#one wrong move and they’re dead. it’s life or death every day | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hitlikehammers · 2 months

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to die by your side (is such a heavenly way to die)

rating: t ♥️ cw: angst with a happy ending (which is actually kinda fluffy?), limbo/near-death experiences, post-S4/Upside Down-heavy, falling in love ♥️ tags: falling for each other in the space between life and death, happy ending

for @steddielovemonth day twenty-six: Love is a fire that never goes out (@sidekick-hero)

this is because of 1) this song being too close to the prompt for me to disengage it in my head, and the chorus therefore dictating this plot line, and 2) @hbyrde36 picked it and, again, I am very susceptible to people indicating they like a thing and would enjoy more, so @hbyrde36: I hope you enjoy what this became ♥️

“Oh fuck, not you, too.”

Steve looks up—when did he sit down, he doesn’t remember sitting down, he doesn’t remember how even got here, and hey, actually, where is here—

“What?” Steve looks toward the voice; familiar. See the wreath of curls around a pale face.

“This is death, right?” Eddie’s crossing over to him, crouching just beside; “I’m dead, like, I am very sure I’m dead, but you’re here, so—“

“I don’t,” Steve breathes in sharp—tries to get his bearings, tries to see but it’s just black in every direction, his lungs feel like they’re halved in size all of sudden, everything feels tight and painful and hard like inhaling isn’t something guaranteed, and his heartbeat feels like it’s dragging the carcass of something with it when it pumps, laborious and—

He’s is breathing, though, even if it’s kinda half-assed; he’s got a heartbeat, even if it feels like it’s about to fucking give out.

That doesn’t…that doesn’t sound like death.

“I,” Steve licks his lips; his mouth is so fucking dry but swelling kinda hurts and…he’s not as fucked up as he has a feeling he should be, he needs to think harder than he’s ready for just now to figure out what the last thing that happened between where he was, and where he is but: he thinks he should be more fucked up on, like, an instinctual level that knows he should be pretty fucked up, basically, and he’s not.

But again: he still hurts, and that…also doesn’t sound like death.

He swallows anyway; not that it helps.

“Max said there was this, black void,” Steve works through the first thing that comes to mind slowly, processes as he speaks; “with water,” and he looks down and sees the ripples in what he’s sitting in, moving around him but…but the reflections are right, and there’s no light so how are there even wrong reflections; he wasn’t good in his science classes but he feels pretty sure you need light to see anything in a mirror, plus—

“Water,” he flicks his hand from the standing pool around him up at Eddie without warning: “that wasn’t wet.”

Eddie splutters, but it dies down quick: it’s supposed to be wet. He expects it to be.

But it’s not. His eyes go so fucking big.

“It’s attached to the Upside Down,” Steve pushes on; “Eleven can like, come here, but,” he shakes his head and Eddie grimaces: she lost her powers.

“So it’s almost-death,” Eddie surmises, and drops into the not-water next to Steve.

“I guess so,” Steve shrugs, and draws his legs up; hugs his knees.

“Fucking great,” Eddie huffs, sneers, and it’s…Steve not sure why exactly, but it feels…targeted. Directed at him, because one, yes: he isthe only other thing here—as far as he can tell—but the words Eddie’d no-greeted him with float back into his consciousness:

Not you.

“Sorry to rain on your parade, man,” Steve bites out and shoves his head down between his thighs, maybe to breathe, maybe to think, maybe to hide, maybe to fucking cry, maybe to…fuck, he doesn’t even know.

He thinks he’s in the middle of trying to split the difference of every possible thing when Eddie’s voice breaks the still in the dark: “I didn’t,” and honestly, Steve’s never heard that voice sound so soft, so small; “that’s not what I meant,” and it’s an apology even if they words don’t add up exact, Steve feels it clear like a blow to the solar plexus. He turns to Eddie, who’s staring out at the nothing.

“I don’t want to be alone,” Eddie whispers, and his lip trembles, Steve can see that despite the lack of light.

Steve can see tears on that face, too, despite the lack of any light.

“But I hate that you’re here,” Eddie’s voice catches on kind of a whine, and Steve maybe would startle, when a hand reaches out and covers his; Eddie still does look at him, but he flattens his hand over Steve’s like a squeeze:

“That you’re here, too.”

And, oh. Okay.

Okay.

They’re here, then. Together.

Here.

___________________

It takes a while—he thinks; he thinks it’s a while, but one of the first things that makes itself plain in this godforsaken place is how times means absolutely fucking nothing, so; he think it takes a while to remember the vines.

They were coming back for Robin, and Steve would die before he let her get hurt so: that’s the last thing he remembers.

For Eddie, it’s the bats; Steve grimaces, hates even imagining like…swarms of them. More of their bites.

He’s the one who reaches for Eddie’s hand, this time—he wants to say it’s just a little comfort for the particularly bad things that are coming up as they sit here, as they draw patterns in the not-water and blow against it to make little waves just for shits, mindless and stupid: he wants to say that when it gets too much, and then keeps going, when it’s the worst, they’ve started to reach because what else can they do? Who else can they lean on?

Who’s gonna fucking know?

Actually: no. He doesn’t want to say that.

He wants to say the truth: the truth being they touch a lot. They reach a lot. They reach because it’s quiet. They reach because it’s dark. They reach because they’re frustrated. Or they’re scared. Steve could map Eddie’s calluses blind if he was asked to. Eddie traces his veins without being able to see close enough to know that he’s right.

He wants to say the truth: that he wants to touch. He craves it. And not just from anyone.

He craves this.

He doesn’t know what that fucking means.

But he’s the one who reaches, and covers Eddie’s hand, presses down to keep him when Eddie remembers the bats.

And he’s the one who leans, who rests their shoulders together and holds his breath.

But Eddie is the one who doesn’t move away, who leans in too, he tips his head onto Steve and breathes out slow so Steve can feel the warm damp of it on his skin and…

Steve’s heart’s fucking pounding, but then also it’s kinda like fluttering, and either way:

That’s not death.

___________________

Steve likes that the not-water is…not water, because lying back in it doesn’t fuck up his hair. Which…feels cleaner than it should be he figures maybe that’s just the same as both he and Eddie not being riddled with the wounds they should be rights be covered in—he can run his hands through it and that’s really all he wants, his hands, or like, you know if other hands wanted—

Whatever; he’s not going to question the not-water. He’s happy it doesn’t make him a wet dog just for trying to lay back and pretend there are stars.

Which he’d still be doing, if a weird…flapping noise hadn’t started up over to the left.

He has to squint in the no-light to see what the fuck’s going on, something in Eddie’s hands, oh shit, flapping, is it one of those fucking bats—

“What the fuck?”

Eddie freezes, and turns. And Steve sees what’s in his hands.

Doesn’t change his question.

Eddie just blinks at him. And runs his thumbs over the desk of cards he’s holding, flicking them one by one: flapping.

“Where the hell did those come from?”

Eddie shrugs. “Pocket.”

Steve gapes a little.

“You’ve had them the whole time?” because again, even if the feeling’s shifted: what the fuck

“Lots of pockets, man,” Eddie grins cheekily as he shakes his jacket out, like Steve can see any pockets.

Then he’s walking over to Steve on his knees before dropping cross-legged and shuffling the deck before he taps them out on his thigh and leans in:

“Pick your poison.”

And Steve’s played his share of cards, is actually pretty decent at poker, but, like…

“I don’t,” he bites his lip and stares at the predictable red pattern of the face-down cards;“I don’t want to think,” he finishes, kinda fucking lame, but Eddie’s not deterred, flips a few cards off the top with a thump before balancing the rest on his knee, offering half the cards he’s still holding to Steve with a little wiggle of his eyebrows:

“Go Fish?”

And Steve, he, like—

This is not-death, right, but whatever it is, it’s probably not good, and yet here Steve sits, with five cards in his hand and…Jesus.

He feels his lips stretch and he doesn’t think he’s smiled like this in…

In a while.

___________________

“Three Musketeers,” Steve answers when they’re lounging in the not-water, heads lined up so sometimes Steve feels the tickle of Eddie’s curls.

“The fuck?” Eddie huffs a laugh; the question was just things they’d miss if they never get out of here; like, it’s a little morbid and also a little hopeful all at once.

They’ve been working deeper in the category of food for a bit now, and so it’s candy bars. And Steve does not see what’s controversial about his choice, honestly.

“I love those, shit,” Steve waves his hand in the air, dismissing Eddie’s very wrong opinion, here; “they’re just,” Steve hums, tries to figure out the best way to defend a genuinely fucking excellent snack food:

“They’re simple,” and that sounds like a weak defense but look at where they are, look at their lives, that is fucking high praise. “Not too sweet and like, light and airy and,” Steve tilts his head, imagines the mouthfeel:

“Kinda delicate when you bite into ‘em,” he feels himself grin a little: “like bubbles or something,” because…yeah.

They’re awesome, but then he looks over at Eddie, who’s already turned to look at him, his gaze…something. Weighty but not oppressive. Piercing but not painful.

“Sorry,” Steve feels himself flush and it’s no the first time, or the worst time, but he’s grateful just like he is every time that there’s no fucking light and whatever lets them see at all doesn’t give away a blush; “sorry, that’s—“

“That’s adorable,” Eddie says with something…equally undefinable in his voice as much as his eyes, but this thing makes Steve feel, like, warm and tingly, a little, under his skin, in his chest; “you’re right, they’re…” and Eddie reaches for his hand, which they do a lot, yeah, but not…not so often for good things and this feels…like a good thing.

“They’re really good,” Eddie presses his hand over Steve’s, like a blanket, all encompassing—Steve has broad hands but Eddie’s fingers are longer than he’d ever noticed and he—

Steve likes how they fit.

“Under-appreciated, I think,” Eddie’s voice has lowered, softened, and it kinda feels like he’s saying something that has nothing to do with candy bars at all: “because people aren’t looking close enough to see how amazing it is.”

Yeah, for how Eddie’s staring at him, and for how Steve’s pulse has ramped up all of a sudden: Steve doesn’t really think Eddie’s talking about chocolate at all.

___________________

“You’re really good company.”

Eddie turns and blinks Steve’s way.

“What?”

Steve swallows; he’s not sure what made him say it. Except that it’s true.

“I’d have liked it,” he starts, like, expands on the point rather than revisiting the simple part; “if we could have, y’know,” and he gestures between them; “hung out.”

Eddie tilts his head, and he doesn’t smile exactly, but it kinda feels like his whole face, maybe his whole body, is a smile.

“Well,” he huffs a little laugh, like a disbelieving sound; “we’re hanging out, now.”

And Steve smiles the normal way, which is probably lesser to look at, but he wishes really hard that Eddie could, like, slip under his skin and see how it feels on the inside. “Yeah,” Steve grins at the darkness for a second, chews his lips a little, suddenly kinda…bashful, fuck:

“Yeah we are,” and then he breathes in deep, and makes himself be brave with something he doesn’t wholly understand:

“I like it,” and that’s an understatement.

And then Eddie hums, and covers Steve’s hand as he murmurs:

“Me too, sweetheart.”

And Steve’s heartbeat catches on that word, or more, reaches for that word, that name, greedy and wild and it pounds out that same desperate mantra blood-in-blood-out unwavering:

not-dead, not-dead, not-dead, not—

___________________

Eddie’s smile is so fucking pretty.

He didn’t know what Speed was, like the card game, so they’ve each got a pile balanced on a knee as the flip and they’re pressed up tight at their crossed legs to make a little table from their limbs for the discards and Eddie’s just…

It’s not just his smile.

“My grandpa taught me to play,” Steve comments idly, mostly just for something to say when it looks like they’re stuck and need to flip from the sides.

“It’s chaotic,” Eddie looks up and meets Steve’s eyes, his own fucking glittering when the lack of light should make that impossible but Steve thinks Eddie is kinda impossible so probably it fits.

“I like it,” he proclaims, as he reaches for another card to start the momentum back up, raises an eyebrow at Steve and waits for him to follow suit like he’s the expect, like Steve didn’t fucking just show him this game—

“You would,” Steve snorts and Eddie?

Eddie just beams bigger, and that catches in Steve’s pulse, nudges it to sing something that’s more than just not-dead; that’s more…

That feels more

___________________

It’s the more-feeling that breaks him, in the end.

“You called me big boy.”

Steve doesn’t really have control over his mouth, when it happens. Or else, like, he doesn’t think before the words tumble out, and the lie in the not-water and stare at the absence of the starts in the not-sky.

His heart’s jumped up to his throat, now.

Eddie’s quiet, for a while, even if time doesn’t mean anything here; Eddie’s quiet, and Steve’s heart wants to jump out of his fucking mouth but if it does than it’s got two destinations: it can’t drown in the not-water so that’s fucking useless, and then there’s Eddie, Eddie’s hands, Eddie’s chest and—

“I,” Eddie finally speaks, and his voice is rough, far away;“I, yeah.”

Steve doesn’t know what he was expecting. He wasn’t planning on saying anything so there weren’t any expectations built in.

“You looked at me,” Steve’s whispering, but it wavers, it moves with the force of his blood; “like you…” Steve licks his lips, swallows a whimper because what is he doing, what is he doing—

“Being almost-dead is really going to take the thunder out of your backlash on this, Harrington,” Eddie cuts into his panic and Steve’s head snaps over to look, to try and read Eddie’s expression: scared. Bracing for impact. Like Steve would, like Steve could ever—

“No, no, I,” Steve raises himself up and scoots over to Eddie, grabs his hands and presses them together in his own, never once looks away from Eddie’s eyes as they stretch wide.

“What did you mean?” because Steve’s started this, and Eddie’s anxious for it and…he needs Eddie to understand he’s not upset, he’s confused, his heart’s all swollen for it, he just, he—

“With the, with calling me that, and with leaning in like you did in the woods,” his breath’s shaking on the exhale: “with all the looks,” and he tries to leave it all in his eyes, on his face, open and clear for all that he doesn’t understand, but also for all that he…that he hopes.

Eventually, Eddie sighs, and squeezes his eyes shut tight, almost like a wince.

But he doesn’t pulls his hands away.

“You’re not stupid, Steve.”

Steve shakes his head, even if Eddie can’t see it.

“I’m very stupid.”

And Eddie’s eyes fly open, look wrathful, look offended on…Steve’ behalf, what the fuck?

And yeah, yeah, he’s opening his mouth now to fight him, to fight Steve about Steve and…no. No, that’s not the point.

“I’m stupid,” Steve says again, but quick so he can get it out; “about like,” he tries to find the right words and remembers Robin’s point on it once:

“About, you know, matters of the heart.”

Eddie’s features slacken, and his mouth drops open as he blinks at Steve before he eventually chokes out:

“Heart?”

But Steve can hear it. He can hear the confusion, like his own, but also just like his own:

He thinks he can hear the hope.

“You held that bottle to my throat and all I wanted was for you to lean closer,” he confesses, and it feels amazing, like he can breathe again, or see in color even though there’s so little color, here.

“And slit it?” Eddie croaks, incredulous, still a little slack-jawed and Steve laughs, because he can breathe, and—

“And kiss me, you dick.”

Eddie’s mouth snaps shut, and his eyes somehow get bigger, and his chest’s heaving and Steve wants that not to be for fearing, he wants Eddie to be anything but scared, he wants Eddie to be hoping—

“Stevie,” Eddie barely breathes and…it’s not scared, or else, not like it could be. It’s hesitant. It’s…full, of something Steve thinks might be incredible.

“You call me sweetheart,” Steve leans in, pushes the point, leans more until he’s close enough where he can feel Eddie’s breath on his face; “here. Now.”

Eddie nods immediately, doesn’t try to hide from it.

“Yeah, I do,” he breathes, and watches Steve so careful, unblinking.

“What does it mean,” Steve pushes, angles his lips without even thinking, without making the choice but Eddie?

Eddie makes the choice, and he kisses Steve so fucking sure and sweet and still wild somehow and Steve never wants to not be here. Never wants to not have this mouth under his, never wants to not have Eddie’s hands in his own: he doesn’t wholly understand it, where it comes from or what all it means but…his heart’s fucking dancing, the joy’s almost sore for it’s size and when Steve breathes between them, when they break for half a second to breathe and stare and marvel and Eddie looks like he’s entranced, like he’s overjoyed, and the only other thing here is Steve?

Fuck. Fuck.

If this ends up being death, that’s okay. That’s okay, as long as there’s also this.

___________________

He’s on top of Eddie’s chest, curled so so close, when it starts to feel…different. In his body. Like something pulling him.

The dark is still absolute but it almost feels like they’re on the brink of something, like dawn could come.

Steve fucking hates it.

“I don’t want to die alone,” Eddie whispers against his head, kisses at his hair.

“I don’t want you to die,” Steve grits out, almost violent, because isn’t this how it started, wasn’t that what Eddie meant, that he didn’t want Steve here, too—but Steve won’t accept that.

He cannot fucking accept that.

“I don’t want you to die at all.”

Eddie drags the tip of his nose back and forth against Steve’s hair some more as he breathes, breathes, breathes—

“To die by your side,” Eddie murmurs low; “would be my privilege,” and Steve chokes on a whine, a sob—it’s too much. It’s too much, and he needs this man, he needs him so much, he think he fucking loves hi—

“Maybe it’s not dying,” Steve tries, looks out into the abyss and he can’t see what’s on the way but he feels it; they both feel it: “maybe we’ll,” and he grabs Eddie’s hand and brings it to his lips.

“Maybe we’ll wake up.”

Maybe. Maybe.

“Kiss me,” Eddie exhales and Steve pulls back, slides up Eddie’s chest and hovers over him, makes to claim his lips but then Eddie lifts a palm, pauses Steve as he presses it over his racing heart and blinks at him, makes the tears fall from his lashes:

“Kiss me again when we wake up.”

And Steve will, he will, but.

He’s gonna kiss Eddie now, too. He’s going to kiss Eddie always.

He thinks his heart’s going too fast to beat out words but that, in itself, has to mean something that isn’t…death.

So he pours that conviction, and all the hope he’s got left, into Eddie as he devours him, breathes into him like they can melt together, like if Steve’s air lifts Eddie’s lungs they’ll be one person, one living soul and whatever happens…

Whatever happens will take them both.

___________________

Eddie splutters, clutches his chest; his heart’s racing, it feels like his blood’s on fire because every beat fucking burns, and the tear of his shirt where it’s stuck to his skin—dried blood, fucking hell—all up his side is absolutely disgusting, Jesus fuck—

“Eddie!”

He turns and that, that’s Henderson, and he squints; that’s Henderson running toward him, less than a minute away at that pace and Eddie doesn’t know if he can sit up but he’ll try, he digs his fingers into the mud and makes to lift—

And then something crashes into him, pins him right back down.

Covers his hands. Presses.

And he can’t get a word out, can barely fucking breathe before his lips are covered, before he’s being kissed so fucking desperate and giddy and all these feelings being fed straight into him, his heart leaping up in his throat to steal a taste but it doesn’t need to, it doesn’t need to because he feels…he feels it all everywhere, and he looks up and he shakes, he laughs, he’s gonna fucking cry—

“You woke up,” Eddie whispers, marvels, thinks his whole face is going to split open with, with joy and Steve, Steve is here, and he’s smiling back, and he’s breathing and they’re, it’s—

There’s light here. Steve’s eyes are like molten copper, they flicker, they shine.

“Promised,” Steve murmurs close, his lips moving Eddie’s lips with each syllable and the taste is, is…sweet and soft and light and perfect and Eddie almost doesn’t ask because it feels so right, so unquestionable but also he wants, something fierce and unwavering, and he needs to be sure where the water’s real, and the ripples mean something when you shift the whole fucking world, when you feel this big you know it’ll move the earth breathe your feet, so he has to ask:

“That the only reason?”

He still feels the hope from wherever they were, though; he feels it still, here, and he believes in it more in the light, he thinks, and he looks at Steve, takes him in, sees his chest rising and his pulse at the neck: real. Real, and so beautiful, and so, so—

Steve leans and kisses him hard, almost painful but it’s divine, Eddie will bask in the sting of it for the rest of his fucking life if he’s allowed, and then—

Then Steve pulls back and pins him with his eyes, now, fierce and on fire and they steal Eddie’s breath with feeling, with intent as Steve grabs at his shoulders, pulls them flush together and growls against his ear, like a vow almost:

“Only reason?” Steve huffs, shakes his head. “Not even close,” and he drags his lips over Eddie’s skin, catches Eddie’s hair, weaves into Eddie’s heartbeat:

not-dead, not-dead, not-dead

in-love, in-love, in-love—

tag list (comment to be added): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690

♥️

divider credit here

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #hurt/comfort #falling in love #angst with a happy ending #(also oddly fluffy?)#presumed dead #(but obviously NOT)#happy ending #the black void place with the water on the floor is LIMBO #and they maybe kinda fall for each other in the space between life and death because OF COURSE THEY DO #and these boys are maybe kinda stuck there #steddielovemonth #love is a fire that never goes out #stranger things

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mirage-aera · 4 months

Text

•°. *࿐ Five stages of grief | TF141 + König + Keegan

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : Reflections - The Neighbourhood

Synopsis: How the boys will cope with your death after a mission gone wrong following the five stages of grief, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

Word count: 2.099

Masterlist

Inspired by an acting challenge @ simplyagh0st has created on tiktok, check him out he does great content if you haven't!

