#angst without an ending

[martianbugsbunny]

Guilt (It's Gonna Last Forever)—A Scogan Fic

*sashays in wearing yellow spandex and blue sparkles* haha remember in that other fic when Logan was mortally dreading the idea of accidentally stabbing Scott in his sleep? well I just can't leave well enough alone so I made a fic out of that. You can view it as a sequel or you can read it as a standalone, it's good either way. It also does not have a conclusive ending, so you have to either let Scott die or be saved in your own brain (unless I do a sequel at some point).

Read on and enjoy!

Logan ran down the concrete hall, barefoot, barely feeling the cold against the absolute agony and rage that bubbled up from his marrow and strained against the brand-new adamantium coverings of his bones, nowhere to go to escape—and he wasn’t sure he wanted it to. No, Logan held that rage in his core, letting it burn him up from the inside because he knew the only people it could hurt were outside of his body.

When his claws extended from between his fingers at the first sound of approaching footsteps, Logan was caught off guard by their new silvery sheen. The things protruding from his body weren’t his.

Terror began to climb up the scaffolding of anger. The fingers of one hand scrabbled at the back of the other, as though Logan could rip the claws out and start over with the bone that did belong to him, shaking.

And then he caught…the scent of blood.

He hadn’t hurt anyone yet.

“Logan!”

He woke to a voice crying his name, sounding strangled and stunned and…betrayed.

Oh, no.

Logan pulled his claws out of Scott’s gut, instantly drawing them back into his hands, a fear worse than the remembered terror of his dream crawling up his throat. The damage had already been done; the soft flesh of Scott’s stomach had dissected easily beneath sharpened adamantium, and blood was beginning a slow ooze from the six distinctive wounds.

Scott clutched at Logan’s forearms, his breathing coming in harsh, shallow bursts as he began to comprehend exactly what had happened to him. No, not what had happened—what Logan had done.

“I’m so sorry.” The words weren’t enough; Logan knew they weren’t enough. His voice was cracked. The smell of Scott’s blood was seeping into Logan’s brain, and his blood smelled exactly like any other blood. For some reason that seemed unfair. He meant more to Logan than anyone alive; surely he should be able to sense some tiny difference—but no, it was just hot and red and full of iron, thick and sluggish as it seeped from Scott’s body and pulled his life away with it.

“Scott, you have to hold on,” he said urgently, shaking Scott a little. “Don’t let go of me.”

His response was weak. His grip on Logan’s arms had been going slack, but he tightened his fingertips just a bit, trying pathetically to dig into the skin and follow Logan’s command.

“Somebody help!” Logan yelled, his mind beginning to flick back to the last time he’d been responsible for something like this. Then, he’d hurt a person who could steal his healing powers for herself; now, he’d hurt a person who was utterly incapable of helping himself to heal. “Damnit, I need help!”

The seconds seemed to tick by as moments. Logan felt Scott’s fingers start to shake, his palms turning clammy, sweat pooling between his skin and Logan’s, but he didn’t let go. Logan clutched Scott close, as though by pressing their bodies together he could staunch the blood or force it back into Scott’s veins.

Finally (how long had it been? minutes? an hour? it was too dark and everything was too much to tell) the door burst open and Storm dashed in, stopping just over the threshold when she saw what was going on. Moments later, in a cloud of dark smoke, Kurt appeared beside her, his yellow eyes full of a compassion Logan didn’t feel he deserved.

Then Kurt’s arms were around Scott, and they both disappeared, leaving Logan sitting there helpless on the bed with his tank top bloodstained and his heart pounding so hard his chest hurt, tears stinging his eyes.

“I didn’t know,” he said, half to Storm and half to himself. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

[baker-chan-senpai]

happy new year

[kittykatninja321]

My less popular opinion (and what I believe to be implied by the art in Lost Days) is that rather than waking up in a fully grown body Jason didn’t actually complete his puberty until after his Lazarus pit dip while he was on his murder tour. Imagine you’re tied up in a basement in Berlin getting interrogated by a teenager and his voice is cracking the entire time and if you laugh he’s going to shoot you

[aingeal98]

More Jason and Cass thoughts (sorry but also not sorry) but if I was magically given full control over DC and could write what I'd want obviously I'd make Cass Batman but I've been thinking of what sort of reaction and role Jason would have in response. I think I'd write his version of "Congrats on the new job!" as a test, involving the Joker and civilians and gangs and Red Hood and a ton of explosives. Bruce failed me, and now he's given up. You're his successor, let's see how you handle this dilemma that freaked him out so badly he threw a batarang into my throat rather than let me avenge my own death in front of him.

So obviously Cass will overcome the traps and the puzzles. That's the fun part to show how competent both of them are and sprinkle in little character moments as we go. But then we reach the emotional crux of the matter, probably laid out as some sort of saw trap because it's Jason. Here I am, a victim of murder. You say nobody dies tonight but I did, and I want the man who did it dead. Not only did Batman fail to avenge me but he failed to stop the Joker from going on to create even more victims. What right do you have to stop me from getting justice for myself? What right does this man have to life after what he's taken from me and from countless others? I'm not trying to kill a random stranger, I'm specifically demanding justice for my own death that I never got while I was gone.

There are two ways this could go. The straightforward route if I knew my time on this run was limited would probably be a pyrrhic victory like the ones Cass's og series was so fond of. Just like Bruce in utrh, she acts on instinct and saves the Joker (and Jason this time) . A win technically, but she fails the test. Jason is once again vindicated but with nothing to show for it. The story ends with Cass sending the Joker back to jail and going back to the batcave, where the old Robin costume looms judgementally, highlighting her failure. It would be the most fitting end given their character molds, all tragedy and conviction and unstoppable force meets immovable object etc.

However... I think the option I prefer would be a little different. Cass levelling with Jason, a killer talking to a murder victim. She has no right to stop Jason from getting justice, she has no love for the Joker but she knows any death she allows to happen like this would devastate her, just like that death row inmate long ago she tried to break out but ended up letting go once the family of the victim talked to her and demanded justice. I think... In this specific situation, she'd just be honest. Morally she has no right sure. Personally she just really really doesn't want anyone to die. Give her one chance, please. Let her try it her way. Not demanding, not lecturing or insisting, just... Please. Don't do this. Let me try another way.

And then what? Jason asks.

In the end a deal is struck. Cass will take the Joker and lock him up, ensuring he never harms anyone again while also trying to rehabilitate him. But the second she fails and he gets free, Jason kills him and she won't stand in his way. It's the kind of deal that leaves both of them mildly disgusted and dissatisfied with themselves, neither of them naturally creatures of compromise when it comes to this specific topic. But Cass is willing to do anything to avoid death and Jason did not expect the new Bat to be so... Flexible? Kind of? Of course maybe she won't actually hold up her end of the deal and when the Joker gets loose she'll try and stop Jason from killing him and he'll get his miserable vindication, but right now this is something strange and new and he's mildly confused and curious about where it will go. He doesn't believe in her ability to contain the Joker forever but he's willing to let her try because her reaction to that future failure interests him. She's given him a sword of damocles to hang above her head and he didn't ask for it or expect it. It's the type of power he never thought the Bat would just... Hand to him.

The conflict ends with neither of them fully winning or losing. They both don't really know what to feel about this.

The thing is, the second Cass let's Jason kill the Joker she's hanging up the mantle. She's staking the Bat on this, because it's always go big or go home with her when it comes to saving others, even someone like the Joker. In this magical universe where I have unlimited power, Cass would lock the Joker in a secret bunker and have Leslie Thompkins talk to him daily, mostly because I think her pacifism speeches and debates in the comics would make a fun contrast to the Joker's evil sadism. (But what about his rights? Doesn't he deserve a trial and to be held in a regular prison? I'm going to be honest I think Cass would be very comfortable bending the rules on this specific situation. Morally questionable but I'd have fun with it. She's going to let Leslie treat Joker like her personal pet project to save his soul because yes she wants him to change but also she's got a city to save every night so go crazy Leslie, have fun.)

And the Batman series would continue with Cass as the lead, new challenges and new antagonists and every twenty issues or so for the first hundred we'll cut back to the Joker briefly if his chats with Leslie can help highlight some thematic element of the current arc. But bit by bit he'd slowly fade away onto oblivion, maybe getting referenced every hundred issues or so until eventually no one remembers or cares about him because there's so much else going on. Meanwhile Jason's got a good thing going as Red Hood, primarily based in Park Row and a tentative ally on the occasion when their vigilante work aligns. Unlike Joker he's a much more frequent character in the comics, and after say 10 years (this is my magical fantasy universe Cass's batman run is going to last for a very long time alright) when people think of DC characters they think of Red Hood long before they think of the Joker.

Is any of this realistic? Right now of course not. It's why I'd go with the pyrrhic victory if I actually got the chance, because it would be the best way to tell the story in the larger context of the Bat narrative. But it's my fantasy DC editor and writer daydream and I'm going to dream big. They're never going to be normal happy siblings, their personal demons will never fully let them be free and the looming possibility of losing everything they currently have narrative wise if Bruce comes back as Batman will always be there. But it's maybe the closest to peace they'll ever get. Unsatisfying and tame compromise that probably violates several laws and ethical codes but whatever. Cass has never read the Geneva convention and Jason's not going to shed tears over the Joker. Let him die relevancy wise if not physically.

[hinamie]

色彩 [Shikisai]

[vatelixx]

Ton 618,

S3-S4ish Spencer Reid x Reader (no mention of gender).

Fluff (no angst… surprisingly). Autistic Spencer (present in all of my one shots bcos it’s canon to me).

──── domesticated time inbetween cases & blind adoration.

Warnings: literally none (who am i???), brief mention of past trauma (Hankel).

w.c: 1.5k

— They’re both nerds who are a little too invested in space. Light biblical imagery & Greek mythology references. My writing has been sufficiently domesticated (dw i’ll be back to angst soon, war is not over.)

Loosely inspired by:

a/n: just giving him what he deserved to have.

────────────

For the first time, in a long time, there is little residing in Spencer’s mind. Beyond warm hands, and soft skin, and the pulse of someone else’s body. Obsessed is one word for it, a textbook definition that can’t truly articulate the ache he derives from the thought of you. Obsessed, fatefully ruined, if this is the work of divine intervention, then consider him, once obstinate in his atheism, entirely, profusely devout.

He’s still thinking about you. What’s new? The memory of your lips pressed against his, the tattooed promise of more, more because it will never be enough. He wants, god when has he ever wanted? Life before appears bleak now, black and white. Academia, pursuits of knowledge, lonely nights and the transient fear of forever being stuck in a cyclical cycle of loneliness.

You think he’s pretty. He smiles on the way home from work, Morgan pressing him, because ‘kid you can’t be that happy for no reason.’ There is a reason, a monumental, life-altering one that waits for him at the door. He likes that, the domesticity. He’s never asked for much, content in his mishaps of intimacy, always baring the weight because he wants needs to be good. For the people around him, for the home he’s carved into his skin, for anything that starves off the decades of isolation.

When he threads his arms around your waist, leaning all of his weight into the contact, you both go stumbling back.

He’s soft. Of course he’s endured more than anyone should, the sharp edge of addiction, the stifling weight of a morbid job that has him fixated, hook line and sinker, compass pointing South every time he’s thrown into the field. But for all of that, he still obtains naive, blinding light.

He burns. Or more so, he warms.

