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fruitcoops · 1 year

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Falling for Forever

Two for two on deadlines, baby! Ignore the fact that it’s been 11 months. This fic put me through the absolute wringer and now I get to stand on it and witch-cackle in victory. Almost 11k words of physical, mental, emotional, and...all those other types of healing. Bon appetit, babes! Character credit goes to @lumosinlove, to whom I owe my heart and soul for building this universe.

TW for past injury/ memory loss, working through trauma

Part One: What You Have, What You Hate (the amnesia fic)

Part Two: Sirius Love Yourself and Remus Get Therapy, Electric Boogaloo

It just wasn’t fair.

Sirius was fine. Honestly, genuinely, from the bottom of his heart—he was fine. Sure, some days his head hurt more than others. Sometimes he’d wonder where he put his phone when it was still in his hand, or enter a room and forget why he went there in the first place, but those weren’t new occurrences. He could walk and talk and remember just about everything from his life, with the notable exception of the ten minutes before the hit.

But Remus hadn’t slept properly in days, and Coach wouldn’t let him back out on the ice, and the whole damn thing just reeked of pity he didn’t want. Pity he didn’t need.

Remus’ hands flickered over him, tucking and retucking the sheets until Sirius caught his wrists and pressed a kiss to each pulse point. His broad shoulders sagged. “I’m being a bother again, aren’t I,” Remus muttered. He shook his head without waiting for a response. “Fuck, I am, I’m sorry.”

“You’re not being a bother.”

“No, I totally am—”

“You’re not,” Sirius repeated. The shadows under Remus’ eyes lightened every day, but still lingered. He looked threadbare, his voice thin, like someone had taken an eraser to his edges. He held Sirius tighter at night than he ever had before. The worried crease between his brows smoothed when Sirius pulled him down to sit on the mattress with a small smile. “Lay down, I’m cold.”

Tension had been holding Remus up like a second skeleton for days now, ever since they had been discharged from the hospital and promptly collapsed into bed for ten hours. Sirius had only seen it release him in deep sleep—a fleeting event at best. It was like the hospital had followed them home and seeped into the walls, staining Remus’ vision until they were right back where they started.

Remus turned out the lamp and curled into his usual spot against Sirius’ chest, shuffling around until he was comfortable; Sirius splayed a hand between his shoulder blades and tucked his nose into soft curls. Of all the aftershocks he had prepared himself for, the fatigue had snuck up on them both. “Bonne nuit, mon coeur,” he whispered.

“Night, baby.” Lips brushed the peak of Sirius’ cheek before Remus snuggled up once more.

Kiss me, and I’ll know, Sirius had said into the inch of space between them on a paper-thin hospital pillow. And Remus had, because he was made of everything light and good and kind in the world. It had been six days since they came home; two weeks since the hit. That remained the only time Remus had kissed him on the mouth. Sirius closed his eyes against the ache in his chest and readied himself to try and rest.

That first night home had been distilled bliss. They showered together—showered, dear god how Sirius had missed that—and Remus had washed his hair and the spots he couldn’t reach with reverent hands. They were both so, so tired from the endless discharge paperwork and so, so silently afraid to step away from each other for more than a few seconds. Remus was shaky, but happy. Contented. Solid in Sirius’ arms when they finally laid in their own bed after days upon days. They spooned the whole night and into the morning, neither budging an inch.

“We should eat,” Remus had sighed when the sun was finally too high to ignore. His hand moved in slow strokes, tracing from Sirius’ hand to his elbow and back again, just to touch. The intimacy of the movement settled something deep inside them both if his drowsy smile was anything to go by.

They stayed in bed for another hour in comfortable silence before their empty stomachs won out. Even in the kitchen, Sirius had hugged Remus from behind with his chin propped on a well-muscled shoulder to watch him cook. “Mon coeur,” he murmured into the shirt that had once been his. The smell of the hospital was long gone and the fabric was soft. “Mon loup, mon amour.”

He had trailed his mouth along the curve of Remus’ neck and held him close. The frayed edges began to ease.

The routine came easily. Nothing else did, so Sirius had to be a little grateful for it. They left social media to its conspiring and only spoke to family, face-to-face on the doctor’s orders. Leo meal-prepped like a madman; they could hardly keep Dumo out of the house; Lily brought Harry over in an obvious ploy to distract Sirius while their husbands fixed the leaky faucet, though he wasn’t offended by their caution. If it were James on the injured list, he would have swaddled him in bubble wrap at the first opportunity.

“Hey.” A kiss feathered Sirius’ temple and he looked up from his crossword, blinking back the memories. Remus perched on the table with a smile he couldn’t help but mirror, clad in a sweater that brought out the hearth-warm brown in his eyes.

“Bonjour,” he managed, a little breathless.

“Wanna go for a walk?”

“Really?” The doctors’ definition of his permitted ‘minimal exercise’ amounted to literally walking up and down the stairs—even a wander around the block was pushing his luck. Sirius had tried extraordinarily hard not to be jealous when Remus took Hattie out every few hours so she didn’t destroy their couch pillows with excess bursts of energy, but it felt like he was a toddler in time-out. “A real walk?”

“A real walk,” Remus confirmed. He ran his fingers through the hair above Sirius’ ears and Sirius nuzzled into it with a kiss to his palm. That touch had kept him grounded at his lowest point. He knew better than to take it for granted, now.

“What about a run?” he asked, cracking a grin at the eye-roll it earned him.

And Remus laughed. The sound sent butterflies careening through his stomach; it hadn’t been absent since his fall, but it had been…well, a little rare, if he was being honest. More rare than his mostly-reliable memory told him it should be. Remus was joy incarnate, but he had been so tired lately. It was good to see him shine again, even for a moment.

Sirius pulled him in by the sleeve and kissed the corner of his mouth, tasting the last bits of humor that lingered there. Not the lips. Not until Remus was ready. “I love you.”

Remus turned until their foreheads rested together and their noses bumped. He was smiling softly. “Love you, too.”

“Baby?”

Sirius made a noise of acknowledgement, but didn’t budge. His hands were warm in his pockets, and the sun was hot on his windburned face. Hattie’s collar jingled; he smiled when her nose pushed into his thigh and Remus’ arm looped through his own. “Hey. Good run?”

“That hydrangea was a real threat to our safety.”

Sirius grinned and opened his eyes to kiss the top of Remus’ head. Fresh air seeped into his blood, replacing the stale sludge he had been dragging around all week. Finally, he felt human. “I’m sure it was.”

“Excuse me?”

They both startled, stepping apart. “Yes?” Remus said, his tone curious but a little tense. “Can we help you?”

A young man shifted from foot to foot, as if he couldn’t quite believe they had acknowledged him. It seemed whatever (certainly invasive) question he was going to ask had become stuck in his throat. Sirius arched a brow and saw him swallow hard. “Are you—are you okay?” the young man finally got out.

There it is. Sirius forced a smile and knew it came out tight by the sudden regret on the other man’s face. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“You’re sure?”

I’d be a lot more sure if you fucked off and let me enjoy my walk. “Very sure,” he promised.

The young man’s dark eyes flickered between them before settling on Sirius’ forehead. His beanie covered the small bandage, but that didn’t seem to dissuade him from staring. “You were in the hospital for, like…a while.”

“Just a few days,” Remus assured him. Sirius felt a light squeeze on his hand and returned it in a silent request; a gust of wind snuck down the back of his coat and raised goosebumps along his arms.

“Will you play at the next game?”

Sirius exhaled slowly through his nose as something bitter crawled up and stained his teeth. “We’re waiting on the go-ahead from the doctors,” Remus said placatingly. “Better safe than sorry. Thanks for your concern, though. Enjoy the weather.”

They were walking before the man could open his mouth again—Remus’ knuckles were white on Hattie’s leash and she had to trot to keep up with them, her fluffy tail bobbing happily. Sirius ground his back teeth so hard they squeaked. “Remus—”

“Don’t,” Remus murmured, clear and clipped. “Don’t go there, baby, it’s not worth it.”

“I need to play.” He did. He needed to play. He needed to not sit at home for another week, two weeks, a month, and pretend he was alright with it. Six days were manageable. Six more would send him over the edge. If he had to spend another beautiful afternoon cooped up in the house...

“You’ll play when you’re ready.”

“I am ready.”

Remus stopped cold, jostling both him and Hattie. He took a fortifying breath, mouth pressed into an unhappy line. “Please don’t do that,” he said quietly. “Sirius, just—don’t. You know I hate being the bad guy with this kind of thing.”

Sirius looked away. He did know that. He had seen how miserable Remus was when he had to bully Sirius into doing his exercises when his ribs were broken, how it had killed him when Sirius couldn’t put his fatal fucking pride aside for two seconds to heal. Guilt made his stomach squirm. “I’m sorry,” he finally said. “But I—I need to play.”

“I know.” Remus’ eyes found his own then, gloved hands wrapping around Sirius’ wrists with something like desperation. “Believe me, I get it and I’m sorry and this has got to be the worst feeling. But this is different than your ribs, okay? We can’t afford to backslide. This isn’t some sort of—fucking punishment, I promise.”

God, he hated spoiling perfectly nice days because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. His winter clothes made his skin prickle. “I feel fine, Re.”

“But you’re not.” Remus turned Sirius’ face back with a touch to his jaw and he went willingly, even though he wanted to see anything but the hurt in Remus’ eyes. Since when was he so terrible at listening? “Not yet. We’ll start here and work our way up. I won’t talk to the press about it after games. You don’t owe people like him a thing. Don’t make this harder for yourself by letting them get under your skin.”

Sirius took a deep breath. The steam of his exhale clouded the curls spilling out from under Remus’ hat. He had known this would happen the second someone asked about his health—it was his rookie season all over again, shooting pucks in the basement because he didn’t know what else to do. Remus deserved better than what Sirius had done to himself. “Let’s do another loop around the park.”

Remus had cried the third night. The days were easy; they could cuddle and cook and Remus would read to him while he napped, still drained from a week of hospitalization. They could watch one TV episode every evening and got permission to throw their diet plans out the window to enjoy some treats in celebration.

At two o’clock in the morning, Remus had bolted upright in bed and shaken Sirius awake, rattling off an endless stream of questions that Sirius couldn’t respond to. Not because he didn’t know the answers, but because he had been unconscious about four seconds prior and was still technically concussed.

“Non,” he had mumbled, grappling against waking and batting sleepily at the thing holding his shoulders.

A strangled sob had answered and Remus’ touch disappeared like he was touching hot coals. By the time Sirius registered enough of the world to attempt reassurance, all he could do was hold Remus and silently curse himself. Do you know me? Remus had asked. Sirius had given him the one wrong answer. Done the one wrong movement.

It was three o’clock when Remus finally let sleep take him again, slumping into Sirius’ side with tears drying on his face. Sirius laid them down and watched light play over the ceiling from the street. When Remus woke again at nine, he didn’t say a word about the nightmare, just turned into the hollow of Sirius’ neck and let his hand rest above his heart. Though Remus slept fitfully over the following nights, he hadn’t cried again.

They were working on it.

“Out.”

“But I—”

“Out,” Leo repeated, making a shooing motion with his spatula. Sirius muttered something under his breath and trekked back into the living room with a last kiss to his husband’s cheek, working up a scowl like he was getting paid for it.

“Impressive,” Remus remarked around a mouthful of chips from his seat on the counter; his gaze lingered on Sirius’ retreating back while Leo poured sauce over the stuffed pasta and popped the whole pan in the oven.

Leo set a timer, wiped his hands on his pants, then cast one more look out the kitchen door to make sure their respective boys were out of sight before turning to Remus with his arms crossed. “What’s up?”

Remus’ chewing slowed. “Just…having chips.”

“Loops.”

“Did you want some?”

Stubborn bastard. Leo pushed himself onto the counter next to Remus and gave him a look his mother would be proud of. “What’s going on? I’m worried about you, man.”

But rather than throwing the chips aside and spilling his heart out—not that Leo was expecting it from Remus ‘Brick Wall’ Lupin, though a guy could dream—Remus closed his eyes and exhaled long and slow. “You are the third person to say that in 24 hours, Knutty. I’m good. If I wasn’t, I would talk to someone about it.”

“See, if you had ever done that even once in your life, I would believe you.”

“I’m doing great,” Remus insisted. Leo wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince. “Sirius is home, he’s healing, he’s making progress, we’re fine.”

The distant look in his eyes was gone, but something in his face was still too heavy. Leo hadn’t heard him crack a joke or seen a real smile all day. He chewed the inside of his lip and raised his eyebrows, and watched Remus’ resolve crumble. “I didn’t ask about Sirius, Re,” he said. “I asked about you.”

“I’m not the one who had amnesia.”

“No, you’re the one whose husband had amnesia, and that’s pretty fucking traumatic.” Remus shoved another handful of chips into his mouth with an unhappy crunch; Leo hesitated for a moment, then shuffled closer until their sides touched. Remus tensed. “I’m not trying to push you, but I need you to know that I’m here and I want to talk when you’re ready. I can’t imagine how hard the last couple weeks have been.”

He had tried, the night he went to get Regulus. Every part of him felt full of pure energy—every red light had made him twitchy as the events of the day replayed in his head on constant loop. But picturing himself in Remus’ shoes, and Finn or Logan shoving him away from their bedside with a stay the hell away from me or that fragile, frightened confusion...that had taken the wind right out of his sails. He nearly turned around to go home then and there.

“It sucks.” Remus didn’t look away from the oven timer. “That’s kind of all there is to it, you know? It happened. It sucks. We’re working on it.”

Leo nudged him, just a little. A single crack in Remus’ careful walls was progress. “It does suck,” he agreed. “Have you been alone yet?”

“I mean, yeah, you guys are the first visitors in a couple—”

“Have you been alone yet?” Leo repeated.

Remus was quiet for a few seconds, then swallowed hard. “I fixed the faucet with James, but I can’t…I can’t. I don’t think either of us can right now.”

“Okay.”

Remus’ eyes flickered up to him. “Okay?”

“I’m not a therapist.” Leo shrugged one shoulder and tried for a smile. “I’m your friend. Yes, I’m worried, but I’m not going to force you to do shit right now. I’m going to make dinner for you and a cake and then you’re going to tell me what you need a hand with so you can focus on dealing with this instead of, like, cleaning your windows.”

The kitchen was starting to smell like manicotti, cheesy and warm and full of tomato. Remus set the chips down and tucked his hands under his legs with a shake of his head. Ever so slightly, he leaned into Leo. Success. “I wish this never happened.”

Leo sighed. “Me, too.”

“I wish I had caught him in time.”

“I was closer than you were.” The guilt had been so raw at first, but it was scabbing over. Dwelling on the past wouldn’t fix the present. “Are you mad at me?”

“Fuck, no.”

“There was nothing we could’ve done fast enough, Re.”

Remus scrubbed his hands down his face, then linked them at the back of his neck. “I need to talk to Heather.”

Relief crashed over Leo in a tidal wave; he took Remus by the shoulders and pulled him in for a brief, fierce hug that drew an ‘ope’ of surprise out of him. “I really didn’t want to bring it up but yes, you do, and I will drive you there myself if you want.”

Remus laughed weakly, but didn’t try to pull away. “Is it bad that I want to lay on the floor for at least twelve hours?”

“I might suggest the couch instead, for the sake of your old-man joints.”

“Watch it, Knut.”

“Keep that up and you’re not getting extra sauce.” It was an empty threat and they both knew it, but it was worth it for Remus’ snort of amusement. Leo squeezed him in a quick pulse. “Fuck, dude, I missed you.”

Leo felt some of the iceberg-sized worry slough away at the tentative press of Remus’ hands on his back. In the other room, Logan and Sirius were already laughing. “Will you hide some of the manicotti so I can reheat it later?” Remus mumbled.

“There’s a whole pan in the back of the fridge behind your gross coconut water.”

“The kind Sirius hates?”

“Pre-cisely.”

“You’re a godsend.”

“I get that a lot.”

Lily sipped her tea with the same energy as a wolf watching a lame, juicy rabbit from across a riverbank. When Remus said as much, she cracked a smile. “Just thinking.”

“Huh, there’s a first.”

“Fuck you, too.” He felt a light kick to his shin under the table and feigned injury, just to watch her face scrunch in a snort. “Spoke to the hubs.”

“Yours or mine?”

“The less hot one.”

“And how is Pots today?”

“Looking DILF-ier every minute. That man needs another baby. But actually, Re, I think you and Sirius should talk.”

He raised his brows. “Is that so?”

“Sounds like somebody has been squishing all those gross, nasty feelings back into the little box he just got them out of.”

“Oh, Jesus, it is not that bad—”

He jumped when Lily touched the back of his hand. Something knowing had overtaken the laughter on her face. “Remus, you need to talk to someone.”

“I’m seeing Heather on Thursday.”

“Good.” She set her teacup down and took his hand between both of her own, twisting his ring. “I’m worried about you.”

“Take a number.”

“Can you stop for, like, two seconds and let me try to help? I’m bad at this. Have some mercy.”

Something wriggled with discomfort inside him, but he put his cup on the table. “Lils…”

“Calm down, we’re not here to therapize each other. We’re here to have fun and watch bad TV and you’re going to let me paint your nails later. But—” She held her hand up when he made a face. “But first, I’m going to do my job as your best friend and tell you that some people think the patented Remus Lupin Avoidance Tactic isn’t going to work with this extraordinarily terrible event.”

“What people?”

“You know what people.”

Unfortunately, he did. Sirius, Talker, Leo, Lily…the side effect of a supportive family was having all kinds of people up in his business. Even more unfortunately, they were probably right. “Leo talked to me,” he admitted. “It helped. And I really am going to see Heather, and I’m going to try to—I don’t know, let go a little.”

Lily laced their fingers together the way he had done for her the night she found out about Harry. Her next breath came out less steady. “That means you have to let us take care of you, okay? Even if you’re busy taking care of Sirius. He’s got medical experts to do the heavy lifting. You’ve got Remus experts.”

“Lily, I’m not the injured one,” he said quietly.

“This hurt you, too.” The green of her eyes looked a little misty before she glanced away. “Holy shit, Remus, this hurt all of us, but I don’t ever want to watch you hurt like that again. I love Sirius to death but he’s got stuff to work through that you can’t fix. If you’re so worried about helping, then please let us help you.”

“I can’t ask that.”

“That’s why I’m offering.”

An exhale got stuck in his chest and he coughed lightly; Lily tilted her head back with a sniffle. Christ on a crutch, this whole vulnerability thing is harder than it sounds. “Leo made us dinner the other night. Talker and I are going skating on Saturday. I’m trying.”

“I know,” she said. “I know you are. But if it had been James that fell, and I was the one in your spot, what would you do?”

I wouldn’t leave your side. He started to answer, then faltered. Lily’s mouth turned down at the corner. “Oh, shit,” he said thickly. Across the table, Lily nodded. “Oh—I have been awful to you.”

“No, no, no, I’m not mad.” The pressure of her hands on his own increased, like she was trying to push it into him.

“I’m scared.” His voice wobbled and he blew out a sharp breath. In the blur of his vision, their hands were the same vague lump. How could he be so self-absorbed? How could he push them all away without even knowing it? He opened and closed his mouth. I need help. I need help. It was right there, but all that came out was, “Lily.”

She tugged on his sleeve; in the space between breaths, they were hugging. Her breaths hitched under his hands a few times before calming, and Remus shut his eyes tight and held her closer. I hurt you. I’m sorry. He knew she wouldn’t accept an apology. That didn’t mean he couldn’t think it with all his heart. Somehow, she would hear it.

“All you have to do is let us be there,” she rasped, pulling away to hold him at arms’ length with a light shake. “We want to. You’re scared and that’s fine and nobody is angry with you. Just talk to us. Talk to Sirius.”

He nodded mutely. When Lily brought him close again, he didn’t pretend he needed anything else.

The isolation was what killed him most. They were given no privacy—fuck the media and fuck the inventor of cell phone cameras, motherfuckers the lot of them—and so Sirius saw it all. Everything he didn’t remember. Everything he had tried to forget. Remus, pale and frightened with Sirius’ blood on his fingers. Remus, unable to let go of his hand when the medics pulled Sirius onto the stretcher until James pried him off. Remus, tucked in on himself in the lobby outside Sirius’ room looking like he had been flayed inside out.

So he understood. He got it. The trauma, the pain. What he didn’t understand was why Remus wouldn’t let him in anymore.

It hurt a little (a lot) to hear Remus rustling around and know he wouldn’t get a kiss even if he asked. And when he did ask, his request would be met with a wan smile and a brush of lips to his cheek, chin, forehead, everywhere but his lips. There was love in those touches—he could feel it radiating—but the reckless abandon was gone.

It was like Remus wanted to melt into the walls. It was like he wanted to melt and leave Sirius behind entirely.

God, it was always him, wasn’t it? Always his fault. Everything that went wrong in Sirius’ life would track right back around in an endless circle to the laundry list of wrong decisions. The ache of knowing Remus didn’t want him anymore was constant and painful like a broken ankle, but the absolute fucking terror of being shut out was a killstroke Sirius had never wanted to imagine.

He didn’t like the person he was before Remus. He didn’t want to know what would happen if the frosted front was permanent. How could he be real and solid when the one thing that reminded him he was alright was…

Was not alright. So deeply not alright in every curve and angle of his body. Sirius wasn’t foolish enough to think Remus would willingly talk about his feelings, especially at a time like this, but some silly, devoted part of him had thought Remus would at least try. He had mentioned something similar (if kinder) to Lily over crepes and hot chocolate, and a funny expression had come over her face. She had touched his wrist and smiled, but a troubled shadow remained through the rest of their lunch.