"falling just as hard, I'd rather lose somebody than use somebody"

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley has gone through so much hurt already. He promised himself that he wouldn’t let anyone close to his heart, and just rip it out again. But once you came along and managed to tear down his walls, he made a vow to himself to keep you safe, to make sure he doesn’t have to go through loss, again.

During the mission, your position gets overwhelmed by enemies. Backup is only a couple of minutes away. The team is split up, you are together with Simon, fighting off waves of enemies. Simon has unknowingly turned his back on an enemy while trying to help you. You’re his priority and he discards his own safety. You see the barrel of the gun facing his back. Not saying a word, you run up to him and turn him around. Not expecting the movement, he easily moves with you. Effectively swapping places with you. The shot rings out and pierces you through the heart. You start collapsing to the floor. He manages to catch you before you meet the ground. He pulls his pistol out of the holster and shoots the enemy with no hesitation.

He sets your body down on the floor gently. Your backup arrives and helps Simon clear out the enemies. As he looks at the dead bodies around him, he can’t help but stare at you. He’s a seasoned soldier. He knows you are dead and that nothing can help you.

As days go on without you by his side, slowly his misery turns into anger. He hates the fact that you put yourself in front of a bullet that was meant for him. He hates the fact that he failed to protect you. He hates that he got so distracted with keeping enemies away from you that he failed to notice the enemy pointing a gun at him. He hates that he let his walls down again, and let someone break his heart again. He gets colder by the day, not giving a damn for anyone or anything. He’s on a mission, to kill every single person involved in that mission that’s on the other side of your guns. He may have failed in protecting you, but he’ll be damned if he fails at this too.

"I see my reflection in your eyes.."

John ‘Soap’ MacTavish can’t believe how much of a fuck up he is. He promised you, that whenever you are around him. He’ll keep you safe. No matter what. So when he sees your empty eyes staring up at him. He can’t help but feel so guilty. He’s used to seeing his reflection in your eyes. Eyes that were so full of life, and now they’re lifeless. All because he broke his promise to you. He just stares at your body in shock. One second you were fine, even joking around with him. The next second you’re gone and he failed to protect you.

They had to drag him off of your dead body. When they put a white sheet over you, that’s when he finally stopped fighting. He had no other choice than to accept you’re dead. He wouldn’t leave your side. Even at death. He’s locked himself up in his room after getting discharged. Price said he’s a liability and that he should take some time off. But really all it did was shut him off even more. He feels so alone in your shared bedroom. Once full of laughter are now fleeting memories. He spends his day in bed, reminiscing and crying. He wants to be angry, he wants to avenge you. But he’s just so goddamn tired. His reflection staring back at him through your lifeless eyes will forever haunt him.

The only time he leaves the house is to visit you. Even then, your cheerful Johnny is no more. He just stares at your tombstone in sadness, remorse, and regret. He thinks about all of the what-ifs. He knows you would hate to see him like this, but he feels like he has no other option. His light was and always will be you. Someone has taken his light away, and the tunnel is now a dark and lonely one

"we were too close to the stars, I never knew somebody like you"

Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick has never expected the mission to go so awry. If anything, it was supposed to be one of the easier missions that the Task Force had to endure. So when he stares at you, lying limp on the cold hard ground. One thought is speeding through his mind. ‘No no no, she’s not dead. She can’t be dead.” Even though the signs are there, you are clinically dead. You aren’t breathing, heart stopped pumping the instant the explosion went off. Eyes staring blankly up at the sky. He rushes to you and reassures you as if you’re still alive.

“Hey, hey just keep your eyes open baby. Help is on the way.”

“You’ll be okay, you’re stronger than them.”

“Just hold on, you’re fine baby. It’s just a bruise.”

He repeats these things, both to you and him. As long as he can reassure himself that you are okay and still ‘alive’, everything will be alright. Despite the blood staining his clothes and covering his hands. He refuses to believe you are dead. Not when you are one of the most important people in his life if not the most important. You’re supposed to grow old and die together. Not abruptly by an explosion, not on the job. He has never met someone like you, someone so caring and kind-hearted. You’re a special one and he knows it.

Even as the medics put you on a stretcher and placed a white sheet over your body. Even when they pronounced you dead. He refuses to listen to them. Even when your casket gets lowered into the ground as they give you an honorary send-off. When they forced him to attend your funeral so that he won't regret it later. He still believes you are alive. Sometimes he can hear you call out to him, telling him you love him and that he should move on from you. On a few rare occasions, he swears he sees you standing before him. Or amongst the team on a briefing. And when he informs the team that you have returned, they just stare at him in pity. And repeat what they have been saying for weeks. “She’s dead and isn’t coming back.”

"(tell me you see it too..)"

John Price is a seasoned soldier. He has seen many things, things that he’d rather have not seen. But to keep the world clean, someone has to get their hands dirty. During his whole military, he has seen many comrades die, good people that didn’t deserve to die. Once he became captain he made sure that every one of his fallen brothers and sisters would get a proper and honorable send-off.

You are not an exception. Once he got the news that you’ve been KIA’d. His whole world stopped before it started turning again. His team needs him to be level-headed, not an emotional wreck. He can let his emotions out later in private. They retrieve your body from the field and bring it home. As you lay in the chopper, lifeless. He stares at you both in sadness and frustration. He knows you aren’t coming back. He’s frustrated that he couldn’t save you. Your eyes are still open, staring blankly back at him. He sighs as he closes your eyes, not bearing to see his reflection in your eyes. A reminder that he failed you, both as a partner and captain.

He was there during every step of the send-off. He made sure everything was perfect and that nothing could go wrong. You deserve to rest in peace. As the casket goes down, he can’t help but feel slightly peaceful as he watches you get lowered. He’s there until midnight, talking endlessly with your tombstone. Until he’s forced to leave you, so he can prepare for his next mission. Dealing with the bastards, and everyone involved that took you from him.

‘At least she’s free from the horrors of this world.’ He thinks to himself. From now on, he’ll strive to keep the world clean. So that you can forever lay one with the earth in peace. It’s the least he could do for you now that you can’t do it yourself. Maybe one day he’ll join you. But for now he’s content with the fact you no longer have to suffer.

"maybe it's a blessing in disguise?"

König has been spiralling since that mission, the mission where you did not return like you said you would. He regrets sending you on that mission for KorTac. He unknowingly sent you on a suicide mission. The worst part is, they never found your body. It makes him sick to think about what happened to it. He hates the way he can’t even put you to proper rest, where you want to be buried if something were to happen. He rereads the mission file over and over. He thinks that maybe, just maybe, he could’ve seen it coming from a mile away and perhaps he could’ve warned you. But the times he rereads it he realizes that there was nothing that could’ve been done for you. Every outcome would’ve likely ended with you dying. It revolts him to think he sent you to your death.

Your shared home feels so cold and lonely without your presence. He takes care of the garden for you, he waters your indoor plants. You always made him a fruit salad while he worked in his office. So he does it himself. But instead of using his favourite fruits, he makes them with your favourite. Hoping that one day, you’ll come home and join him, sharing a fruit salad together as you used to do. He heads to the cemetery daily, where your empty casket is buried. Sometimes, he’ll come with a small bowl of fruit salad.

“I’ve got your favourites, meine Taube.”

“Bitte, come home. Your plants miss you, I can’t take care of them as well as you do.”

“I wish I never sent you on that verdammt mission.”

As he speaks softly to your tombstone, a white dove perches on top of it. He looks at it as it reminds him of you. He watches as the dove takes your favourite fruits from the bowl and eats it. Eventually, it picks up the pieces of his favourite fruit and drops them on his hand. He chuckles lightly, “welcome home, Liebe.”

"falling just as hard, I'd rather lose somebody than use somebody"

Keegan Russ was already torn with the death of Ajax. But when Rorke did the same to you. His whole world crumbled. When they found out Rorke had a kill list for the Ghosts. He made a vow to himself to keep you safe, no matter what. So when Rorke captured you, he was furious. But he still had confidence in getting you back home to him. He was so close, yet so far. He realizes it’s a repeat of what happened to Ajax. That just spurred him on more to get you back faster.

But when he came face to face with Rorke. He spots your limp body behind Rorke. Oh, he so wanted to wipe that smirk off of his face, but his priority is you first and foremost. “What did you do?!” Keegan screams out in rage. When that smirk got wider, he was so tempted to put a bullet in between his eyes right there and then. “I crossed off a name on the list.” All Keegan sees is red. Rorke throws your lifeless to him.

Keegan catches your body and slumps to the floor. Rorke sees this as an opportunity to escape, and right now Keegan doesn’t give a shit. He clutches your body closer to him. Hating the way your cold skin touches him. Hating all the dried-up blood and bruises. You suffered, and he couldn’t help you. He screams in both rage and agony. He gently puts you down before trashing the room you were held in. He throws things left and right. He tears down papers from the walls.

At your funeral, he wasn’t any better. If anything, his body was running on pure adrenaline and rage. Once he gets his hand on Rorke. He will show him the wrath that he has bestowed upon him. He can’t help but continuously for not being there to protect you. He stares at your tombstone in anger. ‘How did I let you slip through my fingers?’ That is all he can think about. You were gone, because he was too late. That thought will forever linger in the back of his mind.

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kit-walk3r · 10 months

Text

The Evans as parents

Here’s something a little different 🙈 Enjoy!

Tate

I hate to break it to people but Tate would not be too involved as a dad

He’d probably be one of those dad’s who pops up every once in a while to do something fun then drops the kid back off at home and disappears for another 6 months. Obviously he can’t do that because he’s, ya know, dead but you get the vibe

Ooo, maybe Halloween is the day he does something with his kid. Since he can leave the house Tate goes somewhere, maybe the park, and meets them and they spend the day together before Tate has to go back to the house. Honestly it’s the child’s favourite day of the year and even though they do notice that their father never ages they don’t ask questions because they’re just happy to be with their dad, and Tate is happy to be with them (since it’s just one day he can have fun with them without full parental responsibilities)

⬆️ If the kid isn’t Satan. If that child is anything like Michael then Tate isn’t interested and will continue spending his days being miserable in the murder house

Kit

Isn’t it obvious? Father of the year

Kit spent a good few years as a single father between Grace and Alma’s deaths, Jude moving in (and then dying ☹️) and remarrying and let me tell you, he was the best father to those kids there could ever be

He’s mother and father to those kids. He does everything for them. He makes their lunches for school every morning, braids Julia’s hair, cooks them dinner, makes sure their clothes are washed and ironed etc., everything a mother is expected to do. He plays games with them both in the backyard, as well as with their trucks and dolls, he helps them with their homework, reads them bedtime stories. Anything those kids ask him to do he will do

When he remarries Kit is hesitant about going back to sharing parental responsibilities because he’d spent so long being the sole parent to Thomas and Julia but he slowly lets that go and welcomes you to into the family as a mother figure to the kids

He’s still the only one allowed to braid Julia’s hair though

Kyle

Kyle tries to be the best dad he can be. He didn’t have a great relationship with his own dad since he walked out on him and his mum (which Kyle hates him for since it was a catalyst for what his mother did to him) so he wants to offer his kid a much better childhood than he was given

He doesn’t have the money to buy them expensive gifts or take them on days out or vacations but he tries to make up for that in any way he can. Almost every weekend is spent out doing something that is free, like park or perhaps a museum when they’re older. He just wants to give his kid fun memories that will stick with them

Kyle’s a young parent, barely twenty, with not much life experience so he’s not perfect and he’s going to make mistakes. He has some days where he acts more like a brother than a dad which can often lead to some trouble but he’s doing his best and that makes him a good dad

He completely cuts ties with his mother after his baby is born. He can’t allow her in his life anymore when he’s caring for someone so vulnerable

Jimmy

Jimmy’s probably the most scared of being a dad, mostly because he’s scared that his kid will have hands like him and will face the prejudice and hate Jimmy has faced his whole life and that he won’t be able to protect them from it

His kid has his hands? Jimmy will teach them from day one that they have nothing to be ashamed of and that there is nothing wrong with them. He’ll instil into them that they should be proud of who they are and that they’re special.

His kid doesn’t have his hands? It sounds mean but Jimmy can’t help but feel a slight bit of relief knowing that they won’t be subjected to the things Jimmy was growing up. He’s still as protective over them as he would be if they did have his hands (especially if they’re a girl) but there’s other things he has to worry about (like someone breaking his little girl’s heart because Jimmy is that sort of a father)

Jimmy would make sure your family live a stable lifestyle. No travelling all over the country as a spectacle like Jimmy did growing up. No, you’d all live in house in a nice, safe neighbourhood where the kid(s) can make friends and have a fun, happy, loving life

James

The child would be his pride and joy but let’s be honest, James is rich and from the 20s. He’d have someone else do most of the parenting

James has plans for the child to become his little protege once they’re old enough and he wants to show them all the perfect ways to kill someone (like how he taught the other serial killers from Devil’s Night)

Even if they were just a few months old James would talk to the child as if they were an adult. He refuses to do baby talk and finds it demeaning. No child of his will be spoken to in such a way

Would definitely name that child after himself if they were a boy. James March Jr. If it’s a girl you can choose, he doesn’t necessarily care

Rory

The ‘fun parent’

Rory is essentially a big kid himself so the most caretaking he does for that child is playtime, and at the most inconvenient times. You’ve just got them settled for bed and then Rory comes in and suddenly there’s a game of hide and seek or tag playing

Rory uses his kid to help him rehearse for auditions. If they’re a baby then he’ll just sit them in front of him whilst he practices his lines and pretend they’re the casting director but if they’re older he’ll give them a copy of the script and have them play the other part

Rory will invite his kid to set all the time, much to the director’s frustration. He says it’s because they want to see what their daddy does but it’s really because he likes to show off to them, but also give them a fun day. He’ll let them meet all the other actors and stuff, give them a really fun day

Rory is definitely the type of parent who does matching halloween costumes with his kid

Kai

Kai finally has his Messiah baby

He has a rota for all the girls of the cult to take turns taking care of the child as that’s the woman’s job

He will spend time with the child and will be their dad but he won’t do any of the actual proper parenting stuff. He’ll occasionally read a bedtime story but it will be about some cult leader or something else traumatic which really isn’t appropriate for like a 4 year old but Kai decides that the kid needs to be toughened up straight away

Although he’s quite angry with everyone else, Kai tries to keep his temper to a minimum around the kid. He still clearly resents his own father and the anger and abuse he inflicted on the Anderson family and although Kai has very questionable morals he doesn’t want to be such an awful figure to his child and cause any sort of emotional hurt that could have a lasting effect on him

Austin

Even if he wasn’t taking the pill Austin would have enough inspiration from his child, who would become his muse

This kid would be so impeccably dressed, all their outfits would be perfect every single day. Austin is a fashion icon, why can’t his kid be?

Austin’s self control gets a little better once he becomes a parent. Kids are very accident prone so Austin has had to deal with his fair share of cuts and bruises, meaning he’s had to learn to control himself around blood so he doesn’t do anything stupid (like suck the blood out of their finger like Harry did)

When he’s taken the pill and is writing a new play Austin can be a little… distant. Not neglectful, just that he is so focused on his play that everything else around him is kind of irrelevant? It’s not as if he leaves the kid alone, they’re being looked after obviously, but they’re just not his number one priority when he’s in writing mode :// when he’s not writing he’s the complete opposite and that child is his world

Austin and his kid definitely do karaoke together. Move over Belle, baby Sommers is Austin’s new partner

Peter

Peter’s like Rory and is the fun parent. Remember what he was like with Billy and Tommy in Wandavision? He’s like that 24/7 with his own kid

Good luck if that child ends up a speedster like Peter. They’ll rarely be around. Peter will be racing them all the time. Sometimes he’ll let them win and then act really sad that he’s been beaten by his like 7 year old

If his kid doesn’t have super speed then once they’re old enough Peter will run around with them on his back to make them feel better about it. He even gives them their own mini goggles so they can feel more like dad 🥺

Yet another Evan character with daddy issues who wants to make sure he’s there for his kid since his dad was never there for him

Colin

Colin’s not necessarily the fun parent but he’s the softer parent

He’s the parent the kid will go to whenever they want something because they know he’ll say yes. He’s kind of a pushover like that. He can’t say no to them. He tries to, honestly. He tells himself ‘no more. I’m not letting this kid walk all over me’ but fails every time. All they have to do is pout and suddenly Colin is down $20 or is driving the kid somewhere you’d not let them go

He does have his stricter moments, but they’re rare. If the kid does something pretty serious then this side of him comes out and he will be dishing out punishments like grounding them but he hates doing it and feels awful afterwards, even though he knows it has to be done

He’d do anything for his kid and has considered quitting being a cop just so he can be at home and see them more. Honestly, he kind of struggles being a cop after becoming a dad anyway. He thinks about some of the stuff he’s seen in the past and knows he wouldn’t be able to stomach that if he saw it now he’s a parent

He’s pretty protective, but not overbearing. He’s seen how cruel the world can be and just wants his child to be safe

Dad!Colin fic based on this here

A couple of these I feel like would make cute fics. Would anyone be interested in me fleshing some of these out into oneshots? Let me know!

Taglist: @jellyluvr @howtobesasha @dewberryobssesed @luv4evan @kaismanwich @violetharmonstwin @daylas-life @mariefics

Want to join my taglist? Just reply here!

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ateliersss · 3 months

Text

Call of Duty

...is part of The Bookshelf.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Keep You Close Summary: He's pretty sure he's in love with you. Not that he'll admit it, acknowledge it.

Fresh Ink (Series) Summary: You become Ghost’s artist and therapist in a way.

Polaroid Summary: You find a polaroid of yourself in Ghost’s vest.

When I Was Your Man Summary: Ghost regrets breaking up with you after seeing you again.

Little Lady, Big Guns Summary: A new weapons developer catches the eye of many, especially one balaclava wilding man.

Only One Boundary Summary: When it comes to his body, Simon is all ears for anything to do for you. However, he only has one boundary that he’s hesitant to compromise with now.

An Old Siren Song Summary: You're injuried on a mission early in you and ghost careers' and it affects him even 6 years later.

Lonely Summary: After Simon had left for his next mission, you were faced with the biggest challenge of your life and you had to get through that all by yourself.

Faking Summary: As the mission goes on, you are forced to fake your death, hurting the man you love most.

Fell Into You (Series) Summary: Ghost isn’t looking for anything and neither are you. But when a mission goes wrong, throwing you two together, where will things go from here?

The Little Things Summary: Five times Soap questions the relationship between Ghost and the 141’s Medic, and the one time he gets an answer.

Little Treasures, Life's Pleasures Summary: Now that Soap knows when to pay attention, he realizes you and Ghost aren’t as subtle as you think you are.

Life's Little Comforts Summary: Soap finally gets a better glimpse into your relationship with the Lieutenant- even if it’s not the way he wants.

Our Little Secret Summary: Soap finally gets all of his answers- and then some.

Interrupted Part 1, Part 2 Summary: When your make-out session gets interrupted, you shield Simon's face with your hands.

Zombie!Ghost Summary: Simon is dead. And you were forced to leave him behind as the rise of the dead took over. When you volunteer to sneak back into base to grab med supplies, you don't expect to run into Simon—alive, but certainly not himself...

Hate You Summary: Ghost seemed to despise you, making a mission you have to do together much tenser than it ever had to be…

Cat Got Your Tongue? Summary: Ghost thought you hated him, but he had no idea why. He didn't remember ever doing anything to cross you. When you're stuck doing a mission alongside him, he gets curious enough to finally ask.

Bad Day Summary: After a bad mission, Simon comes back and takes his pain out on you.

To Be Alive In Summer Summary: Betrayal had never been in your cards, and you definitely didn't see yourself being the one responsible for the act. When having to go undercover, first comes the problem of staging your death.

If You Bite My Hand Again Summary: How dare he show his face to you after all of these years? How dare you still find it in yourself to love him?

Untitled Summary: You, a civilian, kills someone out of self defense for the first time.

'Til It Ends Part 1, Part 2 Summary: You thought that it would be easy - moving on and blazing your own trail, but at every step, memories seem to come back and haunt you. And the biggest memory takes the shape of a man with a skull mask. Can you still deny what you had always felt when he stands at your side once more?

Simon "Ghost" Riley who protects you from your creepy neighbor

Simon "Ghost" Riley accidentally yelling at you Headcanon

Being Yelled At By Ghost Part 1, Part 2

Confessions

Sleepless Night

Don't Make A Habit Of Dying

Call Sign

Kindergarten Troubles Part 1, Part 2

Imagine going to sleep as 09 Ghost’s widow only to wake up next to reboot Ghost Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Captain John Price

The Traces He Left Behind Summary: You had never expected the dog tags to be so heavy, but, now, as they sit in your hands they’re just about the heaviest object you’ve ever held. M.I.A doesn’t mean John’s dead… but it might as well.

