#Rising and burning and craving and wanting and wishing and hoping and loving and dying and aching

[heycallmeplease]

[get-shiggy-with-it]

collab masterlist

✧ pairing: villain!hawks x afab!reader

✧ word count: 5k

✧ warnings: this is like all smut, angst, ambiguous but happy ending, unhealthy relationships, mentions of transactional sex, reader has a healing quirk but it's really just for poetic purposes, reader has a vagina, no other gendered parts, oral sex (reader receiving), vague metaphorical drug reference, mentions of blood, mentions of wounds, mating press, soft sex (?), sorta, slight potential could be read as dubcon but they're both into it

✧ summary: for years you've stitched hawks back together when the world has torn him to shreds—and he always pays you back, though you can't help but start want more than he can give you.

✧ a/n: hey y'all this months theme was villain/hero swap with a shared opener! please go check out all the other wonderful works in this collab, there are so many talented writers/artists involved!! credit to @/lady-bakuhoe for the amazing intro. also bonus points if you catch the old aesthetic tumblr post references.

Breaking news: We have yet another report to add to the slew of attacks this month, this comes just days after we broadcast rumours of villains running rampant over the city. This spate of attacks has put the entire metropolitan area at a standstill, road closures and damaged property making it difficult for commuters to get to work in the morning. Road maintenance endeavour to do its best to keep the city running, but it seems futile when these attacks continue to increase. The entire city was brought to a standstill by the mysterious villain who has still not been named, but reports show they are nothing like we have ever experienced before.

Where are the heroes now? Who will save us from the terror overwhelming our city?

Every day the crime toll continues to rise and we have no one here to protect us. The Hero Public Safety Commission assured us earlier in the week that the crime rate would go down, that the top Heroes are out there protecting our city, but if so, where are they? Is it really safe to go out anymore, who can we trust? Would you put your life in the hands of a Hero today? When they have proved our streets are no longer safe. We still have no information on what is going on, or who is involved but we must remain observant. We will continue to report the latest news as we receive it, but for now, we must implore you to heed the warnings of the city-wide curfew that is soon to be implemented. If anyone has any information on these occurrences in the city please send them to us or contact the police, you can remain anonymous. The safety of our citizens is what is most important, stay vigilant and don’t go out unless it is absolutely necessary.

One thing we know for sure: we can no longer rely on Heroes to protect us. The streets of our once-great city are no longer safe, we are no longer safe.

***

You can only touch him when he’s dying.

That fact is made even more horrifically apparent as he stumbles through your open window—and how long has it been since you’ve slept with it closed?—dripping with blood and panting from his flight.

The T.V. blares in the background, filling your tiny apartment with incessant ramblings that only grow louder by the day, and you already know what they’re going to say before they say it. Because you see him, before the reporters stumble upon heroes in the wreckage—you see what they do to him before they’re warning the public of dangerous villains loose in the streets.

They spout off about failing heroes but you think they’ve done a pretty damn good butchers job. Red feathers matted together, sticky and brown, fall in tufts from his back. You burn with shameful jealousy at the thought of those who would call themselves heroes having laid hands on what is yours.

He isn’t really yours and you know that, though you often wish you could be a bit more delusional. It might not hurt so much then.

They call him a villain. They call him a threat to society.

But even faced with the truth spilling from him and onto your creaking floors, it is easy to forget what a ruthless predator the man before you becomes when he leaves these four walls.

Especially as he falls forward on heavy feet straight into your arms, outstretched and waiting. There are stains on your shirt but you’ve known the secret for getting blood out of clothing for years now. Cold water for the fabric, warm to wash away the grime on his lovely skin.

“Gonna need you to fix me up again, sweetheart,” Hawks mumbles into your shoulder where his forehead rests.

His breathing is even more ragged now, not just from the flight.

“I know,” you reply and your hands shake when they find the gaping wound at his side—wide and deeper than the ones before. “I know. Can you walk?”

He doesn’t respond but that mop of golden hair shifts a bit as he slings an arm over your shoulder and rests his weight. You don’t need to direct him to your bedroom. This is an old game you’re playing and he knows the steps.

So do you.

Though, you’re never sure if it's dread that fills you and makes your stomach knot and your knees weak. Or if it’s that awful, momentary rush of excitement at the prospect of being able to run your fingers over him, bare and giving you free reign.

As long as he’s bleeding out on your floor.

Then you can feel him.

When he’s dying and needs you.

Needs you to fix him.

But won’t ever let you close enough to finish the job the way you want to.

You comfort yourself in with the knowledge that at least he lets you this close. At least those thin, silver-skin scars are the unmistakable mark of your healing hands. At least you’ll always haunt him like the red feather down that sticks to your pillows or between your floorboards.

So you strip him carefully and try not to let his sculpted chest distract you from the work. Hawks is silent, such a model patient as always. Only grunting when your fingers move to knit together the ragged edges of his flesh.

This will leave a nasty mark, you know it already. But you can’t find it in yourself to mourn the loss of that lovely skin.

It will only make it harder for him to forget you.

You’re knelt beside him, laid out on a towel you keep at the edge of the bed. Blood will soak through to the sheets regardless, but you try your best. He takes a sharp breath, white teeth catching the back of his hand between them to stifle groans.

You wish there was more pleasure to it. That he was biting back moans for you instead of trying not to scream as his flesh pulsed and grew hot while it was rebuilt under your fingertips. So you indulge, pretend your hands are elsewhere, roaming his perfect waistline and pulling whimpers from him.

Your dangerous, villainous, predator Hawks sprawled on his back, wings spread and cumming onto his chest under you.

The sounds above you change, and you know it hurts—must be excruciating as bone is set back into place—but you chose to believe it’s because he’s trying to keep himself from screaming your name as he reaches his release.

Hawks, you’d croon to him—Hawks because you don’t know his real name. Don’t know who he was before he started this underground life of crime on the fringes of a society that called him a monster and then turned him into one.

He isn’t a monster in your bed, though he may cry like one.

Cry as you mold his flesh and try not to look him in the face. Try to pretend they are an overflow of some better emotion. And when those summer wheat field eyes roll back in his head and those horrible pretty noises stop, you push past the growing ache in your limbs until the skin under your palms is smooth and no longer leaking thick, red blood.

And you do your best to resist the itch to feel more of him while he can’t stop you. Even with your fingers numb from overexertion, you can’t help but fall back on your heels and long for the feeling of his cheek in your hand, or his chest on your face.

But your part of the transaction is done.

And your permission doesn’t extend past these limits.

And it pains you to wish harm on him.

But it hurts even more when he does not need you.

So you sit and hate yourself and hope that those heroes with their disgusting philosophies get their shit together just a bit more. So you won’t lose your purpose. So he’ll keep coming through your window, permanently open through rainstorms and snow and spring heat.

Hawks’ breath evens slowly, and you stay still as a watched painting—no shifting eyes or moving limbs.

You crave these times like water or warm food—constant and instinctively.

And this is the only time you’ll ever have them, hands so filled with pinpricks of fried nerves that you can barely feel the soft, relaxed muscle beneath them.

What a tragedy.

What an injustice—

You can only touch him when he’s dying.

***

“Hmm,” he groans, sitting up and wincing as the new flesh protests under his movements.

“You should rest for a bit longer.”

Hawks looks at you, stretched next to him on the mattress—a purposeful few inches of space left between your bodies. It’s both selfish and practical advice.

But he isn’t here for that kind of help.

“You know I can’t just be sittin’ on my ass,” he quips, flashing you that eyes closed, wide smirk that sets your heart hammering in your chest. “Can’t have anyone tracing me back here.”

“Normally I’d agree,” you don’t find it in yourself to give the words any bite, “but you were just actively bleeding out a few minutes ago.”

“Sure, but that was a few minutes ago,” he winks and you can already feel the bed shifting as he moves to settle himself over your hips, one toned thigh on either side to bracket you against the bed. “Now, let me pay you back for all that hard work, yeah sweetheart?”

You wish the way he peered up through those long lashes, gold eyes honed in on you like a piece of meat on a hook, didn’t make your face burn this much.

It doesn’t mean anything to him.

Because this arrangement really is transactional—so you have to get something out of it too. At least, that’s what he tells himself, you think. He doesn’t know that those scant few moments you hold his life between your fingers is more than enough payment.

It’s been this way since the very first time you stumbled across him, half dead in an alley. But then you think it might have just been a ‘heat of the moment’ sort of thing that had just stuck.

You heal him and he makes you writhe on the sheets with his tongue and his hands, until you're fucked into unconscious bliss and he can slip away without your prying eyes watching him go.

But you still aren’t allowed to touch Hawks, even when he reaches into those deep parts of you and molds them to fit only him.

“You don’t—” you start to protest, partly because you want to believe you don’t want it and partly because you want to hear him insist that he does.

“Shh,” Hawks presses a calloused finger to your mouth and it takes every ounce of strength not to suck it past your lips. “I don’t like leaving my debts unpaid.”

That’s the end of your determination for the night. So you try to relax into his touch as slides your bottoms off and tosses them to the floor. Try not to clench up under those fingers that spread your legs. He doesn’t like it when you squirm away, when you flinch from his hands.

You want to think it’s because he hopes you aren’t afraid of him—of what he is—like the rest are, and not because he wants to get it over with as quickly as possible.

You want to.

But he’s so hard to read, and your mind is not often a kind place.

“Mm, god I’m always so hungry after you patch me up baby,” Hawks licks his lips as he stares down at you. “You won’t mind if I eat you right?”

You cringe at how fast your head shakes.

“Mm, course you wouldn’t.”

You can hear the smirk in his voice, and he’s right though you resent it a bit that he’s got you pegged so easily.

But you’re weak, you’re no villain, you’re no hero.

And so you’ll never be able to resist him. But, damn, did you wish you had a name to cry out. Then at the very least, you could keep a part of him with you too. Then you’d have some to moan on the nights he goes uninjured and you have to bring yourself to lonely release, only thinking of him.

Of those wings spread above you like a burning, red sunset, obscuring the rest of the world from view with his blinding light.

“Hawks…” you hiss instead as he shifts your legs over his shoulders and lays his tender chest on the sheets. “Please.”

“Yeah, yeah, what’s it gonna be tonight then?” he asks, breath ghosting over the damp folds between your thighs.

“Thought you said you were gonna use your tongue,” you whine, impatient now for any scrap of attention he’s willing to give.

“If that’s what you want,” he presses a kiss into the crease of your leg and hip, nipping the delicate skin so you whine again. “It’s whatever you want, you know that.”

It isn’t though.

It’s not whatever you want.

You can pick the position, you can ask for his mouth or his fingers, but even then, they won’t go past your neck. Your hands must stay firmly knotted in the comforter and away from him while he works. Cause he is working. This is part of the job to him, it's only in your fantasies that he’s doing it simply for the hell of it.

Hawks nudges your embarrassingly soaked slit with his nose and hums at you, “So is that what you want? Want me to eat your pretty pussy, yeah?”

“Yes—ngh,” you don’t get much in past the confirmation.

He’s a busy man.

He doesn’t have time for your stupid, romantic day dreams.

So he dives right in, and it’s enthusiastic enough that you can convince yourself he simply wants you that badly.

Hawks tongue licks a long strip from your hole to your clit and sucks the little bud past his plush lips. They’re a lovely, soft pink against your skin and they make a mess of you in seconds. He starts up an even rhythm, drawing circles into the nerves that sing and have heat building up in you only seconds after he’s started.

You hate that you love how well he knows your body.

You hate that you only know his when it’s shutting down.

“You taste so good, you know that?” he mumbles, lapping at you and kneading your thighs. “Could live down here just drinking you every fucking day.”

He doesn’t always talk like that but you’re happy he is now. It distracts you from the deep, ingrained urge to yank him by the hair and taste yourself on his lips.

“Makes me wish I’d let those damn heroes get hits in more often,” he’s back to panting and you keen at the sound. “Want my fingers too?”

“Fuck yes,” you don’t even bother hiding the desperation anymore.

He deserves the boost to his ego. You’d shower him with praise if he’d let you, bathe him in warm words and press them into his skin with your tongue.

But he doesn’t let you.

Hawks’ hand on your thigh trails slowly against the sensitive skin until he’s pulling back to run his fingers through your folds to ease the stretch a bit as he pushes two inside. He knows you can take what he gives to you, knows you love the way he fills you up.

Your tingling hands ache to grab his head and force his lips back as he sits for a moment, eyes glued on the space where his fingers disappear into your body. He groans low at the wet sounds your bodies make at their joining. Your legs shake where they rest on him, the one other point of contact he’s allowed. Those deadly soft feathers brush your calves as he curls his fingers up and waits expectantly for the strangled cry he pulls from you.

“There it is,” his voice is so much lower when he speaks now. “Can’t exactly show you the real ones, but how ‘bout you let me make you see some stars, huh?”

He asks so much of you. So much. So often.

In fact, you don’t think you’ve ever actively asked him for a thing he hadn’t already offered in the few years you’d known him. Hawks does it all—the taking and the giving and the demanding.

And you’re simply along for the ride, holding on for dear life lest he drop you, let you plummet like rock to the barren ground.

Still, you are mortal and you crave and you will take what you can get.

“Mhm,” you whimper when his deft fingers increase their pace, not thrusting but grinding mercilessly into that delicious spot inside.

“You wanna cum now, sweet thing?”

Then, true to his villainous nature, Hawks latches his lips back onto your clit, wracking your body with waves of truly sinful pleasure. His tongue draws quick, perfect circles across the bud just how you like. You’ll never know why it feels so much better when it’s him touching you.

How he knows exactly what you want.

Most of it.

Then his other hand is reaching around your hip, thumb taking over to press down where his tongue had been. Panting for the third time, his gorgeous head rests on your thigh and he stares dead on into your eyes. That predator yellow gaze pins you to the pillows better than any hand could and he licks across his lips while you watch, moaning as he tastes you there.

You groan deep and unabashedly at the sight.

“What is it?” he’s teasing you, unable to keep that part of his cruelty hidden even now. “What do you want?”

You shake your head and wish you could turn away, flop against the mattress and writhe but you can’t. You just can’t give up this moment that’s etching itself into your retinas—like you’re staring head on at an eclipse, celestial and short-lived.

“Tell me,” Hawks whispers, nipping at your thigh and working his fingers harder on you. “Whatever you want, you’ll get it.”

And maybe it’s the sudden heat of the room, or the little breeze from his wings spreading defensively to block you from view of his nonexistent audience—the outside world maybe? To keep you, this secret indulgence, hidden from their prying hands. Or quite possibly it’s just your own weakness at the feet of years and years of loving—because you do, you love him, it’s clear by now that’s what this is—this man whose name you don’t know and whose eyes never seem to leave you even when he’s gone.

Maybe you simply crack under the pressure of keeping this awful, looming silence for too long.

You feel your lips split at the seams and it all comes rushing out in a polluted flood—a stagnant river of secrets.

“Let me touch you,” you gasp and close your eyes then just so you won’t have to see that grin slip from his beautiful face. “Please Hawks, let me touch you. I can’t do it anymore, just—I need to kiss you, I need more.”

All this time he hadn’t let up on pulling pleasure from your skin, but he stops now, bringing your release to a screaming halt.

The quiet that follows—devoid of fast breaths and wet slapping—is suffocating.

You wish you regretted the outburst, the waste of years worth of work to keep him coming back.

But you don’t.

Of course you will in a minute, when he slips away and doesn’t return.

But now it just feels as though that boulder of secrecy has been lifted off your chest and you can finally take in lungfuls of sweet, unhindered night air.

It’s only after that dreadful minute has passed and there are still hands on you—buried in you—that you dare to open your eyes again.

Hawks is staring blankly, an expression you’ve never seen before, so stark from the usual quirk of his lips and tilt of his chin. Blank, but calculating. You can see the gears clanking as his thoughts rush a mile a minute, faster than he’d ever dream of soaring over the city skyline.

He blinks once, twice, then again and you can see the redness blooming at the corners as his eyes grow glassy between each flutter of lashes. And then, as though moving through honey, he draws back from you, only to crawl up your body until your noses touch.

You hold your breath, lip caught between your teeth, but his slicked thumb comes up to pull it out of your gnawing reach. He strokes across the puffy skin, never meeting your gaze, until he slowly, slowly leans down.

It’s not really a kiss, more of an accidental brush, so little of your lips touch you could easily have imagined it. When he speaks again, you can feel him forming the words against you.

“I—” he starts and licks his lips and yours and you don’t think it’s an accident, “I can’t.”

It isn’t what you want him to say, but it’s better than a silent loss .

You know truth when you hear it.

“I know.”

And you do, you do know, you’ve always known. He’s darker when he’s not with you. You’ve seen the carnage he leaves behind broadcasted on screens, but it’s never stopped the ache before.

He can’t keep you the way you want, can’t have things that get in the way.

You can only touch him when he’s dying. You can heal him, reform his flesh and bone—pull him back from the brink—but you’ll never feel his chest against yours or his hair slipping through your fingers or have all of him buried inside you. He’ll never love you like you want him to.

It doesn’t stop you from wishing.

And apparently, it doesn’t stop Hawks from kissing you anyway.

“I can’t,” he repeats and it sounds so broken you almost think that wound has reopened and he’s going to start slipping away again.

But the only thing that slips is his tongue past your lips and tangling with your own.

And then the levee breaks.

It’s a sudden torrent of hands and legs knotting together like the torn edges of too many injuries. Hawks covers every available part of you like an addict seeking his fix. It’s breathless and uncoordinated but you’ve never felt more alive, alight, aflame.

He presses his lips to yours again, pulling away and then diving back in. Frantic hands pull you off the mattress until your back is against the headboard and he’s straddling your lap. You take the opportunity to sink your fingers into that goldenrod hair and it’s just as silky as you’d imagined it to be.

Hawks moans into your mouth, kissing you wildly, like the beast he is with teeth clacking and your tongue sucked between his lips.

“I can’t,” he keeps mumbling, between groans and hips grinding and hands grabbing, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t— “

You wonder then which one of you he’s trying to convince.

But you don’t ask, just let your hands wander to the delicious curve of his ass on your thighs and squeeze, rolling his bulge against you. His fingers push and proud, ghosting across your chest and stopping to pinch your nipple. He drinks down the whimpers you let out, letting his lips wander your jaw and throat, sucking bruises—leaving his own scars on you—as he goes. He pushes you back down to the pillows so his lips can continue their work, latching onto the quickly hardening bud and suckling lightly. His groan sends little shockwaves through you and he looks up with brows furrowed like he’s in pain with how good it all feels.

“I’m sorry,” he says and it’s so soft you barely hear it between licks at your chest.

“No,” you finally find it in you to respond, shaking your head and pulling him back to your lips.

“I’m sorry,” he says again while you nip at his earlobe and down his jaw, tight pants yielding under your hands as they’re tugged away so he’s just as bare as you.

“No,” you shake your head and any response dies on his tongue as you dig your fingers into the feathers at the base of his wings and pull him forward.

Hawks lets out a choked gasp as his length, bare, hard, and leaking glides across your cunt. Any other time, you’d have liked to savor this moment. Get on your knees and worship his pretty cock—and you know it's pretty, just from your short glimpse. He’s long and perfectly thick, just how you dreamed he would be. The cute tuft of blond curls at his base is course in the best way as you trail your fingers through it to take him in your palm.

“Ahh,” he keens, arching above you with his head thrown back as you stroke him for the first time.

It’s been so long, you're not sure how you ever resisted this before. Not with how heavy and warm he is in your fist.

“Hawks,” you moan, sucking at the dip in his collarbone and moving to bite at his nipple. “Hawks, please.”

“I—” you think he might protest but you flick your thumb over the tip and it pours precum to help the slide of your fingers.

He’s already got those powerful arms hooked under your knees, all he has to do is lean forward and sink into that tight, awaiting heat, and he knows it. You can see the resolve cracking.

“Hawks,” you beg again. Because you are begging, that’s what this is.

And he looks at you, drool slipping from the corner of his mouth and brows all bunched up with his head shaking.

“Hawks.”

His hands grip the underside of your thighs and knock your hand from his dick.

“Hawks.”

His forehead comes down to rest against yours, eyes squeezed shut and red at the edges. You feel the sting at the corners as if they were your own.

“Hawks.”

You can only touch him when he’s dying.

Is he dying now?

Are you killing him?

“Hawks.”

His breath hitches, whatever he might have said is long gone when the head of his cock catches against your entrance.

“Hawks—”

He sinks in to the hilt all at once and the last utterance of his name is a yelp. Your walls clamp down hard around the intrusion, so much bigger than his fingers, so hot and long and thick as he pulses inside you.

There are no words after that.

No names, no refusals, just his face pressed up on yours as he pushes your thighs to your chest and rolls his hips, fucking you evenly into the mattress.

Not soft or slow or overly rough.

Though it is all of those things at once as well.

Hawks has always been full of contradictions. It makes sense that this is too.

Both your eyes stay open, lips brushing and sharing breath as he slips a hand back down to your clit and starts those perfect circles up again.

He doesn’t ask you questions now. Just stares in your eyes and sinks his cock into your over and over until you feel fuller, more complete than you ever have in the whole of your life.

There’s no warning leading up to the end. You feel the crest approaching, the coil waiting to snap low in your belly and you don’t dare take your eyes off his face. You need to commit the entirety of this moment to memory. Just in case.

Just in case it never happens again.

Or worse, it happens over and over until it doesn’t.

Until you run out of chances to touch him.

Until he comes to you too far gone.

“Oh fuck,” he mutters and that’s all the warning you get.

All the warning you have the strength to listen to as you tumble over the edge, waves of rolling pleasure burning under your skin. You clench hard around his cock as his hips stutter in their pace, thrusting unevenly as you gush and he spills rope after rope of hot release deep into you.

And you’d been wrong before, because this was full. This was whole, your stilling bodies pressed together at every point with his cock still hard and twitching as your walls milked him of cum that warmed you from the inside out.

This is what you would die for.

***

Later when you stumble into unwilling wakefulness, there are hands tucking a thin sheet over your bare skin.

Hawks has pulled himself from you after resting like you’d told him he should. He’s dressing, though not hurriedly, and you can’t find it in your jelly bones to move or stop him.

You’re both silent, even when he looks down to find your eyes alert and raking over him—costume donned and wings prepared for flight.

His face is drawn in a way that might have been resentment. Maybe towards you for breaking his resolve, maybe at himself for indulging in what he cannot have.

I can’t.

You hear the words as clear as though he’d just said them.

I can’t.

Can’t have you. Can’t forget his purpose. Can’t have gentle things.

Hawks is a villain, first and foremost, above all else and that includes you.

So you don’t move to stop him as he walks softly through your door. You just watch as he makes his way to the open window and perches on the ledge. He does look back, only briefly, to see you draped across the sheets, head resting on your arm and staring at him as he leaves you.

The ghost of that cheeky grin crawls its way onto his face before he tips backwards off the landing and into the night sky. He winks once before the indigo of the night swallows him like the maw of a leviathan. The city has teeth and it will chew him up and spit him back out into your arms soon enough.

So you’re content to wait.

You know this isn’t the last time. That he’ll come back to you as he’s always done. And offer you more and more of himself each time.

Because you can only touch him when he’s dying.

And this world is nothing if not determined to kill him.

So you can keep your purpose.

And by extension, you can keep him.

[zealous-whispers-of-us-redux]

i am (s)he as you are (s)he as you are me

(A/N: listen to "I Am the Walrus" if you want to feel like you took a bunch of LSD, baby. Also, this was not edited to the best of my ability. I am losing my mind.)

SMUT AHEAD

Summary: She bites him, and he knows he's dying, but he's never been happier because he knows that means he is hers forever.

“Are you ready?” she asks Bucky.

He nods, shivering and thrashing around on his back in his wolf form. He whines high in his throat and looks up at her with enormous yellow eyes. Her smile is kind as she kisses Bucky's head and digs her fingers into his fur. He loves it and purrs at his wife, trying his best to flutter his eyelashes in hopes of making her laugh. And when she does, Bucky does too, his heart thumping out an eager rhythm in his chest.

"C'mon," Bucky says through their bond.

“All right. But you have to shift back, baby. It won’t work otherwise,” she says.

Bucky woofs at her to show her he understands. As soon as she climbs off of him, he gets to his feet and focuses on the shift. It hurts less when he turns back into a human, but it’s harder on his body when the moon still shines in the sky instead of the rising sun. He bites back a moan of pain when his spine cracks particularly loudly, and she lets out a soft coo of sympathy at his low whine.

“Buck,” she murmurs.

“'M fine,” he says, panting and flopping down on his hands and knees, “Just give me a minute.”

She sits cross-legged on the forest floor, waiting patiently. Bucky chokes as his stomach rolls, and he coughs, trying to shy away from her and not let her see him like this. No matter what happens between them, he’s still the alpha, and the alpha can never show their omega any weaknesses. They’re virile and robust and not wussies. They can handle pain. They are protectors, not ones who need to be protected, damn it!

Still, it hurts like a bitch, and he knows that she knows it. A cool hand on his sweaty neck and Bucky inches nearer to lay his head on her lap. She brushes his hair away from his eyes, and he shudders at her gentleness as the pain fades away with every brush of her fingertips. Bucky wipes a hand across his forehead and turns his head to glance at her. She smiles at him encouragingly, which Bucky returns as he dances his tongue across his bottom lip hungrily. She quirks an eyebrow and barely has time to make any noise before her alpha launches himself at her.

She stares up at him, unimpressed, and Bucky licks her with a greedy tongue.

“Ew,” she says, though without malice.

Bucky grins and licks her again, on the other cheek this time. He noses at the crook of her neck, and she tilts her head so he can nip at her bond mark. Her hands run all over his body, and his skin burns with each sweep of her cold fingers. Bucky moans and ruts himself against her hip as he starts to purr.

“Please,” he says. “I can’t take it anymore. You gotta bite me ‘fore I lose my fuckin’ mind.”

“Of course," she says, kissing him quickly. "You’ve been so good for me.”

“Yeah?” Bucky says, his voice sounding hopeful.

He craves praise from her; he’s come to discover. He loves it when she calls him her baby, her sweet boy, her beautiful alpha. Bucky wants to wrap himself all up in every word she says until all he knows is her.

“Yes. You’re so pretty, Buck, you know that?"

“You're prettier,” Bucky says, his cheeks warming.

He leans up and kisses her; nibbles at her bottom lip.

“Are you ready?” she asks, once they've broken apart.

Bucky agrees, and she swings herself on top of him.

“Where do you want the bite?” she asks.

“Where else? Right here,” Bucky says, pointing to the exact spot on his neck where the bond mark lays on her own, “’S like your bond mark, ain’t it?”

“Oh,” she says, casting her eyes sideways bashfully, “I suppose it is, isn’t it?”

Bucky presses his thumb into her chin and tilts her head to look him in the eyes. He grins.

“C’mon now, don’t get shy on me, sunshine.”

“I’ve never turned anyone before."

“Never?”

“No. I wouldn’t wish this curse upon my worst enemy.”

Bucky runs his hands up and down her bare arms soothingly.

“It isn’t a curse if I get to spend the rest of my life with ya,” he says.

“You don’t think you’d get sick of me?”

“Sick a’ you? No, honey, never. I’d never get sick a’ ya. Not in a million years. You’re my soulmate, pretty omega. My fuckin’ world. It's you an’ me forever. Don’t ever forget that, okay? There’s no way in hell I’d ever even think about leavin’ ya alone.”

“Okay, Buck.” She kisses his cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you too. So fuckin' much."

“Are you ready? I’ll try to make it as gentle as I can, but my venom may react poorly with your werewolf blood.”

Bucky nods, lifting her hand and kissing the back of it.

"I need you to say it out loud," she says.

“'M ready. I trust you, solnyshko moya."

Bucky turns his head sideways, offering her his neck. She takes a deep breath, and Bucky realizes that she’s shaking from nerves. Don’t get him wrong; he’s nervous too. Some of his pack were not happy hearing that their alpha would be turned into a vamp. Bucky thinks there won’t be a mutiny. At least, not anytime soon, but yes, he’s still a little nervous, but not much. Bucky is nearly two hundred pounds of pure muscle; how painful can it be?

She chews her lip as she looks at him with bright eyes. Bucky tucks strands of hair behind her ears and runs his hands along her sides soothingly.

“Baby," he starts, cracking a smile. She looks so serious.

“Shush, I’m trying to work up the nerve,” she mumbles around her fangs.

“I can count to three?”

“Stop mocking me. This is an important thing, Buck.”

“I know it is!"

“Then shut up.”

“Well, get on with it, Mrs. Barnes, ‘cause I really wanna start practicin’ makin’ pups with you.”

