#be CAREFUL spines are fragile old paper is fragile do you even know if the covers are still properly attached???

[honeyscara]

Chapter 3

Sieun tutor masterlist| whc masterlist

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Your name was called. A rustle of paper, then the crisp weight of your test sheet landing on your desk.

A neat red "91" circled at the top.

“Great job,” your teacher said, offering you a rare smile. “That’s the highest score in class this time.”

Your cheeks flushed, warmth rushing up like an unexpected tide. A few heads turned. You ducked yours quickly, mouthing a quiet “thank you” before walking back to your seat, test held like something fragile between your fingers.

Sliding into your chair, you stared down at the paper. The red marks. The clean underlines. The absence of careless mistakes. And for a moment, a thought bubbled up, soft and uninvited:

Would Sieun smile if he saw this?

You blinked, then laughed quietly under your breath.

He probably wouldn’t smile—not visibly anyway. But maybe the corners of his mouth would twitch. Maybe he'd give that tiny nod he did when something quietly impressed him. Maybe he’d say it was "alright," in that offhand tone of his that somehow made it feel like a compliment.

Your friend leaned over from the next row, eyes curious.

“Hey,” she whispered, “Is he really that good? Sieun, right?”

You tilted your head, pretending to reread a question on the test before answering.

“He’s… not bad,” you said with a small shrug, twirling your pen. “I guess I started getting along with him more than I expected to.”

You paused, eyes drifting to the window where sunlight glinted off the trees outside.

“He’s still distant sometimes,” you added, quieter. “But it’s not in a mean way. Just… how he is.”

And somehow, that was okay.Because lately, even his silences had started to feel more comfortable.

Before your friend could ask anything else, a voice cut in from behind.

“Wait… did you say Sieun?”

You turned. It was taeho, a boy from the back row who never seemed to care about anything unless it involved gossip or a convenient moment to show off. He leaned forward now, elbows propped on the back of your chair, eyes gleaming with that mix of curiosity and thrill people got when they were about to stir something up.

You blinked. “…Yeah?”

Taeho grinned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You seriously don’t know? I thought everyone did by now.”

Your brows knit, unsure whether to brace or brush it off. “Know what?”

He looked too pleased with himself. “About why he transferred.”

That made you pause.

You’d never asked. It felt like crossing a line. Whatever reason Sieun had for being in eunjang instead of somewhere else wasn’t yours to drag into the light.

Still—your voice came out steadier than you expected. “He just said it was complicated.”

Taeho let out a short laugh, like that was a punchline. “Complicated, huh. Yeah, guess that’s one way to put it.”

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice like this was something sacred and sordid.

“Word is—he got kicked out. From his old school. For putting someone in a coma.”

The words hit harder than you thought they would, like icy water poured straight down your spine.

You stared at him. “What?”

“Got into some fight,” Taeho went on, like it was just another class rumor to pass time with. “Real ugly. No one knows exactly what started it, but I heard the other guy was messed up bad”

Your mouth was dry. Your grip on the test paper had tightened without you realizing.

“That doesn’t sound like him,” you said, barely above a whisper.

“Maybe,” Taeho said, already starting to lean back, shrugging. “But why do you think a smart guy like him would go to eunjang? Because that's the only school that would take him ”

He was gone after that, the conversation already old news to him. But it stayed with you.Your friend said something probably meant to be reassuring but it barely registered.

You sat there, the sounds of the classroom fading into static as your mind replayed everything you’d seen, those scars that day when he came late or how he always brushed you off when you asked about his friends in the café.

.

.

You barely noticed the cold air biting at your cheeks as you hurried inside your house. The door shut with a soft thud behind you, but Taeho’s words echoed louder than any noise outside. Fight… coma… Your chest felt tight, like a fist squeezing your ribs, twisting everything inside.

You dropped your bag by the door, the familiar hum of the house offering little comfort. The warm scent of your mom’s cooking drifted in from the kitchen, but even that couldn’t settle the uneasy knot growing in your stomach.

You found her chopping vegetables, the rhythm of her knife hitting the board steady and calm—too calm for the storm swirling inside you.

“Mom…” Your voice was hesitant, almost a whisper. You weren’t sure how to even ask. “Did… did Sieun really get into a fight? Taeho said someone ended up in the hospital.”

She froze, the knife pausing mid-air. For a moment, the room felt too quiet, like the walls were holding their breath. Her eyes flicked away, a shadow passing over her face—something like worry, or regret.

“I don’t know everything,” she said finally, voice low, careful. “Sieun’s mom… she doesn’t say much. Neither does Sieun.” Her hands trembled slightly as she set the knife down and wiped her palms on a dish towel. “But yes, there was a fight. A bad one.”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding loud in your ears. “Someone got hurt?”

“She wasn’t specific,” your mom said, her eyes distant. “But from what I heard… his friend Suho ended up in the hospital. It was serious.” Her breath hitched, like the memory was painful. “Sieun… he didn’t talk about it much either.”

You looked down at your hands, feeling the sudden weight of all the rumors, the silence, the pieces that didn’t fit together. You thought you knew him. Or maybe you wanted to.

“He’s a good kid, Y/N,” your mom said softly, coming closer now, her voice full of something like fierce protection. “He’s smart, kind… but sometimes good people get caught up in the wrong things. The wrong people. It’s hard to fight when you’re trying to just survive.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy but warm. And for the first time, you saw Sieun—not just the robot-like tutor or the boy your mom praised—but someone more complicated. Someone maybe hurting beneath that cold, perfect surface.

~

The next day passed in a blur of half-listened lectures and restless scribbles in your notebook. Your thoughts kept circling back to the conversation from the day before—Taeho’s words, your mom’s hesitant confirmation, and the strange, growing ache in your chest that no amount of logic could quite explain.

You tried telling yourself it wasn’t a big deal. That everyone had a past. That maybe Sieun had a reason for never bringing it up. But no matter how many times you replayed your study sessions, your café walks, those quiet moments where he almost let his guard down—you couldn’t shake the hollow feeling twisting low in your stomach.

By the time you reached his apartment building, the sky had already started bleeding into dusk—soft indigo brushing the edges of clouds, streetlights flickering to life. The stairwell up to the third floor was steep, a little worn, and carried the faint scent of old paint and laundry detergent.

You paused outside his door for a second, fingers hovering over the doorbell.

What are we, really? You pressed the button before the thought could linger.

A moment later, the door opened with a soft click. Sieun stood there in a plain black sweatshirt and loose sweatpants, hair slightly tousled like he’d run a hand through it recently. His expression, as always, was unreadable—though you thought you caught the faintest flicker of surprise before he stepped back to let you in.

“You’re on time,” he said, voice calm as ever.

“Yeah,” you replied, forcing a small smile. “Didn’t want to make your ‘strict schedule’ cry.”

He didn’t laugh, but he didn’t roll his eyes either. Just turned and led you inside.

His apartment was quiet, filled with muted tones and neat lines—minimalist furniture, soft gray walls, books stacked neatly on the coffee table. The kind of place that felt like it had been cleaned recently but not lived in. Like someone had memorized what “home” should look like without ever really settling into it.

You followed him into the living room, where the afternoon light filtered through sheer curtains, casting soft gold across the hardwood floor. He set his laptop down on the low table and sat cross-legged on the rug, gesturing silently for you to do the same. You dropped your bag beside you, settling in with a careful thud.

And still—you couldn’t stop thinking.

About the scar on his knuckle you’d never asked about.

About the way he always shut down when the topic drifted too close to his past.

About how, even now, he hadn’t said a word about it.

You sat a little stiffer than usual, notebook unopened in your lap, eyes fixed on the neat rows of textbooks lining the shelf across the room.You’d come here to study. But part of you didn’t feel like you knew who you were sitting across from anymore.

You shifted slightly on the rug, fingers tightening around the edge of your notebook. “I got an ninety- one on the math quiz.”

Sieun, without looking up from his screen, muttered a soft, “Not bad.”

It wasn’t enthusiastic, but it wasn’t dismissive either—just that same flat, almost distant tone he always used, like he was responding out of habit rather than intention. You waited a second longer, hoping maybe he’d say more. Ask how you felt about it. Maybe even offer one of his rare but surprisingly warm nods of approval.

But all he did was scroll to a page in the textbook, tapping a line of highlighted equations with the back of his pen.

“Let’s go over the equations again. You messed up one of the steps here.”

You blinked, nodded, and opened your book. Your hands moved automatically, flipping pages, uncapping a pen. But your mind wasn’t following. Not this time.

Your eyes drifted from the pages to his face—half-lit by the soft evening light filtering through the curtains. The edges of his features were sharp but tired, like they’d been carved from something too delicate and then forgotten. His mouth moved as he explained something, low and focused, but you didn’t hear a word of it.

All you could do was stare.

You stared at the way his hair fell slightly over his eyes. At the little scar near his temple you’d never asked about.At how quiet he was.

How closed off.

You didn’t realize how long you’d been staring until he stopped mid-sentence, glancing up with a flicker of something uncertain in his expression.

“What?”

You blinked, caught. But instead of looking away, you asked before you could stop yourself.

“Do you… have anything you want to tell me?”

His brows lifted slightly, confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—” You looked down, swallowed hard, then back at him. “Just anything. Something about you.”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes searched yours for a moment, careful, unreadable.

“I don’t have anything to say,” he said quietly.

It felt like a slap. Not because of what he said, but how easily he said it. Like there was nothing waiting underneath. No secret ready to surface. No apology.

“Why don’t you ever talk about yourself?” you asked, voice quieter now. “I’ve known you for sometime. We’ve had so many sessions, and I still don’t know you.”

He didn’t respond.

You tried again, your voice trembling just a little.

“Do you even think of me as a friend?”

The silence that followed wasn’t cold. It wasn’t sharp. It was worse—it was empty.

And he looked at you like he didn’t know how to answer that question. Or maybe like he didn’t want to. And that hurt more than anything else.

Sieun blinked once. Then again. His gaze flickered to the open textbook between you, and for a moment, you thought he might pretend he hadn’t heard you.

But then he said, low and steady, “I don’t really… think about things like that.”

His voice was calm, distant—as if he were talking about the weather, not friendship or feelings.

You felt the ache tighten in your chest.

“I figured,” you said, forcing your voice steady. “But I still hoped maybe I was wrong.”

Then, without looking up, he closed the small distance between you and the book, flicking a page.

“Let’s just focus on this,” he said, voice even.

The weight of his words hung in the air, vague and evasive, like everything else about him.

You shifted closer, almost without realizing it, drawn by something fragile and raw beneath his usual quiet. Your fingers hesitated for a second before gently brushing the faint wound at the corner of his lips—the same one you had carefully treated a few days ago. The skin there was still tender, a soft pink against his otherwise pale complexion.

“How did you get this?” Your voice was low, tentative, almost afraid to break the fragile silence between you.

Sieun’s eyes flicked to your hand, a shadow passing over his expression. For a moment, it was like you could see past the calm mask, glimpse the subtle unrest beneath. But then his gaze slipped away, focusing somewhere behind you.

“It’s nothing,” he said quietly.

Sieun’s hand twitched where yours rested for a moment, then he pulled back like you’d touched something fragile. His eyes narrowed, sharp and cold.

“Focus on the worksheet,” he said. No warmth, no room for argument. Just a wall that was solid and unyielding.

You bit back the sting that rose in your throat. You had been trying. Really trying. Pouring every ounce of effort into this, into him, but it was like he was always a step ahead, slipping away, shutting you down before you could reach him.

“I am trying,” you said, voice firmer now, frustration threading through each word. “But you never actually pay attention. You just push me away.”

His gaze snapped back to you, dark and suddenly sharp. A flicker of something fierce flashed in his eyes—anger? Or maybe just tiredness wearing thin.

“You don’t get it,” he said, voice low and hard. “Maybe this—” he gestured around the room, the books, the forced tutoring sessions, “—maybe this isn’t working.”

You swallowed, heart hammering, then the name slipped out before you could stop it. “Did you care about suho? Or did you dismiss him like me?”

The second the word left your mouth, the tension in the room thickened. Sieun’s face tightened, his jaw clenched so hard it looked painful.

“That’s enough.” His voice was sharp now, brittle, like glass ready to shatter. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this today. just go home.”

The offer wasn’t gentle. It was a dismissal, cold and final—like you were a mistake he didn’t want to deal with anymore.

You stared at him, your chest tightening, breath catching like you’d swallowed something sharp. You opened your mouth, desperate to say something—anything—to break the thick wall settling between you. But the words caught in your throat, heavy and useless.

So instead, you stayed silent.

Slowly, deliberately, you began packing your things. The rustle of paper, the zip of your bag. It all sounded too loud in the quiet room.

Sieun watched in silence as you packed your things, the small noises—paper folding, zipper sliding—echoing louder than they should in the stillness of the room.

A sharp twist tightened in his chest. He hadn’t meant to push you away like this, but the words felt like they’d slipped out before he could stop them.He felt the weight of your gaze lingering on him, even though you didn’t look up.

For a moment, he considered saying something—an apology, maybe—but the words tangled in his throat, stubborn and silent.

Instead, he just sat there, feeling the growing emptiness where the conversation had been, and the quiet ache of a distance he hadn’t wanted to create.

When you were ready, you stood up without a word.

No “thank you.” No “see you next time.”

Just the soft click of the door closing behind you, leaving the room—and him—empty.

Taglist: @eijizwrld @night-fall-moon @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @jihooneyluv @hnch33rios @stxr-lilac @mizxuqii @violetwitchmcu @reiofsuns2001 @yourfavoritefreakyhan @slovesyouuu @k1ttyjuice

[evalevaeva]

In the future | Yeon Sieun

- in which sieun assumes you'll understand in the future.

"You'll understand in the future, why I'm doing this and I never ask you to go out with me, and especially, why I always say after the college entrance exams," Sieun said as you stared at him, feeling the familiar squeeze in your heart.

It was like this every time, and slowly, you feel like you don't understand him anymore. It felt like you were in a dark room, with the one person who could save 6 it was all a blur. You could see his face, stoic as ever. Always refusing to show even a glimpse of what he felt, just for the sake of 'not being pessimistic'. It hurt. It hurt being one of the people he was supposed to lean on for support, but you just felt like another passerby in his life. He was almost indifferent to you.

It was always about the future, what about the present? The current moment that you were in, with him. It's always the same reason over and over again, "After the college entrance exams".

You would be lying if you didn't envy your friends. Seeing them with their partners, spending even 30 minutes sounded like a luxury. To sit down and have a conversation after a hard day at school, or even a phone call seemed like a million dollar dream that you wouldn't be reaching anytime soon with Sieun.

"Why not now?" Your voice was weak, but Sieun definitely heard it as his eyes were stuck onto your eyes that were beginning to water. You sighed as you lowered your head and wiped the tears with the sleeves of your jacket. This wasn't the time to cry, definitely not infront of him.

It sounded crazy. You didn't even feel like you could shed tears in front of him because it felt like he would tell you you're being sad over nothing, or he'd simply say the same statement;

"You'll understand in the future".

"Stop repeating it, Yeon Sieun."

Your voice was harsher than it should've been, but the pent-up anger was spilling out, and if you couldn't catch it, it would spill, and he'd know. Even so, even if he did know, would he do anything?

He spoke about the future the both of you would share. A house with nice decorations, a house with five children running around, and he'd have a good job and spend his breaks at home. He'd have to leave, but he'd constantly text and send gifts for the children's milestones. He'd miss their milestones, but he'd always come back to spend breaks with you and the kids.

He would bring you to places you'd never been to, and the both of you would grow old, and you'd take care of each other.

It felt like a sick joke that you were living through daily. He treated you like you were some fragile piece of ceramic that would fall and shatter at any time, but all you wanted were answers.

You could barely focus on your examinations anymore, feeling the pain crawl up your spine everyday as you stared at the papers given in class.

"Repeating what? That you'll understand in the future?" Sieun asked as you looked up at him, feeling your hands turn into a fist as you held the hem of your skirt in your fist.

"Why can't you tell me anything? You feel like an absolute stranger to me now. You don't want to talk to me in school nor interact with me in school because you're so worried about what other people have to say. Are you shamed of me? You don't want to call, you don't even ask me to call anymore. It's always me making an effort, what about you? Why is it always me? I give up, I'm so tired, Sieun. I want you to make an effort too, to call me 'just because', to walk with me to the bus station 'just because', instead of treating me like the last option and seeing me as someone you'll only put effort in after examinations. I'm hurt too, Sieun. I have feelings too, Sieun." By this point, your face was covered in tears as they fell down your cheek, hot. You still couldn't get close to him, still only being able to say everything from a distance. An arm's length at most.

"We have all the time in the world to do all the things you want to do. Why are you in such a rush?" Sieun questioned, seriously not understanding why you were so upset over such a minor thing.

You let out an exhasperated sigh as you wiped your tears. He would never understand. He treated you like a child that would never understand the world, and you would never get the answers you wanted, even if you begged the Lord above to help you.

"Nevemind. Whatever." You stated, as you turned and got ready to leave.

"Why nevermind? Are you mad again?" Sieun asked as he walked forward to reach out to you.

"I don't know, Sieun, you'll understand soon."

-

i don't know, will i ever understand?

[kefiteria]

Oh, you thought Scaramouche was gonna leave you to rot in your own self-pity? HAH, nope. He’s here to give you a warm (but kinda cold?) hug while your inner emotional wreckage goes full meltdown mode. Don’t worry, he’s not as emotionally unavailable as he looks, he just has a very specific way of showing affection. Spoiler: it involves tucking you into his chest like a sad little bean and pretending he knows what he's doing.

pairing: Scaramouche x Reader (gender neutral)

tags: free therapy session, comfort reading, sprinkle of existential dread, comfort from scaramouche!

words: 1.4k

💌Prologue 💌Comfort Chapter 💌Epilogue

You are the prologue made flesh.

Curled into yourself like a forgotten page, like a lullaby no mother ever hummed to completion. Your body is all parentheses and pauses, a syntax of sorrow written in the way your spine bows beneath invisible weight. The kind of stillness born not from peace, but from a lifetime of flinching too often and learning it meant survival. Not silence, but endurance. Not calm, but surrender.

Mortal fingers are tucked beneath your ribs like they’re cradling something broken inside—memories perhaps, or prayers nobody answered. And your eyes, glassy and dull in the room’s indigo hush, stare past the peeling walls, past the tired lamplight. Past him.

You don’t hear his steps. Not truly. You feel them in the shift of air, in the faint prickle of something aware brushing against your skin.

He does not announce himself.

Scaramouche is like that—untethered by habit or permission. But tonight, there’s something foreign in his motion. A deliberation not born of combat, but of care too unpracticed to be casual.

You didn’t look at him nor did you move. Not when he crosses the room. Not when he stands just beside your makeshift corner of threadbare blankets and unslept nights. He doesn’t speak, and for a moment, you wonder if he’ll leave. If he decides this is too much, too fragile, too you.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he crouches. Folds in on himself like a paper crane beside the wreckage of a shrine no one ever worshiped in.

The body does not flinch, but something deep inside recoils. That flinch that’s old as bone. He notices.

Of course, he does.

His voice, when it comes, is rough at the edges. Like he hasn’t used it in this register before.

“Do you ever stop pretending you're not tired?”

Blinking your eyes slowly as the way someone might when they forget what it means to be perceived. The question floats there, unanswered, a small rebellion against the silence you’ve sworn yourself to.

So you turn your face to the wall.

“Do you?” you ask.

It him halts. Not dramatically. Just… gently. Like a clock forgetting to tick for a second.

“I used to think pain meant I was real…” he says. “Now I just think it means I didn’t die fast enough.”

It’s not a confession. Not really. Just a shard of something sharp left on the floor between you both. And maybe that’s all either of you have—shards.

His hand shifts. Reaches. Hovers.

Then stops.

He stares at your blanket—the one wrapped too loosely around you, slipping off one shoulder as if even fabric refuses to stay.

Then: fingers.

Calloused, colder than you expect, brushing the hem. Not tugging it tighter. Just holding it. Testing the idea of touch. His breath stutters. Then he tucks the blanket in, awkwardly, as if mimicking a ritual he’s never been part of.

A question drifts out, barely audible from your mouth “What are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer. Not directly.

“You looked like you needed tucking in.”

The phrase—lopsided and unsure—hangs in the air like a child's drawing on a battlefield. It shouldn’t fit. But it does.

And the dam you didn’t realize you were holding fractures.

You don’t cry. Not yet. But your breath comes jagged, like it’s cutting its way out. Like it’s trying to escape the ruins of your chest.

“I’m not a child.”

“No.” he murmurs. “But no one ever tucked you in, did they?”

Swiftly your throat closes around the truth like it’s trying to protect you from drowning in it.

Scaramouche shifts again. He sits beside you this time—cross-legged, close enough that his knee brushes yours. He rests his chin in his hand and watches you as if attempting to memorize the weight of grief without touching it directly.

“You move like someone waiting for the world to finish destroying them.” he says.

Laughter escapes, warped and brittle—too close to weeping.

“I think it already did.”

“No.” he stated quiet but firm. “You're still here. That’s the cruel part.”

Finally, a glance—unavoidable, belated. Both of your and his eyes connect, quietly.

You expect to see pity. Maybe disdain.

But what you see is worse.

You see recognition.

His gaze doesn’t soften—he doesn’t know how—but it holds. In that stillness, you realize: this is someone who knows. Who’s walked through the same ash-fields barefoot, who’s stared up at the stars and whispered why me to a sky that never answers.

But where you’ve curled inward, Scaramouche has clawed outward. Where you gave up asking, he tore open the world demanding answers.

“You don’t have to fix me.” you say, each word a brittle petal falling from the throat, fragile and defiant.

He watches you, then answers—not with pity, but with something quieter, sadder. “Fix you?” he murmurs. “No. I came because I’m weary of this farce—this masquerade where neither of us admits we crave the warmth of arms, not words.”

You look down at your hands. The bones visible beneath the skin. The story of your life written in pale scars and quiet tremors.

You lower your gaze to your hands—those frail cartographies of memory. Bone-thin and tremulous, they whisper of winters survived and kindnesses withheld. Pale scars etch the topography; tremors ghost along the sinew like forgotten music.

“Then hold me…" you say, the words scarcely more than breath, as if confessing to a dream.

And so he does—not out of pity, nor passion, but with the solemn grace of someone touching a living reliquary.

You don't melt. Not immediately.

You twitch. You tremble.

Not only that, but you wait for the cruelty.

But it never comes.

Only his voice—quieter now, like wind threading the ribs of ancient temple ruins.

“You’ve been asking for a lullaby your whole life without knowing the words.”

A pause, as if choosing gentleness over poetry.

“I don't know the tune.” he admits. “But I can stay until sleep finds you.”

His chest rests solid against your back—not warm like firelight, but like stone: a wall that does not crumble, no matter the weight.

You break.

Not with noise. Not with spectacle. Just a breathless tremor, a surrender so small it might be mistaken for stillness. The kind of breaking that takes years to arrive. The kind that simply means: enough.

His arms tighten, only slightly. A silent promise. He won’t let go.

When the trembling fades from your bones, he speaks again—softly, as if addressing the dark.