“Hi, hi. Sorry— that wasn’t very eloquent. Can I try again?” He’s halfway out of the door; you have to lean forward, grip his wrist, tug him closer, “Okay.” He laughs, “I’ll take that as a no?”

He’s certain your name is imprinted onto his heart. Carved just for you alone. There is no one else. There could never be anyone else.

That night he falls asleep on your shoulder. Hands interlocked, body splayed out across stressed leather, abandoning his book for the soft drab of safety. There’s a tangled wire of headphones draped between you, knotted further when you pull him, half conscious to bed. He follows mindlessly.

You spend his allocated time off as recluses, abandoning civilisation. No sunlight, his apartment is permanently drenched in molten light. Scattered lamps, balancing off stacked books and messy surfaces. Every morning he’ll wake you with butterfly kisses and the promise of a breakfast he will consistently burn. He’s content, over the moon, to forget the world around him. For it to just be, just the two of you.

Today, as usual, you eat his charred attempt at food. He’s trying, he’s definitely trying, even if the end result is… a health risk. Still, you eat it regardless, without complaint, you eat it.. and then he’s just… kissing you senseless in the middle of his kitchen. Cold tiled floor, and mismatched socks. Fuck, he loves you, he’s never loved someone the way he loves you.

“I’ve been dreaming about falling into black holes recently,” he says when you cradle his face. Pretty features besotted with the sight of you. “Weird. Kinda cool. Please don’t eat anymore of my food.”

“No promises,” you grin, and he has the audacity to pout.

Because that’s not fair, burnt food can cause carcinogens to form, to obstruct digestion and metabolism. “My cooking is going to kill you. Your death will be on my hands. The grief will be immeasurable. I’ll become a hermit, never leave my apartment again. Don’t do that to me.” hands wrapped around your wrists, he preserves the contact. “Please don’t do that to me.”

“Well only because you said please—“

He sighs, audibly, ”You just died, you’re dead, and the only thing you can focus on is a word. A word I very generously repeat, at any given moment.” — he’s polite, he will use his manners, and he will unceremoniously echo please please please to obtain even a fraction of you.

He’s senseless. Too far gone.

You take his hand, press it against your heart. “Still alive. I think?”

“Yeah,” he scoffs, “For now.”

“You’re dramatic—“

He cuts you off, “Did you know one of the largest black holes ever recorded is 66 billion times the mass of the sun? Ton 618.” Pausing to kiss you (a vital necessity), his hands play aimlessly with your hair, strands sliding through the crevices of his fingers. “Imagine falling into that—“ kiss, “You would die obviously,” kiss, “But it would be a pretty cool death.” Kiss. 

Time dilation, worm holes, cosmic demise, you. Sigh— you.

“It would take over 10 billion years for its light to reach earth.” you say, and yeah. Okay. Just casually recite facts to him. That’s okay. He won’t melt, because he’s a rational, dignified, highly-cerebral adult.

Lie. You always know when to talk, sometimes, sometimes, he gets so lost in thought-loops and spirals of intellectual confusion that you have to draw him back to the present. He disintegrates. Every. Single. Time. One intelligent word and the threads of him are woven tightly around your finger.

”You’re stealing my job. And—and you’re doing it better than me. I’m taking a vow of silence. No more words. I’m becoming a monk. Except, maybe without the celibacy?”

“Whore—“

“For you? Always.” he says, knocking his shoulder into yours, “You’re missing the important aspect to this. Don’t discard my threat.”

“Spence, if you ever stop reciting random facts to me at..” you scramble to check the time, early morning, it’s hard to differentiate the hours when they all bleed into one convoluted mess of intimacy. “At 9AM, we will have serious issues. I might get HR involved.“

He’ll ramble about the laws of thermodynamics. Dedicating hours to the philosophical differences between determinism and free-will. You’ll call him a nerd, and he’ll laugh, muffling your protests with his mouth. It’s routine. Something to fall back onto.

 “Hey! Don’t drag HR into our domestic affairs! That’s—“ he interrupts himself to kiss you, again. Just because he can.

Once he’s satisfied that his lips will ache for the next millennium, he continues. “Anyway. I think we should get old together, and then, when we’re losing our minds, and we can’t tell the days apart, we just.. take a casual trip to space, travel through Ton 618. I’d be scared, so I’d hold your hand when we fall. Getting sucked into eternal darkness would be an acceptable way to go.”

He laughs, “You know, as long as you’re by my side, or whatever.”

“Or whatever,” you repeat, before holding out your pinky. “Deal?”

He feeds his own through yours, “Deal.” 

Yeah, just promise eternal devotion to him. That wont have any lasting, fatal effects on his sanity. It’s not like he’ll cling to it for the remainder of his ephemeral existence.

Later that night, when you’re draped in limbs, skin pressed against skin, you sigh against the warm slope of his neck. “You’re reciting the periodic table in your sleep again..”

It’s a habit. A permanent, engrained idiosyncratic that he’s endured since adolescence. He stirs awake, turning to face you in the hazy light. Features swollen, sleep-soft and pretty. “Was I?” He murmurs, finding the audacity to ask, “What element was i on?”

Because that’s clearly essential.

“Osmium,” you say, tucking strands of tousled auburn behind his ear. “Gonna continue?”

“Mhm— yeah. Iridium. One of my favourites, thank god you woke me up before I got to it.”

You humour his tendencies; you’re nothing if not a condoner of his weird quirks. “Discovered by Smithson Tennat in 1803.” is your response, “The name comes from Greek Mythology, Iris. Two stable Isotopes, 191 and 193.”

There you go again. Fracturing his mind, and stealing his information before it can fall from bruised lips.

He thinks you might be cut from the same cloth. He thinks he was probably just made for you. “I like the way you say Isotopes.” He mutters, “Like the way you kiss. You always take my top lip.”

There’s no epiphany. No sharp blade, dragging, penetrating, skin, forcing you to confront stifled feelings. They’ve always been there. Red string of fate, Plato’s Symposium: Aristophanes’ account of the ‘other half.’ Hero and Leander. It doesn’t matter. There’s only the here and now.

He does this thing. Often. Where he’ll moan into your open-mouth. Fingers sunk deep into your hair, keeping you impossibly tethered to him. You’re not sure what planet he fell from, but you’re glad they deported him, if only for your selfish benefit of circuiting around him.

“I’m in love with you,” the admittance is easy. Maybe the words have always been waiting for you to verbalise, bated breath, inexorably interlinked. Maybe they’re long overdue. Something pleading to be let out. But, maybe, it matters more to wait until this, when everything is soft and untouchable. Fresh, untainted. He’d like to live in your skin.

Here’s the thing, Spencer always thought he would be the first one to say it. Reciprocation was always a fantastical hypothetical, something he could only blindly hope for. But, to have his illimitable feelings, in their extensive capacity, matched? That’s— more than he ever thought he deserved.

He presses his forehead to yours, “Saying ‘i’m in love with you’ doesn’t measure up, doesn’t articulate even a fraction of what I feel for you.”

He’s pretty sure he could die right here, in this one fragile moment, and be happy with everything he’s accomplished.

[tubbytarchia]

gg buddy am I right (ethubs doodle that I don't know what to do with)

[hairmetal666]

Eddie Munson gets famous at fifteen, after a YouTube video goes viral.

He's the kind of famous where he can't leave his house without being mobbed; where his name is plastered across grocery store tabloids and every fifth Pop Crave post; who has to make special arrangements with stores, whose body guards have body guards, who's forgotten what it's like to be normal. He's the kind of famous with well-chronicled stints in and out of rehab

And he thinks, at thirty, why not do a reality show? Why not let everyone in the world into his life because they're there anyway?

There's this guy on the crew, beautiful as a fucking sunrise. He's all golden-tanned and chestnut-haired, with these big hazel eyes that makes Eddie stomach swoop deliciously whenever they happen to meet his.

His name is Steve.

And Eddie, well. He's learned his lesson about jumping into relationships. So, Steve is nice to look at, and that's all there is to it.

---

They're at the studio, and Eddie, he only smokes when he's recording but he's "not allowed" to do that inside. So, he steps out into the alley behind the building, eyes falling shut as he hands search his pockets for his pack of Camels and his Zippo.

"I didn't realize you smoked," a deep voice says from the darkness.

Eddie startles, eyes flying open. Steve is leaning against the brick of the building, cigarette perched between his pursed lips.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you. I'm Steve. With the crew."

"Eddie," he answers by instinct.

"I know," Steve chuckles. His hazel eyes are golden in the yellow streetlight.

"Oh, right." He lights his cigarette and inhales deep.

"I really like what you're doing in there." Steve nods his head towards the studio.

"You a fan?"

"Never listened to you much before. Not really a metal kinda guy, but I like it."

People aren't usually honest with Eddie. It's refreshing.

"Glad you're getting into it! How's your--uh, job going?"

Steve laughs. "First assistant camera, that's my job." Eddie's expression must read a total blank, but Steve only smiles. "I make sure everything's in focus while we film"

"Is that--hard?"

"Sometimes," Steve agrees. "How do you like being the star of a reality show?"

Eddie huffs out a breath. "It's more fun than I expected. Like, sure it's weird to have you guys follow me around, but at least I invited you, you know?"

Steve's dark eyes are fathomless in his perfect face. "You'll let me know? If anything happens that you don't like?"

Eddie nods, taken aback by the serious line of Steve's pretty mouth. Before he can respond more, the back door creaks open, Gareth's backlit shape leaning into the alley. "Eddie? They're ready for you."

"Duty calls." He smiles at Steve as he stomps out his cigarette. "See you around."

---

Eddie goes to a house party in the hills. It's just a handful of people, all of them he's known for years, no cameras in sight.

Someone asks how things are going with the band. Eddie doesn't think anything of it. Why should he, among friends? Why should he when they already know the resentment that Gareth, Jeff, and Freak have for him? Eddie got signed and not his band. The guys--they never really forgave him, think he could have tried harder.

So, he says--he says--"I wish they didn't resent me so goddamn much still. To this day! They're millionaires and they're pissed at me? Fuck that. I got them here. I got us all here."

They're filming the next day at Eddie's house. He's working on a new song, engrossed in his acoustic and his notebook.

He's so in the zone, it takes him a second to register when Gareth bursts into the house.

"Fuck you, Munson," Gareth screams. "What the fuck is this shit?" Eddie's own voice pours from Gareth's phone, and Eddie's stunned speechless for dozens of seconds as he tries to comprehend what's happening.

"I didn't--" he tires. He raises his hands placatingly, but his minds a whirlwind, thoughts a tangle, heart a mess of betrayal and hurt and fear.

"We should be fucking grateful?" Gareth yells. "You spoiled piece of shit, fuck you!" He lunges towards Eddie, but Steve darts from behind the camera, moving to block Gareth's path.

"Stop filming," Eddie shouts. He lifts his arms to block the shit. "Get out," he snaps at the crew. " Now!"

He and Gareth scuffle towards a set of double-doors, heated words low and unintelligible.

"Don't come in." He tells the crew. "Steve, I mean it. Tell them to stop."

Eddie shoves Gareth into the other room, slamming the door behind him. Still, the mics pick up the screaming fight between the two men.

Hours later, Eddie finally makes his way back to the main part of the house, finds Steve standing at the kitchen island.

"Why are you still here?" He's too exhausted from the fight to put any inflection into it.

"I was wo--I wanted to make sure everything was okay," Steve says. He relaxes against the island. "Are yo--is everything okay?"

