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kashimos-hajime · 13 days

Text

—dissolve | fushiguro toji

summary: he tosses the pregnancy test aside, digs into his pocket, rips out his wallet, and flips it open, fishing out the few bills he has and sticking his hand out towards you.

“take the money and get rid of it.”

WARNINGS: pregnancy, angst, violence, mentions of sex work, emotional constipation and rep of ptsd pairing: fushiguro toji x fem!reader word count: 18.5k

a/n: came back from the dead to post this. i swear TO GOD!!! that this is not a pregnancy fic. in fact, it's arguably worse because it's a plot point instead. excuse any editing mistakes.

obligatory toji might be ooc warning, but we literally have never seen him act normal outside of his job so i make due w what i got.

inspired by dissolve by joji

on ao3 woohoo

(exposition)

Toji’s made a fair few mistakes in his life. It’s hard to count on his fingers alone how many he’s made, but this has to be on the top of the fucking list.

“What do you want me to do with this information?” he spits as he pulls his pants on past his waist. His skin is burning, flushed red from the haze of sex, or maybe it’s the scoring of your nails down his back. His chest feels like it’s stinging.

You’re standing before him, raw power, untapped fury. You’re an unpredictability he has never encountered—you drive him crazy.

You’re also an avid, self-proclaimed misanthrope (ironic, given your profession, and more than a lie, given that Toji knows you), so the fact that he’s still standing here and you haven’t flung a bottle at him once during this whole charade they’ve got going on is admirable.

You don’t look at him, but there’s slick dripping down your thigh, and he’s honestly surprised you’re standing so soon after he’s made a permanent indent into the bed in the shape of your body, but then again, he’s known you for a while now. You’ve always been stubborn, proud, and never want to be seen waiting on anything, so while he’s standing there, staring apathetically at your back, you busy yourself with straightening out bed.

Red neon lights. Men, women, people, all roaming halls, hidden behind purple gauze and thick smoke.

They said the one he’d paid for would be the last one on the left.

Shit, he’s sweating like crazy.

“I don’t know,” you say, tossing the stick behind you without looking. He catches it easily, and stares at the tiny plus sign before looking back at you. You’re rubbing your face with the heel of your hand, and when you turn your head, he sees the frustration etched onto your face. “I don’t know what you can do.”

Toji pulls the door aside, and the figure on the bed looks up, painted lips parting in surprise. He beats you to the punch. “You’re the doctor.”

“You’re the fucked up guy from the clinic.”

And, because Toji has faced real commitment once and lost it just as quickly, he does the one thing he knows best.

He tosses the pregnancy test aside, digs into his pocket, rips out his wallet, and flips it open, fishing out the few bills he has and sticking his hand out towards you.

“Take the money and get rid of it,” he says, but it edges more on an order. You slant your body, frustration dissolving into disbelief at his offer, and your eyes flutter from his hands to his face before your eyebrows furrow together. Your mouth drops open and snaps shut just as quickly, then you’re bending over to gather the closest thing you have to cover yourself.

You shimmy into a shirt you’ve stolen from him, the one with the worn hole at the back of the neck, and threads coming loose at the sleeves.

Just another mistake he’s made letting you steal from him.

“You don’t get to fuck a kid into me only to tell me to get rid of it, Toji.” You straighten up, and walk up to his proffered hand. Snatching the bills, you smash them into his chest, your palm hitting him square in the sternum. His lungs hitch, but you walk past him to the kitchen and he’s left to watch the bills flutter to the ground.

Turning around, Toji walks after you, ignoring his hard-earned money smearing the floor. It’s the last thing on his mind, nestled somewhere at the bottom with sex and affection.

Your presence, mellow and tired and unsure, mirrors him.

It’s probably the realest thing Toji has right now.

“Do you want tea?” you ask without turning around to make sure he’s followed because you know he has, setting the kettle on the stove with a bit less finesse than normal.

“It’s three AM.”

“I didn’t know my question was made redundant,” you snap, and Toji wants to throw a book at your head, so he settles on scowling and grabbing a mug that’s designated as his and sets it on the counter, sliding it over to you. You stop it before it can crash and when they’re pouring over their cups of chamomile in the dead of night, on opposite sides of the kitchen island and illuminated by the single lamp turned on overhead, Toji thinks of you as a mother, carrying a child on your shoulders.

The image comes to him at an uncomfortably quick pace, and he checks his phone. He has a contract, and race bets to make, and he looks at you again. You’re already watching him, mouth hidden behind a mug with a dog painted on the side.

“Megumi is coming over,” he grunts, setting his phone back down on the counter and lifting his mug.

“And if I’m busy?” you ask, because it’s routine that you say it whenever he decides to leave his son in your hands. And they need routine. They need this charade to avoid the storm growing above their heads.

“I’m dumping him on your doorstep,” he answers, “and I’m leaving.”

You don’t text him while he’s out on the job, not even your usual restrained good luck.

It’s three days before he comes back, and when he lets himself in with the spare key you keep behind the loose ninth brick on the right of your door, in the fifth row off the ground, you don’t bring it up.

Mostly because Megumi is fast asleep under your arm, and you’re asleep with him, curled around the two-and-a-half year old baby like he’s the one thing you have to protect with your life. Toji doesn’t wake you, but he does remove your arm to pick up his little boy and Megumi knows his father better than anyone. The tiny bundle immediately tries to make fists at Toji’s shirt, and lets out an incoherent whine at being disturbed before burying his chubby little face into his father’s chest.

You shift in your sleep, muttering nonsense. You’re sweating, the back of your shirt soaked when Toji leans over to look. There isn’t anything on the nearby low table except for paracetamol, a barely-finished bowl of okayu, countless tissues and a thermometer. The apartment is mostly a mess, with dirty dishes in the sink, and ingredients left on the countertops.

Toji can still hold his son with one hand, so he uses his free hand to touch the baby’s forehead to find it slightly warm, and then, because he has nothing better to do, he crouches beside you on the couch, and touches your brow, too. Your face is shining with more sweat, and there’s a feverish twitch in your face when his fingertips meet your skin. You let out a soft snorting noise, and he grins blandly.

“You’re pregnant, huh,” he mutters, mostly to himself. Your eyes flutter open, and find his with a tired precision, before you let them shut again. “Hey.” You turn your face into the couch, and let out a crackled moan.

“Your son is sick,” you tell him instead, voice muffled by the couch. “He has the fucking flu.”

“His fever broke,” answers Toji. “Get up and shower.”

“I can’t. My body molded to the couch.” Your voice is thin with fire, hoarse with exhaustion. You’re a burnt out candle still smouldering, and when he touches your simmering cheek, you hiss, slapping his hand and grabbing the nearest cushion, burying your head beneath it. “Stop it. Just take your son and leave me the fuck alone.”

“Shower,” he barks.

“Go fuck yourself,” you reply with the same burning annoyance.

Megumi yawns, ignorant of it all.

You work at a clinic, but call in sick for the next two weeks. Toji knows because he walks past the clinic sometimes on habit on his way back home, depending on the hour. You go on your smoke break at the same time if you can help it, and he’d catch you in an alleyway two blocks down because no one wants to see that their doctor smokes. There’d be a Mild Seven dangling from your mouth, and you’d eye him with an arched eyebrow, but you never questioned his appearance.

Sometimes, he walks you back even though you never ask him to, a new-burning cigarette slung from his lips, and he complains about your shitty taste in cigarette brands.

And you will always ask why he always takes the Mild Seven you offer, and he dismisses it with a shrug, some flimsy excuse of never biting the hand that feeds you.

Toji’s accustomed to stalling coming back just so he can walk past the clinic on his way home, or sometimes, he leaves the apartment with an excuse of groceries for Megumi just in case you’re there, doctor’s coat shed and a ratty hoodie pulled over your frame to hide the scrubs you don’t bother to change out of.

You aren’t smoking on your break when he finds you on one such ‘grocery trip’, but you’re still in the same alleyway.

“Toji,” you say before he’s even fully appeared at the lip of the alley, and you look up, pulling the hood away from your face. You look awful—swollen eye bags, peeling lips. There’s barely any life to your face, and you regard him wearily, something clicking in your hand. Upon closer inspection, it’s your lighter, and your thumb flicking it open and shut.

“What’s wrong with you?” He walks closer, but doesn��t lean on the wall. You look like you’ll lash out if he even so much as breathes in your direction. A rat skitters by his foot. “Don’t tell me it’s that fucking flu and you’re still contagious.”

“I’m pregnant,” you answer dryly. “And I have a nicotine addiction.”

“Smoke a cigarette,” he suggests, moving a hand to his pocket.

“I’m keeping the baby,” you reply. He pauses, blinks, and you only lift your chin at him, folding your hands behind you against the wall. Stretching your legs farther out over the concrete, you sink a few inches down. “So, I can’t smoke.”

“You’re keeping it?” Clenching his jaw, he scowls. “If this is to spite me—“

“Do you think I’m a fucking idiot? I don’t use human lives as playing cards.” Tilting your head back against the wall, you close your eyes. “Or human lives-to-be.”

“So, why the fuck—“

Your head jerks up. “Because I want this kid, okay? Is that so hard to fucking understand?”

“Maybe.” He shoves his hands into his pockets before laughing. “You’re barely a functioning person. What makes you think you’re fit to be a parent?”

“Like you’re the perfect father for Megumi,” you retort dryly. “I don’t have to justify my choices to you, and I don’t care if you’re in your child’s life. For all you care, this isn’t your child.”

Defensively: “But it is.”

“It doesn’t have to be. I’m giving you a way out,” you dismiss aloofly, pushing off the wall and straightening up. Meeting his gaze, you square your shoulders to his, and cross your arms over your chest. “I’m just that bitch you fuck when you’re bored, and you dump your son on me whenever you feel like it. You walk all over me, and I let you. At least you used to pay me for my services.” Toji’s blood begins to burn at the utter disgust and disappointment in your expression. “Do you think I don’t know what I am to you?”

And for a brief moment, Toji is speechless. Not because you’ve shocked him into silence, because he isn’t shocked, but because he genuinely doesn’t know what to say next. Every possible answer he has is shot down by rationale, and you search his face for any sort of response.

You find none.

Another mistake he’s made in his life is tallied down in some imaginary record when he runs out of time.

With a scoff, you shove past him, and disappear around the corner.

He doesn’t chase after you.

Toji’s just not that kind of guy.

Instead, he takes the newly-purchased box of Mild Sevens from his pocket, flips it open to retrieve a fresh cig, and lights it, cupping the end and inhaling as deeply as he can.

Pinching the cigarette between two fingers, he leans to the side in that alleyway and spits out a wad of saliva, the taste of the cigarette even sharper than normal.

“God, it tastes like shit,” he sighs to no one before inhaling again.

Toji’s kinda sorta fucked up.

He knows that doesn’t escape your notice. It’s how they first met after all—him a nineteen year old lumbering mess of blood and bruises, walking into the clinic mere minutes before your shift ended. You’d just been an intern taking the graveyard shift, and he’d pushed in, chin lifted high, eyes narrowed, finding yours.

“You the doctor?”

How did it spiral into this?

You snip the final suture shut on his shoulder and set the tools down, carefully piling the packaging together.

“Get outta here,” you tell him, slapping his shoulder to urge him off. You turn, disposing the trash, ripping off your gloves in the process.

“How’s the kid?”

“Megumi’s fine. He likes avocados now since I gave him slices with condensed milk on them,” you reply shortly. “Can you leave now?”

“I meant the baby,” he informs brusquely.

If it surprises you, you don’t let it show. “That is none of your business. Leave me alone.”

When he doesn’t budge, you stand there for a moment until he turns to look at you. In your scrubs, face clear but weighed down by exhaustion, you remind him of an exasperated cat owner. Hands on your hips, you worry your bottom lip until you realize he isn’t going anywhere he doesn’t want to and you sigh, gesturing for him to move over on the examination bench. Wedging yourself beside him, you grab onto the lip of the cushion and lean forward, shoulders hunching, head bowed.

“What do you want to know?” you ask acridly. “I crave sriracha on everything, I puke, I feel exhausted, I want to smoke all the time, and I cry pretty much every night.”

Blinking, Toji opens his mouth to say something witty. He only barely manages out a quiet: “You don’t even like sriracha.”

“I know.” Miserably, you lift your head and let out a sigh that seems to take all the strength with you. “What do you want from me, Toji?”

“I was just asking how you were doing.”

“You never do that unless you want something,” you counter, looking at him. Your eyes are swollen, but Toji doesn’t know if it’s from crying or some other reason, and you smell like three day old clothes. Your gaze searches his, then flutters to a slightly crooked nose, to his lips, to the scars littering his chest. “I’ve known you for years. You disappeared on me, and you came back with a son and a new name, and I never asked questions, but you had to have known.”

“Known what?”

You don’t answer him. Toji isn’t sure if he’s grateful or irritated for it. “What happened to you, you idiot?” Your tone is somber, unbearably faint. It makes your words that much more nauseating. “Why did you come back to me?” He blinks, staring, and your gaze lowers. You quietly tag something to the end of your sentence only to yourself and he is punched by every syllable of the word you utter, every syllable you aren’t aware he can hear.

“Fushi-guro, huh.”

Sliding off the examination table, you smooth out your scrubs and make to leave. “Never mind. I think I’m just exhausted.”

You reach the door handle. He watches. Footsteps softened by the sound of your crocs, you don’t bother to hide the effects of him keeping you overtime at three AM in the morning, because he’s bleeding and soiled and disgusting, has done to your spirit.

“I got married,” he calls, halting you by the door. Your shoulders have fallen, and your hand on the door goes limp. Toji stares at your back, and wonders when he became so intimately aware of the slope of your shoulders and how they sink even more in defeat when you understand what he’s saying. “She died when Megumi was… nine months old? I dunno. Blood disease, some shit like that.”

Your head turns enough that he can see a sliver of your face—you look pretty in the dim lights of the exam room. All soft edges, sad melted honey at the bottom of cold tea. Forgotten, distasteful. Like you can hold him carefully, and none of the jagged pieces he’s made of will slice your palms open. You look so much younger.

Like the nineteen year old you were when he came to you in that room of purple silk and candlelight. So tender. Human. It’s been nearly ten years since then, and it feels so much longer.

“I’m so sorry,” you tell him, and he knows you mean it.

You leave to change, and come back to find him waiting in the receptionist area, a shadow in the pitch black as you set the security alarm before you go.

“Get out,” you tell him again, and this time, he complies and waits for you in the chilly night instead.

Toji walks you home, despite your unvoiced protest, and he pretends he doesn’t notice that his hand brushes against yours until their index fingers are hooked onto one another. Your gaze flits to him every once in a while, but he merely rakes his other hand through his hair, lips puckered around a smoke before he’s sliding that trembling hand of yours into his pocket.

“Megumi’s still asleep,” you tell him at the door. He leans over without meaning to as he watches your hands fiddle with the lock and key. Turning over your shoulder, you catch him staring, and arch an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing.” And he looks away.

You open the door and walk in, turning back when he doesn’t follow. Scowling, you swing your door open wider as you toe off your sneakers. “Are you coming in or not?”

He frowns. “Yeah, sure.”

Tonight, Toji’s not in the mood for sex, and you can barely stand on your two feet without swaying, so while you go to shower, he heads for the guest room that’s been changed into a makeshift bedroom for a two-year old boy who’s fast asleep, his snores filling up the room when Toji pushes in, careful to not let too much light seep in.

Sneaking across to the crib, he reaches within to pick up his son, and Megumi, never the fussy child, only lets out a little noise of complaint before falling back asleep on Toji’s shoulder. He pats Megumi’s back, pacing around the room and gently bouncing him up and down into a deeper sleep. The walls are littered with terrible drawings Megumi’s made, but they’re hung like art pieces in the Louvre, and Toji stands by the column of light the door lets in, watching the sharp shadows it carves.

Everything still, he waits for something to appear.

Nothing.

Sticking out a hand, he splits his fingers into a shadow puppet of a dog, and opens its jaws a few time in a silent bark.

He knows his son has the Technique. He’s seen the hints of it ever since Megumi turned two—shadows flickering when Megumi claps his hands together, the Cursed Energy Toji can sense radiating off of the kid. It won’t be long before some rat starts looking for the inheritor of the Ten Shadows Technique as their new prince.

He sighs. It’s just another thing from his shitshow family to worry about.

“I’ve got blankets and pillows on the couch,” you tell him by the door, and he drops his hand, heat rushing up his face as you poke your head in to see him. Although he can’t make out your expression too well, Toji knows he doesn’t imagine the way your eyes soften when you look at Megumi. “I’m going to go to bed now. See you in the morning. Maybe.”

He nods, and you slip out of the room just as quickly, your bedroom door shutting a moment later.

He heads to the living room, shedding his jacket and collapsing on the couch with a tired groan. The only light is moonlight filtering through your vertical blinds. His shoulder still burns something fierce, the numbing gel wearing off, and he cups it, rolling onto his side. Through the bandages, he can feel the even stitches you’ve knitted into his flesh, the delicate accuracy of the thread and needle.

Staring at the table, he blinks at the tablets resting on a napkin right in front of him beside a glass of water, and he sits up.

The pill bottle rests nearby, and he grabs it, eyeing the ingredients. It’s some over-the-counter pain killers, but there’s sharpie that’s covered a lot of the text. Screwing up his eyes, he makes out the first character, and, as his eyes adjust to the darkness, holds up the bottle to the faint moon so he can read the rest of it.

FOR MY HEARTACHES. DO NOT TOUCH.

Eyebrows scrunch. His eyes run it over it again to see if he’s being fucking crazy and reading into it too much.

He shoves the bottle back onto the table before he can do it one more time and grabs the pills, uncaring if the water spills as he gulps them down, shaking his head at the iciness that seeps into his blood from the water.

Throwing himself back onto the couch, he punches the pillow into shape, and rolls onto his back, haphazardly tossing the blanket over himself and slamming his eyes shut in an effort to block out your neat, slanted writing.

“…I never asked questions, but you had to have known.”

The pain in his shoulder dulls, but there is nothing that can douse the cold fire of his own hatred.

“For your heartache?” he asks the morning after like it’s a talk one should have over the coffee he holds in his hand. You’re making yourself oatmeal after spending the first hour or so throwing up. You look ragged, and you glare at him for even speaking.

Toji sets the pill bottle down, and he watches your expression carefully. Your jaw clenches, and you roll your eyes, stirring honey into your hot breakfast.

“Painkillers that work best for heartburn,” you tell him flatly, snatching the pill bottle and returning it to where it normally rests. “I got this at like two AM a few weeks ago. Why, what’s wrong with it?”

Your heart skips. He ignores the slowly speeding rhythm of your heart echoing in his own chest. “Just never pegged you for the poetic type.”

“Oh, because you peg me for so many other things. Please get your head out of your ass.”

The tension that melts out of his body is profuse, and his shoulders fall as Megumi, with his spoon, flicks cereal at his father with a giggle. And although the relief is overwhelming, there is a peculiar sinking feeling that far outweighs any positive connotation in the fact that he thought you could’ve liked him and your confirmation that you don’t.

He’s insane.

He’s insane to have thought you could have possibly…

“You’re cleaning this up,” you order. “I need to go to work and I can’t be late. We’ll… talk later. I guess.”

…ever had feelings for him.

Toji goes to fetch some towels and ignores the fact that his insides feel like rotting. What’s it matter anyway?

Except…

No. He’s not thinking of back then. That’s a section of his past he wants to keep sealed in the past, and thats final.

His son wants to go to the park one day. It’s how Toji finds himself sitting on a park bench, sipping on his iced lemonade, his son on his thigh watching everyone around them, his tiny hands planted on his father’s knee. Said father scrolls on his phone, reading his emails through his shades, but he always makes sure to kepe an eye out on their surroundings.

Opening up some bets, he leans back, settling his free hand on Megumi’s hip and raising his phone up as he looks through the races.

“I want,” Megumi babbles.

“What do you want, ‘Gumi?” he asks, squinting against the sun. He should be getting results back for his last gamble in just a few minutes.

“I want dog.”

“Yeah?” Toji says as he lowers his phone and looks around them. “You wanna big one? How many?” There are a few dogs playing in the park around them, catching balls their owners through (“Go fetch!”) and a strange bitterness arises from him. He’s never been a dog person. Not with how he was raised to see them.

Loyal beasts with no brain of their own.

“Two!”

Meant to serve.

“Go fetch, dog. ”

Mindless.

“Papa.”

“And you dare call yourself my son?”

“Papa.”

His phone buzzes, and he answers it like a habit. A swipe of his thumb. Behind his eyes flash a thousand purple bruises, and his scar aches like a sore on his lip as he lets out a tired breath.

“You were a mistake. You should’ve never been born.”

His world is so strangely silent. A curious, spreading emptiness seeps down the column of his throat and into his chest, inhabiting the giant space like a cloud of smoke as the line clicks, and he blinks at the sky. How many days had he stared at this sky, waiting for his world to grow infinitely bigger?

To escape that wretched place once and for all. He had the gall to do it, and the pit of curses had been colder than death.

If he could’ve just—

“Toji?”

—given up.

“Hey.”

Your voice pierces the haze and he blinks, looking around. Megumi is clutching onto hs shirt with a tight fist, peering at him with frustration, and he uses his other hand to smack his dad in the chest.

“You there?”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. He sets a hand on Megumi’s head. His hair is so soft, and warm under the sun, and Toji wants to wrap his entire body around his tiny little boy, so he does the next best thing and hauls Megumi up onto his chest and swathes him with an arm. “Yeah, I’m here.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Nah. Why would you think that?”

“I dunno. You just sound off.”

“I’m fine. Can’t I enjoy a nice day in the park?” he remarks dryly, and you huff a snide, sarcastic laugh.

“I guess you can. I was just wondering if you had plans in September.”

“That’s still a few weeks away.” He can hear your judgemental expression from where he sits so he adds, “No. Not yet. Why?”

“The Kichijoji Autumn Festival. I want to take Megumi.” You seem to speak to someone on the other end, and Toji looks down at his son who’s craned his head to examine everything around him. He wriggles until he’s facing forward, and Toji kisses the back of his son’s head grumpily. The idea of a big crowd never sits well with him. There are too many unseen variables, and too much noise.

“Doggy,” Megumi rambles, pointing out a stubby finger at a bounding labrador, trying to catch a frisbee with a massive leap and snagging it in its jaws.

“Is that okay?”

“What? Yeah. I’m going with you, though.”

“Fine. Yeah, alright! I’ll print it!” you shout away from the phone. With a tired sigh, you return. “Fucking idiot. Sorry. Work.” He shrugs, then says it’s fine, and you continue: “Are you going to be working a lot? I’m heading down to Osaka next week so I can’t take care of Megumi if you’re working.”

“Why?”

“Because… remember Hajime?”

“Skinny fuck with a big mouth. Talked too much.” A tall, lean guy who used to fuck with Toji as a teenager whenever he came to see you. He vaguely has an image of him in his head—cheeky smile, quick gaze, and an arrogance that was all a charade. The kid always knew when to shut up but he never did.

Maybe because he didn’t care. Toji had never seen his own pit eyes reflected in another boy before then, but Hajime still knew how to look like he was happy. Maybe that’s why Toji always let the boy bother him even when he was working maintenance around the House.

He doesn’t think Hajime has ever smiled a day in his life. So, just like him, Toji knows your spot for your old colleague from the brothel is softer than you let on.

“He’s not doing well,” you reveal. “I just want to be there when he passes and make it all easier for him. That’s all.”

His throat goes dry. “I see.” The unspoken question passes between them.

“Lung cancer metastasized.” You don’t let that sit for long. “So, it’ll probably be a bit before I see Megumi next.”

Words bite his tongue, and he debates letting them loose. But he wouldn’t. He’d never admit to it. “Probably. He’ll be fine, though.”

“I know.” A beat. “I’m just gonna miss him, you know. I want to see him before I leave.”

“Yeah.” And because it isn’t enough that you’ve been on the phone with him for this short while, he prolongs your hanging up with: “Yeah, you can do that. When do you go?”

“This Saturday. It was the first train I could get, so—” There’s a loud shout on the other end, and your pained groan— “Shit, sorry, I have to go. People don’t know how to do their fucking jobs around here,” you mutter foully, and Toji can’t help the small smile that stretches his lips. “See you when I see you.”

“Yeah.” The line clicks. Toji holds his phone there for a second more before drawing it away and staring at the his screen, His thumb swipes over the buttons to select his contacts, and it opens up to reveal lists of numbers in his history. They’d all been jobs, and he never bothers to write them down. The important numbers are memorized, but other than that, he’s never really kept a contact since he started working again.

Swiping to his saved contacts, there is one square there with a picture, and your name typed out in that little block font. Toji’s grip tightens as he clicks on your profile to enlarge the photo, and he scowls deeper at what it’s been set to. Rarely do they exchange photos, but the majority of the photos you ever send Toji are of Megumi, and in this one, it’s him sleeping soundly in your lap when he was still little.

Maybe ten months. He knows it’s a little after Megumi’s mom died because of how small his son is, and how Toji can’t remember this picture. That whole time period had been hazy. He had just focused on finding you, dumping his kid somewhere so he didn’t have to see the state his father was in, and going out to make enough money to make it last another fucking week.

A part of Toji knows now that you would never have turned him away even if you acted like you would. Even if he never had a baby with him.

He snaps his phone shut. Your words still haunt him, and the more he dissects that moment—a sliver of a 3AM morning two weeks ago—he starts to wonder if he made another wrong choice eight years ago.

Here is where Toji finds himself Friday night: forced to do dishes while Megumi clings to your chest like a stupid fucking parasite. You lounge on the couch, relaxing your ass off.

To be fair, and Toji rarely is, you had been called in an emergency consultation which resulted in you having to send your patient to the hospital after you couldn’t find out where the pain was coming from, and staying there because the patient had, quote unquote, no support system and was borderline hysterical with the symptoms.

“She said she had these bruises on her legs and hips like someone was grabbing her, but I couldn’t find anything. I can’t deny that her pain is real—there’s no way she’s faking this for attention because she’s… sane. She knows she’s not making any sense and we had psych do an evaluation,” you had told him when they met up in front of your apartment door. He had takeout in one hand, and Megumi in the other as you jiggled the key in. “Nothing. It’s a mystery. Maybe she’s experiencing some type of phantom pain routed from trauma.”

And Toji knows the answer before you even suggest a logical conclusion.

“She still there?” he had asked.

“Sent her home. No valid medical reason, but I told her I’ll be away, and to call me if she needs anything.”

He scrubs the dish with a dinosaur design a bit too hard, and winces when he sees that the pink colour is fading, but other than that, it remains silent on his end of the apartment. You and Megumi have a nonsensical conversation at the couch and you turn on channel that has dogs on it somehow as he finishes up. He sniffs dish detergent scent clinging to his hands, nostrils twitching at how strong the lemon is before shaking his head and rinsing his hands again.

“Doggy.”

“Yeah. That’s what those are,” comes your lazy reply. Turning around, Toji wipes his hands dry to see you lying on your side on the couch, Megumi sitting in front of your chest. You have your arm draped over his lap and wrapping his waist loosely, but you look asleep where you are. Snorting to himself, he throws the towel down and shuts off the lights in the kitchen.

You raise your head blearily at the dim light you’ve sunken into.

“You finished?”

“Are you?” he shoots back, sinking into the loveseat near your head. You sigh, burying your face into a nearby cushion, and Megumi crawls towards his father, your hand falling to the sofa. “Go to bed if you’re tired.”

“I’m not tired,” you mutter. “I’m just sick of today.”

He picks his son up, setting Megumi on his chest and running his hand over his head. The boy’s dark downy hair spikes up, and Toji tucks his chin to press his nose to a smooth forehead. “Girl still on your mind?”

“Mhm.” You crane your head to look at both of them, and your stressed scowl melts away, the knot between your eyebrows easing as you reach across the gap to tickle Megumi’s tiny socked foot. Squealing, he kicks your hand away and you chuckle to yourself, pushing yourself onto your elbow to tickle him again.

Crawling up his dad, Megumi’s chubby fists seek purchase as he scrambles to get away, and you laugh, a short, rusty noise. It sounds like a tool that doesn’t get used enough, and you cover your mouth when you laugh, a habit that Toji’s noticed you’ve kept over the years. Megumi’s complaining in his ear, but he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the way your eyes crinkle when they shut from smiling.

Despite the eye bags, the way your cheeks have gotten puffy from throwing up, the way you shift every two seconds because something in your body’s upset one way or another—Toji finds the way your eyes smile the most brain-numbing thing. He could stare at it forever, but it’s so fleeting that he has the strangest urge to frame it in a picture. Considering rare is it that you’re ever smiling at him when Megumi isn’t with him (although it’s becoming more and more frequent these days), Toji doesn’t think he could’ve gotten used to your smile again.

When he was nineteen, directionless and searching for a place to make it through one day, you had bordered him up in your closet and asked the master of the house with your most charming smile to keep him around because “he’s real handy if he puts his mind to it. Just give him a chance—“

Toji swallows. Such an uncomplicated series of days. His mind always gets so fucking quiet around you. He doesn’t worry about the past, or the future, or any of the stresses of the present (money, food, whether he’ll survive his next contract and the next, long enough to teach Megumi how to throw a ball).

No, his mind is just blissfully silent, resting in the way your words bite at his ears, the way your laugh strums like a raspy harp.

He doesn’t recall the last time it’s been this quiet as the dogs on the TV bark and Megumi echoes the noise, a sprite of light in the darkness of the living room. It makes you laugh. Makes him hear that warm noise again.