Baby Blues Summary: The promise of a normal Sunday is lost when your door is torn open, and, you, kidnaped. All you can do is pray that John finds you in time.

Let Me Lean On You Summary: You have a bad habit of putting yourself in harm’s way, enraging John to no end. But can you survive a wound like this? Or will everything you hate to love about John Price never see the light of day?

First Kiss Summary: It makes you want to laugh, it’s not how you’d envisioned your first kiss would go; you had hoped it would be romantic or passionate. Instead it was desperate battle of trying to breathe life back into John without ever having told him about your feelings.

Our Remains Summary: You disliked hiding things from John. Certainly something as big as this.

Cheating Heart Summary: Your feeling for John were wrong - horribly wrong - but when you see your current boyfriend in bed with another woman, what's to hold you back anymore?

See No Evil Summary: The flowers came every week - Tuesday, two O’clock, two minutes after your break. The only problem was that you knew they weren’t coming from John.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Shaky Fingers Summary: The perfect date night begins with a stolen wallet and a goose chase.

Reveries Of A Lost Lamb Summary: Tempers flare when it hits the seven-day mark. Could they all be sure you were even still alive?

Gossamer Silk Smiles Summary: You loved your job more than anything, and at the end of the day, even with pricked fingers and cramped muscles, you went to bed happy. It had all been going well, insanely well. You were focused; self-assured... Until he showed up.

A Little Small Talk, A Smile, And Baby I Was Stuck Summary: When Soap mentions the new medic, Gaz doesn’t think much of it.

Keegan P. Russ

(Don't) Go To War Summary: Some days it became impossible not to lose your tempers with each other. Being enemies was easier than admitting you cared.

First Strike Summary: Keegan had always captured your attention. You've found out that maybe that's the best and worst thing to happen to you.

König

The Invisible String Theory Summary: You didn't expect the man who gave you his coat to be the same one to bust down the door where you and the other women slept - sniper hood scaring everyone within an inch of their life. You didn't expect him to become so important to you, either.

Moths Hit The Window Summary: Fights with König were always loud, but this time his comments went a bit too far.

Overflow The Stars Summary: One more abandoned date night later, you're left wondering if the man you're infatuated with is really interested in you at all.

Vladimir Makarov

The Great War Summary: Deadly, fast and a killing machine. Soldier was trained as a recon sniper and has been trained by allied forces as an insertion specialist. SAS has recognised this soldier as a necessity for most of its joint operations. Decorated with high awards and recognition by all military forces. TF 141 acquired soldier after a mission in Al Mazrah. Capable of killing all those that come between her and the goal, will not hesitate to harm enemies.

No Title Summary: You have an encounter with a creepy guy.

No Title Summary: You are pregnant with Makarov's child and someone is stupid enough to mess with you.

Valeria Garza

Back When I Loved You Summary: It's been years since you had been stationed in Las Almas, returning opens some old wounds you hadn't realized never healed.

Valeria Garza

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vendetta-if · 7 months

Note

Please don’t take this the wrong way, because I still think you’re writing is incredible and I look forward to every update, but am I the only one who finds Takeshi incredibly weird? Like he’s got a wife and 3 kids and yet he’s still pining over my dad who’s been dead for years now. It’s time to move on dude, come on.

If he was younger and single then I’d understand, but the way it comes off, to me at least, is pretty emotionally unfaithful. It reads like Takeshi views Viktor as “the one who got away” which is kind of a shitty attitude to have when you’re married with kids. We haven’t even met Rins mom yet and I already feel bad for her lol, this whole situation is uncomfortable.

Anyways, sorry for my rambling and if you got offended I really do apologize, I wasn’t trying to be mean. Good luck on your future writing!

I appreciate you being polite when writing this and don’t worry, I’m not offended 😁 I have talked a little bit more about him and his feelings for Viktor and about his marriage with Azami in other asks, but I realize that some of them, I answered like in the early days of this blog being up (boy, time sure does fly because it feels like yesterday to me 😭) and not everyone will have read all of the related asks.

So, everything is a lil bit more complicated for Takashi than what it might seem like on the surface, and of course, I can’t really put all of this history and backstory in the main story because it’s not focused on Takashi, or Rin, or the Aikawa, and thus, I understand why some people end up seeing Takashi in a worse light. This is, of course, not to say that he is perfect. I feel like no one in my story is perfect, even Viktor himself, and I like to keep it that way. But I hope my long-winded explanation in this post will help you get a clearer picture on Takashi and his complicated love life 😭.

And right now in the story, I’ll say that he has actually moved on from Viktor. Sure he still remembers and mourns him around the anniversary of his death, and talking about Viktor (and Yvette) is still a sore spot for him, but as they say, you don’t really forget your first love. Also, he has fixed his relationship with Azami (thus their decision to have the twins) by the time of the main story and they’re at their best right now and I’ll explain more in details below the cut.

I’ll put it under the cut because it’s going to be a long one as I try to summarize Takashi’s and Azami’s history together and some additional lore stuff for those who are interested.

For starter, his marriage to Azami was an arranged one that both of them didn’t really have any say in it and it doesn’t help that both of them didn’t even have time to properly get to know each other by the time they got married. They were also pretty young (around early to mid 20s perhaps? I don’t have my notes open right now).

It was a… politically strategic wedding that Takashi’s father and Azami’s maternal grandfather arranged.

And additional info since I don’t think I have mentioned this anywhere actually, but Azami’s maternal side of family is a Yakuza clan/family back in Japan and by establishing some kind of family relationship with the Aikawas—who focuses their businesses in the US—they hope to keep the door open for possibilities of expanding their own business abroad in the US through the Aikawas. They haven’t really done that, but it’s nice to already have and secure the connection. And vice versa for the Aikawas if they wanna do some business in Japan.

It doesn’t help that Viktor was literally Takashi’s first love and that they’ve known each other since they were kids. So, by the time of his marriage, Takashi didn’t really have enough time to kind of, let go or grow out of his feelings for his first love and he was basically getting married to a stranger.

But to think that this means that he automatically becomes an emotionally distant husband and father is wrong. He spent time talking and hanging out with Azami (mostly initiating them first because Azami is the more introverted and reserved one in their relationship), trying to build a relationship—that should’ve been built naturally in normal marriages—with his wife. It did end up being more like a platonic relationship at first than a romantic one, but still, Azami appreciated that.

He’s also a good, caring, and warm dad for Rin and he did take care of Rin as much as Azami did. I’ve said this before in another ask, but when she got married to what is basically a stranger, Azami expected the worse and Takashi was a very pleasant surprise for her.

I think along the way, Azami fell in love with him for real first, but the fact that Takashi still saw her more of a platonic partner and still had romantic feelings for Viktor at the time… It did put a strain on their marriage.

But both of them didn’t really give up on their marriage and even though it took years, they slowly work on their relationship. It was not an instant progress but over time, Takashi ends up falling in love with Azami as well and that’s also the reason why they had the twins like more than a decade after they had Rin (The twins are still very young in the story right now).

Rin was born because of both of their families’ pressure and expectation, but having the twins is the decision that Takashi and Azami made themselves out of love.

While his feelings for Viktor is still there somewhere in the background, it’s waay weaker and fainter than when he was younger. Right now in the story, I would say he has moved on, although he still remembers his first love occasionally, especially around the time of his death. After all, they say that you can’t really forget your first love.

But yeah, in the story currently, his relationship with his wife is at its best and he’s living happily with his family.

And while a part of his motivation to get Rin to marry MC is in part to kind of fulfilling an impossible dream of his, it is also just for… practical reasons. The fact is that the Aikawas have a little bit more to gain by tying the Morozovs in an alliance based on blood ties than the Morozovs do. The Morozovs have the stronger manpower and raw force/strength and nowadays, they have decent connections too.

I mentioned this before in the past ask about the two families’ history, but their alliance started out because the Aikawas were having a pretty rough time protecting their turf from the other criminal groups and families back in New York. They mostly have power by accumulating and brokering information and connections, but they’re a bit lacking in like raw force and power, and that’s where Grandpa Morozov saw the opportunity for alliance and went to talk with Takashi’s father. And the rest we know how it plays out.

So, yeah… I think that’s all I have to say in this post and I’ll definitely be referring to this post again if I ever get similar asks. I don’t know whether it helps you understand Takashi a little bit more or not, but I do hope it’s not as black and white as it once was 😅

#asks #anon ask #lore #char: info #char: takashi #char: azami #if: vendetta #vendetta if #if vendetta #if game #if wip #dashingdon #choicescript #hosted games #choice of games #cyoa

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her-favorite · 1 year

Note

Hi love, saw your post and sending you a lot of good vibes ❤️

Please do hurt/comfort for Tate! I mean when Tate is the one who crying and the reader comforts him. I think maybe it’s the moment when Tate finds out that Kurt Cobain is dead? I’ve never seen imagines about that, but it is so obvious, Tate was a huge fan of him

thank you sweetheart! more shit went down, but i confronted them all and they’re all out of my life now, so we’re good!!

Tate Langdon x F!Reader

Summary: When Tate told you the bad news, all you needed was to hold each other

Warnings: mentions of kurt cobains death :(, more so pre-death tate (even though they both passed in 1994), short- im sorry!

a/n: i fucking LOVE kurt and Nirvana so, as sad as this request is, im really happy to be able to add Kurt to something (especially with tate!)

You laid on your bed, your eyes scanning over each word that was painted on your page. Your book had captivated you for awhile now, having spent most of your day laying down and reading, occasionally putting on a song in the background.

You jumped when you heard a quiet knock at your door, looking up to it. “Come in!” You yell, not breaking eye contact with the door until it started to creak open. A head of blonde curls welcomed itself inside, making a smile break out on your face. “Hey, baby. What’s up?” You fold the corner of your page down, closing your book and setting it on the bedside table.

You were home alone and you always told Tate that we was always welcome. He quickly took that promise and always surprised you with his entrance every now and then. But today something felt off.

“Is everything okay?” You ask, moving slightly, ready to walk over to him. Before you could get up to walk to him, he let out a sob and walked fast over towards you and your bed. His sweater covered half of his palms, but his hands were hiding his face behind them. He laid down beside you, immediately shoving his face into your stomach. Your shirt was soft against his red cheek, but quickly soaked up the tears that left his eyes. His arms wrapped tightly around your waist, sobbing into you.

“Tate, babe, what’s wrong?” You were surprised by his outburst, but put a reassuring hand on his back and the other went for his hair. You hand combed through it, leaning down to press a kiss to the mess of knots.

“He’s dead.” His hiccups showed his hurt, but you were still as confused as ever. His fingers dug into your skin, definitely leaving a mark.

“Sh, baby, take a deep breath.” You whisper, your hand brushing the hair away from his eyes. He looked up at you, his eyes and nose red and his tears wet against his cheeks. “Who’s dead?” Your heart was racing for the answer, scared and worried to find out who it was since it was causing your boyfriend so much pain.

“Kurt.” He shoved his face back into your shirt.

You froze, your hand stilling in his hair. “What? Cobain?” You ask, begging for him to deny. But he didn’t. All he did was nod. Your shoulders dropped and your heart felt like it was melting.

You and Tate had always shared the love for Kurt Cobain. Him and his band were your favorite artists. The first time you met him, your first topic was Nirvana. As soon as each of you found out that you both loved them, it was a quick click between the both of you.

“Oh my god.” You whispered, your hand tightening in his hair. You felt the wet tears roll down your cheeks, hugging Tate’s body closer to yours. “Oh, baby,” You sob, resting your forehead on his head. You pressed kisses against his hair, rubbing one of your hands down his back. You noticed when he walked in that he was wearing a Nirvana shirt under his dark cardigan.

You heard his sniffles against your stomach, quickly rubbing the tears away from your cheeks to hold his. He looked at you, his eyes watering again when he saw your state.

“It’s okay, Tate. It’s gonna be okay.” You rested your forehead against his, both of your hands cupping the back of his head. You felt his subtle nod against you, not sure if he believed you or not, but he sure as hell wanted to.

You both sat there for a little while longer, waiting for you guys to calm down. Once you felt your tears dry and Tate’s as well, you took a deep breath and rubbed your thumb over his cheekbone. He moved up to lay his head in your neck, pressing a couple kisses against your skin and collarbone.

You rubbed his back, your other hand reaching up to play with his curls again. “It’s gonna be okay.” You kissed his head. “Everything’s gonna be okay.”

#evan peters #evan peters smut #evan peters x reader #tate langdon x you #tate langdon x y/n #tate langdon x reader #tate langdon smut #evan peters x y/n #evan peters x you #evan peters imagine #evan peters fluff #tate langdon #tate ahs #ahs murder house #kit walker x reader #american horror story

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merakiui · 2 years

Text

[i.] ᵗʰᵉ ᵈᵉᵛⁱˡ’ˢ ᵈᵉˡⁱᵍʰᵗ

serial killer!jade leech x female!reader cw: descriptions of gore/death chapter i (you are here)│chapter ii

Today’s Horoscope: On this day, just as the stars align, your intelligence shines brighter than the sun and your positive energy uplifts those who know you. There are surprises waiting at every corner; it’s important to be alert. You will soon be rewarded for your continuous efforts and hard work.

In the large, horizontal tank, weightless, transparent globs of gel carry sparkling enchantments. Trapped in the malicious maw of mesmerization, you place your hand upon the glass and peer in at them, admiring the serene way in which they drift aimlessly in undisturbed waters. The lights from above dye their tiny, wispy bodies in the faintest, most angelic blue you’ve ever seen; the hue even reaches your fingertips, bleeding into your nails like the purest paint borne from cherub tears.

Jellyfish have always managed to captivate you. They are small and slow creatures who lack bones and a brain. Composed mainly of water, they exist for the sole purpose of protection—a gummy shield in which fish encase themselves to evade the jaws of ravenous predators. Charming as they are, jellyfish sting. And it hurts. A lot. They’re the type of marine animal you’d only ever hope to view from afar, through the transparent lens of a glass wall, lest you encounter one and it wraps its dangerous tendrils around your ankle in an electrifying embrace.

The intercom crackles to life just as you pull away from the tank, brows knitting in anticipation. “Today’s color is blue. As vast and wide as the sky and sea, as deep and dark as water’s soul, blue is the color of trust and sincerity. It is the color of bruises and sadness. It is the color of loneliness. It is the color of you.”

“I know that focused look.”

You whirl around, staring with wide eyes at the person whose back is facing you. His palm leaves a dark imprint on the jellyfish tank as he surveys the creatures inside with an expression you can’t see. His reflection is distorted beyond recognition, but his voice strikes a chord of familiarity within you.

“You’re fishing again, aren’t ya?”

“Fishing?”

“Don’t fish too deep. You never know what you’ll reel in.”

You blink and he vanishes in a brilliant explosion of playing cards under the glow of the aquarium. When you gaze beyond the spot where he once stood, all of the jellyfish have gone still in the water. You realize, with a sinking unease, that they’re dead.

“Today’s color is blue,” the woman repeats, her monotonous tone shaking you from your stupor. “As vast and wide as the sky and sea…”

You sit up in bed with a gasp, mind reeling through images of blue jellyfish, blue lights, blue skies—and your hand moves in search of your mobile phone. You locate it seconds later, tucked under the duvet like a bloodless corpse in a shroud. It glares at you when you turn it on and swipe through the pop-ups that clutter the illuminated screen. Flopping back onto the mattress, you click on the app that houses your digital dream diary and begin to record everything that just transpired.

“Blue. Jellyfish. Strange man. Cards. Intercom lady,” you mutter, voice thick with sleep. “Dead jellyfish. Blue… No, I already got that one. Um…”

Your thumbs hover over the keypad as you ruminate what’s missing. Eventually it clicks and you type the words color of loneliness into the document. Before you make another note, you search to confirm whether or not her claims are true.

“The color of loneliness…” Your eyes skim the first result and a smile claws through your drowsiness. With quick fingers, you consult today’s horoscope and scan it thrice before realization strikes. “She was wrong. That means today will go according to my horoscope. It won’t be the opposite!” You hug your phone to your chest and squeal, rolling back and forth until the blankets have tangled around your legs in a heap of wrinkles and you’ve bumped into another body.

A pair of pastel blues open in the gloom and your whereabouts in the real world come crashing down, heavier than the exhaustion that comes complimentary with a pre-sunrise awakening. No longer confined to the dreamy aquarium, you find yourself in a bedroom, tucked snugly in a king-sized bed, with a familiar man. The lights from a dozen skyscrapers cast an otherworldly luminosity on him, shining in through the slits in the curtains, and for a moment it’s as if you’re lying amidst the clouds with a seraph.

Azul yawns and reaches blindly through the shadows until he finds you. His arms wrap around your waist and you allow yourself to be tugged into his chest, where his heart beats out a steady rhythm that instantly soothes you. Combined with this comfortable embrace and the silkiness of the duvet, you breathe a satisfied sigh. When all else is swallowed by darkness—no matter what becomes of the people you once knew—Azul will remain as he always has: perfect and safe.

“Who’re you talking to?”

“No one,” you whisper. “I had a weird dream.”

“Oh?” His voice is low and husky—a brittle intonation that you’re only ever graced with in the early hours of dawn. “You can tell me about it over breakfast. I’d love to peer inside that curious head of yours.”

“Are you sure you won’t get bored?”

“Please.” A chuckle rumbles in his throat while he cradles your face with his hand, his thumb tracing circles into the softness of your cheek. “You could never bore me, my dear.”

Content with his response, you snuggle against him and slip into a dreamless slumber while listening to his heartbeat. Unfortunately, you’re not sure you can count the rest of the hours as ‘good sleep’ because your brain continues to buzz with faint recollections of your dream and the deeper meaning it holds. After lots of twisting and turning, you force yourself to wake at the crack of dawn despite your unwillingness to get out of bed. The promise of a good day is what eventually convinces you, so you throw the covers off and focus on welcoming a new morning.

Azul, dazed and sleep-deprived, tugs your robe-clad body into bed when you’ve returned from your shower, insisting on five more precious minutes before he joins you in getting ready. And because you’re so certain the day will be prosperous, you fall into his embrace as always.

“I know that focused look. You’re fishing again, aren’t ya?”

“So what if I am?” you mumble, weighing the current profile on your phone as if you’re a celestial judge and this person’s fate rests solely in your capable hands. “It’s hard to meet people nowadays. This helps me dodge so many bullets.”

“I won’t disagree with those facts.” Cater rests his elbows on the countertop, feigning dejection as though it’s as simple as breathing. “But how could you possibly look at other faces when I’m right here?”

“We’re friends, Cay. There’s a difference.”

”And I thought you said I was your type!”

“As friends you’re my type. That’s about it, though.”

“Total bummer.” The corners of his lips twitch into the beginning of a frown before promptly quirking upwards. “Well, what’s the sitch? Did you get any bites?”

“Yeah. But I haven’t reeled in anyone yet.”

“Aren’t you a picky peach?”

“I have standards,” you retort before turning your mobile his way so that he’s greeted to the sight of a shirtless man holding a fishing pole. Dangling precariously from the hook with large, glossy eyes is a sizable fish, its shimmering scales winking at whoever’s fortunate enough to stumble across his profile. “What’s your diagnosis?”

Cater’s nose scrunches as if he can smell the cloying stench of brine and body odor wafting from the image. “The doctor says he’s trying too hard.” He snatches your phone for closer inspection. “And he’s hooked the fish in the gills. In other words, if he’s careless with his fish do you want him as your main dish, Miss Marine Biologist?”

“Absolutely not.” You grin as he swipes the profile away. “Who’s up now?”

“A nature lover.”

“I like nature.”

“Do you?”

“Is it too much nature?” You sidle up to him in an attempt to get a clear view of the screen when a clipboard suddenly drops onto the counter. It clatters noisily, and you lift your gaze to meet a certain someone’s scowl.

“Slacking off again? I ought to have your heads for this.”

“My bad, Riddle. Cay and I already refilled everything and everyone’s been served. We had nothing better to do.”

Said man raises a brow before jutting his thumb in the direction of a table cluttered with dirty dishes and drying ice cream splatters. “‘Nothing better to do.’ Is that right?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Cater is already reaching for a dishrag and a bucket of soapy water. “Cay Cay’s on the case!”

“You should have been ‘on the case’ the moment the customers left!” he snaps, rubbing circles into his temples. “We aren’t running a pigsty, after all. So get back to work and don’t let me see you on your phones until the break.”

“Yes, Riddle,” you and Cater murmur in unison, heads bowed submissively. Riddle studies your expressions for a moment longer before taking the clipboard and turning on his heel with a huff. He pushes past the striped saloon door and disappears into the storage room to begin the tedious task that is inventory.

Cater leans closer to you, slides your phone into the depths of your apron pocket, and whispers, “Riddle’s always been, like, super loaded. His parents are magic doctors and I heard that makes good money. So why’s he working part-time?”

Like I’d know. We haven’t talked in years.

“The commoner’s lifestyle is exciting, or so they say. Even the rich want to experience it now. Maybe that’s why they look for partners who can hardly support themselves.”

“Yikes. Talk about a power trip.”

