#precarious gait

[1introvertedsage]

I stepped from plank to plank So slow and cautiously; The stars about my head I felt, About my feet the sea.

I knew not but the next Would be my final inch, - This gave me that precarious gait Some call experience.

~Emily Dickinson~

#Emily Dickinson #Emily Dickinson poetry #sea #poetry #poetic #famous poets #wisdom #introvert #experience #gait #tip toe #inch by inch #precarious gait #step right #LHA #1introvertedsage

[papiliotao]

꒰ 𝒎𝒊𝒅𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒄𝒍𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒚 ✩࿐

pairings: alhaitham, diluc, kaeya, and zhongli x gn!reader (separate)

content: hurt/comfort, fluff, established relationship, arguments (unspecified reason), reader and character live together

summary: after a heated conflict with your boyfriend, you decide to sleep on the couch instead of together on your shared bed. how does he react?

a/n: shockingly, i'm not writing for any anemo boys this time. that's mainly because this is a gift for @spiritingawaytoanime for @favonius-library's gift exchange event! i hope you enjoy!

The sound of the front door closing is the only sound that can be heard as ALHAITHAM steps into your living room. An ocean of pitch-blackness threatens to drown him. The space lacks illumination. Darkness floods into every crack and crevice of your home, invading an otherwise peaceful space.

He breathes out a sigh as he walks down the hallway of your shared apartment. Alhaitham doesn’t bother flicking on the lights. He knows you’re probably asleep already, and he’d rather not disturb you, especially since you were in a foul mood earlier. So unpleasant, in fact, that you got into a petty argument with him. However, Alhaitham isn’t really that worried. He knows that in the end, you’ll be able to sort out your differences.

But when he enters the bedroom, he immediately feels that something is off. The air feels colder than usual, biting his skin with the ferocity of a thousand cuts. It’s unsettling and especially disturbing to Alhaitham because such feelings don’t often overtake his frozen heart. It almost feels as though the atmosphere has the ability to thaw his emotions, awakening a sentimental side of himself that doesn’t often show beyond his rational demeanour.

When he approaches the side of your bed, he instantaneously realizes what’s wrong. You’re not here. You’re not here. An unfamiliar feeling drives pinpricks into his heart. The sensation is strange, irritating, and it won’t go away. He hasn’t ever felt this way before. Perhaps this is another emotion to add to the list of new feelings being with you has caused him to experience.

Alhaitham sighs. It’s not like he wasn’t expecting this outcome. He had been far too cold earlier while you had been far too emotional. Ice and fire would never coalesce into a single being.

The feelings that accompany the situation are all a complete mystery to him. Nonetheless, he buries his emotions so that he can focus on finding you, maintaining his logical front in the face of such a precarious situation.

As your lover, he knows you well, so he’s almost entirely sure he knows where you’ve gone. Alhaitham shakes his head. He should have checked right when he entered the house. After all, the couches were right by the door.

Once again, Alhaitham walks blindly through the darkness, taking it step-by-step without so much as a stumble in his gait as he makes his way down a hallway that has long engraved itself in his memories. It’s odd. Alhaitham doesn’t usually go out of his way to become involved in the affairs of others, much less memorize details about their lives. But with you, everything is different. He remembers every single intricate thread of information in the web that forms your identity.

And perhaps that’s why he feels a sense of calm wash over him like cerulean waves on a pristine summer day as he approaches your sleeping form. As he takes in the sight of your silhouette against the backdrop of night, he notices that you appear to be shivering slightly. You don’t have a blanket on.

“Typical [name],” he whispers under his breath. 

Although his words sound rather harsh and slanderous, he utters them with hints of a small smile gracing his face.

Quietly, Alhaitham walks over to a closet in which you keep a multitude of blankets. He takes his time selecting one — after all, he’s in no rush. Eventually, he settles on a velvety blanket that feels soft to the touch. Although Alhaitham can’t exactly picture it in the dark, he knows that it will be sufficient.

So with an insurmountable level of care, he drapes it onto your body. Even though he can be insensitive at times, Alhaitham knows that you most likely want some space for now, so with a gentle ghost of a kiss to your cheek, he leaves the room.

The silence that fills the house rings in DILUC’s ears, shrieking in a manner reminiscent of thousands of crystal glasses shattering into pieces. It’s deafening. The space feels as though it is full of nothing but misery and doubt and yet it’s so, so empty at the same time.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

The sound of a clock’s arms snapping into place in one second intervals is the only sign of life within the building. Every space on the canvas of night is blank as if awaiting wonderous stars to fill the nothingness with inquisitive light. However, the illumination doesn’t come. Tales of galaxies serendipitously brightening worlds are simply idealistic fantasies from the minds of children. In the real world, things seldom end so well without any intervention.

So he decides to slowly get out of bed, leaving the warmth under the covers — a heat that feels far too stifling without you — in order to search for you. But as the abyssal air of night brushes against Diluc’s skin, he feels a shiver run down his spine. Nothing feels right without you by his side. He needs you. Now.

Diluc knows you’re sleeping on the couch. He saw you there when he was going to bed, but at the time, pride and petty emotions whispered words of spite in the depths of his soul, phrases that prompted him to ignore you.

As he navigates the dimly-lit hallways of your shared home, a wave of regret washes over him. If only things hadn’t gotten so heated when you were still immersed in the waking world together. Now you’re asleep, and he’s lost any chance he has of making things right today. If he wants to apologize, then patience will be crucial.

However, at the same time, Diluc wants to check up on you. So when he finally makes his way through the doorway of the living room, his eyes immediately land on your figure, burning with the light of a thousand fires, almost as though they are casting a glow upon your silhouette. The moonlight illuminates you, caressing every strand of your hair and highlighting every dip and curve of your features to make you look absolutely ethereal.

As Diluc approaches you, he notices that you’re barely covered by a thin blanket, and despite the feeble layer of protection, the frigid atmosphere of night seems to permeate your soul. He shakes his head slightly, sighing as he stares at you. No matter how angry he was at you during the day, Diluc can’t just leave you here to freeze.

So with bated breath, he picks you up while you’re still immersed in a universe of dreamy fantasies and carries you to your room. He thanks all his years of training with a claymore for giving him the ability to lift you. Although you’re not on the best of terms, Diluc is sure that you’ll make up once morning comes, and thus, a vibrant new dawn will overlook the horizon for both of you.

Shivers wrack KAEYA’s body as he tosses and turns restlessly in a bed that feels far too large and far too empty for his liking. It’s peculiar. The cold rarely bothers him, yet now, without you by his side, the frigidness of the night air is far too potent for his liking. Tendrils of night creep under the covers overtop him, wrapping around him with an icy fervor, and no matter how hard he tries to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he can’t.

It’s as though the brighter part of himself has faded away with the radiance of the sun, giving way to an indescribable melancholy that settles into every inch of his being, taking all that he has and becoming all that he is. The cold is so much more unbearable without your warmth, and it doesn’t take long before he realizes that he won’t be able to close his eyes peacefully and drift into a tranquil world full of glacial wonderlands. Instead, he’ll lie awake, alone in your freezing bed — a place that feels far too desolate without your presence.

Hours stretch on and on, twisting and turning in a way that morphs them into a neverending story. As time goes on, the unsettling embers that had once singed the pit of Kaeya’s stomach grow until they blaze brightly, morphing into a raging fire. It’s unbearable, and he knows that he has to do something or else his mind will continue nagging at him for the remainder of the evening.

With cautious movements, he sits up and climbs out of bed. It’s awfully quiet in the house. Usually, flirtatious remarks and passionate displays of affection fill the void within your home, transforming it into a utopia overflowing with wonders. However, at the moment, none of that exists. Perpetual darkness and transient flashes of anxiety are the only things present at the moment. However, he manages to carefully make his way down the hallway without much issue. The creaking of the floorboards is the only noise that cuts through the silence hanging in the air.

As Kaeya enters the living room, his eyes land on a figure lying on the couch. It’s you. He breathes out a sigh, approaching you. Kaeya can see the rising and falling of your chest, hear your gentle breaths, and feel you exhaling once he leans in to examine your face. You look as though you’re at peace — a stark contrast to your earlier demeanour, an act fueled by feelings of rage and spite.

A small smile tugs on the corners of his lips. You look ethereal, although slightly pitiful, your face tinted with the light of the moon. His heart breaks. You appear lonely without his arms wrapped around you. Kaeya feels the urge to pull you into his embrace, hold you tight, protect you from the unknown monsters of the night.

But instead of doing anything, he simply stands there. After your explosive argument, he’s still hesitant to touch you. However, upon closer examinations, Kaeya sees you shaking like a leaf in an intense gale. You’re freezing. And that’s the final straw.

Your boyfriend finally breaks under the weight of your needs and his desires. With steady movements and a fragile touch, he lifts your body just the slightest bit — barely enough for him to climb onto the couch under you. Gradually, he sets you down, laying your head down on his chest. His fingers graze over your features as he eyes you with a gaze full of admiration.

“Sweet dreams, babe. We’ll figure everything out once the sun rises.”

ZHONGLI sighs as he settles atop the plush covers of your shared bed alone. It feels cold — far too frigid for his liking as darkness encroaches, and although he glances out the window in hopes of seeing a single shard of fragmented starlight, he is greeted with nothing more than the sight of an endless abyss devoid of radiance. 

A chill permeates every bone in his body, gnawing at him in a way that serves as a perpetual reminder that you’re not beside him right now. It’s strange. For once, Zhongli feels restless. He’s usually so calm, so composed. But at the moment, he can’t help but worry. 

You’re not here with him. Instead, you’re out in the living room, curled up alone on the couch. Zhongli can picture you in flawless detail — every dip and curve of your troubled face, the shadows that shroud you in a cloak fashioned from midnight, and the rise and fall of your chest as you breathe in and out. He feels a longing that he hasn’t felt in centuries. He wants to be beside you to trace your features, to prevent the glacial fingers of night from creeping down your back, and to feel your breath fanning his face.

However, he knows that no matter how hard he wishes, his hopes and dreams will have to be put on hold for now. In hindsight, it was a bad idea to let you escape into the land of slumber without trying to work things out with you first because now, Zhongli feels as though he won’t get a wink of sleep. At least, not without you by his side.

Eventually, he caves to all the thoughts running through his head; guilt threatens to swallow him whole. So instead of continuing to chase sleep, Zhongli gets out of bed, and although the night air sends a shiver down his spine, the sensation is nothing compared to his need for you. Quietly, he makes his way into your living room, trying to keep his footfalls light out of fear of waking you up. His eyes have long since adjusted to the darkness, so he navigates the house without any real trouble.

When he arrives at his destination, his gaze immediately zones in on a silhouette lying on one of the couches in the room. Although obscured by darkness, he knows that it’s you. Cautiously, he bends down to observe you. Zhongli raises his hand in order to caress your cheeks, his touch feather-light as if he’s afraid that you’ll shatter.

He wants nothing more than to wake you right now and talk things out, but he doesn’t want to disturb your slumber. You seem so peaceful despite everything that happened earlier, and besides, Zhongli is sure that with time, the two of you will make up. Your love for each other is much stronger than any form of false resentment fostered by petty arguments. After all, the illusions created by a deceptive heart are far too easy to dispel with feelings of everlasting passion and affection.

So instead of rousing you from the oneiric realm of dreams, Zhongli sits down on a couch beside the one you’re lying on. Although his mind has not completely settled yet, it feels less perturbed with you by his side. As a master of patience, he decides that he’ll wait for you to wake up. He’ll wait for the first rays of light to grace the face of the earth in order to greet you with a smile and an apology once you open your eyes.

Thank you for reading!

#r.archives *ೃ༄ #favoniuslibrary #astronetwrk #alhaitham x reader #diluc x reader #kaeya x reader #zhongli x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin fanfic #genshin imagines #genshin headcanons #genshin x you #genshin fluff

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Farmer's Daughter 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Walter Marshall

Summary: You notice a peculiar change in a family friend. (short!reader, sorry size kink is out)

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You stand on your tiptoes, a dangerous choice as you stand on a wooden stool, reaching to clip pegs around the folded edge of the linen sheet. You clasp it over the cord in three places and reel along the length, bending to pull a wet pillowcase from the basket.

“You’re grinding on the clutch,” Walter’s voice carries through the barn door before he emerges, “you need another driving lesson.”

“I know how to drive stick,” your brother, Timothy, argues with the larger man. “It’s not the clutch.”

“Ermph,” the other man grunts in return.

“Thanks for having a look though,” Timothy slaps his arm lightly.

He gets another grumble from the chronically grumpy man. Walter is older than your brother, by quite a bit; and you too. He’s tall and burly and his brow never truly loses its furrow. He’s fonder of your father than Timothy; you’re sure if he didn’t feel some kinship with your father, he’d never venture this far.

Walter is a big, burly man. He has a lumbering gait you can recognise even as he’s at the property’s edge, and his curly hair falls messily around his chiseled face. There’s a touch of silver in one curl but his age doesn’t show otherwise.

You refocus on hanging the laundry. You stand on your toes and strain to clip the beg on the line. The stool wobbles and you put your feet flat, steadying it. You suck in your lower lip and look around. Timothy’s gone, you hear him back in the barn clattering through the toolbox, but Walter remains. He narrows his eyes at you as you give a sheepish smile.

“Hi, Mr. Marshall,” you say.

“Hey,” he returns in his way.

You don’t expect much more so you wind the line further and once more bend to take another piece of clothing. You quickly forget his presence and go back to your precarious game. Back on your toes, the stool tips and you gasp, a scream catching in your throat as you brace yourself for the violent tumble.

You don’t hit the ground though. You barely even tip as you're caught under the arms. You open your eyes as Walter holds you well over the ground. He does so effortlessly. 

“I… Mr. Marshall, thank you,” you breathe.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he grits.

“Um, I know,” you wiggle your feet and look at the ground, “um, can you put me down.” He does just that and you laugh at yourself, “thanks.”

“Hm,” he sidles down to the basket. 

To your surprise he takes out the next sheet and easily throws it over the line. He holds out a hand but you just stare at his calloused palm. What is he doing?”

“Pin,” he demands gruffly.

“Oh, uh, sure,” you step up and place a pin in his hand. His fingers brush around yours as he closes them. You retract your reach as he clasps it over the linen. He puts his hand out for the next and again, you hand one over.

“Don’t do it again,” he says as he grabs the next piece of laundry.

“Mr. Marshall, I won’t, but you don’t need to–”

“It’s fine,” he carries on, set on his mission of putting out the drying. “Your father wouldn’t be happy if I let you hurt yourself.”

“Erm, I guess,” you give him another pin.

He’s silent as his blue gray eyes fixate on his chore. He bends to grab more, drapes the cloth over, and takes a pin to secure it in place. You work in wordless rhythm until the basket is empty and the line is full.

“How is he?” He asks.

You put your hands behind you and wring them, “better. Ma says he’ll be home next week.”

He nods and looks at you. He crosses his arms, straining the fabric of his long-sleeved tee. It’s warm out, enough to dampen his shirt with sweat. Still, he doesn't seem to mind.

“If you need anything,” he peers around the fields, “big place for just you and the other one.”

“Oh, Tim? Yeah, we manage.”

He scratches the scruff on his chin and shifts his stance. You’ve never seen him flinch before, never hesitate or doubt, but in that moment, he seems unsure. He clears his throat and drops his hand.

“Well, have a good day,” he bows his head slightly. “Have your brother take down the laundry.”

You look away guiltily, staring at the stool, “you, too, Mr. Marshall.”

He backs away a few steps and you cautiously glance at his boots as he does. He stops and you hold your breath.

“I don’t mind Walt,” he says.

“Right,” your voice flutters, “Walt.”

He twists on his heel and continues across the grass to the trodden road. He follows it down towards the fence. You tear your gaze away and gather up the basket and the stool. You leave them on the porch and sit in the shade as sweat speckles on your forehead.

Your heart is still racing, likely from your near disastrous slip. You think you will have Timothy take down the sheets. You may even convince him to help your fold.

#walter marshall #dark walter marshall #dark!walter marshall #walter marshall x reader #drabble #au #series #the farmer's daughter #backwoods au #night hunter

[illwilledomen]

The Strider, a curmudgeonly yet docile creature. They are native to the nether and feed on fungus. They live in large flocks to stay safe from predators, and are highly social. They communicate through peculiar warbling, chirping and gurgling sounds, as well as using their quills. Their plump and armless body plan gives them a similar gait to a kiwi. Some subspecies of strider live in crimson forests for an ample supply of food, or have adapted for the precarious footing of the basalt deltas. They have thick eyelids to protect from the glare of their lava environment.

#minecraft #mineblr #minecraft fanart #minecraft art #Minecraft nether #minecraft strider #my minecraft lore #minecraft headcanons #my art

[oh-katsuki]

The Inbetween (Tendou x Reader)

masterlist | ao3

Pairing: Tendou x Reader

Summary: You and Tendou have been best friends since before you can remember. You share everything with each other and over the years have fallen into a friendship with clear boundaries but intimate values. When you start to notice Tendou growing more distant, you begin to worry that he’s keeping more secrets than you thought. 

"Tendou gets like this sometimes. He grows quiet for a few moments as if he is weighing something in his mind. You can see the inquisitive look in his eyes and every now and then, his bottom lip will bounce and it will tell you that he’s thinking about something. In these moments, you’re never quite sure what he’s thinking. You’ve never been able to tell and you’ve reserved yourself to thinking that it is not meant for you or for anyone else."

Content Warnings:  fem!reader (gender neutral pronouns but there is a line that references you as his girlfriend), it does include manga spoilers since this takes place after they graduate high school, slow burn, childhood friends to lovers, angst in the middle,  miscommunication, smut, fingering, oral (f!receiving), orgasm denial (just once), teasing, minor minor cockwarming (he lets it sit there for a little lol), there's no real mention of protection

Word Count: 25.8k (lol)

A/N: I decided not to break this fic up because I wrote it intending for it to be one piece. It ended up way longer than i thought it would be. I'm posting it all here, but I would def recommend reading it on ao3 if you prefer!!! i'm a little nervous about this one. i really struggled while i was writing it. i love him so bad tho... he's always a joy to write <333 hopefully i didn't miss too many typos. anyway, its finally here lol so i hope u enjoy <3

You think that there are periods of your life where growing pains become impossible to ignore. The change tends to hurt. Like rebreaking a bone to help it heal correctly. When you’re 8 and in bed, unable to sleep because your legs ache somewhere deep in your bones. When you’re 16 and you can’t seem to ever feel like something really fits, like you’re not doing a good enough job at being good enough. 

Sometimes, they’re agonizing. The steady roll of dull pain that you can’t quite pinpoint, sending you anxious and aching in a way you can’t quite verbalize. 

Sa-to-ri: U wanna get drunk tonight? 

You: Not particularly. 

Sa-to-ri: k

Tendou shows up at your apartment forty-five minutes later with two bottles of wine. He lets himself in, holding the both of them in one hand, his long fingers curled around the necks of the bottles. It looks assured but precarious and you watch as he shoves his keys back into his pocket, takes a bottle in each hand, and kicks your front door shut with a flat foot. 

“Thought I told you I didn’t wanna drink tonight?” You call from the couch, craning your neck to face him. 

Tendou is looking at his shoes as he slips them off, watching as he goes heel to toe and slides them past the curve of his foot. Then, he tilts his head up and looks at you with a lazy grin. He’s at ease here, padding into your house. 

He has a particular gait about him. When Tendou walks, he sways side to side as if the length of his limbs is too much to control and his head tends to follow. He leans one way and then the other, confident in his step but wobbling nonetheless. If you had to compare him to anything, it would be a more confident version of one of those floppy blue pillars that jerk back and forth at car sales on TV. You’re not sure what they’re called, but Tendou’s step reminds you of them. 

“I know you well enough to know that you’re a liar, you borderline alcoholic, you.” He smiles, sitting down on the couch beside you with a grunt and passing you one of the bottles. 

“No glasses?” You quirk a brow. 

“Absolutely not.” He twists the lid of the wine bottle off and tilts the spout towards you. Tendou always buys cheap wine so that you never have to worry about uncorking it. “Cheers.” 

You roll your eyes, twisting the lid off of your own bottle and clink the neck of it against his. It gives a high-pitched click when you do, the sound short and succinct with how full the bottles are. 

“Cheers.” 

“Can we watch Evangelion?” He asks almost immediately, leaning forward to reach for the remote in your hand. 

“Jesus, what on earth makes you want to get drunk and watch Evangelion?” You hold it away from his grabbing hand. “Are you insane?” 

Tendou chuckles, “I think it would be interesting.” 

“I think it sounds stupid. You’re just asking for an identity crisis.” You roll your eyes, setting the remote down on the other side of you. 

You bring the bottle of wine to your lips. It’s a Moscato, overly sweet and the slightest bit fizzy. Tendou likes these kinds of wines. The ones that don’t taste like alcohol at all. He watches as you sip it before bringing his own bottle to his lips, curling them around the spout of it and taking a long pull from the bottle. 

You’ve known Tendou since you were 13 and he’s always been like this. He likes sweets, anything with enough sugar to make a normal person pull a face. He likes weird music, the kind that makes him the least eligible person to be in control of music on long car rides. He hates tomatoes but forces himself to eat them anyway because it “builds character” and he never fails to treat it like he’s suffering through some great trauma.

Tendou, for as long as you’ve known him, has always been like a breath of fresh air after a long day inside. Either that or loud music emanating from a comically small car. 

“How’s your boyfriend?” He asks, taking another sip. 

“Dead.” 

“For real?” 

“To me,” you finish, rolling your head to the side and looking at him. 

Tendou huffs, leaning further back into the seat. “Need a shoulder to cry on?” 

“No, he was a cunt.” 

“I’ll drink to that,” he raises his bottle as if to salute someone far away and brings it to his mouth again. “How long did this one last?” 

“A month,” you heave a sigh. 

“New record,” Tendou chuckles to himself. 

“What is wrong with me?” You swallow a large sip, exhaling as you do. “It’s like- It’s like I’m just dicking around!” 

“Well, are you?” 

“No!” You rub your palms into your eyes. “I mean, I find a guy, I go out with him, and then… I lose interest or he turns out to be a total tool.” 

“Or married,” Tendou adds, taking another sip. 

“Or married,” You confirm, following suit. 

“I knew you wanted to drink.” Tendou gives you a wry grin. The corners of his lips pull up pleasantly and his voice takes on a lower and more knowing tone. 

“Shush, it’s only ‘cause you’re doing it.” 

“Peer pressure really works wonders.” 

You smile, scoffing lightly as you pull the bottle from your lips. It pops when you do, pressure releasing from how you’d been sipping.

Tendou offers you a smile, the kind that you’re so familiar with that it aches. He rolls his head across his shoulders, letting it rest on the back of the couch cushions. 

“Maybe you just haven’t found the right person for you.” He says, half to himself as he lifts the bottle. 

“Maybe.” You agree, “or maybe I’m just eternally cursed. Maybe I’ve got a rotten bloodline.” 

His eyes slink across his lower waterline to look at you. 

“I doubt that.” He laughs and you can’t help but smile. 

Tendou has a certain way about him. If you know him well enough, he is reassuring to the point of relaxation. He never fails to comfort you in moments of need, winding you down on days you feel particularly tight. 

He seems like someone who knows everything. Tendou feels like he’s got it all figured out and when you talk to him he maintains a certain confident air that is pleasant to be around. Sometimes it feels like Tendou knows you better than you know yourself and you’re grateful that at least someone does. He maintains that particular aura about him and you think that it belongs to him like it does no other. 

Tonight he seems particularly mellow, lounging comfortably on your couch. You eventually give in to Tendou, resigning yourself to watching Evangelion with him, and he seems content to just sit beside you and watch. 

His arm is tossed over the back of the couch, the other nursing the half-empty bottle of wine. You follow the line of it with your eyes, lingering for a moment on the curve of his knuckles, flushed pink against the pale color of his skin. 

You follow his fingers, admiring the ways his skin is pulled taut over them. They’re long like he is, spanning the entire top of the couch cushion short ways. His wrists are thinner, the bones of his fingers coming to connect nicely where his lower arm meets his hand. You admire the even quality of his skin, following the lines of lean muscle up to his shoulder. Muscle and sinew form a trail up his arm, tucking itself away under the sleeve of his sweatshirt where it hides until the fabric meets the delicate skin of his collarbones. You watch his neck, his pronounced Adam’s apple bobbing slightly when he swallows at particularly nerve-wracking scenes. Still, he keeps a slight smirk on his face. It’s like he’s glad to just be here, eyes low-lidded as he peers at the TV.

By the top hem of his sweatshirt, you can see the beginnings of his collarbones and you know that beneath it, he is hiding an evenly toned chest. You can imagine the familiar dip and curve of his abdomen, his pale, almost sallow, skin stretched evenly over it. Tendou is all lean muscle. He’s built tall and long and you’ve seen the somewhat toned physique he hides beneath the thick cloth of the red sweatshirt. Still, you know that to the touch he is soft. Tendou has some give to him from the sweets he eats so regularly but, like the rest of him, you think it is beautiful. 

You follow the trail to his neck where he has a few freckles, three to be exact. One sits above his collarbone, the other on the tendon that connects his neck to his head, and the third just below his ear, covered right now by his dark red hair which collects around his neck. It’s as if the sun deliberately placed them there, dotting up the fine muscle as if it were Orion’s Belt glimmering across the winter and spring sky. 

His hair is at his shoulders now, unruly and almost unmanageable on most mornings. At the moment, it sits delicately just above his shoulders, collecting in what looks like pools on either side of them. Normally, Tendou ties it up to keep it out of his face. Tonight, he’s keeping it down, letting the wavy tufts of dark hair hide the blushing nape of his neck from you, red from the wine. 

Tendou’s face is long, you follow the trail his neck makes to his cheekbones. They’re high, complimenting his somewhat soft jaw nicely. His cheeks maintain a delicate pink tone, barely visible unless you look closer but aided tonight by the flush of wine. When he’s embarrassed, this quality shines red regardless. Tendou, in his more shy moments, lights up like a switchboard. 

Just above his cheekbones, Tendou sports light under eye bags. They are partially from being tired, but you also know that they are owed simply to the quality of his face. Tendou has distinct upper eyelids. They crease heavily when his eyes are open and you’d almost describe them as somewhat hawk-like if it weren’t for their round nature. 

Tendou stays up late at night. His job as a bartender keeps him working until the early hours of the morning and you know from texts he’s sent you that he takes a few hours after to unwind before going to bed. Sometimes he’ll play games, spurred on by Kenma’s gaming channel, but he always loses interest in them after a few weeks. Tendou keeps his interests and hobbies short and sweet, though you don’t think that diminishes their value to him. No, in fact, you think that it means that Satori has a lot of things that he loves. Still, this latest love of his has contributed to the dark under eyes he seems to sport around the clock. 

Part of you knows that’s just how he looks, but the other part thinks that if he went to bed earlier, that quality would lessen. You’ll never tell him that though. You quite like that quality of his. It’s distinctive, as most of his features are. 

Then, you shift your gaze down to his mouth. Tendou has a thin upper lip which—when combined with his all-knowing eyes—makes him look a little scary. His bottom lip, however, is full and pink. When he’s thinking, it moves slightly. It bounces as if Tendou is rehearsing what he wants to say, running through his thoughts at a mile a minute. You believe it to be endearing and Tendou, who has never been particularly vain, thinks that if you think so, it must be. 

All of these things are things you’ve come to know about Tendou since you met him. You’re accustomed to his body language, comfortable (unlike so many others) with his gait and the way he moves. You think that there is only one other person in the world who is as comfortable with him as you are and that is Ushijima Wakatoshi, someone you both met in high school. He, like you, is someone that Tendou clicks with like a piece of a puzzle. 

He talks to Wakatoshi every night on the phone. They talk about their lives, maybe about girls. Wakatoshi usually just listens though. What Tendou cannot say to you, he says to him and you’re not nosy enough to pry. You’re positive that whatever you need to know, Tendou will tell. When you finally stand and go to the other room to get ready for bed, you can hear him through the thin wall, talking quietly into the phone so as to not disturb your nighttime routine.

You pad between your bedroom and the bathroom, occasionally passing close enough for Tendou to catch you in the corner of his eye. He raises his hand or his eyebrows when that happens, swiveling his head to acknowledge you as he leans back against the couch cushions, one arm thrown over the back and the other holding his phone to his ear. 

The fan hums to life when you flip the light switch in the bathroom. Sometimes you wish they’d be separate switches because when the apartment is quiet the noise is jarring and disorienting, but today the sound is just another addition to the symphony of noise in your home. It whirs softly as you put on a headband and run the sink, letting the water get warm before splashing it up onto your face. 

You take your cleanser, pumping some of it into your hand, and slather it onto your skin in soft circles. The motion is familiar and you feel the way your shoulders relax a little as the cleanser turns white with foam against your skin. When you are ready to rinse, you dip your head down, cupping water in your hands and splashing it onto your face. 

“You always do that so messily,” Tendou chimes from beside you. 

You jump, flinching to the side as you wipe the cleanser from your eyes quickly, “Jesus, you scared me.” 

“Sorry,” he chuckles, leaning against the doorway. 

Tendou is lithe like a cat. He’s long and slender, his body nearly dwarfing the doorway he stands in. His shoulder presses against the white wood and he crosses his arms pleasantly over his chest, hovering just outside of your space. 

He watches with a content smile, eyes half closed as sleep starts to take over him. The corners of his mouth pull up curiously and his eyes follow the movements of your face as you gently rinse it with warm water. Occasionally, he will act like you’ve flicked water on him, raising his shoulder lightly as if to shield himself from it, and you scowl in response. 

“Move over,” he says as he steps around you and nudges your hip with his own. 

Tendou slides in front of the sink beside you, grabbing one of your headbands and using it to push his hair back. It swishes when he does, revealing the rest of his forehead before he takes some water and wets his face. Then, he takes your cleanser and copies your previous movements, scrubbing his face lightly before dipping down and rinsing it. You watch, fighting the heat that bullies its way to your cheeks. 

He’s a lot cleaner at this than you are, cupping the water in his big hands and lowering his face to rinse it. His eyes flutter closed, lashes batting slightly before he pushes his fingers against his skin and then wipes downwards. A few stray drops of water roll down his forearms, following the path his lean muscles make until they drop onto your bathroom counter. For how lanky he is, the movement is strangely graceful and you watch with a tilted head as he repeats the process. It keeps the counters relatively dry and when he’s done, the only evidence of his having washed it at all are the few drops of water on the counter and the clean quality of his skin. 

Tendou peers at you through the corner of his eye, smiling lightly as he stands to his full height and grabs his toothbrush from the holder. He keeps one here now. Given the amount of time he spends here, it only makes sense. 

Sometimes you think that the intimacy the two of you share is too much. Sometimes it is difficult to reconcile that you could be this close to a person but Tendou is someone who begs closeness. No, he demands it. Tendou is as affectionate as he is adoring. Intimacy, be it platonic or romantic, becomes him and though you sometimes worry if things can continue like this, you quickly forget it in favor of simply being close. 

To an outsider, Tendou has the feel of someone very far away. You’ve heard from acquaintances that he seems aloof and somewhat cocky, though you think that only the latter half is true. Tendou is particularly involved, however distanced he may seem. It comes with intimacy. He remembers almost every little thing about the people he loves. Should you visit the same restaurant twice, Tendou remembers what you ordered and if you enjoyed it. Should you be deciding between one shirt or the other, Tendou will recall what you already own and suggest the best possible option. He’s attentive like that. 

“This face wash is new,” he comments, running a knuckle along the side of his cheek as if to feel how effective it is. 

“Yeah, my skin got used to the other,” you shrug your shoulders, popping your toothbrush into your mouth. 

“What does that even mean?” He laughs. Tendou’s voice is warbled through his toothpaste. It sounds thick, the tenor ring of it dropping to a baritone hum through the thick white foam. 

“Dunno,” you shrug, “pretty sure it’s just a wives tale or something but I still believe it.” 

Tendou laughs again, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he leans forward and spits into the sink. You follow suit, waiting for him to pick his head up and continue brushing. The toothbrush looks smaller than usual in his hand, his long fingers curled around it as he guides it over his teeth, spitting for a second time and then reaching for your mouthwash. 

