#begging and pleading to be loved and understood in my entirety

[strdstwmn]

In many ways I feel like a dog. I may or may not elaborate later if I can form a more coherent thought.

[netherfeildren]

Someone's Wife in the Boat of Someone's Husband .1

Series Masterlist : Moodboard

(Joel Miller x F!Reader)

Summary: What do you do when you meet a woman, have a child, get married, and then find the love of your life?

-OR- 

A Joel infidelity AU

Content Warnings: Discussions of alcoholism and parent death.

Rating: Explicit 18+

A/N: Hi, everyone. Welcome to the new story. 

Disclaimer to begin with. Joel is married in this, but it is, and always has been, a marriage of convenience. There has never been any sort of emotional or physical intimacy between him and his wife apart from when Sarah was conceived. 

Like always, I promise there will be a happy ending, and that there will be lots of other fun :) stuff to make up for the occasional tears. 

I appreciate you all so much. Happy (lol I guess) reading. xx 

Art is The pain that keeps on giving, Noelia Towers, (2018-2019). Title of the story comes from this film.

Word Count: 6.8K

Read on AO3

.1

Life changes in the instant. The ordinary instant.

Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking 

The first time you’d fucked, it was like you’d never been touched by a man before. The first time he’d looked at you, like you’d never been seen, in the entirety of your existence, prior to that moment. Every other time after that, every touch, every look, was the same – a rebirth of sorts. And a devastation. Something not to be understood or conceptualized, only experienced. 

Taking that into account, it’s no surprise that things unfolded as they did – ended as they did. 

-

“Please, please, come with us,” Gerri drags the vowels out and hits you with the puppy dog eyes. You shake your head at her, smiling, packing up your supplies from tonight’s lesson. “It’s going to be so fun, I promise. Tommy’s sister-in-law hates my guts, I know, what-fucking-ever, but my sister and her girlfriend will be there, and my best friend’s planning on coming too. And there’s an extra bedroom, it’ll be perfect, I swear.”

“Yeah, I remember the sister-in-law from Easter.” Of course you remember her from that day. Gerri had invited you to their family barbecue, and the woman had pitched a fit that Tommy’s girlfriend, somehow posed as an insult, had dared invite someone without asking her permission first. It was also the first time you’d met him. And he was, by far and large, the reason you’d stayed away and evaded all subsequent invitations since then. Even if his wife had unapologetically said to your face that she found it crazy that people still party crashed, no matter that that hadn’t been what you’d meant to do, hadn’t known you were party crashing. She’d also thrown away the bunny cake you’d stayed up the entire night before making. No gluten in the house or something, even though the hamburger and hot dog buns had all been regular. 

“Oh my fucking God, Easter. Don’t even remind me. I know, I know.” She gives you a pointed look and you huff a laugh at her. “But that was months ago. Her and Joel were on the outs then, or… had just gotten back together… I can’t ever keep up. And well… they’re still on the outs now–” She scrunches up her face into the cutest little frown. You love Gerri so much. From the first moment she’d shown up for your Tuesday night ceramics class at the community college, she’d immediately decided that not only were you going to propel her into the upper echelons of the great sculptors of the world, the greater Austin area – her words, not yours, but she’d also immediately decided that you were going to be friends, and no, you did not have a choice in the matter. 

“But they’re always on the outs. And things haven’t been as bad recently – according to Tommy. But honestly the fuck does he know about all that anyways. My poor baby is so clueless – but still, please, please please,” she begs, pouts your name over and over again. “Please, come with us?” She brings her clasped hands up under her chin in a pleading gesture, hits you with the puppy dog eyes again. 

You were so grateful for her. Despite your recalcitrance, it’d always been hard for you to make friends. A byproduct of who your mother was, being an only child, a largely solitary upbringing, et cetera, et cetera. You’d needed Gerri’s tenacious spark and kindness to pull you out of your shell. She wanted you to join her, her boyfriend Tommy, and their friends and family at a house they’d rented on Lake Austin for the weekend as a sort of end of summer farewell. And you did – you wanted to go, bunny cake murdering sister-in-law and all, but there was the issue of him.

You were… there was not a single phrase for what it was your mind turned into when that man and his name and his face invaded your psyche. So you’d done your best to avoid him in your mind and in real life, at all costs. He was – he was not something you were capable of considering. 

“I’m not sure if I can, Ger–” you say slowly, wracking your brain for an excuse. “There was– one of the other teachers at the elementary school–” Your day job, when you weren’t teaching night class ceramics, was as an elementary school art teacher, “Asked if I’d cover for them on Friday – summer school.” Stupid excuse, you roll your eyes at yourself. 

“Oh, shut up. The summer camp classes end early – you told me that last time! You could drive up after.” She sidles up to you now, rests her curly haired head on your shoulder. “Please, you’ve said no to everything I’ve invited you to since Easter. You aren’t avoiding me because of the shitshow that was, are you?” 

“No, of course not.” Yes, yes you were. Just not for the reason she thought. “I would just hate to impose–”

“You wouldn’t! I swear you wouldn’t be!”

“You all already have your plan, and I–”

“No! No. My sister’s the one renting the house, and she said I could invite whoever I wanted. So, no one can say anything,” she sticks her tongue out, rolling her eyes. “And Joel said I should invite you too. I’m pretty sure he still feels badly about last time also.” Fucking hell, you did not want him feeling bad for you. At all. Ever. You did not want him ever thinking about you ever, ever, ever. 

-

You stand over the kitchen trash bin, staring at your destroyed cake. Your grandmother used to make it every Easter. Four separate cake loaves all cut into the shapes for a face, two big pointy ears, and a cute little bow tie, with a pineapple filling, and all covered in little flakes of coconut and your homemade vanilla frosting. You used jelly beans to make the eyes and nose and dark frosting out of a piping bag for the whiskers and mouth. It was your favorite cake, one of your favorite memories, one of the only good ones. 

“Fucking Christ, she did not throw it away. Please, don’t tell me that’s the cake you brought.” Large hand gently placed between the wings of your shoulder blades to peer around you, not touching, but still there, still very close, and yes, that’s it, you’ve gotta get the fuck out of there now, away from this man.

“Oh, no. It’s okay – I– I mean– I should’ve asked before. I didn’t know you all were gluten free. I should’ve asked…”

“What? Glu–” he frowns. You knew his wife, Eva, had made that up. You step away from him, from his large warm palm that feels like it’s burning through your clothes and skin. He was really, really and truly the most unfairly gorgeous man you’d ever seen. He fucking terrified you. “Oh, yeah. The gluten.” He went along with the lie, passing the offending palm over his mouth, the wiry scruff of his beard rasping softly against what you imagined to be work roughened skin. He’d said he was a contractor. 

Gerri had invited you to her boyfriend's brother’s house for the Easter holiday. It was the first invitation to something you’d gotten since you’d moved to Austin six months ago, and you’d been so, so happy that she’d asked, had felt so sad you’d not have anyone to share your cake with. You’d planned to take it to work with you to leave in the teacher’s lounge for everyone to share. The thought had made the back of your eyes pinch, for some reason. 

“It’s alright. I actually need to head out. Could you let Gerri know? I– I’m–” you couldn’t think of a lie, and he was staring at you like he knew you had no real excuse – like he knew you were uncomfortable and out of place and were just looking for an excuse to leave. Embarrassment burned in your cheeks. 

“Don’t go, please. Stay for a while longer. I’m – fuck– I apologize about the cake–”

“No, no– really it’s–” you held out a staying hand, but he’d cut off your false appeasement.

“Please, stay.” He’d taken a step forward, closer to your retreating form, and you’d felt almost faint, dizzy at the image of him stepping closer to you. He was so tall, huge really, broad chest, thick arms, dark, lush curls and a scruffy jaw, a peek of chest hair covering the tantalizing golden skin at the opened button of his shirt. Sexy, deep Southern twang. The loveliest, warmest eyes you think you’d ever probably seen. You were going to try and mix the exact color of them when you got home, even though you knew you shouldn’t. You hadn’t been interested in a man in months, maybe longer, couldn’t remember the last time you’d had a crush, an anything on anyone, and now this man. Suddenly, blindingly, out of fucking nowhere – so damn attractive. Your eyes had fluttered shut for a second and you’d swallowed, trying to regain your balance – you’d known him for all of two hours and he already made you feel unbalanced. You needed to leave.

“Really, Joel,” his name on your tongue almost had a taste, “It’s okay.”

-

“He– He did?” you stutter. “He shouldn’t feel bad – he has nothing to feel bad about, it was nothing.” Lie – lie, lie, lie. Meeting him that day had been – it had been everything. You’d thought about it, him, for months afterwards. The sight of him with his three year old daughter, Sarah, the sweetest little thing you’d ever seen. Helping her hunt for the Easter eggs he’d hidden around their backyard, letting her crack the bright confetti filled shells over his head. His excitement for her when she’d finally found the basket he’d made up for her. He was a good father. 

“Yeah, and Tommy said he’d like to see you again too. And I told my sister about you, and she thinks all my pottery’s fucking amazing, by the way, and she wants to meet you too, and she’s even thinking of enrolling in the class next semester so really, really you’re obligated to come.” Fucking menace – she smiles sweetly. 

“Oh, fine. Fine, fine. I’ll come.” You’re putting away the last of your tools. “I’ll drive up Friday afternoon when I’m done at the school.” 

Immediate hopping squeals, and this is why you love her. She’s so happy, so open and silly, friendly and funny. All the things opposite to your restrained quiet, shy to the point of aggravation, sometimes. You didn’t want your constant refusals to alienate her. You could see him again, it would be fine. You’d met him once for Christ’s sake. It meant nothing. It had probably been nothing that day, heat exhaustion or a stomach ache or something. Nothing to fawn and stress over. You’d just be polite, cordial, keep your distance – especially from his wife. You did not, did not want to provoke her greater dislike. You’d keep your unwanted baking to yourself this time. It would all be fine. You wanted these people to like you, if you were being honest. A little desperately. Gerri and Tommy, her sister you hadn’t yet met – you wanted to be part of their group, one of their friends. They were all so kind, welcoming and fun, you couldn’t ruin this for yourself. 

Gerri had spilled the beans on the marriage over one afternoon of too many Mexican martini’s, an Austin specialty, and chips and salsa. They’d gotten married three years ago after Eva had gotten unexpectedly pregnant. Joel was traditional, he’d asked and eventually she’d agreed. They were both older than you, he’d just turned forty recently, and you guessed it’d made sense for them, at the time, but she’d left them soon after Sarah had been born. The marriage, the baby, hadn’t been in her plans, too much for her, Gerri said. They’d been separated for about a year and a half until she’d come back. They seemed to be trying to work it out now. Gerri claimed they were both miserable. You’d only met them the once – well, you’d seen Joel a few weeks ago, from a distance, when Tommy’d come to drop something off for Gerri before class, sitting in their truck. You don’t think he’d seen you – but you thought that their misery was very obviously apparent in that way that was easily recognizable to someone who, at one point, had existed in a house made only of misery. It breaks your heart for them all, in different ways, to recognize that singular brand of dissatisfaction that comes with living in a home where no happiness resided with you. 

But the reality of his marriage made you all the more terrified of him. To ever see him again. You wanted no part of that. Didn’t even want to exist in the same vicinity as someone who was experiencing something of that nature. You’d had enough of unhappy marriages and painful households in your own childhood. You never wanted to deal with that again. 

-

You’d read once that infidelity was a hereditary trait. Studies had shown that if you’d had a parent or even a sibling, someone in your household during your development, who’d been unfaithful, you were then more likely to also be unfaithful yourself. Something about that sort of childhood trauma inciting a propensity in the offspring to find it difficult to later on trust romantic partners, to incite trust themselves. Trust issues, emotional unavailability, baggage, blah, blah. Sometimes nature versus nurture was a real bitch, in your opinion. 

But as much as you wanted to call bullshit, the thought, the possibility of that being true, filled you with such an intense fear — debilitating, paralyzing, life altering. You found yourself with an immense inability to trust yourself, more than anything. Your greatest fear, the thing that scared you the most in all the world, was that you would be the perpetrator, that you would be the one to commit that sin. That you’d lose control, self awareness, morality, yourself. It wasn’t something your mind could even come to terms with, the possibility of hurting another person that way, betraying them in that manner. It seemed like the worst possible thing in the entire world that you could ever do to someone. After all, you’d watched your mother do it to your father, over and over again, your entire life, up until the point that she’d up and left the both of you. For many years, after her fateful abandoning, you’d watched him drink himself into a stupor and then into a grave. Years of waiting for her to come back, in love with a ghost or a figment of his imagination, for the woman he’d made her out to be, within the ever forgiving and naive confines of his love, had never existed. Something you could see, even through the lenses of your child eyes. 

She was an eternally flawed woman. Selfish, vain, manipulative, deceitful, but there was good in her too. She was eccentric and beautiful, and she could be kind, so funny, and immensely intelligent, her mind and wit, always sharp as a whip. It was, you thought, what made her so talented at deceiving others, at getting her way. She outsmarted everyone she came into contact with. But she was also weak and self serving, had never met anyone, in all her life, who she loved more than she loved herself. Not even you. Sometimes, you thought, especially not you. For you were the living reminder of all she’d lost and been forced to give up. It was a difficult, complicated, painful relationship you had with her, even now, all these years later. 

After she’d left, she’d kept in contact with you sparingly. The occasional call or birthday card. It had taken her three years to feel like seeing you again after she’d left when you were ten. The pains and awkwardness of puberty long started, endured on your own, before she’d even had the foresight to remember she had a daughter who might need her. It was an exceedingly painful and lonely time for a young girl to survive on her own, but you bore it, as you did the entirety of the fallout that came with her leaving. 

Your father was another story entirely. He’d fallen to pieces, completely, the day she’d left and had never had the strength of will to ever pull himself together again. It was a strange sort of existence the two of you had lived in those years, keeping each other company. Physically, he was there, but he was never present, never sentient. He drowned, for years and years, in a sea of pain and liquor, and he never resurfaced. You watched him sink, a young girl incapable of comprehending or acting in a way that could’ve helped him, as much as you wanted to or even tried, all of it was futile. Eventually he hit the bottom of the ocean and died there, and you were left more alone than ever. 

You remember there’d only been four people, in total, at his funeral. You and two men from the shithole bar he liked to lose himself at every week and the priest. It was a terribly painful thing to live through on your own. Humiliating in a very specific and acute way, for some reason. To know that this sad, pathetic specimen of a human being had had a hand in creating you, to know that he was your father and that you loved him, despite his weakness, his vices, his lack of care for you, you loved him. And you felt interminably sorry for the creature he’d been turned into at the hands of an uncaring and poisonous love. You hadn’t been able to tell her for ten months, after he’d been dead in the ground, that he’d passed. She’d not called, didn’t like giving you her number, said she was too busy to have to worry about you calling her at all hours of the day, as if you’d asked her for a single thing in the decade since she’d left. 

And you loved your mother, even after it all, you did, but it was a poignantly devastating moment, the day you realized she was not just your mother, but her own person, as well. The day that childlike naivety, unconscious self centeredness, was cast away to realize that she was savagely flawed and human, and that she did bad things that hurt good people. And still, and still she was your mother and you loved her. Your greatest influence, the hand that shaped you, and you loved her despite everything. It was only that, after the rose tinted glasses had been ripped away, and she was only then herself, nothing more – pedestal forsaken – she was just a flawed woman who sometimes made mistakes, made the wrong choices, hurt you and your father and fractured your family. That was a hard thing to come to terms with as a young girl. 

You realized now, with the lifetime of experience she’d inherited to you, that motherhood built a pedestal and a grave, all at once, over and over again. A woman could vacillate between being the Madonna and the whore, and the cycle was inescapable and destructive and enticing, all at the same time. It was something that one could try to avoid or run away from, but many times, it caught up to most, hooked its claws in you and dragged you away from the things you would’ve wanted or done otherwise. You realized this was what had happened to her. She’d never been built for motherhood, for the responsibility of raising a child, so she’d desecrated the altar of it, taken a sledgehammer to it and freed herself in the only way she saw she could, collateral damage be damned.

And so you’d isolated yourself, for the thought of doing the same thing to someone that you might have loved or someone that loved you, was soul destroying. And that was the saddest part of this whole overly cliché tragedy – that you were sure that, at a certain point in her life, she’d loved your father, as well. Perhaps not enough, not enough to change who she was, what she really wanted, but she had loved him in her own way, nevertheless.

Parallel to the tragedy was the ironic reality that in some very safely guarded part of you, you longed so, so desperately for your own chance at a happy family, love, children. How could you not? When you’d never experienced it for yourself during your own childhood. Always having to make your own meals, get yourself ready for school, alone at ten years old, walking to the bus unaccompanied, no one ever waiting for you, expecting you, watching over you. Alone, alone, always alone. How could you not want to build your own normal, loving, happy family for yourself? You wanted it very badly. 

But there was also no part of you that felt, in the most vital ways, capable of showing your underbelly in such a vulnerable way. You had always been too sensitive, a weeper from a long line of weepers, and the second thing you were most terrified of, after turning into your own mother, was being left again, abandoned to another derelict and lonely childhood. So your aloneness suited you, for now. At least, in terms of your romantic life. Your isolation kept you safe, guarded from those that would savage the sensitive and salted battleground that was your heart.

 That, however, did not mean that you were immune to wanting, to the disease of yearning, of desire, and so you found it most unfortunate, cosmically laughable and cruel, that it would be this man, this married,  beautiful, entirely unattainable man, that would have reminded you of that desire again, after it had lain dormant for so long: Joel. 

-

Joel tried to think of you only in the moments when he was feeling particularly strong. It was a challenge he’d set for himself from that day, all those months ago, when you’d appeared at his house on Easter. Like a fucking angel or a creature out of a fairy book. Soft and luminous and so fucking pretty. No, Joel tried very, very hard not to think of you. 

He failed often, though. He’d not forgotten you since that day. Had tried to fish, as subtly as possible, through Tommy, for information. See if he’d heard anything about you from Gerri. Any new details or gossip about the pretty little art teacher. Tommy was a terrible goddamn gossip, like a clucking hen. And Joel knew, he knew empirically, that thinking of you was wrong. That he had a wife that he needed to be respectful of, even if she was never respectful of him, fucking her coworker – or had been… still was — he couldn’t keep track anymore – didn’t really care, if he was being honest. But you, you were the one small, private thing he kept for himself. The thought of you, the image of you in his mind, you were only for his moments of great necessity. You’d been so sweet that afternoon, walking into his home with your bunny cake. That fucking cake haunted him – the look in your eyes as he watched you stand over the trashcan staring at it. He’d been so scared you’d start crying, that he’d have to comfort you, that he’d be able to take you into his arms. He’d been terrified of what would become of him if he’d gotten the opportunity to feel you like that. But no, you’d left. Made up some weak excuse he knew you could see he didn’t buy, and had quietly left, not even saying goodbye to the others. He’d had a terrible one-sided argument with Eva that night. Told her she’d been unnecessarily rude and cruel, doing that to a complete stranger who was just trying to be nice. She hadn’t batted a single eyelash, all his frustration going in one ear and out the other. 

He could, to a certain degree, understand where her behavior came from. He knew she was unhappy, he knew she hated their life together. That it was nothing like what she’d ever envisioned for herself, and so she acted out sometimes. At his age, he found now, that you couldn’t ever really fault a person for not being what they’d never been meant to be. He understood this, had accepted that his marriage would never be of the happy or intimate sort. That Eva had never wanted to be a mother, but had felt trapped by circumstance. He dealt with it. Or ignored it. Avoided looking directly at the ugly reality of it, more like. He had Sarah and work and Tommy, and now that his brother was with Gerri things had gotten a little better, happier for the family. She was a good addition – kind and spunky. She was good for his brother, and he was happy for them. 

But the day he’d met you – it had made a savage claw of want gouge through his entrails. He’d not remembered the last time he’d wanted something the way he did when he watched you walk out into the backyard long hair shimmering in the sun, and a nervous flush sweeping over the apples of your cheeks. And even if he’d been unattached, free to pursue you like he liked to dream about sometimes, you were so young – much too young and pretty for an old, washed up, has-been like him. But he could imagine it, like he’d said, only when he was feeling particularly strong. Or maybe particularly weak. He couldn’t keep track of which was safer anymore. When the years and work and responsibilities and grief and loneliness surged up too high and overwhelming for him to bear, he liked to think of you in that little yellow sundress. Wonder what it’d be like to be a younger man, to have met you first. A bad, selfish, terrible thought to have. But just in the quiet privacy of his mind, when he needed a small something to make him feel just a little better – he liked to think of you. 

The only other time he’d seen you, once when Tommy’d had to drop something for Gerri at the college, he’d insisted on tagging along. Hoping he’d maybe be lucky enough to get a glimpse of you, and oh, he’d been so, so rewarded. You’d been carrying a stack of supplies from your car into the building, one of those spiky things women wore twisted in your hair to keep it up, wisps of your long, heavy locks escaping the knot, and a little, red, spaghetti strapped top. The thin of it on your shoulder had slipped off the delicate wing of your clavicle as you balanced everything you’d carried in your arms and tried to kick your car door closed at the same time. It’d taken everything in him, all the self control he possessed, not to sprint over to you and offer to help you, to fall to his knees at your feet. You’d blown a strand of your hair out of your face, the cutest expression of frustration scrunching your brow. His gut had twisted almost painfully with yearning. He hadn’t even known he was capable of fucking yearning, but he sure as hell did now. He felt it sharply, piercingly, like a knife to the gut. He’d met you once for Christ’s sake, seen you in person only twice, but you plagued him, you plagued him. 

He knew it was probably partially a symptom of how alone he was. Lonely to his very core. His marriage had never been a real one, no closeness, no intimacy. A byproduct born of one drunken night, and Joel’s need to do the right thing, give his child a stable home with two parents and all the love he could give her. And Sarah, Sarah was the greatest gift that he’d ever been given. This perfect little person that he still, three years later, could not believe had come from a piece of him. 

He’d told Eva that he’d do whatever she wanted, would accept whatever she’d chosen when she’d first realized she was pregnant. She’d refused the alternative route vehemently, and so he’d never suggested it again. If he was being honest, he’d been happy when he’d found out, in some small way. The situation wasn’t ideal, of course, they’d been veritable strangers at that point, but he’d been thirty seven, at the time, and he liked the idea of children. Eva was attractive and intelligent. He’d proposed immediately, gone out and gotten a ring and gotten down on one knee. He’d naively thought that perhaps, eventually, with time, they might grow closer. That idea was squashed quickly. She’d made it clear that she’d never wanted to marry him, but she also didn’t want to go at it alone, knew he was responsible and reliable, and so she’d accepted. And perhaps, he should have tried harder to win her over afterwards, but if he was being as honest as he could be, he wasn’t very interested either, didn’t really mind the lack of intimacy with her. They just weren’t a good match.

She’d left a few months after she’d given birth. Ran off with some guy she’d met – only a note left saying she couldn’t do it anymore. He hadn’t tried to go after her, hadn’t tried to bring her back or look for her. A better man probably would have, would have fought for his wife, for the mother of his child. But he’d never loved her, not even close, and so he’d taken care of his baby girl, had tried to be everything she needed and worked as hard as he could so that she’d never want for anything. Eva had come back after about a year and a half – her affair had run its course, and she’d said she wanted to try again with Sarah, that she’d made a mistake, wanted to be part of her daughter’s life. Of course he’d let her come back. He wanted Sarah to have a mother that was present, to have everything a child should have. And afterall, it was no hardship for him personally. She didn’t want a relationship with him, only Sarah. And so they’d settled into this strange agreement of co-parents slash roommates who just happened to be married. Eva liked to keep pretenses up, so they did the occasional family thing together. Especially now that Tommy was with Gerri, she liked to pretend at the double date thing, occasionally. Even though Eva couldn’t stand the poor girl. It was a pieced together sort of life, but it was better than what some had, and Sarah had her mother. He couldn’t complain.

But he did like to imagine a sort of alternative sometimes – something different, less lonely. He could tell she was going to leave again soon, more unsatisfied and frustrated and restless than ever. He couldn’t even find it in himself to resent her for it, it only hurt him for Sarah’s sake, for he didn’t think she’d be coming back this time. 

-

It hadn’t been such a bad idea to come after all, you think, as you lounge on the dock by the lake. The sun is strong but not burning – warm and soothing. It feels like there are ghost fingers stroking all along the bare skin of your arms and legs. Gerri had made a pitcher of sangria and you were slightly tipsy off it now. A light weight, through and through. 

The house they’d rented was gorgeous. All exposed wood and big glass windows right on the lakefront. Gerri’s sister was a doctor – a spine surgeon or something really fancy. She’d rented the house and invited all of you – no chance for Joel’s wife to be pissed off that you’d tagged along. 

There were large boxes of the loveliest white hydrangeas along one side of the dock. The sweet scent of them drifting around you as you lounged on the chair you’d planted yourself in with your sangria. Yes, this was a good idea. You’d managed to evade Joel and his wife in the hours you’d been here. Gerri and Tommy were great as always and her sister and her partner were so nice. You’d talked about the pottery class, she wanted to pick up a new hobby, trying out the whole work-life-balance thing, and she’d thought pottery’d be a good fit for her. She was planning on signing up for the next semester. 