“Had I known the world would be like this, I’d have stayed inside the womb.” A pause, then: “Though I wasn’t born. I was made.”

You snort—undignified, necessary. A smile appears. Not with his mouth, but with the angle of his chin resting against your shoulder. A shift, slight and genuine.

“You’re ridiculous…” you murmur, half-scolding.

“Survival makes jesters of us all.” he replies, voice a threadbare sort of wisdom.

As though he might vanish under scrutiny, his arms, obedient to gravity, release you for a moment… only to find you again, this time drawing you close like something chosen.

You curl into him, face pressed to the place where no heartbeat pulses but warmth lingers. He smells like storm wind and metal, like something ancient still trying to understand gentleness.

He presses his cheek to your crown, an act so simple, so devoid of ornament, that it feels almost obscene in its tenderness, as if the very air around you could shudder at the softness of it.

A silence falls between you, not the comfortable kind, but the kind that makes the space feel heavier, somehow fragile, like glass poised to shatter.

His voice, once a weapon of iron, now softer than the softest breath, cracks the stillness:

“If sorrow is the price.” he murmurs, his words careful, as if testing their weight, “then let this be the lullaby it bought.”

The words drop—not with sound, but with a silent resonance, settling deep into the quiet like a stone sinking into the depths of some unfathomable sea. Unspoken, yet irrevocable.

Your breath falters—not from fear, not from shock, but because something inside you, something you never knew existed, finally believes him. It doesn’t come with a dramatic reveal, but with a quiet, inevitable certainty, like the calm that follows a storm. It fills the emptiness, and for the first time, you realize—this is what you've been waiting for.

It’s not painful. It’s not sharp. It’s simply there, settling into your bones like it always belonged.

And then, in the weight of that truth, something shifts. The questions come, not as whispers, but as challenges—echoes of the prologue you thought you understood:

What if all that pain, all that loss, wasn’t a mistake?

What if the brokenness was always part of the plan?

What if you never needed to be saved at all?

🌷Next: Epilogue: Marginalia in a Foreign Tongue🌷

[hollowbutcanlove]

Emergency 18+

chapter 13

you x iso

a/n: the canon of events may have been changed.

The training hall was bathed in semi-darkness. Moonlight filtered through the blinds, casting intricate, web-like patterns across the floor. Echo sat cross-legged on the cold mats, a shiver running down her spine. Three paces away, Iso stood motionless. His violet eyes appeared almost black in the dim light, only occasionally flickering with an eerie inner glow—like distant stars.

"Do you really want to know the truth?" - His voice was uncharacteristically soft, stripped of its usual metallic edge. Each word dropped into the silence like a stone into a deep well, and Echo felt their echoes reverberate in her chest.

She nodded, unable to speak. Her throat tightened, fingers gripping the edge of the mat as if clinging to stability in a world that had suddenly turned fragile.

With slow, almost ceremonial precision, Iso removed his left glove. Moonlight revealed a scar on his inner wrist—the crude mark "K-7," branded so deeply the surrounding skin had wrinkled into strange, twisted patterns.

"This isn’t just a brand, - he whispered, tracing the scar. - It’s a door. A door to hell I carry with me every day."

He began to speak. Haltingly at first, as if each word had to be wrenched from the depths of his soul. He spoke of being hired to kill—not politicians or soldiers, but scientists. The ones in pristine labs with spotless reputations, who experimented on children. The ones who turned living people into weapons, blurring the line between human and tool.

"I thought I was doing good, - his voice cracked, an invisible string snapping. - Eliminating monsters. Cleaning the world. Until I found that lab in Shanghai."

A silence fell. In it, Echo felt Lucia stir in the recesses of her mind. Iso’s hands clenched into fists, knuckles bleaching white, veins bulging like blue snakes beneath his skin.

"There were cages, - he continued, every word now a visible struggle. - Not rooms, not wards—cages. And inside… children. Five to twelve years old. Numbers instead of names."

Something coiled in Echo’s consciousness—a knot of fear. Lucia didn’t speak, but her presence sharpened, as if the girl were physically pressing against her.

"And among them - Iso inhaled sharply, - I saw her. Viper. Sabine. She stood in the middle of that hell in a white coat, but… she wasn’t with them. She screamed at them, demanded they stop the experiments. They smiled, nodded, and when she left - His voice frayed into a hoarse whisper. - they just moved locations."

Echo gasped. In her mind, Lucia’s voice chimed like splintered glass:

"Aunt Sabine… She gave me chocolates. Said we’d go to America soon, where there’d be toys…"

Iso heard it—or deduced it from Echo’s expression. His eyes flooded with such raw pain that she recoiled.

"She took you and Reyna, - he murmured. - Smuggled you to America under the guise of 'continuing research.' The others - He stood abruptly, turning to the window. - I didn’t reach in time."

Moonlight carved his profile—the sharp angles of his face, lips pressed thin, the shadow of his lashes on his cheeks. For the first time, Echo realized she was seeing him without masks: not a VALORANT agent, not a mercenary, just a man. Too exhausted to even cry.

Their attempts to save Lucia had led them astray. One mistake nearly cost not just Lucia’s life, but dozens of others’. Reyna’s motives were understandable—she cared only for her sister. But the Viper of that time… She’d still wanted to save something. Willingly. Without ulterior motives.

Shattered windows gaped at them like empty eye sockets as they slipped inside. The air reeked of mold, chemicals, and something else—something that prickled their skin with unease. Her first mission after weeks of training was supposed to be simple reconnaissance.

On paper, it was a routine intel sweep of an abandoned Kingdom outpost. In reality, it was personal. A chance to dig through the ghosts of his past under the thin guise of "evaluating the rookie."

Brimstone approved it. Why? Maybe because he saw the way Iso’s fingers twitched when Viper’s name came up in briefing. Maybe because he knew some wounds fester until you carve them open.

Echo followed close behind Iso, her fingers flexing nervously around her pistol grip. Every footstep echoed hollowly through the derelict halls. Faded children’s drawings clung to the walls—crooked houses, smiling suns with radiating lines—interspersed with technical schematics and clinical graphs. The juxtaposition made her stomach twist.

"This is where… they kept them?" - Her voice was barely audible.

Iso didn’t answer. His strides were too sharp, his shoulders rigid. Then he froze before a door with a half-scraped nameplate: "Dr. S. Reyes."

"Her office," - he muttered, and something fractured in his tone—not quite hatred, not quite grief.

The door resisted before swinging open to reveal chaos: an overturned desk, shredded documents, shattered monitor screens. Yet on the wall, pristine amid the wreckage, hung a child’s drawing pinned neatly to a corkboard. Stick figures, a yellow sun, green grass. A scribble in the corner read: "For Aunt Sabi, from Lucy."

Iso tore it from the wall. The paper crumpled in his grip. Something flared and died in his eyes.

"She really tried—" - The words choked off.

A rustle came from down the hall. A trembling old man in a soiled lab coat staggered into view, his milky eyes darting between them.

"Are you… from Kingdom?" - His voice quivered like a leaf in wind.

Iso moved. He slammed the man against the wall, pistol jammed into his wrinkled forehead.

"WHERE ARE THEY?" - The scream ricocheted through the corridors. - "THE KIDS SHE COULDN’T SAVE?"

The man stammered, spittle dripping from his lips:

"I-I don’t know! Dr. Reyes took two—the girl and her sister! The others… they were relocated before she returned! She didn’t know! She thought they’d been released!"

Echo saw Iso’s finger tremble on the trigger. She stepped forward, pressing a hand to his shoulder.

"He’s telling the truth, - she whispered. - Viper tried to help."

Iso went statue-still. His breaths came fast and ragged, like a cornered animal’s. Then he recoiled, lowering the gun with violent abruptness.

"But she failed," - he said, and the words carried galaxies of pain.

He turned toward the exit without another glance at the cowering man.

"Get out,- Iso spat over his shoulder. - Before I change my mind."

Echo's room on the Protocol base felt unnaturally quiet after the day's events. She sat curled up on her bed, arms wrapped around her knees, staring at her pale reflection in the dark window. Lucia had gone silent—strange after the emotional storm that had raged between them earlier.

"Are you…" Echo ventured carefully in her mind, "still afraid of him?"

A long pause. Then a whisper-thin voice replied:

"No…"

Echo exhaled, feeling something tighten in her chest.

"Aunt Sabine… she really was trying to help you, wasn't she?"

"Yes!" Lucia's mental voice suddenly brightened. "She brought me chocolates and storybooks. Said we'd go to America soon where I'd have my own room and a doll…"

Fragments of childhood memories surfaced—a kind woman in a white coat, her slender hands adjusting an IV, a soft voice singing lullabies.

"Then why is she… like this now?" Echo whispered aloud.

The door creaked open quietly. Iso stood in the doorway, holding two steaming mugs. Without a word, he set one down on Echo's nightstand.

"For… her," he said awkwardly, clearly meaning Lucia. "Hot chocolate. With marshmallows."

He turned to leave when Echo suddenly stood up.

"Wait."

She caught his hand—the scarred one. His skin was surprisingly warm to the touch.

"She wants to talk to you."

Iso froze. His violet eyes widened as Lucia's voice came through Echo:

"Did you… know Aunt Sabine was good?"

He didn't answer immediately. In the dim nightlight, his face looked strangely vulnerable.

"She was," he finally said, his voice carrying the weight of the world's bitterness. "Before she broke. Like all of us."

Lucia laughed then—a child's clear, unexpected peal of laughter that even made the corners of Iso's mouth twitch.

"Then she just forgot! Like you did!"

Iso didn't smile. But something shifted in his eyes—the ice cracked, revealing light shining through the fractures.

BONUS, some time ago

The laboratory's darkness clung thick as tar. Only the emergency lights, pulsing a bloody crimson, clawed at the gloom—revealing cracked walls, shattered glass, bullet scars on concrete. The air reeked of smoke, chemicals, and something cloying, nauseating. Formaldehyde.

Iso stepped over congealing blood, his boots sticking to linoleum. Before him gaped empty cages—small, dog kennel-sized. Discarded sheets lay crumpled inside, alongside broken dolls and used syringes.

They were already gone.

His fists clenched until nails bit into palms. The oath he'd sworn that night—when he first uncovered the documents—crumbled to ash. He'd meant to save them. Now only ghosts remained.

A groan echoed from the far corner.

Iso turned. One of the scientists—an old man with silver temples and spectacles shattered to splinters—was crawling toward the exit, dragging a slick trail of red behind him.

"P-please… - The man wheezed. - I… I just followed orders—"

Iso moved slowly. In the siren's hellish glow, his face looked carved from stone.

"Where are the children?" - His voice was soft. Almost polite.

The scientist trembled.

"Transferred… to another place… yesterday—"

"Where?"

"I don’t know! I swear! Only Dr. Reyes, she—"

The name struck like a whipcrack.

Iso crouched, pressing his gun to the man's forehead.

"She what?"

"She… took one. The girl from the isolation room…"

One.

Out of dozens.

Iso's finger twitched on the trigger.

"Why hers?"

"She… was never really one of us."

The gunshot roared like thunder.

The fire alarm screamed—a wounded animal's howl. Deeper in the compound, a wall collapsed in a shower of sparks. Iso strode through smoke, his shadow—distorted by flames—leaping along the walls. He needed to find her. Question her. Understand. Maybe she had resources. Intel. This wasn't the mission, but—

Then he saw them.

At the corridor's end: a slender woman in a soiled white coat, black hair slick with sweat. She carried a frail, unconscious girl in her arms. Behind her, backing away with a pistol raised—an older girl, eyes burning feral. Not fear. Rage.

Viper was running.

Her face wasn't the cold mask of a scientist—it was alive, twisted with terror, desperation. She was saving them.

But why only these two?

Gunfire erupted.

Two guards rounded the corner.

"Dr. Reyes! Stop!"

Viper whirled—but Reyna was already shooting. First bullet: A guard clutched his throat, choking on blood. Second: The other dropped to his knees, then face-first to the floor. Reyna didn't flinch. She yanked Viper's sleeve.

"RUN!"

They vanished toward the emergency exit. Iso didn't fire. He watched. The corridor burned. Flames licked the ceiling. Black ash swirled like bitter snow, settling on his lips. Iso stood among empty cages. Among corpses. Among ruins. He'd come to slaughter monsters. But the children were already gone. And the woman who'd been part of this hell… had fled with two.

Why?

Why not all?

"I was too late…" - His voice drowned in the fire's roar. The siren wailed—like a forgotten child crying in the dark.

previous chapter - 12

next chapter - 14

to the beginning

[bookdragonideas]

Some of you live a lie.

Some of you believe being a human means big cities and big cars and big houses.

Some of you think education means school and grades and papers.

Some of you have never seen the stars in all their glory.

Some of you have never ran through the woods as a child, wearing a cloak your friend helped you make, leaping in and out of the trees and feeling the exhilarating rush of freedom.

Some of you have never seen a hummingbird caught in a greenhouse and then spent an hour trying to catch it. You've never held such a precious tiny creature in your hands, feeling its racing heart beat and hardly daring to move for fear of how fragile it is.

Some of you have never camped in the woods, so far from civilization that you can see the stars so clearly. It takes hours on bumpy dirt roads to get there but it's so worth it for this.

Some of you were never given the chance to learn what you wanted to learn about. Never developed a fixation on the most random things, never allowed to spend your weeks reading books and watching videos about the Inca Empire because you wanted to and not because it was required for a test.

Some of you have never heard the silence of the woods. The thousands of small chattering things. The way the trees sing. The way silence settles with an eerie chill along your spine when a predator draws near.

Some of you have never known the small town life. Where everyone knows your face if not your name. And every local knows to swerve right after the train tracks to avoid that one pothole that never gets fixed. Where the old ladies are sweet and the old men hold the door for you. Where the young people are polite and kind and cheerful and are equally happy to spend their days helping their grandparents or swimming in the lake with friends. Where your mom knows your friends mom and they share embarrassing pictures and stories of you and your friends until you and your friends get so embarrassed you run out the door and go for a walk and try to catch a squirrel. (You fail of course, squirrels are hard to catch, but a butterfly lands on you and the neighbors cat comes out to say hello)

Some of you have never bought fresh food at a farmers market where you knew half the vendors. And your best friends with the daughter of the couple selling eggs and you worked one winter for the lady with the apple pies.

Some of you have never grown your own food. Digging your hands into the dirt and breaking a sweat under the hot sun. But it's worth it for the sweetest tomatoes you've ever tasted and they grow back next year without any help from you. And the potatoes you threw into the woods have grown and spread and they taste like childhood memories and the woods you love.

Some of you have never made your own fort out of sticks and branches and checked it every year and watched with pride as the fort you built survives harsh winter after harsh winter and never shows a hint of collapsing.

Some of you have never lost someone you loved, only for half the town to show up at the memorial, because they loved her too. And you never feel so loved as when your struggling and suffering and the people around you notice and care and help. And they bring you meals and fix your car and make sure you have a shoulder to cry on. And you do the same. You comfort a stranger with a kind word and you shovel the snow off the driveway of the old lady who lives down the street and you bring a couple of young parents meals and hold their precious child while they eat.

And you are born and raised in a small town so big its spread across the wilderness. And you grow older and marry and have kids of your own. And you raise them in a place you call home and even when times are tough you always have a roof over your head and warm food in your stomach. And you watch as your kids grow and marry and have children themselves. And you hold your grandchildren and tell them stories. And your old now and you let the young people help you.

And you can live your whole life in the same small town.

And you could never go to school or college or seen a concert.

But you will have lived more of a life than thousands of people who live in big cities.

Becaue you will have lived your life in a place that is full of people who care. In a place where you can watch your gardens grow and hear the roosters crow. Where you are not part of a crowd but part of a community. Where people aren't afraid to help each other.

A place full of family and love.

Some of you live a truth.

Some of you understand that being a human means big hearts and hard work and houses full of love.

Some of you know that education is reading good books and learning from experience and helping old people rake up leaves while they teach to spell t-e-n-a-c-i-o-u-s.

Some of you have seen the stars.

[qierxing]

Double Trouble

A/N: An old drabble I had around and decided to punt out for warmup

Ace Trappola x Deuce Spade x Reader

TW/CW: Violence against reader, manipulation

—

Ace and Deuce weren't exactly friends.

And they made sure everyone around them knew it. They've never really tried to cooperate with each other more than necessary; always been more content pushing each other around and slinging insults at each other whenever they had the chance. They were no different from feuding rivals in a way. Frenemies, on a good day.

And yet, their temperament completely changes around you.

It's so small, so miniscule, that you don't realize it until Grim brings it up casually.

"They sure are soft on you, huh?” He drawls when the duo once again lets you get away with scolding them for procrastinating on their homework. 

"I've no idea what you're talking about." You shuffle the worksheets into your school bag, careful not to crease any of the fragile papers. "They know Riddle would be on their asses anyway if he knew they were slacking off."

Your companion groans. "That's not what I'm talking about, [First], and you know it, mya!" He waves his paws in that annoying little Grim way and you know you're in for another whiny temper tantrum.

"You know if even that goody two shoes Clover-senpai were to lecture him, they would just shrug it off like nothin'!" His forked tail waves wildly. "And yet, they just listen to ya and don’t do anythin' bout it!!"

"Grim, I think you're exaggerating." You don't even dignify the angry cat with a comeback when you shove a tuna sandwich in his open maw.

You should've realized Grim wasn't overreacting at all.

Yes, the duo weren't friends, but they knew how to work together for a common goal. Unfortunately, you were the one who had taught them that all those months ago in that haunted, decrepit mine.

"Whaddya mean, you can't study with us?" Ace frowns deeply as you rub your neck sheepishly. Deuce wears a similar look with his fists clenched at his side, and if you didn't know any better, it was like the two were disappointed you couldn’t study with them.

"I told you before, I promised Sebek that I would study with him." You cross your arms, "It's not a big deal. We can hang out another time anyway."

Ace's frown deepens more and he and Deuce exchange a glance you can't decipher. A cold breeze winds through the stone pillars of the hallways and you wonder if that's the reason you feel so uneasy.

“It’s not like that guy needs you to be there, right? Just ditch.” You’re left flabbergasted at Ace’s crude dismissal. You open your mouth in a hasty retort but you get cut off.

“Surely Sebek can find another study partner if he really needs to.” Your head whips in shock at Deuce’s flat agreement. He was the one trying to be an eager honors student. Why the hell was he so against two students studying together?

It would've made sense if they were up to their shenanigans again. At least then, you would know it would pass with some time, give or take. But this doesn't feel like a badly timed prank, nor a lead up into a heist that will go wrong. If anything, it feels like they're trying to enforce something on you.

"What is with you two? If you two have beef with Sebek, sort it out with him." Your bag weighs heavy on your shoulder, laden with the textbooks and notes you need for your study session. "Leave me out of whatever mess you got yourselves in."

You turn sharply towards the library, wanting so badly to put down your bag for your poor aching shoulder. There shouldn't be anything else to address, and you thought you could walk away, and everything would be fine when you returned. 

You thought.

One second you're walking and the next, you're lying on your side, bag strewn across the cobblestone floor. Ink bottles cracking and dripping ink everywhere, pens and pencils rolling away, and all your textbooks’ spines cracked open. You’re gasping for air, breath completely knocked out of your lungs, winded and sprawled on the floor.

“W-Wh–” is the only thing you can utter before you feel a presence looming over you.

“Jeez, prefect, don’t you know that you shouldn’t leave your back open?” Ace’s gloating voice hovers right above your head, and oh, how badly you just want to take his stupid mug and give him a good bash–

“We really didn’t want it to have to come to this,” Deuce’s voice following makes your entire body freeze. “But we don’t want you to get into trouble.”

Your mind runs through several swear words in a loop before you realize with horror that one of them is hauling your limp body up into their grasp. You try moving one of your limbs but only crackling pain greets you, making you suck in a deep, painful breath. A chuckle echoes to your left, and your bloodshot eyes flash to see Ace smirking his usual shit eating grin, hand twirling his magic pen. 

“Nothing personal, [First],” He cheekily responds as he notices your pained glare. Warm flesh pulses under you, and it’s with rage that you’re face to face with Deuce’s worried face next.

“We’ll undo the magic on you later, but please don’t struggle.” He has you in a bridal carry, which is already humiliating in itself, but the fact he has the audacity to tell you to calm down?

“You…won’t get away…with this…!” Every word you utter stretches your ribcage to the point where you feel like it’s cracking open, but you would be damned if you were going to stay silent.

Ace laughs, while Deuce averts his gaze.

“I think we can, [First].”

[littlefreya]

The Devil’s Tongue

Summary: A mask of virtue hides a man riddled with lust and while his stoicism proceeds him, even he can’t withstand a begging girl. 

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x OFC (3rd person POV)

Warning: 18+. Manhandling, abuse of power, MaleDom/FemSub, some thigh riding, unprotected sex, deflowering, loss of virginity, mild mentions of blood, sex in front of mirror (auto-voyeurism), profanities, bodily fluids, possessive behaviour. 

Words: 4.5k

A/N: Many thanks to my muse @agniavateira for supporting me through this story and for betaing. This was inspired by a certain scene in the film. My pervy mind took it elsewhere. Sincerely, I am not sure how I feel about it, so I’ll let you be the judge while I’m having my panic attack. 

Please reblog and give feedback if you enjoyed. 🖤

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

Title: The Devil’s Tongue

The treacherous moon was already high in the midnight sky and winds of melancholia whispered through the ivy leaves that grew timidly around the window’s panes. Despite the solace of night, her blood seeped with venom, and vicious thorns grew beneath her skin.

Striding through the desolate corridors of Holmes’ estate, Vanessa fumed while listening to the sounds of the old house: the creaking of the floorboards, the glass panes rattling in the wind, and the scratching of mice that ran between the walls. A kerosene lamp hung heavy between her sweaty fingers; her knees cracked as she marched forward to face her master.

Same as every night, Sherlock hid in his library to chase adventures behind thin sheets of paper. He was not to be disturbed, though he left her no choice.

Sent her away he did, claiming that her service was no longer needed even though she was promised a home at the estate, despite Enola’s departure. The worst of it was that he didn’t even bother telling her himself, but simply sent another servant to announce that she must pack her belongings tonight.

‘Like hell, I would!’

Vanessa willed her heart to beat slowly as she tiptoed, cursing every wooden plank that grated beneath her feet. It’s been over a year since she started working for the Holmes family, and despite battling her concupiscence tooth and nail, Mr. Holmes has possessed her very existence. Sleepless nights left her yearning to drink the mead of his mouth and feel the slapping of his skin onto hers.

Wistfully, the brooding detective only stared at her with a lustre of ice. But the notion of never seeing him again felt like holding a blade pointed to her chest; the wish to confess nibbled in her gut like a pesky little fish.

‘At least I will have the chance to say farewell…’ she mused as she finally reached the open doorway of the library. It was a cosy cavern, stuffed with endless shelves of books and vases of pink roses to mellow its austerity.

Wood burnt to a crisp within the hearth, its aromatic scent bleeding into the air and a light layer of ashen mist wafted over the chamber. There sat her master, resting comfortably on his maroon leather armchair with a book in one hand and a pipe pressed between his succulent lips like a king on a throne of solitude.