When Remus came home after their day together and said, “I asked for help” before anything else, he knew that shadow had found its mark.

“You did?”

“I did.” Remus took his time with his winter layers, hanging and folding each one with unusual care. “Lily and I had a good talk.”

“That’s—”

“I haven’t been fair to you, and I’m sorry.”

Sirius blinked. Lily, what did you do? “… for what?”

“I’ve been all over the place.” His words were coming just a touch too fast. Remus’ hands were cool on his face, but his lips were warm when he left a kiss on each of Sirius’ cheeks, like he had been biting them again. “I was trying to do too much for you, and I should have backed off. We both needed some space to process.”

“Um. D’accord.” He kissed Remus’ forehead and felt him melt. His shoulders relaxed. His hands came to rest on Sirius’ hips. Sirius left another tentative kiss by his temple; he would take every bit of affection he could get. “Is everything okay?”

“I haven’t been fair to you,” Remus repeated.

“I—no, I heard that part.” Sirius rubbed his back carefully. Remus had grown thinner over the month, though from stress or distraction, he wasn’t sure. The notches of his spine ran in a ladder beneath Sirius’ fingertips as he gathered him closer. Perhaps Lily had succeeded where he had failed. “You’ve done more than I could have asked for, loup.” More than I deserved. Yet Remus wasn’t pulling away from him, wasn’t showing the slightest sign of discomfort under his hands. “I picked up some zucchini. And made a cake.”

Remus made a faint noise of interest where his face was pressed close to Sirius’ collarbone.

“It’s chocolate.”

That got him a pleased mumble.

Sirius risked a kiss to the top of his head and got a happy sigh in return. “Come cook with me. We’ll talk. Tell me about Lily.”

Remus blinked slowly when they parted; the nervous buzz of energy had trickled to a hum. “What about Lily?” he asked. “You just had lunch together.”

Did she tell you I moped about you? “Ouais, but you talk about other things.” He left his hand on the small of Remus’ back as they crossed the short distance to the kitchen and found no protest. Perhaps it was time for a bigger question. “You look better, mon coeur. It seems like she helped.”

Tension twitched against his palm before settling down again. Remus stretched his arms out with a groan, then went for the cutting board drawer. “She did,” he admitted after a moment. “I was—yeah, no, she helped a lot. There was a lot happening in my head that I didn’t have words for.”

“I know the feeling,” Sirius half-laughed, passing him a knife. This was good. This was progress. Before the fall, they cooked together every night. His body knew the motions even if his thoughts were a whirlwind. Remus knocked their temples together lightly. Next step. “Like what?”

“What?”

“What didn’t you have words for?”

Remus shrugged one shoulder and began slicing the stems from the zucchini. “Just…stuff. Oh, you found really good ones.”

“I’m glad.” Sirius watched him work in silence for a few seconds, stirring olive oil in a pan with no heat under it. Remus didn’t appear to notice. “Re?”

“Mmm?”

“Were you angry with me?”

“Oh, god, no.” Remus jerked his head up, his brows pitching. Something in Sirius’ expression must have given him away, because his gaze softened. “I was just scared, I think. It’s been a lot.”

“Tell me about it,” he joked.

But Remus didn’t laugh. His cheeks flushed and he turned back to the zucchini with an uncomfortable cough. Fuck. Remus tugged his lower lip between his teeth, worrying at it in a tic Sirius had been trying so hard to break him of. “I couldn’t help you. At the rink, I mean.” The knife accentuated each word with a clack. “But I could help here, and so I was trying too hard. That’s kind of my—um, that’s kind of my default.”

“Je sais,” Sirius said quietly.

“So, I’m sorry for spiraling into you when other people know how to help better.” Remus let out a shaky laugh. “God, this is hard. I’m trying to be brave about it.”

“You were brave for me.” The words were gentler than expected. The chop-chop-chop of the knife slowed, and stopped. “You stayed in a hospital for three days. You were brave for me.”

A wobbly slice of zucchini fell on the cutting board. There was a slight tremor in Remus’ hand, now. “I didn’t want you to wake up alone.”

“You were brave,” Sirius repeated. He reached out and stopped the knife, folding Remus’ fingers into his own. “I can’t imagine what that was like. Thank you.”

His shoulders shuddered. He still didn’t look up. The tremor had spread to his arms, fine and delicate under his sweater. “I would do it all again.”

“I know.” Remus sniffed at that, pressing his sleeve under his nose as if he could hide it from Sirius. A droplet hit the edge of the cutting board, staining the wood. “Mon loup.”

“For you, I would do it all again.”

“Remus,” he murmured, turning him by the shoulders until he could see Remus’ bottom lip quivering despite the turn of his handsome face. A noise caught in Remus’ throat when Sirius cupped his jaw and brushed the pad of his thumb over one damp cheek. “Re, I need you to talk to me.”

“I can’t do it,” he choked out with a slight shake of his head. “Not without you. I wouldn’t want to.”

And, fuck, if that didn’t just carve at something deep in Sirius’ insides. Remus couldn’t even look at him, his gaze somewhere between the cabinet and the floor, hidden under his too-long hair that was just starting to curl.

His next breath was almost a wheeze. “I can’t do this without you.”

“Yes, you can.” Sirius gave his arms a light squeeze. Remus was strong and solid and more grounded than anyone he knew.

The sniffs came faster, his chest hitching over and over until it became a constant shiver; he swayed forward, hands slipping from Sirius’ elbows to grip the back of his shirt like it was the only thing holding Remus on Earth, his face pressed flush to Sirius’ chest as tears began to soak through it. Sirius caught him. Held him. He tucked his face against the side of Remus’ head and let him leave all that heavy burden in his arms for just a moment longer.

“I could,” Remus admitted, so miserable Sirius had to close his eyes. “Fuck, Sirius, I could, but I would hate every second of it.”

It should be impossible to feel heartbreak for something that never happened. And yet.

Sirius shifted to rest his chin on Remus’ head while sobs turned silent in the sleeve of his shirt. He would give anything to take that pain away. His fame, his money, anything in the world—whatever it took to make sure Remus never had to wonder if he would have to keep going alone. Sirius would be dead before he left him. But he supposed that was exactly what Remus feared most.

“You don’t have to.” He whispered the promise into the soft golden hair above Remus’ ear like the greatest truth. “You don’t have to, I swear. I’m not going anywhere. I love you, and I want you, and I care about you, and I’ll never leave you.”

The big talk could come later. He was more than willing to wait.

Remus woke in the middle of the night to the blankets shifting and a familiar weight absent from his side. Rather than giving in to immediate panic (a far-too-frequent habit, though he hated to admit it), he reached out with a sleep-slurred question and felt around blindly until Sirius’ hand caught him. “I’m here,” Sirius said with a laugh in his voice and a kiss to his wrist. Remus hummed. Of course he was. Sirius had never left him before. “Re?”

“Mhmm?” he managed, slotting himself into Sirius’ side and throwing a leg over his thigh. He was warm and wonderful.

Sirius was quiet for a bit, idly toying with Remus’ hair. “Why haven’t you kissed me yet?”

“Kiss you all the time.”

“On the lips.”

Ah, yes. Exhibit number 204 in the inventory of Remus’ weird hangups in the wake of terrible things. He was endlessly grateful for Leo and Lily—their talks had let him begin to classify the experience as actual trauma rather than dismissing himself more—but it still made him frown into Sirius’ shirt. The truth, while necessary, wouldn’t be pleasant.

“ ’m scared,” he said at last.

The hand in his hair slowed. “You’re scared… of kissing me?”

He finally blinked one eye open and checked the clock. Hours left until dawn, because they had never been able to have serious conversations in daylight. He stretched, bidding the dregs of drowsiness goodbye before he moved his head to the pillow and met Sirius’ troubled expression. Oh, god, I lost him. The words had ripped from him as he knelt on the cold floor of the hospital, disoriented and shattered, his world coming down in pieces. He had never thought it was possible, and that made it hurt even more.

Remus sighed through his nose and kissed the closest bit of Sirius he could reach. “It brought you back to me.” Kiss me, and I’ll know. “I’m still afraid it’ll take you away.”

Sirius stared at him for a long moment. “You know I was flirting with you, ouais? At the hospital. With the kiss thing.”

“I know, baby,” Remus laughed, a little bubble of happiness sliding all the way into his heart. He had missed their talks. “You were very smooth. But…I don’t know, it stuck with me. I know it doesn’t make sense. I want to kiss you all the time, and every time I try, I think about seeing you in that bed.”

Sirius’ palm nearly covered his whole cheek as he cradled Remus’ face, guiding him in to brush their noses together. “How about this bed?” he said, low and just for Remus to hear. “This is a good bed.”

Remus’ heart skipped a beat. Sirius’ lips were so close they were practically touching; he was comfortable and safe, and the hospital was far in the past. He knew what Sirius’ lips would feel like against his own, how his breath would catch after the first press. Kissing Sirius was a part of life and he loved it with his whole heart.

“You don’t have to,” Sirius whispered. Remus could feel the shape of the words on his own mouth and closed his eyes. “Re, you don’t have to, but I love you and I want you to know you’ll never lose me.”

A shuddering breath left him. He was afraid. But he could be brave at the same time.

Sirius’ breath caught when their lips met and Remus squeezed his eyes shut as tight as he could, feeling the rough scratch of stubble on his palm when he guided Sirius’ chin down for a better angle. His lips were as chapped and full as he remembered; his smile was just as sweet. Sirius let him roll them over until Remus could hover above him, supported by one elbow because he couldn’t bear to break contact now that it was in his hands again. “Re—”

Remus made a small noise and kissed him harder. No words. Nothing to take them out of this. Sirius curled a hand around his wrist and held it, his thumb rubbing circles over Remus’ pulse. It wasn’t until his lungs began to burn that he leaned back, lips sore and heart racing. “I love you,” he said around the emotion clogging every attempt at speech. A few weeks ago, that kind of kiss would have been nothing but a habit. “Sirius, you don’t even know how much I love you.”

“I know—”

“You don’t.” The memory of bright fluorescent lights bleeding in from the hall pushed at the back of his mind. His whole body tingled. When he licked his lips, he could taste Sirius’ chapstick. “I know you love me because you tell me and we spend time together and you hold me so close, but I don’t know how to tell you so that you understand.”

Sirius’ hands smoothed along his heaving sides. “I know you love me, Re. Have a little faith.”

“I have so much faith in you.” The air didn’t burn with antiseptic; their sheets were washed with plain laundry soap. “I would do anything for you. I love you so much.”

A tumble of soothing French followed and Remus sank into it, letting himself be guided back down and hugged. “This is important, so I need you to listen,” Sirius said with a scattering of kisses to his jaw. Remus forced himself to open his eyes. He would listen. He would do that for Sirius, whose gaze was determined, but not angry. Never angry. “I love you. I always have. I loved you from the second I woke up in that hospital room, even though it scared the shit out of me.”

Sirius had feared him in the hospital, had shoved him back. Get away from me.

“Please look at me.” He found Sirius again in the darkness. His calm eyes, his gentle mouth. “I’ve never doubted your love, Re. I can feel it in everything you do.”

“I try really hard,” he said, far too honestly. Sirius’ hand smoothed down his spine and Remus pressed into him. He wanted—he didn’t know what he wanted anymore. Even being held was overwhelming. Another kiss might make him pass out.

“I know.” Sirius’ voice was heavy. “I’m sorry if I made you think anything else.”

Remus shook his head. He never wanted to leave their bed. “It’s just been a lot.”

“It has. I’m so grateful for you, Re.” Lips touched his forehead. “Mon amour.”

My love. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he whispered. “Loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

“You can take your time,” Sirius said with another peck to his cheek that made him burn. “With kisses, and with—with everything.”

Hmm, no, please knock me out with your magic lips. “Can I have a goodnight kiss?”

“Ouais, mon vœu.” Sirius didn’t even try to mask the relief in his voice as Remus tilted his head up; his hand was steady under Remus’ chin when it dipped at the delicate kiss. “Fais de beaux rêves.”

He moved to pull away, but Remus chased his mouth and caught him for another. Sirius was right—this was a good bed. The sheets were familiar, the light a soft glow. It was home. They kissed at home.

He left one on the corner of Sirius’ mouth for good measure before settling back down with an arm over his ribs. The bundle of anxiety he had been carrying since they came home felt lighter. “Goodnight,” he sighed, vibrating in every limb. “I love you.”

Sirius knew it would feel good to be back on the ice, but he had never imagined it would feel like this. The puck found the flat of his stick just like he knew it would; the carbon fiber flexed, he squared his shoulders, and the whoosh of it sinking into the net brought nothing but joy to his whole body. Remus was right, per usual—hockey was love.

He took a wide, lazy loop while everyone else fucked around, chirping each other or fencing with their sticks or boxing, gloveless and playful. The ice was smooth under his skates; he let it carry him wherever it wanted and watched spirals form in his wake. His pads fit like a second skin, grounding him with their weight. Even his mouthguard settled just right over his teeth.

“Someone’s having a good day,” James teased, smacking the backs of his thighs as he passed. Sirius grinned, deliriously happy, and let James drag him into a hug; they collided with a familiar thump of pads. “Man, is it good to have you back out here.”

“It’s good to be back.” Five weeks was by far the longest Sirius had ever gone without skating. Even in the summers, he would find a rink or head to the basement when he got the itch. Mid-season, that number was down in the hours. His skates were home. He was finally settled in his skin.

“This captain shit is hard,” James laughed when they parted, eyes bright behind his contacts. “I’ve been doing it for a month, and I’m done.”

“Five years,” Sirius reminded him.

“I know, you fuckin’ hockey mutant.”

Sirius stole a puck out from under Finn and snapped it to James, who caught it with ease. All it took was a twitch of his brow and the game was on, keep-away across the ice with rules they both knew by heart. The cold air burned his face when he picked up speed; James’ crossovers were even better than they had been when they last played together, and Sirius smiled. A month of being captain had done him good.

The shrill chirp of Arthur’s whistle stabbed all the way to the base of his skull and nearly sent him flying into James’ back mid-dive. “Fuck—”

“Easy,” James grunted beneath his weight when he caught him. Concern had replaced the excitement on his face. “Hey, you okay?”

“I—yeah, I’m fine.” Sirius blinked and shook his head. Weird. He hadn’t had so much as a headache in two weeks, but already he could feel a faint throbbing behind his eye. He shook his head again and stood up straight, pointedly ignoring the worried looks several teammates were shooting him. He was fine. He was healed.

“I posted the schedule by the bench,” Arthur called, the whistle hanging innocently around his neck once again. “We’re doing fundamentals today, okay? Nailing down the basics is a strength of this team, so I want you to put a hundred percent of your effort into the technicalities. Save any fancy tricks for the scrimmage at the end.”

Sirius smiled to himself. He excelled at fundamentals, and if he knew Coach, those basic exercises would fall right into his wheelhouse. He wasn’t stupid—obviously it was Arthur’s way of saying ‘welcome back’, but Sirius wasn’t about to complain about a chance to show off a little and shake the rust away.

Passing drills? Easy.

Net accuracy? Piece of cake.

Puck handling? Sirius had more than enough trophies sitting at home to do it in his sleep.

He reveled in returning to the routine that had built his entire life. His stick was an extension of his arms and his skates added those few inches of height for the perspective he had been missing, always a bit too short to see things through the right frame until he was back where he belonged. His muscles burned just right; the gloomy fog lurking in the back of his head lifted under the bright lights of his favorite place.

Someone bumped his back just as he was (reluctantly) heading to the bench for a water break, and arms wound around his waist. “Hi,” Sirius laughed as momentum carried them forward.

“Hey.” Remus gave him a squeeze, then ducked under his arm. He was flushed with happiness. Sirius’ heart tripped over itself. “How’re you feeling?”

“So good.” His whole face hurt from smiling and he cast a look around at the perfect chaos. “So, so good.”

Remus raised his eyebrows. “Got a little wobbly earlier with James. Everything okay?”

“I’m fine,” Sirius assured him, tilting Remus’ face up for a kiss on his button nose. But it was for fun, now. They had been allowed more than enough time to figure out their issues, both at home with each other and alone with Heather. Impossibly, he felt better around Remus after a month of recovery than he ever had before. “I’ll tell you if I start feeling bad, but this is good. I needed it.”

“I know you did, baby.”

They made their way back to the bench together, hips bumping with each out of sync step until their skates were on solid ground again and Sirius let himself fall into the mess of his friends without hesitation. Shoulders jostled, elbows knocked—he was at peace. “Good to have you back out there, Cap,” Kasey said with a grin and a clap to his upper arm. “Needed someone who could give me a run for my money.”

“Hey!” Logan complained.

A hand caught Sirius by the scruff and he went willingly into Dumo’s side hug, nudging their temples together. “Thought you could take a break and come back just as strong, eh?”

Sirius grinned. “You know it.”

Dumo tsked and shoved him away by the forehead. “Remus! Five weeks, and you haven’t tamed the ego on this one?”

“Not nearly enough time,” Remus countered with a wink that made Sirius’ stomach flip. “I barely managed to keep him in bed, you think I was paying attention to the real elephant in the room?”

“Yeah, I bet you kept him in bed!” Finn wolf-whistled, earning himself a squirt to the face from Remus’ waterbottle. The conversation devolved rapidly into hollering and playful jabs from all sides, and Sirius gave as good as he got.

Then the whistle blew again, and black spots of pain danced in his vision.

He rubbed the corner of his forehead with the heel of his hand for some relief and felt the textured skin of his new scar pull. He frowned.

“Baby?” The guys were still loud as they flooded back onto the ice—he must have missed Arthur’s instructions, he never missed instructions—but Remus’ voice was barely above a murmur. “Sirius, you okay?”

“Ouais.” The spots faded out. The pain had been quick and sharp, like lightning. “It’s—yeah, I’m good. The whistle startled me.”

Remus had his PT face on, though, and Sirius’ heart sank. He wasn’t getting out of this one easily. “Your head’s bugging you?”

Before the fall and everything that came after it, he might have lied. He might have continued to tell Remus he was fine despite obviously not being fine, and Remus would have let him, but he would’ve been upset and it would take them days to work it out. Hell, six weeks ago Sirius would have cut every corner he found to get back into hockey as fast as possible. And because Remus loved him, because Remus was so goddamn committed to making sure he was happy, he would’ve been able to get away with a lot more before someone called him on his bullshit.

That was six weeks ago. That was before the fall.

“It’s hurting a little,” he admitted. “But only when the whistle blows, and only for a moment. We’ll check it out when we get home. I feel really good for the scrimmage, though.”

Remus nodded hesitantly, then leaned up and kissed his cheek. A frown touched his mouth. “Talk to Layla after practice?”

“I will,” Sirius promised.

And that was that. Honesty, an easy promise to keep, and they were good again. They had both learned over the first few stages of recovery that a lack of communication to salvage one good moment wasn’t worth the inevitable Jenga tower of problems later. Sirius didn’t have to be afraid Remus would leave him over an imperfection, and Remus didn’t have to fear Sirius feeling suffocated by him.

It was such a breath of fresh air.

He lined up across from Dumo, bracing for the puck drop as adrenaline dripped through him and focused his vision. He won the face-off in one quick swipe of his stick and passed it to James, who caught it just like the last million times they had done it.

“Open!” he shouted as the opposing defense closed in on James and Finn. The puck was a blur he knew well, easy to catch, easy to carry. He slipped past Olli and dodged Dumo’s attempted poke-check; Sirius couldn’t stop grinning. His body remembered everything it was supposed to.

He snagged a goal in the first period and two assists in the second. It wasn’t until they were well into the third period that he realized he hadn’t taken a single check.

At first, he wrote it off as a scrimmage courtesy—no checks meant a severely reduced risk of injury. But it lingered in his thoughts and dragged his gaze to spots he normally wouldn’t put that much attention in; Logan colliding with everyone but Sirius, Nado and Kuny’s play-fight, Remus’ quick hits that always shocked the puck from the opponent. Not even one of them came close to Sirius.

He called for the puck again and made a break for the net; Logan was on his ass in a second, but he didn’t make a move to try and steal it away. Sirius extended his stick a couple inches. Nothing. He did it again, giving Logan the perfect opportunity to snatch it away if he just bumped Sirius a little.

“Are you going to take it or not?” he snapped as they swerved around Dumo.

Logan immediately looked guilty. “I…”

Sirius ground his teeth and knocked the puck to James, who attempted a shot he didn’t even try and follow. If they weren’t going to play fair, he didn’t want to play at all. “What the fuck are you doing, Logan?”

“Playing defense.”

“I practically handed it to you!”

“Well, fuck you, too!” Logan said waspishly.

The throbbing behind Sirius’ eye had started again. He wanted to break his stick in frustration, but he didn’t know if he could do it. There were angles and force and—and his head was killing him for the first time in weeks. The others were gathering in little huddles around them. He fixed Logan with a glare. “Why didn’t you take it?”

“It’s a scrimmage!”

“So hit me!”

“I’m not going to hit you!”

Sirius almost had him now. “You’ve hit me before! Split my fucking lip, too!”

“I’m not going to hit you!”

“I can take it, Logan!”