“Put him to bed,” you utter after a while. The documentary has finished, and your voice cracks as you wake up fully. Toji blinks, ripping his eyes away from the screen to see your sleepy face illuminated by the TV. Megumi’s gone quiet, his gentle snores puffing against his father’s jaw. “I’m gonna get into my own.”

“Alright.” He stands and you swing yourself up, tipping over a bit, and his knees lock when the urge seizes him to move forward to steady you. Stomach clenching, a harsh frown passes over his face and he turns around before you can spot it. Walking down the hall, he puts his baby boy to bed just as your shadow passes over the door. You poke your head in to mumble a goodnight again, before continuing on your way. Toji sits by his son’s bed until he falls asleep before he rises again.

Closing the door behind him, Toji glances to your bedroom. There’s still a lamp on, and he wonders if you’ve just forgotten to turn it off (again), or if you’re still awake despite your previous promise, and for some reason, his feet lead him to this door.

His hand raises to knock.

“Yeah?” you answer. He pushes in.

You’re on the bed, pushing your feet under the covers. You’re wearing nothing but a long shirt, and your face is soft, tired. You can barely keep your eyes open, and maybe that is what makes you so warm to him now. You don’t have the energy to be angry with him, their situation, for anything.

“Toji?” you prompt, and he, without a second of hesitation, crawls into bed after you. Your brow furrows as he plants a hand by your thigh, but there is no defense as he pulls the covers away to get under with you. “What is it?”

“I’m staying here tonight. Making sure you don’t fuck yourself over for tomorrow,” he says simply, but the truth is, he hadn’t known that until he said it. Pulling his shirt off, he flings it to the foot of the bed and gets comfortable in his boxers underneath the coolness of your blankets. He’s always ran hotter than most. You keep yourself an appropriate distance, rolling onto your side to face him while he lies on his back.

This isn’t a very common occurence. Toji doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he settles with just lacing them over his stomach, and when he turns to look at you, he finds you frowning thoughtfully.

“What’s wrong, Toji?” you prod quietly, resting your cheek on one of your hands. His eyelids flutter, invisible weight pushing them shut as he tries to scramble up an explanation. “We don’t do… this.”

“I’m just tired, I guess,” he grunts. Because, really, he has no idea why he’s here.

Why he’s in your apartment, in your life again. He left it for a reason.

“Okay,” you murmur. Your hand reaches to touch his bicep, and he can’t really remember that reason anymore. “My train’s early, so you’ll probably have to lock the door for me if you’re staying.”

You just rest your fingers there over the curve of his arm, thumb applying a soothing pressure into his eternally-aching body. Toji can feel your heat so clearly through your palm. A napalm grenade waiting to burst as soon as he lays a hand on you.

And he does, not even seconds later, grabbing your wrist and pulling you to him.

“Stay here and sleep with me,” he whispers as your nose bumps into his, and it edges on an order without him meaning to. You swallow, exhaling shakily, and his eyes lift to yours. They’re dark, half-lidded but consumed with an unbearable desire for something that he doesn’t understand. Lifting a lethargic hand, he rests it heavily on your cheek. You arch an eyebrow, and he half-smiles limply, hauling you closer.

You push yourself on top of him, sitting yourself over his hips, and fold your arms over yourself, fingers tugging at the lip of your shirt. Toji’s gaze widens as you lift it up to reveal a body he already knows every crevice of and he clenches his jaw, dark hair falling into his eyes. Hand shooting to grab your elbow, he stops you just as you slip your head and shoulder out, the shirt hanging off your other arm.

Your breasts are open for him to swing up and kiss, to bite marks into, and they heave gently as you breathe on top of him, perfectly still, your face a whirlwind of emotions as you try to make sense of him. He slides his hands down to your hips, and he presses his finger pads into your back in what he means as a soothing pressure. You let out a tiny sigh, wiggling a bit, and glance down at yourself.

Your brow furrows. “Do… you not want to?”

“No, no, I…” He sighs, one hand reaching up to tilt your chin back up so you would stop staring at your body like that. You can’t ever think that—Toji won’t allow himself to let you go on thinking that you’re ugly. “It’s not that. I just didn’t mean it like that.”

“Huh?” You frown. He lets go of your chin and trails his hand down your chest, eyes watching his own fingers drift past your belly button until he rests on your abdomen. His lungs seize at the way it rises and falls against his palm. The fat he normally loves to grab and smear kisses all over while your legs shake over his shoulders is so familiar in his grasp. You’re still not showing though. Sometimes, Toji forgets that there’s a fucking kid—his fucking kid—growing inside you, but right now, it’s all he’s intimately aware of.

“It came out wrong.” He grimaces. “I meant… I’ll sleep with you. In the same bed tonight.” He strokes your stomach before grabbing the back of your neck and bringing you down to his level. Bending over, your lips meet his warmly, and you melt into his grasp, legs stretching over his, waist unfurling to lay flush against his body. Your arms sink into the pillow, and your fingers seek purchase in the fabric. Thumb on your chin, he gently pulls your back and he drags his nose along yours, inhaling the smell of your body wash. “Just sleep,” he mumbles against your mouth. “You need to rest.”

You pull away. “Just…?” The pause is audible. You shake the shirt off your arm and he wraps his arms around you, using one of his hands to run over your head.

Toji wants to punch himself, face burning up in embarrassment. “Lay here and sleep. For fuck’s sake, you’re pregnant, aren’t you? Don’t expectant mothers have to make sure they get enough sleep?”

You push yourself up onto your elbows, face wrinkling. “Well, I, uh, yeah, but—“

“Then, sleep. I’ll wake you up, alright?” Toji pushes you off his body and you let out a soft chuckle, shimmying underneath the blankets. As soon as you’re comfy, he yanks the comforter over your exposed body, making sure you’re covered up, before scowling and reaching over you to switch the light off.

As soon as the room plummets into darkness, a hand slides along his jaw, and another grabs his chin. He looks down just in time for a pair of lips press against his warmly and it isn’t long before their lips are on one another’s, mouths slotting open to allow tongues to dip into mouths. Falling onto his back, Toji’s hand cups the back of your neck and you roll onto your side, your leg draping over his waist, your arms bent between their chests, palms flat against his neck.

Your thigh tightens around him as a soft panting breath leaves you in the form of, “Goodnight.” Toji’s foot slides up your calf. He strokes your ear and you’re resting your head on his other arm, so there isn’t much he can do besides pull you even closer by the shoulders until their bodies are semi colons of one another.

The break—the time to breathe—in each other’s life sentences.

You slither an arm around him. His arm curls around to your back. Their noses touch, and Toji lets out a comfortable sigh before kissing you. Your eyes shut as you mumble something incomprehensible about sleeping. Tiny moans escape your throat when he slowly kisses your bottom lip in a seductive, soothing drag, and another soft whimper sinks into his heart when he kisses the corner of your mouth, your lips chasing his. You whine something barely resembling his name as you tilt your head in an effort to try to reciprocate, a habit more than a choice.

Toji nearly laughs at you, at the thought of it.

He kisses your chin instead, a wave of exhaustion slowly tiding into his pool of a body, then he returns his lips to yours, kissing you slowly. Sedated. Oozing like molasses into the next kiss, and then another, and the strength begins to leave him as your arm twitches against his body with every press, your leg squeezing over his waist. You’re panting, soft and needy, and your body wants to move, but you’re so tired you have to settle for the exhausted sounds you can muster to encourage him.

Like you want him to keep going, want him to know you’re still paying attention to him, even in your dreams.

You murmur something again. Something hushed in your breath.

“Toji…”

So soft. It reminds him of when they were younger. You were the first person he remembers uttering his name so gently—so undeservingly warm while his heart was trapped in an eternal blizzard. You said it like you meant to—like he deserved to be someone.

Against his will, something warm flickers in his hollow chest.

The woman is quiet as she stares at him, blinking owlishly in the way most non-jujutsu types do. Ota Hiroko, twenty-three. Lives with her mom, two younger brothers, and her grandfather. He’d found her pretty quickly, all things considered. You’d only given a name, mumbled into your pillow just to shut him up for five more minutes, but as soon as you’d gotten on your train, Toji had gone to work.

“Can I help you?” Hiroko asks thinly. She looks exhausted, pale, and she’s shaking as she’s holding onto the door knob. Toji almost pities her.

“You Hiroko?”

She nods, then presses her lips into a thin grimace. “Whatever you’re selling, whoever you are, I’m not interested.”

Toji cocks an eyebrow, and shifts his weight to one side, scanning what little of house he can see over her head. It reeks of Cursed Energy. No doubt what’s made its home here.

“I don’t even know why I bother.” He cocks his head, arches an eyebrow. “Could you stop hiding behind that door? I’m a friend of your friend’s. The doctor from the clinic, remember her?”

The girl’s eyes light up at the mention of you, and she stops clutching onto the door barricading her from him like a shield and reveals herself a bit more. As soon as he can see one of her legs, he sees a pale, bumpy, and gnarled hand wrapped tightly around the woman’s waist, the arm winding around her thigh.

“Did she send you? She said… she said she wouldn’t be in town, but—” The door swings open wider, and Hiroko leans forward, eyes widening with a sheen of desperation. Toji looks down at the Curse pressing its face into the woman’s stomach, and a coil of disgust wraps around his own gut. “Does she know what’s wrong with me?”

“No, but close your eyes for a second.” She frowns, and Toji resists the urge to slap some sense into this girl. Taking a deep breath, he reaches for the dagger tucked into the back of his pants, and thinks of something nicer. Or tries to. Nothing clear comes to mind, and his words come out sharp, impatient. “Lady, I can do it with your eyes open, but you won’t like it.”

“Do what?”

“Fix your problem.” Fingers wrap around the handle, and then he thinks of you, sleeping on the train to Osaka. He wonders, idly, if you ate.

Hiroko frowns, her head tilting. She looks sweet, really, and maybe a bit too naive, but Toji can see why she pulled at your heartstrings.

“Why are you doing this?”

He hasn’t a clue. “A favour,” he answers shortly. “Now, close your eyes.”

(recapitulation)

Stepping into the home, you slip off your flats and stuff them into the slippers, the grip on your bag of groceries tightening. The air smells sterile, dry, and it’s hauntingly silent, but you’ve grown used to it ever since you arrived two days earlier.

Announcing that you’re back, you migrate to the kitchen and set the groceries on the table, delegating what needs to be put into the fridge and freezer, setting the loaf of bread on the wooden board for later.

“Is that you?”

“Yeah.”

Closing the fridge once you’ve put away the vegetables and milk and juice, you continue onto frozen snacks and meat into the freezer. Then, you grab a bag of chips, a cup of water, and move to join your friend in whatever he’s doing. You shuffle down the hall where Hajime is already sitting up in what used to be the living room. The TV is on, some program you’re not exactly caught up on but he insists he can’t miss every Monday playing, so you had made him make a list of things he wanted to eat before leaving while he entertains himself with some melodrama.

Ever since his terminal diagnosis, Hajime’s moved his entire life to the first floor of his parents’ house, but that doesn’t mean it makes life any easier. Bypassing the pictures of his family, you sit down and rip open the bag of vegetable chips, tilting it towards him. Throwing aside his blanket, Hajime lets out a rough cough before reaching his hand in. You set it on his lap and touch the blankets pooling around his legs. It’s heated, the electric currents setting the soft fabric near-aflame against your skin, and your heart drops.

Making space for yourself on the couch, you adjust the pillows around yourself and get comfortable, putting the cup of water on a nearby table. On the screen, some people in scrubs are in a conference room shouting at one another, and you rest your cheek against your fist, raising an eyebrow.

“What’s going on?”

“Hospital chief was revealed to cheat on wife with one of his top residents.”

“Damn.”

“Anything this juicy where you work?”

You snort. “No.”

You think of Toji, and wonder what he’s doing. Your phone buzzed for the last time this morning, when he texted you to make sure that you were still alive, and you promised you’d call him tonight, his job permitting. Your heart clenches at the last night they spent together. The way he had kissed you to sleep, and you had woken before him anyway, his finger curled under your jaw, his chin atop your head.

Your heart warms against your will, and then aches because you miss him. Which you hate to admit, but you do. You’ve long since accepted that your soft spot for the guy has returned stronger, darker. Part of it because he’s older now, they’re both grown, but another part of it is because he’s the same.

The same man who tries to protect you at any given turn, who steals your food, who gives you a little dysfunctional family even though he doesn’t know it.

“You’re all smiles,” Hajime intones suddenly, and you blink, turning to look at him. He’s sunken into the pillows surrounding his body, and he eyes you with an unimpressed disposition.

“Am I? I’m not in a good mood.”

“Because you drew the short end of the stick and came all the way out here,” he remarks, and your mouth opens to protest but he speaks over you, “Hey, you didn’t have to. You probably have a whole life I don’t know about anymore back in the city, don’t you.”

“I’m surprised you even called,” you admit softly. “After I left… I never thought you’d try to find me again.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t change your number.”

“I didn’t change it just in case you’d call.” His eyes widen and soften, and he looks away, throat bobbing as he swallows. You add, “You were my only friend there, and I promised when I left that you could always find me if you ever needed me, and you need me now, so I might be pissed that you’re dying, but I’m not letting you die alone, alright?”

A beat.

“You’re a big softie, y’know that?” Hajime teases, but his voice is unusually thick. You give him grace and watch the TV as he clears his throat. “Underneath all that bitchiness, you actually care about me, don’t you?”

“Nah,” you say, but your voice is weak, thin. “Just for nostalgia’s sake at this point.”

They’re sitting on the balcony of his old room, in two rickety plastic lawn chairs that are weather-worn and cheap. You had carried him up there because there’s no way he’s strong enough to move, but just sitting here feels strange. You’d never known Hajime like this—never the type of friends to visit each other’s places.

Then again, that was back before he forced himself to get back onto better terms with his parents before they passed away. Before you just up and left him.

“Want one?” he asks, offering the box of cigarettes to you. His eyes are bloodshot, and his hand trembles. It’s not cold out, and it won’t be long, you think. You just have a feeling. You’re going to wake up and he’ll be dead.

“I’m good.”

“Never knew you to be someone who refuses a smoke.” He lights up and inhales. You steel yourself for the coughing fit that seizes him suddenly, and you try to pretend it’s not agonizing hearing him hurt like this. It dissolves into a fit that has him gasping, and you dart over, take hold of him as he curls in on himself, the bare bones of his skeleton poking at you through his skin. “F-fuck. Fuck. I’m… I’m fine. J-just—“

“Here. C’mon. You got this.” His heart is racing through his back, and you slowly ease him to the floor, so there’s more room, until he’s lying against you, his head tilted back onto your shoulder. His chest heaves rapidly, pumps of oxygen barely making it through to his diseased lungs, and his eyes flutter shut as he lets the red slip between his lips, down his chin.

Thick globs of dark red. It shines, rivulets that escape down his chin, to his neck. Over his quivering Adam’s apple, his lips parted; wine rose petals, tasting just as sour.

"I don’t smoke anymore,” you say, patting his chest with your hand that’s draped over his shoulder. With your other hand, you shake your sleeve down over your hand and wipe the blood away from his skin. “I’m… I’m pregnant. So, I can’t smoke.”

“Pregnant?”

“Mhm.” You look down, and stretch your arm so your sleeve falls back to your wrist before patting his head.

“It’s Toji’s?”

A lump in your throat. “Yes.”

“…I see.” Hajime turns his face away from you, and a shadow—no, that’s the wrong word—an empty void consumes his face. It makes him look young and weak and alone—everything he doesn’t want to be.

“Yeah,” he finally adds at last. “You never did get over him.” The world goes mute as he laughs to himself, a soft noise that makes his eyelids flutter. “I’m glad that you came for my last moments even though he’s back. Y’know, I’m pretty sure he hates me.”

“Toji hates everyone,” you snort, ignoring the rot taking root in your chest. You drum your fingers on Hajime’s collarbone, sighing. “It’s him against the world so don’t take it too personally.”

“He doesn’t hate you.”

You chuckle. “I guess he can’t hate the person who takes care of his son seventy percent of the time.”

“He likes you,” Hajime corrects, and there is something in the phrasing—perhaps in the tone he says it in (like it’s the most obvious, simple thing in the world)—that flips a switch in your brain. Those three words take root in your head and even though your brow wrinkles and you frown and you shake your head, you still hear those three words.

He likes you. “No, he doesn’t. All we do is fight.”

“You’re the one who convinced the Master to let him stay and”—a sharp whistle. He likes you—“there were more than a few complaints about the muscle outside your room. Y’know,” he laughs again, “they always thought we didn’t need to be protected, but Toji… and don’t let him know I said this, but he made it better. He scared ‘em off. He did.”

Your fingers brush over Hajime’s temple. “I know.” Hajime twists to look up at you through barely-open eyes, and his breaths are flimsy against your neck, as you look down at him, smiling faintly. “Toji was probably the closest thing to a friend I had. Besides you. And the other workers there. But it wasn’t like we were buddies. We were sex workers and he… wasn’t. He was just some guy who lived there.”

“Yeah, that’s true.” Hajime’s cheek presses against your sternum. “I guess, he did do some handiwork, and you weren’t the personable type. You still aren’t.”

You snort. “Gee, thanks.”

“It takes a special kind of person to really, really understand you and—“

“Are you really inflating your own ego right now?”

“—and you didn’t want to be there for the rest of your life. Which was fine. But you closed your heart off because you didn’t want anyone to know how you ever worked to put yourself through school, which is fine, but he is the only one you ever opened yourself up to—“

“Okay, and?”

“And he likes you. You’re not half as oblivious as you think you’re being, but neither is he.”

“You don’t know that. You haven’t seen him in years,” you intone scathingly, but Hajime leans back, smiling, immune. He likes you. You shove him off you and get up. “You’re only saying that because you pity me. Just forget it, Hajime.”

Coughing, your friend wheezes out, “He’s texted you how many times since you’ve came here?”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“You’re playing house with the guy.”

“I babysit his son while he fucks off to god knows where. Do you think he really sees me as anything other than the person who gives him free stitches and puts a roof over his head whenever he wants? I don’t even know why we keep fucking. I don’t why I can’t say no.” You want to tear your heart out of chest and stuff it into Hajime’s mouth just to end the conversation. You walk to the end of the balcony while your dying companion clambers to his feet, grunting, hands clawing at the railing.

“You refused to see anyone else ever again after he left the House,” he wheezes. “You want me to believe that you don’t love him? Then, explain that.”

“That place robbed me of any sort of love. I hate you.” The wind carries and caresses your neck, stronger than Hajime’s own breathing, and you scratch at the nagging feeling, that itchiness spreading into your arms and making you uncomfortable in your cotton shirt. “And I hate him, too.”

“If he didn’t care about you, he would have left already. You know that,” Hajime utters softly, and you close your eyes. “You know he feels something for you. You’re too intelligent to turn a blind eye to that.”

“He’s in love with his dead wife.” The breath that leaves you takes everything you’re made of with it. He likes you. “I’m not going to compete with the person who gave him Megumi. I respect her memory too much to do that.”

“She’s dead,” Hajime murmurs. “And you’re still alive. What does it matter that he loved her? Why can’t it matter that he loves you?”

Can’t you understand? You want to scream in his face. He chose to stay for her.

At night, you make sure Hajime falls asleep before drawing yourself up for a vigil, blanket around your sinking shoulders. His breaths are frail, shuddering, and every time he coughs, you jump and take his slowing pulse. You don’t think you sleep a wink that night. Bones resting in a body that’s melded to the chair, you’re nothing but a pair of eyes trained on a face that you used to see every day.

You don’t even recognize him anymore. He’s lost so much weight and colour, and his hair is so thin and patchy. Hajime always refused to shave it, like he’s clinging onto some last part of the old him that doesn’t have cancer.

Tonight’s the night. It sucks. Everything fucking sucks.

Before he goes, you manage to wake him up. His glassy eyes meet yours, and even near death, there is still that inquisitive gleam to his eyes.

“I don’t hate you,” you murmur. “Really just the opposite. I think I’m dying, too.”

His eyes squint in a smile before slipping shut. He’s too weak to even move his mouth anymore, and you think you’re going to puke.

You miss your old life. It was shitty, and repetitive, and made you repulsed by your own body, but perhaps you wouldn’t be so entirely alone.

You sit by Hajime’s bedside until his heart stops, and when you’re sure he is finally dead, you rise and clear your throat. Sniffing, you head for the surrounding woods.

(coda)

You don’t call him for days. It worries Toji, but you had sent him one last text saying that Ojiro Hajime is dead.

Then, another text.

Arriving 6AM tomorrow. Hope everything’s fine. Will see you soon.

His answer.

Need anything?

You hadn’t answered. He gives you a grace period until ten PM, and when you’re still radio silent despite him calling, Toji packs Megumi into some second-hand pick-up and drives to the tiny city of Matsushima. There’s a certain panic that he tries to contain. Maybe it isn’t human, but when Megumi cries about being exhausted after waking up in a car seat four hours from home, Toji just barely manages the patience to calm his cranky son whilst trying to stuff down the harsh forces punching to his tongue.

A terrible rotting is festering in his gut. You’re either dead, or you’re in danger, or Ojiro’s death had destroyed you to such an extent that Toji needs to make sure you can still function.

He passes the town line, parks in the first place he sees, and gets out of the car, hiding his sidearm underneath the flap of his jacket. Picking up Megumi, Toji’s ears prick for noise.

It’s almost two thirty AM.

You had sent pictures once you arrived. The house is up on a hill. There’s no doubt you’ll still be there in the wake of his death if you’re okay.

So he makes that climb, and smells the wind for any signs of foul play, his one hand supporting Megumi despite being in a baby carrier, and his other hand ready at his handgun. Eyes dart from every stray shadow to another unfamiliar shape. This path is unfamiliar, and although he doesn’t sense any curses, every step makes his stomach coil tighter and tighter.

His steps are silent but hasty as he ascends, and before he knows it, his knuckles are rapping against the door, thunderous knocks that nearly rattle the door off its hinges. There’s the sound of a door opening upstairs before quick footsteps, and he hears you pause to glance into the peephole before the door swings open.

“Toji?” You sound confused, tired, and he grins lopsidedly at the way you still manage to glare at him. “What the fuck are you doing here? It’s late, I—”

“Unhappy to see me?”

Your jaw snaps shut, and you tilt your head to the ground as you mutter, “No. You should come in, though.” At this, your gaze lift to meet his. Exhaustion drags your features to the earth, swallows your eyes whole. “Megumi looks tired.”

“Yeah. He’s gonna be a cranky bastard in the morning.”

Your smile begins to grow, and it brightens your eyes as you slant your body to make room for him to come in. He starts forward, his boot lifting off the ground to step through the threshold of this home. Megumi shifts against his chest. His finger loosens around the safety of his gun.

There is a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. It’s so fast he can barely detect it in time when suddenly, you’re yanked back into the darkness, a black sash wrapped around your mouth. Eyes widening, his heart freezes as a muffled scream wrenches out of your mouth. There’s a thud as the door swings shut, but he shifts his weight back and his foot bursts through the wood, splintering and cracking the night. Megumi lets out a strangled cry at the sudden movement, and Toji’s hand cradles around his son’s head, trying to protect his ears and skull as the smell of Cursed Energy drenches his entire body. It's reek enough for four or five sorcerers at most.

Stepping through the ruined door, he raises his gun into the shadows, blinking the light away. Moonlight streams in behind him, giving shape to objects but the farther away they are, the more they become a monotonous shape. Gritting his teeth, Toji holsters his gun and the Cursed Worm sitting in his stomach is pushed up onto his tongue. He spits it into his palm, guiding it around his neck and when his hand closes near the mouth of the spirit, cold chains push into his fingers.

His ears prick.

Frantic footsteps, fingers scrabble against wood. A muffled struggle echoes down the hall, and despite Megumi’s rasping cries flooding his ears and giving away his location, Toji can’t escape the panicked racing of your heart above it all. He blinks, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness before winding up the chain in a sharp spin, trained wrist maneuvering the weapon like an extended limb.

A door creaks. Grunts. Soft socked feet shoot towards him. His eyes dart left. They’ve crashed into a wall. Collapsed, sounds like, and there’s a ragged gasp.

“Stop!” Your voice sends lightning down his very core, and his eyes widen. There’s figures tussling in a shapeless pile of black, and he swears for a moment, he can see your eyes—pits of black illuminated by pale dots of pure white fear—meeting his. “Don’t! Megumi—”

The toddler boy screams as a hand wraps around your face and drags you back into the darkness. It swallows your figure entirely, and Toji begs for his legs to move, but his knees lock and he looks at the wailing bundle strapped to his body, cursing its existence. There’s too much ambiguity in this hallway. He can guess how many cousins and uncles and other off-shoot fucks playing at being royalty are lurking on the grounds. There's three in his immediate presence, but he can’t say for certain what sort of back up awaits a gunfight.

If he draws, you’re dead.

If he doesn’t, you’re lost.

The Zenin family won’t think a non-sorcerer civillian woman is worth the precious Zenin blood that Fushiguro Toji will shed, and cut their losses quick. A man steps out of the shadows as you are taken father and farther away, and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to ignore the barbed wire gouging his heart.

“We have no quarrel with you, Toji,” Jinichi speaks, and there is that distinct oily disgust that rises when Toji hears his older brother speak. His eyes open to see him standing there, tall and solemn. “We want the girl and the child she carries, and we will care for her well enough to term.”

A harsh scoff. “Please. You’ll pamper her well enough for a prisoner, sure, but as soon as she pops out the kid, you’ll kill her, and the kid, too, if it doesn’t have what you want.”

“Any child of Zen’in blood is welcome. Perhaps she could make a suitable wife for one of our esteemed cousins,” he intones dryly.

A pillar of fire shoots through Toji, and a harsh, cold laugh spills out of his mouth. “You think she’s well-behaved enough to be a wife. You have no fucking idea what she’s like.”

“Toji, don’t make this harder for yourself. I’m showing her mercy because you seem to fond of her, and you’re my brother.” His brother almost smiles, teeth gleaming in the dark. “Besides, that’s my nephew. I am not as wasteful as our father. I won’t spill promising young Zen’in blood.”

“If you’re aiming to play into some kind of sentiment, you’re stupider than I remember.” Toji’s grip on the Chain of a Thousand Miles tightens. Jinichi has always underestimated him. It’s been a decade. Toji is sure, sure he is faster. “Do you still wanna duke it out like the good ol’ days, big bro?”

“You kill me, she dies.” Jinichi turns around, and waves a hand. The Cursed Energy flowing around the house immediately begins to dissipate, and Toji, for the first time in months, thinks about the satisfaction he would feel putting a bullet in his older brother’s head. “You follow us, you’ll never see her again. You know better than most how serious I can be.”

Jinichi of the Hei glances over his shoulder to make sure the Sorcerer Killer does not mean to follow, and then he, too, sinks into the darkness.

They cannot stay in that home, so they do not. Toji takes Megumi on foot, and walks until they find a hostel off the side of the road. The guy manning the front desk is alarmed at Toji’s appearance combined with the baby who has cried himself to sleep on his chest, but he doesn’t ask questions.

Sitting on the bed, he sets Megumi down to sleep properly, and tries to ignore the speed of which his heart is beating. His stomach’s flipped over, and a harsh scream wants to explode from his chest as he shoves himself into the cramped shower.

The shower boasts no temperature control, and his skin is red from both ice cold and burning heat when he steps out, wiping at the misted mirror. The scar on his lip has flushed where it crosses his lips, and he tugs at it absently.

They’d take you back to the main estate. Highest security, most isolated location, amongst other things. There was a collection of Curses in that cellar, but they wouldn’t keep you in there. There was no point in putting the pregnancy in jeoprady. They have no idea how far along you are until the doctor can get to you.

But the Zen’in homestead is massive. If you aren’t at the main house, you could be in the acres of woodland surrounding it. No doubt there are hunting cabins, fishing huts, other houses for the branch families to stay in or use that Jinichi could stow you away in. Toji knows some of them, but he hasn’t been home in years.

He’d have to go back to Hajime’s house, pick up a trail.

Toji exits the bathroom, rubbing at his scalp roughly as if that could work out the headache beginning to fester in the centre of his skull.

Or, he could leave. Find a place to disappear to, find a new woman to play house with. A nicer woman. One who wouldn’t make such a fuss every time he so much as breathed. He could. What difference would it make? There’s no reason why he should go back to that hellhole. Why he needs to.

Megumi is holding onto his feet, rolling on his back, and there’s a slow, drifting movement between the beds as he giggles, oblivious to it. Toji reaches for the gun he left on the bathroom counter just as his son sits up to look at him, smiling toothily, and two sets of ears prick behind the mattress.

That night, the Divine Dogs come to his son for the first time. They’re nothing more than young pups, but they’ll grow even larger in time—outmatch the hungriest of wolves and the most monstrous of bears.

But Toji doesn’t need another killer. He’s more than enough.

The shikigami sniff at the place they’ve been summoned to, exploring with keen eyes and wrinkling noses, and Toji stalks forward, crouching in front of the bed and grabbing hold of his son by the shoulders. Megumi lets out a shocked squeal, but he ignores it.

“Megumi,” Toji rasps, stares into those wide eyes. His son has his mother’s face, eyes, nose, mouth, and although it’s agonizing to look at from time to time, Megumi screws up his face the same way you do, and it strikes him now. Why he needs to do this. Why he’s done everything he has for the past few months. “Megumi, I need you to listen to me.”

Blood drips off the edge of the his knife as he pushes the door open silently. The figure inside scrambles back, and there’s a frantic, muffled scream as the dogs slither in past his legs. They sniff the air, panting, as Toji pulls his mask down.