“You sleeping over?” You ask, taking the bottle when he hands it to you. 

Tendou nods his response, swishing the liquid back and forth in his mouth. Then he leans forward and the smell of winter mint hits your nose. Honestly, you don’t much like the taste or smell of it, but you’ve found that it keeps your mouth feeling fresh for the longest. Besides, you don’t mind it as much when it’s on Tendou. For some reason, the smell suits him. 

You’re relieved to find the reprieve of your bed. It hasn’t been a particularly busy day, but the wine is getting to your head. It makes you sleepy and your duvet cover feels far more comfortable than usual. 

Tendou usually sleeps on the bed with you. It’s another facet of the intimacy you share with him. Your bed is large enough to fit the both of you comfortably with a pillow between you, though it almost never stays there the entire night. Both you and Tendou tend to toss around in your sleep and more than once have you woken up with either yours or his body splayed across the other. 

Still, you’re only like this when neither of you is in a relationship. Your friendship has always maintained very clear boundaries. There are unspoken dos and don’ts that accompany the closeness of your friendship. If either of you is dating someone, you wordlessly agree that Tendou sleeps on the couch. It’s a respect thing for both of your sakes, as well as the sakes of your partners. 

“Are you bummed about your breakup?” Tendou asks, facing the ceiling. He’s no doubt watching the fan spin in circles in the dark. You know because you’re doing the same. 

“Not really,” you sigh, “I mean, this might be shitty to say but I really wasn’t all that attached.” 

Tendou shakes his head against the pillow, lacing his fingers together over his chest as he lets out a deep exhale. “Nah, it’s not shitty. That’s natural.” 

“I guess.” 

“Let me know if you do get sad about it, kay?” He says, tilting his head sideways to look at you. 

“You’ll be the first to know.”

You smile lightly at him and Tendou hums his satisfaction. He rolls over in bed with a soft goodnight before the room falls silent. You listen to the sound of his breathing and when it finally comes to an even pace, you smile. Sometimes Tendou struggles to sleep but tonight is not one of those nights. 

You drift off after you are certain that he’s asleep, lamenting to yourself about the potential loss of his characteristic under eyes. Man, Tendou would really rip you a new one for thinking that. 

—

“I like your hair like this,” you comment, reaching up to flip a piece that sits across his cheek. 

Tendou turns to you, watching the way your fingers play with the soft end of it before giving a small laugh and a smile.

“Yeah? I feel like it’s too long,” he hums, looking at you and then to the coffee maker as it hums from its place on the counter. “Think m’gonna cut it soon.” 

“Nah, don’t. It suits you. Kinda devil-may-care, ya know?”

Tendou’s hair is too long by normal standards. It comes down just below his shoulders, falling in thickly layered wisps that frame his face and make it look delicate. Somehow, having his hair around his face softens his features. It gives him a more gentle, off-beat look. 

“Oh? If it makes me look so cool then maybe I won’t,” he glances at you through the corner of his eye, smiling a cat-like smile. 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” you snort, bumping him out of the way as soon as he takes his coffee from the coffee maker. 

Tendou feigns an offended look before leaning against the counter beside him. He looks sleepy, still somewhat tired as he raises his mug to his lips and loudly sips his coffee. It’s always too hot when he takes the first sip but he does every time nonetheless. Tendou says it tastes better that way. 

“By the way,” he starts, pulling the mug to his chest and partially resting it in the dip in his stomach, “I gotta leave right after I finish this.” 

“Work?” 

Behind you, Tendou shifts a little and furrows his brows. “Nah, got some errands to take care of.” 

“‘Kay,” you turn to him, leaning against the counter opposite him. 

Despite Tendou’s affinity for skinship and attention, he is surprisingly independent. 

That’s something you admire about him. Tendou’s actions are sure and calculated and he’s comfortable going off and doing his own thing more often than not. Sure, he’ll invite you with him, but should you opt not to go, Tendou doesn’t let it stop him. He’s fiercely independent and it balances out well in your friendship.

He doesn’t really say anything about where he’s going and you figure that he doesn’t have to. He’ll go off and do his own thing and you will go do yours. 

You and Tendou are quite like-minded, as is Wakatoshi. Perhaps that’s why you all get along so well. When you interact with people, they tend to understand the three of you as independent beings who just so happen to choose to be around the other two. You’ve heard from others that looking at the three of you is like looking at a gaggle of oddities that somehow found themselves magnetic to only each other. Since Wakatoshi moved away though, it has just been you and Tendou and you’re content to be perceived as an odd pair. 

The living room is littered with evidence of your evening with him and you peer out at it from the kitchen, the sunlight from your curtains filtering in and casting a warm glow over the light-colored wood. The more than half-empty bottles of wine sit on the coffee table, their lids placed randomly on the countertop from when you’d tossed them down after opening them. The bottles catch the light from the small glass patio door and the white Moscato inside glimmers in the morning glow. 

When Tendou leaves, he grabs his keys from your kitchen table. They jingle in his grasp and he shakes them to get your attention. 

“I’m leaving now!” He calls even though you’re only a few feet away. 

“Have the day you deserve!” You laugh. 

Tendou swings your apartment door open, his legs leading the way as he keeps his head around the corner so that  he can look at you. You watch as he cracks a smile that spreads from one side of his face to the other, upper lip curling. 

“Sour old bat.” 

“I’m only 24!” You protest as he chuckles and shuts the door behind him. 

You walk to the door, locking it behind him and shaking your head lightly. Briefly, you think about what he might be doing. It could be groceries, though he usually brings you with him, or maybe he needs to service his shitty old car. He never uses it which means that when he does it breaks down easily, but he keeps fixing it nonetheless. Tendou can’t bear to part with the characteristic hunk of junk. 

Tendou works as a bartender. He stands behind the counter in a black dress shirt and black slacks, fixing customers' drinks before pressuring them into buying more. He’s good at selling things because Tendou is a notoriously difficult person to say no to, whether you know him or not. Sometimes you’ll go in and see him, sliding into a seat at the bar and waiting for him to notice you’re there. You usually don’t even make it to the counter before he spots you, giving you an easy smile and tilting his head to the side. 

You suspect that he is only working to make ends meet while he decides what he really wants to do. You always figured it would be volleyball given his gift for it but he told you in the third year of high school that he’d be quitting. It had never been something he was particularly set on doing and though he enjoys the sport, he thought the constant rigor of its training to be tiresome. You understand to a degree. It is very like Tendou to do things only because he wants to. Even Wakatoshi accepted it after a little while, though—in a fashion that is much like Ushijima—he still pushed for Tendou to further his gift with the sport. It was to no avail though, that’s just the way Satori is. 

Still, you’re not sure if there is something in particular that Tendou wants to do. He doesn’t talk much about the future and lately whenever you ask, he waves the question off like he can’t be bothered to think about it. 

He has a plethora of interests and for now, his job suits him. He spends his time talking to people and though he works late into the night, you think that he enjoys the time he gets in the hours after his shift. Besides, during the day it means that Satori gets to bake. It’s an odd hobby for him but he does it regularly enough that it has started to make sense, though you’re not sure if it is a fleeting hobby or one that will stick. Tendou likes to play around with flavor. His eye for new combinations is admirable and it’s not a rare occurrence for you to go over to his place and immediately be fed a new recipe he’s been testing out. 

He is, in general, a hard person to pin down but once you do, you’ve got him memorized for life. It’s not unusual for you to be able to guess what he’s doing, though sometimes he will surprise you and be doing something entirely different. Still, you’re confident enough in what you know about him to know that once he does choose, it will be good for him. Tendou is someone who begets a good and honest future. 

You spend the day tidying around your apartment. You’ve got no particular plans today and with your recent breakup, you’ve no one to really make plans with. In high school, when Tendou was busy without you, you’d often sit with Wakatoshi and watch him practice. You’d listen to the sounds of the ball hitting his palm and then the slap of them on the smooth linoleum of the gym floor. That, or you’d spend your time with the other people you met with the both of them at Nationals, goofing off on the phone while you waited for Tendou to wrap up whatever it was he’s doing and walk home with you.

You’ve been to see them at nationals every year that the two of them have gone. In your third year, Tendou and Wakatoshi did not attend the tournament as players nor spectators, but the three of you sat in Wakatoshi’s room and watched the games together. You recall watching Karasuno fight their way through the ranks until they tasted a bitter loss once the promising first year, Hinata Shoyo, fell ill. Tendou had chided early on into the tournament that he was pushing himself past his limit and Wakatoshi agreed but you didn’t have the eye to see it until he had collapsed on his hands and knees on the court. Still, the three of you sat shoulder to shoulder in front of Wakatoshi’s computer screen, knuckles tight against your thighs. 

Sa-to-ri: shall we grub tonight? 

Your phone lights up sometime around 3 pm and you open it to see Tendou’s distinct contact name light up across the screen. 

You: u miss me? lol

Sa-to-ri: nah

You: what’s on the menu? 

Sa-to-ri: ramen

You: then yeah okay

Tendou has one particular ramen shop that he likes to frequent with you. It’s a bit of a tradition and when you both go there, it is either in work uniforms that make you look silly or house clothes so comfortable they could hardly be considered outfits at all. 

Some nights, you both trudge into the shop, you in the remnants of your work uniform and Tendou fully dressed in his, ready to attend his shift once you finish eating. Tendou wears his black slacks but rolls them to the knees and his black dress shirt is untucked in the front. He looks silly, but you know from visiting him that he always fixes it before he clocks in. You usually wear something business casual to suit your desk job, dress pants and a white shirt of sorts. On other nights, you both will come in wearing whatever it is you were wearing around the house. 

The shop is a few blocks from his place and if you weren’t looking for it, you would miss it. It is tucked behind two brightly lit shops in a back alley. Still, when you’re hungry for a particularly good bowl of ramen, you can smell it from down the block. The aroma of garlic and miso wafts through the streets from the alley it sits in and both you and Tendou find that you would know it by smell alone. It beckons to you both in a homely manner. 

“You’re so late,” Tendou comments as he meets you at the bottom of his stairwell. 

“Were you tracking me?” You furrow your eyebrows. You hadn’t agreed to meet him outside his place, so to see his lanky figure descending the outdoor steps is a bit of a shock. Still, you wouldn’t put it past him to check your location for where you are. In fact, you suspect he does it often and for fun. You don’t mind though. After all, you do the same to him. 

“Yeah,” he shrugs, putting his hands in the pockets of his sweats. Tendou leans forward, shifting his weight onto his hips and letting his shoulders droop. 

“Eugh, creepy,” you shiver slightly and smile at him. 

Tendou tilts his head to the side and gives you an affectionate grin. It spreads across his face and his eyes narrow in a familiar way. For a moment, you think he is about to say something that makes you want to cross one of your well-defined boundaries but instead, he comes out with, “if you were on time, I wouldn’t have to.” 

You shove him to the side plainly and turn to stride down the sidewalk before you can watch him wobble back and forth like a card house. Your heart hammers lightly in your chest. This happens sometimes. You find yourself getting tripped up on the familiarity of his expressions and the way his smile curls like dry paper. Then, you hear the sound of his sneakers against the floor as he jogs to catch up with you in the direction of the restaurant. 

“Wooaaahhh, so hostile tonight, huh? What happened to my nice BFF from this morning?” He leans forward as he walks so that he’s in your eye line, trying to catch your avoidant gaze as you suppress a smile. 

“They remembered that you’re an irritating little shit,” you huff, pretending to be mad. 

“Harsh.” 

The two of you walk the short distance to the restaurant in near silence. It’s nearing 9 pm and the streets have gone dark, illuminated only by the streetlights and sign shops that stay on through the evening. Their electric glow casts the sidewalk pavement in artificial blues and yellows, elongating your shadows until they dip into the street where cars and cyclists zip by on their way home. You watch people bustle through the street, their lively chatter creating a city soundscape that you’re familiar with. Groups of men in business suits walk into nearby restaurants and bars, finally off the clock for the night but not quite ready to return home. Girls wearing colorful spring clothes move in gaggles as they head into a new and trendy spot that recently popped up. 

Some of these girls stare at Tendou as he passes. They watch the lazy nature of his eyes and the way he hunches over himself slightly. They marvel at his height and the cool exterior he wears as he looks somewhere past them at the buildings lining the somewhat busy street. These girls giggle into their mouths when he passes because, for every person who has ever called him creepy, there are an equal number of people who call him handsome. They glance behind them as they walk, asking each other if you are his girlfriend to which you chuckle internally. Tendou pretends not to notice, though you know from the way that he is careful not to look at them that he does. 

Every now and then when this happens, Tendou’s gaze will slink over to look at you. You can feel the way he watches your expression, his gaze fixed on you through the corners of his eyes. Sometimes you will look back at him and raise your eyebrows and he’ll shake his head. Other times, you will keep staring straight ahead just to see how long he will look at you for. You’ve learned that it will be until he needs to look ahead for fear of running into someone. 

When you reach the door of the small ramen shop, which consists of a blue curtain with kanji lettering, Tendou holds it to the side for you with his forearm. He reaches ahead of himself and puts it against the doorframe, pinning it against the wood frame to keep the cloth out of your way before ducking his head to follow you in. When you look behind you, Tendou is straightening himself up again to his full height. 

The chef inside calls a welcome to you before he asks how you’re doing. He knows you both well by now and whenever you enter, it seems that he’s pleased to see you. He’s an older man with heavy wrinkles beside his eyes and between his eyebrows. He’s expressive and the lines of age on his face demonstrate that very clearly. The chef has sharp features that soften considerably when he smiles and a low, gruff voice that seems to somehow match the interior decoration of his hole-in-the-wall shop. 

“You together yet?” He leans onto the counter after asking which particular bowl of ramen you’d like. 

The chef is an old man and far too cheeky for his own good. Every time you come in, he never fails to ask if you’re dating each other yet. Through a tenacious grin, he poses the question you both have been asked countless times over. Tendou’s response is different every time. 

“Oh yeah, we’re so in love now.” You take the liberty of responding and Tendou leans his cheek onto his hand and raises his eyebrows at you. 

“Yeah?” He questions, the fat of his cheek smushing his lips into a slight pout. 

“No.” You turn to the chef and shake your head. “It’s not gonna happen.” 

The chef clicks his tongue and shakes his head with a small laugh and Tendou sits up and drums his fingers on the table as he leans back in a stretch. 

“Aw, never?” He teases. 

You nod at him, exaggerating the movement. 

Tendou closes his eyes and laughs, his fingers still drumming against the surface of the table before he reaches a resting position. You hear him mumble bummer as you look away and when you look back at him, you find that he is staring blankly at the drink menu in front of him. His expression is unreadable. 

Tendou gets like this sometimes. He grows quiet for a few moments as if he is weighing something in his mind. You can see the inquisitive look in his eyes and every now and then, his bottom lip will bounce and it will tell you that he’s thinking about something. In these moments, you’re never quite sure what he’s thinking. You’ve never been able to tell and you’ve reserved yourself to thinking that it is not meant for you or for anyone else. 

Then, just as quickly as he falls into the slight moment of silence, he pulls himself out in his same usual manner. Tonight, he remarks on how hungry he is and how he doesn’t want to work tomorrow night. Then, he’ll let you talk until you’ve nothing left to say. Whereas Tendou does most of the talking with Wakatoshi, you do most of the talking with Tendou. You can appreciate the way he just wants to listen, his eyes trained sleepily on your face as he listens to you chatter on about something mundane. He knows you would and have done the same for him and you imagine that he feels the same about listening to you talk that you do listening to him. 

You both slurp at your noodles through idle conversation. He talks about work and you converse about what it is that you want to do next. Sometimes, in moments like these where you are both discussing your precarious futures, it feels like you’re in your third year again getting food after evening practice. The only difference now is that Wakatoshi is not with you and you are no longer 17. Instead, both you and Tendou are 24 and in the inbetween of life, floating between present and future in a perpetual cycle of uncertainty. Somehow, the only thing that seems to quell it is the familiar presence of one another. The small ramen shop, with its sounds of boiling water and conversation, grows smaller still. 

—

Tendou is weird. He’s always been weird. He somehow manages to seem like he knows everything. He has wide, unsettling eyes that look like they have x-ray vision. He can guess what just about any of his friends are doing at any given moment and he’s open about it. All of it is weird. It’s not as if he’s been particularly normal up until now because there is truly nothing normal about Tendou and you like him that way but recently… he’s been weirder. 

You can’t exactly pin what could be off because he hasn’t done anything in particular. He still texts you to hang out, he still wears that familiar smile that you adore, he is still as attentive as usual, but he’s weird. Something is weird. 

You imagine that what you’re sensing is a radar you have only for Tendou. The feeling comes to you as more of a sixth sense rather than anything based on evidence. You know him like the back of your hand. You’re likely to notice even the smallest new detail. That’s how it is with Tendou. Hand in hand with the particular closeness you share, is the ability to tell when he’s off.

Tendou lately has been spending more time on his phone. He stares and clicks it on and off like he’s waiting for something. The screen will occasionally light up his features before he clicks it off again upon seeing nothing. Occasionally he will swipe his phone open and check whatever it is he’s waiting on directly, though you can’t tell if it’s news or a conversation. You watch the way he holds the sleek rectangle in his long fingers, drumming them against the smooth side of it and waiting for it to vibrate in his grasp. More often than usual, while he drums his fingers across the back of his phone, he will wear that blank look and stare into space, thinking about something you’re not privy to. 

The thought pops into your mind that it could be a girl, though you’re not sure that’s the case. If it were a girl, you think Tendou would tell you and if he didn’t… well, that thought makes you more uncomfortable than you’d like to admit for reasons you can’t quite pinpoint. Tendou is his own person, as are you, but if there is one thing you pride yourselves on it is the way you share openly with each other. You inhale, letting your gaze slink from where he fiddles with his phone to the television screen. You won’t dwell on it. You’re not nosy enough to dwell. 

The feeling isn’t particularly uneasy and any anxiety that may have manifested while you were considering Tendou’s predicament quickly melts away once Tendou begins talking to you. You find yourself at ease while he chats, telling you that his job wants him to pick up more hours but he’s not sure if he wants to. It’s so boring, but it’s not. This topic is such a mundane one but you feel that familiar fondness bloom through you as he speaks. Nothing seems boring when you’re with him.

Then, the phone in his hand begins to vibrate. It hums to life in his somewhat limp grip and Tendou, in one smooth and slow motion, checks who exactly it is. There’s no rush to it. In fact, Tendou finishes his sentence before shifting his eyes down to look as he flips the screen up to face him but you can tell that he’s eager. He tilts his head, reading the words across the screen as the jingle of his ringtone plays softly from the muffled speakers. Tendou dropped his phone in water once and as a result, his ringtone sounds like it is playing through glass. His expression shifts from one of barely readable anxiety, to disappointment, to happiness.

His gaze slinks over to you and he gives you a lopsided and lazy grin.

“It’s Wakatoshi.”

“Yeah?” You peer over his thumb, looking at the familiar name across the screen, “can I say hi?” 

“Duh,” he sticks his tongue out like you’ve said something stupid before answering the call, “Wa-ka-to-shi! I’ve got _____ here,” he holds the phone out to your mouth, “say hello!” 

“Hi Wakatoshi.” You speak and you can hear the gruff sound of his acknowledgement before Ushijima’s rich baritone spills through the speaker. 

“Hello,” he says your name, even across his tongue, “it’s been a while since we last spoke.” 

“Yeah, well, you never call!” You fake a pout and you’re certain Ushijima can hear it through the phone. 

Ushijima gives a soft exhale, “I could say the same about you.” 

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see it and Tendou fakes being hurt on your friend’s behalf. 

“But don’t worry,” he starts, “I’ll be back in Japan in a few weeks.” 

“No way! Really?” You feel the excitement bubble in your chest before it shows on your face and Tendou tilts his head at your expression. You watch the way his eyes slink across your features, soaking in your joy through his skin like the sun until he is kissed with it. 

“Yeah, visiting family,” the response is short, much like the way Ushijima usually talks. 

“Man, the off season works wonders,” Tendou hums from beside you, wiggling a little in his seat. 

“You know there’s no off season, Tendou. We train year round,” Wakatoshi states. 

“Minor details,” he says, waving his wrist back and forth as if he were erasing the sound of the words from the air around him. 

Tendou gives you a wry grin before pulling the phone back and switching off speaker mode. Vaguely you can hear the sound of Ushijima giving a brief apology about not calling you, but you’re not actually mad enough to warrant it. In fact, you’re elated that he’s coming to visit. You and Wakatoshi are very good at clicking right back into place, so worrying over why he doesn’t call isn’t exactly in the front of your mind. Besides, you figure he still thinks about you because every morning you receive an influx of tiktoks and new articles that he’s sent you through the night. So thoughtful, that one. 

“So what’s up?” Tendou speaks, placing the phone against his ear and pinching it there with his shoulder. 

He reaches in front of him, unscrewing the top of his water bottle and taking a sip as he listens somewhat intently to what Ushijima has to say. Tendou leans back, extending his arm over the back of his couch and leaning deeply into the cushions with a sigh and mumble of confirmation. 

He looks like he’s at his leisure here. The lean muscle of his neck is relaxed and the tilt of his head makes him look like he’s scheming something. A small smile plays at the corners of his lips as he gazes thoughtlessly at the table in front of him. It tugs the ends of his mouth upwards and you recognize it as one that is entirely subconscious. Satori doesn’t even realize he’s doing it and the thought sends a fond flood of warmth through your chest, honeyed and heavy. 

You stand, exhaling deeply when you do. It’s best to leave them to their chats. Satori and Wakatoshi’s time together is limited, so when the other calls each night, it fulfills a certain (and private) routine which you know they both value. 

Tendou’s eyes slink over to you as you move. His eyebrow quirks up as he pinches the phone between his ear and shoulder, pulling the bottom of his phone from his mouth as if he’s ready to respond to whatever you say. You opt to mouth at him, as you can still hear the baritone hum of Ushijima’s voice on the other end of the line.

“I’m gonna go take a shower,” You point behind you to his bathroom. 

Tendou makes the OK symbol with his hand before he smiles at you. Then, he turns his attention back to his phone and you can hear him start the sentence ‘it’s going okay’. You watch as the smile falls and his face returns to a somewhat pointed resting position. He glances sideways at you one more time, his eyes tracking over your figure as you eavesdrop in a somewhat obvious way. All he offers is the slight upturn of his lips, but you can’t shake the eerie feeling the smile gives you. It looks like it’s made out of glass and as you step away, you hear the way his voice drops to a hushed whisper before it fades entirely through the thick wood of his bathroom door.

You start the shower, turning the knob in Satori’s bathroom. It’s familiar here and you don’t need to pause to think about which way is hot and which way is cold. Coming to his home is like walking into your own and part of your relishes in getting to use his shampoo and conditioner. 

It smells like him, somewhat rich and musky, with a sharp and clean aspect to it. You think that his shampoo smells a bit like men’s deodorant, but far more gentle. It’s less masculine than that, somewhat sweet, but it still retains this aspect to it that maintains whatever it is Tendou has going on. You like wearing that smell. It’s like a homecoming and sends your stomach flipping. 

His bathroom is decidedly western. Blue tile decorates the shower wall, it’s white grout somewhat tinged with age. The tiles are clean though. You know because Satori reminds you constantly to go over it with the squeegee when you’ve finished. It gives his bathroom this particularly polished quality. 

You lather his shampoo into your hair, inhaling deeply as you do. It smells like him. It smells like Tendou after an evening practice, coming out of his mother’s bathroom as he rubs at his then-shorter hair. It smells like the way he does when he’s at home and you feel it in your lungs when you take a breath. 

You think of his strangeness. You think of the odd way he carries himself, the way he walks, the way his eyes slink back and forth in a decidedly lazy way. You imagine the cadence of his voice, the soft tenor hum of it when he speaks and the pointed way he says what he means while simultaneously saying the opposite. 

Then, you think about his recent behavior. You think about how tense he is, the way he clicks his phone on and off like he’s waiting for something. 

You’re not particularly sure why the concept of it rubs you the wrong way. It’s a particular feeling of uneasiness and one you haven’t felt with him before. It’s new—somewhat exciting—and dreadful. As you shower, rinsing his body wash from the planes of your own, you ponder on the feeling of it. Weighted in your gut, it sits like poison. You feel like you’re watching an anvil hang from a fraying rope, the weight too much to bear, though why you feel it, you don’t know.

When you leave the bathroom, Tendou is still seated on his couch. He doesn’t seem to hear you leave, and if he did, his body language doesn’t betray it. He sits, his legs extended out onto the coffee table in front of him, one ankle crossed over the other. The phone is still pressed to his head with one hand, his long finger holding the back of it to the shell of his ear. 

“I haven’t,” he says quietly.

There’s a pause and you can only presume that Ushijima is talking. 

“Yeah, it’s just-” he rubs a hand up under his hair, scratching at the back of his head, “it’s a hard thing to bring up.” 

Another pause, except in this one, he stares distantly into the space in front of him. You recognize that look, the one that tells you he’s somewhere far away. The corners of his lips pull flat and you watch as his eyes cloud over with a consuming thought. It’s the same as the night in the ramen shop, placid and somewhat melancholy. Tendou wears this look often lately, though it’s meaning is one that you can’t figure out. 

It casts over his face like a mask and even now, as he nods into the phone as if Wakatoshi can see it, you wonder what runs through his mind. You have Satori figured out but this expression is an anomaly, one that you can’t place your finger on. 

“What is?” You pipe up, walking around the side of the couch and plopping down. 

Tendou jumps with a start, his hand coming up over his chest before he gives a short laugh.

“Jesus, someone needs to put a bell on you,” he breathes. 

“I wasn’t even that quiet,” you laugh a little, “what’s so hard to bring up?” 

Tendou gives you a wry smile, dispelling the expression he wore a moment ago and donning another. You see it tug at the corner of his mouth before answers, “it’s a secret.” 

You roll your eyes, huffing a little. “C’mon, thought we didn’t have any?” 

“None that I want to share,” he says, giving you a lopsided grin. 

“I really hate you.” 

Tendou puts his head on your shoulder, peering up at you. “You promise?” 

You bark a small laugh and Tendou turns back toward his phone, his head still resting on your shoulder. You can feel his tufts of dark red hair at your neck, tickling your skin through the fabric of your pajama shirt and you lean into the touch absentmindedly. His free hand fiddles absentmindedly with a stray thread on the hem of your shirt and he mumbles to Wakatoshi that you just got out of the shower. Their conversation, now that you’re present, feels much slower than it previously was, like they’re deliberately trying to change the subject. 

Despite the touch, despite Satori’s blatant affection, the prospect of a secret tastes bad on your tongue. You’ve never been the type to pry. You’ve always believed that whatever you need to know, Tendou will tell. So why is it that you’re so uneasy right now? Distrust sews itself into your skin like a badge and you furrow your eyebrows a little as you watch the planes of Tendou’s face twist with lively expressions through his conversation, the lamp on the side table casting him in a faint orange glow that feels homely and somewhat eerie. 

You and Tendou head to bed together a short while later, dragging your feet across the carpeted floors before collapsing into bed. Tendou rolls over quickly, mumbling an absent-minded goodnight and while you stare at the ceiling and wait for his breathing to slow and steady itself, you ponder the inbetween. You’re not so sure which inbetween you’re thinking about though— whether you’re thinking about the inbetween of youth and stability—or something else entirely. 

— 

“Did you get the text?” Tendou calls from your living room. He’s posted himself up in there today, his laptop open as he clicks away at something he won’t show you. 

The text he’s talking about is one from none other than Ushijima Wakatoshi himself, telling you and Tendou that the three of you should meet up for dinner tonight. He suggested a restaurant downtown, near the station and you were thrilled to receive the text. 

“Yeah, I did,” you call, leaning back on your heels to peer around the corner at him. “Wanna meet up here first?” 

Tendou is quiet for a moment in the other room before he agrees, telling you that he’s going to send a message to Wakatoshi and let him know. You thank him briefly, returning to whatever it was that you were doing on your phone. 

You must admit, you have ulterior motives for wanting to go to dinner. It’s not that you aren’t thrilled to have the three of you back together. You are, deeply so. But secretly, you are hoping that it will bring back a sense of normalcy you’ve lost in the recent month. To you, it feels like the last normal night was a month ago in your apartment when Satori brought over wine after your break up. That was the last time he felt the way he always has. 

Recently, he’s been stranger than usual. You can’t help the rot that rises in your throat when you think about it. It’s an uneasy little bug, sending you queasy and anxious over the smallest changes, though you aren’t quite sure when it started happening. It’s hard to place, especially because it is about Tendou of all people. Until now, you’ve always felt comfortable telling him everything but for some reason, you worry that bringing this up will make him vanish altogether. Still, you hope that attending something nostalgic like this with him the way you always have will fix it somehow. You hope that maybe you’ve just been too sensitive and that after seeing Wakatoshi and eating a meal together, things will just click back into place. 

Maybe that’s just wishful thinking though. 

—

Sa-to-ri: u ready? I’m downstairs 

You check your phone, seeing it light up on the top of your bed through your mirror. You’d been checking something irrelevant about what you are wearing, fiddling with the waistband of your bottoms or the way your hair falls on your forehead. Nerves rise in your throat as you put on your shoes and lock your apartment door behind you, hopping down the stairs. 

“Well, don’t you look pretty,” Tendou hums, smiling up at you.

He’s wearing an oversized t-shirt and joggers. They cut off just above his ankles, revealing a worn pair of black high top sneakers. The sleeves of his shirt rest against his upper arms nicely and his hands are tucked into his pockets as he shifts his weight forward. It bunches up around his forearms, creating big, sloping pockets across the front of his abdomen where the hem of his shirt covers his waistband. You roll your eyes, catching the unusual heat rising to your cheeks and swallowing it down. 

“Thanks,” you exhale, “you trying to butter me up or something?” 

Tendou gives you a wry grin. “How’d you know?” 

You sneer lightly at him, “because you’re awful at hiding shit.” 

Tendou presses his lips into a small line. His eyes glass over a little as he starts to walk, keeping his hands in his pockets. 

“Anyway, what is it?” 

“What’s what?” Tendou raises an eyebrow. 

“The thing you want to butter me up for?” You furrow your eyebrows, laughing a little. 

“Huh? Oh, nothing. I just want to be on your good side.” 

“Scared or something?” 

“A little,” he hums, looking at his shoes before glancing sideways at you as he raises his chin to peer at the tops of the buildings lining your walk to the station. 

The restaurant is a few stops away in a newly painted building. It’s a few blocks from the station, lit up by electric blue lights characteristic of Kokubunchô. The crowds, which you should be used to, overwhelm you a little and you’re grateful for Tendou, whose height makes him impossible to lose. You’re surprised that Wakatoshi would suggest a place downtown, just off from the izakaya and clubs that make Kokubunchô such a popular destination for people our age. After all, he’s never been much of a partier, often choosing to abstain and stay in shape. 

It’s been a long while since you’ve seen him. Wakatoshi spends most of his time traveling around Japan and Asia, playing volleyball in countries you’ve never even thought to visit. He competes in global competitions and will most likely be recruited for the Japan National team for the Olympics. 

When you arrive at your designated meeting spot, Wakatoshi is standing outside. You know that before you even see him because people round the corner he stands behind while glazing backwards over their shoulders. They mutter about how big that man was, if they’ve seen him somewhere before, if he’s a celebrity. Tendou snickers under his breath, his head tilting a little like it’s on a spring, and you smile in response. 

You run ahead of Tendou and round the corner, greeted by Ushijima’s tall figure standing outside of the entrance to the building, lit up by the neon sign above him. 

“Finally!” You shout, bounding over to him and embracing him into a hug. 

“You should really announce who you are before you hug someone,” he says, his voice low and baritone as he wraps his thick arms around you. 

“I did,” you laugh a little, your excitement at finally being able to see him again climbing in your throat. 

“I wouldn’t consider that enough warning.” 

You pull away, pouting a little at him before cracking a wide smile. 

“How are you?” he continues. 

“I’m good,” you exhale, “Jesus, look at you. I think you got taller.” 

