#its a time when he desperately needs the comfort of familiarity.. feels vulnerable and weak without his normal attire...
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#do not evennnnn fucking talk to meeeeeee about the way hotch acts in the hospital#im screaming crying shitting throwing up#4x01#aaron hotchner#derek morgan#cm caps#another scene where caps/gifs dont do it justice#first of all the captions miss the 'i dont need that i just need my clothes' aldjkgh which is just so much funnier#the way he's looking around almost frantically. the clear discomfort in his voice.#this is a guy who Does Not Like To Yell. but voice raised asking the ether where his fucking clothes are#he's had what could be considered a rough night lmao#he's tense he's stressed he's worried#every emotion is heightened--only made worse by being stuck in a hospital#its a time when he desperately needs the comfort of familiarity.. feels vulnerable and weak without his normal attire...#anyway. you can pry autistic hotch from my cold dead hands#anyway anyway. as a patient hotch is a fucking menace#this is a six foot tall physically fit guy who's doing everything he can to just rip everything off and go#wild eyed and still pumped w adrenaline he's gotta be near impossible to control#no wonder the nurse/doctor just fucking leave ajksdhglaskjd
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To the Wolves
my (first) entry for the Deal With the Devil collab, because i couldn’t resist writing for Yakuza Getou <33
Getou Suguru x Female Reader
TW Extremely dubious consent, coercion, manipulation, threats, implied murder, smut, nsfw
“No. I- I won’t.”
Sitting comfortably on the old, worn couch in your cramped little apartment, Getou raises a single eyebrow, “Oh? Is that so?”
His voice is perfectly pleasant, the smile on his face a touch amused, but you’re not so naive as to believe that the question is anything but a generous offer for you to rethink your reply. A smart person would take it – since the day you’d first arrived home to find him waiting for you, Getou hadn’t so much as laid a finger on you. He had no need for guns or knives, never shouted or bullied you, his reputation more than enough to cow you into submission before he’d even opened his mouth.
Of course, once he had, the simple threats to your friends and family’s lives had made certain that you were more than amenable to his request.
A mutually beneficial arrangement, he’d called it, as if there hadn’t been tears silently streaming down your face, your whole body stiff with fear.
But that was the world he came from. Violence and ruthlessness, cruelty masquerading as kindness.
By all accounts, someone like you – a lowly admin assistant living a very boring, mundane life – should never have crossed paths with a man like Getou. The irony, of course, being that it was precisely because of your job that he’d been drawn to you in the first place.
“I-I said no,” you stammer. “I’m not doing it.”
Getou sighs, long, pale fingers idly fixing the cuff of his left sleeve. “I had no idea the lives of your loved ones meant so little to you.”
“Please, I-” you break off, biting your lip as your hands curl into useless fists at your side, “I can’t. Anything else, I’ll do anything, I swear it, just… please.”
Men like Getou aren’t the type to be swayed by pretty words or tearful pleas, but there’s an unmistakable glimmer of interest that flickers in his eyes at the offer. Casually, he leans forward, resting his chin on the palm of his hand and regarding you with a smirk. “So you’ll bring me the list of witnesses then?”
The barely audible hitch in your breath is enough to make him chuckle.
“No? How about those surveillance tapes, hm?” Smoothly, he rises to his feet and makes his way towards you. “Careful, little one, first rule of negotiation is knowing when you have something to bargain with. Don’t promise me what you can’t give.”
“Getou–”
He raises a hand and you quickly fall silent. There’s only inches between you two now, Getou’s taller, broader frame looming over yours. He could kill you like this, you realise with panic – reach out and wrap his hands around your throat and snap your pretty little neck before you could so much as scream. The tailored line of his jacket hides the gun he has holstered at his side, but Getou knows you're aware of its presence, have been since the very first time he’d broken into your home and threatened you.
It’d take him only moments to draw the sidearm, even less for him to pull the trigger.
The walls of your apartment are thin, would your neighbours come if they heard gunfire? Would you, for that matter, if your roles were reversed?
Yet Getou makes no move for his gun, instead reaching for your chin, tilting it up with two curled fingers until you meet his gaze, “You understand, don’t you, that I make one phone call and that charming sister of yours and her fiance meet a very tragic, very untimely end?”
He pauses, waiting until you jerk a quick nod of assent before continuing. “You love them. There’s nothing wrong with that, nothing wrong with prioritising the ones you love over everybody else.” His voice is gentle, but the words make you shake, dread rising from the pit of your stomach as the pad of his thumb grazes over your bottom lip.
You don’t know if you’re supposed to say something to that, but even as you try, you can’t summon the words. The by now familiar scent of his cologne tickles your nose and invades your throat, the warmth of his touch burning through your veins. Your own heart hammers like a drumbeat in your chest, every cell in your body screaming danger, but you don’t run, you don’t even flinch.
Getou smiles kindly, and perhaps if you hadn’t seen first hand the aftermath of his handiwork you might be tempted to believe it. His spare hand reaches into his jacket, but instead of the gun you’re expecting, he pulls out his phone, the screen flickering to life with a swipe of his finger. “So tell me, before I make a call you and I both know you don’t want me to make, why you’ve suddenly decided that their lives aren’t worth your compliance?”
Nanami. Your boss’s face flashes to your mind, the odd, fleeting glances he’d sent your way over the past few weeks when he’d thought you weren’t paying attention. Your stomach erupts with butterflies, your cheeks unwittingly warming, but you just shake your head, “If I give you those files, you’ll kill them. You’ll hurt them.”
“Maybe,” he hums, “maybe not. It’s no less than those monkeys deserve, don’t you think?” He spits the word like it’s venom, the twitch in his jaw the only chink in his otherwise effortless composure. “You’re protecting them, even now.”
You make no attempt to defend yourself, terrified of saying the wrong thing and setting him off, but Getou seems entirely unfazed, laughing coldly at your stricken expression.
“Your boss, the one with the perpetual stick up his ass; Nanami,” potent disdain drips from his tone at the name, “Always so morally righteous, sitting up on his high horse. You think he cares for you, that he’ll protect you when all of this comes out? And it will come out eventually,” he says, his smirk widening at the sudden pallor in your face. “At some point there’ll be one too many unfortunate coincidences, and the higher ups will realise that they have a mole in their ranks. Fingers will be pointed of course, but eventually even those idiots will figure it out.”
A knot tightens inside of your chest at his words, constricting until it feels like you can’t breathe. You’re shaking your head, eyes filling with tears, “N-no–”
“Oh, little one,” Getou murmurs, dark eyes drinking in every ounce of your distress. “Surely you realised that they have security cameras covering every inch of your floor? There was no reason to look before, but once they do…” he trails off, letting go of your chin in favour of brushing the back of his knuckles along your cheek. “They’ll throw you to the wolves.”
His voice is soft and cruel, belied by the gentleness of his touch, but it does nothing to quell the rising sense of dread inside of you. You want to believe it’s a lie, another threat meant to scare you into submission, but some deeper part of you recognises the truth in his words.
Nanami, who’d told you once that there was innocence and there was guilt and very little in between. Nanami, whose office you’d bugged, whose trial only weeks ago you’d all but derailed with a few misplaced documents. You think back to the late nights shared in his office, bowls of ramen and case files scattered across the desk between you. You think of the rare smiles, his oddly dry sense of humour, the pleasant fluttering in your heart–
“You’ll rot in prison long before I do, and there is not a soul among that insipid bunch that would lift a finger to stop that from happening to you.”
A soft, strangled noise leaves your lips as you fight not to sob, and Getou sighs, the corners of his lips twitching downwards in contrived sympathy. “Say the word and I’ll walk away tonight. I’ll still have to kill your sister – I am a man of my word, you understand – but I promise it’ll be the last you see of me.”
He slides his phone back into the breast pocket of his jacket, taking your face in both of his hands as tears spill down long lashes. “And when they come for you, you can tell them I threatened you, show them what little proof you have – if you have any at all. Maybe it’ll even make a difference,” he says. “But I doubt it.”
Every word is like a knife, slicing away at the raw, bleeding, vulnerable parts of you.
“Please…” It’s weak and desperate, your voice cracked and broken. You don’t even know what you’re begging for anymore; your sister’s life, for Getou’s mercy, or maybe just for him to stop saying such awful things. He must take pity on you though, because he sighs once more, his right thumb sweeping across your wet cheek to brush away silvery tear tracks.
“I’m not a complete monster, you know. I protect what’s mine.”
And in one breath, everything screeches to a standstill and a trickle of very real fear creeps down your spine. There’s no mistaking his implication, not when he’s holding your face like that, his eyes dark and simmering with an intensity that makes your stomach flip.
“W-what?”
Getou closes the gap between you two, a startled noise leaving your lips as his hips press flush up against you. “Don’t play stupid, sweet thing,” he murmurs, and it sounds like a warning, “It doesn’t suit you.”
One hand slips to your neck, the other curling almost possessively around your waist. There’s no room for you to move, to back away or free yourself. For a moment, neither of you speak, the heavy silence deafening between you.
Does he notice the way your pulse races under his fingertips as they circle your throat, how you’re shaking like a leaf beneath him? Does he want you afraid? A scared little bunny rabbit cowering from the gaping maw of the big, bad wolf?
Judging from the bulge of his semi-hard cock pressing into the soft flesh of your belly, he’s not entirely unaffected, and for the first time it’s not Getou’s gun or his threats that you’re most afraid of.
It’s the selfish, twisted want that glitters and glints in those pitiless depths. You’ve never felt so entirely at somebody else’s mercy as you do with Getou now, staring you down like he wants to lay you bare, claim you again and again for all the world to see. And you don’t understand. There’s a thousand and one questions running through your mind, your insides twisted up into knots.
You know what it is he’s asking of you – though asking feels like a generous word when he can so easily just take – but none of this makes sense, not when he was threatening your family’s lives only minutes ago.
As if he can sense the turmoil and confusion raging through you, he leans down, his lips ghosting over the outer shell of your ear. “Tell me to stop, and I’ll walk away right now.”
I am a man of my word.
His earlier statement rings through your head as you search his face for any sign of deception – you find none. But walking away means your sister dies. It means you’re left on your own to fend off the wolves when they find out what you’ve done.
Nanami might believe you. He might even defend you, but you’ve worked in the Prosecutor’s office long enough to know that duress isn’t the bulletproof defence people think it is, and for tangling with the likes of him…
You were screwed the moment he showed up in your living room, this- this is just the coup de grâce. The final damnation.
“Why me?”
Getou doesn’t answer, but when he draws you into a kiss, his lips moving torturously slow against yours, there’s an edge of… something there, lying hidden just beneath the surface. And it terrifies you, more than his words and his promises ever could.
But when your back’s to the wall, what choice do you really have?
It feels like defeat when he takes you by the hand and leads you into your bedroom, ignoring the uncertain glance you cast over your shoulder towards the living room. You don’t want any of this, but you can pretend that it’s just… business if he fucks you out there.
Not in the bed you sleep in.
It’d be easier, you think, if it was cold and impersonal. If you cried and it stung and the only sounds in the room were flesh hitting flesh, ragged breathing and an occasional rough grunt.
There’s nothing impersonal about the way he watches you strip out of your clothes at his command. His own join yours on the floor without much ceremony – his gun pointedly set just within reach atop your nightstand.
The first time you’d laid eyes on Getou Suguru, it was two months into your new job; a photograph pinned to a thick, heavy file Nanami had dropped on your desk. A surveillance picture, you’d gathered, snapped as the man was exiting some neon lit club downtown. And you remembered the smug smirk he’d had, staring directly down the lens of the camera like it was a challenge, but that wasn’t what had struck you most.
It was the flutter of interest that’d shot through your veins the moment before common sense kicked in. Tall and fit, with long, dark hair swept up in the wind, a sharp jaw and a handsome face, you remember thinking he was probably the most attractive man you’d ever seen.
Now, standing naked before you, bright, colourful tattoos inked across his torso, accentuating the muscles that rise and fall with every measured breath, you can’t bear to look. It’s easier just to stare at the wooden floorboards, the corner of the shagged rug you’d bought at a thrift store when you first moved in. Easier to pretend Getou isn’t pulling you closer once more, pressing searing, open mouthed kisses along your neck, murmuring words that are lost to you entirely as his hands wander. You can feel it now, the heat of his body as he cages you in, his cock, thick and heavy and flushed nudging insistently up against your stomach.
You expect him to shove you to your knees, to force his cock down your throat in some archaic show of dominance before he claims your cunt, but he doesn’t.
“I want you to touch yourself for me,” he whispers into your ear, teeth catching lightly on the sensitive lobe as you shiver. “Like you do when I’m not here, those pretty legs spread, fucking yourself on your fingers…”
The comment feels too familiar to be entirely offhanded, striking a chord of panic somewhere deep inside of you–
But it doesn’t make a difference. It doesn’t matter now.
You allow him to kiss you again before climbing onto the mattress. Like a good girl, you fall back onto the pillows, let your legs ease apart, wrapping your lips around two fingers and sucking for a brief moment before gliding your hand down between your thighs.
His breath hitches, a soft curse sounding when saliva slicked digits spread your folds, the tip of your middle finger brushing lightly against your clit as you stroke your pussy. Your nipples harden and peak under the cool night air and you use your free hand to palm at your breast, pinching and teasing at the sensitive bud while one finger slips into the warmth of your cunt.
The mattress dips, Getou climbing onto the bed, settling himself back on his knees, your spread legs either side of him.
“Beautiful,” he breathes.
Your heart stutters, movements jerking as you brace for him to interfere, to touch you, but aside from nudging your thighs further apart to get a better view of your glistening cunt, he seems content simply to sit back and watch, his own hand lazily stroking at his cock.
Trying in vain to block him out, you squeeze your eyes shut and focus on the way your fingers feel between your legs, the pleasure–
(Not the shame, don’t think about that, don’t think about Getou watching you debase yourself for his enjoyment)
–that pools in your core as you rub the shining pearl of your clit. It’s a familiar dance, a routine you’d normally help along with a glass of wine and a few faithful toys, but you don’t exactly have that luxury here.
And even with the rigid tension in your shoulders, the unwanted presence of a man you’re terrified of impossible to ignore, you can’t help the quiet moan that slips past your lips, the way your hips stutter, grinding against the heel of your palm as your fingers hit that sweet, delightful spot inside of you.
Getou tenses at the sound, the last, fragile thread of his composure snapping–
He strikes fast. One moment you’re biting down on your bottom lip, your index and middle fingers knuckle deep in your dripping pussy, the next he’s braced atop you, one hand locked around your wrist, the other propping himself up. And as your eyes fly open with a startled cry, his lips crash against your once more – desperate and ravenous, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth to taste you.
And you don’t fight it when he pulls your hand from your pussy and drags it to his crotch, his fingers entwining with yours as he wraps them around his heavy, throbbing cock and moans. It’s humiliating, the way he thrusts into your hand, tightening his grip so you’re forced to feel every shivery twitch of his dick while he sucks eagerly on your tongue.
This is the choice you’d made, the deal you struck. It’s too late to back out now, and even if you tried to…
“I want you,” he pants, his lips glistening with saliva, an almost manic look in those dark, pretty eyes, “to ride me.”
… you’re not so sure Getou would let you.
So you allow yourself to be manhandled, lifted and situated across his lap like a doll. Hands braced on his tattooed chest, you lift your hips just enough for him to guide his cock to your slick entrance before slowly sinking down onto his length.
Every inch hurts.
It doesn’t make it any less painful, the way Getou soothes you, his thumbs stroking gently at your waist as you whine and mewl, feeling every ridge and vein of his cock as he stuffs you full.
“Fuck– good girl, taking me so well,” he purrs.
You’re not sure if it’s shame, pleasure, or some sense of twisted pride at the praise that has your pussy clenching, fire racing through your veins when Getou experimentally rocks his hips upwards. And if your cheeks weren’t already burning, the lewd moan that escapes you when the head of his cock hits your g-spot would certainly do the trick.
Ever observant, he wastes no time capitalising on your slip, lifting you up just to drive you back down onto his length at the perfect angle. You shudder around him, keening out a cry that has him groaning in pleasure.
There’s no illusion of control here between you two.
You might be the one on top, but Getou’s grip’s too tight, guiding every roll of your hips against his, his own rising in time to fuck his cock deeper into your warm, velvety cunt. And somewhere distantly you recognise that this could be a thousand times worse. How easily he could change the narrative in a heartbeat, flip you over, force your face into the pillows and fuck you like a dog until you’re gasping for air. He could use you, hurt you, probably kill you without ever needing to touch the gun he’d left on your nightstand – and you wouldn’t have a hope in hell of stopping him.
But he doesn’t. Lying back against your pillows, dark hair falling from his half up-do, cheeks flushed from exertion, Getou’s attention is wholly fixed on you - on your face, eyes screwed shut, bottom lip caught between your teeth as he hits somewhere deep inside of you that has you seeing stars, on your tits, the way they bounce every time you sink back down onto his cock.
His eyes are hooded, dark and intense, searching for every hint of pleasure he’s drawn from you. You gasp his name, fingers digging into his chest, your cunt fluttering so deliciously around him – and he loses that last little bit of his self control.
He jerks upright, one arm wrapping around your waist to anchor you to him as he braces himself with the other, and before you can so much as gasp his mouth is at your tits, hot tongue laving at soft, supple skin there.
“Suguru,” he growls, hips snapping feverishly against yours.
“Suguru,” you parrot, head lolling back as heat coils tighter in your core.
You’ll worry about the consequences later, when he pulls you boneless and sated into his arms and you feel his heart thumping at your back as he kisses you and tells you to sleep. When tomorrow you arrive at work and Nanami stares a beat too long as the love bites scattered across your throat, no doubt wondering why you won’t so much as look at him.
For now, you settle for pulling him closer, gasping as you chase that quaking, blissful end.
#yandere jujutsu kaisen#yandere getou suguru#yandere getou#yandere getou suguru x reader#yandere getou x reader#yandere jjk#tw: dubcon#tw: coercion#tw: threats#tw: implied murder#yandere#deal with the devil collab
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A Way of Mourning
Requested by: @iamhowieson Hey! I was wondering if you could make a Levi x reader request where Levi accidentally hurts the reader and he feels terrible about it but the reader comforts him and tells him they’re ok.
Thank you for requesting! <3 And I’m sorry for the delay.
Words: 2K+
Pairing: Levi x Reader [gn]
Hope you like it ❤️ Feedback is deeply appreciated! ^^
* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *
“Where…” you whispered, almost choking, as your dry throat tissues scratched against each other.
“Here, have some water,” someone helped you sit up and held a glass to your lips, letting you gulp greedily. The chilly liquid soothed your parched throat and you sighed in relief. Finally opening your eyes, you were met with the face of your best friend and the rest of your squadmates.
“Captain, you gave us quite the scare there. It’s been two days and you weren’t waking up. Glad to finally have you back!” grinned one of them and you smiled, only now feeling the dull ache in your abdomen. You remembered now, how you had saved one of your subordinates which resulted in a titan sinking its teeth into you.
Your eyes widened as your thoughts shifted to a certain trio.
“What happened to Levi and the others?” you asked, almost frantically, because you didn’t remember anything from the mission and the worry quickly settled inside you, like a parasite, and started eating.
Since Levi, Isabel and Farlan joined the Scouts, you were one of the few people who were assigned to take care of the three. They needed to learn more about the world above, about how the military worked, about how the Survey Corps operated, and tons of other stuff, not to mention training, riding, and strategy. The others who were assigned to help, did it with disdain until at one point they just gave up, not wanting to have any contact with the “mongrels from the Underground” but you had stayed. You genuinely liked them. Your mother had done some charity in the Underground and you had accompanied her on a few occasions. What you felt towards the people from that place was only pity, because they deserved so much better than the curse they got since birth – to live in a place with no sun and light, where only filth and shadows flooded each corner, lurking over every inch of your skin.
So you had tried your best to take care of the three. Isabel had quickly taken a liking to you, followed by Farlan. Levi had been harder to win over. He was very quiet, reserved, and distrustful. But your constant kind gestures managed to crack even his shell if only a bit. He didn’t have problems with letting you be near him anymore. He even started talking to you and a day before the expedition he had even allowed you to rub his right shoulder. It had been aching and you had told him that he had to be healthy and strong for the expedition if he wanted to protect himself and his friends. He couldn’t malfunction. He had actually chuckled, although it was so quiet you almost mistook it for him letting out a breath, and let you do your magic at soothing his muscles. You had grown so attached to them that you couldn’t imagine your life without them. The thought that this was their very first expedition had hit you like a sack of bricks just before you had taken off and you had been worried out of your mind throughout the whole expedition, wondering whether they would make it out alive.
“Look, Y/N…I know you grew close during this past month but…Isabel and Farlan are dead,” announced your friend grimly and your heart dropped to your stomach. And suddenly your throat was dry again and no amount of gulping water or saliva was going to help. You let out a shaky breath as your trembling fingers clutched the edge of the bed, helping you sit up straighter and swing your legs over it.
“Wait, where are you-“
“I need to see Levi,” you muttered and your friends shared worried glances. They let you pass. They knew you were one of the most stubborn people alive and no amount of persuasion would put a stop to what you have in mind.
You stumbled all the way to the male barracks and opened the door, fully expecting to see Levi slumped on his bunkbed. But he was not there. In fact, the barracks were quiet and there wasn’t a single soul inhabiting them. The only sound that penetrated that silence was that of running water. Your eyes snapped to your left where the male common showers were located and you took hesitant steps towards it. This had to be the man you were looking for. After all, one of your squadmates had told you that Levi hadn’t left the barracks since the expedition.
You didn’t know how long you just stood in front of the door, wondering if you should wait for him or leave and come back later, endlessly contemplating on what exactly you were going to tell him. But after thirty minutes had passed and nobody was coming out, your thoughts shifted to, once again, worry. Because nobody ever took showers that long. The hot water had to be preserved. After all, there were around a hundred soldiers in the regiment who needed it and it was a bit harder to warm it up since they lived in a castle and not in the city like the Military Police or the Garrison.
“Levi?” you called out as you knocked but no answer came. “It’s me, Y/N. I’m coming in, ok?” you slowly opened the door and your face and body were instantly hit with hot thick steam and moisture. It was almost suffocating. “What the-“ you rubbed your face and eyes as you fully stepped inside and tried to focus. You finally located a figure at the end of the room and you walked towards it. The fog parted a bit and revealed the familiar backside of Levi. You were about to huff and scold him when you noticed just how red his back was. Your eyes widened as you outstretched your arm and put it under the sprinkling water, hissing and retreating it almost immediately.
“That water is scalding hot!” you exclaimed. “Levi, hey, let’s get out of here, hm?” you asked, voice laced with desperation and worry as you went to put a hand on his shoulder and shake him out of whatever trance he had fallen in. “You’re harming yourself. Please, let’s leave,” but before you could touch his skin, his hand shot out and grabbed yours, clutching it so tightly that he almost snapped it. He stood up abruptly and shoved you away, causing you to let out a squeal as you slipped and fell on your bum, the pain from your wound jostling your body, making you groan and clutch your stomach as if it was going to help soothe it.
“Get out,” he growled, his back still turned on you.
“But-“
“I said leave!” he yelled as his head sharply turned to look down at you. His eyes grew wide and the angry sneer and furrowed eyebrows he had donned eased a little. You stood up slowly and raised a hand, nodding.
“Ok…it’s alright, I’m going…just…don’t stay here long,” you whispered before you turned on your tail and exited the room.
* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *
“Gods, would you go to bed already? Your wound is still healing and instead of resting you’re burying yourself in paperwork!” exclaimed your friend angrily as she crossed her arms.
“You know that there is always extra paperwork after expeditions. And I’ve been out for two days. I have a lot of work to catch up to. I’m fine,” you smiled at her reassuringly and she rolled her eyes before they snapped to the door after a knock echoed throughout your office.
“Name and business?!” you called out but nobody answered. The door just opened and your eyebrows shot to your hairline as you saw Levi holding a tray with two cups of steaming tea. Your friend gave you a look and nodded.
“I’ll leave you two to it,” she said as she quickly exited and closed the door.
Levi just stood there awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot until you told him to sit. He placed the tray on your desk and grabbed a chair, dragging it to sit in front of you while you were sipping on the liquid. There was silence for some time as you looked at him but he didn’t have the courage to look at you, focusing on his lap as his bangs covered his face.
Levi felt horrible. He felt disgusted with himself. He had been shaking like a leaf the moment you had left the bathroom. He hadn’t known what to do. He hadn’t even known which world he was on.
He remembered sitting there, almost choking on the thick steam, feeling the hot water drops drum against his skin. He had been so deep into his thoughts and the still fresh memories from two days ago, eyes scanning his hands in haze, seeing not clean skin but skin marred with dark wine blood – the blood of his family. The family he couldn’t protect because of his own foolishness and weakness. The moment he had felt that someone’s presence breathing down his neck and feeling the closeness of their hand, hovering over his shoulder, the close proximity creating warmth and electricity that had made the hair on his neck bristle, his hand had shot out automatically. He hadn’t wanted anyone to breathe the same air as him, much less touching him. He hadn’t hesitated when he pushed them away. But the moment he had turned and his eyes fell on you, regret had struck his heart and he had been frozen in place, not being able to do anything but watch with wide eyes as you shot him an apologetic smile before leaving.
He told himself that it wasn’t on purpose. He told himself it was just a reaction – a reflex – to something, someone, foreign, invading his personal space in a moment of deep vulnerability. But still…he felt like a trash.
“I’m sorry,” he finally let out and you smiled at him, shaking your head.
“It’s fine,”
“No…I yelled at you…I pushed you…I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he whispered and you sighed.
“Everyone mourns differently, Levi. You needed space; so I gave it to you. I probably startled you by touching you. I shouldn’t have been so abrupt with my actions,” you explained gently, hoping to ease the guilt that was so obviously drowning him. His hands balled into fists as he bit the inside of his cheek.
“You’re the only one I have left,” he muttered as his eyes finally locked with yours and your hand touched his ever so slowly.
“And I’m not going anywhere. Please… let’s just forget everything and keep going together,” you smiled at him as your hand stroke his and he let out a sigh of relief before nodding. The emotions swirling in his eyes were so many and so vivid that it almost made you cry. It engulfed your very being and had such an impact on you that it overwhelmed you, making you succumb to emotion rather than rationality. You stood up and approached the man, crouching down in front of him. The smile you sent him and the emotions swirling in your eyes, had him give you a soft smile. You rose on your toes and closed the distance, letting your arms embrace his form. You sank into him, head nestling in the crook of his neck as his own arms tugged you closer and squeezed your form.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured in your hair again and you tightened your hold, nuzzling into him. He didn’t know whether he truly deserved this forgiveness. You were simply an exceedingly kind and forgiving person. But he knew one thing. From now on he was going to do anything for you. He was aware he had a difficult personality but he was going to try his best and stick by your side. Because you truly were one of the few people who gave him a chance and tried so hard to forge friendship with him despite all and you actually managed to wiggle into his heart and settle there.
.
.
.
I promise to protect you...
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all yours
kirishima x f!reader
word count: 2.4k
warnings: size kink, unprotected sex, oral sex (f receiving), spitting, one ass smack, one bite from shark boy, creampie, slight breeding kink, slight dumbification
being a hero meant you were constantly in the public eye
there was no escaping it when the missions you were assigned were directly tied to your public approval
more people liking you meant bigger, flashier missions
and if they didn’t, well…
at least there was never a shortage of paperwork to be done
you’ve been doing well though! raising through the hero ranks faster than your agency anticipated
faster than you anticipated
it was great! it was everything you’d worked your whole life for
it…it was exhausting
not only did you have a sudden influx of missions to complete as your agency tried to capitalize on the exponential growth
you had also been instructed to have near daily interviews
smiling for the camera was fine until your cheeks started hurting from the strain
it was no wonder that by the third straight month of the endless pattern of gruelling missions followed by repetitive interviews you were physically and mentally drained
your boyfriend did his best to make sure you were taking care of yourself, cooking you lunches and texting you throughout the day to check up on you though there was only so much a fellow pro hero could do with his own busy schedule to attend to
kirishima knew exactly what you were going through and his heart broke whenever he could catch a glimpse of you before you passed out in bed
so when it all came to a head one day, he was more than ready to catch you
just open the door. you were stood frozen in front of the door of your apartment, keys in hand. that’s all you had to do. twist the knob, open the door and he’d be right there. your eiji. he would take one look at you and know exactly what to do to make you feel better. love and comfort were a few steps away and yet you couldn’t bring yourself to do it.
the day had beaten you down more than you thought possible. everytime you blinked you could see the flash of bulbs, hear the shouts of reporters or was that the screams from your rescue today? it was all starting to blend together. you were an open wound, pulsating and bleeding vulnerability. how could you let your boyfriend see you like this? weak and broken and barely holding it together. it wasn’t just embarrassing. it was shameful. eiji had been living this life longer then you had, had risen to heights you could only dream of and he did it with ease. meanwhile, a few months had left you a shell of yourself.
you didn’t know a hero could be this pathetic.
just as you were about to turn and take a walk to clear your head, the door swung open. eiji’s head was tilted to the side, his long crimson hair falling over his shoulder loose from its usual ponytail. you couldn’t bring yourself to look in his eyes, afraid of what you’d find. you let your gaze drift upwards, focusing on the small scar above his eye. what if he was disappointed? red riot deserved a partner as strong as him and you did not fit the bill. not anymore.
“i’m home.” you willed your voice to not shake as you crossed the threshold into your home.
“baby.”
“did you eat yet? i’ve been craving pizza from the place down the street we should put in an order.”
“babe.”
“or did you already cook? you’re right no point in spending money if we don’t have to.”
“y/n.” large hands held fast to your shoulders, spinning you around until you were face to face with eiji and being forced to stare into the eyes of the love of your life. “please. talk to me.”
a beat of silence as you bunched the front of his shirt in your fists, vision blurring from unspilled tears. then, “‘m so tired, eiji.”
he wrapped his arms around you and you told him everything. what your agency had demanded of you, the unending stress, the poisonous thoughts that ate away at you everyday. eiji held you together through it all, clinging so hard you could feel his body shake as you spoke.
“we’re gonna talk to your agency tomorrow. they’re pushing their best hero too hard and we’ll tell them to cut the publicity. the people already love you, you don’t have to put up with this.”
“you’ll come with me?” you sniffed. eiji pulled back enough to cup your cheeks, lifting your head up until your watery eyes met his.
“of course i will.” he said, wiping your tears with his thumb. “we’re in this together, you don’t have to go through this alone.”
you leaned into his touch, covering his hand with yours and marveling at the size difference. it never failed to fluster you how much bigger eiji was then you. your definition of safety started and ended with these hands, with the man they belonged to who had loyalty etched into his bones.
he held you like you were something worth protecting.
“i don’t deserve you.” you said, kissing his rough palm.
“don’t say that. don’t ever say that.” he leaned down until your foreheads pressed together and whispered, “do you know how much you mean to me?”
“i know.”
“let me remind you anyway.” with that he surged forward, closing the ever shortening distance between you as his mouth closed over yours.
every kiss with eiji was full of passion, even the chaste goodbyes you shared before heading to work but this one blew them away. he kissed you like he was trying to stitch together all your broken pieces. he kissed you as though he wouldn’t mind if this moment lasted an eternity. he kissed you and he kissed you and he kissed you.
and with everything you had left to give, you kissed him back.
when you broke apart, you had to bite back a moan at the sight before you. eiji looked sinful, red hair falling into his face, lips swollen and eyes locked on yours, dark and half lidded.
“we don’t… we don’t have to… you just got home you’re tired.” he said.
“eiji.” you whined, wrapping your arms around his neck to whisper in his ear. “i need you.”
the world blurred as he lifted you up, legs locking around him on instinct as he carried you to the bedroom. a moment later you were dropped onto the soft mattress, feeling it dip as eiji settled over you. a familiar shyness tinged lust set in as he hovered above you. he was just so big. he was caging you in without even trying, he was that much larger than you. your breath hitched as he bent close to kiss your neck, looking anywhere but at him, something that didn’t escape his notice.
“where’d you go, pretty girl? eyes on me.” his voice left no room for disobedience and you complied, keeping your eyes on him as he asked. “there you are. tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.”
“i like… being under you.”
eiji smirked, sharp teeth on full display. “yeah? what do you like about it? use your words for me, baby.”
you could tell how much he was enjoying making you squirm. he knew, of course, the effect he had on you. this was far from the first time your size difference came up in the bedroom but he loved making you say it nonetheless.
“i like that you’re bigger, eiji. you make me feel so safe.” your voice cracked at the honest.
he kissed the corner of your mouth. “always. i’ll die before i let you get hurt, understand me?”
he waits until you nod before snaking his hands under your shirt, removing it in one move. open mouth kisses trails down your neck to the valley between your tits. as much as you loved the foreplay he usually dished out, you were far too needy right now. you grabbed a fistful of his hair, guiding him lower down.
“baby, please.”