“Or a huge win for me. Student debt sucks.” You wave to the couple sliding out of the booth to your right. They return your gesture with broad smiles. “Wouldn’t you want to date someone rich? Then all of your problems would go poof!”

“Money can’t solve everything, lovely. What happened to personality?” Clicking his tongue, he drapes himself against the counter in an overdramatic feint of despair. “What has our world come to?”

“It must be ending if we’re letting that strawberry devil act like the king of the diner.”

“He fits the part nicely, though. You have to admit these uniforms are super cute.” Cater glances at the storage room before withdrawing his phone for a quick selfie. “And this place is a perfect backdrop for my Magicam feed! Pose with me!”

“I never really cared for it, but I guess the aesthetic is appealing.” You tap at the plastic horns on your headband and force a grin for the camera. After Cater’s put his phone away, you add, “It’s just part of the gag, right?”

“It’s so much more than that! Don’t you understand what the ‘delight’ stands for in The Devil’s Delight? It’s devilishly delightful! Duh.”

You reach into the bucket and pull a rag out. Wringing it free of excess water, you shrug at him. “People like old-fashioned, vintage things. Simpler times, simpler pleasures. Isn’t that why this place gets so much foot traffic during the high season?”

“You have much to learn,” he says with a disappointed tut.

Rolling your eyes, you pass the rag to him and reach for the dirty dishes on the table. Cater flits over to a booth near the window, where a little girl has just knocked over her milkshake. The liquid drips from the table in fat droplets, landing on the clean tiles in patterns reminiscent of blood spatter. It’s a pastel crime scene, one that’s endearingly sweet and innocently pink. While Cater’s in the process of retrieving the glass and consoling the girl to the best of his ability, you carry the dishes over to the sink. He meets you halfway, passing the empty glass to you, and you take it from him and drop it into the basin.

“I’ll make another one. Strawberry with whipped cream and a cherry, right?” You meet the girl’s teary-eyed stare. She manages a shy nod while her mother assists Cater in clearing the table so that he may wipe it down. “I’ll put extra whipped cream just for you, so don’t cry. Mistakes happen all the time. We can’t control them.”

At the mention of a larger portion, she perks up. “Thank you, miss!”

There’s never a dull moment at this diner, you muse while grabbing a stainless steel milkshake cup and an ice cream scooper. But that’s good. It means this day is going to be rewarding.

By the time you’ve reached the end of your shift, the afternoon has melted away into an array of breathtaking colors. Pinks and purples streak the sky, and you’re reminded of sorbet as you admire the retreating sun. Cater joins you at the window just as the last customer exits, the bell above the door jingling out a cheerful farewell.

“Another day in the books,” he announces proudly, hands on his hips.

“I wouldn’t make note of it just yet.” Riddle stands behind the both of you with his arms crossed. “We’re on closing shift, which means I’d like to be out of here within the next hour. Only then will this day be ‘in the books,’ as you’ve put it.”

“And we’re back to work!” you announce, turning away from the window. Before you can take another step, Cater’s arm snakes around your waist and pulls you against him for a selfie. He snaps a photo before you can look presentable, which graces your Magicam-obsessed friend with an unflattering view of you struggling to escape his grasp. Your expression is twisted in a mix of shock and vexation, and it certainly doesn’t appear photogenic despite the sun’s rays framing your head like a bright halo. “Hey! Delete that!”

“Too late. It’s going on Magicam! #Devil’sDelight. #SummerSunset. #nofilter. #besties4lyfe. #StaySeethingRiddle. And… Posted!”

“My dignity…”

“You have more to worry about than your dignity.” Riddle gestures to the room with a sweeping hand motion. “And you can start by wiping the tables. I’ll tally the register. Cater can finish the dishes and then he’ll mop.”

“No way. I did that last time.”

“Consider it a punishment for taking so many pictures during work.”

Cater looks to you for defense, but you can only offer your most confident thumbs-up. “And you did it wonderfully, too. Not all of us are split cards, my dearest Cay Cay.”

“Both of you are heartless devils!”

“Stay seething,” Riddle replies, sharing a victorious smirk with you.

It’s times like this one where you really connect with your high-strung friend. He’s always been particular about order and rules, especially when it comes to important things like managing a business or completing academic tasks. Even when the two of you were children, he had his sights set on the future while you would stand outside his window, tossing pebbles without a single thought in your happy-go-lucky brain. But with his mature outlook on life, it’s no surprise he was granted the position of manager just two weeks after starting. And here you were competing with Cater for that role, foolishly bickering over who’d make a better diner manager.

Deep in your soul, you’re certain Riddle could cut more of an impressive leader than you could. Your measly shadow only ever wavers at the mere insinuation of taking charge of things like your present and future. If you could, you’d drift through life on a zephyr and shed every fear that dares to tread upon your good mood.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket while you’re wiping the surface of a nearby table, and you glance at Riddle to check if he’s still attentively counting money. Once you realize his focus isn’t going to stray anytime soon, you cease cleaning and pull your mobile out to read the notification.

[You’ve matched with sea♡sluggi! Chat with them now!]

Exhaling a weary breath, you unlock your phone to inspect the user’s profile. There’s nothing outstanding about their bio, which lists a standard greeting, an age, pronouns, and a few emoticons. A location isn’t noted so you can’t possibly determine if they’re nearby or not, and their profile picture displays a woman holding up a cat and flashing a peace sign at the camera. Enticed by her bright grin and the mirth crinkling her eyes, you swipe to the chat feature and type a short greeting. Once it’s sent you slip your phone inside your pocket and return to the task at hand.

It isn’t until you’re standing under the awning outside, bathed in the crimson illumination from the sign that flashes the diner’s name, when you finally withdraw your mobile. Riddle’s twisting the key in the lock while Cater hums a nonchalant tune and checks Magicam, and you scroll through the app to read and respond to the messages you missed while cleaning up. Of those missed messages, the user from before pops up.

[sea♡sluggi] heey, thanks for the reply! :D i’m not used to these sorts of apps, so i was worried i’d end up making a fool out of myself… my friends dared me to swipe on someone and u looked nice enough to reject me gently >_<

[(Name)] That makes two of us lmao I haven’t used this account in a while

[sea♡sluggi] lol rip

[(Name)] But you seem nice! Are you an animal lover?

[sea♡sluggi] yep yep! i volunteer at the local shelter. hbu?

[(Name)] I work at a diner :/ nothing special or fulfilling about that. But I’m studying to be a marine biologist!!

[sea♡sluggi] impressive! maybe u can save our oceans with ur marine biology magic :D

[(Name)] I’ll do my best

[sea♡sluggi] i’m counting on u~ ♪♪

“That just about does it. Good work, both of you.”

You look up from the fluorescent, pocket-sized screen to return Riddle’s tender smile with one of your own. “Have a good night, Riddle.”

“Y-Yeah. You as well.”

“See ya later, alligators!” Cater flashes a grin at you and Riddle before turning to address you specifically. “Call me if you get any bites. I want to know all the deets!”

“Roger that, Dr. Cay.”

He mocks a salute before turning the corner and disappearing from sight, his shadow stretching in the light. And then you hear the rumble of a car as it’s started up and he drives past the both of you, poking his head out to wave. Silence fills the void he’s left, and you and Riddle linger under the striped eave, eyeing the boardwalk in the distance. The wooden slats give way to the shallows beyond, where the horizon has become a tangle of blue and gray. A comfortable breeze rushes through the walkway, and you inhale the summery scents of sea salt and bonfire smoke.

“See you later?”

“Get home safely.”

”Aw. You care. Should I be expecting a confession under the moonlight?”

“Just don’t get into any trouble.” He scoffs and storms off, but you catch his whisper as it’s carried to you on the wind. “And I’ve always cared…”

“Wait! Can… Can we take a walk together? It won’t be far. I promise.”

Riddle turns to face you and a tense beat passes between the two of you, filled with unspoken anecdotes of the past. Eventually, warmth bleeds into his sharp eyes and he nods. Smiling, you fall into step beside him.

“Is everything okay?”

If you had a single Madol for every time someone’s asked that cursed question, you’d be set for life. Probably.

“I just wanted to catch up. Ask how the move went. When you messaged me saying you were moving, I didn’t think you’d actually do it. And then you got a job at DD! That’s the best coincidence in the world! But enough of my ramblings. How’s everything going?”

You owe me that much after all this time, you’re tempted to add, but your lips clamp shut.

“Well, I was accepted into this internship program for magic doctors, but I won’t be starting it until next month. Since I’ll be pursuing another degree in autumn, I’d like to get accustomed to life by the sea if I’m going to be attending university and interning here. Moving hasn’t been too difficult either. The flat layout has been a pain, though. It has to be absolutely perfect or else there’s just no point.” He frowns disapprovingly at the ground, as if it’s to blame for the complications. “Other than that, I’d say things are going well.” Pride soon replaces his discontent, and it’s a clear portrait of a level of self-satisfaction you wish to achieve.

“For real? Seriously? That’s amazing!”

“It would be even more amazing if you submitted your application. Cater told me you’ve been stalling.”

“I… Yeah. Well.” You stuff your hands into your apron pocket and kick at a nonexistent stone on the path. “It’s complicated.”

“How so?”

“I want to do it. I really do and I’ve filled everything out. But…” A soft breath tumbles from your mouth. “I guess I’m having doubts now that I’ve come this far.” You peer down the empty street as you cross it, feeling Riddle’s eyes crawl up your face. Your feet slow to a halt and you stand there with your gaze locked firmly on your sneakers. “To be honest, I don’t know what I want to do with my life right now.”

It’s a heavy admission—one you entrust with Riddle because he’s mature and responsible—and you surmise he can handle the weight of this gut-churning honesty. Though perhaps you shouldn’t have dumped it on him so suddenly because his response has your walls upgrading to wood and then stone and then steel, until you're no longer a fractured fortress.

“Oh.”

“Sorry, sorry! I don’t know why I said that. Forget I said anything.” The strained chuckle you force out of the confines of your throat is unimpressive and hollow. Riddle doesn’t seem to buy it, nor does he laugh with you. “For now I’m happy working with you and Cater.”

“Part-time employment will only get you so far. It’s not smart to rely on dead-end jobs with minimum wage as a stable source of income. If you intend to own a house or start a family one day, you’ll need stability and a well-paying, full-time job.”

“I know. That’s why I want to be a marine biologist. I want to talk to dolphins and study merfolk and do all of that fun, aquatic stuff.”

“Do you?” His brow raises, challenging you to spill the raw, unfiltered truth. “You’re nearly finished with your degree. You’d benefit from a position at a zoo or a rehabilitation center. Even a marine lab would be happy to have you. I can look for available internships and job listings if you’re not—”

“I’m going to be a marine biologist!” This time the bold declaration sounds convincing—to your ears, at least. “I promise I’ll submit the application tomorrow. I’ll head right over after lunch…or dinner. Or whenever I get the chance.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“You don’t have to. I don’t want to distract you from whatever it is you need to do.” You wave your hand through the air. “I’ll be fine on my own.”

“I don’t mind setting time aside for you.” He turns the other way and clears his throat. “So… So don’t feel like you’re alone in this, all right? I’ll be here to support you. And even if you aren’t accepted, it’s not the end of the world. They’ll be missing out on your ‘big brain,’ as Cater often says.”

“Hah! With all of this hype talk, I’d better see you at my graduation,” you say with a grin. Before Riddle can get another word in, you seize his arm and tug him towards you. He stumbles, face contorting through mixed emotions. “My horoscope said something good would happen today! What do you think that could be?”

“What does that have to do with—ugh, seriously! Don’t just drag me into the street! We could get hit.”

Your laugh permeates the air, silencing the rest of Riddle’s irritated tirade. His arm slackens in your grasp and a loud sigh slips from his pursed lips.

“She said today’s color is blue. The only blue things around here are the ocean and the sky.” You glance at the sunless waters in the distance and inhale a determined breath. “Let’s go right now.”

“Now?!” Riddle shakes his wrist free, but your hand darts out to interlace with his. He gapes at the contact for a few seconds before promptly shaking his head and fixing his posture. “(Name), it’s late. What's gotten into you?”

“We haven’t hung out like this in a while.” When your eyes lock with his, Riddle swallows anxiously and glances between you and the path you’re meant to take. “Live a little.”

“I’d prefer to live during the day when there’s enough light,” he grumbles, but he allows you to pull him in the direction of the boardwalk. The street lamps, their bulbs crowded with insects, cast speckles of amber on his face, highlighting the wine-colored hue that stains his cheeks. “What’s so special about the color blue anyway?”

“I don’t know, but she said it was the color of bruises and sadness. Uh, there was something else as well. I can’t remember it, though.”

“I’m not following. Who said all of that?”

“It’s not important right now. Look!” You gesture towards the brightly lit boardwalk. Energy pours from the people gathered on the wooden platform. Some are stumbling out of a bar and some are lingering under the glowing Ferris wheel. There are couples and friend groups populating the area, all caught up in the alluring nature of the seaside nightlife. A full moon casts a circular spotlight on the lively scene and you can feel the energy digging its fangs into you, tempting you with its candy-coated escapism. “Should we take a detour?”

“You’re more than welcome to, but I can’t indulge in this foolishness.” He huffs. “I have a lot that needs to be ready for tomorrow and I can’t afford to fit any useless interruptions into my already tight schedule.”

“I know you’re busy. I just thought it’d be nice to hang out like old times.” You toe the ground, tracing a circle into the concrete. “At least come down to the shore with me. Please?”

After what feels like an eternity of crushing silence, Riddle groans in defeat. “Ten minutes. That’s all I’m willing to give you.”

“That’s all I need.”

With your friend trudging behind, you lead him away from the main road towards the beach. The wind picks up with every step, clawing at the fabric of your work uniform with restless gusts—as if warning you to turn back while you still can. A low hum rises in your throat, spilling past your lips like a waterfall of made-up melodies, and it isn’t long until you’re skipping towards the ocean. Riddle can just barely keep up with your pace and he stumbles down the slope, a string of complaints following his sluggish movements.

With your hands situated on your hips, you inhale the briny air and watch the waves that crawl towards the shoreline. Through a thin veil of wispy clouds in the velvety sky the moon reflects in your awestruck eyes, a pale pearl withholding seductive secrets. Riddle’s feet shuffle through the grit and he stands stiffly at your side like an attentive soldier ready to throw himself into the frontlines of an intense battle.

“Why’d you come here?”

“No reason in particular.”

“Really? I’d have thought you’d have a reason perfectly outlined and annotated.”

He chuckles. “How about this? Living in a coastal city is a valuable change of pace with new avenues for opportunity.”

“Lame.”

“It’s far from lame.”

“Says the lame one.”

“I’ll have your head for that.”

Now it’s your turn to laugh. The distinct sound pierces the air and Riddle glances at you as you grip your sides. “It’s good to have you back, Riddle!” you exclaim, wiping at an invisible tear.

I missed you.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, frowning at the waves that curl and fold in the distance. “Thank you…”

Something scuttles past his shoes in the sand and he flinches away, tripping over his feet in an effort to regain his stability. His hand latches onto your arm on instinct and, caught by surprise with the additional weight you’re now forced to bear, you’re unable to support the both of you. With a yelp, you’re tugged down alongside Riddle as he falls and you land in a heap on the ground. Whatever creature startled Riddle to begin with has buried itself in a protective layer of sand, hidden from both sight and mind. Another gust of wind rakes cold fingers through your scalp.

With a grimace, you suck in a breath through clenched teeth. “I think I sprained my ankle! Damn. That really hurts…”

Riddle’s eyes grow impossibly large and he reaches for you, hands grasping air as he moves to touch you and then draws back, conflicted. “Ah, um… M-My apologies! I’ll help you to a hospital. If there’s anything else I can do to—” His distress is soon silenced by your poorly concealed snort.

“Just kidding!” You sit up and spread your arms, unflinching when Riddle sends you his meanest glare. “I’m okay. Can’t say the same for your pride, though.” Your fingertips rifle through the sand until you feel the cool, rough exterior of the crustacean that caused this entire mishap. Lifting it by its body, you dangle it in front of Riddle, who jerks away the minute its foreboding pincers snap at him. “Ta-da!”

“P-Put that thing down!”

“But it’s cute.”

“It’s dangerous,” he snaps. “Get rid of it before it hurts you.”

Rolling your eyes, you rise from the sand and brush the particles from your apron before meandering towards the shoreline. As you bend down to release the crab, your eyes catch sight of something in the distance. A shadowy outline loiters underneath the boardwalk, swaying in time with the flow of the surf like a buoy at sea or a stationary boat riding a current. The crab scurries towards the reaching waves, swept away the moment you blink. You stare at the mass for a few drawn-out seconds before turning to Riddle.

“Hey, there’s something under the boardwalk. I think it’s stuck to one of the posts.”

“What is it?” He dusts himself off and covers the distance to get to you.

“I’m not sure, but it looks like a float. Sort of.”

“Well, don’t get closer. We don’t know what it is.”

“But what if it’s something mysterious? Like hidden treasure! Ooh, that would be so cool. We’d be rich, wouldn’t we?”

“If it really was hidden treasure, we wouldn’t be seeing it right now.” Riddle shakes his head. “It’s probably litter or driftwood. The ocean carries all sorts of trash.”

“You’re being too critical. It’s not as bad as you make it out to be, Mr. Grumpypants.”

“I am not a ‘Mr. Grumpypants.’ I’m being realistic.”

“And I’m being unrealistic, so let’s go get ourselves some treasure!”

With a whoop, you drag an unwilling Riddle towards the strange buoy. He protests the entire way, but you don’t miss the way his hand squeezes yours. Once you’re within close proximity, the figure begins to take a clearer form and you approach it with slow, determined steps. From the light provided by the street lamps lining the boardwalk, the shadowy mass finally shapes into a human silhouette, their head bowed and body half-submerged in the water.

“Hello? Are you okay?” You take a step towards them, but Riddle’s grip tightens. You gaze at him. “They might need help.”

“They’re not responsive…”

“They’re probably drunk. Hold on.” You shake your arm free, ignoring Riddle as his hand chases desperately after yours, and glance at the person. “Hey, wake up! Now’s not the time to be…sleeping…”

And then you notice it. Under the moon’s silver glow, the water is stained a foggy vermillion. The person, who you’ve determined to be a male from closer analysis, has a gaping hole carved into his chest cavity, where his innards are currently oozing out in thick, waterlogged trails. Your jaw drops in muted horror when you realize he’s been tied to the post with nylon rope, the twine digging into his skin like a tightened noose. Drying blood streaks down his cheeks in twin rivers. You don’t want to assume the worst, but when you catch sight of his hollowed eye sockets you know right away that something about this corpse isn’t natural.

The water continues to rock him to and fro, simulating a mother’s loving cradle.

Riddle pushes past you, pupils blown wide. “Don’t get too close! Honestly, how careless can you be? You can’t just walk up to a—” He chokes on his words once his gray hues fall upon the grisly sight and he staggers away so quickly that he loses his footing and lands in the sand with a muffled thump. “G-Great Seven, this is—”

“A crime scene,” you finish, bile rising in your throat. “And we’re standing in the middle of it.”

#yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere twst #yandere twst x reader #yandere jade leech #yandere jade leech x reader #serial killer jade #death row undertow #death row undertow chapter one #happy riddle day! have a jade fic :)

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limon-rat · 3 months

Text

"I did come back, but no one was there. "It wasn't until I heard about you saving the world from the rock apocalypse that I realized you were even still alive."

