#and he had barely been keeping himself together until they made it to shore)

[zylphiacrowley]

Shores yet to be explored

<previous - next>

[jezebelblues]

𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐁𝐔 ‘𝟗𝟐 | 𝐇.𝐒 ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢'𝐦 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐢'𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧'𝐭

𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐦 𝐛𝐮𝐭, 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐮, ‘𝟗𝟐. (a summer love he’ll never get back).

𝐂𝐖: allusions to smut+18 (piv), sadrry :( exrry, angst, unedited, fem!reader, time jumps between 1992-2012

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: approx 4.5k

❏ i need to take a break from angst fr i’ve been putting toooooo much of it out lately. this fun was to write tho. love doing lyric based things. anyway! thanks for reading :*

masterlist

sometimes the heat made every breath stale. you’d inhale, and the air would hit the back of your throat in a dry, sun-scorched blow—hot and sharp as a blade through your nose. it’d coat your tongue in something arid enough that the words couldn’t bear the weight of themselves anymore. they were caught there, chafing against the tip of your tongue, dragging to a sputtering death before they even touched your lips.

but the air was saccharine, cotton candy floating from pink clouds and lingering in the breeze. every now and then, the waves would lap gently enough that it sounded like a lullaby—the sand just warm silk between toes, soft enough to fool you into thinking the world could be kind.

harry didn’t know YN, not at all. not before that summer.

the summer she fled from the midwest like it might collapse behind her, leaving only dust and cornfields and parents who thought love was autocratic.

the same summer harry visited the states for the first time, fresh-faced and wide-eyed, still trying to find himself in a world that felt too vast.

a summer, that’s it—fleeting, but heavy enough to settle against your sternum until your chest caved in. like the season tried to resuscitate that feeling over and over again until ribs would splinter under the pressure.

now it just left a hollow.

the airport was no less stale than the air outside—now just bathed in white fluorescents, cold and sterile like a morgue, buzzing flies and all.

he kissed her anyway, and she swore it wasn’t goodbye, but harry knew better. he could taste the finality on her lips—something unresolved laced with something copper, sanguine, tragic. maybe she bit her tongue to keep things together, or maybe she bit it back to prevent the three words they should’ve said to each other but didn’t.

he still remembers the tang of it; still wonders if she bled for him that day.

she didn't have the money to stick around, not for long, anyway. her whole life packed into a bag, she tore through the season like a comet. motel rooms when they could scrape together the cash, but mostly they lived out of harry's borrowed car.

a piece of shit, really. the kind of car that rattled when it hit fifty and burned your thighs on the vinyl seats. but to her, it was perfect. she loved it most at night. they’d park somewhere desolate on the shore, right in the sand—the waves crashing in whispers, the windows fogging up just enough to bare evidence to the way she’d ride him in the backseat, claiming the length between his thighs as her own.

he didn’t have as much tattoos then as he had now, but his favorites weren’t inked—they were the ones she left herself—bruises kissed into his neck, dark as midnight, tender as promises.

and the motel 6 that was on the corner of palm canyon and serra bore the imprint of their young, naive vows—right in the pavement.

the sky was painted lavender and steel blue that night, bathing them indigo underneath the cool, flickering light of the motel sign.

harry remembers her laugh—airy and light, like it came easier than breathing. she pulled him under yellow caution tape toward the fresh concrete.

“isn’t this bad for our skin?” harry muttered, glancing over his shoulders warily as the two of them kneeled down. “‘nd what if we’re caught?”

she laughed, the sky and the sign and the silver glow of the rising moon coloring her in like art. “don’t be a wimp, h.”her smile broke him, it really did. her shoulder brushed his as she pressed her hand flat into the wet cement.

the concrete was cold to the touch, thick and dense like dead flesh as she held her hand flush against it.

he followed, YN’s kiss on his shoulder pushing him forward. his handprint was so much larger than hers, like they weren't even made for the same world.

he had tried to wipe his soiled palm against the dew of the grass as YN wrote their initials underneath the imprints of their hands with her index finger, her cheeks flushed and her smile wide.

“there.” she murmured, leaning her cheek against harry bicep. “now it’s forever.”

he believed her then. he believed it in the way you believe the sun will rise, like the natural rhythm of breath—like it was written in stone.

but now at the age of thirty-nine, he knew better—knew how cement dried, how it cracked, how time eroded things. perhaps he should’ve known it was a bad omen the way it was solidified in cold petrichor, left to dry and harden just as they did.

as the years wore on, harry would come back once every blue moon, if he had the expense for it. the quiet part of the beach where they'd park his car wasn't so quiet anymore. it basked in fairy lights and neon glow, in the bustle of seaside shops; the sand stamped with footsteps of tourists that came and went.

sometimes, when he got drunk enough, he'd try to walk the path back to where they stayed. but the tire tracks in the sand were long gone, and the waves crashed farther up the shoreline than they did twenty years ago.

he could remember the way she'd slip out of the car, the door creaking faintly as it swung open, and how the dim light from the moon framed her face. her hair was a mess of salt and wind, strands clinging to the curve of her jaw and the hollow of her throat, and his sweater hung off her like it was never meant to belong to anyone else. it was too big, swallowing her, the sleeves pushed to her elbows. his name clung to her, silently.

she turned back to him, holding the door open, bending at the waist slightly as she leaned in. she tipped her head, her eyes catching the light just enough to glitter as she threw him a look—all flushed cheeks and teasing lips. “c'mon, lover." her voice was a breath. an invitation, an inevitability.

and harry didn’t hesitate. he never did, not with her.

he slid across the cracked leather seats in the back, his shoulder brushing against her arm as he dipped out, the soft brush of fabric on skin setting something electric humming in his veins. he slammed the door behind him, the sound loud against the hush of the waves.

he remembers the way the way her giggles bubbled, how the backs of her thighs felt pliant in his hands as he lifted her like she weighed nothing—like the earth itself would let him defy gravity for her—setting her atop the hood dusted with grains of sand blown awry from the wind, clinging right to her skin.

her fingers were in his hair before he even kissed her, tugging gently, threading through the curls like she was mapping him out. when his lips found hers, she tasted like summer—like sun-warmed strawberries and sugar and something he couldn't name but would chase for years. he nipped at her bottom lip, teeth pulling it back enough to meet her gaze—just to find her looking at him like he was the only thing real in the universe, like he’d been carved from air and fire and the aching edges some long-forgotten dream.

she’d wrap her legs around his waist, his chest bare and his shorts still damp from the ocean during sunset.

her fingers tightened, her nails lightly scraping against his scalp as she tipped his head back to reveal the curve of his neck, the column of his throat.

and she had pressed her lips there, a searing kiss where his throat dipped, where his pulse beat unsteady beneath his skin. her lips were softer than they should've been, her teeth sharper than he expected as she left the marks he loved so much.

he remembered the way his laughter cracked as her teeth grazed the curve of his shoulder, his hands tracing up her thighs, his dimples cutting deep. “people are gonna think m’yours if you keep leaving ‘em.” he smirked, tilting his head back down as she ran her hands down his chest, glancing up at him.

“aren’t you?”

“am i?”

she nodded, tracing the lines of the butterfly on his tummy, the wings fluttering with every breath. “until you aren’t.”

her words had knocked a breath from his chest. they weren't cruel—she wasn't cruel—but there was something devastating in the simplicity of them, the way they slipped so easily from her mouth. like she'd already made peace with whatever came next.

he narrowed his eyes down at her, watching her intently as her gaze remained distant, fingers gliding along edges and lines of his muscles he didn’t know existed until she found them.

the three words sat right on his tongue that night—sour, heavy, unspoken.

after a beat, she stilled her tracings, looking back up at him with her eyes so full of something he couldn’t quite name yet. she had pressed her palms against his chest, pushing him gently, only knocking him off balance enough to rock on his heels while she let out a breathy chuckle. “you’re overthinking it.”

he parted his lips to speak, but YN was already sliding off the hood of the car, brushing past him with a faint pat to his bum, her smile almost too small to catch.

she had lifted his sweater over her head, revealing her bare chest, her nipples tightening in the breeze, arms stretching upwards before she let it fall into the sand.

next was the bikini bottoms she had been wearing since their swim, sliding down her thighs so easily he wished he had done it himself.

she walked in reverse, shooting him a teasing look before she spun on her heel, jogging toward the water that reflected the moon and stars above, twinkling in the blue.

“move it, styles!” she shouted, dipping her head beneath the surface, her hair slicking back once she rose again. “we’ve got another thing to cross off the bucket-list!”

and again, harry hadn’t hesitated.

the motel 6 wasn’t there anymore either. it was demolished in 2007. serra retreat, it was called—an overly expensive peaceful reprieve for the rich, flanked by huge mansions that sat perched in the rolling hills, overlooking the water.

but harry and YN still existed there, only there, right in the worn, cracked pavement.

and in a way, the corner of palm canyon and serra road would always be theirs—a testament, a vow, a grave.

the weeks after she left he went back home to cheshire, a shell of the young man he was before he left. he came back a heartbroken, blubbering mess that cried for his mom.

he remembers it vividly, because then, it was the first time he sobbed into his mother’s shoulder for comfort since childhood.

and anne would try to remedy his pain, she really would. she’d wipe his tears and make him tea, listen to the stories he’d whisper if he felt up to it—memories spilling out of him in fits and starts, mumbled right into his bent knees.

for a while, he’d save up money from the small checks he’d earn at the bakery to buy calling cards. at first, he’d get at least four a month—one international call each week. she answered occasionally, maybe once or twice.

but he did it again, and again and again—whether it was her that answered or the sound of her pretty voice layered over static in the background.

hey, it’s YN! reached the right person at the wrong time—you know what to do after the beep. later!

and as the time stretched enough to let silence sit between the spaces, he’d walk over to the community library with an obstinacy soaked in hope—saturated so heavily that it would weigh down on him like the threat of an executioners blade.

he didn’t go there to study, or to read, or to pray in the small chapel nestled into the basement of the building, the exact room his grandmom had told him about after seeing only tired, distant eyes since he had come home.

“he’ll listen, sweetheart. he’ll take your sadness bit by bit and offer you solace in place of it.” she promised, (although she didn’t really have the authority to) her voice weathered with age, concern woven between each syllable.

but harry would press his lips into a tight line as he nodded politely, tuning her out after that.

he’d wear the (something he felt was no longer his) silver cross pendant against his chest every day as if it was attached to him. but, at that point, he wondered if it was just a force of habit rather than a symbol of faith.

because the less she answered, the more hopeless he felt—and the silence began to wrap around him like a noose waiting for the ground to give out.

instead, he’d go straight for the row of clunky white computers that whirred so loudly it ought of been told to hush by the librarian. his leg would bounce while it would dial up, his hands clammy as he typed in search of what he came there for—what’s the time difference between cheshire and ohio?

he had taken out his little notepad that was tucked into his back pocket, writing the answer down in the spotty blue ink just so he could do the mental math for every time he called.

and, eventually, (even after he took the time to consider time differences) it dwindled down to only buying one calling card for the month—because her answers were just becoming more and more scarce.

for a while, he’d call on the third of each month like clockwork (it was her favorite number—three). so much so, that during that summer, after one too many cheap beers they bribed the clerk to let them buy, him and YN got matching tattoos. she had gotten a small three on her left wrist, right along the curve of the bone; while harry got a small little shamrock in the very same spot—her number, his luck.

“in concrete and skin.” she smiled, the two of them walking out of the small parlor, leaning into his chest as she laughed.

“careful,” he smirked, nudging his hip against hers as they continued down the jagged sidewalk. “sounds like you’re making a vow there, angel.”

“isn’t it?”

he’d sit down atop the kitchen counter, his feet dangling as he pressed the landline to his ear. it would ring, the trilling brrrttt a taunt that sounded awfully similar to the whispers that’d pick and pry at his brain—you’re part to blame, you’re part to blame, you’re part to blame.

that’s what he thought, at least. maybe if he had just said i love you at the airport they wouldn’t be separated by an ocean, both the atlantic and a sea of regret.

the sound of her voicemail only answered again.

nearly twenty years later in july, (three weeks ago) he found himself in malibu again. it was like an attachment he couldn’t let go of, an addiction that wouldn’t set him free.

he held onto this unrealistic idea that he’d see her again—kneeling into their handprints, retracing old memories marked into the ground, as if it’d bring them to life again—just as he was.

harry knew it was delusional.

he visited the pavement every time he came, grass and weeds starting to sprout through the cracks in their initials—but it was still there.

he’d visit it like one visits a headstone, mourning what once was.

when he was back in london, in his own house now, he did something stupid. he did something impulsive, he did something he wish he had never done in the first place—he’d call her again.

it had been over ten years since he gave up calling YN. what the hell was he expecting? for her to pick up? for the number to even still be hers? he didn't know why he was doing it. maybe it was the date he'd just come back from—nice enough, but nice was the kind of word people used when there was nothing else to say.

she wasn't her, and it was starting to feel as if nothing would ever compare to the way he felt at nineteen.

he cracked open another beer, the neck of the bottle slick in his palm. he held it too tightly, his knuckles turning white as he stared at his phone. his heart slammed hard enough in his chest to make him dizzy as he dialed the number ingrained in his memory.

this was stupid—pathetic, mostly. and deep down, he hated himself for it. twenty years of heartbreak over a fucking summer, over a girl he had known for basically only four months.

he took another sip.

but it’s ringing, the trill looping and looping—meaning the number was still connected. it wasn’t empty, he wasn’t calling into the void. so, despite himself, he didn’t hang up.

he’d be calling a stranger either way he cut it: either someone he had never known answering, or the older version of a girl he had fell in love with two decades ago. stupid. pathetic. pathetic—

“hello?”

his beer slipped, the bottle thunking hard against the counter. he barely caught it in time, his grip unsteady as the voice on the other end sent a jolt through him.

his lips parted as his jaw went slack, the words caught somewhere at the top of his throat. his hand shook, his thoughts racing. she didn’t sound all that different, older, yeah, but still her.

she said it again, a little sharper this time, like she might hang up if he didn't respond. "..hellooo?"

his stomach churned and his breath wavered as he forced her name out, “Y–YN?”

there was a pause on the other line, faint shifting and rustling in the background like she was leaning into the phone. “yes, who is this?”

he could barely get his own name out. “harry.”

silence.

it stretched thin and tight, his pulse pounding in his ears. he swore he heard her suck in a breath, heard her lips part.

there was a breathy stutter, as if she was fighting the words she didn’t quite know how to articulate. “how–how are you?”

and all he could do was stand there, clutching a half-empty beer and shaking like a kid, because for the first time in twenty years, he heard her voice and didn't know what the hell to do with it.

but, he exhaled a laugh, though it came out more like a nervous puff of air, and scrubbed his hand over his face. god, how would you even begin to answer that after twenty years? "uh, i'm–m’good. yeah, good." he lied.

the bottle in his hand felt suddenly too heavy, so he set it down, dragging his fingers along the edge of the counter instead. "and you? how've y’been?"

"i'm... alright," she said, though there was a hesitation, a weight to the word that made him suspect otherwise. her voice had softened in that way people's voices do when they're not quite sure how much to say.

the line hummed with static as he searched for something—anything—to say that wouldn't sound absurd. twenty years had passed. two decades. and all he had was how've you been? pathetic.

"you still in ohio?" he asked finally, hating how desperate he sounded to know something, anything about her life now.

"no." she replied quietly, and he could almost hear the faint shake of her head in her tone. "no, i moved. i'm in jersey now.”

the word hit him like a quiet ache. not malibu. not where it all began, not even back home in ohio, the whole reason she left in the first place. "right." he murmured, running his thumb over the edge of his counter. "makes sense. sounds...jerseys nice."

a faint laugh filtered through the line, and he almost forgot how much he'd missed the sound of it. "yeah, it is. what about you? uk still?"

"yeah, london now. still-still england." he struggled, tripping over his own tongue like a schoolboy.

"good." she sighed softly, but it hung there like an echo, as though she didn't quite know what else to add.

silence stretched out between them, not uncomfortable exactly, but heavy with all the words they weren't saying.

finally, she broke it, her voice lighter, almost cautious. "harry... why'd you call?"

his heart thudded, the question slamming into him with the weight of every regret he'd carried since the day she left. why did he call? he didn't have an answer that didn't sound like an excuse or a confession. "i... i dunno." he mumbled honestly, and his voice cracked just enough to betray him. "i just... i wanted t’hear your voice, i guess."

another pause. he could hear her breathing on the other end, steady but shallow, like she was processing something she didn't know how to hold.

"it's been such a long time.” her words were as much a statement as they were a question.

"mm-hmm.” he hummed quietly. "too long."

and there it was again—that silence, louder now, the weight of two decades pressing against them. his grip on the phone tightened.

"you didn't have to wait this long, you know—to call, i mean." she murmured, almost like an afterthought.

his stomach twisted, guilt tinged with frustration unfurling like a vine through his chest. "you stopped answering.”

her breath hitched faintly, and for a moment he thought she might hang up. but instead, her voice returned, quieter, more guarded. "yeah. i–i guess i did."

he swallowed thickly, feeling like he was standing on the edge of something too fragile to hold. "do you regret it?"

she didn't answer right away, and when she finally did, her voice was heavy with something he couldn't quite place. "do you?"

his throat tightened. he could lie—should lie—but he couldn't bring himself to. "every day."

another breath of silence, and then, "me too."

for a moment, harry could feel the years peeling away, leaving them bare again, like they'd been when they were young. when it was simple. when it was summer.

but it wasn't. it wasn’t 1992. they weren’t teenagers anymore, and they definitely weren’t in california.

"it's funny," she breathed after a while, her voice a bit steadier now, though there was something in it— some hint of resignation—that made his chest tighten. "i hadn't thought about malibu in... i don't even know how long. and then you call, and it's like i'm eighteen again."

he closed his eyes. eighteen. nineteen. it cut deep. "i've never stopped thinking about it, YN." he admitted delicately, his voice low, rough. "about you."

her breath caught, barely audible, but he heard it.

