whatever the fuck else she'd painted onto her face had started to melt away, trails of black and grey faintly running her cheeks.

"'Bout an hour." Gemma responded, sniffling back the putrid emotion she'd so obviously let flood the moments leading up to their arrival.

Jax's stomach was doing backflips at the thought of Isla crying herself to sleep in his living room--after everything that he'd put her through, too.

He feared that this was going to be the tip of the iceberg. That this was going to pulverize her sanity and compromise everything she had sought to fight off these last few days.

And he couldn't help but harbor those same suspicions as her father, either. Jax wanted to keep his mouth shut until he was certain that this was an inside job, but he was teetering toward that conclusion regardless.

It was the only viable explanation.

He, too, worried about what this would do to her. That finding out Tig was the potential culprit and reason why Opie's children were officially motherless.

"How's Ope?" She continued, already knowing the answer but asking anyway. Jax's head shook. "Oh."

"Not good, ma. But he's home now."

"And you're sure of that?"

"Yeah--I followed him back to make sure he got there in one piece. He wanted to leave the second the fuckin' ATF stormed in."

"Oh." Gem repeated herself, running her fingers through Isla's hair as she rested in her lap. "What about Clay? Where'd he get to?"

Chibs took a seat at one of the wooden chairs that'd been positioned around the coffee table, and Jax sank into the couch opposite the girls.

It was pitiful. Darkness enveloped them as Isla slept, innocently resting as the world shattered around her.

She wasn't oblivious to the happenings. She hadn't slept through it all, but she was done. Isla had been distant for days, had been fretting over the unimaginable and Gemma was worried that she was going to make herself sick if she continued the way that she was.

So she twisted her fingers and nails through the flowing waves of golden blonde, and soothed her the same way that she always did.

The same way that she found comfort as a kid.

He sighed. Exhausted. "Dunno. Last I saw he was with Tig."

"Aye." The Scot agreed with a nod, too. Hating the thought of Trager being responsible for something like this.

But it was merely a suspicion that Chibs hoped and prayed would get debunked sooner or later.

"Did he say anything?"

"Nah. He talked a little to Unser--seems to think it was a hit on Ope gone wrong--so, I guess they're gonna be lookin' into the Niners."

"Aye." Chibs spoke again, gesturing to Isla. "Did she say much when we left?"

"Not really--she just busied herself and cleaned up with Wendy. Seems like they're getting along now."

Jax smiled a bit, happy that his best friend and the mother of his child were starting to accept the presence of one another in Abel's life.

Truly, that's all he really wanted. That and his mother finally being able to turn the other cheek, and quit castigating his kid's mom.

"Did Clay leave before you?" Gemma asked, antsy. She was itching to get home, itching to see and comfort her husband because she knew that he was going to be fretting over this.

"I told you, the last I saw, he was with Tig. Dunno if he left after us, or if he's still there."

She looked away, smoothing her thumb over Isla's cheek.

"He'll be home soon--I should take off."

"Not on your own." Jax upheld, simply terrified of what could've happened to his mother had she left alone.

As far as Jax wanted her to know, this was bad blood between clubs. This was a hit put out on an innocent bystander because they knew it'd jolt SAMCRO--and it did.

It shook them to the very fucking core, jutting them repeatedly--mere moments away from crumbling and completely disintegrating into Harley Davidson dust.

And he really didn't want to admit that this was the work of his step-father and Alexander Trager. But he feared that was the only viable explanation.

"I'll--eh--I'll take her back." Chibs offered, getting up to ghost a hand over Isla's blushed cheek. "I was gonna take her home with me tonight, but I think she's better off stayin' put."

Jax agreed with a nod, smiling weakly at his mother. Though, she knew it was a coverup. A not-so-brilliant facade and attempt at showing that he was okay during this barbarous time.

"I don't wanna wake her." She mused, pushing strands of hair from her face. "She looks so damn peaceful."

Gemma hadn't a cozy moment with Isla for a while--not since she was recovering from a broken heart four summers ago.

The last time that she turned to Gemma--the same way she would as a child--for that motherly comfort.

"I know." The older man crouched to the ground, tracing faintly along her arm. Isla grumbled, slowly rousing. "C'mon petal, it's gettin' late."

He kept a hand against her, running this thumb over the freckled skin softly. Diane's crucifix caught his eye as she shifted, impairing him that little bit more tonight.

"What time is it?" She asked roughly, feeling a sting in her throat. Isla lifted herself off of Gemma's lap, rubbing at her eyes. "Is it late?"

"It's about one o'clock."

"Shit." Her hiss was sharp, galled that she'd been allowed to rest for so long whilst there was a literal wildfire sweeping its way through the club. "Ope--oh my god--Opie. Is he okay?"

Isla knew the answer. She knew what Jax was about to say before he even opened his mouth, and so tears ensued. Crystalline hues weeped and watered, and he was unsettled.

Unsettled because she was so strong in the face of such tragedy, rarely shedding any tears before an audience.

Unsettled because, up until the Kohn incident, Jax hadn't seen her cry since she was shot in the knee after three Mayans decidedly stormed the T M lot and strived to gun down each and every person on the premises.

He never forgave himself for that, actually. Because those bullets--though completely un-fatal and leaving a simple mark that, really, Isla referred to as her battle scars--should've been for him.

"He went home. To be with the kids." Jax cleared his throat, kneeling in front of her when Chibs got to his feet and gestured for Gemma. "He's--uh--he's in a bad way."

"Understandably." She mumbled. "Any ideas on who did this?"

Your favorite son.

"No. Clay thinks it might've been the Niners--shits been off since they decided to pull their fucking guns on us after the warehouse was raided."

"That was their rationale?"

"I guess so." He added. "It'd make sense. We lost their guns, so we lost a life--"

"But Donna." Isla argued, sitting upright. "Donna was innocent."

"We know that, love, but Laroy was probably under the impression that Ope was the one behind the wheel." Her father spoke over Jax, heeding his uncertainty. "It wasn't meant to be her."

Chibs had to blow his theory out of the water, firstly.

"A life is a life. To them, so long as they've got one of ours--someone close to us--they've succeeded with somethin'--"

"All they've succeeded with is leaving two kids without a fucking mother." Isla spat, throwing away the small blanket that Gemma had draped over her as she stood up. "And you've gotta stop being so fucking insensitive."

Jax stumbled backwards, watching her storm out of the room in her pretty little summer dress. He couldn't surmise whether following behind or leaving the woman to simmer alone, was the best idea.

It was a touchy subject, the loss of a parent. It was prickly and raw and it never ceased to strike Isla's heart. Because she understood.

She understood how much it hurt. The uncertainty of it all. Not knowing what to do next. How life changes more than what anyone ever prepares you for and, really, how nothing is ever the same again.

Isla knew it all too well. She'd been there, done that, and refused to go back. But with Chibs's life, his line of work, she was never granted that security.

And it wasn't particularly the security that she wanted, more so the knowledge of what--god forbid anything--would happen to her father. Because that's what bothered her the most about Diane.

She never knew anything about her mother's passing.

Jax got a pretty tight grip on the concept, too. But it was different with Isla--it was something she never quite grasped.

"A life is a life," Gemma mocked the insensitivity from the baffled Scotsman, shaking her head. "That wasn't just any life, Chibs. That was Opie's woman, the mother of his children, and one of Isla's oldest friends--she was family. She wasn't just a life."

His lips twitched before he exhaled sharply, knowing that she was right.

Knowing that his response was much too unsympathetic and heartless and, really, he was an idiot to forget how upset she got whenever something that pertained to the death of her mother was brought up.

"Your kid is grieving. She's grieving for Ope, for Piney, for Kenny and Ellie--for herself because this--" she gestured to nothing in particular, but he understood, "--is something she knows all too well, ain't it? Diane?"

"I know." Tersely, he responded. He pulled a hand through his hair. "I fuckin' know how she feels, but I didn't think she'd storm out when I said it!"

"Well, she's always been unpredictable."

"I know." His riposte was braided with anger, pure fury.

"Then why'd you say it?" Gemma jabbed. "Isla has been about six thousand miles away from us these last few days, and you thought that saying such a stupid thing wouldn't tip her over the edge?"

She was defensive of the blonde--always had been.

And Jax was sick of it.

Sick of the back-and-forth between the two. Sick of that holier than thou bullshit from Gemma--pretending that she wasn't thinking the same fucking thing--and sick of the way Chibs cared more to argue than to go after his daughter.

"Make sure Wendy stays if you two leave--I'm going."

"Where?" Chibs demanded.

But Jax just glared at him, stuffed his hands in both pockets, and walked straight out of the house.

It was cooler, now. The breeze had hit him square in the face the second he stepped over the threshold, and it was nice. To feel a little breeze that'd inevitably take the edge off of the lament sizzling away inside of him, was nice.

It was short lived, though. The second he realized that he couldn't see Isla--that she was completely out of sight--dragged him straight back down to earth, and the panic had set in.

He trusted her, of course he knew that she wasn't going to do anything stupid because she valued her life too much, and she wanted to do great things. So many great things.

But Jax also knew her too well. Well enough to know that the first place she would've thought about storming toward was the Clubhouse--the place that she'd find Tig.

And under any other circumstances, he wouldn't have rushed to get to her before she had a chance to get to T M. But the possibility of walking in and discerning Trager's inconsolable fury--his resentment and self-loathing--was much too great a risk for Jax to take.

He had to intercept.

He had to save her before she got the chance to set foot onto the property.

But, realistically, Jax was more than aware that Isla was probably already halfway there by now, and weaving through the unusual bustle of traffic in his small town just wasn't worth it.

"Shit." He growled, hopping onto his bike regardless. Saving a sliver of hope that he'd find her tonight.

He wasn't exactly optimistic, though. Because she'd already stormed four blocks.

Isla wrapped her cardigan tightly around her body--feeling the cold a bit more than what Jax had earlier--and hastily made her way downtown.

Surprisingly enough, she didn't fear the short walk toward the garage, but it was chilling. The thought of Donna's killer roaming freely, parading around that neighborhood, was daunting.

But she wasn't scared.

Or, at least, Isla wasn't scared until she heeded the red and blue flashing lights right in the middle of the intersection. The apparent murder scene.

Her heart sank, actually. The organ dropped to her stomach, pulsating slowly--barely--at the sight of Charming PD, CSI, and her. The group scattered, conversing, and speculating.

It was horrible. Sick.

She'd seen this before. She'd seen deaths and murders, and whatever came during the moments following. But she hasn't felt this way before.

The incapacitating throb. The discomfort and grief for such a horrendous--albeit freak--accident. And she wasn't stupid. She was as cognizant as her father and as empathetic as Jax, and she knew just as well as those two that this was not a purposeful attack.

Whether it was a consequence of Mayan or Niner misconduct, it was a wrongful onslaught that was about to cull an entire family. An entire charter.

If it hadn't already, that was.

She choked around the swell in her throat, padding along the sidewalk. She took her time, but she wasn't slow by any means. She had a place to be, and a specific person that she had to see--to talk to because she didn't know how to cope with this.

And it wasn't exactly her place to mourn for Donna. She hadn't been involved with her for some five years and she felt bad about the pair unable to rekindle their friendship. She felt bad about grieving the loss of Opie's wife--about taking the focus away from him.

But it hurt. It hurt so much--it sliced deeply, through flesh and tendon and bone--and she knew that Tig wouldn't judge her for this inveterate sorrow. He wouldn't see her as selfish or stupid for wanting to project her sincerities, her emotions.

Her heels clicked across the yard and she smiled a little bit when she passed Juice and Tig's bikes beside one another, letting her know that she wasn't going to be alone in there.

She was scared now, though. Because she hadn't talked about this yet. Hadn't talked about how she felt and how she was going to approach Opie the next time she saw him.

"Juice?" Isla squeaked from the doorway, waiting for him to turn around and run to her, or something. But he didn't move, didn't lift his head.

It was dreary inside. The lights had been dimmed, the men surrounding the tables and bar were downtrodden, and Isla felt as though she'd just walked through the gates of hell.

The vibrancy and boisterous nature of SAMCRO had come to a complete standstill, and she was actually yearning for the sleaze that usually enveloped the space.

Her sigh was defeated, forlorn. She sniffed as her nose ran, making her way to the bathroom to go and clean herself up--because she knew that she looked dreadful, and didn't want anybody to really see her that way.

"Is anyone in here?" She asked softly against the locked door, knowing that the answer was yes and that Tig was the occupant--but she persisted, anyway.

The mellifluous rhythm bled through the oak, jolting him still as blood poured from the gash in his head, and shattered glass surrounded his frame and the sink.

He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, glaring monotonously at himself in front of the mirror. Glaring at the fucking monster that was about to welcome Isla into open arms, comforting her because he knew that she'd need it.

"Yeah," He opened up, smiling down at her. "But I'm done, if you wanna--"

"What happened to you?" She put a hand against his chest, pushing him back into the room. Her brow furrowed when he didn't respond. "Tiggy?"

His entire body winced at Isla's soft touch. At the way her pink nails traced over the patch of skin on his chest, uncovered by his shirt--the shirt he was going to burn after tonight.

She gently gripped at his chin, turning his face to the right to get a better look at the incision on his left. Her eyes filled again, lips turned downward.

"Let me clean you up."

"You don't gotta--"

"I do." Isla cut him off, blinking away her tears. "If it doesn't get treated, it might get infected."

Like father, like daughter--always the first person to tend to an injury. She was so loving, so benevolent. Nothing like him, he thought.

Tig watched her maneuver around the tiny bathroom, admiring her desire to patch him up. To care for him and help make him feel better.

Not much would've helped at that moment, but she was trying her best.

"How'd you get over here?" He asked, leaning against the sink.

"I walked--"

"You walked?" Pissed, Tig spat. "Jesus fuck, Isla, you can't walk these parts alone, anymore."

She looked up at him from the spot she was crouched at, sifting through a small first-aid kit in the cabinet. "Who said I was alone?"

"Were you?" His eyes narrowed. She got to her feet, putting the small plastic box beside him, looking his face over a few times.

Her head shook. "Nope. Never alone with these thoughts."

Tig couldn't not chuckle at her response, but he was still worried about her. He didn't worry often--he was too selfish for that--but anything to do with his favorite blonde saw him panic like a madman.

"And the voices, too." She mused, breaking out into a genuine smile the first time all evening. "They always keep me real good company."

"Yeah?" Isla's head bobbed, cupping his chin again. "Me too--me 'n you don't seem to be too different after all, baby."

"Never said that we weren't." She poked her tongue out a little bit, surveying the damage. "Never said that we were the same, either."

"We're not the same." He confirmed, curling his hand around her wrist as she held an alcohol pad above his cut. "We are not the same, Isla."

Her head tilted, trying to discern what he meant. But she couldn't, and it caused an uncomfortable shiver to flicker down her spine.

"This might hurt." She whispered in an attempt to dissipate the small tension, gently running her thumb over his chin.

The other was--alongside her pointer finger--tapping the small antiseptic against the wound. She frowned the more he winced, though Tig's smile and hold on her wrist was still present.

"I like the pain."

"I know you do, Tiger." Isla joked. But she couldn't help wondering how the fuck he managed to do this to himself tonight.

Why he would do this to himself tonight.

"I don't wanna have to stitch your pretty face up," she pursed her lips and got him to hold the cotton in place.

"You think I got a pretty face?"

"The prettiest." Her retort was instantaneous, missing that usual glint of something resembling a joke.

She was serious--she wasn't engaging in that usual banter with him today. She was too run down for it, actually.

"Gonna have to give you a couple of butterfly stitches, if that's okay?" Isla looked up at him, holding out the small bandages with a smile. "It won't hurt. And they'll probably dissolve in, like, a week or so."

"Go for it. I love when you play nurse."

She lightly whacked at his chest, laughing as she got him to sit on the closed toilet lid to get a better reach. He wasn't tall, but neither was she. Isla needed him to lower his height if she wanted to successfully repair him.

The comfort, the aid and assistance had him forgetting about tonight--had her forgetting the real reason for her impromptu arrival to the clubhouse--but not forgetting about the newfound misery that encircled SAMCRO.

"You alright?" He asked when she hadn't made a movement, when her eyes seemed to focus on the shelves above the tank of the toilet. "I can do it myself, if you don't wanna--"

"I wanna." The smile she produced was fake--uncomfortable as tears rolled down perfectly blushed cheeks.

It broke his heart. Everything she was doing and saying--and even feeling because her pain was palpable--was breaking his heart and Tig felt like hell for doing this.

"I'm sorry," she stuck the first stitch to his forehead carefully, getting him to rip off the back of the second because her fingers were too shaky to get a solid grip.

"Don't be." He handed it to her. "It's been a tough night."

Her laugh was humorless, dull. "You can say that again, Tiggy."

"You wanna talk about it?"

"Not really." She sent him an apologetic look, but he got it.

Isla trusted him with her life--for some reason--but she found it hard to open up sometimes. In regards to something this serious, she struggled to get a solid handle on her emotions and how to express them.

He understood her, though. Understood her well enough, her mannerisms and thought processes, and he just wondered if she felt like divulging her pain tonight.

She didn't, though. And Tig didn't particularly mind that. He didn't want to feel that twisted pang of regret, the vehement churn of his stomach whenever she said Donna's name--which she was yet to do, and she probably wouldn't at this point, either.

"I just wanna cry." She stated plainly, not even reluctantly anymore.

Like Gemma, he hadn't seen her cry for a long time. And it wasn't a nice visual, actually.

But he was supportive, and just wanted her to do anything that'd make her feel somewhat better--so he encouraged it.

Isla put everything down, gave his face the once over for the last time, and set herself on the tile with her back to the door.

"You wanna cry? Do it, baby. If it'll help, just do it." He assured, getting to the ground beside her. "I know you don't like doin' it in front of me, but I won't tell anyone, if that's what you want."

"You make me seem like a battle ax." Isla quipped, sniffling. "I don't care if anyone sees me cry--everyone knows that I do. It's just..."

"Showing vulnerability ain't a nice thought. I know."

God. She hated how well he understood her. How he knew what she was going to fucking say. All the time.

Tig wound an arm around her waist, pulling her closer to him. Instinctively, she rested her head against his shoulder.

"I get it." He stated mindlessly, pushing tousled blonde strands from her forehead. "But y'know you can always trust me, kid. I'll never tell anyone that you feel emotions--"

"I'm literally the most emotional person you all know." Isla protested weakly, hoping he didn't mind the feeling of her tears bleeding through his shirt.

He didn't.

"I just don't really like crying. It's not a true testament to my character--I'm supposed to be the happy one around these parts. The sickeningly optimistic Irish girl--"

"You can still be a crier, too."

"I know." She finally wrapped her arms around his middle as they sat together. "But people just don't take girls seriously when they cry. And I don't want my position here to be compromised, I guess. I don't want my dad, or Gemma, or Clay to think I can't handle being around the club anymore--because I can. And I always will."

"They wouldn't think different of you for that." He promised, rubbing circles over her shoulder the more he felt the navy cotton dampen. "This is a real tough thing, Isla, nobody is gonna chastise you for shedding a tear. They'd probably think different of you if you didn't cry."

"You think?"

He nodded.

"Crying shows that you got empathy and a heart. We all know your heart is bigger than..." Thick eyebrows crumpled together before he let out a little chuckle. "Bigger than Clay's ego. It's huge, your heart."

"Well, it's gotta be. If I wanna love all of you--warts 'n all--my heart has gotta be huge."

"Exactly," he drew out his response, earning a laugh and something reminiscent of an optimistic smile from her.

Trager never saw himself as the kind of man to make a girl smile or laugh after a little pep talk--after or before incredible sex, perhaps, but never as a result of his unusually comforting nature.

But he just had that effect on Isla--something she wasn't able to extrapolate verbally. Something she wasn't sure she'd ever be able to comprehend, either.

"You've just gotta try not to make yourself too vulnerable, that's all, 'cuz people will get used to coddling you. And I know that's now what you want."

"That's what I mean." She frowned, pulling herself away a bit. "I don't wanna be seen as inferior for being able to cry about the things that you, or Gem, or dad, are able to keep a poker face over. I'm just...I'm just thin-skinned sometimes, and I'm yet to be desensitized to this stuff, I guess."

"You're not thin-skinned for crying tonight." He scolded, knowing that she didn't want to elucidate her thoughts about the happening, but he just couldn't help himself.

"Desensitization don't mean shit when you've lost someone you care about--it's always gonna hurt, sweetheart. Always. And there ain't nothing you can do to stop that."

He was the one with misty eyes, now. He was the one trying to bite back tears, trying to conceal the spread of his sadness--the uncomfortable soreness in his chest. In his heart that wasn't anywhere near as big and full as hers.

"You're never gonna grow immune to grief--I promise you'll always feel that. Whether you show it--how you show it--is another thing, though."

"You feel it?"

"Tonight?"

"In general."

She couldn't seem to recall the last time that she saw him cry--if she'd ever seen it, actually. Aside from this moment, of course.

Tears fell to the apples of his cheeks and she, without any reluctance, used the pad of her thumb to brush them away.

And he got it, now. The idea of showing vulnerability being a fucking liability. Because the pity washing over her soft, beautiful features made him feel fragile.

"All the time. All the fuckin' time."

"It really never goes away?"

"No." Tig sniffed harshly, forcing a smile. "But you learn to cope. You learn that it ain't the end of the world and that life just goes on after death."

"Profound." She chuckled once again. "That's some deep, deep shit, Tigger. Almost made me forget about how much I wanna hysterically break down."

"Do it. That'll make me feel better about my injury."

"Your self-inflicted injury." Isla stated knowingly, but she didn't clarify just what she meant.

Because it could've been an array of things, but he liked to think that she was just referring to his little forehead aperture.

"I like it. It makes you look badass." Isla held a hand out to Tig when he pulled himself upward, and she wanted to follow suit.

"Does it make me look hot, too?"

"Absolutely." Again, it wasn't laced in a tease. It was honest, and the small smile she produced was sincere. "Be careful with it, though. Try not to get it wet or anything, because it'll dissolve too soon--"

"I've had them before, y'know?"

"Why is that so hard to believe?" Isla rolled her eyes. "You're a super scary, malicious, calculating guy when you've gotta be. But I know that you're accident prone."

He curled his eyebrow upward. "Scary?"

"Totally. I've seen you hold a gun to a guy's head." A chill impaired her, frightening her. "Shits terrifying, Tig. Remind me to never get on your bad side."

"You couldn't even if you tried."

"You think?" Her qualm was unexpected, almost challenging him as she unlocked the bathroom door and stepped into the hallway. "I think I could."

What's she playing at? She was sobbing two minutes ago.

Oh, I get it. This is her facade--actin' all care free, and shit.

Tig followed behind--every step--as she clicked along the wooden floor of the clubhouse.

"You couldn't. Trust me." He stated lowly, reaching for her hand when she stuttered a little.

Isla noticed her father next time Juice, drinking at the bar with their backs to the duo. She didn't want to see him, right now.

Talking to Chibs would've ignited whatever fucking fire inside of her that'd started to blaze out of control earlier tonight, and she'd worked hard to contain this inferno.

"What you can do, though, is turn your pretty little ass back around, and go get some rest in the dorm. It's been a long night."

She didn't refute, she didn't try to get out of it because she didn't want to. Isla couldn't bear the thought of waltzing past her father, talking to him about her tiny outburst, and resuming as normal.

Because she couldn't do that. Not tonight, anyway.

"Tig?"

"Uh huh." He responded, his eyes glued to the back of Juice's cut as he slammed yet another shot back.

Probably wondering what the fuck had gone down tonight.

"Can you stay with me?" Her retort forced his focus to land on her, and the defenselessness--sheer exposure--in her attitude.

It wasn't the simple fact of wanting to be alone.

She couldn't be alone. Not anymore.

Ringed fingers squeezed her hand reassuringly, guiding her into the back room, holding her close. Because that's what she really, truly wanted.

"'Course I can. Anything for you, Isla."

#tig trager #tig trager x oc #tig trager fic #tig trager fanfiction #sons of anarchy fic #jax teller #jax teller fanfiction #jax teller x oc #sons of anarchy #sons of anarchy fandom #sons of anarchy fanfiction

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carelesscreativity · 3 years

Text

HorrorDust LV Soothing for CrazyThings: Commission for Ko-Fi

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(SFW, Fluff, Angst)

The castle was always so cold at night and Horror wasn’t much a fan, despite living in Snowdin almost his whole life. Even with his chilly upbringing, he’d always preferred a couple blankets or a warm jacket. All he had now was a baggy sweater and shorts. He was carrying a blanket in one hand and a cup of hot cocoa in the other as he slowly moved along, but it wasn’t for him. He could hear faint crackling already. He just had to figure out where Dust was.

He rounded the corner, becoming distracted by the moonlight shining in panels across the carpet, lighting up that drab pattern in squares of vibrancy. He exhaled quietly and he could see the cold puff of air that left his mouth. He could see the steam rising off the cocoa. The castle really was that cold?? He scoffed, turning away. He stared down the hallways blankly. Why was he out in the cold again? The reason was completely gone to him until he felt the faintest rumble.

It wasn’t much. He’d only known from the faint vibration of the floor through his bare feet and the slight rattle of an empty vase on a decorative stand. Right. He had to find him. He slowly recalled what he’d been doing, going to every place that Dust could be. He’d narrowed it down already. He made his way through the dark castle, being very careful not to step on the blanket. He couldn’t afford to trip.

