#its been that color for like a couple weeks now and only stings a little some days so its definitely healing

[stjimmys]

not gonna be on my deathbed, knowing ill be buried in regret || [they/he] || hey guys im back

#its me #pics #yes i notice my eye is still swollen dont worry abt it pls its healing still #its been that color for like a couple weeks now and only stings a little some days so its definitely healing #bruises 7383783 #ig ill tag for that in case #anyways im finally trying to live and love myself yall. thats it #ok to reblog btw

[yourfavoritewitchbitch]

Badge Bunny Part IV

Masterlist here!

Summary: When it all becomes too much, you're ready to leave Lehigh behind but Gator has other plans in mind.

18+ Only! MDNI!

Warnings: Reader is referred to as "Bunny" or "Bun". Minimal use of Y/N. ANGST!!! Gun use mentioned for protection. Unprotected P in V (wrap it before you tap it). Tad bit of size kink. Creampie.

Word Count: 6.4K

You watched him leave, with tears clouding your vision as they began to roll hot down your cheeks. It felt like a stone sat deep within the pit of your stomach.

It was for the best. At least, that's what you keep telling yourself, while your head and heart are at odds with each other.

He was always stuck in limbo. Never fully present with you even when he was home. At Roy's beck and call any and all hours of the day. It made your heart ache knowing he would never be truly yours.

It surprised you when he hadn't fought back, accepting the finality of it without a single protest.

He'd left that morning and seemingly hadn't looked back.

After spending most of the day in bed in and out of consciousness, with your body thoroughly spent of its tears you trudged your way into the kitchen. Your eyes scanning the living room right away, as if they were drawn there.

He'd cleaned up while you had been sleeping that morning, even going as far as cutting out the carpeting that held those wine-colored stains. A fresh wave began to sting and build at your lash line at the thought of him trying to clear any reminders, as if it would somehow erase what happened all together.

It would be the first night of many that the loneliness was almost unbearable. The house was far too quiet.

Every little sound puts you on edge. He'd left his spare gun, so you moved it to your bedside. It had even crossed your mind to go to the pound and pick up a big dog for security mostly, but you'd also have someone in the house.

Nights were when the walls started to press in around you. Anxiety at its highest. Reliving all those moments over and over again. It was enough to drive someone mad.

You didn't want to go back to work, Henry understood and told you to take all the time you needed. Your job would still be there when you were ready. You also knew you couldn't stay unemployed for long.

Maggie came over a couple of times to check on you. Her hard exterior melted at the first sight of your swollen eyes and bruises barely beginning to heal, pulling you into a bone crushing hug.

You were waiting for that “I told you so” that never came. She didn't mention Gator, which was a first, always having something to say about him or his father. You were grateful for the mindless chatter and town gossip instead.

She'd brought you enough groceries that you didn't need to leave the house for a few days, but you were growing stir crazy.

When you'd finally made the decision to get out it was a breath of fresh air. The house was beginning to feel stuffy and small as you got that caged in feeling thrumming through your veins.

The next day you went back to work, opting for the morning shifts. It was shit pay, but it was better than coming in at night. Still worrying that someone could be lurking in the dark. Ready to finish what they'd started.

Gator finally came and got the majority of his things making sure to avoid you, doing it while you were away. You weren't sure how he knew you wouldn't be home. He hadn't reached out, but you knew he had ways of finding everything out in this town.

Your heart ached when you saw the now bare side of his closet. Drawers emptied of their contents. The finality of it hitting you with a magnitude you weren't expecting. You willed yourself not to start crying again.

That very moment you decided you were leaving Lehigh.

It's been two weeks since you last saw Gator Tillman.

You'd finally began to work nights, keeping that gun in your purse for added peace of mind. Pulling doubles as much as possible, saving every penny you can scrounge up. It still doesn't seem to be adding up as quickly as you would like.

It's been a slow morning, when you notice Andy walking through the door, not missing the way he tried to avoid looking directly at you when he sits himself at his usual booth.

You sighed to yourself as you headed over, grabbing him a drink before doing so.

“Hey Andy,” you tried to sound chipper, but you weren't even fooling yourself. Sitting his drink and a menu down in front of him.

“Hey Y/N. How ya’ been?” He asked, with a kind smile.

“Uh, I guess about as good as one could… after… all that.” Waving dismissively.

“I'm sorry. That was a dumb question. I…”

“No, Andy. It's ok.” Placing your hand to his shoulder in a reassuring manner.

No one ever asked about it. You wished someone would say something to get it out of the way, but they never did. Instead, looking at you like a fragile piece of glass.

“You wanna look over the menu or you know what you want?”

He ordered his usual. You knew he wouldn't have come here by himself. He never came in here before you and Gator got together. Gator dragging him here at least once a week while on shift just to see you for lunch.

You made more menial small talk, checking on him here and there.

Before he left you made sure to catch him.

“You can tell Gator I'm fine. And if he's so worried about me he can come talk to me himself.”

He didn't try to deny it, simply nodding his head smirking as he went.

“See ya later, Y/N. Stay safe.”

-

Being completely honest with yourself, you hadn't slept well since that night. A glass of wine quickly turned into a bottle before bed to fall asleep. It didn't help the bags under your eyes, but it took your mind off the pain for a little while. Relaxing you enough to coax your mind into a few hours of rest.

You'd been stocking up at the grocery store each time you went and today would be no different. You made the trek, leaving work at a normal time.

Henry could see your exhaustion and told you to take the night off. Well, more like ordering you to.

You hadn't realized when you left the house, you'd grabbed one of Gator's old hoodies instead of your own, but it would have to do for a quick trip.

Opting for a basket instead of a cart would make it a quick in and out. You browsed the frozen food section picking out a couple of things then heading straight for the wine aisle grabbing a couple of bottles of rosé.

You turned the corner, bumping full force into someone.

“Fuck,” you hissed out steading yourself against a broad chest, looking straight up into hazel eyes that you knew all too well.

“Gator, what the fuck?” He had a hold on your basket, making sure it hadn't fallen from your grasp.

“Sorry Bun… Y/N.” He blurted out, while his eyes roamed over you. He noticed his hoodie immediately, making a small smile creep up on him that was quickly wiped away by your disheveled appearance.

Bags are starting to form under your eyes. The bruise on your cheek is a distant memory now. The cut above your lip is nearly healed but will leave a scar. A small, taunting reminder that this is all his fault.

He'd had a couple of buddies watch you from time to time. His way of trying to keep you safe. Andy had relayed your message earlier today. You were smart he knew you'd see right through him when he stopped by.

He finally realizes the death grip he still had on your basket when you looked up at him with your signature, “what the fuck are you doing?” expression.

He let go and took a step back. Giving you the out he knows you'll take.

“I'm actually glad I ran into you.” You spoke, not meeting his direct gaze, looking back down to the basket not containing much of anything but the alcohol you planned to down for the evening.

“You are?” He perked up at that, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Uh, yeah.” Willing yourself to meet his eyes. “You need to tell your goons to back off. I'm fine. I don't mind Andy so much, but I don't need whatever you're trying to do.”

You weren't fine. You both knew it.

He scoffs. “I… what're you talking about?”

“Come on Tillman.” Titling your head up at him, leveling him with a sharp stare. “That savior complex you've got for me. Plus, you're a terrible liar. It's written all over your face.”

He snapped his mouth shut, gaze falling away from you, and finally noticing the wine. He didn't say anything, it would only make it worse, but you didn't drink. Not like that. And from what he's heard from one of his friends you came by the store daily for it.

“I just worry about you.” He said it so low; you almost missed it.

“You could have called.”

“Would you have answered?” He asked, but when you stayed silent it told him all he needed to know.

“I've got to go. Just… just back off. Please.” You quickly shuffled toward the front, trying not to watch the crestfallen look on his face. You glanced back once you made it to the register, but he was already gone.

As the days went on, you realize that even the doubles weren't getting you enough to move from Lehigh as quickly as you wanted.

An idea struck a couple of days prior, something Maggie had mentioned when you first got into town. The prospect became more and more alluring with each passing day.

You were stuck and it seemed like the most logical thing to do.

Henry was sad to see you go but he understood. Everyone understood. He was surprised you'd stayed around this long with everything that went down.

“I'm sorry, Henry. I just need to get out of here. It pays the bills but not enough to get me out of town.” Laying it all out on the line, giving him your notice.

“Hey kid, don't be sorry. It's ok.” He hugged you. You'd come to see Henry as a fatherly figure. He often rolled his eyes at your antics but always had a listening ear when you needed it.

“Just take care of yourself.” He added.

“Of course! I've made it this far on my own.” You grinned, leaving behind your apron.

You were headed across town to see a man about a different kind of job.

Gator stomped through the door of the Lucky Lizard a couple of days later, a man on a mission.

Henry spotted him as soon as he came barreling in, sighing to himself.

“Where is she?” Asking in a huff.

“Gator, nice to see you too.”

“Don't fuck with me right now. I know she quit her job two days ago. Where is she?” He fixed him with a pointed glare.

“Why don't you ask her yourself?” He turned away from him, grabbing a fresh beer for someone at the end of the bar.

“Because she doesn't want to talk to me. But I need to know she's safe. At least give me that. I know she talks to you.”

“Uh… that's a kicker now. Safe? I'm not so sure but I know she doesn't need you causing an uproar.” He was hesitant, mulling it over. Watching the younger man's expression turn a little more rigid. He was already mad; this would probably send him over the edge.

“Gator, now don't be a dumbass about this, but I know she went for a chat with Jeremy Nash.”

He felt like someone poured ice water over him. Anything but that.

“Fuck.” He hissed. Henry called after him, but it was too late. He was already out the door.

You weren't new to this kind of job, moonlighting as a cocktail waitress a few years ago, but you'd never taken the plunge to actually be an entertainer.

You'd gotten hired on the spot by Jeremy to start the weekend shift, luckily giving you a couple of days to prepare.

You arrived early. He showed you the grand tour giving you a locker and a vanity to get ready at.

The other girls looked at you with disdain and jealousy as soon as you walked in. Seeing you as nothing more than fresh meat and competition to take their money.

They chatted amongst themselves, not so much as a word toward you as they quickly got dressed and left you alone in the dressing room.

“Nice welcome,” muttering to yourself as you continued getting things out of your bag to get ready.

As you were finishing your eye liner, Jeremy came bustling into the room.

“Looking good! Ready to make some dough? You're up next.” He stated enthusiastically, eyes trailing your exposed skin, as if he didn't see tits and ass every day. He was a little sleazy but nice enough.

You were about to go on stage at The Tender Trap.

The only strip joint within 100 miles and it just so happened to be close to Lehigh.

“Uh, sure.” You put on your best fake smile and stood.

“Wow, you look great. What's the stage name again?”

“Ugh, Bunny.” Holding up those bunny ears you'd had stored away in the closet back at home for emphasis. Going with all black, fishnets with thigh high boots, you'd only have white ears. Your body suit covering you until it would be time to remove it. Nothing underneath, leaving those fishnets, making you feel a little less exposed.

He grinned, nodding his head “it fits.”

It felt a little wrong to use the name. But you had the outfit right down to the ears and tail, might as well use it to your advantage. Guys go crazy for that stupid Playboy bunny persona.

He led you to the backstage, curtains drawn as another girl was finishing up.

The bass of the music thumping through you. Doing absolutely nothing to quell the jitters you had.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we have a special newcomer. Everyone give it up for Bunny!” The DJ came over the loudspeaker as Wicked Games by the Weeknd started to play. It was your cue.

Your hand slightly trembled as you pulled the curtain back. Stepping out into the small spotlight, temporarily blurring your vision.

You smiled at a couple of men to your right as you took a few more steps to the center, hips swaying with the song.

There were some whistles and shouts that spurred your confidence. You continued to look around the stage as you slowly walked forward.

Your smile dropped when you locked eyes with a familiar figure. He stuck out like a sore thumb at the end of the stage, as he loomed over the other men.

His arms were crossed over his chest, staring you down, feeling the heat of his gaze from across the room. You froze for a moment before regaining your composure.

He tilted his head as if daring you to continue, eyes dark and zeroed in on you.

You tilted your head toward him and placed your hand around the pole to go ahead with your routine. His presence be damned.

It was then he jumped the edge of the tip rail, much to the grumbles and protests of the other men surrounding you, shedding his jacket as he stalked over.

“What the fuck, Gator?” You yelled, as he held the jacket up around you, pushing you back toward the curtain.

“I don't fuckin' think so Bunny. Let's go.”

With your heels you were nearly nose to nose with him, standing firm, you just stared him down.

“No.” You spat.

“Hey!” Both of your heads shot toward a very angry Jeremy Nash storming your way.

“Get the fuck off my stage! You entitled fuckin’ prick. Your father doesn't own this place Tillman.”

Gator rolled his eyes then narrowed his gaze back to you.

“Gator, just get the fuck down!” You yelled, pushing his chest but he hardly budged.

Jeremy reached the edge of the stage, pushing himself up and over, grabbing Gator’s arm momentarily knocking him off balance.

It all happened so fast. Once Jeremy grabbed him, he'd turned quickly, his fist meeting the other man's nose with an audible crunch that could be heard above the music.

He grabbed his face with a groan and started backing away immediately, yelling for you both to get the fuck out as blood poured down his mouth.

Without a second thought Gator turned back toward you, bending down, throwing an arm around your waist, and in one fluid motion hoisted you up over his shoulder.

“Gator Tillman! Put the me the fuck down right now!” He ignored your protests, as you kicked your feet and pawed at his back.

“Quit it, Bunny. No girl of mine is working at a place like this.” He placed you back on the ground once you'd reached the dressing room.

The other girls gawked and cursed at the both of you before practically running over each other to get out the door.

When he rose up, you reared back and smacked him across the cheek.

"In case you forgot, I'm not your fucking girl." You hissed.

He wasn't shocked but he slowly released a breath through his nose before speaking.

“Get your shit. You can scream, yell and slap me all you want in the fuckin' truck but your comin’ with me.”

There was no point in arguing, you knew as much but at least you could let him know how you felt about it.

You gathered your belongings, tossing his jacket back at his chest and pulling a hoodie over yourself. Moving to the back door without saying a word, you let yourself out into the cool night.

You spotted his truck and got in, slamming the door making him wince.

He hauled himself into the driver's seat and started it, easing out of the parking space.

“You fucking humiliated me in there.”

“You’ll live.” He sighed. “As if you weren't about to humiliate yourself.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? At least it's honest work, unlike what you and your goddamn daddy get up to. And don't play dumb Tillman, I don't know everything, but I know enough.”

You crossed your arms and stared out the window as he kept his eyes trained on the road ahead. You expected him to snap back but he didn't say anything which only infuriated you further.

He wasn't the strong silent type; you can tell he was holding back. He'd throw his own tantrums, ending with you two clashing because you were so much alike.

“Goddamnit Gator you can't do this to me. We aren't together. You can't barge back into my life when you think I need saving. It doesn't fucking work like that!”

He slammed on the brakes, making you jolt forward and quickly pulled off to the side of the road throwing it in park.

“I can and I will! Especially when you end up in some shit hole like that! What the fuck were you thinking?” Sounding more disappointed than angry.

"I was thinking I can get enough money to finally leave this fucking hell on earth you call home behind because I don't want to be here anymore! That's what I was thinking. Anywhere is better than here. I won't have to see you, or your fucking bat shit crazy dad anymore.”

"Bunny," he tries.

"No, stop Gator. I'm not… you don't get to call me that anymore. Just drive me home. I'm done.”

He stares at your profile for a moment before releasing a heavy sigh, pulling back out into the highway. Neither of you bother speaking for a while until his calm voice cuts through the silence.

“You should leave, you know. Get out of Lehigh, hell out of the state. Get as far away from here while you still can.”

You were stunned. You'd expected him to beg and plead for you to stay, not this. Something was going on with him. You watched him concentrating on driving, but he was chewing his bottom lip.

“Is… is that what you want?” He didn't immediately answer, instead he pulled back off the road to give you his full attention, turning to face you in his seat.

“Of course that's not what I want, but if it means you'll be safe from… from all of this shit, then yes. Leave for your own good.” His eyes never left yours. You could see he was fighting his own emotions. “I love you, Bunny. I'll always fuckin’ love you until the day I die. It's just not safe.”

You could tell something was there. He wanted to tell you more.

“You… you could just come with me?” You looked up at him with pleading eyes, tears forming at your lash line threatening to spill. “Please? We could leave tonight. Somewhere no one knows us. Somewhere no one would find us.”

“Baby, I… I can't. I…” he reached out to touch you, but you quickly flinched out of his reach.

“No. This is exactly why we broke up. What the fuck was I thinking?” You laughed out, salty tears now flowing freely dripping from your chin.

He'd had enough of seeing you cry. He didn't know what else to do.

“Bunny, look at me.” His voice was stern, pulling you from your current spiraling thoughts, as he placed his hands on your cheeks. The pads of his thumbs wiping away your tears as you nuzzled into the tender touch.

“Fuck it,” he hissed. Quickly surging forward, pressing his lips to yours.

You pulled back, your hand meeting his cheek harshly. Slapping him before you realized what you'd done.

He nodded, pulling his lip between his teeth before releasing a harsh breath.

“I'm sorry… I…” you began, grabbing his collar, pulling him back and pressing your lips back to his, pushing him further back into his seat, swinging your leg around so you could straddle him.

It was messy, full of want. Tongue and teeth. Pushing and pulling at one another.

“It's okay baby, just… just take it out on me.” He mumbled, between kisses.

His hands found your hips, fingertips catching the holes of your fishnets. His touch setting you on fire as he pushed you down onto the tent already forming in his pants. Guiding you to grind against him, as you both moaned out.

“Fuck, I missed you.” You rasp out, as his lips begin trailing down your jaw, finding that juncture right below your ear, sucking a little harshly before soothing it with his tongue.

His hands trail up, pushing the hoodie up, until your barely clothed chest is on display. Squeezing your breasts in his large hands had his hips bucking up into yours. Already so eager to be inside of you.

“Fuck Bunny.” He leans back to take another look at you, slowly appraising your outfit. “I think ya’ need a reminder of who you belong to. Ya’ can't be showin’ everyone this. It's f’me. All f’me.”

“We weren't together.” Rolling your eyes, knowing it would get a rise out of him.

“Don't care.” He pulls the cups of your body suit down haphazardly, as you hear the fabric tear beneath his rough grip. “You're mine.”

“Gator!” Protesting that quickly turns into a moan, as soon as his plush lips meet your chest, sucking harshly at your nipple while he pinches and rolls the other between his finger and thumb.

He pulls off with a pop, smug grin plastered across his face.

“What was that sweet thing?”

“Oh, fuck you,” you hiss, with no real malice behind your words.

“Don't worry baby. We’ll get to that.”

You roll your eyes again, reaching a hand down to palm his very now prominent erection, eliciting a small moan cutting through his cocky demeanor.

“What's wrong baby?” Looking at him with your best doe eyed expression. “You miss me that bad?”

“You know I fuckin’ did.” He grits out, closing his eyes a moment before his hand wraps around the back of your neck pulling you down into another heated kiss.

Your hands quickly get to work as you ease back, reaching for and unlatching his belt buckle, undoing his pants and reaching in, finding him hot and heavy as you pull him free from his boxers.

Your thumb collects the precum from his slit, dragging it back down the length of his velvety shaft, as you swallow his stuttered moan.

You pull back slightly, his bottom lip between your plush ones, sucking before letting it pop back into place. You take the opportunity to catch him off guard, letting a string of saliva slip between your lips landing on the head of his cock.

“Fuck, Bunny.” He rasps out, hips pushing his dick further into your hand, searching for more friction.

He pulls at the hem of your hoodie, pulling it up and discarding it quickly onto the floor, as your hand comes back to languidly stroke him.

“Baby, please. If you keep that up, I'm gonna cum. I need you.” He didn't let you answer before his fingers slid the side of your body suit over. Bare save for your tights.

His fingertip grazes your clit as you throw your head back. He growled when the fabric caught, restricting his movements and further access.

You knew what he was thinking when he smirked up at you but before you could say anything to stop him, he pulled at the fabric, ripping it at the seam.

“Gator! What the fuck!” You hissed, before his fingers found your slit, sliding down catching at your entrance.

“I'll buy you a new pair. Promise.” You nodded, closing your eyes at the feeling, you ceased your ministrations gripping onto his shoulders for purchase. He circled your entrance, gathering slick before sliding back to your puffy clit. Relief flooded your veins as he began rubbing circles against you.

“More. I need more.” You moaned out, your cunt aching to be filled.

“Ride my fuckin’ cock then. S’all yours baby.” He said, gripping himself at the base and slapping it back against your bare pussy.

You raised up, allowing him to line himself up with your weeping entrance. As soon as his head breaches slightly, you grip his cheeks pulling his face up.

Maintaining eye contact as you slowly sank down around him. You relished in the stretch and slight sting, as he splits you open.

Pleasure begins taking over as your eyes start to roll back, releasing the grip on his face, bracing yourself against his chest. Your jaw went slack, as another wanton moan fell from your lips.

You slide down easily, inch by inch, feeling every vein and ridge as he fills you from beneath.

Your ass finally came to rest on his thighs, with his cock filling you to the brim.

He takes your palm and pushes it against your lower stomach.

“You feel me in there baby? Feel how fuckin’ deep I am?” You feel the bulge from where his cock is nestled within you, making your pussy flutter around him. “No one else could fuck ya’ that deep. Huh?”

“No… mmm… fuck, baby. God, I've missed you.” You breathed out, as you started to bounce, giving you both much needed relief.

“Yeah Bunny. That's it. Shit you feel so fuckin’ good. Missed this pussy. Missed you.” His eyes watch your tits bounce with the movement, as his hands grip your waist, helping raise your hips when you slow down just a bit.

Your bouncing begins to slow to a rhythmic grind, the thatch of hair at the base of his cock catching your clit with each pass as heat starts to pool in your lower belly.

“Keep going baby, I know your fuckin' close. I'm gonna… fuck… gonna fill my fuckin' pussy up.” He grabs your cheeks roughly, as your eyes pop open to look at him.

“Tell me baby. Whose pussy is this? Huh? Who do you belong to?” He growled out, holding you still as he begins to piston his hips, fucking up into you.

“You… it's yours… Gator! Fuck!” You scream out.

“Yeah? All mine baby…mmm…play… play with your clit f’me. I want you to cum with me Bunny.”

He watches intently as you hand trails lower, finding your aching clit as he continues to fuck you from below.

“That's it baby. Feels good, huh?” Coming out a little mocking.

“Ugh… yes… feels so fuckin' good. I'm gonna cum all over your cock.” Your fingertip glides over your nub, feeling that electricity licking up your spine.

“Yeah baby? Gonna cum f’me?” Watching his length move in and out of you creating a creamy ring at the base, a mixture of both his and your arousal nearly sending him over the edge.

“Yesssss baby. Fuck…” His cock continues to nudge that sweet spot within you with every upward thrust.

You grasp his shoulders as your orgasm begins to wash over you, dragging you under with a blinding force.

“Baby, I'm cumming… I'm… ahhh…” It was all consuming, your pussy clenches around him like a vice, as those sparks began to flicker behind your eyelids. Your legs trembled as you writhed atop him.

“That's it, sweet thing. My tight, little…mmm… pussy is grippin’ me so fuckin' good.” He continues to push into you from below, as you try to come back to yourself.

“Cum… cum in me baby.” Your voice comes out shaky, as his cock twitches at your words.

“That what you want? Huh? I'm gonna fill this pussy full.” He grips your hips with a bruising force, pushing you down onto him, somehow impossibly deeper as he begins to cum.

You wrap your arms around his neck, as your hips grind down, working him through his own release. Your pussy milking him of every last drop. His face was turned upward, jaw going slack at the feeling as he breathes out a heavy moan. You loved the fact that only you ever got to see him like this.

“Fuck, Bunny. Baby… stop… I…” His fingers tighten on your hips, halting your movements.

You both still, foreheads resting together, chests heaving trying to catch your breath.

You looked into those lovesick eyes that you've missed so much. Unsure of what to say. Unsure of where this left the two of you.

You slowly lifted yourself from his lap, as he slid from you, you quickly moved off and tried to cover yourself. Your tights were in shambles and your top was ripped. You pulled the hoodie from the floor and pulled it back over you.

He sighs, watching you as he stuffs himself back into his pants.

“No matter what I fucking do I can't stop. I still fucking love you, Gator.” You were transfixed on the window, gaze on nothing in particular. He lets those words wash over him. He never wanted it to go this way.

“I’m sorry. For everything. For not being there. For not protecting you. I should have goddamn been there instead of working that night.” You look over at him with tears in your eyes at the pain and regret emanating from his words. You know he blames himself for what happened.

“I know you're sorry but…” you closed your eyes, trying to steady your thoughts into words. “It's not your fault, Gator.”

You reach your hand out, placing it on his and squeezing gently.

“Bunny, I can't go back to pretending we don't give a shit about each other. I'm moving back home.” He fixed you with a serious gaze. Giving you no room for discussion or arguing.

“And there are going to be some nights I get home late, maybe not until morning.” He intertwined his fingers with yours and gave a reassuring squeeze. “You have to trust me when I say I am doing this for both of us.”

“You aren't going to tell me what's going on?” Your voice trembled.

“Bunny, I can't. Just please, trust me. It's all going to be okay.” There was something in the way he said it so reassuringly and unwavering.

“I trust you, Gator. I love you.” The words came out as you reached over wrapping your arms around his neck hugging him tightly to you.

“I love you, Bunny.”

In the following days, he moved his things back home as you both fell back into routine.

He rolled in some late nights, but you didn't ask any questions. He would come home and crawl into bed, pulling you into him, just like tonight.

You'd heard him enter, as a small smile crept at the corners of your lips when his arm wound around your waist with his warm chest to your back. His face buried into your neck, freshly washed hair tickling at your cheek as he sighed heavily.

“You awake baby?” He whispered, lips grazing your skin.

“Yeah, can't sleep until you get home.” He smiled at your admission but his heart aches all the same.

“I have to leave early in the morning.” He kisses your shoulder before continuing. “Whatever happens, I love you.”

You knew better than to ask what he meant. You just closed your eyes, praying to whoever might listen that whatever tomorrow would bring he'd come back home to you.

“I love you too.” You whispered through the dark, as the two of you held each other tight.

-

True to his word, his alarm blared before the sun rose, startling you both awake.

You'd followed him to the kitchen, watching his every move. Boxers slung low in his hips with his hair messy from sleep as your eyes drank in every detail.

“Baby, you didn't have to get up with me.” He chided, back of his knuckles running across your cheek as he sat beside you on the couch.

You curled into him, wrapping your arms around his torso, as he draped his over you resting his hand on your hip.

“Wanted to be with you.” Mumbling from your position, your head resting on his chest. He chuckled into his coffee before taking a sip.

“Whatever it is, you could just stay home. You don't have to go.” You muttered, grip on his waist tightening.

“I wish I could.” He kissed the top of your head, basking in warmth and love that he'd never had from anyone before you. Never thought he would be worthy of it, if he was being honest with himself. If he could bottle this moment and take it with him, he'd never ask for anything more.

He truly loves you more than anything in the world and reminds himself that this is for you. The both of you.

You stayed close to him until he practically had to push you off of him to head out, although reluctantly.

Once he laced his boots, he wrapped his arms around you one last time as you did the same, his hand rubbed your back with his lips pressed to your temple.

“I love you Bunny, but I've got to go baby.”

You hesitantly pull away, as he gathers his vest, slipping it over his shoulders.

“Be careful. I love you.” Saying it as he took his leave. You watched from the kitchen window as his truck left the driveway, taillights disappearing down the road.

You wouldn't be able to go back to sleep, so you began getting ready for your shift at the bar. Henry was more than happy to give you your old job back after Gator made it impossible to go back to the Tender Trap with his rescue mission.

It was one of those days that he didn't text very much which usually meant it was a Roy’s business kind of day, always leaving you on edge.

Your shift was going smoothly, which seemed to improve your mood. You checked your phone at break to find a missed call from Gator.

He'd left a voicemail, that you immediately began to play.

“Hey Bunny, I know you're working but I wish I could have caught you. Baby, I know I've been quiet about everything and I'm sorry. Just know that whatever goes down today that I love you. I just wanted you to know that, and… (muffled background noise) shit … I've got to go.”

It caught you off guard. You sat there looking at the phone in your hand, as you swallowed a lump you hadn't realized was caught in your throat.

“What the fuck?” You breathed out.

You dialed his number, but it went straight to voicemail. Your heart rate kicked up with your mind visiting the worst possibilities.

You sent him a quick text hoping he would see it and put some of your worry at ease.

Baby, please call me back when you get this. I love you.

You shoved it back into your apron pocket making sure it was on vibrate making your way back into the bar.

You made your rounds checking tables, as you heard sirens approach, snapping your head up to watch five black unmarked SUVs pass by quickly headed East.

It caught the attention of the entire bar; everyone was silent for a beat as they watched.

“What the hell was that?” Henry, cutting through the quiet.

“I don't know, but it doesn't look good.” You watched them until they disappeared down the road and out of sight.

Andy burst through the door a few moments later, making a beeline straight for you. Looking a little worse for wear, color drained from his face aside from his flushed cheeks. When he'd gotten closer you noticed a cut on his left eyebrow.

“Y/N! Something's going down at the ranch. I think Roy's finally lost his goddamn mind. Feds are headed over there.” He rushed out, breathless as if he'd run all the way here.

So, this was it. His unwillingness to answer questions and sneaking around. It started to make sense. Something big went down and he's known about it, keeping you in the dark.

Gator, what the fuck have you done?

#gator tillman #gator smut #🐊 #badge bunny series #gator tillman fanfiction #gator tillman x badge bunny #gator tillman angst #gator tillman smut #gator tillman x you #gator tillman x female reader #gator tillman x fem!reader #badge bunny au #gator x bunny

[espectres]

@nulltune sent:

[ food ] sender brings receiver their favorite dish to cheer them up

CERAMIC PLATE HELD FIRMLY IN HIS GRIP, the lower surface still hot and seething against his freezing fingers, a strange comfort, but a welcomed one. The spoon in his grips clacks quietly, the savory smell wafting gracefully into his senses and bringing forth his long suppressed sense of hunger. He didn't know he was this hungry before his stomach would grumble and twist painfully, but Hakuno-san knew, apparently. And he certainly didn't know she could cook, skillfully at that, too, given the great aroma of spices and warm steam of rice from this serving of curry. 

Young eyes travel, slow and slightly disoriented glances. The meal on his lap carefully prepared for no one but himself. He still remembers their conversation, mundane useless banter about little important things, things that didn't really matter given the severity of the situation, of what they've been through, the tension in the air, the adrenal ready to viscerally spike into his blood at any given instance, always expectant of danger & threats that might befall him & his companion. 

But his opinion on such things was proved wrong with time, by his own considerations and the girl's memory, the simple choices she made to brighten the end of a long day. And he looks up and finds kind eyes offering him an encouraging look. She was hard to read, but honest and true, he liked being by her side, and it was quite fun at times, the way their mutual bluntness would often clash- he liked that, having someone to go back and forth with, someone who wouldn't take his openness for hostility- and that mattered too, despite trying to convince himself that he doesn't really care. 

His eyes sting dangerously, and warmth blossoms as he bites on a spoonful of deliciousness. He utters quick thanks, a vague sense of embarrassment painting his cheecks a stubborn bright red. He blames the sting in his eyes on the spice of his food, too scared to consider the emotions and dreaded nostalgia. 

" My pops would travel a lot ... "  He had told the little story earlier, something for the sake of lighting a mood, something to share a laugh. He'd told her how the staff in his home had no choice but to follow the words of a nine years old as they were told, and how he got to pick his single favorite dinner every night for a couple weeks. The same damn thing over and over just because he liked it, and his father wasn't around to say something about it. 

It was all good and dandy, until the child ended up in the hospital, quite comical, if you ask Shou.

His food goes finished in savory bites second servings. Warmed in his core and comfortable in his private space, Shou turns into another task, a paper in a sketchbook that has been hidden beneath his pillow, shy from the eyes of its rightful witness-  and colorful crayons from the depth of his backpack. He works on the piece quitely through the night, his sleeping schedule thrown to the back of his mind without care, it has never been a concern anyways. 

Besides, he doesn't have time, he reminds himself when getting the finer last details of colors and shades done. It's an experiment more than anything, not that he was unfamiliar with the delicate strokes of nature and the pastel colors of petals, but creating something for someone else was beyond unnerving. He can only hope she would like it, yet he can't find it in himself to stay and see her reaction. He wishes it was the nervousness alone, but he wasn't that much of a coward. 

Bad things seem to trail behind him like a stray dog which has gotten attached, how can he risk dragging anyone else into his never-ending problems ? Not now. Not yet. And his stubborn sense of independence takes over, he promises to take care of things, maybe then it would all be a lot more easier.

He leaves that night, a couple hours before dawn, not a trace behind but a piece of art, a bouquet of flowers traced by careful pencil lines and colored by soft crayons, wrapped up in too many ribbons, joyful pink tulips and elegant white roses and proud creamy angel's trumpets, surrounded by the smaller bunches of white yarrows and night scented phlox and forget-me-nots. Something for his friend, the best he can do.

He hurries along the empty streets towards a well known fate, ready to become lost and unknown and a simple stranger in the crowds, at least until he's found again by the eyes of his pursuers. The warmth of the encounter remains with him, helping him fight the relentless cold of both the weather and the empty house he'd be taken back to. 

A signature can be seen in the corner of the floral portrait, along a big text in the teens horrible handwriting. " Until next time. " It reads casually. 

" Until next time. " Shou hopes.