The black dog growls a low warning, disappearing into the shadows and there’s the sound of clinking chains as a heavy gasp pierces the darkness.

Moonlight streams into the room, illuminating the white dog returning with a wet cloth that must’ve been a gag pinched between its teeth. Toji steps onto the mat, trying to keep count of the seconds he has before they’re inevitably found.

“Are you alright?” he whispers, struggling to push the desperation, the relief from his voice. His heart quickens as a glimmer of your eye catches his.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you stammer. He can’t see the state of your body just yet, but the fact that you’re talking is a good enough sign. “How did you find me?”

“Dogs. Good sense of smell.” He breaks the chains easily with the hilt of the dagger. “Hold this.” Flipping the knife over, he extends it to you in the darkness, and you let out a grunt, fingers drifting over his own briefly before you lift it from his palm. When he tries to find your waist, your breath flutters against his cheek, but you make no other noise, lifting your head over his shoulder. “Can you stand? We don’t have a lot of time.”

“I think so. Move.” You clutch onto his shoulder and push, and he helps you to your feet as the Divine Dogs lope towards the lip of the room once more, alert and ears pricked for any approachers. “I’m fine. I can walk. I don’t know where we are, though, so I can’t be of much help.”

“That’s fine. Just get behind me and watch my back. We’ve got to get to a safe house.”

“A safe house, huh,” you mutter. “Something that comes with the job.”

Toji can’t help the wry smile twisting his lips, reaffirming his grip on his knife. As they approach the exit, he looks back just to make sure you weren’t lying. Your face is smattered with bruises, cheek swollen, and the side of your head is slick with blood, but your eyes are alert. You reach forward and when your fingers dig into his shoulder strongly, a great knot right in his diaphragm becomes undone.

“Let’s go.”

Slipping out of the room, the two crouch and follow the dogs towards the forested acres surrounding the Zen’in compound. They’ll be able to escape to the river and lose the scent, before doubling back to where they need to go. The nearest safe house is a run-down motel where the owner owes Toji a favour.

They can plan their next moves from there.

“We have to go back to Osaka,” you hiss as they slink into the gardens. It’d be best to avoid leaving a trail of bodies, although the ones Toji hid earlier of the guards near your rooms would soon be found if the incoming patrols were smart. “Hajime’s body is still in the house.”

“Going back there isn’t my priority,” he replies icily. His eyes scan the path by the koi pond. It’s out in the open, but it’s either that or risking making the bushes rustle as they try to skirt around the hedge wall. “C’mon. We’ve gotta be fast.”

Four shadows dart across the silver lawn, disappearing onto the other side of a well-worn stone path. The trickling of the pond chimes, covers their soft steps as they reach the other end without much trouble, following the path to the servant’s quarters on the edge of the estate.

Signalling for a stop, Toji crouches behind a rock statue and you fall in behind him.

“Stick close. We reach the end of this building, and run for the forest.” He tilts his head, peeking around to scan the building. The shadows cast by this place are longer than he remembers, and his heart hammers against his sternum. Swallowing tightly, he closes his eyes for a brief moment. Fists take ahold of his gut, threatening to rip him apart from the inside out. If he stops for a moment, will it all come back to him?

“Toji,” you whisper, placing a hand on his shoulder. He tears his eyes away from the grass. You shuffle closer until your shoulder is pressed against his own, and your fingers ghost over his cheek. “Lead the way. I’ll be right behind you.”

He jerks his head down before ducking around the corner. The servant’s quarters have always been less extravagant than the main house. It is by no means unkempt, but perhaps it’s the best comparison when placed side by side with the luxury. The wood creaks when Toji steps up onto the engawa, and it whines even more as you ascend beside him.

It won’t be long before someone comes searching for the source of the noise but they just have to round the corner. It’ll be thirty-three steps and then a sprint into the woods. Toji’s traced these steps before, twice. He hopes this third pass will be his last.

The dogs sprint forward, the white one a shining silver beacon and the black one its blurred shadow. They’ve almost made it, and with luck, they’ll be far away from here come the morning.

Your breath comes harsh and fast, excited or anxious, he’s not sure. He’s so attuned to it that it floods his senses.

The rhythmic patter of your feet. You’re not far behind. They’re two seconds away from jumping off the veranda. The dogs reach the end of this wooden path. Tails thrashing, ears flat against their heads, they leap.

Then, the white wolf lets out a warning bark, golden glare gleaming like fire in the moonlight.

Toji is running too fast. He can’t think. His instinct is to duck.

His body moves. His knees hit the hard floor, and he slides past the corner of the building just as a shadow of a man appears in the peripheral of his view. Mouth curling into a scowl, he shoots a hand to his gun. Draws.

You’re trying to skid to a stop past him, in front of him. His eyes widen. The gun brushes your side, his finger twitching.

He can’t think. His instinct is to pull the trigger. Launch a bullet through your body, silence that man who will no doubt send all the fury of the Zen’in Clan onto Toji once more.

Blood splatters across his face.

You shove the knife up with a short, sharp huff, piercing through the jaw and up into the brain. before the scream the man was about to let out can escape, and yank the blade out. Blood gushes over your hand in terrifying, oozing waves as Toji surges forward to catch the body, easing it to the ground and grabbing your hand.

They run past, onto plush grass, into the forest and towards the river, and he can hear your frantic breaths, the thunderous echo of your heart. You turn back to look at the corpse, but it’s a fool’s task. You cannot see your work past the crest of the hill they run down.

His hand slips against your skin, but when your fingers wrap tightly around his own, he trusts you not to falter.

They run into the river, and Toji hauls you onto his back for the rest of the way. Your feet brush against the water and your arms tighten around his neck, but you don’t protest like you normally would. Instead, you rest your head down, and let him take you without any questions.

They go downstream, then upstream. The shikigami have since been dismissed by the time they have to go back the way they came. Perhaps Megumi’s fallen asleep, but his son has done more than enough that Toji reminds himself that the next time he wants something, no matter how ridiculous it is, he will seriously consider buying it.

Soaked to his torso, Toji adjusts his girp on your legs wrapped around his waist. You’re shivering against his back, and he catches a glimpse of your face when he cranes his head back enough.

“Fine?”

“Fine.”

“Almost there,” he continues over the gentle flow of the river. “Motel. You can rest there.”

“That supposed to be safe?”

“Know a guy. Occupational acquaintance.”

“How generous.” You bury your face into his neck. “Thank you. You shouldn’t have come for me.”

“Don’t be fucking stupid.” Turning forward, he grimaces when the riverbed sinks, and he hoists you further up his body. He nearly sinks to his chest and you raise your head to look around. You’re remarkably calm. It’ll come crashing down soon. He wants to be within the confines of four walls before that happens. “If you’re awake, make yourself useful and keep an eye out.”

Your dry response pricks at his ears as your hands push up on his shoulders. “Yes, sir.”

The motel is a rundown shit-hole.

Well, Toji never claimed himself to be a gentleman.

They’re cooped up in a cramped bathroom as he insisted that he look you over just in case there was Curse damage. The light flicks overhead, which you look at while Toji runs a rag under water.

“They won’t find us here?” you ask blankly. Toji turns and sees your placid face upturned towards him. You watch him with steady eyes that haven’t torn away from him for a moment despite how heavy they must feel. You’re exhausted, but by the way your hands are clenched at your knees, you can’t bare to close your eyes.

“No. They won’t find us.” He crouches before you, and begins to rub at your face. The blood has crusted and flecks off when he touches your temple, and you flinch. “Did that hurt?”

“No. No, they didn’t… it was because I tried to run. They knocked me out.” Your fingers shake uncontrollably as you reach for your head. “Head wounds bleed a lot… I promise, it doesn’t hurt so bad.”

“Don’t feel rattled?”

“Not from a concussion,” you affirm. He gently pushes your hand down, and you let out a long, deep exhale. “They can’t hurt me when I’m carrying their blood, I think is what they said, so I’m okay, I think. I need to go to the clinic to make sure, but I’m okay.”

“You’re not going back there.” Taking hold of your shoulders, he is sure to look into your eye and speak slowly. “I don’t give a fuck about money—we’re not going back to Tokyo."

“We?” you echo. Your lips twist into a bitter scowl, and you push his arms away. “Toji, I don’t even know what happened to me. I got kidnapped because of you? Is that it?”

“Yes,” he snaps. “Because you decided to keep the kid. They found out, and they want that kid more than you probably do.”

“But why? They said something about a technique. Shadows, something.” You shake your head and your eyes narrow as you stand, stepping over and around him. Bracing yourself against the sink countertop, you stare at your own reflection. “What have you not been telling me?”

“A whole slew of things.” He rests on his knees, stretches the rag out to you. You turn to take it and begin to clean up your own complexion as he struggles for words. “A world you don’t know about. My job. You never asked questions.”

“You wouldn’t have wanted to give me any answers,” you retort. You temper your breathing, try to keep it even, but as you see yourself more clearly, Toji hears every painful inhale. Every agonizing hitch in your lungs. “I just wish I could understand.”

“I know. I know this shit doesn’t make sense. It’s not fair.” He shakes his head. “I owe you. I know that.”

“You never pay your debts.”

“That’s true.” A bitter chuckle escapes him. “But you can still… if you get rid of that kid, there’s a chance they won’t touch you.” Your lips part in protest, and you twist to look down at him. Rising, Toji feels gutted raw, everything inside him scooped out and replaced with nothing but sawdust. His joints ache strangely. His throat scratches, his eyes burn. He’s had enough of this sick existence, and he wants to throw up until his guts are clean of glass. “And I’ll disappear. You won’t ever hear from me again.”

Your erratic inhales quiver as he pulls the rag away and lifts his other hand to brush the side of your head. He dabs at the impact wound as you stare hollowly into his chest.

“Do you think that pays back your debt to me?” you ask stonily. “That that even begins to cover what you owe me?”

“No,” he replies. The light flickers overhead. The buzz of old electricity hums between them. “No, but it’s the only way I know how.”

Your eyebrows scrunch when he presses too hard. Your eyelids flutter, but you don’t make a sound. Toji bites his lip hard enough he begins to taste iron, but he can’t speak. He doesn’t trust himself not to say something incredibly, irredeemably stupid.

You save him from that. You save him from so many other foolish things.

“You don’t get to run from me and pretend it’s for my benefit,” you whisper in a dull, dead way. “That’s not going to happen. You understand me? This Zen’in Clan… they’re going to come for Megumi, too, aren’t they? Those dogs. He… he really likes dogs. You said they were his, so it must be what they want.”

He touches the rag to your swollen lip, his other hand tilting your chin up. “Yeah. And the Zen’in Clan is one of the most powerful political families in our society.” You peer at him in the pale, cold light of the bathroom. It paints you in an unflattering palette, but when Toji meets your gaze, a cold, icy dagger sinks into his back. You still look at him with the epitome of surrender. Underlying any sort of gentleness or hate or fury, there is that knowing.

They are entirely at each other’s mercy.

“I see,” you reply measuredly. “So, we have no chance.”

“You do,” he insists.

“No, I don’t.” Your lips press together. “I’m keeping the baby. They’ll come for me regardless of whether or not you’re here. So, really, if you think leaving me is what’s best, I can’t change that about you.”

His heart flash decays in his chest and he shoots the rag into the sink bowl, planting a hand on the countertop and grimacing. Bowing his head, he digs his fingers into the porcelain and watch the blood water slowly trickle down the drain.

He doesn’t want to leave you, can’t you understand that? If he did, he would’ve left you with his family to die. That is the most permanent solution he could ask for. If it was the better choice for his own self, the guilt would eat him alive, and he would’ve let it, but he didn’t. Toji knew the consequences of the choice he made when he set out for his ancestral home.

You’re here with a bounty on your head, and you’re asking him. Asking him to do something he can’t do anymore, and he knew you would.

He came for you anyway.

You exhale a shivering breath, inhaling another one before it can fully escape, and turn away from the mirror. The shadows nearly envelope you entirely.

“I’m going back to Osaka in the morning,” you tell him with no room to protest. “Hajime deserves a funeral. You either come with me, or you don’t. I’ve killed someone today. I doubt there’s not much more I wouldn’t do to keep myself alive, so don’t do it out of some obligation to me."

You rest a hand on his chest, against his heart, before you nod to yourself.

“Goodnight, Toji.”

You leave. The handprint that lingers burns like arsenic.

Toji jumpstarts a car and they drive to Osaka in silence. Megumi is asleep in your lap on account of the lack of booster seat, and you don’t look at him the entire way there.

When they reach Hajime’s house, it is dawn, the air frosty despite the sun on their faces. The place is as Toji left it, with a hole through the front door. You don’t comment on the scrambled interior, and merely traverse through to the backyard where a stack of wood has already been cut.

“Help me build a pyre,” you instruct shortly. “It’s what he wanted.”

Toji spends the better part of the morning building the pyre. You stay inside to make food, and return with Megumi an hour and a half later. The boy is still asleep, which is both a miracle and a relief. Toji had worried that using the Ten Shadows would drain the child at first, but his son is strong.

He’s just finished the platform as you cross the lawn. Pulling off the gloves, he shoves them under his arm and meets you halfway. “Here.” You extend a plate towards him. Eggs, sausages, and half an apple laden the dish, and you jerk your head over your shoulder. “There’s rice porridge inside.” He nods, and your eyes drift to the pyre. “Here, take Megumi. I’ll continue where you left off.”

“Where’s…”

“Upstairs. On the balcony.” You grab the pair of gloves from him. “No good for Megumi to see that, y’know?”

He nods again. “Alright.”

Brushing past him, you make your way towards the chopped wood and lift. Together, they finish the pyre just past mid-day.

You retreat into the house and slip into one of the rooms upstairs as Toji finds anything that can be scrapped together into lunch. Holding a bowl of instant noodles and steamed vegetables, he finds you asleep in an empty room, curled atop the covers and holding a pillow tight to your chest.

Placing the food on the nightstand, he perches on the edge of the bed. He debates waking you up, his hand settling on your arm, but when you don’t stir immediately, he decides against it. You didn’t sleep much the night before, and woke up early. That, and all that pregnancy business. Toji doesn’t know half about it, but he knows enough.

Perhaps it’d be best if he left you be.

You wake up in the late afternoon.

While you eat outside, Toji carries Hajime’s body and lays him to rest. It’s a pitiful thing to look at. The boy is pale, skin loose, hair patchy, and there’s a sort of fragility that unsettles Toji. He had been nothing but a bag of bones in the end, and resembled more of an old man, but his skin is so smooth, unwrinkled.

How is that supposed to make any sense?

Toji wonders if you’ve ever smelt a burnt body before. When they light the pyre, and watch as the entire structure goes up in flames, Toji does not watch Hajime disappear. Instead, he keeps his eyes steadily trained on you. The fire reflects in your irises, brings a synthetic life to dead eyes.

For a long while, they don’t speak. Toji leaves briefly to attend to Megumi, and he watches through the window as you stare at the fire consume the remnants of your old life. He heats up leftover okayu for dinner, and brings both a bowl and his son out to accompany you.

Dusk slowly settles over the horizon as he hands you the bowl. You take it without complaint, sipping. He briefly squeezes your hands, touches the back of his hand to your forehead, and you shoot him an arched eyebrow. Megumi lets out an appreciative noise at the pretty fire, slapping his hands against his father’s forearm. Toji shrugs.

“He told me not to tell you,” you say as his hand falls away from your head, “but he was grateful to you.” Eyebrows shooting up, a deep frown twists Toji’s mouth but you only smile fondly. “You made sure we were safe, even if that wasn’t your intention.”

“I suppose.” His eyes drift distantly over the burning logs. "Tell him I say you're welcome."

Megumi falls asleep again within the hour. It must be a combination of warm food, his father rocking him, and the exhaustion from the previous days lingering. When he rejoins you, you’re standing, your empty dish by your feet, and you greet him with a curt nod as he finds his place next to you.

The fire is steadily burning away, although it’s been a while now. The whole ordeal will be done before midnight.

You loop your thumbs through the belt holes of your jeans. “Will they know where I live if I go back?”

“Yes.” He kicks the disturbed dirt near his boot. The sound of the wood bending and finally snapping cracks the night. “They might offer you money once they realize you’re alone. When the kid is born, they’ll just take him if you put up a fight. If you don’t, they might let you stay. Then, they’ll wait a few years. Find out if the kid has what it wants. If it doesn’t, they’ll throw you out and keep the kid. If it does, they’ll marry you into the family. The claim is illegitimate otherwise.”

“What claim?”

“The Ten Shadows. If the child can control the Ten Shadows, then there’s no doubt they’ll groom them to be the next head of the clan. And they’ll treat ‘em like royalty, so maybe, it won’t be so bad for the kid. It might even be good. Better, if it’s a boy.”

“The same would happen if it were Megumi,” you point out. “You don’t consider bringing him back? Let him be raised as a prince?”

“They’d either pay me or kill me for him. I’ve considered it before,” he admits. “I don’t know why I don’t.”

“I see.” You lift your head to the smoke rising up into the inky sky. A signal to those around for certain, but Toji doubts the Hei would regroup and attack again so quickly. “They won’t let you stay with me.”

He shakes his head. You worry your lip between your teeth, and turn back to the pyre. The wind blows gently, pushing the ribbons of orange, yellow, and sparkling red towards the trees.

“You got a light?”

“Yeah.”

Reaching into his jacket, he sniffs. The smoke’s reminding him of his own nasty habit. “What are you thinking?”

“Weighing my options.” You shove your hands into your pockets and withdraw a lighter. Pulling out his box of Mild Sevens, he pinches one between his lips and cups the end. You lean over, torching the end and frowning delicately when you note the cigarette.

“Do y’mind?” he mumbles.

“No.” The sizzling end of the cig is covered by the sound of your lighter clicking shut and he takes a long drag, turning his head away. “Dick move to do that in front of me, though.”

He snorts in amusement, smoke escaping. “I’ll quit when the baby comes.”

“Whatever you say.” You hug yourself, tucking your chin in. “Do you… do you think you’ll be here when the baby does come?”

Toji blinks. Run, a voice inside him demands. You’ll kill her if you stay.

“It’s a nice image,” he says against his better judgement. Your eyes drag to his figure, and you take a half-step towards him, hand reaching out, but he jerks his glare down at your extended appendage. Immediately, your body freezes, and your hand curls into a tight fist. Softly, he rests a hand atop your knuckles and gently pushes down. “Megumi would like a sister.”

"Well, I want you to stay." The flames flicker across the apple of your cheek, and you finally take hold of his sleeve. “I want you to want to stay. I know it’s too much to ask. It’s selfish. But I have watched you leave before, and if I have to watch you leave again, fine, but only if I know it’s for the last time.” Your fist shakes. He pinches the cigarette between two fingers and exhales towards the pyre. “And you promise you’ll disappear. For good. You, and Megumi. You understand me?”

As tender as a man like Toji can be: "Yeah, I understand.”

You let go of his sleeve, step away, and face the pyre too. The flames are not as tall as they were before, although they’re no less bright and voracious against the night. It’ll still be an hour or more yet until it’s snuffed entirely, which you seem to grasp as you sit down on the grass. Drawing your legs to your chest, you rest your chin on your knees and let your entire body slouch forward. Toji glances down at you before sidling in a little closer and finishing his cigarette.

Flicking the bud towards the fire, he lets out a cough. The taste is something he’ll never get used to. Soon enough, though, it’ll probably be the last reminder he has of you if he goes. Just some pack of cigarettes in a gas station as if that’s enough to represent you in your frustrating entirety.

Toji wonders what sort of person he is to think about this when your best friend is burning in front of them. He wonders, too, about what Hajime had said about him. He hasn’t spoken to the boy in a decade, haven’t thought about him in years. There had been a time where they’d almost been brothers.

He debates smoking another cigarette, for his sake, but you wouldn’t appreciate that even if you don’t tell him no.

He settles on not smoking, and watching the smoke on the pyre instead. Eventually, a weight leans against his leg. Your head against his knee, you don’t speak. Don’t move. Don’t give any indication that he’s even there. Lips twisting into wry, pitiful sort of grimace, Toji carefully crouches down, setting a hand on your head. You cant your head upwards, meeting his gaze.

“I’m sorry, too.” You lift a hand to his cheek, and your thumb stretches to brush over his lower lip. Your head tilts as you examine the scar, but then you’re lifting your gaze to his nose, trace the shape of his brow. “I just can’t let this one thing go.”

“I know.” He smiles grimly. “But to be honest, you hold a grudge.”

You mimic his smile. “Yeah, I know.”

Tilting your head forward with his hand, Toji closes the gap between them. Their noses brush, and your face, your exhausted, angry, beautiful face, is all he can see. The flecks in your irises, the stray hairs along your eyebrows. He runs his fingers down the side of your cheek as you turn to look at the fire, and remembers how hard it was to leave the first time. It rips apart old sutures in an ancient part of his withered heart. He wasn’t so much a coward that he left a note while you were asleep, but the way your face had glazed over into a placid numbness lingers.

“I know another safe house you can stay in long term,” he says as the wood pyre creaks and crumbles. There’s the sound of a few tumbling, crashing logs and your head snaps to the source. Continuing on, Toji tries to ignore the tight ball clogging up his throat. That damn fucking cigarette. It’s made his mouth feel all funny.

He plants a knee on the ground, and sheds his jacket. You’re about to shove him away but he lets out a sharp warning, forcing it around you.

“If you get sick after being out in the cold and inhaling all this smoke, how’s that good for the kid?” he snaps, and you stop, staring at him. “That place is good. They’ll keep you warm, and fed—”

“What about you?”

“What about me?” he asks. You pull the lapels of his jacket tighter around yourself. “I can take you there, and it’ll be near Tokyo. Somewhere more familiar.”

“And then you’ll leave again?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Well, do you want to leave?” you press, pushing yourself to your knees. Toji pinches the bridge of his nose as you grab his arm. “Toji. If you’re just going to leave, what is the damn point of taking me somewhere else? Why wouldn’t I go back to your crazy fucking family when I know for certain they’ll take care of my kid?”

He nearly gawks at your stupidity. “Because they’ll treat you like shit. They’ll turn your kid against you. Do you think I’m the prime example of good family dynamics?”

“No, but…” Your fingers dig through his shirt. Clenching his jaw, he refuses to look at you as your other hand latches onto his shoulder. Why can’t you see? Is he not being clear enough? You can’t go back there. Toji knows you’ll die one way or another, and while he can bear it enough to be apart from you—to kill you is to inflict a mirrored wound on himself.

“No.”

“I know what I am compared to you. Compared to them. I’m nothing, Toji.” His name slips from your mouth, reed-thin and desperate. “Toji. Look at me. Please.”

He’s never heard you beg before. It stings like a poison, swelling up in his lung. Silent, he only looks down at your hand. It springs off his arm as if he’s scalded you.

“I don’t know what sort of world you’ve been living in,” you admit dully. “And maybe that’s my fault for never asking the right questions. But you can’t expect me to keep listening to you like it’s for my own good.”

“I’m not looking for reasons. It’s what rational, you idiot. It’s because of your association with me that you’re being targeted. It would be smarter if we split up in case they come looking again.”

“Well, it’s too late now!” You shoot to your feet, yanking his jacket off your shoulders. “I’m scared out of my fucking mind right now, and you’re talking about dumping me at some safe house near Tokyo. As if I’d stay there when I know there’s a place I might be needed. I'd be irreplaceable if I go back. At least for a little while. Which is maybe more than I can say for how you see me.”

Rising, Toji bites back the harsh insults that want to pour out of his mouth. His heart splinters as you shove the jacket into his solar plexus and you let out a rattling breath, twisting to face the pyre once more. Oxygen knocked out of him, Toji lets his jacket fall to to the ground and his body moves before he can command it.

His foot steps forward, his hands reach, and his mouth opens.

“Don’t play a hero, Toji.” You spit the words out bitterly, as if you cannot stand the taste of him anymore. “It doesn’t suit you.” Crossing your arms over your chest, you blink and your eyes begin to glisten in the firelight. Catastrophic amber set in your diamond-cut face. “If you’ve already decided, why can’t you just act on what you want?”

“Because what I want,” he murmurs slowly, fists clenching tightly as his sides, “is not the same as what’s best for you.”

Your head slants, just a fraction, and the corners of your eyes soften as you regard him. “Who are you to say what’s best for me?” Ducking his head, Toji squeezes his eyes shut and ignores all the voices in his head crowing at his stupidity. Every muscle in his body trembles as the grass crunches underneath a heavy foot, and when fingers brush delicately over his arms, he flinches back. “Toji.”

Tough, callused fingertips gently find his chin and tilt it up. His eyebrows knot together even tighter, and he jerks his head away but the hand is insistent, sliding along his jaw and pushing him back towards you.

“What I know is that the father of my child is the person best suited to protect me,” you utter with such misplaced conviction. Lips twisting into a pained scowl, he shakes his head. You cup his face, wrench his head so he is forced to look at you. A wet trail has carved a path down your cheek. His heart stutters in his esophagus. “You being here by my side in these damned woods makes me feel safer than if I were alone in some safe house because I trust you. Can’t you understand that?” Can’t you trust me, too?

The thing is, Toji has always trusted you. Had faith in you in a time when he didn’t believe in anything. The countless stitches that have been snipped by your scissors, and the gauze you’ve packed against his wounds are proof of all of that—invisible lines on his body that have healed perfectly because of your diligence and the long, pink scars in your absence weave a story he’s been writing for ages, but the endings diverge, and he tries to imagine both.

When you blink, another tear steadily traces the curve of your face, and he can’t stomach it. With a rough thumb, he swipes the tear away before grabbing you by your shoulder and yanking you into him.

Your arms immediately wrap around him, hooking on his shoulders. Holding the back of your head, Toji closes his eyes and buries his nose into the crook of your neck. Their bodies meld together, slot together like two pieces. As the fire begins to die and the smoke clears, clarity finally comes to him in the shape of that image again.

A child. A baby girl, Megumi’s sister.

“Take care of Megumi, okay?”

You had been right. His son has the Ten Shadows. If Toji sold him when the signs first showed up, he could’ve haggled enough to sate him for a lifetime. Why didn’t he?

Your lips brush the curve of his jaw as you let out a long exhale.

He can fool himself into thinking it’s because he wanted the certainty of knowing it’s truly the technique his family has been searching for, but it’s because he knows what princes are treated like in the Zen’in Clan. He wants the best for his son, really he does. He’d give it to him even if it meant he’d have to erase his blessing from his mind to make it happen.

But that possibility of you, out there, living a life he knows nothing about anymore.

Maybe that is the way. To keep his son happy, and to keep his son with him for the time-being.

Your fingers entrench into his shoulders hard enough to hurt. He runs a palm down your back before wrapping his arm around your waist.

Toji wants to run. He wants to stay. He wants to make enough money to not worry about gambling debts, but he aches to see his son grow up.

And, of course, now, he would like a daughter. He’s decided a daughter would be good, too, for the end.

“Do you think I don’t know what I am to you?”

Toji wonders if when you had asked that question, you had truly known his answer.

Only one way to to find out.

“Okay,” he finally whispers. Your head tilts inwards, your nose against the long cord of his neck. Your breathing is erratic, featherlight and hopeful as he closes his eyes. “Okay, I’ll stay.”

Three weeks later, a woman, a man, and a toddler boy walk past the torii of the Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College. Despite the weapons trained on the man’s chest, he proposes calmly, almost arrogantly, a deal they’d be stupid to refuse.

The service of the Sorcerer Killer in exchange for room and board for the three of them.

Yaga Masamichi accepts.

#fic: dissolve #toji fushiguro #toji fushiguro x reader #toji fushiguro x you #toji x reader #toji x you #fushiguro toji #fushiguro toji x reader #fushiguro toji x you #jjk #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen #my writing

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guywrestlingaddiction · 6 months

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Humbled Hunks: Steve Wiles/Kelly v Kid Leopard/Raw Deal (Bgeast.com, Bgenterprises)

For today's edition I wanted to highlight a humbled hunk that loams large in my head rent free. A man that while he may not have had an extensive career, is still worth a replay as a humbled, hunky jobber. I present to you - Steve Willes/Kelly.

Steve Kelly v Raw Deal (Bgenterprises)

SPOILER ALERT: I highly recommend viewing this match in its entirety before reading this post.

The Backstory

Steve is the man and he knows it. I'm sure the guy turns heads whenever goes anywhere. All sexes want to get with him. A smile, a stare, when the man's intense gaze has you - chances are you fold. His cocky attitude, his arrogant behavior, all of that has been crafted over the years of getting whatever he wants from lessor men. Regardless of whatever match you stumbled on, Steve glares at his opponents with an intensity that shows that he dominates.

Steve Wiles v Kid Leopard / Steve Kelly v Raw Deal Muscle for muscle, Steve clearly outclasses most men. He towers over Kid Leopard. Raw Deal even needs backup from his henchmen before entering the ring.

The Action

Kid Leopard Against Kid Leopard, no man is his equal but Steve is gonna try. From the get go it's apparent that on his feet, Steve simply can't be stopped. The Kid is just not strong enough. But on the mat, that's where the Kid can fight back.

That squeeze has the Kid squealing in pain.

The Kid is looking small against Steve.

All of that is for naught as Steve is simply too strong, too much man for the Kid.

Steve has finally cracked the Kid... Or has he?

Raw Deal Against Raw Deal and his sidekick, those two are no match for Steve and in the end, the fight devolves into a brawl full of dirty tricks and cheating.

Raw Deal was a chump for stepping into the ring. The guy is toast. Or is he?