He soon turned another corner and, sure enough, the doors to the library were slightly rattling as violet light shone from inside. He could hear Dust crying already and a frown immediately crossed Horror’s face. He knew Dust didn’t like to go to him when this kind of stuff happened, but Horror wished he would. He moved over and opened one of the doors as quietly as he could. He slipped inside with about as much grace as one could expect, almost spilling the cocoa.

He turned and his shoulders sank. The entire room felt electrified, Horror already feeling something in the air slightly pricking at his bones. The curtains behind Dust were shut tight. Horror set down the cocoa on the closest table, slipping a coaster under it as the ground rattled again. He turned back, holding the blanket tighter. Dust was hunched over in the center of the room, seeming to have formed a barrier around him with overturned furniture.

Horror could hear him whispering, his tone feral and loose. He began to move over. His soul twisted a little. “M’sorry... M’sorry, Paps, m’sorry...” Dust inhaled shakily, tipping his head back. His face was tear-stained and more kept coming. Magic crackled angrily along his bones, making his body twitch violently. There was torn carpet below him, his stained fingers slightly chipped at the tips. He gave a painful-sounding exhale, his breath billowing out in a cloud.

Dust felt like he was being torn apart in every way. Physically, he felt far too hot, his magic like liquid fire in his marrow. But at the same time, he was so cold that he couldn’t bear to take off anything. The coldness was so raw and bitter. It reminded him of walking the empty Underground, the lack of monsters for miles making it feel even colder than it was. He didn’t WANT to be reminded.

Mentally, it felt like something had its claws digging into his thoughts, scratching words into his head and out his mouth that weren’t his. He was shaking far too much and he couldn’t stop. Emotionally, he was feeling so much that he teetered back and forth on the edge of not feeling anything at all. He could barely even see, the only thing he was aware of was that ghostly head. That head of his dead brother, grinning and spewing hateful venom at him.

Why had he done that?? Why had he thought that would be the best option?? Hadn’t there been a better way?? There COULDN’T have been a better way!! Dust squeezed his eyes shut as Papyrus continued to whisper, not speaking to him, but around him and inside of him. He could barely understand what he was saying, but he could understand that Papyrus was hurt and angry. Betrayed, even. It made Dust’s soul feel like it was being shredded. “Nothing!” He finally became aware that he was speaking, though it felt like he was spitting up needles when he did. “Nothing I could do!!”

“Nothin’ you could do.” A second voice agreed with him and Dust trembled, his magic flaring up as he tried to decide whether he’d just spoken to himself. His eyes were glowing so much, he could barely see past them. He inhaled shakily. “Nothin’ you could do.” The voice said again, sounding much more calm and reassuring than he could even comprehend at the moment. He furrowed his brow. “And that’s fine.”

So it wasn’t him speaking out loud. Someone else was here. He slammed his hands into the ground and there was a tearing noise as bones shards grew up out of the carpet, surrounding him in a protective circle. Papyrus’ anger changed into delightful glee, whispering for him to collect. To kill. To harvest. Dust was panting. He struggled to his feet, despite all of his body screaming in protest and agony. There was... There was another noise.

Another noise, another noise. He furrowed his brow, shuddering as he tried to focus on it. He knew that sound. It was humming. He knew that tune. He’d sung it to Papyrus when he was little whenever he was upset or scared. Dust shook and without thinking, he began to try to hum the same tune as well. Both of their voices were terrible. Him and whoever else it was. The tune sounded laughably terrible. But it was recognizable and Dust clung to that.

He used the tune to drown out Papyrus’ shrill whispering. He stumbled for a moment. The heat in his bones was becoming so hot, it was starting to become unbearably cold, like the aftermath of a burn. Everything felt so cold. The light in his eyes was dying down and his magic began to crackle less as he struggled to breathe and hum at the same time. He had to give up the song in order to breathe, but another voice kept carrying it.

Dust whimpered, collapsing to his knees with a painful-sounding clack. He hunched over once again. Everything was so cold. He was finally aware of the tears pouring down his face and he shakily raised his hands to cover himself. He inhaled shakily, the bones around him retreating back into the ground. There were soft footsteps. Muffled at first until they reached the large, bare area of where Dust had torn up the carpet.

The footsteps clacked quietly and stopped next to him, Dust screwing his eyes shut as his bones began to lock up. Something was slowly placed over his shoulders. It was large, soft, and warm. Dust exhaled shakily again. Blanket. Blanket? He opened one eye and glanced over. It was a blanket. Where? He raised his head, unable to even really tell where he was. There was a loud dragging noise and he jumped. The room slowly became illuminated in moonlight.

The library. He was in the library. Dust furrowed his brow. He allowed his eyes to adjust for a moment before looking over. The curtains had been opened, allowing the moon to shine in. Dust stared at it for a moment, all that horrible noise in his skull being drowned out in its beauty. He let out a soft breath, it coming out in a billowing cloud. Right. He was cold. He reached up and shakily gripped the edges of the blanket, hugging it around himself.

He heard footsteps again and looked up. He stared blankly at Horror as the broken skeleton shuffled along. When had Horror gotten there?? Dust was so cold. He noticed the barrier of furniture around himself and watched as Horror squeezed through a tiny gap between two of the overturned couches. He was holding something. Dust blinked as he saw the steam rising. It was a cup. It had warmth in it. Dust realized he could smell it.

Horror slowly settled down on his knees next to Dust, offering the cup of hot chocolate to him. The crazed skeleton reached out and took it with stained hands. “S’not... as hot as it was, but... I hope it’s alright...” Horror said quietly, his gravelly voice making Dust’s soul loosen a little. He took a sip and shivered, savoring the warmth and taste. He gave a nod, mumbling that it was okay. “That’s good.” Horror said softly.

Dust stared at the cup, knowing that this had happened so many times before. Different places. Different times of day, but Horror was always there. His soul grew a little warm. He took another sip, his glowing eyes fixed on Horror, who stared right back at him.

He kept telling himself that he would make it up to Horror for all the times he’d helped him. He just never did. He wanted to do SOMETHING. He blinked as he noticed Horror’s slight tremble. He stared at him with wide eyes before turning and placing the cocoa a safe distance away. He reached out and grabbed the other’s sweater. Horror could only yelp, yanked out of his daze as Dust pulled him against his chest.

Horror looked up at him with wide eyes. Dust had always found himself fond of that shade of red. He stared down at him. “Thank you...” He said quietly. Horror blinked and the faintest tint of crimson appeared on his cheekbones as he mumbled back that it was no problem. He seemed surprised as Dust wrapped the blanket around the both of them. “No... for always... You’re always here for me... Always.”

Horror tipped his head. “Is that bad? I like... bein’ there for you... I want you to be... as okay as you can be...” He paused, hoping that got his point across. It seemed to when Dust’s cheeks went purple and he quickly shook his head. He hugged Horror after a moment, rubbing their cheeks together. Horror didn’t know what to do for a moment before he slowly slipped his hands around Dust as well, hugging him back.

They both buried their faces into the other’s shoulder. They pulled back and paused, their faces inches apart. They were so close that their breath clouds were mingling in the moonlight. Dust’s eyes met Horror’s. He... He couldn’t... Not yet. It seemed Horror had the same idea. Both of them went back to keeping their heads tucked against one another.

They held each other close and tight. It was quiet for several minutes before Dust gave a weak laugh. “Boss is gonna murder me over this carpet...” He gave an exasperated sigh. Horror blinked before the corner of his mouth quirked upwards and he gave his own raspy little bout of laughter. It made Dust’s soul speed up.

They nuzzled back against one another. Dust could feel Horror’s soul pounding too. They pressed against each other, wrapped up tight. Both of them closed their eyes. They were content to stay close, wrapped in warm blankets and illuminated in cold moonlight as the smell of hot cocoa drifted around them.

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cptnbvcks · 4 years

Text

cold showers (mandalorian x reader)

summary: mando gets sex pollen-ed and you just so happen to be in the way of him and his cold shower.

warnings: sex pollen! dub-con because of the sex pollen!

a/n: this was quick and dirty i just needed to get this out there

By your count, it had been roughly forty-eight hours since you last saw the Mandalorian.

It wasn’t your position to ask, and the hunter rarely told you much anyway. It was always the same commands: Stay here with the child. Don’t let him out of your sight. Keep him out of the cockpit or he’ll have you halfway to Sorgan before you can stop him.

Your job was to take care of the child. Stay out of the Mandalorian’s business.

You wouldn’t have minded his absence — he had been gone for longer bouts of time before — but there was something about the humid heat of this planet’s rainforests and the incessant croaking from the swamps that set you on edge. The heat was creeping into the ship and it was making both you and the child a little antsy. Your clothes stuck to your skin and the child fussed in his bundles of robes.

“Don’t worry, kid. I’m sure your dad will be home soon,” you murmured gently as you closed the doors of the Razor Crest for the night, eyes scanning the dense, blue-shadowed forest entrance for any sign of glimmering beskar. The child chittered worriedly in your arms as its ears twitched low.

You looked down at the little green baby and smiled slightly. Its eyes were shifting back and forth over the entrance of the forest too. Searching.

The child babbled lowly as the doors slid shut, casting its massive eyes up at you expectantly. He opened his mouth, his little teeth peeping out from under his lip, and yawned nice and big with a tiny coo as he smacked his mouth back together. You laughed quietly as he blinked tiredly at you, “C’mon, you little womp rat. Lets get you to bed.”

You massaged the tip of his ear between your fingers as you walked back into the main chamber of the ship.

It barely took any time at all between you setting him down in the little sleeping nook and turning out the main lights before the little guy had teetered backwards with a thump, closed those big ol’ bug eyes of his, and began snoozing.

“Thank the Maker there aren’t Jawas out here, huh, bud? I can’t imagine shooing those bastards away in this kind of heat.” You spoke to yourself as you dragged the back of your hand across your damp forehead.

You were worried. You always spoke to yourself when you were worried.

"Hope he’s okay, little guy,” you sighed under your breath as you pulled a thin cover over the child, leaning down to press a brief kiss to his forehead before pulling down the sheet metal that would keep him from waking up and wandering around.

Your hair was sticking to the back of your neck and you were more than grateful that the kid almost always slept through the entire night. It meant that you could take all the time you needed in the ship’s shower.

—

The water was icy cold and poured gently from the rusty overhead spray. For once, you didn’t complain. The space was cramped and you wondered how the Mandalorian even fit. Surely his head bumped the faucet and his arms knocked over the few toiletries he had.

You smiled to yourself at the thought. He was always so serious to you that you couldn’t help but wonder sometimes if he even liked you at all, or if he simply tolerated the additional body because he couldn’t keep dragging the child into life threatening situations.

Sighing, you pressed your forehead against the metal wall as the water dribbled coldly over your back and shoulders. Your eyes slipped shut as your thoughts returned to the Mandalorian. Out there, in the heat. The dark. You hoped he was okay. Partly because you didn’t know what the hell you’d do if he wasn’t.

Partly for other reasons that you refused to acknowledge because of professional reasons.

Still, the thoughts came, intruding and incessant, as they always were when two people spent too much time alone in space together. You dragged a hand through your hair and thought of Mando’s. Was his hair brown? You imagined so. Brown hair to match the dusky sound of his voice. Dark eyes too, to match his hair.

Your hand slipped over your neck and you thought of his skin. You knew it was tanned; honey gold and firm with lean muscles. He had come in once with his under-shirt ripped half to hell and you had to restrain the baby as he cauterized his own wounds, despite your offer to help.

You never wanted to admit it, but you had thought of that little patch of bronzed skin for about two weeks straight.

Your hand moved lower and you thought of his hands. He had grabbed your wrist once after you touched his shoulder to check if he was sleeping at the wheel. The force of it had left a faint bruise, and if the Mandalorian had ever noticed it, he never brought it up.

A small moan echoed in the tinny shower chamber at the thought of those hands leaving marks somewhere else.

Your little daydream was abruptly cut short by the sound of the the ship’s buzzing fluorescents going dead silent. Your eyes shot open but you swore you were still lost in the darkness behind your eyes.

“Fuck,” you cursed low, panic rising suddenly as the creeping disorientation set in. You dragged your hand over the wet stall, knocking aside the Mandalorian’s facial blades in the process.

You reached for where you thought the hatch to the shower chamber was.

Something grabbed your hand.

Panic shot through you; raw and piercing as you screamed loud. The hand that clamped down over your mouth and pushed you back into the shower chamber was bare, dry and rough and big enough that its fingers touched your jaw from edge-to-edge. The hand smelled like blaster residue and leather.

The body pressed into yours and by the maker, they were burning up. Your survival instincts kicked into hyperdrive as you blindly shoved one-handedly at whoever was in the stall with you. Their chest was bare and your hand smacked wetly against it as you shoved at the person’s shoulders.

“Stop that,” the voice huffed tightly; heavy and familiar and unmodulated — your breath caught in your throat and your struggles halted, “It’s— It’s me. Just me.”

The Mandalorian. A very naked Mandalorian.

This had to be a dream.

Maybe a heat-stroke illusion.

Your cheeks flared red and you were grateful for the drowning blackness because you thought you might implode if you actually had visual confirmation of what was happening right now.

You whimpered his name against the palm of his hand, your eyes searching the darkness in front of you for any indication of a face.

You had never felt so much of him before. Not skin-wise. Not even contact-wise. What was going on? Where had this come from all of a sudden?

He lowered his palm from your mouth before silencing whatever question or rejection that you might have voiced by pressing a hard kiss to your lips. You didn’t know if your eyes were open or closed but you swore you saw stars when he dragged his tongue over the roof of your mouth.

Maker, he tasted exactly as you had imagined.

“‘m sorry, it’s just— I don’t...” he grunted against your mouth, his words jagged and slurred as his hand dragged down the curve of your throat, squeezing there for a moment before sinking down to the trembling curve of your damp breasts. He squeezed hard, unrestrained and nearly unhinged as he pinched the wet peak of your taut nipple. It fucking hurt. “Just... fuck—, need you— need this—”

He wasn’t making much sense but you couldn’t exactly ask for clarification when he made his point by shoving his hand between the wet flesh of your thighs.

Something about this feels off.

Something about the slur of his voice and the radiating heat that’s surrounding him. The hunter barely ever looked in your direction, rarely even spoke more than he needed to — hell, sometimes you wondered if he even remembered your name — and now here he was, cornering you naked in the shower, sans-helmet and hard as the beskar steel he wore.

Something was wrong.

“M-mando, wait—! Maker, what’s going on?”

Your head falls back against the chamber wall and the ragged gasp that interrupts when he circles your aching clit with the rough pad of his finger is almost unbecoming of a lady.

It’s almost embarrassing how quickly you get wet for him. Even more so when he buries his fingers to the knuckle within your walls and you cry out like you’ve never been touched by a man before. You’re hot and wet on his fingers as he thrusts them deeper, curling them hard against your clenching cunt until every logical thought turns into gibberish in your head.

“I just... please, fuck—, stop talking.”

You comply, but only because he locks his mouth over your breast and rubs his thumb over your swollen clit and you swear to every god in the galaxy whatever’s possessing the Mandalorian is rubbing off on you.

Your thighs shake hard as he wraps his arm around your waist, forcing you up onto your toes in an attempt to match his height. His cock is trapped between your bodies, hard and thick and your cheeks blush dark as he shifts his hips against you, all but fucking himself against your stomach. It’s vulgar, maybe a little demeaning, but the heat that’s pooling against the Mandalorian’s fingers tells a different story.

“You’re so... tight,” He growls, shoving you harder into the chamber wall, “How are you so tight? I can’t— fuck, can’t wait—” He trails off as you card your fingers into his hair. You feel him shudder against you as he bites down on your flesh hard enough that you pull at his hair in protest.

He moans against you; low and deep in his chest as he rolls your nipple over his tongue. His entire mouth is hot; fever hot.

All you have is your sense of touch but something about the way he shoves his fingers into you just a little harder and sucks a fresh bruise into your collarbone when you drag your nails against his scalp tells you that you’re testing the fine line of his restraint.

You know the Mandalorian would never hurt you. He’d never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it. But something tells you that if you push him tonight, you’ll be regretting it by morning.

“Turn around,” he orders and you hear the slurred strain of his voice. It almost sounds like he’s wounded but you can’t tell if he’s bleeding with the way the water’s flowing against your bodies. His cock pulses against your stomach as he drags his fingers from your heat, drawing your slickness over your clit until his fingers glide easily over the sensitive bundle of nerves.

You take too long to do as you’re told.

He’s pushing you out of his arms again, his grip bruising as he grabs your hips and flips you towards the wall. The movement of it in such tiny quarters knocks more things from the small shelves of the shower. Your hands fly up to cushion your fall as he shoves you up against the biting steel. The metal is freezing on your breasts, icy compared to the warmth of your hunter’s mouth, and your nipples harden painfully upon contact.

You yelp with surprise as he brings a hand down over your ass. His palm lands slightly awkwardly and it hurts more than you think he intended, “Ow! Fuck, Mando, not so hard—!”

He hears you, but you don’t think he hears you, because he does it again. Your body jolts and it stings even worse because of the water. This time, he gropes at the plump curve of your backside with one rough palm while the other roams over the exposed flesh of your back that he can hardly see in the darkness.

There’s so much of you. So much. His thoughts are foggy, sluggish and pinwheeling solely to the body trembling before him in the dark and all the things he wants to do to it. To you.

He doesn’t realize he’s saying half of these things out loud, brokenly and stuttering on his tongue. They’re filthy and they make you blush all the way down to your breasts.

He knows something’s wrong. Knows he shouldn’t. But when he takes his cock into his hand and drags the bulbous head over your soaked entrance, the Mandalorian realizes that he doesn’t care bout the morality of it. There’s only you. Soaking wet and blushed pink for him.

You gasp wordlessly, stunned to silence, as he circles your hips with his battle-hardened grip and buries himself deep into your body with a single decisive thrust. Your cry of pleasure comes late, catching on your exhale as your walls flutter tight around him.

A random shiver crawls down your spine that makes your walls grip him even tighter. Your broken whimper echoes in the shower chamber as you slap a hand weakly against the wall beside your head, your body struggling to acclimatize to the stretch of him.

“Fu-uck, Mando,” You choke out out, “Fuck.”

He lets out a shuddered breath behind you and you realize he hasn’t moved an inch yet. Instead, he presses you flat between the wall and his body and grinds into you. Hits you in a place so deep that you swear to the galaxy’s edge that you can feel the ridge of his cock’s head inside of your walls with distinct clarity. Your toes curl and a muscle begins to knot itself in your thigh from the strain of being on your tip toes.

The noise that leaves you is fucking primal.

He drops his head against the back of your shoulder and lets out a sharp breath, “Good— you feel so good. So soft, everywhere. Everywhere.”

He begins to move. There’s nothing slow or deliberate about it. It’s messy, the way he fucks into you like he’s halfway forgotten that you’re a person and not a rag doll.

His hands grab handfuls of your curves, dips between your thighs just to feel the obscene way your pussy stretches around his cock. His mouth is sucking purple bruises over your shoulder blades, ones you won’t even notice once the lights come back on. You smell like his soaps and taste of the distilled water of the shower. He runs his tongue over your flesh and bites down.

He knows he’s being too rough; knows you’re biting down the pain when he digs his fingers into your breasts and drags your back flush against his chest. You’re wincing slightly when he hits you too deep but you’re sobbing for him when he sinks his fingers between your legs and begins working your clit beneath a rough finger.

You’re making the most beautiful sounds while you’re taking him and when he wraps his hand around the delicate curve of your throat and pins your head back against his chest, you reach up and grab his arm with urgency, nails biting into the exposed skin of him. Your pussy clamps down hard around his girth and he pushes against the resistance until he’s as deep as your body would allow him.

It’s so dark and you’re lost in it and all you know is him and the earth shattering pleasure when his fingers press down on your clit. You’re coming and you think you’re screaming but you only know for sure when he squeezes your neck hard enough that the sound catches in your voice box.

You cling to him as your walls pulse around his cock. You only realize he had cum too when you feel the liquid fullness of it as he continued to fuck himself into your spent body.

Well.

Now you’re a little concerned for your pussy’s wellbeing.

—

You wake up the next morning disoriented. The ship is bright and you can hear the birds outside loud and clear. A warm humid breeze blows in and it carries the babble of the baby.

The baby!

You jolt upright and almost knock yourself out on the utility compartment above the spare cot.

“Easy. I’ve got him.” The voice comes from the ramp of the ship, crackling gently through the modulator of a shiny beskar helmet. He’s standing at the open entrance, dressed in his armours with the little green child bundled in his arms. You notice the fresh scuff marks on his cuirass, tokens from whatever battle had brought him to this jungle planet for so long.

Your chest catches with a sudden sharp inhale as the knowledge of the night before hung heavily in the air between you.

For a moment, you don’t know what to say. You wonder if to say anything at all.

It wasn’t like you could both ignore the fact that he had fucked you from sundown to sunrise in every spot you could fathom on the ship. You certainly couldn’t ignore the fact that you could still feel the remnants of him between your thighs.

“I understand if you want to leave.”

The Mandalorian’s abrupt words catch you off guard, but it’s what he said that stuns you to silence.

“What we did— What I did, I shouldn’t have— I shouldn’t have done that to you,” the Mandalorian was stumbling on his words but the shame that hung in the air between them felt like a punch to the gut, “I was tracking a mercenary in the marshland. She tagged me with something. Some kind of amatory agent.”

It was both hazy and vivid in his mind — putting the quarry in the carbonite chamber, shutting down the lights because he thought you had already retired with the child and to avoid the risk of you finding him without his helmet in his disoriented state, then stumbling out of his armour and into the shower to quell the burning heat that had crept over his body and blurred his mind to one physical singularity.

He remembered finding you in the shower chamber. Naked. Wet.

And he remembered every single thing he did to you afterwards.

“I’m truly sorry,” he said softly, and you knew that he fully meant it. You tried to ignore the growing pang of dejection that settled sourly in your stomach. The Mandalorian averted his gaze then as the child peered between you and his somewhat-father, gurgling contently. The hunter turned towards the cockpit hatch. “I’ll set the co-ordinates back to take you back to Nevarro.”

“... Do you want me to leave?��

Your words made him pause. The sound of hurt in your voice made his heart ache at the wonder of what he might have broken between you. His breaths echoed in soft static through the helmet as he stood silently.

“No. I don’t.”

You slipped out of the bunk despite the protest of your thighs. The Mandalorian felt his heart jump in his throat at the sound of your bare feet padding over and for a moment he wondered if he had truly worked all of that poison out of his system. He didn’t fight as the child lifted his arms for you to take him.

You itched the back of the baby’s head and he exclaimed happily. The Mandalorian was looking at you now, just the slightest tilt of his helmet to indicate as much. You looked up at him from beneath your lashes, sugar sweet and endlessly forgiving, as you kissed the child’s head.

“Then I won’t,” you said softly, jokingly lifting the child slightly, “For his sake.”

—

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#the mandalorian #mandalorian x reader #din djarin #din djarin x reader #baby yoda #star wars #the mandalorian fic #myfic

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wasabito · 3 years

Text

home feels like you | naruto x fem!reader

here’s my entry for the konoha simps server collab with @bakubabes-hatake; prompts are roommate au and “i was so stupid to make the mistake of falling in love with my best friend.” (i will be making edits to this later lmao)

wordcount: 3.0k

tags: fluff, angst, modern au, healing after a breakup

synopsis: it’s a little hard for him to describe the way he feels these days, but if anyone asked, he’d say that home feels a lot like you.

Naruto didn’t wake up that morning to the sound of his alarm blaring through the stillness, or even to streams of early morning sunlight filtering in through his curtains. Yet, he sat up in bed, shirtless, hair askew, with a dry streak of saliva at the corner of his mouth.

Even though he searched for what had woken him up so abruptly, Naruto found nothing.

Blinking back at him in bright neon green, his alarm clock read 5:23 am, approximately thirty-seven minutes until it was time for his morning run. Not one to miss out on the chance to get more sleep, Naruto was just about to turn over in bed, stuff his head back under his pillow and be dead to the world once more—then he heard it.

Harsh whispers and...sniffling.

The Uzumaki remained silent, sleep suddenly gone from his eyes. His gaze was trained onto his bedroom door, knowing that you, his roommate, were probably just a few feet beyond it. You’d been an early riser for as long as he’d known you and Naruto imagined you were shuffling into the kitchen to make yourself some coffee before heading to work for the day.

This time, however, it seemed your peaceful morning routine had been interrupted by an unexpected and seemingly unpleasant phone call.

Naruto listened close while you spoke hurriedly into the receiver, a rush of words garbled together and unintelligible due your shaky voice that pierced through paper thin walls. Even from where he laid, Naruto could tell that you were just barely holding it together; it sounded like you were a moment away from crying.

Unable to sit still, he pulled off the covers and followed after your voice. The entire apartment beyond his bedroom was cloaked in darkness, so much so that he could barely see his own two feet. The only source of light came from your cell phone that illuminated a single corner of the room where you sat.

“Hey...you uh, you doin’ okay—” Truly he hadn’t meant to be so loud, but his voice boomed regardless, causing you to flinch. Not to mention, it sounded like he’d gargled nails just five minutes prior with how gravely his voice was. Great going, Naruto, he thought to himself.

He cleared his throat, whispering, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, heh.”

You sat curled up on the sofa, with your phone wedged between your shoulder and ear, but it didn’t seem like anyone was talking anymore. With a sigh, you hung up the phone, plunging the room in muted darkness.

“I’m fine,” you muttered. “...don’t worry about it.”