#NO ICONS WE BALL #DIES #the meme: food #me: what if i make it a whole scenario with meaningful encounters and blossoming friendships and inevitable separation #where the 2 overcome smthing together but there is no reason to stick to each other anymore and shou doesn't want to get anyone involved #in his batshit insane life #IM SO NORMAL. IM SO SANE. #The bouquet flowers choice is a bit ooc cuz shou wld choose smthing random af #but i made it aesthetically pleasing just for the sake of it <3 #HERE YOU GO LYNN. THIS TOOK ME FOREVER FOR NO REASON ( COLLEGE ) #lays on the floor #They're already so important to me. wtf. #ショウ ; distortion confronts both heart and mind. / writing. #ショウ ; we scraped our bones to get fire. / inbox. #nulltune

[dr3amofagame]

take a shot - dsmp!mcc fic

MCC FIC! MCC FIC! MCC FIC! To be clear, I outlined this weeks back, when teams were first announced, and I took very very little from the actual MCC itself when it came to actually writing this - all I have are the same teams, but it really exists in its own continuity outside of Real Life MCC (obviously, as it’s using the dsmp characters) and everything like that as a whole! Just to be clear :D)

The worldbuilding is also Absolutely Bullshitted start to finish, as well as any and all medical information. Rip. We’re here for a good time, not for a long or particularly accurate one - hope you guys enjoy regardless!! I had a LOT of fun writing this fic, dsmp!mcc aus my BELOVED

title obviously from win it all by derivakat

---

Michael loves MCC.

But it’s one thing to love the normal Championships and quite another when his team looks like it’s falling apart from the inside out - and as the games progress, it becomes more and more obvious that losing, this time, might not be an option.

tws: C!QUACKITY CRITICAL (sorry i promise i love him but he is NOT portrayed very nicely here, very dark portrayal of him), implied trauma, abuse, torture, panic attacks, manipulation, gaslighting, needles, hospitals, MCC-typical violence, emotional distress, prison arc, pandora’s vault themes

(16k words !! :D long boi) 

Michael loves MCC.

Of course he does! It’s fucking MCC - like, who wouldn’t love it? MCC is how he met so many people, how he met Dream, that one time, the two of them teamed with Techno and Burren and winning it all - MCC is a goddamn blast and he’s thankful every time he gets the invite that he’s able to compete. 

Still- it’s hard not to be a little more nervous, now. 

Dream gave him an invite to his SMP right after they teamed, but it wasn’t until months later that Michael actually cashed it in. Entering the server, it became very obvious very quickly that the DreamSMP, as it’s known, isn’t quite the same as its shiny media appearance. The spawn was covered in blocks, creeper holes littering the ground. The people he passed were grey-faced, too stoic to be the same, smiling faces he remembers from only less than a year ago. The air stings of gunpowder and iron. Worst of all are The Crater, shoddily covered in glass that does nothing to hide the damage done, rending the server in two straight down to bedrock, and the Prison, looming on the horizon. Absent-mindedly, Michael rubs at his left shoulder, remembering the Warden setting the prongs of his trident against the skin in warning, just hard enough to barely draw blood. Yeah, that place is bad news. 

The fact of the matter is the server is a mess. And like, okay, whatever, Michael gets it. Everyone has their issues - it’s just the DreamSMP seems to have more than most. Despite his original worries, it’s honestly not been as bad as he originally feared upon logging in; yeah, Bad and Puffy and Foolish and the rest of them are a little more trigger-happy than he might’ve expected (and he’s not going to say that Bad crying over turtles wasn’t a little startling when he first joined, but honestly he thinks Bad is just Like That.) There’s way more death than he’s really comfortable with, and Puffy keeps mentioning Bad murdering her son (Foolish? He thinks? The guy is also a literal God but like, families are weird, who’s he to judge) in a way that’s way too casual to come from anyone entirely well-adjusted, but overall his experience has been alright. 

Still, he gets the feeling that nobody exactly wants the outside world to know about the issues with the place. It’s not an issue for him usually, not when his sleeping schedule is the exact opposite of most of the people he knows and he spends most of his time screwing around on the server, anyway (usually harassing the Warden until the asscrack of dawn if he’s being honest) but with MCC, with everyone watching - he’s starting to get why everyone from the SMP was so damn tense all the time, now. 

Anyway- he loves MCC, he really does. But even that doesn’t stop him from wincing when he sees his team card, the names Dream and Quackity and Sapnap written in Scott’s looping handwriting. He’s not seen Sapnap at all since joining the server, has only heard a little about his place (something Kingdom, not that he was paying attention) from Foolish, and has no idea what the man has been up to. Quackity is his own unique can of worms; Michael doesn’t know exactly what’s up with him and his country, but everything he’s heard so far has sounded like nothing but bad news, casinos and schemes and a trail of wreckage following wherever he goes. And Dream-

Michael looks out his window, chewing on his lip, looking directly in the direction where he knows the prison stands, impenetrable, intimidating. Where Dream’s cell is, in line with his house, where he’s been hidden for months without a trace. Where the Warden had confronted him that one night, a dangerous gleam in his eyes, blood splattered on his boots. 

There’s no real ignoring an MCC invite - not without good reason, not without the admins picking up on something being up. There’s not really a choice, here, but for Michael to duck his head down and pretend everything’s fine just like everyone else from the SMP. He directs one last glance at the prison before walking away, setting the invite on his counter. If he’s lucky, everything will turn out fine. 

(He ignores the part of him that asks what’s going to happen if they’re not. No point in worrying about what hasn’t happened yet - right?) 

---

Weeks pass, the tournament creeping closer, and Michael gets no alerts from his teammates on his comm. No one comes to his house to check in, say hi, not even a ‘hey, we’re kinda competing in a massive tournament in like, seven days, you ready?’ Hell, he even starts checking his goddamn mailbox for a letter or something only to come up empty-handed every time. Never mind performing well - it’ll be a miracle if their team manages to arrive at the tournament at all. 

It isn’t until the day before MCC, the sun high in the sky at what must be near noon, when he finally gets a message on his comm. Michael fishes it out with a frustrated huff, seeing Quackity’s name pop up first when he manages to turn on the screen. 

Quackity whispers to you: you down for some practice?

It takes a couple seconds for him to blink away his shock - out of everyone he expected to arrange practice for their team, Quackity was definitely not at the top of the list. He half-thought they would have to drag him to the tournament kicking and screaming; from what he’s heard, he’s been nothing if not devoted to his country. Shaking his head, he goes to reply; practice is practice, and their team really needs it. 

You whisper to Quackity: sure. practice server?

Quackity whispers to you: yes

Pulling up his server list, Michael scrolls for the practice server, finding it and then letting the server transfer do the rest. A few nausea-inducing seconds later, he’s at the practice server spawn, standing in the middle of a neatly paved road surrounded by colorful arenas and signs. 

“Michael!” 

He turns; there, by the Battle Box arenas, Quackity is waving at him, already dressed in a red varsity jacket and a pair of shorts, the jacket bearing a front pocket embroidered with a rabbit and a large R stitched onto the back. He reaches behind him for a red bag, throws it his way for Michael to catch mid-air. 

“Got these outfits for us last minute - hope it’s alright with you,” Quackity smiles, and Michael tries to prevent his eyes from clinging to the scar spanning the entire left side of his face. “Anyway- how are you, man? I feel like we haven’t seen each other at all on the server. How’s it been?”

“I’m good- it’s been good.” Michael opens the drawstring bag, cataloguing the contents - there’s a jacket, just like Quackity’s, a pair of shorts and sweatpants, a t-shirt, and a headband, all in varying shades of red and white. “Nice outfit- thank you. Is anyone else around?”

Quackity waves a hand behind him. “Yeah- Dream’s here. Should be coming out of the arena soon, actually.” Michael looks over behind his shoulder to where he’s pointing - there, walking down the stairs, is another figure wearing all red that must be Dream. “There he is- hey Dream! Michael’s here!” 

Dream hurries down the stairs; unlike Quackity, he is wearing the sweatpants along with the same jacket, hands stuffed in his pockets. His hair is a lot longer than Michael remembers, pulled back behind his head in a ponytail, mask, as usual, fastened over his face. He settles behind Quackity, giving Michael a small wave; his hands are covered by a pair of fingerless gloves. 

“Hey, Dream!” Michael grins; it’s been such a long time since he’s seen his old teammate, and despite the circumstances and everything that’s apparently happened since then, it’s still pretty damn nice to see him. “How’ve you been?”

Dream seems to freeze for a moment, before shaking his head. “Good,” he says, quiet, sounding almost breathless. Michael’s eyes go to the slivers of skin that show on either side of his face, to the slight shake to his hands. 

“You alright? You look a little pale,” Michael asks, and he definitely doesn’t miss the way Dream stills at the words, muscles tensing, gaze averting to the side even with the mask - doesn’t miss how Quackity steps forward, looking Michael in the eye as he tosses a casual arm around Dream’s shoulder, smiling brightly. 

“Don’t worry. This idiot has just been practicing a bit too much before you got here,” Quackity gestures with a flippant twist of his wrist, “You know how he gets. Right, Dream?” 

“Um- yeah. Ha,” Dream responds just a little too late to be strictly normal, shoulders tight and nearly pulled to his ears under Quackity’s arm. “Practice- I’m a little out of shape.” 

“You sure?” Dream’s breathing hitches and Quackity steps forward, just a little bit, eyes still fixed firmly on Michael’s own even as he shifts his gaze to try and look at Dream. “We can take a break if you need, Dream-”

“I’m fine!” Dream smiles with a little stuttered breath that turns into a small laugh, “It’s- uh. It’s fine. Thanks Michael, but we can practice. Not much time left to waste, you know?”

“You sure, Dream?” Quackity says, suddenly, voice soft and sincere. “I guess it has been a while since you’ve been able to practice- you sure you don’t need a break?”

Dream shakes his head firmly. “No- it’s fine. Really- where’s Sapnap? He should be coming soon, right?”

“If you say so, pal,” Quackity replies, doubt coloring his tone as he pulls out his communicator. “I told Sapnap to come, he replied a couple minutes back; he should be here soon, I think. You want to go meet him at spawn?”

Dream nods, and they begin to set out towards the center of the server, Quackity and Dream quickly taking the lead as Michael falls back. After a minute, Quackity falls into casual conversation, rambling about something as Dream nods, Michael trailing behind the two of them and adding his own input as he sees fit. Sapnap arrives soon after, and the noise level picks up even more after that, Sapnap and Quackity falling into an easy rhythm of banter and quips as they set out to practice Battle Box and Parkour Tag, carefully working their way through the different games under Dream’s tutelage and advice. 

And here’s the thing- Michael isn’t stupid. Yeah, he’d hardly consider himself a top tier MCC player, and he’ll be the first to say that he’s nowhere near qualified to deal with the literal laundry list of issues that affect every member of the SMP, but even so, he’s not clueless. He’s good at looking at multiple sides of a situation, doesn’t easily give into intimidation or manipulation, and he’s observant as all hell. So when Quackity wraps his hand around Dream’s wrist, fingers wrapping all the way around until his knuckles pale, when Dream winces, muscles in his arm locking before letting it go limp, not protesting when Quackity drags him forward except in the tiny, tight expressions that flit across his face every few moments, tight and gasping and shaky at the corners - Michael notices. 

“See you at the tourney, yeah?” Quackity calls to him after practice with a wink before clapping Dream on the back, Michael watching silently as the muscles of Dream’s neck pull tight, head ducking to his chest. “Good job, big guy,” he says, laughing. “Keep this up for tomorrow and we’ll be good.”

“Mmhm,” Dream mutters after a brief second, “We’re- we’re gonna win.”

“Betting on it, pal,” Quackity replies, voice light in a way that completely fails to explain Dream’s full-body flinch. “MCC, huh? Can’t fucking wait.”

“See you tomorrow, Quackity,” Michael says as he presses DreamSMP on his server list, pretending that a chill doesn’t crawl down his spine at the smile that the other man throws his way in return. 

---

There’s no real easy answer.

Michael comes to that conclusion at some point in the middle of the night, restless and pumped on way too much adrenaline to go to sleep. He can’t outright antagonize Quackity, can’t let him know he knows something’s up - not when Quackity had already spent the majority of practice keeping one dark, narrowed eye on him at all times, lips pursed in a slight frown whenever he thought Michael wasn’t looking. He’s not stupid; whatever’s happening between Dream and Quackity is secret, and kept that way for a reason. His mind goes back to the brief flashes of anxiety that had moved over Dream’s face before he could react fast enough to school them back into a carefully neutral position; whatever it is, he doubts it bodes well for Dream in the slightest. 

Unfortunately, his hands are pretty damn tied. He knows public opinion on the masked man in the server is overwhelmingly negative, but has no damn idea how far it extends. How many people are in on whatever’s happening in that damn prison? How many people know what would make Dream, bold and bright and recklessly confident in all of Michael’s (rather limited) memories, into someone so quiet, unimposing, nervous? His head spins with the possibilities, with the ever-present reminder to not make a fuss, let the tournament pass on, to never, ever let anyone find out what’s going on within the SMP. Should he do anything at all? 

Too soon, it’s morning, and he drags himself out of bed with a groan to glare at the sun streaming through his window. Somewhere, Quackity and Dream and Sapnap are also waking up, are preparing to compete in one of the biggest damn tournaments to exist. Michael sighs, glancing over to where he’s set out his outfit, freshly pressed and waiting. Any other day, and he’d probably be fucking ecstatic. Here, he buries his head in his hands, muffling a frustrated groan against the palm of his hands. 

He loves MCC, but he sure as hell doesn��t like whatever the hell is going on with the rest of his team. 

Getting into the server goes smoothly enough. The outfit is comfortable and looks damn good, props to whoever made the thing, and the sight of the multicolored crowd successfully manages to tamp down some of his nerves. He busies himself with saying hi to all of the members waiting in the lobby, happy for the chance to talk to some people he hasn’t seen in ages, feels the night of anxieties wash away with every stupid joke told and burst of laughter drawn from his lungs. 

They come back the moment Scott steps up in front of the lobby. “Teams, it’s time to head to your team rooms! The tournament will begin in fifteen minutes,” Scott says, expression sunny and bright, “we’re wishing you all luck for a great performance today! May the best team win!” 

In a flurry of movement, they’re all whisked to their rooms for a final few minutes of preparation and morale-boosting, and Michael enters the glorified dressing room to Quackity, Dream, and Sapnap already standing there, seemingly in the middle of conversation. 

“You ready to win?” Sapnap yells, and Quackity whoops, and Michael manages a small cheer of his own. They’re all visibly nervous; Quackity has scarcely stopped moving, pacing from one side of the room to the next; Sapnap is basically jumping in place where he stands. Dream stands at the very back of the room, looking tense; Michael directs a wave his way and gets a small one in return. 

“Game plan, game plan,” Quackity mutters, “do we know what games we’re playing first? Dream?”

He nods at Dream, and Dream stands up straighter, mouth falling open.

“Oh- um,” he hesitates, a strand of hair flopping forwards as he tilts his head in thought. “We’ll want to save Parkour Tag and Battle Box towards the end- maybe something more high-risk at the beginning, but not first, just to boost morale,” his teeth catch on his bottom lip, “Maybe something like To Get To The Other Side? If they have that- or Build Mart, if we can get it out of the way.” He shakes his head. “If that’s alright- I mean-”

“Great,” Quackity cuts in smoothly. “Sapnap? Michael? Does that sound good to you?”

Sapnap flashes a thumbs up, and Michael nods. “Yeah, sounds great. Thanks, Dream.”

Dream’s head snaps towards him, mouth slightly open in shock. The sight of it makes Michael’s gut twist uncomfortably; there’s something about how surprised he is, at the nervous hesitancy with which he spoke that was nothing like what Michael remembers of his easy leadership in that MCC with Techno, that doesn’t sit right at all in his stomach. Even with his expression largely hidden, there’s no mistaking the clear, genuine surprise on his face at the idea of someone thanking him - Michael tries to tell himself that he’s reading too much into it as Quackity continues to speak. 

“We’re going to win,” he grins, just a little too sharp at the edges, “so get out there and play like your lives depend on it, yeah?” 

Sapnap cheers, and again, Michael and Dream follow. It’s not until he’s outside the door, within the clamor of screaming teams and people counting down with the timer that Michael realizes that Quackity was staring at Dream the entire time. 

---

Michael curses, frustrated, when he’s knocked off a platform again, making sure to flip Krinios the bird before he falls into the Void entirely. When he makes it to the other side, Quackity and Dream are already deep in conversation - if you can call it that. Even from here, it looks worryingly one-sided.

“-were you thinking, falling off there-” Quackity’s hand is on Dream’s shoulder, Dream standing stock-still in front of him, “you better be taking this seriously, Dream.”

“Hey- sorry about that,” Michael calls with a wave, “I swear Krinios had it out for me. At least I made it across, right?” 

Quackity turns, startled, and in the split-second that it takes for him to register Michael’s appearance, his expression smooths over into something friendlier, more inviting. “Michael!” He says, enthusiastic, and it’s like the anger that had filled his words just seconds before was never there at all. “Don’t- don’t worry about it, man. We all kinda dropped the ball on that one, right Dream?” 

The words should be encouraging, just simple ribbing between teammates. Dream’s mask is still ducked down, facing the floor, shoulders slightly hunched in. 

“Um- Sapnap did pretty good,” Dream says, quiet, “he got top ten, right?” 

Michael looks over to where Sapnap is standing a little ways away, seemingly busy typing on his communicator. Quackity laughs, sharp and loud. 

“True,” he punches Dream lightly on the upper arm, and Michael watches the way he freezes the second the fist makes contact with his jacket, “come on, man, you’re losing your touch. You really gonna let yourself get beat by Sapnap?” he shakes his head, still laughing as he pulls open his communicator. “Jesus- even I beat you in that last round. Watch your spot, Dream, I’m coming for you.” 

“I mean,” Michael says when a second passes and it becomes clear Dream isn’t going to respond, “Dream was doing pretty well with the last two rounds, right? I thought I saw his name pretty far up there.” 

Quackity takes a second before responding, again, staring at Michael oddly as he does. “That’s true,” he concedes, “hey- I was just making a joke, don’t worry. It’s all for fun, right Dream?”

His gaze goes to Dream, and automatically, Michael follows. Dream seems to startle under the attention, twitching Quackity’s direction in the awkward silence that results. Michael watches as the mask slants slightly to face Quackity, as Quackity looks back at him with an intense, unreadable expression, shoulders strangely tense. Whatever unsaid conversation that seems to pass between them is entirely lost on Michael as Dream finally responds with a sudden, almost strangled bark of laughter. 

“Yeah- just jokes,” his fingers twist over one another, hands held close together in front of his body, “Though Qu- Q’s right, I- I should probably pick it up. We’re playing to win.” 

A ding alerts them to the end of the round, and Michael steadies himself in preparation for the teleport to the next map. As he turns, he catches Quackity’s expression, once again, and the self-satisfied smirk on his face as he continues to look at Dream. 

“Good luck,” he calls just before they enter the next round, and tries not to think too much about what he’s saying it for. 

---

They manage pretty well for the rest of To Get To The Other Side, finishing with a second place overall that got cheers from Sapnap and even a slight smile from Dream. Hole in the Wall, on the other hand, has been a lot less successful - though Michael will be the first to say that it’s his fault. His practice in the last few months has been lackluster (at best) and it definitely showed in the arena. 

He leans over the railing, watching Dream and Sapnap through the crowd of participants left that have yet to be knocked out by the giant walls of slime. Quackity’s standing next to him, having been similarly thrown off the platform early in the round, expression tight and lips set in a small frown, and looking at him for too long makes Michael uneasy so he looks down at the arena again. They’re in the last round, and they’re supposed to be making callouts anyway for their teammates still participating below.

Without thinking, once again, Michael looks over at Dream. Sue him, he knows the guy best and Dream has been acting odd all day, to put it lightly. Even ignoring the part of him that’s screaming that something’s wrong, that there’s something up that has everything to do with the beanie-wearing man standing besides him, it only takes a few minutes of observation to see that Dream is - for the lack of a better word - off. Michael watches as he vaults over another wall, only barely managing to bring himself to his feet in time on the other side. Dream’s movements - even to his untrained eye - have always been fluid, effortless. He jumped and vaulted and ran like gravity didn’t exist, like every physics-bending maneuver he made was as easy as breathing. Michael remembers watching him sprint over the parkour course before, time completely unmatched as he appraised each obstacle and basically flew his way through, sounding hardly even winded when he whooped loudly in victory from the top of the salmon ladder. In total contrast, Dream jerks away from the coming wall again, movements sloppy and harsh as he scrambles to the other side of the disc-shaped arena. He’s still fast, and still making jumps, but everything is strangely angled where it had once been fluid, stopping and starting suddenly, moving in bursts of speed and then skidding to sudden stops. 

“WEST!” Quackity shouts, and Michael watches as Dream’s head turns jerkily at the noise before he dives out of the way of the incoming wall and manages, barely, to twist around the side. Michael winces at the tumble he takes on the opposite side, clutching his chest slightly as he stands back up again. 

“North!” Michael calls, because he should probably actually help his teammates, huh, and Dream manages to move around this one better, jumping through a hole in the wall and tucking and rolling as he lands. “Nice jump- East!” 

It’s an easy wall, thankfully, and both Sapnap and Dream visibly take a breath as they stand in place for the wall to pass over them. As it passes, a droning buzz comes from the speakers, and the walls below them speed up. 

“South-to your right!” Michael shouts as they turn, eyes turning between all of the false walls before finally focusing on the right one, his shout echoed by a similar one from Quackity. At each one of the calls from the man besides him, Dream seems to tighten further, movements increasingly erratic as he dodges and weaves around the walls. There’s still a lot of people left - Michael follows Dream through the crowd with a frown, watching as he and Sapnap jump the next wall, Dream’s foot nearly catching on the top edge. 

“West-” Dream flinches, jumping over the two-high wall at the last possible second, landing completely off-balance on the other side and falling to the ground. He scrambles to his feet, but there’s already a wall at the west edge of the platform - his head turns, still searching for the wall - Quackity yells.

“LEFT!”

Something in Dream’s movements seem to shift, even in the distance - Michael watches as he immediately, almost robotically, steps to the left at Quackity’s voice, not even jumping, not turning his head to take in his surroundings, just moving instinctually at the words, and slams into the coming wall hard enough to get flung into the middle hole in the platform. Quackity curses, fist crashing into the railing as Dream falls and the chat message shows on their communicators, and a second later he’s materialized beside them, face oddly slack and mask focused somewhere faraway. 

“Shit,” Dream mutters when he seems to come back into himself, shaking his head and then turning to the two of them, still by the railing, “Dammit. Sorry, I-“ 

“Don’t worry about it,” Michael cuts in before Quackity can speak. “You did good.” 

“I-” Dream catches Quackity’s gaze, then pushes his head away, mask facing the ground. Something about it and his raised shoulders and the dark, angry glare that Quackity directs over the railing when Michael looks back makes him shift in place, uneasy. “Could’ve done better, ha. Sorry.” 

The three of them watch, silent, as Sapnap continues to compete. He manages to get pretty damn far, making it to the top three, but getting knocked off-balance by a wall and off the platform just before the timer sounds. Michael cringes back at the sound of it over the speakers, watches the other contestants settle into place, panting, in victory.

“Great job, Sapnap,” Michael shouts when he materializes in front of them, and the other two are quick to echo his sentiments. If they sound a little duller than they should be, if Quackity’s jaw seems clenched and Dream’s all coiled up like a spring, far too tense, it’s from placing lower than they wanted and slipping in the rankings, not anything else.

Keep your head down, Michael reminds himself, and everything’s gonna be fine. And if the words ring more and more hollow with every repetition, well, that’s for him to ignore and for everyone else to never, ever find out. 

---

Buildmart is chosen next, which they all groan at, but at least it’s going to be out early and not left to ruin all of their scores later. Michael takes his place at his build, one third from the left side - it’s some abomination of colored glass and white concrete meant, if he is to guess, to emulate a stained glass window. He’s between Dream and Sapnap, the former positioned in front of a flower-dotted grass field with a picnic table, the latter staring down a miniature car with black concrete for tires and stone buttons for detailing. He breathes a steady breath as they await the countdown, already planning for his trip to the Colors section to grab materials for his build and the others’- Buildmart isn’t his strongest game, but it’s not his worst either, and he’s damn well going to try his best. 

He skids into the portal with an armful of colored concrete and glass, spilling half of its contents inside a chest before running to his build. He pulls himself to the crafting bench to craft - he squints at his build - he needs four red glass panes and 3 yellow, right. As he brings the panes to his inventory and begins laying out the frame of the build in concrete, he looks over to Dream, who is noticeably struggling with placing the flowers in his build and getting the placements to match that of the original. He knocks away a white tulip with a muffled curse, sounding frantic as he looks back to the original, and places it again to no avail. 

It seems that his struggle hasn’t only caught Michael’s attention, as the statue to the leftmost side of the room explodes in gold coins and confetti - Quackity has finished his build and is now looking at Dream with narrowed eyes. Dream places the flower again, and the build refuses to respond. Quackity’s gaze narrows further, and he opens his mouth-

“Hey Quackity!” Michael starts speaking before he’s even noticed that he’s opened his mouth, fumbling as he regains awareness of what he’s doing and tries to find a direction for his sentence to go, “do you have any concrete?”

Quackity looks at him like he’s grown a second head, which is fair, considering there’s a block of white concrete pretty obviously visible in his hand. “Um- no? Weren’t you supposed to go to Colors?”

Dream finally manages to place the tulip where it belongs, and the build between them disappears in another explosion of gold glitter. Michael laughs awkwardly. 

“Sorry- haha. I got a little mixed up.” He places the last piece of white concrete, watching as his own build disappears. A little wooden cottage takes its place, made of what appears to be just oak wood and cobblestone. “Are you going to get wood? Or should I?”

“I- You get wood,” Quackity shakes his head, visibly frustrated, “And I’ll get stone. We have to hurry, we’re falling behind.” 

After that, Michael finds it a little too easy - or maybe not easy, but at least tolerable, to interrupt when Quackity looks a little like he’s about to fall on the side of being angry versus just annoyed, stepping between his angry glares at Dream with a forced smile and an incessant string of annoying questions- 

“Hey Quackity, do you have any spare iron?”

“Hey Quackity, I think you placed that a little too far back.”

“Hey Quackity, can you take a look to see what I placed wrong?” 

It’s not perfect. It’s hardly even functional; Michael knows that Quackity has begun with the habit of directing death glares at his back whenever he thinks he’s not looking, his responses to Michael’s questions becoming more and more clipped, often paired with irritated grumbles and sighs. Sapnap, when Michael looks at him, seems largely engrossed with his own builds, but he’s also begun looking over at the two of them with a vaguely dissatisfied expression, and Dream only seems to be getting more jumpy with every frustrated growl out of Quackity’s mouth. Even Michael’s forced levity and falsely ignorant questions can’t do much against Quackity’s anger when they walk out of Buildmart dead last for the minigame, dropping their team all the way down to seventh in the overall rankings, and the tension within the team as they walk out - Quackity nearly stomping, Dream following with his hands wringing around each other and head ducked fearfully - is almost enough to make Michael scream. He looks at the scoreboard with a worried expression as he enters the Decision Dome, trying to quell the sinking feeling in his gut. 

There’s still five more games to go, and he’s not sure how long they can last before something snaps. 

---

Battle Box is chosen next, and they react to the game with quiet cheers and slightly grim faces. Michael’s been in enough MCCs to know that this game, of any, is crucial - after their lacking performances in the last two games, a good showing at Battle Box will be crucial to pull them back into the competition and raise morale. With Sapnap and Dream, if this were any normal game, they should be able to sweep through a good amount of the competition without much effort. As it is, though, Michael looks at the two more combat-oriented members of his team with a worried expression, the two barely even able to meet each other’s eyes. Their interactions so far have been less than promising- if they can’t hold it together for this round, well. 

Michael shakes his head. They’ll do fine. They have to. 

Even so, the first round only seems to confirm his concerns - they get woolrushed almost immediately, and in Dream and Sapnap’s stumbling to get to mid, nearly crashing into each other and focusing their efforts on the same player by accident, the other team manages to fill out the wool, sending them back to the spawn box even more frustrated than before. 

“Amazing teamwork, guys,” Quackity snarks immediately, and Michael rolls his eyes. 

“Like you did that much.” 

Sapnap is still staring at Dream oddly, Dream turning his head to avoid his gaze. The two of them look largely oblivious to Quackity and his whole deal, even as Quackity whirls around to give him the stink eye. 

“You didn’t do anything either, if I remember correctly,” Quackity mutters, and Michael shrugs. 

“Fair.” 

A ding alerts them to the round’s end, and they resign themselves to preparing for the next round. Michael picks the extra arrows from the wall, knowing that no one else will want the kit, and watches as Dream anxiously runs his hands over the crossbow. 

The next round goes better, barely; Michael and Quackity end up knocked out pretty early, but Dream and Sapnap manage to kill the rest of the team soon after. He watches from the box as they fill in the wool, Dream looking awfully tense as he shears away the white wool for Sapnap to fill it with red. Quackity watches them both with a tight expression, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. 

Michael turns away, ignoring him, going back to watching Dream and Sapnap still standing within the arena. Both of them look awkward, oddly out of step with each other - Michael’s not watched them fight much, but he knows that they have a reputation as a pair, was there for the Sky Battle round where they completely wiped through the competition. Even here, Sapnap moves forward and Dream flinches back - there’s something heavy and tense between them, lingering in the few words they’ve spoken to each other, if they’ve even spoken to each other at all, one always rushing forward too fast or following just a little too slow. They’re still brilliant fighters, almost unrivaled in hand-to-hand combat and with swords, but the faltering communication is sure to hurt them more in the future. 

His worries come true just three rounds later, the two in between being narrow wins for their team, each a little more shaky than would be comfortable. Michael has found himself easing off the worst of his anxiety in verbally sparring with Quackity, jabbing at the other with offhand remarks and little needling jokes to keep his attention off the other two, especially as his glare has become more pronounced and his words more angry. Even so, nothing he does or can do will fix the odd tension between Dream and Sapnap, whose communication remains as stilted and awkward as ever. 

They’re facing a stronger team, PVP wise, with Punz and Seapeekay, and Michael ends up falling in a bow duel against Jack. He watches as the Captain falls to a potion by Sapnap, then as Jack is taken out by a crossbow bolt courtesy of Dream, just before Quackity falls to a well-timed bow shot from the opposing team. 

That leaves the strongest PVPers to battle it out, and Dream and Sapnap manage to team up and kill CPK - but not without taking a nasty damage potion to the face that must leave the two of them low. Michael watches Punz, booking it to mid with a crossbow, anxiously - both of them would be a oneshot with the thing, and on the condition that he takes no damage before fighting with either of them outright, he’s probably got enough health to hold out a few hits. 

Sapnap pulls out a health potion, and Michael grins - that’ll be good for the two of them, and should secure them the win - only for him to gesture roughly with his sword and for Dream to stagger backwards, panic flashing over his face. He only seems to grow more fearful at the sound of glass shattering on the ground, falling backwards further - far enough to be largely out of range of health pot - and in their shock, Punz manages to catch both of them off guard and nail Sapnap with a crossbow bolt that downs him for the round before similarly dispatching Dream in two hits of his sword.

Sapnap explodes upon respawn in the box - “What was that? I had a health pot!”

“I-” Dream fumbles, face still oddly pale, “Sorry I didn’t- I- I-”

“We had that round!” Sapnap’s arms flail forward as he gestures angrily, Dream freezing further as one hand skims past his shoulder. “I can’t believe- I had a health pot! Punz was on, like, half! We could’ve killed him!”

“Easy, easy,” Quackity moves forward, putting a hand on both of their shoulders - Sapnap seems to relax immediately, while Dream, if anything, only looks more tense. “It’s time for the next round - we’ll talk about this later, alright?” 

Dream nods, movements overly tense, and Quackity flashes a toothy smile his way as Sapnap moves back, still mumbling to himself. He and Quackity move to talk in the back corner, words quiet enough that Michael cannot make them out, and something sick and cold slithers over his spine. Sapnap and Quackity are fiancés, aren’t they? 

Michael looks over at Dream, mask still covering his face as he looks away through the glass to the arena, shoulders still tight as Michael’s pretty sure they’ve been for as long as he’s seen him since he came onto the server. He remembers the panic that make itself obvious on his face every time Quackity came up to him, even as covered as it is, the similar- if not the same- fear that had painted his face when he respawned fresh off of the Battle Box round after Sapnap’s sword had passed a little too close to his body. 

Quackity and Dream- he’s sure, even if he doesn’t want to admit it, that there’s something going on there, dark and dreadful and poisonous. Who’s to say that Sapnap isn’t involved, as well? 

---

They finish Battle Box decently well, but not as well as they’d hoped, pulling them up to fifth place with a decently large gap between them and fourth. Quackity and Dream disappear immediately as the Audience Votes begin coming in, leaving Sapnap and Michael to stand awkwardly in the lobby to wait for the rest of their team to come back. Michael watches the crowd for a glimpse of Quackity and Dream, comes up empty. A sigh fizzles through his teeth as he looks up into the sky, the endless blue doing little to ease his nerves - he’s worried, even if he doesn’t want to think about it, for his teammates. For Dream. 

It doesn’t take a genius to see that the man is scared of Quackity, that there’s an odd sort of history there that Michael conveniently has no information about. Whatever it is, it’s left Dream unsure and uncharacteristically nervous, left the entire team floundering without proper leadership to tie them all together. Really, a part of him knows that the Championships should be the least of his concerns - if he were braver, or a little better at combat, or a little less inclined to just let things pass as they always have, then he’d be raising a fuss. Getting in the way, talking to Dream, doing something other than making backhanded compliments to Quackity that he’s sure have been doing little more than annoy the man further. 

“Michael?” Sapnap comes within his line of sight, lips pressed together in a carefully put-together expression that Michael is sure will collapse the moment they’re away from others’ prying eyes, “Can we speak for a moment?”

Michael forces another easy smile to his face as he turns towards his teammate, feels a little disgusted at the amount of them he’s had to use to simply function with the rest of his team. “Sure! Where to?”