The Moment

How do you stop the unstoppable? Steve can't be matched with muscle but can only be met with cheating. All that confidence, all that arrogance are soon drained away. Off the mat he commands respect; You see guys like Steve aren't used to being humbled or tossed around. All of that is one of the reasons I write this blog and seeing a hunk humbled so thoroughly is why I love gay wrestling.

Those biceps may have worked you over, but you're not finished yet.

The Kid could not contain his smile while humbling the muscular hunk.

Close up of that sexily beaten hairy chest.

Fast forward and we see Steve beaten by Raw Deal.

A desperate Raw Deal taking a bite out of Steve's inner thigh.

Fired up from his sidekick, Raw doesn't just want to win. He wants to humiliate Steve.

Like I said, he wanted Steve humiliated to the extreme.

#gay wrestling #bgeast.com #bgenterprises #Steve Kelley #Steve Wiles #Raw Deal #kid leopard

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dreamingdixon · 1 year

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Eyes on me

Anon request: “can you do something like what happened to Maggie with the governor when her and Glenn were kidnapped? maybe the reader was in that situation, and Daryl finds out and is like comforting them?”

This fic contains sexual assault, and everything that comes afterwards. This could be potentially triggering, so please keep that in mind before continuing. My intention is not to trigger, upset or make anybody uncomfortable. I will post an edited version, that will have any graphic content (including the SA itself, and any mentions thereafter) removed, so this story can be enjoyed by those who do not want to read the full/graphic version, but still enjoy the hurt/comfort element of a soft Daryl <3 If anyone is in a situation where they have experienced anything along the lines of harassment/SA, my ask box is always open to be a listening ear and a friend. I wrote this story from a place of my own understanding and experience, and I found it comforting to write a different 'afterwards'.

17,349 words.

“I’m sorry about Merle.”

You’d kept your gaze trained on the bloodied denim on your thighs when the heavy door creaked open, managed to keep your eyes averted even when you heard footsteps against the harsh concrete. You’d told yourself you weren’t even going to so much as look at the man who’d dared to hold a knife to your throat and drag you from your friends.

But this was a different voice.

Snapping your head up, you quickly blink away the fog in your vision to reveal a man, his hands held up high, palms towards you. There’s a smile on his face that you immediately hate and you instinctively pull against the tape on your wrists as he edges himself closer to you.

“Sometimes he just doesn’t know when to stop. I’ll be having a word with him.”

There’s a rawness to your skin when you continue to move your hands, your mind begging for your small movements to be capable of breaking the layers of thick tape, desperate - pleading as he reaches the other end of the table. He doesn’t seem overly satisfied when he asks ‘May I?’, gesturing towards the chair and receives no answer, his only response a continued glare, but he sits regardless and places a towel on the metal in front of him.

“I hope he didn’t hurt you too much, that’s not the way we do things around here. Especially not to young women, survivors like yourself.”

The sickly sweet voice phrases itself like a question that makes your skin crawl as he sits so casually, one leg over the other, hands across his lap. He carries himself well, you think to yourself. Powerful, or he thinks he must be - power that he’s brutally taken, not earned - as he watches your face for any sort of reaction to his presence or words. He continues when he sees none. We don’t want to hurt anybody, we’re a community of good people. People, food, walls. Woodbury.

He gestures around the damp room, apologising for the ‘inhospitable accommodation’ one of his men brought you to. It seems like a storage room, bits of old furniture leaning against the bare walls and corrugated metal sheets, and there’s a faint bitterness to the air - cold from damp gathering on the roof and an unwelcome breeze from the outside world making its way inside, and you can’t ignore the goosebumps prickling against your exposed arms.

“I’m not staying.”

Your nose and cheek throb from your movements to speak, but your words come out firm and final exactly how you intended, no trace of the fear that’s slowly building up inside you. You have your own people, food, and walls. You have gates you’re carefully reinforcing against men like this, people who have done more for you since you joined them than others had your entire life prior to the fall, and there isn’t much food but it’s better than anything this man could ever offer you. You ignore the blood that trails down past your lip and the metallic taste on your tongue. His confident smiles only widens with your words, shrugging carelessly as if you hadn’t turned him down - like he was happy with your answer.

“You don’t have to. We can just take you back to your people, I’d escort you personally, make sure you get there safely, maybe strike a deal with your group for extra protection, share supplies, ammo.. What do you think, would your group be interested?”

You wonder how many people have fallen for his act. In the span of what you’re assuming to be a few hours, you’ve been forcefully taken, knocked out, your nose most likely broken in your struggle and you’ve been tied up, and this man has the audacity to offer a deal? You manage to swallow down the laugh that you’re desperate to vocalize, but a small smirk escapes onto your lips instead.

“I think my group will kill you on the spot when they find out about you. No fucking deal, asshole.”

Your brows furrow because he laughs at your words, deep lines forming between your eyebrows because he doesn’t seem phased. He’s acting like he didn’t expect this conversation to go any other way, like he’s about to shake your hand and send you on your way and you’re confused. Waking up in the situation you did, you’d expected a few threats and a gun to your head at the very least, but it doesn’t come, so you wait. Leaning forward, he watches you, studies you and he can tell you’re not acting - you’re tough. You’re sitting up straight, but he knows you’re uncomfortable by how you flex your shoulders occasionally against the pull of the awkward angle of your restraints. Like a racing horse with blinders, you haven’t taken your gaze away from his - not even once - like you’re not in the precarious situation you’re currently in. Your chest isn’t heaving with nerves like others who sat in the same chair just last week, and he admires you for it.

Bringing himself to his feet, he grabs the towel as he edges himself closer to you and your mind runs, pure anxiety tainting all of your thoughts and you’re ashamed of the wave of cold that suddenly courses through your veins and you shiver.

Stepping behind the chair, the hairs on your arms stand upright because you can’t see him anymore. White noise fills your head because he isn’t even walking, there’s no footsteps to be heard until you’re being suddenly dragged, a deafening scrape of metal as your chair is slowly turned 90 degrees and he gradually brings himself into your view again.

There’s fear now, he realizes, from removing himself from your line of vision. It gave you courage to have your eyes on the man in charge and taking that away for even just a moment gave that courage a shake - and he likes that, given him just a tiny bit more control. Your eyes are wider now, not narrowed like just moments ago. He could get off on that fact alone, so he crouches down in front of you to drink in the sight.

He’s looking at you like a child looks at the highest ticket prize at an arcade, full of want, a craving to be satisfied and unthinkingly your nose scrunches in disdain but oh my god that’s a mistake because you can feel your pulse in your nose and a dull twinge that shoots through you at the motion that has you sucking air through your teeth.

He whispers a ‘shhh’ that absolutely repulses you, and his eyes don’t leave yours as he slowly brings the towel in his grip up to your face and he lightly dabs at the skin above your lip, the white terry cloth coming back a deep crimson. It takes a second to realize he’s trying to clean you, and he’s doing it like it’s second nature but his other hand is resting on your thigh when he goes to repeat the motion for a second time, but this time you’re ready because he’s touching you and there’s rage bubbling inside of you because who the fuck is he to be responsible for your broken nose, then have the audacity to mop up the evidence?

Before the material reaches your lip, you muster the energy and ignore the strain on your muscles and you spit on him. It’s discoloured from the blood that made its way between your lips, and it’s revolting and it’s the least he deserves. How dare he touch you?

The man scoffs before taking the towel in his hand and erases any trace of you from his cheek, as he raises his eyebrow and suddenly the air seems heavier and the room just got darker because so did his eyes, and within a second he’s behind you again, but he’s not silent or at a distance - the material of his trousers are pressed against your restrained hands behind the cold bars of the chair and he’s got an arm wrapped around your neck. The pretend silkiness gone from his voice, replaced with a gravelly ‘I was right, you’re feisty’ and he’s applying just enough pressure with his forearm for you to not move, and you don’t.

You’re completely still as you look right ahead, you’ve stopped your fight against the tape because he’s everywhere behind you and if you’re completely still maybe you can ignore him, but you can smell his cologne and it’s so light and delicate but it’s overwhelming. Waiting for the inevitable blow that doesn’t come, he adjusts his grip as he lifts his forearm slightly, tilting your head upwards against the pressure and when your eyes angle towards the ceiling, he’s staring down at you, shaking his head, tutting his disapproval.

The towel's still in his grip, but he’s rougher this time as he brings it to your nose - tugging the scratchy material firmly against broken skin, replacing the gentle patting of the earlier attempt and it drags out a throaty whimper from your throat and he feels the vibrations against his arm as he repeats his actions two, three, four times. Eyes screwed shut, you feel his grip harden against your throat when you try to pull your head away but the pressure against your windpipe increases and you’re not going to black out so you do your best to hold still instead, groaning at the feel of rogue droplets of blood escaping down your throat from the angle, and the way your face absolutely throbs by the time he lets go.

Stepping back in front of you, he assesses his handiwork and tells you ‘see, that’s so much better’ before striding out of the room, a thunderous clang of the door ringing in your ears after he leaves.

Hours are spent rotating between a few tasks - wondering how you’re going to murder this man, planning your escape, counting the individual bits of furniture in the room and thinking about the group. It has cost so much to clear the prison, people have paid with their lives for the remainder to have somewhere safe to call home, you will not be the reason it falls by giving anybody the location. This entire situation solidifies what you already knew - you’d die for the rag-tag assortment of individuals and you’d call them family any day of the week. You think about how lucky you were to be taken in by them after crossing paths on a random dirt track months ago, and how they spread their scarce rations even thinner to take you in.

Family.

Struggling to find the strength to hold yourself up, you sit with your head limply resting against your chest, the occasional thin streak of crimson collecting on the neckline of your vest. Stiffness dominates every part of your body by the time the door swings open again, and you roll your eyes at the familiar man who isn’t smiling this time.

He approaches slowly, and by the time he’s next to you he’s offering you a plastic water bottle that you reluctantly ignore by sealing your lips and turning away. The bottle gets placed on the table, and he tells you to ‘suit yourself’ before grabbing your chin, tugging you to face him and he’s relieved to see the flow of blood has slowed despite the majority of your upper lip, chin and down to your chest decorated in cracked, dried crimson. He tells you you’re looking in bad shape, and he’d love to take you back to your people so I’ll ask again - where’s your camp?

The back and forth gets him nowhere, and the frustration becomes visible. His velvety voice becomes forceful and loud in his demands, fists hitting the table when he’s answered with another ‘fuck you’ and his jaw clenches hard.

“Okay. We’ll try something different.”

He slips the mask back into place, allowing the mellow tone returns to his words, but there’s still an edge to his voice. He’s worked up, but he sounds like he’s got a plan and you don’t like how he perches himself in front of you again, but you like it even less when his fingers toy with the bottom of your shirt.

“You wanna tell me before or after I cut this shirt off of you?”

Your blood runs cold at the question. You stare at him while your brain goes into overdrive, how can I get myself out of this? But without any hesitation, he brings the knife to the base of your shirt, holds the material taut with his other hand and drags the knife all the way up, catching the skin of your abdomen and your chest a few times on the journey. It cuts so easily, like scissors through wrapping paper and the bloodied material hangs limply by the straps until he easily nicks through the remaining fabric, and you feel completely helpless when he holds the destroyed shirt in his hands before tossing it in the direction of the door.

You’d known violence since the fall, but this was a different shade of cruelty - one that had your chest heaving and embarrassment showing itself with redness on your skin, and you had no control over the trembling that took over you within seconds and it only worsens when he returns to his favourite spot behind you, and you wait for the first cut against your skin but instead, he carefully slices some of the tape away, splitting the section binding you to the metal frame of the seat while maintaining the integrity of the layers around your wrists as he pulls you to your feet, shoulders lifting away from the frame painfully.

He’s staring at you like you're rare mixture of gold and silver and diamonds, like you’re there exclusively for him and he's not planning on sharing his riches with anybody, without a care in the world for the redness around your eyes or the tears that are threatening to spill over, or the fresh blood pooling around tender wrists where you’re furiously fighting with the tape that somehow feels even stronger now.

He ignores your whimpers, telling you ‘it doesn’t have to be like this, you’re in full control here, got it? How this plays out is up to you, don’t cry, shhh.’ as you try your best to stand tall, you’re not going down without a fight.

“This is how it’s going to happen, alright? I’m going to ask you questions - about where y’all are hiding out, about your group, and for every question you don’t answer, I’m going to take something else off of you until either I know everything I need to know, or there’s a nice pile of clothes over there. Ball’s in your court, sweetheart, cause I’ll do much worse than this to them when I find ‘em, and trust me, I will find ‘em.”

Fear and hatred consume your features, and he whispers a ‘don’t move’ when he steps closer to you and you step backwards, his hand delicately moving overgrown hair away from your eyes and tucking it behind your ear. Despite the light movement of his fingers, the touch feels like sandpaper and you silently promise to cut off each and every one of his fingers with the dullest knife you can find. Standing in front of you, he starts with his questions. “How many of you are there?” which seems harmless enough, but you already know you can’t win in this game so you remain silent and sob when he cuts through the wire of your bra, letting it fall to the floor.

You wonder how this man came to be as he eyes you up and down. You try to pretend you aren’t completely exposed by wondering if this place - Woodbury, he said - existed from the beginning, or if he had a role in setting it up. Nowhere’s safe anymore, and you swear the only decent people who are still alive are your people who you pray are currently out looking for you. Would Rick try to interrogate him first, like he did Randall at the farm? Would Daryl - the man with the thickest shell, who’d warmed up to you slowly - hesitate to kill him for you? Would Carol hold your hand when you tell her what happened? Would Beth think of you when she sang over the campfire?

Frustration hits you like a wave when the man's eyes linger over your chest, and you swear you’ve never hated anyone more in your entire life so you do the only thing you think to do in that moment, you bring your head backwards for momentum and you aim for his nose to return the favour, longing for the sound of a crunch that doesn’t fucking happen. He’s too quick, too practiced. Fast reflexes and learned instinct told him what you were about to do, so he swerves and you loose your footing, a stagger towards that leaves you barely on your feet.

Disappointment hits you like a tonne of bricks, the chance presented itself to you on a silver platter and you were too slow. You’ve barely found your balance before there’s a bruising grip around your biceps, warm fingers digging painfully into haggard muscles and chilled skin, and the hot breath against your neck telling you to ‘turn around, slowly.’ brings bile to your throat that you swallow down as you follow the instruction. He re-adjusts his grasp when your eyes meet, bringing his fingers to your chin instead, tracing the discolouration along your jaw.

“Nice try. What’s it gonna take until you spill, huh?”

He notices the tremor in your muscles, the involuntary vibrations beneath the palms of his fingers that have you shaking. He’s telling you again about how he doesn’t want to hurt you, and you’re so desperate to call him out on his lies but he’s got the upper hand and you know it, so the words die before they’ve even began to form.

He takes his time. It’s almost worse when he isn’t actually doing anything to you, it’s like the anticipation builds and builds until you’re breathing is short and fast because he’s playing mind games - and winning. You’d almost prefer if he’d just get it over with, whatever it is.

There’s so much fire behind your eyes despite your sore state, so he decides to up the stakes.

“Okay, time for round two. For every question you don’t answer, not only do you lose something you’re wearing, keep in mind you’ve not got a whole lot left, but somebody from your group dies. Simple as that. You’re at two so far, and I’ll give you the honour of deciding who.”

His hand trails from your jaw, fingers tracing the curve of your neck to your collarbone, across the flaky, dried blood on your chest before drawing an agonizingly slow line up and down your sternum but his eyes never leave yours - threatening.

“Might even give you a pretty dress for the show, since it looks like you won’t have anything left on you by then.”

There’s tears forming that you aggressively try to blink away, burning against your dry eyes. He’s asking you then, where’s your camp? Must be near by, right? How long d’you reckon it’ll take my soldiers to find, hmm? But his fingers are just below your navel, now, and you’re shuddering because you want to be anywhere but here.

He waits. Patient in his resolve. Whatever your people have, he wants it. He counts your accelerated breaths in his mind, still smiling and it widens sickeningly when your features warp into terror and panic as his index finger reaches the skin just below your breast, vaguely following the curve of the flesh but his eyes are still trained on yours and he just watches the way your nostrils flare and eyes widen because he did that. He’s proud to get a reaction out of you, but you still haven’t answered his question, so he brings his fingers just a tiny bit higher, that tiny bit closer to where he shouldn’t be anywhere near and he’s humming, a firm reminder to answer. A question in itself.

But the question remains unanswered, and his patience has run out.

“Get on your knees.”

There’s no time to react before his hand moves from your torso to your shoulder, pushing down while his other drags down firmly against your now bruised bicep. You buckle against the momentum, your arms still restrained leaving you off-balance and you’ve never felt like an easier target in your life. Your knees collide painfully with the concrete, and you wince against the jolts that burst up your thigh from the harsh collision.

Your thoughts run rampant. Is this your execution, or something else? Is he going to bring a knife out again and murder you, a sharp puncture to your skull to prevent the turn, or will he drag it out by holding it to your throat first? Would the group ever find you, hidden away in a storage room of a community they don’t even know existed?

Would Daryl be the one to find you, to bring you back to the prison and bury you, even if you’d turned? You imagine him sweating in the prison’s yard, a shovel gripped between bleeding, sore fingers while you lay there, covered by a sheet and the tears flow down your face like a running tap at the thought. When he’d promised to look after you, you’d vowed to do the same and you meant it, and he’d wrapped his arm over your shoulder at the way you’d said it - so full of sincerity and commitment. If you didn’t make it out of this room you wouldn’t be able to carry out your promise and that made your chest ache.

Your face is angled upwards forcefully, thumbs brushing away the salty tears streaming down your cheeks. He’s telling you it’s okay, shushing you quietly as he continues to drag the pads of his thumbs across your cheeks, the warmth from your tears and his movements smearing blood across your cheeks haphazardly. He smiles softly, telling you once more that it’s okay, that he’ll be gentle before his hands move to the back of your head - one gripping the nape of your neck, the other against your crown and he tugs you towards him.

You collide with the rough material of his trousers nose-first in a way that makes you howl with pain, it shoots into the back of your eyes and you’d swear you’d felt something shift that shouldn’t. He presses you against the crotch of his pants, forehead digging into the cold metal of his belt buckle and pulling against him gets you nowhere, only a firmer grip against the nape of your neck that you’d swear just yanked out strands of hair. He holds you still, ignoring your wailing and he moves his hips against you, smears of blood staining the fabric with evidence of his violence. The warmth of his body heat and the fact you can smell the metallic edge of your own blood and you’re going to vomit any second. The room is too cold and the denim too rough and you can feel the gathered-together tape digging into the oozing blood gathering around your wrists. You try to focus on anything else you can - the design etched into the material of his pants, the feeling of how you wiggle your toes, the pattern of your breathing, anything to give you an escape.

He moves you then, making you look to the side until your cheek is pressed into the fabric instead, and he simply holds you there, and that’s when you decide this will be easier if you close your eyes - if you can’t see what he’s doing, maybe it won’t exist. But it does, and suddenly he’s grabbing fistfuls of your hair, a rough grip that burns with so much intensity that it prickles down your neck and spine and he tugs you away from him. He speaks then - something about your eyes, but you’re completely unfocused until he repeats himself, emphasising his words with a harsh tug and when your eyes shoot open - he looks so proud of himself.

The sound of his zipper is the next thing you hear, a dull noise that seems to echo way too loud against the metallic walls, vibrating against your ears until you start counting backwards in your mind in a desperate attempt of distraction that doesn’t work.

When the door squeaks open suddenly, and you feel like you’re saved when the man talks about a breach, men with weapons and he needs to come immediately, panic written all over his features as he stumbles over his words with white knuckles over the barrel of his gun, but always keeping his eyes averted from your direction. The man holds you where you are while he listens, completely shameless when he grinds against you one last time before telling you I’ll be back, before tugging you backwards and pulling up the zipper of his pants.

You’re left with your knees against concrete, tears that won't go away and the heaviness in your chest feels like you can’t breathe because you can still feel the lingering grip against the base of your skull and the roughness of his trousers pressing against you, and when you can’t shake the sound of his breathing out of your mind you lean over and empty your stomach, retching from your hunched over position until there’s nothing left but stomach acid and it burns.

Time doesn’t exist anymore, there isn’t a single window in the entire room and you’ve truly lost your sense of timekeeping - has it been a few hours or an entire day, maybe more? The way the air is colder now makes you think it’s the milder evening air seeping in through the walls, fresh and bitter in contrast to the usual daytime Georgian dry heat that you suddenly crave against your skin. You curl in on yourself, back against the furthest wall from the door, the metal behind you only adding to the uncomfortable position but you swear if you don’t lean against something you’re going to keel over and die so you’ll take it, ignoring the discomfort of your wrists digging into your lower back.

If it’s night time, you wonder if Judith is asleep and if Glenn and Maggie got back safe, are they together now? Are you missed? Is Daryl using his tracking skills to bring you back home, like he promised you he would after you lost Sophia, when he vowed he’d never lose you?

You feel like you’re waiting for the inevitable, a reminder of sitting in the hospital waiting room for hours as a teenager after falling on your arm - you knew it was only broken, the result of an unsupervised houseparty, but what if they found something else on the x-ray and told you in 6 months you’d be dead? Your mother was adamant that wouldn’t happen, but what if? Turns out it was a hairline fracture, and you wouldn’t be dead in 6 months because of it, but your mother held your hand regardless, promising to take you out for dinner in exactly 6 months to celebrate - and so she did. But you’ve never forgotten the experience of sitting in the waiting area and how sterile everything was and how everything was so blue and bright made you vow to never need a hospital visit again. This felt the same, like waiting for the terrifying result of that xray that you were so sure was going to give you an expiration date - but it’s worse, there’s no exit or your mothers soft skin against your own, no nurses to make you laugh when they see your anxious eyes, there’s only the heavy metal door that wouldn’t budge when you tried to kick it, the scraps of fabric that you can’t wear anymore, the empty space and the occasional trickle of warmth down your chin.

You bring your knees up to your chest and cry, because it’s all you can do and you shake from the intensity of it all. You’ve never felt so useless, you’ve been so productive and exhausted and helped keep everybody safe for so long and now you’re here, playing a waiting game with a villain. Like a mouse caught in a trap with your own vomit a few feet away.

There’s a commotion outside that you try to ignore, scrunching your eyes closed and you wish you could cover your ears and pretend it doesn’t exist - so that’s what you try to do. Resting your forehead against your knees you just pretend. You’re not trapped and you’re not crying and you’ve definitely not just had him touch you like that, but then you hear gunshots and there’s only so much pretending you can do.

/////////////

It wasn’t supposed to turn into a bloodbath, but it was their fault.

A new woman - Michonne, was the only reason they had any lead about where you might be, and of course it was risky to go along with it, but this was you they were talking about, and it was a risk that was absolutely worth taking. Daryl would have gone alone if he needed to, because seeing Glenn and Maggie run through those doors without you had his heart in his throat, and when Maggie started speaking ‘I didn’t see who took ‘er, she was right behind us when we went inside, then there was a.. A yell, and by the time we came out there was a car drivin’ away.’ he already had his crossbow over his shoulder and a goal of getting you back.

On Rick’s command, Daryl slowly pulls the bolt securing the door, easing it carefully enough to avoid drawing the attention of whoever - or whatever - was potentially inside. The rusted metal rang when it rested on the other side and he placed his hand on the frame, ready to push with the signal. A last look around confirms they’re alone except the unfortunate outline of an man who’d raised his gun towards the wrong people, and when Rick gives a nod of his head, Daryl’s swift in his movements, opening the heavy door with one instantaneous push and he’s inside with a single stride, gusts of lingering smoke following the movement.

There’s a vague smell of damp to the room, mingled with something else - something bitter that hangs densely in the air until there’s a faint taste in the back of his throat. Rick follows the archer’s lead, a crossbow and gun darting around each corner of the room, and within a second they’ve both detected the few items of clothing - one by the door and as Daryl inches closer around the table, there’s a bra that comes into his view. Behind him, Rick makes his way towards the shirt, he’s about to get Daryl’s attention because he recognises it, it’s yours, you’re here somewhere but Daryl’s already next to you.

When your eyes meet Daryl’s, your chest fucking heaves and you cry from relief because he’s right here and he promised he always would be, that he’d find you and he did. His crossbow points at your chest for only half a second before it’s quickly dropped to hang loosely from the strap over his shoulder and he’s running towards you, calling over to Rick that he’s found you.

He’s kneeling next to you, face only inches from yours and you want to touch him but your shoulders ache in resistance and your wrists sting but you need to touch him to see if he’s real but you can’t and you’re hyperventilating, pulling harder, cutting deeper into already broken skin. Panic sets in and it’s so ridiculous because why are you crumbling now? Daryl’s softly calling your name and trying to meet your gaze but your ears are flooded by the resounding noise of your own pulse and your eyes are darting between the concrete floor, the open door and Rick who’s keeping his distance - he doesn’t want to add to your fear by towering over you so he turns towards the door, protective, guarding.

“Hey, hey, you’re alright. It’s alright, I got ya.”

The voice is grounding, it brings you back just enough to look at him and see him properly.

“There ya go, keep those eyes on me, okay?”

So that’s what you do, you keep your eyes on him and it helps. It doesn’t stop your heart racing or the cold sweat that’s forming against your temples, but you direct all of your focus to him because he told you to and it’s all you can do because it’s Daryl.

He’s trying to keep his features soft in feigned confidence and calm, praying some of it transfers to you because you’re shaking so much he can see it and your eyes are blown so wide that he wonders what happened to you? He’s never seen you like this before, he’s not sure how present you actually are, or the extent of the damage, but he can see that your nose isn’t in the best condition - there’s a deep gash across the bridge and there’s a bump where there wasn’t before. He’s determined to keep his eyes on yours so he relies on his peripheral vision to tell him the blood trails down, ending in a thickly caked mess down your chest. His gaze doesn’t follow the stream of crimson, instead, his eyes stay on yours as he tells you ‘I’m gonna give ya my vest, gonna put it right here until we get ya on your feet’ as he gently tucks the material in the space between your raised knees and your chest, and the chilled leather warms you in a way that’s entirely new.

“Good girl, there ya go. Lemme see what’s goin’ on with your hands.”

He inches to the side, so when you shuffle forwards slightly he can see the bloodied skin and the grey tape around you in thick layers. He’s only got his crossbow on him, so he tells you ‘I’m gonna get Rick over, alright? He’s got a knife, shh, yer fine, then we can cut ya free and get ya back.’ before calling the man over. Rick’s next to you both then, kneeling down and asking if you’re okay - Daryl nods on your behalf when you don’t seem to have the strength to.

“Look at me an’ only me, that’s it.”

He reminds you, soothes you while Rick slices through the mess on your wrists despite the fury that’s bubbling up inside the archers chest. You look terrified at the sensation - the back and forth of the blade and the pull against your irritated skin has you pale, oxygen trapped tightly in the confines of your lungs because you’re preparing yourself for pain until Daryl’s prompting you to ‘breathe’.

He’s on alert, ears perked against any footsteps, voices or gunshots he might hear. Usually he’d never have his back to the door, but Rick has his eyes towards the entrance and his crossbow is loaded and ready on his shoulder and right now you’re his priority.

“There ya go, feel better?”

You want to speak, but the simple ‘yes’ catches in your throat like a dry pill so you simply nod instead, slowly rolling your shoulders against the tightness of your muscles to bring your hands in front of you to confirm they’re actually still attached to you. The cold air nips at the broken skin but Daryl watches the cautious wiggle of your fingers and hears the quiet hum of relief that escapes you from the newly found freedom, and your downcast eyes miss the tiniest smile that lifts the corner of his lips and how Daryl’s expression softens just a little.

It’s taking a stupid amount of effort and self control to not throw you over his shoulder and just run miles and miles and miles away until you’re safe, until you’re somewhere he can run you a bath, hold you, - or not, whatever you wanted - make you a warm meal with some tea and maybe even hold your hand because he always wanted to, and he was so fucking scared that he’d lost the opportunity to ever intertwine his fingers with yours, to have you safely tucked against him. You’d only been gone a day but he ached with longing, and he still would until you were safe.

“C’mere, lets get ya up.”

He notices how your hand wraps around his vest that’s still gathered at your chest, tightly clutching a fistful of the black leather like a lifeline while your other hand positions itself against the floor in an attempt to pull yourself up, and Daryl stays low, mostly to avoid towering over you but also so he can give you a hand if you need.

If this were any other day, any other situation, he’d have unabashedly grabbed your hand to pull you to your feet but he’s afraid of crossing a new, unknown boundary and making everything worse. He knows your broken nose will heal quickly, a few weeks at most with Hershels knowledge, but this is a different sort of healing that he isn’t familiar with and he’s going to have to wait to hear you to know how to help.

He ignores the twinge that shoots through his chest when you ignore his outstretched hand.

Your body aches against every movement, like when you’d catch the flu as a child and stay in bed for days until you felt better, only to be left with fatigued, aching muscles from disuse. Wincing against the burn of everything, you see Daryl coyly offer his hand but you can’t take it - you already feel so humiliated. It feels like you’ve lost some of your dignity to have needed a rescue, to be sat in a corner so exposed, so you need to prove to yourself you’re capable of something, trying your best to subdue the want of Daryl’s hand in yours that dominates your mind.

Finding your balance on wobbly feet, you manoeuvre the leather over your shoulders as Daryl averts his gaze to the other side of the room. He listens until he’s heard the pop of the fasteners on his jacket before he turns his head back towards you, just as Rick announces ‘we’ve got company’, the urgency in his voice followed by a much louder pop, a deafening gunshot in retaliation to the ones suddenly don’t seem so far away.