Bypassing his curious look, you trudged back into your bedroom. It seemed he would not be getting an answer anytime soon. Naruto blinked slowly, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he reentered his room as well. But the more he thought about you, the more unsettled he became.

You had moved in with him six months ago after Sasuke left for business overseas. But even since then, Naruto still only knew as much about you as he had when he first met you, which was literally next to nothing. He could respect that you were a private person, but he still felt it was a little ridiculous that you both shared a refrigerator and he’d had to stalk your Facebook page just to find out your birthday.

The two of you had lived as nothing more than strangers for an entire six months, but in all that time, he had never heard you sound like that...

His curiosity had gotten the better of him. Normally he wouldn't be so bothered, but with Sasuke away and Sakura busy with her own life, he was beginning to feel as if he had nothing else to steal his attention. Naruto was only now realizing how invested he was in the lives of his friends, more so than his own even. Being involved was second nature.

Two and a half weeks later, the reason behind your odd behavior made itself known. In fact, it quite literally stood at your shared doorstep.

It was a normal Saturday night, and for once he was home instead of gaming the entire night away over at Kiba’s place. Naruto had been in the kitchen making himself yet another cup of instant ramen when a knock came at the door, shattering the evening stillness. Before he could even set down his chopsticks, you had bounded down the hall with a duffel bag slung over your shoulder. He had never seen you so upset, but your anger was unmistakable as you wrenched the door open with enough force to rattle it on its hinges.

“Here’s your shit.”

“Can we at least talk abou—”

“No!” You slammed the door shut in the face of… whoever that was.

Naruto came around the counter to stand in the hall. He didn’t bother hiding the fact that he was so blatantly eavesdropping on you. Was there really a point in hiding?

You turned in time to catch him out of your peripheral, frown still set on your lips, though it softened a bit when you caught sight of him watching you. “You’re pretty nosy.” Was your only remark, but despite the edge in your words, it didn’t sound like you were annoyed at him, almost like you had expected it.

“Well, can you blame me?” Naruto scratched his neck sheepishly, “You were actin’ pretty weird, so of course I got curious, what did ya expect?”

You snorted. “So, that’s your perfect defense?”

Naruto gave you the goofiest smile in response. “Gimme a minute and I’ll think of a better one!”

With a laugh you slumped into one of the bar stools near the counter. You hadn’t stopped laughing at him for another minute, but then… your teetering laughter slowly turned into sobs. You shoved your face behind the palms of your hands, but Naruto could see the way your entire body shook. The sound of your crying startled him so bad, he nearly choked on his own spit. Every thought running through his mind came to a screeching halt. It was as if the sounds that escaped your mouth was set to a frequency that would break his heart to pieces over and over again.

“H-Hey,” Naruto reached over, placing a heavy arm over your shoulder and pulling you into his chest. “It’s...gonna be okay, okay? Whatever it is, it’ll work itself out. Please, don’t cry...”

After another moment, your sobs quieted down to a whimper, your cheeks were still wet and Naruto was about seventy percent sure there was a little snot on his tee shirt. Nevertheless, he remained still until you were ready to pull away.

“Um, thanks…” you whispered, lips accidentally grazing his collarbone. Not a second later, you released him, and wiped at your eyes with your shirt sleeve.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“I—um...I guess I owe you some sort of explanation, considering I just used you a human tissue.”

Using humor to cope, that was familiar.

You were trying to lighten the mood, Naruto could tell, so he went along with your joke and laughed. “Yeah, I guess havin’ you tell me is better than me playin’ spy, huh?”

He reached for his forgotten cup of noodles. They were a little soggy after being neglected for so long, but that didn’t stop him from slurping up the entire thing in record time.

“Ah! That hit the spot!”

You laughed again, sniffling as you did so and for a moment he was captured.

That watery smile, the wrinkle in your eyelids, the upward curve of your lips, even the very sound you made, all of it caught him by the throat. It was almost like he was just now realizing that you were a girl. And a really pretty one, at that. Naruto gulped and looked away. He wasn’t sure what was happening to him or why he was just noticing how cute you were, but he shook his head as if to dispel some of the mental fog.

“That was my boyfriend—ex boyfriend, I mean.”

“Ex boyfriend?” he repeated.

“Yeah, um, we kind of do—er—did the long distance thing...he lives a few cities away, goes to a completely different university so um…anyway I was just uh, returning his clothes....”

You seemed to be struggling to find the right words, likely still processing everything that had happened. At times like this, Naruto was thankful that he and Hinata had ended things so amicably. Not everyone had the luxury. Relationships were hard as it is, and when it was over, picking back up like nothing happened was nigh impossible. There was always something left behind as a reminder, be it scars, old wounds in the form of memories. Sakura had once dubbed it ‘relationship residue’.

“Hey, don’t push yourself!” Naruto offered a grin and a thumbs up. “C’mon, let’s get your mind off it. We can watch a movie, or play some music, or…” he looked around the apartment in search of something you both could do but came up short.

“I appreciate the gesture, Naruto, but I think I’m just going to head to bed early. I’m a little tired.”

You gave a small smile, and though it didn’t reach your eyes, Naruto could do nothing but watch after your retreating back yet again.

He didn’t like the helpless feeling that latched onto him. He would always and forever be doer. He couldn't just sit idly by while you went through this hard time alone. Though he kept quiet, he was determined to make you feel better somehow. He never wanted to see you cry like that ever again.

Following that night, the dynamic between the two of you had changed. Naruto, naturally friendly as he was, made it his first priority to check up on you and see how you were doing. And instead of heading straight to your bedroom upon returning from class or work, nowadays, you spent your free time in Naruto’s company. Whether it be just by watching the evening news together or doing homework in the same area. For the first time in months, you two were acting more and more like roommates—maybe even friends. You still hadn't opened up much about your ex boyfriend, but that was okay. Naruto knew that as long as you understood he was there to support you, that you were not alone, one day you’d be able to speak about it with him.

A change in weather seemed to follow the change in pace. Winter was fast approaching and with it came colder mornings, frosted leaves that crunched under foot, and a need to remain bundled up lest one catch a cold. Naruto had just returned home to find that you had made a hot pot. The entire apartment was filled with such a delicious smell that had his mouth watering and stomach grumbling in askance.

“Hey there!” you called from the kitchen. “I just finished up, grab a bowl and get some.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. Naruto quickly shrugged out of his coat and scarf, doing a little shimmy, then grabbed a bowl from the cabinet. “It smells sooo good~”

His eagerness managed to pull a laugh out of you. You quickly handed him the ladle. “Go nuts...well...not too crazy.” Knowing Naruto, it was safe to say he would inhale the entire pot if left up to his own devices, you’d come to learn this the hard way.

“Yeah, yeah.” he said, scooping himself a hefty serving. He wasted no time at all, digging in with much gusto. “Damn!! This is hella good! You’re such a great cook, roomie.”

You were unsure whether he was merely flattering you for that sake of flattery or if he truly enjoyed the meal, but you accepted his compliments as gracefully as you could manage.

Eating dinner like this was nice. Naruto made for good company. For the time being, you let yourself enjoy the simplicity of the moment, the utter lack of expectation, the vibrant energy that came with mutual understanding, all of it made you feel much warmer inside. You knew it wasn’t just the hot pot.

Several more nights were spent just like this, relishing the friendly companionship that was slowly being fostered between you two. It wasn’t like you had very many friends to begin with, but you could admit that Naruto was a breath of fresh air. His sunny persona and steadfast disposition always managed to brighten up your day. Most nights, he talked enough for the both of you and was a pleasant distraction from less than savory thoughts regarding your ex. It was safe to say that you rather liked being his roommate. Naruto made you feel safe in your own skin again.

You had just returned from class when you heard Naruto fumbling around in the bathroom. He wasn’t a quiet roommate by any means, but he usually never made this much noise in the mornings. From the looks of things, he had just returned from a run, and was now showering away the sweat and grime.

“You okay in there?” you called. There was no answer.

Instead, the restroom door was thrust open and your roommate burst through, darting down the hall at breakneck speed, naked as the day he was born. You blinked rapidly, mouth hanging open. What...the actual hell?

“My bad!! I forgot my towel!” His awkward laugh echoed from somewhere in his bedroom.

“You could’ve just asked me to bring you one.”

“I kinda panicked a little.”

You snorted behind your hand. “A little?”

“Okay, maybe a lot.”

Naruto returned to where you stood, thankfully he was fully dressed, although his wet hair hung low around his face, wispy tendrils clinging to his cheeks. The water droplets were left to be caught by the towel around his neck.

“Dude, you’re gonna get sick,” you grabbed the towel and draped it over his head. Naruto was just a few inches taller, but you still managed, even if you had to get on your toes a bit, while he bent to accommodate the height difference.

You carefully towel dried his hair as best as you could. Naruto kept his eyes solely on you. It was a little unnerving, but you did your best to ignore it, until he finally spoke up.

“How are you feeling?”

Due to proximity, you could feel his puffs of breath fanning against your cheek.

“I’m good now, Naruto. Great, actually.”

He smiled at that. “I’m glad.”

You chewed your lip to stop yourself from smiling back but it was too late, he’d already caught a glimpse of it.

“There you go,” you returned the towel to his open hands. “All done.”

“Thanks a bunch! I don’t think anyone’s ever done that for me before.”

You found that a little hard to believe. But Naruto was walking away before you could question him about it. You thought about the way he looked at you, how his eyes seemed to gleam as he did. It made your cheeks feel like they were on fire.

Days later, you still thought about it even as you stretched yourself across the carpeted floors of your apartment living room in an attempt to gather your thoughts. It was a feeble attempt, and you weren’t really a yoga person, but you were insistent on doing something that didn’t fall into the category of wondering what your roommate was currently doing. And it worked for all of five minutes before you simply laid on your back and stared up at the ceiling.

That was the exact image of you Naruto walked in on. He tossed his keys on the table, left his backpack by the door, and toed off his shoes like normal, it was a routine ingrained in him by now.

“Uhh, what are you doing on the floor?” Naruto stood over your figure with a quirky grin. He was wearing a turtleneck… which was a little odd, you’d only ever seen him tee shirts and sweatpants. But it was nice. He looked nice. Wait, no—

“Why are you wearing…?” You trailed off as Naruto laid himself by your side, wedging himself between you and the coffee table.

“Nope! I asked first!” He shuffled a bit to make himself comfortable. “So, what are we doing on the floor?”

Keeping your eyes glued to the ceiling and not on the man who was getting a view of your side profile, you replied simply. “I was doing yoga at first.”

Naruto was silent. Did he know what yoga was? You were going to ask, but he beat you to it, humming an ‘oh cool’, and accepting your lukewarm response easily.

“You know...these past few months have been kinda like a dream.”

“What do you mean by that, Naruto?”

Finally craning your neck to the side, you were greeted with the full view of him. Soft blonde hair, ocean-blue eyes, and the kind of smile that made you want to smile too. It was so hard to be sad or down in his presence, it was like he vanquished darkness with his light. God, you were sounding so shakespearean.

Unaware of your inner battle, Naruto continued. “I grew up in an orphanage, so the thought of having a home was...a bit like a fairytale. But then I learned that people can be just as much a home as any random building, ya know?”

You did know. You knew it too well, in fact. Once you had made the mistake of falling in love with your best friend. He had become your home, only to leave you broken and abandoned.

“Yeah...I get that.”

“And you,” Naruto continued. “You feel a lot like what I think home feels like.”

You blinked at him, stunned, heart stuttering because you could tell he meant what he’d said. Goddamn him for being this way. For being so good.

Naruto sat up and you followed suit. “I just wanted to say thank you, Y/n.”

And with that, he leaned forward and pecked your cheek.

#naruto #naruto uzumaki x reader #naruto uzumaki x y/n #naruto uzumaki x you #naruto x reader #naruto x y/n #naruto x you #naruto uzumaki #naruto fanfiction #sabi.writes

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clnriswood · 4 years

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DRACO MALFOY X CEDRIC DIGGORY X READER

Something Different | Part Three

a/n: Hope you’re all prepared for some red hot angst, hehe.

tag list: @call-me-banana-bandit @pillowjj @truly-insatiable @natsiboo @justmesadgirl @boredoffmebox @jjjmaybank @jejegu @ superpowereddonut @irritantive @salemlilly @marshmelloyellow02 @puffymints @is-it-really-a-secret @i-mmunity @sebastiansass @hisoldlover @kyobien

Things were awfully awkward the next day. The whole morning, it seemed, Cedric was dodging the girl left and right. At breakfast he was quiet as he picked absentmindedly at his scrambled eggs, and the whole walk to Potions Class he was silent, too. To be fair, the girl wasn’t doing much better. Through their words, or lack thereof, they seemed to come to the mutual mental agreement to not acknowledge what had happened the night before. After all, it wasn’t as if either could even find the words to say about it. And so, as they entered Professor Slughorn's dark little classroom, accompanied by only a select few Hufflepuff and Slytherin qualifying N.E.W.T. students, the only sound to be heard was the pattering of footsteps and bubbling of liquids within the set of large black pots before them. One potion in particular, front and center, seemed to beckon the girl with its enrapturing scent. She swore, almost, that the students around her seemed to have the same thing on their minds as they huddled close at the front of the cavern-like classroom. The issue didn’t dwell on her mind long, however, as the burning sensation of someone’s gaze went searing into her cheeks from the left and distracting her at once. Draco Malfoy, with his snow white skin and icy eyes, looked miserable as ever as he turned his attention swiftly away from her on sight. Try as he might, there was no hiding the look of mild frustration that seemed to reside on the curvatures of those high cheekbones and bent lips. The girl’s eyes narrowed with contemplation as she turned her head slowly away from the boy, at which point the fresh face at Hogwarts, Professor Slughorn, came waddling out of his supply cabinet. He wore a cheshire-like smile as he beamed at the young faces before him, and his sparkling eyes did a double take when they fell on Y/N.

“My my,” he seemed to gasp, “I know that face!”

The girl’s stare went flickering confusedly over to Cedric on instinct, and she found he was looking questioningly right back at her with those huge, kind eyes.

“M-me?” she stammered, her brows knitting.

“Why of course, miss Y/L/N, daughter of Y/M/F/N Y/M/L/N,” he scoffed, waving his hand through the air as he went teetering over to her.

“You knew my mother?” the girl asked, quite aware that all eyes were currently on her.

“Yes of course,” he babbled, making a detour to a nearby shelf, upon which were dozens of golden framed photos. “Brilliant witch, and the most beautiful spirit,” he muttered joyously, bringing one of the pictures along with him.

The girl’s heart sunk as she realized what the picture frame contained; a photo of her mother and father beside a notably younger Professor Slughorn. The three of them wore huge white grins as they waved giddily at their picture’s taker. As the photo began its magically induced re-loop, she found her throat closing up with hurt. Slughorn barely noticed, as he was too busy using his thumb to brush off the particles of dust that coated the frame’s edges. He spoke more to himself, as he continued.

“You look so much like them, you know. And your father, he was one of the great’s, too.”

There was no stopping the sudden flush of red to her cheeks, “my father was a terrible man who sold himself over to Lord Voldemort.”

Her classmates flinched backwards at the name, all except Draco, it seemed.

“Yes,” her teacher nodded, raising his gentle gaze to her, “and great he was, ever the same.”

She felt her heart pounding hard against her chest as she looked back at the professor, understanding his point but disliking it nonetheless. His next words, however, redeemed him.

“No matter. I already know by the yellow of your robes and the fierceness in your eyes that you’re all your mother’s.”

It was true. Her mother had been a Hufflepuff, like her, and the girl had been told many a time of her ferocity. Being that she admired her so, the girl had no doubtedly been relieved to have been sorted into her mother’s house her first year at Hogwarts, and to wear her yellow colors proudly, as opposed to her father’s emerald ones. And her ferocity? Well, that was something she actively sought to portray, something she wanted the world to remember.

“Anyways,” Slughorn’s voice interjected her thoughts, “I am sure I will be seeing more of you, but enough chatter for now, we have work to do!”

As the class all clamored in reaching for their books, she couldn’t help but to feel a lingering weight on her chest. Keeping her eyes steadily forward, she denied the oncoming glance of her friend beside her, and chose instead to hold her teeth tight together, so hard it hurt. The sound of Cedric’s voice came swimming into her ears slowly as she regained focus.

“....amortentia,” he explained, “the strongest love potion in the world.”

“Correct, my boy!” Slughorn exclaimed. “And what else?”

The girl’s eyes settled on the cauldron they discussed, the one that seemed to lure her close. A curl of attractive pink steam danced from the potion’s surface, and it smelled of rain, chamomile, and something else. Was it a cologne of some sort? No, no it was almost minty. But then there was the cologne again. Perhaps it was actually both, she realized. Either way, it was indistinguishable to her.

“Amortentia smells different to each person, Cedric was continuing, “its scent changes according to what attracts a person. For example, I smell grass, and honey, and-”

The boy seemed to go suddenly still, like a thought had gotten glued to his tongue.

“Lavender,” he finished ever so quietly, his face going suddenly very red as he turned his nose to the table.

There was just a second's hesitation before the girl realized what it was exactly that had him flustered, and she soon found her own face burning up as she moved her eyes glossily away from her friend. Nobody in the classroom understood the implications of his last word, of course, though it certainly didn’t prevent a series of giggles from onlooking girls in the class, who batted their lashes at Cedric. Dismissively, the girl scanned her surroundings, surprising herself when her eyes came to a halt. On the opposite side of the dungeon, Draco Malfoy’s snow white skin had gone, for whatever reason, warm with pink. His big eyes were on Cedric first, and then Y/N. When he caught her looking he frustratedly let out a grumble and turned his nose into his potions book, which he now suddenly seemed very interested in. Next to her, Cedric did the same thing.

“This, however,” Slughorn said, moving swiftly along, “is far more valuable.”

The professor lifted a tiny vial into the air. Within its glass was a gleaming gold fluid that swished merrily around.

“Felix Felicis,” he beamed.

“Liquid luck,” Cedirc echoed, earning himself an appreciative nod from the professor.

“It shall be awarded to the student who can most perfectly produce an acceptable Draught of Living Death,” Slughorn challenged. “Though I shall point out, however, that only once did a student produce a potion of sufficient quality to claim this prize.”

All eyes were on Slughorn, now. Most notably, Draco’s seemed to gleam with want. The girl knew exactly what she wanted the little vial for, of course. With quidditch tryouts just around the corner and her confidence practically underground, the potion was just the thing she needed to do the trick. And so, for the next hour or so, she and her classmates slaved tirelessly over their cauldrons. Unsurprisingly, she wasn’t all too successful (her potion was a sickly green color), but it seemed nobody else was, either. Likely the only student to get even a little close to the potion’s desired results was Cedric, who earned quite the eye of appreciation from Slughorn for both his skill and charm. Close as he was, nobody seemed to produce a viable enough draught to earn the glittering vial, which Slughorn assured them all was to be expected.

“We shall have to see if one of the Gryffindor or Ravenclaw students beat you to it!” he chortled at the end of their lessons.

As the students all began their miserable shuffle out of the room, the professor called out to Y/N and Cedric, beckoning them over. As the girl dragged her feet back towards the little round man she sped hastily past Draco Malfoy, her quick stare earning her a frazzled glance from the boy, rather than his standard disgusted ice blue daggers. She cleared her throat and pressed on, stopping at the front of Slughorn’s classroom.

“I’m having a bit of a student-teacher social at the end of the week,” he said excitedly. “I do hope the two of you will join me?”

Well, that had been unexpected. The intent seemed obvious, of course, but strange. Apparently the professor was picking favorites and not being all too shy about it. Cedric agreed jovially, of course, while the girl followed his acceptance with a slightly more begrudging nod and tilt of her lips. Her mind was preoccupied with enough things as it was. For starters, there was the night before, and then there was the amortentia induced confusion, the loss of her much needed liquid luck, and now this. As she made way into the halls, Cedric opened his mouth to speak to her, for the first time that day, she realized.

“The Slug Club,” he sniggered, “funny, right?”

“For you, sure,” she said dismissively, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her robes.

“What’s that mean then?” the boy arched a perfect brow at her, but she paid no attention.

“It means you’ve actually got something to offer,” she shrugged. “Me? I’ve just got some dead parents in a photo frame.”

“Don’t say that,” Cedric snapped in her defense.

She just kept walking.

“Hey.”

A firm and large hand came to her shoulder, stopping the girl.

Cedric towered over her, looking infuriatingly handsome under the still-summer sun. He chuckled weakley at her, his cheeks erupting with little dimples.

“Sick of you underselling yourself,” he half laughed half sighed, tilting his head at her.

“Ced,” the girl grumbled with embarrassment as students passed them, unable to hold his ocean eyes to her own.

“You’re incredible, I mean it!” he raised his voice and gave her a little squeeze, making her all the more flustered. “If you don’t believe it, then don’t go to Slug’s little mixer.”

“Oka-” she started.

“And neither will I!” he flashed his white teeth attractively as he cut her off.

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” she snorted, unable to resist his foolery.

“So you’ll go?” the bronze skinned boy perked up, picking up his pace as the girl now struggled to get farther away from her increasingly supportive friend.

“Wear something ridiculous and I’ll consider it!” she called over her shoulder as she hurried towards the courtyard.

Cedric had two thumbs high in the air when she turned, “I was planning on it!”

The girl laughed. It seemed all was back to normal.

That was, for about all of two seconds. For no sooner had the girl entered the courtyard than had a piece of paper come fluttering through the blue sheets of the sky and right towards her. The paper had been folded neatly, shaped like a little bird. If it hadn’t hit her smack in the nose, she may not have even realized what it was. The girl gasped in surprise and caught the parchment swiftly between her nimble fingers, unfolding its crumpled exterior in her opened palm whilst sporting a look of utter confusion.

The words had been written in a dark green ink, the same color as the fir trees in the Forbidden Forest, or at depths of the Great Lake.

𝐿𝒾𝒷𝓇𝒶𝓇𝓎. 𝟪𝓅𝓂. - 𝑀

The girl snapped her eyes up. Across from her, a little ways away, Hermione entered the courtyard. Her hair was bushy and curly as ever, her brown eyes wide with curiosity as she looked first to the girl and then to the paper in her hands. Frantically, the girl stepped herself into little circles, looking for the adressor of her note. M? For a moment it had confused her, and then, when the answer surfaced in her mind, she had only found herself all the more confused. What on earth could Draco Malfoy want with her? Had he not made it blatantly obvious the night before that the answer to that question was nothing whatsoever?

Her eyes darted around the faces of students in the vicinity, some walking in chattered huddles, others fountainside enjoying their time basking under the golden sunlight, and more yet flooding to and from the exposed halls. But Draco Malfoy was nowhere to be seen.

“Well, what is it?” Hermione asked, meeting Y/N in the centre of the cobblestone clearing.

She extended an arm, offering her friend a sandwich stuffed with greens.

It had been their tradition to meet during their occasional breaks for years now, the two frequenting the courtyard for chats during the few minutes of peace they could acquire. Hermione escorted the girl to a vacant stone bench nearby, the two girls sitting down upon its flat cold surface. The girl folded her legs up onto the platform and stuffed the parchment into the folds of her robes as she cracked open a chilled pumpkin juice.

“Nothing,” she lied unconvincingly, taking a big chomp out of her sandwich and chasing it shortly after with a swig of pumpkin juice.

Hermione had one hand in a bag of salted chips, which she abandoned without hesitation to go snatching at the girl, who bent swiftly out of her friend’s way.

“Hey!” the girl sniggered, batting away Hermione’s advances.

“You’re an awful liar, you know?” Hermione scrunched her nose with a curious smirk.

The girl stared widely at her friend, giving her a ‘well-you’re-not-wrong’ look as she reluctantly leaned in closer, her voice dropping.

“Draco wants me to meet up with him,” she whispered, like the whole school would implode if anyone were to hear her. “Tonight, in the library.”

“Oh Y/N,” Hermione frowned thoughtfully, “you know you really shouldn’t.”

“And why not?” the girl leaned back.

She tilted her chin up towards the glowing sun and enjoyed the freshening of the warm day’s breeze. The wind rustled around her, making strands of her hair dance against its gentle flow. Around her, birds chortled in conversation, and the nearby fountain gurgled out gigantic spurts of clear water.

After giving herself a moment to think, Hermione responded, “there’s only trouble headed that way.”

The girl opened one eye to look at her concerned friend, “and how would you know that? You’re the one who said he’s not even a death eater.”

“Well, yes-” Hermione began with mild frustration. “But death eater or not, he can’t be trusted.”

She wasn’t wrong.

As much as she didn’t want to hear it, her friend had a point. Draco Malfoy had done little the last five years of their lives other than torment the two of them, as well as his nemesis, and her friend, Harry Potter. But the adrenaline that came with investigating her curiosity of the snow-white boy was on a ravaging incline, and nothing was going to stop her.

She didn’t need to say the words for Hermione to know, just by looking at her face.

“Just, be careful,” her friend advised with a defeated sigh.

“O’course,” she answered with a wink.

Hermione relaxed her shoulders, “you sound just like Harry, you know? He hasn’t given up on his little theory of his. What d’you think he’d say about this?”

The girl blinked dumbly at Hermione. She always did know exactly what to say.

“Dunno,” she stretched out her legs, “which is why you’re not to say anything of it to him. Or Cedric.”

“Cedric?” Hermione asked.

“I dunno,” she waved a hand through the air, “he wouldn’t like it. And it could come up some point at Slug’s event.”