Silently she stared, brow furrowing at his sight. It baffled her how a man can be so oblivious to the dangerous power he had over women. Sherlock was as divine as the coldest day of winter: eyes of crystal snow, curls darker than the night, and sharp facial features that gave a tinge of intimidating flavour. The ancient god Hades would have been jealous of his divinity. Even in these serene moments, Sherlock’s presence exhumed dominant masculinity, consuming oxygen like the fire that burnt in the mantle.

Clad in a white cotton shirt loose over his broad chest, he calmly turned a page on his book and sighed.

It was impossible not to sense her nearby. The young woman was a breeze of autumn wind: spiced yet soothing, bringing the omen of a season’s change. She tried very hard to hide her feral nature, abiding, serving, and acting polite. While she fooled everyone, including herself, he detected the brazen kiss that raged within her.

Nights were riddled by dreams of dismantling her shackles, only to bind her further to himself. And yet, every time he looked at her a loathing rage gnawed inside. To him, she was a dire trap meant to expose the thing that hid behind his mask of virtue—a reckless savage, sick with twisted desire.

It took true power to send her away. Yet, here she was, barging into his shelter to pour another drop of simmering turmoil into his already seething blood.

“Can’t sleep, Nessie?”

Vanessa jolted with a startle. His deep voice threaded tendrils of dark silk around her heart, attempting to draw it further out of her fragile ribcage. Maintaining attention on the book in his hand, Sherlock’s mouth twitched into a cold grin of respect, sensing her glare stabbing at his nape.

“You might be a mouse, but you have the stomp of an elephant.”

Forcing the book shut with a soft thud, Sherlock turned his head aside, daring to catch a glimpse of her. His pretentious smile died, and a surge of passion seized at his groin. Like the virgin Persephone, she stood before him wrapped in a sheer nightgown, the creamy fabric barely hiding her delicacies. A mystic glow of sweet honey and amber gold rimmed her flesh, kissing down her clavicles and leading his enslaved gaze to the soft heaps at her chest.

By courtesy, he should have looked away, but the wish to incinerate the silken threads that retained whatever left of her modesty whispered in his ear like a little devil that sat on his shoulder. It was cruel of her to provoke him like this.

Quirking an eyebrow with disdain, he finally battled the sight away.

“Something ails you, girl.” Sherlock’s rich baritone dropped. Touching the pipe to his maw, he took a long whiff and suckled his lip. “You seem unnecessarily emotional,” he noted dryly, pretending as if her appearance was a mystery.

Noticing the uncaring shift in his tone, she scowled and stepped carefully into the room. Placing the lamp on a nearby stand, she purposely stepped into his line of sight and looked at the frowning detective with the feral wilderness growing inside her chest.

“You’re sending me away tomorrow,” an unmistakable hint of rage seeped between the cracks in her voice. Grasping her knuckles, she began striding back and forth across the Parisian rug as if lost in her own musings, “why? What have I done to you?”

A small huff escaped his nose, and he rubbed a finger beneath his bottom lip. His patience spread thin as the young lady scurried about with hysteria. The mere idea of bending her over and teaching her some discipline caused the fabric of his trousers to stretch over his engorging desire.

“You’ve done nothing wrong, it was simply my decision.” He answered, striving to sound neutral and remorseless. “A lady’s maid without a lady is useless in a place like this. But now, Vanessa, it’s late, and I’d like to get back to my book. No reason for you to stand here in your... undergarments.”  

Lips agape and feet nearly colliding on to one another, Vanessa paused on her steps. His words crept a chill down the length of her spine, making her cheeks blaze. Passionate and irrational, she never even noticed her lack of chastity when she left her room.

“I… didn’t think much, I was upset…”

‘Of course, she didn’t think much. Irrational, savage thing.’

A string twitched in Sherlock’s cheek, and a dark errant lock fell rogue upon his pale temple as he turned his head aside, adamant to brush her away. His self-restraint was but a delicate, dying leaf, hanging by its last yellowing strand.

“I came here to ask you to…”

“I’m afraid it’s not negotiable.” Sherlock interrupted and swatted his hand flat on the leather binding. His stern glance floated out the window, focusing on a large spider that threaded lines of silver amidst the peeling frames. “You will find a new job in London, a better house,” he apprised and took a deep inhale, turning the book over to open it where he paused. “Now please leave before we’ll both hurt one another.”

‘Before I will pierce cavities in your soft flesh.’

Stunned by his dismissive, arctic demeanour, her stubbornness and frustration only grew to monstrous proportions. With clenched fists and water pooling at her lids, she grunted and took a courageous step closer, standing at the fore of his couch while shaking her head.

“No!”

“No!?” he scowled, eyebrows lowering with dismay. “You forget your place, woman.” He flashed her a quick warning look, his icy glare tinted midnight black as he stood at his wit’s end.

If only it didn’t make her heart shrivel with wanton. Their proximity perilously close, Sherlock’s strong scent pervaded into her lungs: a musky blend of whiskey, leather, and fine tobacco that made her thighs wobble. Before she could even register what’s happening, her knees were brushing the thick carpet, her decorum and dignity gone.

“I want to stay here. With you.”  Slender like stalking vines, her fingers crawled onto the armchair, squeezing at the smooth leather with pitiable desperation.

“Keep me, please!”

“Vanessa,” Sherlock drawled, still refusing to meet her gaze while his thumb circled deep into the coarse binding. Furious tides rose in his eyes, whisked by the rageful storm that inhabited his mind, “Do not make me regret this night.”

He didn’t want to hurt her, but she was pretty when she begged.

“You don’t know what it is that you’re asking, I am not the gentleman you think I am.”

Ignoring his warning, she insisted. Daring, needy talons rose from the armchair to claw at his arm, clutching it with demand. Even through barriers, a surge flushed between their bodies.

“Sherlock,” she half-whispered, crystal droplets of sadness gliding down the smooth slope of her cheeks. Not caring the least as they dribbled onto the soft sleeve of his shirt, leaving tiny stains that dampened his arm.

“Guide me, teach me, make me yours!”

Nostrils flaring and breath rigid, the large man finally snapped his stare at her with the sanguine hunger of a starved vampire. The mask of his virtue fell shattering to the floor, and a harrowing silence took over the room, diffused only by the sound of crackling embers and Vanessa’s shaky breath.

“Remember this tomorrow when you’re raw and hurting; this is what your begging bought you, little Nessie.”

A strangled gasp died at her sternum as his hand suddenly grasped her throat. With a quick yank, she was up on her feet, her toes barely scraping the ground as the hulking man held her up to his face.

“Oh the things I’ll do to you..” he whispered as his thumb dug deep onto her cheek and the rest of his fingers etched at her throat.

Swinging on his boots, he swept her across the silent halls. His stride a dark ceremonial gyrate, the creamy fabric of her pristine nightgown floating mid-air like a sheer tongue of white morning mist.  

“I will make you mine as you begged,” he rasped barbarically, one hand pushing the door open while the other held her attached to his chest, “I will teach you what you asked…” his lips brushed her ear, his breath hot over her cheek, “your first lesson begins... in my bed.”

With a swift shove, she was forced into his realm. Feet stumbling upon the tepid wooden floor, her ears throbbed with shock. Her hands reached to grasp onto the engraved bed column to prevent herself from falling.

His bedroom smelled of dying roses and smoked wicks, echoing the putrid decadence that gnawed at Sherlock’s mind. A dozen melting candles burned in every secluded corner, their little orange tongues licking the reflection of a sizable mirror that stood opposite of his large bed.

A dull metallic click broke the air, followed by Vanessa’s sputtering breath as she saw him lock the door. Her faith sealed - now caged in the lair of the beast. Reduced to his own shimmering shadow, Sherlock advanced toward her, ripping his shirt off.

Fingers biting into the wooden pole, Vanessa stared, unable to determine if it was a man or a lycan god who stood before her. Every breath made his bare torso look menacing. Under the deep dusky twilight, his muscles curved and stretched, coated by a virile, dark fur.

Curious, her gaze followed the striking veins and the trail of unkempt hair that paved its way down his fine abdomen and disappeared beneath his trousers. Guiding to that which she feared and wanted at once.

Eyes of blue flame shone with absent remorse, brows arched with a pretentious demeanour as he reached a hand to seize her to him. “Your innocence dies here tonight,” he hissed in her ear, “from now on, you’ll be my little whore to plough as I please.”

The air died in her lungs as his firm chest collided with hers and his knee forced her legs apart. Bulging and muscular, his thigh rose to brush at her clit, the thin fabrics a shy barrier.

Shuddering, she swallowed hard in a dire battle to find her voice. “I will be whatever you need me to be,” she retorted as the thought of being exploited by her master released fluttering butterflies of fear and excitement in her chest.

Sherlock smirked and captured her jaw between his finger and thumb as he leaned in. Torrid lips hovered over her own, offering a phantom kiss to distract her from the greedy fingers that pushed the sleeves of the gown off her shoulders.

Like warm milk it poured down her body, exposing her delicacies to the night and to the gluttonous hands that kneaded her breasts while he flicked his tongue over her closed mouth, tasting the plumpness of her lips.

A true creature of the underworld, Sherlock’s touch was cruel like his promises; he took as he pleased, leaving his sigil seething on her skin. Her sputtering gasps served as an opportunity to invade her hot cavern. The detective’s kiss was even more ruthless, his tongue smooth as silk seized and conquered her breath.

She could feel him streaming in her blood, tasting him all the way down through her gut. Dark and intoxicating like poisonous absinthe, the promise of death swung amidst their hot, serpent-like dance.

Yet she only yearned to drink to her demise.

As if under a stupor, she swayed to his spells, bucking her hips to ground herself on the meat of his thigh, leaving the coarse fabric wet with sticky arousal. A condescending grin tugged at his lips, and his hand rushed to the back of her head, weaving through her hair and yanking her back.

“Already the wanton harlot,” he spat, swiftly turning her over and holding her against his chest. “Look at yourself,” he growled hoarsely in her ear, forcing her doe eyes to stare at their reflection. Sherlock rested his dimpled chin on the top of her head with his brows lowered like an apex predator examining his prey.

His hand disappeared behind, hastily fumbling with his trousers, “You wanted me to show you, you want to see,” he called as his trousers piled at his feet and he carefully stepped out.

Something hefty and hard nudged at the small of her back, turning her veins into thin tendrils of ice. Abysmal panic coiled at her gut at the realisation that Sherlock meant to reshape her as the vessel of his primal urge.

Hand snaking around her belly, he snatched her to fall back onto the mattress with him pillowing her fall. Her firm buttocks slid across his hairy abdomen, hands fumbling to grasp his thick thighs while her eyes flared at the sight of his hardened cock displayed in front of her in its full generous size.

It was nothing like the medical illustrations she saw in books: bulging tendons swerved across an imposing, meaty rod. Ridges rippled across its girth like soft silk, and the heart-shaped head dripped of glistening, pearly arousal.

Curious, her trembling hand wandered to feel him, stunned by the liquid-like texture that engulfed the absurd rigidness. By order of her touch, he twitched and swelled, causing the radiating heat at the apex of her groin to palpitate.

Pressing his lips to the shell of her ear, Sherlock growled, “Do you like what you see, little one?”

His taut hands reached to grasp her thighs, spreading her wide over each of his legs and holding them apart to expose her untouched sleek at the mirror. The thundering in his throat was nothing but animalistic as he glowered at her perfect sight: his little Nessie, his little untainted flower blooming fresh with dew, yearning to be plucked.

“Look at yourself,” Sherlock demanded with a whisper drenched of fervour. His coarse hand dragged to capture her chin and forced her to face the salacious spectacle reflected before them. Her breath shuddered; she saw their skin mapped onto one another, their bodies entangled and their souls unmasked.

How could something so forbidden be so beautiful?

“I dwell in the darkness, Vanessa.” Sherlock explained, his voice stroking her temple as his lips inched closer, “You must know that, you must have me as I am.”

He laved his tongue over her cheek as if he was tasting the sweetest delicacy and reached for his erection, stroking the pulsating girth between his fingers. Eyes still glued to their likeness on the glossy surface, she glanced as he pressed his pink, meaty tip between her dripping petals.

“Watch as I take something from you that can never be given back, something that will forever belong to me.”

“Sherl….”

His name died on her tongue, the moment forever lost in a loud shriek. Savagely and unceremoniously, he pried her virginal cunt open the way a predator rips at its prey’s throat. His massive shaft tore through her purity with no resistance to fight back against his brutal invasion.  

Pain rattled its way through her entire entity while the dark spectacle of the loss of her innocence played right in front of her eyes, spurring grievous tears. Lost to the bliss of her warm cavern, Sherlock chanted in loud groans, continuing to force himself all the way between her squeezing walls. Remorseless of her cries, he never stopped until every hollow inch inside her was full of his cock and his sac smacked against her stuffed opening.

“My! You feel good!” He panted with astonishment, his virility twitching within the lush sanctuary between her thighs. Noxious pride flowed in his veins at the reflection of the naked young girl, spread open with him inside her.

“Do you like having me inside you, my little harlot?”

“God!” Vanessa screamed, stunned by the sensation of him swelling at her core. His invasion seared, her legs trembled against his in a plea to be kept together. But he only stretched her wider, hooking both hands below her thighs.

“It will feel good in a little while,” he promised and slowly shifted his hips back. Inch by inch, his cock slid out of her now defiled slit, coated by blood and a sheer layer of arousal. It was something of decadent theatrics; his broad chest puffed against her spine, a blissful hum leaving his bobbing throat at the image of the crimson stain that decorated his sword.

“From this moment and beyond, this belongs to me,” he murmured, nuzzling her neck and planting wicked, butterfly kisses along the tender slope, “do you understand? Your little cunny is my property, your moans, your pleasure, all belong to me.”

Her cunt clenched around nothing as she watched his full length slipping out, tainted by broken purity, the empty void leaving pure urgency to course through her tendons. Hopeless for something she couldn’t even recognise, she whined and writhed on top of him. Her eyes levitated from their sexes to meet his icy glare.

“Sherlock, please, more! Please put yourself back inside me!!!”

“Fuck!” Sherlock rasped in awe of her wanton, his control nearly lapsed. Fingers digging into her thighs, he undulated his hips and pulled her down the length of his throbbing erection. Low melodies of pleasure rolled on his tongue as her wet cunt pressed around him again.

Gawking at the mirror, she nearly fell apart in his arms, cries of daze escaped her as Sherlock's drove back into her sleek. Every bit of his flesh unfolding hers, disappearing within her body to defy the loneliness aching in her cove until his entire shaft was lost in her depth and the tip of his cock hit something lush and tender. She could have sworn she felt him waver deep in her gut.

“Sherlock!!!” she cried, shutting her eyes at the sharp twinge that shuddered through her core.

“Don’t you dare close those eyes, dove,” he warned, and the authority in his voice left her no choice but to obey. Wickedly, his fingers slithered to the little nub of flesh above her slit and ruthlessly tugged at it to expose more of her battered sex. He continued to pound into her mercilessly, quickening the rhythm with each one of his thrusts.

“Look at you, taking me so obediently. Perhaps I was wrong about you, perhaps you are easily tamed.”

The thick bones of his hips crashed into her rump vigorously, his girth violently splitting her protesting walls. He was fast, wet, and hard inside her, his cock drilling into her over and over, every plunge stripping more layers of her soul and pushing her higher toward the heavens.

Enslaved to the beguiling aphrodisiac, she squirmed on top of him, her body beginning to push down to meet every thrust. The vision of herself being brutally taken by the large, civilised beast made the blood pool at the seams of her womanhood and tingle with frustration.

A shuddering quake began to spread within her, spiralling out in a sequence of spasms sourced at the spot where they connected. Bliss and ecstasy shattered her body and a sudden flush of pleasure exploded through her body as she came all over his cock.

Engulfed in her milking cunt, Sherlock could hardly believe what beheld his eyes. His beautiful nymph, coming undone around him, ethereal and divine. Her blissful chants a song to his ears only, she was like dryad humming a hymn to call upon a lonesome hunter.

“‘My Vanessa, I wanted you for so long.” He called, fucking her wildly through her orgasm. “Tell me you want me to come inside you,” he choked out on his grunts, her sugary walls closing around his thickness like a predatory flower, demanding to suckle his sweet elixir.

Still riding her climax, she shook her head, hesitant of speaking such profanities. But the stern glower on Sherlock’s face instantly forced her into submission.

“I want you to come … come inside me!” She panted and then screamed as another wave of intense rapture swept her away.

Her squeezing cunt forced the thick stream to vibrated through his shaft, making him drill into her with zeal. His fingers clutched her waist as he slammed her down onto his swollen cock, burying himself the deepest he could. Vanessa yipped as something hot sprouted into her, flooding her womb like a soothing kiss that slowly began trickling between their tight flesh.

Still locked in an embrace, they shivered together. Soft maple hues glimmered over their wet skin, their bodies heaving against one another while a symphony of pants and gasps filled the silence.

Sherlock’s glaciers sought to capture her reflection, a dark, brooding look on his sweat-silken face while his lips ghosted over her shoulder. There was no question in the rough expression of his face.

Nothing spoke louder than the possessiveness that pierced through the sharp reflection.

~*~

A tender stream of sunshower kissed her lids awake. The cerulean sky winked at her through the open window while her senses gingerly regained their functions after what felt like graveyard slumber. Finding herself alone, she wondered for a moment if the night before was only a fantasy; but this bed was too soft and far too large, and the sensation of shame licking between her thighs told her otherwise.

Even in his absence, Sherlock’s presence lingered. His pungent sweat layered on her skin, and from her torn seal trickled the pearly, forbidden essence of his loins. She allowed herself a moment of coy bliss, pressing her lips upon her bare shoulder to kiss the taste of him off her flesh when the thud of inching footsteps and creaking wood made her sit up with fright as if her presence was forbidden.

Huddling the blankets around her chest, she gulped as the door flung open.

Already dressed in a clean shirt, a vest of golden brown, and a long black jacket, the hulking man offered her a small wrinkle on his brow. Fine silks were folded on his forearm, and his eyes fell upon the naked beauty in his bed. A shadow of dark desire danced upon his slanted smirk as he noticed the little inkling of dry blood on the edge of the mattress.

“Slept well, my little Nessie?” He asked, passing a finger over his neatly combed locks before gesturing for her to approach him. Obedient as ever, his little servant quickly climbed out, immediately regretting her haste as a spear split through her core. With jolting legs, she swallowed her discomfort and approached him with her head lowered to the floor.

“No, we will have none of this,” Sherlock chided, his finger stalking beneath her chin to fix her stare on his. Their gazes met for a shy second and then he stepped back, unfolding the fabrics held beneath his arm.

A waterfall of black and crimson flowed down, hanging from his hands.

Vanessa’s eyes rounded with wonder; being a woman of lower status, she never owned anything as beautiful and expensive as the dress he held before her.

“Lift your arms, dove,” Sherlock commanded and she did as he bid.

The soft fabrics felt like warm liquid washing over her skin as Sherlock carefully slipped the dress over her head. His hands smoothly roamed her body, tugging at the delicate fabric to fit over her figure. The tall detective stepped to stand at her back and began working the laces of the corset embedded into the gown.

One by one, he tightened the silk binds as he pulled at the laces. Vanessa slightly hissed when her breasts squished against the generous cleavage.

“Forgive me,” Sherlock mumbled as he heard her distress, “I am not used to such… arrangements.”

“Arrangements?” she asked naively, though it quickly dawned on her that her dear master never had a wife or a mistress, which didn’t come much as a surprise after witnessing his bohemian desires the night before. And yet, no regret touched her heart as Sherlock pressed his hand over her torso and perched his chin atop her head once again.

“Look at us.” His lustrous eyes carried to the mirror, guiding hers to follow as he stroked his hand lower to flatten the folds of her dress and pushed her hair over her shoulders with the other.

“Don’t we make a pair?”

Glancing forward, Vanessa took a deep inhale. Crimson and black were unusually beautiful as they graced her figure. The rim of the cleavage was beaded with fine black jewels that gave her appearance an elegant, yet erotic flavour.

Taken by her new design, she allowed herself to be swallowed into Sherlock’s beautiful darkness.

She wouldn’t have him without it.

___________________________________

Additional notes: I don’t own Sherlock Holmes or Enola Holmes franchise. Thanks to @wondersofdreaming  @wolvesandhoundshowltogether and @sapphirescrolls for moral support. 

[retvenkos]

within these lines | t.l.

Little Women - Theodore “Laurie” Laurence x Reader, fluff requested by @mywinterbucky​ - sorry for the wait!

tw: none

word count: 1.6k

prompt: “you still have that?”

A/N: sorry timothee chalamet fans, but the gif is of christian bale’s laurie because sometimes you gotta switch it up, y’know? after all, variety is the spice of life.

Summary: The world had come in between Laurie and (Y/n) five years ago, but neither time nor distance could keep them apart for long.

There’s something elusively romantic about the teenage years. Despite any tragedy that reaches the hearts of the young, there is something infinite in youth that takes such melancholy and spins it into something beautiful beyond recognition.

It was in their teenage years that (Y/n) was torn from Laurie’s embrace - two friends on the cusp of being something more. A “perhaps” that ended in ellipses, each dot like the thousands of miles that separated them. All through their childhood, they had been together, and up until the moment (Y/n) was whisked away to England, they had constantly been at each other’s side. To have known someone so fully and to lose them so completely was a tragedy that often left the soul barren. But they were teenagers at the time, standing at the precipice of adulthood, and their minds preserved a beauty that existed in their youth - something unique and not likely to happen again; gold-spun.

When (Y/n) was plucked out of Laurie’s pocket and ripped from his heart, there wasn’t much else to do than wander. Laurie passed the days on his own and when he wasn’t lost amongst the memories of his youth, he was writing letters to (Y/n) when he ought to have been studying and fashioning poetry when he should have been sleeping. There is something elusively romantic about writing to someone you don’t have the address for - something that lies in the yearning of one’s being and the void that is left behind.

As the years wore on, Laurie grew out of those rose-colored teenage years, but his heart still beat to the rhythm of a sonnet. Across the ocean, (Y/n) was much the same. Although less of a poet, (Y/n) was a dreamer, and when they closed their eyes, they were there in the gardens of their youth, with a boy they had once thought of loving at their side.

It was a muddy, April day when Laurie felt a particular kind of ache settle in his heart. (Y/n) had told him, once, when they were hiding in the study of his grandfather’s house rather than practicing the piano, that muddy, grey mornings were their favorite. He had laughed at them back then, even after (Y/n) insisted that grey mornings had a comforting sort of calm about them - something that made sense to Laurie, despite it all. (Y/n) had insisted on the beauty of drab mornings, and when he told them that loving dull skies was like loving the taste of over-boiled tea, (Y/n) told him that they loved that, too. “After all,” they had said, “that’s how you make it when your grandfather is away, and there’s no one here but us.”

“But it’s not any good.”

“To me it is.” At their statement, Laurie made a face, and (Y/n) laughed like a spring breeze. “As is anything that is made with love.”