Daryl’s crossbow is in his hands with remarkable speed and he’s telling you to ‘stay behind me, alright?’, and you glue yourself right behind him as he makes his way over towards Rick but all you can focus on is the jumble of deep voices that are approaching much too quickly. Rick reaches behind Daryl, handing you a loaded gun with a reassuring nod - it’s heavier than you remember, but it’s familiar in your grip. You silently pray you won’t need to aim or fire with the shakiness in control of your body.

Rick leads the way with Daryl closely behind, and you obey without question when the southern drawl directs you, telling you to stand in front of him when the gunfire seems to come from behind or when he urges you to watch out. There are multiple casualties but none of them are you or your two saviours, and you’re back at the car before you know it.

The drive back towards the prison is strange, the atmosphere thick with jumbled emotions and unspoken words. It’s entirely dark, now, only the black outline of the trees visible against the deep navy of the sky that’s void of any stars tonight - they’re hidden away, ashamed and remorseful of what they allowed to happen.

Rick’s desperate to apologise, to tell you how he wishes he’d never asked you to go on the run, or how he simply should have gone instead because this is a trauma he can’t take back - that you shouldn’t have had to go through, and that’s on him. He feels the responsibility and blame somewhere deep inside him, a failure as the leader of a group he’d sworn to protect. He grips the steering wheel harder.

You’re desperate to apologise for endangering the group, to scream because you’re so overwhelmed but you remain silent because you’re empty at the same time, there’s a medley of relief, anxiety and fear consuming your mind that it’s turned into a forcefully loud static, an unbearable cacophony painfully gnawing at the back of your eyes. You dig your nails into the palm of your hand for a shred of relief - it doesn’t work.

Daryl’s desperate to apologise, to whisper a quiet promise of revenge but he knows this isn’t the time, so he doesn’t. He feels entirely chagrined, furious that he didn’t get to you sooner, that he couldn’t prevent some prick from hurting you - no, thinking about you - anything without your permission. He tries his best to swallow his anger, to focus on the comfort of the fact you’re alive, that you’re right next to him because you asked him to be. It makes his jaw twitch but he does it.

There’s an empty space between you and Daryl and it hurts so much more than the throbbing in your nose or the ache in your hands, because that space has never existed until today - you’ve always sat shoulder to shoulder, crammed into the back of the car or lounging together in the RV laughing over some ridiculous story, but you’re not squeezed right against him or begging him to play UNO with you over the table in the RV - you’re both sat by the windows and the middle seat feels like the size of a football field and it’s devastating.

“Keep me company?” The shyness in your voice surprised him, like you’d expected him to say no, but Daryl would never deny you of anything let alone his company, so he grabbed a blanket from the trunk before joining you in the back, gently throwing the thick material over you.

It isn’t a long journey, but it’s an exhausting one and by the time you park up by the prison gates your adrenaline has completely worn off and you’re shuddering under the blanket, grasping the scratchy material for a shred of warmth and there’s a familiar uneasiness in your stomach that you do your best to temporarily swallow down. Daryl’s watching you from the corner of his eye, protective.

He jumps out first, opening your door for you while Rick marches ahead to ask Hershel to check up on you. You peel the blanket from your bloodied skin as you shuffle yourself out of the car onto wobbly legs as a result of pure exhaustion, you’re so drained from today’s events and you’re so pale - so Daryl acts on instincts, reaching behind you for the abandoned blanket on the back seat. You’re shaking as he brings himself in front of you, and you do your best to overlook the unreasonable fear that forms from his towering figure.

It’s Daryl - just Daryl. Your Daryl, the same man who specifically went into a Walmart on his last run to get you fluffy socks because you’d told him the Prison was chilly, followed by a story about how you didn’t spend a single night without fluffy socks before the fall because it was your thing. He’d stuffed his bag on the next run, he already knew the Walmart was wiped of medicine, camping gear and food, but the clothing section was almost entirely untouched and it was worth the detour because you were ‘chilly’.

The same Daryl that jokingly told you he’d build you a treehouse because ‘don’t you think it’s the best way to survive an apocalypse? Daryl, shut up, why are you laughing? They can’t climb but we can, it’s logical.’ and technically you weren’t wrong, and maybe one day he will.

He’s so ridiculously tender as he opens up the bundled blanket, gently placing the fabric over your shoulders to protect you from the breeze. It feels risky, but he’s rewarded with a small smile and a quiet ‘Thank you’ that sounds so meek but genuine and it almost floors him, and he pulls the blanket just a little more snug around your shoulders, motioning you inside to get you fixed up.

Maggie’s the first to see you, and she’s so relieved she basically runs to you, pulling you in for the tightest hug that squeezes the air from your lungs but you’re so happy to see her that you don’t mind. When she steps back she takes a moment, scanning you up and down and it dawns on her that nothing looks right - and within a moment she’s calling for Hershel, a kind hand on your lower back guiding you to the veterinarian’s cell.

Daryl doesn’t move until you glimpse at him over your shoulder, and he hates himself but he hesitates, do you want him to go with you? Would he be intruding if he joined, or do you need time to talk without him? His feet feel heavy because why is every decision suddenly so big, so critical?

Your hand reaches from under the cloak of the blanket, reaching for him with outstretched fingers. You’d only taken your eyes off Daryl for a moment in your approach to Hershel, and that moment was all it took for an unsettled feeling to rip its way through your chest and your vision to blur because you can’t be without him right now. You’re somewhere between a rock and a hard place - you want to be alone but suddenly he’s a lifeline, a lantern in the darkness of the abandoned prison that you’re being pulled towards like a moth to an open flame. Maggie’s hand on you feels comforting but you want more - and that’s exactly what Daryl is, he’s more.

Maggie watches the interaction with hopeful eyes as Daryl slowly paces over, knuckles white over the strap of his crossbow over his shoulder and his bottom lip tucked beneath his teeth, nervously wearing away the dry skin out of - habit or nerves?

There’s a part of him that doesn’t want to reach out and touch you, and he wonders if he should just follow to prove he understands your gesture because he’s been burning for your touch for so long and he doesn’t want this to be a gesture born from fear - anxiety of whatever trauma you’ve just endured, but if it’s what you want, he’ll give it to you tenfold. If it brings you even a modicum of comfort, he’d keep his fingers intertwined with yours until the second apocalypse rolled around. He’d like that, and he doesn’t realise that you’d like that, too.

Wiggling your fingers just slightly, you prompt him and when he slips his hand into yours, Maggie feels your exhale through the muscles of the small of your back as you head towards Hershel again. There’s a clamminess on both of your palms from a combination of stress and adrenaline, and it’s an awkward grip because your wrists and fingers ache and Daryl doesn’t want to hurt you, but it’s him and it’s you so that makes it perfect.

You’re both too tired, too weary to blush and tease each other like you normally would have, but it’s a different sort of intimacy that relaxes the muscles between your eyebrows and warms a tiny corner of your stomach against the continuous queasiness.

Your hands rests lazily against your thigh as Hershel assesses the damage, and you’re all too aware of the small audience that’s accumulated by the door of your cell. You can feel the tension, the way everyone’s barely holding back the questions on the tip of their tongue, what happened? Who? How? but nobody speaks, and neither do you. Daryl's thumb traces your knuckles with indistinguishable shapes, and it’s a welcomed distraction.

His hand doesn’t move from yours when Hershel points out how there’s some bruising forming under your eyes now, a clear sign of a break, he says. He tells you he could try to re-shape it, put the bone back into place - an offer you fervently decline. You’d seen far too many accident and emergency shows way back, and you simply couldn’t bring yourself to willingly let somebody crunch your nose, so you’re content with keeping the small bump.

Daryl watches you the entire time, monitoring your reactions and gauging your body language, squeezing your hand just a little tighter when you flinch against Hershel’s touches. He tries to ignore the waves of protectiveness that wash over him with every wince, but he hisses out a ‘careful with her’ when you visibly recoil against the prodding on the side of your nose - a comment that doesn’t bother Hershel because your eyes flick over from your lap to Daryl’s and he’d have to be senile to miss the way your lips twitch into the smallest smile at the comment. Maybe you find it funny, maybe you’re grateful to have somebody watching over you - either way, he’ll let this one slide.

“Whoever did this, they didn’t hold back, did they? But you’re tough. Looks like the jaw is just some superficial bruising, but it might be sore for a while.”

No, he didn’t hold back. Not at all - you can still feel the pull of your hair and the impact of his palm against your jaw when you didn’t follow his directions quickly enough.

He asks if there’s anywhere else, any other injuries. Despite the fact you’re fully aware of the pattern of cuts between your chest and abdomen, you say nothing because the sting isn’t bothering you enough - it’s the least of your worries. When the only response he receives is a blank stare, Hershel speaks to both Daryl and Maggie, asking ‘If one of you could help her clean up, I’m sure she’d appreciate it.’ and gesturing to some clean towels.

Focus seems to be a thing of the past as you simply sit and exist. Maggie comes into your line of vision but it doesn’t matter because you can’t feel anything. Daryl’s hand on yours, the mattress, the cold.. It’s all there but you’re unaffected, in an unfeeling bubble. Maybe you’re safe there, maybe you’re not. There’s no way of knowing anymore.

Going through the motions, you follow Maggie to the showers instead, because there’s vomit caked in your hair and you’d rather die than have someone else ‘clean’ you with a towel again, so you opt for the constant stream of water instead.

‘Stay?’ was all you’d managed to rasp out from your bruised throat, and Daryl followed immediately with a nod, sitting outside the shower door with Maggie as they waited.

Maggie sits with clean clothes - baggy, dark colours. No bra. Daryl dug out a clean pair of the socks you loved as if they would be a magic touch, like they would heal you immediately. Maybe he hoped they would.

“The water might open up those cuts on her chest, dependin’ on how deep they are. Might need you to help me convince her to get stitches.”

The fact that you even have cuts, even a single cut makes his blood boil. He doesn’t fully understand what Maggie’s asking though - there’s nothing he could do differently to her, or Hershel. Maggie would disagree, though. Everybody in the prison would disagree.

“She’s struggling, Daryl. I think she’s gonna be leanin’ on you after this. She’s strong, and we all know it - stronger than most of us. But this is a different kind of pain.”

She’s leaning in just a little closer to Daryl to emphasize her point. Maggie’s always hoped you two would find a deeper connection with each other, been waiting for it to happen. It was inevitable. She’s heartbroken with the circumstances and she doesn’t pray as much as she used to, but there’ll be quiet prayers uttered from her bunk tonight - prayers for healing and connection and love, despite the anger in her heart at God.

“What’re ya telling me for?”

You are strong and he knows it, he’s witnessed it daily ever since you met.

“She looks at you different, Daryl. She’s already wanting you around a whole lot more than she wants anyone else around, she must feel safe with you.”

Chewing at his lip, he wants that to be true. He wants to be safe for you, he always has, because you’re safe for him, and it’s not a feeling he was familiar with before meeting you - there was a pull that couldn’t be ignored, a pull that was even stronger now.

“How is she?”

Rick joins then, sitting opposite your two guards.

“She’s been better. Broken nose, but she doesn’t want Daddy to fix it. Bruised jaw.. Saw some bruises on her back. Her wrists are pretty raw, too. Might need stitches on a few of the cuts on her chest, but we’ll only be able to tell when she’s cleaned up.”

Rick only nods, grateful you’re able to stand up long enough to take a shower.

“More worried about her head. Mentally, I mean. I don’t know exactly what she went through, but I think we’ve all got a good idea based on what y’all saw. She’s gonna need time.”

She tells the men about ‘traumatic shock, and how it’s similar to PTSD but different. She was so zoned out Rick, she was just starin’ at the wall. Helped her out of her clothes ‘cause she just couldn’t, and I wouldn’t expect her to be alright after today either. There was a literal handprint on the back of her neck..”

Rick can only bring himself to nod, but the information makes his heart hurt. He makes eye contact with Daryl, where there seems to immediately be an understanding between the two men - The Governor, and anybody involved will pay a heavy price, tenfold what you’ve been forced to feel.

When the shower shuts off, Maggie heads back inside with the clean clothes, guiding you to your cell to inspect your now clean injuries.

////

The night drags and counting sheep does nothing to help. It’s been hours and the pattern of the springs of the bunk above are ingrained in your mind in an attempt to keep your thoughts on anything but him. You bounce between thoughts, memories, people and events but nothing’s powerful enough to keep the feeling of his hands or the whispering against his ear away. It’s exhausting but overstimulating.

The metal frame of the squeaky bed is too hostile and the rusty shade grey is far too similar to the cold Woodbury walls and it’s making you want to crawl out of your own skin, and the silence within the cell block is so awful you’d swear it’s giving you double vision. It’s all so cold and the stupid

mattress is suddenly the most uncomfortable thing in the entire world - frustration rips through you, quickly turning into anger as you twist yourself into a sitting position and the thin blanket tangles around your calf, it feels like a hand grabbing at you and oh my god, anger turns into panic and it consumes you like you’re on fire, a lit match to sensitive skin and everything inside you is gasoline.

You burn and writhe, sweating as you wrestle against yourself until you hit the concrete floor with a dull thud, your spine taking most of the impact, and the pressure around your calf only increases in your struggle but it doesn’t matter because you’re being grabbed, but it isn’t just your leg - there’s more now, large hands around your arms and you’re gasping for air but there isn’t any.

“Hey, hey! Eyes on me again, c’mon, look at me.”

Everything’s so foggy, there’s a voice somewhere in the darkness but it feels so distant, maybe the words aren’t even directed towards you. It’s familiar but barely, you want to give the voice your complete attention but you just can’t because your heart feels like it’s in your throat and you need the grip on your leg to go away, it feels like the man who forced you to your knees - a tight, malicious hold that wants to hurt you again, but even your kicking and thrashing doesn’t shake it off.

The hands around your arm are so mild in comparison, they aren’t dominating or restraining, they’re just there - a light hold around the tops of your arms, warm. The voice is there again, shushing you and you didn’t even realize you were screaming until you have to quieten your cries to hear it for yourself.

“Shh, you’re okay. It’s just me, just me an’ nobody else.”

The voice is a tether keeping you where you need to be. You’ve never heard a southern accent so soft yet so authoritative - it’s telling you again, eyes on me, and it takes all your strength to try.

Your dreary cell slowly comes into focus, blurry outlines of your bunk and the door forming hazy lines in your vision. It’s Daryl - you know that now. He’s the only person in the world to ever be so patient with you, always the first by your side. It’s like he can read your mind, he’s so tuned into you it’s ridiculous, like you’re both on the same wavelength, harmonious even on a bad day.

He watches your eyes slowly come into focus and he makes a point to breathe slowly, albeit somewhat dramatically, in the hopes you follow his lead - and you do. His hands slide down from your biceps to your forearms where they rest just above your wounded wrists, hovering slightly. He held your hand earlier because you wanted him to so he prays this is okay, that his calloused fingers don’t feel uncomfortable against your skin or that he isn’t crossing a line. He wants- no, needs you to feel him, to understand that his touch is, and always will be harmless. When he sees no fear in your eyes and feels you steady beneath him, he lets his hands fully rest around the curve of your forearm.

“It’s just you an’ me in here, ya understand?”

You respond with a nod between shaky breaths, but his raised eyebrows tell you it’s inadequate. He waits because he needs to hear you say it, needs to know that you can distinguish between the cloud of anxiety fogging your mind and reality.

Patient. He’s so patient as he sits cross-legged on the floor of your barely lit cell, giving you all the time in the world to come back to him. He feels your pulse calm beneath his grip, a slowing beat under cold but clammy skin, hears your breathing even out until it matches his. You’re looking at him in such a daze and you look so exhausted - dark circles and the bruising at your jaw a daunting contrast against your skin, he wants to brush it all away with his thumb until there’s nothing left except unblemished skin - to be the reason you don’t hurt anymore.

“Tell me ya understand. Need to hear it.”

His words are demands but he says them so softly, and the way he’s looking at you makes you feel so good, like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. The blue of his eyes is so him, so clear as he watches you behind unkempt waves and he acts as an achor, and all you can do is be still.

“I understand.”

The words sound so tired as they pry their way up the dryness of your throat, clawing their way up despite the tightness of your muscles. Daryl can see how much effort it takes to speak, and he nods in silent praise.

“Who’s here?”

He watches as you take a cautious look, a sweeping stare around the cell behind him. He gives your arms the tiniest squeeze in motivation. After inspecting every outline and every wall, you answer.

“Me and you. Nobody else, just us.”

You echo his words because he’s right. There’s nobody else here, despite Daryl’s presence being so overwhelming in the best way possible it is just the two of you, hidden away in the darkest corner.

“That’s right, ya wanna tell me what happened?”

“It was- fuck, it was around my leg and it just, it felt like-like him and I just, fuck.”

You slide your hands out of Daryl’s grip, bringing your hands to your hairline out of pure annoyance, clutching a fistful of hair as he shifts his gaze towards your outstretched legs where he understands immediately, nimble fingers unraveling the sheet around the bottom of your calf, letting it fall to the floor. Like it was so simple.

This is so fucking annoying, is this the life you’re sentenced to now? Crying over a sheet?

Weakness, is that what this is?

Conflicting emotions muddle together in a hazy barrier, separating fact from fiction.

Daryl’s looking at you so softly, eyebrows raised ever so slightly from his usual scowl and it changes his face entirely, and you wonder what you’ve done to deserve having his eyes on you so attentively, so caringly. He should be asleep, it’s the middle of the night, and he’s always the first one up every morning but you can’t bring yourself to send him away - not yet, anyway.

Guilt joins your already mixed emotions, because Daryl’s such a powerhouse, yet you’re here keeping the man who does so much awake for no good reason. Clutching tighter, you tug at the strands of hair still in your grasp until your scalp burns in a desperate attempt to distract yourself from the cesspit of the direction of your thoughts.

“I’m okay.”

Too quick. Too unbelievable. Try again.

Loosening your grip, your hands fall into your lap in a fidgety attempt to look sane. People who are genuinely okay don’t pull at their hair, and it’s difficult but you manage.

Inhale. Exhale.

“I’m fine, really. It just- it was too similiar to, y’know.”

“Nah, I don’t know. Ya wanna talk to me about it?”

He truly doesn’t know. He assumes, but a million different things could have happened while you were captive, and he doesn’t want to assume wrong. There’s no guessing game when it comes to trauma.

“Not tonight.”

He wants you to talk about what happened - he’s always been somebody to bottle everything up inside and suffer because of it. He’s hauled memories and scars for as long as he can remember and he’ll be damned if he lets you do the same. It’s too damaging, too corrosive to carry alone and he knows that better than anyone. ‘Not tonight’ is good enough for him because it’s not a ‘never’, it’s simply ‘later’, and if that’s what you want then he’ll take it - he’d take anything you gave him.

Forcing the corners of your lips into a smile, you want to show Daryl you’re okay enough to survive the night. Daryl sees right through it - it’s the most insincere smile he’s ever seen in his life, especially when your eyes tell a completely different story.

“Okay. Not tonight.”

Sitting back, he gives you some space to acclimatize, to breathe.

He asks if you want him to stay the night on top bunk, which you decline. You convince yourself you’d be awful company because at times you don’t even feel like you exist. Other times you just want to cry and pace around your cell, and you don’t want to disturb him more than you already have.

‘I’ll be just in that guard room out here, ya know the one. Just yell if ya need me, okay?’ He tells you, emphasizing with a ‘M’ serious, ya come get me if somethin’ don’t feel right.’ as he stands in the doorway, hesitant to leave you alone.

After convincing (lying to him) that you’ll be okay, you spend most of the night cleaning your weapons and pacing the confined space of the cell that’s completely miserable. Too dark, too lonely.

Daryl finds you before dawn. He’d watched you during the night as you dragged your thin mattress from the creaky bed, out into the walkway outside your door. He was moments away from coming over, to ask what you were doing before he saw you simply lay down with your back against the wall. You had to have a different view, a different environment before you lost you mind. Hauling the mattress was easy even if you did have a headache afterwards, but the open space just felt so much better - windows, even with the discoloured bars, they were a blessing with the dark treetops in the distance. It was just a little bit easier out here, so there you sat until dawn.

In the morning, Daryl heads out, but not before checking in on you. He checks your nose and your jaw with delicate prompting, telling you to get some sleep ‘for me, please?’ even though you both know you won’t.

While Daryl’s gone, you find yourself trying so hard to exist and it’s difficult. Everybody’s trying so hard to distract you, to interact with you and give you something else to think about - and you’re grateful, but it’s so obvious. Beth talks to you the most and it’s nice, there’s no pity or questions, she just talks like she always does and although your answers are lacklustre she doesn’t complain.

“Ya alright?”

His voice takes you by surprise. There’s packs of candy in his arms, and a small, pink, fleece blanket that he places on the table, which Beth grabs. She excuses herself, telling you she’s going to give the newborn that’s currently asleep in Carol’s arms the new blanket.

“Yeah, just a bit tired but I’m okay.”

You look tired. Truly tired, it physically hurts him to see the dark shadows creeping into your face, but he knows the bruising isn’t helping your overtired features. He tries to convince himself it’s the lighting or a bad angle - the shades of purple almost look black beneath and around your inner eye, and your jaw isn’t much better.

“Hm, did ya eat?”

“There’s stew over there, did you eat??”

So, no, you didn’t eat.

It’s not quite a feeling of nausea or needing to vomit, yet it’s something more than just a ‘lack of appetite’. You don’t have a logical explanation, and you don’t try to come up with one, either.

“I’ll get some later.”

Any other day, you’d both be first in line for any meals going, relishing in the game you’d managed to catch earlier in the day. There was always a satisfaction verging on pride when you’d bring anything back, which was almost every time you and Daryl went out together. The teamwork you both shared was striking, celebrated amongst the group.

“Promise?”

Pointing his nose into the air is all the confirmation you seem to be getting, but you take it.

“What is it, are you okay?”

He’s alternating between chewing on his bottom lip, and his thumb.

“Got somethin’ to show ya.”

There’s no eye contact with his words, in fact there’s the opposite - is he.. Nervous?

Twiddling with his crossbow and biting his lip, the ground must suddenly be very interesting because it’s all he’s looking at now.

“Really? What is it?”

“Wanna see ya eat somethin’ first.”

“I already.. Fine.”

You change your course when you see the raised eyebrow. Knowing fully well he knows you’re lying, you make your way over to grab a bowl of the still hot stew, sulking as you swallow it down.

He’s quiet as he leads you outside, pebbles crunching beneath you as you make your way through the humidity towards a lone guard tower. His nerves make you nervous as you walk up the stairs behind him, but you’re so curious.

“It aint a tree house, but I know ya ain’t been sleepin’, so, uh..”

The door is held open for you at the top of the stairs, expecting to see yet another drab, cold guard tower.

“Daryl.. Oh my God.”

Oh my God.

It’s a guard tower - but it’s not drab, and it certainly isn’t cold. It’s colourful and homely and a chill runs up your spine from the thought that went into this - into the transformation he’s created because it’s wonderful. You were in this one just a few weeks ago. Rick wanted somebody to join him to finish clearing the area and the guard tower itself, and he’d asked you ‘Saw one of them in full protective gear, and I want your good aim for the job’ so you did without hesitation. There were some guns, some ammo, you’d told the group. Forgetting to tell them you’d peeled the gun from a grey corpse, the barrel aiming towards his own jaw was simply an accident.

There was no trace of that incident, now. Anything worth taking was with the group in the main prison, and the walls were.. Fluffy. Cracked windows were now draped with thick blankets acting as curtains, the floor almost entirely covered with similar fabrics and pillows in every colour. It was an absolute eyesore and you loved it.

“You did this?”

Disbelief has your mouth agape. Appreciation has you walking around, fingers tracing everything you can touch. Even the scruffier blankets feel nice, but those are over the windows, cloaking you from the afternoon sun. Tip-toeing around, you lean down to admire the absolute pile of softness at your feet. There’s so many. Light blue and knitted. Multicolour patchwork that’s just a little bit itchy to touch. Pale yellow, crocheted with thick, silky yarn.

Daryl nods with a grunt, using the excuse of chewing the nail on his thumb.

“This is.. Amazing. So amazing. The cell just, doesn’t work for me right now. I miss sleeping so badly, my eyeballs hurt. This is really for me?”

This feels magical - nobody’s ever gone to so much effort for you. There are tall candles standing atop the control panel with a box of matches right beside them, ready for nightfall.

“Course, can’t have ya in that cell right now. I ain’t like it, either. Found a Hobby Lobby while I had the car today. Didn’t know what half the shit was in there.”

You make a mental promise to pay him back tenfold. He broke into a Hobby Lobby for the sake of a few hours sleep, all for you. You knew he was soft for you, but this? Images of him lugging armfulls of fabric into the back of the beaten up little car flood your mind and you can’t help but smile at him.

When you’re done admiring, you head back into the prison to keep busy. Carol and Beth are experimenting with some of the prison supplies for dinner, so you try to be productive until Hershel pulls you to the side, to check in. He asks how you’re feeling, how you’re holding down food, sleeping, pain on a scale of one to 10.. Hershel knows you’re lying with most of your answers - you’re stubborn, not wanting to draw any more attention to yourself and your situation, so he lets you go after reminding you he’s always available to talk to.

Daryl subtly observes how you play with your food, but still thankful you’ve managed some. Pushing re-hydrated mashed potato around your plate with heavy eyes and an orange glow from the fire, he’s trying to not stare but his efforts are in vain because he can’t help but shift his gaze to you, wanting to make sure T-Dog isn’t sitting too close, or that your wrists aren’t hurting too much even though he watches how you occasionally rub the tender skin.

While dinner gets cleared up, you make your way over to the archer who’s adjusting the string of his crossbow with a furrowed eyebrow.

“Busy?”

He finishes twiddling with a gruff ‘Nah’, standing to join you, crossbow in hand.

Good. You’ve wanted to slip away since the group gathered together. There’s so much love for every single individual sat around the log cabin fire Daryl built, but there were moments you were filled with exhaustion, craving peace and chunky knitted blankets instead. You adored when Beth sang, when Rick’s beautiful daughter cooed and the excitement that came with having an actual meal with friendships that were essentially family ties.

But not tonight.

Linking your fingers with his, Daryl doesn’t even consider protesting as you gently pull him behind you towards your little safe haven. As you walk, you miss the sympathetic smile from Maggie, and the one full of hope from Beth.

Once inside, Daryl tells you he can sit outside and guard, but you’re quick to remind him he can do that from the inside, too. There’s anxiety in your thoughts, nerves from wondering if those men will find you again. Find your camp, your people, Daryl. It occupies a dark, weary corner of your mind that you’re desperate to not think about for one night, you’re simply craving peace and rest. Daryl sits facing the door, quietly continuing his mission with his crossbow.

“You should lie down, too. Only one of us needs dark circles this bad, and I’m already claiming it.”

He scoffs, but oh how he loves hearing you tease. The playful edge in your voice sounds spent and dreary, but it’s still there and it sparks an entire new wave of thankfulness and admiration through his soul - feels it so deeply as he watches you gather a handful of fabric, clutching it by your chest like a child would a comforter.

He tells you he will, that he just needs to finish fixing this one part first. It’s a blatant lie - what he means is, he’s waiting to make sure you actually get some sleep. Actual rest. Not only do you deserve it, but you need it at this point. Your voice is barely above a whisper when you tell him ‘don’t take too long, okay?’ The room is so dark but you’re still so bright for him. He’s still not over the fact that somebody could willingly hurt you, someone so honest, so selfless - he can control his anger right now, mostly grateful you’re here in his company.

It takes a little while until you seem settled, when you toss and turn just a little bit less, only then does he close his eyes for just a moment, back still against the wall ready to defend against anyone who dares try to disturb you tonight.

Everything’s so bright tonight - the stars and the moon look like they’re trying to lure you in, desperate for attention against the pitch black of the night sky, and the air is muggy but it’s a welcomed distraction. Another failed attempt at sleeping finds you bundled out on the balcony with heavy eyelids and a million thoughts, but absolutely nothing you can focus on, nothing’s distinct enough or sharp enough to latch on to, so it’s easier to not try - looking at the sky is easy, and you don’t have to try, so it works.

You tried for hours. Sleep simply did not want to be your friend again tonight, and it was so frustrating. Every way you tried to lie was uncomfortable for no apparent reason, and when you felt a headache forming in your temple, you almost screamed into your pillow before remembering you had company. Daryl was slumped, a thick yellow blanket draped over his shoulders against the metallic chill against his back, despite the blistering heat that had the entire group in a chokehold every moment of the day.

“Can’t sleep?”

You’ve been so engrossed in the sight before you - the stars, the moon and just how captivating they are, that you don’t notice the footsteps of heavy boots against metal flooring behind you and you almost give yourself whiplash with the speed you turn to face the source. Daryl’s stood just a few metres away, back leaning against the frame of the open doorway with tousled hair, concern hidden behind a sympathetic expression and a question he couldn’t stifle.

“No chance, apparently. I could ask you the same question, though.”

Rubbing your eyes as you speak, you turn yourself back to the direction of the thick canopy of trees. You can feel the puffiness beneath your eyes, and the fragility of the delicate skin - a prominent display of just how exhausted you are, and you sharply inhale at the throbbing sensation that pulses beneath your fingers from the bruising.

Was it his fault that you couldn’t sleep? Was he too close to your personal space, too invading? He hesitates by the door, already fumbling over words that haven’t even formed yet, chewing down on his bottom lip as his gaze lingers on your dark silhouette.