“What?” Hermione asked, confused as ever.

The girl finished off her snacks before continuing.

“Slughorn has a little favorites club, and he’s throwing us all a get together of some sort this weekend.”

“And why would I be there?” Hermione raised a quizzical brow.

“Because,” she beamed, “you’re Hermione Granger. And you’re smarter than most all of us students combined.”

Hermione’s ears reddened as she gave her friend a little smile.

“I’m headed there next,” Hermione dismissed her friend’s comment bashfully.

“Good,” the girl said, gathering her belongings. “Tell the boys I say hello, will you? And good luck with your draught.”

“My what?” Hermione voiced.

The girl laughed secretively as she turned, raising a finger to her lips as she grinned at her ever bewildered friend.

. . .

She’d almost tripped on her toes rushing out of the Great Hall that night. Feeling too nervous to eat, the girl had managed only a few bites of dinner before abandoning her golden platter entirely. She had felt a little ridiculous for feeling nervous, really, but how could she help it? Across the hall there had been an empty seat where Draco usually sat beside Crabbe, Goyle, and his other goons. Whether he was already at the library or off wandering corridors again she had no idea. Over at the Gryffindor table, Harry had yelled out the girl’s name, gaining her attention for enough time for him to raise into the air a little vial. Realizing the contents of his container was none other than the Felix Felicis, she’d mouthed back a “what the hell!?” to the boy-who-lived and an incredibly grumpy Hermione who sat beside him. On her right, Cedric and her friends were growing increasingly aware of the girl’s out of the ordinary manner. Tense, the girl had cleared her throat, claiming she needed to obtain a Herbology book, and flown away from her spot, under the glittering floating flames, and out of the Hall.

Her mind was thick with fog as she dragged her feet around corridor corners before reaching the Library. The girl entered slowly, her eyes making way over the massive room and its many oak framed shelves that touched the dome like ceiling with their tops. It was quiet, unsurprisingly. Few students were concerned with study at approximately eight o’clock on one of the first nights of the school year. Still, just to be safe the girl had made her way into the darker and mustier back corner of the Library, where there was minimal lighting aside from a few hovering gas lights. Only a few students inhabited the area nearby, but they were uninterested as the girl passed cooly by them and approached the nook space crammed between the two back shelves. As Draco had been nowhere in sight, she’d gone looking at the books, her fingers skimming their dusty spines slowly as she read their titles. It seemed, mostly, that they were on healing based learning.

The girl extended a hand, gently wiggling out a black leather book on charms out of boredom and almost dropping it entirely when she caught sight of a set of blue-grey eyes staring back at her from the other side of the bookshelf. She’d released a little yelpish gasp, drawing the attention of nearby students.

Draco’s hair was slicked smoothly back, not one hair out of place on his head. His lips were set hard with seriousness, his startling bright eyes holding a similar sense of firmness in them. The lamplight casted shadows over every detail of his perfectly carved face. The boy cleared his throat and turned away from the girl, speaking his almost inaudible words into the yellowed pages of the book he held rather than to her.

“Hello,” was all he said.

Oddly it seemed like that took a lot out of him.

She’d stared at him for a few seconds in bewilderment before mimicking his action and turning her own nose into her charms book. The pages had spilled open onto an enchantment for serious wound healing injuries.

“Still refuse to be seen talking to me then?” she worded flatly back.

Draco lifted his piercing gaze momentarily to hers, his lips curled downwards with upset before he resumed his idle stare of his book’s text.

“It’s for the best,” he uttered. “For you, too.”

Nearby, a few lower year hufflepuff students had raised their heads, but sunk them back into their studies when nothing seemed to happen. The girl waited for their looks to pass before replying.

“Alright,” she admitted half heartedly.

Not knowing what else to say, she stayed quiet. Apparently, Draco was having a similar internal struggle. There was a good half of a minute of utter stillness between them, the only sound being that of the rustling of nearby papers. As far as she was concerned, this was in the boy’s hands entirely. She’d reached out last time, only to be shortly stomped out like a fly. Now, if he wanted to do the talking, she would let him do the talking. All of it.

She lifted her eyes. He was already there, his huge ones glimmering back at her. They were flickering left and right over her stare, like he was trying to read her from the outside in. Feeling the pressure of his gaze, she turned back to her healing enchantment. Draco edged his way closer, leaning his shoulder against the shelves. He raised a hand to his ear, using his long fingers to fidget nervously against his cheeks.

“Was it Potter who told you?” Draco whispered at last.

“Told me what?” she said without addressing him.

Now it seemed like he wanted her to look, but she didn’t give him the satisfaction.

“Was it him? Was it him who told you to keep tabs on me?” he mouthed with a twinge of frustration.

The girl felt her body go hot with rage, and she made no effort of concealing the bitterness in her sour toned reply.

“Bold of you to assume anyone would care enough to ask me to keep tabs on you, don’t you reckon?”

His eyes were on her again. This time they were upset. She didn’t care.

“And anyways,” she pressed on, “are you insinuating that it would’ve worked? That I would be willing to play someone’s puppet to spy on you, and that you, Draco Malfoy, would have let me?”

Draco’s white skin paled further, his lower lip trembling as he prepared his response and leaned close into the bookshelf that separated them. He said his next words slowly, his reply coming slow and sharp like a pointed blade making a clear entrance through flesh, “where am I now?”

Her beating heart went still in her chest, her aggravated demeanor regressing into something softer instantaneously. The implication behind his words sunk into her skin and electrified her blood.

Where am I now?

She just stared at him. The look in his eyes was like one she’d never seen before. It was genuine. Genuine and raw. And pleading, almost.

His words swam fast laps around her mind, making her dizzy. Unable to process whatever emotion it was that had crawled its way from his lips and into her, she rejected it.

The girl slammed her charms book shut abruptly, making heads turn. Draco flinched back in surprise as the girl made her not so discreet march around the shelves and towards him. He moved smoothly in reply, his shoulder lifting from its slump as he stood straight and tall, his white brows knitted against the creases of his forehead. There was a hot fire roaring in her chest and she had no intention of quelling it as she planted her feet firm before him, tilting her chin up so that she could reach the view of those alarmed grey eyes.

“For your information,” she hissed between her teeth, “nobody told me to because I told myself to. I saw something different in you. Me.”

Draco clenched his jaw, hard. So hard she could see its pulse against the lower curvatures of his face. He wore the look of a wounded animal, plus a sort of sneer.

“Why?” he leaned closer, the word like salt on his tongue as he towered over her. “Hm?” his voice inclined in challenge.

They’d never been this close before, and it was terrifying. But the shockwave of about ten different emotions had slapped the girl up and she’d decidedly chosen to ride its high.

“Funny,” she felt her own teeth grind roughly against each other, “I was just asking myself the same thing.”

He was hurt by her words, she knew that much. But rather than show it he simply receded as would be expected, turning instead to rage. His eyes narrowed with distaste as he scoffed and spat his reply with a shake of his head.

“Tell Potter to try again.”

“You’re a fool,” she retorted.

“Am I?” he snapped back. “It’s not me who's got a moron and a mudblood for a best friend is it?”

They weren’t all too discreet now. Eyes from all across the library watched as the two had their less than silent quarrel. The girl, practically alight in flames, stared daggers into Malfoy, who stood smug over her and had sunk his long ring-clad fingers into the emerald green folds of his robe. He gave her a sour smile, the sickly kind of lopsided one that a bully would, and leaned down so that their eyes were level.

“Nothing else to say?” he dared.

That’s when it occurred to her. That’s when she’d noticed. Being as close as they were, Malfoy’s aroma had hit her nostrils hard, and the dark cologne and fresh mint that wafted from his slender frame went first to her lungs, then her brain, then her heart. She knew that smell. She’d recognized it from earlier in the day when it had wafted forth from the amortentia. The realization shocked her into a stillness that made her face drop and pulse pause. How it could be that the boy she loathed beyond measure could have such an effect on her? She was unsure, but it had sent her mind spiralling into all kinds of oblivion.

Draco seemed to notice, his brows lowering just a little, his tone softening ever so slightly, “well?”

Her heart had fired back up, now galloping in her chest as she sucked in a sharp breath and let out a pathetic wordless stutter.

“I- I have to go,” she mumbled, her fingers trembling as she clutched the leather bound charms book tight to her chest.

Draco looked disappointed. Maybe because he cared. Or maybe just because he enjoyed a good fight. Either way, the question was left unanswered as he regained his composure, aligning his shoulder stiffly upright and letting his mouth hang slightly upon in wordless confusion as the girl practically bolted out of sight in a flash of black and gold. He stood there, sitting in the silence as the eyes around him went slowly back to their papers. But he just continued to stand there, even a minute later, and a few minutes after that. Many minutes later, finally, he made his slow and quiet descent out of the library.

. . .

Outside, the girl had flown down corridors and up stairs, her boots chasing the beat of her racing heart. Her smooth hair whipped fast around her eyes, which burned a light crimson and stung her lightly. The events of the last few minutes were playing in her mind like tapes as she went, over and over. And they would continue to do so long into the night. For hours after disappearing up to bed she’d lain on her back and just stared holes into the high ceilings while she thought. It had reached the early hours of the morning when she’d decided; if Draco Malfoy wanted to be taken down so badly, maybe she would be the one to do it after all.

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aesthbaby · 3 years

Text

Attention pt. 2

Summary: After being the unsub’s latest victim in a joint case with the BAU, you see what was missing. Nothing’s ever been clearer and all it took was being rendered unconscious by an unsub in front of your girlfriend and her entire team.

Pairing: Emily Prentiss x Plus!size reader

Prompt: Check part one

Warnings: cursing | kissing | injury | mentions of a fictional case | poisoning

Word count: 2719

Masterlist

An: I’m pretty sure you can read this as a stand alone if you wanted to but here’s part one. Also, I’m sorry this took me 2 months to publish.

The moon is brighter than the sun? No I’m pretty sure the sun is. What’s wrong with me? Why does my head hurt?

You attempt to reach for your head but your arms are too heavy to be of any use.

That’s definitely not the moon.

The light source is moving. It’s a flashlight, the pocket sized one.

“Stay with us.” You hear a jumble voice from behind but can’t make out who it is. “We’re almost there.” The light is too bright but you can’t bring yourself to say anything. It hurts. “No, no stay up. We’re almost there.” It’s Emily, and she’s the source of the blinding presence. “Can you sit up for me?” You’re saying yes but nothing seems to come out and all you feel is fatigue. Your body is leaving this earth.

And there she is, yelling your name as its being drowned out by the darkness that’s enveloping you.

~~~~~~~~

“Hey!” Emily shouts from the stairs. “Stop day-dreaming and help me.”

“Help you? What’s going on?” The ground feels unsteady but the scene looks familiar.

Emily sets the box of towels on the counter top. “What?”

“Where am I?” You start to examine your hands, wondering what in the holy hell is happening.

“Babe,” The nickname gets your attention immediately. “Are you okay?”

“Emily,” She places a hand on your forehead.

“No fever.”

“Emily, I’ve already done this.”

“What do you mean?” She laughs. “We’ve been at this for hours. You have may more stuff than you let on. Plus, if we’ve ‘already done this’ I wouldn’t have had to tote all of these boxes by myself.”

A ‘sorry’ almost rolls off your tongue but it doesn’t make a sound. “No, Em I’m being serious.”

She plops down on the white arm chair and let’s out a huff. “Fine, you got me.” At your confused expression, she continues. “We’ve been here before, atleast you have. Three months ago you moved into this apartment with the love of your life, Emily Prentiss.”

Barely managing a stutter, “You’re not Emily?”

“Yes. Well, not exactly. I’m your version of her.”

“Am I-” You swallow the lump in your throat before saying the next part. “Dead?”

“What?” She smiles. “No. Just sleeping. A deep sleep at that.” She mumbles the last part.

“What happened? Why am I here?” You Can feel the panic and dread starting to set in. “I want Emily. I don’t want to be here.”

“Woah.” The brunette stands from her seat. “Calm down, you’re okay. Just take it easy.”

“Easy?” Now the anger is starting to boil. “I’m in a fucking coma with a fake girlfriend and you’re telling me to ‘take it easy??”

“Hey, look at me.” When you don’t move to look at her she gently takes your head. “You’re not in a coma y/n/n. You’re just sleeping.”

A tear starts to wellup in your eye. “But what does that mean?”

“Do you remember why you went to work with me today?”

“Uh,” You trail. “I think it was for a case.”

“Right, but why were you there?”

“Emily mentioned me to Hotch a year ago, about how good of an agent I am. That was before we were together.”

“Right,” She nods while doing that lip biting thing. “But why?”

“What the fuck do you mean ‘why?’ I don’t know why.” You begin to pace the shared loft. “I thought she was just putting in a good word for me.”

“Y/n, you know there’s more to it than that.”

You stop your movement and turn to face her. “Then tell me, you know!”

“No I don’t. I told you in not really her; I’m your version of her. I only know as much as you know.”

You slowly sink down on the plush couch. “I want Emily. I want the real Emily.”

“Then go to her.” She sits beside you and lays a gentle hand on your knee.

“How? I don’t even know why I’m here or what’s going on with me. I just want to go home.” The tears are staring again but not falling.

“Yes you do. Come with me.” She stands and holds out a pale palm to you. Hesitantly taking it, she leads you to your bedroom door. “Are you ready?” As soon as she sees you nod she opens the door and a bright light pulls you both in.

“Em, where are we?” In front of you is the bed to which you’ve been sharing for months now. On it is Emily in one of your big t-shirts on the phone with someone. “Wha-”

“Wait,” Your artificial Emily whispers.

The closet door opens and you step out in the new pajamas she bought you. “You look good.” She smiles with the phone away from her ear.

“Who is that?” You mouth as you crawl into bed with her.

“Hotch.” The classic toothy smile is on display as she replies. “Yes! Sir— I’m sorry but I- no we do not. Okay thank you.”

“What was that?”

“Hotch was asking for my input on the new trainees.”

“And....?”

“I did a thing.” She drags.

“A thing?” You arch your eyebrow.

“Yes.” She moves to straddle your lap.

“What was it?” Her lips on your neck completely scrambles your brain. Effectively making you forget what you were asking.

“What is this? I barely remember it.” You turn to face your rendition of Emily. All you get is a shrug in reply from her. “She wasn’t actually talking about trainees, was she?” Another shrug. “I’ll take that as a no. Was she talking about the poisoning case?” Silence. “She recommended my department to help with the murders.”

“Finally, but you still don’t know why.”

“Do I need to? Why does it actually matter.”

“Come on babe,” She brushes a hand down your arm. “I know you’re smarter than this.”

“Since when do you call me ‘babe?”

“We’ve been over this, I’m not Emily. I’m your version of Emily and apparently you subconsciously wish she’d call you more pet names.”

I’ve never thought of it like that...

“I want to show you something else,” She gestures to the bathroom. “Pay attention this time.” As she leads you through the door you can hear your past self speaking.

“She told me I have a weight problem with a god complex intertwined.” You huff from the bathroom mirror.

“Who?” Em is sitting on the edge of the bath moisturizing.

“That bitch I work with!”

“The same one who asked if Africa was a country?” She scrunches her face up in a disgusted twist.

“Yes! Who says that to someone?”

“Yeah how did she get into the academy anyway?”

“Privilege, both Pretty and Rich.”

She lets out a scuff. “That cannot be real.” You turn to her with a confused look. “Pretty privilege.”

“It’s very real and you clearly have it.”

The brunette stops dead in her tracks. “What?”

“You’re gorgeous Em, and you have been appointed more opportunities for it.”

“I’d like to think differently....” she trails.

“I’m not saying you haven’t worked hard to get where you are today but your looks have pushed you a bit further than the rest of us.”

She’s silent for a bit, to the point where you start to worry that you’ve done something wrong. “Then what does that make you?”

You place your towel on the rack and turn to face her again. “What do you mean?”

“You have the looks, charm, and brains. Do you consider yourself to be ‘privileged?”

Completely bipassing the question, “You think I’m pretty?”

“Was that not obvious before? I practically drool whenever I look at you.” She’s as sincere as always but your eye rolls says you don’t believe her. “I know how you can get trapped inside your head sometimes, but I want you to know that I do not share the opinions you have of yourself. You look at yourself and dismiss your beauty while I embrace it. You’re always doubting your intellect when I find myself wondering how I got so lucky to fall in love with a female version of Spencer.” Your small smile morphs into a laugh at the Spencer mention.

“I can’t stand it when you go all soft on me.” Hearing Emily say stuff like this always surprises you because she’s not really the type of person to confess all of this first. It’s usually you who has to adress your emotions as a couple.

“Only for you.” She leans up and plants a kiss on your cheek.

As the memory fades you turn to the consciousness you’ve been talking to. “Shit.”

“Yup.” She draws.

“The reason she didn’t see my connection to the victims is because she doesn’t see that side of. She doesn’t see me as her ‘Plus-Sized Girlfriend.’ She only sees me as her girlfriend, no other labels attached.”

“So, you get it? Do understand why?”

“I get it now.” A tear teeters on the edge of your eyelid. “Yeah, I get it.”

She snakes an arm around you, effectively pulling you into a tight hug. “Are you ready now?” She even smells like your Emily, the memory making the tear fall from your eye. “Remember what I showed you, okay?” Before you can respond a warm light envelopes you.

It makes sense now, she recommended me for the case because of my abilities, no because we’re together or she wanted me to get ahead. She has a blind spot that’s blocking a good chunk of her perception of me. She couldn’t have known I would’ve been targeted. The unsub could’ve been watching me way before I got involved. There’s still a bunch of holes in the case but this is the best you’ve got. Please remember all of this before you wake up.

Your eyes are heavy again. The room feels cold but warm at the same time. Trying to peak out of one eye proves more difficult than it seems. The blinding light of the room is overwhelming, it’s like white ice. Now I’m not making sense. You try to cry out for someone, anyone, but the words die off on your dry lips before they can formulate. “Hey,” You hear a voice softy call from the other side of the room. A tender hand plants itself on your knee, making you flinch a bit. “Glad to see you awake.” Why do I know that voice? In front of your barely open eye is a blonde blob; as your eyes began to focus you realize it’s Jennifer.

As you try to master a hey all that comes out is a low croak. “Its okay, don’t try to speak just yet.” Everything in your head feels fuzzy but the only thing you’re able to think about is Emily. A hum that barely resembles an ‘M’ boils out your vocal cords.

“Emily?” She clarifies on your behalf. A small smile breaches your features. “I’ll go get her and the doctor.” No less that a minute later you can hear her healed boots tapping towards the room. She rushes to your side, planting kisses along your forehead. The doctor does her round of intake on your body with Emily glued to your side.

“Agent y/l/n should make a full recovery so long as the healing process goes as planned.” Was all you managed to absorb as she explained the aftercare plan for you. All of this while JJ is in the background putting the pieces together. She had a feeling Emily was seeing someone but had no idea that someone was you. The way she’d been acting since you collapsed in the office made her also connect the dots. Emily explained her concerned behavior as a long friendship you two once had. Everything was starting to make sense now; you’re the one person who could break Emily’s walls and tear down this compartmentalization bullshit she has going on. Not wanting to impede on what she can only assume is a private moment, she steps out of the room to inform the rest of the team.

“Are you okay?” It’s like she wants to cry, scream, ball her eyes out but all of that built up emotional strain won’t allow her. Instead of letting her do this to herself, you try your best to shift in the bed. “What are you doing?” You didn’t get very far but now there’s an empty space beside you. Motioning for her to lay next to you actually works. With both of you in the annoying small hospital bed you can hold her closer, feeling the quick heart beat. The brunette head of hair in nuzzled in your chest so not to interfere with the tubes and wires still attached to you.

Taking a deep breath and just enjoying the moment, you finally speak. “I’m okay. I mean I feel like I swallowed sandpaper but I’m okay.” You can almost feel the sigh release from her chest.

“We still have no idea how you were poisoned or why you were targeted.” Her jaded voice is always never this emotional, it’s strange to hear her so vulnerable. “For the smartest minds of the FBI we feel a little stupid.” The laugh the bounces around in your throat is painful, still welcomed. “Baby,” She starts after a moment of silence. “If I have realized the connection between you and the victims, I wouldn’t have let you work this.”

“You didn’t know,” You have no idea where this is coming from but something in the back of your mind is telling you to explain it to her. “You don’t see all of me, Em.”

She sniffles and buried herself deeper into you. “When I look at you, all I see is you. I don’t see your weight or your figure, I only see you. My girlfriend. You’re right, that’s the problem. I’m only seeing part of you. Not all of you. I don’t deserve you.” She moves to stand but you quickly pull her back in before she gets the chance.

“You can’t run from this, Emily. I understand that you didn’t do this intentionally.”

“My actions- blindness almost costed you your life. I can’t put you in danger again.” When she pulls away you let her go this time.

“Emily. You’ve ran away from your own shadow before, aren’t you tired?”

“If it means keeping you safe, I’ll file a fucking restraining order!” She nearly yells.

“Don’t do that. Everytime you fuck up you get that look in your eye like I’m going to break up with you or something. I’m not. I know you’re waiting on the other shoe to drop but I promise it’s not. All of those other guys you’ve been with? I’m not them. Big difference is that I’m female and a lot more mature. I’m also not as psychotic as he who shall not be named.” A small smile breaches her features. “I love you. Rather you like it or not, you’re stuck with me.”

“Oh really? Wait until Garcia finds out I’ve been hiding this from her. She’s going to wanna know all about you. You’ll definitely be invited to the next girls night.”

“I don’t mind.” You shrug. “But seriously, how did I get poisoned?”

“The forensic team is still searching our place, nothing yet but you know they like to take their sweet time with cases. I’ve obviously be recused from the case while the rest of the team works with the CDC and the Anti-terrorism division. We also have agents and Unis posted outside the room and hospital so the Unsub has no chance of coming after you again. Even an added air filter so he has no vent system.” She waves towards the attachment on top of the existing air vent. No wonder the air smells so crisp in here.

“Sounds like I’m in good hands.”

“You are, just wish I could be out there with them.”

“You’re right where you need to be, right where I need you.” You stretch your arms out to her like the way a child does.

She laughs at the gesture but complies. Instead of squishing into the small bed she drags the chair to the side of your bed, firmly clasping your hand in her’s.

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keelywolfe · 3 years

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FIC: Keep Breathing (standalone)

Summary: Edge can handle this. He can. All he has to do is keep breathing.

Notes: I forget where I saw it, on twitter or discord, about Edge being unable to understand what he felt when he saw Stretch. This is what sort of evolved from it.

Tags: Spicyhoney, Papcest, Angst, Feels, LV Trauma, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Relationship, Canon-Typical Violence

~~~~

Read it on AO3

Read it here!

~~*~~

Breathing, that was what was important. In, out, deep, slow breaths. It took a few before the icy Snowdin air seemed to help smother the fire currently burning in his chest. Edge kept it up, slow breaths, in and out, and he didn’t have lungs, but he still needed air, his magic greedily incorporating the oxygen as the sense of smothering he’d felt in the Swap brothers’ house faded.

His bones felt hot and achy, the snow beneath him melting and soaking into his trousers as he sat curled up on the ground behind the house, out of view of any passersby on the streets. Not far away he could hear the crunch of footsteps and words blurred by distance, pedestrians heading to the shops or perhaps Muffet’s for a treat. Their laughter was clearer, unknowing that he was close by and listening, and Edge buried his face into his updrawn knees and did not wonder at what they might think if they saw him here, if their concern would turn to fear with a simple Check.

It was rare that he made such a foolish mistake. If his brother’s lessons hadn’t taught him caution, then life in Underfell certainly had. One was cautious or one was dead, there was little room for error. Although foolish was far too sedate a word for this. Insanity might be closer, to come here to this softer world with his LV still sizzling in his soul. He’d thought it was safe, that it had settled enough or perhaps wished it so desperately to be true that he’d convinced himself it was.

He should have known better.

Bounty hunters were supposed to restrain themselves to the deeper parts of Snowdin woods where no one lived, only existed, those who lumbered about with their minds lost to their LV. Supposed to, but anyone willing to bounty usually had high LV themselves and the irony that they would probably become what they hunted in the end was not often lost on them. When they were teetering between hunter and hunted, anyone unlucky enough to cross their path could be the one to set them off and send them over the brink. Edge’s luck had been especially poor today to come across a hunting pair while checking the traplines and if he’d been only slightly slower, a fraction less dedicated to his training, he would have simply been more dust added to their growing pile.

He hadn’t killed them, though it had been a near thing. Only taken them down to one HP and left them panting in the snow to either drag themselves away to try healing or perhaps finish each other off. Either way, they were likely as good as dead, but he refused to take them over the line. His own LV was already high enough, he shuddered to think of the amount of XP that would come from killing a hunter, much less two. He hadn’t stayed to see which option they chose, only hurried back to Snowdin proper without trying to seem as if he was hurrying. The walk had seemed endless, fraught with peril as anyone who dared check him would find him vulnerable. No one did, their ingrained wariness of the guard keeping them from trying their chances.

He’d arrived home with no fresh XP, but his soul still felt as if it were lit on fire from deep within, crying greedily for more. He likened it to a voice in the back of his skull, one that grew louder with every LV up and made cold demands for more payment in dust. He’d learned to ignore it, mostly, except for these moments when his soul felt as if it was swelling in his ribcage, hovering hot and bloated in his chest, and wresting control back seemed to take longer every time.

