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pinkrelish · 2 years

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𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞.

bestfriend!eddie x fem!reader

✶Cold to the bone, delirious, and scared out of his mind, Eddie is guided by the group through the woods. "Where are we going?" he asks.

They spare him not a glance. "The Safe House."✶

NSFW — one bed trope, cuddling, hurt/comfort, eddie munson needs a hug, drug/alcohol mention/use, wingman steve + robin, 18+ overall for smut, canon typical gore

chapter: 10/15 [wc: 7.7k]

↳ part 01 / 02 / 03 / 04 / 05 / 06 / 07 / 08 / 09 / 10 / 11

AO3

Chapter 10: The Safe House

His skin was rubbed raw from the damp clothes he’d been wearing for hours on end. Shoes coated with dirt, socks soaked from lake water, and feet covered in blisters. Cold everywhere. No sleep for days; only sporadic glimpses when he felt safe in the sunshine under the blue tarp in the boathouse. At night, it was fear. Fear of being hunted. Shaking, and starving, knowing he wouldn’t have the energy to put up a fight. Just running. Running, stumbling, tripping, like he did now. But, unlike before, when he was abandoned, Nancy reached out her dainty fingers, and helped him with strength beyond measure.

Eddie was surrounded by friends, if they allowed themselves to be called that. Brave friends.

It hurt worse to walk, but he was encouraged to do so by Max, of all people. Vecna’s target, marked for death, and yet she bumped past his shoulder with her chin held high in the full moonlight breaking through the twisted branches of budding trees. She gave him a curious once-over, and nodded for him to follow, thinking he’d gone dizzy and lost his way. Dustin was courageous too, acting as the navigator at the front of the party. Guiding them to some unknown destination.

Steve grasped him around the bicep, and steadied him out of his stupor. He could tell Eddie was rattled after what he’d been through. Two gruesome deaths, traversing a literal hell. Still, it was Steve, with his neck torn to shreds and hobbling with gaping wounds, who comforted Eddie. “We’re almost there,” he said with such a strange glint of his teeth, as if he were grinning. But he wouldn’t be, right?

“Where’re we going?” Eddie asked, having been subjected to wandering through darkened woods for days. From the pitch-black Upside Down, to nighttime Hawkins.

“The Safe House.”

“The what?”

Dustin waved his compass up ahead, and whispered-shouted at the two men lagging behind. “If you two don’t get a move on, we won’t make it in time for dinner!”

“Twerp,” Steve muttered under his breath.

For once, Eddie focused on anything other than his abject misery. “Dinner?”

No one volunteered to answer him.

Too preoccupied from yanking his leg out of the dense bramble, Eddie also missed the shifty looks shared amongst the group, and the big blue sign outside the building they were approaching, and the orientation of the layout–particularly, the long stretch of rooms, and especially, the corner unit with an extra window facing the edge of the forest.

——Three Days, 7 Hours, 29 Minutes Prior——

Reefer Rick’s address flashed on screen. It wasn’t a perfect lead, but it was the best they had. Understandably, Steve nabbed Family Video’s master keys from under the desk, and ushered everyone towards the door, while Robin checked for customers in the aisles. Max was ready to get out of there too, until she realized another set of footsteps did not follow.

Dustin’s gaze remained glued to the phone sitting before him.

“Come on, dude. What’re you waiting for?” Steve spread his arms wide in annoyance at the gall of Dustin to be the one keeping them from finding his friend. His super cool older male role model friend who listens to loud music, dresses however he wants, and runs his little nerd game, or whatever the f–

“Finding Eddie is important, but..” Dustin’s curls bounced as he grabbed the phone and ran off with it to the manager’s office. “There’s someone else we should call! His girlfriend! She can help us.”

Steve choked back a laugh. “Girlfriend?” When the girls didn’t join in on the joke, he pursued Dustin with a vengeance. “Eddie “The Freak” Munson has a girlfriend?” He expected Robin to be just as bewildered, but she was in her own world, gathering the other phone to her chest and dialing 4-1-1.

Dustin nodded. “She goes to Penn State–”

Steve raised his eyebrows. “She’s in college?”

“I met her when she played DND with us,” he explained.

“She plays Dungeons and Dragons?” Steve’s voice couldn’t get higher.

“Yeah, she’s really cool!”

“And she’s cool?” he squeaked. It actually could go higher.

Ignoring him, Dustin turned his attention to Robin.

“Hi!” she said, full of cheer to the withered directory assistant. “What’s the area code for Penn State–Uh, Pennsylvania State University?” After a second, she spoke aloud for Dustin. “8-1-4? And the weather is mild, uh.. Okay. And oh, neat, we’re in the same time zone.”

Dustin punched the buttons on his phone for the local operator. 814-555-1212. “Hello, fine sir, I hope you are having a swell day.” Someone should tell him the fake ‘adult’ persona he assumed did little to convince anyone he was an actual grown up. “I’m in search of the contact information for.. Uh.. Someone in charge at the dorm for the women’s athletic teams at Penn State?” he finished quickly, sounding not unlike a balloon losing its air. “I’m looking to speak to an athlete for a.. report. Project. Thing. For school.”

The static funneling through the phone went silent.

After a stretch of heart palpitating seconds, the man spoke up, and gave Dustin the number for the Resident Adviser for the dorm.

Steve made an indignant scoff at them, and leaned towards Max. “Did you know Eddie Munson had a girlfriend?” She gave him a weird look, and shrugged. Righting himself, he asked Robin, “Is this really necessary? Eddie could be, well,” –He dragged his thumb over his throat– “by the time we wrap up this little game of Telephone and hit the road.”

She rolled her eyes at him and took the phone from Dustin to talk to the dweeby sounding Resident Adviser. “Hello, my name’s Robin Buckley. I'm a reporter for the Hawkins Post inquiring to speak to one of your athletes for a story about her coming from a small town and making it big.” Pressing the phone to her shoulder, she whispered to Dustin, “She is from Hawkins, right?” He gave a thumbs up. “Yes!” She spoke to the self-righteous, self-important voice on the line. He must’ve refused, because her face dropped. But so did her voice, as she abstained from making eye contact with anyone else in the room, twirling her finger around the phone cord. “If you patch me through, I’ll..”

In unanimous effort, the rest of them tuned her out, until she shoved the phone to Dustin’s ear.

He listened to it ring. And ring. And ring. And finally..

A gravelly, “Eddie?” answered.

Steve and Robin smashed their faces on either side of his, eavesdropping. Fully invested.

“Riddle Master Valendrei!”

“..Dustin?”

Way too enthused, he gasped, and clutched his chest. “You remember me! And what a coincidence you brought up Eddie! So, listen, he’s uh, in a little bit of a situation, you could say.”

There was rustling in the background. A lot of movement from what could’ve been bedsheets, followed by the metallic click of a purse being popped open. Point blank, tired, and weary, you inquired without a second thought, “How much is his bail?”

Steve snorted in approval. “She definitely knows him, all right.” Dustin smacked him from over his shoulder.

“It’s not that. Rest assured, nothing like that. It’s, ah.. Well. It’s worse. Can you come down here, like, soon? Extremely soon?”

Many responses started and died on your tongue. It was obvious you were pacing, probably wringing your neck with how it distorted your words, “Worse? H-How serious is it? I’m not on Spring Break yet, and I have midterms next week. Is there any way this can wait?”

Robin spoke up, “Probably not something you want to wait on, but we can do our best to keep him safe.”

“Safe?” you cried. “Goddammit.. Okay, uhm, give me a day or two and I can be there. I need to take care of a few things first, but–Jesus Christ, Dustin–tell me what’s going on before I have a panic attack. Where’s Eddie? Is he okay?”

“Yeah, so, last night..”

——Present Day——

Eddie was steered in the direction he should go. A hand pressed into the middle of his back, the owner’s warmth sinking through his jacket. He had the wherewithal to recognize he was delirious, but not the competence to divide his fleeting attention. Just when he’d grasped he was staring at a gray painted wall, he was shoved into a line. Someone was in front of him. Who? Too obscured by the shadows of the short building to tell. They were disappearing through a hole. A black square hole. Where to? Where.. Where to?

The owner of the hand on his back said something in his ear. Steve? Or maybe it was Lucas, and they pushed him forward. It was his turn to climb through. He complied. Not because he was brave, but because he was forced.

Nothing greeted his unadjusted eyes by sight, just the shuffling sounds of people moving out of his way. Using their hands to guide him into a packed place. Snug with bodies crowded around the entrance, whispers bouncing off the nearby walls.

“Is that everyone?” a kind, but stern someone asked.

“There’s a conga line of about twelve mosquitoes waiting to get in if you don’t close the window,” Steve said.

Eddie was lost in darkness. Until his Light found him.

A lamp clicked on by the turn of a knob. Eddie’s big, brown eyes grew. Familiarity, and a stark realization, greeted him. He was standing in the same room he’d been in half a year ago. The queen sized bed, two nightstands, an array of sitting chairs with one table near the front window next to the door, and a chest of drawers at the end of the bed balancing a large mirror.

The rest of the audience meandered to give space for the two wayward halves to reconnect.

His gaze landed on you, and his bottom lip shrugged.

Eddie was more prone to showing his vulnerability than most other men, that much you knew–wearing his sensitive heart on his sleeve around those he trusted–but you didn’t anticipate his relief to be so visible, knocking the air from his lungs. Stuttering his breath with every dragging step. Long strides of aching desperation to close the vast distance between you once and for all.

To anyone else, it would have been underwhelming, but to you, your world becoming his dirty hands reaching for you was a life of eternal pleasure incarnate. You knew not to expect him to hug you, and maybe that was for the best, because the simple act of his fingers curling in, and you accepting his weight against your knuckles, had your knees wobbling.

His gaudy rings dug into your bones. Flakes of blood and dirt and ash and decay grimed on contact. You kept him steady by the extraordinary opportunity of being able to touch him. Skin on skin. You could cry as he shivered into your body heat. Leaning into the unique embrace until nothing else existed. No sound outside two overworking hearts.

He’d never been this close on purpose. Where the tense expanse of his shoulders dropped into a relaxed slouch, and his head dropped forward, foreheads a suggestion apart. Eyes drifting half-way closed as he let go of his inhibitions, and studied you up close with the tantamount enthusiasm you examined him in–like neither of you could grasp the concept of being within arms reach after drifting apart one missed call at a time.

But did you ever really drift apart?

The trembling fondness in your matching grins proposed otherwise.

Attentive to the mild abrasion on the corner of his jaw, you spoke with such hushed awe, even he strained to hear beyond the hard consonants. “You’re okay.”

He was worse at keeping his voice down, but he tried for the sake of the moment, without losing the absolute cloying affection in his whisper. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you.”

Your eyes greedily drank in the other’s appearance, and when satisfied, they met. Gazing across the months of solitude. Of pain, and loneliness, and longing. Watery, and sweet.

“I missed you.”

“M’ssed you, too,” you said.

And the moment came to a close with his snuffed out smile as reality sank into his features.

Fascinated, Robin said in quiet amazement, “That was the most sensual fist bump I’ve ever seen in my life.” And Steve added a breathless, “Yeah.”

Eddie pointed a strict finger at you and rounded on the people he considered closer than family under recent circumstances. “Why is she here?” The group straightened their spines against the teetering vitriol laced in his clipped words. A dangerous balance between restrained anger, and denial. Daring them to confront him.

He zeroed on one person in particular. “Dustin? Don’t tell me, man..”

Robin stepped in. “We thought you could use your girlfriend here for support, Eddie.”

“We’re not dating,” he interjected.

Lucas pulled a similar expression to those around him. “What do you mean you aren’t dating? You literally never shut up about her–”

You smacked Eddie’s hand out of your face and shoved your way past him. “I’m here to help you, you idiot.” Rounding the corner of the bed, you reeled at the sight of Steve, blood slipping down his throat, wearing Eddie’s vest and surely staining the inside with the pool of gore seeping from his abdomen. “Jesus.” He fixed his mouth in a slant and shrugged.

Eddie was quick to claim your attention by following you on your heels. “This isn’t a goddamn sleepover with your best friend like it's the good ol’ times. I don’t know what they told you, but I’m a wanted man. You can’t be here. Hey, are you listening to me?” He cornered you at the other nightstand, fuming at your back while you sorted through your purse without a care in the world. “I’m wanted for murder! If you get caught, you’re harboring a fugitive. That’s a prison sentence! Think of your future. Your degree. The Olym–Huh?”

You cut off his ranting by sweeping your arm across his chest, moving him to the side so you could speak to the group. “Here’s the key for the black car parked across the street. If anything goes wrong, there’s about four days worth of food and water in the trunk to feed.. Well, some of you. I’m not made of money.” You lifted the mattress and produced two sheets of dirty metal. “Fake plates are already on. I got the car from a rental outside of Indy who doesn’t ask too many questions. If anything happens to it, it’ll go on Sasha Pennermen’s record.” Answering the puzzled glances around the room, you slid the thin piece of plastic off the nightstand and held it up. “My fake ID.”

“Fake plates, fake ID. How do you get this stuff?” Steve asked, catching the jangling keys and pocketing them.

“I live in a college town,” you shrugged it off like a duh? and put your illegal items away. “Same ground rules as what we discussed earlier. One: no talking to cops. Two: if you need to call me, use a payphone on the corner, not the ones attached to a store. They’re startin’ to put those freakin’ cameras everywhere. Can’t have any fun these days.”

Nancy made herself heard from where she shrank into one of the chairs, hugging herself. “A little late for the ‘don’t talk to cops’ speech.”

“That’s not all,” Erica confided with an accusatory glance around the room, crossing her arms. “I imagine we all have targets on us after we ran away from them.”

You were clasping your hands so tight, they shook. You clapped, turned your palms up, and clapped them again, smiling through your grimace. “A room full of wanted people. Great. Looks like we have our work cut out for us, then. Hiding from the police smack dab in the smallest town on the planet.” A few of them had the good graces to appear remorseful.

Eddie was uncharacteristically quiet.

Moving on, you apologized to the worn-down, fatigued group squeezing into any comfy spot they could fit into. “Sorry, I would’ve been here sooner. Had a few things to sort out before I could leave.”

The pinch of confusion concentrating between Eddie’s eyebrows subsided. His posture wilted, then stiffened. Jaw set. Grinding his teeth, pulsing the muscle there.

“Dinner should–ah!” The phone rang. You answered, and spoke briefly in, “Yeps!” and “Okays.” Pulling your wallet from your purse, you counted some cash, and made finger guns at the door. “Be right back.”

Eddie stopped you. Imposing his unassuming stature like a brick wall; expressionless, eyes glinting fragments of amber in the dim lamplight. Tone eerily calm, “You have Nationals in two days.”

“How do you even know that?”

“Nationals? I thought you said you had midterms this week?” Dustin recalled.

If looks could kill, Dustin would burst into flames under the ire of your glare, and you would be in the fifth circle of hell from Eddie’s.

“Midterms?” he repeated, turning his face away from Dustin to you, ever so slowly, pinning you with repercussions of his stare. “Midterms?” The incredulity spat from his lips. “Midterms?” He sounded in danger of hyperventilating. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“It doesn’t matter, Eddie,” you stressed. You dodged him, succeeding two paces towards your exit.

He trailed you. “What do you mean it doesn’t matter? Of course it matters! Wait–Why wouldn’t it matter?” He caught the sleeve of your flannel, pulling the unbuttoned shirt down your shoulder, showing off your black muscle tank underneath.

You saw the question in his eyes. He saw the answer in yours.

“Why don’t your midterms matter?”

“I’m not discussing this with you.”

“..You dropped out?”

His weak whisper begged you to deny it. You pressed your lips in a nonnegotiable reticent line, and continued walking away, to where Robin and Steve observed you two at the table. But Eddie wasn’t done. When he was determined, he dug his hole to bedrock. Stubborn. Hounding you until you grasped the door knob, saying the one thing he shouldn’t.

“Please tell me you’re joking? You quit college to come here? Your entire future is planned out for you! I refuse to let you throw your life away for this!” Eddie collided with a force to be reckoned with. Whatever he was going to say on that next intake of breath was suffocated under your knuckles.

Initially, you intended to stab your finger at the center of his chest, but he failed to slow down at the same time you experienced a wave of confidence, so you eviscerated his hope by eliminating the space between your bodies, planting your fist firmly on him. A monumental touch.

The toe of his shoes nudged yours. His heartbeat swelled under your mighty hand. There was a gloss to his eyes, now, knocked from his outburst and coming to accept the gravity of you being here.

Your gaze bore into his. Unwavering, unflinching. Devoted and devastatingly honest. “I have earned the right to this life through blood, sweat, and tears,” your voice quivered. Channeling a lifetime of unworthiness into the cut of your words, leaving no room for argument, “I’ll do with it what I want. I’m not leaving you again, Eddie.” Any rebuttal vanished on those pink lips of his the moment you lifted your finger to his chin, dragging it across his stubble. “And I’d appreciate a thank you next time, sweetheart.”

At that, you were gone.

Eddie’s stomach clenched at the closed door.

“I like her,” Erica admired from her perch next to the TV, and Max agreed in an impressed, “Yeah.” Lucas shifted uncomfortably between them.

“Goddamnit, Goddamnit, Goddamnit.” Eddie paced, running his hands through his hair, exhaling repetitive expletives. Combing, raking, worrying until his oily fringe stood on end, and his short curls frizzed into a mane. God-fucking-damnit. “She.. Oh, fuck.”

He came to a forced halt.

“Hey, buddy,” Steve caught him in the curve of his arm–winced at the impact stretching his wounds–and turned their backs to the rest of the room with the exception of Robin, who offered Eddie a gentle smile.

Controlling his voice so only his chosen trinity heard, Steve thought it was time to give Eddie a heart-to-heart similar to the one he gave him in the Upside Down.

“Now, I acknowledge my privilege in regards to women willing to jump into a lake for me, but I’ve never seen anything like that with these optimistic eyes of mine,” he said in the same cadence Eddie used on him. Sparing a glance at the door, he clicked his tongue. “I’ve never known someone who’s just a friend to sacrifice the amount she has to be here today. We told her you were in trouble, and she came running. College education, whatever the hell Nationals is for her to have delts bigger than mine; nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing else mattered in the world except for protecting you. And that, that, is more than casual friendship, dude.” He leaned in. “To be honest, I’m jealous. If I were you, I’d have put a ring on her finger, like, yesterday.”

Eddie dragged a hand down his face, and kept his eyes closed. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, man. She’s my best friend.”

“Oh!” Robin snapped. “I love rom-coms, let me guess! You’ve been best friends since you were kids and–” She stood, eyes darting as she searched her memory for the hundreds of movies she’d watched. “Yeah, definitely best friends since you were kids, and you grew up together, always there for each other, fell in love with her years ago, and you’re scared that if you confess, either she’ll reject you or she’ll admit she’s been in love with you too, but then there’s the fear of something going wrong in the relationship, and you’d lose not only your girlfriend, but your best friend too! How’d I do? Did I get it right?”

In love with you for years.

The knot in Eddie’s throat bobbed under the eagerness of her beaming grin. Did Robin have a special talent, or was he that easy to read? Either way, his long hair was his saving grace, shielding his red ears from betraying him amidst the second worst week of his life.

“I think it’s sweet she’s wearing your shirt.”

“My..?”

“Yeah,” she answered his confusion. “The tag was sticking out. Your initials are E.M., right? Written with one of those jumbo Sharpies.”

The door knob jiggled. Eddie considered ducking behind a piece of furniture, but he figured his life couldn’t get more fucked than it currently was, and merely blinked at the opening door with disinterest, welcoming his fate.

“Dinner’s here,” you announced, juggling a stack of pizza boxes. The combined anxious energy of the room, and the deathly quiet, alerted you to the man-shaped brooding aura at your side, with his hands stuffed in his leather jacket’s pockets, and head dipped to deliver a condescending remark directly into your ear.

“Exactly what part of this situation screams ‘pizza party’ to you?”

Overflowing with a devious pout, you raised your shoulder to your chin, and batted your lashes at Eddie with a look of pure innocence. “Don’t worry, I ordered a sausage pizza just for you.”

“I’m going to kill you,” he stated.

“Wouldn’t want a second murder charge, Munson.”

“Actually, you’d be the third,” Dustin clarified, opening the top box and taking a slice of pepperoni before you could set them on the table. “He got a second charge yesterday, and now his name’s been released to the public. Got a whole village mob thing goin’ on. Pitchforks and all, probably.”

“Definitely,” Lucas mumbled.

At this point, your brain was too burnt-out from receiving shocking information for one day, so you nodded at them, and said, “Ah.” That’s it. Two murder charges? Wonderful. Police searching for the seven sets of hands clamoring over breadsticks? Lovely. Eddie’s name released to the public? Stupendous!

Life was great.

Yeah, life was great.

You sat on the side of the bed closest to the door, where you left your purse, and leaned against the pillow; and without a hint of communication, Eddie walked around to the other side, and mirrored you, sitting with one leg folded in front of him and the other hanging off the side, body slightly angled away, and scarfing down a slice of pizza. When he was done, you handed him another one. Along with a napkin.

Oddly, his attention seemed to be aimed at the back of your neck, and the tint of rosiness to his cheeks hadn’t disappeared from your innuendo earlier.

Sitting criss-cross on the floor, Robin sighed in bliss, “Warm food feels so good right now.” There was a round of drowsy hums in harmony. Tucking into their cheap, greasy fast food with the kind of melancholic joy of a prisoner eating their last meal.

“So..” you cut through the sounds of chewing. “Is anyone gonna explain why I’m here? Why the cops think Eddie murdered people, why you’re covered in blood, all that?” Considering you were judging Steve and his ability to eat with a gaping hole in his stomach poorly patched over with a strip of sweater, he took on the responsibility of filling you in

“A girl named Chrissy Cunningham–”

“Chrissy? I know her. We took tumbling together at the rec center as kids.” You heard Eddie’s hard exhale behind you, and sneaked a look at him. His eyes were screwed closed, and his face was scrunched in pain, smoothing his fingertips over the bridge of his nose.

Steve continued, a bit more gently, “Well, she was at Eddie’s trailer when she died. Murdered would be a better word, by Vecna, who I’ll get to in a minute, but that’s why the police think it’s him. Anyway, yeah, Vecna’s this dude who lives in a place we call the Upside Down..”

Calm. Calm. Calm. CalmCalmCalm. calmcalmcalmcalmcalm.

Chrissy was at Eddie’s trailer.

Chrissy was at Eddie’s trailer and you could feel the etch of his stare on the side of your face, analyzing your reaction. You gave him nothing but passivity. Resisting the urge to scratch at the sudden itchy sweat dripping down your back. Refusing to take your eyes off Steve, who was going on and on about shit you couldn’t fathom, trying desperately to not dwell on the reason why Eddie cringed when he remembered you knew her. Thinking maybe he meant to pick someone anonymous to date, and this was crossing a boundary. Forcing yourself to hang onto every word falling from Steve’s mouth in order to smother the nagging voices in your head taunting you, telling you he stopped calling because he had a girlfriend.

“And, yeah, the Upside Down is just like Hawkins, but there’s monsters everywhere, and Vecna controls them..”

“Oh!” Robin perked up at you. “You would’ve been great with the Demobats! You could’ve punched them right outta the sky. Couldn’t she, Steve?”

Steve stuttered, “I-I mean, they’re bigger than a normal bat.. And have barbs on their tails. Big teeth and claws. And, uh, stronger than you think.. I could’ve taken them too, if I wasn’t ganged up on by.. ten, or more of them..”

Erica’s judgy sneer spoke for all of you.

You meant no offense to Steve, or any of the kids joining him in explaining this whole other dimension, and girl-with-powers thing, but it was mostly going in one ear and out the other. It was hard to follow along with what nonsense they were spouting when Eddie’s gaze was still on you, and you were ashamed to admit how much it bothered you to know he was dating someone else. Not you. Never you.

“A hell world filled with monsters and a big bad guy that looks like beef jerky, and he’s the one that killed Chrissy and Patrick and Fred, and now Max is next, and all this is connected to a girl whose name is a number. Got it.” You sipped your water.

Dustin quipped, “Yeah, that about sums it up.”

“Great,” Steve groaned, pushing himself out of the chair, and unanimously, the rest of the group followed his lead. “Now that we’re on the same page, we should get going.”

“Wait, where’re you going?” Eddie panicked.

Lucas sucked the oil off his fingers, much to Erica’s revulsion, and then wiped them on his pants, much to Max’s dismay. “We have our own Safe House.”

“Yeah, you two get some rest, we’ll be back tomorrow to work out a plan,” Steve said, making his way to the window and opening it for the party to leave through. “Should probably take care of these bites before I die of sepsis. That would be lame way to go out. And your van is still in the woods next to Reefer Rick’s, right? We’ll take care of it for you. Make it look like you left town or something.”

“Is there anything you want us to save in there before we do?” Robin asked.

Many emotions influenced Eddie’s facial expressions. Fond thoughts of his precious amps, a guitar or two, a few stashes of keepsakes that were less important than the ones in his room, but worthy of rescuing nonetheless. “Yeah, there’s uh..” he trailed off. The crust of his sausage pizza went limp in his hand.

He did not need a bunch of children discovering what else he had hidden in the back of his van–namely, the specially ordered magazines featuring women in little clothing, with pages dogeared on the models who resembled someone currently narrowing their eyes at him.

“Actually, forget it,” he said after spacing out. “Do whatever you want.”

Eddie shoved the crust in his mouth to prevent him from saying more.

“‘Kay.. You two have fun,” Steve said, sporting an annoying salute. It was obvious he wanted to imply more, but reading the mood of the room, he let it go, and climbed through the window, shutting it behind him.

“Not too much fun,” Robin chimed in from beyond the glass as the two halves of the curtain united.

The stillness that followed was heavy. Cold. Even when they were quiet, it was impossible to disguise the racket a group of people produced; breathing, swallowing, shuffling their feet, sighing. There was an awareness in the tension remaining. You and Eddie. Sharing the same bed.

And what better way to shush your nerves than by opening the mini fridge. “Now that the kids are gone,” you said, grabbing two ice-cold bottles, and walking them to Eddie.

He accepted the beer with more gratitude than you deserved. “A 40oz? Have I ever told you you’re an angel?”

“Don’t think you’ve ever called me that, no.”

Each step away from him was a deliberate action. Choosing to return to your side of the bed instead of sitting next to him. Sinking into the plush duvet, backs facing each other, playing with twist tops until the other cracked theirs first–tsss. Minds drifting to the same topic, yet declining to acknowledge it. Until the bile burning the length of your chest was too much to ignore.

Staring at the joint where the popcorn ceiling met the wall, you supposed you went over the sentence in your head hundreds of times before you could articulate it casually and without an underlying tremor of jealousy.

“Not that it matters, and you don’t have to answer, but.. What was Chrissy doing at your trailer?”

“It was just a drug deal.” The fact he chose the direct route of correcting what you were implying was not lost on you. He used a strong, swift, powerful voice to allay any worry you had before it could evolve into suspicion, “When Vecna picks his target, they start getting these massive headaches, and have hallucinations. She came to me looking for weed at first, and then asked for something stronger. I knew I had some K at home, so I took her there, where she.. s-she..”

Glancing, you made eye contact with him through the mirror, and when he turned to look at you, you twisted to face him.

“I swear it wasn’t anything more than a drug deal,” he promised softly. Imbuing his words with sincerity, and his wide eyes with naked candor, pleading for you to believe him with more passion than a friend should have, as if it mattered to him that you knew he didn’t have feelings for her. But neither of you addressed that convoluted mess, just like he didn’t question the significance of you crawling across the bed to sit next to him only once you knew he wasn’t dating someone while you were away.

He spread his legs to increase the staggering amount of thigh you had pressed against his in an invaluable moment of overindulgence.

You clinked his beer.

Both of you closed your eyes, put the bottles to your lips, and tipped your heads back, drinking with a sigh.

“In trouble and from darkness you come, Eddie, yet your coming is joy to me,” you said in a wise, old voice.

