TW: Scabbing, stitches

I have a bad habit of picking at my skin, and I’ve already accidentally pulled out a few stitches from the scabs of my top surgery scars. Why am I like this why can’t I stop

How would the ROs respond to an MC that's new to knitting and gifted them a scarf or hat or some other sort of knitted item that's of... not great quality?

Koda: Wouldn’t see anything wrong with it to begin with! So what if his hat flops over a bit? It gives it more character! He’d wear the hat so much that you’d probably have to convince him to take it off— immediately becomes his favorite clothing item he has. “Can you make me more? I want to give on to Pola.”

Scarlett: “You made this for me, my heart?” She’d get such a soft expression, probably giving you a bunch of gentle kisses to your face— cheeks, forehead, lips, etc— with a beautiful smile on her face. Wouldn’t even care about the quality and you’d see her proudly wearing it with all of her tailored clothes, glaring at anyone that dared look at it funny or comment on it. Every stitch you made, with love in mind, is worth more than all of her clothes.

Cyrus/Cyra: “For me? It’s beautiful.” Would probably have a confused first reaction on what it was supposed to be, though they’d hide it quickly, and simply smile at you instead. Touched that you were willing to make them a gift— even if they’re not completely sure what it’s supposed to be. Would probably ask one of the other dorm mates what it was after the fact, and once they found out it was clothing? You’d see them wear it happily the very next day.

Quinn: “You didn’t have to do this, sweetheart.” No matter the quality, bad or otherwise, they’d be so touched that you took the time to do this for them. Would automatically offer to take you to Avalon for a little coffee date, and a perusal of your favorite shop, to show you how much it means to them. And if it gives them an excuse to proudly wear it in public? That’s just small details.

Caden: “This is a wonderful first attempt, I certainly did worse. You have real talent.” Since they do know how to knit they’d be impressed that you were able to make something, and would gently offer their own services in teaching you if you’d like to know more about knitting. You’d definitely notice them wearing it every time they’re giving you the lessons, and hidden somewhat underneath their work coat on the day-to-day.

Sloane: “What is this?” Wouldn’t hide their confusion in the slightest, frowning at the lump of fabric you had just set in front of them. Once they saw your hurt expression and hear your explanation, they’d immediately feel like an ass and automatically grab the hat(?) and plop it on their head, back straightened to show that they’re happy to wear it (even if it could potentially be in a garish pink color that they don’t typically wear). Anything to make you smile again. (Though they’d also obviously be touched you made something for them.)

Blake: Their eyes would widen in complete excitement, and they’d probably bounce in their seat a little. “I wasn’t aware we were exchanging gifts, angel! I’ll have to go find you one.” They hate getting a gift from you and not giving you one back— it’s something they’ve always done. Would probably leave the table, and the scarf, in their hurry, before quickly returning, wrapping it around their neck, and disappearing again with a brief kiss to your lips and a parting statement. They were on the hunt now for a present of their own.

Reginald/Regina: “I didn’t know you knit! That’s so cool.” Would be so interested to learn about your hobby— how you got into it, why you decided to start, etc— and they’d be so touched that you made them something because of it. Would instantly start devising ways to make you something in return from one of their numerous ones. You’d definitely see them wearing it whenever they could, and when it’s not on them it’s proudly displayed on their Wookiee plushie (something they hold near and dear to their heart).

And Who Are We At The End Of The World? - It's Going To Be Okay

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17] [18] [19] [20]

Word Count : 5,217

Chapter 4/? - - - Read it on AO3

Summary: They all made it to the hospital, but Steve's out for the count. It's up to Robin and Nancy to make sure everyone makes it through the rest of the night without further issue. And maybe it's not just the kids they need to watch out for... perhaps, they might need a little comfort, too?

((For the record, the canon for this fic is that Steve did have the "Six Nuggets" monologue with Nance, but I was more about him just wanting to talk, less trying to worm his way back into her heart. And he never told her that line about "The dream? It's with you. It's always been you." If that makes sense. Aka, Steve really does care about Nancy, but he's not leaning into a romance with her or anything, so keep that in mind as we continue.))

More ST Fics

-----------------------------------------------------

When Steve went down, everyone flinched. He was up one second, talking like he was fine, and suddenly he was on the ground, being swarmed as additional staff flowed into the emergency room. When they got him into a hospital bed and pulled off the fabric from Nancy's shirt, they all saw the damage.

He had been bleeding little by little for a while, probably since about the time he got Eddie loaded on his back in the Upside Down. His adrenaline probably just bottomed out and - after running on empty for so long - he was out. Nancy watched and remembered tying the rope around his waist tightly to shut him up before he got him and Eddie through the gate, and there’s a pang of guilt that follows the memory. Thoughts that ask if she opened those wounds further.

But the people who were looking him over said he was really going to be alright.

"Just needed some stitches, new bandages, and to take it easy for a little while. He’ll heal up just fine."

In the meantime, it was up to Nancy to give them the information on The Party. She ran over all their names and any house phone numbers she knew, so they could call family about medical information and inform the guardians where they all were. But when she mentioned Eddie’s name…

The woman was taken aback and began to ask, in her thick southern accent that made her sound a little out of place,“ That means- Ain’t he the boy on the news who-”

“No.” Nancy quickly came to his defense,” He didn’t do what they say he did.”

The nurse tilted her head, disbelievingly so, “Now, the police called him a prime suspect-”

“I know they did, but they’ve got it wrong, I swear,” she pleaded, becoming more and more unsure as to how she was supposed to convince all of Hawkins he was innocent when she couldn’t even come up with an answer for this one person.

“Then what were y’all doing that got each of you so hurt? These are not normal injuries from an earthquake, and if that Munson-”

“We were running from Jason!” Robin jumped in. It was only a half lie, at best, anyway.

“The Carver boy?” the nurse’s expression turns more confused than doubtful, and at that moment they know they had it. She could buy this story, it was reasonable, made sense, and from what Lucas told them, they could connect him to all of it quite easily. They could play this angle. They could exonerate Eddie like this.

“Yes!” Nancy confirmed, quickly catching on,” Some of us knew Eddie, my brother and his friends, so when they noticed he was missing after something happened at his place, we all wanted to find him and help bring him in safely so the police could clear up what happened.”

Robin came in right where Nancy was leaving off, without even a second between the beats,“ But then, everyone started going crazy, you know? Jason was rolling around with some of the basketball boys trying to find him, hurting people for information-”

Nancy cut in to point out,“ And the police had already made up their mind on what happened. No one wanted to listen to the truth. The town just wanted him executed.”

Robin nodded to her as she concluded,“ And then we found out that Jason announced a city-wide manhunt, in complete defiance of Chief Powell no less… and when we found out that people were actually listening to him instead of the officers? We had to find a way to get Eddie to the station through all the hicks and crazies that wanted to kill him. We tried to hide in the forest until we could figure out what to do. But Jason found us anyway.”

Nancy pulled together the most desperate, pleading expression she could, pushing the honesty in her words,“ We just wanted to set things right. Make sure Eddie got a fair chance to tell the truth and make sure the real guy who killed all those kids faced justice. I swear, ma’am, that’s what happened.”

It was beautiful the way it all clicked together. The way the two of them put the pieces into place like it was a puzzle they just found the cover to. They moved their words together in an almost effortless way, immediately knowing what the other needed to fill the gap in the story. It was a masterpiece.

The nurse looked between the two of them and said,“ I’ll have to call the authorities.”

Nancy nodded back to her,“ We completely understand. Just, once everyone gets set up in rooms, can we stay with them? We need to know we're all okay.”

“It’s against protocol to place a bunch of friends in their rooms, especially after hours…” she said. But they looked so beaten to hell and they still held on to each other… they were kids. And it would’ve been crueler to separate them, wouldn’t it have been?

So, with a sigh, the nurse decided,“ We’ll put the boys in a room together, and the girl just across the hall. The Harrington kid should be getting moved up once they finish his dressings. I’ll walk you all in then. Just- sit tight, while I make the calls I need to make.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Nancy agreed.

They all remained seated as she turned back to the front desk to call the police department. Nancy couldn’t overhear much, but she listened intently and caught her rattling off their names and mentioning that there were tons of injuries among them. While Nancy was focused on the nurse, Robin was watching Steve. There were two doctors, one on his left and one on the right, carefully suturing the bites together, bit by bit. The bleeding was slow, and they didn’t seem worried. They were probably right; it wasn’t a big deal and Steve would just have to deal with a bunch of scars the next time he wanted to flash his abs at the pool. But he’d be fine. Robin wouldn’t have to learn to live without Steve Harrington in her life again, because he was going to be fine.

She was at least able to assure herself of that until they finished wrapping him up in bandages and Steve got wheeled away.

When he was gone, it was harder to be convinced. It probably shouldn’t have been as scary as it was. Robin felt silly the way her heart rate spiked when he went out of view. But they’ve all been together for almost every second these last five days, and now three of them - including her best friend - were separated. They fought to hell and back, quite literally, and now they were just gone. It shouldn't have been that scary, considering they were in a hospital and actively receiving help, but it was. Robin wrung her hands together, trying to stave away the nerves when Nancy reached over and held them in her own.

“It’s going to be okay.”

And she said it so easily. Like it was second nature for her to comfort Robin against the racing fear her mind ran with.

Robin was frozen for a moment as she looked down at their clasped hands.

Nancy continued her ministrations without needing to hear Robin ask for more,“ We all made it here, we’re all still breathing, and now we’re getting all fixed up. We are going to be okay. They are going to be okay.”

“I know. I know…” She shook her head, like it’d do anything to the anxiety buzzing around in it, before looking up to meet Nancy’s eyes,” I know it’s ridiculous to get worked up right now when this is a vast improvement to where we were twenty minutes ago. Logically, I should be elated and going so far as to plan a victory party to celebrate the fact that none of us died on the battlefield tonight. But...”

“But, just because we ‘logically’ should feel fine, doesn’t mean we do.” Nancy understood.

“I just-” Robin screwed her eyes shut to continue,” can't shut off the stream of thoughts that says that, every second I don’t have my eyes on them, something bad is going to happen.”

Nancy deflated just the slightest bit and responded,“ I know the feeling.”

Robin’s eyes opened, and without even needing another word, it clicked for her: Nancy was thinking about her brother.

“Oh my god, you haven’t even been able to check on Mike in days. And here I am about to fall apart because Steve went down a hallway. I should be the one telling you everything’s okay, not the other way around.”

“No, no. Don't feel bad. It’s seriously terrifying that I don’t know what’s going on with him,” she admits,” but I'm scared about them, too.”

Nancy looked at the corridor the others disappeared down in silence for a second before she faintly added,“ But, maybe, you could still tell me this is going to be okay in the end anyway?”

Robin looked at her like she was something new again.

Nancy Wheeler was someone so different than she assumed she was all those months ago. And even still, as she’s learned to adjust her expectations, she was still surprised by all the sides to her. There was the Nancy who was smart and collected and just so perfectly sweet like how every mother wants her daughter to be; there was the Nancy who was an endless pool of ambition and determination to be who she is and get everything she wants out of the world; there was the Nancy who was a badass with a steel heart and courage to beat back monsters to protect the people around her like she was built for it; and now she sees the Nancy who wants to lift a friend’s spirits even when she’s feeling defeated herself, who sometimes needs to ask for support because she can’t always give to herself what she gives to everyone else.

Nancy Wheeler was a hundred different incredible things. And if one of those was Robin’s friend who needed her help? Then Robin would provide it with everything she had.

“Yeah. Yeah.” Robin scooped her hands around Nancy’s to hold them in turn.

”Everything’s going to be fine. I am sure of it. We’re all going to get set up in absolutely killer cots and spend the night making sure dingus and the other two are okay. And then we’ll call the Byers in the morning and Mike is going to answer, probably super grumpy because you’ll phone him at the crack of dawn in California time. And he’s going to say something like,” she put on a gruff voice in an attempt at an imitation,” ‘Oh my gosh, Nancy, chill out. We’ve just been super busy having fun and Joyce’s phone company had some issues. What? What do you mean there’s stuff happening in Hawkins? Oh my gosh, I’m on my way.’ And then he’ll hang up on you, which will make you, like, a little bit pissed, to be honest. But, you’ll be overall super happy that he’s fine and feel like a thousand times better afterward.”

Nancy had a smile pinching her cheeks,“ Yeah, that doesn’t sound half bad.”

Robin nodded at the approval and remembered her duty as Steve’s best friend to be a good wingman. Even if he was currently unconscious, and had yet to officially say he still had feelings for Nancy… There was no harm in using him for a laugh and maybe giving him a leg up in winning Nancy back, right?

She leaned back with a wide grin and continued,“ And then everyone will wake up, including Steve, who will look stupidly handsome considering he hasn’t showered in a few days and nearly bled out twice. And we can all get back to being assholes to one another while you’re all embarrassed trying not to stare at him and-”

“No, I won’t,” she interrupted to dispute that point.

“Oh, please-” Robin rolled her eyes,” I saw you eyeing him up on the boat-”

“I was not-”

“Shirt off and proposing an act of heroism and athleticism? It was one of his finest moments to date, so I’m not criticizing you-”

“I didn’t-”

“And you were all tense towards both of us until you believed there was absolutely nothing between us-”

“That wasn’t-”

“You can deny it all you want, but I’m on to you, Wheeler.”

“No, you're not. Because I’m with Jonathan and- and Steve and I gave it a try before. It didn’t work, and we found out that we just aren’t right for one another.”

“You might’ve not been right for one another back then, but I don’t think any two people have changed as much as you guys have. I mean, King Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington, turned world’s greatest babysitter and hopeless romantic? And Prissy Nancy Wheeler, now a badass who keeps two guns in her bedroom and marches into battle with a sawed-off shotgun? No one could’ve guessed that.”

Nancy decided to move past the fact that Robin just called her prissy and instead confirm that she and Steve would not be happening,“ Well, you’re wrong.”

“I don’t think I am. But I’ll accept your apology when you figure it out, too,” she said with a smirk like she’d seen the future and had it all figured out.

Nancy groaned at the smugness but found herself laughing anyway. It was silly, after all. Steve and her? Just because he’s grown and she’s grown? It doesn’t mean anything. Sure, he can be vulnerable now. Acknowledging when he’s been wrong and thanking her for, what she can honestly admit was, an awful way to break up. But that? That doesn’t mean anything. Especially not when she’s with Jonathan.

They had something. They have been by each other's side since before they even got together. They planned to stick together through whatever else the world threw at them. So, it didn’t matter. End of story: she was with Jonathan, and they were going to work through whatever weirdness was happening between them right now, and they would keep being happy. They would. There was no point in entertaining anything otherwise.

The nurse returned shortly after all the teasing, and Robin noticed that Nancy didn’t pull their hands apart when she did. She first told the staff working on the kids to start keeping a very careful record of the injuries for then the police come in. They’d probably be stalled due to the earthquake, but they’d probably want to come in before long to question all of them. Then she turned back to Robin and Nancy.

“I’m going to give you both one last look over, and then we need that vehicle moved out of the ambulance bay. Pronto. We are expecting a lot of people coming in, sooner rather than later.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Nancy nodded and turned to face her directly rather than how she’d been angled towards Robin.

Her left hand was pulled from Robin’s grasp while she did so, but her right remained, carefully lain in her hold. Nancy squeezed Robin as the nurse prodded around the mark on her neck from when the vines tried to choke her lights out. Robin squeezed back, to remind her that she was there for her. Once she was done with Nancy, it was Robin’s turn. Nancy copied Robin’s position, putting her hands together around the other girl’s, as she went through the same treatment she did.

The nurse wrote down some stuff and checked off a few boxes on her clipboard before dismissing them. It wouldn’t take too long, and maybe only one of them really needed to go move the RV… but when Nancy stood up, hand still holding Robin’s, Robin stood with her. She trailed just behind as they ran out the entrance and climbed into the front seats of the metal giant. And she sat transfixed as Nancy effortlessly flicked two of the exposed wires against one another like she’d been trained to hotwire just as Eddie had. The real story was that Eddie did pretty much all the heavy lifting, and when she sat in the driver's seat the first time, she just figured that the two cords not wrapped together were the ones she needed to spark. She’d been right, of course, and her confidence in doing it a second time was a sight.

A sight that Robin chose to tuck away any feelings about. Because, come on, it was Nancy Wheeler. She might’ve been the whole world’s dream girl, but that didn’t make her any more likely to look at anyone who wasn’t a prom king or Tom Cruise. It didn’t hurt though. It wasn’t necessarily a sad truth, or at least Robin wouldn’t have called it that. It just simply was the truth. And, in much happier news, they were friends. Nancy even asked for that official confirmation, like it was such a privilege to be Robin Buckley’s friend and not the other way around. That was more than enough.

In no time at all, it seemed, Nancy had the RV moved and parked in the lot just beside the emergency entrance. As they climbed out for what would probably be the last time before the cops took it back where it belonged, she noticed the clouded breath as it left her mouth. The orange hue of the streetlights around them almost could’ve fooled Nancy into thinking it was warm out. But it was barely Spring and just after midnight, so warmth wasn’t something Hawkins was gracing them with.

“Thank God for Warzone jackets.” Nancy huffed as she pulled the material tighter around her and they walked back towards the doors.

“What? Battling monsters in an alternate dimension is fine by you, but late night chills are where you draw the line?” Robin nudged against her shoulder.

“What do you want me to say? I run cold!" Nancy giggled through her defensiveness.

"I'd offer the last of the molotov cocktails to get a nice campfire going, but I'm pretty sure I dropped it back at the Creel House when the world started shaking. So I guess you'll have to fend for yourself.”

“If it was up to me, I’d be wrapped up in my bed, sleeping like it was just any other day.” Nancy says with a blissful grin as if she could actually imagine being bundled up at home instead of walking along a hospital sidewalk,” Course, the Upside Down never bothered to ask when I would prefer to deal with all its issues.”

“Funny thing, I never got that memo either. Who do you think it was that decided Spring Break was the perfect time for all of this to crop back up?”

Nancy rubbed her chin contemplatively with a melodramatic hum as they crossed the automatic doors back into the florescent lights of the ER. When the nurse spotted them, she waved them on back, where she stood watch over Dustin and the Sinclairs. The jovial question abandoned, they came to a jog as they rejoined the four of them. They’d given Dustin a crutch, Erica’s arm was in a sling, and Lucas’s face was peppered in white stripes of medical tape to hold the small cuts closed.

“Alright kids, follow me.” the nurse said before she started walking down the hall and loaded them into the elevator.

”We’re expecting the emergency room to start getting very busy, so we’re going to technically admit you all overnight for observation and move you all up into inpatient while we contact family. They’ll be allowed to visit first thing in the morning, but we have to keep the hospital for emergent cases as they come in right now. This also means I’ve made sure the authorities understand that you aren’t to be questioned until you’ve been officially discharged, they’ll most likely be in tomorrow morning, or they’ll contact parents and make arraignments. But for tonight, you are all to get some rest. We’ve got some cots set up in two rooms so we can keep you all together.”

When they arrived on the second floor, she showed them the rooms, right across from each other as she promised.