“so impatient.” he teased. he grabbed hold of your pants and panties, tugging them off before settling between your legs, one thrown over each of his broad shoulders.
“oh love you’re soaked. who got you this wet?” you let out a small whine of embarrassment, hoping he’d get the message and let you off the hook. a sharp sting on your inner thigh had you trying to close your legs around his head but his grip was too strong to do so. he bit you. eiji must’ve been as riled up as you were, he was always so mindful of his sharp teeth. “i asked you a question, didn’t i?”
“you! you did ‘s all for you eiji!”
“good girl.” he rewarded you by licking a broad stroke through your folds, ending with a flick on your clit that sent pleasure shooting through you. he pressed two fingers inside you with little struggle, scissoring you open to prep you for his cock. you desperately wanted to rock against his face but with one arm pinning your hips down, you could do nothing but take what he gave you.
you were close — so close and eiji, who knew your body better than you did, could feel it by the fluttering of your walls, the arch in your back. it was under his heavy gaze you came undone, thighs shaking as he rode you through your high. if you thought he looked sinful before, now he was downright pornographic, the evidence of your orgasm glistening on his face. he licked the remnants of your arousal of his fingers and grinned.
he pulled away long enough to remove his clothing while you took the time to unclasp your bra and admire the view that was your boyfriend stripping. he caught your blatant stare and winked as he pulled down his briefs, hard cock springing free.
“see something you like?” he said crawling back over you to kiss you, the taste of you still fresh on his tongue. you could feel his dick pressed against your thigh and you grinded against it, earning a delicious groan that spilled into your mouth. “fuck can you ride me baby please? wanna see you fuck yourself on my cock.”
when you nodded, he wrapped one arm beneath you and rolled, flipping you both over so you were straddling him. gripping his shoulders, you lined yourself up with him, slowly sinking down around his girth. eiji’s cock, like the rest of him, was stupid large and the stretch was always there when he entered you. but you relished the feeling all the more, a sense of pride bursting inside you when he managed to bottom out.
you closed your eyes for a moment until the uncomfortable burn dissipated and you were left feeling full, complete with him buried in you. when you opened up your eyes once more, eiji was looking up at you with the softest expression, one you’re familiar with but that made your face warm nonetheless. he looked at you with nothing but love and awe, the corner of his lips quirked in a small smile.
you held out your hands and eiji laced his fingers with yours, helping you balance as you began to bounce.
“there you go.” eiji grunted. “take what you need, i’m all yours.”
“all mine?” you clenched at the thought and he threw his head back at the feeling.
“all yours this cock belongs to you, pretty girl.”
the need to mark him as yours bubbled to the surface and you leaned in close, so close you were sharing air, panting into each other’s mouths.
“eiji.” you moaned, cut off when he bucked up suddenly. “f-fuck eiji i wanna spit in your mouth.”
he opened up without hesitation, tongue lolling out and waiting to receive you. you let the fluid trickle out, watching with fascination as it mixed with eiji’s. he swallowed and showed you his empty mouth.
“dirty girl, so fucking lewd you drive me crazy.” you were grinding your hips against his now, nearly crying from the friction against your clit.
“‘m gonna cum ‘m gonna cum.” you whined, powering through when your thighs began to shake from exhaustion. eiji placed his hands on your hips, guiding them back and forth.
“cum for me baby cum all over your cock.” his words were your undoing, tipping you over the edge as your orgasm washed over you. though you felt boneless after your high, you continued to rock against him.
“wanna feel you fill me up.” you said. “eiji please fuck me full of your cum.”
eiji knew everything about you but you knew him just as well, knew what words would stoke the fire in him and make him lose himself to the feeling of your tight cunt wrapped around him. and sure enough, he shifted to anchor his feet to the bed, wrapping his arms around you until your tits were pressed against him. he began to fuck up into you hard and fast, the wet smack so loud it made you hide your face in the crook of his neck.
“i got you baby i’m gonna pump you so full of cum you’ll be leaking. that's what you want, huh? wanna walk around with my cum dripping down your leg?”
you could only moan in response, the quick pace turning your brain to mush and eiji seemed to sense it.
“did i fuck you dumb, pretty baby?” a smack landed in your ass and you yelped. “answer me.”
“i want your cum want it so bad, please eiji please.”
“that wasn’t hard. good girls get what they ask for.” he bucked up once, twice, three times, liquid heat spilling deep inside you. you shuddered at the feeling of his softening cock slipping out of your, a mixture of both your cum dripping onto eiji.
for a moment you were both quiet, basking in the warmth of each other’s presence. he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “‘m gonna get us cleaned up, love.”
“in a minute i just wanna stay like this for a little bit. is that ok?”
“anything you want.” together you lay, eiji tracing shapes on your bare back, an eternal gratefulness for the man beneath you washing away all the negativity of the months prior. you knew as long as eiji was on your side, you would always be okay.
#kirishima x reader#kirishima smut#kirishima imagine#bnha x reader#bnha smut#kirishima eijiro imagine#kirishima eijiro x reader#kirishima eijiro smut#mha smut#mha imagine#mha x reader#bnha imagine
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NMJ is used to taking care of everyone else. He's not used to being taken care of. After getting injured or sick or a qi divination or something, his loved ones all come together to take care of him. He learns more people care deeply about him than he realized.
And if you can include a scene with someone bathing him or washing his hair, I would be ecstatic.
ao3
“- and no excuses!” Nie Huaisang’s voice was a little shrill, but under the circumstances, Nie Mingjue didn’t entirely feel like he could object.
After all, all the yelling, shrill or otherwise, was a sign that Nie Huaisang was sincerely worried about him, something Nie Mingjue usually did his best not to doubt. His little brother was self-absorbed and carefree, just the way he’d vowed he’d let him be years before when Nie Huaisang had been little more than a child. So even if Nie Huaisang’s behavior annoyed him or worried him, which it often did, even if it seized up his heart to think about what might happen when he was gone, when there would be no one to take care of his brother for him, it still pleased him beyond measure to see his brother grow up happy.
So what if it meant taking on some extra burdens, meant doing that little bit more to conceal his hardships and portray himself as the unshakable older brother Nie Huaisang saw him as? So what if his brother’s complaints sometimes acted as thorns hooked deep in his heart, itching under his skin, making him wonder does he really think of me that way and have I gone too far this time, maybe he hates me now and all that?
Nie Huaisang was yelling at him again, voice painfully shrill and piercing, but for Nie Mingjue, to hear his brother worried for him and not from him made for a nice change.
Anyway, he himself had probably been just as shrill, when it had been his father that –
It wasn’t that bad, he reminded himself. Baxia was as strong a presence in his mind as ever, their bond uninterrupted. It only looked bad from the outside.
It looked – pretty bad from the outside.
Nie Mingjue tried to smile at Nie Huaisang, but for some reason that just seemed to make things worse: Nie Huaisang’s eyes filled up with tears at once and the scowl on his face deepened. “I’m serious, da-ge! Really serious. I’ll take care of everything, you won’t need to worry about anything at all – for real, this time – and in return, you’re staying put until the doctors say you’re better.”
Nie Mingjue nodded obediently.
Nie Huaisang burst into tears and fled the room before Nie Mingjue could even offer him a hug.
Watching his little brother run, Nie Mingjue sighed and turned his gaze towards his (usually) reliable head disciple standing guard in the corner of the room, trying to ask with his gaze what in the world he was doing wrong, but Nie Zonghui’s eyes were red like a bad attack of spring fever and he wouldn’t even look at him.
It was not, in Nie Mingjue’s view, a very effective way to guard him. Not that he needed guarding – maybe if he’d had no choice but to return injured to Jinlin Tower, that pit of vipers and nest of foxes, but despite the gravity of his wounds they’d still managed to make it as far as this little outpost in disputed territory. Even if it was a stretch, they could put soldiers here and call it justified as being land under the command of Qinghe Nie…though possibly Jin Guangshan would try to find some way to use them doing that to his advantage.
And Nie Mingjue wasn’t exactly up for another war at the moment.
He wasn’t up for anything.
“Stop thinking of politics,” Nie Zonghui said, and his voice was hoarse as if he’d been swallowing sobs. Nie Mingjue wondered how he’d guessed. “I always can tell because your nose wrinkles whenever you think too hard about it…ah, A-Jue, you scared us.”
Scared his half-generation uncle enough to revert back to using childhood nicknames, apparently.
Nie Mingjue wished he could say something to comfort him.
Well, if he were wishing for things, forget wishing that he hadn’t been struck temporarily mute, he might as well go the full way and wish that the terrible creature he’d been fighting – a demon of especially vicious character, and so unexpectedly near to Lanling, too! – hadn’t taken advantage of the weakness he still suffered from, after the Nightless City, to attack his saber rather than himself.
Might as well wish, too, that he’d never been captured in Yangquan in the first place. That he’d never been beaten or tortured, that he’d never had a hundred Wen feet kicking at his saber in some pale shadow their sect leader, attempting to break him as their sect leader had broken his father.
How he had felt when the demon’s blow had fallen straight onto his blade and she had cracked –
Baxia was fine. He could feel her.
(He remembered his father shouting for someone to bring him his saber, long gone, and wondered –)
Baxia was fine.
He’d examined her a thousand times and couldn’t see any true damage – the physical damage was artificially induced, located at the far end; for a regular saber, it wouldn’t be anything to think twice about, a bit of hammering in the forge and it would be as if it had never happened, with no lingering weakness. It was only if her spirit had been harmed, or the bond between them, that his own spirit would be injured, his mind affected, and that hadn’t happened. He’d checked, was checking, time and time again. She was fine.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t tell anybody that.
When the blade had cracked, he’d reacted on instinct in a fit of panic, sending all of his qi immediately to his bond with Baxia, desperately and frantically trying to ensure that his soul wasn’t torn out of his hands the way his father’s had been, that gruesome descent into madness and frothing aimless rage. The demon had sensed his distraction and gone for his throat with its claws, and then the rest of the Nie sect that had come on the night-hunt with him had descended upon it like howling wolves, throwing everything they’d brought with them at it.
Not a good night-hunting strategy (what if the demon hadn’t been alone? what if it was huddled together with other creatures of resentful energy the way they usually were, and using up their arsenal on it left them vulnerable? what if they encountered something on the way back?), but admittedly very effective.
The demon had been utterly vanquished – and really, all the admonishments not to think of politics aside, it was very unusual for such a thing to be lurking around in the environs of another Great Sect like that, especially when that sect had invited its guests to casually night-hunt to entertain themselves – and now they were here.
Or rather, he was here, lying in bed with needles stuck in him like a porcupine, drinking bowl after bowl of medicine as his brother frantically hovered over him. And Nie Mingjue was yielding to it all without complaint even when it was really annoying (he’d never been a very good patient) because he understood, having once been there in Nie Huaisang’s place when his father had been in his, except all his complaisance seemed to be only making Nie Huaisang even more upset.
Baxia grumbled in his mind, having apparently realized that they weren’t going night-hunting again until she was fully repaired and all the worry-warts around him satisfied, and he comforted her with his own misery at the idea: stuck in bed, not allowed to train, not allowed to hunt –
He’d tried to mime the idea of doing some correspondence, since much of it was in fact urgent and he couldn’t even imagine how much of the endless work of being sect leader would pile up in the event of an elongated absence, and Nie Huaisang had thrown a fit, and also several teacups.
Apparently he wasn’t even allowed to do that.
Nie Mingjue sighed and sank back into the bed, briefly putting on an exaggerated pout that made Nie Zonghui laugh a little, the sound wet in his throat. But then, once he’d turned away and followed Nie Huaisang out the door, Nie Mingjue’s pout faded into a resigned sigh.
A little while later, he heard familiar voices at the door.
“ – came as soon as I could, of course,” Jin Guangyao was saying, sounding a little – amused? Long-suffering? What a strange emotion for him to openly display, given the circumstances. Even if he was enjoying someone’s misfortune, and Nie Mingjue knew that his sworn brother often did, he would normally be more tactful about expressing it. “Your missive wasn’t very clear about what the issue was, Huaisang.”
Well, that would explain it. If it was Nie Huaisang, being called to assist with a disaster might mean anything from the dramatic breaking of a fan to the even more dramatic prospect of being forced to actually do some work for once in his life. It very rarely referred to actual disaster.
There was the muffled sound of sobbing – it turned Nie Mingjue’s stomach to hear Nie Huaisang like that, but the last day or so had shown him that there was nothing he could do about it – and then some quiet discussion, too low to hear without trying, and Nie Mingjue had gotten some very stern lectures on how much he was not to try anything for a while.
The murmuring continued for a little, and then – “What?!”
A moment later, Jin Guangyao rushed into Nie Mingjue’s room, usual smile still frozen on his face and his eyes a little wider than usual. It was a refreshingly subdued reaction, Nie Mingjue thought: none of the wide-eyed teary eyes or drooped shoulders that usually accompanied Jin Guangyao’s demonstrations of upset feelings, the pity-me scenes that felt so staged now that Nie Mingjue knew what an able actor Jin Guangyao was.
This time, though, he seemed almost sincere.
Jin Guangyao stopped a few steps into the room, staring at where Nie Mingjue was lying, expression still frozen for a moment, and then the ice melted and the artifice returned, a look of sorrow and sympathy – look at how bad you’ve made me feel by being hurt like that – that made Nie Mingjue want to sigh. He’d been happier, their relationship better, before he’d gotten to peek under the mask Jin Guangyao wore, but it hadn’t been the truth, and he always preferred a hard truth over a soft lie.
“Oh, da-ge,” Jin Guangyao murmured. “Da-ge, poor da-ge…how are you feeling?”
Nie Mingjue said nothing, of course, and Jin Guangyao frowned.
“He can’t talk,” Nie Huaisang said, having followed him into the room. “His throat was nearly ripped out –”
For fuck’s sake, it was a scratch.
“– and he was almost entirely drained of his qi. I could barely feel his heartbeat when I arrived! And he hasn’t been acting like himself, either! I don’t know, I just – I don’t remember what it was like, la – last – last time –”
The tears were starting again, and Nie Mingjue tried to raise a hand to reach out to Nie Huaisang, wanting to comfort him, but something about the gesture made Nie Huaisang sob even harder and even Jin Guangyao looked a little taken aback, even a little stricken. Maybe it was the amount of effort it took for him to lift his hand, the way he had to stop and start the movement? The way his fingers trembled with the effort it took to keep it up in the air?
(His father hadn’t been like this at all. Maybe Nie Huaisang had been too young, Nie Zonghui too distant, but Nie Mingjue remembered it as if it were yesterday – there hadn’t been weakness, not like this. His father had been in a coma for three days and nights, and then he’d woken up. He’d seemed fine at first, not weak at all beyond the usual sluggishness that followed after a period of unconsciousness, and then he’d asked for his saber – and kept asking, no matter how many times they tried to explain –)
Baxia was fine.
The weakness was his own.
It wasn’t like that.
“How can I help?” Jin Guangyao asked. “Sect business –”
“I need someone to watch over him,” Nie Huaisang interrupted, wiping his eyes. “Someone who knows him well. He’s not…his reactions are all wrong. He goes into these dazes sometimes, doesn’t respond, and even when he seems present, he’s flinching at things that aren’t there or being nice and I just…I really can’t tell how much he’s really here or how much of it is reacting on, I don’t know, some sort of childhood instinct. So it has to be someone familiar with his habits, his likes and dislikes.”
Jin Guangyao was blinking rapidly. “And – me? You want me to...I was his deputy, yes, but – surely you or someone else in the Nie sect would be more appropriate?”
“Sect Leader Nie has always respected the differences between rank,” Nie Zonghui volunteered, voice low. “It would hurt his pride to be seen in such an undignified state by someone who wasn’t family.”
The blinking stopped, Jin Guangyao’s rapid thinking abruptly (and visibly) hitting a wall. “I’m – I’m not family.”
“You’re his sworn brother, aren’t you? That’s almost the same as being brothers, which makes you family,” Nie Huaisang said practically. “I’ve written to er-ge, too –”
He’d what?!
“Anyway, I know how good you are at managing things, but it wouldn’t really be appropriate for you to be involved in Nie sect business, would it? It might put you in an awkward situation, having to negotiate against your father.” Nie Huaisang gave Jin Guangyao another hug. “You just focus on taking care of da-ge, all right? I don’t want – if anyone found out, they could –”
He was going to start crying again, Nie Mingjue thought miserably, and wondered if people could die of dehydration by means of tears.
“Nothing will happen to your brother while he’s in my hands,” Jin Guangyao said, and Nie Mingjue even believed him. If there was one thing Jin Guangyao hated, it was being blamed for anything – even if he wanted Nie Mingjue dead, which Nie Mingjue was sure he did sometimes, he would never let it happen while he was the responsible party. Which was why it was something of a surprise that he was allowing himself to be made responsible. “It’ll be all right, Huaisang. You have to believe that.”
Nie Huaisang sniffed and finally wiped away his tears. “You’ll see what I mean soon enough,” he said ominously, and stalked out with Nie Zonghui a few steps behind, shooting Jin Guangyao an apologetic look as they left.
Nie Mingjue couldn’t tell if he agreed or disagreed with Nie Huaisang’s words.
“I hope da-ge doesn’t mind my forwardness in agreeing to help him,” Jin Guangyao said, coming closer to the bed to look down at him, his expression simpering and fake as it always was these days.
As much as that falsity annoyed him, how could Nie Mingjue mind? He knew, as Jin Guangyao did not, what his brother was afraid of; anything that could ease his brother’s mind, if only for a moment, was good.
(Why would Jin Guangyao agree to be the one responsible for him? A demon of such strength shouldn’t have been anywhere near Lanling. And this little outpost was nothing, unguarded, vulnerable; they didn’t have any defenses if Jin Guangshan decided to do something against them here, and yet Jin Guangyao willingly agreed –)
He couldn’t tell Jin Guangyao that he appreciated what he was doing and knew how hard it was, how much of a burden it was, so he reached out and caught his sleeve, tugging it lightly, and tried to smile at him.
It wasn’t any more successful than when he’d tried it on Nie Huaisang – less tears, but it made Jin Guangyao frown in a way that looked actually sincere, as if Nie Mingjue had done something incorrect – so he tugged on his sleeve again, like a child, until Jin Guangyao instinctively lifted his hand to stop him. Nie Mingjue exerted himself, caught it, and drew the words for an apology on his sworn brother’s palm.
My fault, he thought at Jin Guangyao, hoping that he’d understand. I’ve troubled you.
My fault.
It was his weakness. His family’s, his father’s, his own – why should others pay for it, the way he’d paid for his father’s? All he’d ever wanted was to keep them from having to go through that type of suffering.
Jin Guangyao’s hand was trembling, he suddenly noticed, and opened eyes that had slid shut with temporary exhaustion to look at Jin Guangyao again.
His sworn brother’s face had gone ashen, his lips pressed together tightly as if something was upsetting him.
“Da-ge?” he said, strangely hesitant, but Nie Mingjue didn’t understand what he was trying to ask him and was too tired to really try. He squeezed Jin Guangyao’s hand again and released him, letting his hand fall down to the bed.
He checked once again on Baxia.
She was fine. She was right there, their bond as strong as ever.
(“Where is my saber?” his father asked, rubbing his face. “Pass Jiwei to me, A-Jue, will you?”)
He shivered.
Opened his eyes.
The room had been reorganized, he noticed, and the light was different, although not too much – had he fallen asleep? He must have.
Well, he was still healing. It was normal.
“Da-ge!” Jin Guangyao was still there, too. “Can you hear me now?”
Nie Mingjue nodded.
“Good,” Jin Guangyao said, and seemed to even mean it. “Is there anything I can get for you?”
My saber, Nie Mingjue thought, and started shivering again, the room suddenly gone terribly cold even though he was under two layers of blankets already.
Baxia was fine. She was only out of his sight because they were fixing her – it was a small thing, nothing to a normal saber, easily repaired. It was only taking so long because they would have to find a good forge and bring over a smith familiar with spiritual weapons.
Baxia was fine.
He wouldn’t ask for her. He wouldn’t.
“– leader Nie! Look at me – can you hear me? Sect Leader Nie, Meng Yao has a question for you –”
Nie Mingjue turned his head with some difficulty and blinked at Jin Guangyao, who looked relieved. He’d used his old name for some reason, maybe to get Nie Mingjue’s attention, and even that much was a bit of a surprise. Jin Guangyao hated his old name, would prefer to pretend it had never existed, and this was the first time Nie Mingjue had heard it from his lips since the ceremony in which he’d received the new one.
“Good,” Jin Guangyao murmured, seeing him. “Good – yes, da-ge. You’re back. Good. Look at me.”
Nie Mingjue tried to mouth the word ‘question’ at him, but it felt like it was impossible to communicate properly. The lack of language frustrated him immensely, even if the usual anger that was always so quick to leap to his side at the first instance of such frustration didn’t come, too buried beneath the fear.
Luckily, Jin Guangyao was quick and smart and after a few moments seemed to understand. “Oh, ah, the question? Yes. That. Ah...I wanted to know if there was something you wanted.”
My saber.
Nie Mingjue shivered.
Baxia was fine.
“I rearranged the room to your preferences –” He had, too. Even the light fell differently. “– but I’m not sure what else I can get for you that you might need or enjoy.”
Nie Mingjue considered trying to ask for correspondence again, something to do that would be useful, but quickly realized the futility of that. Still, he didn’t really do anything else, other than work; he’d long ago given up all his old hobbies in favor of his duties, being sect leader and training himself for war and eventually war itself, and even he didn’t remember what they were anymore.
“As da-ge knows, he has always been a mystery to me,” Jin Guangyao added, a little bit of self-depreciating humor in his words. That old joke between them (had it been a joke?), about how Meng Yao would constantly be trying to figure out what Nie Mingjue liked so that he could serve him better and Nie Mingjue constantly being disinterested in every vice he tried to present him with…after everything, Nie Mingjue had started to wonder if it hadn’t been a joke at all, if Meng Yao had been truly frustrated by the fact that he couldn’t find any chink in his armor, a weakness he could exploit to hold over his head.
He was so weak now, though, and yet Jin Guangyao made the same joke.
Was there anything, really, for him to do? Jin Guangyao must be terribly bored, forced to be a babysitter for a man who couldn’t even speak to convey his wishes, and wouldn’t –
Actually, now what he thought about it, there was something.
Nie Mingjue lifted his fingers and twisted them into the hand sign they’d used during the Sunshot Campaign to mean ‘break camp’.
Jin Guangyao stared at him blankly.
He made the sign again, hoping to convey meaning. There wasn’t anything in the room he could point to, and he’d never been especially talented at pantomime, yet surely Jin Guangyao with his quick mind would be able to puzzle it out – every time he made that sign, they would stop moving, set up the tents, and the first thing he’d want, every time it was possible, was –
“A bath?” Jin Guangyao asked, and Nie Mingjue nodded in relief. “I’ll order one set up right away. Anything else?”
Nie Mingjue pointed to the pile of his clothing that was now neatly folded up on a nearby table – and much reduced, by the look of it. Not a surprise. The always-efficient Jin Guangyao would have sent the worst pieces, the ones that had been cut off his body by the doctors, away to be retailored.
Jin Guangyao frowned at it. “You want to get dressed? No…to get ready to receive visitors?”
Nie Mingjue nodded.
“Why? Who are you expecting?”
After some contemplation, Nie Mingjue held up two fingers.
Jin Guangyao blinked.
Sighing, Nie Mingjue pointed at himself – one finger – and at Jin Guangyao – three fingers – and then held up two again.
“…you want to get bathed and dressed before er-ge arrives?”
It was so good to have someone by his side that understood him. Losing his trust in Meng Yao’s character had always been the worst part of that entire experience, the realization that the person he’d thought was a friend had never existed but had instead been deliberately manufactured to match his tastes, but losing the help of such a competent deputy hadn’t been great, either.
“Da-ge, are you sure?”
Nie Mingjue nodded. He couldn’t let Lan Xichen see him like this – the Nie and Lan sects had always been closer allies than they’d been with the others, and they’d been friends since childhood. While not physically present, Lan Xichen had seen some glimpses of what Nie Mingjue had gone through when his father had been dying, and again right after he’d died.
He’d been the one to whom Nie Huaisang had revealed that one letter that Nie Mingjue had thought he’d burned, the one that he hadn’t actually intended on ever using, the one that laid out what he’d say if he were to say goodbye – it had only been theoretical, a way to get out frustration. He would never have been so selfish as to let the awful burden that had fallen on his shoulders fall in turn on Nie Huaisang.
But Lan Xichen hadn’t really believed him back then, when he’d explained that he didn’t mean it, that he didn’t have any plans to do anything that would make such a goodbye necessary. He’d worried himself sick over him back then.
He’d worry now.
Nie Mingjue knew Lan Xichen loved him, he did, even if sometimes recently he felt that Lan Xichen might take him a little for granted. Lan Xichen loved him, so Lan Xichen would worry about him, but Lan Xichen also expressed his worries through trying to fix things.
He didn’t want to have to deal with that right now. There was nothing that needed to be fixed – Baxia was fine, he was fine, it was just a matter of healing for him and a bit of reforging for her.
It was fine.
“Da-ge, the bath is ready.”
Nie Mingjue pulled himself back out of trying to check on his bond with Baxia again to find that it was, steaming and hot; the servants must have moved it in while he wasn’t paying attention and then departed again. He tried to pull himself up to sit, but Jin Guangyao pressed down on his shoulder with surprising strength.
“Let me help you, da-ge,” he said, and Nie Mingjue graciously didn’t call him out on how much he was clearly enjoying himself. It was nice to think that part of that enjoyment was in helping him, as opposed to merely being in a position of power, but it was so hard to tell with Jin Guangyao – he wasn’t even sure the man himself knew which it was.
Shakily, with Jin Guangyao’s assistance, he sat up, and put his feet on the ground, only to have to wait while Jin Guangyao fussed around removing the acupuncture needles that had been left behind, murmuring something about having gotten the doctors’ approval. After that was done, Jin Guangyao helped him painstakingly totter over to the bathtub – his sworn brother might have only mediocre cultivation, but he was still stronger than Nie Mingjue was now, with his qi depleted and his battered body little more than dead weight. Nie Mingjue was as dependent on him as a small child on their parent. Once there, he helped brace him against the wall, helped remove his inner robes, and finally, blissfully, helped him slide into the bathtub.
“Da-ge has so many scars,” Jin Guangyao said, and Nie Mingjue looked at him.
Jin Guangyao was studying him with a strange expression on his face. He hadn’t allowed him to assist him with bathing before, Nie Mingjue recalled; he had been trying to maintain a divide between personal servants and military hierarchy, and Jin Guangyao – Meng Yao, then – had been a guest disciple, not a servant. Even when there were no personal servants to be had and Jin Guangyao had offered, Nie Mingjue had refused, not wanting his deputy to feel as though he were being looked down upon.
Still, it wasn’t as though the man hadn’t seen his bare chest before – there had been times on campaign when a bath hadn’t been possible, only a quick dip in the river to wash off the blood, and Jin Guangyao had even helped stitch him up a few times when an enemy’s blade had struck true and the doctors were busy elsewhere – so Nie Mingjue wasn’t sure what was drawing his interest this time.
Normally, he would have asked.
Normally, he would have gotten angry at the presumption, less because of the violation of social norms than because he was embarrassed, and when he was embarrassed he got angry. That was his temperament, the way he’d been raised, always defaulting to anger instead of other, less comfortable emotions, and he’d tried very hard to avoid passing along those habits to Nie Huaisang. He hoped one day to see Nie Huaisang teaching children of his own with new habits, different habits – for his little brother to scold him for being a bad example to the younger generation, for him to have a reason to try harder to be better.
He couldn’t ask now, and there was no point in being angry. Or embarrassed, for that matter.
Jin Guangyao’s hand came to his shoulder, and then slid down to his chest, the pressure of his fingers light and barely present. There was nothing sexual or threatening in the gesture, simply curiosity.
“So many new scars,” Jin Guangyao murmured, and Nie Mingjue looked down at his chest: raised red lines all over, old injuries scabbed over and scarred and healing. His cultivation was at such a high level that even scars eventually faded away, but many of these were too new. The marks of a knife, a sword, a whip, the remnants of blunt weapons that hit so many times that they pierced skin, even the indentation of human nails driven in deep…
The worst of it was his left side, right above his ribs, where the knife marks were precise and orderly, triangles of flesh cut like fletching; he had made a habit of not looking at himself there, yet that was where Jin Guangyao’s fingers went.
“How did this happen, da-ge?” he asked, staring, his gaze unnervingly intent. “Who tried to skin you alive?”
Nie Mingjue didn’t understand the question. He pointed at Jin Guangyao.
“What?” Jin Guangyao asked, not understanding. “Do you want me to get you something?”
Nie Mingjue shook his head. He pointed again, this time at his side at the place he preferred not to think about, and then once again at Jin Guangyao himself.
Jin Guangyao stared back at him, blank for a moment until he understood, and then he visibly flinched. “Me?” he said, his voice rising an octave. “No, I didn’t –”
It hadn’t been him directly, no, but the person who had done it had been his student – had boasted about being trained by Wen Ruohan’s chief torturer, the inventor of all those terrible machines that they’d heard rumors of, some of which they’d brought out to show him through intimate demonstration – the sick feeling in Nie Mingjue’s stomach when he’d found Meng Yao standing above him, smiling, and realized that the person that had been spoken of was him…
It might as well have been him that did it.
“I hadn’t realized,” Jin Guangyao said. His fingers had fallen to the edge of the tub, holding on until his knuckles were white. Anger, Nie Mingjue thought with the experience of a connoisseur, but he didn’t understand why it would make Jin Guangyao angry. “They shouldn’t have touched you. They weren’t allowed –”
Nie Mingjue didn’t especially want to hear any more of Jin Guangyao’s excuses – there were always excuses, he’d found, and it wasn’t as if he hadn’t forgiven him for it already, or did Jin Guangyao think that he’d sworn brotherhood for nothing? – so he closed his eyes and let himself sink down into the water until it was over his head.
It was peaceful under the water, disconnected from the rest of the world. He didn’t have to think about Jin Guangyao ordering his torture and then covering it up, or maybe even ordering them not to do it but not keeping close enough watch to prevent it; he didn’t have to think about all the people that Jin Guangyao couldn’t use, the ones that didn’t get the benefit of such an order.
He didn’t have to think about all those feet kicking his Baxia like she was a dog they wanted to put down, or Meng Yao holding her in his hands and asking him how many slaps he thought it would take until she shattered the way Jiwei had shattered, or the invitation to go night-hunting at Lanling that led him straight to a demon that knew exactly where to strike –
Baxia was fine, he reminded himself. Fine.
Hands abruptly appeared in front of his eyes, bursting into the underwater scene in a frenzy of bubbles, catching him around the shoulders and pulling him up into the air to see Jin Guangyao’s white face and hear him shouting, “Are you mad, staying under for so long?! You’re not a fish; you can’t breathe water!”
Nie Mingjue blinked at him.
“You’re no Jiang sect child of the river,” Jin Guangyao scolded. “What’s wrong with you? Do you not want to live anymore?”
(“Stop stalling and get me my saber!” his father roared, his hand lashing out too quick for Nie Mingjue to avoid, the full-force blow sending him staggering and breaking something inside of him in more ways than just the physical. “Do you not want to live anymore?”)
Nie Mingjue missed the water already.
Jin Guangyao’s fingers tightened on his shoulders. “You’re not allowed to go, da-ge,” he said. “Not when I just realized that I want to keep you around.”
Nie Mingjue shook his head, realizing that Jin Guangyao had misunderstood his silence. It wasn’t that he wanted to die, he wouldn’t do that to Nie Huaisang, but that sometimes he didn’t know if he would be able to stay.
Baxia was fine – wasn’t she?
“Just don’t move, all right?” Jin Guangyao huffed, and settled down behind him. He found some soap and began scrubbing at Nie Mingjue’s skin as if he were a piece of laundry, although he didn’t use enough pressure for it to actually hurt. The repetitive movements were soothing, lulling him to relax – especially when Jin Guangyao, grumbling something about stress, jabbed him repeatedly in certain acupoints to force his muscles to release stored-up tension – and after a little while Jin Guangyao stopped being so rough.
“Huaisang was right,” he said after a while, having shifted over to running his fingers through Nie Mingjue’s hair as if he were a child, carefully detangling each knot he encountered. “You really are acting far too nice. Shouldn’t you be scolding me for overstepping?”
Nie Mingjue shook his head lightly, careful not to jostle Jin Guangyao’s hand.
“No? Then something else, surely. Where’s your anger, da-ge?”
Nie Mingjue looked down at his hands, his saber hand instinctively curling up to grasp a hilt that was no longer there. It looked wrong to see them like this, empty.
(“Where is my saber?” his father cried out. “My saber – my saber!”)
He wasn’t his father.
That he would die of a qi deviation, die young, years before his time – this he had accepted. But he would not die the way his father died, angry, lashing out at all the ones he loved most, not if he could do anything about it.