I thought about this too hard and now y'all get a one shot <3 (cw: mild panic, implied death one of which didn't actually happen but he doesn't need to know that yet)

~~~~~~~~

He just wanted to find them.

He wasn’t even sure what started it. Maybe he was tired of avoiding it? Maybe he just got curious. He wasn’t entirely sure.

But one day, just a few years after John Dory had finally gotten into a rhythm, he decided to go back for his brothers. He wasn’t sure where the others had gone off to, but he knew Branch should still be home. He could put some faith in Floyd and hope he was there too but if anyone would be home, it’d be Branch.

At least he hoped so…

The dread began when he got outside of town.

He had to sneak into Bergen Town using long-abandoned tunnels. They lead out the south end of town, the same tunnels he’d used when he’d left. Ironic, that he was using them now to go back. But something was wrong. He couldn’t really tell, but the tunnel seemed… disturbed. Or maybe used? The dust wasn’t as thick as it should be after three years, but there weren’t any footprints. It was just enough to put him off.

But he’d made up his mind and he didn’t really feel like walking back yet. So into the tunnel he went.

Only when he got out of the tunnel did he realize something was really wrong.

The Tree was dark.

Usually, the Troll Tree was glowing with light from the pods, casting a soft, multi-color glow on the surrounding town buildings. But it was completely dark now, not a single pod lit.

He didn’t know why he didn’t turn back right then and there. Everything was wrong, nothing was how he remembered. Far too dark, far too quiet. It didn’t even look like his old home, just some dying tree.

And yet, instead of turning tail, he began his search, careful to be quiet. The Bergens should be asleep but he’s learned it’s better to be safe than sorry. He walked slowly, careful to take in every detail he could in the dark. Torn and uprooted sprouts, massive holes in the ground, scars that hadn’t healed, deep gouges in the tree… Violence. A lot of violence.

The tree stayed eerily quiet, and the more he looked, the more he felt unnerved. It was quiet but also dull. The colors from the plants and leaves seemed drained. As if the trolls just existing there had brought color to the foliage.

…They probably had actually.

But now that he’d acknowledged it, that everything was quiet and dull and everything the trolls weren’t, that dread started to change into something more venomous.

He hated it.

If the plants were dead and the pods weren’t lit that meant the trolls were gone which meant-

No, they’re here. They have to be.

His pace picked up as he neared the Tree’s trunk, quickly whipping his hair to get him up high. As he moved, his body went into auto pilot, adjusting to paths and branches that he didn’t even recognize now like second nature. By the time he was getting to the western edge of the canopy, he was in a dead sprint.

Please be here.

Finally, he found his old home. His grandma Rosiepuff’s pod. It was still how he’d left it, save for the newly grown vines creeping up the sides. It looked… abandoned.

They’re here. He reassured himself again, even the voice in his head filled with doubt.

The door opened the moment he approached, unfurling just as it had done before, as if it were still filled with life. He stepped inside and he already knew everything was wrong.

“Branch?” He called quietly. Something cracked under his foot and whipping his head to look down, he found a picture frame. Why was it on the ground? It was supposed to be hung by the record player. This one was a picture of him and his brothers. Branch had just joined the band, right before the tour. They were all in their stupid puffy jackets and Branch was drowning in his, a massive grin on his face.

It made John’s heart hurt.

Looking back up, he tried again, “Branch? Grandma? Where are you guys?”

No answer. The pod remained completely silent. It was never quiet.

"Branch!? Grandma!?" John tried again, tail thrashing behind him, feeling a disgusting thing begin to coil around his chest. Where were they? They can't be- they aren't gone, are they? No no, they couldn't be. They're fine, they're just... they…

Where did they go?

Where is his baby brother?

"Branch!" John tried once more, trying the bedrooms now. They had to be here. Grandma couldn't leave not without Branch-

What if she's gone?

No, no she's not gone. She wouldn't. She'd made it this far, she wouldn't just-

Since when did she get a say in this?

Reaching the bedrooms, John was panting hard enough his throat burned and he was sure his ribs were trying to suffocate him but he had to find them-

The beds were made. The room was in the same shape as the outside -covered in dust and strangled by vines- but the beds were made. All of them but Branch’s, but even then it looked… wrong. Not like Branch had slept in it, like it’d been made and someone had just been laying on it, ruffling the blankets slightly. It wasn’t used, just touched.

But Branch wasn’t here.

And the same went for the kitchen. Dusty, littered with dry leaves and massive vines. There were even utensils out and Grandma didn’t just leave stuff out. Especially not on the stove, or even the table for fucks sake.

Outback was the same story. The door unfurled to let him out, resting gently against the branch. It looked just as decrepit as the rest of the tree, the laundry still on the laundry still on the line -she would never leave laundry still on the line- swaying in dry wind.

He searched the entire pod top to bottom and he never found them. They were gone. Gone. Along with everyone else. The entire tree was empty and it was torn apart and something bad happened.

What if-

What if the Bergens got tired of only one day a year.

What if they ate everyone-

He had to leave.

But everything was still here. He couldn’t leave it all here just to waste away…

He had space in his bag, right?

He could at least bring the last of his baby brother with him.

#trolls 3 #trolls movie #trolls fanfic #trolls john dory #dreamworks trolls #trolls band together #i can't believe i'm doing this #it's been years since the larger public has seen my writing #anyway figured i'd jump on the John Dory Punching Bag train #this has been in the doc for months #limonswritingsprints

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delicatenightfury · 1 year

Text

Let Me Go

2022 Month of Writing: Day 9

Pairing: Gally x reader {Part 1 of ?}

Prompt:

Word Count: 1,390

Warning: implied character death

Author's Note: please don't steal my work. you can choose to respond to the prompt as well, but don't steal my work

There is a chance of this turning into a series of some sort after the month of writing is done, so we'll see how I'm feeling about things 😅

“You really think I’m going to let Thomas back into the Maze after what he’s done?” Gally asked Teresa. He turned to look at his fellow Gladers. “Look around you! Look at our Glade. This is the only way. And when the Grievers get what they came here for, everything goes back to the way it was.”

y/n exchanged glances with Newt and Minho. The events of the last few days were horrible, of course. No one was doubting that. But things were changing now. y/n knew their lives weren’t going to be the same, whether or not Thomas and Teresa were sacrificed.

“Are you listening to this?” Teresa asked. “Why are you all just standing there? He’s crazy.”

“Will you shut up?”

“If you stay here, the Grievers are going to come back. They’re going to come back, and they’re going to keep coming back until you are all dead.”

“Shut up!” Gally shouted. “Tie him up.” He started to walk away, but noticed that the Glader he had spoken to wasn’t moving. “Did you hear me? I said tie him up!”

The two Gladers finally moved and began to lift Thomas off the ground. y/n watched as Thomas suddenly attacked the two boys and took their weapons. Newt, Minho, and Frypan jumped into action as well, taking their weapons and joining Thomas. Frypan freed Teresa from the pole as Chuck also joined them from the side. The small group stood at the Maze entrance, facing the rest of the Gladers.

“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” Gally said.

“You don’t have to come with us,” Thomas said, “but we are leaving. Anyone else who wants to come, now’s your last chance.”

“Don’t listen to him, he’s just trying to scare you.”

“No, I’m not trying to scare you. You’re already scared. All right? I’m scared. But I’d rather risk my life out there then spend the rest of it in here. We don’t belong here. Okay, this place isn’t our home. We were put here. We were trapped here. At least out there, we have a choice. We can make it out of here. I know that.”

Silence fell around them. Thomas and his friends stared down Gally, but also silently pleaded with the others. y/n caught Newt and Minho staring at her.

She knew they were right. She had been here for too long and never seen any progress. And while things were bad now, there was hope. She didn’t want to die in the Glade. So having the ability to be in charge of her own fate? She knew her decision.

Slowly, people started joining them. Winston, Jeff, multiple others. y/n stepped forward as well, smiling slightly at her friends.

Suddenly, Gally grabbed her by the arm. She whirled around to look at him, shocked.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice low.

“Taking control of my life.”

“You go out there, you’ll die.”

“And what would you care about whether I live or not, Gally?” she asked. She glared at him. “You’ve basically hated me since I got here, saying I’m some kind of freak for being sent to a Glade full of boys. You chose every possible moment to blame me for things going wrong, called me horrible names, and treated me like absolute crap. Now you want me to stay here with you? I don’t think so. Now let go of my arm.”

“I won’t let you go out there and kill yourself.”

“That’s not your decision to make. Now let. Go.”

She ripped her arm from his grip and went to join the others. She continued to glare at Gally, even when Newt quietly checked on her to make sure she was all right. Her small rivalry with Gally was no secret in the Glade.

“Gally, it’s over,” Thomas said. “Come with us.”

Gally was quiet for a long moment. He glanced over the group.

“Good luck against the Grievers.”

y/n sighed. As much as she disliked Gally, she didn’t want him or any of the others to die. But they had limited options and limited time.

Newt tapped her shoulder and gently pulled her into the Maze. She followed Thomas and the others. She had never been in the Maze before, but knew well enough the horrors that came from within the walls.

Everything was a blur soon after.

When they got closer to the supposed exit, Grievers started attacking. They dragged away Gladers, picking them off left and right. It was only by a miracle that she wasn’t dragged off too. They were able to get the door unlocked and hurried through, leaving the Grievers behind them.

They found themselves in a dimly lit hallway, with only one clear door. On the other side, they found machines destroyed and people lying on the ground. A video message played where a woman named Ava Paige explained the Maze Trials, the Scorch, and the Flare. Behind her, people were shooting one another before she shot herself.

“Is it over?” Chuck asked.

“She said we were important,” Newt replied. “So what are we supposed to do now?”

“I don’t know,” Thomas said. “Let’s get out of here.”

“No.”

y/n turned quickly, shocked to see Gally standing on the other side of the room.

“Gally?”

“Don’t,” Teresa said, stopping Thomas from going forward. “He’s been stung.”

It was true. Gally didn’t look good. He was covered in sweat and Griever blood. He dropped a Griever stinger, a gun in his other hand. y/n exchanged a look with Minho, who also saw it.

“We can’t leave,” Gally said.

“We did,” Thomas replied. “Gally, we’re out. We’re free.”

“Free?” He sounded like he was crying. He turned to look around him. y/n noticed the darkened veins on his neck. “You think we’re free out there? No. No, there’s no escape from this place.”

He lifted the gun, immediately setting everyone on edge. Thomas raised his arms.

“Gally, listen to me. You’re not thinking straight. You’re not. And we can help you. Just put down the gun.”

Come on, Gally, y/n thought. Listen to him. Don’t do anything stupid.

“I belong to the Maze.”

“Just put down the gun.”

“We all do.”

Everything happened so fast.

Gally fired a shot.

Minho threw his spear.

People were shouting.

y/n’s feet moved without thought.

She looked on with wide eyes at the spear in Gally’s chest. The spear Minho had thrown. He gasped for breath before collapsing to his knees and then to his side. Everyone watched on in shock as their fellow Glader went still.

At almost the same moment, y/n felt a burning in her side. She winced and lifted her hand to the sensation. When she pulled it away, she saw blood.

“y/n?” Newt said. At the same time, she faintly heard Chuck say Thomas’s name.

The two fell at nearly the same time. Minho was fast enough to catch her before she roughly hit the ground. She gasped in pain.

Everything was blurring around her. She could only barely make out the voices above her. She knew she was shot. She knew Chuck had also been hit. She was losing a lot of blood and was fighting for consciousness at this point. She could hear her friends begging her to hold on.

She barely managed to lift her hand. She felt someone grab it, which made her sob a little bit. She didn’t realize she had been crying.

“Hang on, y/n,” she heard them say. There was desperation in their voice. She could hear people crying, but couldn’t tell who. “Just hang on! We’ll get you out.”

She shook her head. Her vision was fading too fast. She wasn’t able to respond.

Through the growing fog, she could hear shouts. They couldn’t tell where they were coming from, if they were close or far.

The hand that was holding tightly to hers was ripped away, making her gasp softly. Her hand fell to the ground. The shouts became more distorted until they slowly disappeared.

y/n whimpered in pain.

This is it, she thought. I’m going to die alone.

She couldn’t fight it any more. She let go of whatever strength she was pulling from and surrendered to the darkness.

#month of writing #writing prompt #gally #gally x reader #maze runner #tmr #tmr gally #the maze runner #glade #grievers #angst

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simonalkenmayer · 8 months

Note

What I meant regarding Parsons being a strange spectre in my orbit, is that his name kept coming up in various ways. I just think that's odd. Especially since a picture of him holding a device quite like one created to try to annihilate people in my family seemed a strange coincidence. Perhaps most devices such as that are similar in appearance? It was a homemade apparatus attached to a garbage disposal.

If you'd care to share your theory as to why consciousness can not be maintained after death I'd be interested. And the truth of how things work especially regarding supernatural or what is beyond or usual comprehension. Some people have more perception than others. That's usually do to genetics and I high level of severe abuse. Increases awareness and more primitive animal instincts the general population lacks.

Thank you

I am aware “paranormal” things exist. What they are, is actually a complex interplay between your inherent abilities you do not know you possess and the environment, which is far more complex than we’ve mapped. These supposedly “above normal” incidents are actually normal, but science hasn’t described them in any corrective way, because of stigma. For example, you mix table salt and chlorine, two normal every day chemicals, and you get an explosive. You mix a human enduring emotional trauma, and specific environmental factors and bam, you’ve got a poltergeist, a momentary “powering up” of place memory, etc. ghosts aren’t dead people saying things to you. They’re you influencing the environment to echo your expectations. You miss grandma. You influence the environment to sculpt what you want to see. Some environmental situations are very susceptible to flux and others aren’t. So some places stay haunted while others don’t. It isn’t terribly difficult, but humans complicate it by looking at it the wrong way around.

You can perceive and manipulate more than you realize, and so I see no reason to explain it to you lest you use it in a way that impacts me. I’d prefer ignorance.

And my “theory” isntt a theory. We know for a fact that mind depends on structure and chemicals. It depends on the road and the cars on it, so to speak. If the brain is damaged, identity changes. Sometimes it doesn’t, despite vast change. These two extremes teach us about the norm. There are too many things happening to physically fascillitate thought, like transmitter production, largely dependent on food and gut microbiome, nerve death/growth, types of neuronal connections, brain structure and growth due to trauma in early childhood etc. when the brain is not maintained, the identity fails. No hardware, no software.

If a person can physically go mad, then there is no life after death. Consciousness is temporary. Let me give you another metaphor.

Have you ever seen slow motion video of a full water balloon popping? If not

When you pop it, the water temporarily holds the shape, but with no external structure, the water falls out and resumes its normal level configuration, depending upon the external space and its shape. That’s the same physics that governs all things.

While the brain is dying, the energy is still moving in some recognizable pattern. Once the brain isn’t there to be the grooves, and the body isn’t turning food into electrochemical signaling, there is not energy production. No new consciousness. No life after death.

It’s simply not possible to have a consciousness as we have them, off of a biological substrate. All beings on this plant depend on this kind of structure. Other worlds perhaps not, though they are governed by the same physics.

I’ve tried before to explain how and why I understand this, but I cannot make any human understand. Have you ever gone along with an idea for the sake of a child’s whimsy? Santa brought you a sock! Gasp! But you know it wasn’t Santa because you saw your uncle put the gift under the tree, etc. that’s how I feel. Except that instead of letting you have your fun, I’m deemed an insensitive bastard for explaining that people do not actually want to solve this mystery, and they don’t want you to question whatever it is they e decided upon.

I have no interest.

As for Parsons, I’ve noticed a recent resurgence of Nicola Tesla nonsense too. New new wave spiritualism awakens. Ugh

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farfromstrange · 11 months

Text

Chaos Theory | Michael Kinsella x Reader

Chapter 7: I Hope I Never Lose You

Masterlist ° Chapter List

Pairing: Michael Kinsella x Reader

Summary: Michael and you both find comfort in each other over some Chinese takeout, he starts taking Birdy’s advice, and somehow you both end up on the dining table.

Warnings: Angst, mentions of a car accident & child death, hurt/comfort, fluff, like this is sweet, SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI), oral m!receiving, unprotected p in v, dirty talk, choking, marking kink, anywhere but a bed, gentle intimacy/aftercare

Word Count: 6.8k

A/n: So, this was supposed to be just fluff, but these two had a mind of their own and they ended up fucking. Again. But in this case it’s just passion and not necessarily to forget something. They’re just horny little bastards. But can you blame them?

The newspaper clippings feel brittle in your hands. The paper has been locked inside and moved around continuously for six years. Dark dots adorn the written text underneath the headline. The tears have long dried into the paper, but it has turned gray where the wetness used to be.

Underneath the many articles that are held together by a pin, you find a picture. The quality isn’t the best – It was an old camera that took the picture nine years ago, not some hyper-modern smartphone with a camera quality that competes with reality.

Your eyes scan the face of the newborn wrapped in her pink baby blanket. The faces of the adults around her seem happy, the smiles honest. In every picture, the baby is being handed around. You have studied them for years, and you always skip most of them until you reach the most important one, and that is Maya, her back then still small arms holding the newborn as you’re sitting beside her. But you don’t matter, only the two children are the focus of your attention.

Breaking News: 2 injured and 1 dead in a car accident off the M25 Motorway.

Your fingers scan the article as if it were Braille.

Yesterday around 17:46, a truck crashed into a small van on its way out of Greater London. The three-year-old girl in the passenger seat and the truck driver, 41, were air-lifted to the hospital. The driver of the van, the three-year-old’s father, only sustained minor injuries. The doctors tried to save the girl’s life, but they declared her brain dead early this morning. The truck driver is reportedly stable after surgery, but he has still not woken up. Details about the nature of the accident are still unclear. Police are now investigating both the father and the truck driver for reckless driving to bring some closure to the little girl’s family.

You slap the drawer of your desk shut when you hear the sound of a fist banging at your door. You wipe the stray tear that escaped your eye, hoping your state of mind isn’t too obvious, and you lock the drawer again.

Michael is about to knock again when you finally open the door. His intuition tells him something is wrong. You meet him with a smile that almost looks pained, and your cheeks are red; your cheeks only redden when you blush or you have been crying.

“Hey,” you greet him.

He steps past you into the apartment. “Hey,” he says.

You offer to take his coat, but he does it himself, retrieving the folder inside.

“I’ve got my records,” he tells you. “All of them. I wasn’t sure what we needed.”

You smile at him. “That’s okay.”

“Are ya?”

“What?”

“Okay?” Michael asks.

Your mind is a treacherous place. You can feel yourself tearing up again at his question. The answer is obvious, but you can’t admit that you’re not okay because you feel stupid enough already.

The day has gone well except for a few minor bumps, and you broke your own heart by going through the drawer again that you keep locked, even from yourself, for a reason. If anything, you think, this is your fault.

You take a small step forward. He watches you intently. Your eyes switch to his arms, then to his face almost guiltily. You could have just asked, but you’re not sure how to voice what you need.

He puts the folder down and opens his arms slowly. You bridge the gap between you, wrapping your arms around his waist and burying your face in his chest. You don’t cry, you only hug him, and he doesn’t hesitate to hug you back. You don’t have to tell him that you’re not okay, he can tell by the way you’re squeezing him.

“Was it a bad day, or–”

You shake your head. “I just…” you swallow.

“Needed a hug?” he finishes.

“Yeah,” you say.

“Okay.”

It feels nice to be on the receiving end of a hug for once, but as you hold onto him and his hands roam your back, the intensity of his touch tells you that you are not the only one who needed a hug.

“Are you okay?” you dare to ask, your voice muffled through his chest.

He chuckles. “Yeah,” he says, “I am now.”

“Okay.”

Michael leans down to press his lips to your scalp. “Ya hungry?”

You pull away to look up at him through tired eyes. “A little,” you say.

“Let’s order somethin’, hm?”

“Chinese?”

“Sounds grand,” he agrees.

He brushes a strand of hair out of your face. His lips ghost over yours with a soft smile before he finally kisses you. It’s a gentle kiss, his finger tilting your chin up, and he seems to pour all of his unspoken feelings into it.

You melt into him, your arms still around his waist. Your fingers tangle in his shirt, not wanting to let go. He is warm and he smells good, and he feels soft all over. Sometimes, when things are too soft, they trigger you, but he is just the kind of gentle comfort you need.

An hour later, the two of you are sitting at your dining table, Chinese takeout before you. Michael ordered himself some dumplings and spring rolls while you settled for sushi. He told you he hates sushi, which sparked a small argument because, “How the fuck can you hate sushi, Michael? Even the fried ones?”

He told you, “Because I hate fish.”

“It’s not fish, it’s literally vegetarian Sushi,” you said.

He was hesitant to try a piece, but he did it for your sake. You have never seen anyone’s face contort so fast than when Michael put the piece of Avocado Maki into his mouth. He tried to look like it didn’t bother him, but you could tell he was trying hard not to gag.

Needless to say, you have accepted that he doesn’t like Sushi. He truly looked like he was disgusted to his very core, and you don’t want to force him to like something that a lot of people don’t like, anyway. You’re not that type of person.

He watches you as you finish your last few bites. It took you a while longer because you stole one or two dumplings from his plate while he wasn’t looking and he ended up giving you half of his spring rolls because suddenly, you wanted spring rolls, too. He didn’t mind.

You are a food thief first and a clothes thief second, you told him, and that elicited that beautiful smile and a soft laugh from him; he sounds so beautiful when he laughs, and you find yourself staring at him in awe across the table.