Laurie’s cheeks bloomed with a soft red at the mention of something so sacred as love, and he hid his flustered feelings by fiddling with the papers on the study desk. On a few pages, Laurie saw his own messy scrawl, and on a couple of others, he saw (Y/n)’s curled handwriting.

“Why don’t you make a list, then?” Laurie searched for a blank piece of parchment and set one down in front of (Y/n), giving them a quill and inkpot. “Make a list of everything you can think of that’s made with love.”

“Why?” And the curiosity in (Y/n)’s voice was gentle.

“So that I may make a list of my own, and we can learn to love the list of the other.”

(Y/n) smiled.

That had been many years ago, but Laurie could still remember the soft, subdued smile that (Y/n) had given him that day - an expression of contented awe. He had associated that look with muddy, April days a long time ago, and there was something particularly melancholic about a memory so beautiful and so full of love.

And a long time after, Laurie was still in the study, now in his early twenties. Sitting in a newly upholstered seat, he pulled out of a small tin box a stack of old papers filled with curled handwriting. At the bottom of the stack lay the list from so long ago, well-loved and well revised, with additions like “poorly done sketches from the neighbor children,” and “broken seashells from the beach,” written in minuscule letters.

Laurie was reading number twenty-six (“the singing of birds on Sunday mornings”) when a voice spoke from the stillness.

“You still have that?”

Transcending time and distance, Laurie would have known that voice anywhere.

“(Y/n)?”

Laurie's old friend, leaning against the door of the study, giggled from delight, and not a moment later, Laurie had them wrapped in a hug, his years of loneliness only tightening his grip - warm, enveloping, and ferocious, like he would do anything to never lose them again.

“Laurie, you’re going to crush me!”

“Wasn’t that on your list, though?” Laurie pulled away, holding (Y/n) at arm's length, looking into eyes he hadn’t seen in years - bright and strong; beautiful beyond belief. “Number thirty-one: ‘hugs you think will crack your spine.’”

(Y/n) hummed fondly. “And if I remember correctly, your number thirty-one was hiding in the closet during parties, whispering stories by candlelight.”

“You remember?”

“Of course, I do,” (Y/n) said earnestly, their brow creasing slightly, as though they were surprised at his question. “I have it right… here.” (Y/n) reached into the inside pocket of their coat, pulling out an old and fading envelope. They gingerly pulled out a piece of old parchment, reading the first sentence on the page. "Number one: 'the too-small gloves that you made me.' You really should have written my name - had anyone else  found the list, they would have been terribly confused."

“You still have it.”

(Y/n) smiled, and the expression was there - that contented sort of awe that never failed to make Laurie feel seen and, perhaps most of all, loved. For a moment, the two just stood there, within arm's length, holding onto each other and marveling at all the other had become. There was something elusively romantic about the moment; something heavenly that had been captured in every poem Laurie had ever written and every dream (Y/n) had ever fathomed.

“I missed you, Laurie.” And those four whispered words held a fragile sort of intimacy that could be shattered with a voice much louder than a sigh.

“And I missed you more than you could ever know.”

(Y/n)’s breath hitched.

Laurie stepped away suddenly as though a spell broke. He turned his back to (Y/n), his cheeks already starting to flare, and scanning the study for another chair - something for (Y/n) to sit in, close to him, at last.

“Ah, here.” Laurie pulled a chair closer to the study desk. “You can sit there and tell me all about your adventures in England. Would you like any tea?”

He turned to face (Y/n) once again, and they had a mischievous smile on their face. “Over-boiled, I’m guessing?”

Laurie chuckled, looking downward to hide the embarrassment that crept up onto his cheeks. “I think you’ll find I’m much improved. I’ve had five years of practice since you were last here.”

“Five years,” (Y/n) mused, walking over to their seat and sitting gently. “It’s funny, it feels like it’s been an eternity since I’ve been in Massachusetts, but it’s only been five years.”

“Five years is a long time,” Laurie supplied. “A lot can change.”

“But a lot can stay the same. Or, at least I hope.”

The two friends looked at each other. For a moment, it felt like the world slowed around them, and they were nothing more than the teenagers they had been five years prior when they were writing silly lists of things that were made with love.

“Well,” (Y/n) started, “I suppose I have stories I could tell, but I want to know about you."

"Well, I want to know about you!"

(Y/n) scoffed and shook their head, an expression that was beautiful, akin to the breaking of a new day.

"Well, this town has been like it's always been." Laurie relented, relaxing in his chair. “The March sisters have been less willing to spend time with me lately, since my mood has gone sour. but you’ll be glad to know that I have plans for getting back in their good graces, soon.”

(Y/n) leaned forward, putting their elbows on the desk and steepling their fingers, as though whatever they were talking about was of great importance. On instinct, Laurie leaned in as well, two conspirators in an empty house. "Well, now we're getting somewhere, Mr. Laurence."

Laurie stifled a chuckle, (Y/n) clearly struggling to do the same. "Indeed we are, (Y/n) (L/n)."

They both broke, and laughter filled the room, the sound echoing through the floorboards, unearthing the past where they had done just the same when they were years younger, but much the same.

Laurie sighed. "How is it that after five years of being apart, nothing has changed?"

"Well, I know you, Teddy, nothing can change that." (Y/n) smiled, gentle but full. Laurie felt a tugging on his heart - something almost painful if it weren't for the care in (Y/n)'s eyes, wrapping him in the most comforting sincerity - a gravity more divine than existing. "Even when we were far from each other, I had your list and my memories; you were the most full thing I ever had."

"I didn't know if you'd remember."

"I always remembered you."

Laurie breathed.

“Well,” (Y/n) began, something in their voice a little unsure, endearing Laurie already, “Now that we know we both remembered and kept the list of the other, I have to ask: did you learn to love my list?”

“I did.”

(Y/n) seemed pleased. “Even muddy, April mornings?”

Laurie chuckled, the feeling warm and pleasant in his chest - like a thunderstorm in June. “They were the first I learned to cherish.”

They smiled at each other once more.

-- taglist: @locke-writes, @brokenandheadoverheels​, @coffee--writes, @swanimagines, @amortensie // message me if you want to be added!

[yoondles]

Unholy - P.JM

Devil! P.JM x Reader

Summary: The Devil doesn’t ask for repentance, he punishes those who fail to repent.

Themes: A few religious hints here and there but it’s just porn without plot

Word Count: 5k, edited if you close your eyes

Inspo: nothing but ᵗʰᵉ ʰᵒˡʸ ᵇᶦᵇˡᵉ jk

Warnings: Degradation (he calls you a whore), huge dick like hUge, fingering, oral (m receiving), bondage, unprotected seggs, rough seggs?, teasing/edging, creampie, mature language, mentions of murder, drug dealing, and Jimin is a 🤏 cunty.

A yawn. It was what had woken you up, it was ironic however, the person who yawned must’ve pulled something from his muscles that he had to yell loudly. His bones cracked as your eyes opened, lashes fluttering as you sneaked a glance towards his direction. He cocked one of his eyebrows up, giving you a look that he was indeed better than you. You tried your best to move around, only to find out that you were held locked against the mattress.

The chains repeatedly moved against the wooden frame of the large bed. Your legs were locked up, but most importantly, you were naked. Cheeks tinted a pink hue as your observed the entirety of the room, your heart was pounding against your chest as you tried to cover yourself. Your eyes avoided his, gazing at the dark hues of red that scattered around the room.

The cold air did nothing but remind you of your current form, knees quivering as your nipples went hard from the cool breeze. Breath halting as you felt the man beside you breath against your neck. “Where am I?” You dared to ask, after all, your mouth had not been forced shut, might as well put it to use.

“Ah, the pure innocence humans have when they’ve finally reached my domain.” He muttered, his shoes clacking against the tile of the room. Pushing his tongue in his cheek as he fixed his coat, gently placing it behind the chair as he dragged it lazily in front of you. “You’re in hell, darling!” He exclaimed, eyes turning bright as he met your terrified eyes, pearly white teeth glowing brightly in enthusiasm. “No, seriously, where the fuck am I?”

“Well, aren’t you a crude little brat?”

“This is fantastic, you little grievances just keep on getting cocky,” He was annoyed, licking his lips as he gazed at the corner of the room, as if he were trying to calm himself down. He pushed his hair back, cracking his neck before gently placing both of his hands in his hips. A derisive gaze lingered on your body as he eyed your entirety.

The silver from his ears glowed brightly under the light that illuminated the room, his prominent cheek bones were highlighted, his plump lips were slightly open as he finally moved to meet your eyes. “Having the time of your life, aren’t you?” You wondered how long you’ve been staring at him, nitpicking, trying hard to find a flaw in his image. His mood was quick to change as he leaned forward, hands reaching your neck before enclosing it in a inhumane grasp, limiting the oxygen that flowed within you. “Always so fragile.” He muttered under his breath, watching the way your veins would appear.

You choked out a breath. You coughed out as his hands began travelling south, touching the area around your hard nipples but being careful to the point that he doesn’t allow himself to touch them. “Get your hands off of me, freak!” You yelled, the sound of metal rattling blasting the entire room.

He seemed unfazed. “You’re a feisty little bitch for someone who’s supposed to be punished, very ill-mannered if I may add. I’ll talk to God about this design flaw,” he was shaking his head as he grabbed a small notebook from his coat pocket, alongside a pen, writing down his observations as he muttered against his lips. “What?” You yelled once again, chains rattling loudly as you did your best to run away from this lunatic. “God, as in G, O, D. Father of almighty, creator of heaven and earth, do you want me to continue reciting the Apostles’ Creed?”

“Stop playing around, just — let’s get this over with, I want to go home.” He was confused, completely taken aback by your sudden submission, closing your eyes as if you were waiting for something to happen. Thunder rumbled from the outside, as the ground slightly shook. “Completely lost will to live, shows lack of loyalty...” the sound his pen made against the grain of the paper brought you back to reality, you couldn’t help but laugh at how much he took this seriously. Sure, it was one thing to live in your fantasy, but to write things as if this were reality? What type of weed did he smoke to get this high?

You let out a yelp as his fingers hit your exposed cunt, wincing as he shifted the pen back to its’ original position, closing the notebook with his pen inside. “May I remind you, you’re in hell, darling. You don’t get to boss me around, most importantly, you don’t get to push me into listening to your orders.”

The tone of his voice never faltered, “you’ve been quite a naughty little bitch out there, criminal records going quite far. You’re going to love it here, maybe you’d roam around as a middle class woman, especially with that reputation.” You shut your mouth, pulling once more as you tried your best to break free. No one knew about your criminal records, no one knew that you did illegal work. So who the hell was he, coming out here and telling you about this? You suppose he was a man of power, or maybe the police had finally caught you, you had no idea. “Normally I’d approve of it, you know, living your own life. However, you brought this hellhole, quite literally, so many souls. Imagine having to get in a queue to enter hell. All the drug dealing, corruption of innocent souls, let’s not forget about the old woman you forced your subordinates to run over.”

“H-how?”

“I rule hell! For someone who’s been living a life as lavish as yours, you’re quite dumb.”

His fingers were tracing small circles in your stomach, pinching it every once in a while as you moved your hips trying to avoid his warm hands. “So, you’re Satan?” He pulled his hand away, rolling his eyes. “Of course, that’s what you would say...” he pushed his slick hair back situating himself in the chair near your bed. “Whichever you prefer, however, the lilt the name Jimin has is something I’m quite fond of.”

It was distracting trying to listen to him as his fingers slapped your cunt once more, forcing you to hold your breath. You tried your best to limit your reactions, trying to not feed into his ego as you were already held captive and bound. Whether he was lying or not, you had to at least play safely around him. His hands travelled towards your thighs, quietly observing the way you would react. The way you would shiver every moment he inched up closer to your weeping vulva. “You’re such fragile creatures, y/n.” Closing your eyes as you felt him inch closer, his breath fanned over your clavicle. “Fragile enough to be tempted by the devil himself, aren’t we?” You whispered in his ear, breath shaking as his skin came in contact with yours. He let out a laugh, hands flying towards your needy breasts as he drew lines with his finger. “That’s a common misconception, darling.”

His eyes failed to meet yours as he continued to harvest reactions and small almost undetectable movements from your body. He was left in awe with the way you responded, shivers ran up and down your spine, breath hitching, the small goosebumps that formed, you were intriguing. “The devil doesn’t tempt you. You imbeciles try so hard to find someone to accuse of your haughty little actions. May I remind you, you’re in control.”

“Well, not right now.” His dark eyes held fire within them as he found yours, gaze burning holes in your body as you finally stopped resisting. There was something about the way he talked, the way he felt so close to you, the way he focused on you and you alone. You felt something from deep within you combust.

“You do everything just to avoid responsibility for your own actions, tell me, y/n. How does it feel to become powerless now that you’re here?” You closed your eyes tight, toes curling as one of his fingers found your clit. His voice dropping octaves as he rolled the pads of his fingers against the wet bundle of nerves. Your eyes rolled back as your limbs rattled the chains in protest.

“Is there a flush of regret? Maybe a hint of happiness because you’re a masochist? Tell me,” you shook your head, still refusing to fall into his hands as he moved faster. Failure to elicit sound lead to a sudden halt in his movements, a whine would emanate from your lips, before he started to move his fingers once more. A sexual punishment where you never reach the peak, a mixture of annoyance, pleasure and humiliation bubbled inside you.

“Your mouth shuts itself off, doesn’t it?” Fingers moving lower, and lower, and lower, finally penetrating your hole as your lips parted. Slick coating it before accepting it with the warmth of your unexplored cavern, he let out a sigh out of satisfaction. You were clueless, you had no idea when you had become this wet, but you were thankful for the penetration. Sighing, you pushed yourself towards his finger as you tried to reach for more, to push him even further inside you. “Oh my,” he was amused, laughing at the humiliating actions you made just to feel more of him.

“Humans tend to break so easily. This time around, I’d be honoured to tell you that maybe I did tempt you. But all I did was fuel the sexual drive you had, nothing more.” You tried to shut him off, your hips grinding harder against the single finger deep within you. Moaning ever so silently, desperate to climax on your own. He remained motionless, doing nothing to help you. You were eager to feel the knot inside your stomach unravel before him. “I wish you’d see how pathetic you look, y/n.” Still you didn’t stop, tears rimmed your eyes as you tried to chase something far away from you. You felt yourself moving closer to the edge, the lack of stimulation from both your clit and your insides had been nothing but excruciating.

Despite the many whines you let loose, he still wouldn’t budge. He left you fending for yourself as the rough spot from within you begged for any form of contact. His fingers were deep enough, but due to the restraints you weren’t able to angle yourself to the perfect position. Hence, his fingers danced around the spot, never touching it. Absentmindedly pushed yourself, you never reached what you had been searching for. The corners of your eyes were starting to fill up with tears due to the pent up frustration that’s been keeping you grounded. Jimin watched in amusement, one of his eyebrows perked upwards as he let his smile loose.

“I c-can’t.” Your elbows were shaking, using them as leverage in order to get into the angle you needed in order to push yourself. In the end, you were nothing but a puddle of your own arousal and sweat. “Please, just— move,” your words were nothing but a whisper, but he heard your pleas. After all, the Devil was always listening.

“Let’s get things straight, y/n. I’m not here to ask you for repentance, you’re beyond that point. You’re here for punishment, not for pleasure.” The tears finally managed to escape your eyes, crying as you did your best to get off. However, with your lack of mobility plus his unforgiving form of punishment, you grew more impatient and far more frustrated. “Please, please, please...” you begged, pleas growing far more silent as seconds passed by. He huffed, pulling has hand away as you uncontrollably shook your head in protest. He grabbed a handkerchief, wiping his finger diligently. “Begging won’t do anything, darling. The devil never settles for bare minimum.”

Maybe it was the touch he cared to give you earlier, maybe it was how the wind carressed your bare figure, you didn’t know which one it was that put you in this situation. You normally had a lot of self control, why were you fallinng apart? The warmth from within you slowly crawling out of your skin in forms of tiny little droplets of precipitation, your breathing came in small gasps, neck craning as you followed the man claiming to be the devil himself. “You want this to be over, just so you could go home... Normally, that would mean I’d finish my business with you, blah, blah, blah... But I’ll need something a little more straightforward. Something I could take as a green flag.” his pearly white teeth appeared right in front of you, smiling in a mocking way. “I’ve got all eternity y/n.” he crossed his legs as he sat down the chair. Opening a bottle of wine, and pouring himself a generous glass.

Thunder rumbled from the outside, and once again the floor shook. Jimin was amused with the way you moved in the bed. Your eyes calculating possible escape routes, as they glossed over the entire room. The sound of the chains echoed in the empty room, repeatedly yanking on them in a small attempt to at least get them off of you. Letting out a huff the moment you realised that this was getting you nowhere. Your little hole was twitching from the cold air that surrounded the entire area, reaching your nipples making them hard once again. Hearing him drink the glass of wine he poured himself had driven you over the edge, somehow, it managed to reflect something so carnal.

You whined in frustration, it was obvious enough that at least one of your worries needed to be eased. “I’ll need words, I’d never hear the end of it if you don’t consent.” Raising your brows up in curiosity, the devil took a step, rising above you with the wine glass directly on top of you. “God might get pissed at me, circumstances like that... Honestly, if his disciples made me look so bad in their little book, I might as well play the part.” He shrugged, talking to himself as he inhaled the scent of the alcoholic beverage. His mere presence tempting you as your vulva weeped for more, shivering against the cold gust of air, in the midst of talking to you, he accidentally tipped over the glass, spilling a little bit on your stomach.

The liquid was enough to send a jolt running through your body. “Goodness me,” he muttered as he grabbed a piece of cloth from his coat pocket. Wiping it down, moving towards the direction of your cunt, wiping a little bit of the wetness off. You whimpered unintentionally, “you were messing the sheets.” he scrunched his nose towards your direction. You tried your best to close your legs, chains producing more noise, before you finally gave in. “Please, use me. I need you.” It happened quickly, Jimin’s ears were trained and hadn’t missed a best. He raised his brows, glass long forgotten, setting it aside. “A little louder please,” a tone danced with his voice, as if the excitement finally had erupted from within him. “Use me as you will, please.” It wasdegrading, but it was worth it when you felt him squeezing in two of his delicate fingers. Pushing past your walls, finally gaining the courage to breach further and dwell deeper inside of you.

You arched your back, the desperation had finally reached you. “Fuck me,” you silently whispered, his palm hitting your tiny bundle of nerves, as he continued to pound his fingers against you. “Look at your little cunt,” he was astonished, the way your tight walls enveloped his fingers, it would restrict him from spreading his fingers apart. “You must have a sinful mind, I’ve barely done anything to you, and yet, here you are.” His eyes widened as he smiled, a small ember flame growing larger, reflecting his heightened need for sexual attention. He was getting far more excited as he felt your walls grow wetter, and even tighter. He could feel your orgasm coming, the way your short gasps would erupt from your mouth, how your stomach moved in an attempt to ease the knot you feel inside of you, the way your legs shaked, with the noise of your restraints moving against the bed posts. “Faster,” and yet, you howled for more. He tore his gaze away from your dripping vulva, observing the way your face would contort.

The way your mouth was left agape, how small lines appeared from beside your eyes as you shut them tightly, how your neck tilted, exposing flesh he’s desperate to mark. And so, you came undone. The pleasure rippled from your core, reverberating throughout the expanse of your body. Your legs quivered in a desperate attempt to close your legs.

He let you ride your high, finally, pulling his fingers away. “Open wide, y/n. I’m teaching you how you must clean up after yourself.” He laughed at his own comment, happily obliging you opened up for his fingers. Sucking off remnants of your arousal, not minding the salty taste of your release, indulging. “For a human in hell, you’re quite decent. You know how to follow orders,” he pulled his fingers away with a pop, being the diligent man he was, he cleaned his fingers with the same handkerchief he used earlier. Discarding the fabric, letting it flop in the table.

“Such a pretty little figure. A shame humans had gotten their hands on you,” he bit his plump lips, walking slowly from one side to another as he watched your naked figure. Presented in a way so delicately, so small, and yet your eyes burned with a far cry from innocence. He could break you, have you begging for his dick all night long, but he too had limits. Just with how tight his pants felt, he knew at least by the next few hours he needed to be inside of you. Your lustful gaze never left his figure, the scent that erupted from your sex had been too intoxicating that even the finest wine couldn’t compete. You were far too precious to be laying down here, all prepped up just for him and no one else.

The area below you slowly sunk down, informing you that someone had occupied the empty space. The heat that emanated from his body was noticeable, but it was nothing unusual. The pads of his fingers danced around your face, holding your jaw tightly as he forced you to look up to him. You held your breath as you waited for his next move. His hand trailed downwards, finally giving your soft mounds the attention that they deserved. Perky nipples greeting him once more, flicking his finger against one of them just so he could hear your moans once again. Giving the other a harsh slap, quickly turning in a shade of red due to the sensitivity of your skin. “How should I have my way with you, y/n?” Although he addressed you, you were certain he’d been talking to himself as he experimented with your body.

Hands moving south as he drew circles on your stomach, your cunt managed to produce more wetness, making it look like an appetite underneath the single lightbulb from the room. Leaning down as he gave the area just above your pussy a small quick peck, before inhaling your scent. Closing his eyes as he tried his best to imprint the unique smell only you could make. “You’re a fucking sin, y/n. You’re the embodiment of everything unholy,” he found the area between your legs the most enticing to him. For the first time tonight, he let himself have you. He let himself fall under your temptations.

You felt butterflies, the juices you released finally had purpose. No longer discarding the liquid you brewed for him. Maybe it was the validation that he, too, wanted you, the humiliation that even the devil didn’t want to have a piece of you was beginning to eat you away. One quick flick of his tongue was enough to erase any harsh feelings. His lips wrapped around your clit as your mouth did their best to put emphasis on the two syllables that represented his name.

Just as quick as it had happened, he was pulling away. Slowly prying the buttons open to his shirt, coat long discarded in the ground as he gave you an exclusive show. The way his biceps would flex in front of you. His chest moving along with his harsh breathing. Never missing the way his shoulders would move, and how the veins would protrude as he discarded his clothing. Soon followed his belt, the latch hooking against the chain, making it pull on your leg slightly, reminding you how bare you were in front of him. Gently pulling the zipper down as his huge dick finally showed itself. Sporting a few tattoos here and there, as he threw the last of his garments somewhere across the room. You bit your lips, as you unconsciously moaned just when you take in everything presented to you. Your breathing grew far more harsh.

You took in his entire figure. His dick long enough to go past his belly button, thick enough to make his hands look very small. His tip was glistening with precum, tiny droplets that glowed, licking your lips as all you could do was fantasise about drinking him all up. You didn’t really expect that he’d be merciless with you, but when you felt his presence right above you, and his tip just below your lips. You opened your mouth greedily, moving your head forward, eager to finally have him down your throat. “Well aren’t you a good little bitch,” he muttered under his breath as he held your hair with a makeshift ponytail. Pulling onto it as he moved forward. “Open wider, darling. You and I both know I’m not gonna fit,” chuckling as he continued to instruct you.