"harry." she sighed, a warning in the way she said his name, like she was afraid of where this might go.

"do you remember?" he pressed, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "the beach? our bucket-list? our promises? us? how we said—how we said we'd never forget it?"

she was quiet for a long time, long enough that he thought maybe he'd gone too far. "of course i remember. how could i forget?”

and for a second, it felt like he could breathe again. like the two decades of distance between them weren't so insurmountable after all.

but then her tone shifted, growing firmer, almost bittersweet. "harry, we can't go back. you know that, right?"

his chest ached. "why not?" he asked, hating the way his voice cracked.

"because it's been twenty years.” she lamented, and there was something final in the way she said it, like she'd been rehearsing this conversation in her head for years. "because we're not the same people we were back then."

"so what?" he rushed, the words coming out sharper than he meant them to. "so what if it's been twenty years? so what if we've changed? does that mean it didn't matter? that it wasn't real?"

"it was real, harry.”she countered, and he could hear the emotion building in her voice now, raw and unsteady. "it was the realest thing i've ever had. but that doesn't mean we can just pick up where we left off."

"why not?" he asked again, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. "why can't we try?" he felt pathetic.

"because," YN insisted, then there was a pause, and he could hear her struggling to find the words. "because i'm not yours anymore, harry. i haven't been for a long time."

his heart dropped, the weight of her words crashing into him like a tidal wave—no, worse than that. "what do you mean?"

there was a long, shaky exhale on the other end of the line. "i'm married.”

he felt the air get knocked out of his lungs.

“i have a husband. a life. a... a house here in jersey."

he froze, his hand tightening around the phone. "a husband.” he repeated numbly, the word foreign and strange on his tongue. "you're... you're married?"

"yes.” she frowned, and he could hear the apology in her voice, even though she hadn't said the words. "i didn't think you’d ever find out—or need to.”

his head spun, lips threatening to tremble. "does he make you happy?" he asked after a moment, his voice shaky and quiet, almost a whisper.

there was a pause, “yes.” and it sounded like the truth, but it also sounded like something she was still trying to convince herself of.

he nodded to himself, even though she couldn't see it. "good..” he trailed off, his voice hoarse. "that's—um. that’s good."

"harry..." she started, but he cut her off.

"no, s’okay.” he croaked, forcing a small, bitter laugh. "i mean, of course. what did i expect, right? twenty years is a long time."

"it is…" she said quietly, and he could hear the pain in her voice, like she hated this as much as he did.

"you've got everything now, huh?" his voice trembled, the words slipping out before he could stop them. "money, a nice house. someone who probably doesn't spend two decades thinking about a summer that's long gone."

"harry, that's not—“ she paused, clenching her jaw. “that’s not fair.” her voice was a bit sharper now, but he just shook his head, his eyes glassing over.

"no, you're right," he said flatly, "s’not fair. none of this is fair."

silence fell again, heavy and suffocating, and he closed his eyes, letting the weight of it all settle over him.

he thought he heard a sniffle on the other line before it crackled. "i…should go, harry. m’sorry, i can’t.”

"yeah," his tone was short, his throat tight. "yeah, you should."

"take care of yourself, harry.” YN murmured, and then the line went dead.

he stood there for a long time, the silence of his empty house pressing in around him. twenty years, and all he had left was the ghost of a memory, the echo of a voice he hadn't heard in two decades, a stupid fucking vow sealed into the earth half way across the world like a taunt.

in twenty years she had forgotten malibu—but harry hasn’t left since.

[glassrowboat]

Dottore x Reader x Diluc poto AU

Summary: The Angel of Music's lair awaits you as painted gold arms move to welcome you in, the creak of their gears barely registering in your ears over your voice as his hand fits comfortably in yours, guiding you along. Further, further, and further into his world of unending night.

Warnings: Dottore, sexual content, smut, oral, cunnilignus, masturbating, altering of POTO canon, not proof read but Risse is tired

Word Count: 5k

The lights had been blinding as always when you had stood high on the stage, filling the air with a burning heat that licked at your skin. Sweat had dripped down your back, but there was no searing ache in your muscles from performing as your legs held you up for the painted gold faces of statues to see you in all your glory without even a speck of powder on pointed toes. For there were no silk ribbons fastened around your ankles to be seen by an effigies eyes. Your feet weren't even peeling a new layer of skin. There was only a dull hum in your throat and an ever beating heart from frayed nerves at having all those eyes on you.

On you alone.

For the stage had claimed you not as a ballet dancer who twirled with each long string of a bow, but as the star all lights were pointed to.

Just like the ones covered in glitter and gems you had pulled out of your hair a moment ago and laid to rest on the vanity you were sitting before. Your own reflection staring back at you as your fingers dance over the red petals of a rose. A gift from your Angel of Music.

You could almost hear the vibrato in his voice as well wishes fell from the lips that have taught you so well. Surely, he would be dawning a smirk, prideful as he is.

You plucked a petal, withered at the end with a dull brown that curls in on itself, and let it fall onto the floor of this overbearingly pink room; from the wallpaper to the endless bouquets surrounding you in a fog of perfume. All unaccompanied by a glass bottle to spray a charming mist into the air with a squeeze of an atomizer bulb, yet it smothered you nonetheless.

But in your hands, still perfectly polished from when your makeup had been done before the show, was black. A ribbon unlike the twisted and worn ones of your pointe shoes twisting around your finger, hypnotizing you with its delicate touch.

You didn't even notice the knob of the painted door keeping you apart from the bustling crew you would normally be shrugging through in an attempt to go change out of your costume twisting.

Not until a voice called out, one without the austere lit to it you had heard between dark stones aglow by the flicker of candles as you prayed for your father. That bright red of a rose, its scent still plaguing you, was replaced with locks of embering hair and memories of salt in the air as a violin played; waves lapping at the shore a background to the sweet melody.

“A little girl let her mind wander. The little girl thought, ‘Am I fonder of dolls, or of goblins, or of shoes.”

A poem you had learned in your tender years now sparking at the core of your memory again.

“Diluc?”

Your eyes fell on him, taking in the black coat hugging a frame that had now grown out of the lanky one you had known well from days of cuddling up together in a dusty attic on an old blanket, and white tie so pure it could be mistaken for the snow that is sure to come with the change of seasons already starting to creep in through the walls of the opera house with a chilling touch.

Almost like hands made of ice were ready to wrap around your throat.

But Diluc's were warm as he kneeled before you, hand reaching out to rest on your shoulder only to pull it back like he shouldn't have dared to be so familiar with you despite the moments you both shared. “Or of riddles or of frocks..or of chocolates.”

The flutter of your heart still stirred from the stage, twisting and turning as you looked up at him.

He was different from the boy you once knew, but he still held traces of himself from the memories you replayed in your head on an endless loop in between chatter with the other chorus girls and, dare you admit, even in the face of a blue glow that could never melt into shadows the same way the rest of your phantom did.

“Should I refer to you as Vicomte now?” You asked, remembering how the new managers had introduced him during rehearsal.

“Please, don't call me that.” The flickering light of the candle moved along Diluc's shoulders as they slumped. “It makes me uncomfortable. And there's no need.”

Not between us, is what he didn't say.

“Diluc it is, then.”

“And you, should I call you the star of tonight's show?” Diluc asked, head tilting slightly when your eyes met with his. “You did amazing up there.”

“Oh I see, so I'm not worthy of the title a prima donna yet? But no.” you shook your head, a smile quirking your lips up at his genuine praise. He had always been so quick to listen to your quiet lullabies in awe once upon a time, and that same unabashed reverence has turned back to you again.

He really did remember you despite not recognizing you- not seeing you- when he was first introduced to the troupe as a new benefactor of the theater.

“There's no need for that.” You assured him.

“Then if there's no need for titles between us, how about we share a meal. One in celebration of your wonderful performance and to meeting again?”

Your fingers tightened around the stem in your hands the moment he asked, wrangling it into something new, something misshapen. All between knuckles that were slowly turning white with each passing second. “No.”

“I'm sorry is”- Diluc’s hand drew back further, continuously pulling away the warmth he had to offer- “something wrong?”

And the stirring in your heart seemed to quell the further Diluc got.

“It's not- well..you remember what my father said, right, Diluc? That when he was in heaven he would send the Angel of Music to me.” With a sucked in breath you got out the words: “well father is dead, and I have been visited.”

“Oh, there's no doubt of it.”

The sentence echoed one that had once been whispered between you on a windy day, almost bringing you further back in time than just his mere presence brought you. To memories of dark stories and a scarf trying to fly off with the breeze and swim along the waters being returned to you as he wrapped it around your neck as you promised one day you would stand on the stage waiting for your voice to be heard by everyone and by him.

How far you've come.

The both of you.

But…

“And the Angel of Music is very strict.” You reminded yourself. The you that had become intimate with the shivers racking your spine simply at the thought of displeasing him currently running over you.

Breath falling short.

“I don't intend to keep you for long.”

“I know, it's just-”

And then he asked you to please play along, to indulge him on this even as the hole drilling itself in your stomach grew and grew. To the point eating anything in the first place sounded sickening, but you smiled at that same baby face Diluc couldn't seem to grow out of even after all these years and dared to agree.

The hair on the back of your neck stood up as he walked to the door, pushed it out of the way with one last call of “You must change. Something you can actually walk around in, preferably. In the meantime, I'll order my carriage.” And a promise you won't regret joining him as that pink door closed.

Painted lilies staring back at you as gooseflesh awoke on your skin.

A lock silently clicked in place without you even noticing.

Then, a voice seemed to blare over the room, blowing out the candles around you one by one. From the vanity your red rose laid upon to the one next to the dressing screen you had only just been behind to change (trying to discard the heavy costume you had worn on stage), hands occupied with fixing the tie to your robe. Darkness took over, leaving you in the music of the night.

“He's insolent, my muse. Just a boy who hasn't even fostered the voice you now yield, but there he was sharing in my triumph.”

The sneer you could hear in his voice was recognizable and well known after all the times other ‘young suitors’ as he liked to call them dared to cross an invisible line he drew. One you still couldn't tell if it was etched in the grains of sand or hammered into concrete, but either way, daring to pass, it was as risky as a gambler asking for Aphrodite’s kiss.

“He didn't mean any harm.”

“I would say trying to step in the way of your spotlight for a chance to greet you is pernicious at best.”

Like the panes of a window leaving shadows along the floor where the sun casts its rays.

“Look, I'm sorry. I wanted to tell him no.”

“But your soul was weak, I take it?” He asked with the same snark you've grown accustomed to from him. At this point it was almost a comfort after hearing him make remarks about the inability of the crew, Carlotta, and the new managers who had just taken over all while a stained glass image of a god you bowed your head to watched over you.

A holy gaze keeping you safe as prayers for your father whispered on your lips and a flame sparked as you lit a candle in his name, but in here it was only you and a fog slowly creeping in.

Dottore always was one for dramatics.

“Forgive me, teacher.” You said at last.

A hum filled your ears, just as the fog rose higher and higher, blocking out the endless bouquets that had been filling the room more than the gaudy furniture could even dare to try.

He spoke of Diluc basking in your glory, but here he was doing the same with your trepidation.

All you could do was wait for the other shoe to fall, or-

“Only this once, my muse.”

Or to have a hand held out to take yours. Black gloves and golden claws shattering the illusion you were semi alone in this room as the mirror fell away for Dottore to pull you inside. Arm wrapping around your waist to keep you close as a melody filled your ears; blocking out the sound of Diluc rattling the doorknob to check on you as panic swells in his chest.

“I am your Angel of Music.” Dottore said as he cast a sidelong glance towards the door, his hold on you tightening. “Come to your Angel of Music.”

With a crescendo, everything else fell away.

All with that same fog following you, drowning everything else out. Leaving the world above the murky depths you were pulled into distorted by refraction. Blocking out the last words you could have sworn went something along the lines of: “Who is in there with you?”

You couldn't even register the concern lacing each word, not when all your nerves were set alight. Yet the raucous beating of your heart, a drum that has long since been used and abused, finally soothed as Dottore pulled you along.

“Come now, and sing once again with me our strange duet.”

A haze passed by all at once with golden arms clicking as gears in need of a good oiling moved, fingers intertwining with your own, and the splash of water as a rowboat that looked as fickle as glass dipped under your weight when you climbed in.

All with the assurance “I have you” as you were flooded by the Phantom’s song.

His voice echoed off the walls dripping with a moisture you would rather not think about, slipping between the cracks and over dewy cobwebs with a raw texture. The talent of a man who taught himself all he knew in the silence between the shows put on in the light as his shadow cast across the stones down below.

Dottore had once likened it to a hollow building, one falling apart at the seams all thanks to its unsteady foundation, but you? You, the very thing that inspired his song, had come in and filled that shell of a home with comfort. Blankets over the windows to keep the cold air out, rugs padding over the hard floor, and a place to rest; one without the worry of rats creeping their way into our home.

Dottore never explained why he called it “our home.”

Not even as his masked face turned towards you and you were left questioning if that black and white porcelain could hold an expression of fondness.

“Surely you know how to get out of a boat yourself.” Dottore teased, even as he helped pull you out with one last unsteady lurch and splash of water under your feet. Droplets tickling your ankles.

“Apparently not.”

“Don't tell me I have another thing I need to teach you.” Dottore raised a brow, or maybe both, you really couldn't tell.

“Would it matter if you did?” You teased.

“I suppose not. We can stay down here, together.” Dottore whispered with his hand ghosting along your cheek. Cold to the touch. “And abandon the garish light of day all while I teach you something new. All in this kingdom of music..”

A kingdom with only one subject, the king: Dottore himself.

“I'm not just going to purge my thoughts of the life I knew before,” danced on your tongue, wanting to escape from the confines you only tightened the hold of. Chaining it to a wall to be forgotten and discarded.

For his eyes could both threaten and adore; you already knew which would be easier to handle. And you were too exhausted to try weasel your way out of this mess you had stumbled in again, anyway.

“Softly, deftly music shall caress you. Hear it, feel it secretly possess you.” As he sang in your ear, lips and the touch of his mask grazing your skin, Dottore's hand fell from your cheek. Roamed as it pleased. Traced over your collarbones only to go lower, lower, and lower. The golden claws he's wearing toy with your robe, reflecting back your own thinly pressed lips in their radiance. “Open up your mind, my muse. Let me in. Let yourself belong to me.”

“…I”

You took too long to respond.

That was apparent in the way his hand drew back. A stove hot to the touch to tender flesh. Leaving him wounded.

“You need rest. It's been a long night for you.”

“Right…I'm not even that tired though.” Not when your eyes had a place to scour over. To soak in all the rugs placed over the mildew-claimed floors, the lights buzzing with electricity that somehow worked all the way down here, and a well loved piano sitting atop it all.

“You will be. Just give it time.”

All while that same fog that has been chasing you both filled your vision.

You didn't even get the chance to ask Dottore what he meant by that as you fell into his arms. Eyes rolling back as you were greeted by the darkest dreams a mind could imagine.

“Took longer than I thought it would. I'll need to change the percentages in the concoction then. My fault for not testing the drug when it's airborne.”

Muttering to himself Dottore carried you to his bed and placed you down. Tongue clicking as he looked at you slowly being swallowed up but the mattress he had spent countless restless nights tossing and turning in. “Can't you see? Only you alone can make my music take flight…but that boy…”

Hands that were still burnt from your earlier refusal pulled a blanket up and over your shoulders; shaking unsteadily. They might as well have actually been burnt under a flame, set alight, for they twitched like embers were ingrained into his skin as Dottore lingered near you.

Silently watching.

“Once he's gone you can help me make the music of the night. But for now, simply rest well.”

Pressing a kiss to your forehead, Dottore left in favor of his piano, desperate for something to take the swirling storm in his head out on.

It was better that way.

It gave Dottore something to focus on that wasn't his cock straining against his pants as he set the sheets of an unfinished piece before him. Notes daring to be written on the yellowed paper, crinkled and worn after all times he's dug it out only to store it away again without adding a single drop of ink. His pen always did hang in the air, threatening to add something as Dottore busied himself with tapping at the keys; feather covered back turned to you as he tried to work.

Crude, Dottore thought as he huffed at just how wrong it all sounded to his self-taught ear.

It was the tapping that eventually stirred you, forcing your eyes to crack open only to be greeted by the sight of a metal bird staring down at you rather than the mask you had come to expect. Its head tilted to the side. Blue eyes glowing in the dark.

You didn't even get the chance to mutter a confused hello before it flew off with a squawk. Soaring. Long, almost vial-like tail flowing after it.

“What the…”

Grumbling, you pushed the blankets covering you away. Feet padding on the floor as you followed after its flapping wings.

Without your Angel by your side this place seemed different. Hollow, almost. Lonely, like a burnt out candle waiting to bring fire to this world again as it fails to shine. To the point you were glad to follow the song that never seemed to stop playing in your head all the way to a hunched figure.

Without turning back to look at you Dottore said: “I see you're awake. How are you doing, my muse?”

“Like I entered a fever dream.” Which would explain this labyrinth where the daylight dissolves into darkness. All except a faint glow leaving his skin an unearthly hue. “You see the bird too, right?”

Another tap of the keys laid out in front of him rang before Dottore spoke again.

“I do.”

“At least I'm not going crazy then.”

The feathers of his jacket greeted you first, brushing along your arms as they wrapped around him. Would the bird feel the same or would it lack Dottore's warmth you clung to? Would it feel as stiff as he froze under you like deer under the glow of a blinding light.

Funny, for a man who would take a life with as little emotion as a carriage running over a fawn's carcass.