You can't help but be captivated by the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs, and the dimples that he has. It's moments like these that remind you why you're so drawn to him. He has a good heart and the aura that surrounds him isn't dark because he's dangerous, he's just in pain, and beyond that pain, there is light to be sought out.

“What?” he asks, his laughter dying down into a soft smile.

You raise your eyebrows, your face still propped up on your hand. “What?” you ask him.

“Why’re ya lookin’ at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“That.” Michael points at your face. “I don’t know.”

A faint blush spreads across your cheeks. “Maybe I just like staring at you,” you say.

Michael's eyes widen slightly. "Wha'?" he replies.

“I like staring at you.”

That seems to throw him off a little. He opens his mouth, but the words won’t come out, so he looks down at the table and chuckles a little awkwardly. His hand reaches up to touch his beard, occupying his nervous fingers.

“Wait,” you eye him curiously, “Did I just get you flustered?”

He stammers, the blush on his cheeks spreading to what little you can see of his chest through the collar of his shirt. He has often got lost in the glow of your eyes. Even when you look tired, you are still the most beautiful creature in the world. You are real, you are human, and he appreciates that. He knows you are hiding something, but at that moment, when his eyes meet the mischievous glint in your eyes, he only sees the woman he met in the café that put a smile on his face – a real one, at that.

You continue putting a smile on his face, even back at his house. Birdy is observant and a romantic, but she wouldn’t say that he looks happy with you for no reason. She meant it. And he does feel a flutter in his stomach every time he as much as thinks about you. He’s scared, still, but Birdy’s words moved something in him. He doesn’t want to lose you, and as you’re staring at him, he realizes that you might be feeling the same way.

You’re a captivating person, enchanting even. He hasn’t seen such beauty in a while. Inside and out, you fill his heart with warmth. Your words have become his favorite audiobook, and your voice reminds him of a gentle symphony radiating all kinds of emotions to make the listener feel something. And he feels something when he sees you, hears you, and feels your skin against his.

You tilt your head a little, still propped up on your hand, and smile at him. Your smile grows cuter by the second, and maybe you’re a little shy now.

“I, uh…” he licks his lips. “I like starin’ at ya, too.”

“You do?” you ask, and now it’s your turn to be flustered.

“Yeah. Yer beautiful.”

“Oh…” You look away.

He reaches out to pull the hands that want to cover your face. “Don’t go shy on me now, love,” he says.

You meet the honey of Michael’s irises, and it’s a sweet taste that explodes on your tongue and spreads through your body, functioning as a balm and warming you up. You forget about everything else for a moment and focus slowly on him.

In your eyes, Michael Kinsella is a rare creature. He seems to have been taken straight from a work of fiction. He’s the dark, mysterious character with a world full of secrets but a heart of gold. And he loves with utmost devotion, something that is rare in most human beings these days. He has a tragic beauty about himself, his soul scarred from decades of pain, his life a series of traumatic memories, but he is still standing, and he is trying to be better. He’s trying to find a purpose, which is probably the most admirable because it is one of the hardest tasks in anyone’s life.

You look up to him. You’re not sure why, but you do. He’s shared so much about himself already, and something seems even more open now that he’s back. You feel a little guilty for keeping all of your pain from him after he opened up about his wife and entrusts you with helping to get his daughter back, which is a huge display of trust, but you don’t know how to tell him, and you don’t know if you even really want to.

This is a part of you that is very personal, and knowing Michael, he will lose it when he finds out the truth. You haven’t seen him angry before, but you have been watching people closely all your life; he is shy on the outside and he can be nice, but he can also get really angry when someone crosses him or the people he cares about. You don’t want him worrying about you.

He cradles your cheek and you grab his wrist instinctively, holding him there as you lean into his touch. “Where did ya just go?” he asks quietly.

“Just thinking,” you admit just as quietly.

“About what?”

You shrug, your eyes fluttering closed when he starts rubbing his thumb along your cheekbone.

“Has no one ever taken care of ya before?”

“No.”

“Am I the first man who makes ya feel…”

“Loved?” you ask.

He nods. “Yeah, loved.”

“Most of the men I’ve been with were assholes. They didn’t care.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, my friend says I just know how to pick ‘em.”

Michael chuckles softly. “Is that why ya went fer me?” he says.

“You’re not an asshole, Mikey.”

Your words leave the air heavy with tension. He exhales, cradling your face a little tighter now and you whimper, your mind slipping further into a fog with every stroke of his thumb along your skin.

He lets go of your cheek. You open your eyes lazily and look at him with a frown. He opens his arms. “C’mere,” he says.

You’re out of your chair faster than you can think.

Without hesitation, you respond to Michael's invitation. Your heart races with anticipation as you swiftly leave your chair behind. You seat yourself in his lap, pulling your legs up and curling into his chest. His hand comes to rest on your cheek again, this time holding you tight against him, his heartbeat thudding right where your ear rests. You melt into his embrace. You are scared of uncertainties, but his arms encircle you tight enough to form a shield against them. Everything else fades away, leaving only the two of you.

You take a deep breath, inhaling the scent that is uniquely him—notes of earthy cologne mixed with a hint of vulnerability. It's a fragrance that lingers in your senses.

“You smell good,” you murmur.

He chuckles. “Thanks,” he says.

“Like you… and me.”

“That’s ‘cause I used your shampoo.”

“I know.”

“Makes my hair soft.”

“I know.”

“And shiny.”

Your smile widens and you giggle into his chest. “It does look very shiny, yeah,” you say.

He sighs, his turn to inhale your scent. It’s like a warm hug, and he can’t believe he gets to hold you like this. “God,” he almost growls. His nose is still buried deep in your hair. “Ya have no idea how much I love having ya in my arms, pet.”

You shiver slightly. “You do?” your voice sounds hoarse.

“Yeah.” Michael holds you tighter, his lips attacking your scalp gently with kisses. It’s almost as if he wants to eat you, and you relax completely under his touch as he showers you with some much-needed affection.

You forget the folder on the table, the secrets between you, your day at work, and the stranger that freaked you out enough to send your mind reeling like a hamster running for its life in a wheel. You forget all about it and let him take care of you. You are too tired to protest, anyway.

His hand comes to rest around your throat, and you moan softly. He’s setting you on fire without even trying. His touch is possessive and yet it carries an electric current that courses through your veins.

You feel the weight of the world slipping away, replaced by an overwhelming sense of vulnerability. In his grasp, you find solace. He brings you back from the brink of losing your sanity, and you are eternally grateful he found the switch to turn the voices off.

He whispers your name. You hum in response.

“Thank you,” he says.

“For what?” you ask.

“Helpin’ me. With the job, Anna, myself, I–” He takes a deep breath. He doesn’t use many words most of the time, so holding up a conversation as vulnerable as this one still comes as a struggle to him. “I’m just thankful for ya,” he says.

You smile, sitting up in his lap and making sure you straddle him so you can look into his eyes. Your hands rest on each side of his face now. “You’re so very welcome, darling,” you say.

Michael rests his hands on the bare skin of your hips under your shirt. “While I was at the house, Birdy came t’see me.”

“Birdy?”

“Yeah, she’s– she’s family. I– She’s the one who’s been there fer me the most, and she always cares ‘bout everyone around her. She takes care of me. She always has. I don’t ask her to, but she does it anyway. She’s the heart and soul of this family.”

You tilt your head to the side. “Okay…”

“She asked me about ya,” he says.

“Oh,” you gasp softly.

“Not– not in a bad way. I promise, yer not in danger or anythin’, but… when Jimmy and I were fightin’, they heard your name. But Birdy… she understands, so I told her that I’m stayin’ with ya and she said… she told me I should be happy, and I am happy with ya, or somethin’ like that, and she said she’d try to keep the rest of my family off our asses so I can focus on Anna.”

You pause and look into his eyes for a moment before you say, “Aren’t you supposed to make me not like them?”

His chuckle sounds broken, but he smiles anyway. “Birdy’s nice,” he says.

“I can tell.”

“And she said she likes ya.”

“She has never met me.”

“She still does.”

“Ugh, I can’t hate someone who likes me.”

Burying his head on your shoulder, Michael laughs.

“Seriously, that’s unfair. Can’t she be a cunt like your brother and his snitch of a wife?”

His mind takes a moment to process your words before his laughter picks up again and he stares directly at you. “Did ya–” he clears his throat. “Jesus, did tha’ really just come out of your mouth?”

“What?” you ask.

“The word ‘cunt’ as an insult.”

“What, I’m not allowed to say it?”

He pulls you closer. “I didn’t even know ya were capable of cussin’ someone out!”

“I’m not a total church girl, Michael,” you retort.

The amusement in his eyes is clear. “Oh, I’m well aware of that,” he says. “Yer not the type o’ girl who prays.”

“It’s not what I usually get on my knees for, no.”

He chuckles, the sound resonating deep within his chest. You expected him to get flustered, but instead, his eyes glaze over and he smirks at you. His fingers graze the small of your back, creating a tingling sensation that travels up your spine. You shiver, your inside curling. You want to clench your thighs, but his thighs keep you trapped. You're burning, and the heat travels from your cheeks between your legs, straight to your core.

Michael eyes you hungrily. “And what’s that?” he asks, his voice husky. “What do ya get on your knees for, pet?”

“Well, Mr. Kinsella,” you whisper, “I get on my knees for one thing only...” Your fingers tangle in the hairs on the nape of his neck. He sucks in a sharp breath when you tug at them, the pain stinging his scalp, but it causes his blood to wander.

“Yeah?” he breathes.

His eyes never leave yours. You trace a finger along the strong line of his jaw, reveling in the way his body responds to your touch. “Yeah… Just one thing.”

“Tell me.”

“You.”

His fingers dig into your skin hard enough to leave marks. “Fuck!”

“I would kneel for you, Michael,” you say.

“Yeah?” he asks again.

“Yeah.”

You can feel his breath on your lips as he leans in. "I want ta have ya at my mercy," his voice caresses your ear like velvet.

Your fingers travel higher, feeling the soft brown hair between your fingers. They feel like a gentle breeze on a cozy autumn night. They remind you of the coffee you sell every time the weather gets particularly cold, but inside the café, the world becomes a warm sanctuary.

His hands are hot though. They are like a candle with a smoldering fire, and as it falls, it sets everything else around it on fire, too. His nails scratch over your hips slightly and your entire body quivers above him.

His gaze darkens with primal hunger. “You have no idea,” he says, “how much I ache to possess ya.”

You started this. This is your fault.

His lips press to the shell of your ear – they don’t just hover, he’s pressing them directly to it, and he injects his words into your bloodstream. “I want to push ya to the edge, to make you mine in every way I can imagine. To mark ya, body and soul. I want to feel ya come around my cock over and over again, mouth, cunt, everywhere until ya can't remember your name anymore,” he whispers, “I want to hear ya moan my name so loud, your neighbors complain, and then I want t’ do it again and again and again until yer drippin' with my cum inside ya.”

Your jaw slacks and you let out a loud and needy moan.

His hands move from your hips to your ass and he lifts you far enough to push your clothed core down on his half-hard cock. You instinctively hold onto his shoulders, your red face burying in the crook of his neck.

“What’s wrong?” Michael coos. “Can’t take it?”

That’s not the problem. You want to take it and you know you can, but he is making you feel this way without even touching you, and that’s what makes your head so dizzy, you feel like you’re about to fall.

You can barely catch your breath, the anticipation building to a fever pitch. “Please, Michael,” you respond so desperately needy.

“Get on your knees.”

Your legs are wobbly when you stand. He pushes his chair back slightly to offer you some room between his spread thighs. As uncomfortable as the floorboards are, you ignore the pain. You want this. You didn’t lie when you said he is the only thing you would get on your knees for. There is no space for God or Jesus, it’s only you, and it can’t be a sin to want to suck someone’s cock so badly as you want his. It’s only natural when someone lays their eyes on him, you’re sure.

Michael's gaze is intense as he looks down at you. He reaches down to cup your cheek. “Yer so beautiful on your knees f’me,” he says.

You clench your thighs, hoping to somehow soothe the ache in your core. The anticipation is almost unbearable, making you ache for his command. You want nothing more than to open your pants and touch yourself, your panties soaked and your cunt aching for attention.

“Please,” you whimper.

“Patience, pet. Let me admire you.”

His definition of admiring you is undressing you with his eyes, thinking about all the ways he can have your body right here right now, and he craves you like the most delicious drug. He craves the high, the feeling of being consumed by you as he tears orgasm after orgasm out of you. You look so pretty, and you sound so beautiful.

Your hands rub his thick thighs absentmindedly. He smiles. Deciding to have mercy on you, he undoes his belt with one hand. You watch intently until he starts to struggle and you help him pull his pants down. His jeans pool around his ankles, and you’re quick to free his cock from his boxers. It springs up against his stomach and you’re so turned on, you can feel drool trickling down your chin.

Michael brushes your hair back. “Are you sure ya want t’do this?” he asks.

“Yes,” you choke out. “Please, may I?”

He nods. “Of course, yeah.”

You adjust yourself and lean forward, your hands still braced on his thighs, and you lick a long stripe along the underside of his shaft.

He grips the edge of his chair and grunts. His hand tangles in your hair instantly, not pushing you but simply holding onto you. Your tongue traces the veins on his cock, drawing pictures over the most protruding one. You move higher now, teasing his tip, and his head falls back.

Michael stares at the ceiling which looks like the night sky in the darkness. The heat of your mouth engulfs him and he believes he’s in heaven.

You’re good at this, he won’t lie. The way you play with his slit, the mushroom tip of his cock, before taking him into your mouth. It’s only the tip at first, too, but you eventually hollow your cheeks and take him down your throat. It’s a bit of a struggle, but you’re nothing if not determined. Your hand makes up for what you can’t take, jerking him off right above his balls before you finally start moving.

Looking down at your hooded eyes and tear-stained cheeks, he has to dig his nails into his palms to stop himself from coming right there.

You start moving faster, paying special attention to his tip whenever you pull off. You suck on the most sensitive part of him and he’s alive; he’s so alive, his heart starts to race. He can feel everything, the heat of your mouth, the cold of the chair, and the sweat that is trickling down his forehead.

He grunts, tightening his grip on your hair. “Fuckin’ hell!” he moans, guiding your head ever so slightly. He tells you what pace he prefers, and you keep it that way.

Your head bops up and down in a steady rhythm, his cock heavy on your tongue, but the taste causes your mind to spin and ache for more, more, more–

His toes curl and he twitches in your mouth when you fondle his balls. Looking up at him, you can’t help but moan at the sight. His mouth is agape, his head tilted back to reveal his perfect neck, and the veins on his forearm are popping. You clench your thighs tighter as you continue to suck the soul out of him through the very tip of his cock.

Michael has dreamt about this before, but neither your hand nor your mouth come close to what he jerked himself off to. You’re so much better. It’s a lewd thought, even now, but you are so fucking good, you push him further and further and right to the edge of the cliff. He throbs, he whines and he moans, his noises spurring you on even more.

You want to make him come, you need to. You are more than willing to swallow everything he has to give and more. He sounds delicious and he looks even more so. You want to lick his chest hair that is poking out of his shirt, ride his thigh, maybe even rub your clit along his abs as you make yourself come. It is an utterly selfish thought, but the pleasure he brings you is overwhelming and drives you further toward the edge. And you’re only sucking his cock, which is something that has never turned you on before.

“Love, I’m gonna– fuck, if ya don’t want it in your mouth–”

You cut him off by patting his chest, telling him that it’s okay, he can come in your mouth; you want him to.

Your eyes roll back when he tugs at your hair, the pain mingling with pleasure, and the vibrations of your delicious moans are enough to make his balls tense under your touch and then he’s coming, hard, with probably the best orgasm he’s ever had in his life.

You try not to gag as the rather salty taste of his cum fills your mouth. You swallow every last drop, suckling on his tip until he’s whimpering above you, overstimulated and spent. You pull off then, cum trickling down your chin and throat and down the valley of your breasts.

Michael has zoned out, his eyes fixated on your face, your swollen lips, and the mess he’s made out of you – but he is probably the biggest mess out of both of you.

You blink up at him. “How was that?” you ask, your voice sounding way too innocent for what you just did.

His breath shudders. “Do–” he swallows. “Do ya have any idea how fuckin’ hot that was?”

“No,” you say.

“Fuck,” Michael growls, hoisting you up.

He doesn’t pull you back into his lap, instead, he meets you halfway and captures your lips in a searing kiss. You moan into his mouth, his cum mixing with his saliva in your mouth; you’re addicted now, too.

The empty takeout containers fly to the floor, the folder with his records and CV sliding to the other end of the table as he wipes it clean to lift you on it. You scramble to sit down as he pulls your hips flush against his.

He turns into an animal then.

Your shirt suffers when he can’t manage to get the buttons, so he decides to tear it open. You gasp, but not because you’re mad. It is probably the hottest thing he has ever done.

Your bra joins your shirt on the floor, his lips wrapping around your nipple. He doesn’t gently suck like he did the first night; he pulls on it with his teeth, almost taking your entire breast into his mouth, and you never thought that possible. He assaults your chest with such vigor, you’re a quivering mess in seconds. He toys with your buttons, pulling and sucking at your sensitive nipples until they’re hard, swollen, and red. There is a hickey on your right breast, and he admires his work. He has marked you, and this time everyone will be able to see it when you wear even the slightest hint of cleavage.

His pants are already gone. Yours are the only ones in the way. Lifting your hips, he pulls your jeans down. He misses your panties, which seems to frustrate him, but then he tears that piece of fabric, too, and you moan. Whatever got into him, you are wetter than the Atlantic Ocean and he will have no problem sliding right–

Your head flies back when his cock penetrates your tight walls, your lips parting in a silent scream. He thrusts into you without warning, pulling your hips flush against his, and you cry out. He manages to hit the secret spot inside of you just right the first time as if memorizing it, and your legs wrap around his waist.

For a few seconds, Michael doesn’t move. He stays buried with his cock deep inside of you, head dropped into the crook of your neck, his jaw slack as he pants into your skin, and you hold him close. Your cunt adjusts to his size rather quickly, but he needs a second to revel in the feeling of your velvety walls around him.

“You okay?” you ask.

He nods. “Are you?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

Something snaps inside of him and in only a few seconds, the dining table is shaking underneath your ass as he pounds into you. You hold onto his hair, nails dragging down his back, trying to get his shirt off so you can reach more skin. He’s fucking you so deliciously, the moans tumble from your lips in ecstasy.

Somehow, you manage to remove the last piece of clothing between you, and he dives in for a kiss. Your tongues clash. His hips snap against yours. Deep, hard strokes seem to be his favorite thing because it’s what he goes for this time, too. He hits all the right places, his fingers leaving indentations in your skin.

“Fuck,” you moan into his ear.

His tongue licks over your neck. “Yer so fuckin’ perfect,” he breathes.

You clench when he hits your G-spot. His name comes in labored breaths out of your mouth, and he swallows them with his plump lips.

“Can’t stop thinkin’ about fuckin’ you every second of every fuckin’ day, pet. Such a perfect little cunt, and only fer me.”

“Oh, God!”

You’re worried the table might break.

He kisses your neck, sucking a mark into the skin over your pulse point. You’re going to be purple and bruised tomorrow, and you’re going to get several comments at work, but you don’t want him to stop. It’s good to be owned by him. You want people to know you’re his and no one else’s to have. It fills you with pride, and you know he feels it, too.

Your eyes meet when he lifts his head, his thrusts faltering for a moment as he holds eye contact. You gasp, stroking through his sweaty hair. “You’re beautiful,” you whisper.

He stifles his moan in your neck, holding you impossibly closer as he continues thrusting slow and hard.

“Fuck, baby,” you dig your nails into his back, “Right there…”

He knows he’s doing it right, he can feel your pussy tightening around him, but he still makes sure to do it even more perfectly to give you the pleasure you deserve.

His hand finds your neck, squeezing tightly just below your jaw, and your eyes roll back into your head. He remembered.

Just when you’re about to reach between you to rub your clit, he forces your hand away and takes over, his thumb rubbing circles over the sensitive nub. The added stimulation together with his hand around your throat makes you see a sky full of stars in your ceiling, and you try to meet his thrusts as the knot in your stomach tightens and you’re about to fall off the precipice.

He bites your bottom lip. “Ya like that, huh?” he asks, his thumb rubbing faster over your clit. “Ya like it when I fuck ya, pet? When I make ya come? When I show ya what it’s like to be properly fucked?”

You nod and pathetically whine, “Yes! Please, Mikey.” It sounds almost like you’re sobbing. “So good, please.”

Michael reads the signs of your body perfectly because he pushes you back and pulls your hips into his. It allows his thumb more space to touch your clit, and the angle at which he hits your cervix makes it all too much to bear.

Your back arches off the wooden tabletop and you come without a warning, your walls spasming almost brutally around his cock that is still sensitive from the already heavy orgasm you gave him before, and with a few more heavy thrusts, a grunt escapes him and he falls on top of you as his cum spurts into your tight cunt.

You catch him with a hand on the back of his neck, your legs still wrapped around his waist. He stiffens completely, every last drop filling you to the brim, and you whimper at the feeling. It’s incredible, and it’s a part of him you get to have inside of you. He’s a territorial person, but so are you.

He is the first man you have ever let come inside of you without a condom, but he makes it worth it.

His bicep tenses as Michael lifts himself, a strand of hair falling into his face in the process. “Jesus Christ,” he says.

Your chest heaves. “Yeah,” you say.

“Are ya–” he cradles your face with an almost concerned look. “Are ya alright?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I didn’t mean to be so rough, I–”

“I liked it,” you cut him off. He’s cute when he overthinks something as simple as sex. You reach up and gently brush the strand of hair away from his face. “I'm more than alright,” you assure him. “I’m perfect.”