“Max Mayfield will be getting brought into 237 when she’s done in surgery, and Eddie Munson will be joining Steve Harrington in 238 when they finish blood transfusions and running his labs. You guys can divide yourself up between the rooms however you want, just make sure no one goes wandering off. There are bathroom's in the rooms, and more on the right past the nurses station at the end of the hall, with the vending machines and water fountain. If you need anyone to the room urgently, the call button’s the little one under the red light at the head of the patient beds. It’s only for emergencies. If there's anything else, one of the nurses can help you out.”

“Thank you. We’ll make sure they get settled.” Nancy said.

And with a solemn nod, the nurse went back to the elevator and left them to themselves.

They spent a little while running over Robin and Nancy’s plan for the cops before they could get caught in different versions of the story. Lucas and Erica supplied more details from their night that they were able to work into it. It was solid, and honestly, the details lined up in ways that almost made it too easy to pin on Jason. There was a little bit of a guilty feeling about it. The guy did really believe he was doing the right thing by chasing after the devil in Chrissy’s name… but he was wrong, his crew hurt their Party, and Jason wasn’t even around to face the consequences. The ethical quandary didn’t sit in their hearts long, to say the least.

Either way, it was getting to be about time everyone turned in. There were three cots in what was going to be Max’s room and two in Steve and soon-to-be Eddie’s. There were probably a lot of ways they could’ve split themselves up, but the only way that made sense for them was to put Lucas with Max - along with his sister and Nancy - and to set up Dustin and Robin with the boys. There were sheets, blankets, and flat hospital pillows already laid out. But even with it all ready for them, it didn’t feel right to sleep. They were all still so restless, unsettled. Too many questions were unanswered to feel like they could turn in. But eventually, the children found themselves helpless to their exhaustion.

Nancy wasn’t so lucky. Sleep wouldn’t come. After half an hour of trying, she sat up from the temporary bed and stepped into the hall where she saw Robin on the floor. Sat with her back to the wall, picking at her painted nails.

“You couldn’t sleep either?” Nancy said as she slid down and sat opposite her.

Robin looked up from her hands at the girl across the hall and answered,“ Nope. Don’t think I will be able to until those two are at least brought into the rooms.”

“I was thinking the same thing…” Nancy admitted before looking into the other room and quietly asking,” How does he look?”

“A little banged up, but overall pretty peaceful. He’s got one of those faces that just completely relaxes when he’s asleep, apparently. I’m pretty sure he’s having some great dream, like sunbathing on a beach or something. Of course, he’d rather be there instead of joining the interrogation strategy session.”

“Of course,” Nancy said as she looked down at her own hands.

“Is there something else on your mind?”

“I just…” she bit her lip for a second before meeting Robin’s eyes,” can’t stop thinking about how we failed. I mean, usually, after it’s all over, we’re all beat up to hell, and it’s not very satisfying... but we win. We end the day knowing we fought back whatever was coming. We know that we did good and it was worth the bumps, the bruises, and the trauma because we got to live and save the world. But this time…? It feels like we’ve barely delayed it. We threw everything we had at it, and it wasn’t enough and- and I don’t think we can do it without El’s powers, without Hopper, without all the government suits who used to come and clean things up. And when Vecna comes back - because I can just feel in my bones that he will - I know what he's going to do. I saw what he wants to do. He wants to end everything. Like wipe the slate clean and start civilization over again in his idea of perfection. And I don’t know how we fight that. I don't think I know how to get back up when we’ve been beaten this badly. To face it again anyway? I just don’t know-”

“Hey,” Robin kicked her foot out to nudge Nancy’s and bring her out of her own head. When Nancy looked back up at her, there were tears brimming her lashes ready to fall.

”Remember what I said about your I don’t know’s?”

She looked up to keep the tears from spilling over and let out a pitiful huff,“ They seem to go well?”

“They seem to go pretty freakin’ well.” Robin corrected,” And I have only gotten more and more sure of that fact in the time since I originally said it. Now, I’d go on the record to say they go pretty damn well."

That earned a smile and Nancy wiped around her eyes to get rid of the saltwater that gathered as she listened.

"We’ve got a plan for Eddie. And we’ll put one together for Vecna. Just, not on our own. When we have everyone together again, we’ll figure it out. We just… have to get through tonight.”

Nancy repeated it back to instill it in herself,“ We just have to get through tonight.”

“Exactly.” Robin agreed, flashing her beaming grin at Nancy in some way that just made the world a little less terrifying.

She felt better. In the past, when Nancy began to stew in self-doubt or difficulty, it always felt like nobody knew what to say. The kinds of things Steve, Jonathan, or even her mother could come up with, were never the things she needed to hear. But Robin was an expert already. She just… got it. In some strange way, Robin understood how she felt and had so much confidence that things would get better. That Nancy had the capability to make things better. And she was so sure that she was able to make Nancy remember how much she believes in herself.

Nancy Wheeler does not just let things happen to her. She does not accept disrespect or intimidation. She was smart, she was strong, and she does not go down easy. She has won before, even when no one wanted to listen to her, she found ways to make herself heard and did the job that needed to be done. And that night sucked. It really sucked. But they were still kicking to get back into the ring when the sun came back up.

That’s what mattered: getting through tonight and getting back in the fight.

“So,” Robin chimed in, feeling the need to lighten the mood,” You ever figure out who told the Upside Down to start all this shit up during Spring Break?”

Nancy smiled at the joke and returned, playing at seriousness,“ I’ve got some theories, but no solid leads yet.”

“Oh, come on, Nancy. All that investigative journalistic instinct and you haven’t cracked the case yet?”

Nancy liked the way Robin called it “investigative journalistic instinct”. It wasn’t a joke like the rest of the question. And it wasn't a joke like when the Reporters called her “Nancy Drew". She could tell Robin meant that part. Inside of the banter about scheduling apocalypses… Robin respected her abilities and how she strived to hunt down the truth in all the weirdness that happens in Hawkins.

“Do you have it all figured out?” Nancy threw back.

“Don’t deflect onto me- let’s hear your theories!”

“Alright…” Nancy began, pushing in off the wall to lean in towards Robin, the other girl leaning closer too, and she brought her voice into a whisper like she was trading state secrets,” So I know Dustin wasn’t specifically in the position to need it to come down right now, but he has a prior for keeping secrets that lead to big end of days shit, so it’s not out of the question. And it could’ve been Mike. It is super suspicious that everything happened as soon as he was on a plane to another state. In that same vein, any of the Byers are suspect because they didn’t have to deal with it after they moved.”

“Oh wow, you weren’t kidding, you’ve got some leads.”

“Are you going to help me narrow them down or not?”

Robin raised her hands in surrender,“ Alright, alright. So about your Dustin theory…”

They passed the time mock debating the why's and why not’s of just about everyone they could think of. Robin even tried to pin it on Tom Cruise for no other reason than to poke at Nancy’s obvious favor for the actor. It was a more than welcome distraction while they waited to see the two missing from their group brought back.

Among their conversation, they watch people filter in as commotion rises from the floor below. Injuries and casualties of the “earthquake” were filling up the hospital just as the nurse had suggested they would. Just after 1:30 am Eddie is wheeled in and moved into the bed by the window. It takes a while longer, but around 3 am Max finally joins them too and gets settled into her room.

And they both breathe a little easier because, finally, all their ducks were in a row. They were all gathered back together again, heartbeat monitors serving as a constant assurance that they were still alive despite how close they came. And maybe it was because they were all gathered, or maybe it was because they got to talk through their fears and find some silly joy… but Nancy and Robin finally felt like they could fall asleep.

They stood up from their spots in the far too bright hall and turned into their rooms with a final “goodnight” to one another. Both left the doors to the rooms open just a crack, mostly falling into soft darkness with exception of that little line of light. And somehow, the darkness didn’t feel as frightening as they thought it would after the night they had.

Robin got to listen to Steve’s soft snoring to lull her into her sleep. Nancy had Lucas’s breathing amplified by his broken nose. And before long, all seven of them were just a little better off. Happily tucked in the comfort of their dreams.

All of them, except for Steve.

You are an Artist with Words!!!! Seriously, each and every one of your fics are bangers!

(This is Fannon, by the way❤️)

Also I’m going to have the line ‘pull that ill-stitched golden thread out of the moment to reweave it into what it was supposed to be’ in my head for the rest of time. Artist, I tell you!

I Continue to Adore your version of CringeFail Byler. You are So good at getting their characters down even in situations they’ve never been in canon.

Also the fact that, in my mind’s eye, I could imagine the actors playing these scenes out—brilliant writing.

*squints at Jancy* they’re doing this on purpose. Let your sibs live a little!

Also the image of the OG four having to share a bed is Adorable even if Mike was grumbling about it.

Good, wonderful fic!!! I hope you are doing very very well.

(Also, what’s your thoughts on our boy Noah winning People’s choice, and his little S5 tease?)

AHHHH fannon you are too kind T_T i saw your message last night and literally couldn't stop smiling - thank you for always being so nice and sweet !!

i'm really glad you like my writing 🥺 it means a lot to me!! and AHHHH the golden thread line!! i was honestly a little surprised when i wrote it. idk where it came from, but i'm glad it fit :D

heheheheheh yesss they are cringefail loser dorks!! it's a relief to hear that they were still relatively in-character for this one - i was definitely a little worried, just because it started becoming more of a funny thing than anything, and i feel like anytime i try to write with humor i end up sacrificing some character depth along the way. i'm glad they were acting how they should in this one though!!

the jancy interruptions T_T i feel like in canon they'd be a lot nicer than they were here. i'm just way too fond of the idea of them teasing their younger siblings for being together lol

og 4 my beloveds!! here's to hoping they have more screentime all together next season~

oh yeah Noah!! i'm very proud of him (especially since he beat out THEE Ewan McGregor?? honestly what a king), and i think he deserves it. st has such a solid cast, but he's definitely one of the best actors i feel like i've seen in a long time. he genuinely gets possessed by Will on that show i swear. and the s5 comments had me 👀 i'm tentatively hoping for the best!! what are you thoughts on it, though??

i'm so glad you enjoyed this fic fannon!! thank you for stopping by as always!! i am wishing you all the best :] 💜💜💜

                                                                                    CONTINUED               @galactia​   ↤   always accepting    ::   RANDOM / XMAS   ↩

Zhongli presents Kaeya with a gift, folded beneath a covering of fabric. It is a set of clothing, personally commissioned, sewn of the finest Liyuese materials. The shirt is sheer black, loose and elegant at the sleeves and tapered at the waist, soft and breathable. The coat to accompany it is white, dusted in inlayed golden designs that resemble fractals of ice and snow. The buttons are polished granite, flecked with gold, and the stitching that weaved its image together was black. With it is a cape, split to allow for it to drape over Kaeya's shoulders and leave his arms free, but its collars is close and around the shoulders and neck is fur enough to keep him warm, even in the winters of Mond.

With this fine suit, is a smaller box. Inside is a stone, no larger than a coin, smooth and gleaming. Its amber depths glitter such black and orange it nearly shines iridescent, and over its surface are expertly carved, in Liyue script, the symbols for protection, security, and safety. "You deserve fine things." Zhongli breathes, and as he presents this, a far smaller token, he adds, "And this, which I formed from a piece of Cor Lapis from the mountains of Guyun Stone forest, is something so you might remember my affections, even while apart."

 With steady fingers, the god led Kaeya's fingertips over the carved impressions, "This, is a promise of protection. While this, a blessing of safety. And the last, a seal of security."

KAEYA  you deserve fine things - none of which he can be compensated for. at least, not in the... proportionate sense.          funny how hard it can be not to feel cheap. a line up of confrontations with the fact of this: how harsh, how hollow, how acrid kaeya is. there isn’t much to gift to, or to respond with. not here, where anything more than honesty defeats the point.

another gift beyond his value; another instance of his fingers closing around something craved for what it means. even if expressed in only monetary terms, this states value. kaeya nearly bites through his lip as he lets himself take it. the bills are stacking up. he’s no lasting intention to pay.                             if zhongli intends for this to be a partnership                        he can be trusted to know what it takes—no? pre-empt the breaking point of generosity’s impulse meeting the brick wall of exhaustion. those millennia are supposed to be good for something. 

              a promise of protection

      a blessing of safety

a seal of security

ah... & they’ve moved on to matters of divine protection. kaeya’s eyes are glued to the colour of zhongli’s eyes - but safer, & less meaningful.

                    “bold words,” it is a low grumble. “have you not noticed,” t h i c k, voice of silk ripping across the gravel of emotion. he’d not intended to bare this today, but zhongli makes- zhongli... it’s not an opportunity to squander, no matter what. “how thoroughly you are writ into my being?”        not the right words. sure, get it wrong. why not. by now the truth has become so wrung out it is misshapen even when uttered into daylight. “i cannot forget. regardless how much i enjoy your reminders.”

          perhaps the emotion isn’t unworthy. ( i’m going to need this beyond its expiration date. ) it is TERROR.

ah, fuck. what it means to be loved by a god indeed- although kaeya remains hard-pressed to believe a mere god would forfeit so much of its time just by dint of its nature.     now, if they were to discuss individual nature...                      but this is his god, so it does not matter what the others are like. ( not until he needs them &, with the courage of the bitterly damned, will try the one thing that has worked. to likely less satisfactory results. but that’s what make-belief is for. )

            THE ONLY SECURITY I NEED YOU’VE ALREADY GIVEN ME — a promise carved into his own flesh. a day that won’t be forgot until he forgets himself.

the amber of zhongli’s eyes is of the stone that is slipped, delicately, into the pressure under his corset. under his blouse - tucked right below the sharp point of a cleavage’s v. it nudges into his breastbone like a stomach ache, & he smiles.

         “dress me in your colours,” it’s not that the gift isn’t appreciated, when laid firmly aside. no, he’s rather fond of being spoiled- “recognise me in your blood,” that chiselled jaw cupped by greedy fingers that card into his hair to grip it, “drown me in your scent.” the stroke of his cheek along the bare column of another’s warm throat. when he hums it is closer to a growl: 3 different kinds of excitement / all satisfaction.      his claws are always out, when embracing this one.                          everything pales in comparison to t h i s:

                 that this motherfucker is his.

Interview with Continuum's Erik Knudsen

Hey guys, today i'm bringing to you another interview with Erik for online magazine "Sci-fi and Tv Talk", so enjoy it.

Tech Support: Interview with Continuum's Erik Knudsen

May 29th, 2012

At the age of 10, Erik Knudsen played on a children’s hockey team that was chosen to appear in a Visa TV commercial. Little did the actor realize the impact that this event would later have on his life. “I loved it and I always wanted to act after that,” he says. “My parents, of course, were always telling me to have a back-up plan just in case things didn’t work out.

“When I was younger I wanted to be a policeman. I thought that that would be an awesome job and still do, but unfortunately I don’t think I have quite what it takes. I’m 5’ 8” and 125 pounds, so it would probably be kind of difficult. I always wanted to be an actor, though, and felt that if I had a back-up, it would allow me to give up too easily on my dream. So I don’t have a back-up right now. I’m just concentrating on my acting and would love to do that for the rest of my life, and maybe direct down the road.”

In Knudsen’s case, hard work and perseverance have certainly paid off in the form of several feature film and TV credits. Currently, the affable and talented actor is playing Alec Sadler in the hit Canadian TV Sci-Fi/Police Drama Continuum. When Kiera Cameron (Rachel Nichols), a Vancouver CPS (City Protective Services) officer in the year 2077, is unexpectedly sent back in time to Vancouver 2012 along with a group of convicted terrorists, the technology in the future suit she is wearing manages to connect with a frequency used by Alec.

A 17-year-old computer genius, he has, unbeknownst to him, created the foundation for all the technology that runs the world in 2077. While at first only a voice in her head, Alec becomes one of Kiera’s most important allies in her efforts to stop the terrorists from wrecking havoc in the present and changing the future.

“When my character first heard Kiera’s voice over the radio he thought it was a prank,” explains Knudsen. “Alec couldn’t believe that anyone could get onto this encrypted frequency that he created, so when he first starts speaking to Kiera, he doesn’t believe her. For a while, she’s telling him that she’s from 2077 and Alec thinks, ‘OK, that could be true,’ but he doesn’t understand how that’s possible.

“Throughout the first few episodes, my character is trying to help Kiera, but there’s a great deal of doubt. Now, however, we’re filming our 10th episode [and first season finale], and there’s a lot of trust has built up between them. He’s helping her out every day to find these bad guys and fight crime, and Kiera is becoming reliant on him. Alec is basically all the backup she has right now because no one really knows the truth about her. So Kiera really trusts him and I think their relationship has developed quite nicely over this first season. They’ve become close friends and, of course, Alec is a teenage boy, so he thinks that Kiera is really hot,” says the actor with a chuckle.

In Continuum’s first season opener A Stitch in Time, the first glimpse that audiences have of Alec is of him sitting in a dark room surrounded by computer screens and various other technical paraphernalia. Because he is supposed to be playing a computer genius, Knudsen was almost immediately rattling off the “dreaded” technobabble.

“They pack all my dialogue into one day because we film most of my scenes in a barn, which is Alec’s workshop,” he notes. “So my first impression on my first day of work on Continuum was, ‘Holy cow, what did I get myself into,’ because it was a lot of work. Alec is very smart, which meant I had to learn all this technical jargon and lingo. All I can say is that the Internet is amazing; it gives you links to all these websites that basically tell you how to pronounce these words, so that was a big help for me.

“It takes a week for me to memorize all the dialogue that I have for my one day of shooting usually on Fridays,” continues Knudsen. “As far as prep, it consists of a couple of hours every day of me writing everything down, trying to memorize the words and just get the rhythm of it all. So in the beginning it was a little bit startling for me to play a character that knows so much about stuff that I don’t know anything about. Again it was a lot of memorization as well as preparation, but so far so good. I’ve learned a ton and because we’re coming to the end of filming, my mind is a little tired now, but it got a pretty good workout this season.

“Another challenge with this role is that I didn’t know too much about my character of Alec. I knew that he’s a farm boy who keeps to himself and does all this technical stuff in his family’s barn. As far as what comes down the road for him, well, he’s trying to deal with a woman from 2077 and what she’s telling Alec about himself as well as the future. How do you act like this is news to you? I can’t give away too much, but as the season goes on, he changes just like anyone else who is being told the kind of information that Alec is. When it comes to specifics, though, you’ll just have to watch,” teases the actor.

As his on-screen relationship is taking time to develop with the show’s leading lady Rachel Nichols, the actor’s off-screen rapport has solidified much quicker. “Rachel Nichols is incredible,” says Knudsen. “It’s always scary settling into a new show with a new cast because you don’t know what everyone is going to be like, but the whole Continuum cast is fantastic. Rachel is the coolest person to be working with on this show. She’s like one of the guys; Rachel is drama-free, she loves football, and coming into this show she’s learned to really love hockey, which is terrific.

“So Rachel is perfect and a pleasure to work with. I mean, she comes in on her day off just to help me out by doing her character’s off-screen dialogue. It’s difficult because we’re never face-to-face; I’m always in the barn and talking to her through a blue tooth. So we don’t get the usual actor interaction that you’d normally get, but we help out one another by reading off-camera for each other in order to develop the flow of the scenes and that care in the lines instead of just talking to one of the crew who’s reading the [off-camera] dialogue. At first we were concerned about how things would all play out if that was the case, but I’m happy to say it’s been fine.”