He held your head in place as you opened your mouth as wide as you can, slowly he entered you. Your teeth barely missed his length, experimenting as you moved your tongue below his shaft, loving the way you could easily make him moan. He was sensitive. “Good grief,”

He pulled back out, your greedy lips encasing him in, just as his tip was about to leave your mouth. Your mouth was left agape as your eyes followed the direction of his tip, finally close enough just so you could kiss it, licking a stripe as you tasted his precum. Sighing out of satisfaction as you bobbed your head even further down. He was barely halfway in when you felt him hit the back of your throat. “You’re greedy aren’t you?” He pushed himself even further down, making your body jolt due to the sudden movement. “Avid little mouth sucking me just back in, you’ve barely prepared yourself and yet here you are, sucking my cock like a fucking whore, letting me hit your throat.” You tried to nod, however the obvious intrusion didn’t allow you.

Your tears welled up, as you tried your best to make him proud of you. “Shit,” he cursed under his breath as he felt your tight throat constricting around him. Quickly he was pulling away, your lips had remnants of his precum, mixed with your own saliva as you held your mouth open for him to inspect. Your eyes shed tears due to how deep he went inside of you. Lashes turning heavy as droplets of tears continued to house themselves there. You were breathing heavily. “The devil isn’t usually rewarding, but I’ll make an exception for you.” Another shift in your positions as he stood up. Proudly walking around with a body sculpted by the greatest sculptors, his back muscles to tight, his sweat doing him justice making every single part of him far more contoured, emphasising every movement he made as he was finally setting himself in between your legs.

You pulled onto your chains, as you desperately wanted to hold onto him. His hair was barely covering his eyes as he watched you in amusement, his dick in hand as he positioned it against your cunt. “Let me touch you please, Jimin.” You winced at your own voice, rough and coarse as it reminded you of the previous events. You rattled the chains even louder this time, you could feel the underside of his dick grazing your cunt, making you moan as he reached forward freeing both of your hands. You were quick enough to hold onto his neck, “this doesn’t seem like I’m punishing you, I’m just drinking you in at this point, y/n.” You shut him up with a kiss, letting him taste himself. You were too distracted to even notice him positioning himself, and with one quick piston of his hips, he went balls deep inside you.

You broke the kiss apart, the devil looking at you with a smirk in his lips as he gave you no choice but to willingly accept all of his harsh thrusts. You were desperately searching your head for anything coherent to say, but you were knocked out of words. Thrusting harshly as all you could do was moan just below him, yelling his name every once in a while as you felt him hit a familiar spot deep within you, legs shaking as you did your best to keep up with his pace. He held your hips in place, as he continued to pound inside you like a savage. The occasional grunts that left his mouth would continue to echo in your head, giving you fuel to push yourself harder.

“A cunt like yours deserves to be in hell. You’re a freak, y/n.” His deep voice growled against your ear, his gruff voice bringing you back to earth. You felt your sanity drift away from you due to the deep and harsh stroked. Dick carving its’ way through far deeper, able to hit the entrance of your cervix, you were almost certain he’d be marking it as his territory too due to the repeated blows his dick gave.

“God, Jimin,” you muttered upon reaching your second orgasm for tonight. Your breath hitched, toes curling alongside the rise of your body against the soft sheets. He only pushed in deeper and harder, emphasising his presence. “We’re still calling onto him aren’t we?” He moved his hips far harsher this time, hitting your spot. Your vision turned white from the feeling of overstimulation, as if the first orgasm never really stopped, you felt yourself forming another knot from within your stomach. “You pathetic little brat, you should be calling onto me, not him. Tell me, is he the one making you feel this way?” His words were hard to understand as each one of them were emphasised by a harsh roll of his hips, balls smacking, managing to graze your clit with his own skin, as his dick carved itself inside of you. “N-no,” you tried to be obedient, but it was hard when all you felt was the way he was marking you as his territory. “Then who is, y/n? Tell me,” a dark chuckle escaped his plump lips as he bit himself, watching you from below him with hooded eyes.

“Fucking answer me!” He growled, choking you while he continuously pounded inside of you. “Y-you are, Jimin. Fuck!” Colours danced in your eyes, closing them shut due to too much pleasure. As if he wasn’t deep enough, he pushed even further. As if asking your cervix for entrance, acceptance, manhood pounding against it’s doors as you let out a pained moan. Not once did you ever expect you’d be having a dick this big. “That’s right, you’re all mine. Aren’t you?” His hands grew a little more tighter, yelling out your response with a hoarse voice. “I’ll make sure anyone who dares to fuck you next knows,”

“Carving the shape of my dick in your velvet walls,” he was inhuman, yes he was far from being a human. The way he still continued to pound you whilst speaking without a single stutter, how he’s held out his own release even after having his dick sucked. “You like that don’t you?” Encapsulated in your own little bubble as you desperately reached for more oxygen, all you could do was nod at him. “You’re my personal fucking slave, y/n.” With each words he pushed himself deeper, grinding on your g-spot repeatedly, the pleasure was unlike what you’ve felt before. It was pure, something that only the devil could make you feel.

“And I don’t like sharing.” A kiss in your forehead was all that you got before he finally came undone. Alongside the knot you’ve been holding onto for a while, your juices mixed. You felt him pull out, followed by a trail of your mixed essence. He tilted his head in amusement, using one of his fingers to feel the creamy substance that erupted from your vulva. “You did well. I’m quite surprised, you’re a special little bitch, y/n.” Too tired to even form a coherent response you closed your eyes and looked away from him. His words began to sound more fuzzy in your head, the sound of the shower filling in the silence.

A gentle touch on your forehead woke you up, it was his lips kissing you goodbye. “I’m afraid I’ll have to go,” he pulled his slacks back up, buttoning up his shirt, concealing the tattoos and hiding his heavenly body. “To where?” Your voice would almost sound pitiful, he carded his fingers through your hair before standing up and wearing his coat. “Doing God’s work, I suppose.” He grabbed the comforter before encasing you in, your sore legs finally able to close themselves as the sound of his leather shoes hitting the wooden floors slowly dissipated. “I’ll do my best to meet you soon. Please, do enjoy your stay in Hell.”

© Yoondles 2021, All Rights Reserved

[meetevieinthehallway]

hi! here’s a crappy old blurb that i had sitting in the drafts!

in which lovie is sick and stressed from uni at one in the morning and harry finds her hyperventilating.

harry was absolutely exhausted.

per usual— but there was a specific ache in his back today, one that had accompanied him from morning to night—he told his love they needed a new mattress, she told him he needed to stop laying twisted to her chest (he refuses to do so, pouting every time she suggests it)—and it’s pulsing at the top of his spine and making him wince in certain positions. 

his hair at this point was ultimately unruly and unkempt from the amount of times his fingers ran through, pulling and tugging in frustration, as if he could rip new ideas out of his scalp.

his hands were sore, too, from gentle plucks of the guitar he had toyed this afternoon, praying that the indents in his fingertips would bring about motivation, inspiration— god, that it would bring anything.

he’s desperate to get out of this block.

nevertheless, he cranked out two songs today, making him ultimately beaming and his throat a bit raw and tired.

he stumbled through the door with heavy feet and an unzipped coat, his nose pink from the cold circulating in the outside air. his beanie had been pulled down to the middle of his forehead from the time he walked from inside the studio to his awaiting driver, who he last-minute remembered possessed a peculiar hatred for artificial heating. so, correspondingly, harry’s body never warmed up in the fifteen minute drive, causing his toes to go numb and his teeth to chatter lightly. he would never ask him to crank the heat, because it’s bad enough he has to drive around a famous stranger all day— harry wasn’t gonna torture the guy with something he specifically despised. (no matter how fucking weird it was). 

his boots clunked as he passed through the doorway, wrinkling his nose up and closing the door behind him with his back. a wince, a sharp inhale, then a slow exhale, eyes closed. it was a solid minute before he cracked his eyes open— but he swore he could have fallen asleep standing. 

his love had reduced the lighting significantly, the lamps dimmed and several candles lit around the room. it was close to dark, matching the scene outside, and the warmth wrapped his body and nuzzled him. he smiled lazily, his hand carding up and taking the beanie off his hair, curls bouncing out as he shivered. she lit that vanilla candle he likes, and he can feel the sleepiness start to settle further into his veins.

“angel? where are ye, bub?” harry’s voice was a soft coo and his dimples appeared as he leaned his hand against the wall.

he kicked his shoes off, throwing his coat on a chair nearby as he hummed his way down the foyer. he craved for his girl like he craved the warmth to envelop him; he wanted her wrapped around and within his soul, caressing his skin until he was lulled to sleep. he couldn’t wait to bury his face in her neck and stay there for a while, his lips caressing her own and her skin for a time before he found the energy to carry her to bed. he always told her to stop waiting up for him, but she would kiss her teeth and roll her eyes and tell him shut up, and that was that. 

stubborn little thing she was— and he loved every ounce of it.

harry pondered what she could be doing on his search for her, thinking about how she may be sleeping with a book on her chest in the den or giggling at a sitcom in the living room; either way, she’d be cozy and wrapped in a blanket—maybe, hopefully, in his shirt, maybe even with no pants on and—

oh.

he was completely wrong.

he turned a corner with a half smile, hearing her laptop keys being softly pressed, but his face sank and his eyebrows furrowed quickly, his lips slowly pronouncing her name.

she was sat on the floor in a ball, papers scattered around her frame and closing in on her body, her face in her hands and a bun wrapped on the top of her head. she was sniffling softly and her breaths were deep— yet shaky. he could hear her mumbling to herself, yet not responding to her name.

“angel?”

she jumped, looking up at him and harry frowned at her red-rimmed eyes and red nose. the sweet thing looked so sad and worn, eyes wide and teary.

“what’s goin’ on, baby?” he padded towards her, her head shaking as she started to begin typing again. “hey hey—” he mumbled, starting to sink to the floor.

she’s continuing to type, not ignoring him as much as she’s so out of it he doesn’t know if she’s here, but he grabs at her hands to stop typing, pulling them towards him. she whines, shooing him away, and his concern deepens. “angel.” he murmurs, tilting his head, starting to pull her body towards him. she barely turns her face away from the screen, but his thumbs still move to pad away her fallen tears as she writhed to get out of his hold. “hey.” he said, “now wait just a mo’, bub—”

“jus’ let me finish—”

“it’s one in the morning.”

she’s typing again, hitting a few keys before he grabs at her hands, stronger, pulling them toward his chest. 

“why are you writing at this hour?”

she finally meets his eyes, and she’s snapped back to reality. and once she sees the concern swimming in his irises, it breaks her. she’s sobbing once more, harsher than how she has all night, whining and whimpering as she tried to get back to her laptop. he shakes his head, picking her up, placing her bum on his thigh and draping her legs across his own. she immediately falls into his chest, and she feels fragile. 

“stop.” he murmured, pinning her hands down with his own, right on her lap. his thumbs run over her wrists. “take a breath, baby— ’s not good for you. tell me what’s wrong.”

she whimpered then, taking her sleeves and wiping her face, sniffling and shaking, her breathing trembling. “’m so tired.” she cried, wiping her nose and keeping her palms to her eyes.

“you need sleep. why the fuck are you doing work this late, hm?” he’s petting at her hair. “you’re so overwhelmed—” he pauses, to press his lips to her forehead, but he inhales sharply when he felt the heat resonating from her skin. “oh, angel. we definitely need to get you to bed, you are burning up—”

“can’t!”

he flinched as she said it in frustration and sadness, in between a sob; she hastily, in a blur of quick movements, reaches and grabs her computer again, settling it on her thighs before furiously typing.

“stupid paper for my stupid professor on a topic i hate and he made it due at two a-and i just don’t feel well—”

her mumbling broke into cries but she kept going, and harry couldn’t understand how she was simultaneously describing her frustration while continuing sentences about god-knows-what-topic. she was frantic, tears still falling and if she didn’t slow down harry swore she was going to pass out.

“have you been writing this all day?” his hand rubbed at her back.

she sniffled, shaking her head. “been sick and gross all day and i completely forgot. ‘m so fucking stupid and now i jus’ wanna be done—” she gasped for air and broke completely, her voice choking on sobs. her trembling hands pressed to her eyes, cries escaping her lips and her head shaking. “it doesn’t even make sense. can’t focus. ’ve been throwin’ up all day and i jus’ wanna sleep, but—”

“woah, what?” he sputtered. “you didn’t think to call me?” he asked incredulously.

her head fell forward in time with her shoulders, the jumper on her body sliding off her collarbones. her head was absolutely throbbing, pulsing with need and making her dizzy. she looked up and her eyes closed tight, weeping more intensely. her sleeves came to her eyes slowly, pitifully, and harry realized that him scolding her was not what she needed right now. he grabbed her and pulled her back to his chest, her sobs increasing and her will to fight against him diminishing.

“okay, okay, okay.” harry mumbled as his hand came to the back of her head, his thumb stroking the base of her neck. she completely collapsed into his collarbones, her forehead heated and her eyes squeezed closed, a trembling jaw and sniffly nose pressed to him. she was a proper mess. “—hey hey.”

his love whined once, then sniffed, blinking her eyes open to view her fumbling fingers. she sighed, hiccuping, sitting up to look harry in the eyes. he frowned when he saw her flushed cheeks and watery lashes, his knuckles gently coming up to brush at her skin. she smiled sadly, her lips quivering.

“’m sorry i didn’t call.” she swiped at her eyelid, breath staggered. “didn’t wanna disturb you.” he gazed at her with sad eyes and frowned. “a-and... you— ….” she whimpered, shaking her head and gazing at him. “you just walked through the door ’nd you’re like— not even settled and—” her breath hitched and more tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, and harry cooed. her eyebrows furrowed and her soaked sleeves came to her lips, covering them and shaking her head. “’m sorry—” she whispered.

“no no no.” he murmured, brushing her loose strands of hair away. “no apologies, love, okay?”

she sniffled, leaning forward until she was in his neck again, whimpering. harry’s face sunk, his lips kissing the top of her head as he rubbed her spine.

“i hafta finish.” she whimpered, shaking her head. harry kissed her forehead and sighed, shaking his own.

“no. we are going to email your professor and if he has a problem, he can speak to me and—”

“can’t!” she cried, “no exceptions, must be turned in on time.” her voice dropped several octaves to mock her asshole of a professor, and harry shook his head.

“don’t care.”

she hiccuped, eyes sad. “h—”

“i don’t care about his stupid rules.” he gruffed. “you’re sick as hell and your health comes before anything. understand?” his voice is deep and monotonous, frustrated, but not at her. harry wasn’t going to let this teacher make his girl feel as if she must finish a stupid paper when she’s most likely got the stomach flu.

“please, angel. let me get you settled and i will email him, kay?”

she sniffled. she stared up at him with weepy eyes and saw his desperation in his irises. her head was spinning and her throat was sore, but he gazed at her like she spun the stars into their orientations. even with teary eyes, skin irritated and red, he looked at her with such care and awe. 

she looks down momentarily and suddenly realizes how bright her laptop seemed, and how the words on her page looked garbled and wrong. even if she wanted to keep going, she doesn’t think she physically could. 

she wiped her nose, eyes fluttering around his face. she nodded slowly. “okay” she murmured, shoulders deflating a bit. 

harry smiled small and placed a wet kiss to her nose, mumbling an “atta girl”. 

she stood slowly, knees cracking as harry’s jumper fell to her the middle of her thighs, the bunched up socks coating her ankles and feet falling off. she was utterly adorable to him, even with teary eyes and a sad frown. 

“c’mere, i’ll carry you to bed, angel.”

god did she love him.

he bent slowly, and she draped her weight over his spine, lazily putting her arms around his neck. harry’s hurting back was no longer important to him, because her breath was soft and hitting the back of his neck and the top of his arm, and he swears heaven has continuously blessed him. 

“thank you, harry.” she mumbles it as she slides off his back once they are next to their bed, and he presses his lips to her forehead, then her cheeks. he lays her down, pulling the covers over her, stroking her hair back from her eyelids. she catches his hand and holds it to her cheek, her eyes looking at him.

“sleep, pretty girl. i’ll be in bed soon.” 

[saturnseobie]

Can’t You See Me? || Choi Chanhee

part of @ficscafe fic exchange event!

Genre: angst, little bit of fluff, ghost!au

Pairing: ghost!chanhee x reader (ft. younghoon)

Word Count: 2.4k

Warning/s: death, depictions of depression, dealing with death, mentions of a car accident

Synopsis: You loved Chanhee, with your whole being. You didn’t what you would do without him. However, it seems like life intended for you to be without him for the rest of your days

A/N: this fic is for rani @letteredwings please enjoy lovely. sorry that it’s a little late :/ this is unedited. please ignore any mistakes

any and all feedback is appreciated

Choi Chanhee promised you that he would love you until the day he would inevitably stop breathing and cease to exist. You always laughed off the comment, thinking it was just a stupid saying he would be saying into old age. You wished you had taken it as a sign, maybe you would’ve been more cautious, maybe this whole situation could’ve been avoided. What you didn’t know is that he had died a liar when he said those ridiculous words. He loved you after he passed too.

Chanhee stood helplessly in the kitchen, watching you stand there with an aching heart. You were wide eyed, shocked and frozen from the news.

“I’m…sorry?” You stammered, hoping, praying, that your ears were deceiving you with mean elementary school tricks.

“Is your partner Choi Chanhee?” The man’s voice seemed down, like he was scared to tell you again.

“Yes, he is. We’ve been together since high school,” You informed him, trying to push down the sickening churning in your stomach.

“I regret to inform you that your partner has passed away. We received a call this morning of an accident. A truck had collided with a car. The truck driver seemed to be okay, but your partner’s injuries seemed to be more serious.” Every word pricked your heart, which was as fragile as a balloon being poked with a needle, “We tried everything, but he eventually passed away. I’m very sorry for your loss.” You nodded, your chest tightened painfully, your vision blurry from the tears in your eyes. 

“Alright, thank you for letting me know. Have a good afternoon, sir,” You signed off, trying to keep your voice from cracking.

“You too, and again, I’m sorry for your loss,” The line went dead and you placed the phone on the kitchen counter. Chanhee? Dead? No, he can’t be. He had specifically said he would be careful on the road. Tears slipped down your cheeks like sweet raindrops, your knees pathetically giving out as you wailed, yelling out obscenities and curses. Chanhee ran behind you.

“No, I’m right here! Can’t you see-” He went to place his hand on your shoulder when he realised how pale, almost transparent, he was. He sat beside you on the floor, a million thoughts passing through his mind. He couldn’t comfort you, only able to listen to you cry his name in a desperate plea to bring him back to you. Chanhee’s heartstrings tugged harshly, but he was helpless. He was nothing but a memory now, a missing part of your shared apartment, a ghost. 

You stood amongst crowds of familiar faces, his friends, family, distant relatives, colleagues, the list goes on. Who they were didn’t really matter to you, what mattered was the casket being carried away from the church doors and out into the miserable weather. Fitting, you supposed, that it was pouring with rain on the day of his funeral. Attendees moved outside, umbrellas creating a dismal cloud of sorrow above them. It had been two weeks since Chanhee had passed away now, but for some reason you could not bring yourself to cry. No matter how many times you felt his absence, not even after looking in his open casket, no tear stung your eye. You watched emotionlessly as his coffin was slowly dropped into the rectangular hole just beneath his headstone. 

                    Here lies Choi Chanhee

                Loving son, brother and friend

                 April 26 1998 - August 17 2021

                   Until we meet again, my love

You felt a hand slide across your shoulder comfortingly, Chanhee’s best friend, Younghoon’s. You didn’t react, didn’t flinch, didn’t move. You remained stone cold and kept your face void of expression. A different feeling settled in the pit of your stomach. Irritation? Anxiety? Frustration? It was hard to describe, which typically meant it was complicated, and you didn’t really like complicated feelings. You could sense a storm coming, and judging from the storm clouds of emotion in your mind, it didn’t look like it would be clearing up any time soon.

A distance away from the gathering of mourners, a pale figure stood solemnly. Sure, watching his own funeral felt weird, but Chanhee could only think of you, and how you stood there, in a similar way to him, unable to display your emotions. He wished for one second, just one, that he could understand what you were thinking, feeling, praying. Maybe there would be a way to ease the pain you felt in your heart? He was technically responsible for said pain, so shouldn’t he try and fix it?

Younghoon had been coming over more, Chanhee would notice when he would be sitting on the foot of your bed, which you had not made the effort to get out of. Everyday, the time you would eventually get up would be pushed back. Before, it was only an hour later, then it was two, then three, then four, until one day, he noticed that you only got up to go to the toilet. He would listen to you cry, sniffle, send the occasional text to someone. Younghoon had seemed to notice, so had made it routine that he would come over at exactly 1:09pm every day to help you get out of bed and try to create a productive day together. Chanhee had memorised the sound of Younghoon’s footsteps, the sound of his keys jingling in the door’s lock, the way he would hum as he made his way to the bedroom. Younghoon had become the life inside of the dead quiet house. Chanhee noticed the way that his best friend would look at you, the sad sigh that would escape his lips when he saw you, sprawled out and weeping. 

“Come on. You can’t keep moping in here,” Younghoon sauntered over to your bedside, crouching down to get a better view of your face.

“I can do whatever the fuck I want. Go away,” you hissed, pulling the covers over your head, childishly pretending that if you couldn’t see him, he would simply fade from existence. 

“Bubba,” he called out sweetly, tugging the covers out of your grasps, “you’re running low on food. I don’t want you going hungry, and besides, it’s a nice day outside. Whaddya say?” With a low groan, you slowly rose from the safety of your sheets, loose hairs sticking up in wild directions. Chanhee rushed to your side, his cold touch to your cheek sending a cold shiver down your spine. He sighed somewhat sadly as he watched Younghoon help you out of bed. It should be him helping you out of bed every morning, it should be him trying to motivate you with small activities. However, deep down he knew that if it were him, you wouldn’t even be struggling to get out of bed in the morning. He was the cause of your lack of motivation, he was the cause of your pain, your suffering. Every emotion you were feeling right now was because of him, and somehow, in some way, he wished he was still there. He wished he was Younghoon.

“Where’s Uncle Chanhee?” Your young nephew looked up at you with big eyes, confusedly looking around to find his favourite uncle. You sighed softly. You knew you would have to have this discussion with him sooner or later. 

“Uncle Chanhee...isn’t going to be coming today,” you explained, kneeling down to the four year old’s level. Chanwoo’s bottom lip quivered slightly, “Why not?” He asked with glossy eyes. He had been really looking forward to playing with Uncle Chanhee, and couldn’t understand why he didn’t wanna play with him. You knew Chanwoo was too young to understand death, but he had seemingly noticed Chanhee’s absence. You chewed the inside of your cheek, trying to think of some sort of acceptable lie to tell a child. 

“He’s not well today. He says he really wish he could play today, but he had to stay home,” You pet the boy’s head softly, hoping he would understand. The little boy nodded, seeming to understand.

“Can I make Uncle Chanhee a get well soon card?” He asked with wonder in his eyes, and you would have to be a monster to have said no.

“Of course, Woo. Go get your craft things.”