“Gods, fine, you asked for it, you jerk," she says crossly.

Slowly (much too slowly for Bucky’s taste), she leans over him, lapping at the skin of his neck. With a little hiss, she sinks her teeth into his neck. Bucky howls, wiggling around in her hold, but she is too strong, pushing down on his limbs to keep him still. She drinks and drinks and drinks, more than she usually does, and Bucky woofs weakly as his vision starts to go fuzzy at the edges.

“I’m sorry, Buck,” she says through their bond.

He thinks he tells her to keep going, but his thoughts are listless, and he can’t even move his lips. His heart rate is slowing down. He’s pretty sure he’s dying, but he’s not scared. She’s there, soothing him. Through their bond, she’s singing to him a Russian lullaby he sings to her whenever she wakes up from a nightmare. It’s peaceful. Bucky follows her voice down, down, down, down, into the darkness. Her eyes observe him as his flutter closed.

Then it's ice as her venom fills his body.

Burning ice races through his veins, so cold that it makes him feel as though his skin has burst into flames. His eyes burst open, and he howls, bucking his hips, and she flies off of him with a cry of surprise.

Bucky growls, tearing at his skin. He wants it out! Tear him apart, rip it out, destroy it! It hurts, it hurts, it freezes, it burns! Make it stop, make it stop! It hurts worse than turning on a new moon. It hurts worse than when his omega is away from him, hurts worse than losing a packmate, hurts worse than getting cut with a silver knife. It's so much pain, and Bucky wants to die already! Gods, how the fuck did his sweet omega go through this? She’s so small!

Bucky moans, reaching for her, wanting to tell her how sorry he is that she had to go through this with such a terrible vamp who didn’t care about her. She comes closer to him, and Bucky grasps her wrist in his hands as he moans. His omega tries her best to purr the way he does, and he leans into the sound, pressing his face against her knee and inhaling her scent. Fuck, why is it taking so long? Just let him fucking die. Bucky chokes, coughing up something slimy.

Is that his fuckin' heart?

“It’s not your heart, baby,” she comforts, sounding miles away.

Bucky howls at the sky. He feels as though he’s descended straight into Hell. Won’t his Ma be pissed when she hears that? This is torture, and it’s lasting for ages and ages and ages, please just fucking let him die, please. He can’t take it anymore. Where is a fucking silver bullet when you need one? Where are the werewolf hunters? Please, someone, kill him now. It’s too much, too much, too fucking much---

Then it’s over as quickly as it began. Bucky’s thoughts clear, the pain fades, giving him time to relax into the ground. Then it cuts through him again, sharp and bright, the hunger she had told him to expect. He never thought it would be like this, almost as bad as the pain of the change, but instead of him feeling like he is sinking into darkness, all of his senses are on high alert, and his skin feels like it is getting pricked with tiny needles. He hears a little heartbeat near his face and blindly reaches towards the source. The squirrel chitters at him as Bucky brings it to his mouth and drains it dry. But it isn’t enough. Bucky throws the dead squirrel on the ground and whines, gazing up at his omega.

“’M starvin’,” he croaks.

“Okay,” she says so kindly that Bucky feels tears welling up in his eyes. “I got you, baby. Don’t worry, okay?”

Her wrist is already bleeding, and she offers it to Bucky. He licks his cracked lips and reaches up to latch his mouth onto her skin. He drinks and drinks, aware of nothing but her blood in his mouth and her hand petting his hair.

"There you go. Take as much as you want. I don't need it, anyway," she says.

She is so sweet to him. Bucky holds her wrist firmly to his mouth with one hand and lifts her over him with the other. He’s not used to feeling cold like this, but her body is still colder than he is as she curls herself around him the best that she can as he continues to drink. Stopping is more complicated than he thought it would be, but he eventually can pull himself away from her already healing wrist. He licks his new fangs clean, and she kisses the blood from his lips.

“Did you get enough?” she asks.

“Yeah," Bucky nuzzles her. "Thanks."

“Always. I'm glad to help. How do you feel?"

He considers.

"I dunno, the same, I guess."

"You want to have sex, or are you too tired?"

Bucky narrows his eyes to see if she is teasing him. She looks back at him, poker-faced, but Bucky knows her.

"How dare you?" he says, rolling them over.

"It's a difficult thing for your body to go through!" she defends.

Bucky nips her nose. "I'm an alpha. I'm tough as fuck."

"It was an honest question. I really was like eighty percent serious."

"Uh-huh, sure."

"I was!"

"Right."

They stare each other down.

"Okay, fine, sixty-five percent," she relents.

Bucky smacks his lips. "Mhm."

"Fine, forty percent serious, okay?"

"I thought so," says Bucky, lifting her legs over his shoulders. "Now, are you gonna lemme knock you up?"

"You have such a thing for this. Why?"

“It’s every alpha’s dream to see their omega pregnant, an’ you’d be the prettiest one. The most beautiful now, but imaginin’ you like that? It drives me fuckin' nuts thinkin' about it. You ever been before?"

"No, but I never wanted it before."

"An' you wan' it with me?" Bucky confirms.

When she says yes, he cannot help the happy growl that punches out of his mouth. He tilts his head up to the sky and bays until she presses a laughing kiss to his lips to shut him up.

"Better fuck me good, so it takes," she murmurs.

Grinning, Bucky grabs her wrists and slams them over her head, holding her down as he thrusts inside.

"Gonna take care a' you so fuckin' good," he swears.

She drags her nails down Bucky's back as he begins to move. And, shit, the sex just got so much better. Bucky is going to die all over again. She feels so good that this shit has to be illegal.

"Harder, Buck, come on," she urges.

“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky says, moving his hips even faster and pressing her into the ground. “You gonna take my knot like a good omega? I can’t wait to see what you look like all big with my pups. Fuck, I‘m gonna come already. See what you do to me, my beautiful omega?”

“You too, Buck."

Bucky preens.

“My good girl. You're all mine, ain’t ya? This pussy is mine. An' my knot is all yours, as many times as you wan' it."

"Yeah," she mumbles, her eyes closed. "You're all mine."

"'M gonna fuck you so full every day ‘til it catches. You’d never want anythin’ else, baby. I promise. I'll keep you safe forever,” Bucky says.

“Buck, please."

“Need a little more?” Bucky thumbs at her clit. “You gonna come for me, Mrs. Barnes?"

"Mm," she says, opening her eyes and pinning him into place with the force of her gaze.

“You're all mine, just for me," Bucky babbles. "You’re finally all mine.”

“And you're mine."

“Forever, my sweet little sun.”

Bucky chokes on his next exhale as she tightens her muscles around him. His hips stutter in their rhythm as she does it again, tugging the ends of his hair.

"Stop it," he warns.

She does it a third time, and Bucky growls, snapping his teeth warningly. Undeterred, she squeezes him a fourth time, even harder still, and Bucky pulls out. She makes a soft noise of frustration, reaching for him.

Bucky climbs to his knees and pats his thighs to get her to come over. It takes her a minute to find herself, but she eventually sits up and moves, facing away from him. Bucky can't help himself and slaps her ass, and she jumps, startled. He hits the other once just as hard, and to his delight, Bucky watches as it turns a different color. It seems like he can leave a mark on her now. This just got a lot more interesting.

Bucky gets his arms underneath her and hauls her back until she’s sitting on his dick again, backward. It’s her way of presenting to him without actually presenting. Bucky prefers a compromise since the position offers up every part of her body that his greedy fingers can reach. Her knees sit on either side of his thighs as they start moving with each other, slower this time. Their hips roll, stomachs contract, muscles clench, and Bucky wraps a possessive hand around her breast. He puts his lips, swollen from their kisses, on her neck as he makes love to his fucking beautiful wife.

"I can mark you up now," Bucky purrs happily. "D'you want that?"

"Please, can you?" she asks.

"Oh, darlin', we are gonna have so much fuckin' fun," Bucky promises, sucking on the skin behind her ear.

Much to his delight, he's left a nice hickey that shows exactly where he's been. Bucky does it again and again until he has fit as many as he can fit. She arches her back and curls her fingers around his head with a soft cry of his name.

"They look so gorgeous, honey," Bucky murmurs. "I can't wait 'till you see yourself wearin' my mark. You close?"

"Yeah."

"Want my knot?"

"Yeah."

“How much? How much do ya want it?”

“I want it so much, please, Buck."

“Well, since you asked so nicely. But you first, sunshine. Always you first, you know my rule. Get me all wet.”

She takes the hand that Bucky had placed on her thigh and slides both of their fingers down the curve of her hip and between her legs. Bucky circles her clit with his fingertips, pinching and rubbing hard, just the way she likes. Her muscles tense, and she yelps his name, loud enough that Bucky preens.

“Let go for me, honey,” he whispers in her ear. “Gimme what I want.”

Her orgasm is a slow wave, surging over her so strongly that she loses herself. Bucky growls as he feels her. She wiggles her hips as much as she can to prolong his thrusting, making him curse and sink his teeth into her neck. She collapses in a heap of tiny whimpers as Bucky continues playing with her clit, pleasured purrs of contentment rumbling through his chest.

“One more for me,” Bucky coaxes because she’s still teetering on edge, and it’s driving him wild. "One more, pretty omega. Come for me one more time."

She gets so very dizzy with it, and her entire body vibrates as though she’d just touched a live wire. Bucky’s over-sensitive dick twitches, and he allows himself to let go as his knot locks them together. He comes in one long howl of delirious pleasure, his fingers gripping her body tight. She moans as she feels his release inside her, her head rolling around on his chest as Bucky soothes her with careful sweeps of his fingers.

“My sweet 'mega,” Bucky says drowsily, “You're the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I'm the luckiest alpha in the world to have you. I love ya so fuckin’ much.”

“I love you too,” she says, leaning herself into Bucky. “And now you’re stuck with me, Mr. Barnes.”

“I sure am, Mrs. Barnes. An’ I can’t wait for our forever. Can you see it? You, me, an’ our seven pups!”

"Seven? I thought that was a joke."

“Nope,” Bucky says, his eyes going dreamy, “Let's have seven pups. There will be three little me’s and four little you’s, sweet as anythin’ just like their Ma.”

“What, are we making our own baseball team here? You want seven kids?”

“A baseball team has nine players, darlin',” Bucky corrects.

He leans back against a tree stump and gets her comfortable as they wait for his knot to deflate.

“Yeah, I’m not having seven kids, Bucky.”

“Six then,” he suggests.

Her eyes narrow.

“I am not bartering with you on how many kids we’re going to have.”

“How ‘bout five. I'm good with five.”

“We haven’t even raised an animal together, and you want five kids?”

“Fine, fine, fine,” says Bucky as he figures everything out in his head, “What about four? That’s a good number. Two me’s, and two you’s.”

“Um,” she says.

“My ma had four kids. Granted, she coulda had more if my dad didn’t die when my littlest sister was just a pup.  But I always told ‘er I’d give her a lotta grand-pups. You sure you don’t want seven?” Bucky nuzzles her hair with his nose.

“Um,” she says again. “I’m sure. I was an only child, remember?"

“'Kay, here's an idea,” Bucky decides. “We can start with one an’ see how we feel. Better?”

“Better, thanks.”

“Anythin’ for you, baby. We’re married now, an’ I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable."

“Yeah, I know. Thanks."

"Just, you know, lemme know when you want a pup, okay? I can make it happen."

She laughs. "If it didn't already."

"Hey, we still have twelve days of our honeymoon left. Who knows what'll happen in that time?" Bucky says.

[ibijau]

xisang, 46?

Choosing someone else over them

Sitting on the other side of a table covered with food, Nie Huaisang appears deep in thought, something not infrequent these days. Although Lan Xichen ought to be proud of him for trying to be less impulsive, he rather misses the silly, capricious young man his lover used to be. It always made Nie Mingjue so upset that his brother appeared incapable of any serious thought, but Lan Xichen had treasured it, this last innocent among his acquaintances. The last of them to still be free, at least to a degree, but now even Nie Huaisang has lost his candour and must bend his neck to the demands of politics.

In the years since Nie Mingjue’s death, Lan Xichen has come to the Unclean Realm as often as he’s been able to. Too much, according to some Lan elders. Not enough, his disquieted soul says every time he gets there again and finds Nie Huaisang a little thinner, a little paler. Along with his innocence, he has lost the last few traces of childhood’s roundness that had clung to his face. He is more handsome like this, but less like himself.

Tonight, as always when Lan Xichen is visit and there are no other guests to entertain, the two of them have retired in Nie Huaisang’s quarters to dine in private. The room, which used to be decorated with many trinkets, is still bare. Nie Mingjue’s uncontrollable rage destroyed so much, and his death never gave his brother a chance to restart his collection. It is another way in which things have changed, another thing Lan Xichen wants to correct and return to normal. He brings what small presents he can when he visits, just as he makes sure that Nie Huaisang, at least in his presence, eats to satiety. It is an innocent joy to be found in his lover’s presence… at least, when Nie Huaisang allows it.

Tonight, he refuses to eat, even when Lan Xichen, in a playful mood, offers to trade kisses for it. Food has held less appeal to Nie Huaisang in recent months, but he has always been weak to tender gestures. It is how Lan Xichen started taking notice of him, a sweet boy his brother’s age, but much more generous with his affection than Lan Wangji had ever been. It is deep in Nie Huaisang’s nature to touch and be touched, to crave any form of contact, or at least so Lan Xichen always assumed. If this too has changed…

Lan Xichen isn’t fond of change, but he is very fond of Nie Huaisang, and hoping all of this is just temporary, that things will return to normal once his lover settles into his new role.

Shaking his head slightly to chase away unpleasant thoughts, Lan Xichen puts back in his bowl the piece of mushroom he’d been trying to feed his lover, and sets down his chopsticks.

“Will you share what’s on your mind then, if it makes it impossible for you to eat?”

Nie Huaisang shrugs. He has his elbow on the table, his chin resting on his hand, a near pout on his lips. Lan Xichen ought to make a remark about manners, but this carelessness is enough like before to be not only tolerated but enjoyed.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about da-ge lately,” Nie Huaisang says, and then doesn’t elaborate.

It used to be near impossible to shut him up, and now he’s so careful with his words. Sometimes Lan Xichen can still get him to blabber a little, but more and more frequently even he gets hit in the face by a barrage of ‘I don’t know’ if a conversation goes on too long.

“What about da-ge?” Lan Xichen insists.

Rather than to answer, Nie Huaisang observes him a moment. There’s a sharpness in his eyes that matches the new sharpness of his features. Lan Xichen misses the lost softness, even when he knows it is unkind of him.

Nie Huaisang looks away, and fiddles with his fan. “It’s just that it’s so odd, the way he died. I know he was unwell, but I wonder… I’ve done research, you know?”

Lan Xichen chuckles. “Have you now?”

His lover’s eyes dart toward him, throwing daggers.

“And why not? Am I more stupid than others?” Nie Huaisang snaps. “My brother dies so suddenly, even when he did everything he was supposed to prevent it, can’t I wonder if someone didn’t use the state he was in to hide something more sinister? He had plenty of enemies after all!”

“I’m sure few men would dare have called themselves his enemy,” Lan Xichen counters, surprised by this sudden fit of anger.

“They sure didn’t have the guts to say it out loud,” Nie Huaisang mutters to himself, before raising his voice again. “You can’t act like he didn’t disrupt things for certain people,” Nie Huaisang accuses. “Not when some people profited so well from his death.”

A frown forms on Lan Xichen’s brow.

“What are you trying to say?”

Nie Huaisang hesitates, and opens his fan, almost like a shield. His expression, or as much of it as Lan Xichen can see right now, is cold and calculating, entirely unlike the young man Lan Xichen once fell in love with.

How much can grief change a person? Even Lan Wangji, devastated and wounded, nearly dying after his own loss, hasn’t turned into a stranger the way Nie Huaisang sometimes feels now.

Nie Huaisang who takes a deep breath, and uses what little resolve he possesses to speak again.

“I’m saying that someone saw da-ge was unwell, murdered him, and blamed it on his unstable Qi. Am I speaking plainly enough for you, Zewu-Jun?”

It is more than plain enough, even if even now, Nie Huaisang isn’t saying all of it. Lan Xichen’s hands clench into fists over his knees.

To make use of Nie Mingjue’s state, a murderer would have needed to know about it. The Nie are private people who don’t share more than they must. An attack would have needed to come either from within (unlikely, when Nie Mingjue was beloved by his sect) or from the very few outsiders in whom Nie Mingjue confided his trouble. Lan Xichen knows, of course, that he did cause any harm to his sworn brother, and Nie Huaisang must know it as well, because he’s too clever to confront him so directly without proof… and such proof cannot exist, since Lan Xichen did nothing.

The accusation, then, must be directed at Jin Guangyao.

It isn’t that Lan Xichen cannot see why some suspicion would arise. Jin Guangyao and Nie Mingjue were hardly on good terms toward the end, both of them always complaining about the other whenever Lan Xichen was alone with one of them. And with Jin Guangshan in the middle of a dispute with Nie Mingjue over the punishment given to Xue Yang, with Jin Guangyao often coming to the Unclean Realm to play Cleansing, there is both a motive and an occasion.

Perhaps if the accusation came from someone else, Lan Xichen would consider listening. Perhaps not. Jin Guangyao, so recently risen to lead Lanling Jin after his father died from his excesses, has attracted many enemies, and Lan Xichen has been forced again and again to side with him against those who would have used his origins to tarnish his reputation.

The question is irrelevant, because the accusation, coming from Nie Huaisang, cannot be anything but ridiculous. Lan Xichen loves the man dearly, or perhaps just the memory of what he so recently used to be, but he doesn’t allow that affection to make him blind. Nie Huaisang, is many things, and he can even be quite clever on occasions, but he’s still not particularly smart.

“I think if your brother had been murdered, someone would have noticed,” Lan Xichen says with cold politeness. “I saw his body, as did others. There were no marks of wounds, nor of any poisons.”

“Someone knowing about his state could have easily edged him on to make things worse,” Nie Huaisang points out, burning eyes peeking out from behind his fan.

“By that logic, you could be called a murderer,” Lan Xichen retorts calmly. “His biggest disputes were usually with you, weren’t they?”

Upon hearing this argument, Nie Huaisang freezes, eyes widening in horror just as his face turns deathly pale. His shock is such that he even drops his fan, revealing a mouth slack with stupefaction.

“Zewu-Jun, you…”

“I’m not blaming you for what happened,” Lan Xichen adds. “I’ve told that enough times, what happened would have happened even if the two of you had gotten along better. But just as you cannot be held responsible for your brother’s fate, neither can Jin Guangyao.”

“So you won’t listen to me at all?”

“Not unless you have some more serious proof than this to offer to me,” Lan Xichen says. Then, not wanting to appear too cold to the man he does still love, and who has had a rough year, he adds: “If you do have anything that can prove what you say, then I’ll listen. And if that proof is strong enough, of course I will side with you and help you get justice for your brother.”

An easy promise to make, when Lan Xichen knows that there was no foul play. Nie Mingjue himself had been preparing for his death since the Sunshot Campaign, resigned to an early end. This conspiracy Nie Huaisang is inventing is just a new way to try and deal with a loss that took only him by surprise.

Nie Huaisang’s fan rises again.

“No, I don’t suppose I have proof,” he says, careful and sharp. “I think I’m just tired. I think I’ll ask you to go back to your room, Zewu-Jun.”

“Are you sure? I don’t mind staying, even if all we do is sleep,” Lan Xichen says. It isn’t a lie. He does enjoy holding Nie Huaisang in bed, feeling the warmth of another body in his arms. “If you’d like, I can even play you something so you’ll rest better.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Nie Huaisang snaps.

“You’re angry at me.”

“I’m not!” Nie Huaisang hisses, to which Lan Xichen only has to raise an eyebrow for his lover to roll his eyes. “Or maybe I am! I don’t know how I feel about anything, I don’t know, I just don’t know. Is that better? I don’t know how I feel, I don’t know what I know. I just know that I want you to leave me alone. Can’t I have this at least?”

Lan Xichen’s fists clench tighter, but he forces his smile to remain mellow.

“As you wish, of course. I’ll see you tomorrow, Huaisang.”

Nie Huaisang only shrugs. He doesn’t rise from the table, doesn’t follow Lan Xichen to the door, doesn’t beg for a kiss the way he always used to do. Lan Xichen doesn’t remark on it and leaves the room.

As he walks, he tells himself that it isn’t a surprise if things took such a turn. Their affection went through some rough patches already when the war broke, when Lan Xichen became sect leader and found himself with much less free time, most of which he’d spent with his sworn brothers at first, until they all found a balance. This new change might just be the last drop for them. If it comes to that, Lan Xichen will mourn what they had once, while knowing also that meeting and parting is only another part of life.

He tells himself, also, that he will not share with Jin Guangyao those suspicions Nie Huaisang mentioned. His sworn brother would be too hurt that even one of his few friends would think that way of him.

[obxparadise]

Habits

Rafe Cameron

Word count: 2,670

~Rafe Cameron’s drug addiction becomes too much for him to handle~

Song: Habits by Machine Gun Kelly

Warning: This is a pretty deep fic. It includes drug use and death by overdose/heart attack. It’s not too graphic, but a warning was needed. 

A/N: Drop a comment if you enjoyed and reblog :) 

*GIF is NOT mine, found on Google. Creds to the owner*

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Complicated

Frustrated

Underestimated

Can’t sleep, mind racing

Hard to stay concentrated

2017: Alcohol dependence.

2018: Cocaine addiction.

2019: Spiraling into insanity.

Hair follicles flutter to the floor, lying beside sharp shards of glass hiding in the bedroom rug. Rafe’s hands tangle in his hair, tugging, tugging. Eyes flicker between a bottle of bourbon and three perfectly measured white lines on the windowsill. Black Veil Brides blares through the speakers at full volume, but he can’t focus on the lyrics as his father’s words are loud in his brain.

Disappointment.

Worthless.

Good for nothing.

Addict.

The veins in his neck are throbbing, working in overdrive to pump blood through his body. His hands find the sides of his neck, squeezing, head falling back, eyes concentrating on the spinning fan hanging from the ceiling.

Round and round and round it goes. His eyes follow, blinking rapidly, until he tears them away, unable to focus for another second longer. Open palms drag down his face and he lets out a heavy breath that morphs into a dark laugh.

He isn’t a fucking disappointment.

He isn’t worthless.

He isn’t a good for nothing.

And he certainly isn’t an addict.

And if he was, that was the result of an overbearing, abusive father.

It all came down to pressure.

Pressure to be perfect.

Pressure to fit in.

Pressure to please his dad.

Rafe needed an escape from his father. From reality. Everything became too overwhelming. He couldn’t sit back and press pause or rewind or do over. But when the liquor flooded his veins and his nostrils absorbed the cocaine, time stopped. His responsibilities, his life outside of the drugs, ceased to exist.

Sweat drips down his body as he rubs his hands together. A cold shower would fix that no problem, but it would wake him up. Sober him up. He doesn’t fucking want to be sober.

He laughs at the bottle of bourbon that’s dying to be used. It sits there, teasing him. And Rafe gives in, flicking off the cap, downing a quarter of the liquid. It used to burn, but he’s immune to any sort of pain.

He eyes the three white lines next, licking his lips, craving another high. His heart races as he kneels in front of the windowsill. Rolled up beside the lines is a dollar bill and he grabs it, making each line disappear after it. He snorts, snorts, snorts, until there’s not a trace left behind.

The effects don’t happen immediately, but when they hit, they crash hard. His pupils dilate. Blood pressure rises alarmingly. He giggles one minute, and is irritable the next. And as the high wears off, he takes another long swig of bourbon. Over and over. A repeat of a vicious never ending cycle.

Rafe barely hears the pounding on his bedroom door over the music. Ward Cameron lets himself in, face twisting with rage. “Rafe. Rafe!”

He spins around, blood rushing to his ears, baring his teeth as venom drips from his voice. Is this a hallucination? Or is Ward really there?

The bottle is clutched between his fingers and his palm, suffocating in his grip. The mere sight of his father changes his mood instantly. Once pleasant, now violent. “Get out!”

The bottle barely sails over Ward’s head, crashing into the door behind him, shattering to the floor. Rafe’s hands are balled at his side, sucking in sharp breaths as Ward watches his son in disgust, horror, a combination of the two.

When the door closes, the tears fall. Rafe’s body warms, clenching and unclenching his fists. Frustration boils in his blood. His brain is racing, all with thoughts of pure hatred for his father.

Calm. He needs to be calm.

He stalks toward his bed, and as his head hits the pillow, his body relaxes.

Rafe closes his eyes, but he knows he won’t sleep.

He never does.

I fell in love with a very bad habit

But I feel alive for the very first time

“You have a problem.”

“Yeah, and it’s you. Now get the fuck out of my room.”

It was in Sarah’s nature to care, even about her brother, but Rafe wished she wouldn’t.

He kneels beside his bed, emptying the bag of cocaine on a silver platter resting on the night stand. The sight makes Rafe’s mouth water and he fishes inside his wallet for his debit card, splitting the powder into even lines.

“Nineteen years old and addicted to cocaine. You’re going places, Rafe.” Sarah taunts, slouching against the window as she watches her older brother’s descent into darkness. She has no idea just how bad her brother’s addiction is.

He ignores her, fidgeting with the rolled-up bill between his thumb and forefinger. The first line disappears from the plate, and he wipes the excess from his nose with the back of his wrist.

“So that’s it? You’re just gonna sit there and snort coke in front of your little sister? What the hell is wrong with you, Rafe?”

“Sarah, until you experience the kind of pressure I’ve been under for the last three years, you don’t get to judge how I handle it.”

Another line disappears.

“Have you ever thought of something rational? Like I don’t know, maybe therapy?” Sarah suggests in a sarcastic tone.

He chuckles darkly. “I don’t fucking need therapy. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“You know, we used to talk about things,” Sarah whispers, doing her best to try and distract her brother. But the only thing on Rafe’s mind is how badly he wants to be high. “I looked up to you. Now I don’t even know you.”

Another line vanishes.

“Rafe, please just stop.”

One more fades.

“Rafe, stop.”

Another one.

“Rafe, stop!”

And then he collapses.

~

Three sets of eyes stare down at him, one of which belongs to Sarah, but the other two he doesn’t recognize until someone speaks to him. “Young man, we’d like to take you to the hospital.”

Paramedics.

Fuck.

He blinks once, twice, eyes darting from his panicked sister to the stone-faced EMTs who probably had better things to do than to tend to a nineteen-year-old addict who shouldn’t be doing drugs in the first place.

“Is he going to be okay?” Sarah questions, tears welling up in her eyes as she grabs Rafe’s hand, clutching it to her chest. “Rafe, can you hear me? They want to take you to the hospital.”

“No.” A chill shoots up his spine as he opens his mouth, voice hoarse. His answer requires no hesitation. “I’m not going. Help me sit up.”

“Rafe-“

But his body falls back against the floor as he begins to shudder violently. Rafe’s eyes flit around the room, inhaling deep breaths as he tries to find something to focus his attention on, but his brain is screaming for him to find his next fix. Words from Sarah and the EMTs go in and out of his hearing, and he flinches as two sets of hands hold down his arms and legs. The tremors explode through his body and Sarah covers her face, crying frantically into her palms.

“It’s alright ma’am. He’s just experiencing withdrawal symptoms. This usually happens after someone is given Narcan. He’ll be okay in a minute.” The male EMT informs, hoping to put Sarah at ease.

When the tremors dissipate, the paramedics assist Rafe to a sitting position. He’s weak, he’s tired, his throat is scratchy, and blood trickles from his nose. Rafe glances up at his sister, and his heart squeezes in his chest as he watches her cry. For the first time in his life, he feels guilty.

“We cannot take you to the hospital without your consent. So, if you’d like to go, it’s best we take you now.”

Rafe shakes his head and looks toward Sarah, but his words are directed to the EMTs. “No, I’m-I’m fine. I’d like to be alone with my sister.”

~

Rafe’s shoulders fall dejectedly as he huffs out a breath, watching as Sarah flushes the rest of the cocaine down the toilet. He’s seen his sister sad, angry, hurt, but never in full blown panic mode. Her cheeks are stained by old waterworks, and her eyes shine bright with unshed tears. Sarah’s lip trembles as she tries to keep from losing her cool, and Rafe worries if he’s made a huge mistake.

They sit across from each other on the bed, Sarah playing with her fingers as Rafe stares at his sister. He doesn’t know what to say.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” his voice leaves in a whisper, and he reaches out to touch his sister’s arm, but she pulls away. “Sarah, please.”

“Don’t.”

He throws his head back. “That’s the first and only time I’ve ever OD’ed. It happens.”