Having worked on a number of made-for-TV movies as well as played the lead role in YTV’s Mental Block and guest-starred on such TV series as Doc, Blue Murder and The Guardian, the Toronto-born Knudsen made his first major feature film appearance as Daniel Matthews in the 2005 horror flick Saw II.

“I was around 16 when I booked that job, and I was so excited,” recalls the actor. “I studied so hard for that role and wanted it so badly. I sat in the car before for audition and was really nervous, but at the same time I pumped myself up. Like most actors, when you finish an audition, you hate it and think you did horrible. However, I got a phone call telling me I got the role and I almost died. I couldn’t believe that I was going to be in the sequel to one of my favorite horror movies.

“So this was a dream come true, and any nervousness was soon overtaken by my excitement. We only had 21 days to shoot the movie and not a big budget at all. We filmed in this abandoned warehouse in Toronto and were working 16-hour days. At the time I had this really bad flu and was so sick. Also I was still young enough to need an on-set tutor. So I had to have two hours minimum of tutoring every day on top of working 16 hours and being sick. It was hard, but a good challenge for me. Funnily enough, my character is sick in the film, so I guess it actually worked out that I was sick in real life,” he jokes.

Not long after Saw II, the actor booked a series regular role in the CBS action/drama Jericho followed by four big screen projects including Scream 4. “I grew up watching the Scream movies, so it was awesome to work on Scream 4,” he enthuses. “As a kid I was terrified of the Scream mask, and here I was years later face-to-face with the real thing. It was an honor to work on such a classic movie with such an amazing and legendary director like Wes Craven, who I looked up to while growing up. It’s one of the best experiences of my life so far.”

In addition to Continuum, Knudsen can also be seen in episodes of the Canadian-made TV medical drama Saving Hope (premiering in June on NBC in the States) and writer/producer/ director Darren Lynn Bousman’s (Saw II) upcoming movie The Barrens. For the actor, having his name appear in the credits is not quite as important as the type of project he is working on.

“It’s really difficult because being an actor you don’t know when your next paycheck is going to come in, so you can’t always make the most artistic choices,” says Knudsen. “A lot of times you have to accept a role you’re not too thrilled about and might not really care for. Thankfully I have been really lucky and been working enough that I can choose projects that truly stand out to me, are well-written and a real challenge. I’m very grateful for that because right now I know a lot of people don’t have that luxury. A year from now that might all change, but right now I’m able to do that and I’m very happy with what I’ve chosen so far, including Continuum. I just saw some clips of the season finale and it’s going to be a great ride.”

Steve Eramo Continuum premiered Sunday, May 27th @ 9:00 p.m. EST/PST on Canada's Showcase network; the series will continue to air on this same day and time. As noted above, all photos have respective copyrights, so please no unauthorized copying or duplicating of any kind. Thanks!

Source: scifiandtvtalk

replica burberry scarf 25

Burberry I didn’t think anything else about it and determined to just wait until I received my statement to verify I hadn’t been charged, or if I had, it had been credited back. The following Monday my scarf arrived from Burberry. And, if this shade mixture isn’t for you, there’s plenty of options to select from including pink, gray, brown, black, purple, green, purple and many more. Timeless tartan plaid (like Burberry!), as properly as vibrant color mixtures that might be easily paired with any outfit. “We simply bought out of some of them — a bit of a surprise so early in the season,” she says, and factors to the brand’s thicker, chunky-gauge styles like the Gianna scarf as top sellers for the model. Gucci GG Jacquard ScarfThe Gucci GG motif was initially designed in the Nineteen Thirties, but it wasn’t until the reimagined version was launched within the Seventies that it really grew to become a key piece of the Italian model. Clear proof that the motif continues to be a powerful image to this present day, the GG Jacquard scarf is a best-seller across the world—take one look at it and you’ll understand why. I obtained a package deal right now with a Burberry scarf and an odd invoice of 6,180,00 HKD. The scarf is NOT evenly striped on each finish. wikipedia scarf It would have been easy for them to match the stripes at the finish. There are several videos on YouTube where they are comparing their old LV items to newer items they’ve bought and they aren't joyful. Many are saying they gained't be buying anymore LV till the quality improves. These days, celebrities can’t appear to get enough of the brand’s infamous checked pattern. Staple objects such as the ditch coat and cashmere scarf have persistently been spotted on stars over time. Drawing on its heritage of craftsmanship with a new streetwear edge, Bailey helped rebuild Burberry’s relevance as a reputable fashion brand. The fashion industry has become such a sad state of affairs. If I had not first ordered this scarf from Burberry, I’m unsure I would have been in a place to tell the eBay scarf was a fake when it arrived. https://skel.io/replica-scarfs-shawls/replica-burberry-cashmere-scarf.html I’d like to suppose I would have noticed the terrible blurring of the strains and the poorly stitched label, but the fake scarf is so soft, it could have lulled me into pondering it was the true thing. But if you flip the scarf over and compare how properly the tag is sewn on the actual Burberry scarf to how the sewing appears on the fake scarf, it’s apparent which is the actual scarf. Personally, I’d rather buy the fake one, if, that's, I had been inclined to purchase one thing that appeared precisely like all the actual one that appears exactly like every danged different one–which I’m not. Mia, I finally ended up mailing it to the New York location of Burberry with a notice explaining it was purchased on eBay and was in all probability a fake. I just saved pondering that it would be helpful for them to see what’s being bought on eBay. It does go great with that jacket and likewise with a purple Orvis coat I purchased on eBay some time back. I know a variety of the eBayers reside close to retailers and so they most likely purchase products there, however when there are that many “new” ones for sale, it makes you very suspicious. Our winter was so warm this year mine hardly got used. Burberry wonderful and eccentric "Wind-Blown Doggies & Umbrellas" silk jacquard scarf is accented with hand-rolled edges and measures 18 inches by 18 and a half inches. This Burberry scarf is in good condition no holes no tears, no stains Tassels are complete and intact at each ends Light weight scarf made of 100%LAMBSWOOL It has been dry cleaned s... one hundred pc GENUINE BURBERRY VINTAGE SCARF First somewhat bit in regards to the Burberry Brand we now have been asked many instances why are a few of our scarves and coats with Burberrys on the emblem and ... First slightly bit concerning the Burberry Brand we now have been requested many times why are some of our scarves and coats with Burberrys on the brand and never Burberry Burberry and Burberrys ... The results may even include a report on why we consider your scarf is fake or authentic. In the actual vs fake Burberry scarf picture above, we have identified four major flaws on the fake Burberry scarf. The genuine Burberry scarfs will at all times have high-quality supplies and when they are produced, they are manufactured with care, so all the prints have the identical font-weights. Along with every step, you’ll find fake vs real Burberry scarf photographs which will help you perceive the issues on the fake Burberry scarves. Reasonable price, superior high quality, timely supply and excellent service. It could be nice if Burberry may validate your distinctions (excellent, btw!). No, as a end result of you can nonetheless find some amazing deals on eBay, and as lengthy as eBay continues to offer their money-back guarantee and you pay with a bank card through Paypal, I assume it might be an excellent deal. I especially love eBay for finding items which may be not available in shops, or have been discontinued. There are so many great sellers on eBay, they usually undoubtedly outnumber the unhealthy ones. When it involves authentication of Burberry scarf, begin by analyzing the print- observe the quality of the material, how accurate the strains are and if it matches the authentic look. Next, look at labels and analyze every element as properly as possible. Keep in thoughts that totally different replica qualities might make the authentication process slightly harder. It’s not just the black design of the headband that seems blurry or fuzzy on the fake Burberry scarf. It utterly lived as a lot as all of the fantastic issues I’ve always heard about Burberry scarves. Words can’t adequately describe how delicate it is. Style your winter outfits with this elegant muffler from Burberry. It features a brand design and will make certain everybody knows about your excessive style in style. Burberry's scarf is knitted with three distinct panels of heat yellow, pastel pink, and navy. It's crafted from a light-weight and sumptuous mix of mohair and silk and completed with... Burberry's scarf is knitted with three distinct panels of shiny red, caramel, and light blue. You can even customise these burberry scarf china according to your decisions for personalized fashion statements. 100% genuine Burberry Prorsum floral shawl in off-white, beige, black, lilac, violet, pink, green, steel-blue, brick-red cashmere (100% assumed as tag is missing). It all started in 1967 when the manager of Burberry’s Paris retailer was arranging a bunch of trench coats in the entrance window. As all of the trench coats were in khaki colors, she determined to add some color by turning up the coat’s hem.

20 Best Designer Sneakers Of 2021

This has been a major discussion among folks about reps on reddit. Aliexpress has gone after reps sellers and even blocking a variety of the keywords in the primary searches. Whereas DHgate is much more open with its reps. This is why Dhgate is best than Aliexpress in relation to sneaker reps on-line. If you're eager on color in your sneakers, then you will love Designer Shoes. Before becoming inventive director of Louis Vuitton, Nicolas Ghesquière made a name for himself at Balenciaga with a debut assortment that put the silhouette first, much like the house’s founder. Over the next 15 years, Ghesquière applied the tailoring Balenciaga was identified for to the developments of the time and created standout items of his personal, such because the Lariat bag and gladiator boots. This is essentially the most seen part of your handbag so clearly it's a big level to suppose about when purchasing a replica. Authentic Balenciaga makes use of both goatskin or lambskin leather depending on which collection a particular handbag is from. In terms of their assortment, they’ve got an excellent assortment of casual shoes such as Nike replica and Adidas replicas. They take care of sneakers, formal sneakers, semi-formal sneakers. In phrases of their replicas, they've some pretty precise Nike Basketball replicas which look tremendous superior. With new variations and colorways of this model dropping fairly typically, in addition to the traditional ones staying as well-liked as ever, it’s protected to say Balenciaga Triple S are right here to stay. Sadly, it additionally means that the value to get your palms on them stays hefty - about 1000$ if buying on the official website. The heel loop just isn't the one detail to point out here. They take care of wholesale prices, so in case you are buying in bulk, you're going to get a great deal. But getting the best of one of the best can actually dent your wallet, especially in case you are a sneaker aficionado. Plus when you spend so much on footwear, you don’t feel like using them. If you are unaware, a reproduction sneakers is one that looks exactly like the original but it comes at half or 1/3rd the price. It’s not straightforward to find replica sneakers online as there are a lot of below par sellers, who sell anything beneath the solar underneath the tag of a replica. This is solely due to how Balenciaga sneakers are made, and the opening has no real purpose that we know of, nevertheless it nonetheless serves as an indicator. What you need to do is spread the shoe or attempt to move it around, and see how the footbed behaves. If the sews transfer when you transfer the shoe, however the footbed stays tightly glued and doesn’t move, the shoe is definitely high quality and possibly authentic. On the pretend one, the footbed strikes around, however the sews do not, which tells that the shoe is made cheaply and is much less durable. https://re-pin.me/balenciaga-replica.html In this case, the material the insole is made from may be very totally different in high quality. You could discover the apparent distinction in shade and the stitching . Next up is somewhat smiley face that you would be discover on the midsole. They are virtually equivalent on the fake VS actual, nevertheless, the actual one is a little bit more prominent and visual. The POW Art - Watercolor drawings, cartoons, sketches and carvings made by the prisoners of war at Stalag Luft I during World War II. The POW Stories - This page contains a set of true quick stories written by POWs detailing their experiences throughout World War II, earlier than and after their being shot down and imprisoned. As you can guess, it is also as a outcome of lace being constructed in another way. The genuine is dense, produced from lots of tiny threads tightly squeezed together, whereas the faux is made from greater threads with less density. The real laces are a lot larger high quality, so they want to be agency, thick and sturdy. wikipedia handbags On the other hand, the replica has soft, more stretchy and less sturdy shoelaces. One way to verify it's by taking a shoelace and making an attempt to pull it apart. That is why we've compiled this fast 60-second resolution to authenticating your Balenciaga Speed Trainer sneakers. Below are the highest 7 indicators that may assist you to determine in case you have a fake pair of Balenciaga Speed Trainer or the real deal. Hey, if you wish to learn how to spot fake Balenciaga footwear vs actual, click on the blue text. That textual content will forward you to our library of Balenciaga guides. So you should think carefully to keep away from buying the unsatisfactory Balenciaga sneakers replica. At the identical time, you can even look for some buy opportunities for geneuine and low cost designer trainers. The primary things you need to pay consideration to are the stitches, the overall shape of the shoe, and the materials. Stitches on OG Balenciagas tend to be very clean and clean.

Draw your swords, pt. 5

Summary: A very special dinner brings a very special moment for the Darkling and his wife.

Warnings: angst, sexual innuendoes, swearing, bit of fluff

Part one // Part two // Part three // Part four  

=================================

She felt caught in the riptide, finding it hard to stay upright. As the daughter of a general, Y/N had seen so many evils, so much hurt, yet she never buckled under pressure.

Staring at the empty spot beside her, she laid there while battling shadows in her head. So filled with rage, she wondered who she’s becoming as a part of her longed to feel his touch. Perhaps he was right, she’s a foolish girl who is trying to win a game where the rules are nonexistent.

Having stayed awake most of the previous night, she didn’t expect trouble sleeping. With a heavy sigh, she abandoned the bed they shared – it felt too intimate to remain there now. They’ve only ever kissed and it was never planned nor did it happen in the very bed she felt is so incredibly vast, so lonely and cold when he didn’t stay there with her.

Pacing the room as she saw his shadow do the night before, Y/N couldn’t help but wonder if he had trouble sleeping alone too. It was less than a full week since they married and she already cursed the smallest part of her that seemed to care for him.

Men are easy to love. A woman’s heart was made to care and love those near her. Mistaking love and trust is what a woman should never do. Love and trust are separate entities, one is given, the other must be earned.

Remembering her mother’s words eased her self-loathing. If she dared to love the Darkling, it wasn’t entirely under her control. Trusting him was different. She wasn’t as naïve as to allow the echoes of her heart dictate what her mind long acknowledged – he isn’t trustworthy.

And as the stars rise in the sky, she paced the room tirelessly. Arguing with herself, she paid no mind to the night sky she loved so much. If she had, Y/N might have realized a man with dark skies for eyes had trouble looking away from her shadow.

Exhausted, Y/N rose with the dawn. She had barely scraped up a few hours of decent sleep, tormented by his words even in dreams.

“Enter”, she yawned as Genya readily walked inside. The maids rushed to the bed, willing to change the bed sheets they couldn’t last time as Y/N had sent them away.

“Stop!” She exclaims as they reach Kirigan’s side of the bed, a slightly panicked look on her face relaying uncontrollable desires she had no chance of understanding.

Frowning, Genya licked her lips. While Y/N wasn’t sure what caused her outburst, she believed to know the root. “Leave us. You will be asked to change the sheets when Y/N desires it.”

Swallowing thickly, Y/N turned away. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be”, Genya mussed. “We have a dinner to prepare you for.”

“Yes, of course.” Y/N managed a smile, briefly looking to Genya. “I’ll be alone which gives me a perfect chance to find new allies.”

Blinking fast, Genya’s frown deepened. “I’m not sure who could ally with us in the Palace. Everyone’s charmed by our General. If you’d just work with him, they would all be with you too.”

“He works for the emperor.” Y/N reminded her.

Running her hands through her hair, Y/N didn’t know if she could ever trust him enough to tell him the truth. Her plans, her fight, it’s her life’s work. She came into that palace with intention of burning it down. The emperor must die and anyone else who’d fuel the flames of war must perish along with him. The war had claimed her mother’s life, of thousands of humans and Grisha alike, Y/N aimed to end it. And to end it, she had to destroy those who started it, those who refused to implement equality between species, as Kirigan called them. Humans and Grisha must be seen equally worthy, they must ally or they will be exterminated like vermin by surrounding enemies.

She grieved for her mother every day, even now as a decade had passed. Grief is really just love one cannot give to the other. It’s all the unspent love, gathering in the corners of her eyes, the lump in her throat and inside the hollowed heart that’s trying to beat in her chest. If her sorrow was but snow that could melt with coming spring, she’d shake it off her shoulder and be done with it. It doesn’t just disappear or heal with time, she could not just let it go and forgive. Y/N survived the loss of her mother by making a vow, one she was closer to fulfilling.

“Should I prepare your usual kefta?” Genya asked, holding the blue one over her forearm.

Shaking her head, Y/N turned to her with a smile. If she wants to succeeded, she must use all weapons at hand. Being the General’s wife is one of the weapons at her disposal.

“I was thinking about a different color for tonight.”

“How different are we talking?”

Smirking, Y/N’s eyes flickered to Kirigan’s kefta. “Black.”

“No one wears black but Kirigan”, Genya reminds her.

“Until he married. I believe I’m allowed to wear his color.”

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Genya sighed heavily. “Alright. As long as you allow me to make a few modifications.”

Anticipating the dinner, Y/N felt like a goddess in the kefta Genya had crafted for her. It fit her perfectly, adjusted just above the waist as it properly accentuated her curves. The closed collar wrapped around her neck, fallen stars creating a golden woven blaze as a necklace, while moondust adorned the long, skin tight lacey sleeves. The bottom acted as a floor length dress with a long slit revealing skin up to middle of her thigh.

Entering the room with her head held high and Genya on her hand, Y/N felt even more confident about the eclipsed sun stitched across her heart. It was bound to attract attention if the rest of her makeshift kefta inspired dress didn’t.  

The moment she took a step inside, everybody’s head turned. The chatter died down, replaced by astonished gasps of pure awestruck admiration.

“I believe you’ve created a masterpiece”, Y/N whispers to Genya whose smile widens.

“You are what makes it so spectacular”, Genya winks.

“Don’t be modest. We both know it’s not in your nature.”

Giggling, Genya nods, “You’re right. I’m brilliant and this”, she steps aside to give her a once over again, “You are proof.”

Pursing her lips, Y/N felt her cheeks darken. Her plan was to draw attention so any potential ally she speaks to would be more inclined to accept her request, but she didn’t expect for everyone to stop and stare.

Tugging her by the arm, Genya pulled her closer. “You’ll never guess who is here”, she spoke in a hushed tone, looking to the left as the rest of the guests began speaking again and the music played softly in the background.

Following her line of view, Y/N’s heart came to a near stop as her eyes locked on his.

“Wasn’t he supposed to leave last night?” Genya whispers, but Y/N could hardly speak.

Breath caught in her throat, Y/N stared back at Kirigan who seemed to be just as breathless. She looked like a dream, a golden bird that carried all the happiness of the world on its wings.

“He didn’t”, Y/N looked away, knitting her eyebrows. “Why didn’t he”, she tried to finish her initial thought, but she couldn’t. If she spoke of the sudden ache that settled after the initial shock of his presence dispersed, she’d hate herself more. She’s weak if her feelings are hurt by a single night spent alone in a bed. She was certain now. She is foolish.

“You won’t be able to network tonight”, Genya’s frown made Y/N chuckle.

“You’ve been frowning so often since we met.”

Shrugging, Genya leaned in discreetly. “I can afford a few worry lines. I’ll just erase them later.”

Playfully rolling her eyes, Y/N smiled brightly. She would not allow Kirigan to dampen her mood. He can stay on his side of the room and she won’t spare him a single glance.