“Well, I’m not willing to fucking risk it!”

They were close enough to each other by then that Sirius watched Logan’s anger dissolve into instant regret in excruciating detail. The rink was dead silent. “That’s what I thought,” he muttered. The rest of them had the nerve to look surprised when he turned. Surprised and ashamed. “Is anyone here a doctor?”

Skates shuffled, tentative and awkward.

“Have any of you seen my medical information over the past month? Any treatment plans? Anything?” They huddled together like a pack of kicked puppies. Sirius took a deep breath. He was their friend, but he was their captain, too. He had their respect. He wasn’t about to lose it over one injury. “I don’t need you to worry about me. I need you to trust me. I know it’s my first practice back, but I know my body. I don’t need special treatment and I don’t want it.”

James raised his head; where shame tinted the faces of their friends, it found no home with him. “We’re worried. That’s it. It’s not worth the risk right now.”

“I don’t—” Sirius cut himself off before he could say something he regretted and pressed a hand over his eyes. Deep breaths. “Jesus, Pots, did you tell them to do this?”

“It was me.” His heart sank as Arthur leaned on the boards, unapologetic. “I told them to be gentle. You’re a great player and a good man, and I’m not going to risk your health in the first few practices.”

Sirius looked at him for a long moment. “It was a concussion. One concussion.”

“A concussion that had you in the hospital for close to a week and needed a month of recovery.” Arthur met his gaze and did not flinch. “You’re the captain of my team. I need you in top form, and I’m willing to make a little extra time to get you there. This team will not succeed if you throw yourself back in and get hurt again right away. Understood?”

His mouthguard squeaked between his teeth. Sirius looked down. “Yes, coach.”

Arthur tapped his clipboard against the boards. “Good. Scrimmage is over, boys. Do some cooldowns and then get stretching. Sirius, come talk to me when you’re done.”

Someone caught his elbow when he went to skate to the bench. “I’m not sorry,” Logan said, his jaw set. “I know you’re pissed, but I’m not sorry.”

Sirius sighed through his nose. “Yeah, I know.”

Back to the beginning, then.

“I know I’m the prettiest person on this team, but don’t look at me. Look at the light.”

Sirius squinted into Layla’s small flashlight; she passed it in front of his eyes a few more times before clicking it off. “All good?”

“Fine and dandy,” she said. “You said your head was hurting?”

“Just with the whistle.”

“Then, yeah, that sounds like normal stuff to me.” She shrugged one shoulder and offered an encouraging smile. “Your concussion is healing really well. Your focus was good, your pupils look normal, and light sensitivity seemed low. The auditory stuff is just taking a little longer to settle. How long until you’re allowed to play again?”

Sirius held down a grimace. “Three to six more weeks.”

“Sounds about right,” Layla said, apparently unbothered. “It’s good to have that much leeway, Cap. The noise sensitivity should wear off in a week or two, which means you’ll have plenty of time to get back on your feet at a hundred percent and play your best. If it doesn’t, come talk to me and we’ll fix it.”

“Yeah.” Paper pilled under his fingers as he picked at it. Six weeks would put them right on the doorstep of the games-that-must-not-be-named; he wasn’t exactly looking forward to being thrown into high-stakes competition right off the bat.

The exam table crinkled when Layla sat next to him. She was quiet for a moment, then patted his knee. “You’ll be okay. This is the kind of thing that shouldn’t bug you once you rest and recover. In a way, it’s better than your ankle.”

Sirius smiled wryly. He liked Layla—she had the same lovable good humor and unrelenting optimism in the face of injury as her predecessor. “I think most things are better than a broken ankle,” he noted.

“True.” She bumped his shoulder. “No more moping, Cap. You’ll be out there in no time.”

“Flashlight to the left. Okay, good. Give me the flat screwdriver.” Something clinked, then clattered, resulting in a satisfied hum. “Black tape. You looked excellent at practice today.”

“Thanks,” Sirius mumbled. He rummaged in the battered canvas bag until something vaguely tape-textured hooked his finger. “Uh, this one is white.”

“The black kind should be in the side pocket next to the box cutter.” Dumo hummed again when he pressed the correct roll into his open palm. “Merci. Your footwork was especially good.”

“My footwork is always good.”

“I know,” he chuckled. Several more bolts (nuts? Sirius still couldn’t remember which were which) fell into the pan by his thigh like silver sprinkles. “Coach seemed impressed.”

Sirius arched a wry brow, even though Dumo couldn’t see him. “Coach was just surprised I didn’t fall on my face.”

“Non, he was very happy to see you—”

“He told everyone to go easy on me.”

“What, like you wouldn’t do the same if it had been Remus? Or Logan? Or me?” Sirius winced at the thought; with a squeak of wheels and a slight groan, Dumo scooted out from under the washing machine and gave him a look. “I know today was frustrating, but you can’t expect us to beat you up this soon.”

“It’s been a month.” He was well-aware of the slight whine in his voice, and judging by Dumo’s amused huff, he wasn’t alone.

“For you, maybe. Felt like years to the rest of us.” The nut-bolt-screws were cold when Sirius rolled them between his fingertips, scowling. Dumo patted his arm with a grease-streaked hand and began sliding back under the machine. “Give it time, mon fils. They just want you back safe and sound.”

“They need me back for the play—”

“Non,” Dumo interrupted.

“They do!”

Dumo muttered something under his breath before looking up at him again. “Sirius. Come on.”

“James said he had a bad time as captain.”

“Oui, because he missed you. He did great. You should be proud of him.” A screwdriver gently poked him on the kneecap. “This is not about hockey. This is about friends.”

Sirius set the pan aside and stretched out on the concrete floor. His legs ached from being crossed for so long. There were cobwebs between the cupboards and the ceiling, even with the cold weather. “It’s hard for me, sometimes.”

Dumo made an understanding noise and turned back to the screws.

“Falling was embarrassing.” It was so much easier to talk about like this. Heather was a godsend, but the words came easier in French and the soft noise of the garage was far more soothing than a blue room with a suede couch. “It’s like—who even does that? I was tired. That’s it. Now everyone is upset.”

“I disagree with the last part, but okay.”

“Remus is upset.”

“Since when do you count Remus with ‘everyone’?”

He saw Dumo grin at the ensuing silence and covered his face with a groan, letting his head fall back on the cold floor. “God, fine, I’m being mean again and nobody is actually mad at me.”

“Atta boy. Hand over the white tape.”

It got better. Sirius got better. He had daily visits with Layla—they both had a laugh about old habits die hard, but still they laughed—and his weekly appointments with Heather had finally begun to veer back to their usual conversations. Aren’t you bored of my shitty childhood by now? Sirius had teased when they made it thirty minutes without discussing his head.

Heather had scoffed at him and whacked him lightly with a pillow. As if I’d be sad to see you this happy. Don’t even think about more head wounds, puck boy. We’re getting to the root of that next.

Slowly, he admitted that he had been sick when it happened. (It seemed Kasey hadn’t spilled his secret, after all). He told her about the chattering teeth and the brain fog that set in that morning; about the fatigue that had piled onto him until he couldn’t even make it through the gate and had to let it win. He told her about the overwhelming feeling that it was all his fault and that everyone would hate him for taking a break.

The world hates me when I’m good and hates me when I’m bad.

They’re wrong for that.

That had made him smile. Heather rarely spoke in absolutes. I know, he answered honestly. She hadn’t pushed him on it, and he liked to think she even believed him.

Remus was laughing again, moonlight in darkness. The good snacks began to disappear from the pantry once more—Sirius couldn’t be mad about it, no matter how often he considered billing Talker for their monthly groceries. Every bag of chips he never got to taste meant Remus would come home and kiss him and ramble about the day like the most adorable runaway train in the world. “I love you, I love you, I love you” smushed into his cheeks, forehead, lips.

His boys carried them to the playoffs with ruthless focus. His pads still fit and the whistle was on his side. And when he was ready, so fucking ready it made his veins hot, Remus pulled him into the break room with a wicked grin that made him thank every cosmic moment that gave him pregame rituals. He would take every bit of luck he could get. The crowd roaring for him deserved it all.

It came in the dusk of the evening, when the blustering winds had calmed and Sirius’ mind felt quiet at last. It was the relief of a wound freshly bandaged—there was no burn of newness, and yet no itch of a scab. It was just a wide, soft couch and a chest rising and falling beneath his hand. Remus kissed his forehead and let it linger like a dream. “Oh, I love you.”

Sirius breathed in, and out. A single spritz of cologne. Lavender shampoo. “You said you couldn’t do this without me,” he said, keeping his voice low. Remus hummed his agreement. He lifted his head slightly, into the gentle pressure of Remus’ hand in his hair. An auburn brow arched in a silent question; he traced the shape of it with his thumb. “You think I can do any of this without you, loup?”

Remus’ mouth curved in a half-smile. “You can do a lot without me.”

“I don’t want to.”

“That’s where we always end up, eh?”

“Nowhere else I’d rather be.”

211 notes · View notes

trollprincess · 5 months

Text

Okay, so some of you might not know this because I did this before I returned to Tumblr from the bird site, BUT. Last year I dictated almost two entire books to my phone.

Let me explain. One of my jobs is a twelve-hour weekend night shift. Six PM to six AM Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, so thirty-six hours with the other four hours paid just as long as we do the entire weekend. I first took it so I could have the rest of the week off, and then proceeded to go back to work at dog camp those days. For the most part, over the last five years, I have only have Mondays completely off solely because that’s when my therapy sessions are.

Anyway, my weekend job is full-time, dog camp is part-time. The weekend job is factory work, making helmets, a lot of which are for the military. (Which, as a pacifist, I manage to stomach because hey, it’s just protective gear.) The thing is, like a lot of manufacturing work, it’s boring and repetitive. Think about how bored you are after five or so hours of an eight-hour shift. Now imagine it’s one o’clock in the morning, you still have five hours to work, and you would literally rather shove nails in your eyes than work. It sucks.

Meanwhile, my free time is spent trying to work at my third job (making @disasterarea-podcast) and attempting to work on getting published. I had all these grand ideas about getting traditionally published back in my twenties, and now I’m 46 and I’m struggling just to come up with any ideas at all a lot of the time. Three jobs doesn’t help. Depression and anxiety don’t help. So for a while there, I had terrible writer’s block when it came to my novels.

So last year, I decided to try something. I have these massive baby-pink noise-canceling Bluetooth gaming headphones with a mic which I wear to work. Why not try dictating a first draft to my phone? Obviously it wouldn’t be exact, since voice-to-text dictation isn’t perfect under the best of situations, and certainly not with loud factory noises around you. But I tried it on dictating notes for my podcast a few times and it worked pretty well, all things considered. And a bad first draft is still a first draft.

So I figured, fuck it, and one night I just started dictating a story off the top of my head. No preparation, no outlining, no worldbuilding - just pantsing HARD with nothing but an annoyance following a Teen Wolf rewatch and a resolution not to edit until after I churned out a first draft.

It took fifty-one days.

Eighty thousand words or so later, I had a dreadful first draft which needed an absolute fuckton of editing and continuity correction and character work. BUT I had a finished first draft of a novel. Which is something I hadn’t had in a good long while.

So I tried it again for NaNoWriMo. I got up to 65k words. So I won NaNoWriMo, but I put the story aside because I hit a bit of a wall. Still! That’s almost two full fiction manuscripts in one year, AND the nonfiction memoir I wrote about my road trip to disaster sites during the pandemic. 2022 was a good writing year.

So I did what I do with first drafts and put them aside for a while. I knew they were awful. I knew they needed a ton of work. And maybe that was a tad intimidating, which is why I only JUST picked up the NaNoWriMo first draft to work on it and finish it off. It’s queer, it’s got time travel, it’s got disasters. It is right up my fucking alley. I may be just a tiny bit obsessed with that story.

Unsurprisingly, going through it now is taking more than a little while. I sit down, I spend an hour working on it, I maaaaaaybe get two paragraphs polished. If that.

But the fact that I’m working on ANY fiction is kind of remarkable. And fingers crossed, maybe I can get this damn thing, and the other manuscript, AND my road trip book, finished and polished over the next year so I can submit the fuck out of them.

NOW. Someone send me a twenty-pound bag of rooibos vanilla chai and ten pounds of red licorice laces. Mama’s gonna need it. *cracks knuckles*

#writing

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tropes-and-tales-archives · 1 month

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More Precious Than Rubies: Part 4b

This is an alternate timeline story that has a Rafael Barba track and a Sonny Carisi track. The two paths split off in part 3.

WC: 3390

TW: Angst; end of relationship drama.

AN: The prompt was "I miss her so damn much, and it’s killing me that she’s gone!"

Sonny wasn’t sure that there was anything more he could do, but he thought about you all the time. As a public defender, there was always a good chance that you’d drift through the precinct, your heels clicking on the tiled floor and your jaw set and ready to brawl with Barba. When it happened, Sonny could only watch in admiration at how relentless you were.

And if he enjoyed the way your various twill or Italian wool skirts fit you like a glove, no one needed to know about that other than god and the priest who heard his confession.

He didn’t have anyone to talk to, really. Amanda was a lost cause, too wrapped up in her own issues. And Sonny wondered if she’d ever really loved anyone or been in a real relationship. She seemed to go through men – no shame – but there was no common ground between that and a committed relationship.

The best support he had was Bella and, god help him, her fiancée Tommy. Sonny had never been much of a fan of Tommy’s, but the man had gotten his life in order after a stint in jail for drug charges. He worked hard and loved Bella, which was the best Sonny could hope for his sister. And now that she was pregnant, he hoped it would be enough.

Sonny went over to the couple’s place one Saturday night to cook for them. Tommy was a lost cause in the kitchen, and Bella was well into the third trimester – complete with swollen feet and a ravenous appetite for their ma’s chicken marsala recipe. Sonny was only too happy to oblige.

After dinner (said chicken marsala, a mixed green salad, and crusty rolls – all wolfed down by Bella with an appetite that made Sonny smile), the trio sat in the tiny living room and sipped the rest of the red wine that Sonny had brought. Bella helped herself to half a glass; Sonny had objected, but Bella had given him an earful about how her doctor said that half a glass of red had heart benefits that outweighed the negligible potential bad side effects, and furthermore, if he was such a fucking expert on pregnancy, he was more than welcome to carry the future Baby Sullivan for the next month and a half. Sonny had looked to Tommy for support halfway through her tirade, but the man wisely averted his eyes and carefully studied the label of the wine bottle until Bella was spent.

There was a heavy silence for a moment, then Sonny’s younger sister asked, as if she hadn’t just yelled at him, how Sonny was doing. Just like when they were kids: screaming and pinching each other one minute, friends the next.

“I’m fine,” he replied, but Bella saw right through it.

“Liar. You look tired. You sleeping?”

Sonny shrugged. “Usually. Some of the stuff I see at work makes it hard.”

Tommy made a sympathetic noise – he had been assaulted repeatedly by his own parole officer and was in therapy as a result, so he knew at least a taste of what SVU dealt with.

“You need someone to go home to,” Bella declared with authority.

Sonny winced and tried to hide it behind a sip of wine, but his sister caught it.

“You seeing anyone?” she asked. “It’s been a while since you got dumped.”

He ducked his head and considered not telling Bella about your recent reappearance in his life but decided to go ahead and tell her. She’d find out anyway, and maybe she could offer some insight from the female perspective. When you’d broken up with him over a year ago, Sonny had leaned heavily on his younger sister, crying to her about the loss of you.

So he told her all the news: how you marched into the precinct one day as a public defender, how you went to lunch with him and accused him of emotionally cheating with Amanda, how you made polite small talk with him and sometimes looked sad when you saw him. How he didn’t know what to do now.

“She probably still has my number blocked,” he finished. “And I doubt she’ll go to another lunch with me. I see her all the time now but can’t get through to her. I wish…I wish I could just let her know how I really feel.” He sighed and scrubbed his hands down across his face. “I miss her so damn much, and it’s killing me that she’s gone!”

Tommy made that sympathetic clucking again, and Bella looked sad too. You had only met Sonny’s entire family once, but you’d spent time with Bella a handful of times after the two of you clicked instantly. Sonny had pictured a future where the two of you were married, and Bella and Tommy were married, and your respective children could grow up together, cousins as close as siblings.

“Well, if you can’t talk to her or call her, you could always write her a letter,” Tommy offered. He rarely spoke up at Carisi gatherings, and both Sonny and Bella looked at him in surprise. Tommy shrugged. “You know, at least you can get your feelings out on paper. You don’t have to send the letter. But if you do….” He trailed off, uncomfortable.

Bella cocked her head at her fiancée. “That’s actually a good idea,” she said, and Tommy beamed. They both turned and looked at Sonny expectantly.

“Maybe,” he conceded.

“C’mon,” Bella wheedled. She punched him lightly in the arm. “Girls love romantic gestures like that. And who writes love letters anymore?”

“Maybe,” he repeated, but he was already composing the opening lines.

-----

He typed out all of the drafts on his personal laptop, revising and rewriting and sometimes deleting and starting over entirely. It took him a week to get a final version ready.

He thought about Bella’s line about romantic gestures and stopped at a stationary store. He bought some nice, heavy paper edged in a dark blue that reminded him of the sweater you were wearing when he first met you. He bought a nice pen too, and then he got to work.

If you hadn’t gone to that lunch with him and opened up a bit about where you had been when you broke up with him, Sonny would never even consider writing you a letter. But you had, and it had given him a slender bit of hope that you’d be open to hearing more from him.

It took a few tries. His cursive was out of practice, and the first few attempts resulted in misspellings and ink blots. He kept writing it out until it was perfect though, even if his hand was cramped and aching from writing so much. Bella was right – who wrote love letters anymore? If he couldn’t give you anything else, he could at least give you one, perfect love letter. You deserved that much, at least.

*******

You were feeling great – you had spent the morning at a sexual cybercrimes conference. You had seen Barba, implied that his coworker O’Dwyer was smarter than him, and then delighted at how offended he looked. Of all the ADAs you had to deal with on a regular basis, Barba was your favorite to wind up. You practically skipped back to your office, where a mountain of new cases waited for you.

You shut the door to your office and shed your suit jacket in the airless little room. You kicked off your heels and slipped into a pair of sandals and settled into your chair.

You started with the interoffice mail: standard memos and policy changes and an updated public defender contact list. There was a retirement card being passed around for an older paralegal who was ready to hang it all up and move to Boca Raton.

You moved on to your regular mail. There was the usual junk that slipped past your admin. A plea for a donation from Fordham. Some letters from past clients.

At the bottom of the stack was a manila envelope with your name printed carefully across the front. No return address – another client, probably. You opened it and slid out another envelope of heavy, creamy paper. Your name was written across the face in familiar handwriting. Your stomach dipped when you recognized it. Sonny.

You thought about tearing it open then and there, but you got a call to go to the 5th precinct, so you tucked it into your satchel. It was probably safer to read it at home anyway.

-----

The letter sat in your bag like unexploded ordinance, but you got through the day. You rushed home, skipped dinner, and poured yourself a tumbler of wine to the brim. You settled onto your couch, took a deep breath, and opened the letter.

The paper was heavy stock and gorgeous. The handwriting was careful – nicer than Sonny’s usual scrawled signature or block printed notes from college. He’d obviously put time and thought into whatever he wanted to say. So you took another breath, took a few deep swallows of wine, and read it. It said:

You probably think that we first met when we both went bowling with our mutual friends, but that wasn’t the first time I’d ever seen you. The first time I saw you, we were in the same class a semester earlier – Investigative Criminal Procedures. It was a huge lecture hall, and you always sat about five rows ahead of me. Of course I noticed you, because you are beautiful, but it was a fight you had with the professor that made me realize how much of that beauty came from deep within you. Maybe you remember? Professor Graham had some controversial thoughts about search and seizure, and you shot your hand up, didn’t bother to wait for him to call on you, and then you launched into an impassioned tirade that tore every one of his points apart.

My first thought after that class was that if I ever was in trouble with the law, I was going to hire you as my lawyer. My second thought was that I was certain that I loved you.

When I finally met you that night at bowling, you see, I already was in love with you. And you were so friendly and happy, laughing at your own terrible score – I only fell harder. When I went home that night, I made a vow that I’d make you mine, and for a blessed while, I had. But I lost my way, and I lost you in the process.

I don’t want to dwell on what I did wrong because I replay it every day of my life. I just want you to know that I regret, every day, how I neglected you. How I took you for granted. How I assumed that you’d wait around for me to get my act together. How I didn’t put you first or make you feel how special you are to me. I’ll always regret how I failed you.

But I want to say all the things now that I should have told you when we were together.

You are, as I said, beautiful, both inside and out. You always manage to make my heart stop every time I see you, whether you’re in your work suits or in your comfortable pajamas.

You have so many amazing things going for you. You’re easily the smartest person I know, and you have both book smarts and common sense. You’re always able to get to the easiest solution to a problem. You’re abilities in the courtroom as a public defender just proves this.

You have an amazing sense of humor. You always seem to be able to find the humor in the situation, and you always made me laugh. And you manage to tease people in a way that builds them up and doesn’t tear them down. It’s a gift.

You have an amazing heart. You always show care for your clients, and before that, care for your friends, for me, and even for the strangers who cross your path. You never seem to judge – you give the homeless man money with the same love you give to your friends when they need you. I love that about you. You don’t make people work for your love: you just give it freely, even when they don’t deserve it. You certainly gave it to me far longer than I deserved it.