Sarah’s face twists in disgust, mouthing hanging open. “What you should’ve said is that will be the last time you overdose, Rafe, as in you’re going to fucking quit.”

“Come on, Sarah-.”

“Why did you even start?” Sarah queries, hugging her arms. Her voice is small, timid, and she avoids looking at her brother. “Help me understand why people like you, who have everything they could possibly want, resort to drugs and throw their lives away.”

The question stuns him, but he won’t hide the truth. He owes it to her, even if it sounds pathetic. “Because of dad.”

“Oh, no,” Sarah breathes, shaking her head. “Don’t you dare blame your damn problems on dad.”

“It’s true!” He reaches over and grabs Sarah’s arms, holding her in place. “You don’t hear the shit he says to me when you’re not around. Worthless. Disappointment. Useless. Good for nothing. I walk on eggshells around him, Sarah. I can’t do anything or say anything without sparking some sort of argument. For the last three years, I have felt nothing. But now,” his laugh is deflated, shoulders slumped forward. “Now I feel alive.”

“Yeah, well guess what?” Sarah fires back, sliding off the bed. She glances back at her brother sadly. She doesn’t even know him anymore. “Tomorrow you might not be.”

I don’t wanna die

But I don’t, I don’t wanna hide

Or keep shit inside

Rafe finds himself barging into the worn out trailer, ignoring Barry’s protests for him to get the fuck out of his home. He beelines for Barry’s bedroom, tossing pillows, opening drawers and closets, until he finally spots the handgun poking out from underneath the bed.

It’s been two days since his overdose and Sarah’s words have been at the forefront of his brain.

Tomorrow you might not be.

Tomorrow you might not be.

All of the emotions he felt the previous two nights come rushing back, hitting him square in the chest, leaving him breathless. He was so close to death, so close. The cocaine had almost taken his life. He wouldn’t let it, though. Rafe would not let the thing he loved most be the cause of his death. He loved the drug, and the drug loved him back. It wouldn’t hurt him. Not again.

“Bro, what the fuck?” Barry’s voice rings out in his room, jolting Rafe from his thoughts. He grabs the gun from beneath the bed, eyes rushing from Barry to the weapon. “Bro put that shit back. That ain’t something to play with.”

Disappointment.

Worthless.

Good for nothing.

Angry tears fall from his eyes as he clutches the gun tight in his hand. His body begins to tremble. From rage? From withdrawal? Fuck. He hasn’t had coke in two days. Barry swallows nervously, afraid of what contemplations are going through Rafe’s head.

Disappointment.

Worthless.

Good for nothing.

The words are loud in his head, deafening, and for a second, just a second, Rafe believes them. He thrusts the gun into Barry’s hands and surrenders. “Kill me.”

Barry blinks. “Are you fucking with me, country club?”

“I said kill me!” His voice is piercing, laced with rage, hurt, despair, hopelessness. “I can’t-I won’t-I’m just a fuck up-He’ll never love me-I can’t-I just want-.”

Rafe sputters as he tumbles to the ground on his knees, body deflating. His sobs echo through the trailer, full of pain and devastation. No, he doesn’t want to die. He just wants the pain to end. “I just want it to go away, man,” he cries, hugging his knees to his chest, rocking back and forth. “I just want it to go away.”

“A’ight bro, I get that. You good, you good.” Barry coaxes, setting the gun aside. He lowers himself to the floor, a good distance away from Rafe, but close enough to grab the gun in case he has any irrational spilt second choices. “You gave me a heart attack though, bro. Shit.”

Licking his dry lips, Rafe runs a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, man. I just-fuck. I didn’t know where else to go.”

“What’s going on?” Barry asks, rolling his neck, cracking his knuckles.

Rafe releases a strangled breath. “I OD’ed man. I fucking OD’ed.”

“Shit,” Barry groans, hanging his head. “Look man, you gotta watch yourself. I ain’t tryin’ to be responsible for your death, you got me?”

Rafe nods. “I fucked up, bro. I’ve been fucking up for years.”

“Is this ‘bout your dad again? Bro, how many times I gotta say it? Fuck him. He ain’t worth getting this messed up about.” Barry answers, nudging Rafe’s leg with his foot. “He gets to you ‘cause you let ‘em. You’ll be free once you stop giving a fuck about him, what he thinks, what he wants you to be.”

And that’s all Rafe wanted.

To be free.

I wanna run away, yeah

I don’t wanna stay here

Rafe finds himself back in his room, head resting against the door as Ward bangs his fist on the other side. He’s persistent, pounding and pounding and pounding.

“I want you out of this house, Rafe!” Ward yells. “You hear me? Out!”

If only Sarah had kept her mouth shut about the overdose.

Rafe listens as his father’s footsteps disappear down the hall, and he puffs out a strangled breath. He’s entirely defeated. He feels nothing. Not pain. Not rage. He’s fully numb.

He wants to run, but where to? He can’t just disappear, no matter how much he wants to. There’s nowhere to go, but Rafe knows one thing. He can’t stay here.

His eyes flicker to the untouched vial of powder on his nightstand. It calls to him and he responds, heading in the direction of the stand. He kneels, opens the vial, and empties it onto the wood, dividing it evenly.

Rafe takes one look at the drug, the source of his happiness, the love of his life, and sighs. “I can’t stay here. There’s nothing left for me.”

And he doesn’t mean in his home.

No, he means on Earth.

For the last time, Rafe grabs the dollar bill, a single tear slipping down his cheeks. Bending down closer to the stand, he snorts a line, savoring in the instant high. He’d miss the feeling. Feeling happy. Feeling important. Feeling on top of the world.

He snorts three more lines easily.

But the last two he struggles.

The sensation overwhelms him and he pulls away from the nightstand.

Something drips from his nose.

Blood.

It slides down his lips, his chin, and he doesn’t bother wiping it away.

He can’t breathe.

He tries to swallow, but his throat is closing and his nostrils are clogged.

He’s dizzy, vision blurring.

He panics.

And then he cries.

But his cries are cut short as his chest constricts.

Rafe’s hand flies to his chest, attempting to clutch his heart through his sweat-stained polo, now gasping for air.

He collapses.

He tries to call out for help, but his voice is barely a whisper.

His back hits the floor and he lies there, helpless, crying, in pain, and alone.

Time passes.

The pressure in his chest surges.

But then it stops.

And just like that, he’s free.

[angelguk]

» you come in waves - a jeon jeongguk drabble

Jeon Jeongguk - BTS

words - 4k

genre + warnings - smut, werewolf!au, there’s angst if you close your eyes a wee bit and turn the fic upside down, oral (f receiving), pool sex, handjobs, scenting, werewolves aren’t known in this universe

soundtrack - normani ft 6lack, waves

It’s a lazy midsummer’s afternoon and the humid air is pasting itself on to Jeongguk’s skin. He leans backward, relaxing against the poolside chair that he didn’t know existed until Seokjin dragged it out from the dark depths of their storage unit. His legs are draped down the sides of the chair, stretched far apart, an optimum position for aeration. Which is desperately needed because he feels like his balls are gluing themselves together. It should be impossible for the temperate to rise like this, yet here he was, sweltering in the thirty-four-degree sun. It didn’t help that his own body temperate ran higher than most peoples. Not even ditching his usual plain white shirt and going commando beneath the swimming trunks he’s sluggishly adorned was aiding his situation. Jeongguk had quickly come to the startlingly realization that summer sucked. A lot. 

His throat feels like sandpaper as he swallows, craving something cool to quench the furnace scorching his insides and outsides. The sudden reminder of the promise Taehyung had made to bring everyone drinks drifts across his dazed mind. For a moment he considers screaming out his roommate’s name, but then he remembers that requires energy – which he doesn’t have. So, instead, he opts to wait it out, hoping that Taehyung won’t leave him out here to dry up into a husk.

He doesn’t know which of his senses pick up on your first. It almost feels as if your presence bombards him. One minute he can barely breathe, heaving through the stagnant clammy air and trying his best to overlook the sheen of sweat clinging to his skin. The next inhale makes his skin crawl. Even with no breeze, your scent reaches him with ease. It’s the rich wisps of peaches and the heavy aroma of cream that he’d become so acquainted with that had him instantly alert. Almost simultaneously, his keen hearing picked up of the cheery laughter slipping from your lips. The sound blossoms in his chest, leaving his heart pounding in his ears and his hands sticky.

He doesn’t move, paralyzed by both the overwhelming heat and the staggering awareness of your presence.

Then he makes the mistake to open his eyes.

The first thing he sees is blinding sunlight, small dots dancing before his vision. Those swiftly fade away as his gaze trails towards the sound of your voice. He sees Taehyung first, holding the promised drinks in his hands. Yoona comes second, walking steadily beside him down the sun-beaten path that leads to the patio he was situated at. She’s wearing an oversized t-shirt and wide smile as she chats with Taehyung. He knows that smile isn’t as innocent as it seems but wants astounding to him is the fact that he hadn’t even been able to smell them.  Even with his abilities, he hadn’t been able to sense their presence because of you.  

When he finally has to the courage to glance in your direction, Jeongguk combusts.

Skin. So much fucking skin. He doesn’t even bother to hide his blatant staring. There’s so much of you to take in that his brain short circuits for a moment, incapable of processing the scene dumped before him. When he recovers he’s suddenly sitting upright, crouching over the raging tent in his swimming trucks with a scowl etched on his face.

Unlike Yoona, you’d decided to forgo clothes altogether. The only thing keeping you from strutting around in your birthday suit was the skimpy apricot bikini and a sheer cover-up that fails miserably at its job.

He doesn’t know how to feel. His dick does though, and it’s painfully hard against his thigh.

“What’s with the long face, bighead,” You say, flopping down beside him on his chair. You shove his thigh with your own, jostling the precarious situation Jeongguk was trying to keep under control. He swears he didn’t ogle at the way your boobs jiggled when you did that. He swears.

“I’m dying. The sun is burning me alive.” He carefully chooses to say, voice clipped. Taehyung shoves one of the cool dewy glasses he’s carried over, slipping beside Yoona who had purposefully hiked up her t-shirt to expose more leg. He spares her a nod, unable to muster up a smile because your thigh is still brushing against his own. She smiles back but her gaze is trained on Taehyung.

Jeongguk squeezes the glass, relishing in the coolness waning from the iced water. Momentarily, he wishes he could dunk it on his head and solve the situation in his pants but then you place a warm pat on his bare back and his dick jumps.

“Poor baby,” You say. Jeongguk wants to hang himself.

He downs the water in one go, choking on it when you flick his knee.

“What’s going on with you? Why are you guys here?” He doesn’t mean to sound hostile but he is curious. No one had mentioned anything like this happening. If someone had said you were coming over Jeongguk would have worn something… less hazardous. The proximity of your presence wasn’t helping him either. Your scent was intoxicating up close, filling his head and making his blood rush south. He wanted to bury his nose in your neck, an urge to figure out the main source of aroma that was driving him wild and mark it.

You tut, sipping at your own drink. “Aircon in our apartment broke. So we decided to grace you fools with our presence. Scoot, my ass is falling off this chair.”

Jeongguk bites back the offer of his lap and moves aside, swiftly ducking his head away from you so he can breathe without suffering from an overwhelming urge to touch. But then he makes the mistake of sneaking another glance at you. There’s a trail of sweat slipping down the side of your neck and the only thought that ravages through his mind is lick.

It’s a command, one he forces himself to disregard as trains his glare onto the ground.

There’s a heavy cloud of silence residing over your heads, a stark contrast to the bubbly and flirty conversation flitting into his ears that Taehyung and Yoona are having. He wasn’t to say something, but his mouth is wired shut.

“Where’s Seokjin?” You question, hoping to lighten the tense mood between the two of you.

Over the last couple of weeks, Jeongguk had become increasingly distant, to the point where you’d gone from texting incessantly every day to exchanging one-word messages. You had no idea what you’d done to cause this and he hadn’t clued you in on the problem either. He’d left you feeling neglected, an eddy of emotions wreaking havoc in your heart. Yoona had suggested the visit. Your aircon was not broken at all.

“He went to get ice.” His reply is a grunt, prompting the formation of a frown on your face.

“Oh, alright,” Your voice is small even to your own ears. You shouldn’t be nervous around your best friend and yet you were.  You can’t think of anything to say and Jeongguk isn’t offering up any small talk either.

“How have you been,” You try again, even though the question is bland.

“Busy. I got a job at Soobin’s studio. Been swamped with work.”

You glimpse down at his hunched figure, watching the brusque words tumble out of his mouth. You’d never had such a dry conversation with your best friend before. And he hadn’t even asked you how you were doing. The audacity.

“I’m good too, thanks for asking,” You reply, not hiding the venom that slips into your tone. “Jeongguk, what’s going on?”

He sprains his neck when he glances up. “What do you mean?” His doe eyes glisten in the late afternoon sun and you can tell he’s hiding something.

“I mean,” You gesture between the two of you, “What’s going on with us? Why are you acting like this?” It’s better to get straight to the point because this situation was starting to frustrate you. It wasn’t like you could sneak into Yoona and Taehyung’s conversation, not when Yoona was unashamedly trying to get into Taehyung’s pants.

His face blanches. “Acting like what?”

“Like this, like you –”

“Guys, Seokjin crashed at Hoseok’s place. They’re having a mini barbeque. I think we should go because I’m sure as hell am not cooking,” Taehyung cuts you off, arm slung over Yoona’s shoulder and a sharp eye trained on the both of you.

You close your mouth, eyeing the way Jeongguk jumps up and flees for the house. “Cool, I’ll drive,” He states, not looking at you. You watch his retreating figure, golden skin illumine in the tepid rays of the afternoon sun. There’s a heavy feeling sinking in your chest but you rise to your feet, falling his steps. You don’t miss the way Jeongguk ensures Taehyung sits shotgun.

↔

Jeongguk doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He leaves them resting on his thighs but they itch to move forward and fix the strap slipping down your shoulder. He would touch you but it’s clear you’re not talking to him. You have a loose grin on your lips and you’re leaning into Jimin, practically moulding his body against yours. The sight makes him want to punch something, preferably Jimin’s face. But the question replaying in his mind holds him back. That and the fact that he would probably break his best friend’s nose.

What’s going with us?

He couldn’t answer it even if he wanted to. You wouldn’t understand the primal urge to pull you in his arms and never let you go that Jeongguk gets whenever he sees you. Or the fiery jealousy that pools in his heart when you laugh at someone else’s joke or cuddle up against someone that wasn’t him. Or how heady your scent was, how it spurred his yearning to mark and bite your skin until everyone knew you were his.  He’d suppressed it, waiting for something to happen naturally, ever since you’d bumped into him at the university library. But nothing ever did.

He’d watched you fall in love with other men, heard your scandalous stories and gave you advice even though it physically pained him. But the fear that raged in his heart, the fear that you might reject him if you knew what he was, kept him in check. It kept him my ripping open the men who toyed with your heart and it kept him from stepping over the boundary you’d created. But it also kept him in constant pain.

So he stays silent, sipping on vodka that does nothing for him and does not protest when he’s dragged into the circle you were currently in. When Yoona suggests truth and dare, Jeongguk wishes he had grabbed his vial of wolfsbane. There was no way he was going to survive this sober.

The first few are quite innocent, much to his surprise. Childish dares like recalling embarrassing moments or revealing body counts. You capture his attention the whole time – he’s trying to quash the impulse to break ever finger in Park Jimin’s hand because it keeps gliding across your bare arm – but you don’t even spare him a glance. You hadn’t uttered a word since this afternoon and his heart was splitting apart in his chest. He wishes he could pretend you were nothing but a friend to him. God, he wishes.

“Jeongguk, wake up! This is for you,” Taehyung is staring at him with a glint in his narrowed eyes. It breaks the comfort of the reverie Jeongguk had settled in but he still can’t seem to tear his gaze away from you. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare,” He replies mindlessly, watching your eyes flutter close. You always getting sleepy when you’re drunk and normally he’d been the one holding you. His arms twinge - it hurts to have you so near and not be able to touch you.

“Alright, I’m doing a double dare. Jeongguk, I dare you to skinny dip with Y/N for ten minutes.”

“What?” The exclamation falls from your suddenly alert lips but it matches the expression on his face.

“Taehyung shut up. Pick another dare. Leave her out of this,” He snarls out.

His shakes his head, blonde ruffles swaying in the breeze of the air conditioner. “Nope, Jimin did your dare for you last time Y/N. This is your punishment.” The smirk was evident in his voice.

“Taehyung, you’re an asshole,” Jeongguk states, rising from the cushion he’d perched himself on. “I’ll skinny dip on my own, for five minutes.”

Your eyes are glued to him. He doesn’t expect you to object.

“No,” You say, getting up on your unsteady feet. Your legs look like they’re about to waver, and Jeongguk instinctively reaches out, hoping to catch you before you crumble to the ground but you wave him off, a challenge in your eyes. “I’ll do it. Let’s go.”

Taehyung sits back, amused, observing the looks of surprise on everyone else’s face.

Jeongguk doesn’t look at you during the trek to the pool. Keeping his eyes on darkened garden. The night air sizzles in his ears and his heart is in his guts. You don’t say anything either, and it puts him on edge.

He attempts to stay modest, slipping into the water silently without stripping off his trunks.

“We could keep our clothes on,” He offers to the silent night.

You refute, shaking your head and shoving your chin to the open glass doors you’d come through. “Taehyung can see us from here.” You continue to round the pool, coming up right in front of Jeongguk’s cyan illuminated figure.

“Fucking pervert,” He hisses, folding his arms around his bare chest. His trunks cling to his skin and he moves to twist around, hoping to give you privacy. But you don’t wait for him to turn his back. The strings that hold that flimsy accursed bikini to your chest unravel, leaving the fabric to fall from your body.

Jeongguk doesn’t know how to breathe.

Despite the cool water surrounding him, he’s instantly hard. His eyes don’t leave your body, watching entranced as you slip your bottoms off two, discarding them a chair. Your bare form renders him speechless. He eyes can help but unremittingly flicker, greedily drinking in the curves of your hips and the way your breasts rise with every gentle breath you take. He wants to touch, yearning to learn every inch of your skin so he can engrave them in his memory. He’d never see someone so beautiful and his wolf readily agrees, rumbling roughly in his chest.

“Are you going to keep that on?” You ask, moving to slip into the water. It’s cool, washing away the layer of sweat that had encased your skin. You notice his hesitation and the reminder of your encounter early rears its ugly head. “Jeongguk.” It’s a question on its own.

His hands grip the band of his trunks. He should pull them down and toss them aside just like you had down but he couldn’t. Not when he can feel his dick twitching against his skin. You’d see it, he was sure of it. And while he longed for you, you were drunk. Which is probably why you’d stripped so unabashedly. His own nudity felt wrong to him.

“Do you want me to put my clothes back on?” You softly question, suddenly feeling small and exposed.

He opens his mouth but no words come out. Only the gentle lap of the water colliding with your bodies fills the silence. He wants to say yes but he can’t. He still wants to look, even if it makes him feel guilty.

Your hands are suddenly on his waistband. Your knuckles brush against his abdomen and Jeongguk can’t help but revel in the tremors that rush through his body. It’s obscene, how much control you have over him.

“Can I?” You whisper.

Jeongguk focuses his eyes on the dip in your throat where your curves of your collar bones and the span of your neck meet. He can smell you from here and that’s only adding fuel to the fire raging in his guts. It takes him a second and then he nods.

He feels like he’s bared his soul.

You glide the fabric down, fighting against the current until Jeongguk is able to kick the shorts off in the water. They rise in the distance, dark fabric floating away but neither of you are paying attention to that.

Ever since you’d know Jeongguk, you’d never seen him like this. You can’t help but lean forward, resting your palms against his bare chest, the haze you’re in making you hyper-aware of the way his heart pounds beneath your touch.

“I wanted to talk to you,” You murmur.

“Then talk,” He responds, voice hoarse.

“Why are you ignoring me? Did I do something?” You trail the pads of your fingers down his chest, idly watching them slip beneath the water. You can’t look him in his eyes. His breath hitches, and you notice how eerily still he really is.

“You didn’t – you didn’t do anything wrong.” He sounds like you’ve taken a knife to his chest, brutally twisting it in and leaving it there, his chest hacked open.

“So what’s the issue,” You finally glance up, hoping you don’t look as vulnerable as you feel.

To your astonishment, Jeongguk looks drunk and he never looks drunk despite the astounding number of shots you usually shove down his throat. His eyes are lidded but you can still see the darkness that has settled in his whiskey eyes. They glitter, brightly shimmering in the hold of the lights that emit from the pool. You can’t look away, for some reason his eyes pull you closer.

“Nothing’s wrong,” He responds, hands coming down on top of your own beneath the water, halting your journey down his body,

“So why aren’t you talking to me?”

Because you make me feel like this, he thinks to himself, you drive me insane and there’s nothing I can do about it.

“I just got busy,” He lies instead.

But then you’re pressing your chest against his own and he damn near melts at how soft your body feels against him. The hands that had been toying at his hips are now wrapped around his shoulders and his using every bit of self-control to not grab at you because you’re probably not thinking straight. That’s what he tells himself at least.

“Jeongguk,” You murmur, your breath fans his face and he can smell the vodka that lingers on your lips but he can also smell you, every bit of you and he just wants to bite. “Don’t lie to me.”

For a second, his brain doesn’t know what to do. His dick is conflicting with his heart because you don’t know what you’re doing but then again you’d basically pressed your naked body against his own. He moves his hands, hoping to grab your waist and gently push you away while thinking of an excuse that won’t hurt you. And then you cant your hips forward, entrapping his dick between your two warm bodies and he snaps.

His fingers dig into the flesh of your hips. He yanks your closer, his own toes curling when cunt grazes against his hard cock. The sensation has you helplessly sighing against his lips. He’s noticeably big and you can’t help but imagine the stretch. You don’t know where this sudden desire came from, perhaps from the frustration, you feel against him, but in your drunken haze, you can’t object. You don’t want to object, even if that’s a thought you’re not comfortable acknowledging.  

He slots his mouth against your own before you can say anything else. The kiss isn’t gentle, his presses his lips harshly against your as if he wants to imprint the feeling of your mouth of his forever, but it’s not rough either. He’s holding himself back, taking the time to learn your response, coaxing your open with every little gasp that leaves your throat. When your tongues meet, you can’t help but dissolve in his arms. Jeongguk tastes like the trashy vodka Jimin picked up. You didn’t even like how it tasted, only drinking because you wanted something to preoccupy you from the intrusive thoughts of Jeongguk. But now you were enthralled by how it tasted, moulding your mouth against his and his tongue intertwined with yours.

Jeongguk never knew he could be this hard. His dick is throbbing between the two of you, a painful reminder of the gravity of this situation. But he can’t stop – doesn’t want to. You taste too good on his lips, the little sounds you make travel straight down to his dick and he wants to hear more, wants to know more, wants to have you on his tongue, wants to know how tight you’ll feel around him, wants to lose himself between your legs. He can’t think of the consequences now, all that matters to him is finding a way to mount you.

Your hand snakes between the miniscule space between your bodies, fingers curling around his length.

“Holy fuck,” Jeongguk pulls away from your mouth, momentarily closing his eyes. He wildly runts into your hands, swearing with every twist of your wrist down his cock. You watch, fascinated by how his chest rumbles against your own but then he’s staring at you, eyes dark and glinting and you feel your walls clench.

He devours your neck first, settling on a spot that forces you to crane his neck. His tongue dips and trails across sensitive skin, nipping harshly like he wants the mark he’s making to stay forever. Like he wants to tattoo the evidence of this moment on you forever, a reminder that he’d touched you like this. You don’t object, whining with every precise flicker of his tongue or scrap or his teeth. He has the hand around his dick faltering despite your best efforts because he’s gripping your ass like that and coupled with his ministrations on your throat, your hole was helplessly fluttering, begging for anything to fill it.

“Out, out,” You moan against his ear, pulling him towards a staircase. You climb out, water dripping from your bare body, while Jeongguk opts to lug himself out, muscles flexing with the movement. He shakes his head, spraying droplets of water everywhere. His chestnut ruffles dripping with water remind you of a wet dog, but that doesn’t deter you because you’re all over him the movement he stops, pressing your lips onto his hoping he won’t notice the way your heart pounds in your chest.

But he does – you’re unaware of it but he can hear everything, smell everything; the rush of your blood filling your chest, the slick dripping from your cunt, the spike in your peaches and cream scent. It makes him feel as if his senses are overloading and it could kill him but he’d wouldn’t want to go out any other way.

Neither of you notice that the glass doors are now closed and there’s a curtain obscuring your naked bodies from view. Not like that would matter to either of you anyway.

Jeongguk has your back pressed against a lounge chair, mouth latched onto a nipple as he holds your hips down. You’re squirming in his grip, spine curving with each swipe of his tongue across the nerves on your chest. Jeongguk can’t look away, longing to etch every whimper and sigh that leaves your lips in his mind forever. He doesn’t break your gaze as his lips slip of your breast. He moves slowly, trailing kisses down your chest and across your stomach, sending tingles through your body that end up sparking a steady heat in your core. Then he pauses, warm breath fanning the apex of your cunt and a question in his eyes.

You nod and watch in awe as Jeongguk slips further down, fingers gripping your thighs so he can spread you apart and place a wet kiss on your cunt.

His tongue slips out, disappearing into your folds with precise quick licks that have in squealing into the warm summer night. He eats you like a starved man, devouring your cunt viciously. Your slick coats his mouth but all that does is make Jeongguk harder. He flattens out his tongue, dragging it upwards, towards your clit, which he teasingly toys with, swirling his tongue in figure eights and latching his lips onto the sensitive bud until you’re begging him to do anything, put his fingers in, bed you over – anything at all

Jeongguk pays no heed to your cries, keeping a brutal pace of flicks on your pussy. You’re so wet, your slick is dripping all over his chin. But he doesn’t mind, you taste so good that he can’t help but dip his tongue into your dripping hole. You shout his name, nails scraping against his scalp as you rake your fingers through the soft ruffles of his hair.

He watches you tip of the edge, the way your eyes fluttering shut and your mouth falls open. You runt against his face, chasing the high that he wants to give you. When it hits you know nothing but his name. You come off his tongue, whining and gasping into the heavy night air, you’re naked chest shuddering with every wave of pleasure that courses through your system.

Jeongguk can’t look away, revelling in the way you taste on his tongue, the smell of you that fills his nose and leaves him hard and leaking against his stomach. There’s only thought that runs through his mind as you come undone on his lips. One that he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to say out loud.

Iloveyouiloveyouiloveyouiloveyouiloveyou

[missblissy]

Rebirth (Chapter Five)

Alastor X Human!Reader ((Reincarnation!AU)) 

Prologue || One || Two || Three || Four || Five

Tagged: ((You can ask to be added to the tagged list!!)) @alastors-bambi @peachesandkats​ @riintss @destiny-in-the-universe​ @dadzawas-eyebags @daedaliaaan @putridjoy @shieldagentofthemonth @originofthedragonjim @animals4ever527 @jexinqq @chaotic-pansexual @geekin-about-alastor @keenhumanoidduckeagle @fafefae @honeydrops01010 @itz-kira @xoceanicgemzx @the-monochrome-jester @holdnyvaseline @temmieboi04 @ultimately-purrrfect @lukatherat 

You could still smell the herbs from a few days ago. You were in your kitchen making yourself something to eat. It had been almost two days and there wasn’t a single sign of Alastor or Eon. Your mind was busy with other thoughts anyways. Your father’s surgery went well and he was on a slow recovery. Hopefully, it helped with his condition, but you doubt it would slow down his one-way ticket to the grave. You took a small bite of the PB&J that you made and suddenly you didn’t feel so hungry anymore. 

Instead, you wanted to break down and cry. You leaned on your counter, looking down at the sandwich as tears began to well in your eyes. So much shit has happened these past few days. You moved and now lived by yourself for the first time in your life, you were going to college at the same time while looking for a new job, and demon decided it was going to drop an entire shit load of problems that didn’t even involve you. Just your soul. And on top of that, your father was dying. It broke your heart when you waited with your mother for him to get out of surgery. Your father was a strong and proud man and to see him wither away into a husk, a shadow of what he used to be... It was all too much. You couldn’t take it anymore.

The sobs came quickly. You crouched on the floor behind the counter and held your knees as you cried away. You felt as though the entire world was against you. You were thankful for the few people you had. 

You didn’t want to feel bad anymore so you did your best to dry your tears. As you stood back up you saw something on your counter that wasn’t there before, “Huh?” Next to your pathetic sandwich now laid a thick leather-bound book with a sticky note taped to the cover. You were ready to roll your eyes and dumb the book into the trash, you already knew it was from Alastor.