He should have called Blue then to cancel their cooking lesson, offered his regrets and made plans for another day. He should have and hadn’t, selfishly telling himself that he had it under control because he hadn’t wanted to cancel. He’d wanted to come to their shared cooking lessons, wanted to be here in this world with its abundant supplies and residents that walked the streets easily without having to peer out their front doors before stepping out into crisp air that didn’t taste of bitter, lingering dust. The same air he was so desperately inhaling now.

Tacos were the order of the day, a simple dish with a thousand variations. He’d been helping Blue chop up the brisket that’d already spent the day roasting slowly in the oven and he'd absently reached for a scrap of gristle that would otherwise be heading to the waste bin, only to have Blue playfully slap his hand away.

"Ah, ah,” he’d laughed, his starry eye lights bright and amused, “you'll spoil your appetite."

And in that one split second, his control broke free of his increasingly tenuous grasp and he'd nearly struck back. He could still see his intention in his mind's eye, to slap this little aggravation out of his way, how dare they lay a hand on him when they should be cowering at his feet, how dare they, how—

He'd reeled it back in almost instantly, but the damage was done, the urge lingering. He wouldn’t allow it control. He couldn’t. Edge turned on his heel and walked out, ignoring Blue's confused calls for him to come back, he was only teasing, Edge…?

He ignored it all, hasty strides taking him out into the cold snow, fleeing as if the hunters were still scrabbling at his heels and not one small, confused skeleton. He’d gone, one hand clawing at the front of his shirt to let in some much-needed cold air and didn’t stop until he was around the house at the back door that led downstairs to the machine. His boots slid in snow hardpacked from so many others walking through it and he’d slipped, falling heavily to the ground. His flight back to Underfell paused as he crawled over to lean against the house and all he could do was heave in long, slow breaths to ease the aching burn in his chest.

Around him, lights were coming from the windows of the other little houses, cutting through the darkness. Artificial dusk had fallen at some point after he’d arrived, and those houses were filled with Monsters who had no idea who was in their midst. Their souls weren’t like his; they were innocent, as pure as Blue’s, and—

Blue.

He’d been so confused, apologizing profusely even without knowing what he was apologizing for. Edge would have to think of something to tell him, some excuse for his poor manners. Better for Blue to think Edge rude than the alternative; that he’d very nearly beaten him bloody in his own kitchen for the tiny sin of teasing. He needed to get and keep control over himself, and right quickly. Any moment now Blue might come looking at him, all innocent, solicitous concern.

He didn’t want Blue to see him right now, didn’t want anyone to see him. But the voice that suddenly came was from no one he’d considered at all.

“you okay?”

Edge whipped around to see Stretch leaning around enough to peer around the corner, his lower half still concealed by the house. One of his ever-present cigarettes was smoldering between two fingers, ash falling from the tip into the snow, so much like dust—

“What the hell do you want?” Edge snarled, his guilt suddenly swirling with the tension Stretch always brought with him. There was something about Stretch that had simply irritated him at first sight, something that he couldn’t put to words. It couldn’t be his lazy ways or his attitude or even his way of dress. Sans was much the same and he didn’t provoke the same reaction. But there was something, something in his enigmatic smile or the cant of his hips that made Edge’s soul stir in a way reminiscent of LV. Like now, fanning the already agitated heat inside him even hotter.

Stretch only shrugged. He’d always taken Edge’s dislike of him in stride, offering the occasional sly insult and little more. “just what it says on the box. are you okay?”

Someone of the science mind might find it interesting that all of them sounded so differently. Papyrus’s voice was surprisingly nasally for someone who had no nose, and Edge’s own ranged into higher pitch, almost a screech at times, and it took considerable effort to keep it to a lower tone. The low rasp of Stretch’s, like velvet polishing marble, was surely a sign of the Universe’s bizarre sense of humor; he didn’t deserve such a voice to use while he snored his life away.

“I’m fine,” Edge said shortly.

“uh huh. fine. you’re always fine, huh. bet your ass you are.” He exhaled smoke through his nasal aperture and it wreathed his face, his cigarette glowed brighter as he took another drag. The glowing ember briefly illuminating his face, giving it an eldritch cast and making his resemblance to Edge even more uncanny than normal. "even when you’re not.”

Did he know what Edge had been thinking? Difficult to say with him, there were times when Edge envied that carelessly bland expression, so difficult to read, even for his own brother.

“Am I supposed to be grateful for your concern?” Edge asked instead. “I see you looking at me. I know what you think of me.”

“yeah?” Stretch said mildly. “you think you got the inside scoop of what’s on my mind?”

Edge closed his mouth hard and turned away. No, no, he didn't and that was part of the problem, wasn't it. He didn’t know what went on in that head, couldn’t begin to guess. He only knew that despite sharing a face, it was nothing like what was in his own.

Stretch finally stepped around the corner entirely, sauntering closer and seeming not to notice Edge’s barely stifled flinch even as he snarled, “Get that filthy thing away from me—"

He trailed away as Stretch tamped out the cigarette on the bottom of his sneaker before he could finish, tucking the remaining butt into his pocket.

Stretch sat down next to him, seemingly equally unperturbed by the snow soaking into his clothes and Edge’s unwelcoming expression. Not touching, but close enough if one want to reach out a hand. Or a fist.

“what am i thinking,” Stretch mused, “hm. tell you what, let me give you a quick rundown. right now, i’m thinking that i wanted to check on you ‘cause you ran out of my house like you were getting chased by a bony bat out of hell. even my little bro’s most creative cooking ain’t that bad. i wanted to make sure you're okay.” He shrugged, an easy roll of shoulders. “that's it, it's not that deep.”

That was untrue. The fact that he came out at all meant something and Edge didn’t understand what. Unless his goal was to keep Blue away, a sensible choice if that were so.

Stretch didn’t wait for him to gather his wandering thoughts. "you think you know what’s on my mind? let me tell you something. you come from the wrong side of the multiverse and shit is rough for you, right? you think i don’t get that? you think that sitting here cushy in my slice of the universe means i don’t get what it’s like for you?” He tipped his head towards Edge, half a smirk lifting the side of his mouth and Edge wondered if he were being mocked. “well, you’re right. i don’t. but only takes one look at your face to guess that.” His hands didn’t seem to know what to do without their usual vice. They rested on his knees, his thumbs rubbing absent circles against the coarse material of his cargo pants. “i don’t know what it’s like to live in your ‘verse and you only think you know what it’s like in mine. we’re that much alike, ain’t we.”

“I have LV.” And you don’t was left unspoken.

“i know. but i’d be the last person to judge you about that.” His smirk twisted into something almost bitter, some humor that Edge couldn’t place. “the very last.” Stretch sighed and climbed to his feet with a groan, pressing both hands into the base of his spine as he arched. He held out a hand and after a moment, Edge took it. his gloved fingers against Stretch’s bare ones. ”come on, my bro’s been working hard on his weird ass tacos. ‘preciate if you could choke down a bite or t—hey!”

His yelp was loud, echoing then lost in the cavern overhead. The moment he was on his feet, Edge pushed Stretch against the house and finally that casual façade cracked, his sockets startled and wide as Edge pinned him against the wall. That hot, heavy feeling in his soul surged again, overwhelming the linger dregs of LV and all Edge wanted was to wipe away that easy smirk, touch the untouchable.

Only that startled expression changed into something else, unexpected and unreadable. “well, now, didn’t know this was already on the menu.”

“What?” Edge only managed that single word before Stretch kissed him, full and hard, right on the mouth. His teeth were already parted and Stretch’s tongue slipped smoothly between them, moving against his own. Edge might have expected the taste of cigarettes and it was there, a little, the slightest taint of ashy nicotine. That taste was quickly swallowed up, engulfed, transmuting into unknown honeyed sweetness and warmth.

Stretch’s hands were resting on Edge’s chest, his bare, bony palms flat against his uniform shirt, bleeding warmth through the cold air around them and it was too fast, too much. Edge jerked back and stared speechlessly into Stretch’s face. His eye sockets were half-closed and within them, lights burned, their normal pale hue tinged with a strange cocktail of orange and blue.

His mouth moved as Edge stared, reforming that lazy smirk before he said, “you wanna go right here or take this up to my room?”

The words made no sense to him, nothing but pointless yammering. Then he realized he still had Stretch pinned against a wall, pressed to him from chest to pelvis.

Oh. He thought Edge wanted sex. He didn’t, that wasn’t why, but the actual reasons were fuzzy now, distorted. Why had he pinned Stretch to the wall? He was no longer certain. That confusing roil in his soul whenever he saw Stretch only surged harder as if straining inside his ribcage, LV only a careless afterthought, drowned out by the taste of sweetness lingering on his tongue. He breathed in hard through his teeth, but the cold air didn’t deaden that tingle, the burn shifting from his soul to his mouth. He didn’t know, he didn’t understand, he couldn’t—

Edge backed off, almost stumbling as he stuttered out, “I…I didn’t…”

That easy sultry expression shifted, Stretch’s gaze narrowing. “no, you didn’t, did you. pity,” he murmured. He dusted himself off as if to sweep away any lingering traces of Edge’s touch, already reaching into his pocket for his lighter and cigarettes. “welp. on we go, then, to dinner and probable indigestion.”

All Edge could do was follow him, noting that his back was infuriatingly dry while Edge could feel his own snow-wet clothes clinging uncomfortable to his bones.

Stretch turned the corner and abruptly stopped, wariness dropping briefly across his face before it smoothed away. Edge didn’t think, pushed in front of him automatically to face whatever threat dared to invade this world and instead found his own brother standing there.

With his slouching stance and his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, some might mistake Red for harmless. It was a mistake few survived and even Edge was wary of that casual menace. Red’s gaze narrowed as he looked at them, crimson eye lights sweeping over them both. He ran his tongue over his teeth, the tip digging into the gold one. “heya, ashtray. whatcha doing out here with my bro?”

The lazy warning was unmistakable, and Edge stiffened, already bracing himself to take the brunt of his brother’s temper. Stretch only stepped around him, flashing that careless smile as he tucked a cigarette into the corner of his mouth. He cupped his hands around the flame of his lighter, breathing out a cloud of smoke as he said, “nothing i wouldn’t do with you.”

“that ain’t much reassurance.”

“heh. wasn’t trying to be.” He strolled on, skirting around Red with an extra sway in his narrow hips as if he was just another obstacle in his path and left Edge to deal with his brother.

The moment he was out of sight, Edge swung around to glare at Red.

It had little effect on his brother, it never had. He only offered his own shrug, the roll of his shoulders infuriatingly similar to Stretch’s. “just makin’ sure you ain’t gonna lose your head, boss.”

Edge narrowed his gaze, hissing out, “I don’t need your help!”

“no?”

The word was soaked in doubt and Edge stormed past him, ignoring whatever else Red said as he went back into the house where Blue was surely waiting. There were apologies to be made and tacos to be eaten. At least whatever it was that Stretch stirred in his soul had settled his LV, that heat was banked back, for now. He could handle anything else that came his way, he didn’t need help from anyone, not even his brother, and if seeing Stretch sitting at the dinner table made him inhale slowly through his open mouth, his mouth watering not from tacos but from a memory of sweetness, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if that taste lingered, if that strange feeling still sat heavy in his soul.

None of it mattered, so long as he kept breathing.

-finis-

#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus #underfell sans #underswap sans #standalone

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nightwingvixen23 · 4 years

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Pairing : DamiJon fanfic in their later teens

Little Vixen Side Note : Wrote this piece a few nights ago when I couldn't sleep and came across the dark version of Cant Help Falling In Love; which is what I wrote it to

Cheeecckkk ittttt ouuutttt

youtube

A speeding bullet of black, yellow and green. He blew ahead of me in a chase throughout the thick of winter. Skeletal remains of my heart began to drop, all signs of epic violence tittering around us in pursuance of the two malefactors we had just minutes prior unmasked who's carnage stained hands were laying hell into the legs of a screaming woman, in attempts at victimizing her to a two-sided brutality. And though be as it may, with her browbeaten crying, this ambushed petite woman of golden curls had torn like a vicious feline to free herself from the drooling lock jaws of famished wolves refusing to die in this wasted city. Then she'd stopped. She'd turned her head towards us. And it was with that act of final defeat, the deadlock of her blue eyes onto Damians, that had been a tethering of empathetic steel.

In that moment, I'd witnessed the city burn within his eyes. A revival of Pompeii, humans choking on ash; and it was by his hand that carried out was this biblical apocalypse. I mean, you can only stand to see so many weeds in your garden before getting tired of yanking them out by hand and simply just mowing over it all to start fresh.

I'd numbly watched Robin free the woman who'd scurried down the dark street (purse and shoe forgotten like a broken Cinderella) and analyzed where the rules of these unbidden streets lingered any longer ? A wasted land left starved of God's Love long ago, and so us as his children are outcasts in regards to just how mortality works. This is The Devils playground now where we've adapted into calling out Love, not by the blossoming virtue of a budding rose, but by the cut of it's petalless thorns; where the only splash of red comes at the blooming of our own blood.

What else to do with pain than to make it our art form, our very own self worth. To turn it into a purpose and to make that purpose something beautiful.

⏳...⌛

A park.

Swings creaking with a glacial slow breeze as ghost children play games on the teeter totter. White fluff born from clouds shroud lost personal belongings from humans long past through, and will overnight, do it's best, to shroud the two bodies lay dead 'mid this park's jogging trail.

He stands between them; The Sympathizer, a crimson splattered god in which no Olympian can put a name to crowned in injustices and liberalizing duties.

Crows form a murder beneath these dark skies, dancing and entangling above our heads. Something cruel. Something elegant. Something in harmony with what I behold here and now; because somewhere off in Gotham City this man, that I've fallen in a surprise trust fall for, remarkably kept a young woman home-free tonight. Not from duty. But from instinct.

"Robin.."

He turns to me.

He sheaths his sword; and he smiles.

He smiles at me through tears.

He smiles at me through red blood.

He smiles at me through falling snow.

He smiles at me through the antagonism; and that has to be the most beautiful thing I think I've ever seen.

Regardless; i still wonder what chamber door, dusted with years of abandonment, had finally been gifted a hand to open it's rusted impasse come with what we'd witnessed tonight. What poisonous blend leaks out this door to flood his veins and pour fever into his eyes; clouding his vision against a better form of judgment on justice that has two miserable assed men, twice his size, laying slaughtered like pigs with him standing noble between them both ?

Even though the winter wonderland park is dead quiet, I've never in all my existence heard so much noise. So much all at once while staring at Damian, just now realizing that he'd removed his mask long ago: now raven's stare with deadly ink eyes in jealous passion at the too black fullness of that jet hair filled up in a shaven bun. Cat's whine in envy at the feline-like features of this clandestine face. Jade gems rust in sad defeat before such green eyes. He's the pristine vision of Talia al Ghul (nothing about him is Bruce anymore aside from the cut of his jaw) housing 9 lives amidst 100 secrets.

"I love you," like the many times I've voiced it before, it gushes from me all soft and rushed.

"You love me? You love me?? Don`t," and there is coldness in his stare. Floating all the while amongst the arctic, I've struck the iceberg. Sinking under. Cracked in two. And I've got to say, the embrace is haunting.

"Why."

"It is true that the lion coddled the lamb beneath its purring chin, bustling with a protective big paw. Be as it may, unbeknownst to the onlookers, once turned away; the lion gorged on the lamb. Feasted upon its frail body only to lick at its bloodied carcass and keep it close by. Not in memory, but as a trophy; for the lion`s former coddling of the lamb was nothing more than animalistic curiosity.

"Do you not realize Jon that we are all animals, you and I ? Instinct drives us, some however are more lethal, some run in packs, some run alone, and others...just….run." green devours me. Green tears through my flesh. Green swallows me whole. Perhaps I am but being gorged upon by the starving lion.

His lips curl into a sadistic sneer despite the tear tracks on his face and I'm all but floored by the fabric skin of this demon that everyone's tried to give a halo, "I will rip you apart, little lamb."

"Then by all means," I grab his hand to wrap it around my throat, it's cold but his grip is tight and his lips on mine are hot, "take my neck to slaughter."

Five fingers tremble in innocence against my throat; a golden token of humanity, honesty and clemeity. Making my wonder

just who really here is the lion and who is the lamb? Then he bares his teeth, rabid and wild. I bare my teeth back, standing ground in the middle of our Eden turned Jungle. Then our lips meet again. Our teeth clash. We fight to force the other into submission though neither backs down.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe, he is but a lamb that learned to evolve amongst the lions. And could it be that I am but a lion having learned to secret himself amongst sheep? Maybe that's why him and I fight more than find common ground, for the foolish costumes we were taught to wear in order to cover up what rightful creatures God bore us as.

We are different and the same whether it be his purity or my hidden away corruption.

The volcanic eruption of his anger and soothing temperament of my ocean meet.

They form an isle.

A match to an ignition causes an inevitable explosion. But, sometimes, that match plus ignition can give birth to fireworks rather than a bomb; we've just gotta be patient and count to 3. I count to 2 before seeing the spark. And right at 3 comes the crackle then pop, a raining shower of diabolical color transcending the stark black sky.

Who ever would of known that 4th of July in the middle of December would look so much like Heaven waging war with Hell.

⌛...⏳

No one is home execpt for me to answer the chipper knock at the front door on the next sun smothered day, and the florist that greets me is happy to do so.

In my hands I'd received my gift of a crimson rose bouquet;

and while up in my room i'd read the card written on with an elegant gothic flourish:

My Little Lamb.

These three words made the wool wearing prey in me seek sanctuary, and yet, caused the dagger toothed predator in me to roar.

*END

#Youtube #damijon #my rando fanfics #older supersons #damian wayne #jon kent #superboy #robin #fanfics to music #.SUCK IT STEPHANIE MEYERS #lmfao idk im hype as fuck

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unidentifiedflyingfks · 3 years

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Movie: FINAL GIRL (2015)

Cast: ABIGAIL BRESLIN of Little Miss Sunshine and Zombieland

WES BENTLEY of and The Hunger Games, Yellowstone, and my personal favorite P2

ALEXANDER LUDWIG also of The Hunger Games and Vikings

This movie has literally kept me up all night with questions. Mainly how did they get Abigail Breslin, Wes Bentley, and Ragnar Jr. all to agree to be in this awful movie? Then, answering my own question, can literally anyone with $$ make a movie and pay reasonably well known actors to play in it? Then, is everybody fucking with me?

***Side note: the term ‘final girl’ is a common trope in horror referring to the last girl left alive, or the survivor. (Ex. Jamie Lee Curtis in Halloween)

The director, Tyler Shields, is better known for his photography career and before that professional inline skating, funnily enough, where he worked alongside the likes of Tony Hawk and other pro skaters. His photography seems to be centered around shock value with works including items like black guys lynching a KKK member, Lindsay Lohan as a vampire, a crocodile biting a crocodile skin purse, and more recently a photo of Kathy Griffin holding what looks like Donald Trump’s severed head. (Spoiler alert: Donald didn’t take it well) Basically all playing off of easy to reach social issues that will exploit controversy without offering anything other than surface level discomfort IMO. Final Girl was his debut film and while I will credit its high production value and actors I soo wanted to like, that’s where it ends.

(Tyler shields and his infamous photo)

The movie begins with Wes Bentley’s character interviewing a child (young Breslin) who just lost her parents under seemingly violent circumstances. She demonstrates puzzle solving skills and seemingly photographic memory as well as a apathetic view of death—as when she says “death happens” right after the death of her parents. So Bentley recruits her for **something** hard that most people can’t do. He also reveals his wife and child were killed by **someone** (not the villains the whole plot centers around because if they’re seniors in high school at the time they would have been about 6 when his wife was killed assuming it was recent to the death of Breslin’s parents since we’re…. ah doesn’t even matter. Too stupid.)

First of all, I love Abigail Breslin. She’s beautiful, funny, and I especially like her as #5 on Scream Queens. Buttttt, let’s keep it real she was horrible for this role. It was never believable that she was an elite agent trained since childhood to mirk people with her bare hands. That being said, her training basically consisted of talking yourself up, choking Bentley, and taking DMT (Also, what?) so it’s not all on her. I would have even been with it if she used her aforementioned puzzle solving skills and smarts to beat the boys, but instead were treated to unrealistic fights scenes with Breslin’s character takes multiple punches to the face while looking the daintiest I’ve ever seen her.

Stop there if you’d like, you have the jist, but there is a little more.

Anyway it all starts when she’s launched on her mission. Is it the first mission of many, or what she’s been training for her whole life, we don’t know. Breslin befriends a girl in a 50’s style diner with instant milkshakes and they start talking about their love interests. The girl has the hots for a guy other than her boyfriend, and Breslin has the hots for her mentor/dad (basically, right? It’s Wes Bentley I get it, but it’s still kindaaa weird right?) That encounter amounts to very little then Breslin meets Jameson, Alexander Ludwigs of ‘Vikings’, who dresses for prom and invites her out. (Yeah, that’s all I got too)

They meet up with Jameson’s three dumb friends and they’re all wearing their prom garb too. Then they drive out into the wilderness to some teenage drinkin and fuckin couches in the woods—again, not that you’ll see any fuckin’ inthis movie, killin’ motivated crimes only for these teen boys. Breslin’s pops out some DMT laced liquor for the boys and they start playing a game of truth or dare out of a bag for some reason. After a weird spiel from Jameson about a rabbit he feels bad about letting die slowly, Breslin conveniently draws ‘get tied up’ from the truth-or-dare bag. She’s tied behind the back, not that it really matters because she gets out instantly. Then they tell her their plan for the four of them to hunt her down ‘The Most Dangerous Game’ style. They give her five minutes to run, but one guy is too eager to kill her and runs off before the five minutes is up. Luckily he’s tripping balls by now in the way only people who have never tripped any balls imagine tripping balls is like, so while he’s battling two deadmou5e-like apparitions Breslin can steal his axe and kill him with it. Now she’s armed, oh never mind she left the axe in that guy’s chest.

Then she kills another hallucinating guy after taking a couple blows, then she goes after the third guy. Number 3 is also clone kid #7 from UltraViolet, his worst fear is that his girlfriend, the one from the 50’s diner, is fucking Jameson—which she is—and also that she will find out about their “hunting trips” and he will have to kill her for it. After hallucinating all of this, including a fist fight with Jameson who apparently isn’t even there, it is revealed to be Breslin’s character encouraging his hallucinations the whole time. She then kills UltraViolet-child-actor with a rock to the face in the the best kill scene of the film.

(See?)

The only one remaining at this point is Jameson, who incidentally is the only boy who didn’t take the DMT laced drink. Breslin is beat up and exhausted by the time Jameson encounters her. Before THEIR fistfight they engage in a game of wits (not For realz). They each answer each other’s questions with Breslin revealing she enjoyed killing the boys and Jameson AKA Ragnar Jr. admitting they’d already killed 20 women the same way. He then asks her to join him and continue killing together, but she declines, they fist fight, she chokes him like she choked Bentley in the beginning, and drugs him.

(This is the high school goof supposedly responsible for 20 murders. I just can’t get over this. As an avid reader of true crime, numbers like this are unheard of for a guy of his age. Also are we supposed to believe 4 guys in Tuxedos in this seemingly small town have killed 20 women and no one noticed? GTFO)

When Jameson wakes, he’s in a noose on a stump teeter tottering for his life as he starts to hallucinate. He satisfactorily begs Breslin for mercy, then is overtaken by his worst fear—the ghosts of his victims who startle him off the stump and to his death by strangulation.

After Ragnar Jr’s dead, Bentley walks out of the forest with a sniper rifle and I almost freaked TF out. I don’t feel good about comparing it to LOTR, but it’s like Gandalf calling in the giant eagles to take Frodo home after he’s travelled a third of the world to get there ON FOOT. What. Was. The. Point. Seriously. (Actually seriously—would the birds have been corrupted by the ring of power, or is that just like a major plot hole? And was Breslin on hard drugs for a little while and I didn’t hear about it?)

Anyway, after that Breslin and Bentley go to a diner, order pancakes, agree that they taste terrible, and that’s it. The end.

I know you may be thinking ‘yeah unidentifiedflyingfks, but your missing the deeper meaning—they all took the DMT and it made them face their worst fears!’ Yeah—I get that, but it still doesn’t mean it works. I would have literally rather it be magic than DMT. They’d probably all have different reactions and probably not even be incapacitated in the ways depicted in the movie. For it to expose everyone’s ‘worst fears’ is fucking magic anyway so let’s go ahead call a spade a lazy, half baked plot line, m’kay?

What really irks me about this movie though, is it could have been good. Have Breslin act within her skill set and find ways for her to use them that make sense, or at least give her some boxing classes and have her lift weights for Christ’s sake. Also these teens have killed 20 girls already? Where did they even come from? Also Bentley knew and this was the best way he could come up with to take them down? And who told him to act like a total weirdo creep in every scene? I don’t expect much. If you can’t make it good make it funny and this was neither. I wanted to like this movie, I still like Breslin and Bentley, but for as many reviews I read that wanted to give it 0 stars and couldn’t, I will. Never forget…. Oh never mind forget it all.

***0/5 FF’s, first certified TERRIBLE MOVIE!!

Here’s some user comments I found 😂😂 ->

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missroserose · 4 years

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all you touch and all you see

“So...why are we here?”

A moment of silence. Fingers tighten around a trendy reusable mug. Green eyes flick up, meet his, far more sincere than he could have imagined, even a week ago.

“I can’t explain it. I’m just...more myself, when you’re around.”