You’re slightly dozing now. The warm sun and sweet alcohol making you languorous and drowsy and all fizzy on the inside. You think you might be able to hear the breeze sliding through each individual blade of grass on the bank, whistling over the surface of the water, and you can’t stop picturing his arms in your mind, but you’re pretending to ignore that, or pretending the bulging, mouth-watering muscles, prominent veins running under the surface of his tan skin, dusted with a light coating of golden brown hair belonged to someone who was not him. He has the largest hands you’ve ever seen, and you wonder what one of them wrapped around your throat would feel like. Bad, inappropriate thoughts. 

You have one arm slung above your head, resting at the crown of your scalp to partially shield the sensitive skin there from the strong sun when you feel a sudden piercing pain, right to the center of your palm. You shriek, jolting violently, glass of sangria falling and shattering on the deck and stumbling up out of your chair, sending it flying back topside. A wasp buzzes menacingly around you, and you shriek again, cracked and painful. The thing had stung you right in the center of your tender palm. You hear the quick paced steps of someone approaching, too distracted trying to evade the horrible thing when you hear Joel’s voice. “Stay still, it’s okay. I’ll get it.”

Your hand really, really hurts. You stop your swatting and feel the back of your eyes pinch, hot tears pooling in the corners. Not only is the sting incredibly painful, but you really hate bees, wasps, all the ugly mean things that buzz and sting. You can feel the slight tremble of your frame begin to take over as you try to patiently wait for him to get rid of it. 

He comes closer, “It’s okay, he’s gone. Did it get you? C’mere, lemme see.”

You clutch the injured hand to your chest, try and scoot away from him shaking your head, but you get too near to the edge, and his hand shoots out to cup your elbow, other hand coming to circle your waist and turn you so you’re standing in the center, and he’s closer to the edge. 

“No, no, it’s okay. It got you, lemme see it–” he gently circles his big rough palm on the thin of your wrist, and now you’re really shaking.

“It’s o–okay,” you hitch, you feel a tear slide down your cheek. Fucking embarrassing. “I’m okay, really. It’s nothing.” You try and pull your limb out of his grasp, but he pulls you closer. He says your name then, not necessarily sharply, but in the way of a rubber band snapping against your skin, a slightly jarring crack followed by a tingle, something that reverberates through your entire body.

Then gentle: “Just come here,” and coaxing. How could anyone ever say no to a voice like that. So deep, so patient. “Lemme see, it’s okay. No, don’t be scared. Lemme see, open your hand for me, sweetheart. I’ll be gentle, it’s okay,” his soothing voice over and over. Coaxing you into capitulation, into following his orders. He smooths his rough thumb gently, gently over the sides of your palm, coaxing your fingers to uncurl and let him see the hurt. “Oh, it’s alright. None of that trembling, sweet girl.” And then he brings your hand up to his hot, wet mouth and presses his lips to the wound, gently sucking. You can feel the wet of his tongue pass over it once, slowly sucking the venom out of your palm. You feel everything below your belly button go hot and liquid at the feel of his tongue on your skin. Oh, God, you want to feel that mouth everywhere, between your legs. 

You think you let a jagged whimper claw its way out your throat, for his eyes flit to yours, a flash of heat igniting them. He pulls his mouth away, turns to spit, thumb gently brushing over the tender inside of your wrist. He says your name so softly. “That’s better. You’re okay. No tears.” 

His large hands completely engulf yours. His fingers are thick and long, his nails clipped short and neat. Beautiful, masculine hands. Working hands. He doesn’t wear a ring. “We can get a clove of garlic on this,” he’s still cradling your limb, “Heard that’s good for stings.”

This is bad, bad, bad, bad. Not part of your plan to stay away from him at all. He’s staring at your cradled hand, his gaze trained on the way his own palm dwarfs yours. You feel his touch tighten for just a second, he brings his eyes back to yours, and you watch as a swallow passes through the strong column of his throat. 

He called you sweetheart. 

There are so many reasons why you know he’s dangerous to you, why you should stay away from him: his kindness, how competent he is — the way it seems like, no matter what in life could ever present itself to him, he’d be able to take it in, take care of it, fix it. He could handle anything. How fucking gorgeous he is, his hands, his face, his body, the dark curls, the slightest hint of silver threads beginning to appear through them, the deep dark eyes, but most of all, more than any other reason, the way he says your name — like the worst thing you’ve ever heard in your entire life, and also the loveliest. So soft and deep and soothing. A voice that could get a person to do anything, capitulate to anything, commit any crime. 

And what was it about wanting something you should not want, could never have, that made you want it all the more? Rebellion of the highest order calls your name. 

“Thank you,” you say quietly. He still has you clutched in his grasp, is staring at you almost in shock. You try to pull away and his grip tightens for one second, like he can’t bear the thought of letting you go, and then releases you, lets you pull your injured hand back into your chest. 

“Alright?”

And you’re so disoriented by him, by his touch that you instinctively reply: “Yes. Are you?”

 He looks confused for a second, shakes his head a little and then laughs, “Yeah – yeah, I’m okay, sweetheart.” He shouldn’t be calling you that, but it sounds so lovely coming out of his mouth. You’ll tell him to stop next time. It’s okay. Next time he says it you’ll tell him not to call you that anymore. Embarrassment burns your cheeks. 

You shake your head, “Sorry, I–”

“It’s alright. No need to apologize. Let’s get you inside. Get somethin’ on that hand.”

You take a step back from him, and he matches it with one step of his own forward, like he isn’t planning on letting you run away. It makes the speed of your heart kick up a notch, a hummingbird fluttering within the confines of your chest. “No, really, it’s okay. I’ll ice it or something. I’m fine, honestly. Thank you for– for your help.” You feel like you’re blinking a hundred times a minute, the sun suddenly scorching, when just a moment ago it had been soft and warm. 

You need to get away from him.

“Rubbin’ a garlic clove on it’s good for stings. There’s some in the kitchen, I’ll get it for you.” He reaches a hand out as if to take hold of you again, and you take two more steps away. This time he does not follow, you see the muscle of his jaw flutter. 

“Really, Joel. It’s okay.” You feel like you’ve said these words to him before, like all your short acquaintanceship has consisted of, is you apologizing and running away, bowing out before it gets too scary or complicated or threatening. He probably thinks you’re an idiot. “Th– thank you for your help. I’m just gonna –” you hitch your thumb back towards the house, “I’m just going to go back inside. Sorry.” 

He only nods, frozen on the dock as you walk away from him.

Chapter .2

Netherfeildren Masterlist

[apocalypticbadass]

Sapphic Vampire Lovers (Smut)

A/N: Hey guysss it’s Alice smut time. Haven't been able to get the woman out of my head recently so here are my musings. You live with the Cullens and Alice is your girlfriend, but no one at school knows. You’re basically an adopted sibling so I might refer to the kiddos as your brother/sister. Also I’m not saying Alice can't see the future in this but like...lowkey...it’s hard as hell to write for her when she already knows everything lol.

Warnings: Smut, cursing, I think that’s it.

----

You sighed loudly as Mike Newton continued to prattle on about unimportant matters by your side. The bell signaled the beginning of class, and you feigned an apologetic look, which Mike believed wholeheartedly as he scurried to his seat. Poor boy. You turned to Emmett, your “brother” who sat next to you in Chem.

“He doesn’t give up, does he?” Emmett snickered.

You shook your head and sighed. “Oh shut it, Em.”

“You should just turn him away at this point. It’s going too far. Alice is starting to really notice.”

“Wait actually? She can’t possibly think I would ever pick Mike Newton over her.” You replied, getting quite nervous that Alice might be upset with you.

“I’m just sayin’. He’s always flirting with you, the last thing you want is for Alice to get the wrong idea.” “Yeah, you're right. Thanks Em.”

He smiled at you and ruffled your hair before you both turned towards the front to pay some attention to your teacher. You couldn’t sit still for the entirety of class, Emmett kept having to pull your hands out of your mouth to stop you from biting your nails or rest his hand on your knee to keep your leg from bouncing. The bell rang after a painfully long class, and all you wanted was to get out of there. It was the last period of the day, so you and Emmett grabbed your things and booked it out of class, he understood your desire to leave. What the both of you had missed while you were too busy worrying about your anxiety, was that Mike Newton had left class 10 minutes early with Eric Yorkie and Tyler Crowley. How Emmett’s incredible hearing and sight had missed that, you’ll never know. Or maybe he just thought it was unimportant. The rest of your family caught up with you, and Alice linked her arm in yours.

“Hi baby.” She said with a smile.

“Hi Ali.” You answered, nuzzling into her shoulder as you walked.

As you all got closer to the parking lot, Emmett gasped. “Oh my fucking God...”

“Oh Jesus, here we go.” Rosalie sighed.

Draped across the side of Mike’s minivan, made of canvas and paint, was a sign that read “(Y/N), will you go to prom with me?”

You stopped dead in your tracks.

This could not be happening.

No way was this happening.

You turned, horrified, to look at Alice’s face. She was staring straight ahead, jaw set, eyes unreadable. You softly disconnected your arms and rushed over to Mike, tears threatening to spill from your eyes.

He beamed as he saw your urgency. “So, what do you think?”

“Mike, take it down right now.” You pleaded. “I’m sorry but I won’t go to prom with you.”

His face fell as Eric and Tyler moved to take the sign down and save Mike a little bit of embarrassment.

“I’m sorry Mike, I have to go.”

“Yeah, no, it’s cool.” He said, rubbing the back of his head.

Your family was on your left and they were already getting into the car. Alice was at the back, and you grabbed her wrist while begging her to turn around and talk to you. “Alice, please, can we talk?”

“What is there to talk about?” She spat, venom in her voice. “Clearly you gave him a reason to think he should ask you. You’re very friendly, and I love that about you, but I think flirting with someone when you have a girlfriend is way too far.” “Alice you know I would never do that. You know how loyal I am to you, Mike could never hold a candle to you. I swear I’ve never flirted with him in my life, he’s just obsessed or something.” Your eyes shone with tears. “Please, baby. Trust me, not him. I swear on my life I only love you.”

You could see the slightest softening of her defensive exterior as your (y/e/c) eyes bore into her deep amber ones.

She stepped closer to you and sighed. “You’re right, I’m overreacting, I suppose. You haven’t given me any reason to believe that you’d flirt with him.” Alice placed her lips below your ear. “Unfortunately for you, you’ll have to pay for poor Mike’s mistake. I’ll have to remind you who you belong to, just incase you needed a refresher.”

Your breath caught in your throat, a blush creeping onto your cheeks since you knew that your family could hear you quite clearly from inside the car.

“I’ll meet you at home.” She said before turning on her heel to walk home, she’d be back before the rest of you.

You got in the car behind the passenger seat, head in your hands as Emmett laughed from the other side of the car. “What did I tell you?”

“Drop it, McCarty.” You glared at him.

“She’ll come around.” Jasper said, hand on your knee. “She’s not actually mad, just jealous that he can be so carefree with his feelings while you both have to hide yours.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Just sucks.” “At least you’ll get good sex out of it.” Rosalie said nonchalantly, looking at her nails, which she had painted last night.

“Get some!” Emmett cheered, which made you bust out laughing.

The car ride home was comfortably quiet, everyone else’s mind wandering to other things, Rosalie and Edward speaking to one another in a nearly inaudible tone.

Butterflies fluttered in your stomach when you pulled up to the Cullen house, met by Alice leaning against her Porsche, arms folded neatly across her chest. Jasper squeezed your shoulder in encouragement, feeling your nerves flow, and eased your anxiety as best as he could, one last time. Alice got in the car before you could get over to her, and just before she shut the door, she gave you a “come hither” motion. You opened the passenger door and sat carefully inside of the car, careful not to track in any mud.

“Hi.” You said softly as she began to drive.

“Hello.”

You fell into silence, zoning out while looking out the window, wondering where the hell you were going. You tried very hard not to let her know how nervous you were, but the attempt was futile because she could hear your erratic heartbeat.

“Where exactly are we going?” You managed to say, in a calmer voice than you thought you could muster.

“You’ll see. It’ll be fun.” She said lightly, tossing you a wink.

20 minutes later, Alice pulled into a hotel parking lot, probably the fanciest building you had ever seen. You knew you were in Seattle, but had never been to this secluded area with these fancy buildings. You felt severely underdressed, the both of you casual, but her level of fashion much higher than yours, her walk far more graceful. She gave the keys to the valet as they pulled luggage out of the trunk. Alice took one bag for herself and handed one to you. She kept her hand on the small of your back and led you through the massive glass doors, which were opened for you of course. The gorgeous decor of the lobby kept your gaze until Alice had signed you both in.

“Come on now, love.” Her voice was like melted honey.

Your gaze flipped to her and you followed her to the elevator, where she pushed the button for the top floor. Your eyes went wide as you remembered peering up to the peak of the building and how high it was. As you stepped out, there was one single door in front of you. Alice swiftly unlocked it and ushered you inside, bolting the lock shut immediately. As you walked around in awe, you felt yourself being whisked away, vision blurring as Alice ran you both into the bedroom, where she tossed you onto the silk duvet. Her dainty, but incredibly strong hands pushed your shoulders back onto the bed. 

“What to do with you?” She pretended to think before pulling a pair of cuffs from behind her back. 

You bit your lip as you felt butterflies down below. Your wrists were in one of her hands in a second, cuffed to the headboard before you could even blink. “Are you going to be good for me, darling?”

“Yes baby, I will.”

“Good.” She muttered into your ear, tearing your shirt off to suck on the exposed skin of your breasts. All you wanted to do was tangle your fingers into her short hair as she marked your body. Your wrists audibly struggled against your confines and you groaned. Alice laughed. She tore your bra off in a fluid motion, gently worrying one of your nipples between her teeth.

You sucked in a breath. “Ali, please. Wanna touch you.”

She swiftly flipped you onto your stomach. “No ma’am. Not allowed.”

She then pulled your pants and underwear off in one go, leaving you completely exposed. Alice slid a finger towards your clit, circling it slowly. You whined and squirmed, so she ripped all contact away from you. You felt her cool breath at your ear and her disapproving tsk. “I thought you said you were going to be good for me.”

“I’m sorry, I’ll be good. I promise.”

“You better.” She replied, swiftly inserting one finger into your vagina. You took a sharp breath through your nose, trying to keep still. She curled her finger into your g-spot at an incredible pace, causing you to take a mouthful of the bedsheets to keep yourself quiet. She was pleasantly surprised at how good you were being, so she added another finger, scissoring you open. It took absolutely everything in you to just stay still and quiet.

Once you felt stretched enough, she placed a kiss at the base of your spine and retracted all contact, flashing across the room to grab a bag. You were unable to see this, but her clothes were off in an instant, and she had fastened one of her many straps around her hips. She’d chosen your favorite attachment, a hot pink dildo that measured around 7.5 inches. She leaned down to whisper in your ear while allowing the toy to nestle into the cleft of your butt.

“You’re not even gonna remember Mike Newton’s name after this.”

With that comment, she slid the tip of the toy into your entrance, slowly pushing into you, stretching you all the way out. “You can make noise now, love.” She purred.

Immediately, a string of profanities left your mouth. “Holy fuck, baby, you feel so fucking good inside me.”

After a few moments, you felt her icy hips hit your butt, felt her lips sucking marks onto your shoulder blades. “Move please, baby.” You whined, trying not to struggle against her. She pulled out of you slowly, and entered you once more. Taking her time, Alice picked up a pace that made your toes curl, she hit your g-spot every single time.

“Jesus fuck, Ali, God you’re so good. Feels so good, so fucking good, babygirl.” You babbled on as she drilled you into the bed at an inhuman pace, hands tangled into your hair.

“You just needed a little reminder, didn’t you, doll? Just needed to remember who you belong to. Mike Newton could never fuck you this good.” She growled, nipping at your earlobe. You wanted to make a sarcastic remark, but your words couldn't get past the way Alice was making you feel. Your clit gained some friction as each thrust pushed your body into the mattress a little further.

“Alice I’m so fucking close babes, please don’t fucking stop.” You cried out, the inferno in your stomach threatening release.

“Come for me, love.”

With her words, you came hard, squirting all over the duvet, leaving it soaked. Alice pushed all the way into you and stilled for a moment, relishing. “You were so good for me, babygirl. So beautiful.” She praised, pulling out of you and flipping you over.

“Wanna taste you.” You whined. “Sit on my face.”

Alice smirked at you and quickly unfastened the strap before positioning her dripping pussy over your mouth, settling softly with a moan. She had remained untouched until now, so the contact was quite welcome. “Christ, babe. Your mouth feels so good.”

Your tongue explored her walls, licking every surface, nose bumping her clit every so often. She leaned back and placed her hands on your thighs, squeezing them softly to get a grip. You moved to her clit, lips wrapping around it and drawing it into your mouth, eliciting a sharp gasp from your lover. You fervently continued, fully putting your mouth to work.

“Please, gonna come.” She rasped out, just before coating your face with her slick. “Oh my God, (y/n), so incredible.” Alice moaned while you continued to suck on her, drawing out her orgasm. You gazed at her with doe eyes from between her legs before she got off of you, reaching for the key to unlock your cuffs. She rubbed your wrists to soothe them before nuzzling into your neck and tangling her legs into yours.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get over the way you taste.” You said after a few moments of silence.

Alice giggled. “I can absolutely say the same for you. That was amazing.”

“Totally. I love you. Sorry Mike asked me to prom.”

She let out a belly laugh, pulling you on top of her. “No need to apologize. I’m sorry for overreacting, quite dumb of me to be honest.”

“It upsets you that we can’t express our emotions for each other as freely as Mike can express his emotions for me.” “I just wish people could understand our love, understand that our gender is totally irrelevant.” She sighed, stroking your hips as she spoke. “I just love you so much and I wish I was able to show it in public without fear of something happening to you. God forbid anyone got violent.” “I know, baby, it’s really scary sometimes.” You cupped her face, stroking her cheekbone with one hand, combing through her hair with the other.

“I don’t want to say it, but you know what I’m thinking.” Alice whispered, expression growing serious.

“I’ve been thinking about it recently as well, I think we have to do it. Sometime soon, I want to be with you forever. We’ll set a date.”

Alice gave you a lopsided grin. “Can’t wait to be sapphic vampire lovers until the end of time.” 

You laughed, leaning down to kiss her. “Oh hell yeah.”

[moondustis]

break the internet (m)

pairing: jung jaehyun + reader genre: smut, fluff word count: 2,2k summary: Tips on staying sane during the quarantine include exercising, establishing a routine, eating healthy and of course, phone sex.

It had been 2 weeks now since the last time he went out. And he understood it, of course, knew it was for the greater good and was glad to do something as simple as staying inside to help. But well, the whole thing was maybe making him go a little crazy. Just a bit.

He was glad there were other people staying with him, so he wasn’t completely alone. But being around the same faces for a little too long was a great way to start fights, and right now they were all just waiting for Doyoung to finally snap over some petty thing for it all to go down. 

Besides that, he just missed going outside for a walk or to have coffee with Johnny. He even missed going to practice early and sitting on the hairstylist chair for too long waiting for hair and makeup. 

But right now, he thinks he misses you the most. Misses sneaking coffee dates in the middle of a busy day and the late night rendezvous. He just misses being able to see you in person and it was even worst that the last time you managed to do that was way before this whole thing happened, with how crazy album preparations were. So yeah, he missed you a lot and there was nothing he could do about it. 

Well, except call you on facetime at 11pm on a friday, hoping that you were still awake. 

He’s on his bed, only the small lamp on but it does a good job illuminating the room. The door is locked, just because, and he waits anxiously for you to pick up as the little facetime music goes on.

The familiar butterflies on his stomach all cheer up when you finally appear on the screen of his phone. Your face is bare of any makeup, probably ready for bed, as you smile at him. “Hi, baby.” You greet him, voice a little different on the phone but still it makes him smile right back at you. 

“Hello, pretty girl.” He says back, still smiling like a fool. “What are you up to?”

Now let’s set a few things straight. This had been a call out of mere innocent want to see his girlfriend whom he missed. He had no ill wishes in his mind. That is, until now.  

“Nothing right now. Just finished getting ready for bed actually.” You move the phone down, showing him your bed surroundings and in consequence, your nightgown cladded body. He knew that one, had seen it before once when he stayed over and the sight plus the memory it ignites makes something turn in his mind. 

He’s not some horndog, first of all. But it’s been a while since he touched you last. Hell, it had been a while since he touched himself, since there always seemed to be someone around him on the dorm and the shower just didn’t do it for him. So he’ll admit that it got to him a little. “Are you even listening, Jae?” You interrupt, your voice soft and head tilted to the side as he watches your pixelated image. 

“Sorry, got a little distracted.” He doesn’t need to look at his own self on the screen to know he looks guilty. “What did you say?” 

You pout at that and his eyes go to your pink lips, then moving down to your neck and exposed chest where he can see the tops of your breasts. “I said I tried that face mask you got me today. My face is like, really soft right now.” He hums without really paying attention, just hears the word soft and well, he has to agree, you do look pretty soft right now. 

He should feel bad, because he was the one that called you on the first place and now he can’t focus on anything you’re saying. He can only focus on the outlines of your boobs under the nightgown and how his mind is playing tricks on him, because he’s sure the fabric is a little transparent and he can see the faint images of your nipples. And well, he’s definitely getting hard right now.

And you’re not dumb, he should know better. “Are you checking me out right now?” Your voice is filled with amusement as his cheeks are set on fire from being caught. When he looks at you your eyes are shining with something he thinks is mischief. 

“Shit. ‘M sorry, baby.” Is he? Probably not. “I just missed you… and you’re so pretty.” 

Your smile goes even wider. He’s a charmer through and through. “Am I?” You ask, biting your lips in a silly way but it gets to him. He’s pretty sure anything you did would. 

He can’t help but smile back at your teasing because it’s so easy to get you to play the same game as him. “You are. Prettiest girl in the world.” That has your cheeks flushing and he just loves when he can do that. Even after all this time dating he still managed to make you go pink with the simplest words. 

He watches as you bite your lips again before you’re almost whispering. “I missed you too, you know?” The words itself are innocent but the way you say it is far from it and it goes straight to his now hardening dick. 

“Yeah?” Is what he asks dumbly and you nod, hand moving to the very thin strap on your left shoulder and moving it until it falls on your arms. He watches you do the same on the other side with parted lips, head swimming with arousal as the dress almost falls off put you don’t let it. Still, he can see more of the top of your boobs now and it has him hugging his pillow and screaming into it in frustration. 

Ok, so maybe he was a horndog. “You’re a menace.” That makes you laugh.

“Why?” You even tilt your head, acting even further as the obvious girl he knows you aren’t.

“You know why. C'mon, don’t be bad, baby.” He’ll beg if that’s what you want, he really will. “Let me see the girls, please? Miss them.” 

You snort at his silliness. ”The girls? I thought you missed me.” 

“I miss all of you.” You pout and he laughs lightly. “Now, please? Just gotta let the dress fall.” 

It’s silence for a moment, only the static noise of his air conditioner. He blinks twice and then you’re letting your nightgown fall, probably bunching on your waist. His eyes immediately go to your chest, gaze flickering to your hard nipples, probably from the cold in your room. He licks his lips, feeling his mouth water in a dramatic manner and he can’t help but whisper. “So pretty, baby.”  

You move your hair a little, straightening your back and the phone shifts a little. You really do look beautiful, he always thinks so. Naked or not. But right now, looking at him with big eyes and the slow rise and fall of your exposed chest, he wants desperately to touch you. “Happy?” You ask, but there's no bite to it. 

“Very.” He gives you a smile to emphasize it and tries to be discreet with the way he moves a hand to squeeze himself through his sweatpants.

“You should take your shirt off too.” Your voice is cheeky and he grins, immediately doing as you asked. 

“Happy?” He mimics your words as you nod and eye him probably the same way he did to you, with eyes hazy and lips parted. “Wish I could be with you right now.”

“Yeah? What would you do if you were?” Your lips falter as you try to not to smile at your own cliche but he sees right through it. Appreciates it even that you are able to do this in such a comfortable way. 

“What would you want me to do?” He asks back and you let out a little huff. 

“Kiss me. ‘M really craving one right now.” It’s a simple wish but he understands it. Hell, he has probably daydreamed about kissing you one of these days. 

“Hmm, me too.” He almost whispers. “Would kiss you everywhere.” 

It’s a little corny, he knows but still it makes you breath just a bit heavier as you move your hand, slightly brushing it against your breasts and he has to move his hand down again, letting out a barely there whimper as he squeezes himself. 

“Are you gonna show me a little more?” Is a question as much as it is a plead.

“Uhm...You first.” You say, showing him you want this as much as he does. And what can he do but tilt the camera slightly down, showing his torso and his hand lightly scratching that happy trail he was too unbothered to shave. His gaze moves to watch your hungry eyes as he tugs his hardening cock out from his sweatpants.

He gives you a show, you deserve it after all. Stroking himself slowly until he hears the quiet ruffling of you pushing the nightgown all the way down and then more noises as you try to remove your panties. “It’s hard to show it all.” You mutter with a shy voice and he remembers this is the first time you’re doing this. 

“It’s okay, baby. You don’t have to.” He assures you, camera moving to his face again. “Just talk to me.” 

He figures you still want him to see, so he watches as you pausadily move the camera down, giving him a good view of your boobs then continuing down to where your hand is just below your belly button. He sees the patch of hair first before you’re opening your legs and your fingers part your lower lips, showing him the slightly wetness that had formed. It’s a weird angle but that’s the last thing on his mind. “Like this?” You ask and he swears the entirety of his blood goes straight to his dick. 