“Quoting Earthsea at me?” His chest rose with a besotted hum. “Never change.”

Swallowing the bitter taste of alcohol, you asked, “Is what they said true?”

“Never met Eleven, but yeah, it’s all true. Robin was right, too. We could’ve used your help back there. Coulda punched the bats right outta the sky.” He mimicked throwing weak punches while making cartoon sound effects with his mouth.

You snorted into your bottle while taking another gulp. Eddie copied you, downing his with more vigor. No one could blame him.

“Is it, ah..” he started, running his palm over the shredded strings of his jeans stretched over his knee. “Is it true, about school? Did you..?”

“It’s not so cut and dry,” you assured him, figuring he’d been tortured enough for one day. “I drafted my letter, but it still needs the signatures from the rest of my professors, my Coach, all that stuff.” Beer fueled your dismissive hand movements. “I tried to finish my first midterm on Monday, Eddie, I really did, but I couldn’t just sit there and focus on a stupid test while you were 8 hours away, in deep shit.”

In your periphery, you saw his disappointed head shake, causing knotted strands of his hair to fall over his hunched shoulders.

“I still think you’re ruining your future.”

“What if I don’t give a fuck?” He jerked at your abrasiveness. You collected the condensation from your bottle and dried your hand on your thigh, wedging your fingers over the curve of the muscle, and sliding them along his leg. “What if I don’t want to go to college anymore, or work myself to an early grave and not get appreciated for it? Win all the Golds I can hang around my neck, but can’t walk the next morning? What if I want to join the circus and learn to juggle while tightrope walking? What if I die there, instead? What if I don’t know what I want to do with my life? Is that okay? What if New Years was the last time I saw you?” You stopped to suppress the air in your lungs. Holding it there. Not letting it go. Not until the tears stopped blurring your vision. “What if I don’t give a fuck about any of your dreams for me? Not yours, not mom’s, not Coach’s. What if I’m finally doing what I want?”

He stopped wringing his lips together to ask meekly, “And what’s that?”

You released a sad, single laugh, and conceded to the one thought repeating on an endless loop above all others in your head. “At first I was going to say keeping you out of trouble, but I think we both know.. When you’re in trouble, I’m right there with you. I want to be right there with you. Forever, remember?”

Unable to verbalize what he was thinking to give the outer corners of his eyes a delicate kiss of wrinkles, he made a noise of agreement, and cheers you with a dear lean into your shoulder. You braced him. For just a brief second. It was lovely.

“And to address the elephant in the room,” you began in a mocking tone, “Yes, that’s my gym bag next to my suitcase, and yes, I can still compete at Nationals if I want to. I haven’t officially dropped out yet.”

“Good to know.”

The conversation stalled as Eddie downed the rest of his beer and sat it on the nightstand with a clunk. You weren’t far behind him. Despite the pleasant tipsiness you both had at this point, the humor of the night dwindled to the circular cycles of grief. Of uprooting your life for someone who unfairly witnessed too much.

“I’ve never been more scared in my life,” Eddie admitted in a whisper. His stare was unfocused. Haunted. Remembering things he never should have been subjected to. “I’ve just been running.. Running away in fear. I can’t even process what’s happening anymore.”

“Mm, I think my brain shut down hours ago.” Probably after your sixth caffeine pill wore off post-midterm and post-packing your car for an undetermined amount of days trip and post-driving in the countryside at night. It was reprehensible enough your first thought upon learning of Chrissy’s death was to accuse Eddie of fucking her instead of mourning her life like any sane person, but you tried to give yourself a break. Nothing about the last few days had been sane, or rational.

Gliding the back of your fingers along the seam of his jacket sleeve to the top of its broken zipper in an attempt to soothe him without direct contact, you reeled at the black goop you collected in the process.

Eddie took the hint. “Guess I should shower now.”

“Yeah, you smell awful.”

“Breaking my heart here, babe.”

Nothing woke you up quite like him using a pet name for you. He might rejoice when his battered body hit the mattress later, but you could cry now. Embarrassingly, you could weep at his use of a term of endearment. Babe. He was so sweet to someone so selfish as you.

He asked, “Will you be asleep when I get out?”

