#I am a self loathing PRICK

[activesplooger]

ʜᴇʟᴘ ᴍᴇ | ᴘᴀʀᴛ ꜰᴏᴜʀ | ᴠᴏx x ᴀꜱꜱɪꜱᴛᴀɴᴛ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Notes: (MDNI) SORRY ITS ALMOST BEEN A MONTH I'VE BEEN BUSYYY. feedback is greatly appreciated!

Summary: Confronting Vox and attending a meeting! CW: Angst, platonic heartbreak, fluff, reference to pt. 3 paragraph 2 (hint hint). Word Count: 2,626

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Masterpost!

The room fell dead silent. Vox sat in his chair looking unamused and bored as he waited for you to speak. A hint of dread in his eyes, like he knew this was coming. You open your mouth to speak, yet, no words come out. It's hard to articulate everything you need to say along with how you should even start a conversation like this.

All these years of anger and a hankering for confrontation. Yet, here you are, the opportunity laid out in front of you and all you can do is stare in silence.

Vox exhales roughly in impatience, "Are you gonna talk or-". "What's wrong with you?" you blurt out. Yeah... That was definitely not the right way to start this conversation.

Vox quirks an eyebrow and glances at one of his monitors displaying the time, "Can you speed this up?" he huffs dismissively, "I have things to do.". At that moment, his audacity led you to find the words to speak, "No! I can't!" you step closer, waving a pointed finger at him sternly, as if you were a mother scolding a child, "I have waited far too long for you to just disregard this as if it's some type of chore! Now, you are gonna sit there and listen while I talk!." Vox's eyes widen as he straightens out his posture. Surprisingly, your little rant seemed to catch his attention. Taking a deep breath, you begin to speak calmly, "Look, ever since that day- the one with the whole Alastor thing- you've been... different, to say the least. Meaner, colder-". "Like I wasn't those things before then." he chimes in defensively. "Don't interrupt!" you begin, "And, you know what I mean... Even if you weren't the greatest person before, it got way worse after... It wasn't just that either... You're more distant now... and cruel..." "Well, what am I supposed to do about it? You think I'm gonna do a 180 just because you 'called me out'?" Vox laughs bitterly, "Nice try, sweetheart, I've come up with worse things to say about myself." Your face contorts to one of confusion and concern. Did he just openly admit to self-loathing? And brag about it?! This was gonna be a long talk... "Was that supposed to be a flex? You know what, that's beside the point," you say.

"Then what is the point?!". he says exasperated.

"The point is that ever since your fight with Alastor you've been a major shithead!" You snap, narrowed angry eyes meeting his red ones. "So what?!" Vox pushes on the arms of his chair as he gets up, a frustrated scowl etched across his features. "So? SO?!" your eyes bore into him with a fierce glare, stepping closer until you're less than a foot apart from him, "So I wanna know what happened! I wanna know what Alastor did to make you such an INSUFFERABLE PRICK.". Vox looks at you as if you had said the most offensive thing imaginable, "I'm the bad guy? I'M THE FUCKING BAD GUY? No, you don't get to do this. You don't KNOW me. You don't know what happened that day!". "Then tell me!" you plead sharply. Vox's voice glitches as he speaks, "₦Ø!".

"Why?" you ask, pretty much at the end of your rope," you can't put all these walls up and act like a douche for some big ominous reason only to shut people out when they ask!". "You don't know what you're talking about!" he dismissively replies. Letting out a sharp huff, you repeat, "For the love of Lucifer- Then fucking tell me!"

"I CAN'T" he yells, breathing heavily before speaking in a softer tone, "I can't... you don't know how badly he fucking hurt-" a voice crack cuts him off. Bringing a large hand to cover his mouth, he swiftly walks past you to avoid you seeing him. You weren't certain, but you could've sworn you saw his eyes water... Turning your body to face him, you watch as he walks to the edge of the platform and sits, legs dangling off the edge just above the water. He watches the sharks swimming below him, taking a deep breath before he murmurs, "Just- Drop it. Okay?". Ugh. You hated that you felt bad for the fucker. You shouldn't feel bad, you had every right to leave him here wallowing in self-pity. But, you didn't. Despite everything, you just couldn't leave it there... You kept telling yourself that you just wanted to yell and make him feel horrible for everything he did but, in reality, you wanted him to go back to normal. At this point, you wonder if he can be normal anymore... Still, there was no harm in trying... Curse you and your savior complex.

Before you can second guess yourself, you walk over and sit beside him. Your hand reaches out and hovers over his shoulder hesitantly. After a brief moment of contemplation, you shake your head and rest your hand back down beside you.

"I really loved him, you know..." Vox quietly admits. Eyes widening to the size of bowling balls, your head sharply turns to face him. Vox looks back at you and groans, "Not like that!". You let out a soft "oh" in response, your expression relaxing as you turn to look back out at the vast array of sharks.

A sharp exhale leaves Vox's lips, "What I meant was that he was my best friend... I told him everything, trusted him, loved him... I loved him more than I've ever loved anyone or anything in my life.". You nod and gaze sympathetically at him as he explains. "I was too blinded by this idea that Alastor could never hurt me to realize that the whole thing was completely one-sided. I told him everything, but I was too dense to realize that he didn't tell me ŞⱧł₮! That smiling bastard just wanted me to spill my guts so at the right moment, he could use it against me... and he did..." "Oh," you start, "so that night is when he-" "Yeah.". Vox rests his elbows on his knees, hunching over and resting his head in his hands, "I invited him over to join the Vees and- fuck.". As he cusses, his voice croaks, and tears well up in his eyes once more. "And," he proceeds, "he denied me. When I got mad and asked him why he said, "Why would I ever want to do something so frivolous as working with a vain incompetent TV? I know you Vox. And this isn't what you think it is."". You speak, a bit astonished, "Shit... And that's all because he didn't like your business proposal?" "Yeah, I mean, I didn't react calmly to his rejection by any means but still. Nothing warranted that kind of reaction... Anyway, then we got into an argument. I said horrible things I didn't mean, and he said even worse things that he did mean... As a last resort, I tried hypnotizing him, I was just so desperate, I couldn't believe what he was saying to me... And that didn't go over well since he beat the shit out of me after..." As he explains, the pieces of information start clicking together in your head, "Oh yeah... and that's when I found you-" "Yep. That's when you found me."

…

A familiar silence fills the air after Vox stops explaining. His expression is thoughtful as he looks down at the sharks below him, as if he’s debating on whether or not to break the silence.

Your eyes are fixed on him as he looks out, unable to look away. Before, you saw him as this powerful, callous, sadistic overlord… But now, all you see is a broken sinner. A tired defeated sinner. Just like everyone else in Hell. Just like you.

A few minutes of silence roll by, the only sounds being the buzzing of monitors and the occasional quiet splash of water. Vox takes a deep breath, “I almost died that day… That is if you hadn’t saved me.”. Not knowing how to respond, you stayed quiet.

He turns to meet your gaze, “I never thanked you.”.

“You did not.” you respond matter-of-factly, with a hint of bitterness in your tone.

Vox’s eyes meet yours with sincerity, “Well, thank you.”

A soft smile grows on your lips, “You’re welcome.”

Looking back out at the water, he apologizes, ”-And sorry.”. Your eyebrows furrow, “For?-“.

“For being an asshole,” he states flatly. "Oh yeah..." you reply with a casual tone. Vox looks at you with an almost-offended look. "No hesitation, really? No, "Mr. Vox you could never be an asshole!"", he says half-jokingly. You chuckle and roll your eyes, "No way in here would I ever say that.". The two of you share a short-lived bittersweet laugh before Vox's tone grows serious again, "Seriously though, you didn't deserve that... no one did...". You sharply exhale, not saying anything in return. He was right. He was an asshole and he wasn't off the hook for it because he had some backstory to prove it. You felt bad for him, but it felt worse to be mistreated and see others be mistreated by him.

"Earlier, when you said I grew distant... You're right, I was- or, am," he affirms... "I know," you respond, not making eye contact with him anymore as your mind races with thoughts of his maltreatment. "Yes, but do you know why?". This seems to snap you out of your thoughts. Your mind is screaming 'YES', however, you keep it casual and nod slowly.

Vox takes a deep breath, "I stopped being friends with you and well everyone because I don't want another Alastor in my life...".

"What about Val and Vel?" you inquire.

"That's different" he shifts over, swinging his legs over the edge and onto the platform, sitting crisscrossed in front of you, "Val and Vel are... business partners. I only really keep them around for appearances.".

"How charming," you say sarcastically.

"I just thought you should know," he says softly, eyes never leaving yours, "I didn't want to hurt myself again, so I distanced myself and didn't give anyone a reason to like me.". Fuck. You wanted to just forget everything and go back to normal, but you know that can't happen. After all, these are just meaningless words. He hasn't even promised to get better or at least try to! You need time to process everything and he needed time to get his shit together. Not everything could be fixed in this one moment, and you both knew that.

Silence fills the room once more, there's nothing left to say now that everything is out in the open. 'It's not your job to fix him' keeps repeating in your head, as if to convince yourself of it. His eyes stay fixed on you with a slight frown on his face. Maybe you should go.

Pushing off the floor to get up, a large hand grasps at yours, "Wait-". You stumble a bit when he grabs at your hand, "Wh-".

"I really need you to know that I'm sorry," he pleads, "Y/N I know I'm an asshole that you could never forgive but trust me, I hate myself just as much as you hate me... please...".

Taking your hand back, you sigh and step back. You look down at his pleading, desperate form, "I never said I didn't forgive you... but that doesn't mean that what you did and what you're continuing to do is okay by any means... I can't keep forgiving you Vox, and frankly, I'm the only person that will even forgive you to begin with. You need to change. You can get better, I know you can. I've seen you better...". And with that, you leave, not bothering to turn back. You know that if you look back now at his sorry-ass you'd stay. And what good would staying do?

You've done enough. The rest was up to him.

-- The blaring sound of your alarm wakes you up. Groggily sitting up, you rub your eyes and hop out of bed. Today's an important day, you had to accompany Vox to an important meeting with the overlord Carmilla Carmine.

After a much-needed cup of coffee, you take a shower, letting the soothing hot water wash the grime of yesterday off you. As you wash up, you can't help but wonder what today would be like... 'Would Vox be nicer? Would he stay the same?'. Questions plagued your mind throughout getting ready.

Stepping out of the shower, you put on a robe and plug in your hair dryer to style your hair. You style your hair and put on your make-up after. Glancing over to check the time, you panic a bit, 'Shit, I'm gonna be late if I don't haul ass!'. Hurriedly, you put on your uniform: a form-fitting white blouse and navy blazer, a teal and navy tie, navy pants, and black stiletto heels. Taking one final glance in the mirror, you leave for work.

Pulling into your parking space, you speed walk into work, worried that Vox will be pissed if you make him late for his meeting. You push open the large circular doors to his office and hurry down the walkway. Vox is sitting in his chair with an annoyed expression as an employee stands beside him. Of course, your nosy ass wanted to see what was happening, so you stood and watched.

Neither Vox nor the employee had noticed you as you eavesdropped. Vox sits with a hand pinching the bridge of his nose, gritting his teeth as he holds back his anger, "You want a what?". "A raise, sir." the employee squeaks. The hand that was previously pinching his nose drags across his face as he tries to restrain his anger, "Why the ₣Ữ- ahem- Why would I do that?".

You could tell Vox was trying to not berate the employee. An involuntary smile crept across your lips. 'He's trying...'. "W-Well because I've been working here for a long time and-" the staff member goes on and on, stuttering about why they should get a raise. Vox felt frustration rising in him as the employee went on. Vox rose up from our chair quickly before the staff member could continue any longer, "Fine! Just-" he pointed a large teal claw towards the door, "GO!". The employee says their thank-you's as they swiftly rush down the walkway.

His eyes land on you, standing there with a grin, "What that look for?". "What? Oh! Nothing, just here to remind you of your 10:00 meeting with Carmilla," you respond. "Oh," he begins, "right, let's go.".

-- A sleek black VoxTech limo chauffeurs you and Vox to the meeting. The ride was fairly quiet, and a tad awkward since you both didn't know how to talk normally after what went down yesterday. Luckily Carmilla's office was a short ride from the Vee Tower, so you didn't have to sit in awkward silence for too long. Upon arrival, the two of you briskly walk into her office so as to not be late. When you walk in, Carmilla and Vox exchange formal greetings and pleasantries 'How are you' 'Nice to see you' blah blah blah. Carmilla's sharp eyes fell on you after they finished the courteous exchange, "And who would this be?".

Vox's eyes flicker to you, then back to Carmilla, "Oh. This is Y/N, my assistant... and friend."

-

ITS DONE WNIWEHIWHFOUIWHEI. i hope you guys liked it! lmk if u wanna be tagged for future chaps! if theres any grammar mistakes or parts that dont make sense lmk!

-

TAG LIST:

@lovelyemily, @preppyfellaa, @diffidentphantom, @lil-glum, @leonotlara,

@matpatsstuff, @rapunzelbro, @n0tmentallystable, @that-one-person-blue If I missed anyone or incorrectly added anyone, let me know!

[stumblingwolf]

I’m honestly hoping Ed is around when Stede gives the “I’ve been a failure my whole life,” speech, because he legitimately (Ed) does NOT know how deep this man’s self loathing goes. He doesn’t know his father was a prick. Doesn’t know his marriage was pretty much forced. Doesn’t know he was bullied relentlessly as a child and those SAME childhood bullies continued on right until the moment they died, in front of Stede.

Because Stede doesn’t talk it through. He’s a hypocrite. Beloved hypocrite. I am one too. I give great advice and have trouble following it myself.

Kinda hoping there’s more in the letters. Because he did say letters. Plural. And refused to elaborate what they were about. I too am a write my feelings person. It’s so much harder to say them out loud.

[its-time-to-write]

please don’t be - ch. 4

table of contents go your way

“It’s the south of France,” Jamie says. “The fuck am I supposed to do there?”

“Brooks is throwing a wicked party,” Colin says. “Michael’s been begging me to go, so we’re going.”

“You have to go, lad,” Jack adds. “Maybe then you’ll stop being a broody prick.”

Jamie doesn’t know what to say. It’s off season, Colin’s in Manchester, and somehow he and Jack have taken it upon themselves to ruin Jamie’s self-loathing.

Because he loathes himself right now.

Yeah, football’s great as-fucking-ever, but fucking off season is making it shit in his head.

He hadn’t expected to feel anything, not when he’s usually so empty in his mind.

But you… you were a giver. And it was a problem because Jamie, always so love-starved, took everything you had. At some point something changed though, because he felt guilty always fucking taking and never giving.

He couldn’t stand the way you looked at him, as though he hung the moon, and it felt like a deception even though you knew it was temporary.

That’s what he hated the most, the fact that you always, always knew, and you still stayed.

It’s a problem. It’s summer, and he’s on his way to the south of France.

—

Jamie is losing his mind. Is this how you felt that one afternoon? He wishes he would have been kinder. He can’t really smile, he misses Richmond and he misses Roy (the prick) and Keeley (what an angel). He misses you most of all, but he won’t insult you by trying to get you back.

He keeps seeing your face everywhere he goes, but it’s impossible because you’re somewhere in London.

It’s far too quiet inside his own body, and he misses the buzz that came with being near you. The world turned electric when you entered a room.

The silence echoes louder as the night progresses. 

Jamie steps outside for air and sees Jude snogging someone under a tree. He shakes his head with a chuckle as they break apart.

There’s a crackle, one only he can feel, and the world goes red.

Jamie ducks behind a pillar as Jude passes him, presumably to grab something from inside and before Jamie can think of what to do, he’s watching you press your palms over your eyes.

“I promise this is the only time I’ll ever ask you for something,” you tell him, head in your hands.

Jamie can barely speak. He’s grinning like an idiot, completely enamored with the way you can’t bear to burden him. 

You’re not a burden, and he can’t say the exact words but he’ll try to show you.

“You think too much,” he says.

“I know,” you groan. “I just know this is not at all what we talked about.”

“I think it’s sweet.”

Your head shoots up. “Sweet? That’s what you’re going with? This is awful. I’m only asking because I have to. I promise, I wouldn’t if I didn’t.”

Jamie’s still grinning as he says, “I’ll be there. I’m great with nieces, just ask Roy. Bring her a birthday present and everything.”

“You sure?” you ask hesitantly. “My whole family will be there.”

Jamie shrugs. “Not a problem, love.”

He would have promised you the whole world just to see your eyes light up like they did then. Would have given up his god-given footy talent just to feel your arms around him like they were in that moment.

So Bellingham’s inside and you’re alone, so in a haze of poorly-exchanged pleasantries, Jamie says, “I fucking love you, and I’m fucking stupid for leaving.”

Once again, he watches your face shutter through a million expressions at once as you carefully consider and catalogue his words.

Instead of your face lighting up like he hoped it would, it shatters. Just for a moment, but it breaks into a thousand pieces.

In between one moment and the next, he sees you pull yourself together.

It’s fast, too fast for it to be real, but he’s not going to say anything about it as long as you’re his again, you have to be his again. 

There’s no other way this can go.

table of contents

[merbear25]

A still beating heart

Dread and turmoil mix into a deadly elixir which is drunk by the masses. Whilst two wandering souls seek out refuge in this unforgiving world, finding each other by chance feels too good to be true. You’ve started crumbling at the feet of your health complications, and although you are in need of his support, distrust deludes the gift of his companionship.

a/n: This is heavily inspired by the movie Repo! The Genetic Opera because it’s a masterpiece and Caesar would thrive in this world. Divider made by me.

CW: Repo man AU, gn!reader, angst, horror themes (mentions of gore, murder), yandere undertones (kidnapping, possessiveness, Stockholm Syndrome), reader has health conditions, some romance and fluff, no sexual themes.

The city bathed in the moonlight, but even still there were crevices that remained absent from its rays. Having been traced and hunted down, the shadows were the only things to bear witness to the woman’s pleas. Choked cries painted the cold bricks, now weeping for her when no one else would, for the hands that played as judge doubled as her executioner. The predetermined verdict being brought on by a lack of funds had sealed her fate after contracting her life in the hopes that something more would come of it.

Others shared the same lack of foresight: choosing to turn a blind eye to the repercussions if they failed to keep their end of the bargain. Even so, they all willingly gave these cosmetic corporations an ungodly amount of power, which in turn had these lost souls collapsing like dominos—each spreading the word of such wonders being gifted to them all while deluding the dangers which came with it.

As the sprouted weeds in the pavement drank the spilled life, the blood would only stain the hands of the reaper who’d slain and even then, the deed would bear little weight on his conscience. With the sobs of the recently departed fading into the late hours of the night, they received no pity as the man’s hands collected the organ for bounty money.

With such negligence making these companies swell to the brim in cash, it was no wonder why they relied on repo men such as him; casting down on them swiftly while also being morally numb to the horrors they were unleashing were qualities scarcely coupled. However, once found, they would be cherished, perhaps flourishing under the watchful corporal eye.

Trudging through the bleak city, even the sun peeking over the buildings did nothing to relieve this world of the melancholy plaguing it. With such a tarnished reputation, there were few other prospects residing outside this one, whether career wise or personal.

Finding yourself in an elongated hallway, the lights above were dim, just barely giving you leverage to see what lurked beyond. Calling out, there was no answer—there never was, and yet you kept trying to connect with someone, anyone.

The chill pricked at your exposed flesh, making you wince. As you wandered down the hall, you noticed the walls were bare—stripped of the potential portals you could’ve unlocked. With only being given two possible directions, the gravity of the decision was weighing you down, sinking you into the floor. The further you sank, the dimmer the lights were. Isn’t there anyone there? Despite all your might, your words fell silent.

Couldn’t there be a reason for this? Why were you given the short end of things time and time again? The self-loathing only pulled you down deeper into the floorboards, making you gasp for air as you dipped below them.

Drifting in the void of your own dismay, you made one last attempt to cry out, “Who am I meant to be?” The doubt of being able to live in this world without acquiring the essential brutality cascaded on you, further forcing you into the depths of your awaited despair. In a shrill voice, you shrieked, “Isn’t there anyone who can tell me who I am?” Although faint, your desperation made its way to the surface.