His shoulders visibly relax. “Perfect, huh?” he repeats, a hint of a smirk appearing on his lips. “Well, I'm glad you think so. Wouldn't want t' disappoint ya.”

You let out a soft laugh. “Trust me, Michael, there's no disappointment here. Quite the opposite, actually.”

He presses a tender kiss against your forehead. “Okay, good.”

You close your eyes. You’re both a mess and the position gets more uncomfortable with every second, but he has hoisted you up in no time after pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. He slips out of you, carrying your sweaty body in his arms toward the bathroom. You cling to him with a content smile, your legs shaking, but you can’t complain.

Once inside the bathroom, he carefully sets you down. The room is filled with the sound of running water as he adjusts the temperature, ensuring it's just right for you. He remembers you prefer the sizzling temperature of lava; he likes it cold. After the first shower together, you managed to find a middle ground together that doesn't burn his skin or freeze you to death.

As the water cascades down in the shower, he extends his hand toward you, silently inviting you to join him. You take his hand without hesitation. Under the soothing water, he tenderly washes away the clammy feeling of the day and the remnants of his cum. He runs his hands through your wet hair, massaging the shampoo into your scalp and spreading conditioner over the ends of your hair. You enjoy the way he's taking care of you so effortlessly and unconditionally, not expecting anything in return. But of course, once you're free of soap, you return the favor.

With gentle movements, you lather the soap over his skin, reveling in the way it glides across his contours. Your fingers trace his muscles, exploring the familiar terrain of his body. You stop at his chest hair, running your fingers through it. He shudders, but he takes the display of affection without words. He's beautiful, and the added hair makes him look delicious enough to eat, but you have been through that; this is just about you two now, some gentle intimacy without anything beyond fleeting touches and shampoo.

You stop over a scar on his hip. “What happened there?” you break the silence with a murmur.

“Ya really wanna know?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Knife fight.”

“Oh.”

“But it was nothin’ serious.”

“Still,” you trace your finger over the scar, “I’m sorry.”

“Shh–” Michael pulls you closer and presses his lips to yours. “Don’t worry ‘bout it,” he says. “I’m okay.”

You kiss him back, wrapping your arms around his neck. As the water continues to rain over you, you get lost in the feeling of each other, your skin feeling like silk under each other’s fingertips.

Wrapped in each other's arms, the world fades away. Your skin brushes against his. Your fingers glide over his back, tracing the contours of his muscles, as his hands roam over your curves. It’s sensual, but it’s no longer sexual.

“Michael,” you breathe against his lips.

He moves from your mouth to your cheek and then your forehead. “Hm?” he asks.

“I really like you,” you confess.

Michael stops, his hazel eyes meeting yours. You look so shy when you bite your lip and avoid his gaze. He smiles, tilting your chin up with his index finger. “I really like you, too,” he tells you.

It’s not an ‘I love you’ but it best describes how you both feel for each other.

“Closer,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the sound of the water.

You crave him. He responds without hesitation, pulling you closer until there's no space left between you. You rest your head against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your cheek.

His lips brush your temple. “Like that?” he asks.

“Yeah, like that.”

“I never thought…” His hands begin to roam your back and he tries to find the right words. “I never thought I’d feel like this again,” Michael admits.

You don’t look up, but your grip around his waist tightens in understanding.

“Yer bringin’ me back to life,” he says your name with so much certainty, “and I can’t thank ya enough for that.”

You try to keep your tears at bay. His confession is vulnerable, and you figure it’s not something he often does. He has bled his heart out for you the day before, and now his cages are gone and he’s continuously giving you his blood for you to filter and breathe it back into him – you’re bringing him back to life, setting his heart alight, and he wants nothing more than for the feeling to persist. You want the same for him, too.

But Michael also wants to bring you back to life because he can tell you’re holding back, your shoulders tense with the secrets that threaten to weigh you down and drown you in the endless sea of your emotions. It’s hard enough for him to be so open, and he still has so much left to say, but he hopes that Birdy was right with what she said– he hopes you will open up to him once he finds the courage to tell you even the last bits and pieces of his story, and that he can help bring you back to life, too.

“I don't want this to end,” your voice breaks.

“It won't end,” Michael whispers into the crown of your head, “not if I have anythin' ta say 'bout it. We'll take it one step at a time, but I'm not lettin' go of ya.”

“I don't want to let go either.”

“Then don’t.”

“I won’t,” you say.

Because you need him, and without him, you’re pretty sure you will not be able to exist anymore.

Tagging: @bellaxgiornata @shouldbestudying41 @your-not-invisible-to-me @glowstick-lesbian @ms-murdockswift @acharliecoxedfan @mattmurdocksscars @roseallisonparker @1988-fiend @norestfortheshelbywicked @loveroftoomanyfandoms

#michael kinsella x reader #michael kinsella x you #michael kinsella #michael kinsella smut #michael kinsella angst #michael kinsella fluff #kin amc #reader insert #charlie cox #chaos theory

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nellyofthevalley · 5 months

Text

spawn, ch.3

astarion x fem!tav…

rating: explicit content: NON-CON I'M SO FUCKING SERIOUS FOR THIS CHAPTER, tragedy, violence, lots of cazador, dead dove, probably death at some point, i don’t know it’s a lot, fuck or die summary: cazador uses the one thing astarion cares about to exert control over his favorite spawn in the worst ways.

With her, he would have risen from the dirt and lived again. He swore, a few times, that he felt his heart come to life for a brief moment and he remembers every last one. He thought of them often in the kennels on repeat in his mind, reciting a list of reasons why he had to go on.

chapters: ch.1 | ch.2 | ch.3

read it on ao3 or below the cut:

A sort of ritualistic gathering developed—every night, Cazador calls Tav, Astarion, and a select few of his spawn to the dining hall, where they sit together at the table as a ‘family’. Most nights, Astarion is left to sit in silence and watch as his master passes Tav from spawn to spawn, to be drank from like a bottle of wine.

Cazador goes so far as to give the spawn praise, tell them what a wonderful reward they’re being given for their behavior, but none are blind to the truth. Cazador never let them drink from thinking creatures before, no matter how well they performed. The favored spawn’s dormitory, sporting a small semblance of privacy, is the sole gift they’ve ever received. The tiefling dinner they’ve all come to indulge in is simply another one of Astarion’s punishments they’re forced to participate in.

The spawn, forbidden from supping of the blood of anything better than bugs and rotten vermin, always bite her wildly and take too much, marring her skin more than Astarion had the night she was taken. Cazador has to compel them to stop, reminding them he still has plans for her and to ‘mind their manners’—though he still allows them to take enough to take enough to render her weak, unable to speak or move at all.

Astarion’s body aches and begs his mind to agree to get up and fight, to break the wooden dining chair and run its leg through his master’s dead heart over and over again; to bathe in his screams, twist the stake and watch his organs curl, and tear his flesh apart until there’s nothing left but viscera.

Most nights, she’d faint before a thrall carries her out to be cared for—this ‘care’ nothing more than an assurance she lives another grueling day of torture. Astarion learned Dalyria had been tasked with seeing to her, and one night in passing, she mentioned that Tav had her own room and hasn’t been by Cazador’s side as he was led to believe. A comfort, albeit small; here, even a short reprieve is a blessing.

Over time, it seemed Cazador had taken a twisted liking to her, directly speaking to her more often and addressing her politely. Empty words when he has his spawn drain her to the edge every evening, but it makes Astarion’s stomach churn.

It's agonizing, being forced to sit at the table in the evenings, so close that he could reach out and touch her—if he were allowed. She looks so empty, so devoid of any emotion, he wishes he could see anything in her. He wishes they had the tadpoles again, threat of ceremorphosis be damned, so they could share in each other’s minds.

The tadpoles were the best thing that ever happened to Astarion, granting him freedom and power, but they were careless. They dragged their feet confronting Cazador and now…

Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered. The master wasn’t wrong when he said Astarion didn’t have to be his spawn to be controlled; he proved as much that first night.

Astarion wonders if Cazador’s taught her to be so expressionless, or if the light in her is truly fading. He hates how dependent he’s become, how resolve flits out of his heart as easily as it enters. If her fire’s snuffed out—the last of her hope gone—he fears he won’t be able to hold onto his own anymore.

On the nights Astarion is escorted out first, he almost prefers the ignorance to knowing what happens to her in the dining hall after he’s left.

He thought the dinners were the worst. How wrong he was, he realizes, when Cazador ceases to summon him from the kennels. It is a far bleaker existence in solitude, hungry and oblivious to anything beyond the door.

Thralls no longer come for him. His siblings never come for him. Their friends never come for him.

All he knows is that she must still be alive—Cazador surely would’ve summoned him to watch if he were to kill her. The unknown is terrifying. Many nights, he chooses to live in delusion, repeatedly telling himself she’s okay; shaken, that he couldn’t deny, but not gone.

When Godey comes to discipline him, ‘learning his manners’ is an emphasized lesson, and the skeleton never slips, never says a single word beyond the fucking lesson and his mockeries.

Cazador visited him, too, though the occasions were rare. The master had better things to spend his time on than something as trivial as Astarion’s punishments, even if he is the favorite spawn. Distinct from the favored spawn, the favorite spawn is the most beautiful, most whored, most disdained, and wields the sweetest screams. Many moons ago, before the abduction, he was also the most ill-disciplined. Now, he dutifully plays his part, waiting to see Tav again.

Eventually, these visits also came to an end. Godey no longer prowls and attends to his kennels, an area that has been his, not the master’s, for as long as Astarion can remember. The piece of shit walking bag of bones values his domain, carries a sense of pride and ownership over it; the fact that he no longer makes his rounds is terribly unsettling.

After a few weeks that felt like months of isolation, a mortal servant arrives to deliver a rather lavish, white-and-gold outfit and written orders from Cazador: ‘Dress up. Mind your manners. Wait to be escorted.’ Painfully brief and unenlightening. Not unexpected. The master had never been eloquent in the art of written words.

Astarion, wrought with hunger, fights the urge to drink the servant dry, persevering only due to his conviction to see Tav again. He can’t fuck this up. He can’t agitate Cazador. He wonders if he’ll see her tonight—if Cazador’s planned a ball, a feast, or some other sort of gathering perhaps—and will she be dressed up, too?

Dress up. Mind my manners. Wait for my escort.

Mortals who know Cazador’s true nature come to his gatherings expecting to leave with the gift of eternal life. Few are granted eternal life. It’s never a gift, and no one ever leaves.

If Astarion were blissfully unaware to the party’s farce—only a mask for the true feast to be had by beasts and monsters alike—it might be a refreshing sight, with people dancing, talking, and drinking, filling the ballroom to the brim. He nearly envies them; at least their deaths won’t be prolonged across centuries.

He was given no instruction or tasks beyond putting on a pretty face, and upon arrival looks over the crowd to the front, searching for Tav. She sits in a new chair besides Cazador’s empty one, wearing an elegant, flowing blood-red dress the master must’ve chosen for her. No doubt meant to match with his own aristocratic, gaudy attire; a black, tailored velvet coat with red-and-gold embroidery, silken shirt, slim trousers and shiny leather boots.

An image of royalty to the ignorant—the idiots that ask for the gift of eternity. Vampiric king and queen, presiding over their lands and peasants. Astarion never saw him with a ‘partner’ before, but tonight, Cazador is flaunting her like she’s his. The chairs, the matching attire, the event… events at the palace are rare and always a carefully calculated move. There’s purpose.

They’re feasts, but they’re never just feasts.

Tav looks different up there, dolled up in a gothic look she’d never choose for herself, with her hair in a styled updo and at the master’s side. Almost like she’s been transformed into another person altogether, with a mere few distinguishing features left to recognize her by.

It’s wrong, she’s all wrong; he doesn’t see her amber eyes staring back, and he fucking knows why and refuses to believe. Not until he can see it. Astarion weaves through guests, moving up closer to get a better look at her and he sees something that pesters him so ruthlessly, something that threatens to tear down every drop of willpower and self-discipline he’d managed to gather since their imprisonment.

Fresh puncture wounds on her neck.

Red eyes, and the clear hunger behind them. The very same look he wore when he was turned and when he was denied even rats.

It’s a brutal reminder of what he’s known for a very long time: that their efforts had been in vain, a complete waste of time for a world that wasn’t worth saving; that the Gods of this foul place and every inhabitant deserve to drown along with it.

Before she came along and won him over with her honeyed words, he had it beaten into him over two hundred years that this realm is a horrible, vile place to spend a minute on, nor a single lifetime, and certainly not for eternity.

‘The world can be a wonderful, kind place, Astarion, when you find a home in it,’ she said.

She said a lot of stupid things, and he protested against nearly every single one of them, but she was stubborn. Persistent. She did the impossible and made him believe they would find their home in it and experience this wonderful, kind place. He’d been a thoughtless, love-addled twit that thrived on her energy, eventually coming to crave it.

Astarion didn’t want it and he refused it at every turn. He scoffed at her generosity, doubted her graciousness, and chastised her when she dared to challenge him. He waited on her every word, though never without comment, and in time, he started to welcome the infection of her sweet, kind heart.

In his confinement, after the dinners and the visits stopped, Astarion had dreamt many times of the end. No more pain, no more sorrow, no more torture.

True death is a fantasy within the walls of this palace.

Yet, no matter how many times he fantasizes of obliteration, he’s still all but given up on hope. He hopes she’ll kiss him again, laugh with him, or so much as flash a half-smile his way. He would do anything for it. He would do even more to set her free.

Much as he fought it, she brought an irreplaceable light to the gloom in the soul he thought he’d lost.

When Cazador’s voice rings through the room, it’s as if he’s drifted off and he’s watching something else control his form, an empty husk obeying and moving aside as his master commands. The whole crowd splits, creating space in the center, and only a minute later they’re applauding and awing at what’s on display. Their laughs and claps are utterly revolting, it’s like hearing the master’s taunts on repeat—like every guest is mocking him and berating him, and it echoes through the palace.

Astarion looks through his own eyes again, and he wishes he hadn’t.

In another lifetime, it would be them dancing on the ballroom floor. Astarion, the Ascendant, and his lover, dressed in the same blue-and-gold scheme. He’s always thought blue suits her well, not red, and not moving along with Cazador with his palm on her back and her hand in his, twirling her around like a doll to be shown off. It’s a spectacle, a well-crafted show designed to destroy his most prized spawn.

It’s atrocious enough to push Astarion to vomit, but he doesn’t, of course he doesn’t, he can’t—not with this cold, dead form. He dashes away from the crowd and dry heaves in the corner, over and over until his body can’t handle it anymore and he runs off to the kennels, knowing he’ll regret this later, knowing he has nowhere to go but here.

The place he’d been tortured in for so long, made to scream and cry and beg for mercy, to submit and now it’s all he has to find comfort in. It’s a disgrace. It’s fucking humiliating.

The first time was when he couldn’t live with the guilt anymore and admitted he’d been manipulating her, trying to win her favor all along by charming her and pleasuring her, and that he’d gone and fucked it up—he finally started to understand that he wanted more from her. Astarion wanted something real, and he didn’t know how to ask nor how to do it, and he was so sure she would yell at him anyway for what he’d done, knowing he’d deserve it but fearing it all the same.

She embraced him instead. He recoiled purely by instinct and she didn’t let him go. He buried his face in her hair and closed his eyes and he felt his heart stir.

Then, when she kissed him under the stars at Wyrm’s Crossing. It wasn’t their first or second kiss, he’d lost count by then, but that one was different. That one made his heart flip as they looked beyond the horizon, processing the months of traveling and fighting and how far it had taken them, the city only a few days away.

And again, when they survived the confrontation with the brain. Death was a certainty, and they came out the other side. After that, he felt they could do anything if they did it together. Even the sun that could kill him so easily felt like little more than a petty burn on his skin while he rode the high of it all. She promised to find him a way to live in the sun again after they killed Cazador.

His heart did more than flip or stir that time, it raced.

Later, Godey comes for him in the kennels and drags him to Cazador’s study. A room he’s never entered before, not in two hundred years; none of the spawn or thralls were allowed in his study. It’s a sign. He’s sure it means their numbered days can be counted on one hand.

He’s shoved in the room and kicked to the floor; Godey’s already left by the time Astarion looks back at the door, and then it’s Cazador jerking him by his hair, throwing him back against the ground.

“You thought to disrespect me, at my party, during my dance?”

“Fuck you,” Astarion retorts. He’s being senseless and rash and he knows it, he knows he should be good, but fuck, with Tav made Cazador’s spawn, what does he have left to fight for? To live for? Why shouldn’t he get himself killed by spitting in his master’s face?

“And here I thought you felt something for her. You seemed to cherish her, didn’t you? And now you’ll throw it all away, just so you can have a meager few seconds of fun, making your jabs at me?” Cazador taunts him, kicking him backwards against the cold floor and stepping on him, shifting his weight to his foot and shoving Astarion’s face into the tile. “I shouldn’t be surprised. You were always selfish, unable to hold your endless prattle and boasting. The others have always hated you for it.”

Astarion looks down, as if the fight he had simply evaporated—the master perfected the act of preying on his spawn’s worst traits and insecurities, and he was never immune to it, try as he may.

“Look at me, boy,” Cazador orders, compelling him to watch as he lifts his boot and comes back down on Astarion’s chest with a harsh crack on his ribs. “If it was yours to make, what would you have me choose? Would you prefer I carved the runes into her back, as agonizingly as I did to you, and sacrifice her? Or keep her as my pet forever?”

Gods. He can think of nothing worse than an eternity with Cazador, but the thought of Tav enduring the runes, then slaughtered like cattle… he’d rather stay in Cazador’s service for another thousand years than choose. She has so much life left to live, and it’s already been snuffed out, all because she’d been dumb enough to choose him to love.

“She’s already fucking dead,” he says. “You fucking killed her! You took her body, forced red eyes and eternal hunger onto her. You transformed her into a monster. You stole her from me.”

“Stole her—have I misjudged you? Is she simply property to you? Ha!” Cazador laughs and shakes his head, lifting his foot from Astarion’s chest. “You would’ve been smart to see her that way, spawn, I taught you better than to love. But it makes no difference to me, really; whether she’s your lover or your possession, you belong to me. I own you. She was made mine the very moment you set your eyes on her.”

“Fuck you, fuck you!”

“You are nothing and you have nothing. You went on a short vacation with mortals who’ve since forgotten you, and hand-delivered to me the only one foolish enough to show you kindness.”

The door behind creaks open and another body is pushed through the door, onto their knees beside him. Red dress. Red eyes.

Astarion, too livid to consider if he should, crawls over to her and puts his hands on her, lifting her chin to look at him. Her dark makeup is well-executed, giving her the blush of life, and everything about her appearance screams elegance, class, perfection.

No amount of makeup can cover what he sees when she sets her eyes upward on him: a reflection of himself and what he’s done to her, how he’s condemned her to this.

“My love,” he says, an appeal to her, though he feels guilty for hoping she feels something for him still, sure that he’s unworthy of it.

“Astarion, no.”

It stings worse than any blow or cut he’d been given. It’s been weeks, maybe months since he’s heard her say anything except ‘no’, and even his name is spoken with such bitterness. But her palms raise and latch on to his forearms and her eyes shut, like it’s painful to look at him, and it stokes his little spark of hope.

“Please,” he pleads, but for what, he’s not sure.

It’s but a second before Cazador intervenes, pushing Astarion aside.

“Sit. And watch,” he demands.

Astarion sits up with his back to the wall, staring at them with eyes half-open. His master—their master, now—bends his newest spawn over the desk, lifting her pretty red dress up over her back and pulling her underwear to her knees. Cazador pins her against the tabletop, his cock rigid against her cunt, separated only by the petty fabric of his pants.

“I promised I’d teach you. It’s only a shame that you’ll not have the chance to put my instructions to use,” he says, words directed towards Astarion, but eyes set on Tav and unwilling to spare Astarion even a single glance. A waste of the master’s time, as it often is; as his favorite and most hated spawn, Cazador’s interactions with Astarion are limited to the cruelest encounters, those that wrought enough suffering to satisfy the master for the night.

Tav stares at Astarion, and he hates it. With her face pressed against the surface, expression devoid of emotion, and her hands held behind her back by Cazador—a scene perfectly crafted to ruin him.

See what you’ve done to me?

He hears it in her voice.

“Dry,” Cazador notes. “Fix this.”

Of fucking course she’s dry! What did he expect from her, her admiration and attention? To wet her cunt to her slaver? Astarion can’t fathom how she could even fix it—how could anyone get aroused in this situation?—but something in their master’s tone indicates that this isn’t the first time he’s ordered her to do this.

She follows quickly, she has to. She reaches her hand down under her dress. Astarion can’t see beneath the red fabric and he’s thankful for it. Despite the Gods ignoring his every prayer, he still begs them now to stop this, to remove them from this place, scorch the earth if they must. He’ll serve, he’ll sacrifice, he’ll give anything and everything. He’ll give his body, his soul—all of it.

None listen.

Cazador thrusts into her as ruthlessly and awfully as he administered every other punishment. She gasps and scrunches her face, stuffing her true feelings further and further down, being good, being compliant. She’s behaving and putting on a tough face, but it’s so fucking obvious how disciplined and practiced it is.

Rehearsed and refined, like how Astarion honed his skills in the art of seduction over the centuries. Is this what’s being done to her behind closed doors? When the rabid feasts on her blood stopped and Astarion never saw her, even so much as to deliver a punishment, was Cazador raping her and conditioning her to put on a happy face for it?