“I’ll test the waters”, Genya promised, “If I find anyone that we can work with, we can test their loyalty later.”

Glancing over Y/N’s shoulder, Genya’s eyes widened ever so slightly.

Frowning lightly, Y/N glanced at what has her so perplexed only to huff in frustration.

“Black suits you”, the Darkling compliments her. Holding out a hand for her to take, he glances at his open palm before raising his brow. He’s challenging her.

Looking around, she realizes everyone’s waiting for her reaction. As he told her once before, they may not be a love match, but their arrangement must seem successful to the unsuspecting eye.

“Dance with me and pretend they don’t exist”, his voice softened and she couldn’t believe this is the same man who so cruelly baited her, branding her as foolish earlier. How can he act as if nothing happened when she was still reeling from it? Not that he’d know, she always put care in every move she made around him.

She placed her hand on the palm of his, holding her breath as she chained her gaze to the abyss in his. There’s no going back, she thinks, nearly shuddering as he places his free hand on her hip.

“I thought you were gone by now”, she mussed. Choosing to take control of the conversation, she kept her neck straight as it secured a proper distance between their faces.

“We had a slight delay”, he said, “I’ll be gone tonight.”

Humming, she swallowed thickly. Avoiding looking at others, she remained in a staring match with her husband.

“How did you sleep?” The Darkling smirked, watching her eyes narrow at him.

“Quite well. Did you enjoy sharing your bed with someone else?” While her voice seemed cold and unattached, her words were anything but.

“Do I detect a hint of jealousy there?” Pursing his lips, he nearly laughed as she stepped on his foot. “I’ll take that as yes.”

“I’m merely concerned how it would look if word of you sleeping elsewhere got out. I prefer my pride and honor untouched and if you choose to find a lover, I should assume you’ll be discreet.”

Licking his lips, the great general didn’t laugh at her or sneer. There was no angry squinting or vile words. For once, he had a serious expression on his face that had nothing to do with the army or their arguments.

“I’m not the kind who would seek a lover while married. Even if the marriage is a mere arrangement.”

Scoffing, she clenched her jaw as he pulled her waist closer to him. 

“How many lovers have you taken?”

He raised a brow, “That’s a horrible question.”

“Because you lost count?” She narrows her eyes, the lips he found himself so fascinated with formed a thin, red line.

He doesn’t respond, so she tried again, “Why have you not married before?”

Now he looked amused, “That’s even worse!”

Shrugging, she smirks, “Well, ask me a question then! If all mine are so awful, let me hear yours.”

“Do you think I’m a very good liar or a very unlovable being?” Slowly pulling her body flush against his, Darkling looked deep into her eyes. “I’ve never loved anyone and I’ve manipulated everyone who has fallen in love with me. So?” Inhaling sharply, he watched a disarray of emotions cross her face as he asked again, “Liar or unlovable?”

“A liar. Because you are lying, not just to me but yourself.” Her breathing is shallow, strained even. “You have a heart, General, but you’re cowering like a scared little boy instead of just facing the facts.”

“And what are those?” His voice is darker as are his intentions.

If they were alone, she was certain he’d be kissing her lips now. For some reason, it seemed he enjoyed their arguments. He liked it when she fought him almost like he didn’t know any other form of affection.

“That you care. You care and you hate yourself for it.” Stopping their dance, she managed a faint smile. “But don’t worry, I’m not spending my time waiting for you to accept it.”

Brushing his fingers across the left side of her face, he cocked his head ever so slightly, “Is it possible you’ve got this all wrong? From where I stand, you’re the one who cares – perhaps a bit too much? Let me remind you, this marriage is a sham. You are my wife, but I do not love you, I do not care for you and if you were killed right in this very spot, I would avenge you but solely for the arrangement to remain unsullied.”

Nodding, more to herself than him, she took a step back from him. For the first time ever, she drew back. “For once, we’re on the same page of the same book.”

The music stops. Looking to the man clinking his glass, Y/N’s lips part. She didn’t even realize it, but too often she entirely forgoes breathing in Kirigan’s presence.

Taking a deep breath, she nearly laughs. Kirigan…General…The Darkling. She even called him husband, yet she never even heard his first name. How odd is it to marry a man whose first name is a mystery to you, she thought.

“If you’ll excuse me”, she nods curtly without sparing him a glance. 

Her seat at the dinner table was beside Genya, while Kirigan was placed all the way on the other side of the room. She smirked, satisfied she’ll have some peace during her meal. She never quite liked the table formation in a wide U form before, but she blessed the ones who created it on this evening.

Studying him from afar, she couldn’t deny the attraction she felt for him. It wasn’t some cosmic connection that she hoped she’d share with her husband, rather wishful thinking. Longing for him is out of the question. He may be the most handsome man she had ever seen, but it’s not at all something she’d thank the saints for. If he were less appealing, she’d at least be free of torment his looks bring. The devil is real and he’s not a goat like man as humans believed. There are no horns, no tails – he’s beautiful, a fallen angel, but an angel nonetheless.

“You’re staring at him again”, Genya speaks in a hushed tone, her smile audible.

“I’m not”, Y/N replies, “I simply looked over in a direction and he happened to be seated there.”

“Then why was that look on your face?” Genya raises an eyebrow.

“What?” Y/N asks, incredulous. “What look?”

“You have a certain way of looking at him”, she informs. Letting out an tired huff, Genya explains, “You look at him and it’s like you’re staring at the night sky littered with stars.”

“So?”

Genya looks down before whispering, “You love night skies littered with stars.”

Rolling her eyes, Y/N stared at her food for the rest of the evening. One bite after another and her plate was quickly emptied. Her stomach felt like it would burst, but she didn’t care. Most people claim they can’t eat under stress, but she was the opposite – her appetite only grew.

“He’s standing up”, Genya informed her and despite wishing she remained impassive, Y/N’s eyes shot up to where he was sitting.

With a lump at the back of her throat, she watched him as he headed to the door. A part of her hoped he’d be decent enough to bid his farewell, to acknowledge her at least. That part of her needed to be destroyed, she decided. It’s the part of her that would ruin her mission and for what? If she truly wanted to, she could have him on his back and under her. If she wanted him, he’d be hers – at least his body would. The principle she held onto was more important and so, she swallowed thickly and looked to her empty plate in order to stop her weakness from showing.

As she looked away, the Darkling looked back at her from across the room. He felt a strange tightness in his heart and once he saw she didn’t follow him with her gaze, his heart dropped. Furrowing his eyebrows, he kept his gaze on her for a while longer – her beauty was unmatched by anything he had ever seen. White looked good on her, every color did – but black fabric hugging her curves could bring a dead man back to life.

With a heavy heart and frown etched on his face, the Darkling turned his back and left the room, the Palace, the strangest, most beautiful creature he ever laid eyes on.

He carried her in his thoughts ever since. It aggravates him how quickly she’s gotten under his skin. Most of the month before their marriage was finalized was spent in petty comments about their armies or their distaste for one another. She was insufferable, maddening and entirely different from what he expected.

And yet, even then, the Darkling hoped she’d lose her patience and either leave or tell him she loves him. If she left, he’d be free of her and the shackles of an undesirable marriage, but if she told him she loves him, perhaps he’d believe her. If he knew there was ever a possibility of her loving him, he’d dare assume he might be deserving of love – because she may have dubbed him a liar, but he believes himself to be unlovable too. He never saw the point in allowing himself to feel a thing for her when it would be futile, wasted emotions on a woman sworn to hate him.

Once he was done chasing a rumor of a stag up north, the Darkling had to accept it too was a futile. Going after a legendary animal wasted so much of his time that he couldn’t even believe how foolish he’s become too. The stag must not be real after all.

Approaching Little Palace, he felt almost eager to run up to their shared chambers and see her. Even if she’d likely have a few choice words for him, he hoped he could make her blood boil just to hear her speak. He’d never admit it, but he missed someone he could converse with without dying of boredom.

“General”, Genya rushed to Kirigan who nearly growled at the distraction. However, Genya seemed distraught, panicked enough to draw his attention.

“Yes?”

Swallowing thickly, she wiped a stray tear slipping down her cheek. “It’s Y/N.”

His heart stops at the sound of her shaky voice, his jaw clenching before speaking. “What happened? Is she alright?”

“She went for a ride this morning and she hasn’t been seen since.”

Darkling’s gaze hardens as he grips Genya’s arms and shakes her lightly. “What do you mean?!”

“We sent riders after lunch, because I was worried she missed two meals already”, gasping for air, Genya’s tears made tracks, “The snow covered her tracks.”

She left me, he thought. She deemed me unlovable, unworthy. She left.

“They managed to find her mare”, Genya continues through tears, “It was decapitated and left in the woods.”

“Woods?” He frowns, wondering why she’d stray from the meadow and then he realized. He’s the one she rode into the woods with. She must have thought the woods were safe. They were at the time, only because he was with her and he’d never let any harm come to her.

“There were signs of struggle, but the snow is making it hard for us to track them.”

Releasing a visibly shaken Genya, he grunts. Biting his lower lip, he paced before her as his hand ran through his hair. She never saw him so worried, so mad before. He looked like a man walking a fine line – a line between madness and sanity.

“Call everyone”, he orders, “We must find her.”

Exhaling in relief, Genya smiled as Ivan emerged, having heard everything.

“Why would we do that?”

A pause ensues as the Darkling takes a step toward Ivan. “I haven’t made a promise in so long”, he spoke but in truth, it’s been hundreds of years since he made anyone a promise. “I promised her I’d protect her.” His voice was ragged, but controlled. “So I’m making a new promise right here, if they harm a single hair on her head, I will end them all. I will do it with a smile on face and I will bathe in their blood!”

They took her from him and he had every intention of ripping the world apart with his bare hands and for once, the thought of how far he’d go for that insolent woman didn’t frighten him. He barely knows her, he certainly doesn’t love her, but Saints help those who touched his wife.

=============================

Tags: @bruxa0007​ @rangotangomango​ @kaitlyn2907​ @thestoryofmylife9​ @shelivesindaydreamswme​ @hxrgreeves​ @safetyhtom​ @kaqua​ @savannah-elliott​ @all-art-is-quite-useless​  @azure23x​ @girlmadeofavocados​ @ashdab2611​ @acciorudolphx​ @ladyblablabla​ @wckedheart​​ @xceafh​ @sanna2020​ @tarkanelima-blog​ @takethee​ @mellifluous-cosmos​ @marvel-ousnesss​ @tea-effect​ @starlightofsolaria​ @p3nny4urth0ught5​ @blackbirddaredevil23​ @sarcastic-and-cool​ @slytherinsbiggestproblem​ @within-thehollowcrown​ @notthatchhavi​ @musicconversedance​​ @astrosmayhem   

Part 6

Finders Keepers

the long awaited (sorry!) zombie au. hope y’all enjoy

Seijoh 4 x female reader & Miya twins x female reader 

TW Blood, gore, angst, um... toxic relationships?

“Let me see.”

It’s little more than a murmur, but in the quiet stillness of the night your voice carries. It hardly matters; Oikawa has you close, tucked under his arm with his injured leg stretched out between the two of you. He could stop you if he really wanted, but he only watches, those tired, wary eyes fixed on your face as you reach for his pants. 

“It’s fine,” he grunts out, yet he can barely get the words out before he’s hissing through his teeth – a knee jerk reaction to the scrape of rough fabric against his wound. His fingers are digging painfully into your arm, and it doesn’t make a difference how gentle you try to be, how many stammered apologies fall from your lips, your fingers are stiff and clumsy and his pants are caked with dried blood and grime, hindering the process.

Pursing your lips, you glance up. “This would go easier if you took these off, you know.”

He cracks a smile at that, strained and tense, but your chest still flutters at the sight of it. “If you wanna get my pants off so badly, cutie, all you had to do was ask.”

“Tooru,” you begin, but he sighs heavily and that brief flicker of mirth glimmering in his eyes fades. Reaching over he picks up his hunting knife, pressing the handle into your palm and letting his fingers slowly curl around yours. The weight of it feels unwieldy and foreign in your hand, and you can’t quite say for sure if the way your breath picks up and hitches is due to your nerves or the way Oikawa’s watching you, his warm hand still wrapped around yours.

“Cut it, then.”

The knife helps, shearing through his pants like butter, but the wound itself is messy – torn threads plastered to congealed blood and dirt – and blunt fingernails sink into your skin and Oikawa grits out a curse when you try to gently ease them free. 

It’s worse than you’d thought. A lot worse. Raked over his right knee, five gouges, jagged and gruesome, raw flesh and muscle exposed beneath. Your stomach roils at the sight of it, bile creeping up your throat, and for a moment you’re astounded by how calm he is, sitting there beside you. 

If it were you, you’re fairly sure you’d be rolling on the ground howling by now, but the only hint of pain Oikawa’s face betrays is the tightness of his jaw, teeth clenched even as he looses a shuddering breath.

“I-I’ll go see if I can find something to…” to what? Clean the wound? Stitch it? You’re not an idiot, unless this little cottage has an incredibly well stocked first aid kit, you know you’re in trouble. And even if it does, beyond the very basics of clean, disinfect and bandage, you don’t know how the hell you’re supposed to fix this.

Iwaizumi was always the one to stitch up their wounds, muttering obscenities under his breath and glaring at them the whole time. It was their own idiot faults for putting themselves in a position where they could get hurt in the first place, he’d say, they could deal with a little pain while he fixed them up. But as you stare at the grisly mess of Oikawa’s knee, there’s a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach that this might be beyond even Iwa’s level of expertise. 

It doesn’t matter anyway, because Iwa isn’t here. 

Makki and Mattsun aren’t either.

And strangely enough, it’s not the fear of the creatures lurking in the woods that’s gnawing at your gut. It’s Oikawa’s injury, the blood and mangled mess that you can’t even begin to fix, the thought of the trap that’s awaiting the others back at the sanctuary. It’s that feeling of helplessness that’s tightening around your neck like a noose.

“Hey,” Oikawa calls, snagging at your wrist when you try to pull away. “They’ll find us, have a little faith.”

Swallowing down the lump in your throat, you nod. “I know.”

You don’t have the guts to tell him that that’s only half the problem.

Making do with vodka and some old bandages you’d scrounged up from a first aid kit under the sink, you do what you can for Tooru’s knee. Working by the light of a few flickering candles, your hands shaking like a leaf, it's a job easier said than done, and you can’t help but wince at every pained hiss and grunt that escapes him. 

It’s a hack job, a bandaid over a gaping wound, but he thanks you for it anyway, pressing an affectionate kiss to your temple as he drags you closer once more. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” he murmurs, and the words hang heavy over the both of you; a promise and a sobering reminder in one.

Tucked up in his embrace, you shut your eyes and will yourself to fall asleep. 

Yet the moment you do, you’re right back there again: the hallway doors bursting open and the undead pouring through. Rotting and snarling, the sound of panicked shrieks tearing through the sanctuary in their wake.

Tooru’s hand in yours, yanking you along as he ran. Your heartbeat, pounding in your ears as you gasped for breath, your chest burning. And the fear, the horror that threatened to choke you as the others fell behind, their frantic pleas turning into agonised screams.

Everybody else first. The words spoken before any one of them left the safety of the sanctuary; you’d always assumed it was a grim kind of joke between the boys, a good luck charm. How many times had you heard Mattsun laugh it, clapping Iwa on the shoulder, or Makki for that matter, or Oikawa?

‘Come home safe’, you’d thought it meant, not ‘rip the guns out of other survivors’ hands and throw them back into the path of the oncoming undead’.

And then you’d stumbled, tripping over your own two feet. You remember Oikawa cursing, the pain that radiated up your knees and the palms of your hands as you hit the floor hard, and the absolute, bone chilling terror that surged through you when you looked up and saw one of the undead creatures lunge for you; jaw hanging loose, more ripped flesh and gristle than an actual mouth–

Oikawa was too far away, too slow, and even if he wasn’t, you’d just witnessed the lengths he’d go to for self preservation. You’d screamed for him anyway, squeezing your eyes shut and praying you’d go quickly when those fingers and yellowing teeth dug into your flesh and ripped you apart.

And in the space of a single petrified heartbeat, three shots had rung through the air, a warm wetness splattering against your cheek. Tooru was there, kicking the rotting corpse away from you and hauling you back to your feet, back safely against his side.

But the next one was quicker, leaping over the husk of its fallen friend, snarling and bloody and savage, and then it was Tooru who was screaming, undead fingers sinking into the flesh of his leg, ripping as it tried to claw him back.

Heart pounding viciously, your eyes shoot open in the darkness.

Even with the reassurance of Oikawa’s frame pressed up behind you, his breath warm against your skin, sleep doesn’t come easy, and the dawn brings little reprieve.

Stupidly, you’d hoped – prayed – that somehow through the night he might’ve gotten better. It was early in the morning when you’d felt him start to shiver against you. You’d tried to roll away, to give him space so you wouldn’t accidentally knock his leg, but Tooru was having none of it, burrowing in closer, his grip tightening.

And when you’d felt him start to sweat, his arms becoming sticky and clammy, his shirt dampening at your back, that slow, cloying sense of dread took root inside of your stomach.

Under the first rays of morning light, the true extent of Oikawa’s condition is unignorable. Without the luxury of being able to properly close the wound, blood’s seeped through the bandages overnight, leaving them a mottled, macabre red. His face is pale, a thin sheen of sweat dotting at his brow and with every shallow, rattling breath he takes, his body trembles.

It’s more than just simple blood loss.

You think for a moment that he’s unconscious, long lashes fanned out over flushed cheekbones, but the moment you reach for the bandages, his eyes snap open. “Don’t,” he rasps.

You frown, “Tooru–”

“No,” he says. “It’s fine. Leave it alone.”

Between him and Iwaizumi, and to a certain extent, Makki and Mattsun, you’ve never had much of a say in how things are run. You’ve never questioned that they’re the ones in charge, Oikawa most of all. They’re the ones who’ve kept you safe, kept you alive all this time, and all they’ve ever asked of you is that you do what they say.

And you have. Always. Because without them, you’d be dead. You don’t have to pick up a gun and fight, because they do it for you. You don’t have to go on supply runs because they take care of it, they take care of you. And it’s never mattered whether it’s just been the five of you out there alone, or if you were banding together with other survivors; that’s never changed – no matter how many dirty looks it earned you from the others.

You are their responsibility, but in return, you do what they tell you without question.

But this–

This isn’t like that. This isn’t you begging Iwaizumi to take you with him on perimeter patrol because you’ve been cooped up for what feels like weeks, or pouting because they’re deliberately keeping things from you again. 

And maybe they have kept you in the dark, but you’re not blind and you’re not stupid. The reality of this situation hasn’t escaped you. 

The sanctuary’s overrun, and if – when – Iwa, Makki and Mattsun make it back, they’ll be walking into an ambush. Even if by some miracle they do manage to all make it out unscathed and somehow figure out a way to pick up your trail, there’s no telling how long it’ll take for them to find their way back to you.

(You can’t bear to think about the possibility of them not coming home; you won’t.)

Right now, it’s just you and Oikawa, stuck in some abandoned cottage in the middle of nowhere with nothing but a rifle and a baseball bat between you. You have no food, no supplies and he’s getting weaker by the minute.

You’re terrified.