If I had to describe you in a single word, it’d be “rock.” You were always my steady foundation, my touchstone for when things seemed too hard. You supported me when I wanted to give up on law school. You supported me when the NYPD was moving me from precinct to precinct and I wanted to give up on being a detective. You saw me at my worst moments and kept me grounded and gave me hope. Sometimes I felt my faith failing me, but I never stopped believing in you. And no matter what happens, I never will.

More than anything, I want to you know – really know – that I loved you then and I love you still. I know why you probably won’t believe that, but it is true. I know I didn’t give you enough proof of that fact, and I regret it. I know that you think there was another woman with a place in my heart, but that wasn’t the case and still isn’t the case. How could there be room for anyone else there, when you took it so utterly and completely? And when you have it still?

I hope this letter did not upset you. It was not my intention if it did. These are all things I should have said a long time ago, when I still had you, and it’s no one’s fault but my own that I have to write them down and send them to you now.

If nothing else, I want you to know that I loved you completely then, that I love you completely now, and for the rest of my life, I’ll love you just as much. And as such, I want you to be happy, no matter what that looks like.

It was signed, “love always, Sonny.” But you could barely read it through the tears streaming down your face.

You probably read it twelve more times before you went to bed, and since you were unable to sleep, you read it twelve times more.

-----

You saw Sonny across the courtroom a week later, but he just nodded at you and gave you a small smile that didn’t reach his bright blue eyes. You nodded back and smiled.

You were working on your own response, in letter form to keep it true to his own letter. You approached it a lot like your law work – you wrote out an outline and built it from there.

It took you a few weeks to craft the perfect response, and you carried it in your bag for another week. You didn’t want to mail it to him. You figured, after the way you’d dumped him, you owed him a hand-delivered letter. It was the least you could do, especially after he made the ballsy move of even reaching out at all. And you had to admit that there was something romantic about getting a love letter. It was a stark contrast to your last attempt at dating, when a guy you’d gone on a first date with texted you a week later with an unimpressive dick pic.

Then you got a call about a client in the 16th who was arrested and about to face arraignment in a day. You checked your bag and made sure the letter was there. If you saw Sonny, you vowed to hand it to him then and there.

********

Sonny was tortured by that stupid letter. You never responded. He knew deep-down that you might ignore it, but he had some stubborn hope that you’d reach out to him. He had a stupid, recurring fantasy where you rushed over to his apartment in the middle of the night after reading his letter, tearfully admitting that you still loved him too.

He saw you once in court, and you nodded at him in greeting but didn’t say anything. He resigned himself to finally admitting that it was over. But at least you knew how he felt. Maybe it gave you some comfort or closure.

-----

It was another grey day in Manhattan. Well, it was July and sunny, but Sonny didn’t feel particularly up to his nickname. Amanda was just starting to show in her surprise pregnancy, and she was an irritable, nauseous mess. Fin and Liv had collared a potential serial date rapist who was preying on Hudson University students, and he sat in the interrogation room after asking for a lawyer.

The elevator dinged, and Sonny heard the familiar click of heels. He felt his stomach drop while his heart soared, an uncomfortable feeling. The feeling of possibility that would probably just disappoint him.

You breezed past him and Amanda and strode into the interrogation room where Barba was waiting. Sonny heard first some low voices, then louder ones as you and Barba got warmed up and then traded snappy retorts as you tried to find a compromise. Everyone, including Sonny, knew how to read the situation now: if you marched out with your head tilted and Barba strolled out scowling, it was no deal. If you marched out with a smile and Barba strolled out scowling, there was a deal.

Today? You marched out with your head tilted in defiance, and Barba fell in step with you for a few strides, trying to salvage some deal. Sonny smiled to see it. Barba never seemed flustered by anything, but you had a way of making the ADA seem rattled. You just shook your head at him….until your eyes fell on Sonny.

You started to smile, but your eyes slid over to Amanda and Sonny saw it all in slow motion. He saw your smile falter as you took in his partner’s pregnant belly, and he saw you make a giant assumption about who made it that way.

“Shit,” he muttered, and he watched you practically sprint out of the bullpen. Barba, for his part, looked confused and started to follow but stopped. Sonny went after you and nearly caught up thanks to his long legs, and even though you kept jamming the elevator button, he managed to get his hand in and stop the doors.

He called your name, but you shot him an angry look through tears that were welling in your eyes.

“Let go of the door,” you said through gritted teeth. Your voice had a shaky quality as you fought the urge to cry. “Just let me go.”

“No,” he replied. “I know what you’re thinking….”

“You have no idea what I’m thinking,” you retorted. You punched the button on the elevator a few more times for good measure, then you reached into your bag. “I’m thinking that I’m a fucking idiot. That’s what I’m thinking.”

“It’s not like that,” he pleaded, and he felt his own eyes fill with tears. You were so distressed; he just wanted to reach out and hold you, but when he extended a hand, you visibly flinched from it.

“I don’t care what it’s like!” you wailed, and you pulled a folded piece of paper – no, pieces of paper – out of your bag. You tore them in half, and then again and again and again until you couldn’t tear anymore. Then you threw them at him, and Sonny realized that the confetti was your reply to him. Or had been. He knelt to pick up the pieces of torn paper, and the elevator, finally released, closed its doors and carried you out of the building.

He couldn’t chase after you. You were too hurt by what you saw – or thought you’d seen – and he was on such thin ice anyway. All he could do was gather up the tiny pieces of paper from the dirty precinct floor.

And take them back to his desk. And start to put them back together.

#sonny carisi #sonny carisi imagine #sonny carisi x reader #law and order svu #law and order svu fanfiction #tropes and tales

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dark-elf-writes · 8 months

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Let's finish this off!!!!

-(“Don’t worry about it, just make the note, yeah?”)

Don't ask question Yagi 🤣🤣🤣🤣 I still adore this assignment. and the kids are so damn clever here! All I'm picturing with Sero and Uraraka's prank is a very heavy desk ominously hanging over all of them and Harry's attitude is the equivalent of chilling on a beach with an umbrella drink. ~Oh look, that's neat. Another round?~

-(“He wears a foot tall metal hat!” ) I can't get over how strange the hero costumes are but Power Loader especially. Like the man works in support. Where things explode, and he doesn't even wear a shirt! But has to have the Agumon helmet like what?

bonus points if you think of Tokomon as a tiny baby Hatsume in this 🤣🤣🤣-

-(“No more than I asked them to and definitely not more than I can take. )

Harry, love, considering you're an absolute masochist on the best of days this is not at all reassuring 🤣🤣🤣

-(“Do you think if I asked Uraraka for the assist I could still use the desk?” )

I WISH I had any artistic ability because I need the visual of Harry floating in midair, grading papers on that desk while the rest of the staff watches.

-(They had laid with him, listening to his breath even out in sleep,)

As much as I love MHA, the fact that there are so many canonical reasons for lines like this to occur makes me want to slap Horikoshi and fling him bodily in to therapy and locking the door behind him. But it does make for beautiful writing and as sad as the context is here, it's written almost lyrically and I'm obsessed.

-(“You. Have. Polka dots.”)

🤦‍♀️That one hundred million percent qualifies as a hair emergency if that wasn't the intent, Harry. Though this is another moment I wish I had the artistic ability to create visually because it's brilliant.

-(I have on pretty good authority that I don’t exactly look like someone who had a good childhood, mate. What I’m teaching them — how to move without being spotted, how to think on their feet, how to know what they can take without being noticed — learned out of survival. Being able to teach it through the guise of a game is…”)

A kindness. Oh Harry 😭😭 you deserve all the hugs right now. Let them love you! and pamper you!

-(“You have me too.”)

hvnjaghjkadlghuislanvjreaiughnjrdkalhgea GET YOUR MAN HIZASHI!!!! I'm so excited for the full realization of the three of them. LIKE AAAAAHHHHHH

I really love this whole fic and I'm super excited for when the muses bring the inspiration and energy back in it's direction❤️❤️❤️ Thanks for letting me do this!

DystlvgxgvkcgCt thank you for doing this it was so fun seeing the parts you like and has definitely given me a more solid base of where I want to go with the fic in the future one the muse swings back around.

#the elf talks #mha #bnha #harry potter #who saves the savior #wsts

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emisirrelevant · 2 years

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THOUGHTS ON THE FINALE OF PRETTY LITTLE LIARS ORIGINAL SIN!!!!

*SPOILERS* if you haven't watched the last few episodes yet you've been warned

*TW/CW- mature/sensitive content in this post

I am literally still processing everything but:

Was I the only one who thought the Liars' plan with the blood drive was actually kind of creative?

Ohhh the principal rejecting Tabby's film had me SEETHING. I should have known from that scene he'd be the one behind it all/pulling the strings.

Going back and rewatching the scene where Chip tries to ask Imogen if she wants to go to his place for Thanksgiving is now very uncomfortable. Thank god she had Tabby and her mom!! And that's on the tabogen agenda.

I honestly thought Shawn was going to be a part of the A stuff or the guy who assaulted Tabby and Imogen but he was not. If we get a season 2 though, I'm keeping an eye on him. No offense Noa- but he lied about the pills/drugs. Like I wonder if he really was telling the truth when he said later that he threw them out.

The club scene!! Iconic, but the rational part of my brain also was like "Yes Faran good suggestion- WAIT THEY'RE MINORS THEY SHOULD NOT BE OUT CLUBBING"

When Kelly(?) "said call me Karen" to Greg- HUHHH?

I knew Crazy Joe wasn't A

It felt too much like a red herring to me- too obvious

The Waters' house did give me AHS Murder House vibes- they really nailed the creepy vibe with the set

Yess finally I’m so glad they got the moms to talk about Angela- also the fact that each mom's situation with Angela paralleled the daughters in the present

Noa saying "I can't handle juggling two addicts in my life" SWEETIE no :(((((

FARAN LETTING HER HAIR DOWN!!

I'm glad Henry told Faran about Kelly kissing him and didn't keep it a secret. Maybe there is one decent man on this show??

Also Ben Cook heyyy good for him getting those roles!

Ash just eating the pizza instead of directly answering Mouse's mom HAHA

Tabby's mom going OFF on Wes like that!!!

Faran going off on Sheriff Beasley!! QUEEN!

We got to see Imogen’s dad, interesting.

**The fact that he mentioned that Imogen’s mom stated in her will for Imogen to live with the Haworthes if anything bad happened though- TABOGEN WAS FATED!

Honestly the whole Beasley family situation was really sad- and like the fact that there are some families like this in real life- it was really giving me Melanie Martinez Dollhouse vibes for sure.

Oh I see Kelly x Faran as a potential headcanon.

Oh damn. It was Chip.

The whole scene when Imogen and Tabby confronted Chip though?Wow. Top tier acting from Bailee and Chandler. Powerful.

"This year has made us very, very good liars" ICONIC!

OMG THE FINAL EPISODE THOUGH HHHHHH

So much went DOWN!!

I'm still in shock with A doing that to Davie's body though- Tabby asking if Imogen was okay "Nope. Definitely not"

IMOGEN ADAMS DESERVES THE ENTIRE WORLD!! Fuck A for giving her life long trauma!

Not Angela's brother being named Archie- STOP WITH THE R*VERD*LE REFERENCES

IT WAS THE PRINCIPAL!!!! That was a good twist, I appreciate it.

Omg Kelly's mom stabbing Sheriff Beasley though was another twist I did not see coming.

1000000000+ points for adding a Motley Crue song in there!!

I absolutely LOVED the moment when the rest of the girls immediately stood up when the principal threatened to shoot Imogen and her baby- RIDE OR DIES FOR EACH OTHER YES

**THE FIGHT SCENE WITH IMOGEN AND A!!

MAKING CINEMATIC HISTORY

The camera angles in this show- absolutely DELICIOUS

Tabby being there when Imogen woke up in the hospital GO TABOGEN GO

The scene where everyone was celebrating Christmas together 🥺🥺 (every other ship kissing and then TABOGEN pls SEASON 2 SO WE CAN MAKE IT HAPPEN!!!)

Also why did I know someone was going to say Die Hard when Tabby asked about favorite Christmas movies and why did it fit Shawn perfectly-

Aww Elodie and Shirley saying they're going to couples therapy GOOD FOR THEM!! (technically they ALL need it lol)

Interesting way to bring back some original PLL with that Aria and Ezra mention.. but when that baby finds out that her parents were in a student teacher relationship-

Overall glad that all those nasty men were EXPOSED. Especially the principal and Sheriff Beasley. Still wondering about Wes though. If there's a season 2 I'm keeping an eye on him too.

So Kelly was Kelly the whole time- I like that there’s a possibility that she stays friends with the Liars in the future- but like what if it’s still Karen? I wanna believe it’s Kelly and that Kelly is good but still.

And finally, Imogen saying she thinks it’s over

But A killed Sheriff Beasley AND came back for Chip-

When I first heard about this show, I was skeptical at first and didn't have many expectations going into it. I never watched the very first Pretty Little Liars series in its entirety, but this spinoff somehow managed to pull me in. Thank you PLLOS Original Sin for everything! What an amazing cast and show. I would definitely recommend this show to others.

SEASON 2, SEASON 2, SEASON 2

#pllos #pll original sin #a pllos review

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janis-1987 · 1 year

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Fizzarolli’s Backstory Part 2

Hey all, here’s part two! This part covers from the signing of the contract to when Asmodeus buys his contract. Part 1 X

Tw: Mammon, abuse, graphic injuries, PTSD, phantom pains, incontinence, low self esteem, arguments, break ups, alcohol and weed mentions and lots of angst.

Mammon finished explaining what the contract would entail and even presented it to him.

In all honesty, Fizzarolli didn't like the sound of this deal much. It didn’t sound like a good deal at all, he was basically trading away all of his freedom to Mammon. He wouldn’t own his own likeness, his name, his limbs, anything. But he didn’t see what choice he had, if he didn’t take this deal he would be left critically disabled for the rest of his life with no way to achieve his dream or even perform ever again, and the thought of that made him feel even more sick to his stomach than the idea of giving everything to Mammon did.

Fizzarolli sighs softly, “Can I have a day or two to think over my options?” He asks meekly as he grits his teeth to deal with the immense pain he was still in.

Mammon glares a growl coming from him, “Fine. You have until tomorrow afternoon. I hope you make the right choice.” He says as he stomps out of the room.

As Mammon leaves the room, Blitzo enters, holding a small bouquet of flowers. He smiles meekly at Fizzarolli, “Hey baby.” He murmurs to him. Fizz glares daggers into Blitzo, he could scream, he should scream, he should scream and shout and tear Blitzo a new one after what he did. His voice fills with venom as he practically spits his words at Blitzo, “Don’t you fucking dare hey baby me.” He snarls, “You nearly killed me you fucking idiot!” That’s when he realizes something, Blitzo is entirely uninjured. Besides his voice being a bit raspier than before, he was fine. Fizz growls at Blitzo, it wasn’t fair, how come he had to get broken practically beyond repair but yet Blitzo, the one who caused this, was completely fine. He was going to lose it.

Blitzo stares at his distressed boyfriend, “Um.. I’m really sorry about-” He starts.

Fizz cuts him off with a bout of cruel laughter as tears sting his eyes, “Oh you’re sorry?! Oh you’re fucking sorry alright, you are a second rate clown at fucking best, and you are the absolute shittiest boyfriend in the entirety of hell! You only ever think about your damn self. I don’t know how I lasted a fucking year with you as my boyfriend. I should have abandoned that shit hole of a circus and you along with it when I had the chance!”

The words hit Blitzo like a semi truck, Fizz knew exactly was to say to get under his skin, he drops the flowers, he was not going to cry, not now, not in front of him, he was going to hurt him just as badly as he hurt him. “Oh that’s rich coming from a sellout like you. You didn’t even talk to me about it! What kind of boyfriend does something so big without talking to their partner?!” The two go back and forth until visiting hour is over, and Blitzo is dragged out by security screaming and shouting. The last thing Fizz says to him is “AND DON’T COME BACK YOU NO GOOD WANNA BE!”

However, once it was just him, alone in the cold, sterile room, tears fall from his eyes and he whimpers, wrapping his tail around himself for comfort no matter how badly it hurt. He had just lost the only person who would have cared about him genuinely in this state. He looks at the contract Mammon had left for him. He really had no options left but to sign it. He manages to get a pen into his mouth and sign the damn thing. When Mammon came to see him the next day, a wide smirk graces his features, Fizz was already regretting his decision. It took a whole month for Fizz to finally be released from the hospital, he had a plethora of meds to take now, not to mention he had started to learn just how badly his injuries were going to affect him on the daily. He stood on unsteady robot legs, it felt wrong, he had been going through physical therapy and he would need more. The whole experience was humiliating, he had to learn how to do everything all over again. Save for talking thankfully. He was thankful to finally be free from the hospital until he realizes that there are multiple reporters in his face. He looks at Mammon in panic, he had no idea that he was going to have to do a press event right now. At least it explained why he was in a new jester costume rather than something comfortable. Lights flash in his face and he stumbles backwards, his tail nervously flicking. With no time to prepare for the questions or the swarm of people he was caught completely off guard and had no answers prepared. He felt like shit and hardly could think of anything witty to say as he was bombarded with questions. He could feel a cold glare from Mammon, it sent shivers down his spine, oh Lucifer, he was royally fucked for this failure of an interaction. As soon as they were in the limo, Mammon smacked him across the face. Fizz yelps in pain as he’s sent flying back from it. His tail flicks as tears well in his eyes. “You idiot! How hard is it to answer a few simple questions, don't tell me you’re a waste of money already!” Mammon roars. Fizz shakes his head and whimpers, “N-no, I’m not a waste, I w-was just caught off guard. I’m sorry.” He answers quickly, his whole body shaking, he doesn't even notice that he’s wet himself in fear. Mammon looks at him with disgust, “You’re disgusting. Clean yourself as soon as I drop you off. You start working again tomorrow so you better figure out your shit.” Fizz can only nod, his head hangs low in shame, he can’t believe he had wet himself. Mammon shoves him out of the limo. Fizz looks up at the trailer in front of him. Well, at least he wasn’t living in a tent anymore. He walks inside and looks around, finding the bathroom with ease. He tosses the soiled suit into the laundry basket and turns on the water for a shower. Tears slide down his face, as he tries to keep himself calm. He’s shaking like a chihuahua and he swears he can feel a sharp pain in his left arm, despite the impossibility of that. Eventually, he got used to his new life, to the abuse. He expected it at this point. He had also found out that Mammon saw his limbs as a privilege that he could revoke. Fizz hated when he did that, because he would be left to lie in his own filth when that happened and there was nothing he could do about it. He could take the abuse, he was a tough little imp, and he could just zone out as it happened besides everything Mammon did to him was nothing compared to the accident. What he couldn't handle was the PTSD attacks, he couldn't escape what had happened to him at every turn, every night he was plagued with night terrors and he would always wake up in a cold sweat. On really unlucky days he would wake up with his tail dislocated or worse, his limbs gone. His life felt like a constant downwards spiral, he turned to weed and alcohol to numb everything. His personality on stage was still as eccentric and fun on stage, but behind the curtain was a different story, he was detached. Completely void of most anything feeling, and mean. He used to be able to be friendly to people he worked with but now he was snippy and a bit rude. He would always apologize when he caught himself. And most people let it go, they knew the imp was living through the worst thing anyone could really think of and had that horrible accident happen to him too. Life was quickly becoming meaningless to him, even performing was starting to feel more and more like a chore. His joints ached and his shoulders and hips cracked on bad days, and were silently painful on good ones. Constant trips to the chiropractor for his fucked up spine eventually were replaced with doctor visits as his a metal rod was added to support his spine and help keep his limbs stay more securely attached to him. And he couldn't care less. He sat alone in his trailer, drinking straight from the bottle of some expensive wine or another. He didn't care about anything anymore. He had so many regrets. He glared at his reflection in the bottle, “Worthless. That’s what you are.” He slurs to himself, he throws the bottle at the wall shattering it, “Shut up.” He tells the glass. Eventually Mammon got him an apartment near LooLoo Land, Fizz didn't really see the point in it. All it did in his opinion was give crazed fans more chances to jump him. What did it matter? He was going to die tragically young in an alley due to some obsessed fan. He was sure of it. But how could he complain? He had gotten everything he had ever wanted. He was famous, known throughout hell. But that didn't matter to him anymore. Nothing did. “Ragdoll!” Mammon roars, getting Fizzarolli’s attention. Fizzarolli stopped practicing and looks at Mammon, a clear lack of care in his eyes, “Yeah, Mammon?” “Meet me in my office. Now.” He says with a glare. Fizz sighs, what did he do wrong this time? He swears half the time he hadn’t done anything and Mammon just wanted to take his anger out on someone. And Fizz happened to be his favorite victim.

They arrive at Mammon’s office and Fizz freezes as he notices who else is there. Asmodeus, the demon prince of lust sat in the chair next to where Fizz was meant to sit. Oh great, now Mammon wanted to turn him into a whore. “Ragdoll, meet Asmodeus.” Mammon says, gesturing between the two. Asmodeus waves to Fizz. Fizz raises an eyebrow, but offers a small wave in return. “He wants to buy your contract from me. I figured you should be made aware of the change in ownership.” Mammon says simply with a shrug. Fizz just nods, little did he know, his life was finally about to turn around.