“If you were going crazy I would be sure to tell you.” Dottore strangled out. Voice so tight you couldn't help but check you weren't accidentally pulling on that strap he wore around his throat (for some reason or another), but you weren't even so much as touching it.

“How thoughtful.”

“It's less being thoughtful and more the thought you of going”- his hand pulled away from the keys to gesture at something you couldn't see- “crazed might affect how you choose to sing. Though, it might add an interesting candor as you bear your heart and voice to the opera house.”

“And to its crowd.” You teased, eyes peeking up at him, at the mask he wore, from the feathered mantle you were snuggled up against.

You were so tempted to reach out and graze your fingers over the material, to feel the cold sting grace your skin before pulling it away to reveal what lay underneath. May it be a man or a monster your curiosity begged to know. Pleading into your ear. Only for you to remember the last time you tried as he sucked in an unsteady breath. How he pushed you away, raised a hand that never fell to your cheek as you crawled farther and farther away from him until your back hit a wall behind you.

He shook then just as Dottore is now.

“Yes, them too.”

So your hand didn't dare to try again. Instead it fell to the keyboard to tap over a note or two, fiddling with it to keep your mind off the need to pull away from him- to flee- that gnawed at you. After all, if this truly was a kingdom then what subject could truly run away without repercussions?

The monarch himself picked up the pen beside him, pinched it between those pointed claws, and the notes you had just played were written down on the piece of paper laid out before him.

“Are you writing a new piece?” You asked.

“I'm attempting to. Unfortunately, I am rather distracted.”

Ignoring the way his jaw jutted your way accusingly you continued to tap at the keys. And he continued to write each note down until he told you to sit beside him

“I don't think there's enough room on that bench you're using, Angel.”

His hands were on your waist in a second, the pen clattering as it dropped while Dottore pulled you on his lap. “I said: sit down.”

You barely noticed him picking the pen back up from the ground with his fingers playing with the laces of your corset; brushing over them all the way down to the messy bow you had tied together. At the time your hands had been shaking as the excitement to be on stage had rushed through you, but now your own jittery effort was undone by one single pull of the wirey cord.

Dottore’s touch burned, even through his gloves.

“So..a new piece?” You asked.

“Yes, but I was..admittedly struggling with composing it; on my own, that is. It would be a great help to me if you played another note.” The laces were tugged at again. “Or two. Or three.”

Even as the garment fell off you, only held up by your own hands, it felt harder to breathe than before. “I wouldn't mind, really, but was this necessary?”

Dottore's eyes flicked down between you, scalding you with the red fire inside of them that seemed to only be held back by a single barrier of glass, begging to shatter under the stress. “I was undoing it to keep the corset from pressing on your diaphragm. I don't need your voice distorted.”

It was only a moment later Dottore tacked on “That's all” even as he leaned in closer to you, hand trailing up your back just as softly as the air from his lips was gracing yours. Only an inch apart. Getting closer, closer, and closer to the point you could see deformities in the mask.

Then his head fell to your neck.

“You'll help me f-” Dottore cut himself off, shutting his own trail of thought down. “For my music, won't you, my muse?”

Your hand met the piano, trying to play another note even as his hand dropped from your back and you fell against the keys. The chord cluster had your fingers curling around the white tiles; the damned bird squawked with a jump, only causing your grip to tighten at the shrill sound.

“I'm the one who interrupted your focus, so..” You cleared your throat. “Yes, teacher.”

Dottore replied back with an excellent, already clearly hard at work again as his pen moved, writing the notes you accidentally slammed down on. Black ink trailing off with every flick of his wrist as Dottore's hand slid up to where yours was keeping the corset up and pressed his thumb right over your diaphragm; fingers tickling your ribcage.

“Try to sing a note.”

Without a second to doubt his reasons you obeyed, and Dottore nodded in thought.

“Excellent, just like that. Now, remind me, I don't think we've practiced singing while enduring rough activity, have we?” He asked, head tilting ever so slightly to the side as his eyes flicked over your form on top of him.

“No.” You got out even through the discomfort pressing at your chest.

“Then it's time to change that. Don't you agree?”

“It would be a waste to turn down an opportunity to learn, right? That's what you always say.” At this point you could probably parrot the exact cadence Dottore uses as he repeats those exact words, voice controlled, a lit to it you knew belonged to a man who enjoyed having eyes on him as he made a spectacle of how smart he was, all while teaching you. Usually, Dottore would posture, flick his cape when it gets in his way - not pull you from his lap and place you down on the piano behind you.

Another slam of the keys.

You shifted, trying to get comfortable in your new found place as you tried to figure out why you thought something had been poking at your thigh the entire time Dottore had been holding you close. Had you sit with him on the stool clattering to the floor in Dottore's rush to push it away and kneel before you.

You had half a mind to comment how gross that had to be with these floors, but you were cut off by Dottore himself. “Have I ever told you nighttime has a way of heightening and sharpening each sensation?”

“Here and there.” You nodded. “But what does this have to do with your composition?”

The music sheet (one missing a title) was now cast aside, pen keeping it in place from any stray breeze hoping to pick it up and force it to fall along with the stool. Abandoned by its own creator without mercy for his hands had left it to play with the hem of your skirts; pushing them up and along your legs.

“Oh that's quite simple, but it seems my muse can't figure it out on her own.” Dottore clicked his tongue with a harsh tch. “Sometimes I swear you need everything spelled out for you.”

Ripples ran along your thigh as the cool metal of Dottore's claws graced your skin, from your hip to your ankle as he dragged your undergarments down. “I'll simply draw the notes out of you. You can just lay back and feel it all, savor each sensation.”

“Angel-”

“Oh, and-” Dottore's eyes raised from the sight of your skirts now bunched around your waist, pushed out of the way for his convenience. All to place a single kiss on your thigh that you nearly jerked away from. Only held in place due to the grip he had on you; mercilessly keeping you still even as a heat crept over your cheeks. “And make sure to use your voice.”

Your leg was hooked over his shoulder, the feathers from before taunting you as they brushed against your skin. Were you supposed to grab them or his hair? Were you supposed to yank him back and ask what this was about or let him keep leaning in closer?

The puff of air breathed out on your core answered before you could decide for yourself. And you were suddenly grateful you were sitting on the piano instead of trying to keep yourself up, afloat, as sharp teeth nibbled at your skin leaving your knees feeling weak even after all the years of ballet lessons that strengthened them. Hours of holding poses, perfecting them until you were given a nod of approval from Madame Giry, all suddenly for naught.

“I-I don't think this is very appropriate.”

“You said you'd help me.”

“Well, granted, I did, but-”

His tongue slid along your folds, tasting the very essence you exude. A long strip, a long drag of his tongue on you, and you were a goner.

A single moan ripped through your throat had Dottore's hand reaching down, fumbling with the buttons on his pants (far too many for his liking right now) to push them aside as he tasted you again, again, and again. Only pulling back long enough- giving you a chance to recover- to whisper against your folds “Don't think about anything besides me, my muse. Just me. Let me inside your mind.”

The keys pressed down, playing a soft melody every time your hips bucked up to chase after his touch; desperately trying to drag out more and more of the pleasure building in you. It was a raging fire flooding your soul, a need Dottore returned a hundredfold with a hand wrapping around his cock. Fucking it imagining it was you under him instead- bodies intertwining.

A minor, D minor, and E minor played on the piano, only drowned out by the sound of your cries and the wet sounds between your legs.

A strange duet that was wholefully one of your and Dottore's making.

His thumb brushed over the head of Dottore’s cock, smearing pre into his gloves as Dottore's tongue ravaged you with every bit of lust he'd tampered down over the years. Finally he was able to let it drain into you. Each moment of grazed hands, stolen glances and close calls coming to fruition as his tongue lapped at you.

Using you as a faucet to his molten need that never failed to be stoked, coals sparking with a fire burning alight, by your voice.

“That's it, give in to me. Give in to what I do to you.” Dottore barely managed to mutter between his own groans and hatred to be parted from you for a single second.

Your hand tugged at his hair, the questions you asked yourself long since tossed aside with the flame burning in your core, begging to be eased.

To be satiated.

You barely caught sight of the mechanical bird watching as your eyes rolled into the back of your head, the image of Dottore kneeling before you, head between your thighs as he stroked himself reflected back in its metal beak; warped image capturing the moment you came as the Opera Ghost himself made you sing.

You were too dazed to make out the notes you were playing anymore, only the fact they were turning in your head like a music box that never failed to draw you in as Dottore's head fell against your thigh. Slick coating his face (and parts of his mask), leaving it with a sheen he licked off as his hand moved. Hips stuttering up into the hole he made with a moan.

He called your name as he came, white sticky fluid splashing over the ground.

Blood red eyes staring up at you the entire time.

Speech seemed to turn into silence, words failing you, just out of reach of your outstretched hand desperately hoping to grasp onto anything to say in this moment. But all you could think about was how your blood was still racing.

Even when he had raised from the floor, ran a hand along your cheek, and finally kissed you you still had no clue what to say. Not even as your Angel whispered “Finally. You are so beautiful when you sing, my muse, to the point I couldn't smother your voice even when I longed to kiss you.”

Pulling you in his arms, Dottore held you close, hand running up and down your back, passing over the open laces of your corset.

“Don't you see? This is the music of the night.”

For you alone can make his song take flight.

Funny, how even wrapped up in his embrace, the heat of your release painting your thigh, you still felt cold.

And you longed for another to hold you tight.

[thatsmzbitchtoyou]

Stranded FINAL Chapter 5

Summary:  Tossed overboard and lost at sea, Bucky washes up on an uninhabited island.  Injured, lost and scared, with little to no wilderness training, he fights to survive.  But is he really alone?

Warnings: bodily injury, mentions of sexual harassment/assault, eventual smut

Previous chapter

Bucky was quiet from then on.  He knew he was being ridiculous, but couldn’t find it in himself to try to be better.  He started messing with the plane’s motherboard after finding a manual under one of the seats.  He had taken a few classes in school about electronics and needed something to keep his mind off of the unlivable situation he lived in now.  

A few weeks later he figured out how to turn it on, the plane thrumming as he picked up the radio and held the button.  Static rang out in the cabin and he smiled.  It was worth a try, right?

“Hello?  Can anybody hear me?” He said loudly into the receiver.  He waited a moment before trying again.  “We are stranded on an island.  Last known location was near the southern coast of Costa Rica.  SOS.”  He waited again.  He thought he heard a blip of some kind of noise, but it quickly disappeared back into static.  He sighed and repeated the message one more time before leaving the radio on for a few more minutes, then turning off the plane altogether.  

He did it every day at about the same time.  He never heard anything, but he figured that at least it was something new to try.  The sour mood between him and Y/N eased up slightly, but the tension was still there.  At night they didn’t dare touch each other as they slept next to each other, and if they woke up entangled they would quickly apologize and move away like each other’s touch stung.  

Bucky woke up one morning to a strange sound.  He waited until he heard it again and then shot up out of bed.  The jostling woke Y/N.  “Buck?  What’s going on?”  Bucky ran out of the plane and towards the beach he had washed up on.  The blaring noise happened again, and as he broke through the tree line he saw a huge cruise ship coming their way.  He started laughing and waving his hands above his head.  “We’re here!  We’re here!”  

He could faintly see a few people aboard waving back at him.  Bucky turned back to the tree line and saw Y/N slowly walking out of it.  She gaped at the ship coming toward them.  “It worked!!  Y/N it worked!”  Bucky ran up to her, picking her up and twirling her around.  Y/N barely reacted, her eyes still watching the ship as a few smaller boats were lowered with people in them coming to shore.

“The radio?”  Y/N asked, her eyes finally meeting his.

“It worked,” Bucky breathed, surprised by himself.  “We’re saved.  We can go back home.”  

Y/N broke down into sobs, sinking down to her knees and crying heavily as Bucky held her.  The small boats finally made it to the shore, some people walking up to greet them and helping them grab what they wanted to keep and bringing them back to the cruise ship.  

They were hurried along to the doctor on board to be assessed, then given a shared room to get clean and settled as the ship moved back towards a port in Costa Rica.  The captain asked them a lot of questions and gave them his phone to call whoever they could think of.  News spread on the ship quickly of the rescue mission and that one of the people was the famous lost singer.  

Y/N and Bucky hid in the cabin they were given, not wanting to be hounded by passersby and watching eyes.  After another dinner had been brought to them Y/N stood out on the balcony, watching the water and the sunset.  Now that she was cleaned up Bucky found it even harder to look at her.  The wild nature of how he’d found her would probably always be his favorite, but this clean, glowing woman in the setting sun was another nail in his coffin.

Bucky approached her, standing next to her and leaning on the balcony like she was.  They stood together for a moment before the sun disappeared off the horizon, then Y/N quickly turned and went back inside.  Bucky sighed then followed her in.

“How much longer are you going to ignore me?” He asked.  Y/N looked at him in shock.  “Or are you just waiting til we make port and then you’ll be whisked off to your awaiting entourage and try to forget this ever happened?”

“For fuck’s sake Bucky,” Y/N grimaced.  “It’s like you don’t know me at all, after what, almost a year on the island together?”

“Apparently I don’t, because you won’t speak to me.  You won’t even look at me most of the time.  I really thought that maybe someday if we got off that godforsaken island we’d have a chance at a happy life together.  You made it pretty clear you wanted me,” he said as he walked up to her.  Y/N backed up until her back hit the wall.  “And I’m pretty sure I made it clear I wanted you.  So now that we’re free, and safe, did you change your mind?”  He gave her a wounded look as he tried to control his frustration.  “Or was I just a convenience to you?  Something that made you feel good for a minute?”

Y/N looked hurt at his words.  “Of course not, Buck.”  He stared at her and waited.  She sighed and hung her head.  “You scare me.”

Bucky recoiled at that.  “Scare you?”

“Yes, you scare me.  Because from the moment I saw you I wanted you,” she said, her voice raising.  “Not just because I was lonely.  And I fought, I wrestled with myself that entire time, to keep it friendly.  We were using each other to survive, to have companionship in the struggle.  And then you helped me not freeze to death, and then you looked at me like that,” she gestured towards him.  “And then I was weak and wanted just a moment of something good, just one moment to feel you.  And you gave it to me, and it felt so good, I didn’t want to stop.” Her eyes closed and she rubbed her temples with her fingers.  “But I couldn't handle it, being near you, after that.  I wanted more, all of it, all of you, what we could be.  And now we’re safe,” she looked back up at him.  “And now…I’m scared of what this means for us.”

Bucky sighed again, a small smile on his lips.  “Well we’re here.  We’re going home.  And we can make that whatever we want it to be,” he stepped toward her again, reaching for her hand and lifting it to his lips, kissing her knuckles.  “All I want is you, lovey.  I’m all yours.”  

Y/N gave him a dreamy look, her eyes fluttering at the feeling of his lips on her skin.  “I’m yours,” she whispered back to him.  

Bucky couldn’t wait anymore and gently grabbed her face and kissed her.  Y/N immediately responded, her hands winding around his waist and pulling him close, a soft whine passing her lips.  Bucky walked backwards until his legs hit the bed behind him and he sat, bringing her with him to straddle his lap.  His hands slid from her face down to her waist, settling on her hips and pulling her flush to him.  Y/N was feeling him all over, her hands gripping his shoulders, the back of his neck, his face, his arms, everywhere she could reach.  He opened his mouth and tasted her lips with his tongue, making her whimper and opening her mouth to let him in.  

Y/N scratched her nails down his scalp and he moaned into her mouth.  It all felt so good, too good, that he felt like he was vibrating from the inside out.  His hands slid to her butt and he pushed her down onto his growing erection.  Y/N gasped, her hands pulling the hair at the nape of his neck.  Bucky started kissing down her cheek to her neck, licking and sucking different spots, finding out what she liked.  When he reached the top of the sundress someone had given her from the cruise gift shop he pulled the straps down and started kissing the swell of her breasts.

“Oh god,” Y/N sputtered, her hips starting to grind down on him.  She started pulling at his shirt, which he quickly helped get off before going back to her chest.  Her fingers softly ran along the scar on his sternum then her nails scratched down his chest, making him slightly rut up against her hips.  He suddenly turned so that she was laid on the bed and he crawled over her, pulling her dress down til her breasts were exposed then hiking up the bottom half of the dress til he could see her pussy.

“No underwear?” Bucky breathed incredulously.

“Well when you haven’t worn them for a few years…” Y/N teased, giving him a shrug.

Bucky moaned as he looked at her, one of his hands reaching down and his fingers exploring between her legs while he went back to nipping and licking her breasts, his tongue flicking one of her nipples as he found her clit.  She arched her back at the dual sensations as she choked out a moan.  Bucky’s thumb rubbed and flicked her clit while his other fingers slowly entered her.  He groaned from feeling how wet she was for him.  As he pumped his fingers in and out her moans became increasingly louder, her legs shaking and her hips bucking against his hand.  He kissed back up to her mouth and pumped his fingers faster, curling them slightly inside her.  Y/N panted against his mouth, feeling the tightening deep inside her get pulled taught until it snapped and she yelped as she came around his fingers.

Bucky kept pumping until her hips stopped shaking, then he pulled his fingers out and tasted them.  “Taste so good, Y/N,” he groaned as he shifted himself over her.  He shimmied out of his pants and underwear and pulled her legs up and over his hips.  He dragged his cock through her wet lower lips, the head rubbing on her clit and making her whine.  “We don’t have any protection…” 

“We can figure that out later,” Y/N said hoarsely.  “Please Bucky, let me feel you.”

Bucky thanked the scientific gods for after-sex birth control as he held his cock, pumping it a few times before lining himself up with her.  He slowly pushed the head in, making her mouth drop open, a long groan coming from each of them.  Y/N’s feet hooked behind his back, pulling him in faster.