Eddie's laugh is humorless. "Something like that."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

The tears he kept at bay with Gareth prick at his eyelids until they burn. "Not really, no."

Steve nods. "We could--you wanna watch a movie?"

This startles a laugh out of Eddie, one that has tears flooding his eyes and he has to blink fast, look down, anything so Steve doesn't notice.

"You know what I want?" he says. It's soft enough that maybe Steve, across the kitchen, wouldn't hear.

"What?"

"To have friends who won't sell me out for a couple thousand bucks." The tears start falling, his throat choked with emotion.

He wants to stop, embarrassed to be crying in front of Steve, but now that he's started, sobs shake his shoulders and he can't keep quiet.

Steve reaches for him. "Is this okay?" he whispers, hands rubbing circles against his back.

Eddie nods, cries for a while as Steve makes soothing motions against his back.

"I just wish I was normal," he mumbles when he has words again.

Steve's hold on him tightens. "I'm sorry, Eddie."

Shame hits him then, too hard to ignore, and he steps away. "I'm gonna--I'm gonna go. I--Thanks again."

He ignores the sound of Steve calling him back.

---

Eddie's playing a show. He's playing a show in a small club, something he hasn't been able to do for years, but he's doing it right now. It's electric, vibrating through his body, the crowd screaming along with every word.

So much of this is because of Steve, and Eddie can't think about it, because men like Steve aren't for guys like Eddie.

As he plays, his eyes scan the small crowd, find Steve easily. He's gazing at Eddie, lips slicked pink and parted, eyes shining. Eddie knows this look; the naked desire obvious. A heat he never lets himself feel for Steve blooms low in his abdomen, but--

He wails into his mic, forcing his thoughts away from that path. He has a show to play, one that's pumping his veins full of satisfied adrenaline. Nothing can ruin it.

When the show ends, Eddie is high, endorphins and adrenaline pounding through his bloodstream.

Eddie, the band, and the film crew make their way out the club's backdoor. There's a car idling close by, but they only get a few steps in before there's shouting; the ear-shattering click of dozens of camera shutters; overwhelming burst of flashes.

Eddie is disoriented, dizzy; the rapid shift from the best night he's had in years, to this, mobbed by paparazzi, people screaming his name, crowding their small group. He stumbles, black spots still obstructing his vision.

Arms catch around him, holding him steady. "You okay?" Steve asks.

Before he can answer, one of the paps yells, "Munson's wasted! Can't even walk!"

"C'mon, Ed, I've got you," Steve says.

"Just get into the booze, Munson, or someone had Molly too? Maybe a little coke? That used to be your thing, right? Snort a little blow and do a show?"

Eddie tenses, almost stops, but Steve keeps him going.

The crowd surges around them, more voices yelling, more flashbulbs popping, the guy saying, "He can't even stand without help! You got a real problem you know?"and he just--can't anymore. He whirls out of Steve's grasp, lunges for the guy.

"What's your fucking problem, man?" Eddie hisses. "What did I do to you, huh?"

"Real tough, Munson, huh?" The man sneers. He shoves Eddie hard, knocking him back a few steps.

Eddie's vision fuzzes out, brain buzzing. He snarls, knows he does, knows he's losing it, can't make it stop.

Strong arms wrap around his waist, pull him off his feet. He fights it until he's pressed into a wall, until cold hands cup his face.

"Baby, baby, you have to calm down," Steve murmurs. "You have to breathe, can you do that for me?"

"I want--he can't--I--"

Steve presses harder against him, bodies joined. "You're having a panic attack, yeah? Can you breathe with me, baby? Match me?"

Eddie nods, tries, wants to be good for Steve.

He calms, as much from the breathing exercise as being held by the most beautiful man he's ever seen. Pressing his face against Steve's neck he says, "why are you always around for my worst moments? I'm such a fucking mess."

"I don't think you're a mess," he says. "I think you've gotten hurt, you've gotten cornered. And your reactions are normal."

"Why do you even care?" Eddie asks.

Steve doesn't even pause. "Cause I like you, Eddie." His hold tightens for a second. "I like you a lot."

Eddie scoffs. "Yeah, you like Eddie Munson, the hot rockstar. Not the loser who cries in your arms"

Cold air hits Eddie as Steve steps away to meet Eddie's eyes. You want to know something? I didn't expect to like you at all. I admit, I bought into all the stories on the internet. But you were never anything like that, Ed. Not even once."

Steve takes a deep breath, turning away as his cheeks grow pink. "And you--you're always going out of your way for people. The day I knew I was gone for you? Three weeks into filming. There was this kid interning. You didn't know a thing about him, just some twenty-year-old, and you sat down and talked to him. Were genuinely interested in everything he said."

"Steve," Eddie's voice breaks. He has to cover his mouth, lips a wobbling mess.

"I want to give you normal, Eddie, as much as I can. If you'll let me."

The moisture tumbles free from his eyes, streaking down his cheeks. Eddie laughs. "God, Steve, you're--I like you, too."

Steve brushes the tears away. "So, you'd go on a date with me?"

"I think I would really like to go on a date with you, yeah."

Steve leans in, slow and gentle, placing a soft kiss at the corner of Eddie's mouth. It lights him up like a fresh struck match, nerve endings on fire. He thinks it's so much more than like already.

"Take me home, sweetheart," he says.

"Getting fresh with me, Munson," Steve smirks. "I won't have you using your rockstar wiles to seduce me."

Eddie's laugh echoes off the brick of the surrounding buildings. "Oh, sweetheart, my rockstar ways will destroy you."

"That a promise?"

---

Six months later, the first and only season of Welcome to Hell premieres. Instead, of chronicling a rockstar's debauched and wild lifestyle, it's a soft and charming love story. It shows Steve and Eddie growing closer, Steve working late into the night, to give Eddie the hint of normalcy he's so desperate for, to make him happy. It shows Eddie's eyes track Steve across a room, something like sadness crossing his face. It shows a concert that Steve arranged, the fight with the pap outside the venue, brief glimpses of Steve and Eddie in the aftermath, the gentle kiss.

In the last interview of the season, the producer asks Eddie if there will be a season two of Welcome to Hell.

Eddie smiles, glances off camera, which pans to find Steve in worn jeans and a Metallica hoodie, hair messy and wearing glasses. He gazes at Eddie, smiles this soft, aching thing.

"Nah, I don't think I need it anymore," Eddie answers. Throwing the camera a smile that matches Steve's.

[kettlefire]

A Panic in Time (DP x DC)

This is all thanks to the awesome @tkiesai for basically being the foundation of this idea! This is probably going to be long, and probably won't delve that deep into my ideas about this idea. Largely so it's not insanely long. But here I go!

°•°•°•°

Bruce's head felt like it had been shoved through a straw and spit out on the other side. The throbbing was annoying, but it wasn't anything the man couldn't handle.

His mind was muddled, memories of what happened prior to him awaking was blurry and unsure. Bruce knew it wasn't something good.

He vaguely remembered a league meeting, a threat, something looming. It wasn't world ending, or at least that's what Bruce remembered. It should have been something they could handle.

But now, here was Bruce. Waking up in the grass of some random park. He was dressed in casual attire, something he'd wear in public as Bruce. Although last he remembered he was in the Batsuit.

The sun felt too bright in the sky. The sound of families filled the air and children's laughter. No one seemed to blink twice at Bruce as he pulled himself together.

It took a moment to steel himself, to gain composer again. It took a few sweet lines, and a charming smile for a nice mother to slide him a few painkillers. The lies rolling off his tongue like second nature.

To his luck there was a newspaper at the top of the trashcan. He was in some town called Amity Park, and the year... the year was the problem.

It was 1996. Whatever had happened had sent Bruce back in time. There was a few suspects Bruce can think were the cause of this. But something in his gut kept drawing his train of thought to the Flash.

It seemed like each time the League had any time related problems, Barry was in the center of it. Which also leaves Bruce with the question if he was the only one sent back in time.

God, he could only imagine the nightmare if the others were sent back in time. Yes, they can be professional. They understand the risk of changing things in the past.

But Bruce also understands that his team can be less than... intelligent at times.

Despite that, Bruce needed to find a way to get back to Gotham. He might not know for sure where everyone was right now, but he knew Alfred was the safest bet.

A plan laid out in Bruce's mind, a list of people he knew wouldn't be a risk to approach. He just needed to find a way to get to them. He had barely made it to the gates of the park before a shrill cry pierced the air.

There was just one loud outcry, before it quieted down. Bruce glance around the space, spotting a young boy curled on the ground. Tears streamed down the boy's chubby cheeks.

And no one even moved to the boy's aid. Not a single mother spared more than one glance in the kid's directions. No parents came rushing over to the boy's side.

Bruce almost walked away, he really did. This wasn't his time, anything he does can cause immense damage to the timeline. But when Bruce caught sight of blood bubbling from a scrape on the boy's knee, Bruce couldn't ignore him.

Maybe it's just the father in him, but Bruce barely even notices when he's crossing the small distance. His mind zeroing in on a hurt child that needed help. Kneeling before the small boy with a gentle smile, and pulling his handkerchief free from his pocket.

"You're alright there, buddy. It looks like you took a bit of a tumble there." Bruce slipped into the same tone he used to use when his kids were young. Gentle and understanding, as he pressed the handkerchief to the small scrape.

The boy sniffled, tears slipping from his eyes. Bruce was more focused on the way the kid was looking at him. Like he couldn't fathom someone coming to his aid.

That look had Bruce's heart breaking slightly. He's seen a similar look before. The few times he's come to the aid of a hurt child that wasn't used to getting help.

Something no child should ever feel or experience.

"Where's your parents, kiddo?" Bruce asked after a moment of silence from the boy. He had waited until the kid's breathing settled down when the boy's chest stopped pumping so quickly.

Except his question only seemed to bring a new wave of tears to the boy's eyes. The small child just seemed to curl into himself further, ducking his gaze away from Bruce.

And as much as Bruce didn't want it to be true, it was clear the kid didn't have the support he needed. It might not as be as far as some of Bruce's kids have had in the past.

But it was clearly not good.

"That's okay, it's alright. What's your name?" Bruce tried again. The boy's silence was leaving an uncomfortable pit in Bruce's stomach.

"D-Danny..." The boy spoke out his name between sniffles, and Bruce felt a wave of relief hearing the boy speak.

In hindsight, Bruce can see how strange the scene might look. A slightly disheveled man comforting a lone young boy in a park. It wasn't exactly perfect.

But with the lack of reactions from the parents around, Bruce had a feeling the town had an idea who this boy was. The whole situation just didn't feel that right for him.

It took a few more comments before Bruce managed to get the boy to crack a smile. A laugh had felt like breaking a massive wall.

Before long, Bruce had Danny actually like any other boy he's known. Carefree and happy, just like a child should be.

"You didn't tell me your name, mister." Danny had suddenly cut down the relaxed moment they were in. A pout laced the boy's lips as he looked up at Bruce, almost accusatory.

"I'm Bruce. Bruce Wayne." Bruce responded without missing a beat. He knew this might cause problems in the future. He wasn't supposed to be here.

But when his gut is telling him something, he can't just ignore it. He checked his pockets, finding no business cards anywhere. So, Bruce fell back in plan B.

"No matter how long it's been from now, you can come to me for help. Just look for Bruce Wayne in Gotham City, and when you find me... just say Fairbanks sent you."