You put your whole body into nodding, and answered gruffly, “Oh, yes.”

~~~

Eddie stared at his naked self in the mirror. A bruise the size of a basketball was swelling to fruition along his ass cheek and hip from when he caught Robin during an earthquake. Spinning in a slow circle, he assessed more. Turning this way and that to find scrapes in strange places. Muddy brown blood mixed with unnatural black. Constellations of purple under layers of filth. Traumas to the surface he couldn’t recall earning. He hurt so much, he couldn’t feel them anymore, and scavenging his body was the preferred distraction from where he knew he was retrograding. The inevitable.

Snap.

Twist.

Squish.

Pop.

Adrenaline was a backhanded thing. It aided memory. Thrills you wanted to imprint for a lifetime, and horrors you did not.

Why did he work so hard to swim for air only to be met with the snap of Patrick’s knees echoing across the surface? Jason’s reedy cry when his friend’s mangled body splashed his face?

Why did he keep his eyes open when Chrissy’s popped, and wetness rained upon his cheeks?

Water felt awful on his skull. Drumming like their twisted fingers on his scalp, tracing the ridges of his spine. Running grungy with muck, and never feeling clean. The white soap you left for him was too pure. The shampoo bottle felt wrong under his torn fingernails paling from the strain of his clutch on reality. The cold tile dripped with sludge found at the bottom of the lake as he rested his forehead there, trying to calm himself down.

He tried. He tried. He tried.

Scrubbing himself til his skin blushed pink. Til his tangled hair combed smooth between his fingers. Til the beat of hot water on the tub drowned everything out. Til he didn’t care that he was using your toothbrush after his fourth consecutive day of morning breath.

Wiping the fog from the mirror, he knew he’d lost it.

He didn’t recognize himself.

He did, but he didn’t.

Toeing at his dirty clothes stretched across the floor to be dealt with at a later time, he dressed in his blue checkered boxers, and peeked outside the door.

The room was dark, and you didn’t make a sound.

Creeping further into the short hallway, he saw your back facing him from the bed. Shoulders just a touch above the covers.

Eddie opened the door wider and reached for the light switch. He hesitated, and dropped his hand.

He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t turn off the light. Too dark. For days on end. The forest surrounding Lover’s Lake, Skull Rock, the Upside Down, and Hawkins. Dark dark dark.

Going to the small TV on the chest of drawers, he flipped it on, and turned the volume down low. Adjusting the antennas, it was with a passing bit of ease he understood what he was watching. The fuzz dissipated. The dampness on his skin dried. The wrestlers slammed their backs on the squared circle. Not popular wrestlers who had audiences flocking to see them. Obscure ones. Still, he knew their names from the hours he’d spent at Gareth’s, insisting he used his cable to watch the weekly shows. Because it made him feel connected to you.

He walked to his side of the bed. Watched you for a moment. Shoulders rising and falling in peace under a loose white shirt. Bedsheet wrapped around your fists nestled to your chin.

You were wearing something different from earlier, and he was mostly naked.

Opening your suitcase, the black muscle tee welcomed him like an old friend. Tattered. Holes along the hem. It wasn’t sleeveless when he gave it to you some odd years ago, you must’ve ripped them off. What a liar. Claiming you returned all his clothes before you moved away. He wasn’t too surprised, though, running his finger over the tag with his initials.

Afterall, he collected many more reminders of you.

Moving on, he dug deeper. Clawing his way through your neatly folded outfits. Searching, searching. Pulling things out at random and holding them up to his body and tossing them. Over and over. He was panicking. Sweating. Couldn’t catch his breath. The inevitable. It was happening. It was happening. It was coming. It was here.

His chest tightened.

He grabbed a dark blue sweatshirt and pulled it over his head. It didn’t fit. The cuffs resisted meeting his wrist. Covered most of his skin. It’d have to do.

He went to his side of the bed again. And stared.

Snap.

Twist.

Squish.

Pop.

“Hey.” It came out as a whimper. “Are you awake?”

The first tear beaded over his lower lashes.

Could you feel it if he touched you? The secrets he kept suppressed for years? Screaming violence in his blood when you got a little too close. When he let you take things a little too far. When he dropped his guard a little too much. When you looked at him for the first time in months, and he got carried away, almost pressing his forehead to yours in a kind of intimacy he’d never explored before. Take, take, take. More, more, more.

He couldn’t. It was inappropriate. Friends. You were just friends. Best friends.

What were you wearing? He couldn’t find bottoms that fit. His legs were exposed. Were yours?

Shaking. Shaking. The ache was getting worse. Building, building, building. Throat constricting. Teeth clacking. Inappropriate, inappropriate, inappropriate.

A tear clung to the corner of his unsteady frown.

“Can I hold you?”

You didn’t answer, sleeping.

His Light. His Safe House.

Snap.

Twist.

Squish.

Pop.

The last of his energy being used to stave off the inevitable vanished. He buckled. He couldn’t do it. Beaten down by his reputation, his cowardice, his inability to succeed, his self-destructive habit of resisting taking refuge in the one person who brought him unconditional shelter without expecting anything in return.. All of it broke at once.

Light.

Safety.

Refuge.

Sanctuary.

With his gaze on the floor, his tears dotted the carpet as he tried between desperate inhales, “N-Need to hold you.”

He pulled back the covers and crawled into bed next to you. Shifting closer, closer. Sliding his arm under your head, throwing his other across your chest, and bringing you to him. More, more, more. It was wrong. It should feel wrong. It didn’t feel wrong. Your sleepy face was pressed into his flexed bicep, lifting your cheek to his nose. To where his lips muttered into your soft skin. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.

He said it in coughs due to his sobs. “Sorry–S-Sorry,” he wept. “I–Sorry. I. I.” His tears slipped over his nose, falling to your cheek in one stride. He shouldn’t be doing this. Holding you like this. Legs tucked against yours. It was wrong. Inappropriate. “Just need to hold you. I’m so sorry. Oh, God. I’m s-so sorry.” He risked more intimacy. Hugging you to his chest with the strength of his dormant urges. Years of cravings stirring in his muscles. Desires coaxing his lips–just once–to discover your jaw as he attempted to control himself, and force his face into the vacancy below your ear, burying himself against your neck, making a small whine when your hand found his safe haven.

You reassured him in a tender stroke along his temple. “It’s okay, Eddie. I’m here. You can hold me.”

Taglist: @xxhospital-for-soulsxx @myfavoritesareproblematic @henhouse-horrors @tlclick73 @sidthedollface2 @i-will-duckyou-up @qnsfwthoughts @captainonaboat @eddiemuns0nl0ver @godcreatoreli @harrys-tittie @eg-dr3amer3 @trixyvix88 @venomsvl @lacrymosa-24 @sashaphantomhive @sharp-and-swift @emokid-ellie @mantorokk-writes @drdvlss @mirrorsstuff @bebe0701 @eddiethesexy @edsforehead @b-irock @brittney69 @princesseddie @hes-a-rainbow @churchmuffins @barbielibra @lulukings92 @emotionaldreamer @whoahoney @walleloveseve @glossiepjm @hellfire-puppet @eiriancrow @munsons-mayhem28 @mattymurdocksbitch @tayhar811

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson angst #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x y/n #eddie x y/n #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfic #stranger things x reader #stranger things x you

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obsidiancreates · 5 months

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He Was A Dwarf, He Was A Hobbit, Can I Make It Anymore Obvious

How can I be more obvious?

Thorin should probably be listening to the meeting more intently, but his mind can't help it's focus elsewhere.

He's given Bilbo armor of Mithril, not only a metal more valuable than any other single item in the treasury, but a piece of light weight and easy maneuverability, such as fits Bilbo's methods of fighting and defending.

He did so in front of the whole company, and professed that he trusted only Bilbo of all of them. Perhaps these were dismissed by the hobbit as acts of pure madness, which would be... more than fair, but Thorin had reiterated Bilbo's deserving of the gift many times after The Battle, to prove the act genuine.

He defends Bilbo at every turn, against any who dare question his place in Erebor. He's had plants and books and cookware and even soil itself brought over from Hobbiton specifically, after learning of the various Shire settlements. He's asked Bilbo about his family history many times, always prompting Bilbo to go on when the hobbit worried he'd become too long-winded.

Mahal knows those times were near brain-melting, with how each family branch came with several stories, and those stories came with stories, and how the family tree was really more a twisting vine that kept merging and then splitting off and merging again with other vines.

But he'd paid attention, and made sure to let Bilbo know by referencing some of those stories sometimes. And it always made Bilbo smile brightly, gleam brighter than any jewel, than even the Arkenstone itself.

And yet, Bilbo seems to remain under the impression that the only intent is friendship.

Even when Thorin asks him to weigh in on "Matters of the royal family". When Thorin says he considers Bilbo apart of the family.

So obviously, the question occupies him often.

How can I be more obvious?

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

Bilbo angrily shoves another pie Bombur's way. Bombur looks at him.

"Not that I'm complain', Bilbo," he says, grabbing his fork. "But this is the third one, you know."

"Well aware," Bilbo huffs. "But the meat's too dry again. I'm still struggling with adjusting to cooking so far below ground."

"Is it that different from your smial?"

"You've no idea," Bilbo grumbles, rolling out more dough. "It may be under dirt, but under dirt is very different from under stone. Not to mention cooking with coal instead of wood. And the difference in grain types, herbs, even the texture of the meats are different."

"Can't get it to taste like home?"

"I'm not trying to make it for myself, I'm trying to perfect it for Thorin."

Bombur grins. "Really?"

"Mmm, he mentioned once the texture he prefers his meats to be in pies, and I haven't been able to get it right yet. If I was at home, it'd be perfect every time, mind you."

"Why're you so focused on that, then?" Bombur hopes this means Thorin will finally stop with his shameless and, frankly, desperate flirting.

"Trying to court him, obviously. But don't you dare tell him I said so!"

Bombur chokes on the pie. "What?!"

"No way to start a courtship, asking outright like that. Makes a bloody scene of everything," Bilbo mutters as he puts the new pie in to bake. "The things I would hear about Primula after she asked Drogo, just out in the open like that, ha! Good for them that it worked out, but I'm too old to risk that kind of humiliation now."

"Humiliation?"

"The gossip." Bilbo's tone is so somber that Bombur wonders if perhaps 'gossip' means in Hobbiton what 'beheadings' means in Erebor. "Everyone knowing you're trying to start a relationship with someone, it always breeds misery."

"How?"

"Well," Bilbo starts with a rueful chuckle, "Angry competition, for one! If everyone knows who everyone's after so obviously, things sour quick. Attempts to ruin the courtships, mainly. The lies Prim had to deal with, just unbelievable, all to try and drive Drogo away from her."

"There's that little respect for courtships?"

"On the surface, there's plenty. Behind one's back, though, that's when it becomes a dreadful business. Not to mention the risk of rejection. Better for a quiet one where nothing goes anywhere and things can stay amicable. If it's public, well." Bilbo shakes his head. "That always gets messy."

"You think Thorin would you reject you?"

"I've no idea. Which is exactly how I want it." Bilbo sits down. "As long as I continue with this path, Bombur, I might never have to have my heart broken."

"And... what if he doesn't know you're trying?"

"Same result."

"And you'd just never ask?"

"Nope."

"... How do you think dwarves court, then?"

"I heard something about gifts, I think. Three of them, right?"

"Usually, yeah." Like a Mithril shirt, for example. Or moving almost the whole of Hobbiton into the mountain. As to if that counts as one gift or as many, that depends on who you ask.

"And something about braids and beads, I believe."

"Right. Has Thorin asked to braid your hair?"

"No, of course not. I don't know if he could, actually." Bilbo frowns suddenly, and touches his hair. "It's a bit too short for dwarven braids, isn't it?"

"He could make do."

"Mmm... but we're talking as if he'll return the affection."

"What would he have to do, then? To return it?"

"Usually it's done quite slowly. Having something to give back when food is brought over, like having a tart ready at the table. Checking if they're low on anything, as well, which basically amounts to sharing one's kitchen. Offering to mend things that may need mending in return, and then after a bit insisting it's no trouble and no return needed. And sharing, that is what really makes it official. Especially if in public."

"Really?"

"Sharing a pie in public is as good as shouting it from the top of the hill."

"Never would've thought Hobbits to be subtle courters."

"Please," Bilbo huffs again. "If we were anything but, I assure you idle gossip sessions would end up more like what happens here after insulting someone's metalworking in the forges."

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

"That's the problem?" Kili groans and plops his forehead down onto the table. "Uncle's been going mad, and Bilbo's been flirting right back the whole time!"

"Why don't they just ask each other about courting rituals?" Fili says, throwing his hands up. "We're the ones suffering watching all of this!"

"Tauriel and I talked about all this ages ago," Kili says into the stone tabletop. "How has Uncle not realized Bilbo has no way of knowing Dwarf courting?"

"Should we tell him?"

"Someone has to, he'll never figure it out at this rate."

"Should someone tell Bilbo, also?"

"Can you imagine? Bilbo learning Uncle has been very publicly trying to court him this whole time? He'll die of shame!"

"He won't ever figure it out either, though."

"You tell Bilbo then, Fili. I refuse to watch him turn to smoke and ash when he finds out the whole mountain knows about this."

#the hobbit #bilbo baggins #thorin oakenshield #thorin x bilbo #bagginshield #fanfic #my attempts at fanfic

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aerascreamer · 2 months

Text

After seeing posts about who’s right between Jason and Bruce, I’d say there’s really no definitive answers to this dilemma.

Batman has the status of a « hero ». Heroes at their core are characters who inspires and embodies important values.

For him, it’s resilience. For him, It’s defiance. It’s putting his life on the line for innocents. It’s looking at crime, violence and darkness right in the eyes and say : no. It’s becoming a beacon in the deepest night.

And it’s sad for me that this aspect is seen as bad. That He’s criticized so much for not wanting to kill when he devoted his entire life against it. That killing is an acceptable answer. That’s he’s criticized for choosing life and investing in infrastructures to rehabilitate and help people in needs (victims AND criminals who wants to turn their life around). He’s the only hero that is frowned upon for incarcerating instead of murdering.

Batman comics have a darker tone than others, but that doesn’t he should become some kind of anti-hero like the Punisher. On the contrary: being in such a dark environment and not falling into it is a testament to his strength of mind.

He should be respected for going against the cycle of violence and bloodshed while offering second chances to those who need it.

Jason as Robin saw the magic in the mantle and the chance to make the world better.

But all his hopes and dreams were killed by the Joker. A man his mentor and father has been fighting for years already and who killed hundreds.

When he learned that the Joker was still alive, it’s a slap in the face of everthing. He lived to try and make the world better. He grew up in the most ruthless part of Gotham and still hoped for the best. He died at the hands of evil incarnate. He died while saving his mother you betrayed him. He died believe in Bruce’s mission.

And it didn’t matter. Gotham didn’t change. The Joker is still killing. So many victims and their close ones are crying. And there’s a new kid who believes in Batman like he did once.

For him, there needs to be more. Every system in Gotham is failing. The cops are corrupt, Arkham and BlackGate aren’t prison at all, rapist are still running free, people are forced to turn to crime or sell themselves because of poverty while scumbags profit of off their misery. Many people had second chances. Even third and fourth. But they are unredeemable and a threat to innocent people with only one option left: execution.

In the end both have points and both do fail:

Batman is choosing a non lethal approach to be a beacon, a symbol, a protector. People in Gotham can see there’s someone looking out for them. There’s still good people out there wanting to do the right thing and willing to help you turn your life around.

But some people aren’t good. Some benefits or take pleasure at others suffering and will never take the olive branch to redemption. And those people still walk free. The structures that are supposed to contain or stop those people are failing and letting crime breed.

Red Hood’s will to get his hands dirty to make Gotham safer by taking out the cruelest of the criminals. People who lived in fear of the bigger fish can sleep in peace. People who lived in pain can finally get retribution and move on. He makes sure the weak and vulnerable are being protected and put an end to their abuse.

But killing can’t be undone. If Red Hood made an error of judgment or mistook the wrong target, then he might have shot an innocent person. Unless he personally saved them or made their lives better, citizens will fear RedHood and not see him any better than Two-Face.

As much as I like Jason and Bruce reconciliating, it’s impossible. Batman can’t let Red Hood and let him kill. Red Hood will never believe again in Batman’s way. Batman letting someone kill freely and Red Hood not killing are in anti-thesis of their character.

Either canon make Jason break his principles or fanon break Bruce’s principles in order for them to be father and son again.

The best they’ll get is teaming up out of necessity and putting their differences aside temporarily to save people. But that truth will only end in a fight

Bruce will never be the father Jason needs. Jason will never be the son Bruce knew.

They long for each other.

They love each other.

But there’s no going back to being family.

And, as bittersweet as it is, that’s how the things are now.

#dc #batman #bruce wayne #dc comics #jason todd #batfam #dc red hood #red hood #character analysis #rambles

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ofsappho · 8 months

Text

treehouse chapter 29 (tumblr version)

🔞 Dream of the Endless I Lord Morpheus x reader 🔞

Unplanned pregnancy, SMUT. 8.5k words of sin.

crossposted to AO3 (want to read the whole story? click here)

You run and Morpheus goes after you. Tags under read more. posted here for the folks who want the smut without wading through a ton of plot.

SMUT TAGS:

primal kink, hide and seek/running and hunting, CNC, consent check ins, aftercare, tentacles if you squint, one sided hate sex (she hates him, he loves her)

Reader POV:

You stop screaming about halfway down once you realize that you’re not falling - you’re floating. Like a fucking flower petal.

You land feet-first on the soft, green grass outside the castle and promptly ruin everything by stumbling to your knees, scraping your skin raw and red against the dirt. It’s not your fault. Flying wasn’t on the fucking agenda.

The storm above roils with flashes of sickly yellow lightning and sullen, moody clouds.

Anger bleeds from you like the slit throat of the man you murdered. The feeling clings to your skin, warming you against the tempest’s chill.

It’s been a very long time since you’ve punished someone other than yourself, and you lust half-starved for Morpheus’s misery, for the chance to try your freshly-blooded canines.

As you get to your feet, the fog surrounding you lifts just enough to show flashes of a thick, thorny wood up ahead. A forest fashioned from charcoal shadows and long, spindly branches with no leaves. Not trees, only their skeletons.

It will do. Does the dried blood on your shirt make you some kind of morbid Little Red Riding Hood? If that’s the case, the Big Bad Wolf always dies in the end. Perfect.

Without looking back, you sprint for it.

Lucienne POV

While Lucienne’s life has become more exciting since Lord Morpheus decided to make you his business, it certainly hasn’t gotten easier.

After all, what is his business is her business. Therefore, you and your relationship are her business.

She was doing a perfectly acceptable job managing everything, she thinks to herself somewhat crossly, until the two of you decided to make her life worse.

But while she doesn’t understand why you are trying to escape when you will never, ever make it out of this realm without the Lord’s permission, she accepts that it is not her place to question such… obscure, esoteric decisions and seeks to assist you as requested. To an extent.

Why, is Lord Morpheus’s coat on fire? Lucienne hasn’t seen him so worked up since Rose Walker. Not even then. “Where is she?” He demands, using the rolling thunder and howling wind as his voice.

Play dumb. “…Who is ‘she,’ my lord?” Lucienne winces. Perhaps not that dumb.

Though none of the books can catch fire, as they are not written upon flammable, single-use Waking-world paper, Lucienne resists the urge to beat the hem of his flaming robe away from the stacks of parchment and dream-paper. Call it a librarian’s force of habit.

“My- my intended.” The king’s glare would put the fear of the Endless in any lesser being.

But Lucienne is no lesser being. In fact, she’s rather put out at the complete absence of decorum Lord Morpheus has seen fit to show… this entire debacle.

Sneaking around like a common thief? Lying to you, keeping you completely unaware of the station that he has elevated you to? Casting disgrace and disrepute on the Dreaming and its people by terrifying you of it so?

Lord Morpheus practically dragged you here stark naked and screaming, for all intents and purposes.

And to add insult to injury, he dares to act as though she should be thrilled to debase herself before him.

“I don’t recall ever meeting your intended, my king. You must forgive me,” Lucienne snaps, peering at the figure on fire over the tops of her spectacles.

She is not so decrepit as to misremember when Lord Morpheus formally put forth his suit for the Lady Calliope.

Every realm and kingdom rang with it. Lord Morpheus brought the Lady Calliope in full honor through the Gates of Horn and Ivory, in a gleaming chariot of gold drawn by Helios’s horses covered in rose garlands.

In Lucienne’s unasked opinion, it is the height of disrespect on her Lord’s part to deprive you of such honors. She’s not surprised you’ve rejected him, and neither should he.

His flaming cloak flares blue, leaving holes in the carpet. Repairing them will significantly inconvenience Merv. They may need to replace the whole floor at the rate their king is going. What a pointless waste of a good carpet.

“You are my Vizier. You are my right hand. If you cannot tell me where that woman is, I will throw you out that window myself. And then I shall strip you of your position and seal, and set the hounds of Hell on what remains of you.”

Lucienne doesn’t think it’s nearly that serious. But then again, she has never been in love like Lord Morpheus loves, nor has she misstepped the way Lord Morpheus perennially steps on cracks in concrete.

In her mind, Lucienne apologizes to you. She hoped to grant you a little more time. “She went that way,” Lucienne says, gesturing to the Great Beyond on the outskirts of the kingdom. Hopefully, you’ve made it far enough to enact whatever chaotic scheme you’re brewing.

“Good luck, Lord Morpheus!” He’ll need it.

Lucienne watches the king disappear without a word of thanks. Once she’s sure that he’s gone, she goes to inspect the damage to the library.

Her earlier fears were warranted; the carpet is done for, along with a few floorboards. They’re singed to a crisp, filling the air with an acrid, burnt stink. With a long, suffering, frustrated sigh, Lucienne summons the pumpkin-headed caretaker.

Reader POV

Your shoes-

They’re getting in the way. The laces have come undone, and you trip over them, then over a series of tree roots rippling above the ground.

When you kick them off in an impulsive, frustrated fit, you expect the ground to be full of sharp things, thorns, jagged pebbles, and maybe even a few bones.

Your feet instead sink into pillowy-soft dirt. As soon as your toes go near a twig, the hard edges around it blunt until it metamorphoses into a blade of tender young grass. The pebbles turn into balls of fuzzy moss, and upon closer inspection, the bones are oddly shaped mushrooms.

So Lucienne was telling the truth when she said nothing in this place could hurt you.

The wind picks up, blowing your hair around your face in a halo and rustling through the leaves in a high, wailing sound, screeching like a pulled fire alarm left too long.

The hairs on your arms stand, and goosebumps trail down your spine.

As you start to run again, you wonder if you’re not only hearing the wind but also some wounded creature crooning and crying out for help.

It’s coming from behind you, from the castle.

Shit.

Shit shit shit.

You feel a cramp open up in your side from running so hard, from panting and clawing for oxygen to keep you upright and moving.

The forest goes on and on, a never-ending series of towering, menacing dead trees with gaping shadows and a horizon that grows increasingly distant no matter how far you go.

Fragments of dried bark dig into your palm as you brave yourself on a withered tree trunk.

Run.

You lurch a few feet forward.

The shadows grow maws. They grow fangs. They nip at the backs of your heels.

Morpheus is coming for you.

Everything aches, but you keep going. Your stomach grows nauseous, but you keep going.

The sky above you turns a sickly shade of blue-gray, a horrible warning sign for the torrent of freezing rain about to accompany your desperate, hunted flight.

He will catch you, stick his claws in your back, and parade you through that grand palace in chains.

Or not.

Morpheus says he loves you. Look at what you’ve done with your love for him. No chains are needed for the dead.

But who knows?

You don’t. You do know better than to hope.

That thought carries you just a little further. No matter how weary or wounded you become, you’ll never stop fighting for yourself or your baby bird.

Your heart pounds in your chest like a war drum, and your blood sings in your veins.

You flee past two trees, then three, then four. Their long arms beckon you to turn down one of their dark, haunted paths, to put your back to the horizon and lose yourself in the underbrush like a rabbit running straight into a trap.

You cling to slivers of gold and orange sunbeams peeking through the branches with all the dying hope you can dredge up. The edge of the forest isn’t that far away. You’ll feel the sun on your face and outrun the storm in a moment.

A twig snaps.

Something takes a step. It breathes.

At the corner of your eyes, the shadows pulse and twist.

So he’s found you. You never truly thought you’d make it out of here, but disappointment weighs on your chest like a brick pulling you into the depths of a cold, unforgiving lake. The forest may have had no end, and you were only deluding yourself that it did.

The scent of salt and ice is so heavy in the air that you can taste frozen crystals forming on the roof of your mouth, briny with a tinge of iron.

A dark, endless void of shadows blocks your path, reaching the top of the stormy sky. “Boo.” Morpheus wears a disgusting smile filled with sharp white teeth. It makes you feel things. Abject terror. The impulse to drop to your knees and beg for mercy. And a sick, sadistic heat under your skin.

He came hunting.

You love it.

He wears a red flush on his stark white cheeks as if chasing you took effort. “Dream.” The show is appreciated, even though you both know his godly biology doesn’t work like that. A+ for effort.

It enhances the glowing blue of his irises, like twin stars shining bright in his face against the rich obsidian cloak with a smoking hem flaring around his shoulders. He is a stained glass painting of an archangel, and you are the creature of clay and Adam’s blood barred from Heaven.

You watch the razor edge of his teeth sink into his bottom lip with a feeling reminiscent of envy rotting in the pit of your stomach.

His voice has the sensuality of freshly carded silk brushing over bare skin. “How on earth did you find yourself out here, beloved? These woods are dangerous. They say there is a monster here that eats pretty girls.” Morpheus tilts his head slightly, and his smirk widens.

Your rust-colored nails flex and dig into the hem of your sweater. “Do you get many of those passing through?” You snark back. If I’m so special, prove it. Do what you wouldn’t do for a goddess, or a queen, or a star.

Unfortunately, the blow doesn’t land. He acts like you’re the only person he’d come for. “None as pretty as you. So what are you doing alone? My lady, I’d be delighted to lead you back to the castle. You’re shivering.” There is a grating, patronizing indulgence in his tone. He’s fucking humoring you. He knows you’re full of shit and that no matter how hard you deny it, his feelings are a truth you can’t sully.

That doesn’t mean you’ll give up. “I’m not going back.” How far can you go before Morpheus turns away? How terrible and cruel and horrible can you be before he decides you’re not worth the trouble?

You want- no, need to find out.

It’s only fair. You have suffered, and you never stopped loving him. Let Dream suffer and see if his love endures, if he’s even half the person you are.

In the blink of an eye, the shadows disappear as if they were never there. “Anything could happen to you. Some fiend could carry you off-“ Morpheus says evenly as his cloak shifts into the elegant coat you adore.

Now, he is but a beautiful stranger in the woods. Your clothes are a weak, flimsy barrier to his searching, heated gaze, trailing intimately over the full curves of your body and your rounded belly.

Has Morpheus read your mind and revealed your own brutal desire concealed in your skull like a minefield waiting to explode? “You’ve already done that.” Maybe he didn’t need to. You’ve given yourself away in your dilated pupils, and how you gave up on running as soon as you got what you wanted.

“Hurt you-“ Dream ignores your provocation as he spreads his long-fingered hands, showing he holds no weapon or trick.

For every step he takes towards you, you take one back. “You also already did that,” You frostily remind him.

Morpheus’s coat would irritate you less if it were cast off on the ground and crushed into the dirt along with the rest of his clothes. His hair would be prettier fucked up and tugged between your fingers. You might be able to stand the sight of his mouth better if it were bleeding and bruised from your teeth.

The corner of his mouth ticks up as his eyes gleam with mischief. “Or dishonor you, right here. Who would hear you scream?” He backs you against a tree, and the bark snags your sweater. “Nobody,” Morpheus leans in to whisper. His collarbones peek out of the neckline of his shirt, as delicately articulated as the hollow bones of a bird.

Heat stirs in your blood at the sight.

You felt good watching that man die for Morpheus. And then empty, dreadfully empty. “Don’t touch me,” You hiss, more of a challenge than a deterrent. You want to feel good again.

Morpheus could make you feel good again.

A black shade knocks on your skull at the edges of your vision and politely asks to be let in. Your eyes roll back as it walks through the door you’ve opened inside of yourself and sees what you define as ‘good.’

“…Is that what you really want, darling?” Dream asks, both mocking your resistance and subtlety, softly acknowledging what he found behind your eyes.

Bile builds in your mouth. No. No softness. He has no right. “Why would I ever let you near me again? You are a liar and a fucking dick,” You hiss venomously before gathering saliva and spitting straight into his face.

Morpheus blinks a few times, his eyes round and blameless. “I love you.” For a single breathless second, you don’t hate him, and he never hurt you. You’re two children playing tag in the grass or tackling each other into the dirt.

You snap out of it. “Fuck off.” You feel a thousand degrees hotter. Sticky sweat gathers under your clothes along the heavy curve of your breasts and clings to the small of your back.

He braces one muscled arm on the tree above you and leans in to take in the scent of your hair, so close that his lips almost skim the shell of your ear. “I adore you like this. Fighting me, fighting yourself. It’s charming.” You shiver, unable to stop yourself from reacting.

He’s not touching you. When he exhales, you feel his breath pass over your cheek. He takes a step closer, looming tall and majestic over you. Morpheus delicately pins his arm on your other side, effectively boxing you in.

But he’s still not touching you.

You swallow quickly.

“I’m not fucking doing it for your benefit. Can’t you take a hint? I said no. You have shown me amply this past month how little of a fuck you give. So why don’t you keep doing that and go the fuck away?”

Despite his best efforts at seeming harmless, you can’t shake the impression of his wild, almost-inhumanly blue eyes and too-gaunt cheekbones, like a wraith wearing an angel’s wings.

His eyes trail over your flushed cheeks and the pink of your tongue as you lick your lips.

He reaches out to cradle your face before pulling his hand back when he sees you lean in. “Ah, so this is a test. You want to see how far I’m willing to go. You want to see what I’ll do for you, how long I’ll wait, and how much patience I have,” Morpheus murmurs in a voice as soft as fog.

You should-

You should tell him that he’s got it all wrong. You should tell him that you’ll never forgive him and there’s nothing he can do. You’ve made up your mind and hardened your heart.

“And if it is?”

He kisses you.

The worst part is that you let him.

Morpheus’s hands clutch you against him, your belly brushes his coat, his lips are warm and inviting, and he kisses you like he’s waited his whole long immortal life to do it. His tongue brushes yours, drawing a quiet moan from you. He tastes like salt and musk, and your arms circle his neck, pulling him further into your kiss.

“Then I look forward to passing it,” Morpheus says breathlessly as he breaks away, pressing his forehead to your temple as if nothing is wrong.

With strength you didn’t know you had, you take him by the lapels of his coat and shove him back. Fuck him. Fuck this.

You turn and run before he realizes what’s happening. Panic isn’t egging you on anymore - it’s your fury, smothered slightly but not anywhere near finished. Oh no, you’re not fucking done with Morpheus. You want to see him draped in your agony, you want the light in his eyes extinguished.

You don’t make it two feet. Darkness wraps you up in a warm, gentle embrace, blocking out the whole world other than Dream, watching you struggle with his arms crossed over his chest.

Shadows thread around your wrists, pinning them behind your back. “Running away again? I’ll always catch you, and you’ll never escape.” Morpheus runs a finger along your jawline. His skin feels cool, and the touch is far too tender.

“You don’t know half of what I’m capable of.” Your glare would singe his stupidly immaculate hair off if it could.

His finger trails down your throat and hooks in the neckline of your bloody sweater, pulling it slightly away from your body. “I think I do. I think I know you better than anyone else, dead or alive.” For every ounce of your poison, Dream gives you back steady, unwavering adoration, tugging on the sweater without shying from the stains.

When the damned thing gives, you’re not even that upset. It falls to the ground in two pieces, leaving you in your tank top and pants.

“What the fuck?” You squirm in your makeshift binds, trying and failing to find a sharp edge you could use to convince him to release you.

“That divine mouth of yours may lie, but this,” Morpheus hisses as he rests his palm at the base of your throat to feel your blood rush crazed and wild at his touch. “This doesn’t.” The corner of his mouth turns up as you moan, reluctantly eager for him to tighten his grasp just a little more.

Morpheus tuts before releasing your throat.

Before your feelings smart from the loss, his shadows pluck at the straps of your tank top. “How fucking dare you? Get off of me.”

“But I don’t want to,” Morpheus parries in a high-pitched, playfully mocking tone.

Oh, he has a goddamn death wish. “Do you think I care?” When one of the shadowy tendrils tries to sweep lovingly across your cheek, you bite it. Hard. It tastes like fresh snow. You far prefer it to Desire’s sickly-sweet flesh.

With a single flick of his hand, he makes a deep crimson mark appear on his throat, a perfect image of the imprint of your teeth. Morpheus tilts his face as proudly as if he were wearing a crown.