“I didn’t,” he says matter of factly, “they measure me a lot for the team. I would know.” 

“Still straightforward as ever,” you huff a little and Wakatoshi gives you a gentle smile. It’s barely there, but you’ve known him long enough to be able to notice it now. 

“No greeting for Satori?” Tendou feigns injury behind you, shrugging his shoulders and scuffing his heel against the floor. 

Wakatoshi scoffs lightly before stepping close. Then, the two boys hug each other, clutching tightly around the other’s shoulders as they mumble about how long it’s been since they’ve spoken in person. Satori makes an off-handed comment about Wakatoshi getting more handsome and Wakatoshi jostles his shoulder in response, saying something about Tendou being smoother around the edges too.

You watch, stomach swimming with a familiar feeling you get only when the three of you are together. It’s like you are all 17 again and nothing has changed. The way you speak, the way you feel, the uniquely comfortable atmosphere the three of you set with each other, blankets you like snow. 

Tendou walks into the restaurant first, followed by you, and then Wakatoshi behind you. People inside of the restaurant turn and stare when they duck under the doorway, standing to their full height in the restaurant. Even among people with similar heights, the two of them stand out. Tendou with his knowing eyes and Wakatoshi with his undeniably good looks. You are in the middle, caught between two magnetic forces that you’ve spent the majority of your life around. 

You settle at a small table in the back. It’s clean and hardly has enough room to fit the three of you around it comfortably. It’s a trendy restaurant, mostly famous for its matcha desserts which mix western cooking with Japanese flavors. The majority of the menu are smaller appetizers, but there are sandwiches as well as seafood options which you hungrily stare down. When the time comes, you settle on a salmon dish with miso seasoning, Satori decides on a spicy curry, and Wakatoshi orders the same thing you do but with a small side of tempura. Looking at the place now, you figure that it’s probably closer to an izakaya than any other type of restaurant. You look forward to dessert. 

“Are either of you getting drinks?” Tendou leans forward on the table on his elbows, giving a wry grin. 

You peer at him from the side, smiling slightly. “And you say I’m the alcoholic.” 

“You are,” he states, leaning forward and smiling at you. 

“I’m not,” Wakatoshi adds. 

“Well spotted, Ushiwaka,” Tendou snickers. 

“Yeah, you’re a regular Sherlock Holmes,” you laugh. 

“I meant that I’m not getting a drink,” he says flatly, pressing the ghost of a smile between his lips. 

You and Tendou glance at each other before bursting into a fit of giggles. Then, Wakatoshi follows with a laugh that’s deep seated in his chest. 

“I don’t know. Are you?” You ask Tendou, exhaling deeply. 

“I want one,” he shrugs. 

“Of course you do,” you chuckle a little. “Then, I’ll have a beer too.” 

Tendou tilts his chin upwards, his eyes narrowing as he gives you a little smile. It’s like he expected you to do the same, an affectionate and knowing little curl of his lips that sends heat rippling through your stomach. It takes a lot of strength to tear your eyes from him and when you do, you find yourself trying to shake the new feeling from your stomach as you inhale. 

“So Wakatoshi, how’s the team?” You ask as Tendou flags down the server and orders two beers and a glass of water. 

“They’re fine,” he says, smiling a little. “Team practices still happen even in the off season, but what’s important is weight training to make sure we stay strong.” 

“Is that why you were able to come back to Sendai for a bit?”

“Mhm, though I still train every day,” he offers, leaning back so that the server can set down the drinks on the table. 

“So driven…” Tendou smiles. 

“You should be playing, you know,” Wakatoshi says to Tendou. 

He waves his hand in response, dispelling the thought. “Me? Go pro? Nah, I think I’d be miserable. Volleyball was just a high school thing for me.” 

Wakatoshi shrugs his shoulders. 

“You gonna be on the Olympic team, ‘Toshi?” You pry a little, leaning forward. 

“I don’t know yet. We’ll find out next year.” His expression doesn’t betray anything, but you can hear the excitement in his voice. It makes the sound feel tight, like he’s trying to keep from shouting about it. You smile to yourself. 

“Look at you, you’ve got a whole career. Meanwhile, Satori and I have no clue what we’re gonna do in the future,” you chuckle, taking a sip of your drink. The condensation sticks to your hand. 

Then, Wakatoshi furrows his eyebrows and looks to Tendou. He looks back at him and for a moment, they sit there like that, communicating telepathically (most likely). It makes you uneasy, like there is something about Tendou that you’re not allowed to know. The uneasy feeling that’s made itself scarce the entire evening bullies its way to the base of your throat. You try to swallow it down, but to no avail. 

Tendou inhales and the moment is broken. The two boys settle back into their seats and glide past the strange occurrence. 

“I’m sure you’ll both figure it out,” Wakatoshi offers, smiling gently at you. “You’re very capable.” 

“I applied to a temp agency a week ago, so hopefully something comes of that,” you take another big sip of your drink. 

“Temp agency? Why didn’t you tell me?” Tendou pouts a little. 

“I mean, it’s not a sure thing. Just an application. Didn’t want to get ahead of myself.” You laugh. 

“Awww but I wanna hear about your life,” Tendou whines lightly. 

“Bro, you are literally in my house five days a week. You know just about everything.” 

Tendou shrugs his shoulders and leans back in his chair, mood shifting from the false sadness into something of realization. Has he only just now realized how much time the two of you spend together. 

“_____, Satori told me you and your boyfriend broke up.” Wakatoshi says. 

“Damn, seriously dude?” You shrink into your chair, letting the server place your food in front of you. It looks good and your cut of fish steams on the bed of rice it sits on. Your mouth waters. 

“Sorry, he asked about it,” Tendou shrugs his shoulders, picking up his chopsticks to start eating. 

You wave off the apology. It’s not like you weren’t going to tell Wakatoshi anyway. 

“Yeah, we did,” you say, swallowing the first bite of fish. 

“What happened?” he pushes. 

You shrug your shoulders, sitting back in your chair a little and pushing the fish around your plate. “We just weren’t compatible. I didn’t like him the way I thought I should and he clearly didn’t like me very much. He was kinda mean.” 

Tendou swallows his bite of food beside you and Wakatoshi glances up toward him. They exchange another look and Satori shakes his head, returning his gaze to the food. 

“That’s terrible. I’m sorry,” Wakatoshi offers. 

“Nah, don’t worry. I’m not all too beat up about it,” you laugh a little. “It might sound twisted, but when we broke up I didn’t really care all that much.” 

“I can vouch for that. They called him a cunt.” Tendou adds, smiling over his drink. 

“I did do that,” you confirm. 

“Sounds like them,” Wakatoshi gives a small laugh. 

The rest of your meal is spent in idle chatter. You and Satori have a few more drinks, trying to get Wakatoshi to order one in the later half of the evening, to which he dutifully shakes his head. You blather on about how much you miss him and when the next time he’ll be in Japan is while he smiles fondly and tosses sideways glances to Tendou who just shrugs because he knows you get like this. 

You realize, at some point, that unlike you and Tendou, Ushijima is not in the inbetween. He’s got a well-established career with a clear future path. He is not stumbling around blindly, but rather taking deliberate steps towards his future. You and Tendou, it seems, are caught in that particular place, walking yourselves in circles until you finally find the courage to walk in a line. You’re relieved to know that someone is in the circle with you. 

Briefly, you think about the looks Satori and Wakatoshi exchanged. Pointed, deliberate looks that exchanged information between the two of them. You’re not sure why it bothers you the way it does. It’s not as if they’ve never had secrets between the two of them before. This one, however, feels somehow heavier. It feels like it’s an elephant in the room between the two of them. You hate the inflated feeling it gives off. It swells and presses you against the wall, stealing the air from your lungs and sending panic to rise up through your throat. 

You’re sad to part with Wakatoshi, offering him a long hug and doing your best to squeeze the air out of him. He pats your back, laughing lightly about how he’ll be back eventually. You whine, telling him that he needs to call more. He promises that he will, though you know it will probably remain the same. The two of you have engaged in this perpetual cycle for years now. 

Satori hugs his friend goodbye as well, mumbling something to Wakatoshi that you don’t catch, to which he says that they can talk about it later. 

You scuff your feet against the floor the whole way home, trying to pretend that your plan to make things feel normal worked. 

—

You and Satori have clear boundaries. You always have. There are things you can and can’t do with each other that you both follow religiously. It’s not as if you’ve ever actually discussed it with him. The two of you have never sat down and actually talked about these rules you have in place. They are unspoken but mutually understood. 

You suppose that drawing those types of lines started in high school. Before then, it had never even crossed your mind that skinship or your particular ways of showing affection to each other could be taken as anything but platonic. Satori was the first of the two of you to get a partner. In your second year of high school, he’d started going out with a girl in his class. You’d never met her before then in earnest, though you’d certainly seen her around, mostly out of the corner of your eye. 

Tendou wasn’t all that popular in high school. Not just because of the way he looked (which you’ve always thought to be above average), but because of the somewhat aloof attitude he maintained. Between snide comments and a generally over-confident demeanor, most people found him off-putting. It didn’t take long though for a few girls to notice his better qualities. They noticed his fingers, long and lithe and wrapped in bandages. They noticed his smile, the coy kind that affects one side of his mouth before it affects the other. They noticed his height and stature, the lazy way he carries himself so that he always seems a little off kilter. 

To you, these things have always been obvious. His good looks have always been something that you’re keenly aware of. Whatever unique qualities he has only seem to add to them. 

Still, when he started seeing her, you and Satori seemed to fall in sync about these unspoken boundaries. One day, the line in the sand between you both was drawn into being, separating your friendship from anything beyond that. 

You’ve always been grateful for that little line, you think. It keeps things from getting confusing. It protects yours and Satori’s platonic relationship as much as it protects your romantic ones. You don’t read too much into things. Your heart doesn’t flutter when he touches you (or does it). You keep your pesky emotions at bay. It’s all thanks to that lovely little line. 

Sometimes though, like now, that line stares at you. For some reason, it feels like whatever is going on with Tendou is on the other side of it. You feel like he’s moved the line farther away from him, drawing a bubble and preventing you from stepping close. His situation, whatever it may be, is now beyond your grasp and you feel as if asking would be stepping over it. 

It’s the first time in your friendship, you think, that Satori has drawn a line all on his own. 

He’s back in your house today, lounging on your bed with his head hanging off the end. You can see the way his neck protrudes and bobs each time he swallows. It’s got a lovely angle to it and you can see the lines of lean muscle running up the sides of his neck. 

When he’d walked in, you’d found yourself shocked to see that he’d not only decided to get a haircut, but to buzz off all of his hair entirely. You’d gaped at him, reaching up to touch his head and lamenting the loss of his shoulder length hair. 

“What? You don’t like it?” he’d asked through a coy smile. 

“It’s not that it’s just… why?” you’d questioned, unable to shake the feeling that it has something to do with his secretiveness. 

Tendou adopted that familiar far off look and shrugged. “Needed the change. Kinda felt like I was going in a circle.” 

Then, he’d brushed past you and into your house, asking about something to drink. 

Satori’s looking at his phone now, scrolling through social media like he’s a robot stuck on repeat. Every now and then, his lips will quirk up a bit when he sees something funny, but otherwise, the only thing that moves are his thumbs and the gentle bob of his neck. 

You stand facing the mirror in your room, watching him through it as you busy yourself with something on the shelf adjacent. You’d been looking for a book to read but had been quickly distracted by your train of thoughts after seeing a photo of you and Satori from high school.

You keep it framed on your nightstand in a cheap wooden frame you bought from a thrift store before going to college. It was taken a few weeks before your graduation, standing in front of the school gym. Satori is in his volleyball uniform after playing a final skirmish with his team before he passed down his jersey. His hair is spiked up and his forehead is slick with sweat. He’s pulling you close to his body in the photo, his arm wrapped around your shoulder and his fingers secured on the other end of you. You can almost recall the feeling of his jersey, damp with sweat, and your smile in the photo betrays a slight grimace at the feeling of it. 

Satori, however, is beaming. His smile is radiant and his eyes are half closed in what looks like the beginning of a genuine laugh. He’d found it amusing to pull you close to him that day, relishing in the way you whined a little about how gross he was. Not that you really minded. You don’t mind much of anything if it’s Satori doing it. He’s special that way. 

A notification on Satori’s phone draws you from your thoughts and your eyes wander habitually to the reflection of his screen in the mirror. It looks like an email and Satori shifts when he gets the notification, sucking in a quiet breath as he quickly reads over it. Then, he closes the application. 

“Why are you staring?” He speaks abruptly, satisfied at the way you jump at being caught. 

“I was just wondering what you’ve been waiting for on your phone lately,” you admit, toeing the line he’s drawn. 

“Mmmmmmm,” he hums, not turning to look at you as a smile creeps up his features, “you curious?” 

“Mhm,” you answer, turning to face him properly. “Is it a girl?” 

At this, Tendou’s eyes slink backward to look at you over the crest of his eyebrows. His lips quirk up in a wry grin. It smooths across his features like liquid metal. 

“Why? You wanna date me?” 

You’re not sure why the teasing question flusters you so much, but it does. Heat bubbles in your stomach and rises to your face just as quickly and you chide yourself for the way you turn away from him. 

“I was just curious,” you huff, rolling your eyes to try and dispel the new sensation rising in you. 

Tendou gives you a cat’s smile through the mirror before he stretches his arms above his head and lets them hang over the side of the bed. 

“It’s not a girl,” he answers, laughing a little. Then, he pauses like he’s debating something before growing quiet and adopting the strange look he’s been wearing. “Nothing important really.” 

You furrow your eyebrows and eye the line in the sand. 

It’s killing you, not knowing. This melancholy and secretive facade Tendou has adopted is making him feel like a stranger and it’s eating you up inside. But you trust him. You trust Satori with your life and more, so you swallow down the uncertainty. It’s coming from somewhere unfamiliar. Somewhere possessive and needy. You ignore the fact that the feeling is coming from a place you previously thought your feelings for Satori didn’t come from. 

“You sure?” you press, clenching your jaw after the words leave your lips. 

“Yeah.” Tendou doesn’t look at you in the mirror, stretching his arms above his head. You think about growing pains. 

Lukewarm. The inbetween. You know what this off feeling is. That subtle space in which your lives have been in for the better part of the last five years. A delicate balance between present and future. A delicate balance between friends and something more. This feeling is different. You worry that it is the inbetween of affection and indifference. It’s going to eat you alive.

—

Tendou’s apartment is pleasantly disorganized. It is one of those spaces in which everything looks out of place, but never really is. Tendou knows where each thing is, even if you’ve always had trouble learning. While this is true for all of the places that Satori inhabits, you think it is especially true for his bedroom and the office. 

His room is littered with small boxes for little items he’s collected over the years. His shelves are stocked with manga he’s liked enough to collect. They aren’t organized in any particular way except by series, but the pattern seems to make sense only to Tendou. His nightstand always has a half drank glass of water on it and on nights when you stay over, there is one beside it for you.

In the corner, there’s a tall dark oak dresser full of his clothes, all of them folded neatly in drawers and tucked away until he needs them. On top of it, there are framed photos of his childhood, as well as one singular nationals trophy that he didn’t have the heart to throw out. You think all of it is endearing. There’s something lovely about entering this space and feeling him all around you. Any stress seems to melt directly off of your shoulders. 

“Wanna order in?” You pad into the living room where Satori is posted in front of the television playing some rendition of the Legend of Zelda games. 

“Huh?” He says before quickly interrupting himself. “Oh, yeah sure. What did you want?” 

Tendou glances at you over the couch, his eyes catching yours for a moment. He grins, his lips curling up in a delightful way, before he turns his focus back to the TV. 

“I dunno, chicken?” 

He chuckles, pausing his game and putting his arm over the couch cushion. Tendou tilts his head to the side and smiles. “You always want chicken. Same place, I assume?” 

You shrug. “Yeah well, I like their spice blend.” You lean your weight against the wall beside you. “So can we order chicken or not?” 

Tendou tilts his head up, pressing his lips together in a smirk and narrowing his all-seeing eyes. 

“Spice blend,” he chuckles, humming pleasantly like he’s mulling something over. Then, he clicks his teeth and you wonder briefly about the motion of his tongue when he does. “Yeah, let’s do it.” Then, he turns back to the TV and presses play. 

“Kay, I’m gonna order from my phone then,” you hum, rolling your eyes and unlocking the screen. 

“Sure,” he says and you pad over to his bedroom to sit down as you pick out what you want. “Oh! ____!” 

“Huh?” 

“If you’re ordering from the place down the street, I’m pretty sure I have a voucher for a free plate.” He calls.

“Oh, where?” 

“Office, I think. Somewhere on the desk.” 

You chuckle to yourself, walking down the hall and into the small makeshift office Tendou has set up. It’s in what should be a closet, with only enough space for a light and a small desk set up. When he’d moved into this place, he’d proudly told you about his plans, to which you told him that if it makes him happy, he should do it. 

“Who even keeps physical coupons anymore?” 

“Me, bro,” he laughs. “Just use it though, I’m pretty sure it’s gonna expire.” 

“Kay!” 

His desk is littered with paper. Most of them are things he’ll never use again; flyers he was handed on the street, takeout menus he usually looks at online, printed receipts for things he bought years ago. Only a few things are actually useful; printed recipes from the internet, a small booklet full of drinks from his job, and a thick recipe book with papers and post-its sticking out of it. 

You shuffle through the papers, looking for the coupon. You’re expecting something bright red and gaudy. Something that feels like it’s trying too hard to get your attention. When you find it tucked beneath the thick book of recipes, you almost just grab it and go. If it hadn’t been for the way your eyes lingered on the spot where it was for a moment, you never would have seen it. 

Underneath the coupon, is a clipped together stack of papers. A wax-covered yellow paper clip holds them together and at the top, it reads Le Cordon Bleu and then Diplôme de Pâtisserie. It’s been hastily translated into Japanese and you can’t beat the curiosity or the way dread begins to swirl in your stomach.

It’s an enrollment confirmation and clipped underneath it, there is a confirmation for the rent of a studio apartment in Paris. The date for the enrollment is two months from now and you grimace at the paper, making out what you can of the sloppy translation and French writing. 

In your hand, clipped with the yellow-paperclip, is all of the evidence of Tendou’s intention to leave. Worse yet, his intention to leave without telling you in advance. An inky black substance rises in your through, swelling there like lead before realization rounds the corner. In your head, the ball that’s been looming over your head for months now finally drops and you manage to make sense of his behavior the last few months. It wasn’t a girl, it’s never been a girl. It was this.

It’s hard to tell exactly what thoughts run through your mind as you register what you’re looking at. The first is that he’s been keeping this secret for longer than three months judging from the paperwork, the second is that he deliberately chose not to tell you, and the third is the phrase you’ve repeated to yourself since high school. Everything you need to know, Tendou will tell. 

You try not to spiral. You try to keep your feet rooted on the ground at the idea of this person you’ve known since adolescence simply going away so suddenly. None of it works. The secrecy of it cuts you like a slow-dragging knife, pressing into your skin and cutting a fine line from your stomach to your forehead. 

“_____!” Tendou calls. His voice startles you from your thoughts. “If you haven’t ordered yet, can you get me extra hot sauce please?” 

You don’t answer, instead starting to make the short walk from the office to the living room. 

Tendou says your name. When you don’t answer, you hear him pause his game and stand up, calling your name again. 

By the time he’s turned to start walking in your direction, eyebrows furrowed, you have reached the entrance to the living space. The papers are clutched in your hand and you can feel the edge of them pressing into your palm. 

“What are these?” You ask, attempting to keep your voice steady. 

“What’s what?” He tilts his head, smiling before he glances down to your hand. 

You hold it up so that he can see. 

When his gaze settles and he registers what you’re holding, his smile falls. You see the blood rush to his face and a look of shock cover his usually calm features. The expression is foreign on him and it sends a pang of dread through your chest. You had hoped that you were wrong. You had hoped that maybe he was going to tell you, that you’d show him and he’d laugh casually about how he just found out and wanted to tell you once it was settled. 

“What is it?” You say softly and Tendou struggles to find the words. 

He opens his mouth, closes it, and then opens it again. You watch as he scrambles, your lips pulling deeper and deeper into the frown that you can feel taking over your face. 

“Are you going away?” 

He nods. 

“When?” 

“September.” 

The air is knocked from your lungs and your voice comes out as barely a whisper. “That’s in two months, Satori.” 

“I know.” 

“How long have you known?” 

He doesn’t answer and when you look up at him, you can see the way that his eyes are growing red. 

“How long?” You say, a little more forcefully. 

“Since March.” 

“Jesus,” you scoff, “March? That’s nearly five months.” 

He nods, slightly defeated. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

Tendou scrambles for the words again, and suddenly you feel like you’ve been poisoned. Your stomach turns and your vision goes a little dizzy and you consider the type of sickness that this will bring to your friendship. How sick will it make the both of you? How long will it be until you are well again? Tendou, whose face has fallen into something of dread and uncertainty, clearly feels it too. You blink, staring at him with wide eyes to give him the opportunity to salvage what small bits of your trust remain. 

Somehow, the expression he wears looks like he’s been about to form it for months. Like that blank expression he adopted was somehow an early version of this and it’s with a heavy heart that you realize that what you’d been seeing on him was the expression of keeping an awkward secret. 

“Why didn’t you tell me, Satori?” 

“I wasn’t-” he swallows. “I didn’t-” 

“You didn’t know how?” You frown, finishing his sentence. You feel the way your brows press in the middle. “You’re my best friend, Satori. There’s nothing you can’t tell me.” 

It hurts to know that he didn’t trust you with this. Unlike the secrets he keeps with Ushijima, this feels like a secret he’s deliberately kept from you. It wounds you to know that there is something Satori didn’t want to tell you, especially something this huge. You feel yourself bleed out onto his floor, though you’re not sure what the other emotions that come with this are. Something adjacent to hurt, like heartbreak. 

“You didn’t know how to tell me, so your solution was to just fuck off to France one day without warning?” You raise your voice a little and Tendou, who is usually so fearless, flinches back from it. You press your lips into a line.

It feels selfish and you can’t figure out why. None of this makes any sense at all to you. 

“You’ve kept secrets before too,” he says like he’s just thought of the justification. Satori scrambles like a young boy caught in the act, clamoring for a way out of the hole he’s dug himself. The more he reaches for his footing, the worse it hurts you.

You furrow your eyebrows. “Sure! I’ve kept secrets about who I fucked in high school. You kept secrets about your entire fucking future!” The words sting the front of your tongue. “Does Wakatoshi know?” 

Tendou doesn’t answer. 

“Does Wakatoshi know?” You say again, forcefully this time. Hurt makes its way into your lungs like a fever. 

“Yeah,” he says quietly, shoulders slumping forward. “He does.” 

You let out a laugh, reaching up to your face and wiping away the tears that have started to well up. When Tendou sees this, his eyes go wide and he takes a step towards you. Instead of letting him take you into his arms the way he always has, you step back. Then, you walk to the entrance of his apartment, grab your bag, slip your shoes on, and open the front door. 

“Congratulations. On the school,” you muster, though it feels spoiled. 

You want to mean it, but you don’t and the realization sends you out of the door and down the street. When you get on the train home, you finally allow yourself to cry, trying to put together why all of this hurts so much. Why are you spiraling the way you are? You wipe hot tears from your face with the backs of your hands, sniffling quietly while people struggle not to stare. The summer heat in the train car is stifling, clinging to your skin and making your face sticky with tears and sweat. 

—

You’ve never fought with Tendou like this before. Sure, you’ve had small spats that lead to a few days of not talking, but this feels bigger than that. This feels like the earth has somehow cracked between you both and opened a deep rift. You’re not sure how long it’s been forming, but you know it isn’t sudden. Pressure builds behind you both like a damn fit to burst. 

It’s not as if it’s only the move that’s doing this. You think it’s more. You think it has something to do with that line in the sand or whatever these new feelings for Tendou are. All of it has been somehow funneled into this one secret, spilling out in a messy and jumbled way that confuses you about feelings (or lack thereof) that you’d been certain about for over 10 years. 

The floor of your apartment is cool like glass. It’s always colder on the floor than it is standing. You lay down to escape the heat, clinging to the wood like a seastar to a rock. Humidity clings to your skin and makes you sticky. You grimace, rolling over slightly. 

It may seem dramatic to lay on the floor and think about Satori, but you often find yourself on the ground when you need to think about something important. The energy flows better down here. There have been several times in which Tendou has laid down on the floor with you to think. He did it when you needed to decide where to go to high school, he did it when you needed to think about saying yes or no to a confession, he did it when you were deciding where to take the entrance exams for at 17. Come to think of it, all of the major decisions in your life were made on the floor. Satori had been there for all of them. 

You breathe out an exhale and more heat sticks to your skin. Even the breeze coming in through the window is unbearably hot, though you suppose that’s just the nature of July. 

It’s been almost a week since you last saw Tendou, which isn’t too long in the grand scheme of things, but feels like a lifetime because it’s him. You can’t remember the last time you went so long without seeing or speaking to him. You can’t bring yourself to respond to his texts. He’s left four of them, each asking to talk to you about it. Every time you try to respond, you lose the courage to do it, sputtering to a stop just before you start to type. 

He’s been with you for all of the major decisions in your life, but you weren’t privy to even know about this one. Sure, Satori is allowed to do what he wants. You know that he’s not obligated to tell you everything, that he doesn’t have to inform you of every small change in his life, but you wouldn’t consider this a small change. Shit, this is bigger than any decision he’s ever made and he didn’t tell you about it. 

You’re not sure what’s worse, the idea that he kept it from you all this time or the idea that had you not stumbled upon those papers, he might have just vanished one day. It’s difficult for you to wrap your head around, the idea of Tendou just going away. For you, he’s been a constant presence in your life. Even when you went to college in Kyoto, he’d come to visit. The train ride was never more than a few hours and he would stay through the weekends or you’d make your way back up to Sendai where he attended the local university. 

Paris is thousands of kilometers away. Forget visiting on weekends, you might not even be able to visit him on holidays. Then comes the question of if he would even want you to visit. If he didn’t tell you he was leaving, maybe he wouldn’t want to have you there. It could be that Tendou’s closeness with you was too much and it had reached a boiling point you’d never noticed. 

It’s hard to believe that the boy you’ve known since 13 could think to go so far away from you. It’s difficult for you to wrap your head around, almost like the thought is presented to you in another language. It’s vaguely familiar, but deeply confusing, so much so that it sends you reeling. You’ve been reeling for the past few days, spun like a top and left to settle on your own. 

This summer is hotter than most and the air doesn’t aid your thinking. It leaves you feeling stagnant, distracted by the sound of cicadas outside your balcony. Heat and anger cling to your skin like sticky black tar and the more you think about you and Tendou, the more you feel the poison in your bloodstream. You wonder briefly if Tendou is feeling it too, though of course he’s brought it on himself. Even through your anger, it hurts you to know that he might also be hurting. 

When you met Satori, he was only an inch or so taller than you. He sprouted up around your second year of middle school, turning into the beanpole that he is today. He didn’t have a lot of friends when he was younger, not until halfway through your first year of middle school when he became a regular on the volleyball team. 

You suppose that he didn’t have many friends because of his name, or maybe it was because of the way he looked. Before Satori grew up, his big eyes and thin upper lip were even more pronounced than they are now and when he was 13, he hadn’t yet grown out of that awkward, middling phase all children go through. You never minded but the other kids certainly did. 

In fact, you always liked that Tendou matched his given name so well. Satori, referring to a yokai that can read minds. His all seeing eyes. The way he seems to know everything about you before you know it yourself. It all suits him so nicely. You’ve always liked that about him, those qualities which he’s owned from a young age and maintained throughout the majority of his life. 

They’re as dear to you as he is, and you know that they’ve become dear to him as well. 

When you were young, you never cared much for the gossip of other children, so when Satori joined your middle school class and was greeted with the whispers of your classmates, you paid them no mind. It seemed that Satori didn’t either, instead focusing on volleyball, which allowed him to realize a certain twisted kind of satisfaction he craved. Your friendship unfolded quickly, moving through the awkward acquaintance stage and into the friend stage quickly. 

The first summer you both spent together was one of the most memorable. Come to think of it, you and Satori had somehow managed to skip over the awkward part of making friends at 13, barrelling into the summer season together as comfortable friends. He’d sat out on your back porch with you often, eating cut watermelon your mother had prepared for you both. She was just glad to see you’d made a friend. As a young child, people found you unapproachable, as you’d always had an agency over yourself which other kids didn’t have. 

Satori was the same, though he was always more immature in his teasing. Tendou has always gotten a kick out of toying with others and in high school it half-way earned him his nickname of Guess Monster, which plays on the word “gesu” meaning “low-life”. You always thought it was mean, but it would be a lie to say that Tendou didn’t earn that name with his opponents. He always somehow managed to come across as somewhat sleezy to them, even if you know he’s anything but. 

It happens to be another part of him that you adore deeply. The way he makes you squirm has always been an enjoyable aspect of your neatly kept friendship. 

Still, that first summer and all the summers after, went the same way. On the porch or balcony with a plate of fresh watermelon, laying across the slightly-cooler floor and debating through bored slurs what to do next. You can recall every version of him. 13 and immature, grinning over the tops of sunburnt cheeks. 17 and laidback, with a cheshire-like grin and a penchant for teasing. 20 and in college, with long hair and an easy, attractive grin. 24, with freshly buzzed hair, sitting between the past and the future, getting ready to leave you behind. 

You know it’s unfair to think that way. He’s not leaving you behind. Not really. Satori is just moving forward. He’s taking another step towards his future and that’s supposed to be a good thing. It’s supposed to be good that he knows what he wants next. But you can’t find it in you to be happy for him. 

You think it’s selfish. It’s selfish of him to not tell you. It’s selfish to want to go so far away. It’s selfish to want to be somewhere that you aren’t. Most of all though, it hurts that you didn’t know. It aches somewhere deep and ancient in your chest, a kind of pain you’re unfamiliar with. Foreign and dull, pressing right up against your sternum from the inside. It feels like heartbreak, as alarming as that is. 

Satori has a side to him that you didn’t know. A secretive one. One that allows him to just slowly withdraw if he wants to. It makes you wonder what else he keeps from you. Everything you need to know, Tendou will tell. How far does that extend? What other things don’t you know? 

While the ache is there, you can also feel confusion. It’s a deep, skin-tingling sensation, like something not quite realized. You have no idea why you’re reacting as adversely to this as you are. It’s not as if him not telling you this yet means anything that you’ve spiraled into believing. It’s not like it means he doesn’t care about you, it just means that he was as tongue tied as you feel right now. 

Your friendship has always had clear rules and boundaries and you think that feeling the way you are and Tendou keeping this secret has somehow broken them. It’s like, in breaking your unspoken rule somewhere else, Tendou set off a chain reaction that caused you to break another. Now, all you can think about are the inbetween moments. The liminal space between friends and something more that you and Satori have occasionally crossed into. 

It’s not because you are fantasizing about it, nor is it because you necessarily want it to mean something, but it is because they mean the most to you. Those little moments are when you’ve felt the closest to him, as if your relationship were strengthened by your physical proximity and the feel of his hands on your arms or face. 

You think about those easy summers. About the way girls pass him on the street and giggle into their mouths when he glances at them. About the way he looks at you when he walks. All of it piles up like sand, heavy and easy to sink into. You could get lost in these feelings and it terrifies you. 

You’re so deeply uncomfortable with the change, both in Tendou’s life and in your steadily rounding realization. Why is that? You’ve separated from plenty of friends before just like this and never felt so hopeless. Leaving for college was no different. Even when Wakatoshi moved away permanently, you weren’t half so torn up. You didn’t mourn the loss of some unplacable thing that had yet to exist. But here you are now, laying down on the floor of your apartment and thinking about what it means that he’s going away and what it means that he didn’t tell you. What makes Satori so different? 

You’ve never had to do this before. Thinking about how to respond to Satori feels so strange that it’s making you sick. You used to always know what to say. What’s making this any different? Why does it feel like there’s a lump in your chest that’s going to make you sick? 