“Fuck.” He groans, a shudder running down his body as he continues stroking himself. He wishes he was there, he truly does. Wants to kiss you as much as he wants to feel your wetness on his tongue. “Look at you, baby. Got such a pretty pussy.” 

He can hear you moaning as two of your fingers collect the wetness forming on you entrance before circling your clit. He continues steadily stroking himself, precum already dripping a little. “Jae…” Your voice is merely a breath.

When you move the camera back on your face he can see the almost dazed look on your eyes and it only spurs him further, watching your lips part in a moan and your eyebrows furrowed in concentration. 

He reaches his thumb to the tip of his cock, smearing his arousal around his hand before he’s back to stroking himself. It feels good, even more with you on the other side of the screen. But still, he wishes it was your hand instead, if he closes his eyes he can almost imagine it is and the thought makes him twitch. 

“‘M so close, baby.” He rasps, breath labored as the pressure on his lower stomach feels likes it’s about to give.

“Me too, me too.” You whimper and he has to open his eyes again to look at you. If you weren’t about to come you would probably say this is an awful angle, but he loves it. Thinks you look the most beautiful with your chest glistening and your eyes shut in pleasure. 

He pumps himself harder, trying his best not to close his eyes so he can watch you and you moan his name, over and over again as he tries to squeeze himself enough to create the feeling of your tight walls around him. It’s not even close to how good you feel but it’s enough and he grunts as he speeds his strokes.

You come with silent moan and he watches as your entire face contorted in pleasure. He’ll never get tired of that. He follows shortly after, coming long and hard, with your name on his lips and ribbons of his arousal coating his fingers.

It’s a while before you have both catch your breaths, but when you do he smiles at your face on the screen. With his attention on you, you hide your face with pillow and laugh in an embarrassed way.

“Come on, getting shy on me now?” He says, voice filled with amusement. 

“Can’t believe I did that.” Your voice is muffled by the pillow before you’re looking at him again. Your cheeks are the pink shade he loves so much. 

 “What? Show me your cunt on facetime?” He teases and you whine in even further embarrassment that he knows you also love.

“Jaehyun!” There’s no actual bite to your words, you just give him a pointed look.

“Can’t wait until we can see each other.” He confesses, he’s sure there’s a puppy look on his eyes from how much he adores you. 

“Me neither.” 

After you have said your goodbyes and love yous he gets himself cleaned and falls to the bed again. When he sleeps, he dreams of you.

[gwynrielendgame]

Sad Nessian

I am only writing this because I know SJM likes happy endings. I do not want this to come true, I simply enjoy writing chaos.

"How could you?" Nesta came bursting through Rhysand's office doors with Cassian on her tail. The entire inner circle was meeting to discuss a new threat to Pyrinthian. Nesta looked wild. Tears were streaming down her puffy face while strands of hair stuck up at odd ends as if she had pulled it from its braid. Her breathing came at harsh intervals while she looked around the whole room with a glare set in place.

"Nes-" Rhysand began his practiced apology before Nesta cut in again.

"She is my everything, Rhysand. My whole world. Why would you do this to me?" Her glare fell to allow a sob to rip through her body as she fell to her knees. Cassian stood tall behind her, glaring at his high lord. Mor and Amren shared a surprised look. Nesta had never allowed anyone to see any of her weaknesses. To fall before the entire inner circle, sobbing was a new low for the harsh female.

"She asked me to send her on this mission." It appeared Nesta was going to allow him to continue his story without interruption, so he began again. "Nesta, I know you love your daughter, but she came to me with this request. She has been feeling suffocated and needed an outlet for her power. You have been holding her back." Feyre glanced nervously between her mate and her sister. She understood how Nesta felt, the overwhelming need to protect your child at all cost, but she also understood how Amara felt, the freedom she needed to be herself.

Nesta and Cassian had only conceived one child together and not from a lack of trying. It took them a fifty years before Amara was conceived and fifty years since then and they've never been able to conceive again. It didn't help matters when Amara fell ill. One day she was a strong, intelligent child and the next she was a weak and sickly one. Even their best healers couldn't discover what befell the child. Amara entered into a dreamlike state where she stopped aging for 25 years. It nearly destroyed both Cassian and Nesta, but as sudden as the illness arrived, it left. Suddenly, Amara woke up and began aging again. She was stronger and just as intelligent as she was before the mysterious illness. Amren always suggested that she had been cursed, but neither Helion nor Thesan could sense a curse. Feyre knew it killed her sister especially when she had two children herself, a third on the way, while Elain had six. Feyre didn't think Nesta would want a lot of children, but she knew Cassian did. It was where Nesta's desperation came from. She wanted to give her mate any and everything she could, but it seemed this was one thing she couldn't give. One, very important, thing.

"You could have sent her on any mission! Why would you send her on one of the most dangerous?" Nesta's eyes were pleading, hopeful. As though she could convince the high lord to bring her daughter back this instant. She was feeling such overwhelming grief that she could not think logically nor did she want to.

"She will be fine, Nesta." Rhysand promised, but it did nothing to assure Nesta. Her grief subsided only for anger to take its place.

"For your sake, I hope so. I swear to the Cauldron and the Mother, Rhysand, if Amara dies for this mission, I will rip Nyx's heart from his chest right in front of you." Nesta's threat had Rhysand's eyes widening in alarm. He severely underestimated Nesta's wrath. The entire room went eerily silent as Nesta's eyes began to glow. No one knew exactly how much power the cauldron-made female still had and no one wanted to test it out.

"Nesta." Feyre gasped, appalled by her sister's threat. Nesta loved Nyx, but she knew there would be nothing that could save her from the grief of her daughter's death. Nesta had always loved too deeply and it would continue to be her downfall.

"You will do no such thing, girl." Amren hissed at the weeping mess on the floor. It was not a question that everyone in this room would protect Nyx even if it meant the demise of the high lady's sister. Nesta shoved herself back on her feet and fled from the room as quickly as she came. Cassian stayed right where he was with that same glare on his face, his siphons glowing brightly.

"You betrayed me." Cassian shot at Rhysand. The high lord's face turned to one of shame.

"She practically begged me Cassian. What was I supposed to do?" Rhysand was pleading with Cassian to understand. If Amara was anyone other than his daughter, he would have insisted she went on this mission. He was blinded by his love for his only child.

"Do. Not. Do. That." Cassian hissed. "Do not pretend you did this for any reason other than your selfish belief that Amara is more powerful than any of us. You're testing her." The siphons burned dangerously bright. Azriel was positioning himself in case he needed to hold his brother back from ripping their high lord to pieces.

"Cass. That is not true" Rhysand began in a quiet voice. He would never admit that his brother was right, if only to protect Nyx, Velaris, and Violet from Nesta's rage.

"Then why didn't you send Nyx?" Everyone in the room knew Cassian had Rhysand there. There was no reason to send Amara instead of Nyx unless Rhysand was unwilling to send his own flesh and blood to a mission more dangerous than his skill set. Amara had exceeded him in academic and physical skills even with him having a fifty years on her- seventy-five years if you counted the time she was asleep.

Amara was brilliant in every way. Her father trained her in Illyrian techniques while her mother trained her in Valkyrie techniques. Her tongue was as sharp as Nesta's when threatened but her soul was as kind as her father's. Cassian would admit that Nesta was overprotective, but he was realistic in order to balance each other out. He allowed his daughter to go on missions that matched her abilities. They had even gone on a few together, but he believed this was a mission meant for Azriel or the High Lord himself. It was an insult to suggest that they were stifling their daughter's ability. The truth was everyone in this room knew that Nyx should be smarter, stronger, and better than Amara given that he was the heir to the night court. But like the weapons Nesta Made, she also Made Amara. No one knew the scope of her abilities and Cassian was furious that Rhysand would use this mission as a means to find out.  

"Cassian, you know High Lord's have to make tough decisions sometimes. He can't always be your brother." Mor pleaded with Cassian. She could not stand to see this decision tear the brothers apart. The Illyrian general scoffed at that.

"Nesta made you a promise, Rhysand. I have one of my own. If Amara is to die on this mission, I will drive an ash arrow right through your heart." His true Illyrian nature was showing now. He could not control his anger. He fled from the room much like his mate had. He knew if he stood in there any longer that he would not be able to control his actions. He went to find his mate. 

"That went well." Elain muttered after staying silent for the entirety of the showdown. Feyre let out a long breathe that she seemed too scared to let out before. As if one wrong move would set Nesta into a murderous rage.

"I told you it was a bad idea." Azriel added. He felt guilty for the role he played in sending Amara on this mission. She was capable though. He believed completely and utterly that she would survive.

"I want a protective detail on the children at all times. Nesta is not to be left alone with them." Rhysand clasped his hands together on his desk while Feyre sat on the arm of the chair. Both of them looked nervous.

"You don't think she would actually hurt any of them? Right?" Elain had to ask. She had to know what they thought. She didn't want to believe her own sister would kill their nephew in a rage.

"She would and she will." Mor said as she rose from the couch to stand across from the high lord and lady. "Which is why you need to daemati Amara to abandon the mission and come back immediately." Her face was hard as stone. As appalled as she was by Nesta's behavior, she could not believe her cousin would send Amara on this type of mission. A mission meant for someone like the Shadowsinger. There was an ominous pause as Rhys and Feyre had a mental conversation.

"We lost connection with her." Feyre began. She bit her lip out of anxiousness before continuing. "We keep trying to reach out to where she's supposed to be, but it's empty."

"You didn't tell me that." Azriel quietly stated with a stare of intensity.

"This does not bode well." Amren sighed while rubbing her temples with her pointer fingers. She was exhausted by these idiots.

"She's not dead. Nesta would feel if she died, so I guess we have that working for us." Rhys let's his head fall onto his desk.

"Mother spare us all." Elain began a prayer for all their souls. If Amara died, the night court would fall.

[ashenburst]

Posting some angst that I wrote. I'm not sure if it will end up in the final version of my book as this is a side character's POV. My best friend wants to skin me alive because of what I'm doing to my characters, ESPECIALLY Athanasius (the star of this chapter/oneshot), so, if you'd like some sort of Nietzschean, Dostoyevsky-ish sort of energy combined with a wounded man whose life has been nothing but exploitation... take this!

tw: gore, bugs being yuck, religious themes/trauma, heavy depression

word count: 1692, unedited because #yolo

Athanasius tugged at the hem of his shirt. The blood, well crusted, defied his movements. Elbowing it like mad, he barely managed to take it off and throw it by his side, where it lay together with the top of his uniform, discarded by the roots of an old oak. All of the clothes, drenched in a deep red. One swift yearning blew his mind, that of murder, of all of Agglomeration’s uniforms coated in metallic death. But no hatred, no hope could go that length. Nothing his soul could sustain. Not anymore.

Birds and waters and insects all sang, ignorant. Remaining in his stained breeches, he staggered close to the river and its white shore, agony greeting every movement. Flies tickled their way into half-open wounds, the stinging slits crossing his body. Sweat and blood curled his chest’s hairs with some black bugs dangling. So many flew around. Everyone had use of him.

He’d contemplated leaving himself in the state of bloodbath, and run for help in any community, feigning amnesia. The sheer horror of his appearance could not be trapped; whispers of it would run amok only to be seized by the worst of ears, those deaf to him.

Rocks of the riverbank wriggled beneath his boots. He dropped on his knees, pain shrieking once they dislocated. He held his head high. Cold hands contrasted on sun-heated stones. The Sun burnt through his quivering eyelids.

He could run. Would they find him? They would love to. He would kill to quench that love. He already had. Disappointed he was to see it insatiable.

But he could run. Where to? Aurun’s bank had his funds, but entering the city meant sure doom. The rest of the world was his destination. At least, parts of it without the Agglomeration.

And he could run. Scramble to some dreary town, then harbor. Stowaway his life until Onogea. He absolutely could. He had knowledge, he had strength, he had power.

His fingers dug into the rocks. The stone cracked under his weakness. One deep sigh to commemorate it all over again, and he choked on himself. He coughed up deep red mucus, spraying blood and its clots over round, white rocks. His hand rose, fingertips shaking like a naked twig on the wind. He coughed again, and blood squirted over his already dirty palm. So much filth. He’d long grown accustomed.

Then why was there hope? That inside and outside, all of that grunge could be cleansed? Because, he still had power. Despicably interwoven with all of his thoughts and feelings and so much absence of both. He had it, and he was abused for it, and he abused it. And he had it. And he pounded his fist against that aching chest, spewing darkness into broad daylight, scarring the nature with his own wounds, bleeding with the Devil’s compassion, and he had it. Even the Devil wept for him. Even the Devil pitied him. Yet he had it.

He huffed a fly outside his nostril. Something stuck at the back of his throat, clogging the air. He hawked, discharging even more bloody mucus, now onto himself. Stained saliva swayed from his lips. He brushed it away with the back of his palm. In his lap, red rolled, young blood over old. He separated his legs to have it smudge all the way to the ground. Kneecaps scorched as he scraped them over rocks. Wherever they dug, blood trailed, two crescents set in stone.

To be unclasped. To be a stain elsewhere. This world made it seem too simple, lovingly palpable. But he was not bound to it, and in navigating the philosophical, he reached the inevitable: responsibility would set him free. He held pseudohistoric texts that hollered so, and pseudohistory was of angelic origin, therefore applicable to him. He could recall the tremble in his fists while reading it, mind screaming and shattering with the consolation, “It would be over. You’ve understood. It would be over.” But it wasn’t. Same questions yielded same answers, and these were not meant for man. He had come to know Hell by fulfilling all wisdom.

If someone could question him for once!

He whimpered, back arching him down. Another surge of wet coughs.

In the corner of his foggy vision, he spotted a plant unusually brown, leaves writhed. His head rolled to his shoulder to gaze at it properly. It was easy to care for the inhuman. None of it was evil. But to understand? Invincibly difficult.

He raised his hand. It trembled so fucking much, but it did the job, reached the plant. Wisps ignited at his fingertips, shaky too as they glided towards the leaf, erasing blight from it, rendering it a green slate. He gave it one stroke. “There…” he croaked like the ravens of September, no bird to caw back. Why would anyone, indeed, ever even murmur back? To tangibly, blatantly forlorn he. If anew, perhaps he could be fine.

It was no hope, he reminded himself – he remembered how it once felt. It was yet another stumble into the unknown, an experimental circumstance, to see if he could, somehow, appease the referential frame up above and renounce it. He cursed under his breath. It was never enough, and they? They never should’ve made themselves known. Mankind did not need them. Mankind never wanted right. There was no right! He gasped at the Heavens. Why would they ever impose themselves, if there was no truth?! Never to reply!

But who was he, to have his wisdom pacified? Forever the staple of cruelty, a child. Neglected all over again.

Flies ravaged the inside of his mouth. He spat some, others he coughed away. Another, behind the gums, he had to scoop with his tongue, and only then dribble it out. Useless troubles for a meaningful man. Cosmic irony, overlapping the entirety of his life.

He dragged himself up to the coastline. By the water’s clarity, by its estimated location, he knew this was not one of Aurun’s five rivers. It could be Rulde. Downstream, it would lead him to Szenevod. It didn’t truly matter.

His palms drowned in the river’s cold. The rest of his body above it, he could listen and stare at the steams. The reflection was expected, a face mauled with emotion and encrusted with gore. He hated the truth inside it: he was the saint. He would be eternalized on murals, his mantle the sunlight, his cohort the flora, his mouth bloody obscene, but the heart, the pastors would claim, the heart pure and so profoundly tortured! And they would assure fervently: the greater the suffering, the greater the Heaven’s lodge. He wouldn’t even bother to tell them the great truth that living for the afterlife could only give Hell, and he already held it, and no Heaven was worth the misery.

He was the saint, beloved only at a distance. He would’ve kissed that saint, if only he had known how to love him. He was, after all, right beneath him, gaping back with barren ambers. He could not hope for this man. There was nobody and nothing in the eighteen years of his existence that ever nursed his soul. Why keep going, if it could only get worse? He had made one fatal mistake, only recently. He licked sweet hope only for it to burn bitter, for one could not be defined without the other. He didn’t have to know nor to realize, for it had always been an axiom surer than the Sun. Him, a fool for ignoring the one truth he found, denying the axiom it supported, and finally, aching after the plainest of swindles.

Constantin, you did not care.

He could no longer care either. But he could cry. By all means, he could. Tears were harmless. He wasn’t. He did.

What would you do if you saw me like this?

He stared at himself through dreary eyes. Tears swelled in the blood’s mud, warmth draping over his face, uncomfortably coating it, suffocating the skin. He never got the answer. It wasn’t meant for him. And he squealed all of his helplessness for the world to ignore.

He hacked between sobs, hair and insects sticking into his mouth. Droplets and patches of blood gracefully dispersed beneath him, and he kept adding onto the red, throat itching to puke every violent sob, every harsh whine. It clenched so hard, gagged him, threatened to empty the bowels. He couldn’t breathe, for he couldn’t reach for air, and so no sound escaped his wet lips parted in a mute cry. Bile dripped from it, sour to taste. It had always been ugly, to what end? There was nothing to let out. Nostrils flared, he thought he calmed, once he pieced together that thought. Yet, in the dread of peace, he found it in him to scream like mad, drool and tears carried by the river.

Why? He didn’t have to. Nobody would hear. The river flowed on, the nature lapped at his body to nourish itself with his blood, tears, and agony. The usual. There never was a divine interference but to plague, and there never was an ear that heard unless it willed to. And he was so accursedly aware of it! And he wailed despite all of it! Him, foolish him!

Have him punished, someone! Tender hooves trampling him into dust and bones. Please! The same death he could not prevent! The same moment his power abandoned him, when he needed it most, when his heart shredded and when he came back to discover – death! His lifelong accomplice! He pleaded! Flies devour all of his rot! Rocks hammer all of bones! Waters bloat every muscle! Punish him!

“Please…” he begged for the umpteenth time, the mantra of his life, the disease of his death. “I’m not…” His hand slipped, gave out, and the water slapped him.

Indifferent, he dropped into the torrents to carry him anywhere. The waters silenced everything, mercy for once. If his anguish ever held any merit, he’d waste it all on one desire: never to bless this world with another Chosen One.

[k7l4d4]

A Steven Universe AU

Hello all! Today, I am going to document an AU I had for Steven Universe! I would like to personally thank my friend Flamestar50 for the help I received to build this AU. I am going to mark down the information for the AU I had discussed with Flame when discussing this AU, so here I go! To note, the information will be about the questions Flame asked me, and my responses.

Okay, I talked to Flame and they are okay with this. Enjoy fully.

ALRIGHT!! Basically, assuming you know who Doctor Priyanka is hopefully, before Canon starts, Greg accidentally says something to Rose while they are talking after she got back from a particularly stressful mission, and it causes all the repressed pain and guilt, along with a not so healthy dollop of self-loathing, to come surging to the forefront. 

To better process her feelings, Rose heads to the Beach and, well, ends up lamenting to herself, attracting the attention of a visiting Priyanka Maheswaran (Hope I spelled that right), who decided to approach the giant gem and get her to talk about her feelings.

Flame: huh, how does that go

Me: Well, because Rose has a LONG history of not thinking things all the way through and often not being able to see the full picture accurately, she ultimately decides to just spill it all. To vent every little thing about herself, all her actions, all her choices, all her mistakes, to a total stranger, because she genuinely cannot TAKE IT anymore! 

Surprisingly, or probably not, Priyanka is moved, and understandably worried, by Rose's pain, and makes a point of comforting her, with Rose herself having shapeshifted back into her Diamond Form for the first time in CENTURIES. 

Priyanka is genuinely in awe of all that Rose has done, and all that she has been through, and decides it is her duty as a medical professional, albeit not one licensed in psychology, to take on Rose as her patient, as the Gem is clearly not in a healthy or safe emotional state. Oh, and the other Gems and Greg all ended basically overhearing the whole thing while the two are none the wiser.

Flame: oh no, how did they react

Me: Well, shock for the most part. Amethyst and Garnet are, understandably, angry at being lied to, yet they can't bring themselves to be angry because, unless you've got a serious callousness to you, it is hard to be angry at someone who so clearly loathes themselves so completely and utterly. 

Pearl is mostly shocked, and a touch despondent, that Rose had withheld all this hurt and inner turmoil from her. Greg? He doesn't know how to process what is going on, but what he does understand is that Rose, the person he loves more than anything else in the world, the one who finally made him see his own value and worth and could never even try to judge him, is hurting, and in need of comfort. They basically decide to shift the discussion back to the Temple for the rest of the initial event.

Flame: How will this effect Steven in the future?

Me: Well, I haven't finished describing the set up just yet, but it will have its effects on his future (HA! Snuck in the reference!). After moving back to the Temple, Priyanka in tow, the Gems (and Greg) basically hash out everything they can. Garnet, Amethyst, and Pearl are all understandably distressed and hurt by the secrets Rose has been carrying, but the sheer pain and hurt she clearly feels about herself convince them to work through it together. 

For Amethyst, it partially convinces her to stop bottling up her insecurities, not after seeing what a wreck it made of Rose. Garnet knows she will have to fully confront her feelings on the subject later, but decides to be there for the others now. Pearl just wants to finally help Rose the way she feels Rose helped her. And Rose? She just feels such intense, unconditional joy and love at the fact that they don't see her as a monster, that they still love her, flaws and all, that she doesn't have to run away anymore. 

The revelation of her feelings acts as a catalyst that causes her to involuntarily shapeshift into a new default state that merges her Diamond and Quartz forms, a symbol of her finally accepting herself completely, taking the name Rose Diamond; she isn't going to pretend she is something she's not anymore, she's going to show the whole world the entirety of who she is, flaws and all, so she can finally start to grow. 

And then they realize that they never got Priyanka's name, and everyone starts cracking up at the sheer absurdity of it all, Rose included! I got more, but that is the initial intro to the AU.

Flame: what else ya got

Me: Well, because of her sense of obligation, and the fact that she honestly enjoys Rose's company, Priyanka more or less becomes the Gems' therapist, and often silently screams in her own head that she isn't trained for this. One of the things Rose does once she comes clean is to try and make amends for the things that came about due to her lies; for starters, she releases Bismuth, after she tracks down Lion that is (that crazy feline does whatever it wants, I swear). 

Much like in canon, Bismuth is snapped out of her hyper-blood-rage once she is exposed to the Corrupted Gems and figures out that the Corruption partially came about due to her giving the idea of faking her shattering to Rose. Bismuth is MASSIVELY uncomfortable around Rose, and often adopts a loose, battle-ready stance whenever around her, but, partially due to working with Priyanka to help treat her PTSD, is gradually coming around. 

Bismuth more or less does her own thing, but makes an effort to be there when needed, like when the Gems find an experimental Warp Pad. The Warp Pad, according to the notes Pearl finds, is supposed to be the ultimate escape system, allowing any being to enter the warp stream and proceed to a pre-determined Warp Pad across the Galaxy, and the next time that corresponding pad is used it will automatically bring them back. 

Upon discovering that information, and seeing that the Warp Pad hasn't been set yet and still can be, Rose, without actually explaining to the others, uses the warp to rescue Spinel. I'm gonna leave it here for you to process and ask questions before I proceed.

Flame: Oh god, how is spinel gonna react to this version

Me: Well, considering she is still near-totally innocent, she basically asks if she won the game. Yeah. Rose basically cries her eyes out, and tearfully says that, yes, Spinel, you're the winner, and gets an ecstatic hug that feels just a little too tight. 

Upon noticing that Spinel is subtly shying away from the plants, and that the roots of some have actually started growing over her, Rose carefully picks a weary Spinel up, and carries her over to the warp pad back to earth. When Spinel asks where they are going, Rose simply says they are going home, getting a content smile in return. Upon returning through the experimental warp, Rose is bombarded by a storm of panicked shouting from the other gems, only for them to calm down at the ragged Spinel in Rose's arms. 

Rose attempts to brush off the danger of using an untested piece of potentially lethal tech, only for the warp to blow up behind them; none of them were hurt, it was more like a collapse, but the implication that that could've happened while she and Spinel were in the warp stream causes all the gems to shoot Rose looks that scream "We told you so." I'll let you process this while I gather my thoughts.

Flame: oh dear

Me: Yeah, Rose doesn't like to think things through when there are people who need help she can give. After carefully explaining who Spinel was and the situation surrounding her, which involves Pearl face-palming, Garnet pinching the bridge of her nose, Amethyst a little shell-shocked, and Bismuth pummeling a concrete pillar into gravel in anger, they take the sweet gem back home. 

After making sure Spinel is situated comfortably, Rose breaks the news; she never planned on coming back. As Spinel freezes up, whether from shock or hurt is up to debate, Rose explains that she had never understood Spinel, always seeing her as a silly doll that the other Diamonds gave her to be a toy who couldn't take things seriously, with each word causing Spinel to slowly shake her head, shuddering more and more, before Rose apologizes for being a bad friend. 

Before Spinel can completely LOSE IT, Rose, tears of shame, regret, and heartbreak, pulls Spinel into an impromptu hug, begging, pleading, for the chance to let Spinel be happy. After calming down enough not to lash out in out of control pain, Spinel, shaken but not broken, asks as calmly as she can to be alone for a little while. They give her her space. And another pause point!

Flame: I thought she was gonna lose it, I sure would have.