You helped your nephew decorate his ‘card’ which was really just a folded sheet of printer paper, but you weren’t about to rain on his innocent parade. 

“I’m still sad that I can’t play with Uncle Chanhee. I wish he was here,” Chanwoo admitted, writing a sweet message in lopsided messy handwriting. 

“Just because he’s not here in person, doesn’t mean he’s not here in spirit,” you explained, drawing a sun in the corner of the card for the youngster to colour in. 

“What do you mean?”

“It's kind of like magic,” you pondered aloud, “like a hug you can feel from someone who is not there.” The child nodded.

“Yeah! Like it still feels like mommy is hugging me even when she’s not there,” it was your turn to nod. 

“Exactly, Woo! You’re such a clever boy,” you ruffled his soft hair, making him giggle uncontrollably.

You were right, in a way. Chanhee was there, as a literal spirit. He felt a warm surge crash over his pale body, knowing that Chanwoo wanted to make him a card without fully understanding what was going on. A child too sweet for this world. However, it wasn’t Chanwoo he was focusing on. It was you. You weren’t crying, you weren’t wailing his name in agony. You seemed peaceful, collected, like you were watching the sunset over the sea. You were starting to come to terms with no longer having your boyfriend there. Sure, it pained you every morning to roll over and say good morning to someone who never even got into bed that night, but it didn’t hurt as much as it used to. He was unsure how long you would stay in this peaceful mindframe, but only the best storyteller will tell, time.

“Are you sure you wanna do this?” Younghoon asked softly, eyes just as gentle as his words. You nodded, confident in your decision. You were a little unsure when you first brought up the idea to him, but it had to be done. The both of you walked up the hill in the cemetery, hands intertwined. You two had been dating for some time now, but you always had this lingering feeling that Chanhee wouldn’t like what you were doing. You loved Chanhee dearly, but you felt the same about Younghoon. It had been almost seven months since you received that phone call, but slowly everything in your life was piecing itself back together, formerly shattered after the tsunami of emotions that wiped out everything that made you feel human. You stood at the face of his gravestone, his name etched prettily into the cool rock. 

“Hey,” you greeted, your hand slipping out of your boyfriend’s. Chanhee displayed an invisible smile.

Hey.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” The sentence felt awkward and heavy on your tongue. 

It has. How have you been?

“I’ve been doing well. Just trying to get by, you get it.”

Yeah, I get it. Is that Younghoon?

“I was getting to that. I’m not sure how it happened, but it did. He helped me a lot after you passed. I owe him a lot. Mainly ice cream,” You laughed at yourself, partially because of your bad joke, and partially because of how ridiculous you must sound to anyone passing by.

You’re dating now?

“Yeah. I just...I wanted to say thank you,” you blurted, playing with the tips of your fingers.

Why are you thanking me?

“You taught me a lot, Chanhee. How to cook ramen properly, how to make the best oven baked pizza anyone has ever had, but most of all, you taught me how to love. And while I love you so much, my god, you can’t even believe to comprehend it, I’ve found someone else that I love,” You felt tears spring to your eyes. You were the only one talking, so why did it sound like you were saying goodbye? You glanced at Younghoon, who only smiled weakly. 

“Can I say a few words?” Younghoon stepped forward, placing his hand on your shoulder, the same way he had done the dismal day of Chanhee’s funeral. You nodded wordlessly, watching your boyfriend stride towards the grave of his best friend. Younghoon traced the etched marks of his friend’s name before giving a small smile.

“You’ve been gone too long,” he started, giving a sad chuckle, “and a lot has happened during that time.” Chanhee laughed silently at his friend’s words, slumping against the cold headboard of his resting place.

“But I will promise you this. I will look after them for you. I will care for, and nurture and love them for you. It’s what best friends are for, right?”

Chanhee nodded, a friendly smile finally adorning his features. He felt something new, something he hadn’t felt in a long time, peace. His body felt as light as a feather, as if it was drifting through the breeze. He dropped his gaze to his hands, only to see that the aforementioned body part wasn’t there. He was fading, an experience he had thought about many times before, but somehow, it wasn’t as scary as he thought it would be. Chanhee looked to you, and he could’ve sworn that for a moment, just one moment, you could see him, slowly dematerialising out of existence. He wasn’t scared anymore, scared of how you would cope without him. You had Younghoon, the only person other than you that he trusted his life with. 

“Until we meet again, my love,” Chanhee bade his final farewell to this world, taking a small bow and with a slight change in the wind’s direction, he was gone. 

You felt light, like the weight of an entire urbanised city had been lifted off your shoulders. Younghoon took his place by your side once more.

“Should we go home?” He suggested, earning a relaxed smile from you.

“Yeah. Besides, it’ll be dark soon,” you squeezed his hand, your eyes glowing in the reddened flare of the sunset. Hand in hand, you walked down the stone path and out of the overly large rusted gate. It was never easy letting go, not by any stretch of the imagination. You would always carry a piece of Chanhee with you, and even without him by your side, you felt closer to him than ever.

[dontmindmyshadowhunting]

The new Shadowhunter Academy (Fan Fic) - Chapter 1

In the mood for a bit of Shadowhunter Academy drama so there goes chap 1 of my new fic (it's part of my "To never being parted series" though it can be read as a standalone story).

Ao3 link here.

*****

This is how I die, Ash thought. He was surprised by how indifferent he was to the news. He had always imagined he would have more fighting in him.

If he were honest, it was not such a bad place to die. Green grass had started to grow again in the lands of Faerie, where there had only been wasteland and death before. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe Ash was exactly what he had been named after. Ash, the symbol of rebirth, his blood fertilizing the land and giving way to lush vegetation and the chirping of birds. Through his blurred vision, he could see Jace lying a few feet away, unconscious. He held on to the steady rise of his chest that told him he was still alive. But barely.

Ash coughed up blood in the already drenched soil. He tried to lift himself up, but the muscles in his arms were failing him and the slightest move equalled to excruciating pain. He felt as if all the bones in his body had been crushed into small pieces that were piercing through his organs.

He thought about the girl he had met in the weapons room, the girl in the drawing. Drusilla Blackthorn. There had been loneliness in her blue-green eyes, yet there had also been a fierce will to live despite everything. A hope beyond despair. You and I are the same, he told her in his mind. We witness the worst horrors, suffer the most intense grief, but keep our chins up and stand ready to fight to live another day. We do not give up.

Ash craned his neck sluggishly to get a better look at his opponent.

The new King of both Seelie and Unseelie Courts, a Herondale no less, who looked more like a Californian surfer boy with his tousled blond hair and unforgiving bright blue eyes, was standing before him, hands curled into fists against his hips, his white wings tipped with gold rustling behind him. He was glorious, an angel of death, and Ash idly wondered how someone so beautiful could be so cruel.

“Stand. Now. There is no fun in striking someone lying on the ground,” the King said, his blue eyes rolling in a very unkingly manner. Even his voice was not that of a monster. It was a nice, clear voice, that sounded like it belonged to a sweet boy. Ash knew, though, that he was anything but. He needed to distract him, to play for time.

“All these faeries that you have massacred,” Ash managed to utter through the blood in his throat. He flinched at the pain that the mere act of talking caused him. “And you call yourself their ruler… I don’t understand. Why this… bloodbath? What did they do to you?”

“What did they do to me? What did they do to me?” If the King’s face bore any expression at all, it would be pure hatred and contempt. “How about what did they do to my mother? And her parents, and their parents before that? Did they really think I would never find out, stay in the dark forever? Remain a blind and helpless mundane my whole life? I see them every single night in my dreams, you know… I am haunted by the cries and howls of my ancestors. Always running, always hiding, never allowed to rest, never allowed to live. No more. I crushed the faeries who stood in my way as if they were cockroaches under my shoe. If there was still such a thing as Shadowhunters, I would have them suffer the same fate, if not worse, for they have betrayed my bloodline just as much.”

As the Herondale King talked, Ash slowly moved his hand to clutch the folded paper inside the left pocket of his jacket. The psychopathic witch that had grown so fond of him – Annabel, the mere thought of her still sent shivers down his spine – had at least taught him one useful thing. How to get out of this hell hole.

He held on tight to the drawing in his bloody fingers. If he focused enough on creating an interdimensional Portal to her… Surely, he would go back to where he came from himself. The drawing had probably been made with material found in Thule, but the artist… the artist was from the other world. Maybe it could work. It was a long shot, but it was the only chance he and Jace had.

My blood, willingly given. He had lost enough blood as it was, but it had certainly not been willingly given. Trying to grab his sword, which was lying a few feet away, would draw too much attention. A deep paper cut could work. That’s how potent his blood was. He brought the paper to the palm of his hand and sliced through the skin, murmuring the incantation.

As the Portal started shimmering before him, Ash heaved a sigh of relief, causing a sting in his lungs. That was the first step. Now, how the hell would he find the strength to haul himself and Jace through it, without being stopped by the Faerie King?

“Wow, you will have to teach me how to do that,” the Herondale King said, showing for the first time a flicker of emotion. “I mean, I probably have enough power for that – Aren’t you like a cheap knockoff of me?”

Ash was spared to give an answer as the King whipped around at the sound of swords being drawn out behind him. The Riders of Mannan. There were only five of them left.

“You again?” The King rolled his eyes. “Ever thought of a retirement plan? Aren’t you like, thousands of years old?”

One of the Riders shrieked. “You killed two of our brothers. It has become personal. We will never acknowledge you as our new King. So that leaves us with only one option.”

“Yep, got it. You pick option B. Getting your decrepit asses kicked by me, myself and I.”

The Faerie King advanced with a casual stride on the five Riders, drawing two longswords that he immediately started twirling as if they were cheerleaders’ batons.

This was Ash’s chance.

He crawled to Jace, grabbing their two swords - Heosphorus and Phaesphorus - on his way. Pulling on a strength he didn’t know he still had, he finally managed to stand, ignoring the ache in his limbs – he had known torture and pain had become a familiar companion – and hauled Jace’s body up and they both stepped through the Portal, with only two swords and a folded bloodstained paper as their interdimensional trip’s luggage. He let himself be transported in between worlds, drained and already fainting from the strained effort.

When he came to, he was lying on a sand beach, the sun barely peeking out from the horizon, casting a reddish glow on the sea. He inhaled deeply the clean and salty air, like a treat to his lungs, so pure compared to the one in Thule. He turned his head to find Jace’s limp body a few feet away. If only he had been taught how to draw the Angel’s Runes his uncle had told him about. The ones that could heal the wounds and ease the pain.

He heard voices and started to drag Jace’s battered body behind a nearby rock, breathing heavily as he did. The fresh air and the sound of the soft push-pull of the ocean made him feel better already.

He peered around to see three figures approaching.

He instantly recognized the girl. Drusilla. She looked a little bit older than he remembered but she had the same thick and luscious dark brown hair and freckled milky skin. She was wearing her pyjamas, black fabric with a pattern of white skulls. She was laughing carelessly, throwing her head back, and it made Ash smile, his zygomatic muscles almost aching as they awakened from their deep slumber. They hadn’t been put to such use in a while. She was holding the hand of a younger boy with rumpled hair of the exact same colour. Their eyes shared the same singular summer-blue shade. Probably her little brother. He seemed to be around ten years old, but Ash wasn’t very good at guessing age.

The third person was a very tall boy, with hair as black as a crow’s feathers, walking along the water’s edge. Ash couldn’t see his face because he was looking away, toward the sea. There was something fragile, almost poetic, in the graceful curve of his neck and the delicate line of his jaw. Something hypnotising about the careful yet purposeful way he moved his long limbs. Ash almost felt disappointed he could not see the face of the person they belonged to.

“Tavvy!” Drusilla cried out as the younger boy released her hand to run to the edge of a tide pool.

He picked something in the water and held it up in triumph.

“Starfish,” he yelled, hopping up and down excitedly. “I have found a starfish!”

Tavvy ran, though not in the direction of his sister, but of the older dark-haired boy.

The tall boy held out his hand and the younger one put the starfish gingerly into the other’s palm.

“Pisaster ochraceus, also known as the purple or ochre sea star,” the mysterious boy said, after a single, swift glance at the starfish. He had a deep, raspy voice.

“It’s beautiful! Please! Please! Can I dry it and keep it in my bedroom at the Institute? I could have it framed, and maybe even painted by Jules!”

“It’s a keystone species that controls mussel populations. It was nearly wiped out by the sea star wasting syndrome. In other words… Waste of a perfectly good starfish,” the voice of the graceful boy caught at his last words and he trailed off, his head still turned toward the sea, almost as if he was no longer talking to Tavvy. He lifted his free hand absently to grasp a shiny object - a silver pendant? - resting on his chest.

The three Shadowhunters snapped their heads in the opposite direction from where Ash was hiding, when a fourth person called. A blond-haired girl – probably a Shadowhunter as well, though she had pointy ears - was coming down the beach wearing slippers, an apron tied around her slender body.

“Breakfast is ready! I have managed not to burn the whole stack of pancakes this time.”

Ash heard his stomach growl. How long had it been since he had last eaten? Probably days. But much sharper than the pain caused by hunger or even by the battle wounds, he felt longing… Longing for a normal life, in a normal happy family. What would he not give for carefree strolls on the beach in the dawn, surrounded by loved ones, followed by something as simple as a breakfast of – even burnt he didn’t mind – pancakes?

The landscape swirled and changed into the dark, dirty and moisty walls of a cell. He was so thirsty, so hungry, and so cold. Two Unseelie guards were staring at him through the bars, with a smirk on their narrow faces.

“We are here to bring you to your bedroom. Yes, you will get a bedroom. How fancy is that? The King just wanted to make sure you knew it was in your best interest to fully cooperate. From now on, and for as long as you behave, you will benefit from the most luxurious accommodation befitting to your royal lineage.” Ash – the younger, clueless version of him – found he did not care for a fancy room. He had known the most decadent living conditions and the worst. Knowing the full spectrum, he had realized nothing really mattered but a place to call home. Mom, where are you when I need you the most?

The door rattled and one of the guards came in.

“You have a pretty face, skinny boy,” he said, as he opened Ash’s bloody shackles. “When we will have cleaned you up, maybe you and I could have a little fun.”

Ash spat on the rude intruder.

The faerie was about to slap him when the other guard grabbed his wrist.

“Careful… He is the Seelie Queen’s son. You can’t take liberties with him as you can with other regular prisoners.”

“He may be of royal blood, but his father Sebastian Morgenstern died leaving us alone to bear the consequences of his mad plans, to suffer the Cold Peace. The traitor is the reason why the Fair Folk are treated as if they are less than nothing.”

A wave of pure hatred – that he had not felt at the time, having never met his father – woke Ash up from his dreams, his whole body drenched in sweat. He almost sighed in relief as he realized he was in his wide bedroom, in the house in the hollow hill.

There was a pain in his stomach, different from the one caused by hunger. He immediately ran to his bathroom and retched above the sink. There had been no time to run to the toilet. He opened the tap and splashed water over his face. As he stared at himself in the mirror, he noticed there were dark circles under his eyes and that his features, although smooth and ageless as all faeries’ were, bore the permanent mark of having seen too much horror, suffered too much pain, loneliness, and sorrow before he had even reached adulthood. He swiftly schooled them into the mask he wore in public. He had become good at that.

****

“Riders of Mannan, tremble!” Mina cried out as she burst into the kitchen and started running around the table on her little legs, brandishing her Cortana baby-sized wooden replica. Her dark hair was now long enough that she could wear them in two tiny braids. It was Kit’s job, and Mina loved to barge into his room at ungodly hours with a hairbrush to jump up and down on his bed until he had performed his daily task. So much for privacy.

“Oh no, here comes Emma Carstairs!” Kit raised an empty pan from the stove to use it as a shield. “Quick, run! Or she will end us all!”

“Nooooo, Kit-Kat” Mina paused to strike a dramatic pose and rolled her eyes. “You are not a Rider.”

“No? What am I today?” He asked, putting down the pan.

“My fiancéééé!”

“Ooooh.” Kit drew himself to his full height, putting on a very serious don’t-mess-with-mine-and-I-won’t-mess-with-you face and brushed his hand through his hair in a mock nervous gesture. “Beware Riders, I will strike you with my wits, if not my crossbow.”

“No. Not Julian. I have changed my mind. I want to marry Tiberius Blackthorn!” She said and shook both her hands in front of her the way she always did when she was very excited about something.

“Oh. Oh. Well don’t tell Julian that, I am not sure he will appreciate the swap.”

“Do Tiberius! Do Tiberius!” Mina exclaimed, hopping up and down. Kit knelt in front of her and rested his hands on her shoulders to calm her down. “Do him, please!” Mina whined.

“Sure, Min. I will imitate Tiberius but please stop shouting that,” Kit said, feeling heat rush up his entire face.

“Yeaaay! Do him!”

“SHHHHhhh,” Kit said, putting a finger on her pouty lips. “Understood, Min-Min. I will play Ty’s part.”

Their parents were in the room next door and though both knew that he and Ty were a thing now, Kit had obviously not gone into detail as to the physical part of their relationship. He expected that they would simply guess and leave it at that.

He had a vivid memory of the time he had been cornered to sit through the “sex talk.” Tessa and Jem had made some Earl Grey tea and scones for the occasion and had taken the opportunity during one of Mina’s naps, to go through the whole process of explaining to Kit that it was the most natural thing in the world and that he shouldn’t feel uncomfortable raising any questions he had on the subject. Kit had dutifully listened, his head bent and his ears red, slouched in the middle of the couch, fingers knotting and unknotting where they rested on his lap. As the awkward conversation had gone on and on, he had disappeared little by little into the plump cushions, wishing he could vanish entirely inside the furniture.

Jem had been the old-fashioned gentleman, talking about “mutual respect” and “the shared responsibility of contraception and adequate protection”, but had been clearly as red faced as Kit, while Tessa had been the modern mom, freely and animatedly speaking about “exploring one’s sexuality” and “ignoring peer pressure and imaginary standards”.

When Jem had started listing all the STDs he had encountered in his life as a Silent Brother, Kit had secretly hoped there was poison in the tea. Dropping dead in the middle of the living room would have made for an adequate diversion. Fortunately, Tessa had silenced Jem with a glare.

In the back of his mind, Kit had wondered if Ty had gone through the same ordeal. He had imagined scary-overprotective Julian discussing sexual intercourse and condoms and had suddenly been profoundly relieved that – where Kit was concerned – the task had befallen to Tessa and Jem.

Kit had to admit, they employed the same thoroughness and dedication in everything they taught him. With Jem, Kit had learnt how to fight, how to heal wounds, how to waltz and – though that part still required a lot of training to get over his bad habits – how to behave like a gentleman. Tessa had taught Kit how to drive, how to cook and how to uncover and harness his First Heir powers. Both his parents had given him history lessons and they were the reason why he now knew how to speak five languages. He had read more books since he had joined their home than throughout the rest of his previous life. While Johnny Rook had taught Kit how to pick locks and steal pockets, Tessa and Jem had taught him trust and boundless generosity.

Truth be told, they were the best parents he could ever have dreamt of. He had the best family he could ever dream of, he thought, watching Mina’s big dark eyes widening as her gaze caught the plate of homemade chocolate cookies.

“Oooh you baked cookies! Can I have one Kit-Kat? Pleeeeeease?” Thank God for her short attention span.

“You already had a croissant this morning, Mina. You can have a cookie tomorrow. Remember, us Shadowhunters must eat healthily.”

Mina raised her eyebrow at him, in a way that reminded him of his boyfriend. Kit slipped a cookie in her tiny fingers.

“One. And remember how generous I was when I am sent away to sugar-addicts rehab and I beg you for one last shot of candy for the road.”

Mina nodded. He loved the way she always acted as if she understood his ramblings.

“Kit?” Tessa called as she entered the kitchen, waving her phone. “It’s Jace. He tells me you’ve been dodging his calls.”

“I am not here,” Kit mouthed.

“He told me you would say that. So, he wants you to know he still has this picture of you from last Christmas and he will not hesitate to send it to a certain dark-haired Centurion if you don’t take the call.”

Kit shot out his hand, palm up, and Tessa handed over her phone.

“This is blackmail.” Kit tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder as he swept the plate of cookies away from sight.

“Never said I was above blackmail. Just make sure it’ll work if you are ever to use it.”

“Is it another one of your cardinal rules and guidelines to being a proper Herondale? I am pretty sure half of them are made up.”

“They’re not.”

“They are,” Tessa mouthed, grimacing, as she whisked Mina away from the kitchen.

“So, here’s the thing. I usually act as a guest lecturer at the Academy, you know, for basic stuff. Learning how to jump and fall properly, balance in swordfight, choice of weapon… I was scheduled for next week, but Clary decided to plan her art gallery opening at the same time. So, I was looking for the best person to fill my shoes and of course immediately thought… who else than Kit?”

“Liar. I know you asked Emma first. What’s her excuse?”

“She sprained her ankle during training two days ago.”

“She posted a video of herself dancing in a nightclub with Cristina and Mark. That was yesterday.”

“This girl sure knows how to put on a brave face.”

“She was doing backflips in front of a cheering crowd.”

“Like I said, brave face. So, you’re in?”

“Do I really have a choice?”

“Not really, but I thought it would be nicer if I asked.”

“Whatever.” Kit grumbled.

“Great. You won’t regret it. I will even buy you dinner in Manhattan while you’re in New York. Fancy restaurant with amazing desserts.”

“Are you trying to seduce me, Jace Herondale?”

“Just lie down and let me do the rest.”

“WHAT?”

“Sorry, not talking to you. I’m in the middle of a training session. We’re stretching. Have you trained this morning?”

“It’s 2 PM here, Jace. I’m on my break. I already trained for six hours, starting at the crack of dawn.”

“You put us all to shame.”

“So, I guess I’ll leave you to it.”

“I was not finished.”

“Raziel, what else is there?”

“The Scholomance is sending a Centurion to represent them and provide a two-days training course for the Academy’s senior students who wish to apply to join them after they graduate.”

“Oh,” Kit said, with a familiar flutter around his stomach. “Do you…” He swallowed. “Do they already know who they will send?”

“Probably that Joshi guy. But it’s not set in stone. Jia Penhallow told me they have been trying to convince their best Centurion to go for months now, but he keeps saying no.”

“Oh, so he gets to say no.”

“I told her Herondales can’t resist a challenge...”

“You didn’t.”

“… and that I had a secret weapon to convince him to go this time.”

“You mean me.”

“Use your body!”

“WHAT?”

“Not talking to you, sorry. Beatriz, use your whole body’s strength, not just the muscles in your arms!”

“Thank the Angel.”

“What was I saying?”

“You were using me to try to convince Tiberius Blackthorn – who absolutely loathes talking in public, by the way – to give a two-days training course at the Academy for Scholomance applicants. Jace, I don’t know how I feel about this. I don’t want him to feel obligated in any way, just because…”

“… just because you let him play with your sword?” Jace offered.

“God, Jace. I am going to pretend you never said that.”

“Make us proud.”

“I hate you.”

“Love you, too. Gotta go. Catch up later.”

“Jace,” Kit groaned in frustration, but Jace had already hung up.