That’s when you felt the hairs on the back of your neck start to rise while a familiar dry static energy began to fester within your home, “Go away!” You yelled, “I’m not your wife! I don’t know you! And you don’t know me!” You were talking to the air, but you knew Alastor was here. You could feel his energy. You could even feel his eyes on you, even if he wouldn’t show himself and choose to hide, “Just because you could guess my favorite food and color doesn’t mean I’m still your wife! So what if we have similar taste in stuff! I’m not her! You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know my family, my friends, you don’t even know my birthday! You can’t name a single thing about me other than what you can guess off the top of your head!”

You wanted to cry again and when a tear dripped down your cheek, you tell he was gone. The static fizzled away into still air and the feeling of eyes on your vanished as well. The book was still there though. You kept telling yourself to just throw it out but another part of you wanted to see just what kind of gift Alastor had left you.

You sniffled and ran the back of your hand over your eyes to clean away the tears. You pulled the book into view and read the note. At first you couldn’t believe it, but... Alastor had very... very... pretty handwriting. It was perfect and drawn with pen and ink well. 

The note said: 

        I think I went about this all wrong, (Y/n). I should have given this to you in the beginning. I’m sincerely sorry. This used to belong to your former self. It’s your diary. To unlock it, you must use your blood. Just a pinprick should work. I hope this helps and answers the questions you’ve been looking for.

       - A   :) 

Was this for real? And he had to just add the smiley face? Ugh... You rolled your eyes and looked over the book. It didn’t even have a lock on it, so why the hell was he talking about using your blood?  When you opened up the book, you couldn’t believe your eyes. Every page was yellow and blank. Nothing was in the damn book! Was he just playing a sick joke on you?

There was only one way to find out. You flipped deep within the book and towards the middle. You took a kitchen knife from your silverware drawer. You cringed in pain as you pricked the tip of your finger and watched the blood pitter-patter onto the pages. Nothing happened at first and you were ready to burn the book and get some more herbs to make sure Alastor didn’t come back.

But after a minute or so your blood soaked into the page and words began to appear. The looked like they were written in gold. The ink was metallic and shiny. You brushed a finger over the words and felt the little rise and fall of the ink and space between each letter. It took a second for the page to fill with words. Okay... maybe he wasn’t lying and this was your past self’s diary. You went ahead and began reading the passage you had randomly opened up too. 

1939, December 29th:

     This castle I call my home is nothing but chains holding me down. I have spent the last... some 2,000 years at this post. I didn’t know that serving as the Gatekeeper of Hell was a “forever” kind of deal. I guess that's what you get for letting Lucifer be your boss. I wish every day that I could leave this castle. But soon again I will! The seventh year of my new sentence is coming up and I will be free to roam for another 365 days. Then for the next 6 years, I will be trapped in this castle again. 

     At least I have Alastor. This empty castle isn’t so empty with him around. He fills the hallways with songs and music, with smells of food I never knew existed. He makes me laugh, something I haven’t done in a long time. He makes me smile and when I cry he doesn’t run in fear like everyone else in my afterlife. 

     It’s been six years since I made that life-changing deal with an even bigger Devil than Lucifer. It’s been six years since Alastor manifested at the gates of Hell and offered me the salvation and freedom I craved. No, he wasn’t the deal maker. The spirit that was attached to his soul was. Eon. I sold what was left of my soul to him just so I could see the world again. 

     In just a few days I’ll be able to walk out of this castle and go where ever I want again. The first thing I’m doing is marry Alastor at the top of a pile of corpses that belong to every enemy I’ve ever made. I can’t wait to taste the blood and tears of them all. I will kill all of those fools who dared to call me a cry baby, to call me weak, to say my emotions meant nothing. Every time I shed a tear I turn into a monster and monster is what they will see. I will rip their heads from their necks. I will take their hearts and squeeze every drop of blood until there is nothing left. And I will do this with Alastor by my side, cheering me on as I finally get the justice and revenge I’ve so deserved.  

The words started to fade slowly and disappear again. You couldn’t believe what you were looking at. Once the passage was finally gone and the pages were blank again... You slammed the book closed. This was a dangerous thing. A tempting thing. 

It called to you like a song in the night. You could feel your entire soul reach out and try and open the book back up and read every word. Something about this book filled you with fear, curiosity and something else you couldn’t quite put together.

After several moments of fighting with your own thoughts, you decided that you’d read some more. You flipped the book back open. You choose a spot very close to the end and pricked your finger again. The blood splashed onto the page and soaked in much quicker than last time.

1996, February 4th: 

     Today I laid waste to another sector of Hell. When I came to my castle home, Alastor was waiting for me. I know I write about him to much, but he is everything that matters to me. This entire book could easily be mistaken for a stalker. Good thing I cursed it to never open for anyone, not even Alastor. I love him, but even I must keep my secrets too. That and I don’t want him to know how much I obsess over him. 

     For starters, it’s our anniversary. He always tells me, “I never wanted to get married! I never thought I would! Marriage was a waste of time in my opinion -Blah Blah Blah-” Same old stuff, then he’d leap into some musical number about how I changed that and how much he loves me and how happy he is to call me his wife. 56 years later and he’s still the same dork he’s always been. Sure, he likes to act tough, mean, scary and evil, but deep down inside that psychopath... is another even bigger and weirder psychopath. But that’s what I love about him. He’s such a strange creature. But I love him. 

     I love that stupid little tail of his that wags when he sees me or how he’d flip his tail all the way up as he danced around the room. I love that he chooses to sleep just because it’s a pastime I enjoy. Though he’ll always remind me, “You know, we don’t have to sleep, right?” Yeah, but I still liked to cling on to my humanity. And most of all... I love when he cries with me. It’s so hard for me to fight my black tears and to not let them stain my face. For so long, I never saw an emotion escape him. He even thought it was weak of me to be so emotional and we got into many arguments about it. However, he saw that it was just my nature to be like this. Now that we’ve spent 5 decades together, he shares all my emotions. The high and especially the lows. He’ll weep, shed tears, and tell me it’s okay. He’d kiss every single black tear away even when I turned into a monster... I have to remember though, I don’t turn into a monster. It’s just my natural demonic form that I suppress and hide and hold back. Alastor says he loves it more than the my... human look I take on. Maybe one day I’ll be strong enough to love myself the way he loves me. 

     I know... I know... I need to shut up about this man. But I can’t. He’s a person deep down inside. A messed up one, but still a person. He knows my pain, he’s seen my struggles. His life wasn’t much different from mine. We were both... innocent for so long until a darkness we couldn’t control grew from our pain and suffering. We joke about how we’d have gone to Heaven if only things were different... Is it bad for me to wish they were sometimes? What if we met when we were alive and still human? Would he still have become a cannibal? Would I still have committed suicide? If only we could have been there for each other sooner rather than later... 

The words started to fade again just as you had finished the passage. This book... It was going to answer a lot of questions. You felt an unknown connection to it. You slowly closed the book, deciding that for you’d put it away for now. You weren’t going to throw it away either. 

Something about the way your past self wrote about Alastor, about how much she loved him, it slowly changed your opinion of him. It got you thinking about how Alastor must have felt to have lost you. He spent 22 years searching for you, looking all over the planet and heaven above just so he could be with you again. It was romantic in a twisted way. You still couldn’t bring yourself to feel much for the demon other than anguish and pity. You felt sorry for him because you were not the same person. And you were beginning to learn that, yes, there were many things similar about you and your past self, such as your name and your looks, but you never had the same struggles.

You walked over to your bookshelf and squeezed the large leather book into a spot that barely fit. You had to get to your classes soon. You really didn’t have the energy to do anything and you were incredibly depressed. Your heart thumped loudly in your chest as you looked at the spine of the diary. You wanted to reach out and grab and keep reading and the thought of leaving it at home oddly upset you more. You knew you couldn’t bring it with you though. Not many people would be too pleased to see some girl cutting her finger dozens of times to read some magical book. You’d probably get thrown in some kind of crazy house. 

So, with a sigh, you tore yourself away from the book’s gaze and grabbed your bag. As you got to the door, you took one look back at the book. You stood there for a second longer than you should have then turned and gone out the door. 

_______________________________________________

 1933, March 3rd: 

     I couldn’t believe it. He’s here. I never thought he’d make it here but he is and he’s wandering around the castle. Alastor had finally died. He didn’t even wander through purgatory. He manifested before my eyes just in front of the gates. 

     I already love him but I will not say that allowed or anywhere else in this book. I can’t help but love him because he is letting me make a deal with the deadliest deal maker to have ever wandered to this side of the planet. 

     Eon. A spirit not even from this world, universe or dimension. He’s from a world so distant and far from this one that we know very little about him, other than that people wall him The World Destroyer. Apparently, it’s Eon’s goal to consume every soul in every universe and dimension. Lucifer warned me that making a deal with this creature would end in horrible ways. It didn’t seem that it ended that bad for Alastor, seeing as he was the one who summoned Eon here and sold his soul for the chance at unlimited power in the afterlife. 

     None of that matters now. I’ve made up my mind. I want to leave this castle and I want the ability to control my afterlife and what happens to me. I must go, Alastor is waiting for me and I can not wait to leave this castle wage war against all of those fools who laughed at me, all over those Overlords who think they're better than me. Alastor just wants to kill and feed souls to Eon, he wants to create chaos and topple over those in power so he can make his mark among the legends.

     I want revenge. 

Your eyes were heavy, they even had little dark bags under them. You had spent the last three hours reading the diary. Your finger was a dark purple color and you felt light-headed. You sat in your living room at the edge of your couch.

Almost two weeks have passed now since Alastor disappeared and left you this book. There was nothing coming from him. Normally you could tell when he was hiding somewhere in a dark corner or in the shadows. You’d feel his static energy wave off him, but there was none of that. Nothing. Not a single haunting. Had he finally given up? You weren’t sure. You didn’t think so. You cleansed your home but Vanderlinde said that you’d have to do it every couple of days, which of course you didn’t. You completely forgot to do that the second Alastor left the book for you. 

The book, however, was everything you may have asked for. You learned how Alastor had given everything to your past self. He loved you more than anything and you wrote about that often. He grew a rose garden around the castle your past self was trapped in every six years just so you’d smile. He murdered and tortured those who wronged you. He’d cook all of your favorite foods, even if they were mostly sugary pastries and candies, which you found out he hated. You learned so much about Alastor. He loved cooking, singing, dancing, making people smile and entertaining others to the point of laughter. He drank coffee every morning with you on a balcony overlooking the little empty Kingdom the two of you shared. He’d stand from the tallest tower and sing love songs to you while you worked at the Gates of Hell. He taught you to play the piano, how to better defeat your enemies, how to use Voodoo magic against the living and even the dead, he shared stories of his life and family and home, his dreams that never came true and his hopes that all but died until he met you.

You quickly learned that not every passage in the diary would show itself to you. You covered several pages with your blood but nothing ever happened. The only passages that would reveal themselves were the ones that mentioned Alastor. You weren't sure this was his doing or not because the book said that even Alastor couldn’t open it. 

You were very dazed and confused, you lost a lot of blood in this process. One more passage, you told yourself, then I’ll stop. Suddenly there was a knock at your door. You almost jumped out of your skin, “It’s open,” you called, knowing exactly who it already was. 

Sage kicked open the door and rushed in, “Where is he!?” She yelled as her eyes darted around the room, “Where is that talk show shit lord!?” She just got back from the hunt she was on. She texted you this morning that she’d be over as soon as possible

Maybe it was the lack of blood or the massive wave of depression that’s been with you for the last two weeks, but you couldn’t bother to get up from the couch. You just closed the heavy book and muttered, “He’s not here anymore,” Why did you sound so defeated when you said that?

Sage was a little stunned by your state, “Are you okay?” She closed the door behind her and came to sit next to you on the couch. She was your best friend, more so than you were with Vanderlinde. However, you felt some kind of betrayal that she never told you about this huge secret part of her life. Ya know, the whole demon hunter slash witch thing? Yeah, that kind of upset you. 

“I’m fine. Just... a lot is going on right now,” You confessed, “Not so much the demon haunting my house thing. Alastor hasn’t shown up since Van and I cleansed this place. It’s more so... just life and shit,” It wasn’t a total lie. You were stressed about your father and still not having a job. Your bank account was starting to get dangerously low. 

That’s when Sage noticed the book in your lap. She pointed to it, asking, “What’s that?” 

“Just a diary I’ve been keeping,” Again, not a total lie, “Nothing cool,” 

She didn’t say anything for a second and you wondered if she knew you were trying to cover up something. Eventually, Sage just shrugged and said, “Okay, well, I brought some stuff that might help you out if that dumb ass shows his stupid face again,” Sage took the backpack off her shoulders and set it down next to your feet, “There’s even a little guide book in there that I made for you. Basic magic stuff that anyone can do. Rituals, cleansings, crystals, herbs, blessed water, and bones. Pretty much everything you’ll need,” 

“Thanks,” You mumbled as you pulled the bag closer to you. You didn’t think you’d need any of that stuff seeing as Alastor kind of gave up on bothering you. The first sign of a fight and he turns tail. From what the diary told you- that was very out of character for him. You had a feeling he’d be back but you weren’t sure when or for what, “Hey- actually, I have question,” You peered at your friend. There was something bubbling in your mind that you had been wondering about. You knew the internet wouldn’t have this answer so maybe your friend did. 

She gave a small smile and said, “Okay, shoot,” She seemed more than happy to help. 

“Um... Would you actually know how to... summon a demon?”

[whiskynottea]

We’ll rise up

Previously  Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13  Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17

AO3

A/N: Thank you for reading! I hope you’re all well. Stay home as much as you can, stay safe and keep everybody else safe! Much love! 

                                                     ~~~~~~

Chapter 18. A Conversation With The Past

Claire walked into the little park and sat in the exact same bench he’d found her the last time she’d seen him. She could hardly believe she was there, that her plan had worked. Worked thus far, at least.

Claudel -- she was still thinking of him as Claudel at times -- had proved to be her little miracle. He was the one who tracked Frank down at the university, the one who passed the little note with her message to him.

Meet me at the park near Notre Dame.

Almost as acerbic as he had been. 

Despair had eaten her up when she left the prison and Jamie behind. Her freedom felt wrong. Walking under the sun when he was locked up in a small room with who knew how many other people felt wrong. Life felt wrong, death too. 

She couldn’t stop seeing his eyes every time she closed her. She could stop licking her lips wishing his taste never to leave her. 

“You need to tell me, you know,” she said at last, disrupting the long silence between her and Murtagh. “What did Jamie tell you? I won’t stop asking until I have an answer.”

The man didn’t answer, so she did. She asked again and again, and in the end, she threatened him with every preposterous thing she could think of. 

At last, he sighed and looked deep into her eyes. “Find a way to send Claire to England, this isna her fight and she’s risked way to much already for me,” he recited.

Well, who was stubborn as an ox now? 

It was Jamie’s will to send her away and Murtagh’s inability to think of a solution that had made Claire’s dejection transform into steel determination, like a larva going through a metamorphosis. She gnashed her teeth, fisted her hands and vowed to try her best to get him back. 

Nothing could be worse than losing him.

She’d told Murtagh as much and resisted his pressing arguments to stay at Jared’s house before he could secure her a safe passage to England. He’d said that Jared and he would find a way to get Jamie out of prison, but when she pressed him on she got no reply regarding how exactly they would manage that. 

A plan started getting formed in her mind. A desperate one, but as Hippocrates wrote in his Aphorisms, ‘for extreme diseases, extreme methods of cure are most suitable’. And since there was no option of a fair trial, no possible scenario in which she could vouch for Jamie and keep him safe, she had to be daring and cunny. She needed to be efficient. She needed to be enough.

Jamie wouldn’t like her plan. Actually, if she wanted to be honest with herself, Jamie would absolutely hate it.

“Claire.” His smooth voice made her head jerk in his direction, like an alarmed deer noticing the wolf for the first time. There he was, Frank Randall, immaculately dressed and with a slight smile curling his thin lips up.

“Dr Randall,” she greeted somberly and nodded at the empty space next to her on the bench. 

Her response curled up the corners of his mouth a little more. “So mannerly, now. Your note, however, seemed a bit curt. It felt more like an order.”

Claire shrugged, refraining from replying.

“And yet here I am,” Frank murmured, more to herself than to her it seemed and sat by her. “I suppose you want to talk to me?”

“Yes. And if I remember correctly from the last time I saw you in this very place, you wanted to talk to me as well.”

“I did, but if I remember correctly, you ran away. But this is in the past. As are poor Ambroise’s attempts to find you even though he repeatedly visited the neighbourhood you now reside in.”

“I am very busy, so I’m afraid I missed his calls.”

“I’m sure you are, darling.” 

His voice was teasing, and Claire didn’t know what to make of it. She decided to ignore it and get straight into the point. “So what did you want to talk about?”

“Ladies first,” he replied, gesturing at her with on open palm. “You avoided me for quite a while, so you can imagine my surprise when I got your note. And since it wasn’t signed, I was lucky enough to remember your penmanship to know that the person behind the elegant script was you.”

Claire closed her eyes to collect her thoughts. There was a reason she was there, a reason she needed Frank Randall’s help and she had to find the right words, the right way to convince him to help her. 

“Dr Randall,” she started but he raised a hand to stop her.

“Call me Frank, Claire. You used to call me Frank, once.” 

He was serious and collected but there was a hint for pleading in his voice, something that made him seem vulnerable. Claire swallowed with difficulty and started again. 

“Frank, you were my uncle’s college and friend. Our own relationship was friendly too, before everything changed.”

“Before I asked you to marry me,” he specified.

“Yes. Before that. I have to confess that I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t received your last note. This was the note of a friend, and that’s why I decided to talk to you today.”

Frank sighed. “Before you say more, Claire, since we’re talking about the past, I think it would be better if I was to speak first. I need to explain some things to you, some of the things that changed your life ten years ago.”

Claire looked at him for a long moment, wondering which of the despicable things he had done he would try to justify.

“I was in love with you, Claire. I wanted to make you my wife, I wanted to make you happy. That’s the truth of it. I would give you the opportunity to continue your studies and educate yourself at home, pursue that dream of yours to become a doctor even though I couldn’t understand why you wanted that. You would never become a certified doctor. In any case, I dreamed of a future with you, a life back in England, with children and a house with a library big enough for both of us.”

“You wanted an English wife who would be happy to leave Paris for you,” Claire said, even though she knew that her nationality wasn’t the reason Frank wanted to marry her. Frank Randall was interested in her as a person and was one of the few men who would encourage their wives to educate themselves. She had considered everything back then, but her answer still hadn’t changed.

“I loved you, Claire. I thought we’d be a good match. But I overstepped and I can see it now. I could see it back then too, but I didn’t want to admit it to myself. I thought that maybe if you gave me a chance you’d see that we would be happy together.”

“No matter what you thought, Frank, you needed to respect my decision.”

“I know,” he said, lowering his head. “I learned that the hard way.”

“And it would be nice not to get my uncle’s house from me.”

Frank let out something between a sigh and a chuckle. “That is why I needed to talk to you. To explain, even after all these years. You disappeared in a night and I couldn’t find you for years. And when I did,” he smiled wistfully, “it was just luck. I overheard a servant’s conversation with his wife. But this is not what I wanted to say. I need you to know that I made a lot of mistakes, Claire, but I never wanted to take your house away, leave you homeless. That wasn’t the reason I did it.”

She shot an inquiring eyebrow and waited for him to continue. His explanations didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. She just wanted to go through this and ask him to help her.

Frank ran a hand on his breeches, as though a swipe a sweaty palm. “When I asked you to marry me, I was… very happy with my decision. You were young, beautiful, clever. An English woman with a man I truly respected as her only family.”

Claire’s mind travelled back to those days. The days Frank Randall was one of the most frequent guests at their house, one of her uncle’s favourites. They shut themselves in the library and had long discussions that more often than not ended in researching and late dinners. 

She didn’t think Frank was lying about his decision to marry her, or his admiration of his uncle. But then, the man he had been before the proposal was like a totally different person from the one he became afterwards. The one who ended up taking away her house in vengeance.

As if she had spoken those words aloud, Frank continued. “Let me finish, please. The moment I found the courage to ask your uncle for your hand, I shared the news with my first cousin, an officer in the English army. I did that even before getting to know your answer. I told him about you and my plans, and he saw how content I’d been. He also was the one who saw me afterwards. I didn’t take your refusal well and my cousin thought it humiliating for our family name for a Randall to get rejected by an orphan with no property and a dying uncle. He believed that our name should be respected and feared, and he didn’t want you to start rumours after rejecting my proposal. He was partially the reason I kept proposing. He thought you were one of those haughty, conceited girls that make a man miserable on purpose, to prove their worth. He was sure you’d cave in, at last. And when you didn’t, he set his mind on making you regret it. At first, he wanted to make you pay for dishonouring our family by denying me, but then...” he hesitated. 

“Then, what?” Claire hoped her voice would be forceful but it was only a whisper. Those days, Frank insisting on the proposal… Uncle Lamb dying… They were black, burned, and made her lungs constrict as though she’d inhaled too much smoke.

Frank shook his head and took a deep breath before proceeding. “My cousin, he craves power. He’s protected by an English duke and came to France to gain insight and influence over the nobility. I belatedly realised that even I was a pawn in his game. You see, Lamb was close with Jean-Baptiste Cochet, the rector of the University, and Jonathan thought that if I had married you I would get under his wing, too, and have more power. When you denied me he spoke of things I don’t want to remember. He got obsessed with you and your uncle, as though you were the obstacle on his only way to success. He followed you around, Claire, until he knew your daily routine, your habits, your likes and dislikes. It was terrifying. When he was sure I couldn’t convince you to change your mind, he told me that we could just blackmail you. It would do the trick, he’d said.”

“So he got my house from me to blackmail me? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“No, he didn’t.” Frank paused, hesitating. “I did.”

Claire’s sharp inhalation did nothing to help her clear her mind. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know all this. She had left those years behind and was a different person now. 

“I didn’t want to do this, Claire,” Frank talked without giving her the chance to gather her thoughts. “I was hurt, but I would never do that. Not if I had another choice. You have to believe me.” His voice was imploring, his eyes wide and honest as he looked at her. 

“Why did you do it, then?” the question was out of her mouth before she realised it.

“I needed to somehow take you out of the picture. Jonathan didn’t know anything about it and he can never find out what I did. Not if I value my life. When he realized you were gone, he got mad. Cold, furious, unrelenting. He searched for you everywhere but he never thought that you would deny the company of nobles for that of peasants. No,” Frank shook his head with a bitter smile. “For all the hours that he followed you, he didn’t know you that well.”

“But you did.”

“I did,” he nodded and his eyes found hers. “Your altruism was one of the things I admired in you. And that you didn’t care about money,” he continued. 

“I don’t know what to say,” Claire mumbled, taking in the information. She had heard him mentioning a cousin once or twice in their dinners, but never paid much attention to him or their relationship.

“Do you believe me?” he asked. He moved to take her hand, but she withdrew before he had a chance to.

“Why did you let him?” she queried. “If this wasn’t what you wanted for me, from me, why did you let him do it?”

Frank shook his head repeatedly before admitting, “I didn’t. I didn’t know about it until after it was too late. He came home bragging that all would be over soon and I had to get ready to welcome my wife home. He told me what he had done as though he was the mastermind of a brilliant plan. It was in that moment I realised the twisted way he saw everything.” Frank’s hazel eyes were fixed on hers. “I’m sorry I was the reason you ended up living at St. Antoine.”

“You weren’t,” Claire whispered.

“Excuse me?”

“That wasn’t you or your cousin,” Claire corrected him. “That was my doing. I could seek refuge in a rich house, protected by a Compte, or even a Marquis. But I didn’t. It was my choice to leave that life behind.”

“I see. If I may ask, did this life make you happy?” 

Claire thought of all the pain after losing her uncle, the first hard years at St Antoine, establishing herself as a healer, taking Claudel in, being a part of the revolution, meeting Jamie, falling in love with him. Seeing him in a prison cell.

“I lived. I lived through things you can’t imagine, and I made it on my own. I am my own woman, Frank.”

A small smile curled up his lips. “I always thought you were too stubborn to be anything else.”

She snorted, not the most elegant thing to do for a girl of her age. “Our past is troublesome, Frank, but you may still hold a part of my happiness in your hands.”

“Of your happiness?” he repeated, bewildered. The spark in his eyes made her taste acid at the back of her throat. She didn’t want to mislead him. He might have been cruel once, but she wasn’t.

“Not as you may think. Not as you once thought, either. But I need your help and if you really feel remorse for everything that happened those ten years ago, this is your chance to redeem yourself.”

Frank’s dry face was motionless but his eyes were still focused on her, sincere and straightforward. It was always his eyes that Claire liked best.

“What do you need?” he asked, voice passive as though unaffected by any feelings he might have at that moment.

“A friend of mine got captured. He’s held in La Force Prison and the execution is in two days time.”

“I thought you were with the Revolution,” he stated.

“I am.”

“And he’s not?”

“He is. But they are convinced he’s a spy and there is nothing we can do change that now. And it doesn’t really matter, Frank. There will be no trial. He’s an innocent who doesn’t deserve to die.”

“A lot of people do not deserve to die and yet are killed every day in the name of the Revolution, Claire. Liberté, égalité, fraternité ou la morte.” 

“Then help me save one.”

“One that counts?” he asked, his gaze searching her hand for a wedding ring she wasn’t wearing. 

She thought of explaining, adding more information, making him want to save Jamie for his own sake but at last she just nodded. “One who’s important to me.”

Frank stayed silent for a while and the chirping of birds suddenly got too loud in Claire’s ears. She wondered if counting the seconds would make them pass by faster. Her gaze flickered between her clasped hands and Frank, trying to guess if the hurt pursuer or the honest gentleman would win this internal fight. 

Her mind ran back to Jamie, ragged and tired in that cell ten minutes away from her and yet unreachable. If Frank denied to help her and there was an alternative plan on Murtagh and Jared’s front, Jamie would walk straight into a public execution. 

What would she do then? Would she have the courage to fight for equality, for a better future, when her own comrades got mad with rage and revenge and killed one who fought for them?

Wrapped in those ominous thoughts, she didn’t know how much time had passed when Frank cleared his throat. His eyes found hers. 

“Some people are born to make history,” he said. “I’ve always prefered studying it. Books are safe, most of the times. And yet I find myself in this place and time that will make it into history books one day and I know I can’t always remain the bystander, the unbiased observer.” He fidgeted with his hat. “What I’m trying to say is that sometimes even the ones who aren’t brave need to do their best and hope it’s right.”

Claire’s breath hitched in her throat.

“I’ll help you, Claire. For the sake of my friendship with your uncle and the future I once dreamed with you, I’ll help you.”

Claire had never imagined that tears of gratitude would meet a relieved smile planted on her face by Frank Randall.

And yet here they were. Humans, a huge spectrum of grey that was never quite black or white.

She left the park after a long discussion about the specifics and headed straight to L'Hôpital des Anges to meet yet another grey man. 

Monsieur Forez was one of the volunteers and the best bonesetter at the hospital and happened to also serve as the official hangman for the Fourth Arrondissement.

Chapter 19

[all-wlw-imagines]

Hollow. Kamilah Sayeed x MC

A/N: Set at the final scene of BB II. If Kamilah and MC had a couple of extra minutes before everything changed. First try on this fandom and with this character. I hope you enjoy it.

Words: 1463

---------

You never imagined finding love in Kamilah Sayeed; she seemed cold when you first met her at Raines Corp. She was elegant as no one else you had seen in your life, but a detached look in her eyes didn’t allow you to get closer.

Perhaps that was what captured your curiosity; the way light shone on her eyes with a thousand secrets waiting to be unraveled. And when you learned that she had been in the world for two thousand years, you understood that it was a long time for memories.

Two thousand years was almost the beginning of everything you knew. In some cases, it was as far back as history books went. And she had seen civilizations rise and fall; might have been the cause of the destruction of more than a few while she walked next to Gaius.

They were royals; warriors that shaped the direction the world took. They decided if Earth should keep spinning, and they could make everything stop. And yet, despite all the blood that tainted lands, all the hurt they caused through the years, you fell in love with her.

She was wary where you were reckless; diving headfirst into a world far too dangerous for a human. You learned, drank everything in with the same eagerness a newly turned vampire sought blood. There was an entire world hidden in the shadows that you should’ve been scared of, but you weren’t.

In return, that scared her.