“D’ya want me to go? If it helps ya sleep better, I can-”

As much as he wants to stay, if you need to be alone he’ll go - he’d find an excuse to be somewhat close, maybe he’d patrol the fences or collect some firewood, but not behind thick walls because he wouldn’t be able to see or hear you from inside and you might not know it yet but you’re his responsibility now. You’re fully capable and he knows it - so powerful and stubborn, passionate and perfect and Daryl's never had a single doubt in his mind about your ability to fight or overcome, and he isn’t about to start now because it’s you, and although you don’t need anybody to protect you, he still wants to. Right now you just need some time to heal and he’s consumed by the desire to help - to absolve you of the pain you’re going through because you deserve better. He would take your experiences and endure it tenfold if it gave you peace, he would kiss away the bruising around your eyes with the gentlest, most angelic brush of his lips if you let him because he only exists to make you feel better.

The words die in his throat the moment you turn back towards him, because there’s a trace of a smile on your lips as you tell him ‘No, I don’t want you anywhere but here.. only if that’s okay with you, though.’ and Daryl can hear the way you second guess yourself, the way the second half of your sentence drips with insecurity - don’t you know he longs to be by your side, aches to be yours, to get you through the turmoil you’re currently trying to dissect?

You watch as he makes his way closer until he’s next to you, crouching down until his eyes are level to yours and he shuffles himself until he’s sitting next to you, legs swinging over the edge of the balcony. There’s a warm breeze and you feel yourself relaxing into the warm gust of air, letting your head lull backwards and your eyes close for just a moment - the night sky and warmth used to be enough to pull you into a nights sleep, so why isn’t it anymore?

Your mind flashes with memories - you can feel them, hear the way your friends would laugh into plastic cups and the crackling embers of a fire, a blanket around your shoulders and the way your body would relax so deeply into the shape of your hammock that you could have slept for days. The breeze feels the same and despite your closed eyelids, you know you’re still sitting beneath the same flickering stars. You’re so deep in the memory and the calmness that corresponds to it that you might as well be back there - then it hits you that you’re not. There’s no overflowing party cups and no gossiping around the campfire, you lost your hammock long before the world fell and there’s an absence of burning ashes lingering in the air, and although you could swear you heard the repetition of jokes and laughter so distinctly that it must have been real - it isn’t.

But there’s a slight smell of smoke, and you know it’s real and you’re not losing your mind and it smells so much like your favourite evenings that you take a deep inhale, then another before slowly opening your eyes, letting the memory fade out as you focus on the stars for just a moment.

Your friends aren’t here anymore, but Daryl is.

Daryl watches you, wondering exactly where you went. He’s so content just observing you, admiring the rise and fall of your shoulders and the strands of hair that move ever so slightly in the Georgian breeze that he just can’t take his eyes away from your profile, doting on how you look beneath the silver of the night sky. He’s never seen anything so beautiful in his life, and when you open your eyes and turn towards him, it only solidifies what he already knew because the moonlight is reflecting in your eyes just right, and out of everything you could be looking at, you’re choosing to look at him, and when a light gust of air sweeps a cluster of hair into your face, he moves on instinct.

He’s slow as he raises his hand, and he expects your eyes to switch to his moving fingers, but your gaze remains on his as he inches closer.

You catch yourself, resisting the natural urge to simply push the rogue strands away, instead you find yourself yearning for the simple gesture - and when his rough fingertips brush over your cheek, you find yourself leaning into the friction, the way his calloused skin feels so effortless as he glides the hair from your face, tucking it gently behind your ear. There’s a pang of something that shoots into your chest so suddenly, but as daryl’s fingers delicately trail the shape of your ear, you realize what that feeling in your chest is - it’s not fear or dread, it’s affection, and it’s blooming so intensely it’s threatening to spill over through your eyes because you’re not scared, you’re something that you can’t quite give a name to, but it feels good.

Slowly, Daryl reminds himself. Every movement is steady and gentle, two fingertips trailing one after the other in tiny little shapes and squiggly lines just below your lobe, and he swells with pride as you quietly sigh, comfortable enough to close your eyes against his touch, so he continues - mapping the contours of your face from your hairline to the slight dip beneath your cheekbone, gently tracing the discoloration along your jawline. The touch is so soft, so barely there that it almost tickles and it’s incredible. You spend minutes just letting yourself be touched, focusing solely on being in control of your emotions and how this is special, how Daryl is special and how this is completely okay and he’s not hurting you and he never would.

The archer changes his movements then, using his hand to cup your jawline, hovering lightly over the bruising, and when you open your eyes and focus on him again, he repeats the motion on the other side until he’s holding your face gently between both of his large hands, angling himself in front of you.

“Let’s get ya back inside, alright?”

You’re so pliant and warm and soft for him, completely oblivious as you relax into his hands. He’s supporting your weight with his palms as he traces his thumbs across your cheeks, every fraction of a movement is brand new territory, and he’s concentrating hard to not scare you - he’s not going to move until you do, because he might be the one touching you, but you’re in control, he’s not going to make any decisions on your behalf, no matter how small. As far as Daryl’s concerned, this is your world - he just lives in it.

You want to stay just like this, because he’s tracing over your darkened bruises with so much tenderness, and the damaged skin is so sensitive - the combination feels magical. Your gaze drops, suddenly you can feel the lethargy rest heavily on your eyelids because since when were they so heavy?

“Think you’re ready for a good night’s sleep, c’mon, let’s get you tucked in.”

When you finally nod, he’s careful as he takes one hand away first, giving you a moment to adjust to the lack of support, with just one last brush of his thumb from below your eye to your cheek before he pulls away, bringing himself to his feet beside you. Your hands slip into his outstretched ones, supporting you as you steady yourself against the dull thud of the metal beneath you, and he leads you back into the mess of tangled sheets.

There’s a moment of ‘when do we let go?’ when you’re inside, neither of you entirely sure because you simply don’t want to. Thick pillows call your name, and you’re the first to lower yourself against a velvety throw blanket, and in succession, as if he’d been doing it his whole life, Daryl follows the gentle pull of your locked hands, but he’s oh so careful to subtly leave space between your thigh and his - he hasn’t been invited to touch anything but your hand, so he doesn’t.

The softness beneath you is so potent you can feel it through your clothing, and although it feels like the most inviting thing ever, your attention quickly shifts from the gentle back and forth of his thumb over the back of your hand to the gap he’s purposely left between you, and you’re heartbroken.

Insecurity surges through every neuron in your body with so much ferocity that you feel absolutely annihilated, paralysed - your entire chest constricts, tightening at the sudden awareness of how feeble you feel, how damaged. Pulling your hand from his, your thoughts race with such force - why is there so much space between you? What did you do wrong?

You swallow hard at the lump in your throat, and Daryl watches the smile fade from your lips, and your knees pull up to your chest. He waits only a moment before perching himself by your feet, eyes on your downcast ones.

“Hey, what’s goin’ on?”

How can he sound so concerned, so doting when you’re so.. Broken?

He’s calling your name so softly, voice just above a whisper but you squeeze your eyes shut in an attempt to block him out. Even just his voice feels like an assault on your senses, and the small percentage of you that wants to listen is overpowered by the crushing weight in your chest, the doubt in your mind.

He waits a moment - caution at the front of his mind. He doesn’t understand exactly what just happened, but he’s going to fix it because he can see the way your hands tremble ever so slightly as they cover your eyes, hear the way your breath catches in your throat and he hates it. For every fear-induced vibration of your fingers, he vows to cause an hour of pain - no, a day, for the man who did this. He’ll slice off a finger for every cry he causes. He starts a tally in his mind.

“You’re gonna get through this, ya know that, right?”

He receives a shaky exhale in response, so he carries on.

“You’re gonna get through this ‘cause it’s what ya do best. You survive.”

Patient is all he can be right now, and he does it well. Lets you calm down, to process whatever it is you’re feeling right now without intruding, and when you finally speak, he can’t disguise the flash of anger that forms in the pit of his stomach.

“He- The Governor, when I wouldn’t tell him where my camp was, he..”

Inhale. Exhale. Again.

You can’t bring yourself to look at the man in front of you when you raise your head, quickly dragging your sleeve across your damp cheeks. Shame builds in your throat - if you don’t tell him what happened right now, this very second, you swear you never will but you need Daryl to know. If anybody’s going to know, it’s him.

“That’s when he cut my shirt off, that’s how I got the cuts on my chest. He left.. When he came back he kept asking. I would never, ever tell anyone about the prison, please trust me. I never told him.”

Daryl knows, and he tells you this as you pat the skin under your eyes a little too harshly.

“He.. He forced me to my knees, Daryl. I had to-”

You don’t bother wiping the tears away anymore as they ferociously spill over. Chills and shivers make their way down your spine as you recall the event and you can only imagine the pity - or worse, disgust that must be all over Daryl’s face right now. But he doesn’t move, doesn’t shy away from your confession, instead he dips his head lower to get your attention. When your red eyes reluctantly meet his, you’re surprised by his features - the lack of repulsion or horror, you’re astonished because he seems to have shuffled just a little bit closer, not further away, and he nods - there’s more, and he knows.

“I didn’t think I- I thought he was going to.. Until you came. I knew you’d come, but I was so scared. I was terrified. I fought back, that’s how I got the bruise on my jaw. After that he just held a knife to my throat.. Told me to be extra careful.”

Almost on instinct, your hand delicately touches the front of your neck, where you’d felt the sharp blade dig into your skin just enough to keep you docile.

“And you’ve been.. Here, right next to me ever since, and I know it’s stupid but when you sat down, you felt so far away and I thought I’d done something wrong, or that I’m.. ”

Daryl watched and listened as you spoke, heard the panic creep into your speeding up voice, saw you wince from the torment that was so clearly playing in your mind. Every word you’d just spoken had bile rising in his throat, an acidic taste to be quickly swallowed down because this is your ‘not tonight’, this is when he sits and listens. This is your experience to talk about, your trauma to unpack. He already had a vague idea of what happened - an assumption of your ordeal - and actually hearing it were two very different things. He can’t even fathom that you’d think he was even capable of thinking about you badly, that you’re..

“Broken, disgusting.. Patheti-”

“Hey, that’s enough. C’mere.”

He reaches out to you with open arms, and you sob an absolutely gut wrenching sob because Daryl’s always felt like home, and despite the voice in your head telling you how unworthy you are of his support, he’d never deny you. Shuffling into him, he cocoons you with his arms without a moment of hesitation, pulling you against him just a little more because it’s what he’s always done - he’s nervous, ready to release his hold at the first sign of unease. Instead he feels you press yourself further against him, tucking your head beneath his chin.

“Ya aint none of those things. An’ I’ll tell ya that every day if I need to, alright? Ya ain’t never, and never gonna be broken or pathetic. Sure yer gonna feel that way sometimes, don’t mean it’s true, and ya ain’t disgusting for what someone else did to ya, that aint how it works.”

Soft spoken words tickle the crown of your head as you take in the little patches of heat where his body overlaps your own, and there’s a warmth blooming in your chest like a bouquet. These words are so special, even more so because they’re coming from him, in a little hideaway he built to keep you safe.

Hearing your thoughts out loud forced him to voice his own that had accumulated over the last few days. Daryl’s no stranger to trauma, he’s masked his own distress and memories with a need to be protective - support the group, hunt, track, find shelter. There’s almost a responsibility that’s bubbled to the surface to prevent the people around him feeling even just a snippet of what he’s felt over the years, and he does it willingly, out of a love that he himself doesn’t even understand - and it’s a feeling that’s always been more prominent with you. He couldn’t let another moment go by with you thinking that way about yourself - ‘you didn’t do this, the Governor did, an’ your worth don’t change ‘cause of a prick of a man’s actions.’ Daryl’s careful as he tells you this, hoping and praying he’s choosing his words correctly. He mumbles into your hair that he’s ‘sorry about not sittin’ right next to ya, I just thought maybe to just.. I dunno, we were already’ holdin’ hands and I didn’t wanna cross no line. ‘M sorry.’ and although the tears don’t stop, the excruciating weight on your chest lifts just slightly, faintly circling his palm against your back to calm you.

“Aint nothing you could’ve ever done to deserve any of this. Nobody here thinks any different of ya, and I’m gonna be right here until you’re okay again, we all will.”

You’ve been by his side since you stumbled across their camp by the quarry. You had your sister back then, like he had Merle. Suddenly neither of you had your siblings, your best friends to survive the world with, but somewhere down the line you found solace in each other. You clung to cigarette smoke as he did your unfamiliar softness and the group could only admire from a distance - an admiration that only grew stronger, as did your affinity towards each other.

There’s a pause to his words, and before you can wonder why, he places the most delicate kiss against your hair. His stubble itches your scalp, and your heart flutters at the tender press of his lips - another source of warmth that has you raising your head and bringing your eyes to meet his.

“Fuck, ‘m sorry. I didn-”

You idiot. You didn’t ask, she’s going to hate you and rightfully so. His mind floods with regret immediately, waves upon waves of quick scenarios running through his mind - will you never talk to him again? Walk away from him, never to return? His arms relax around you just slightly, ready for the inevitable moment where you pry yourself out of his grasp.. But it doesn’t happen? The inevitable doesn’t happen, and when your gaze meets his, he’s surprised.

“It’s okay.”

Delicate. Fragile. Powerful. Understanding. Pretty. Soft. Gentle. Strong. Warm. Kind. Forgiving. Patient. Loving. Accepting.

Daryl sees every single good thing there is about the world in your face. You’re telling him that it’s okay, with your tear-streaked rosy cheeks and sad smile. Loss after loss after tragedy and you’re still here smiling at him, tucked between his arms like it’s where you belong, and he’s astonished when you re-adjust yourself until you’re sat across his thighs, but astonished would be an understatement when you willingly lean your forehead against his lips - innocently pining for the feeling of him against your skin.

Giving you exactly what you want, you’re so momentarily content with the control that you have with his lips against you, exactly where you wanted him - exactly where he wanted to be. It’s pure and beautiful and he doesn’t hurt you when he places a hand on your lower back to support you, nor does he when his other hand cradles the nape of your neck. Not forcing, not grabbing you or keeping you still - but there to hold you, like his only purpose is to be a pillar supporting a temple of worship. The man who hurt you - his hands were softer, free of calluses but malicious, whereas daryl’s are rough and dry from hard work, but every single movement towards you has always been filled with grace.

The same hands that pressed over yours the first time you used his crossbow, and guided you until you got your first successful shot on a walker. He’d been proud of that moment, teasing about how ‘you’re a natural’.

The same hands you’d babied from fights - scratches and burns, wear and tear from being in a fallen world. ‘M fine, stop wastin’ shit on me’ he’d tell you, and you’d always ignore him as you dotted lotions on broken skin and wrapped him in gauze.

Those same scarred hands weren’t to be afraid of, you’d refuse to be timid of Daryl. He was capable of so much and you’d seen it. Watched him take on dozens of the dead, unafraid to take on the living with dangerous weapons to protect his people - to protect you. He was there for others to be fearful of, not you.

But even if you were afraid, were cautious he would understand. He would hide his hurt feelings because they weren’t the priority here, he would back up and apologize and leave you alone with a single word and you know this. He knows trauma, acknowledges the healing that comes afterwards even if he never got it - he’ll sure as hell make sure that you do.

There’s a long pause before either of you move, you both simply sit and breathe and soak in the closeness and admiration that’s growing tenfold every moment. Your hands ended up resting on his hips for the most part, with the occasional play of the buttons on his vest as he continued to lightly knead into the knots of stress in your neck, his lips never wandering far from your forehead.

“Tired?”

He mumbles into your hair when you yawn, tears prickling your eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve slept in days. Yes, I’m tired”

Prominent dark circles are an obvious answer to his question, but he just wanted to hear the lighthearted teasing in your voice he’s been hoping for - not that you’d ever disappoint him. Daryl’s willing to stay up until dawn if sleep wasn’t going to take you, but he’s thankful at the opportunity that you might actually get some sleep tonight. You both agree to lay down, and you ruefully peel yourself away from him.

There’s an echo that rings when heavy, ill-fitting boots are pried from threadbare socks before Daryl’s shuffling, rustling blankets along the way until he’s crouched by your muddy shoes. Gesturing to your laces, he waits until there’s an unashamed smile and a giggle before un-doing the tangles, pulling them off your feet despite quiet protests of ‘Oh my God, they must smell so bad, I’m so sorry’ before joining you back against the pillows.

There must be a specific blanket and pillows store he stripped bare for your comfort, and you’re nothing but thankful when you come back into contact with chilled fleece and fluff. Pressure’s been lifted from your mind, alleviated just enough that breathing actually feels possible for the first time in days, and Daryl’s laying on his side, watching and cherishing the peace he can see between your bruises.

You join him, then. Rolling onto your side until you’re face to face, suddenly shy beneath his gaze. He asks how your nose feels - and when you tell him ‘it’s not awful, but I’m sure it looks awful, Daryl don't look at it, jeez!’ he can’t help the smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth. Awful is the least it feels - he remembers the day he broke his as a teenager. The man who did that to him didn’t apologise either, but he’s certain he was less bruised than you and it was tender for months.

Jokingly, you hit his shoulder and his grin kills you. There are strands of hair across his forehead and his eyes are creasing ever so slightly and you’re so flooded with the sincerity of him that you feel tears forming in your eyes again. There’s no desire to cry and you’re not upset, and you try to blink them away before he notices but he does.

You’re cocooned in a homely comfort as he grabs an extra blanket, bringing it over and tucking it below your chin, whispering a ‘thank you’.

“Look at me for a sec. I aint him. Gonna keep ya safe, want ya to know that.”

Nothing above a mumble in volume, but thunderously loud in promise. Safety and refuge abundantly thick in his words and immediately you’re curling in against his him, dragging the blanket with you until once again, you’re wedged beneath his chin, chest to chest because you want to feel his words, physically feel the shields that are his arms and hands. You don’t have to wait more than a second for reciprocation - he’s immediately understood, adjusting himself until he’s got an arm over yours and a hand cradling the back of your head. You tell him that you know.

It’s just perfect.

Innocent intimacy that just feels so right, so natural. He holds you so close, like it's a necessity, and honestly it might actually be.

Careful, gentle touches from rugged fingertips lulled you to sleep that night, and many, many nights after.

Hours turn into days, days into weeks, weeks into months.

Healing was difficult, especially when the war broke out. People - good people lost their lives. Friends were lost, blood spilled and the prison fell and things were hard.

Almost nothing was consistent - not the company, meals or housing. The sun would rise and things would change, the sun would set and things were dangerous. Daryl was consistent, though. The tips of his fingers against your skin were consistent, as were his lips against your forehead, your cheek, and one day, the very corner of your own lips.

He watched as you gained your confidence again, how you’d zone out just a little bit less every week. It wasn’t consistent. There were good days, and there were days you’d wake from paralyzing nightmares but he was there, ready to pull you against him - what’s goin’ through that head of yours, huh? He’d whisper with a gentle nudge of his fingers below your chin.

His presence was healing you, you would tell him - and he would always correct you. ‘Nah, this is all you. It’s you doin’ the hard work, not me.’ and you would always disagree, even if he was right.

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queer-ragnelle · 4 months

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is there any text or tumblr post that dives into the ways in which sir lancelot is insane? like a freak? i’ve read a couple extracts ab him giving the idea that he was effed up a bit and like a whole murderbot with raging feelings of hatred and love? i would like to know more ab the crazy things he does or says that make ppl go “this man is a freakazoid”. also i adore your blog thank you for making sumn this nice!

hi there!

i'm unsure if you mean excerpts from medieval sources in which lancelot is "mad" or academic articles dissecting those instances...but i have both for you lol now a disclaimer: i'm neither a medievalist nor a psychologist, so all i can offer you is the raw material and my opinion. while we shouldn't "diagnose" anyone of the past as we do now, lancelot isn't a real person, so i think that affords us a little more freedom to speculate about him, and more importantly, what it is he represented: a medieval anxiety surrounding trauma and the resulting mental toll. info and sources below a cut. huge content warning for self harm and suicidal ideation.

Academic Sources: Medieval Attitudes Towards Mental Illness by Edith A. Wright, Of Metal and Men by Julie Singer, The Enemy Inside by Brian Burfield

Medieval Sources: The Knight of The Cart by Chréiten de Troyes, The Vulgate Cycle edited by Norris J. Lacy

so for starters, let's establish what it is people are responding to when they discuss lancelot's mental instability. the character first appears in "the knight of the cart" by chrétien de troyes, and right from the getgo, lancelot exhibits a lot of mental distress, up to and including, a suicide attempt.

from his inception, lancelot was unwell. at another point, he appears to disassociate so completely, he forgets his own identity, and loses perception of his body.

now you may have noticed that the text always links lancelot's episodes to his fixation on guinevere. we'd be here forever if we incorporated the way medieval authors offset the blame of their protagonists' deteriorating mental states onto the fault of a woman (see also: yvain/owain's madness when laudine/countess divorced him, tristan's madness out of longing for isolde, etc.) whereas when a woman shows upset, it's never attributed to her lover, but a shortcoming within herself. so for the sake of staying on topic, we'll focus on lancelot's symptoms as they are, rather than trying to unravel the middle ages-sized knot of misogyny that is the fictitious root of these madness episodes. "medieval attitudes towards mental illness" by edith a. wright discusses this trend in depth.

i'm going to be focusing on "the vulgate cycle" as my main source of lancelot's madness as he has multiple distinct episodes in that text written in excruciating detail that we can discuss. generally speaking, lancelot is presented as an extremely anxious individual that's highly susceptible to outside influence (whether that be guinevere's, galehaut's, etc.) but that in and of itself is not necessarily indicative of mental illness so much as a rarely explored introverted quirk of his personality. as discussed in "of metal and men" by julie singer, it seems lancelot's at his most confident when operating as an anonymous knight and therefore not subject to the scrutiny of societal expectation.

this, however, can develop in extreme ways when lancelot is pushed past his limits, and he succumbs to a berserker-like state neither his friends nor family can shake him from. while imprisoned at saxon rock, lancelot has to be segregated from the other prisoners, despite galehaut begging to be housed with him, the jailers refuse as lancelot's psychosis is so intense that he'd kill his fellow hostages and thus neutralize the enemy army's advantage. lancelot's refusal to eat exacerbates his symptoms. [Lancelot Part II, Ch. 71. Lancelot’s Madness and Cure; Defeat of the Saxons and Irish; Lancelot, Galehaut, and Hector Become Companions of the Round Table]

this psychotic episode continues even after lancelot is freed. eventually guinevere is forced to lock him alone in a room to protect the others, as he continues to attack anyone who comes near, including his own younger cousin and squire lionel who had attempted to talk him down and was struck. lancelot only recovers after his adoptive mother, the lady of the lake, arrives and utilizes strikingly modern de-escalation techniques, such as referring to lancelot by his childhood name to ground him, administering some medicine to help him sleep, allowing him uninterrupted rest, and then bathing him. (this is tinged with medieval mysticism, of course, but you get the idea.) the lady of the lake then instructs guinevere on how to care for him thereafter. once lancelot awakens from his magic/healing-induced coma, his sanity is restored.

it feels important to note here that, once lancelot regains his senses, he feels ashamed of his behavior, and worries that his mental instability would cause guinevere to love him less. but she assures him that she loves him and is committed as long as they both live. even in medieval times, people recognized that a strong support system was of utmost importance for the mentally ill to thrive.

lancelot is, for the most part, stable for a time after this, contented to live at sorealis with galehaut (and guinevere for a bit as well). but growing restless, lancelot leaves galehaut's company to go adventuring. through some misunderstanding, galehaut believes lancelot had died, and thus dies of heartbreak himself. on discovery of his beloved's tomb, lancelot grieves so bitterly that he intends to kill himself on the spot. [Lancelot Part IV, Ch. 120. Lancelot Discovers Galehaut’s Casket and Defends It; Lancelot Rescues Meleagant’s Sister]

it's here that a messenger of the lady of the lake arrives. the lady had been informed by her oracle that this would happen, so acting quickly, she sent someone to intervene. the messenger takes the sword from lancelot and immediately gives him a task, one that would exhume galehaut and bring his body to where lancelot would eventually be buried beside him. in the short term, this prevented lancelot from harming himself, and in the long term, guided him toward shifting gears long enough that he eventually overcomes his grief through completion of his lady's instruction.

the next time lancelot is driven mad is after he is beguiled by elaine of corbenic into bed with her at camelot. (this is the second time, galahad had already been conceived). [Lancelot Part VI, Ch. 176 Lancelot and Arthur Go to Gaul; Claudas Abandons Gaunes; King Pelles’s Daughter Deceives Lancelot; Guenevere Expels Lancelot]

at this point, lancelot is beyond the reach of even his mother, the lady of the lake, so this psychotic episode persists for many years. he's declared missing and all of the knights set out in search of him, to no avail, and he is assumed dead. lancelot, meanwhile, survives the winter by attacking people and stealing their resources. [Lancelot Part VI, Ch. 178 Lancelot’s Madness and Subsequent Cure]

eventually, while lancelot is subdued in a deep sleep, a pair of charitable brother knights, recognizing that lancelot is unable to care for himself and a danger to those around him, successfully transport him to their castle. they don't know who he is. they keep him chained for safety but feed and clothe him. during this time, lancelot mutilates himself to be free.

eventually, lancelot is calm enough to be freed from his bindings, and lives with the brothers in this way for two years. he eats little and completely loses touch with his identity and the reality of the world around him.

but one day, lancelot looks out his tower window and sees a passing boar. he's compelled to follow it and departs the castle of the brothers without a word. he ends up in a battle with the boar which he barely survives. a holy man happens upon him and tries to administer healing, but lancelot attacks him.

after this the holy man flees and enlists the help of some men-at-arms, who assist in capturing lancelot and forcibly strapping him to a litter to be drawn away. ultimately, despite the best intentions, lancelot's condition only worsens.

i'm going to make a brief aside here as this reminds me of an article i read detailing a similar situation which occurred in real life. in "the enemy inside" by brian burfield, john of ancaster suffered mental distress as a result of the war in france, subsequently inflicting harm on himself and others. in this case, it was his father that restrained him into a horse-drawn cart, and brought him to a place of healing which was revolutionary of the time period, as friar bartholomeus recognized the connection between trauma and mental distress without attributing it to demonic possession, thus attracting many people in need of help to his monastery for treatment. so there is, at least in part, historical precedence of similar occurrences.

anyway, back to lancelot. he eventually flees from his intended caretakers yet again and wanders to the town of corbenic. there the children recognize his madness and begin to harass him, throwing stones and sticks, until he's incited to retaliate and wounds anyone who crosses him. eventually he wanders into the castle itself. the courtlings recognize he's mad, and feed him scraps. satiated, he literally curls up and sleeps on the floor like a dog. it's this, at last, that allows him to begin the slow recovery to wellness.

finally, after all these years, someone recognizes lancelot for who he is. none other than elaine of corbenic.

she tells her father pelles and he concocts a plan to capture and cure lancelot using the power of the holy grail. so as the times before, they wait until lancelot falls asleep, and bind him up. then at long last, his senses are restored.

when lancelot awakens from his stupor, he knows not how he got there, but begins walking upright and talking coherently again. he implores pelles to explain how he came there. once up to speed. lancelot is grateful no one but pelles and elaine recognized him. now let it be made clear that while lancelot's psychotic episode had finally concluded, he's not otherwise alleviated of mental anguish. he's still depressed about his banishment from logres and camelot, and deeply ashamed of his many years spent mad. thus he requests of pelles to live somewhere far away, where no one but pelles and elaine will ever recognize him.

so an island with a castle is located on which lancelot can live and he, together with elaine and a small court, go there to stay. lancelot loses his knightly abilities and instead takes up the daily ritual of subjecting himself to painful memories of logres, which then in turn bring him "relief" and "comfort". an apt description of rumination and self harm.

eventually, lancelot sends a secret message back to the land of logres intended to entice people to the island to fight him so he can relive the glory days.

in the end, it's lancelot's own half brother hector along with young and newly knighted perceval who find lancelot on the isle of joy. hector tells lancelot that the queen summons him, and lancelot immediately prepares to leave. on hearing this, galahad tells his grandfather he'll go and lodge in the abbey run by his great aunt, so that he might be nearer to his father. [Lancelot Part VI, Ch. 179 Hector and Perceval Find Lancelot, and They All Return to Camelot; Galahad’s Arrival Is Announced]

and with that, lancelot reenters society with his brother and son, which kicks off the grail quest in the subsequent book. that's a lot of info and reading, but all this to say that yeah, lancelot is known for his mental instability, to say the least. thanks for the ask!

#arthurian legend #arthurian legends #arthuriana #arthurian mythology #sir lancelot #lancelot #mental illness #ask #anonymous #my post

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i-just-like-goats · 1 year

Text

Gojo x Female Reader

Summary: Gojo's soulmate is an assassin sent to kill him

Warnings: choking, attempted murder, mentions of death

WC: 1.4k

Part 2

A/N: this is my 4th time posting this and I am so sorry. The first 3 were because of tags, this one is just cos I noticed an inconsistency in the original but tumblr wouldn't let me save my edits😭

The first time Gojo met you, he was sure he was in love.

There you were buying kikufuku, with that soft smile of yours. You captivated him in a way that no other woman had. How could he not fall in love?

And when you turned to look at him gawking at you, you smiled so brightly that Gojo's heart was immediately touched.

"Hello. Sorry, was I in your way?"

"Not at all,"

You smiled so sweetly and held his arm so gently when he offered to walk you home. Fushiguro and the finger would have to wait. He was so infatuated with every action you did that he only narrowly missed the knife you swung at his chest.

"This usually how you greet the men that walk you home?"