They walk at a brisk pace to the team room, Sapnap’s eyes focused forwards the entire time, not speaking. If he’s being honest, it’s a little awkward, but the lighthearted comment on his tongue to break the silence dies out the minute Sapnap closes the door and looks back at him with fierce, focused eyes boring into him. 

“What’s your deal?” He hisses immediately, words pitched low even though he doesn’t really have to - there’s no one nearby, and the team rooms are decently soundproofed. Michael feels his hackles rising as Sapnap’s arms cross in front of him, eyes still focused on his own as he talks. “I’m not going to lie- I don’t know you that well, even though you’re on the SMP now, but can you quit it with Quackity already?”

“Quit what?” Michael snarks - sue him - matching Sapnap’s tone with irritation of his own. 

“Don’t- you’ve been antagonizing Quackity all day,” Sapnap’s hand runs through his hair, messing up his hair and tangling it into knots, “And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re kind of in the middle of a competition here? So it’d be really nice if you could save the fighting for until after we’re done?”

“Says you?” Michael can’t help the retort this time, huffing irately at the offended expression that flashes over the other’s face, “I don’t really know if you’ve noticed, but your teamwork has been a little less than stellar, today. Pot calling the kettle black, much?”

“What-” Sapnap looks confused, even through his anger, gesturing more and more wildly. “What do you even mean?”

“Oh, so are we just ignoring what just happened in Battle Box then?” 

Sapnap’s eyes flash as he closes into himself again, hands gripping at his upper arms as he crosses his arms in front of his chest once again. “That- that’s different. That’s because of Dream.”

“Oh, just keep blaming it on the other guy, why don’t you?”

“No-” Sapnap shakes his head furiously. “You haven’t been on here for nearly as long, you don’t get it, Michael. Dream- he’s-,” Sapnap flails, and Michael groans at the familiar words. 

“Dream’s what? I was on the team with the guy before, you know. It’s kind of the reason why he invited me in the first place?” He raises an eyebrow. “We worked together perfectly well then - am I supposed to believe that his self-proclaimed ‘best friend’ can’t do the same?” 

“You don’t understand,” Sapnap repeats, expression hard and oddly far away, “Dream- he’s changed- he’s done so many terrible things. I don’t know what he’s said to convince you, but he’s bad news, man. He’s hurt- so many people.” 

“Oh- you want to talk about hurting people?” 

Michael isn’t quite sure what comes over him - only really realizes a white-hot flash of rage lancing through his chest, a sleepless night and half a competition’s  worth of anxiety and frustration and build up combining into a sizzling spike of fury that briefly tinges his vision red. 

“How about the way Dream looks like he’s about to keel over whenever anyone gets close to him? How about how he flinches back at literally every loud noise and fast movement? How about how Quackity’s been making these stupid, angry comments at him for the entire competition that make him freeze for a minute each time? Or how about when you were in Battle Box and Dream backed away from your sword like he thought you were gonna drive it through his chest?” Michael barely feels himself stepping forward with each word, jabbing his index finger into the other’s chest. “You want to talk about hurting people? How about you go talk to that fiancé of yours and then come back to talk?” 

A loud, droning buzz comes over the speakers, alerting them of the end of the break. Michael steps back, face flushed in embarrassment, before the world whirls away and they’re teleported back into the Decision Dome. 

He adamantly refuses to meet Sapnap’s eyes as Quackity and Dream materialize in the sector with them, Quackity’s hand clamped around Dream’s upper arm as the other man keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the floor, looking even more panicked and frozen than before the break. 

“You ready to win?” Quackity laughs, and Michael watches as his hand tightens around the sleeve of Dream’s jacket, knuckles paling from the strain. 

“Yeah,” Michael tries to cheer, and it feels like ash on his tongue. “Let’s do this.” 

---

Survival Games ends up being picked next - Quackity and Sapnap quickly pull up to the front of the group, close enough to be within eyesight but too far to really pick up their conversation. Michael keeps an eye out for the reddish glow of their bodies as they scout the surrounding areas for chest, staying back with Dream as they look at the other side of the road. He’d be lying if he said that he didn’t feel a smug sort of satisfaction of Sapnap seemingly confronting Quackity about whatever the hell has been going on, as awkward as his whole outburst had been. As it is, some time with Dream is nice without Quackity watching over his shoulder like a hawk - he directs a small, genuine smile at the man by his side that Dream seems to do a double take at before shyly returning it with one of his own. 

“There- I think I see a chest,” Michael points under a lamppost, running to the wooden box and flicking the lid upwards. He pulls out a chain chestplate that he promptly puts on himself, then throws over the iron boots to his teammate as well as a small stone axe that he’s sure Dream will make better use of. “We should probably catch up to the others - don’t want to be caught off guard while separated.”

Dream nods, and the two of them pick up the pace before finding another chest that Dream rummages through, this time, finding an iron sword that Michael takes for himself and a cake. 

“You’ve been doing really well so far,” Michael says after a few minutes of quiet, words becoming more firm when Dream looks up at him with a surprised expression. “Seriously- you’ve been doing great, man.”

“Thanks,” Dream smiles, words quiet and terribly sincere, and the sinking pit in Michael’s gut returns at the tone. “Not as good as I should, though. I’ve been underperforming a lot,” he laughs a little at the words, but even to Michael’s ears it rings hollow. “It’s not over yet, though.”

“No it’s not,” Michael concedes, rearranging his inventory as they run. “But it’s good enough, man, really - just look at my rankings.”

Dream huffs. “You’ve been doing good, Michael.”

“And you’ve been doing a hell of a lot better than me,” Michael tips his head in his direction. “Give yourself some more credit, man. You’ve been playing well.”

Dream smiles again, but even now the corners of his mouth seem tight, tense. “I need to play better, though, if we want to win,” he says, matter-of-fact, analytical to a damn fault. Michael rolls his eyes, but nods to concede the point. 

“Sure, but that goes for all of us, Dream,” he shakes his head. “And it’s okay if we don’t win, you know?”

“No.” 

Michael turns, frowning. Dream’s tone has become oddly flat, eyes dead as he continues to stare at the pavement under their feet. He seems to be chewing on his lip anxiously, startled out of his own thoughts when he looks up to meet Michael’s gaze. “I mean- I don’t know. I really have- want to win.” 

There’s something so carefully worded about the admission, quiet and scraped open and raw in the slow sincerity of the words. Michael wants to poke at it, wants to understand what’s left him so unsure of every step, what determination lies behind the words that has left desperation clinging to every shallow breath he draws. A crack of thunder on the horizon, heralding a player’s death, reminds him that now is not the time. 

Keep your head down. 

“Alright,” he smiles thinly, hoping that the fracturing, yawning pit of emptiness in his chest isn’t obvious in the words. “Then we’re going to win.” 

---

Michael skids to a stop at the finish line, feeling the elytra deequip as he’s thrown into spectator mode. He runs his hands through his wind-tousled hair, feeling it strain against his fingers as he roughly finger-combs it back into place. Dream and Sapnap are off to the side, standing next to each other but seemingly not speaking - Michael smiles as he floats over, still shaking the adrenaline off from the race. 

“Hey,” the two look up, smile in recognition, and Dream waves; there’s a small smile on his face, strained but present. “You both did really good!” 

“Thanks, Michael,” Dream laughs, earnest, “I did decent, I guess- haha. Top ten at least.” 

Sapnap whoops. “We’re popping off!” Michael cheers in agreement, and their efforts manage to pull Dream’s smile a little wider as he ducks his head to look away again. 

“Thanks, guys.” 

They watch as Quackity flies through the finish line, appearing in front of them and shaking his arms out as he gets his bearings. 

“Geez- that trident,” he shakes his head, looks up. “Hey, there you guys are. How’d we do?” 

“Dream got seventh,” Sapnap scrolls through his comm, looking through the rows of contestants and their times as they come in, interspersed by the occasional chat message, “And I got 10th. Michael got- 28th, I think? And you got 32nd.” 

“Hmm,” Quackity hums, “What do you think, Dream? Is that good enough to pull us to Dodgebolt?”

Once again, Michael watches as Dream stiffens under the scrutiny, head ducking down and looking for all the world like he’d rather be anywhere else. “Um- I don’t know,” Dream mumbles, “I messed up a trident- fell into the void once, probably could’ve done better otherwise-” his voice trails off, tensing further as Quackity takes his usual spot by his side, jabbing an elbow none-too-lightly into his ribs. 

“But you didn’t, though,” Quackity says, tone flippant, “so what do you think? With those placements- is it going to be enough?” 

“Hey, we did great, man,” Michael glares at him, more forward than he’d usually be - but all he can see is the shoulder that he has pressed against Dream’s arm, the way Dream’s stood stock still since the moment he made contact, “Lay off of Dream, would you? He did great.”

“Yeah, Q,” Michael’s eyebrows raise in surprise as Sapnap chimes in from the side, rising further when Sapnap moves forward to link his arm with Quackity’s own and half-drag him away from Dream. “Chill out, man, we popped off. We’re gonna fucking win this, ok?”

Quackity’s lips press together; he’s still smiling, but there’s no mistaking the seething darkness that lingers in his narrowed eyes and furrowed eyebrows, gaze still trained on the pale off-white disk of Dream’s mask. Still, with the rest of the team against him, he’s in a losing fight and he knows it; Michael watches as he visibly backs down, rolling his shoulders back as he lets Sapnap pull him further back. 

“We’re going to fucking win this,” he repeats, and Michael wonders how he manages to make the words sound so much like a threat.

---

“Sky battle,” Sapnap calls as the decision dome below them lights up in confirmation of the penultimate game, expression immediately becoming more focused as he turns back to the rest of the team. “Alright- strats, what are we thinking?”

“There’s the iron at spawn,” Dream starts, interrupted by the teleport to the Sky Battle arena, making him cut himself off comically and take a second to shake off the resulting disorientation, “And then there’s the iron in the nearby island. We gotta pick one, tower as soon as we can.”

“Got it,” Sapnap looks down, seemingly calculating, before looking up again - Michael has heard him compared to fire before, but he thinks this is the first time he’s really seen it; there’s a veritable blaze burning in his eyes as he looks at each member of the team, easily taking charge as they prepare for the first round. “Same buddy system as Survival Games - Q, stick with me, Michael, stick with Dream. I’ll tower to the next island- Dream, you good with getting the iron at spawn and crafting armor for us?” 

Dream startles, before flashing a small thumbs up at the other - Sapnap smiles wider, teeth bared dangerously.

“This is our game,” he cheers, and Michael enthusiastically whoops in reply, “we’re winning this, you got that team? Let’s go!” 

This, Michael thinks, is the way the games should’ve gone - they jump into action upon the start of the game, Michael watching as Dream races through both chests on the spawn island, getting the iron and jumping down cleanly with a water bucket before following Sapnap’s bridge to the other island. He tosses over a pair of leggings and boots as he lands, then takes Sapnap’s excess iron to craft the other pieces of iron for himself and Sapnap as the other man begins shooting at opposing teams. Their communication is near wordless, simple one- or two-word requests communicating all they need as they follow each other seamlessly into the main arena area, sealing off their entrance as they search the ring for other teams.

Sapnap, especially, seems to have shifted - instead of waiting for Dream to take the lead, he seems comfortable barrelling on forward on his own, trusting for Dream to follow his steps. Michael watches as the two of them easily work through the two lagging members of Orange, shooting through a gap in the wall to catch an unsuspecting Yellow player chased by the border. Michael ends up dying to an unlucky block of TNT placed on his head - curses out what appears to be Quig, bounding over to the other side of the arena, and follows Dream and Sapnap as they continue to fight their way through the competition. 

It’s not perfect, for sure - Dream hesitates at a bad place a minute later, ending with Sapnap getting 2v1ed and exploding in a flash of red sparkles. Dream is similarly dispatched a few seconds after, and the three of them watch Quackity, caught in the crossfire of two other teams, before he also goes down. 

“Good work, team,” Sapnap says as he appears, disoriented, in spectator mode, and they watch the remaining two teams battling in a rapidly shrinking border before Fruit falls as well, leaving Pink as the winners. “That was close- we’ve got this.” The conviction in his voice leaves no room for argument, and Michael, briefly, feels bad for anyone that stands in the way of it. 

With the second round, they once again fall into rhythm without any major hiccups - someone tries to cut them off before entering the main arena, but are made quick work of by Sapnap’s relentless onslaught. As Michael watches, Dream seems to regain confidence as well, moving more to fight with Sapnap side by side instead of just playing support, tugging him back from a risky play and catching Punz in a nasty combo that does him in when he manages to slip past Sapnap. 

The four of them end up in the final stand off in the middle, but end up getting caught too high up and killed by the border before they can jump down. Sapnap hisses at the narrow defeat, but the disappointment has hardly seemed to dim his determination - if anything, it seems to burn brighter. 

“Last round,” he mutters, and Michael watches as Dream walks up to him, bumping him lightly with his shoulder. 

“This is our game,” he says, a small smile appearing on his face, and Sapnap returns it with a fiery, blinding one of his own. 

“Ours,” he says, and even just standing on the side, watching - Michael believes it. 

Still, his concerns have yet to disappear - they linger in his mind as they jump into an adrenaline-filled last round, jumpy from excitement and victory just within their grasps. Dream is still more jittery than he should be, taking a second more than usual to react to fights, and his teamwork with Sapnap - while good - is still noticeably rusty. Michael’s lips thin at the memory of Dream backing away from Sapnap’s sword in Battle Box, hunched into himself, almost on the floor, with a clearly desperate edge to his expression - and no matter how he tries, he can’t quite manage to shake it off. 

Unfortunately enough, the third round doesn’t bode well for them from the start - Quackity gets bowed off while bridging to the main arena, and upon entrance there they end up flanked, hard, by another team in a conflict that gets Michael killed within seconds. Sapnap and Dream book it to the other side of the arena, where they manage to work through a full team without too much trouble - but the next minute brings another half-team flying at them from the back, catching them in the middle of trying to recuperate. The two focus Dream in the middle of eating a steak, and Michael watches as Dream steps back instead of moving forward to fight, that same shade of fear making his muscles seize as he stands, stock still, watching helplessly as swords fly his way- Michael cries out, but there’s nothing he can do-

Between one blink and the next, Sapnap is standing in front of Dream, a snarl painting his features as he whirls through both players in a fury. Michael watches, awed, as his sword weaves and dances between the two attacking Dream, making quick work of them both until they’re no more than items scattered over the ground, then grabs Dream by the wrist and drags him up a nearby ladder onto the upper floor, plopping him by the wall and then backing off. 

Sapnap stands back as Dream sits against the wall, breathing fast and labored, dropping to his knees with his hands in front of him, palms up, no weapons in hand. Michael watches, frantic, for the signs of any teams nearby - with Dream panicking and Sapnap’s back to the rest of the arena, they’d be easy pickings - but for once, luck seems to be on their side, because no one comes. Dream heaves a breath through his lungs, deep and shuddery - Sapnap watches, lips flat from concern, but doesn’t speak. 

“You good to continue?” he asks, when Dream seems calm enough to recognize his surroundings, and Dream looks up at the words, jaw slack from shock and disorientation, before his head dips in a firm nod. 

“Good,” Sapnap smiles, tight-lipped and fiercely determined, fiercely loyal, as he reaches out a hand that Dream moves to take. “Let’s go fuck them up, yeah? You and me, just like we used to.”

Michael watches, heart in his chest, as they stand together to face the rest of the competition, towering towards the middle and facing off with the remaining teams,  watches as they move forwards through explosions and buckets of lava, coalescing onto the middle island, as they battle through the remaining opponents as one in a clean spiral of clashing blades and flying arrows, fighting with their backs to each other in the center of the arena. He watches as a well-placed fishing rod by Dream knocks their final opponent off the platform, leaving them in the middle, triumphant, as the only remaining team - 

Watches, a brilliant, bubbling laugh in his chest as Dream and Sapnap take their spots in the middle of the arena, standing side by side as Sapnap raises Dream’s hand in victory, both laughing and cheering  into the sky.

---

Their performance in Sky Battle manages to pull them to third - but second place still stands a few hundred coins away, and they watch anxiously as Parkour Tag is chosen as the last game and they are transported over the arena. 

“Last game,” Sapnap calls, “We’ve got this, alright?” 

He gets terse, short nods in return - it’ll be a close game, and even Michael is feeling the pressure. He breathes a soft, quiet breath through his teeth as they prepare, looking over to the opposite team as they choose their hunters and runners. 

“Dream, you up to hunting first four?” Sapnap seems to be watching the effects of his words more, waiting for Dream’s agreement before moving forward, sliding into the position of leader easily when Dream seems to struggle. Dream nods and steps into the hunter’s box, lips pressed together, flat and focused, and Michael turns back to the arena to plan out his route. 

Parkour, by far, is not his strong suit. It hadn’t been his strong suit during Parkour Warrior and sure as hell isn’t it now - he enjoys it well enough, but with the pressure of a hunter on him or the time creeping past and the competition standings hanging over his head like a guillotine, he’s prone to slipping up and he knows it. The map is full of dizzying, multi-colored structures and difficult jumps, the twists and turns of the arena making his head spin. Being good at parkour is more than being good at movement - it involves being able to make split-second decisions and execute them with no time to hesitate. Unfortunately, Michael isn’t particularly good at any of that, so Parkour Tag mostly just stresses him the hell out. 

He sets out to the arena, listening for callouts over comms as he fumbles over the buildings. Halfway through the game, Dream’s voice comes through comms, quiet, focused. 

“Gottem.” 

“Nice, Dream,” Michael smiles, trying not to trip over a particularly hard jump, only to fall to being tagged in the back by the opposing team’s hunter - Ant, if he remembers right. “Sapnap and Q are still in- we’ve got this.”

Once again, each time, Dream races through the opposing team in seconds, seemingly going faster with each round. Michael has heard his reputation as a hunter before, but only now is he really appreciating the extent - the speed at which he manages to dispatch all three opponents is downright terrifying. They manage to win all four rounds, lingering around second place overall on the leaderboards, before Sapnap and Dream switch off for hunting. 

With each round, Michael watches Dream in the lobby, watching as he tenses further in focus and determination and no small degree of fear, but it hadn’t been nearly as obvious in between rounds. Now, with him in the arena with Quackity and himself, Dream’s jumpiness is all that more palpable, adrenaline making him pace and jump in place from where he stands at the edge of the place. The glass lowers, and he explodes into motion, bounding on top of the nearest tower to wait for the hunter to come towards them. 

Michael ends up caught first, early in the round, once again, and resolves to following Dream over the glass to watch his movements and make callouts for the hunter chasing behind him. Watching Dream move through the arena, dodging below fixtures and through tunnels and jumping from tower to tower with seemingly no regard for gravity pulling him down, it’s become all the more obvious that this is his element. He makes another hairpin turn around a pole, kicking himself up over a tower and then diving from it to a nearby building, landing on a ledge inside it, hands clutching the wall - Michael watches, quietly awed, as he outlasts the hunter, landing in small, panting breaths in the lobby. 

“Great work,” he cheers, quiet, as Dream shakes off the last dregs of the adrenaline, all of them watching the leaderboard anxiously, “Just three more rounds, alright?” 

The rounds that follow continue in much of the same vein - Dream, once he’s gotten started, seems near-impossible to chase down; Michael and Quackity provide support, distracting the hunter for as long as they can until they get tagged, but part of him wonders if it’s all even necessary. Dream flies from structure to structure seemingly unhindered by The Laws That Be, expression firm, if a little frantic, as he parkours his way through the arena. To their credit, the hunters chase, and several come pretty close - but Dream, worked up on adrenaline or anxiety or some twisted mix of the two, races over and around the buildings within the arena like his life depends on it.

It’s a surprisingly (if sickeningly) apt description - the skill in parkour is far from unacknowledged on Dream’s record; they all know his reputation with Parkour Warrior, all know that there are little that can match his skill as a traucer - but there’s something newly desperate in the way he runs, the muscles of his body tight and taut even in between rounds, expression permanently tight at the corners from fear. His movements, lacking in their usual fluidity, are made up with sheer speed and mad scrambles up walls that no one else seems to dare replicate. It’s concerning, even to Michael’s untrained eye, how frantic he seems the entire time, the flashes of expressions that he’ll direct towards the hunter like being caught by them will be his end, but- if anything, at least it’s effective. 

Between his parkour and Sapnap’s own skill, they manage to dominate the other teams without much issue, and the bonuses from eliminating the other team first combined with Dream’s survival points each round land them a first place for the game by just a few hundred coins. The four of them watch with bated breaths for the event standings, whooping and cheering together when it shows the red rabbits in second - 

“DODGEBOLT, BABY!” Quackity cheers, loudly, and the rest of them join him, laughing and screaming incoherently, “LET’S FUCKING GO!” 

“LET’S FUCKING GO!” Sapnap punches the air with a loud, resolute whoop of joy, and Dream - still shaking off the jitters of his last round in Parkour Tag - soon joins in with a few cheers of his own. 

Michael watches them all with a smile on his face as they cheer in victory - Dodgebolt has them against the Yellow Yaks, which will be a hard match up, but between Dream and Sapnap’s skill, if they all stay focused, they shouldn’t have any issue. 

They’ve done it. They’ve made it to Dodgebolt - if they keep their heads in the game, then they should win. All he has to do is keep his head down a little longer, long enough to win them the game, long enough for them to go home with new crowns and new coins, long enough for him to go back to living his quaint little life in his quaint little house - going back to heckling the Warden at night and hanging with Bad and Puffy, working on builds and living life away from the rest and pretending that nothing is wrong. The server will go back to normal come tomorrow, and it will all be okay. 

The smile slips off his face. 

They’ve done it. And then they’ll go back to the SMP, and Dream might evade whatever immediate consequences come with losing, but there’s no evidence that whatever’s caused that heartstopping, devastating fear that has characterized his every move is going to stop. They’ll win, and they’ll go back to the SMP, and they’ll keep dying and fighting wars and keep pretending that the world they live in is normal; they’ll go back to the server, and Michael will go back in his house while Dream goes back into his cell directly across from it, still locked in a black box with no way in or out, no means of communication with anyone outside, locked away with the key thrown away for anything to happen with no one to know-

Michael glances over to Dream, to the tense edge of his shoulders that has never left for as long as the tournament has continued and long before. To the grey-faced, grey-eyed inhabitants of the SMP, coming to the Championships with sealed lips and a shared determination to never reveal that anything is wrong, to pretend that things are normal and move on. 

Michael’s hands clench into fists at his side, then unclench, the helplessness cutting through his excitement like a splash of cold water straight through his chest. They’ll win the Championship, and then what? They’ll go back to the server, and then what? 

He looks up at the sky, avoiding the eyes of the rest of his team as they are teleported to the arena. Around him, nothing comes in reply. 

---

“Shit-”

Sapnap disappears in a flourish of red particles, and Michael winces as Dream picks up the arrow he left behind, biting his lip as he watches the opposite side maneuver on the ice.

Both of Dream’s shots hit true, and Michael switches to dodging over the ice as the opposing team begins to shoot. His mind is still buzzing with uncertainty, questions whirling around his skull and making his head spin, the reminder to just let things be raging against the anxiety that has wormed its way deep into his bones for the better part of the day. His performance has fallen a bit as a result, and they’re tied, 2-2, for the last round of Dodgebolt against Yellow - winner takes all. 

He doesn’t know what to do. He wants to tell, but he wants to fall back into the background. He wants to make a difference, but also wants nothing more than to go on pretending that everything is fine. It would be so, so easy to move on and wash his hands of the whole affair - it’s not like anyone else will know, only himself and the guilt that he’s sure will haunt him to remind him of his failures. Is there even anything he can do? He’s no genius at combat, or parkour, or strategy- all he has are his eyes, his ability to see what the hell is happening with no means to change any of it. 

An arrow whizzes towards him, too low to hit, and falls to the ice by his feet. Michael feels it plop into his inventory as he runs past it, shivering slightly from the cold or adrenaline or some mix of the two - not that he can really tell. The other team still has an arrow, the gleaming arrowhead catching the light as the person shooting - Jack, it looks like - moves it from one side to the other, looking for someone to aim. Michael lets the arrow into his hand, feeling its weight.

A sudden shock of clarity. 

He staggers back and nearly trips over his own feet, feeling relief rock his body when he manages to catch his balance - his eyes rake over the rest of his team, still dodging over the ice, completely focused on the opposing side. He worries his lip between his teeth - it’s a risk. It’s a hell of a risk, and if he messes up - they’re fucked. They’re more than fucked. There’s a good chance that this does more harm than good, a good chance that it won’t do anything at all. 

Michael takes a deep breath, and nocks his arrow. 

With his bow pointed to the floor, he doesn’t think anyone’s noticed yet - especially the rest of his team, gazes still trained over the centerline to the other side of the arena. Michael plants his feet, raises his bow, aims - he’s standing still, too still, and he can already see Jack swinging the bow towards him from the corner of his eye, preparing to let the arrow fly directly at him. That’s fine. It doesn’t matter.

Keep your head down. 

Michael lets go, and Quackity manages to turn just in time to see the arrow hit him between his eyes.

Not this time.

Michael just manages a wicked, satisfied smirk before the world disappears in a flash of red. 

---

“What the hell was that?” 

Michael teleports into the middle of the MCC main lobby, finding Quackity already mid-yell in front of the podium, where the Yellow Yaks have taken their places as the winners of the Championships, new, shining crowns on their heads as they greet the crowd with smiles and cheers. Michael turns to where the rest of the team has gathered in the corner, Quackity hissing angrily at Dream, curled into himself against the fence. 

“I- I-”

“You lost us the fucking game, that’s what you did,” Quackity grabs him by the arm, rage painting his features as he yanks Dream closer to him, ignoring the other’s panicked yell at the proximity and flailing to get away. “What the fuck- you had both the arrows. How the fuck did you miss that?” 

“Back the hell off, Quackity.”

Michael steps forward, bodily shoving Quackity out of the way - Dream’s head rises just enough for the two eyes painted on his mask to look  above where they’d been hidden behind his arms, though Michael’s far too lost in his own anger to pay any mind to him at the moment. Quackity turns his furious direction towards Michael, only seeming to get angrier as he meets his eyes. 

“Oh, fuck off, Michael- you-” he rakes a hand through his hair, “You fucking- we fucking lost because of you, you know that? We had that! We were going to win that, you fucker-” 

“And then what, Quackity?” The words Michael had been pushing back the entire day come forth, mixed with his simmering anxiety and muffled anger that he’d been forced to push down, game after game after game, one bubbling mess of emotion underscoring his tone and making Quackity rear back, “Then you’ll go back the SMP and pretend that everything’s fine and dandy? Go back to your shiny little country with a shiny new coin, beat up Dream a few times to work off the adrenaline because, hey, it’s not like anyone else is gonna know if he’s black and blue inside of that shitstain of a prison, is that right?” 

The flash of panic that makes its way over Quackity’s face is more than enough to confirm the worst of Michael’s assumptions, and the rage that has made a home in his chest only burns hotter. 

“What- what the fuck did he say?” Quackity barely manages to catch onto his tone, pressing harder with narrowed eyes and a snarl, “He’s lying, you fucking idiot, that’s all he ever fucking does-” 

“He’s not told me shit,” Michael presses forward, forcefully pushing Quackity away from Dream, who is cowering from both of them behind him, “But you would know a hell of a lot about that, wouldn’t you Quackity?”

“I have no fuckin’ clue what you’re on about, pal,” Quackity shakes his head, hair whipping past his eyes, “And I’d recommend you shut your fucking mouth before you go around hurling baseless accusations- I could have you sued for defamation, you know-”

“Oh, we’re talking law, now? Fine! We’ll talk legalities- how about we start with that casino of yours and work from there?” 

Sapnap moves over, quiet thus far as he watched from the sidelines, and Michael watches as Quackity relaxes, minisculely, at his approach - only to tense further when Sapnap presses a hand to his shoulder, meeting his eyes with blazing eyes staring right at his.

“Q,” Sapnap says, voice uncharacteristically serious, “tell the truth, now- what did you do?”

Quackity laughs - it sounds unsure, even in Michael’s ears, “Sapnap? You can’t tell me you believe-” he waves his hands frantically, “this- this fucking asshole, now, do you hear him? He sounds- he’s literally out of his fucking mind-”

Sapnap shakes his head, firm. “Quackity, I’ll need you to cut the bullshit. What did you do?” 

“He’s backing up Dream, Sapnap,” Quackity focuses his gaze on Sapnap, something creeping up in his tone, sweet and cloying despite the bitter tone, that Michael can’t quite recognize, “You know what Dream is like- he pulled the same shit with you, remember? You and George? Tommy?” He waves a hand at Dream, who ducks down further at the attention, “He hasn’t changed, man! He’s still pulling the same bullshit, still manipulating people for the hell of it- you know, the exact same thing he did to you? Don’t fall for that again, man.”

“I-” Sapnap seems to hesitate, conflict warring over his features. 

“Look at me, Sap - you know what Dream’s like. He pretends to be your friend, makes up some stupid bullshit to justify his shit - Michael hasn’t been around for as long, not like the two of us, remember? He doesn’t know.” Quackity brings his hand to Sapnap’s own, ignoring Michael’s protests as he laces their fingers together, “I care about you, Sap. All of this- I’m just worried that he’ll end up manipulating you again. I’m just trying to protect you.” 

“...liar.” 

“What?”

Sapnap steps back, wrenching his hand out of Quackity’s own. His expression, out of what Michael can see from the sliver of his face that is facing him, is stormy with fury and no small amount of regret - Quackity steps back, unease finally beginning to flicker in the corners of his self-satisfied expression as Sapnap stares him down. 

“You’re a liar, Quackity.” Sapnap draws himself up. “Now, I’m asking this for the last time- what did you do?”

Quackity’s expression stutters, falls, as Sapnap stands back next to Michael, the two of them between him and Dream. His eyes flick between their faces, then to Dream, then back again, frown deepening with every pass he makes between the three of them. Michael keeps his arms crossed in front of his chest, feeling his muscles tense with every second of silence that ticks by, Quackity seeming to grow more and more angry and tense under their scrutiny and unforgiving stances-

-a second passes, and he throws himself forward. 

“Quackity!” 

Michael only manages to throw himself out of the way of the man barrelling towards him just in time - too late, he realizes that he wasn’t Quackity’s intended target. He tackles Dream to the ground, pinning the taller man underneath himself onto the ground in a rough thump that seems to knock all the air out of him. Dream immediately begins to thrash aimlessly, jaw going slack in panic as Quackity levels his arm against his neck, going still as Quackity presses harder against his windpipe. Michael is only barely close enough to pick up what he says over the sound of the surrounding screaming, Sapnap rushing forward to pull Quackity off to no avail-

“-make what I did two weeks ago look like a fucking joke when we get back, going to make you wish you fucking died-” 

The world explodes into white.

When Michael’s vision clears, he’s face to face to the stony face of one of the MCC admins, their status displayed by the proud red [Admin] by their nametags and the fact that they’re floating several inches off the fucking floor. He backs away, strangely winded - probably from the panic or adrenaline or yelling or, more accurately, all three, as Quackity is pulled back effortlessly by an admin, easily caging his flailing limbs with a snap of code as he is frozen into place - and Michael whoops. 

“LET’S GO!” 

(The arrow hits Michael in the shoulder, and he disappears in a flash of red - only instead of going to his usual place above the Dodgebolt arena, standing with the other competitors, he finds himself teleported in front of a dizzying array of screens and buttons, too many to have any idea where they connect and how they work. Michael turns to meet the faces of the MCC Admins, each one looking at him with odd, concerned expressions and furrowed brows. 

“You shot your teammate,” one says - Noxite - and Michael nods to concede the point, not quite finding the words to speak. “Why?”

“If you had such a big issue with the teams, you could’ve just talked to Scott,” another one pipes up from the back, “I’m sure we could’ve worked something out.”

“I know, I know,” Michael runs his hand through his hair, both relieved at the plan working better than he could’ve ever fucking imagined and suddenly lost for words in front of the admins, each one looking at him with their full attention. Every nerve in his body rails against the scrutiny, reminds him to pretend that nothing is wrong - but it’s too late to pretend, now. It’s been too late for a long, long time. 

He remembers Dream, looking away all competition, voice dead and lacking all of its former vitality - remembers Puffy, hair a little greyer from stress, grief painting her face whenever she thought anyone wasn’t looking - remembers Bad, hands still shaking despite his attempts to hide it - the prison, looming on the horizon, unbeatable, impenetrable - himself, helpless, for all this time, to do anything but watch and wait. Until now. He takes a deep breath, steels himself- 

“Something’s wrong with Dream.”)

“Thank you for your information, Michael,” Noxite smiles at him, and relief throws itself through his system so fast that it makes him dizzy- “We’ll handle this from here. Good job.” 

“Holy shit- when did you get time to contact the fucking admins, Michael?” 

Michael ignores the clamor around him as the lobby bursts into activity and people talking over each other, each one probably trying to figure out what the hell just happened, ignores Sapnap muttering, awed, from beside him, to move towards Dream, still sprawled out over the floor. There’s an admin by him, standing by to seemingly keep the crowd away but not engaging with Dream directly, and Michael ducks by them to kneel down by Dream and meet his gaze. 

“Hey,” Michael smiles, still shaking from the leftover adrenaline as he presses his hands to the ground to try and hide it, “We’ve got you. It’s over- Quackity’s gone. You’re safe now.” 

“Michael?” Dream’s voice is so damn small when his head twists to look over, hair having fallen largely fallen out of his ponytail to land in wisps all around his face. “You- how-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Michael shushes him, chest twisting painfully. “It’s alright.”

“...I don’t feel so good.”

Dream coughs harshly, and Michael quickly maneuvers him to a sitting position as his shoulders shake with another one, hand flying to his mouth as he is wracked with loud, wet-sounding coughs. Concern wells up in his throat, watching as Dream shakes with more coughing, nearly choking as he curls into himself, muscles tense. After what feels like an eternity, he pulls his hand back, and Michael gasps at the sight.