And you don’t have the luxury of sitting back and letting somebody else take care of you anymore. You don’t stand a chance of survival without Oikawa, and right now he doesn’t stand a chance without you.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you shake your head. “Okay, I won’t touch it, but I’m not just going to sit here and watch you get worse.” Smoothing your palms over your lap, you take a deep breath in through your nose. “There’s a prison–”

“No.”

“Tooru–”

“I said no,” he snaps.

Biting back a sigh, you try again, “Tooru, there might be supplies there,” you plead. “Painkillers, antibiotics, something that might help–”

“I don’t need antibiotics and you’re not leaving. We need to stay here where it’s safe until the others find us,” he grits out, eyes narrowing dangerously. 

Normally, this would be the point that you’d back off, running off to lick your wounds before he decided to get mean, but even as some part of you cowers at the mere thought of upsetting him, this time you don’t back down.

He watches warily as you lean over, pressing a kiss to his cheek, gently smoothing damp brown locks back from his sweat slicked forehead. “I don’t know when Iwa’s coming back,” you murmur. “But until he does, the prison’s our best chance, if I can just–”

“No!” he snarls, cutting you off once again.

His eyes are manic now, blown wide and glazed over, he’s shivering, his breath a faint rattle – but his grip is iron, long fingers clutching at you desperately when you jerk back with a gasp.

“You don’t leave me.”

You don’t want to. 

It’d be easy not to, to sit and stay with him and pretend that your world isn’t falling apart and he isn’t dying. You’ve never been a fighter, always too soft, too weak, too naive to survive out there on your own. The thought of setting one foot outside of that door without him by your side fills you with absolute terror, but what other options do you have?

He might not like it, but you’re out of time – this decision isn’t his to make anymore.

“Tooru, I-I have to, you know–”

“No!” he snaps, dragging you closer. “You’re not leaving me, I won’t fucking let you!”

Your hand trembles when you reach up to take his, easing it from your shirt and bringing it to your lips. Tears spill from your lashes, falling in heavy droplets against the back of his hand as Oikawa makes a pained sound.

“Please don’t go.”

You both know he can’t stop you.

“Keep the gun,” you tell him, mustering up a tight, watery smile. “Anything but Iwa and our boys comes through that door, shoot it.”

—

It seems a cruel, twisted joke that you find a perfectly good truck sitting a little ways up the driveway, just begging to be used – with no way of getting it started.

Mattsun always made hot wiring look so easy, tossing you a wink when the engine rumbled to life, as if it was a neat little party trick he’d pulled out just to impress you. He did it so quickly, so smoothly, ripping the wires out and sparking them like it was second nature, but he’d never bothered to actually explain what he was doing to you.

And why would he? Between the four of them, there’d always be somebody else to take care of it for you. It’s the same reason they never taught you how to shoot, never taught you how to fight beyond the very basics of self defence.

Now, trudging along the side of the barren road with nothing but your baseball bat and a canteen of water slung over your hip, you find yourself wishing you’d paid a little more attention. Ten miles hadn’t seemed that far on paper – it was less than the trek back into town and you’d figured a safer bet, but walking around in broad daylight without any kind of real protection feels like you’re begging to be preyed upon. Yet by some stroke of luck (and despite that persistent nagging sense that you’re being watched) you manage to make it to the perimeter gates without coming across another soul, dead or alive.

The towering brick walls topped with spirals of barbed wire that line the prison complex are as imposing as they are unbreachable, and for a moment, standing there staring up at them, you feel a crushing sense of disappointment. You’ve walked over two hours, left Tooru in pain and alone for nothing. There’s no way in hell you’re gonna be able to scale those walls, and without any kind of bolt cutters or firepower, you’re not sure how you’re supposed to get past the front gates. 

Iwa would’ve known that. Iwa would’ve been better prepared. 

But as you draw closer to the guardhouse, you’re pleasantly surprised to find that it’s not a problem. The heavy wrought iron gate’s already unlocked and open, creaking in the breeze. And really, that should have been the first warning sign, but you’re too busy thanking your lucky stars as you slide on through to pay attention to things like that.

The courtyard is just as deserted. The crunch of gravel underfoot echoes too loud, setting your nerves on edge as you make your way towards the imposing structure. It’s quiet, eerily so – even the birds seem to have disappeared. Is this how all raids feel, you wonder as you climb the steps towards the door. This sense of foreboding dread that settles in your stomach, the goosebumps that prickle down your arms? 

Your grip tightens around the handle of your bat and you press gingerly against the door – just like the guardhouse gate, it gives under your touch, swinging open wide. It’s dark inside; you hadn’t thought to bring a torch and with the absence of any windows lining the corridor it’s near pitch black. Your heart hammers inside your chest, every cell in your body screaming at you to turn around and run back to Tooru, but you’ve come this far already. 

The undead flock to fresh, living meat. It’s been months since the outbreak began; anyone unfortunate enough to have found themselves trapped inside when it happened is probably long dead, and any of the undead likely long gone.

It’s just a little darkness. 

Steeling your nerves you creep through the black, clutching tightly at your bat, toeing your way down the corridor waiting for your eyes to adjust to the dim. Every breath you draw in feels too loud, every step too obnoxious. Deserted or not, the sooner you can find the med-bay, get what you need for Oikawa and get out, the better.

The layout’s simple enough – five looming multi-storied wings breaking off like fingers from the central watch-tower, but you don’t have a clue which one holds what you’re seeking. Your only option is to search them one by one and hope for the best. 

You’d expected steel bars and heavy locks, but the prison reminds you strangely of a school instead; long hallways lined with doors, each with a tiny window to peek through. They’re all open now of course, whatever locking mechanism keeping them shut having failed when the generators ran out. The first few are empty, barren and stripped of everything but soiled mattresses – it should be a relief. 

There’s nothing waiting for you in the darkness but empty halls and emptier rooms. If the others were here, they’d be teasing you for sure. Or Makki and Mattsun would, at least. You always were such a scared little baby – their scared little baby – you’d jump at your own shadow if you didn’t have them around. 

And it’s easier to keep going imagining them there by your side, the jokes they’d crack, the warmth of Iwa’s hand in yours, or Makki’s arm slung over your shoulder. You’d feel safe with them. You wouldn’t need to feel afraid.

But no amount of pretend comfort is enough to allay the heavy sense of dread that’s sitting in your stomach, growing harder and harder to ignore with every passing minute. And the problem, you realise, with the prison being so deadly quiet is that every noise, no matter how quiet, echoes.

Climbing the stairs in the dark, you don’t notice the slickness on the walls either side of you, the red handprints smeared messily over white paint. You don’t see the broken, bloody fingernails littering the steps beneath you. 

You hear it though, when you reach the landing. It’s soft. A quiet, wet squelching, ripping–

There’s no screams accompanying it like there were back when the sanctuary was overrun, but it’s not a sound you’re gonna be able to forget any time soon. In the dark you freeze, not daring to so much as breathe as you peer down the endless corridor, trying to pinpoint which of the cells it’s coming from. 

In the end, you decide that it doesn’t matter. 

They’re quicker when they’ve fed, stronger too, and there’s not a chance in hell that you’re going to be able to fumble past in the dark without drawing that thing’s attention. The wooden bat in your hands feels heavy, your palms already slick with sweat. You weren’t quick enough back at the sanctuary; without Tooru, that thing would’ve eaten you. And suddenly it seems laughable that you came out here, that you genuinely thought you could handle this – fight one of them off if it came down to it.

Tooru needs those meds, you know that, and you might be useless and weak and absolutely paralysed with fear, but you’re not stupid. You can’t help him at all if you’re torn apart by one of those creatures.

Your pulse racing, a potent mix of adrenaline and sheer, unrelenting terror coursing through your veins, you draw in a quiet breath, slowly lifting your foot to back away. It hasn’t heard you yet, and so long as it’s distracted–

“Oi, hurry up! I know what I saw, she came in this way.”

“Jesus, just shut up for a sec, wouldja! Ya don’t need to keep yellin’ at me, I’m comin’!”

Through the grate at your feet, you see two beams of light break through the darkness, the sound of loud, heavy footsteps echoing down the wing. Icy claws tighten like a vice around your heart and you still once more, squeezing your eyes shut as you listen, praying…

The squelching’s stopped.

Grip tight around the handle of your bat, your entire body quaking with fear, you watch with wide, stricken eyes as one of the doors halfway down the block slowly creaks outwards. 

For a heartbeat, there’s nothing, and you try and convince yourself it’s just the wind, that you’re imagining things and your mind is playing mean tricks on you–

A feral snarl rips through the air, and before you can so much as scream it’s crashing through the open doorway, head swivelling as it searches for the source of the disturbance. In the dark you can’t make out much, only that it’s huge, half its flesh torn and decaying, smeared with blood and filth – but you see it when those white, cloudy eyes fix on you, its rotting mouth bared and salivating.

And this time you do scream. You scream for Oikawa, for Iwa, for Makki and Mattsun and the faceless strangers on the floor below as you cast your bat aside and run. You don’t dare look over your shoulder as you take the stairs two, three at a time, slipping and slamming into the stairwell wall, a sharp burst of pain radiating down your shoulder – you can hear it giving chase, the rabid growls and snarls too close for comfort.

Tears flood your eyes, your chest heaving with every desperate breath as your feet hit solid ground once more and you take off.

“Please!” you sob as you run, blinded by the brightness of the torch beam as it’s shone in your direction. “PLEASE HELP ME!”

You can’t outrun it forever. Even now, you hear it gaining on you, its hot, foul breath puffing against your back – it’s just like back at the sanctuary. It’s gonna catch you, rip into you and feast while you choke to death on your own blood and screams, and this time you won’t have Oikawa here to save you. You’re going to die in agony, torn apart and devoured, and it’s all your own stupid fault.

Your throat tightens, more tears springing free. You can’t see anything beyond those two blinding lights, moving now, dancing across the field of your vision. “PLEASE!” you shriek, desperate and hoarse as the undead creature behind you readies itself to pounce.

Please don’t leave me here to die.

And for one heart wrenching second, you think back to your boys, and the words they’d said before kissing you goodbye. Everybody else first. Maybe this is some kind of divine retribution, you think. Maybe when the world went to hell people became cold and selfish and you deserve this for sitting back and letting others die in your place.

“Get down!” the voice yells, and you don’t even stop to think before you drop, sliding across the floor. There’s another blinding flash, a shot fired into the dark and all you can do is squeeze your eyes shut and hug your knees to your chest as the creature snarls in anger and jerks backwards, a gruesome spurt of blood spraying over you.

“Ya fucking missed! How could ya fucking miss?!”

The gun cocks and reloads, another deafening shot ringing out above you and you flinch, your nails biting into the soft skin of your palm–

But this time the bullet hits its mark. The creature crashes to the floor with a loud thump and doesn’t move again. 

You don’t waste a second scrambling to your feet, launching yourself into the arms of your saviour. You don’t care that you’re crying, that you’re covered in blood and filth and god knows what else, you cling to him like he’s a lifeline, sobbing into his shoulder. And instead of pushing you away like he probably should, he lets out a short huff that sounds almost like a laugh, his arm curling around your waist.

“I’m the one who shot the damn thing,” the other mutters sourly.

The man holding you snorts, “Nah, yer the idiot who missed.” Belatedly, you realise that he’s still gripping his gun, the brightness you’d assumed to have come from a torch actually from a light mounted to the barrel. He slings the rifle carelessly over his shoulder, drawing back slightly to appraise you. “Now, wanna tell me what a sweet thing like you’s doin’ all alone in a place like this?”

With your eyes now adjusting to the light, you can see that the two of them can’t be much older than you. They’re both tall, broad shouldered and handsome, the same jawline, the same slope to their nose, nearly identical hooded eyes – brothers you decide, maybe even twins. And they’re both smirking at you, not with the relief of just barely escaping a brush with a particularly gruesome death, but with an odd sort of lackadaisical amusement, as if this – skulking through dark, abandoned places, killing the undead – is nothing out of the ordinary for them. 

And from the ease with which they carry their weapons, maybe it isn’t.

Oikawa warned you about men like them. Men in general, really. Even the ones who smiled at you back at the sanctuary, the ones who offered to help you move heavy supplies when they saw you struggling – at least, until Iwa or one of the others stepped in with a poisonous glare. Anyone who wasn’t them was dangerous, a threat, just waiting in the wings to take advantage of a pretty, dumb little thing like you.

And maybe he’s right, but when the one holding you instead drags you closer, wraps an arm around your shoulders and begins to lead you back towards the guard tower as his brother falls into step on your other side, you don’t shrug him off. 

Oikawa isn’t here, and they have just saved your life. That has to count for something, right?

“I-I thought it’d be safe,” you confess breathlessly, trying not to focus on the thumb sweeping over the curve of your shoulder. “Well, empty at least. I didn’t have a choice.” And they listen, sharing glances in the dark as you tell them about what’d happened at the sanctuary, about Oikawa and the desperation that’d led you to leave him and walk miles alone to try and find some kind of medicine–

Until a snicker interrupts you. “Sorry,” the blonde mutters, though he doesn’t look all that sincere when your eyes flash to his. “It’s just…”

“Anythin’ worth taking woulda been snatched up months ago,” the darker haired one interjects.

“There ain’t nothin’ here but the occasional idiot tryna set up camp an’… Well, ya saw how well that turned out.”

It hits you like a gut punch, forcing the air from your lungs in a harsh, gasping breath. There was never anything here, everything… all of it was a waste. You came all this way, left him feverish and screaming himself hoarse for you, risked your life, almost died and–

It was all for nothing.

Fresh tears sting at your eyes, they’re still talking but it’s just white noise washing over you. You don’t even realise they’re leading you back outside until you’re walking through the doors, the sudden burst of sunlight making you flinch. But it doesn’t matter. None of it matters anymore.

You’re an idiot.

A naive, dumb little girl who was stupid enough to think this half cocked plan was gonna work. That you would make it back to Tooru in one piece, medicine in hand to save the day and prove you weren’t the helpless damsel they’d pegged you for. 

You’ve wasted so much time, for nothing. 

There’s no drugs, no food, nothing that’s gonna help either one of you make it through the next few days and suddenly you’re drowning under a wave of hopelessness and bitter disappointment. You fall to your knees in the dirt, taking both your saviours by surprise, and let out a painful, heart wrenching sob. And once you start, you can’t seem to stop. It’s overwhelming, every emotion you’ve bottled up and shoved aside over the last two days suddenly forced into the light. You cry for yourself, for Tooru – for Iwa and Makki and Mattsun. You cry until it feels like you can’t breathe anymore, and then there’s rough calloused fingers brushing your tears away.

You look up through wet lashes to find the dark-haired man crouching before you, his expression sober. “Ya don’t need to cry, sweetheart, we’re not monsters y’know.”

His brother chuckles behind you, “We’re not about to leave some pretty little thing all alone out here to starve to death.” His hand’s resting atop your head now, smoothing down the hair at your crown. It’s soft and soothing, and you’re so attuned to seeking comfort that you can’t help but lean into it, eyes momentarily fluttering shut. “We’ve got some friends nearby, a nice little hideaway stocked full of all kinds of shit. Everything ya could possibly need.”

“Y-you mean it?” you ask, wide eyes flickering to the dark haired one, who smiles at last. “You’ll share them with me?”

“‘Course we do. Meds, food, weapons. Whatever ya want, it’s yours.”

You take the hand he offers to help you stand, your limbs trembling once more – but this time it’s not from fear or exhaustion, but the overwhelming rush of sheer relief. You could kiss him, kiss them both, but you don’t.

Instead you settle for throwing your arms around them once more, breathless thanks falling from your lips faster than they can catch as you hug them tight. They don’t seem to mind though, sharing almost identical smirks as the three of you head out to an old, beat up camaro parked out by the entrance to the prison. While the blonde slides in the driver’s seat and his brother takes the passenger’s side, you climb up into the back seat. 

“Is it far?” you ask as he kicks the car into gear and peels out onto the deserted road. Hopefully it’s not, the sooner you can get back to help Tooru the better. 

“Nah, not too far. We’ll be home before ya know it.”

Of course, they’re driving you to their friends, but they haven’t promised anything about driving you back to the cottage and Oikawa–

Which is perfectly fine! You’re not going to push your luck, they’re already doing plenty for you. More than they really have to. You don’t even need that much – just some medicine for Tooru and enough food for the two of you to get through the next few days, and you’ll be fine. Whatever you can carry, which, admittedly isn’t much. There’s still a few hours of daylight left, if you’re lucky you’ll be able to make it back to him before nightfall.

Things are gonna be fine. You’ll bring the medicine and once he’s better, the two you can head out to find the others. Everything’s gonna be okay. You’ll be better when you’re all back together, the way things were meant to be. 

You need them, if anything this little venture’s proven that much at least. 

They’d promised that it wasn’t far, and maybe it’s just the exhaustion of the last few days creeping in, or the gentle hum of the engine as the car drives along the long, narrow stretch of road, but your eyelids start to droop, your breath evening out as sleep beckons.

And you’re just dancing on the edge of consciousness when a hushed voice breaks through the comfortable silence, dark eyes flickering up to watch your slumbering form in the rearview mirror. “Ya think Kita’ll be pissed?”

There’s a snort, “Nah. He’s always had a soft spot for strays, ‘specially the pretty ones.” He’s quiet for a moment, almost contemplative before he opens his mouth to add, “‘Sides, we’re gonna take real good care of her, ain’t we, Samu?”

The only reply he gives is a soft grunt of acknowledgement. 

pretty baby.

[r18+]

[wc:] 4k

[cw:] sub!atsumu, softdom!reader, femdom, oral (f. receiving), riding, pegging, mommy kink, puppy kink, minor dacryphilia, collar-play, restraints

! haikyuu manga timeskip spoilers. atsumu is 24. !

a/n: oh my god i haven’t written for leisure in literally 10 years i hope this is bearable LOL. @luvsicksubs​ wrote a lil tidbit about sub!atsumu a while ago and i have not known peace ever since so big thank you to ari for the inspo! pls enjoi :9

Atsumu’s been gone lately. A lot.

 Too much.

 You know it’s not his fault. The Jackals' practices have been brutal lately. So when Atsumu does eventually trudge his way back to your shared apartment every evening, he can only muster up enough energy to shower and collapse into bed. You’ve had to wake him more than once, chiding him to get up and at least dry his hair before bed.

“You can’t afford to get yourself sick by sleeping with wet hair, ‘Tsumu.” You’d whisper, shaking him gently awake. Usually he’d just groan in response and bury himself further against your body heat beneath the comforter--unwilling to give up even a second of precious, blissful sleep. You’d even gone so far as to physically pull his heavy, six foot athlete’s body out of the bed and into the bathroom to dry it for him once or twice.

It’s for his health, you reason. You can afford to pamper him a little--especially when he’s been working so hard. And the way his body slumps while he sits, his features softening--long eyelashes kissing the tops of his cheeks as he dozes off into half-sleep at the feel of your fingers tussling his hair with the gentle heat of the blow dryer… He becomes so soft in those moments, like putty in your hands.

It’s dangerous, because it makes you crave the sight of him like this--fragile and reliant on the comfort of your touch--even more.

You sigh. Reminding yourself again, for seemingly the millionth time since this excessive practicing for the championships started,

‘It’s not his fault.’