Sam Wesson is dreaming. Well, half-dreaming; awake enough that he can tell that he’s lying in bed on sheets with some ridiculous thread count, covers bunched around his legs, the cool constant breeze of the ceiling fan blowing over his sleep-warm chest. At the same time, he’s sitting in the passenger seat of an old muscle car, rain tapping on the roof and hissing beneath the tires. The thrum of the V8 permeates his whole body as he flips through papers, research for the next job. The automatic reverse on the tape deck clicks over, and Sam wonders how many times Dean’s played this exact Led Zeppelin album on this very deck. A hundred? A thousand?

Dean. Dean is there in both worlds, beside him. He glances over to where this Dean is squinting through the rain. Takes in his scruffy jacket and worn shirt, hair standing on end in places, the ketchup stain on his jeans from his lunchtime drive-through burger. It’s such a contrast to the Dean beside him in the bed, the Dean of suspenders and suits and Brylcreemed hair, the environmentally conscious vegetarian Dean who wouldn’t be caught dead driving a car that got fewer than thirty miles to the gallon.

And yet, there are tells. Little commonalities, signs that the two of them aren’t as different as they might look. The way their eyes narrow slightly when faced with something they don’t immediately understand. Their absolute disdain for talking about feelings any more than strictly necessary. Their unbridled fierceness when they take on a threat, corporate or noncorporeal.

The way they both love Sam. Fierce. Devoted. Protective to a degree that makes Sam wonder, sometimes. Or would, if he weren’t every bit as smitten.

Sam isn’t sure what to say to that. It’s disconcerting, seeing Dean in casual clothes—still natty in a sweater and slacks, but his hair is carefully (and attractively) mussed, his posture a fraction looser. He keeps quiet, keeps his face open. Knows, somehow, that this is the best way to keep people talking.

“You bring out something good in me. If I’m going to keep climbing the corporate ladder, I need someone to help me remember I'm not actually in hell, you know?”

Sam can’t blame Dean for staying at Sandover, not really. He’s on the fast track, in a position most people their generation would kill for. Especially with the economy the way it is, steady jobs with good salaries and benefits are nothing to sneeze at. Working as an executive is prestigious; it’s not like he was a cubicle jockey, subject to the indignities of unflattering uniforms and unsavory coworkers. Dean is on his way up.

Sam, meanwhile, was on his way out.

The week after his slightly dramatic walkout, he’d been making serious plans to go hunting alone. Spent his days poring over newspapers, looking for strange deaths or weird occurrences; imagined sniffing out supernatural threats, saving people. He applied for a loan for a car—found a great deal on a Dodge Charger—and dedicated an afternoon to looking up supplies he might need to kit it out properly. It was terrifying and exhilarating reading, realizing how much might be out there, how many beings he had yet to encounter, how much studying there was to do. What to look for, what to pack, where to even begin.

Perhaps most saliently, his dreams—the strange, inexplicable dreams that had haunted him during his entire three weeks at Sandover, where he hunted things, where Dean was his partner, continually present—had stopped.

Then Dean Smith had called and asked him for coffee.

Dean’s eyes meet his again, just briefly, before dropping, a charmingly bashful smile spreading over his face. “Look, I’m not asking you to marry me or anything,” he says, rubbing the side of his neck, looking away. “It’s just, if you wanted...I think we could have a good time together.”

They do have a good time together—it’s a little surprising, really, the uptight executive and the slacker cubicle jockey pairing off. But they share a love of bad action movies, and a passion for video games; Sam hasn’t had his ass kicked so thoroughly and consistently in Halo 3 since college. But even beyond that, it was like their rhythms are aligned; they fall into cohabiting in Dean’s tiny apartment almost immediately, as if they’re already entirely used to living in each others’ pockets. Work during the day. Chores on weekends. And at night—

Well, of course, there’s the chemistry. The sheer blinding-white magnesium-flame heat of the two of them together, as bright-burning as it is undeniable. The way Dean’s eyes, green as his own, darken, pupils dilating, when Sam stands just a little too close. The pulse-pounding rush of need that hits him when Dean’s mouth curls up at one corner in just the right way, the way that indicates Sam is about to come harder than he ever has in his life. The soft, broken noises he knows Dean makes, that they both make, when they teeter together on the edge, a bare breath from tipping over, entwined.

“I know you don’t think this is our life. What we’re meant to be doing.” The words give the air around them strange twin taste—resigned and relieved, both. “But Sam—it’s a good life. It’s the life I’ve wanted, the one I never thought I’d be able to have. God knows my dad didn’t think I’d make it. Nobody did. But here I am.” His eyes meet Sam’s again. “Here we are.”

Those beautiful manicured hands on him feel right in a way Sam’s never experienced before. It’s not even sexual, not really—the sensation is there as much when Dean musses Sam’s hair as it is when Sam is shaking apart with Dean knuckle-deep inside him. There’s just something about the two of them together that’s...centering. Liminal. Like they form their own shelter, the eye of the hurricane when the chaos of the world is howling around them.

Sam asked Dean once if he felt the same. Dean had quirked a brow at him, given a little smile—”What, like some kind of past life thing? You going to start telling me we’re soulmates? Whatever you say, Samantha—” and yet there’s something in the way he touches Sam at times. Reverent. Almost disbelieving.

Like Sam, too, is something Dean had never thought he’d be able to have.

“I’ve got some connections at my old firm. I can make a few calls, get you an interview for a decent job.” He takes a drink of coffee, forcing a pause; shielding himself for a moment from Sam’s reaction. “I know it’s not your dream. But you could stay. With me.”

And yet, in a way, it is Sam’s dream. Because Sam’s been having dreams again, almost from the day of that fateful coffee date. Dreams where he and Dean do everything together that Sam had imagined, had read about. Where they hunt demons, vampires, demigods—creatures that make Old Man Sandover look like something out of Beetlejuice. Where they spend what feels like half their life in the boredom of long drives or library research sessions, punctuated by the heart-pounding adrenaline rush of a hunt, a fight. Where he and Dean save each others’ lives over and over, where they would die for each other, probably will sooner rather than later, but where they’re alive now, where they retreat victorious with whiskey or beer to their shitty motel room—

Somewhere more private. Lips swollen from kissing. A hand on the side of his face, long fingers threaded in his hair. Green eyes on his once more, open, honest. Vulnerable.

“I’d like you to stay. God, Sam—please. Stay.”

—and where they never, ever touch.

So Sam took the job. Let the loan application lapse, eventually deleted the various websites on ghosts and mythology and monsters from his bookmarks. He spends his days working in IT security, which is at least more interesting than tech support—it turns out he has a knack for breaking into systems, for getting into places he’s not supposed to be, for ferreting out information companies would prefer remain hidden. And his nights—well, if spending his nights in Dean Smith’s bed (and on his couch, and over his desk, and in his office chair, and) is the consolation prize for growing up and letting go of childish dreams, it turns out adult life has its perks as well.

He takes one last look at the scruffed-up Dean—still pretty, Sam thinks, fondly; there’s just no way to make a face like that look common—and lets the dream fade. The vibration of the engine, the hiss of tires on wet asphalt, even the dry-dusty smell of the Impala’s heater all grow distant; Sam moves his fingers, stretches, moves just enough to scoop his lover into the crook of his shoulder. Dean nuzzles him, murmurs a few nonsense syllables, and sighs, settling back into sleep.

Sam takes a deep breath through his nose. Hair pomade. Cologne. Sweat. Dean. It makes him happy, in the kind of way that leaves his chest a little tight, that brings tears to the corners of his eyes.

Most people don’t even get one life with Dean. He gets two. Gets to tread the thin line between them, the one where Dean is his perfectly ordinary lover, and the one where he’s—both more, and less.

As dreams go, he’ll take it, and be grateful.

#supernatural #sam/dean #smith/wesson #s04e17 it's a terrible life #wincest #my writing

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peachyteabuck · 4 years

Text

nothing ever lasts forever ~ act iii, “if we ruled the world”

summary: a sort-of non-avengers au where everyone has their powers and absolutely no one is in a highly powerful mob (or, at least, that’s what the feds think).

or, a commission in three parts for anonymous, who asked for a series about wanda x natasha x reader.

pairing: wanda maximoff x natasha romanoff x reader

words: 3,501

trigger warnings: switch!nat, sub!wanda, dom!reader, strap ons, degradation, bratty wanda, brat taming

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

READ ACT I, ACT II

Wanda gets the text that night, just as you’ve fallen asleep and Wanda was about to follow suit. Your light snores fill the room, Wanda listens for them as her too-bright phone screen burns her eyes.

Office. Tomorrow morning. 10.

And then a knife emoji. Sharp. Natasha Romanoff does not tolerate a lot of things, including tardiness.

Wanda goes to bed afraid and wakes up even worse – the churning in her gut only intensifying as she walked up the concrete path that lead into Natasha’s house. She’s never been more terrified in her life. Is she about to be fired? Are you dead? Is she dead? Is Wanda a ghost? Has Natasha been convincing Wanda that she’s been alive this whole time and now it’s time to break the façade and have Wanda move onto the ghost realm?

Being called into Natasha’s office and being asked to sit in the center chair is nothing short of demoralizing, intimidating. She’s seen it happen before, clients or employees Natasha has to deliver terrible news to – they never take it well, always crying and sobbing and wailing. They always have to be carried away by the guards stationed outside Natasha’s office and into their cars.

Will that have to happen to her? Will two giant-ass dudes have to carry her outside so she can have an emotional breakdown on the impeccably well-kept grass? What if someone sees her having said emotional breakdown on the impeccably well-kept grass? What if Wanda Maximoff gets caught by the many institutions of which she is running and hiding from?

The chair has a heavy dent in it from the other shameful citizens (and non-citizens, and those not defined as people) of whom have sat in the chair before her. Natasha doesn’t meet Wanda’s gaze, keeping her eyes focused on the bare desk in front of her.

Both of them can barely breathe, each having an equally silent crisis. Neither speaks until the door has been long shut, the sounds outside the room blocked out by the heavy doors.

“I once had sex with your girlfriend,” Natasha says, so quick the words mesh into one.

Wanda shakes her head, running her hands through her hair. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Natasha exhales deeply, clenching her eyes shut before speaking again. “I had sex with your girlfriend.”

Wanda eyes go wide with sadness – worried her worst nightmare is true. “She…you…she chea-“

Natasha holds out her hands, only now realizing her mistake in phrasing. “NO! No! Absolutely not. No, that’s not what happened. That’s not…No, Wanda, she didn’t cheat on you with me, that’s not what I’m saying.”

Wanda – still wringing her hands – breathes deeply. “Then what…what…”

Natasha sighs, trying to find the right words. “Do you remember when Bucky got hurt? Like, when his arm got,” she wiggles the same arm Bucky lost in the accident – the one Natasha inadvertently caused.

Wanda looks confused but answers anyway. “Yeah, like a year ago.”

“I got, I got super drunk that night. And it was, uh, the woman is now your girlfriend, she uh…she helped me that night – she uh, she got me back to her apartment. Made sure I slept and didn’t die choking on my own vomit. And took care of me the next morning…” Natasha sighs, worried about what she’s going to say. “The next morning, we had sex.” Natasha whispers the last sentence sadly, wringing her hands. “We haven’t talked since.”

Wanda, stunned, says nothing. Each time she believes she’s found the words they fail to capture the whirlwind of emotions and thoughts flashing in front of her eyes. Blood pounds in her ears and her hands shake and her heart pounds – nevertheless, the two of them continue to converse even as Wanda’s eyes water. Everything’s a blur – the only clarity when Wanda thumps her way up the several flight of stairs that lead into her, your apartment.

She opens the door hastily, hands shaking near-violently as she finds the right key and turns it in the lock. If this were any other day, she’d step in as quietly as possible – try to be a voyeur in her own home to try and catch even a second of you cooking peacefully. You’re in one of her shirts, a large one that hits your thighs and rides up when you bent down or stand on your tip-toes or bend forward over a pot.

Whatever you’re cooking smells delicious, enough to distract from the matter at hand – to stop Wanda in her tracks as thick spices and hearty herbs fills her nostrils.

Still, it only allows her a few seconds of peace before she’s stepping into the kitchen, fists clenched at her sides and breathing quick and shallow. The wrath, the dread, it blinds and deafens her – the only thing Wanda hears being the only words she could hope would leave your lips.

“I mean, I know what you did, what you do. You’ve told me enough I just…” you sigh. “I had no idea. I like, sort of knew what Nat did. I just didn’t have any idea that you two knew each other. Or that she, uh, was your boss.”

Wanda looks as if she’s about to cry, her chest heaving. “Are you sure?”

You nod, moving toward her but not touching her. “Wanda, I’d tell you if I fucked your boss the second I would’ve found out – but, babe,” you try to calm your beating heart by digging your nails into your palms. It doesn’t work. “Even if I knew, you have to understand. This was over a year ago, I haven’t seen her since, and I love you. We’ve built a home together. Me having sex with her doesn’t change that.”

There’s silence, then, the thick kind that comes from a fight without resolve. You’re worried she’ll storm out, only to return when she decides – or, worse, tell you to pack your things and leave. Wanda does neither of those things, though, instead silently moving to the stir the pot before tasting at the wooden spoon.

You know everything will be fine when she makes a comment about needing more salt – the special kind you bought a long while ago from the farmer’s market that somehow hadn’t run out. Your mother once told you that the kitchen could end all disagreements, all squabbles and verbal throwdowns. You never really believed you until now, as you both silently cook, and then eat, and then clean up together.

Not a word is exchanged until you’re both in bed, you curled around her on your side as she lays flat on her back. It’s then, after the sun has long set and the last scents of food had gone up though the vents, that one of you speaks.

Wanda swallows, mumbling something that, whether or not is her intention, only she can hear. “Natasha says she wants to see you.”

Your eyes narrow, brows furrowed as you pick up your head to look at her. “What?”

Wanda doesn’t meet your gaze as she speaks. “I talked to Natasha this morning about it. About you. That’s why, uh. I came home like that. It’s not that I don’t trust you, I just…wanted to talk about it…”

You nudge closer to her as she trails off, trying to reassure her. “It’s okay, babe, you don’t have…I trust you. It’s okay.”

Wanda nods before continuing. “She and I were talking, and she asked to see you after. Wanted my permission, though. Wanted to make sure I was okay with it.”

“Are you?” you whisper as your heart rate picks back up – though, this time, for a much different reason.urus

She nods. “I mean, I’m not some overprotective Dad on prom night – I’m never gonna stop you from seeing someone. Told her it was up to you.”

You exhale deeply, still silent. It takes a long while for you to say anything, and even then it doesn’t do much to dissolve the thick tension in the room. “I do want to see her again,” Wanda clears her throat but you continue speaking before she can begin. “But I want you there, too.”

That’s how, two weeks later, you find yourself intoxicated in a way you can’t describe, standing next to your bed as both women kneel before you.

You’re not drunk. Drunk is too extreme. Drunk makes you seem rash, impulsive – like you don’t know what you’re doing, why you’re doing it. Makes it seems like you don’t want to remember this, want to be able to blame all

You’re not drunk, you’re bold. You’re two sips into some old-as-balls bourbon you got when you graduated college – gifted to you by a professor who thought it meant he’d let you get into his pants. Fool. You’re a woman with fire resting on your skin and the world teetering at your fingertips. You control everything. And today, “everything” is defined as two of the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen on their knees in front you.

It’s natural, wonderful – the feeling of looking down at them with their big eyes and hair pulled back into French braids and dark collars on their milky skin. Neither of them has leashes – yet…but judging by the glint in Natasha’s eyes and the smirk playing at her lips that you’ll need to get it from its resting place on her desk very soon.

“I think this is the stuff dreams are made of,” you say to no one and both of them. “Two sluts at my feet for me to use. Two perfect little toys at my disposable. I wonder what I should have you do first…”

At the foot of the best is a loveseat, draped upon the loveseat is a towel covered in sex toys – placed carefully with even amounts of space between them. A few empty spots mark where toys used to be – most notably the collars and the baby pink butt plug Wanda’s wearing.

It’s the double-ended dildo that ends up catching your eye. It’s half baby blue and half black, mixing in the middle; thick, long, girthy. Wanda bought it for you awhile back – a gift after she had to leave for a last-minute business trip with little explanation but a lot of apology. You didn’t mind, her explanation for her job had been quite believable and you did not worry. Still, you didn’t refuse the gifts she showered you with when she got back eight days later.

You smile at the memory, but also from the anticipation. You turn back to the two women on the floor, snapping in each of their faces before pointing to opposite walls. Despite this, they wait for your verbal command before moving a muscle.

Such good girls, the both of them.

“Now,” you tell them calmly. Obediently and without hesitation, they do as they’re told. It’s then that you can admire their matching lingerie sets. They were expensive (you hesitate to spend that much on rent, let alone four pieces of skimpy, see-through fabric), you can’t deny it. But the crotchless panties, framing each of their wet pussies perfectly? The matching bras are just as frilly as the panties and the deep maroon contrasts both of their pale skin tones. Intricate lace is almost, almost distracting from their pert nipples and skin you want to bite and bruise and mark. “Face opposite walls so I can watch you fuck yourself properly.”

They’re both so beautiful, so desperate. Through the chorus of their moans and whimpers you can hear their wet cunts fucking back on the thick double-ended dildo.

Wanda, as usual, is already making those noises that mean she’s about to come – her hips making tighter movements and wide eyes screwed shut.

“Aw, does my baby wanna come?” you coo, moving the sweaty hair away from her reddened face.

Wanda whines high in her throat, fucking back on the dildo with vigor. “Yes, yes yes please lemme come I wanna come Mommy please!”

Natasha, the quieter of the two, nods furiously as her face scrunches up in concentration. Her moans are low and breathy, hips driving backwards in target hits against Wanda.

Part of you wants to deny them, watch them with cry and choke on their own tears as they focus on following orders, on being good, on not coming. Another part of you wants to watch them fall apart, watch their thighs shake and legs give out and blissful faces find their way long their faces and listen to them moan and cry and thank you with hushed, raspy voices.

It doesn’t take much deliberating for the latter side of you to win out – to give them permission and instruct them to rub their clits as you take another sip of alcohol. Small sparks dance along Wanda’s fingers as they move over her pussy, control over her powers ceding to that over her pleasure. Some of the small swirls of red-orange-yellow-blue seem to dance between their bodies, affecting Natasha as well, who cries out an especially pained noise as each spark touches and subsequently dissipates against her skin. The thrusts of their hips become even more erratic as the waves of their orgasms come crashing down on them, their breathing only steadying as you began to speak once more.

“Natasha,” you snap once in her direction, waiting for her body to jerk as a signal she’s paying attention. “Get atop Wanda…” you pause, then laugh. “I mean, straddle her to keep her hips pined to the ground.”

Wanda, normally incredibly mousy, seems to be drinking from the same fire-filled cup you’ve been sipping.

“Yeah, as if Natasha could top anybody,” she snorts. You and Natasha both snap your heads towards her, yours crooking to the side.

“You want to say that again?” you more command than ask.

Wanda, voice back to usual smallness, swallows loudly. “Uh, I, uh. I said. I said Natasha,” she coughs, tries to save herself. It doesn’t work. “I said, ‘as if Natasha could dom anybody,’ Mommy.”

Silence – a heavy one – falls over the room. You turn around, slowly, meeting Wanda’s eyes first and then Natasha’s. The latter woman looks to you for permission.

With one, small nod, she stands and looms over the other woman.

“You’re going to regret that,” you say – mostly to yourself. The wicked smile, though, is for the both of them.

“Do you want to test me?” Natasha hisses. She loops her forefinger in the stainless-steel O-ring and jerks Wanda forward so their lips are barely touching. Wanda takes it as an invitation, but pouts as Natasha pulls away. “You think you’re getting anything but a punishment after what you pulled?”

Wanda’s large eyes drain of mischief with every passing second that she studies the woman in front of her – realizing her mistake. It’s not long until she’s looking at her for assistance from you, her pleading eyes and cat-like features so cute you almost give in to her silent prayers.

Keyword: almost.

“Answer your Daddy,” you say plainly. You press your thighs together, desperate for friction but not wanting to give in just yet.

“N-no,” Wanda stutters. “No, Daddy.”

Natasha pulls at Wanda’s collar once more, hissing through her teeth. “I’ll give you one more chance to correct yourself.”

You can practically hear Wanda’s petrified gulp and you relish the fear in her wide eyes. “No, Daddy. I understand I deserve a punishment.”

“Good,” she says, letting the collar go. “now go lay on the bed.”

Wanda does as she’s told – resting her head in your lap. It gives you the perfect view of her face as she prepares to get fucked out of her mind.

Natasha grabs the fake cock and harness from the toy collection and pulls it on easily, the jingling of the individual straps like music to her hears. You pet at her hair, cupping her chin and cooing down at her.

“You gonna be a good girl for Daddy?” you ask.

She nods, lip pulled between her teeth. “Yes, Mommy.”

“Are you gonna be a dirty slut for Daddy while Mommy watches?”

“Yes Mommy.”

Natasha’s ready, then, and announces it by backing up against a wall with the fake cock bobbing against her stomach. “Good girl, now come prep Daddy’s cock.”

Wanda moves to stand, but immediately drops to her knees when Natasha glares at her and hisses, “Don’t you dare.”

She crawls across the room, head hung in shame and pussy soaked with anticipation. Wanda only looks up to wrap her lips around the silicon head, one of Natasha’s hands cradling the back of her neck with the other tangled in her hair. “I’m going to have so much fun with you,” you hear Natasha mumble as Wanda gags for the first time. “Can’t wait to make you come over and over, watch you not know whether to beg me to stop or keeping going. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Wanda nods, never breaking eye contact with Natasha.

“You better not be touching yourself, you needy little thing,” you tsk from across the room as your fingers rub at your own clit. “Dirty sluts don’t get to come, do they.”

Wanda does her best to shake her head as Natasha continues to fuck her throat.

Sloppy, wet sounds punctuate Natasha’s words. “You like that, don’t you, baby girl? You like taking this big cock down your throat like this?”

Before Wanda can nod, Natasha’s pulling her head away suddenly, the woman on the floor gasping for air. She barely has time to catch her breath before Natasha’s picking her up and slamming her back against the wall, Wanda’s legs instinctively wrapping around Natasha’s waist.

Wanda moans, loud and unabashed, as Natasha fucks into her. You grab an unused vibrator from the end of the bed and begin to fuck yourself with it, the thrusts of the toy timed with Natasha’s. It’s good – it’s all so good – and your vision begins to cloud around the edges as you and Wanda both come together one, two times.

You’re breathing heavy when Natasha decides Wanda’s had enough, laughing as Wanda’s eyes remain unfocused and her breath comes out in pants.

“Pathetic,” Natasha mumbles just loud enough for you to hear. She lets go of Wanda’s hips, the woman collapsing onto the floor with weak knees. Still, that harsh exterior melts away as Wanda lays there, motionless and covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Natasha crouches down, then sits next to her, face softening. “Aw,” she coos, pulling Wanda into her so that she’s sitting on Natasha’s lap on the floor. “Such a good little girl for me. For us.”

Natasha rocks Wanda back and forth, giving her the occasional kiss to her temple or cheek or wherever else she can reach. You watch them for a minute or two, watch your two favorite people in the whole world mold themselves to each other, oblivious to whatever happened to go on around them. Eventually you go to the bathroom to dampen a cloth with warm water and get a glass of water (or, in this case, a mug you’d been meaning to take back to the kitchen for about a week. It only held water before, anyway, so you don’t feel that bad when you give it to Natasha to hold for your exhausted girlfriend to drink out of).

Wanda whimpers when you wipe down her pussy, flinching away and trapping your hand between her thighs. Before you can comfort her, though, Natasha does.

“Shh libchen,” she coos into her sweaty hairline. “Let Daddy care for you alright?”

Wanda makes a noise high in her throat to signal how much she really doesn’t want the terry cloth against her center, but nonetheless allows Natasha to hold her thighs open as you clean her up. It’s awhile before Wanda full returns to reality – awhile before her breathing goes back to normal, her pupils becoming smaller, her legs not shaking.

“You wanna go to bed or get something to eat?” you ask.

Wanda doesn’t respond, but her droopy eyes and limp body answer the question for you.

“Let’s put her to bed and order food in few hours,” you tell Natasha. “The diner down the street is 24-hour, menu’s on the fridge. One of us can call later.”

Natasha whispers an “okay,” careful not to wake Wanda. She lifts the sleeping woman into the bed you share with her, watching her for a moment before beckoning you over. You oblige, because of course you do. Noiselessly, you and Natasha lay on either side of Wanda, your hands touching ever so lightly as fatigue acts as a fire blanket – putting the previous actions of the night to rest.

You all fall asleep like that, sweaty limbs tangled and chests heaving in sync. In truth, you never could’ve asked for anything better – this, being with the both of them, is bliss. Hopefully, you never have to be without either of them ever again.

#wanda x nat x reader #wanda maximoff x natasha romanoff x reader #wandanat #lukis does commissions #lukis writes stuff

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reciprocityfic · 4 years

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a slight return home, chapter nine

Title: A Slight Return Home Fandom: The Walking Dead Pairing: Rick x Michonne Rating: M Summary: Rick’s death shakes Michonne’s world to its core. With her daughter and her remaining family, she tries to navigate her changed life, and all the struggles and surprises that come with it.

Author’s Note: It's been ages since I've updated this. I'm so sorry. The motivation just wasn't there for the longest time, but good news - it seems to be back! Plus, I just finished my classes for the semester, and I'm not working right now because of the pandemic, so I should have lots of time to write!