“Dream-”

There’s blood, and a lot of it - mixed with the saliva in his palm, shiny and stringy over the planes of his hand, dribbling past his lips and down his chin. His teeth are similarly stained red when his mouth opens slightly, stance wobbling before he collapses altogether against Michael’s body - Michael can barely hear himself shouting for a medic as Dream heaves a rattling, wet sounding breath into his shoulder. 

“Th’ts not g’d,” he mumbles, quiet, before going completely limp. 

---

When you first get strong enough to go to the Nether and collect blaze rods and brew potions for the first time, the first thing that gets beaten into your head forwards, backwards, left, right, and every way in between is that health and regen aren’t a replacement for actual recovery. Instant health pots are famous for their tendency to heal everything affected to the same degree - which is bad when you have a particularly deep injury, as it’ll often finish healing it near the surface while the injury persists underneath. Regen pots tend to be better at that front, but even they cannot completely fix a serious injury - the two can only act as a temporary, emergency fix for severe wounds, often being an invaluable resource to stop the worst of the bleeding and hold everything together for long enough to bring someone to proper medical attention. 

Unfortunately, when someone tries to use health pots and regens to completely bypass the time and rest needed for the body to properly heal itself and recover, what usually ends up happening is internal injuries - not completely healed by the potions alone - continue to be jostled and irritated, which can lead to further, worse, problems with internal bleeding and bones shifting out of place if they’ve been broken, which can then pierce through muscle and organ tissue - to be honest, Michael was never the best with all the medical stuff, and he’s half-sure that the horror stories he’s heard were exaggerated to beat it into his head never to be an idiot that thinks that potions can solve everything, but either way, he’s never tested his luck with the things.

Unfortunately, Dream doesn’t seem to have done the same, as the entire day’s worth of intense activity, between practices and MCC itself, were more than enough to fuck over the healing effects of whatever health potions he apparently downed before coming to the Championships. From what Michael has heard, it got a little harried after he was first brought into the hospital, but he’s apparently stabilized since - recovery will be slow, both physically and mentally, but at least he’s out of that damn prison to actually start on that path.

“Simply put, your teammate is a bit of an idiot,” Scott tells him when he finally catches him in the waiting room, hair fluffed up at the sides from where he’s evidently messed it up in Admin-related stress. “But he should be alright now, with proper medical attention and lots of rest - make sure to tell him to actually rest, will ya? No more parkouring for him - he can wait until after he’s out of the hospital to show us all how it’s done.” 

Michael laughs, relief settling into his chest, “Thanks, Scott.” He directs a playfully accusing look towards the other, a grin tugging at his lips, “but you know, he’s only my teammate because you made it that way. Kinda sounds like your own fault there..” 

“Oh, quiet, you.” Scott laughs- he looks stressed, and Michael feels a twinge of sympathy. The administrative side of things after his whole stunt at Dodgebolt, and then especially with what happened in the main lobby, must be an absolute nightmare. “Anyway, I need to go back - Admin meeting,” he shakes his head, already looking at his comm. “You should go see Dream, by the way. I think he’s awake.” 

“Thanks for everything, Scott.” 

Scott smiles at him, soft, sincere. “Go see your friend.” 

He disappears in a flash of white light, teleporting away, and Michael looks at the empty space where he stood for a few seconds before standing up out of his chair to move towards the door. He hesitates at it for a second, hand on the doorknob but not yet turning it to the side - it’s suddenly awkward, without the pressure of the competition at his back and the relentless questions of what he should do. He doesn’t even know if Dream knows what happened, or if he’ll be happy with him - for all he knows, Dream was the one who started the whole ‘don’t tell the Championships what happens in the server’ deal. His teeth catch on his lip as he stands, lost in thought, at the door.

Well. Here goes nothing. 

He eases the door open, getting a glimpse inside the room - it’s white, clean-looking, the smell of disinfectant heavy in the air. There’s a bed in the middle of the room, a chair on the side with his Championships clothing and what appears to be some sort of padded body armor laid over the cushions. Dream, as expected, is lying down in the bed, unmoving; for a second, Michael thinks he’s sleeping, before he suddenly twists his head over to look at him.

“Michael?” 

“Hey,” Michael smiles, moving into the room and closing the door behind him. For the first time today, Dream’s face isn’t masked, a glimpse of it visible behind him on the dresser by the bed. He blinks up at him owlishly, eyes wide and green, looking even bigger combined with the hollow planes of his cheeks, overlaid by pale, slightly raised scars. “How are you feeling, man?” 

“Um-” Dream tries to pull himself up, visibly struggling, and Michael rolls his eyes as he hurries over to help raise the back of the cot because you’re supposed to be resting, Dream, just let the fancy bed do its job, and settles back with an odd look on his face as Michael pulls over a chair. “Good? I think? I mean-” he flails his hands a bit, “this is weird. And I kind of hate this gown- but um. Yeah.” 

“That’s fair,” Michael laughs, and Dream huffs a small laugh out of his own, settling back into his pillow. He looks strangely small, with all the layers stripped away, frail and skinny against the sheets. His skin isn’t that same paper-white shade it had been when he collapsed in the middle of the fucking lobby, but it’s still pale enough to be vaguely worrying, especially combined with the IV and other wires hooked up to him. 

“Apparently, I’m dehydrated,” Dream drawls when he catches Michael staring at the IV, making a small, frustrated sound through his teeth as Michael turns to look at him, “figures, I guess, but still sucks. I hate needles.” 

“Ouch,” Michael winces in sympathy, “yeah, those don’t look that fun.” Dream smiles up at him, before his expression shutters, dulls, and he looks away, not meeting his eyes. The sight of it makes Michael frown, quiet, remembering the way he’d drawn back from them all over and over again throughout the day - that fear and trauma won’t go away in a day, but it hurts all that much more to see his face as panic flashes across it and he pulls back, gaze carefully detached. 

“Dream?” Michael moves closer, but is careful not to make contact, “you alright?”

“Hmm?” Dream directs another small, tight smile his way, strained at the corners as his eyes flick away to the floor once again, “yeah- I’m- I’m fine.” 

Michael sighs, but decides not to push it. “Have you done anything else here, yet?”

Dream shakes his head. “No- I think that someone’s going to bring food over soon, I’m not sure. Not really hungry,” he mutters, half to himself, and Michael tamps down the concern that wells up in protest, “But we’ll see, I guess.” 

“That’s good,” Michael nods, and Dream looks up at him, expression startlingly unsure. 

“Um- do you know?” He wrings his hands together, eyes darting across the room nervously before flicking over Michaels’ face, and Michael tries to make himself look as calm and comfortable as possible, “I mean- do you know what’s going on with- everyone?” 

Ah. Michael winces internally- he probably should’ve expected this question, but in the fallout of what happened in the lobby and Dream, you know, passing out in his arms, he ended up brushing off or ignoring a lot of the chaos that resulted. He wracks his head for snippets of information that he’d seen in his communicator and from visitors to the waiting room, including people that had been there with him that had been pulled for questioning and meetings, Tommy’s expletive-filled yelling from the lobby still ringing in his head. 

“Um- I think that they’ve got a team of moderators pulled up to investigate the server, figure out what’s been going on,” Michael ticks names off on his hands, mentally going through the list of people that he’s been given information on, “They have Quackity in custody, I think, for the moment- they’re still waiting for more information on what to do with him, but they’ve got a whole MCC lobby’s worth of witnesses that saw him assault you so far, if you plan on pressing charges and stuff- um- Sapnap got pulled for questioning, nothing too major right now, I think that they’re going through the other server members that were attending the Championships for the moment.” 

“Are they- putting them in jail?” Dream’s voice sounds slightly tinny despite his forced calm, arms crossed in front of him, and Michael shakes his head firmly. 

“No- legal stuff between servers is weird, and I think they’re holding off on anything like that for now. Quackity’s just there at the moment because of assault charges on the MCC server - stuff in the SMP is still technically outside of their jurisdiction.” Dream visibly relaxes, and Michael smiles thinly, “It’ll be rough for a few weeks as they collect evidence and figure out what to do, but for now, they’re just focusing on recovery - giving people medical attention if they need it, lining up therapists,” he laughs, quietly, “lots of therapists.”

Dream hums, looking away. The corners of his mouth fall, eyes fluttering shut as he breathes a shuddery sigh through his lips.

“I- never wanted it to get this bad,” he opens his eyes, looking down at his hands, lip slightly trembling, “I don’t- I don’t know where it all went wrong.” 

“Hey,” Michael slides closer, ducking to meet Dream’s eyes with a soft smile. “You’re not alone anymore, alright? You don’t have to fix it all by yourself. Focus on yourself, on recovering.” 

Dream hesitates, breath seeming caught in his throat, wide green eyes staring into Michael’s own, before ducking his head to look away with a slight nod. Michael leans back in his chair, watching as Dream turns to the side, curling in on himself slightly with a small wince, eyes fixed on the window.

“Didn’t think I was going to see the sun again,” Dream says after a while, gaze still trained behind the glass to where the sun is slowly setting, rays of sunlight streaming past the slits in the blinds and casting glowing stripes of honey-gold throughout the room and over Dream’s face. Michael feels something cold press against the back of his throat, the quiet admission making air stutter in his lungs at the image of Dream, alone, huddled in the middle of an obsidian box for months and months and months, never knowing if he’d see anything other than the same black walls for the rest of his life. 

“You’re not there, anymore. You’re safe now.” 

Dream doesn’t reply, continuing to look out the window silently, breathing slowly as he moves his hand through a sunbeam, watching the way it streams between his fingers and warms his skin, seeming mesmerized by its soft glow. 

“Michael?” Dream looks over, and Michael feels the air punched out of his lungs at the soft, disbelieving sincerity held within his expression, the fearful edges for once pulled back far enough for the light to catch the quiet, heartfelt appreciation gathered in the slight quirk of his lips and downward slope of his eyes. He looks away a second after, a band of light cutting across his face and landing over the bridge of his nose, smile still on his face, voice almost too quiet to make out. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Michael feels his own smile widen, looking out the window himself- it really is a beautiful sunset. “What are friends for?” 

#-> my writing #my writing :D #c!Quackity critical #tw trauma #tw abuse #tw torture #tw panic attack #tw manipulation #tw gaslighting #tw needles #tw hospitals #tw emotional distress #pandora's vault #prison arc #god this was so fun #hope you all enjoy !! #long post

[austarus]

HR Wells x Reader - Reversal of Denouement

*A/N: The picture/edit/gif does not belong to me. It belongs to its rightful owner.

**Please don’t forget to comment, like, and reblog. It means a lot to content creators of all kinds!

***I’d also like to thank @grimtamlain-writes​ for being my beta reader.

Word Count: 8251

MASTERLIST

A low groan left HR's lips. His body felt numb, his chest ached - tingled as his heart beats steadily. Is it beating? The darkness of his eyelids eased the stinging coming from his mind – it wasn’t so bright. The headache formed there. His body screamed at him as the novelist made the slightest of movement. His left shoulder in particular had protested in desperate agony. He couldn’t move it very much, the area succumbed to restraints of some sort. HR’s throat felt raw as his body throbbed, the blood coursing meticulously through his blood vessels. The sound of a soft voice greeted his ears, but his eyes refused to open.

"I... you, HR... even if... see it." The voice was so familiar, so gentle. So sweet. "Should... better." A drop of water hit his numbed hand, static still prominent there from the little movement his body had done. “I wish…” The dark-haired doppelganger could only understand fragments of what the speaker was saying. He felt a pressure on his hand, tender skin holding onto his before something tickled his forehead. Feather-light. What was it? Who was it? A few moments passed and he heard nothing, the novelist only assumed that the voice’s owner had left. He didn’t want to be alone right now though, not with the darkness.

It had become unbearable.

Since... Since when did…? How...? Oh. Right. Savitar... Am I dead? Is this where spirits wait for their turn to pass into their designated afterlife? Have I really...? Events from earlier resurfaced to his mind, his senses coming together. Right, had to protect Iris. For Barry – it was my fault Savitar had gotten to her. My big mouth. Even if Barry didn't really see me as a helpful friend. At least... At least I proved Savitar wrong, who ironically is a version of Barry. That's hella twisted. He huffed out a breath before venturing back into the calmness of sleep. Maybe a little more rest will help?

***

HR cracked an eye open: this time, harsh filtered light had greeted him. The novelist grunted in pain, adjusting himself slightly to assess where he was. What day was it? What was the time? How long have I  been here? A yawn left his lips this time, his throat and mouth as dry as a desert.

“Well look who finally decided to wake up?” HR’s eyes met Cisco’s, who stood with a tablet in hand. “How’s sleeping beauty feeling?”

The Wells doppelganger cleared his throat. “Like I’ve gotten assaulted by an Amtrack bus, and not the good kinds.” HR’s baby blue eyes scanned the room, landing on the flower vase that was set on a table near him. Blue forget-me-knots and pink hydrangeas stood proudly in their vases, nurtured well. HR felt his heart swell, his eyes not daring to leave the delicate petals that accented the med bay in better tones. Cisco handed him a cup of water to which HR downed it immediately.

“Amtrack does trains.”

“Not on my Earth, Francisco.” The author couldn’t help but ask, his eyes lingering on the flowers once more. “Did Tracy bring those?”

Cisco pursed his lips, an odd look present on his face. He wanted to tell HR, but… “No. Um, she didn’t.” Tracy had been visiting, though it had become some sort of a nuisance to all her complaining at this point. She hadn’t even known HR for that long, anyway.

“Oh?” His shoulders dropped subtly in disappointment. “They’re beautiful, I was just wondering and…”

“Let’s just say, a special someone’s been… dropping by and bringing a new flower each day. That’s all you’re getting from me, Aurora.” Cisco reasoned with the Wells doppelganger. The mechanical genius knew, but it wasn’t his place to say. It killed him, but… “I wouldn’t move around too much, if I were you. You’ve got a fractured shoulder and that chest wound. I’ve been told to relay the message that you’re to be on strict bed rest until that shoulder further heals.” HR lowered his gaze to see the cross-body sling. He clenched his slinged hand and unclenched it to bring some feeling into the limb.

“What about my chest?”

“Miraculously, that’s been healing really well since day one.” Cisco kept the talk real, showing the injured doppelganger the schematics and pictures. “You got lucky that it missed your heart by a centimeter.” A stab wound like that should have… I wonder if she knows that I know.

HR blinked at the seriousness in his injury, the looming idea of death from his decision. “How long was I out?”

“A week and a half.”

“What?” HR’s eyes widened in disbelief. “I-”

“HR!” Tracy’s sudden voice pierced the room, stunning Cisco and triggering an ache in HR’s head. The grad scientists shuffled over to him, both forgetting that Cisco was in the room. “HR, my love, how are you? Are you feeling okay? Is there any pain?” He continued checking his friend’s vitals and adjusting dosages to the IV and morphine administered – as per your request. The room was growing ever louder with HR and Tracy. Tracy embraced him, minding his injuries as she continued to fuss over him. It made the Wells writer smile, yet… his heart didn’t swell as much as it used to.

Odd.

Cisco sent you a quick text while the two were preoccupied, but you were already at the Labs. You stopped just outside the entrance, the wall and dimly light hallway obscuring you from who remained in the med bay. They wouldn’t be able to see you from where you stood.  A shaky breath left you as you clutched the Freesia flower in hand. Your heart shriveled in your chest as you backtracked. Hearing his voice is enough. After all, with Tracy around you couldn’t be near him – those dirty and hateful looks she’d send you. Best to keep my distance, I guess. You couldn’t help but sneak a peek at him though, the man who had unknowingly captured your heart and would never reciprocate your love. You pushed down the lump in your throat. Hastily, you sent Cisco a text to check on the flowers. Silently, you trailed away from the med bay and to the upper levels of STAR Labs. I wonder if he liked the flowers. Standing at such altitude with the wind blowing lightly had calmed you a bit. Looking down at the flower, you gripped it tightly before you began to pick off the petals one by one. The little moments you had with the goofy novelist surfaced to the forefront of your mind with each petal you held. Your little curious escapades. The little talks. The nights you’d visit him when Tracy wasn’t around.

“He loves me, he loves me not,” You murmured, a stray tear trickled down your cheek. The freesia symbolizes unconditional love and honor. “He loves me, he loves me not,” Your voice cracked as more tears fell. “He loves me, he loves me not…”

***

A frown presented itself on HR’s lips as he tilted his head to crack his neck. The crack relieved him tremendously. It didn’t make sense. The novelist mused to himself, setting aside the current chapter draft he was working on. The voice I heard was… different. It didn’t sound like Tracy’s. HR couldn’t get that voice out of his mind – the tenderness that was laced in the tone of that voice. Nothing like the slight shrill in Tracy’s. He eyed the flowers once more that day, their presence was prominent. If Tracy hadn’t brought those, then who had?

The team had helped situate HR in his room in order to vacate the med bay should another imminent event occur. He had overheard Cisco tell Wally that you were preoccupied with something in Star City – a bit of disappointment twinged inside him. HR had taken up doing bits of physical therapy for the rest of his body without moving his shoulder as much. His shoulder and arm remained in a crossbody sling. The flowers sat on his bedside counter; he tended to them as best as he could with the limited movement he had. Tracy protested that they don’t need to be around, but the novelist was vehement on keeping the plants. HR won’t deny the fact that he had gotten annoyed several times with her around when he needed thinking space for his writing. He couldn’t write with noise and nonsensical chatter, especially if it’s mainly coming from someone who doesn’t want to really listen to his input. She’d go on and on about her scientific research and such, but wouldn’t hear a word from HR regarding his writing. The longer the novelist was confined to his room for rest, the more he had time to think – to contemplate. Yes, he liked Tracy, but… it just seemed that she didn’t really see HR. She does all the talking; she doesn’t really ask about how I feel about things or ask me about my life, even things about Earth-19… It’s like she doesn’t see me for anything other than a pretty face. It’s not even my face that Tracy sees, just Randolph’s. Was I too quick to jump at the first person who showed interest in me? Had I rushed into ‘forever’ with her?

He tabled those thoughts for now. HR reached for his laptop; one hand opened it to start it up. While the device loaded, he grabbed his black-clear glasses and set them on his face. If anyone saw him as such, they wouldn’t be able to tell the physical difference between him and his handsome, yet grumpy doppelganger. Except for the eyebrow scar, but that was obscured by the glasses. HR did a couple of searches with a concentrated look. Surely, it was the person with that… angel-like voice.

“Hydrangeas,” HR whispered as his eyes skimmed over the text that had popped up. “The hydrangea represents gratitude, grace and beauty. It also radiates abundance because of the lavish number of flowers and the generous round shape. Its colors symbolize love, harmony and peace.” The Wells doppelganger scrolled further. “Pink hydrangeas symbolize heartfelt emotions.” Interesting. HR continued his research, glancing at the other flower type that resting in the vase. “Forget-me-nots symbolize true love and respect. When you give someone these tiny blooms, it represents a promise that you will always remember them and will keep them in your thoughts. They are also considered a symbol of fidelity and faithfulness.” A particular link caught his eye, he clicked on it. The novelist read to himself the text once more, “Based on Christian lore, the story about forget-me-nots is that God was walking in the Garden of Eden. He saw a blue flower and asked it its name. The flower was a shy flower and whispered that he had forgotten his name. God renamed the flower as forget-me-not saying that He will not forget the flower.”

HR swallowed thickly; contrary to popular belief around here, he wasn’t stupid. Sure, he wasn’t a science-based genius, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t an expert on other aspects of life and had basic common sense. The author was emotionally intelligent and intact with the world around him. These flowers weren’t picked out on accident. But who would do that? Who doesn’t want me to forget about them? The dark-haired man shook his head slightly as he shut his laptop. A surge of sadness welled inside him at the notion of ‘being forgotten’. Who had he done that to? He’d get to the bottom of this mystery in due time. Right now, I need to jog my memory on what I was writing. A hand found a rough draft paper, his eyes scanned over the words he had typed out. His brows creased as the written notes he’d made on the paper as well. (Y/N) … I had… What had I been writing about again? The novelist read each line, each note he had made no drafts and scratch paper.

The hairs at the back of his neck stood up as realization hit him the more he had read on. The drafts, the notes, all of it – the little novel he had been writing regarding his adventures. But this particular part of his story – the ‘angel’ in his story. The one who stuck by him since coming here, the one who had given him a safe space… And the one he hadn’t seen since waking up. How could he forget? HR lowered the paper; his eyes became half-lidded as guilt shot through him. Before Barry had gone to the future and gotten hints of Tracy with her Speed Bazooka, HR had been working on his book. A book that he had pushed off to stick with Tracy and help in any way that he can to make the speed weapon possible. He had gotten distracted from doing the things he loves. A few conjectures arose in his mind as he slipped his glasses off, one arm end pressed to his lips. His heart hammered into his chest; you were among the last faces he had seen before passing out that night.

The irony. How could I forget that (Y/N) was the ‘angel’ in my story?

***

“Look at you, up and at ‘em.” Cisco strolled into the lounge with a cheeky grin. The mechanical genius didn’t take HR for granted anymore, not with the stunt he pulled. No, Cisco willingly checked up on him – not just for you, but for himself. HR had truly become one of his close friends in the end, especially with all the advice about Gypsy. “What are you cooking up this time?”

“Just an omelet with a side of bacon and toast, Francisco,” HR turned to the mechanical engineer who continued to tinker away at the schematics to get Barry out of the Speedforce. He offered Cisco some with a gesture only for the scientist to politely decline. “I haven’t seen (Y/N) anywhere. Um, is she also…?”

“Oh, you know how she’s like. Either up in the vents or chilling in her birds’ nest on the roof. And on that note, our resident hummingbird has become quite the firecracker.”

HR raised an eyebrow at his friend. “How so?”

“She punched Savitar square in the face then decked him multiple times over when Barry brought him in. Harry had to be the one to pull her away – well, more like carry her away kicking and screaming bloody murder at him. It sounded badass; wish I had been there to see it.”

The Wells doppelganger gritted his teeth at the mental image of Harry carrying you – touching you. The thought ruffled his feathers for some reason.  HR expertly masked his irritation, turning the stove off and assembling the food on his plate. “Why?”

“Because he hurt you, HR.”

“…”

“He almost killed you.” And that was unforgivable, especially to her. “We almost lost you. She almost lost you.”

A rough sigh escaped HR as Cisco had sent him a knowing look before exiting the STAR Labs lounge. The Earth-19 man chewed on the inside of his cheek. Only a fool would misunderstand Cisco’s subtle intentions. HR knew what he had to do – he’d been reflecting on his time here, thinking about the people around him, about the relationships he’s formed. The novelist glanced outside – the sun shined, the birds chirped, and the trees rustled with the wind. 

And the world continues to move on.

***

“When are you going to tell him?”

“…” You tensed at the abrupt voice. You snapped your head up, eyes darting to find Cisco approaching you with pocketed hands in his gray-black jacket. He wore a Bulbasaur shirt. The clouds surged by with the intensity of the breeze. Your hair blew over your shoulders slightly. Tilting your head, you turned back to watch the city. Days had passed and you refused to see HR, content on what Cisco had been telling you. He’d been recovering tremendously well, but… you didn’t really want to hear about what he and Tracy were up to. It wounded you. “Tell who, what?”

“You know exactly who I’m talking about, Ms. I’m-going-to-put-my-feelings-in-a-box.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Ohohohoho, no. I am tired of the love eyes, the lingering gazes, the pining. It ends.” Your best friend came to sit down next to you with that frustrated look on his face. “I know you have powers.” Your heart stopped in your chest at his accusation. “I know you used your powers to heal HR.” You bit down on your lip, not wanting to validate his statement. Cisco saw “I analyzed the wounds, looked at his healing at a microscopic level. I’m not Caitlin, but even I can pick up a few things. His cells were excelled to heal, but there were residues of your genetic markers at the wound point. You stitched his wounds together, cell-by-cell. My point is: why didn’t you say anything? Your powers are a-”

“-A curse.”

“What?”

“They’re a curse.” You threw a hard look at Cisco, making sure your hands wouldn’t touch him. “I can’t be playing God, Cisco. And… it’s unpredictable, volatile. I could either heal the life in my hands or take it away. I could rip someone ‘cell-by-cell’, Cisco. There’s no ‘in between’, not this time. He got lucky with my powers. He got lucky I didn’t make things 100% irreversible.”

“But why didn’t you say anything?” Cisco eyed the gloves you wore; it wasn’t the season for leather gloves.

“Because I didn’t want to give anyone false hope.”

“You don’t want to give yourself false hope, you mean.”

“…I can’t even heal a plant, Cisco. No matter how hard I tried, it wilted further. It’s a curse.”

“That’s not guaranteed every time, you know. It takes practice – discipline to get your powers to work with you instead of for you.” He nudged your shoulder with his, turning his gaze to the flock of birds drifting through the wind. “You know, he broke up with Tracy.”

“Ok?”

“Happened a week ago. She didn’t take it well and let me tell you. Tracy Brand was livid – the rage and yelling were off the charts. I think she has Harry beat. I knew it wasn’t going to last anyway, it was too superficial to begin with.”

“Uh huh.” You tried to sound uninterested, but deep down you were relieved. You heard a little ring in your ear. You wondered…

“She’s gone, won’t be coming here anymore.

“Ok.”

“So, go make your move.”

You turned abruptly to face him. “Cisco, have you thought that maybe HR doesn’t want to dive into a relationship right away? That… maybe he needs space to focus on himself?” All were things you had contemplated for yourself before.

“And what better way to do that than with a new roommate.”

“Excuse me?”

“Surprise, you’re getting a temporary roommate while we fully fix up things around the labs. I volunteered you since you have the space and the patience to deal with HR.” Your blood froze in your veins.

“Francisco Ramon, I am going to-”

“-Thank me, you’re going to thank me.” He had already breached away before you had the chance to strangle him. Heat rushed to your cheeks at the idea of HR living with you, even if it was a temporary living arrangement. You scolded your heart for beating loudly in your chest. One hand gripped tightly to your other. An audible sigh escaped you as your mind played with the idea.

Shit, what am I going to do?

***Day 1***

Cisco blew out an exhausted breath, setting down another box on top of a box in the guest room. You and the mechanical genius had been breaching back and forth with HR’s things as said novelist was crippled. His arm would take about another four weeks to heal. About 20 percent of shoulder fractures are displaced and may require some type of manipulation to restore normal anatomy. Occasionally the rotator cuff muscles are injured or torn at the same time as the fracture. Fortunately for HR, his rotator cuff muscles weren’t as damaged. This can further complicate the treatment. Therefore, in that time, HR would just be handling the lighter stuff, bless his heart. The novelist entered the room with his black backpack slung over his functioning shoulder – it was the last thing that he could carry.

“I think there’s one more box left,” HR pointed with his thumb towards his back direction, the breach closing behind him.

“I’ll go get it, not a problem. Why don’t you two get started on unpacking, huh?” HR shrugged with one shoulder and stepped away to set his bag down by the bed. Cisco threw a cheeky look your way when HR had his back turned, his eyebrows wiggling. ‘Have fun love birds,’ the scientist had mouthed at you. You flicked him off with a deadpanned look. Instantly you dropped it when the Wells doppelganger turned as Cisco snickered before he breached away. He gave you a confused look, but you waved it off.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For allowing me to stay obviously. And for all the help since I’m, well, a bit tangled up at the moment.”

He was referring to the cross-body sling that clung onto him like a spider. HR rubbed the back of his neck, and you didn’t miss the way his bicep flexed at the motion in that gray short-sleeve shirt. Calm the fuck down, it’s just a toned muscle. You’ve seen things like that before.  The puppy-like smile HR sent you had your cheeks warming up. The gentle smile that made your heart melt all over again. You cleared your throat as you reached for a box. “It’s no big deal, HR.” Undoing the tape seal with scissors, you opened the box- and the first thing you see are a pair of handcuffs accompanied by a silky black blindfold.

“What’s in the box?”

A little noise left you as you shut the flaps of the box, trying to seal it again. The flaps remained downward in the box. “Nope, nothing. Just some clothes here. I’m going to get that one box from the living room.” You had backtracked right into the door, your nose throbbed in response at the collision. “Ow,” you muttered to yourself, rubbing the skin.

“You ok?”

“I’m fine,” your response was quick, but not rude. A deep chuckle made its way to your ears as you scrambled out the room, your heart hammering in your chest. Your thoughts scolded you for being so awkward and flustered around him. Be cool, just chill out… The man you’re hopelessly in love with is just living with you temporarily, it’s not like anything will amount from this. You picked up the last box in the living room, hoping that just clothes would be in here and not anymore kink toys. I mean… I have toys, too. AW SHIT, I HAVE TO HIDE THEM!

HR’s eyes never left you as you made your panicked exit. He let out a little breath before shuffling over to the box you had been attending to. Immediately, he face-palmed hard when he had opened it with one hand. His face felt impossibly hot at what you had seen. She must think I’m an idiot or something. His mind thought back to when you helped him shop for some new clothes then it had gotten ruined from a meta. His hand fell away from his face, the image of your kind grin imprinted in his mind. I am an idiot, though. A fool.

Once Cisco returned, you three continued unpacking HR’s things for the time he’d spend here. The labs were still in ‘piss-poor’ shape according to Cisco and that he’ll need to consult with Harry and Wally regarding repairs.

“HR, how are you showering?”

“Um, like a normal person?” A dumbfounded look crossed HR’s features as he set the plate of sandwiches down. The novelist had knitted his eyebrows at Cisco. He had taken up to experimenting in the kitchen when he wasn’t writing. The tea and coffee were still brewing in your kitchen.

“No, I mean with how your shoulder is injured,” Cisco snuck an evil look at you, you returned it with a glare, “must be hard handling it alone.” You knew exactly where this dumbass wanted to take this conversation, so you stayed silent as to not get caught in the crossfire.

HR thought to himself for a moment. “Just a bit, but I’ve gotten used to the mild discomforts and pain. I can mostly reach everything thanks to my long limbs. But I think the nice thing is that it’s an internal issue, not an external one. An external injury or wound would require me to really have help with showering that way the area doesn’t get infected or irritated with the contents of soaps.” A laugh fell from his lips, but his mind wondered what his friend was playing at while you were around.

“I’m just saying, if you ever need a hand well,” Cisco trailed off with a smirk, chomping on his third sandwich.

Oh, I see. Devious, but a futile effort. “I’ll make sure you’re the first one I ask for help,” HR teased with a smirk of his own for Cisco to drop his in disgust. A cough escaped you, which had HR’s eyes land on you. Your eyes met for a moment before you deviated your gaze. HR felt hypnotized for a moment. Hm… The engineer quickly recovered from HR’s snide remark.

“Alright kids, I’ll be going now. The labs require some diligent work that I, a capable and distinguished engineer, could only do.”

“Yet, we still have the occasional security issues,” You sipped your tea once the snarky comment was out. HR stifled a chuckle, but you heard it. The corners of your mouth lifted slightly at the notion.

“Hey, that’s not fair. They always come up with something new to invade our space by.” Cisco pointed a finger at you, mocking a hurtful expression on his face. It dropped into a sneaky smile. “Make good choices and always use protection, you two!” He breached away before you could throw your cup at him.

***Multiple Days Pass***

Through his time here, you noticed HR fueled to write what’s on his mind in the guest room. You could only assume that he continued his adventure story. Sometimes he would venture out for some coffee or take a walk to give his creativity a break. Keeping that in mind, you gave HR the space he needed as well as all noises to a minimum. You knew he liked the quiet atmosphere to pour his heart and soul into words as he did research for a scene. Pulling your jacket on, you compiled a list of groceries before you stepped out of your apartment. Locking the door, you headed out to the store picking up a few necessities as well as some snacks for HR. Like Harry, the novelist can easily lose himself in his task – which meant that he tended to forget about eating and such. You found a bag of Jitters coffee beans, adding it to your cart of items. Buying some snacks and fruit, you’d leave a note in the kitchen of the snacks when he emerged from his writing cave.

On the way back, you stopped by at Iris’ studio to check up on her. A few groceries for her as well were in hand. Cecile and you did your best to visit Iris. But you can’t deny that you blamed her to a certain extent. Had she spoken up once she had left Savitar’s place disguised as HR, HR wouldn’t have been hurt that night on Infantino Street. Surely, she could have contacted her father or Cisco or something. The transition could have been smoother. HR wouldn’t have been… The journalist was faring; she pushed through the pain and as Barry had told her ‘to keep living’. So, Iris did. She hadn’t been herself since Barry went into the Speedforce – she pushed too much, the smile wouldn’t reach her eyes sometimes. You sympathized; she lost the love of her life. But you almost had too.

“How are you?”

“I’m fine, just… taking it one day at a time.” You nodded at her response, a small smile on your face. “How are things with you and HR? I heard of the temporary living conditions.”

“It’s fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I’m in my bubble and he’s in his doing his writing.”

“Right. Nothing going on whatsoever?”

“Iris.”

Iris set her cup of hot chocolate down and raised both hands in mock defeat. “We all saw it. We all see it.”

“See what?”

“How smitten you are for him.”

“I’m not-”

“-Don’t say you’re not. If you weren’t you, Harry wouldn’t have to pry you off Savitar before you clawed his eyes out.”

“…” You just looked into your tea, the honey that settled at the bottom. Iris placed a sympathetic hand on your shoulder, but you didn’t look at her.

“The heart will want what it wants, (Y/N). Pushing your feelings into a box and denying it out loud won’t change things.”

“I know.”

And my heart wants him, over and over again. Even if he can’t see me.