He’s been good. So, so good. Trying so hard to make sure you know he loves you and he’s sorry. Texting you to check in whenever he has the chance.

 > how are you today?

> how’s work going??

> what’s for lunch??? ლ(≧ڡ≦ლ)

 Sometimes sending videos of himself and Hinata hashing out new plays (only the ones they’ve mastered, though. You may be intimately familiar with every embarrassing piece of him, but he still wants to try to look cool in front of his girlfriend.)

And it helps. It really does. But you also know the texts are just as much for his own sake as they are for yours. You know how needy Atsumu gets when you two are apart.

 You remember the time he’d called you from his hotel room after an away game in Tokyo. How he whined into the phone at the sound of your voice when you whispered.

“Touch yourself for me.”

The way a soft cry escaped him at your command--your name leaving his lips with a breath.

 You want to feel him like that again. To see him beneath you, squirming and desperate--begging for you to just touch him, just sit on his face, his cock, anything you want just please--

 You abruptly stop your line of thinking--not daring to continue dwelling on this recurring fantasy. Atsumu doesn’t deserve the punishment you crave to dole out on him to relieve this frustration.

 … But he might want it.

 Championships are tomorrow. Just 24 hours stand between you and the feeling of Atsumu Miya’s taut muscles beneath your fingertips.

You take a breath, summoning the remnants of your willpower.

You could do this. You would make certain that the wait would be worth it.

For both of you.

 ---

 The Black Jackals win their first match because of course they do. Honestly, sometimes you feel a bit bad for the opposing teams. Their skill, their teamwork, their passion, their absolute willpower to win is stifling. Atsumu texts you that they’re going out for celebratory dinner and drinks. Bokuto’s idea. (Obviously). He promises he’ll be home as soon as he can. They’ve all got tomorrow morning off, and a whole day before the next round of matches. Some indulgence is well-deserved.

You type out your reply.

 > Take your time and enjoy yourself! You’ve earned it. 💕

 Knowing you’ve got at least two hours or more before the boys’ exhaustion ushers them all home, you decide to spend some time... preparing.

 You’re reclined on the couch, watching something you can comfortably give your half-assed attention to while scrolling on your phone. You hear the front door unlocking, the handle turning, and your heart leaps into your throat. The thought of finally, finally having Astumu all to yourself makes you absolutely giddy.

You turn expectantly, and can’t help the way your lips curl upward into a smile.

Atsumu pushes the door open and turns toward you, already smiling when he opens his mouth.

 “Hey.” You murmur.

 “Hey.” He breathes back, and you watch the way his features relax at the sight of you. The way the confident, assiduous Atsumu Miya--a man who wakes up every single day and strives for perfection in everything and every one---melts into something softer.

Something that’s silently begging for you to tear him apart and piece him back together again.

He slips off his shoes, drops his gym bag to the floor, and brings his long, heavy body to lay over yours on the couch.

His face--tinted pink (presumably from the drinks)--buries itself against your neck, lips pressed to your skin.

Your fingers assume their familiar position, nestled in the blonde locks atop his head.

 “Missed you…” You say lowly against his ear.

The small shiver that runs down his spine does not escape your notice.

 “I’ve been here every night!” He protests.

 “You know what I mean.” Your fingers press against his head, tugging on the strands the slightest bit.

 “Mmm…” He affirms softly--your skin keenly feeling the gentle hum against its surface. He knows what you mean. He’s been here, yes, but it’s felt more like the ghost of him--wisping into your bed for a few hours and gone again in the morning.

 “You were really in the zone today.” You comment. “I felt bad for the other team.”

 He huffs out a small laugh. “Don’t. They played fine. We were just better.”

 “Hmm…” You take your unoccupied hand and run a single finger up the curve of his spine.

 He exhales, and you listen for the tremble in his breath you know will be there.

Just a little more.

 “Either way, you were so good.” You can’t contain the coy lilt your voice takes on. You know damn well what you’re doing--using the very words that always make him quiver. He knows what you’re doing, too.

Atsumu thinks he doesn’t mind.

 It’s quiet for a beat. The two of you simply basking in the warmth of your bodies pressed against each other. You stretch beneath him, and… readjust yourself in a way that presses your breasts against him just a little bit more...

And Atsumu finally, finally breaks.

 He inhales sharply, and lets the subsequent exhale freely pass against your neck. A muffled word that sounds a lot like a plea leaves his throat.

 “What was that?” You ask, purposely grazing your lips against his reddening ear.

 “Please…” He begs.

 You consider being mean for a moment. Consider pushing him to his limit in desperation. The way those sharp brown eyes would turn glassy and tearful, his dark brows pulled together, pleading you to hurry up and take him--touch him--let him touch you--fucking anything. However you want, wherever you want. Make him vocalize that burning desire, and only concede when he well and truly begs.

 But that can always be arranged another time.

You’re far too heady with desire yourself to enact such cruelty on him right now. Not after he’s been so good.

 You shift your weight, moving to switch your positions by sitting up and pressing him beneath you. Your straddle his hips, purposely pressing your weight down against his pelvis ever-so-slightly.

 “You’ve been working so hard, ‘Tsumu…” You murmur, lowering the top half of your body to lean over his. Hands sliding under the hem of his shirt, running up along the taut muscles that tremble at your touch. “Such a good boy…”

Atsumu’s bites his lip in an effort to stifle the deep moan that leaves his chest. The way his body almost involuntarily reacts to that phrase every. single. time… It’s just too good to pass up.

You wet your lips.

 “Let me make you feel good.”

 And you press those lips ever-so-softly to the juncture between his jaw and neck. Soft touch turning to a light bite, and then back to a soothing kiss.

 Atsumu is crumbling--his hardening length pressing insistently against you.

 “I got everything ready. We can use whatever you want: rope,” and you press a slow open-mouth kiss to his neck,

“your collar,” then one to his collarbone,

“a toy,” traveling down to his pecs,

“the strap…” ending just beneath his belly button.

You look up at him from beneath your lashes, watching keenly for his expression to shift in interest at any certain one.

 Atsumu doesn’t give an immediate answer, his gaze unable to meet your own. Your hands trail back down his body, grazing a nipple with your fingernail just to see the way he twitches at the sensation. 

 “C’mon baby, how am I supposed to treat my good boy if he doesn’t tell me what he wants?” You purr, bringing your hands to the hem of the worn, oversized t-shirt covering your top half down to the juncture of your thighs. You’d snatched it from his dresser earlier to lounge in. Another carefully plotted detail. You knew just how riled up he got at the sight of you wearing his shirts. Even more so if he lifted it only to find those black and gold lacy panties underneath… Or if there was nothing…

Stretching your body, you pull the shirt up and off of your torso, tossing it aimlessly behind you. Atsumu’s gaze immediately returns to you--spotting that very set’s match: a black bra with intricate gold stitching around the lace adorning your skin. His hands are on you in an instant--palms sliding up your ribs to reach your breasts and gently squeezing around them.

Astumu had never been good with the concept of patience.

 Normally, you’d stop those big, calloused setter hands in their tracks--admonishing him for not asking permission, first. But this was about him. About fulfilling every whim his exhausted mind and body had the energy left to want. You could allow a little insubordination tonight.

 “You even wore my favorite.” He grins, that cheeky, self important tone of his sneaking back out. You smile coyly and tilt your hips downward, pressing your bare core against his still-restrained cock. He inhales sharply--dropping the attitude once more.

 “Part of the reward.” You grin. “Now, what does my good boy want?”

 His eyes drift upwards from their fixation on your breasts, meeting your gaze.

 “I want…” He bites his lip. “Wanna make you feel good.”

 Your eyes widen at the admission, but he’s speaking again before you can inquire.

 “You’re always so patient with me when practice gets like this. I just want to... To give you a reward, too.”

 You’re taken aback for a beat, pleasantly surprised at the acknowledgement. Atsumu still manages to surprise you with how observant he is. One of the more unexpected traits he shares with Osamu. Your eyes soften and you reach up to gently cup his face. He turns his head to kiss your hand and murmurs against your palm.

 "Let me taste you. Please."

 He knows how you get when he’s busy like this. How--despite your authority and confidence in the bedroom--you still long for his affection and crave his touch when he’s gone.

And this… This is the perfect way for him to express his gratitude while still pleasing both of you.

 “Okay.” You breathe, moving to kneel over his face. “Whatever you want,” you gently drop your weight toward his mouth. “my sweet boy.”

 He practically preens at the praise, moaning against your core. Again, Atsumu demonstrates his struggle with patience and savoring the moment. In an instant, he’s gripping your thighs and pulling them closer against the sides of his face. You know you could sit your entire weight atop him and he’d thank you, but tonight calls for something gentler. It’s enough to know you’re the only person who gets to see him like this. The only one who gets to watch the diligent, cocksure Astumu Miya, one of--if not the--best setters in Japan, become so vulnerable and desperate beneath you.

 He flattens his tongue and runs it slowly up from the start of your opening to the top of your clit.

 “Fuck, ‘Tsumu…” You moan, hands rushing to grasp at his hair. He groans, too, at the sensation of your fingers tugging--the hum sending a vibration through your body. You grind your hips, silently urging him on, and his tongue laves at your clit with small kitten licks. The feeling of those tiny, gentle laps against your most sensitive spot, so diligent and soft--it’s like electricity coursing through you, running up into every limb.

 “Mmhmm.” He hums against you. He knows just how you like it. When he services you like this--like the obedient puppy he is. “So wet… Y’taste s’good...” He says, hot breath fanning against you while he catches his breath for a moment.

 You press yourself back against him insistently. “Who said you could take a break? Use your fingers, too.”

 His mouth is back against you immediately, right hand sliding beneath your thigh to reach your opening. Carefully, he presses two fingers against it--testing the give, while his tongue continues to lick and suck at that sensitive nub. Spit has dribbled down from his mouth to where his fingers are pressed, and he slides his digits against the wetness, adding to the natural lubricant. Then, finally, he pushes those long middle and ring fingers up and into you. They slide in easily despite the way you feel yourself clench around the intrusion. He was right--you’re soaked. He finds a comfortable rhythm to compliment his tongue’s lashings easily and your head falls back, a deep moan escaping past your lips.

 “‘Tsumu… ‘Tsumu, fuck just like that--you do it so well for me, baby… Right there--”

 You’re cut off by the feeling of his fingers curling within you--searching, and then pressing against that spot so nicely.

Your thigh muscles twitch against his cheeks--breath fleeing from your lungs at the sudden rush.

 “Yes, ‘Tsumu--fuck yes.”

 You chance a look down at his face. Those long lashes closed, brows knit together in concentration while he pleasures you. Atsumu’s a pretty boy, but you think he’s prettiest like this.

 Fuck, you want more of that desperate expression. Want to edge him over and over until he’s drooling and can’t remember his own fucking name.

 You’re getting close. That climbing ecstasy rising dangerously high within you. You pull yourself off him before you can climb too high, and the release of suction from his mouth makes a small, wet pop.

 “You eat it so well, baby. So, so good for me, pretty boy.” You coo, caressing the sides of his face. His lips are pink and wet and you return your hips to their place atop his length. His lip wobbles with a whimper, back arching against you in search of more.

 “I think you’ve earned your reward now, don’t you?” Your eyelids fall, half-closed seductively while you lean your chest toward his face. You reach behind your back and release the clasp of your bra. His hands tighten themselves into fists, trying to restrain the urge to reach up and touch. The fingers of your left hand splay out against his chest, holding your weight, while the right moves down to pull off his boxer briefs. Then, your wet folds are sliding against his erect, bare, length. Slowly, up and down.

 “Mmm please can I--can I touch--”

 You interrupt him with a small lick against those still-wet lips and chuckle quietly to yourself.

 Oh, so now he’s ready to ask first?

 “You can.” You affirm, reaching down to line him up with your entrance. His breath is coming harder now, those hardened pecs rising and falling beneath you. The anticipation is rapidly unraveling him. Atsumu’s hands are on your back, tugging your chest back down towards him. As they slide forward around your ribcage to grasp your breasts, his gaze flits up to you.

 “Can I--?”

 “Mmhmm.” You nod--knowing what he wants. His mouth closes around your nipple, sucking with that perfect amount of harshness to tighten the coiling pressure in your lower body. His tip rests right against your opening. You can see the precum dribbling out of him--can feel the way he’s pushing himself slightly further up--desperate to get inside. Were this any other time,  you’d reprimand him for such impertinence. Tie his hands above his head and deny him completely. ‘And you were being so good, too, asking permission and everything. You wanna be inside that bad, maybe I should remind you how it feels to be on the receiving end, hmm?’

But, honestly, he’d nearly tipped you over the edge with just his mouth earlier. You were becoming impatient, yourself. 

 Finally, blessedly, you sink yourself down onto his cock, revelling in the way his mouth falls open and his head flings backward against the couch pillow with a cry.

 “Mmm.. ‘s it that good, baby?” You tease.

 “‘S been a while… So tight…” He hisses, almost like it’s too much.

 “Yeah?” You tease. Your hips are gradually picking up speed. Slowly rising up, up, up, as far as you can go before it feels like he might just fall out of you, and then your hip fall again, taking his full length deep inside.

 “‘Tsumu…” You say, rising back up again. “I wanted to pamper you tonight... “ and you slide back down. “Give my cute, sweet boy a reward for all his hard work.”

 Atsumu keens, whimpering beneath you.

 “But I think I wanna be a little selfish, too.” You breathe, leaning in close enough for your breath to fan against his face. “Is that ok baby?”

 A high pitched moan leaves Atsumu’s throat, and you clench around him.

 “Yes…” He sighs between ragged breaths. “Yes... Please, I--”

 “Please, what?” You interrupt him.

 “P-please…” You watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. “Please, mommy…”

 “Ohhhhh, that’s my good boy.” You moan, restarting the rise and fall motion of your cunt around him. “Gonna make you feel so good. Just the way you deserve, ‘Tsumu. But you have to promise you won’t cum until I say so, mmk?” You’re holding his face, running your right index finger along the line of his jaw with a feather-light touch.

 And Astumu Miya shudders beneath you, staring up in reverence. The way those big brown watery eyes look at you… He’d look so cute with a collar clasped around his neck right now.

 He nods. “I--I won’t. I promise. Please.”

 Your hand moves up to stroke his hair softly. “Good boy.”

 You restraighten your back in your seated position atop him. Your hands come to rest against his chest for leverage, and you begin riding him in earnest. Atsumu’s eyelids fall closed again, head thrown back while his mouth hangs open in pleasure.

 “Is this what you wanted ‘Tsumu? Just want to feel me fuck myself on you until I’m satisfied?” You tease as you bounce. You slow to almost a halt and grind your hips in a circle, feeling the way his cock buries itself to the hilt. Atsumu’s hands are balled into tight fists against the couch. He’s moaning freely now--little cries escaping him as your cunt eagerly swallows him down over and over and over again.

“So good… You’re so good inside me, ‘Tsumu. Stretching me out so much every time. I know you know how good that feels.”

 “Ahnn--!” He keens at the memory. The way your soft hands had pressed his legs up against his chest. Wetness from the lube dripping down so tantalizingly slow between his ass cheeks. The cock of your strap buried within him. How utterly full he had felt, stretched around it while you softly cooed praises at him, stroking his cock.

 Fuck he wanted to cum like that again.

 More than that, he just wanted to cum. His hands clench and unclench--mouth hanging open while he revels in memory--in the feeling of your tight, wet, heat sliding up and down him just how he likes--how he needs.

 “I told you it was OK to touch, baby.” You reach down to grasp his hands with your own, bringing them to rest on your hips. “Hold onto me while I fuck myself on you.” You whisper.

 Atsumu’s eyes open at that, watching your body bounce on him. HIs left hand hastily comes up to grasp a breast, relishing the feel of the soft, pliable skin in his grasp.

 You gasp lightly at the sensation of his hand grazing your sensitive nipple. “Fuck yeah. So good for me baby--so good. Gonna make you cum in me like this--”

 Atsumu’s head falls back against the cushions again, his expression knotted in pleasure. “You feel so good. So good… Please… Please I’m-- Ahh!-- I’m getting close.”

 “Aww you’re close already? You wanna cum baby?” You shouldn’t tease. You know you’re close, too. That cresting peak getting closer and closer with every push of his cock into your deepest places. Your breath is ragged from the exertion of your body. You reach behind you blindly, refusing to miss an instant of Atsumu’s delicious expression. Eventually, you find the small bullet vibrator you’d stashed beneath the cushions earlier. You bring the toy to your clit and immediately feel it; that powerful wave looming just behind--threatening to take you over the edge. You steele yourself the best you can, inhaling deeply.

 Atsumu slides his eyes open at the sound and unleashes the mostly ungodly, moan. His voice trembles when he speaks.

 “Can I--can I come? Please--please baby let me come. Let me come.” His hands hold fast to your hips, grip growing steadily tighter as the sensations continue to climb. Faster now--exponentially faster. He’s not sure he could stop if he wanted to.

 “Mmmm hearing you beg like that… Good boy. You can cum, baby. I’ll even cum with you for being so good. Go ahead. Cum in this tight pussy.” Your words are rushed, breath catching here and there. “Give it to me.”

 And Atsumu shatters.

 The way his cry lilts up--high-pitched and unabashed. That wave crashing into him so hard and so completely it takes you down under with him. Atsumu’s mind is empty. Nothing but blinding white as he expends everything he has in him in an instant. His name spills past your lips over and over like a mantra while you ride out your high. The two of you so in-sync, it feels as though your cunt convulses in time with his every pulse. Everything feels so, astonishingly good and intimate.

 You’re both breathing heavily, eyes shut tight as that shared bliss slowly dissipates. You let yourself come down to rest on his chest. It’s suddenly very quiet save for your shared breaths. Eventually you rise onto your elbows, face directly over his.

 “I love you…” Atsumu murmurs, eyes slightly flitting about while he studies the intricacies of your face. He memorized them all long ago, but even in this he is never sated. Your eyes soften, chest fluttering at his tone: so tender and soft.

 “I love you, too.” You say, gently caressing his face. “So much.”

 Atsumu can’t help the smile spreading across his face. In one quick motion, his arms are around your neck and tugging your face down toward him. His head tilts, lips melding themselves against yours when they make contact. The kiss is unusually tender, his lips trying to convey what his words cannot: how he is so thankful and lucky to have you. You, who understands how dear his passion, his career, is to him yet helps him remain grounded so that it does not consume him entirely. You, who remains so, so patient when he is away. You, who is always there to help him take care of himself when he is too busy or exhausted. You, who holds him when he finally fractures under the stress of giving his everything all the time--and who helps him put his pieces back together again and get back at it.

 Your head returns to its resting place on his chest. His heartbeat steady beneath you, lulling you to sleep. You both need to get up, clean up, and get into your actual bed, but the bliss of finally feeling Atsumu’s hard body beneath you. Knowing it is completely yours, at least for a short while… You don’t want to relinquish it for even a second.

There’s another beat of silence before you speak.

 “Wanna go to ‘Samu’s and get tuna tomorrow?” You ask.

 Atsumu groans his approval loudly--so much so one would think he hadn’t just finished a massive meal with the Jackals. That signature cheeky grin returns to his face.

 “Oh my god I love you.”