“Fuck, Y/N, you want my dick that bad?” Bucky gasped.  Her pussy felt like it was swallowing him whole and he had to wait a moment so he wouldn’t immediately lose it.

“I need to feel you…all of you, everywhere,” Y/N said, her hands scratching up and down his back.  

Bucky could tell she was touch starved but wasn’t prepared for how badly she would want him.  The thought flattered him but made his heart ache for her.  “I’ve got you,” he promised, keeping his upper body close to hers.  He rolled his hips, making her eyes roll in her head.  “I’ve got you, Y/N.  My girl…”

He thrust slowly at first, letting her adjust to him and feel him fully.  Y/N’s brow furrowed, her eyes shut tight, her hands sliding down to his butt to pull him in again then tickling up his sides.  Bucky had been with people before, but none of it had felt this intimate, this special or personal.  He picked up the pace of his hips and thrust a little harder, helping him reach a little deeper.

“Buck…” Y/N moaned, kissing his cheek and down to his neck, licking and sucking along his throat, her fingers running through his hair again.  Bucky’s hips shook as he thrust even harder.

“God, Y/N,” he moaned into her ear.  “Taking me so well…so deep…you feel perfect.”  He kissed her again, their tongues entangling as he thrust in and out of her.  He could feel her pussy flutter around him and he shivered.  “You gonna cum?  Cum all over my dick?  Huh?” he spoke against her lips, not letting any space come between them.  

“Fuck yes,” Y/N said, then sucked his bottom lip into her mouth, nipping it with her teeth.

“Gonna fill you up–”

“Please,” she gasped, her back arching.

Bucky slipped a hand between them and started flicking her clit as his hips pummeled into her, chasing his own release.  “My girl…my pretty girl…” he grunted.

Y/N tensed as she came again with a loud strangled moan that he quickly covered with his mouth.  Her pussy squeezed his cock so hard that he gritted his teeth, a long whine coming from his throat as he came inside her, continually rutting against her to make sure she could feel it all.  Y/N groaned feeling him fill her up, a little bit of cum dripping from in between them.

They panted against each other as they tried to breathe normally again.  Bucky’s face was tucked against her neck, his lips randomly kissing her neck and her ear, whispering praises to her.  She shifted her arms so that she was holding him around his shoulders, her fingers running through his hair like they used to when they would fall asleep together in the plane.  She started humming “Nature Boy” softly like she used to and he smiled.  When she finished the song Bucky sighed and squeezed her.

“God I love you,” Bucky sighed.

Y/N tensed slightly and looked down at him.  He looked up at her to see her reaction.  She was smiling softly and leaned down to kiss his nose.  “I love you, too,” she said quietly.  

***

Bucky had been right about one thing.  Once they made port Y/N was surrounded by people and cameras that separated them.  Bucky was greeted by his parents and sisters, their tearful reunion recorded for the world to see.  Y/N’s family tried to whisk her away but she wouldn’t leave without Bucky, pushing through photographers who were screaming questions at her and him and their families.  Airport and police officials took them all away to a private room and asked Y/N and Bucky extensive questions about what happened to them.  After a few hours they were finally released, and Y/N jumped into action with her family and people who had been involved with and in charge of her estate upon her disappearance.  She arranged for everyone’s flights home and figured out a time for her and Bucky to get back together soon once everything calmed down and they got things settled in their lives.

“This isn’t goodbye,” Y/N said, tears falling from her eyes as they held each other.   “You hear me?  I will get things settled and come get you.”  Bucky nodded, a few stray tears of his own falling that she quickly wiped away.  “You’re mine.  And I’m yours.”

“You’re mine and I’m yours,” Bucky repeated, kissing her nose.  “I love you.”

“I love you,” Y/N said, her tears falling more heavily.

They separated, each of them going back to their respective homes.  Bucky had a slow, steady flow of tears the whole way home, his family trying to console him.  He cried for the friends he’d lost and all the questions the officials had about them and having him go through what happened the day of the storm.  He cried for being able to see his family again.  He cried for the fact that he had survived and was rescued.  He cried for finding love that he so far had only gotten to enjoy for a short period of time, and he wasn’t sure when he’d feel it from her again.  Bucky was a mess as he tried to get back into normal life.  All the things he used to take for granted now were overwhelming.  He couldn’t sleep when she wasn’t there next to him to hold him.  The silence in his life was so loud without her there always humming or singing a song.  His parents tried to get him to cut his hair but he wouldn’t because he knew when the time came that she would want to run her fingers through his hair again.

A few weeks later he got the call and was instantly on a plane.  As scared as she was of flying it was the fastest way to get him, and so he found himself on a private plane.  Y/N had been able to get her estate fixed and was bringing him back to her.  The minute he was on solid ground Y/N was running to him on the tarmac, jumping into his arms then holding, crying and kissing each other.  She brought him to her apartment that she was renting for the time being.

“How have you been?” she asked once they were finally alone.

“Not great,” Bucky said honestly, a grimace on his face.

“Yeah me neither,” Y/N laughed sadly.  

Bucky pulled her close, holding her face in his hands as he just sat and looked at her.  “Can we just…lay down?”

“Yes,” she whispered, staring at him like she was memorizing him all over again.

She led him to her room and they changed into more comfortable clothes and got into her bed together.  Bucky snuggled into her chest as she held him, her hands running through his hair.  He breathed shakily.  It was like he was taking his first full breath in over a month.  Y/N moaned as she felt him against her.  “It’s been too long, my love.”

“Never again,” Bucky sighed.  

“Yeah you’re not going anywhere,” Y/N snorted.  “You and I are going to go get a house together.  And anywhere I go, you go.  I mean…” she looked down at him.  “You can obviously say no…”

“Please,” Bucky scoffed.  “I’m not going anywhere.  You’re going to get so sick of me.”

“Impossible,” Y/N scoffed back at him.  

As they cuddled Bucky felt like he could finally relax.  He was willing to give up anything he ever wanted or planned just so he could stay right there with her forever.  As hard as the experience had been, he was grateful to have been stranded with her. 

THE END! I hope y'all liked this one. And I'll keep churning out more stories as they come to me. Thank you for the likes, comments, follows and reblogs!!

[inkformyblood]

fight for me (love me) [COD Mermay 2024, PriceGhost]

Pirate Captain Price x Mer Ghost

There is a peculiar kind of silence that descends over the ship at nighttime when they’re on the open water. Not another soul in sight except the poor sod on nightwatch up in the nest and Price himself, his coat thrown around his shoulders against the evening chill and a rationed measure of tobacco in the pouch at his waist. He ducks around the side of his cabin, putting solid distance and structure between himself and any prying eyes before he reaches for it. 

He isn’t just carrying tobacco with him after all. 

The scrimshaw is the same size as his hand, a jagged break along the base where it had been joined to gum, and the scene carved into it is one Price knows well. He’s studied it often enough to memorise every smooth line and every darkened segment that came together to make something beautiful. He also knows what the men think of it, that it’s a talisman of some woman Price has left behind on shore, his perceived betrayal that set a bounty on his head and sent him prowling the ocean like some misguided legend tearing him away from her. He isn’t going to tell them that they’re wrong. His ‘woman’ is much closer to hand. 

Price makes up his pipe, cupping his hand around the bowl as he strikes a match. In the tiny golden flare as it catches, something moves far beneath him, a huge shape disturbing the surface and causing the ship to rock gently. He breathes in smoke, the familiar bitter taste of everything he’s denied burning through him, old anger given fresh life for a moment, and leans over the side of the ship. “Simon? Going to show your face?”

What answers him is divinity made flesh, a behemoth from legend discarded into the ocean and left to wander the world adrift and alone. Until Price had found him. Until he had found Price. 

There’s blood on Simon’s mouth, a scab torn open along the jut of his lip, and it fogs the water sluicing off of his skin as he surfaces. He doesn’t rise far, not as high as Price has seen him go before, but enough that he can curl his fingers over the edge of the ship, keeping himself upright. The water beneath him begins to churn as his tail works, the ship shifting incrementally as Simon works against current and wind and the fragile thread of the anchor to keep himself upright. Barely takes him any effort, Price notes, his expression still as blank as ever, no furrow on his brow like Price would expect from a human or grimace pulling at the jagged corners of his mouth. Simon’s gaze is fixed on Price, familiarity scratching at the base of his skull before Price can place the expression; an old hunting dog he’d owned as a boy, the same rapt attention, the same sense of waiting for a command Price didn’t know at the time, the instruction to kill. He knew it now, after all. Price is too old not to.

“Been fighting, lad?” Price bites on the stub of his pipe, fitting his teeth into the worn-in marks and kneels carefully, bracing himself on the railing. Simon’s left space for him between the cage of his arms and the lingering trap of his teeth and Price sits, swings his legs over the side. Frigid sea water soaks through his trousers, a fresh spray against his face, and Price grits his teeth against it, burns his lungs with another drag as he fits the scrimshaw back into the pouch at his waist. 

Leaning forwards, his boots digging into the growth of algae and barnacles along the side of the ship, Price cups Simon’s jaw. Inhaling brings a fresh glow to cast harsh shadows across Simon’s face, the dark sheen of his eyes still fixed on Price as he shifts his grip to Simon’s chin and extends his thumb to swipe over the pout of Simon’s lower lip. It’s softer than he expects even now, given the wreath of pale scales splashed over Simon’s face, following the contours of his skull into some grotesque mockery of what lies beneath. 

There’s a strong odour of salt as Simon’s mouth parts beneath Price’s touch, older blood caked across the jagged stretch of his lower teeth, and Price breathes through his mouth, filling his lungs with smoke and ash. He presses his thumb against the sluggish bleeding mark, a distance sense of warmth beginning to catch on the frozen pad before Price leans back. With his free hand, he removes the pipe, holding it out to Simon and the other man takes it carefully, his teeth tucked behind his lips. It looks comical, a child outfitted in a man’s shirt that falls past his knees, a hat falling over his eyes and a pipe he doesn’t know the concept of stuffed into his mouth, but then, Simon inhales, the gills along his neck flaring wide, and Price laves his thumb over an offering from a god. 

The corner of Simon’s mouth quirks upwards, the expression drawn sharper by the curved scar that bisects his cheek from the corner of his mouth. “I won,” he tells Price flatly, his voice deep, a whale’s song echoing up from the fathoms. 

Price laughs, reclaiming his pipe from Simon’s mouth. Tastes like salt but everything does after a stretch of time out at sea, hungry mistress that she is, stripping everything one by one from a man sentenced into her embrace. There’s a sharper bite to Simon’s blood compared to Price’s familiarity to his own, a bitter taste that lingers over his tongue even through another draw on his pipe. It would be several days before Price would stop tasting it. “I bet you did, lad. Any trinkets left for me?”

It’s a strange turn of events that had left Price here, a wanted pirate, exiled from the land of his birth, and in an alliance of a kind with a creature from the deep. He wonders, at times, what Simon gets out of their Fasutian bargain. He could sink Price’s ship as easily as any other, break a hole in their hull and listen to them scream as they drown, but he doesn’t, instead letting Price point him at his enemies, shattering every move made against him. 

“Yes.” Simon blinks, a second eyelid drawing across his eyes leaving them milky before it retreats. “Less than a day east. Pulled it closer. Should see the scavengers circling before daybreak.”

Simon would drown him eventually, pull him down into the depths and swallow down his final desperate breath of air, but, before then, Price would rule with Simon at his side, circling the bloody waters at his feet.

“Atta lad,” Price murmurs. He cups Simon’s jaw once more, removing his pipe as he leans forward. It would be easy for him to fall like this, supported entirely by Simon remaining in place. One quick motion from the other man, a harsh wave hitting the side of the ship, and Price would be gone, just another mystery to be discussed when the stars overhead leant in close. He kisses Simon carefully, ever-conscious of the razor-sharp teeth hidden for the moment, his breath fogging against the other man’s cooler skin n leaving an imprint that would only last as long as Price lingers this close. Simon’s scales catch on his moustache, tugging at the skin beneath, and Price retreats, swinging the hand clutching his pipe back to the support of the ship as he pulls himself upright. 

Simon’s grin is wide and full of teeth, hungry in a way Price cannot put into words, the open-mouthed devouring focus of a predator willingly leashed for now. Price’s attention moves to the dark gap in Simon’s teeth, a singular row, each the size of his hand, and coaxes another breath out of his pipe. Smoke clouds his vision for a moment, but he senses Simon retreating, sliding back beneath the waves and Price is alone as he ever is once more. 

[snek-of-eden]

TOS BONES HEADCANONS

He’s mildly allergic to bees. Not enough to be dangerous, but enough that he keeps a hypo spray for it in his pocket any time he’s on shore leave on earth. Jim finds this supremely annoying, since he himself will swell up into a big puddle of allergic reaction when he comes within twenty feet of a bee

He used to do drag in his twenties as an escape from the pressures of Academy studies. His drag name was Miss Mal Practice and he would wear so much glitter that both he and Jim would find it in their sheets for weeks. When he graduated he gave it up, but near the end of the first 5 year mission, Uhura and Spock team up to try and get him to teach them a few things. After that, Enterprise Drag Nights become a monthly phenomenon.

Both he and Scotty are asexual, though to different levels. Bones is super sex neutral and indifferent, he’s experimented his fair share but sexual attraction has never exactly made sense to him from personal experience.

He was an incredibly lonely child, whose family was always busy and had barely any time for him. He has three older siblings who’d gone off to college by the time he was around eight, and he spent a whole lot of time hanging out in the dry barns with the calico cats on their property, doing homework or lighting shit on fire for fun.

When he dies, he wants to be cremated. This is in part because he has a strange connection to fire, and in part because he’s absolutely terrified of tightly enclosed spaces. To be buried in a coffin? His worst nightmare.

Generally he’s pretty ambivalent towards sugary things, but any Italian dessert is his Achilles heel. He coerced Scotty into tinkering with one of the replicators until it got the recipes for crostoli, tiramisu, cannoli, amaretti and panatone just right, and they have weekly dinner dates with plenty of alcohol.

Bones is FTM and uses he/him and they/them pronouns. He knew he was a guy from really early on and started taking HRT around age eleven. He never needed top surgery, but got bottom surgery around age twenty-five. He’s the most trans cis man you can imagine, and while he doesn’t flaunt that part of him, he’s more than happy to discuss it to those who are genuinely curious for a juxtaposition to their own gender journey.

He has that innate urge to fight in him, not just verbally but physically. It caused him to get into a lot of trouble in school, before he got his act together and reigned in that part of him (later, he learned he’d started masking a lot). Jim’s friendship is incredibly beneficial to him because they’re both touchy people with a lot of pent up energy. Many a night on the Enterprise is spent getting into heated conversations on Jim’s bed and ending up tussling on the floor. Sometimes Spock watches, but it’s rare that he joins in. The play fights are a tension reliever, and help a lot with anger management.

There’s definitely been a couple times he’s gotten his nose broken, most of them courtesy of his own brash stupidity.

He gets a lot of intrusive thoughts.

He’s a firm advocate that pineapple on pizza is satan’s invention and anyone who enjoys it can fuck right off. Jim loves pineapple on pizza: both Bones and Spock have nearly disowned him for this at least twice.

On shore leave, he wears the most garish Hawaiian print shirts in every colour of the rainbow, and flaunts them with all the pride of a world-renown catwalk model.

He and Scotty are in a devoted queerplatonic relationship. He’s really touch starved and Scotty loves touching people, so a lot of the time they end up cuddling or doing each others hair.

His favourite drink is brandy, but he won’t say no to a glass of iced lemon tea. Don’t tell anybody though, he has a reputation to uphold, for fuck’s sake.

He always ends up sobbing when he listens to opera, because it reminds him of Jocelyn and those memories are painful.

He’s always had food issues, from when he was a teenager. They’re a lot better these days, but when things get stressful he finds it hard to maintain good eating habits. It’s always made him feel bad, because he knows Jim goes through the same thing - but Jim actually has a reason: he was on Tarsus IV. It takes him a long time to open up about it, however.

Surprise parties are on his Top Ten Things I Hate Most list

Yes, he actually keeps a Top Ten Things I Hate list on his PADD, and some of its highlights include: ‘Jim’s infuriating lovey-dovey glances at Spock’, ‘styrofoam’, ‘almost getting killed’, and ‘Spock in general’.

His favourite flavour of ice cream is blueberry

[ladystoneboobs]

A memory prodded at Theon. In one of his rare curt letters, Lord Balon had written of his youngest brother going down in a storm, and turning holy when he washed up safe on shore. -Theon I, aCoK

this little glimpse of balon/theon's strained long-distance relationship kinda fascinates me now. can't believe i'm going to defend balon as a father to theon in any way, however small, but i feel like hindsight has kinda blinded fandom into thinking balon gave up theon for dead and gone the moment he gave him away as hostage. this also carries the underlying assumption that balon was always going to rebel again making theon's life already forfeit to him.

thing is, while balon undoubtedly called his banners before theon came home, that also coincided with robert and ned both being recently dead, making that 2nd war seem really opportunistic. as if the only thing balon learned from his first rebellion was that king robert was strong enough to defeat him, the only man capable of defeating the great balon. so when that enemy dies, balon's crown is all but won in his mind, and with the death of ned too he could use his next war to take revenge on the (dead) man who took his son from him. maybe with robert's lifestyle he could have hoped to outlive him despite being older than robert, but robert and ned together? that must have seemed like a miraculous chance straight from the drowned god himself, a chance to rise up and take revenge that it was his duty to take for his people, even if it meant risking the life of his youngest child who'd been gone for 10 years anyway.

but before all that, even if robert being still alive was the real deterrant keeping him from warring again, he was, in effect, not only keeping theon safe by paying the hostage-ransom of keeping the peace, he was also keeping up a bare minimum connection with theon through rare and curt correspondence updating him on family events like aeron getting born again (and i'm assuming that's also how theon knew what asha's ship was named). idt we should so easily ignore that this is a society which views kinslaying as a grave offense regardless of circumstances or personal feelings, and one which greatly values male heirs over female heirs. i doubt balon was so much a feminist girldad that he just switched 12yo asha into the son slot right away as soon as all her brothers were lost. imo it was more likely a gradual process done not so consciously as asha proved herself worthy growing up and theon's time in the north stretched on and on. all until such point as asha had achieved son status and only son status at that, (maybe also coinciding with alannys leaving him so he had even less reason to keep up with her baby boy?), and then theon could be written off as belonging to the enemy, no longer ironborn or a son of balon, so sanctity of greyjoy life no longer applied to him. (real ironborn greyjoy son already killed by darth greenlander theon, from a certain point of view.) only then could balon be a not-father to theon, not welcoming him back home or even giving him a chance to prove his loyalty by providing intelligence on the northerners and the lands they were about to invade. (which could have made balon's war plans a touch less stupid. see, it all comes back to criticizing him in the end.)

in fact, come to think of it, i wonder if one thing ned and balon had in common is just not thinking of the danger of theon being executed as a hostage, not taking ownership of that possibility bc it hadn't happened yet. and hey, if it ever did come to that they could each tell themselves it would be the other guy's fault really, i was just doing my duty to my king/as a king to all my proud people. and that meant their actions didn't have to be obviously at odds with ned's view of himself as a good man opposed to killing children or balon's view of himself as great greyjoy patriarch and victim of the greenlanders (who could ofc prevail against them all if given the right chance).