Me: She came VERY CLOSE, but Rose's presence, which she still associates with good things and happier times, manages to keep her just stable enough to go off the deep end. Spinel quickly becomes a regular patient for Priyanka, who makes a point to try and help the child-like gem to grow and develop as an individual like it's her personal missions. 

Over time, Spinel gradually manages to come to terms with her situation. Spinel developed a phobia of plants due to her time in the garden, but also enjoys gardening, seeing it as a representation of her happiest memories, as well as a way to conquer her fear by leveraging control over the plants. 

With prompting from Priyanka for the both of them, Rose and Spinel make an effort to rebuild their old relationship into something healthy for the both of them; for Rose, it is a chance to finally befriend and learn about Spinel as a Gem, and not the toy she treated her as, and for Spinel, it is a way to come to terms with her past and start making new friends in the present and future. 

The two manage to reach a mostly amicable bond, but things occasionally get tense between them; Rose's past actions left deep scars on Spinel's heart, as while she still acts like her happy-go-nuts self, albeit tempered with proper emotional reading, she now holds a deep disdain for other gems and gemkind as a whole, making an exception only for those who've also been burned by Gem Culture and her friends, often acting similar to her initial debut self when communicating with gems who don't meet this small criteria. 

Spinel genuinely loathes the fact that she is a Gem now, and finds human company effortlessly more enjoyable than any time she spends with other gems, no matter how much she views said gems as friends and family (Spinel very much enjoys the concept of family, and sees it as one of the many ways organic beings are superior to Gems in her eyes).

Flame: awww,poor spinel

Me:Yeah, she's a sad bean, but she wouldn't change herself for anything in the universe! Did I ever give the name for this AU? If not, the name is Here For You. One of the biggest divergences from canon in this AU? Rose lives after giving birth!! 

How you may ask? When you are good friends with a doctor, and you suddenly spring on them that you, a non-human, non-organic alien plans to have a half-human child and you most likely won't survive the experience, you can expect them to put their foot down and help with the situation. 

Priyanka essentially grills Rose on everything she knows about her race's biology, such as it is, her understanding of human biology, and makes her research methods to create gemstones and such; Priyanka isn't willing to have Rose relapse into her suicidal impulses again, even if it is to bring a child into this world, and is dead set on finding a way for them both to survive. 

With Priyanka's help, and some scavenged Gem Tech from the Kindergartens, Rose manages to conceive (HA!) A method to have a fully half-gem-half-human child without killing herself. It largely involves artificially mixing her own gem essence with that harvested from old injectors and eating. SO much eating. Rose essentially is ingesting and absorbing the needed materials to build a human fetus and Diamond Proto-Gem together as one, without sacrificing her own gem in the process. And it works!! Mostly.

Flame: what do you mean mostly

Me: Well, the process was completely experimental, and they had no actual clue what they were doing, just making their best guess. The process worked, but it left Rose horrifically weakened. Her Gem's internal structure was dangerously demineralized, as in it lost a lot of minerals that compose its structure, and became insanely fragile and delicate as a result. 

Giving birth essentially permanently crippled Rose; she can no longer shapeshift at all, her bubbles have a high chance of popping after forming and she can no longer teleport them, and a lot, if not all, of her powers besides her healing tears have been hamstrung to near uselessness. 

She is now both weaker, and slower than any human, and constantly falls unconscious at random to conserve her compromised energy reserves. But it was worth it to bring her twins into the world!! ...Maybe that had something to do with it...

Flame: wait, twins!?!

Me: YES!! ULTIMATE SURPRISE REVEAL!! Yeah, in canon, before they settled on whether they were having a son or a daughter, Rose left two tapes behind for whichever gender her child ended up being, Steven Or Nora. So, in this one, she ended up giving birth to Twins!! Nora and Steven Diamond Universe!! 

To clarify, Rose would've been weakened no matter what happened, but giving birth to twins nearly shattered her and permanently affected her abilities, not that she'll ever regret it, though she grows frustrated with how frailly she is treated by the others. You wanna hear about the twins next? 

Oh, and in case I forgot to mention it, the twins were only partially an accident, as Rose didn't intend to have two kids, but is fine with it, she just overdid it on the eating and stuff needed to create the children and had just enough left over to jumpstart the development of a second child. Yeah.

Flame: go on and tell me about the twins!

Me: YES!! Due to Priyanka's influence, both twins end up actually, you know, GOING TO SCHOOL. Steven is, well, basically exactly the same, and still heavily takes after both his dad and Rose's Quartz form, but being around other kids his age has improved his social skills and given him a larger group of peers and pals. 

Nora is a bit of the opposite, polite, a little standoffish, neurotic, snarky when stressed, with a vicious temper towards anyone that hurts or messes with Steven, she basically looks like a miniature, human Pink Diamond in terms of appearance. Nora has a natural knack for her gem powers, and more easily manifests those powers more closely associated with Pink Diamond as opposed to Rose, with her Gem Weapon being a MASSIVE Two-Handed (Zweihander) sword whose foremost section resembles the shield everyone thought it would originally be, whilst still possessing her family's flower motif. 

Nora is the younger of the two by about five minutes, but is much more mature as compared to Steven, not helped by him still having his aging problem while she ages more normally, and people are often shocked at both her age, as her height and attitude give her an older feel, but that she is also both Steven's TWIN and the technical younger of the two!! 

It kinda mindblows people. (I was considering shifting some of Steven's personality, but I couldn't bring myself to do it)

Flame: any last points

Me: Well, Spinel basically becomes Beach City's premiere part-time employee, as she works on and off at literally every place in town at some time or another, and she bluntly refers to Greg as "The Deadbeat." 

Spinel adores the twins, often serving as their babysitter, as well as a babysitter to most of the other kids in town, and basically acts as their bodyguard whenever she goes on missions. Oh! I also have special plans for Lapis, as well as some other Homeworld Gems, but I'll save those for tomorrow. 

Due to their parents being friends, Connie basically grew up with Steven and Nora, and is currently entering the phase of life when people start to develop more mature crushes, and has shown signs of crushing on both of them. Yikes.

[renxamamiya]

The Sins of Your Mistakes Weigh Heavily On My Soul

A03 Link Here

My half of a tradefic with @wildcard-rumi. This is based on my Theatre of Mirrors AU and her Takuto is Ren's Dad AU, specifically on her 'Buried Memories' series.

Go have a read of her AU, it's amazing and I love it. As for people waiting for Theatre of Mirrors don't worry, I've been busy/exhausted with other personal projects and life that I haven't really got the time/motivation to write it. But I will hopefully put something out before March!

Sumire: Hello, Dr. Maruki-San Sumire: Can you come to Leblanc today? There’s something we need your help with. Sumire: It’s about Ren.

---

Takuto stared at Sumire’s message on his phone, his fingers awkwardly tapping against the hardwood that made the Leblanc counter. It had been a while since he’d met the rest of the thieves; more than a year had passed since he’d tried to force a false reality to the whole of humanity, one where there was no concept of pain, only placid happiness in which the wildest dreams had come true. It came with a price: the stagnation of humanity, one where no one had to struggle, had to fight for what they wanted. He did it out of kindness, of course; to save everyone from the pain he experienced, from the pain his son had to endure... Looking back upon his mistake, he found it ironic that his sole reason to plunge humanity in a reality of ignorant bliss was the one who unravelled his plans at the seams.

It wasn’t as if Ren didn’t have his share of anguish, yet Takuto was too aware he had condemned his son to nothing but suffering. A clumsy night in the early hours during his time in college, Ren having to grow up without a traditional, nuclear family... Him having to witness Rumi’s death, traumatized, only then to have his memories wiped... Takuto still found the memory of Ren in the hospital room hard to swallow, the time where he’d used his Persona’s powers to alter reality, to make him happy. Reflecting upon it with his changed heart, he now realised that his good intentions would have led humanity into a Hellish existence; though he didn’t regret it one bit as he wouldn’t have reunited with his son in the first place.

He nestled the cup of coffee he had close to him, taking a sip from it, savouring the complex flavours intertwined with the tangy bitterness of the roast. Sakura-san had kindly brewed a cup for him to enjoy before closing the shop temporarily for his meeting with Ren’s friends, Takuto graciously accepting the cup and paying for it, waiting anxiously for the group to arrive. A ring of the bell caught his attention, Takuto whipping his head to see Sumire’s eyes peering from the frames of her glasses. She smiled upon seeing him, rushing into the quiet cafe followed by the other thieves before giving him a quick bow, “Good morning, Maruki-sensei,” she greeted, and Takuto laughed at her extreme politeness.

“You don’t have to be so formal, Yoshizawa-san,” Maruki laughed, “I’m not your teacher anymore, and I did come here because you asked, after all,”

He looked over to the rest of the group, the thieves minus Sumire sitting in the booths, their faces solemn as they looked away from his gaze. Takuto frowned; he had spotted Morgana quietly curled on Haru’s lap, the girl running her fingers in his fur absent-mindedly, looking worried at the cat with worry. Another sweep of the room with his eyes, distress welling inside him. Before Sumire could even speak, having noticed his panicked expression he asked out loud to the room: “Where’s Ren? Has something happened to him?”

“That’s... what we want to talk to you about,” Makoto said, yet she found it hard to look Takuto in the eyes. The feeling of unease between the thieves grew between them, the worried glances they exchanged only made him more anxious.

“What happened? Is he okay?” he stuttered, jumping from his seat, “Did he get into some sort of trouble? Is he in danger?” Each time he asked them the group winced, Sumire’s cheerful expression evaporated as she watched Takuto beg for any sort of information, each question curling the corners of her frown deeper on her face, “I need to know, please tell me: what is going on?”

“It’s... hard to say,” Ann replied to his plea, “It... he...”

“Ren’s gotta Palace,” Ryuji huffed, stoic at Takuto’s shocked reaction, “We’ve been infiltration’ it for some time now,”

“He has a Palace?!” Takuto’s eyes widened, shocked at this revelation, “W-when did he get one? Does that mean that world... the Metaverse came back? How-”

“We don’t know,” Makoto tried her best in answering him, her voice understanding at his floundering confusion, “We don’t know when the Palace had been formed, but when it did fully form it brought back the Metaverse with it,”

“And Mementos too,” Futaba added, “The whole thing, and his Shadow has been manipulating it too for his own goals,”

“Just like...” Takuto swallowed, still bewildered at this newfound knowledge, “But why? Do any of you know?”

“He has mentioned a performance of some kind,” Yusuke said, “One ‘of a lifetime’, it isn’t wrong to suspect his plans with Mementos had something to do with it,”

“Have you noticed something with the public, Maruki-san?” Haru asked him, her expression curious, “We’ve been noticing ourselves the renewed interest in the Phantom Thieves out in public, even selling Phantom Thief merchandise again,”

“I... I have,” Takuto swallowed, loosening the buttons of his coat, his hands shaking in the warm air of the cafe, “I’ve heard things on the radio about the Phantom Thieves; passengers would always mention about them to me, but I always thought it was because of the anniversary of your first heist that brought interest back. Kamoshida, right?”

Ryuji and Ann cringed at the mention of Kamoshida, Takuto immediately regretting his words, “S-so anyway, where is Ren? He has a Palace, but I assume-”

“He’s trapped inside of it,” Takuto whipped his head to look at the cat, Morgana, rising from his listless nap upon Haru’s lap to talk to him, “For some reason his shadow’s keeping him in there. No idea why, but what we do know is that he’s kept at the top floor,”

“Trapped inside...” Takuto repeated under his breath, rolling the words on his tongue as he tried desperately to even comprehend the situation. Heavy silence soon fell amongst the group. Takuto bit his lip, was he the one who caused this?

Makoto cleared her throat, snapping the room back into attention “There’s a vital area of the Palace he refuses to open up for any of us, Takuto. Anyone but you, that is, according to his shadow,”

Takuto looked at her in thought, contemplating her words, they churned in his mind. He looked at the polished floor of the cafe, his lips pursed. He curled his fingers into a fist, his chest tightened, Takuto blinking the tears from his eyes as they arose.

He looked back up at the thieves, their eyes filled with hope, pleading for him to assist them in saving his son.

“Alright, I’ll go with you to his Palace; Ren’s Palace,” he said.

---

“Is this?”

Takuto gazed at the foyer before him, watching the humanoid cognitions before him, all of them chatting to and fro, paying no mind to the thieves, all of them wearing masks. Light from the scarlet day of the outside shone wonderfully through the stained-glass windows. He gazed uneasily at the statue that nestled itself between the two ascending stairs, gulping down the stress and anxiety he felt, staring at an uncharacteristically pompous statue of his son.

“The Palace is becoming more unstable with each trial we complete,” Goro informed him, Takuto still bewildered by the mere fact that he was alive, and more importantly, helping the thieves with their infiltration, “I’d advise you to keep your wits and do whatever the shadow wants you to do, we can’t risk it prematurely collapsing,”

Takuto nodded, intimidated by the former detective, barely hiding the disdain he felt towards the former councillor. He had almost condemned the entirety of reality to one of false bliss, forcing his wants onto the entirety of reality. He also understood Goro still felt bitter towards him with erasing Ren’s memories, making him suffer, the infallible leader a mess in the confrontation of his recollections, having no way to cope with any of them. Sure, he had come out on top of them, able to power through his relieved anguish of losing Rumi, of losing his father, of having to witness her...

“It certainly has seen better days,” the bespectacled man sighed. He could still see signs of grandiose and luxury in the untended chaos of the tatters and scratches that accented each curtain and carpet, as if abandoned and allowed to rot with time. A part of him still wanted to deny the sight before him, still rationalised that nothing about this was real, that his son was back in reality, that he was safe, that this was some sick prank conjured up by his friends.

All those wishful thoughts Takuto had mustered quickly dashed when he saw the figure stood before them. Waiting.

“-And remember, refer to him as Joker, not Ren,” Goro hissed in his ear, “All we can do is appease him unless... well, I don’t suppose you’d like to end up as a corpse, would you?”

“I- Thank you, Akechi-san,” Takuto gulped, nodding in acknowledgement of Goro’s warning before turning towards his son. Though they were meters apart it felt like they were looking across the maw of a canyon. With a step, and then another, Takuto walked towards his son.

“Hello, dad,”

“Hello, Joker,” Takuto responded to the shadow’s greeting, already unnerved by his eyes, no longer grey but golden. Was this a shadow his friends constantly mentioned about, the dark, repressed side of the individual? Takuto had never gotten a chance to meet such a being, the ruler of his own distortions, he was the one who sat atop of his warped heart, ruling them with a gentle hand. He had his familiar outfit on, his will of rebellion, Takuto recalling seeing it when the thieves confronted him to change his heart. Though it was the differences that unsettled him: his dapper vest shining in scarlet red, his mask, black and golden, greatly increased the eerie glow of his eyes, “You wanted to see me?”

“Of course, why wouldn’t I want to see my own father,” Joker said, words dripping with sarcasm, “It’s been a while since we last sat down and talked, I’m really starting to miss it a lot,”

“Likewise?” Takuto said cautiously, fearful of what the shadow’ll do to him if he misspoke, “I would like to spend some time catching up with you, if that is your reason for summoning me of course,”

“It was! You know me so well, father,” Joker smiled, and hand raised and the click of his fingers, a door swung open among the foyer, “Come, come with me, we have a lot to talk about I’m sure,”

---

The theatre room led him into nothing but a featureless void Takuto discovered, empty as if he was transported to another world. The Phantom Thieves, Ren’s friends, did warn him about the possible dangers that he had to face, Takuto still willing to plunge into whatever trial Ren - Joker - wanted him to face. The shadow unnerved him yes; he reasoned that anyone would be uncomfortable with the confrontation with the shadow of a loved one, their dark, inner thoughts giving shape in a distorted environment. A ‘Palace’ the thieves called it. Walking in the directionless void he hoped deeply his knowledge of the Metaverse could aid him in whatever Joker wanted him to endure. He had to save his son from himself, and this time he wasn’t going to run away from him, Takuto told himself.

“Daddy?”

Takuto’s heart jumped in his throat, him turning instinctively towards the sound of a child whimpering in the darkness. The voice was familiar, too familiar, a beacon that guided Takuto in the dark, or a lure to ensnare him into the jaws of his doom, Takuto rushing towards it with haste all the same.

“Daddy? Where are you?”

“Ren!” Takuto shouted, clambering toward the terrified child, tripping on his own feet with every other stride he took in a desperate, maddened haste to reach his crying son. He didn’t consider the possibility of the apparition of his crying son to be a trap, only instinct carried him forward until he approached the small cognition.

Grey, watery eyes full of innocence stared back at him, the small form of Ren clutching tightly onto a distinct plush of a cat. Takuto’s heart melted as he knelt to his level to address the boy, to show him that he meant no harm, the boy shying away into the fur of his toy.

“I’m here for you, Ren,” Takuto cooed, reaching out his arms towards the frightened boy. The young Ren stopped his crying. He looked at Takuto’s inviting, outstretched arms; and then at him, Takuto gave him a smile that radiated safety and love.

“Who-who are you?” from the stuttering, fearful cognition was the reaction that Takuto did not expect, his face falling in confusion, his bemusement matched with the smaller Ren that stared blankly back at him. Takuto tenderly brushed the mess of hair away from Ren’s eyes.

“I-I’m your dad,” Takuto said reassuringly, yet the cracks of his tone betrayed the melancholic feelings that welled inside of him. To see those grey eyes gaze upon him, wide and curious and with wholly innocence broke his heart, “There’s no need to be scared, Ren. I’m here now, I’ll protect you,”

Young Ren looked at him, slightly backing away from the unfamiliar, familiar man in front of him, “I... I don’t... I don’t remember, if you’re my dad I don’t remember you! I don’t-”

“Hey, calm down,” Takuto said, yet he respected the distance Ren had put between them, “It’s alright to forget sometimes, which is why we need others to help us remember,”

“I-”

“Do you trust me, Ren?” Takuto asked the frightened child. Young Ren looked at him hesitantly, clutching the stuffed toy in his arms closer against his chest. He looked down onto the floor, pausing in contemplation.

“I... Guess so,” Young Ren mumbled shyly, eyes flickering between the floor and Takuto that reminded the bespectacled man so much about Ren in his younger years. He gestured for the child to sit down in front of him, Young Ren doing so obediently, the both of them folding their legs as they sat cross-legged on the murky floor.

“Now, do you remember anything about your father?” Takuto asked, adopting a more professional persona with inquiring the boy, “Anything at all?”

“Well, I think he wears glasses,” Young Ren started, curling his small thumb and finger before holding them up to his face, peering into the holes he had made with his hands, “They’re really big on his face. He wears them a lot, and I barely see him take them off,”

“That’s good, what else do you remember?” Takuto asks, amazed at Ren’s recollection, the boy knitting his eyebrows in concentration.

“And... He had brown hair,” Ren recalled, his hands moving to his head, “Brown hair that was really long and wavy, but not too long like a girl’s. He also had brown eyes... and...”

“And?”

“He would watch Featherman with me,” Ren said, “Every Saturday, he would wake up just to watch Featherman with me. I would always ask which Featherman he liked the best a-and he would ask me who was mine, and it was-”

“Featherman Red,” Takuto finished, Young Ren’s eyes widening, “I remember. I’ve always remembered,”

“A-and,” Ren continued, his cheeks slightly flushed against his skin, “I remember whenever he came home he would always bring apples! He’s not good at cooking them, but I didn’t mind eating them anyway, because he would always bring home the really tasty ones,”

And the child continued his recollection, Takuto’s small smile that sat on his lips grew a little wider with each detail Ren managed to recall, the excitement in his eyes growing more and more, and Takuto wondered if the child was even aware of how much he recalled. Yet whenever Takuto asked for the child of his father’s name he merely blinked at Takuto.

“I don’t remember my daddy’s name,” Young Ren shook his head, his disappointment reflecting Takuto’s, “I’m trying really hard, I am!”

“I know you are,” Takuto sighed, resting a hand upon his shoulder, giving the small child a reassuring smile. Yet, as defiant as his grown-up self, Young Ren shook his hand away.

“But, there’s one name I do remember.” Young Ren mumbled under his breath. Takuto’s eyes widened, a sudden drop of water dropped upon his head. Carefully reaching over the moist patch of his hair he looked at his fingers. Nothing. He looked up. Only the black that characterized their surroundings present. He turned to look back at the boy.

“What name is it?” Takuto asked, Young Ren squeezed his eyes shut.

“I... it’s someone close to dad,” he mumbled. More droplets of phantom liquid dripped upon him, “Someone... I.... don’t remember,” The child began to panic, “I... I can’t remember it anymore. I can’t, I’m-”

“There, there,” Takuto cooed, brushing away Ren’s tears, ignoring the storming of the invisible rain on his person that only increased in ferocity, “It’s okay. Just do like what we did with your dad, okay?”

“O-okay,” Young Ren said, trying hard to salvage a mask of bravery, looking at Takuto with red, blotched eyes “I mean... I don’t have a lot of memories of her...”

“Her..?” Takuto feared he knew who the young boy was referring to, the invisible storm now pouring magnitudes onto him, unrelenting, the liquid thumping hard against his frame, his hearing starting to be muffled by the roar of rushing water, “Ren, maybe we should-”

“She had big eyes-” Young Ren began to recite, Takuto grabbing tightly onto his shoulders, his pleas for the boy to stop falling on death ears.

“-and she was smart, and nice-” Young Ren continued, oblivious to the panicking Takuto that desperately pleaded with him to stop.

It smelled. Everything smelled rancid, like something rotten, something foul, something metallic. But it was as if Ren was painfully unaware of the speckles of red splattered on his face.

“-and, and she had red hair!”

Takuto recognised the expression the young boy suddenly snapped into, grey eyes once filled with ignorance now watered with fear and distress. The memories of the break-in, the blood, the red. The child stumbled back away from Takuto, both of them shocked that the ground seemed to ripple under them.

“Ren!” was all Takuto could utter until a shrill shriek spilled from Ren’s lips. More blood dripped down from the sky, the child turned and tripped against his feet and fell onto the ground. Takuto reached for Ren but stopped.

Rumi. Rumi was in the reflection, so many copies of her, eye wide and afraid, blood gushing from her red locks, Takuto speechless, the only sound coming from his lips were the terrified whimpers that bubbled up from his tight throat. He too soon stumbled onto his knees, his own distressed reflection mirrored back at him, Takuto’s traumatic expression staring back at him among the mosaic of Rumi’s last moments. He dared not to look at the scene above him.

“Subject one is asleep and well, Dr Maruki,”

“Was the actualisation successful?” his voice rang in his ears. Takuto blinked his watering eyes, adjusting his vision to the spotless white tiles that made up the room. The familiar, sterile smell of disinfectant stung his nostrils, Takuto barely making out the sweetness of forgotten flowers in bouquets that splashed colour among the featureless wall. He allowed himself time to collect himself; he looked at his hands, bloodless yet he swore he could still feel the liquid staining his hands.

“Yes, Dr Maruki,” the unfamiliar voice rang out. Takuto swallowed the bile that rose from his throat, allowing himself to collect his composure and strength before he stumbled onto his feet with great effort.

Suddenly he found himself in a chair, gazing at the two figures looking over a sleeping child. One was a faceless nurse, writing on a clipboard as she talked. The other was himself, “There seemed to be no complications with the procedure,” the nurse continued, the reflection of Takuto reaching down absent-mindedly to stroke the sleeping Ren’s hair, “He should be waking up at any moment,”

“Thank you,” the other Takuto smiled, “You may go now,”

The nurse nodded before dissipating into a thin cloud of smoke, the other Takuto sighing before turning to the sitting Takuto, looking at him soberly.

“It was...” Takuto croaked, the guilt of his past mistake tightening in his stomach, “I just wanted...”

“I’m sure he’ll understand,” the other Takuto said quietly, turning back to the sleeping form of Ren, white-gloved hands coiling around strands of black hair. Flashes of memories flickered from within Takuto’s vision. How his son’s face contorted in anguish at the recollection of memories, how desperate he was to forget, willing to battle his friends to preserve his own ignorance, the lingering gazes, hauntings of his own psychological pain that echoed from within his own eyes, “He’s such a strong child, even when staring at the face of danger he still puts on a brave face,”

“Yeah, he really-” he feels something wrapping tightly around Takuto’s wrists. He looked down; blackish-blue tendrils slid across his skin. Panic rises from his chest and tightens his throat; he struggles against the grip of the monster binding him.

“There’s one more thing I need to get rid of,” the other Takuto murmured, Takuto futilely thrashing against Azathoth’s hold. The cognitive double approached him; eyes unblinking under the thick frames of his glasses as he watched Takuto struggle against the cognitive Persona. A click of his fingers, and the tendrils encompassed all of Takuto’s body other than his face, “This is for my patient, for my son,”

“You’re making a mistake!” Takuto’s voice cracked, his appeals to his cognitive double fruitless as he saw him snap his fingers. He felt himself pulled down by the otherwise unseen demon, his feet slowly sinking into the floor, the cognitive Takuto watching him disappear with a blank face.

“This is for his own good,” the cognitive Takuto said absolutely, his expression unmoving while he watched Takuto sink into the ground, “He needs to forget, he needs to be unburdened by the memories of her death, and that includes removing you from his life,”

“But-”

“It’s the only way,” the cognition repeated to him, the scenery around him going monochrome, the doubles skin growing paler before everything started to fade into white “We both know it’s the right way,”

“We...” Takuto croaked through the tears that started to well in the corners of his eyes, trying desperately to blink them away, tearing his eyes from his cognitive double in shame, “I was... I was foolish to think that. All it did was cause Ren and I suffering...”