I literally just can't stop thinking about daydreaming!reader??? She's too precious I love her!! I like to think she's like Elle Woods from Legally Blonde.

Like imagine her friends being stuck on some kind of math equation or smth and she just means over, looks at him and hums, grabs a pen and solves that shit in like a minute 💀💀💀 The guys looking at her like "👁👄👁 how did you do that?" and she just smiles at them confused and says "what? Like it's hard??" lmaoooooo

Also, her being into fashion!! She'd drag whoever's with her to as many clothing shops as possible and makes them sit through her trying on like 43 different items.

One time a salesperson tried to sell her a last season dress from the clearance section for the full price and she was like "!!! oh!!! Is this a low-viscosity rayon? With half-loop top-stitching on the hem?" and the salesperson is like "uhhh yea absolutely. We just got it in yesterday actually. It's one of a kind." and she just looked them dead in the eye with a smile and says smth like "lol no you didn't I remember seeing this dress in a Vogue issue like a year ago. If you're trying to sell it to me for full price, you picked the wrong girl :)" and whoever's with her at the time just stares at her shocked cuz they just learned their cute lil baby reader is actually not as dumb as she lets on lmaooo

Bonus: her and Nobara definitely bonded over fashion 👀

I am glad you love her - am glad i’ve help give birth to such a baby lol. and OH MY GOD!!! NOW THAT YOU MENTIONED IT, SHE IS!

A fellow smart but dumb bimbo loooool. 

I can see it:

Megumi and Yuji just looking down at the add math equation that Maki had found online, Megumi trying to solve it more than Yuji since Yuji is a whole ass himbo himself. Daydreaming!reader returned to the class they were chilling in with a tray of iced tea, tilting her head at how three of them were pretty much hunched over the desk with Megumi typing away on the calculator. “What are you guys doing?”

“Oh. Maki-senpai found a math equation online and we’ve been trying to solve it for a while now.” Yuji admitted as she placed the tray down, pouring everyone a glance of iced tea as she looked the question over from Megumi’s shoulder; the raven-haired boy just moving aside a little to give her a better look. Wordlessly she grabbed his pencil from his hand, writing down the rest of the equation with ease. She didn’t even need to use a calculator, just humming softly to herself as she writes the rest of it down; putting the right answer at the end. “There, should be right.”

She had not noticed the stares she was getting from Megumi and Maki as Yuji had handed her the cup, having not noticed what his senpai was doing when he was pouring the drinks. “H-How?!” Maki asked in shock as she slapped her hand against the table, causing both her and Yuji to jump as they looked over at her with wide eyes. Even poor Megumi had jumped a little at how loud she was. “How did you solve that so quickly?! Without a calculator at that?!” 

She just blinked at Maki in confusion, taking a sip from her cup. “Was it supposed to be hard?” Was the simple question tossed to both Maki and Megumi, who both blinked at the girl owlishly as Yuji asked if she wanted to see a cute dog video; the girl bounding over to her kouhai, both of them giggling and cooing at the video of the shiba puppy playing on the screen of his phone.

The other is probably Nobara and Yuji, since they are the only two are willing to go out shopping with her besides Yuta. But since Yuta is currently outstation, Yuji and Maki have become your go-to shopping buddies. Usually Yuji is just your bag carrier since mans is so damn strong lol; just feed him food and he’s all good. Nobara and reader were at some fashion boutique selling a few designer pieces by local artists. 

And if there one thing that daydreaming!reader is good in, is following trends and fashion.

So she might be holding up a dress, smiling down at how cute it looked as she asked Yuji if he liked it; to which he said it was cute, since it did. The employees in the boutique realised awhile ago that she wasn’t the brightest, and had smirked to one another as they spotted a dress on the sales rack that they’ve been struggling to sale for awhile now. So one of the saleswomen grabbed it and walked towards the girl with a perfected smile, asking if she wanted to try it on. 

Reader just looked over the dress before she tilted her head a little, picking it up before she turned it on the hanger; listening to the saleswoman as she tries to sell her the dress, saying how it was the newest and hottest design. She was cut off by reader as she hummed, giving the woman a raised eyebrow. “Last year, this came out last year.” She stated simply, to which the saleswoman zipped her mouth up as the reader started to give her the basic rundown of the designer who created this, and what the inspiration was for the design, and the different materials as well. 

She left the saleswoman blushing in embarrassment as she returned it to the wordless saleswoman with a smile, not registering that she had embarrassed the woman as she waved her off. “Thank you for bringing this to me, but I wouldn’t buy it at full price.” She admitted truthfully before Nobara called out for her, to which she just smiles before she walked towards the other girl wordlessly. 

Needless to say, whenever she returns to the store from time to time, no one dares to make another comment once more lol. 

[Spoiler] talks with The Hollywood Reporter about his return to the ABC medical drama and why the surprising reunion with Chyler Leigh had to be filmed via green screen.

[This story contains spoilers from the April 1 "Breathe" episode of Grey's Anatomy.]

The magical beach on Grey's Anatomy just delivered a double surprise.

Viewers knew that Chyler Leigh would be returning to reprise her role as Meredith's younger half-sister, Lexie Grey, but she wasn't the only former star who came back on the show's magical beach. Eric Dane, in a surprise appearance, returned to reprise his role as Lexie's on-screen love interest, Mark Sloan.

Both Dane and Leigh appeared together on the beach as part of a central storyline as Meredith (Ellen Pompeo) continues to battle COVID-19. Dane and Leigh become the latest former stars to return to Grey's Anatomy this season, joining Patrick Dempsey (Derek) and T.R. Knight (George) as the Shonda Rhimes-produced ABC drama continues to focus on the impact of the pandemic on the medical community.

Dane and Leigh's Mark and Lexie appeared for the first time since the season eight finale. That episode featured Lexie telling Mark that they were meant to be as she died from injuries sustained in a plane crash. Mark, meanwhile, was killed off in the season nine premiere as Dane left the series to pursue TNT's The Last Ship.

Below, Dane talks with The Hollywood Reporter about providing closure to Mark and Lexie's love story, being part of Meredith's big storyline — she's now off the vent and breathing on her own — and why his reunion with Leigh had to be filmed via green screen.

What was the pitch to come back? Had you seen that Patrick Dempsey had come back and wonder if you were going to get a call?

No, I hadn't. I was in Shanghai, China, when Krista Vernoff reached out and said, "I have an idea." She texted me. I said, "Well, I'm in Shanghai, of all places. And I'd love to hear your idea. Give me a couple weeks to clear quarantine and I'll find you." And she says, "How would you feel about coming back? I don't know if you've seen what's going on, but Meredith is in this coma in a fever dream from covid. And she's seeing all her friends on a beach." And I said, "Well, that kind of makes sense. Yeah, sure, let's do it."

Was the pitch for both you and Chyler to return the same episode

Absolutely.

What was it like reuniting with Chyler after all these years?

It feels like I never left. It was very comfortable and very easy, and it was so nice to see a lot of the same faces with the crew. It's a role that always fit for me, like one of those great old t-shirts. And it was just like putting the t-shirt back on and hanging out on a beach for a couple days, and catching up with some old friends.

Did you actually film with Chyler? She's a regular on a show that films in Vancouver, which would have meant she had to quarantine in the middle of Supergirl production to film this.

Chyler was in Vancouver. So we had to work some magic. Chyler could get here but then she couldn't get back to Canada. There was some green screen. There was a lot of me and Ellen. And Ellen an eye line.

Were you bummed that the logistics didn't work out for you and Chyler physically share a scene together again after so long?  

Yeah. I'm honestly bummed you even asked me that because I wanted to sell the myths of us actually being on screen together in person. But don't take it personally. It's OK, you're doing your job. But Ellen and I see each other every now and again, Justin [Chambers] and I see each other every now and again. I spent so much of my life with these guys. When you see them again, it's not a big, "Oh my God, what have you done?" It's like, nobody skips a beat. It's just, everything kind of fit. It fit then; it still fits.

What did you and Ellen talk about between takes?

We talked about kids, my 11-year-old just found Grey's Anatomy and she's asking me a lot of questions which are difficult to answer. We talked a lot about our kids finding this show, and how do we handle that. How do we police what they're able to watch? Are they of age? Is it appropriate? Some of it raises some questions that I'm not quite ready to answer yet. But I don't mind it because both my kids now want to be surgeons. And all their baby dolls they used to play with are now being cut open, and they're stitching up bananas. It's fun.

On-screen, the episode implies that Mark and Lexie wound up together in whatever this special beach is. Shonda Rhimes said back in back in season nine that killing off Mark was the only way for Mark and Lexie to really be together. In Lexie's last dying words, do you think Mark and Lexie were meant to be?

Absolutely. I mean, the line Meredith asks is, "So you guys are together." And I say, "I guess on your beach, we are." But I think Mark would have found Lexie no matter what. Whether it would have been on Meredith's beach or Lexie's beach, or anybody's beach, I think Mark would have found her.

Does this feel like you have closure with this character again? Did it feel like there was any lingering questions that you were really able to put a bow on this time?

I think it all came full circle. The one question I think that everybody was left with was, obviously Mark Sloan saying goodbye to Lexie and she said, "We're meant to be." And then Mark passes on, and we don't know what that meant. And now we know, Mark and Lexie are together in their parallel universe.

As an actor, do you feel like this is the closure that you maybe didn't quite get the first time?

Yeah. I always felt like there was closure. I've always trusted these writers and what they were doing as far as the overall story and the character's departures. They've always handled that really well. I guess the only people that weren't provided with closure was the audience. And I hope that this can do that for them.

Even though you didn't film in the same place, it really does feel that way.

Two-thousand miles of distance between us is not going to the chemistry that happens on screen between us. I know who I'm talking to, she knows who she's talking to. And that translates.

Mark spoke about always looking out for Callie (Sara Ramirez) and Arizona (Jessica Capshaw) and their daughter, Sofia. That felt like something special to be part of, too.

I can identify with that. I lost my father at a pretty early age and I always felt like he was looking out for me — still to this day, to a degree. So those words meant something to me, and I believe in them.

Ultimately, Mark and Lexie help Meredith fight to stay alive in her battle with covid. What does it mean to you to have been able to not only come back, but to do so in such a meaningful way?

It's a pretty poignant moment. I would think anybody speaking to anybody beyond the grave would probably provide the same advice. You get one lap in life, it's very important that you live every day to the fullest. You keep both feet in today, you stay present. And you're there for your loved ones.

Any regrets about not being able to reunite with Patrick Dempsey to bring McSteamy and McDreamy back together?

No. I love Patty. That wasn't the story. There were no regrets. I've never had regrets about anything on the show.

You said in a 2013 interview that you would have stayed on Grey's until the last episode but ultimately left because you couldn't pass up the role in The Last Ship. Looking back, any regrets about asking to leave?

No regrets. Look, Grey's Anatomy is a fantastic show and it provides a fantastic life. I'm an actor, I think it's very unnatural for any actor to play the same character for eight years. It's just counterintuitive to what I think I'm doing for a living and I think what my purpose is with my job. So, as much as I loved being there, and as much as I loved working with the people I was working with, playing Mark Sloan for 17 seasons just seemed like, I don't know, a little antithetical to what I'm supposed to be doing as an artist. And you get to a point where that's all anybody is going to see you as. And even with The Last Ship, I wasn't playing Mark Sloan, but I was playing a guy that certainly looked like Mark Sloan and had some of the same characteristics. And then I took a year off and said I need to mix things up here because I'm not finding any real joy in the work I'm doing. And then Euphoria came along and was very different and something I've never done. And it's going to challenge me and keep me engaged. And nobody is going to expect this out of me, so let's do it.

What's the status of season two?

Season two is going to be fantastic. I don't think principal photography has started yet, but I know we are prepping right now. I think mid-April we start shooting.

Is the plan still to get the show back on the air this year?

I believe so. We do take a long time filming it. And it's a gift to get that much time to shoot an hour of television. We take 30 days to shoot an episode sometimes, which is unheard of. When we were shooting Grey's in the early days, the 10-day episodes that we would get were unheard of. But 10 days and two units, people were like, wow, that's a luxury.

So to return to Grey's and get to spend a few days on the beach and not on set and in scrubs under the gun like the old days must have been a nice final memory of the show.

It was a great couple days on the beach with some old friends.

how about Katniss’s birthday before the Quell — do we hear much about that? if anything? if not, what about Peeta taking a timeout from his trainer persona to bring her something like a cake? 🥺

I’m always a little insecure when I do post prompts because I don’t know if it’s exactly like the prompt but I actually think it’s like 99 percent close? Which is like, amazing for me because I always twist prompts a little 🤏🏻 and I don’t think I did here! Anyways! I finally wrote this soooo. Well actually I wrote most of it a while back but I finished it and cleaned it up. But anyways, yay! I hope you and everyone else who blesses me by reading enjoy this! It’s short — at least for me. I don’t know the exact word count but … probably too long for a drabble but a short oneshot. Okay anyways, if I keep talking the AN’s going to be longer than the oneshot.

Since the morning after the Quell was announced, I’ve done my best to not cry again about my given fate. Going back into the arena a second time—this time with all experienced killers, who have been friends for decades, no less—was daunting, but one morning of weeping is about all I could afford.

Not that I truly had time to wallow in my own misery. Peeta had me and Haymitch on a tight regimen. Every day he pushes us further, every day he orders us to cut the breaks between circuits shorter, to keep on running, to not lose our momentum, to hit the target again and again and again. And again.

It’s even gotten to the point, as of late, that Peeta’s mother, the witch herself, has forbidden our usage of her precious flour sacks as weights, claiming she still needs the ingredients to keep the bakery running and we’ve already wasted enough.

Her son is rather put out with her — to put it lightly — but for perhaps the first time ever, I’m grateful to the sour woman. Last year, when I cited Peeta’s ability to toss a sack of flour over his shoulder, I didn’t recognize what a true feat it really was. Even after two weeks of attempting to lift the stupid, heavy objects, it still took all of my strength to even get the stupid things off the ground.

Haymitch and me so much as shared a conspicuous smirk when told we no longer have to endure that particular activity.

Of course, Peeta still insists on heavy lifting to gain muscle, trying to find a substitute for the flour sacks in way of buckets filled with gigantic rocks and overfilled water jugs. This doesn’t seem to be of much strain to him or Haymitch — and therefore, not of much help to their training — but I can visibly see the difference in my arms day to day. Having never done much lifting in the past, since it’s hardly necessary for hunting or trapping, it’s particularly fascinating to me, watching my biceps grow larger as Peeta’s insistent training plan marches on.

But Peeta still feels the need to push himself further. Perhaps even more so than me — or our now very sober mentor — he feels the urge to always put additional strain on himself, more and more with every day that passes on by.

And as of today, his dissatisfaction with the lack of heavy weights available for his training finally reached a head when he casually pitched the idea of using me as a weight.

At first, I thought he was kidding. For a solid minute, I just stared at him, waiting for the punchline.

It was only after I glanced at Haymitch’s uncharacteristically earnest face that I realized there was no joke in the matter. I debated refusing for a moment before I sighed, resigning myself to becoming a human leverage.

It took over an hour of Peeta lifting me over his head, of being swung up in his arms, being whirled over his shoulder or seesawed up and down, for me to realize this was actually a nice break for me from the rigorous training. By the day’s end, I’m perfectly content to let my fake fiancé bench press me, throw me up like the sack of flour he covets so badly and whatever else he deems necessary.

It was only later on the walk home, right after Peeta said he needed to stop by the bakery to see his father, that Haymitch predicted the true reason for my day of leisure.

“I suppose that was the boy’s birthday present to you.”

My head whips upwards towards him, shocked. No one has mentioned the date at all as of late. The acknowledgement of the sparse time left until the games is weighing heavy on us all. “How do you know it’s my birthday?”

Haymitch raises an eyebrow. “Because I do,” is all he says finally, as he turns in the direction of his own house now. Just as he reaches his door though, he murmurs, “Happy birthday, sweetheart,” before heading inside.

Ever since the announcement that I’m doomed to be reaped again, my mother and Prim have done just about everything to make things seem okay around the house. Beyond that even. They’ve dedicated themselves to always appearing cheerful, to always having dinner ready for me, to always having a remedy for healing my achy muscles or advice for putting on more weight.

But if they’re usually chipper, tonight they’re downright ecstatic when I cross the threshold. And the reason is all too obvious.

This is likely going to be the last birthday we spend together. And not just of mine, but any of ours.

It strikes me unexpectedly that I’ll never see my own sister grow up, I’ll never see her into adulthood, I’ll never be able to watch her become the talented healer, the wise beyond her years young woman, the nurturing mother she’s doubtlessly destined to be.

And I almost get choked up at the thought. My resolve to not break down into tears like the morning after the president’s announcement nearly crumbles. But I hold it together somehow. By some inexplicable strength deep inside, I hold myself together.

My mother did her best to recreate the lamb stew dish from the Capitol I loved the best and I practically lick my plate. Not just to make her feel good but because all this training has exponentially increased my appetite.

Prim tells me all about school and Lady and a funny man she healed this afternoon, who had a proclivity for telling jokes while she stitched his bleeding arm.

She’s just getting into a pretty fabric she saw in town today when a loud knock interrupts us. My mother glances at me meaningfully, as if urging me to go get the door.

I shoot her a puzzled look, as I’m the least personable member of this family and surely, no one is here to visit me.

“Go on,” she says though, nodding towards the entryway. “Go see who’s there.”

I stand from the table and hesitantly humor her, unsure the entire walk there what could be awaiting me on the other side.

The answer dawns on me as the most obvious thing in the world, as soon as I turn the knob.

And see Peeta standing on my porch. He’s still in the same white shirt he wore earlier, still damp with sweat from the heat outside and the added exertion of lifting my body weight countless times.

But that’s not all I notice. Right off the bat I see that he’s holding something delicate in his hands. I blink once before recognizing what it is.

A birthday cake.

A birthday cake that has been meticulously frosted into a deep pine green. My favorite color, as he knows.

I realize after a moment that my name is cursively splayed across the top in white icing.

“Peeta,” I open my mouth to say something, to say just about anything, but much to my dismay, nothing comes out and I’m stuck fumbling like an idiot in the doorway.

He gives me a tight smile though and it’s the first smile he’s really showed me in weeks, and as he gently pushes the cake into my hands, it strikes me just how much I’ve missed the sight. “Happy birthday, Katniss,” he whispers, his baby blues lingering on my face only for one beat before he quickly turns to make an escape.

Before I can think it through, I’m calling after him. “Peeta, wait!”

Very slowly, he swivels around to face me. “Yeah?”

I freeze, dumbfounded. I don’t actually know what I wish to say now that I have his attention. That I miss him even though I don’t know how I really feel for him? That I plan to trade my life for his in only a few weeks time and all his work and effort to prepare me for the games is useless because it’s him I intend to come back home? That I hate his trainer persona so much and I wish he’d go back to just being my friend again?

That I really miss it when he acted like friend?

Instead all that comes out is a choked invite. “Come in,” I urge, and the plea in my tone is palpable. “Please come in and share this with us.”

He thinks about the proposition for a long moment, leaving me still standing there like an idiot, holding a cake too big to fit in my hands. Finally though, he graciously relents to my request. “Okay,” he murmurs and I swear I see something akin to excitement in his eyes.