I listened to "Mystery of Love" by Sufjan Stevens while I wrote this, and it's obviously where the title comes from. I also listened to "Wasteland, Baby!" from Hozier's album of the same name.

Read the Author's Note at the end after you're done with this chapter. There's some important stuff in there!

Here's chapter nine of A Slight Return Home!

read chapter one on tumblr, archive of our own or ff.net read chapter two on tumblr, archive of our own or ff.net read chapter three on tumblr, archive of our own or ff.net read chapter four on tumblr, archive of our own or ff.net read chapter five on tumblr, archive of our own or ff.net read chapter six on tumblr, archive of our own or ff.net read chapter seven on tumblr, archive of our own or ff.net read chapter eight on tumblr, archive of our own or ff.net read chapter nine on archive of our own or ff.net

the mystery of love

It all changes one day, suddenly.

Spring is at its most robust in Virginia, and the day outside is nothing short of beautiful. The afternoon sun shines brilliantly upon them, the trees are in full bloom, and she can hear birds singing as they fly about.

She's in a good mood, for the first time in what seems like forever. Things have been quiet for a few months now - no new threats, no dangerous communities to fight. And she has the day "off", as they tend to call it; she's not on watch, isn't going on any runs, doesn't have any duties around Alexandria to tend to.

So she's home, and it's so warm outside that she pulled shorts and a t-shirt out of her dresser this morning. The kids just finished up lunch, and quickly scurried outside to continue playing. She can hear their voices along with the chirping of the birds, and it puts her in an even better mood. She smiles as she wipes down the counter where she made sandwiches. Her bare foot taps against the cool hardwood floor of the kitchen as she sings an old Billie Holiday song her mother used to play for her under her breath.

"Michonne?"

She jumps at the sound of her name, drops the rag she's wiping with on the floor and turns towards the noise frantically, one hand gripping the edge of the counter with all her might while the other goes to her back to grab the katana that isn't there.

But when she does turn, she finds it's Rick.

"Shit, Rick!" she breathes, bending over and placing her hands on her knees as her muscles relax. She takes a moment before she stands up again, trying to steel herself for whatever kind of conversation will come next. She tries to disguise her hesitation by reaching down and picking up the rag from the floor, and as she straightens herself, she tosses the wet thing on the counter.

Then, she looks at him.

Things with Rick have still been...difficult. More than difficult. She feels like they're swimming together in a river full of molasses, and not even in the same direction, at times. Any progress is slow and heavy on their limbs. They're sad and sticky and stuck, and making little progress. Maybe not making any progress. And there's always that underlying fear in the pit of her stomach that they'll never make any progress at all.

But she tries not to think that way, keeps telling herself that this will get better if she only gives it time. That she'll find a way to bring him back. Even if it takes twenty years, she'll find a way to bring him back.

He's here in front of her, at least. That's more than she can say on most days. And she's keenly aware that this is the first time she's heard him say her name in over two weeks.

"I'm sorry," he mutters, taking a step back and turning his head to look over his shoulder.

"It's fine," she says quickly, remembering all at once how careful she has to be. He's a skittish, abused animal, constantly hovering along the edges of her world, and if she makes one or two wrong moves, he might run from her.

"It's fine," she tells him again, but she realizes that he's still looking away from her.

"Rick," she calls, but he doesn't move.

"Rick."

She says it more forcefully this time, and he turns back around.

"I didn't mean to scare you."

"It's fine," she assures him again, and he nods slowly, like he's hearing her words for the first time.

Silence falls over them. She waits for him to talk, but he doesn't. Instead, he stares at her, eyes slightly squinted. He used to look at her like that all the time. Before they were together, she never quite knew what it meant, and it made her stomach churn in a way she didn't understand. Afterwards, she knew exactly what it meant, and it still made her stomach churn, but in the best possible way. Because when he looked at her like that, it meant he was thinking of him and her and a bed - or a wall, a couch, a table. Anywhere private. Where they wouldn't be seen, and hopefully not heard.

It's different this time, slightly softer and less penetrating. It's like he's trying to decide something. She wants to stay quiet, to give him the time he needs, but after a minute she starts to fidget, and she can't help but say something.

"What's up?"

He bites his bottom lip, and glances away momentarily before his eyes return to her. His hands fall to his hips, and she almost smiles, because he always used to stand like that. It's a remnant of the past, of a better time. And it's nice to know that at least something about him hasn't changed.

"Can we talk?"

Her eyes widen in surprise. She hadn't been expecting that to be his answer, and resists the urge to jump for joy because maybe this is the start of it, maybe they'll finally get somewhere, instead of just fumbling around in the dark. Maybe they'll turn to face each other in that brown river.

"Yeah," she answers, trying to temper the excitement in her voice. She could still scare him away. "Yeah, of course."

He nods once, and then turns around and walks away. Confusion floods her before she realizes he's headed for the dining room. She looks out the window briefly, to take one more look at her kiddos, and then follows after him.

She finds him standing by the table, and he motions for her to take a seat before he does. Always the gentleman. She half-smiles at him, and then sits at the head of the table.

He walks to the complete opposite side of the table, and takes his seat.

Or maybe he just wanted to make sure he didn't have to sit too close to you, chimes a voice inside her head, but she pushes that thought away. Even if that is true, this is going to be a good thing. They're going to make progress.

She watches him get settled and then waits for him to say something. But again, he hesitates. She waits awhile, and then goes to speak. Prompting worked in the kitchen, after all.

"So what do you want - "

"Is there someone else?"

She doesn't react right away, blinking hard twice. She decides she must've heard him wrong.

"What?" she questions, and the word comes out whispered and half-strangled, but he hears it still, and asks her again.

"Is there someone else? Was there? Is there? I don't know. Does it matter?"

She gapes at him, mouth hanging open. He shifts nervously in his seat.

"It's just, you've been distant since we came home from the infirmary. I know I was gone for...a long time. I mean, I'd understand. Seven years is seven years. It's a long time."

She can't process what's happening, even though her thoughts are racing a mile a minute. It's as if all the gears in her brain stopped working and started up again in strange patterns.

"It's okay. If there is. It's okay. We'd have to think of something with the kids, but other than that, it would probably be pretty easy. I'm sure there are empty houses. Or if not, I could always move in with Daryl, or - "

"I still have all of your clothes?"

She doesn't mean for it to come out sounding like a question, but it does. And she knows it's kind of stupid, but she can't think of something else to say.

"You do," he concedes. "You do. But...I don't know. Things have been...not good. And I know it's my fault, but like I said, you've been distant, too. And I just want you to be happy."

"I'm trying to give you space. To give you time," she murmurs, dazed. "You need time."

"I know. But I just want you to be happy. That's all I've ever wanted. All I'll ever want. For you to be happy."

He shrugs.

"Seven years is a long time. And I just want you to be happy."

"Seven years is a long time," she breathes, repeating his words mechanically.

"And I just want to know. I need to know," he amends. "Is there someone else?"

"Is there someone else?" she echos again.

He stops talking, staring at her cautiously. He might be a scared animal, but she's a bomb waiting to explode, ready to go off with the slightest touch. But she's still floundering at the moment, flopping around like a fish on a hook, gasping for breath that won't come.

She looks down at her hands. They're trembling, she realizes. Her heart is beating in double time.

"Michonne," he sighs. The sorrow in his voice is palpable.

And it decides her.

Fuck it. Fuck the waiting, the hesitation, all the caginess. Fuck that constant feeling of teetering on the very edge of a cliff, desperately wondering if someone is going to grab your hand and pull you away, or shove you in the back and push you off.

She knows that there's no going back, she knows that she might scare him off, but she can't do this anymore. She can't. She's tired, so tired, more tired than she's ever been. And she can't do it anymore. She won't.

Fuck it all. She explodes.

She stands abruptly, her chair falling back and crashing to the floor. She pays it no mind. He jumps, but he doesn't get up. He doesn't run.

"Seven years is a long time. Do you think I don't know that? Do you think I didn't feel every day of those seven years?"

She's shouting. She knows she is. But she can't stop herself. She's expelling everything that's been pent up inside her, and she can't stop.

But he's not running.

"I woke up every single one of those days and missed you. Most days I didn't want to. Most days it felt like it would be easier to die than to get out of that bed, but I did it anyway. For Judith, and then for RJ. And for you. For seven years, I did everything for you. Because I knew you would want me to. That you would want me to live."

She's crying. She can feel tears running down her cheeks. And she's right in front of him now.

But he isn't running.

"And so I got up. I lived. And I kept your clothes, and your toothbrush, and every single, little fucking thing because I couldn't do it without you. Without reminding myself that it was what you wanted."

She pulls his chair out from the table, turns it so it faces her. He's still light enough that she can manage it without much effort.

And he doesn't run.

"I talked to you, I went to visit you. I raised our babies. And I loved you. More than anything else, I loved you."

She stops suddenly, her chest heaving. There's tears in his eyes now, too. And she's tired. Tired from yelling, but tired mostly from carrying the weight of everything these past few months have brought. From thinking that at any moment, her world would collapse in on her.

She's so tired. She collapses onto his lap, her head falling into his chest, over his heart.

And he doesn't run. He doesn't even tense.

"And now," she murmurs, "now you want to know if there was someone else? There wasn't anyone else. There isn't, there wasn't, there never will be."

"Michonne."

She feels his voice rumble in his chest. Her name isn't a whisper this time. He doesn't murmur it, or mutter it. He says it, with his whole voice.

She lifts her head.

"Baby," he says, tucking a loc of her hair behind her ear.

She grabs his face with both of her hands, sitting up straight. She hovers over him slightly, close enough now that she can see the light freckles on the bridge of his nose, the flecks of cerulean in his light blue eyes that shine with tears.

And he doesn't run.

"I missed you every day," she tells him. "I loved you every day. I loved - "

He leans up and kisses her.

She doesn't respond at first, because she doesn't expect it. She stills in shock as her brain sputters to make sense of what's happening and her lips don't move back against his. And by the time it registers - that he's not running, that he's kissing her - he pulls away. And the loss of him, of their contact, is so profound that she almost begins to cry harder.

Don't stop, she's about to say, but the words die in her throat as she looks at him.

He's staring up at her again, but his eyes are different. They're not squinted, and the tears in them have dried. And he isn't trying to decide anything. Instead, he looks decided.

He's looking at her like he loves her. Like he's hungry, and the only thing he wants is her.

It's how he used to look at her, almost always. Even when they weren't in the bedroom - when they went on runs, when they were out in the community doing various jobs - there would always be a hint of it, deep in his irises.

She remembers the first time he looked at her like that. That night on the couch, their hearts pounding as they kissed furiously, both of their shirts half untucked, the button of her jeans undone, hands anywhere they could find the other's bare skin. His lips left hers only to kiss across her jaw, down her neck, and settle on her collarbone, where his lips moved and his tongue danced against her skin.

His teeth nipped at her lightly, and she groaned at the pleasurable pain.

He pulled away and hovered over her. She could feel him, cooped up in his jeans, pressing incessantly against her inner thigh. She almost pouted at the sudden stop, and was about to tell him to get back down here, but then she looked into his eyes.

The first time he had pulled away, a few minutes earlier, he had smiled down at her, softly and happily. She held his face, ran her fingers over his cheekbones, and smiled back.

This time, he didn't smile. He stared at her, chest heaving, wild curls framing his face like a halo of dark light, mouth hanging open.

He looked like he wanted to devour her. And he had, that night and so many others after it, thoroughly and absolutely.

It's how he's looking at her now.

She feels a buzzing throughout her body, and a bolt of desire makes her shiver as it settles between her thighs. She wants him. She wants him.

She's never wanted him more.

She doesn't know which one of them leans in again first, but she supposes it doesn't matter, because when their lips crash together, everything flies out of her mind except for him. Him, and his lips and his body and his heart. She places one of her hands on his chest, so she can feel it beat wildly underneath her palm.

(he's alive he's alive he's alive he's alive and he's not running. he's with her. he's finally with her.)

He's already hard beneath her, and she feels herself clench around nothing, longing for him. Longing to feel him inside her, to welcome him home. She reaches for his pants while he stands with her and lays her back on the empty table. She undoes his belt and then yanks it from the loops on his pants, dropping it to the ground. The metal buckle thumps as it hits the hardwood floor, and she jumps at the noise before laughing softly at the sudden sound. He joins her, and it makes her laugh harder.

She's happy. She's so happy, and he is, too. She almost can't believe it, but she does believe it because she feels it. She feels the warmth blooming in her core and spreading into every single one of her atoms, she senses the joy rolling off of Rick in waves.

She believes it because it's real. It's radiating out of their every pore, and it's so real.

She continues laughing, covering her mouth with her hand. But he tugs on that hand, and she lets him pull it down, placing it on his shoulder instead. Then, he takes his index finger and gently runs it along her bottom lip, in the shape of her smile.

"I've missed you," he whispers.

She smiles, as tears gather in the corner of her eyes. She doesn't know if they're happy or sad, but it doesn't matter. Because either way, she knows he'll be there to catch them when they fall.

She leans up again to kiss him, wraps her legs around his waist as he trails his fingers up and down her bare thighs. Each touch of his hands on her skin leaves fire in their wake, a pleasant burn that spreads across her skin and sets her aflame, burning away her old self and making way for rebirth. Like the spring outside, she's blooming, the buds and blossoms inside her watered and nurtured by the light in his eyes, by the feel of his body against hers. Flowers grow between her ribs.

His hands creep under her t-shirt, travel up her sides and hover over her chest before moving down again. He grabs the hem of her shirt and she sits up, helping to pull it over her head. It falls to the floor along beside his belt.

He stares at her, licking his lips. She leans back on her hands. Her bra is already out of place, her breasts practically spilling out of the garment. And he keeps staring. She feels herself getting wetter. She forgot how wonderful it felt to be ogled by the man that you love. She raises her eyebrows, challenging him.

What are you waiting for?

His eyes meet hers for a split second. And then he dives in, headfirst.

He buries his face in her cleavage, inhales her. And it gives her his answer.

I'm not waiting for anything. Not anymore.

He kisses and nips and the soft flesh of her breasts, and one of his hands reaches up her back, his fingers starting to fiddle with the clasp of her bra. She closes her eyes, lets out a soft moan, before opening her eyes again.

"Wait," she says.

He shakes his head, lets out some muffled hum of protest, and she laughs.

"Rick, wait," she repeats, grabbing his head and lifting it from her chest. His bottom lip juts out in adorable pout, and her smile is so wide that her cheeks hurt.

"We shouldn't do this here," she tells him softly.

"Why?" he asks, and she can hear the slight nervous lilt in his tone. Like he's afraid she's going to reject him suddenly.

She runs her hand over his hair in an attempt to soothe him. He's been keeping it short, like he did before he was taken. The fuzz feels good under her fingers.

She doesn't want to do it here. She wants to bring him back into their room, back into their bed. Take the place she poured so many tears and so much sorrow into and drain it. Fill it up with love again.

She wants to take those final steps to bring him back to her, wholly. And there are practical reasons, too.

"Because the front door is unlocked. And because the kitchen window is open. Someone could hear us."

"You plannin' on being loud?" he asks, a wicked and aroused glint appearing in his eyes.

He's half-teasing her, she knows. But the other half of him is excited at the prospect. His eyes dart around her face, one corner of his mouth ticking up.

"You planning on making me be loud?" she counters.

He bites down on his bottom lip, and then stands, taking her hand. She laces their fingers together as he bends down to pick up their shirt and belt.

"C'mon," he drawls, the southern twang more pronounced as it always is when his voice is rough with pleasure.

He leads her up the stairs and down the hall, but stops when he comes to their room. She can sense his hesitation, but she waits for him.

Finally, he reaches out, hand shaking. He turns the knob, and the door falls open. She can see the sun shining in through the sheer white curtains, filling the room with light.

He doesn't move to go in, so she steps around him, tugs on his hand and beckoning him forward.

"Come on," she urges. And it takes him a moment, but he follows her.

She lets him walk past her, and then closes the door behind them. She watches him as he stands at the foot of the bed, back towards her, gazing around the room like he's never been there before.

"You were always here."

He turns to her, tilting his head to the side.

"What do you mean?" he questions.

"You were always here," she tells him again. "It wasn't just the clothes. I always felt you in here. Like you had left part of yourself behind the last time you went away. And when I wanted to feel close to you, and it wasn't practical to go to the bridge, I would take the kids to Aaron's, and come up here and crawl into bed. I'd lay my head on your pillow. Sometimes I would cry, other times I would talk, but a lot of times I would just, lay there. And I would feel like you were there with me."

She walks towards him, and wraps her arms around him tightly, resting her head on his chest, above his thumping heart.

(he's alive he's alive he's alive he's alive)

"This is yours, Rick. This room, this bed. It's all yours. It always has been, and it always will be."

They're silent for a minute, but then she feels him nod above her.

"Okay," he whispers, before pulling back so he can look into her eyes.

"Okay," he repeats.

"Okay," she says back, nodding her head.

He leans down to kiss her.

They pick back up where they left off in the dining room, wrapping themselves around each other. He sits her down on the bed, takes off her bra, finally. He palms her breasts as he kneels down, places a long kiss on each nipple, and then moves his mouth down her stomach, stopping when he gets to the waistband of her cotton shorts. He tugs them down slowly, and then peels off her soaked underwear.

She's naked before him, for the first time in seven years. But there's no nervousness, no awkwardness, no hesitation. All she feels is anticipation. Eagerness for what she knows will come next.

He stares at her from his place on the floor, mouth hanging open, breaths labored. She wants every inch of him.

She reaches for him, begins to unbutton his shirt. He assists her. As he's shrugging it off his shoulders, she goes to start on his jeans, but she stops when she sees it.

He's gained a lot of weight since he came home, but she can still see his ribs. She can still count each one of them.

She stares. She can't help it. She stares, and it takes her back to when she found him, cowering in the corner of that cold, dark room, scared and abused and halfway to death.

The people who did that to him, they're dead now. They're dead, and they will never hurt him again. But it's not good enough. She wants to go back, to line them up and kill them all over again, one by one, watch them suffer, see their fear, their -

"Michonne," she hears, in some small part of her brain. His hands cradle her cheeks, and he tilts her face up. He's gazing down at her with the slightest frown on his face.

"Stay with me," he whispers.

Her eyes flit back to his ribs for a moment, but she takes a deep breath and looks back at him.

They're dead, she reminds herself. It doesn't matter anymore. What matters is that he's here, holding her. Loving her. He's alive.

They didn't win. He's alive. She leans into his hand, and feels the beat of his pulse against her skin.

(he's alive he's alive he's alive he's alive)

He's here, and he loves her.

Stay with me.

"Always," she promises.

He brings her face to his, presses his lips against hers softly. For a moment, they're quiet, pressed against each other and swaying back and forth slightly.

She begins to pull on him, forcing onto the bed with her. He laughs as she scoots back towards the headboard, and he pushes down his jeans and boxers, throwing them on the floor before turning over and crawling on top of her.

Once he's settled in, she reaches down and holds him. They both groan as she strokes him, him shifting above her as his hips buck. He drips into her hand as she continues to stroke, and she reaches down with her other hand to cup his balls.

"Fuck," he murmurs, his voice strained. She can tell she's torturing him, but she can't stop. She loves it - loves making him feel like this, loves the weight of him in her hand. He feels so good, and he's not even inside of her yet.

She speeds up her strokes, and he moans again, louder this time than the last. He reaches and grabs her hands, brings them up and holds them in his, lacing their fingers together.

"I want you," he says breathlessly. "I need you."

She lays back, her hair spreading out on the pillows, all around her head.

"Then take me," she tells him, reaching out again and guiding him to her entrance.

He does.

He enters her in one movement, and neither of them can help the loud groans they let out. They don't move right away as they treasure the feeling of being connected once again, finally.

But then, she grows impatient. She swivels her hips, communicating to him without words, and he begins to thrust.

It's almost like their first time, in a way. Things aren't perfectly smooth, and there are bumps and stutters along the way. Their bodies together aren't the well-oiled machine that they used to be. Neither of them are exactly how they used to be. They have to get used to this again. To find out who the other is, now.

She couldn't be more eager to learn.

They find a steady rhythm after a few minutes, and his thrusts get faster as she moves her hips in time with his. He pauses for a moment, readjusts them so he can reach her more freely, and then trails his hand down and begins to move his fingers against her.

She feels it, that tightening in the pit of her stomach, the beginning of the tide that will take her over. He begins to move his fingers more intently, syncs them with the movement of their hips, and the feeling grows. She's standing on the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean, and she's about to jump.

She lets go of everything. Everything that's been plaguing her for so long - for seven years - and lets it fade away. All of the worry, the pain, the exhaustion, the sorrow and loneliness. All of her doubts and insecurities and responsibilities and fear. She lets them go, until there's nothing left except her and this bed and him. Him, moving above and inside her, panting in her ear, setting her nerves ablaze.

She clings to him as he continues to thrust, crying out as he kindles the fire inside of her.

And she falls.

Her muscles spasm around him as she hits the water below the cliff. The waves overtake her, and her head goes under. She's drowning, but it's okay. He's here, and she never wants to breathe again.

She relaxes all at once with a contented moan, sated and happy. He continues to move above her, pressing his face into the crook of her neck, his moans still echoing throughout the room even though they're muffled by her skin. Her hands roam up and down his back, wander down to his ass and squeeze.

"Come on, baby," she murmurs in his ear.

She feels his muscles stiffen suddenly, and then the warm rush as he comes inside of her. She closes her eyes, relishing it. Relishing him.

He collapses on top of her, his face still buried in her neck. They both heave as they try to catch their breath. Their chests are pressed together, and she can feel his heart pounding.

(he's alive he's alive he's alive he's alive)

And she's home. Finally, she's home.

***

It's warm again today.

She'd opened all the windows and doors when she'd come downstairs, so the fresh air could drift in and freshen up the house. She can feel the pleasant breeze blowing against her skin now, as she folds towels in the living room.

It's quiet at home. The kids are out with Daryl and Dog. She isn't sure where Rick is right now, but she knows he's nearby.

She hears small footsteps dash up the front porch steps.

"Momma!"

She smiles. It's RJ.

She sets the laundry basket she had on her lap aside, and gets up to greet him at the door. Her bare feet pad against the hardwood floor and echo softly throughout the entryway.

"Mom-"

Her eyebrows furrow as she wonders what made him stop his second call for her. She approaches the screen door and is about to open it, when she spots her son, standing on the porch and staring cautiously at something in the corner. She frowns, but then she realizes.

Rick must be sitting on the porch.

She almost runs out to them reflexively, to insert herself into the situation and try and ease the awkwardness between them. Things with RJ and Rick still aren't quite where she'd hoped they'd be. Rick is trying, and she knows RJ is too.

They'll get there. They just need time.

She steps back a bit, decides to let them work it out on their own. She angles herself in the doorway so she won't be seen by either of them.

"Hey, RJ," Rick says carefully. She knows he's trying not to scare off their son.

It takes him a minute, but RJ finally responds.

"Hi br...Daddy."

She smiles softly. RJ forgets to call him Daddy a lot, having referred to him as the brave man for so long. But he's getting better.

"What are you up to? I thought you and your sister were with Uncle Daryl."

"We are, but I gotta pee."

She puts a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter.

"Hmm. Well, you better get in there."

"Yeah," RJ answers. He looks for a moment longer, then turns towards the house. He takes a step towards the door, but stops again.

"Daddy?"

"Yeah, son?"

"Judy said...Judy said you used to sing to her when she was a little baby."

"I did," Rick answers.

"A song about dreams," RJ continues.

"Yeah. It's called Dream a Little Dream of Me."

"Yeah. That one."

A silence falls over them. She's about to go outside, when RJ speaks again.

"Will you sing it for me?"

"Yeah," Rick says, and she can hear a sort of strong emotion in his voice. "I'd love to. Come over here."

RJ walks over without hesitating, and her heart leaps. She hears the rocking chair Rick must be sitting in shift.

"Now, I'm not that good of a singer…"

"Momma and Judy say your voice is good."

"They're just being nice. You'll have to tell me what you think, okay?"

"Okay."

There's silence for a moment. Then, Rick starts.

Stars shining bright above you Night breezes seem to whisper, "I love you" Birds singing in the sycamore tree Dream a little dream of me

Rick starts to move on to the next verse, but RJ interrupts.

"You have a good voice!"

"Aw, thanks, buddy."

"Keep going, please," RJ insists. Rick laughs.

"Whatever you say."

Stars fading, but I linger on, dear Still craving your kiss I'm longing to linger 'til dawn, dear Just saying this

She can't see them from the angle she's at, but she still doesn't want to make herself seen. She quietly rushes to the living room, so she can look out the window.

Rick is sitting in the rocking chair, and RJ is sitting on his lap, facing his father. She can't see Rick's face, but she can see RJ. The boy's eyes are wide and bright as he watches Rick, a grin on his face.

She feels tears gather in her eyes, as she watches the two boys she loves most in the entire world.

Sweet dreams 'til sunbeams find you Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you But in your dreams, whatever they be Dream a little dream of me

She smiles.

But in your dreams, whatever they be Dream a little dream

"RJ! What's taking you so long?"

Judith runs up the path to their house, Dog and Daryl trailing behind her. RJ wiggles off of Rick's lap as his sister jogs up the stairs.

"Daddy sang to me. The dreams song! Just like you said."

"I thought you had to pee," Judith questions.

"Oh yeah!" RJ exclaims, like he'd just remembered his reason for coming home in the first place. "Momma!"