Maybe in the future, when he lost himself fully, he would become a resentful ghost in human flesh, a raging monster fit only for slaughtering – if his thoughts themselves had already begun to lie to him, to drip poison into his ears and into his heart, if despite everything Baxia was actually gone and he was already dead and he just hadn’t realized it yet –
For as long as he could manage, Nie Mingjue wouldn’t let himself be angry.
Did he still doubt Jin Guangyao? Yes, of course. But what good would it do to suspect him now? If he tried to accuse him, even he wouldn’t believe his own testimony.
(“- they say your father died of rage –”)
“Come on, then,” Jin Guangyao said, coaxing him like a child, and his hands as he helped him out of the bath were almost gentle. “I’ve got you some new robes. I’ll help you into them.”
Nie Mingjue caught his hand.
“Da-ge? Do you want something?”
My saber. Where is my saber?
He shook his head and let Jin Guangyao help him back to the bed. He sat heavily there and stared at his hands as Jin Guangyao wrapped him in a new set of robes – his own, he thought, but he couldn’t tell if it was the extra set he’d brought with him to Lanling or if it’d been brought from the Unclean Realm.
Was there enough time for someone to come from the Unclean Realm? They had smiths there, and forges –
Where is my saber?
He stared at himself in the mirror, Jin Guangyao lingering behind him, and closed his eyes.
Like all cultivators, especially good cultivators, Nie Mingjue had a very good understanding of his spiritual energy, the way his qi moved through his meridians and settled in his dantian. He felt it every time he cultivated. His spiritual energy was drained dry right now, but if he really pushed and strained himself, he could squeeze up a small droplet of qi and guide it through the whole cultivation sequence. He could watch it carefully, wait for it to hit the place where he connected with Baxia – where he could feel her, echoing back at him. Intact.
She was fine.
She was.
She had to be.
Nie Mingjue felt someone start to braid his hair and frowned a little: perfect memory or not, he didn’t think Jin Guangyao knew the right braids. There were very subtle nuances to the ones he wore, significant ones; copying another version of his own hairstyle might be making a grievous error. He’d been wearing war-braids almost the entire time they’d known each other, after all…
He opened his eyes.
It wasn’t Jin Guangyao behind him.
“Welcome back, da-ge,” Lan Xichen said. His eyes were red around the edges, as if he’d been crying, or trying very hard to keep from doing so. “How are you feeling?”
Empty, lost, afraid – oh, Xichen, I’m so very afraid –
“Huaisang said to tell you that if you don’t stop doing whatever it is that’s keeping your qi drained, he’ll lock your spiritual energy away,” Lan Xichen said after a few moments, when it became clear that Nie Mingjue wasn’t going to respond. “And I have to say, I agree with him.”
Nie Mingjue lowered his head, feeling guilty. He shouldn’t be causing them any more worry than they already had – Nie Huaisang’s eyes were never empty of tears, and it was all his fault.
“You need your spiritual energy to recover if you want to heal,” Lan Xichen said. His hands did not falter as he made the braids – the right ones, too, a sect leader at peace who was in temporary retreat due to ill health. “And you will heal, da-ge. We’ll do everything that we can to help you.”
Nie Mingjue’s shoulders slumped. That was a familiar refrain by now, and his eyes drifted down in the mirror in front of him to look at Liebing, tucked away in Lan Xichen’s belt as always – Lan Xichen would want him to meditate while he played, no doubt. As far as Nie Mingjue knew, there was no guqin here for him to play Clarity, but there were other songs available.
“I’ve asked Wangji if he would play something calming for you, if you think it would help, but I won’t force you,” Lan Xichen said, and Nie Mingjue raised his eyes to meet his in the mirror, surprised. His old friend tried to smile but didn’t quite succeed. “I’m not entirely up to doing it myself, I’m afraid. Liebing requires perfect control of breath, and I’m…”
He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them once more.
“Do you know how much I’d miss you, da-ge?” he asked, voice low. “How much emptier my life would be without knowing that you were there? And not just me – all of us.”
Nie Mingjue didn’t know what to say.
“There’s Huaisang, of course, but you know that. Your sect, your family…even A-Yao has been unusually upset about the idea of something more happening to you, he was engaging Nie Zonghui in a conversation about the defenses in place here in the event someone tried something last I saw. Wangji dropped everything to come rushing here when I wrote to him, and – you’ll never believe this – Wei Wuxian himself followed him here, asking about your health.”
Wei Wuxian? Here, so close to Lanling? That was a terrible idea.
“He’s being careful,” Lan Xichen assured him. “He went with Wangji and Jiang Wanyin to examine the site of the night-hunt – they’re saying it’s suspicious that a demon of that power managed to end up this close to Lanling, especially undetected, with you going in without any warning and the demon targeting you in such a specific way.”
It was suspicious. Also, Jiang Wanyin was here?
“I don’t know how he found out, he just showed up here,” Lan Xichen said. “I think Nie Huaisang might have written to him? Either way, he wanted to help.”
Nie Mingjue’s brow wrinkled.
“If you’re wondering why, it’s because he respects and admires you,” Lan Xichen said. “You helped him so much during the war; he wants to repay you…everyone does. You’ve done so much for all of us.”
Nie Mingjue shrugged. He really hadn’t – he’d only done what he’d need to, nothing more.
“You mean so much to all of us,” Lan Xichen murmured, finishing the braids and putting his hands on Nie Mingjue’s shoulders. “Oh, da-ge. Please hold on for us.”
(He thought of how his father looked at the end, gurgling on his own blood, red seeping out of his eyes and ears and nose as well and looking almost relieved to be going – relieved that his endless nightmare would finally come to an end, that he could rest at last in his grave…)
Nie Mingjue nodded and ducked his head to hide the tears brimming in his own eyes.
He’d stop checking, he promised silently. Baxia was fine, he thought, or maybe she wasn’t, but he hadn’t yet lost his mind, hadn’t yet started lashing out, and all those he loved were here by his side, ready to support him and help him however they could, if they could.
He would need to have faith.
He was still afraid, terribly afraid, but – he would, he could, rely on others to help support him, when he couldn’t support himself.
They wouldn’t let his anger eat him alive, and so he couldn’t let his fear do the same.
Nie Mingjue raised his hand and covered one of Lan Xichen’s with it.
He licked his lips, swallowed.
Forcing himself to speak felt like trying to break the Lan silencing spell, but he had to do it.
“Xichen,” he croaked, voice barely audible. “…Baxia?”
Where is my saber?
Lan Xichen’s hands tightened on his shoulders.
“Repaired,” his friend promised him. “Reforged by the finest spiritual smith in Qinghe. Huaisang is on his way to bring her to you now.”
Nie Mingue smiled.
A shichen later, Nie Huaisang pressed Baxia’s hilt into his hand, expression worried, all of them worried, all of them staring at him to see what would happen as he held his saber and carefully pressed some little, tiny part of the spiritual energy he’d been saving up into her.
Baxia sang out her song, bright and clear and unblemished, full of righteousness and rage.
Nie Mingjue closed his eyes and wept in relief.
She was fine.
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In the Dead of Night
[MHA - Midoriya, Bakugou]
summary: Not wanting to return to a nightmare, Bakugou spends the night alone in the common area. That is, until Midoriya finds him and tries to get his old friend to open up with an effective technique from their childhood. (platonic BakuDeku tickle fic)
potential warnings: swearing, tickling
words: 1.5 k
a/n: ahhh my first fic!! …kinda hoping no one sees this but yeah imma post it anyways haha. hopefully whoever ends up reading this will enjoy it! happy national tickle day guys :D
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Bakugou stared blankly out of one of the windows in the common area, gazing into the empty void that was the night sky. He rarely ever was awake during the dead of night, but yet here he was. Sleeplessly seated on the couch, long past the time his classmates all retired to their dorms.
He would much rather be asleep, heaven knew he needed the rest, but he was not going to risk returning to his nightmare. The experience felt more like he actually relived the sludge monster incident rather than only a dream. He could never willingly go back to that.
His mind being in its own world, Bakugou didn’t quite catch the faint sound of footsteps that grew closer. He vaguely recognized the familiar noises of the refrigerator door opening and closing before he was brought back from his daze by a hand offering him a bottle of water in front of his eyes.
Bakugou looked up and spotted no other than Izuku freaking Midoriya. He felt his facial features try to form a glare out of a force of habit, but his body was too exhausted to actually comply. Reluctantly, he grabbed the water bottle and took a sip as the green-haired boy wordlessly sat on the opposite end of the couch.
Midoriya, whose brain was still in the waking-up process, had just been awakened a few moments ago with his throat strongly craving for some cold water. Maybe it was due to the fact that his mind was still a bit clouded with sleep, or that the two boys had been sitting in silence for an uncomfortable amount of time, but Midoriya actually broke the silence and spoke up.
“What are you doing up at such a late hour?” he asked, turning slightly in his seat so that he could study Bakugou’s reactions. Midoriya didn’t know what he expected as a response, probably a snarky reply or just outright rage, but what he received definitely shocked him.
Bakugou completely ignored him and avoided any chance of eye contact by staring straight ahead. It was as if he didn’t know that his classmate was sitting not even three feet away from him. Midoriya immediately became more attentive and alert, his Kacchan Radar going off like crazy. Bakugou never missed an opportunity to pick a fight with or insult anyone, especially Midoriya.
To his credit, Midoriya took a moment to consider his options. He could go interrogation mode on Bakugou, but he doubted that the blonde would actually open up to him like that. Maybe he could just sit there in silence until Bakugou willingly chose to talk to him, but that could honestly take days. Of course, he could go back to his dorm and leave Bakugou alone, which was probably the option that his classmate would have wanted him to choose, but when was Midoriya even known for actually pleasing Bakugou?
Suddenly Midoriya remembered a technique that had never failed him back when he and Bakugou were younger. A method that they had both been sworn to secrecy about, and hadn’t been used in years.
“Why are you down here so late, Kacchan?” Midoriya asked again, grinning slightly, this time punctuating the other’s name with a poke to his side.
Bakugou let out a quiet yelp, obviously not expecting a small tingling sensation to suddenly shoot through his entire body. He internally cursed himself for showing a reaction and flinching away from the touch.
Still awaiting a response, Midoriya dared to poke again, but before his finger could come in contact with the boy’s body, Bakugou abruptly brought himself to his feet and made a move to leave the common area.
Midoriya quickly and quietly followed suit, walking up behind his unsuspecting classmate. He tasered his index and middle fingers into both of Bakugou’s sides, latching onto them and relentlessly digging in. “C’mon Kacchan, talk to me!”
Bakugou had to squeeze his eyes shut and cover his mouth with one hand to prevent himself from making any noises that could potentially wake up his classmates. He desperately tried to fight off Midoriya’s fingers with his other hand (emphasis on “tried”), but he was too tired physically and mentally to actually get away.
With the advantage of the surprise attack on his side, Midoriya was able to keep the minimally thrashing Bakugou in his grasp. Being the teasing shit that he is, Midoriya taunted, “I bet you wanna laugh, huh Kacchan? Go on, you’ll feel better if you just let it out.”
“N-no I w-won’t!” Bakugou argued from behind his hand, struggling to keep the laughter building up inside of his throat under control. “If we w-weren’t in the dorms right now I would not he-hesitate to blast your ass into nehext week.”
Midoriya gave a playful, over-dramatic gasp. “Did the Kacchan just giggle?” He moved his hands up to Bakugou’s ribs and started scribbling his fingers against them, causing the boy’s weak wall of defense to come crumbling down. As Bakugou’s little laughs started leaking out, Midoriya continued wiggling along the sensitive bones and drilling into the grooves between them. “I am now officially addicted, I must hear mor-”
“Hehehaha Deheheku quirk! Quhuhuhuirk!”
Midoriya immediately recognized the meaning of the word and stopped his tickling, letting his own arms drop to his sides. He watched as Bakugou bent over, arms wrapped tightly around his torso, trying to regain his self-control.
Meanwhile, Midoriya’s head began to flood with memories from his childhood, when the two boys had tickle fights almost on a daily basis. To prevent one of them from pushing the other past their limits, they had decided to use “quirk” as some sort of safeword. Midoriya was a bit surprised that he had immediately understood Bakugou’s intended context of the word, considering that it hadn’t been used for what felt like forever.
A soft, sentimental smile crossed Midoriya's face as he caught a glimpse of Bakugou's face for the first time since tickling him. The blonde’s lips were brought upwards in a reluctant smile and a light blush, most likely from embarrassment, dusted his cheeks. If only Midoriya had a camera to capture the rare moment.
“Did it really tickle so much that you had to call “quirk?”” Midoriya questioned, genuinely curious if he had gone too far.
Being somewhat in control of his own body again, Bakugou stood to his full height and faced his former best friend. If Midoriya noticed that his arms were still wrapped around and protecting his ribs, he didn’t say anything. “Of course it wasn’t that bad, dumbass. I-” Bakugou paused for a moment before looking away from Midoriya and continuing in a whispered voice. “I just didn’t want to risk making too much noise and waking anyone up and…”
He didn’t have to finish his thought for Midoriya to catch on to what he meant. He easily realized that Bakugou didn’t want any of their classmates to find out that he’s ticklish, which was understandable.
Midoriya nodded, showing Bakugou that he didn’t need to further explain. They stood in silence for a moment before the greenette chose to speak up again. “So why are you down here so late at night instead of sleeping in your dorm?”
Bakugou’s body visibly stiffened as he quickly cast his gaze towards the floor. If he hadn’t been exhausted beyond belief and still recovering from those nimble fingers that definitely did not tickle him, he probably would have told Midoriya to screw off and mind his own business. But instead, he answered, “If you really must know, shitty Deku, I had a dream about the damn sludge villain. I didn’t wanna deal with that shit again, so I just came down here to wait out until morning.”
Midoriya knew from experience that Bakugou didn’t want comforting words or pity. That would only make him feel even more vulnerable than he already was, and that wasn’t Midoriya’s intention. So instead, he simply replied in an indifferent tone, “Oh, alright then. Mind if I wait out here too then?”
Not waiting for an answer, Midoriya walked back to the couch and sat back down, spreading out comfortably but still leaving more than enough room for Bakugou. The last thing he wanted was for his former childhood best friend to have to recover from a nightmare alone. But he would never say it out loud, for Bakugou’s sake.
Two minutes passed before Bakugou inevitably decided to walk over and take the seat next to the other boy. Midoriya looked over and caught his classmate’s eye, nodding slightly to him with a small smile before turning back to gaze outside of the window.
Having gone from childhood best friends, to bully and victim, to rivals, to… wherever their relationship stood now, the two boys shared a strong bond that neither of them knew how to describe. But just being in each others’ presence in the dead of night, enjoying the silence between them, was comforting.
However, the pair would definitely not be feeling so relaxed if they hadn’t failed to notice a certain pink-haired alien queen that managed to capture a short, incriminating video before excitedly running off back to her dorm only a few mere moments ago.
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a/n: thanks for reading, and i hope you guys liked it! i’m still working on that fandom list but yeah MHA will definitely be on there lol. i’ll try to update again soon but until then have a great life y’all!!
#bnha#bnha tickle#mha#mha tickle#katsuki bakugou#bakugou#kacchan#izuku midoriya#midoriya#deku#ler!midoriya#lee!bakugou#ticklish!bakugou#bakudeku#platonic#tickling#tickle fic
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Heya. I know this is very angsty of a request, but I saw the fic of characters reacting to their s/o who [tw] relapsed into self harm and was wondering if you would do some for asahi, ushijima, and oikawa?
[𝐓𝐖] 𝐒/𝐎 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅-𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐌 𝐩𝐭.𝟐
hi ! ofc you can honey <3 i hope these will bring you as much comfort as you need, and plz don’t hesitate to dm me if you need to talk to someone, or to reach out for help in any way. here’s a hug for you bcs you deserve it, love you 💗
also im sorry but i really couldn’t imagine asahi ever arguing with his s/o so i didn’t include this in his fic (he really is too precious)
warnings : mentions of self harm, one mention of blood, some self-depreciating thoughts. please do not read if any of these might trigger something, stay safe everyone <3
➾ 𝐚𝐬𝐚𝐡𝐢
asahi trusted you blindly. and everyday, he had to make an effort to persuade himself that you trusted him in return. you did of course, how could you not trust the one that had helped you through so much ?
but this wasn’t about trust ; it was about shame. because the last thing you wanted was to find in his eyes the anguish and fear as they were a few months ago. you couldn’t do that to him, yet you kept doing that to yourself.
however, you had the misfortune - which was more of a blessing really - to have a very observant boyfriend who cared about you. and he cared enough to gather the courage to finally ask you about what he had hoped you’d come to him for. sat next to you on the couch, he took the plunge.
« do you… do you remember when you promised to always come to me if you needed help ? ». there, he had said it. and from the way that his arm tightened encouragingly around your waist, you understood what he meant by this innocent question. he kept speaking : « you know i trust you, right ? i really do. but something tells me that maybe you forgot about this promise recently ».
each of his words was carefully chosen, more than usual. because even if he didn’t show you, he was terrified of messing up. the fact that you were reluctant to answer was enough for him to understand that he had guessed right. but what confirmed it was the single tear that slowly streamed down your cheek.
« oh angel, no, come here. come, you’re ok now… » he spoke in a tone that was more comforting that anything you had ever heard. his arms were wide open for you to snuggle in, and when they wrapped around you, his words replayed once again in your head. i’m ok now, i’m ok now… you repeated internally. and you were, asahi was a man of his words after all.
« i’m sorry for being weak » you finally said after a few seconds of silence, voice half-muffled by his embrace. his warm fingers traced the outline of your face, encouraging you to look up to him. not because he needed to see your face, he already knew it by heart, but because you needed to see his. « weak ? y-you’re the furthest thing from weak. how can i even put it..? you are one of the strongest person i know, and i wouldn’t be half the man i am today if it weren’t for you.
you wanted to thank him, but exhaustion took hold of your body before any word could leave your tight throat. and when you woke up - two hours later according to the clock - asahi was still there, holding you tight against his heart like a promise to never let go of you anymore.
➾ 𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐣𝐢𝐦𝐚
ushijima hated to waste time and energy on ‘petty fights’, as he liked to call them. but it was really frustrating to always feel like he avoided confrontation ; arguments were necessary in a relationship, and he didn’t seem to understand that.
whenever you got into fights, you were always the only one to get angry, which never failed to make you feel guilty afterwards. and eventually, this feeling of guilt started to become permanent, taking so much place in your brain that you had to sacrifice a part of the self-confidence you had built up the past months. but you didn’t know how much longer you could conceal it.
tonight was the first time you were sleeping together since your most recent fight, the one that had damaged you so badly. and you couldn’t lie, feeling his warmth next to you after about three days spent ignoring him almost felt like a reward. but a reward for what ? you were certainly not proud of what you had done, and you were terrified at the thought that he’d ever notice it. but unfortunately, your efforts to pretend like everything was ok were put to an end in the middle of the night, at about 3 am. something silly, really : ushijima had just turned around in his sleep, and his shoulder accidentally weighed on your wrist, making you hiss in pain. he immediately opened his eyes at the sound, his hand immediately finding its way to your side - he was always a light sleeper with you.
« are you ok ? » he asked, propping himself on an elbow, barely distinguishing your silhouette in the dark. « yeah, just my wrist. come on, let’s go back to sl- ». oh… that wasn’t supposed to be said out loud. it was hard to gauge his reaction since you could not properly see his face, but since he sat on the bed as soon as you interrupted yourself, you understood that it had not fallen on deaf ears. « are you comfortable with me turning on the lights ? » he asked, obvious concern in his voice. saying yes was tempting, because you knew this was a serious matter, but you couldn’t bring yourself to let him see you like this, vulnerable and ashamed.
ushijima accepted it of course, he knew he was not the best with words, so the least he could do was to make sure you were comfortable with whatever he decided to do. « is it ok if i hold you ? » he asked once again, his tone a bit more hesitant. the muscles in your jaw tensed at his words, it was more than ok, or at least you wanted to give it a try, but the worry you had caused him was bringing you back to the familiar feeling of guilt.
however, when he carefully made you rest on top of him like he had always done, something inside you felt healed to know that whatever you were going through did not impact every aspect of your life. his embrace felt the same, so did his heaving chest that rocked your body to sleep every night. surprisingly enough, you did not shed a tear. because the comfort finally felt stronger than the pain, you refused to let anything trouble this moment.
« are you ready to talk about it ? » he questioned, his voice rumbling like a soothing storm in his chest « or do you prefer to wait until tomorrow ? ».
ushijima might have avoided many discussions with you, but this one ? he simply refused to. and if he was more than ready to help you overcome your pain, he also knew not to pressure you into talking. words would come, eventually. but actions were always first.
➾ 𝐨𝐢𝐤𝐚𝐰𝐚
despite his usually confident behavior, oikawa knew he had a tendency to second-guess each and every one of his actions, and to beat himself up quite often.
he could not remember the last time he had felt so utterly disgusted by himself, he was usually more careful with his words. but all it took was one angry outburst from him for you to withdraw into yourself - and he had to fix this as soon as possible.
luckily for him, your relationship was strong enough not to be too affected by this argument - which had not been your first, but definitely the biggest one. however, you had been affected. a lot actually. but you knew better than to talk to him about this, knowing that he would obviously take the blame for your relapse.
but oikawa was attentive, and, clever as he was, it did not take long for him to guess what you were going through when he saw the red-stained tissues in the bathroom trash. it had been two weeks since your fight, and just the thought that he had left you alone with your struggles for so long made him want to throw up.
without wasting any more second, he burst out of the bathroom and made his way to the living room where you were absent-mindedly watching a movie. he would have preferred to have a discussion with you with a clear head, but the sight of the tissues kept spiraling in his head and he was incapable of doing anything else but to pull you in for a hug whose suddenness made you gasp.
oikawa’s hugs were usually soft, with little kisses here and there and a few compliments chuckled in your ear. but today had nothing to do with those. his arms were engulfing your figure in a desperate need to feel you against him, like he was trying to make up for all the time he had left you alone. « i’m so sorry, so sorry baby… can you forgive me ? » he breathed out, his voice cracking with emotion. obviously you knew what he was referring to, how could you not know ? and just like him, the thousand words on your mind only transcribed in your arms wrapping around him, closing the last few millimeters that separated you as you frantically nodded your head yes.
you did not think he had anything to be forgiven for, and sadly, you also knew that he would continue to blame himself no matter what your answer had been. that was actually your biggest motivation to begin your recovery journey. oikawa needed to know that, from now on, you’d turn to him instead of your old habits. and you wanted nothing more than to make him happy, so, since his happiness seemed to depend on yours, it could be considered a package deal towards a better future, together.
before you leave, here are links to two mental health support apps that i hope will help you deal what you are going through right now. i know it’s not much but i’ll be the happiest girl if this helped someone in the tiniest way. take care of yourselves ❤️
Calm Harm - Play Store | App Store
Wysa - Play Store | App Store
@toworuu @catwithangerissues
#haikyuu#haikyuu x reader#haikyuu comfort#haikyuu angst#asahi azumane#asahi x reader#ushijima wakatoshi#ushijima x reader#oikawa tooru#oikawa x reader
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Whumptober 2021 - October 1 - Bound
Fandom: Nightwing, Batman - All Media Types
AO3
Warnings: Kidnapping, Panic Attacks, Isolation, mentions of IV/needles
---
It’s been hours since Dick’s woken up… here.
“Here” is hard to describe, yet incredibly easy. He can say for sure that at least within the 180 degrees ahead of him, it’s all white. White walls that, if arranged in a mirrored-image behind him, might make a hexagon. The ceiling above him is bright and unforgiving, LED lights dotting the space above him like freckles on Barbara’s cheeks and shoulders. He can’t see any sign of a door ahead of him, and the gray-speckled white tiles that make the floor aren’t particularly enjoyable to look at.
Yeah, describing what he can see about the room is the easy part. The hard part is that behind him? It’s all guess-work. For all he knew, there could be nothing behind him, or a cliff, or… or something ridiculous. There could be a whole manner of things behind him, but it’s impossible for him to get a look because his head is strapped to the cushioned chair he’s forced to sit on.
He hates this. It’s been hours. The chair, while cushioned, isn’t even that comfortable. The way his arms lay on the armrests and his feet come together near the end of the chair suggests a dentist’s chair and a therapist’s sofa had an evil love-child who was into bondage, considering how many straps were buckled in to keep him trapped down.
He’s going to lose his mind. Did he really just make a bondage joke about a chair?!
Anyway, he’s stuck here, his arms pinned down by the wrists, elbows, and under his armpits. Two heavy straps run over each shoulder and cross in the middle of his chest to connect back to the chair near his hips. And speaking of hips, there’s another strap around them too like an old Volkswagen seat belt. More straps around his thighs, knees, and ankles keep his legs locked together and down. That’s not even mentioning the binds that lock around his neck or the one around his forehead that’s fitted to the headrest that seems designed to not let him even attempt to rotate his chin to the side.
It’s horrible, and awful, and cruel, and unusual, and he’s not even that sure why he’s here. All he can tell is that he has a massive headache, his Nightwing mask is on but his suit is gone—replaced by some sort of nightgown that definitely doesn’t seem friendly, and whenever he tenses his arm he can feel a tug in his wrist.
Must be an IV of some sort? It’s strange though, from what he can see he can’t see any medical equipment hanging around him. But it has to be an IV. With his night job, he’s become familiar with the way his lips go dry and how his fingers tremble when the damn needle gets put in his arm.
But… if it is an IV, it must need changing by now, surely. It’s been hours, and those things don’t last that long.
Hours. Sitting here with the feeling of a needle in his arm, not sure where he is or what he’s doing here, nothing to look at besides those Barbara Gordon freckles on the ceiling and those gray speckles on the tile.
He tugs on the restraints for what must be the thousandth time, and growls when nothing happens, as unsurprising it is. All his attempts to slip out of or break the restraints have left him with nothing but bruising and irritated skin. However, he feels so restless and bored out of his mind that tugging on the belts seems to be the only productive thing his brain can think of to do.
He tugs again, and nothing happens. He sighs. Relaxes back. And… tries to think of how he got into this mess.
It’s just as successful as breaking the straps.
-o-o-o-o-
“Okay, I’ll bite,” he calls out to nothing. His eyes hurt, he’s exhausted, he needs to pee and that’s something he doesn’t want to deal with. “What do you want from me, eh?”
Silence. His hands bunch in angry fists and he pulls against the straps hard enough for him to feel the edge bite into his skin.
“Batman’s identity?” He tries, because it’s always about Batman’s Identity (TM). When there isn’t any answer, he continues. “Police secrets?” Nothing. “Superman’s identity?”
Nothing. He growls and glares at the empty walls ahead of him.
-o-o-o-o-
He’s using the pain in his wrists, focusing on the warmth running down the cuts the straps have finally created, instead of the pressure in his bladder.
It only lasts so long.
Great, so now he’s bored out of his mind, stuck, and the room smells horrible. Or, the room smells horrible until whatever unseen vent takes away the reek and the chair dries, leaving him being the only one who’s smelling.
He hates this. He hates this. He hates this.
He jerks against every restraint and snarls in impatience and restlessness. He can feel the cuts tear more, but he’s close to not caring, he longs to move.
If his snarling eventually fades into howls, then he’s almost positive no one is around to hear it other than himself.
-o-o-o-o-
Bruce’s cape settles around his feet as he lands, launching droplets of questionable sewage water up to his knees. Damian lands beside him, the whites of his domino mask narrowed in fierce determination.
It’s been nothing but a series of long hours since the Riddler kidnapped Dick with the clues to his whereabouts left carved into the pavement with abandoned Wing-Dings. During Bruce’s search, a few things became apparent: Dick was trapped, alone, and Bruce had until Dick died from malnourishment once the crude IV he was apparently attached to ran out. Riddler is already behind bars, has been for several hours, but interrogation wont get him to give up his games, and Bruce may be a vigilante and “above the law”, but he wont stoop so low as to torture.
At least, not until things get desperate and Damian’s not around to see. Dick would never forgive Bruce, and will probably never talk to him even in any kind of afterlife.
But it hasn’t come to that, Tim solved the riddle through emails delivered from wherever he’s located with his Young Justice friends. They’re always changing spots, and even if Tim were to come home and solve the riddles in person, it would probably be too late.
It isn’t too late, he reminds himself as Damian takes off down the sewers. They know Dick’s exact coordinates. Bruce almost kicked himself when Tim revealed them, because of course lead to Gotham’s abandoned sewage system.
The way to Dick’s location is a tough one, one riddled (as Dick would say) with traps. But they’re nothing compared to a worried father and a determined brother. They find the door nudged neatly behind a section of brick, and when Bruce opens it he’s almost blinded by the night vision in his lenses adjusting to the sudden attacks of bright lights.
Bruce sees before he hears. His eyes were always one of his favorite senses, which is probably why Damian—a boy who’s had to hear to save his life many times—ran to the chair in the middle of the hexagon-shaped room before him. White walls, white tile, white LED’s to sit in a white ceiling. The back of a padded chair in the center of the room faces him, revealing nothing of what it contains.
And then Bruce hears the screaming. Weak, clawing screaming that sounds like what sandpaper would feel on dry skin. He knows this scream, the tones to it, and within moments he’s running to the front side of the chair with Damian.
Dick’s there… writhing. Blood stains skin and cloth around almost every strap holding him down from struggling that must have been continuing for hours. As Damian tears an IV—the tube feeding him nutrients disappears within the chair; there must be some sort of mechanism keeping it working within its structure—Dick’s struggles like he doesn’t notice the change. His eyes are squeezed shut, tears drip down his cheeks, and his screams are so so hard to listen to. Does he even know they’re here?
“Dick,” Bruce says, knowing there’s no one to hear him with Riddler behind bars and his goons scattered. Dick doesn’t respond, just continues to yowl like a wounded stray cat. Already, Bruce can see the symptoms of prolonged use of an IV and of exhaustion. Has Dick slept at all since being kidnapped?
Damian begins work on one of the straps around Dick’s jerking wrists. Bruce follows suit, quickly, desperately wanting to get his eldest out of here, but he’s forced to abandon his task when the loosened strap on Damian’s side allows Dick to tug his wrist free and move to hit the boy. Bruce catches his hand before the hit can be met.
“LET ME GO!” Dick screeches.
“Dick, we’re helping you,” Bruce shouts back wearily, but Dick doesn’t listen as he begins to babble all kinds of demands similar to let me go. Bruce gives Damian a look. “He’s exhausted and most likely delusional. Our best course of action would be for me to hold him down, and you undo the rest of the straps. Maybe we can get to him without having to risk drugging him once he’s no longer restrained.”
Damian looks all parts of his age as he takes a second to give a shockingly vulnerable stare Dick’s way. The vulnerability only lasts a moment before Damian’s nodding. “Got it.”
The next several minutes are filled with events that will reveal themselves in bruises with the coming days, even through the kevlar. It’s tough work keeping a Dick Grayson down, especially when it’s a Dick Grayson who absolutely refuses to be kept down in the first place. However, eventually they release the last strap around Dick’s other wrist and soon enough, both Bruce and Damian are jumping back and Dick launches himself out of the chair, stumbling to the floor and then falling to his ass when his knees give out. Dick looks pitiful, trapped between wanting to curl up and cry or stand up and run, yet curling up seems to win out as Dick must have no energy to lift himself back up.
“Dick,” Bruce calls again when Dick’s hoarse breathing calms, and this time, hope flutters into his belly when Dick’s shoulder’s tense in response.
“… B…?” comes a horribly weak response, but a response nonetheless. Bruce rushes around the damned chair to where his eldest still sits, curled up and shaking. He reaches out unconsciously, kneeling down to scoop Dick up in an embrace, but stops when Dick violently flinches away.
“Don’t touch me,” he whimpers, “just- I don’t- I couldn’t move-” he breaks into sobs.
Bruce is almost considering returning to Arkham and breaking a few bones. Instead, he lowers his voice and speaks as calmly as he can.
“I understand. But we have to get you back home. Just your arm around my shoulder, and I’ll support you while you walk. Can you do that?”
It’s proof of just how shaken Dick is when it takes a few moments to get a hesitant nod.
Bruce does his best to ignore Dick’s flinching and twitching while, with permission, Bruce helps Dick up and wraps his arm exactly where Bruce said he would. Damian stands a few paces off, looking torn. Bruce tells him to run ahead and bring the bat-mobile closer to the sewer opening while Dick blinks owlishly and gulps like a fish… doing his best to keep down what must be a pending panic attack. Damian thankfully leaves without much argument, and Bruce is left to help his eldest, hyperactive, always moving, always smiling, always stimming in some way or another son out the blasted room and towards freedom with as much control given over to Dick as possible.
“I scared Dami,” Dick whispers through clenched teeth, halfway through the sewage tunnels.
Bruce hums and resists tightening his grip on Dick’s arm. “It’s not your fault. He will not hold it against you.”
“I scared you.”
“… I was scared for you. But right now the only thing that matters is getting you home. Then everything can return to normal”
Dick nods his head, his voice choking in what must be another sob. “Okay,” he whispers, “okay.”