Maybe it’s because you can’t figure out his motivations. There are very few instances in which you can’t tell what Satori is thinking. After all, he’s the person you spend the most time with, of course you’re able to tell what he’s probably thinking about. You wonder what you could have done to hurt him, rolling onto your back and clenching your fists to quell the crack you feel forming across your chest. 

There’s so much anxiety, so much uncertainty. All you can smell is that first summer. All you can hear is that hot and humid day when you were 13. You wonder why it comes to you so clearly now. Is it because this is the last? Is it because you both have already been poisoned beyond healing? Or maybe it’s simply because that is when these feelings started to take root. 

Maybe they started to take shape a long time ago, this uncertain, swelling ache in your chest that feels so adjacent to love you could have mistaken it for exactly that. The only reason you haven’t is because you know better. You know better than to break the rules, than to love him like that when your friendship has never been anything more. 

You’ve been staving it off for so long, you think. This unplaceable desire has been curbed time and time again. You think back to all of the times it’s felt like Satori was about to cross a boundary and you wonder if he ever actually was or if you’d just imagined it because you wanted it so badly. Even now you’re not sure. You think about your past boyfriends, why it never worked. Had you ever actually cared about them or were you just seeking out traits you thought you saw in Tendou? 

Even if it is more than friendship, even if he does mean more to you than you thought, all you know is how angry you are. It swells in your chest, ballooning until it presses against the inside of your ribcage and makes you ache. You know this can’t be fixed alone. You could run yourself in circles and none of it would make any difference. None of this introspection will matter until you can talk to him, until you can be in his presence again. 

The threat of loss looms heavy over you, like an anvil tied to a string, it swings precariously above your head. Satori, even after keeping the monumental secret, is still your best friend and losing him, distance be damned, is unfathomable. He’s everything to you and the situation, its precariousness, makes you afraid. How long have you been in the space between loving him and losing him? 

—

Sa-to-ri: hey i won’t text you anymore after this, but please come by when you’re feeling up to it. i can explain. 

You read the text over and over in front of his apartment. There’s a thrumming in your chest, like nerves come alive, and you can’t seem to just open the door. 

Satori opens it first, swinging it open with one sharp pull and staring at you. 

“Were you tracking me?” you ask softly. 

“Yeah,” he admits. 

He steps to the side to let you in and you quickly remove your shoes, stepping into his apartment. 

Satori looks like the Satori he always has. Tall and lanky, with big, heavily creased eyes and his thin upper lip. His bottom lip, full and round, bounces slightly as you turn to face him. You rake your eyes over his buzzed hair, still not quite used to the way it looks on him. You remember running your hand over it a few weeks ago and feeling the soft, spiky texture of it. Part of you misses the long hair, though you think this suits him more somehow. 

His eyes, which are usually low-lidded and laidback, look swollen, and the bags under his eyes which you admire so secretly, are more pronounced. Satori looks tired and as soon as you register that it’s probably your fault, you let your shoulders fall. 

“How are you?” he questions softly, the familiar tenor ring of his voice tentative and needy as he follows it with your name. 

You shrug. “I’m okay. How are you?” 

“Been better,” he says, giving you a lopsided grin that you struggle to return. 

You nod at him, swallowing thick, and Satori lets out a shaky exhale and runs a hand over his buzzed red hair.

“I can explain what’s happening, if you want,” he offers. 

“It seems pretty straight forward,” you say. “You applied to a school in France, got in, and it spiraled out before you got the chance to tell me. Right?” 

Satori tilts his head, surprised. You’ve hit the nail on the head. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t mean- I didn’t think that-” 

You nod, biting back the familiar sting of bile rising up your chest. “I know. I’m trying not to be mad.” 

“Are you?” he asks. “Mad, I mean.” 

You nod. 

“Why?” 

“What do you mean why?” you say, giving an incredulous snort. “You’re going away and you were going to do it without telling me.” 

Satori tosses his arms up a little, beginning to grow frustrated. “I thought you just said you understood what happened?” 

“I do!” you shout back. “Do you expect me to leap for joy because you’re going 9,000 kilometers away?” 

Tendou tries to step towards you, reaching out with his lithe fingers to attempt to soothe the anger he can feel rising in you. 

“I have no real idea why you didn’t tell me,” you admit, crumbling a bit. “I think I could go over it a million times in my head and never really understand. But I think the worst part is that I don’t even know what I’m mad at. I’m just mad.” 

He falters, opening and closing his mouth in an attempt to find something to say. You feel your eyes grow wet with tears. 

“Why is it so easy for you to just leave me behind?” You question quietly, your voice cracking as tears start to spill. You feel silly and selfish for asking him this, but it’s what comes up. That unfamiliar swell of emotions you’ve been experiencing for the past week all bring you here. “How can you just up and leave just like that without even asking me about it? Didn’t you ever consider that I’d want to know and celebrate with you?” 

“____,” he says quietly. 

“And I feel so dumb because I know I should be happy,” you cry, wiping your eyes. “I know I should be happy that you’re taking the first steps toward your future, but I can’t be. I’m so hurt, Satori and I’m so sorry that I am.” 

You shake your head a little when Tendou steps close to you, unable to lift your head to look at him. 

“I know you have your own life and your own future,” you say, nodding your head. “I know. But I don’t know how you could ever want to go so far away from me. I don’t think I could ever do that.” 

It’s not accusatory, but uncertain, like you’re weighing the words on your tongue. It almost sounds as if you’re questioning your own feelings. It even surprises you and you stare at the floor between your feet to try and ground yourself. You can hear Satori breathing. It’s a steady sound, occasionally hitching and giving away his emotions. 

“Do you love me?” he speaks up quietly. You raise your head, eyebrows furrowed. “Do you love me like that?” 

You don’t know what to say or how to answer. The question has forced your gaze back up to him. His small eyebrows are pulled together in the center and his lips, usually tinged with a small grin, are pulled downwards. You ache at seeing him like this. 

“Because I do,” he adds, staring at you. 

“You what?” It shocks you, and you shake your head a little as if that would clear up the misunderstanding. You watch as he breaks every boundary you both have ever created. 

“I have for a long time. I love you and I’m not leaving because I don’t,” Satori looks almost unrecognizable, so deeply passionate and emotional, but there’s something familiar in it. There’s an emotion that you’ve seen somewhere before. “I didn’t keep it from you because I don’t.” 

“What are you saying?” You can hardly hear your own voice over the sound of your heartbeat. 

“Do you love me?” He steps towards you, adamant in receiving an answer. “Because I really need to know, man. I can’t do this without knowing.” 

You try to gather your thoughts. All of the teasing, all of the little lost glances Satori would adopt, all of the secrecy. It was because he loved you? It was because he loves you? Even the thought feels heavy, like it’s coated in lead. The idea drops into the pit of your stomach, weighing you down and for a moment you think you may be sick. 

Do you love him? Do you love him the way he wants you to? You look at him, fingers trembling. 

“I don’t know,” you swallow. 

“Come with me,” he pleads, “just come with me.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“I don’t know,” he says, running a hand forward on his head. “Because I love you. Because you drive me insane. Because I didn’t even realize I was hiding it until it was too late to not be hiding it. I never meant to let it get this far I never- I never meant to make you cry,” he says, stepping forward and taking your hands in his. “You’re my best friend. I never wanted- I never wanted to lose you and I was so scared and I didn’t- I didn’t know what to do.” 

You take in his explanation, nodding slowly. “So your solution was to say nothing?” You frown at him. 

Satori stares at you. “I’m sorry,” he squeezes your knuckles, “come with me anyway. Even though I didn’t tell you. Come with me.” 

You stare at him for a second, attempting to process the speed at which your brain is moving.

“I can’t do this without you,” he admits, letting his shoulders fall forward and casting his eyes toward the floor of his apartment. 

This sends you reeling more than anything he’s said yet. Satori, by nature, is fiercely independent. He’s fiercely driven and internally motivated. Most people, when they meet him, can recognize this instantly. It makes the admittance heavy, like it’s waterlogged. You gape at him. 

Your eyes follow the familiar planes of his body. His round, double-lidded eyes which are so familiar to you that you would know he’s watching you without even looking. The sharpness of his cheekbones. The undereye bags that you love so deeply. You follow the trail his cheeks make to his mouth, slightly parted and glossy with spit. His neck, leading down to his collarbone. The exposed parts of the muscles, now visible to you from any angle since he cut his hair. 

He’s looking at you with a desperate, wild look. It would be frightening if it were anyone else, but it’s Satori. It’s your most loved person. The one person you could do anything with and be okay. 

The boundaries which you’d relied on so often in times like this, don’t exist anymore. There’s no inbetween to fall back on, no safety net to keep you from falling completely. If you want you, you could give into this entirely. You don’t have to catch yourself. You don’t have to sleep on the couch. There’d be no more side-stepping and avoiding and wondering if you wish it or if you dread it. 

“Okay,” you say quietly, inhaling. “Okay.” 

Tendou looks at you for a minute, blinking. His face is so familiar and being able to look at it like this is like a homecoming. 

“Are you still mad?” he asks quietly, his hands still gripping yours. 

“Yeah,” you admit. 

“Can I kiss you?” He breathes out. 

“Yeah.” 

Satori leans forward, bringing his hand to the side of your cheek gently. He’s so close. The boy you’ve known since 13. You can feel his breath on your face, trembling slightly as he draws closer. You screw your eyes shut as his lips meet yours. Familiar is the word that comes to mind. You’ve never done this with him before, but you can map out the way they look from the feeling of them alone.  

You inhale sharply and Satori leans in closer, bringing his other hand to your face and deepening the kiss. He cups your face firmly with both hands, pulling you close to him as his shoulders drop and he lifts your face to get a nice angle. Everything about his touch is different, but somehow deeply familiar. It’s like you’re meant to be here like this with him. Like you’re meant to be in his arms, which your face cupped between his long, lithe hands. 

He pulls away from you, leaving you dazed and breathless. Looking at him from this close feels like a privilege. It’s like you can see every single detail about him that you’ve ever loved. You reach up to touch his face, running your thumb across his under-eye bag. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, his lips swollen. 

You shake your head. “I should have been happier for you.”

“Mmm, you always worry about other people like that,” he says softly. “I’m the one who acted like an asshole.” 

“I still don’t want you to go away.” 

“I know,” he leans forward, pecking your lips. “But it’s not for a little while. We’ve got time.” 

You kiss him first this time, pressing forward until your lips find his. Tendou immediately licks into your mouth, deepening it with a groan and pulling your body flush against his. 

There’s so much relief in touching him like this, in feeling the slip and slide of your skin against his. It feels right, so right that all of your previous experiences begin to pale in comparison.

He is so dear to you that it is overwhelming. All of it comes at once as he lays you on the bed, hovering over you with his eyebrows pulled together. Everything that he is is so dear. His hair, his smile, his low-lidded and heavy creased eyes. Oh, how you love him. Any anger slips away in the realization. 

You’ve never seen him look quite so shy, nor so hesitant. His hands, which are usually so sure, run up your sides at an awkward pace, like he can’t quite get a hold of what’s happening. You feel that your expression mirrors his, that the pace of your breath betrays the nerves you’re feeling. 

Satori hovers over you, his shirt pulled off to reveal the pale expanse of chest you’ve seen a million times. His chest heaves, like he’s out of breath, his round shoulders supporting the weight of him as he looks at you. His eyes betray a sense of adoration. It’s an emotion you’ve seen in him a few times, similar to the expression he wears when he plays volleyball. It looks like he’s being consumed. Then, he tilts his head at you and smiles. You smile back at him, reaching to hesitantly touch the back of his head and pull him close to you. 

His buzz cut feels soft to the touch and Tendou gives in when he feels the warm pads of your fingers at the back of his neck. He lowers himself closer to you, shifting onto his forearms and then dipping his neck down to kiss you, beckoned by your gentle touch. You feel his knee press into the mattress between your legs and gasp when he moves it up to brush against your center. 

There’s a strangeness to being touched there by him. Along with the relief of friction, comes the oddness of who. That’s not to say that it doesn’t feel right. It does, though to ignore the years of history between you two would be a disservice. That strangeness, however, only fans the flames of your desire. This is a part of him you’ve never seen before. 

Satori’s fingers snake down your abdomen where your shirt has ridden up. They’re cold and you can almost imagine the round and somewhat pointed look of them. You glance between you both, admiring the knobby curve of his knuckles and the way he toys lightly with the elastic of your waistband. 

“Can I?” he breathes out, barely above a whisper and so laced with desire that you almost think he might whine. 

“Go ahead,” you exhale and he gives you a little smile before dipping two fingers between the folds of your cunt and pressing lightly on your clit. 

You gasp, arching your back up at the cool sensation of it, slowly relaxing as he starts to move his fingers in a steady circle. When you open your eyes, you see that he’s watching you, his neck craned down to peer at the expression you’re wearing. 

“Stop that…” you laugh lightly. 

“Stop what?” he croons, pressing lightly at your entrance with the pad of his finger. 

“Staring…” 

Satori leans down and kisses you while sliding one finger in. You feel him smile against your mouth when you gasp, the corners of his mouth curling up delicately as his mouth leaves yours. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited to touch you like this,” he says quietly, still against your mouth. Then, with that lovely upward lilt to his voice, “let me stare a little longer.” 

You huff a little, fighting the heat rising to your cheeks and he laughs a little bit, kissing down the exposed parts of your neck. 

“I could do this instead,” he hums, teasing a little as he pushes your shirt up and places a kiss between your breasts. 

His lithe fingers cup up to cup your chest, pinching your nipple over your bra with two fingers as he smears his lips down your stomach. You don’t know how to respond, instead watching the rise and fall of his head with your breathing as he leaves a trail of kisses down your abdomen. 

When Satori reaches your waistband, he pulls his hand from you and hooks two fingers around it, shimmying it down your legs. 

It’s not as if you haven’t undressed in front of him before. Satori has seen you at your best, your worst, and all of your inbetweens. You’ve changed in front of him more times than you can count, even going so far as to skinny dip together the summer before college. Still, this time is different. This time, when Satori undresses, he’s looking at you with his eyes that see everything. He’s watching the expanse of your body, gaze crawling up each inch of exposed skin until his gaze rests on your now exposed cunt. 

You let out a subconscious whine when his breath hits you and his lips curl up a little when you do. He rests his head on the inside of your thigh, looking up at you from between your legs. 

“Feeling shy?” 

“Obviously,” you force out, covering your face with your forearms. 

“Aw, what?” he pouts. “Don’t hide from me.” 

His voice is so sincere and so fond that it draws you out from behind your arms. He’s still looking at you, smiling from where he lays between your legs. 

“There ya are,” he says, a lopsided grin spreading across his features. “I’m gonna touch you now.” 

Then, he spreads you open with two fingers and licks one long stripe between your legs. You shiver, your hand instinctively flying up to his head where you grow frustrated that his long hair isn’t there to hold onto anymore. He gives you a small smile from between your legs, holding your pussy open, before dipping back down and securing his mouth around your sensitive clit. 

Something about this is so deeply embarrassing. Maybe it's the fact that it’s Tendou, or maybe it’s because you haven’t had someone go down on you this well in a long time. Either way, you feel the humiliation in your teeth like sugar, your knees knocking inward every now and then when he hits a particularly sensitive spot. 

Satori hums into your cunt every now and then, tongue lathing over your sensitive bundle of nerves. Everytime you twitch or gasp, he gives a pleasant little hum that you feel buzz through you, then he looks up to check on your reactions. His hands, which are so familiar you think you’d know them only by touch, wander over your thighs and up your stomach to your breasts. They don’t stay in one place for long, instead running all over your skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake. 

You’ve always liked Satori’s hands. Ever since you met him, you’ve thought they were nice. They’ve got a gentle look to them. They’re big and his fingers are long, but they’re thin, with smooth and somewhat knobby knuckles from injuring them so often in volleyball. They’ve always been hands that you wanted to be touched by and now that they’re running softly over your skin, you find yourself shivering at the overload of sensitive touches. 

Every one of Satori’s touches are gentle. Even his tongue between your legs, which winds the coil in your stomach tighter and tighter, is gentle in his appreciation for you. It’s like he’s experimenting ever so slightly, like he’s cherishing you while simultaneously figuring out what makes you tick. He already knows everything about you in a platonic sense, now he gets to learn in a sexual sense. 

Still, despite the gentleness of his touches, it is all too much. His hands, his mouth, the feel of his tongue as he sucks on your clit. Even just the way he looks, eyes closed and brows pulling upwards, is overwhelming. He moves his face side to side slowly, smearing you across his face, before he looks at you with low lidded eyes. 

The knot in your stomach tightens and you begin to swelter. Your face grows hot, lightheadedness flooding the space between your ears as you’re worked closer and closer to your high. You gasp, reaching to run a hand over his buzzed hair. 

He reaches up behind his head and knots his fingers with yours at either of your sides. You squirm against him, desperate as you build higher and higher. Satori groans lightly as you choke out a light warning, trying your best to not sound as broken as you feel. He nods, lapping at your cunt with a flat tongue until you feel you are fit to burst. Your chest heaves, your head spins, you begin to peak and then, Satori stops. 

Your voice catches in your throat. It’s a feeble, pitiful sound that catches and tapers into a low whine. You buck your hips forward, legs feeling like white-hot sandbags as your climax slips steadily away from you. 

Satori tilts his head at you, giving a wry grin. His signature smile is coated in you and his mouth and chin glistens in a way that feels incredibly vulgar. You tremble lightly as he wipes his face with the back of his arm and sits back on his heels. You watch the heave of his chest, lean muscle shifting underneath pleasantly warm skin. Starry freckles dot pleasantly across his chest and you briefly wonder where on earth he got them. 

As the frustration wanes, you find yourself wanting to be closer to him, desperate to build your high back up. 

“I kind of liked that reaction,” he drones lightly, leaning over you as you beckon him. 

“You’re such an asshole,” you breathe out, catching his mouth with yours. 

He hums into it, lips curling as he kisses you softly. 

“Uh oh,” he says against your mouth, “am I on your bad side now?” 

“Yeah,” you respond, reaching down between you both to run your hand lightly over the bulge in his boxers, “the worst of it.” 

Your response is absent-minded and quiet, not retaining your usually snarky attitude. Right now, the only thing you’re thinking about are the points of contact between you and Satori. There’s only touch. 

Satori doesn’t respond, instead letting his head hang between you both as you reach under his waistband and wrap your hands around him for the first time. He’s long and not particularly thick and you drag your hand up the length of him just to test his size. Satori’s so hard that you think it must hurt him, his tip wet with precum. 

He shudders over you, his shoulders tightening as you run your thumb over the tip of him. He’s more sensitive than you would have expected and you tilt your head slightly to watch the way he screws his eyes shut. 

He looks so new to you like this. Everything is new. It’s so new, in fact, that you can push aside your own desperation in favor of witnessing it. Though the person is familiar, the situation is not. It makes you feel like a virgin. Well, it makes you feel like a virgin and not a virgin at the same time. You’re having fun just playing with him, running your fingers along the length of him. It’s like getting to show him what you know, all with the butterflies of a virgin. 

You suppose he feels the same. Maybe that’s why he’s got his head tilted down, only looking up to give you a strained smile whenever the head of his cock brushes your slick cunt. 

There’s so much feeling. That’s the only way you can describe it. There is so much feeling between you both, humming and shifting and pressing against your sternums from the outside, begging to be let in. It’s tangible between the two of you, so present that you think you could grab it with your hand, but neither of you move to take it. Instead, you press closer, letting it sit heavy in the air between your faces. 

Satori doesn’t move to push himself inside of you and you don’t move to guide him there. Instead, you let the tip of him press lightly against you, running your fingers up and down it. The tension, made up of your frustration and feelings, balloons until you are certain it will burst. Your lower stomach winds and coils despite how gentle the touches are and desire makes its way into your throat where it sits leaded and heavy. 

He groans lightly over you, his hips shaking lightly with how long he’s been holding himself there. You run one hand over the curve of his shoulders, feeling the way the lean muscle shifts as he tenses and untenses. 

Finally, he pushes past the tight ring of your cunt with a low whine and you move to wrap your hands around him. The pads of your fingers press into his back, leaving marks in skin that you’ve seen a hundred times over. He trembles over you and your focus is pulled between your legs where you feel the pressure of Satori there. He presses forward until his hips are flush with yours and you’re made breathless by the sticky pressure of his pelvis against yours. 

He stays still for a while, tilting his head to the side to catch your mouth. You feel his breath come in quick bursts, but he never moves to fully kiss you, instead brushing his lips against yours as if to draw the desperation from it. You grow antsier by the moment, pushed to frustration quickly by the stillness of his hips and the distance of his mouth from you. When a low whine escapes your mouth, Satori smiles silently and flicks his hips forward once. 

You tip your head back and Satori chases your mouth, finally kissing you lightly as he starts to rock back and forth. 

He finds a slow rhythm. It’s deep and overwhelming, each thrust pushing deep into you until you feel the press of pressure in your stomach. He doesn’t so much thrust his hips as he does roll them at steady intervals, pressing the tip of himself up and into that gummy spot inside of you. 

You’re sticky between the legs. You can feel it each time he pushes into you, dripping from your pussy down to the mattress. Satori smears it with his hips on purpose. You can tell from his expression that he’s enjoying the mess, his familiar face watching for your reactions as he experiments with you. 

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he says through gritted teeth. His hand comes up to brush the side of your cheek. 

You don’t know how to answer, cut open by the affection in his voice and the way pleasure sews itself through. 

“You’ve always been so pretty,” he says again, bending down to kiss your neck. “But you’re even prettier like this. I don’t want to share it.” 

You shiver, “Then don’t.” 

Satori hums lightly, dragging his mouth down your chest to take a nipple in his mouth. He speaks around it. “I like the way you sound when you try and talk while I’m fucking you. Talk s’more.” 

The sentence is so dirty that it feels like your face is lit on fire, “No.” 

“Come on,” he teases, popping your nipple from his mouth and sitting up completely. He hits you deeper like this and you feel him twitch inside of you. “Just a little?” 

“Satori,” you whine a little, breathless. “I’m embarrassed.” 

“Of what?” He questions, reaching to take your hand and press it to your stomach. 

“I don’t know,” you grunt, gasping when he adds pressure to your stomach. 

“Of that?” he grins, fucking his hips into you sharply. You can hear the sound of your wetness. 

“Yeah,” you gasp, “that.” 

“Don’t be,” he mumbles, leaning over you again to speak against your mouth. “It’s really hot.” 

Your stomach flips, turning over as the pressure and his words come to a head in the space between your ears. Your cheeks heat and your stomach seems to roll beneath your skin. You’ve heard Tendou say all sorts of things about all sorts of people, but for some reason, the idea that he finds you hot sends you syrupy. 

“Satori,” you breathe out, tipping your head back to let him nip again at the sink on your neck. 

“Hm?” 

“Nothing,” you sigh. “Just wanted to say it.” 

“Again,” he says, punctuating his sentence with his hips. 

“Satori.” 

He groans, laughing a little. “Sounds different when you say it now.” 

He’s right. You’ve said his name a million times, but it sounds different now. There’s more intimacy to it, like you’re not just calling to him, but for him. The distinction to you is important and the sharp sound of the syllables leaving your mouth only serve to heighten your desire. 

Pressure mounts in your gut like water against a dam. You feel it build there while Satori presses his hips deeper. You repeat his name, embarrassed but calling out for him nonetheless. He obliges every time, meeting your pleas with heavy sighs that give away the closeness of his peak. 

“I’m gonna-” you choke, grabbing at his shoulders. 

“Yeah, baby,” he breathes, “me too. Whenever you’re ready, okay?” 

You nod, meeting your high with a dizzy head. Satori holds you still while your hips buck and your knees buckle beneath him. He follows not long after, spurred on by the press of your thighs around his hips. 

It takes a long while to come down. The haziness fades away but even after several long minutes, the glow does not. It sticks you to both like summer heat, inescapable and rich. Satori plays with the small baby hairs by your forehead and you let him, resting your cheek on his sticky chest. You’re not sure of what to say. It’s difficult to orient yourself. 

“Shit,” he mutters softly. 

“What?” Your stomach drops. 

“Nothing,” he says, running a hand down his face. “I think I’ve just got it way worse for you than I thought.” 

“Oh,” you say, nodding, letting silence settle over both of you before you break it once again. “I think I love you.” 

“Yeah?” he says quietly, lifting his head from the pillow a little. 

“Mhm,” you say softly. 

Satori presses his smile into the side of your head. 

“I’m a little nervous,” you say, laughing quietly. 

“Of what?” He grins. “That you’re gonna like me too much?” 

You slap his chest lightly, “Definitely not.” 

“Harsh,” he laughs a little. 

“I’m nervous because what if things don’t work?” you admit quietly. “We’ve known each other for so long, Satori, but what if one day we can’t stand each other? What if in the future we don’t even talk anymore?” 

“You trying to jinx it?” he laughs a little. 

“No,” you pout. 

“Well, look,” he says, lips curling in the corners, “there’s no way in hell I could ever get tired of you and I’d never let you get rid of me. I’ve been haunting you since we were 13 and I don’t really plan to stop.” 

“Haunting?” You scoff. “You know, Satori, you’re really fucking weird.” 

“That right, baby?” 

“Eugh,” you laugh a little. “Gross.” 

Satori shrugs. 

“I’m still upset you didn’t tell me about France either.” 

“I know,” he says a little softer. “I really-”

“You don’t have to defend yourself,” you say. “I think I’m just going to be mad about it for a while. You’ll just have to put up with me.” 

“Okay,” his voice sounds small and you turn over onto your stomach and press your forehead to his chest. 

“Everything feels so complicated now,” you say softly.

“Hey,” he tilts your chin up. “Do you love me?” 

“Yeah,” you answer, fighting the heat rising to your cheeks. 

“Good,” he says, giving you a boyish grin. “I love you too. That’s not so complicated, right?” 

The words of affection feel strange in the same way new shoes do. They fit, but they’re foreign. You have to orient yourself to the way they make you feel, but the joy of wearing them hums to life in your chest like a stringed instrument. Satori’s lips curl into a cheeky grin and the expression is so familiar that it makes you ache. It’s mischievous, like he’s not quite being serious and if you didn’t know him better, it would make you nervous. But you do know him better. You nod lightly and let his smile infect you the same way it has since you were 13. 

The glow remains. 

—

Sa-to-ri <3: you ready? 

You: ya coming now. 

Sa-to-ri <3: kk i’m outside. 

Your heart leaps into your chest. It swells there, heavy and affection filled. When you step outside, Satori looks up at you, pressing his palm to the wall behind him and pushing forward in one fluid motion. You watch recognition flash across his face the same way you feel it flash across yours and then, his eyes soften. His lips melt into an affectionate and easy going grin as you approach him. 

You fly down the steps, unable to choke back the small laugh bubbling at the back of your throat. 

“Satori,” you breathe as he takes you into his arms. You bury your face in the extra fabric of his sweatshirt, inhaling his familiar smell.

“Hi,” he chimes softly. You feel him rest his head on yours then, he sways a little bit. 

“I really missed you,” you sigh, unwilling to let go. 

“I missed you too,” he laughs a little and you feel his fingers come up to cradle the back of your head. 

How long has it been since you’ve seen him? Four months? Maybe five? Since moving to France, he’s come back to visit once for only a few days and though you talk to him on the phone almost every day, it’s not enough. It’s never enough unless he’s here. 

When you pull away, he takes your face in both of his hands and looks at you like he’s cataloging everything that’s changed about you since you were separated. His eyes trace the lines of your face and yours do the same to his. 

“You got prettier,” he smiles lightly. 

“Liar,” you laugh a little.

“Nope.” 

Satori leans forward and places his mouth on yours gently. You suck in a sharp inhale, heart racing against your ribcage. Even a year later, he still makes your heart leap out of your chest. You missed the way he tastes, relieved to finally be able to taste him again. 

“You buzzed your hair short again, baldy,” you laugh, reaching up to run your hand over the spiked surface of it. 

Satori rolls his eyes, They glide upwards as his head follows the motion of them and then, he scuffs the tip of his shoe against the floor. He’s wearing a pair of worn black high top converse. You’ve seen them many times before in the entryway of his old apartment, but in his time away they’ve become so well worn that they’re gray in certain areas. 

Tendou gives you a wry smile. It’s a ghost across his face as he narrows his eyes a bit in a familiar way. “Easier to manage this way at school.” 

“Mm, I bet. You sure you’re not just losing hair?” You tease. 

“Even if I were, I think you’d date me anyway.” 

“You got me,” you laugh, turning to walk down the street with him. 

Satori’s fingers automatically tangle with yours. You feel his knuckles slide past your own, the tips of his fingers cool but his palm warm and wide. Your mind runs at a mile a minute and you realize that you have no idea what to say to him. Right now, his familiarity and your longing for it are overwhelming. All of your thoughts are abstract and the warm, fuzzy feelings are unplaceable. They live in your throat. 

Instead of talking, you look over at him. The hair he’s just recently buzzed again highlights the delightful round shape of his head and you think it suits him. He looks clean and trimmed, something unusual for Satori, but you don’t find yourself missing his shoulder length hair. Instead, you like this metamorphosed version of him, somehow grown from the man he was when he left. You resist the urge to reach up and run your hand over the top of it again. 

It’s nearly 9pm and, as usual, the sidewalk is littered with people on their way home or out with friends. Girls pass Tendou in the street with little glances. They peek to the side as he walks past them, admiring the sway in his step and the alluring way he slouches forward the way they always have. These same girls giggle into their mouths the same way they always do. It’s easier to see now that you know how to feel about him, that Tendou is attractive. He’s always been that way, but now, as these girls whisper about you being his girlfriend, you find yourself giddy to be able to say that you are. 

You take stock of him beside you. He’s long and lean, staring ahead at the building just beyond the sidewalk in its seemingly endless stretch into the sky. His eyes slink back and forth between the screens illuminating the street with ads and every now and then, his gaze will stop on one he finds interesting and he will squeeze your hand. You watch him through the corner of your eye until you have to look away. 

The walk to the ramen shop is longer from your apartment than Tendou’s old one, but it’s familiar. You’ve not been back there since Tendou first moved to France last September. Still, each step that you take feels so natural that you could do it blind. 

When you reach the familiar ramen shop by Tendou’s old apartment, you notice that the blue curtains in front of the door have been replaced. The kanji is cleaner now and the bottom isn’t fraying quite the same way it used to. Tendou still holds them to the side for you, unlacing your fingers and ducking through the doorway after you. When you walk in, you find that now there are two ramen chefs behind the counter. The old chef, the one you grew up with, is toward the back of the bar and in front is a young man with features like his. 

You settle evenly into the bar, smiling softly at Tendou when he looks at you. When the old ramen chef sees you, the corners of his eyes crinkle in a welcoming smile. 

“It’s been a long time since you two have been here! What’s been keeping you away?” he exclaims, placing his hands on the bar. “The same usual orders?” 

“Oh, this and that,” Satori hums. “I moved to France and they hate coming here alone.” 

“That so?” The chef smiles. 

You both nod and Tendou slips into an easygoing rapport with the man, leaning his chin onto his hand as he talks. You watch the way the muscles in his arm flex and the way the corners of his mouth curl into a smile, sinking quickly into the comfort of the space. 

“You two together yet?” The chef glances between the both of you. 

Satori leans back lightly, looking sideways at you before he shrugs his shoulders. He doesn’t offer a verbal answer and you find yourself following suit in his shrug. 

“Yup, we’re in love,” you say, leaning forward and fighting the heat that rises to your cheeks. 

The chef waits for your subsequent denial but when it never comes, he smiles knowingly and pats the counter softly. He doesn’t offer his usual chiding remark. There’s no reason to anymore and instead he turns to fix your bowls. The soup will take 8 minutes to prepare. You have 8 minutes to sit here with Tendou and ask him everything you want to ask before you both become inevitably engrossed in your meals the way you always have. Tendou no longer adopts that signature spacey look he would have at times like these.

“How’s Paris?” you ask. 

Tendou’s eyes slink along his lower water line and he turns his head—still resting on his cheek—to look at you. “It’s good. Kinda cold. Make sure you bring lots of jackets.” 