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randomprojectsbeforeidie · 7 months

Text

Studying as much as I can (Daily Log 1/21 AGAIN)

Holy shit my pals. I had the worst morning you could have. My meds have been giving me insomnia, but this was the worst night until today. I don't think I managed 3h of sleep this night.

Got up at 6h, had to cancel presential work 'cause I had no condition to drive. Since I couldn't sleep, my grumpy self decided to research some more study tips. Here's what I got from the Instagram I cited yesterday:

1. Use an agenda for organization (done)

2. Organize your study space. This one was more aesthetic than anything, but I was in a bad mood and tried to do it to try and lift my humors. Here's my chaotic desk after some organizing:

Not pretty or "aesthetic", but it's clean, and that's what matters.

3. Plan you week (done)

4. Have some pauses in your work (I already use Pomodoro)

5. Write in a journal when you're feeling bad. Yeah, my journal heard some good swearing today, you can bet.

6. Don't study in bed. It will interfere with both your studies and your sleep (I used to be guilty of this during college, but it's been a while since I stopped. Thank God, the insomnia doesn't need any additional help)

7. Study everyday, except for Sundays

8. Decompress before studying. This is useful for when I finish work. Maybe wash my face, eat something, and THEN studying.

9. Do all the practice questions (working on it)

9. Sleep 8 hours a night (guilty. I will elaborate on this later)

10. Hydrate. This was cool. Made the calculations, and I should drink 2.800ml of water a day. That means 5 of my watter bottles. That means... roughly one third of a bottle every hour from 6h to 20h. Easy peasy, I did this today.

11. Therapy (had therapy today. Mental health is important, I gotta make sure I have time for the homework my therapist gives me)

12. Exercise. Ok. How about walking 3 times a week? 30 minute walks? Let's start there. Let's start tomorrow and hope my wonky knee doesn't protest.

13. Give yourself rewards for studying (mine are social media breaks in Pomodoro)

14. Take your vitamins. Working on it. Gotta buy more.

15. Follow Nexo Jornal. It is good for the written part of the test. I just signed their newsletter, and will try to listen to their Podcast, Durma com essa.

So. I decided I needed a sleep routine. I fucking NEED to sleep, I'm going crazy.

1. Take a warm shower, listen to calm music

2. Drop your electronics 1h before sleeping

3. Keep your room dark

4. Don't you dare look at that damn clock after you go to bed

5. Only drink coffe in the morning

6. Exercise (ugh. Again. I get it. Gotta move)

7. Have a wake up time (6h)

8. If I can't sleep, I should go to another room and read until I'm sleepy

9. Only use the bed for sleep and sex

10. This one is mine, but maybe try to sleep with some plushies? I used to do this until recently, don't know why I stopped.

And you know what? Even with this awful morning, I managed to study 4 HOURS today! On top of work! On top of Halloween tasks! I got it!

And it was great. There's a pattern I'm getting: I find it hard to start studying, but once I start, I don't wanna stop. So let's fucking GOOOO!

Sleep: 3 hours

Therapy: check

Exercise: rest day

Vitamins: check

Water: 5 full bottles baby

And now I gotta go do my sleep routine. Happy Halloween!

#study #studying #studyblr #habits #sleep #daily log

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dzpenumbra · 1 year

Text

4/10/23

Not a hugely eventful day. I now know why my upstairs neighbor was vacuuming at 4AM. They had family over, who were loud as hell and had a young baby with them.

I really didn't have a problem with it, I just... I finally committed to record my voiceover for the desire path project. And... it was like right when they started making noise. That frustrated me. But the sound didn't pick up, so that's really good.

It was so weird to be back in the booth again. Recording is so different from live-broadcasting. Doing takes is such a different creative process from improvisation, for real. I missed it, honestly. It came out pretty damn good. It took me a bit to get in my groove, and I really... kept my voice down... I've been anxious about it unfortunately, I wish I wasn't. But the hushed tone actually added a nice kinda... out on a porch late at night smoking a cigarette and telling a story kinda vibe. Which I really liked.

I'm a bit weirded out about why I'm keeping my voice down, why I'm insecure about that. I don't keep my voice down when I'm in therapy. I didn't keep my voice down on the phone when fighting with my mom, not nearly as much as I did while recording. It's weird.

It's something I don't really think about much. I don't speak out loud above a hushed tone or near-whisper... nearly at all anymore. It's very rare. Weird realization to have, right? I would guess there are periods where I go up to a week at a time without speaking at my full voice. How odd is that? That can't be healthy psychologically. XD

Anyway, the recording came out good. I cleaned it up, edited it, exported, popped it into Cubase and started to write music to go with it. I started with programmed strings, then transitioned to the midi keyboard to try to improvise on there, then said fuck it and just recorded guitar. But... the recording is like... over 10 minutes. That's a lot of improvisation, if you're not planning on repeating sections. So... I got a few minutes of 2 guitars improvising, and... I guess I'll just pick it up tomorrow or something. I lost steam.

I got chinese food and watched streams for the rest of the night. And that's about it.

Nice to be back in music-mode. And the voice work? That, honestly, that was the most satisfying part. So weird that I was prouder of that than of my music recording.

I remember late summer/early fall... I was helping a... former friend... with some recordings he wanted to do. He had a lot of voices, very distinct, he had potential for voice acting. I mean that. I basically... was his producer. And got some really interesting takes. And that was cool and all, but man... doing it yourself? It's so much... quicker. XD I can just adapt on the fly in real-time. "That take sounded insincere, just do it over real quick, but put yourself in this mindset". So much smoother to do that in a nanosecond in my head than to try to explain to someone what I mean, risk offending them, and pray they understand what I'm getting at.

So... I might look into doing some random voice acting gigs. Fuck it, if I say it's "for fun", then there's like no risk at all, right? I could even intentionally take gigs that are goofy and stupid, just for the challenge, just for guaranteed gigs so I can take that role to the next level. Watching all this RP is really inspiring me. And honestly, one of my biggest problems right now - in life - is a severe lack of confidence and self esteem. And there's really nothing that's more trial-by-fire than improvised roleplaying.

I've done it before, too! I played a guy on TwitchRP who was... when it was daytime in the game, he was a Jackass-cast-member type dude, but much more... low-key... more chill. And he wanted to be a stuntman. But when the sun went down, he would go and change his outfit and become "Little Ray", a young boy. Like a 7 year old kid.

I did not really enjoy playing Raymond, but absolutely loved playing Little Ray. I was very tempted to just convert the character to fully being a late-40's ugly man who had the mind of a 7 year old. A lot of people took interest in that side of him, and I loved seeing how they were completely thrown off by the transition, and how he retained no memory of the switch. But... what happened... is like... pretty much every fucking person tried to corrupt him when he was in child-mode. Gang members beat his head in with a golf club, his own "best friend" kept taking him out to sell weed, made him smoke weed and drove really fucking recklessly with him in the car. It ended up being really upsetting. I wasn't really mentally prepared, I guess. Because they just treated it like a cartoon, not like someone who was actually suffering from something pretty serious, and that at that moment he genuinely had the mental capacity of a child. And honestly? I really wish I had kept playing... and run into civs or cops, to get these guys some consequences. But like... I had this thing with him that like... he wasn't really supposed to know that he should go to the cops, he didn't really know that weed is something he shouldn't have, or selling it was illegal. Every time Luke took him out, I prayed the cops would show up. I would intentionally be loud and clumsy hoping to get them caught somehow. When we needed an EMS, Little Ray was loose lips the whole damn time. His naive nature worked both ways, you can trick him into doing crimes (some, I mean, some even a child won't do) but he also doesn't have the "street code" or common sense where you don't tell strangers that you were just out selling weed.

I liked the concept, but it started to get really dark. "What if someone tries to kill him? Or torture him? Or teach him a lesson?" Shit like that. It just really upset me, even in fiction. Like... even if it doesn't look like a child? It's still the mental capacity of a child. And honestly, I don't even feel like the cops would take a character like that serious enough to instill real consequences for like... attempted murder of a mentally ill person. Like... it definitely opens doors for powerful, dramatic RP, but like... everyone would have to be onboard with that, and I just... Ugh, I just hate the whole "gangs are cool, crime is cool, rap music, fast cars" bullshit. I know, it's GTA... so... Maybe my goal should be... Do some voice acting gigs, build up some experience, maybe fuck around on a public server or Twitch RP or something, then head over to WildRP. Red Dead. Maybe not the Little Ray character, but... I've got some ideas.

I'd love to do a fortune teller or something, a mystic of some kind. But like... something non-traditional. I don't really want to be a preacher. Too... clergy. Too many connotations. I don't want to do a native because... I would want to get that 100% right and I just don't feel up to sinking ages into research on a culture I know zero about. I wanted a sorta... layman. Someone who is overlooked, or marginalized, who won't be targeted. My first thought was a swamp shaman, like... a hillbilly type, who spoke simply and directly, but was super wise and profound within that syntax. Like... translating esoteric philosophy into "redneck" slang. That idea gets me really excited. And the other idea was the same kind of deal, but a hobo. No possessions, no needs really. No conflict desired. No need for money. A guide, an advisor. Just wandering around and offering advice, insight, readings, stuff like that... for food. That's all. Simple, to the point. I really like the idea.

So yeah, that's kinda where I'm at today. Didn't get a lot of sleep so I think I'm gonna get to bed early tonight.

#diary #journal #online journal #stream of consciousness #stream of thoughts

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me-uglypretty · 2 years

Note

(tbh i don’t think you’re going to need to rewatch runaways because i may just end up summarizing it all for you)

just gotta say that i was not expecting to be getting the parents pov on what went down, it definitely did a good job on making the audience understand how they know each other and make us already peg them as the threat compared to how they brought the kids together in the first episode but made us feel sympathetic towards them based off of the parents

((man, i really do love it when shows go back to tell both sides of the same story))

the way they are totally setting up nico with alex and karolina with chase is so stereotypical though, it bugs me how people mostly see relationships between two people of the opposite sex and expect it to be romantic and not just platonic BUT i am 100% here for the triangle between karolina, chase, and gert (((good thing i know the future though *wink*)))

OH MY FUCKING GOODNESS IS THAT A DINOSAUR PLEASE TELL ME THAT’S A DINOSAUR PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

omg am i gonna have to fight mr. wilder to protect molly?! *cracks knuckles* [fast forward to the next episode] oop i am gonna have to fight the wilders

molly is such a mood, she’s giving me ‘fuck around and find out’ vibes when using her abilities

((((but the car scene where she’s talking with mrs. wilder has my heart in pieces))))

damn we got lots of info on nico in this episode.

1. she has to use a chair to grab the staff (aka she really is that short)

2. her parents really need to go to therapy

3. she lets alex’s smoothness blind her to the biggest red flag of all- he drives a prius (this a joke i swear) (goodness i hope you don’t drive a prius) (i’m moving on now)

YES YES YES IT IS A DINOSAUR!!!!!! right? AND IT’S SOMEHOW CONNECTED TO GERT?!

overall, so far i am loving how they’re giving little glimpses/hints of everyone’s abilities!

(((((i’m going to try to get some rest now, so until next time and good day/evening/night to you!)))))

~ input runaway anon

First of all, YOU GOT TO MY FAV PART WHICH IS THE DINOSAUR!!! I LOVE THAT LIL BABY. GERT AND OLD LACE IS EVERYTHING. I love dinosaurs aka another reason why I wanted to watch the show.

The conflicting feelings I have between the kids and their parents like you’re gonna get annoyed or feel sympathy for them later on in the season. I just wanna go off saying AH RICH KIDS RICH PARENTS AHH RICH PEOPLE PROBLEMS. Also, there’s one scene with the love triangle argument that’s just funny and totally made for the lgbtq+ cause it mentioned another ship that i will not deny how much i ship and hoped with all the delusions in me that it'll happen.

NICO IS SO TINY ((Molly is the youngest and she’s still taller???)). THAT SCENE IS SO FUNNY CAUSE HER MUM DID IT WITH SO MUCH EASE??? Her height went to her gay level I guess. I think ALL their parents need therapy. Alex is messy, that’s all I gotta say (pls this input is the funniest, and nope, I do not drive a prius and it’s giving the type of vibe that I do not want).

THANK YOU FOR SHARING YOUR THOUGHTS! and the mess of this show is just the beginning ahaHA

(((I hope you got a good rest!!! and have an even better day/night ahead!)))

#me-uglypretty answers #input runaway anon

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thatgoblin · 2 years

Text

Neil and Jeff and Reader Imagine

Summary: In which @sebbytheraccoon and I drove ourselves mad over these two men. It's in chat form because I literally just cut and pasted the DMs. With his permission, I give you our lust filled imagine of these two fine men. Also lightly edited for spelling, breaking up big chunks of text, and taking out the emojis and lols. Otherwise it's us BABY!

Warnings: Smut, Dom/Sub themes, bdsm, threesome, oral sex, anal sex, implied vaginal sex (depending on reader as it's not really said outright), edging, bondage, training subs for others, just absolute debauchery. Enjoy!

thatgoblin

I kinda wanna have Neil cuck Jeff honestly

sebbytheraccoon

.... I was thinking the same thing >/////<

thatgoblin

Just the thought of Neil on top and Jeff's wide eyes with muffled pleas........ I need therapy

sebbytheraccoon

Neil in any situation is hot. But yeah. I think we both do.

thatgoblin

YUP

sebbytheraccoon

It's one of those things. But god I want dominant Neil. Like, he's a total sweetheart normally but like... get him in the bedroom and I bet he's a rough dom. Tease dom.

thatgoblin

Oh gods yes

Just loves to edge you

sebbytheraccoon

It would be heaven and hell at the same time. Because after the edging, he'd switch to overstimulation. Because you "earned" it.

thatgoblin

"You've been such a good bunny for me. How about a treat?"

Just thinking of his nickname for you being bunny or rabbit is just. . . I need to lay down.

thatgoblin

The thought of his voice purring that stuff out is just *chefs kiss* also, consider the following. THE BEDROOM EYES HE GIVES YOU BEFORE HAND. The baby blues darkening with lust as he stares you down. Eventually he just walks up behind you, puts his hand to the back of your neck and leads you over to your room, muttering, "Come now, Little Rabbit. Time for some fun."

thatgoblin

HE'S SHIRTLESS BUT HAS JEANS ON AND LEATHER GLOVES

sebbytheraccoon

He tries to stay quiet but eventually can't hold back the soft moans and groans as he continues to work you. Soft praises follow as you beg for mercy. Even just a small break. " You're being so good for me, Bunny. Don't stop now. Take. It." He growls, getting more rough with you.

thatgoblin

It's his hand or a toy, but not his cock because you haven't earned it yet. Just sloppy wet noises as he damn near fists you with those gloves on and you're tied down so you can do much but take it.

sebbytheraccoon

You'd lost count of how many times he had brought you to the very edge before stopping entirely, leaving you to whine and struggle, your underwear shoved in your mouth to keep you from making too much noise or mouthing off. Soon, you're utterly cockdrunk, needing him to fill you just so you can think straight again.

thatgoblin

And he stuffs all your holes so everything is full and when he finally pushes his cock in, you feel like you're about explode. Begging and sobbing behind the underwear that he's too big before he wraps a hand around your mouth to make you quiet as he begging to jackhammer into you.

sebbytheraccoon

He cooes softly as he feels your walls tremble around him. " Tight, little rabbit... Is my cock too much for you?" He teases, giving an extra hard thrust. " A little doll for me to play with~" He purrs. It feels so overwhelmingly good it takes you mere moments before you hit the edge again.

thatgoblin

And you're screaming with tears rolling down your cheeks because you're terrified he's going to pull out at the last second and kill your climax in the worst, painful way.

sebbytheraccoon

Putting a hand to your cheek, he wipes the tears away, pouting softly. "Oh Bunny, I won't stop this time, I promise. I'm sure you'll enjoy this next part. You were so good for me, little one." He brings you to the highest high you could possibly get to, a nearly painful orgasm crashing through you. You expect him to stop after. To let you finally rest after wrecking you. Nope. He doesn't stop.

thatgoblin

It's so intense you nearly black out and you feel so sensitive that just his presence over you feels overwhelming but he's still moving. He's still thrusting like his life depends on it. You shake your head in protest, but just a few wet strokes on your sensitive bundle of nerves and you cumming again. You feel like your gripping him to the point of breaking him, but he's still fucking moving.

sebbytheraccoon

Cursing softly, he puts his face to your neck, gripping your hips tightly as he continues, eventually getting drunk off your body just as you had done before. " B-Bunny... Clenching so tight... I need you... Fuck... My little toy... S-Shit..." he tries to retain his image as the strong, over confident dom as best he can.

thatgoblin

Your body is on fire and all you can do is let the orgasms come. "Say thank you," he growls softly, nipping at your neck. "You thank your Dom for every time you cum. Next time I could just stuff you and not let you orgasm for a month, Bunny. Can you imagine how sensitive you'd be for me then? How many tears you'd shed because you're so full but so frustrated and there's not a FUCKING thing you can do about it."

sebbytheraccoon

You choke out a thank you, the words slurred and barely intelligible as you beg for forgiveness. You continue to babble incoherently until his large hand clasps around your throat, urging you to quiet down. " I think I gave you your reward too early. Maybe I should have waiting until you were screaming for mercy to let you cum? And now that I've given you this reward, you refused to thank me until I threaten you? Greedy little Rabbit. You will take what your given and you will like it, you fucking brat." The praise had all faded away into straight degradation. But the way he switches seamlessly makes your head spin with lust.

thatgoblin

The only words you can muster are 'thank you' in muffled, garbled bursts as you continue to cum around him. To the point that your insides are aching from how tight they're clenching with each orgasm and gods, please just let him cum inside you. It's not till you're on the verge of blacking out from the pleasure and him choking you that he finally does cum and it's ferocious and feral as he growls and snarls before biting down on your shoulder hard.

sebbytheraccoon

His back arches into you as his muscles tense, the low rumble coming from him being utterly intoxicating. The heat that fills your core eases some of the pain, as you tremble and whine. Rocking through his orgasm, he holds your face, forcing you to look up at him as you cling to consciousness, needing his permission to pass out.

thatgoblin

"Look at the mess you made," he'd coo with a smirk, patting your face roughly as he stays inside you till he's ready to pull out. "All over the floor and my bed. You're going to be cleaning this for hours " he chuckles as he presses soft kisses and kitten licks over your face and neck, finally pulling out. "Oh, better plug this up before you spill it everywhere."

He takes off his gloves and shoves them inside you. Not far enough for worry, but enough to keep his cum inside you as he takes his time, letting you think and hope he'll untie you, but he lays down next to you, smirking as his long fingers reach down to toy with you again, circling those nerves before flicking them and chuckling at your shrieks and struggle. "Silly Rabbit. I'm not nearly done with you yet."

sebbytheraccoon

He spends the rest of the night toying with you until your even more soaked and full than before. Your body is utterly wrecked and you don't think you can stand or even move. You can't even keep your eyes fully open. "Oh Bunny, I don't think you understood what you agreed to when you started teasing me. When you begged me to fuck you with all I could offer. But, I will say, you were quite the toy for me. I think... I'd like to keep you." He chuckles darkly, nuzzling your neck, which was now covered in dark bruising and bite marks.

thatgoblin

Everything aches in a delicious way and all you can do is taken what he's giving you. Mumbling thank you for each orgasm till you're numb and so far down the rabbit hole that you have no idea what's happening to you or that he's got all your holes so used and spent that it would make a porn start embarrassed.

All you can do is lay there as his new favorite toy as he continues to fuck you through the night, filling you up more and more till when you finally have some awareness you swear your belly is bigger and he's pushing on it with a giggle. One well placed, firm push and the gloves stuffing you are pushed out and you're gushing with his cum all over the place.

sebbytheraccoon

All you can feel is the warm, wetness as it leaves you, the rest of your body virtually numb except for a dull buzzing sensation that had taken root in your limbs. And he just watches. Amused and aroused by how much you had taken. He feels a small amount of pity and decides to finally give you a small rest.

Or so he says. Instead, he strokes himself in full view of your fucked out little face, exadurating his moans and twitches. He's doing it on purpose. He wants you to beg for him. Wants you to get aroused all over again by watching what he does without you. He wants you needy for him. Possessive even. The ultimate tease.

thatgoblin

He wants you to need him like you need air. That you'd rather starve than go without his cum inside you, whether it's your mouth other holes. Neil has your mouth on his cock as much as possible, even when he's hard. He wants you drooling and gagging for it. What's worse is he invites friends to play with you as well.