"Only for you love,"

Perhaps it was unwise for him to develop feelings for you when you were trying to kill him. Yet the way you were holding your own against his attacks and your raw beauty had him debating which side he was on. Maybe not to that extent, but you were definitely confusing him.

Which reminded him he needed to get back to Fushiguro. He'd definitely be scolded by his student.

"As much as I'd love to continue seeing your beautiful face, I've got somewhere to be. See you!"

"Hey!"

The second time you met Gojo, he almost didn't recognise you. Your disguise was impeccable. Even people who had known you for years couldn't recognise you whenever you put this disguise on. Yet he somehow managed to call out to you in that cheerful voice.

"Hey! Fancy seeing you here!"

You grimaced at his loud voice. Must he draw attention to the both of you in this way? You forced a smile and poured him his glass of wine he had ordered.

"Your red wine sir." You smiled.

"Come on now. No need to be so formal with me. We're so-"

One waiter had tripped and knocked Gojo's elbow, causing his wine to spill over his front.

"I apologise for my incompetence sir! I accept any punishment you see fit!"

"It's quite alright. This jacket is dark, so the stain won't be visible and it was in need of a wash anyway,"

The waiter bowed deeply and continued apologising profusely while you groaned and glared daggers at your coworker. Your last batch of poison had been in that glass of wine. The next shipment of ingredients for your poison wouldn't be until next month. What a drag this mission was.

"Say, why don't we catch up once your shift is over? I'll wait for you,"

A perfect opportunity. You smiled again.

"Of course,"

Hours passed and true to his word, Gojo had remained sitting at his table until it was closing time. Your manager had him wait outside for you while the restaurant was cleaned, providing you with an opportunity to surprise him.

You leapt deftly onto Gojo's back, wrapped your arms around his neck.

"What a nice sur-"

And attempted to choke him. He struggled in your grip.

"How cute! What a beautiful couple! Would you mind if I took a photo of the two of you?"

You immediately stopped choking him. You ground your teeth but smiled nonetheless. Gojo took several deep breaths

"I don't mind, do you honey?"

"No, of course not love,"

"You might want to loosen up, your boyfriend there looked like he was struggling to breathe,"

"That was the point," You muttered.

Gojo chuckled and posed for the photo.

"Great! Thank you!"

With that, the person walked off content with the photo. You began to constrict his air supply again, but he flipped you onto the ground over his shoulder. With a groan, you sat up and rubbed your back.

"Was that necessary?"

"A bit of payback for the second attempt on my life,"

"Alright. Well I'll be off then,"

"Leaving already?"

"Can't have you knowing where I live, otherwise you'd annoy me every day,"

"I would never,"

Gojo watched as you threw something at the ground, then stepped through the mist it created and vanished.

"Always coming but never staying. How cruel. Soulmate. I don't even know your name,"

The third time Gojo met you, he knew he would risk it all for you. Whatever side you were on no longer mattered to him. Had you been on the side of the sorcerers, perhaps things would have been much easier.

"Soulmate! Are you hurt?"

"Oh no, I'm perfectly fine thank you. The curse bit me, which took a chunk out of my leg and it doesn't hurt at all. I'm enjoying the pain so very much you idiot,"

"Alright alright I get it. No need to be so moody soulmate,"

"Stop calling me your soulmate,"

"Why? Don't you know that the red string wrapped around our fingers means we're soulmates?"

"I know what soulmates are stupid,"

Gojo pouted, "Why aren't you calling me love anymore?"

"Because I'm no longer trying to seduce you. I just need to kill you,"

"So blunt. But you don't need to kill me since you've been fired,"

"What are you doing?"

Gojo made no answer and hovered his hand up and down your leg, assessing the damage.

"Hey this isn't funny. I didn't consent to this. Ow!"

You clenched your jaw tightly as a burning sensation erupted from where Gojo placed his hand on your leg.

"There. Wasn't so bad now was it soulmate?"

"I told you to stop calling me that,"

"I can't, unless I know your name,"

"I'm not giving it,"

"Well then sucks to be you, I'm still calling you soulmate because that's what you are,"

You muttered angrily under your breath and exhaled.

"I severely dislike you because I find you insufferable and I don't know how on earth we came to be soulmates, but thank you, for healing me,"

"How did you even get hurt?" He asked softly.

"I haven't been able to kill you. It's harming my reputation and my employer's reputation, so I guess they decided I wasn't worth keeping around anymore if I couldn't kill one man and they sent me on a suicide mission. I exorcised the curse's buddy but it's still out there,"

"Why don't you and I hunt the curse down?"

"Sure, not like I have really much else to lose anyway,"

Needless to say, you got your revenge on the curse and its owner. By the end of it, both had been in tears before you exorcised the curse and turned in its owner.

"Good thinking there. You kept us out of trouble by letting him hit you first,"

"I'm an assassin Gojo, it's only natural that I know how to get myself out of situations,"

"Right. So, want to continue our date?"

"No,"

"Come on. I'm no longer the enemy am I?"

"I may no longer be required to kill you, but like I said before: I severely dislike you,"

"Bit harsh," Gojo ran to catch up with your walking figure, "At least let me feed you tonight and make sure you've got a job,"

"Fine,"

"Great!"

You slumped into the seat across from Gojo and plugged in your earphones as Gojo ordered something for the two of you to eat.

"So why do you hate me?"

"I don't hate you. I just said severely dislike,"

"Alright, so why do you severely dislike me?"

"Because you're hard to kill,"

"Is that it? Shouldn't be too hard to get you to like me. You lost your job because of me, so all I need to do is get you a new job. How would you like to teach at Jujutsu Tech. I saw your physical capabilities, such little cursed energy but your fighting is remarkable. The students, Maki in particular, would benefit greatly from your expertise,"

"And you still try to help and befriend me even after I tried to kill you. Twice. You're not mad? Not even in the slightest?"

"A bit annoyed, definitely, but the determination wins,"

You took a sip from your drink, deep in thought. How could he be so kind to you after all you put him through?

"Determination to do what?"

"To at least get a friend out of this,"

He lifted his right hand, gesturing to his pinky.

"We're soulmates for a reason, we're not destined to hate each other, so I want to see if we can make this work, but baby steps. So please consider taking the job,"

"Alright, I'll teach the young sorcerers at Jujutsu Tech. Just know that I'm only doing this because I need to financially sustain myself somehow,"

"Excellent!"

Gojo shook your hand enthusiastically.

"Can't wait to teach alongside my new co-worker!"

You buried your face into your hands and groaned. There's no way he'd let you back out now that you agreed. This year would be an interesting one that's for sure.

#gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojou satoru x reader #gojo x y/n #gojo fanfic #jjk fanfic #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo x you

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sea-owl · 11 months

Note

I would love to hear more about kate, Sophie and Penelope becoming erotic models for Benedict. In modern or Regency terms.

Especially his brother reactions

So this made me do a quick look up of boudoir photography's history and apparently it started out in the 1920's when nudity in photography was still illegal. It started with a focus of plus sized figured women against elaborate backdrops, and during the 40's the focus shifted onto pin up girls in corsets and men's ties. I know a lot of modern day women have used boudoir photography as a form of self love because of how it can make them feel.

I feel like the self love approach is how Benedict got the three of them to be his models. So let's say that all three women all just had kids within months of each other, and they're still in that awkward post pregnancy phase where their bodies don't feel like their own. They feel gross, unsexy, and just generally uncomfortable in their own skin type of feeling.

Benedict goes up to them and says hey I know you don't feel your best right now but this may help. Genevieve also agreed to help with outfits. Just come to Aubrey Hall on this day. Leave the husbands at home with the kids but bring their shirts!

Feeling like this couldn't hurt the girls agree and meet Benedict and Genevieve at Aubrey Hall. Genevieve has several different outfits for each girl. Some romantic like the goddess inspired look with silk cloth draping over Penelope like an old statue. We got the woman charge for Kate who was paired with a fantastic strappy lingerie set completed with thigh high stocking, heels, and one of Anthony's business jackets. Sophie was put into her comfort of the outdoors and given a lacy swim suit for water shots in the lake. Thee was also shots done where the girls wore their husband's shirts while in their rooms at Aubrey Hall. There was also the ever favorite murdered husband robe, which a lot of the group shots were done in. Purple for Kate, silver for Sophie, and green for Penelope. Benedict even got in on the joke and did a group shot with each woman holding a (fake/prop) weapon, a shotgun for Kate, a knife for Sophie, and a bottle of arsenic for Penelope.

Benedict of course prepared a head of time and found different positions to put the girls in as he demonstrated with them which helped put them at ease and made the whole expense fun. They got to laugh at trying to get themselves in some of the poses, and sometimes helped one another. It was just a fun time.

Benedict also showed them the raw photos which did help the girls feel better about their bodies. The sexiness and beauty they felt was missing after their children borrowed their bodies was still there. They just needed help finding it again. Being able to see it for themselves definitely helped.

When the editing was done Benedict sent the photos Kate and Penelope with a promise they wouldn't show their husbands. It would ruin the Christmas surpise, he would tell them. Of course his chaotic sister in-laws agreed. They love messing with their husbands.

Artistic presents from Benedict during birthdays and Christmas were not that unusual. So Anthony and Colin didn't even really blink when Benedict gifted them both an album, saying it was co-created with their wives.

The whole family got to see Anthony and Colin open to the first page of those albums, immediately shut them with red faces, and refuse to let anyone else see. Not long after presents both men dragged their wives off to their respective bedrooms where some of the photos were taken.

Benedict had gifted his brothers an album full of those boudoir shots, and finished it with a painting of one of them. They are still debating if they are thankful or want to kill Benedict for seeing their wives like that.

Benedict also has an album filled with his wife's lovely boudoir shots, and may have a few with them as a couple.

#bridgerton #boudoir photography #benedict bridgerton #kate sharma #kate sheffield #sophie beckett #penelope featherington #polin #kathony #benophie

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hexitca · 1 year

Text

#my art #sketchdumps #my special interests is gorls #sketches #no editing we post raw like men

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quinloki · 2 months

Note

Happy Name Day Quin!

In honor of the celebration, I have a fun fact about names, specifically One Piece names., specifically fish-men. I may have mentioned it before in passing or in nerding out over Arlong, but I like the idea of teasing him about the fact that his entire species is called Fish-Man/Men. The females being called Fish-Woman/Women has led me to harass him that the females are then technically a separate yet compatible species.

As you can imagine, this does not go down well with him. Often times leads to a fight. Furthermore, the name of the species sounds childish to me. It sounds like some human child of 5 saw a fish-man for the first time, didn't know what the person was, ran home and told his mother, "it was a man but he was a fish, he was a fish-man!" And humans just decided, yup, that's what we're going to forever call them now.

WELL, let me tell you. Last spring I took a survey course of the Masterpieces of World Literature and we started with hardcore ancient times aka. The Epic of Gilgamesh. I'm a big fan of Penguin Classics editions because the introductions are worth their weight in gold. The intro to Gilgamesh was no exception, it's like 60 pages of raw info and context and linguistic nitpicking and timelines and just all around good stuff. I like the intro more than the epic.

The 39th page of intro (pg. xliii according to the book itself) is talking about the Seven Sages and I may or may not have made the annotative note that the One Piece is real in my book because of this particular sentence: "Foremost among these Sages was the fish-man Oannes-Adapa, who rose from the sea."

Therefore, the concept of fish-men has existed since at least 2800 BCE. So, while the name sounds childish to my modern American ears, the name fish-man predates even Homer's epics by two thousand years (because Homer was around approx. 750 BCE).

Plus, fun lore connection, one could go so far as to posit that Oannes-Adapa was the first fish-man who left the sea and it is from him that the species evolved two breathing systems; their original gills for under the water and lungs for land. The Ichthyo-Sapiens have been around a long ass time.

So yeah, there's my fun fact regarding the name Fish-Man. And again, Happy Name Day.

Nothing has delighted me more than this - "Ichthyo-Sapiens".

I love it \o/ I love the whole post, I have said before but I will say again, I adore the way you just weave all this passion and knowledge around me and then just tour me through your world.

It is quite fantastic. Always brightens my day, and my day was long and a little more stressful than I would've liked, so I appreciate it.

I've got to be in a specific mindset to appreciate some good linguistic nitpicking ^_^ (I love linguistics, even if it's not something I'm formerly educated in.)

but thank you for sharing, and thank you for celebrating my name day like this 🥰❤️

#quin answers #thecrimsonacademic #it's interesting just how old some fantasy concepts really are

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starr-fall-knight-rise · 2 years

Text

Mentally Sound

https://www.patreon.com/empyreaniris?fan_landing=true

https://starr-fall-knight-rise.tumblr.com/post/182501791735/master-post

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1jzEIdDAB4omdO2JcQVMObfrhLJ5kX4ONmSsLypM1ks0/edit?usp=sharing.\

The building sat as its own small complex upon the Arcadia hospital complex. It had three sides, and a large courtyard annex stuffed full of trees, benches, and a single large fountain. A local sculpture had been commissioned to create the statue in the middle, a two-part artwork depicting a Drev and a human clasping hands. The little plaque that sat on the edge of the fountain dedicated the fountain as the Drev war memorial and if you looked close enough into the burbling water of the fountain, you could just see the delicate white outline of names carved into the dark stone, human, drev, Tesraki, and Rundi names all mixed together.

The main entrance sat on the left wing of the building, leading straight into intake.

Over the door, large silver letters glittered in the light of artificial suns.

Steel Eye Health and Wellness

“How many do we have?” Adam asked, taking the clipboard from the SE representative’s open hand. Up until this very moment, the SE manufaturerers had been so exclusive, they didn’t even have their own facility. When Adam had asked the rep, why not, he stated that they used all of their money specifically on R&D, so there wasn’t much room for their own facility.

After Adam made his offer to fund SE, they had agreed Arcadia could be their main base of operation .

“There are Fifteen volunteers all together.” The rep said, motioning to the clipboard. Eight women and seven men, but we imagine that number is going to double if not triple over the next month or so. A lot of governments have shown interest in our project, and a few of them are looking to sponsor a human of their own”

Adam nodded, “Never got it to work on aliens.”

The rep shook his head, “Not as of yet. As you know we have rigorous testing standards. Owing to…. Our predecessors, it is important that we don’t move through things too quickly. When it comes to modes that will work on nonhumans, we have yet to leave the inanimate object testing face, much less move onto live subjects.”

Adam’s eyes scanned quickly down the list.

“Why not, Drev seem more than durable enough.”

“It has nothing really to do with durability.” The rep said, “But more to with nerve clusters, how they fire, how they experience pain and movement. The human body is an odd mixture of durability and easy access to major nerve clusters. The human spine for instance allows for easy access to the most major nerve highway in the body. The Drev are harder to work with considering their backplates. That is not to mention the fibrous connective tissue and their already tough skin. Past that you would be surprised how sensitive Drev nerves are, so as of yet, SE enabled Drev arent viable.”

Adam looked down at his hand, flexing his fingers and watching as light glimmered off the metal edges of his exoskeleton.

Eventually, he turned his eyes back to the clipboard running down a list of demographics. There were at least Seven volunteers from Arcadia, six from Earth, one from Mars, and one from Hathor to his surprise.

“President Kelly sponsored most of the ones from earth. The martians are still debating on the subject, but they decided to give one a go. The rest are up in the air. We are in negotiation with the jupiter colonies. As you know they are a little less wealthy than Earth, so they won’t be able to sponsor as many, but we think we can work with them.

Adam nodded slowly, “If it comes down to money, just tell them a lower price and i’ll pay off the rest. I care more about the safety of this galaxy than how much money is in my pockets.

He would have liked to do all of this for free, but that was hardly a viable option. The SE suits were incredibly complex to manufacture, and that meant paying for the raw materials, the refinement of those materials, advanced computer components and processors, not to mention that actual implantation itself which lasted over the course of a few weeks, less so now that krill was helping to perform the operations, but still.

Adam motioned towards the door, “May I….”

The rep motioned him inside, ‘Go on in, might as well have your name on it.”

Adam nodded, stepping through the door, all the while fully conscious of the Se exoskeleton that augmented his body. Usually it was something he could ignore, but lately he had become acutely aware of his own fragility, and wondered what might have happened to him if he didn’t have the augmentation. Adam had been a part of the original group that received a permanent implantation of the SE exoskeleton, which they were later able to develop into something that could be taken off and put back on.

This included a line of connection ports that went directly into the body, to which the SE suit could be ‘plugged in

Many of the people he knew had this generation of augments, including maverick who, he noticed, wore her exoskeleton for longer and longer periods of time, until the point where she had stopped unplugging it at all. Wearing an se exosuit indefinitely was completely possible, but Ramirez had made his opinion on the subject very clear.

He didn’t think it was mtally healthy to do so.

Ramirez had been as tactful as possible when voicing his opinion, but that opinion had ben very clear. Maverick Adam and everyone else who had an SE augment became emotionally reliant on the SE suit to create the sensation of safety. It was his opinion that this emotional reliance was incredibly unhealthy.

For maverick it was bad enough, but he had also insinuated that, for Adam the choice to wear the SE suit indefinitely was actively holding him back from recovering fully from the Drev war.

Again he hadn’t presented that so blatantly or without tact, but Adam had understood his meaning.

He tried not to get defensive, and spoke to Sunny about it, who he was surprised to find agreed almost completely with ramirez.

“If you trusted me as much as you trusted that suit we would be unstoppable.” The observation hadn’t been in a nagging way, or even angry. In fact, she hadn’t looked up from the spearhead she was sharpening as if this sudden revelation was a reality she had been aware of for a very long time.

Adam had protested, saying that he did trust her, but she had simply smiled at him, “You do trust me, I never said you didn’t, but if you took that suit off, I don’t think I would be able to make you feel as safe.”

She had a point, and he felt horrible for it, but a more stubborn part of him pushed those thoughts aside as something he could deal with later. Even so, he tasked Riss with helping to evaluate new SE candidates to make sure they had the mental health required to take on an augment this serious.

He followed the rep inside passing down white halls and into the waiting room.

He saw faces there he did not recognize, and shook hands whose warmth was unfamiliar.

A few of the curious volunteers asked politely to view his augments, and he gladly let them standing and holding out his arms as they touched gently and asked questions.

“How well do you sleep?’

“Does it make it difficult to find clothes?”

“Do you ever snag it on anything?”

“IS there ever any pain.”

He answered all the questions, and then some, before being led out of the waiting room and down the hall.

“Intake generally takes a few days. We start with general demographics and a wellness checkup. You won’t be surprised to find that our specifications are very important, this includes bone density, genetic testing for nerve related diseases, including neurodegenerative that can result in the random firing of nerves. There are a few skin conditions that we don’t recommend when paired with the SE including severe forms of eczema.”

Diagnosis that precluded you from getting an SE augment included, MS, Parkinsons, and Huntington's diseases including all other movement related or neurodegenerative diseases specifically that affect movement or the demyelination of neurons. A history of Alzheimer's especially early onset, epilepsy, and tourettes would do it as well. Also anything that adversely affected bone density.

Other diagnoses that could potentially stop you from joining the program was hypermobility in the joints, to the point where it would be dangerous to augment, extreme cases of Eczema, and a whole list of other things affecting the skin, the bones, the tendons and the joints.

He was led down another hallway, with open doors on either side that led into well stocked exam rooms. Somewhere in the distance, he could heart the whirring of machines, “This is where we do all of our exams.”

Peering in through the doors, he could see patient figures sitting on exam tables waiting for a doctor.

Behind closed doors he could hear the murmuring of voices.

It was almost towards the end of the hall when Adam did a double take, screeching to a halt against the marble floor. Peering in through the open door he almost didn’t believe who he saw there.

But the unlit cigarette he twirled between his fingers was enough for Adam to be sure it was him.

“Lindsay?”

The Ex Steel eye soldier lifted his head and smiled, “Adam!”

He backtracked to stand in the doorway, “I’ll be damned, you old dog, what are you doing here.”

“I have a kink for probing.”

Adam laughed hoping that was a joke.

Lindsay tuckd the unlit cigarette into his pocket, “I am here as a volunteer, thought that was obvious.”

Adam frowned, “But…. do you really think that’s healthy….”

Lindsay’s eyebrows inched up towards his hairline, “You pot, me kettle,.”

Adam flushed a little red,, “Look I get where you’re coming from but I…. what about your family….”

“All arguments I could make to you.” He shot back, “And no offense kid, but out of all the returned Steel eye soldiers, I am definitely the most psychologically sound plus I talked it over with my wife, and we have come to the conclusion that my involvement is more important than whatever risks I might be running. It's been quite a few years so all of my children are old enough to understand that as well.”

Adam frowned at him, “Kid?.... No offense, old timer but my hair is whiter than yours.”

“And I’m only about seven years older than you.” he glanced towards the rep, “Is this where you do the psych evals…. And yes, Mr. Lindsay passed with flying colors.”

Adam still stood in the doorway hands nervously gripping the doorway, “Look, Lindsay, I am grateful and I admire your bravery, but this is not something that you have to do, and it’s certainly not something you should have to do. You did your time, and I think maybe its time you get some peace.’

The man huffed, “Ain’t gonna have no damn piece until these void assholes aren’t threatening to blow up the universe, now am I. I would like to make sure that my children have a future, so don’t sit here and lecture me, while you stand there in a puddle of your own hypocrisy.”

He was right, it stung but he was right.

He lowered his voice again, “I am well aware of the consequences, more so than you probably were when you offered to put on that suit.”

That was probably also true.

But that begged the question.

Were there any other Steel eye soldiers dumb enough to make this decision again?

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midnight-fauna · 1 year

Text

can you keep me close? (can you love me most?)

A/N: Inspired by an edit by @bayatommo on TikTok and beta-read by the lovely @horrorbaby666

Pairings: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson

Chapters: 2/2 (both included in post)

Summary: The one where Steve gets kidnapped by the Russians again, Eddie saves him, and all the hurt/comfort that ensues.

Part One:

“It’s all over, I promise. Their base was destroyed and the majority of them were killed. You’re safe now.”

Doctor Owen’s past words replayed over and over in Steve’s mind, a stabbing reminder of what should’ve been true. Steve had spent more than a year trying to convince himself of it. He’d woken up in a sheen of sweat countless times, whispering to himself that the Russians were gone - that he was free.

Bullshit.

“We know you know about the portals to the other dimension, Steve Harrington,” the Russian in front of him leered in a thick accent, the man the others referred to as Konstantin. “You will give us their precise location or we will kill you and everyone associated with you. Do you understand?”

Steve let out a garbled sob, his own blood coating his throat. Welts from whips were strung across his back, making the slightest movements agonizing. He was sure at least three of his ribs were broken and god, he swore he could feel one of them pierce against his organs with each strangled inhale. He tried to look up at Konstantin, but the relentless pounding in his skull was effectively making him blind in one eye. He knew he’d developed head injuries over the years, but hadn’t dared tell anyone that the headaches were sometimes so intense that he lost his vision and he couldn’t hear out of his left ear.

If he survived this, maybe he’d finally tell someone.

“I told you.” Steve’s head fell forward, his somewhat still-drugged body unable to hold it up any longer. The only thing that kept him from face-planting was the crude rope restraints that tethered him to the splintering chair. “They’re closed. All of them. Vecna’s dead. There’s no-”

Konstantin took the whip in his hands and lashed it across Steve’s forearm, forcing a wrecked scream from his bloodied lips. The tears began to fall harder as waves of raw anguish crashed into Steve.

“You lie!” Konstantin hissed, baring his rotting teeth.

“No, no, no, no, no,” Steve mumbled out in a hopeless beg, dark spots beginning to cloud his remaining sight.

Steve heard the crack of the whip and shot his head up. “Please! Please! It’s true! Fuck, I promise, I’m telling the fucking truth!”

Slowly, Konstantin lowered his weapon and Steve nearly sobbed again from the relief.

“Sir.” Steve tried to turn his head around to see the person coming in behind him, to no avail. He heard the metal door swing open with a shrill creak before slamming shut once again.

The man stepped around Steve, shooting him a look of raw disgust, before turning to Konstantin and murmuring, “We can’t find Munson.”

Oh, thank god.

“Hawkins is a small town,” Konstantin spat. “He is a freak of nature, a black sheep, and yet you still can’t find him? Pathetic, Iosif.”

Iosif stiffened and nodded curtly. “My apologies. We will continue searching.”

“My men are certain this Munson was infected by something in the other dimension. He can surely lead us to what we seek,” Konstantin paused to glare at Steve. “I thought this sorry excuse for a man would be of some help, but it seems not.”

Steve barely registered the insult, everything in his mind focused on Eddie. His name replayed like a chant in Steve’s mind, a solemn prayer as though the thought of Eddie alone could save him from the torture. He begged the universe to keep Eddie safe, to keep him as far away as possible from Steve and all his shit. Eddie wasn’t “infected”. He was just some guy that happened to sell drugs to the wrong girl at the wrong time. He deserved to get away from Hawkins, away from all the bullshit, away from Steve.

Iosif saluted to Konstantin, mumbling something in Russian, before retreating to where he’d come in. A shiver wracked Steve’s marred back as Konstantin’s gaze shifted back to him.

“You will pay for wasting my time,” Konstantin said quietly, as though he was making an off-handed comment rather than directly threatening someone. Steve’s bloodshot eye followed Konstantin, watching him roll over a metal cart. His gaze followed Konstantin’s gloved hands to the instruments he was inspecting. His stomach plummeted.

“Please,” Steve croaked, voice spent from his previous screams. “Please, no. Just kill me. Shit, just- please. No one will care to look for me, I promise. I’ll just disappear and you won’t have to worry about anyone fucking up your shit.”

“I know no one cares enough to search for you, Steve Harrington,” Konstantin whispered, eyes trained on the hook-like tool in his grasp. “That is why I will break you apart limb by limb, taking my time doing so. After all…” Konstantin’s voice trailed off, coming to stand in front of Steve once again.

“No one is coming to save you.”

~~~

Six missed calls.

It’d taken Eddie six missed calls before he’d given in to his panic and sped over to Steve Harrington’s house.

For once in his life, his incessant worrying had actually proved helpful.

At first, he’d just rung the doorbell. After a few failed attempts, he’d resorted to slightly aggressive knocking. When both led to no response, Eddie had given up and picked the lock, letting himself in.

Harrington’s house looked like a fucking crime scene.

The living room was a mess of flung open drawers, knocked-over furniture, and smashed glass. There were books and papers all over the floor, strung about in such a way that it looked like someone had been searching for something.

Jesus Christ, had Steve been robbed?

“Harrington?” Eddie called, trying to stifle the panic in his voice. “Uh, I know I’m not the best when it comes to interior decorating, but this doesn’t really feel like your style.”

Silence.

Eddie shoved his hands in his leather jacket’s pockets, slowly walking through the house. “C’mon, Stevie, I know our friendship has been kinda iffy since the whole Vecna thing, but I just wanted to make sure you-”

Eddie froze. He smelled the blood before he saw it.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. Steve? Steve?!” Eddie yelled, breaking into a sprint. The wreckage passed from the living room to the adjacent dining room and kitchen. He followed the metallic scent like a dog on a hunt, eventually leading him to what he could only assume was Harrington Sr.’s office.

Shit.

Blood stained the expensive carpet like spilled wine, partially covered by even more scattered documents. Eddie’s nose twitched. That blood wasn’t Steve’s. It was unfamiliar and bitter. Eddie’s eyes trailed across the room, finally landing on a stained bat with nails crudely pointing out of it. There was older blood on it, one similar to the Demobats’. That wasn’t what concerned Eddie, however. What got his attention was the fresh blood on it: the blood that was undoubtedly Steve’s.

It took him three minutes to try not to have an anxiety attack. Seven more minutes to try and figure out what happened. Two more to remember the location trackers he’d discreetly put in each of his friends’ walkie-talkies. Eighteen more to track down Steve’s. Twenty-three more to get to the location.

“What the fuck?” Eddie mumbled to himself as he climbed out of his van, inspecting the scene in front of him. It looked almost like something from the military - a small, lone, dome-like building sat in one of the many plain expanses of outer Hawkins. It appeared abandoned.

Eddie double-checked the coordinates messily written on his wrist. It was supposedly right, but-

“Hey!” a voice shot Eddie from his thoughts. His head snapped up to see a gruff-looking man with a whole-ass rifle strapped to his back approaching Eddie.

“What are you doing here?” the man asked, a strong accent covering his words. Russian, if Eddie had to guess.

“Uh, hey, sorry, man,” Eddie said, lifting his hands up in a show of peace. “I was, uh, trying to get to my grandma’s house and I guess I got really lost, huh?”

“No grandmas live here,” the man deadpanned and if it wasn’t for the circumstances, Eddie might’ve laughed at how seriously the guy said it.

Eddie cleared his throat. “Yeah… I can- I can definitely tell. Listen, I’m like cool with military people, okay? My dad’s one. James Munson? Maybe you know him? He’s not in Hawkins, but-”

“Munson?” The man raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah! Yeah, I’m his kid, so I-”

The man grinned, something unsettling and dangerous. “We haven’t been able to get anything out of Steve Harrington. Konstantin will be pleased to know we got you now.”

Eddie froze.

“You have Steve?” he asked slowly.

“We’ve had him for two days now,” the man said as though he was proud of it. “I’m surprised he’s lasted this long after all Konstantin has put him-”

Eddie lunged at the man, barreling him to the ground with inhuman strength. He felt the familiar sting of fangs unsheathing from his gums and animalistic claws emerging from his fingernails. Sadistic pleasure coursed through him at the horror on the man’s face.

A string of what Eddie could only assume was Russian swears spilled from the man’s mouth. “Konstantin was right. You really are a-”

“Shut the fuck up and tell me where Steve is or I will rip out your throat.” One of Eddie’s hands lifted to wrap around the man’s neck, claws piercing the tender skin. He relished in the pained gasp that it received.

“Inside- inside-” the man spluttered out. “Konstantin has him. Don’t kill me. Please, don’t-”

The man’s sentence was interrupted by the sound of him gargling on his own blood as Eddie quickly clutched his claws shut and pulled, tearing out the Russian’s jugular in one movement.

Carelessly, he threw the body to the side and sprinted for the base’s door. His eyes fell on a screen and he pressed his finger against it. Immediately, the screen flashed red, Russian words appearing on the screen. Beneath the unfamiliar letters was an image of a fingerprint with an “x” over it.

Realization clicked in Eddie’s mind and he walked back to the body, placing one boot on the man’s limp forearm and bending down. He drew a knife from his back pocket and pressed it against the base of the Russian’s index finger. With ease, he pressed down, slicing the digit from its hand, and took it, making his way back to the door.

A press of the finger against the screen and the door opened.

Eddie was immediately met with two armed guards. They jolted to attention, surprise overtaking their faces. Eddie’s eyes trailed down to where blood was splattered on one of the men’s shoes - Steve’s blood.

Something in Eddie snapped.

Finally.

They deserve it, the voice hissed. Eddie took a step forward, fangs bared. They stood by and let Steve suffer. Tear out their hearts. Make them pay.

Eddie barely registered his actions, his mind a whirlwind of white noise. His attention focused on the screeches of agony erupting out of his victims alongside the addicting feeling of his claws and fangs digging into flesh. He slashed and stabbed and bit and fuck, it felt good.

More, the voice pleaded. The only one that makes it out alive is Steve. Everyone else will stay in this prison forever. I want their insides painting the fucking walls.

Eddie obeyed.