Her walls and barriers were forged through the years; impenetrable unless she opened the door like she had done for Adrian. They were strong enough to withstand prying from any mortal or immortal being out there. But they were also meant to keep a raging storm of regret inside of her. Because life without Gaius brought clarity, and with that light it was easy to see, to understand every wrong she had done through two thousand years.

Once again, that was a long time of memories.

You, of all people, were different. You were just a human and yet were stronger than many. You fought for what you believed was right and did so in every way you were able to. Sure, some occasions needed you in the middle of a vampire den, and others you were forming alliances that had been on pause since an eternity ago.

You pushed boundaries, you took risks that Adrian or Kamilah were still too afraid to take. Because life was perpetually on the edge of balance, and it wouldn’t take much for it to tip. Wouldn’t take much to send everything back to the chaos they would have to rebuild from.

Except that not taking action didn’t prevent said chaos. Not with the Baron and his criminals. Not with Vega craving yet more power. Not with Priya and her self-centered world.

To Kamilah, you were a fresh mouthful of air...before going underwater.

It was a good thing she knew how to swim.

You changed the world in so many ways and kicked down her barriers before she could even protest. You were so deep inside her mind without even needing your Blood Keeper heritage. You were so deep inside her heart that she cared even when she didn’t want to. Her nature was to protect you, and yet you were the one saving her.

You claimed her lips with a softness Kamilah had almost forgotten. You held her as if she wasn't one of the most powerful vampires in the entire world. You allowed her touch to burn you in the most pleasant ways, and from the ashes, you rose stronger than before.

At some point she told you how hollow she was, to not expect anything from her because there was nothing to give.

You loved her in every way you could. You loved her with slow but hungry kisses until both of you were out of breath. You loved her with soft looks and tender touches until she opened up to you. And you discovered the depth of her emotions; the weight of her loss, the darkness of her grief, and you curled up at her side to give hope back to her.

It was perhaps something cruel, considering you were about to face Gaius.

The odds of your victory were slim, and yet you knew whatever the outcome would take a toll on Kamilah. Either she was going to watch him die, the one she loved for more than a millennia, or all of you would face your death.

But you refused to get this far to only get this far.

It all comes down to this moment, and you look at Kamilah just as time seems to stop. You look at her, and she knows exactly what you’re going to do. This is the only opening, the only chance you get to stop him.

All your friends are dying in front of you. They’re burning, and you are too.

You burn with the thing that has always driven you: passion. It burns in your heart as it hammers against your chest. It makes you move before you can think twice about it. Until you’re behind Gaius and time slows down to a stop.

Before he turns, you stare into Kamilah’s eyes and see the panic behind the pain.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was either you destroyed Gaius or he’d kill you all. But then the sword goes through your chest and the stake goes through his.

For a moment there’s no pain. For a moment you don’t think about what’s going to happen next as you watch him turn into a tree. It’s okay, you just won and nothing can take that away from you. 

Nothing but the blood soaking through your shirt and making you cough when it pools on your throat. Suddenly the world is back in motion; it makes you dizzy even when you’re already on your knees.

The pain is dull with an undertone of panic settling in. That sword went right through your heart, taking it out will kill you in seconds, even if leaving it there is killing you anyway. But you need those extra seconds, you hold into life and consciousness while Kamilah makes her way to you.

“I...I’m sorry,” you manage to whisper.

Kamilah holds you, cradles your face, and makes you feel warm even when your fingertips start feeling numb. It’s ironic because she has compared you to the sun she hadn’t been able to feel since she was turned.

“You saved us. There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

But that’s not exactly true when her eyes are filled with tears. It’s not true when she’s hurt in more ways than one; her shoulders are slumped, but her grip on you is stronger than ever. If only your hold on reality could be as strong…

“Kamilah...” you whisper before coughing up blood.

“Don’t talk. I...I’m going to make this right. Everything is going to be okay.”

“Kamilah,” you repeat with barely more strength in your voice. “Stop.”

“No! This...this can’t be the end.”

You’d like to tell her otherwise, but that’d be a lie. You’d like to say a thousand things, to tell her all about your dreams and the future you envisioned with her by your side. You want to tell her how much she has helped you to grow; into a confident woman, a skilled fighter, wiser person. She freed your mind in ways you could have never imagined. And she taught you the many ways pleasure could take.

“You’re going to be okay,” you say softer than ever.

She’s going to have to deal with pain again, with grief and the sense of loss that comes after death. She closed herself to any kind of feeling after so many centuries of loss, and you came barreling into her life.

You became the best thing to happen to her in a long time. But the worst thing too.

There’s nothing you wish more than a different ending, but you know you’d walk straight into that sword again if it meant saving Kamilah.

Saving them all.

“I’m cold,” you whisper before shivering in her arms.

“Don’t leave me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Y/n, please. Please, don’t leave me.”

“You’re my Queen, Kamilah.”

It’s then when your grasp on reality slips further away, and all you can see is her; with beautiful eyes so full of sorrow, luscious hair splattered with blood. But she’s alive and that’s what matters to you.

“I love you.” It’s the last thing you say before your eyes close.

“Y/n, forgive me. I lo-”

Her voice fades away with the rest of the world.

And contrary to what you thought would happen, you feel warm.

[ongaku-ato-kakikomi]

After reading that those breakup senarios for monster prom I was crying 😭 so do you think you could write some getting back together senarios?

(A/N): I’m sorry for making you cry, hun! Here are the getting back together scenarios you asked for (sorry it took me so long, these are very long to write). I hope you and the others will enjoy them!

This is a follow-up of the Breaking Up With Them (Monster Prom Characters)

Miranda Vanderbilt:

Getting you killed for broking her heart was probably Miranda’s greatest regret of all time, leaving her wishing she had spared your life so she could have the chance to see your face from afar. She was missing everything about you: every expression, every tone of voice, every simple touches… In fact, she missed you so much that not a single thing about you ever slipped from her mind, the simple thought of you tearing her insides apart over and over as she internally screamed in agony at your absence.

And it was all her fault.

She needed to see you again, at least one more time. It didn’t matter to her if you would hate her with all of your soul, or even go live your life and be with someone else, all she wanted was for you to just be alive in front of her again… to see you smile one last time.

And to be able to get that miracle she desperately needed more than anything else, she needed to sacrifice at least a hundred of her serfs to an obscure god she learned about from Zoe. She won’t lie to herself, none of them seemed really happy to get slaughtered by her guards in order to get you back to life, but at this point, she didn’t care to even act like it was in their best interest. They’re her serfs, they’re nothing to her.

And you’re her entire world.

While her guards sliced and cut serf after serf, her eyes were locked on your corpse she made them put on the podium earlier, observing every inch of you. She didn’t like to see the state you were now in, the weeks you’ve been dead having rotten your skin to a point where you were almost unrecognizable. But Zoe said it didn’t matter how long it has been, and she believes her. And with a hundred offerings, you better come back looking exactly like you were before dying: Perfect, like a divinity.

“Princess Miranda.” Her attention turns away from you as soon as one of her guards speaks up, her eyes settling on him. “The last serf has been killed.”

“It’s only a matter of time, now.”

Dark fumes suddenly both engulf you and her, everything turning dark only to reveal a giant and monstrous form grinning in the blackness.

“Miranda Vanderbilt.” His low voice makes her question her action, fear slowly rising in her soul. “Thank you for your generous offer… here’s the price you’ve wanted in return.”

A bright light emanates from your body when his black finger touches it, blinding her so much that she has to hide her eyes with her arms.

“Princess Miranda!”

Her guards’ voices bring her back to reality, and she blinks a couple times to adjust her vision as she frees her face from her arms. When she looks back at you, she feels her heartbeat stop in shock, your (e/c) eyes looking back at her in pure confusion.

“… Mir’?”

“Oh, my dear (Y/N)!” She throws her arms around you in a desperate manner, her tears already flowing down her cheeks and unto your shoulder. “I am so delighted to see that you’re back with us, love!”

“But… you killed me…”

She tenses up from your words, the memory of the spear getting through your body flashing in her thoughts.

“Ah…” She frees you from her embrace, her eyes looking down at your lap to avoid looking at your expression. “I’m deeply sorry for that, dear… I acted without thinking and, well… There’s no excuse for it, so I would understand if you despised me now…”

She wipes away a tear from her eye, your silence only answering her words for a while.

“Well…” A rush runs through her spine when your fingers touch her cheek, making turn her head towards yours so she could your smile. “I forgive you, Mir’.”

Her heart melts like a burning candle when your lips capture hers in a small moment, her whole body having craving this kind of touch for a long time now. More tears follow the path of her skin when she realizes that you’re not holding any grudge against her, a few sobs escaping her throat when you part away.

“Oh, Miranda… why are you crying?”

“I thought… you said…” She shakes her head to try and reassembles her thoughts. “You said you wished to leave me…”

“Ah, yes, but…  you see, being dead kind of gives you a whole new perspective on things.” You give out a sweet smile, giving her lips a small peck. “For example… leaving you would be a huge mistake since you’re the origin of my happiness.”

She couldn’t have been happier in that moment. Because not only did she managed to get you back to life, but you were also back to be hers.

And that is the greatest gift she could ever ask for.

Damien LaVey:

He hated this.

He hated how you were standing there by your locker, smiling and laughing with one of those stupid monsters he didn’t even know the name of, while he was simply here, constantly feeling overly angry and lonely since you left him

He really fucking hated this.

Why couldn’t you be happy and stay with him? Why did you say being with him was draining you from any happiness you had left when it was when you were with him that you were the happiest? Why did you think it was his fault that you were feeling numb? Why didn’t you tell him anything-

“Damien.” He comes back to reality when Vera snaps her fingers in his face, the gorgon clearly being annoyed. “Do I need to remind you that it’s primordial for you to listen to me? This heist could be disastrous if you don’t.”

“Yeah, the heist, yeah…” His tries to not let his eyes look back at you giggling at what that other stupid monster just said, but he’s unsuccessful at doing so. “I hear you.”

Vera quirks an eyebrow and looks in the direction he’s looking at, only to roll her eyes upon seeing you.

“Are you regretting not killing her or something?”

Damien groans, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans his shoulder against one of the lockers. “I regret letting her go.”

“Then go get her back, you idiot.”

He gives her a surprised look. “Huh?”

“I suggest you do it soon, or else that monster over there’s gonna beat you to the chase.”

He looks back to where you’re standing to see you slightly push your friend’s shoulder in a playful way, your laughter echoing in the hallway because of one of the monster’s joke. A flash of hatred burn in his eyes when he sees the dummy subtly getting closer to you, and Vera smirks proudly when she sees his expression.

“Show him his place.”

Damien unconsciously cracks his knuckles, preparing his fists for a future impact as his own lips stretch out in an evil grin. “With pleasure.”

He hits the space between you and your friend with his fist as soon as he arrives, leaving a deep mark on the metal of the locker. You give him a shocked look at first, then sigh in annoyance when he stares at your friend like he’s going to twist his head off his body in a few seconds.

“Leave.”

Despite being terrified of dying, your friend gives you a small look over Damien’s shoulder. “B-but-”

“I said leave!”

He doesn’t wait for the demon prince to add anything else as he runs away without looking back, leaving Damien turning to your annoyed face.

“That was my friend you just scared off.”

“Your friend was about to kiss you.”

You quirk an eyebrow at him while taking some books out of your locker. “And why should you care?”

He grins at your question. “Because you’re mine.”

You close your locker, holding your books closer to you as you look back at him.

“That’s funny, I thought we broke up.”

“And I’ve decided that we were back together.”

You give out a chuckle. “You do realize you can’t force me to do that, right?”

“I’m going to be the King of Hell, I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

“Hm…” You approach his face to yours, his breath getting caught in his throat in hope. “… but you’re not the King of Hell yet.”

You playfully tap his cheek with your free hand before walking past him, letting out a surprised yelp and accidentally dropping your books when he suddenly grabs your arm. You look back at him, a little frustrated, but your words disappear from your mind once you see the pain in his eyes.

“Please.” He moves his fingers down your arm to finally hold your hand with his, his claws almost digging inside your skin in desperation. “Please come back.”

Your expression soothes down to a sweet one, your eyes full of sadness.

“Even after I hurt you, you still want me to be a part of your life?”

“I don’t want it, I fucking need it, okay?” His words contrast with the fact that he gently puts his lips on your fingers, not wanting to let go of your hand as he gives out a sad chuckle. “I fucking hate that I need you and you don’t. I know you don’t love me, but I wish you could just for one more minute.”

“I do love you, Damien.” The world stops around him, and he stares at you in disbelief. “I was unhappy, I still am a little, but it has never been because of you.”

He blinks a couple of times while processing what you just said, then he frowns in what seems to be anger or frustration. “Why the fuck did you lie to me then? Why the fuck did you hurt me?”

“I…” You sigh, looking down at your hand still trapped between his. “My feelings were so… dark. It was slowly killing me and I was scared of dragging you down with me if I stayed with you. So I lied because I knew that with the real reason, you wouldn’t have let me go.”

“For fuck sake, of course I wouldn’t have, you idiot.” You’re surprised when he takes your head between his hands and puts his forehead against yours, his breath feeling shaky against your skin. “Now you better let us get back together so I can help you fight this or I’m gonna kick your ass.”

“… okay, okay.” You look into his eyes, your smile slowly becoming bright. “We can go back together.”

You can’t help but giggle when he attacks your face with a huge amount of kisses, his lips against your skin feeling like a thousand tickles.

“You won’t let me go that easily now, will you?”

He ends the attack by giving your lips a small kiss. “Never.”

For a moment, he never thought you’d say it. He never thought you’d let him hold you in his arms again nor he thought he’d get to taste your lips one more time.

But he is so fucking happy that you let him back into your life.

Scott Howl:

Since you left him, Scott’s skills in the football game-play have incredibly deteriorated, making his team lose almost every single match they had against the other schools up, and the practices weren’t any better. No matter how much his coach encouraged him to do better or how his cousins threatened him to stop hanging out if he didn’t stop playing so bad, he just couldn’t get himself to focus on anything. Football didn’t matter to him, and if he ever had any interest in any school subject, he definitely didn’t have any at all now.

All he wanted was you.

And therefore that’s all he could think about.

It hurt to not have you by his side, constantly. How could he stay the same when every inch of his mind and body kept screaming in agony, begging the universe that you would come back to him?

He couldn’t play because you weren’t there to cheer for him, he couldn’t study because you weren’t there help him with his homework and he couldn’t breathe because you weren’t there to hold him.

He couldn’t live without you.

And you noticed it.

It made you so worried about him. You almost regretted lying to him when you break up seeing how much you hurt. But it was to save him from yourself, it had to be done.

But one day, when you see his dull eyes looking down at the floor has you pass by him, the boy no longer looking up at you with a little hope like he used to do, you couldn’t stop yourself from talking to him.

“Scott.” Your voice makes every one of his bones respond to it from memory, his eyes finally looking back into your (e/c) ones. “Are you okay?”

“I miss you.” His words pierce right through your chest, your heart begging you to run over to him. “I miss you so much, (Y/N).”

You made a mistake. That’s the first thing that goes through your head after hearing him. Maybe you shouldn’t have broken up with him, even if it was to save him from your own dark feelings. You loved him so much, but you haven’t noticed how much he loved you back too. And god, he wouldn’t be so heartbroken if you had just told him the truth, wouldn’t be?

“Hey.” You give him a sad smile. “You have a football match tonight, right?”

“Yeah…” He looks back down at the floor, his foot kicking a ball of paper away from him. “But what’s the point in it, anyway? I’ll just lose it again and get kicked off the team.”

You really did a mistake.

“What if we made a deal?”

His head perks up when he hears you say that. “What kind of deal?”

“Well, if you win this match…” Your smile turns to a sweet one as you tilt your head at him. “… we can go back together.”

You’ve never seen his eyes light up so bright and so quickly, a huge grin breaking out of his lips while grabs your shoulders in excitement.

“We can?”

You giggle, part of surprise and part of happiness from seeing his. “Yeah… Yeah, we can.”

“Deal!” He crushes into a tight hug, his cheek pressed against yours in a loving way. “I’ll win this match if it’s the last thing I have to do!”

When he frees you to run towards the school’s field so he can practice properly, you can’t help but smile at his leaving form, your heart warming up at the thought of making him happy. Of course, the boy was too excited about having another chance to be yours that he forgot to ask you what would happen if he loses the match, but honestly, it’s not something neither he or you had to worried about…  because he won and crushed the other team completely that night, not only earning back the school’s and his teammates’ respect along with a good pat on the back by his coach, but also you.

He won you back.

When he looks back at you smiling at him beside the bleachers full of monster, he can’t help but worry that this is not what you wanted, that you accidentally trapped yourself in a situation you wouldn’t be if you hadn’t had pity of him and made a deal. Those thoughts made him sad, but he kept on a fake smile for his cousins who were cheering him on, and he kept it when he walked back towards him.

“Hey.” You welcomed him with your usual sweet smile, the one he was craving to see again for so long. “You won.”

“Yeah, I did!” He’s really happy that he finally managed to get back on track, but what about you? “But, (Y/N)… it’s okay if you wanna call of the deal.”

You give him a surprised look. “Really?”

“Yeah, because…” Despite the sadness in his eyes, he manages to give out a smile. “I only want you if you want me too.”

“Scott…” You grab his giant hands with yours, looking up at him with a huge smile. “I love you so much more for saying that.”

His heartbeat tries to get out of his thoracic cage as soon as you say that, his brain reviving with hope.

“You do?”

“I knew you would win the deal, Scott.” You tiptoed in order to be somewhat at his height, giving his nose a quick kiss like you used to do. “I wouldn’t have brought it up if I didn’t.”

You yelp when he suddenly wraps his arms around your form, bringing you up in the air so he can turn around with you in his embrace. You let out a loud laugh along with his, both of you enjoying this happiness running through your veins.

“You’re back! We’re back!” He finally puts back down, but only so he can crash his lips against yours for a small moment before parting away. “I’m so happy!”

And you have no idea how much he is.

Liam de Lioncourt:

Somehow, acting like he didn’t care that you were gone made everything worse. He thought that if he showed that it was something he wanted as much as you, it would make things easier for him, that he’ll be able to move on much quicker, but he was wrong.

He felt like dying all the time.

It didn’t help that he had to be your friend. Sure, he managed to not see you as much with excuses such as secret meetings that didn’t exist or a random art calling that he needed to do alone, but he still had to hang out with you when the group wanted to go out. And that was pure torture because he had to see you smiling and laughing up close, which constantly reminded him that he could no longer be that source of happiness for you.

And that’s not even counting his followers, who have noticed that he deleted all the pictures you were in, and have been harassing him about the situation ever since it happened.

‘Where’s (Y/N)?’, ‘Why did you delete your pictures?’, ‘Have you two broke up?’.

He tried to ignore those comments, but he couldn’t. They were a constant reminder of his failure at loving someone, at loving you, and it kept digging holes in his heart each day.

Of course, they are times that you can’t hang out. No real excuses except for something along the lines of a weekly meeting of some sorts, which kind of reminds him of his own excuses. Only he’s pretty sure your meetings are real, unlike most of his, and you’re doing a pretty good job at hiding what it is.

Until today.

He wasn’t trying to learn anything about you, in fact, he was trying his best to avoid you at all costs. It’s a coincidence that you happen to arrive with another person in the same area as him. I mean, not in the same area, but close enough for him to be able to hear the conversation he didn’t really want to hear. He was about to leave, wanting to have some peace and quiet where he wouldn’t be able to hear you laugh with someone else until he learned what your meeting with this person was about.

It was a meeting for people who are in depression or were in a state of depression, you and the other person having been paired up and meeting each week to talk and listen so you could try and lift each other up. It shocked him to learn that you had been going to those meetings for months, way before you had broke with him, only to try to fix something inside of you and thus without telling him or any of your friends. Why you hadn’t told anyone was beyond him, and he was glad to learn that the other person was agreeing with him.

“You need to tell someone close to you, (Y/N). Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you found help by coming to me, but at some point, you’re gonna need someone you love to be there for you.”

“I don’t want to drag them down with me.”

Your reason made him so worried about you. It suddenly didn’t matter that you shattered his heart into a million pieces. All that matters was that you got better.

“Is that why you broke with Liam? To protect him from your feelings?”

“I didn’t tell him the real reason.” The whole world around him exploded from learning this, his eyes widening in shock. “Trust me, it’s easier that way.”

“You’re an idiot.”

He hasn’t noticed that he had moved to where you and your friend were sitting, your shocked expression now looking back at him in both surprise and fear.

“… Liam?”

“It’s not easier that way.” He sits down beside you just as your friend subtly leaves, letting him take over. “You just end up alone for the wrong reasons and it’s worse than anything else.”

“I-You…” You hide your face with your hands, trying your best to control your breathing so the tears don’t come out. “You weren’t supposed to hear this.”

“But I did.” He takes your hands off your face, his serious expression staring back into your “e/c) ones. “And now you’re gonna listen to me.”

Staring into his yellow eyes calms you down enough to slowly nod, and thus despite the fact that you’re still feeling quite embarrassed and ashamed of yourself.

“You’re not gonna hide this from me anymore. Every time you’re gonna have a bad thought or a bad feeling, you’re gonna tell me about it and I’m gonna help you get through it.” His hands hold yours tighter to support his point, and you think you see a flash of sadness in his yellow eyes. “I don’t care if you think it’s gonna hurt me, you will tell me about it. I have lived for centuries, (Y/N), and I’m telling you, I prefer staying with you so we can help each other enjoy life even in the darker days than being away from you and feeling like dying.”

Your heartbeat gets louder to the point of hurting. “Liam…”

“I love you, okay?” He puts his forehead against yours to give you some comfort. “I love you and I am not going anywhere.”

The tears finally fall down as you try to keep in a sob. “I-I thought you didn’t care. You said-”

“My pride got in the way.” He smiles when you let out a small chuckle, his fingers wiping away a few tears from your cheeks. “Thought, you did hurt me pretty bad.”

“I’m sorry…”

“Everything’s fine now.” He gives your forehead a small kiss, a thing he would have never done in public if it wasn’t for the fact that he loved you so much. “I won’t let you push me away again.”

And you’re not even gonna try, because you love him too much to watch him go a second time.

Polly Geist:

Polly never gave up on bringing you back.

Well, at first, she was utterly devastated. Her heart was broken and crushed at the exact moment you left her, and she tried to forget the pain by partying way more than she already used to do (which, knowing her, is a freaking lot). But then, she thought about your smile, about the way you made her happier than she ever did, and she thought…

… she can’t let you go just like that, can she? That you two had just simply cannot end like that.

And so she had tried to win you back ever since, no matter how much you tried to push her back. Nothing worked on her: not the insults, not the cold demeanor, not the silent treatment, not the threats, not the begging, nothing. No matter what you did, and how extreme you went, she was still there by your side, smiling and bugging you constantly about taking her back. At least for one day.

It was both painful to your heart and also extremely annoying.

“Baaabe.” She pokes your cheek to get your attention away from your book, your eyebrows instantly frowning in annoyance. “Talk to meee.”

“Don’t call me babe.” You hide your face closer to your book, trying to ignore the flash of hurt in her expression that you spotted from the corner of your eye. “We’re not together anymore.”

“But we could be again!” She pushes down your book so she can see your face, her hopeful grin staring back at you and making the guilt grow inside your gut. “What do you say, (Y/N)? For old times sake?”

“Why-” You sigh, trying your best to not explode in anger at her. “Why are you constantly bothering me with this? It’s been weeks, Polly. Move on.”

“I can’t.” She flutters her eyes and accidentally let a few ghostly tears appear in their corners, her grin still somewhat present on her face. “I love you too much to do that.”

“God, Polly-” You make a pause when you feel your heart twist from the guilt, your brain just screaming at you to take her back and hold her. “You’re just hurting yourself that way.”

“No, I’m not.” Her lips stretch out as she looks into your eyes. “You are.”

You quirk an eyebrow in confusion. “What-”

“I know why you broke up with me, (Y/N).” She tilts her head at you, her expression sweetening. “You’re scared of hurting me, right?”

You stare at her in disbelief, blinking in silence for a while until your turn your head towards where Vera is sitting in the cafeteria. The gorgon subtly waves at you with a huge grin on her face as he drinks her vodka, clearly amused by your death stare.

“I guess someone doesn’t know how to keep secrets.”

“Does it really matters in the end?” You look back at Polly when she grabs your book and puts it beside her, a new determination showing on her face. “You don’t need to be afraid of hurting me. I’m already dead, there’s nothing to save. In fact, I should be the one saving you instead of the other way around.”

“You-You don’t know how it feels, Polly.” You put your hand on your chest, grabbing the fabric when you feel the tension in your heart rising. “It’s dark, it’s intense and it is there constantly. I don’t want you to be exposed to that.”

“It’s part of you.” She takes your hand away from your shirt to hold it, her ghostly fingers touching your skin making your spine tremble for a moment. “And I love every single part of you.”

Your breath gets cut in your throat. “Polly…”

“Just take me back, okay?” Her smile shakes a little, the ghost trying her best to hold back a sob. “I know I’m not the best at dealing with these kinds of feelings and I probably won’t understand everything, but… but I promise I’ll try my best to be there for you.”

You feel yourself melt at her words, your brain burning at the sight of her loving you so much.

“Okay…” You intertwine your fingers with her, her excitement already affecting you. “Let’s try this one more time.”

She doesn’t wait for you to say anything else that she’s already putting her lips against yours in a heated passion, her whole world feeling bright once again.

Vera Oberlin:

Vera did everything in order to move on from you quickly.

The first thing she did was to order someone to kill you because she just knew she wouldn’t be able to do it herself. You might think that she could have also spared your life, which would have been easier to do, but just the thought of you going out with someone else at school not only made her cold blood starting to boil but teared apart her heart like a simple piece of paper. You had to be gone in order for her to be happy again, it was the first step.

The other step was to try her best to not think about you. Of course, the fact that you were now gone made it a little easier. Can’t think of someone if you never pass by them in the hallways, right? But it wasn’t as easy as she would have thought, because you were constantly in her head and it was enraging her.

At first, all she could think about was the last moment you two shared: the moment where you grabbed her heart inside her chest and pulled it out so suddenly that she almost cried in public. And she let that memory feed her anger and despair, fueling her enough to be even crueler when she killed people and stole money from them. The memory of you was making her more respected around, and so she didn’t see the problem of getting rid of you from her mind.

But then, she started to remember you differently. It was small moments that kept coming to her brain at random times. Moments where you said a funny joke that made her laugh, moments where you gave her incredible gifts no one gave her before, or sometimes she would just think that you would have loved this thing or that joke, and her dark heart kept twisting in pain every time it would happen.

Then she tried everything to stop thinking about you, from dark spells to unknown sacrifices to gods, but either the things she tried didn’t work, or she wasn’t able to fully commit to it and dropped it at the last second. Because in order for her to stop thinking about you, she would need to completely forget you, and she wasn’t ready for that. As much as she hated to think about it, you were everything to her, and she needed to acknowledge that.

‘Maybe I shouldn’t have killed her.” Was a thought that kept creeping into her brain one day, her steps echoing in the hallways because of her high heels. ‘Maybe then we would have a second chance.’

But it’s too late now. Her stupid pride got mixed with her emotions and you were gone. There’s no way she could bring you back without giving her soul to an unknown god. She shouldn’t give her soul to have you back, she’s smarter than that.

But maybe-

She stops walking when she hears a familiar laugh; your laugh. The one she adored hearing no matter where and no matter when. But it couldn’t be you, could it? You’re dead. Her hitman assured it-

Her eyes go wide when she turns into a hallway and see you laughing with Polly, your translucent body floating in the air right next to the party girl.

You’re back as a ghost.

You’re back!

You stop laughing when you spot her staring at you, a sweet smile still staying on your lips.

“Vera, hi.”

The gorgon closes and opens her mouth a couple of times. “H-hi. You’re… you’re a ghost now.”

“Yeah…” Your smiles stretches out. “Yeah, I am.”

Polly looks between you and her best friend with a huge grin on her face, a giggle soon coming out of her throat before she disappears into the lockers to give you two some privacy.

“You’re beautiful…” Vera gets lost in your eyes for a second, but soon regains her confidence as she clears her throat. “I mean, for a ghost, you don’t look half bad.”

Your smile stretches out. “Thanks, Vera. You’re gorgeous as ever.”

Her cheeks burn down from your compliment. “Of course. Your death gave me a new glow.”

She has to remember that you destroyed her with the breakup, and she cannot be too friendly with you even though her heart’s begging her to just claim you back. But how would you want to be with her when she’s the one responsible for your death?

“I can see that.” You tilt your head at her, floating back down towards the ground so you can be at the same level. “Thanks for killing me, by the way.”