And Bruce silently vows to punch Riddler a little harder the next time he sees him.
But right now, the only thing he cares about is that Dick’s alive, and Bruce is bringing him home.
#whumptober2021#dick gryason#nightwing#bruce wayne#batman#damian wayne#robin#fanfiction#no.1#bound#panic attacks tw#jin writes
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Fake It | Weasley Twins | CH5
one // two // three // four
Warnings | 18+ SMUT, mature themes, fake relationships, secret relationships, love, sex, drama, angst, fluff, cheating, mentions of the war, desc. of torture, pain, drinking, aftercare.
Summary // Fred Weasley has been set up to publicly date Y/N, London’s best Quidditch Seeker in order to drum up some publicity. Y/N however has a different ginger man on her mind; George Weasley.
A/N // flashbacks in italics - Hopefully this chapter gives an insight into why George is so protective over his girl, but also why Y/N is the way she is around him.
There were two times you'd reserved yourself the ability to let loose and have a break, The first was after a big Game, where being absolutely hungover wasn't a problem the next day, or after a big product launch. Fred and George were two men who liked to party hard. Fred loved getting smashed among friends, participating in drinking games and nearly causing a full on riot - a drink to get drunk kind of man. George on the other hand, took a lot to get drunk, he would be waved most of the night and then sober by the time he was home, The one thing however about your boyfriend was that he got handsy and possessive, something that drove you absolutely crazy for him.
You'd been clubbing in muggle London with George multiple times, using the night as a distraction from the wizarding word, taking a cab home to either his place or yours - more often than not passing out cuddling each other in impossible positions. It was the best rest George got, he was always confused when he woke up to the sunrise or birds chirping, finding relief in him sleeping through the night.
George's poor sleeping habits were there before the war, however the looming death and the horrible events he suffered seemed to replay in his mind whenever he neared a state of rest.
//
The blast in front of him was unlike anything George had seen before with his own two eyes. Through the rubble and dust he saw you hunched over on the ground, coughing up the debris from your lungs. He was silently thanking whatever god that was out there, if there even was one, that he was here in this moment. He knelt down next to you, hand rubbing circles on your back soothingly.
“Baby, it’s ok, I’m here.” When you heard his voice you flung yourself into his arms, not caring about the state of your lungs as you held him. He was safe.
“Let’s get you to the great hall, you can’t be running around out here like this.” You shook your head, cupping his cheeks with your hands and pressing a firm kiss to his lips, like it could be the last time you’d ever kiss him. You both ignored the metallic taste of blood and dust coating one another as you committed this moment to memory, If people caught you here, in each other’s arms, why would It matter? Secrecy was the last thought on your mind as you pressed your forehead against his.
“I need to fight, we need to fight, George.” You were standing up, still holding onto him, you were vulnerable like this, you kissed him once more, he pressed a kiss to your knuckles, “Forever, I promise.” you smiled, pulling him in for another hug. “I love you.” he squeezed you tighter as a response. Before you knew it you were bending down to collect your fallen wand, running off in opposite directions.
You were being backed into a corner, slowly but surely. You’d resolved that this was the end. You weren’t sure who you were fighting until they were too close for comfort. Maria Bishop. When her hand touched your arm you were whisked away to another location. Once there you were violently shoved to your knees, winded still by the apparition.
“I always valued the Y/L/N family, you know,” She started, wand pointed at your head, Maria was known by others as ‘The Bishop’ you assumed because she was one of the Dark Lord’s prominent agents, finding and killing muggle-borns and blood-traitors alike, much like the bishop in chess eliminates their enemy.
“Such a shame you’re not like your mother and father, you would have made a beautiful pureblood wife.” she was laughing as she squatted down in front of you.
“Where Is Harry Potter?” she asked bitterly. Every inch of your skin was shaking with fear, you had no information, but it’s not like that mattered. “I- I don’t know, none of us have seen him in months.”
She didn’t like that, you didn’t even have time to think or apologise before you heard the word ‘crucio’ fall from her lips with ease.
The excruciating pain ran through your body, you fell to the ground, writhing as a blood-curdling scream was ripped through your vocal chords. You couldn’t do anything but scream over and over, it felt like your skin was being torn from its muscle and like scraping across all of your bones. She kept demanding, over and over for you to give her information but there was nothing to let out. You couldn’t even picture what Harry looked like, the only thing that ran through your mind was relentless agony.
You knew you wanted this to be over the minute it started, the pain crept up from your toes to your hips, over your chest and arms until finally it was at your throat. You felt like you were choking, you wanted all of the air to escape your lungs in the hope that the pain would end, but it never did. With every scream she laughed at you, watching as you writhed in pain like it was a comedy, she tried to overpower your shrieks with laughter.
You suddenly felt all weight lift off of you as the curse faded. Every limb was weak, time was no longer a concept to you, it felt like a lifetime of agony only repressed by a moment of solace, your hand was on your wand and before you could think, you were raising it and muttering the incantation of what you knew you shouldn’t. Her eyes widened, a flash of blinding green light filling her eyes, accompanied by a rushing sound, as if an invisible something was whipping through the air - within an instant she rolled over onto her back, unmistakably dead. The Bishop was down.
//
By 11:30 you were already half gone, If anyone asked, you were most definitely sober, but if the way you were swaying as you stood or your slightly misplaced steps weren’t telling enough, your tipsy giggles sure were. You’d been drinking down gigglewater like there was no tomorrow, making sure that you were well and truly off your face drunk. It felt like most, If not all of Diagon alleys’ daytime bustle had moved into the underground club below Olivanders. The walls were a dark, dusky brown, a perfect backdrop for the flashing lights and strobes. Music was pumping through your veins with every step as you pushed through the sea of people with a drink in hand, you found the corridor, taking a moment to breathe as you sipped on the bitter liquid.
Moments later you found yourself trapped between a pair of strong arms and the thick cushioned wall, you hadn’t even second guessed the man whose lips were on yours. Your hands were in his hair, pulling him in for a desperate, needy kiss. He was humming against you as his thigh found its way between your legs, letting you grind down against it. The man’s tongue was grazing against your lip, begging for entry - you didn’t even think of rejecting it because the touch felt so familiar. For four, maybe five minutes you were standing making out. You had to admit it felt good, of course it felt good, it was George. You pulled away, gasping for air but also getting a minute to look into his eyes, almost immediately you feel a loss of contact, as the body pressed against yours was stripped from by your side, causing a gentle whine to fall from your lips.
It was only when you blinked a few times that the fogginess of your vision truly got to you as you thought you were seeing double. You continued blinking, hoping the two would form to one, but instead you had stumbled backwards, now leaning on the wall for support.
George had Fred by the back of his shirt, pulling him away from you, his eyes like daggers as he scowled at his brother. “You can’t use her like that when she’s drunk.” Fred scoffs, the back of his hand coming up to wipe away the saliva that coated his lips, the smirk however was undeterred by the action. “You better wipe that fucking smirk off your face, Fred.”
The older twin was rolling his eyes, attempting to push past George to finish what he started, however, George’s hand pushed against his brother’s chest pinning him to the wall. “What the fuck?” he exclaimed, shoving George away from him by both shoulders, “Fred, take one look at her, and tell me you're comfortable doing that to her… Merlin, she can hardly stand, don’t be that guy.”
George was pleading his brother at this point, Fred sighed as he eyed you, taking in every characteristic of your demeanour - you were half asleep, leaning against the wall. He watched you try to wake yourself up and push your body away from the wall only to come crashing right back against it.
“I don’t know why you’re acting so protective all of a sudden… I’ll take her home.” Fred sighed, his hands rubbing over his face in an attempt to sober himself up.
“Fred, wait- I’ll do it.” his twin cocked an eyebrow at him, “I’m sober, it’s fine, you can’t apperate her she’ll be throwing up everywhere.” Fred nodded, giving George a pat on the shoulder as he walked away, “Thanks, Georgie.”
Your boyfriend's once angry eyes were softening as he looked at you, full of sadness as he watched you struggle. All he wanted to do was wrap you in his arms, and protect you, muttering under his breath, as he walked over to you, ‘let’s get you home then, angel.’
“Y/N, my love, it’s George, I’m gonna take you home, alright?” George was speaking so softly that you immediately felt at home. You nodded quickly, falling into the familiar pair of arms that were now holding you, giving you the anchor to finally walk again.
George led you out of the club and walked slowly with you as you stumbled step by step all the way down the quiet diagon alley. He got you into a cab as you both stumbled out of the leaky cauldron, the horns and chatter of London beaming around, it truly was a city that never slept. He had his arm wrapped around you protectively as you cuddled into his side, the sound of his beating heart slowly brought your racing thoughts down to earth. The way you were curled up against him reminded him of a moment from the war he’d never forget.
//
Your fingers trembled and shook so much that you could no longer control the grip of your wand. It truly sunk in that what you had done was unforgivable. You’d taken someone’s life. You rationalised with yourself that you had done it for your own good, to protect others, the ones you loved and cared for, but more importantly to protect yourself. You quickly pushed away from the body, crawling backwards until your back hit the wall, it had finally sunk in exactly what you'd done and you couldn't even bear to be with yourself as you buried your head between your knees, as silent sobs choked from your lips.
George found you like this, he had been searching worriedly for hours. It was pure vulnerability, he saw the body of the Bishop lying on her back, your wand discarded and you huddled into a ball. He didn’t know what to do or how to protect you, he reached out to touch your arm but you recoiled at his touch, pulling your knees tighter to your chest.
“Baby, It’s me.” he murmured softly, his voice cracking as he pushed out a whisper, outstretching his hand for you to take when you were ready. “We need to move you, It’s not safe here.” You took his hand, letting him whisk you away to a safer place, but you knew in your heart there was nowhere safer but his arms.
//
George carried you up the stairs to the bedroom, sitting you down on the bed, kneeling on the floor as he unlaced your boots, pulling each one off gently as his hand massaged your foot. When he looked up at you, you were no longer sat upright, instead having fallen back against the sheets as you began to try and remove your own clothes, doing so in a piss poor way.
He shook his head, smiling to himself as you grumbled at your own misfortune, his hands gripped your arms, pulling your wrists to his lips, pressing a gentle and loving kiss to the inside of each one. He slowly and cautiously helped you in removing your clothing, making sure to grab an old tee of his to cover you with when you sat naked on his bed.
He left to go and grab you a glass of water, as well as some painkillers for the morning. Finding you curled up on top of the sheets while shivering from the cold chill of the room. He chuckled once again, popping the items on the bedside table so that he could sit you up.
"Can we drink some water please, Princess?" you furrowed your brows, looking up at him as he stood in front of you. His large, warm hand was cupping your cheek softly, as he used his other to retrieve the glass of water, "I'll help you, now open up for me, that's a good girl."
His thumb coaxed your lips open, pressing the cold glass against your bottom lip as he gently fed you the clear liquid, you were gulping it down like you were wholeheartedly parched, he smiled at you when you'd finished, placing the glass on the bedside table again.
"Well done, beautiful, now let's get you under these covers, that ought to stop those shivers, hm?" Your hands wrapped around his neck as he lifted you up off of the bed, you stood, holding onto him as he flipped the duvet corners open, lifting you up so he could lay you down against the mattress.
He tried to pull your arms from his neck, but you only held on tighter, keeping him pulled close to you as a pout hung on your lips, whining as he tried to pull away from you. "Cuddle me."
He leaned down pressing a kiss to your forehead, he tucked you in gently, the covers wrapping you up nice and warm. "I'll be joining you soon darling but I can't cuddle you like this, I'll crush you if i lay on top of you now," he laughed, the low hum reverberating in your chest as you smiled at him with a doe eyed expression plastered to your face.
He stripped his jacked off, changing into some more comfortable clothing so that he could join you in bed. As soon as he sat on the mattress, your head was in his lap, he smiled at the sight, his heart warming as your arms wrapped around his thigh, cuddling into him.
He felt your shoulders begin to shake, looking down at you he saw the salty tears running down your cheeks as you tried to hold back your sobs. The reality of what happened in the hall of the club was hitting you, suddenly feeling sick to your stomach at the prospect that you had been making out with his twin, all the while believing it was George. "I'm so sorry, Georgie, I don't deserve you, I fucked up and I'm sorry, I just- I thought he was you and I was kissing him back and-"
George had cut you off by pressing a finger to your lips with a gentle shushing sound, his fingertips massaging your scalp as he played with your hair ."You don't need to apologise for a thing, Princess."
The feeling of his hand as he gently dragged his fingers through your hair was lulling you to sleep, you sighed contently, your heart beating faster as you began to hear the gentle soothing sounds of his humming, a sweet and soothing melody that made you feel like you were in heaven.
To him you looked like an angel when you slept, his heart resting easy at the sight of you painless, careless and content in the arms and presence of the man she loved so dear. She was like his own little slice of heaven, for him to enjoy on earth, always feeling like the damned luckiest man in the world to wake up to the sight of you.
You awoke the next morning to the smell of bacon and eggs hitting your senses, groaning you reached over and took the two pain relief, washing it down with some water from the night before. You were dragging your feet along the floor as you sought the arms of your boyfriend, you found him in the kitchen plating up some food. You immediately fell to his side, arms wrapping around him as you groaned, the power of your headache hitting you.
"Eat up, my Love, You'll feel so much better after." George had prepared you a delicious greasy fry up, knowing it was one of your favourite things to wake up to, he pressed a kiss to your cheek as his hand found the small of your back, "Thank you George, smells amazing as always."
He smiled, taking the two plates to the dining table, where cutlery and orange juice already lay. You felt spoilt by the man you loved as you wolfed down the food. George made the best breakfasts around, aside from Molly, of course, each component cooked with the special ingredient of never-ending love, making it that much more tasty.
You were the luckiest girl alive, looking into his eyes, he smiled at you, making you melt, even after all these years. George was everything you needed and more, you were sick of hiding him and he was just as sick of hiding you. Your Protector, Your Lover, His angel.
>>>>> Chapter Six
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#Fake It Fic#george weasley x reader#george weasley fic#George Weasley#george weasley fluff#george weasley smut#fred and george#fred weasley#fred weasley fic#fred weasley fluff#fred weasley x reader#fred weasley smut#weasley twins#harry potter#harry potter fic#harry potter smut#harry potter writing#ginger hair
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15x20 Coda: “Cas helped”
I dont normally write fanfiction anymore but this finale literally forced me. I had to fix this somehow and I had a good idea as I was falling asleep last night. It comforted me and I hope it will do the same for all of you.
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Dean doesn't know how long he’s been driving, as Bobby had told him, time moves differently here. The familiar smell of the countryside soothes him as he glides down the long stretch of road, windows down and Led Zepplins’ Ramble On blaring from the speakers.
But soon the air begins to change, it's a scent Dean doesn't find familiar. As he notices the treeline begin to recede, he pulls over the hill and can see the skyline...and it’s blue. Forever endless blue water stretching out to meet him. Anything you can dream echoes in his mind as he drives closer to the shore.
When he pulls the impala to a stop, he can already hear the seagulls cawing overhead, the waves crashing onto the beach. It's beautiful, he thinks, and he has never felt such instant peace. He feels drawn to this place, although he isn't sure why. Far in the distance, he notices a figure standing near the surf. A tan trenchcoat blows in the breeze and Dean feels his heart jump into his throat.
Cas?
He doesn’t even realize he's moving until his boots hit the sand and he stumbles, unaccustomed to the feeling of it under his feet. Cas is standing at the surf, his eyes closed, a faint smile on his face.
Cas helped
Dean's heart begins to pound in his ears. He starts moving again. By the time he is standing a few feet away, his mouth is dry and he rasps out a quiet “...Cas?”
Castiel’s eyes open and he turns toward Dean, as if he had been waiting for him.
“Hello Dean”
He stands for a moment in disbelief, desperate to speak but the words feel trapped in his throat. When he finally does, it's an apology. “I..I should have stopped you. Again. I...Cas I'm so sorry.”
The angel’s eyes soften, “Nothing that happened was your fault and nothing you could have done would have changed my mind. I only regret that you are here so soon, I wanted you to find your own path. I had hoped-” Cas looked away towards the water, “I hoped you would be happy.”
“Cas...I- I was but...I’m happy to see you man. I thought I would...I didn’t think I'd ever see you again.” Dean moves toward him hesitantly, as if Cas could disappear at any moment. “Did Jack….?”
“He brought me back, yes.” Cas says, turning back to look at Dean with a soft smile on his lips. “He wanted me to help...make this for you, among other things.”
“You helped make this?” Dean looks out at the shoreline in awe.
“You said you wanted a beach vacation” Cas muses, “I hope this is satisfactory.” He smiles then and Dean feels his heart flutter because he never believed someone could love him enough to make all of this.
Love him. The word stops his brain in its tracks. It's then that Dean remembers the last conversation they had, why Cas had been taken from him. His heart skips as he hears himself asking “Cas..what you said, in the bunker..I- I need to know what you meant by that…”
Cas opens his mouth and closes it again, his brain trying to discern why Dean is asking, “I told you Dean, I love you. And I meant it. Every word. I hope that doesn't make you uncomfortable. I never expected-”
“Cas I need to say something”
This interruption makes Castiel’s legs feel weak, his heart sinks to his stomach.
Dean is moving toward him now, and Cas is caught off guard when Dean stands so close, his scent like pine trees and bourbon. A scent Cas remembers very well, how could he ever possibly forget it. “Dean you don't have to..”
“Don't ever leave again.”
Cas stands completely still, afraid to do anything that would interrupt but terrified at every word. He feels vulnerable, weak. Like Dean could toss him into the ocean and he would sink to the bottom, helpless.
They stand there for a moment, silent. The waves continue their methodic movements against the sand, the birds continue to cry out overhead. And Cas is drowning. When he speaks there is slight pain in his voice.
“I won't Dean. I won't leave.”
“Don't you ever, ever leave me again.” Dean raises his voice this time, his eyes meeting Castiels and he can feel the hurt in Dean’s words, the fear and the guilt.
“I won't.” He says again, more calm assurance to his voice now. “I will stay here with you for eternity, if you want me to Dean. Always.”
Dean moves closer, his head falling against Castiel’s and his hands gripping the lapel of the familiar trench coat. Their noses brushing as Dean breaths the angel in; a mix of cold air and lightning with a summer thunderstorm. Cas is overwhelmed by the sensation, the feeling of Dean touching him. He never dreamed he would see Dean again. He never thought Dean would want to see him again. He was wrong.
Dean whispers, his eyes closed. “I never-.... I didn't let myself go there. I didn't understand it. I thought you couldn't- that you wouldn't-” and he doesnt get to continue because Cas closes the gap between them, his lips gently grazing and Dean’s breath hitches in his throat as he says breathlessly, “I love you Cas. I’ve always loved you” And he is pulling Cas into him now, hands reaching for anything they can touch. His thumb traces against Cas’s jaw, his kisses becoming more wanting, more desperate. Cas can barely breathe.
When Dean pulls away Cas instantly aches for the loss of contact but Dean is smiling at him. He drops and begins to take off his boots. Cas laughs at him, “What are you doing?”
“Toes in the sand, remember?” Dean pulls his socks off and feels the softness between his feet. “Feels just as good as I thought it would.” He walks over to the water and feels it rush over him. “This is perfect Cas, I wish Sammy could see it.”
“He will,” Cas says warmly as he slips off his boots and joins Dean in the surf. He reaches his hand out to close around Dean’s in warm reassurance. He has never felt more alive, more human. He will stay with Dean for eternity, he will spend the rest of his existence making Dean happy in the heaven he helped build for him. Dean pulls Cas into him and kisses him again, his lips warm and swollen from moments ago. The bottom of his jeans get soaked as the waves splash around him but he is not ready to let Cas go.
He will never let Cas go again.
#destiel fanfic#deancas fanfic#fix it fic#spn fix it#supernatural s15#supernatural#supernatural 15x20#destiel#deancas#dean winchester#castiel#spn 15x20#fanfic coda#15x20 coda
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The First Time She Met Daryl Dixon
Part of the 'Call Me 'Darling'' Series
(Daryl Dixon x unnamed female character)
The first time she met Daryl Dixon was not pleasant.
“Fucking Shit!”
It wasn’t long after the fall. The time of indescribable horrors. The day the dead began to walk the earth.
“You useless shit” a feminine voice rang out in exasperation, met only by the greenery that surrounded. Tears pricked at frustrated eyes as small, dirty fists beat aimlessly at the soft earth beneath. The roots of a nearby tree grazed along knuckles, breaking the skin there. An unintentional hiss left trembling lips as sad eyes observed the fresh blood appearing.
She had found herself alone in a dense wood somewhere near farmland in Georgia, drifting aimlessly, no destination in mind. Attention on the songs of the wild birds. The music of the forest being the only company had in days.
In dazed wandering, clumsy feet had met a large tree root protruding rather rudely from the ground. It met her right foot violently, causing herself to stumble harshly while holding the appendage prisoner. The attached ankle twisted painfully as her warn body was thrown forward and forced to spin, landing unceremoniously on her obnoxiously generous behind.
An advantage only when the clumsy feet betrayed her. Something that happened more often than her ego would like to admit.
A glare that could almost kill, along with some less than lady-like language was aimed at the battered ankle. It lay life-less and throbbing next to the offending root, almost mocking with its silence.
A twig snapped far too near for comfort. A rustling of leaves alerting to a nearby presence. In such a vulnerable position, the woman mentally chastised herself for becoming too distracted to hear the oncoming intruder. Almost definitely one of those undead fucks stumbling across a yummy young lady laid out like a buffet.
Her head whipped around to peer behind with enough force to cause the joints of her neck to let out a crack. A sound that went unnoticed as a sharp gaze found a man staring at the crumpled heap she currently was. He seemed alive enough as he pointed an intimidatingly large weapon at her head.
Is that a crossbow? The thought shot through her mind before returning swiftly to the danger that was presented. It wasn’t something you’d ever expect to see in real life, let alone have pointed at you. Far more intimidating than a gun it seemed due to its unexpectedness.
The man holding the weapon was rugged. Short brown hair and clothes had seen better days. Gaze locked with the most vibrant blue eyes. An intense silent battle taking place between said eyes and her own.
“Ya kiss yer mother with tha’ mouth?” His voice was gruff. Deeper than expected. It held a soothing quality even in its accusing tone.
“Not if she was alive” A deadpan tone returned, eyes narrowed as the gaze turned cold. He only grunted in response. A shiver ran unexpectedly down her spine. Probably just caused by the very pointy stick he had ready to be catapulted through her skull.
“What are ya doin’ round here?” he questioned more aggressively this time. The hints of playfulness had disappeared. This man meant business and she didn’t doubt he would shoot her with the intimidating weapon if he felt the need to.
“I’m having a teddy bears picnic, can’t you tell?” An overly sweet voice quipped back unwisely. Suspicious eyes only narrowed in return as the grip seemed to tighten on the bow.
“Okay” A tired sigh left dry lips. “I was just wandering, looking for her next meal and place to sleep. I fell over this damn tree”. Trying not to feel embarrassed by the statement, her gaze wandered the muscular upper arms visible due to the missing sleeves that seemed to have been forcefully ripped away.
“I take it by your defensiveness that your camp is near here” she queried. “Don’t worry, I won’t go near it.”
“Better not. Now get outta here before it ain’t a choice.”
Eyes rolled at his threat. “Not very welcoming are you?” The question was met only by silence.
“Fine, I’m going.” She stated as weak arms pushed herself to her feet, forcing the rapidly bruising ankle to take the weight. Attempting to ignore the pain in refusal to look weak in front of this rude man. The backpack that slid from aching shoulders during the fall was slung back into place and the dagger that had saved her life numerous times secured in a determined grip.
“Nice to meet you” her defeated voice rang sarcastically before turning and limping away as fast as able.
“Asshole”
---------------
Many months passed without a thought about the rugged man. Surviving alone could be very distracting after all. Jumping from abandoned house to worse smelling abandoned house with the hopes of a safe nights rest. Never knowing where the next meal would come from or even if there would be a next meal.
The weight dropped off at a concerning rate. Concerning only because there was a good chance of being eaten by the dead because her trousers fell down. What a way to go. She died as she lived. Falling over.
Eyes raked over the forest floor in search of life. Trusted dagger held securely in her dominant hand, poised ready to strike should dinner appear suddenly. An unexpected commotion seemed to begin somewhere to the left. Ears guiding rushing feet towards the sound in hopes of a large animal to catch. The grumbling of her stomach agreeing with the silent statement.
Upon the arrival at the scene, crouched down behind a shrub, her small body was easily hidden by the undergrowth. In immediate sight was the back of a man. Keen eyes would not have recognised him so immediately if not for the missing sleeves on the dirty brown shirt. He was facing off with four of the dead. A knife raised high in his right hand seemed to be his only weapon. A glance to the side revealed the crossbow a few feet away. Far less intimidating when not pointed at ones head.
Logic said he couldn’t reload the damn thing in time to shoot the fuckers one by one. She however had not been spotted by the dead and was only about 3 feet from the weapon.
Daryl began to panic as what felt like a never ending amount of walkers came at him. He couldn’t kill them all at once and his knife wasn’t doing much good. He’d resorted to desperately shoving them backwards.
The walker directly in front of him was big, standing at least 6 foot tall and charging with a purpose. It managed to knock him to the ground, the snapping jaws aiming to rip Daryl’s face cleanly away. It was prevented only by an increasingly weakening forearm to its neck.
Thick black blood oozed from the tear in its jugular, dripping grotesquely onto its struggling prays jaw and throat. Should Daryl open his mouth he’d be treated to a very unfortunate final meal.
‘This is it’ thought Daryl as he frantically felt around for the fallen blade. ‘I’m gonna fuckin’ die.’
Daryl’s rapidly beating heart seemed to stop dead as a bolt from HIS crossbow shot through the top of the walkers head to protrude from the now permanently dead man’s mouth. The sharp tip pointed directly between sky coloured eyes.
With a confused sigh, his head leant back to peer behind at the crossbow which lay exactly where he had left it. The unsightly corpse was shoved unceremoniously off of the hunter as he realised suddenly that there were no walkers after him.
It took a few seconds to come to his senses as he observed the 3 other walkers already dead on the ground nearby. Steely eyes flickered up to the small woman standing a few feet away, casually wiping a bloody knife on a large leaf. Confusion only grew as he stared at the calm woman who acted like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. A look of boredom on her face.
Smug eyes flickered to the side where the rugged man still sat stunned on the ground. An involuntary smirk forced its way onto her face. It was so difficult to keep the bored look when the handsome mans jaw was practically on the floor.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” This seemed to snap him out of his daze. His mouth clamped shut audibly as an irritated expression took over.
“Daryl” was all he said as he made his way slowly to unsteady feet.
“Well Daryl” she chimed nonchalantly “You’re welcome” before turning and once again walking away from the shocked man.
---------------
Most nights she dreamt of the undead. Snapping jaws, inches from her face. Dirty, broken nails on rotted flesh, grabbing at her skin. Thick black blood filling her mouth and claiming her lungs.
Sometimes she would dream of family. The life lived before. Laughing faces and sweet smiles. Little girls with pigtails and pink dresses. School days sat on the grass in the sun. Underage drinking in the park. Splashing in the cold sea. Golden sand between painted toes. Faces not seen in years.
And sometimes she would dream of the most beautifully pure blue eyes. Those eyes were the most haunting.
Stayed local to the area, familiar terrain was an advantage. It was only a matter of time until she stumbled across it. The prison. The opposing grey buildings would have been of little interest had it not been for the suspicious lack of dead ones.
Upon closer inspection there appeared to be crops growing in the grounds. A variety of luscious plants living in neat rows. Every so often a mop of brown hair would appear within the greenery. A slender teenage boy who tended the food.
Witnessing silently from the branch of a nearby tree, never daring to make a noise or risk being seen. People were after all, dangerous.
Many others appeared within sight in the hours observed. Some seemed to be on lookout. Some pierced the skulls of dead ones through the fence. Many simply socialised and basked in the sun. Although not terribly interesting, it was the most entertainment had in weeks. Quite like a trip to the zoo, watching them in their natural habitat. There seemed to be little of concern and just as the tired woman considered slipping away to find her own refuge for the night came the startlingly loud rumble of engine.
--------------
Far louder than that of a car, approaching the fence that opened in entrance to the structure was a motor bike. Another thing unexpected at the end of the world. The more shocking factor however being the slim figure and mop of brown hair that sat astride. The fear-provoking weapon strapped to a wing adorned back. Her rugged man.
Any idiot with half a brain would know not to approach the prison alone unless they desired an arrow through the head. But there was something about this man. The incessant need to see him again. To hear the drawl of his voice. To see that pretty face up close even in the snarl that was sure to be aimed at her. Luckily, Mr Dixon, hunter and gatherer extraordinaire didn’t seem to spend that much time in the prison. The outdoors suited him far better.
Daryl treaded stealthily through the thicket, bow aimed low and eyes alert. His ears strained in search of a living creature. He swore his heart leapt from his chest at the sudden noise slightly behind and above him. Startled feet spun so fast he stumbled.
“I like your hair. Suits you”
The feminine voice presented no unease due to the deadly weapon pointed directly at the source. A raised eyebrow prompted Daryl to lower the thing before accidentally shooting.
“Bloody ‘ell woman, where’d ya come from?”
“Bit of a personal question. Don’t you think? You don’t even know my name yet” the voice quipped with a smile. Feet landing gracefully on the ground in front of the alarmed man as she dropped from the low branch.
Daryl grumbled, dropping his eyes which only caused her grin to widen.
“What’s yer name then?”
“Can’t tell you that. Stranger danger.”
“Think yer the only danger ‘round ‘ere.”
“You think too highly of me, Darling.” Lips smirked as light fingers gently raised Daryl’s chin to meet devious eyes.
His shining orbs widened comically at the gesture. “Darlin’?!”
The outraged tone of the statement served to strengthen the ever present accent.
“Oh I do like that.” Smirk turned to a full grin. “Call me Darling.
----------
They couldn’t seem to keep away from each other. Well she couldn’t keep away from him anyway. He’d always go in search of food and the menace would always appear seemingly by magic. She intrigued the man and she knew it. The way his eyes followed her form was like he wanted to figure her out. Solve her like a walking puzzle.
She craved his voice. It soothed something inside her. Somehow made the state of the world forgettable. Hours were spent together without notice. He didn’t speak much but he always listened intently and usually had a smart remark to counter her regular jabs. Teasing Daryl Dixon was always her favourite part of the day.
He never asked where she was going, was staying or why she was always alone. He didn’t seem to want to burst the secret little bubble they’d made for themselves. Something both were happy to keep intact as curious eyes secretly watched the prison.
It was getting progressively more difficult to live alone in the wild. When Daryl went back to his cosy home with his friends at the end of the day her tasks were to go in search of food and a place to rest her head. She would never confess her struggles. He would want to help and her pride wouldn’t allow it.
At her lowest she found herself slumped in a corner of a dingy old house, curling in on herself. The small fire haphazardly made almost burnt out, the strength to go in search of more kindling evaded the weak woman.
Just as she hadn’t seen the face of her favourite person, her body hadn’t seen water in days. Food even longer. If this was how she was to go out then so be it. She’d survived this long alone and that’s all that mattered.
Her vision swam as black spots appeared. There was no control left of her body as it slumped sideways, striking her head against the wooden floorboards as unconsciousness consumed entirely.
---------------
Daryl panicked when she wasn’t at the usual spot. She was always there when he went to hunt. He had no idea how she knew when to find him but she did. He often questioned if she was real. This mysterious girl that no one else had ever seen could so easily be part of his imagination.
He remembered how Rick had seen Lori for so long after her death. He’d spent so much time alone out in the woods that it wouldn’t surprise him if his mind had made up the annoying woman that he couldn’t stay away from. No, she had to be real. Even Daryl’s mind couldn’t tease him like she did.
He began by wandering in the direction he had last seen her go as they parted, knowing there was a nearby town that could offer some food and protection. As gravel crunched beneath old boots in place of the usual dirt and neglected buildings began to rise on either side of the man, it became clear that the area was empty. Motionless walker bodies lay scattered around, each seemingly had received a knife through the head.
The smell was overpowering as the hunter contemplated why they hadn’t been burned. Perhaps she was only passing through. Perhaps she simply didn’t have the strength.
Tracks were clearly visible all through the town. Mostly bloody, they led into every single building. Daryl sighed. He was sure by the small stature of the print that they were hers. The woman that so desperately clung to his mind had clearly been here. Yet he had a feeling she was still here. She wouldn’t just leave him, would she?
Daryl could almost hear Merle’s voice echoing in his head, calling him a whipped little bitch. He scowled at the thought but just couldn’t stop. What if something had happened to her?
----------
Sharp eyes scanning the area, he could clearly visualise the woman clearing the place, killing walkers and scavenging for the food. His eyes drifted to the last house to the left. The windows were boarded and the door was shut. A trap lay set in front of the building. It was clearly the most secure place. His feet carried him almost involuntarily towards it. Towards her.