~~~

Steve was rapidly falling in and out of consciousness.

“Inject him again,” Konstantin instructed someone. Steve could see the blurry outline of the man’s bloody shoes in front of him, but his voice still sounded distant.

He felt the needle against the back of his neck and he willed his body to jerk away, to fight, to do something. It simply wouldn’t. He didn’t think any of his body could move anymore.

“Sir, any more shots of stimulants after this could result in heart failure,” another far-away voice said.

Konstantin’s shoes disappeared from Steve’s line of vision. “If he dies, then so be it. He’s stopped reacting to anything. He’s no longer entertaining to me.”

“Any news on Munson?” Konstantin asked.

Please say no. Please say no.

“No, sir.”

Thank god.

“You will find him by tomorrow morning or you will experience exactly what this boy has. Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, now-”

Konstantin’s voice was cut off by a loud thud. Steve willed himself to look up, but his neck stayed limp. He tried to focus on what was going on - tried to understand why there was screaming and crashing - but his mind was drifting. His eyes lulled. Finally. Fucking finally, he could rest.

“Steve? Stevie?”

Steve barely heard the voice in the thick fog of his own head.

“No, no, Steve. C’mon, Stevie, you gotta wake up.”

Waking up was too hard. Steve just wanted to sleep.

“Focus, Stevie, focus. Look at me, please, look at me. You’re stronger than this. I know you are.”

Steve wasn’t strong. Steve was broken. He was always broken.

“I can’t fucking lose you, okay? You gotta fight for me, okay? You gotta fight to stay alive.”

No one cared about Steve. The voice was just another illusion from the drugs.

“Steve, please. It’s me. It’s Munson. I’m right here. I’m gonna get you out of here, okay? Just stay with me. God, just stay with me.”

… Eddie?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part Two:

Everything fucking hurt.

Steve stirred and instantly a warm hand latched onto his.

“Hey, hey, Stevie. It’s okay.”

Steve’s eyelids fluttered. He knew that voice.

“Eddie?”

“Yeah, yeah, man, it’s me.”

Memories crashed into Steve all at once. His house. Getting attacked in his dad’s office. Waking up in an underground base. The Russians. Konstantin. The whips. The hooks. The knives. Dying.

“No, no, no, Eddie, you’re not supposed to be here,” Steve mumbled out, straining his eyes to open more. “You’re not supposed to be dead. Oh god, did they get you too? I’m so sorry. Fuck, I’m so sorry. You’re dead like me and it’s all my-”

“Hey, look at me.” Eddie’s voice was like an anchor to Steve’s ship, grounding him even in the wildest of storms. Physically shaking, he forced his eyes open to stare at Eddie.

“Oh, fuck,” Steve whispered, feeling tears begin to roll down his cheeks. Eddie was painted in a silhouette of golden light shining behind him. His curls were radiant and his beautiful features were so soft. “Oh fuck, you are an angel. You are dead. Oh no, no, no, no-”

Eddie’s free hand lifted from his side to cup the side of Steve’s face. “No, no. Sweetheart, look at me. I’m right here. I’m alive. You’re alive. We’re okay. You’re on a shit ton of painkillers right now so I know everything seems really weird, but I promise I’m alive.”

Steve leaned into the touch, sobs still wracking his broken body. His eyes darted around the room, recognizing it as a hospital before his gaze shot back up to Eddie. “They wouldn’t stop. I begged them to stop, but they wouldn’t. I told them- I told them that the gates were all closed, but they wouldn’t believe me. They wouldn’t stop hurting me. I couldn’t-” Steve’s words slurred together in a mess of incoherent babbles, Eddie’s slow caresses on his back the only thing keeping him from a full-on panic attack.

“I know, Stevie, I know. I’m so sorry, honey. I should’ve realized you were missing sooner. I am so fucking sorry,” Eddie’s voice cracked and in Steve’s blurred vision, he could see similar tears begin to fall down Eddie’s flushed cheeks.

“But… you…” Steve trailed off as he strained to recall the last things he could remember. “You saved me. How did you…?”

“I’ll explain it all later, alright? But you need to rest now. Your body needs time to heal,” Eddie murmured and stood from his chair.

“No!” Steve practically screamed, causing Eddie to jump. Panicking, Steve grabbed tightly onto Eddie’s hand, pulling him back. “Please don’t go. I don’t want to be alone.”

Eddie’s pretty eyes softened and he sat back down only for Steve to tug on him again. “Can you come up here?” Steve asked, gesturing with his chin to the hospital bed. The tiny rational part of his brain that remained begged him to shut up. It was certainly not the time for his stupid boy crush to appear.

Steve shoved the rational part of his brain away.

“You sure? It’s gonna be a tight squeeze and Wayne says I snore like a mammoth,” Eddie said, tone teasing at the end though it was evident he was genuinely concerned.

“‘s okay,” Steve mumbled, forcing himself to scoot over even as his body roared in pain. It was worth it, though, when Eddie got into bed beside him. The warmth radiating off him was more comforting to Steve than any painkiller a doctor could offer him.

He fell back asleep in seconds.

~~~

“Yeah, they think he’s going to make it,” Eddie murmured into the receiver. The cord was taut, the handset pulled far from the actual phone hold on the adjacent wall. He’d refused to leave Steve’s side, regardless of how many times the nurses had told him to do otherwise.

Robin sniffled on the other end of the line. “I can’t believe he had to go through that again, Eddie. Fuck, I thought it was all over. I thought we could go live normal lives for once. I should’ve checked in on him earlier. I’m so fucking stupid.”

“Don’t blame yourself.” Eddie tried to ignore the hypocrisy of his own statement. “He’s going to be okay, Robin, I promise. We both know Steve. He’s strong as hell. He’ll pull through.”

“He better or I’ll… I’ll…” Robin seemed to be searching for a threat, but only more sobs came through the phone. “Is he gonna have to be in a wheelchair or…?”

Eddie looked over at Steve to make sure he was still sleeping soundly before responding, “Doctor thinks he’ll just need a lot of physical therapy for the next few months. He got a lot of head trauma so they’re going to perform a ‘cranial nerve exam’ or whatever when he’s able to sit up on his own. They’ll see if he’s doing alright in that department.”

He heard Robin inhale shakily through the phone. “When can I come see him? Nancy and the kids are worried sick too.”

“I’m not sure yet, but I’ll call you as soon as I do, okay?” Eddie promised.

There was a pause before Robin squeaked out an “okay”.

“Take care of yourself, Robin. You’re like Steve’s… platonic soulmate or something. He’ll want you to be okay too.”

“Thank you. Call soon, okay?” Robin mumbled, barely audible against the phone’s static.

“I will.”

Eddie sighed as the phone hung up, his attention returning to Steve.

“You’re gonna pull through,” Eddie whispered, hand moving to trace circles on Steve’s shoulder. He exhaled shakily as the confession slipped out of him:

“Because I don’t know what I’ll do with myself if you don’t.”

~~~

It was happening again.

Pain struck Steve over and over again like daggers, piercing into him - his old wounds, his new wounds, goddamn everything.

“Eddie!” he screamed, pulling against the invisible restraints that tied him back, keeping him still as the endless torment continued. “Eddie! Robin! Dustin! Fuck, anyone! Please!”

His eyes shut momentarily, stinging with the saltiness of his own tears. When they reopened, there Eddie was.

No.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

Steve yanked on the ties with all his strength, a screech of agony following alongside the sickening crunch of his wrists shattering.

He didn’t even care.

With no regard for his own well-being, Steve forced his limp hands free and stumbled forward, landing in a helpless heap beside Eddie.

Vomit rose in his throat.

Eddie’s lifeless eyes gazed up at him, those beautiful brown irises once so full of life now extinguished. His mouth was ajar in a slight “o”, blood coating his teeth and lips. All across his body were revoltingly deep gashes - bite marks from those damned bats. They’d fucking devoured him, exposing muscle and bone. They’d taken Eddie. They’d taken his Eddie.

“Please, god, no,” Steve whispered, carefully cradling Eddie’s head and moving it so it lay in Steve’s lap. Somehow, his wrists were normal again, but he hardly registered it. His gaze stayed glued to Eddie. “No, no, Eddie. C’mon, Eds, don’t- don’t do this to me.”

His fingers raked through Eddie’s blood-matted hair, his other hand rubbing soothing circles into the cold skin of his cheek. “Wake up. You gotta wake up. I can’t fucking do this without you. I need you, Eddie. I’ve needed you ever since I met you. Please just-”

Slowly, the weight of Eddie’s corpse began to lift and before Steve’s very eyes, his body became more and more opaque. It was as though he were fading.

“No!” Steve screamed, voice echoing in the black abyss. “Eddie!”

“Steve?”

“No, no, no, please, Eddie, please-”

“Steve?”

“I can’t- fuck, I can’t-”

“Steve!”

Steve jolted upright, immediately met with searing pain that tore throughout his body like a strike of lightning. He snapped his head around, tear-blurred eyes barely registering the sterile environment around him. Scrambling, he tried to get up, desperately needing to find Eddie.

“Stevie, hey, I’m right here.”

A warm hand on his back anchored him back to reality.

“Eddie?” Steve turned to see the very man that’d been dead in his arms moments ago sitting beside him. His doe eyes were wide with worry, eyebrows pinched together. His curls were an absolute mess, falling all around him as though he’d just awoken from a nap. A faded band T-shirt hung loosely around his torso, revealing some of his tattoos.

Steve decided Eddie had never looked prettier.

“You were dead,” Steve breathed out, voice ragged. “The demobats got you. I wasn’t fast enough. I couldn’t- I wasn’t- shit, you were dead and it was all my fault and I-”

Eddie, sweet perfect Eddie, immediately reached forward and pulled Steve into a tight hug, holding him closer than anyone had ever bothered to hold Steve before. That realization alone sent Steve into another bout of sobs.

Calloused fingertips traced patterns up and down his back, occasionally coming up to soothingly pet the back of Steve’s head. “It was only a nightmare, sweetheart, I promise,” Eddie murmured, sounding more melodic than any music Steve had heard. “You did save me. I’m here because of you and I’m never abandoning you, got that?”

“Never,” Steve parroted, a feeble attempt at making himself believe Eddie’s words.

Eddie pulled away, leaning back and cradling Steve’s face in his palms. His thumb lifted to brush a stray tear from Steve’s cheek, holding his gaze all the while.

“You couldn’t get rid of me even if you wanted to,” Eddie joked gently, lips twitching upwards into a little smile.

Had they always looked so soft?

“C’mon,” Eddie said, carefully pulling Steve back down to rest in the crook of Eddie’s arm. “I know you don’t want to, but you gotta go back to sleep, a’ight? I’ll be right here the entire time. I swear on Uncle Wayne’s mug collection.”

Quite frankly too tired to protest, Steve nodded and let himself relax into Eddie’s hold. You’re safe, he reminded himself.

You’re always safe with Eds.

~~~

3 p.m. That’s when Eddie had told the shitheads to visit.

And yet, there they were at goddamn 10 a.m., clambering through the small hospital door like dogs racing out of a kennel.

“Steve! We brought-” Dustin announced, barging in like he owned the damn place. He froze mid-step, an honestly terrible idea considering the trainwreck of teenagers that slammed right into the back of him.

“Oh fucking-” was all that Eddie heard before a giant crash resounded in the small room. He lifted himself into a seated position, peering over the bed to find the entire Party in a groaning tangle of limbs on the floor.

“You asshole, why did you stop all of a sudden?” Lucas punched Dustin in the shoulder, immediately getting one of his own from Max. Even in her new blind state, she managed to shoot him a deadly glare that spoke volumes.

Dustin stood up, throwing up an accusatory hand toward Eddie. “I didn’t expect to find my two dads cuddling on a Sunday morning!”

“And I didn’t expect you all for another five hours,” Eddie retorted.

“I tried to stop them.” Nancy appeared from around the corner, carrying several grocery bags in her arms. “Max insisted she’d call her lawyer if I didn’t take them right when they wanted.”

From beside Eddie, Steve shifted, sitting up on his forearms and rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand. “She pulled that one on you too?”

“It’s discrimination against disabled people if they don’t do what me, a disabled person, asks,” Max stated as-a-matter-of-factly as she rose to her feet. El and Lucas immediately rushed to help her, but she swatted them both away.

Mike assisted the younger Byers - Will, if Eddie remembered correctly - in standing up. “I don’t think that’s how that works,” he muttered.

“Well, I don’t care-”

Max was cut off by a shrill screech of raw joy. Robin burst into the room and zipped around the gangle of teenagers, rushing to Steve’s side and latching onto him like a koala bear. “Oh my god, you’re okay,” she whispered, barely loud enough for Eddie to hear despite being mere inches away.

“Robs,” Steve said, the relief audible in his voice. “Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. I promise.”

Robin straightened up from where she’d been hunched over Steve, hurriedly wiping fresh tears from her cheeks. “If you ever scare me like that again, I’ll… I’ll totally kick your ass,” she mumbled, a choked-up little laugh escaping her.

“Don’t threaten the patient,” Nancy chastised, coming up behind Robin and taking one of her ringed hands in her smaller ones. Her voice was unusually soft and though Eddie still barely knew either of the girls, a sneaking suspicion arose within him about the state of their relationship.

“He’s a dingus.” Robin shot Steve a shaky smile. “I’ll threaten him all I want.”

“Alright, out of the way, out of the way,” Dustin announced, barging in between Robin and the bed. “Steve obviously wants to see his favorite member of the Party now.”

Steve lifted his hands defensively. “Hey, hey. I don’t choose favorites. I love all you guys equally.” Eddie knew that was total bullshit, but he smiled at Steve’s attempt to make all his kiddos feel appreciated.

“Yeah?” Mike piped up from behind Dustin. “What’s my favorite color?”

Steve immediately blanched and Eddie lifted one of his curls to his lips to hide his smile from view. Ol’ Stevie was in for it now.

“Uh…” Steve trailed off. “You know, I think these meds have been messing with my memory, so-”

Mike huffed in disbelief, glaring lightheartedly at Will when he began laughing. During their old D&D sessions, Mike had brought up Will a lot, talking about how Will ran campaigns and made characters. Back then, Eddie had found it annoying for his skills as a DM to be compared with some kid. Seeing them together, though, he was beginning to understand why Mike spoke of him so highly.

“Mike.” Nancy’s tone held warning and, apparently not wanting to get on his sister’s bad side, Mike stopped his pouting. Seemingly content with his response, Nancy turned back to Steve. “We picked you up all your favorite snacks and candies on the way here. Max insisted that hospital food is ‘worse than anything Vecna could do’-”

“It’s true,” Max confirmed.

“- so we decided to bring you these,” Nancy finished, placing the immense amount of bags on the nearby table.

Steve thanked them and Eddie took that as his cue to slip out of the bed. He made his way to the corner of the room and just… observed. It was near fascinating how easily Steve fell back to his old self with his friends - no, family - around. It was so clear that everyone in that room loved him so deeply. It astounded Eddie that Steve couldn’t see that.

Eddie’s mind flashed back to the night he’d rescued Steve. It’d been almost two weeks, but everything was still so vivid. The blood, the screams, the death - all caused by him. The assholes deserved it, sure, but it horrified Eddie. It horrified him how easily he’d killed and how he’d relished in their pain. He still wasn’t sure what the Upside Down had turned him into, what sort of creature he’d become. He hadn’t dared tell anyone. How would they react when they found out their friend could grow fangs and claws that’d sunk into the throats of dozens of humans? How would they react if they’d seen him covered in blood, dripping with the remnants of destruction he’d caused?

His eyes met Steve’s.

How would Steve react if he found out Eddie was a monster?

Eddie shook the thought away, trying to focus his attention on Steve - the way his lovely features lit up whenever one of the kids made a joke, the way he took time to talk to each and every one of them, the way he was so perfectly Steve when surrounded by his family.

Something occurred to Eddie at that moment. For years, he’d been foolishly crushing on “King Steve Harrington”. He was no better than all the fawning girls at Hawkins High. He’d stare at Steve when he wasn’t looking, childishly dreaming of the possibility that maybe one day Steve would notice him. Then, with all the Upside Down shit, being thrown into danger with Steve had only made his crush grow.

It dawned on him that it was no longer a crush.

It dawned on him that, against his will, Eddie had fallen deeply and ridiculously in love with Steve Harrington.

~~~

“C’mon, Stevie, you got this.”

Encouraged by Eddie’s words, Steve bit his lip in concentration as he slowly took step after step, movements assisted by the crunches supporting his armpits. He’d been bedridden for nearly two months and finally, his doctor had allowed him to start working towards walking again.

Steve just hadn’t anticipated how hard it would be.

“You’re doing so good,” Eddie murmured. His hand had found its now-typical place on the small of Steve’s back, providing him some semblance of balance. Though he wouldn’t admit it, Steve didn’t actually need said hand - he could balance himself just fine - but the touch was comforting and it helped in its own way. Eddie’s soft words of praise in his ear were simply an… added bonus.

Slowly, but surely, Steve’s confidence grew, beginning to lurch his crutches farther forward, practically lunging himself along the hospital hallway. “I’m doing it! Fuck yeah, I’m doing it, Eddie! Soon enough, I’ll be shooting hoops again and-”

Maybe he got a little too excited.

Gravity betrayed Steve and he found himself barreling to the cold floor, limbs flailing around uselessly as his crutches clattered against the tile. His body tensed, prepared for the inevitable pain that would come with the resounding bang. It never came, however.

Warm hands wrapped around him, and his face was awkwardly pressed against Eddie’s firm chest. The familiar scent of old weed and Wayne’s favorite detergent engulfed Steve’s senses and god, it was addicting. He stayed there for a few moments too long; if asked, he would’ve insisted it was from the shock of falling over.

“I got you. I got you. It’s okay,” Eddie said softly, carefully lifting Steve back upright and lowering his touch to Steve’s hips, holding him steady. “Bit eager to get out of here, aren’tcha, Harrington?”

Steve hardly registered Eddie’s teasing. He whipped his head behind him, to Eddie, and back again repeatedly. Bewilderment was clear on his features. “You were behind me. How did you- there is no way you moved in front of me that fast.”

His eyes didn’t miss the way Eddie visibly stiffened. “You know me. What I lack in strength, I make up for in dexterity. Most of my points still go to that sweet ol’ charisma though.”

Ignoring Eddie’s obscure D&D references, Steve shook his head. “No, no,” he mumbled, almost to himself. “That- that was like, inhuman. Hell, a lot of things you do can’t be explained. Like, you’ve stayed here with me for the past seven weeks and I don’t think I’ve seen you sleep once. You say it’s because you only sleep when I sleep, but then how is it that whenever I wake up, you’re always already awake?”

“Steve…” Eddie began, a warning tone lacing his voice.

“Not to mention how fast you are when it comes to literally everything,” Steve continued. “I’ll ask you to go grab me something from the vending machine, which I know damn well is two floors down from my room, and you’ll be back in two minutes!”

“Steve.”

“And, look, I know you don’t like talking about it - and that’s okay. I get it, I really do - but how did you save my ass from the Russians? There were dozens of them, Eddie. All armed to the teeth. Don’t get me wrong; I think you’re strong and badass as fuck, but how could you have taken down that many men single-handedly? It’s- it’s impossible! There’s just-”

The hands left Steve’s waist and moved to scoop him up, one under his thighs and the other under his back. To his mortification, Eddie was carrying him bridal-style.

Before Steve could protest, Eddie was zooming - literally zooming - to their hospital room. As soon as he was picked up, Steve was put down again, and placed onto the too-hard mattress of his bed.

“What the hell?” Steve spluttered out.

“Steve.” Eddie’s voice was quiet, but firm, a subtextual demand for Steve’s full attention. “I’m going to answer your questions, alright? I would never lie to you. If what I tell you angers you, upsets you, disgusts you - anything - that’s okay. I get it. I’ll leave and you won’t have to hear from my ass ever again.”

Steve stared at him incredulously. “I’d never-”

“Just…” Eddie inhaled sharply, looking down before bringing his gaze back to Steve’s. “Just listen, okay?”

“... Okay.”

Eddie sat down beside Steve, fiddling with his rings. “I haven’t told anyone this,” he prefaced, momentarily sucking in his bottom lip. “I didn’t know how they’d react. I didn’t know how you’d react. Hell, I still don’t, but I figured you deserve to know.”

Worry seeping into his heart, Steve moved his hands from his lap to intertwine with Eddie’s. He didn’t miss the little smile that it earned.

“After you rescued me from the Upside Down, everything felt… different. Not like ‘wow, I almost just got eaten alive and that took a toll on my body’ different, either,” Eddie tried to joke. “I didn’t really feel hungry anymore. I knew I hadn’t eaten in days, but the hospital food didn’t taste like anything. Even when you and Nance brought me my favorite snacks, they just tasted like… textured air, I guess. I never felt tired either. God, I should’ve felt tired. I got fuckin’ destroyed by those bat bastards, but my body just… didn’t wanna rest. Then there was the whole pain thing. The doctors warned me that when they weaned me off the painkillers, shit would hurt like crazy, but it never really did. There was an ache, of course, but it wasn’t excruciating like they’d predicted it’d be.

“A few weeks after I got discharged, I began getting these… cravings, I guess. They were for meat, which was weird as fuck. I never really liked meat before. My dad was a big meat-lover and I guess I didn’t want to be like him, so I- that… that doesn’t matter. Anyways, I began eating raw steaks and shit obsessively. ‘Did it behind Uncle Wayne’s back because I knew it was weird, but I couldn’t help it. Around that time is when the uh- when the fangs came out.”

He turned to Steve, who only met him with the softest gaze. The prospect of fangs did surprise Steve, but he refused to let that show on his face. He’d support Eddie no matter what.

“Can I see?” Steve asked quietly.

Surprise flitted across Eddie’s face. He swallowed and nodded quickly. "Yeah… yeah, Stevie, of course you can see."

Eddie opened his mouth and Steve watched in awe as four canines extended from Eddie's gums, two on top and two on the bottom. They made a soft shing sound of bone scraping against bone; the fangs came up over Eddie's natural canines, a strange second set of teeth that bracketed his incisors. Steve silently mused that they were more wolf-like than vampire-like. They were large and thick, clearly meant for ripping into flesh rather than just making a slight incision.

For some reason, that thought made a delightful shudder run up Steve's spine.

"These are fucking awesome, holy shit," Steve breathed, reaching up, but faltering. His eyes flickered up to Eddie's, searching them for permission. When Eddie gave him an affirmative dip of his head, Steve let his fingers fall on the natural weapons. He felt Eddie shiver underneath his touch.

"'ey are't tha' coo'," Eddie said with difficulty, jaws still hanging open so Steve could curiously inspect them.

Steve stared at Eddie in disbelief and drew back. "Dude, you're like- a superhero. Like the Wolverine or something!" Realizing what he said, Steve quickly backtracked. "Not that I read that nerdy shit or anything. Dustin just talks about-"

"It's okay to like comics, Steve." Eddie tried to stifle his amusement. "But uh, I'm not a hero. 'Never was and never will be."

"'You serious?" Steve waited, and Eddie's lack of response was answer enough. "You literally saved all of Hawkins. You saved Dustin. Fuck, you saved me."

In more ways than you'll ever know, Steve wanted to add.

Eddie tilted his head back, running a hand through his hair in an anxious habit Steve had learned to recognize. "Heroes don't kill people. They don't tear out throats with their fucking teeth or splay people's goddamn guts across the walls. They don't show up to save people covered in blood." Eddie's voice was rising, anger evident in his tone. Anger towards himself, Steve realized. "Heroes get celebrated. They get love and adoration. If anyone saw my fangs? Hell," - he let out a humorless laugh - "they'd put me down like a goddamn mutt."

"Well, fuck them then," Steve shot out before he could hesitate, "because you are the most fucking selfless and loving human being I have ever met. You've been hurt over and over again by people - your dad, the shithead bullies at school that once included me, and the whole town at one point. They treated you like shit. The world treated you like shit. And what did you do? You just met them with that goddamn beautiful grin. You found love for anyone. You took those scrappy little kids in and cared for them. You spend hours on hours crafting perfect D&D sessions for them. They idolize you. They love you."

Steve saw tears prickling in the corners of Eddie's eyes and it was only then he realized that he, too, was crying. "You offered kindness to Chrissy when she came to you, even though her boyfriend tormented you every single fucking day. She came to you for drugs, but you gave her laughter and compassion. You didn't have to do that, but you did. Because you're you, Eddie. You are so perfectly you and goddamnit, I love you for that."

Eddie's eyes widened a little at Steve's accidental confession, but Steve couldn't give a shit. If Eddie rejected him, so be it. He needed to know how much Steve absolutely adored him.

"And most surprising of all, you offered your care to me," Steve croaked, fighting down the sob that threatened to escape him. "I treated you so fucking badly. I might not have said much directly to you, but I stood by while Tommy H. and the others verbally and sometimes physically hurt you. I let you go through hell. Yet, you still protected me back during all that Vecna shit. You had my back when I never had yours. Then, when all that was over, you invited me over for the occasional weed hangout. You talked to me like I'd been your friend for years. You made me feel so seen."

Steve licked the tears away from his lips and he could've sworn he saw Eddie look down at them. Shakily, he continued, "Eds, I owe my life to you. Not just because you saved me from the demobats or even from those fucking Russian assholes. You saved me from myself. Your jokes pulled me out of the god-awful thoughts constantly in my head, memories of real shitty times. Your smile reminded me that there was still good in this world. I owe it all to you. My everything."

Breath rapid from the extensive ramble, Steve's eyes flickered up to meet Eddie's, searching for something - anything.

"God, I fucking love you," was all Eddie said before he moved his hands to cup Steve's cheeks and his lips met his.

Oh.

Steve stilled into the kiss for a brief moment, surprise overtaking him. Thankfully, his brain kicked back into gear soon enough and he was kissing Eddie back with fervor. He tried to convey every emotion into the touch that his stumbling words couldn't.

It must've worked because the passion of the kiss heightened. All he could feel was Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. The feeling of his lips memorizing Steve's, the scent of old smoke and pine from that cologne he adored, the little whispers of "I love you, I love you, I love you" when they parted for breath - it was everything Steve had hoped for.

Steve was about to break away to speak when Eddie deepened the kiss further. That wasn't what shocked him, however. It was the sudden pin-prick of sharpness against his cheeks.

"Shit," Eddie cursed under his breath, moving back. Steve's eyes fluttered open and he immediately found the culprit of the sensation: large blackened claws had emerged from Eddie's fingernails.

Eddie flushed. "I am so, so sorry. I thought I had control of-"

"You have claws?" Steve exclaimed, mouth agape. "Holy shit, you are Wolverine!"

"I- what?" Eddie paused for a moment and then burst into a fit of laughter.

"Can you do other things? Can you fly? Oh my god, do you have laser eyes?!" Steve asked in a flurry, only causing Eddie to devolve into absolute cackles.

"It's not funny, Eddie; I'm seriously asking!" Steve complained, though his bright smile betrayed his attempts at appearing upset.

"God, Harrington, you…" Eddie wheezed out, finally beginning to catch his breath, "are a riot. I could get used to this."

Steve's smile widened. "So, does this mean I can take you out for a date?" he asked, putting on all his old King Harrington charm.

Shooting him a lopsided grin, Eddie leaned back against the bed, propping his head up in a dramatic fashion. "I don't know, Steve. You haven't truly wooed me yet."

Steve practically pounced on him.

"I'm sure some wooing can be arranged." Steve murmured, delighting in the loving gaze he received.

"As much as I'd love that," - Eddie sat up, propping himself on his elbows and giving Steve a peck on the forehead - "you need to learn how to walk again first. Then, you can take me on that date. 'We got a deal, sweetheart?"

Steve beamed.

"Deal."

#steddie #stranger things #stranger things 4 #steddie fic #fic #fanfiction #the fruity four #hurt/comfort

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