She gives you a shocked look. “What?”

“I know it sounds crazy, but it freed me from… well, kind of dark thoughts and emotions I had all the time.” Your smile falters a little at the memory. “Plus, I deserved it for hurting you.”

“I wasn’t hurt.” Vera gives you a hard look when she feels her walls starting to crumble. “You’re wrong if you thought you could even give me a slight amount of pain.”

“If you say so, but I probably should tell you the truth.” You look away for a moment, hesitating. “Vera, I didn’t break up with you because you didn’t make me happy… but rather because I was afraid I would drag you into my depression.”

She stares at you in disbelief as you continue to explain.

“I didn’t want you to get hurt because of me, and I knew you would listen if I told you the truth, so I made up a lied. I shouldn’t have, because I ended up hurting you more, but… I did. So I’m sorry.”

She continues to stare in silence, making you feel uncomfortable, then she suddenly stands a little straighter and gives you a smile.

“Tonight. Seven o’clock.” She slowly passes by you with a proud smirk. “Be ready.”

It’s your turn to give her a shocked look. “Huh?”

“We have a date. You owe me one for hurting me.” She stops at the end of the hallway to give you one last look, her eyes lighting with happiness. “If it goes well, we’re going back together and you can’t say no.”

You don’t think you would have said no anyway since she left you there alone but feeling the happiest you’ve ever been.

[roadtohell]

@mynamesdrstuff​ thank you ur brain is so big, i had like 10 moments of revelation while writing this

A Labour of Love- or, How to Write a Song That Makes Me Want to Lie Facedown On The Floor

Four decades separates the respective rises of singer-songwriters Hozier and Bruce Springsteen, nearly as large as the gap between the worlds in which their public images reside. According to popular myth, the former is the tall, near-ethereal Bog Man, half in this life and half in the next, who rose from a fae-inhabited woodland after 1000 years of slumber to find he was able only to mourn his lost love through song; the other is the Boss, a hardy yet compassionate working-class hero permanently streaked with the blood and sweat of a marathon shift, toiling endlessly alongside the heart-stopping, pants-dropping, hard-rocking, earth-quaking, booty-shaking, Viagra-taking*, love-making, legendary E Street Band. The domains of fen and factory may appear to be irreconcilable, but in reality the musicians have many things in common:

Broadly speaking, they both create wildly variable mixes of folk and rock, often with particularly strong Irish and African-American influences.

Their lyrics are poetic and commonly reflect on social issues with a progressive voice.

Songs about romantic relationships typically portray them as complex and difficult but remain respectful, sometimes near worshipful, of women.

Their characters yearn, long, pine and crave more often than not.

They both really like to use religious imagery.

They enjoy and return notable amounts of wlw love.

Representative of many of these are Hozier’s “Work Song” and Springsteen’s “Maria’s Bed”, two songs with close thematic parallels. Each is ostensibly told from the perspective of an exhausted labourer who dreams of returning to his lover. In a twist, however, “Work Song” is a melancholic love story, while the upbeat “Maria’s Bed” is a subtle tale of death; the opposing moods are complex reflections of these underlying narratives. These songs have Hozier and Springsteen skilfully intertwine the concepts of love, death, freedom and spirituality, creating two deeply moving portrayals of desire** that never fail to eviscerate the listener after 10pm.

Though the songs differ in overall lyrical structure, the similarities in narrative are evident from the first few lines:

Boys, workin' on empty / Is that the kinda way to face the burning heat? / I just think about my baby / I'm so full of love I could barely eat

Been on a barbed wire highway forty days and nights / I ain’t complaining, it’s my job and it suits me right / I got a sweet soul fever rushing round my head / I’m gonna sleep tonight in Maria’s bed

The audience can gather that each character works in a harsh environment where they are exposed to the elements. Their work is likely in manual labour, but the details are skimmed over because the narrators don’t particularly want to think about the details. Pushed to their limits, each instead copes by preoccupying himself with thoughts of his lover, though it makes him literally lovesick.

I’d never want once from the cherry tree / ‘Cause my baby’s sweet as can be / She gives me toothaches just from kissing me

She gives me candy-stick kisses ‘neath a wolf-dog moon / A sweet breath and she’ll take you, mister, to the upper room

The worker recalls his lover’s kisses as being vibrantly sweet, sweeter than nature. So, too, is her company- in contrast to the grim situation he is currently in, she is something to be savoured. Sugar cravings, an innate biological compulsion, come to mind; his hankering for her is likewise deep-seated and out of his control.

The reason for such devotion, the narrator reveals, is that she saved his life at a time when he had already resigned himself to death. He believes he was undeserving of such a deed; Hozier describes “three days on a drunken sin… she never asked me once about the wrong I did,” while Springsteen’s character recounts being “burned by angels, sold wings of lead / then I fell in the roses and sweet salvation of Maria’s bed”. In other words, his state of ruin was at least partially self-made, and her care seemed completely inexplicable. He eagerly returns her love, perhaps feeling that it’s the least he owes- but he still doesn’t quite understand where it came from.

True to both songwriters’ styles, these lines are direct allusions to the idea of redemption in Christianity: God sheltering a faithful person from the literally hellish consequences of their wrongdoing, through no merit of their own. However, the worker is notably dismissive of traditional doctrine:

My babe would never fret none / About what my hands and my body done / If the Lord don’t forgive me / I’d still have my baby and my babe would have me

I’ve been out in the desert, yeah, doing my time / Searching through the dust for fool’s gold, looking for a sign / Holy man says “hold on, brother, there’s a light up ahead” / Ain’t nothing like the light that shines on me in Maria’s bed

His faith rests not in God but on his lover; she is his religion now. Her act of grace already gave him a new, better life- he doesn’t need biblical promises when her love is tantamount to anything heaven might offer. This implication conveys a staggering depth of feeling, particularly to a religiously raised listener. Spirituality is, at its core, emotional; combined with the values and customs of religion, it is a force that can exert incredible influence over a person. The worker doesn’t reject spirituality itself- it’s an intrinsic part of him- but he has put all that power in the hands of the one he adores. It may make him vulnerable to her (that’s love!), but he is certain that she will give him the strength he needs.

Theological redemption also has close ties with death, as its benefits aren’t meant to be reaped on earth. Instead, the love, glory and freedom that are promised are relegated to the afterlife. Historically, the presumed ecstasy of achieving this gave death a sexual connotation; after all, if a lover could take the spiritual place of God, then perhaps sex could take the role of death as a gateway to paradise, far away from a life of pain. Work Song embraces this analogy, explicitly linking spiritual fulfilment to the pleasure of sexual intimacy:

When I was kissing on my baby / And she put her love down, soft and sweet / In the low lamplight, I was free / Heaven and hell were words to me

The equally suggestive Maria’s Bed allows the audience to draw similar conclusions, but it accomplishes this using a far less serious method: regular mentions of the titular bed, wink-wink-nudge-nudge. Yet this light-hearted sauciness is something of a misdirection. It’s easy to gloss over the song’s references to water, but they are strong hints that support an alternative reading: Maria is not a woman, but a river***. The story, from this perspective, then becomes much more sombre- the worker is a dying or suicidal man who wishes to have his body laid at the bottom of a river that provided for him in life, and whose real desire is for the peace he hopes to find there in death.

Got on my dead man’s suit and smiling skull ring / Lucky graveyard boots and a song to sing / I keep my heart in my work, my troubles in my head / And I keep my soul in Maria’s bed

This darker interpretation arguably makes more sense than the face-value love story, as it resolves some figures of speech that otherwise seem out of place. Even so, the more obvious reading is no less meaningful****; in fact, the coexistence of these narratives is what makes Maria’s Bed an almost perfect thematic inverse to Work Song.

When my time comes around / Lay me gently in the cold dark earth / No grave can hold my body down / I’ll crawl home to her

Hozier uses the finality of death to illustrate the strength of a man’s desire for love- his narrator embraces his own passing as he is certain not even the most permanent of barriers can keep him from his lover. Springsteen, through the personification of the river, uses the language of romance to demonstrate how fervently a man might desire death- his narrator embraces his demise because it offers a reprieve from life, just like a lover would.

All that said, no amount of lyrical analysis will reveal the clearest point of contrast the songs have: their music.

Work Song primarily draws from blues and folk music, both of which have roots in historical work songs used to coordinate physical tasks as well as boost morale. Reflecting this musical heritage, instrumentation is fairly simple, with the steady rhythm of claps and piano chords punctuating hard. It is slow and heartfelt, almost mournful; though there’s no mention of time frame, the audience has the sense that the worker still has a long way to go before he can return to his lover.  This notion comes largely from the song’s circular structure. By ending with the same music it opened with, its story is also implied to finish at its beginning: with the men hard at work in the “burning heat”, and no true relief in sight. This is furthered by having little development over the course of the song- though iterations of the chorus are more intense than the verses, the arrangements underlying both sections barely change. The worker, it seems, is never quite far enough from his reality of hard labour, and never close enough to home.

On the other hand, Maria’s Bed is relentlessly optimistic, driven by a strong forward momentum. Where most modern songs have their choruses as their most powerful feature, here the wordless refrain (“hey hey, la la la li li li li”) acts more like a transition between verses, keeping the story moving. The jaunty fiddles that fade out are quite different to the introductory guitar and organ, suggesting the worker’s situation has developed for the better. In addition, the orchestration builds continually, only briefly pulling back before the music culminates in an extended musical outro. Many of the instruments work in counterpoint, each additional layer contributing to an air of an unrestrained joy that is further spurred on by Springsteen’s high hums and whoops. The linear musical direction and overall impression of good cowboy fun results in the feeling that, unlike the singer of Work Song, the narrator is already on his way to his heart’s desire- though, in light of the lyrics, what this actually means is somewhat ambiguous. Are those final echoes him moving out of earshot… or his ghost ascending to the “upper room” of heaven?

We may not know for sure how either of these stories end, but we can feel the aching hope for something better. This longing is an emotional line that runs all the way through both Springsteen and Hozier’s work, though it never seems to get old. Combined with explorations of love, faith, life, death- that’s why we return to their music again and again; they are experts at playing on old motifs and universal themes in new and creative ways, their crafted melodies and narratives touching wild and industrial hearts alike.

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

* I am legally obligated to include all these adjectives.

** Maria’s Bed seems to be sadly obscure even among fans; the one and only online forum discussion I have seen about the song refers to it as “not that deep”. Having written this whole essay- if Springsteen himself said that to me, I’d laugh in his face.

*** A random internet comment I can’t find anymore backs me up on this. It even specified that it was about the Santa Maria River in California, as quoted “from Bruce”. Obviously an infallible source 😊

**** It’s important that “[drinking] the cool clear waters” can totally be the description of oral sex you thought it was.

[mermaidxatxheart]

The Queen of Wishful Thinking

Ok. So, this is the start of a new series that I’ve been working on for a couple years. This is the prelude to my teen wolf story. It’s an OFC. If you’d like to be tagged, let me know. send me an ask. I’m not stopping my other works. I’m still continuing all of my Bucky stories and the requests that I’ve received. I haven’t forgotten about them. But I’m struggling with the toxicity of the Marvel fandom at the moment. I won’t be tagging anyone from my Marvel tag lists specifically because they didn’t sign up for this genre. If you want to be on both, let me know. Here we go. Also, thank you to everyone who read this for me and encouraged me to post it. You guys have been sent by the gods. I love you so much.

Pairing: OFC X Derek Hale (future)

Word Count: 6732

Warnings: abuse, mentions of blood and violence. descriptions of pain and torture.

Summary: Aryanna was a special girl. Her parents got exactly what they wished for. But she’s the one paying the price. 

My birth should have been the best thing that ever happened to my parents. They had prayed to the gods for so long to bless them with a special child.

 Be careful what you wish for.

I tried to be normal.

 I tried desperately to be like everyone else.

 And the reality was that I wasn’t that different. I didn’t have extra arms, or a second belly button or anything weird. What made me special wasn’t visible. I don’t know what made him choose me, all I know was that it made my life miserable. Lord Apollo, the god of music, poetry, prophecies, light and truth, had picked me to bear the gift of foresight. Apparently, he was also the god of stupid decisions.

 Ever since I was a little girl, I knew I was different. It was supposed to be a special gift, craved by many. I was to be the next Seer. It was a popular practice in those days, most every village had one, as long as it was large enough. The one in my village was useless. He was called Aischylos. It should have been an obvious tell to anyone who spoke to him, seeking advice and consul that he’s a liar and a fraud since his name means ‘shame’. But, as usual, people see and believe what they want to.

 The very first vision I had was of my father when I was four years old. I had stayed home with my mother while she prepared her wine to sell. I was playing on the floor next to her and my sight disappeared. I blinked several times, and when it cleared, there was something strange about it. It was in front of me, but I could tell it wasn’t true. If I were to reach out and touch it, my hands would pass through air. It was rounded, and not all together clear, like I was looking at it through water. My father walked through the door with a large sack full of fish, a magnificent catch for the aging fisherman. I shook my head and my father was gone. I looked up at my mother and she smiled down at me.

 “Papa did good today, Mama.” I said simply and went back to playing with my wooden centaur figure. My father returned home soon after just as I had seen it in my mind. My mother looked from my father to the little girl sitting at her feet and she smiled wide, clearly happy but I was too young to understand what it was. 

 I didn’t see anything for a long time after that, I was close to my fifth year, I spoke to my mother of a time of man that was far away. A time when houses and structures soared high into the sky and horses were no longer used for common travel. I had seen it in a dream and it fascinated me. I had made the mistake of telling my mother in the market place and people overheard. Word spread like wildfire through our village about what I said, and the Seer, Aischylos, realized what it meant. That I was to take over his position. He no longer would get the respect and honor and good treatment that came along with his title. It would be handed over to a little girl and he would be cast aside, forgotten and forced to return to the status of everyone else in the village. He had spent countless years forging his ability that he didn’t have to get the status he didn’t deserve. He couldn’t just allow some stupid girl to take that away from him. But he bided his time, knowing I would not be eligible until my twelfth year. He watched me carefully, finding chances to whisper lies about me. He was a master of patience and manipulation.

 Living in a coastal village, there wasn’t much to do. But I was an adventurous girl, always finding places to hide and run off to. The other children would ask me questions to watch me predict the future, but I wasn’t allowed to give too much away. So, I enjoyed playing in the woods with the nymphs and satyrs, they didn’t care about using me to see the future. But they usually avoided the humans unless to tease them, so they were never much help in defending me. He would follow me, see that I was alone and go back to the village, whispering tales about witchcraft and evil. By the time I was nine, no one in my village trusted me. I was all but shunned. My mother and father were having issues at market, no one wanted to buy from them and it turned them bitter, turned them against me.

 My mother raged against me. Always berated me for any task that I did. No matter how well I did it, no matter if it was perfect, she would destroy it and shout at me, hitting me. My father couldn’t stand the sight of me. He would hit me for no reason at all. He encouraged his friends, our neighbors to hit me. They made me believe that I was a mistake, and the only way to make it right, to get them to love me, was to pray to the gods, begging Zeus and Apollo to take away this curse and make me like everyone else.

 Every night I would make the very long trip to Zeus’s temple, light candles and make offerings for the gods. Then I would pray with all my might that they would relieve me of this burden, so that I may be accepted. Every night, praying until I was numb with exhaustion. But I received no answer to my prayers, no matter how hard I muttered them and shouted them. No matter how many years I prayed, or food I sacrificed.

 When it became obvious that the gods weren’t going to answer my prayers, my father blamed me. He would hit me senseless and tell me I wasn't praying hard enough. There was no point in trying to hide the cuts and bruises on my skin, no one cared about me enough to even ask if I was okay. The villagers would even contribute at my father’s encouragement, throwing stones and rotten fruit at me, whatever they could find.

 One day, in the darkness of the early morning during my fifteenth year, I was roused out of a deep sleep. My father demanded I attend him on his boat with my mother. It had been a long time since they've wanted me on the boat, or even anywhere near them.

 I had a terrible feeling as I blundered around on the deck. Nerves racked my body, a heavy pit settling in my stomach. It had been so long since I handled the nets, my fingers had forgotten what to do. My mother was staying up by my father on the helm, speaking so quietly I had no chance of hearing. I stumbled over the ropes and crates littering the deck as we sailed smoothly out further into the vast expanse of Lord Poseidon's realm. Finally, I gave up on trying to move around and sat towards the front, watching the horizon grow lighter with Apollo rising the sun. I had a knot in my stomach-fear that they were going to bring me someplace to leave me, finally to be rid of me. But that seemed to not be the case as my father called across the boat for me to cast the nets.

 A few hours later we were finished, sacks of fish crowded the deck and a bloody spear was propped up against the mast. My father used it to defend the boat from the vicious sharks. We were headed back to land and I was starting to feel the knot in my chest loosen and relax. Maybe they really just needed my help. I was carrying a length of rope across the boat when it jerked suddenly. I lost my balance and fell forward just as the spear tipped towards me. It pierced my skin as easily as a knife through goat cheese and pain flared, burning my side. I cried out, flinging my hand against the mast to keep myself upright. I looked up at my parents for help, but they just stood at the wheel, watching my lifeblood pour out of my side.

 "Mama! Papa! Please!" I called desperately. I tried to pull the spear out of my side, but every time I touched the wooden handle, the pain only got worse. Tears spilled down my cheeks as I watched my parents turn their gazes away from me, pretending I wasn't dying. The boat bumped against the harbor dock and I scrambled away towards the side, frantic to get away before they finished killing me. 

                                                The spear got tangled on a rope and fresh blood ran out. I clamped my jaw shut and yanked it out. The pain nearly made me pass out, I swayed slightly and pressed my chiton against my side, hoping to stop the loss of the precious red liquid. The sight of it was making me dizzy as I struggled up over the side and up the dock. I barely managed to make it to my feet as I wobbled back towards the center of the village.

 I knew by now that it was useless to beg anybody to help me, I would have to do this on my own. I stumbled into my home, crashing into the walls as my vision swam. I gathered my mother's bone needle and linen threads from the loom where she crafted our clothes. I shook my head violently to clear my vision, but I only succeeded in losing my balance and falling against the door. I forced my way outside and headed for the tree line, able only to focus on managing that.

 The forest floor crunched beneath my feet, pine needles breaking and the noise was deafening. Branches whipped at my face as I ran, looking for privacy to stitch myself. I had heard of soldiers doing this in battle from the men at market. I just hoped I knew what I was doing. I found a large tree and slumped against the base, exhausted. My hand was covered in red as I numbly lifted the bone needle and the thread. I tied the thread through the hole and made a knot at the other end. It took me a dozen tries, my hands shaking and my vision blurring. My fingers were losing feeling and the linen kept slipping out of my hand, but I had to do this. I refused to let this be how I die.

 Somehow I managed to get the knot finished and I raised my arm, preparing myself to pierce my skin once more. The needle was thick, and long; and I had no sort of numbing agent to dull the pain.

 This would not be pleasant.

 I stabbed the needle through my skin, just below the wound and my vision clouded over, going black. The scream was unstoppable as burning hot pain spread across my chest. Everything in me begged me to stop, but I knew I couldn't. I needed to keep going, even though everything would be easier if I just let go. But that wasn't who I was. I didn't give up. I didn't quit even though the gods ignored me, I didn't give up on my parents - and I still wouldn't, even though they just tried to kill me. And I refused to give up on this, even though it hurt worse than anything I've ever felt before.

 I dragged the large needle through my skin, pulling tight and closing the wound. My lifeblood was already slowing down, becoming stickier. I pulled the needle through one last time and let it fall against my skin. I was exhausted both mentally and physically and I just wanted to sleep. My eyes fluttered closed and the vision started.

 A little boy of about three was running around a room. I couldn't see the details of the space, they were blurred, but I could hear his laughter, his tiny giggles. He ran around a table, his jet black hair blown back out of his face as he ran, his eyes green and bright. I saw myself chasing after him and I was laughing, looking truly happy. I could feel vision me, her happiness and contentedness flow into me and I felt at peace as I watched that little boy laugh. I didn't recognized the clothes on my body, they were foreign and unfamiliar but they weren't the important part. The little boy, he would be special, I could feel it in my bones.

 "Perseus!" I called to the little boy. He laughed hysterically and dove under the table, hitting his head on the bottom. He began to cry and I picked him up, comforting him as he clung to me. He turned around in my arms and seemed to look right at me.

 "Get up!" He said loudly and my eyes flew open.

 I groaned as I realized that night had fallen. I would have to walk back in the dark. I gingerly finished with the thread and began making my way back to the village. I would not give up, if only for the sake of seeing that little boy. I was determined to be that happy and content one day. I wouldn't stay here and be miserable forever.

 * * *

On the night of my eighteenth year, I was in the temple by myself, crying as I prayed. That day had been an exceptionally difficult one. I should have been Seer by then, but I wasn’t given the position because of people’s continued hatred of me. Aischylos was making a mess of everything. A little girl had gone to him with her mother for consul and he failed to warn them that the little girl would be hurt. A boy driving his father’s chariot had nearly run them down in the street, but I saw it before it happened. I pulled them out of the way and saved them, but my thanks was being screamed at that I was a monster and being pelted with stones. They hit me all over my body, cutting my skin and breaking my chest bones.

 So here I sit, on the temple floor, crying my eyes out, praying for relief. I want no part of this curse anymore.

 The candles had long since melted low, burning at the bitter end of their lives, and the sacrificial fire was all embers now. My head sank low on my chest with exhaustion from crying and shouting at the gods. I had run out of tears hours ago, but I had also run out of energy to make myself get up and go home. My eyes fluttered closed, blocking out the flickering light and the stone floor. The noise of the wind and sea outside dimmed remarkably as I drifted to sleep. I found that I preferred it here lately, no one to hate me here.

 I don’t know how long I slept there before a massive bang woke me. I fell back with a shout of surprise as I stared up at two figures standing twenty feet tall. I screamed and scrambled for the exit, tripping slightly over my chiton. One of the figures moved so quickly that I barely had time to blink my eyes before he was between me and the way out. I slid as I tried to stop, falling to the hard ground and hurting my wrist.

 “Is that any way to greet the Lord of Olympus?” The figure behind me growled. I looked between the two menacing figures and forced my pounding heart to slow.

 “L-Lord Zeus?” I stammered.

 “Obviously, girl. Use those eyes of yours.” He huffed. I quickly stood and bowed low. Zeus was not a figure to make angry.

 “Um, Lord Zeus, what are you doing here?” I asked, glancing at him as the other figure moved back beside Zeus. I recognized him as Apollo. He was very handsome with blond hair and deep blue eyes, tanned skin and a lithe muscular build. Zeus grunted and looked at Apollo, who tilted his head and raised a shoulder.

 “These mortals.” Zeus sighed. “You prayed to me, didn’t you, girl?” He snapped. I flinched back as his voice rumbled around the temple. Thunder clapped loudly outside as his anger flared. I clenched my jaw in annoyance.

 “I’ve prayed to you every night since I was nine!” I snapped back. “What are you doing here now?” He raised a dark eyebrow at me. I sighed and sat down hard, crossing my legs and holding my head in my hands. My forehead still stung where rocks had hit it, reminding me just how much of a horrible day I’ve had.

 “When you live for forever, girl, a few years means nothing to a god. You’ll understand what I mean.” He said, raising his hand. I snapped my head up, having to almost look straight up at him.

 “What?”

 “Your punishment.” Apollo said, looking down at me.

 “M-my punishment?” I shrieked. “For what?”

 “Your punishment.” Zeus said coldly. “You were given a gift and you want to throw it away. You think it’s a curse, well-I’m going to give you lifetimes to learn to appreciate your gift.”

 “No! You don’t understand! They hate me!” I shouted, tears filling my violet eyes once more.

 “They can’t hate their Seer.” Apollo said, frowning down at me.

 “I’m not their Seer! I’m not anything.”

 “What did you just say?” Zeus demanded, thunder clapping loudly outside.

 “They refused to give me the position.” I said, the tears spilling down my flushed cheeks. “They kept the fraud.”

 “That’s not possible.” Apollo said, sharing a look with his father.

 “But it’s the truth. Please don’t do this to me, I’ll never survive. They torment me and abuse me day after day. My parents have already tried to kill me. I won’t make it another year!” I pleaded. Apollo shrank down to regular mortal size and moved in front of me, kneeling down to be on the same level. Not something gods usually do, but I must have looked extra pathetic so he took pity.

 “What did they do?” He asked gently, putting his warm hands on my face.

 “They call me a witch and throw stones at me. My parents told me I was cursed, that I should never exist.” I said, my breath coming in ragged gasps. “Please? I won’t live a day if you do this.” I whispered, choking on tears.

 “My father has already made up his mind. But you’ll have other gifts to help you survive. I promise.” Apollo said softly, pressing a warm kiss to my forehead. It felt like soft sunshine on a warm summer’s day. “Close your eyes. It will be over soon.” He said, helping me stand up and hugging me against him. I hadn’t realized how cold I was until I touched his body. He radiated heat that warmed me from my head to my toes. I shivered slightly and squeezed my eyes shut, just as he said.

 “Is it going to hurt?” I whispered, my face pressed against his robe.

 “I don’t know.” He answered honestly. Even though my eyes were shut tight I saw a blinding flash and an intense, white hot pain racked my body. I screamed in torment, pushing away from Apollo and stumbling backwards. I felt like my skin was peeling off my body, layer by layer. The pain was too much, I was sure that nobody could take this much pain and survive. I could feel my muscles pulling apart the way a rope untwines. I could feel every fiber detaching from my bones and then separating themselves. I felt like I was burning hot, but I couldn’t make it stop. I couldn’t do anything to block the pain.

 Then the worst part came. Every bone in my body was ripped apart, dislocated and shattered into a thousand pieces like broken pottery. I should be dead. There’s no way I could survive this, but here I was, feeling every single second of it. My organs melted and my brain boiled as they destroyed me. I staggered backwards, completely disoriented, my throat raw from screaming. Suddenly my feet weren’t touching the stone floor anymore, there was nothing but air under them and I was falling backwards, fifteen feet to the hard packed earth below. I stretched my hand out, searching blindly for Apollo, the closest thing to me, but came up empty.

 * * *

The first thing I noticed was the sunlight warm on my face. I blinked my eyes open slowly, hoping that I had just had a dream; a really, really bad dream and I could pretend it never happened. I was lying flat on my back, looking straight up and that’s when I first noticed that something wasn’t right. Instead of the thatched roof of my sleeping room, or the cold marble of the temple, I was looking at the green leaves of trees with sunlight streaming through casting a green color on my skin. I looked around me, finally realizing that I wasn’t at my home. I was lying on the floor of a forest, and not one that I recognized. I rolled over to my hands and knees, expecting my whole body to ache. 

 There was no way I could have experienced that amount of pain and not feel any the next day, but I felt completely fine. Even my wrist, which I had hurt when I fell, had no pain. I stood up, brushing the fallen leaves and twigs off me and glanced around. I didn’t recognize these woods at all. It didn’t even smell the same.

 I heard noises in front of me, it sounded like women talking. There must be a road close by. I took a deep breath and headed in that direction. Maybe there’s a sign telling me which way is home. I ran through the trees, tripping over fallen logs before finally reaching an empty pathway, just wide enough for a cart to get through. I saw the ladies just down the road and I hurried after them.

 “Excuse me.” I said, reaching them. The three older ladies turned and looked at me expectantly. “Can you tell me which way it is to Akoluthos?” I asked politely, praying they would have heard of it. The tallest lady pointed behind me and I glanced. “Do you know how far?”

 “Three days by this road.” The woman to her left said. I nodded.

 “Thank you.” I turned and headed back towards my home, not looking forward to the three day walk. I took my time, not rushing my pace, keeping it slow and steady. I knew I was in big trouble for not coming home last night. My father was sure to punish me. Not to mention the fact that I will have been missing for days. This will be the worst punishment I’ve ever had.

 * * *

I crested the top of the ridge that borders my village and looked out over it. I don’t know what I had been expecting, some sort of urgency that I had been missing for three days. But, probably I should have seen this coming, everything was going about as it normally would. The sun was setting low in the sky as I hurried down the slope and headed for my home. It was almost night.

 I glanced around as I walked, feeling a strange sensation on the back of my neck. I saw people I recognized, people I had grown up with, but none of them looked the same. The streets smelled different and I felt like everything had been replaced by duplicates that were the same, but different.

 This wasn't home anymore.

 “Mama? Papa?” I called as I ran inside. My mother was in the kitchen, getting the evening meal ready. It was as if nothing was amiss.

 “Where have you been, you wicked child?” She snapped, turning around with the wooden spoon already in her hand. I flinched back instinctively, but I had to answer.