Bruce wasn't sure if he'll ever see Danny again when he goes back to his own time. Wasn't even sure if this was the same universe as his own. But he couldn't walk away without at least offering the boy help in some way.

When Danny's eyes filled up with tears again, Bruce thought he said something wrong at first. That was until the boy was suddenly clinging to his shoulders in a tight embrace, muttering 'thank you' over and over again.

Bruce felt himself almost close to tears just from that alone. His heart was aching for the small boy. Even if Bruce couldn't help Danny anymore than this, he was hoping the boy would have a better life.

One where he wasn't clinging to a stranger for comfort that family should be providing him.

THWAMP

It didn't hurt, but it did cut their hug short as Bruce suddenly pulled away. Turning his head to see a young girl wielding a wiffle bat, and another young boy standing behind her.

Her purple eyes glared at Bruce like he had done the worst thing in the world. Her grip on the bat was threatening and ready to swing again. Her knuckles white from the tight grip alone.

Maybe leaving this time era might not be as easy as Bruce thought as the young girl probbed him with angry and scolding questions. Not that Bruce could blame her.

He just hoped this hiccup didn't get back to the league. They'd have a field day hearing about how Batman got scolded by a child with a wiffle bat.

°•°•°•°•°•°

Danny wasn't sure if this was the best idea. It's been years since he met Bruce Wayne. So many years. Danny had just been a kid, not even ten, when Bruce had introduced himself.

When he had an adult, actually check in on him. Yet, it was a memory Danny couldn't forget. Maybe it was just the kindness that Bruce radiated.

Or maybe it was when Sam came to his "rescue" near the end. Regardless, it was cemented in his mind. A core memory that Danny cared with him through the years.

Now, here he was, roughly seven years later. Standing in front of a manor that put even Sam's place to shame.

It took a lot of courage for Danny to knock. Barely a second later, an old man answered the door, an accent Danny was certain Bruce hadn't had.

A stuttered explaination of being here to see Bruce Wayne, that the man knew him, barely left Danny's mouth before the old man ushered him inside.

The man, Alfred, told Danny to wait by the door before vanishing further into the manor. It took a lot for Danny to not just vanish.

Being half ghost nowadays had its quirks, Danny could just vanish, and no one but Alfred would know. But he couldn't.

It had taken a lot for Danny to make the journey to Gotham City. He hadn't even thought to look up a current picture of Bruce either. Which was probably a big mistake on his end.

Danny didn't even know if Bruce was offering this kind of help. But Danny didn't have many allies to turn to. He needed help.

Not just for himself but for his family. For Amity Park. He couldn't be afforded the ability to run away. Not now.

Danny felt all the air leave his lungs when Bruce entered the area. The man didn't look a day older than what Danny remembered. Bruce looked a bit more put together, not like he had just jumped out of a moving car, but it was Bruce.

"Uhm... I don't know if you remember me. But my name's Danny... we met when I was a kid." Danny started trying to explain himself before Bruce could speak. He recognized that confused look anywhere, and Danny didn't have the guts to go through with this if Bruce asked any questions.

"You told me if I ever needed help, to come find you. Bruce Wayne in Gotham City... you, uh, told me to tell you Fairbanks sent me?"

That came out more like a question than Danny would have liked. But it did ease his nerves a bit as he watched Bruce's slightly confused expression turn to alarm and surprise.

Danny wasn't sure what this would do. If Bruce could truly help him. But he was out of options. Just seeing Bruce recognize something he said was enough to calm the teen's anxiety slightly.

"I'm sorry, Danny... I don't remember you. But I believe you and I want to help you. Come inside, have a seat, and tell me what's going on."

That response was enough to have Danny's eyes fill with tears. His chest filling with a sense of hope he hadn't felt in weeks now.

Maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.

[mrs-kmikaelson]

What's in a Name? (+)

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader Summary: The one time that you don't walk away. Warnings: mentions of substance abuse, vvs suggestive Words: 1.2K

Masterlist

a/n: if ur js finding this fic, this is the bonus! the fives times r does walk away are here. this happens right after no.5, btw.

6. A lie is the truth

Arlington, Virginia, 2008

You couldn't sleep.

All you could think of was the fact that you were in Aaron's bed and he was right outside the door. The thunder continued to boom but your thoughts were louder than the storm outside; they consumed you.

It was irrational. You'd known him for nearly five years, and in that time, you'd only seen him an equivalent of five times, yet he was still on your mind. He'd been on your mind non-stop since New York—and that was crazy.

You felt crazy.

You felt crazy because he was right. You felt something.

It all started off as a game. You just wanted to get under his skin, play with fire a bit, but you got burned. You couldn't handle the heat; you couldn't handle the way the game stopped being a game. It became something else.

Hotch's role was to get irritated, maybe a bit flustered, but he was never supposed to flirt back. He was never supposed to want to know you— you couldn't even remember the last time anyone wanted to do that.

Lovers came and went over the years, but none had ever felt like this. It was always physical, but you and Aaron hadn't even kissed. Without any of that, he still had you in his grip. 

You couldn't remember the last time you'd been with anybody. You don't know if you'd been holding off on purpose, if it was conscious. You'd been holding out for a guy you couldn't even be with, and now that you had the chance, you were the one holding back.

God, if he knew you before. If you'd met before, things would've been so different. Maybe he could've saved you from yourself. 

But he didn't. When you were drowning, you pulled yourself out of the water. That old version of you died, and Y/N was born. Y/N was the one who saved you. When you had no one else, Y/N was there. She was your shoulder to cry on until she taught you not to cry anymore, to focus.

But now what did you have? An apartment you barely lived in and nobody that really knew you. But there was a man out there, a good man, who said he wanted to.

You didn't know what you'd show him—you weren't even sure if you really knew you.

But maybe... maybe you could find out together.

You'd never know if you didn't try.

With that thought, you threw the covers back and beelined for the door. When you opened it, you were surprised to find Aaron already behind the threshold, fist raised to knock. In an instant, he dropped it.

"Y/N—"

You cut him off. "Wait, just— just let me get this out." He looked confused. "If I don't get it out, I don't think I ever will."

There was a beat of silence, but then he spoke. "Okay."

His eyes were kind and patient as you tried to gather the words, everything you wanted to say vanishing from your fingertips. So you went with the first thing that popped into your mind. "My name is Lorelai." Surprise shone on his face, but you paid it little mind, racing to say everything before you lost the courage. "But people used to call me Lai. It was a play on words, because I was a liar. I lied about a lot of things. I got involved with the wrong kinds of people, got my hands on the wrong types of things, I was—" you swallowed. "I was an addict. And my life was gonna go down the drain, but things changed. Then I got on the government radar, and suddenly I wasn't Lai anymore, but I was still a liar; the difference was just that I was a better liar. More powerful. Now I'm Y/N. And that name changed everything for me. That is what is in a name. Everything."

By the time you finished, you were breathing heavy. You averted your eyes as a chuckle left you. "So, tell me, Aaron, do you still want to know me?"

You were expecting him to leave, to end it there and tell you he'd drive you home tomorrow, but instead, you felt sudden warmth on your cheeks as his hands wiped away tears you didn't know were there. "Look at me." When you didn't respond, he tried again, "Y/N. Look at me."

You looked up, expecting to see judgement and hatred, anger, but you saw none of that. You saw openness and understanding, and other emotions you couldn't pinpoint. You realized you couldn't decipher it because no one had ever looked at you this way.

His voice was soft and firm all at the same time. "Y/N, I don't care what your name is. I don't care if a lie is the truth— I care about you." He paused as if he wanted his words to soak in, but not once did he look away. "I want to know you, whether that be about Lorelai or Y/N doesn't matter. This woman in front of me right now, she is who I want to know." 

Your heart beat rapidly against your ribcage as he leaned in closer. Déjà vu from your moment in the kitchen hit you hard, your eyes going back to his lips, the same lips that just uttered that he didn't care, the same lips that just washed away your fears. 

He closed his eyes and then pleaded, "Let me know you, Y/N."

That shattered any last semblance of doubt you had left, and you barely had time to think about it before you were slamming your lips into his. 

He reciprocated immediately, kissing you with the fervour of a man who'd been suffocated and you were his air. A sensation you couldn't name erupted all over your body, from your head to your toes, and you wondered how you had lived so long without ever feeling this. Of all the kisses you'd ever had, none could compare to this one.

But this didn't just feel like a kiss. It felt like a promise.

Your lips moved in sync together, just like when you'd been dancing that night in Washington. It was like your body knew all the steps to this dance without ever having learned it.

So now you wondered, if this was supposed to be wrong, why did it feel more right than anything you'd ever done?

Eventually, you had to pull away. His eyes were still closed. You grinned. "How about you get to know me tomorrow night at dinner?"

That caused his eyes to open, a full-fledged smile making its way onto his face, and you knew then and there that you'd do anything to make him smile like that all the time. "8 o'clock?"

You nodded and agreed, "It's a date."

His smile got wider, and then he ducked his head into the crook of your neck where it fit perfectly. You wrapped your arms around his neck, recalling how he tensed the last time you did so. Now he had a different reaction, pressing his lips against your neck and littering kisses everywhere.

Tomorrow, you had a date at 8'oclock. But as Aaron kicked the door closed, you wondered if you'd make it out of bed to get there.

You supposed you could miss one date.

You had a feeling there would be many more to make up for it.

[bumblehoneybee]

Hi, I loved your poppy playtime oneshots and your writing is just magnificent. I saw that you're accepting ideas, so if you like and feel comfortable you could write how the group (Poppy, Kissy and our adorable boy Dogday) would react to Player being protective of them and ending up getting hurt in one of the smiling creatures' chases. Have a good night and thanks in advance.

Guardian Angel

Most of the miniature creatures had scuttled off into the unknown once Catnap fell. It left the Playcare far safer than before, enough so that Poppy and Kissy could come down from their hiding place and properly walk around with you and Dogday. A relief, being able to at least somewhat relax now, before the final fight to come.

You collapse onto your butt into one of the rickety chairs within Home Sweet Home. Dogday chuckles at your long, dramatic groan of exhaustion, resting his head in your lap with a sigh. You pat his head, pouting, but pleased with the outcome thus far. You've been doing a good job, you think. Not the best, but good, especially since you were able to save poor Dogday from becoming those mini critters' next meal.

A weight settles onto your shoulder. "Good idea! A break sounds just lovely."

You eye Poppy. "What are you taking a break from? Dogday and I are the only ones who've been running around!"

"It's exhausting to watch you run." Poppy teases back, Kissy nodding in agreement.

You just laugh, fingers raking through Dogday's matted fur. You'll need to try and find a shower for everyone, one with actual running water and maybe some soap. It'd be nice to clean up all the grime you four have been dragging all around. Maybe Home Sweet Home had one?

Before you can voice such a thought, Kissy begins to growl. Your head snaps up, Dogday's too. Poppy grips your head as you stand, staring at Kissy, who faces a nearby hole in the wall with bared teeth and swiping arms.

"Kissy?" Poppy asks. You swiftly pluck the doll up, handing her to Dogday before either could react. "Wha- Angel-!"

You dive forward, snatching the Bubba critter before it could fully lunge at Kissy's next swipe. You throw it off down the hall before it can do any damage to you, then make frantic motions to the others.

"Let's go!"