To show you off on how well he's got you trained and soon you're craving them too. If your belly isn't full of their cum, then you're begging for it. Even if you're locked up, cursed with a muzzle and chastity belt, you whine and whimper till one of them brings you out to play.

sebbytheraccoon

You become his sweet little pet. You want nothing more than to please him and his friends. He's taught you a few special commands and shows off your "tricks" as though he's trained you like a dog. " Present." He'd say. And you'd open your thighs for him, showing your dripping sex to him and whoever he decided to show off to.

thatgoblin

He says "Sit." and your straddling his foot, your sex sitting on top of his shoe. Sometimes he's barefoot and other times he has course shoe strings. He says "Speak." You go right for the groin of whoever he's pointing to and moan against them. Sometimes he likes to dress you up with tails and ears, putting a dog hood on you as well.

sebbytheraccoon

You're his eager little slut. He even trained you to cum on command. It seems to be his favorite command to give you as he makes you wait for that command every time, desperately holding back the floodgates.

thatgoblin

Even after you've been filled to the brim, shaking and holding back as Jeff holds you down and eats you out for the 5th time, you wait and look at Neil with pleading eyes till he smiles, stroking your hair back. "Good puppy. Go on, cum for Jeff and I." And you feel like your body just gives out as you orgasm and black out for a moment, forgetting how to breathe even.

sebbytheraccoon

Jeff blushes at the mess you make on his face and the soft mewling sounds you make as he continues to tease you. "You trained this one well, Neil. I wouldn't mind having someone like this full time too." He jokes, smirking at your wrecked form.

thatgoblin

And then of course, this opens up for Neil to get subs and train them for his friends. You are the shining example of how to be a good sub. While he does one on one training, he makes sure you always get alone time with him and you get shown off to the others.

sebbytheraccoon

He eventually gets you a special collar that cements your place as his permanent sub and his favorite. You wear it proudly and only take it off when told.

thatgoblin

There are often play dates with other subs and doms that Neil is friends with and has trained a sub for, but he knows you will always be the one that is of highest standards. At least for him. Others may want a softer sub or one that is very much a masochist, but to him, you are the best.

sebbytheraccoon

Some of the subs he trains (or attempts to in some cases) end up jealous of you for how highly he regards you. You can't possibly be that perfect. One made the mistake of trying to take your place.

thatgoblin

One even went as far as to try and get rid of you, but they were quickly dealt with and sent to another trainer.

sebbytheraccoon

He babied you for a week because of how bad he felt. Despite being a hard dom, he still cares so much about you. You were left with a few bruises and even a couple small cuts that ended up scarring up a bit.

thatgoblin

He like. . . He will put your ass through the ringer and make you question your existence in the best possible way, but the moment someone else tries to fuck with you with any intentions he will cut a bitch and treat you like a small baby possum that he carries in a backpack.

sebbytheraccoon

If you didn't know you were his favorite thing, you do now. He decided to treat you and took you out for a nice dinner once. Emphasis on once. Because, you wore something nice, albeit a bit revealing, and the second he left to either go to the bathroom or get you both drinks from the bar, someone started hitting on you. When he got back, he saw you were clearly uncomfortable, being the loyal sub you are, and just this guy being obnoxious about it.

Hand on your waist, obscenely close, and talking about how he would treat you right back at his place. You quietly try to tell him you have a partner and you wanna be left alone but he isn't hearing it. "If you have a partner, then where are they? Huh? Babydoll, just come with me. You'll never be alone in such a nice little number again."

thatgoblin

To which Neil throws hands and drinks. Then throws you over his shoulder to take you to the parking lot and fuck you senseless so it was like the other guy never touched you.

sebbytheraccoon

You are so confused and at this point, too afraid to ask, "What did I do?" Meanwhile, he's got you bent over the hood of the car, pounding into you, growling lowly in your ear, "Mine... mine... all fucking mine..." he doesn't care that people are staring. Some possibly videotaping. You are his and he has a score to settle. A score that doesn't even really exist mind you, as it never got further than the guy being creepy.

thatgoblin

And before the police arrive, he's cum inside you and has drove off. Not that you got to cum. No, you get to wait till you get home to where he can mark you up with his hands and teeth, coaxing you to the edge but because the man touched you, no orgasms that night. But come morning, so will you.

sebbytheraccoon

By morning, you're a familiar sight. Begging and gushing cum and your own arousal. Your thighs coated in slick as he edges you a few more times, just for good measure. Your hips and thighs have handprints bruised into them to the point where you could make out each individual finger.

All this from him grabbing you and holding you so tight, your skin couldn't handle it. You have a similar story on your throat and your ass has bright red handprints as well as the bruises. Those aren't the only marks that decorate your soft skin. There's plenty of hickeys and bites as well.

thatgoblin

He knows you're desperate and feels slightly bad about your one night out being ruined, so he uses a small bullet vibrator against your front, taping it down as he lets you writhe and cum over and over before he's fucking you again, even adding toys to fill up the holes he's not in. He loves listening to you gag on something as he fucks you. Sometimes he shares you with Jeff, only Jeff, just so he can watch you suck him off while he takes you from behind.

sebbytheraccoon

Jeff is glad to be included, being a bit of a switch. He loves the dominance that Neil radiates and loves the submissiveness you display for them both. He's in utter heaven as you gag and choke on his cock, him fucking your face roughly, moaning out how good you're being for them both. Neil enjoys the show and has the level of self control that even though he is fucking you as roughly and deeply as possible, his expression would make it seem like he's just watching TV or reading.

thatgoblin

Exactly. Jeff knows he's not in charge even if Neil doesn't necessarily order him around. He enjoys being basically a chair or toy to be used on you, even if Neil gets extra dommy now and then, fucking him while Jeff fucks you. Neil needs everyone to remember he's in charge and sometimes that means Jeff is taking a cock up the ass as he's balls deep in you. But holy fuck does it make for a mind blowing orgasm to feel you clenching around his dick as Neil's plowing into him without mercy.

sebbytheraccoon

Slowly but surely, after a few more encounters, Jeff starts to become a more permanent addition to your guys' relationship. Eventually, during a scene, he jokingly asks if this makes him your guys' boyfriend. Neil thinks about it, bouncing you on his cock as he does, before laughing a bit. " Well. I wouldn't be opposed to it."

thatgoblin

You're too far gone to give an answer other than 'Please.' and a nod as you reach for him. Neil allows it, letting you two hungrily kiss and touch one another before he pushes your head down. You immediately go to Jeff's cock to swallow it down as Neil grabs Jeff by the hair and kisses him hard. The man is going to learn how much Neil loves to mark what is his.

Then it turns into you and Jeff being used to punish one another, him fucking your ass without mercy when you forget to ask for permission from Neil first and you're bouncing on Jeff's cock as he's bound and gagged as Neil plays 'Red Light, Green Light' till Jeff's sobbing and his cock is so red and angry and if you're not careful he'll cum without permission. Neil loves watching it, knowing he's in complete control and won't hesitate to remind you.

He makes sure everyone gets thoroughly fucked and having Jeff there as a permanent fixture doesn't slow him down. Of course there's private nights between you and Neil as well as Jeff and Neil, but you and Jeff are never alone without Neil or unless you're where he wants to leave you.

sebbytheraccoon

Poor Jeff ends up in the same predicament one night that you were in your first night with Neil. He had teased a bit too much and now he's tied up, being edged for hours while Neil scolds him. When he's finally allowed to cum, there's so much his brain temporarily shuts off. After, he looks at you and just quietly asked, "Has he ever done that with you?"

You just nod and try not to laugh. Your relationship with Jeff is a bit more joking and playful. While Neil is a bit more serious and teasing. He does have his soft moments of course. And since Jeff joined, now, he'll throw hands for BOTH of you.

Master List

Tag List: @abysswhiskey11 @interviewedchicken @lonely-af-fangirl @girl-obsessed-with-things @mmmm----15 @depressedthebluefox @whimsywispsblog @singingsiren98 @parkerschurros @chrissyreid @bohica160 @death-is-beautiful @ravenrune @bsaa-bitch @dorkyratqueen @instantlyexhaustedowl

#resident evil fanfiction #resident evil #fanfiction #the fuck #why am i tagging this?#*soul leaves body*#jeff schine #neil newbon #jeff schine x reader #neil newbon x reader #jeff schine x neil newbon #jeff schine x reader x neil newbon #NO ONE TALK ABOUT FIGHT CLUB

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diaphragmjellyfish · 3 years

Text

Told You So

A/N: Lots of people seemed to like my last Paul fic, and he’s my favorite Twilight character, so I thought I’d write another one! This could be considered a part 2 to I Have This Thing, but you don’t really have to read that one first.

“How was physical therapy today, baby?” Paul asked for the 12th day in a row. Ever since you had finally told him about your vaginismus, he had been as involved as you would allow him to be in that part of your life. He was constantly checking up on you, supporting you, and being a shoulder to lean on when you had a bad session. Like today.

“Not too great,” you responded. “I mean it wasn’t awful but I couldn’t keep it in for more than 5 minutes before I started cramping super bad.”

“Aww, baby,” he cooed as he wrapped you up in a giant bear hug. “You know I’m so proud of how far you’ve come.”

You laughed lightly. Paul always cheered you up just by being here. “Thank you, Paul. It’s kind of frustrating, but more than that I’m just sore.” You had gotten comfortable with the idea that dilating would take time. There were good days and bad days, and you’d come to terms with that a long time ago. But sometimes, if your muscles were super tight or if you tried the next size too soon, you’d be left physically uncomfortable. That’s what was happening now. You guys were at a secluded beach for date night. You preferred more casual dates, where you could have privacy and be yourselves. With the whole wolf thing, you and Paul couldn’t really have super open conversations about your days in the middle of a fancy restaurant.

“Sore? Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked, with a smirk and a hint of suggestion. Since you’d allowed Paul to start doing small things with you, like fingering, he’d become the cheeky hothead you’d always heard about. Constantly flirting with you, making little comments that made your cheeks grow hot.

You gave him a light shove as he sat next to you on the blanket you’d laid out in the sand. “No. I don’t really feel like having anything else in me today,” you answered.

“I don’t… have to go in,” he suggested as he looked at you nervously. Yes, he was a flirt. But he was still always careful to not cross the line or pressure you in any way. You looked at him questioningly. All you’d ever let him do was finger you. He’d tried just rubbing your clit before, but you found that that alone wasn’t enough to get you off. You needed both, and today, you’d settle for neither.

“What if you let me eat you out?”

You stopped at this, eyes wide. There was a reason you never asked him to do that before. Several guys had tried, but you never enjoyed it. It just felt like… nothing. There wasn’t enough pressure, enough feeling to get you anywhere close. You thought you just weren’t into that. You felt like all your friends went on and on about oral sex, but to you, it was just meh. You’d never let Paul do it before because you didn’t want him to feel bad when you wouldn’t like it.

“Well, umm… “ at your hesitance, Paul was quick to back off.

“We don’t have to. It was just a suggestion,” he seemed slightly disappointed, but did well to hide it. You knew him, though.

“Paul, it’s not you. I just don’t really… like that.”

He looked at you like you had two heads. “You don’t like being eaten out,” he said bluntly, almost shocked.

You shrugged your shoulders, preparing for the usual speech. ‘Oh, you’ve just never had a guy who knows what he’s doing try,’ they’d always say, only to try themselves with the same bland result. And sometimes, they’d get mad at you like it was your fault. Say you were broken. “Nope. Just not my thing,” you said shortly, getting ready to switch topics. Paul looked super confused.

“Wait, wait. I’ve never met a girl who doesn’t like being eaten out before,” he scoffed. “You’ve probably just never had a guy who knows what he’s doing.” Whoop, there it is.

“Paul, I love you, but every guy has said that exact line. And none of them have made me like it. It’s just not for me.”

“Okay, okay. No pressure. I guess I’m just curious. What about it don’t you like?” he questioned.

“I don’t know, it’s just never felt like anything. Like it just feels like a tongue, there’s no sensation, you know what I mean?”

He nodded, staring out into the ocean in deep thought. “You don’t think if you coached me through it I could make it good?”

“I mean… I don’t really know what I would even like. I don’t know how to coach you if I don’t know what’s gonna feel good,” you felt guilty, but Paul had helped you become more comfortable with boundaries, and you knew he wouldn’t be mad at you for saying no.

“Damn,” he muttered with a laugh. You nodded your head in response. “Okay, well what if we went by feeling? If it feels like nothing, you can tell me and I’ll use some more pressure. If it’s not enough friction, let me know and I can go faster.”

“You really want to try, huh?” you laughed. You trusted Paul completely. If he really wanted to eat you out, you would let him. “Just promise me your feelings won’t be hurt if I still don’t like it.”

He brought a hand up to his chest, “Cross my heart, babe.”

You exhaled a sigh. “Okay. Guess we should head back to the car then.”

“Why? No one’s here,” he smirked. You looked around, and he was right. There was a huge cliff to one side of you, and several miles of sand to the other. No one was here. And the thought of doing something so dirty out where anyone could walk by and see, well it excited you. Your blush was evident, and it was all Paul needed. He reached around, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and pulling you in for a kiss. His other hand came up to cup your face, and as the kiss got more heated, you leaned back to lie on the blanket, pulling Paul on top of you. The arm that was around your shoulders came to rest next to your head, supporting his weight. Your own hands moved from around his neck down his chest, and under the thin t-shirt he was wearing, despite the chilly temperature.

He sat up and all but ripped the shirt from his body, desperate to have his hands on you again. As he leaned back down to hover over you once more, he slid on hand under your shirt. Sure, it was summer, but you guys were in Washington. On the beach. At night. It was still pretty freaking cold out.

“I’m keeping mine on, Cujo,” you laughed at his pout.

“Oh, c’mon Princess, you know I’ll keep you warm.” At this, he dragged his lips down your jaw and to your neck, suckling at the skin. You breathed out a sigh and tilted your head to the opposite side, subtly arching your back. The hand that was under your shirt crept down between your legs. He stayed on top of your jeans and rubbed your inner thighs, grabbing lightly and putting pressure in the divot of your hip, between your leg and already damp pussy. Your hands carded through his hair, tugging lightly. He nipped at your neck as he popped the button on your pants, sliding the zipper down torturously slow.

You let out a whimper, because at this point, he would normally be sliding his hand down your pants and a finger inside you. But that’s not what was happening tonight. His lips travelled from his neck, down to the top of your chest that was exposed from your shirt, and then down to your stomach. And lower, and lower. Once he reached the waistband of your pants, he sat up, kneeling between your legs. He grabbed your belt loops, pulling off your jeans, and then your underwear, and putting them in a neat pile on the side of the blanket, careful not to get sand all over them. The ocean breeze hit your hot core, and it was a strange sensation that made you shiver.

“Cold?” he questioned, full of care and concern.

“Yeah, so you better get down here and warm me up,” you smirked. His own smirk followed, and he leaned down. Instead of hovering over you, though, he brought his face down to your lower stomach once more, hooking your legs over his shoulders and bringing his hands up your sides to rest on your stomach, covering your skin with as much of his own as possible in an honest effort to make sure you weren’t cold. Even in sexy, sensual moments like this, Paul was still a sweetheart at his core.

“Remember what I said about telling me how you feel. I want a full status report, Agent Y/L/N.”

“Copy that, Detective Lahote,” you giggled back, bringing your hand up in a mock salute.

He started kissing right under your belly button, nipping and sucking at the skin before soothing with his tongue. And then he trailed kisses a couple inches lower, repeating the same process. He did this over and over, taking his sweet time worshipping your skin, before he finally reached the soft skin just above your folds. He paused, and looked up at you with a savage grin. You could definitely say that you had never been this turned on before being eaten out before.

Your hands were placed atop of his own on your stomach, gripping in anticipation. His chin dipped slightly, and he placed a soft kiss right on your clit. You felt the slight pressure of his lips, but not much else.

He looked up at you, quirking his eyebrow in question. You shook your head lightly, a sad smile on your face. Instead of looking defeated, he looked determined. “How’d it feel?”

“Not enough friction,” you answered.

Leaning back down, he licked a long stripe from your entrance to your clit, circling around a few times before ending in a kiss. Again, nothing. Well, it felt like a tongue, but it didn’t really feel particularly good. Again, he looked up at you, and you began to feel nervous. You never want to make Paul feel like he isn’t good enough, and you worried that this situation might be doing just that.

“Talk to me, Princess,” he ordered softly.

“I… I don’t know. It just, doesn’t really feel like anything,” you responded softly.

“That’s okay. I have a couple more ideas,” he responded, his confidence never failing. This time, when he leaned down, he flicked his tongue over your clit rapidly. And when he still got no reaction, he began to feel slightly worried. He talked a big game. What if he was just like all those other assholes that never got you off? In desperation, he brought your clit and the surrounding folds between his lips and sucked.

You gasped, and sat up slightly. Oh. You weren’t expecting that. Paul smirked.

“Good?” he asked, teasingly.

“Yeah, good. Can you do that again, but a little… more?” you responded, huffing a light laugh.

His face lowered once more, and he repeated the same action as before. You bit your lip, your hips involuntarily lifting up into his face. He kept up this sucking motion several more times until he finally got a moan out of you. Soft, but he heard it. And it excited him.

He began to repeat the motion, sucking slightly harder, and playing with your clit with his tongue while he sucked it into his mouth. This had you crying out. He grabbed your hips roughly and pulled you closer to him.

“Fuck, Paul!” you gasped, hands now gripping his hair. Your hips writhed under his face, and he had to clamp his hands down tighter over your stomach to keep you still. You’d never felt anything like this before. It was strange, different from fingers or dilators, but still good.

And Paul knew, as every good lover knows, that when women are feeling good, Don’t. Change. A. Thing. So he kept up the same rhythm. Same pace. Same technique. Suck, lick, kiss. Suck, lick, kiss. For the next twenty-five minutes. You knew his jaw must be hurting by now, but every time you were about to protest, he would give an extra hard suck to your clit, shutting you up with your own moans. And you were closer than you’d ever been from oral before. You were right there on the edge.

“Oh my God, don’t stop!” you moaned in a higher pitch than before, and Paul knew you were close. 30 seconds later, your whole body was shaking, euphoria washing through your veins and your mouth opened in a silent moan. When you came down, Paul’s lips were still on your clit, only more gently now. You had to pull him away by the hair when the sensations became too much. With labored breath, you whispered a “woah.”

Paul’s only response was “Told you so.”

“Yeah, you did,” you laughed, too high on the orgasm to worry about how out-of-control his ego would be after this. He continued placing soft kisses over your stomach, hands rubbing up and down your sides while you calmed down and caught your breath. “Sorry I took so long,” you finally added.

“Hey,” he said sharply, though you knew he was messing around. “If you think for even a second that I didn’t enjoy every single minute of that, you’re crazy.”

“Ok well it’s time for me to return the favor. Roll over, Wolfie,” you chided, sitting up on your elbows.

“You already did,” at this, you looked at him confused. He looked down, cheeks turning slightly red. “I… need to change into a new pair of shorts.” You bust out laughing. It was a good night.

#paul lahote #paul lahote x reader #twilight #wolf pack #jared cameron #quil ateara #embry call #sam uley #jacob black #seth clearwater #edward cullen #werewolf #paul lahote smut #vaginismus #vaginismus fic

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keilemlucent · 3 years

Text

pretty eyes & starshine: i

(NSFW)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

part i || part ii || part iii

beta’ed: @shadowworks & @keiqos (thank you!! 💞)

word count: ~9.4k

Keigo surrenders to losing himself in the blank-walled, temporary home he inhabits. He finds familiarity in the routine of aches, pains and pills.

You’re his only solace.

warnings: bodily trauma, medical trauma, PTSD, dissociation, suicidal ideation, alcohol as a coping mechanism and graphic description of sustained injury

a/n: oh wow so here it is, big sad fic :’^) part one!! it’s canon divergent from manga chapter 296 onwards.

this one has been a long time coming. please mind the warnings!! this fic deals a lot with trauma and mental illness in tandem. the warnings are going to change with the coming parts, so please be mindful. i don’t wanna get too sappy, but this piece has been my Baby for the past few months, and i’m excited to finally share. that being said, enjoy loves 💞

Everyone is fucked up after the War.

There is no kindness in an aftermath like this one, not so soon, and certainly not with dried blood of old comrades and mud still caking under its metaphorical fingernails. The world was in shambles, and every hero is along with it.

There is something horrifying about being at the center of it all, Hawks, no, Keigo thinks solemnly, all too often.

He’s used to the attention he’s getting, touches and poking and prodding by near strangers. Except, he was used to exclamations of how great and powerful and remarkable he was. Now, all the attention he receives is followed by little sighs and sad, broken eyes.

He’s sure he looks equally as sad; Keigo had been nothing but an empty shell since the War had ended and he’d been carted off to his hospital room. Numb despite all of his burns.

It’s the shock, he tells himself, he’ll snap out of it any day.

Any day.

...

And it is any day.

He wakes up to screaming from the next room over, agonized wails that pierce the air as his morning nurse enters. She’s over-worked and haggard while checking his vitals with a forced smile. They don’t make conversation with him much anymore, and Keigo doesn’t have the energy to try and force it. There isn’t enough in him to pretend that he’s okay enough to banter with folks.

If he still had his wings, he would’ve wrapped himself up tight in the plumage and let himself rot away in some corner. He’d let the dissociated numbness fade, however long it took, and then succumb to whatever psychological wounds revealed themselves.

Waste away, all alone.

But he doesn't have that luxury. He is in an overcrowded hospital with swarms of civilians and heroes, all stuffed in one place because the world doesn’t have the time to differentiate between the wounded, nor the space or resources to give different resources. Though, Keigo is a special case, hence why he’s had healers coming to him for the past three weeks since the War trying to coax his body into genesizing a new pair of wings.

The Commission’s hospital has all the bells-and-whistles that a medical professional could need, but Keigo, and so many others, are facing problems that don’t have good and easy roads to healing.

That’s assuming healing was even possible.

Keigo is convinced, has been convinced, that there is no way to come back from the War, nor the absence on his back, nor the shouts and cries of pain that echo around the hospital like a new genre of music that Keigo so desperately wants to scrub from his brain.

Things change, it’s inevitable. Everyone falls eventually, and he was just used to flying.

It’s a harder descent.

...