Tagging @gabtapia <3

[secret-engima]

....I lied. If you’re still doing the title thing - if I go down gonna burn with the sun

I thought there was a few more title asks still lurking in here for me to answer. *cracks knuckles* RAMBLE TIME.

-Star Wars AU. Star Wars FFXV sorta-x-over AU where the Astrals decide that Aera and Ardyn deserve a chance at happiness, just not on Eos, and therefore go YEET. The Force, finding these two wayward and powerful souls is like- Sure okay and boom. Ardyn and Aera are reborn in a galaxy far, far away.

-Purely not coincidentally, far away, on different worlds and in different star systems, one Satine Kryze and one Obi-Wan Kenobi take their first breaths.

-Yes I’m serious.

-This would be- SUCH a chaotic fixit AU, both because Aera loves peace but she is NO pacifist and not about to let an entire Culture DIE just because some so called New Mandalorians cannot see the dangers of burying their own past. Two because- well.

-Ardyn has already BEEN a Chosen One and an Accursed, a Hero and a Villain. He has walked the path to salvation and damnation both and seen the worst sides of himself and humanity, and for all they look different, every species in the galaxy isn’t far different from humanity in those regards.

-Obi-Wan Kenobi grows up in the Jedi Temple and he is a Troublesome Child. Too quiet and too reckless by turns, a smile that could melt butter and a tongue that can strip flesh from the backs of whatever bully goes after him this time. The Jedi ... worry. He is Dark, they whisper, was born with shreds of Darkness in his soul. He is manipulative, they worry, he has a temper, they gossip.

-Ardyn hears them all and inside a part of him screams. Because of course he is Dark, they did not have their souls swallowed by a plague for others’ sake, were not consumed with madness until dying (being freed) at the hands of a nephew two thousand years removed. As for manipulation ... he doesn’t mean to. It’s just ... he’s so much OLDER than the other children mentally, older even than any Jedi there (even YODA), he can’t help it that he thinks rings around people sometimes, or that he is so in tune with the Force (with a galaxy-spanning magic that burns beneath his skin like a hundred newborn suns that he keeps buried so the Jedi will not sense it so clearly, will not know how strong and old he really is inside) that he can practically read minds and knows what to say to get the best outcome. He has a temper. Who doesn’t? You try being reborn after a lifetime of AGONY and see how patient you are with petty morons and small minded bullies.

-He says none of those things, and when his time grows near to be sent away without a Master, he does not fight it.

-He looks at the shadow of Qui Gon Jinn in the doorway and something in the Force ... sings. Sad and soft. It speaks of heartache and betrayal and a fear of being hurt again. Ardyn can almost FEEL the two paths branching away under his feet, one with Qui Gon in it, and one without, and he does not know which one will bring him less pain.

-Ardyn does not try to impress anyone in the sparring ring, but after he is done, he slips away. He finds Jinn in the garden, trying to meditate, and settles down across from him without invitation.

-Qui Gon opens his eyes in annoyance. He knows that the Council wants him to take a Padawan, and that this one is almost at the age of being moved to the Corps. He expects the boy to beg to become a Padawan, or to try to impress him somehow.

-Instead the boy just smiles, thin and sharp and knowing in a way that makes Qui Gon feel ... exposed. Like every thought and wound in his heart is on display for this child, “The Council wants you to take a Padawan. That’s why they keep making you watch us.” It’s a statement, not a question.

-Qui Gon raises an eyebrow, “And you think I should take you?”

-The boy shrugs, but his blue eyes are still sharp as knives behind his friendly mien and Qui Gon doesn’t like the feeling crawling up his spine, “That’s your choice to make and yours alone. There’s nothing I can say to change your mind one way or the other.”

-“Then why are you here?” He asks suspiciously.

-“Because you’re lonely, and it makes the Force feel sad.” The answer is so blunt, so sure of itself. Qui Gon feels his stomach twist, and old anger makes him snappish without meaning to be (he’s heard of this boy as well, he’s heard that he’s got a manipulative streak and a tendency to twist his Force empathy to his own ends, he’s heard many things).

-(Qui Gon forgets that it is not a good idea, to base judgement on rumors) “I am not, and if I was, I would not need your company to ease it.”

-Obi-Wan Kenobi, Initiate of the Jedi Temple Ardyn Lucis Caelum, Sage and Healer King and Accursed, tilts his head thoughtfully, then nods and stands up, “Then I will take my leave. Take care of yourself, Master Jinn.”

-Initiate Kenobi Ardyn the Accursed and Healer King walks away, and a breath later the Living Force twists, like the snapping of cables, and Qui Gon gets the fleeting, distinct impression that he has failed some kind of very important test.

-Ardyn is assigned to the AgraCorps. A life as a farmer for others awaits him.

-The day before he’s to be shipped off, he walks out one of the Temple’s side-entrances and into the underbelly of Coruscant with only the clothes on his back. He doesn’t look back even once. It takes until the next day for anyone (for his friends, if he can call them friends when they are so much YOUNGER and painfully more innocent than him) to miss him. It takes another day for the Jedi to realize Obi-Wan Kenobi is well and truly missing.

-Deep in Coruscant’s seedy side, at the dockyards manned by those who are less than concerned with legality, a boy in ratty (stolen) clothes asks to be taken aboard as a maintenance worker. He calls himself Ardyn Izunia, and there are no Force Sensitives close enough to feel the sunlike fire burning in his blood as he smiles.

-Skip forward several years and Satine Kryze (Aera) is on the run from Death Watch, civil war is on the horizon and her father asks for Jedi protection to keep her safe.

-The bounty hunter who calls himself Adagium finds her first.

-A sword that glitters like blood and cuts through metal like a lightsaber (that hums-hums-hums with magic none but a Force sensitive can see blazing like bloody fire down the ancient blade) finishes off the Death Watch assassin that Satine hadn’t had the chance to shoot yet, and under his hood, Adagium smiles. Satine stills, head tilted as if listening, then she collapses into the teenage bounty hunter’s arms in joyous tears. Adagium- Ardyn- holds her close and cries with her.

- “I finally found you, My Aera,” he breathes and for a moment he lets his magic loose and it burns like the sun through the Force, lancing through the growing shadows in the Force like they’re fragile paper and somewhere far away Sidious feels Doom™ crawl violently up his spine.

-Aka that Fixit AU where Aera is a Mand’alor that DOES want peace for her people but NOT at the cost of burning history to the ground (or being defenseless, she has died to the sword once already she will not go quietly into the night a second time, not if she has to paint the walls in blood to protect her life and the lives of her people), the Jedi are Confused™, and Ardyn is incredibly content to be Aera’s former bounty hunter trophy husband with a tendency to adopt strays (read: Anakin and Shmi who he frees as well as Anakin kthanks, and quite possibly Savage and Feral too tho no one is quite sure how) until the Clone Wars start and Ardyn takes one (1) look at the war and goes: ah. I know this plan. This is a stupid plan. And all of Sidious’s plans go fwoosh.

-Because I’m sorry but there is no way you can convince me that Ardyn wouldn’t EAT SIDIOUS ALIVE in any kind of fight, mental, physical, Force, or tactical. This man is 2k years old. It took Sidious until he was an old sack of bones to get his Empire and that was with GENERATIONS of Sith serving as his foundation, and then he got yote down a reactor shaft by his minion 19-25 years later. Ardyn was able to manipulate an entire Empire into engineering its destruction and fulfill ALL HIS REVENGE GOALS (giving Bahamut a headache, driving the world to darkness and ruin, and ending the line of Lucis Caelum INCLUDING HIMSELF) in like- 30-40 years. While MENTALLY AND PHYSICALLY ILL thanks to the Scourge. Fully healthy and in control of himself and with people (Aera) to protect? Sidious would just be fresh meat.

-Also Ardyn adopts a bunch of the clones, possibly all the clones, on the excuse that since they were raised by Mandalorian trainers they count as Mandalorians and as genetic sons of Jango Fett that makes the Mandalorian CITIZENS by BIRTHRIGHT and the Republic can only watch in confusion as their army gets mass adopted by the Mand’alor’s trophy husband who also exposed their new Chancellor as a Sith. Bail Organa, the new Chancellor, may or may not be sweating quietly at the thought of accidentally gaining the ire of the so called Trophy Husband because he’s smarter than most and knows that Ardyn is Very Very Dangerous.

-Also also Qui Gon doesn’t die somehow because I do really like him and I think he’s a good Jedi, just not a good fit for Ardyn as a master.

[pagingdoctorcarter]

"I wish you would write a —" continuation or AU of that scene from away the vapour flew (because I've seen you mention that even your AU's have AU's lol and I'm selfishly hoping you'd consider revisiting that fic and coz I can't let this opportunity pass when this fic literally lives in my mind rent free lol)

Alright! At long last I have figured out what happens next. This is for you, dear thing ❤️❤️❤️ ( @lightasthesun on - or very near thereabouts - your birthday)

LED BY THE WANDERING LIGHT

It starts with a very little thing: a seed.

 It is slipped from the glove of a Republic aid trooper who smiles as he passes it over.

 “From the General of the 212th,” he says. “Don’t know what it is, but I damn near lost the thing on the way over.” 

 “For me?” he asks, and the man nods, his grin growing wider.

 Then he leans in as though commiserating with a friend. “Jetiise sha’bise, lek?”

 “Elek,” agrees Korkie, dubiously, turning the little living pebble between his fingers.

 The trooper grins, and gives him a friendly shove before trotting off back to his ship. Korkie has come down on his aunt’s behalf to oversee the relief efforts, but he is distracted by the seed in his hand. It is flat, and furry, and pleasingly plump. If he squeezes it, he can feel the skin relent and rebound, and if he digs in his nail ever so gently, he can feel the taste of water upon his thumb, and see the pale blush of springtime in the depths of the cut. It is a seed of something, he knows, but of what?

 He places it in the breast pocket of his Academy jacket, and turns his attention back to the work. It is an impressive, and important sight, but his thoughts linger on the seed, and he feels it sit bright and eager against his heart.

 Later, when the supplies have been unloaded, and the aid troopers seen off, when the ceremony of thanks and assurances of neutrality have all been displayed, when he is back in his room at Sundari only hours away from the magtrain ride back to school, he plants the seed in a little pot of black earth, and dampens the soil. It will not grow tonight, but he cannot help but stare at it anyway, waiting in the dark, beneath the stars, so patient.

A week passes, and he is back at the Academy when the mail officer - an upperclassman he’s never met - stops at his place during first meal.

 “Su-su, Kryze!” he calls. “A package for you from the Core.”

 A small bundle wrapped in layer upon layer of bonding tape, and stamped with the ink of a hundred spaceports too numerous and cramped to decipher lands upon his lap. He uses the thin knife from his plate to slice through the plastifibe envelope. 

 When his fingers graze the object within he gasps, and pulls back the wrap to reveal a real, proper book. It’s not even printed on flimsi, he notes, cracking the aged spine and letting the pages fall open, but on actual paper. They don’t make these in the Core, and hardly ever in the Mid Rim, it’s just not economical, and most planets don’t have the resources to spare. But this one is old, it’s pages creased, and worn smooth at the corners with the turning of many fingers. It is about horticulture, though the illustrations of green and growing things have faded to browns and burnished golds. It is beautiful. 

 A piece of dried grass has been tucked between two pages, and when Korkie folds them back to look he sees an image of the seed he’d sown in the pot by his bed. Beside it, a riotous bouquet of blossoms burst in an array of different colours. It is a daesyn flower.

He tucks the book in his kebisebag, and carries it around for the rest of the day. At nightfall, he takes it out with careful reverence, turning the pages back to the daesyn slowly lest they tear or turn to dust. Then, by the light of a little glowrod, he props the book against his window and reads along as he tends to the small green sprout only just peeking through the soil.

 He buys a sun lamp, and a watermeter, and adjusts the temperature of his quarters much to Amis’ chagrin, determined to provide the most optimal growing conditions he can for the little plant.

  After a month, the seedling has become a sturdy sprout, with prickly leaves of a green so deep it might be blue. He is attempting to commit those variegated lines to flimsi when Amis returns to their quarters, a small pouch swinging from his hand.

 “I’m supposed to give this to you,” he says, tossing the pouch. Korkie reacts without thinking, snatching the bag out of the air before it can hit the ground.

 “Who’s it from?”

 “Front desk. Said some high up Republic alor sent it.”

 “Which one?”

 “Don’t know. Didn’t ask, did I? Too busy polishing the silver.”

 Korkie grimaces in sympathy, having spent many an afternoon of his first year cleaning the trophy case in the main hall. He thinks that Amis’ plight could be easily avoided if only he behaved himself, but refrains from saying so to his friend.

 Instead, he pulls the drawstring at the top of the purse, and turns it over his hand. A dozen discs of coloured glass tumble into his palm. They are thick, and smooth, though not polished by anything but time. Each is a different colour, though some are struck through with shimmers of gold and silver. 

 “What’s that?” asks Amis over his shoulder.

 “Don’t know,” he echoes. The glass feels comfortable in his grip. Made to be held, and carried, and passed from hand to hand.

 “Should ask Lagos,” says Amis. “That seems like her kind of thing.”

 He makes no reply to Amis, but of course, he does as he suggests. Lagos is, after all, a walking encyclopaedia, and of all their friends the most likely to at least have an idea of where to start looking.

 The excitement on her face when Korkie shows her his hoard tells him she has more than an idea - she knows.

 “Oh, oh, oh!” she gasps. “Where’d you find Abafar trading beads?”

 “They were a gift,” he replies. “What are they for?”

 She picks them up one at a time and holds them to the light. By some trick of their design, they cast no shadow, but seem to capture the rays inside like banked embers, or twisting prisms. The ones marked with ribbons of ore grow warm in her hand, and she presses them to his cheek so he can feel their heat.

 “They’re the traditional currency of Abafar,” she explains. “It’s a desert planet in the Outer Rim, and craftsmen in the Void used to make these beads as a means of facilitating trade over great distances. Metal was scarce, and the beads could also be used to retain heat for longer - that one in your hand could keep the warmth of the sun all night, if you wanted it to.”

 He considers the disc of deep indigo, and holds it up to the sun until it turns red. The glass seems to have become molten, but its warmth is not painful in the hand. He leaves the bead out for the rest of the afternoon to test Lagos’ theory, and brings it into bed with him at night. Tucked beneath his pillow, it radiates a soothing heat, and he feels his muscles relax and his worries melt as he drifts away into an easy slumber.

   The next gift he receives is shattered into bits.

 “Sorry, kid,” says the attendant at the delivery depot when he arrives to claim his parcel. “Happens sometimes with these packages from the front. The war is not a safe place for fragile things. Bic cuyir meg bic cuyir.”

 He takes the present anyway, carrying it delicately back to the Academy, fearful of breaking it further. When he finally tears through the tape and plastifibe, clay and ceramplast pieces give up any pretense at form and clatter over the surface of his desk.

 It was beautiful once, he can tell. Perhaps a bowl or a cup turned by hand - he can see the telltale print of a foreign finger pressed into a section of naked clay - but now it is only fragments and dust.

 Still, he hovers over the pile, turning the pieces this way and that, trying to see how they fit together. He doesn’t notice when sixth bell rings, or when Soniee pings his comm, or when Amis sneaks in past curfew and turns out his light. He stays up late into the night, until the form takes shape, and through the cracks and crevasses of painted clay dawn creeps in.

 It is an amphoriskos. A small vessel for storing precious oils, like the kind used in the rituals of so many traditional peoples. There is none in it now, and Korkie retrieves the sachet to see if perhaps it was spilled into the weave of the plastifibe wrap. But it is dry. And the clay, when he looks at it more closely, is dry and unstained by use. The gift was always empty.

 The shards sit upon his desk in their loose arrangement until, one afternoon, Amis moves to sweep them off into the dustbin.

 “No, no!” protests Korkie, before Amis can complete the task. “I want to keep it.”

 “What for?” his friend asks. “It’s broken.”

 “I don’t know yet.”

 He collects the bits of amphoriskos into his hands, and arranges them about the base of his daesyn pot. The paint glints in the light, and so too do the Abafar beads nestled amidst the debris. The plant grows green and bushy, its leaves reaching out to skim the rim of its bed as though a swimmer poised on the edge of emersion.

He receives Theelin singing strings wound tight around a holodrive meant for the Duchess, paired basalt spindles from Hapes, seashells from the deep oceans of Mon Cala, and a set of Lateron hoops carried on the wrist of the visiting senator from Naboo.

 “From Master Kenobi,” she says, and she smiles at him with a warmth that feels like family. He wonders if they’ve met before, if he should know her, but she moves along with the entourage of press and government officials before he can ask.

 He is home for Holyrod month, and has brought his prizes with him carried along specially in his kebisebag, his daesyn in his hands. He sets them out along the windowsill in his rooms at Sundari. The watchet blues and greens of crystalline filtered light play over his collection, illuminating one after the other in joyous turn. He does not know what they mean, or why his father has sent these particular things to him, but they are all precious, and he longs for a way to display his gratitude for the thought he has been spared.

 The daesyn itself revels in its new surroundings, and leans close to the glass to get as close a view of the sun as it can, budding with imminent delight.

The Senator from Naboo is called Padme, he discovers when he is introduced to her again at mealtime. And she has not come alone. She is part of a delegation of foreign ambassadors, all from the Republic, but not all, Korkie suspects, as enthusiastic about the Chancellor as they had once been. There are murmurings and whispers amongst them, hurried out between thin lips and caught only in the corner of his eye, or the turn of his head, but whether satisfied or not, they are accompanied by the ceremonial force of the Senate, and the might of Palpatine himself - Two Jedi travel with them.

 Anakin Skywalker, and Obi-Wan Kenobi.

 He sees him through the crush of bodies, and later down the line at suppertime. In the midst of deep blues, and mauves, and furs, and silks, his earthen tunics stand out, but he is always distant, always just out of reach. All he needs is a moment, he thinks, to make sure he’s seen, so he can acknowledge his father - even in the polite, and suitably respectful language of perfect strangers if he must, but it never comes. 

The plates are cleared, the halls are emptied, and Korkie finds himself bidding his aunt (she is always his aunt here) goodnight, and wandering back to his rooms alone.

 It is dark when he arrives, though by the window the Abafar beads glow like the distant lights of the city. He slips off his stiff shoes, and his raiments of clan, but is interrupted by a knock at the door. He waits, uncertain, until the knock comes again.

 Perhaps his mother come to assure herself of his health and presence, as she has done so often in the past, but he opens the door to find Obi-Wan Kenobi waiting, with his hand out. In the euphoric rush of astonishment, he hastens to place his own hand upon his father’s as is customary on Stewjon, though he holds fast in a manner peculiar between children and their parents.

 “Master Kenobi,” he stammers. “I did not expect you. I thought you’d left. Forgive me.”

 “There is nothing to forgive,” Obi-Wan replies. “I’d rather hoped to catch you alone, but I’m afraid our schedule was somewhat packed.”

“Of course.”

He is staring, he knows it, but he can’t seem to think of anything else to say, caught up in looking at his father and searching for all the commonalities between them. Does he tilt his head like that? Does he stroke his chin? Does he frown and smile by equal measure?

But the weight of his scrutiny is too much to bear, and Obi-Wan cracks.

“I thought to ask: did you get my gifts?”

“Yes,” says Korkie. “Thank you. They were very thoughtful.”

“Ah...And did you - did you like them?”

At this, Korkie cannot help but smile, and he shakes his father’s hand, tugging him forward with zeal.

“Yes, of course,” he says. “Would you like to see?”

If he is confused by his son’s desire to reintroduce him to items he has already laboured over and seen, then he does not show it. Nor does he resist when the hand in his pulls him further into the room, and doesn’t let go even as a curtain is flung open, and a light flicked on low.

He is pulled over to the broad casements and left to bask in starlight as Korkie steps aside to reveal a colorful mobile hanging from the frame of his window.

“The amphoriskos broke,” he explains, and sees a shadow flicker in his father's eyes. “No, no,” he insists. “It wasn’t your fault. It just happened. But I couldn’t bear to throw it away. It was so beautiful.”

He gestures at a silver thread from which hang a variety of irregularly shaped clay shards. The shiny amber and black paint catches the light thrown by the glowing Abafar beads strung further up, and on another and another thread. When he blows on them the threads hum, and sway together, the seashells and pottery and glass clattering together like wind chimes.

“The singing strings,” notes Obi-Wan, and Korkie grins.

“And the Lateron hoops,” he says, pointing to the frame from which the strings are suspended. “And the spindles, for balance. It’s meant to hang with my window open, like it is at school. And then, at night, when the dreamwinds come, the whole thing sings, and shines, and glows like the stars.”

“It’s beautiful,” says Obi-Wan with awe. He reaches out with one hesitant finger, the beads flickering beneath his touch, and the strings murmuring the low notes of an opening phrase.

“You gave it to me,” says Korkie with a shrug, and Obi-Wan turns his awe upon his boy.

“No,” he says. “I gave you fragments, but you have made them into art. You gave them meaning. You gave them a soul.”

Korkie shifts on his feet, fretting at the cuff of his sleeve, and diving in.

“Would it be okay, do you think -” he starts, then stops. Then he starts again. “Do you think it’d be alright if I wrote you? Every once in a while.”

“Wrote me?”

“Or com’d,” he says, quickly. “Only I know you’re busy, and I can’t expect to lay claim to any of your time, not really, but I -”

“Com me,” says Obi-Wan. “Write me. Send me anything you like, but only say you will and I will have all the time for you I can spare.”

“I promise that I only want a very little.”

“If it’s mine to give it’s yours to have, Kiorkicek,” his father swears. His grip upon his hand is firm, willing him to believe him, and Korkie nods his head because he does.

They stand there, hand in hand, reading themselves in each other, and learning the other in turn, and in the glow of the stars, and the city, and the Abafar beads, the daesyn flower bursts from its roots into a riot of colour and life.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

summertime sadness .9. finale

the last time

Sequel to kiss me in the d-a-r-k

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 (masterlist under construction)

Warnings: non con (rough sex)

This is dark!(dad)Steve and dark(professor!)Bucky and dark!Loki and explicit. 18+ only.

Summary: The reader makes up her mind.

Note: So this is the end, but I am leaving a possible third addition open in the future but not anytime soon. We’ve followed our reader so far and in my head she’s still growing. No spoilers but this one’s bittersweet.💋

<3 Let me know what you think in a reblog, reply, or like. I’m loving the feedback from y'all and the enthusiasm! Also as always, memes accepted.

💋💋💋

You were at the townhouse at eight but you were certain to linger outside till quarter after before you knocked. You checked your phone and slid it in your pocket. Loki was seething as he answered the door, his nose was swollen and purple around his left nostril; close to broken but not quite. You repressed a smile and entered with an apology.

Your chest felt ready to burst. This had to work, though it was never hard to provoke him. You shied away at the door and he grabbed you by your arm. He dragged you towards the stairs.

"Jesus," He snarled. "What, did the old man give you a pep talk?"

"You… you can't think… how can you keep doing this?" You asked as you dug your heels in. “Let go."

"You think he can save you. Too late to start this now, darling." He taunted as he turned back and pulled you to him. "I've had you before and I'll have you until I'm well and done with you."