The cognition said nothing.

“I should have been there for him...” he choked, the tentacles that wrapped around him grew ever tighter, “But I was a coward. I-”

He turned his head to see nothing. Featureless white. His throat tightened. There was nothing; he was stuck, yet the tendrils continued to drag him down, deeper and deeper, his breaths quickened, he was panicking, fidgeting against his bonds. It was too much, he was growing increasingly fatigued, he needed to escape, he-

“Daddy?”

Ren’s confused voice rang out, and Takuto quickly lost consciousness, his vision turning black.

---

“-he the next patient?” a voice rang out from the fringes of his consciousness, so familiar to his ears. His eyelids were heavy. Takuto wanted to sleep.

“Yes, Dr Am-” another voice accompanied the stranger. His mouth was dry. He felt sick.

“-ki, Takuto,” the first voice chuckled, Takuto dragging himself from his uncomfortable slumber, wincing in pain at the bright light that assaulted his vision.

“Who... who are-?”

Takuto jolted awake in alarm. The voice... was Ren, the grey eyes of his son looking at him, tired and heavy. His hair was slicked back neatly, his outfit a white, spotless suit, his shirt collar propped neatly around his neck. “Where am I?”

“You’re in good hands, Mr Maruki,” Ren smiled at him. It unnerved Takuto; Ren’s eyes shimmering yet empty, the curl of his lips rehearsed and forced, his voice too calm for the situation they both found themselves in, “Don’t worry. Soon your troubles will all disappear,”

Ren’s words did nothing to soothe Takuto. He looked down to where he currently sat, a white throne under him. Takuto paled.

“Patient seems to be distressed due to the loss of his son,” Ren spoke, snapping his fingers to the same featureless nurse from before, who then handed him a clipboard, “unforeseen circumstances; it seemed that the little one had died during a failed robbery-”

Ren fiddled his hair in thought, tucking a stray strand  behind his ear before continuing, “Patient seems to be in great psychological pain. Advisory procedure includes amnesia brought upon by actual-”

“Ren, please don’t,” Takuto cried, shaking his head furiously, “Please stop this madness, you’re making a-”

“Nurse, please make sure our patient here is secure!” Ren ordered the cognition, it nodded its head before lunging towards Takuto, its limbs sprouting from its form before pinning Takuto on the throne.

“Please, Mr Maruki,” Ren begged the thrashing Takuto, “Just calm down. I don’t want to cause you any more distress, the redhead was already enough trouble to treat,”

“Ren wait plea-”

A snap of his fingers. The entire amphitheatre rumbled violently, a great figure rose from behind Ren’s determined form, its golden skin and green eyes glowing in the light. Takuto sat there petrified, his mouth hung agape, his body quaked in fear, eyes wide as his forehead perspired with sweat, his mouth dry, his heart thumped with sickening speed, only able to hear it thrash in his chest as he gazed up upon the Persona who stared back at him with its unmoving face.

“Adam Kadmon,” Ren uttered his name, “You know what to do,”

A click of his gloved fingers, and Takuto’s vision was once more engulfed into black. ---

His brown eyes flickered open once more. Takuto rested his head on the featureless floor. He was back to where he started, the weird ethereal voice that Joker- no- his son had sent him to face the trial he so desperately wanted Takuto to endure. He wanted to go home, he wanted this madness to stop; he rose from the blackness, seeing that he was now palming wood, the walls surrounded him painted black while fluorescent light hung above his head.

“Was this...” he mumbled, yet the clicking of familiar heels made him snap to attention, hastily scrambling up to his feet, the shadow of his son walking towards him with hands in his pockets, golden eyes transfixed intently, emerging from the shadows of the empty room, him using his will upon the Palace they were currently in to convey his dramatic aura with persistent intimidation.

“Did you have fun, father?” Joker seethed, tongue rolling with each syllable as if the words were bitter to the taste. He looked pleased with himself, claiming his victory over his father, looking down at him with scorn, yet Takuto could see the agony that brewed in him by the quiver of his bottom lip, “I sure did, watching you flounder like that,”

“Was all of that how you truly felt?” Takuto meekly asked, watching how Joker swaggered towards him, avoiding the rhetorical inquiry from the shadow, “Everything I put you through... did you suffer that much?”

Takuto didn’t like how the corners of Joker’s mouth tugged higher, how his smile grew wider, thinner, his golden irises quivering in delight, how the white in his engulfed everything. Joker said nothing, his strides widening, Takuto’s feet firmly planted onto the floor.

“I-”

“The things I had to endure,” Joker roared, his expression unmoving yet his voice quaked with rage ill-fitting of the mask he wore, “The fights between my adopted parents, the stares and whispers I’d get from my classmates, the anguish I had to endure once I remembered. I kept-”

Joker’s facade slightly cracked, lines on his face, as if it were porcelain.

“I had nightmares” he cried, voice breaking, yet he betrayed no tears, “Nightmares from that day, seeing things that I couldn’t explain, seeing her dead, the blood... I always woke up in a cold sweat, never remembering why I was crying, I-”

Joker inched his face closer to Takuto’s with each word, stretching himself further upward, standing on the soles of his boots. What he didn’t expect from his rant was the arms that wrapped around him, the shadow pulled from his taunt into a comforting embrace, Takuto’s hand snaked to comb the strands of his unruly hair. Joker’s expression transitioned one from hate into befuddlement, feeling something hot drip down onto his grand, black coat.

“I’m sorry,” Takuto choked, bringing him in closer, undeterred by the mask poking painfully in his neck, “I’m sorry,” he repeated, grasping his son’s hair, palming it with long, tender strokes, “I couldn’t bear to look at you, you didn’t move, didn’t speak, I wanted you to get better, I thought-”

Takuto swallowed the bile that rose from his throat. He felt Joker’s body in his arms slump slightly, his head resting on his shoulder, “I’m sorry,”

The shadow said nothing, merely allowing himself to be held, his body limp, small heaves escaped from his throat every so often.

“Please, let us help you, Ren-”

The shadow snapped to attention, a hand around the scruff of Takuto’s jacket collar, tearing him away from the embrace they were locked in. In his shock, Takuto tried to escape from the grasp of the invisible assailant, only able to by slipping from the article of clothing, stumbling forward and running back to the hunched shadow, Joker’s gloved hands hiding his face. Yet as he got closer something stopped his advance; he collided into something, hard, yelping in agony as he clutched his nose, blinking to see that there was nothing in between them.

“You don’t get it, do you?” the shadow laughed while Takuto pressed his hands at the unseen barrier between them, the sound hollow, no joy in his words, “None of you do,”

The sound of trickling water filled the room, red swirled below Joker’s boots, Takuto confused and scared at the sight before him. It was like... It was like... “I’m going to make everything better,” Joker continued, peaking through the gap of his splayed hand on his face, “Heaven is nothing but a lie; I’m going to make a place where desires can truly be realised,”

“Ren, you don’t have to do this! Please,” Takuto begged, the red liquid rising rapidly up towards Joker’s hunched body, the shadow glaring at Takuto’s fearful form, “You’re making a mistake, Ren, don’t make the same mistake I did,”

“Of course I won’t,” Joker smiled as he stood up straight, the waters still rising, his facade perfect yet again, the calm on his face appearing so sudden that it terrified Takuto how easily Joker was able to slip back into calm, “I know a way to make them obey, all of them,”

“Is it true? Are you using-” the water was now up to his waist, Joker unfazed by the liquid slowly drowning him.

“A trickster never reveals his tricks,” Joker laughed, licking his lips while he watched Takuto squirm, “Not like I’ll tell you... any of you. You’ll just make everything more complicated, you’ll ruin all my plans, and the worst thing is the realisation that none of you care,”

“You’re destroying yourself in the process,” Takuto begged, his hands pressing against the glass, “Your friends have told me everything, each day your mental state is decaying further, this place is collapsing in upon itself. You’re losing yourself, Ren-”

“DON’T CALL ME BY THAT NAME,” Joker screeched, banging two of his fists onto the invisible barrier between them, Takuto clumsily stumbling back with shock, “I am not Ren, I’m not him, I am better, HIS better!” the red was now at his neck, the room shaking with invisible fury, “I will never go back to being him, Maruki, and you should realise that by now,”

“Ren-”

But it was too late, the shadow fully submerged in the red liquid, seemingly gone. Panic engulfed Takuto, him now thumping against the glass with his hands rolled into fists, desperate to save his son from the other side, “Ren!” he called out to no avail, continuing to pound against the barrier before him.

A subtle crack, and then another, then another. Takuto heard the trickling of water before he saw it, red liquid now bursting through the dam separating him and his son, the cascade of water spilling out like dominoes, and it wasn’t long for the barrier to completely break, the red torrent sweeping everything in his path up in its tide, taking Takuto with it.

---

A low rumble came from behind the theatre door, the thieves emerging from another one of Joker’s trials pitted against them, it swung from its hinges with Takuto being thrown outside of the room. He landed with an ‘oomph’ onto the carpeted floor, the group running towards him in shock and worry, though they could barely see a visible scratch on him.

“Maruki-san!” Sumire was the first to rush to his aid, kneeling next to the dazed brunette, blue flames dissipating her mask while her hands glowing with the familiar green of Diarahan, “Are you okay, are you hurt, what happened?”

“I’ll, I’ll be fine,” Takuto assured her gently dismissing her, trying hard to amass the strength to stand up on his own two feet, “I just... I just need a moment,”

“You don’t look fine,” Haru pointed out softly, “Are you sure you don’t need to rest? You look like you’ve been through a lot,”

“If it’s anything like the trials we have to endure, I’m surprised he came out unscathed,” Yusuke mumbled out loud, “Though then again, Ren is his son...”

“I didn’t do anything too taxing, haha,” Takuto weakly laughed, giving the thieves an unconvincing, weak smile, “It was... it was...”

His smile faded, his facade melted, looking down at the faded carpet below him, “I... I didn’t realise fully the pain I put him through,” he said, almost whispering, “He was suffering all that time. It’s my fault-”

“It isn’t your fault though,” Ann said earning perplexed looks from the thieves and an unamused glare from Goro, “I- I mean, it’s not just you who’s at fault here, Dr. Maruki,” she clarified, “I think we each all have something to do with making Ren’s Palace appear. We’re at fault too,”

“Yeah, it’s not like you were doin’ it for bad purposes too,” Ryuji interjected, “I mean, you did what you thought was right, right?”

“All of you are too forgiving,” Goro muttered.

Without warning the Palace started to quake, everyone thrown off from their feet as the walls started to shake, the chandeliers suspended above their heads rattling amongst the thundering rumble that consumed the premises.

“W-Why is the Palace acting up now?!” Morgana squeaked before falling onto his back, the others struggling to keep their balance, “I thought-”

“Ren’s not looking too good!” Futaba squeaked, fiddling and adjusting her headset as she looked over the information displayed by her Persona, “His vitals are falling fast!”

But Takuto didn’t pay attention to the panicked chatter of the thieves, looking down at his hands, mortified how the dull colour of the red carpet below his hands faded even further into a rotten brown. Lights flickered around him from above. It was a nightmare, the cognitive patrons screaming. He felt something small and dust-like trickle against his back.

The quake went as sudden as it came, the roar fading into deathly silent once more. Takuto peaked out from under his huddled hands that shielded him from above, eyes darting from side to side in a panic.

“W-what happened?” he asked the thieves who were trying to regain their footing, though he already suspected the answer.

“Ren’s getting worse,” Makoto answered his rhetorical question, and Takuto’s face flushed with dread. She looked at him, her eyes sympathetic behind her mask, “You should get out of here, it isn’t safe for you,”

“You’re... you’re right,” he sighed defeated, aware that if he had accompanied further than necessary, he would be nothing but dead weight. He didn’t have a Persona, no way to support the rest of the group within or outside of battles, sure to get in their way. He hung his head in defeat, carefully picking himself up from the floor, “Just... just make sure you do everything you can to save him... alright? He’s... he’s all I have left,”

The thieves nodded in response, yet their expressions conveyed the apprehensive outcome of their endeavour.

---

Ren said nothing, merely watched his shadow wandering throughout the grand space of the dressing room. His path was directionless, absent-mindedly walking in loops, circling the furniture, his stare unfocused and distant.

“Why?” was all Ren could ask, baffled by his own shadow, “Why do you keep lashing out?”

“He deserved it,” Joker reasoned, continuing his purposeless pace, the other cognitions that normally served him purposely out of sight, “They all do, Ren, why don’t you see that?”

“They don’t, they don’t, Joker,” Ren said, and Joker laughed bitterly, “You’re hurting them. You’re hurting the people I- we-”

“Did WE deserve what happened to us!?” Joker snapped at Ren, turning to him, venom in his expression, “Did WE deserve to forget Mom? To get carted off to someone else just like property, to have to endure our adopted parents and their wrath to only be thrown by the wayside, to have our father, LIE to us, to be USED by him for his actualization? DID we!? DID WE?!”

“Joke-”

“HE ABANDONED US!” Joker shrieked; the walls of the Palace quaked around him. His golden eyes welled with tears, pulsating with anguish and bitterness, “HE USED US AS A- A- A SICK GUINEA PIG! I am SICK of being used as a- as a- a- an OBJECT! Like I’m NOTHING!”

“Joker-”

“Stop denying that you feel this way,” the shadow squeaked, his red fingers intertwined in his black, dishevelled locks, “Stop it! It’s hopeless, Ren, you know that deep inside you don’t want to understand, you don’t want to forgive. That bastard-” another sob escaped from his throat, Joker choking on his tears and disgust, a familiar swell of power coursing through his being. Another shaky sigh. He could feel Ren finally coming to his senses, his lips curling upwards from the corners of his mouth, yet he barely felt any joy as he continued, “He’ll soon pay. They’ll all soon pay, and I’ll make sure that they’ll regret what they did to us.”

---

“Are you sure there’s nothing you can’t help with?”

Takuto looked at Sumire, she and Goro the only ones escorting Takuto onto the edges of the Palace’s domain. A weak, tired smile he wore as he shook his head, “I’ll be nothing but dead weight, Yoshizawa, and it looks like you all have everything under control,”

“At least we agree on something,” Goro hissed, arms crossed as he leaned his weight on one of his legs, “No Metaverse Powers or any standout physical strength. All you’ll be to us is a liability. Deadweight. A sitting duck-”

“I wonder why, Senpai,” Sumire pondered, “I mean, he should have his Persona at least, right?”

“I-”

“Regardless, I hope that I was able to help in some way,” Takuto interjected, tearing Sumire and Goro from their pondering, “But please... please save Ren,”

“We’re doing everything we can, Maruki-san,” Sumire nodded, “And if there’s any way you can help we’ll tell you, right, Akechi-senpai?”

“Actually, there is a way in which Maruki can help,” Goro mused, as he looked at the bespectacled man, “There something I was wondering about Joker’s plans,”

“You have my attention,”

Goro turned to look at the theatre before them. A moment passed, before he gazed back into his brown eyes, “I want you to see if there’s anything suspicious going on in the outside world, any changes at all in the public cognition. If you do, contact Yoshizawa, and she’ll contact me, am I clear?”

“Why? Are you suggesting-”

“Just do it,” Goro snapped, and without another word he turned on his heel, making his way back to the Palace. With an apology and a quick bow, Sumire too left Takuto alone at the cusp of the ethereal realm.

He watched them leave, disappearing into the Palace in front of him. His eyes trailed upwards. Towards the top floor of the accursed building, to where Ren was held against his own will by his own distorted thoughts.

“Hold on a little longer, Ren,” he croaked under his breath, unwilling to leave as he blinked the tears away from his welling eyes, “Just hold on a little longer, please.”

[dracwife]

gods & monsters

ship: gods & monsters → Erik/Adonis

word count: 1472

summary: Adonis find himself entranced by Erik's touch after a particularly exhausting performance.

tw for suggestive content! not explicit but definitely suggestive.

“Ah, brava, brava! You were wonderful tonight!” a crowd of people and voices surrounded him in praise and shoved congratulations at him in the form of material gifts. Here or there he would accept the flowers tossed at him, or collect the bottles of wine and champagne forced into his arms by the wealthier fans and attendees.

It was a difficult task, getting to his dressing room. After finally getting the door shut, and quickly locking it, he sighed. The flowers were set aside and the alcohol stacked yet again in a quickly-filling corner. He sat at his vanity, and began wiping away the makeup and face paint plastered onto him before this night's performance.

“Adonis! Adonis!” he could hear his name called beyond the doors.

“Adonis, my darling Adonis,” a familiar haunting voice joined the chorus of noise, though it stood out fiercely against the grain.

The young acteur's head perked up at the sound, and it wasn't long before the ever-familiar figure of his lover was behind him, he could see in the mirror.

“You were stunning tonight, really,” a bouquet of roses was promptly presented to him, and was quickly accepted.

“You are too kind to me,” the flowers were set aside from the rest, in a vase atop his vanity. It was reserved exclusively for meaningful gifts.

“Not nearly enough.”

There was another bout of shouting, pleading outside for the singer to make an appearance, and the two lovers glanced at the door before meeting each other's gazes again.

“I do love performing, but I cannot stand the aftermath.”

“A sacrifice you must make.”

“A poor one, at that. Take me away from here, please, I need peace and quiet, I'm dreadfully tired.”

“Of course, my Darling Angel,” Erik extended a hand, which Adonis took before the two set off, the taller of the two leading them both through a passage hidden behind one of the two wardrobes. Through his time at the theater, and his time with Erik, Adonis had learned many of the hidden passageways that littered the Opera House, this particular one leading to the river below wherein which Erik lived.

Before long, they were comfortably relaxing in the dungeon Erik called home.

Adonis took his usual seat on the bed, stretching out before laying back, sinking into the soft feathers of the duvet.

His eyes fluttered shut, and he took a deep breath, exhaling the last of his anxieties; the sound seemed to echo off the walls of the quiet, come to be calming, room.

After a small bout of silence, Adonis sat up rather lazily, shifting his weight, his breathing rather short. He stood, and began to tug his shirt over his head, Erik glancing over once, twice, from where he stood organizing various scattered pieces of sheet music, letting his eyes linger on his partner's abdomen, mind wandering a million places before he shook the sins away, slowly making his way towards the singer.

“Do you mind --” he turned, shirt now nearly pulled over his head.

“Of course not,” the Phantom began unlacing the corset that bound Adonis’ chest so tightly, the sharp snaps of the plastic and wire bones against the cool feeling of Erik's gloved hands sent shivers down his spine, the feeling of leather and lace constricting him more than the corset ever could, Adonis nearly choking on the sensation, his mind running wild, playful, seductive, yet controlled - perhaps for more than his own good, deriving from a depraved fantasy not even his darling ghost knew of - the mere thoughts he conjured excited the young performer nonetheless.

Erik must have picked up on Adonis’ swift change of mood, for moments after tearing away his boyfriend's binder, his hands traced along the soft, warming skin of Adonis’ back, and down his spine with deft fingers rounding along his waist, resting then against his stomach and pulling him close to in an intimate embrace known too well to them both.

Adonis let out a shaky breath, Erik's head dipping towards his neck as he began to place kisses along the soft skin there.

Adonis sighed, his hand reaching back to tangle itself into Erik's hair, whose name he murmured as he tilted his head away, allowing much easier access to his neck, shoulder, and collarbone.

Erik did not hesitate, trailing his affections downward, biting down lightly at certain points, others not as gentle, leaving faint marks in their wake. He felt his young lover pull at his hair, gently at first, then more forcefully as he leaned back into the embrace.

Erik's hands travelled upwards, resting now against Adonis’ abdomen, who writhed at the feeling of the thick, cold leather gloves against his skin, the fabric of his shirt pulled upwards again, the cold night's air brushing his body and in return he gasped, moaning softly.

Erik's breath hitched, for he too found pleasure in the sensation of his beloved so far gone at the work of his own hands, which now travelled further upwards, his hands replacing his mouth at Adonis’ neck - the thoughts from earlier flooded back to him at once. He placed a kiss along Adonis’ jaw, then another, once more - oh, the things he could do to his lover; he wished to hear him moan, beg and plead and pant his name and only his name, he thought of earlier and the crowds so eager to get their hands on his Darling Angel. His angel - Erik tightened his grip - and no one else's. He could ruin the man before him, and there would be no one to stop him. How desperately he craved the intimacy, the attention, the power, his breath sped and he let out a low growl affirming that Adonis was his.

It was then that Adonis let out a hoarse groan, a whimper, and then he let his hand fall from Erik's hair, ripping the musician from his shameful, wicked thoughts and throwing him into the depths of repentance. He felt sick, realizing the things he had suggested to himself, he was but a lowly creature gnawing at the scraps of affection tossed his way in pity, surely, by the ever talented artist he held in his arms in that moment. He did not deserve love. He was a disgusting, ugly, horrible thing, and he should have been left to rot in the dungeon he lived in, away from the world and all its peoples. A monster, incapable of love or compassion. He tore his hands from Adonis’ neck, who spun around panting, desperate for any sort of contact.

Erik's breath had not slowed, and he met the eyes of Adonis; who had sent him this angel? He did not deserve it, he did not deserve someone so pure and beautiful when he himself had clawed his way from the depths of hell and lived in darkness the entirety of his life. Before he found comfort in music, now he found it in the arms of his lover, and only now did he question why this was so, how it was possible. Surely it was a cruel, sick joke.

Adonis recognized the familiar bout of sorrow Erik's face wore and took a deep breath, calming himself before he then took Erik's face into his hands, brushing away first the few strands of stray hair that draped themselves across his forehead, then he moved to the mask hiding Erik's face.

“What troubles you?” his fingers brushed the edge of the hard porcelain, but Erik quickly raised a hand of his own, holding the mask to his face.

Adonis placed his hand over Erik's before moving them both gently away, then reached back to remove the mask. How he hated the damned thing, but he also understood Erik's emotional attachment to it.

Once it too was gone, he leaned forward, into a slow, soft kiss that Erik turned from at first, then once realizing his Angel had long ago admitted his love, and not for a second shunned from his deformity - accompanied by a collection now of years old scars, some self-inflicted, others inflicted upon him as a child - he turned towards Adonis and kissed him eagerly in return.

“I am very tired,” Adonis mumbled, “Will you lay with me?”

“Of course,” Erik took the mask from Adonis’ hands and looked down at it for a moment before turning towards the bed and sitting on the edge.

The younger of the two returned to his spot from earlier, resting comfortably in the familiar mass of pillows and covers. Erik stretched out next to him, the mask placed gently on the pillows beside them, and hugged his lover close.

“I love you,” Erik heard the soft voice, muffled from Adonis’ nuzzling into him.

His heart fluttered, and he pulled his Angel closer. How blessed he truly was.

[new-endings]

The Nice and Accurate Guide to Courting

Chapter Summary: In which Crowley tries his hand in poetry and Aziraphale is swept off his feet (literally) 

Ch1, Ch2, Ch3; ao3

It wasn’t that Aziraphale disliked his former mentor. It wasn’t that at all. He respected Gabriel as a trainer, a warrior, and to an extent, a leader. The Archangel had taken his less-than-adequate swordsmanship as a young trainee and with…questionable methods, primed him to become a Principality with his own platoon.

“Aziraphale!” a voiced boomed out from the lobby, causing the rest of the patrons to scurry to the auditorium.

That being said, he still found the Archangel all sorts of terrifying.

Aziraphale stilled and felt an oncoming dread creep into the very marrow of his bones. “Oh bugger,” he almost whimpered, preparing to cake on a delighted façade. He turned, facing the handsome, immaculately dressed Archangel with a tentative grin. “Gabriel! How nice to see you again—” only to be drawn into a rough handshake and given a rougher clap on the back.

It wasn’t that Aziraphale disliked his former mentor.

It was just that Gabriel had always been too much.

“It certainly has been a while, hasn’t it? Good thing too—Sandalphon couldn’t make it and though I definitely have no qualms about seeing the musical myself, I’m glad to have run into you!” He beamed cordially, a stark contrast to the iron grip he currently had on Aziraphale’s aching shoulder. Violet eyes widened as he took in his former subordinate. “By the Queen herself—look at you!” A frown marred his face and Gabriel shook his head in displeasure. “Our time apart has not been kind to you, sunshine.”

Aziraphale let out a nervous laugh, hands drawing together behind him in a practiced, self-soothing manner. “I-is that so? Things have been all right on my end,” he offered hesitantly before his peripheral view caught sight of a redhead with a deep-set scowl. “Oh, err—where are my manners…” He stepped aside, hoping, wishing, praying that Crowley would at least make a single effort to mingle this time. “Prince Crowley has been—ah, looking forward to this…” He stumbled for the words, “…fine production.”

“Our theater’s best!” Gabriel boasted with pride, extending an arm. “And my personal favorite.” He gave a tight handshake as the prince reluctantly reached back, making Crowley wince with more annoyance than pain. “Good to formally meet you, Prince Crow, I’m sure our Kingdom’s been treating you well.”

“That’s Crowley,” the prince corrected with narrowed eyes, lips tugged downwards. “And sure. No complaints so far.” Somehow, his scowl deepened. “Gabe.”

Aziraphale felt his dread multiply malignantly.

Oh dear…this would not do. This would not do at all.

Thankfully, Gabriel was unruffled by the retort. “Excellent!” He turned, placing his hand back on Aziraphale and startling the Principality out of his anxieties, “Say, Azi—why don’t you and your friend join me this evening! Catch up on good times!” while making room for new ones.