***

HR tapped his pencil against the desk at a steady pace. His mind wouldn’t focus on the words in front of him, on the scene he wanted to set. Instead, it kept drifting further from it. Further towards you: your eyes, your smile, the kindness that you held; the serenity that your existence held as the world continued to turn and chaos had unfolded at each turn. HR didn’t see much of you while he was here, the novelist missed your company. You were here, but you weren’t really here. You were either in your room or at the balcony with a book or on the couch with your Switch. He didn’t want to bother you, but… sometimes HR just wanted to sit beside you and pull you close to talk. To hold you in his arms and ask you about your day, to understand what you were thinking. HR cracked his back in a stretch from where he sat on his bed, being mindful of his injured shoulder. It didn’t hurt as it had originally done a few weeks back. The Wells doppelganger noticed that you were careful to avoid touching him or him touching you. Not even a hug that you used to graciously give him. You were especially guarded with your hands. A rough sigh left him as he threw his pencil down. The frustration was setting in, he was getting nowhere. You consumed his thoughts. HR wondered if you were revolted by him but doesn’t verbalize his thoughts to you. He didn’t think you’d give him your truthful answer. Maybe she is revolted by me. She did find the cuffs and the blindfold… No, she knew about the cuff stage thing well before that.

The sound of the front door greeted his ears followed by the soft tune of music. A frown made its way onto his face. Might as well take a break. HR stretched once more when he fully stood up, a little noise of relief left his lips. He cracked his back once more before smelling himself. For safe measure, the novelist sprayed a bit of cologne on himself and turned off the candle he had on. He mentally noted to take a shower after dinner since his last was yesterday. He liked the feeling of being clean, to be honest. HR carded a hand through his hair. I need a haircut soon, too. Yeesh, I feel like I’m letting myself go. Once I’m all healed it’s back to proper cuts and the labs’ recreation room. He wanted to go back to lifting weights and doing yoga for body stability purposes – especially now because of his shoulder. HR rested a hand on his chest, the wound had healed completely, but a scar remained. Upon entering the kitchen, he saw the groceries on the table and heard you whisper along with the lyrics. The music was set to a low level that your whispers were audible enough. He watched you sway a bit with the tune.

So please don't break my heart

Don't tear me apart

I know how it starts

Trust me I've been broken before

Don't break me again

I am delicate

Please don't break my heart

Trust me I've been broken before

The guitar tune pulled at his heart, feeling the raw emotion behind the lyrics. He eyed you for a moment. HR cleared his throat to make his presence known, he knew you didn’t like to be snuck up on. However, a little gasp left you from where you were. “You went out shopping?”

You looked up from where you crouched to put away the cereal. “Uh yeah, we were running low on some stuff.” You shut the cabinet and went to the other items you had bought. The music continued to delicately play.

“Need any help?”

“Um, sure. Uh, just set these into the cabinet on the left.” Normal, be normal. He’s not going to eat you or anything. Distance is good. Distance keeps you safe. You didn’t meet his eyes, the eyes that’d pull you in and never let you out – your heart shook with him here and the song that played. You were hoping HR wouldn’t come out while you prepped dinner to have a sort of peace of mind. The next song played before you could stop it-

My last made me feel like I would never try again

But when I saw you, I felt something I never felt

Come closer, I'll give you all my love

If you treat me right, baby, I'll give you everything

“I like this song,” HR started as he was finishing up with putting his side of the groceries away. Another guitar-like song that brought out the soft feelings of love and rejection. HR mused to himself if fate had planned this out. If this was some sort of sign or a cruel joke… You had stopped yourself from clicking the button to skip the song at his comment. You don’t know what possessed you to let him indulge in another song that you’ve cried to late at night. “Hey, I can cook dinner tonight. I have something I’ve been wanting to try. I’m not that crippled so I can manage with a few cookware.” HR chuckled to himself, a goofy grin on his face. Your heart leapt in your chest; his grin caused a small smile to pull at your lips. “You can wash up first?”

You swallowed thickly, your eyes meeting his icy blues. You felt your cheeks warm up slightly as the nerves crawled up your spine. “Oh, ok. Cool, yeah. Can’t wait to see what you cook up.” You nodded, ducking your head away and shuffling out of the kitchen with that shy smile on your face. You missed the longing look he had sent you as you fastened your steps to head to your room.

God I love that smile. What goes on in that little head of yours? We used to be so close… before Tracy came into the picture. HR pulled out the spices and the chicken breast. He shook his head and proceeded to prep the food with his one useful hand. I need to consult Francisco.

***

“We need to talk,” HR’s voice broke the silence in the side lab of the Cortex. He had breached to the labs using the Breach Extrapolator after he had showered and such. His damp hair was pushed back in HR’s normal style.

“About what?” Cisco raised a concerned eyebrow at the writer, stopping what he had been doing.

“(Y/N).”

A nervous laugh left Cisco as he went back to attempting to make the necessary modifications to the Speed Bazooka. Tracy was reluctant to help the mechanical engineer after the breakup. “What about (Y/N)?” Cisco put down his screwdriver. “Did you do something weird to her?”

“What? No! I- we used to be closer. We always talked, we’d hang out after a long day here at the labs.”

“Uh huh.”

“And, maybe it’s just me, but things have changed.”

“How so?” Cisco was wondering what conclusion HR was leading himself to.

“Things changed when Tracy came into the picture.”

Cisco made a little ‘o’ with his mouth with a little nod before closing it. He pushed a rough sigh past his lips, he was getting really tired of this puppy love game. “Why do you think that?”

“Francisco, she flinches when I get close – almost when I touch her… Does she hate me?”

“I think you and I know the answer to that one. But I think the real question should be: Why do you care so much? Why does it bother you? Do you love her, HR?”

The novelist tensed a bit. “…” HR pursed his lips as Cisco walked around the table that the speed weapon was mounted on. Blueprints were scattered on one table while the glass board held variables and equations he could not decipher. “What?”

“I said what I said,” the mechanical genius smoothly responded. One look at HR and Cisco knew that he was baffled by his forward words. But they needed to be said. “Now run along and use that head of yours to think about what your heart wants. Barry isn’t going to get himself out of the Speedforce.”

***

Cisco’s words mulled through HR’s mind as he breached back to your apartment’s living room.  Only the lamp light on the side table was on. HR’s eyes landed on you, who laid on the couch with the book you had been reading on the back ledge of the couch. The novelist took off his shoes and set down his bag. He had detoured to the bookstore, looking for the next installment of your current book. The Wells doppelganger had assumed you didn’t buy it yet as it was vacant from your bookshelf. The gentle giant stepped silently closer to you; the dim light cast over you like a glow. There were slight bags under your eyes. She hasn’t been sleeping well lately. Spotting a large and fluffy blanket near, HR grabs it and lays it on top of you. He remembered you mentioned to him prior that you easily get cold, especially at night. Chewing on the inside of his cheek, HR contemplated something before his body moved impulsively. The novelist placed a gentle kiss on your forehead; his lips lingered for a few more seconds. Pulling back, HR watched your chest rise and fall.  He turned the light off and stumbled over to his room with his phone light guiding him. He knew what he was going to write. Cisco’s question pestered him enough though.

Do you love her, HR?

HR took one look out his door before shutting it, his heart squeezed tightly in his chest as he whispered, “Goodnight, my angel.” Only the shadows that lingered were a witness to the fondness laced in those simple words.

***

You woke up with a start, you hand instantly smacking right into your chest. Heavy breaths left you as your nerves were in overdrive. Cold sweat beaded your skin as you gasp for air. It was another night terror – the same one for a few weeks now; a new way in which you caused HR’s death. Swallowing thickly, you screw your eyes tightly shut and whisper the mantra that calmed you down. After a few minutes, you started to regain control of your breathing – the thoughts that ravaged your mind finally ceased like the tides subsiding after a tsunami. You blinked languidly, hating nights like these. They weren’t rare, but they weren’t an uncommon occurrence. Deciding that you needed to step out for some air, you did so with the intent of getting a glass of water from the kitchen. Your fingers found the lights for the dimmers in your room, setting it to its lowest setting for you to see yourself out.

Cracking the door open, you were instantly met with the scene of HR passed out on the couch again. He’s been doing that for around two weeks now, the couch his new base of operations. His mouth was slightly open as little snores escaped him. A lovestruck smile crossed your features at the sight. Papers were littered around him, on the ground, and on the tables. Must be the manuscript he’s working on for his final draft. I hope I can read it at some point. Coming back from the kitchen with the water in hand you couldn’t help but stop to admire the sight. You noticed the glasses still perched on his face. Moving as silent as a ninja, you inched closer to pull off the glasses from his face. They’ll break if he keeps them on while he sleeps. Then he won’t see for shit when reading things. You nibbled on your bottom lip as your eyes drifted to the papers. One peek won’t hurt anyone. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

Seating yourself on the ground, you leaned your back against the foundation of the couch. You were opposite to where HR’s upper body was. If there were any telltale signs of him waking, you’d hightail out before he could fully wake up and process what you were doing. Picking up a small stack, you started sifting through them. Your mind became engrossed with the words – the beginnings of the story he had spun about his adventures as to how he came to Earth-1. Then… mentions of an angel eluded you. It couldn’t be Tracy, could it? I know they broke up, but… on the other hand, it doesn’t mean that he can’t say that she was his angel at the time. Like a character development thing leading to their break up?? Well fuck, I don’t even think he’d mention such a personal thing in his book. I know I wouldn’t… would I? I don’t know. A little smile danced at your lips while you read on about the synonymous things regarding Team Flash that you failed to notice HR rouse from sleep.

“Do you like it?” Lethargy intertwined his words. A stunned noise left you as you clutched the papers. You turned to see HR rubbing his eyes before gazing at you.

I could get lost in those eyes if I stared too long.

“Uh, yeah, its- it’s really good,” you stuttered, setting the papers down in your lap. Embarrassment of getting caught gripped you. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I don’t mind you taking a peek. I don’t have anything to be ashamed of in it.” HR shifted his lithe body to sit next to you on the ground.

“Oh.”

“Couldn’t sleep?”

“No.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“It’s not that important, I’ll be ok.”

“If you say so,” HR’s shoulders sagged slightly. “I’m here if you want to talk.” You nodded at him, whispering a little thank you. HR ran a hand over his knee, he took a glimpse at you who stared at the papers. He noticed what chapter you hand been reading – the angel was making an appearance in the story. The hair at the back of his neck stood while you thumbed the words on the paper back in forth, just lost in your mind. Your hair was messy from sleep, the bags under your eyes were still there. It killed him how you wouldn’t confide in him anymore. But he didn’t push you. You would open up to him if you wanted to or not, even if he wanted you to do so as so his mind can be at ease with knowing what’s going on with you. Cisco’s question sprang up in his mind once more before he licked his lips, his eyes watching you. “I do.”

You gave HR a strange look. I do, what?

“Tracy wasn’t her.” Realization struck HR the more you whispered with him.

“Huh??”

“I heard this voice before I woke up.” The novelist fully turned to you with intense eyes, the enlightenment in them – the fire that burned brightly. “The tenderness in it could rival any tasteful delight in the multiverse.”

“A voice?”

“Mm, it made me think that only a heavenly deity would have such a voice.” You remained silent as he spoke. “I never got to hear that voice since my coma… until now?”

You tensed at what he was insinuating. “Now?”

“How could I forget?”

“I-I don’t understand.”

“How could I forget about you?” The baritone huskiness in his voice made you melt with the way he said those words. You swallowed, trying to calm the butterflies that raged in the pit of your stomach. “The flowers that were left – beautiful, delicate, yet meaningful. You left those after visiting me.”

“…”

She didn’t deny it. “But you never visited when I was awake because of Tracy.”

“She hates me.”

“And I was too blind to see that until I broke up with her, she threw quite a fit.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“Because you must have loved her so much that it would be hard to let go.” She was your angel, after all.

“She didn’t even know me. Truly know me.”

“… Did she hurt you?”

“Slightly, but the bruise is gone.” You and he were silent for a moment. Only the sound of a distant car horn was heard from the streets. “You didn’t deny it.”

“Deny what?”

“The flowers, the visit…” HR licked his lips as a rough breath left him. His nerves were climbing, but he needed to do this. “Cisco told me what you did to Savitar when you saw him. How angry you were that Harry had to pry you off him – I was so angry.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t know then… but I know now.”

“And?”

“Tracy was never the one written in my story – she didn’t care. She didn’t see me for anything other than a pretty face obsessed with coffee. You did.” HR tucked your hair behind your ear, carefully gauging your reaction. He saw how you tried not to flinch away from him. “Do you hate me?” He asked as he retracted a hand from you, happy that he was at least getting through to you.

“Never could I feel such a way towards you.” You hesitated for a moment before testing the waters. You started to explain, “I- the night you were stabbed by Savitar I… I just broke. I pushed Tracy away, I had Barry rush you back to the labs. You were dying, unconscious on the gurney and… I got to work trying to resuscitate you. I had Cisco take care of Tracy while I worked, I needed space to think clearly, but I couldn’t. When- when the others were preoccupied with Iris’ appearance, I used these powers.” It was now or never. “I was desperate. Your life was hanging by a thread- I didn’t think it was going to work, but nothing else was working. You were bleeding so much. But I had to try. I…” Your glassy eyes locked back on his, your hands pulled close to your body. HR understood now why you never tried touching him. Why you are avoiding getting too close. “Cisco found out, he confronted me. But these powers, life isn’t guaranteed. They’re volatile, unprecedented – regardless of how I feel in the moment the balance can tip between giving a life and taking one.” There was a tightness in your chest as your voice cracked, “I’m cursed, I could hurt you.” I’m dangerous.

“I don’t think you will.”

“You don’t know that!”

“But I do,” HR reached a hand out to hold yours. Tension filled your heart as panic started to settle. “You wouldn’t let yourself hurt me. It would pain you too much.” HR squeezed your slightly shaky hand, his other hand still bound by the cross-sling. “My life is in your hands.”

“How can you trust me so much?”

“Because love cannot be built without a foundation of trust.” He placed a sweet kiss on the knuckles of your hand. “And understanding.” He took the other and kissed it, baby blue eyes shifted back to yours with such intense emotion. The adoration that filled the author to the brim for you. Just for you. Only you. The one who saw him for everything and anything that he is. His safe space – the one other thing he wanted to be for you as well. He wanted to eliminate any fears that resided in your heart, the pain and doubt that remained.

“Do you hate me?”

HR cupped your cheek tenderly as he leaned close, your heart wanted to stop as blood rushed to your cheeks and ears. Your half-lidded eyes shut slowly as his lips skimmed over your own. “Never in my life, angel,” the novelist whispered as he captured your lips in a tender and sentimental kiss.

Never in my life could I hate the one who my heart has yearned for.

#harrison wells x reader #harrison wells #hr wells x reader #hr wells #hr wells imagine #the flash cw #the flash #harrison wells imagines #earth 19 harrison wells #cw #cisco ramon #tracy brand #iris west #Iris West-Allen

[floofs-headcanons]

Hello hello! Both of your have such awesome writing! I had so much fun reading the headcanons and scenarios of the bodyguard AU! Could I request either college AU or a soulmate AU or your choosing for Zoro? Whatever you feel like writing! Thank you!!

College & Soulmate AU; Scenario

Character; Zoro

Word Count; 1,718

Thank you so much, we’re glad you liked it !! But no, but let me tell you how we screamed at each other for literally half an hour when we saw this request. There were too many good soulmate AUs we ended up using a generator aksjdhas.

The first time you and your soulmate touch you get stuck together for a while.

December is when you find him sleeping on campus grounds. He’s resting on one of the outdoor tables, book open, with arms covering the pages. Snow is falling, and you’re cold even with a heavy fur coat and umbrella keeping the white specs from melting into your hair.

You’re not sure if you should wake him up despite the fact that he was wearing nothing other than a T-shirt and some jeans, but he doesn’t seem very bothered. Well, that is until he sneezes. It’s followed by some incoherent grumbling and nearly scares the shit out of you, but it’s enough for you to decide to help.

“Hey,” you poke his cheek with the butt of your umbrella, not too fond of touching strangers. “Hey!”

He doesn’t stir, and you’re left wondering if anyone else has tried to help him before you showed up and ended up leaving it be because he wouldn’t budge.

Still, you couldn’t leave him here in this type of temperature; so you decide to leave your umbrella behind. It’s long enough to lean against the table and shield him from the ever piling snow without directly touching any part of his body and possibly bothering his rest- not that you think it would. He didn’t flinch even when you yelled at him.

December is when you’re working at Shakky’s bar late into the night to pay off your college tuition.

Those loans wouldn’t pay themselves after all and the salary was good. 

The company at the bar itself was interesting to say the least. You could never truly say you had a dull night while working there. Be it the slurring drunks and their awful attempts at pickup lines, to the terribly sobering tales that would be shared across the counter; it was an eye opening experience. 

Tonight would be much like any other- at least, that’s what you had thought until a familiar man comes through the door. 

He seemed well- that was good. You didn’t give it too much thought, after all, you were on the clock and this was a rather popular bar for the student body to frequent. From the way Shakky greets him, he must’ve been a regular long before you had begun working here.

Setting down the glass you had been mindlessly polishing, your attention is drawn towards a customer sitting near the back of the bar. He’s a bit louder than the other customers, but you were pretty used to that. Eustass Kid came in all the time and drank until he either passed out or his blonde haired friend carried him out forcefully. At the very least he wasn’t bothering anybody.

“Excuse me,” the green haired man raises a hand, successfully catching your attention. It seems he was done talking to Shakky by now.

“Yes?” You make your way over, an award-winning customer service smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “What can I get for you?”

He ends up getting a few, maybe more than a few, beers. This man sure could drink.

December is when your car decides it needs its own break from the cold winter snow. It thankfully doesn’t break down anywhere too traffic heavy, and there’s an auto-repair shop not even five minutes away.

“Oh, hello,” you greet, surprised to see a familiar face working here. He’s wearing a tank-top and some slacks, and this time you think the attire is appropriate given how much he was sweating.

The owner, Franky, had more than generously came to pick up your mobile and gave you a ride along the way, saying it would be done the same day. I have a reliable repairman, he said more than just a bit too loudly for comfort.

The male glances up at you for a second before going back to finish up on the vehicle he was already occupied with. “Hey, there.” You’re not too sure if he recognizes you- it’s a hard to not recognize him- but that’s fine, you just needed your car fixed.

It doesn’t take him very long to finish up on his current project before moving onto yours. He thankfully doesn’t ask any questions, it seems like the owner had already filled him in, and just starts working.

“You know,” he spares you a glance, picking up another tool. “He said it’d be done the same day but it’s still gonna take a few hours. Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“Unfortunately not,” you sigh. The only plans you had were to go back home and take a long, long nap, but there was no way you were going to walk back in this type of weather. For a while, you’re standing around a little awkwardly, fiddling with the fluffs of your sleeves before he speaks up.

“If you want you could sit inside where it’s warmer. There’s a TV and some magazines you could read to keep you occupied.” You debate that for a bit, looking through the glass door to the waiting area, but ultimately decide to stick around for a bit longer.

“It’s fine,” you say with a smile. You could wait inside later, for now you’d want to wander a bit. It’s not every day you’d get to go to an auto-repair shop and you’ve always been a bit curious with how often Kid yells about it in the bar. “Would it be alright if I take a look around?”

He gives a grunt of approval and you make yourself comfortable, roaming the workshop. It’s quite big, and you hadn’t noticed ‘til now that the walls were painted in vibrant blues, red, and yellow. It matched the owner’s eccentric personality.

“Oh,” a stand hidden to the back of the shop catches your attention; a lone umbrella resting on its handles. Yours- to be more precise. “You use an umbrella during snow time?” You hadn’t bothered to ask for it back, the thought never really occurred to you. Considering they weren’t that expensive buying a new one wouldn’t be much of a hassle. If anything, you were more surprised he’s kept it around.

The male clears his throat, stopping whatever it was he was doing to your car and wipes his hands down with a towel. “Actually,” he admits sheepishly, “I’ve been meaning to return it to you. I just kept forgetting.”

You raise a brow, “You knew it was mine?”

“I’ve seen you use it around campus before,” he admits. “Not a lot of people use an umbrella while it’s snowing, and the color’s pretty vibrant so it’s hard to not notice. I had wanted to give it to you when I visited the bar, but you were constantly busying yourself so I never got the chance.”

A chuckle escapes your lips at his little confession. He seemed like such an intimidating guy, with the furrowed brows and scar over his eye, but he was a lot more awkward than one would expect. “Well,” you catch his attention. “I’m working there again tomorrow night if you want to come give it to me in person.” December is when you’re sparing hopeful glances at the door every time the bell chimes.

“Expecting someone?” Shakky teases, coming behind the bar and pouring herself a glass.

“Something like that,” you mutter before making your way past her to attend to someone in the corner of the room. It’s the same person from around two weeks ago- he’s louder this time, but there were also less customers tonight and no one seems to be complaining any so you let it slide. “Yes? How may I hELP-?!”

What you can’t let slide is how he forcefully grabs your wrist and essentially drags your body to lean over the table. “Ah, damn,” you’re used to drunks, not idiots. He has a permanent grin plastered over his lips and his grip on your wrist tightens. “I can’t let go! Guess we must be soulmates!”

There is no explaining the disgust that washes over your face. “Sir, I’m asking you politely to let go.”

Everyone who goes here knows that it’s simply an unwritten rule to not fight unless you wanted to be beaten half to death. Not by you- dear lord no- Shakky on the other hand was ruthless and you’d never want to end up on the other side of her fist.

Ever.

“Huh?” He slurs, “didn’t I just tell you that I can’t let go?”

“I’m telling you-” before you’re able to get anymore words out another hand wraps around the older man’s wrist, successfully shutting you up. For a second, the dread of it being one of his friends rises, but it’s quickly crushed by the voice that follows.

“I’m sure you’re not deaf. She said let go.”

The bar is dead silent for a few seconds before the man roughly releases his grip on your arm. A bit gentler would’ve been nice, you internally grumble, rubbing the sore area.

“Hey there, could I ask exactly what you were trying to do with my precious barkeep?” Your boss comes over, leaning against the table. She gives you a wink and a slight nudge of her head towards the break room and you don’t think twice before leaving the scene, your green haired friend following close behind.

“Is your wrist alright?” He questions as soon as the door closes. “My bad for being late, I got held back by some work Franky wanted done.”

His hand reaches out to gently hold your wrist and a spark of electricity shocks you both. Usually, your first instinct would be to flinch and pull away, but he has a firm grip.

“Uhm,” you glance down, then back up at him. “It’ll probably bruise tomorrow but it’s nothing to worry too much about...”

His face is unreadable, and after a couple seconds his ears turn a faint shade of red. “I can’t let go.”

You chuckle at his poor attempt of a joke. “C’mon now, we just went through this.” You lift your free hand to pry his fingers off your wrist only to feel the same electric shock as earlier. It doesn’t hurt, only stinging enough to really initially surprise anyone, but you quickly realize he wasn’t trying to pull your leg.

Oh.

“So,” he awkwardly lifts his other hand. “I brought your umbrella.”

#roronoa zoro #roronoa zoro x reader #one piece scenario #one piece x reader #the way we struggled writing this is unreal #but also it was really fun so maybe it was worth it LOL #this turned out way longer than i expected it to #struggle was worth it fr

[karlnapity]

i declare war on my body.

chapter 1: it’s sad to know that we are not alone in this.

(tws: nongraphic self-harm)

punz is the first to come back after the egg is destroyed.

it makes sense; after all, he’s the least connected, the least influenced. he only ever existed on the outskirts of the faction, still the most in control of himself of everyone.

it only takes a few days for him to recover, the red receding bit after bit from his eyes. he spends most of those days sleeping, only waking every few hours to stare at the wall. he tells sam his head feels buzzy, like his thoughts are all out of order, and all sam can do is rub his shoulder and encourage him to go back to sleep.

it’s on the fourth or fifth day he starts to regain any sort of energy, tells puffy a little about what it was like to be under the egg’s influence. he’s allergic to any sort of vulnerability, but no one can deny the way his hands shake, and puffy holds them with her own.

the last of the red bleeds through his tears.

>

it takes around two weeks for ant to make any sort of semblance of consciousness. he blinks his cat pupils open on the final day, stares sam in the face, and starts to cry. his eyes are still purple-tinted, but sam can’t care less as he envelopes his friend in a hug. ant is mumbling something that sounds like ‘i’m sorry' over and over and over again, and sam shushes him, runs a hand along the fur on his head in a calming gesture from when they were kids.

they stay there for a long time. whenever sam tries to pull away, ant hooks his claws in sam’s armor and doesn’t let him leave.

sam doesn’t say anything about it, just obliges.

>

it’s a hard and long process, apologizing. punz and ponk speak in quiet, mumbling voices, and no one dares interrupt them. ant begins with puffy, sitting next to her on the beds they set up, and he recounts the story to her.

“i wish i could tell you more,” he says. “but i don’t remember all that much.”

it’s a complete lie, and he has a feeling she knows, but thankfully she doesn’t pry. she just stands, takes his hand, and pulls him to his feet.

his legs are still a bit shaky, but she supports him as she leads them outside.

the vines are gone, and he can’t help but let out a small cry of relief. she grins at him as she leads him to hannah’s house.

the colors are still gone from her house, but as they settle outside he admires the roses that have started to push through the grass once again.

it’s such a wonder to be in control of himself once again. he opens and closes his hands a few times, still relishing in the feeling.

(he’s not sure of the timeline, of how long he wasn’t himself, but he can’t bring himself to ask.)

he looks at puffy, who’s watching him with a complicated expression. he reaches out a paw, and she takes it.

“i missed you,” she murmurs.

he’s been doing a lot of crying in the few short days he’s been awake, but he never seems to run out of tears.

“i missed you too.”

“we were so worried about what would happen to you after it was destroyed. it had such a strong hold on you…”

“i know, i know, but i’m here now, right? everyone’s gonna be ok.”

(it’s a lie. he’s still coasting on adrenaline, on pure unfiltered relief right now, but he knows it can’t last long. he knows they’ll realize they don’t forgive him, and he knows they’ll realize that it was his fault. because it was. he can’t let himself relax for long.)

she doesn’t make eye contact, and he can see her face pinch a bit at that. he feels a bit of a pit growing in his stomach. he almost doesn’t want to ask.

“what is it?”

she purses her lips. “we’re not sure, on bad.”

his stomach drops.

>

he demands to see bad immediately. it’s a long process, on such tired legs, to get down to the area below. they let him and punz recover on the surface, but puffy said they wanted bad as far from any of the egg’s possible influence as the final vines were being destroyed.

he’s sequestered in a room deep below, and as puffy leads ant down the hallway his anxiety grows.

as much as he wants to see his friend, part of him doesn’t.

a lot of him doesn’t. he stills. he can’t bring his legs to move any more. puffy walks a few more strides before she notices he isn’t behind her, and she doubles back.

she notices his expression immediately. “what’s wrong?”

he struggles to get the words out. he’s been struggling with that a lot, lately. he opens and closes his mouth a few times before he can get it out. it’s still surprising to be able to do so.

“i don’t know if i want to see him.” it’s a painful admission, and part of him fears puffy will immediately call him an asshole. hell, he doesn’t fucking want to see his best friend, one of the people he cares most about, his friend who’s comatose. that’s a bit of a dick move.

but she doesn’t. she rests a hand on his shoulder, and he pulls her into a hug as he hiccups. she rubs his back. they sink to the ground, and puffy holds him close.

“why don’t you want to see him?” there’s no judgment in her voice, not like he feared, and something about it unlocks his words.

“i just… part of it… i don’t want to see the effects, because that’ll make it so much more real.” he bites his lip. “and... we... we did such shitty things together- and i don’t want to remember them- i don’t want to remember how we treated each other- and-”

he can’t breathe. she rubs on his back, murmuring reassurances, and little by little the anxiety in his chest dissipates enough for him to think. he pulls back, a bit, gets a clear look at her face. she gives him a small smile, and he returns it.

“you don’t have to, if you don’t want to. we all get it.” she shifts closer, so they’re sitting side by side on the hallway floor. “it’s a hard thing. you deserve to feel comfortable, first of all. you deserve to put yourself and your recovery first.”

he tugs his knees to his chin. he doesn’t deserve to be first, not after what he did to everyone. puffy’s just being nice. they- his victims- they deserve to be first.

(but does bad count as a victim? he can remember, faintly, being horrible to bad. they fought all the time, he knows that, and not just with words.

the egg pit them against each other, had them fight for everything. he remembers more than he cares to.)

old wounds sting, even after they’ve long since healed. he puts a hand on a faint scar on his arm.

bad doesn’t count as a victim. he shivers.

“ant?” puffy asks gently.

“i don’t want to see him,” he murmurs, as horrible as it feels. puffy nods, pulls him into a brief hug, and tells him to go back upstairs, that she’ll be right behind.

he crawls into bed, and he sleeps for a long, long time.

>

“how’s he doing?” puffy asks as she enters the room. sam looks up from the bedside, setting his book on his lap.

“no change,” he says. puffy purses her lips, takes a look.

bad’s been sleeping fitfully ever since the egg was destroyed. he was the first to go down, collapsing the moment the final vine was severed. sam speculates the egg was siphoning the most energy from him, considering he was the leader of their cause.

he looks terrible. he’s hardly been able to sleep consistently for over half an hour, still gasping and wrenching in what seems to be pain, and they can’t figure out how to fix it.

he still has vines curled around his arm and face. they can’t find where it’s coming from, and every time they trim it back it returns within hours.

a few days ago they came in to find it seemingly ripped out. he was bleeding, badly, but when they returned with medical supplies it had already grown back.

(they decided to keep a constant watch, after that.)

she touches a hand to his forehead. none of them are exactly sure what temperature demons are supposed to be, but all the same he seems far too cold. she strokes his cheek, pulls away and adjusts the blankets. it’s a bit tough, with his height, but they make do.

he’s so pale. his skin looks almost gray where it used to be vibrant, and the red accents still haven’t turned from white.

(he looks dead. every time she comes to see him she can’t help but reach for his pulse. can’t help but check.)

she leans back, sighs. “ant didn’t want to see him.”

sam frowns. “punz and ponk didn’t, either.”

“he didn’t say much on it,” she continues, sitting beside him. “but he seemed almost… scared, i’d say. he said they didn’t treat each other too well.”

“it’s not surprising, is it? it must have been torture, it’s not surprising to learn it had them be awful to each other. if they were too close they’d find a way to fight back, and it couldn’t have that.”

she nods, putting her head in her hands. sam rubs her shoulder. she leans into his side, lets herself break just a little.

(only a little.)

“i just wish he’d wake up.”

“i know,” he says quietly. “i miss him. we’ve just got to hope it’s soon.”

>

punz starts out the day with the express need to forget what the fuck happened.

he can’t bear the way they look at him. puffy and sam’s pity makes him sick, and ant’s trying desperately to avoid him at all costs, and ponk still has a hard time looking him in the eye.

it hurts. he wants things to go back to the way they were, but he doesn’t because that was dream. he’s not sure what he wants.

he deserves a fucking break.

he’s not supposed to leave, yet, not without someone to accompany him, but he doesn’t care. the constant care is suffocating, and he just wants to pretend he’s back to normal for five fucking seconds.

so he grabs a bag, a couple loaves of bread, and

his head still hasn’t cleared, and his body is still utterly shot from being stretched to its limits for months, so he can’t run too far, but he doesn’t care.

(the pain is good, means he’s atoning, and when his lungs burn this hard he can’t even focus on memories.)

he coughs, stumbles, and finds himself on the ground. he rolls over, lays flat on his back, and stares at the sky. he wants to scream.

can he not have five seconds?

his brain feels fuzzy again. it’s been hard, lately, to think much of anything beyond a need to escape a mysterious, nonexistent enemy that’s probably just inside his own mind, but he can’t relax, can’t let himself go, can’t concentrate on anything because of sheer fear.

(puffy says it’s hypervigilance, a trauma response, but that doesn’t make sense, because wasn’t he doing the traumatizing?)

none of it makes any fucking sense. he just wants to curl up on the hill he’s found himself on, stay there forever. it’s so hard. he just wants to stay here forever.

he curls onto his side, closes his eyes. everything’s fuzzy.

“punz?”

he jolts, almost screams, but it’s ponk. he can relax around ponk. ponk’s safe. he settles back onto the ground. “you awake, buddy?”

he waves a hand, and ponk grabs it. he feels the other sit beside him.

“you’re not supposed to run, it’s not safe.”

punz grunts, rolls back onto his back. he has to put extra care into making words, now. it’s so much more tiring. he considers just not responding. he does. “yeah.”

ponk sighs. “ok. can you stand?”

it’s a long process to get back to the base.

>

bad wakes up slowly.

the first time, sam barely notices it. he rolls over, raises a hand to rub on his face, which isn’t too uncommon. the keen of pain that follows is still business as usual, much as it makes sam’s heart ache.

then, all of a sudden, he gasps. his hands fly up to pull at the vine on his face. his eyes are still closed, but he’s crying, sobbing, even, and he grasps with what seems to be his full strength. sam stands, trying to figure out what to do, when the vines fly off with a sickening noise that makes sam want to be sick.

they fall to the ground, and he raises a netherite boot to crush them. it makes a horrible squelch, and sam knows he’ll have to burn the boots later to get the stain off, but it doesn’t matter.

what matters is the blinking, too-dim, barely open eyes in front of him.

sam pulls him into a tight hug. bad makes a sort of growl in the back of his throat that makes sam’s hair stand up on end.

bad doesn’t usually speak in his native tongue, anymore, and sam has no idea what he says, but he doesn’t care.

his friend is alive.