[leaderpinhead]

Azul - Poor Unfortunate Soul

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial current prompt. Notes: This takes place pre-land boot camp for Octotrio. I started writing this for another prompt, but seeing the prompt for FFF this week, I decided to cut almost 1500 words off what I had originally written. I also just enjoy putting Azul in situations where he's not allowed to hide behind his smugness.

Azul should have known better than to trust the Leech brothers. He knew it the moment he realized the twins weren’t at the meeting spot. He tried to give them the benefit of the doubt. It wasn’t hard to imagine their mother had caught them attempting to sneak out so late. Floyd wasn’t exactly quiet, and Jade would have sounded the alarm just to be a menace. 

A bright flash illuminated the water around him. Azul tipped his head towards the surface just in time to see an explosion of bright colors distorted through the water. He propelled him towards the surface. 

The whistling eruption in the dark sky made him cover his ears, his hearing more sensitive now that the water didn’t muffle the explosions. Between each round of fireworks, he could hear the happy cries of the spectators on the nearby beach. A large bonfire on the beach illuminated the forms of a dozen or so humans. 

“Help!” 

Azul almost missed the tiny cry over the clap of another firework. He searched the area around him with narrowed eyes. His vision was already blurry when he came to the surface, but the combination of staring at the bonfire and the fireworks had spawned small dots in his vision. He would have completely looked over the nearby buoy had a firework not exploded at the same moment. The light of the fizzling sparks was just enough for him to see an odd pale blob bobbing alongside the buoy. 

A small part of the pale blob lifted from the buoy. “Help!” 

Azul ducked just below the surface of the water and drifted closer to the buoy. With his vision clearer underwater, he only had to wait for another firework to see the outline of two long legs treading water. Seeing the strange limbs made him relax a little. A human—a human who sounded desperate for help. 

He drifted in the current just below the buoy. Perhaps the human had underestimated the currents and been pulled out to sea. Even young merfolk were warned not to swim so close to the nearby cliffs because of the rough currents. He and the twins had found enough sunken ships around the cliffs to know shipwrecks were a common occurrence. The Sea Witch herself was said to have saved a marooned sailor for a price. 

Thinking of the Sea Witch, Azul swam to the water’s surface. He remained cautious, only exposing himself from the eyes up. The human’s arms desperately clung to the buoy. Azul slowly drifted closer. 

The human jerked up from the buoy with a suddenness that sent Azul shooting away from them. In the light of the fireworks, Azul could make out the general features of the fuzzy figure. Long dark hair plastered against a round pale face with two wide blue eyes peeking through the strands. She looked to be around the same age as him too. 

The human gasped. Uncontrollable trembling made her teeth audibly clack together. “He-help, please.” 

The chattering plea settled Azul’s nerves. This human couldn’t possibly be a threat, not with her high-pitched voice and tiny limbs barely keeping her above water. The suction cups on his arms made it easy for him to pull himself onto the buoy next to her. There was just enough light for Azul to see the human’s eyes widen. 

Azul smirked. The language was still a bit clunky on his tongue, but he purposefully articulated each syllable. “Poor little human. I’ll help you back to shore...for a price.” 

He didn’t expect the human to lunge at him. Hands latched onto his arms, fingers pinching and pulling until she was nose-to-nose with him. His shock made the buoy wildly wobble. 

“I’ll do anything!” The human sounded almost excited now. “Absolutely anything. Even marry you!” 

Azul didn’t get an opportunity to correct the terms of their contract when her mouth slammed against his. Or it would have had Azul not jerked back at the right moment. "I am forever in your debt,” the human stuttered. Her arms strangled his neck as she continued her almost scripted speech. “I’ll announce our engagement to my father as soon as I return, and he will proclaim it to all the Sunshine Lands!” 

Azul began swimming to shore with a desperation he had never felt before. He had heard about her kind; the type of humans with weird—what was it called again?—fin fixations? Humans obsessed with marrying merfolk no matter what. It wasn’t all that surprising since the story of the Mermaid Princess marrying the land prince was wildly romanticized in the Sunshine Lands. 

Azul did not want a contract with this crazy obsessed human. 

Azul found the danger of skirting around the rockier shore nearby to be worth the risk of the stronger currents. He flung the human’s body up onto the first rock he found. She dramatically gasped and strangled his neck tighter, blabbering some kind of nonsense about “engagements” and “royal families.” 

He found the strength to break free when he realized her face was closing in again. With a quick twist and a floppy eel wiggle, Azul threw himself into the water. The girl crawled to the edge of the rock like she would dive in after him. “Don't leave! I didn’t even get your name!” 

“Rielle,” Azul said. “My name is Rielle. So if you ever see another merfolk ask for me by that name.” 

Azul ducked into the water and hurried back home. He smirked at the thought of the human begging the next merfolk she encountered to help find her “beloved” Rielle. It would be difficult to act all pure and innocent with a human lamenting a broken heart. 

And with his one and only witness of the night taken care of, he didn’t have to worry about the twins discovering his embarrassing first interaction with a human. 

[hetalianskywalker]

Day 26: Sea Glass

Pairing: Mer Nemec x Reader

Summary: You grow anxious waiting to hear from Nemec.

Author’s Note: This one made me really soft.

Warnings: some on describe violence, blood, vague mention to wounds and healing wounds.

Word Count: 903

Prompt: “Don’t touch the bright blue sea glass. They leave it on purpose, as bait.”

Prompt from “The ocean seemed different today prompts” by deepwaterwritingprompts.

“Don’t touch the bright blue sea glass. They leave it on purpose, as bait.” You tease your best friend as you walk along the beach. She had reached down to pick up one such piece.

“It worked out for you though didn’t it?” They joke before pointing at your necklace. A piece of polished blue sea glass sits around your neck. You just grin before attempting to push her into the water.

It descends into you both trying to throw one another into the water. Even though you're cackling and having fun, you’re trying to distract yourself. Nemec hasn’t contacted you in weeks.

While for the most part, Mer no longer go out of their way to hurt people. Death Watch was the main exception. You had made the mistake of ignoring all the old myths and taking a piece of blue sea glass from the beach. Well actually, you tried to take the sea glass. You saw it shining out in knee deep clear water, only to have a clawed hand grab your ankle and drag you out to sea.

He didn’t take you very far, just to water that is taller than you are. You remember the sheer terror of feeling your lungs burning as the monster smiles predatorily with his sharp teeth.

Suddenly, he was rammed in the side by another Mer; he screeched as you scramble for the surface for air. Your vision had black spots when you finally breach the surface. You looked down to see the two Mer moving a little too fast for you to quite keep up with every action. The black and blue fin and the green and white fin chase one another around the water, claws and teeth tearing into one another.

The green one finally noticed you watching and pointed to shore. You nodded, but the Death Watch Mer notices the exchange. He charged at you only for the green one to claw into his tail, dragging him back to the fight.

“Not happening!” You heard him hiss as you began swimming for the shore line. You collapsed and laid there panting for a few minutes before footsteps emerged from the waves. You turned to find your savior with blood dripping out from under his green armor.

“I’m glad to see you're okay.” He gives you a genuine smile as he sways on his feet. You spring up and are just barely able to stop him from falling over. You scream for help as you begin to slowly set him on the sand. You throw off armor and try to stop the bleeding as fellow villagers come running.

The village thankfully came together to help the heroic Mer clone. He was bedridden the next few days and you slowly got to know one another. Nemec introduced himself and you catch yourself falling for him over that time. He made you laugh with his sarcasm and told you stories about the wide world beyond your island.

When the 41st came for him after they finished a nearby battle, you shared a kiss and he left you the necklace. Nemec swore he would keep in touch and return to visit. He kept his word until recently. His visits and letters had lessened over the last year since the rise of the empire. He looked so tired when you last saw him months ago. And now there has been nothing at all for weeks.

“Riye.” It’s late at night. Nemec should know better than to try and shake you awake.

“Riye.” Wait. You crack open your eyes and there stands Nemec. You scan over his slicked back hair and handsome smile. All sleepiness vanishes as you attack him with a hug. He laughs, squeezing you like the world is ending. “Sorry. No one could know I was coming.”

“Are you in trouble?” You whisper worried, looking over him for wounds.

“He’s fine.” You turn and give Fireball a playful glare. He is standing in the doorway; the anxious way he keeps looking around makes your stomach twist. “I did promise to watch his back.”

“Thank you.” You want to say it sarcastically, but it sounds far more relieved. You quietly examine the way neither of them can stop moving, you can tell they’re in a hurry. “What's going on?”

“We’re joining the Sea Alor and the rest of the Mer.” Nemec explains as he looks away from your eyes.

“And Nemec here won’t leave without you.” Fireball smirks and Nemec glares over at him.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.” Fireball just arches an eyebrow in response as you let out a soft laugh.

“Let’s go then.” You announce as you go grab what you absolutely need.

“What? You can’t just abandon…” Nemec trails off as you turn back to him and grab his face.

“You have been miserable under the empire. And if there is a place where we can be happy and together then let’s go.” You can feel his face warm in your palms before he nods. You kiss his nose before you get back to work.

They head down stairs to wait for you and you’re pretty sure they misjudged your human hearing.

“I told you they love you.” Fireball whispers with a soft laugh. You can hear Nemec shove him as the other Mer clone’s laugh only grows.

“Yeah. Yeah. Laugh it up.” You grin though, hearing the smile in his voice.

[krastbannert]

FFF #254 - edge of forever

Huh. It's only been...just about 44 weeks since I did one of these.

@flashfictionfridayofficial

Prompt was Horizon Line, posted on AO3 as "edge of forever".

------

“It is beyond the sea, at the edge of the horizon, that we find our calling.” - Kasoni proverb

------

“You look surprised.”

Corvin turns, glances behind him, shakes his head.

It’s only been a week since the storm began, but it feels as if it’s the first clear day in a year. The sun shines, sparkling off the waves, glittering like shards of glass thrown across the world, the sky bigger than any Corvin has seen, even in the six months he’s been on the Tethyria Blue. Clouds dot the sky, just small little wisps high up in the sky, and in the distance a few white cotton balls - but so much is just that big, blue sky, meeting the water all the way out at the horizon, at the edge of forever.

“I’m not used to seeing it,” he admits, turning back.” Not like this.”

Torauk grunts, settles next to him, his arms on the second rail - the dwarf is just barely able to see over the top rail, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. Nothing ever did, Corvin thinks.

“I could see it every day, back home,” Corvin continues,” if I just looked outside. But it…it wasn’t even close to this.”

It’s true.

Back home in Ashcliffe, standing on top of the wall around Oldtown that towered on top of the cliffs that gave the city its name, it felt like he could see for forever. But there were islands and ships and off-shore oil and etherite platforms, and he could, on a clear day, just barely make out the other side of the straits.

But here? Hundreds of miles out to sea?

There’s nothing.

The great blue horizon just…keeps going. Forever, it seems. If he squints he can almost see the curve of Iera, far out in the distance, farther than he should be able to see. The iridescent water just…keeps going. Into forever, it seems - and farther beyond.

(He wonders, sometimes, what’s out there - he knows it’s a crazy thing to think. That the Tethyria Blue goes everywhere, that he’d see it all, as long as he stays on the ship.

But still, something just keeps eating at him.

What’s there, he keeps wondering?)

“Aye,” Torauk grumbles, twisting a finger in his beard.” It’s a pretty sight, lad.”

Corvin barely hears him, just keeps staring at the waves, the wind in his face.

(He remembers the first time Ilaera had taken him out here, that first day they were on the Tethyria Blue together.

He’d wanted to make fun of her when she suggested it.

But he’d listened - and now, he can’t stop coming out here.)

(He doesn’t understand it.

It’s just the ocean. Just water.

So what made him come out here every day?)

He doesn’t realize he’s said it out loud until Torauk speaks.

“I remember when I was your age, lad,” Torauk muses.” I was convinced I’d stay in my Freehold forever, working with my father and my brothers, just another hammer at the forge - but I had an itch. I’m six-hundred years old, and it’s still there, somewhere.”

Torauk turns, smiles up at him.” You got the itch, too, lad. That’s why you’re out here, each and every day.”

“I don’t get it,” Corvin frowns.

Torauk just shakes his head.” You will, lad, one day. Just don’t stop looking at that horizon.”

Don’t stop looking, he thinks to himself as Torauk pats him on the back, hobbles away.

He can do that.

[yanderes-galore]

hi! can i request a yandere jack sparrow scenario? i thought a plot where darling is new to the crew, and a rookie pirate would be interesting, maybe jack feels the need to support and help them constantly? thanks! <3

Of course! I hope this has a good length and plot ^^ Jack's age is never said in the movies, but people assumed he was in his twenties, early thirties on a forum so I went with that.

New To The Seas

Yandere! Jack Sparrow Scenario

Pairing: Romantic/Platonic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Heavy manipulation, Vague partnership, Threats, Murder, Possessive behavior, Implied Darling loves Jack just never specified how, Drinking, OOC Jack at times.

Being on the seas has been one of your biggest dreams. The freedom from the rules of the shore would quickly be forgotten. You already had to steal to survive...

Would being part of a pirate crew be much different?

Since you were young, you had lived on the streets. A dirty young kid who could barely get enough coin to feed yourself. Life was tough until you had grown past eighteen.

You had come across a bar and entered. That's where you encountered the infamous pirate, Jack Sparrow. Drinking rum and looking for a crew. This had been your big break.

You, an eager rookie-to-be, sailing with Jack Sparrow. Needing a crew, he had accepted you with open arms along with a few more men. You've heard stories of him never being able to keep his crew.

Though you felt anywhere was better than here.

That was your simple origin story as a rookie. From street kid to pirate, you felt it was destined. As you soon come to learn, maybe meeting Jack was destined too.

Jack liked how eager you were. You were eager for freedom, for adventure, eager to travel with him. You're naive and able to be manipulated.

The idea of using you was possible. Jack thought about it on a few ocassions. Yet... he couldn't help but see himself in you. Sure, he was born a pirate, but that yearning for freedom was admirable.

You were both in your twenties although Jack noticed you still acted starstruck. You were a rookie pirate that would soon be hardened into a fine traveler of the seas. The more he influenced you, the more he enjoyed you.

Jack was your idol the more you two worked together. His charisma lured you in and how could you not like him after a few drinks? Jack was the closest you've ever been to someone...

The closest you've ever been to a man in general.

The crew acted like the family you never had. Even if Jack took up most of your time, the crew aided you in your travels. Being a pirate was... fun.

Although there was always the tragedies. You'd lose a crew member here and there, there would be lying and theft, murder even. Jack did a good job helping you through your tears and feelings. He felt like a mentor...

That or you were falling for him.

Jack was starting to accept his role towards you. As your captain... he needed to keep you safe and help you. Although, compared to the rest of his crew, he was biased....

Jack never cared too much for the rest of his crew. But the rookie that joined him with eager eyes? The rookie who looked up to him? The rookie who stroked his ego?

The rookie named (Y/N), whose name pleasantly rolls off the tongue....

Naturally, Jack and you grew on each other. Other members saw how much Jack liked you. The close hugs and drinking sessions said as much.

The relationship between you was vague. It was on the fence of recruit and leader, to borderline romance. Jack made you happy, you even made him happy.

Your partnership had dark turns at times. You were so used to Jack, you never saw it. Jack never acted normal with you.

He was possessive, threatening crew members in private to stay away. He played it off as light-hearted... but the threat was very much real. Jack wanted to be your only partner.

Jack also was not above using his sword against others. The moment you're threatened, murder comes to mind. Jack had made you go from rookie to first mate.

Not without a price.

You didn't know Jack killed your superiors. You didn't know those hugs of his held possessive implications. You were still naive.

Which is why Jack felt he should be the only one for you.

Sure, he may be manipulating you. He's sweet talking you and making you rely on him. Yet, who else did you have?

You'd give everything to him, your captain. He was the one who molded you into a fine pirate. If he planned on acting out romantic desires later, you wouldn't refuse.

You loved him, you wanted to thank him for giving you a chance. He wouldn't let anything hurt you. You were... nothing... without your captain.

Each time you drank with him, spoke with him, felt his warmth... you trusted him. He could betray you if he wanted. He doesn't...

He loves you more than you'd ever know...

But he'd never tell a soul.

No, Jack knows if anyone knew how close you two were, you'd be targetted. That's why any crew members who wished to leave... are strangely found dead. Jack was never a man with high regard for morals anyways.