(Meanwhile Crowley absolutely bristled at the unbidden contact between the two. Also, “Azi—?!”)

“We’d be happy to join you Gabriel,” Aziraphale replied brightly, with a nervous energy and wide, pleading eyes that begged the prince, Please. Play nice. “Isn’t that right, Prince Crowley?”

Begrudgingly, Crowley would.

“Good! You rarely disappoint, sunshine.”

If this damned chicken would let go of his mate.

As if sensing Crowley’s mounting irritation, those violet eyes landed on the prince with faux civility. “Oh, where are my manners—Azi and I used to go way back!” And yes, Crowley did know, and Crowley also knew that he didn’t like the slimy look in the Archangel’s eyes. “He used to be my Principality, you know.”

“Oh, I’ve heard,” Crowley replied evenly, though he was seconds away from grinding his teeth.  

But then that look was gone, making Crowley wonder if that eerie gleam was actually there to begin with. “My little passion-project,” Gabriel declared with an infuriating tone of arrogance. “Turned this powderpuff into a lean, mean fighting machine!”

The Angel beside him nodded hesitantly. “Erm, uh, yes. Good times.” Crowley frowned at the evident unease Aziraphale was exhibiting.

But then Gabriel started opening his blasted mouth again and Crowley swore he’d rip the Archangel’s arm off if he kept pulling at his mate like that. “And you know, Azi, it breaks my heart to see you getting all—soft,” he said, pouting as he gestured to the Angel’s entirety. “All our training, all that blood, sweat, and tears— gone to waste!”

There was a wounded look on Aziraphale’s face. “Well, I…” And Crowley immediately wanted to take that look away, whatever it took.  

Including disposing of the damned chicken continuing to cluck about. “I know it’s a time of peace and prosperity for our Kingdom now, a time of indulgence in life’s simpler pleasures…” He gave pause, sending a pointed look to Aziraphale’s rounded middle. “But that’s no excuse to overdo it, right?”

“There’s hardly anything wrong with enjoying oneself,” Crowley defended, stepping in between the two. Like hell he was letting that smarmy prick trail his disgusting eyes over his Angel’s perfectly plump form.  

And had Crowley not been distracted with fuming rage, he might have noticed the flash of malevolent delight glinting in the Archangel’s smile. “Quite right, Prince,” he amended, yet made no further attempts at apology. “I suppose I just have a hard time letting go. Decades of fighting in the frontlines will do that to you, isn’t that right, Azi?” But before the Principality could reply, the Archangel gave a hapless shrug and a casual glance at Crowley. “But of course, when one’s born with a silver spoon in his mouth—”  

Crowley could practically feel the desperation behind his placating voice as the Principality spoke, stepping out from behind him. “But we’re here now, out on this—lovely night to enjoy ourselves! So, why don’t we carry on and do just that?” He gave a pleading look to the both of them and Crowley could barely keep himself from calling the night off altogether, Aziraphale’s hard work and planning be damned.

Because even if Crowley didn’t find himself stupidly head-over-ass for his Angel, there was no way in all the Kingdoms of Heaven and Hell he’d be tying the knot with this disgrace of a chicken.

Especially not with how said chicken drew his mate into a discomfiting half-embrace. “Hah! That’s what I like about you, Azi. Forever an optimist.” Crowley was nearly hissing at the way Aziraphale flinched under the Archangel’s attention. It was still unclear whether the Archangel took any notice or if he simply chose to ignore it all. “And I do see your point. Never thought I’d be here, enjoying one of my favorite productions with one of Hell’s royalty.” And then that jovial demeanor was gone, snuffed out like a light. “And one of my own, currently…servicing him.”

This time, Crowley didn’t miss the implication. “Assigned to me by the Queen herself, by my stroke of fortune.” He held his gaze steadily to the Archangel’s, daring him to comment any further. “No doubt She gave me her very best.”

Gabriel’s smile widened but it held no warmth. “Is that so?” He gave a cold chuckle, slipping on the mask of pleasantries once more. “Excellent to hear!” Another rough clap to Aziraphale’s back and the tension dissipated for at a moment as the Archangel drew away and walked towards the auditorium. “Keep up the good work, Azi—you’re doing your Kingdom proud. Now let’s get to our seats, shall we?”

Crowley had half a mind (okay, perhaps almost 9/10ths of a mind) to take the by the Angel arm and leave dear old Gabe there alone with his showtunes, but from one, imploring look on Aziraphale’s face for him to Please, please at least give it a chance, the prince relented in his escape.

Crowley, decidedly, did not torch the whole place down, Archangel and all, while leaving off into the night with his Angel in tow.

Damn.

.

It went…

No bad. But not good.

Crowley never particularly understood why box seats were among the favorites of the rich and elite when it offered such a poor view, but if he had to garner a guess, it probably had more to do with the social aspect rather than the practical one. It was just his luck he had little interest in the show, otherwise he would have ended up with a crick in his neck by the end of it. No, instead Crowley was preoccupied with his thoughts—something he’d spent many an hour ruminating upon as of late.

Thoughts of how to wriggle out of this inconvenient marriage business, thoughts on how to get his bloody Angel to recognize damn, fine courting when he sees one, and after tonight, thoughts on how to seek petty vengeance on a loudmouthed chicken.

And sure, he might have spent the majority (all) of the time present (like hell he was leaving Aziraphale alone with the likes of him), but he’d be damned if he made any efforts to be attentive to anything Gabriel had to say. Thankfully, Gabriel was too focused on the production, the earworm-inducing music, and—though he’d deny it and rain Holy Water and Sacred Fire on those who would vouch on it—singing along to the scores.

Aziraphale was, unfortunately and quite literally, trapped between the two. A glance to his right found his former mentor in rapt attention to the stage below, unearthing…rather unsavory memories of many nights similar he spent under the Archangel’s tutelage. A look to his left found Crowley, quiet and emphatically not enjoying himself.

The Principality gave a sigh at the tense and brooding look on Crowley’s face and a twang of sympathy reverberated in his heart. Poor dear. He must be losing hope… First Uriel, and now Gabriel? Slim pickings indeed… Still, they can’t give up hope now! ...Even if it does all seem so hopeless.

At the very least, he can offer Crowley some comfort.

Tentatively, he reached over to where the prince’s hand gripped the armrest and covered it with his own. He gave a reassuring squeeze and a small smile as Crowley turned to his side questioningly.

And unbeknownst to him, making Cowley damn-near combust on the spot.

There was perhaps one, awkward moment where it completely slipped Aziraphale’s mind that he could have and very well should have removed his hand at any second now, and one, tense moment where Crowley almost felt brave enough to turn over his palm so he could entwine his fingers with his Angel’s—

But then Gabriel started bawling in pure joy at the scene below and the moment slipped from Crowley’s grasp as Aziraphale withdrew and turned away, his eyes suddenly trained to the dancing and swell of the orchestra below.

And Crowley remained, silently cursing and fuming in silence.

Maybe the place will go down in flames after all.

.

“Now wasn’t that just the finest piece of art you’ve ever feasted your eyes on!”

Aziraphale gave another practiced smile, absentminded and pacifying. “I suppose it was quite enjoyable, yes. Just like every other time I’ve seen it.”

And for once in Gabriel’s long history with Aziraphale, he finally commented on the doubt in his ex-subordinate’s tone. “Yes, well…you’ve always had different taste, eh?” That gave Aziraphale pause as Gabriel chattered on. “Still sticking your nose in those tomes? Getting lost in fairytales and the like?” He gave another booming laugh. “You and your quirky little hobbies! I’ve always told you they’d go straight to your head—and now they’ve gone straight to your stomach!”

He gave a self-satisfied chuckle at his wordplay while Aziraphale had to physically restrain Crowley from getting himself eviscerated by an Archangel.

Then, as though sudden inspiration struck down from the higher heavens themselves, “Say, instead of just lazing about, why don’t you two join me for a little training session some time? That ought to get your blood pumping!”

“Oh, there will be blood—” Crowley growled out while Aziraphale sank his manicured nails into the prince’s arm in warning.

Crowley did not yelp. Such a reaction was absolutely beneath him. Even if his Angel left marks.

Aziraphale gave a wide, harried smile. “Ah! You know, that’s a good idea—always good to try something new, a break from the old routine! But I, err, certainly don’t want intrude upon your time with Prince Crowley—”

The Angel thoroughly ignored the noise of immediate protest from said prince. Sorry, Crowley. You’re on your own with this one.

Hopefully he’d forgive Aziraphale of his imminent betrayal.

Gabriel was undeterred, a charming, intimidating grin breaking across his face. “It’s not a problem on my end, sunshine! In fact, I’d love it if you’d join in. Besides,” he leaned in, smile somehow more hostile than before. “You really ought to lose the gut,” And then the smile was gone, wiped clean off along with the bright, jovial veneer. There was nothing but with sheer displeasure in those cold, violet eyes. “It’s unbecoming of a warrior trained by my hand.”

Aziraphale gave a hard swallow, an echo of a different time burning in his memory. This was not guilt. Guilt was the acrid bite one tasted at the back of their tongues when they did something wrong. This hit like the nausea of shame. He was what was wrong.1

Gabriel, content to disregard the split-second slip in his spirited, genial mask, continued with blithe encouragement. “Aw, come on! It’ll be just like old times! What d’ya say, sunshine?” And with that, he gave a painful playful punch to Aziraphale’s shoulder, drawing a pained whine from him—

And at that, Crowley snapped.

He was quick to pull Aziraphale away, putting distance and himself between his Angel and Gabriel. His blood boiled in his veins, judgment quickly clouding with fury. A part of him knew that he wouldn’t fare well in an actual clash against an Archangel, but he’ll be damned if he allowed anyone to treat Aziraphale like that. If he had been a lesser Demon, he would have gone for the Archangel’s throat for touching his mate alone.

But the snarl he let out was already enough to get the Archangel to back down.

Infuriatingly unruffled as always, Gabriel just grinned, an eerie glow of self-satisfaction in his eyes as he made a gesture of surrender. “Alrighty then. Maybe I’ll catch you two some other time.”

.

Aziraphale was—rightly—furious. “What was that?!”

“That was me being pissed right off, that’s what.” But for all Aziraphale’s ire, he still made no efforts of removing the Demon attached to his arm.

The Angel took a deep, calming breathing; it wouldn’t do him any good to raise his voice. Not when the coachmen were already sending them strange looks as they exited the theater, the prince looking ready to murder and clutching onto Aziraphale tightly. “Crowley, you had no right to—”

“He had no right to speak to you that way—” Crowley stifled a growl, tightening his hold. “Angel, was that what you had to put up with all this time?!”

Aziraphale hesitated and that was enough of an answer for Crowley. “Gabriel can be—abrasive and a bit boorish—”

“He’s a bleeding wanker is what he is—”

“And my former superior! An Archangel—Crowley, we can’t forget what we’re here for!” He felt the prince beside him stiffen, but that did little to appease Aziraphale’s panic and frustration. “You have to get along with at least one of them and we’re running out of options!”

Crowley stared him down in outrage. “I WOULDN’T CHOOSE THAT OBNOXIOUS CHICKEN IF THEY HAD ROASTED HIM IN HELLFIRE AND SERVED HIM WITH A SIDE OF CHIPS!”

“Bah!” Aziraphale had half a mind to shake the Demon off and cross his arms. Instead, he heaved a deep, bone-weary sigh. “You’re being impossible.” The other half was simply too exhausted to do anything but bicker.

Fortunately, Crowley didn’t seem to be in the mood to argue any longer on that matter. “He shouldn’t have touched you,” he murmured, head resting on the curve of Aziraphale’s shoulder, wisps of red locks tickling the Angel’s chin. “You didn’t like it and he knew.”

“He’s…” Always like that didn’t sound like a very good excuse. “Really not that bad,” Aziraphale ended mildly.  

Crowley snorted. “Really not that good, either.”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale started, but looking at the debilitated Demon beside him, felt a reluctant warmth starting to bloom. Right. Crowley nearly attacked an Archangel on his behalf. And here Aziraphale was, berating him. “I do thank you for trying to get me out of that…situation,” he said, softly, gently. “It was very…kind of you.”

“Ngk.” Well. Aziraphale held back a snort of laughter. That was an interesting noise. “Keep it to yourself. I have a reputation to uphold, after all.”

A rueful grin made its way to Aziraphale’s lips. “Right. Of being a nuisance?”

“The very best out there,” the prince crowed, grip loosening on Aziraphale’s arm. Oh good; he can almost feel the circulation returning. “Can’t have the rest of the Birds letting their guard down around me.”

“Oh, I can assure you. After tonight, that won’t be a problem,” Aziraphale muttered, rolling his eyes at the gleeful little chuckle that got out of Crowley. Word would likely spread of his actions tonight and while humor wasn’t Aziraphale’s preferred coping mechanism for the onslaught of disaster, if it made Crowley feel better, then he’d go along with it.

Aziraphale nodded patiently, needing to remind himself of Crowley’s position. While Crowley didn’t have the luxury of marrying out of love, it didn’t necessarily mean that he couldn’t fall in love with one of his set suitors. The process might be far more arduous given…certain personality differences, but there was still a fighting chance! And if the thought of tying his life to Gabriel was out of the question—

It was up to Michael, then.

Or Uriel if she was feeling particularly forgiving. Which was highly unlikely. So, Michael it was.

My, what a headache.

“You know, it’s been a rather long few weeks, hasn’t it?” Crowley gave a sleepy noise of assent, relaxing himself comfortably against the Angel. “The night might not have gone as…planned.” That earned him a snort from the prince beside him. “But I think things will be much better in the morning.”

Crowley made another soft noise of skepticism and Aziraphale decided to ignore it.

Instead, the Angel gave a hum of contentment, already picturing his cozy little reading nook and picking up where he left off from that small collection of novellas Crowley had gifted him earlier. “It’s good to get away from it all every once in a while, right? You know, a little rest and relaxation does the body an immense amount of good. Gabriel never saw the benefits of course, but—”

And unbeknownst to Aziraphale, that’s where Crowley stopped listening.

Crowley was usually more than content to let his Angel prattle on, his sweet voice lulling the prince’s frazzled senses and melting the day’s stresses away. While his Angel had his books and flickering firelight to settle down for during the night, Crowley preferred down-stuffed pillows, silk sheets, and pleasant dreams about cherubic cheeks and sea-storm eyes.

But, oh. That’s quite the idea.

A vacation?

That he can do.

.

It had become a regular occurrence to find something amiss in his room after Crowley was shortly introduced to his quarters. Even more so after Aziraphale regrettably acquiesced the prince to Come whenever you’d like.

Usually they were small, delightful surprises: fresh fruits and pastries, first editions of his most cherished poems and prose, and bouquets of his favorite flowers. Being a Guide to royalty certainly had their perks and Aziraphale could hardly let such lovely gifts of gratitude go unused and underappreciated.

Sometimes, they were more of Crowley’s clutter that the forgetful Demon had left behind after a nightcap, to which Aziraphale dutifully stowed away for safekeeping. That, or more of his feathers that Aziraphale outfitted to quills.

But this was the first time he’d found a letter, sitting innocuously by his desk.

“Oh? What’s this…” Aziraphale inspected the bruise-red of the wax seal, immediately recognizing the outlines of the royal serpent and its winged adversary locked into battle.

Crowley. Hardly surprising.

“How in Heaven does he manage to sneak in here every night…” he murmured, perhaps a bit more unconcerned than he ought to be at the thought of his nightly intruder. He turned the note over, finding Angel penned at the back. Obviously for him, then. Aziraphale broke the seal cleanly down the middle and unfurled the message inside.

It was written in Crowley’s elegant script and, to Aziraphale’s delight, appeared to contain a poem.

To the Angel I hold so dear

Where our two horizons begin,

My heart lays in wait for you here

 A kiss in rose, pleasure in white

A crown, a ring, a mark within

To the Angel I hold so dear

 Stars scatter athwart my night—

A heart’s fall, a lover’s flight,

My heart lays in wait for you here

 I lay in worship at your light

That psalms and hymns can only sing

To the Angel I hold so dear

 My soul rests at our haven’s height

Where lines of skies and earth shall thin,

My heart lays in wait for you here

 Detest not my grievous plight

That I should love with tender sin

To the Angel I hold so dear

My heart lays in wait for you here

 Aziraphale brought a hand to his lips, finding a smitten smile forming there against himself. “Ohhh…” It was…lovely. Aziraphale couldn’t help the quiver in his heart at the villanelle, the longing and ardor painted so beseechingly in its words. The pure exaltation for his dearest Angel Crowley was able to put into words was enough to make any Angel swoon—

Was this all part of Crowley’s practice in courting? Perhaps he wanted Aziraphale’s opinion on the matter? Sure, the stresses were off, a few syllables were miscounted and don’t quite line up, but it was honestly a rather sweet attempt.

Perhaps Crowley wanted to send this to assuage Aziraphale’s fears and anxieties—to let the Angel know that he was still taking his duties seriously. Still…why a villanelle? Sonnets were preferred by most Angels, though Aziraphale could hardly fault Crowley for his choice. The incentives to write in villanelle were to draw attention to a certain theme through its refrains. The repetition to enforce and enhance an idea, to highlight and emphasize an important…

Hm? Stormy eyes read through the stanzas again. “My heart lays in wait for you here…He’s waiting for his lover…he’s—waiting somewhere?” Aziraphale pulled out his chair and studied the note. “Oh, of course! Why else would he choose that refrain!” Aziraphale let out a pleased laugh. He’s disguising a designated meeting time and place in a love letter! How clever!

The Prince was an imaginative one, indeed!

A grin stole across Aziraphale’s face. He did love a good puzzle. “Let’s see…the first has the imagery of horizons… perhaps the sky? Is this referring to time? Where two horizons begin—oh! Sunset! And here again, the reference night and stars!”

Aziraphale was feeling quite giddy now. Brilliant! He had a time…now all he needed was a location.

“Let’s see…Where lines of skies and earth shall thin…” Aziraphale hummed. He couldn’t think of any place he took Crowley that contained anything like that. But… “Could he mean the cliffsides?” It certainly fit the description of where the sky and earth meet. The Angel scratched his head. “But where? A fall, a flight…it certainly would make sense. Perhaps the peak of the bluffs?”

A memory suddenly sparked in his mind.

A heart’s fall, a lover’s flight—the falls! Over at one of the cliff’s faces! Of course!

Aziraphale felt his insides flutter with anticipation. “This is rather exciting!” A code written in poem; a covert scheme designed for lovers—

It was all very romantic.

But one thought niggled at the back of his mind. What could Crowley need a ­fifth secret rendezvous point for? A recent memory of Crowley’s footmen bubbled in his mind and Aziraphale could only hope their other locations haven’t been compromised. He also hoped this lovely poem wasn’t just another step-down for Crowley and his paranoia. He’d been really worrying Aziraphale as of late…

Aziraphale still hadn’t worked out the entirety of the poem either. Especially the second, fourth, and final stanza, the one made out to Crowley’s Angel. Those seem entirely devoted to…well displaying devotion. In such a lovely way too…

The second stanza seemed to depict methods of ownership; the fourth, a statement of adoration; the final, an…apology. But for what? What aggrieved Crowley that he’d think his affections wouldn’t be accepted by the future Archangel he has his heart set on?

His chest tightened and a sliver of sadness snaked its way down his gut.

Maybe he can ask Crowley about its meaning later.

Turning the page over, a few verses written on the back gave Aziraphale pause before he broke out into another smile. “Oh, a limerick? How delightful!”

Or, at least it was. Until Aziraphale took a good, long gander at it.

 While your coy conduct enchants and enthralls me

I dream of revering and ruining your entirety—

To the Angel of my doomed desire

My body hungers in salacious fire

While I lay frustrated and unfulfilled in plea

 Aziraphale dropped the letter as if it burned. Well. It might as well have with the way the apple of each cheek flushed a lovely red, a hot rush of blood tingling underneath his skin. What in Hell—

Just who did Crowley intend to send this to?!

The Angel brought his hands to his face. That’s right. It was his moniker on the page, wasn’t it? Of course. This was Crowley, after all. Exasperation extraordinaire. Annoyance Aficionado. Prince of perturbance.

“That little—” He can imagine it now—Crowley throwing his head back in peals of laughter at the thought of Aziraphale blustering and blushing at the read of such lascivious imagery—

Oh no. Aziraphale will not be played for a sucker this time!

.

It had taken him an embarrassingly long amount of time to come up with that blasted poem and Crowley could only hope that—at the very least—Aziraphale enjoyed it. But if all were to go according to plan, Aziraphale would get the intended message of their now official, fifth rendezvous point.

The falls roared loudly in the distance, and Crowley drew himself up tighter. He had debated all into the earliest hours of dusk whether or not it had been a good idea to send the poem rather than a more… overt invitation to meet him at the borders of the capital, but something told Crowley that the fastest way to Aziraphale’s heart would be through some fanciful, written word.

Not through his stomach, apparently. He already tried that.

And if all were to go according to plan, not only would Aziraphale find this place, but he…might not even mind the fact that Crowley had essentially and humiliatingly bared his heart and soul to the blasted Bird that had captured both so effortlessly and entirely.

Even if the villanelle didn’t paint a vivid enough imagery, he was sure the limerick got his point across.

And if all were to go according to plan and Aziraphale didn’t run for the hills at the very thought of his charge professing his undying love and searing lust for him, then perhaps this little vacation had means of becoming so much more than just a proposal for rest and relaxation.

In fact, if Crowley got his way and if Aziraphale was enthusiastically amendable to it, there wouldn’t be a whole lot of resting to be had…

In his pleasant reverie, Crowley almost missed the flurry of white at the periphery of his vision. “Oh?” He turned, just as Aziraphale tucked away those lovely, snowy wings. A shy smile greeted him, and Crowley felt his heart and hopes soar. At the very least—Aziraphale wasn’t running for the hills. “Clever Bird—you made it!”

“Yes, well,” Gracious, his Angel looked lovely painted in streaks of setting suns. “It was quite clever of you to hide the coordinates in the guise of a poem.” He looked to Crowley with an air of admiration and— a crippling lack of adulation (or even abhorrence, Crowley could take that) and Crowley knew then and there the double entendre of his poem probably flew right over those cloud-fluff curls. “Well done,” he chirped, plopping down beside the prince.

Crowley, rather valiantly, tried not to be too stung by the crushing defeat. “Haha…yeah. In the guise of a—right.” There goes two hours of honest work.

Maybe next time I should just stick with I LOVE YOU, YOU DAFT, BLOODY BIRD.

“So why was it that you wanted to meet here of all places?” The Angel peered over at the falls, admiring the shimmer of droplets absorbing the melding colors of fire and settling dusk. Crowley, in turn, couldn’t help but admire the romantic glow that basked the Angel in colors of eventide. Still, Crowley couldn’t just go ahead and say something positively stupid like I always imagined taking your hand and asking you to run away with me by the setting of the sun, now could he? “And how did you know about this place to begin with?”

But that question, Crowley can safely answer. “Oh, just listening on strategy meetings and all. May not have participated, but the king loved his planning.” He gestured to beyond the edge. “This was regarded as one of the least-defended sectors of your capital. Not that I blame your lot— you’ve always had the advantage of the skies, whereas we had to make do with slithering on our bellies on the ground, furthest from God’s light.” He gave a bitter smile. “No, this place wouldn’t have been a good strategic point of invasion at all, not with the unforgiving seas below; the jagged rocks jutting out beneath the waves are a good deterrent, and the faces are too slippery after being molded by the waves for as long as they have.”

A tilt of his head and a question in his Angel’s voice: “What of it, Crowley?”

And Crowley, ever a flair for the dramatics, merely gave his darling, dearest Angel a smirk, “Well, let’s just say that it’s a good thing the war didn’t progress any more than it did. Because your lot definitely wouldn’t have seen this coming,” and a snap of his fingers.

.

Several things happened at once.

There was a sharp splash of something monstrously big cresting over the waves, a bellow of a mighty beast muting the rush of the falls. Then, a flood of winds suddenly halted as a mass of midnight-black scales, leathery wings, and razor-sharp claws blocked the stunning view of the sunset. And finally, golden, slitted eyes greeted Aziraphale’s vision, sending a none-too-friendly bolt of primordial fear racing down his spine.

Oh bugger.

But Aziraphale was first and foremost a warrior and, much to his chagrin, Gabriel did train him well. “CROWLEY!” He grabbed the prince, putting himself between him and the beast. “Get behind me—” And then the creature roared.

It was the stuff of horror and magic and after seeing all the individual pieces assembled neatly into the picture before him, Aziraphale couldn’t help but shudder at the beast gazing down at him. The beast being a bloody dragon with oh-so-sharp teeth and plumes of smoke ebbing from its nostrils, and ohhh Aziraphale did not like the low rumble it emitted from the back of its throat.

It sure beat the prospect of fire razing the lands from its gaping maw, however.

“Angel, Angel, wait!” But then panic truly flared when Crowley approached the beast with frantic cry of, “Woah, steady, steady!” before Aziraphale could grab him by the scruff of the neck and fly them far, far away from here.

But then the other pieces started to fall into place as well as he stood, frozen as Crowley ran up to the creature.

One particularly helpful piece of evidence being how the bloody dragon lowered its massive snout to receive a few pets and strokes from the prince as he spewed soothing croons and praises with practiced ease. “There, there…calm down.”