White light pierces blackness. Heart beat rising. Blood rushes ears. Footsteps sound a million miles away.
Gentle knuckles brush cheeks. Rough fingers press pulse point. Fluttering eyelashes attempt in vain to open.
The earth tilts sickeningly as her body is forced into sitting position. The sound of ringing slowly transitions to the calling of her name. The familiar voice causing an upturn of lips. Her rugged saviour.
Cold liquid is raised to parched mouth. Gulped down greedily without thought. Hands fly to grab the bottle. The best water ever tasted. An appreciative groan as eyelids are forced to rise. Blurred vision soon clears to reveal shaggy brown hair that begs to be touched.
His name leaves her lips in struggled whisper. His eyes are hard with judgment and underlying concern.
“Why the hell didn’ ya tell me?” some form of food is held to her chin.
She doesn’t take not what as her eyes shift away in shame and her arm weekly brushes it away.
“I don’t want your food”
“Well ya clearly need it. Ya look like hell.” His teeth grind in annoyance at the usually stubborn girl. Her head shakes in response, causing the black spots to momentarily return.
“I don’t need saving, Prince Charming.” He guffaws at the name.
“I aint no prince, nor ‘nything charmin’.”
She needed him gone. She couldn’t bear the look of pity in his eyes. The worry on his features. She wasn’t anyone’s problem.
“You shouldn’t be here. Just go back to your damn prison. The irritation clear in her voice. Almost missing the way his vibrant eyes widened.
Shit. She realised her mistake a split second too late.
“How the fuck do you ya know ‘bout tha’?” She’d never heard him sound so angry and even a little scared. Knowing full well that if they found she knew about their home that they wouldn’t just leave her alone. She was dangerous to them.
Nervous eyes flicker everywhere but at the face that stared her down.
“I’ve been watching. Had to know if you were dangerous.”
“An ya didn’ tell me”
“Would you have let me go?” It was Daryl’s turn to look away in shame.
“Nah. Would have to tell ‘em ‘bout ya” He sighed defeated.
“Exactly.” Their eyes clashed in a battle of wills, silently debating what would happen next. After a beat, his eyes shined in a way that determined a decision had been made.
“Yer comin’ with me” He stated assertively.
“No” she countered plainly, offering little room for argument.
“Wasn’ askin’.” Before further refusal could leave her, strong arms surrounded her. He rose to his feet, cradling the surprised woman to his chest. Her bag hanging from his right hand where it curled around her knees.
Her malnourished body was slow to react. Sluggishly moving to press at his firm chest in protest. He easily made his way out of the house and to the far end of the street where the bike sat undisturbed.
The fresh air aided in clearing her senses. The situation she was in becoming evident to her irritated mind.
Gently set down on the leather seat, she was released from the sure grip.
“Fine.” A resigned smile as the cogs of her mind began to spin. “I’ve got another bag though. Brown satchel. Must still be in the lounge.”
He nodded. “Alright, I’ll be right back. Don’ move.” Turning and jogging back into the house.
The moment his right foot made it over the threshold, the loud roar of the bike engine caused his heart to sink.
“Son of a bitch!” Fast feet threw him back out the door and half way down the street but it was too late. His mysterious girl was gone and so was his bike. A lone bag lay in the spot it had previously been in. His own bag containing the water and food he had offered her.
The walk back to the prison was long, made worse by Daryl’s rising anger. Refusing to interact with anyone upon his return, he had his way into the empty cell where he refused to sleep but went to for privacy. Throwing himself down onto the lumpy mattress, he glared at the underneath of the top bunk. His mind swirling with images of her devious smirk.
---------------
Two days later he was woken at the ass crack of dawn by Glenn frantically calling his name. As the sun had appeared over the horizon so had his bike, propped up on its stand just outside the gate. Next to it lay a cardboard box full of baby formula as an apology.
Daryl of course went looking for her, but she no longer appeared. Weeks were spent without a trace of her until another box of formula appeared outside the gates in the dead of night. Sat atop this one was a small stuffed elephant, the perfect size for little ass kicker. Soft and clean as if straight from a baby shop.
Next to it a small piece of paper. In loopy handwriting it read ‘Stop looking for me, darling. It makes me miss you more.’
He thinks he can let her go. Thinks he can carry on living. Barely thinking of her during the busy days but she appears in his dreams. Reliving the sweetest moments between them behind closed eyelids.
“Come back with me.” His sombre voice breaks the silence.
They had somehow ended up leaning against a railing on the edge of a rooftop. Forearms against cold metal, they basked in the glow of a setting sun. Features basked in orange light, he watched her shyly.
They both knew that they should retreat to safety before darkness fell but neither could bring themselves to leave the others company. Peace consumed them as they absorbed the view laid before them like a renaissance painting.
Her head tilted as her eyes searched his face contemplatively.
“Ya always leave me.” His dejected words caused an ache in her chest.
“Why won’ ya stay with me” He asks earnestly.
“I can’t” Eyes cast downward at the sudden urge to shed a tear.
“Why? They’re good people. Rick an’ Carol an’ lil ass-kicker...” His fists clench as the unfamiliar emotions stir within him. His stare fixed on the setting sun.
“Exactly. You’re a family. I don’t belong there. I can’t. I can’t lose anyone else.” Her eyes squeeze shut as pain consumes her.
“So I don’ mean nothin’ to ya?” His voice strains.
“You shouldn’t” Her voice is a soft whisper.
His head turns to question her answer but she’s already gone.
“Darlin’?”
He’s woken suddenly by the sound of Judith’s cries. Greeted only by the sight of the bunk above him. He decides he’s going to find her. He has to.
But he doesn’t. Because soon enough the sounds of gunfire and screams is all that’s heard as the prison falls.
A/N - Here it is, the first thing I've ever written recreationally. It was so much for difficult than i expected. I feel like i'm handing over a steaming pile of rubbish but here you go! I hope you enjoy.
@pandorahurtsx @winchestershiresauce @sunflxwerbullet @holliss @haruhey @lilythemadqueen @dixonextracts @daryloverdixon
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The hardest part of this is leaving you
Hey so i don't know if y'all remember this fic bc i sure do and i wanted to magnify one part of that which was Scott's bit. It's flower husbands angst. And it emotionally scared me to write this. also yea that's a my chem lyric as the title once a killjoy always a killjoy sue me.
TW- MCD (major character death), sacrifice, Gore, (blood/bleeding out), Angst, 3rd life mentioned.
WC: 1288 words
Ao3: p a i n
The first rule of battle, at least as Jimmy was taught, was to never be caught off guard. But he thinks he can get away with it just this once. Cradling Joel's heavy head in one hand, holding tight into Lizzie's cold arm with his other, he grieves. His grief overrides his guard. He's even got the cod head off. He can't get more vulnerable than this. He's alone, without allies. Katherine was nowhere to be seen, Gem was on the other side, Scott- Scott was Scott. He wasn't on Jimmy's side, he was against Sausage.
That was different.
Jimmy couldn't trust Scott as an ally, only as an enemy to his enemy.
He couldn't put trust in him.
Everyone he put trust in is dead.
He doesn't even trust himself.
He's surrounded, body and soul, by people who could easily kill him. Those who wouldn't-
The whistle of an arrow cuts his mind's voice in two.
Jimmy turns away from the noise, looking down at Joel's face.
He smiles.
The arrow finds its target with that familiar, sickening crunch.
He knows the piercing sting of an arrow, enchanted, imbued, or not.
He knows the pain that accompanies the sound.
Why, then, did Jimmy not feel it?
He looks up, eyes catching on the arrow before the face of his savior. The arrow is lodged in the side of their neck, in the break of their armour. The white and gold collar peeking up is already stained with red, turning the fabric into a bright crimson.
There's the sound of a sword thumping against dirt and rock. Of armour clinking against itself. The Codfather is hyper aware of the wind, how it sounds, the smell it carries. The smell of blood. Jimmy stands up, much too quickly, his vision blurring, but he races forward anyways to catch the man that saved his life.
In his arms, he holds Scott.
Scott's breathing is rapid and irregular, Jimmy desperately looks on himself and on Scott for any potions that might help, but he freezes when he feels Jimmy's hand cover his own.
"Sc- Scott?" Jimmy whispers. There's no need, there's no one around them- alive to hear it, at least.
"D- don't-'' Scott murmurs out, taking in a deep breath that makes his face contort with pain.
"What- Scott- Why? You took that arrow for me- why?" Jimmy asks.
"You really don't remember then-" Scott says, voice fizzling out onto coughing. Jimmy shifts to help him become more comfortable. If Scott had nothing to help, or didn't want to be helped, then Jimmy wouldn't take anything away from him.
"Remember- I don't really- I thought you hated me-" Jimmy can't remember anything from before… this, waking up in the jungle, sore from sitting on the cobble throne, alone. Once he got set up, he felt a strong pull to Joel, who turned out to be one of his closest allies, but to Scott as well, but when Scott never showed that they were close friends, Jimmy just… let it go. Until now at least. Scott, hand shaking, reaches up to cup Jimmy's face. Jimmy helps him, pressing his face into Scott's palm- cold. His hand is so cold.
"You were my voice. It's funny, I- I got shot in the neck- you got shot in the head. I was your mind," Jimmy laughs lightly, sounds like him alright, "and you were my voice." Scott sounds so quiet, and far away, like it's taking any strength he has left to tell him this.
"I- wh- whatever happened, Scott, I'm so sorry I let you down now. You deserved so much better than what I could've given you and I'm so sorry- please- let me- there has to-" Jimmy says, gripping Scott's hand tighter. Jimmy doesn't remember what Scott's talking about, but he remembers feeling something. Almost as if this was a repeat of Scott's memories, but the roles being reversed. Jimmy wonders if he died in Scott's arms. That's what he asks. Scott can't help but smile.
"No, I couldn't get to you in time. But you looked so beautiful that day, and even still when I went back for you." Scott runs a weak thumb across Jimmy's cheek, bringing his attention to tears that had formed. "Don't cry, morning glory, I couldn't bear to see you die again."
"Again- Scott- I-" Jimmy parrots, before Scott cuts him off, Jimmy immediately lets him speak.
"You have nothing to be sorry-" Scott coughs again, blood staining his lips, Jimmy's eyes stinging. "-about. I thought if I avoided you, you'd be safe, but- I can't live without you, Jimmy. You still mean everything to me, hyacinth, and I- ugh-" Scott stops and huffs, Jimmy can tell he's still him. Under the shaky breaths, and the red, white and gold- he can see that it's still the snarky, sarcastic Scott he'd spent another life with. "It's cold. I don't remember it being this cold-" Jimmy immediately curls around Scott, trying to warm him up- keep his blood going, good god, trying to keep his blood going.
"Why did you do this? Why?" Jimmy whispers hoarsely.
"Because I loved you. I still do, Jimmy, My rose, I still- do…" 'Scott murmurs, voice fading out- no, no- Jimmy just- Scott's just told him this and he knows Scott is telling the truth- he knows- he also thinks some part of him… still-
"You loved me?" Jimmy says, kissing the inside of Scott's palm, a part of him still loves Scott, too.
"Jimmy? Jimmy, are you there? Are you- I- I can't-" Scott says, voice fragile, panicking.
"Scott, Scott, I'm here, Scott- Scott- I'm here, Scott please-" Jimmy says, cupping Scott's face with one hand, and holding Scott's to his with his other hand. He can feel his pulse under his fingertips, its beating, but getting weaker, he can't- Jimmy can't lose him- not after he just got him back- he can see flashes, flower forests, cows, starlit skies- nights awake, much longer than they should be, talking, and laughing. He can see a ring in his hands, Scott's surprised, but overjoyed face- and he remembers the way he felt when Scott said yes. He feels the warm ghost of a hand on his shoulder. He can't- Jimmy just got him back- "Scott- please? I remember now- I do- Scott, poppy, please- I- I remember- no- no, no, no- Scott don't- don't you dare- don't you dare- Scott please-" Jimmy can't feel Scott's pulse anymore. He lets Scott's hand slide from his to cradle both sides of Scott's face. He wipes the blood away from around the side of his mouth. Tears stinging his eyes again, his chest and throat growing tight- why, why did Scott do that? "You- why- why, why, why, why, why? Scott," Jimmy chokes back a sob, and lets his head hang, "I was supposed to be the one to die for you, not the other way around- why, stupid, beautiful, selfless, why? Daffodil, sunflower, starshine, why- I just got you back- please- it's it's not- i- it's not fair-" he sobs again, ugly and brutal, nothing like Scott, nothing like Scott, "I just- how- why are you being ripped away from me again- you- i- we- we could've left, we could've- you and me- we could've left and made something because we were alive again- I don't- I can't- Scott- I'm so sorry-" his body shakes, he can't take it- knowing their past together, and now have to face his future without him- it was-
Maybe he wouldn't have to live without him much longer.
There's a sword tip pointed at the back of his head.
And just inside his vision-
Gem.
#two posts ten minutes george pass me the bl- [gets shot]#not canon btw#flower husbands#empires jimmy#jimmy solidarity#soliderity gaming#empires scott#scott smajor#3rdlife#3lsmp#empires smp#wHERE IS THE SECOND SEASON OF 3RD LIFE GRIAN GIVE THE GAYS WHAT WE WANT /nm#gremfics#blood tw#mcd tw
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So, after watching the most recent Empires SMP vids, my brain was pretty much like ‘so how can we make this even more full of angst’, but also I needed to sleep because it was like 1am where I live when Pixlriff's episode came out.
Anyways, now that I’ve had some time to Process and also to write, here’s 1k of words of post-Dragon fight, mostly c!Pixlriffs angst.
The dragon, the great Empress of the End, falls.
And as the gathered rulers feel the world shudder around them in response, the rising tides of chaos gathering and coalescing, all Pixlriffs, the Copper King, the King of Pixandria, can feel, is regret. He may not have landed the final blow, but he knows that his hands are stained nonetheless with the violet blood that even now is swiftly evaporating into the cold emptiness of the End, a realm now devoid of its rightful ruler.
That regret, as the truth of what had now been done, deepens even as he and the other rulers try to make sense of what had just happened, of the mistakes and reckless actions that had led to that point.
By the time Xornoth reveals himself to them, and they flee back to the overworld and their respective empires, whether to prepare themselves for the coming days, or to celebrate (in the cases of Sausage and Joey), the coldness of the end portal is nothing compared to the sinking feeling of guilt in Pix’s chest.
Death is sacred to the people of his realm. Death is supposed to be an act that, if it must occur, then the killer must be damn well sure they’ve thought through every single one of the possible consequences, and are prepared to face them.
Had he even thought, during that battle, when everything was a haze of desperation and confusion and ‘I just want to stop having to die in the void to go home’? He hadn’t, Pix knows, and it is this knowledge that makes him know that he was no longer worthy to walk in the light of the Vigil. How could he, when he knows that what drove his blade was the selfish desire to have a marginally easier way of going home from the End?
If he had thought for even a second, Pix thinks, as he approaches one of the desert villages, would then perhaps things would have played out differently. Perhaps the dragon would not have fallen, if he had stopped to consider just why the Wither Rose Alliance had arrived to heal the dragon, to do all they could to keep her alive, even to the point of sacrificing themselves just so the dragon could live for a minute longer.
The scorn and coldness of the villagers, the rumours of what Pix had brought upon them all with his selfish actions having already spread throughout the realm, was to be expected. But it hurts nonetheless, a pain on top of the guilt already wracking his every thought and bringing a chill to his soul.
The warmth and light of the Vigil isn’t present to offer comfort, and even if Pix could stand to be before it…he’s not sure it would be able to do so. Not when his thoughts, and maybe even his very soul, are in turmoil, over the what-ifs and had-nots of the past couple of hours.
He needed some time to…rest, to get his bearings, to start the process of finding out how to undo what he had wrought. Some time away, from everyone, from everything, from the light of the Vigil and the shame its sight now brings to him.
And with these thoughts, Pix turned his gaze, now belonging to a self-exiled wanderer, not the proud Copper King of Pixandria, to the wide, lonely, expanse of the desert.
-
The immediate aftermath of the demise of the End’s Empress, was, quite frankly, amusing to watch. Basking in his newly released powers, the restoration of his powers of chaos and destruction, Xornoth laughed as the rulers of the overworld Empires panicked, and blamed the death of the dragon upon one another.
The hearts and souls of mortals were so malleable, so easily manipulated and turned against one another. In his diminished state, he’d had to resort to petty tricks to strike fear into the ones who fancied themselves overlords of their realms, and sweetened words to bring two of their own to his side. And now that he was free of the seal that had been laid upon him?
The possibilities were, in Xornoth’s eyes, endless.
The seeds of discord and chaos had already been sown long before he had made himself known to the Empires, and this latest failure of the collective Empires to stop his rise had already broken them apart in a myriad of ways that would only further his influence.
And already, he could sense the fractures that had formed. The fear, the anger, the guilt, the despair. His powers could now reach further than just some paltry strikes of lightning, or basic imperviousness to their mortal tools, and though there were some that he knew he could not yet reach, could not yet shape with words and wisps of darkened power, there were others that, in their turmoil, were oh so vulnerable.
He had already toyed with the Wizard of the cliffs and the King of the Grimlands, and knew what desperation and fear to expect from them. He knew that so long as he offered power enough for the Mythland King and the ruler of the Lost Empire, they would not be a threat.
The cod king of the swamp was…well, one would expect easily exploitable weakness from that one, but the man’s stubborn determination made things a little more complicated, at present. The rest of that man’s allies were also similarly uninclined towards true fear, with attachments and resolve that, while inevitably breakable, were presently too strong for him to do much else with. Except…
His thoughts soon came to consider a king. A king who had laughed and dismissed him, who had even thought to be so bold as to use the corruption in his kingdom to his own benefit. Who was no longer within the protection of that sacred Vigil, the magic of his realm that would normally have strengthened his resolve against the spreading corruption. Who had clearly been dealt a great spiritual blow upon his realisation of how his actions had contributed to Xornoth’s rise.
And who was now, most importantly, alone.
The demon cackled, as he drew his form back into the now-familiar mortal shell.
First, he would pay his loyal supplicants a visit, a reward for their loyalty and deeds. And then, he would see just how strong the former King of Copper really was.
#empires smp fic#empires smp#empires smp spoilers#pixlriffs#carminite writes#just. the angst potential of c!pix's self-exile? the sheer storyline Potential that we got from the latest set of episodes?#absolutely immaculate#also bonus potential shenanigans from the demon because why not#the opportunity was there lmao
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νοσταλγία (Chapter 32)
νοσταλγία Masterlist
Pairing: Ivar/Reader
Word Count: 3.7k
Warnings: The usual. Soft Ivar, again, hope you don’t mind
A/N: I have nothing to say lol. Idk how I feel about this chapter, but I hope you like it! And thank you for reading!
Ivar’s fingers move up and down the skin your backless dress leaves exposed, trailing over the invisible lines each night and each morning he barely grazes when he helps with the laces of your dress. You noticed, a few dozen repetitions of that simple caress ago, that Ivar lingers for a few fractions of a breath on the burn scars that peek over the right side of your back.
You’re nestled close to his chest, holding onto the amulet of Thor that hangs from his neck, tracing the small details on the metal Mjolnir. It is as easy as breathing, to lay here and bask and forget there’s a world past this.
It doesn’t surprise you, really, that it is so easy to sink into comfortable familiarity, into easy intimacy. It always was.
You found early on strings that tie you together, that make you move seamlessly against one another, both when his temper rises and yours to meet it, and when his walls crumble and you stop pretending yours ever existed.
“Tell me a secret.” Ivar prompts you, and when you lift your eyes you find him already focused on you.
“A secret?”
“I want to know something about you that no one else does.” He states simply, to which you frown.
“You know many things about me no one else knows.”
“One more, then.”
You look into his eyes, pale blue eyes you know by heart by now, and after swallowing past the knot in your throat, you offer,
“Sometimes…sometimes I wish I never returned to Eleusis. I wish I could have come here with my mother, accepted my Fate, lived another life,” You smile, “I wish I could have found you earlier.”
“Do you believe we would have met?”
This time you don’t resist the urge to lean in, to kiss him and delight yourself in the soft sound Ivar breathes over your lips, in the way his eyes always seem to hesitate to open after you kiss him.
Against his lips, with your eyes firmly set on his, you offer another truth you haven’t dared tell a soul,
“Now or then, it wouldn’t make a difference,” You shake your head softly, pressing your brow against his. The weight of how long it has been, how much has changed, since you first heard these very words from him settles in your chest, right before you whisper them, “I believe the Gods sent you to me.”
There are words you cannot utter at the tip of your tongue, and your foolish heart makes you think you see those same words written in Ivar’s eyes.
But the words that would become chains if uttered remain trapped within you, for Ivar steals your breath and your words with a bruising kiss.
He demands entrance to your mouth, which you freely give, and with a whimper you muffle against his lips, he makes you surrender to his kiss. To the heady feeling of his mouth moving over yours, of his tongue dancing with your own; to the electrifying feeling of his hand at the back of your head, of his fingers tightening over your loose hair.
You once told him if we name things, we make them real. You told him real things are dangerous things.
Real things can be broken, real things can be taken from you.
And you think even then he listened, even then he took your words to heart. Because in the urgency of his kiss you feel the edge of desperation you’ve felt for so long.
The need for more time.
____
Later that night, when your heart has been allowed reprieve and it settles back to a normal pace, you lay in the darkened room on your back, Ivar’s head resting on your chest, his arm solid and warm around you, his breaths making a thrill run down your spine every time they caress the top of your breasts.
You’ve known for a long time you want him, you’ve known for almost as long that Ivar wants you too.
Yet, because of what life and what its cruelty made out of him, because of what he made out of himself by building those walls; he stops himself, he stops you.
There’s no end to your desire to kiss him, to touch him, to draw each and every sound you can from his lips. And it seems Ivar shares the sentiment.
But there’s something to be said about the intimacy that grows when you share your life with someone for months before even daring to give yourself to them, and to your doom or your salvation, Ivar and you are capable of reading each other very well.
And so you notice when the quickened breaths no longer mean desire, but fear, but apprehension, but the desire to step back. And so you notice when his need for breath is not one he can satiate while you press kisses down the column of his throat, but one he needs to fulfill by holding you at bay, by grasping your hands and keeping them from exploring.
And you understand, you truly do. And you do not wish to push him, you do not wish to be yet another experience he will years later still feel the burn of humiliation from. But you do have the feeling it is Ivar’s mind, and his insecurities, and his past; what’s stopping him, and not his body.
Because you may not be the most experienced of women, but you are quite sure you can distinguish a man’s arousal when it presses against you as you straddle him.
Still, you stop when he tells you to, you step back when he needs you to.
And as he steals your breath with hungry and demanding kisses, or with the softest touch of his mouth on yours, you try to ignore the pool of want low on your stomach that burns you from the inside; and as you hear him make a soft sound of pleasure against your lips, or whimpers your name in a shaky breath, you try to stop yourself from making him do it again and again and again.
Because for as many times he makes you stop and step back, he brings you back to him, tugs you closer and claims your mouth, drags hungry lips down your neck, lets curious hands wander and touch and grasp.
And you might lose your mind soon.
Still, much like what life has been for you since Fate took you to Ivar’s side, in between whirlwinds of chaos that steal your breath, there’s times of calm where you can forget there’s a world past him.
“What do you think could have been?” He starts, and you don’t think you’ll ever cease to be marveled at this new softness in his voice, this tranquility born out of feeling safe and…and loved. Gods, you can’t say it, but you hope he knows. “If you had come here instead of Greece.”
You whisper how you don’t know who you’d be if you didn’t have two strings of Fate tugging you each on a different direction, and Ivar gives you the answer as if it were simple.
“I could have been happy.” You reply without hesitation.
Ivar’s answering smile is tired, but strangely bitter.
“You know, one of the last things my father told me was that happiness was nothing.”
You frown, “Do you agree with him?”
“I don’t know,” He confesses, settling better in his place, almost nuzzled against the column of your throat. “I don’t know what…what happiness feels like. If it feels like…this, it is…
His words die, and you stay silent, feeling him take a deep breath. Ivar moves the arm that was a familiar weight over your waist, and extends his hand to grasp for your own, intertwining your fingers. You notice his gaze focused on the contrast of his hand against your own, before he speaks again, voice hushed,
“It is terrifying.”
This is the first time you’ve ever heard him admit to being afraid of something. You dare think it is the first time anyone has heard him admit to the existence of something that can terrify him.
It breaks at something within you that that something is something as simple, something as natural and as vital as happiness.
“It doesn’t have to be.” You whisper hoarsely, and you let your hand caress his hair, his shoulders, his back, wherever you can reach.
Much like earlier tonight, only this time you trace over the muscles of his shoulders not to delight yourself in the way you can make him tense and tremble under your touch, but instead hoping for the release of tension and the return of peace; you press firmly on his skin not so that you reassure yourself of what is yours, but so that he can be reassured you are there.
Ivar only hums in response, but doesn’t answer.
You close your eyes, leaning your cheek against the top of his head, for a few moments of weakness lingering in the world that could have been.
____
The dawn breaks before you’re ready for it to, finds you straddling Ivar’s hips and your hands moving with your words as you tell him of Constantinople and the wonders within it.
“They’d look at us strangely. What a pair, I suppose, the Varangian shieldmaiden and the Attic healer,” You chuckle at your own memories, “We’d speak in your language just to make them fearful.”
“You spoke in a language the Saxons understood and they still feared you.”
“Feared me?”
“Stithulf didn’t surrender you to me out of the kindness of his heart.” Ivar reminds you, bringing a softer smile to your lips.
“What a pair we make, then. The Viking King and the Greek witch.”
Ivar’s lips curve into a smile as well. A little bloodthirsty, but they always are.
And because you can, because in the few breaths that go by with his eyes on yours you find your heart quickening, because in the way his hands trail from your thighs up you know he feels the same; you lean down and capture his lips on yours.
When you pull back, you meet Ivar’s eyes and allow yourself to get lost in his smile. You don’t think in all the time you’ve been here you’ve seen him smile like this. Free, open, vulnerable.
Your hands find support on his chest, but you only have eyes for that smile. Not the Gods themselves could stop you from draping yourself over his body, capturing his mouth and tasting that smile on your tongue, feeling it pressed against your lips, hear it the soft little sound Ivar muffles against your kiss.
You pull back again, because you have to. Your hands on either side of his head, his strong body pliant and trusting underneath yours, his hair wild and mussed by your fingers, his lips still bearing the mark of your kiss, his eyes dark and hungry, his skin bearing the reddish tint of your effect on him.
Your breath stutters past your lips, and Gods, your heart will never settle to a normal pace after this. You aren’t going to be able to return to life as it was before this. Before him.
Whatever it is you are to say is quietened by the knock on the door. You move to get off your husband, but Ivar’s hands are firm on your legs, keeping you astride him.
He cranes his head back, and yells, “What!?”
“Ivar!” You hiss, looking at the door with wide eyes.
He dismisses your concerns with a soft squeeze of his hand on your thigh, “They won’t come in.”
They came in.
“You’re keeping y-…” Hvitserk stops, and his smile turns devious, “Well, good morning.”
“What do you want?” Ivar presses, but still keeps his hands on your legs, keeping you in your place. You could swear they even creep higher, settling on the curve of your ass.
Hvitserk keeps his eyes carefully trained on his brother, “Whitehair told me he isn’t going with you.”
“He isn’t. He and some of his men will stay here.”
In the moment Ivar and Hvitserk’s eyes meet, you have a feeling there’s a silent message relayed that you have no way if deciphering.
You frown down at Ivar, forgetting for a moment you’re supposed to want to move.
“Surely you don’t think I’m planning on leaving Kattegat.”
Ivar works his jaw, but ultimately shakes his head, “No, but there might be a few fools out there planning on making you leave this world.”
“What?”
“He’s right,” Hvitserk quips, and when you frown his way, you find him looking down at the floor, focused on pointedly not looking at you. “You need someone watching your back. They wouldn’t be bold enough to try something while Ivar and the army is here, but…”
“I’m safe here, you’re with me,” You insist, eyes on Hvitserk even if he doesn’t look at you. Looking back at Ivar, you whisper, “I don’t need your guards.”
Ivar turns his eyes to you, and narrows his eyes, “Don’t argue.”
“When has telling me that ever worked?” You ask him, incredulous.
Hvitserk clears his throat, and insists, “We need to know who will go in Whitehair’s stead.”
“You choose them, brother,” Ivar states simply, motioning with his head, “This is your plan, I trust you to know the right men for it.”
It surprises you a bit, and you have no doubt it surprises Hvitserk, but he doesn’t dwell on it, murmuring a few words and taking his leave.
“You can’t seriously intend to keep your best warriors with me, Ivar.” You start as soon as the door closes behind the Prince.
Ivar grits his teeth, and lets his head fall back against the pillows.
“It is done. Now get off me, we have a day to get on with.”
“Don’t dismiss me,” You accuse, affronted. Ivar gives you a look that tells you this is your last opportunity to back down, and you almost want to ask him when that glare actually worked on you. “I will not be-…ah!”
Ivar’s hands tighten on your waist, and he lifts you with ease, throwing you off him and leaving you to land on your side of the bed with a huff.
You look at him with wide eyes, with quickened breaths that have nothing to do with the surprise. You’ve felt under your own hands the strength of his shoulders, of his arms, of his back; ever since you arrived here you’ve let your eyes wander and your thoughts get away from you, but…Gods, it is something else entirely to see his strength in full display, to have him lift you like you weigh nothing, to feel the muscles of his arms and chest working.
“Ivar!” You complain, but he ignores you. He sits up, broad back turned to you, not sparing a second thought to the absolutely impure thoughts that are running through your mind at the display of strength.
Your traitorous eyes follow his arm, his shoulder blades, as he grips the chains dangling over the bed and moves his body out of the bed. As you watch him, you can’t help but despise the shirt he still wears.
You realize, almost affronted, almost offended, that you’ve never seen his bare chest. You wonder if he has ink traces, you wonder…
Gods, you’re hopeless.
Your head falls back against the pillows, and you close your eyes with a shaky sigh.
____
The feast to send off the warriors that will go raid Strepshire starts earlier in the day than previous ones. Once, you would have been naïve enough to believe that meant it would end earlier too.
You stand at his side when he raises his voice, addresses your people about the upcoming battle and what they are to ask the Gods to grant them, both across the sea and once they return, once the bitter winter settles upon Kattegat. You raise your cup alongside his, thank the people before you with a bow of your head and a smile; and take a seat on a throne that has never felt as welcoming.
Eventually, night progresses and you mingle amongst the people you know and those you don’t, and you find yourself in a small moment of seclusion, looking over the feast with a tranquil smile on your lips.
Your husband’s voice draws your attention to where he sits surrounded by his warriors and shieldmaidens, hand on Hviterk’s shoulder as they talk and laugh.
You cannot keep your eyes off him, watching with a smile on your lips as he addresses his men. You truly cannot believe he sometimes doesn’t see the way he inspires them, the way they admire him, the way his words light fires in the hearts of his warriors and his shieldmaidens.
Ivar is finishing strong words to his people when his eyes meet yours across the room. With the word these Norsemen have for a toast on their lips, the people around him honor him with raised cups. He answers their toast with his own, but his eyes remain on yours.
Smile widening in pride and something far more foolish, you raise your own cup, quietly, just for him, and drink as well.
“You’re drooling, witch.” Valdis’ voice startles you, and you turn your eyes away from the King and towards her. She laughs, heavy hand on your shoulder, and you answer only with a roll of your eyes even as a small chuckle leaves your lips.
She holds you to her side and walks you to the women of the apothecary, who greet you with smiles that you return and a few knowing glances that you pretend to ignore.
When the ruckus dies down you once again find your way back to Ivar, sitting by his side with your head on his shoulder and your eyes on the dancing flames a few feet away.
You could close your eyes and surrender to sleep like this, you realize. After almost not sleeping the previous night, the familiar hum of Ivar’s voice as he talks with Hvitserk lulls you into safety.
Still, you stay awake, masking a yawn with a kiss to his shoulder and wondering when it became as easy as breathing to move with him, around him, as if you were tied by the same string. When it became as familiar as the feeling of safety and peace in your chest and yet remained as thrilling and electrifying as running to cross over that stream in Eleusis.
After a while you find yourself thinking once again about what’s to come tomorrow, and all those days after.
Your fingers skim over his forearm silently until Ivar turns his hand around, and lets you intertwine his fingers with your own.
“About your guards…” You start, but the Viking sighs, interrupting you.
“Not this again.”
“I am not the one going to war, Ivar. I don’t need guards.”
He settles better in his seat, turning most of his body towards you and regarding you with stubborn exasperation.
“You’re grown too used to getting your way,” He states, to which you only answer with an incredulous look. Still, he pushes on, “But this isn’t something you’ll make me change my mind on.”
“Have I made you change your mind before?” You taunt with a smirk, stupidly delighted in the way he rolls your eyes at you. After a breath, you lean even closer and insist, “Love, listen to me, I-…”
You realize what you’ve said, and choke on your own words. Your eyes are wide when they meet his, and for a second you dare hope he hasn’t noticed.