All he cares about is freedom, the sea, and you sailing with him in it...

Even if it requires him to threaten and murder those around you to keep that fantasy.

[theoldtherebeforehq]

✗ CONFIDENTIAL TRIBUTE FACILITY SIGN UP SHEET records the attendance of MEDEA MIZUKO, the 18TH HUNGER GAMES VICTOR from DISTRICT 4. The applicable authorities may note that the 26 year old FEMALE ( SHE/HER/HERS ) is WITTY, LOYAL AND CARING, but has also been known to be CALCULATING, VENGEFUL AND IMPULSIVE. Similarities in appearance can be seen with ANNA SAWAI. According to previous reports, they’re often associated with the feel of silk against bare skin, a storm brewing over an unruly ocean and slowly wilting flowers.

BIO

“...Many shadows hide behind light, and the best lies are those seasoned liberally with truth: salt covering the flavor of rotten meat.” ― Brent Weeks, The Broken Eye

Some might say, the only way to truly live in Panem is with wealth. 

Money opens doors anywhere, be it in the Districts or in the Capitol. For the Mizuko family, wealth had not always been in reach. Medea Mizuko had been born just a year before the effort of the rebels had been crushed, before District Thirteen had been reduced to nothing but rubble and ash. But she had been told stories as she grew older, suddenly swapping out the usual scenery of their slightly sordid house for one much nicer, something befitting that status of a District Mayor. It wasn’t a story to tell a young girl at once. Instead, it was told in bits and pieces. 

The Mizuko name had once been associated with a fishing business. Not entirely small, but nothing grand either. The family had gotten by on hard work alone. Then, the war had begun. It ravaged the nation for close to four years before finding a conclusion, and miraculously, Alton Mizuko found himself rising in the ranks before ending up at the very helm of District 4, declared mayor. Medea barely remembered life when things were scarce for their family, but she recalled the excitement when gentle nos at her and her four siblings’ requests became generous affirmatives. 

So, the family settled into comfortable wealth. Nothing compared to what wealth meant for Capitolites - they were still very much District, no one would pretend to forget that - but in comparison to many others, the Mizukos had nothing to complain about. 

Of course, as she got older, the story was told differently. They had sided with rebels at the very beginning, but once it became clear to Alton and his wife, Darya, that they were supporting a losing battle, personal morals and philosophies changed. They had children to protect, after all. A family to keep together. Previously tasked with coordinating the protection of District 4’s shores, Alton used his connections and skillful persuasion to turn the tides in the Capitol’s favour. A betrayal in the eyes of the rebels, but loyalty to those who mattered in the end. 

The Hunger Games did not pose a threat to the family until the 9th year rolled around. Before the implementation of tesserae, the odds were even for all those in the reaping bowl. Afterwards, Alton and Darya felt like they could breathe once more. They had no need for those resources when they were already at their disposal. 

What they had not accounted for, was their eldest daughter’s desire to make a name of her own. 

Medea grew up in a shadow. Sweet and witty, she gracefully lingered in the back when her father made his speeches to the public or when the children were allowed to tag along to dinners and social events. Her older brother was already her parents’ legacy, no matter his disposition for cruelty when he could be so charming when he wanted to. Sweetness turned tart when she realised she was a pretty spare, not valued for who she was, for who she could be. When her older brother caught wind of this small insecurity, he fanned the spark instead of extinguishing it. 

When Medea’s hand rose at the 18th Reaping, the spark flared up. 

The time before the Arena passed in a blur, dripping with the echo of her mother’s sobs as she’d sent her daughter off to the Capitol. Anger, despair and hope, that the Academy training their money had bought for their children would come in handy now. Medea knew it would. Or, at the very least, she couldn’t let herself consider otherwise. She was being beautified in the Capitol, scrubbed clean and presented on a silver platter like a porcelain doll before a horde of greedy children. Given a taste of Capitol extravagance, but not allowed to indulge before a crown rested on her head. It fed Medea’s own hunger for a legacy detached from her family’s work back in District 4. 

On launch day, the tributes found themselves in a circle around a dilapidated house with a pile of worn, leather suitcases out front that were arranged as though the house’s previous occupants had been carelessly cast out. Or chased away, having left all their belongings behind. At their backs was a sprawling forest, though the greenery looked brown and dry, half dead and void of life at first glance.

The bloodbath stayed true to its name. Nine tributes met their end in the fight for one of those suitcases, and those victorious dragged their exploits to safety. Medea herself and two of her allies claimed the ruins of the house for themselves, a large victory so early in the Game. 

Among other things, Medea received throwing stars in the piece of luggage she had claimed from the lifeless hands of another tribute. It was a pivot from the trident typical for those from her own District, but it wasn’t anything she couldn’t make work to her advantage. 

As it turned out, those previous occupants of the ruined house had never left. And neither had anything else that had ever died in the surrounding woods. Violent spirits rattled the tributes’ psyches until they abandoned the sordid ruins. Boar, stag and bird carcasses staggered through the half dead woods to hunt those disturbing their peace. Deceased tributes returned for revenge on those who were at fault for their deaths. 

Nothing that died ever left, and even when Medea was one of the last survivors, the Arena still felt dreadfully crowded. 

The remaining three faced their final confrontation back in front of the house. Where there was a pile of suitcases before was now something else entirely. Two headstones and mounds of dirt next to holes six feet deep for those who would still have to die for the victor to emerge. 

The speakers suddenly crackled. An announcement was spoken to the trembling final three. Two would need to be buried in these graves by the end of this fight. Only then would the victor be proclaimed and lifted out of the Arena. 

The fight was bitter to the very end, and at last, Medea Mizuko was crowned victor of the 18th Hunger Games with grave dirt stuck underneath her fingernails. 

She recovered from injuries without complication, though scars were left behind. A trophy, almost. A crown, one of her doctors appreciatively said, more permanent than any golden crown placed on her head. 

There it was, the name she’d made for herself. Sweetness and wit returned, the very picture of grace to cover the fact that nothing was the same ever again.How could it be? A flower garden covered rotten earth. Medea knew she had blood on her hands, and sometimes she could see it, right alongside the darkened edges of her nails. She picked at them, picked them raw to her stylist team’s dismay. Her victory tour passed in just as much of a blur, until a dinner hosted by the Brick family in District 2. Medea had gotten through the evening with pleasant smiles and quick, witty remarks, right up until the moment Miller Brick told her he would have been in those Games with her had fate not intervened. 

Medea couldn’t help but wonder if she would’ve had to bury him too, or if it would’ve been him burying her instead. The very moment shifted the night and drew them closer, before they drifted apart again by the time she had to leave for the Tour’s next stop. 

Mentorhood was different from what she had imagined. Victorhood, too. Her victor talent, practically picked for her because her combat training made it such an obvious choice, was dance. Requests had poured in from various influential Capitolite families, petitioning her to perform at their parties. The glitz and glamour had painted a very different picture from what the aftermath looked like. The grim fight for survival never stopped, even if she was behind a screen now, watching people from home standing where she had once stood, dying where others had died before. 

Medea tried, though. She had survived after all. 

Sometimes, she still wondered if it had all been worth it.

[gruesomejack]

Blue eyes moved over the young man near the shore. His heart fluttered in a way that made him smile; Alex was always pretty, but there was something about the dappled sunlight on his body that felt... right. This was their place. The meadow, the trail they took to get there, this piece of the falls-- They belonged here, and it belonged to them. After a moment, he moved to stand again and returned the offered grin with one of his own. Wading a little closer to the shore, he tongued the inside of his cheek and tilted his head. "Tell me if I'm wrong, but I heard: carry me in."

The second Alex was undressed, he was out and reaching for him. Rabbit scooped him up with ease and threw him over his shoulder like he'd done many times before, but after a moment, he shifted him until he was holding Alex against his chest. With soft, playful eyes, he searched his face while he walked them both back into the water. He lifted a hand to knock a lock of blonde hair from his forehead, and a quiet, thoughtful hum touched his lips. "...You gonna keep growing it out?" He asked, "Your hair, I mean." Rabbit's smile spread, and his lip was pulled between his front teeth. "The shaggy look kind of suits you." He mused, "Kinda looks like I'd have your poster on my wall." He could see it. That handsome face with longer messy locks in his face, his bass guitar strapped to his shoulder. Woof-- It was spank bank material for sure. "Maybe we should start a band? That way, I can drool over you in a pair of leather pants."

Grinning, Rabbit got waist deep and stopped. He leaned in to kiss him, slow and warm. In the sun, he felt their lips move against each other and found his place along his tongue and teeth. He rubbed a palm against his thigh and side, just enjoying the feeling of their bare skin touching. There was no rush, no worry that he wouldn't see him again-- They had all the time in the world.

Rabbit broke with a breath, letting his lungs expand as he savored the lingering taste on his lips. Looking at Alex, he smiled again and brushed their noses together before planting one more brief kiss there. "I love you." He said and dropped him.

---

Rubbing through his damp hair, Rabbit lit the campfire before strolling back to the blanket they'd set up. His cheeks were touched with pink sunburn, both his face and the ones behind him-- It might've been a mistake to go swimming without any sort of protection, but he didn't regret it. It'd heal and freckle and just be one more reminder of the time they spent here together.

Sitting himself down, he grabbed the guitar nearby and pulled it into his lap before plucking a few of the strings. He hadn't touched the thing since coming home from the hospital, so the weight in his lap felt good. Rabbit tuned it and let his tongue slip between his lips in thought while he dug the chords of a new song from his memory.

"You think I should invest in an electric guitar? I'm strapped for cash, but the idea is tempting." He mused, "If just to annoy my housemates." Flashing the other boy a grin, he tilted his head. "I need a job. Desperately. Got any ideas?" He asked, "I don't think I'm pretty enough to work the corner."

"Are you getting in or what?" Rabbit was waist deep in the cool water and edging closer towards the falls. His clothes were abandoned near the rocky shore, leaving him bare for the sun to kiss. He didn't manage to get the week he'd wanted for them (even when he turned on the tears), but three days was pretty good. It was still time alone with Alex after going through that nightmare-- Alan, the hospital, the trial. They both deserved the time to spend by themselves away from society.

And... there was something he wanted to do here. Well, something he wanted to ask, really. In his bag back at their camp, he'd brought something small and stupid with him; it was a ring he'd one from one of the machines at the arcade. It wasn't worth anything, but he hoped it would be a good placeholder until he could scrape enough money together for the real thing. Rabbit was going to ask Alex to marry him.

They were barely adults and he knew that, but he also knew that there was nobody in the entire universe he wanted to spend his life beside. Alex had seen him through one of the worst moments of his life-- And even if that wasn't on the table, the boy took care of him. Alex spent every single day by his side, holding his hand, keeping him sane, and wishing him well. There was so much love in his heart and Rabbit could feel it every moment they spent together. There was never a single second where he wasn't sure Alex Prescott loved him.

And he loved him too. Love didn't feel like the right word if he was being honest. Rabbit adored him; he was his world! He spent every moment of every day with Alex on his mind. Even when he was worried about other things or preoccupied, there was always a piece of him focused on him. Rabbit had thought it over since the first moment he realized he was considering this, and each time only left him more sure. He wanted to dedicate himself to Alex and give back everything the other boy had given him. He just... wanted to take care of him. There was nobody else it could ever be; he'd never love another the way he loved Alex.

Rabbit eased back until he was floating, his long lashes falling to touch his cheeks. The sun above was warm and the sounds of the forest around them were lively with birds, bugs, and all the little critters enjoying the early summer like they were. Humming softly, he opened his eyes and glanced back over. "Do I have to beg?"

@purposefully-lost

[waywardstation]

Quills

Ingo rushes Akari back to base camp after they both get poisoned in the middle of a massive mass outbreak.

I wrote this using a request specifically for my minutes drabbles, to write about Ingo ignoring a wound in order to help Akari. This is almost twice as long as a usual drabble, but I didn’t want to cut down what I had written haha

OR read here on AO3!

Enjoy!

————

Qwilfish toxin was not like sneasel venom.

Palina had told him the stories of how these territorial, toxic Pokémon were the bane of fishermen’s work down by the coasts, and sometimes caused trouble for herself and Iscan, but nothing he heard was as real and frightening as first-hand experience. This was only becoming more apparent to Ingo as he hurried across the slippery terrain of the coastlands, rain beating against his back with Akari in his arms.

First, he had learned that it was hard to notice when one had been injected with qwilfish toxin. Sneasel claws were thick and bulky, meant to hurt, and leave venom to seep into open gashes. Qwilfish toxin was different - stealthy, and designed to be injected undetected. Ingo certainly hadn’t noticed the bunches of fragile, needle-like quills sticking out of the length of his own leg, until he moved to grab Akari, and pull her out of the Qwilfish-infested water.

Second, qwilfish toxin boiled. Sneasel venom tingled like a static shock, locking up muscles and paralyzing them with a numbing sensation. But Qwilfish toxin blazed like fire once it seeped into its victim’s veins, and settled into their muscles - one wasn’t technically paralyzed, but became immobile out of the searing pain that would flare up with every movement. Ingo became well aware of this agonizing sensation as he forced his legs to keep moving, traversing the slope off the cliffside, leading down towards the shoreline.

Third, qwilfish toxin was much more potent. Sneasel venom was certainly strong on its own, but it was mostly meant to slow the victim down so the offending sneasel could catch up and land the final blow. Qwilfish toxin, Ingo was certain, was supposed to finish the job itself. Vertigo attempted to flip his sense off-balance as waves of nausea made his guts cramp, and cold, clammy sweat mixed with the rain as it ran down his aching neck. He felt lightheaded, and his cab wanted him to do nothing more than to drop down somewhere and pass out.

Fourth, qwilfish toxin worked much, much faster than sneasel venom; Ingo was sure it was meant to take victims out quick, not slow them down for a hunt, like sneasel venom. It didn’t help that he was straining himself and his heart, forcing it to unwillingly pump the spreading toxins through his body even faster, but Akari had started going downhill from the moment he pulled her out of the waters of Islespy Shore. They had just barely made it up the cliffside of Veilstone Cape before he had to start carrying her.

Ingo couldn’t remember the last time sneasel venom had made him feel this sickeningly disorientated. And he was a grown man, with a body that had become accustomed to shots of sneasel venom invading its system.

He was used to poison.

The smaller girl in his arms, fragile hands wrapped around his neck, was not. And she had received a much higher dose than he had, having been ambushed by the majority of the massive mass outbreak before he could reach her and warn about them. He’d say for every quill he took trying to get her out of there, (which was a lot), she took about two.

With his larger size, slight immunity, and comparatively lower dosage, he was confident he would be fine in the long run after this initial bout of nausea. He was not so sure about Akari, however.

It had been near impossible to correctly identify the barbed Pokémon crowded together in the waters in the middle of the dark coastal storm. Even he had not realized what they were until it was too late - something he found he was already beating himself up over.

While the situation itself had been dangerous, this aftermath could have been avoided had they simply brought a few pecha berries with them.

“Akari,” The warden slightly jostled the survey corps member as he felt her grip slipping around his neck. She was falling unconscious, and he couldn’t let her do that before he reached the Galaxy Team base camp. The toxin coursing through his system made his muscles flare with hot pain at the pressure she put against his arms, but he did his best to ignore it. “-Akari! Remain at the station with me, do not depart yet!”

To Ingo’s slight relief, Akari took a deep (though crackly) breath, readjusting her hands back around his neck for support. He held her closer in an attempt to shield her from the downpour with his own body; she was not moving to protect her face from the rain. “Still here-“

“We have almost reached our destination,” Ingo attempted to reassure himself just as much as he tried to reassure her. He tried not to look at the sheer number of broken barbs still sticking out of her various extremities; after feeling the burning sensation immediately intensify when yanking a couple of the quills out of his own thigh, he opted to leave hers in. He was afraid that attempting to remove them would only squeeze more toxin into her veins. However, he couldn’t avoid noticing the sickly pale color her skin was turning; he wondered if he was faring much better, appearance-wise. He certainly didn’t feel like it.

Vertigo lurched Ingo’s sense of balance off-center, and he stumbled for a moment to try and regain his bearings as he reached the bottom of the cliffside’s slope, making it to Castaway Shore. Oh, why had they gone so far away from base camp?

Akari did not tighten her grip as he stumbled, only making it harder for him to regain his balance.

A flock of murkrow, congregating together in an outbreak under the downpour of the storm, took to the sky as Ingo hurried past them. He counted himself lucky that they had not run into a more aggressive crowd of Pokémon yet.

“Akari,” Ingo attempted to get another response out of her as he pushed himself forward, fighting the urge to drop to the ground and pass out. Oh how his everything burned- “y-you have pecha berries stored back at base camp, correct?”

He knew she did, having seen the berries in her storage box earlier (Thank Arceus he had seen it; they didn’t have time for him to go randomly looking through tree branches - he wasn’t sure he’d be able to properly identify any berries anyways, with his strained vision). He just needed her to keep talking to him.

“I-“ The words caught as the walls of her throat stuck together, having found it difficult to swallow. Her eyes were screwed shut, in apparent pain. “-I don’t know. Ingo, I feel…really bad.”

“I know, I know,” The warden’s heart ached to hear her say those words like that - so weak. He was losing her to unconsciousness. He was not so sure she would wake up if she slipped into sleep, and that terrified him. “It’s alright, we have almost entered base camp. Please remain at the station.”

Akari did not respond as Ingo began climbing the hill towards the camp, now pushing against the wind; vertigo confused his directions and made it hard to even tell which way was up, and his muscles were starting to unwillingly stiffen out of pure fiery agony, but he had to keep going - the base camp was just at the top. They were so close.