“I’ve thought about having you like this, bare in our home, ever since I left you.” He rids you of your pants with surgical precision, casting the shreds of rust-speckled fabric somewhere, never to be found again. As Morpheus turns to your tank top, his shadows tighten their grip on your hands, pushing your chest forward.

You watch the intelligence and rational thought die in his eyes when he sees your breasts free of clothing, hanging round and heavy in the cool air.

“What? You’ve never seen my boobs before?” You snarl after growing tired of a full minute of speechlessness.

Your dark binds tug you back and back until you find yourself held upright by a tree trunk.

Dream delicately sweeps strands of your hair away from your throat so he can see without obstruction. “They’re… they’re bigger,” He whispers hoarsely. His fingers pause in their exploration of your sternum long enough to feel your pulse thudding under your skin.

Then he covers one of your breasts with his palm. You hear him groan under his breath when he realizes there’s far too much you for one of his hands. “I distinctly, intimately, precisely remember the shape and size of yours, and they’ve grown…” His fingers knead your soft breasts slowly, relieving a tenderness you didn’t even know you had.

There’s absolutely nothing sacred or respectful in his eyes glittering like sapphires. He only has a wolf’s hunger for a rabbit for you.

And then his face is pressed to the crook of your neck, his lips moving on the column of your throat as he runs a thumb over your nipple once, twice.

His touch feels different. Maybe he’s fucking with your head, or maybe being pregnant has done something to your nerves. Every little movement feels like too much pleasure and not enough of it at the same time.

Heat washes through you, blooming from his mouth and his hands to pour into your belly. “Fuck, you’re so fucking creepy, oh-“ You gasp, hating how much your body craves him.

Your underwear sticks to your thighs as you shift in search of a position that lessens the ache in your core.

Your head falls against the tree as you writhe in his hold. He runs his nails along the curve of your breast, greedily soaking in your every whimper and how you jolt, unconsciously arching closer.

You feel Morpheus lick a hot line along your throat. “Sensitive.” His other hand clutches your waist, your round hips, then palms your ass. A contented groan rumbles deep in his chest.

In revenge, you tug fervently at his coat, getting it about halfway down his strong shoulders before you start clawing at his shirt. The fabric disappears beneath your fingers, leaving him as bare-chested as you.

Instead of avoiding your nails, Morpheus encourages you to carve gilded furrows into his back. “I’m sorry, I cannot- I can’t help myself,” He says, far too pleased with himself to mean that stupid apology.

You look down to see what’s captured his attention now, only to find your tits littered with fingerprint bruises.

That sudden movement displeases him, and he pins you against the tree with a hand on your throat. “Beautiful. And when I…” When he leans down to take one of your nipples into his hot mouth and sucks, bolts of lightning dance and fizz under your skin, electrifying every nerve.

Your hips tremble and push towards him as your dripping cunt pulses and flexes around nothing. “Stop it,” You moan, trying to shove him away yet only managing to tangle your fingers in his hair. Then he switched to your other breast, kissing and lapping at the hypersensitive skin. “Oh God.” You give up fighting for a moment, too caught up in the sensations to care about your pride.

Morpheus barely has to apply the slightest pressure with his knee for your legs to part.

His fingers drag along your inner thighs to capture the arousal leaking through your panties. Before you get the chance to feel ashamed, Dream sucks his shiny fingers into his mouth, savoring your taste with an almost-blissful glaze across his eyes.

With his lips still coated in you, Morpheus looks like the very picture of sin.

After he’s cleaned his fingers, he runs them along the soaked cloth covering your cunt, pressing down just enough to tease. “You’re so needy, my love. I’m horribly cruel, aren’t I, letting you suffer in this state without my assistance.” You grind your hips against his hand, trying to get him to do something about your needy, swollen clit, desperate for relief.

He tastes like salt and sex when he kisses you. “I’m here now. I’ll take care of you.” Morpheus tears through your underwear like ripping paper. He works your clit with his thumb until you’ve soaked his palm and then slides a single finger into your pussy. Without waiting for you to adjust, he sinks in a second finger knuckle-deep.

You cry out, shaking like a leaf, as your core spasms and milks his digits. You thought that could satisfy the ache but it barely scratches the surface. You need more-

You take his chiseled face between your hands and drag him down for another kiss. “I literally despise you.” To spite him further, you mulishly keep your mouth shut as he starts fucking you with his long fingers.

It turns out that your stifled whines aren’t needed. Your wet cunt more than makes up for it. Loud, soaked squelches echo, and your legs shut to hide the sounds. That only forces Dream’s fingers deeper into your pussy and grinds your throbbing clit into his palm.

You can’t stay quiet a second longer, not as your stomach tightens and tears gather in your eyes from the rush. Those breathless, pathetic noises are all yours, and Morpheus answers them with a breathless laugh.

He keeps up a steady rhythm, carefully and precisely aiming for that sensitive spot deep inside that drives you fucking insane. “You want me to be the villain? Is that it?”

You sink your teeth into his shoulder as deep as they’ll go as your thighs shake, ecstasy rushing painfully through your muscles.

His eyes burn a brighter shade of sapphire when you bite him again. “You wish for me to be cruel? To torment you?” Morpheus wraps his other arm around your hips to help you fuck yourself on his digits. “No, beloved. I won’t,” He purrs in your ear and then kisses away the sweat from your brow.

“Go fuck yourself, Morpheus. I hate you. I hate you,” You chant in a trembling, weak voice. He doesn’t need to help you anymore, you’re shamelessly riding his hand and dripping slick to the ground.

“And I love you.”

You cry out at his words. They fucking- they do something that makes you feel hotter, more sensitive, drives you closer to the edge.

“I want- that’s it, my darling. You’re close. I can feel it.” Your pussy quivers repeatedly as the tension in your belly grows unbearable. He quirks his fingers, hitting that sensitive place as he rocks your puffy clit into his palm.

Your body is betraying you, and you’re just fucking letting him ruin you. “No. No. No, fuck- no, I’m not,” You try, blubbering denials through cries of pleasure.

Morpheus fucks into you faster, harder, matching the pace your hips set. “Tell me what you need. Use me for your pleasure, beloved.” Fuck. Fuck. You’re going to-

Your knee slides up a little, giving him more room to stretch your tight cunt further. “Come for me. I know you want to.” His tone is soft and affectionate, calling to you sweeter than a siren’s song. It tells you to give in and promises unimaginable bliss if you do.

You come with your eyes rolled back and your mouth open, shuddering, your hips jerking on his fingers, and waves of hot flame pouring down your spine.

Your orgasm fucking drenches his fingers and your muscles clamp down tighter, each vicious pulse so strong that you taste iron in the back of your mouth. All you can hear is your heartbeat, loud and insistent, and the low sound of Morpheus’s approval. You’re wracked with pleasure, wholly gone to anything else.

Just before the feeling dwindles, Dream slides his fingers out of your swollen folds, forcing you to finish coming on nothing. “That’s it. There you go. Good girl,” He says with a smile. Your frustrated wail fills the air, and you clutch at his wrist, wordlessly begging for more. “I’m not so loathsome now, hm?” Morpheus showers your face with delicate kisses, pausing only to clean a tear from your cheek with light kitten-licks.

The two of you rest there for a moment. You’re slumped between him and the tree, panting and spent and warm, while he gently rubs your back, waiting for you to catch your breath.

Once Morpheus deems you suitably recovered, he traces the marks he scattered on your chest. He smears the slick gathered on his hand across your nipples, then bends down to lick your juices from your skin. The feeling of him mouthing your tits, the sharp edge of his teeth scraping and biting, overwhelms you, and your knees buckle.

Morpheus catches you and lowers you to the ground. Dried leaves find their way into your hair and crunch under your back as you stretch out like a lazy cat.

“I have a feeling that I’d be able to make you come simply from playing with your breasts,” He murmurs as he kneels between your open legs before laying another series of kisses over the bite marks. “My lady, you are truly the most sublime creature I’ve ever touched.”

You roll your eyes and half-heartedly push his head away. “Yeah, well, you’ll be lucky if I let you near them again.” His hair feels soft and downy under your fingers like the underbelly of a bird. That’s another thing to resent him for. Why can’t he be ugly with bad hair?

Dream’s canines leave imprints in your hand when he bites, clearly communicating how he feels about being denied access to you. “We’re just getting started, darling. Your game isn’t over.”

You look up at his fair, radiant face, shining brighter than a full moon, and his mouthful of nightmarish, fanged teeth, and wonder for the first time if this was a mistake.

That’s how you find yourself riding his face while being forced toward your third orgasm of the night.

The second orgasm passed by in a shimmering haze of heat and lust.

Morpheus pulled you astride his shoulders without fanfare, clamped his hands around your plump thighs, and dragged your sensitive cunt onto his open, wet, and waiting mouth. You hit and kicked, you even tried forcing his head back with a fist in his dark hair, but he gave you the most glorious and beguiling grin at the sudden violence. You couldn’t give him any more satisfaction, so you had to let go and let him do… what he wanted.

Hands made of antimatter gripped your hips and held you upright by your hair. He thumbed your swollen folds, carefully tracing around your clit but never touching it. You weren’t able to look into his eyes from this position - your belly was just large enough to hide most of his face when you were on top. But you had a pretty good guess about how he felt about your wet cunt dangling before his lips, like fruit to be easily plucked, split open, and devoured. You heard him fucking whimper, a stupidly arousing, frustrated sound, and then his arms forced you down.

It took Dream no time to make you crumble like a deck of cards. He lapped his tongue through your folds, smearing your arousal over his lips, before working carefully on your reddened clit. Morpheus’s strong hands endured your desperate attempt to escape him by clutching you tighter.

He sucked on your bundle of nerves once, then twice. You tried to tell yourself mind over matter, that if you focused hard enough, you could ignore the pleasure rippling through you.

Of course, that meant you came so suddenly that your stomach tied itself into knots, and your spasming, throbbing cunt soaked his face. The waves snatched every scrap of air out of your lungs, so you couldn’t even plead for mercy or cry out. You gasped, hunched over with hair in your face, silently screaming and shivering, as your brain turned to slush and your eyes glazed over.

Now, Dream takes sadistic pleasure in teasing that third orgasm out and denying it to you every single fucking time.

There’s an obscene squelch when he thrusts two fingers into your cunt, finally filling the awful, hollow ache. “Fuck, fuck, oh my God, Morpheus… please…” You babble, mindlessly grinding down on his tongue.

He takes his mouth off you and slowly strokes his digits inside you, far too gentle to get you off. “Please what? Please what?” Morpheus mocks as you almost collapse into the shadows, letting them take your full weight.

You try to hide your mewls by biting on your lips and end up cutting yourself, fresh blood joining the fine layer of sweat covering your face and body. “Stop, I’m- it’s too much. You have to stop.” You have no fucking clue what you’re begging for anymore. You’re dumb to it all, helpless and panting and begging for the fever that rises every time he drags the tips of his fingers over your g-spot.

A shadowy tendril wipes the blood from your chin before crawling into your mouth, gagging you so you can’t bite yourself anymore.

More tendrils curl around your breasts and pluck at your hardened, swollen nipples. “You need more? Is that what I’m hearing? Does my lady want more?” Now he matches the rhythm of his fingers with kisses along your shuddering thighs, occasionally pausing to suck and lap at the juices covering your skin.

The tendril in your mouth dissipates into smoke so you can answer. “No, shit, aaah-“ Strands of your hair stick to your cheeks as you writhe and gasp for air.

Morpheus tries to withdraw his fingers to deny you again, tease you again, punish you again, but you’re having none of it. You blindly reach down, grab his slick hand, and urge it back towards your greedy pussy.

He laughs roughly, then kisses your hip with petal-soft lips as he obeys. “That’s it, darling. Does it feel good yet?” Fuck. Fuck. It does. You’re so full, your core flutters and milks his digits, but it’s not right or enough to satisfy the burning wildfire of desire that’s driving you mad.

You shake your head to try and get some control back, to clear your head. All you want is to just- just to give in, let him have you, let him replace every thought and word and will with himself. “No,” You stutter through slightly numb lips, your eyelashes trembling.

Your nails find his wrist and dig in as deep as they can go. Shimmering gold blood coats your thighs, and the mess gets worse and worse when Morpheus starts to bounce you on his face, eagerly drinking from your creamy folds.

“Go on. You can tell me. I know you fucking love this. Just like you love me.” As Dream is far too busy eating you out like he’s starving to lift his mouth, his voice is muffled by the slick, disgusting sounds of his tongue, his fingers, your cunt.

“I… I…” You scrabble for purchase in the dark, searching for something to hold onto, anything that can stabilize you. The hands that intertwine with yours aren’t the ones kneading your ass or fucking you into oblivion, but they’re just as reassuring as Morpheus’s real hands.

His mouth works your clit, getting rougher, messier, sucking harder. “Sweet girl, I’ve missed you. I’ve missed your noises and, fuck, the taste of you. And this pretty, pretty cunt. So sensitive. Delicious.” Dream braces one hand on your lower belly, just above your core, applying faint pressure to heighten the sensations.

“But I need you to come. Please, my darling. Please,” He moans against your puffy folds, forcing in a third finger as you wail and thrash.

Just like that, you’re shoved off the cliff, screaming and sobbing. Tears cover your cheeks as your hips move on their own, wrenching out every last bit of pleasure you can. It hurts so fucking much yet feels so fucking good. Static electricity arcs through your limbs, and even the faintest breeze whispering across your bare back makes your overstimulated core flicker and squeeze his fingers harder.

His shadows lovingly lower you to the ground, helping you curl on your side around your rounded tummy. Exhaustion filters in slowly, wrapping you in a gossamer blanket of numbness and calming your frazzled nerve endings.

Dream is there. Dream is curling protectively around your shaking form, he slides an arm under your neck to support your head, and his other hand squeezes the back of your neck. You bury yourself in his embrace and let him rock you like a child.

Here, stitched as close to him as you can be, the horrible past forty-eight hours starts to be less horrible and more foggy, like looking at something in the rear-view mirror as you drive away.

You can let yourself love him in this moment. You can be weak for a little while longer.

When you lay your palm against his heart, you feel it thudding as furiously as your own.

Morpheus exhales slowly as the feeling of you in his arms leeches the tension from his muscles. Even if you wanted to push him away, which you don’t, you wouldn’t have the strength to do it. So, for now, you’ll let him keep you here.

He kisses you as many times as he can, everywhere he can reach. Your baby hairs, your smile lines, the corners of your eyes.

Before Morpheus wipes your cheeks clean of tears, he cleans his fingers off with his tongue. Then he’s stroking away the stinging salt water dotting your skin. A furrow grows on his smooth, unwrinkled brow out of concentration.

When you start crying again out of relief, hiccuping ungracefully and snot going everywhere, his large hand tucks you into the crook of his neck. “I’m so sorry. I know, I know,” Morpheus soothes. “Do you want us to be done now? Are you finished?” He’s warmer than a furnace, and you instinctively wrap an arm around his waist and shove your feet between his calves, seeking that comfort with single-minded determination.

His small chuckle is as sweet and fragile as spun sugar.

You absentmindedly trace the veins crawling up the back of his hand as you think.

Then your anger begins to grow back, rotting through your lungs and making each breath taste like death, and you have your answer. “I want… don’t make me say it, Morpheus,” You mutter into his skin and follow it with a tiny, tiny bite, more of a nip than anything else.

This time, when Morpheus unfurls the petals of your mind, you anticipate it eagerly.

You want him, and you loathe it, and it’s choking you. “I should. I ought to make you beg on your knees,” He tells you.

You need him to cut the strife and self-loathing from your chest and smooth out your riled, tangled heartstrings, and then put you back together again. He has to pluck the violence out of your hand as if it were a knife and point it somewhere it can’t hurt you, ideally towards himself.

Dream goes quiet. He pets your hair and rests his cheek against your forehead. You’re beginning to think the softness isn’t just for your benefit; he’s drinking his fill to tide him over until the next time you let Dream touch you like this.

And there will be a next time, a gentle, honey-sweet next time. That promise runs true in your mind, buried deep beneath the layers of poison and resentment like a vein of untouched gold.

His star-filled eyes flutter shut. “Fine. Fine. I can’t deny you anything. Just a little further, and then you can rest.” When they open, his pupils twist and stretch into a monstrous, serpentine gash of black against his brilliant blue irises.

“N- no more?” You hear yourself ask for mercy, easily slipping into the role of the maiden to his beast.

Morpheus rises on his knees and hovers over your vulnerable form. “No more, my love. Can you be brave like I know you are? Can you take it for me?” He asks as the fingers stroking your cheek turn into obsidian claws for a moment.

You are not supposed to find this attractive. You’re meant to be terrified right now, unwilling, pushing him away with conviction of any kind.

“…Yes.” Yes. Take me. A warm, needy craving makes you draw up your knees to conceal your filthy, ruined cunt, glistening with fresh arousal.

The claws metamorphize into fingers before the sharp edges can slice your skin. Morpheus is no less intimidating without them, looking down at you like you’re a pretty toy in his palm. You’ll miss them, though, and you swallow your disappointment before he notices.

He lifts you from the ground before gently turning you until you face away, unable to see him while he can control all of you. “That’s it, beloved. On your knees, arch your back.” The stoic, hardened mask cracks slightly as he runs an open palm up and down your body, inevitably running into the baby in your belly. You’re surprised he lasted so long without asking about it.

Maybe Morpheus didn’t think he had the right to until now.

Your back presses into his broad, muscled chest. “May I?” He asks before slowly kissing your neck. His hair tickles your earlobe, and you feel a soft puff of air ghost over your skin when he exhales.

“Our baby.” You even surprise yourself by resting his hand over the swell of your soft, squishy tummy.

Dream strokes the rounded skin with hardly any force, suddenly treating you as delicately as he’d handle a fragile eggshell. His breathing hitches, and tension strings his tendons as tight as they can go.

If only you could capture this in a painting or trap it in a snow globe so you could relive the feeling of trusting him again over and over.

It’s too much. It’s far too much. Your heartbeat echoes in your ears as you shove his hand away from your skin. He’s too close, too soft, and too kind.

You’re not sure if you deserve it, and you sure as shit don’t want it.

As fast as a viper striking a hapless mouse, Morpheus grabs the back of your neck and traps you in place. His long fingers wrap around your throat, and his nails prick your skin. “You’re insatiable,” He tells you, then forces you down until the side of your face meets the forest floor.

He leaves your arms where they cushion you on the ground, correctly judging that bringing them behind your back will hurt in an unpleasant way, and instead keeps his dominance with a fist in your tangled hair. Dried leaves crush under your cheek as you try to prop yourself up and rest his strength. Dream doesn’t give an inch, and eventually, your body grows pliant and submissive beneath him.

His fingers dance up and down your spine in a soothing pattern. “Good girl. That’s it, sweetheart.” You grit your teeth and buck again, trying to express your displeasure, but Morpheus merely laughs and kisses the base of your spine.

“No need for all of that. I’ll give you what you want.”

When his fingers dip between your parted thighs, you push back, fucking begging him to touch your swollen folds and ease the building ache.

Your moan is exhausted and sweet as he thumbs your clit before playing with the fresh slick on your skin. “Fuck, you’re still so wet. Is that for me, darling?” Dream groans, his breath hitching as you arch a little further, presenting your dripping pussy to him.

The desperation in how hard he tries to make you cry out tells you everything about how tightly wound he is, how close he is to snapping. “Come on. You can admit it.” You keep your mouth stubbornly closed even as the pressure on your clit increases. It’s bad enough that he knows you as well as he does and can play your body like a virtuoso on a violin.

His breaths come in short, almost feral pants. “Silence? We’ll see how long that lasts.” And then- and then- Morpheus pushes the fat head of his cock inside you, going slow enough for your muscles to adjust.

But he’s so fucking big, and it’s been so long since he last fucked you, and your eyes roll back, sweat drips down your neck, and your knees dig into the ground, trying to keep you upright. “Shhhhh. Gods, you’re so fucking tight. Fuck. It’s okay. You’re okay. Feels good, hm?” Inch by inch, he stretches your spasming cunt, and you whine, your hips tilt back, and his thick cock slips against that spot deep inside that makes you sob.

“That’s it, my love,” Morpheus reassures through gritted teeth. “Can you take me a little further?”

You feel your muscles constrict around him like a vice when he grinds himself deeper. “H-how much?” You moan as your juices run down your thighs and coat his cock to the base.

Dream releases your hair before sliding an arm under your breasts to hold you upright without hurting the baby. It takes you a second to trust him and give him the whole of your weight. He balances you between his hips and arms like you’re lighter than air.

He kisses your damp hair and nibbles on your ear. “That much,” He says, showing you another inch or so with his fingers.

Your hand covers his resting above your belly, and your fingers intertwine with his. “…Yeah,” You nod as tears prickle in your eyes. Morpheus is everywhere, inside you, holding you. You’ve missed him. You’ve missed him so fucking much.

With a deep breath, you relax and let him carry you. The feeling of his heartbeat thudding through his chest and his hand cupping your breast is a sweet, easy soporific, soothing the sharp, anxiety-ridden knots in your head into something mindless and loving.

He rocks into you slowly until his hips are flush against your ass. “Relax, my love. You’re okay. Gods- you feel- so good, you’re perfect, that’s it, good girl. Perfect girl,” He chants, over and over, as the stretch and the push and pull have you shaking and pleading for more.

“Oh- oh god. Morpheus. Ahhh- I can’t, I’m so full.” Your breathy cries echo over his deep, gravelly moans.

“You’re still so tight even when full of my cock. And my child in your belly? Gods, I love you. I adore you.” Every time he tells you that, your cunt grows wetter.

Morpheus lays into you, fucking you like a man possessed, pressing in as deep as your body will let him. All you can do is rest there in his arms and take it. “I- I’m not going to last. I need you- I need you to come for me. One last time.” You’re not listening when he speaks, too busy bouncing your hips in time with his thrusts and screaming your pleasure out as loud as you can. “Please, darling?” He begs. His free hand returns to your pussy, and his fingers stroke your clit softly.

Your knuckles go white from the force you use to grip his wrist. “Hngh- shit, shit, shit, yes.” The feeling of Dream kissing your cheek sends you over the edge.

Your eyes go wide as the moon, and you hiccup as the force of his cock bullying into your shivering, clenching cunt wipes your mind blank of coherent thoughts. Your spine straightens and your limbs tense. You’re delirious, babbling nonsense, and he keeps working your swollen, hypersensitive clit, now chasing his own release.

Morpheus sinks his teeth into your shoulder as he comes, painting your inner walls white. The warmth relieves some of your soreness from all the orgasms he forced from your tired body. You can feel your combined cum coat your thighs, sticky and viscous.

When you collapse, you don’t hit the forest floor like expected. Instead, you end up in a large, impossibly soft bed, bundled in plush blankets and your head cushioned on fluffy pillows.

Everything hits you at once - the running, the fear, the man dead in your living room.

As you weep into the soft linen under your cheek, Dream curls around you until you don’t know where you end, and he begins. “I’m here. I’ve got you. You’re safe now.” His fingers shake as they wipe away your tears and tuck the blankets tighter around your shoulders.

The bedchamber is cool and dark with no shards of light that could irritate your eyes or worsen your building headache from crying so goddamn much.

You cling to him and smush your face into his chest. “Morpheus…’M sorry.” In this strange, fairytale land, the strange god embracing you feels like home.

Something damp trickles down your forehead. “Shhh. Did you think killing that man scared me off?” When you look up, you see tears glimmering on Morpheus’s face like sapphire beads.

“It should have.” You’ve always had darkness in your heart. You might have been born with it, a seed planted by your mother’s hatred and watered by your pain.

But if Desire was telling the truth, Morpheus is as flawed as he is beautiful. That’s oddly comforting.

His mouth tastes like you when he kisses you. “Listen to me, beloved. I have been captured like that once before. I languished in a prison for almost a century. I was forgotten. Abandoned. Starved. All of this around you that I built crumbled into dust. At long last, it was the pity of an old man and my rage that freed me. But you… No one has ever protected me like you did,” He whispers.

Your arms tighten around his waist. You love him, you hate him. Most of all, your heart breaks for the decades he spent alone.

He swallows thickly. “That’s all I ever wanted. For my whole existence. Someone to fight for me.” You wanted that, too.

“And if you had chosen to leave me there, to keep you and our child safe, I would’ve let you. I would have forgiven you. That is how much I love you.” His hand sketched slow, circular patterns across your stomach, never shying from the rolls.

Your lips ghost over his shoulder, sending a shiver through him. You don’t kiss him with forgiveness, not yet. Even though you can’t say it aloud, you want him to know you’re here. He’ll always catch you, no matter where you run, so he won’t ever be alone again.

“Maybe you’ll regret it. That it was me.” You can be just as cruel and monstrous as him; there are other kinder, prettier, gentler, sweeter people. He could be anywhere else right now other than tethered to a canvas of scars with her teeth bared.

He kisses your forehead with his hands, cradling your cheeks like a dragon cradling its hoard. “Do your worst.”

this is the smuttiest thing ive written for this fic yet. hope you guys like this!

#treehouse #the sandman #sandman #the sandman comics #sandman comics #the sandman dc #sandman dc #sandman netflix #the sandman netflix #dream of the endless x you #dream of the endless x reader #dream of the endless #morpheus x reader #morpheus x you #morpheus #lord morpheus x you #lord morpheus #lord morpheus x reader

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blasphemecel · 2 years

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Judar — Butterfly, Paralyzed

PAIRING: Judar/Reader | Judal/Reader WORD COUNT: 7.6k TYPE: Angst, Fluff WARNING(S): Implied Head Injury, TBI Memory Loss, Ableism from background characters

You stretch and reach and curl your fingers around one peach, like picking fruit is something you read about in a book. That's how you do everything, though, nowadays. The tree dwarfs your figure, scattered shadows littering your skin, that same confused smile on your face, and the sun dips behind you, painting everything orange and red and green.

Judar isn't sure what he feels when he watches you like this — just a twinge of something. He doesn't have to anymore, he supposes, because you're not... you don't interest him, or so he says.

He emerges then. He could levitate around you, if he so wishes, because maybe you would scream and make him laugh, but he approaches you slowly. On foot. Bare toes scratching against the grass. You don't react to him either, because you're always so dazed.

"You're such a dimwit," Judar says in place of a greeting.

"Oh."

He sighs dramatically, though there's no need. It's not like you asked him to do anything, but he spins his wand around anyway, and before you know it, all the peaches fall off their branches and surround you. The one you'd been reaching for hits you in the face, and you rub at the spot with a smile.

"Oh! They fell!" You clap once, twice, eyes darting around with wonder.

"'Course they did," he says. "When I order the Rukh to do something, it happens. It's magic. Idiot."

"Oooh! You did it." Your eyes sparkle like you're impressed. Like it's the first time.

His hands find his hips and he preens at the praise, not because it matters, but because a compliment is a compliment. "Pretty great, aren't I?" A nod. Then he comes closer, hand moving around your shoulder, cheek resting against yours. "What're you doing out here, anyway?"

You frown, gaze trailing down to your shoes. "I feel like there was a reason, but I don't remember."

"'Course you don't," Judar reiterates, separating himself from you, and then gestures grandiosely around. You notice all the peaches which fell are floating and gathering towards his carpet, coaxing a gasp out of you. "So since you're obviously so helpless, and I'm so generous, just ask me next time if you're so pathetically hungry, m'kay?"

"I'm sorry, Mister. You know I just forget sometimes."

Judar narrows his eyes at you with distaste. Pinching the flesh of your cheek between his fingers, he pulls at it, making you tear up a little. "Ugh," he groans. "How many times do I have to tell you? It's Judar, not Mister. I'm an important guy, y'know? Not some hag!"

"I know, Mister."

"Judar."

"Judar," you repeat.

That makes him grin, but you're not sure why, though his glee is one of conceit.

"But isn't taking all the peaches bad?" you ask. "What if someone, what if, you know, what if they want to eat peaches too?"

Judar shrugs, irked. "Who gives a shit? It's not the only peach tree in the world!"

"Oi!" You slapped the boy's grubby little fingers away from your peaches. "You can't eat those if you don't pay."

That didn't seem to stop him. Instead, he graced you with a manic grin and snatched three more of them at once, juggling them without effort. "Who cares what you say, idiot? If I want them, I'm gonna take them."

"Oh, what? You think just because you're 'The High Priest,'" you said, putting air quotes around his title and pronouncing it in a snooty tone, "you can do anything you want? Give me a break."

"I can kill you where you stand," Judar said plainly, though he noted it didn't phase you. Instead, you rolled your eyes and jumped over the wooden stand as if to chase him away. However, you failed to intimidate him, just like he couldn't scare you off.

They weren't empty words though, and you knew it as well as he did. Judar took delight in raising hell — killing, using his gift to kill and cause misery and destruction. But sometimes... Sometimes that wasn't enough. It was too easy when those who weren't special were fragile and easy to break, and using spells to get rid of them wasn't enough to sate his itch for violence, even if he was bursting with excess power. And because of that (it would've been so... so... boring!), even though he could've struck you down and ran away with all the fruit you were selling, he chose not to.

"Hmph. You people from the Kou Empire think you can take over all these countries and boss everyone around," you snapped, not bothering to hide your hatred towards this recent development.

What did you know about him, then? Nothing. Nothing at all; not enough to see the way every servant hurried to satisfy him because leaving Judar bored or unhappy would bring nothing but calamity and not enough to know what you were dealing with. You were both kids, but you weren't equal, and surely you were the one who was more naïve.

It had to be a physical altercation, then. He tackled you and you bit his arm and he scratched at your skin and you poked his eye and he kicked you, then spat in your face until you punched him in the nose. Then he recoiled away from you, holding his bleeding, bruised nose, and you reclaimed what he had stolen and ducked behind the imaginary safety of your vendor, triumphant.

Judar considered taking away your life, but he reappraised. When his conviction to take revenge waned, he returned to the palace wordlessly.

II.

You always sway from side to side when you walk now, unable to even keep a straight line, — not for long, anyway — like your feet are unsure, but it doesn't stop you from trudging through the thick rabble near the bazaar day after day. Dancing like a clueless idiot that has never heard of social cues, hands in the air and all, and remaining oblivious to the judgemental stares all the civilians would give you. There's a mix of disgust and curiosity in the way they observe you.

And they don't just look, they observe, like you're a thing, there for their entertainment.

Someone tries to reach for you, grab you and restrain you. It's not the first time because you're vulnerable and out of your wits. And it's not the first time Judar pushes a middle-aged man to the ground and sneers at him like he's some kind of wart between his toes, either.

"Hey, dummy." Judar picks his ear while calling out to you, but then he extends his hand to pat you on the shoulder just in case you don't recognize his voice. It's for naught, though, since you halt your step and turn around to face him. "Are you so incompetent you can't pay attention to your surroundings? Jeez, I'm great and all, but I'm not always gonna be here to bail you out!"

"I'm sorry, Mister, but I don't know what you're talking about."

He glares at you, for your imprudence maybe, but all he resolves to do is flicking your forehead. "It's Judar," he reminds through gritted teeth, like he always does, but his patience is running thin. That's what you call everyone now. It's always Mister this, Miss that, but he isn't just anyone. "You never notice, 'cause you're a dimwit."

"I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing. It's annoying."

Your lips part to spell it out again, your favorite phrase, but you reevaluate what Judar said, and choose to stay silent with a giggle.

You two resume your walking, but this time, Judar is by your side, discouraging everyone in the immediate vicinity from bothering you.

"I was wondering," you start with a frown, genuinely upset if not heartbroken, "why does, like, I mean, no one else ever comes around anymore?"

"Huh? You mean those stupid servants?" he asks, laughing at you because truly, it amuses him you'd be upset about something so insignificant. Then, to make it worse, he teases you, pressing his hand to his chest now that he spotted the chance to be dramatic. "Am I not enough for you?"

They don't come around because you don't need monitoring anymore, or so they tell him. You can talk, you can stand, you can eat if you remember to, and you can shower if you please, which is apparently enough to deem you independent. Not that he cares if they see you or not. When you're all alone and available like that, it just means more fun for him when he comes to bother you.

He thinks they assume you'll run off one day and get lost like it's inevitable, and even more, they hope Judar won't bother looking for you when you do. So, they could die for all that matters to him.