There was a thunderclap of realization and Aziraphale felt the oncoming of a very large, very painful headache. “Crowley, you idiot—!”

“She’s just—excited, that’s all!” he defended.

“She—”

Crowley gave a nervous laugh, arms ready to gesticulate a grand old introduction. “Angel, this is—”

May the Queen herself help him— “YOU HAVE A PET DRAGON?!”

The little bastard had the gall to grin at him. “Cute, innit? Her name’s Bentley!” In true, tamed fashion, the bloody dragon nosed the side of Crowley’s fire-red hair with a soft, affectionate snort. “Oh, don’t worry, she’s harmle—”

And in true untrained fashion, roared, mightily and proud, right at Aziraphale’s face.

Dragon breath and dragon spittle aside, Aziraphale was tired and teetering between sheer terror and exhaustion and somehow met in the middle with “decidedly unimpressed”; if he were to die by this idiot prince’s frivolity, then so be it. It would make for an interesting epitaph, after all. “My dear, that’s quite rude,” he chided; he deftly ignored the grumble of disbelief from the reptile. His ire was instead trained on the grinning serpent before him anyways. “Crowley, you can’t just bring a dragon to Heaven, we—”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, that’s why we’re not staying here.” He rounded to the dragon’s back where—oh dear Lord is that a saddle?! The prince gave an expectant look at him as he patted the leather. “C’mon—up you get!”

What.

Aziraphale blinked.

Then Aziraphale sputtered. “W-what?!”

“Yeah! Don’t worry, I trained her myself!” Which meant that this bloody dragon was little more than a glorified deathtrap. Crowley frowned, sensing Aziraphale’s lingering unease. “I said don’t worry.”

Aziraphale shot him a pointed look. “Your previous statement makes that quite impossible.”

Crowley gave a dramatic sigh, irritation ticking at his brow. “Fine. You can fly yourself to Old-End, then.”

For all Aziraphale’s intellect and vast vocabulary borne of collecting his books, poring over literature, and a lifelong dedication to the written word, one of his favorite playwrights did say that Brevity is the soul of wit. So, to sum Aziraphale’s current feelings with a hearty and shrill “What?!” seemed only appropriate. “Why are you going to Old-End?”

That was a cause for concern—even more than the bloody dragon.

The island sat at the very edge of their current maps, the furthest point where any Angel—or Demon for that matter—ever dared travel. Well…traveled and returned home to tell the tale, anyways. Beyond its shores, the seemingly infinite rest of the word was left unexplored behind a veil of endless seas and dense fogs. And, if legends were to be believed, if one was to venture far enough, they’d reach The Other Side, where sky meets the sea, the two becoming intertwined and inseparable.

To tack onto that, there were also innumerous tales of terrible monsters lurking in the depths of the skies and seas as well.

But Crowley didn’t seem deterred at all. “We,” he corrected and Aziraphale startled. Crowley sighed. “It was your suggestion!”

Aziraphale balked at the insinuation—since when did he opt into this?!

God help him, the Demon was pouting. “Didn’t you say you wanted a vacation?”

“I never said that!” he blurted. Sure…it might have been implied last night—and oh bugger— was this what it was all about? “Besides, it’s been abandoned for decades!" he countered. It was hardly a luxury resort fit for a prince and Aziraphale had every reason to be concerned. Old-End had small post before, but it’s been abandoned since the wars between Heaven and Hell began. After all, it was hardly wise to expend resources for exploration while the rest of the kingdom went up in flames.

“Not in those exact words,” Crowley admitted and, right, Aziraphale should really watch what he says in front of the prince from now on. “And that’s exactly why! C’mon, it’ll be great! No need to pack, I have everything we need.” Lest he pull another stunt like this one. “Just get on and we’ll—"

And Bentley let out an ear-splitting shriek.

It wasn’t the worst of Aziraphale’s fears being actualized. No, what occurred next was merely the penultimate of those horrors: of the massive, bloody dragon shaking the prince off her before propelling herself into the air, swooping down, and snatching the Angel before he could decide between ducking for cover or taking Crowley by the hand to safety.

In all honesty, he probably should have let Crowley fend for himself this time.

But then that would have been the worst of Aziraphale’s horrors coming to light.

Just like that—in a blink of an eye, a bat of a lash, a beat of a wing, and a howl into the winds, the dragon made off into the clouds, a shrieking Angel between her claws.  

For Crowley, it took him a moment to fully realize that one second ago, he was bickering with the love of his life (who was currently berating him on his choice of exotic pets and his choice of exotic vacation spots), and then the very next, said love of his life was being stolen away from him with a panicked cry of, “CROWLEEEEEEY!” echoing through the skies.

And it took perhaps a few more seconds for the sheer terror to set in at the very uncomfortable realization that there was really no way for him to ensure Aziraphale’s safe return from the hands of his rather spoilt and rather unruly dragon.

“BENTLEY,” he screamed off into the distance, the flapping figure growing smaller and smaller as they sped off into the horizon. “GET BACK HERE YOU USELESS REPTILE!”2

=-=-=-=

My Bonnie lies over the ocean

My Bonnie lies over the sea

My Bonnie lies over the ocean

Oh bring back my Bonnie to me

-=-=-=-=-

1 Atul Gawande’s Complications: A Surgeon’s Notes on an Imperfect Science: “This was not guilt: guilt is what you feel when you have done something wrong. What I felt was shame: I was what was wrong.”

2 This chapter was heavily inspired by How to Train Your Dragon, can you tell? Also, a smidge of Kingdom Hearts.

Also, that monstrosity of a villanelle was written by yours truly. And a special thank you to @valnine (on tumblr and ao3) for making sure it was sappy enough. And in my defense (even though I’m technically the one roasting it), villanelles have no set meter or syllable count. I’m looking at you Aziraphale—not everything has to be in a structured form!

[blackfen]

Prompts? Hmm, how about Sidon seeing Link’s Gerudo outfit for the first time?

Sidon is about to go major heart eyes (also, this one is 18 +)

-

Standing at the top of the stairs leading down to the shrine nestled underneath Father’s throne room, Sidon watched in silence as Link fiddled around with the Sheikah Slate for a moment then pushed it into its holster, finally raising his head to smile brightly up at him. Dashing up towards him, making little splashes in the water surrounding the shrine, Link signed, ‘Let’s go swimming!’

“What’re you wearing?” Sidon asked quietly, unable to tear his eyes away from Link’s outfit.

Link stopped, looking confused and glanced down at himself. Laughing sheepishly, a noticeable tinge of red dyeing his cheeks, he signed, ‘Gerudo Vai outfit. It’s the only way to get into Gerudo Town. They don’t let guys in so I have to wear this so they’ll think I’m a girl. I meant to change before I left but…guess I forgot.’

He was still for a moment then asked, ‘Does it bother you? I can change!’

Sidon blinked a couple times then bent down, gathered Link’s smaller body into his arms and quickly started off towards his bedroom, ignoring the confused look that Link gave him. Thankfully, his room wasn’t too far away. Slipping in, firmly closing the door behind him, he carried Link over to the makeshift bed, crafted out of pillows and blankets that Link had brought from outside the Domain, and set him down. Link still looked confused but there was a playful gleam shining in his bright blue eyes. Quirking a brow, he said nothing as Sidon gently placed a hand on his chest, pushing him down onto the cushions. Sidon climbed up, setting his knees on either side of Link’s hips, and straightened up so he could fully see his beautiful little pearl.

Clothes weren’t something he normally paid attention to. Zora didn’t wear them, there was no reason for them to. The fabric would become heavy and cumbersome in the water, and it wasn’t like there was anything they needed to cover up. He understood why the other races, with the exception of the Goron, wore clothes and never really gave the concept any thought. Clothes were normally an annoying barrier between his skin and Link’s, something he had to waste precious time getting off his pearl. While there were some outfits that he’d be happy to admit Link looked adorable in, there were none that had managed to get such an intense reaction out of him. It baffled him. His heart was racing. He could feel his lengths staring to stir inside him, the area in-between his legs becoming soft and wet in preparation for them to come out, and he hadn’t even been touched there yet. A familiar, dizzying heat swamped him. Dryness plagued his mouth and throat.

Swallowing hard, Sidon eyes roamed over Link’s body, following the curves and slopes of his hips, his thighs, chest and throat. The outfit revealed more of Link’s tanned skin than the usual armors he wore but there was still a considerable amount of fabric, including a veil that covered an irritating amount of his face. He didn’t get this at all. Just…in this outfit, Link looked so incredibly gorgeous. Not that he didn’t normally look gorgeous, this was just a completely different kind, one that Sidon was wholly unused to. It complimented his muscular body perfectly. The colors were an amazing contrast against his tanned skin. The deep blue of the sheer fabric made his eyes seem even bluer. He…he didn’t understand it at all but he could understand what kind of reaction he was having. 

‘Sidon?’ Link signed, reaching out to him with one small hand.

Taking his hand into his own, Sidon brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the scarred, calloused knuckles, “Can I?”

Link snorted, ‘I’ve been waiting for you to start for the past five minutes.’

“I don’t know if I can be gentle.” Sidon said after a moment’s pause, his hands already moving down to those billowy pants.

Another snort, followed by Link pointing down at his crotch. Sidon looked down to where he was pointing, an immense pang of heat reverberating out from his lower half at the sight of the very obvious erection pushing up from underneath the silky pants. Letting out a shaky breath, desperately scrambling to keep ahold of his self-control, Sidon glanced up to Link, a shiver racing down his spine at the flushed, needy expression on his face, who signed in slow, deliberate movements, ‘Fuck me.’

Ah. There went the last of his self-control. His slit easily, eagerly spread open with a wet sound, allowing his two throbbing, aching cocks to slip out. It had been a while since they’d come out on their own, with no help from Link or his own hand. Yanking his pants up just enough to expose his butt, Sidon slipped his hands underneath his knees, pushing his legs up until they dangled over his head. Breathing rapidly, he spread his plush, plump cheeks with one hand, revealing his cute, pink hole. He wanted to be inside him already but he wasn’t about to sacrifice properly prepping him. Pressing his tongue against his twitching hole, shuddering as the sweet taste of his skin filled his mouth, Sidon went as quickly as he dared, easily coaxing his tongue in. It quickly became obvious that he wasn’t the only one who desperately wanted this. Link’s hole was already so soft – it opened and spread eagerly, excitedly welcoming in his tongue.

“S-Sidon!” Link’s quiet voice pleaded, tugging insistently on one of his fins, “Pl-please!”

There was no way he could continue on with this with Link audibly begging him like that. Head swimming, feeling like he might melt from the heat burning inside him, Sidon slipped his tongue out of Link’s spasming hole, pulled him down until his back was resting on the cushions again and brought the head of one of his throbbing cocks to his entrance. Reaching up to push the veil away so he could better see his adorable pearl’s gorgeous flushed face, Sidon brushed the pad of his thumb over Link’s wet lips, and thrust forward, keeping his gaze firmly focused on Link as he cried out throatily, his hips bucking as Sidon’s cock slide in deep. Moaning raggedly as the tight, intense heat of Link’s insides clamped down on him, sucking him in, Sidon dipped down to capture his mouth in a hungry kiss. Scarred arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him in even closer. Link’s muffled moans filled his ears, ramping the incredible pleasure roaring through him up higher and higher.

Pulling back, he panted against Link’s lips, “Does it feel good, Link?”

“Good!” Link moaned, his blunt nails digging into Sidon’s skin, “Gonna-! Gonna cum-! Sidon-!”

“Me too.” Sidon chuckled huskily, “Can I come inside?”

“Yeah! Yeah! Inside-! In-!” Link’s back arched up off the bed. He let out a strangled cry, his insides clamping down even harder onto his cock. A hard shudder wracked his body as thick ropes of white cum splattered all over his stomach and chest.

Sidon only lasted one more thrust. Slamming forward, sheathing the entirety of his cock inside of Link, his other cock rubbing against Link’s, Sidon crushed him to his chest, a low growl rumbling out of his throat. An immense wave of pleasure crashed into him. His cocks twitched, swelled then he was flooding his insides and adding more to his stomach and chest with his cum. Shivering, he pressed little kisses all over Link’s face as he slowly came down, the pleasure dwindling to a steady thrum of heat in the base of his belly. Pushing up onto his elbow, he brushed sweaty hair out of Link’s face and kissed the tip of his nose then slid down further to kiss his lips, sighing happily when Link pushed up into him, his small, calloused hands roaming all over his skin, leaving pleasant trails of tingling. Sweet Hylia, he loved him so much.

“You okay?” He breathed, pulling back to look down into Link’s adorable face.

‘Yeah.’ Link nodded, then offered a teasing smirk, ‘You really like this outfit, huh?’

“I do. It looks good on you.”

‘If you like this one, I’ve got another one that you might like too.’

“Oh?”

‘Yeah but that’ll have to wait.’ Link pulled him down into another kiss, ‘Can we do it again?’

“Didn’t you want to go swimming?” Sidon asked playfully.

‘You’ve gotten me this riled up so take responsibility. Then, we can go swimming.’

Laughing, Sidon nipped lightly at Link’s lower lip, adoring the shiver that earned him, “Oh, my pearl, if you think you’re gonna be up and walking around after we’ve both had our fill, you are severely overestimating your stamina.”

[starxiddraws]

Your Guardian Angel Chapter 5

Chapter 5- Your Guardian Angel

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Taggged @princessaurax @cassiopeia-barrow @sketchy-characters-in-progress   @mystical818 @angieisacutedemon  @snowypinkbunnies​  @mery-vhan27

Hawkmoth stared in abject terror as his akuma dropped the girl from the very top. He told her to stop, but he knew the akuma had a grudge against Marinette, but he didn’t know it was to the point it was fatal. He could demand the akuma to save her, but he felt her hate was stronger than his influence. All he could do is watch. He didn’t notice someone running up behind him until the person climbed onto the railing and launched themselves off of it after the girl. It took Hawkmoth a moment to realize who it was and he reached his arm out to catch him, but he was out of his reach. He and Backstabber cried out, but it was too late. He watched in horror as his son fell after Marinette. “Why?” He asked, not facing his akuma, gripping his cane until his hand went numb. “Why did you throw her over the edge?!” Backstabber turned her head to face Hawkmoth, her face a shade paler than the red she was, her eye widened and tears falling with the weight of regret. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?! THAT’S MY SON JUMPING AFTER HER!”

“I-I thought if I got rid of her for good, that she’ll stop being a problem in my life. That all of my problems would be solved. I didn’t expect Adrien to go jumping after her. Wait--your son?” Backstabber stared at Hawkmoth wide eyed as the realization washed over her. “You’re Gabriel Agreste.” Hawkmoth immediately de-akumatized Lila, and just watched over the edge, hoping and praying that something, someone will save both his son and his son’s friend.

*    *    *

Alya, Nino,and Chloe, now back as their civilian selves, were standing on top of a building and watched in horror as Backstabber let go of Marinette. There was nothing either of them could do to go catch and save her. They all have used up all of their energy fighting a brainwashed Tom Dupain and subsequently other brainwashed zombies. When they transformed back, they had to run into the nearest building to avoid being touched and thus be brainwashed to believe every lie Backstabber has told them. Never again did they want to fall into her influence. Shortly after Marinette was let go, they saw someone jumping after her, they noticed blonde hair and a black hoodie.

“Is- is that Chat Noir?” Nino asked, squinting his eyes to see clearly.

“I’m pretty sure that is him, he went ahead of me,” Chloe replied, trying to perch higher on the roof, but almost lost her balance.

“I don’t think so, he’s not wearing all black, He’s actually wearing jeans,” Alya pointed out. It took them a second to realize, as they see him get closer to Marinette who it really was.

“ADRIEN!” Nino covered his eyes and turned towards Alya who held him tightly and buried her face into his chest, both beginning to sob. Chloe wanted to avert her eyes from what was happening but couldn’t, as she was hoping, begging, pleading for Chat Noir to catch them.

*    *    *

Marinette couldn’t breathe as Backstabber gripped her neck tightly and lifted her from the floor. She was impossibly strong for a girl of her stature, but Marinette figured it was because of the akuma. Thoughts suddenly flooded her mind as she was carried to the edge of the top, dangled over the protective rail. They stared at each other for a few seconds before Backstabber pulled her close to her face and whispered “I hate you with every fiber of my being, Marinette Dupain-Cheng.”

Marinette could hear Hawkmoth telling her to stop, but it was too late. Backstabber released her grip from Marinette’s neck and watched her fall with a grin on her face.

The wind furiously rushed around her as she fell from the highest point of the Eiffel tower. The look of malice on Backstabber’s face terrified her to no end. No, it wasn’t Backstabber-- it was Lila’s intention to drop her. Hawkmoth told her to not do it, but she did it. The last thing she remembers was the look on Hawkmoth’s face before Backstabber let go of her- the look of pure regret. It would have puzzled Marinette if she wasn’t terrified out of her mind because she was falling to her death. She extended her limbs to catch more air resistance, her skirt helping a little, acting as a very small parachute, but she was falling hard and fast, facing the sky. She was falling fast, but everything felt so slow. Thoughts rushed through her head, her parents, her friends, Chat Noir, Adrien... Oh how she wished she could have seen Adrien one last time. To see him smile and laugh. He would never see her again, and it crushed her heart, he was adamant on helping her, but that was taken from him, and now she’s falling to her death. He wouldn’t know until one of her friends, hell maybe not until the news reported it. As a matter of fact they were probably filming at this moment, broadcasting her final moments to the entirety of Paris.

Marinette clamped her eyes shut at the thought of that. At the thought of her father who was probably watching as his little girl fell. She knew he carried her here. She slipped in and out of consciousness as the was carried to the top, but she remembers being cradled delicately in his large arms. Tears began to emerge through her shut eyes. Her maman was probably watching through the television if she wasn’t brainwashed, alone and unable to do anything, probably desperately crying. Her friends, maybe they can save her, they are her chosen to be holders of the miraculous. But no one was coming, so perhaps they were brainwashed, or transformed back, or are running late. Too late. Her last hope was Chat Noir, but even he was running behind. Marinette felt like she had no choice but to accept the fact that today was her last day alive.

She didn’t want to accept that. She had high hopes for her future. She wanted to graduate from school and become a fashion designer. She wanted to save Paris as Ladybug at any given moment. She wanted to fall in love with Adrien and have three children and a pet hamster named--

“MARINETTE!” Her eyes flew open when she heard her name. The tears that she tried to hold back escaped as her eyes focused more on the shape above her in a nose dive, approaching fast. His blond hair was whipping furiously around his face as he willed himself to go faster. The hood of his hoodie was also whipping furiously as one of his arms lay flat on his side and the other was placed inside the pocket. He was squinting to protect his vivid green eyes.

“ADRIEN, NO!” More tears escaped as she was trying to convince herself that this wasn’t happening. “No, that isn’t Adrien, that’s just my wishful imagination hoping to see him. I did not drag him into this, he’s safe and sound wherever her is and is unaware of me falling--” He got closer and his face was more clear. “It is him! Why, oh why did I return the Ladybug miraculous, I could have avoided all of this, I could have saved him--”

“PLAGG, CLAWS OUT!” The green flash almost blinded her, but the gasp escaped her lips as she watched the boy she loved with the entirety of her being transform into who she hoped would be her longtime crime fighting partner. His arms wrapped around her waist as he finally reached her. Chat reached towards the back of his belt and pulled out his baton. “Yes! I was wondering if it’ll come back if I retransformed.” Chat gave Marinette a toothy smile as she stared at him with wide eyes and mouth slightly agape. He pulled himself closer to Marinette. “Lean your head into my neck. I don’t want you to break your neck as I try to save us.” She did as he told and Chat extended his baton to hit the side of the tower to change the trajectory of their fall from straight down and almost hitting the wider part of the tower, to a sideways arch where Chat can guide the fall to a safer place. He then extended the baton to the floor and continued to fall in increasingly smaller arches until they landed in the street nearby the formerly brainwashed crowd. They landed roughly and had to roll with the landing, but both came out with some scratches and scrapes. Some people from the crowd rushed to their aid, making sure they were fine. Marinette’s knees were scraped badly, and Chat started to develop bruised in some locations. Other than that, they didn’t have anything serious.

Everyone stepped back from the duo and just stared in astonishment at the both of them. They watched Adrien Agreste turn into Chat Noir and save the girl, Marinette was her name, who happened to be Ladybug. Chat decided to transform back into Adrien, causing those nearby to gasp, as if to confirm what they saw was true. Adrien turned to Marinette, who was looking at him with disbelief. He couldn’t help but give her a sheepish smile. “Surprise.” Marinette then proceeded to then gently tackle him and began to desperately sob into his chest.

“Adrien, oh Adrien, I thought you were in danger! It came out that you were missing and I thought it was because of me, and and I was falling and I thought I was never going to see you again, but then you were falling after me and I was regretting stepping down as Ladybug, because if I was still Ladybug I could- I could have--” She felt his arms wrap around her and he held her tightly, with no intention to let go of her anytime soon. As soon as she understood this, she wrapped her arms around him, and they stayed in this embrace for a few minutes, basking in each other’s presence. If it was at any other situation, Marinette would have melted at the spot, but the both of them almost died, and Marinette was just grateful that he was there to save the both of them. Grateful that she had a partner as wonderful as Chat Noir, who was also Adrien Agreste! Marinette pulled away as soon as she heard him sniffle and looked at him in the eyes. He began to cry as their eyes met, gently cradling her face with his hands. He leaned his forehead on her and began to quietly sob. Plagg wanted to come out of his hiding spot to comfort Adrien, but upon seeing the scene before him, he decided to not interfere and returned to his hiding spot, despite wanting to hug Marinette tightly as well.

“I-I thought I was going to lose you,” his voice was strained. He sniffled and exhaled softly, hands beginning to shake. He moved his hands to hers and held them at his lap, rubbing the back of her hands with his thumb gently, to help calm the both of them down. “I-I made it to the top of the tower just as Backstabber dangled you over the edge, I was beginning to approach, but she let go of you and I just felt my heart drop with you. I-I had no other choice but to jump after you. You-you could have--” The tears didn’t stop falling from his face. It was Marinette’s turn to cradle his face in her hands.

“Shh, it’s okay-- it’s okay, it’s okay, I’m here safe and sound because of you,” more tears cascaded down her cheeks as her shaking began to subside. Adrien glanced up to look into her eyes, staying like that for a while.

“You also were so hospitable to me when I stayed at your place last night. So in a way you also saved me. I ran away from home because I didn’t want to deal with my father anymore-- I didn’t want to be away from you... To me it mattered more that I would have just stayed as Chat Noir until it was safe for me to transform back. The mere fact that your family was more than happy to let me stay filled my heart up with hope. It also made it easier for me to keep my promise to you. My promise to be there for you through it all.” Adrien held up his pinky and wiggled it, making Marinette gasp a little. She finally realized why the gesture was so familiar. Adrien made it before he left for home the day before, and he did it as Chat a few times. Marinette lightly chuckled and hooked her pinky with his, leaning her forehead on his.

Plagg flew out again from his spot and hugged Marinette tightly, startling her a bit, but he got a soft chuckle. She held him against her face gently, appreciating his rare moment of concern and affection. “Marinette, don’t ever do that again, you hear? I would hate to make Sugar Cube devastated if I told her you have lost you life. You hear me!” Marinette giggled, but nodded her head, giving Plagg a small kiss on his head.

They remained seated on the ground for a few moments before they heard Tom’s voice calling from the crowd. The crowd moved out of the way for Marinette’s father to get through. His eyes were misty, and he was out of breath from running through the crowd. As soon as he reached the duo, he lifted the both of them up in his arms and held the both of them tightly in a kind of group hug. That’s when his tears finally rolled down from his eyes and began to blubber incoherently. Both teens just held him back just as tightly and shed tears along with him. He gently set them down, wiping away his tears, and stared at the both of them with glimmering eyes.

“MARINETTE!!” Alya, Nino, and Chloe scramble out of the building they were hiding in and ran up to their best friend, capturing her and Adrien in another group hug. Alya had her face pressed up against Marinette’s and just began to sob. “I’m so sorry Marinette. For not believing you sooner about Lila. None of this would have happened if we just listened to you!” Nino, like Marinette’s father, was blubbering incoherently, and Chloe just quietly held them, for once at a loss for words. “I am a shit friend for treating you like that. You were right, and we were wrong. We were completely and utterly wrong. I hope you can forgive us someday.” Marinette again began to cry when Alya said these words. She just held her best friend tighter and cried. It was shitty of Alya and Nino for treating her the way they did.

“I accept your apology, Alya. It did hurt that you didn’t believe me, so it’ll probably be a while until I actually forgive you--” More tears were shed from Alya, but she understood. Marinette and Alya hugged tightly again, and at that moment, Alya swore to herself that she’ll do anything to make it up to Marinette, especially when it almost led to her death.

A police car rolled up to the group, causing them to step back a bit, and from the back seat out came Sabine, gently laying her hand on her back. Nino and Alya rush to her aid and help her walk up to Marinette. As soon as she reached her, Sabine held her daughter tightly and didn’t let go for a few minutes as if to protect her from the world. She then pulled away and held Marinette’s face in her hands

“Oh my sweet girl! You’re safe, you’re safe! I was couch ridden after my scuffle with Backstabber because of my back. I turned on the TV and the breaking news was showing you falling. I- I could only watch. I was so scared I couldn’t even think straight.  Called the police to see if they could escort me here, but they were running late. I wasn’t going to make it-- But-but--” She then turned to face Adrien, “You, young man, risked your life to save her. Who would have thought that the boy she-- ahem-- Who would have thought that you, Adrien Agreste, was Chat Noir? We thought we were never going to see you again, especially since we thought you went missing.” Sabine then held Adrien in her arms. “Thank you so much, for being there for my daughter. For keeping your promise to her, no matter what. No wonder she fancies you a lot.” Sabine gave Adrien a wink, and Marinette went red.