Keigo doesn’t meet you on any day, he meets you on a lonely night.

The evenings and early mornings were the most peaceful at the hospital. Most folks, three weeks after the end of it all, had serious enough injuries that they had to be somewhat sedated to sleep, either for physical or mental pain keeping them from sleep.

It’s morose, Keigo thinks, quietly and privately, but he craves those hours. All he hears then is the hum of air vents and beeps of his own medical machinery. None of the audible agony of the folks he was sworn to protect.

He’s slept most of the day, not lucid enough to do much else, and the nurses haven’t been giving him sedatives unless he asked (though he always did.) Without forced quiet, he’s antsy, fingers twitching and flaring the new (and growing) pains rooted in his (empty, isn’t that horrifying—) back.

He rouses himself, adjusting his scratching hospital garb (thin sweats and a cheap crew neck with the back almost entirely cut away). With his IV pole at his side, he resolves to take a few laps and quiet himself, hopefully.

(Keigo would need sedatives, he always did, but it was nice to play pretend that he didn’t. It made things easier for a precious hour or two.)

His laps are usually quick, despite how much his body aches when he walks. So much new, burnt tissue that needed to learn how to move, how to live again, kept him throbbing and gritting his teeth.

Masochism be damned, he keeps at it during his sleepless nights. Physical therapy wasn’t an option when the world was caving in with him at the epicenter.

There’s a common room at the end of the foyer of identical (filled) hospital rooms, just a collection of stuffy, uncomfortable couches that face an aged TV and a wide bay of windows. It’s rarely used, just a formality for when the space of the hospital had regularly hurt victims and heroes. When it wasn’t bearing so much weight.

Sometimes, he would stop to idly regard the mostly barren world around the hospital. Far from the cities, a little hideaway for heroes and their loved ones to heal in privacy. Other than sheer distance, there is a thick, organic shield around the complex. It’s a towering forest, man-planted with identical types of trees in perfect rows.

It’s grim in its predictability.

(When did he get so fucking pensive?)

(Oh yeah, too much time locked in his goddamn skull.)

He hadn’t been planning to have any inner musings that night.

But, that night, he notes that he is not alone.

On one of the hard couches, you sit, with your own IV-pole companion and injuries, an arm carried in a monochromatic sling and set in a hard cast.

You turn to him, blinking wide eyes at him.

There’s a single lamp on, and the light dances in your eyes with its own unexpected rhythm.

Something compels Keigo to smile, cocky, like he used to, and greet you with a little wave, and a finger to his lips.

Your expressions melts, a hand going over your mouth to stifle a giggle.

It’s like you’re pulling him after that, he finds himself resting across from you.

You must look like a pair, he realizes. You’re greasy, he’s greasy. He’s got a fine layer of built-up stubble that shouldn’t be called anything other than impressive peach fuzz (not that Keigo’s seen it, he’s felt it. The idea of looking in a mirror makes him sick to his stomach. Though you don’t have any pseudo-beard, you’ve got your own unkempt look and feel that makes you two kindred without sharing a word.

It feels comfortable, warm.

“Hi,” you speak first, voice soft and gentle. “Can’t sleep?”

“Nah, who can?” Keigo replies, shaking his head. “But what about you? Midnight oil doesn’t burn without a cause, you know.”

Your expression is also painful in the way it’s so open, yet worn (most everyone had locked up by now, the ones in the hospital and Keigo imagined the ones outside of it too.)

“I like the sky— the stars are pretty.” You sigh, wistful. “I watch for shooting stars.”

The thought, the significance of that obvious wanting, makes something pang deep in his chest. Childlike hope in a place like this, foolish as well as frail.

“Trying to get a wish?” Keigo clicked his tongue. “Smart.”

“No, no— wishing doesn’t... suit me, right now.” You snorted, shaking your head, the light in your eyes dancing, “I just think they’re pretty.”

Keigo blinks, unable to stop the way his eyes widen.

Your posture reads nothing but earnestness and vulnerability, so freely given (so undeserved) without a hint of pullback.

“What do you want to be called?”

“... Excuse me?” Keigo is not used to his thoughts being interrupted in the blanket of dark that he feels most comfortable in. Your words shock him enough with their meaning, let alone the way you’re so brazen.

“I, uh,” You stumble on your words. “I know who you are, but I also saw that whole broadcast, which I’m going to easily assume you don’t want to talk about. But, I don’t know how much you want to be called ‘Hawks’ at this point either.”

His mouth is dry.

“So, I ask instead,” You lean forward, your IV line pulling the slightest bit and you wince. His discomfort must be very fucking apparent, because you backtrack in moments. “... Or, neither. I can call you something else, too.”

“... A nickname, for someone you don’t even know?” Keigo, Hawks, whoever he is now struggles with words. There’s too many, and they’re all too fast, and he doesn’t have his wings to catch up to them or outrun them—

“Yeah, why not?” You shrug with a lazy smile. “I’ll call you... pretty eyes. How about that?”

Keigo does have pretty eyes. They’re gold, light and glittering amber in the lowlight. Before he, ya’ know, lost them, and when things were good, but awful, but normal, he darkened the organic marks around his canthi with liquid eyeliner. He liked makeup, prettied himself up and accentuated all the good he had. Preening.

None of that is left, just what organically was on his skin, and he hasn’t seen it in its raw state in years, and like fuck if he was going to look in a mirror just to figure out if his natural eyeliner was half as good as that by his own hand.

“Sure, that works,” He relaxes, mirroring your expression like the practiced... pro he is. “What do I call you, starshine?”

You roll your eyes, but nothing about you fades as you tell him your name, something that calms and fills him, “But, you can call me starshine if you want. Sounds nice.”

It’s sweet.

So, Keigo greets you.

“Nice to meet you, starshine.”

...

That’s the first time you kept each other’s company. Most of it is quiet, you truly do just want to watch the stars. Keigo did with you, tracing the shadows of clouds and moonlight with his eyes.

(Occasionally, his gaze shifts to you, regarding your figure with the same care for only a moment before returning to the sky you both miss.)

Eventually, the quiet heat of it puts him half to sleep, and he bids you goodnight.

You wave goodbye, rising as he away.

The light isn’t in your eyes anymore, and your warmth feels a little too far away.

...

The next days are long.

He slips into that shell-state again, where he’s a husk that stares emptily at the ceiling as the Commission tries to piece him together to a fraction of what he once was.

They fail, each time, because no healer they’ve brought can regenerate quirk-formed appendages, but he commends their efforts all the same. It’s out of desperation, sure, but he’s heard whispers of the new generation. In recalling his own sidekicks, he isn’t as scared for the future.

(Everyone else’s future. He’s so terrified of his own that he turns extra numb if he thinks about it.)

Selfishly, he just wants his wings for himself. They’d keep him plenty company. If he ever did get them back, he’d fly somewhere, faraway and alone to live out his days under his feathers and feel as empty as he wanted.

They fuss over him all day, not knowing those desires. They are private, and he only puts on his old, self-confident bravado so they don’t lock him up somewhere to have his brain picked and to fill the new holes with pill-shaped gauze.

As established, Keigo was content to rot.

(He can’t fully parse all of his feelings and they consume him.)

The healers for the week all failed, doing nothing but making his back bow and burn. It’s painful. Obviously, trying to stitch a body back together, or rather making a body make when it was so tired of creating—

(Feather after feather after feather, for how long?)

He’s glad his sessions are in a different room, a spare, horrifyingly metallic exam room across the hospital. It reeks like iron and isopropyl alcohol, but Keigo doesn’t mind. The filmy paper that rolls from the exam table gets soaked with his sweat as opposed to his familiar bed dressings.

Not to mention, it’s nice, not having to hear his neighbor’s screams and pleadings to God, any god, for reprieve. Calming.

(He feels less guilty. Less like it was his own hand that scarred up their bodies. If he can’t hear them, he only thinks of his own agony under ‘helping’ hands.)

His body is exhausted at the end of each day, and even his restlessness fades with the necessities of his body.

He doesn’t see you, and practically forgets about you.

It’s a week or so later when he takes one of his strolls, and finds you tucked away into your nook, dimly lit and with a blanket over your lap.

Keigo feels it as he nears you, that comfort that your expression bleeds into his very soul. Even as he watches your healthy hand nervously toy with the thin knit in your lap, it doesn’t dim you.

The lamplight dances in your eyes as you nod to him, “Fancy seeing you here, pretty eyes.”

“You’d never know it, but I live just down the hallway— me,” He touches his chest proudly, surprised by his own jest.

You gave a fake gasp, mirroring him easily, “Never knew I had such a well-known soul in my neighborhood. Forgive my transgression.”

Bending at the waist, as much as you can with your right leg extended, straight, you choke on laughter.

Keigo follows you in it, giggling, genuinely giggling, high and light and girlish like he’d never heard from himself before.

He snapped his mouth shut, thickly swallowing and shaking his head.

“No need to be shy,” You assured him with an affectionate turn of the head. “You have a lovely laugh.”

“Now you’re just flirting with me, cute.”

Your head tilted farther, confused, “I’m simply being kind to you.”

Why didn’t he have the snark to reply to that? Probably because he was half-dead and on painkillers for nearly a month. He’d beat himself up about it later, maybe.

There wasn’t an ounce of malice in your tone, just earnestness that tugged at his own insecurities.

You backpedaled. “How was your day?”

Keigo takes a few moments to respond, shaking his head without mind to the way his too-long hair flops in his face.

The banter isn’t forced, but it’s not welcomed yet.

As comfortable as you feel to him, Keigo isn’t comfortable.

“Same old, same old,” Living hell. “Boring, mostly. Painful, but dull. It’s crazy how much hell smells like cheap disinfectant, huh?”

You agree, quietly, “I’m pretty sure there’s many hells in this place.”

Keigo doesn’t know how to respond, so he doesn’t.

You both regard the stars again with growing reverence. Specks of light dance back in your eyes as you both settle into the hard cushions like they were made of goose down and Sherpa.

...

Your conversations are... disjointed, to say the least.

There’s an inability for words and phrases to flow between you. There’s starts and stops, stalls like an engine that putters on tarry oil without ever truly firing. There are good feelings, still, safety in silence before words as you stargaze together through the comfort of a window.

It should feel disarming, to be so far from the sky yet have no way to reach it. And it is, but Keigo can swallow the reality these days. It’s easier when there’s someone on the mend close by, sharing in the discomfort of a rawed mind and the comfort of a yellow-toned fluorescent bulb.

It’s unspoken kinship. Keigo never had time for it in the past, but now it was all he had. There had to be some cruel irony in it (as if there wasn’t enough in his life), but he couldn’t make himself mind.

Everything he’d once excelled at, everything he had was gone. He was barren and stripped (don’t think about it—), exposed to the elements in all the worst ways. At least the hospital was clean and safe, relatively.

It feels safest with you near.

Sure, your conversations were clearly that of two horribly broken people, but that wasn’t new or surprising. It simply was.

“Do you know constellations?” You ask one night, a colder one, where you’ve got two blankets over your lap.

Keigo thought for a moment, “A handful, but I never took to stargazing, you know?”

You don’t relate, just chew your lip, the light of the dim lamp dancing across your irises.

“Can I show you some?”

“...Constellations?”

“What else?” You crack a smile. “Come on, pretty eyes.”

Whatever you’d like, he’d do.

He can’t refuse, he’s already getting weak for you.

Shifting, Keigo joins you on your typical couch for the first time. Your IV poles, thrumming and humming their own rhymes harmonize, quietly and mostly imperceptible.

You regard him even more warmly, so close, a little smile playing on your lips.

“What’s your sign?”

Keigo deadpans, “What?”

“Like... astrology. What’s your sign?”

You wiggle your eyebrows, knowing the double-meaning of your words.

Flirting again.

Since when had he been so bad at it?

“Capricorn,” He huffs back. He keeps his back off the stone-like cushions of the couch— his scarring had been itchy the whole day prior— so itchy—

You tap the plastic-y fabric gap between the two of you, grabbing his attention, “Hey, pretty eyes. Stick with me, let me show you where that one is.”

So, you do.

Your light-filled eyes trace the sky’s nighttime freckles, searching until you find what you’re looking for.

“There,” Your finger raises, tracing the patterns in the air. “That’s Capricorn, can you see?”

Not really, the stars are just a meaningless smatter. If there’s some sort of pattern he’s supposed to find, he comes up with none.

“Not in the slightest,” Keigo rolls his eyes. “Show me again?”

You don’t reply, but rather scoot a bit closer, mirror his hunch and pose with precision and tiny adjustments.

He doesn’t dare to breathe as you carefully grab his arm, extending it. You lay your cheek over his bicep, watching from the closest view to his own that you could.

“Do you see now?”

The only starlight he sees is right in front of him, soft cheek pressed against atrophying muscles. Sharing your heat so graciously as you would so easily come to, you chatter about the stories that are written in the stars, by all cultures, for so long.

Keigo hears, but he’s far more focused on how he wishes you were even closer.

...

After that night, you always share the same couch.

You face forward, right leg always extended and stiff-looking. Keigo doesn’t mind, hardly notices. He faces you, fragile back bandaged and kept away from the unforgiving grit of the uncomfortable couch. It looks a bit uncomfortable, the posing of it all, but with the words flowing easier, neither of you mind.

You keep showing him stars, the constellations you can remember and see in the night sky.

Keigo makes fun and crafts his own, connecting new dots and winding stories about them.

“See those three there?” He guides your hand, close enough to share your breath. “That’s the comb of the chicken. Star comb, if you will.”

You snort, rolling your eyes and pulling your hand from his grip, “There’s no cock in the stars, pretty eyes. Chickens can’t fly anyways.”

You both freeze.

Keigo’s mouth goes dry—

Chicken can’t fly.

As much as you’re both learning to be human again, there isn’t talk of your injuries. Maybe, there’s mutual curiosity (you’ve been here two months. just for a broken arm, why?), but like fuck Keigo wants to broach the subject.

“S-sorry,” you stumble over your words, physically retreating. “Shouldn’t have said that.”

It is a fact, chickens can’t fly, but Keigo isn’t a chicken. He’s a debauched, defamed hero whose home is the same set of a milky white, hospital ward walls. Once, a real hero, before the war, before selling his morals just for a chance at rest, before blue flame— burning—

“Pretty eyes,” Your voice trembles, shaking and lonesome. “Come back here, now. Come on.”

You’re holding his cheeks, unkempt nails pressing (blessedly) a bit too hard into his cheeks. The heat of you is so close, almost scalding him, but he wants more of it, more of the heat that doesn’t burn—

“You’re okay, pretty eyes, s-see?” You hold yourself together, jerking your head to the wide window and glittering stars. “We’re just stargazing.”

Keigo’s has tears leaking down his face, but neither of you acknowledge them. You release him, quietly spinning another tale about a hero hung in the cosmos. He thanks you for it silently by tugging you into his side.

(It was the first night you really touched him.)

(The light in your eyes was so close, he wanted it all for himself.)

...

They’re running out of healers to try.

From the weakest to the strongest quirk, no one could revive his dead wings. There was no root to push from the scar tissue, nor resolve left in Keigo to try and make new pins and feathers sprout.

His back isn’t fertile. It’s just as poisoned as the rest of him.

...

He wonders where you disappear to during the day. He takes his strolls then, too. Waves to nurses these days, not charming, just friendly, trying to make a little brightness.

There’s one day where he asks one of the nurses he knows best for a pair of scissors.

She looks at him, worried, “Don’t tell me we need to put you on psych watch.”

“What? No,” Keigo shakes his head, shaggy hair quivering around the frame of his face. “I just need a bit of a haircut.”

“... We can ask the Commission to bring someone in—”

“I can do it myself.”

She doesn’t argue with the firmness of his voice, rather, she hands him a pair of safety scissors with bright purple handles. They’re for a child, but Keigo’s fine with that. They’d do.

When he was younger, and in a pinch (and so poor he tried to eat grass and lick scraps from metallic packaging of discarded junk food wrappers) he’d cut his hair with his own feathers.

Safety scissors would be even easier.

It did mean that he had to confront his own visage, which he had gotten too good at avoiding.

The bathroom in his room is small, it would’ve been claustrophobic if he was still carrying a twenty-five-foot wingspan.

But, he isn’t. It was just him and the scars on his back that he definitely wasn’t ready to see.

He’s caught glimpses of himself over the past weeks, but nothing substantial. No view that would’ve given himself time to scrutinize over his imperfection.

The dull hospital mirror reveals too much about him. It feels too vulnerable, makes his chest tighten, as he stares himself in his ‘pretty eyes’.

Purple stamps below his eyes, probably not from sleeplessness itself, just the sheer exhaustion of living. The one under his left is an odd maroon color, mixing with the scar that is burned into that half of his face.

The skin was once soft, plump cheeks always tended too and well taken care of by expensive skincare products. Now, it’s charred and gaunt. Healing, but still obviously scarred heavy and deep. The weak beard he’s been growing (accidently) is patchy around the thickened tissue.

It bothers him—

It doesn’t look like him in the mirror.

It helps to take care of himself for the first time in a long while.

He shaves with the cheap foam and single blade razor they’d given him in the toiletries pack the first days he was there, while he was still numbed out and half-dead. The metal glides over his skin, stripping away the numbness just a little. The stubble and cream slide down the drain and away.

His hair is different. The waves had for so long been pushed back and held that way with the winds of his flights. The longer, feathery patches now hang around his face, dangling down and mingling with the too-long sections that curl over his ears and down his neck.

Wetting his hair, he cuts away what he can.

It’s blunt, messy, and not elegant.

All the same, the trim feels good.

Though, his mood goes sour when the screaming starts for the day.

The far wall of the bathroom was shared by him and his shrieking neighbor, and he took great care to never shower when they were singing their awful chorus. It grates on his ears; he should’ve been a bit empathetic to their suffering, but he didn’t care that much. It was so regular, that the screaming that might’ve once sent each one of his feathers (don’t think about, don’t fucking think about it) sharp as the razor in his hand, didn’t bother him in the slightest.

Just a poke at his temple, a jab and a drop of water that irks him more than anything else.

It is a... somewhat pleasant distraction. He can focus more on his fellow patient than his own haggard appearance, the scar, the lack of red at his back—

It’s all okay, ‘okay’, until the patient starts babbling.

“M-make it stop!”

Keigo stills.

A scream tears through the drywall. Even without his wings, it makes him thrum, far-too sensitive.

“Help!” The voice yelps. “HELP!”

There’s a thud and thump from the other room.

“Please, please!”

Keigo’s heart stutters in his chest, and the razor falls from his hand, clattering into the sink.

“MAKE IT STOP!”

It’s you.

It’s your screaming and shrieking that’s burrowed in his ears. It’s your voice that’s trembling in desperation that has him running out of his room, nearly pulling out his IVs as the pole teeters and follows behind him.

Why are you screaming?

Why have you always been screaming?

A nurse is trying to stop him, urging him to settle but he can’t. There's an urgency in his chest he hasn’t felt since back before and he has to heed it. He needs to.

He pulls his forearm from the nurse’s grasp, hissing in his own pain, muscles pulling and aching with disuse but he doesn’t care.

The nurses drag him back from your door, and they almost have him, almost have him on the ground.

And then he smells burning—

Cloth.

Flesh.

And something in him snaps.

He clocks the nearest nurse with a tight fist, ignoring his atrophied muscles and kicking with everything he could muster.

They release him, probably out of shock. (He’d been such a model patient, so complacent and quiet until then.)

Then, he stumbles into your room, and sees you, and wants to die.

...

There’s plenty of times in his life where Keigo felt like an animal. When the Commission first got their hands on him, they took to studying and picking his quirk about to figure out the most efficient way to rebuild it to their needs and uses. Now then, he felt very much like an experiment, only half-human. He was too young to really ‘get’ it, but the feeling persisted.

Sometimes, he felt similarly when he played celebrity. The talk shows, the modeling and media felt hoops he had to jump through just to get a decent night’s sleep. It was an additional job aside from heroics, one he excelled at and entertained him. But that didn’t mean each flash of a camera didn’t suck him dry of a bit of his dignity.

He was sure you had to be feeling similarly.

You’re writhing and arching in your bed, curls of smoke rising from your papery hospital gown. Every machine in your room is screaming with you, bloody and loud and angry—

And scared. Keigo recognized well, and it drove pins into his heart to realize it was you.

It’s even worse when he realizes some part of you is burning.

At your bedside, he freezes.

Nylon straps wrap around your wrist, around your cast, and keep you held tight to the bed. You’re tied down, held to the plastic bed frame as you wretch and scream.

You don’t even notice him.

The smoke rises from your burning hospital gown. He rips it away, tears the burning section away with his shaking hand. It’s crass, and Keigo sees a bit too much. The gauze wrapping your leg below is burning as well, in little veins of char that burns black and smoldering.

Keigo tears it all away, he tears and tears—

And then he sees the wound.

He was trained, once, to see this type of horror and not bat an eye. That training was gone, and all that remained was his starshine with a writhing, molten wound.

Keigo is numb as the nurses drag him back to his room, trying to decide if he prefers the apathy and numbness to injury that his old heroism gave him, or the blinding pain of empathy when someone you... care about is hurt.

He can’t decide which he’d rather suffer with.

...

You appear in the common room a few nights later.

Keigo still takes his walks in the late evening, even if you aren’t there. If anything, he needs them more. He’s restless, always listening for the screams or howls from the next room over. His annoyance towards them was gone, and all that remained was a concern that knotted in the pit of his stomach.