But, of course, he has. Ivar stares at you in stunned silence for a few breaths, but he shakes it off before you do.
He leans closer, presses a kiss against the corner of your mouth,
“I’m listening, but I’m not changing my mind…love.” His smile is devious, and mocking, and irresistible, and Gods, you’re going to learn to regret ever giving in, aren’t you?
Forcing your eyes to stop giving in to the allure of his mouth, you return your gaze to him.
“Why is now any different than when you went to defend Dublin?”
“Because I knew I was going to return quickly when we went to Dublin.”
“You won’t spend winter away from Kattegat.” You state, stubborn.
Ivar leans closer again, kisses you before insisting against your lips, “It is smart to consider all possibilities, you know that.”
“You still d-…” Your words are muffled against his lips when he kisses you again, and when he leans back you say, “You can’t shut me up by doing that.”
“I can try.”
He kisses you again, and again, and again, each time more passionately than the last. Ivar’s teeth close teasingly over your bottom lip, and he soothes the sting with a flick of his tongue. It draws from you a soft little sound that is muffled against his mouth, he seals a pleased smile against your lips.
You pull back with quickened breaths and hold the advancing Viking back with a hand on his throat.
Your husband only smiles, eyes dark in a way that makes a thrill run down your spine, and leans closer still, forcing your hand to press tighter against his throat, daring you.
“Behave.” You warn him, only half-serious, the words quiet even if your wide and stupid smile bares every truth.
But there’s a glint in his eye, an openness in his smile, that makes you give in, that makes you use that hand you still have holding onto his throat to cup his jaw and bring his lips to yours.
Because he looks happy.
Because you close your eyes, and you still feel the weight of his body and of his pain against you, you can still hear the almost fragile whisper of I don’t know what…what happiness feels like. If it feels like this…
And you understand what it was that made Lord Hades tear the earth in two.
____ ____ ____
We’ll get back to regular programming soon, they’ll put their feet back on the ground and realize there’s still Christians to kill and choices to make soon; just let me write a soft and happy Ivar for a bit okay?
And a lil bit of a change: I have been uploading every tuesday and every saturday lately, but I’m going to go back to one update a week on saturdays from now on. Extra chapters, alternate PoV’s, that sort of stuff, it will come out on tuesdays, but not every week. I have other stuff to work on (and post) and a new project I might start posting on tuesdays very soon. Hope you don’t mind!
Thank you for reading, I would love to know what you think! Love you all!
Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @heavenly1927 @toe-vind-ek-jou @xbellaxcarolinax @pieces-by-me @angelofthorr @samsationalwilson @peachyboneless @1950schick @punkrocknpearls @ietss @itsmysticalmystery @revolution-starter
#ivar the boneless x reader#ivar x reader#ivar the boneless imagine#ivar the boneless#ivar#νοσταλγία masterlist
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A Shatter in The Dark
Mark Lee X Lee Donghyuck/Haechan, ft. Taeyong | NC-17 | Smut, Fluff, Action, Angst | Zombie Apocalypse AU
Summary: A lethal virus has killed 90% of the world's population and turns 9.8% into zombie-like, cannibalistic mutants who are extremely vulnerable to the ultraviolet rays in sunlight. And yet, Mark Lee's number one problem is trying to stop himself from staring too long at the way Haechan's jeans are hanging dangerously low on his hips.
Warnings: Smut, Major Character Death, Slight Horror and Violence
Also available to read on AO3 here.
It’s strange, Mark thinks, for him to not be able to remember how it all started. Perhaps it’s a way for his mind to release himself from all the traumatic events he has gone through. Perhaps he’s just too scared to even begin to remember the details. Or perhaps he’s just no longer human—not like the way he used to.
“Just keep going,” he mutters to himself—a habit that begins to grow more with each day passing by. It doesn’t necessarily comfort him but it keeps him sane. He needs to hear a human’s voice in his ears, even if that comes from his own mouth.
He has stopped counting days, just like how he’s stopped taking three meals a day. Both for the same reason: to survive longer. His backpack feels heavy on his back and his untrimmed bangs stick uncomfortably to his temple, but he drags his feet along the pavement that’s scorching from the heat of the sun. His throat blazes just as hot, his lips chapped and he needs something to eat.
Back when he was fourteen and his imaginations ran wild from reading too many Stephen King’s horror novels before his bedtime, Mark once imagined how would his town look in a post-apocalyptic universe. He’d visualized the sky with no clouds and thunderbolts striking endlessly. He’d imagined the cracks on the roads with long, tall wild grass growing out of them, as they seek for the sunlight that is now shining bloody red. The air would be toxic, he’d figured, killing everyone who breathes it in without a filter mask and the seas would be dry, making water everyone’s priority and causing civil wars just to get it.
Now that he’s living in a post-apocalyptic world, he notices that it’s nothing like he’d fantasized.
The city of Seoul looks fairly the same, albeit slightly abandoned. Maybe it’s because it’s only been a few months since the outbreak, but the neighbourhood still seems familiar. The plants are unkempt, the bags of dust on the floors are thick in layers, and the pavements are covered with dry leaves. But if Mark closes his eyes for a few seconds, the wind still feels nice on his cheeks, the air still smells like how it does during the end of summer, and he can imagine kids running around down the street. He doesn’t though, because no one around him is alive. He hasn’t met anyone for God knows how long and it’s making him insane.
It’s a fucking ghost town and Mark wishes he could just disappear like everybody else. A few months ago, it was stated that the virus had killed 48% of the world's population. The outbreak had started in Korea as well but his government was trying their best to isolate the island. That was the last news he saw on TV before his mother took the remote control with a quivering hand and turned it off. She turned to her son, eyes trembling in fear, and said, “Let’s pray together. Our Lord will protect us if we pray.”
But Lord’s protection only lasted for two days before his usually calm neighbourhood began to turn into an uproar. The virus had infected one of them and it traveled fast.
Those who had weak bodies, Mark noticed, died within seconds and he witnessed with his own eyes how his father, who had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer just a few weeks before, began to bleed from his mouth, nose and ears. It happened so fast, as if something invisible was choking the life out of him and he exploded from the inside. He could remember how his father was reaching out to him, his son’s name on his tongue and Mark stood there in horror, watching his loved one silently screaming in pain with bloody tears running down his eyes before he fell down his chair, smashing his face against the cold floor and gushing out more blood that seemed darker than the night.
Mark didn’t scream even though his mind was so loud; it felt like his brain was going to burst. He thought the virus was infecting him too and it probably was, but as he kept his eyes shut tightly, heart slamming against his ribcage as he counted to ten, he noticed he was fine. He counted again to one minute, then two, then five and he was still the same.
He was… immune. Or at least so he thought.
That was when he began to cry. And when he thought he would stop crying, he cried even harder with his hand pressed against his chest and his mouth desperately gasping for air. He glanced at the way his father’s lifeless body began to rot as if his corpse had been there for days and felt his stomach hurl.
Mark scrambled to his feet, ran upstairs to reach the room at the end of the corridor, praying frantically for his mother to be alive. And when he found her body lying on the bed, he wasn’t sure whether she was. Her body was still warm, her chest was still heaving up and down with the slow breaths she was taking, but no matter how much he tried to shake her awake, she wouldn’t budge. No matter how much he screamed her name, she wouldn’t reply. And no matter how much he cried, she wouldn’t hug him to soothe down his pain.
Hours passed by with Mark sitting at the edge of the bed, staring at his mother with lifeless eyes, and he realized that his surrounding was quiet. Eerily so. Even the dogs no longer barked. He took a look out of the window and shuddered at the sight. Most of the people he knew from when he was still a child, were lying on the streets with bloody faces, mirroring the way his father was on his kitchen’s floor. With shivering hands, he tried to call the police with his cellphone but he couldn’t get connected. The signal was down, both the tv and his radio no longer worked and it just really hit him that the world was ending.
It took him another hour to process everything, but only a minute for him to finally get up to his feet and walk downstairs. He had a shovel in his hand, and dried tears lining his cheeks.
He began to dig.
***
“Sorry for barging in,” Mark calls, but not hoping for an answer, after he kicked the front door open. The wooden floor creaks under his step, and it rings loudly in this empty neighbourhood that he’s not familiar with. But at this point, anywhere looks the same.
He knows he’s not the only person living in the world. If he’s immune to the virus, then there must be someone else—maybe even a colony—who survive as well. He just needs to find them. He always hopes that he gets to meet someone as he wanders from one house to another, but months have passed and he hasn’t seen a single soul except those who lurk in the night. Those with cloudy white eyes and rotten skin, snarling at the thought of consuming human’s flesh. Those he sees a lot, and he’s been trying his best to avoid them at all cost.
These creatures that wander after the sunsets are something that fourteen-year-old Mark would most likely call zombies. They used to be the monsters of his worst nightmares but after witnessing them with his own eyes, even standing up against one of them once in the battle of his life, Mark noticed that they were not as terrible as he’d guessed. Though they look human, they no longer have the sense of smell as they used to and they simply move based on instincts, triggered by the movements of their prey. But they’re freakishly strong and fast, and even though Mark’s pretty capable of handling his own fight during high school, these creatures can easily break his arm and leg at the same time before Mark can even begin. So he survives by keeping a safe distance, shooting them in the heads or right in their hearts—because those two are their only weaknesses—before they even notice him being there and just does his best to hide during night time.
Mark breathes in and curls his fingers tightly around his handgun. It’s really a blessing, he supposes, that he managed to find a handgun with enough amount of bullets in the drawer of his neighbour’s house. And he really does thank the Lord for giving him the chance to learn how to hunt birds back when he was young with his father during summer. He may lack physical strength, but he’s fast on his feet and good with his eyes. Combined with luck, it’s the very reason he’s survived all these months by himself.
Mark avoids dark places where the sunlight can’t reach at all cost, so he usually doesn’t barge into a house with wooden boards covering its windows and doors like this but he’s starving and this was the closest place available that he could get on foot. Maybe someone used to live here, hiding from them by making a temporary fortress of their own house.
He tries calling again, hoping that someone is still alive but he huffs in disappointment when nobody answers. “Better luck next time, Mark.”
He carefully looks around, making sure he’s safe and alone in the house as he steps toward the kitchen. When he’s certain that everything is under control, he places his gun on the kitchen’s counter and begins to check the drawers, taking every canned food and water bottle he can find into his backpack. He’s so happy to finally find something he’s been dying to drink—a canned watermelon juice—when an arm suddenly circles around his neck and a tip of a spear point knife pressed against his throat.
“Don’t move.”
It takes a few seconds for Mark’s brain to process that it’s a human voice and it’s already sending a relieved, almost joyful feeling all over his body before it finally sinks that this human is now about to slice his throat open with his knife.
“Don’t you think it’s impolite to barge into someone’s house and steal their food?” The human—a man with a voice sounding young enough to be around his age or perhaps younger—asks with a poisonous tone laced on his tongue. “Step away from the counter.”
But despite his snarky tone, Mark can tell he’s nervous from the way he breathes rather raggedly behind him. Mark has learned some basic hand-to-hand combat techniques during his scouting days and he figures he knows how to struggle himself free. He’s just lacking some practices, that’s all.
Well, there’s always a first for everything.
Elbowing the other man hard on the stomach, Mark dips his head down, freeing himself from the other man’s hold and lurches forward to snatch back his gun. Mark already has his gun in his hand but the man steps faster before he can point it to his face. He knees Mark on his stomach, pushing the air out of his lungs and shoves him down to the floor, face first. He punches the gun out of his hand, turns Mark’s body around and straddles him by the waist. Grabbing him by the collar of his black shirt, he lifts Mark’s head high enough in the air so they’re face-to-face.
“Do you want to die, you little shit?!” He screams, knife pressing hard against Mark’s throat that it begins to draw blood. Mark winces from the pain but he takes a moment to see the other man’s face.
He’s young, probably is younger than he is, with a mop of messy ash grey with new brown strands growing at the roots. He has his bangs falling over his big, round chocolate dark eyes. His skin is sun-kissed, and though he sprouts expletives from his mouth, his voice is thin and a bit high-pitched. His features are a bit soft compared to his attitude, and it’s the way he stares at him that stops Mark from moving.
This young man looks terrified beyond belief.
“I’m sorry,” Mark says, and he genuinely does feel so. “I wasn’t aware that someone was in the house.”
“I think I made that clear before when I told you to not fucking move.”
“You’re right. I guess my instincts just kicked in. Wouldn’t you have done the same thing, though?”
He opens his mouth to retort but loses his words, and Mark smiles a little at him, earning a low growl and another shout from the other man. “Don’t you get all smart with me. Come here!”
Mark is being dragged down across the room by the back of his shirt, until the man finds himself a rope and ties Mark’s hands together behind his back. He pushes Mark down to the floor, tucks his knife safely to the back of his jeans and stares down at him with cautious eyes.
“Who are you?”
“Mark Lee.”
“You’re weak and skinny as fuck. How are you still alive?”
“I don’t know. Lucky, I guess?”
“Lucky—“ He seems shocked at the nonchalant shrug Mark is showing him. “You’ve never met any of them, have you?”
“You mean other people?”
“You know what I mean.”
Of course Mark knows what he’s referring to. He just doesn’t want to talk about it. “I don’t go out at night,” he says, slightly shivering at the thought of doing so.
“No shit, Sherlock,” He mocks, squatting in front of him so they’re eye-to-eye. “Now if I haven’t made it clear before, this house is too small for both of us. I suggest you leave.”
That’s a generous offer considering Mark did barge in without permission to steal his things, but it’s been so long for Mark to finally see another human—one that does not bleed from their face or tries to eat him alive inch by inch—so he stays still and just gazes at him.
“What are you looking at, you little shit?”
“Are you alone?”
“Maybe.”
“Do you want to come together with me?” Mark asks, and before the other man looks disgusted with his generous offer, he adds, “Judging by the food you have left, you can only stay here for three days at most.”
“Longer than if I come with you, I’m sure.”
“Fair enough,” Mark chuckles and he’s surprised by his own voice. “But you never know, though. We’re stronger in numbers.”
“We’ll be targeted more in numbers.”
“I know how to hide,” Mark assures, and it sounds like a promise, which again, kind of surprises him. “I can keep you safe.”
“I literally just whooped your ass.”
“But I’ve survived this far. Trust me. It’s better if we stick together.”
It’s perhaps the certain, confident look in Mark’s eyes that makes the other man contemplates in silence, or maybe just something else entirely because he asks, “What kind of shit have you been through?”
Mark blinks. “Just like everybody else, I suppose.”
Mark can tell that he doesn’t agree with what he says, nor does he trust him, but Mark smiles again at him and asks, “Can you tell me your name? Or should I start calling you ‘little shit’ as well?”
“You’re not very cute, are you?” The man sighs, running a hand through his hair. It looks kind of fluffy, Mark notices, like a furry dog’s coat, as if he washes his hair regularly. And maybe he does, judging by the honey-like scent that comes from him. That’s probably why he lost the battle. He was distracted. “Just call me Haechan.”
“That’s your real name?”
“That’s just how they call me.” He glooms a bit. “Used to, anyway.”
“Well, you can call me Mark.”
“Nah, I’m just gonna keep calling you ‘little shit’.”
“You’re not very cute, are you?” Mark throws back his words at him.
“I’ll grow on you,” he replies, smirking at him and Mark feels dazed for a second—maybe because he got his head slammed against the floor earlier. Maybe.
“All right, Haechannie. Can I call you that?” Haechan grimaces but Mark continues nonetheless. “Haechannie, if it’s okay with you, I’m starving.”
Haechan stands up, looking at him with a bewildered look on his face. “You’re fucking unbelievable.”
***
It’s funny how different it is to make friends during the time when everything is okay compared to when it’s at the end of the world but Mark is enjoying Haechan’s company more than he thought he would. It’s true that he’s not the easiest person to be friends with but when you haven’t met someone alive for months, you’d take anyone you could get—even if that person is a devil in disguise who practically spits fire every time he talks.
Haechan, Mark learns after spending an entire week with him, is the type of person who says mean things but doesn’t really mean it. Who laughs when he’s hurting inside. Who bites back with venom when someone insults him in the slightest way. But also, who sees and cares deeply for others even when he, himself, is needing help.
Mark can tell with the way Haechan secretly throws a blanket over him whenever Mark falls deep asleep on the couch. Or with the way he casually glides a warm cup of coffee down the table for Mark to catch every morning. Or simply by saying, “Watch your steps,” or “Be careful, you idiot,” whenever Mark goes out of the house to find some food and supplies during the day.
After three more days have passed, Mark insists for both of them to move out and Haechan finally agrees, saying, “I hate this house anyway,” even though his eyes do a double-take before he closes the front door.
“Is this your house?” Mark finally asks and he feels sorry for dragging him along like this but it’s for the sake of their safety.
Haechan, to Mark’s surprise, shakes his head and only mumbles, “Just had some memory with it.”
Mark slings an arm around his shoulders. “Then let’s just make another one. A much more fun one.”
Haechan smiles, but it’s bitter.
***
“I can’t believe you’ve never even tried to drive a car,” Haechan says, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple as he tries to hotwire a car. His black sleeveless shirt is sticking to his skin, and his plump cheeks are painted with tints of red from the heat. Mark has to remind himself to look away before he stares too long at how the muscles on his upper arm flex whenever he hammers a flathead screwdriver into a keyhole.
They had to choose between an Audi and a Wrangler, and Mark loved the Audi and Haechan probably did too but he always picked the opposite of Mark’s choice to spite him so they ended up with an eight-year-old Wrangler with a lot of scratches on the side.
“Well, I love walking.”
“What a load of bullshit, Mark.”
“What—it’s true! And also, it’s expensive, okay? I don’t steal expensive things. It makes me feel guilty.” Mark tries to add some common sense which makes Haechan roll his eyes in return. “Besides, I don’t have a driving license yet.”
“Neither do I, wimp, but I still drive.” He chucks out his screwdriver with a proud smirk on his face. The car’s engine is running loud—too loud for Mark’s liking but as long as it’s daylight, they should be fine.
“Driving without a license is irresponsible.” Mark puts his seatbelt on as he sits next to him on the front seat with his backpack tucked between his legs. “And dangerous.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, you’re right, I better stop before I get arrested by the nonexistent police officers around here.”
Mark sighs. There’s no winning an argument against this kid. They bicker more often than not, and just when they reach the end of their bickering, they will bicker again over a new topic and it really just goes endlessly but Mark is enjoying every second of it.
Haechan drives like a mad man to the point that Mark has to close his eyes and swallow the vomit that’s about to erupt from his mouth. “Jesus Christ, Haechan-ah, shouldn’t you slow down a bit?!”
“Why, because there’s traffic ahead?” Haechan snickers, turning the car window next to him all the way down and smiling as the wind ruffles his hair. “Loosen up a little, Canada, you need to live and enjoy the moment.”
Mark wheezes and almost faints when Haechan suddenly makes a u-turn just for fun before he steps on the gas again, blasting through the empty road. They’re now crossing the Seongsu Bridge, which overlooks the infamous Han River and weirdly enough, the entire place is empty—not even one car in sight—and Mark remembers how the government tried to isolate the country and lock people in their own houses to contain the outbreak. That’s probably why.
“I am trying to live,” Mark says as he clutches his seatbelt tightly with both hands. “Which is the more reason why you should be care—BRAKES, HIT THE BRAKES!”
And Haechan does, almost at the last moment before their jeep jumps into the river. The rest of the bridge has collapsed and Haechan was too busy looking at how clear and big the river was to notice the part where they’re about to fall off the edge.
Well, fuck, Mark thinks, so this is why there are no cars around.
Mark looks at Haechan with the most menacing, sadistic glare he’s ever made in his life. The younger man, in return, only grins mischievously and says, “Oops?”
They begin their search for a place to stay with Mark sitting behind the wheel this time. Haechan constantly whines and whines and whines about his driving not because he’s bad at it—he’s actually pretty good though Haechan won’t admit—but because he’s too fucking slow.
“Who the fuck drives twenty miles-per-hour on an empty street?!”
“People who nearly died from driving too fast, that’s who.”
“I hate you.”
“I’ll grow on you.”
They take a stop at the gas station to fill up the tank and Haechan steals three bags of Cheetos, four bottles of beer for himself and one bottle of mineral water for Mark because you’re the designated driver and Mark punches him on the shoulder.
***
“This house is nice.” Haechan settles down on the leather-clad sofa, throwing his bag on the floor and propping his legs on the table. “I think we should just stay here and never move out. Ever.”
It is a nice house. It’s not particularly huge, and it doesn’t have a second floor or a balcony which is completely fine. It’s safer that way, and it also has a basement with a comfy couch, a pile of board games, and a wine cellar. They can really use that to hide during critical moments, but he better checks it thoroughly first because again, those… things really enjoy dark places.
“We’ll see about that,” Mark responses, exhaling in relief when he’s sure that the place is safe. No zombies in sight. No trace of blood or human flesh. Just a nice, warm house with ultra-wide flat-screen TV and the latest version of PlayStation. Yeah, they probably should just stay here forever.
“Haechannie,” Mark starts but finishes early when he sees the young man sleeping with his puffy lips slightly parted. Mark smiles, he must’ve been so tired. They have been wandering for hours after all, trying to look for the best place to stay. But the sun is setting, and they have to cover all the windows and the doors to make sure that the zombies won’t be able to hear their voices or see their movements during the night.
“Haechannie,” Mark says, softer this time as he leans closer. “Haechan-ah, wake up. We still have work to do.”
There’s this sound that Haechan makes, somewhere between a soft moan and a sultry whine, that makes Mark feel a bit weird but he pushes the thoughts to the back of his head when Haechan slowly opens his eyes.
“Ugh,” he says, yawning, “You again.”
And Mark chuckles a bit. “Sorry, were you expecting someone else?” It was supposed to be a joke, but Haechan freezes at his words. “Haechannie?”
“What?” He asks, trying to act as normal as possible but Mark catches on. “Stop calling my name like that, it’s gross.” He stands up before Mark can blurt anything else and immediately says, “Come on, start working. I wanna sleep early.”
They sleep in different rooms like always, only this time, Mark spends his night staring at the ceiling and wonders whether he said something wrong earlier. But no matter how much he visited his memory and replayed the conversation, he still couldn’t find his fault. He remembered the hurting look Haechan had on his face, though, and it bothered him so much that he began to lose sleep.
The next morning, Mark feels even worse not solely because he didn’t catch much rest but because Haechan looks like he’s been crying himself to sleep.
“Are you okay?” Mark asks, staring at the other man’s face as if Haechan is about to turn into a zombie.
“Are you okay?” Haechan is clearly trying to distract Mark away from him. “You look like you haven’t slept for years.”
“I was…” Mark fumbles with his words. “Distracted, I guess.”
“With what?”
He doesn’t answer and Haechan spends a few seconds analyzing him before he finally sighs and grumbles, “I guess we both have secrets. I’m gonna make some pancakes. Want some?”
Mark lightly nods though his heart still lays heavy in his chest. But if there are things he can’t tell, then maybe Haechan does too. Maybe all they need is time.
But time is limited in this world, even more so than before.
***
“Have you taken a shower yet?” Haechan asks with a towel hanging around his neck. His hair is damp and he sniffles with his nose slightly red from the cold. “No, wait, let me rephrase that. Have you ever taken a shower?”
Mark begins to count the little holes on the wooden floor underneath his feet to avoid looking at the way Haechan’s jeans are hanging dangerously low on his hips, or the droplets of water that drips from his chin to his bare chest.
“Get dressed, Haechan-ah, aren’t you cold?”
“No, the heater is on.” But he still sniffs as he picks up his hoodie. “Look, I know I’ve been calling you little shit but that doesn’t give you the authority to actually smell like one.”
“Huh,” Mark takes a hold of his shirt, sniffing against the fabric. “Wow, I do kind of smell.”
“Kind of? I’m shocked that these zombies haven’t found us already from how god awful you smell.”
“Don’t call them zombies, you’re being rude.”
“What the fuck do you call them?”
“Sick people?”
“Jesus Christ, I literally can’t with you.” He sits down next to him on the other side of the couch, pressing his back against the furniture and stares at the ceiling. “What are we having for breakfast today?”
“Canned food.”
“Dinner?”
“Canned food.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Wait, I think we can eat…” Mark doesn’t finish right away, making sure that Haechan has a hopeful look blossoming on his face. When he does, he finishes with, “Canned food.”
“Aaaaaah~” He whines in the way Haechan always whines which sounds kind of childish but endearing to Mark’s ears. “I’m so tired of having fucking canned foods every day!”
“Be grateful that we have food.”
“I’d be more grateful if we have real food. Can’t you make yourself useful for once and cook something?”
“We don’t really have the ingredients.”
“Then I guess, we’re going shopping.” Haechan huffs before he glances at the slightly taller man. “After you take a goddamn shower.”
Mark can no longer remember when was the last time he took a shower—and a nice, warm one at that—so he almost weeps in joy when the warm droplets rain down on him, washing all the dust and fatigue away from his body. He stands still, enjoying the warmth before he reaches out for some soap and lathers it down his skin. He notices he has some bruises along his arm from where he tripped down the stairs yesterday, trying to help Haechan carry a medium-sized cupboard to cover the front door. I can’t believe you couldn’t even keep yourself up even when I’m practically handling all the weight, Haechan scolded him with both hands on his hips and it makes him smile at the thought.
But the bruises remind him of the pain he felt and pain reminds him of his mother. Of the way she suddenly jolted her eyes awake after five days had passed. Of the way she bared her teeth, lurched herself toward him, and tried to bury her fangs and peel the skin off his body. Of the way he shook in horror, screaming in pain and the way he begged her to stop.
And of the way he sank the kitchen’s knife to her chest and kept it that way until she stopped moving.
“What took you so long?” Haechan asks when Mark finally steps outside the bathroom after half an hour has passed. He observes the look on his face before he adds, “How can you look even shittier after taking a shower? Your eyes are swollen.”
Mark rubs a hand over his face. “Yeah, I kinda cried while in there.”
“Because the shower was so good?”
“Sure.”
And Haechan doesn’t contribute any further, perhaps because of the way Mark looks like it’s something private they should both leave out of the conversation. Or maybe Haechan simply doesn’t care, Mark can’t be sure.
Mark doesn’t recognize the neighbourhood they’re in, so he lets Haechan leads the way to the nearest supermarket. The morning sun is warm on his skin, the leaves on the trees are turning orange and Mark can finally smell autumn after so long. He has grown tired of summer. It’s about damn time.
“Oh, I actually know this place,” Mark mentions, as they park their car a few feet away from the building.
“Congratulations, you just won at life,” Haechan utters flatly, taking three sheathed knives from his backpack and places them around the belt of his jeans.
“Must you be so rude all the time?”
“Just messing with you, Canada. Chill.”
“Why don’t you take any guns with you?”
“Because guns run out of bullets pretty fast. And these,” he stops with a smirk on his face, twirling a pocket knife around his fingers, “don’t.”
“Can you teach me sometimes how to use that?”
“And what do you have to offer, may I ask?”
Mark contemplates in silence. He really doesn’t have anything that might interest him, so he decides to joke about it. “My body?”
To his surprise, Haechan’s eyes grow wide and he doesn’t speak a word and it’s so weird because it’s supposed to be a fucking joke.
“I… I was just—” Mark splutters, blushing at his own antic. “I was just kidding.”
“It’s not funny, Mark.”
“Sorry.”
And Haechan lets out the loudest sigh ever before he steps down the car, leaving Mark inside looking like a goddamn idiot that he is.
“Okay, so,” Haechan straightens his posture, standing in front of the entrance door with his machete lays firmly on his hand. “Do we need a plan?”
“I still think this is a bad idea.”
“Oh, come on, Mark,” Haechan whines. “Yes, I know we can barely get any sunlight inside the store but we’re not going to take long. We’ll just grab some things and run back here. Even if there are zombies in there, they’ll be burnt to a crisp the second we’re outside.”
“But—”
“Marrrrkkkkkk.”
“Okay, okay, fine!” Mark pushes his hair back with one hand in defeat. “I’ll go first,” he says, cocking his handgun. “You watch my back.”
“Why do you have to go first?”
“Because I’m older.”
“But you’re shittier than me.”
“With a gun on my hand? Not as shitty as you’d think.” Mark smirks, and he thinks he sounds cool but by the way Haechan is staring at him, he realizes he’s not. A flashback of Haechan completely overpowering him even when he had his gun came back to his mind and he winces at the thought. “Okay, so, you wanna go first?”
Haechan sighs, taking a step forward. Mark trails after him soon after.
Mark remembers this place, knows every aisle like the back of his hand from how often he accompanied his mother to stock up their groceries every weekend. It doesn’t look like what he’d committed in his memory in the slightest, though. The lights are still on, but they’re flickering here and there and ceramic tiles are mostly covered with liquid stuff coming from bleachers, oils or something Mark can no longer tell. Most of the shelves are empty and a lot of goods are thrown all over the place, but fortunately, they’re not ruined.
Mark analyzes the place as best as he can with Haechan leading the way, doing the same. Everything seems fine and he can see Haechan’s shoulders relaxed a bit after a while. Swirling his knife around his fingers, he says, “I guess we’re alone.”
Mark nods. “All right,” he puts his gun on safety. “Let’s shop.”
Haechan says he wanted to eat some pasta for a change, and Mark follows with a hum. Anything other than canned foods sounds good these days. They stroll around the aisle, taking the necessary ingredients into their bags along with some toiletries and an abundance amount of water bottles.
Mark notices some board games when Haechan is busy flipping through pages of a Playboy magazine and he takes one that suits Haechan’s taste so they can spend more time together.
Mark freezes at the thought. Since when did he begin to want to spend time together with this pain in the ass?
“Yo, little shit,” Haechan calls, and Mark sighs. “Come here for a sec.”
Mark sneaks a glance over Haechan’s shoulders and feels his heart stops for a split second. “That’s—”
“Blood,” Haechan finishes, exchanging glances at him. “We’re not alone.”
Mark is still processing it down when a loud noise suddenly comes from two aisles behind them. With his heart jumping to his throat, Mark keeps his hands steady and points his gun forward. Haechan looms behind him, taking a long knife from the back of his shirt in another hand and stands alert.
“If it’s more than one, we run.”
“Don’t order me around, you little shit.”
But at this point, Mark knows how much Haechan depends on him and will follow his order in a heartbeat, which is kinda cute and reassuring, Mark thinks, as he swallows his breath. He’s prepared for the worst but what comes along is—
“It’s a dog!” Haechan claims, tucking both of his knives back around his belt and squats down on the floor next to Mark. “Come here, boy!”
It’s a Yellow Spitz, Mark notices, or a Nureongi people used to call. It has a short coat with patches of yellow and a melanistic mask on its face. By the sound of Haechan’s call, the dog comes running toward him with its mouth opened wide and its tongue lolling down.
“Ouch!” Haechan is laughing, enjoying the forceful tackle from the excited dog, and rubbing his hands along the fur. “Who’s a good boy?” He asks, rubbing the tip of his nose to the dog’s. “Yes, you are, you are a good boy—wait, no—“ Haechan grimaces when the dog licks his entire face, saliva blabbering over his skin but he laughs it off.
Mark stands on the side with a smile he secretly keeps to himself. He has never seen Haechan looking so young and open, like a child on his first trip, and it amuses him. “I didn’t know you could look like this,” he comments. “You should smile more often. It’s cute.”
Mark’s a bit taken by the look that fleets across Haechan’s face for a split second, and he swears that he just saw him blush but it’s too short to be sure about it.
“Maybe if you grow some fur, I will,” Haechan merely comments before he sticks his tongue out at him.
Mark only playfully rolls his eyes in response.
“Can we keep him?” Haechan’s asks as he cups the dog’s face and nuzzles their noses together. “You are so cute!”
“No. What happens if he barks?”
“But he doesn’t bark.” The dog suddenly barks two times and Haechan immediately wraps his fingers along its jaw to keep its mouth shut. “Or I can just do this whenever he does.” The dog growls, trying to wiggle itself away from Haechan’s grip. It suddenly looks nervous, almost terrified.
“Haechan,” Mark insists, “He’ll only attract attention. You know we can’t—”
“MARK, WATCH OUT—”
It happens so fast that by the time he realizes what’s happening, Mark is already on the ground, his back pressed against the ceramic floor with a zombie on top of him, baring his teeth and clawing at his skin. It’s in the form of a middle-aged man, in a cashier uniform with cloudy white eyes and dark veins covering his skin.
Luckily, Mark already has his hands in front of him, pushing that thing as far away as he could manage but it’s too strong. The zombie roars, spraying saliva mixed with blood onto his face and Mark immediately throws his head to the side. “Fuck!” He hisses, kicking it several times with his knee but it won’t budge, until suddenly a knife makes it way to its head, pushing through its brain and ending its life for good.
Haechan stares at Mark with horrified eyes, before he kneels down in front of him and immediately checks his face.