After contemplating his question for a bit, you give him a close-eyed smile. "I, uh, I know you're just, you're cruel and immature. But you're my favorite. Out of everyone I met. I just... I'm not sure why."

Judar stretches like a cat at your admission, before he throws his hands up, much like you had been when you were running around town a few minutes ago. He looks you in the eyes and asks, "What do you mean, you're not sure why? 'Course I'm your favorite. I'm the best, specialest, most powerful Magi!"

Despite his bravado, you can't help but think you sense a little sadness coming from him. However, you figure it's just your imagination because surely someone as powerful as him is above such a meagre emotion.

ii.

I can't believe a stupid peach farmer beat me in a tussle!

Obviously if he had gone all out, he would have won, but that was besides the point. Not only that, but the realization wasn't enough to soothe his anger after his encounter with you. He should have been strong enough to beat you, even without magic. Without lifting a finger, even.

But somewhere buried under his wrath was intrigue, which led him to that moment.

You were confused when you saw a dozen soldiers surrounding your beat-down house, and Judar couldn't help but wonder why a kid like you would live alone, making a living by selling peaches. It seemed... strange. The situation clicked into place for you when you noticed that damned tween from hell standing between the knights. Judar had the gall to glare at you like he hadn't been the one who tried to steal from you.

"What do you want, Magi?" You spoke his title like it was poison, but that didn't matter. Truly, you were afraid. Sweat trickled down your brow. You hadn't expected the little tyrant to be petty enough to seek you out just because you landed a punch on him, let alone with reinforcements. For God's sake, you weren't a terrorist! It was so overkill.

"You should come with me." He said it so casually, you would've thought he was telling you about the weather. "And live in the palace."

"W-Why would you want that?!" you asked, panicked. Did he want to put you in a torture chamber or whatever it is royals do in their spare time?

"Because you interest me."

You blinked at him. There was no way he was that simple. You realized, however, that you didn't have a choice. His previous words rang in your head: "If I want them, I'm gonna take them."

And just like that, you surrendered.

III.

"Pitiful place you've got here, [Y/n]." Judar snickers at you, entering the claustrophobic space. It's messy and small, with trash and clutter surrounding him every which way. It doesn't fit the palace at all. Perhaps for a single person it suffices, but now that the two of you are standing here, it seems to swallow him whole.

"Why do you think, why do you say that?" You take to sitting on the ground then, rather than on the unmade bed or even the surprisingly intact chair.

"It's so tight in here," he complains, kicking away a few of your belongings without a care before plopping down next to you.

You hug your knees to your chest, closing in on yourself, forehead pressed against your arm. "I like it here like this. Big rooms, they're scary. Things always disappear there."

After clicking his tongue at your differing opinion, Judar turns his attention towards the front wall. He's not sure how he didn't notice it before. Pointing ahead, he asks, "What are these ugly scribbles?"

"I tried to draw," you tell him.

"Oh. Hmm. You should try harder, then."

Not bothering to retort to his usual insults, you crawl closer to the corner and shuffle around until you find whatever it is you were looking for. Judar watches you with the mildest of curiosity until he notices you were just fumbling for your paints. After dipping your finger in black, you desecrate the wall with some more of those pointless lines and blotches and half-dried marks.

"Are you dumb?" Judar asks, frowning, before letting out an empty sneer at your expense. "You're supposed to draw with a brush."

"I know."

"I know you know. I just said that for fun."

You stop, and he sticks out his tongue at you. Disregarding his antics — which you always do, and secretly, Judar wishes you wouldn't — is easy when you can just nudge one brush in his direction. You don't tell him you don't use them because you always drop them, just like you don't tell him you don't understand why he keeps hanging around you. "Why don't you try?" you suggest airily, expecting rejection.

He considers it, before his lips curl, and he dunks the tip in black. Before you can even question him and his artistic integrity, you come face-to-face with a big, cartoonish dick, taking up almost your entire wall.

"There," he presents. Gestures towards it as if it's a masterpiece you should marvel at and you allow yourself a laugh at his immaturity.

"Mister, you're so... so... sooo. Unbelievable."

"Well, you better damn believe," he answers cockily.

You sit back. He picks at his nails, waiting for something snappy to come to mind, but then he figures he should leave. Figures that it's getting boring. Before he can, though, you mumble, "I remember," and then your sentence hangs in the air.

As he's standing, his entire body tenses in anticipation of what you're about to say. Skin burning at the possibility that maybe- "Remember what?"

"Oh. Uh. I think, um," your eyes dart around the room (startled and questioning and unsure if it's even worth saying), "I remember I was good at it. At drawing."

Judar tenses his jaw and clenches his knuckles and taps his foot against the floor like he's waiting for something, like it's urgent. Maybe he could make you eat them, your words, and if he does, maybe you'll remember what he's looking for. Though as he contemplates it, something inside him softens, and his shoulders let loose.

"You know what?"

"Hm?"

"You were," he concedes. "You were good at it."

iii.

It was possible Judar — Magi, The High Priest, as outsiders often called him — was that simple. You had lived in the palace for a few years by that point, but not as a servant, or an assistant, or even a knight.

Your role was simple and so you got tucked away in a small, negligent room, if only to be rid of him at night. You were merely Judar's sparring partner. The two of you had expanded your fighting abilities, and soon after your first few sessions, you understood he felt a need to be on edge.

It didn't have to be you; you realized. Could've been anyone he had picked a fight with that day because he was just so alone, and even then, you would've used the adjective lonely with caution. To him, alone meant bored, not forlorn.

You were putting the finishing touches to your painting — painstaking detail you could only control the look of with the smallest brush you had on hand — when Judar burst into your room. You put your materials aside and scowled at him. "What do you want?"

"Whatcha got here?" he asked, interested in your canvas. He came closer and glanced at it, then at the view visible from your window, and quickly realized you were doing some kind of landscape study. "A painting? I didn't know a dumb brute like you would enjoy something like this."

You felt flustered at him seeing what you were up to at all, since you made an attempt at keeping it a secret. "Shut up, asswipe. I need something to do in my free time and you're not gonna ruin this."

"When have I ever ruined anything?" His scrutiny unnerved you, otherwise you would have listed out everything he ever ruined in chronological order. Hell, he even prided himself on relishing in destruction. You could see his red eyes studying every detail, and for a second he smiled, fooling you into thinking you might receive a compliment for once.

Instead, his grin turned into a scoff fast enough. "What a useless hobby. We should go fight one out. I'm gonna beat your ass!"

You pointed an accusatory finger at him. "Ha!" Then you took him by the shoulders and pushed him back. "You're obviously just jealous 'cause there's finally something I'm better at than you."

Judar waved you off, seeming smug. "Uh, hello? Magician of Creation here. If I cared about something as dumb as drawing, I'd easily outdo you, dimwit." After a bit of contemplation, he added, "Your drawing's nothing special, anyway!"

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah!"

He ran out into the hallways, wild laughter and all, and predictably, you chased after him, screaming obscenities along the way.

IV.

The palace seems more extravagant than usual today. You stare at the ceiling and the bustling hallways with intrigue and parted lips. You feel today is something important — well, obviously, as some kind of celebration is going on — and you think you should know what it is, but you can't quite put your finger on it.

Quickly, you realize you forgot what you even went out for. So instead, you tentatively address one servant rushing to adjust some decorations. "Er," you start. "I'm sorry, um, I'm sorry, but what's going on today? What's with the commotion?"

"Oh, it's The High Priest's birthday," she answers with a sigh, as if exasperated by pleasing him and meeting his demands, which wouldn't surprise you. "You know how he is, or... Maybe you don't."

At her slight jab, you frown. "I know. He's dramatic as hell," you reaffirm, then walk away with crossed arms, feeling somewhat superior for holding this obvious knowledge.

In your pointless wandering, you realize the funny Mister would probably expect a present since that's the kind of person he is. You panic and bolt in a random direction, but it doesn't take you long to trip over your own feet.

"Well, well, well," a familiar voice calls out as if hovering above you. You rub your eyes and gaze up, and then you see Judar levitating. And wiggling his dusty toes. You don't bother hiding your grimace of disgust. "What do we have here?"

Suddenly, you remember your prior dilemma and start panicking with widened eyes. "Oh, happy birthday, Judar! I'm so sorry, I, er, I forgot- I don't have a present! For you."

He doesn't seem happy with you, gaping at you like a fish. You shiver in anticipation for some form of punishment until Judar simply leans his head into his palm and shifts in the air with an aura of distanced amusement. Much like a cat observing you with narrowed eyes. "Come again?"

(Or is it a front?)

"I'm sorry? I'm so sorry, I forgot, I didn't buy a- I didn't get you anything for your birthday?"

"That's not what I wanted to hear," he says.

"I don't get it. Making me, er, making me say it isn't gonna... This isn't gonna... The gift won't come, even if I repeat myself."

Judar throws his hands up and rolls his eyes, ever the drama queen. "God, [Y/n], you're so hopeless! You don't understand hints at all, so just forget about it. But anyway, I wanted to tell you... We're gonna have a feast for my birthday."

"A feast?"

"Yeah! All sorts of fruit! More than you can even imagine. And tons of them, too."

You hold out your fingers to count something, which makes Judar raise an eyebrow. When you're done, you quirk up your lips and you look so innocent. "Oh, you're an Aries. That makes so much sense."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asks irately.

"Well, I've heard they're, like, stubborn and irritable and distant and arrogant and selfish."

He frowns, and punches you in the shoulder, albeit not with full force. You laugh and try to return the gesture, but he flies just out of reach and then down the corridor, forcing you to run after him until you fall over again.

You will never know that it won't matter if you bought him anything as long as you don't forget to call him by his name ever again. You will never know that's enough of a present for him as things stand.

iv.

Judar always enjoyed making a big deal out of his birthday celebrations. He could barely stand to withhold from annoying you for a few hours, let alone on such a special occasion. You hadn't seen him all day, though, and he hadn't bombarded the attendants with ridiculous requests either, which concerned you.

It was night by then, and you started searching around the palace for him. "Judar?" you said out loud, hoping not to wake anyone who had already gone to sleep. "Judar?" you tried again until you reached the most obvious hiding spot.

He hadn't locked the door, so entering his personal quarters wasn't a challenge by any means. Still, you hesitated even after you were practically inside, instead choosing to linger by the door and observe him for a second. You could tell he was upset, though he hadn't cried — he never did, not even by himself.

Darkness absorbed his room, and the only light source was a lit candle in the room's corner, illuminating his face.

He appeared pissed off to the point of overcompensation, though. You didn't ask him about what had happened and feigned ignorance. Despite how you eyed the fresh bruises and injured, irritated skin in a manner that wasn't at all discreet, you didn't comment on them.

Judar spoke first. "What do you want?"

"I made you a birthday cake, but you were gone all day." You knew he wouldn't want to talk about it, and if he did, he would've acted disingenuously. Filling the space of despair with anger, mending being broken by hurting someone else, helping no one. So instead you let him pretend he was above it, that he was too strong to even acknowledge whatever had happened with The Organization.

You let him have his ego like always. Just closed the door and fully stepped in.

He brightened up at the mention of something sweet, though he switched to self-satisfied. "Coming around, aren't you?"

"You're still a big prick, but if I'm gonna be here, we might as well get along, right?"

"I'm a delight," he said before taking an obnoxious sniff of the cake you prepared. "Peach flavor?"

"Yeah. I made it myself, you know?"

He bit it experimentally. "Not awful coming from a dimwit like you, but if someone else made it, it'd probably taste better," he noted slyly.

In retaliation, you grabbed a handful and threw it at him.

Of course, it didn't reach him. It just halted for a moment and entered his mouth, manipulated by his magic, though the piece of cake he tossed at you hit you head-on. Between hushed laughter and whispered insults, food crumbs sticking to your eyelashes, wrestling well until the morning, it would embarrass Judar to say that was the best birthday he ever had.

Harbinger of catastrophe he is, it shouldn't have mattered. Not as much as it did.

"You should dance on the carpet," Judar suggests with a snide smile.

Startled, you jump up a little. "Oh... For how long were you watching?"

He jerks his shoulders, because why would he give you a straightforward answer when it's not nearly half as fun? "Long enough," he says, an expression of mocking pity on his face. "You never notice. Making me look like a desperate idiot."

"I don't think I should."

"Should?"

"Dance on the carpet," you clarify. "Are you, you're not trying to kill me, right?"

Manic laughter escapes him at that. "Trust me, if I wanted to kill you, you would know about it. Or maybe you wouldn't 'cause you'd be dead, but that's besides the point."

You look at him strangely, though he continues observing you with an impish grin. In wait. You consider his offer — he's been the only person to treat you normally these past months. At least by his definition of normal, anyway. Maybe indulging him wouldn't be that bad of a way to show your gratefulness? With that conclusion, you take a few cautious steps in his direction before you've joined him on the carpet.

Judar doesn't have enough common decency to warn you you're about to take flight. Your legs shake and you cling onto him immediately, staring at the horizon below, disappearing further and further at rapid speed.

"What are you so scared for, dummy? You're not gonna fall."

"It's 'cause- Well, you always say, you call me a klutz."

"You are, but do you really think I'd be so incompetent to let you splat on the ground?" He scoffs at the notion. "Please! You insult me. That's very much below my skill set."

You don't acknowledge his rambles, instead clutching at him tighter, going as far as to dig your nails in his skin for just a sense of security. The pain doesn't seem to phase him in the slightest. "Too high, Judar!"

"Oh whatever, you killjoy," he mumbles, and the carpet finally stops moving. You take a moment to peer around him. At first it's scary, but soon after you're squinting, and you realize you can make out the palace, and also the peach field. Maybe even the entire city.

With a chuckle, he separates himself from you. You hug yourself in anticipation of falling down and meeting your demise, already feeling the unstable tremble of your legs. Judar makes a vague gesture towards your surroundings and says, "I'm gonna show you it's totally safe."

He backs away from you with a smug expression, though before you can even properly react, he loses his footing and falls off the edge of the carpet, tumbling down. You freeze. For a few seconds, you're too scared to move and check. The mental image of what might have happened to him proving too frightening.

"Judar?" you call out. "Judar? Judar!"

Though before you can even fully step and try to catch sight of him, something restrains you from behind, hands pressing your stomach. Goosebumps rise over your skin when you feel something creeping near your earlobe. "Boo! You fell for it!"

Judar laughs at you, pointing his offensive index finger in your face and all.

"That wasn't funny." You try to shove him away from you, pressing your palm against his chest and pushing, but he doesn't budge at all. "Ugh! Get away from me."

The only reaction he gives your reprimand is wiping away a tear, the result of finding too much amusement in your concern for his wellbeing. And this is why he has no friends, you think.

"Actually, it was fucking hilarious."

After folding your arms over your chest, you purse your lips and turn away from him. "Hmph," you add for good measure, which only adds fuel to his laughing fest.

"You can't seriously be mad," he tells you with a shit-eating grin, fingers splaying across your shoulder. "Seems like you're too busy having a stick up your ass to be afraid of heights anymore, anyway."

Your eyes dart around while you process his words. Judar's right; his distraction more than sufficed.

"Huh," you mumble. "Guess- guess you're right."

Sometimes you and Judar traded blows while he flew the carpet high above the territory of the Kou Empire. He said it was good training for him since he had to multi-task. You thought he just liked the thrill — the possibility that one of you would fall down.

To Judar, you knew, the activity was pointless, but he still indulged in it, anyway. For fun, for the chance to pretend he has an equal, for entertainment, or just because he could.

It had been during one of those spars when he kicked between your legs and caught you off-balance. You fell. You fell for so long, you had convinced yourself he finally got bored with you and resolved to get rid of you, but in a way, it was freeing. After having been used to living in cramped spaces: behind the wooden stand that held all your peaches, in the shabby shed you called your house, and in your tiny room at the palace, it was liberating to just close your eyes and stretch your legs and hands and not bump into anything.

Your peace shattered soon enough, though, because your body froze. You continued to levitate, and Judar appeared in your line of view soon after. Of course, he deliberately hovered above so he could leer down at you and waved his wand back and forth. It was a symbolic gesture; you figured. Look, I'm keeping you alive. Aren't I such a charitable Magi? Beloved by the Rukh of Solomon and all. Isn't that so funny? So amusing? That someone like you could fascinate someone like me for so long. Who would've thought?

You found Judar funny when he went on his self-serving tirades or when he proved he had the attention span of a toddler. But you also found he had just enough self-awareness to exaggerate that behavior around you, for you, to make you laugh or to provoke you into an annoyed grunt and spiteful retort, which was what was entertaining to him. So you took to imitating his snotty way of speaking in your head sometimes.

"You know what I've been thinking about?" Judar asked, though it was a rhetorical question. Surely he knew no one could guess what was going through his head half the time.

"What?" you snapped. You were pretending to be annoyed. That was the bit.

"You really are an idiot..." He trailed off, then found it fitting to throw in a bombshell at the end. "I think we should conquer a dungeon together."

You blinked owlishly at him, like he was mental, and Judar relished in your surprise.

"Isn't that for Kings, though? Or Princes, or royalty, or whatever?"

"I know, I know. You're not meant for it. At all! I would've known since I met you if you were, but even then, wouldn't it be so much fun?"

He wanted to conquer a dungeon to pass the time? That was just like him. You grinned at him then and agreed. "It would be. We should."

It was a big fuck you to everything, really. And those were the kinds of codes Judar liked to leave, and you were so much like him, with a penchant for 'eat a dick's and 'stick your head in the toilet's and even 'I'll stick your head down the toilet myself's. Usually directed at him, but still.

The two of you continued smiling at each other conspiratorially, though you hadn't done any proper planning yet, to put this aspiration into action.

So it was clear: you were a distraction, you were the itch to do the wrong thing (temptation, but the word was too heavy), you were a problem, you were light. Some weird light that veered him away from evil and towards innocent mischief. And worst of all, you were his friend.

(i.)

After the incident, naturally, he solved it by killing someone, then killing the other piece of shit.

Judar isn't much of a problem sleuth, really — something happens and he gets mad and he kills a guy and beats up another with those flashy spells of his, and that's it. Big deal. So he found the preparators, and he got rid of them.

The healers' magic was enough to close the wounds on your head and rid you of bleeding, but it did nothing to wake you. They warned him you might not be awake for a long time. He supposed, in a way that was both humorless and unreasonable, that you were always a bit high-maintenance, anyway.

Then started the pleading, buzzing in his ears unpleasantly. They told him it was not worth it, that when you came out of your coma, you would probably brain dead (if you were lucky, 'just brain damaged'), few words short of calling you worthless, like you were something to dispose of... A beloved childhood toy that broke and he had to let go of, and at any rate, High Priest, you get bored with others so easily-

So that was how he ended up with more blood on his hands in such a short period. Judar didn't have any remorse for it; the kind violence that they had inflicted onto you was not one that happened randomly.

You were his friend. His only friend, even. And anything that followed that antecedent — his, mine, me, me, me! — he took very, very seriously.

After that, Judar ended up alone with you in the infirmary for around an hour or so. First, he tried making demands like you gotta wake up! Who's gonna draw my portrait for my birthday now? and you know, you still need to go with me to that thing tomorrow. You can't get out of dancing with me. You're so irresponsible and You promised to spar with me every day and Oh, I bet you're gonna have a blast sleeping all day while I gotta go be excellent and miserable, so miserable, it'll be so boring and, finally, It's really not funny, [Y/n]!

Then there was silence.

When his erratic rambling didn't work, Judar settled for holding your hand, your lifeless, chilly hand, just memorizing the texture of it against his fingertips like he hadn't done before, until he heard people approaching the door.

(ii.)

Judar wasn't the caretaking type. Any act of altruism bordered on repulsing him. When you were catatonic, he didn't rush to help the maids walk you and move you around, and he obviously didn't assist when they had to bathe you or feed you because you couldn't by yourself. It was just stuff he ordered them to do, so he didn't feel any further obligation towards you.

Still, that didn't mean you never got to see him. Or, sometimes, he wondered if you even registered him there.

Often, Judar sat in the corner of whatever room you were in, like a sulky, pouty child. Your imitation of him would've been: I'm so chagrined, so inconvenienced. I can't believe — CANNOT — that my clown is feeling unwell and can't do monkey tricks for me, I just can't! I don't know why my life has to be so hard. Well, I'll go off now, to try to start a war. That'll make me feel better.

That wasn't what he was thinking. He'd just stare at you, really look you in your sterile eyes with your permanent idiot smile during the stage when you couldn't help but drool all over yourself. And when he did that, when he was staring, he would repeat to himself, That's your friend. That's what your best friend is like now. Your only friend, over and over.

To someone else, it would've sounded like a manic mantra, but it was just so he could get used to it. It was a big change.

One time, when the maids walked out of your room, Judar waited until he was confident he was all alone, and he burst out in tears after observing you for so long in hopes you'd get better. It was... premeditated crying. He had to hold it in, or so he told himself, until he couldn't.

Judar wasn't sad because you were boring him or because, as many people saw it, you were now lesser-than. He was just so fucking gutted someone would do that to you, and then after they did that to you — you, why you? Even when he knew why, he'd ask himself — others had the gall to insult you. If someone had asked him what he thought about it, Judar wouldn't be honest.

He never was honest when he was vulnerable, instead choosing to be facetious or murderous. Kind of depended on the week, that.

So he wailed for a while, like it'd help, and you stared back at him all doll-like, not understanding. Like you were taunting him, telling him, Big deal.

(iii.)

After two months of you being unresponsive, Judar took all your drawings to his room from yours, bit by bit. He wasn't there much, so the action seemed pointless. When questioned, his answers varied.

Sometimes he took a selfish approach. "I'm the High Priest," he enunciated snively, "I can take whatever I want around here. It's as good as mine, anyway." Though he realized that was a bit ridiculous, even for him.

Other times, he tried to appear casual, like what he was doing was normal. "I think they'd make nice decorations for my room." (He never hung them up, not a single one.)

And finally, Judar attempted to restore parts of his image. You didn't need them anymore, he'd say.

There was a clear image in his head: when, after you start walking around and stuff — because of course you will — you stumble upon one of them and you realize you drew it before all this. And maybe you don't have the skill anymore, you're not prepared to face it, maybe it makes you feel like shit and you cry so hard the entire palace hears you. If that happened to him, he'd have a mental breakdown.

Judar decided he'd show you when you expressed interest towards them.

Sometimes he worried amid all the floundering, some dumbass would step on one of them and ruin them. And he just couldn't have that.

(iv.)

After you first got out of your catatonic state, Judar stayed out of your way for a while. He knew you would find it humiliating if you ever realized he was there, studying you when they were teaching you to hold a spoon again, to chew, how long you should chew, really, among other uninteresting things.

When you first saw him, you waddled up to him yourself. You started fiddling around with the end of his braid. Before, maybe he would've smacked you away, but in that moment Judar could only fake flippancy. Like he wasn't excited or glad at all.

"Don't cry anymore," you said. Despite that, you did not remember a thing about him beyond that embarrassing instance.

VI.

The second time Judar goes to your room, the wall looks different. Your movements have more direction now. They're not as smudged and the lines don't wobble as much, though they still don't mean a thing. You even drew over his penis. How disrespectful.

You're not doing anything of importance. Judar is watching you apply more paint to the wall, and he wonders if you'll ever ask to see one of your old art pieces, but he gets an inkling you never will. That's when you say, "I remember."

You're so cruel. You're so cruel when you do this, sometimes Judar wonders if you're just fucking with him. Every time you say this, his most hated phrase, and then you follow up with something irrelevant that's got nothing to do with him at all, he grows a bit more resentful. Part of him wants to take you by the shoulders and shake, shake, shake you, then scream, Does the name Judar mean anything to you? Your best friend, you know, The High Priest? The Magi? The most important person in the whole damn palace. At least to you, anyway! But it doesn't really seem like it means anything anymore! Yell at you until you get it.

But he doesn't, anyway. Judar doesn't really want to do that. It's just a thought he entertains sometimes. If maybe he got rougher and more unpleasant towards you, like he used to be, maybe you'd remember. And you'd say, "Oh, you're that asshole I was friends with."

Regardless, knowing you won't tell him anything he's interested in, he humors you like he always does. "Remember what?"

He thinks you can't tell he's annoyed.

"Oh, er, nothing," you continue, but you're making fun of him. "It's just. Why you're my favorite? Why are you? It's really, really weird. I think I'm in love with you, from before. I just don't- don't know why."

By the lilt of your voice, Judar understands you don't say you 'don't know why' or that 'it's weird' in the way you used to. The time when you were perpetually confused and foggy. It's a way to rag on him. Oh, look at you. You think you're so great when all you do is call me names. My, I have no idea why I'd ever be dumb enough to have feelings for you. Isn't that what you always call me? Dumb?

Something like that.

You don't know if Judar has the capability for it, for love. But you did... do. You do. You're still in love with him, for whatever reason. And you don't have enough common sense to be wary of him knowing anymore.

It lingered. When he got too close to you in one of his pointless shows of overfamiliarity and you'd get feverish and nervous, or when he'd disguise his motives with mean words and too many masturbatory praises towards himself, but you remember now.

Judar smiles. Smiles so hard — at you mocking him in such a moment, and at you finally remembering the right thing for the first time. He pulls you by the shoulder as close to him as possible. You're not sure what it means.

Settling on just a purse of your lips, you say, "You ruined my drawing," watching the aftermath of the way your finger jerked against the wall when he touched you so suddenly.

(I.)

Judar had a tendency to lie to himself whenever he deemed it fit. The amount of people who started calling him sorry and stupid, so pathetic for still waiting for you was big enough to alarm him. Which meant not many people were saying it, but the few times it came up, he took it personally.

First, he waited for you to wake up, then he had to wait for you to learn how to go to the toilet again and other such necessary life skills, and then he even had to wait for you to learn his name. The servants often snickered quietly whenever you'd Mister at him. Him, Judar, The High Priest. God, he really was pitiful.

He knew you remembered his name after the first few times — because he always fussed about it so much. To you, Miss and Mister was forgetful, but when you aimed it at him, it was worse. You called him Mister because you knew he was someone important, and you paid him the respect close people didn't grace each other.

There was an instance when Judar sat down and considered all the things he had heard. That you were just a broken thing and rendered inconsequential now. You were so funny and you were so talented. It was such a shame. How woeful!

It was funeral talk, but you aren't dead.

And if you got destroyed — the job had been done — could he, being who he is fundamentally, still like you? Entity of unproportional power and importance like him, and boring little you who got ruined, so there was no fun for him. Like the chance of marring you was the only thing keeping him around for so long. Judar thought about it.

After he thought about it, he decided he still liked you very much (l*ve, ew!). You are you.

Maybe you wouldn't have recovered at all, maybe you would've never learned how to walk, maybe you would've never remembered how to speak again, maybe your face would've been stuck in a dopey smile and he'd have to tell the servants to wipe away your spit every other hour, maybe your short-term memory loss problem would've just kept getting worse.

Maybe you would never be able to hold a paintbrush again, maybe you'll continue going off your head and embarrassing yourself in public, maybe you'll always stutter and stumble over your words, maybe you'll always move your body like it doesn't belong to you, maybe your gaze won't ever be sharp the way it used to be, maybe you will never think fast enough to put him in his place ever again. Big deal.

You are you. And that is enough.

#judar x reader #judal x reader #magi x reader #judar imagine #magi imagines #judal imagine #one shot

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whumpsday · 1 year

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K&J x MMSS 2: Valen & Liz Part 1

Kane & Jim masterlist / Magnanimous Moonrise & Savage Sunset masterlist

content: starvation, blood, nonconsensual restraint, muzzle/gag, aftermath of torture, misgendering a nonbinary character (non-malicious), mentions of rape/noncon, rescue, recovery, vampire whumpee

Note: This is NOT a continuation of the first KJ x MMSS crossover.

Set after K&J #39: Heat Wave Part 2 and after/diverges from 6M/6S

me and @not-a-space-alien are back with another collab!! part 2 will be posted tomorrow! nasa did pretty much all the editing on this one, so huge thanks to them!!

also: i included the taglists for both stories in the first crossover bc i thought it would be a one-and-done thing, but it’s looking like we’re gonna be putting out a bunch of stuff. as such, i will be including the taglists on this and the second part tomorrow as well, but if you’d like to continue being tagged in crossover pieces, please comment saying so in order to remain on the taglist! it’s opt-in! and as the next crossover will be 18+, please be 18+ to enter the taglist for that.

Liz hasn't been able to stop thinking about the vampire since she heard about him.

Valen Kithrara. If any vampires deserved to get what's coming to them, it's the Kithrara family. But Kane… Kane's a horrible person, too. He took away the only family she had left, methodically destroyed Jim's spirit until he was a paranoid, crying mess who took years to build himself back up. An abusive piece of shit who by all accounts deserves to die. And yet, as much as she hates to admit it, as much as she hates him, she can't help but feel bad for the guy. She even let him stay in her house for a few days during that heat wave fiasco last month, so it's safe to say they're fine now, she guesses.

If she can be fine with her brother's abuser who she still fucking hates, she can stop this random vampire she doesn't even know from being tortured, no matter what he'd done.

She's going to kill Valen Kithrara. Put the guy out of his misery. In and out, that's the plan. No more fucked up torture, especially when the person she heard about it from said he heard that all the useful “experiments” had been done months ago and it was basically just senseless at this point. She was able to get ahold of the schedule of that base, and it's supposed to be empty tonight. In and out.

When she gets there, she curses under her breath. There's a car out front. Someone's still here. No one's supposed to be here, but then again, neither is she.

She knocks on the door.

Nick answers. He's breathing slightly heavily, and looks caught off guard. "Er, can I help you?"

Oh, this guy is definitely hiding something. Perfect. All Liz has to do is get him to let her down there and she can stake the vampire. He won't want to admit he was even here, and if he does, she can just say the vampire attacked her. It'd be her word against his. "Hey, I'm Beth. I'm from a different branch a few hours out. I happened to be in town, and remembered hearing you guys have a live vampire here. I'm toootally interested in the experiments you're running. I gotta get going tonight, but I figured I'd swing by to take a look if that's okay, see what your setup is so maybe we can get some research going back in my county," she bullshits, giving him a friendly smile.

Nick narrows his eyes. "Are you on duty? Where is your hunting partner?"

"Nah, not on duty. Definitely don't do that shit alone." She laughs. God, she hadn't even told Laken she was doing this. She'll tell them after. "Just in town for personal business. Why, you guys understaffed and want me to pick up a shift?”

Nick blinks at her. "No, nothing like that. You may look, as long as you don't touch anything. I will warn you safely keeping a vampire in a setup like this involves a fair amount of homemade equipment. I made it all myself. I would be happy to share the blueprints with you if you have someone with the technical know-how to recreate them." He opens the door and lets her in, walking to the basement and unlocking the door.

"Cool, thanks!" Liz forces herself to sound enthusiastic, despite knowing she's about to see something truly awful, and follows him inside. What awaits her is something out of a horror movie. The room is filled with torture devices, and Valen himself- god, he looks even worse than Kane did, and completely terrified.

It's at that moment she realizes that she won't be able to do it. On the job, she kills strong vampires who fight her back. She can't bring herself to kill someone so utterly helpless and scared. Which means everything is suddenly a lot more complicated.