It’s sick. It’s disgusting. The sounds of his master fucking his lover reverberate in his ears; the ghoulish slap of skin on skin, the repulsive, throaty groans Cazador makes and the distressed, subdued cries coming from his love’s mouth. The noises alone haunt him, and even if he could look away, the memories of when he was first turned and Cazador had his way with him would simply follow.

Astarion would take her place as many times as he had to, if he could, without a second thought. He’d get on his back, his knees, any fucking way he was told to if it meant sparing her from it. He’d pretend to love it. He’d swallow and moan and take it all with a pretty face.

If it would save her, he would endure.

“Tav,” Cazador starts, about to command her, and it’s the first time Astarion’s heard her name said from his repugnant mouth. “My naïve, harebrained spawn over there won’t stop dreaming of taking you for himself again. Re-educate him on the matter of how you came to be a spawn. My spawn.”

“You led me here,” she chokes out between whimpers. “You killed me, Astarion.”

No, no, Astarion thinks, you don’t believe that… you wouldn’t… would you?

He wants to think that she’s only being compelled, that she’d never fault him for it, even if he blames himself. He can’t let go of believing she still cares for him—it’s all he has left.

“He watches you so faithfully, so childishly enthralled by you. Look at him.” Cazador brushes a piece of her hair back to uncover her face and leans closer to her to speak, turning his gaze towards Astarion. “Pretend it’s him inside you, pleasuring you. Imagine his face, his voice, and show us how beautifully you’d purr for him.”

“No, please,” Astarion begs, knowing he’s powerless, knowing his pleas will only satisfy Cazador more, yet he can’t stop them. “Don’t do this.”

Astarion never had the opportunity to lay with her again after the night in the forest. He wanted to—he wanted to so, so badly; he wanted the opportunity to learn how to truly love someone and show his for her as she deserves, but he wasn’t ready for it no matter how much he wished he was.

Whenever Astarion felt he had nothing left to lose, he was proven wrong, time and time again. Cazador commanded him to force himself on her in the ballroom, and now he’s forced to watch as she imagines him behind her. It’s fucking heinous, it’s tragic, it’s despicable.

He was never compelled in this manner, the master was happy to be patient with Astarion, taking his time enjoying beating and torturing him into submission. He wonders what happens when you’re compelled to imagine another lover. Is it Astarion’s face she’ll see when she turns around? Is it Astarion’s voice she’ll hear when Cazador speaks? Or will she still be keenly aware of the nightmare they’re residing in?

It’s her moans that bring him back to the present. Her lovely voice he dreamt of singing for him many times, and now it sings for a vision of him while he watches.

Cazador lets her hands free and hikes her dress further up, leaving nothing out of sight. Astarion tries to turn away, but his body won’t comply—it can’t. He sees Cazador sliding in and out of her and how he roughly grabs her chin with his slimy hand and turns her face towards him. He sees her, his Tav, looking at their master with her half-closed eyes and parted mouth and it makes him feel ill, thinking of how she sees his face laid over Cazador’s.

“Astarion.” She cries his name with a whimper, almost as if she were calling for him to save her.

“No,” he says quietly, to no one but himself, his voice tired of begging and screaming and and it’s futile, anyway; he’s powerless, nothing but a frail, expendable spawn.

“Astarion, please,” she whines in a sweet way, distinct from how she’d said his name only a second ago, like she’s begging him to fuck her. He’d imagined this many times, fantasized of it—he’d been waiting for it for so long—and hearing it now is a fucking torment, a stain on every fantasy; he’ll never be able to push this foul noise out of his head.

If he lives through this, he’ll remember it for a thousand years, a maddening infestation of the mind. It would seep into every one of their interactions, it would creep back into his head when he tried to bed her. It would follow them to the ends of the universe until they lost their souls.

Cazador shoves two of his fingers into her opened mouth, pressing far back until she’s about to gag from it, and she so enthusiastically licks them and coats them in her saliva, seeing Astarion’s pale face and hand while she does it.

“Look at her. So ready to please,” he says, and he wipes his spit-covered fingers on her cheek like she’s just a rag to wipe his filthy hands with.

Then, he covers her mouth fully with his palm forcefully; her brows furrow, eyes widen like she’s afraid, and her nails scratch hysterically at the wood beneath her. He’s relentless, holding her mouth shut tight and pushing her head to the desk while his motions become faster and stronger, and she looks like she’s in fucking pain.

One tear runs down Astarion’s face. Then another, then more; seemingly endless tears running down his face and dripping down onto his clothes and he does nothing to stop or wipe them away. He’s not even sure he could move right now, his body limp and bereft of any life.

Cazador finishing inside her is a sight and sound he’ll never be able to scrub from the crevices of his brain—a scene that will live in the black when he closes his eyes, inescapable.

“I see why you like her,” he taunts. “She’s obedient, isn’t she? And stupidly infatuated with you. A pity you’re too weak to exploit her.”

He fastens his trousers and straightens out the folds in his clothes; it’s all mechanical, it’s nothing for him but a job to be done, a performance to exert his power.

But Cazador was a pathetic, putrid little spawn once, too. He could be made one again.

He turns and leaves them alone. Together. Astarion’s body and mind are a mess—his face coated with dried, pitiful tears, and he’s lost on what being left behind here, with Tav, means. Does he grant them this visit to tempt Astarion and reprimand him for it later? Or is it as Aurelia had once said, bestowing a small ‘kindness’ for the cruelty of it?

He gives in to the temptation even if it earns him discipline later, desperate for so much as one moment with her, but it’s not temptation at all—he understands when he approaches her.

The sticky white leaking from her cunt and running down her leg, the bruises covering her back to her thighs, the way she lays there lifeless, even when allowed to move and speak; it’s all to prove she’d been broken. A reminder of the master’s ownership over them, what he’d taken from them.

“Tav.”

She doesn’t reply, doesn’t move.

“Please. We may never get to speak again,” Astarion begs, his voice cracking. He wanted to have the strength for them both, but he fucking can’t. “Talk to me.”

She starts to cry, he sees it run down her face and onto the desk. He pulls her dress back over her body and bends forward, laying beside her, looking at her.

Beautiful, as she’s always been. Not a monster as he yelled in anger, not already dead. She’s Tav, his first love; the only love he’ll ever know.

Her cries turn into violent sobs, though still she lays there, motionless. Paralyzed. Astarion gently touches her face with his fingertips, and when she doesn’t fight him on it, he trails down her cheek and wipes her tears away. It’s in vain, the tears flowing ceaselessly, but he can’t stop himself; he can’t think of anything but how desperately he wants to comfort her.

It’s a need worse than the hunger for blood—despite being starved ever since they came here, he forgot about it as soon as he felt her skin on his finger.

“Come on.”

He extends his hand towards her, to help her stand. He waits with it out until finally, she accepts and lifts herself with stiff movements, sore from the bruises. Bruises that weren’t meant for her, but for him to uncover and never forget.

He loathes to think how the dance must’ve felt for her. Awful. Unbearable.

“Tav.”

“Don’t. I’ve nothing left to give,” she says, sure of what he wants to express, and she doesn’t want to hear it.

Astarion could argue with her, he considers it; he could fight her and tell her everything she still has left to offer, everything he wishes they could share in. He learned better than anyone that undeath doesn’t mean you have no life left to live or that it’s not still you inside.

It’s selfish, but he can’t stop wondering if she’s truly given up on him and if she hates him for this. When Cazador ordered her to speak, did she mean what she said? Does she believe he stole her chance at life? She wouldn’t be wrong for it.

It had been his doing every step of the way, really—trying to seduce her, falling for her so carelessly, letting her hug and kiss and adore him and get under his skin, not insisting they kill Cazador the moment they stepped foot in the city. Fuck, he could’ve stopped it all when they met if he’d driven the knife through her throat.

As she walks away, he wonders if he’s ever told her he loves her.

Maybe it would’ve been selfish, anyway. Maybe she wouldn’t want to hear it.

#non con #dead dove fic #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 astarion #astarion #astarion fanfic #astarion x tav #tav x astarion #astarion fic #my fanfic

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onewholivesinloops · 1 year

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Was talking to @gurofriend about this the other day and this is really interesting to me because Anthy and Satoko ‘moving pieces’ (and I think people underestimate Anthy also moving pieces because even though she’s definitely doing it for Akio, for example for most of the stuff she does in the movie he’s dead) is them expressing and acting on all the emotions they've been repressing and locking up inside, trying to assert themselves and fight against the trauma induced feelings that keep them where they are while also giving in to it at the same time.

Something something Anthy and Satoko are the same. Traumatized, victimized girls who couldn't become princesses, never had the opportunity to be princesses, who were doomed to become witches because they were rejected from the start. To be victimized is to be villainized. They embrace being a witch and revel in it because it's the only thing that gives them power and agency, things that were always denied to them and it's the only way they can fight back, the only way they can express their feelings about their trauma, so of course they're grasping at whatever control they can get within their abuser's framework.

Obviously nothing good lies at the end of this destructive path but, as Utena said, it's Akio and Eua who made these abused girls into witches in the first place. Anthy and Satoko are both also ‘pieces’ in Akio and Eua’s eyes, so it's not about how they should be punished. It’s about how they should be lifted out of this abuse so they can heal. Truly, I really don't think either Anthy or Satoko need a "redemption".

I’m aware this is a minority opinion when it comes to Gou/Sotsu but I think it made the right choice in not focusing on such a thing because I don't think the life/decisions of abused girls means they need to ‘earn redemption’ in the eyes of an entitled viewer. After all why do girls like Anthy and Satoko, girls who have only ever had to suffer and have hatred and sin pushed onto them because as girls and children who have been wronged, that made their very existence wrong in the eyes of others, and it made any further mistreatment of them justified in their eyes, why do these girls need to 'do enough good' to change the audience's mind and earn the right to live?

The entire point is that they’re girls who have been forced into the villain role, they’re girls who have been turned into “monsters” by their abusers. The people who think they need “redemption” are the ones who keep stabbing them with the Swords of Hatred or enable that stabbing. It’s the dehumanization of them by saying their sins need to be forgiven and paid in blood that causes and perpetuates every act of abuse. When the audience demands such things of them it mirrors Akio saying Anthy needs to pay for defying him and defiling herself. It was never about redemption, it’s about moving on from said abuse and how every victim of abuse has the right to live and deserves the opportunity to re-invent one’s self.

It's this mentality that Anthy has crimes to forever pay for that causes every duelist including Utena herself to hurt her, and it's that demonization that makes Anthy give up and feel helpless. And she is helpless. Only a duelist/outsider has power to reach out a hand to help her pull herself out but none of them including her think she is worth saving until Utena who sees that wound and doesn't forgive so much as accepts and connects. And all this applies to Satoko because even if she thinks and acts as if she has power, she is still helpless before Eua and Hinamizawa’s abuse. And she doesn't think she's worth saving. She plans to pay for her sins with her death at the very end because she’s very suicidal. Rika throwing away the sword instead of killing Satoko with it because she cares and loves Satoko not despite of what she is but because of it is her breaking this cycle the same way Utena did.

It also troubles me when people call Satoko abusive because it is more on the level of complicit action in Eua's entertainment and the pressure involved. I understand that for some people, Satoko's behavior is abuse and I get that it's uncomfortable for them, but for me it isn’t so clear cut especially when the entire point is that the lines between abuser/abused can be very blurry. And the reality is that Eua took advantage of her and the thing is, under severe stress, people do things they would normally never do. They become complicit in revictimizing themselves and those around them. Eua has put Satoko into a situation where she either breaks Rika or commits complete suicide and loses everything. Satoko told rika already. Either she denies Satoko and leaves her behind for St. Lucia, or she stays with her in Hinamizawa. Rika cannot have both things, but she wants both. That’s her struggle.

So Satoko must do one of two things: 1) make Rika feel that she has to stay, 2) or vilify herself in Rikas eyes, so that Rika will finally give up on her because she cannot stand to go back there. This is why Satoko keeps leaving clues as syringes. She does things that never happen in Rika's original loops. She literally says she knows Rika wants to leave Hinamizawa to go to a fancy girls school and tells her that her “dreams” are messages from Oyashiro-sama. She's constantly giving her blatant hints, but Rika doesn't want to believe Satoko is involved, so she purposefully ignores these clues. Even when it could not be Shion that killed her, Rika fixates and insists on that. Anthy is the same. She's complicit in Akio's schemes and planning for reasons that are similar to those of Satoko's but this is again due to the pressure involved.

But yeah, Anthy and Satoko do a lot of horrible things and they’re far from perfect, but that’s what matters because women under stress, women who are traumatized, women who are abused, they don’t need to be perfect to be protected from, and lifted out of abuse. It’s okay for girls in bad situations to make mistakes, this doesn’t make them irredeemable. And it’s important to understand this because a lot of victims in real life lash out to cope and that doesn’t make them any less worthy of receiving help.

#rgu #higurashi #higurashi gou #higurashi sotsu #gamo.txt

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whumble-beeee · 8 months

Text

Whumptember 2023, Day 11

“There’s nothing else I can do”

Last resort | Character death | Medical whump

The Bee’s Whumptember Masterlist

~1490 words

CW: probably wrong medical procedure based on my own limited medical training and experience, wishing for death, blood, implied knife wounds, technical medical talk, mentioned past torture, brainwashed whumpee, medical malpractice (but the good kind ig?), needles

(Continued from Day 10: What Are You Doing To Them. Turns out Detective does save Whumpee after all. kinda. heh.)

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Where… where was Whumpee? This was all much too white, much too bright. New noises pounded on their eardrums. Weren’t they supposed to be dead? Hanging limply by their wrists, crimson red blotting out their dark flesh so that it was practically a second skin? So good and pretty for Whumper, because they couldn’t struggle anymore and couldn’t be entertaining anymore, so dead was the only way Whumpee could make Whumper happy? They were supposed to be dead. They wanted to be. That was the only way they could be useful now.

Something was poking and prodding at them. Multiple somethings, multiple someones. Whumpee shifted uncomfortably and tried to move away, only to find they couldn’t. Straps. They were strapped to a bed, and the bed was jostling around. Nothing too out of the ordinary. Every slight movement exacerbated their dizziness.

Had Whumper decided to keep them alive after all? Maybe this was just some new form of torture. That must be why Whumper put some sort of face mask on them. Poison, maybe. Whumpee would gladly take it. Even if their wounds made them so, so weak, even if the bright lights made them want to scream, even if they could barely feel what was happening to their body, even if the flurry of movement around them confused them, especially the agonizing poking and prodding.

Even if some dark horrible part of their heart fluttered because maybe, just maybe, Whumpee was being saved. If only… No, no, Whumpee didn’t want to be saved. Whumpee wanted to please Whumper and be good for them. That was their only job in life.

Was Whumper even here? They usually liked to talk while torturing Whumpee.

No, Whumpee was good. Whatever Whumper wanted, Whumpee would do, even if this wasn’t their usual style. They would take it because they had to, and they wanted to. They wanted to. They would always take it, always, always, always, always, always…

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Detective frantically patted Whumpee’s cheek, and their eyelids twitched open again. Barely. One of the EMTs shoved Detective out of the way with an understandably authoritative “Move,” and got to work wiping off a staggering amount of crimson just from the crook of Whumpee’s elbow. They quickly placed and taped down the IV before readjusting the oxygen mask on Whumpee’s face for the third time, as the other EMT worked on staunching the blood endlessly gushing from the various gaping gashes and stab wounds all over their body.

“They’re losing too much blood, tourniquet and elevate the limbs more and focus on stitching and pressure on the torso and head.”

Detective leaned back into the corner as much as they could. They almost wished they hadn’t climbed into the ambulance. They almost wished they’d listened as the personnel yelled at them to get out, before Detective’s determined glare and crossed arms made them decide it wasn’t worth trying to force Detective out when time was already a very precious and very quickly dwindling resource. Almost.

They smiled to themself, despite everything. If nothing else, even if Whumpee didn’t end up pulling through, at least they had made that sick sadist pay. A mist of red spraying to the walls. A second bullet. That was all Detective could have wanted.

Whumpee shuddered on the gurney, momentarily thrashing under their restraints before falling still again.

“Don’t they need blood?” Detective called, jarred out of their thoughts. They started taking a mental tally of all visible wounds again. “They lost so much, and we don’t even know–”

“Yes, they do,” EMT1 interrupted, not looking up from their tourniquet. “We don’t have any, they’ll get it at the hospital.”

Detective sputtered. “They’re not gonna make it to the hospital! We’re in the middle of nowhere, it’s gonna take–”

“Look,” EMT1 spun on Detective. “We can’t do anything about it, or else we would! Now stay out of the way or I’ll have you thrown out of the damn vehicle.”

They harshly tied off the tourniquet and moved to the next one. Then their face softened again. Just slightly. “We want them alive just as much as you...”

“I’m a universal donor!” Detective pleaded. “O negative! Take my blood!”

EMT1 paused and stared at Detective before remembering themself, shaking their head out and continuing to fuss over a particularly nasty gash. “Absolutely not, we can’t know that for sure, we can't test it, not to mention the malpractice suit alone would–”

“Shit!” The other EMT called suddenly. “Heart stopped beating, beginning compressions! Two, three, four…” They started pushing into Whumpee's chest before they even fully finished the sentence. The one chewing Detective out dashed to grab the AED machine, slammimg the two pads onto Whumpee’s chest around their partner's working hands, before rushing to the side of Whumpee’s head, tipping their head up and preparing to give life-saving breaths.

“Hey!” EMT1 yelled out to Detectives. “Come here and work the AED, it’ll prompt you on everything you need to do–” EMT2 finished their thirty compressions, and EMT1 stopped their orders to give two full breaths into the mask. Whumpee’s chest rose and fell with each breath before falling still again. EMT2 continued their compressions. EMT1 dashed across the cabin to press on the wounds again. ”--and make sure to yell ‘clear’ when it’s scanning AND when a shock is advised and then press the button–”

“They’re back!” EMT2 yelled again, ear pressed closely to Whumpee’s mouth and two fingers on the carotid artery. “Pulse weak as measured at the beginning, breathing normal. Continue as we were, and pay close attention to vitals!”

EMT1 froze, chest heaving shakily. “Okay, okay, nevermind, uh, go back to the corner…”

“Please, I’m O negative, I can help,” Detective begged. “They’re not gonna make it–”

EMT1 reeled on them, eyes fiery and wet, practically shaking, holding tense hands in front of themself placatingly as if they wanted nothing more than to grab Detective by the throat and hurl them out of the ambulance.

“We cannot give an emergency blood transfusion with your blood!” they yelled, breath ragged, whipping their hand up to silence Detectives protests. “We can’t verify the blood type, and if you’re wrong, they will die, and that’s not even touching on the amount of malpractice I’d be committing. There’s nothing I can do to–”

“Oh, lay off and just do it,” EMT2 called out from the other side of the gurney, pressing a cloth into Whumpee’s stomach wounds. “Guy’s a detective, they know their blood type, and you and I both know that the patient’s heart still somehow beating is one in a billion.”

They reached across Whumpee to grab their partner's arms and press them down onto the cloth so they could grab something from the cabinets, snapping at Detective to do the same, and Detective fell in right next to EMT1.

“We’re also what, twenty minutes away from the hospital? The will of God themself couldn’t keep this patient alive for that long without a transfusion.” They nodded to the blood still steadily pooling onto the floor, covering all their shoes in a dark crimson, soaking through the bottoms of their pants with a morbid stickiness.

EMT1 stared at Whumpee, searching over their frail frame as if the answers to their life were going to be etched onto Whumpee’s skin. Only different etchings, cuts, and deep purple and black bruises could be found, standing out brilliantly against Whumpee’s practically gray skin. They turned their eyes desperately to their partner, then Detective, then their partner again. “Do it. I’ll continue care until blood can be administered. If this doesn’t work, it's on your ass.”

“Always is,” EMT2 muttered with a jarring laugh. They beckoned Detective over as their partner worked in a flurry behind them, quickly tying a tight rubber tourniquet around Detective’s upper arm. “Try to keep still, lean on the wall. Get some water from the sink, too. You’re absolutely sure you’re a universal donor?”

EMT2 grabbed them by the elbow and shoved the needle into the vein without waiting for a response. Detective swallowed. “I’ve done this before. Never been more sure in my life.”

EMT2 nodded as they finished, rushing away to help with Whumpee again just as thick blood suctioned up through the thin tube and into the waiting blood bag. Detective was already starting to feel a bit woozy. Great time to remember their fear of needles.

They forced their gaze away from the slowly filling bag, over to Whumpee lying half dead on the gurney with the EMTs rushing around them, patching them up with practiced precision. They watched with baited breath each time their chest rose and fell, hoping the next one wouldn’t be their last. Up, down, up, down. Don’t pass out. Then back to the blood draw kit, sucking out the lifesaving liquid from Detective so it could continue its journey in Whumpee.

God, this had better work.

@whumptember

#whumptember2023 #whumptember day 11 #day eleven: theres nothing i can do #day eleven: medical whump #day eleven: last resort #whump #whumpee #caretaker #whump writing #writeblr #“but bee you didnt like day ten!”#“why are you writing a part two?”#turns out i like writing about detective and them emts because its a lot more action or something like that lol #something about completely conditioned and trained whumpees just doesn't hit the spot for me #also i am cpr certifiead and a lifeguard #so at least the crp portion should be medically correct #at least at the time of posting #the rest tho idk

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