A beacon of light lifted your head, enticing you to follow, but the closer you got, the top remained out of reach. With your arms tiring and your will running on fumes, you debated whether or not to push forward. Before being given the choice, your eyes shot open.

Parting your curtains, you were met with thick clouds of smog obstructing your view of the park, albeit the grass and flowers had browned and wilted long ago. Despite promptly reclosing them, it didn’t change the dread that awaited you. No matter how many times you shielded yourself from the reality you were born into, the cruelty of the world persistently seeped through the paned glass with doubts of it ever changing poisoning your already rocky optimism.

In spite of the climbing bills regarding your medication, it was still better than opting out for a heart transplant. After all, going without your medication could be risky, but it paled in comparison to the organ being ripped from your chest. With that in mind, today of all days when the smog seemed to be the thickest it’d been all month, venturing to the pharmacy to retrieve your medication was a necessity.

Even with taking precautions, the polluted air restricted your breathing, tightening your chest as your heart struggled to fight against the harsh conditions. Pushing forward, you kept reminding yourself that the pharmacy wasn’t far, meaning you’d be able to regain your composure once entering. However, upon reaching the door of your temporary sanctuary, the bolt was fastened and no one was inside.

Panic at the unforeseen turn of events set in, looking around in a frenzy made matters worse, as your breathing grew more shallow. Clenching helplessly at the fabric around your form only further drilled hopelessness into you. Staggering along the walls, you stumbled to your knees. Tears beaded at the corners of your eyes as you huddled in a ball on the pavement. As you laid there clutching at your chest, a robed figure came into view before the bleak city surroundings dimmed into a haze.

A barely audible voice crept in as you came to. “What to do, what to do…” Shuffling could be heard in the distance which was then followed by clinking glass. When your eyes fluttered open, the light shining down on you was unpleasantly bright. Squinting from the abrasion, you caught sight of a tall figure in the shadows.

Scanning the surroundings of which the light touched, the understanding that someone had dragged you back to their home jumped out at you. With such a conclusion, other more frightening ones followed suit. Kept for ransom, sold on the black market or forced into slavery: all seemed plausible given the hard times everyone was continuously finding themselves in.

Even when gingerly shifting yourself, creaks of old springs sounded under your subtle movement. Although the figure blended into the dark, the outline was still jagged enough to separate itself from the still backdrop.

As the stranger’s hand eased its way onto the counter top, their head shifted and even though your vision was obstructed by the fluorescent bulb, the dreadful feeling of eyes being on you was unmistakable.

Restraining yourself from shouting for help, demanding answers, and bursting into tears was whirling within you, pulling you in too many directions to focus on one tactic to break free. Instead the trembling dread was kept bottled up, making you shake from the building pressure.

“Don’t get so worked up,” his voice alluded to a disinterest in your wandering thoughts.

“Who are you? Where am I?” Your assertiveness prevailed over quivering lips.

Tilting his head back and forth as if contemplating whether or not to answer, he remained silent.

When you failed to coerce an answer from him, your chest heaved from the burdening assumption that you’d found your eternal resting place. Putting your trust in a higher power that would somehow pull you out of this was like grasping at straws. Such powerful beings had never casted their grace on you before, but they appeared to be the only ones in whom you could place your faith.

Closing your eyes to the terror surrounding you, you said a quick prayer, mumbling your pleas in hope that they’d reach the ears of some pure entity. “Please,” you begged to yourself, “Is this really how I’ll die, Lord?”

A curious smile stretched his lips at your increasingly labored breathing. Turning slightly towards you, he couldn’t help but chuckle at your feeble attempt at appealing to the heavens. “Do you honestly think anyone is listening?”

Refusing to acknowledge his obvious attempt at getting under your skin, you irked him. However, it led him into thinking of your tenacity as a challenge. Inching out of the shadows, his unconcealed contempt burrowed into you.

Leaning down, his words dripped with anticipation of you admitting your lack of faith. He spoke just above a whisper, “Tell me, what kind of God would bestow such hardships onto one as frail as yourself?”

With contorted lips, you failed to stop the tears from streaming down your face. Pressing your forehead against your laced fingers, you were tempted to fall victim to the seeds of doubt he was planting. “There must be someone out there who cares.”

Furrowing his brow, he huffed a bit at your self-pity. “The sooner you realize there isn’t, the happier you’ll be.”

Wiping the stinging sorrow from your eyes, you cautiously asked, “Why did you bring me here?”

Looking down his nose at you, he wondered that himself. “Why indeed.”

Risking a glance, you hastily averted your eyes. His golden orbs were burning into you with searing intensity. His sudden reach made you flinch. He paused briefly before fully extending his arm to the end table. With a soft clink, he retracted from you, yet his eyes held on, studying each subtlety you exuded.

“Drink it,” he commanded. However, his tone shifted slightly when your eyes held distrust. ‘It will help you feel better.”

Seeing as he wasn’t going anywhere until you downed the liquid he gave you, gulping it down left your tongue coated in bitterness. Pleased with your compliance, he allowed you time to rest, giving you some much needed solitude. 

Once he left the room, your ears followed his footsteps through the wooden corridor. He hadn’t locked the door, though taking it upon yourself to leave felt more like bait if anything. Instead, you held tight, looking about the room you found yourself in.

With the muffled sounds echoing throughout the house, your curiosity got the better of you. The walls were cool to the touch, leading you to believe you were in the basement and although the room was seemingly empty, there were drawers in the disheveled desk.

Poking around, you dared to uncover any shred of who this man was. Stumbling upon a collection of documents, you unfastened the folder securing them. Thumbing through them carefully, the names of their faceless owners were becoming overwhelming. “Why would he have such papers within his home?” you muttered to yourself.

There were papers containing medical information, addresses, places they frequented, all of which were filling your head with the glaring truth as to who this man was.

Thuds traveled down the hall, alarming you that they were marching your way. Fumbling with the evidence stacked against him, you shoved them into the folder and quietly shut the drawer. Jumping on the sofa, you were just able to control your racing heartbeat in time for him to enter your dwellings.

Closing the door behind him, his gaze was fixated on you as he approached. Before he could get a word in, you spoke out against him holding you there. “When can I leave?”

Stopping in his tracks, he was less than pleased to be greeted with such an ungrateful attitude. “If you want to leave, there’s the door.”

“I can just go? You won’t stop me?” Your questions held your disbelief. When he nodded, something about the situation chilled you to your core.

Smirking at your hesitation, he asked, “What’s wrong?” Watching your eyes dart between the exit and him, he informed you, “There’s no trick, no trap.”

Smiling down at you - as unsettling as it was given the circumstances - gave you an ounce of courage to motion off the sofa.

“If you’re sure in your abilities to find your way back without any help or medication, then by all means, you have my word to let you go.”

The fact of the matter was you were in no position to go anywhere, and he wanted you to understand that. Pulling your knees to your chest, you rested your forehead against them.

With triumph wafting off of him, he glided towards you, requesting you to tilt your head up. He patted your knees, signaling you to put them down to allow him an easier time checking your vitals. Checking your eyes and pulse, his hands then wandered over the sides of your ribcage.

Inhaling sharply, he asked if the pressure hurt. Truth be told you weren’t quite sure if the gasp was brought on by pain or the sudden touch. Letting him know that there was a slight pain issued for more probing: his fingers pressed at the front and back of you in an attempt to find any other pockets of discomfort. When none were left, he leaned back to fully take in the marvel you were presenting yourself as.

With a slight nod, he whispered, “Good.” Getting up, he looked back at you. “If you’re in no hurry to leave, you can either spend the rest of your time down here or I can show you where the spare bedroom is.” 

Despite his gracious offer to extend more of his home to you, the aura emitting from him gave you reason to proceed with caution.

When you absentmindedly bit your lower lip, he shrugged off your doubt. “Stay in this room, don’t stay in this room, it makes no difference to me.”

“No!” Your own burst of enthusiasm made you recoil. “I-I’d be grateful for a room.”

Ushering you to follow him, his chuckles trailed alongside the both of you. Reaching the top of the stairs, the lavish style all but took your breath away. The embroidery along the ceiling and the fine details on the furniture had you awe-struck.

“Who’d you have to kill to be able to afford all of this?”

“You’d be surprised how easy it is. Well, so long as you know how to play your cards right.”

Leading you to the door you’d be calling yours for the time being, he followed on your heels as you aimlessly sauntered into the room. A sense of pride swelled within him, while he watched you stand there mouth agape. 

The ivory window sills complimented by the forest green curtains suited the cream-colored carpet and speckled bits of gold across the wallpaper. Sitting yourself down on the bed, comfort and serenity dispersed around you, having you pondering if you ever wanted to go back to your decrepit apartment.

Folding your hands in your lap, you looked at him with a sincere smile. “Thank you for letting me stay here.”

The gentleness to your demeanor pierced his once thought to be dead heart, reigniting the life lying dormant within it. In a meek attempt at hiding his contentment from your appreciation, a short nod was all you were issued as he swiftly left you alone with your thoughts.

Grinning, you threw yourself back on the clouds surrounding you. Being under the crushing weight of the world for as long as you had, there’d been little to dream about. However, this was the first moment in perhaps a decade or more when fresh air was allowed into your life, soothing your woes.

Such ease washed over you, their waves carrying you out to sea. Although the tide started out calm, the storm clouds on the horizon were cause for concern. The rough water crashed into your boat, forcing you to brace yourself against the oncoming malice.

Pouring rain blinded you to the tidal wave gaining speed in the distance. The full weight of it submerged you deep beneath sea level, forcing the air out of you on impact. As you thrashed your way towards the surface, your body gave out, going limp in the storm ridden waters.

Lifting your eyelids, you stirred under the covers. The streetlamps were shining through the crack between the curtains. Wiping the sleep from your eyes, you looked around for a clock. Carefully making your way down the steps, there appeared to be no sign of your host anywhere.

Stumbling around to the front windows, headlights bathed the parlor. Thinking it must be him, peeking out came instinctively. A long black latex trench coat was cloaked over him, his long hair partly matted to it after having fallen out of the ponytail it was thrown up in.

There was no denying who those uniforms belonged to—the repo men who stalked the streets.  The nail in your coffin was being hammered in as he stepped across that threshold.

For a moment, he hadn’t even noticed you standing there. Taking his coat off gingerly so as not to loosen any missed droplets of blood onto the floor, your trembling form caught his attention.

“What are you doing awake?”

“I was just…I couldn’t sleep is all.”

Folding his coat over his arm, he sauntered across the arch way, keeping his eyes on you. “Shouldn’t you know it’s bad manners to snoop in your host’s home?”

“I wasn’t snooping, I promise!”

Him disappearing around the corner caused the hair on the back of your neck to rise. His footsteps were no longer audible and the still of the night was deafening.

“What are you most afraid of at this moment?” His voice seemed to be everywhere at once, leaving you feeling completely surrounded.

“I’m afraid of dying,” you choked out. With the room closing in on you, you were backed into the corner. 

“And what is it that you want most of all?”

The tightening in your chest was making you dry heave from the stampede of terror trampling you. While you struggled to control your breath, you sank down to the floor. His stoic form stepped into the night’s rays peeking through, his golden eyes being illuminated by the cross light.

“I don’t want to think about the pain I’m feeling anymore.”

“Then why not let me lighten your load?” You showed a shred of reluctance, which invited him to kneel down by your side. “You can either accept my help and my conditions, or you can become another forgotten name lost to time.”

Offering you his hand, you saw no better option waiting for you, even if placing your faith in this man was contractual.

“Why did you help me?”

“It was a lapse in judgment.”

“But why do you continue to do so?” 

He did not answer, only letting the air between you grow stale. You were being given the opportunity to interpret the nonsensical ways of his generosity, although this wouldn’t go without pitfalls of suspicion.

Looking at the hand he was still offering you, you threw caution to the wind and placed your hand in his. When your eyes met, a somewhat genuine smile stretched upon his face while he gently eased you up from the floor.

With the days and nights spent with him on seamless rotation, the unknown reason of him permitting you to stay with him burdened you. There were times that you wondered that perhaps the logic behind it was lost even to him. But the longer you remained with him, the more uneasy you got. Not understanding why, you were there left questions to build up in the darkest corners of your mind: “When could he lose interest?”, “What could make him lose interest?” and the grave reality of “What will happen to me if he loses interest?”

Dark clouds swirled above from the lack of clarity of where you stood with him. As bleak of motivation as it was, it made you contribute around the house, trying to add to whatever worth he originally saw in you, eventually leading him to taking you under his wing of professional guidance. 

Despite the unwavering gratitude you had for him, being in his debt had hooked into your immortal soul. With the metal having sunk into your flesh, you were being brought down to the brimstone lined caverns where he was.

Through the anguish you kept secret from him, you persevered, allowing an unwanted yet natural talent you held to unearth itself.

As your lack-luster eyes fell on the fading life sprawled at your feet, he sensed you pulling away from the life you were building together on the backs of those who closely resembled yourself.

“Do not pity those who knew the risks, yet did nothing to prevent them. Time eats all his children in the end, my dear.” His words, albeit cruel, rang true. With each moment shared together, his disdain for the world and those in it wore off on you more and more.

Self-loathing emitted off of you and was misplaced onto him, souring the air. “I cannot help it, but when I look at you, I grow distasteful. The ruthlessness you cast is only seen as mercy to yourself.”

Taken aback by you bearing such a festering grudge against him - the man who’d shown you the utmost kindness - made him grind his teeth. Frowning at you, he spoke without having first collected his thoughts. “And yet here you are by my side. Here you are soaked in the blood of the less fortunate, and you have the gall to throw blame onto me?”

Closing the gap between you, his breath was hot against your ear. “You’ve willingly shredded any ounce of innocence you held over me long ago. Tread lightly, for you’re beginning to reek of self righteousness.” His warning lingered in your ears.

Maneuvering through this minefield was wearing on you. Caught up in your own self-indulgent pity party, you nearly missed glimmers of him being heavily affected by such barriers separating the two of you. Even if his demeanor was rigid and his stare cold, there was a sense of feeling isolated emanating around him.

He sat in his armchair, while he mulled over the precarious justification of having dragged you here all those months ago. Following your descent down the stairs, he drummed his fingers on his pursed lips, leading himself to believe this was to be your farewell to him.

Ignoring the daggers behind his eyes, you kept in mind that he was just as damaged by this world as you were. “I’ve come to apologize.”

Cautiously lowering his guard, you’d piqued his interest. “I see how my behavior has been unjustifiably disgraceful towards you and the second chance you gave me.” 

Seeing his eyes wandering over you, you proceeded. “You’ve helped me understand that in this world, one must take center stage and you can either steal the spotlight or fade into the background.”

Choking back the rising emotion, you divulged your soul to him, “I don’t want to fade with the others.”

“You won’t have to.” Easing out of his chair, he opened his arms to you. Holding each other tightly, it dawned on you that this was the first embrace you ever shared.

While his hands caressed your emotionally drained form, your frets were plucked out of you, leaving behind tranquility. “This feels nice,” you admitted in a hushed tone.

Humming at the comfort you found in his touch, such affection was surreal for the life he led. As your arms wrapped around him, he smirked at the resolution to the issues you shared. Looking up at him, his thumb stroked your cheek. His words carried such delicacy, “I trust this means you have no intention of leaving me?”

“I’ll stay for as long as you’ll have me.”

“Two souls deemed undesirable by society.” Leaning down, his lips briefly ghosted yours. “What better match could I have asked for?” Sealing your union with a long-overdue kiss, any lingering doubts of who you thought you were supposed to be dissipated. The ash of your former self, along with your prior morals, circled you as your kiss deepened. Collecting at your feet, you paid them no mind. 

The man who’d brought forth a new perspective on this dreary world captivated you. Together you would stay in the spotlight, sharing it as you danced under its beam. Your devotion to each other would keep the shadows at bay, for your adoration would outlast their persistent attempts at tearing you down with the others who were being forgotten to time.

[wanderingblindly]

just read your vampire landoscar and died it was amazing!! but i am so curious - does charles ever realize he was such a shit friend and apologize? does he even know what he did wrong? does oscar hate him so much if he ever does come around? max and oscar interaction/tensions??? the whole time i was so sad for lando cause charles is a horrible friend i was really glad he called his ass out!!

(fic link)

oh my goodness I've genuinely been rambling into a million people's DMs about all the nuances of this fic so THANK YOU FOR ASKING!!! One of your questions reminds me of a scene that got cut, so scroll to the bottom to check that out!

Obviously, you're more than entitled to imagine your own answer to these questions. If things are left unsaid,, it's not my place to tell you how to read into it. But in my brain:

Will Charles Ever Change?

Probably not.

Charles is a foil to Lando. He's entirely sure of what he wants, he knows how to get it, he's self-assured, and he's obsessed with power. Because he's compared to where Lando starts in the narrative (introspective, quiet, placating, etc.), it's pretty important that Charles doesn't have the self-awareness to recognize that he's a prick.

In my mind, the relationship completely died that night in the club, and Lando buried it in the café.

But could he grow later?

I think that Max and Charles's relationship is inherently doomed to be mutually destructive. I don't think that they're designed to bring out the best in each other (despite it being implied that they're soulmates -- I suppose soulmates don't always have to be for the better). Because they're so absorbed in each other, I don't think that Charles will ever gain the perspective to understand Lando completely. Meaning he probably won't come around to being a real friend.

What Does Oscar Think About Charles?

I've thought a lot about this, since it's implied that Oscar was definitely... watching... Lando lol. Oscar probably has an immense distrust of Charles, if not just for the fact that he radiates a level of danger that triggers most vampires’ basal instincts.

(if you didn't read Excess -- Charles is almost entirely covered in vampire bites, meaning he should trigger Oscar's fight or flight like no other.)

That said, I also think that Oscar has an understanding that Lando and Charles's relationship is more complex than he can pick apart from the outside. I get the feeling that he wants Lando to be with someone safer -- if not just because he loves him -- but that he'd respect any decision he makes on the matter.

Max and Oscar Vibes?

Max is the type of vampire that Oscar loathes. He's blood-drunk and confident in what he is; Max has embraced the life as a gift (barring sometimes missing human sensations), whereas Oscar views it as a curse. Their perspectives on their eternal life is so fundamentally incompatible that it's unlikely they'd ever get along.

Do I think they'd actually full on fight? No.

But I do think that Oscar would be so tense the entire time they interacted that he could crack his teeth.

Deleted (Incomplete) Scene:

Originally, after the confessional in Oscar's flat, I wanted to keep going. The next scene actually had to do with the state of Charles and Lando's relationship, where we learn that Lando hadn't heard from him -- and that he hadn't reached out, either. We get the impression that the relationship was completely dead, severed.