He runs towards the door, and she wipes at her eyes and walks to the door, arriving just as RJ flings it open.

"Momma, I have to pee!"

"Then go to the bathroom, silly!" she tells her son, placing her hand on his back and gently pushing him in the direction of the bathroom as he scurries past her. She waits until she hears the door slam shut, and then she ventures outside.

Judith is at the rocking chair talking to Rick, in voices too low for her to hear them. Instead, she waves at Daryl, who's still in the yard, throwing a tennis ball around for Dog.

"Hi, Mom," she hears suddenly, and looks down to see Judith walking past her and into the house.

"Hey, Judy."

Daryl walks up the steps to the porch. He throws the tennis ball once more, and then turns towards Rick and Michonne.

"What's up?" he asks.

"Nothing," she answers. " Just hanging around. Did some laundry."

"That's not what I mean. You're all smiley."

"Smiley?" she questions.

"Yeah. Judith was telling me how y'all had this nice breakfast this morning, and the two of you were all happy. And I can tell now. You look...lighter or some shit."

"What are you talking about?" she asks, trying to play dumb. But there's a slight thrill that runs through her, at the fact that the past twenty-four hours have changed her so much that other people can tell.

Daryl doesn't answer her. Instead, he looks between her and Rick. Rick, who's sitting outside, whistling some made-up song.

Daryl grins. And she feels like it's the first time her and Rick slept together all over again, when their whole family barged in on them when they were half-dressed.

"Nevermind," Daryl mutters, and moves towards the house. Before he opens the door, he turns towards Rick.

"Hey, me and Aaron are going out tomorrow, s'long as it don't rain. You coming?"

"Uh...sure. Yeah."

It's not the first time Daryl's asked him to go on a run since he's been back, but it's the first time Rick's agreed. He always had excuses - something about being too weak, or fearing he'd be a liability instead of an asset.

She smiles at his answer. Daryl grins again, too, and then starts into the house. He calls out, just loud enough for them to hear it.

"Yeah, y'all are smiley for sure."

She looks at Rick, and he looks back at her. They burst into laughter.

She walks over to him, leans against the porch railing as she stands in front of the rocking chair.

"Why do I feel like a kid who just got caught having sex at summer camp?"

He laughs again, and then pats his lap, signaling for her to sit down.

"I'm not as little as RJ," she warns.

"I'll manage."

She smiles, and then sits down, leaning back into him. He wraps his arms around her, resting his hands on her stomach. She places her hands over his, and closes her eyes.

"So, you were spying on us?"

"I was," she admits freely. "I love seeing the two of you together. I couldn't help it. Plus, I'll never pass up a chance to hear you sing."

He presses a kiss to her bare shoulder, next to the strap of her tank top.

"What did our little bird want?" she wonders.

"Apparently, she doesn't want to pass up a chance to hear me sing, either. She asked if I would sing that song for her tonight before bed."

It's been years since she's sang Judith to sleep. She smiles gently.

"She's missed you, too. More than you know."

"Yeah," he whispers. "I kind of...got that. When she was talking to me."

She nods. They're quiet for a few moments, listening to the sound of the soft breeze blowing around them.

"Michonne?"

She shifts, turning so she can see his face. He stares at her, bringing his hand up to trail along her cheekbone.

"I love you," he breathes.

It's the first time she's heard him say that in seven years.

"I love you, too," she tells him, and places a kiss on his forehead before wrapping her arms around his neck and resting her cheek on top of his head.

She knows things won't be perfect from here on out. Sex isn't a magic spell that will fix everything, as much as she wishes it was. There will be obstacles in their continued journey back together. He'll still have bad days. She will, too. There will still be nightmares, still be pain. And they'll never be the same as they were.

Instead, they'll be something new. Something that's suffered, but come out on the other side. And they'll be stronger for it. She knows they will.

They love each other. And their love is strong enough to weather any storm, to survive any fire. It's gotten them this far in the new world, and it will continue to sustain them. That's all that matters.

They love each other.

She closes her eyes, tightens her arms around him.

"I'm so glad you came home to me," she whispers.

"Always," he answers gently.

She hears the kids running around inside through the open window. Daryl shouts after them, something she can't make out, but Rick laughs. The sun shines on her skin. She hears the sound of the town thriving and bustling around them. The sound of her home. Their home.

And she smiles.

***

A/N: This is the first time I've ever written smut, so I hope it turned out okay and wasn't too clunky.

Alas, my dears, this is the last real chapter of this story. I have a short epilogue planned, but other than that, this is where I will leave this version of Rick and Michonne - at the start of a new beginning, finally on the same page and together with their family like they're always meant to be.

ALSO - the absolutely lovely @mdgart has agreed to create some of her wonderful art in honor of this chapter! It’ll most likely be posted somewhere on tumblr - I’ll be sure to reblog it here - but also keep your eyes open and on our twitters (mine is @hawthornegrimes and hers is @ms_doomandgloom) for that some time in the near future. I'm so excited for you all to see her beautiful work!

Thanks for reading! I hope this chapter was worth the wait. (Props to anyone who can come up with the other fictional couple I referenced in this chapter.)

xoxo, rebekah

#richonne #the walking dead #richonnejustdesserts #richonne writing network #richonne fic #richonne fanfiction #twd fanfiction #asrh

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98prilla · 4 years

Text

To The Dead

AO3

TW Past abuse, past murder, past violence.

...

It was Janus who finally found him. They’d been searching the house for nearly a week, trying to find where the spirit had gone, knowing he wouldn’t have gone far, was probably discombobulated and confused and afraid. But there were so many places to hide, so many places for shadows to coil unnoticed, and not even Remus, who had the most free range of any of them, had caught hide nor hair of him.

He’d been wandering, tugging endlessly at his gloves, when something caught his attention. A small movement, a small sound, a small flicker of something in the darkness of the basement, a small shadow of movement behind the radiator.

“virgil?” He asked quietly, approaching slowly, trying not to scare the spirit with his presence. The shadow flickered darker, consolidating into a dark ball of void. He was having trouble maintaining a more physical form, not surprising, given how new he was to the astral plain of existence. “oh, darling. It’s alright, love. I’m here to help.” He murmured, crouching down a few feet from the radiator, not encroaching on the spirit’s space, trying to keep him from fleeing.

“Who… who are you?” The voice was echoing and strange, like several speaking at once, speaking in a thousand different whispers that echoed outwards in a chorus.

“My name is Janus Perkins. I died in 1925. My spirit decided to linger here. I was a singer. A performer of the gilded age. This is where I died, well, this property. This house wasn’t here then. It was apartments, then. They got torn down not long after my death, well, murder. It was rather high profile at the time, singing starlet, murdered by jealous lover. Tried to frame it as a suicide, but he wasn’t all that smart, and left a ton of evidence. Still can’t decide who’s stupider, him for killing me, or me for loving him in the first place.” He pulled at his gloves once more, making sure they covered the deep slashes across his wrists.

“oh. I’m… sorry.” He looked up sharply, Virgil’s voice coming out less echoing and more normal. His form had solidified somewhat, as well, the dark ball of void was gone, and now he was more of a solid, wavering shadow in the shape of his human form, though his details were still vague. He huffed, smiling smally.

“it’s alright. I’ve come to terms with it, now.”

“th-then why are you still h-here?” He paused at that question, thinking hard for a moment.

“I’ve pondered that myself for years, now. I suppose I’m just not ready to go. I don’t want to leave the others.”

“others?” The echo was back in Virgil’s voice, his form rippling slightly, fear destabilizing him, and Janus winced.

“yes. I… there’s five of us, total. We were all worried about you, darling. We… I’m sorry. Whatever made you choose this, I’m so sorry.” His voice cracked, and he was surprised as suddenly Virgil was in his arms, form solid, shadows just barely dancing around his edges.

“I j-just…I c-couldn’t… I couldn’t do it anymore… it a-all h-urt too much, I… no one c-ares anyway, no one… there’s no p-point…” He gathered Virgil into his arms, stroking his hair, Virgil’s face buried against him as he sobbed, clinging to his clothing.

“Oh, lovely. Oh darling, I know. You’re not alone, though. Not now. Not ever. We were trying so hard, so hard, to get you to hear us, to feel us. We always tried to support you, get through to you. We’re here for you, darling.” He cradled Virgil close, rocking gently as his sobs started calming.

“I’m n-not sorry. I sh-ould be sorry, I should r-regret it, I’m s-such a horrible p-erson, who d-doesn’t regret k-illing themselves?”

“Someone who was badly, deeply hurt. It doesn’t make you bad, it doesn’t make you evil or wrong. You still deserve kindness, you still deserve love, you still deserve support.” He broke a little, at the soft shake of Virgil’s head. “the others have been looking for you. We all have. We want to help you.”

“I’ll ruin it. I r-ruin everything. I d-don’t w-want to get inv-olved. I sh-ould just h-hide down h-here forever, r-rot away until e-veryone forgets I exist.”

“why don’t you let them be the judge of that? Let them decide whether you’re worth knowing or not.”

“they’ll leave. Everyone always does.” He sounded exhausted, and despite them being spirits and apparitions, they did still need rest. Moving and speaking still expended energy, though they didn’t sleep, really. More of a deep, trance like state. And the newest spirit’s fear and sorrow had drained him dry.

“I won’t. May I stay?” He asked softly, teasing a hand through Virgil’s hair once more. He felt Virgil shrug weakly. That was good enough for him. “alright, love. Take a rest. You need one.” He pressed a soft kiss to the top of Virgil’s head, feeling him melt against him as he slipped into sleep.

He took a deep breath in and out, before slipping them through the astral plain, back to their living room, in the spirit plain.

It was odd, how the space worked. It shifted, based on their needs, it overlaid the physical location of the house, but sat slightly to left of it, in the realm of reality. They could still feel and sense what was going on in the physical location of the house, were still attached to it, but it was easier to manifest in this space, possible to interact with it. They could summon things to be used, hence Roman’s own sketchbooks and drawings scattered on the living room coffee table. They more physical of beings here, it didn’t expend so much energy, being here.

Immediately, he settled on the couch, wrapping a blanket around the still shaking Virgil, resting his head atop his, relaxing slightly.

“Janus? Where-“ He shushed Roman quietly but aggressively, freezing as Virgil shifted against him, before settling back down.

“I found him. He’s resting at the moment, but…” he trailed off, looking up at Roman, a frown on his lips. “he’s so damaged, Roman.”

“he must be. To do what he did… he must be.” Roman replied softly, sitting down beside Janus, just barely able to see a tuft of hair sticking up from under the blankets.

“I wish we could have done something. I wish we could have stopped him. It feels so… useless, sweeping in after the fact. Like the world’s shittiest consolation prize. Oh, you’ve died, but you get all the support you could ever want, now that it’s too late.” His voice was sarcastic and bitter, and Roman sighed.

“I know. I know, Jan. But it’s something, at least… at least he has someone here, already.” Roman said, and Janus winced. He’d forgotten, Roman was the first to haunt the property. Not the first or only to die there, but the first to haunt it.

He’d died far away, miles away, fighting for the North, against slavery and oppression, despite originally being from the south. He’d always hated it there, hated coming from a rich family, hated that their wealth was built on the abuse and imprisonment and torture of a people, a culture. He’d done what he could for them, but it wasn’t near enough. So, when the war broke out, he fled North. He joined the union army. He fought for the people who had basically raised him, the nurses, the nannies, the maids, the harvesters, that died, were killed, were sold, he fought to his last breath to try and make right any ounce of the wrongs his family had committed.

And then his spirit had found its way back home. Where the same people who had been slaves were now being exploited as ‘workers’. Gods, he’d wreaked havoc on that old house. He’d had so much rage, it had exploded outwards, slamming doors, moving shadows, nightmares that crept into everyone’s minds, that’s what had drawn Remus there and eventually forced his family to flee the property, selling it cheap to whomever would buy it, because it was cursed.

Remus had taught him so much, about being a ghost, though he wasn’t actually a ghost himself. He wasn’t a human whom had died and lingered, he was a being formed from the chaos of the universe, a trickster spirit, of a kind, enjoying and reveling in the confused misery and chaos of others.

Remus had still taught him about being a ghost. How to reign in his anger, to let some of it go, to contain himself so he stopped being the roiling, raging ball of light he’d become and remembered that he’d once been human to begin with. He helped absorb some of his negativity, some of his darkness, helped even him out to sustainable levels. They’d become close, quickly. But it had been a few long, lonely decades, before Remus. He’d been alone. And it had very nearly drove him entirely mad. He’s not sure how Remus had dragged him back from the abyss he’d been teetering at the edge of, but he had, and he’d never stopped being grateful for it.

“Roman-“

“I know, Jan. It’s fine.” Roman’s smile was tight and forced, but the sincerity in his voice wasn’t.

Logan had died in a car crash, a professor in the 1950s. He hadn’t elaborated much more than that, had never found it necessary to. The details of his life were unimportant, now that he was dead.

And Patton…

Patton felt for Virgil more than anyone.

Because Patton had been a victim of suicide, as well.

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theholycovenantrpg · 3 years

Photo

CONGRATULATIONS, EMMA! YOU’VE BEEN ACCEPTED FOR THE ROLE OF DMITRI.

Admin Cas: There’s something so tragic about Dmitri that I love: everything about him is a contradiction. Yet, for all his love and light, he’s also really quite terrifying, and the way you balanced both of those aspects of their character was truly breathtaking, Emma. I thought your reflections on the idea of Dmitri as a sort of wingless angel was especially impressive. In spite of all the things that make them angelic, they can never truly be one with God’s angels. That, after all, is what sets him apart from their brethren; where they are ruination, he is its saving grace. I put this golden prince in your hands without fear that you’ll do wonderful things with him, and I can’t wait to see the directions you’ll go together! Please create and send in your account, review the information on our CHECKLIST, and follow everyone on the FOLLOW LIST. Welcome to the Holy Land!

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Emma.

Age | 21+.

Personal Pronouns | She/Her.

Activity Level | I’m able to get a reply or two out at least once daily; depending on length, it could potentially be more or less than.

Timezone | Eastern.

Triggers | REMOVED.

How did you find the group? | LSRPG tag.

Current/Past RP Accounts | I delete my character accounts to create a blank blog for my next character account. I save snippets of threads I adore, so I’m so sorry. RIP - xoxo

IN CHARACTER

there is a swelling storm and i'm caught up in the middle of it all and it takes control of the person that i thought i was the boy i used to know.

CHARACTER

Dmitri , the Horsemen of Conquest

DRAW TO CHARACTER

I’ve never been the type to write a sample for a character before fleshing out the other bits first, but Dmitri’s voice whispered, begging to be explored as soon as I read their biography. The first sample you’ll read below was the initial picture I painted and kept throughout this application because Dmitri resembled that of a poor Icarus, who simply overindulged in something not meant for him to enjoy.

I imagined Dmitri in the seconds after creation gasping at the sights of Heaven, reaching back for white wings — only to be met by their bareback. Shoulders aching for the flight of angels, the purity evident in their veins to be his own, God’s presence given at a moments notice.

Yes — I very clearly drew these small, delicate details from a few lines, but Cas wrote this character in such a way I felt the weight of Dmitri’s needs as if they were my own to be met. The biography held me captive to do whatever would be in my ability to give this character justice for what they were never gifted. I still get butterflies reading over the biography and couldn’t stop what followed.

This application is my confession of love for Dmitri, and I would even offer to say this could be read as a fever dream because isn’t that what God would want? His beloved, lastly mad Horsemen to be written in a state of complete and total euphoria for conquest and recklessness… but more importantly, I hope to show how beautifully flawed this character is to desire to be loved by a dead God, and the journey I would take them on to realize their purpose was never tied to God’s needs.

FUTURE PLOTS

SUMMARY: I’ve written these in a format of progression based on what I think could occur first in-game based off of current connections, and Dmitri’s direct link of being a Horsemen, making it far more likely to push said plot first. Each builds upon the other in a sense of a video game character skill branching system. As in, I’ve written some answers or may propose them in a way, which would directly change a plot below it. Hope this helps explain the mess which is about to occur below!

FUTURE OF THE HORSEMEN

what happens to those who were meant to end a world already destroyed?

Their purpose set forth to them by God has come to no fruition as the world destroyed itself, at least in a way. Each Horsemen dealing with their new identity as a mercenary in their own way, but I can only speak from the perspective of Dmitri. When it comes to them, the Horsemen are family. They came from the same Gos as them, shaped from different moments but important just the same. Their future as a whole could be explored by each Horsemen’s motivation. For Dmitri, the idea of leaving them to go elsewhere seems far-fetched at first; a type of daydream when the cleanup after a job is too heavy to stay focused on. If given a bigger glimpse at something else, something Dmitri could find himself desiring to do, I imagine the Horsemen could find a strain.

FUTURE OF THE HEALING

what is the purpose of being one of healing if you watched the wounds be inflicted?

Building upon a strain forming within the Horsemen, Dmitri would first need to experience something so terrifyingly out of character for them to do, which could trigger a wave of events to follow. The concept of using their healing ability seems to be the “fun” direction as this golden boy not being able to save someone caught in the crossfires would be an angst ridden thread to experience. I want to shape his tenderness in a way to correlate with his healing. Dmitri’s process of healing someone is something I haven’t ventured much into yet — but I imagine the sight of it to be something beautiful, almost too beautiful to fully understand what you’re looking at. This light bringer among those who only bring darkness is the difference enough to push the first plot and this one forward.

FUTURE OF THE LOVED AND WORSHIPPED

what does one do with love and praise when all they expected was hate?

Imagine the first time someone witnessed Dmitri healing a mortal. Who was it? What occurred? No one who lives now among the mortals knows, yet their growing affection towards him makes me feel as if he’s gotten his own personal tale passed between them. Here in this new found love among men, I think Dmitri sees what he’s always wanted out of life, rather existence. It’ll be such a wild ride of secret trips to different parts of the world to see if he finds this love and praise everywhere. He’d be drunk over this, but there also comes the dark side of being given something kept from you for so long. Yes, I would love for this beautiful, precious Horsemen to ride happily off into the sunset… but there’s definitely some trauma left from God. Here within this, I find Dmitri’s breaking point could take place and all of the above could shatter.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | yes — given a month’s notice and option to decline? i feel as if the answer would be different depending on how they were to die and character development, if this makes sense.

IN DEPTH

but there is a lightin the dark, and i feel its warmth

in my hands and my heart why can't i hold on?

CHARACTER MOTIVATION

It’s unknown at first- their motivation. Perhaps, God always intended the existence of those who were meant to cause the end of the world to possess no motivation. Life to them, the Horsemen, was simply a story already written down in the stars, yet Dmitri walked out into the New World with the story finished and no part to play in it. Purgatory had warped their glowing essence, satisfying God’s need to prevent prayers said to Conquest over the God of Creation.

Yet motivations can still be rather fickle when they were never intended for you. Dmitri’s creation came from the infinite love God felt for man, yet they were never meant to have this (this being love) as their backbone. No, they were to indulge their fellow Horsemens’ wrath by mending the blows they were destined to cause. Their gift, their healing, their voice. All things given by God to serve a purpose not their own. Somewhere between all of the havoc and chaos of this world, there had to come a time where Dmitri sought to figure it out.

Their motivation laid rotting within the crevices of darkness and filth they called home all these centuries. Purgatory did it’s job more so than God could have ever intended because Dmitri struggled with purpose outside of God’s. Sunshine filled his veins in a way the darkness fed off of and merely left the Horsemen of Conquest bare. So walking out of, rather escaping from, Purgatory to Dmitri awakened this desire for answers. With the death of God, Dmitri discovered their rebirth into something rather ungodly as he wanted to become everything God never intended on him to be: loved.

From this death, Dmitri has discovered a solace with mortals he’d never found with the fellow Horsemen as there’s something to be said in regards to being made last. He didn’t resemble the others completely as he felt a mirror to man more so than his Horsemen. I imagine actions and motivation for him to be teetering currently as his own questions in the regards of ‘what’s next?’ as having a calling as a mercenary never sat well with him. He wants to be loved in a way God had left unspoken between them over the possibility of competition.

SUMMARY: Throughout interactions and inner thoughts expressed throughout this roleplay, I would love to dive into the future plots tying into Dmitri’s motivations above with the balance of being deemed as loved or worshipped. Dmitri needs to be loved, yet I think if it ever rocked towards him being worshipped, it’d be a nice little shift of what truly motivates him. Overall, I find my motivating factor to be Dmitri’s voice and relationships with the Horsemen due to my overall understanding of how much he truly values them. Yes, he’s always wanted more for himself, but there’s always going to be the glimpses of why he is among their ranks. He isn’t pure as the angels or as mischievous as the demons, but I find Dmitri’s complexities something of value as a character in a world without restraints.

IN-CHARACTER PARA SAMPLES

i. DREAMS AND THE HEREAFTER

‘Icarus, my son — your wings are too brittle for the warmth of light. Now, I shall watch you burn with the rest.’ Or was the name spoken across the lips of God dmitri? Did he curve the appetite of man’s undeserving love of their creator by existing? Were his screams - for more - not enough to make the tear from God’s eye a regret?

‘But father, I shall fly with you. We can escape together. No mortal shall ever have to look upon our faces again. We can finally be--’ Scorned brow silenced all of his pleas, bringing the truth to the forefront. Dmitri dreamed before the tear was ever caught and molded into the literal form of his being. They knew of themself from the perspective of God’s eye and convinced themself of something which wasn’t there. ‘Am I never to be free of this burden then? Am I to suffer?’

They painted a world where they crawled from the depths of Purgatory, where their strength came from the purity of man, where God Himself welcomed Dmitri back into Heaven as if he’d never gone. In this recurring dream, God would realize the mistake to tuck away his most prized creation.

The final Horsemen did not deserve the caverns of impermeable darkness Purgatory supplied them because somewhere in the infinite of his existence, he truly believed himself to bare wings.

‘Suffer? Suffer! You are the brilliance of life; my creation. Do you wish to know what I plan to do with you? Follow me, Conquest. Your domain awaits.’

Their eyes open with horror, memories of a man - rather a god who loved him less. A god who created him by mistake. An outstretched arm from active slumber finds its way back onto their chest, an unsteady rise and fall of breaths lost. His own torment from sleep a self-given punishment as he allowed himself to fall into the corners of his own mind. The hidden doors which locked memories long forgotten as he believed himself to be more than he was.

God regretted shedding a tear for out came the brightest of shadows, the technicolor snake of dispute in the form of a golden angel. They were truly no closer than their brethren to bearing wings, but if one deserved them, Dmitri would declare themself so.

Instead of wings, however, cascading down their back, you would find a seeping hole of nothing; a hollowed out mine of what could have become of them. It is the wickedness they hide beneath enchanting smiles, minor suggestions, and lack of resolve which will keep their back bare. Denial being a sort of game which they’ve mastered over the years.

Once, one might have spotted the prospect of gold, sinless existence within them, but they were not created like the other angels, the other horsemen, the other fallen. They were made as the result of emotion, and one knew what followed closely with emotions — mistakes or rather the sins of man.

They were the rotten cavities created over years of divulging in sweets, buried in the crevices of newborn teeth who hadn’t the taste of sugar.

And in their devastation, Dmitri destined themself to find the answers which God withheld from them.

ii. DENIAL IN THE FORM OF SINFUL BEAUTY

“You’re late — again.” A simple nod towards either Nerissa or Viktoria felt enough to find his place among his family, his fellow Horsemen.

One thumb found its way to his temple before releasing a heavy sigh. “Dreams haunt me recently.

“You mean nightmares.” Nerissa could never resist correcting him over something so miniscule as words, yet this simple exchange caused a growing irritation to sprout wings and turn into complete rage.

His temples tensed, nostrils flared with fingernails already cutting at the skin of his palm. “You honestly think I’m mortal enough to switch the meaning of two words, War?” Tongue pressed against the back of their teeth, Dmitri allowed their body to sink into their assigned chair, of sorts. Each had a place within the others home as if each home belonged to all four of them collectively.

“Someone woke up feeling out of place again.” Always Ryuk with a quick word before letting the storm brew on.

“It’s the dreams — I wake up in horror over...” Their eyes, washed in an array of gold, scanned the softness of their palms, the lack of scars on their flesh, the harrowing displacement of havoc in their words, and the deficiency of darkness their fellow Horsemen possessed. “...for it is the dream I can never grasp.”

With the unblemished palm, he wiped away at both of their eyes, trying to remove the hints of sleep behind them. More importantly, he wanted more than anything to remove any attempt of truth being proven by Nerissa’s words.

Harsh snarled laughter came from the corner of their domain, mocking their spiral for something less than what it was. To Dmitri, they saw these dreams as something more of an awakening, uncovering their last moments with God.

“What is the point of man if not to suffer, dear Dmitri?”

“But I am no man!” Fists shattered the monotony of the discussion, calling in the last ounce of sanity any of them could take as they stood from the table. “I am no god.” The once golden irises, which mirrored the glory of the sun’s warmth, now mimicked the lava spewing from a devastating volcano. “I am Conquest, and I shall suffer no more!”

Here in the brilliant, pure light of their anger, their risen voice, the very might of their denial gave birth to something else.

A soft chuckle from the other side of the room destroyed any build up between the others as Viktoria waltzed over to them.

“He’s not wrong… None of us are man, so none of us shall suffer.” Viktoria’s hand draped over theirs with a tenderness they’d only felt from the mortals, but it was enough to show Dmitri the horsemen had the ability to give him what he wanted.

#accepted #accepted: dmitri

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