You nod and think back to your apartment, filled with boxes that will be moved out and shipped ahead to Tendou’s Parisian apartment. All of your things, your life, are packed into those boxes. Scores of memories and matter, evidence of the years spent with him, neatly organized to be transplanted somewhere else. The apartment itself doesn’t matter much though, your home, you’ve found, is wherever he is. 

“Yeah? How’s school?” You lean forward to be closer to him. 

“Really good,” he sighs a little. “I’m really happy. Gonna be happier when you’re out there to see me graduate though.” 

“I’ll be there to see the other stuff too, like when you open your own shop.” 

“Mhm,” he laughs a little. “Did I send you the picture of the new place I was thinking of?” 

You shake your head a little. “Not yet, show me now.” 

Satori gives you an excited grin before he pulls out his phone to show you. The tab is already open on his phone, like he’d been staring at it only moments earlier and daydreaming about his future there. It’s on a street corner with big glass windows. The space looks empty from the photos, already cleared out and ready for him to move in. 

You can just barely see past the clear glass door into the cozy space inside. In fact, it looks to be only a little larger than the ramen shop you’re in now. 

“It’s got an apartment upstairs,” he says, a little quieter now. “I was thinking we could tour it once you get out there. I’ve already put in an application.” 

You bite back a giddy smile, the prospect of living with him becoming more real as he talks to you about it. There are several things you’re grateful for since you started seeing him, though perhaps one of your favorites is his continued openness with his wants and feelings. Even this small conversation makes you feel loved in a way that you have trouble describing. It’s so full that you have trouble swallowing it. 

“‘Course, you’ll stay with me in my old apartment till it’s all squared away,” he smiles a little. “I’ve got enough room, though it might be a little tight.” 

“I hope so,” you laugh a little, rolling your eyes. “I’m really relieved.” 

“Relieved? Why?” He gives you a small laugh. “You like being that close to me?” 

You shrug a little, rolling your eyes at his gentle tease. “I was worried you’d get out there and realize everything was wrong… or something.” 

“Weird of you, but okay,” he laughs a little, playing with your hand on the table. 

“Though you’d really be fine anywhere,” you laugh a little. “I think you’re just that kind of person, Satori.” 

“Only if you’re in my corner,” he says, giving you a sly grin. You shove his arm at the cheesy remark. Despite dating for a little over a year now, things like that catch you off guard. After all, in hindsight, being with him like this was the next natural step, you’d just been too stubborn to see it. 

It’s been a long while since the two of you have spoken in person and you soak him up like sunshine. He seeps into your skin through proximity alone. The distance made you nervous at first. Though you’ve gotten over the initial lie that separated and then brought you together, for some reason there was still some part of you that felt that when Satori left for Paris, he was leaving forever. You know now that that feeling was just your affection for him, but it doesn’t make the relief any less sweet. 

You can recall the teary-eyed confession he made like it was yesterday. The image of him with his hands at his side, asking if you loved him is burned into your brain. If you could go back, you don’t think you would change a thing. Your only regret was not being able to formulate those vague feelings which became so overpowering earlier. If you’d known earlier, you’d have been able to have loved him longer. You’d have been able to consciously love him the way you do now, the way you think you always have. Loving Satori comes easily, like breathing, up until that summer you’d just been too young and dumb to see it, your head underwater. It’s only been a little over a year, but hindsight is 20/20. 

When silence falls over the two of you, you lean close and let him scroll through the pictures from his time in France. You’re so deeply content. You’re so prepared to move to be near him, so ready to take that next leap and follow where he goes. It’s a secure feeling, one that grounds you in the moment. 

The chef places two bowls in front of you and Satori perks up, sliding his phone away and moving to crack garlic into his soup. He hands you the chili oil, remembering how you like yours and you smile warmly when his eyes meet yours. If you could, you’d kiss him right now just for remembering. The smell of ramen wafts up in thick clouds of steam, hitting your face with warm and heavy moisture as you lean over it and inhale. 

“It’s none of my business but,” the chef says, clearing his throat a little, “you both have been coming here for a long time and I think you’ve grown into fine young people. Take care of each other.” 

You’re too emotional to find the words, but the chef looks at you with something of a fond stare. He’s known you both long enough to understand to some degree how long it’s taken to get where you are. You stare with a childlike wonder, unable to say anything to this man who created the space you found so inviting through your adolescence, but Satori finds the words easily.

“It’ll be my privilege,” he smiles, the corners of his mouth turning. 

It’s such a simple statement, but it’s definitive and somewhat serious for Tendou. It implies longevity, the kind that lasts a lifetime. He sounds so certain of himself that you find yourself nodding firmly beside him, heat rushing to your cheeks. 

“Eat up, kids,” the chef smiles, glancing between you both and patting the counter with a smile. 

Tendou thanks him and you stare at the noodles in your bowl, feeling oddly introspective. What you’re feeling now is not quite elation, nor is it indifference. The best you could describe it is as a hopeful nostalgia. Beside you, Tendou begins to slurp at his noodles and when you glance sideways at him, he meets you in the middle. You can’t help but mirror him when he smiles around his chopsticks. 

You eat your ramen through idle conversation. Tendou talks about his future shop and you talk about the job you’ve managed to secure overseas with your previous experience from the company you’ve worked at the past year. You both have stable jobs now and it’s strange to talk about your future together as if it has already arrived. 

Suddenly, you are in your third year again, discussing futures that have long passed after an evening practice. Satori is in his volleyball sweater, concealing a sweat-drenched uniform, and you are wearing your skirt with sweatpants underneath it. That’s what this feels like. You’re no longer in the in-between. There is no precarious balance between past and present. There is only future. There’s only the future that you’re living in and the one you’ve both begun to make with each other. The in-between, that space between adulthood and adolescence where present and future find their middle ground, is finally beyond you. Though you can sit here and glance behind to recall all of those little choices, you’re here now, already arrived at the place where all of it has always led you. 

Two people, two collections of memories, each winding and twisting in their own individual ways. They’re what makes you both, the decisions that have brought you to this inevitable finish and this endless beginning. You remember the choice to say yes and it is with a nostalgic fondness that you realize, in all of your future glory, that there are more choices to come.

In this little ramen shop where your past meets your future, you and Tendou Satori, the boy you’ve known since 13, in the after. 

#tendou x reader #tendou satori x reader #tendou x reader smut #tendou satori smut #tendou smut #satori x reader #[ 📕 – writing ] #WAAAGHHH OKAY TEE HEE IM FINALLY POSTING SOMETHING NEW LOLL

[wolveria]

The Anomaly Archives - Reality #001

AU of The Raven's Hymn

Pairing: SCP-049 x Reader

Chapter Warnings: Explicit sexual content, dubious consent, sex pollen

AO3

With infinite universes come infinite possibilities. But even within the threads of innumerable choices, there are… patterns. Threads that will interweave time and again, with no discernible rhyme or reason.

Some call it fate. Others, providence. Humans call it the law of Large Numbers, and that is close enough for what I attempt to convey to the record.

The purpose of this record is to document the threads that curve toward one specific individual. To what end, the Editors will determine. I am simply an observer.

That is what I tell myself.

--The [REDACTED] Wandsman of [REDACTED]

The opening of the outer doors brought his head up, alert and poised for his cruel captors to make an appearance. He had grown agitated, pacing in front of the observation screen, not knowing what had befallen her. His dear assistant, taken away in chains to once again be submitted to the senseless whims of brutish men.

The Doctor did not fare well, his chest a boundless void with each passing moment of her absence. He missed her sweet presence, the comfort that came with it, her touch soothing the machinations of his restless mind.

Of course, that same touch could also light a spark in him, setting the fatwood ablaze, and it took all of his considerable will to smother the flames before they spread beyond his control.

It was a different sort of fire that consumed him now, rage curling around his heart as his assistant was carelessly shoved into the chamber. She caught herself on the autopsy table and leaned her weight against it as her legs seemed unable to steady beneath her.

Her bare legs. The grey medical tights she usually wore were missing, leaving her only in the white smock.

Possession, a creature with liquid fire for blood and flame-kissed metal for claws, a beast that demanded retribution on any who had dared touch her. It raged within his dark form, but he held it at bay for her sake.

The Doctor was at her side in an instant, and the ravenous beast was temporarily sated as he caught hold of her shoulders. She appeared weak, or fatigued, and he feared she would collapse from the way she trembled.

Despite her clumsy gait, she stepped into the circle of his arms and held him, her grip strong with desperation. The Doctor blinked. It was not unusual for her to return in such a state, affected to a degree that left her on the edge of ruin.

But this seemed... different. Unfamiliar, the way she pushed her face into his neck, breathing in deep as if to catch his scent, her fingers pressing divots into his back. Her body crowded him, restless, pressed flat against his surface and straining to be closer.

Deep within, something flickered to life.

“���Doctor Reid?”

He hadn’t intended her name to come out as a breathless rasp, but he was caught off-foot, not entirely sure how to approach this novel situation. This close to her, surrounded by her familiar fragrance, there was an underlying chemical he didn’t recognize.

Alarm jostled his thoughts. He might not know the compound, but he could sense its nature, a hormone intended to affect mammals in a particular way.

His assistant didn’t answer him with words; she slipped a leg between his, attempting to straddle his thigh, a precarious position while they still stood. She wasn’t deterred, holding him tighter as she rocked against his hip.

The Doctor’s mind struggled to assess the situation correctly, but his body responded with a haste that outpaced his good sense. Heat licked up his abdomen and his member stirred, threatening to expand out of its sheath with the sudden blood flow.

He jerked back, forced to catch her when she nearly spilled to the floor.

 “Assistant, please.” He held her firm but kept a modest distance between them. “I need to know what was done to you. Do you remember?”

She licked her lips, pupils blown as she tried to focus on his face. And she did try, he knew from the dip in her brow and her confused frown.

“Y-yes. A gas. They m-made me inhale it. I tried n-not to breathe, but...”

“I understand,” he said, soft. Despite the irritating reactions of his body, his heart ached for yet another indignity she was forced to endure. “Your predicament is through no fault of your own. I will attempt to provide aid. If you could please tell me your symptoms, I shall try to find a remedy that—”

“No!” She shook her head, words choked, eyes wide. “He said n-not to. Leahy. He said no... no antidotes. Nothing f-from your bag.”

His eyes narrowed, venomous barbs curling around his chest as they always did when he was reminded of the Site Director’s existence. The Doctor would love nothing more than to adorn a pair of gloves and wrap his fingers around the man’s neck. He would not wish his suffering to end too swiftly, after all.

“What is the purpose of this drug?”

His assistant shook her head again, discomfort and unease lining her features. She squirmed against his grip, sweat beading on her forehead below her hairline.

“He didn’t say. They just... gave it to me. Nothing happened, at first. And then as they were bringing me back—”

She released a noise, her legs rubbing together as she avoided his gaze.

“Please,” he gently said, “tell me what you are experiencing. If only so we may relieve the symptoms—”

Another noise from her, this one pained, and she wrenched from his hands, surprising him with her strength. She slipped within the confines of his hold and crushed her body against his, gripping his robes as if she were drowning.

“Hot,” she gasped into his shoulder. “Too much. Need it to stop. Need—”

While he reeled from her sudden proximity, she grabbed his hand and shoved it under her smock, forcing him to cup her. The shocking heat was the first thing he noticed, the second, how she was soaked through her undergarments, wetting his fingers with barely a touch.

He had lived a long life, longer than even he could remember, and never once in his great existence could he recall a time when his mind simply... stopped. Nothing passed through it except a soft sort of buzz, like one of those televisions that no longer received a signal.

The noise she made was unholy, sinful as she rubbed herself on his hand. Her face was against his collar, pressed into the loose fabric that encircled his throat. His skin had always been muted to sensations, a barrier between him and the outside world, but he could feel every heated breath she exhaled, ever scratch of her nails and the slick essence leaking from her.

His assistant was dwarfed in comparison to him, yet she pushed him, forced him in retreat to the inner chamber, all the while her lips explored his neck, guiding his fingers for the relief she sought. There was only a thin barrier of cotton between her flesh and his, and it would take so little effort to pull that barrier aside and gift her with exactly what she needed.

If this event had occurred earlier in their partnership, the Doctor would like to believe he would not be the empty-headed fool he currently was. He would have much more restraint, in control of his own faculties, and he would put a stop to this entire affair.

As it was, he remained frozen as she backed him all the way to the desk, his hips pinned against the edge as they could retreat no further.

She pulled his hand away from her slick heat. Any return to his senses that might have happened were thwarted as she dropped to her knees, her fingers searching, exploring for something at the joining of his legs.

A strained, choking noise left him. She could not possibly know about—

“I’m sorry.”

Her apology came out like a prayer, hushed and desperate for salvation.

“I’m sorry I’m sorryimsorry—”

She found the opening of his internal sheath, her fingers sliding within the slit, and stroked just within as if to coax him out.

It was more than effective. His member pushed through the opening, and he braced his hands against the desk behind him—the air had left him as she took him in her hands. She stroked him, her eyes wide, filled with such desire that he could hardly believe he was the target of such carnal attention.

Lacking any hesitation, her lips parted, and she took him into her mouth, swallowing him down in one smooth motion.

The sharp, visceral warmth of her enveloping him left him without a voice. The metal desk creaked in protest as he gripped it tight; he knew he would leave permanent dents into its surface.

The Doctor could focus on nothing else than the sweet ache she was pulling out of him, laving him with her tongue and sucking as much of his length as she could.

It was... too much, too pleasurable to be real, and yet too wonderful to be a dream. He wouldn’t say he lacked for imagination, but even his mind couldn’t have envisioned the endless landscape of pleasure her mouth provided.

She pulled back just enough to lick the glans, groaning low in her throat, lapping up the lubricating fluid that leaked from its tip. It was an image that would be forever burned into his mind, branded into the depths of his molecules and atoms.

His fingers found their way into her hair, holding the strands that had loosened from her ponytail, what remained of it. The contrast of the soft mane to the rough hide of his gloves snapped him out of his syrupy haze.

“Assistant.”

His voice came out in a croak, unsteady. She didn’t seem to hear him.

He tried again, voicing her title in a bid for her attention, and this time, he knew she was ignoring him.

“Assistant,” he snapped, and she paused long enough for him to take her by the shoulders and pull her to her feet. Her dazed expression was cut through with a look of annoyance at being interrupted from her goal.

The Doctor sighed. He would not think about how that combination of annoyance and desire-heaviness in her eyes was a heady combination.

“It is you who needs relief,” he said. “Not I.”

An arguable point with his phallus hard as steel and pressed against her stomach, but this was not about what his traitorous body wanted.

She seemed to think over his appeal, but her frown of consideration was growing hazy again. His own focus was nearly shattered as her hand wrapped around his length, squeezing and attempting to finish what her mouth couldn’t.

He held her motionless with his own hand over hers, his phallus still in her grip, a compromise since she was determined to not let go.

“What would you like me to use?” he asked, voice gentle compared to his firm grip on her. “My fingers?”

He didn’t often think about his mask, nor what past researchers had told him in regard to it—that he had a human mouth trapped under the chitinous material. But for the first time, he cursed his lack of access to it.

The thought of putting his mouth on her was… was…

She shook her head, regret and a shadow of embarrassment on her features.

“That… that won’t be deep enough.”

Ah. So, that’s what she needed but was too ashamed to ask for, even now in a state of drug-induced need.

He lowered his head, close to hers so it would give the semblance of privacy, even if it was simply an illusion.

“The bed would be more… comfortable.”

It was her own comfort and dignity that concerned him, and he would not take her on the floor or over the desk like some… some animal, but he couldn’t deny he ached for her, the evidence caught between her fingers.

Her expression would have been sweet under other circumstances, the shyness mixed with intoxicating desire. But that was based in a lovely fantasy. The reality was a darker, crueler portrait.

She nodded, her reluctance no barrier between her and the demands of the chemical. She released him, finally, and he covered himself in his robes in what amounted to a pointless display of modesty.

The Doctor led her over to the bed, though he needn’t have. She pressed close to him, as if any degree of separation might give their captors reason to intervene and take her away. He held her just as close; he would not allow them to interrupt her relief, though he’d already concluded this was the point to their new experiment.

Once they reached the bed, he hovered close but didn’t proceed further. He was… on unfamiliar grounds, and she must have sensed it, because she quietly said, “Lie down.”

He would have obeyed any instruction she gave when delivered in that strained, husky tone. Raze the facility to rubble, flay his own hide with his scalpel. Lie atop a bed and allow her to use him however she wanted.

However she needed. He had to remind himself the true purpose of this. Her actions were not under her own volition, no matter the extraneous attention, or how genuine the ache in each touch. This was a means to an end, and he would gladly be her instrument.

His back barely hit the covers before she was astride him, yanking his robes aside. She must have removed her undergarments when he had briefly turned away, because her bare skin was scorching in his lap. Her flesh hot, slick, as she ground against the curve of his shaft.

His hands automatically went to her hips, seeking something to hold, an excuse to touch her. She still wore her smock, though the hem had bunched around her thighs, and he didn’t know why he did it—he pulled the material higher, his fingers stretched wide across her bare skin now on display.

The Doctor might not know the finer points of coitus, but his assistant seemed to know exactly what she wanted. With a lift of her hips, she held his phallus in one hand and pressed the tip against her, and without so much as a word, she slid down.

He could scarcely breathe, the tight flesh of her swallowing him from root to stem, and even with the ample lubrication, the strain on her face indicated discomfort.

He tightened his hold on her hips to dissuade her from doing this too quickly, but she growled through her teeth and pushed downward, hard, the force smacking their hips together, and he swore he saw constellations.

She did it again, and again, until she found a steady rhythm, though it was shaky and desperate, a reminder that this was not some spontaneous tryst. She focused on her task with dogged determination, and he was simply trying to remember his own name.

He closed his eyes and surrendered to the feel of her around him, everywhere, leaving no space between them in a way he’d only dreamt of. And even his dreams hadn’t come close, a cheap, laughable copy compared to the genuine article.

Almost… genuine. Close enough that if he kept his eyes shut and let his mind wander, he could imagine the white sterile walls were replaced with something woody, organic. Natural, in a way this place never would be, and she could be free in a way she never was.

From the slow tightening of her walls to the ragged pace of her breathing, he guessed she was close to reaching her peak but was having difficulty achieving it. He wasn’t sure if he should expedite the process or draw it out, a question of what would rid this cursed chemical from her system more efficiently.

But when she hunched forward, face screwed in concentration as a soft sob left her lips, he made this decision.

The Doctor had made himself a passive participant, to let her use him how she wished. The alternative would be to take her how he wanted, with a force that would leave their relationship forever ruined, unable to hide his actions behind the mantle of helpful concern.

So, he must be forgiven this indulgence. After all, she did need his assistance.

With a firm hold of her hips, he thrust upward, and at the same moment, pressed his thumb into the sensitive nub that had been neglected thus far.

His assistant arched forward, holding herself up by hands on either side of his head, bracing as he took control of her pleasure. With a few thrusts aimed at the inner surfaces she hadn’t been able to reach, accompanied by the movements of his thumb, she toppled over the edge.

Or more succinctly, she crashed. Now entirely folded over him, she dug her fingers into his shoulders, choked cries escaping her as she throbbed around him.

His own control was lost as a strange sensation expanded at the base of his phallus, and he was almost too late to realize what it was. The bulge was halfway inside her before he managed to slip it out, seconds away from unintentionally trapping her around him.

The extra pressure against her entrance had elicited another weak cry, and she ground down on his hips, as if she wanted it—and he spilled into her, unable to stop or pull away until it was far too late.

Not that his actions would have wrought him much; her thighs were vices around his waist, and he suspected even if he’d tried to redirect his orgasm elsewhere, she would have successfully intervened.

When the Doctor’s head cleared enough that it wasn’t filled with pleasant static, he found his arms had naturally sought their way around her, one hand on her back while the other was in her hair.

She hadn’t moved, and by the soft, almost-sobs she made, he knew something was very wrong. He gently stroked her hair, unsure of what else to do. He certainly wasn’t going to move her.

“Doctor Reid?”

She flinched. No, not a promising sign at all.

“I’m… sorry,” she finally whimpered.

He frowned, or his version of it.

“I’m so… so sorry.”

It was then he felt the moisture dripping into the collar of his hood.

“Oh,” he breathed out, both relieved and horrified. He’d begun to fear he’d been too rough, harmed her in his eagerness, but this wasn’t a preferable alternative. “Dear one, you have nothing to apologize for.”

She curled around him tighter, a dejected sob leaving her throat, this one unable to be hidden.

Carefully, he lifted her, only far enough to tuck her against his side. The sensation of sliding out of her was an interesting one, as if he were raw, oversensitive. He would prefer to clean the mess, but he wouldn’t dare leave her now, not when she was on the edge of trembling apart.

“This was not your fault,” he pressed. “You are not to blame. They are.”

She shook her head, another quiet sob mangled as she tried to choke it down. Even now, she fought to hide weakness, vulnerability. He understood this was who she was, burying every sign that she was in pain, and he would not begrudge her that. He simply… wished he could spare her this silent suffering, take her to a place where she would never feel the need to hide.

But that was the entire problem. They weren’t elsewhere.

He lifted the blanket to cover them both, giving her privacy from the unwanted voyeurs as well as warmth for her shivering limbs. An effective strategy, as she huddled close, her face against his chest as if she sought to be shielded against the world.

The Doctor would fill that role to the best of his abilities. He was uncertain what waited them now this line had been crossed. He doubted it would stop at a single test. Whatever the intended result—and he could take a damn good guess what it was—he could only hope they would not expand the experiment to include other subjects.

He had no interest in being used as a stud, and if they even considered turning his assistant into some kind of broodmare….

With the Doctor’s teeth trapped behind his mask, he could only grind them in spirit, but grind them he did. Putting in place the catalyst that would usher the facility’s downfall was becoming more and more appealing.

But his assistant fidgeted, moved closer, as if sensing the dark turn of his thoughts. He brushed them aside, for now, and focused on her. Threading his fingers through her hair, a rumble would sometimes vibrate in his chest, involuntary and unfamiliar, but it seemed to comfort her.

A new ache took residence within him. Her pain was because she thought she had taken advantage of him. The truth was quite the opposite: he had indulged where he should have remained distant, clinical, appropriate. Instead, he had made the fatal mistake of allowing himself, but for a moment, to pretend.

And now, they both suffered, for very different reasons.

He struggled with the words that would encompass his thoughts, aware that nothing would make this right. In the end, he touched the side of his mask against her hair and whispered, “Je suis de tout cœur avec toi.”

She shivered, as if it was a spell cast over her, but she didn’t ask what it meant. She simply held on.

The Doctor returned the gesture in kind. For now, there was nothing else to be done, two souls whose only shelter was each other against the impending storm. And there would be a storm. The Doctor would make sure of that.

#the raven's hymn #the anomaly archives #scp 049 x reader #scp 049 #scp fandom #wolveria writes

[noroamenial]