They don't argue. Kissy takes Poppy back from Dogday, while you haul your buddy up onto your back again. It's a quick sprint down the maze-like halls, one followed by rumbling and distinct screeches of hunger, of anger.

You briefly wonder if the critters hate you for destroy the one that brought them food.

Whoops.

Before you can lament your luck, Dogday shouts. Pink fur fills your vision, knocking you back a few steps. You nearly fall, but Dogday braces on the wall and helps you regain balance. You see Kissy's head frantically swiveling, and peer past her to where a pile, or maybe more of a wall of broken boards and fallen concrete blocks the way forward.

"Shit." You say, twisting to see bright white eyes encroaching on your team. "Fuck."

"Language." Dogday says, half distracted, not that you acknowledge it.

You gaze back towards the wall, see a sliver of space at the very top, easy enough to squeeze through.

"Kissy!" You point, and she gets the idea immediate.

Limber and flexible, she climbs up the boards and metal rebars, easily sliding through the hole. She reaches down, Poppy hiding behind her neck, and grabs Dogday by the scruff to haul him up next. His head is a bit too big, sadly, so with panic, the toys begin to struggle.

"Angel!" Dogday calls down to you.

"Just stay calm!" You call back, facing the approaching sea of ravenous critters. The flare gun hand cocks, loaded and ready. "And be careful! I'll hold them off!"

With that, you charge into the fray, if only to buy more time.

"ANGEL!" Dogday hollers after you. It rips through his vocal chords, rips through his soul, watching you disappear into the darkness peppered with hungry white eyes. "Kissy! Let me go!"

"Why!?" Poppy asks, her and Kissy's view blocked by Dogday. "We need to get you through so Angel-"

"Angel just ran off!" Dogday snaps, squirming. He pushes and pulls at the boards beneath him, knocking them loose as he tries to drag himself back down. Kissy's tug makes his head slam into the broken ceiling, and he hisses. "They need help! Let me go!"

crack

Everyone freezes.

You fire a flare into Kickin's face, twisting around in time to watch Dogday fall backwards, the ceiling falling right after him.

"GUYS!?" You scream, panic firing through your veins like ice water. You twist, try to run towards the new mountain of debris now completely blocking the way forward, but a Crafty digs its teeth into your leg. "FUCK!"

Your flare gun clicks, out of ammo for now. Looks like you'll have to get old school if you want to get out of this.

On the other side of the mountain, Dogday claws at the debris, howling your name to the heavens as though it will bring you to him. Kissy smacks at the higher boards, tugging at the rock and plaster, but to no avail. It was all well and truly stuck and snug.

Poppy, sitting just a few feet away, places her face in her hands. Their angel. . . alone on the other side, left behind because they were trying to buy time for them to escape. And they did escape, without Angel.

Angel, fighting for their life all alone.

Poppy gasps for air, fighting tears.

"We. . . we need to f-find another way around." She says, voice wavering.

Kissy looks back at her, panting, then down to where Dogday doesn't stop, still digging into the debris best he can with his paws. With a shaky sigh, Kissy leans down, hauling Dogday off the floor despite his growls and barks of protest.

Poppy leads the way further into Home Sweet Home, building speed with each step. Angel has saved them. Now it's their turn to save their angel.

[pedriache]

for gavi! ^_^ #ANGST oneshot (or 2parter) where reader feels as though he’s going to break up with her and her suspicions are true? lmk.

Hard to sleep — Pablo Gavi.

Pairing: Pablo Gavi x Fem!Reader

Summary: You noticed Gavi had been pulling away recently, and for a moment you thought he was going to break up with you. The thought had you spiraling for days and you’d found it hard to sleep, although your best friend said it was all in your head. With the thought weighing you down, you finally gain the courage to just ask. But no matter how much you already knew, your heart shattered the second he confirmed your suspicions.

Word count: 1.02k

Disclaimer/s: Based on “hard to sleep” by gracie abrams so it’s just angst! Part two

A/N: i hope i did this req justice..

Staring across the cedar dining table, your eyes flickered across your boyfriend’s far gone face. He was silently scrolling on his phone, hardly looking away to take a spoonful of the soup you’d made. His favorite soup, cooked to perfection, but you had yet to receive a compliment, or even a comment about it.

Your own bowl had long since became cold, so you knew his was too. He had hardly looked at you the whole evening. He hadn’t even noticed the way your eyes had slowly sunken in.

A few nights ago, you had the horrifying thought that he was going to break up with you. That he didn’t love you anymore and it was weighing on you more and more with every passing night.

With the absence of his arms squeezing you close to his chest every night, you hadn’t been able to sleep properly. You could hardly even eat and get out of bed.

You loved him so deeply, so strongly, the thought of losing him broke you.

And he hadn’t even noticed.

Audrey, your best friend, had tried to assure you that you were just overthinking. That it was all in your head. But you knew. You knew very well what was happening because you’d been through it before.

Your bottom lip had began to quiver and something like resentment filling you. The Pablo Gavira you once knew and loved was so different from the one sitting in front of you now.

“Pablo.” You snap, your chest shakily rising and falling with every breath.

Not looking up from his phone, he nods absentmindedly. “Hm?”

“Could you just fucking look at me?” Your voice lacked the anger you felt seconds ago, now it was simply pleading. Pleading him to look at you with his loving doe eyes, pleading him to reassure you that it was all okay.

But he doesn’t. Instead, his eyes snap to you with an agitated look, like even that small movement was a burden. You were a burden.

It was then you knew, all love was lost.

Swallowing hard, trying to fight the bile rising in your throat, you force out the words you didn’t want a reply to. “Why are you acting like this?”

He blinks. Once, twice, thrice.. “Like what?” He sighs, setting his phone down to face you.

“Like you don’t love me.”

There’s a long, uncomfortable silence that fills the air. You feel like every particle of oxygen had been sucked from the dining room. Hell, you feel like every particle of energy had been vacuum sealed into a plastic bag and thrown into space, away from your reach.

Your name slips past his tongue, and you realize then, he sounded like a stranger. Like someone you’d never met but somehow knew your name. He didn’t sound like your boyfriend. A part of you wished he would stop speaking, to stop your heart from hurting any further.

“I’m sorry.” He finishes. No explanation, just a pathetic ‘sorry.’

“Why?” You choke out, tears brimming your eyes. You don’t want a half assed apology. You want a reason.

Gavi glances to the side, sucking his teeth as he stares out the window of your one bedroom apartment. One you would have to move out of soon. You couldn’t bear to live here if he wasn’t with you.

“With football and traveling, I just can’t keep this up. I care about you, but it’s just too much to balance.” He almost sounded sad. Almost.

Chewing on your lip, you feel every ounce of your compose stripping away. Your shoulders slump, an unamused laugh leaving your lips. “This was never a problem before.”

“It’s takes too much effort, okay? They need me to put in one-hundred percent on the field, and I can’t do that with my mind preoccupied on how i’m going to make it up to you when I miss our date nights. Or how i’m going to tell you I won’t make it to a special event with you. It’s just too much.” His eyes are closed and he’s rubbing a hand over his face, but still, he didn’t even look regretful. Like this was a weight off his shoulders.

Nodding in disbelief, you feel a tear slip past your eyelid and down your cheek. “Why can’t you try? You say you care about me but you can’t even try? I don’t need you to make it to date night, hell i’d give up on those for you. I don’t—“ Your voice cracks and you clamp your mouth shut. “okay.” You finally gave in. Tried to accept that it was over. But the tears in your eyes betrayed it all.

“I’m sorry, I can’t do it. I care for you.. but loving you is just.. it’s too much.”

You laugh. You genuinely laugh, tears flowing down your cheeks as you shake your head incredulously. “Holy fuck!” You exclaim, “oh my God! Wow. Okay.”

His eyebrows furrow in confusion and it takes him a few moments to realize how his words sounded. He groans, “that’s not what I meant, you know that. I just meant that it’s too much to balance.”

“Oh please don’t double down. I got what you meant.” You stand from the table, leaving your soup there, cold and lifeless. Just like how you felt. “I’ll stay at Audrey’s tonight. Then I’ll move my shit out while you’re at practice this weekend. I don’t need to burden you any further.”

You wait for a reply, but you never get one. He just stares at the cedar table, his face hidden from view. Taking one last look at the apartment that had been home to some of the best memories of your life, it now looks sad and empty. Every inch of life stripped from it.

Gathering a few things, you don’t spare another look at him you as you leave, closing the door behind you. You leave with the knowledge that now, more than ever before, it was going to be hard to sleep anywhere knowing you’ll never feel his embrace again.

(DT) @halfwayhearted ^_^

[mysticalblue09]

Imagine for a sec with me. One day, Annabeth dies while defending a bunch of mortal children from a monster and, for the sake of this what if story, Percy doesn’t lose his shit and attacks the gods. He realizes he’s gonna see her again one day so he continues on living. Fast forward about 5 years and Percy dies in a drunk car accident (I can see the irony) and he ends up in hades. He goes through judgment and gets sent to Elysium. He gets there and immediately starts to look for Annabeth. He sees all these familiar faces. Jason, Beckondorf, Silena, Zoe, Bianca, and so on but he doesn’t see his wise girl. He figures she must be in the Isle of the Bliss because of course Annabeth is and he walks over to Bianca to ask her if he can talk to her dad about just visiting the Isle to see Annabeth. Bianca looks him in the eyes and says she’s not here. Percy is like ya I know she’s not here that’s why I want to go and see if she’s on the Isle. Bianca shakes her head and says Percy, she’s not there either, she’s not here in the underworld. Percy just stares at her, confused and asks if there was a mix up and she’s actually in the fields of asphodel. Bianca starts to tear up as his friend starts to form a circle around him and says, I don’t know how, but Annabeth Chase’s soul never made it down here into the underworld. And that’s when it hits him, Annabeth died with her knife in her hands. He remembers Magnus telling him how people ended up in Valhalla. Percy falls to his knees and starts to wail uncontrollably as he realizes that he’ll never get to hold Annabeth, his Wise Girl, ever again.

Cut back to 5 years ago to when Annabeth first wakes up after death. She’s confused at first but quickly realizes where she is after someone tells her welcome to Hotel Valhalla. It doesn’t bother her at first, thinking that with Percy’s luck, he’ll die like she did so she waits. She waits in the lobby for decades until one day, Magnus sits beside her and gently tells her that it's been over a century and that Percy wasn’t coming. Magnus looks over at her and sees the silent tears streaming down her face. Deep down, she’s known for a while but didn’t want to believe it. Magnus holds her as she cries louder into his shoulders, all the while, Annabeth is wondering to herself how can the fates be so cruel?

[cristaq]

“He died because your hatred for me outweighed any love you ever had for each other.”

He remembers that Makarov's voice was eerily calm for the situation at hand. He raised his gun and pointed it towards Price, who tried to crawl away on the glass roof of Oasis Hotel, clenching his teeth.

“Die knowing your love was weak. He died because of you. All of them did.” He cocks the hammer of his gun. “See you in hell, Captain Price.”

The memory of the moment is incredibly vivid. Price takes a swing of the whisky bottle, trying to chase it away.

“Soap died because of YOU!” Another swing of the bottle, but the voices get louder. “You never could have loved each other the way you hate me.” Maybe he is right. Maybe they should have stopped chasing. The world could have finished the war on its own. Why did they have to sacrifice everything?

“I heard you place the names of the dead ones on some shitty clock tower to honour them. Do you think anyone will ever stop to read his name? ‘John Soap MacTavish - Lived for nothing. Died for even less.’”