 “I was at the temple praying, like you told me to. Lord Zeus and Lord Apollo came to me and they said I had to be Seer. They said I was going to live forever.” I rushed, getting my story all jumbled in my anxiousness to explain. “Then,” I heard my father moving behind me and I backed into the wall with a quiet whimper, trying to make myself as small as possible.

 “Girl.” My father said, his hard voice quiet.

 “Papa, the gods said that I was to be Seer. That I had to be Seer. They were so angry that I didn’t want their gift, that you didn’t want me to be Seer. They said that I’m your gift.” I said, looking at him with pleading eyes. I should have known it wouldn’t have done any good. 

 My father’s hand flew before I ever even saw it move. It cracked hard against the side of my face, sending me sprawling into the eating table and wall. I cried out in pain, feeling a crack in my chest. After a few seconds it was gone. I looked up at him, tears filling my eyes.

 “Papa,” I started to plead.

 “This was not a gift, girl. You were not a gift to us. You are a curse on this land, on these good people. And I’ve had enough of it. I won’t have a monster like you terrorizing us anymore.” He growled, reaching down and grabbing a fistful of my hair. Strands ripped out painfully under his rough hand and I cried out in protest, my hand reaching up to grasp his wrist, hoping to lessen the pain. He started dragging me towards the door and kicked it open out of his way.

 “Papa, please don’t! You’ll make them angry and they won’t forgive you!” I cried, kicking my legs out to get caught on anything. “Papa!” 

 He didn’t reply, he just marched towards the center of town, dragging me along.

 “Mama!”

 She was following behind, a torch in her hand. It was unlit, but ready for use. I cried and struggled against my father’s hand, but his grip was too tight. I couldn’t get free. The other townsfolk were starting to gather at the center where the home fire was burning, the hearth fire for Lady Hestia. One of my father’s friends, who greatly enjoyed beating me, was piling a few bundles of sticks and twigs around a large pole just a few feet away from the home fire. My mother’s sister was holding a few lengths of rope as my father jerked me upright and shoved me against the pole.

 They already planned all this.

 I tried to step away as he took the ropes from her, but he grabbed my arm and twisted it at an odd angle, making a loud snapping sound. I screamed as pain rushed through my body. He tied me to the pole, making sure I wasn’t able to escape.

 “Papa, please. I’m your daughter.” I sobbed.

 “My daughter is gone. She died a long time ago.” He snarled, standing back as my mother lit the pitch on the torch, using the flames from the home fire. That was against the rules. You weren’t supposed to use the home fire for anything besides making a new one in a new town and sacrificing food to the gods. My mother looked at her husband lovingly, holding out the torch towards him. I watched in terror as his hand covered hers and they lowered the torch to the pile of sticks at my feet. I struggled to get out of my bonds, but they were tied too tight and soaked with saltwater so they were swollen and unforgiving. The whole village was gathering around as the sticks took the fire, spreading around the base to surround me. I struggled harder against the ropes, but it was no use. The flames licked up the pile, flickering around my feet. I clenched my teeth, determined not to give the satisfaction. If I was going to die, I wasn’t going to die making them happy.

 The base of the pole caught the fire, the heat becoming unbearable now as the flames danced around my feet burning my skin. I closed my eyes, forcing my mind to calm down, to think of something else besides the fire. I focused hard on something else, anything else. I found myself wishing, for the first time ever, to have a vision, something to see other than the faces in the crowd of my family as they watched me die.

 Maybe it was because I was wishing for one to happen, or focusing so hard I made it happen, but I caught the first flicker of a face. It was handsome, tanned and a little narrow, but still square at the same time. Green eyes and dark hair with a neatly trimmed beard. He was muscular and tall. I tried to stay focused on him, trying to see more of his surroundings, more of the vision but the pain of the fire was making everything fade away. The flames were up to my thighs now, melting my skin. I gritted my teeth, but I couldn’t hold it back anymore. I screamed, struggling harder against the ropes, but I was stuck there. The fire started to travel faster up my body. I let out a continuous scream of anguish, wishing I would just die already and get it over with. I wondered how Zeus and Apollo would keep their promise that I would live forever, if my parents had just killed me.

 The flames reached my neck and that was just about all my body could take. I felt myself drifting, only half feeling the pain as I slowly slipped away. The last image I had was of my parents standing in front of me, in the glow of my flames, smiling and kissing each other, so proud of themselves for getting rid of the big scary monster.

 * * *

I gasped loudly as air flooded my lungs. I opened my eyes, staring up at the sky, confused as all Hades as I tried to remember what happened. I slowly sat up, looking around and seeing my village. It was full dark, the middle of the night. I stood up, starting to dust myself off as I turned towards my home, only my hand didn't touch cloth, it touched bare skin.

 I was naked, my clothes were missing. I took a step towards home to get a new chiton, but then my memory came back, and I remembered what my parents did to me. I covered my mouth, feeling like I was going to be sick.

 “No. They wouldn’t do that.” I gasped, falling to my knees. “Mama and Papa, they wouldn’t.” I breathed. I looked around and saw the pyre where I had been tied up when my parents set me on fire. It was burned beyond belief, still smoldering in the night air. The comforting sea breeze blew through the village, lighting some of the faded embers to a slightly brighter glow. Where my body had been was just a pile of ashes now. Nothing resembling a human remains. I covered my face in horror, feeling my hands get wet from tears I didn’t know were falling. My stomach crawled into my throat as I remembered the pain. I retched but nothing came up, my stomach was empty. Lightening flashed and I looked up at the dark sky, noticing the thunder clouds rolling in.

 “What do I do?” I asked quietly. “They still don’t want me.” Thunder rumbled, low and menacing. Lightening flashed brightly across the sky and I got the warning. They were going to be punished, and I shouldn’t be here when it happens. I stood up and forced myself to move. I hurried through the houses, grabbing a chiton that was hanging out to dry. I clumsily tugged it on, fastening it as I ran. Rain started to fall, slow at first and then more heavily as I half ran and half stumbled to the ridge overlooking the village. I managed to make my way up in a reasonable amount of time as the rain became a downright deluge. I paused at the top, turning back to watch the home fire, which was visible from my location, flicker and die out. Also against the rules. The home fire was always supposed to be kept burning. 

 Thunder crashed loudly, angrily and the waves could now be heard crashing against the shore, sending the fishermen’s boats into the docks. I could hear the waves getting larger as they came further inland. I turned my head towards the sea, my eyes widening in horror as a massive tidal wave, taller than the gods themselves, surged up and crashed over the land, covering the entire village.

 Only, it didn’t fade away, like a normal wave. It held over the village, drowning everyone down there, asleep in their homes. They didn't even have time to scream.

 “No!” I cried out, taking a step towards the edge of the ridge. I didn't know what I was going to do, but I had to do something. I couldn't just let them die. Two strong arms caught me around the middle, holding me back. I fought against them, trying to pry them off me; I had to try and save them. This was all my fault. “Let me go! They’re dying!” I cried.

 “So? They killed you first.” The man said. I faltered, looking up at him, seeing Apollo.

 “That doesn’t mean I want them dead!” I protested.

 “It’s not your decision, Aryanna. They made my father angry. This is their punishment.” He said firmly. “I suggest you get over it quickly, because they’re gone. They’re not coming back.” He moved his arms from my waist to my arms. “And honestly, you deserve better.” He said.

 I shook my head. “They’re my family.” I said, my voice breaking as I looked pleadingly at him.

 “I hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but your family just murdered you.” He said, his mouth twitching up in an apologetic smile. “I mean, my family is nuts, but yours takes it to a whole new level. I mean, they even asked for a special kid. It doesn’t get a whole lot more special than a Seer.” I hung my head, my shoulders shaking as I cried. This was all so overwhelming. I had so many questions I didn't even know where to start. “Oh, um. Hey, it’s okay.” He said awkwardly, patting my back.

 “How is this okay?” I snapped, looking up at him. He jerked his hand back as if I might bite it off.

 “Oh, well,” He paused, thinking for a minute. “Because now you don’t have to be stuck with them forever. Consider yourself lucky, trust me. I’m stuck with my family forever, literally, and we actually sort of like each other. So, you’re much better off.” He said, smiling brightly and the dark receded ever so slightly.

 “No disrespect, Lord Apollo, but you don't know what you're talking about.” I muttered, turning to look out over the flooded village.

 "Maybe, you humans are strange things to us gods." He shrugged.

 His words rang in my ears and I turned back to him, my temper flaring. "What did you do to me?" I demanded and he took a cautious step back.

 "What?"

 "I was just burned alive. What did you do to me?" I didn't care that he was a god and that I might be offending him.

 "Zeus and Hades, they cursed you. You're forbidden from entering the Underworld when you die." He said softly.

 "Why did it hurt so much?" 

 He flinched slightly. "You had to be unmade."

 "Unmade? What does that mean?”

 "You had to be pulled apart layer by layer to be rewritten the way my father wanted." He explained.

 "So, I'll die but not stay dead?" I asked, feeling my horror rise again.

 "I'm afraid so. And I'm sure you'll find there are some other things you'll be able to do and other things you can't." 

 I blew out a sigh, wiping my face dry. "What about this place? The next people who settle here?" I asked.

 "Nobody will. This place will stay barren for eternity." 

 I glanced back as the water started to recede. "Demeter, I assume?"

 "Yes." 

 I grunted. It seems all the gods had a hand in this. "Terrific."

 “Where will you go?” He asked.

 “Crete, most likely. That's where it's all happening these days. Big city, I can blend in.” I said quietly. He nodded thoughtfully.

 “Good luck.”

 “I’m not supposed to be anyone’s Seer anymore, am I?” I asked. 

 He shook his head. “You’re past the age.” He said apologetically. “That’s not to say you won’t have visions anymore. You need to keep them to yourself. Humanity isn’t supposed to know too much. It’s a punishable crime against the gods.” He said seriously. I snorted and moved to walk past him. “I’m serious, Aryanna.” He warned, grabbing my arm as I passed. I faced him and squared my shoulders, deciding then and there that I was done being afraid. I had just survived being murdered by my parents. If I could come back from that, relatively sane-I had nothing else to fear ever again.

 “What else could the gods possibly do to me? I’m already cursed to live forever.” I said. “What are they going to do? Kill me?” I laughed morosely. “You’re not going to make me stop having visions because that would give me what I wanted in the first place.” I said.

 “There are other things we could do.” He said, trying to sound mysterious. I started laughing even harder.

 “Like take my sight? I would just heal. I was just burned alive, Apollo. I really don’t think there’s much you can do to me.” 

 He was quiet for a long time. “We could make you relive that moment over and over until eternity ends.” He said quietly. I froze, staring at him.

 “You would actually do that to me?” I asked.

 “If you need an incentive to keep what you see quiet, then yes. We would.” 

 I bit my lip and nodded. “Good to know. It’s not like I have anyone to tell anything to, anyways.” I said, backing away from him.

 “Aryanna.” He sighed.

 “You should go. Get back to your family. I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble on my behalf.” I said quietly, turning and walking into the woods.

 “Be careful, Aryanna.” I heard him whisper before there was a pop and he was gone. I stopped, staring straight ahead of me. I didn’t know what to do now. I have never been on my own before, I had never really even been away from home. I felt myself starting to shake from nerves and uncertainty. I took a second to look back at my home, at everything I knew. 

         The last of the water was receding, fading back into the ocean, leaving behind a ruined town, houses washed away. A broken reminder of what happened, to never make the gods angry. This ghost village would remain here, dead and in pain. A reminder of all the bad things, barren for the rest of eternity. It would never sustain life again, the waters would be empty, the soil ashes.

 A cursed land.

 I bit my lip to force back the tears. I was going to be fine. I didn’t need my parents around yelling at me. I could have my own life and be happy. I took a deep, settling breath and turned back towards the road to move on to something better.

 “I can do this.” I said to myself, taking the first step towards freedom and towards my new life.

Tag List:

@everythingisoverrated​ @thiccbinch​ @wkemeup​ @imanuglywombat​ @thewolfsenate

[spnsmile]

Outbreak (destiel drabble) 😷☕

Cas looking sadly down his phone with iron grip after texting his husband 30 minutes ago that he's just tested positive of corona virus, tries not to hold the burning tears at the back of his eyes while he sits alone inside the isolation room.

It had been a sweet beginning of the week with Dean kissing him good morning with a tray of breakfast in bed, hot soup and energy booster stuff. Dean is great at home cooking. Everything he prepares is like a meal shared with the gods guaranteed to make your day. Had he known he won't be able to see Dean for days next, he would have spend more time with his husband.

Cas is a doctor and the days went by alarmingly tough with rising numbers of people infected. He tells Dean he isn't in the ICU unit, being a Pediatrician, he's not much exposed like his fellow doctors, doesn't mean the kids don't get sick.

He assures Dean he is okay and keeps urging his husband to wash his hands, eat healthy food and almost everything he knows that can keep his husband safe while he takes care of those arriving in the hospital.

Dean is a firefighter and thus knows the importance of self-preservation in order to save many.

But five days later, Cas ends up positive.

Gone are the days he and Dean are worried about another kind of testing, but hey.

An hour later, here he is, alone and afraid of what's to come.

He imagines Dean receiving his text with dagger stabbing both their hearts. He couldn't call him without breaking. If he starts crying now, Dean will absolutely rush here and look how much good that will do them. Dean hasn't replied yet so maybe Dean hasn't read but...

Cas thinks of Dean finding their home empty, thinks of Dean reading the message plastered on their refrigerator with his three xxx. Hopes Dean doesn't touch it, seems pretty stupid now. Dean knows the importance of self preservation to save many.

He thinks of Dean in his uniform, watching the news with the others with arms crossed, the bulge of his muscles outlined. He imagined Dean changing his boots then quickly looking at the message with his green eyes, usually bright, slowly round in surprise. He thinks of Dean... been thinking of him forever with his boyish grin and dumbjokes, Cas is sure his husband's top priority would be to cheer him up despite this crisis, because only Dean could...

But he can't be with Dean and the thought hurts.

Can't be with Dean... but he can't be without Dean... but also... staying away... For Dean.

Memories flash like a slow movie wrapped in soft lights fill his eyes, and mostly it's just Dean. All of it. His head is full of Dean.

The firm lips he'd been biting on begin to quiver. His eyes blazing of flames and waterworks rush out on display.

Much more than his own pain is the picture of Dean waking up to find himself alone on the bed, in the kitchen, in the garage, on the couch they both love and make love on.

Had he known last Monday was the last time he'd see Dean, he would have told him how much he loves him and would like another lifetime with him. It breaks his heart to leave Dean when the world is dark and uncertain, the lonely place they both left behind to be together now clawing them back to its empty center.

He promised Dean he wouldn't ever leave. Promised him he would stay. Now they won't even be allowed to touch, let alone, see.

Cas doesn't know what's going to happen to them, to the world, or when it will stop and when the world will be okay. Like everyone else fumbling over the pandemic virus unprepared of its horror and colossal damage to mankind, Cas fears the future.

Roller coaster of emotion hits him real time but he wills himself to calm. For Dean.

To be strong. For Dean.

But waiting for Dean's message is nerve wracking and Castiel figures out it's only just the beginning.

Swallowing his heart, his body unusually hot and aching, Castiel leans on his knees, bows his head and wraps both hands at the back of his head waiting...

He doesn't know what.. The good news? The bad? He knows Dean will try to reach him but with the hospital already infected and probably nearing quarantined?

He wished he told Dean how much he loved him. Wished Dean didn't have to be so groggy when he kissed him goodbye. He closes his eyes and prays.

I want to see him.

Loud voices outside alert Castiel who raise his head to the door in confusion. Seconds next, the door burst open and to Castiel's horror and relief, Dean comes barging in, eyes glaring like a mad dragon hot and flaring and searching for its unabandoned treasure.

Their eyes instantly locked and whatever it is that's keeping Castiel's expression deadpan, crumbles to pieces when he sees his husband whose green eyes flicker over him-

"Cas!" Dean yells like his life depended on it.

"D-Dean!" the voice didn't belong to him. Emotion hits skyhigh and before he knows it, he's standing up and the angry growl of command comes washing everything out of his system. "You get the hell away from here, Dean!"

Dean startles because Cas is really angry. At the back of his mind, he knew Dean was gonna pull this. That Dean would break heaven and hell to get to him but to see it in progress- one emotions remains.

Love.

So much love for Dean to the point of sending him away. He sees Dean's eyes on him for a moment, then he's gone and in three steps yanks Castiel on his arms.

"Idiot." Dean hisses, warm cheeks pressing hard on the side of Castiel's head, making the doctor's heart thunder against their pressing chest.

Cas smells ash and singed hair on Dean as the doctor tries to pull away, but he's weak against the strong arms he didn't know he's been craving a lot. Dean whose presence immediately send sparks of life in his dull existence, "Kinda little too late for that, don't you think? I think I'm positive already."

"What?"

"There's fire on Fifth ave right before you messaged. Had to rescue an old man on wheelchair stuck on the 10th floor. He's on quarantine already. They don't think he will survive."

Castiel gasps on his husband's chest, his hands curling on the man's waist.

"Dean... Are you...?"

"I think so." Dean noses the back of Cas ear, leaving warm on the places his mouth while Cas shuts his eyes as if in pain.

"It's alright, they are husbands." says a voice flatly coming from the door where a medical worker in full equipper suit against contamination is frowning. "Sir, I'm afraid you're going to have to stay still until we get more personnel-"

"I'm not going anywhere." Dean rumbles, his arms around Castiel digging solid and pulling even closer, almost rendering his husband breathless. Castiel stays in those protective arms feeling light headed and safe.

"Dean..." he begins softly, all emotions given in one name.

"So... This is us making do on till death do us part?" Dean chuckles but his quaking voice betrayed him. The way he holds Castiel like he can hold him forever.

"We don't even know if you're really infected, Dean! I don't want to think of you dying..."

"What are you talkin about? I'm already dead without you, honey..."

"That's a depressing thought." he tightly grips the fabric of Dean's jacket and buries his nose on the burrow of his husband's neck. Delight and dread mixes together, but it's hard not to cling for support when he's so weary and so alone.

"We won't die, Cas. We'll win this thing too like how we won the others. Okay?"

Castiel's logic wants to argue, wants to point out hundreds of scenarios why this hugging and embracing is bad. He thinks of the many cases already spreading in the world and of Dean adding in theit number. In a world where the future seems bleak, one voice speaks the loudest in his ears.

"We'll get through this together."

"Mr. Winchester," says a voice from the door again, "I'm afraid you're gonna have to let go of Mr. Winchester. For now, if you please."

Dean sighs and he and Cas parts a little to get a good look at the other. Cas almost whimpers because he thought he'd never see those green eyes, those freckles that makes his husband...

"I hate em polite people. Makes you guilty after punching one of their security off."

"Dean!"

"He's wearing the helmet and covers, alright? It's my hand that hurts."

Castiel clicks his tongue. "So what are we going to do now?"

Dean looks over his shoulder to the waiting medical team, then whips his head back to his husband, cups Cas' small frame on his large hands and pulls him- just pulls him into a very mouthwatering deep kiss.

And nobody stopped them.

At least till the doctors are groaning and calling for support.

"You're gonna have to bear for a month till you're both cleared, Mr. Winchester, Mr. Winchester. Let's try not to make another string of the virus. I would not need to remind you to wash your hands, but for fucksake, hands off."

It was better safe than sorry.✨

#would like to thank the real heroes fighting corona 😷 stay healthy and please be strong!

#not intended for any offense ✌

[bakaaruo]

          @sasukhiha​   sent,   ‘  a  hoarse  whisper,   kiss  me.  ’

uchiha  sasuke  was  immortal  to  the  mind  of  uzumaki  naruto.   it  was  a  childish  thought  for  any  shinobi  to  have;   if  anything,   naruto’s  entire   life  experience  has  only  further  validated  that  nothing  is  permanent.   but  the  more  they  evaded  death,   the  more  they  overcame  the  impossible,   the  more  naruto  entertained  the  idea  that  they  were  fated  to  survive.   he  knew  sasuke  wasn’t  invincible,   but  the  hokage  never  thought  he  would  ever  have  to  watch  him  die. 

how   can   a   guy   who   can’t    even   save   one   friend...    become    hokage   ?

naruto’s  curse  was  he  would  always  survive  his  loved  ones.   hyuga  neji  is  survived  by...   lord  third  is  survived  by...   jiraiya  is  survived  by...   life  clung  to  naruto  like  clothes,   and  the  more  he  survived,   the  more  those  clothes  began  to  feel  like  chains.   it’s  why  he  couldn’t  stop  reaching  for  sasuke,   it’s  why  he  needed  his  life  to  be  worth  all  those  sacrificed  for  it.   and  even  if  he  failed,   they  would  both  fail.   naruto  watched  so  many  die  quick,   unceremonious  deaths  in  battle,   and  the  thought  of  crossing  into  the  next  life  with  his  best  friend  seemed  like  a  better  end  than  he  could  hope  for. 

naruto  couldn’t  fathom  even  death  parting  him  and  sasuke. 

even  with  no  medical  skill,   himself—   and  four  of  his  clones—   were  all  trying  their  hardest  they  to  keep  all  of  sasuke’s  blood  in  his  body.   they  pressed  into  his  once  porcelain  skin  until  the  dark  fabric  beneath  their  hands  became  damp,   warm,   and  sticky.   each  of  the  clones  exchanged  expressions  of  worry  and  skepticism,   differentiating  from  the  main  body,   whose  eyes  would  not  lift  from  the  sight  of  his  own  hands.   and  that’s  when  he  heard  it.

there  was  a  chance  naruto  would  have  missed  it;   it’s  hard  to  speak  when  blood  is  spilling  into  your  lungs.   a  bittersweet  taste  filled  his  mouth  while  every  muscle  in  his  body  became  taut.   in  any  other  circumstance,   there  would  be  an  aura  of  excitement  to  the  raven’s  request—   even  in  a  normal  circumstance,   it  was  more  than  an  unusual  request  to  come  from  sasuke’s  lips. 

kiss   me.

not  a  single  person,   not  even  the  creatures  that  dwelled  inside  him,   understood  the  how  badly  naruto  had  wanted  to  hear  those  two  words.   kiss  me,   hold  me,   touch  me—   no  matter  how  sasuke  phrased  it,   for  him  to  want  naruto  badly  enough  to  ask  for  him  was  a  dream  that  every  fiber  of  naruto’s  body  craved.   and  yet  the  idea  of  kissing  sasuke  now  tasted  like  bile  in  his  mouth,   and  he  clenched  his  eyes  shut  and  turned  away  from  his  voice.

❛   now...   now  you  want  me  to  kiss  you?   ❜   his  voice  was  strangled,   sounding  as  if  it  was  stuck  in  his  throat,   or  like  he  couldn’t  breathe.   he  wanted  to  die.    ❛   i’ve  been  trying  to  get  you  to  come  home...   to  just  learn  to  stay  and  forgive  yourself.   i’ve  been  trying  to  kiss  you  for  months—   and  you...   ❜   a  vaguely  familiar  burn  ran  through  the  jinchuriki’s  body,   an  inferno  that  naruto  had  previously  quelled. 

anger  like  this  was  unending,  unsatisfied;   it  consumed  him  until  he  felt  the  heat  reach  even  his  eyes,   turning  clear  blue  hues  a  crimson  that  rivaled  sasuke’s  sharingan  in  brilliance.   they  looked  even  brighter  behind  the  downpour  of  the  jinchuriki’s  tears,   glaring  down  at  sasuke  as  low  growls  rumbled  in  his  throat.    ❛   YOU  TOLD  ME  YOU  COULD  HANDLE  IT  !    ❜   he  snarled  down  at  the  dying  man,   tears  rolling  off  his  lips  (  and  fangs  )  onto  sasuke's  tattered  clothes.   of  course  he  was  angry  at  sasuke;   he  was  supposed  to  be  the  smart  one.   years  of  calling  naruto  useless,   loser,   idiot   because  naruto  was  impatient,   stubborn,   and  reckless  in  a  fight   only  to  end  up  being  held  together  by  the  usuratonkachi.   

the  deaths  of  geniuses  are  so  pitiful.

when  the  fading  light  of  hyuga  neji  died  in  front  of  him,   naruto  remembered  the  same  taste  of  copper  in  his  mouth  while  his  brain  screamed.   WHY   WHY   WHY,   IF  YOU  CAN'T,   HOW  CAN  I?   naruto  was  a  sloppy  fighter,   even  now,   and  he  was  an  average  strategist  at  best;   sasuke  and  neji  outperformed  him  in  more  ways  than  the  village  would  ever  know,   and  yet  naruto  had  to  watch  them  both  die  in  the  end.   sasuke  didn't  like  politics,   but  maybe  that  would  have  made  him  a  better  hokage  than  the  current,   and  he  wouldn't  be  bleeding  out  in  a  deserted  cavern.   it  sent  another  jolt  of  anger  shooting  through  naruto,   a  sob  pushing  its  way  past  his  clenched  teeth.

he's   dying,   naruto.                            shut  up,   stupid  old  fox.

the  idea  of  a  last  kiss  with  sasuke  had  his  spine  bending  with  grief,   hands  pressing  harder  into  his  chest.    ❛   just  wait...   til  sakura  sees  this...   after  she  gets  you  okay,   you'll  be  lucky  to  live  one  more  day...   ❜   even  as  a  child,   naruto  would  find  ways  to  avoid  reality,   often  with  a  flash  of  his  toothy,   dopey  grin.   no  matter  how  bad  it  would  seem,   he  clung  to  reasons  to  smile  to  survive  the  worst,   but  his  mouth  wouldn't  rise  even  if  he  tried.   nothing  about  this  was  enjoyable.   it  was  pain  in  physical  form,   and  naruto  was  wrist-deep  in  it,   soaking  it  in  until  it  stained  his  fingernails.   his  new  biggest  fear.   there  wasn't  supposed  to  be  a  last  kiss  because  sasuke  was  supposed  to  be  untouchable  to  anyone  except  the  gods  and  buddha.

why  are  you  giving  up?   don't  you  want  to  stay  with  me  longer?

❛   baka...   ❜    his  voice  is  hardly  there.

he's  trying  to  say  goodbye,   boy.                you  never  even  liked  him.                                                but  you  did.

naruto  didn't  like  sasuke,   he  coveted  him,   craved  him  like  a  lifesource;   does  a  plant  like  water?    naruto  spent  so  much  of  his  adolescence  breaking  chunks  off  of  himself  for  sasuke,   trying  to  lace  their  lives  in  a  closely  woven  pattern  in  the  hopes  that  sasuke  would  be  forced  to  acknowledge  him.   if  sasuke  expressed  admiration,   naruto  wanted  it;   if  sasuke  expressed  hate,   naruto  wanted  it;   if  sasuke  expressed  love,   naruto  wanted  it.   even  as  boys,   the  uchiha  was  the  center  of  naruto's  focus,   until  he  became  the  fox's  life.   without  sasuke,   there  were  a  lot  of  gaps  in  his  world;   even  then,   when  sasuke  would  leave  for  months  at  a  time,   naruto  would  feel  the  spaces  he  would  leave.   they  were  excruciatingly  loud.

it  used  to  be  the  empty  space  that  existed  in  a  random  inn  on  boring  missions,   the  silence  that  hung  in  the  air  that  would  usually  be  filled  with  petty  banter,   the  chill  of  training  alone.   even  if  sasuke  were  to  hate  him,   naruto  still  couldn't  stand  being  away  from  the  only  constant  he's  ever  had.   now,   it  was  much  worse—   it  was  the  cold  indent  in  the  mattress,   it  was  the  ghost  of  his  scent  on  naruto's  clothes,   the  fucking  cats  that  would  show  up  on  the  back  porch  and  scream  for  hours.   naruto  wanted  to  scream  too.

listen   to   the   last   wishes   of   a   dying   man.                      why  are  you  so  bent  on  this,   kurama?      i   know   all   too   well   the   regrets  caused   by   anger.                    if   he   dies,   will   you   be   able   to   live   with               how   your   anger   kept   you   from   saying   goodbye?

it  was  like  ice  pouring  over  his  entire  body,   and  he  felt  the  color  drain  from  his  eyes  as  all  the  anger  fell  out  of  him,   replaced  with  a  suffocating  anguish.   he's  dying,   he  knows  he's  dying.   his  body  sagged,   his  head  falling  down  against  his  own  chest,   blond  locks  cascading  over  his  drying  eyes.   one  after  another,   the  clones  disappeared,   and  soon  naruto  was  leaning  back,   hands   lifting  from  sasuke's  chest.   silently,   he  moved  to  lift  sasuke's  upper  body  up,   moving  to  support  the  raven's  body  with  his  chest,   arms  trembling  as  they  wrapped  around  his  bloody  torso.

with  two  fingers,   naruto  gripped  sasuke's  chin,   tipping  his  head  back  until  naruto  could  comfortably  lean  down  and  press  his  lips  against  his  rival's.   kissing  was  a  strange  thing;   even  in  moments  of  intensity,   it  was  a  rather  delicate  form  of  intimacy.   the  idea  of  kissing  was  more  daunting  than  anything  else  for  naruto,   and  kisses  from  sasuke  usually  left  him  a  shade  of  scarlet.   with  their  mutual  disinterest  in  physical  affection,   it  wasn't  a  common  act  between  them,   but  naruto  couldn't  help  but  wish  it  had  been  as  the  taste  of  sasuke's  mouth  blended  with  blood.   this  kiss  wouldn't  be  like  the  others—   tender,   slow  even,   as  if  they  had  all  of  the  time  in  the  world.   if  they  weren't  shinobi,   and  they  met  in  a  different  life,   naruto  imagined  this  is  how  they'd  kiss  all  the  time;   they  would  come  home  from  work,   and  naruto  would  watch  sasuke  cook,   and  naruto  would  complain  about  the  cats,   and  they  would  kiss  all  the  time.