There’s a sigh of relief on his lips when he finds you, nestled into a pile of blankets with your IV pole, watching the stars with sad eyes.

He joins you on your couch, cracking a decent joke that you don’t respond to.

Then, there’s silence.

It’s as loud as the stars are bright. The expanse of sound is filled by the hum of the cold air and distant beeping.

“I’m sorry,” Your voice shakes. “You shouldn’t have seen me like that. It’s not... Easy to look at. Or, I imagine it’s not.”

Keigo wants to rip the apology from your tongue and burn it.

“No, please, it’s alright,” He’s begging too much. “I get it.”

As much as he can, anyways.

You’re quiet again, biting your lip so hard it must be close to breaking skin.

“Can we... talk about things?” You ask, softer. “I can’t keep pretending.”

“...’Pretending’?” Keigo knows, but he selfishly wants to hear you say it.

“Well, you didn’t think I’ve been here for two months for my bum arm, right?” You laugh weakly. “And I’m well-aware that you don’t have wings.”

We just don’t talk about it.

“It’s nicer to look at the stars and pretend everything’s fine,” Keigo lays the statement down and regrets it.

Your fist tightens, jaw clenching.

And there’s more silence.

It’s deafening to Keigo, he wants to speak, scream, but you’re quiet next to him. He can fill voids with his voice so, so easily, yet he turns in on himself.

“I know, it’s all hard,” Tears drip down from your words, though your cheeks remain dry. “I know, but there was a War two months ago, and we’re still holed up in a place like this, and we never talk about why.”

You turn to him, light dancing slowly in your eyes. Your lips part to speak, but no sound comes out.

“... I didn’t want to ask.” Keigo speaks, gaze shifting down to your leg. He questioned why a broken arm would keep you here, but you can’t just ask that. “It’s bad form to ask a stranger about their injuries unnecessarily when they’re traumatized.”

“But we’re not strangers, not anymore.”

Keigo can’t disagree.

...

You had been in a conbini when Gigantomakia tore through your little suburb. It was a few miles away, but the ground shook as if the goliath was just outside the automatic doors.

Your demon was near, though.

It was a man from the PLF who tore into you so badly. Just some random, emboldened civilian who ascribed to Destro’s ideology hard enough to think about taking out his frustrations on ‘weaker-quirked’ individuals.

That meant the young couple getting slushies in the corner, the old man behind the cash register, and you.

(You’d told your roommate you’d be home quick to help her study—)

(Your roommate is dead, under several tons of rubble.)

“The old man died before the heroes even started trying to rescue anyone. The couple was begging each other to hold on, but only one of them lasted. He died within a few weeks of being taken here.”

There was just you.

You’d hardly been touched by the man, the fucking villain, who’d set his mark on you. But it was more than enough to leave a writhing scar.

Keigo asks to see it, and quietly, you oblige him.

You’re in a gown, you always have been. The hem of it is pulled up by your visibility shaking fingers, and slowly reveals the scar in the lowlight of the ever-present lamp. He’d seen it once, but that didn’t change how startling it was.

It’s molten.

The skin is gnarled, twisting and scarred worse than anything Keigo’s ever seen. It was like the gore of a torn flesh was frozen over your right side, from your calf, to your thighs to your pretty hips—

“It goes higher, but that’s not exactly couth to show you,” you joke, but neither of you laugh.

“... It’s not moving anymore?”

“Oh, yeah. It calms down, when it’s dark. Nighttime and all. It stops being so ornery.”

Keigo has a laundry list of questions, but with the expression on your face that just bleeds exhaustion into the air, and the fresh burns from the restraints on your wrists, he keeps quiet.

Maybe, three months ago, he’d jabber on about the injury, try to gode some information out on the villain, profile him, track him and beat the tar out of him for touching you—

But this is the present, and Keigo is a wingless soul. All he has is a prescription for painkillers on a rigid schedule, and the awareness that you both appreciate each other.

Keigo scoots to your uninjured side, lifting his arm up and around your shoulder. It hurts, it fucking hurts, but he doesn’t mind.

You tense for a moment, turning to him with wide eyes, scared like he’s never seen.

Then, you melt into him.

...

Keigo’s busy with healers the week, though none speak his language, literally. They’re international, foreign aid that’s been flown in to try to pick up the disaster of a society that’s been left in the wake of the War and the dissolution of Tartarus.

None of them make progress.

As much as it burns (haha) him to his core, he’s accepting the reality, slowly but surely.

...

Endeavor visits him.

It’s the morning after a particularly sweet night with you. You still sit together in the starlight, though you’ve run out of constellations to show him. It’s less quiet than it used to be, just little banter that flows between the two of you. It feels more genuine than his old bluntness, welcome after so much odd tension when you first started enjoying the heat of each other’s presence and the far-off stars.

You’d taken to spending time together during the day as well... As much as you could. Strapping you to your bed was for your own safety. Your broken arm had snapped the first few days at the hospital because of the severity of your spasms and flares. The nurses keep you wrapped up, but Keigo drags a chair close to your bed and talks to you as much as he can.

It helps you relax.

Though the days fill with tension as you try to negate the inevitability of your molten scar coming to life, nights remain calm.

And so, so sweet.

You’ve taken to tucking into his side, telling him little treasured facts about the cosmos. It’s easier to guide his eyes like that, as your cheek rests over his collarbone.

It lingers with him, the feeling of your casual touch, so tentatively offered and so graciously received.

He traces his own constellations over your gown, mindful of the flesh beneath that heats beneath his palm when he gets too close.

After one of those wonderful, early nights, Enji Todoroki enters his room with all of the gusto one would expect. Which is not very much, but the sheer presence of him is enough to make Keigo quake.

Just like the little boy from Kyushu, Keigo regards him with stars in his eyes.

The hero, not a speck of flame on him (thank god) pulls up a chair near his bed. Keigo sits cross-legged and cocks his head to the side.

“What brings you to my neck of the woods, number one?” Keigo smiles.

“Number fifteen.”

“... What?”

“Since my injuries, I’m mostly on bedrest,” Enji replied, folding his hands on his chin. “I’m number fifteen now, and that number will more than likely just drop. I’m not much of a hero with only one lung. I’m planning to officially retire at the end of the month.”

Keigo’s chest goes tight and it feels like he’s joking. He tosses on a tight smile.

“This is hardly time for a pillar—“

“I’m no pillar. I never was,” Enji sighs, running a hand over his scarred cheek. “The kids can handle this.”

Keigo breaks so easily these days.

“That’s not fair—” He had been tossed into this all too early and god it fucked him up—

“Hawks,” Enji sighed. “There’s hardly anyone left to fight. They’re either dead, missing part of themselves, or gone.”

“So, you’re giving up?”

“If I didn’t, I’d die.”

Coward.

No, just honest and smart.

“Since when are you this selfish?” Keigo’s own words surprise him, but he doesn’t back down. “And this wordy, number one? You’ve changed.”

He spits the last phrase like an insult. He hates himself for it and would hate himself even more for it later.

Enji’s face remains solid and unwavering. The twitch in his brow is the only indication that Keigo’s words were even heard.

“Since we lost, Keigo. Things have changed.”

Keigo knew, of course, but it didn’t stop the anger from rolling his belly.

“Oh, like I don’t fucking know,” If Keigo still had his wings, they would’ve been extended and fluffed, angry as the pinched skin of his forehead.

This was his hero, he couldn’t be giving up too—

“Rest, Hawks,” Enji stand up, “You deserve it.”

Seems Endeavor really died. Enji’s face is worn, his expression neutral and jaw slack. He looks hollowed out and empty, not an ounce or morsel of fight left in him, even for a flightless bird in need of some encouragement.

There’s more to be said, but Keigo’s too angry to listen and Enji doesn’t have the energy to try.

Whatever news the old hero had come to bring was left undelivered.

...

You settle together the next few nights, both so damn tired, even though you’ve done nothing other than lay around a hospital for so-many weeks.

The air always vibrates between the two of you, that comfortable warmth shared between mingling breath and senses. Light dances in your eyes, twisting and bouncing like something otherworldly.

(Maybe it is.)

Your fingers lace together, held in Keigo’s lap. You trace the others hand in relaxing little lines and shapes, trying to soothe each other’s wounds, always.

“One of the doctors said the scar might start shrinking,” You break the tender silence, nosing into his jaw in the same way an affectionate cat would. “They’re not entirely sure, but it’s been stable for a few days.”

Keigo’s feathery (don’t think about it) eyebrows shot up, “That’s amazing, and there’s only a few spasms this week, too.”

(He kept good tabs on you, he had to.)

You hummed in agreement, a sad smile playing on your lips as it so often did.

With a quick blink, the light bouncing in your eyes faded, and the world felt a bit colder.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do when I get out of here,” You pressed closer to him. “There’s shelters, and some cities are taking refugees, but I don’t—”

Your jaw clicks shut, brow furrowed and mood soured.

(Keigo, mind you, is still focusing on the lack of light in your eyes and the chill of the air in the room.)

Something stirs, deep in his gut, but he doesn’t say anything. How Keigo used to have such a mouth, he didn’t know. These days, all he can is act, like somehow the loss of his wings came with the loss of his tongue.

Tugging you by the waist, mindful of the tender scar, he pulls you close, internally resolving.

...

She, the main Suit, visits him.

(It’s his last visitor at the hospital.)

There are no trumpeters, guards, or the like. It’s just the haggard president, matching Keigo with his dark circles and creased with new wrinkles and far-more grey sections in her slicked back hair.

The air stands still as she pulls up a chair, burying her head in her hands.

She, the Main Suit, has never been one to inquire as to how he is. Many of the others at the Commission were sweet, kind to him in youth, but she was all business.

Some things never change.

She breaks the silence of the room, “... do you want to be done, Hawks?”

The cords in his chest tighten, gaze going sharper.

He doesn’t answer.

They meet each other’s gazes; twenty years of fucked-up emotion being shared between the pair of them.

“We’ve done everything. Every healer, every quirk, every treatment, conventional or otherwise,” she’s too soft. “There’s nothing left to try.”

He knew that, he had to know that, right?

His throat feels sticky as he swallows down bile, the scars on his back burning anew. It’s somatic, it has to be, but his flesh crawls and writhes just like yours. His starshine. He hates the way his mind is racing, just as fast as it always has, but his body lacks the ability to keep up.

He grounds himself in the thought of you, his starshine. Your body. Your heat.

His narrow pupils refocus on the light tremble in her shoulders.

“I’m being honest, so I’ll ask again,” She meets his gaze, grey eyes as soulless and full as ever. “Do you want to be done?”

“Well, obviously I can't fight—”

“I mean it. All of it, Hawks. Maybe a few media appearances, but all this... shit. You’ve done enough.”

You’ve done enough.

The words bounce around in his skull.

“Do you want to be done?”

Done with being a hero.

That’s all he’d ever been, right? That is him, he is Hawks, for fuck’s sake, no one other than Dabi (may he rot and die and immolate in hell) even called him his actual name in years.

Keigo is Hawks.

His mouth is dry, and he tries to ignore the tears pricking his eyes. He’s not sure why he’s beginning to cry, and definitely not sure why tension is draining from his shoulders as he sighs out an answer.

“I’ll be done.”

You’ve done enough.

...

Hospital beds are a hot commodity, and now that Keigo had thrown in the towel (along with everyone else) to stop trying with his wings, he was to be discharged within a few days.

(“Just a few more days to adjust your body to your new medications—”)

He’d stopped listening after that.

...

Your last night together is so bittersweet, you taste it on each other’s tongues.

You have an episode early in the day. Your screaming wakes the floor, the burning smell of flesh cementing that it was you.

Keigo’s only half-lucid when he shoves into your room, holding your hands while nurses desperately try to administer pain medication.

It’s too much for you, the crawling edges of the scar once again consuming you in the molten, glowing amber veins of heat that tore through you so terribly.

You sleep the day away. Keigo stays with you for much of it, stroking the bones in the back of your hands.

...

He fucks you for the first time, that night.

His own IVs have been removed, he’s to be discharged first thing in the morning—

And he wants one more night of stargazing, please, please—

(Why’s he clutching at you so dearly?)

But you’re not in the common room.

Rather, you’re under a few thin blankets, eyes tired and lightless. Your arm is out of its cast, laying over the bed clothes. It scares him shitless at first as he tentatively enters. It’s you though, and the moment you see him, it’s like a flame, a good one, heats the room full and wide. A few specks of light dance in between your irises as your skin crinkles in a gentle smile.

You both know he’s leaving tomorrow.

The knowledge settles in the room like a weight that neither of you can move. So, Keigo takes to it and does what he can.

As opposed to his normal perch next to his bed, he sits beside you, removing the restraints on your wrists and helping you to sit up.

Keigo fishes around in his pocket, pulling out a folded square of paper and placing it at your bedside. It’s his phone number, an odd detail. Relationships usually shared far-earlier.

But there is nothing linear or normal about the two of you, or the situation you both sit and stewed in.

You both are making peace with it at your own pace.

The bed creaks as you move to sit beside him, legs dangling from the bed. There’s gooseflesh beneath your gown, the boring pattern obscured by the darkness of the room, but the molten lines of the scar ever-visible.

“I’m glad you’re getting out of here.”

But I wish that you weren’t leaving.

His hand finds your waist, careful like he always is, but so giving in the same breath.

“I am too. It’ll be nice to be.”

But I’m going to miss you.

It’s inherent, and has been forever. Since the moment you both stargazed in the common room and watched the worlds high above twist and shine without regard to your own hells, you’ve been ensnared in the other and neither of you have a want or need to let go.

Even with the inevitably of progress.

Keigo drowns in these thoughts, and has been since Endeavor visited and he was reminded of the harsh reality just outside of their tree-ringed prison. The reality he has to return to—

He presses his lips to yours, more desperate and needy than he had before.

Keigo had taken his share of you before, little pecks and the rub of the bridge of his nose over your jaw and cheeks. He had been a bit greedier with his hands, uncaring of the eyes of the night nurses when he’d touched you in the common room.

But he’s insatiable that last night.

The sheets of the plastic bed are too scratchy, they’re too harsh for you, and it burns Keigo to his core as he lowers you down. He cradles what he can, as your fingers latch onto his clothes (real clothes) and tug him as close as you can get.

The machines in your room cry, but they’re forgotten.

You nip at his bottom lip, dragging yours across his clean-shaven jaw before laying into his neck with kiss after kiss. His muscles shake, holding him over you, both of you atrophied but uncaring.

You suck a deep, throbbing bruise on the fragile skin of his neck. It’s something dark that won’t fade for a week. The thought stirs something in his chest, a white-hot feeling that wants to crack his ribs and consume him. He doesn’t give in, he can’t—

“Stay with me, pretty eyes,” you whisper, so sweet and gentle as you push floppy strands of hair from his face. “Stay here, just for a little while longer.”

The reminder jolts him back, back to you, and the way your body (so tired, but unwavering) jumps and rolls under his touch. He’s a glutton for attention, always has been, but your particular brand and sounds keep pulse hot and hard.

Shaky fingers pull his shirt over his head, sweaty palms push the gown over your hips. By the starlight, you’re both seeing too much of each other, but this is a goodbye, there’s no time to dwell on the discomfort.

Keigo tries to be careful as he adjusts your legs, tries to be mindful of the raw skin and flesh that makes you whine and half-writhe. You clutch at him, still trying to pull him closer despite the proximity and heat, like you need him as opposed to just wanting him.

There’s no fanfare in it, just more rushed kisses and the swirling of fingertips over covered clit. You catch each other’s gasps in the mingling of breaths you share. It’s choking, suffocating, yet entirely not enough. You beg, quietly, for more. Your fingers latch onto his wrist and urge him to help pull your panties off and away.

More, more, more.

By the time he slides into you, you're still tense, but so is he, and in a pile of tension and fear and wishful-thinking, you both come undone, and undone, and undone—

...

Keigo leaves the next morning.

The press is there, flash bulbs blinding him after so long with just fluorescents and starlight. He manages an easy wave or two, no autographs or gleaming smiles, just business and numbness that he needed to hold onto, so he didn’t fucking break.

He slips into the Commission’s car and leaves behind the hospital, you, and its wall of man-laid greenery and prays to forget it all quickly. He has enough to mourn.

...

Keigo wants to off himself when he arrives back at his penthouse.

How can he not?

His ‘home’ (if he couldn’t even call it that) is a dusty, time capsule of everything before. Before he got fucked up with the League, before the PLF, before the war, before Jin—

Every untouched bit of his life from when it was a few, precious fractions better stands unturned. A discarded jacket, wing slits visible and frayed. Scattered dead feathers that make his skin crawl. Memorabilia too, old merchandise that he never cared much about, but he definitely didn’t need to be seeing it now that ‘Hawks’ had burned up and died.

All disgusting reminders.

Something burning fills the base of his skull when his gaze fixates on one of the old plumes. He reaches out to touch the spine of it, instinctually expecting a little jolt of feeling from it, like he always had.

But there’s nothing. It’s dead, decaying, and so is he.

The reality of it breaks him, quick, hard and hot. He burns alive a second time.

He clears the liquor cabinet while blaring music from his over-priced stereo system loud enough to make his ears ache and throb. The music isn’t drowning anything out, but it’s better to pretend.

He finds a bottle of old pills and downs them with a few swigs of expensive whiskey and lets go.

...

When he comes to, he’s staring into a smashed mirror, with his own nails crusted in blood from thin welts in the skin of the scar on his face.

Much to his chagrin, he hasn’t forgotten anything. The memories of blue flames, red feathers, and the smell of your skin mixed with isopropyl alcohol feel brighter than ever. He grounds on them as he sobers up, latching onto the pain of his scar tissue and the solace you gave.

And won’t ever give him again.

Something in him wilts as he defeatedly goes to his phone, arranging any number of things to get him the fuck out.

...

The penthouse is sold, his more important belongings gathered in bland boxes.

And he leaves. There’s no sentiment holding him there, not anymore.

Fukuoka is gone and some distant memory as he drives (yes, he forgot that he had that skill) him and his things to his new home.

His penthouse had been immaculate. Crisp interior design, new shapes and colors that were on trend. He was hardly home to appreciate the modern beauty of it, but he’d received enough compliments from random hookups to know that it landed aesthetically.

But honestly?

Who the fuck cared?

His penthouse had been sold to the highest bidder and far behind as he arrives at his new, high home in the sleekness of his far-too fancy, disused car.

...

He gets a call from an unknown number, another one, on some snowy day, deep in winter.

Keigo debates answering it. He almost lets it slip to voicemail. The only calls worth answering are the handful from the Commission that he has to heed, or the odd one from Rumi, Fuyumi, and on occasion, Endeavor.

Not random numbers, he has no patience for it.

Yet, he answers it lazily.

“Washed up hero, how can I help you?”

“P-Pretty eyes?”

His heart stutters in his chest, he swears—

“Starshine?” He sounds breathless, the air leached from his chest as he white-knuckles his thighs.

He’d given up on you contacting him, yet there you were, or at least your voice, mechanical and high bouncing around preciously in the walls of the cabin

There’s a moment of silence, nearly, just your light breathing that receiver picks up.

Your voice trembles when you break it, “Y-yeah, it’s me, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to call—”

You don’t need to be sorry; he would wait for you forever, and then some.

“I d-don’t actually have a phone? Mine got trashed, uh, back then. I’m on the hospital’s line.”

Keigo hadn’t really considered that, he’s slipped the paper with his number on your bedside without a thought.

How much had you lost?

“No worries, chickadee,” Keigo is sure his smile is audible. “Why call now? Miss me too much?”

He had no idea.

You laugh, though it soured as you spoke, “I get discharged tomorrow.”

Keigo’s heart seizes again and he’s sure he’s going to go into cardiac arrest.

“The guy who gave me the scar and all? He fucked up a few other people, word eventually got here. Once the scar stops... glowing, it rests. If you make it until then, you’re good.”

And alive.

“The whole injury is stable, has been for a week now,” Surprisingly, there’s no relief in your voice. “They need my bed, so they’re releasing me.”

No, no, no.

Where will you go?

Keigo doesn’t say it, but the question hangs in the air and is quickly answered.

“They got me a spot in one of the shelters close by... It’s only a couple hours by train!” You try to sound happy, but it’s so hollow and unnatural; it makes Keigo physically sit up.

No, no, no.

That won’t do.

“... What won’t do?”

Keigo hadn’t realized he’d said it out loud.

Something is buried in his chest, something warm and molten, like the old veins of your scar, just kinder and better. It’s full of urges, so seldom used, selectively as needed throughout his career as a hero.

The need to keep something precious safe.

The thing hasn’t thrashed in months.

Yet now? It’s practically screaming.

“Pretty eyes?” You sound scared through the phone. “A-Are you alright? I can call back—”

“No, don’t, do not.” Keigo lets the flame fill his chest, welcoming it. “You’re not going to that shelter.”

He has something to protect.

“I don’t have another choice—”

Someone.

“You do.” Keigo keeps his voice even, the muscles in his back writhing. If he still had his wings, they’d be puffed out and large. Impassioned with feeling he finally let breath between his ribs. “I’ll come get you, tomorrow.”

“... P-Pardon?”

He doesn’t hesitate, and for a moment, he starts to feel like his old self.

“Come home with me, starshine.”

++++++

thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed!! 💗

look out for parts 2 and 3!!!💞

ko-fi

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