Price throws away the alcohol bottle and it shattters to pieces. He goes to his bathroom and takes a long look in the mirror. Makarov seems to stare back, even from death. “We are not that different, Captain Price.” He snaps and punches the mirror and he keeps at it, imagining it’s Makarov’s smug expression. Blood spills from his knuckles down on the floor. “Nothing stands between us and our goals. Nothing.”

The loud ringing of the phone dissipates the macabre thoughts and chases Makarov’s ghost away. Price picks up, his bloodied hands still shaking.

“Captain John Price? We are calling from the hospital. You are registered as John MacTavish’s contact.”

Price’s heart skips multiple beats.

“He is finally awake, sir…”

Hope blooms in his chest, replacing the hurt. Nothing will ever force him away from Soap. Nothing. He's always been his mission. He just wishes he realised it sooner.

[pandora-writes-one-piece]

Memento Amoris Aeterni

Source for Pic

Word Count: 7155

Tags: Fem!Reader, NSFW - Oral - you receiving, reader is VERY inexperienced (it's medieval times and you're a princess. You know nothing), Angst without happy ending (!), some fluff, Protective Ace, Caring Ace, some gore, blood, cutting of limbs, medieval times AU. MDNI!!! 🔞

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Summary: You are a princess, the sole heir to the kingdom and a prized possession for your father, until he can sell you to the highest bidder. Because of your value, you have a personal guard, Sir Portgas, who seems bored to death with the task of watching over you. However, you realise that he's just hiding his feelings behind a mask. Yet perhaps now it is too late?

Notes: So I saw this post, and I just had to... I was going to do something very short, I swear, but it escalated! Hope you enjoy!

The meadow looks beautiful this time of year. The vibrant reds from the poppies, the purples from the lavenders, the whites from the daisies, and scattered here and there, some yellows from the sweet buttercups and blues from cornflowers. 

It feels like pure freedom. 

Your dainty fingers caress the grass as you run, hoisting your long dress over one arm, ignoring the way your white stockings are showing and laughing nervously at the way you almost lose a slipper. 

Freedom. 

Except not quite. The very ground shakes beneath the thunderous hooves of the galloping horse and you curse beneath your breath, running a little faster, with much more carelessness. Almost there, you almost made it across the meadow this time! 

Your hastened breaths leave your parted lips in short puffs while you overexert your tired lungs. You already know freedom is not ahead of you, but you'll be damned if you're going to give him the satisfaction of your surrender. 

Two more strides are all you get before an armoured arm circles your waist and effortlessly pulls you on top of the brown steed. You are now trapped between two arms while your legs dangle on the side of the horse. Still fighting to catch your breath, you grunt, curse and frown while clenching your hands into tight fists. 

“Curses upon you Sir Portgas!” Akin to a child in the midst of a fiery tantrum, you cross your arms over your chest and point your nose to the clear sky. “I was almost out!”

The horse steadies its pace into a trot while a deep chuckle graces your ears. “You were nowhere near ‘out’, Princess.” He tsks and you can almost feel his dark gaze upon your face. “Of all the jobs in the guard, I had to draw the short stick and land this one…”

Another grunt emerges from your gritted teeth. “Some knights would die for the honour of guarding the princess!”

“Those knights are idiots.”

“At least they're not insufferable!”

Another rumble of laughter is all you get and just as well because you are not willing to give anything more. 

You are the sole heir of the Kingdom and the most prized possession your father holds. As an heiress and a princess, he will get to pick and choose of any noble to be your husband. And he will pick either the wealthiest or the one who can bring him more advantages, be they military, political or financial. You are sure that whoever he picks, will either be hideous, decrepit or disgusting. 

With your luck, all three combined. 

As you are of utter importance, the King has assigned a permanent guard to you, Sir Portgas D. Ace. The best knight of the Guard, known to possess some mystical fire abilities, though you are sure that is just mere hearsay, and a known heartbreaker. Of that, you don't doubt. 

He is as handsome as he is unbearable. And that is saying a lot. 

“Your father the king will be utterly displeased at, yet another attempt to escape.” He says dryly. 

You grunt in response, busy plucking tiny burdocks from the hem of your dress and throwing them at Sir Portgas’s cape, unbeknownst to him. “Then don't tell him.”

“When I took this job, I thought I would be fighting brigands, thieves or assassins.” He scoffs. “Instead, I'm stuck as a milk nanny of a brat.”

“The job suits you. Takes a brat to recognize another one.” You mumble and hiss, a particularly nasty spike from the burdock protruding from your bleeding thumb. 

“Oh, heavens. The Princess is bleeding. Call the priest.” He guffaws and you scowl, your eyes turning into slits. 

“Amusing jest. Perhaps you should try your fortune as a court jester? Mayhaps you wouldn't be so bored?” Using your nails, you try to pick the spike, but it just breaks with the force and you curse, stifling a low whine. 

Sir Portgas removes his steel glove, settling it on his lap, and grabs your delicate hand with his. Your hiss this time has nothing to do with the pain, but with the electric feeling that courses through your body, leaving a tingling sensation on your extremities. 

His dark gaze bores into yours as he presses your thumb into his mouth and sucks. The day is not even hot, yet you feel as if your skin has set ablaze. He uses his tongue on your digit, procuring the spike and, once he finds it, he nibbles and sucks again. 

If you thought his hand on yours had caused a tingling feeling, his tongue has somehow made that tingling seem insignificant. You are aching and burning in places you shouldn't be. 

Your teeth clamp hard against your lower lip to stifle some weird sound that means to get out, yet your breath comes out in heaves through your nose and your peculiar mind says you must look like a tired horse: nostrils flaring, sweat dampening your mane and hot, flushed skin. 

Sir Portgas removes your thumb from his mouth after what resembles an eternity, and he spits towards the ground, gracing you with a smug smile. “There. No more vile thorn can harm you, my lady. I took care of your foe, as I was hired to do.”

Yet, for once, you are speechless. 

There is no counter jest, there is no witty remark. You cradle your hand against your lap and remain silent the rest of the way to the castle, your eyes never leaving the safety of the horse’s head. 

If Sir Portgas finds it peculiar, he does not say so. 

-*-

“I do not understand this need to escape, child! Do you not have all you wish for here in the castle? I give you all the gowns you desire, the pretty jewels, the fancy shoes! If you get bored I send for jesters, for animals, for dancers or plays! If you wish to meet new people, I host tournaments and gatherings! What is it you wish for that I cannot grant you? Pray, tell!”

You face the floor, your hands clasped in the front of your ruined and tattered gown. Your shoes look as if they had been through war and your hair has never been in a more dishevelled state.

Sir Portgas stands at attention behind you, to your right. His gaze facing forward, his gloved hand on the hilt of his sword. He doesn’t even flinch. You know he didn’t tell your father anything, he was with you the whole time. It was the guards by the gate that relayed that information. 

Now you are being scolded for yet another botched escape attempt. You had already lost count of how many there were. You had nineteen springs to your name, now. And your time must be near.

“I do not hear your words! Speak up! What do you want that I have not given you?”

A single tear escapes your eye and runs freely down your cheek. 

“Freedom.”

You catch a slight movement from Sir Portgas from the corner of your eye. His gaze meets yours, even if only for a second, as his jawline tightens and clenches. An almost soundless clank from the armour as his hand grips the handle harder.

“Preposterous. You will never be free. You belong to me now, child, and soon you will belong to your husband. That is the way of things. Begone!”

You hold your head high and your shoulders square as you exit the throne room and pass through an entire contingent of guards. Yet, as soon as the door closes behind you, your hands lift your skirts once more and you flee to your room as fast as your tired feet can take you. It does not matter that you are half-blinded by tears as you know the way around the castle as if it were the back of your hand.

You do not hear Sir Portgas following you, yet, he will find you. He always does.

Curse him.

-*-

The rain hits the carriage roof with extreme intensity. There’s mud on the road and the horses are dragging the vehicle to the best of their abilities, but the rain is cold and harsh and you can see smoke emerging from their flared nostrils from where you’re standing. 

You’re returning from a visit to a cousin, in the next kingdom. You have been away for three weeks and nothing has changed. Your life is dull and you are still trapped in it like a hare in a string trap, just waiting for the hit on the head so you’re fed to the hunter. 

Sighing you let out a loud huff. Your handmaiden keeps staring out the window with dreamy eyes and she ahhs and ohhs as if she has an affliction. You have half a mind to ask her if she’s constipated or in pain when you realise she’s staring at Sir Portgas, who rides next to the carriage.

He has removed his helmet because of the rain and his dark locks cling to his face and forehead with the heavy rain. His eyes are steely and dart from one side to the other, ever alert to any danger. Handsome as ever.

You roll your eyes at yet another insufferable sigh from the woman across from you. “Enough!” You bite. “I cannot stand another moan from your mouth. What is so interesting?”

“He is, my lady.” She giggles like a little girl and you feel your chest clench and contract as  anger boils within you. What is this feeling?

“Are you jesting?”

“I would never! He is so gallant and valiant. And his freckles? His smile? The way he fights?” Another sigh. You have had enough.

You’re about to order the carriage to stop because you wish to feel the rain on your face at the back of a horse. Instead, you hear dry thuds followed by screams and then, the tip of a spear protruding the carriage door and opening your maid’s skull with a sickening sound.

Your scream gets trapped in your throat, but your lips tremble incessantly. There are tears running from your eyes and you start to pant fast as your eyes never leave the gory image in front of you.

She still has her eyes open, her mouth shaped like an ‘o’ as blood and grey matter are splattered around her. Did the blood get on you as well? You dare not look. She was just laughing and now she’s so still.

You’re trembling. The screams and shouts outside increase in volume and proximity and the carriage halts to a full stop as you hear a pained neigh of a horse. The thuds of your heart grow louder and louder, as if it's beating right in your ears and your pants come in shortened gasps as your head gets lighter. 

The plush of the seat you are on gives in as your fingernails dig and scratch to ground yourself. There is so much blood. 

So much screaming.

Suddenly the door to the carriage jolts open and you turn in terror, barely having time to scream, and even if you meant to scream, you wouldn’t be able to. A wet, clammy hand finds its way to your mouth to keep you quiet and you’re inundated with the nauseating smell of metal.

Blood.

Another hand grabs you by the arm and yanks hard to pull you out of the carriage. You’re sure it will bruise. Yet, you couldn’t care less. As soon as you’re out of the carriage and you clumsily find your footing, before the man - whose appearance you are yet to perceive - manages to take you away, you bite his fingers with all the strength you possess.

Blood. Again. 

This time it fills your mouth and you spit it on the floor as soon as the man drops you, with surprise. Your knees scrape against the rocks and mud below you and you claw your way forward until you find the strength to be on your feet, preparing to run.

All around you men clash swords. There’s agonised screams and blood everywhere. You need to go!

Yet you barely get one step in before a bloody hand clasps around your neck and squeezes. “Going somewhere, you little princess whore.” The man lifts you easily off the ground and your throat aches and your lungs burn. You try to gasp for air but nothing but wheezes leave your parted lips.

Your fingernails scratch relentlessly against his hand but he does not relent. Around you the sounds of battle seem to fade into the distance. Legs dangling, your feet try to kick the man holding you, but strength fails you and you are sure this is the way you die. “Just pass out, little whore.” He whispers in your ear as his wet tongue swipes your neck and ear.