A quick little Raphael x Tav thing set after the main story. Apologies if the formatting is weird I’m writing from mobile and my hands are cold <3

~~~

Relief. What a foreign, yet all too welcome, concept. But the deep breath Raphael took as he entered the material plane was indicative of the feeling. How long had it been? Just three months since he had last laid eyes on the cottage. The trees making a gentle enclave around it were orange, red, and yellow. The windows were slightly open, and the side gate to the backyard ajar.

With a careful gait, Raphael ducked through the trellis framing the gate and into the backyard. The trees that he had seen bloom in the spring were replaced with colored leaves and plump harvest.

You were amongst them, less scarred than you were two years ago. Hair longer than before, your eyes went from the apples you were picking, to the creak of the gate, and then to him. Your gaze regarded him as an old friend, and he was. Raphael had dropped by every three months, same time, same day, same length, ever since you had moved out to the cottage. It had started as a celebratory visit, to a thank you, to a repeat occasion, to something much more.

“On time as always, devil.” You laugh, setting down your basket to walk to him.

“How could I ever leave you waiting?” Raphael didn’t let you get far as he came to meet you, one hand to your shoulder, the other to tilt your face from side to side.

”You have the Hells to tend to, I wouldn’t blame you for not coming.” You smile against his touch, your own hands going to him. His face was warm against your touch, the autumn was finally cold enough that the tips of your fingers begun to freeze.

“Fine, correction, how could I ever leave my most precious client—my dove—waiting?” He huffs, but his smile is back as you kiss his cheek.

“You couldn’t, or I would be the one to start visiting you.”

Raphael looks up as you speak, hands finding your hips instead.

“Perhaps not an awful idea, it has been a while since I’ve played host to you.” He leans over to nuzzle your nape, placing gentle kisses on the precariously exposed skin. If only you knew how the cambion longed to stay with you longer, to spend more than three wonderful days every few months with you. How he wished to have you always, in all ways.

But you wouldn’t know, not yet. For now he keeps the small reunions small, just for himself.

#bg3 #bg3 raphael #baldur's gate 3 #raphael #raphael bg3 #raphael the cambion #baldur's gate raphael #raphael x tav

[delirious-donna]

A Bound Offering [Grimmjow Jaegerjacquez]

Oct. 20 - Grimmjow Jaegerjacquez x female reader

Selected as a fitting tribute to the monstrous man that protects your village and surrounding lands, you expect to meet your end. What might happen if he takes a liking to your innocence? He especially likes you bound and at his mercy... does he have any?

warnings: bondage (specifically female bound with arms behind the back at the wrist and elbows and bound at the ankles), mentions of sacrifices, dub-con, mention of ‘mates’, reader is a virgin, pussy eating, squirting, Grimmjow being softer than expected

Masterlist

You were going to die.

A part of you had come to terms with your fate, quiet sobs of anguish bubbling from you lips as you lay there and awaited your doom. There were no more tears to fall from your puffy eyes, they had flowed freely hours ago as the village elders held you down and restrained your wrists and ankles.

Their faces forever etched into your memory; the sorrowful expressions evident and yet there was a burning, grim determination in their eyes. You had heard tales of the offerings left to the monster that was said to protect your home, but you had shrugged it off as a scary tale to ensure children did as they were told - now you knew it had been true.

You were the offering, the sacrifice made to a beastly deity that was known for his merciless killing sprees and voracious appetite. No one had ever seen him, not and lived. The images in your head made your stomach curdle, curling into a foetal position and wishing you could hug yourself. The bindings on your wrists and elbows burned on your skin, the rope rubbing from how tightly they had twisted the length.

The stone tablet lay within the heart of a dense forest to the east of the village you had once known as your home and there was no use in screaming or yelling, it was simply too far for your voice to be heard. Dressed in only the thin white nightdress from the previous night, you shivered as the early morning wind whistled through the trees.

How long would you lay here? Would he come only at night? Did you want him to arrive quickly and get it over with?

A sense of self-preservation had you shaking your head at the last thought, you didn't want this to be the end, there was so much you wanted to do and experience before succumbing to what hid behind the veil.

You froze at the sound of twigs snapping underfoot, neck craning from the precarious position you were in and swinging your eyes wildly from side to side to try to catch which direction the noise had come from.

The birds scattered from their perches, a foreboding sense of dread crept over your bare legs and arms and your blood turned to ice in your veins. Laughter, dark and ominous, cracked through the clearing like a bolt of lightning. It whipped against you; the tremble of your limbs so pronounced that the lactic acid in your muscles burned from the exertion.

"Well, now. What do we have here?"

The male spoke like brushed velvet, feline yet utterly masculine. You rolled to your stomach, sensing that he was approaching from the direction above your head. It was uncomfortable, yet you endured the pain to keep your eyes on the beast you had assumed would break through the treeline in a second.

You didn't expect the man who appeared; the tall gait of a human male with broad shoulders and a torso that tapered into a narrow waist. The shirt that barely covered him was ripped and bloody, fabric hanging from his muscled forearms and dried blood smearing his tanned skin. There wasn't a mark on him, or at least none that you could see.

His face appeared chiselled from purest marble, with angular cheekbones and a perfectly straight nose. Pale blue eyes that sparkled like chips of artic ice swept across your prone form and it made you squirm all the quicker upon your stone deathbed. He smiled; a wide grin full of brilliant white teeth that were sharp enough to cut clean through bone.

Terrifying, yet beautiful.

"Are you my latest offering? You're certainly far prettier than the last one, so young too…" The man spoke mostly to himself, a hand tipped with razor-sharp nails smoothed along your foot and you twitched out of his reach.

"So jumpy, little one. I shall not harm you, just as long as you follow my instructions," he offered with a tilt of his head. Tufts of the most vivid blue hair you had ever seen fell into his eyes.

Your heart hammered wildly, pounding against your ribs to the point that you considered you would die from the fear alone. Yes, there was a strange beauty to this beastly man, but he was still an animal in some way. He smelled different, even beneath the stench of blood that clung to him. Of magic and power that spoke to a primal part of you.

He walked around your bound torso, humming, and twisting his head as if appreciating what he saw. There was no reason that you should enjoy being viewed in such a manner, but you couldn't deny that you felt desired beneath his heavy stare and the hand that ghosted above your flesh in places.

You could feel the heat of him invading your bones, the chill from earlier dissipating as it was replaced with a warmth that certainly was not soothing but not uncomfortable either.

"You got a name, little one?"

There was nothing you could say, no word to find its way out of your mouth. It was as if every thought from your head had been stolen, held hostage much in the same way your body was being treated. After a moment of your silence, he shrugged as he rounded back into your field of vision.

He bent low, the fan of his breath caressing your cheek as he whispered into your ear. "No matter, I like calling you little one, it suits you. I'm Grimmjow and I assume you are aware that I am the one that protects these lands, yes?"

All you could manage was a nod of your head and he smiled in response. Grimmjow reached down your back, a claw-like nail raking over the tight knots that bound around your elbows and then to the ones around your wrists. He tutted, withdrawing his hand to cup your cheeks, lifting your face to stare straight into his own. A thumb traced the curve of your jaw and ended with a quick swipe over your dry lips.

"They've treated you so poorly, little one. Should I punish them?"

"Wh-what?" you squeaked, your voice broken and strained from the hours you had spent crying. He groaned at the sound of your voice, his eyes shutting slowly as if sinking into a hot bath and it made your body heat even more. There was an unfamiliar dull ache between your thighs, a pressure that settled into your stomach and forced you to press your legs even closer together.

Your admirer noticed; a sly wink levelled at your mortified face. He hefted you upwards, seating you on your butt and you couldn't help but notice the dirt that had marked your nightdress, how it was torn at your hip and exposing the cotton underwear beneath.

"Your predecessors, they aren't dead," he offered with a shrug, slipping out of the bloodied shirt and revealing just how defined he was. You had never seen a man look so cut, the strength that he owned a true sight to behold. "I merely took them elsewhere and let them live out their lives in whatever way they wished… but you, you're different."

You hadn't noticed that his nails had been slicing through the ropes at your ankles, not until the coils fell to the forest floor did you realise. Grimmjow pressed closer to you, spreading your thighs until he was nestled at the apex. That dull ache grew hotter, more intense.

"You're the first one whose scent does not offend me, you're prettier than the others as I already said, and you're the first one who is truly… innocent."

The word innocent was said in such a seductive manner that your toes curled, gripping into his calves and letting your hips drop to accept even more of him into your heat. His sculpted chest was pressed to yours, his breath feathering your shoulder and his hands planted on the stone at either side of you.

"I like you bound in this way," he groaned, and you felt the first sweep of his burning lips against your neck. He licked over your pulse, his tongue dancing over the spot until you whimpered and let your head rest upon his shoulder.

"Grimmjow," you murmured into his shoulder, unsure whether you should kiss him back or if this was even rational in the slightest. This was the beast that was meant to devour you whole to ensure his continued protection of your village, and here you were thinking most improper thoughts about him.

"Hmm, yes?"

Hands that you knew were capable of snapping necks and shattering bones, shifted to your waist and travelled over your front to touch your breasts. Drawing guttural groans from his chest when a nail swept over the peak of a taut nipple. Your nose was filled with a strange scent you hadn't noticed before, the stench of blood no longer evident as it was overpowered by a musk that succeeded in settling your nerves.

"What are you going to do with me?" you asked with a whisper, daring to be brave enough to kiss the skin at the hollow of his throat. You sensed him still, fingers digging into your flesh until you squeaked in displeasure.

Pulling you to your bare feet, the cold of the earth felt nasty against your toes. "That depends," he hissed, capturing your earlobe between his lips and sucking it in earnest.

"On what?"

Grimmjow jostled you around until you were bent over the ceremonial altar, the cool stone nipping at you in places that made you hiss and writhe, but his grip was firm and reassuring. He massaged at your aching shoulders and arms, soothing the ache that had been building for hours now but not untying the knots as he had done for your ankles. He even wiggled your fingers and tickled the palms of your hands.

"On how addicting I find your taste."

You frowned, not understanding his meaning but you shrieked as the hem of your nightgown was lifted and your underwear was exposed to him. Grimmjow pressed a thick thigh between your legs, grinding it against your most intimate area and you burned with embarrassment.

"I know that you are a virgin, little one. How have you managed to remain so chaste when you look this utterly delicious?" he cooed, sending rivers of arousal to rush from your innocent pussy. In one quick jerk, your underwear was ripped apart by clawed talons and the gentle touch of those killer fingers' kisses against your glossy lower lips.

"Don't know," you mewled, ashamed that your hips had rocked to meet his touch, eager for more of something you had always been told was sinful and forbidden. All you knew at this moment was that it didn't feel wrong to want this, that it was natural and to be enjoyed, not feared.

The rumble of decadent laughter tickled your senses, the sensation of a wide grin against the small of your back as this God at your back kissed down your spine was enough to spark white lights behind your eyelids.

For someone more than capable of destroying you with one swipe of his hand, he was careful and delicate as he parted your folds like a rare bloom. His kisses travelled over the plumpness of your behind, learning the curves, and softly biting into the fat with soothing licks to alleviate the slight pain of his sharp canines.

Your arms struggled in their binds, your chest flush against the surface of the table and a hand held your captured wrists with a groan leaving his lips. His nose nudged at the ticklish crease of your thighs, inhaling deeply and you were rutting with some primal animalistic desire.

The first touch of his tongue against your pussy was heaven, a breathy whine caressing his ears as you sought more of his attention on your aroused little entrance. For someone as innocent and untouched as you, it was a sight to see you becoming undone so quickly.

Grimmjow felt the tell-tale pheromones enter his subconscious, mingling with the animal that he housed and the answering deep rumbling purr of delight. He had found his mate, the one that was fated to be his above all others and you were right here below him.

Bound and beautiful - the marks of the tight rope both pleased and annoyed him, they were too restrictive, and he would correct this the next time. Truss you up like the exquisite little cock tease you would be for him.

Bare and bashful - your naked cunt was a marvel, the trimmed pubic hairs on your mound and the glazed appearance of your blood-filled lips made his cock harder than he thought possible. Yet you were shy about it, and that only encouraged him more.

Your taste was on par with nothing else that he had ever experienced. It was as if your slick was made for him, sweet and flowing like honey down his eager throat as his tongue swept wide circular paths to collect all that had fallen from the briefest of interactions you had shared to this point.

If this did not cement the knowledge that you were meant to be united, he didn’t know what would. No human would agree to this so readily, certainly not with a being known as a monster and who had appeared to you covered in the blood of his foes.

His middle finger dipped towards your hole, watching as the silken walls fluttered and begged for something to grip onto. He would give you that something soon enough, nothing could stop him when he reached that inner gate within himself.

You were moaning like a lewd bitch in heat at the rubbing motions against your clit, the sweat clung to your skin, and he chased the salty droplets with his tongue. The taste mixed with your sweet lust was overwhelming. Grimmjow's head tipped skyward and a sound like a hissing howl rent the air and silenced all the noises of the forest.

He could feel your release near, the way you were bucking wildly and trying to run from his expert fingers. Holding you by your captured wrists, more of his weight pressed down atop your body as he worked you into a furious fever pitch.

"Let go, little one. Trust me to make you feel good."

His lips tugged on your folds, thumb rocking from side to side over your pulsating little button and you stiffened for a moment and the next his face was covered in your slick. The gush continued as he blinked slowly at what had just happened. You were sent heavenward, so focused on the relief of your pleasure that you didn't feel his finger slide into your pussy and puncture through the thin membrane of your innocence. It would make things easier for the next time, and there would be a next time and soon.

Grimmjow stood to his impressive height, sweeping the blue locks from his eyes and licking at the splashes of slick that dripped from his lips and chin. Your smaller frame trembled on the altar meant for his offering, and he sent his thanks to a village too stupid to realise that they had signed their own death warrant. He wouldn’t act yet, but in time they would learn of the punishment for treating his mate so disrespectfully.

At last, he sliced through your remaining bounds and massaged your bruised skin with reverential care. The man cut from pure steel bundled you with ease against his chest, adoring how your fingers instantly toyed with the hairs that framed around his neck and your face nuzzled into the crook of his arm.

"Sleepy…"

"Rest, little one. It is time I took you home, we still have a lot to learn."

#delirious writes #kinktober 2022 #kinktober #grimmjow smut #grimmjow jaegerjaquez #grimmjow x reader #bleach smut #bleach x reader

[the-typing-dragon]

walking with a visibly precarious gait to flaunt the quality and effectiveness of my gyroscopic stabilizers

#the dragon types #the dragon roboposts

[windsweptinred]

The White Horse

(Inspired by this post by @morbegs) 

June 7th, Fiddlers Green. The Dreaming

Two figures sat, contentedly huddled together. About them, sprawled green fields, a wash with early June flora. The air heady with the scent of blooms, the breeze warm and fresh, slightly wafting the light shirt of one and the fine, dark robe of the other. The very picture of Spring lovers. 

Before them, a little white foal, more spindly long legs then horse, barreled towards them at full tilt, with an enthusiastic, if somewhat unsteady gait. A breeze ladened with petals playfully flitted about him, inspiring then occasional joyful buck. One particularly enthusiastic leap, sent legs all askew upon landing, causing little hooves, then feet, to wobble precariously. And a little white haired boy tumbled into a pair of waiting arms. 

"Uff, got you!" Gathering his barings, Daniel stared up into the warm, honeyed  eyes of his Papa from his somewhat upside down position. Head lodged in his lap and legs splayed about his shoulders. His back cushioned against his front with strong arms protectively cradling his body. 

"I fell down again." He admitted, disheartenedly.

Hob smiled warmly. Gently adjusting the boy so he was right way up again, nestled against him. "So I see. Never mind ey, you just get back up and try again."

Dream hovered, poorly attempting to conceal his concern. Running his hands over Daniel's head and body. As if to seek out hidden bruises and breaks. Noticing his partners fretting, Hob smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. Seeking to dissuade some of his panicking. "It's alright love, just a little tumble. He's fine." 

Daniel pouted sulkily up at Dream, looking for all the world like a pale, petite version of the Lord of the Dreaming.  "Daddy, my knees went all wobbly."

Dream smiled adoringly at him, running a tender hand over his cheek. "It will come easier with practice, my Son. I promise."

Hob smirked impishly, playfully jostling Daniel. "Ah, rebellious knees, is it? Well there's only one thing for it…They'll have to come off!" With that, he swept the boy down, attempting to blow a raspberry through the fine, white cloth covering his stomach. Narrowly avoiding flailing arms and producing an excited shriek from his son.

"Noooo!! Daddy!! Papa wants to steal my knees! Save meeee!" 

Arms and legs thrust out in every direction as the child clambered from one lap to the other. Shrieking with delight each time Hob's pursuing fingers managed to recapture him with a brief attack of well aimed tickles. Finally, securing his arms about Dream's neck, he pulled himself into the waiting embrace of his Daddy. Nestling into his vast, dark robes. Resting his head against his breast as a hand came up to lovingly cradle his head. 

Hob rose, sweeping into a dramatic bow before the pair. " I shall capture them my liege, and put them on trial! High treason against the little Prince of the Dreaming. For inspiring insurrection in the legs and feet!" 

Daniel scrunched up his face, tugging at the neckline of Dream's robe imploringly. "Noooo Papa. That's silly! Daddy, tell Papa that's silly!" He turned back to Hob challengingly, attempting to copy the regal ease of his father. Two sets of imperious, starry eyes stared down Hob. The overall affect, somewhat ruined by the obvious mirth of one. And the regular bouts of giggles coming from the other. 

"Indeed consort. It is a most foolish endeavour to seek conflict with the knees."

Daniel squirmed, sending his small, boney elbow straight into Dream's stomach."The elbows however.." 

"Noooo!"

Daniel leapt out of Dream's arms, attempting to call forth his sands for a hasty retreat, just as Daddy had taught him. It fluttered about him momentarily, before descending gracefully to the floor like an artful cascade of glitter. He glared at it with absolute betrayal, before his mood shifted, in the way only a child's can. And launched himself back at Dream, all laughter and play. Sand haphazardly danced about them. Swaying from one to the other, as if unsure which master to aid in this mock battle for dominance. Before Daniel felt himself being hefted into the air by his waist, good humoured bounced and balanced upon the hip of his Papa. 

"I have saved you from this rogue of elbows and mutinous knees, my fairest love." 

Hob offered his spare hand to Dream. Who took it and rose gracefully to stand beside them. Sending his husband a coy glance. 

"If he is indeed a rogue at the tender age of six. He has most certainly learnt that from you, my scoundrel."

Hob smirked, "Don't pretend you don't like it". He stated assuredly. As he leant in for a shared kiss, amused by the affronted "Ewwwwww!" that Daniel let out at the sight. "Hey, one day this will be you my lad. When you've found someone who loves you just as much as you love them."

Daniel pondered on this for a moment, before nodding understandingly. "OK Papa, so when I'm older…I'll marry Uncle Cori."

He missed the look of abject horror that crossed both his father's faces. 

Dream tucked an errant hair behind his son's ear. "If you do that my son, for the good of my realm, I may hold off my abdication indefinitely."

Daniel nodded approvingly. "Yes Daddy. Then you, me, Papa and Cori can all rule the Dreaming together. Like Narnia."

Dream looked like he would smite that mental image, if it dared to materialise in his consciousness. 

"Right!" Hob stated, eager to change the subject, setting Daniel back down on the grass. Regarding the Dreaming's darkening skies. "It's getting early. One last play then home for some breakfast, yes?" 

Daniel brightened immediately at the prospect. "Can we watch My Little Pony?" 

Hob ruffled the white mass of hair that his boy was growing into. Like an exact  miniature, inverted version of Dream's. 

"We can definitely watch My Little Pony." 

"With snuggly blankie?" 

"With snuggly blankies for you and Daddy. While I rustle us up some pancakes."

Daniel cheerily jigged in place. Before he eagerly grasped Dream's hand, his eyes seeking his pleadingly. "Come run with me Daddy?"

Dream looked to his son, regarding him almost reverently, then nodded in silent agreement. 

With that, the child was foal once more. Pristine white coat painted in the rosy hue of the dusk. Little mane twinkling back at the awakening stars. He pranced about his parents for a moment before taking off at a wobbly canter down the open fields. 

Hob watched him contemplatively, before smiling serenely. "What fate taketh away, fate giveth." 

An arm wound its way around his waist, as Dream leant into his side. "I believe you have upended that saying my love."

"Well it's true isn't it? For us… In more ways than one." 

They both watched as Daniel pranced about the flowers, the occasional wobble in his step as he familiarised himself with his horse legs. Elatedly neighing as a butterfly breezed past him. 

"We have been most fortunate." Dream agreed. Before giving Hob a mischievous, inquiring look. "Will you be joining us too? Would you like a ride my husband?" 

Hob smirked, his hand discreetly descending down his partner's lithe back. Running a gentle, barely there touch over the curve of his rump. "Oh I certainly would." He said, wiggling his eyebrows provocatively. "Later perhaps?" He leaned in, placing a demure kiss to his partner's pale neck. Pulling back to be met with the most intense smoulder he'd seen in just shy of 300 years. He smiled, roguishly. Giving his ear a pull for good measure. Before leaning in and resting his forehead against Dream's. 

"Happy Anniversary love."

The moment was broken by an excited whinny in the distance. As the little colt bucked and kicked with impatience.

Breaking apart, he pushed the small of Dream's back encouragingly. "Go on then, I haven't seen Nacht Mare in a while."

As with any form his lover took, the horse before him stood sleek and majestic. It's fur, a lustrous coal black that shimmered like the gleaming ripples of a lake. A mane speckled with stardust. This was Night-Mare, The Night Doom. A creature of infinite dread. At his mighty hooves, the  feverish fires of terror lept. His bray, thousands of lost screams cried out in despair. But here, on this day, basking in the hues of reds and purples, mottled with the petals of meadow, Hob had never in all his years seen a more beautiful horse, earth born or supernatural. 

Dream nuzzled into Hob's hand, nipping gently at his fingers before letting out a nicker and setting off at a powerful gallop toward Daniel. 

Hob watched as Dream slowed to a canter to allow his son to keep pace. Daniel enthusiastically galloped along, little white tail and mane like a spectral cloud as he forgot himself entirely to the Dreaming. Sparks of aurora borealis flickering on the ground with each footfall. Pushing ahead of his father in an overjoyed burst of confidence. 

"Let's see what you have in store for us, White Horse."

(This all came from a spontaneous thought that Daniel would turn into a white horse. And isn't that ironic! In this, Daniel would be about six and is definitely going through the, I want a pony stage. Or rather for him… I want to be a pony stage. He takes on more of his Dream!Daniel look in the Dreaming. Reverting back to a more human one in the Waking.) 

If you too are a  suker for a Dream gets to raise Daniel story. Try Endless Heirs AU by @ibrithir-was-here . And awake, awake, you children bold by @mashumaru. If you know of others. Please do pop me a fic rec! 

#dreamling #hob x dream #dream of the endless #hob gadling #daniel hall #Fluff #So much fluff #Fluffier than a sheep that's actually a cloud that's made of fluff

[twola]

Devil’s Backbone : Diablo Ridge IV

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x FemOC/Reader POV Tags: Longfic, Slow Burn, Smut (18+), Violence, Canon-Typical Injuries

Limpany’s burning was a lot more than meets the eye. Deception, greed, and murder follow everyone touched by Leviticus Cornwall. A story where the Van der Linde gang gets even more inescapably involved in Cornwall’s dealings, with the survivor of the massacre at the heart of it all. Slow burn. Pre-Blackwater and beyond.

Diablo Ridge IV: Camhanaich

Above the banks of the Dakota, amongst this band of outlaws, Ruth slowly ingratiates herself. For better or worse, things finally come to a head.

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“Y’know, Missus Shaw -hic- the Lord will bring -hic- comfort to those who m-mourn -hic.”

The man stumbles, very nearly falling to the ground, and catches himself on a tree trunk several steps away from you.

You blanch, hitching your skirt and rushing toward him, placing your hand on his back to try and keep him upright. His breath reeks of alcohol, even this early in the morning, when the sparrows haven’t stopped their singing. His graying hair, splotched in its original red color, is completely disheveled. The collar of his ordainment hangs open, a sad testament to the depths the man had fallen.

“R-Reverend-”

You had returned to what had become your escape, the spot high on the ridge where you could see the Dakota meandering below. Unable to sleep, you had crept up there with your shawl wrapped tightly around your shoulders, breathing into your cupped hands against the dawn’s chill.

It was quiet, this place, a good ten-minute walk outside of the camp. The solitude here gave you the permission to think, to be alone with your thoughts, as damning and destructive as they were.

“Reckon I don’t deserve to be called - hic - that no more…”

Somehow, Orville Swanson had stumbled upon your sanctuary, ironic at the core. You had seen him around the camp, passed out at all hours of the day, drinking at all hours of the night. The girls would gaze upon him with looks of pity before turning back to their work. 

Fortunately enough for him, his wobbling gait had not taken him off the cliff that he had found his precarious way to. He leans against the tree, about to tumble forward again, and you quickly grab his arm and throw it over your shoulder, pulling him to lean against you, “Alright now, let’s get back to camp.”

The walk down the hill took twice as long as it should have, especially with a stop you had to make as the disgraced preacher retched bile onto the ground, and himself. By some providence, your clothes and shoes were spared.

As you reach the camp, the drunken man leaning on you seems to fall into unconsciousness, and you yelp as you start to tumble trying to hold the both of you up.

“Oh! Mercy…”

Susan Grimshaw hurries toward you, her usually stern face softening slightly as she takes Swanson’s other arm around her shoulders and helps to drag him to the open tent where his bedroom lay.

“Let’s get him back over ‘ere, Missus Shaw.”

Between the two of you, you're able to maneuver the deadweight of the preacher to lie on a bedroll under a large awning. He moans slightly, his eyes fluttering and closing again as he fades back into sleep.

Grimshaw sighs; stooping down on her knees and taking the unconscious man’s dirty shirt off. Swanson’s eyes have rolled to the back of his head. She balls up the shirt and leaves him in his union suit, pressing on her knees to stand back up again.

You watch in something akin to amazement, the stern and overbearing matriarch of the gang seems...gentle. She notices your trepidation and motions over toward the laundry for you to follow her.

“The Reverend, he suffers. Years ago he saved Dutch’s life. I don’t even know how, but Dutch, he’s not one to forget somethin’ like that.”  Susan says as she throws the vomit-covered shirt into a washtub.

She places her hands on her hips. “Reckon plenty of people want to get rid of him, but we look out for him. We try to keep him out of trouble.”

You look back at the man, who passed out drunk before the morning coffee was even ready. Your mouth draws in a firm line as you feel a rush of pity come over you. You shrug the shawl over your shoulders, wrapping it around you again.

“Come, Ruth. There’s work to be done today. Thank you for your help with the Reverend.”

The call to work you’ve heard from her numerous times. But this morning, it doesn’t have its usual bite. It’s hours later that you realize that Susan Grimshaw actually used your first name.

-

“Y’gonna do something with the boy or just stand there like a dumbass?”

“I don’t know what the hell you want outta me, Abigail.”

“Be a goddamn father to your son, John Marston.”

The two young parents were mercifully outside the center of camp for this row, but that didn’t mean that their argument couldn’t be heard faintly in the distance.

The aforementioned child sits on the ground in front of a small tent, fiddling with a small wooden horse figurine between his fingers. He frowns, as one of the wooden legs has fallen off of the toy. The boy frustratingly tries to reattach the leg but is unable to. 

“Jack.”

Jack looks up from his broken toy, forlorn and frustrated,  “Uncle Arthur… it’s broken.”  His voice cracks in a childlike sadness, trying to keep himself from crying, but teetering on losing that battle.

“C’mere. Give it here.”

Jack pushes himself up from the ground and teeters over to Arthur, who sits in a chair next to the campfire. He gives the toy to the gunslinger, who takes the pieces in his large hand and inspects them.

“Here we go. Just gotta pop this…” Arthur pushes the leg back against the horse’s body, and with a bit of pressure, the wood slides back into place, “…right here.”

Jack’s face lights up as he sees the end result.

Arthur hands back the toy horse to the child, who holds it up to inspect the man’s handiwork.

“Thanks, Uncle Arthur!” Jack smiles brightly as he looks over the wooden toy, now back in working order.

Arthur musses the boy’s hair affectionately, a smile creeping across his face in return as the boy looks up at him with nothing but admiration.

“Sure thing, kid. You bring it to me if it breaks again. I’ll always fix it.”

Jack gleefully takes the toy and runs over to his previous spot, nearly throwing himself on the ground again to push the horse along in the dirt.

You’ve watched this all with piqued interest from your vantage place, elbows deep in the laundry tub, halfheartedly scrubbing stains of unknown origin from a union suit that you are afraid belongs to Uncle.  Maybe that’s what Lenny meant about Arthur being pleasant from time to time. Thus far, you’d seen nothing but the piss and vinegar that the young man had mentioned.

“I swear, that man is the most useless sack of shit on this earth.”

Your view is immediately filled with a steaming Abigail, who gets down on her knees to shove her hands into the laundry tub as well, muttering to no one in particular. She vigorously scrubs a shirt against the washboard, cursing under her breath.

After a few choice words, she sighs, slightly deflating, as she wrings the shirt out between her fingers. 

“I guess… I guess I just picked wrong.” Abigail mumbles lowly, to keep the conversation between the two of you.

“Men are exceedingly stupid… not just him. My husband…” You trail off a bit before swallowing your nerves, “He had his moments. Even after ten years of marriage.”

“ ‘M sorry. I shouldn’t be whinin’ about John when you’ve just lost your husband.” Abigail grabs another piece of laundry, submerging it in the murky, graying water of the tub.

“It’s alright.”

A silence falls between the two of you, awkward as it is heavy. You decide to break it, a grin making its way to your face.

“Though…John does seem to be exceedingly stupid.”

Abigail looks up, and at the side of her mouth, a sly smile begins. Not that you know that the man is stupid; you’ve barely spoken to him, but you recognize that he does little with the young boy that is his namesake, no matter how much Abigail gets on him for it.

“Let me tell you ‘bout how the time that man…”

Abigail begins her story, and through the next hours, you listen, nodding and murmuring answers to her rhetorical questions. The afternoon passes. Through the time she’s able to recount to you her tumultuous relationship with John, you realize she’s getting less frustrated. You get a feeling Abigail Roberts didn’t have many people who would listen to her and her plight.

That’s fine. You could do that. You could listen.

-

“There’s not enough money in the box for that right now, Mister Pearson. You’re gonna have to make due ‘til there’s enough money or until someone can steal a wagon.”

Pearson swears under his breath as he stalks away from Dutch’s tent back to the butcher’s table where you are preparing the kettle for the morning’s coffee. You yawn, scooping grounds into the beaten metal kettle before placing it on the grill above the fire.

“Missus Shaw.”

“Yes-” you yawn again in the early morning light, “Mister Pearson?”

“You got a wagon in those skirts of yours?” He grumbles, taking his large knife and dramatically slamming it into the table.

That woke you up.

“Excuse me?”

Pearson blanches, a blush rushing over his face as you flared at him, obviously unable to retort back as he loses his nerves. 

“Need a- need a new wagon.” He mumbles, looking at the table, not meeting your eyes.

“No, I don’t have a wagon under my skirt, Mister Pearson.” You say pointedly, leaving the kettle on the fire. 

Though you weren’t hopping mad, or even that aggravated, you would certainly take advantage of the situation to get out of further chores this morning.

You move to sit on the cut stump of a tree that has been utilized as one of the makeshift seats around another campfire. Placing your chin against your fist, you absentmindedly stare into the flames. Pearson still grumbles about a wagon across the way as he prepares breakfast.

The camp is slowly coming alive with the morning sun. 

It strikes you, as the flames spit and pop with the newly added wood. The wagon left behind the old homestead. It was small, sure, but it was better than nothing. 

There was a chance it was still there.

Also, as the piercing weight settles in your chest, you know it would give you the chance to go to him. Visit where he lay… 

“Good morning, Güera.”

You are interrupted from your thoughts as Javier steps next to you, leaning over to hand you a cup of coffee. The pot must have finished as you were lost in your thoughts. Javier takes his seat on the ground a few feet away from you with his own cup of coffee.

You take your first drink of the bracing liquid and your gaze flits to the revolver in Javier’s belt.

“Javier…"

He sips, “Mm?”

“Can I ask you…a favor?”

“Sure, what do you need?” He replies after taking another drink from his cup.

You take another sip of coffee to steel your nerves, "You know how Pearson has been needing a new wagon for supply runs?”

“Yeah, don’t know how I wouldn’t with how much he’s complaining about it,” A smirk crosses his face as he brushes random long hairs of his hair out of his line of sight.

"I think I know where a wagon may be.” You lean toward him, lowering your voice so that only he can hear.

He laughs, placing his coffee down. “Look at you, Güera. Bruise has barely healed on your face and you’re wanting to get back out there? Makin’ an outlaw out of you yet.”

You blush, looking down at your coffee mug, "It’s not… well if it’s where I think it is, there won’t be any stealing to do.”

"Oh?"

“The wagon was mine. I was run off my homestead near the state line when my husband died… I left the wagon, it may still be there. Maybe a few other things in the cabin left if bandits haven’t gotten to it yet…” You trail off, unsure that you were making a good enough argument to have him take you out there.

“Sure.” He responds before you can go any further, “Let me see who else is free and we can head out there. I want another gun in case we run into trouble.” The dark-haired man looks around the camp, thinking as he takes note of who is awake at the early hour, “You go get ready, meet me over by Boaz in a few minutes. You said out by the state line, right?”

You nod. Javier takes a long drink of his coffee, “Then we should head out, have a long day ahead of us.”

You’ve gone back to your tent and grabbed your shawl again, throwing it over your shoulders as you pull your hair back into a low bun. Throwing some water on your face to wake yourself up a bit, you inhale slowly as you spy a reflection of yourself in a dirty mirror belonging to Mary Beth.

It does not do to dwell. You look a little rougher, your long hair frazzled and cheeks reddened from the sun. Releasing the breath you realize you were holding, you pull your gaze away from the glass and move toward the horses, where Javier is waiting.

“Ready to go, Güera?”Javier leans against the hitching post as you arrive. As you nod, he waves you toward his horse, and lifts you onto the rump of the American Paint, and swings himself up into the saddle in front of you.

“Charles is going to meet us out in front of the logging camp. Then we head out west.”

Wrapping your arms around his waist, you give a small noise of agreement as he spurs Boaz away from the outlaw camp that has become your home.

-

Charles isn’t much of a talker. You haven’t spent much time around him, but he remains fairly quiet along the road, up and down through rocky valleys, and dense forests. Through the pines of Tall Trees and over the waters of the Upper Montana.  The road gives way to ponderosas, their sweet scent wafting through the air. You used to like that smell - but now, it seems too sweet, choking, the smell reminiscent of funeral parlors and smothering the stench of death under flowers and candles.