And I wonder in the back of my mind how many nights Peeta spends alone, eating these delicious desserts by himself in his too grand dining room.? I wonder if, deep down, he secretly wanted to join me and my family for cake? If he misses our attempt at friendship too?

He generously takes the cake back into his hold, having the advantage of strength over me. Lifting bread-trays and flour sacks all his life made him reasonably strong before our first games. The current training regimen him and I — and Haymitch too — are currently doing has made him remarkably strong.

“Thank you,” I whisper again as he brushes past me in the doorway, as he enters my home and heads in direction of the dining room where Prim will doubtlessly be overjoyed at the sight of the sweet treat.

“You’re welcome, Katniss,” he says again, and flashes me one more smile. This time it’s less shy and with teeth. “Happy birthday.”

Yes, I think to myself as I shut the door behind us. Happy seventeenth birthday to me.

here’s a story about changelings

reposted from my old blog, which got deleted:   Mary was a beautiful baby, sweet and affectionate, but by the time she’s three she’s turned difficult and strange, with fey moods and a stubborn mouth that screams and bites but never says mama. But her mother’s well-used to hard work with little thanks, and when the village gossips wag their tongues she just shrugs, and pulls her difficult child away from their precious, perfect blossoms, before the bites draw blood. Mary’s mother doesn’t drown her in a bucket of saltwater, and she doesn’t take up the silver knife the wife of the village priest leaves out for her one Sunday brunch. She gives her daughter yarn, instead, and instead of a rowan stake through her inhuman heart she gives her a child’s first loom, oak and ash. She lets her vicious, uncooperative fairy daughter entertain herself with games of her own devising, in as much peace and comfort as either of them can manage. Mary grows up strangely, as a strange child would, learning everything in all the wrong order, and biting a great deal more than she should. But she also learns to weave, and takes to it with a grand passion. Soon enough she knows more than her mother–which isn’t all that much–and is striking out into unknown territory, turning out odd new knots and weaves, patterns as complex as spiderwebs and spellrings. “Aren’t you clever,” her mother says, of her work, and leaves her to her wool and flax and whatnot. Mary’s not biting anymore, and she smiles more than she frowns, and that’s about as much, her mother figures, as anyone should hope for from their child. Mary still cries sometimes, when the other girls reject her for her strange graces, her odd slow way of talking, her restless reaching fluttering hands that have learned to spin but never to settle. The other girls call her freak, witchblood, hobgoblin. “I don’t remember girls being quite so stupid when I was that age,” her mother says, brushing Mary’s hair smooth and steady like they’ve both learned to enjoy, smooth as a skein of silk. “Time was, you knew not to insult anyone you might need to flatter later. ‘Specially when you don’t know if they’re going to grow wings or horns or whatnot. Serve ‘em all right if you ever figure out curses.” “I want to go back,” Mary says. “I want to go home, to where I came from, where there’s people like me. If I’m a fairy’s child I should be in fairyland, and no one would call me a freak.” “Aye, well, I’d miss you though,” her mother says. “And I expect there’s stupid folk everywhere, even in fairyland. Cruel folk, too. You just have to make the best of things where you are, being my child instead.” Mary learns to read well enough, in between the weaving, especially when her mother tracks down the traveling booktraders and comes home with slim, precious manuals on dyes and stains and mordants, on pigments and patterns, diagrams too arcane for her own eyes but which make her daughter’s eyes shine. “We need an herb garden,” her daughter says, hands busy, flipping from page to page, pulling on her hair, twisting in her skirt, itching for a project. “Yarrow, and madder, and woad and weld…” “Well, start digging,” her mother says. “Won’t do you a harm to get out of the house now’n then.” Mary doesn’t like dirt but she’s learned determination well enough from her mother. She digs and digs, and plants what she’s given, and the first year doesn’t turn out so well but the second’s better, and by the third a cauldron’s always simmering something over the fire, and Mary’s taking in orders from girls five years older or more, turning out vivid bolts and spools and skeins of red and gold and blue, restless fingers dancing like they’ve summoned down the rainbow. Her mother figures she probably has. “Just as well you never got the hang of curses,” she says, admiring her bright new skirts. “I like this sort of trick a lot better.” Mary smiles, rocking back and forth on her heels, fingers already fluttering to find the next project. She finally grows up tall and fair, if a bit stooped and squinty, and time and age seem to calm her unhappy mouth about as well as it does for human children. Word gets around she never lies or breaks a bargain, and if the first seems odd for a fairy’s child then the second one seems fit enough. The undyed stacks of taken orders grow taller, the dyed lots of filled orders grow brighter, the loom in the corner for Mary’s own creations grows stranger and more complex. Mary’s hands callus just like her mother’s, become as strong and tough and smooth as the oak and ash of her needles and frames, though they never fall still. “Do you ever wonder what your real daughter would be like?” the priest’s wife asks, once. Mary’s mother snorts. “She wouldn’t be worth a damn at weaving,” she says. “Lord knows I never was. No, I’ll keep what I’ve been given and thank the givers kindly. It was a fair enough trade for me. Good day, ma’am.” Mary brings her mother sweet chamomile tea, that night, and a warm shawl in all the colors of a garden, and a hairbrush. In the morning, the priest’s son comes round, with payment for his mother’s pretty new dress and a shy smile just for Mary. He thinks her hair is nice, and her hands are even nicer, vibrant in their strength and skill and endless motion.   They all live happily ever after. * Here’s another story: Gregor grew fast, even for a boy, grew tall and big and healthy and began shoving his older siblings around early. He was blunt and strange and flew into rages over odd things, over the taste of his porridge or the scratch of his shirt, over the sound of rain hammering on the roof, over being touched when he didn’t expect it and sometimes even when he did. He never wore shoes if he could help it and he could tell you the number of nails in the floorboards without looking, and his favorite thing was to sit in the pantry and run his hands through the bags of dry barley and corn and oat. Considering as how he had fists like a young ox by the time he was five, his family left him to it. “He’s a changeling,” his father said to his wife, expecting an argument, but men are often the last to know anything about their children, and his wife only shrugged and nodded, like the matter was already settled, and that was that. They didn’t bind Gregor in iron and leave him in the woods for his own kind to take back. They didn’t dig him a grave and load him into it early. They worked out what made Gregor angry, in much the same way they figured out the personal constellations of emotion for each of their other sons, and when spring came, Gregor’s father taught him about sprouts, and when autumn came, Gregor’s father taught him about sheaves. Meanwhile his mother didn’t mind his quiet company around the house, the way he always knew where she’d left the kettle, or the mending, because she was forgetful and he never missed a detail. “Pity you’re not a girl, you’d never drop a stitch of knitting,” she tells Gregor, in the winter, watching him shell peas. His brothers wrestle and yell before the hearth fire, but her fairy child just works quietly, turning peas by their threes and fours into the bowl. “You know exactly how many you’ve got there, don’t you?” she says. “Six hundred and thirteen,” he says, in his quiet, precise way. His mother says “Very good,” and never says Pity you’re not human. He smiles just like one, if not for quite the same reasons. The next autumn he’s seven, a lucky number that pleases him immensely, and his father takes him along to the mill with the grain. “What you got there?” The miller asks them. “Sixty measures of Prince barley, thirty two measures of Hare’s Ear corn, and eighteen of Abernathy Blue Slate oats,” Gregor says. “Total weight is three hundred fifty pounds, or near enough. Our horse is named Madam. The wagon doesn’t have a name. I’m Gregor.” “My son,” his father says. “The changeling one.” “Bit sharper’n your others, ain’t he?” the miller says, and his father laughs. Gregor feels proud and excited and shy, and it dries up all his words, sticks them in his throat. The mill is overwhelming, but the miller is kind, and tells him the name of each and every part when he points at it, and the names of all the grain in all the bags waiting for him to get to them. “Didn’t know the fair folk were much for machinery,” the miller says. Gregor shrugs. “I like seeds,” he says, each word shelled out with careful concentration. “And names. And numbers.” “Aye, well. Suppose that’d do it. Want t’help me load up the grist?” They leave the grain with the miller, who tells Gregor’s father to bring him back ‘round when he comes to pick up the cornflour and cracked barley and rolled oats. Gregor falls asleep in the nameless wagon on the way back, and when he wakes up he goes right back to the pantry, where the rest of the seeds are left, and he runs his hands through the shifting, soothing textures and thinks about turning wheels, about windspeed and counterweights. When he’s twelve–another lucky number–he goes to live in the mill with the miller, and he never leaves, and he lives happily ever after. * Here’s another: James is a small boy who likes animals much more than people, which doesn’t bother his parents overmuch, as someone needs to watch the sheep and make the sheepdogs mind. James learns the whistles and calls along with the lambs and puppies, and by the time he’s six he’s out all day, tending to the flock. His dad gives him a knife and his mom gives him a knapsack, and the sheepdogs give him doggy kisses and the sheep don’t give him too much trouble, considering. “It’s not right for a boy to have so few complaints,” his mother says, once, when he’s about eight. “Probably ain’t right for his parents to have so few complaints about their boy, neither,” his dad says. That’s about the end of it. James’ parents aren’t very talkative, either. They live the routines of a farm, up at dawn and down by dusk, clucking softly to the chickens and calling harshly to the goats, and James grows up slow but happy. When James is eleven, he’s sent to school, because he’s going to be a man and a man should know his numbers. He gets in fights for the first time in his life, unused to peers with two legs and loud mouths and quick fists. He doesn’t like the feel of slate and chalk against his fingers, or the harsh bite of a wooden bench against his legs. He doesn’t like the rules: rules for math, rules for meals, rules for sitting down and speaking when you’re spoken to and wearing shoes all day and sitting under a low ceiling in a crowded room with no sheep or sheepdogs. Not even a puppy. But his teacher is a good woman, patient and experienced, and James isn’t the first miserable, rocking, kicking, crying lost lamb ever handed into her care. She herds the other boys away from him, when she can, and lets him sit in the corner by the door, and have a soft rag to hold his slate and chalk with, so they don’t gnaw so dryly at his fingers. James learns his numbers well enough, eventually, but he also learns with the abruptness of any lamb taking their first few steps–tottering straight into a gallop–to read. Familiar with the sort of things a strange boy needs to know, his teacher gives him myths and legends and fairytales, and steps back. James reads about Arthur and Morgana, about Hercules and Odysseus, about djinni and banshee and brownies and bargains and quests and how sometimes, something that looks human is left to try and stumble along in the humans’ world, step by uncertain step, as best they can. James never comes to enjoy writing. He learns to talk, instead, full tilt, a leaping joyous gambol, and after a time no one wants to hit him anymore. The other boys sit next to him, instead, with their mouths closed, and their hands quiet on their knees.   “Let’s hear from James,” the men at the alehouse say, years later, when he’s become a man who still spends more time with sheep than anyone else, but who always comes back into town with something grand waiting for his friends on his tongue. “What’ve you got for us tonight, eh?” James finishes his pint, and stands up, and says, “Here’s a story about changelings.”

no feelings - mason x f!detective (twc)

author’s note: my original intention was to do a post-bakery, heartbreak moment for mason and I started this before the demo updated, but needed to change it since and hopefully it still works. I have no idea if I’ll do a part 2, my original plans don’t spark joy atm, and I was tired of seeing this in my WIPs xD. very minor book 3 spoilers (allusions but no specific mentions). enjoy! *thank you @silma-words for giving this a read-through all those months ago when i was stuck and to @narrativefoiltrope for the parentheses suggestion!

copyright: all characters, except my oc detective, are owned by mishka jenkins @seraphinitegames. series/pairing: the wayhaven chronicles – mason x f!detective (ria knight) rating/warnings: 16+; swearing, angst word count: 1.7k summary: ria wants to end things with mason before she catches feelings for someone who won’t return them. mason isn’t sure what he wants but knows he doesn’t want to give up what they have.

no feelings

mason just stared at the door to ria’s office, the shades obscuring the sight of her but he could still hear the sound of her heartbeat. solid and steady, like her.

he didn’t know why he said what he did. he just knew that she was hurt, even though she pretended not to be. and even though he wanted to talk to her, he didn’t know what he wanted to say.

it didn’t matter though, seeing as how she didn’t seem like she wanted to talk to him anytime soon.

but he couldn’t bring himself to walk away.

he knocked, hesitantly. once. twice.

“come in,” a voice called out, loud to his senses, vibrating ever so slightly.

he opened the door and paused in the doorway, eyes searching hers for permission.

her head rose from where it had been resting on her arms, fists clenching once she noticed him. she lowered her hands to her lap, but mason had no doubt that her knuckles were white.

“what do you want?” she asked, her features stitching together a mask of indifference.

but he could see the truth in her light blue eyes. it was his special skill after all, being able to read people and get the truth from them.

a skill he tried to avoid using with ria as much as possible for some reason.

when did that happen?

even now, as he was holding her gaze, he knew he wasn’t trying to read her. but he could still sense that something was off. and he wanted, no needed, to figure out what it was.

the silence between them grew as ria’s gaze shifted. she looked expectantly at him. “well? if you don’t have anything new to report on the case, you should leave. i have a lot of work to do.”

he shook his head, a force of habit. he really didn’t know what to say.

she glanced away, eyes flitting across the posters and papers pinned to the wall next to her desk, but mason could see the gears turning in her mind. when she turned back to look at him, the pain from before was replaced by a newfound intensity that slammed into him and sent a prickly, but still pleasant, tingle across his chest and down his arms.

a knowing smirk tugged at the corner of her lips as her eyes appraised him, and not unlike the first time they flirted, the motion sent something warm and soothing down south. as her eyes met his again, the warmth turned into a simmering heat and he took a step forward, her darkened irises drawing him in.

he raised an eyebrow at her. while he was no stranger to the constant attraction between them, which pushed and pulled like the tides but always met each other at dusk and dawn, it didn’t seem like the time.

for once, he wanted to talk.

“look, about what i said before,” he started, folding his arms across his chest.

ria made her way around her desk until she was standing in front of him. “you were right. you made it clear that you were only interested in fun, and i agreed,” she shrugged, tapping her fingers lightly on his chest.

his brow furrowed. while he did say something to that affect, it wasn’t what he wanted.

“that’s all this is and all it’s going to be, so i’ll see you later at my apartment?” ria asked pointedly, her lip curling into a smirk.

a frustrated rumble crouched low in the back of his throat. “i never said that this is all it’s going to be,” he snapped, flinching at the volume of his own voice.

ria didn’t move a muscle. her light blue eyes had darkened to a cloudy grey, only a few shades lighter than his own.

“you didn’t have to, sunshine. i’m saying it. so am i seeing you later or not?” she asked, the glare on her face reminding him of the daggers she had hidden under her jacket sleeves.

an uncomfortable itch started in his belly and he subconsciously scratched at the fabric of his shirt, blunt nails digging in harder before he realized the itch was under his skin.

and it was spreading. traveling up toward his chest and out before making its way down his arms. leaving behind a tiny, circular weight in his stomach that he didn’t care for.

he could recognize it for what it was, a form of conflict. swirling counter-clockwise as a hurricane does when it approaches shore. but he didn’t understand why it was there.

what he did understand is that if she wanted to see him, he wanted to see her.

he gave her a slow nod. “i’ll see you later,” he said, hesitating for a brief second with his hand on the doorknob.

he glanced back at her and said softly, “sweetheart.”

~ against her better judgment, ria met mason’s gaze before he left, the murmured pet name on his lips seeming to glide through the air and hit her in the chest. her body slumped back against the desk as he left, energy draining out of her and leaving behind the tempestuous grey look now seared in her mind. his words left an uncomfortable lump in her throat, and she hoped no one else came into her office.

she looked at the clock, a feeble attempt to fast-forward to the end of the day, only for her shoulders to sag at the realization that she basically still had eight hours to go. despite the tension in their earlier conversation and the uncomfortable moments they’ve had since breakfast, ria wasn’t mad at mason.

even though she had stormed out while trying to blink back tears and then he stormed away from her after finding out about bobby, she didn’t blame him.

no, the only person she was fucking pissed off at was herself.

it wasn’t supposed to get this far.

she wasn’t good with feelings. it was always easier to push away any uncomfortable thoughts or emotions by keeping her body physically distracted, preferably with either a partner in the gym or a partner in her bed.

learning how to box and working her way through all the various martial art forms gave her focus after quitting ballet.

(though it did little to quell the feelings of inadequacy caused by things completely out of her control.)

teaching herself how to use knives and rook’s family dagger was a welcome distraction after she was forced to abandon her aspirations to join the army.

(though digging through rook’s old stuff in the attic in desperate protest – to find anything that would tell her he would’ve supported her – only drowned her in the loss.)

flirting and sleeping with every person who showed interest in her and seemed even an inch better than bobby fucking marks.

(though every little fling, whether a one-night stand or a string of awkward first dates, only added supporting evidence to the story she told herself that no one would stick around for her.)

and it was supposed to be the same with mason.

no strings. no baggage. no goddamn feelings.

ria gripped the edge of her desk with her hands until her knuckles turned white. she already broke her first rule of dating: don’t catch feelings.

you can’t get hurt if there aren’t feelings involved, she reminded herself of the mantra that got her out of several attempts at relationships after breaking up with bobby.

but she could still implement her second rule.

~ instead of heading back to the warehouse right away, mason wandered toward the trees bordering the station that offered a shady respite from the scorching sun against his sensitive skin.

the heat was only going to get worse, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave just yet. even in the dark shade of the trees around him, the sun burned against his skin almost as if it were bare. he winced, not even wanting to think about how much worse it might feel if he wasn’t at least wearing a long-sleeved shirt.

they still needed to work together.

he pushed the seemingly random thought out of his mind as quickly as it had appeared, his body reacting viscerally in disagreement to the sentiment.

this wasn’t about maintaining a working relationship with ria.

this was bigger than that.

at least, he assumed, though he wasn’t exactly sure why.

he lit a cigarette, trying to distract from how his shirt is quickly becoming an incubator for the heat. smoke curled upward as he leaned his head back against the trunk of a tree.

he was always in it for the fun. it made traveling around and the downtime between missions more bearable.

he didn’t really care for hobbies and interests the way nate and felix did. and he could only take a beating from adam every so often.

having fun, especially with humans – who were so easy to rile up and even easier to read – made the endless time pass in a way that felt normal. for him anyway.

learning all the different ways he could elicit sounds from them. figuring out how quickly he could make them peak. knowing exactly what to do to leave them wanting more.

he took a long drag of the cigarette, closing his eyes and wishing the burn in his lungs would linger a little longer. it numbed the burn on the outside of his body.

but no feelings. that always took the fun out of things.

that was the rule.

and ria was fun, there was no denying that. maybe even the most fun he’s had in a very long time.

she knew his rule. hell, it was her rule too.

it was the perfect situation for him.

maybe he didn’t want to lose out on such an ideal situation. or mess up the team dynamic.

he dumped the cigarette butt onto the floor and put out the embers with his shoe.

whatever it was, he knew he wasn’t ready for things with her to end.

* * * * * taglist: @kelseaaa; @kat-tia801; @anotherbeingsworld; @babycracker; @writer-ish; @gloynporslen; @sosolenoo; @alyssalauren; @wayhavenots; @pearlsandsteel; @gingerbreton; @takemyopenheart; @mevnraels;