You can’t squirm away. You can’t fight back. You’re useless. 

You feel your eyelids drooping as your chest trembles and your arms fall limply beside you. But just as you’re about to dive into sweet oblivion, a sword swings and cuts right through the man’s arm, making you fall and stumble forward, right into the arms of your knight. Your guard, your protector.

Sir Portgas.

He holds you against him effortlessly as you gasp for air and cough. A pressure on your throat that burns and hurts. But you’re safe.

“Breathe, Princess. I won’t let anything happen to you.” The man that was holding you mutters incoherently. Begging for his life, pleading for mercy, asking for aid from the gods. Yet you know that all is in vain. Your knight was made to protect you. He will kill anyone or anything that attempts to take your life.

Still holding you he moves his blade effortlessly and you hear a blood-curdling scream. Trying to normalise your breath, you turn your face to look back, but Ace holds your head against him with a gloved hand. “It’s best if you don’t look.” You nod against him, feeling your legs faint from fear.

“We are going to run. Close your eyes and hold my hand. I will guide you. Do you trust me?” You lift your head to look into his eyes and there is tenderness, determination, courage and something else you can’t quite place, as he looks down at you.

“With my life.” Your whisper comes in shaky gasps and he nods, holding your hand in his.

“Run.” He orders and you do. Your eyes clenched shut as you still hear screams and the sound of colliding blades. 

Something whooshes past you and you hear a roar of sorts, at the same time as Sir Portgas mutters something under his breath. There is another scream - close, too close! - and the stench of burning flesh. 

“I’m going to pick you up. Keep your eyes closed, Princess.” He doesn’t need to tell you twice. And as he hoists you over his shoulder by the waist, you clamp your hands against your ears to keep the sounds away.

But the screaming doesn’t stop.

It never stops.

-*-

You feel yourself being set down on the ground but it’s as if the shock has left you in a rigid state. Your hands remain on your ears and your eyes shut tightly. There’s someone calling your name and shaking you but you have retreated so far into your mind that you can’t come back easily.

“..ss… Princess!”

Your eyes snap open as you gasp and a loud sob leaves your parted lips. Tears flood down and you try to release yourself from the firm hands that are holding you down. 

“It’s me, it’s me! Ace! Everything is fine! Princess, calm down!” He whispers your name. “Please calm down. Look at me.”

Still panting and gasping for air, your nails digging into his bloodied armour, you lock eyes with his dark gaze. He looks worried and pained, and you focus on his freckles instead, counting them to ground yourself.

One, two…

“It’s over, we escaped, we are fine.”

Three, four…

“I’m not sure anyone else survived. We have no horses, no food, no clothes or shelter.”

Five, six…

“The rain has given us some truce for the time being, but it won’t let up the whole night. We will rest for a bit, and then we have to go.”

Seven, eight…

“Princess, are you with me?” You don’t know when he took the gloves off, but his warm hand makes contact with your cheek and you gasp, your eyes focusing back on his. “There is nothing to fear. I won’t let anyone or anything harm you. You have my promise.”

You nod and gulp. Another tear escapes your eyes and he wipes it with his thumb.

“It could have been me.” You whisper and your voice is rasp. Your throat is sore and raw and you realise you are quite thirsty. “The spear… it just… her head… she was… she…”

He nods and mumbles some soothing words. “You’re alive. You’re fine. Try not to think of what you saw. I’ll take you home.”

You nod as your hand scratches your throat. Sir Portgas reaches and hands you a leather pouch. “Drink. It’s water.”

He sits on the floor for a moment as he sheds his steel armour. 

“Should you be taking that off? What if there are more enemies?” You ask, concerned. 

“I am faster without it, anyway. And all the noise will just give our location away to those listening.”

Makes sense. 

He gives you another moment to rest and then extends his hand to help you up. Your eyes fall on your dress and you frown. It is splattered with blood, mud and all kinds of stains. Not to mention that it is soaked through. 

“Come, we need to find shelter. It’s almost nightfall.”

You are surrounded by forest, you have no idea what kind of shelter he means to find, but you trust him completely. He was assigned to you two years ago, when you were presented to society and your father started entertaining nobles who wanted a claim on your hand. 

Luckily, none suited his fancy enough to tempt him. 

Sir Portgas has never left your side once. He sleeps when you sleep, eats when you eat, gets up when you get up. His duty to you is never-ending. He knows all there is to know about you. And you only know what he wanted to share with you. Next to nothing, because he always found the job boring.

As both of you walk through the woods, feeling the gentle pitter-patter of the slow rain, you feel as if you have calmed down enough. There is still adrenaline rushing through your veins, and you release it by holding a long, thick stick and swiping leaves with it, as if it were a sword.

“Who attacked us?”

He keeps his eyes ahead, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword so tight, his knuckles are white. 

“I’m not sure. There were no banners.”

“Brigands, you think? They saw the coach and decided we might have treasures to steal?”

“Most likely.” He grunts.

“But you don’t think that was the case?”

He stops and you bump into his hard back, as you were staring at your stick. You mumble an apology and feel your cheeks warm up. Never had you noticed how taut and defined he was, beneath the steel armour.

Looking at you, his eyes now permanently creased with concern, he sighs. “They were too organised to be simple brigands or thieves. They had military precision so they had to belong to an army. An enemy army, perhaps. I need to take you back home.”

He tugs at your arms and starts walking again. 

“No.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to go back home.” You whisper, but you keep walking alongside him. He divides his attention with your surroundings and your face.

“I can understand that, but it is far too dangerous. We need to know if the King received some sort of ransom note or-...”

“I don’t care! You can leave me wherever and go back to my father saying they killed me! I cannot return home to be sold like cattle to the highest bidder!”

You refuse to let tears leave your eyes this time. He stops again and stares at you. You can’t read him. 

At all.

“There.” He points behind you and you turn. It’s a small cave. “It will have to do. Come.” And just like that he decides the argument is over and drags you to the entrance, collecting some random sticks along the way. It is actually a rather large cave and Sir Portgas takes the wood from your hand, rips a piece of his tunic and ties it to the end of the wood. 

Muttering a few words, a flame shoots out of his fingers and he lights the cloth easily. You look at him, flabbergasted and awestruck. So it is true. He has fire powers.

“Fascinating.” You can’t help but exclaim under your breath.

“Thank you, Princess.” He replies with a smirk and tells you to follow him as he delves into the bowels of the cave. 

Deeming you far enough not to be spotted, he drops the sticks he collected in a neat pile, adds some more wood that’s scattered inside the cave, and lights it with the flame he’s already holding.

“Undress, Princess, you don’t want to catch a cold.”

“Pardon?” You should really stop blushing. It is embarrassing.

He is already removing his tunic and breeches, leaving only his undergarments on for some modesty and you look away. 

“If you worry about modesty today, you will be dead of pneumonia tomorrow. Undress your gown and set it to dry.” He says as he drapes his clothes on a large rock near the place he built the fire. “I promise I won’t bite.”

You take a moment to consider, but you know he’s right. You’re already feeling tremors for staying out in the rain for so long. So you do know you will get sick if you don’t get out of the wet clothes.

With a heavy sigh you try to remove the ribbons that hold your dress together, but you can’t reach them. 

“Sir Portgas…” You start, your voice a mere whisper.

“It’s Ace.”

“Ace.” The name rolls off your tongue like something sinful and you lower your gaze. “I require your assistance, please.” 

As he raises his head towards you, he immediately understands your predicament. He gets up and approaches your back with slow steps. Catching your breath, you lower your neck a bit.

His fingers are soft against the bare skin of your neck as he moves your hair from your nape to the side, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind. The shiver that crawls up your spine has nothing to do with the cold.

His face draws near as he untangles the ribbons and you can feel his breath against your neck and upper back. The tingling sensations return to your body, leaving you breathless and panting. There is a need deep within you that you don’t quite understand or know how to fulfil. 

Yet, you have an inkling that Ace could very well fulfil it. And he would certainly know how.

He removes the last ribbon and steps back a pace. “There.” Ace's voice sounds deeper than before and, when you turn, his eyes are all pupil as he stares at you. Your heartbeat accelerates as you lock eyes with him, silently begging him not to look away as your fingers gently tug at the gown, undressing. 

Your chest heaves and you see his eyes fall to your chemise-covered bosom as the muscle in his jaw twitches.

The need for something intensifies and you reach forward, touching him through the fabric of his linen shirt, feeling the firmness of his chest. 

“Princess…” He whispers. 

“Ace…”

You take a step forward and hold his hand. It's big and calloused from the swords but it's so warm. 

“Touch me.” You plead. You could order him, though you're not sure he would follow that order. 

“I…” He seems torn. You know he's a loyal knight. He serves valiantly and believes in the kingdom he protects. Touching you would be treasonous and could lead to execution.

You decide to be honest. “I feel… I don't quite know how to explain it, but when you touch me, like when you did with the thorn I had on my finger, or when you lift me up to place me in your horse there's…” You exhale deeply. “A warmth, a fire within me that I don't know how to handle.” Lowering your gaze and swallowing a lump in your throat, you make a final plea. “Teach me how to handle it, Ace.”

He groans but doesn't take his hand away from yours. So you brazenly place it above your chest. Watching him closely, you see his eyes darken as his hand twitches and he grits his teeth. 

“Princess, I…” 

“I have been told that men lie with women to procreate. I wasn’t informed of all the details, but I've heard the maids whisper about things that can be done that do not get a woman with child.” Could you be burning up more? Are you seriously asking this of Ace? 

He remains frozen in place, his hand still on your chest and you feel like a fool. 

Sighing you swat his hand away and turn. “Forget I said anything.” Yet his strong arm envelops your waist and he pulls your body against his, burying his face in the crook of your neck and inhaling. 

“Gods above and below…” He mutters against your skin and you tremble. “Is this really happening?” You feel something hard against your lower back and flush. You know what it is. But you've never seen one. You don't know what to expect. “Princess… You are correct, there are things we can do that do not get you with child and assure you remain intact until your wedding night.” His voice seems pained. “Are you certain that-...”

“Yes!” You moan, No longer able to contain the need inside you. Not when his hot breath is fanning against your neck, not when his hand is squeezing your waist nor when his hardness presses against your back. Your need is him! You're sure of it. 

“I have dreamed of this for so long…” He whispers. You want to ask what he means by that, but then his tongue draws circles on your neck and around your earlobe and you gasp, all thoughts dissolving into nothingness. His hands fall on your shoulders and he hooks his fingers on the sleeves of your chemise. “Princess…”

“Take it off.” You command. 

He tugs at the fabric and the garment crumples on the floor, leaving you with nothing but your white stockings. You blink as you focus your eyes on your body. You're not cold, yet your nipples are erect and there are goosebumps all over your skin. It's a reaction to his touch. 

You turn slowly, cheeks ablaze as you seek his eyes. Ace gulps as he takes you in. “Can I kiss you?” He starts but then shakes his head and groans. “No, forget it, that should be reserved for your husband.”

Yet you don't care about a possible husband in a future you can’t yet forsee. You want Ace's lips. And you want them now. 

So you grab his face and pull him down, clumsily pressing your lips to his and bumping your teeth together. After a moment he chuckles into your mouth and you flush and pull back, embarrassed. 