“Just over this knoll.” You point over Javier’s shoulder, more than an hour after the group passed Manzanita, a small logging outpost in the middle of Tall Trees. He nods, kicking his spurs, and Boaz picks up the pace as your hand returns to hold onto his waist. Charles follows up the path, his horse whinnying as she also breaks into a canter from the trot she was in.

As the horses reach the top of the knoll, and the clearing with the cabin just peaks into view, Javier pulls the reins tight, and Boaz skids to a stop. He swings himself down from the saddle before placing a hand on your knee, his other hand coming up in front of his mouth, motioning for you to stay put and quiet. Charles gets down from his horse as well, and both men unholster revolvers as they quietly pace toward the small cabin. 

Over the next several minutes, you fiddle with your shirttail as they creep around the area, until Javier’s voice, calling out his nickname for you, cuts through the silence, and you slide off of Boaz’s rump and grab the reins, leading the horse, along with Charles’s mount, Taima, to the clearing where the homestead stood.

Your eyes immediately fly over to the lonesome pine across the clearing, where the disturbed earth was only noticeable to someone who knew to look.

“Güera, there’s the wagon out back, at the very least. Think there is anything inside?”

“I don’t know…maybe there’s something left.”

Javier nods, “I’ll go look.” He rejoins Charles, who kicks in the door with ease. They move around the cabin as your gaze drifts back to the ponderosa. You slowly walk toward that solitary tree, as the two men work to gather anything worthwhile in the house.

The steps feel endless as if you’re moving through quicksand. As the forest around you blurs with the unshed tears welling up in your eyes, you finally reach the unmarked grave.

You sink to your knees at the dirt and press your hand to it, and allow yourself the grace to shed tears. Your husband, your loving and energetic and wise and wonderful Frederick, lay dead underneath this earth, where grass begins to sprout, life moving on.

After several minutes, you hear heavy footsteps behind you, but do not turn to acknowledge them.

“Your husband?” Charles asks, his voice low and even and gentle.

“Yes.”

A large hand lands softly on your shoulder. Comforting in its grip, but not overwhelming.

“I do not pretend to know what it’s like to bury half of your heart. But from what I know of loss, I know it is a wound that will not heal.”

You stare at the ground, the dirt in which the culmination of Frederick’s life lay. All of the miles and work and dreams and love, it all ended here. A sob cracks from your throat as your eyes water over again, and you bring one hand over your eyes, trying to hide your tears. You don’t know why you do this, as you were far past the point of hiding it anyway.

Charles stoops down on one knee next to you, his hand still on your shoulder. He remains silent, but his hold is steadfast as you take the leave to sob aloud.

Minutes pass before you can gather your composure, wiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand.

“ ‘M sorry,” you hiccup, a blush settling on your cheeks, “Shouldn’t be burdening you with…”

“You’re not a burden, Ruth,” Charles replies, in the even, soothing baritone of his voice.

You turn to him with a skeptical look, because for the past month, you’ve felt like nothing more than a burden - to Thaddeus, to Doctor Smith and Rosalia, to the ragtag gang feeding you.

Charles removes his hand from your shoulder and pushes himself off his knee to stand. He offers you his hand, which you take and he pulls you up.

“Uncle is a burden. The man doesn’t do anything other than drink whiskey and eat food. You do plenty around the camp, I’ve seen you.”

You close your eyes and nod, remaining silent.

“We should head back to camp. Javier’s got Boaz hitched up on the wagon. We were able to grab a few things from the house - but the wagon is in good shape and will be helpful.”

The large man takes several steps back toward the cabin.

“Charles.”

He looks back at you, as your gaze is upon the earth where your husband lies. You take a deep breath, and turn toward him and the horses, knowing that your only way of living was moving forward.

“Thank you.”

-

You sit in the back of the wagon as it rolls down the trail. The irony is not lost on you that you’d done something similar many weeks ago. Javier has hitched Boaz to the wagon and sits in its single seat, while Charles trots alongside the wagon as it rumbles, atop his Appaloosa. The horse snorts as you lay your chin on your forearm along the railing of the wagon. There wasn’t much left inside the cabin in the way of supplies, but what was left was tossed into the wagon with you - a few blankets, random cans of food, not much else.

It’s much slower returning, the sun has long set by the time the three of you return to camp. Javier brings Boaz to a stop and jumps down from the seat, untying his horse from the yolk, which it seems quite happy to shed.

“Oh! Look at this! Javier, Charles - this is wonderful!”

Pearson rumbles toward the wagon, raising his arm in a celebratory manner as he inspects it. Charles swings himself down from his saddle and frowns.

“Actually, it was Ruth that got this. She just brought us there.”

Pearson’s eyebrows raise as he regards you from your seat in the wagon bed. You cannot help but to smirk at the cook as you push yourself to stand. Hosea, smiling as always, moves to help you step out of the back of the wagon. As you take his hand and jump down, he says a soft thank you into your ear and gives you a wink. You turn and hand him a heap of blankets, which he takes 

“Where the hell have you been?”

A deep, agitated voice snarls from across the camp. You turn and see Arthur stalking toward Javier, obviously annoyed.

“Calm down, we were out by the state line gettin’ this wagon and a few other things.” Javier retorts, unfazed by Arthur’s agitation, “Ruth was able to set us up with some things from her old homestead.” He waves off the annoyance, taking Boaz by the reins, and leads him toward where the other horses are hitched.

Arthur’s glare lands on you.

“We don’t have the time to be goin’ on little field trips for you to get trinkets from your house across the state. They have better things to do - like gettin’ ready for this huge job they’re pullin’...”

Something breaks. It cracks. That something has been burning, festering, for months now, it’s bubbled its way to the surface. All of the pain, the loss, the anguish that has piled and piled and piled on you - it bursts free from a pit of rage.

“Y’shouldn’t be wastin’-”

Your hand flies at his face and connects before he has the time to react. The loud sound of skin meeting skin echoes all through the camp. His head turns on a swivel at the force of your blow. The black gambler hat that was perched on his head lands in a patch of grass at his feet.

With this burning anger in your blood, you don’t give a second thought to the fact that you’ve just smacked a man that you’ve seen kill people in front of you.

It takes a moment, but Arthur slowly cranes his neck to face you again, his eyes incredulous for a moment as he works his jaw. He opens his mouth to retort something at you but you cut him off, your fists clenched and teeth grit tightly as everything that has happened to you flows out in waves of anger.

“I have done nothing, nothing,” you stick your pointer finger against his chest, fearless in your rage, “-to provoke any type of ire in you, Mister Morgan. I don’t know what in god’s name is up your ass, but you need to stop taking it out on me.”

Arthur’s brow furrows, and a hardness sets in his eyes.  You don’t let him respond, turning on your heel and marching away. You’re quite aware of the silence of the camp, the stares of other people.

You’re far too gone to be worried about the consequences of your actions at this point. You go straight to your bedroll, ripping your boots off, throwing them to the side. Gritting your teeth, you get down into your bedroll, furious and fuming. Pulling a blanket tightly over yourself, you breathe out heavily.

These fucking people. You’ve had enough. Tomorrow, you’re going to Hosea and telling him to take you back to Blackwater. You’re going to Saint Denis -so you can leave this stupid chapter of your life behind.

The campfire you just left remained silent. Arthur scowls while watching the flames. Hosea looks between him and the women’s tent as he comes back to the wagon.  The older man eyes the red blooming along Arthur’s cheek, just under the scruff of his day-old beard.

“I have no idea what you said to that poor woman, but I know she ain’t done nothing for you to be so sour to her.” Hosea narrows his eyes at Arthur as if the six-foot gunslinger was a child again.

“You’re gonna apologize to her.”

“But-“

“Apologize.” Hosea reiterates, his voice low and firm, with all the sternness of a disappointed father. He glares at Arthur for another moment before taking his leave.

Arthur peers over toward the women’s tent, where you have covered yourself with a blanket on the ground. He grits his teeth and breathes out heavily through his nose, turning away and back to the campfire.

-

The ponderosa pines wave in the warm breeze, the sweet vanilla wafting through your nose as the clearing opens before you.

The cabin stands quiet across the way. Far quieter than when you left.

The door was left open.

Aethon isn’t hitched up, but the wagon is still next to the cabin.

The door was left open.

With unsteady steps, you slowly reach for the doorframe, looking down when your boots make a muted squelch on the wooden floorboards of the porch.

The door was left open.

Blood runs in wretched rivulets from the inside of the cabin, out the threshold, and into the world.

You step into the cabin, and upon the ground, his body is contorted into a death throe, his eyes wide open and blood running from the hole in his forehead.

As if you were caught in molasses, you move slowly toward the body, reaching out toward your dead husband who seems to be just out of reach. Finally, finally, when you reach him, you touch his cold form, hands on his shoulders, slowly coating your arms with his blood.

Your Frederick, dead on the floor. You weep into his shoulder, loudly wailing the mourning dirge.

A loud noise from outside draws your attention, and you turn to see a large shadowed figure in the door.  A lantern is thrown into the cabin by the figure, bursting into flames on the wooden floor.

The flames lick at the walls, the floor, and the ceiling. There is no escape, not this time. You close your eyes, resigning yourself to your fate, as you lay over Frederick’s body. 

The fire burns.

-

You jolt awake, breath heaving as you clutch at your chest, your heart racing. A throb of pain shoots through your shoulder, and you wince as you sit up in your bedroll.

The hour is late, or far too early, as your eyes get accustomed to the darkness. Campfires have burned down to embers, and quiet, punctuated by the occasional snore, sits heavy throughout the camp. You look down the line of sleeping women next to you - Karen, Tilly, Mary Beth. They all lie still, dead asleep. You rub at your eyes, knowing you were up for the day after a dream like that.

Grabbing your shawl, hanging from the wagon overhead, you pull it around your shoulders to stave off the chill. You sit up, silently reaching for your boots as you crawl from the bedrolls. Standing up, you’re able to shove your feet into your shoes and quietly pad toward the tree line, knowing your way by heart to your destination.

The inky blackness of the sky shows the slightest sign of fading as you move up your worn path to the top of the ridge, relying on the muted light from the stars to guide you through the pine trees.

By the time you reach the fallen tree at the familiar cliffside, the sky is beginning to bleed red-purple light from the east.

Heavy footsteps make their way up the ridge behind you. You don’t bother to turn and look who it is until a large frame stops next to you, looking out over the cliffs. The scent of a lit cigarette wafts toward you.

“Mister Morgan.”

“Missus Shaw.”

Silence falls between the two of you. It’s obvious that Arthur is not going to apologize. You are not going to apologize either. He deserved that blow as far as you are concerned. After moments, you finally break down and end the silence.

“It’s the camhanaich.”

“ ‘scuse me?”

“It’s a word to describe the half-light of the dawn,” you point out at the east, where colors are changing as the sun’s rise becomes imminent, “The hope one gets at the birth of a new day. It’s an old Gaelic word.”

Arthur remains quiet, his hands falling to rest on his gun belt, slung low on his hips. His cigarette remains between his lips.

“Been seeing it a lot recently,” Your voice gets low, “I keep thinking I’ll get that hope… but reality isn’t much different than the nightmares that keep me awake anyway.”

Your gaze remains rooted to the eastern horizon, where the red-purple haze of the impending sunrise begins to creep into view. 

Arthur drops his cigarette to the ground and smothers it with his boot, "Best to ignore them bad dreams. Dwellin’ on ‘em ain’t gonna do anythin’ but cause y’ more pain.”

“You say that as if you’ve had them.”

He remains silent. You take this silence as admission, but do not press any further. Arthur takes his leave to go, turning on his heel without looking at you. He makes it three steps before stopping shortly.

“Missus Shaw.”

An unstated truce falls between the two of you. You do not turn to acknowledge him, nor does he.

“Mister Morgan.”

The sun rises on the mountainside.

#red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption #red dead fanfic #red dead fandom #rdr #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan #twolafic #ao3 #devil’s backbone #red dead oc #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x female oc #red dead redemption fanfiction #red dead smut #rdr2 fandom #rdr2 smut

[dappersautismcreature]

Death Precedes the Demon- CH 1- Dark Rider Runs- qsmp cowboy AU

It will start as dust. Both on the surface of the earth, and below it. Grains of sand, grit of coal. It always starts small. Little twists of night, shimmering coal dust. It will grow, it will multiply. It has been fed and fed and fed the damned. Saint or sinner, both would fall to its wave of grainy death. This Dust will claim, and reap, and grind. This Dust—this Dust, later. For now, we start with men— two men, in their race.

Hot sand. Windless air. No breath, no relief. Even as the sun barely starts to rise, the desert is warm. A lone figure rides on his horse, waves distorting his dark silhouette. Unbeknownst to him, another man, on another horse, rides a mile behind.  Sand is kicked up under his horse’s feet, as the second man moves quickly, he is chasing.

         The first figure is hunched over his saddle. His horse trots slowly, lamely. He is hooded and has hidden himself entirely from the sun. A long overcoat hides his light layers underneath, as well as his shiny silver pistols. His face is covered with a thin cloth bandana, just barely stopping below his eyes. The eyes themselves are pupil-less, simply lightly glowing sclera. His skin is dark as coal, shimmering like black velvet. Thick, black hair falls beyond his shoulders. The sun, a warm orange globe on the horizon, paints one side. He rides north.

         The man behind rides hard and fast. A wide brimmed hat is perched precariously on his head. Wild brown curls are tugged by the wind. He snaps his reins every couple hundred meters. The man wears a light short sleeve button up, slacks, and a large belt. A shotgun is slung over his back, carefully strapped to a harness he wears. His brown cat ears are tucked against his scalp, his slitted eyes covered with goggles, and his tail whips behind him in the wind. A shiny star has been pinned to his shirt, and it glints in the early sunlight. He rides north.

         Coyotes yelp in the bushes, eerie screams, like dying cats. The second man shivers, the first rides on. They play this game, of lead and catch up, closeness and distance, for another hour or so. But the man behind, the cat, is finally able to see his mouse. 

The cat-hybrid bends low over his horse, breathing as lightly as he can. The dark figure ahead is distorted by heat waves, bendy and swirly and barely there. He gets within a few hundred meters, then slows his horse down. He grabs at his gun and draws it against his chest, arms crooked, aiming.

The sound of the shot startled all that was near. It practically knocked the dust from the air— and whizzed past the head of the dark man. His horse startled and reared, the man behind cracked his reins, rising back up in his saddle to aim again. Another shot rang out, shaky from the horse’s gait— the man gained on the other, who was still struggling against his horse.

As the man behind got within shouting distance he yelled out. “Outlaw Halo! You are under arrest by order of the Sheriff of Quesadilla Town!” His cat ears were pinned against his head as the dark man’s horse kicked up dust. He circled the panicking creature, shotgun still aimed at the man atop it. 

A flash of silver in the sun is all the warning he got before the outlaw aimed a quick shot at him, he yanked on his horse’s reins and pulled it to a harsh stop before spinning and changing his gun’s position to shoot back. This was the final straw for the dark man’s horse, who bucked and reared, forcing its rider off and onto the hard dusty ground. 

The sheriff dismounted swiftly and cocked the shotgun again, approaching the outlaw on the ground warily. “Nowhere to go now, come along and justice will be yours.” He said in English, his voice thick with an accent. The cloaked man shifted and placed his hands to haul himself up. The sheriff growled, lashing his tail. “Slowly.”

A peak of white in the dark hooded face was a toothy smile— as the outlaw dipped his head in agreement. He slowly pulled himself up and to his feet, hands up, feet placed in a cautious defensive stance. “Sheriff, you wouldn’t happen to have a reason for shooting at me wouldja?” He asked slyly. Halo’s figure was intimidating— with coal-dark skin and short crooked horns, a forked tail and pointed ears. His hands were clawed and sharp, and had inhumanly long fingers. He stood over a foot taller than the sheriff, despite the lawman being a good height of six foot something. The legends say he’s some kind of demon, and now that he was standing in front of the sheriff, the man believed them. 

“There’s a bounty on yer head for crimes against the town, Halo.” The sheriff sneered. “You have killed people, good honest people.” He stomped in the dust, strengthening his grip on his shotgun— still raised and pointed at the dark man’s face.

“I do not know what you speak of sheriff.” 

The sheriff growled. “Sure Halo, go ahead and play dumb.” He sucked his sharp teeth and gestured with his shotgun. “Now drop yer weapons and kick em over.”

Halo carefully opened his long overcoat, and with a delicate hand, grabbed one of his silver pistols, held it out, and dropped it on the hot sand. He did the same for the gun on his other hip, and a knife tucked against the small of his back, and a small sword strapped to his calf, and a belt buckle knife. The sheriff’s glare deepened with every weapon he pulled out. When Halo finally held up his hands as if to say ‘no more’, the sheriff rested his shotgun against his side and pulled out a length of rope.

Halo scrunched up his nose. “Is that really necessary?”

The cat hybrid just growled again, and Halo rolled his eyes— holding out his wrists crossed over the other. The sheriff looped the rope around several times before tying a few thick knots. Then he bent and hobbled the outlaws' ankles, leaving only a foot or so of slack between his legs to walk and stumble along. He held a few feet of rope that were leftover from the wrist ties, and yanked Halo forward with it.

“So I’m guessing I don’t get to ride on the horse.” Halo quipped. The sheriff turned around to glare at him. Halo shrugged and fidgeted with the rope.

The sheriff dipped and picked up the outlaw’s weapons, shoving them in his horse's saddlebags. He mounted his ride, gripping the rope in one hand. “Keep up.” He called back to the man, and started his horse walking south— towards home. 

Halo stumbled forwards, but managed to keep up with the steady pace. “May I at least know the name of the man who’s dragging me along behind him?” He drawled. 

“Sheriff Cellbit, acting on behalf of Cucurucho Smile of the Federation Bank.” The sheriff said darkly after a moment’s hesitation. “The bear wants you to stand trial for what you’ve done, and has gladly paid my fees.”

Halo’s ears pinned against his head. “Federation Bank?” His pupil-less eyes widened. “You said Federation Bank? Those bastards paid you?” 

Cellbit turned on his horse when he felt the rope in his hand go taut. “Yes, that's what I said. Now, let's go--” The cat hybrid’s hair raised on his back when he turned to see the terrified demon. 

Halo’s hair was standing on end, tail lashing back and forth, eyes slitted and teeth bared. Dark energy flowed off of him in waves. “You can not take me back to town.” His voice vibrated low and deep, sounding well— demonic.

Cellbit stared at Halo, eyes scanning him. He tugged a bit on the rope and realized that he wasn’t going to be able to drag the demon along as well as he thought. He steeled himself, this was the man responsible for the deaths of Dan and Mariana, for little Trumpet and Bobby and Juanaflippa. He shuddered as he remembered watching the small bodies carried along the procession, black dust coating their limbs. “Yes, I think I will.” He growled, and kicked his horse forward. His arms strained against the rope, fighting against the inhuman strength that Halo possessed. Cellbit was nervous— yesterday, he hadn’t believed a creature like Halo existed, thinking instead that the descriptions he’d collected were lies, myths. But now the sheriff was hauling a nearly 8 foot tall coal colored fanged demon, who spoke in a way that made him shiver and stared at his back with blank white eyes. The man kept turning around in his saddle, to check that the demon was at a safe distance. 

Halo had taken to glaring harshly at the rider, tail whipping the air behind him. But he was without a form of easy escape, without a horse, and without his guns. Even if he could get the rope off of himself quickly, he would not be able to outrun a horse. Sweat rolled down his face, the land was heating up.

It took them roughly three hours to get back to Cellbit’s town. During which they barely spoke, except for a few exchanged words during their two water breaks. Halo was thoroughly exhausted by the time they passed the entry sign for Quesadilla Town. The heat had become unbearable, with the sun at high noon now. Cellbit was growing weary too, his constant vigilance had made him shaky and slightly paranoid. 

They passed the first few buildings on the outskirts of town— made of gray weathered wooden planks, and looking almost as abandoned and empty as the desert they walked out of. Absolutely dead bushes crawled out from under their broken decks, and flies and lizards swarmed the sun-warmed wood.

Halo scanned them— having only passed them less than a day ago. As Cellbit no-doubt knew, the demon had rode into town in the dead of night, picked up supplies, and then left before dawn. The bartender must’ve tipped off the sheriff. Halo wouldn't hold it against him, not really. 

Cellbit had in fact been tipped off by the bartender, as the man was his boyfriend and close confidant. The sheriff had bolted straight out of bed when Roier had described the strange man that had rode in around one in the morning. After that it was simply a job of finding the demon’s horse’s tracks and following him into the desert.

Now, Cellbit rode triumphantly into the more populated part of town— he was making a beeline for the jail. Halo started to lag behind as he took in Quesadilla Town in the daytime. Not many people were around, but they started to gather when they realized what was happening. Windows were opened and people sat on porches, watching him go by. Halo pinned his ears against his head at the stares, but looked blankly back at them. Antagonizing them would only fuel a mob, and he was in no mood to be shouted at or stoned. 

A couple of the people sitting around were workers on their lunch break, they ate like starved animals, looking up to watch Halo for only a second as he walked by. The demon squinted curiously at them— they seemed to have little regard for the black grime coating their hands and forearms. It was everywhere, dusting their hair, under their eyes and smudged on their sweaty thin cheekbones. Their stares were also animalistic, eyes bulging in their heads and outlined by deep lines. As Halo watched, they finished up their meal with ruthless efficiency and one by one, stood up— picked up their pickaxes and miner’s gear— and walked away, west in a straight line. 

Halo turned back to look at Cellbit, to see if he had noticed the odd behavior. The sheriff looked unphased. A normal occurrence then. Curious. The demon tucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and breathed in deeply. Something to look into later.

When they reached the jail, people started to disperse— seeing that the entertainment was leaving. Cellbit dismounted his horse and tied the reins to the jail’s porch pillar. He turned to Halo, watching the demon for a second, before turning to walk into the building— rope in hand. Halo didn’t have to be dragged, he went willingly into the shade. The first room was relatively small, one desk against the far wall, and the other against the closer wall. 

A shorter man sat with his legs propped up on the furniture, he was leaning back in his chair and munching on a sandwich. When they walked in, his eyes went to Cellbit first, cheerful and friendly, and then flicked to Halo— surprise and curiosity. The demon focused on the lack of fear or anger there, fascinated already. The man sat up straight— and ran a hand through his sweaty black hair. He also spoke with an accent, slightly thicker than Cellbit’s, but a different type. “Well, well, what do you have, there?” He leaned over his desk, with the smile of a smug cat.

Cellbit rolled his eyes and handed the end of the rope to him. “Who do you think Maxo— hold him for me.” The cat-hybrid then opened his own desk, taking out a file and slapping it down on the surface. 

Maxo held the rope gingerly, eyes roaming over Halo. “Aye, you talk?” The man asked. Halo was starting to realize that the dark haired man had an undertone of playfulness in what he said.

“Yes.” Halo growled, trying to add a hint of light-heartedness in his response. But his frustration slipped into his words and his teeth and tail and horns of course never helped.

Maxo’s eyes darkened and then turned to Cellbit. Halo had failed. “What did you get yourself in-into Cellbo?” His voice was all of a sudden serious.

“Don’t call me that, only Roier calls me that.” Cellbit snapped, slamming a pencil down on top of his files. “I know what I’m doing Maxo. Mr. Smile gave me his wanted poster, you know what that means.” Cellbit walked over to the door and swung it open. “The bear thinks he killed Dan and Trumpet, Maxo.”

Maxo’s eyes darkened even more, and his face soured. Halo slouched. Muffins, Maxo was clearly close to whoever Dan and Trumpet were. There was almost no chance of explaining to the man that he hadn’t killed anyone, at least not here, not lately. 

“I’ll be back, gotta put Zeno away and get Halo’s weapons. Start booking him.” Cellbit left with those words, the door shutting solidly behind him. 

Halo turned to Maxo, who’s glare pierced his very heart. “I-I-I didn’t-” the demon began.

“No.” Maxo said simply, standing up. The stagnant hot air in the room suddenly felt heavier than rocks, and Halo tried to appear smaller. “You do not, do not talk.” Maxo was almost two feet shorter, but that did not affect the strength of his anger. He walked over to the paperwork and gestured for the demon to sit down in the chair between the two desks. The scratch of pencil on paper was all encompassing sound. Louder in the tension filled silence between the two.

“Name?” Maxo asked abruptly.

Halo hesitated. “Bad Halo.”

Maxo looked at him over the file, as if in disbelief— but he cocked his head and sighed, before scribbling that down. “Where ya from.”

Bad, as he could now be called, hesitated— he wasn’t completely sure he could answer that. “No where.” He replied softly.

Maxo sighed again, before writing something again. “Any, any kin?” 

Halo simply shook his head, avoiding eye contact.

More pencil scratch in silence.

“You are here because Mr. Smile placed a bounty on yer head.” Maxo started to explain, focusing on the paper in front of him. “You are accused of causing the deaths of Dan Tee, Trumpet Tee, Mariana Click, Juanaflippa Click, and Bobby Matton, of kidnapping them from their homes in the dead of night and dragging them out to the desert to kill them. We don’t know why, but now—” he looked up at Halo, “we suspect witchcraft or satanism.”

He didn’t let the demon speak. “If you give us their—” his voice broke, “their bodies, that will be taken into account during the trial.” Maxo finally paused, breathing heavily.

“Please.” Halo began. “I don’t know what you are talking about, besides last night I’ve only ever been near this town a few times, I haven’t killed anyone here.” He kept his voice polite and gentle— but spoke as quickly as he could. Dread was building in his stomach, he knew his capture by Cellbit meant some trouble, but this was greater than he could imagine. Five murder charges would not end well for him. “I know I am a demon, and you don’t know what that means and it's scary, but I promise you I didn’t—!”

Maxo raised a finger, steadying his breathing. “ We have witnesses that saw you sneak into town. Justice will be served no matter how much you deny it, Halo.” The name was spat out through gritted teeth. “You will be sentenced tomorrow.” He met the demon’s eyes, and his face twisted with several emotions. For a second Halo saw a return of the earlier kindness, but it was quickly replaced by grief and confusion. 

The two of them stood up, Maxo leading the way to the door caddy cornered to the front door, it opened into a short hallway with two cells lining the left side. Maxo swung open the first cell and then turned to Halo. “Arms up, legs apart.”

Halo obliged, nervously, he knew he had to be searched but the intimacy was unsettling. Maxo was at least professional about it, removing the demon’s jacket, hood, handkerchief, belt and holsters, and boots. Then the man ran his hands along the demon’s arms and legs and torso— feeling for hidden weapons. Cellbit had done a good job before, and Halo was clean.

Max set the gear on a small table by the door and then shoved Bad into the cell, closing and locking the door behind him. Halo stumbled, the restraints limiting his ability to catch himself. 

“Hands between the bars.” Maxo ordered— Bad did so. “If you kick me I’m leaving you like this.” The man growled, before bending down and reaching between the bars to cut the ropes tying Bad’s ankles together. He threw the scraps behind him, and then cut the ones on his wrists.

“Thank you.” Halo whispered, rubbing his sore skin. Maxo just dipped his head and picked up the demon’s things and the pieces of cut rope. He headed towards the door back to the front room.

Maxo gave one last look back at the demon in the jail cell. Halo’s eyes widened, and he called out. “I promise you Maxo, I didn’t do this, and if you believe me, I will help you find the monster that did.”

Maxo laughed, the sound echoing harshly on the stone walls and floors. “No need. The monster is right here.” The door slammed shut with an unsettling finality. 

Bad felt bare, without his hood or mask or jacket, he felt horribly inhuman, and Maxo’s last remark swirled around his head. This would not end well, he feared.

#qsmp #qsmp fanfiction #q!maximus #q!maxo #q!badboyhalo #q!cellbit #badboyhalo fanfic #qsmp AU #dptd fic #cw death and murder mentions #cw gun violence

[wolveria]

WIP Wednesday!

Au - Reid Pollen.

I'm physically restraining myself from asking about Moon Champion.

LOL Any more moon man snippets and I'll have pasted almost the entire one shot

This should be fun too ;)

The opening of the outer doors brought his head up, alert and poised for his cruel captors to make an appearance. He had grown agitated, pacing in front of the observation screen, not knowing what had befallen her. His dear assistant, taken away in chains to once again be submitted to the senseless whims of brutish men.

The doctor did not fare well, his chest a boundless void with each passing moment of her absence. He missed her sweet presence, the comfort that came with it, her touch soothing the machinations of his restless mind.

Of course, that same touch could also light a spark in him, setting the fatwood ablaze, and it took all of his considerable will to smother the flames before they consumed him.

It was a different sort of fire that consumed him now, rage curling around his heart as his assistant was carelessly shoved into the chamber.

She caught herself on the autopsy table, leaning her weight against it as her legs seemed unable to steady beneath her.

The doctor was at her side in an instant, his temper extinguished as he caught hold of her shoulders, fearing she would collapse from the way she trembled.

Despite her clumsy gait, she stepped into the circle of his arms and held on tight, her grip strong with desperation. The doctor blinked, somewhat taken aback. It was not unusual for her to return in such a state, affected to a degree that left her on the edge of ruin.

But this seemed... different. Unfamiliar, the way she pushed her face into his neck, breathing in deep as if to catch his scent, her fingers pressing divots into his back. Her body crowded him, restless, pressing flat against his surface and straining to be closer.

Deep within, something flickered to life.

“Doctor Reid?”

He hadn’t intended her name to come out as a breathless rasp, but he was caught off-foot, not entirely sure how to approach this novel situation. This close to her, his senses were flooded with her familiar scent, but there was an underlying chemical he didn’t recognize.

Alarm jostled his thoughts. He might not know the compound, but he could sense its nature, a hormone intended to affect mammals in a particular way.

His assistant didn’t answer him with words; she slipped a leg between his, attempting to straddle his thigh, a precarious position while they still stood. She wasn’t deterred, holding him tighter as she rocked against his hip.

#scp 049 #the raven's hymn au #trh au #scp 049 x reid #scp 049 x reader #wip game #waves-against-a-cliff #nsft

[thyshadowwriter]

Lost & Found. Chapter 12.

Ivar Ragnarsson x oc.

Summary: doubts and mistrust pile up easily when you’re in a foster home, in a foreign place, with a prince that you cannot figure out. 2.4k words.

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @pieces-by-me @luvmeijii @fairypitou

P.S.: I’m so very sorry for the *late* update, had a car accident XD

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After the argument, Revna briskly walked away until she reached the outskirts of Kattegat. The whole exchange with Ivar was so out of the blue, she was left confused to the point of being disoriented. The worst part was that Revna didn’t know why Ivar argued with her.

Eventually, she reached the beach, sat down, occasionally drawing on the sand. Trying to understand the root of that argument was pointless by now; she missed a lot of what he said, but she understood the accusations. She was trying to be careful in not doing things that could tarnish her image and put her in a precarious situation, only to have that come right from the person she thought everything was alright. Whatever prompted Ivar to demean her in such a way, was a wild guess.

It made no sense at all, but maybe there was no need for it. Ivar, Ubbe and Sigurd were all royalty, they could change their disposition with the wind and all would be fine. She was just a stranger who had a lucky strike to not be there as a slave, yet. They probably regarded her as an oddity and could do whatever they wanted to her and no one, save maybe for Helga, would be bothered.

As dusk approached, it was time to head back to Helga’s home. It was getting cold, too cold, hopefully, Helga wouldn’t ask too much and she wouldn’t have to say anything. On the way back she heard that strangely pitched voice from the boatbuilder calling her name.

Floki was probably the tallest man she ever saw and easily one of the strangest. He was never hostile to her, much less harmed her, but Revna was aware he only put up with her because of his wife. Once Helga grew tired of her, he would kick her out of his house in the blink of an eye. Then she would be another of the many slaves that filled the whole city, if not one of the skulls that Floki decorated his workplace. Neither prospect was enticing and after the argument with Ivar, she was feeling as vulnerable and alone as when she first saw the couple. It took effort to maintain her composure and not betray the shiver that ran down her spine as he approached her with his unique gait.

When Floki was close, he leaned down to reach her level, looking at her with that always intense gaze.

“Where have you been? It’s almost night.”

“The beach.”

“All this time?”

“Most of it.”

Floki sighed, tilting his head to the side, still looking at her. Revna hoped his distant disposition towards her worked in her favor and he wouldn’t ask anything.

“You’ll get yourself in trouble if you continue with this.”

She didn't answer him, there wasn’t anything to be said, but he insisted:

“You understand that, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Yet you keep doing it. I don’t know what to do with you.”

Revna didn’t say anything in her defense. After a while, Floki put a hand over her shoulder and they began walking.

“Let’s head back home. Before you catch something.”

When they arrived, Helga was pacing back and forth in front of the house and as soon as she spotted them she ran in their direction and held Revna by her shoulders before embracing her in a tight hug. Revna could hear the woman’s fast heartbeat against her ear and awkwardly returned the embrace. Helga’s concern was thankfully enough to shadow any other question.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the following morning, Revna woke up to the scent of breakfast, reluctantly leaving the warm comfort of the bed to follow it to where Helga was cooking.

“Morning, my child.” Helga greeted with a gentle smile and her apparently never ending kindness.

“Morning, Helga.”

She only briefly met Helga’s gaze before reaching her hands close to the pot for warmth, missing entirely how Helga’s smile faltered.

“You want to help?”

“Yes.”

Helga handed her the spoon and instructed:

“Keep stirring it. I will set the table.”

It was how their typical routine began. Floki prepared for another day of work, while Helga kept the house running. The couple had a silent understanding of each other that was clear to see and she couldn’t help but feel like an intruder on their intimacy.

After a while Helga asked her:

“How’s Ivar?”

The question wasn’t new, but it unnerved Revna that day. She wasn’t blind to not see Ivar was close to that couple, they would discover sooner or later, but she would rather it be later.

Floki, who typically didn’t show much interest in their conversations, paid close attention:

“He will be good soon. I think.”

Unexpectedly, Floki giggled, almost spilling his mead. Revna looked at him puzzled, but Helga was pleased.

“You meant ‘better’,” Floki corrected her, “he will be better soon”

“Better,” she repeated after him, “he will be better soon.”

Floki kept paying attention, while Helga continued the conversation:

“That is great. Aslaug will be relieved. She loves Ivar greatly and suffers when he’s in pain.”

“Will you meet with Ivar today, Revna?” Floki inquired, sounding almost as normal as always, but he made a point to emphasize her name.

“If he wishes.”

“It is good that you two are getting along. You are learning, and it would be good for Ivar to have a friend.” Helga chimed in.

Floki remained silent, but his weird look made Revna uncomfortable. He was a strange man overall, but somehow his sudden interest was even stranger.

As they finished the breakfast, Helga sat close to Revna to braid her hair. She never let Revna leave with her hair undone, even if it was a ‘simple’ style. After that, Revna left as if nothing had changed, but she wouldn’t go anywhere near Ivar or his brothers. She would do everything in her ability to not bump into any of them. They were toying with her, whatever the game was, she didn’t like it.

She didn’t count the days since she last saw Ivar, but she succeeded in her endeavor. Although the hours passed much slower without Ivar’s company and it was much too evident the loneliness of her predicament, it gave her time to think.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Ivar recovered, he left the confines of his house as soon as he could, much to everyone's relief. Everyone was used to the short, unpredictable temper Ivar had, everyone knew it got worse when his legs forced him to stay inside, but this time he became downright terrible. Aslaug was thankful to the gods both for her son's recovery and because all that she had to replace was a few broken utensils, not a new slave. It was hard to find good ones.