You struggled with him. "I don't care anymore.  Tell them. Tell everyone."

"Oh dear," He snickered. "You don't tell me what to do."

"No, it's over." You tried to yank away from him. "I can't--"

"My dear, I can bend you over right here regardless of what you can't do." 

He shoved you back through the archway that led to his front room. Your ass hit the back of the couch and you nearly fell over it.

You tried to slip your wrists free and he spun you around and twisted your arm up behind your back. You let out a grunt and he added pressure. You were forced to bend over the couch.

Your phone slipped from your front pocket and onto the couch cushion. You hissed through your teeth as he held you down with one hand on your contorted arm. 

He jerked your body as he ripped your pants down your ass, your panties caught in them. 

"I'll teach you to be trite with me," He snarled. "You really think you could sick your old man on me?"

"Stop," You begged. "Stop it!"

"This isn't about your little tryst anymore." He unbuttoned his pants and leaned against you. "This is about you being a little bitch."

He forced himself inside you. He thrust so hard your head was on the couch cushion, your body folded over the back. You exclaimed and the couch scraped noisily on the hardwood with each thrust.

You stared at your phone, a tear leaked from your eye as he kept going. He sank into with zeal. Every tilt of his hips was meant to hurt, to punish you. You grit your teeth and measured your breaths. Let it be over.

His grunts were loud and carnal. They grew with each slam of his hips. He finished just as suddenly as he'd entered you. You shuddered and let out an agonized mewl.

He bent over you, still inside you. He bucked his hips and sent a pang up your spine. His nose brushed your ear as he spoke.

"This is over when I say it's over." 

You nodded silently and closed your eyes. Your tried not to smile. That wasn't hard. Don't celebrate too soon. Not yet.

💋

The university always seemed desolate in the summer. Not many rushed to enroll in the mid-semester; mostly continuing education students or those on the fast track. You didn't mind. The pollen was soothing in the warm sunshine.

It was barren in another way. As if ghosts followed you along the walkways and through the hallways. The smell of paper and stuffiness of windows painted shut.

He didn't know you were coming. You hoped he was alone, you didn't want to lose your courage. You took a breath before you knocked on his door. A minute of silence before he answered. He was surprised. 

"Hey, uh, what are you doing here?" Bucky asked.

"You're not busy, are you?" You asked.

"No, come in," He stepped back and waited for you to enter.

"Keep the door open," You said. "I won't be long."

"What's going on?" He sat across from you.

"One second." You pulled out your phone and opened the draft. You turned the screen to him and hit send. "I just sent you a recording. I don't think you should listen but if Loki gives you hard time, you have my blessing to send it to any and every publication you can think of."

"What is it?" His phone vibrated on his desk.

"I think you can guess." You said. "And he doesn't have a clue but he will."

"It'll be over." He said. "He'll have you run out of New York."

"That's fine. I'm not staying." You assured him.

"Where-- what?"

"I'm dropping out," You declared and the weight lifted off your chest. "I'm going home. I'm going to write."

"I thought you wanted to be a journalist." He frowned.

"I did but I have a different story inside of me." You said. "I don't need this place to tell it."

"I'm sorry to see you go. Student or otherwise." He sighed.

"We had fun. I don't regret it." You smiled. "Do you?"

"Not at all," He said. "Even if it had all come crashing down, I wouldn't."

"Well, then, I guess this is goodbye," You stood and held out your hand. "Professor."

"No, not for good," He rose and shook your hand. "You let me know when you get your book published. I'll be first in line."

"Sure." You giggled. "I'll send you the Amazon link."

💋

You smiled at Steve. He'd stayed in town to see this through, so he said. You were nervous but it wasn't the same hopeless dread you'd come to know. It was the type that came with change; that which was the precursor to an end.

"I'll be here," He assured you as he turned off the range rover. "You call me and I'm up there in an instant. Wouldn't mind knocking him around one more time."

"I don't think that will be necessary." You scoffed. "Trust me… I should have thought of this sooner. Never should have… well, regrets are the best lessons, aren't they?"

“I don’t have many,” He said. “Still, I’ll be here.”

“I know,” You reached over and squeezed his hand. “Thanks.”

He leaned over and you kissed him. There was a pang in your chest as you pulled back. It was hard to keep smiling. “I won’t be long.” 

You let go and opened the door. You stepped out, your phone clutched in your hand. You looked up at the tall building. It would be the last time you walked through these doors. Hopefully the last time you would face this man. Your head felt like a cloud, airy and fragile. The first step was the hardest.

The lobby was busy, the flurry of people reflected that in your mind. The elevator ride was both too swift and too slow. Stacy greeted you on the other side of the doors. You returned a curt hello and continued past her desk and several others. You didn’t even look at your own. Nor did you knock on the door before you strode into Loki’s office.

He looked up, his dark brows knitted together. He squinted as you marched to his desk and stopped before him. 

“I quit.” You announced.

He chuckled. “Now, darling, how many times must we go over this? You don’t quit.”

“Oh, but I think one last time will clear things up,” You unlocked your phone and hit play. You held it up and your heart pounded. You could barely hear the recording for the pulsing in your ears.

"Oh dear," His snicker rose from the speaker. "You don't tell me what to do."

"No, it's over." Your own voice countered and his eyes widened. "I can't--"

"My dear, I can bend you over right here regardless of what you can't do." 

The sound of a struggle followed and the rough scratching of the mic as your phone hit the couch. A low, pained hiss and the creak of the furniture beneath your weight. Another helpless groan.

"I'll teach you to be trite with me," The phone projected his voice clearly. "You really think you could sick your old man on me?"

"Stop," Your pleas were sharp and crackly. "Stop it!"

You hit pause and tilted your head. You lowered the phone as he stood. He looked as if he would lunge across the desk.

“It’s not the only copy. I’ve forwarded it to Professor Barnes.” You tucked your phone away. “Though what should happen with it if you bother him remains to be seen.”

“You little bitch,” He sneered. 

“Don’t like being beaten at your own game?” You said sweetly. “You might not have meant to, but you taught me a lot. A great mentor.”

“What do you want?” He asked.

“Only for you to leave me alone. To let me go.” You replied.

“You’re nothing without me.” He growled.

“Maybe, but I never wanted to be anything but myself. My own.” You shrugged. “Freedom is preferable to anything you can offer me.”

“You won’t get a toe in any door in New York if you release that,” He warned.

“Good, I won’t be in New York. Can’t stand to be that close to you.” You backed away with a smirk. “Time’s up ass hat.”

You spun and swept out of his office. You stopped at your desk and took only the golden pen you’d left in the drawer. You tucked it in your pocket as you reached the elevator. 

You heard a guttural grunt and the whispers that followed. A bang and the audible snap of some unseen object. You turned back as you stepped through the doors. Loki’s door slammed and the elevator dinged as you were closed in. Good riddance.

💋

The car ride was silent. Your adrenaline was still pumping through your veins and only relented as Steve pulled up to your building. You sighed and leaned back in your seat. He finally broke the silence which held you. As if he sensed the limbo which choked you in it’s grasp.

“You alright?” He asked.

“Fine,” You breathed. “Amazing.”

“Well… what now?” He gripped the steering wheel as he idled at the curb.

“Steve…” You looked down guiltily. “It’s over.” 

He frowned and shook his head. He knew. Had known since you hit delete. It was too late to go back.

“I’m not going back to school, I can’t. There’s nothing keeping me here.” You said.

“Kylie…” He began but his voice fizzled out.

“I’ll keep in touch but… I’m going home.” You said. “I’m going to find me. Find out who I really am. Without her, without you, without anyone.”

He nodded and hung his head. “I won’t… can’t ask you to change your mind, can I?”

“No, you can’t.” You said.

“What are you going to do?”

“Write” You pulled the pen from your pocket and held it up as the sunlight glinted across it. “Live.”

You held out the pen and he gently brushed it away. “Keep it.” He said. “You can sign your first print with it. Make sure to save a copy for me.”

“Steve…” You began, suddenly breathless.

“I guess this is goodbye,” He uttered.

“Is it?” You touched his arm. “Doesn’t seem very proper.”

He turned to you and smiled. A smile so sad it made your heart stutter.

“One last time?” He asked.

“One last time.” You confirmed.

💋

It was like that first time; soft, gentle, deliberate. He was careful as if savouring every touch, every kiss. Clinging to the moment as soon enough it would flit away. It was different too. You weren’t afraid, but he was.

He kissed your neck as his hand explored your naked body. He was warm against you, his flesh soft but firm. You felt along his thick arm, admired the shape of him, the sheer strength within. He cupped your breast and toyed with your nipple. His fingers danced along your stomach and he gripped your hip. He squeezed as if assuring himself you were still there.

Then lower. His fingertips tickled your pelvis. You giggled and his mouth followed. A trail of kisses along your skin. His arms hugged your thighs as he lowered himself between your legs. His golden hair, laced with silver, fell forward as he bent to taste you. His tongue set your clit on fire. You moaned and latched onto his head.

You squeezed him between your thighs and arched as he lapped at you. You didn’t want to think about it but you would miss him. You would miss New York. You would miss Bucky. And Kylie. You would miss the life that you would shed for another. To be reborn from your cocoon.

You panted as he suckled at your bud. He grew more and more fervent as he drank you in. You cried out as you came. Your legs shook and every inch of your tingled. He was reluctant to draw away. As he did, he ran his fingers across his glistening lips and tasted them with a hum.

“As sweet as always,” He purred as he pushed himself to his knees. “You ready, sweetie?”

He moved up so that his cock bobbed above your cunt. You nodded and he lifted your legs to lean them against his chest. He grabbed your hips and pulled you close. He slid into you and shuddered as you sheathed his length. He rocked carefully.

You reached out to him and he let go of you to twine his hands in yours. He kept his pace steady as he stared into your eyes. His gaze was smoky as he bared his teeth. Your legs fell and splayed around him. He leaned over you and curled his arm beneath you. He rolled over so that you were atop him.

You kissed him and cradled his cheek. You buried your fingers in his hair and rode him faster and faster. You chased the river flowing through you until it crashed over the precipice. You came once. Twice. Again. Each time speeding up as the pleasure grew more and more intense.

He came with a grunt. He tilted his hips into you and filled you with his warmth. His blue eyes flashed as they rounded and he framed your face between his hands. He rolled onto his side carefully. Still inside you, he hugged you him, your leg slung over his as you basked in his embrace. If only…

And when at last you found the strength to part, you felt his heat seep from you. You sat up and he fell flat on his back. His chest rose and fell with a heavy sigh. He pushed himself up and watched you stand. You turned back to him as his lips curved slightly.

“I know you’re going to go far, sweetie,” He said glumly. 

You smiled and looked away shyly. “Thanks.”

“I just… Before it’s… done, I want you to know how proud I am,” He began.

“I haven’t done anything yet,” You shook your head.

“Haven’t you?” He was silent as he rose. 

He didn’t look at you as he disappeared into the bathroom. He returned and began to dress. You watched him, confused. You left him to clean yourself up and when you returned, he was by the desk. His fingers tapped on it and he turned to you.

“I should go,” He stepped away from it. “But I can’t without letting you know…” He neared and gulped. “I love you.”

Your lips parted. You searched him and he touched your shoulder.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to say or feel it.” He rubbed your arm. “I just needed you to know.”

“Steve…”

“Goodbye,” He leaned in to peck your lips. “I know I don’t need to say it but take care of yourself.”

“Y-you, too,” You breathed. “Goodbye, Steve.”

He cupped your cheek and finally turned away. The door opened and closed in his stead and you stood staring at it until long after you heard his car drive away. Love, that was fiction and that man was a fantasy. Life was not ink on a page, life was out there waiting for you.

[shigarakis-fifth-hand]

Shigaraki x Todoroki!Reader; The Mask

Enjoy the series!<3 one two three four five six seven

Warnings: Extreme abuse, blood, murder, mental issues, cursing

You’ll never forget when your entire life changed for the better. The day you found your purpose, your meaning, your new family.

It all started Friday night, your least favorite night. Your father Endeavor came home early to rest every Friday to check up on your training. Over the week you were required to train 10 hours a day, eat exactly 1700 calories, and to have straight 100′s as grades. Of course, it was almost impossible to maintain such a lifestyle as a 17-year-old, but again, your father was not only the cruelest man alive, but also the 1# hero Endeavor. We’re you almost old enough to leave him? Yes, but at the same time, he would never let you do so. He owned you.

That’s when he first burned your hip.

Your siblings were Natsuo who was 25, Fuyumi who was 27, Shoto who was 20, and lastly your missing brother Touya. Sweet… sweet Touya. Over the years of having children, your father had tried to build the perfect child but had always failed. Fuyumi had been weak, Natsuo had been too kind to hurt a soul, and Shoto was too rebellious against your father. You would be too, but Endeavor had done everything to keep you “right”. 

You were allowed no socializing on the any day except Sunday, you were kept on a tight schedule of modeling, tutoring, interviews, studying, and training, and your father watched you like a hawk.

With you being the last child, he could not mess up with you. You would be the next All Might if it was the last thing he did. He hit you more than any of his children, tortured you more than the rest, and yelled at you more than any of them. And all of your siblings knew that, crying themselves to the sleep at the thought of your bruised and burnt up torso. 

Your father could never touch your face, you did modeling after all. Nobody could know the awful mental issues you had, or the trauma that had scarred you for life. To the public, he wanted you to be the perfect child. Beautiful… brilliant… and powerful. 

God were you ever so powerful.

You took after your brother Shoto, possessing the power to control fire and ice. You could catch things on fire or ice them when you touched things, and once you did, you could control it with your mind. If you tapped the floor with your bare feet, you could start a fire and decide where it went and what it did. You could make it chase someone, make it form a heart, and eventually… kill someone. 

With the power to control it’s movement, you could control the temperature of it as well. You could catch someone on fire and then make it reach over 500 degrees in an instant.

Endeavor loved it, seeing you impress even his fellow pro heroes. Your control over it was amazing, and you were beyond the best they had ever seen. You were a model too, and goodness were you pretty. You had short white hair that went to your shoulders, piercing blue eyes, and beautiful skin. You had been born with red streaks in your hair, but had bleached them out of anger when your father had hit you for not wanting to train. 

You only wanted to have the hair of your mother.

He had knocked the wind out of you with a hard punch to the gut and then burnt your side hip to a crisp when kicked you. “Stand up Shiro. Prove yourself.” He yelled as you used the staircase to pull yourself to your feet, almost falling over in pain. It hurt so much to stand. “Good, now feel the consequences.” As he said that, he pushed you down on your hip, watching as you screamed in pain.

That was the day you ran out of the house, and into the nearby alley, ducking behind a dumpster to breathe. Immediately, you began to switch to a different mindset. You didn’t have DID, but you weren’t normal. One moment, you were crying, and the next you were angry. The next moment, your thoughts would jumble together and you would crave revenge in the form of violence. You had terrible anger issues and a taste of violence, taking after your old man. 

Sure, you were the sweetest thing, but sometimes… you could be cruel, evil, and a demon to be around. But only when you were alone in your thoughts would you allow yourself such cravings as shooting a gun at a bulls-eye in self-defense training, or “accidentally” tripping one of your friends down the stairs.

At those moments, you felt no pity, no love, and definitely no shame in your actions. And outside of those episodes as you called it, you tried your best to ignore it. You weren’t going to stop yourself, because the more you held back, the more destruction you would cause. 

And you didn’t want that, because outside of those episodes, you were sweet, innocent, even fragile. You hated seeing wounded animals, hated seeing your friend get a paper cut, and you never understood your friend’s dirty jokes. You knew what sex was, but why would you want it? 

You had never even felt romantic feelings for someone.

So there you were… sitting behind a dumpster, crying. Pathetic. “Heyyy. Pretty lady. What are you doing out here? Need some help?” A college-aged man started walking towards you, two of his friends following behind. The smell of smoke and alcohol radiating off of them. 

“No, leave me alone.” You insisted, hugging your knees and barely even paying attention as you tried to contain your thoughts about your father, and the searing pain in your hip. It burned like crazy. “But why, you’re pretty and crying. We’re bored and here to help.” 

They kept walking as you looked up at them, shocked and a little scared as they were very close now. “Don’t come any closer! I’m warning you!” You stood up, even though they had you backed up against the dumpster and wall. “Aww, don’t be scared. Now let’s see what’s under that pretty dress of yo-”

In that moment, you sent a spear of ice through the man’s heart, blood splattering all over you in the moment. “W-what?! Hiromi?! Man, this bitch is bat-shit crazy!” As the guys were about to run, you did what your instincts told you. You sent ice spearing through their torsos too, sending them both to the ground. Slowly you walked over to them, rain starting to fall on your head. “I warned you, didn’t I?” You asked, stepping on one of them as they pleaded for you not to kill them. 

“I’m not killing you. I’m just… letting you out of your misery.” Before the rain could start, you set them all on fire. Hearing their blood-curdling screams, you smiled. How nice. They’d be dead before the rain could pick up. Walking down the alleyway, you listened to their screaming of pure music to your ears. You loved every bit of it.

In that moment, your entire life changed. You began your journey on your way to your true passion. You were able to get yourself a custom mask from a shady store in the down-country, and started your new life. Whenever you got bored or your father pissed you off, you would slip on the mask, pull up your hair into your hoodie, and kill. 

Your mask was amazing too. It was a bright red gas mask, which hid your entire face except for one of your blazing blue eyes. It was amazing, watching your victims stare at your one eye as you killed them. They were looking into the same eye as the pro hero Endeavor, your father, and that made you smile. The man who made your life hell had made the latest and greatest new villain in town.

“Again? God, when I get my hands on you I’m going to make you pay!” Endeavor yelled at the tv in his office, sitting at his desk with his feet held high. You were sitting in the chair against the wall near him, sketching in your book. Your father had brought you to work to meet your future teachers, since there was a villain on the loose and he didn’t want you at UA, one of the main targets. Little did he know she was right next to him. 

“What are you talking about Dad?” You asked, looking up from your book. Unlike your siblings, your father made you call him that, since none of his children had ever called him anything near it. He had said it showed that you saw him as a father figure, respected him, loved him, saw him as a caregiver, and gave you an innocent appeal that contradicted your powerful and aggressive quirk. The word had lost any meaning to it.

“Shiro, this villain will be your competitor when you become a pro hero. Look at them. Sources say they’re known for burning their victims bodies so we cannot find fingerprints, or anything. We don’t have a face to go with it, or even a picture of them in general. The only thing is that they believe it may be a female based on the laugh heard, and that they wear a bright red gas mask to hide their identity. It’s brilliant!”

“This bitch has killed over 75 people, and has burnt over 2 million in property damage. This is next level stuff for one person. If we can’t take them down, you will have to.” Endeavor sat back in his chair, returning to his computer. That was about the amount of conversation you would have with him on the weekly.

That was, until you heard an explosion outside, and yelling. Running to the window and standing on your tip toes, you looked out to see the League of Villains on the streets, all running around. Blue flames circled the streets, and you wanted to go join. You had your hoodie and mask in your back pack, and you wanted to get in on the fun, get some promo on the news. The very thought of people seeing your one blue eye was exciting, and sent shivers down your spine. 

“Dad, let’s go o-” You were dragged from the window and thrown to the ground. “Get under the desk Shiro! Don’t be an idiot!” He yelled, not caring that you had hurt your ankle in that moment. With hesitation, you walked behind the desk, bringing your bag with you. “Good, now don’t move. Remember, you don’t get to fight professional villains until you’re a pro yourself.” Endeavor explained, picking up a few things to bring with him downstairs. 

“I don’t want to be a hero.” You mumbled, rocking back and fourth as you held your legs. “What did you say to me?” He screamed angrily as you looked up, not knowing that he heard you. “N-no! Dad! I didn’t- I didn’t mean to say that. I just- eck!” You screamed as his hand came to hit your face, leaving a large bruise. 

“Don’t you dare bitch! You don’t get to say what you want and don’t want! I wanted a son, but look at what I got! Now you’re going to fucking listen!” His hand came to punch the other side of your face, knocking your head into the desk. 

“Fuck, if I had a belt I would whip you senseless.” He murmured as you started crying. “I-I’m sorry… just stop…” You cried, trying to hide your face between your knees. “Oh I’m not letting you get off this easy! Your brother said the same thing, and I’m not making the same mistake again!” 

As you tried to hide, he grabbed a box-cutter off his desk and sent it into your hip. “Now don’t you try to leave this room.” He mumbled, walking out without hesitation, leaving you to bleed on his floor. 

The cut was deep, and you were loosing blood fast.

Only being able to listen to the outside, you could hear the commotion calm down within minutes before your old man walked in. “Get up. Your future UA teachers will be here in five minutes. Put your jacket around your waist.” He threw it at you as you picked yourself up. “Don’t speak unless you’re told to. Got it?” He asked as you slowly nodded, trying to pull yourself together and wipe the tear marks away before two men stepped through the door. 

One had black hair and a man bun, and the other had long blonde hair that he kept down. You recognized them immediately. Radio sensation, UA teacher and pro hero Present Mic with his husband Eraserhead, who was a UA teacher and a low key pro hero as well. 

“Ahh, Shiro! We’ve heard so much about you! Hello!” Present Mic came to shake my head as you shook his, still shaking as Aizawa looked at my bruise. “Ahh, I… fell.” You hesitated, laughing as the two smiled nervously. These two worked with kids… so could they sense your fear. Could they help you?

“Um, let’s sit. Of course you were recommended, but I’d love to see your quirk in more action.” Aizawa motioned to your father’s couch as you all began to walk over there. But in the moment, your jacket fell off your waist, showing your crisped and bloody t-shirt from your father earlier. You could see the burn mark of a hand print even. “Oh my god! Shiro dear!” Present Mic got up to help you before you pushed him away gently. “I fell earlier! If you’ll excuse me I’ll just be a minute!” You rushed out of the room, leaving the jacket on the floor as you grabbed your backpack and sprinted out. You had to get out of the there, to take a break from your father. 

You didn’t care if it ruined your shots at UA or gave you a bad reputation with your teachers early on. You refused to sit there and bleed while they talked about your future. 

As you were waiting for the bathroom, you looked outside to see the League of Villains within the forest. Without thinking, you ran outside and into the forest after them. You didn’t know why, but it felt like destiny was calling you. That was, until you saw Best Jeanist sneaking up on one of the members. 

He had black pointy hair and wore a cloak-like jacket that was also black. Very emo. Slipping on your mask and hoodie before anyone could spot you, you snuck up behind him. Just as Best Jeanist was about to attack and spit cloth strings around Dabi, you tapped your foot, sending ice to Best Jeanist to freeze him like an ice cube. 

“Look out!” You screamed as he turned around to see the frozen pro. “Huh.” He whispered to himself, before turning to face you. With a clear view of you, he could see the red gas mask and knew that you were the one who the news networks had been talking about non-stop. The lonesome villain with a fantastic kill list. But… then he looked closer. He saw how on your hip was burnt to a crisp from someone’s hand, the bruise on your one eye, your bright white hair, and… the bright blue eye. After adding everything together, he realized something. 

“Shiro.” He whispered in shock, before you feel to your knees due to dizziness.