“Don't get mad at me, Princess.” He says, a glimmer in his eyes and a softness you’ve never seen before. His hand grips your hip as he pulls you towards him. A thumb gently stroking the bone of your hip, sending a warm wave of heat towards your centre. Lowering his head, he gently pulls your face to him by putting a hand on your nape. This time, when your lips collide, it's with softness. He moves them and you moan involuntarily. His sinful tongue licks and teases and you open your mouth, gasping as he takes your tongue in his and swirls. 

The sensation is divine. 

You had no idea a kiss could be like this. None of the books mentioned it! It’s making your heart flutter against your chest and causing an ache and a burn between your legs. You still don’t know how to handle it.

But Ace does. 

His hand finds its way to your breast and he slowly teases the nipple, flicking it softly with his thumb. You pull away from the kiss and gasp again. “Oh, my!”

“Did that feel good?” You nod vigorously. “That's good, Princess. I'm going to make you feel even better.”

He lowers you down so you sit on top of your dress. “If you don't like something, tell me.” You nod. 

“Can you take this off?” You grab his shirt and he smirks, pulling the linen garment over his head. His muscles are very defined and you take your time pressing your fingers against his chest and abs. There is a dark trail of hair that leads to the inside of his underwear but as your fingers trace it, he grasps your hand in his and kisses your fingers. 

“Let us take care of that warmth you feel first, shall we?” You nod and lie back, nervous. 

He starts slowly, his gentle fingers tracing patterns on your skin, lingering on the nipples, watching the rise and fall of your breasts as he finds what feels particularly good. And then he devours you. 

His eager mouth latches onto one of your nipples, sucking and teasing with his tongue. 

“What?” You arch your back against his touch and the fire keeps spreading. Fiery tendrils climbing all over you. He's just building the fire higher and higher. When does it stop? 

And do you want it to stop? Because this feeling burns marvellously. 

His tongue licks towards your belly button and then your mound. “Wait!” You gasp and he raises his head. 

“I can stop if you want, but I promise you it will feel good.” 

You don't know if he's telling the truth, but you trust him completely. So you nod. “Don't stop.”

He uses his hands to raise your legs and place them over his shoulders and when he stares, you feel yourself shrinking with embarrassment. 

“So beautiful…” You hear him murmur before he leans in and you feel his tongue swiping a hot streak across your folds.

“Oh!” Throwing your head back, you immediately arch your back against his touch. “Oh, my!”

He stops for a moment and meets your gaze. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No!” You almost plead. 

“Make all the sounds you want, Princess. Please.”

You're not quite sure what he means by that but you still agree. And then his tongue repeats the same movement and you smile. Dear Gods, this can't be true. His hand disappears beneath you and you feel his finger inside you touching a spot that makes you want to scream with pleasure. So you do. 

He mumbles against you and the vibration of his lips on your sensitive nub makes you roll your eyes. 

“Oh, Gods! Ace!”

Your hips buckle against his face involuntarily and you want to feel ashamed but you can't because it feels too good! His tongue is hot and slippery and he laps at you with such vigour that it makes you writhe beneath him. His fingers - yes, more than one - move inside and out with ease continually touching a spot that feels so, so good. 

“Oh, my! Oh, my!” You can't stop a string of curses from escaping your lips. The warmth builds up, spreading to your legs and toes, and to your belly, until suddenly it snaps! 

You see bright lights as your head falls back, moaning loudly and incessantly while you pant and scream his name. It feels good, it feels so good! 

Ace continues lapping at your core and it feels like it's very sensitive now, so you whine and he stops. “You did so well, Princess. You taste so good.” His lips are glistening and he looks dazed. You are smiling as you pant but you pull him to you, eager to taste what you’ve left on his lips. He gives you exactly what you want - lips, tongue, taste - and you mewl against him, lost in pleasure and dizziness from your previous orgasm. 

As you break apart you lock eyes with Ace, an exhilarating feeling coursing through you. “That was…” You laugh. 

“I know.” He says cheekily as he caresses your cheek. “You're so beautiful.”

You feel yourself flush again, he’s never spoken to you like this. He was always arrogant and insufferable. Acting as if watching over you was the most boring task he’d ever had to do. Yet, now it seems he’s ready to write you love poems. 

“What else can we do?” You touch him again, where his hair starts to disappear below his underwear. He clenches his jaw as your hand traces the shape of his cock. “Does that go… inside me?” You ask, biting your lip. It seems big. Will it fit? 

“It does. But that's for the wedding night, Princess.” He says, his tone sad. 

“What if I don't want to get married?” You frown. “I told you I don't want to go back. I shouldn’t have to marry some old lord I don't care about.” You hold his hand, entwining your fingers with his. “Maybe we can be together.”

He looks downcast as his forehead meets yours and lets out a deep sigh. “Don't tempt me, Princess.” He says, placing a chaste kiss on your forehead. “I've been in love with you since we met. The constant fear of losing you to another man keeps me awake most nights. I cannot bear the thought of never being able to have you. So don't tempt me, please.” His fervour leaves you breathless. 

Love? 

You thought he abhorred you! You believed he only put up with you because it was his job. Nothing more. Love? 

Cupping his face in your hands, you stare deeply into his eyes. “Let's run away. You and me. Away from my father's kingdom, from duties, from everything. He will think we're dead, anyway!”

“No, Princess. I have a duty to my king and my kingdom. I cannot do it.” He says as your eyes fill with tears. “And you have a duty to your father as well. Don’t forget that.”

“Ace… Please…”

“No. I can't.” His eyes squeeze shut as he presses his forehead against yours once more. “Don't ask me this. Please.”

Torn between love and duty. And you wish he would simply choose love. You pull away from him, covering  your face as you shed more tears. 

Ace sighs and picks up your chemise, gently helping you dress even though you don’t look at him. Then he pulls you against his chest as he settles against a rock. “Sleep, Princess. I will keep watch.”

And you do. 

By morning, even the air feels bleaker. There is no more rain, but dark clouds hover above the sky. You can’t change his mind. He’s set to bring you back to the castle.

Back to your prison.

“My father will marry me off…” You whisper, feeling your face crackle with dried tears. Your clothes are stiff from caked mud and blood and you’re pretty sure your heart stayed behind in that dark cave. 

Ace’s eyes remain fixed on the road ahead, but you notice him swallowing a lump before he speaks. 

“It is your duty, Princess. You have yours, I have mine.” He sighs. “I never meant to burden you with my feelings. A knight is not worthy of a princess’s love.”

“Clearly you have not read the same novels as I have.” You scoff and your response elicits a small chuckle from him, your easy banter slowly returning to normal. 

Ace continues his slow walk and you follow, feeling as if you’re walking towards the gallows and every step brings your demise a bit closer. “Ace, please…” You beg once more. “Please…!”

Yet he does not stop.

You see him struggle as his face hardens and his eyes grow blurry, but he does not stop. And the noose tightens around your neck. 

-*-

You’re received with cheers and ovations. A joyous celebration for you and for your valiant knight. Ace is offered a promotion. Finally a way for him to leave your side, to stop nannying you as he always complained.

He does not accept it.

Your heart warms for a moment, though you find it very hard to fall back into a routine of entrapment when you were free, albeit for a few hours. 

Yet doom envelops you and the noose tightens and elevates you once your father makes the announcement. He has found you a husband. You’re to be married in a fortnight. 

Breath catches in your throat and it’s hard to seek air. But your eyes search and find his. A reflection of your own, you’re sure, for they seem pained and drained of life. Yet the moment passes and your father keeps telling you all about how delightfully rich and important your future husband is. 

And how you have a duty to him and to your kingdom, as their princess. It all comes down to duty. 

That awful word.

-*-

The guests are arriving and the groom has been presented to you just in the morning. He is not old or decrepit. In fact, he seems quite polite and is rather handsome. 

But he is not Ace.

And you realised that the warmth he made you feel, and the anger you felt when your late maid spoke of him with desire, were all because of one thing alone: love. You love him back. And he needs to know it before you leave.

Because you will not bring him with you. You cannot forget him, nor allow him to forget you if he is to remain forever by your side.

-*-

The day of the wedding dawns cold and grey, a reflection of your own thoughts. An array of maids dresses you in the best finery you possess and you are a beacon of elegance and beauty. Though the veil you wear over your face might as well be a shroud.

Ace stands in the shadows, his face masked and sombre. You have not spoken more than two words to each other since you returned. But you have to let him know how you feel before it’s too late.

“Everyone out, now.” Your voice is cold and commanding and the servants scurry and hurry out of your chambers. Ace is last, but you stop him. “Not you.”

He closes the door with a soft thud and turns towards you. Hands folded behind his back and eyes fixed somewhere behind you. As you approach, however, you notice him blinking and clenching his jaw and it takes nothing more than one touch of your soft fingers on his cheek for him to let his knightly countenance crumble into pieces. 

Holding your fingers to his lips, he kisses them with fervour. “Princess…”

“Ace…” Your whisper brings sorrow and despair, and he feels it. “I need to tell you something before the wedding, though it changes nothing. You were right. This is my duty, and you have yours, escaping it was nothing but a fleeting dream.”

A sigh parts your lips and he uses his knuckles to caress your cheek. 

“I love you.” Your eyes bore into his and your lips curl into a tight smile when a flicker of surprise crosses his eyes. “I didn’t know it was love and it took me a while to realise. But it’s true.” You take both his hands in yours and tears start to stream down your face because you can’t contain them any longer. 

“This is breaking me apart, but it is for the best. You will stay in the castle and accept the promotion you were offered upon our return.” Ignoring his protests you continue. “I will leave to fulfil my duty and live my new life.”

His head falls forward, shoulders slumping and a string of curses leaves his pursed lips. Though it pains you more than he can ever imagine, you force a smile, using your hand to lift his face so he can look at you. “You’ll always be in my heart. That will never change.”

Ace’s voice is barely a whisper, strained with emotion and effort to keep his tears at bay. “You’re asking me to stand and watch as you walk away? To stay here and live a life without your presence?”

“Yes.” You sob back.

“How can I do that?!” A heave rocks his shoulders as he leans his forehead against yours. “It’s like asking me to live without a beating heart.”

“I pray you forget me soon, Ace, because if you were to come with me, we would never be able to move on. And we would be miserable.”

“I am already miserable.”

Tears stream down both your faces, and you stand on your toes to kiss his tears away. Cupping your face with tenderness, Ace’s thumb crosses your lower lip and you nod, giving him all the permission he needs to lower his head to yours and take your warm lips with his.

This time, the kiss you share is desperate. He claims your mouth with his tongue, his arms embracing you and pulling you against him. You return the gesture with equal devotion, your tongue begging for more as you embrace and melt into each other, knowing you’ll have no other chance to do so. 

A rapid knock on the door breaks you apart. “Princess! It is time!”

Panting and wiping away tears, you answer with a shaky voice. “I’m almost ready.” Ace helps you fix your dress and veil, his eyes cast downward, sorrow filling them with shadows. 

With trembling hands you remove a ring from your finger. A ring your mother gave you on her deathbed. Setting it in his palm, you close his fingers around it and kiss them tenderly. “A memento to remember me by, my love.”

He doesn’t want to let you go and you don’t want to leave him. It would have been so much simpler if you had run away in that forest. No one would know. And you would have been happy.

Perhaps…

You drop his hands, take a deep breath and square your shoulders, opening the door and leaving your childhood home and your one true love. 

Ready to face a new life, an old duty, and an eternity of sorrow.

[marymekpop]

⟢ highlight of the hour: love scout [07/12] ⟣

never a burden