  ❛   i  know  a  part  of  you  thinks  you're  lucky  to  have  made  it  this  far.   ❜   his  voice  was  still  uneven  as  his  lips  parted  from  sasuke’s,   but  he  held  firm,   pushing  back  the  swelling  in  his  throat.   ❛   but  i  wanted  to  chase  after  you  for  another  thirty  years.   i  was  prepared  to,   'ttebayo.   ❜   his  voice  became  clearer,   his  arms  clutching  sasuke  against  him,   head  pressed  against  his.   ❛   i've  made  you  do  a  lot  more  than  you  probably  ever  wanted  to,   huh?   (  something  scratches  at  his  throat,   a  laugh?   )   but  in  the  next  life,   don't  think  you're  getting  a  break,   cause  you're  gonna  be  chasing  ME  for  once.   believe  it.   ❜   the  jinchuriki  pressed  his  face  into  sasuke's  hair,   hiding  both  the  grin  that  split  his  face  and  the  downpour  of  tears  that  begun  again.   

there  would  never  be  another  uchiha  sasuke  again,   and  it  was  both  a  promise   and  a  tragedy.

[demaury]

Only You (chap.1)

For Lucas, life has always been rather bittersweet, between shitty family situations and crappy self-esteem overall, but his eighteenth birthday marks yet another dramatic turn that no amount of cynicism could have prepared him for. (ao3 link)

February 2019

Scrap, scrap, scrap.

The pencil was grazing the paper sheet with so much precision and regularity that Lucas had no trouble supplying the missing sound of the lead. His eyes were focused on the hands of the customer sitting outside, only tearing away when the guy set the pencil down to roll himself a cigarette. Of course he was a smoker. February had been relatively lenient so far, but it was a bit too early in the year to spend more time outside than necessary, unless you were a smoker. He didn’t know how long he had been looking, but a lifetime of noisy canteen tables had given him the ability to tune his loud friends out whenever he wanted to — perhaps too effectively, because now he had three pairs of eyes on him.

He was forced to refocus his attention on his own table, tearing his eyes away from the street. Last time he had tried to find interest in the conversation, it had been about some party the guys wanted to go, since apparently Arthur had game with a friend of Marine’s, his platonic soulmate. Nothing that called for his contribution, from what he knew, but maybe he had missed the part where it got interesting.  

“What?”, he asked blankly.

“He’s hot,” Yann simply commented with an approving nod.

Lucas followed his gesture, directed towards the guy sitting outside.

“Super hot,” Basile confirmed, pausing from slaughtering a viennoiserie to spare a glance.

“I was looking at the drawings,” Lucas said, eyes falling onto his now lucky-warm cup of coffee.

“So you can actually see anything from here?” Arthur deadpanned.

Lucas’ eyes travelled between the three of them, but the insistence they had to look outside made him turn back one more time. It was the worst idea he probably ever had. Because yes, the guy was beautiful, but he was also staring right the fuck back at him from the other side of the glass. Lucas was sure he could feel his eyes burning holes into his skin — not in a bad way, but in a totally, a 100% fucked up way.

Lucas’ head snapped back the other way, so fast he nearly broke his neck in the process. Smooth, Lallemant, real smooth, he thought sarcastically.

“He’s looking at you,” Basile remarked unhelpfully and far, far too eagerly to Lucas’ taste.

“No he’s not,” he gritted out, scowling. “He’s looking at us, because you are fucking creeps. Stop staring!”

“Says the one who was staring first,” Arthur snorted. “Bro, you weren’t even blinking.”

“I was looking at the drawings,” Lucas hammered, whisper-screaming. “Can we just collectively ignore him now and drop the subject?”

It could have come in handy for him to know what the conversation was about before it came to this, maybe he would have had higher chances to redirect it on safer grounds, but as it was what were the odds that they had changed subject since the last time he tried to care?

Yann quirked a brow, apparently far from being done. “So you’d just pass on him?”

“I’m not passing on anything, he’s just a guy,” Lucas retorted.

“Right,” Arthur drawled, extending the ‘i’ obnoxiously. “Just a guy. Staring the fuck at you. Plus, our love lives are a lot less miserable than yours.”

“I just got out of a relationship, I’ll let you know,” Basile retorted haughtily.

“And I’m not interested in dating these days,” Yann shrugged.

“Then why can’t you just understand that I’m not interested either?” Lucas huffed, ignoring Basile’s intervention to focus on Yann.

He profoundly hated the sudden tone of the conversation, all too aware where this was going. He wished he was wrong, but as soon as Yann sighed and leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table, Lucas knew it wasn’t the case.

“Because it’s about your soulmate,” he said, “not about you not wanting to date.”

“It always is,” Arthur quipped in his cup of coffee.

Lucas’ stomach tightened, and he instinctively averted his eyes.

Today had been an empty day. Not bad, not good. Just empty, an hour carrying him here and the other carrying there. It wasn’t all that bad, it was even days like these that Lucas craved the most — those where he was just feeling numb enough not to care. Of course now it was a lot more difficult not to care when his three (supposedly) best friends had decided to meddle in, especially when he had asked them not to.

“Look, we just don’t want you to keep moping forever,” Basile added.

Arthur nodded, shifting towards Lucas who was sitting next to him. “He’s right. When a cute guy looks at you, you just go for it, that’s how it works,” he completed with a casual shrug.

“Yeah, just go talk to him.”

“I’m not going to do that,” Lucas retorted coolly, feeling his calm crumble with each passing second. “I’m not going to talk to a guy who looked at the four of us once, and I certainly don’t need your fucked up advices because you’ve got no idea what I’m going through!”

“Because you never let anything out,” Yann protested.

“Why should I?” Lucas exclaimed. “So you can tell me to forget about it and just move on?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Basile admitted, looking rather embarrassed, and Lucas’ eyes jumped on him. “It’s been what, five months, now? Maybe- Maybe that’s what you should do?”

Arthur and Yann both glanced at him, mouthing a quiet ‘dude’ with a shake of their head. Lucas opened his mouth and closed it, nothing coming out at first. “How about you start shutting up about your damn soulmate, Baz?”, he snapped. “’When am I going to meet her’, ‘what does she look like’, ‘what if I never see her’-”

“Lucas–,” Arthur tried, but Lucas snatched his arm away when he squeezed it lightly to distract him.

“No, I’m fucking done hearing you all complain,” Lucas protested, perhaps louder than he should have judging by the embarrassed looks of the guys. He shook his head and stood up abruptly, grabbing his backpack and making the cups on the table tinkle together. “‘Oh no, my soulmate’s Emma’, ‘oh no my soulmate’s a platonic one’, ‘oh when am I gonna find her’, but mine is fucking dead, so excuse me for making a big deal out of it!”, he exclaimed bitterly, throwing the last words behind his shoulder as he was already on his way out.

*

4 months and a half, 21 hours and 36 minutes.

138 days. Over 3334 hours.

That’s how long he had been miserable. Ever since that horrible evening, last October. He and the boys were having predrinks at the flatshare, before hitting a college party organized by PACES students, and the memory of his own laughter made it all the more painful in retrospect. They were not quite a month into their first year at uni, and Lucas was still buzzing with the excitement of it all. In complete honesty he couldn’t have cared less about his studies; the major he had picked after his BAC, economics, was far from being his thing, but the silver lining had been his soulmate. As Yann had pointed out to him shortly after getting his soulmark last summer, new faces all around at uni meant more chances to meet his ‘Eliott guy’. And Lucas? Well, Lucas couldn’t decently argue with that logic, really. Every new party was another occasion to casually hope for something to happen — he had just never thought that ‘something’ happening would be so fucking painful.

“What are you looking at?” he remembered laughing in-between two rounds of video games and his second beer, after spotting Arthur’s eyes on him for quite some time now.

Arthur had barely looked up, frowning behind his glasses instead. “Dude, I think… I think your soulmark’s fading.”

Lucas had glanced down at his arm, exposed by the tee-shirt he was wearing, heartbeat rising as he jumped up from the couch to the closest source of light in the room to get a better view. A rush of adrenaline after that, and Lucas’ brain a mess of emotions making his head spin. He remembered clutching at his own arm, as he could do nothing but stare at the six letter name growing fainter and fainter despite his pleas, until it was barely noticeable at all and that the guys had no more comforting things to come up with. No one went to the party that night. Instead, Lucas found himself cradling his arm most of the night, hoping and begging for it to be just a mistake. For Eliott’s name to come back, thick and black and bold letters all over again — but it never did. His soulmark had remained the same, a faint scar in the shape of a name.

He hadn’t sought other testimonies online this time. He hadn’t felt the need to. Soulmarks fading was about a soulmate dying, everybody knew that. He didn’t need people recounting tearful stories, nor did he need anyone to instill hope where it had no place to be. Whoever Eliott was, whoever he had once been, it was over for him — for them. It had been terrible from there, and he wasn’t going to pretend otherwise just to make his friends feel better about it. They were still at an age where these kind of things were a big deal, for better or for worse, and he knew he’d still be looking out for Eliott everywhere he went just like Basile did with his soulmate, if it weren’t for a fucked up destiny taking too much pride in screwing him over.

“Excuse me?” tentatively called a voice next to him.

“What?” Lucas answered sharply, head snapping to the side.

The scowl on his face turned into a sarcastic twist of his lips accompanied by a dry snort. Of fucking course. The artsy customer from the café was standing here, roughly two meters away from him. There was only one fucking reason he’d be here, and this fucking reason in particular was a three-headed dumbass he had known since high school and was now dying to throw under the next bus.

“They are assholes, alright?” he spat. “I don’t know what they fucking told you and I don’t fucking care. I’m not interested, period.”

“You’re not interested,” the guy repeated, slightly cocking an eyebrow. Lucas thought he was on the verge of exploding if he was so much as trying to insist. But instead, the guy reached for a rolled-up cigarette he had tucked behind his ear. “I was just gonna ask for a lighter, but it’s always nice to know where everybody stands I guess.”

He was smiling.

Lucas’ cheeks heated up from crushing embarrassment and he cast his eyes away, staring at his hands and deflating instantly. It was definitely not the worst day of his life, but he could feel it make a solid entry in the top 5.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m not smoking.”

The guy shrugged. “Alright.”

Please, leave. He was the only one beside him waiting at the bus stop, if he really needed a lighter it wouldn’t magically appear in Lucas’ pocket. Just leave. Fighting with the guys had sucked the last bit of energy he had left in his body, he didn’t have any more left. But instead the guy sat on the metallic bench. Ultimate fuckery if there was one. He didn’t have any idea what he had done in a past life, but he could only guess it was bad. Lucas tried to look away and absorb himself in the silent contemplation of the sidewalk, but all he could think about was that he wanted to come home and crawl under the covers and forget that day even happened at all. It wasn’t easy when the guy sitting next to him was a constant reminder of the shitty afternoon he had just spent, between boring classes he didn’t give a fuck about, friends who had forgotten the basic meaning of ‘supportive’ and, of course, last but not least, lashing out to a complete stranger for trying to hit on him and who happened to be so far out of his league that they didn’t even play the same sport.

A metallic flick drove his attention toward the lighter the guy was currently trying to make work, with a concentrated frown on his face and the cigarette now tucked between his lips. He kept flicking, once, twice, ten times, until Lucas couldn’t take it anymore.

“Usually when they don’t work the first five times, they rarely work the ten other times after that,” he said.

The guy glanced at him, then shrugged. “I guess I’m a dreamer then, uh?”

He put the cigarette back behind his ear and pocketed the uncooperative lighter in his brown jacket. Lucas took his eyes away and glanced at the other end of their street, where his bus was slowly (but hopefully steadily) making its way in their direction.

“Rough day?”

Lucas risked an eye in the guy’s direction. “You don’t have to do that, you know. It’s fine.”

He shrugged one more time. “I don’t mind,” he said, smiling a little even.

Is he fucking kidding me? Lucas thought instantly, taken aback. He found himself staring, blatantly, unapologetically, as if he was seeing him for the first time. He studied his insanely intense grey eyes, and the messy but effortlessly good-looking brown hair making wonders to his sharp cheekbones. He’s hot, he was forced to admit to himself, just when the bus reached their stop in a concert of screeching and hissing sounds. But somehow, his inner voice suddenly sounded a lot like Yann’s, and it made him angry.

Angry and upset and fucking outraged.

“Well, I do mind,” he articulated.

Before the guy could even say something, Lucas snatched his backpack from the bench and strode towards the entrance of his bus without a glance back.

[tipsycad147]

Aizen Myo’o

By shirleytwofeathers

Aizen-Myōō,  also known as Rāgarāja, is one of the five Wisdom Kings. Other titles and names include the following:

Lord of Passion

King of Lust

Lust-Drenched One

Impassioned One

King of Sexual Passion

Ragaraja, Buddhist Lord of Passion, travelled from India to Japan, where he transformed into Aizen Myo’o, venerated by Japan’s esoteric Buddhist sects as King of Love, Lust, and Desire, patron of erotic love and sacred sexuality. He helps convert earthly, physical desires into transcendent love and spiritual awakening.

He is portrayed as a red-skinned man with a fearsome appearance, a vertical third eye and flaming wild hair that represents rage, lust and passion. Also the Lustful-Tinted Wisdom King was popular among Chinese tradesmen who worked in the fabric-dying craft, typically accomplished with sorghum.

He is still venerated as a patron of landlords, prostitutes, homosexuals and petitioned by devotees for a peaceful home and abundant fortune in business. There is usually a lion’s head on top of his head in his hair, representing the mouth into which thoughts and wishes may be fed. Some of these are the wishes of local devotees who make formal requests for success in marriage and sexual relations.

Aizen Myo’o is King of Lust because he helps control it, explore it, or transform it into enlightenment. He is petitioned for assistance with the physical and emotional frustrations of suppressed sexuality. Aizen Myo’o is revered as patron of gay love, but he may be invoked for assistance with any kind of love or romance, including self love.

Aizen converts earthly desires (love/lust) into spiritual awakening, and saves people from the pain that comes with love. Aizen is celebrated in Japanese rites to achieve harmony and friendship, to succeed in one’s romantic endeavours, to gain the love and respect of others, and to reach a clear understanding of the Dharma (Buddhist law).

Favoured People:

Aizen Myo’o guards prostitutes and sex workers. He is venerated by those for whom sex is a business, including sex shop owners and those working with any form of pornography or erotica. He is also venerated by singers, musicians and landlords.

He is the patron deity of dyers, possibly because the second part of his name means “dye” or “to dye” (hence “soaked”).

Today, Aizen is revered in Japan’s gay quarters as the patron of love. Aizen does not appear in Indian texts, and is unknown among India’s deities.

Iconography

Aizen is usually depicted with a red body possessing eight arms and three eyes on an angry face. A lion’s head rests in his hair, symbolising passion. He carries bows and arrows, which symbolise love as well as his role as a destroyer of evil.  Aizen’s red body symbolises the power to purify sexual desire. He is typically bright red, suggesting the force of the passions, yet, at the same time, the vigour of his compassion.

He is portrayed as a red-skinned, frowning man, his appearance representing suppressed lust and passion. He variously has two, four or six arms; in the latter form, his hands bear a bell, a stick, a thunderbolt, a lotus, a bow and an arrow. Similarly, he sometimes has two heads, with a lion’s head in his wild hair.

His lion headdress indicates that Aizen possesses the strength of the five wisdom Buddhas. His three eyes are able to see the “three realms” of desire, form, and non-form.

His mouth is usually half-opened and reveals fangs. His hair is fiery and stands on end. Aizen is often surrounded by flames, which indicate the burning power of the passions. Aizen is usually seated on a lotus throne and carries a lotus flower in one of his four arms.

The most distinctive feature of Aizen is his bow and arrow, which is the best way to identify him (though it is sometimes missing). Interestingly, experts on Buddhist iconography are not agreed about the precise meaning of the bow and arrow.

All agree that it is a weapon against evil. Furthermore, according to some, it chases away carelessness and neglect (in observing Buddhist precepts).

For others, the arrow is Aizen’s love (somewhat like Cupid’s arrow), and, in another theory, it is the conquering strength of wisdom. Sometimes, Aizen holds a small mirror, a symbol of the void in Buddhism. He typically appears with six arms, but sometimes with only four.

The blood-red body and flaming halo of Aizen Myōō, the Wisdom King of Passion, represents the state at which sexual excitement or agitation becomes enlightenment and passionate love becomes compassion for all living things. In Buddhism, he manifests as a vajrasattva.

Aizen Myōō is the embodiment of rage: his hair stands on end, a snarling lion rises from his head, and his six arms brandish Esoteric Buddhist weapons and other emblems of power. The bow and arrow in his middle hands are attributes appropriated from Kama, the Hindu god of love.

Though fearsome in appearance, this wisdom king acts only out of love for others. In Japan, Aizen is thought to control the amorous passions, redirecting them to ward the struggle to overcome desires.

In contrast to this righteous anger, jewels of good fortune forming flaming clusters spill from a vase in front of the deity’s lotus throne. While Aizen Myōō’s appearance may instil fear, the faithful afflicted with problems of the heart address him as a popular intercessor.

The Rāgarāja Mantra

Appropriately, Rāgarāja’s mantras are pronounced in either Chinese or Japanese transliterations of Sanskrit; the cadences depending upon the respective region where his devotees reside and practice, and whether in the Shingon or Tendai schools. His seed vowel, as written in bonji, is pronounced “HUM,” usually with a forceful emphasis coming from the use of lower belly muscles.

To invoke Ragaraja, one needs to form his mudra and chant his mantra. While holding the mudra, rub the middle fingers against each other – this represents ”love to connect.” By invoking him in this way, Ragaraja will come quickly and descend into your body.

Here’s a video:

For the sake of the men and women in emotional distress, sentient beings engaged in love and passion, and couples who are separated and need to patch up their relationships, here is the Sadhana of the Ragaraja Affection Practice:

The practitioner must first enshrine the image of Ragaraja. The practitioner may purchase an image, or find an artist to paint an image of Ragaraja, or get a sculptor of Buddhist statues to carve one.

The Offering

Find the stamen from a red lotus and remove 108 strands from it as an offering. Also make offerings of other foods with a mix of the five tastes: sweet, bitter, sour, salty and hot.

Preliminaries

Perform the Fourfold Refuge, the Great Homage, the Great Mandala Offering, and the Four Immeasurables.

The Mudra

Form the Root Mudra of Ragaraja: The two hands have fingers crossed and inwardly clasped like a vajra fist, except for the middle fingers which stand erect and crossed over each other. Form the mudra first before entering into the visualisation.

Visualisation

Visualise Ragaraja descending from the light of the sun. Visualise flames surrounding the body of Ragaraja. Visualise your loved ones appearing within the flames. Visualise the arrow of Ragaraja shooting towards the hearts of the loved ones.

The Mantra

Recite the mantra of Ragaraja: OM MAHARAGA VAJROSNISA VAJRASATTVA JAH HUM BAN HOH. Recite this mantra 108 times, or 1080 times, counting the recitation with your mala beads.

The Meditation

Sit in meditation and enter into samadhi. The practitioner visualises himself entering into the heart of Ragaraja together with his loved ones.

Once he comes out of his meditative absorption, the practitioner dedicates the merits and asks that Ragaraja keep his vows to bring fulfilment to the desired love and relationship.

Concluding the Practice

After performing the Great Homage, take the 108 strands of the red lotus stamen combined with sandalwood incense powder and burn the mixture before the statue of Ragaraja. When you cultivate this practice, a miracle may happen after only a day.

Some individuals may request a sculptor to carve a small statue of Ragaraja out of white sandalwood, about the length of one`s finger. You may enshrine the statue in your shrine, and bring it along with you when you leave the house.When you practice doing this, you shall find fulfilment in all things, especially earning respect from people.

Important Points

I hope everyone who practices this method will benefit from it. However, remember that this practice is meant for those who are sincere and honest, and will not work for people with ulterior motives.

If a female who is flirtatious and married desires another male, this practice will never work.

If a male who craves the opposite sex desires another lady when he already is married, this practice will never work.

If a prostitute with ill intentions desires to catch a rich man, this practice will never work.

If a male whose heart is fickle and whose actions are topsy-turvy, speaks of love but actually desires sex, this practice will never work.

Here is a verse:

Supreme as Ragaraja himself, Whose merits and vows are kept firmly in his heart, When you are sincere and your love is strong as gold and rock, Pray to him and receive his pure light Which quickly transforms a relationship to one of affection. As the self-nature is dissolved into the realm of affectionate beings, All hindrances shall be eliminated, Closing the gap between those truly in love

Other Mantra Practices

Ragaraja is a great and mighty deity of love and respect. If relations between a couple are not harmonious, if one wants to acquire great love and admiration from male and female friends, if one wishes to become president or an artist, if one wishes to have a great affinity with all people, if one wishes the presence of valuable people, if practitioners need companions for success on the path of cultivation or need help from someone, if one needs the help of others in one’s studies, if farmers need workers to work for them, and if businessmen need nonstop benefits, they should all practice Ragaraja.

Assisting in Attaining Spiritual Union with the Principal Deity Dharma

While practicing Vajrayana Buddhism, even after you recite mantras and practice many dharmas, you may still not have any spiritual response from any deity. By reciting Ragaraja’s mantra 300,000 times one will quickly achieve spiritual response.

Ragaraja has great dhama power. One can readily receive spiritual union with one’s personal deity while praying to him for it. Therefore, everyone should chant the deity’s mantra, because he belongs to ”love to connect.”

One will rapidly achieve spiritual union if one practices one’s personal deity after having recited Ragaraja’s mantra for 300,000 times! This is because he is ”love to connect,” which means to ”get you connected.”

Dharma for Annihilation of Evil

Paint or draw Ragaraja’s image then hang the image on the west wall so that Ragaraja’s image faces east. Then, after completing 300,000 recitations of the Ragaraja mantra, you can perform the ”Shooting with Ragaraja’s Bow and Arrow Dharma.”

Facing to the front, visualise the person you consider to be your enemy in front of you and yourself holding a bow in one hand and an arrow in the other. Then shoot the arrow at the visualised person. The person will no longer go against you.

A second method is as follows. One chooses the afternoon of a ”Chu” (”Removal”) day to practice the dharma. Standing in front of Ragaraja’s image face to the east and form a gesture as if shooting an arrow while you recite the Ragaraja Mantra 108 times. Then, visualising your enemy in front of you, shoot the arrow at him. Your enemy will immediately retreat.

Dharma of Drawing an Image

Vajrayana Buddhism highly regards painting a Buddha’s image. While you are painting the Buddha’s image, your entire mind is so focused that you will paint continuously. Because of this attentiveness, the divine nature of Ragaraja will enter the painting you have drawn, and the painting will already be powerful when you hang it up.

When practising Image Drawing Dharma, one will obtain spiritual union quickly and easily because after drawing Ragaraja’s image for so long, Ragaraja is imprinted in one’s mind.

Dharma of Love and Respect

Homa for love and respect must be performed between the 16th and 30th days of the lunar calendar. Set up the fire offering mandala in the form of a lotus shaped semi-circle. All offerings, such as flowers, fruits, food, drinks, clothing or other items must be red in colour. Throw 180 red lotus stamens into the homa fire burner to be burned. When reciting the mantra, chant ”hum tsa-zhi-hum re” Command ‘name of the person’ and ‘name of the person’ to love and respect each other.”

Please remember, this is to be practised by one who is honest and sincere. It is not meant to be practised by ”one who has evil intentions.”

Nectar Dharma

Ragaraja sits on top of a nectar vase. A lotus stems grows out of this nectar vase becoming a thousand petaled lotus. Visualise that Ragaraja transforms on top of this thousand-petaled lotus, Rajaraja is transformed from the syllable ”hum” The lotus is transformed from the syllable ”bang.” The nectar vase is transformed from the syllable ”seh.” Visualise Ragaraja moving to the top of your head. Ragaraja’s nectar vase is dripping nectar which enters your central channel. Visualise your whole body filled with nectar that eliminates all your bad karma.

You can visualise the amrita as red because Ragaraja is red in colour. At this time, your whole body is filled with red amrita and you are purified. This way, you can easily go to Buddha’s Pure Land.

Carved Image Dharma

Have someone carve an image of Ragaraja about the height of your right thumb. Ragaraja’s height, width, and length should be exactly the same size as your thumb. Because you desire Ragaraja to be fully engraved in your heart, when you have completed 300,000 mantra recitations, Ragaraja will then have a spiritual union with you. Wherever you go, everyone will respect you and all their love will be reflected on your body.

One should practice Carved Image Dharma to protect oneself from being harmed by witchcraft, black magic spells, or evil practices. What one needs to do is to carve the image of Ragaraja and wear it as a pendant in front of one’s chest.

While wearing the carved image of Ragaraja, if you fall in love with a person and wish for Ragaraja to help reciprocate love from this person, all you need to do is recite the Ragaraja Mantra 7 times, and say the person’s name. Alternatively, say ”command ‘names of the person’ and ‘name of the person’ shall love each other.”

Also, after completing 300,000 recitations of Ragaraja Mantra, carry the carved image of Ragaraja with you. Recite the mantra 7 times while on the plane; 7 times while on the boat; 7 times while on the train; or 7 times while in the car. Whichever transportation you take, or if you are walking, or anywhere you may be, recite 7 times; you will not encounter any disasters or calamities.

Dharma of Exorcising Demons

When helping a mentally ill patient or a person possessed by evil spirits, visualise yourself transforming into Vajrasattva. Then visualise that the syllable ”hum” on the palms of both hands transform into Ragaraja. On top of your head, the ”hum” syllable transforms into Ragaraja; on your face, the ”hum” syllable transforms into Ragaraja. Transform your ”Vajrasattva” body into ”Ragaraja’s” body. Pat the back of the mentally ill patient or person that has been possessed by evil. Or recite ”hum tsa-zhi-hum re” and pat the patient’s back with both your palms. The evil spirit possessing the body will then naturally leave.

Dharma of Detoxification (Dharma of Purification)

All you have to do is recite the Ragaraja mantra 300,000 times. Then, for any food that you eat, first recite ”hum tsa-zhi-hum re” 7 times. After eating this food, even if it was spoiled or contaminated, the food will become fresh and clean again. When you go home, you will not have diarrhoea.

Someone may put a curse on you with black magic, or put a curse on your food, or lace your food with sedatives or other mind-altering drugs. All you need to do is face toward the soda or food and recite ‘ ”hum tsa-zhi-hum re ‘ 7 times and the drugs or sedatives will no longer be effective. Anything that is contaminated will lose its effectiveness and be purified. Anything that is bad will become normal. Anything that has been poisoned will be detoxified.

Therefore, if one falls under spells of black magic or is harmed by witchcraft such as that practiced in Sichuan, Yunnan, Guangxi, and Xiangxi, the witchcraft and the black magic spells can be undone as long as one practices this dharma.

Even if you find yourself in hell and see poisonous snakes, just recite ”hum tsa-zhi-hum re” 7 times and the poisonous snakes will leave. If you are in the hell of swallowing red hot molten metal balls, all you need to do is recite the Ragaraja Mantra 7 times ”hum tsa-zhi-hum re” and the metal balls will turn into moon cake. When you are in the hell of filthy excrement recite ”hum tsa-zhi-hum re” 7 times and all the feces will turn into sausage. Any bad thing will transform into something good.

Information collected from a variety of sources.

https://shirleytwofeathers.com/The_Blog/powers-that-be/aizen-myoo/