Black crept into the edges of his blurred vision. If he passed out here, he wouldn’t get her the urgent attention she needed, and-

“Assistance, please!” The warden called out to the base camp’s stationed guard as he stumbled to the edge of the camp, a limp Akari unconscious in his failing arms. “Qwilfish…sh-she’s been poisoned-“

He doesn’t remember if he said anything else.

————

Ingo sat within the base camp’s dry tent, safe from the subsiding rain as he took his time chewing mashed pecha berries from a cup. Akari leaned close against his side, slurping from her own cup as she itched at the various bandages covering where venomous quills once buried themselves. It was strong wrapping - the stationed guard must have had to patch wounds frequently.

“Miss Akari, I’d advise against itching the injection sites.” Ingo warned as he swallowed down his mouthful - pecha berries certainly neutralized toxins fast, but the more he got into his system, the better. And eating distracted him from wanting to itch at his own bandages as well. “It will only lengthen the tracks to healing. You should have more pecha.”

“But it’s so itchy,” Akari complained, though she did her best to resist, turning to look into her own cup. She took another mouthful of mashed pecha and forced it down - her sore, swollen throat wasn’t the only thing making it hard to eat.

“Blech, when will everything taste normal again..?”

“I am assuming sometime tomorrow, if Miss Palina’s stories were correct.” Ingo glared down at his own cup, almost empty; the sweet flavor of the pecha berries had been replaced with a bitter, irony taste - a side effect of the toxins that would affect almost anything they ate or drank for the next chunk of hours.

Paired with nausea, it had been hard to keep much down (Ingo had retched after ingesting his first few pecha berries, but he didn’t know if that was from the intense vertigo, or the even more intense stress), but it was important they keep eating.

So many effects from qwilfish toxin- Ingo could see why they were the bane of fishermen now. Though he was sure no fisherman had ever taken twelve quills’ worth of toxin like he had…or twenty-three, like Akari had.

In a way, he had appreciated that Akari had been unconscious when the guard had properly removed the quills from her shoulder and limbs…he had come to in the middle of her procedure, the effects of the pecha berries finally neutralizing the toxins in his system, and it appeared like quite a painful process. When it came his turn to get his own remaining barbs removed from his leg, Ingo quickly learned it was just as painful as it appeared to be…which was a bit surprising to him, considering the smaller size of the quills.

“The rain’s slowed down,” Akari idly commented as she noticed the storm had slowed, the only dripping water remaining now trickling off the tent canopy, and collecting in pools. “That’s it for the outbreaks until maybe next month, I guess.”

Ingo immediately knew why it disappointed her.

“You still recorded a substantial amount of reports.” He reminded her, experimentally tapping his fingers against his cup - the movements still made his muscles ache, but it was nothing like the burning fire he had felt earlier. He hoped Akari wasn’t still in pain either. “You should be proud of what you managed to observe and write down. But for now, you need to rest and finish your pecha.”

“Yeah…” Akari huffed in a way that told Ingo she was still disappointed regardless. She leaned into Ingo’s side as she finished the last of the contents in her cup. He let her lean into his warm coat to escape the cold temperatures, putting a supportive arm around her so that she could fully relax against him. He was sure she was much more exhausted than she let on, after what she had been through.

But as he held her, grateful to know she was alright, he couldn’t help but worry over what could have so easily happened instead.

“Miss Akari,” The girl opened her tired eyes at the warden’s voice. “Today’s events should not have happened. They wouldn’t have happened with proper preparation. And…I am so glad you are alright, but I will not always be able to protect you. I apologize for the negligence on my part, but as for the qwilfish-“

“-I know, I know,” Akari croaked through the soreness and phlegm as she absentmindedly scratched at her bandages again. “I’m really sorry that this happened, and you had to carry me back like this, you shouldn’t have had to-”

A sigh broke up her speech as Akari recollected her thoughts.

“…I’ll start asking Mei and her munchlax about the Pokémon in the area, from now on.”

“Thank you.” The warden relaxed - he had been waiting to hear that for a long time.

Ingo had always encouraged Akari to talk to Mei and her munchlax at the start of massive mass outbreak events, to be aware of every group of Pokémon in the area - it’s always best to know all the tracks, to deduce which ones to take, and which ones to avoid. But Akari was always insistent that part of the fun was being surprised.

Well, finding out that the group of spheal congregating at the shoreline was actually a cluster of territorial Qwilfish had certainly been a surprise. And while Ingo wished this hadn’t been the thing that made her change her mind about talking with Mei, he just appreciated that she’d be doing it from now on.

“Though, I still need to do a lot of research on those angry spike balls,” Akari rubbed at her eyes, half out of frustration, half out of pain from a headache. “I don’t know if I want to get near one of those things again.”

“Let me know when you plan to come and complete your studies on them, and I would be glad to accompany you again.” Ingo offered without a moment of hesitation. “And next time, I’ll make sure we have pecha berries packed with us.”

[cassandraclare]

The Whispering Room: James’ POV

Here it is finally — James’ POV of the Whispering Room scene from Chain of Gold. I wanted to wait until Chain of Iron was released to give more people a chance to read the book, and also because what we learn in COI does inform the scene. I hope you enjoy!

*art by Cassandra Jean

Cortana wove with her words, underlining each one with steel. She turned as her sword turned, and her body curved and moved like water or fire, like a river under an infinity of stars. It was beautiful—she was beautiful, but it was not a distant beauty. It was a beauty that lived and breathed and reached out with its hands to crush James’s chest and make him breathless. — Chain of Gold

James had felt a strange emotion when Daisy first took the stage at the Hell Ruelle. It was a mix of several feelings...

worry on her behalf, annoyance at Kellington, curiosity, and admiration for her bravery and poise. It was unfair of these Bohemians to force her to caper for them, and, he thought, a bit insulting to Shadowhunters in general. He supposed that Matthew had given them a rather unusual view of what the Nephilim were like in such circumstances.

And then she had begun to dance. And suddenly she was not Daisy, his old friend. She was Cordelia, whose name meant heart, whose every gesture was fire. Every earthly worry he’d had had been swept out of his mind. He was conscious only of Cordelia, whirling back and forth across the small stage. Cortana danced around her, shedding light like embers. The dull glow of the lamps illuminated her body, describing her every movement, her every curve as she danced. Her scarlet hair whipped around her in time to the music, and the golden light of the lamps in the Ruelle slipped across her skin, slow and hot, like beads of honey. The cadences of her voice, rising and falling, seemed to weave a cage of silken thread about her audience, and James was no exception.

Later, James would think it was odd that he had not compared her to Grace. Grace had never entered his mind at all. Cordelia danced, and by the end of her performance, James’s entire life had been disassembled and put back together in a new and different shape. He was conscious of Matthew, beside him, also staring as the crowd cheered, his sharp cheekbones flushed. He looked dazed; James couldn’t blame him.

Cordelia descended the stage and slipped through the crowd to come back to them, blushing at the looks and murmured comments she was drawing from the audience now. James could see the desire in the eyes that followed her. Everyone wanted her. He felt a dull fury. They had no right. They did not know Cordelia. She was more than just that dance.

When she reached them she let out a long breath of relief and smiled. She glowed with the exercise of dancing. Sweat beaded along her collarbones, shimmered between her breasts. Her eyes were bright as Cortana’s blade, strapped to her back.

“Bloody hell,” Matthew exclaimed.  “What was that?”

A look of uncertainty crossed Cordelia’s face. James said, “It was a fairy tale, Math,” and Matthew nodded. His dark green eyes searched Cordelia’s face, as if looking for the key to a locked room he had only just discovered.

Cordelia looked uncertain. James couldn’t bear that. She’d been magnificent; she should know it. But he couldn’t say that, of course. It would only make her self-conscious.

“Well done, Cordelia,” James said instead; when he unfolded his arms; his wrist hurt and he wondered if he’d been clenching his hands.

Cordelia. He hadn’t called her Daisy, and she looked a little surprised. It seemed inappropriate, somehow. Daisy was Lucie’s friend, the Merry Thieves’ compatriot; he found it a smaller name than she deserved. Cordelia, though—she had been a queen, hadn’t she? Queen Cordelia, daughter of Leir, ruler of Britain before the Romans had ever landed on those shores. Like Boadicea, a legendary warrior queen. A blazing white fire behind fathomless black eyes.

“Anna has disappeared with Hypatia,” James said, noting the empty settee, “so I would call your distraction a success.”

Cordelia’s lips twitched into a smile. “How long does a seduction usually last?”

“Depends if you do it properly,” Matthew said, with a wink. James felt it as a spark of relief, a bit of lightness amid the feeling that something heavy was sitting on his chest.

“Well, I hope for Hypatia’s sake Anna does it properly,” James said. He registered, with the reflexes of a parabatai, that Matthew had gone still next to him, and wondered what was wrong. “Yet for our sake, I hope she hurries it up.”

All hint of Matthew’s jocular tone from before was gone. “Both of you,” he said urgently. “Listen.”

Did he mean all the muttering about Shadowhunters? Was he only noticing it now? It had followed them since they came into the place. But when James followed Matthew’s gaze, he found Kellington staring with an expression of vexation, not at them but at the door. All questions were answered as through the door came Charles Fairchild, looking around him with a haughty expression. He looked like was about to raid the place; so much for whatever work Matthew and Anna had done for Downworlder-Shadowhunter relations here.

Matthew narrowed his eyes. “Charles,” he sighed. “By the Angel, what is he doing here?”

Charles was, James thought, probably looking for them. He was making his way through the crowd and gazing around him. Luckily for them, the crowd was not interested in letting him through, and he was moving very slowly.

“We should go,” James said. “But we can’t leave Anna.”

In one way, at least, Charles’s arrival was helpful; it threw a bucket of cold water on the roiling heat that had gripped James’s heart since Cordelia had begun her dance. Back to the matter at hand: a demon, a Pyxis, a plan.

“You two run and hide yourselves,” Matthew said, still keeping his eyes on his brother. “Charles will go off his head if he sees you here.”

“But what about you?” said Cordelia.

Matthew shrugged, but James could see the tension in his jaw and his shoulders. “He’s used to this kind of thing from me. I’ll deal with Charles.”

Not for the first time, James wished that his parabatai wasn’t in such a hurry to sacrifice his own reputation. He exchanged a long look with Matthew, but Matthew was sure, and determined, and his desire to rush into his own humiliation was an issue that would have to wait. Nodding, he turned and caught Cordelia’s hand with his own. “This way,” he said, and she nodded back in acknowledgement. As he pulled them into the crowd he heard Matthew’s voice calling, “Charles!” in a hearty tone of pleasant, if entirely false, welcome.

James didn’t know his way around the place, and the crowd made orientating himself even more difficult, but after some trial and error he and Cordelia managed to get behind Kellington and slip into a corridor leading away. This wasn’t safe in itself, since from the main chamber one would have a clear view down the entire corridor. In fact, they were temporarily more exposed than before, and James’s hope for the hallway to take a quick turn or to contain large statuary to hide behind was quickly dashed. He continued to hold onto Cordelia’s hand, not that he needed to; she seemed to know her way better than he did.

Partway down the corridor, James caught sight of an open door — its silver plaque labeling it the entrance to THE WHISPERING ROOM. Swiftly he drew Cordelia inside, out of sight. He slammed the door behind them, causing a loud noise, but he thought it couldn’t possibly be heard over the crowd in the main chamber. Only then did he release Cordelia’s hand and take stock of their surroundings.

The room was dimly lit, but not cold: a scented fire burned in the grate, filling the space with the smell of sandalwood and roses. It was a study, he guessed, based on the gigantic walnut desk against the wall and the bookshelves opposite, but it was too richly decorated to be solely a place for studious contemplation. Phoenix feathers and dragon scales danced across the gilded wallpaper; there were no windows, but the walls were hung with patterned tapestries, the floor covered with a rug so thick James felt his boots sink into it as he moved further into the room.

Cordelia had leaned her back against the wall next to the door. Her eyes were closed and she was taking deep, full breaths, calming herself down. Cortana gleamed gold over her shoulder; the firelight gleamed a deeper gold on her skin, which seemed to take and hold its warmth. James curled his fingers in against his palm.

He wanted to touch her. He half-turned away, pretending to study the books on the wall. Any other time, he would have been fascinated by the titles. Now they seemed distant, neither immediate nor imporant. He could have sworn he heard his own heart hammering. He said, “Where did you learn to dance like that?” surprising himself with the roughness of his own voice.

His gaze snapped back to Cordelia as she opened her eyes and gave a little shrug. There was something magical about the dress she wore: it followed the shape of her own body rather than the shape of corsetry or whalebone petticoats. It slid softly against her skin as she moved, just as her dark red hair tickled the bare skin of her throat, her shoulders. “I had a dance instructor in Paris. My mother believed that learning to dance aided in learning grace in battle.”

The word grace pierced James like an icicle. He could not quite picture Grace at the moment, it was true; could not quite envision her face. He had given Grace his heart — that was an immutable fact, something he knew as he knew that two plus two equaled four. But he had to admit that at the moment his heart did not feel given. It felt like a thrumming machine inside his chest, pumping blood and heat.

“That dance,” Cordelia added with a quirk of her soft mouth that struck James like a blow to the stomach, “was forbidden to be taught to unmarried ladies. But my dance instructor did not care.”

“Well,” James said, keeping his voice steady with practiced control, “thank the Angel you were there. Matthew and I could certainly not have pulled off that dance on our own.”

Cordelia turned away from him, the smile still on her face, as though she were keeping it secret from him. She trailed her hand along the top of Hypatia’s desk. At one end was a stack of papers held down by a large copper bowl of fruit, and she brought her hand up to trace its rim.

James may have been distracted beyond the capacity for distraction he’d known before, but he was still a Shadowhunter. “Be careful,” he said warningly. “I suspect that is faerie fruit. It has no effect on warlocks—no magical effect, at least. But on humans…”

Cordelia pulled her hand back as though stung. “Surely it does not harm you if you do not eat it.”

“Oh, it does not. But I have met those who have tasted it. The say the more you have of it, the more you want, and the more you ache when you can…have no more.”

Cordelia was looking at him now, and though it took a great summoning of courage, he returned her gaze. In her dark eyes the silver and blue flames of the fireplace danced. James could not catch his breath. He had never felt this before, this breathlessness. It was like pain, but with a sweet, sharp edge. Like licking honey from a knife. He said, in a low voice, “And yet. I have always thought…is not knowing what it tastes like just another form of torture? The torture of wondering?”

The door shook on his hinges suddenly, making a clatter that made both he and Cordelia jerk their heads around to look at it. The knob was starting to turn.

Cordelia paled. “We’re not meant to be in here —“

James’s world closed down to just this: Cordelia was here, she was with him, and she looked frightened. He would do anything to stop that look on her face. He caught her in his arms, and the relief was incredible — he had not realized how much he wanted to be touching her until he was. Until he was holding her, and her strength and warmth and softness were all pressed against him, and her face was so beautiful it hurt, and her lips were parted in surprise and without another thought he kissed them.

He could feel her sharp intake of breath with his hands, clasped together at her lower back. She gasped, but did not draw back, or away — he thought he would have died if she had — she leaned into him, her full lips opening under his. She was kissing him back. He tasted honey, smelled jasmine and smoke. His hand slid up her warm cheek and into the soft fall of her hair.

Time stopped.

Cordelia’s arms were around his neck. Her lush mouth opened a little against his, and the kiss deepened. He moved his hand to the back of her neck to bring her closer. Her teeth grazed his lower lip, and he couldn’t help it; he moaned, and felt her tremble against him.

Very far away, a voice chuckled and the door closed with a soft click. This whole thing had been intended as a ruse, he knew, for the benefit of whomever was trying to get into the Whispering Room. Probably some Ruelle attendees, Downworlders most likely, who had snuck off for a rendez-vous.

Ruse accomplished, then. With intense regret, James drew back from Cordelia. Her hand, warm and soft and wonderful, was against his neck; her fingers stroked his pale white scar. Her eyes were fixed at the level of his shoulder. He could hear himself say her name — Daisy, my Daisy — instead of responding, she whispered, “I think more people are coming.”

He knew it wasn’t true. He didn’t care. He knew what she was saying: that she was asking and giving permission at once. All James’ life, he had struggled for control: control over his sudden falls into shadow, control over the dark world he could see, that was invisible to everyone else. He had worked and fought and trained for control every day, and for the first time in as long as he could remember it deserted him.

The walls he had put up burned to the ground in an instant as he caught Cordelia to him. He groaned against her mouth, his hands slipping over the silk of her dress, the hot satin of her skin. He undid the strap that held Cortana, got rid of it somehow — carefully, he hoped — and let himself fall back into delirium.

He did not ask himself why he had never felt desire like this before. He could not. He was lost in the feel of her, the incline of her waist, the flare of her hips, the rise and fall of her chest as she gasped. They were kissing wildly, uncontrolled; they fetched up against the desk, Cordelia’s back to it.

Her body bent backward in an impossible arch, her hands going behind her to brace herself. Her eyes half-closed, her head fell back, revealing the bare column of her throat. He pressed his lips there, eliciting a gasp of surprised pleasure.

His hands trailed up the sleek material of her dress — he could feel the heat of her skin through it — from her waist to the neckline of her gown. His palms followed her curves until the tips of his fingers were pressing into the bare bronze skin just above the neckline of her dress. She was sleek and soft and hot all at the same time, like nothing else he’d ever touched. He heard her whimper; she was saying his name, and his heart beat in time with her words: James, James, Jamie please.

The please undid him; shrugging off his frock coat, he caught hold of her around the waist, lifting her until she was perched on the edge of the desk. The material of her dress bunched around her knees, her thighs, as she took hold of his shirt by the starched front and kissed him. His mouth drove against hers, hot and demanding, even as he clambered onto the desk after her. She reached up her arms for him and he sank down on top of her, bracing his weight with a hand above her head.