"I haven't talked to Charles since I told him to leave," Lando says mindlessly, sliding Oscar's cup in front of his usual seat. He grabs it and draws in a deep breath, the memories of caffeine doing little to alleviate the blue under his eyes. "D'you miss him?" Did he really know him well enough to? Lando shrugs. "Y'know how you kinda, like… miss something because it's over, not because you actually wanted it to keep going?" Oscar nods along, eyes fluttering closed – relaxed. "End of an era." "Era makes it sound like a good thing," Lando chuckles, tilting his head when Oscar raises a brow in silent question. "Nothing good about it then? At all?" In the daylight, they slowly peel apart each other's layers, step gently into the shadows they carry. Lando hasn't asked how much Oscar had gleaned about his and Charles's relationship, if he recognized him as a riptide feigning gentleness. The wounds felt too fresh, the mistakes too recent, and yet. "I'm…" He starts uncertainly. Oscar doesn't open his eyes, doesn't move – like waiting for Lando is easy. The years in Charles's orbit feel like a blur, like watching events that happened to someone else. They're a book with ink that fades with each page – starting bold in its desperation, ending weakly in its passive acceptance. "Not good enough to remember," Lando finally answers, and Oscar drops his brow. "I probably wouldn't have been better without him, I guess. Like, I would have ended up somewhere… different but similar, just with someone else. Might as well have been him, if it had to be someone." Need you more than anything else on earth. Because at least Charles sometimes put a word to that cold, lonely spot between Lando's ribs. Or maybe prodded at it like a contusion, dark and hideous and violent. But he saw it all the same. Shaking his head, clearing it away, Lando changes the subject. "What about you? Do you still talk to anyone from…" He trails off, lips frozen around the word: before. Opening his eyes and putting down his cup, Oscar stares down into it. Pensive. But he promised to try. Lando can see the weary determination in the pressed line of his pale lips – maybe the same wherewithal that keeps his fangs tucked safely out of sight. "I text my family, so they don't think anything's wrong." It leaves a lot unsaid. Lando let's the unspoken fill the time and space between them, resting his back against the counter. Until Oscar looks up at him, eyes finding his own like how Lando always imagined coming home should be – easy. "But everyone else, it's…" A sigh, agitated fingers combing through flat hair. "Complicated." He aims for reassuring. "I know," Oscar averts his gaze anyway. "I quit my job." It's that same tone, that same pinched anguish that evokes memories of tears he can no longer shed. "D'you miss it?" "It's all I ever wanted to be, I –" His throat cuts him off, painfully tight. Lando wonders, not for the first time, how beautiful his emotions would be with the flush of life. And he wonders, anew, if Oscar can feel the difference. Shaking, small: "They were so proud of me." Between beats of his bleeding heart, Lando wonders what that feels like. "You're still the same person though," Lando tries, stopping when Oscar buries his face in his hands, elbows propped up on the counter. "'m not." "You are –" Fiery enough to burn, even muffled through his hands: "Would you want a fucking monster to help you?" "Already did." Lando smiles like a gotcha, flashing his wrist for emphasis. Oscar must sense it, peeking between his fingers. "Almost like you're still you, huh?"

[kentuckyfriedsatan]

ℭ𝔯𝔞𝔠𝔨𝔰 ℑ𝔫 𝔗𝔥𝔢 ℑ𝔠𝔢

《 Chapter 2 》

❚ Rating: M (updated to M to be safe)

❚ Pairing: Dew/Ifrit, Dew/Rain (end goal)

❚ Chapter word count: 829

❚ Tags: Angst, Emotional Hurt, Self-Loathing, touch starved Rain, touch starved Dew, Ifrit is a manipulative bitch in this one, I am so sorry for that I normally love him, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt/Comfort In later chapters, emotional abuse

❚ Summary: Rain, who is touch starved and secretly in love with the emotionally distant fire ghoul, struggles to ask for the affection he desperately needs.

Dew, who never talks about his feelings and avoids physical closeness, spends his time with Ifrit, who Rain couldn’t hate more.

Will Rain be strong enough to reach out to Dew and break through their mutual isolation, or risk losing the one person who might truly understand and love him.

Read it on Ao3 or here under the cut!

“What do you think you are doing?”

Dew’s heart stutters at the icy tone of Ifrit’s voice, his body freezing like a deer caught in the headlights. He had hoped, foolishly, for a moment of tenderness.

“I-I just thought…” His voice trembles, the words barely escaping his lips. All he wanted was a quick cuddle session, or at least a hug—anything really—after Ifrit had fucked him face down into the mattress, leaving him feeling used and discarded.

Dew slowly pulls himself back from the bed, his skin burning with shame. He had dared to believe, for just a second, that he could join Ifrit in some semblance of affection.

“Well, you thought wrong,” Ifrit snaps, his eyes cold and unyielding. “You think you deserve my attention? After I was kind enough to let you come on my cock? You useless whore!”

The words slice through Dew like a knife, each one a cruel reminder of his own insecurities. It's not the first time Ifrit has rejected him this way, but the familiar sting doesn't lessen the pain. In fact, it amplifies it, reaffirming the negative self-talk that haunts him constantly.

Hot tears prick at Dew’s eyes, blurring his vision. He scolds himself harshly for being so weak and pathetic, for daring to seek comfort where he knew there would be none. He bites down hard on his lower lip, forcing the tears back, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“You’re right,” Dew murmurs, his voice barely audible. “I’m sorry.” The apology tastes bitter on his tongue, but he can’t stop himself from saying it, from internalizing every cruel word Ifrit throws his way.

He knows that being with Ifrit, as degrading and painful as it is, feels better than the crushing weight of loneliness. He tells himself that he doesn't deserve more, that his pack is too good for him anyway.

Ifrit doesn’t say anything when he leaves the room and walks down the silent corridor.

In this quiet moment, Dew silently berates himself for his foolish hopes and dreams. He remembers the brief, fleeting touches with Rain, the soft looks. But those moments are distant memories, overshadowed by the harsh reality of his current existence. He hears rustling in the kitchen and instantly puts his walls back into place, he can’t be seen this weak.

“Do you ever… need someone?” Rain’s voice is soft, almost a whisper, but the question hits Dew like a physical blow. He blinks, caught off guard, feeling a flicker of something unfamiliar—a vulnerability he hadn’t felt in years.

“What do you mean?” Dew asks,, his voice sounding harsher than he intended. He tries to mask the sudden surge of emotions, to push down the gnawing emptiness that Rain’s words had unearthed.

Rain took a deep breath, and Dew can see the effort it takes for him to continue. “I mean, do you ever feel… alone?”

Alone.

The word echoes in Dew’s mind, stirring up memories he had long buried. For a brief moment, he feels exposed, his defenses crumbling. Alone.

He can see the flicker of vulnerability reflected in Rain’s eyes, but he quickly forced it down, replacing it with his usual cold demeanor. The kitchen is still dark, and Dew hopes the shadows hide the turmoil inside him.

“I have Ifrit,” Dew replies, the words hollow even to his own ears. The name leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, but it’s the only shield he has. Ifrit is his escape from the crushing loneliness, even if it meant enduring the pain and degradation.

For a split second, he sees a glimmer of disappointment in Rain’s eyes, and it hurt more than he cared to admit. Dewdrop turns away, the weight of his own emptiness pressing down on him. He wants to say more, to reach out and tell Rain how much he longes for someone who truly cares, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he retreats further into himself, hiding behind the lie that Ifrit was enough.

That’s why he walks back to him, back to Ifrit. And he begs to just stay, even if it’s just on the ground. He can’t be alone tonight, but even though the other fire ghoul is right there he feels loneliness.

Dew crawls into a corner of the room, pulling his knees to his chest. He wraps his arms around himself, trying to mimic the embrace he so desperately craves but is always denied. The tears he fought so hard to suppress finally spill over, silent sobs wracking his body as he mourns the love and kindness he believes he’ll never deserve.

Ifrit watches him for a moment, a smirk playing at his lips before he turns away, leaving Dew to his misery.

Alone in the dark, Dew’s thoughts drift to Rain once more. He wonders if things could ever be different, if he could ever find the strength to seek comfort and love from someone who might truly care. But those thoughts are fleeting, quickly replaced by the all-consuming belief that this is his fate, that he is destined to be alone.

[bum-tan]

Just Joe being an older brother for almost 3 minutes :

Bonus rant :

Some may dislike the show as it isn't that loyal to the comics, but I actually prefer the brothers' dynamics in the cartoon.

From my memories in the comics, Averell, William, and Jack just seem like lackeys Joe can order around to mindlessly do his biddings.

While that dynamic hasn't been completely scrapped in the cartoon, it has been given more dimensions and their sibling bond feels more organic.

In the cartoon, they are actually shown to behave like younger brothers who love Joe, and in turn, Joe behaves like an actual older brother; although they may be stupid and he can get impatient with them (typical oldest sibling experience with anger issues tbh), he still genuinely cares about them but is loath to admit or show it. (Again, very accurate older sibling rep)

Whereas in the comics, he just seems like a self-absorbed prick who only cares about them because he needs them for his own personal gain and put up with them because of their mom (not because he actually cares). He also gets angry too easily and doesn't take his brothers into consideration. (As in their well-being other than them being alive and fit enough to commit crimes with him.)

But even if Joe in the comics did care, his selfish motivations seem to outweigh any care he may have for his younger brothers. Which isn't true for his cartoon counterpart where caring for his brothers is an integral part of his character and ambitions.

Besides, their interactions are more funny and relatable in the show.

This may be why I am especially fond of the cartoon, as a sibling myself.

[kopfkino-o]

In Defense of Azriel: A Dissertation, Part One

One thing I see a lot within this fandom is the suggestion that Azriel, somehow, feels entitled to Elain, that he is some raging incel or some torture-loving freak or a white knight only interested in pursuing unattainable women, etc etc. And I am just not okay with that.

Azriel is SUCH a nuanced character and the fact so many people fail to see the context of his personality, his role within the narrative, and the obvious themes SJM is using in regard to his character is just... baffling to me. Especially when he has the potential to be such a powerful male character with an important story that deserves to be told.

So here we go, I'm defending Azriel with my whole chest. This is obviously a pro-Azriel post with pro-Elriel undertones, so if that isn't your thing then SCROLL.

Thx love you all bye.

1) Azriel suffers greatly with his sense of self-worth, so much so he thinks he is deserving of nothing.

We learn first from Mor that Azriel thinks so little of himself, no doubt a direct symptom of his childhood, that he harbors a deep sense of unworthiness. So much so that even if he were a prince, even if the woman he loved (I question this, but that is a whole other post I'll save for later, so I digress) stripped naked before him he wouldn't feel worthy enough to act.

"The issue, actually, wouldn't be me. It'd be him. I could peel off my clothes right in front of him and he wouldn't move an inch. He might have defied and proved those Illyrian pricks wrong at every turn, but it wouldn't matter if Rhys makes him Prince of Velaris--he'll still see himself as a bastard-born nobody, and not good enough for anyone. Especially me." - Mor, ACOMAF, Chapter 52

I think this is a great line to turn to when trying to understand the value Az places on himself. Mor says it herself, she could strip naked for him and he would still see himself as undeserving, still see himself as someone who shouldn't be granted the chance to have her affection. If he feels his way with Mor, someone who he supposedly has loved for centuries (again, I question this lol), then I think it's fair to claim he probably sees himself this way with all women.

This feels like the furthest thing from entitlement to me.

We can also see this inclination towards self-loathing come up again in the ACOSF Az bonus chapter when he gifts the necklace to Elain for the first time.

"He knew it was wrong, but there he was, sliding the necklace around her. Letting his scarred fingers touch her immaculate skin." - Azriel, ACOSF, Bonus Chapter (1 of 2)

These thoughts don't come from him thinking that he and Elain are wrong for wanting to be together, that their shared moment of affection (both now and as hinted at by the "This was the furthest it had ever gone" line) is wrong, but rather from this innate feeling of unworthiness. Az sees himself as nothing (see point below) and cannot fathom why someone like Elain, lovely Elain who resembles hope and the sun at dawn, would ever stop and see him. Give him her time, her offer and permission, would ever call his scarred hands-- the physical reminder of his trauma--beautiful.

He thinks it's wrong because he believes someone like him could never deserve a woman like her.

"Until he felt nothing. Was again nothing at all." Azriel, ACOSF, Bonus Chapter (1 of 2).

LIKE COME ON. This man sees himself as nothing. The fact he spoke up regarding his thoughts on the Cauldron potentially being wrong to begin with was a big thing for him, he who has many secrets, and Rhys SHUT HIM DOWN. 500+ years and even Cassian states Az is slow to open up, see below:

"Cassian knew it was a lie, but didn't push it. Az would speak when he was ready, and Cassian would have better success convincing a mountain to move than getting Az to open up." - Cassian, ACOSF, Chapter Nineteen

Az did speak this time, he felt so strongly and questioned fate itself so fiercely that he opened up to Rhys. He questioned the Cauldron, the fatemaker itself, not because he is entitled to Elain, but because there is something between them, something that has been brewing between them ever since their first meeting, something so fierce he is (finally) compelled to open up, to speak because he was ready. Think about how important that is for a character like him. Azriel, whose brothers of 500+ years could move a mountain more easily than get him to open up, did in fact, open up...

And he was shot down.

Of course, he wasn't going to wax off a lecture about Rhys's suggestion being wrong--because it was Rhys, not Azriel, who suggested entitlement.

Rhys's face drained of color. " You believe you deserve to be her mate?"

Azriel never suggested anything like this. An overwhelmed, distraught Rhys who feared for his mate and unborn child did.

And Azriel shut down, just as he did when he first confessed his feelings to Mor, and immediately abandoned the conversation in favor of silence. Not because he was pissed, or felt he was wronged, but because he saw these moments as validation of his nothingness, proof he was nothing, would always be nothing.

2) "If I Fail, They Will Leave Me" Complex

One thing I think that is important about Azriel's character that is often overlooked is his liberation from his father's dungeon. He wasn't set free when his hands were burned, rather returned to his "dark, airless cell" where was forced to continue on, burned and broken, for three years.

Three bloody years.

It was only when/sometime after his shadowsinging gifts first emerged that he was granted freedom. If you can call it that. Not because he was a little boy who deserved freedom, but because he had magic: a tool of value, a weapon to be used.

And used it was.

We learn from Rhys that Shadowsingers are highly coveted...

"Shadowsingers are rare--coveted by courts and territories across the world for their stealth and predisposition to hear and feel things others can't." - Rhys, ACOMAF, Chapter 16

And that Az was sent to the camp only AFTER his gifts were discovered.

"Az's father sent him to our camp once he and his charming wife realized he was a shadowsinger." - Rhys, ACOMAF, Chapter 16

This all goes to say that Azriel's freedom was largely granted because of his magic. What would this say to a literal child? He was only valuable because of his magic, because of what he could do.

And this need to please, this need to serve, and the subsequent fear of failure are very prevalent within Az's character. He runs himself ragged, he brings too much onto his plate, he is so busy he doesn't sleep, he always volunteers to put himself into harm's way because he thinks that is all he has to offer. I suspect his time working as the personal spymaster for Rhys's father might also have contributed to these feelings, but I don't have enough info at current to delve any further into that.

Moving on, all this also goes to combat the "pro-torture" argument I sometimes see. Do I think Azriel loves slicing and dicing? No, not really. Same as Rhys doesn't like breaking into people's minds. I suspect Az sees his work in Hewn City as a similarly necessary evil, something he must do (rather than anyone else) because he is already "tainted", something he has to do to be worthy. Something he does because, regardless of how it makes him feel, provides value to his loved ones. I suspect Az probably feels if he were to stay no, if he were to refuse, then he would be deemed useless, unworthy, and abandoned as a result. Not that this would ever happen, but I think Az probably sees so little value in himself he thinks only his magic and skills are all he can provide his brothers. Not because they don't love and support him, but because years and years of trauma reinforce this idea.

It's really, really heartbreaking if you think about it.

Anywayssss, that's all I have in me for tonight, but I've got a few other points I will be adding to expand this post! I love (civil) fandom discourse, so feel free to drop in thoughts and opinions below.

Thanks for reading this behemoth!

[scarredwithcruelintentions]

chapter 5: a lament for all things lost

Find the master list here!

CW: Shadowheart being a bitch, overwhelming bad feelings and emotional manipulation

W/C: 3,173

A/N: I am on a ROLL people!

After an unsuccessful hunt, Astarion had given in to the pleas of his distracted mind for rest, though he was hard pressed to find any. He laid awake the rest of the night and into the wee hours of the morning, tossing and turning with the blaze of his desire and weight of his guilt. After so many long years of numb, performative intimacy, he was unaware he still possessed the ability to feel arousal. It caught him completely off guard, feeding the roiling cacophony of his emotions.

The feeling had been pleasant, wanted even, when he disassociated it from his body’s natural reaction to the many forced liaisons of his past, but - therein lay the issue. Lust, pleasure, physical intimacy: it was all steeped in profound disgust and loathing learned over two centuries of abuse. He felt ashamed for watching you unknowingly, guilty for taking pleasure in it and, worst yet, revolted by his own body’s response. It had not truly been his body since Cazador turned him, and he found himself woefully unprepared to take accountability for his actions and their consequences.

Lost in the morass of his increasingly loud distress, he hardly noticed when the darkness gave way to dawn. It was not until he heard groggy voices and the telltale clanging of cookware being handled without care that he realized just how much time had passed. He groaned and scrubbed a hand down his face, hunger pains making themselves known at the mixed scents of his companions wafting along the gentle breeze.

Before long, he caught your sweet fragrance in the mix and focused in on it, ears pricked for the soft sound of your voice. You declared today to be a day of rest, claiming that everyone needed to gather their strength for the coming fight with the goblins.

He heard Shadowheart’s derisive snort.

“You just need a day to recover from volunteering yourself as the leech’s dinner.”

You did not deign to respond to her, but she must have seen something wounded in your expression, and it only fueled her line of teasing.

“Lover’s quarrel? Already?” He could hear the mocking smile in her voice and was grateful for his absence from the conversation, lest he slit her throat then and there for her cruel jest.

“We’re not lovers,” you snapped gratingly, “and I was not his dinner. No doubt he found another, more filling meal.”

He recognized his own words from his first feeding as Shadowheart continued to bait you with her snide comments.

“Sounds as though you’re green with envy, friend.”

He heard a dish clatter to the ground and her indignant shout alongside the placating words of the rest of the group, gently coaxing you to ease your grip on her throat.

“Lay off the wine, friend,” he heard you snarl. He smirked with undignified pride.

You presumably stood, addressing the rest of the group.

“We are all exhausted and spread thin by the never ending bloodshed and horror we have been burdened with. By all means, if you wish to join the slain tomorrow, be my guest and ignore my wisdom. But, if you wish to live, to fight another day, you will heed my words and rest. Does anyone else dare question my orders?”

He could almost see the seething expression contorting your delicate features in his mind’s eye.

“Good,” he heard you growl into the answering silence. “Now that’s settled, I’m off to find some peace away from you lot of squabbling children.”

He listened to the grumbled complaints and scandalized murmurs of the rest of the group as the sound of your bare feet across the packed earth receded until it was out of earshot. 

“How unlike our vampire trollop to leave his favorite lady companion wanting,” Shadowheart sniffed before she, too, left his hearing radius.

He repressed a pained whimper, the vacuous cavity of his chest constricting with grief and renewed self-loathing at her words. 

I will never be anything more than Cazador’s painted whore.

He could no longer smell your comforting aroma on the breeze. ______________________________________________________________

Astarion wandered along the riverbank in the dappled light of late afternoon, thoughts consumed by the ever growing storm of his hatred, fury and terror. He chose to embrace his vampiric nature for the time being and neglected his habit of breathing, the lack of your sweet, floral scent causing a cavernous emptiness to yawn within him.

He passed the oak tree from which he spied on your bathing the previous night and winced. He really should find you and apologize for his deplorable behavior, let alone confess his sin, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it just yet. The swirling vortex of his mind disallowed his focus to reach anything beyond self-deprecation.

As he meandered aimlessly, he registered the melodious sound of a string instrument somewhere in the distance and chose to follow it. Some ways away, he found you sitting in the shade of a massive elm, plucking the haunting melody he’d heard you humming last night. Your voice accompanied the music, rich and sad, singing in a language he did not recognize. It evoked a wistfulness in him for a life he never had, and he stood back to listen to your song.

The final verse came to a close, and he was struck with a vague sense of unease at repeating his actions from the night prior, so he cleared his throat and made his presence known. You startled, looking warily in his direction until you realized who it was, then rolled your eyes in exasperation.

“Sorry to bother you, my dear. I heard the music whilst I was out for a stroll, and found myself captivated. That was stunning,” he murmured, “and terribly sad.”

You shot a cold glare at him before heaving a heavy sigh and relenting.

“It was a lament for all things lost to the passage of time.”

“Such as…” he prompted.

“Life, love… innocence,” you finished in a small whisper.

He felt a pang of deep sorrow reverberate in his chest.

“And the language?” he asked, unwilling to broach the clearly sore subject. You had not pressed him until it had become absolutely necessary, so he thought it only fair to afford you the same respect.

“Olde Elvish,” you answered plaintively.