"So, what's that thing you've got it locked up in?" she asks.

Nick sits on the lid of the coffin, near Valen's feet. Valen begins to sob, titling his head to make eye contact with Liz. He can't speak, but the message is clear enough from the big, watery eyes. Please, please please please. "It's a shell of silver-core bars coated with iron, with internal restraints. We call it the coffin. The director insists that safety is our topmost priority, but this satisfies even him to know that this vampire isn't going anywhere. It would have to break through two layers of silver restraints, then remove the muzzle on its face before being able to use persuasion. And as a precaution, we never open the coffin unless at least two people are present."

"Well, shit, we've got two people here right now. I could spot you if you wanted to try anything out." The gossip she'd heard included that the guy doing the experiments could hardly even find anyone to go with him anymore because everyone was sick of his shit. "I'd love to see your work in action and everything, if you've got the time."

Nick stares at her. "Please show me your credentials. I could be fired if I didn't ensure the second party was qualified to supervise."

"Of course, yeah." Liz fishes out her hunting license. Elizabeth Lieberman, it reads. She's glad she chose an alias that works with her ID, but with the way her plan is evolving, she's becoming less sure whatever secret reason he's here right now would be enough to keep him from reporting her when she does what she's about to do. But she can't leave this guy here, she can't. She'll just have to figure it out. Get people to cover for her. "I don't think I ever got your name, by the way?"

"Nicholas." He examines the ID and apparently finds it to his satisfaction. He then gives it back, and walks over to the furnace, lighting it and setting the stoneware cup of silver in it to melt. This prompts a fresh round of sobbing from Valen, and him writhing inside the cage, but the device is too heavy for it to even shake under his thrashing.

Nick comes back and sits on the coffin again, crossing his legs. "Elizabeth Lieberman? It's nice to meet you. I don't suppose you're related to Jim Lieberman?"

"Nice to meet you too. Yeah, he's my brother. Got an apprenticeship a couple months after he got taken, started hunting the second I turned 18, never looked back." It's easier to say something genuine than lie through her teeth. What the fuck, is this guy gonna pour silver on him? Why? It's not like hunters could carry around molten silver. "How'd you get into it?"

"Interesting. I've always been fascinated by Jim's story. The two of you are very strong." Nick pulls down his shirt collar to reveal the scars from fang marks on the side of his neck. "I relate to Jim's story on a personal level. That is what got me into hunting." He releases the shirt. "I'm not a proper hunter, though. I don't have a hunting partner. I'm simply an affiliate of the guild. I do research and support."

Liz figured. The guy isn't built like a hunter. She's trained for this work half her life, and it shows. She knows she can take him easily. Hearing his story makes her feel wildly guilty about that, though. God, if he's been through what Jim's been through… well, if she does this right, he won't even know what hit him until he wakes up with a bad headache. And she can't just leave this vampire here.

"Congrats on getting out. That takes guts." She means it. She guesses that's the kind of thing that could drive someone to… this. "I think your silver might be done."

Nick smiles widely. "Thank you. Jim's book mentioned how much you two missed each other. I imagine you must feel the same hatred towards vampires as I do. As many of us do. If you'd like to assist, typically I have someone handle the vampire while I handle the equipment." He hands her a key, then he walks over to the furnace and holds the long metal tongs with the glowing silver on the end. "All you need to do is hold it still on the ground. Kneeling on the shoulders usually works well."

Liz stuffs the key in her pocket, grabs the stake off her belt, and slams the blunt end into the side of his head while he's turned around. She grabs him as he falls, making sure the molten silver that clatters to the floor doesn't get on him. "Sorry, Nicholas," she says softly, setting him down in the chair in front of the desk.

She re-sheathes her stake, pulls out the key, and approaches Valen. "Hey, buddy. Let's get you outta this mess." She unlocks the coffin, undoes the restraints, and helps him out of it.

Valen watches her approach the coffin through a haze. He'd been mentally preparing for more torture, and now this muscular, god-like woman had attacked his abuser, and is now approaching him like an angel descending with kind words. This is a dream, right? Was this really happening?

He is completely limp in her hands, in a daze. His cheeks are flushed. As soon as her hands are on him, he decides he's a little bit in love with her.

Liz decides to leave the cuffs on, and obviously the muzzle is staying. This isn't Kane. The collar won't come off on its own, so she checks Nicholas's pocket and finds his keys. After a couple tries, she finds the right one, leaving it inside the coffin before closing the lid. "Bet that's better, huh? C'mon, my truck's just outside. Let's get you up the stairs." It's obvious that Valen can't move that well on his own, and she supports him as they make their way up.

Before they leave the base, she stops. "Valen, right? Okay, a couple ground rules. I'm helping you because torture is fucked up, but I'm still a hunter. I will kill you if you give me a reason to. No attacking, no trying to take that off-" Liz points to his muzzle. "No trying to run off. Not that you really can right now, but that'll change. You don't hurt me and I won't hurt you. Sound good?"

Valen is so overwhelmed by what's happening. He'd just been sitting there, being subjected to another of Nick's night visits, when this hunter strides in and upends everything all at once. It’s different, and that scares him, a lot. He has no idea who this person is, or what they’re going to do to him, but… She said torture is fucked up. So it could be good. Maybe this was over? His brain refuses to register it. It feels like he’s wading through molasses trying to figure out what he should be feeling. His usual internal stream of pleas has been completely silenced by how suddenly everything had pivoted. He's never even seen this hunter before. The muzzle is staying on, so obviously things weren't going to be too good, but…

Cheeks still rosy, eyes wide with fear and hope, he nods silently.

"Good." Liz takes him to the truck, trying to decide on the best place for him. It would be a lot better if she had a trunk, but her only options are the passenger seat, the backseat, or the bed. The first two left her vulnerable to attack- Valen would lose, but she would be driving and that was dangerous as shit. The bed left him wide-open for escape.

She considers going back and getting the coffin, for a moment, but… instead, she sighs and just loads him into the passenger seat and buckles him in. He really doesn't seem like he'll attack. "There we go," she says, before climbing into the driver's seat. "Name's Liz, by the way. I live about three hours away, so get comfortable. And hey: you're out. Take a minute to celebrate it." She gives him a smile and a pat on the shoulder before getting on the road.

You're out. Is that what's happening? It must be, right? Valen lets his head lean into the window, bonking against the glass. He's out. He's away from Nick. He's away from Nick. He starts to cry softly with relief. He's still a prisoner, it's not over, but this seems like it's going to be better. He can hope for that. Maybe it's a lie, he has no reason to trust this person, but she is the first one to say what's happening to him is fucked up and do something to put a stop to it. But where is she taking him…? To her house?

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches her strong-looking hands on the steering wheel and working the gear-shift. He keeps replaying in his mind over and over the sensation of her lifting him up, helping him up the stairs, touching him gently to get him up into the seat and buckle him in. What can I do to make you want to protect me? Anxiety creeps over him.

Liz isn't very talkative on the drive home. She's a little on-edge with a vampire just sitting right next to her while she's driving after having fought so many, and keeps glancing at Valen to make sure he's still chill. She calms down once they finally get to her house. She's glad the timing is good- it's late at night, and no one is out, especially not in a town so close to vampire territory, so no one can see her taking a vampire into her house.

"Alright, we're home." She helps Valen into the house, sitting him on her couch. "I'll be honest, I wasn't expecting to take a vampire home tonight, so I'm a little unprepared. Looks like you need… a bath, some clothes, and a meal, for starters." She reaches toward his face. "Not gonna hurt you, just checking out that muzzle," she warns. This isn't Liz's first rodeo, and she's assuming Valen must be at least as jumpy as Jim was when he first came home. The more assurances, the better. She grabs his chin and tilts his head a little, getting a good look of the thing. It doesn't seem locked, which is a major safety hazard she'd have to fix. He wouldn't be able to drink normally with it on, but… "Yeah, I can probably get a straw in there."

Valen's eyes light up with delight when she says this. She's going to feed him? Really? That makes him a little nervous--feed him for what? Dare he believe just because she didn't want to see him starving? And a bath, and clothes… Things you would give a person, and not a piece of meat. It almost feels wrong. It almost feels too much to hope for. Silent tears dribble down his cheeks again, tears of relief. Maybe he could convince her to take the muzzle off. Maybe she wouldn't feel the need to keep him locked up so tight. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe he could be a person and not a piece of meat.

Fuck, he really does remind her of Jim at 24. "Hey, it's gonna be alright." Liz grabs a tissue from the box on the side table and hands it to him.

He remembers tissues, a relic from an era when he could blow his nose. He takes the tissue and dabbles delicately at his eyes.

"Let's… okay. Blood first, probably. Hmm." She'd heard Jim tell her how Kane jumped on him when he got a papercut, so this guy definitely wouldn't be able to control himself. "I'm gonna have to tie you up first, just for this first time- maybe first few times- to make sure everything goes smoothly. Stay there, lemme work this out."

She's able to scour something along the lines of rope from her camping gear, winding it around his legs and torso firmly and tying it off where he can't reach. Even if he tried to lunge at her, he'd just end up on the floor. "I'll take that off after your dinner. Just try to relax. It'll be fine."

Valen whines softly as Liz approaches him with rope, and starts to sob as she ties him up. It's not painful, it's not even unpleasant except psychologically. More restraints, more tying, more barriers between him and being a person who talks and laughs and says please and thank you and I love you. She tells him to try to relax and it'll be fine, but he can't make his brain believe it. It won't be fine. It's never fine. It's always worse. Things had been getting better, and now they were getting worse again.

Liz passes through the doorway into the kitchen. She'll get a blood draw kit tomorrow, but this will have to do for now. She cuts into her arm, bleeding into a cup.

As soon as the blood is outside of Liz's body, Valen does exactly as she'd predicted, lunging and ending up on the floor. His eyes are wild and predatory, nostrils flaring, and his cuffed hands gouge the floor, raking his claws in an attempt to drag himself forward, growling savagely.

Liz glances back, seeing Valen worming around on the floor. It must be awful to be that desperate for food. She fills about half a cup, which takes longer than she thought it would, before bandaging her arm- first with gauze, then with plastic wrap, to hopefully control the smell a little bit. She hopes Valen is able to control himself a little more after he's finished this. She grabs a straw and heads back to the vampire.

"Valen." He barely seems to hear her. Liz grabs him by the bound wrists to make sure she won't get scratched and pulls him up into a sitting position. She straddles his legs to keep him from moving around so much, then sticks the straw through the muzzle and into his mouth as he strains for the cup. "Fuck, finally. Drink up."

As soon as the straw is in his mouth it's like he's a completely different animal. He sucks and the blood rushes into his mouth, warm and wet. His face instantly loosens into a placid expression, eyelids heavy, lost in the sensation. His eyes flicker to Liz, straddling him. Oh hello, where did you come from, big angel? Thank you. Thank you. He feels the blood warming his frigid insides as it goes down his throat. Thank you. Thank you.

The blood is gone far too fast. The straw wheezes emptily against the dredges at the bottom, Valen still sucking, refusing to admit he's finished.

"Yeah, I get that's probably not enough. Here, lemme turn it around so you can get at the bottom of the straw." Liz pulls the straw from Valen's mouth, flips it, and sticks the blood-covered end back in. After it looks like he's done, she pulls it back out, getting off of him. "I know it sucks, but that's all I've got for you right now. I'll get you more tomorrow."

When Liz lets him lick the straw to get a little extra, he almost starts crying again. She's putting so much thought into his comfort it's almost too much to bear. Ideally he'd like to be allowed to lick the bottom of the cup as well, but he knows why Liz won't let him do that. Please take the muzzle off. I promise it'll be fine. He's starting to have the thought with increasing certainty. Before, back with Nick, he knew for a fact that the second anyone took the muzzle off he'd be using persuasion instantly to try and save himself, but…the urgency to do that was starting to fade, here. Maybe he didn't need to. Maybe they could just have a normal conversation. It’s too good to be true, of course, but it’s a nice thought.

Liz rinses the cup, then returns to untie Valen, helping him off the floor. "Alright. Bathtime, pajamas, then bed. We'll figure the rest out tomorrow. You'll be okay." She helps him upstairs, into her parents' old room. There's a queen-size bed, a bunch of boxes (as she uses it for storage), and an attached bathroom. "This is gonna be your bedroom and your bathroom. I'll get all the boxes and shit out of here at some point this week." She continues helping him to the bathroom.

When she takes him upstairs, he starts to feel a little anxious again as Liz takes him into a bedroom. But Liz is a woman. Even if she did that, it probably wouldn't hurt. It probably wouldn't even be unpleasant. Maybe he would even like it. He thinks about it for a little longer than he probably should, before he realizes what she is saying. Oh, he's getting a bedroom, and a bathroom, and pajamas. That's good, right? He wants that. He starts to bounce a little with excitement. He's getting amenities. Maybe this is okay.

Liz starts filling the tub with warm water, then gestures to Valen's boxers. "You want me to help you get those off, you wanna do it yourself, or you wanna leave 'em on?" She holds up a new finger with each option, indicating for him to do the same to pick which he wants.

He's going to get a bath, but oh, he has to pass the trial of making a decision first. At this point he couldn't care less about his boxers. He has no modesty left, no dignity to scrape up to try and save. He holds up one finger, to ask her to do it, then immediately feels anxious about if that was the wrong thing to do.

"Alrighty, here we go." Liz helps Valen get the boxers off, then helps him into the tub. The cuffs and muzzle are still on, since Liz is afraid he'll take the muzzle off if his hands are free. "I know leaving the cuffs on isn't ideal, but I gotta look out for my own safety too. We just met and all. I promise I'll figure out something better tomorrow, you'll get your hands free. I'll help you get cleaned up for today, though."

She washes his hair and body, trying to be mindful of any injuries, making sure to get under the cuffs and muzzle too. At one point, she presses the washcloth into his hands so he can wash anything below the belt himself. She has to prompt him to do his own washing a few times before he has the wherewithal to do anything for himself.

After, she helps him into a set of pretty basic pajamas- she does unlock the cuffs briefly so she can get the shirt on, but they go right back on after. "Sorry, I know. It's temporary."

Valen leans into her touches, and at whatever point it's feasible, he leans into her, face into her shoulder, sighing contentedly, clinging to her with his bound hands if she allows it. It's probably pathetic. But he wants to say thank you, and he can't, and it's really, really disappointing when the cuffs don't stay off, but he feels cared for in a way he hasn't in a long time. Not safe, but safer.

The pajamas are nice--any fabric would be a little scratchy against his injuries, but they're soft and warm, neither of which are anything he's gotten to experience in a while. He sits on the bed, feeling acutely the stark clash between the comforting, gentle pajamas and the hard metal cuffs just a few inches above the sleeves at his wrists.

God, he absolutely breaks Liz's heart. Before sending Valen to bed, she gives him a hug, now reasonably certain he'd want that. He seems desperate for any kind of gentle touch. “It's gonna be alright. It's over. No one's gonna hurt you here." She really feels like she's 20 all over again.

He really, really wants to believe her words. Maybe it's a lie, but for now, in this moment, it's true, and that helps him carry on for a little while.

When Liz leaves him alone to go to bed, he lies down in the luxurious softness of a real bed, but finds to his horror he can't sleep. He's out in the open. That means danger. This is horrible because he starts to realize the solution would be to be shut back in the coffin, which he would hate more than anything, but it's been his only rest and safety for months, training his brain to equate a narrow, enclosed space with sleep and safety.

But he's so tired he wants to cry. Is there anything he could do to possibly recreate this sensation? A weighted blanket maybe? There's nothing. The bathtub? The underside of the bed looks tall enough for him to squeeze under, but he doesn't want to leave the softness and warmth of the blankets.

Whimpering, he pulls the comforter off the bed and wraps himself up in it as best as he can, steps onto the floor, and kneels down, jamming himself under the bed and wriggling forward until most of his body is under it. He almost hopes it doesn't work because this is a less than ideal sleeping position, but he does eventually fall asleep.

Liz calls Laken until they wake up and pick up the phone, confesses everything, and tells them to cover for her. Laken is completely on board, and she goes to sleep too, knowing that Nicholas's "a hunter a 3 hour drive away came to steal my vampire for no apparent reason" story will likely not hold up against her "I was literally home all night and I've got people backing that up," especially when he's the one with head trauma and there's no evidence she was there.

The next day, Liz goes to check on Valen, only to find him missing. "Fuck! Where the hell did he go?!"

Valen is awoken by Liz's startled exclamation. Oh no, she thinks I ran off. He starts wriggling forward, but finds he's a little bit stuck. He grips the carpet fiercely and drags himself forward a little, getting his head and shoulders out from under the bed, letting out muffled exclamations to let her know where he is.

Liz rubs the sleepiness out of her eyes with a sigh of relief. "Oh. You do that too, huh?" At least he's coming out on his own, not needing to be coaxed out like Jim did.

You do that too, huh? Did……did Liz sleep under her bed? Why on earth would she do that?

She pulls him the rest of the way out. "Alright, game plan for today. I've gotta go do some shopping, I've got a friend coming over while I'm out. They're gonna feed you, too. After I get back, we'll get those cuffs off, sound good?"

Someone is coming over while Liz is out. That makes him nervous, but excited because they're going to feed him. He wants to ask if it'll be a man or a woman. Liz had said they. Was it just one friend or multiple friends? Realistically it won't really make much difference the gender of the person, or people, but it will let him know how nervous to feel, being alone in the house with someone new in this state. He decides to assume it'll be a man, this way he'll be pleasantly surprised instead of caught off guard if he's wrong, but immediately regrets it, beginning to shake with nerves.

They're coming over to feed you, not hurt you. Calm the fuck down.

But what if they didn't just feed him? Liz was taking the cuffs off, not the muzzle. He's still stuck having no way to tell anyone if something is wrong.

Still, he nods with enthusiasm at the prospect of the cuffs coming off.

Liz takes Valen down to the living room couch, and Laken arrives shortly after. "Hey!" they greet cheerily. "Jesus Christ, you look like you've been through the wringer. What's up, I'm Laken." They hold out a hand for Valen to potentially shake.

"He can't even answer that." Liz points out.

Oh, it's a man. Great. Awesome. Valen dies inside, ready to lie down and take whatever was going to happen to him as soon as Liz leaves. It was obvious Valen wouldn't be able to do anything about it, either resist in the moment or tell on him afterwards.

Valen's countenance shifts visibly and immediately, shoulders drooping. He starts to hold out a hand to shake Laken's, but thinks better of it halfway through and retracts. Maybe if he wasn't overly friendly, or tried to be standoffish or aggressive, he could at least put it off for a while, maybe until Liz got home if Laken didn't pay attention to the time. But then again, maybe Laken was one of those men who liked it better when you tried to push them away. He couldn't know.

Or maybe he's just a normal fucking person. Not everyone is a sadist like Nick.

But he has the opportunity.

That doesn't mean he's going to take it.

He has no reason not to, though. Well…Laken has an interesting hair color. That's nice, at least.

"That's cool." Laken says easily, retracting their hand. "No pressure, man."

"This is Valen." Liz introduces him, since Valen can't. "He's really scared right now, so try not to be too much." She grabs a thick clothing catalog off the coffee table and hands it to them. "Have him pick out what he likes from here, but don't let him write."

"You got it, boss. Blood stuff in the kitchen?" Laken asks.

"Yeah." She looks back at Valen apologetically. "Sorry. Laken's nice, okay? They're not gonna hurt you either. I'll be back in a few hours."

Apparently they're clothes shopping. Exactly how long does Liz plan to keep him here? She's made no mention of removing the muzzle. Does she plan to just have him live here forever, indefinitely muted? The fact that he is apparently going to receive clothes almost makes him feel good, but he just feels nervous instead. He can't make sense of the implications. Did they intend to just have a pet vampire in the upstairs bedroom? Chills go up his spine. Were they going to do other kinds of experiments on him? Surely not, right? She said she wouldn't torture him…

She'd said she wouldn't. Why would he believe her? Why would he believe any of it?

Still, when Liz leaves, he shuffles forward and reaches a hand out, as though to try and grab her to stop her from leaving.

Laken's nice. They're not gonna hurt you either. There's the they again. Laken must be nonbinary. He'd heard of such a thing in passing, mostly in the context of people around him crucifying it as ridiculous and juvenile. He'd secretly found it intriguing, but it doesn't put him at ease. A nonbinary man can still hurt him.

Liz leaves, and Laken claps their hands together, discarding the catalog back to the table for now. "How about breakfast first?"

And then they're alone. Valen's resolve comes back. I'm not stupid. I know you're probably lying. Don't treat me like I'm stupid. He wants to be fed, very much so, but he doesn't trust Laken, and he doesn't want to let Laken see how desperate and scared he is. He remains silent.

Laken shrugs. "Kay, we'll just go with that, then. You think you'll be able to be chill while I get my blood in a cup, or you need some help? Liz told me on the phone to tie you up 'cause you're still getting your juice back, but if you wanna give it a try without, hey, it's cool. Oh, uh, nod for rope, shake your head for nope."

Absolutely not. Valen feels like he would probably die if Laken tied him up. He's not as desperately hungry as he was yesterday, so maybe he'll be able to not lunge? But it was only one feeding…

No, he can't be tied up, absolutely not. He shakes his head frantically. He would rather suffer whatever consequences come from accidentally lunging than be tied up.

“Okay, cool. Let's get this ball rolling, then." Laken smiles at him, then goes to the kitchen and slices their arm to bleed into the cup.

Valen is able to resist a little bit this time, but after a few seconds the smell is too much. I need it RIGHT NOW I NEED IT GIVE IT.

He tries to stop and pull himself back, though, so he just sort of ends up bumping into Laken from behind.

"Oh, hey. It's gonna take a couple minutes, I think." Laken firmly holds Valen away at arm's length with their free arm. "Good to know I'm delicious, though."

Valen blinks at them. Well… That could have gone a lot worse. He wrenches himself away from Laken, chuffing air from his mouth and nostrils aggressively, still feeling threatened and vulnerable, trying to seem dangerous and prepared. He shuffles backwards and takes a seat on the couch.

Laken finishes preparing the blood, bandages themself, and sets Valen up with the straw, murmuring about how "You really seem like you need to smoke some pot. It's so sad vampires can't do that." They turn the straw around for him to lick the bottom too, citing "Liz told me this was a good last step."

Valen snatches the cup from Laken and clutches it to himself, glaring at Laken as he sips it. When Laken puts their hand near Valen, even for something obviously to help, he lets out a low warning growl like a dog.

When he's all done, they get the catalog back out, and a pen, handing both to Valen. "You can go through this and pick out whatever."

Valen’s heart pounds. Does Laken not realize that Valen can use persuasion through writing? He’s being handed a pen. He hasn’t had an opportunity like this in so long. His brain twists into anxious knots trying to figure out how to handle this.

Laken does not, in fact, realize. They open the book up to the first page for him.

Valen is suddenly conflicted. Should he try to escape now? Would that make things worse? They're being kind to him, but…

What is he thinking? He has to get out of here. It doesn't matter how nice they are, they're still keeping him captive. They can still do whatever they want to him. He's still at their mercy. This is probably all just to lull him into being complacent. His mind races. Oh no, he has to make a decision.

He takes the pen and starts to write a command, but to his horror his disused hands can't scrape together the dexterity to get it right on the first try, and he ends up producing some chicken scratch before fumbling and dropping the pen.

He lets out a whine and cringes, looking at Laken through his eyebrows.

"Hey." Laken snatches the pen up, suddenly serious. "I know it sucks you can't say anything, but you know why we can't let you, even if you seem like a nice enough guy. No writing, bud."

That…. also could have gone a lot worse. Laken is being remarkably patient. But Valen still has a hard time suppressing the instinctual fear welling inside him.

He takes the catalog, still bracing for retaliation. When none comes, he turns his eyes downward and points to a black turtleneck sweater.

Laken notices the increase in fear. "I get it, dude. You're just trying to survive, I'd probably do the same if I was you. Listen, I won't even tell Liz. We're cool." They circle the sweater.

Maybe Laken is okay. Maybe. He wants to believe it.

Valen goes through the catalog and picks out all the most expensive things. He doesn't realize until afterwards what he's done, but living among the nobility allowed him to develop expensive tastes. It was frustrating because if he could get back to his house, he still had a lot of money and jewelry he'd take from the Kithrara estate, which he could offer to buy the clothes he actually wanted--of course, in that case, he wouldn't need to be buying new ones.

These are the ones he wants though, he'd just done an honest assessment of the catalog for the kinds of things he'd typically wear. Lots of black tops with long sleeves, dark, tight pants, a long, heavy jacket with a hood. He'd even found a studded leather belt and knee-high boots. Which, unfortunately, cost almost $200, so he figured that was one of the more outlandish asks. He colors a little with embarrassment at his selection.

"Damn, you and Lizzie really are two peas in a pod. Maybe she'll give you one of her leather jackets. Dunno if she's gonna go for those boots, but since you can't, I'll argue on your behalf." Laken gives him a wink. "She'll totally cave. Oh, and, hey. You're trans too, right? You want binders or something?"

Valen looks up at Laken sharply, hardly able to believe what he’s hearing. He tears up instantly. He'd never in a million years thought he'd be able to get that at all, let alone without having to ask and plead for it. His wet eyes sparkle with newfound appreciation, and he nods. Okay, Laken is all right. He leans into them, grabbing their shirt.

But…. something still doesn't feel right. How are they going to care about details like this, and validating him, yet still deny him the very basic ability to advocate for himself? To communicate with them as an equal? Were they just buying him nice things like one would buy toys for their dog?

He looks up at Laken pleadingly and slowly points to the muzzle, hopeful inquisition on his face.

Laken sighs. "I can't. Look, I'll talk to Liz about it, alright? Like, honestly, I doubt she'll keep you here forever, so that'd definitely come off. She's probably gonna let you go. She's just paranoid, y'know? Her brother was held captive for years by-" They suddenly grin. "Ooh, I just got the best idea. I know someone you can talk to risk-free."

Uh-oh, it sounds like Laken is saying Liz's brother was held captive by a vampire. Talking with a vampire also had no risk because they were unaffected by persuasion. But his hackles raise defensively once again at the mention of a third unknown party, this one being a vampire. He tended to assume the worst of vampires, a trait he shared with humans--the assumptions were usually not that far off. But… This one was friends with humans, so they couldn't be that bad. Right? Unless they weren't actually friends, but another captive? Were they just going to be put together for a play date? But Laken had said Liz probably wouldn't keep him here forever, so…? He looks at Laken anxiously. He knows he can't really do anything about anything, but he trusts Laken, a little bit.

"Oh, this is such a good idea. I'm a genius." Laken enthuses, oblivious to Valen's anxiety.

Liz gets home soon enough. "Hey! Everything go okay while I was gone?"

"Super smooth." Laken agrees. "Didn't even use the rope for the blood stuff."

Liz flicks them on the forehead. "Stop taking risks." She unpacks the contents of her shopping: a blood draw kit, a small padlock, and these:

"This way we've got more than just yes and no," Liz explains. "They're not all relevant, like, the yes and no cards are redundant and we don't need hungry and thirsty, but at least you can tell me if you're hurt or something this way. I know it's for kids, but I figured it'd help."

"I actually thought of-" Laken starts.

"And if I put this on the muzzle, we can take the cuffs off." Liz grabs the padlock.

Valen is excited by her haul at first--a blood draw kit means feeding him will be easier, and these cute little cards bode well for his ability to communicate more complex things--he eyes the I want to go home card longingly.

But then she pulls out the lock, and Valen's stomach drops out from under him. No, no, no, please. She's said it as though it were a positive thing, to remove the cuffs, but it looks like a step backwards, definitely a step backwards. As it was now, anyone could take the muzzle off. With this, only Liz could take the muzzle off, or whoever she gave the key to. A key, almost a symbol of ownership as well as from the practical standpoint--if someone lost the key, or something happened to Liz, he would just be out of luck. It forced him to be completely dependent on her and at her mercy in a new and scary way. And if this was her solution, how long was she planning to keep feeding him? Because if the current rate of feeding kept up, he'd be able to break any padlock that wasn't silver fairly quickly. Were they going to stop feeding him? But Laken had said she probably wasn't going to keep him here forever, and would let him go. That was too good to be true, of course, but maybe- They kept telling him things that would make him feel better if they were true, but then doing things that were moving in the opposite direction. If they were going to let him go, putting a lock on his most hated restraint was definitely the opposite of moving in that direction. As soon as Liz declares this will allow them to take the cuffs off, Valen crumples, tears slipping down his cheeks, holding his hands out as though she'd threatened to hit him.

"Oh, hey hey hey, it's okay." Liz takes a step back at his defensive gesture, wanting to give him space. "I thought it'd be good, I thought you'd want them off. Um." She slides the cards across the table to him. "Any of these relevant?"

He shuffles through the cards with shaking hands, trying to find one that says I'm a person and you're not treating me like a person and I don't know how to convince you I don't deserve this. There wasn't one, of course, so he picks out the card that says I am sad and puts it on the table.

"He wants the muzzle off." Laken frowns sympathetically.

"I'm sorry, Valen." Liz feels awful for him. She imagines if Jim came home after his ordeal and wasn't even allowed to speak. "I wanna help you, but I've gotta look out for myself too. And it's just too big a risk for us to talk. I really wanna talk to you too, but it's a safety issue."

"He could talk to Kane," Laken says.

"What? No."

"Why not?"

"Because he's horrible and I hate him." Liz glowers.

Valen shuffles through the cards again, his newfound tool. He quickly lays out I need help, I am hurt, I am hungry, I am tired and I want to go home all in a row, hoping that maybe physically seeing his smorgasbord of negative emotions laid out would impress upon them the extent of his distress.

Liz exhales slowly. "I'll draw you some more blood. You'll heal. I'm sorry. We don't have to use the lock if you don't want. I'm trying to help you as much as I can without compromising my own safety."

"Can't we just drop him off at the border when he can run again?" Laken asks. "He wants to go home." They point at the card.

"…He's a Kithrara," Liz says flatly.

"C'mon, look at him. Do you really think he's gonna come back to human territory after this?"

"I don't know. I can't risk human lives on that."

"Then let him talk to Kane so he can say something more than I am sad." Laken argues. "I know you hate the guy, but he's the only vampire we know, and you know he'd be willing to help."

Liz hesitates, then sighs. "Fine. For Valen. But I'm going to complain the entire time."

Laken smiles. "You wouldn't be you if you didn't."

"Fucking abusive piece of shit." Liz mutters under her breath as she goes to the phone and dials.

Valen clutches his cards to himself. He does kind of want the cuffs off, although he finds them far less distressing than the muzzle. I guess there's no option to get both off… He has a hard time choosing, so he just leaves it, fine with things staying as they are if that's what they choose. He can use his hands well enough to do most things he'd want to, although it's a little annoying.

Sigh…..but hearing humans yet again talk about how dangerous he is, and how he can't be set free for human safety makes him feel small and hopeless again. He's never going to be free of that suspicion, that assumed guilt. But…it sounds like they're going to talk to someone who might help, so maybe it's OK to hope a little bit. He tilts his head in preparation for trying to hear whoever is on the other end of the line during the phone call.

“Hey Liz, what's up?”

“I've kind of got…” She glances at Valen briefly, “A situation.”

“Are you okay?” Jim’s voice takes on a sense of urgency.

“Yeah, yeah I'm fine, just… okay, I'll come out with it. Your situation isn't that unique. I've got a vampire here and he's scared and hurt and I can't let him talk, obviously. So I was wondering if we could meet up with Kane tonight and have him interpret.” Liz blurts out all at once.

“…Wow.”

“I know, I know. You were right, okay?”

“Yeah, I mean, first of all, always am.” Jim gloats. “Second, whatever you need. I'll go let him know what's going on. Can it be here? I think going to your place again would make Kane nervous after last time, even if it'll be night this time.”

“Sure, yeah. Thanks. I’ll see you later, love you.” As much as Liz hates having to rely on Kane of all people, she’s glad this is going somewhere

“Love you too.”

Liz hangs up the phone. "Well, I guess this is really happening."

Laken claps excitedly. "Yay!"