Meanwhile, the rumors ran wild among the thralls. The visits from the odd girl didn’t go unnoticed and while nobody knew how the two met, everyone had bets on why she never returned. Some even speculated she was dead since no one saw her again, some speculated she would be dead once Ivar could leave.

Ivar, however, had enough time to think about everything since that day and he was angry. He was mad at Sigurd for interfering with his matters and mad at himself for taking the bait. It was obvious Sigurd would want to spoil something nice for him, yet he fell for the trick like an idiot. His intelligence was the one thing that put him above his brothers and the one he took great pride in, to be made a fool wasn’t something he was going to let go.

As to Revna, it unnerved him that he hadn’t heard a word about her. Logically, Ivar knew she would be fine under Helga and Floki’s care, but the lack of news bothered him. It was also bothering him what Sigurd and Revna could possibly have talked about and why she didn’t say anything, but he was going to discover it one way or the other. She didn’t know how his brothers were and if not for Ubbe and that coat-to-be wolf, he would have kept them away from her longer. It was unlikely Revna was aware of Ivar’s infamy, he doubted she would be at ease with him if she did, but he knew Sigurd would go an extra length to make a mockery out of him.

But he would see to Sigurd later. he wanted to mend things, so he headed to Floki’s home first thing in the morning.

Once he sighted their house, he kept hidden and waited for Revna to leave to follow her quietly.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ivar followed Revna all the way to the beach. It was easy to keep hidden as she wasn't really paying attention to her surroundings. Once there, she chose a nice spot and sat down, taking a stick to draw on the sand. It was curious to see her when she thought she was alone, that deep in thought and distracted, so unlike her usual demeanor. Ivar could spend quite a while studying her if he wasn’t concerned with setting things straight.

He crawled to her and it wasn’t until he was fairly close that she took notice of him. When she did, she froze, staring at him with wide eyes like he was an apparition. By the time she came back to her senses, he was already sitting by her side.

“Revna.”

“Ivar.” She returned the greeting after a while, but it wholly lacked the joy he became familiar with.

Revna’s drawing caught Ivar’s attention. It was quite detailed and he was genuinely curious to know what it was about. It would serve as a good starter as well.

“What is it that you’re drawing?”

“Nothing of importance.”

She sounded detached, almost not there at all. He insisted:

“It’s nothing, yet you’re drawing it.”

She didn’t say anything, still staring at him as if not convinced he was there. Ivar urged her to answer:

“Tell me. Tell me what it is.”

Ivar almost thought she wouldn't talk to him at all, but alas, she did:

“There is a city…” she pointed with the stick, “much, much far from here. Great, rich. Different people trade here. Made of stone. Colorful… Many beautiful fabric… gold…”

She stopped. She usually did that when she couldn’t find the right words, but he wasn’t entirely sure that was all to it.

“Are you from there?”

“No.”

“Then why draw it?”

“Memory. It is good to remember places. Or you forget. One day, I may remember Kattegat elsewhere.”

Ivar was taken aback. He thought by now she would have accepted her fate, to hear that she considered leaving Kattegat struck him almost like betrayal. How could she? The goods were generous to show her the truth; she was adopted by one of the most faithful people he knew of, how could she not see how blessed she was?

With a quick swipe, Ivar wiped the drawing.

“Why?”

“The gods gave you a chance to live with us, to learn the truth yet you think of abandoning it?” He spoke with more heat than what he planned to do.

“I do not” she replied sharply “they put me here, they may put me elsewhere.”

So she did acknowledge the gods and their will, but her conclusion was what he didn’t like.

Annoyed and without another word, Revna prepared to stand up.

“Wait, where are you going?” Ivar asked, grabbing her hand before she could leave.

“Away.”

“Don’t. Stay. I want to talk to you.”

“Why?”

“Sit down.” Ivar said nicely, though his grip hadn’t loosened.

She obeyed and only when she was back to sitting at his side he released her hand. Revna remained in silence and so, Ivar spoke:

“What happens in the future is for the gods to decide. You should not tempt them.”

“They may… regardless.”

“You don't know that. They were generous in bringing you here, so don't speak like that.”

She didn't answer, so Ivar cut the chase and went straight to what was bothering him:

“Why haven’t you told me you met Sigurd?”

“He did not say he was your brother.”

“He never spoke about me? Not even once?”

“No.”

Ivar kept gauging her expression to decide if she was lying or not, but shining through was her annoyance. Had Sigurd badmouthed him to her, it wouldn’t surprise him in the slightest, but that he didn’t bothered Ivar. It was not like Sigurd to waste an opportunity to humiliate him.

“Why haven’t you told me?”

“You did not let.”

“You didn’t understand. Why haven’t you told me before?”

“Why? It was… mundane.”

“How so?”

She looked at him confused, so he tried again:

“What did you talk about?”

“Music. Nothing of importance. Mundane things.”

“Music?” Ivar asked, half amused.

“Yes. He plays an oud. I did not think one here. Too far. Too strange.”

In another moment, Ivar would have inquired about her interest in music and know more of her, but as of now his mind was working on figuring out Sigurd’s plan. He didn’t believe for a single second Sigurd’s interest in Revna was innocent, if she was telling the truth, he liked the appearance of it even less.

“I do not know what I did bad.” Revna interrupted his thoughts.

“‘What I did wrong’, you meant.” Ivar corrected her “Nothing. You didn’t do anything.”

“I do not understand.” She stated, her voice uncharacteristically subdued. He wanted to reach for her but she likely would slap his hand away.

“Of course you don't. You don't know my brothers.”

“I did not know he was your brother!”

“I heard you.”

Revna looked at him completely at loss. Of course she didn’t know about the strained relationship between him and Sigurd, that would be a long explanation and one he wanted to delay.

She parted her lips and Ivar waited for her to question him, but after a moment, she gave up whatever she wanted to say. They stood in silence, both of them not knowing what to speak next. It was probably a couple of minutes that felt dragged to both of them before Revna decided to speak:

“Goodbye, Ivar.”

#ivar x reader #ivar x oc #ivar fanfic #ivar ragnarsson x reader #vikings fanfiction #2022 and 2023 kicked my @$$

[littleperilstories]

The Prince of Thieves: Devil Take the Hindmost

Mood Boards | Chapter Titles | Also on A03! | Playlist | Story Intro

Warnings: Fantasy-esque prison setting, aftermath of beating/physical violence/whipping, memory of being threatened with a knife, restraints (shackles), abusive law enforcement, head injury

Previous | Masterlist | Next

Word count: 3473 || Approx reading time: 14 mins

Devil Take the Hindmost

Teaser: I force myself to concentrate on Bree’s voice, because if I don’t, I’m going to drown in the thoughts that are ripping through me, barbed and cutting. I gave in—but I lied—but Hatchett knew. Somehow, he already had Jamie’s name.

Will

As I drifted back into consciousness, I heard Bree Cooper tumble to the floor and burst into sobs, and selfishly, I wanted to keep my eyes closed. I didn’t want to see her pain—didn’t want to see her guilt. I tried so hard to hold onto my pain and my guilt instead—She helped him, she helped Hatchett but I still tried to save her and I gave in and now we’re all doomed—but I couldn’t.

With sleep fading fast, leaving me with the throbbing of fresh bruises and a sharp, twisting knife-pain in my chest, I opened my eyes anyway, and in the wake of Bree’s tears, my anger was washed away.

Now, as she gives her description of the world outside, it’s my eyes that are watering.

She tucks a lock of unruly, uncombed hair away from her face. Her precarious balance on the medic’s stool would be comical—ridiculous—in any other setting. Instead, it’s beautiful and tragic. Lonely and lovely and desperate. “More trees have lost their leaves.” She brushes her fingers against the glass. “Must be pretty cold.”

Soon, then, the snow will begin to fall. Snow turns a quick gait to a trudge, numbs nimble fingers to clumsiness, leaves tracks behind, makes it easier for constables to follow. Please, Jamie. Please be gone.

I force myself to concentrate on Bree’s voice, because if I don’t, I’m going to drown in the thoughts that are ripping through me, barbed and cutting. I gave in—but I lied—but Hatchett knew. Somehow, he already had Jamie’s name.

How?

If I don’t focus on Bree, I will only be able to see Hatchett rustling his papers and scribbling things down. See him waiting to catch me in my lies and to confirm what he somehow already fucking knew.

If I let myself slip into my thoughts, I might remember that Jamie was arrested once and for seven years, I never knew. He didn’t tell me. He kept it a secret. Since Ma was still alive. Did she know? Did he tell her but not me?

If I don’t keep looking at her, I might think of how I crumbled. How Hatchett knows my name and Jamie’s and Geoff’s, and if we’re not careful he might know Colette’s, too. And it’s my fault, because I gave in.

If I let myself sink into my thoughts, then I’ll have to face that if he knows all our names, it’s only a matter of time before he finds the house. And if Jamie is still there…

But looking at Bree displays her stripped-bare back because she’s still wearing a torn, bloodstained dress. Looking at her reveals skin that’s bruised and covered in welts. The blood’s been wiped from her face and arms, but her back is battered.

I have to close my eyes and listen to her words, because if I don’t, I’m going to shatter completely.

“If I knew any constellations…I’d tell you which ones are there. But I don’t.” Her voice is so quiet. So sad.

I fight to respond, to push against the onslaught of nightmarish memories. “Thought you were…some…some fancy, educated rich girl?”

“Fancy rich girls learn how to embroider and play piano, not make pictures in the sky.” I hear a soft wince. “Moon’s out. It’s…” The stool teeters, clattering a little against the floor as she shifts, and I open my eyes again, terrified she’s going to hurt herself even more. She’s craning her neck to see better, and my heart seizes in my chest. “It’s a full moon.”

“Don’t fall,” I say, watching the stool settle again. “If you fall and crack your head open, I’m… I’m stuck here. I can’t help you.”

Not in much of a state to help anyone.

I don’t bother to wipe my tears when she turns back toward me, her brown eyes lit up and yet somehow still full of sorrow. Her tangled hair has slipped from behind her ear again despite her attempt to tame it.

“I won’t.” I don’t know how she’s balancing up there. She must be in so much pain.  “I wish I could see more. Describe it all for you.” She pauses, her pale cheeks reddening. “It’s—it’s mostly—the grass and the wall and…”

In the silence that falls as her words trail off, I’m dragged back to that room, to the flashing knife and the belt and the moment I gave myself up after swearing I never would and Hatchett’s sneering voice and his taunting and—

Instead of running away.

Baden, please.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” A new question, one I only half-want the answer to, distracts me from the memories.

Guilt mars her features. “That I told him you had a brother?” Her voice shakes a little. “You were already so angry with me and I didn’t want—I needed you to let me—”

“No.” I twist a little, try to sit up, and choke at the pain that rolls through every limb. “Fuck. No. That it was Hatchett. Your—that you were—”

It’s so revolting, I can’t even say it.

The moments before she realizes what I mean pass slowly. “Oh. That.” With a cringe, she mumbles, “Would you want to admit it?”

“Is that why he didn’t hang you right away?” A puzzle that always needled at me, a question that never seemed to have an answer.

She swallows. “Maybe. Probably.”

Before I can ask anything else, the door swings open and Gysborne stalks in.

His eyes land on Bree, and to be fair, from his perspective, it can’t look good—she’s still perched on his stool, one hand clutching an iron bar to steady herself. Perfectly poised to try to escape, perhaps, or leap on him in an ambush.

“Get down from there.” This is new—they’ve given Gysborne a baton, now, too. My heart twists. What, exactly, are they so fucking afraid of? I’m useless and, if I’m being honest, between Bree and any of the constables—no matter how much I wish to give a different answer—I think I know who’d win in a fight.

“I was just looking out the window,” she says. The sharpness of her voice, the open dislike between the two of them, makes me wish I could remember any of their interactions from when I was ill. It was probably pretty fucking funny.

“I don’t like your tone, girl.” His eyes constrict to slits. “Get down.”

She glares down at him, eyes wide and red-rimmed but fiery, her chin jutted out. Could this really be the girl who was sobbing on the floor a few minutes ago? Gysborne stares back, one hand still fingering his baton.

She looks at me, sighs, and steps down. As she lands, her wince echoes through the room.

“On your cot. Now.” She obeys, and I can see the war between fear and fury waging inside her. “You two, always trying to piss everyone off. Don’t you want your last days to be free of strife?”

At this, Bree laughs, and though she says nothing, I know what’s going through her head. Free of strife? In this place? What world are you living in?

Gysborne’s face contorts. “And you particularly, girl. Don’t you know what awaits you in the morning?”

His question sucks the very air from the room.

No.

Not me—Hatchett will wait until he’s snared Jamie. But it seems that he’s finally decided that Bree has outlived her usefulness.

Gysborne brandishes a second pair of shackles. He’s going to chain her to the bed, too—lock her up just like me, showing himself to be the goddamn coward I already fucking knew he was.

Bree’s astonished expression twists.

I want to squeeze my eyes shut again—don’t want to see him snatch away her last moments of freedom before she goes to her death.

It happens so fast, I wonder if I imagined it.

As he reaches for her wrist, Bree dodges his grip. His baton is in her hands. She swings. He’s on the floor.

Bleeding.

Out cold.

“Have you lost your goddamn mind?” The manacle bites into my wrist as I shoot up fully, the sharp pain in my chest nothing compared to the fucking panic that’s spilling into me now. “What the fuck, Bree?”

“I…” She stares down at the bleeding medic, her hands shaking violently. Tears are slipping down her cheeks again, but she doesn’t seem to notice them. “He... He has keys. And it’s—it’s night. Most of the constables will be off-duty now. Maybe even h-him. Hatchett.”

“Do you fucking realize what you just did?” I’m dizzy now. “You think the best way out of getting hanged is murdering the medic?”

“Maybe he’s not dead.” She glances nervously at the nasty bump on his head, then at me, her eyes wide. “Will, we can get out of here.”

Not a bloody hint of a plea in her voice. Wise or not, she’s going to run.

“He’ll kill us if he catches us.” Never before have I been the voice of reason. Jamie was always the careful one, jerking me back from sheer edges and holding me back from fights and talking me out of impulsive schemes.

Until now.

Bree fumbles with Gysborne’s key ring, the tremor of her hands not deterring her for even an instant. “I’m unlocking you. Think you can stand?”

If I go with her, I will be nothing but a liability—an unnecessary risk. I can’t even fucking breathe without pain radiating through my chest.

Yet the shackle clicks and then hangs limp, my arm freed.

“Something’s broken somewhere,” I say. “I can’t move fast. I’m only going to slow you down.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t even start with that shit. You’re coming. We just better leave now.”

“Bree—”

She holds out her hand, waiting for me to take it. “I’m not leaving without you. We go together. End of story.”

There’s no way. There’s no way. “Last time I tried this, I…” My mouth has gone dry. “You saw what happened.”

Apparently tired of waiting, she twists her fingers through mine. “You were alone that time. Now you’ve got me.”

I know I should heed the voice in my head that says this is a terrible idea. Instead, I cling to her hand and slide my feet to the floor, closing my eyes as my body erupts in pain.

“It’s all right,” she says, gripping tight. “Come on. You can do it. We can do this.”

I bite my tongue until the worst of it—the shock of standing after everything that happened today—has passed. “Do you know your way out of here?”

She glances around. “I think so. I was here with you, remember? Helping him.” She nods toward Gysborne. “Well, doing everything he didn’t want to do, anyway. I know exactly where we are. Just need to get out from here.”

With a start, she pauses, then gently guides my hand back to the cot and lets go. “Wait for a second. Are you all right?”

Taking stock as best I can, I nod. Everything hurts, but I don’t collapse when I lift my hand and support myself. “As all right as I can be, I guess.”

“Good. Because we’ll have to run.”

I watch in horror as she wrestles Gysborne’s coat and shirt off his torso. “It’s going to be fucking cold out there,” she mumbles, grunting with the effort of flipping him over to pull off his clothes.

“Ugh.” I know it’s the least appropriate time to be making jokes, but this plan is so ridiculous and so utterly doomed to fail that I can’t help myself. “That is not what I needed to see right now. Gysborne’s pasty white chest. Disgusting.”

She giggles shrilly—anxiously. “No. Not the most pleasant sight.” She holds out the white shirt. “Put it on. You can’t go outside like that.”

It fucking hurts to lift my arms enough to shrug into his gross, sweaty shirt, but I force myself through the movements. If we’re really going to do this, if we’re about to run, I need to be able to handle a lot more than putting my arms through some baggy sleeves.

She wrinkles her nose as she pulls on his jacket. It falls to her knees, but it covers her bloody clothes—which Gysborne apparently deemed suitable for her to continue wearing—and most of the cuts on her skin, except for the ones on her face. “This is even more revolting than I thought it would be.”

I nod, my stomach churning. Not just from disgust.

She rolls back the sleeves as best she can, then reaches for my arm again. “Don’t be scared. Please. Don’t…” She gulps. “We can’t be scared.”

Too late, I think. But I say, “All right.”

“Are you ready?”

Of course I’m not. With no other choice, though, I gather what strength I can and squeeze her hand.

“Good,” she whispers. “Let’s go. Before we lose our nerve.”

For a moment, we are still. Clinging to one another and staring. Her breath comes in stutters, maybe leftover terror of what she’s just done and what we are about to do, but when I search her eyes for panic, I see something so much more dangerous.

Hope.

Are we closer than we were a minute ago? Can I better see the flutter of her eyelashes, glittering with tears, as she looks up at me, her cheeks pale, her lips parted to let every frightened breath pass, her hair brushing against her skin in perfect disarray—

The moment slips from my grasp, and Bree pulls away to lead me out of the infirmary, and hopefully spring the both of us from this hell.

Some sort of fucking miracle guides us outside without any constables on our heels, but I know that’s as like as not to be false hope.

But maybe Bree is right. Maybe this will be our only chance to make a break for it. Hatchett isn’t going to let me go free. And if it really is the gallows waiting for her in the morning…

“Are you doing all right?” We’ve managed to make it into a courtyard area, still well within the prison walls. She’s whispering, her gaze flitting wildly around us, and I’m looking around too, trying to spot any shifting light or fast-moving bodies.

“Not at all.” There’s a knife deep in my chest, another in my side. Actually, there are quite a fucking few of them from the feel of it.

She squeezes my hand and murmurs, “You’re doing well.” Her head whips around again. “How much time do you think we have?”

The image of Bree cracking Gysborne over the head comes to mind. “Not sure.” When he wakes up—if he wakes up—he’ll sound the alarm, or if he doesn’t, someone will find him eventually. If Hatchett isn’t on duty overnight… Well, it won’t be long until they summon him. “Let’s move fast.”

That’s rich, coming from you, is what she should say. Instead, she just scans the walls and says, “There must be an opening somewhere.”

“It’ll be guarded.” I shake my head, which is stupid, because now it hurts even more. “Even at night.”

“Can you climb it?”

“Cl—The wall? Are you serious?” She wouldn’t be asking if she knew what my chest felt like right about now. And even if she doesn’t fucking say it, I doubt she can scale any walls right now, either. “No.”

She shrugs. “Then we need to find the gate or some other way out.”

It’s a relief to have settled, but that doesn’t solve the problem of how we’re going to get out, and it’s so damn hard to see in the dark. “Do you think medics get gate keys?”

Bree peers down at the key ring she shoved into Gysborne’s pocket. “Maybe?”

A shrill whistle rings out across the prison grounds.

My suggestion that we follow the wall until we come to a door or gate dies in my throat. “Shit.”

“Time to move.” Bree takes off again, dragging me along with her. Someone’s figured out we’re gone. Gritting my teeth against the pain, I tug my hand from hers to help my balance. Something hot is trickling down face. For fuck’s sake, what’s bleeding now?

“Will, hold my hand. Please.”

“I can run better like this,” I tell her. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

Bree saw hope and fucking grabbed it. She heard Gysborne tell her she was going to her death, and she hurled herself toward her chance at life. Bree Cooper is still clinging to that hope, and it is beautiful.

A crack cuts through the air, and we both cry out. New terror coils around me, accompanied by the smell of sulphur.

They’re firing at us.

“I’m right behind you,” I say. It’s more of a gasp, because my chest still fucking hurts, and it’s only getting worse. Why did I think I could do this? Tears are streaming down my face, from pain, but also from what I know awaits me the moment I stop moving. “I’m right here. Don’t turn back. Keep running.”

Up ahead and behind us, shouts are growing louder. Messy, quivering torchlight spills across the grounds.

“I’m right behind you. I’m—I’m h—”

The gate is up ahead, and yes, constables are tearing across the grounds in every direction. Our only saving grace right now is that they don’t know exactly where we are in the dark. They’re firing, but firing blind.

Don’t turn back. Keep running.

“I’m here.” Can she still hear me over the noise?

Faltering strides slow and stumble. I want to fight. I want to run. I want to be there to live and hope and breathe and love. I don’t want to die.

But.

My knees buckle and hit the ground, a single truth drilling into my mind: It was always going to end this way.

“I’m here.” The words are choking and pained, but I raise my voice till I’m shouting. “I’m here.”

If they’re busy with me, maybe she has a chance to get away.

I wish I could pull Bree Cooper back for just an instant, a single breath, and whisper in her ear. Don’t come back. Keep running. Keep living. And if you find Jamie, tell him to get the hell away from here.

Dust and gravel and chunks of grass kick up around me, stinging my eyes. Maybe I’m in for the beating of my life. Maybe this one will actually kill me. I don’t know. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter anymore.

Run, Bree. Don’t you dare fucking turn back.

I raise my hands into the air; maybe, I think, it’ll prevent the worst of it, though that’s perhaps wishful thinking. As the shadow of Bree Cooper slips away into the darkness and vanishes, I close my eyes, unable to face the judgment of the constables that surround me. And if they catch her, too, I don’t want to see.

“Where the fuck did she go?”

Hours after the interrogation, I am faced with a new question I will not answer. Can’t answer. I don’t have the energy to even look up to meet the gaze of a dishevelled—and enraged—Baden Hatchett. His clothes are thrown haphazardly across his body, half-buttoned and wrinkled. His gaze is poisonous.

“Did you fucking hear me?”

My eyes stays on the ground, unfocused and blank as I can make them, until he yanks my head back. Above us all, the stars are gleaming in a blackening sky.

“I’m so fucking sick of this,” Hatchett snarls. “Aren’t you done with it all? Aren’t you tired of suffering through your pathetic life? Tell me where she went.”

I am done. Exhausted. Spent. Is he going to kill me, at long last? Then we can finally be done with each other.

The stars are beautiful. God, I’m glad I got to see them again. Not a bad last thing to see. Not exactly what I would have picked—there are some faces I’d rather be looking at. But these shimmering stars are sure something to behold. Something to be grateful for.

I let him haul me to my feet and shove me toward the other constables, unable to hold back a shout of pain at the impact of my body against theirs. They grip my arms as if there’s any chance I have the strength or the will to run again. “I’ll find her, you know.” He lands a single punch to my stomach, and I can’t even fall. “And your brother. All of them. And I’ll make sure they all suffer. Every last one.”

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Tagging: @starlit-hopes-and-dreams, @gala1981, @kixngiggles .

[Banner ID: A narrow horizontal, rectangular banner featuring a barred archway. The bars and the stone walls evoke the feeling of a dungeon or prison. There are burning candles on either side of the archway. The title of the story, The Prince of Thieves, appears in white text in the centre of the image. The author's username, abbreviated to LPS from littleperilstories, appears in the bottom right corner in partially transparent text. End ID.]

#lps the prince of thieves #whump #dungeon whump #whump writing #whump story #whump fiction #original fiction #original writing #original story #original content #whumpblr #whump community #writeblr #lps-writes #oc Bree Cooper #oc Will Wardrew #oc Baden Hatchett #oc whump #lady whump #blood

[faroreskiss]

Resurrection Gone Wrong

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Summary: Link finally arrives at Kakariko Village for some answers, yet ends up even more frustrated.

Chapter 3 - Frustration

And thus, he confirmed what he was afraid of… The delicious smell wasn’t coming from the cooked food.

It was coming from people. 

—

He wanted to drink in that smell, bathe in it. Savor every single taste of it. The need, the need for it was so strong, so primal. The body close to him was not making it any easier. He closed his eyes, tried to calm himself, and stayed perfectly still. Too perfect. Too still.

“Hey… is he, is he dead? He isn’t moving!” A voice rose from the crowd.

“He doesn’t look very well… Look at this hair and clothes! Is he okay?”

“Oh my…”

 The overall rising anxiety (and the pity) of the “public” of a few people, was not helping. Their blood pressures were rising ever so slightly, blood pumping in their veins ever so faster, and faster. He could feel it, sense it, his mouth was watering. He didn’t know what to do. The proximity of the warm body beside him was akin to a scorching fire, searing his senses and igniting an almost feverish anticipation.

Suddenly, he jerked his arm off from the woman who was trying to help, and put quite the distance between them, almost in a flash. Gasps escaped from the crowd. It was so sudden, so strong that the woman lost her balance as she was squatting down to help him, falling a bit too strong to the dirt floor of the stable yard, scraping one of her elbows slightly.

As if a switch had been flipped inside him, a surge of internal chaos erupted, drowning out reason and control. The need, raw and instinctual, seized him in its grip, demanding to be satisfied. The tantalizing aroma enveloping him wasn't just a scent; it was a siren's call, a symphony of an ancient desire that resonated through his every fiber.

His senses whirled, torn between the primal yearning and the faint whisper of the Goddess's words. In that precarious moment, he found himself teetering on the edge of something he couldn't quite comprehend. Suddenly, his body seemingly moving on its own accord, he found himself on top of the woman with the scraped elbow, pinning her down to the floor, staring at the cut at her arm, just wanting to lick it. The woman screamed, there were people behind him trying to get him off of her.

“What is he doing?!” 

“Help!”

“He is so heavy, doesn’t even budge!”

The voices were just white noise in his disheveled, hungry mind. He traced one of his fingers idly from the woman’s cut to her neck, hearing and also feeling on his fingertips how the blood passes through her jugular. Then he saw her eyes, filled with fear, with terror. He saw his own reflection in the horror of her eyes. Everything was so hazy. All he could think about was how he could reach the source… How he can drink it all. 

Was he the reason for this? Was it him? 

An ephemeral echo of divine guidance surfaced in the recesses of his mind. He froze, realization hitting him once again. …uphold your strength of will, the words were.

It was like a lifeline, a fragile thread of sanity woven into the tumult. Her voice, a calming breeze amid the storm, reminded him of his resolve. Now he was the one who was horrified.

Drawing in a deep, ragged breath thanks to his old reflexes, he pushed himself up from the floor, disoriented and yet strangely awakened.

He was propelled by a newfound urgency, a need to escape the allure that had nearly trapped him. With an unsteady but determined gait, he made his way out of the stable area, the voices of the crowd echoing in his ears as they faded into the distance. The words of the Goddess remained a distant but steadfast beacon. He licked the almost dried blood on his fingers, it was delicious, divine. He was disgusted by himself. 

—

The village of Kakariko beckoned on the horizon, its hazy outlines gradually taking form as he trudged forward. Each step was a battle, not against the physical exertion, but against the war within himself. Trying to avoid any person he felt like he was going to see soon. The memories of his near transgression replayed in his mind like a haunting refrain, a stark reminder of the abyss that lurked within him.

The sun, casting long shadows across the path, seemed to offer a semblance of comfort amidst his internal turmoil. He could still hear their voices, those innocent voices that had questioned his well-being, voices that had unwittingly threatened to unveil his hidden nature. It was the kind concern in their words that fueled his disgust even more – their genuine worry stood in stark contrast to the darkness he had almost unleashed.

As he approached the village's outskirts, the bustling sounds and vibrant sights of Kakariko Village greeted him. The ordinary routines of daily life – merchants hawking their wares, children playing by the fountain – seemed to cast a veil over the primal struggle that had unfolded just moments ago. He couldn't help but feel like an imposter, a creature shrouded in a veneer of humanity that masked the tempest brewing within. And the smells, oh the smells… 

He saw the big building with little Goddesses statues lined up in front. A woman with a long white and intricate hairstyle was putting some apples… offerings for them. Very carefully he approached her, trying to talk to her but also keeping his distance. He was holding his breath, he wasn't sure if he could bear it, keeping his resolve even more if he opened his mouth once again. Guilt was eating at him already, but thirst even more. He stood still, too still. Somebody could mistake him for a statue.

The woman made eye contact with him, then blushed.

"H-hello!"

Then she seemed to have realized what he is, her eyes widened, the curls of her mouth dropped. She backed off a little bit, was it also fear in her eyes…? No, it was… something else. She seemed to have taken a deep breath, and it looked as if she was reaching for something behind her back… Her eyes then fell to his hips, where the Slate was hanging, then she spoke.

"C-come with me please…"

Link was still holding his breath, he didn't dare to open his mouth, lest he take more air into his throat. At this point, he most likely hasn't realized yet how many hours has it been since he took a breath. He just nodded and followed her through the stairs, passing by two guards with spears that had some type of an understanding between them and the woman. He could tell, because the hearts of the two guards were beating like crazy as he was passing by, despite their calm appearance. They were.. scared. He could feel his teeth touching his inner lip, they were aching.

As they went inside, he saw a very old lady sitting at the center of the room. It was a cozy place, and something was oddly familiar about this old woman as well. She was alert as she saw him, but calm. Truly calm. There was a glint of recognition so clear as she stared at him that it was unmistakable. She knew him. 

"Oh, so you are finally awake… It has been a long time, Link," she smiled at him. Smiled!

There was also… concern? She looked up back at the other woman that brought him.

"Paya, can you bring me the little chest we have up here? Yes, yes that one…"

As Paya, apparently the young woman was called, brought the chest, the old lady opened it and revealed its crimson contents. The bottles. Link knew right away what they were, his face constricted in what he assumed was pain, guilt and thirst as he looked at them, barely containing himself as he felt his fangs touching his inner lip. He squeezed his knuckles and gulped. 

The old woman popped one big bottle open, and the aroma filling his nostrils made him groan. He looked away, embarrassed. She extended her hand with the bottle to him.

"Drink. Then we shall talk."

Link couldn't make eye contact with the old woman as he hastily took the big bottle and started gulping it down, like a wanderer who has lost their way in a scorching desert without water for days. He didn't waste a single drop, even licking the rim of the bottle after he was done. He didn't care, he was so parched. He tried not to think about what's in the bottle, just focused on the sensation.

The horrible feeling in his throat finally settled down, reduced to a mere annoying ache. He felt calmer, more in control. He saw that Paya was smiling now, handing him a towel, as she pointed towards his mouth. And the guilt and the embarrassment… They also came back tenfold. He mumbled thanks and took the towel, wiping his mouth off, seeing the red stains on it. He was feeling mortified. 

"I am much older now… But you remember me, don’t you?" she started again, he didn’t think she was expecting him to answer. He was still staring at the towel with stains, clearly expecting answers. She noticed it as well. 

"I… shall explain everything about that too. But first, let me tell you what happened and what is happening right now."

Link was annoyed as he nodded, but now at least he felt rational enough to listen to Impa, as she introduced herself again. 

Paya closed the door behind them, she prepared some type of incense, which somehow succeeded in masking all the smell of delicious— Oh no… he sighed internally. No, no, no… 

—

After Impa explained about the legends of the hero with the courageous spirit and the maiden with the blood of the Goddess reincarnating the primal evil again and again, he did have a sense of familiarity with it, especially after remembering the words of the voice. He didn’t understand why she was telling him this, but he did not interrupt. She kept talking about the technological advancements, how the people of Hyrule prepared for it, Guardians and Divine Beasts…

But then his ears perked up, when she started talking about the events of 100 years ago… Though he did not remember exactly how or why, Link felt immense pangs of guilt and regret. So he failed his kingdom, and everybody who depended on him? Lovely.

His face probably reflected that as well, as Impa’s voice softened as she kept talking to him, even though her words were still stinging as she said ‘It did not end well for you last time.’.

He couldn’t focus on that at that moment, though he was willing to do what was necessary now for a reason he could not explain, he did not want to deal with this guilt and regret. His head was spinning with all this knowledge all at once, yet he wanted to know. Instead, he just nodded and acknowledged what she explained to him and tried to stir the subject once again, to him. 

“I won’t fail,” he said in the end, decidedly. After a little pause, he stared Impa right in the eyes, and asked once again.

“What happened to me, Impa?” his voice was almost trembling, a stark contrast to mere moments ago. Impa had a sad yet concerned glint in her eyes.

"I cannot provide you with a definitive explanation, Link, as it lies beyond my expertise. However, within our Sheikah traditions, there exist legends and folktales that speak of individuals in circumstances akin to yours,” she started. Link was annoyed, but did not protest for now.

"They speak of formidable, frigid beings dwelling in the deepest, darkest recesses of the earth. Their icy, fear-inducing gaze has the power to paralyze their prey. These are undead entities with an insatiable, eternal hunger."

Link was pondering the similarity between Impa's description and his own condition, though it wasn't an exact match. His confusion deepened.

"We continue to share these tales with children, warning them not to linger in the woods after nightfall, for fear that these creatures might emerge from the shadows and whisk them away. You see, they are said to abhor the sun's rays, as they scorch their very beings."

Link maintained his silence, observing as Impa raised the teacup that Paya had just delivered to her and took a sip.

"Indeed," Impa began, her gaze settling back on Link. "While you appear unaffected by the sun, undeniable parallels exist, wouldn't you agree, Link? You've barely shifted a millimeter since your arrival; one might easily mistake you for a statue. Your eyes remain unblinking, your complexion as pale as delicate porcelain. I assume you're well aware of the profound thirst you demonstrated when you first arrived, and we couldn't help but notice your… elongated canines, whenever you spoke," she pursed her lips. It wasn’t unfriendly, yet her concern has returned. She had more to tell, however.

He became hyper-aware of his own movements, or rather, the lack thereof. Tentatively, he allowed himself to blink a few times, though he still didn't dare to take a breath.

Impa's voice continued, recounting the shrine's discovery and its healing properties, thanks to the Slate on Link's hip and the Castle's research efforts. She mentioned the ancient texts that cautioned against using the shrine for fatal injuries, warning of the potential consequences on the person's memories, or outright failure. She explained how after the Calamity happened, there were suspicions that this shrine might have been affected as well. 

Link silently acknowledged that the shrine wasn't intended for those on the brink of death.

"But as for what you've become and how it happened," Impa added, "you'll need to journey to Hateno Village for answers, I'm afraid, Link. That's what I've been told. After you were taken to the shrine 100 years ago, I was charged with safeguarding this chest and leaving some of its contents in the chamber for you to discover."

Impa couldn’t bring herself to say exactly what was in them, and where they came from.

“And as for your memories… the Slate once again will be the key. Journey to the lab in the village of Hateno. They will know more about how and why this happened. Take the contents of the chest with you, and go.” 

Link nodded in understanding, his determination solidifying and his frustration increasing with every word Impa spoke. The weight of his forgotten past and the enigma of his present condition pressed upon him, but he knew he couldn't afford to falter.

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#zelda fandom #zelda fanfiction #legend of zelda #resurrection gone wrong #fanfic #zelink #angst #regret #tloz #shrine of resurrection #tloz au #link #zelda #impa #the legend of zelda #im too lazy to tag but here we are #man im trying hard not to use the v word #redead #if you get the vibes which series im drawing from congrats