“I wasn’t aware bardic schools taught Olde Elvish,” he responded, surprised. “I thought it extinct.”

“My mother used to sing it when I was a babe. It always moved me to tears, and one night, after my father’s untimely passing, I picked up her lyre and began to pluck the tune from memory. She taught me all she knew from that night onward,” you sniffled. “I never studied formally as a bard. Everything I know was handed down from generations of musically inclined Weave wielders.”

“I…” he floundered, at a loss for words. A feat not easily accomplished when it came to him, you continued to prove an exception to the masses.

“Why are you here, Astarion?” you groused, looking at him shrewdly as you swiped a thumb beneath your eyes.

“May I?” he gestured at the space next to you, asking for invitation to sit.

“Answer me first,” you bit out.

“I… I wish to apologize for my ghastly behavior yesterday evening.” He squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth against the wave of cowardly discomfort at his honesty. “You must understand, I have been conditioned to fear closeness, vulnerability. All it’s ever gotten me is a knife in the back.”

He opened his eyes at your watery sigh to see you patting the space beside yourself. He joined you graciously, extending his legs and leaning back against the trunk of the sprawling elm.

“And you must understand that I do not mean to repeat the mistakes of all those before me. None of us do. We are in this fight together, whether we like it or not, so we must learn to trust one another.”

Ever the pragmatist, he could see the toll being a leader had taken in your eyes, along with the weary burden of words left unspoken. He had a feeling you knew just what it felt like to be fundamentally deceived, and his chest constricted with empathy. Another foreign feeling only you had thus far been able to rouse in him. He felt compelled to continue his track of truthfulness, and decided to tell you about his hunt gone awry.

“There is something more I must tell you…” he began uncertainly.

You gave him an expectant stare.

“I… happened upon you washing. Last night. When I went to hunt.” The words came out stilted, feeling weighty and wrong in his mouth.

A charming flush bloomed across your delicate face, scarlet tipping your ears and working its way down your bosom. Your eyes and mouth were round with embarrassment, and for a moment he feared that he had made a terrible error in judgment.

And then you cackled, wild and full, and he found himself helpless to do anything other than chuckle along with you. You flashed a blinding smile at him and raised an inquisitive brow.

“Oh? And did you enjoy the show?”

At the reminder of his arousal, the scalding sensation of shame erupted over him in a vicious surge.

“What does it matter?” he snapped, a remorseful sigh escaping him at your affronted expression.

“This is what I mean, Astarion!” you shouted, gesticulating furiously, “You flirt, you tease, you share your burdens with me, and then you brutally shut me out! Every time! What is it that you want from me, because I’m quite tired of the neverending headache of your mood swings!”

“It’s not as if you’re any better!” he yelled in answer, temporarily losing his grip on the brewing storm of vitriol in his mind. 

You reeled back as though struck.

“Bloody unbelievable,” you muttered, tucking your lyre under an arm and abruptly standing to leave. “I’ll never get any fucking peace.”

His hand shot out to grab yours, fear of losing the sanctuary you provided making his movements instinctive. You whipped around, expression murderous and preparing to scream.

“Wait,” he exhaled shakily, “Just…wait. Give me a moment to compose myself.”

You shook his hand loose, but remained in place, glaring at him.

“Forgive me,” he whimpered, staring at his knees. The proverbial floodgates burst in spectacular fashion, and he was quickly overwhelmed by the torrent of negative emotions that bled from them. He shook with the might of the onslaught, startled by the salty tang of his own tears. It only made him tremble more hysterically, a surely pitiful sight.

To his utmost surprise, you set your lyre down and knelt next to him, taking his face in your hands. He squeezed his eyes shut in discomfort, another whimper escaping him. 

“Please don’t touch me,” he whispered, voice scratchy and quivering.

You withdrew your hands instantly, instead quietly asking, “What would you like me to do?”

“Will you play that song for me?” he asked in a pathetic warble.

“The Lament for That Which Is Lost?”

He nodded imperceptibly, and was immediately rewarded by the soft, sad strum of the lyre. As your voice joined in, he allowed the deluge of feeling to swallow him. He was lost in a sea of emotion, finding his many old acquaintances: shame, dread, rage, envy, hatred, terror, bitterness, apathy. Worst of all was the grief that wracked his body with violent sobs, guilt and regret for the countless wrongs he’d committed, anguish for all the wrongs committed against him.

However, he also encountered many of the new feelings you inspired within him: delight, sorrow, compassion, jealousy, warmth, guilt, desire. While not altogether positive, the feelings you’d introduced him to were a welcome reprieve from the centuries’ worth of misery he’d become accustomed to, and he grabbed onto them like a life raft as he waited out the crux of the storm. ______________________________________________________________

Slowly, ever so slowly, he came back to the present moment and focused on the hypnotic sound of your voice. He knew not what the words meant, but he didn’t need to in order to feel the devastating sense of loss that they carried. Your soft lilt reverberated in his chest, and he took a deep breath in, filling himself with the sweet, musky aroma of your skin. It helped to ease the tide of his agony back into submission, and he opened his eyes to watch the last of your performance.

He found himself enraptured by the beauty of you, eyes closed and immersed in the music much as he had been, the tracks of your own tears carrying smudges of kohl in spidery lines down your face. You were the kind of beautiful that he would have brought back to Cazador were the circumstances different, and it caused his chest to twinge with resentment. You sung the last line and plucked the closing chord, voice wavering slightly as a final tear began its slow descent over the planes of your face.

When you opened your puffy eyes, you gazed directly into his. It felt as if you were looking into the darkest parts of his soul, and he fought the urge to shy away from you. In an act of uncharacteristic bravado, he swung his legs around to sit on his knees facing you. He gently removed the lyre from your grasp and leaned it against the trunk of the great tree. 

He reached out tentatively with both hands, holding your face the way you’d held his the night before. Your cheeks blazed in his palms, and an involuntary shiver ran up your spine at his cool touch. You blinked slowly as his thumbs swept the remainder of your tears away, smudging the wispy tracks of kohl in the process. A throaty chuckle escaped him as he took in the smeared stains of oily blackness on your skin, and you leaned forward to be closer to the sound.

“Your laugh is music to my ears,” you whispered, eyes full of tender promise.

He inhaled sharply and gravitated toward you, running a delicate thumb over the swell of your bottom lip, delighted when they parted in a breathy gasp. He could feel the damp warmth of your soft, panting breaths against his face as he leaned closer still, the saccharine scent of jasmine blossoms and orange peel and you so heavy in the air around him that he could taste it.

Just as the space between his body and yours shrunk to an infinitesimal degree, the sharp pain of his hunger returned with a vengeance, and he could not hide his grimace, nor the wince of discomfort that escaped his mouth.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, concern laced in the tilt of your brows, small hands coming to encircle his wrists.

The moment broken, you leaned back, removing his hands from your face. It was all he could do not to follow your scent and bury his fangs in your throat.

“The hunger,” he groaned, “it’s inescapable.”

“When did you last eat?” you whispered, eyes round with worry.

“The night I drank from you,” he gasped, the pain wracking him with a shudder that forced his eyes shut.

“Feed from me,” you murmured, his eyes snapping open in exalted bewilderment, sure he’d misheard you.

“What was that?” 

“Feed from me,” you said again, louder this time.

He salivated at the memory of your blood across his tongue, wanting nothing more than to be filled with your life’s essence, to be emboldened by it. Then, he remembered the coming battle.

“I can’t,” he bemoaned, “You need your strength for tomorrow.”

“As do you,” you responded, gaze resolute.

“Are you sure? Here… now?” he asked once more, voice wavering equivocally with the fog of hunger hanging over his mind.

“Yes, I’m sure,” you nodded in assent.

No sooner had the words left your lips than Astarion’s mouth was at your throat. He hadn’t even given you time to brush your hair aside and bare your neck to him, so starved as he was. With a harsh cry, his fangs pierced the tender skin over your jugular, tongue immediately darting out to lap at the blood spilling from the wound.

He paced himself this time around, both for want to savor his meal as well as that of your safety. He could tell when the initial daze from the bite wore off, your blood taking on a richer, more full-bodied flavor. It almost had a fattiness to it, and it quenched his thirst in a way nothing else had ever been capable of.

Before long, he could feel your body trembling like a leaf in the wind. He hadn’t drunk enough for bloodlessness to be the cause, though he worried nonetheless. It would be so like him to push past the discomfort and hurt you, taking from you the way he had been taken from…but there was work yet to be done in the way of gaining your trust. He was about to pull away when he tasted it - the syrupy flavor of your desire. A low sigh pushed its way past your lips, a sound inaudible to all but his keen ears.

Now, this I can work with. This I can exploit.

He continued to drink, the honeyed taste of you heavy on his tongue. He paid close attention to the way your body responded, quiet whimpers and little shivers steadily giving you away. Your hands clawed at the earth beneath you, pulling up clumps of grass and clods of dirt with their ferocity.

Inevitably, your shivers of delight became shivers of cold, shock setting in and ruining the atmosphere. Hunger mitigated, Astarion begrudgingly pulled back, replacing his mouth with the pressure of his hand to staunch the bleeding. You retrieved the amulet from your pocket with a shaky grasp, whispering the incantation into your cupped palms. Its magic washed over you in an instant, heat and color returning to your cheeks.

“Thank you, my sweet,” he murmured, making a show of licking the last of you from his lips.

You averted your eyes bashfully, lively flush deepening.

“Don’t mention it, dear Star,” you mumbled, eyes widening at your slip.

After a moment of shocked disbelief, a devious grin split his face.

“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that, darling. Could you repeat yourself for me?”

“I said ‘don’t mention it’,” you spoke up.

“Not that, the last bit,” he replied, expression smug when he caught the sheepish look on your face.

“Dear Star,” you whispered, avoiding his eyes.

“That is indeed what I thought I’d heard. Rather sentimental of you for a ‘headache’, is it not?” he purred, referencing your earlier words.

“I’m plenty sentimental, Rogue, and you know it well.”

“Of course, my dear. I only kid,” he intoned, softening his smile as you lifted your face.

He watched as your embarrassment faded and you returned his smile, something hopeful hidden in the depths of your eyes.

I’ve got you right where I want you, darling.

[stabbyfoxandrew]

happy wipwednesday my beloved! i glad to see that you survived yesterday's fight with our angel and came out winning!

i am here to humbly request to know what your other problem child is up after he fucked up his not-date. Can't wait for you to break my heart again but until then:

kith <3

WIP Wednesday (4/3) | Arsonist Neil / Firefighter Andrew AU (Part 126)

The only way Neil can fix this is by explaining himself. And explaining means telling the truth. A lot of it. Pretty much all of it, he thinks. 

How can he possibly do that? 

Neil’s never told anyone the truth. Well, besides the FBI. And that doesn’t really count because he had no choice. That night it was either tell the truth or go to prison for being related to Nathan Wesninski. He chose wisely, of course. But it was no picnic for him. Neil recalls those horrible hours he spent recounting his absolutely abysmal childhood to a government issue thug wearing scuffed loafers and a bored expression.

They didn’t believe him at first. Not totally. They made him rehash everything over and over until his throat was raw from talking so much and they were finally, finally satisfied with his life story. Then they shoved him into witness protection, where he was forced to spend almost a year living in North Dakota under the name Peter Duncan.

God, Neil loathes that state. And he loathed Peter. And that stupid, dinky little apartment with the awful neighbors and shoddy TV service. Sure it was stable. Normal, even. But, as insane as it would seem to anyone else, he prefers being on the road again. Running is something he’s used to. Something that makes sense even though his demons are long buried.

He likes traveling without a destination. He likes free Wi-Fi and complimentary breakfasts and room service and nice people telling him to ‘come again’. He likes his stupid little car and it’s stupid broken radio that’s thankfully stuck on a sports channel.

Hell, he even likes Neil. He likes the man he’s become since crawling out from under his mother’s corpse and his father’s ax. Because despite everything— all the names he’s used and cities he’s seen and things he’s had to do to survive— he’s turned out to be a mostly decent person. Except for the whole… ‘burning down buildings’ thing. But he’s working on it. Sort of. And on the bright side, he hasn’t killed anyone in years. Those were all self defense, of course. So… Do they really count?

Wait a minute, Neil blinks. What was his point? 

Oh. Right. The truth. 

Other than those suited pricks at the bureau, it’s a completely foreign concept to him. Neil runs his fingers through his hair a few dozen times, the curls tangling around his fingers as he does. He rips his fingers through and wonders if he should shave his head again. No. No, it’s about to be winter and he hates when his ears are cold.

And with his hair longer, he looks less like his father.

To prove that, Neil looks into the bathroom mirror and finds Neil Josten there. Not Nathan or Nathaniel. Not even Peter. (Of course not, Peter had black hair.) Neil gives his disassembled phone a glance and wonders if Andrew would’ve wanted to be friends with Peter. Or any of his other aliases with friendly dispositions. 

It wouldn't matter. None of them would ever have even tried. That's one thing that sets him apart from all his past selves. He's trying. Neil lets out a breath. He’ll put his phone back together and tell Andrew… Something.

In a day or two. 

When he figures out what that something is.

[reverseenchancia]

Title: "Shadows of Legacy"

The skies above Enchancia were a dark, brooding gray, heavy with the threat of rain as Cedric paced in his tower. His thoughts swirled like the storm clouds outside, weighed down by the burden of expectations—both his own and those forced upon him by the kingdom. Today was different, though. Today was not about the kingdom. It was about something much more personal. His daughter, Vivian, stood quietly by the window, her hands folded in front of her, her eyes distant as they gazed out over the kingdom. She had always been a quiet, gentle child, and Cedric had never worried about her obedience or where her loyalties lay. But there was something different about her now, something that gnawed at the edges of his mind.

The Amulet of Avalor, glowing faintly around her neck, felt like an ominous presence in the room. It was a gift from James—one Cedric had reluctantly allowed her to accept. But now, as he looked at her small figure standing in the shadow of his tower, he couldn’t help but wonder if that amulet was more than just a symbol of her goodness. It was a reminder of the legacy she carried, a legacy she didn’t ask for but was bound to.

Vivian turned slowly, her soft voice breaking the heavy silence. “Papa… are you upset with me?”

Cedric stopped pacing and looked at her, his expression unreadable. He let out a sigh and ran a hand through his graying hair. “Vivian, it’s not that I’m upset with you. I… I just worry. You’re growing older, and there are… things you don’t understand about this world. Things I wish I could shield you from.”

She stepped forward, her timid nature making her hesitant, but she always sought to reassure him. “I don’t need shielding, Papa. I want to help you. I’m not a little girl anymore.”

Cedric’s jaw tightened. He had heard those words before—from his own father, when he had tried to force Cedric to follow in his footsteps. He had rebelled, choosing his own path, one that was filled with mistakes and regrets. Now, seeing Vivian before him, he feared she was walking down a similar road—one paved with expectations she could never fully escape.

“You don’t understand, Vivian,” Cedric said, his voice more clipped than he intended. “It’s not just about helping. You don’t know the weight of responsibility that comes with something like that amulet around your neck. It’s not just a trinket. It’s a symbol of power, one that could change everything about you.”

Vivian’s eyes flickered with confusion and hurt. She stepped closer, her hands clutching the amulet. “But Papa, I’m the same person. I’ve never wanted power. I only want to be by your side.”

Cedric felt a pang in his chest at her words, but the fear wouldn’t leave him. He knew better than anyone how ambition, how responsibility, could warp even the kindest of hearts. He had seen it, time and again, in his own life. And Vivian—his sweet, innocent Vivian—was too pure, too gentle to face that kind of darkness.

“I know you mean well, Vivian. But…” His voice cracked slightly as he tried to explain the unexplainable. “I just don’t want you to become like me.”

Vivian’s eyes widened, her expression softening with a kind of sadness that only came from deep, unspoken love. “Papa, you’re not—”

“I am,” Cedric interrupted, his voice sharp. “You don’t know the things I’ve done. The mistakes I’ve made. I’ve tried to shelter you from them, but there’s only so much I can protect you from.” He turned away, his hands gripping the back of a chair as if to steady himself. “I don’t want you to inherit my failures.”

Vivian’s heart ached at the sight of her father so burdened, so weighed down by his own self-loathing. She had always known he carried more than he let on, but hearing him speak so plainly about it broke something inside her. She took a step closer, her small voice trembling with emotion.

“Papa, you’ve never been a failure to me. You’ve always protected me, taught me… loved me.” Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away. “I don’t care what mistakes you’ve made. You’re my father, and that’s all that matters.”

Cedric’s back stiffened at her words, and for a moment, he didn’t turn around. He couldn’t. The weight of her love, her devotion, was too much to bear. How could she see him like this and still care for him so deeply? How could she not understand that everything he had done was to ensure she wouldn’t become like him? When he finally turned, his expression was one of deep anguish, his voice raw. “Vivian, you don’t understand. I’ve been selfish. I’ve tried to use magic for my own gain, to prove something to everyone who ever doubted me. But I lost sight of what really mattered. And I can’t let you follow that path.”

Vivian shook her head, her tears falling freely now. “I’m not following that path, Papa. I’m following *you.*”

Cedric’s heart shattered at her words. The storm outside seemed to mirror the turmoil within him as the first drops of rain began to patter against the window. He closed the distance between them and knelt before her, his hands gently taking hers.

“I’ve made so many mistakes, Vivian,” he whispered, his voice barely holding together. “I just don’t want you to make the same ones.”

Vivian squeezed his hands, her voice breaking through the tears. “But, Papa… don’t you see? You’ve also taught me so much. I know right from wrong because of you. You’ve shown me what it means to be kind, to be strong. I’ll never be like you were, because you’ve already taught me to be better.”

Cedric bowed his head, the weight of her words overwhelming him. He had always feared that his daughter would one day see him for what he truly was—a man filled with regrets, constantly striving for redemption he wasn’t sure he deserved. But here she was, offering him the one thing he thought he could never have: forgiveness.

The storm raged outside, but inside the tower, there was a quiet, tender moment between father and daughter. Cedric, for the first time in what felt like years, allowed himself to believe that maybe—just maybe—he could be forgiven. And that maybe, Vivian would never have to carry the same burdens he did.

“I love you, Vivian,” Cedric whispered, his voice hoarse.

“I love you too, Papa,” Vivian replied softly, her arms wrapping around him in a gentle embrace. For the first time in years, Cedric held her tightly, vowing to himself that he would do everything in his power to protect her—not just from the world, but from the darkness within him. And as the rain poured outside, washing away the weight of past mistakes, Cedric realized that perhaps, with Vivian by his side, there was still hope for both of them.

[lunaxamans]

{ In the Beginning... }

Summary: An early interaction between Emma and the boys. In which Marc and Steven find out that Emma comes from an abusive home like them. Pairing: Original Character { Emma Harper } x Marc Spector; bits of Emma Harper x Steven Grant  Contents: angst to fluff, hurt/comfort, established relationship, twin flame relationship, OC is deeply psychic and can communicate with the boys telepathically due in part to twin flame bond  Warnings: mentions of severe mental illness { i.e. psychosis, PTSD, anxiety, panic, depression, OCD, mood disorder }, mentions of abuse, inaccurate DID { as is common with MK fic }, self-loathing, self-blame  Word Count: 1.1k

Author’s Notes:

This is written in what my writing partner and I refer to as God!Mode. Essentially it's the characters outside of all of their different Universes and them at their core selves -- which for this reason sometimes will refer to real people but very little { i.e. in this one I, myself am mentioned, but very minorly }. As if their God!Versions. This is sort of their truest of Canons.

Also I meant to write this up properly which I probably still will at some point but I wanted to get it posted for @romanarose for something I intended to help them with.

Emma Harper is the original character that will star in all of my fics with the boys. I’ve been writing them for a while now and the relationship is super established unless stated otherwise. Emma && the boys have what is known as a twin flame union – think ultimate soulmate of soulmates / two halves of the same soul; you only get one of these and they are *extremely* rare, typically reincarnate with each other over thousands of years on this planet, if not before even coming to this planet from other star systems. For this reason, the four of them are able to telepathically communicate which is also common with this kind of bond, among other things.