>

everything hurts so much. every single nerve in his body feels like it’s on fire, feels like he’s burning up from the inside.

someone- sam, it’s sam, it’s sam it’s samit’ssam- is petting his hair, running his fingers through the knots and working them out gently. he’s saying something, but the rushing in bad’s ears is too much to be able to understand anything at all.

he’s so tired. he wants to fall asleep, wants to sleep forever, but the pain is so much that he can’t do more than collapse against sam, let the other man carry his weight. he wants to bring his arms up to return the hug (it’s the least he can do) but he can’t.

he lets out a whine. everything is too much. the world is too bright, his own breathing is too ragged to his ears, even sam’s touch hurts. sam just continues murmuring words bad doesn’t understand and running his fingers through his hair.

the door opens, or at least he thinks it does. he’s not sure. his weight is passed from sam to another and he cries out. he doesn’t want sam to leave him, but this new person talks in a voice that calms him. he feels a warm washcloth on his face and it’s the only thing that doesn’t burn. the person takes his hands and warms them between their own, and the pain eases just a little.

he relaxes, slowly.

there’s still whispering in his ears and he tries so hard to tune it out.

(it hurts.)

he curls in on himself when it grows too loud.

it gets louder. he doesn’t stay awake for long.

#personal #awesamdude #ponk #captain puffy #antfrost #badboyhalo #punz #eggpire #dream smp #mcyt #dsmp

[xoxopandapanda]

InuKag Week 2021: Day 1

@inukag-week

Day 1: Battle Couple

It was a long and difficult day to say the least. The baby wouldn’t go down for anything, quickly becoming irate and angry at any attempt his parents made to help him settle down. Inuyasha’s shoulders and arms were of no comfort, and he didn’t want to nurse from Kagome. He cried and cried.

Soon his parents cried with him.

Inuyasha held it together for a while, taking the babe from Kagome when she started to choke up at his rejection of her breast. “Here,” his voice was soft, barely audible over the screaming child in Kagome’s arms. “Give him to me. You get some shut eye while we go out for a walk.”

Kagome had shaken her head at first but didn’t stop Inuyasha when he lifted the bundle out of her arms and tucked it into the crook of his neck. “I’m serious,” he told his wife sternly, “get some rest.”

Kagome felt the burn of tears down her face and saw through the waterworks Inuyasha’s shoulders fall slightly. But he turned on his heel and quickly left the hut they occupied, true to his word of taking the baby out for a walk. Kagome dropped her head into her hands, not bothering to even tidy or cover herself up before falling over to cry.

She felt like such a failure, of a mother and wife.

Kagome had gone nearly two days without a few hours rest, and exhaustion quickly crept on her. She was too tired and far too upset herself to remember that Inuyasha needed far less rest than her and could handle a fussy baby for a while. Once she was rested, she would probably blame baby brain for forgetting such a vital part of her husband’s characteristics, but that was for a rested Kagome to worry about.

Sleep came to her quickly, albeit restless sleep. She kept waking and searching for the other occupants of her home, before remembering they were out on a walk. She moved in and out of awareness, not having slept alone in what felt like eons, but realistically was only two years. Her bed felt cold and the room too quiet without her boys in it.

Sunlight finally peaked through the crevices of the walls. Inuyasha had promised her that he would fill in the gaps that the aging wood had created. But that was before the early labor and dramatic entrance of their first-born son just a few short months ago. Kagome half thought to remind him of the task, but then thought she couldn’t risk his attention been separated from her and the baby.

She wasn’t ready to be solely responsible yet.

Sure, reasonably she knew she could do it. It would probably just take him a few hours to gather the straw and mud to bulk up the walls, and with his speed and strength the longest part of it would be waiting for it to dry before adding more. He could help her out during those times, but the thought of even a moment where he wasn’t beside her with his full attention on their baby was too much to imagine.

Kagome started to choke up realizing she had left him to her own worst fear last night – solo parenting.

She rubbed her eyes, and the voice in the back of her head told her “Inuyasha is his father. He is just as capable of taking care of him for a few hours, if not more so.”

She threw that thought to the wind and continued to berate herself for leaving him alone with a very upset and very inconsolable baby for an entire night.

Kagome forced herself to sit up, stiff from having slept in the position she fell over in, rearranging her clothes. She winced at the soreness of her breasts and was sure to loosely cover herself.

“He should be hungry,” she said aloud to no one in particular. ‘Hopefully’ went unspoken.

As she dusted herself off and walked to the bucket of water in the corner to get a drink, Inuyasha’s head ducked in the room, eyes scanning for her.

When he saw her, he gave her a sheepish look. Kagome panicked for a moment – did he leave the baby with Sango and Miroku? What would they think of them as parents if they just dropped the kid off when he got fussy?

Her thoughts were interrupted when he stepped into the room, a whimpering lump on his chest alerting her to the baby’s presence.

Later she would realize her panicked thoughts were more of a manifestation of her own desire to ask her friends for help but wouldn’t out of an irrational fear of judgement. That was another thing she was going to have to work out.

“Sorry to wake you, but he’s suckling on me.”

Kagome blinked, her brain still foggy and slow. Oh. Inuyasha meant the baby was hungry.

She went to grab the baby from her husband, but then thought better of it. Wouldn’t be good to drop the kid in her exhaustion trying to get herself sorted to feed him.

She put down the ladle she was drinking from and sat back down on their futon, crumpled and unmade from the events of the night before. The smell of it made her speak. “We got to air this out today.”

“Once he’s fed, I’ll bring it out.” Inuyasha stepped up into the main room and crouched beside his wife, waiting for her to be ready for the baby – who was still whimpering, but had at least dried himself out of tears.

Kagome adjusted her clothes before holding her arms out for her son – her perfect, fussy, big, loud, demanding son. He quickly latched and took off suckling, eager to fill his stomach and rehydrate after the waterworks of the last few hours.

Kagome felt Inuyasha settled behind her, his arms coming around to hold up their son with her, so her arms didn’t have to hold up the weight. Sighing loudly, she leaned back into him, her head resting against his shoulder and his chin nuzzling into her opposite shoulder. Kagome closed her eyes and started to drift of.

Okay, maybe she did drift off.

Next thing she knew Inuyasha had switched their baby on her breasts and was rubbing his wet nose into her cheek. “Hey,” his voice in her ear was a nice change from the screaming of the night before, “I need you to lay down. I’ve got to burp the brat.”

Kagome nodded, slumping over on his arm, until he removed it and let her flop onto the futon. She could hear the shuffling of his feet walking and bouncing the baby up and down to help him release excess gas. The wet blech told her that more than likely the fire rat robe was going to need to be washed.

Groggily she called out, “He did drink pretty dang fast.”

“Yeah,” came the reply, “let’s just hope he kept enough down to keep him calm for a little bit.”

“Maybe he’ll go into a food coma, and we can rest to.”

Inuyasha snorted. “If there’s a god out there, then let’s pray it happens.”

Kagome knew she should help her husband. He was probably having to juggle a baby while getting out of his clothes and then having to clean both of them up. She knew she should just get up and even if it was to wipe off their son, at least do something. But she couldn’t even manage to open her eyes to watch what she was sure was quite the scene playing out in her house.

She could say she was surprised when she was lifted up and put onto some blankets, but she wouldn’t because she didn’t have it in her to even register what was going on. Managing just a little bit of strength, Kagome saw her son on his back next to her, his chest going up and down and a very light snore coming from his mouth that also caused his ears to twitch in rhythm. He was naked which Kagome knew was probably a bad idea but couldn’t even find it in her to care.

If he soiled the blankets, he soiled the blankets. They washed.

Besides, it wasn’t like she was exactly clean herself.

Rolling to her side, she gently tucked an arm under her head and the other coming down softly to rest on his chest. The movement of his breath quickly lulled his mother into a far more peaceful rest than before.

The sun had well slid its way across the sky by the time Kagome woke up. Inuyasha was sitting in the genkan, a shallow dish of water before him and the boy in his lap. The baby seemed very fascinated by the light dancing across the surface and was enchanted by the experience.

Kagome could tell that her husband was just as enchanted by watching their son experience the world for the first time.

“Some partner I am.” Her voice was rough and gravely from dehydration. Inuyasha’s ears moved before his head. He looked over his shoulder at her, bemusement in his eyes.

“Didn’t know I married a bear demon.”

Kagome rolled her eyes at his quip. Gods help her if her son developed his father’s sense of humor. “I’m sorry for leaving you to all the work. I’m not a very good wife, am I?”

Inuyasha’s eyes narrowed, whether in confusion or annoyance, she couldn’t tell. She was too far gone in her emotions to care. “What kind of mother am I, even? I just leave my boy alone and don’t comfort him?”

Inuyasha cut her off before she could continue down her path of self-deprecation. “No one could comfort him last night. Miroku told me that babies get that way sometimes, so we’ve just got to stick together and make sure he knows we’ll be there for him.”

Ah. He had gone to see Miroku and Sango last night. Kagome felt a sting of bitterness in her chest, worrying about judgement for no reason.

“But,” Inuyasha looked back at his son, stroking the top of his head and lifting his fine sliver baby hair, “we aren’t going to win the battle unless we rely on each other and have each other’s backs.”

Kagome nearly stopped him, wanting to know what battle before she realized Miroku had probably use an analogy to get through to his half-demon friend.

Inuyasha continued. “You had my back with Naraku, and when I got injured. I had your back when you had to fight off Hobo and the entrance examples. It’s no different now.”

Kagome opened her mouth to correct him like she had thousands of times before about Hojo’s name, but her heart had other plans. “You’re right,” she spoke softly, her eyes beginning to close again now that she was comforted. “We’ve got each other’s backs. Thanks for having mine last night.”

If she had kept her eyes open for a few more moments she would have seen the color light up across her husband’s face before he turned to look back down at their boy, who was now touching the water to refract light differently, although he didn’t understand the science of his actions.

If she had stayed awake for a second longer, she would have heard her husband say, “I’ll always have your back.”

#inukag #inukag week #inukag fanfiction #inukag fic #inukag ficlet #inukag week 2021 #panda writes #inuyasha #inuyashaxkagome #inuyasha x kagome #inuyasha fanfiction #I haven't watched the new season so I do what I want and what I want is a baby with Inuyasha's ears. #Day 1: Battle Couple

[sunflowershouto]

crisis - shouto todoroki x fem!reader

a/n: enjoy! my requests are open, so if you liked this fic, please feel free to drop me an ask -leo

warnings: marital issues, mentions of parental neglect and abuse (in relation to todoroki's backstory), mild angst

because i write from a third person point of view, i recommend using the interactivefics extension! it replaces y/n, l/n, etc, with whatever you insert into the extension, and helps to make fics super immersive! it's a chrome extension, and you can find it in the chrome store.

[the song that inspired this fic is Crisis by Annie Eve]

𝑫𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒈 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒚. . . 𝑰'𝒎 𝒕𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖. . . 𝑰'𝒎 𝒓𝒖𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒚 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏, 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖. . .

𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐒

Y/N's keys chimed together softly as she dug them out of her coat pocket, her gloved hands struggling for a moment to take hold of the cool metal. Her face still stung from the cold of the snow outside, and she hurried to unlock the door to the apartment, stepping inside and letting her shoulders slump as soon as the door was shut behind her.

The place was silent, but a glance towards the kitchen, where a light shone dimly through the doorway, told her that Shouto was home.

Without announcing her presence, she slid her coat off, then removed her boots and placed them on the shoe rack, where they stood alone. The coat hanger in the entryway was the same way—her coat was the only one there, looking lonely as it hung in solitude from the rack.

"I'm hom—I'm here," Y/N called tentatively, catching herself before she could say the word 'home.' She lingered awkwardly by the front door, as though afraid to enter. "I'll get started on dinner soon."

There was a long silence as she crossed the hall into the living room, which was pristinely clean, but looked more like a picture from a catalogue than anywhere actually inhabited. The sofa cushions were uncreased, the table spotless and uncluttered. She stared at the room blankly, and realized that she felt like a stranger.

"I've already eaten."

There was no surprise, only a dull sting as she let out a soft sigh, pressing her eyes shut. "Alright. That's fine."

It had been a month of this already, and Y/N knew that most husbands, most couples, would have already worked a way around something like this—at the very least, they would have found a way to sweep it under the rug for a few more months, pretend that it didn't exist. But Shouto wasn't most husbands, and they were not most couples.

When Shouto wanted to hold onto something, he could take it to his grave; how else could he have gone for years without using an entire half of his quirk? She had always loved his stubbornness, admired him for his tenacity, but now when she looked at him, all she could see was a wall that she didn't know how to scale.

It was her fault, this whole argument. She had been the one to bring up the idea of having kids, she had been the one to press him on it, to try to have the conversation before he was ready.

They had been happy. If she had just left well enough alone. . .

Another long sigh drew itself from her chest, and she turned towards the kitchen, footsteps soft against polished hardwood. "Sho. . . Can we at least talk? Please?"

He was sitting at the kitchen table, staring down at an untouched mug of tea that Y/N could only assume had already gone cold. His dual-toned gaze flickered up towards hers for just an instant, and for a moment she thought she saw a spark of progress. Then the ice took over again, and he cast his gaze back down, his mouth bent into an uncomfortable grimace.

Y/N wasn't used to not knowing what to say to him; part of the reason that they had worked so well as a couple was their ability to practice utter candor with one another. This feeling of words being stuck on her tongue. . . It was foreign to her, daunting. Temptation to indulge in her anger sparked in her chest; it would be so easy to snap at him, to remind him with vicious fervor how badly he was hurting her, but those sparks died down as she took another look at his face. She knew that he was hurting too, that he was just as lost for words as she was. "Shou," she tried again, leaning against the doorway, her voice gentle. "We can't do this forever."

His grimace settled deeper into his features, and she saw his shoulders tense, his hands tightening around the ceramic mug. "What can we do?" he finally asked, brow creasing.

"We can talk about this. I know what you're scared of, Shou." Y/N crossed the kitchen to be at his side, her hand coming carefully up to the side of his face, fingertips skimming the red, rough skin over his scar. "You won't be like him. You won't be like your fath—"

"Don't."

Her breath caught in her throat at the feeling of his grip around her wrist, pulling her hand away from his face. His eyes were burning with something that rested in the valley between grief and rage.

His grip tightened again before he let her go, his chair wailing as he shoved it away from the table, his gait hurried as he rushed away from her.

Y/N could only watch as he left the kitchen and disappeared up the stairs like a ghost, drifting farther and farther away. Her eyes stung and a lump burned in her throat, and she fell into the seat that he had been occupying just a moment ago, burying her face in her arms.

She sat in silence under the dim kitchen light until her joints began to ache and her eyelids felt heavy. Eventually, she pulled herself up and padded slowly up the stairs, careful not to walk too loudly. The door to the bedroom felt heavier than usual, and the sight of Shouto lying with his back to her brought her pause. She didn't know if he was awake, if he knew that she was there or not, and part of her didn't care. He didn't move as she retrieved her pillow from her side of the bed and left the room, heading back down the stairs and finding a restless sleep on their barely-used sofa.

The events of that night had alienated her even further, and if there had been a wedge between them before, it now felt like a chasm.

Weeks passed with little change, and though they shared a space, Y/N could hardly say that it felt like they lived together. After the first few nights, Shouto had told her that she could have their bedroom—he would sleep on the couch.

Part of her was angry with him for it; even when he was being infuriating, he still found a way to remind her why she loved him. One kind gesture, however, wasn't enough to make up for almost two months of dysfunction. Y/N realized that she couldn't take this. Not for much longer, at any rate. She got home from work one cold evening, and found him as she usually did, sitting at his desk, handling paperwork for the agency.

"Shouto." Her voice was even, steady because she'd rehearsed this conversation in all its permutations before she'd even made it to their front door. She needed to be ready, or else she knew that she would break.

His hand tightened around his pen, and he froze for a moment, before setting it down and turning in his chair, not quite meeting her eyes. "Yes?"

"Look. . . I love you, but I can't do this. I can't stay here if you're going to act like I don't exist. If avoiding one conversation is worth our marriage, then fine. I'll accept that, but I won't stay. Do you understand?"

His eyes snapped to hers, widening ever so slightly. In that moment, he looked more attentive, more alert than he had in months. "Y/N. . ." His eyes fell shut and he leaned forward against the desk, raking his hands through his hair and drawing in a shaking breath. "I just- I need time. Don't go."

"I've given you time, Shouto," she shot back quickly, raising her voice slightly. "I need you to give me answers."

He fell silent again, staring down at the desk, his hands still tangled in his hair as he realized that he was stuck within an ultimatum.

She was deafened by his silence, and she looked to the side, jaw tightening before she began to step away and out of the room. "I'm going, Shouto." "Y/N—" "Don't."

As soon as she had packed her things, she left the apartment without sparing him another glance.

A week passed, and Y/N quickly realized how accustomed she had grown to living with Shouto; even when they had been sleeping in different rooms for weeks, it felt odd to live somewhere where he wasn't. She found it difficult to sleep in her friend's apartment, and even more difficult to eat with the growing uncertainty that was gnawing a pit in her stomach.

She knew that forgetting her notebook was a weak excuse to go back to the apartment, but she didn't have a better one, and part of her was too prideful to admit that she had simply missed him, that she was starting to feel like it was better to struggle with him than to try to move on without him. At the very least, she wanted to see him again, and maybe there was a little part of her that was hoping that he wanted to see her too.

It was late on a Friday night when Y/N drove back to their apartment, hoping that maybe he'd be asleep, and that she could sneak past him and he'd never have to know that she was thinking about coming back to him.

She tried to muffle the sound of her keys, but they rang loudly as she unlocked the door, trying to remain silent as she slipped back into the apartment. In her absence it had hardly changed; the furniture still looked unused, the kitchen was still perfectly clean. Shouto had never been the type to let his internal turmoil leak out into his surroundings, and Y/N didn't suppose that he was spending much time outside of his office.

She slipped off her shoes, then crept up the stairs without turning on the lights, navigating the dark apartment by memory as she made her way to the bedroom. The door was shut and the light was out, and a feeling of relief washed over her as she realized that he must have been asleep. Slowly, she pushed the door open, and stepped into their room.

Even in the dark, the room was achingly familiar; the colors that she and Shouto had picked out together stood out vaguely in the darkness, and it was all she could do not to succumb to the lump in her throat. She pressed forward, moving towards her nightstand and trying to ignore Shouto, who seemed restless as he slept alone.

When she realized that he was whimpering, she stopped dead in her tracks, her gut twisting. Nightmares were rare for him, but Y/N had always been the one who was there to pull him out of them; now he had no one, and guilt burned at her chest at the idea of leaving him there like that, forsaking him to the demons in his head.

Against her better judgment, she reached forward and flipped the switch on her nightstand lamp, washing the room in a dull, warm glow. In the light, she could see the sheen of sweat on his face, the way his muscles tensed and his face twisted in discomfort. Her heart ached, and she stepped toward him, her own heart pounding in her chest as she did.

This was a bad idea.

He wouldn't want to see her.

She should turn around and let him think that she had never been there.

God, if it wasn't hard to remember why she'd left him at all.

"Shouto," Y/N whispered, moving to his side of the bed and placing her hand lightly on his shoulder. "Shou, wake up. Please, wake up."

The way he started awake made her heart ache—his eyes were wild, ringed with dark circles, his face drained of all color. He searched the room frantically until his eyes fell on her, and his face softened immediately, his hand coming up to her face as though against his will. "Y/N. . ."

She gave him a bittersweet smile, compassion glimmering in her gaze. "You're okay, love. I'm here now." Tears welled up in her eyes as she took him in, took in how exhausted he looked, took in how much he was revealing as he stared at her.

He looked dazed by his swell of emotion, and he didn't hesitate to pull her into his arms, burying his face in the crook of her neck as the tension went out of his shoulders, his breaths coming out in ragged gasps. "I'm sorry, Y/N," Shouto whispered, his arms tightening around her. "All of this. . . All of this was because I was scared. I didn't think I could give you what you wanted, and you payed the price. And- And my mother-"

"It's okay, Shou," Y/N murmured, running a gentle hand through his hair. "You don't have to explain."

"No, Y/N. Listen. Please." He drew in another breath before he continued. "After you asked me about having kids, my father came to mind. I didn't—don't—ever want to be like him. But my mother. . . I would go to see her, Y/N, after we had that talk. And when I looked at her, and thought about what my father did. . . All I could see when I looked at her was you. You don't—you don't understand how badly that scared me, Y/N. And I felt, stupidly, that if I said anything about it, that it would make it real. I was too scared to take that risk." His voice was trembling now, vulnerable in a way you'd never heard from him. "Do you understand? I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

"God, Shou," Y/N choked out, tears spilling freely down the sides of her face as she clung to him. "You should have told me. I could have- I could have helped you."

"I know, love," he murmured, and Y/N remembered for the first time in months how good it felt to hear him call her 'love.' "I'm still just. . . Learning."

"I'm sorry too. Walking out on you like that, I. . ."

"No, Y/N." He pulled back to stare at her intently, meeting her eyes directly. "You did what you had to do. You were right. You gave me every chance to talk, and I didn't take it. That's on me. I won't let you blame yourself for my mistakes—that's what he would have done."

She knew better than to argue with him, so she merely nodded before burying her face in his shoulder again, relishing in the feeling of having his arms back around her, of finally having broken through the walls that had been built between them.

Shouto was lying on his back with her draped over his chest, dancing on the verge of sleep when her voice broke the silence.

"For what it's worth. . . You would make an amazing father."

He didn't reply, but Y/N could feel his hold on her tighten, could hear his breath catching in her throat—and if she really listened closely, she could hear quiet sniffles as she drifted off to sleep, happy again in her husband's arms.

#mha imagines #mha x reader #bnha imagines #bnha x reader #shouto todoroki x reader #todoroki x reader #todoroki imagine #shouto todoroki imagine #my hero academia x reader #my hero academia image #full fic #mha fanfiction

[fruitcoops]

I love your babysitting jules fic and the tell me how you know your boyfriend won't cheat on you fic. I was thinking, like remus and sirius have a day off and spend it with jules, and sirius goes somewhere and comes back to find remus and jules sleeping on the flour and they look similar and he just smiles.

Idk, hope this makes sense, I love all your fics.

It totally makes sense and it’s super cute! Thanks for such a wonderful suggestion <3 This is Part 4 of Adventures in Babysitting (1 2 3)

Sweater Weather credit goes to @lumosinlove!

As much as Sirius loved hockey, he had to admit break days were his favorite part of the week. Most weekends, he and Remus would roll out of bed sometime around eleven, have lunch, go for a walk, and then turn into total couch potatoes if they didn’t have anything important to do.

But they had a kid now, so that plan had to change.

They managed to stay in bed until nine before soft rustling sounds began in Jules’ room—Remus’ aggressive cuddling delayed them for a bit longer, which Sirius did not have any complaints about, but eventually they knew it was time to move.

“Dinner’s at six, right?” Sirius asked as he washed his face while Remus tracked down a t-shirt. Shirtless mornings were another tragic sacrifice while Jules was around.

“Yep. Dumo said we could get there at five-thirty, though. Apparently, Katie’s been dying to see Jules again.” Remus kissed the back of his shoulder as he reached for a toothbrush. “I was thinking we could just let him choose what we do today.”

“Makes it a lot easier on us.”

“And it makes it extra special for him,” Remus mumbled around a mouthful of toothpaste. “We still get veto power, though.”

“That’s probably for the best.”

Jules was still in his bedroom when they went downstairs and for a fleeting moment, Sirius wondered if they had woken up early for nothing. “He’ll be down soon,” Remus said as if he could read his mind, pressing two coffee cups into Sirius’ hands. “All those cool knickknacks in the guest room will keep him distracted for a bit.”

Sure enough, excited footsteps followed a sharp gasp less than ten minutes later. Remus smiled over the rim of his coffee cup and walked over to the pantry to pull out the pancake mix. “Morning—"

“Is it true you won the regional All-Stars when you were in high school?” Jules blurted as he skidded into the kitchen and shoved a small trophy into Sirius’ hands, panting like he had run a mile.

Sirius squinted down at the little figurine; in all honesty, he had forgotten he even had it. “Where did you find this?”

“In the nightstand. Is it true?”

“Uh, yeah, it is.” He set it on the counter with their other random items. “Thanks for finding it, bud.”

Jules glowed under his approval and Remus bit his lip to stifle laughter. “Re, can we have chocolate pancakes?”

“We don’t have any chocolate chips, sorry,” Remus said as he mixed the batter. Liar. Sirius shot him a look, and he stuck out his tongue playfully behind Jules’ back. “We’ve got some fun news, though.”

“What?”

“There’s no practice today and you get to decide what we do.”

Jules’ jaw dropped. “Really?”

“Mhmm.”

“Awesome! Mom and Dad never want to see the cool stuff because they’re busy with museums and games and friends but there are so many places I wanna go,” Jules said in one rushing breath. Sirius blinked in shock, but Remus seemed unfazed as he handed the spatula over. “Thanks!”

“Sure thing.”

“Sirius, what are your favorite places?” Jules turned to him, still licking the spatula like his life depended on it.

Sirius took a moment to think and suppress a smile. “I like the roller rink, and the aquarium, and the park.”

“We already went to the park.”

“We can go again if you want,” he laughed. “You made friends, right?”

“Yeah, but I probably won’t see them again.” Oh, to have a child’s nonchalance when it comes to friends. “The aquarium sounds really neat!”

“It’s pretty cool,” Remus agreed as he ladled out batter into the pan. “They put in a new exhibit recently.”

“Sweet! Can we go now?”

“Don’t you want pancakes?” Sirius asked. “I know I do.”

Jules nodded rapidly. “I do, too. Can I ride on your shoulders?”

“Now?”

“At the aquarium.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“How tall are you?”

Sirius paused, then gave him a conspiratorial look. “Eleven feet tall.”

Remus burst out laughing and nearly burned himself on the pan; Jules rolled his eyes. “Come on. I’m ten, that doesn’t work on me anymore.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Sirius took a sip of coffee. “I’m 191 centimeters tall.”

“Huh?”

“Almost two meters.”

Jules looked over to Remus, who shook his head with a smile. “He’s six foot three, Jules, and he’s messing with you by being fancy and Canadian.”

“How tall are you?” Jules asked, folding his knees under himself to reach the butter with his fork as Remus passed him a plate of pancakes.

Remus sighed. “Five foot eleven and a half.”

“Ha! Short.”

“Shut up, you’re still an Oompa Loompa.”

“I’m more than a foot taller than Oompa Loopmas,” Jules said haughtily, shoveling pancake into his mouth. “I looked it up the last time you called me that.”

“Look at you go! Gold star!”

Sirius cheeks were starting to hurt from holding down his laughter and Remus winked as he passed another plate over. “Thanks, love.”

“Why do couples have nicknames?” Jules asked. “I always thought it was a little weird. Mom and Dad have actual names, but they never really use them. It’s always honey, darling, other sappy stuff.”

Remus shrugged as he sat down with them. “Why do you call me Re? That’s not my full name.”

Jules thought for a second. “Partly because ‘Remus’ sounds like a stuffy old museum name.”

“Oh, and ‘Julian’ doesn’t?” Remus teased. “Usually, people give nicknames because they care about each other. Couples just have an extra level to that.”

“I don’t really like it when people call me by my full name, either,” Sirius added.

Jules frowned. “But people call you by your first name all the time.”

“They do. But my friends usually don’t. There’s Cap, Padfoot, whatever your brother comes up with that day…”

“I call you Sirius.”

“I don’t mind as much when you say it.” Because you’re adorable and I would literally do anything for you. “You can call me whatever you want.”

Jules seemed satisfied by that answer and turned back to his pancakes; Sirius caught Remus quickly looking away when he glanced back up and smiled, giving him a quick nudge with his foot. Baby, Remus mouthed with a slight smirk. Sirius rolled his eyes.

-------------------------------------

The aquarium was busy, but it was a weekend, after all. They only had to wait in line for ten minutes; during that time, Jules made three new friends and every single one of the parents thought he was their son. Even the ticket salesman offered them a family discount that Remus politely declined.

But…it wasn’t a bad thought. Sirius let it ruminate in the back of his mind as he helped Jules onto his shoulders and Remus grabbed a map from the kiosk for when they inevitably got turned around. Definitely not this year, or the next, but someday Sirius did want to say ‘yes’ to the parents and kids discount, though he couldn’t place his finger on why.

And then they reached the whale exhibit. A huge humpback skeleton hung from the ceiling in a smooth curve, its mouth open to reveal perfectly preserved baleen. Jules reached up and trailed his fingers through the space below its massive ribcage—he was too short to touch it still, but the pure awe on his face took Sirius’ breath away more than any deep-sea creature could.

“Baby, can you get a picture of us by the glass?” Remus asked. Ahead of them, a huge tank stretched into a tunnel that lead to the tropical exhibit; Sirius nodded and bent to let Jules down.

“Race you there!” he called, running across the well-worn blue carpet at full tilt. Remus followed him with a laugh and caught him just before they reached the glass, swinging him off his feet by the armpits and turning to face Sirius.

His throat tightened a bit as he took his phone out for the picture. They beamed at him with almost-identical smiles, right down to the dimples. That. That right there, he thought. That’s what I want. “Got it.”

“Awesome, your turn.” Remus put Jules down and began walking over, but an older man motioned to Sirius just before he put his phone away.

“Excuse me, would you like me to get a picture of all three of you?” he asked. A little girl—his granddaughter, perhaps—watched them shyly from behind his legs.

“Oh. Yes, thank you.” Sirius handed him his cell phone and went over to the glass, wrapping one arm around Remus’ waist and draping the other over Jules’ shoulder. They smiled, backlit with blues and greens and aquamarine.

“Alright, I took a few.” The man gave Sirius’ phone back and patted him on the arm as the little girl tugged his sleeve. “You have a beautiful family. Have a good day!”

Sirius didn’t fully snap out of his daze until they were in the tropical tunnel, where fish in colors he could never dream of darted back and forth and fascinated Jules. The aquarium used to be his favorite place in Gryffindor; now, it was probably his favorite place in the world.

Remus led them through a series of corridors, pausing every now and then when Jules scampered toward the next tank, though he seemed to have something on his mind. When Sirius shot him a questioning look, he kissed his cheek and held his hand instead of answering. They wandered past the sting rays, the turtles, and the sharks, until Sirius recognized the multicolored lights from the next room over and stopped in his tracks. “No.”

Remus grinned. “Yeah.”

Jules looked between them in clear confusion. “What?”

“I gotta show you something, c’mere.” Sirius crouched down and helped him back onto his shoulders, then ducked into the adjacent exhibit. Immediately, he heard Jules gasp as jellyfish surrounded them.

“Woah.”

“Isn’t it cool?” His smile was staring to hurt his cheeks. “Here, this in my favorite part.”

Sirius walked to the twelve-foot arch near the middle of the room and stood beneath it, basking in the warmth of the bright lights below as jellyfish of a billion sizes floated overhead. He sighed and leaned his head back slightly to get a better look.

Jules stretched his arms up, trying to touch the glass. “Wow,” he breathed.

When Sirius looked back down, he saw Remus lowering his phone with a small smile. “Had to get a good one,” he said as he stepped under the arch with them and leaned into Sirius’ side. Jules reached down and flipped his baseball cap backwards. “Thanks, buddy.”

“I’ve been waiting to do that for ages.”

“Good to know,” Remus laughed. “Ready to move on?”

“Just a second,” Sirius said, pulling Remus’ arm around his waist. “Just a bit longer. We’ve got nowhere to be but here.”

-----------------------------------------

They did, in fact, have somewhere to be, though Sirius didn’t remember that until 3:30 pm. He also remembered that they were supposed to bring dessert that night and unless Remus wanted to out himself as a liar by busting out the chocolate chips in the cupboard, they needed a plan B.

The grocery store was blessedly empty when he arrived, which meant he could use self-checkout for the two containers of cookies he bought—thank god. As much fun as the aquarium was, there were so many people, and they were everywhere.

I need a nap, he thought as he walked back out to the car and watched his breath steam in the December air. And, like, half an hour by myself to listen to music.

The first thing he noticed was that the house was quiet. Hattie didn’t bark when he got out of the car, or when he unlocked the front door, or called out a hesitant “hello?” while he took his shoes off. Nothing seemed amiss, other than the fact that Jules had been bouncing off the walls when he left.

The living room held the answers to all his questions. Hattie was passed out on the couch, splayed with her belly to the ceiling. Jules and Remus were asleep on the carpet with The Fellowship of the Ring between them; clearly, they had been mid-chapter when they dozed off. Sirius set the cookies on the counter and carefully slid the book out of Remus’ hands, setting it on the coffee table before pulling the thick knitted blanket off the couch.

Hattie grumbled at him and cracked an eye open. “Shhh,” he said softly, kissing her forehead before laying the blanket over the other two. They looked so alike—their hair was nearly the same shade, and Jules’ jaw was only slightly narrower than Remus’. Sirius bet that in ten years, it would be hard to tell them apart in photos.

He crept upstairs and set a timer for 4:30. James had recommended a new band ten minutes before midnight, and Sirius figured he should at least give it a shot if it was so important. He grabbed his headphones, pressed play, and let out a deep breath as he sank back into the pillows.

Half an hour went by too fast, and before he knew it the alarm was ringing instead of the steady bass of the new song. He squinted at the clock, praying it would be wrong, and sighed when he saw that technology had won out once again.

Remus and Jules were still asleep on the floor, though they had cuddled closer at some point and the blanket nearly covered Jules entirely. Sirius crouched down next to Remus and brushed his hair off his forehead before gently shaking his shoulder. “Re. Sweetheart, it’s time to get up.”

“No,” Remus murmured.

“Come on, mon loup, dinner’s in an hour.”

“ ‘m tired. C’mere.”

“I would love to, but we promised Dumo we’d be there.”

“Sirius?” Jules blinked up at him sleepily.

“Hey, buddy.”

“We hafta get up?”

“Don’t listen to him,” Remus said without opening his eyes.

“Love you, too,” Sirius laughed quietly. “I got cookies.”

“Cookies?” Jules sat up fully at that and rubbed his eyes; Remus groaned and rolled onto his back.

“Technically, they’re for after dinner, but an exception can be made.”

Remus stared at him for a moment, then sighed and held his hands up as Jules hurried into the kitchen. “Alright, fine.”

Sirius pulled him to his feet and kissed his forehead. “We’ve got about forty-five minutes before we need to head out, okay?”