He paused, just for a moment, looking down at her. Her scarlet hair fanned out across the desk, her eyes glazed, her full lips red from kissing. He was cradled by her body, her legs on either side of his hips, her skirt rucked up nearly to her waist. She wrapped her long, bare legs around him and he shuddered. What was in him, what he wanted, was inchoate but insistant, a force he’d never known. A yearning like hot wires in his blood, the pain-pleasurable ache of unbearable wanting that drove him to kiss her again, kiss her harder. She tangled her hands in his hair, pulling at it as he kissed her breasts, flicking his tongue over the sensitive skin until she gave a low scream and clutched at him with desperate hands.

He sank down against her and kissed her, hot and deep and hard. She arched into the kiss, her breath coming in gasps. He felt her through the thinner material of his shirt: the heat of her, the swell of her breasts against his chest, her hands smoothing over his chest, his sides.

His hands aching to touch her in kind, to find out what she liked, what made her gasp, and do it again and again . . . Nothing had ever felt like this, nothing. He’d known desire before; so he remembered, so he had believed. It turned out he had stepped into a puddle and thought it was the sea. As Cordelia moved in his arms, as her lips, he realized there was a depth to desire he hadn’t even guessed at: that it was more than just desperation, but joy and need and wanting and being wanted back. It was a fever dream, his hands sliding up under the heavy satin of her skirts, the salt-sweet taste of her skin, the soft sounds of her pleasure as she urged him closer, urged him onward, the desk seeming to spin beneath them.

He heard, as if at a great distance, the sound of the door opening. He lifted his head, saw the slim fair-hared figure in the doorway. Ice washed through his veins. Cordelia stiffened, began to scramble to sit up. No, he thought, but he couldn’t stop her, couldn’t blame her. It — whatever it had been — was over.

He slid off the desk. Already the fever was vanishing, that feeling —the glorious freedom from the burden of his own will — receding. Grasping at his control, he drew it around himself,  reaching for his coat, turning to calmly meet the gaze of his parabatai.

“James?” Matthew said.

[littlefreya]

August’s Box of Mystery

Summary: He left you all alone in his great castle by the sea and requested that you shan't touch yourself... can you keep your loyalty?

Prompted by @gotnofucks: “How do you feel August would react to knowing his girl uses sex toys when he is away? Would he feel jealous? Angry? Turned on?More importantly, what does he do? 👀”

Pairing: August Walker x Female Reader (No description of ethnicity or body type)

Words: 3k

Warning: 18+, smut + romance and fluff in the end. Female masturbation with a sex toy, voyeurism, sex-tape, cockwarming, mildly rough unprotected sex, breeding, breeding as punishment if to be exact, slight denial, MaleDom, creampie, a lot of it. Read the warnings properly, please. 

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it, or parts it and claiming it as your own.

A/N: I am anxious about this one and hope you’ll enjoy, i’ve been rather influenced by Angela Carter writings. Many thanks to @the-soot-sprite @wondersofdreaming for feedback and @agniavateira for her review. Added notes and credits in the end!

Please reblog and comment if you enjoyed my work. 🖤

August’s Box of Mystery 

Outside the bedroom window, the waves roared in a tempest's rage. Torrent after torrent, the sea unleashed brutal tentacles onto the salty iron rocks in a keen, vindictive urge to dismantle them to nought. 

It was your own unruly longing that the ocean sensed: forlorn and listless, lying on your bed, the blue mist cloaking your heart. 

August's sea-fort was a gilded cage. He had given you everything: diamonds brighter than the moon, sheets made of the softest golden silk, and even a ring to bind you to his unbreakable siege. 

His only demand was that you will always wait for him, not only by flesh but soul as well. Despite his dark ambitions, trust and loyalty were qualities August valued beyond anything else.   

But soon, you grew tired of watching the reflection of the tides refract upon the naked ceiling. A woman with fire for blood, you were forever tormented by your sultry nature and daydreams of that would make the devil blush.

Frustration gnawed at your bawls until—enough! You shot up from your bed—a storm of silky linen whirling around you like Venus emerging from spume on shore; and just as the goddess of love and beauty, you too yearned to be penetrated. Nibbling your nails, you glanced at the open door, your mind seeing beyond thick walls into his office where he kept a chest filled with illicit delights. 

Every now and then—when August's muse struck—he would bring one of his toys to the bedroom, but you weren’t allowed to play on your own. 

Body. 

Soul. 

‘Certainly, August won’t be able to tell if I would be careful?’ You hoped and followed the oceanic breeze hymning from the corridors.

Sand stuck to your bare feet, the wooden planks gently wept beneath your stride. Tipping on your toes, you snuck into his cavernous study, the key stolen from his nightstand already seized between shaky fingers. Though August was absent, your heart thrummed with ire upon setting foot onto the furry rug, as if he was to appear behind you at any given moment.

It was a room that reeked of debaucheries of all kinds: "borrowed" works of art depicting naked nymphs adorned the cherry-wood shelves, divine entities hung onto the wainscoting, and trophies he kept from his victims were encased in a fancy vitrine. Even the slate-blue view felt different from this spot; the rocky piers seemed like a pathway to a marine graveyard.

You paid no mind. You knew who you married and gained nothing but ethereal bliss whenever August fucked you against the window for the shark and whales to see. 

Like a girl crawling into the rabbit’s hole, you took half a twirl. There, below the large monitor plastered to the wall, stood the locked chest. Black and gold roses ornamented its exterior and a trident crest was engraved on the lock. Only a fool would overlook such blatant temptation, and though you were no foolish girl, you were feeble at the face of seduction. 

Falling to your knees, you made haste to unlock the chest, your heart drumming in your ears with the notion that you defied the words of your strenuous lover. But the same muscle that pumped you with fear, pounded wickedness into your blood. 

If only you were blessed with a shred of your husband’s patience.

All the toys inside were placed in order, sanitised, and appropriately boxed in such fashion that you knew August would notice if something was misplaced. The man had the capability of finding an eyelash on the carpet. Still, unrelenting desire strung the cunning finger you ran over the loot, carefully picking one of the familiar vibrators he used on you before. 

'Here?'  

Standing at the centre of his tidy office you contemplated, suddenly aware of how the room leaked of his entity; scented notes of old leather binding and his woodsy cologne threatened to adhere to your skin, making this mischief taste like a crime. It was best to keep all disobedient whims in an isolated location, you assumed and allowed your eyes to further drift and glide upon the large monitor and the antique desk where August kept the remote. An abrupt wicked idea swam into your mind, reminding you of his private collection. 

Catalogued alphabetically, he kept them on his streaming device. 

'It should make things quick...' you convinced yourself whilst nibbling on your bottom lip. How worse could it be, anyway? You already rummaged through his chest. Taking a gander at his not-so-secret directory was puny in comparison. 

With your lungs in fists, you slipped your panties to your ankles and settled on the cosy leather chair in front of his desk. Ignoring the red flag waved by your anxiety, you reached for the remote and clicked the button. 

August made no effort to hide his recordings, simply naming the directory as "Films," as if it contained ordinary Hollywood blockbusters. Impatient, you scrolled down the list, trying to keep the jealousy from simmering in your bawls. August wedded you in this fort, but he never captured you on film like he did his girls. All lovers from the past, of course, but still it almost irked you; yet you brushed these concerns away and picked a file with the name you liked most and pressed “play”.

The ocean's lament was instantly swallowed by guttural howls and grunts that took every empty space within the chamber. Before your flaring eyes appeared the most forbidden of spectacles— your husband taking a different woman. It was odd to hear the familiar timbre of his groans laced with the voice of another. It was even stranger to sense the unmistakable spark of desire jittering in your cove.

Poseidon himself could not compete with the glory of the man, naked and drenched, all muscles and might. Furious, he took her on her knees, his fingers cradling her skull, pushing her head to the pillows while restraining her wrists above the small of her back. She wasn't you and still you clenched, aroused by the sight of the sweat glistening the fur of his torso and by the lack of mercy in the violent motion that ended with the dutiful grind of his sac against her swollen lips. 

You hadn't even realised how shamefully you dripped upon the oxen leather of the seat, your thoughts focused on the odd mixture of envy and lust that penetrated your blood. 

Desperate to unleash the monstrosity building within your core, you spread your legs over the desk and pressed the toy between your slippery petals. A shuddering whine rode your breath at the brush of the buzzing device, the pleasure so unimaginable it nearly drowned your senses. Gasping, you fought to maintain a hooded gaze upon your lover and his ‘whore,’ and imagined that the rosy silicon phallus that entered your anticipating hole was his swollen cock.

Your walls quickly clenched around the toy in true longing while the window trembled under the muffled rumbling of thunder. Perhaps your passions thickened the clouds. Or maybe it was the immoral streak of ecstasy laced by danger. Whichever it was, it urged you faster toward imminent bliss.

The other woman’s moans entwined with yours while your wayward hand mimicked the rhythm of bodies slamming together in the same frantic chaos that swept you.

Sweat-riddled, your ankles lost way across the smooth surface of the desk, leaving oily markings in a frenzy as climax drew close.  

‘Almost…’

‘Almost…’

‘So close…’  

‘August!’

"Enjoying yourself, my little princess?" 

Lightning painted the room bright purple, announcing the thunder that tore through the ocean. It wasn’t half as frightening as the low timbre of his voice, which cruelly withheld your ecstasy. The fervour in your veins turned glacial; one moment you ascended to the heavens and the next, got rejected at its golden gates. All the while the growls of his reflection on the monitor echoed through the chamber along with the buzzing toy still buried inside you.

It granted no pleasure now, but further stretched the guilt.

Calm and forebodingly stoic, August reached a curious hand between your quaking thighs, seizing the toy and flicking the switch off. Unable to lift your gaze to meet his severe face, you struggled to swallow and kept your eyes glued to the monitor. Yet, there was no escape from his reflection—the “real” him present in the room peered back at you through the glassy screen. Standing behind you, he etched his fingers around the headrest of the chair and tutted. 

“Do you like watching me with others, sweetling? Did this video make you wet?” he asked curiously.

Before any words formed on your quivering lips, his hand fell to your mound. An intrigued “hmm,” flowed from his throat as he found you overflowing with arousal. Like a whore, you couldn’t help but squirm into his touch, your body still enraged of being denied pleasure, and so was the sky that now threatened to turn the ocean upside down. 

You nearly gasped at the heavy patter of rain that began to hit the window. 

“I…”

“Disobeyed me,” he completed the sentence, his voice mellow and pleasant though the caress of his breath on your face burned.

“...missed you.”

Your attempt to pacify him did not go unnoticed. Lips stretching to a slanted grin, he dared to replace the toy with two fingers that drove inside your gaping hole—sensing how you wrapped and suckled around his long digits like a carnivore plant.

“Such a sweet gesture,” he retorted, “and still, my love, my dear wife who I’ve given everything to, has defied me like a lawless brat…unable to wait for her husband to return from his very important meetings.” His dainty fingers pumped crudely deeper, not to please you but remind you who you belonged to. 

Writhing in your seat, you fluttered your eyes shut. “Where were you?”

Ignoring your question, he leaned down, his lips mere inches from your ear and whispered, “I think it’s time I’ll tame my bratty woman for good, don’t you?” 

You shuddered to think what punishment he had in mind, your heart sinking to a dark pit at the deadly kiss he offered next to your ear; but then, he took your wrist and in a surprising tenderness guided you from the chair to bend over the desk. 

Predictably, the movie had run its course and started again from the beginning, her promiscuous moans and the pounding of their flesh stealing your attention for a split second. 

Having you at a disadvantage, August drew an invisible line from your spine to the curve of your behind, his fingers mimicking lines drawn on soaked sand. “All this sea salt in the air around us and your skin is still so tender,” he murmured lovingly and secured a hand around your nape, holding your head forward. 

It excited you to watch them before and now with his groin hot and hard against your bare crease you were nothing but craving his cock. 

“Is this going to hurt? Will you spank me? Treat me like that whore on your film?” you asked naively, smoothing your sweaty palms across the antique wood with dark anticipation. 

“No, my beautiful angel.” his belt clicked and dangled like a set of heavy keys of a warden toying with his captive, “You are not my whore, but my wife. Which is why I’m going to put my child in your reckless womb to end your wicked ways once and for all.”

A gasp of shock left your throat, dazed by his threat you turned to protest. But the air drowned in your chest and your entire body stiffened as August’s ‘leviathan’ split your succulent flesh. Vulgarly you were penetrated, his size stuffing you so deeply, you felt the aching pressure in the pit of your belly. 

August stilled for a moment, lingering at the sensation of your hot cove fitting around him in both a strenuous protest and the pathetic defeat in which your body seized the beast, milking it in an attempt to rope him into your womb forever. 

“Oh, my sweet wife, I will stretch your little cunt to sheath me that not even these toys will please you. You see, everything here belongs to me, even your defiant womb. And I will leave a piece in me there to teach you a lesson.”

“I don’t think I am ready!” You whined, but the thought of being bred and carrying his child made your cunt unwittingly twitch. Your canal sucked him even deeper if it was even possible.

August sensed your convulsion and growled, his hips pressed unfathomably tight against your rear, making your cheeks ache from the press of his bones. It was torture with the film playing right in front of you; falling into a lucid delirium, your mind replaced her with yourself, yet your August refused to move, withholding your pleasure, owning it, owning you. 

His cock anchored hot and thick inside you, its throb as powerful as the thunder hammering the ocean.

You wanted to cry.

“August, please! I need you! I missed you!” 

With a harsh pull, he drew back and bludgeoned your crease, his might so vulgar the tip of your toes levitated from the ground. Again, and then again… he grunted at the choke of your flesh around him. Paying you no courtesy, he shook and pounded you almost terrifyingly as meticulously as he did this woman. 

His fingers burnt around your waist, so harshly you thought you’d never be able to sense anything but his grip under your skin. 

“Oh!” fat tears rolled down your cheeks, your breath a wheeze. Piteously you crumbled onto the desk. Thunders, cries, sounds of rutting flesh, and grunts surrounded you in this cavern of sin; you didn’t know which were yours and which were from the recording. All you knew was that he never took you so zealously before, you were at the brink of either rapture or falling to the abyss.

“You’re too deep! Too rough!” you wailed, unable to adjust to his pace but truthfully you didn’t want him to slow down. Currents of bliss submerged your loins the rougher he fucked you. The hot tingle in your core stormed with every collision of his cock with your cervix.

August reached from your neck to your jaw then and held your face to the screen.

“You wanted to watch her while touching yourself. Do you want to be her?” he growled and increased the pace, splitting through your body the way Dagon ripped open the waves. 

Even if you had words, you couldn’t bring yourself to speak. 

“You can never be her my darling,” August said and removed his hand from your hip. There was a quick drag of his drawer behind you and a rummaging sound. “Here, I’ll make us a short film; memorise this moment when you conceive me an heir.”

Struck by his words, you turned to stare. The sight of him behind you, inside you, was far more worthy than any film: sweat trickled down his messy curls and arduously strained face, his cerulean shirt damp and his mouth open as his fingers clutched the camera that was directed to the point where you were joint. 

Unrelenting, your orgasm flooded through every muscle like a wave of destruction that wrecked every organ within you until you felt nothing but bliss. You felt August’s heart beating in yours. 

There it was. Euphoria. 

You drowned in it. The maelstrom inside you swallowed and sank his ship as well. With a loud shout of surprise, he broke apart and erupted inside you, his creamy gift ploughing your womb until it overflowed and dripped down your quaking thighs. 

The rumbling from outside eased now, the clouded sky groaned with a release, their tears melding into the ocean never to be seen again.

August remained inside you, his breath thick, his hips gingerly grinding into yours to make sure his seed will take. 

“There you go, my special girl.” his voice came huskily. “Now you will never be alone, unlike these women I can’t even remember.”

Your hand instinctively snapped to your lower belly, soothingly caressing it in a reverie. You felt battered, full, and disgustingly and arousingly dirty as he swam inside you.

Yet the thought that he impregnated you made your heart flutter. 

Was there a more eternal symbolism of love than a legacy?

“August…” you whispered. Beneath you, the desk slightly shook, little tremors vibrated against the delicate pads of your fingers. Turning your head back, you offered him an enamoured glance and reached a hand in plea to lace fingers with his. 

His storm-kissed eyes softened and he broke into a sigh at the sight of his wife at her best submissive behaviour. The greatest of all delights was to refine a crude rock into a fine delicate diamond. Proudly, he took your hand in his, entangling your fingers together, yet he kept the video-camera aimed at your joint bodies. 

“Don’t move,” he breathed behind you and carefully pulled out his shaft from your flooded hole. A velvety chuckle played on his tongue, impressed by the wet plop and thickness of the cream that leaked off your entrance. Your cheeks burnt as you realised what he has done; your lips parted open to complain but then, with his cock already fully rigid and thick, he plugged you once more, shoving his seed back inside you.

“What are you doing?” 

“Waste not, my angel,” he tutted and remained still, brushing his knuckles up and down the curve of your rump.

“Oh, how long?” you whined, uncertain if you are capable of staying this way with him throbbing between your taut walls.

“Until the sky clear up?...” he suggested, voice haunted by lingering satisfaction. 

The waves of your previous orgasm were yet to ebb, and now stronger tides began to emerge. Frustration grew within once again and sadly, August’s will had the mettle of an anchor.  

“At least tell me where you were!” you yelped.

August scoffed, and wrapped his hands around your waist, only slightly guiding you back into his hips. “No, no, my love. Every marriage needs a little bit of mystery, as you’ve already learned. But now do me a favour,” he uttered and placed the remote next to your hand. 

“Play us another one? We might be here a while.”

Credits: Dividers by @firefly-graphics. Themes Inspired by Angela Carter’s Bloody Chamber. Leviathan inspired by @sillyrabbit81​!!

Disclaimer: I don’t own August Walker or Mission Impossible.