Emma: -coming down the hallway, grimacing as she looks back toward the stairs, calling softly, so softly in fact, that she’s barely audible- “Steven?” 

Steven: -from in the bedroom, nose buried in a book as he, too, tries to ignore what’s going on downstairs, calling gently back- “in here, love!” 

Emma: -steps into the room, rounding the corner and standing at the foot of the bed, fidgeting nervously- 

Steven: -immediately concerned, setting the book down and removing his reading glasses- “what is it? did something--” -pauses, taking in her appearance as more noise comes from downstairs, suddenly understanding- “elle’s mum again?” 

Emma: -nods quickly, not making eye contact- “she-- um--” -shifts uncomfortably, crossing her arms over her chest- “she reminds me of mine—my mom, I mean...she’s also...”

Steven: -swallows, trying to put the pieces together, not wanting to assume, speaking softly- “...difficult?” 

Emma: -cringes as if she’s taken a physical blow, correcting him quietly, her voice barely there- “abusive…" 

Steven: -his heart stops as she seems frozen in place- 

{ Marc: ‘Steven let me front...’ } 

Steven: -swallows again, giving a small nod- 

Emma: -before he can speak, she breaks the silence, tucking her hair behind her ears, keeping her gaze downcast, her voice small- “can I?”  

Steven: -realizes she wants to sit down, nodding profusely- “of course!” 

Emma: -nods with him, climbing onto the bed and scooting a little closer but keeping a fair distance, rolling her lips in, in that way that causes her dimples to prick into her cheeks, still avoiding his eyes- 

{ Marc: ‘Steven!’ } 

Steven: -clears his throat quietly- “Marc would like to speak with you, is that okay, love?” 

Emma: -nods again quickly, keeping her lips pressed together- 

Marc: -moves to the front, taking only a fraction of a second to adjust before he sits up straighter, shifting closer to her, his hands rising and moving toward Emma, who flinches at first, causing him to pause, turning his hands to show her he isn’t going to hurt her, when she nods in silent permission to continue, his fingers come to comb through her hair, coming around to cradle her face at her jaw, dipping his head to search out her eyes- 

Emma: -relaxes a little as his hands move through her hair and come around to hold her face gently, rolling her lips in further again, her eyes meeting his briefly before shying away from his again- 

Marc: -his heart squeezes in his chest, aching for her and everything he already feels for her, when he does find his voice, it comes out soft and raspy, filled with complete and utter awe- “how are you real?” 

Emma: -her eyes flicker to his, a slight furrow coming between her eyebrows, confused by the way he says it as if she were some kind of miracle- 

Marc: -holds her eyes for a moment before his gaze scales over her features, leaning in hesitantly, his lips finally capturing hers- 

{ Steven: -indignant, even if he’s ignored- ‘I coulda done that, mate...’ } 

Emma: -seems to only melt into Marc, reaching to gently grasp at his shirt as if weakly trying to hold him there- 

Marc: -when she doesn’t back away—instead leaning into him further, he uses his hold on her to pull her closer, deepening the kiss for just a moment before withdrawing, just enough to brush his nose into hers, touching his forehead to hers, frowning gently into her, his voice barely above a whisper, still sounding completely awestruck and floored at the way they seem fit together- “it feels like—you were made specifically for us—and we were just—waiting to find you...--does that sound completely crazy?” 

Emma: -her nose moves into his when it meets hers, turning her forehead into his, when he speaks again, all she can do is gently nod, likewise dumbfound and only meaning to agree with the former statement not realizing about the question-  

Marc: -chuckles softly, teasing her lightly, his thumbs brushing over her cheeks- “it does?” 

Emma: -just kinda Stuck in the moment, still not fully comprehending him- “yes--” -seems to suddenly realize- “I mean—no!” -pouting softly, giving him a Look- 

Marc: -can’t help another quiet chuckle as she struggles and the warmth fills in his chest, raising one hands to slowly comb through her hair again- 

Emma: -summons a deeper breath, releasing it in an almost silent sigh, correcting herself- “it doesn’t sound crazy...and I know crazy...” -rolls her eyes at herself- 

Marc: -immediately shakes his head as she finishes, frowning deeply, searching out her eyes again- “hey, don’t do that…" 

Emma: -looks at him in confusion, still scowling in disappointment but at herself, asking quietly- “do what?” 

Marc: “don’t talk about my girl like that—” 

{ Steven: -only to be ignored again- ‘Our girl...’ } 

Emma: -still frowning at him, acting like she didn’t just make a joke at her own expense, deep deep pout, In Baby- “like what?” 

Marc: -scowling back at her with that same profound wonder, even as hope blossoms in his chest that she didn’t deny his claim on her, releasing one hand on her only to bring it back to gently graze the back of his knuckles over her cheek, all but whispering again- “like she isn’t the most perfect girl we’ve ever known…"

Emma: -her chest tightens with the familiar ache of attachment, trying to take another deep breath through her nose and force it through her lungs, releasing it heavily even as it shakes at the ends, her voice tremoring over the single word- “o-oh…" -she fights to keep the smile down that threatens to overtake her face, her dimples betraying her secret, her eyes avoiding his shyly- 

Marc: -unsure of how this all happened, just completely winded- “god you really are-- perfect…" 

Emma: -the shy smile only grows, giving him a gentle, playful shove, but not putting anything behind it- 

Marc: -can barely bear the ache in his chest, a small smirk of his own threatening to take over- “ya know—Steven's gonna strongarm me soon if I don’t give you back...” -his eyes falling in disappointment- 

Emma: -her eyes immediately snap to his, chewing the inside of her lips and gripping his shirt tighter as if to keep him there with her- “stay…" 

Marc: -his own eyes fix themselves to hers once more, again dumbfound- “yeah?” 

{ Steven: -still seemingly being ignored- “bugger...last place it seems...” } 

Emma: -immediately nodding- “yeah…" -shy, dimply smile, pausing before poking him firmly in the chest a few times- “and tell Steven no one is last place here...” 

{ Steven: -would be blushing if he were in control of the body- ‘oh!’ } 

Marc: -scoffs quietly- “think you just told him yourself...” 

Emma: -gives one more firm shove into his chest- “goo--!” 

Marc: -catches her hands when they shove at him and pulls her abruptly to himself, his lips reclaiming hers before she can even finish the word- 

[sortofanobsession]

The Prick Upstairs (Roy Kent The Bubble AU roy/jamie to roy/jamie/keeley)

Author's Note: I know this is long overdue. I teased it forever ago, but here it is. I'm still working on the 911 Bubble AU, that one is a bit more complicated than this one. Unbeta read because it is already overdue.

Ao3

Ted Lasso Masterlist

Important notes: Roy was injured pre-Richmond for this, but lives in the area because of his sister. Jamie and Roy don't know each other yet. Jamie sucks less but is still a prick. His relationship with Keeley is less one sided. Roy works for Sky Sports and hates it just as much as he did in the show but sticks it out because he doesn't have Richmond.

Inspired by Carol (Karen Gillan) and her plotline with Zaki (Raphael Acloque) in Netflix's The Bubble (2022).

Roy/Jamie, Jamie/Keeley, Roy/Jamie/Keeley (established Jamie & Keeley, if you've seen The Bubble you know why this AU exists).

Content warning: Anger, self-loathing, PTSD, drinking, alcohol as a coping mechanism, humor as a coping mechanism, cheating (but not really), misunderstanding, arguing, complicated relationships, Covid Quarantine, isolation, mental illness, anxiety, depression, injury, broken bones, angst, swearing/cursing/cussing, (I'm sure there is a lot I am missing but I'm sorry)

The constant noise from the room above is driving Roy up the wall. He knows he isn't supposed to leave his bubble. Between the fucking mess with his personal life and his professional one. This little annoyance was threatening to break his sanity. But he might genuinely lose his shit if it doesn't stop. He shouldn't be surprised to find it's one of the teams he's there to cover.

“Heads up!” He hears and he reacts on instinct. You can take the man off the pitch but can you really take the pitch out the man? He knocks it with a header, it bounces off the wall and he catches it. He growls as cheers erupt from the group of players.

“He's here, he's there, he's every fucking where,” a few chant. “Roy fucking Kent!”

“Not bad, for a grandad,” says a player that Roy easily recognizes as Jamie Tartt. Fucking Jamie Tartt. He was exactly the type of player that got on Roy's nerves on and off the pitch. Yeah, he was done. “You fucking pricks know people actually have fucking shit to do and don't want to fucking hear your fucking childish behavior. It a fucking hotel, not the bloody pitch.” Roy growls, as he sends the ball forcefully back at Jamie. Jamie, being Jamie, sends it right back at the irate former midfielder. Roy catches it with a growl again. He was done playing. He had slept like shit because Phoebe had called him saying she missed him and it had killed him that he's stuck so far away because of this stupid job. Why had he agreed to do a fucking job that would require him to be stuck in a fucking hotel for this fucking long. He wasn't even that far from home. It was infuriating being less than an hour from home. So close that he could easily go see his niece, but he wasn't fucking allowed. Stupid fucking quarantine. She was in his fucking bubble as they fucking called it. He was her fucking guardian. He was so fucking annoyed. And this fucking prick wanted to play games. 

“Fucking Muppet,” Roy grumbles, but he gets an idea that should get his point across. He pulls the Swiss army knife he'd gotten years ago from a sponsor. He stabs the ball earning shouts of protests from the players, except Jamie who has an amused smirk on his face. “Next time it won't be the fucking ball!” Roy shouts as he heads back to the stairs. 

Jamie Tartt chuckles as he picks up the deflated ball from the floor where Roy fucking Kent had let it fall. 

“He's here, he's there, he's every fucking where,” Jamie says, his tone filled with amusement. He holds it up to the others. “He's Roy fucking Kent.” 

“What a fucking prick,” one of the others says.

“Yeah,” Jamie grins. “Bit fucking hot, innit?” 

It earns him a few groans and one of his mates shoves his shoulder. 

“Fuck off,” the player says.

“You're fucking stupid, Tartt,” another says. “Kent’s gonna headbutt you next time.”

“Or make good on that threat,” his mate gestures to the ball. 

“Well, wouldn't expect less from Roy fucking Kent.”

Roy had seen the players a few more times over the next couple days as press events, done annoyingly one by fucking one because of the quarantine conditions dragged on. Tartt never failed to miss the chance to give him an infuriating smirk or comment on his age. Calling him grandad or old timer. Roy wanted to punch the prick. But that would break the two meter social distancing shit. But technically, everyone involved in the match was in a weird sort of bubble. A fucking production more than a match prep. 

Roy needs a fucking break. They'd just been told the international match he was there to cover was delayed a-fucking-gain because one of the Welsh fucks had spiked a fucking fever. This was a fucking disaster. They couldn't leave. They couldn't do their fucking jobs and even Roy was getting fucking restless. And the fact the team he once fucking played for is just a floor up was making him itch. He missed being part of a club. 

He usually didn't hate being alone. He liked the quiet solitude of his life. But quarantine was too much. He missed his fucking family. He missed Phoebe. He would never fucking admit it but he missed fucking hugs. He missed having a mate shove his shoulder because he was being a prick. And that was fucking something. Roy fucking Kent missed people. Fucking hell he was going soft.

Jamie was wondering who he pissed off now as a fist slammed repeatedly against his door. He was even more curious when he saw Roy fucking Kent through the peephole. And fuck, that man was fucking hot even through the tiny circular view. 

“Evening, grandad,” Jamie says with a smirk. And something in Roy breaks. 

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” He snaps. Shoving Jamie back into the room. Jamie stumbles but keeps himself upright. He was a bit worried Roy might kill him before he can make his debut with the National team, but something in Roy's eyes makes him rethink that. Because sure Roy's eyes might be blown wide because of adrenaline from an impending fight. But Jamie knows that fucking look. 

Jamie chuckles. “Oh you're fucked, old man, I'm in your head,” the striker teases. 

“I’ll show you fucked,” Roy growls and Jamie's dick twitches because fucking hell. This is like every fantasy he had as a teen as his mind drifted to Roy Kent's Chelsea poster hanging on the wall in his room.

“Old man thinks he still ha-” 

Roy cuts off his insult with a bruising kiss. It's angry and it's fucking hot. Jamie enthusiastically meets his energy. Where Roy is anger and pent-up frustration. Jamie is enthusiasm and pure fucking energy. And it's electric to Roy. It's addicting to Jamie. 

Roy fucks like he has something to prove and Jamie gleefully gives as good as he gets. 

Jamie isn't surprised when Roy leaves with barely a fucking grunt afterwards. Stings a bit but he just spent hours making Roy Kent go to fucking pieces and it's not like he had expected Roy fucking Kent to be a cuddler. He also was well aware of what the tabloids had been saying about Roy's life. It had gone to shit after his knee injury. It had been a painful, career ending injury. Jamie had wanted to throw up as he watched it happen live. Still does now when he sees it. As a kid with a shit home life, he admired Roy Kent's no fucks given and no shit taken attitude. Jamie had longed for even half confidence and courage to stand up for himself the way Roy always did. No one pushed Roy Kent around. He would have killed to have Roy fucking Kent's attention. And he apparently had it now. 

He grabbed his phone and dialed it.

“Do you have any idea what time it is, Jamie,” Keeley's tired and annoyed tone says.

“Babe, you will never believe what just happened,” Jamie starts. 

Keeley is still very much annoyed at the fact it was 2 am, but Jamie sounds fucking giddy and that has her curious. He was supposed to be in quarantine, what could be this exciting for him. He hadn't been this excited since he found out he made the national team. “Spit it out, babe, I'm knackered.”

“I just fucked Roy Kent,” Jamie giggles. He giggles. And Keeley can understand why. They had a somewhat open relationship. It usually meant threesomes. Usually when they slept around they did it together. Because Jamie loved Keeley. He might be a dick and he screwed up a few times in the beginning but they had worked it out. As long as no one lied, they were good. Communication was key. But they had a system for times like this. They both had a very small list of people that they had agreed they both wouldn't get mad at the other for having a fling with. It existed because, honestly, there were things that they both knew they couldn't always give their partner. Jamie knew he was a prick and as much as he fucking worshiped Keeley in the bedroom, and out of it, he was not an ideal partner. Emotionally he was a fucking disaster. And once Keeley had learned about his past, his father, whatever anger she had for him being a prick dimmed. Sure, he did things that pissed her off. He did things she couldn't understand, but she knew Jamie loved her. He would always come home to her. And after they had worked that out Jamie had put a big fucking ring on her finger. The press had lost their minds. 

Roy fucking hates himself. He took a long pull of the bottle. He had the bar send up a full bottle of whiskey. They had sent a glass and ice but he went straight for the bottle. Jamie was famously engaged and Roy had slept with him. He must have lost his fucking mind because he was not a fucking homewrecker. He was Roy Fucking Kent! He had nearly killed his sister's ex for shit like this. He was a fucking hypocrite and it ate at something in the ex-footballer.

Jamie’s brow furrowed when he saw Roy Kent on his phone outside the lobby as he got back from training the next day. His mask was pulled down and Roy looked like shit. He was arguing with someone on his phone. Not even noticing the people around him. It tugged at something deep in Jamie. Roy looked unwell and he didn't like it. He wanted to go to him. He feels one of his teammates nudge him forward. And Jamie shakes himself and keeps going. No one but Keeley knew what happened between himself and Roy. Except maybe the lad in the room next to his. But if his teammate had heard anything, he didn't say anything.

“Hey, Babe, how'd training go?” Keeley asks when he calls. He had called her as soon as his door closed.

“Quarantine training sucks. It's mostly just modified drills and it's fucking boring,” he tells her. “But something happened.”

And that has her attention. She could tell a lot from Jamie's tone. They had no secrets. It was the only way their relationship worked. So she knew something was worrying him. He usually only talked about his past in that tone. Or fears he had for his future.

“What's wrong, Jamie?” She asks, concerned in her tone. “Are you alright?”

And Jamie's chest feels warm at how much Keeley Jones cares about him. He had never had anyone care like that other than his mum and Simon. No one. And he falls more and more in love with Keeley every time she shows how much she gets him. How much she cares for him.

“I love you, you know that, yeah?” He says.

She chuckles at his sudden change in tone. Jamie was so easily distracted by his thoughts. And whatever was bothering him clearly took a backseat to his love for her. And that is why she stays with him. Despite what the tabloids say about him, she knows that no one has ever loved her like Jamie does. He might flirt around but that is part of his persona. The Jamie Tartt the world saw was nothing like the one she knew. It was all a facade sculpted to appease his father. And she loved him. 

“I love you too, babe,” she says with total honesty. She loved that man. “Now, do you want to talk about what’s bothering you or do you want a distraction?”

Jamie can hear the offer in those last few words. He knew she meant the fun kind of distraction. The kind that has his cock twitching. He closes his eyes but his mind betrays him. All he sees is how miserable Roy Kent looked. 

“I'm worried about Roy,” he says.

And that has Keeley’s attention. She knew how Jamie had looked up to Roy most of his life. He had told her so much about him. She always envied that devotion a bit. She also wished she had been there with Jamie because that would have been a fun time. Roy Kent was fucking hot. And from what Jamie had told her, he was amazing in bed. But no one either of them had been with, together or not, had a spot in Jamie's heart like Roy did. And she didn't know if she should be jealous or not. But she couldn't give Jamie the things someone like Roy could. Even with toys and shit like that, it wasn't the same as having a full grown man fucking you into a mattress. She knew that more than anyone. She'd had more than a few flings with other women. Her and Jamie were both bi. And apparently so was Roy Kent. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I just saw him and he looks like shit,” Jamie tells her. “It's like whatever ledge he had been on before, he's off it now. I don't know, if it's because we- I don't want him to- he's-”

“You want to help him,” she says, her tone sweet. Because that's actually who Jamie was. He wanted so much to please people. It's why he acted the way he did. To please his terrible father. And knowing that Roy had seemed okay before they slept together, and now he was a wreck. Well, Keeley could understand why Jamie felt the need to look after him. 

Jamie sighs because he had really hoped she would understand, and she does. Like always. 

“Yeah, I do,” Jamie says. 

“Then what are you talking to me for?”

Jamie's heart hurts at how sad she sounds. 

“Because I love you and I wanted to make sure that you-”

“Jamie,” Keeley starts, her tone still a bit sad but now more determined. “I know you love me. And I love you too. But Jamie Tartt has always loved Roy Kent. I know that. If you want to have something with Roy Kent, I'm…I'm not saying no. I just don't want you to get hurt. Roy Kent is brutal and unapologetically Roy Kent. And I can't be there to help you if he breaks your heart. I don't mind sharing you, Jamie, but your heart has been used and abused enough. I just need to know, that if Roy goes too far, or anything you don't like happens, Jamie, you will tell me. That you won't hide it or keep it to yourself. I love you.”

“Fuck,” Jamie sniffles. “I always think, I can't fucking love you more than I do, and then you go and say the sweetest thing I've ever heard and I think this is it. This is the fucking best. I just want to ask you to marry me again.” 

She laughs because that was just peak Jamie. Her Jamie. “And I will say yes, every time,” she assures him. “But if you want to help Roy, you should probably go do that.”

“You're right, as you always are,” Jamie grins. “I love you.”

“I know,” Keeley chuckles. “Now go.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Roy growls at the knock on his door. He ignores it and hopes they go away. When they don't he gets up and goes over. 

“Fuck off,” he snaps, venom in his tone. 

Jamie doesn't flinch. He had expected this. But the way his heart races and his mind screams at him to run is a well ingrained instinct honed from years of abuse. Jamie takes it as a small win that Roy doesn't immediately slam the door in his face. 

“Sorry, mate,” Jamie says. “Not going to happen.” He brushes past Roy. 

Roy growls as a confusing mix of emotions flood his chest. His heart fucking races just feeling Jamie's body so close to his. 

“The fuck you want,” Roy grits out.

“You look like shit,” Jamie says as he sits on the edge of Roy's bed.

“Fucking hell,” Roy grumbles. “Need a fucking drink.” He doesn't miss the way Jamie momentarily tenses. His body goes rigid and the look in the younger man's face has alarms going off in Roy's head. Even as the striker quickly recovers. 