I guess we're going somewhere tonight… Valen figures. He's a little disheartened that the implication from that conversation is that this second vampire is also a captive, same as him. How were they imagining this was going to go? Why was it safe for them to talk to this second vampire, but not Valen? Laken seems excited for it, and Liz seems to think this will be better than the current situation, so maybe it'll be okay. It's a nice thought, that things will work out.

"I'll go get you a second helping." Liz heads to the kitchen and begins drawing blood.

"It'll be okay." Laken tells Valen. "It's all gonna work out." They tap all the cards except I am sad and I want to go home. "We can fix all these easy." They tap I want to go home. "I'm sure we can work this out. The last card depends on you, I guess."

Liz comes out with a fresh cup of blood and hands it to him. He's calm this time. Laken's sitting and talking with him has calmed him down a little. He tries to keep remembering earlier, when Laken had cared enough about his feelings to get him a binder. And just having them acknowledge This sucks was helping, too. It wasn't That thing deserves it or It doesn't feel pain the same way we do, don't worry about it or It's worth it for the greater good.

And they're giving him a second helping of blood. That's so very generous. When Liz comes over and hands him the cup, he pokes the straw into the muzzle, cheeks rosy, sipping placidly like a toddler with a juicebox. Maybe this is OK.

When he's finished drinking, he inverts the straw himself and licks it, watching Liz and Laken tentatively. He wants to say thank you. Even though he's only been able to focus so far on what was still distressing him, he has so very much to be grateful for. His situation has improved immensely.

He flips through his cards trying to find one that matches his feelings, then blushes fiercely and puts down I love you.

"Aw!" Laken is delighted. "Love you too!"

Liz feels super fucking guilty now. "Yeah. Just trying to… make this as okay as possible for you. I know you've been through a lot." She gives him a side hug and collects the cup.

"I've gotta head out. Good luck tonight. And Lizzie, binders too." Laken says, gesturing to the catalog.

"Gotcha."

"It was nice to meet you, Valen!" Laken says. "And hey, don't worry about tonight. Liz's brother is a sweetheart, and it'll be good to talk."

Valen holds up the card that says Yes. Something about a cartoon of a thumbs up makes it feel closer to saying "Nice" than giving a real thumbs up. Nice to meet you, Laken. Please don't die. Humans die so easily.

Liz's brother worries him a little bit, even if he's supposedly a sweetheart. He was held captive by vampires, and so surely has no great love for them. And he's a man, which never bodes well. He does, in fact, worry about tonight despite Laken's plea not to.

reminder: i included the taglists for both stories in the first crossover bc i thought it would be a one-and-done thing, but it’s looking like we’re gonna be putting out a bunch of stuff. as such, i will be including the taglists on this and the second part tomorrow as well, but if you’d like to continue being tagged in crossover pieces, please comment saying so in order to remain on the taglist! it’s opt-in! and as the next crossover will be 18+, please be 18+ to enter the taglist for that.

taglist:

@annablogsposts

@cc1010foxy

@darlingwhump

@emcscared-whumps

@nicolepascaline

@oddsconvert

@pumpkin-spice-whump

@soursagas

@thecyrulik

@whump-cravings

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@whumpycries

@annablogsposts

@badluck990

@barebarb

@cc1010foxy

@ceph-the-writing-spook

@cicatrix-energy

@crying-wings

@crystalquartzwhump

@cupcakes-and-pain

@cyberneticfire

@darlingwhump

@deluxewhump

@down-in-the-whumps

@elrysdoesstuff

@emcscared-whumps

@extemporary-whump

@extrabitterbrain

@iamtheshriekingguineapig

@icyheart-and-friends

@inpainandsuffering

@interdimensional-chaos

@kira-the-whump-enthusiast

@lactose-intolerant-egg

@lilac-and-lemon-whumps

@littlespacecastle

@little-whumpee

@lost-in-labradorite-halls

@magziemakeswhatever

@melancholy-in-the-morning

@morning-star-whump

@myhusbandsasemni

@mylifeisonthebookshelf

@neverthelass

@nicolepascaline

@nine-tailed-whump

@no-terms-and-conditions-apply

@not-a-space-alien

@nyooom

@octopus-reactivated

@oddsconvert

@onlybadendings

@owencarvourenthusiast

@pigeonwhumps

@pumpkin-spice-whump

@quietly-by-myself

@quirkykayleetam

@ramadiiiisme

@redwhump

@scp-1296

@secretwhumplair

@the-whumperfly-effect

@the-whumpers-grimm

@thecyrulik

@thegreatwhodini

@themarlo

@thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight

@t0rture-me

@vehan-tikkun-olam-and-stuff

@whuarri

@whump-blog-reblogs

@whump-cravings

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@whump-me-all-night-long

@whump-my-heart-away

@whump-queen

@whumperfully

@whumpthisway

@whumpilicious

@whumpshaped

@whumpwillow

@whumpworld

@whumpy-writings

@whumpycries

@whumpyzombie

@whumpzone

@wits-and-wrongs

@wolfeyedwitch

#kj x mmss #whump #my writing #vampire whumpee #rescue #recovery #starvation #muzzle #whump writing

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vladiator · 11 months

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The Hound and the Fox

a Sansan fanfic (also on AO3)

Rating: Mature Fandoms: Game of Thrones (TV), A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark Characters: Sandor Clegane, Sansa Stark Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, (Meant to be historical but can be read as modern), Stranger is a dog, Cabin, Shapeshifting, Shapeshifting Sansa, self-sabotaging Sandor Length: 3492 words

"I've heard of men who turned into wolves, but never a woman who turned into a fox."

In which Sandor Clegane lives in a lonely cabin in the woods, and rescues a fox who turns out to be more than meets the eye.

The sound of a woman's scream pierced through the night and woke Sandor. He shot up in bed, immediately wondering if the sound had been a remnant of a nightmare he was having. Sometimes he dreamt of the fire that destroyed his face and in part made him the man he was. But such dreams were usually silent.

As soon as Sandor laid back down, there was another scream. It was definitely human, which was odd, because nobody lived near Sandor. That was the whole point of living in the woods, to escape the noise and troubles of other people.

Sandor slowly got out of bed, waking his dog, who always slept on the floor near him. "Come on, Stranger," he said. "We'll never get any sleep if we don't find out what that is."

Sandor pulled on some proper clothes; he knew better than to go traipsing through the forest in nothing but his skivvies. There were low branches and brambles, thorns that would cut anything that came near. He lived in the thickest and darkest part of the woods, but that was exactly how he liked it. He then exited the bedroom and grabbed a lantern, as well as his shotgun; there was no telling what could be lurking outside his door.

Sandor and his dog left their cabin and slowly began to make their way in the direction of the screams. Whatever it was out there, or whoever it was, was clearly in agony. Sandor had heard tales of forest spirits tricking men into following them into the deepest, darkest woods, but luckily he didn't believe in such things. He trudged through the brush with only the warm light of the lantern to guide him, unsure of what he would find. It sounded like a woman, but what woman would be out here at this hour? He didn't have any neighbours for miles, and he was unsure if any of them had wives or daughters. It must be a cat, he thought.Those fuckers have human screams, don’t they? I'll put it out of its misery and we'll be back to sleep in no time.

The screaming grew louder as Sandor wandered through the woods, and he knew he must be getting close. He was also getting agitated, as he would much rather have been snoring away in bed. He didn't really need much sleep, but he did thoroughly enjoy it, except for when he was having nightmares.

Stranger trotted ahead, clearly smelling something interesting. It wasn't long before they found the source of the sound, and to Sandor’s surprise, it was a fox. He had had no idea that such a small creature could make such a bone-chillingly human sound, but now he understood why: the poor creature's leg was stuck in a bear trap and was bleeding. But it stopped screaming as soon as it saw Sandor, and stared up at him, frozen in fear.

This was nothing new, of course. Most creatures, human or otherwise, were frightened of him. That was part of being scarred and ugly and big. The last time he'd gone into town he heard people whisper of a monster in his part of the woods, a gargantuan one with half a face, and it didn't take a genius to work out that it was him someone had seen. That someone, whoever they were, had embellished the tale a bit, but he still knew he was the monster.

Sandor knelt down slowly so as to not upset the fox any further. This wasn't his bear trap, it likely belonged to his closest neighbour, a man called Mormont who as far as Sandor could tell was a hermit like him. Normally, Sandor would have just killed the critter and made a hat or something out of its fur, but there was something about this fox that made him hesitate. Its eyes were blue, an odd colour for a fox, and strangely hypnotic. He felt oddly compelled to help this creature, and so he reached down and freed it from the trap. The fox immediately tried to stand up, but couldn't, as its leg was too badly wounded. Sandor sighed and looked at his dog Stranger, who cocked his head as if to say, "The hell are we doing?"

Sandor shook his head, but at what he didn't know. If he didn't help the fox, it would surely die, either by bleeding out or by being attacked by some sort of predator. But he also recognized that this was an odd thought to have: he was a predator, and he should have been taking advantage of the situation. But somehow he couldn't, somehow he didn't have it in his heart to kill this fox that looked up at him with such bizarrely human eyes. His shotgun slung across his back, he delicately picked up the fox, and carried it home.

The entire walk, Stranger trotted beside Sandor with a look of confusion on his canine face. He was a hound dog, he knew what his prey was. In fact, in this moment it seemed he knew better than Sandor. But they walked back to their cabin, and Sandor gently placed the fox onto his armchair before lighting a fire. It was autumn, and the night air had been chilly. He knew that if he had been stuck in a bear trap in such weather, he'd want a warm fire as well.

The fuck am I doing? Sandor thought to himself as he gathered some supplies to help dress the fox's wound. This is ridiculous. A few years of solitude and I've gone soft. And yet, he still found himself kneeling down beside the armchair. He gently took the fox's back paw in his large hand, and it flinched at his touch, before quickly realising that he was only trying to help.

The wound was deep, but Sandor had seen worse on both humans and animals, and he was able to bandage it easily. The fox seemingly understood that it was going to be all right, and it curled up on the chair and fell asleep.

Still sitting on the floor, Sandor let out a little sigh of relief. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Stranger cocking his head at him again, clearly perplexed. "What? It doesn't hurt to do a good deed once in a while," he said to the hound.

I'm explaining myself to a dog, he thought. I must have really lost it.

Sandor got up from the floor and took off his boots, tossing them by the door as he always did. Next his coat came off, and that was discarded on the floor as well. He turned to walk toward his bedroom, and whistled for Stranger to follow. But the dog stayed where he was, laying on the floor, staring at the fox.

"No, you can't eat it," scolded Sandor. "Or the good deed will have been for nothing. Come on."

A small snarl flickered across the dog's lips. There was something he didn't like, or was confused by, but Sandor had no idea what. The fox was obviously no threat to them, and Stranger normally didn't have a taste for foxes anyway - he vastly preferred rabbits. Sandor shook his head at the dog and began to walk to his bedroom, his back turned to the armchair. Suddenly, his dog began to whine, so Sandor turned on his heels and immediately saw why. In the fox's place was a young woman, the most beautiful Sandor had ever seen. She was entirely nude except for the bandage that was wrapped around her leg, and her waist-length auburn hair. Her skin was as pale as moonlight, and she looked as peaceful as she was stunning.

He silently decided that this was, in fact, a dream, one far more pleasant than his normal nightly terrors. He picked his coat off the floor and delicately draped it across the sleeping woman, then turned back to his bedroom. This time, Stranger dutifully followed.

—☾—☾—☾—☾—☾—☾—☾—☾—☾—☾—☾—☾—☾—☾—

The next morning, Sandor woke up slowly, having nearly forgotten the events of the previous night. He had decided that it was a dream and that was that, until he trudged into his den to find the fire still going and his dream still sleeping in his chair.

"Bloody hell," he whispered to himself.

The woman stirred ever so slightly, and Sandor found himself uncharacteristically panicked, unsure of what to do in the strange case of a strange woman being in his cabin. He decided to just stand there as she opened her eyes, which were, of course, a mesmerising shade of blue. When the woman saw him, a small smile crossed her lips as she sat up in the armchair. "You saved me," she said. Her voice was beautiful and delicate, just as she was.

Sandor nodded awkwardly. "That I did."

"Thank you," replied the woman. Sandor couldn't remember the last time he'd seen such a warm smile directed at him, much less from a woman.

"It was nothing," he said, but it was something. In fact, it was everything. If he'd known that saving foxes led to such a lovely woman sitting in his chair and looking at him like she wasn't afraid, he would have done it more often. The way she looked at him made him almost forget that most people saw him as a monster, disfigured and hideous.

Sandor’s coat was still draped across the woman, and she tried to offer it to him, holding it out and saying, "I believe this is yours."

"You can keep it." That was a damn good coat, but the young woman had nothing else to wear, and he desperately needed her to stay covered, or his mind would be flooded with the ungentlemanly thoughts he'd been too tired to think the night before. He didn't want to frighten this girl, especially when she possibly still needed his help.

"You are so kind," replied the woman. "I wish there were more people like you."

Most people would think otherwise, Sandor thought, but he bit his tongue. "Are you hungry?"

"Famished!"

"All right. What do people like you eat?" As soon as the words left his mouth, he wanted to punch himself. Shut the fuck up, you dumb bastard, he thought to himself.

"People like me?" joked the woman. "You mean women?"

"I mean, women who turn into foxes. Or foxes who turn into women. Whichever one you are."

The woman laughed softly. "I could eat anything."

"Eggs? I've got a chicken out back."

"Of course."

Sandor nodded and left the cabin, leaving Stranger inside with the woman. He did have a chicken out back, a grumpy old hen that didn't even have a name. He didn't purchase this hen, she just showed up at the cabin one day and made a nest, seemingly understanding that he would provide her with protection from animals that would eat her in exchange for eggs. Sandor was now wondering if this hen was secretly a woman, too.

Sandor gathered some eggs and headed back inside, where the woman was raking her slender fingers through her red hair, and Stranger sat on the floor watching her. Sandor immediately set to work in the small kitchen, heating up the wood stove and cracking the eggs onto the pan. As he cooked, he occasionally stole glances at the woman wrapped up in his coat. He'd had no idea that anything could be this beautiful. But then, when he looked up to glance at her again, he saw that she was already looking at him. When their eyes met, she smiled.

Go on, you idiot, say something, he thought. "I've heard of men who turned into wolves, but never a woman who turned into a fox."

The woman smiled shyly and nodded. "I believe I am a rare case."

"Your family– are they foxes as well?"

"I have no family. Not anymore."

"Neither do I."

"You have your dog."

Sandor chuckled. "He's not really family, more of an old friend. His name is Stranger."

"A good name. What is yours?"

It wasn't until this point that Sandor realised he didn't know the woman's name, nor did she know his. "Sandor."

"Sandor," said the woman. The way she said his name sent a pleasant shiver up his spine, and he wanted to hear her say it again and again. "I'm Sansa."

"Your name suits you."

Sansa beamed. "You think so?"

Sandor wanted to say, It's as beautiful as you are, but only nodded instead. He didn't want to frighten away the only visitor this cabin had ever had. Normally, he thoroughly enjoyed his solitude and loathed any sort of attention, but then again, he normally never saw anyone as enchantingly gorgeous as Sansa.

Soon the eggs were ready. Since he lived alone, Sandor only had one chair at his small table, so he pulled the table and chair toward the armchair so he could sit and eat with Sansa. She smiled warmly when he handed her her plate and fork.

"You are too kind," said Sansa. "I don't know how I can possibly repay you for what you've done for me."

"You don't need to."

"You saved my life. Perhaps when I can run again, I could hunt you a rabbit."

"Your life is worth much more than a rabbit."

"I could bring you my weight's worth in rabbits?"

"That's not what I meant," said Sandor as he shook his head. "Besides, that's what Stranger is for."

"I must find a way to repay you."

"Having breakfast with an ugly bastard like me is good enough."

Sansa frowned slightly. "You shouldn't speak of yourself like that."

"I shouldn’t speak truthfully?"

"You should, but that isn't the truth. You've been nothing but helpful."

"So maybe I'm not a bastard then," chuckled Sandor, but Sansa had a stern look on her face.

"Nor are you ugly. You should treat yourself as kindly as you've treated me."

"I don't plan on having to rescue myself from any bear traps any time soon."

Sansa furrowed her brow at him in frustration. "Now I remember why I live as a fox rather than a girl. People are such horrid creatures."

"Sansa, I didn't mean it like that–"

"I shall be gone soon enough and you won't have to worry about me."

"You're still injured. You can't go back out there."

"Why do you care?"

"I–" That question had thrown Sandor off. Why did he care? He had always wanted to be left alone, but perhaps that was only because he hated the way people reacted to his scars. This was the first time someone had ever truly looked at him as if he didn't have them. "I think I know how you can repay me."

Sansa’s eyebrow shot up. "How?"

"A kiss." The words felt dirty coming out of Sandor’s mouth, but that was all he truly wanted.

Sansa cocked her head at him, the same way Stranger looked at him when confused. "That is all?"

"Yes."

"A kiss, in exchange for rescuing me?"

Sandor nodded.

There it was again, that dangerously beautiful smile Sandor felt himself growing addicted to. Despite barely knowing this woman, this fox, he only wanted to make her happy. The way he saw it, such a beautiful woman deserved to feel nothing but joy. He was actually surprised to see her smile at his request; he'd almost expected her to react in disgust and fear, but thought it was worth a shot anyway.

Sansa had been curled up on the chair, with her legs tucked under the coat with the rest of her, but now she slowly tried to stand, bracing herself on the table with one hand. The coat slid off of her and onto the floor, revealing her slender and pale frame. Sandor had never seen a woman so unashamed and unafraid of her own nudity, and Sansa was unsurprisingly lovely from head to toe. He tried desperately to keep his eyes on her face as she shuffled around the table to him, her leg clearly causing her pain. Instinctively, Sandor reached out his hand to help steady her, and Sansa shifted herself so that his large hand found itself on her waist. A chill ran across Sandor's entire body as soon as he touched her bare skin. Balancing between the table and his hand, Sansa limped over to him, and when she was closer she threw her arms across his shoulders to steady herself in front of him.

Sandor couldn't believe the beauty before him. He allowed himself one quick glance over her body, and was in total awe of her.

Although he was tall, when he was sitting he was nearly eye-level to her, and he found himself lost in her sapphire eyes. He was sitting with his knees apart, and she positioned herself between them. His hand still around her waist, she leaned toward him, slowly but with a look of determination on her face. She closed the small gap between them, gently kissing Sandor on his lips, sending a shockwave of emotion through his body.

Sandor wished that moment could last an eternity, with her soft lips on his. She tasted of honey, lemon, and blood, and he had never been happier in his life.

Then, Sansa’s leg failed her, and her knees buckled. But Sandor still had one hand around her waist and his other quickly moved to stabilise her as well, and he kept her from falling. This ended their kiss, and although a flash of disappointment did cross his mind, all he cared about was Sansa’s safety.

To his surprise, Sansa giggled and allowed herself to fall up against him, leaning her chest on his. It seemed that Sandor's comments of self-hatred were by now forgiven, and for a moment it almost seemed that Sansa was enjoying this as much as he was. She must not have seen a human man in quite some time, thought Sandor. Otherwise she would know how ugly I am. But still, his arms wrapped around her waist and he pulled her closer.

"Can I ask you a question?" asked Sansa

"Of course."

"How did you get your scars?"

Sandor sighed and anxiously scratched the burnt side of his face. "My brother burnt me when we were children."

"That's terrible."

"There are worse things that could happen."

"Knowing that doesn't make it easier, though." Sansa's eyes studied him intensely. "Does it hurt?"

"No."

"Can you feel it at all?"

"A bit."

Then, to Sandor’s surprise, Sansa leaned in again and kissed him on his burnt cheek. All sensation on that side was normally dull, but he felt her, in his soul. Whatever this woman was, she was bewitching him in some way. Sansa then moved her face to Sandor's ear and whispered, "That was to thank you for breakfast."

"You're welcome," muttered Sandor. His heart was already beating incredibly fast, and when he glanced down and saw her breasts pushed up against his chest, he felt as if he was going to explode. Without thinking, he ran one of his hands up and down her back.

After a moment, Sandor said, "It would probably be best if you stay a while, while your leg heals."

"Would I pay you in a kiss each day I am in your home?"

"Perhaps."

Sansa smiled. "And a kiss for each meal we share?"

"I suppose."

"And perhaps I could pay it all now?"

A smirk crossed Sandor's face. "If you wish."

As soon as the words left his mouth, Sansa's lips were on his again, this time kissing him deeper than before. Sandor kissed back and ran his fingers through her auburn hair. Yet again he wondered if this was a dream, but he decided that if it was, he no longer wished to wake up.

Sandor wrapped his arms around Sansa and lifted her up, eliciting a small gasp from the woman. He stood up, and she continued kissing him, even wrapping her legs around him as he carried her to his bedroom.

—☾—☾—☾—☾—☾—☾—☾—☾—☾—☾—☾—☾—☾—☾—

The fox woman never did leave Sandor’s cabin, even when her leg had healed entirely. Sandor allowed her to make herself some clothes from his old shirts, and together they spent their days walking through the woods and hunting. Occasionally on their walks Sansa would strip off her clothes and transform into a fox, chasing down small animals for them to eat. Other times, Sansa would strip off her clothes and beckon for Sandor to do the same, and they would make love in the grass, hoping that old Mormont wouldn't stumble across them. But even if he ever did, they wouldn't have noticed. Sandor remained as entranced by Sansa's blue eyes as he had been the first time they met, when he and his hound saved a fox from a trap.

#sansan #sandor clegane #sandor clegane x sansa stark #sansa stark #sansa stark x sandor clegane #fanfic #sansan fanfiction #archiveofourown #ao3 #sansanwritersguild #asoiaf #me #got #au #game of thrones #my writing #my sansan

23 notes · View notes

saphirered · 1 year

Note

So excited for this next set! The Autumn ones were amazing, even for the fandoms I wasn’t a part of! Could I put in a request for #5 with MollyxReader, wherever in the spice to fluff spectrum you are most comfortable?

Aww thank you! I'm excited to write them! I went with some light but cute spice for this one so hopefully it turned out the way you wanted. Thanks for requesting! 😘

Mollymauk Tealeaf has a strong dislike for the cold. He’d say he’s always done so, and that might be true. He cannot stand the feeling of his fingers and toes going numb where he cannot control when that feeling goes away. He doesn’t like the perpetual misery. He doesn’t like the shivers that make him tremble to the very bone like some twig in the breeze. But then again, he supposes he doesn’t mind the latter as much when you notice. He doesn’t mind when you sit next to him to share your blanket, or when you throw your cloak around his shoulders only to wrap your arms around his waist so you’re both covered by the warm fabric. It’s never truly the warmth of layers that brings him the comfort of warmth but instead it’s your presence, your body against his wether it be huddled up together on watch, or comfortably asleep when camp is set, and sometimes it’s only a second nature to you both, to engage in something more physically intimate to stay warm. He never minds the cold in those times.

But just like him, you have your own chores to take care of. Sometimes he’d be able to get an out, or make a bargain to pass on his share to someone else but you, some annoying sense of duty and responsibility pushes you to always feel the need to see things through, to earn your salt in this circus even though you’ve done it a thousand times over. This means that whenever Molly has conflicting tasks, he cannot always be near you, and look to preserve what warmth his infernal blood does retain in this blasted weather. He has to resort to other means, which sometimes involve sulking at the nearest fire, getting the first and last bowls of soup, stew or broth or whatever mulled wine the others or he feel creative enough to risk experimenting with. It’s never truly enough. He needs you and he’ll patiently wait for you, dutifully so until you finish.

Not many visitors in the dead of winter, when the snow sticks to the earth and the soil is too dense for anyone but the strongest to set up the tents. Wether it be through some minor magics able to circumvent this problem or through brute force, it needs to be done. The downside; it takes much longer for you to set up. The upside; Mollymauk can’t do much until camp is set and finishes any other tasks quickly. He’s been off gathering firewood for the better part of two hours now. Camp is set and people go back to finding warmth where they can, and preserve what they got. Molly still hasn’t returned so you decide to go looking wrapped in your cloak and a blanket and a slight annoyance that grows every time you see your breath upon the air when you exhale. You follow the tracks through the hills and scarce trees.

It doesn’t take you too long. Perhaps fifteen minutes when you see the bastard, back towards you submerged to his chest in steaming water. He leans against the stones, arms balancing him on the ledge of this what you feel safe to assume must be a hot spring. His clothes lay abandoned atop the pile of twigs and branches; the firewood he was supposed to gather. You take care to not make a single noise feeling the need for some petty revenge. You throw off the blanket, gently and quietly let it fall near the edge of this spring, and kneel down. For good measure you place your hands into the snow, feeling that tingling cold, so freezing but so worth it for your evil plan and then, just as your fingers go numb, you glide them over his shoulders, upper chest and arms which you hold onto.

“Fucking hells!” Molly exclaims as he tries to get away from that freezing touch but fails, his body locking up at the sudden change in sensation. He needs not look around to see who it is. He darn well knows it’s you, little devil you are. That giggle gives it away, and if it wasn’t that, it would be the tender lips but freezing that land against his warm cheek. Shivers.

“So all of us have been freezing our asses off and you’ve been out here soaking away?” You scoff as finally he wrestles free of your grasp and swims just out of your reach.

“I am so sorry, love. I must’ve lost track of time. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll help you set up camp and take over anyone’s chores for the rest of the day-“ He claims but anyone with the intention of making good on those empty promises would have made an effort to get out of the water while Molly just backs in further. You just shake your head and pinch your brow.

“Oh my poor darling.” You muse as a wicked expression graces your features that has Mollymauk concerned and suspicious when you reach into the snow, cupping your hands together and next thing he knows cold hits him square in the face. Aghast he looks at you when he knows what hit him but then another hits him in the horn. He ducks underwater to avoid your next one and stays under but he can only hold his breath so long before he has to come back up and when he does; another hit.

“Okay okay, you’ve had your fun. Are you done now?” He grumbles. You throw another but miss. “Don’t make me come over there.” He points a finger at you and you laugh, sit down on your blanket and make a ‘come here’ motion as you hold another snowball in your other hand. Slowly he nears, wary of another rude attack. You contain yourself and then when he’s at that ledge, where you’re at, he’s quick. Molly grasps your wrist forcing you to drop the snowball until it falls apart on the ground. You just look at him indifferent as he is up to his mid section out of the water. Instant regret. Goosebumps skitter across his skin as a shiver runs through him.

“I propose a truce!” He sinks back down as much as possible while still holding onto your wrist but you could pull free at any moment. He doesn’t doubt you could have done so at any point.

“I’m listening.” You decide to entertain the proposal mostly so, the closer you are to the water surface the more you are wishing yo be submerged too. In all honesty if it were you in his place, you’d likely have lost track of time too, wilfully or not.

“How about, you join me in here, instead of pelting me in frigid cold?”

“As opposed to?”

“You staying out there, in the cold and watching me enjoy this hot spring all on by myself. I’m not getting out any time soon, and I don’t think you’ll be leaving without me?” He expects a witty comeback about how you’ve got no objections to leaving him here. He half expect you to get up without a word and take his clothes save for his boots and maybe his cloak if you’re feeling gracious. You entertain the thought it seems and he experiences a brief moment of fear but no regrets. You tap your chin. Turn halfway to look in the direction of the trees, and hills beyond you know lies the camp.

“You make a compelling argument.” You state simply and Molly blinks a couple of times. That- that was much easier than he had thought. Without another word you begin to strip, carefully removing each layer until you’re standing on that blanket you brought, exposed to the air. Goosebumps skitter across your skin as you hold yourself. It’s that Molly’s committed your visage to memory that he needs not look twice to take in the beauty that you are because you allow yourself to sink into the spring fast, to engulf in the warmth. You moan and throw back your head as the heat eases your aching muscles and banishes the cold from your bones.

The water rocks lightly signalling an approaching presence from behind. Then arms snake around your waist lightly and lips graze your shoulder. You tilt your head to the side to allow better access and those lips grace your neck with their presence until you can’t but let your body lean back and huddle into that warm presence behind you. A chuckle vibrates against your skin when you sigh deeply and relax. A tail wraps around your calf and curves up. Your fingers stop the ones just about to trail up your sternum while the other tugs on one of the silver chains dangling from his horns and draws the tiefling’s attention. He hums in acknowledgement but does not stop his kisses. He’s in a playful mood and is working very hard to extract whatever sounds you allow to slip past your lips. You find it difficult to speak and have to compose yourself when such deliberate attention is paid to you. Leave it to Mollymauk to know exactly what makes you tick.

Devious little thing you are, you retaliate. Your fingers lace into his hair, trail along his horn and send shivers down his back, but worse is your other hand having let go of his and allowing him to continue that journey you let yours reach backward. Molly feels the pads of your fingers ever so lightly brush over his side, and his hips, curving along the muscle and bone and following the patterns of the ink etched into his skin without a need for sight but then that wicked hand moves between, slides closer to his abdomen, and lower, but never quite low enough. And then your touch does dwell lower, but past, and instead strokes along his thigh, his inner thigh as much as you can reach, always so careful to avoid that pulsing need. If you can let your hands wander low, so will he. Nails graze down your stomach and curl up and down your side causing you to tremble into him, but then they dance lower, around the apex of your thighs, along that tender skin, daring to graze ever so lightly but never quite touching. Two can play this game. He notices how your breath catches when he ‘accidentally’ dares to brush past. He notices how you back into him, and how you slip up sometimes, your touch reaching just where you know he needs you. Right when he thinks you’re about to break, when he thinks he’s got you, you push away from his body slightly, still within his arms but a few inches between your bodies as you turn to face him. Your hands retract and he thinks he might have died right then and there.

“Oh my poor darling.” You hum ever so sweet. Molly hangs onto your every word, completely out of mind. So out of mind he misses the wickedness in your eyes. “You really don’t to well with the cold, do you?” You let your fingers trail along his neck and shoulders, over his chest and sides and stomach back and forth up and down slowly and sensually. You even dare place your lips on his for a slow but feverish kiss.

“I got you to warm me up.” He states cockily and you chuckle, brushing away a stray lock of hair when he goes in to kiss you but you stop him from doing so, thumb stroking along his cheek as you give him a pitied look. Your palm lays flat against his chest as you urge him backwards, until his legs hit the back of the rock carveout he lounged upon before.

“So why don’t I?” Your knees on either side of his thighs burn into him like the fires of Avernus itself. You’re so close, you sit back on his lap so sweetly, that wicked hand between the two of you again and again he feels it dance over his abdomen, that familiar path lower and finally you show him mercy, to some capacity at least. You brush your fingers alone along him, over the tip and he moans your name. You do it again as his hands grip your thighs, nails digging into your flesh as you work him up. You kiss him, then his cheek and ear where your lips linger.

“Why don’t I warm you up…” Those words are like a blessing of the gods themselves. “Back at the camp.” The gods are cruel.

You pull away entirely before he has a moment to respond or even comprehend what happened. You lift yourself out of the hot spring, shivers hitting you instantly but you’re quick to put on some clothes. Not your own clothes mind you. It’s his shirt you throw on over your own, and just as he had feared, you are dressed quickly, take your belongings, take the firewood and leave not but his boots, his own coat and the blanket. Thank the gods you left that blanket.

“You are a cruel, cruel creature.” It might as well have been a curse but you relish in it as you look at him so indifferently. You lean down when he turns to you. You kiss his crown and back off along the path you had taken here.

“Come find me at the camp.” You blow him a kiss and wander off.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” He calls after you.

“Shout any louder and the others will come looking for you. Think about your dignity.” You tease back equally loud.

“Oh you know I never had any dignity to begin with.” He retorts and the only reply of yours is your clear laughter. Molly is not upset. If anything he’s smiling. Sure you did him dirty, worked him up all nice and good but it’s not like he hasn’t done the same to you a thousand times before. It never gets boring. He loves you for a good reason. You always know how to keep him on his toes.

#mollymauk x reader #mighty nein x reader #critical role x reader #critical role mollymauk #mollymauk tealeaf #mollymauk #mighty nein #the mighty nein #critical role #critical role fanfiction #critical role fanfic

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yomigaere · 4 months

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I just finished Virche Evermore about a week ago, and because I loved it so much, I thought I'd do a personal ranking of the characters and throw down my thoughts on all of them.