“Did you get his blood in your mouth?!” He asks frantically, worried to death by the look of it, almost like it was him who just got sprayed with zombie’s blood.
“I don’t think I did,” Mark says, still feeling quite dizzy.
“Spit it out!” Haechan shakes him desperately by the shoulders. “Spit everything out! Now!”
Mark doesn’t understand why he’s so afraid—because aren’t they both supposed to be immune to the virus?—but spits out a few times just in case. He rubs the back of his hand against his mouth before he turns toward the other man. “Thanks for saving me.”
And Mark thought that Haechan was going to sigh loudly at him and call him an idiot little shit for a few times on their way home, but what he does is lean forward and wrap his arms tightly around Mark’s shoulders.
“I thought I lost you,” he murmurs almost in a whisper, before he pulls back, clears his throat and adds, “You little shit. You’re lucky you have me saving your ass.”
Well, Mark supposes, he’s partially right about his thought. “I am.”
Haechan blushes again, but he doesn’t let Mark see.
“Come on, we should get under the sun,” Haechan says, offering a hand which Mark gladly takes. “If there are more of them, we should be safe as long we’re outside.”
“Still want to take that dog with you?”
“Shut up, little shit.”
***
“Come on, you have to pick truth,” Mark says, with a guitar on his lap, playing random chord that matches Haechan’s hums. It’s still two hours away before the sun sets and they have been spending the entire day just lounging around watching old movies and playing stupid board games. “It’s called Truth or Dare for a reason, Haechannie, and I’m already out of ideas of what kind of dare you should do because apparently, you have no fear—or shame for that matter—when it comes to it.”
“You’re just not creative enough,” Haechan says, smirking to himself because he’s undefeated when it comes to taking a dare. Whenever Mark tries to humiliate him, it ends up with Haechan humiliating him instead. “Okay, fine, truth it is. Give it to me, you little shit.”
“You do realize that I’m your hyung, right?”
“Well, then, give it to me, Little Shit-hyung.” Haechan snickers and Mark throws his shoe at him.
“When’s your birthday?” Mark asks, munching a chocolate cookie.
“That’s your question?” Haechan exclaims. “Shit, Mark, I know you’re boring but I never thought you’d be this boring.”
“I just want to know you better!” Mark laughs when Haechan starts throwing Cheetos at him. “What is so wrong with that? You know you’d never tell me these things if I didn’t force you to do it.”
“Fine, geez,” Haechan succumbs, “Sixth of June.”
“Wait, let me put that in real quick.” Mark takes out his cellphone from the pocket of his jeans. It can no longer make calls or surf the internet, but it can come in handy to keep himself on track with dates and times. “Sixth of June,” he mutters to himself as he taps his thumb on his phone screen.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m adding your birthday to my calendar.”
“Yes, I know, Mark.” Haechan rolls his eyes impatiently. “I mean, why?”
“Why?” Mark laughs a bit, looking at him bewilderedly. “‘Cause we’re friends, you idiot.”
“We are?” Haechan dramatically gasps, which earns him a kick on the knee and he whines loudly about it.
“I just think we should celebrate it together,” Mark continues without a care. “Well, starting next year anyway, since we’ve both passed our birthdays by now. One sec.” He holds up a finger, running his thumb on his screen again. “Sixth of June. Little Shit’s birthday. And save.”
Haechan glares but doesn’t make any remark on it. “What’s there to celebrate about?” He questions flatly. “The world is ending, if you haven’t noticed.”
“And that’s your reason to not celebrate birthdays?” Mark snorts. “I know you’re boring but I never thought you’d be this boring.”
“I am going to strangle you.”
Mark kicks him playfully on the knee again and they begin to wrestle until they become hungry. After quickly heating up some leftovers from the night before, they head toward their bedrooms.
“Stay quiet, little shit,” Haechan says, as he leans against his doorframe. “And if you’re gonna jack off—“
Mark throws a pillow on his face. “Just go to bed!”
“Okay, okay,” Haechan chuckles. “See you soon, Mark.”
“See you soon, Haechannie.”
Before Mark knows it, those words they say to each other become some kind of habit that they do every night. And the more they say them, the more they become like a promise for one another. It’s something that Mark needs, he realizes, because now he has someone to look forward to see in the morning. Someone with smiles as warm as the sun. And Mark can forget, at least for now, the fact that he’d lost everything and try to stay alive for another day.
***
Autumn is about to end and the weather is terrible for Mark during the night, as he can barely stand cold. He can turn on the heater, of course, but it will probably make too much noise so both he and Haechan agree to just slip under the duvet, and wrap as many blankets as they can find around their bodies.
Mark jolts awake when he hears his bedroom door being opened with a soft creak. His ears are now trained to keep himself alert at night, even with the slightest sound. He has one leg down the bed, ready to do whatever it takes to survive if a zombie comes barging in. His handgun lays safely under his pillow and it will only take a second for him to grab it. He had tampered his window with wood boards on the first day they’d settled here, but the moonlight still somehow sneaks in between the tiny spaces, giving very little light into the room but it’s enough for Mark to notice that it’s only Haechan, standing with his pillow pressed against his chest, a blanket around his body, and a pale look on his face.
What happened? Mark asks, moving his hands and fingers in a sign language they have both learned to survive. Is something wrong?
I can’t sleep. Haechan says, and Mark can’t really tell within the darkness of the room whether it’s a blush appearing on his cheeks or it’s just the moonlight playing tricks on him. Can I stay here with you?
Mark nods, and Haechan walks close, settling himself down on the carpeted floor next to the bed. Mark taps his shoulder and when Haechan looks over, he nudges his head toward the bed.
Come up. It’s cold.
Haechan nibbles on his bottom lip, hesitation in his eyes, but he finally stands up and wiggles himself under the blanket. Mark scoots over to give him as much space as he can, and they both end up staring at the ceiling, awkwardness and silence filling the air.
It seems like a minute has passed by but it feels like forever and Mark is about to throw up from how fast his heart is beating and he’s asking himself why the fuck am I feeling like this when Haechan suddenly turns over to his side and whispers his name.
Mark can feel his own body stiffen but he tries his best to relax. He turns to his side as well, facing him. “Hmm?”
“Can I move closer?” He asks and Mark’s stomach does a flip. “So I can hear you better, I mean.”
“S-sure.”
And Haechan moves close—close enough for Mark to breath in his scent, to know that he uses the same shampoo as he does even though there are three different kinds of bottles in the bathroom, and it somehow smells way better on him and Mark doesn’t know what to do with it but it distracts him so much.
“You okay?” Haechan’s voice is soft and lacks the usual snarky tone he usually laces his sentence with. Mark nods, a bit shakily and the younger man giggles quietly. “I know it’s uncomfortable sharing a bed with another dude but bear with me this time, will ya?”
“It’s…” Somehow, Mark’s throat feels like burning. “It’s not uncomfortable.”
Something gleams in Haechan’s eyes and Mark has to look somewhere else so he doesn’t fall deeper into that pair of chocolate brown eyes more than he already does.
“So, uhh,” Mark clears his throat. It’s weird that even when he’s whispering, his voice still breaks from how nervous he is. “Is there a particular reason why you can’t sleep?”
“Why so formal, Mark Lee.” Haechan snorts. “Must there be a particular reason for us to sleep together?”
Mark almost chokes at Haechan’s poor choice of words. Almost.
“How many hours left till dawn?”
“Umm,” Mark checks his phone, making sure he covers the light with his pillow. “It’s actually around two hours from now.”
“Well then, you’ve slept enough,” Haechan says, propping his chin on the pillow as he stares at him. “Accompany me till morning?”
“Sure, why not.”
And so he does, exchanging whispers in the dark and changing topics from one nonsense to another. Talking with Haechan is relaxing, Mark notices, though more often than not, it ends with an argument but he enjoys arguing with him. It feels like he’s learning more about him, more about the real Haechan—the one who is acting almost as young as a child—and not whatever it is he’s trying his best to be. And Mark is always happy to learn something new because he’s been studying Haechan’s figure over and over for the last few days and it’s tiring to be distracted by the shape of his pretty lips, or the cute tiny mole he has on his neck, or the sway of his hips when he walks.
“Are you sleepy?” Haechan asks after silence starts to grow within them and Mark curses inwardly. How the hell can I sleep when I’m so distracted with the way I can feel your breath on my neck is what he has in mind but on the outside, he just gives a nonchalant shrug and says, “Not really.”
“Good then.” Mark swears he can feel Haechan’s smile in his words and he can also feel the way he snuggles a tad closer, seeking his warmth. “Hey, Mark?” Mark hums in response. “How come you’re alone? I mean, someone as nice and frail as you can only live so long in a world like this without company.”
“I’m not sure whether you want to compliment me or insult me.”
“I just want to know more about you.”
It’s sincere and genuine, the way Haechan says it, and Mark raises an eyebrow, finally looking into his eyes again. “That’s a first. I thought you didn’t care about me.”
It’s Haechan’s turn to break off their gazes. “Believe me, I don’t. It’s just out of curiosity. Wha—is it so wrong? Stop looking at me like that!”
Mark bites his bottom lip to contain his laughter. “You’re cute.”
“Shut up!”
“Well, if you’re so curious about it,” Mark teases and Haechan pushes his palm against his face to wipe off his grin. Mark wraps his fingers around Haechan’s wrist to keep him away but he holds it a little bit longer than he’s supposed to before he lets go.
“I was staying with my parents when the outbreak happened,” Mark begins, locking his eyes at the ceiling and he can feel Haechan’s gaze scanning his face but he doesn’t dare to look. “Someone near my house got infected, and it traveled so fast that by the time I realized that the virus was airborne, people were already dying. And I—” Mark stops to take a breath, closing his eyes for a moment as the flashback hits him like a wave.
Haechan doesn’t say a word, but he reaches out to tangle his fingers around his under the blanket and Mark blinks at the touch before he smiles to himself.
“I watched my dad died,” Mark finally says, and it’s easier than he expected to be, probably because Haechan’s warmth is seeping into his skin. “It happened so fast. He was sitting on the dining table, already looking pale because of cancer that took him apart day by day, but the second he got infected, it was like something was exploding within him. And I watched him crumble, watched him reaching out to me for help and I just stood there. Watching him.”
Haechan holds his hand tighter. “There’s nothing you could’ve done.”
Mark smiles weakly at him. “Thanks. I just wish I did something for him, you know? Like, hold his hand and tell him I love him, or something.”
“You were stunned.”
“I was just weak and afraid.” Mark unconsciously curls his fingers a bit harder that Haechan begins to wince but he doesn’t say anything about it. “I was so afraid that I’d die, just like him. It was until I found out I was immune that I began to cry and regret the whole thing. I’m the worst, aren’t I?”
Haechan shakes his head, whispering, “I would’ve done the same. Maybe even worse,” he adds a chuckle and it’s so genuine that Mark begins to feel like the heavy pain in his chest is being lifted little by little. “And your mom? What happened to her?”
It’s the question he’s been dreading the most but Haechan’s voice is silky smooth in his ears, and his touch is scorching against his skin, and as Mark breathes in his scent, everything becomes clear.
There’s a first for everything.
“My mom—” It still feels like he’s suffocating, so he intertwines his fingers with Haechan’s a little better to distract him from the pain. “When she got infected, she fell into a deep sleep. Like she went into a coma or something. And I was relieved because I thought she was going to wake up and smile at me again. I thought that her body was healing. I didn’t realize that she was… turning.”
Haechan’s breathing is steady while Mark’s is catching fire. “Mark, look at me.” And when Mark is too lost in his own thoughts, Haechan cups his cheek and forces him to look at him. “You’re okay. You’re with me now.”
Mark’s eyes are shaking but he gradually finds back his pace, finally able to catch his own breath. “I’m with you now,” he whispers back and Haechan smiles.
“You don’t have to continue if you don’t want to,” Haechan says, rubbing comforting circles on the side of Mark’s face with his thumb. “And I kinda have a hunch on where this story is going.”
“You—“ Mark wets his lips. “You do?”
Haechan’s gaze is intense but gentle enough to wash Mark’s anxiety away. “All I have to say is,” Haechan starts, “We all have our sins. What you did was based on instinct. You were trying to protect yourself. Anyone would’ve done the same thing so stop blaming yourself.”
Mark doesn’t realize he’s crying until Haechan wipes a tear away from his cheek. “You’re innocent, Mark Lee,” he assures, smiling at him. “You’re just living in a shitty world, that’s all.”
“Yeah, okay,” Mark says, smiling a little to himself as he rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, washing all of his tears away. “Who are you and what have you done to my snarky-ass Haechan?”
“Your Haechan?”
Mark blushes. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
Haechan’s eyes gleam in a teasing manner. “What way then?”
Mark clears his throat. Hopefully, the night can cover how nervous he looks right now. “So, what about you?” He begins, putting his best effort to change topics. “What kind of sins have you committed that you start getting nightmares at night?”
The easy-going, reassuring facade Haechan tries to put on all night falters within an instant and this time, in the darkness and the silence of this room, he chooses to be honest.
“No,” he starts, exhaling heavily. “Nightmares happen only when you’re asleep. What I have happens when I’m awake.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
“It’s not something I want,” he murmurs quietly. “But I guess, it’s something I need. Otherwise, I’ll go crazy. I am going crazy.” He locks their gazes together, smiling like he’s on the verge of crying. “Would you mind hearing me out?”
Mark will listen as if his life depends on it and he promises him that in his heart. He nods.
“Promise you won’t judge me?”
Another nod.
“Promise you won’t leave me behind?”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Haechan still looks unsure, but the more he takes in Mark’s feature and every detail of his expression, the more he wants to let go—to finally succumb to his sin, to hear someone say, “It’s okay, I forgive you. We all have our sins. We are not different.”
So in shaky whispers, he begins to tell the story and Mark listens.
Haechan was not alone before he met Mark. He had a family. He had a sister, only younger than he was by two years, and he’d loved her. He’d loved her so much that when his parents started to collapse, he took a hold of her hand and drag her to run without looking back even when his mother was still screaming his name, asking him for help. He knew it was too late to save them, but saving his sister was not.
Her sister, just like him, was also immune to the virus and Haechan thought everything was fine. They could still live and be happy together. So they began to wander during the day, and hugged each other to sleep during the night at an abandoned house, sharing headphones to mute down the snarling sounds of the creatures lurking around under the moonlight. They were okay. They were alive.
Until one day, when Haechan was too busy getting supplies from the kitchen, her sister wandered by herself toward the basement of a new house they found. Haechan didn’t know about it, wasn’t careful enough to check, and when he heard her scream, he realized it was too late.
There was a zombie, trapped inside the basement that crawled out when she opened the door. It was so fast, jumping on top of her and ripping the skin on her arm with its teeth. Haechan was so frantic that he began to stab it multiple times on the face, tearing its face apart again and again and again until his sister embraced him from behind and begged him to stop. Haechan held her in his arms like he’d never held anyone before and he thanked God for letting her stay alive, though badly injured.
Because he thought her injury would heal.
He thought she wouldn’t get infected because she was immune.
But when she became paler and paler with more days passing by, Haechan began to worry. Her skin began to rot little by little, and her stench was so strong that Haechan began to hold his breath whenever she was close. Black veins were creeping up her skin and she lost her beautiful brown eyes soon after, having them changed into a pair of cloudy white eyes.
Haechan was so afraid by the look of her that he began to apologize. Sorry, I’m sorry, please forgive me, he said again and again as he wrapped a scarf around her mouth, stopping her from calling his name. She was begging for him to spare her life and yet he held his knife firmly with both of his shaking hands, and he plunged it toward her chest.
She died in his hands, along with a part of him.
“She was still human when I killed her,” Haechan confesses, his voice quivering. “She kept asking me why, why are you doing this but I kept going. I can still remember how warm her blood was on my hands. I was so afraid. I was so afraid of her.”
Mark does not speak during his story and he finds himself lost for words when Haechan grows quiet. The silence is deafening and he knows he should say something, anything, but he’s busy trying to understand the look on Haechan’s face.
Their breathing matches each other’s and Haechan quietly laughs, “You know, it’s weird. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t cry but—”
And he breaks apart in the way Mark never sees anyone does.
Haechan’s whole body shakes as he gives his best effort to muffle his scream by biting his lower lip hard enough to the point it almost draws blood. He covers his face with both hands, sobbing furiously to his palms and even if he tries his best to be quiet, Haechan is still making noise.
And Mark wonders whether it’s because of that very reason of survival or it’s just really something he’s been wanting to do every time Haechan beams at him with that blazing smile of his, but he finds himself reaching forward, tangling his fingers around the strands of Haechan’s hair and pulls the other boy forward until their lips meet in a frantic kiss.
Haechan’s eyes grow wide for a good couple of seconds and Mark finally comes back to his senses when he notices the way the other boy stiffens in his arms. Haechan has momentarily stopped crying due to the sudden surprise, though the tremor of his previous sobs is still there and he’s looking at Mark with these huge, mesmerizing round eyes, with nothing but confusion and shock on his face, and Mark begins to ask himself what the fuck did I just do.
“Fuck, I—” Mark has never struggled this hard to find the right word in his entire life. “I didn’t know why—”
But he probably doesn’t need to say anything, because Haechan is taking the rest of his sentence into his own mouth, and tasting Mark’s feelings directly with his tongue. He’s being forceful, pulling Mark close with all his strength until the other man stumbles upon him and they’re pressed together chest-to-chest. Haechan has his hands circling around the collar of Mark’s shirt, smashing their lips together and they kiss hard and fast, tasting each other’s—owning each other’s—mouth until Mark is breathing his breath and Haechan is breathing his.
“More,” Haechan gasps, teeth nibbling against Mark’s bottom lip. “More, Mark, please.” And Mark just crumbles, moaning against his mouth and takes every soft whine that comes from Haechan into his memory.
None of them care at this point if they’re being too loud, so it’s really their luck that the sun has risen outside, its light seeping through the window, basking them with warmth but none of them need it. Not with the way Mark is hovering above him, his hands slipping under Haechan’s sweater, running his fingertips along the golden skin and emitting more moans from the other man.
“Haechannie.” Mark has his earlobe between his teeth and he sucks at the soft skin, before peppering kisses down the column of his neck. Haechan arches his back, grinding their hips together and begs him to, “Take my fucking clothes off, Mark.”
Clothes are scattered on the floor within an instant, and as Mark sits on his lap just for a few seconds as he pulls his own shirt over his head, Haechan is already latching his mouth on his stomach, licking a stripe up his chest before he pulls Mark down on top of him again.
“I want to feel you,” Haechan breathes out between gasps, “I want to feel all of you.”
“Calm down,” Mark says, softly smiling against his forehead “I’m not going anywhere.”
And they stop just to take a thorough glance at each other’s face now that the light is bright enough for them to see properly. Haechan traces his fingers on the side of Mark’s face, as if he’s a sculpture waiting to be adored, and it takes all the control of his body not to kiss him again right then.
“I’m really glad I met you,” he whispers as he brings his lips to Mark’s, pausing momentarily, just to add, “You little shit.”
And Mark laughs into his mouth but only for a moment before passion starts to take control of him again and he’s moaning, “Haechannie, Haechannie,” directly to his ear as they rock their hips together.
***
It’s already midday when Mark opens his eyes, sitting on his bed with a blank stare as if his soul just left his body. He thinks he just had the most pleasant dream he’s ever witnessed in his twenty-one years of living, but when he notices how his pillow smells like honey, realization hits him like a wave.
It’s not a dream. Haechan was really here.
So he jumps down his bed, trips over his own clothes and swears under his breath as he tries to dress as fast as he can. He stumbles out of his room, running toward the kitchen where he finds Haechan sitting on the kitchen’s counter with his legs dangling in the air.
Haechan’s eyes slightly grow wide at the sight of Mark standing gawkily in front of him with his terrible bed hair, but he quickly gains control of himself. “Morning,” he casually says, raising the red colored mug he always uses, “Coffee?”
Mark curls his fingers around the fabric of his sweat pants. “Okay.”
It’s awkward. It feels so, terribly awkward that they begin to tense every time one of them breathe a little too hard, or sip their coffee a little too loud. Mark is sitting on the opposite of Haechan on the dining table, like how they usually do, but it feels like the earth is about to swallow him whole.
“Haechannie!” Mark begins, a little bit too loud that they both flinch at the sound of his voice. “About last night—I-I mean, this morning—when we—”
“Do you regret it?” Haechan’s voice, unlike Mark, is much steadier, almost too formal, even. But after spending months with him, Mark can tell that he’s about as nervous as he is.
“Reg—no, of course not!” Mark has his eyebrows furrowed together. “Do you?”
Haechan looks away, taking a sip of his coffee as he murmurs quietly. “No.”
And silence comes in again like an old friend and Mark despises it so much because it’s making him insane. “Then why won’t you look at me?”
Haechan sighs, scratching the back of his head and Mark finally notices that oh, he’s just embarrassed about it.
“I don’t really know how to face you,” he admits, blush spreading from his cheeks to his ears. “I didn’t think we’d end up that way.”
Mark opens his mouth but unsure of his words. “Then…” he whispers, uncertainly, with throat feels like blazing in flames. “Do you want to pretend it never happened?”
Haechan seems taken aback. Shocked, even, to hear Mark proposing something like that. Scowling a bit, he places his mug on the table with a loud thud and walks closer.
“Haechan—”
His kiss is more teeth than anything else and Mark freezes, not knowing what to do as Haechan climbs into his lap, twisting his hair around his fingers. It’s suffocating, the way Haechan kisses, but Mark likes it so much that he doesn’t mind if Haechan takes all his breath away with his.
After a good minute has passed, with a string of saliva connecting their parting lips, Haechan asks between heavy breaths, “Do you want to pretend this never happened?”
“Fuck no,” Mark replies in an instant and this time, he’s the one who takes Haechan’s breath out of his lungs.
They sleep on the same bed every night but only embrace each other during the day because Mark is getting exceptionally good at it and Haechan is having trouble keeping his moans to himself. They still share kisses in the dark but Mark always places his palm over Haechan’s face and pushes him away whenever it gets too much.
They haven’t moved out of the house even after the season has changed and Mark is getting an eerie feeling of being followed. “They’re triggered by movements and sound,” Haechan comforts him as he sits crossed-legs on the couch with a game controller in his hand, “So as long as we’re dead quiet during the night and stay out of sight, we’ll be fine.”
“You’re right,” Mark agrees, though his heart still feels heavy in his chest. “I don’t know, I just… I can’t help but worry, that’s all.”
“Yes, because that’s you. All you do is worry.”
“I have been doing something else in the last few days, actually,” Mark says, suddenly leaning forward from behind the couch and whispering close to his ear, “Or rather, someone.”
“Fuck you,” Haechan says but his lips are turning into a cheeky grin. “Keep doing that, and I’ll attack you again.”
And Mark teases again because they both know that’s what they want. It’s funny how the world is ending and yet Mark feels like he’s complete. As if everything just fell into places. And seeing Haechan writhe underneath him, as he thrusts in and out, is something he could never even dream to have in his previous life.
Haechan is quite possessive, Mark learns, by the way he nips at the juncture of his neck until purplish bruises bloom along his skin. Mark knows how much Haechan likes to sink his teeth on his shoulder when Mark hits that spot deep inside him, and he loves it when he can make Mark groan at the pain, muttering, “Fuck, that’s so hot—you’re so hot—” before he takes Mark’s bottom lip between his teeth again. It’s as if he wants to make it known to the world that he belongs to him, even when they’re the only two people in the world.
“Donghyuck,” Haechan suddenly says, out of the blue as they share French toasts for breakfast.
“It’s Mark, actually.”
“No,” Haechan laughs, almost spilling his coffee. “My name, you idiot. Lee Donghyuck is my real name.”
“What?!” Mark complains, feeling utterly betrayed. “After all this time, you’re just telling me now?”
“Well, I like the way you say Haechan,” he explains. “So I don’t mind if you call me that. I just thought you should know.”
But Mark is still kind of upset about it and he still does for the rest of the day, until Haechan sits on his lap that afternoon, attempting to wash the pout off his face with something exciting and Mark leaves no time to waste. He calls Haechan’s name—his real name—whenever their hips meet together and Haechan blushes and begs him to stop, telling him it’s weird, but Mark still continues because somehow he can feel Haechan tightening around him when he does and Mark likes to see him crumble into a moaning mess that he is now.
***
“You’re shit at cooking, Mark,” Haechan grumbles with his eyes still bleary from sleep. He stabs his fork not too gracefully to something that Mark called as a decent-looking sunny side up. “Look at this.” He glares at the burnt white egg. “I mean, seriously, what the heck is this?”
“It’s food. Now shut up and eat your breakfast.”
“Okay, Mom.” Haechan rolls his eyes, grimacing dramatically at the man who sits opposite him when the piece of food enters his mouth. “Yuuuuuummmm.”
“Shut up,” Mark shouts but he can’t stop himself from laughing. Haechan is so annoyingly hilarious and he whines about Mark’s cooking every single day but never even tries to offer any help or take charge of the cooking duty for him. Mark never gets upset about it, though, because Haechan looks cute when he pouts and if it takes one plate of his bad cooking to see that adorable pout on his face then Mark will serve his decent-looking sunny side up every day.
They eventually stop conversing to be able to chew on their foods properly and Haechan has his eyes busy scanning the PlayBoy magazine he stole from the supermarket the other day. Mark has his gaze on his plate as he plays with his egg’s yolk using his fork, but his mind is somewhere else.
“Haechannie?”
“Hmm?”
“I think I love you.”
Haechan’s fork flies out of his hand and ends with a clatter on the floor. Mark’s terrible fried egg is still half-chewed on his now half-opened mouth and it’s not an attractive sight in the slightest but Mark looks at him as if he’s the most beautiful thing in the world.
“I—Y-you—” Haechan, the sharp tongue Haechan, never stutters in his twenty years of living and Mark is somehow proud of himself for being able to drive him to this point. “What the hell are you talking about—why—”
“Because I do.” Mark’s tone is so serious that it feels like he’s reading the news or reading the result of the latest presidential election. “I have been for quite some time. I just wasn’t sure you felt the same so I kind of keep quiet about it.”
And Haechan can only stare, and stare, and stare until he realizes that it’s better to just stay silent and do what his body tells him to do.
Mark is forced to stand on his feet before a pair of plump lips attack his own in a mind-numbing kiss. It’s a bit messy and Haechan tastes like the breakfast he just ate but Mark sighs against his mouth and lets him pull his shirt over his head.
Mark pushes his plate away from the table so Haechan can sit on the edge and tangle his legs around his waist and when it slips down to the floor, porcelain breaking into smaller pieces, he pays no mind because Haechan is now laying down on the dining table with his shirt going up to his chest. He pulls Mark down by the neck, and forcing him to grind his hips against him.
“You’re unbelievable,” Haechan gasps into his mouth, running his teeth along Mark’s lower lip. “Couldn’t you have picked a better moment to say that?”
“Sorry.” Mark’s lips part in a silent moan when Haechan slips a hand underneath his sweat pants and teases him over his underwear. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since I woke up and it started driving me insane so I just had to say it.”
“Fuck, Mark, you’re so unfair.” Haechan takes a hold of Mark’s hand, leading him to where he wants to be touched and softly whines when Mark indulges him. “Tell me more,” he gasps, clawing against Mark’s skin as they rub their lengths together. “I want to, ah fuck, hear more, Mark, please.”
And Mark doesn’t hesitate one bit when he praises him, complimenting every little part, every little detail. I love you. I love your honey-like scent. I love your smile, and this mole you have on your neck. I love the way you say my name.
Haechan is powerless under Mark’s words, begging and writhing for Mark to pound into him until he sees stars and Mark is more than eager to comply. I love the way you moan. I love the way you arch your back. I love you, I love seeing you like this. You’re so pretty, Haechannie. So fucking beautiful.
And Haechan comes hard on his stomach with his teeth sinking at the crook of Mark’s neck, muffling his moan and he pushes Mark back to his chair, crawling between his legs and taking Mark deep into his mouth.
“Fuck.” He takes a handful of Haechan’s ash grey hair, slightly thrusting into his warm mouth and whimpers at how sexy Haechan looks on his knees, cheeks hollowing as he sucks him hard and fast. He has surprisingly long eyelashes, Mark admires, with small tears trapped between them from how hard Mark is hitting the back of his throat.
Mark’s about to come undone, low groans appearing at the back of his throat when Haechan suddenly stops and takes him out entirely, only giving kitten licks at the tip. Mark mewls with his eyebrows knitted together, begging Haechan to stop being a fucking tease and Haechan just grins against his skin because that’s simply what he is—a tease—and Mark is conflicted between loving and hating that trait of him at the same time.
Haechan eventually stops torturing him and sucks deep and slow the way he knows Mark would like it until Mark is spouting nonsense from his mouth, pushes himself forward abruptly and comes into his mouth. Haechan exhales heavily as he waits for Mark to finish, enjoying the low grunt he’s emitting before he swallows everything down. A little bit of his essence drips down his chin and Mark immediately apologizes with a stutter, pulling Haechan carefully into his lap and wipes his mouth with gentle strokes of his fingers. “You all right?”
Haechan looks up at him from under his bangs, his eyes half-lidded with lust as he takes two of Mark’s tainted fingers and places them between his lips, licking every bit of him with his tongue. Mark is looking at him with unblinking eyes and jaw hanging slack on his face.
Haechan leans close to embrace him, wrapping his arms around his neck and he sighs, kissing one of Mark’s shoulders. “I love you too,” he whispers and even though Mark can’t see, he dares to bet on his life that Haechan is now blushing mad at his own words. “But don’t get too cocky about it, you little shit.”
Mark chuckles because this is so Haechan. He pulls back so he can look at him in the eyes and Haechan is indeed blushing—even to the tip of his ears. “I won’t,” Mark says, letting his lips linger on his forehead. “I won’t, so stay with me, Haechannie. As long as we’re alive, don’t ever leave me.”
Haechan smiles. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”
***
“Okay, ready?” Haechan asks, a knife sits firm on his hand. “On three. One, two, three!”
Mark kicks the front door open, inviting himself to a new house he’s not familiar with. They both run out of food so it’s about time to search around again. It’s the only house in the closest neighbourhood that they haven’t ransacked yet, and it’s because the windows are covered with cardboard, and the sunlight cannot penetrate in. And the number one rule of living in this world is that you have to be in places where the sunlight can reach.
It’s dark inside the house—so, so dark, in fact, that Mark has to place a flashlight in one hand and his gun in the other. “See anything weird?” He asks, as he observes as much as he could himself.
“Nope, they would come out by that ruckus we just made if they were here so I think we’re safe.” Haechan points his finger toward the kitchen. “Jackpot.”
“Stay close to me,” Mark reminds him and they both walk side by side with their weapons still aimed. There’s a window above the kitchen counter that Mark immediately tries to punch and kick through but to no avail. It won’t budge.
Turning to Haechan, who’s in charge of bringing weapons, “Do you have something to use to break that open? We need sunlight.”
“Okay, wait, I’ll—”
It’s faster for Mark’s eyes to process what is happening compared to his ears and what he sees is Haechan being tackled to the ground by a woman with cloudy white eyes and rotten flesh. And before Mark can even shout his name, he can feel his own body slammed against the wall, and a pair of large hands trying to rip his stomach open.
There are two of them and they’re both stronger than he could ever be.
Mark can hear Haechan shouting his name, but whether it’s because he’s trying to save him or screaming for help, he’s not sure and he doesn’t have time to think so. Mark lands a kick to the living corpse’s chest and it stumbles a little but enough for Mark to aim for his chest. He takes a shot, the sound of his gun thundering in the air, and pulls his trigger again to lands a bullet on its head. Mark quickly aims his gun at the female corpse next, missing his target by a few inches but enough to distract her enough so Haechan can slice her throat open with his knife.
“Haechan!” Mark immediately runs over to his place, pulling him up by the waist and drags both of their bodies until they’re outside the house, where the sun is blazing over their heads. Both of them are lying down on the empty street, breathing hard and feeling adrenaline slowly rushes out of their veins.
“Fuck, we almost died,” Mark says, turning over to see the younger man who’s wincing from the pain. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Haechan hisses, “But I think my hand is—” The rest of his words hang in the air. “Mark.”
Mark follows his gaze and shudders at what he sees. There’s a bite mark just a few inches away from his wrist, and it’s deep enough to draw blood and nearly rips his skin apart. And if Haechan’s story was true, then—
“Stay away from me!” Haechan nearly trips over his own feet from how fast he tries to get away from him. He’s standing on his feet with his arms reaching out to keep their distance apart. “Don’t you dare get close to me, Mark.”
“What—” Mark jumps to his feet as well, stepping forward and Haechan points a knife to his face. “Haechan, calm down.” He raises both arms in the air, trying his best to stay sane for both of their sakes. “Let’s think this through.”
“No.” He furiously shakes his head. “You need to stay away from me—”
“Haechan, we’re immune—calm down—”
“Not if we’re bitten, Mark! Fuck, didn’t you hear what I said back then—”
“Yes, but we’re not sure whether you’re going to. Maybe it’s different for everyone—”
“It doesn’t matter, I’m not taking any chances,” Haechan hastily insists. “Go back to the house, Mark.”