“Sure your liver can handle it, old man?” Jamie teases. And Roy’s fingers tighten around the glass of bourbon in his hand. He is only using the glass because Jamie is there and Roy would fucking die before he lets Jamie fucking Tartt see how low Roy has fallen. 

“Fuck off, ya prick,” Roy says. 

“No,” Jamie says, his tone defiant.

“Fucking what?” Roy asks, pure anger slipping into his tone now. “Who the fuck do you think-’

And Jamie is in his space. “You want to fight me, fight me, but I'm not fucking leaving until you tell me what is wrong.”

And sends Roy for a fucking loop. Jamie had come here because he could tell something was wrong with Roy. How the fuck did he know? He must have said that out loud and not realize it because Jamie answers.

“Because you look like haven't fucking slept since you left my room, you look pale. And-”

“I'm not fucking sick,” Roy grunts.

“Do you think I'd be in your face if I thought you were?” Jamie counters and that's fair. Jamie is a footballer with a very important match coming up. 

“You could just be that fucking stupid,” Roy states.

“Insult me all you want, I can take it, but I'm still not leaving, not until-”

“You can't be fucking serious,” Roy snaps. “What if someone saw you come here? What if someone-”

“So? Not like you're a ref,” Jamie shrugs. “Not breaking any rule except quarantine, but fuck that. Not like I'm running off to-” and that pisses Roy off. Jamie cares so little about how this looks. He just keeps fucking shrugging. He slams his drink on the desk. 

“You have a fucking fiancee!” Roy finally snaps, punching the desk. 

Jamie can't help it. It's one of the few reactions he has never been able to hide. The combination of booze on Roy's breath and the pure rage in his eyes has Jamie flinching away and putting distance between them.

Roy's blood runs cold like someone dumped the ice bucket over his head. 

“Jamie,” Roy starts, and the way Jamie's eyes flick to his and then towards the door twists something deep inside Roy Kent. Roy has seen a lot of things in people's eyes when they look at him. And this is the one thing he always hates unless he is on the pitch or dealing with someone so stupid or so vile, they deserve to fear him. But not Jamie Tartt, not like this. As angry as Roy is, he would never. He'd jam his pocket knife in his own eye before he willing hurt the striker and fuck, that's a thought. 

“Look at me,” he tells Jamie, but Jamie just shakes his head, his face and ears red from embarrassment. And Roy slowly takes a step towards him. That has Jamie's eyes snapping to him. Roy raises his hands like he's dealing with a cornered animal. Because he kind of is. “Fucking hell,” Roy breathes at the look in Jamie's eyes. If Roy's hunch is correct, that means someone had hurt Jamie badly in his past. Someone put that fear there. And the way the younger man keeps looking at the open bourbon, Roy wants to dump the whole damn thing. Because Jamie isn't even hiding his fear now. And that shatters the former footballer’s heart. “I fucking swear to you, Tartt,” Roy states. “I would never-” he is cut off by a scoff. 

“Heard that before,” Jamie mumbles. And Roy squashes down the annoyance at that, because he needs Jamie to understand. 

“I'm serious, Tartt,” Roy says. “as angry as I might be, I will never fucking touch you unless you fucking want me to. And never like that. I would throw myself off a fucking cliff before I let that happen. Do you understand me, Tartt?”

And Roy stays where he is as Jamie searches his face. Looking for any sign that Roy is lying. That he's drunk and just making false promises. And he must find it because Jamie nods and seems to relax. Roy sighs. He grabs the glass and dumps it. He goes over and caps the bottle and puts it out of sight. And that seems to help because Jamie is sitting on the edge of his bed again. And Roy feels keyed up despite how exhausted and sleep deprived he feels because now he has a million questions.

Roy sits on the end of the bed leaving a good bit of space between them. Roy sees the way Jamie's hands are bunched up in his shirt and it makes him want to reach over and hold his hand. And that is fucking stupid. They didn't even spend a whole night together and now Roy wants to fucking comfort the guy. Wants to find out who hurt him and hunt them down. 

“Keeley knows,” Jamie says. 

“What?” Roy says because he couldn't have heard that right. 

“Keeley, my fiancee,” Jamie says. “She knows. I told her after you left. And…” Roy is confused at the way Jamie chuckles. “She actually kicked me off the phone just now so I could come down here to check on you.”

“What the fuck…” Roy says, his brows furrow. 

Jamie huffs a laugh as he moves to sit beside Roy. 

“Keeley and I have a…weird relationship,” Jamie says. He gets a dopey grin on his face just thinking about it. “Not exactly open, it's usually threesomes. I wouldn't just sleep with anyone.”

Roy scoffs, because that couldn't be true. He had slept with Roy after all. No fiancee involved.

“I'm not a fucking side piece,” Roy growls. “Like a fucking mistress. I won't be a fucking weapon either. I won't let you use me to hurt her. I have seen that shit and I-”

“That's not what this is,” Jamie is quick to say. The striker sighs. He is so fucking tired. Training had been shitty. He hates modified drills. And the adrenaline from fear has left him knackered. “You’re not- you wouldn't-” Jamie runs his hand through his hair for lack of anything else to do. He tugs at the longer stands to try and ground himself, to focus. 

“Don't fucking do that,” Roy grunts as his fingers go over Jamie's and the younger man grip relaxes. He latches onto Roy's hand. Trying to convey the odd feelings Jamie has. 

“You know,” Jamie starts to say. “I had a poster of you on my wall when I was a kid. Used to love watching you play.”

“Fucking hell,” Roy says. “Some City fan you were.” 

Jamie chuckles. “Well, they weren’t you, so…”

“You’re fucking serious,” Roy can’t help but say. 

“Told you, you're not just a quick fuck, Roy Kent. If you were, do you think I'd be here now?” 

Roy grunts but doesn't say anything else. Jamie squeezes his hand. Jamie can tell he isn't convinced. Jamie manages to dig out his phone and unlock it without letting go of Roy’s hand. He pulls up Keeley's contact. “Ask her yourself.”

“Fuck off,” Roy says. Dropping Jamie's hand and getting up. He would usually go and grab a drink when he feels this off keel, but he won't do that if it might upset Jamie. So he goes to stare out the window. Jamie decides this needs to happen. He hits the call button. 

“Hey babe,” Keeley answers. “How'd it go?”

“He doesn't believe me that we talked about this,” Jamie says. “That you told me to come down here.”

“Wait, are you still there? Is he there?”

“Yeah,” Jamie says. “To both,” he adds for clarification. 

“Put me on speaker,” she says.

“Sure,” Jamie says. He lowers the phone and switches to speaker.

“Oi! Kent!” Keeley demands his attention through the speaker making Jamie grin. 

“Fucking hell,” Roy says as he turns around, realizing what Jamie was doing. “What the fuck, Tartt?”

“You wouldn't, so I did,” Jamie states.

“And I'm glad he did, why is he sad, Kent, what did you do?” 

“Keeley,” Jamie starts, he hadn't realized she had noticed. 

“I told you I wasn't going to let him-”

“Fucking let me?” Roy bristles, taking the phone and taking it off speaker. He could already tell this was not going how Jamie planned and the guy was getting upset. Roy puts the phone to his ear and continues. “I don't know what kind of fucked up thing you-”

“Don't you fucking say shit like that to him,” she hisses. “He has been through so much and fought to be where he is. You don't get to make him feel like shit because you think you know either of us. I know he loves me, Kent. I'm not an insecure nobody. I'm Keeley Jones. I'm the one he tells everything, and I mean everything. I know that you hate fucked him because you’re a frustrated prick. But you don't get to fuck him and then treat him like that. Judge me all you want. I told him when we decided how our long term relationship was going to be that if he ever got his chance, especially with you, to take it. You want to know why?”

Roy grunts because he didn't know what else to fucking say. No one talks to him like this. Fucking no one. Keeley Jones must be fucking fearless. And he can't lie to himself. He kind of gets why Jamie had that dopey look in his face before. She is a fucking force. He kind of likes it. 

“Because in a weird way he loves you almost as much as he does me. Because just watching you be the way you were when you were with Chelsea and he was a kid gave him something to aim for. That if you could be a fucking unapologetic asshole and not give a shit, then maybe he could too. If he could just be courageous and confident like you, then he could maybe be something that his dad would be proud of. That-” she stops herself from saying too much. “You are his fucking hero, Roy Kent. And I’m not stupid enough to think I can be everything he will always ever need. I know he has things he likes I cannot do for him. You can, but only if you don't fuck this up. If you break his heart, I will find a way to ruin your life. I don't know what you did before he called me but fix it.” 

“Fucking fine,” Roy says. 

“Good,” Keeley says. “Take care of him.” She says before hanging up.

And Roy is beyond fucking shocked. She wasn't just okay with him and Jamie, she was demanding he step up. 

“Fucking hell,” Roy says as he tosses the phone on the bed. Jamie grins because Keeley just has that effect on people sometimes. She was not someone to mess with. Jamie knows she will throw around her own fame if she need to. She has just as big a facade as Jamie did at times. He knew the real Keeley. 

“I know right,” Jamie laughs. “She's amazing.”

“She’s fucking something,” Roy grumbles. 

Jamie grins. “So you believe me now?”

Roy grunts but nods. 

“What’d she say?” Jamie asks.

“To fucking fix it,” he says. “Take fucking care of you.” 

And the soft look and smile Jamie gets on his face has Roy understanding what she meant when she said she knew Jamie loved her. Roy can see she was right. 

“You know this is fucking insane right?” Roy asks. Jamie looks at him. 

Jamie shrugs. “I know that no matter what happens, I still have Keeley. But I also know I saw you outside when you were on the phone. You looked miserable and I didn't like it. And I thought we had a good time. And I don't expect anything, but I'm up for it.” 

“This could really fuck up your career, you know that right?”

Jamie shrugs. 

Roy stares at Jamie. How was this real? This gorgeous fucking idiot. He was somehow both infuriating and fucking fascinating to Roy. 

Jamie’s phone buzzes. He has a team dinner he can't miss soon. “Just, think about it, yeah?” He goes over to the desk where there is a pad of paper and a pen. He scribbles down his number. “I got to go. Team shit. You know how it is.” And the way that Roy hadn't told him to fuck off or kicked him out makes him bold. And a bit cheeky. So with a grin he kisses Roy. And Roy gives in and kisses him back. 

“That shit is boring, so text me.” Jamie winks.

“Fuck off,” Roy says but the the way the corners of his lips tick up in a slight smile berays him. Jamie laughs as he leaves. 

And Roy cannot believe he is doing this. He looks at the contact now in his phone. Jamie Tartt. Was he really going to do this? Start a relationship with a guy he barely knows outside of what the tabloids say. But that wasn't true. He had already seen the cracks in the striker's persona. And for some reason Roy wanted to know more. Craved it. And he thinks about how miserable he had been and how he felt just having Jamie risk getting in trouble by breaking quarantine just to check on him.

Jamie's phone buzzes and he has two texts from an unsaved number. He hopes they aren't junk. He hopes they are what he wants them to be. He can't help but smile when he reads them. Roy had texted him. Jamie quickly saved the number. 

Roy fucking Kent: team dinners more or less boring then they were a few years ago

Tartt: way worse 

Tartt: can't even sit at the same table as most of the lads 

Roy fucking Kent: fuck social distancing

Tartt: so is this a yes

Roy fucking Kent: on 1 fucking condition

Tartt: name it 

Roy fucking Kent: I won't be what tanks your career

Tartt: not up to us 

Tartt: but what do you suggest 

Roy fucking Kent: we need a reason to spend time together that the public won't question

Jamie ignores the coaches as they talk. They tend to assume Jamie is only half listening anyway. He's good on the pitch, but he's not the best when he gets bored at times like this. But that actually gives Jamie an idea. He was on loan from Man City when not with the national team. Jamie didn't know if Roy was still in Fulham or Chelsea area anymore. He just knew Roy had been annoyed he was so close to home but couldn't leave. He let that slip the other night. He got an idea. 

Tartt: coach me 

Roy fucking Kent: you have 2 technically 3 sets of coaches already

Tartt: you want a cover

Tartt: its the best I got

Jamie sees the three little dots come and go a few times and he wonders if he had pushed too hard too fast. That Roy was changing his mind. But he is relieved when he gets Roy's reply.

Roy fucking Kent: fine 

Tartt: 😏

Roy fucking Kent: but it won't be a lie 

Tartt: 🥺

Tartt: I don't actually need a coach

Tartt: I'm already on the national team 

Roy fucking Kent: fuck off

Roy fucking Kent: you're good Tartt

And Jamie cannot believe how much that tiny bit of praise from Roy makes Jamie's heart soar. And he has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing out loud at Roy's next text.

 Roy fucking Kent: but you could be the fucking best and we’ll get you there

And Jamie fucking feels something he usually doesn't let himself feel. Unbridled hope. That Roy fucking Kent wants to not just spend time with him but to make him better. 

Tartt: sounds good

Tartt: Coach 🫡

Roy fucking Kent: fucking hell

Roy fucking Kent: don't make me regret this

Tartt: 😬

Roy fucking Kent: no more fucking emojis

Tartt: fine

Tartt: …for now

Roy fucking Kent: Fuck off Tartt 

Roy grunts as he tosses his phone on the bed beside him and tries to focus on what Sky Sports was saying about an updated schedule for the upcoming matches and for them to hopefully start back soon. They might be playing to empty fucking stands but it beats staying home to most of the players. Roy doesn't care as long as he gets to actually go home soon. Especially if he’ll be working with Jamie in his free time. Fuck. He was really doing this. 

“The fuck?” He says out loud when Jamie sends him an emoji of a squirrel.

Before he can actually figure it out there is a knock at his door. He lets Jamie in. Before he can say or do anything Jamie is in his space and kissing him. And Roy kisses him back because what else would he do?

He didn't hate the way Jamie not only stays after they both come down, but snuggles into Roy's side. And Roy doesn't hate the way Jamie leans into his space even when they aren't in bed. They start spending more nights together despite the risk of someone saying something. But no one does. The night before the long awaited match Jamie is a ball of restless energy. So Roy does something he hadn't done much of. When Jamie starts to get antsy again after they shower, Roy pulls Jamie until the striker's back is tight against Roy's chest. He holds Jamie as tight as he dares because he still doesn't know what might accidentally set him off. He doesn't know Jamie's trauma yet. But he will someday, even if he has to do the digging himself. But Jamie seems more than happy to be where he if the way he relaxes as Roy wraps his arms around him is any indicator.

“You are going to be fucking fantastic tomorrow,” Roy says. “You deserve to fucking be there.”

Jamie can feel Roy's breath on his ear as he speaks and it sends a shiver down Jamie's spine and makes his stomach flip. Because Roy fucking Kent was telling him he belongs on the national team. If Jamie had any doubt, which he didn't really, he knew he was good, that would have made him believe. Even now it makes him feel like he could take on the Welsh team alone and he could win. He doesn't trust his voice enough to say anything so he hums. He falls asleep warm and feeling safer than he had in a long time. It felt like nothing could hurt him.

Jamie whines when an alarm goes off. He buries his face in the pillow before his brain realizes it's not a pillow. It was someone. Not just anyone though. It was Roy Fucking Kent. He buries his face in the man's neck because he's come by because this was the last chance he would have to be with Roy before the match. And once the match was over, Roy was free to go home. He didn't have to stay. He could go home to his life. And that had made Jamie uneasy. Sure they had plans. But making plans and acting on them were very different things.

The match was like a fucking dream to Jamie. It was the most exhilarating feeling. Especially knowing, without a doubt, that Roy was watching. And he wanted to make Roy proud. Because Roy believed in him. Roy had told him as much. 

Jamie felt like he was fucking soaring as he celebrated the win with his team at the hotel bar. His mood boosted when they were finally allowed to see their loved ones. He spun Keeley around, making her laugh. He had missed her so much. He had wanted her to meet Roy so bad, but he had told Jamie that morning, after Jamie showered again because he couldn't show up to the match smelling like wake up sex. Because he had absolutely taken advantage, consensually of course, of Roy’s morning wood. Roy had said that he needed to get back to his niece. It was just Roy, his sister, and her caregiver, looking after her. And that was so sweet. Roy was a better dad than Jamie's dad was and Roy wasn't even the girl's dad. He was her uncle. And it was just another thing to love about Roy. 

The first time Roy shows up obscenely early to train Jamie, he is shocked to find both Jamie and Keeley waiting for him. Keeley was less enthusiastic about the early morning, but it had been worth it to get to actually face Roy Kent face to face. There was a bit of negotiating because they both clearly had their doubts, but Jamie couldn’t have been happier. The more Jamie trained with Roy, the closer the three of them would get. It helped that Roy often showed up with coffee, tea, or whatever Keeley had wanted that morning to make up for the early morning wake up. 

When the league restarts the media is already well aware that Jamie Tartt had somehow convinced Roy Kent to train him one on one. That earns Roy a lot of jabs from his co-workers behind the desk in Sky Sports but Roy does not give a fuck. He still calls them on their bullshit. Keeley, who Jamie had been right, the two got on like a house on fire, texts him constantly. And it is probably the only reason he hasn't fucking killed one of his co workers. And it all goes fine until everything goes to shit during a match. Man City vs. Richmond. It was Jamie's current club vs The one he was on loan from. And Jamie is playing like he has something to prove and that worries Roy. The jabs from the pricks he works with tear away at the worn patience Roy had. And it must show because Keeley texts him to breathe during an ad break. But not even she could talk him down for what does happen. A nasty foul has Jamie going down. And he went down hard. The camera may not capture the sound of a bone break, but Roy’s brain fills it in for him. Or it's the sound of Roy's stomach dropping. And the analytical and impartial way the others at the desk speculate on not only Jamie's possible injuries but how it might impact his career. Something in Roy snaps. He is on his feet pulling his mic off and tell them all to get fucked. 

Roy ignores them all and storms off. His phone rings constantly but he only answers it when Keeley calls.

“How is he?” Roy asks. He's already behind the wheel and on the road. 

Keeley huffs. “He's glad it was his arm, and not his leg or foot.”

Roy curses. “Broken?” 

“In two places,” she tells him. 

“They take him to the hospital?” 

“Yeah.”

“You there?” 

“Of course,” she answers. “Better question is where are you?”

“Be there soon,” is the answer she gets before he hangs up.

Jamie had looked at Keeley with a confused look as she walked through the curtain that separated the hospital beds. He held his phone in his good hand. 

“What?” She asks. 

“Colin sent me a clip from Sky Sports,” he says.

She knew what he was talking about before she even looked at his phone. But the thumbnail of the video confirmed it. “Ah,” she says with a nod. “Figured you'd have questions.”

“What happened?” Jamie asks.

“You got hurt, Jamie,” she tells him.

“I know, Keeley, I was there,” he snarks but she doesn't let it get to her. She sighs. And that's enough for Jamie to know that was not the smart thing to say.

“That was mean, sorry,” he says. 

“I know, babe,” she says, running her fingers through his hair. 

“Why would he do that?” Jamie asks.

“Because he knew this match was tough for you before the bloody foul. And he’s annoyed by those pricks on a good day. They said one too many stupid things and he just couldn't take it.”

“I know but…”

“But nothing. It's probably a good thing he left the way he did. Knowing Roy,” she says, amusement clear in her tone. “Could have been much worse. Everyone still has their teeth. No one was bleeding. And he didn't say anything he would regret.”

“He might regret the whole thing,” Jamie mutters.

“He didn't sound like he regretted anything when we talked.”

“You talked to him?”

“Of course I did. I knew he would want to know how you were.”

“And?”

“He cared more about you than anything,” Keeley grins. “He didn't even say hello, just asked how you were.”

“Really?” 

“Ask him yourself when he gets here.” 

“Good, you're here.”

And Roy relaxes a tiny bit knowing his sister was on shift and most likely had details he needed. 

“How bad is it?” he asks.

“Looks like he broke his ulna and scaphoid,” she tells him. And she isn't surprised when he curses. “He's okay,” she assures him. 