To be honest, I'm partly inspired to do this because I heard Mathis is the least popular love interest to the point where he even got rated beneath a few side characters in the Japanese official popularity poll, which I think is absolutely criminal.

Needless to say, major spoilers for the entire game below the readmore!

Mathis became an instant fave for me as soon as he was first properly introduced in the common route. He's so, so cute. I pretty much lost my mind from sheer cuteness at the CG of him being flustered when Ceres walked in on him writing his novel. His romance is sweet and I feel like he and Ceres go well together. His actual situation is tragic. Since he was my first route, I was so glad when I unlocked the salvation ends and could finally get a happy ending (by Virche standards) for him; he deserves a million times better than the death of personality he suffered in his main bad end, and his salvation end, while bittersweet, was beautiful.

Lucas is my poor little meowmeow. I feel so sorry for him, even when he's at his worst, not least because he's been dealt such a shitty hand in life. His route might be the biggest pain train of them all, especially given that even his salvation end is tragic as all hell; he and Nadia and Ceres deserve so much better. (It sure was a narrative choice to have the branching point for his endings be after Nadia's turned into a monster and he's been drugged into going on a murderous rampage, though...) I was a little bit skeeved by his romance at first when it was initially revealed that he'd been in love with Ceres for years, but it became more understandable when the circumstances behind it came out (guy was 15 at the time and in a very bad place) and by the time Ceres got to see the full truth of Lucas's situation I'd become way more invested in their relationship. The "goodnight kiss" CG in his salvation end absolutely broke me.

Yves is very cute and very sweet and has the best romance with Ceres and deserves so much better than he's gotten from shitty randos. The scene with Ceres kissing his facial scars while he's crying is my favourite romantic moment in the whole game. I like that he cries a lot, even if it puts me through the emotional wringer as much as he goes through it in his route. (This game's great for crying vulnerable long-haired pretty boys. I swear this isn't me being a sadist.)

Ankou is evidently the top husbando in this game's fandom, and besides his looks and voice, Le Salut certainly let me see why. He has one of the cutest blushing sprites, and after 600+ years of misery I really think he deserves way more happiness than he can get in any of the canon routes; he's a big reason why I'm hoping the fandisc will get licensed for an English release. His death in Le Salut's salvation end is the other most heartrending moment in the game for me.

Ceres isn't my favourite otome heroine ever, but I do like her quite a bit. It's easy to feel for her when everything she's been through has taken such a toll on her self-esteem, yet I love how her resolve to be less resigned and more proactive gets reflected in most of the right choices in the common route. She has nice moments of strength beyond that, too; I particularly enjoyed how indignant she could get at Capucine, and her defiance in the face of Jean hoping to capture her despair on camera was metal coming from someone like her.

Hugo is my favourite side character, regardless of how controversial he apparently was with the Japanese fanbase when the game originally came out there. (Heaven forbid that a gay character exists in an otome game, amirite? Especially one who happens to have feelings for one of the love interests...) The "Resemblence" bad ending with him is my favourite game-over, heartwrenching though it may be. I do wish his death on Yves's route didn't come immediately after my favourite romantic moment, though; that was a bit too on-the-nose for my comfort. I liked what Le Salut did with him towards the end, including him deciding to join Yves on his journey to Japan and the possibility being left open that maybe, just maybe, if Yves doesn't remain stuck on Ceres forever, Hugo's feelings for him could have a chance of eventually being reciprocated. (Yes, I ship this too even though I love Yves/Ceres. I feel like the part of the fandom Hugo was so controversial with might tear me apart for this, but I don't even care.)

Nadia is the sweetest little cinnamon roll who's too good for this world, too pure, and she deserves only good things and no bad things... which is a major reason why Lucas's route is such a pain train. Still, I'm glad that at least in Le Salut's salvation end she and her brother get to live and be happy. ;.;

Adolphe's okay; I like him well enough. In fact, I don't think it makes a whole lot of sense for an Ankou fan to dislike Adolphe too much, considering that Ankou is Adolphe from another timeline, even if Ankou has been through more than enough of his own experiences that he 100% qualifies as his own person. I don't think his angst over being "normal" is that hard to get behind in the context of this kind of story; he's the one "normal" person in a place like Arpéchéle, which from their point of view would make him the oddity if they knew, so I can't blame him for being afraid of what might happen if the truth about him got out (with Ankou's backstory being proof of the possible consequences).

Salome turned out to be a very interesting and complex character, and she looks so lovely without her habit, though I also can't help feeling like her writing was a little bit untidy in places. That said, the fact she got rated the second-least-popular character on the official poll, even below Jean of all people, is criminal.

Scien is my least favourite love interest by a big margin, and his route was also my least favourite by far. I realise that this is an extremely unpopular opinion, given that he's one of this fandom's biggest darlings, so I can't say I'm not wary of potentially getting some backlash for this. =/ I'm not opposed to asshole characters in the slightest, and Scien has his enjoyable moments, but he just doesn't do it for me on the whole. Furthermore, I tend to dislike characters who come across as "creator's pets", and Scien definitely feels like one to me between the favouritism he gets from the narrative and how his route acts like he can do no wrong to the point of bordering on double standards. I'll spare anyone reading this too much more crankiness from me, but I do want to add that it was super satisfying when he got called out for a change in Yves's route.

Dahut gave me very mixed feelings in the end. On one hand, he's a pretty good "final boss" and I have no issue with how he's written. On the other hand, his hypocrisy drove me up a bloody wall and I wish he was more sorry for his role in screwing up the Proust siblings' lives. Good character, but too frustrating as a person for me to really enjoy.

Jean is a scumbag, and as a Mathis fan I feel no remorse in hating him for the lies and abuse and other bullshit he put my boy through. Also as a Mathis fan, I felt enormously frustrated by how Le Salut was way too forgiving towards him and basically gave him a slap on the wrist for everything he did, even to the point where it felt like Mathis was being made to pander to his abuser; it's my one big complaint about that route, which I otherwise enjoyed. I was much more okay with how Jean was handled in Mathis's own salvation end; it wasn't perfect, but at least he wasn't a karma houdini there.

Capucine is an even bigger scumbag and thoroughly deserves his place as the most hated character. I lost count of how many times I went "fuck you" at him for his treatment of Lucas and Nadia. Every death he can get, whether it's being blown up offscreen or being butchered by Lucas offscreen or being mauled by Nadia onscreen, is cathartic and very well-deserved.

#virche evermore #shuuen no virche #mathis claude #lucas proust #just to tag in my favourite boys #virche spoilers #my unpopular opinions let me show you them #... just to be safe

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shirakumos-sandwich-shop · 2 years

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Tale of the Flower Hashira Pt.4

MASTERLIST

INFO:

This story will contain Kyojiro Rengoku x Reader, Tengen Uzui x reader and Douma x reader. All separately. (Tengen is still in a relationship with his wives.)

Y/n Shinaguzawa is 18 at the start of this story. phisical appearance is mentioned, y/n has long white hair and specific scarring. Skintone, eye color etc. are not mentioned.

This fanfic will only follow the plotline of seasons 1&2.

WARNINGS:

If you are uncomfortable with any of the following then DNI.

(Extreme gore, Branding, Swearing, Manipulative behavior, disturbing content, Unhealthy relationships, disturbing relationship between child y/n and a demon.)

Taglist: @violet-19999 @devilfleur

CHAPTER 4:

“Flower breathing, first form, sakura slash.”

The demon’s arm that held up the boar headed lad was immediately severed. Both him and the arm crashed to the ground with a sickening thud. The demon in front of you had the head of a spider. Although you had seen many disturbing demons by now, this one really turned your stomach.

“Well, it looks like someone beat you with an ugly stick.” You mumbled. “Mind if I put you out of your misery?”

You dodged a slash from the demon’s remaining claw. Quickly, you ran up the side of a thick pine tree, flipped backwards and behind the creature before laying down the final blow.

“Sixth form, Wilting Orchid.”

The blade twisted in your hand, cutting in a swift X motion, powered by your falling momentum. The creature collapsed to the ground, first the body, then the arms, and the head. Each part neatly divided and already beginning to disintegrate.

“Woah…” The boar headed lad ogled while you sheathed your blade.

“How are you still standing, kid?” You questioned. “Your injuries are really bad.”

“THE MOUNTAIN KING NEVER FEELS PAIN!”

“That sounds concerning. I think the mountain king needs to take a nap.”

“FIGHT ME!”

“Slayers don’t fight other slayers, sweetpea.” You grabbed the boy by the pants and dragged him along behind you.

____

Tanjiro took a sharp breath, looking around for the source of this new and confusing scent.

“Giyuu, I found this boar kid in the woods. Should I take him home?”

You entered the boy’s view and the scent became stronger. He held up what was left of his sword with his shaking hands.

“Woah kid, you shouldn’t be-“

“Why do you have the scent of a demon?” Tanjiro asked before his vision darkened and he crumpled to the ground.

_____

You had made a fine recovery, although it felt slow to the demon who constantly watched over you. Douma didn’t quite know why he continued to visit you in his child form, it just seemed like the right approach. Not that he cared or even considered you had been through a traumatic experience. Being in the guise of a child seemed to put you at ease. He dare say that you were beginning to grow attached to him.

You weren’t allowed to interact with many people at the cult that your new caretaker ran. It seemed like there was a different woman every day bringing a plate of delicacies to your room. You never saw them again in the gardens or any of the rooms you were allowed to wander through.

The gardens were your favorite, you’d sit there for hours, memorizing plant names from a giant book you had discovered in the library. Often when his cult duties were over, Douma would come and sit with you under the moonlight.

The walls were high and smooth in the garden and impossible for your small body. Except for one spot where a large cherry tree grew and hung over the edge of the wall. One night while you were alone, you decided to test this idea. It had been months since you first came here and you hadn’t been allowed to search for your brothers. You scaled the tree quickly and started inching down the branch. It became thinner and thinner as your balance became more and more precarious.

“What are you doing up there?”

Immediately you wobbled and fell, crashing down into some of the garden’s hydrangea bushes. Douma folded his arms and glared down at you.

“What are you doing?” he repeated.

“Nothing…”

“I’ve told you, it's too dangerous out there for you.”

“I just thought that-”

He huffed and grabbed your wrist to pull you to your feet. His grip was a bit too harsh and you let out a whimper of pain. “I’m sorry Douma, I didn’t want to make you mad.”

The boy loosened his grip and slipped his hand into yours instead so he could lead you along behind him. “I’m not mad, y/n. You just can’t be wandering off, especially without protection.”

He pulled you into your private room and had you sit down on your futon. Then he left for a moment and returned for a moment and returned with a steaming cup of herbal tea.

“Drink this.” He shoved the cup into your hand.

“What is it for?” You asked timidly, staring into the murky contents of the teacup.

“It will help you rest, there’s something I need to do now, but I can’t have you feeling any discomfort. So just take it like the good girl you are and it will all be over in the morning.”

You looked at him and then at the cup, unsure if you should do as he said.

“Drink it. You trust me right?” He gave you a soft smile and patted your head.

You drank, the tea was bitter, but you managed the whole thing. Soon you felt yourself drifting off and you crawled closer to Douma and laid your head in his lap. He stroked your long hair as you fell asleep. Only when your breathing slowed did he tug back the neck of your kimono and let his fingernails lengthen to their usual state. With light strokes, he carved a shape into your skin. The lines weren’t more than scratches but they immediately closed, leaving behind a noticeable purple scar. His dormant blood wouldn’t turn you, only keep you safe with his scent. Any demon who came across you would immediately know you were property of Upper Two.

Bonus:

“I don’t think I’m disliked.” Giyuu said in confusion, he turned to you. “Am I disliked, Y/n?”

“I don’t know, I like you well enough though.”

“Well you aren’t much better, Y/n.” Shinobu giggled softly.

Both you and Giyuu looked at each other in the same tired manor.

“Well at least we have each other.” You sighed.

Chapter 5.

#douma x y/n #douma x reader #douma fanfic #demon slayer #demon slayer angst #demon slayer x reader #rengoku x reader #tengen uzui x reader #demon slayer fanfic #fanfiction #Tale of the flower hashira

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volterran-wine · 2 years

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Accursed Fate || Caius X S/O

z Requested by Anonymous: "I adore your blog so much! You’re my new favorite writer 💜. I’ve had this idea in my head for a long time, and I’m honestly really excited to finally be able to share it with someone! I totally understand if you don’t want to or don’t feel comfortable writing it though, don’t feel pressured! So the idea I had is this: Caius finally finds his mate, but there’s one problem; said mate turns out to be one of the few remaining werewolves. Angst and drama ensue."

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Caius has waited patiently for his soulmate to one day cross his path. What he did not expect was to come across them deep within the woods at the crack of dawn, bloodied and filthy as the sun filtered through the trees. His heart breaks, for he knows what kind of bite that marks their flesh…

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1211 words

!𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬! This one is heavy angst, definitely check the tags for this one;

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: ... Anyone who has read certain headcanons of mine know how this is going to play out.

𝐄𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐲, 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲

Caius was born to hunt, conquer and kill.

Or, at the very least that is what he wanted his enemies and most of the vampiric populace to believe. How it pleased him to know his name was spoken in hushed whispers among most vampires that feared The Volturi. His infamous lust for violence had kept him and his family safe for hundreds of years. But no tale was as gruesome as the one he had spun about The Children of The Moon; how he had drove them to near extinction hundreds of years ago. It was not entirely true however; werewolves would appear every now and then. A stray wolf would infect a handful of humans and him and his men would go out to exterminate them.

This was the only reason that Caius found himself deep within the woods on the borders between Romania and Hungary, his clothes a little worse for wear but still in relatively pristine condition. He had brought with him a couple of their newest recruits, teaching them how to easily trap, injure and kill their natural born enemies. With a deep sigh Caius looked over his last kill of the night, a large and pale beast that had attempted to rob him of his head; a foolish endeavour. He had intended to join the rest of his party when the wind suddenly shifted, a particular smell reaching him and igniting his hunting instincts once more.

The corner of his mouth lifted into a vicious smirk, this would be an easy kill; Caius thought. Luckily for his prey he did not discriminate, no wolf was too small or wounded for him to seek it out. He picked up his pace, gracefully weaving in between the trees as he concentrated on the tracks ahead of him. Even from a distance he could smell just how injured the werewolf was, the scent of its sour blood perforated the air as Caius neared his final prey for the evening. On the other side of the woods he could hear how his hunting party had begun disposing of their own kills. He would have to be swift if he were to join them.

And there, just about thirty feet ahead of him he could see the large shape of a werewolf leaning against some trees, panting and injured. The moment it became aware of its would be killer the beast let out a pitiful wail and began dragging itself towards safety, and Caius felt as if the wind was knocked out of him all of a sudden.

He did not understand why, but his instincts screamed at him to not hurt this Child of the Moon as it crawled away from him; dragging itself against the forest floor and coating the foliage with its foul smelling blood. Why? Why could he not put the beast out of its misery already? He wanted to go home and reward his guard for a successful hunt, as well as spend time with his family.

He watched as their bones began to crack and contort, and it must have been painful for the wolf began whimpering like an injured dog as it slowly reverted to its human disguise. Pathetic, Caius thought as he stalked them; knocking away tree branches and rocks that laid in his way. He could feel the sun at his back, peaking across the horizon and sending beams of golden light through the birch forest. He had had enough, the beast was now vulnerable and he would kill it as he had done so many wolves before it.

With the last of their strength his now human prey looked back at him, fear and confusion swimming in their eyes; and Caius froze.

It was as if the world fell away from beneath his feet, the earth itself wishing to swallow him whole before he could reach the Child of The Moon. Now he understood why he could not harm this ... person. They had been intended for him once upon a time, and the fates themselves were screaming from within the shade; do not harm them. Dread filled Caius like never before as he watched them, crawling in the nude — desperate to get away from him.

He had failed.

Again.

And now he had to right his wrongs.

Caius fell to his knees before them, leaves crunching beneath his weight as he shifted closer. His fine Volturi cloak was now coated in both dirt and blood alike, most likely ruined forever. With trembling hands he reached out to cradle their face, turning their head gently so they were facing him properly.

Their eyes shut tightly in order to not look at him, turning violently to get out of his grip but failing to do so as they screamed in agony. A searing pain settled in his chest, as if someone had stabbed him with a red hot poker. Perhaps it was the mate-pull that desperately tried to solidify a bond between them, or more likely; guilt. "Please... look at me" his voice was raspy and luckily his plea did not fall upon deaf ears, for his would have been mate opened their eyes cautiously; peering at him. Tears had begun gathering, and soon enough they would spill over.

For a while Caius let his eyes wander over their body; a gash in their shoulder was deep enough to show bones and oozed with puss, a wound kept bleeding profusely near their abdomen and multiple of their bones were fixed at unnatural angles. Though the sun had began to rise they were shaking, teeth clattering as their lips began taking on an unnatural shade. Caius swallowed down the venom that had gathered in his mouth on pure instinct.

They had beautiful eyes though, he could see beyond the exhaustion and imagined how fierce of an individual they must have been — not just anyone could be his mate after all. For a second Caius let himself imagine what they would have looked like if they were a deep red. But those were dreams that would never be, fate had not been on his side after all. Caius had laws to follow.

"I will spend the rest of my life making up for not finding you earlier."

His grip shifted ever so slightly, it could easily have been mistaken for a loving caress; the way his hand now sat firmly beneath their jaw. His thumb stroking their cheek reassuringly as his other hand grasped on to their matted hair at back of their head. Caius took a deep breath, attempting to filter out the stench of his enemies and finding their sweet perfume underneath.

"Forgive me,— "

A vicious crack and yelp was all that was heard before the forest was still once again, the only noise the birch trees that had softly began swaying as the wind picked up.

────

On the outskirts of the woods a village lay, quiet and unaware of the carnage that had befallen the lands so close to their home.

When the sun was at its highest point the townsfolk would talk of how they had heard a wounded beast wailing. How its sorrowful cries pierced through the peaceful morrow, lost and alone in the world.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞; If Caius ever breaks into my home in order to enact his revenge I will frame my followers.

#Caius Volturi #Caius Volturi Imagine #Caius Volturi x Reader #Twilight #Twilight Renaissance #When will this man know peace?#TW Blood #TW Death #TW Bodyhorror

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nozomijoestar · 2 months

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Took me a while to realize but I can see similarities in how Asuka seems to process grief and how Guts from Berserk also processed his grief after the Eclipse. They both get so overwhelmed by the wrong that happened to them (father's hospitalization vs the Eclipse and a lifetime of misery) their reaction isn't to seek comfort in others or help/protect their loved one who needs them after the tragedy, it's to go off and inflict their pain on others to self soothe, as if that'll release the feeling from their minds.

The difference is that Guts was called out for this by Rickert and Godo. He needed to snap out of wanting to prioritize ridding his own pain to remember Casca needed him, and that Casca even in the state she was in was all the good in his life who went through the same experience with him. Guts had to remember he loves Casca more than he wants to self destruct. Like Godo told him he was a sword called fear with cracks in it. He feared sitting with his pain and grief and seeing it on the person he loved after so much violation. He feared vulnerability.

Asuka doesn't do this reevaluatation and has no one to call her out for her self destructive coping canonically. She can't sit with anything bad or face looking at it on a loved one either. That's too bad and helpless of a feeling. She's just as much made of fear (primarily from any helplessness as much as violations of her inner ethics) which fuels her anger, but her one personal attachment to her father who needs her isn't enough to make her want to reevaluate what she does at all. Instead his tragedy is the permission she needs to self destruct and destroy in the process, not like Guts who always told himself everything was for Casca and the fallen Hawks, who always reminded himself of the pain to justify the bloodletting.

Unlike Guts I think she'd be stubborn even accepting to listen to someone pointing her behavior out. Though her anger toward Feng did start out carrying a reminder this vengeance is for Dad even if it kills her in 5, even in 5's branching narratives that excuse falls apart when she continues in the tournament for her own pleasure during her route. The moment vengeance is achieved critically injured Dad is out of her mind. Her behavior during 6 repeats this process, preferring to hurt herself and others rather than sit to process a shitty feeling over her and the world's situation. Like Guts in this state she pushes away anyone and everyone else including any comforts because the anger isn't resolved, the fear isn't resolved, the pain isn't resolved.

They're both used to everyone being against them and having to fight for survival until they found joy in it as a side effect. And because of that independence born from isolation when something like the tragedies that happened takes place they put resolving their pain not on sharing with others but into scorching the earth along with themselves.

I don't say this either to imply they're exactly alike or that they have enough similarities to make a true character comparison because they absolutely don't. There's also some stuff I'm leaving out simply because Guts is a far more complex character in ways where there's nothing from Asuka to compare against (I would say Kazuya is the closest, more fitting Tekken comparison for substituting Guts vs Asuka style notes). I just find it interesting that even across wildly different stories the outline for an angry, self destructive, terrified person who thinks self destruction makes them strong and puts them in control uses a lot of the same foundation. And the contrast in their depths really shows how far you can push the concept depending on what you want or need for the character.

#tekken #berserk #I've haven't slept in six hours #asuka kazama #do i still think she'd pull a fighting 100 men for their lover type situation- MAYBE tbh #you could give her one technically but you'd have to really stretch her denial of seeing her violent behavior as ever being wrong #and that risks losing the scope of the character and the stakes level she represents #like i don't think she surpresses her pain into an other self at all she's very clear she's just reactionary so the brooding guilt #you need to have a BoD doesn't really apply at all she's not remorseful and ruminating on fighting in that sense at all whereas Guts guilts #Asuka hits you and moves on with her day because that should teach you; Guts is a whole storm of emotions and moral pulls even when numb #BoD is more a Jin thing but i still prefer Guts and not bc he did it first im sorry Jin jfjdhss #*you could give Asuka a BoD- idk why that tag is missing after the 100 men comment #anyway bitches who embody the sin of wrath #Asuka is about the childish joy and childish impulse we feel hurting others versus Guts being a study on why we hurt ppl bc we hurt too #*BoD is beast of darkness of course #also obviously there are lines Asuka will NEVER cross even in anger that Guts had no problem violating as Black Swordsman #so how does Asuka process grief...SHE DOESN'T LOL #she'd rather kill herself or dismiss feeling hurt than so much as cry

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celestemagnoliathewriter · 1 year

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Could you please do the kiss ship ask #8 ‘In Secrecy’ for Remadora? I love your works <3

GUESS WHAT I actually got two of these asks so I wrote two of them. The first one, linked here, is much happier and romantic. This one, below, is much angstier. It's OoTP Remadora vs HBP Remadora!

The one below is HBP-era Remadora, angsty, and does contain references to injuries, bodily fluids, animal death, etc., so most of it is under the cut.

It can also be found on AO3.

...

Wobbly, ink-covered fingertips mar the parchment before her with smudges. She knows she’s ingested an unhealthy amount of caffeine and Calming Draught, but the alternating, jittery shakes and bouts of vertigo are worth it.

Without knowing if Remus has survived another transformation, Tonks relies on potions and coffee to scarcely disguise her despair. No one’s told her if he’s still alive.

May’s full moon coincided with stormy skies. Tonks wonders, throwing her head back from an assault of dizziness, if Remus is laying face-down in the mud, his body cooling and stiff in icy, blood-stained puddles.

“Auror Tonks!”

Scrimgeour’s bark shakes her out of her dismal thoughts.

“Yes, sir,” she croaks, pushing mousy brown hair out of her bloodshot eyes.

“You’re going with Dawlish, Proudfoot, Berrycloth, and Robards.”

She sits up at once, confused she’s being sent with a group of the most senior Aurors. They’re all getting up, and while Tonks shoves her things into her rucksack, Kingsley mutters at her, saying she’s going north for a special assignment that morning. Startled, expecting she’d be sent back to Hogsmeade, her current assignment, she follows Proudfoot to the Atrium and gets the Apparition coordinates.

They land somewhere near a dense forest. It smells of petrichor and decay, moist earth and iron, fresh buds and acrid, burnt flesh. The scents assault her nostrils and she holds onto a large tree trunk, resisting the urge to retch. The long distance Apparition has made her vertigo worse.

“Fan out,” Robards orders. “They’re bound to be here. Use your badge to let us know when you’ve found someone. Rope ‘em up and bring them back to the Ministry. Tap thrice when you leave.”

The Aurors go in five opposite directions. Tonks takes a path through broken branches, focusing her efforts on retaining her breakfast. She feels a fool. She didn’t ask who they’re looking for, why they’re looking for them, or what to do when they find them. Whoever they are, they can’t be terribly dangerous.

Tonks stumbles through the undergrowth of the forest, stopping every few minutes to gasp for air. At every sign of movement, she brandishes her wand, only to find young woodland critters going about their mornings. The Human-Presence Revealing Spell hasn’t produced anything yet.

As she goes through the thicket, she begins to see signs that something is amiss. Parts of tree trunks are torn apart. Shreds of wood and moss decorate the forest floor. Bones, flesh, and fur dot her path.

A distinctly human moan tickles her eardrum.

With her wand raised, she follows the sound, a path of destruction creating an obstacle course that she has no intention of undertaking. She blasts away the branches, cuts through the felled tree trunks, and gags at the sight of a hardly breathing, mangled hare.

She puts it out of its misery and continues.

The moan is clearer. It belongs to a man, she thinks, and the sight of bloodied human flesh several yards away alerts her to her prize.

“I’m coming for you,” she vows, looking forward to a win. She doesn’t know what to expect or what she’ll do with her capture, but her badge hasn’t buzzed, which means she’s likely to be the first to find someone. She could use the victory.

The figure is tangled in mud and branches, but alive, and Tonks casts Homenum revelio. The human before her is the only one in the vicinity, but she expects another isn’t far away.

“Reveal yourself!” she shouts, pointing her wand at the fleshy being before her.

A broken gurgling sound is all she receives.

Torn flesh and exposed muscle finally come into her sight. She retches now, incapable of seeing the contorted man with anything but disgust and pity. It might be a capture, but it’s not going to be a victorious one. The pathetic heap of humanity before her is too weak to fight back.

Wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her robes, she swallows the bile in the back of her throat and moves closer.

It’s definitely a man, and as her eyes travel from his lower body to his chest, she cries out and lunges for Remus Lupin.

“Stay alive, oh fuck, Remus, you’ve got to live,” she begs frantically, her hand shaking awfully as she casts spell after spell over his broken body. The caffeine and potions are catching up to her and she holds him, willing her body to prevent her from fainting. She pushes the words out of her mouth, holding her wand over his broken body.

Vulnera Sanentur.

Remus is hanging on for dear life.

Vulnera Sanentur.

The Aurors have been sent in to capture werewolves.

Vulnera Sanentur.

She won’t let them touch him.

Three Episkeys snap his left femur in place. Several more are needed for his kneecaps. Some ribs are shattered; she snatches the emergency vials from her Auror robes and shoves them down his throat, massaging his bruised and battered chest until they settle into his stomach.

The badge on her robes vibrates several times. Her colleagues have found others and they’re leaving the forest with their captives.

She’s not going to leave without him, but she’s not taking him to the Ministry.

“T-t-t—”

“—don’t say anything, Remus,” she gasps.

“Th-they’re,” he rasps, “c-c-coming—”

Not knowing how else to shut him up, she puts her mouth on his. He tastes metallic and earthy, and she feels more than one cut on his lip, but it’s working and he’s quieting.

“TONKS!”

Dawlish’s voice rings out from behind her, terrifying her out of the clandestine kiss.

“TONKS! YOU THERE?”

“I’M FINE! I FOUND SOMEONE!”

Scarlet robes swish in her periphery. She can’t let Dawlish see Remus.

“OI! I FOUND ONE!”

He sounds pleased with himself, and when the badge vibrates again, she knows he’s leaving.

“Ch-child—” Remus raises his arm, which is covered in glistening, scarlet blood, pointing it away from Dawlish.

The crack of Apparition gives them privacy again; Dawlish has gone.

“There are children?”

Remus’s neck looks sprained and he winces, hissing, as he tries to nod.

“I’ll get them to the Ministry,” Tonks tells him. “They won’t hurt children. I’ll come back for you, I promise.”

“G-go—”

Tonks shoves the last healing potion into his mouth and tosses the vial to the side. Her stores are empty and she grimaces, recognizing a minute too late she could’ve saved one of the vials for a hurting child.

Another Homenum revelio confirms her earlier suspicion; there’s at least one more werewolf in the direction Remus pointed toward.

She casts it again and two figures are revealed. She finds the furthest one, finding a boy looking no more than six years old, and heals him as quickly as she can. In a suffocating twist, she takes him to the Ministry, but before her colleagues can descend on her, she goes back for the other child.

The other one is on the edge of life. He’s got a sweet face, pale, round cheeks, and he’s turning blue. The injuries are too severe, Tonks fears, and rather than taking him to the Ministry, she goes right for St. Mungo’s.

Healers descend upon her as she explains the situation, her father blessedly included, and he urges her to go back to see if there are more. Two other Aurors brought in mangled werewolves, but no other children. They don’t want another Montgomery boy, the five-year-old who died a month ago after succumbing to werewolf-inflicted injuries.

Tonks goes back and finds Remus first.

He’s sitting up, his brow knit together tightly, and he’s moving his limbs.

“Remus!”

He tries to speak but Tonks puts her finger on his lips.

“Where’s your wand? Your clothes? I need to help you, but you’ve got to tell me first, are there other children?” she says rapidly, wrapping her robe around him. It’s too small and it’s beyond dirtied with blood and mud, but he needs warmth.

“Two boys,” he rasps, “found them?”

“Yes, they looked about five or six years old, is that all?”

He hisses and clutches his side.

“Your wand—”

“—Accio.”

Tonks wants to slap herself with stupidity. She casts Accio on Remus’s wand and clothes, and the items fly towards them. She helps him redress; his robes are even shabbier than before.

“Let me take you to Hogsmeade—”

Remus is already shaking his head and she wants to choke him; how is this better than any life he could have with her?

“You’re too weak,” she growls, snatching his wand away. “I’m taking you, I’m helping you, and you can come back to this godforsaken place when I’m through.”

The lump in Remus’s throat bobs and he closes his eyes, clearly pained.

“Okay.”

“Oh, thank Merlin.”

She heaves him up on his feet. He’s thin and scraggly and his tall frame is leaning heavily on her. She wraps his arm around her shoulder and with a concentrated grunt, turns on her heel and lands at the top step in front of her room at The Hog’s Head.

She doesn’t care that he’s filthy and bloodied, or that her own room is a pigsty, a nest of depression she’s worked on for months. She drops him into her bed and pulls out every healing potion in her cupboard, forcing him to consume each one until he can’t keep his eyes open.

“I have to go back to the Ministry now,” she tells him, holding his beloved face in her hands. “I’ll be back. Please, please stay. At least until you can walk. Eat anything you like.”

He’s falling asleep and Tonks gives him one more kiss, watching with satisfaction as his lips curl slightly upwards into a smile.

…

Later, she returns to a scrawled note, written in his hands, bearing three simple, agonizing words.

You deserve better.

She saved two children’s lives that morning but she couldn’t save Remus from himself. She cries herself to sleep that night and begs for the madness to stop.

#remadora #remus lupin #nymphadora tonks #ronks #remus x tonks #tonks x remus #lupin x tonks #tonks x lupin #moony x dora #remus x nymphadora #asks #send asks #angst

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