“So we could’ve napped for thirty more.”

“You could, but then you’d both be cranky.” Sirius leaned back to look into the kitchen. “Just one, Jules! Save some for Katie and the others!”

There was a beat of silence, then a heavy sigh. “Okay.”

“Thank you.”

Remus wrapped his arms around Sirius’ waist and leaned his forehead against his chest, nuzzling into his sweatshirt. “You’re so soft. And warm.”

“It’s a gift.”

“Perfect place to take a nap.”

“Oh, no you don’t.” Sirius carefully detached Remus’ grip and he exhaled slowly.

“Thank you for picking up cookies, baby. Was there anything else we needed to bring?”

“Just ourselves.” He placed another kiss to his cheek and Remus stretched his arms over his head.

“Oof. Okay. I’ll go get a different shirt on and wrangle the kid if you want to find a plate to pretend the cookies are ours.”

“You read my mind,” Sirius said, earning himself a proper kiss before Remus turned and headed into the kitchen.

---------------------------------------------

They pulled into Dumo’s driveway at 5:40, which wasn’t bad, all things considered. Jules and Katie disappeared in a hurricane of excited rambling as soon as the door opened and Dumo burst out laughing the second he saw them. “Welcome to parenthood,” he said, pulling them each in for a hug. “How are you liking your free trial?”

“I’ve never been more exhausted in my life.” Remus shook his head as he took his coat off. “But I love it, for some reason.”

“That sums it up.” Celeste stood on her tiptoes to kiss each of Sirius’ cheeks. “Did you bring dessert?” He wordlessly held the plate out and she raised an eyebrow. “You remembered at…4 pm.”

“3:30.”

“You’re getting better, mon fils. Marc, Adele, come set the table!” Upstairs, two different sets of footsteps tumbled over each other as they came running down the stairs; both crashed into Sirius for hugs, just like they had when he first moved in.

“Bonjour,” he laughed, squeezing them tight and planting kisses to the tops of their heads. “I hope Regulus hasn’t been driving you too crazy.”

“I think he’s still asleep,” Adele said as she stepped back. Celeste shooed them both toward the dining room as Sirius raised his eyebrows.

“Un moment, s’il vous plait.” Dumo and Remus wandered off to supervise the kids while Sirius headed for the basement door. Regulus was nearly twenty years old—it wasn’t like he needed those blankets at six in the evening, anyway, and Sirius was only too happy to give him a rousing wake-up call. It was his right as an older brother. 

[meigh-day]

Color Blind (Tsukishima x Reader)

Title: Color Blind

Pairing: Tsukishima x Reader

Warnings: None just tooth rotting fluff

Status: Complete

Word Count: 1.4k

———————————————————–

Imagine all your life you see shades of grey. You learn to love the shape of things or how they feel or smell rather than their color. You've been told that, someday, if you fall in love with someone and it's returned, you'd get to see color. Then, they said, you'd understand what all the fuss was about. But you're happy with the way you've learned to love things. Learning to appreciate the texture of a flower petal or the way each one sways in a warm summer breeze. You loved the way your favourite sweater felt against your skin, the way it warmed you when nothing else could, whatever color it was you were sure it had to be your favorite.

And you were right, it was your favorite color because it was the same color of his eyes.

Though you had no idea that you'd meet him running such a mundane errand like groceries but there he was, tall and handsome, illuminated by the cold lights of the frozen food aisle.

You stood awkwardly to the side, watching as he pulled a box from the shelf, then hesitate before putting it back and grabbing another. It was only as he was tossing it into the cart that he saw you, hands fidgeting with the handle of your basket. He glanced at the now closed door behind him and then back at you before speaking. "Sorry, am I in the way?"

You reply with a questioning hum before your brain catches back up and you realize the handsome stranger is staring at you but more than that is talking to you. " Oh! Uh, yea but no rush." "I'm all done here anyway." He gives you a little smirk before pushing his cart along and exiting the aisle. From the corner of your eye you could swear he paused just before the end of the aisle but there could have been a hundred different reasons for that. You were quite certain that you hadn't been the cause, but it would be nice to be wrong.

After that initial encounter you saw him again the following week and the one after that too. In fact when you saw him a fourth time, once again brought together in the frozen food aisle, you couldn't help but laugh. Out loud in fact, the sound of which had him turning towards you. The expression on his face when his gaze landed on you could have been mistaken for excitement but you chalked any enthusiasm to general surprise.

"We really need to stop meeting like this." You laugh out, not bothering to wait for him to move as you reach into the open door. "Hm, I suppose you're right." He murmured just loud enough for you to hear, the words stinging a little more than you expected. You place the item in your basket and turn, offering him up an apologetic smile before stepping away from both him and the cold air of the unit. "Uh, see ya." The words tumble out as you try and shuffle away, already feeling like a huge idiot for saying anything in the first place.

"Hey wait up!" He calls out, closing the distance in a couple of strides. "Do you want to go get coffee or something with me?"

You can't help but gawk up at him as his words process through your mind. "Like, now?" "What?" He laughs. "No, I was thinking maybe tomorrow if you're free." You felt your cheeks heating up but you weren't completely sure if it was because of embarrassment or that fact that you just got asked out on a date by the handsome grocery store stranger.

"I'd like that.... Uh..." You falter and he realizes why. "Tsukishima Kei." He offers you a smile along with his name.

That coffee date led to another which led to a date at the movies and then a dinner date that concluded with a walk in the park and a kiss.

About three weeks later you wake up and notice just how bright your room seemed to be. Maybe it was the dull throb in your head, a result of another late night talking with Tsukishima on a video call. A video call that you had fallen asleep on and had several screenshots taken, one of which may or may not be a certain someone's phone background. Yet, as you looked around the room, you felt your entire body freeze. Your once grey world was teeming with life and color. For several long seconds you just sat on your bed, awestruck by how beautiful it all was. You ran your hand over the familiar texture of your blanket, eyes finally lowering to see the path your fingers took over the fabric, mesmerized by the colors that were woven together in such a beautiful pattern. You weren't sure how much time had passed but all of a sudden you realize someone has been knocking at your door. "Coming!" You call as you hurry across the living room, swinging the door open to a slightly irritated looking Tsukishima. His expression softens when he sees you, cheeks damp with tears. "Are you ok?" He asks gently as he moves towards you, his thumb wiping away at the tears.

"I'm great." You smile up at him. You knew he was good looking before but now, seeing his pretty blonde hair and warm brown eyes, he was just so beautiful. "Wow." You breath out, more tears falling carelessly down your cheeks. "Seriously, what the hell? You're kinda freaking me out." "Sorry..." You mumble, hands reaching out to run through his hair. Kei just stands there, watching you in total confusion. What had he walked in on? You were crying but you looked happy? Not really knowing what else to do, he led you towards the couch and sat you down.

"Hey. Are you listening?" He asks, turning your face to him, forcing you to focus on his eyes. His warm brown eyes that seemed to be streaked with gold. "Focus. Please." You sigh but offer him a smile. "I am." You put your hands over his and give them a small reassuring squeeze. "I'm ok. Honestly. I just think you're really beautiful."

"You- what?!" He sputters, cheeks growing more pink the longer you stare. "What's gotten into you?" He finally mumbles out as he let's go of your face. "I'm sorry. I've just.. Have you... Can you see..." You stop and start a few times before he sighs and pulls you into his chest, placing a kiss on the top of your head. "Yea. I can." He says quietly into your hair as he holds you.

He would never admit it to you but when he woke up that morning, Tsukishima cried. He knows he's prickly, more than most but he tries his best. Especially for you. He'd never seen such a pretty smile before you'd offered him yours. It was small and maybe a little awkward but when he left the store that day he kicked himself for just walking away from you. The fact that he did it again two more times had him nearly pulling his hair out from how spineless he was acting. Yet week after week he found himself pacing the frozen food aisle hoping you'd appear and when you did he felt a small sense of calm wash over him every time.

Kei would never tell you how, as he watched you sleep the night before, listening to the sound of your soft even breathing, he whispered that he loved you. Just three short words. They were neither beautiful nor fully expressive of just how far he had fallen for you but he said them because they were true.

He'd never admit that the first thing he sought out when he was met with a world teeming with beautiful colors was you. There was nothing more he desired than to see the color of your eyes and how they sparkled when you looked at him. He wanted to see the color of your hair in the sun and how you seemed to glow in its light. He wanted to see the color of your lips and how they darkened with each fervent kiss. He wanted to see you and how his love for you had only made you somehow more beautiful.

He may never tell you any of that but the evidence of your mutual love was all around you in each and every color that now painted the world you two share.

#tsukishima #tsukishima x reader #tsukishima kei #tsukishima fluff #haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fluff

[megan-is-mia]

Can I request Rook beig rejected by reader because reader think he is too good for him, like saying "You are beautiful and everything but I prefer someone who is more at my level...a low level"?

Thank you!♡♡

(So I noticed you used purely masculine pronouns in this request so I assumed the reader is also a boy and he’s being flirted with by Rook. I apologize if you wanted a cute girl getting harassed by Rook cause its a cute boy being harassed instead) Custom Line:  “You are beautiful and everything but I prefer someone who is more at my level...a low level" (Yandere! Rook Hunt x Male! S/o) 

Rejection was not an experience that Rook Hunt was wholly unfamiliar with. Things didn’t always go his way true. But more often than not when it came to love, rarely had he felt the sting of being turned down. He knew he was attractive, he knew that he could make almost anyone in this school go weak in the knees with just a little of his roguish charm. With a few well-chosen words and touches he could have someone practically eating out of the palm of his hand if he wished. So that's why the awkward laugh and bashful expression (Y/n) gave him after he’d professed his love for the other boy hurt so much. Rook had been planning this for days no weeks, determined to make his confession as romantic as possible so that the younger male would have no choice but to accept his feelings. The blonde had written, rewritten, and thrown away so many poems about how enchanting he found every aspect of (Y/n) to be. How he could and had spent hours in silent adoration of him. How he’d agonized over flower arrangements, refusing to settle for a run of the mill bouquet of red roses for his beloved. No, Rook wanted the flowers he gave to (Y/n) to be just as exquisite as he was. Each bloom was individually selected for its color and meaning until it was perfect as the person who’d be receiving it. By the end of his planning, the blonde had no doubt in his mind that the other boy would whole-heartedly reciprocate his feelings and that they’d become a couple. Which is why it came as such a blow that (Y/n) was averting his eyes and fidgeting nervously after hearing what Rook had to say. The younger male’s laughter usually brought a smile to the hunter’s lips but right now the sound only made his insides clench up in despair. “Great Seven wow... I had no idea you felt that way about me Vice-Prefect Hunt” (Y/n) finally said, breaking the awkward silence that had descended once he’d stopped fake laughing to hide his alarm at the seemingly impromptu declaration of love. “Really I’m flattered that you’d even think of me as potential boyfriend material. But I’m gonna have to say no, for obvious reasons” (Y/n) went on with another forced laugh as he shifted from one leg to the other. “You are beautiful and everything but I prefer someone who is more at my level...a low level you know someone actually in my league and stuff” the boy added not realizing that every word he spoke pierced Rook’s heart with the accuracy of a well-aimed arrow. “After all, you don’t hear fairy tales that end with the handsome prince and the ugly servant boy living happily ever after together, it's the handsome prince and the beautiful princess who live out that lovely dream. As it should be” (Y/n) finished and reached over to pat Rook’s shoulder with a consoling look in his eyes as the bouquet of flowers fell from the blonde’s slack grip. The next thing the younger boy knew the wind was being knocked out of him and he was pinned against a nearby wall by the older male. “Non, I must disagree with you” Rook said, his voice chillingly calm as he held (Y/n) in place. “Who told you that you were ugly? Tell me so I can punish them properly for that offense” he added with a deep frown, the knowledge of his beloved not understanding his own beauty was enough to take much of the sting of rejection away at least for the moment. “If I say you’re beautiful, then you are most definitely beautiful Mon Amour” Rook finished pressing a light kiss to the corner of (Y/n)’s lips as he did so. “As for those outdated fairytales I say to hell with them. What do they know about anything? We can write our own story, one of a truly legendary romance that will be recounted for years to come. Now you can willingly help me write the tale or I can forcefully guide the pen in your hand. The choice is yours but you must make it” Rook said his eyes almost glowing from the strength of his delusions. If (Y/n) had hoped there’d be a way to resolve this peacefully that hope was gone after one look into the hunter’s lovesick eyes. “Vice-prefect Hu—” whatever plea (Y/n) had planned on making was quickly cut off by the blonde abruptly and quite hungrily kissing him. The younger male was starting to see black spots from a lack of air when Rook finally pulled back and licked his lips. “—Mon Amour I’d much prefer if you called me by my first name since we’re dating now” the older boy said with a coo. (Y/n) blinked, not really comprehending what he was hearing and how easily Rook had disregarded his words. “So what shall we do for our first date? Perhaps a grand night out on the town so I can show off my adorable boyfriend to everyone and we can nip the complaints of any nay-sayers in the bud. Or maybe we could start small with Enchanflix and Chill to see where that takes us” the blonde said excitedly not really interested in receiving input from (Y/n) other than an obedient nod or shake of the head when appropriate. This was not looking to be a fairytale ending for poor (Y/n)... THE END

#Yandere Rook Hunt #Rook Hunt #Yandere TWST #TWST #Yandere Twisted Wonderland #Twisted Wonderland

[sslytheringhufflepufff]

Amorteserum (Fred weasley x Hufflepuff Plus Size)

Disclaimer: I had another story in mind while I made this one plus I also have my college work so this might be shitty and I’m very very sorry about it & Also made this very fast so I didn't proofread!!!!!! Warning: Smut, Dom Fred, Fat Shaming

This was also requested but it doesn't let me tag so fredswhore this is for you! t 

1.9k words

“Fred” you screamed after the boy running from you laughing his ass off, he pulled another prank, this time it affected you, you had your Hufflepuff robes on and he threw a color changing bomb causing it to turn purple, the robes and you included “I look like a bloody blueberry” you said stopping on your track looking around, everyone was either staring at you or laughing at you “You do look like a huge Blueberry, y/n” you heard Pansy say smirking, you looked back at Fred who’s laughter died down looking at you, your eyes started to sting, you turned your heel and started walking to your common room “Oi! Wait, Y/n!” you heard Fred call after you and you just walked faster already starting to feel your tears falling, you recited the password to your common room “wait, y/n, I didn’t mean for any of that to happen” “leave me alone, Fred” you said choking out entering the room leaving Fred standing outside regretting the prank.  

A couple of days has passed since the prank and you were ignoring Fred and all his attempt to apologize. Walking into Potion class sitting next to your partner, a couple of minutes passed and Fred came in laughing with his brother, you looked at him your gaze meeting his causing you to blush, you looked down and started to write potions down. You’ve always liked Fred and thought that he might like you too but yet again you reminded yourself that you’re not thin and he might not like you that way, maybe that’s why he pranks you “Settle down, now” you heard your professor call out looking up you noticed the twins sitting on the table next to you Fred staring at you giving you a small smile you just turned away looking down “Today, we’ll be practicing a potion called Amortentia” he said holding up a small flask “This potion is the most strong love potion out there, do not drink it please, when you make it just take a small sniff and you will smell something that attracts you immensely, keep in mind that the smell is different for every person” he said putting the flask down, he started to say the ingredients you writing them down quickly, you loved potion class, you always did well in it and Snape took a liking to you, even though you’re a Hufflepuff, he knew that you were a great student and he couldn’t deny it “Miss y/l/n, when you finish the potion bring it up and test it” he said and you nodded starting to work on it. After a little while you stood up “I’m done” and headed towards the professor, he took the pot looking at it “Excellent miss y/l/n, will you please demonstrate how it works” he said and you nodded taking the pot and bringing it up to your nose you took a deep breath suddenly the smell of coffee infected you “Coffee…” you smiled “I smell something sweet like cinnamon and…” you opened your eyes as the realization hit, you blinked a couple of times “And, miss y/l/n?” “I don’t know” you said looking over at Fred, his head was on his hand staring at you as you told the class “I can’t identify the smell, Professor” you lied you felt blush creep up “I don’t feel well, I’m going to the bathroom” you gave the professor your pot, grabbing your things and heading out towards the bathroom without a second thought. You splashed your face with water trying to make your blushing face calm down “Fireworks, I smelt fireworks” you said looking at the mirror you let out a sigh “I smelled Fred Weasley” you said a small smile appearing on your face but disappearing instantly “That doesn’t mean he’ll smell me too” you said softly as you looked at the mirror again turning around leaving the bathroom. You walked around the hallways bumping into someone “Y/n” Fred said smiling “I wanted to apologize” “It’s okay, Fred, don’t worry about it” you said smiling up to him looking at his eyes, his face softened “Can we talk?” he said, you just nodded, he grabbed your hand and guided you to his common room “Can I be here?” “Well you’re not supposed to but, everyone’s in class so it doesn’t matter” he said smiling sitting down on the couch in the middle of the room, you took a seat beside him looking at him “So, what did you want to talk about?” you asked “What did you smell in the Amortentia?” “Uhm I already told the class, Coffee, something sweet like cinnamon and another thing I can’t identify” you lied again “What about you, Fred?” “I smelled Rain, Flowers…” he said looking at you getting closer “And” you said not moving from where you were sitting “You” with that he crashed his lips into yours, you kissed him back, suddenly realizing where you are you pushed him off “Fred, what are you doing?”  you said catching your breath “Something I’ve been wanting to do for a while” he said scooting closer to you “W-wait” you said standing up looking at him “What is happening?” you said confused, he stands up “After smelling the Amortentia, I had to tell you y/n, I’m so in love with you that it makes me feel stupid” he said placing his hand on your cheek you smiled at him “Fred…” without saying anything else you kissed him grabbing his hair pulling him down to you, he grabbed your waist pulling you towards him deepening the kiss he snaked his hand down to your butt squeezing it causing you to let out a squeal causing Fred to chuckle “Let’s go upstairs” he said taking you hand breaking the kiss “Wait, can I go up there, the spell won’t let me” “You think George and me wouldn’t figure a way to break it” he said laughing taking you up the stairs “Are we doing this” you said stopping in your tracks “I mean if you don’t want to its totally okay” he said turning to you “This isn’t a prank?” you said his face changing “What do you mean? OfCourse not” “I don’t know, maybe a prank the ugly fat chick into having sex with you” “Don’t say that, I would never do that, besides I think you’re very beautiful and I’m very into your voluptuous body” he said winking  “Y/n, what I said is completely true, I am completely in love with you and its stupid that I had to smell the Amortentia to realize it, when I heard you talking about yours, I knew I had to figure out if it was me or not” “It is you, Fred” you said as you closed the gap between you.

Fred grabbed your waist, before you knew it you were on his bed, he was on top of you, his hands running through your body, he kissed your neck giving more love to your soft sport, his hand traveled to your skirt pulling it upwards then placing his hand on your center “My, my baby girl, I made this happen” you felt his smirk against your neck and nodded, he slipped your underwear to the side causing you to let a sharp breath out as his hand played with your folds “You’re so wet” he said you let out a small moan, he kissed down your neck to your boobs ripping off your top, you were taken back by his force and dominance but it only made you hornier “Fred” looking at him, he just smirked standing up taking off his shirt and pants then taking off completely your underwear leaving you only in your skirt “Turn around” he said and you obeyed moaning at the friction from the sheets on your boobs, Fred grabbed your waist lifting it up and placing his hand on your back indicating you to just lift your ass up, your anticipation building up “I’ve always wanted to see you like this” you heard Fred say as he gave you a slap on the ass “Fred…” you said almost in a whisper, he ran his finger through your folds causing you to moan, inserting one finger, making you gasp, he left it there not moving it “Fred, please” you said making him chuckle “Do you want me to fuck you with my finger, Darling?” you didn’t know how to respond, you never knew Fred would ever act like this, it turned you on even more thinking how rough he could be, he slapped your ass again “Or do you want me to fuck you senseless?” he said taking out his finger and sucking it you let out a whimper and nodded slowly causing him to chuckle “Oh Darling, so pretty, so desperate” he said positioning himself on your entrance pounding into you “Fuck” you screamed as Fred groaned  fastening his pace “Fred yes” you said gripping the sheets “You feel so good” he said slamming harder into you, you let out a loud moan suddenly you felt him leave you, a small whimper leaving your mouth, he grabbed your hips lifting you up he took a seat on a sofa in the room and motioned you to go to him, he grabbed your hand “Come on, Princess, Ride me” he said pulling your legs in-between him positioning himself on your entrance as you lower yourself onto him moans leaving both of your mouths you slowly began to rock your hips, Fred gripping your waist while your hands made their way to his neck you started to jump on him his hands gliding up to your breast cupping them as you holded on to him by the shoulders “Fuck” you said he grabbed your ass and squeezed it as you went faster “Fuck yes y/n” suddenly you were laying on the couch while Fred fucked you harder holding one of your legs on his shoulder making circles on your clit “Oh Fred, I’m close” you said and he went faster “Come on Princess, let it out” he said grunting with a few more thrusts you felt yourself clench around Fred you closed your eyes as you felt the wave of pleasure hit you now the thrust sounding more sloppy than before you felt Fred twitch in side you as he let out a loud moan he came.  

He laid beside you panting he looked at you “I have to tell you something” you looked at him waiting “I actually didn’t smell the Amortentia” “What!” you screamed sitting up “I took a Veritaserum that George was saving for a prank” “But you talked about Amortentia?” “I did smell you in the Amortentia, a couple of weeks ago when other student made it” he smiled at you “I really am in love with you and I really did smell you, just not today, but I needed to tell you how I felt and needed a little courage, thank merlin i did” he said smirking and winking at you, you just blushed and tried to hide your face “Will you do me the pleasure to becoming my Girlfriend miss y/n”  you just smiled and nodded giving him a small kiss then nestling onto his chest smiling.  

#fred weasly #fred x reader #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley smut #fred weasley x plus size #fred weasley #harry potter smut #smut #draco #hufflepuff #draco x plus size #plus size

[whumperstorm]

Blood Donor

They were going to have visitors, Elias said, looking down on Jon where he kneeled on the floor of his cell. He nodded in understanding. He’d be on his best behavior then. He wasn’t expecting his master to shoot out a clawed hand and grasp his hair, yanking him off the floor. His eyes stung with the pain as Elias snarled.

“So don’t try anything funny, got it? You’re mine. You will not ruin this.”

“Y-yes sir, I’m sorry sir!”

Elias dropped him and he landed painfully on his knees. “Good.” He smiled a dangerous, fanged smile, before placing Jon’s dinner on the floor and stepping out. The door locked with a screech behind him.

Jon sat back from his kneel and leaned against the wall to eat. Not all that more comfortable, he’d rather be sitting on the tiny cot he was provided by his master, but he’d also like to avoid spilling anything on it and angering Elias’ especially short temper he seemed to have today. He sighed and picked up his plate.

At least his meals were filling and sometimes considered delicious to Jon. “We need to keep you nice and healthy.” Elias had said, “Makes your blood all the sweeter.” Of course, Elias cared not for Jon’s preferences and the comfort of a hot meal was lost the moment he tried to be picky or “ungrateful”. Leaving anything on the plate was unacceptable and called for punishment apparently.

Tonight’s meal was well-seasoned curry, one of Jon’s favorites. He wondered if Elias was attempting to bribe him a bit. What visitors could be so important to put Elias this on edge? He’d brought plenty of visitors before, The Lucas family for one, (who Jon disliked quite a lot. Such a cold, condescending family) and sometimes just Peter himself. On those nights he was left mostly alone. The two of them would eat dinner and feed, then retreat to the lounge to indulge in one too many wine refills. On those nights Elias sometimes allowed Jon to pick out a new book from the library before returning to his cell. Reading was a rare luxury, and Peter always left Elias in a good mood where he was willing to allow it.

Maybe Elias thought that tonight’s guests would cause Jon to consider an escape attempt. Well, he needn't worry, he’d tried that a couple of times already and had been punished mercilessly for it. He had learned quickly that no one cared that he was here against his will. Blood donors were meant to be signed on through legal contracts. Provide fresh blood in exchange for housing and care and the freedom to move around as you wish. Lots of human newly grads or retirees signed contracts and after Jon lost his grandmother, he didn’t have anywhere to go and decided to take on the job. He was unaware that Elias had no intention of treating him like a guest. Locked up within the first week with no one on the outside who would know or care that he was missing. Well, maybe Georgie, if Jon hadn’t royally fucked that up.

The first time Elias had brought guests, he threatened Jon into obedience, but the moment one of the visitors approached him to feed he urgently whispered his current predicament in hope that they would call the cops on his kidnapper. Instead, they laughed. Laughed and fed anyway, before walking right up to Elias and warning him that he had “a chatty one”. Elias had laughed too, but when the guest walked away his eyes locked onto Jon’s from where he sat and the fury and darkness in his eyes sent Jon’s heart dropping to his stomach. That night, Jon learned exactly how the sting of a whip felt on bare skin.

“A shame to waste such delicious blood.” Elias sighed, between lashes. “However you disobeyed me tonight and embarrassed me in front of my guests. I have a reputation to withhold. This little outburst has made it clear I’ve been far too soft with you.” 

There was a pause and footsteps from behind. Jon was sure that his back must be in ribbons at this point. Through his own ragged breathing he distantly heard the sound of something metal being picked up before fire exploded across his back and he screamed. Salt water rolled down his abused skin, washing away the red and leaving agony in its wake. The chains on his wrists kept him from curling in on himself.

 Elias leaned down to whisper in Jon’s ear. “This will not happen again, understand?”

Jon could do nothing but sob as he shakily nodded his head. He was thrown back into his cell after that, lying still on the floor and unable to move through his pain to get onto the cot. At some point a maid entered and bandaged his wounds. It made sense, Elias wanted to punish him, not kill him through an infection.

He tried again, after that. How could he not? He was stubborn, and now he knew he couldn’t trust anyone to help him. He’d have to do it himself. He waited weeks, letting himself heal and obeying Elias as best he could against his own pride. Then when a servant arrived with his dinner one night, he knocked them out with the leg of the table he was provided. He noticed it had been loose and worked at it for days until it snapped. He felt a bit bad for attacking the man, he was probably in a similar situation to him. But he needed to get out of here. He could feel guilty when he was far far away from Elias’ estate.

Unfortunately, he was caught. Of course he was caught. Elias found him right outside the kitchen doors no more than 5 minutes after his escape. Jon had no idea how he would have known, but he did, and Jon only had a moment to glimpse the night sky before he was grabbed in the vampire’s iron grip and yanked inside. He was dragged kicking and screaming back to his cell. Elias’ eyes held the same fury as the last time and Jon’s back twinged. But then Elias took a deep breath and steeled his expression.

“I was unaware that my dinner selections were so unacceptable for you that you’d resort to assault.”

Jon blinked in confusion. “What do y-”

Elias continued over his interruption. “In that case, you can go hungry until you decide to be grateful for what I provide for you.” Elias swept out of the room, taking Jon’s uneaten dinner with him. Jon was left on the floor of his cell, scared, confused, and so disappointed. He had been so close. Yet somehow Elias was waiting for him.

It was two weeks before he was given anything more to eat.

___

Elias came to collect him a few hours after his dinner. He was given a loose-fitting olive green shirt with see-through lace arms and a bronze pair of dress pants. The outfit left his neck and shoulders free to make feeding as easy as possible. A servant braided his hair and tied it up into a bun with a golden pin to keep it in place. Elias always made sure he looked his best for company. The tip of the pin was shaped like an eye, the Bouchard family crest, with an emerald in the center as the pupil. He was then given golden earrings to match.

“Master…”

Elias looked up from admiring his work. “Yes, Jon?”

Jon glanced at him before looking back at the ground. “May I- may I ask who is visiting?”

Elias chuckled softly. “Always so curious, aren’t you? Yes you may ask. After all, you should be prepared to serve them to the best of your ability.” Elias reached out and brushed a strand of hair out of Jon’s face. “I’ve decided to expand my coven; tonight I’ve invited five possible candidates into my home to discuss matters. Quite a curious bunch. I’m sure they will be valuable additions should they choose to join.”

Elias moved away and snapped his fingers. The servant dressing Jon stepped back with a bow and Jon followed Elias out the door of his cell. He was led up the stairs and down the hall to the dining room. Elias gestured for Jon to take his place against the right hand wall. He was to kneel on the floor cushioned by a pillow. Behind him was a simple couch where those who wished to feed would sit. Jon noticed that a book was sitting on the side table within reach. After settling down he read the title on the spine. It was the next in a series he was currently enjoying. Oh Elias was definitely trying to get on Jon’s good side tonight. He would take what he could get while Elias was feeling so generous. Perhaps he was anxious that these visitors would decide not to join. Jon wasn’t about to mess things up and ruin the comfort he was being offered.

Once the night began, Elias would welcome the guests, they would exchange pleasantries before eating their meal, (which included multiple courses and a dessert) then Elias would offer his donor for any who wished to feed. Jon hoped only a few would take him up on the offer. Five visitors meant a max of six feedings and a killer headache in the morning. Jon got comfortable in his place and picked up the book. Either way, he had a while to wait before he was needed. 

When the guests arrived, Jon mostly ignored them at first and kept his nose in his book. There were two men and three women. They all looked pretty different and were most likely not related. The two men and one of the women seemed already familiar with each other while the other two women were attached at the hip. Jon could already see two sets of teeth. One poked out past the hijabi woman’s lips and he saw the other set when the bigger of the men smiled brightly in greeting. Two of the guests in particular,  however, caught Jon’s eye. The second of the men, a slim, toned man with colored hair, and the tallest of the women with short blonde hair and multiple scars. They seemed... scruffier than the rest, and their eyes didn't pierce like most vampires’ did. They were deep and full in a way Jon could just about recognise.

The group talked politely over drinks until the kitchen staff arrived with their meals. From Jon’s place he couldn’t tell what was being served, but it smelled delicious. He realized what was different about the two when their food was served with sterling silver cutlery. It was designed differently to not get confused with the rest. Two of the guests were  werewolves, not vampires. This took Jon by surprise. Elias said he was trying to expand his coven, why would he invite wolves? He had always been stingy about “purity of blood” or whatever.

Jon noticed Elias’ gaze boring into him from the head of the tabe. Caught. Jon quickly looked back down at the floor. The night’s proceedings were none of his business. He let the rest of the conversation roll over him after that. However, he couldn’t help but notice one of the women kept glancing his way. She had arrived with the men and sat between them at the table. Her hair was long and dark, curling past her dark, freckled shoulders. Big, round glasses framed her face and her eyes caught Jon’s attention every time she looked over at him. He couldn’t parse out her expression but he tensed under her gaze. Perhaps she was excited to feed. Elias had said Jon had exceptionally sweet-smelling blood. He tried his best to ignore her, focusing on his book and waiting for dessert to be served.

___

A long wait and four courses later, Elias finally stood. He smiled over his glass of wine as he addressed his guests.

“Now that we’ve properly eaten, I’d like to offer my Donor, for those who wish to feed.” He gestured towards Jon with a sweep of his arm. “Of course, I’ve also prepared a delicious pastry selection for those who don’t have the palate for blood.” He smirked like he was in on some inside joke. Of course, there were two  wolves at the table so Jon supposed it made sense. 

The hijabi woman stood first and Jon set his book down on the table. Elias looked towards the larger man with the dark hair and piercing blue eyes. He shook his head politely. “I’ve recently fed, thank you. Though, I’ll take one of the pastries.”

“Of course.” Elias said. He gestured to the kitchen staff in waiting. “Please prepare four dessert servings.” They nodded and retreated through the kitchen doors.

Wait, four? Jon counted the guests in his head. Two werewolves and one vampire who didn’t want to use him. That left the vamp headed towards him and the lady who kept staring at him and who Jon noticed was now looking at him with a look of… Surprise? Disgust? Maybe she was angry that Elias hadn’t invited her to feed as well. Well, that was his mistake, not Jon’s.

His view was then blocked by the hijabi woman as she went to stand in front of him. She leaned down and… held out a hand? Jon blinked in surprise.

“Basira Hussain.” She introduced bluntly.

Jon stared dumbly at her offered hand before awkwardly taking it. “Uh, J-Jonathan Sims?” He stammered.

They shook briefly before “Basira” smirked slightly and sat down on the couch. “Ah, you must be new, then. Don’t worry, you get used to it.” She then gently grasped his chin to better expose his neck. “May I?”

Jon could do nothing but sit dumbfounded. He certainly wasn’t new, and no one had ever asked permission before. They always took what they wanted at Elias’ request.

Basira must have noticed his reluctance, because she paused, letting go of his chin and resting her hand on his shoulder instead.

“Sims? Are you-” She froze mid-sentence, her eyes locked onto Jon’s back with an expression like ice. What was…

Oh.

His back. 

The whip scars.

“Y-yes!” Jon stammered a bit too loud. “Go ahead!”

Basira jumped slightly at his outburst, glancing between his face and back, before her expression went carefully blank and she sank her teeth into his throat. Jon winced at the sharp pain but it quickly dulled as her vampire’s venom took effect. She didn’t feed for long at all, only long enough to be respectful, before she pulled back and licked her fangs clean. Jon slumped back as the wave of dizziness passed.

Then she was gone, headed back towards the group at the table. The kitchen staff had just returned and were bustling around, setting down dessert options. Jon noted that Basira went the long way back to her seat, passing the group of three. Elias’ angry eyes were currently focused on one servant who missed spilling his drink by a millimeter and Basira leaned down to whisper something in the freckled woman’s ear before sliding past. Her round eyes went wide and she looked over at Jon again.

Jon was getting pretty sick of being stared at in all honesty. He was so confused at this point and his knees were getting sore. If this woman was so horrified by the thought of feeding on him, and now this “Basira” was talking shit about him, could he please just go back to his cell?

But then, the woman did something strange that Jon couldn’t ignore. She looked him straight in the eyes; she made sure he was paying attention to her. Then raised a hand to her face and lifted her upper lip to reveal….