“No.”
“Just go back to the fucking house!”
“And where are you going then?!” He’s shouting back at him at this point, his voice sounds thick with desperation. “Huh?! Just where are you going to go?”
Haechan grits his teeth, desperately looking for an answer himself. “It’s none of your business—”
“No fucking way, I’m coming with you.”
“Why aren’t you listening to me—”
“Because you’re not making any sense, why would I listen to you?! Just get back here, Donghyuck, and we’ll think about it when we get home!”
It’s tempting, especially after he hears his real name coming from Mark’s mouth but it’s not right. Haechan knows it’s not right. “I don’t want to hurt you, Mark.”
“Nobody is going to get hurt, so please…” Mark lowers his voice, taking a careful step toward him. “Please, Donghyuck. Come back to me. I don’t want to be alone, not again.”
Haechan has tears forming in his eyes as he brings his head up to face the clouds, and he stands still when Mark wraps his arms gently around him, pulling him close. “I’m scared, Mark,” he whispers, emitting soft sobs from his mouth and Mark nods, saying the same thing and they both just stand there in each other’s arms with Mark running his fingers up and down his spine to soothe him down.
“Let’s go home,” Mark says, cupping Haechan’s cheeks with his palms and forces him to meet his eyes. “Okay?”
Haechan nods, sobbing quietly. “Okay.”
***
Two days have passed and Mark doesn’t know what the fuck he’s going to do.
Haechan is dying, and he dies little by little with every second passing by. It’s so apparent and fast, the transformation process, that when Mark fell asleep on Haechan’s shoulder just for a few minutes, he woke up with a jolt, noticing how paler Haechan has gotten and how rotten the smell that came from his skin.
His golden skin is now blotchy, black veins appearing underneath it and he looks ghastly.
“Mark…”
Mark can no longer recognize his voice. It’s more like a croak, as if his vocal cords are thinning into a small string that’s about to snap. Every time Mark holds his hand, and winces at how freezing cold it is, Haechan tries to pull it away with the little strength he has left and whispers for him to leave.
“I’m not going anywhere. Not without you,” Mark always whispers back, and they both know it’s a promise. Haechan just wishes Mark would break it, because keeping it will only mean death for both of them.
The house that used to be so lively during the day and silent during the night, feels like a tombstone for every second that passes by. Mark hasn’t gone out of the house for a while, and he’s only eating one meal per day and drinks as little as he can to save every little food they have left. He forces Haechan to eat as much as he can, though, but the latter usually denies, telling him that he’s about to vomit when he has food on his tongue.
Mark carries him to his bed every night like usual but he no longer wraps his arms around him, otherwise he’d be shivering to death. Haechan’s skin is ice cold, and although he’s breathing very, very slowly, the puffs of air that flows out from his mouth do not feel warm in the slightest.
“Mark…” Haechan whispers into the night and Mark can’t contain the sadness that blooms in his heart when he hears how broken his voice is. “There are so many things… I wish I could say to you…”
“Mean things, I suppose?” Mark tries to keep it normal but the air still feels tense. “Donghyuck?”
Haechan’s chocolate brown eyes are gradually turning into silver and in the darkness of the room, they almost glow. “Thank you… for staying with me…” he murmurs and Mark can tell that Haechan is on the verge of crying, but he doesn’t. He’s no longer able to.
“It’s an honor, Haechannie.”
***
Mark hasn’t slept properly for three days and it’s taking its toll on him. He’s either staring at the ceiling, trying his best to count Haechan’s breathing and making sure that it doesn’t stop or waking up every few minutes with cold sweat, thinking that Haechan is leaving him for good.
So at one point, his body can no longer take it and he falls asleep with his head on Haechan’s shoulder. They’re sitting on the floor with their backs pressed against the wall, facing the front door. Mark has his handgun ready on his side, along with some of Haechan’s knife, but they haven’t been touched for a while. And Mark is not planning to touch it in the near future.
He wakes up with a heart attack when the front door is opened with a bang, and with bleary eyes, Mark sees several figures entering the house at once. He reaches for his handgun by instinct and aims it toward the crowd, but—
“Wait!” A man’s voice booms through the air. “Don’t shoot!”
It finally sinks in that it’s daylight and Mark is seeing people—actual breathing people who look just as weary as he is though not sleep-deprived—coming into his house. They have weapons in their hands, from crossbows to shotguns, but a man, who looks like he’s in charge, steps forward with both arms raised and sends him a reassuring smile.
“Calm down,” he says, “I’m human, just like you.”
Mark, who stands in front of Haechan by instinct to protect him, can’t believe what he’s seeing and he’s calculating whether it’s really just a dream but another man, a taller one with sharp jaws, points his gun at Haechan and Mark snaps back to reality.
“Taeyong-hyung,” the man says, “That one is turning. We should kill him.”
“NO!” Mark has his gun raised again, ready to pull the trigger. “Put your gun down or I’ll shoot, I swear to God, if you touch him—”
“Jeno,” the leader—the one who’s called Taeyong—waves a hand, suggesting him to drop his weapon down. “It’s okay. Let’s talk about this first.”
Mark drifts his eyes from one man to another, carefully reading their faces. “Who are you?”
“A survivor,” Taeyong smiles and it seems genuine but Mark doesn’t trust him in the slightest. “Like you.”
His heart is beating like crazy and he’s so amazed that there are, in fact, others like him who appear to be in much better condition too. “How many are you there?”
“Hundreds. We’re looking for more people to join our colony. We believe there are more survivors out there, and we can fight back if we grow in numbers.”
“Fight how? There’s no cure.”
“We’re immune as long as we’re not bitten.” Taeyong spares a glance at Haechan and Mark almost growls at him. “We’re harvesting our own foods, as well. You should come with us.”
“Can he come?” Mark nudges his head toward Haechan.
Taeyong has the audacity to look sympathetic, unlike his friend Jeno, who is still glowering at Haechan as if he’s a prey to be eaten when it’s supposed to be the other way around. “I wish I could say yes,” Taeyong says, “But I don’t think he can.”
“Then I’m staying.”
Taeyong sighs, but he keeps a gentle smile plastered on his face. “Can I, at least, know your name?”
Mark hesitates and he knows he’s being too cautious about everything, probably because Haechan is being targeted. Under different circumstances, he would’ve taken Taeyong’s hand in a heartbeat. “It’s Mark.”
“It’s nice to see you alive, Mark,” Taeyong says, offering his hand and Mark deliberately takes it for a handshake. “Is that your friend over there?”
Mark turns around, glancing at the man and he sees Haechan staring at him with soft eyes, his breathing slow and maybe he tries to smile but all he does is breaking Mark’s heart. “He’s—” Mark’s breath gets hitched on his throat. “He’s my family.”
Haechan closes his eyes, lips turning slightly upward.
“I’m sorry.” Taeyong places a hand on Mark’s shoulder. “I really wish I could help, but there’s nothing we can do. There’s nothing you can do. It’s already too late.”
Mark knows that, he’s been telling himself that, but having it told directly to his face still hurts like it’s the first time he’s hearing it. “I know that.”
“I think he wants you to come with us too.” Taeyong walks closer to Haechan but still maintaining safe distance so Mark won’t aim his gun toward him again. He kneels in front of him, gently asking, “Isn’t that right?”
Haechan’s eyes are moving slow, searching Taeyong’s face and maybe his vision has already become blurry from the way his lenses are turning silver, but his gaze is firm when he nods.
“Please,” Haechan says, softly, quietly, and heartbreakingly, “Take him with you…”
Mark can hear his own heart shattering. “Haechan—”
“You sure?” Taeyong confirms and Haechan gives the slightest nod of his head. Mark’s not sure whether it’s because he’s too weak to move or he just doesn’t want Mark to go. Mark wishes for the latter, but Taeyong is waving one hand and the next thing he knows, he is being dragged across the room.
“No! Wait—don’t touch me—” Mark struggles, kicking all over the place as he is being held down by two guys who are way more muscular than he is. “Don’t you fucking touch me—”
“Mark.”
Mark freezes, his stomach flips at the sound of Haechan’s voice. It’s louder this time—loud enough for everyone to hear and for Mark to have his heart crushed to pieces. “Just go.”
“It’s better to live than to die, Mark, even in a world like this.” Taeyong says, wrapping a hand around Mark’s wrist and this time, Mark follows. It’s as if all the strength of his body is leaving him and he’s not able to stand on his own feet if Taeyong doesn’t pull him up.
And as he walks away, Mark keeps his eyes on Haechan, still asking him why are you doing this? But Haechan only smiles and mouths something that makes his eyes widen. He’s saying the words—the promise—they usually share with one another, but this time, Haechan doesn’t have the power to make it come true. But he still says them, because that’s his final wishes before everything turns dark.
See you soon, Mark.
***
Mark’s first day in the colony feels like the world is ending, which is saying something because the world is ending but he just really feels like it is the second Haechan is out of his grasp.
Taeyong has offered him more variety of food than he has seen for the past two months and he still stares at his plate like it’s empty and he doesn’t know what to do with it. The place is safe, guarded with tall gates and watchmen, and there’s a campfire near the tent he’s staying. Mark knows how Haechan would’ve loved that. He would probably be dancing around it, telling Mark to play another Michael Jackson song with his guitar—Billy Jean, maybe—as he busts a move. And Mark would most likely have a hard time pressing the chords because when Mark dances more with his hands, Haechan dances more with his hips and he’s so naturally good at it that it makes Mark suffer from his longing to touch him. To wrap his arms around his waist, to mold his lips against his full ones, to peel every piece of clothing off his body so he can rake his fingers along the smoothness of his spine.
There are so many survivors around him, and people like Jungwoo and Lucas do smile brighter than the sun but Mark just wants to lurk in the dark. He already has his sun once, and that sun is dying.
“Mark,” Taeyong calls, sitting next to him in front of the campfire that dances in Mark’s eyes. “How are you holding up?”
Mark doesn’t answer, and it’s probably unfair because Taeyong has been nothing but good to him but he no longer cares.
“Look,” Taeyong exhales, placing a hand on Mark’s back. “I know how you feel but—”
“Don’t fucking tell me that,” Mark snaps, slapping his hand away. “Don’t tell me you know how I feel. You don’t.”
And Taeyong gives him a minute to catch his breath because it’s true. He’s breathless. He’s been feeling like he’s suffocating from the first time he took a step out of his house and into Taeyong’s van. But no matter how many hours have passed, he still couldn’t breathe.
“We need every survivor we can get,” Taeyong softly explains. “We can survive longer if we cooperate. Protect each other. And I really think it’s the best choice for both of us, but if you feel like this is not for you, then I won’t hold you back. That’s your decision to make.”
Mark looks up at the sky, which is painted in orange as the sun’s about to set. “I’m sorry,” he sighs, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Sorry for being such an asshole and taking all of this out on you.”
“Most people act the same when they first got here, so I kind of get used to it by now.” Taeyong chuckles. “We all have our stories, Mark, but whether we end it and start over with another page or dwell with the ending too long is our choice. And as you can see here, we’ve all made our choices. We chose to flip a new page.”
Mark takes a look at his surroundings, really observing every detail and he knows that the happiness around him is real. These people appreciate life more than they did and they find comfort in each other. Even if the world is ending, it feels just like another day of a new world for them. Another day to start over. Another day to appreciate joy if you give it a chance and look close enough.
“Have you lost someone close to you?” Mark asks, almost in a whisper and Taeyong spares him a glance.
“More than I can count,” he answers and if Mark listens very closely, he would notice the shiver in his voice. “I had someone before. Someone that I really loved. Almost like what you two had.”
“Can I ask what happened?”
Taeyong exhales into the evening sky. “Like everybody else, I suppose. He died.”
“From what?”
“From a bullet to the head.” Taeyong breathes heavily. “My bullet.”
The silence hangs in the air and it just dawns on him that of course Taeyong has lost someone to the virus. Of course he knows how Mark feels. He’s been through a lot more than Mark ever did.
Taeyong told him that his name was Jaehyun but he always told them to call him Jay because it felt cooler that way. Mark witnesses how a longing smile appears on Taeyong’s face every time his mouth forms Jaehyun’s name but it doesn’t stay long. “He was bitten when he tried to save me,” Taeyong mentions, fiddling with his own fingers. “I thought he would heal, but—”
“He didn’t.”
Taeyong glances at him, at how Mark is fighting back the tears that form in his eyes and he exhales, puffs of air flowing from his thin lips. “He didn’t,” Taeyong finishes.
“I’m sorry,” is all Mark has to say after a while and that’s enough, it seems, by the gentle smile on Taeyong’s face. The older man lands a hand on Mark’s dark locks, patting his head like a father to his son, before he stands up and stretches his arms above his head.
“Talking from experience,” Taeyong says, walking away. “He still has at least a day.”
Mark knows he’s talking about Haechan, just like how he’s been thinking about him himself even during Taeyong’s story, and he notices something slips out of the pocket of his jeans. “Taeyong-hyung, you dropped something.”
“No, I didn’t.” He throws a mischievous smile over the shoulder. “Good night, Mark.”
It’s a key. Taeyong’s car key, Mark remembers, as it had jiggled around his hand when he took him in before. And Mark knows that it’s all up to him now, whether he stays or he leaves. Whether he chooses to stay with the living or vanish with the dead. Whether he chooses a few splitting moments with Haechan, or live properly for years with Taeyong.
And the answer is clear.
It’s only been a day. A whole fucking day. But Mark steals Taeyong’s car as expected and rides out the first thing in the morning as if his life depends on it. And maybe it does, because Haechan is his life and he’s losing his light like a dying star.
And if Haechan turns into a black hole, Mark doesn’t mind being sucked out of his life to join him in an eternity of darkness. There’s no light without his sun anyway.
It takes four hours for Mark to drive back to the house he’s grown to love, and he’s already driving as fast as Haechan usually was. The sun shines rather warm on his skin, but he still shivers from the autumn breeze. His heart is thumping so loud in his own ears that everything else feels like a whisper.
“Haechan-ah!” Mark shouts the second he barges into the house—the place they both call home. Please still be here. Please be alive. And he runs from one corner to another, looking for the man who owns his heart, and he can feel his feet crumbling under his own weight when he notices the sight of him.
Haechan is standing in front of the stairs that lead to the basement, and there’s a little part of Mark that wonders perhaps he had been staying there to avoid the sun but he ignores it. He doesn’t care. Mark doesn’t give a fuck if his transformation is nearly complete because when Haechan looks at him, his mouth shaping his name, Mark is already running towards him before his entire mind can process.
Haechan lays still in Mark’s arms as he embraces him with all his strength. “I’m so glad you’re still here,” Mark says, slipping his fingers around Haechan’s ash grey strands that are browner than the first time he met him.
Haechan can hear Mark whispering his name over and over and he notices he’s crying, clutching to him as if he’s the rope that’s saving his life. “Mark…” Haechan buries his face in the crook of Mark’s neck which feels both familiar and distinct at the same time because Mark can no longer smell that honey-like scent Haechan usually has, he can no longer feel his warmth seeping through his clothes, he can no longer hear the playful whiny complains he usually makes.
But he’s still Haechan and that’s what matters.
“Why… did you come back…?”
“I couldn’t do it,” Mark answers, shaking his head frantically. “I couldn’t, Haechannie, I can’t leave you. I don’t care if all we have left is just minutes or even seconds, I just want to be with you.”
Haechan grabs the back of Mark’s shirt, making a sound between a sob and a choke and he probably wants to cry, but he can’t. His skin is rotting, his bodily function has stopped working, and he knows he looks unbearably disgusting but the way Mark holds on to him still makes him feel wanted. Makes him feel loved.
“Mark,” Haechan croaks, pulling away and Mark nearly breaks into tears again when he notices how much paler Haechan gets, even if they’re only separated for a day. The black veins are more prominent, painting his face and his skin like a horrifying tattoo and the lens of his eyes are completely white now,. “Mark, you have to kill me.”
“What—no—”
Haechan pushes the machete he’s been holding in one hand to Mark’s chest. “I’ve tried but I’m…” His cloudy eyes seem to scream in agony. “I’m too afraid… Please, Mark…”
“No, there’s no way—”
“Mark!” Haechan’s paper-thin voice suddenly booms through the air, sending shivers down Mark’s spine. “I can feel it. I’m losing myself and…” There’s this glow in his eyes that forces Mark to take a step back, his heart slamming against his ribcage. “I’m so hungry.”
And it’s not human food he craves, Mark knows that for sure.
It’s frightening, the way Haechan slightly bares his teeth at him, and every inch of his body screams for him to run but Mark plays deaf. “I’ll wait until it’s really over,” Mark promises him. “I’ll wait until you’re really gone. I’ll kill you when there’s no trace of you left.”
But Mark’s not sure whether he can keep his promise even at that point.
Haechan eventually agrees with a tired nod because they both know Mark is much more stubborn than he looks, and he begs him to tie him up so he wouldn’t be able to attack the second he loses control and Mark follows. Haechan sits on the floor with his back pressed against a huge pillar that supports the house and waits as Mark circles a rope around his waist a few times before he ends it with a knot.
“Is it too tight?” Mark asks, worriedly, and it’s so Mark to ask a half-transformed zombie that question so Haechan smiles weakly at him and answers, “Not tight enough, you idiot.”
Mark falls weak at the sight of Haechan’s smile that he loves so much and he leans in to kiss him but Haechan immediately brings his face away.
“Don’t,” Haechan warns, though he’s about to be consumed by the same desire, “You’ll get infected.”
But Mark cups both of his cheeks firmly with his hands, whispering, “I don’t care,” directly against his mouth, not caring about his icy cold skin, or the awful smell of his rotting flesh because underneath all of that, he’s still Haechan and he loves him. So painfully and earnestly so.
“I love you,” Mark whispers between kisses, “I love you. I’ve always been in love with you. Haechannie…”
And Haechan closes his eyes, he can no longer breathe in Mark’s scent like he used to a few days ago and it’s depressing, because Mark always smells like summer and Haechan loves summer. But within a few hours from now, there will only be the darkness that welcomes him like an old friend. And if he’s lucky, if Mark really has the heart to kill him, then he’ll be swallowed by that darkness and it’s okay, as long as he doesn’t bring Mark with him.
Because Mark deserves the light, even if that means taking his own.
And so they wait. They wait with their bodies seated side-by-side, with their fingers intertwined, with Haechan’s head falling on Mark’s shoulder. “Tell me more,” Haechan begs, his eyes heavy and the pain in the pit of his stomach—this craving of blood and human flesh—is maddening, growing and consuming him from the inside. “Tell me why you love me…”
And Mark does it with no hesitation because what he feels never changes. He still loves Haechan’s hair, loves his eyes, loves his voice, loves his touch, no matter how different they are now.
“And I love how you always say I’m a bad cook,” Mark chuckles softly, “but you always eat like it’s your last meal.”
“Because it… could’ve been…,” Haechan’s voice is weak and sore but there’s a tint of humor in his tone. “Your cooking was so bad… it could’ve killed me…”
And Mark laughs, airily and young, the way he always does and Haechan wants to cry because he most likely won’t be able to hear it soon.
“I love how we fight from time to time, with you pouting every time I win an argument,” Mark continues as he gently smiles to himself, “I love how brave you are, how you tend to not overthink stuff and just go with the moment. I wish I could live like you.”
Mark’s voice begins to break the more he speaks, hot tears forming in his eyes. “And I really,” he breathes out between soft sobs, “I really love hearing you sing. You have the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard and I wish I could…” His entire shoulders begin to shake. “I wish I could hear you sing again, Haechannie…”
Haechan’s breathing becomes slower as his vision starts to fade away. Mark sounds like he’s talking from a distance, as if he’s murmuring underwater. And Haechan feels like he’s falling into a bottomless pit, a monster waiting underneath and suddenly he’s just…
Gone.
“Hae… chan…?”
Mark’s eyes grow wide as he feels Haechan’s teeth sinking into the skin of his neck, gnawing against his flesh before he peels it away with his fangs. Mark’s entire body jolts in pain, sending electricity down to his fingertips. He crawls away from Haechan by instinct, his blood splattering down his shirt and to the wooden floor below him.
Haechan’s eyes are entirely clouded in white, saliva mixed with Mark’s blood dripping from his mouth and he snarls, baring his teeth like a hungry wolf.
Mark tries to call his name but it’s no use. Haechan is something else. Something entirely different. And although the transformation process progresses little by little, once it’s complete, it still takes the air out of Mark’s lungs.
Haechan is struggling to break himself free, his fingers clawing the air, reaching for Mark with such desperation of a starving lion. Mark’s gun feels heavy on the back of his jeans, he knows what to do. He just doesn’t have the will to do it.
“Haechannie—it’s me—please, it’s Mark—”
Haechan roars, dark blood splattering from his mouth as he claws and claws with his legs kicking all over the place. The rope around his waist is the only thing holding him still, keeping them in a safe distance but Mark knows it won’t hold long.
Haechan is frighteningly strong.
Mark’s blood is gushing out of his wound, painting his arm red and warm and it’s starting to make him feel lightheaded. At this point, he realizes he’s going to die by Haechan’s hands or going to turn into the exact creature snarling in front of him now.
Mark hooks his finger around the trigger, aiming the gun at Haechan’s head and he feels like he’s on the verge of vomiting his entire organs.
How can I shoot him—
But he tries. He tries because he has promised the man he loved he would do it. He tries because the world does not deserve seeing Haechan like this. He does not want anyone to look at him and think about him simply as a mindless, flesh-eating zombie when Haechan was so, so much more than that. Haechan was sweet, he was kind though he did have his own mischievousness from time to time and he shone so bright, almost blinding every time Mark looked at him.
So he takes aim and he misses because his hand trembles at the last second. The bullet that sinks to the pillar behind him only makes the creature growls at him louder, and the rope begins to tear apart.
Mark still can’t shake the memory of Haechan’s face when he told him he loved him too, or simply the memory of him—of how he used to. But the monster that he is now is not him. Mark just has to convince himself that.
He’s running out of time.
He takes a closer step, close enough that he won’t be able to miss, and he takes in a deep breath, aiming at Haechan’s temple. He steadies his hand as best as he can before he closes his eyes, feeling hot tears running down his cheek and he whispers, “See you soon, Haechannie.” And he pulls the trigger.
The room quiets down in an instant where Mark can only hear his own frantic breathing, but he doesn’t stay still for long. Not looking at Haechan’s body, he quickly loads his gun with another bullet—his last one—and presses the tip against the side of his head. It feels hot, almost scalding his skin but he doesn’t let himself think. He doesn’t let himself breathe. He doesn’t let himself feel.
And with the click of his gun, he finally smiles.
We’re together now, Haechannie.
***
#nct#nct haechan#nct mark#lee donghyuck#mark lee#nct fanfic#nct scenarios#nct imagines#markhyuck#mark/haechan#haechan/mark#nct 127#nct u#nct dream#superm#zombie apocalypse au#smut#mark lee smut#markhyuck smut#mark lee fanfic#haechan fanfic#mark nct#haechan nct#nct fanfics#nct au#mark lee imagines#mark lee scenarios#this is so long y'all#i got too many markhyuck feels writing this#mine
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Dirty Little Secret
Hello I just finished this and I have not edited it and I am never going to reread it lol. It is probably disjointed, OOC, and incomprehensible. Welcome to my super sick and drug-induced It oneshot. Also for the title I was torn between this and ‘truth or dare’
My friends also told me I had to put this joke in the author’s notes: “I’m paying homage to the original It. King was on coke when he wrote it, and I’m on a wild amount of cold medicine and illness”
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Summary: Miraculously, they all lived. They killed that damn clown and they lived. Now, Richie just had one last thing to say.
Word Count: 1877 words
[ao3 link]
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The sounds of his old friends splashing around in the quarry faded around him. Distantly, as though he wasn’t in his own body, Richie could hear them cracking jokes and laughing at each other, as if the seven of them hadn’t almost just lost their lives.
As if Eddie hadn’t almost--
Richie focused on cleaning his glasses. Without them on, it was blurry and hard to tell, but he thought there was still blood embedded into the new spiderwebbing of cracks left on one of the lenses. It wouldn’t come out. Really, it could be anyone’s blood, he’d lost track of their injuries by this point.
But Richie knew who’s it could have been.
Bev had said the Deadlights gave her visions of their deaths, but he hadn’t known just how vivid they could be until he dropped out of them himself. He’d opened his eyes to Eddie being skewered above him, helpless to do anything but scream his name, the Loser’s a chorus of the same. Then, he blinked, and Eddie was above him laughing and cheering his “victory.”
Richie had barely rolled them out of the way in time for one of It’s massive claws to dig deep into the stone where they had been laying. Pennywise made a noise of rage, but Richie hadn’t allowed himself even a moment to think. He’d grabbed Eddie and ran.
And now here they were. They’d killed It, crushed Its heart in their hands, and Derry was safe. They were safe. Eddie was safe. Richie sat on a rock in the dirty quarry water, distantly aware of the splash wars going on while Eddie chopped his hands and told them how unsanitary it was, cleaning themselves in dirty water. Richie knew he was being unusually quiet, and someone was bound to notice soon, but he felt like if he didn’t laugh, he was going to cry.
And for once, Richie was all out of jokes.
Then, the absolute worst thing happened: Richie was dragged into the spotlight.
Apparently, the other six Losers had been recounting the “best moments” of their battle. Richie didn’t remember much, truthfully, aside from running for his life and sniveling like a little kid.
“Hey, Rich,” Beverly called. “What was that whole ‘Truth or Dare’ thing about anyway?”
Richie let out an awkward laugh, plastering a smile onto his face. He’d gotten good at it, over the years, with how much he hated his own act, but now it just felt stiff and misshapen. He waved his hands in the air as he spoke, his glasses flopping around precariously in his grip.
“Oh, you know, just something that damn clown had brought up.”
Bill laughed. “Why would he b-b-bring up Truth or D-Dare?”
Bev swam over and started poking at his sides as she laughed. They were all laughing so much. They were clearly handling the trauma far differently than him.
“Why would It use that?” She teased. “Got something you’re afraid to confess, Trashmouth?”
Richie forced out another laugh, sounding weak to his own ears. More than you know.
Instead, Richie reached for a distraction. “Yeah, how fast it took me to finish with Eddie’s mom--”
“Beep beep, asshole!” Eddie shouted, and Richie’s next laugh felt a little less desperate. Teasing Eddie was familiar and comfortable, and Richie was almost tempted to put his glasses back on to see the adorable way his jaw clenched with annoyance.
“Remember that one time Bill dared Mike to smuggle one of the sheep into his grandfather’s house?” Ben asked, and if Richie wasn’t so gone on Eddie, he could’ve kissed him. Intentionally or not, he’d just saved Richie a whole lot of floundering to keep the attention off where he wanted it least.
The group laughed and Mike shook his head with a grin. “He was so mad,” Mike said. “I thought for sure he’d make me sleep in the barn for that.”
“Or what about the t-t-time Eddie dared Richie to eat that year-old twinkie we f-found in R-R-Richie’s room,” Bill said.
Even Richie had to laugh at that one. “Yeah, where was the concern for my health there, Eddie Spaghetti?”
“Don’t call me that,” Eddie snapped, though there was no heat behind it. “Plus, those things never fucking expire. They’re garbage, but that wouldn’t have hurt you.”
“Oh yeah? It tasted as bad as your mom’s--”
Eddie splashed Richie, sending a wave of nasty quarry water into his mouth and preventing him from finishing his sentence. He sputtered and coughed, laughing as he spit it out, and the weight of everything felt a little less oppressive now that he was laughing with them all.
“Oh!” Bev said, “What about the time Stan dared Bill--”
Richie grinned as he went back to trying to dig the blood out of the cracks in his glasses with his nails. They were short and stubby, so it wasn’t exactly easy, but he managed to make some progress. This time, though, he made sure not to tune his friends out. He listened to each of their stories, letting their laughter wrap around him like a warm, worn, familiar blanket, just like he had always been searching for when they were kids, and slowly felt his shoulders relax. And as they were laughing, the thought occurred to Richie.
What was he so afraid of?
This was Richie’s family. After everything they’d been through, killer alien clowns and all, would his sexuality really be the thing to break them? It’d be a little silly at that point, Richie thought.
A little silly, and a lot unfair. And who knew how they’d react? He’d seen them all in their underwear, shared blankets and chairs and beds with them, held them close (he wished he could do that now, but he wasn’t brave enough to be so touchy as an adult). What if they accused him of taking advantage of them when they hadn’t known? What if they were disgusted by him? What if they forgot him again, but this time by choice?
Richie was forced out of his thoughts when someone shrieked, and he promptly realized he’d allowed himself to tune everyone out again as he catastrophized. His head shot up at the shriek, his heart pounding in panic. Instead of a psychotic clown or a gruesome murder, Richie caught sight of Ben, who had seemingly heaved Beverly out of the water, tossing Bev as far as he could back into the murky water. She came up sputtering and laughing, arguing that whatever she’d said had definitely happened, no matter what he said.
Bill and Mike were leaning on each other from the force of their laughter. Ben had a sly grin on his face, though the corner of his lip was twisted a little in embarrassment as Bev kept hounding at him. Stan wasn’t outright laughing so much as he was grinning, but that was pretty much the same thing when it came to him. Eddie was laughing so hard that his cheeks had gone pink.
Richie promptly realized that if he didn’t do it now, he was never going to get up the courage to do it again.
“I’m gay,” Richie said loudly, the words echoing uncomfortably across the quarry.
The sounds of splashing and play fighting stopped and Richie heard more than saw everyone turn toward him. He kept his glasses off, eyes focused on his hands. If he had to look at them, see them clearly, he wouldn’t get through this. Every cell in his being was telling him to bury this with a joke, to move on and make a funny and forget the whole thing, but he couldn’t. Not this time. He needed to stop hiding.
“I’m gay,” he said again, quieter this time. “That’s why It brought up ‘Truth or Dare.’ Because I wouldn’t want anyone to pick truth.”
Richie kept his head down, but he heard the others moving through the water. He startled when he felt Bev’s arms wrap around one of his own. Richie looked up and saw his friends (or, really, saw blobs shaped vaguely like his friends) all coming toward him, wrapping themselves around him where he sat.
Ben curled himself around Richie’s knee, right below Bev. On Richie’s other side, Mike, Bill, and Stan all crushed in trying to wrap around him in some way. Mike ended up wrapped around Richie’s leg, which probably looked ridiculous, if only Richie could see, while Bill and Stan curled up around his arm and side. Then, Eddie came up behind Richie, wrapping his arms carefully around Richie’s shoulders and resting his head on Richie’s own (probably taking advantage of being taller than Richie, for the moment).
“We’re proud of you, Rich,” Stan said quietly.
Tears stung at Richie’s eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He sat there for a few minutes, soaking in their warmth and care, closing his eyes and letting peace finally overcome him. The secret, his dirty little secret, had finally been aired. He didn’t need to be scared of it anymore, at least not in this small circle (coming out as a public figure was an entirely different story, and Richie sure as fuck wasn’t ready for that yet). Pennywise’s words, echoing in his head since they were said, finally began to quiet.
“Thank you,” Rich said eventually, his shields formed from humor finally coming back up. He could only handle so much emotional vulnerability without making a joke. “I don’t have my glasses on so I don’t know who you people are, but thank you.”
Richie’s friends laughed, and he could feel Eddie’s chin brushing against his head with the force of Eddie’s eyeroll. Richie himself chuckled a little, blinking to clear the lingering tears from his eyes before they could fall. It was then that he noticed his hands: one clasped tightly between Ben and Beverly’s fingers, and the other resting on one of Eddie’s arms, Stan’s hand resting atop his.
“Oh shit,” he mumbled.
He felt more than saw (seeing as he couldn’t see) Beverly and Mike look up at him.
“I legit can’t find my glasses.”
A chorus of “Are you serious?” met Richie’s ears and he almost laughed again, but it was true. Sometime between the six of them latching onto him, Richie’s glasses had completely vanished.
Richie settled in where he sat as the others went off to find his glasses, diving beneath the water and arguing between themselves. The only person who didn’t move away was Eddie, who shifted from standing behind him to sitting next to him. As he heard Bev laugh, followed by a splash (Richie would bet money she just dunked Ben, the two had been attached at the hip and making heart eyes at each other since they escaped Neibolt), he felt Eddie grab his right hand and interlock their fingers.
There was a distinct lack of cold, wet metal as Eddie squeezed his hand, and Richie swore his heart skipped more than a few beats.
Maybe he wasn’t the only one with a secret, Richie thought as Eddie’s head leaned against his shoulder for a few seconds. And maybe, just maybe, Richie wouldn’t have to go home and face his nightmares alone after this.
#it#it (movie)#it (2017)#it (2019)#reddie#richie tozier#eddie kaspbrack#stan uris#beverly marsh#bill denbrough#mike hanlon#ben hanscom#the losers club#it fanfic#reddie fanfic#My writing
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