“With you, I don't doubt that,” he says. And he is glad he doesn't have to explain why he is there to anyone. But any relief he has vanishes as they hear shouting. And Roy is running, despite the ache in his knee when he recognizes Keeley's voice. What he hears has his blood boiling. 

“Call fucking security,” he tells his sister. 

She is already giving instructions to the people around her as she grabs a phone on the wall. 

“How dare you fucking tell me I can't see my own son,” James Tartt seethes. “You stupid bitch. I’ll fucking-”

He's cut off as Roy grabs him by the back of the collar and slams the man against the wall. Keeley had filled him in a bit on Jamie's childhood trauma. Jamie had told him the rest when Roy said he was going to drive to Manchester and kick the man’s teeth in. Jamie had begged him to not make it worse. And as much as Roy hated it, Keeley had helped talk him down. Because that might end up with Roy in jail and that would help no one. 

“You have some fucking nerve showing up here,” Roy growls. “You pathetic fucking waste of space.”

“Roy,” Keeley says, she puts a hand on his arm.  James Tartt sneers at him. “You should listen to my son's stupid bitch.” 

Keeley huffs but doesn't give the cruel man the satisfaction of being angry. She focuses on Roy. But before she says anything. James kicks at Roy's bad knee. And Roy'd have gone down if Keeley hadn't taken his weight. Roy lost grip on Jamie's dad but before he could get away Roy’s fist had met the man’s face with as much force as Roy could manage. The former midfielder was oddly satisfied by the sound of James Tartt’s head made as it cracked back against the wall. 

“Roy!” Both his sister and Keeley shout. As security and staff rush over. His sister is shouting for a couple nurses to check Jamie's dad. She rushes to her brother. “I've got him, go check on Jamie,” she tells Keeley. 

“Are you-” Keeley starts to ask but Roy's sister is nearly as intimidating as her brother when she needs to be. 

“If he heard half of what I did, he-”

“Right, yeah, okay,” Keeley says before hurrying into Jamie's room. 

“Couldn't just wait for that security could you?” His sister helps him over to a bench in the hall. 

“And just listen to him talk shit, or worse, hurt her, fuck no.”

“Tell that to your knee,” she says. “Because now I'm going to have to admit you too. And Phoebe is-”

“Don't,” he glares. He knew his sister wasn't above playing dirty but to use her own kid against him was low.

She sighs as a nurse brings over a wheelchair. “Come on,” his sister says, ”let's get this over with.” 

“He what?” Jamie feels like he might throw up. Keeley had told him about the scuffle in the hall once she had gotten Jamie back into bed. Roy's sister had been right. Jamie had gotten out of bed when he realized his dad was starting shit in the hall. The pain meds had slowed him down enough that Keeley could intervene. 

“He got Roy in the knee, but Roy bounced his head off the wall.”

“Where is he? Is Roy okay?” Jamie tries to get up again. 

“His sister was looking after him,” Keeley says but that doesn't satisfy him because Jamie goes to get up again. 

“You fucking leave that bed and we will have a issue,” Roy says. And Jamie's heart rate monitor spikes. Roy is in a wheelchair and that is not something Jamie ever wanted to see. Keeley helps him and the nurse get Roy in the bed next to Jamie's. 

“Figured you'd both fight my staff less if you were in the same room,” Roy's sister says as she walks in. 

Keeley laughs, earning a glare from Roy. 

“No fighting in here either,” she levels her brother with a glare. 

And Keeley bites her lip to keep from laughing again. She hadn't met Roy's sister before they got to the hospital and she introduced herself as not just Dr. O’Sullivan, but as Roy Kent's sister. And that had Jamie’s attention real quick. They had met Phoebe a couple weeks after the Wales vs England match. And now they finally got to meet her mum. That has helped a bit of his bad mood about not being able to finish the match. 

Roy growls when his sister tosses a hospital gown at his face. “We’ll give you a minute.” The door closes behind the doctor and nurse. Roy gets off the bed, despite his knee and moves closer.

“Roy,” Keeley says, moving the grip his torso. 

“Just fucking help me with this fucking thing,” he he sways a bit as he grips the back of his collar and pulls his shirt over his head. Even Jamie moves to steady him with his uninjured arm now that Roy was closer.

“Sit down you maniac,” Keeley huffs. Nudging him until he sits on the edge of Jamie's bed.  She begrudgingly helps him because she knows he won't be able to do it himself easily. 

“Why am I not surprised,” his sister shakes her head and laughs at the way her brother had refused to stay in his bed. 

“Because you're the smart one,” Keeley grins. Roy just grunts because she wasn't wrong. 

“I like her,” his sister says with amusement. “Come on, tough guy,” she gestures to the wheelchair. “You know the drill.” 

“Fucking hell,” he mutters but let's Keeley help him into the wheelchair. 

“Someone will be in to make sure your cast has set enough that we can get you taken care of,” the doctor tells Jamie. 

“Okay, thanks, doc,” Jamie says.

As soon as the Kent siblings are gone, Jamie drops back against his pillows and rubs his eyes. 

“How you feeling, babe?” 

“This is a fucking mess,” Jamie says and Keeley can tell he is barely keeping it together. I can't believe he would do that to Roy.”

“I can,” Keeley grumbles. “I'm just glad I was there so Roy could recover and take him down a peg. I was not going to let him in here.”

“You should have just let him in,” Jamie says. “He could have hurt you.”

“He would have hurt you,” she counters. “He always does.”

“I can handle him,” Jamie says.

“You are already hurt, Jamie,” she shakes her head. “You have a broken arm, the cast hasn't even fully set yet.”

“Better me than-”

“Better no one!” Keeley says. 

“Do you really think Roy would have just-”

“Roy would have done so much worse if your father had gotten in here and hurt you. He might have actually killed him.”

And that twists something in Jamie. He hadn't seen how Roy had reacted. He knew how Roy had told him, every time Jamie had a bad reaction to something or that Jamie's childhood came up some how, that he'd kill James Tartt if he ever tried that shit again. Jamie had hoped it wouldn't happen. That his dad and Roy would never cross paths. It was stupid of him to think it would be that easy. Now Roy was hurt, might need another surgery or worse, it may have done permanent damage. And that hurts more than the fact he will be out of the game until his arm heals. That Roy might never be the same because Jamie's father is a prick.

“Oh babe,” Keeley says when tears start to fall as Jamie shakes his head. She hugs him.

“Good news,” Roy's sister says as she comes in after he gets the imaging done on his knee. “You didn't kill your boyfriend's dad.” 

Roy is glad no one is there to hear that other than her. 

“Not so sure that is good news,” Roy says. 

“Well, I'm sure Jamie will think it is.”

“Jamie is also convinced that somehow deep down that fucking menace loves him.”

“And you're not so convinced.”

“I know better, no one that truly loves their kid treats them like that.”

“I know, but you can't just kill the guy,” she says. 

“Look at what he did to my knee,” Roy glares.

“About that,” he puts the images up on the display. “Also good news, it won't require surgery this time,” she states. 

“Fucking bad news?”

“Not much to do that you don't already do.”

“Back to the stupid fucking brace,” he groans. 

“Bandages first week or so, then the brace.”

She takes him back to the room. 

“How bad is it?” Jamie asks. And Roy does not like the way Jamie’s eyes are puffy and red rimmed. 

“It’ll fucking heal,” Roy tells him. 

“No surgery?” Keeley asks.

“No surgery,” Roy's sister nods. And Jamie seems to relax at that. She doesn't even bother even pretending her brother would listen to her and just parks the wheelchair by Jamie's bed. “I’ll be back to do your knee, then you guys just have to wait on discharge papers.” 

“Thanks, Doc,” Jamie says. Roy nods. 

“You all right?” Roy asks, looking at Jamie. 

“Yeah, been waiting on you, grandad,” Jamie smirks but Roy can tell his heart isn't in it. 

“Right,” the older man says and gets up.

“What the hell, Roy?” Jamie leans and shifts to get up but stops when he realizes that he's getting into Jamie's bed. And Jamie just moved over to give him room. Roy’s bad knee ends up over Jamie's leg to keep it at a less painful angle. Though Keeley is skeptical that one exists with how swollen and painful his knee looks. But she doesn't say anything because this is such a sweet moment. And they must both be on strong pain killers or because they are exhausted from the rollercoaster of a day. She hadn't even told them the team rallied thanks to the penalty that happened because of the play that took Jamie down. She had kept the team informed though. It was the only reason half the team wasn't there now. Keeley just covered them with a blanket. And let them sleep. Roy's sister quietly laughed when she came back. But being the younger siblings has no remorse to waking up her brother. He needed his knee taken care of. The sooner it happened the sooner they could go home. So despite some minor grumbling and Jamie actually taking over the wheelchair because “hospital rules and what not.”

With practiced ease, much to her brother's annoyance she made quick work of his knee. Keeley and Jamie paying close attention to how she did it. Though Roy insisted he'd be able to do it himself. No one argued, but they still made sure they knew how to do it. She leaves to get their paperwork. 

“She's too fucking good at that,” Roy sighs. 

“She's a doctor,” Jamie says.

“That's not why she's good at it,” Keeley says. “Is she?”

“Too fucking right,” Roy grunts. “Could put fuck all on it weight wise before the surgery, fucking torn to shit. Practically fucking lived with her and Phoebe.” 

“So she just knows your knee,” Jamie says.

“Fucking guess,” Roy says.

“I'm sorry, Roy,” Jamie says. 

“Fuck off, you didn't do shit.”

“I know but-”

“Fucking stop, Tartt. You didn't do this. You were right fucking here,” Roy jams a finger into the bed. “You had no fucking say in any of it. I left myself open to a cheap shot from your fucking prick of an old man. Not your doing. Fucking adorable that you care, but don't feel guilty over this shit.” He gestures to his knee. “Was bound to end up here someday. At least we were already here when it happened. No fucking ambulance or fucking press around.”

Jamie isn't sure what to say. He knows Roy means every word he said. Roy doesn't say shit he doesn't mean, but to them at least. 

“He's right babe,” Keeley says. 

“Of course I fucking am,” Roy states. 

“You are adorable, Jamie,” she teases as she stands, kissing the top of Jamie's head as she passes. “And so are you, Roy-o” she reaches over and rubs her fingers through Roy's hair before he can argue. The grumpy man's eyes fall shut and leans into her touch. 

Jamie can't help but smile. He loved these two people with everything he had. Every beat of his whole damn heart.

[a-chip-in-inosukes-nichirin]

Scorched Ambition (I'm Choking on Your Heat)

Fandom: Demon Slayer/Kimetsu no Yaiba

Rating: Teen/Mature

Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending

Pairings: Kyojuro/Reader (can be read as platonic or romantic)

Tags: Gender-Neutral Pronouns for Reader, self-loathing, violence, Second-Person POV, no breathing style for reader, demon fighting, self-hatred, major angst, violence

Wordcount: 4.2k

Your fixation on him was unnatural, you told yourself. He barely knew of your existence, and yet you spent a great portion of your time loathing that you were unable to reach the same heights as he.

You swallowed the bitterness down along with the alcohol.

You would never be as strong as Kyojuro Rengoku.

Cross-posted from my AO3 account.

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

The moment you first met Kyojuro you were overwhelmed by his presence. A man like that was larger than life; searing ambition and heart hotter than the surface of the sun. It burned you to look at.

You’d spent your whole life hiding in the background, disappearing into the shadows cast by people like him. Your job was to sit down, shut up, take orders, and care for others. Do the dirty work. Take the brunt of monotony that filled the greater part of the world’s workings. You were never content, but never pushed outside of your dark corner. All of your dreams, hopes, and measly desires squirrelled away inside a small box that would likely never see the light of day.

At one point you’d desired to become a slayer yourself: protecting others just like him. Just like all of the Hashira. They were people to look up to. Their presence was meant to be basked in, but you couldn’t even show your face without shame. No matter how hard you trained and tried your hardest, you were unable to master any breathing style. You could wield a sword, but no nichirin would ever change color for you.

It had been a sunny day when the realization had hit your full in the chest, hands blistered and bound, muscles raw as you stared at them, the sword you’d practiced with broken in pieces around you when you’d slipped up, ruining the angle and shattering it with a deafening crack that left you drowning in despair. You would never be able to prove yourself. Your dreams were stuffed into the recesses of your mind; hopes of someday growing strong enough to fight alongside those who protected the innocent dashed to pieces like the sword you’d broken.

You relegated yourself to serving in Shinobu’s mansion with the young girls. Each day reminded you of your failures as you scrubbed bloodstained sheets and bandages, sterilized Shinobu’s medical equipment, and cared for the injured. It didn’t matter what anyone said, you could only think of yourself as a cog in a machine. A face that would soon be forgotten.

You couldn’t help the choked feeling in your chest each night as your fingers itched to pick up a sword again. You had to prove yourself. To the master, to the Hashira, to everyone who’d told you that you could be nothing without a breathing style. Sleepless nights had you pacing the edges of the estate, disappearing among the shadows you’d grown accustomed to living in.

Why didn’t my sword turn?

Why can’t I learn a breathing style?

Why am I useless?

The questions thrumming in your chest and head were always louder at night as you bruised your knuckles against trees and whatever stuffed dummy had been left out, but during the day you managed to muffle the thoughts, exhausting your aching muscles by doing as much heavy-lifting for Shinobu as you could manage. Time quieted the desperate need for answers, but the knowledge of your inadequacy never failed to prick your pride.

Shinobu’s request that morning to accompany her to the biannual Hashira meeting was strange, but her words were kind.

“You’ve spent too much time cooped up at the Butterfly Mansion.”

As if this was any less cruel.

Now you were forced to dance the edges of the circle of warmth and honor that was the Hashira. It hurt to look at any of them for more than a moment, knowing that you couldn’t hold a match to their strength and innate talent. Small mercies meant Shinobu had agreed to let you cover your face on the trip, donning a mask like the kakushi. She knew of your self-loathing and desire to disappear from the view of those you idolized. You stumbled around in the buzz of the conversation that filled the air at the Master’s estate after a meeting, offering your hands where needed.

You slipped a plate of onigiri between Shinobu and Giyu, pulling back as soon as was polite, eyes flickering up for a moment. Smoldering irises caught yours, eating away at your resolve like flames at kindling. You snapped your gaze away, hurriedly picking your way back to the kitchen to hide.

The Flame Pillar’s gaze had always felt like fire eating up paper: curling the edges up and devouring it until there was nothing left but ash. Just like the first time you’d seen him, all those years ago. You doubted he remembered. The memory of his hand tugging yours along, speaking those innocent yet scathing words that had etched themselves into your ten-year-old brain.

“Mother says you must always help the weak.”

Oh, how those words had angered you. You weren’t weak: you were lost and ashamed. Your tears weren’t from pain, they were from frustration at the circumstances that left you wandering a forest after barely escaping from the worst night of your life. And yet you’d never found the time to correct him as he led you to his father, a Hashira. Kyojuro and his father had followed you back to where you had said you’d been attacked. The distress on your face was plain as day when the only thing you found were the mangled remains of your parents. It was a fraction of a moment before Kyojuro had covered your eyes with his hands and led you back to the village, his father staying to hunt the demon.

You’d been determined to become a demon slayer after that, and were sent to study under a master. Years passed and your body strengthened. You kept waiting for something to click, but nothing did. You tried everything, even travelling to study under another master, but there was no change. No matter how hard you worked, there was no innate talent flowing through your veins. There was no way to avenge your family, and no way to prove to the boy who’d become a Hashira that you weren’t weak. So you hid at the Butterfly mansion, forever relegated to servile duties.

The chatter around you was cloying, pouring down your throat like an unwanted dose of medicine.

You needed air.

Not bothering to excuse yourself, you left the kitchen, tearing off your mask as you reached the edge of the estate, debating on whether or not you should just head back by yourself. Shinobu wouldn’t fault you; you knew that much. The desire for something to numb all of the tumultuous feelings in your chest grew more incessant the longer you stared into the distance.

Damn Shinobu for asking you to come with.

Your feet moved before you could stop them, treading down the road back home. There was no way you’d reach it by nightfall, but you didn’t care. Dusk fell, the humid air making the dust your feet kicked up stick to your skin. Sweat dripped down your back under your clothing, and you cursed the heat. Darkness followed not long after, leaving you to tread more carefully for fear of rending yourself injured on a loose stone. It was a good thing the moon was full, or almost there, as you’d neglected to bring a lantern with. As it was, this road was well travelled during the day, and frequented by the occasional traveler at night.

A small village halfway to your destination had you pausing, the warmth and light from a small tavern enticing you. There was enough pocket change on you for a quick drink. It wasn’t like the mansion would go anywhere, you reasoned.

There were rough hewn tables and benches inside, and you seated yourself at one. The light here was gentle and warm. It reminded you of the Flame Hashira, but tolerable. Here you were comforted by the heat, near him it was unbearable. He broiled your skin without even knowing.

Your fixation on him was unnatural, you told yourself. He barely knew of your existence, and yet you spent a great portion of your time loathing that you were unable to reach the same heights as he. You swallowed the bitterness down along with the alcohol.

You were jealous.

You seethed with envy at all of the younger slayers whose swords had changed color. Hell, even a black sword would have been acceptable to you. You’d take anything if it meant you had a fractional chance at clawing your way through demons and up to the same level as the Pillars. They could protect people. And what could you do?

Jack shit.

You swallowed your drink miserably and threw your money on the table.

The night was finally cooling off, but you couldn’t enjoy it with the sake running through your veins. Absentmindedly you wondered if Kyojuro ever felt the fire of alcohol tear through him, or if his breathing style meant that he always felt like he was scorching under his skin. The road was empty and you tugged the top of your uniform off to hang around your waist, letting the breeze caress your arms and neck, the sweat on your skin drying cold.

The buzz in your chest was strong enough to distract you from the gentle noise behind you, but faint enough that your neck prickled with learned warning to alert you of a presence close by. Pausing, you half-turned your body, head craning to look behind you as you instinctively placed a hand at your waist where a sword would have normally rested.

Shit.

You hadn’t brought a sword. Shinobu had been with you, and you hadn’t even known if you would be gone past dark initially. You faced the noise, half assuming it to be another drunk heading the same way as you, but quickly realized the sounds were coming from the trees and not the road. Fingers twitched at the throaty laugh echoing through the trees, dulled senses sharpening with the adrenaline starting to drip into your stomach.

“What’s this?”

The voice was a bit scratchy and hoarse, but filled with sick delight as the demon came into view, limbs lean and wiry. Its face would have been pleasant to look at if not for the sickening smile pasted across it, black hair tangled in a ratty mess at the back of his head.

“I’m not in a good mood tonight,” your voice was low and irritable, stating the obvious as if the demon was another human and not capable of ripping your limbs off.

The demon wasting no time in launching itself at you in an eager frenzy. You dodged its first pass, narrowly missing being gutted, but still feeling the sting of claws across your stomach. If it thought just because you were unarmed that you’d be easy, it was wrong. Gritting your teeth, you lunged forward and ducked, grabbing the demon’s hair with one hand and jerking your knee up into its face. There was a satisfying crack and a wetness on your pants alongside your throbbing knee. Before the demon could recover, you dug your nails into the flesh of its neck, digging your nails in and ignoring the horrifying feeling of muscles contracting around your fingers as you grabbed the trachea and ripped.

The demon gurgled, pitching forward, and you crouched down, not knowing if it would regenerate quickly or not. Bloodied fingers wrapped around its head, twisting it around while garbled screams filled your ears, reminding you of the night you’d lost your family almost ten years ago.

Blood-curdling shrieks rent the night air, your feet pounding against the ground, spurred on by your fear. Your parents had told you to run, and you’d foolishly obeyed without a second thought, their cries piercing your back as you fled.

With an inhumane strength you didn’t know you were capable of; you ripped its head from its shoulders- flesh and bloodied bits flying to either side- turning the head over to face you as disgust colored your features. The demon’s eyes twitched in tandem with its body, and you slammed a foot down into its chest, feeling a slight give as the ribs cracked.