Teeth. Normal teeth. Not the sharp fangs of a vampire or the large canines of a wolf, but blunt, normal, human teeth.

Suddenly the night’s proceedings were very much Jon’s business.

#hey look i actually wrote something #the magnus archives #tma au #vampires #vampire au #tma #mag whump #tma whump #the magnus archives whump #jonathan sims #elias buchard #my writing #whump

[shootybangbang]

[Talking Bird] 17: In which beans are ruined

[Ao3 Link]

At the mention of Trelawney, Arthur dimly recalls a scrap of half-remembered conversation from last year, when he’d idled with the man in a Lemoyne saloon while waiting for a mark to arrive. The first flicker of your existence, passing him by unknown. Like the brief touch of a licked finger through candle flame: deceptively benign, with just a whisper of the burn to follow.

Somewhere between his first and second glass of whiskey sours, Trelawney had mentioned the burgeoning demand for opium in Chinatown. A former contact of his had recently left the high stakes poker circuit to get in on the profit, and he’d lamented the loss.

“It’s a shame,” he’d said, absently swirling the ice cubes in his emptied glass and regarding the swirling wood grain of the countertop with a pensive, faraway look. And for once, the sentiment had sounded genuine. Knowing him, the man was grieving a lost business opportunity more than anything else, but it’d been a long time since Arthur had heard him even bother to feign emotion for a stranger. “She’s not suited for smuggling in the least. Can’t say I can see this ending well.”

Less Trelawney’s gift for prophecy and more stating the obvious, now that he knows exactly who he’d been talking about. Prickly disposition, clueless when it comes to violence, and far too trusting of strangers. The cavalier attitude of someone who’d never been exposed to serious conflict and who, having since been exposed, lacks even the conviction necessary to put a bullet in the man holding her hostage.

And far too delicate besides.

When you’d pulled the blanket down your shoulders to untie your braid, Arthur had tilted his head back just enough to catch an eyeful of your backside. A pretty thing to put to paper: the wet swathe of hair draped over your shoulder, the faint shadow of your spine a dark curve flickering with the shifting of firelight. Soft, dappled lines wrapped in the body of someone who’s caused him nothing but grief in the past weeks.

The view had confirmed something he’d already been suspecting: your lack of threat to anything larger than a rat terrier.

Judging by your physique, you’d probably struggle to lift anything more than fifteen pounds. Maybe twenty, on a good day. A veritably pathetic amount of muscle tone with none of the etchings that rough living leaves behind.

Some foreign high society girl fallen on hard times, he guessed. But oddly, none of the clumsy caution people of that strata have when confronted with any sort of real work. You’d fallen into the rhythm of whittling bark off the cottonwood branches too comfortably for someone unacquainted with physical labor, handled the knife with a deftness that comes only from rote repetition.

“I knew Trelawney had connections to some gang out west, but I never thought…” You shake your head slowly, dazed by the absurdity of this new development. “Did he know? When I sold them those bonds, did he realize they were yours? And why—”

“Nah, he wouldn’t have known. I, uh… wasn’t too keen on tellin’ folk I got robbed by a woman.” He rubs the back of his neck and lets out an embarrassed huff. “Told ‘em the whole thing was a bust.”

Looking back, he may as well have told them the truth. The lie hadn’t done much to salvage his pride, and had prompted weeks of jibes at his own expense. Snide little asides from Micah, overt ridicule from Bill, and the painful ordeal of Sean.

“Gettin’ sloppy in your old age,” he’d quipped. “I’ll tell you what you need, Morgan. You need to let someone else hold the reins for a change. Someone quick on the uptake, someone young and hot-blooded and—”

“Get back to me when you’re done complimentin’ yourself,” Arthur had replied, already walking away.

“Wait, Morgan — take me with you next time you ride out! I’ll scout somethin’ out, and we can…”

Sean had been insistent as a mosquito and twice as annoying, but ultimately bearable so long as he had a beer in his hand or a pillow over his head. His own head, though he’d been sorely tempted otherwise.

No, what had really driven him to leave camp had been Dutch.

Dutch and his put-upon fatherly air, all stern mouthed disapproval and downward sloping shoulders. His pointed observations of Jack’s tattered jacket, well on its way to becoming a patchwork Ship of Theseus. Pearson’s dwindling supply of seasonings, so scarce that the stews have become bland to the point of near inedibility. The stocks of medicine running low, bandages boiled so many times that their fibers have since frayed to a cobwebbed consistency.

“I know you’re doing your best, son,” Dutch had sighed, casting a weary eye over his threadbare kingdom. “God knows you’re the only man I can depend on to get anything done around here. But folks are… well. Folks are struggling.”

Arthur’s eyes had slid momentarily towards Dutch’s tent, resting on the golden gleam of the gramophone and the crisp cotton sheets laid across the bed. An unbroken sea of white, with not a stitch out of place. And not twenty feet away, Hosea’s shabby lean-to, the older man’s bedroll bearing the same disjointed array of colors as the rest of the camp’s accoutrements.

Dutch always did have a taste for the finer things in life. A level of refinement proportionate to the depth of his ambition, which in earlier days had been tempered by kinder, simpler ideals. Feed those that need feeding. Shoot those that need shooting. Robin Hood-esque, with a western (and occasionally lethal) twist. Evelyn Miller had been a fixture even then, but in those halcyon years Dutch had not yet twisted the author’s words to the tottering worldview that he’s since constructed.

The gang’s nascent success had bred standards and attracted new followers. A ragtag flock all too eager to nourish their leader’s growing, malignant appetite for grandeur.

“Just one last score, and we’ll be clear of all this… this manmade rot.” Dutch said, gesturing in the direction of Blackwater. “But for now, we’ve got to play their game. Get our hands dirty for the time being so we can wash ourselves clean of all this when we’ve finally got the means.”

Arthur had departed under the pretense of retrieving the missing bonds (impossible) or locating some cache of similar value (near impossible), but in truth he’d done so primarily for the preservation of his own sanity. More and more these days, he’s been seeing cracks in the foundation of the man who’d given him this life, dragged him out of the gutter and set him with a previously unwavering sense of purpose. And it feels treacherous — traitorous, even — to take any of it into question.

But as always, the open road and the unabiding sky of the prairie settled him into a different mindset altogether. The cycles of flora and fauna in untouched wilderness exist completely separate from the artifices of men, with the legacies of countless tiny lives encapsulated in the fine grit of the dust to which all things return. And in that certainty comes an overwhelming comfort. Everything else seems trifling in the wake of the vast perpetuity of nature.

A few days spent wandering would do him good, he’d decided. Spend some time away from all the trappings of civilization, then rob some poor sap on the side of the road so as not to return empty-handed.

And then you’d ruined his plans entirely by literally walking into him as he’d been passing through Strawberry.

“Well,” you say, offering up a small, nervous smile. “What now?”

What now, indeed. Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. “Guess we take a visit to Trelawney’s,” he replies, already dreading the inevitable embarrassment of explaining the whole sorry situation to the man. “And if it turns out you’re tellin’ the truth, I’ll give you a ride from Rhodes to St Denis.”

You frown and furrow your brow. “Rhodes?”

“Yeah, Rhodes. Trelawney’s got a caravan there on the outskirts of town. You didn’t know?”

“You can’t take me to Rhodes,” you say automatically, as if stating the obvious. “I mean… look at me.”

“You’re a woman?” he asks stupidly.

“I’m an Oriental, you moron. And Rhodes is a fucking… it’s a fucking Raider town.”

“You’d be with me. I’ll keep you safe.”

You shake your head and set your mouth into a grim, flat line. “That’s worse. They might think we’re together. And they don’t take kindly to miscegenation.”

Your words have to them the quality of a veil being drawn back, exposing a corner of this country’s ugliness he’s not often been privy to. A familiar knot of guilt tugs at his innards, accompanied by the unpleasant, impotent sensation that surfaces each time he catches the ungracious stares of the crowd when walking into town with Tilly by his side. Each time he hears the practiced courtesy in a shopkeep’s voice drop away when the man turns away from him to address Charles. Each time he watches Lenny reread for the thousandth time the letter from his dead father, the creases in its paper worn so deep that it would have long since fallen apart were it not for the boy’s careful, reverent handling.

“You know those big plantation houses just south of Rhodes? They hire Chinese sometimes to work the fields. Cheaper than sharecropping, apparently.” The look on your face is drawn and bitter. The bite in your voice suggests something personal, the sting of an injury not yet healed. “One of the boys got involved with a white housemaid. He’d saved up for train tickets to Philadelphia, and they were… he was going to marry her there. Wanted an August wedding. The number eight’s lucky for us, you see. So August 8th, 1898… he thought it was all very romantic. Used to make this stupid joke that he wished he’d met her ten years earlier. Raiders strung him up in an oak tree a couple weeks before they were set to leave.”

Arthur’s tongue lies silent and heavy in his mouth.

You take in a deep breath that rattles with the failing determination of someone struggling not to break their composure, then look to him with a desperation so absolute that it seems almost indecent to witness. “Why don’t you just leave me here? Keep me tied up if you have to. Come back for me when you’re done with Trelawney.”

In the short span of time that he’s known you, you’ve made enough of an impression to warrant several conclusive classifications. A haughty, pampered little thing. An ineffective liar. A self-destructive fool — but not stupid. Definitely not stupid.

The sheer idiocy of your suggestion indicates a fear so deep that it’s completely severed you from your senses. Just a frightened little bird caught in a trap, scratching and clawing for the narrowest possible opening for escape.

“You’re tellin’ me to tie up a woman and leave her in the middle of nowhere? May as well just hand-deliver you to the wolves. No,” he says firmly, trying to shake off the unwanted pang of sympathy. Dutch had been right about one thing — the gang did need money, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let this opportunity for it slip away out of misguided compassion for a woman who’d literally robbed him as he’d bled out. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do. Soon as we near Rhodes, I’ll tie you to Boadicea the same way I did when we left Strawberry.”

You blink and utter a disbelieving, “Excuse me, what?”

“Reckon they’ll treat us both a hell of a lot nicer if they think you’re a bounty. Gives me plenty excuse for keepin’ you in one piece, too.”

Your face ventures on a quick journey through the five stages of grief. The grief in question being for the loss of your dignity. The blank look shifts to a glare. You open your mouth to spit out something no doubt acerbic and very rude, but a flash of uncertainty crosses your face and you quickly bite your tongue. Then you lower your head and squeeze your eyes shut. When you finally open them again, there is a defeated resignation in them that attests to a lost mental argument.

“You better ride slow if you don’t want a repeat of this morning,” you say wearily.

Arthur shrugs. “Can’t throw up if you got nothin’ in your stomach. We’ll just skip feeding you breakfast tomorrow.”

To his relief, the atmosphere lightens to blessed, familiar hostility. You tell him to go fuck himself. That you’ll literally fight him for the apples you know he has tucked away in his saddlebags. That maybe you’ll throw up anyway purely out of spite. That he’s a miserable piece of shit who you wish—

A sudden flash of lightning illuminates the outcrop for a fraction of a second, painting everything beneath it into harsh shades of white and black. It strikes as sudden and violent as a fiery whip crack, leaving behind it the bittersweet scent of burnt grass and a curl of grey smoke like a departing ghost. Its near-simultaneous clap of thunder drowns out your last sentence with an ear splitting boom so encompassing that the vibration of it seems to rattle down to the bone. The silence that follows has in it the anticipatory hush of the void prior to Genesis. You shatter it with a quiet but appropriately placed, “Jesus Christ.”

The land outside is hedged low in the horizon, and the vastness of its sky swallows all else. It crowns as its dominating feature the movement of its anvil-shaped clouds. They shift leaden and portentous, translucent bellied and lit up by the jagged tongues of lightning darting throughout quick and sporadic as pale dragonflies. Roiling violet like the murky blood of some vast organism, pulsing membranous over the prairie with a fury of near biblical proportions. And below, the buttes with their strange eroded shapes like scattered islands in a black sea of grass. In the torrential dark, their silhouettes flash ivory with every strike of lightning only to sink back into the hushed umbra of night.

There is a muted look of awe on your face, as if witnessing for the first time the true scale of a storm. Something that before now had been glimpsed only through the gaps between high-shuttered buildings. Tempests caught in concrete snares and, not unlike the men that build them, diminished until they are but a feeble whisper of their former selves.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur. “I never knew rain could be like this.”

With a jolt of displeasure, he finds that the soft expression on your face renders you unexpectedly pretty in the fire’s flickering light, the amber reflection of it bright as copper in your eyes. A gentle chiaroscuro, the smooth line of your cheek and shadowed hollow of your throat the anchor points to which his eye is drawn.

You shuffle a little closer to the outlook’s rain-veiled edge. The roughspun blanket, still drawn tightly around your shoulders, shifts. Arthur quickly averts his eyes, but even so is met with a sliver of bare skin that runs neck to navel. The subtle outline of a breast, the mild fishbone curve of a rib.

And all at once he’s unbearably, disastrously hard, filled with a painful but directionless longing — not just for intimacy, but for the simple reassurance of another body pressed close, skin to skin and breath to breath. A kind of tenderness he’s been deprived of for so long that the memory of it brings not warmth but the brittle cold of hoarfrost. Absence like a thick pane of ice, the things he’s lost visible just underneath.

From the periphery of his line of sight, you’re but an indistinct blur in the vague shape of a woman. How appropriate then, that you should be the focus of this formless arousal. And how infuriatingly pathetic. He hadn’t lied when he’d said you weren’t his type, and yet here he is, his cock stiffer than it’s been in months at just the suggestion of a woman’s naked body.

In desperate search of both distraction and something to obscure himself with, Arthur pulls back the front flap of his satchel and fishes out your blue notebook. He glances briefly in your direction, already anticipating your angry shout of indignation — but you’re far too occupied with watching the progression of the storm to so much as glance in his direction.

The notebook’s contents are far more legible than he’d initially assumed. Most of the foreign characters seem to be either names or places, which makes it possible for him to pick out the main thread of most sentences.

Its first half consists of what looks like a ledger. Neatly organized columns with foreign characters and numbers that he hasn’t the slightest idea how to parse. When he flips past it, a slip of paper scrawled with the same strange, flowing text flutters from the pages and alights delicately into his lap. Arthur picks it up, and as he examines it, it occurs to him that he has no idea how to orient it.

Prior to this, he’d only ever seen Chinese characters painted on the roadside food stalls accompanying railroad workers on their long trek westwards. A strange, complex syllabary. He’d once read somewhere that each word of the language had its own unique character. A sort of pictograph that, when studied, relays its meaning to those who knew how to read it.

He scrutinizes the slip of paper in his hand, but finds himself unable to pick out even the vaguest of resemblances. The corner of the paper bears a square seal of red ink, inset with an intricate consortium of straight lines. Curiosity spent for the moment, Arthur slots the document back in place.

The rest of the notebook looks to be an odd mixture of field observations and long, ornate paragraphs about various landscapes. A few pressed wildflowers, field observations of city flora and fauna, crudely drawn animals reminiscent of the scattered petroglyphs he’s found carved in long-abandoned settlements. An earmarked passage describing the wetlands bordering St Denis, full of strikethroughs and hastily added phrases squeezed into the margins. Another describing what sounds like Cotorra Springs.

“The amber fields are dotted with sprigs of larkspurs and wild flax like blue-violet stars,” Arthur reads aloud.

You turn to face him so quickly that your wet hair arcs through the air like an ink-stained brush, scattering water droplets that sizzle and hiss when they fall into the fire. Wild-eyed as a spooked horse, but frozen into a horrified silence as he licks his finger and traces the rest of the line across the page, continuing, “And even further north, viridian-blue pools from which rise plumes of white smoke, the water still and clear as glass. Hills of black obsidian —”

You scramble towards him and, while clutching the blanket around your shoulders shut with one hand, slap the notebook out of his grip with the other. It lands perilously close to the fire, but you snatch it up without giving a second thought to the nearness of the flames.

“That’s private,” you hiss, hugging the notebook to your chest the way one might accidentally smother an infant.

“Thought it was fair turnaround, seein’ as you never extended that same courtesy to me,” he retorts.

The memory of that miserable morning after surfaces in him like a bloated corpse too persistent to stay hidden. His billfold emptied, ill-gotten gains vanished, and his journal speckled with smeared, bloodied thumbprints from beginning to end. Above a sketch of a mountain wildflower he’d drawn a question mark next to, the word “crocus ?” written in an angular, jagged scrawl.

“Yeah, because I thought you were going to die!” you argue back. “Figured you probably had your next of kin listed somewhere in there!”

Next of kin. The phrase pierces through like a stitch popped out of place, and Arthur nearly flinches. It’s an unintentional blow on your part, but nevertheless he deflects the only way he knows how. When bitten, bite back.

“Oh that’s real charitable, comin’ from the dope-peddler,” he jeers. “You save this compassion for everyone you fuck over, or just me?”

A clear and unguarded expression of hurt crosses your features. The same you’d worn when he’d had to pry his shotgun out of your hands. Forlorn, helpless as a wounded prey animal. But it passes quickly into a cold disdain, your head raised high again and your eyes hard as flint.

“Do you know,” you say quietly, lip curling with contempt. “I seriously considered cutting your throat when I finally realized who you were. I should have.”

Then you blink, forehead wrinkling as you sniff at the air. You glance at the fire, where his forgotten can of beans is beginning to burn.

Arthur curses. He hastily swipes one of his discarded riding gloves from the grass and pulls it on, then grabs the can and blows on its contents, fanning away its delicate wisp of black smoke.

You retreat to the far inner corner of the outcrop and frantically page through the notebook until you find the red-sealed paper sheafed inside. With a sigh of relief, you slump against the rough granite wall, the tense set of your shoulders loosening as though some secret string stretched taut through the frame of your body had suddenly been cut loose.

A sullen silence permeates the shelter, punctuated only by the grating scratch of metal as he scrapes burnt food off the edges of the can with a spoon.

“You forgot to mention that the whole place smells like shit,” Arthur says finally. He keeps his eyes on the can, attention focused squarely on the arduous task of excavating beans.

“What?”

“Cotorra Springs. Smells like week-old shit. Especially around the pools.”

The rustle of blankets. From the corner of his eye, he watches you tentatively scoot closer. “You’ve been there?” you ask. Your voice is still deeply reproachful, but touched with genuine curiosity.

“You haven’t?”

“No. I’ve just seen pictures. And notes from people who have.”

“Huh,” he says. He scrapes another carbonized mouthful from the can. “Could’ve fooled me, the way you wrote about it.”

You raise your eyebrows. “You think so?”

“Sure.

The corner of your mouth quirks upwards in a reluctant smile that unfolds like the breaking light of a clouded dawn. “Well, that’s… that’s good to know.”

“You writin’ a book or something?” he asks.

“That’d be nice, wouldn’t it?” The smile wilts slightly, and you drop your gaze down to the notebook on your lap. “No. Just a favor for an old friend’s husband. The man fancies himself an explorer, but can barely string a sentence together. He’s paying me to pretty up his notes for him. Half of which I think are made up. There’s some bullshit in there about an enormous rainbow colored pond full of boiling water.”

Arthur laughs. “Naw, that bit’s true. I’ve seen it. It’s a hell of a thing.”

You seem skeptical. He doesn’t blame you. Even after having walked the rust-banded edge of that craterous spring himself, his memory of it still carries with it the preternatural awe of a place half-dreamed. He tells you about the slow gradation of color leading inwards from the rim. Ochre to cadmium, to turquoise, to a deep cerulean with the unreal brilliance of a painted ocean. Steam hanging like a pungent fog. Entire stretches of ground covered in a thick, boiling mud, bubbling ominous as something out of Dante’s Inferno. A constant gurgling of earth and water, as if he were treading upon some living thing in the midst of an infernal digestion.

Halfway through his description, you flip the notebook to a clean page and ask him for a pencil, then begin scribbling down his words with an unceasing, determined hand. This bemuses him. That anyone might find his drivel meaningful enough to commit to paper is a new experience altogether. It’s an odd feeling, but not at all an unpleasant one.

That is, until you begin peppering his narrative with so many questions that it takes the better part of an hour to accommodate them.

What kind of plants grew there?

“Bunch of disgusting slippery shit around the edge. Algae or something. Other than that, can’t think of a single thing that’d lay roots in boiling water and sulfur.”

Did the mud boil like roiling water, or was it more the viscosity of a slow simmering stew?

“More like wet cement, really.”

Were there animals?

“No. Nothing there for ‘em.”

Birds?

“Didn’t see any.”

Insects?

“A shit ton of gnats, but not much else.”

How wide were the prismatic bands around the crater? What was the geology like? Did the surrounding forest taper off gradually in the vicinity of the spring, or was the loss of vegetation sudden and absolute as a drawn border?

“Give me your notebook.” he says, having finally reached the point of exasperation. “Easier if I just draw it for you.”

To his faint surprise, you hand it over without hesitation. He sketches out what he’s able to recall, all the while acutely aware of the madness of the situation. Fucking illustrating an account of his own wanderings for the woman who robbed him while they both sit in varying states of undress. Scribbling out a messy landscape in the same notebook whose contents he’d derided just a little while ago. Focusing all his attention on Cotorra Springs so as to ward away the unfortunate possibility of another inopportune erection.

The mediocre drawing he finally manages to scratch out would have disappointed him under any other occasion. Instead, he feels a warm flood of relief at its conclusion. If this doesn’t shut you up, then nothing will.

Nothing will, it seems. To his immense chagrin, the drawing sparks another round of questions. After silently admiring his work just long enough to spark hope of your satiety, you ask him about the species of the trees. Had he explored the nearby forest? Were there flowers? What season had he visited in? Was the acrid smell of sulfur present even here?

“Look,” Arthur says wearily. “You clearly come from money. Why don’t you just hire someone out to take you sometime?”

You snort at the suggestion. The corner of your mouth lifts upwards into something that’s only nominally a smile, and more the type of grimace that accompanies an old wound. “The only two men I’d trust enough to take me out into the middle of nowhere are dead. And with the money I owe, I can’t… I can’t just… you know what?” you say abruptly. “It’s getting late and I’m fucking exhausted. I’m going to sleep.”

And with that, you tug the blanket tight around your shoulders and huddle against the ground like a felled shrimp. You lay with your back to him, the words left unsaid hanging over you both like an unripe fruit of a question.

Arthur fetches his bedroll and unfurls it close to the fire. A battered pillow emerges from the worn tarp as he spreads it flat. After a moment of contemplation, he picks up the pillow and tosses it in your direction. It hits you square on the head.

Immediately, you sit up and snarl at him. “What the fuck is wrong with — oh.” You pick up the pillow and grasp it tight, as if at any moment he might change his mind and demand it back. Your small “thank you” is puzzled and uncertain.

“I’m gonna put out the fire,” he says. “You try to slit my throat in the dark, I’ll wring your neck.”

But the threat comes out empty and toothless, and judging by the renewed sarcasm in your voice when you tell him you’ll keep it in mind, you seem fully aware of it.

Arthur douses the flames by kicking dirt over the embers, which glow dim and vermillion for minutes afterwards, fading slow to dull, crumbling ash when the heat finally bleeds out of them. The pleasant smell of smoke lingers inside the shelter for a good while longer, but even that dissipates eventually, leaving just petrichor and the crisp, clean scent of early autumn rain.

The worst of the storm has shifted westwards. Water drips in a steady stream from the outer edge of the overhang, churning the ground below to a soup of mud. The cloud cover is still dense, but it’s thinned enough that moonlight gleams through the feathery underbelly in a pale and spattered mottle. With it, he can make out the dim outline of your body, the rise and fall of your chest in a slow, steady rhythm he sorely doubts you’d have the patience to feign.

He lies awake there in the dark for a long while, shuffling through a jumble of discordant emotion. It’s as if the pieces of several sets of puzzles have been mixed together and jammed into an incomprehensible mess, so hopelessly and thoroughly muddled that he can no longer tell where one thing starts and another ends. He sorts his way through it until the rain weakens to a grey drizzle and the drip of rainwater turns from the unbroken stream of a faucet to a series of droplets beating out an abstruse morse code against the ground.

In the end, he’s only able to definitively place a single solid sentiment. Pity.

———

Couple notes:

Arthur's understanding of Chinese is incorrect, but aligns with the assumptions a lot of Western scholars during that time period had regarding it. There was a big tendency to treat it like Japanese, which despite using some of the same characters, uses a completely different structure.

Cotorra Springs seems to be based off Yellowstone. The big boiling rainbow spring is actually real: it's called the Grand Prismatic Spring and seriously does look like something out of a fever dream. Yellowstone also does smell like sulfur in some places, but it’s not so much like week old shit as it is the potent fart of someone who’s eaten far too many deviled eggs.

No algae grows in the spring. It's actually cyanobacteria, but there's no reason Arthur would know this. It does look pretty gross up close.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan/reader #arthur morgan/oc #fic #red dead redemption #rdr2 #my work #talking bird

[julek]

9 & 45 Geskel + Jaskier in some unnamed town

#9. “you really thought i was dead?” + #45. foreheads pressed together, breaths intertwining, slow, content affection.

Winter had been unforgiving.

The cold had come much earlier, the biting winds and violent blizzards making their way across the North with insistence, leaving little hope for the travelers that dared to venture the snow-covered roads. Geralt had endured his way up the path to Kaer Morhen, keeping his grip on Roach’s reins steady as he allowed his mind to wander, thinking of the months to come, finally reunited with his brothers.

Geralt knew the way up the mountain like the back of his hand. The trees and shrubs that coated the path —pines, azaleas, firs— and the small, innocuous creatures that inhabited the crevices and nooks of the forest. He’d grown used to the sight of the covered peaks of the Blue Mountains looming on the horizon, moonlight reflecting on the frozen surface of the Gwenllech. 

He’d been the first to show up at the keep. Days passed, and soon enough, Lambert rode in, his stallion stomping his feet on the cobblestone. Coën followed, his cart loaded with provisions, and more importantly, Redanian wine. 

The snow kept falling, unrelenting, and in the third week, Vesemir announced the pass had been covered, meaning no one would be able to go out or come in. Fear clawed at Geralt’s throat, much more palpable now with clear confirmation — Eskel wasn’t coming home.

The months passed idly by, and Geralt kept busy — repairing the roofs, going out for hunts, sparring with Lambert and Coën under Vesemir’s attentive gaze. He could sense the rest of the witchers were as uneasy as he felt —could see the look in their eyes when they sat at the table for supper, the empty chair burning at the sight— though no one uttered a word. There had been no letter, no medallion to bury, but they all knew. They were very well acquainted with the risks of the Path, how precarious a witcher’s life became once they set foot in the Continent, the perpetual recipient of human hatred. Geralt knew.

He thought they’d have more time. 

As the days grew longer and flowers started blooming, Geralt left the keep. He hugged his brothers goodbye, maybe held them a little tighter than before, nodded to Vesemir, and led Roach out of the grounds. He moved down south, deep into Kaedwen, walking the path he knew so well. It was as inviting as it’d been every spring, greeting him with bright colors and days full of sunshine, but Geralt felt different. His world had shifted, tilted off its axis, his sight askew and suddenly colorblind, his intent wavering.

Geralt ran into Jaskier in Murivel, summer looming close. The bard had had a terrible winter in Oxenfurt, and for a second, Geralt was glad he hadn’t been the only one. They moved along the Pontar, Geralt chasing after monsters and Jaskier chasing after him, falling into their usual rhythm. He couldn’t bring himself to talk about Eskel, even though he knew he could trust Jaskier — hurt wrapped itself around his stomach and smothered his lungs, leaving him gasping for air. 

Some days, the winds would carry the faintest scent of magic mixed with smoke, and Geralt would stop dead in his tracks, waiting to see Eskel emerge from the forest, his scar twisted by a grin and his armor intact. Safe. He’d roam the woods at night while Jaskier slept soundly on his bedroll, looking. What for, he wasn’t sure — a body? A sign?

“How do witchers deal with death?” Jaskier asked him one afternoon, quill in hand. “I promise it’s not for a song.”

Geralt shrugged, his amber eyes somber even in the sunlight. He didn’t answer for a while, carefully thinking about it. 

“We’re not… we’re not usually together, when one of our kind dies.” He frowned. “We’re lucky if we even get confirmation that they’re dead.”

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier said, sincerity burning through cornflower blue. “You don’t even get a chance to say goodbye.”

Geralt shook his head, pressing a hand to his forehead, feeling the knot on his throat tighten. 

“Our medallions are buried when we pass,” he said after a while. “It’s the only time we go home, I guess.”

It was a half-truth at best, but it was all Geralt had to offer. Jaskier nodded almost knowingly and turned back to his lute, but Geralt could smell the faint scent of sadness lingering on the bard. He said nothing, half-fearing he’d try to comfort him with empty words only meant for himself. How could he reassure Jaskier that it was just the way things were for witchers, that it was rooted in years of discipline, and endurance, and tradition, when he couldn’t believe it himself? 

They moved on as they were wont to do, passing through Ellander and Hagge, avoiding the fork in the road that led to Vengerberg. Jaskier filled the days with his chatter and music, still singing of Geralt’s feats and heroics at any tavern he could find, Geralt’s eyes trailing after red gambesons, disappointed when their owners turned around, no carved medallion on their chests.

“Thank you, my good men and women, for listening to my tales!” he heard Jaskier exclaim from his corner in the tavern, “Please, direct your applause to my muse, Geralt of Rivia!”

The patrons turned around, their eyes bright and their cheeks flushed with ale, and cheered at him with genuine enthusiasm. He raised his tankard at them, and went back to keeping out of sight—brooding, as Jaskier liked to call it—while the bard finished gathering his things.

Geralt swirled his watered-down ale in his cup, the rain pattering hard against the window. He remained seated, watching Jaskier flirt his way through the tavern, an oddly comforting sight. He enjoyed nights like these, easy and undemanding, where he could just sit with his thoughts, a pastime severely frowned upon by Vesemir. 

He let his mind wander, inevitably reaching his fondest memories, the few he prized the most. He and Eskel sharing a bowl of stew, sitting on the furs he’d pulled down from his bed, in front of the hearth. Eskel on hen duty, stubbornly letting the coop door ajar, then chasing all of the chicken across the courtyard as Geralt laughed and refused to help. Long, cold winter nights, legs intertwined under the blankets, Geralt’s head resting on Eskel’s collarbone. Whispered secrets, stolen kisses, yearning glances.

He thought they’d have more time. 

“Does my singing bore you that much, witcher?” 

Geralt opened his eyes, Jaskier coming into view. His lips were curled into an easy grin, his sweaty hair sticking to his forehead. He was holding two tankards of ale, and passed one to Geralt.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked quietly, meeting Geralt’s eyes. 

Geralt wrinkled his nose slightly, looking away. The creases of his forehead were deeply set into his skin, the lines under his eyes more prominent now. Feeling Jaskier’s eyes on him, Geralt hummed a reply. 

“I’m exhausted,” Jaskier said after a moment, leaning his arms on the table. “Think I’m gonna call it an early night. Feel free to stay down, though.”

Geralt nodded, sipping at his ale. He’d probably have some more to drink, before falling into another night of restless sleep.

His eyes followed Jaskier’s figure climbing up the stairs, a force of habit. Slumping in his seat, his back to the door, Geralt watched the tavern. The barmaids moved diligently with trays, mugs, and plates, making their way across the floors. He could hear the faint sounds of a heated argument between the cook and the barkeep, could see a young couple sharing a meal in the dim candlelight, their eyes glowing with infatuation and the promise of a life together, waiting ahead of them.

Geralt rolled his eyes at the sight, his ale suddenly tasting bitter. He heard the tavern door swing open, the wind howling outside, and a strong scent filled his senses. Smoke and spices —rosemary and basil— and the kind of oil Geralt used on his blades. There was an underlying scent Geralt couldn’t quite pick up on, something that barely scratched the surface.

Turning around, Geralt was met with broad shoulders sporting a deep oxblood gambeson with crisscrossed yellow stitchings, spikes covering the pads of his armor. Dark hair fell in curtains on his face, the scar on his side a dark maroon in the firelight as he gesticulated wildly, bargaining with the innkeeper. 

Geralt remained still, his hand frozen on his tankard, as he closed his eyes, his mouth twisted into a pained grimace. He felt the man move closer, his scent becoming stronger, making the tip of his tongue tingle. Geralt placed his hand on his medallion and felt it vibrate faintly. 

Magic.

“The Great White Wolf, napping in some shitty tavern in the middle of nowhere,” a deep, quiet voice rumbled. “Whatever would Vesemir say.”

Geralt opened his eyes, expecting to stare into emptiness, like many countless times he’d drunk himself into oblivion. Instead, he found a curious amber gaze looking down at him, brows arched. 

“Eskel,” he breathed.

Before he knew it, Geralt was standing tall, arms wrapped around Eskel. He found the nook of his neck, just below his jaw, and breathed in deeply, his scent impregnating Geralt’s senses. His body felt warm, enveloped in the first rays of sunlight after a cold, dark winter. He felt safe.

After a moment, he pulled back, pressing his forehead against Eskel’s, his hands on each side of his face. They breathed in slowly, looking into each other’s eyes, and a choked noise escaped Geralt’s throat, betraying his composure. He buried his face in Eskel’s shoulder, his breath unsteady and his eyes stinging. He couldn’t bear to look at his face, not after months of convincing himself that death had finally ripped him away from his heart.

“You really thought I was dead?” he heard Eskel murmur, his lips pressed against his temple. 

Geralt said nothing, doubting his voice wouldn’t falter. Instead, he held Eskel tighter, pressed all his love into his hands, hoping he’d feel it, too. He’d try using his words later, when they were lying down, knees pressed together, Geralt murmuring against Eskel’s collarbone, the firelight illuminating his medallion, unburied. 

They had all the time in the world.

#hope you like it!!! sorry this took ages #mywriting #geralt/eskel #geskel #geralt of rivia #eskel witcher #permanently-exhausted-witcher #answered