“I’m gonna fucking rip you into a million pieces,” you snarled, holding the demon by its hair with one hand.

You kept driving your heel into the same spot, willing the chest cavity to cave into your enraged desire. Blood had sprayed up your face, leaving a copper taste against your palate. The demon’s hands raised shakily to grab your leg and you stomped down on one, dropping the head to free both hands as you grabbed it, twisting it with the same ferocity as you had its neck earlier. You pushed against the unnatural angle, hearing snap and dropping the arm to drive your elbow down into its chest. You finally felt the sternum buckle, bone scraping your skin.

“You’re so fucking weak!”

You didn’t know if the screech spilling from your lips was meant to berate yourself or the writhing demon beneath you, but your hands pried the ribcage apart, leaving you to dig out the demon’s heart, beating unnaturally in your stained hands. The head was starting to heal, and you picked it up by the hair a second time, bashing it into the ground with an animalistic growl.

Mangled bodies, bones sticking out, terror on their faces.

The memories plagued you like a nightmare, filling your head with nausea as you continued to beat the demon’s head in. You wanted to howl your frustration out, but you were too focused on tearing muscle from bone.

You had no sword, there was no way to kill this demon aside from destroying it until the sun rose several hours from now. You’d tire yourself out well before then, but your addled brain didn’t much care as it soaked in the wet sound of violence.

You didn’t know how long you played in the chest cavity and ground the head into the hard-packed dirt, but the moon hid behind a cloud, as if afraid of your anger. The fury in your chest began to wane into somber resignation, leaving you bloodied up to your elbows, and not much cleaner beyond. With a rattling sigh, you straightened, fingers buried in the knot of greasy hair clinging to the decapitated head in your grasp. The moon peeked out from behind its soft blanket of mist, caressing your exhausted features with its soft light. Your spine cracked as you stood, each disk popping as you rolled your shoulders, neck lolling in a circle to smooth out the kinks and strain as a humid breath flew past your lips.

It took Kyojuro’s breath away as he appeared around the bend several paces back.

The man had left Master Ubuyashiki’s not long ago, making good time on his way back. The last thing he expected was to see a familiar uniform on the road ahead. You were a sight to behold: bloodied spray adorning the skin kissed by sweat and dirt, eyes half-closed with the kind of tired only extended self-loathing can bring. Half the uniform hung off your waist, showing your skin flushed with alcohol and the exertion of beating in bones. The slowly regenerating head in your hand was not held aloft in victory, but dangled at your side with a listless discontent. There was no sword in your hands, and -if Kyojuro matched those eyes to the correct person- you had none.

You gaze flickered toward the movement in your peripheral. The sight of the man burned you- Kyojuro’s  existence burned you. You couldn’t bear to look the Flame Hashira in the eye, but you couldn’t tear yourself away from the rich amber reflected in the pale moonlight.

“Do you need assistance?”

You wanted to laugh, but the only movement was from your heaving chest as you stared blankly, fingers finally loosing from the death grip you had on the bloody pulp that had once been a demon’s head. Stepping back numbly, you watched Kyojuro draw his sword as the head began to regenerate alongside the body. He slew the demon with a single blow, not a trace of sweat to be found on his thick brows.

“You did well holding your own,” Kyojuro turned to you with his signature smile.

It infuriated you so much you couldn’t find the words to answer. What could you say anyway?

“I’d have died if you hadn’t shown up.”

“I’m too weak to slay a demon myself.”

“Why do you have to find me when I am most vulnerable?”

You clenched your jaw, dropping your gaze.

“We should tend to your injuries,” Kyojuro drew close to you.

The sting of air on your exposed nerves finally grew loud enough for you to register. You put a hand to your stomach- demon’s blood mixing with your own in the open wounds- and couldn’t suppress the shudder.

“I’m fine,” you lied.

“Please,” Kyojuro took off his cloak, the sound of ripping fabric bleeding in your ears.

“I shall be fine until I make it back,” you pulled away as his hand reached out.

His intense stare made you shift uncomfortable, taking a step back out of his halo. He chased you slowly, deliberately as soft words left his lips.

“You are hurt. Let me help you.”

“I don’t need your help!” you snapped before you realized who you were speaking to.

The terror gripped your stomach more than the pain, and you dropped your head. You expected a reprimand, a lecture on your stupidity.

“Here, then you do it.”

Fabric was thrust into your hands and you chanced a swift glance towards the Hashira. He was still intently staring, but his demeanor had changed. The chipper attitude was gone, replaced with the kind of delicate smile that someone wears when they know you’re about to break. It should’ve made you angry.

Silently you wound the fabric around your waist, watching it dye itself red on your blood. You secured it tightly, feeling the bite of tension around your middle.

“Thank you,” you whispered. The words withered on your tongue from the heat rolling off Kyojuro.

“Of course. We appear to be heading in the same direction. May I accompany you back?”

If he had phrased it as a demand, you could have snapped at him and brushed him off, but the gentle request made you nod. You’d feel like an ass if you denied his offer.

The walk back was quiet, and you could feel every time the man looked over at you. Crickets sang in the background, mercifully granting you reprieve from absolute silence. You just needed to ignore him until you reached the estate and then you could shove the memory of this night into the far recesses of your mind forever.

“Do you remember the first time we met?”

The words cut through your thoughts like a machete; sloppy and disorienting.

“You remember me?”

Kyojuro laughed a little.

“Of course. You don’t look much different.”

You hissed at the sting of his words. Even time had not been able to change you from the sniveling brat you’d been before.

“Yes, I remember,” your reply was terse.

“I was surprised to see you again,” Kyojuro commented. “It’s been so long.”

You hummed a reply, unsure of how to respond. You had nothing to add. He didn’t need to know that you’d caught glimpses of him through lattice and dappled shadows at the Butterfly mansion when he’d visit. You had always hidden away when he stopped by, but found yourself spying on the boy you once knew.

“I am glad to see you’ve found a place in the corps,” he continued, oblivious to the tick in your eyelid. “At first I was worried that you wouldn’t make it, but I’m happy to see you fulfilled your dreams.”

“Happy?” the incredulous pitch of your tone drew his attention from where he’d been admiring the moon. “Happy?”

You barked out a pained laugh.

“I’ve never been less happy than I am now. I’ve achieved nothing that I set out to do. I’m the weakest slayer in the corps: I have no breathing style and no sword will ever change for me. I’m defective: I’ll never be as strong as you.”

You spat the last bit out with venom, fingers twitching at your sides. Kyojuro’s brows were reaching for his hairline, eyes wider than usual. His face bespoke disbelief, and you wondered how he could have mistaken your weakness for strength. Then again, a fire doesn’t pay attention to the brambles it consumes.

“You may not have a breathing style,” Kyojuro had stopped walking, and your feet stopped as well, “-and you may not have a nichirin sword, but you are by no means weak. You tore a demon apart with your bare hands-”

“Because I had to!”

Your hands were balled into fists.

“You don’t get it! I can do it because there is no other way! I can’t stop a demon like a true corps member can. All I’m good for is slowing them down and making a mess.”

Tears were pricking your eyes against orders, but you refused to brush them away.

“You say that as if slowing down a demon is not noble in and of itself,” Kyojuro rest his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Had you not been able to do that, who knows what poor soul would have been devoured. You kept the demon in place without assistance until I arrived.”

“What good is holding a demon if I can’t kill it? People don’t always come. It was pure chance and luck that had you showing up,” you growled.

Kyojuro began to walk again, sandals making soft thuds on the packed dirt.

“Despite your words, I still believe you are strong,” Kyojuro said, slowing to match your pace as you started after him. “Most people don’t have the mental fortitude or physical capability to tear a demon limb from limb.”

Shame pooled in your stomach, knowing that Kyojuro had witnessed your feral breakdown.

“It was… not my brightest moment. I was so angry at myself…”

“You speak of your anger like it is something to be disdained,” Kyojuro shook his head. “But you channeled your anger into strength: a highly valuable trait among the corps. You used it to keep yourself alive and fight. That is nothing to be ashamed of.”

The buzz in your chest had begun its departure during the last few minutes, and the resulting feelings in your chest felt mucky.

“I’m ashamed of everything about me,” you confessed. “I’m weak and I’ll never be able to stand among the Hashira, or even the regular corps members who pass final selection. I-I’ve only ever wanted to prove to you that I’m not weak.”

Honeyed eyes met your desperate ones, taking in the pain written in their honest reflection.

“I want to be able to stand next to you as an equal.”

“You already have,” Kyojuro’s words, meant to be a soothing balm, blazed down your spine and in your ears. “Even though you have no nichirin or breathing style, the moment I came upon you in the road and saw the way you refused to leave the demon even though you could not slay it was the moment you proved yourself as a corps member.”

“It’s not nearly enough,” you muttered.

Kyojuro stopped, looking you dead in the eye.

“What more can you want?”

“I want to stand with you and not be burned,” you choked out. “Please, Kyojuro; I want to be worthy of you.”

Time stood still under the stars and moon, the sun yet a couple of hours from its ascent. Kyojuro’s hair rustled in the breeze as his face donned a soft smile, the curve of his lips seared into your memory for all of eternity as crickets quieted their chorus just for his words.

“Then set yourself ablaze next to me- as an equal- and forgive yourself for your past weakness.”

Your tears wobbled on the edges of your waterline for a moment before tipping over and racing down your cheeks.

Forgive yourself for your past weakness.

For being a child who couldn’t save their parents, and for doing everything in your power to grow stronger, only to be told there are limits to what you can do.

“Are you able to do that?” Kyojuro asked.

“Yes,” your hoarse voice was barely above a whisper. “If it means I can stand next to you, I can.”

“Do it so that you can stand alone,” Kyojuro put a hand on your shoulder. “And be someone that you can live with.”

You nodded, the rejection a stinging reprimand.

“But,” Kyojuro removed his hand. “I do desire that you stay next to me.”

He offered his hand to you. It was rough- calloused with years of sword practice- and scratched your when you took it hesitantly. When did his heat start feeling more bearable? Still scorching against your palm, but pleasant and comforting.

Was it your coldness all along that had made him feel unbearable? The rapid heating of your body too much to handle when he showed up, reminding you that things could be better- that you could burn too with a desire for betterment that didn’t involve hating your flaws.

The night air had turned from cool to cold in the early morning hours, but you couldn’t feel it as you walked the path back to the estate with Kyojuro, hand-in-hand, determined.

Kyojuro Rengoku was a man of passion.

And you were willing to match it.

[lumine-no-hikari]

Dear Sephiroth: (a letter to a fictional character, because why not) #103

Today passed by in a bit of a blur.

This is mostly due to the fact that I certainly did not get enough sleep last night. Given the reasons for it, I am not sad about it. But my brain is soupy nonetheless.

J and I went to the good place earlier than usual because a great big breakfast was planned. I signed up to bring bacon, which Br cooked yesterday in the oven (I was pulled in many directions yesterday, so I wouldn't have gotten a chance to do it!). Br made AMAZINGLY CRISPY BACON, oh my goodness!!! And everyone thought it was really good!!! There wasn't any left by the end!!!

The awesome leader of the place talked on a really sad story about some guy from a really long time ago getting terrible punishments for being so kind to everyone that he was upsetting the social order. This guy liked to hang with and to help the rejects and the socially outcast, and I guess a non-trivial number of folks thought he was arrogant and creepy and kinda gross for this (whoof, that's kind of relatable), so although lots of ordinary folks followed him around while he was useful and helping, when push came to shove and the folks in power came around to put an end to him because they didn't like the fact that he was helping the people that they were trying to oppress, most, if not all of his followers turned tail and ran off like cowards. It seems like nobody tried to protect him at all. And uh. Well. The whole notion of "people chilling with me while I'm useful and then fucking right off when the going gets rough" is also, sadly, kinda relatable.

And you know? He was found by the folks in power in the first place because some selfish, short-sighted prick sold him out for a few coins. It's the lamest fucking shit. It is the LAMEST FUCKING SHIT.

Supposedly, they all loved this guy, but if they loved him this much, then why did no one try to take the punishment in his place? I'll never understand it. And you know what else I'll never understand? I'll never understand how seemingly the vast majority of people who hear this story and believe it end up using it to justify hating and oppressing certain kinds of people. People like me, for example. It seems like the vast majority of people who believe in this story REALLY SUPER DESPISE people like me (and they also hate people like the leader of this place I go to! can you imagine it??), for a wide variety of reasons.

…It's complicated. In my world, in order to be "normal", you're supposed to believe in this story in such a way that it denies humans of their humanity and inherent goodness in a variety of respects, and I just… I can't bring myself to do that. Not anymore. The place I go to doesn't teach the story in the "normal" way that I'm used to hearing, though, so although I cannot bring myself to speak most of the words (especially not the weirder ones revolving around being "punished" and whatnot… it sounds too close for comfort to living with an abusive parent and begging for their "mercy"…), I still go, because the leader says the things from a loving, self-and-other-celebrating, and courageous lens rather than the typical self-loathing, humanity-denying, fear-driven lens that is most common where I'm from.

I don't really know how to describe my own relationship to this story. For a very long time, this story has been and continues to be used by others to justify saying and doing all kinds of horrid shit to me and to the people I love, as well as to justify oppressing and even torturing and killing certain groups of people on a mass scale. And this is NEVER acceptable, so needless to say, I tend to view the more ah… enthusiastic… believers of this story with a hefty dose of caution and hesitation; I don't wanna write anyone off, but at the same time, for my own safety, I also don't want to end up getting caught off-guard around people who could potentially think and behave abusively. I am terrified of the kinds of people who wanna see me locked away into some institution to be electroshocked until I'm forced to psychically amputate aspects of my being that hurt no one, and the fact that there is still a non-zero number of people who advocate for these kinds of facilities is VERY alarming. I've already had other aspects of my being beaten out of me, and I've been desperately trying to regrow them.

But in this place, I feel safe. This group that I go see once a week is filled with lots of people like me - "non-standard" folks who would be ostracized, hated, and oppressed by more "traditional" folks. And this place does not teach people to hate themselves or view themselves as dirty, wretched, or shameful; rather, this place teaches people to love themselves and each other as-is, and to use that love in order to be brave enough to do kind and helpful things for others and for oneself, even when those kind and helpful things are difficult or unpopular. This place paints the main character of this story as a bizarre but gentle man who rejects arbitrary social norms in favor of doing that which is kind and good. They paint him as some guy who has a VERY good sense of what he's doing and why, while simultaneously learning as he goes.

Though I have my own take on this story that maybe some folks would be uncomfortable with (my own beliefs system is eclectic, and it weaves elements from various systems, including this one, other traditions, quantum physics, as well as beliefs from more recent fiction and my own realizations together into something that makes sense to me in light of my own perceptions, abilities, and experiences; it's constantly changing as I learn new things, and it'll likely not work for someone else, and that's okay), I do find aspects of this character to be relatable and worthy of emulating in a variety of respects. Being reliably kind to myself and to the people society says I shouldn't be kind to is something I am constantly striving towards.

I think it's important for people to believe in whatever makes them reliably brave enough to be good to all other humans (whatever shape that takes, even if it's a belief in nothing), just as long as whatever that is does not justify the suffering of someone else. And I do mean ALL other humans. Even the ones you don't like spending time with. And even the ones who don't share the same beliefs. I sure as heck don't like spending time with people who think that certain kinds of people don't count as people (sadly, it's popular here to treat non-white, disabled, non-straight, or non-cis-male people as though they are subhuman, for example), but nonetheless, I do understand that dehumanizing beliefs come from being traumatized and conditioned into carrying them as a child (I was raised in this shit), so if I see someone like that in trouble, I'm still going to help them, if I'm able. I wasn't able to do better until I learned better, so I don't belong throwing stones at other people's beautiful glass houses; the only thing for it when people get weird is to wish them well and move on.

Anyhoot. I've probably prattled on long enough. I had other things to say, I think, but I've gone and forgotten them because I am sleep deprived and my brain is soup. Oh well. Maybe I'll remember tomorrow.

Please stay safe out there. Please learn to believe kind, gentle, and loving things about yourself, about the world you live in, and about the people in it. I'll be rooting for you, always.

Your friend, Lumine

[kentuckyfriedsatan]

ℭ𝔯𝔞𝔠𝔨𝔰 ℑ𝔫 𝔗𝔥𝔢 ℑ𝔠𝔢

《 Chapter 4 》

❚ Rating: M

❚ Pairing: Dew/Ifrit, Dew/Rain (end goal)

❚ Chapter word count: 601, sorry for such short chapters

❚ Tags: Angst, Emotional Hurt, Self-Loathing, touch starved Rain, touch starved Dew, Ifrit is a manipulative bitch in this one, I am so sorry for that I normally love him, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt/Comfort In later chapters, emotional abuse, brief sexual abuse not on screen, degradation

❚ Chapter summary: Aftermath of Dews and Rains moment

Read it on Ao3 or here under the cut!

Dew’s heart pounds as he walks down the dimly lit hallway towards Ifrit's room. Each step feels heavier than the last, the echo of Rain's concerned voice still lingering in his mind. He hated lying to Rain, but he couldn’t bear the thought of revealing the truth. As he reaches the door, it creaks open before he could knock, revealing Ifrit leaning casually against the frame, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

"Was wondering when you would show up," Ifrit drawls, his tone icy. "Had a nice little chat with Rain, did you?"

Dew freezes, his stomach twisting in knots. "No no I-It was nothing," he stammers, looking down at the floor.

Ifrit’s hand shots out, gripping Dew’s chin and forcing him to look up. "Nothing? And what about practice today hm? From what I saw, it looked pretty cozy. So I ask again, what did he say to you?"

Dew's mind races, panic setting in. "He just... asked if I was okay," his voice is trembling. "That’s all."

Ifrit’s eyes narrow, his grip tightening painfully.

"You think I’m stupid? I saw the way he looked at you. Like he cares. But he doesn’t, firelily. He’s just pretending."

Tears prick at Dew’s eyes as he tried to pull away, but Ifrit’s hold is unyielding.

"He does care," Dew whispers, barely believing his own words.

Ifrit laughs, a harsh, mocking sound. "Oh, please. Rain doesn’t give a fuck about you. He’s just playing the hero. Do you think he’d stick around if he knew how worthless you are?"

Dewdrop flinches, the words cutting deep. He tries to shake his head, but Ifrit’s grip holds him still.

"You’re wrong," Dew says, his voice breaking. He wants to believe that Rain gives a damn.

Ifrit’s expression darkens, his eyes blazing with anger.

"I’m wrong? Look at you. Clinging to anyone who throws you a scrap of kindness. Pathetic."

He releases Dew with a shove, sending him stumbling back. Dew’s heart aches, the familiar sting of Ifrit’s cruelty mixing with the fresh pain of his harsh words. He wants to defend Rain, to scream that he wasn’t pretending, but the weight of Ifrit’s manipulation bears down on him, crushing his spirit.

"If you were worth anything, you wouldn’t be here," Ifrit continues, his voice a cold sneer. "Rain doesn’t want you. No one does. I’m the only one who tolerates you."

Dew’s tears fall freely now, his body shaking with silent sobs. He believes Ifrit. He has to. The thought of being alone, of facing the emptiness without Ifrit, is too terrifying to bear. "I’m sorry," he chokes out. "I won’t talk to him again."

“Don’t be silly, you should at least reassure Rain that something like at practice won’t happen again and that it was a mistake. Don’t you think, firelily?”

“Yes I will.”

"Good. Now, come here." He gestures at the bed.

Dew obeys, his movements stiff and automatic. He lies next to Ifrit who wraps an arm around Dew’s middle, pulling him close, but there is no warmth in the gesture. It is a possessive hold, a silent assertion of control.

"You’re mine," he whispers into Dewdrops ear. "Don’t forget that." He licks down his throat and gropes him.

***

Later, as they lay in the dark, Dew feels the full weight of his isolation. Ifrit is there beside him, but it is an empty presence, devoid of the love and connection he craves. He longes for the gentle touch and kind words Rain might offer, but he quickly pushes those thoughts away. He doesn’t deserve that kind of tenderness. Not after everything.