“Maman!” Then it dawned on Marinette that she confessed to Chat Noir that she liked Adrien. Chat Noir was Adrien. All Marinette wanted to do at that moment was to run and hide from everyone. The best she could do was hide her face. Adrien noticing this, smirked widely and leaned in close to Marinette.

“It’s okay bugaboo, I’ll keep it a secret,” Adrien winked at her, and smirked again when she went red again, but this time didn’t cover her face, and gave him a gentle bump on his arm with her fist. He may be Adrien, but in front of her, he can be Chat Noir as much as he wanted to be. They were both beginning to become comfortable enough with each other, a little bit of flirting was harmless.

“It’s not much of a secret now, is it, my kitten?” Adrien lit up at the nickname and at that moment wanted to give her the deepest kiss he could muster, but unfortunately it had to wait. A loud yell was heard from the other side of the crowd. They couldn’t see for the crowd seemed to rearrange themselves in front of them to protect them, but they knew who it was. Hawkmoth.

“We can’t let anymore people get hurt by him! We have to stop this right here, right now!” Marinette began to walk towards the crowd, but she felt a hand grab her by the wrist. She turned back to see Adrien holding her, a serious look on his face. “Adrien!”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to go face him!”

“But you don’t have the Ladybug miraculous! I--”

“It doesn’t matter if I have it or not. I vowed to stop this villain from harming the citizens of Paris, and I’ll be damned if I go back on that. I’ll do it out of suit if I have to.” Marinette was about step away again, but Adrien gripped her wrist tighter. Plagg hovered by Adrien and they exchanged looks, Plagg immediately understanding what Adrien was trying to convey without words.

“It’s your choice, kid. Do what you want.” Plagg watched as Adrien knelt down on one knee, reaching into his pocket, ignoring all of the people watching this unfold. He pulled out the box in his pocket and opened it, holding it up to Marinette. All she could do was stare as her partner and crush knelt there holding up the recognizable box.

“I did return the box to Ma-- to you know who. He then asked me to choose the next Ladybug. I was contemplating someone else, but it just felt wrong. The person I was thinking of was the wrong choice and she proved it herself, and it made me realize that to me, you would always be the right choice. So Marinette, please,” Adrien blushed profusely, aware of how this looked to everyone else, but didn’t care because the Chat Noir side of him did like being a little dramatic. “Be the Ladybug to my Chat Noir? There’s no one more worthy.” Marinette blushed profusely, but began to cry because those words washed away all of her worries, fears, and doubts. To hear that Adrien, her Chat Noir, found her worthy enough that he couldn’t think of anyone else.

Marinette nodded and took the box from Adrien, garnering loud cheers from the crows and a tight hug from Adrien. They hesitantly pulled apart and Marinette pulled out the two polka dotted earrings from the box, immediately putting them on. Out came it’s little resident, Tikki, who had her cute little face twisted in a confused face. Her large eyes landed on Marinette and immediately flew her way to hug her, tears streaming down her face.

“Marinette!” Tikki cried as she hugged her face.

“Tikki!” Marinette held her dear friend in her hands and gently squeezed her against her face, also shedding some tears. “I missed you so much Tikki!” Tikki nuzzled her face into Marinette’s cheek and sniffled.

“I missed you too, Marinette. Let’s never separate again.” Marinette agreed to that and they continued to hold each other. Adrien, the crew and Marinette’s parents watched with misty eyes as both friends reunited with unending enthusiasm. Tikki then pulled away and looked around, looking at the crowd that gathered. “What happened?”

“It’s a long story. But for now, there is a villain we need to catch.” Tikki nodded and readied herself.

“Marinette, let us help too!” Chloe said, getting ready to transform. Alya and Nino nodded and readied themselves as well. Marinette smiled and shook her head.

“Your kwamis are still tired from your transformations. Even if you were able to transform, they haven’t eaten to regain their energy. You guys would just transform back quickly.” The trio were about to argue back but Marinette just shook her head. “Thank you guys so much. But Chat Noir and I can handle him.” The trio exchanged glances and nodded, trusting in her judgement.

“Tikki, spots on! Yah!” Marinette began to go through her transformation. Adrien followed shortly after, “Plagg, claws out!” As soon as the both of them ended their transformations, the crowd went wild, but hushed as Ladybug, in her full glory, lifted her hand to quiet them. “Let me get to Hawkmoth.” The crowd suddenly parted down the middle, creating a path to Hawkmoth, who was glaring at them. Both she and Chat Noir began to walk briskly with their heads held high to face their ultimate nemesis. Just behind Hawkmoth, in her civilian form, Lila watched with an expressionless look in her eyes.

“Hawkmoth, your reign of terror ends here!” Ladybug called out, expertly swinging her yoyo.

“So it appears you were bluffing,” Hawkmoth stated. Ladybug gave him no response. “I see now, you wanted to really throw me off the miraculous by lying about what you did to them. You’re smart.”

“It’s a technique I learned from a certain someone,” Ladybug’s eyes flicked to Lila, then back to Hawkmoth. Lila gave Ladybug a death glare but she just ignored it.

“Meowch, that must’ve stung,” Chat said, twirling his baton into fight mode. Lila glared at him, but he just gave her a toothy smirk. Hawkmoth just stared at Chat, unwilling to show an expression on his face. Then his eyes flickered to Ladybug and rage suddenly creeped up to his face.

“You dragged him into this!” he said, lifting up his cane to accusingly point at Ladybug. “He had no business getting into all of this and you-- YOU!” Hawkmoth rushed to Ladybug, lifting his cane up to strike. Chat Noir blocked his attack with his baton, but Hawkmoth pushed to try to overcome him. Ladybug prepared her lucky charm to see how they can capture him, but the only thing that appeared was a tie. She was very confused until she realized that the tie was a Gabriel Agreste mark tie. The realization washed over her and she covered her mouth. Hawkmoth and Chat continued to struggle. They both locked eyes and Hawkmoth immediately relented, dropping his cane and he fell to his knees. This sudden submission startled Chat Noir. He stepped back and prepared for what came next.

He wasn’t prepared at all.

“Nooroo, dark wings fall--” There was a blinding light, and Chat’s baton clattered as it fell to the floor. Chat stared, speechless. There was a collective gasp as the crowd slowly realized who was the one behind the villain’s mask. Ladybug’s still had her hands covering her mouth and glanced at Chat Noir’s face. There was no expression, but his eyes were wide and it scrunched into an indiscernible emotion. He clutched at his chest and fell to the ground, breathing heavily. He transformed back into Adrien, and Plagg tried to comfort him. Ladybug threw the Lucky Charm to the sky and it worked its magic, fixing everything destroyed in the fight, including healing her mother’s back. She then let her transformation fall as she knelt beside Adrien, gingerly placing her hand on his back to comfort him. She then locked eyes with the man before her, who had a defeated look in his eyes.

“I-I thought that it was you who was dragging my son into this... but it was actually me... Adrien, forgive me--”

“WHY?!” One word only managed to slip out of his lips, but the rage hit Gabriel Agreste like a locomotive. Gabriel tried to steady himself, but his shoulders began to shake. He avoided meeting his son’s eyes as he prepared to give his son the answer no one anticipated.

“It was to bring your mother back.” There was absolute silence and Gabriel took this as a sign to keep talking. “Y-your mother isn’t missing. She never was missing. She’s actually in our mansion, in a comatose state.” No words were uttered from Adrien, he just stared at his father, fury fueling his glare.

“She’s what?”

“She was the holder of the Peacock miraculous, and it ended up damaged somehow, causing her to go in a coma. I don’t know how, and I don’t know why. I thought that if I got both the Ladybug and Cat miraculous, I could use their combined powers to bring her back. I-I’ve almost--”

Adrien cut him off, “That’s enough.” He stood up and walked up to his father. He noticed a small purple creature hiding behind Gabriel’s shoulder. As soon as Plagg and Tikki lay their eyes on it, they cried out.

“Nooroo!” Upon hearing his name, the little butterfly kwami flew out, nervous that Gabriel would yell at him for showing himself. No comment came from Gabriel, so Nooroo rushed to hug his friends, who both were awaiting this glorious reunion. They spun in the air for a moment, laughing and crying, relieved to have Nooroo back in safety. Both Marinette and Adrien watched, Marinette with a soft smile on her face, but Adrien wore no emotion.

Adrien turned back to his father and held out his hand. “Hand over the miraculous.” Gabriel looked up at his son with pleading eyes, but Adrien didn’t give him the satisfaction of showing him any emotion. Relenting, Gabriel took off the purple brooch that was hidden underneath his tie and placed it in Adrien’s hand, who clutched as if to keep it from being taken again. Adrien turned his back to his father and walked away without a word. Marinette walked up to Gabriel, who was being handcuffed by the police.

“Mr. Agre-- Gabriel. You didn’t have to do this. You had other options that may have saved your wife. Why go with the most destructive one?” Gabriel and Marinette held eye contact, staying silent.

“Honestly, I don’t know. Maybe, maybe I was just desperate and didn’t think straight--”

“Yes, you didn’t think straight.” Marinette turned and began to walk away, halting for a moment before muttering, “Now you broke your own son’s heart and I don’t think there’s coming back from that.”  

“Gabriel Agreste, you are under arrest for terrorizing Paris--” Marinette walked up to Adrien, who sat down on a nearby curb away from the now dispersing crowd. Some people were trying to console him, but Nino and Alya were shooing them away. Many tried to congratulate Marinette on finally capturing Hawkmoth, but she ignored them for her focus was on Adrien. He had one hand running through his hair and the other clutched the Butterfly miraculous. Plagg was attempting to comfort him along with Chloe, but he just tried to zone them out. The more they spoke, the more he seemed to tense up. Marinette knelt in front of him, shushing their friends, and reached out her hand, letting him decide if he wanted her touch or not. It took a moment but he took her hand and looked at her.

“Do you want to go home?” Marinette asked. Adrien shook his head. “Do you want to stay here?” Again, he shook his head. “Um... Do you want to be left alone?” He then nodded. Marinette glanced around at everyone and understood, with the team returning their miraculous to Marinette, saying their goodbyes and began to leave. Adrien grabbed Marinette’s hand and pleaded with his eyes for her to stay. “Okay, I’ll stay.” He then stood up, still holding her hand. Marinette began to rub his thumb with her’s gently and he seemed to relax a bit, but not before he let a tear fall. “I’ll meet you guys back home.” Her parents nodded and they started to head back home. The square was empty except for a few stragglers. The news van was packing up, with the anchoress waving goodbye to the pair before climbing on. Marinette felt a gentle tug on her arm, and followed Adrien, who was leading the way. They began to walk around, aimless. A few people almost stopped to congratulate them on capturing Hawkmoth, but immediately changed their minds upon seeing Adrien, giving him sympathetic looks. Marinette never let go of his hand, for she knew it gave him great comfort. Again, she would have melted on the spot, but under these circumstances... She had to be his rock like he was hers the past couple of days.

“I don’t know what to do...” he finally said as they sat on a bench looking out to the river. “My dad is more than likely going to prison, my mother is in a coma... I need to find her in my dad’s mansion. I-I don’t know where I’m going to go. I don’t want to leave Paris to live with some family somewhere else. I want to stay here with my friends. I want to stay here with you.” Adrien finally let go of Marinette’s hand and covered his crying eyes. “I feel like I’ve been left to the streets, like a stray cat.” Marinette pulled him into a tight hug, and didn’t let him go.

“You aren’t. I won’t allow it,” Marinette whispered, never letting go of him. “Chloe, Alya, and Nino won’t allow it. My parents, hell, maybe even your father’s assistant and your bodyguard. We’ll all help figure out how to keep you here.” She pulled away and cupped his face, gently rubbing his cheek. “Maybe even Master Fu could help.” Adrien’s eyes lit up as if a thought came to mind.

“Master Fu can help...Marinette, you’re a genius!” He cupped her face with a joyous expression on his face and gave her a very brief, but very affectionate kiss on her lips, unaware of what he did. Marinette just stared at him wide eyed, and he stared back, also wide eyed. Their cheeks reddened, but they didn’t want to let go of each other’s faces. Adrien wanted to apologize, but at the same time, he didn’t want to. “I-I’m s-sorr--” Marinette gently returned the kiss, holding it for a few seconds before pulling back, still blushing profusely.

“I-I’m sorry, you just looked super cute, I couldn’t resist,” she said as she retreated her slightly trembling hands, grazing her finger against her lips. Adrien wanted to speak, but she continued “But you’re thinking about asking Master Fu if there’s a way to help your mother wake up, huh?”

“There may be a way.” The voice startled them as Master Fu nonchalantly sat next to them in the bench. “But first, there was a girl spying on the both of you from the top of those stairs. Long brown hair, green eyes, had a tendency to work with Hawkmoth. I suggest if you guys want to be affectionate with each other, don’t do it in front of her, or she’ll be glaring daggers at you guys.” Marinette discretely glanced up the stairs and sure enough, Lila was watching them from behind something. Adrien gave her a not-so-discrete glare, and she ran off, giving them a final glare.

“Master Fu, you said there’s possibly a way to help my mom. What is it?” Adrien gave Master Fu a hopeful look, but Wang just gave him a neutral look.

“In the book, there is a potion for those affected by broken miraculous. It takes a while though, because some of the ingredients are difficult to procure, and it takes about a month to make the potion. I’m not even sure if it’ll work for your mother because she’s been in this state for a long time.”

“Something is better than nothing,” Marinette said, looking determined.

“Please Master Fu,” Adrien pleaded. “I’ll do anything to help.” Master Fu observed the both of them and smiled.

“I knew I made the right choice with the both of you,” Master Fu stood up and smiled at the teens. “Look for your mother. Once you find her, take her to the hospital to check her vitals. Hopefully the potion will be done in a month as soon as I get my hand on those ingredients. In the meantime. Will you two do me the honor of staying as Ladybug and Chat Noir? There’s no one in Paris more worthy.” Marinette and Adrien exchange surprised glances and smiled.

“Of course!” Marinette responded.

“It’s almost like we were born to do it,” Adrien smiled. Master Fu chuckled.

“Good.” He held out his hand. Adrien handed him the Butterfly miraculous that he placed in his pocked. “Marinette, you can hand back the other miraculouses later when you have the chance. I want to make sure that the Butterfly miraculous gets home swiftly and safely. Now go home and look for your mother. Her life depends on it.”

Thank you guys for reading my fic! I know it’s a little open ended, but it was deliberate.

Because I’m planning on writing a sequel based on saving his mom! :O

I don’t know if it’ll be a one shot or a short multi fic like this one, but I’ve already got some stuff planned and boy I’m excited!

I hope you guys enjoyed reading my fic. I enjoyed writing it, especially a few parts.

[history-freak1]

winter’s chill - braime.

pairing: brienne of tarth x jaime lannister

genre: angst

warnings: broken hearts club, season 8 spoilers

words: 1.8k

note: so, y’all, this is my first fic EVER posted on tumblr and i’m super scared, but it’s okay. it’s all gonna be okay. so this is super angsty and from (mostly) brienne’s point of view during THAT last scene. super angsty. enjoy!! please let me know what ya think. :) 

Brienne of Tarth woke to the sound of a crackling fire, a warm room, and an all-too-cold bed. There was the resolute reality that Jaime Lannister was, in fact, nowhere to be found within the room. A deep chill woke her up quicker than expected.

The first thing I learnt in the North…every time you leave the room, keep the fire going. The words ghosted across the room, a slap in the face. Brienne hoisted herself from the bed, bleary eyed and naked, hunting for something to keep her warm in the winter chill she was about to face.

There was a brief pause and she padded swiftly across the room, reaching for the nearest housecoat she could find – black and dull, a full dress. Something she was not accustomed to wearing. In fact, it was a winter nightgown, one could say, not that she had been wearing many nightgowns in the past few weeks.

The thought rose in her cheeks, color splashing across them at the mere thought of the promiscuity of the past three weeks. But, by the Seven, he had been so kind to her. Jaime Lannister. Her Jaime. The same Jaime Lannister that she had defended mere weeks ago, the same Jaime Lannister who had knighted her. The same Jaime Lannister who had fought honorably by her side against the Army of the Dead.

And the same Jaime Lannister who had left her in this room by herself. Their shared room. She hurried to the closet and flung it open – his cloak, his breeches, all of his items gone. Slipping into a pair of slippers near the door, she hurried down the long corridor of the Winterfell castle.

There were two thoughts that crossed her mind as she hurried out of the castle and into the courtyard. One – that it was damn well cold. And two – Jaime was leaving Winterfell.

He was slipping out under the cover of darkness, and indeed, it was dark. It would near dawn soon, but for now, it was the hour just before – it was the darkest point of the night.

Brienne approached him with caution, he was not looking her in the eyes. He could not look her in the eyes. She knew, before he even spoke, that he was returning South, back to Cersei, back to his sister. She didn’t want to face the reality of it, not like this, not with him unable to look her in the eyes.

“They're going to destroy that city, you know they will.” Brienne’s words pierced the dark night air and Jaime finally looked up from his horse, watching her cautiously.

“Have you ever run away from a fight?” Jaime’s words were caustic, almost as if he meant them. Perhaps he did mean them and this was his way of saying goodbye – with bitter words instead of everything that had been brought to the forefront since his arrival in the North.

She had vouched for him when there was nobody left to defend his honor in front of the Targaryen queen and the Stark children. There was only Brienne, and now, when she had been so confident in his honor – it seemed to crumble around her just as King’s Landing would crumble if and when he returned to his sister.

She rushed forward, her cold hands gripping the sides of his face. She stood taller than him, even though she was wearing the thinnest pair of slippers imaginable and he was in riding boots. In her hands, she held the scratchy, bearded face of Jaime Lannister.

In her hands, she held what had become a very large fragment of her world.

“You’re not your sister,” She pleaded with him, pushing down the emotions she yearned for him to feel himself. She wanted Jaime to feel how much she was hurting. Not because he was leaving, but because she knew the effort to return to King’s Landing would be futile. He would die either way.

“You’re not.” She repeated, her voice commanding and loud, despite being barely detectable above a whisper, “You're better than she is.”

This was the truth. Jaime Lannister was a good man, an honorable man, who had fought for the North against the War for the Living. He had helped to save the realm from the Night King. That alone was enough to prove his worth, but Jaime was not listening. He was not a man to be reasoned with.

“You're a good man and you can't save her,” His thumb brushed the top of her hand, he still refused to look her in the eye. His own tears threatened to spill over, but Brienne was not focused on that. The only thing that she could attempt was to prove his worth with logic. She could only hope that logic would win out.

“You don't need to die with her, stay here,” The North. They were safe in the North. She was sworn to protect the Stark girls, and he had promised her that he was staying. He was, dare she say, happy, here.

But she could tell that that was not enough, it would never be enough. And it broke her inside to know this. They could have been happy together, even though he hated the North, he was willing to stay for her.

Brienne had bared herself to Jaime in ways that she did not think were possible, and they had bared their souls to each other. Jaime Lannister had shared the pieces of his soul that nobody else had seen, nobody except for Brienne. She understood him in ways that nobody else did, it was what drew her to him in the first place, those first few weeks in the bath, when he was so vulnerable, and yet, so was she.

She understood Jaime in ways Cersei would never know him, and that still wasn’t enough.

“Stay with me,” Her voice broke, tears spilling down her pale, chilled cheeks.

“Please.”

She had never begged for anything in her life, let alone a man. And she didn’t regret it. Didn’t want to take away the moment where she, Brienne of Tarth, begged him to stay behind – to leave all the pain and suffering of his sister, the addiction that he, himself, could not break and to remain in Winterfell.

Brienne couldn’t speak for him, she knew that he loved Cersei still, and perhaps he always had. She was merely a placeholder for something that was so much more beautiful and enthralling as Cersei Lannister.

“You think I'm a good man? I pushed a boy out a tower window,” His gruff voice was strained, as if trying to claw its way past his lips and into the air. Her hands fell slowly from his face, to her side, “…Crippled him for life, for Cersei.”

For Cersei. The words cut like a knife, slicing the tension in the air with a silver blade. And yet, she could say nothing. Brienne knew his complicated history, knew the part that she was consciously, decidedly willing to play and it was falling apart; she was helpless to stop it.

“I strangled my cousin with my own hands just to get back to Cersei.” This, she did not know about, and she did not doubt its authenticity. His voice was shaking slightly, recalling every memory he had of Cersei.

Brienne’ face welled up. Everything was for Cersei. And yet, nothing was for Cersei. His eyes were alight now, flame in his eyes, piercing her own. She dared not to look away, searching for something, anything, that would prove he was a good man. And she found noting but hatred reflected in his own – hatred for himself, hatred towards this conversation.

“I would have murdered every man, woman and child in Riverrun for Cersei,” Jaime was determined now, jaw set, his hand firmly on his horse.

“She's hateful,” He paused, breaking his gaze from Brienne’s pertinent one, a gaze that was still searching for answers. A gaze that would haunt Jaime Lannister for the rest of his life.

“And so am I.” His voice rocked the whole of Winterfell and the silence that had surrounded them burst open, drowning both of them in so much loudness that it was deafening.

For Brienne, the entirety of Winterfell had opened up before her, the sound of the wind howling just outside the gates, the hooves of the horse that crushed the gravel it walked on, the flickering of the flames guarding the gates of the keep. All were far too loud and far too incredibly close for her comfort. The weight of the world was crunching space itself, folding in upon itself.

The sound of her voice breaking, the gasps for air that she could not seem to grasp in her lungs, mirrored the sound of her own resolve, cracking along its foundation, tearing apart every oath she had ever fought to make.

The fading sound of hooves carried across her sobs and she was breaking down internally, piece by solid piece as the walls around her fell down. She had entrusted Jaime with her life, her very soul, and he was gone.

The words he said were true, nobody could doubt them and Brienne knew that all the same. She knew the warnings around Jaime Lannister, and in truth, she had never expected to fall in love with a man like him. Or any man, for that matter.

And what cut the most, she realized, hands buried in the sides of her gown, balled up in fists as her sobs grew louder, was that she loved him despite all this. Men had slashed at her, her entire life. The bullies and the bastards, the men at Harrenhal, the whole of the Seven and then some, had damned her existence. They had taunted and cursed her and Jaime Lannister was among them.

She had warned herself of love, it had always been a sore spot for the female knight, as love was always met with grown men snickering, childish taunts, and broken hearts.

But Jaime had seen in her what others did not, he grew to trust her, and he cared for her, at least he had cared for her. And for a moment, all of it was real, blissfully real.

The sobs subsided, hiccups and silent tears still drenched her face, sliding down her chin and neck. She felt soft, weak from the weeks of believing everything that was in the past would stay in the past. And yet, she was strong, feeling regret and remorse and emotions that were all to human, but made her human nonetheless. Nothing could replace the fact that despite this last conversation, despite that this could be the last time she saw Jaime Lannister, she loved him still.

Ser Brienne of Tarth was crying in the courtyard of Winterfell and by both the old gods and the new, she loved Jaime Lannister despite the pain he put her through. 

She always would.

[jsyndra]

c1

It had been so long...

She stood atop one of the many cliffs that Ionia offered, she stood and below her she looked upon the first lands. A moment to breath, it was not often she was gifted such a thing. Brilliant aquamarine was gifted with what was acclaimed to be the greatest beauty in the world, a beauty she had protected. Yet, still, it brought her no joy.

She had recalled the days where she would dance upon the cliffs, gazing across the lands and admiring the beauty that life offered. Now all she sees is the land she fought upon, a child born of peace and grown in war. She dances, but she does so involuntarily. Each movement has been ingrained into her, she made it but she felt nothing.

“Xan Irelia.”

The words came a foggy whisper to her ears, she almost thought it to be her own mind playing tricks on her. That was until she heard it again, a voice she had not heard before. It was feminine, and it came with a certain edge to it.

“Xan Irelia!”

It was louder this time, and soon Irelia had ceased her dancing. She turned her head, pulled away from the land in front of her and into viewing the woman that sought her attention. “Yes?” She responded, feet shuffling to face the stranger. The woman’s features were pale, and it looked as if she had just seen a ghost; perhaps she did.

“Apologies for interrupting, but I did not know who else I would turn to.” The stranger spoke, and it was nothing Irelia had not heard before. The blade dancer was often sought after, there were not many within Ionia who did not know about the mark she had left during the Noxian invasion. The conversation already seemed like one Irelia did not wish to have, yet she knew better than to deny her duties to her homeland; no matter the sacrifice.

“What is it?” Irelia questioned, and the woman seemed more frightened than anything. What had gotten her this way? War had an effect on people, but never an effect such as this. “What is your name?” She then added, hoping it would help ease the girl into telling her what was wrong.

“I.. Yes, my name is Sirik.” She answered, her tone softening slightly. “I came to you to ask for help.” Sirik then began, head bowed in a proper greeting. Perhaps she had jumped the gun a touch too quickly, at the very least Irelia was being patient with her. “It would be with great sincerity I ask you to hear my story, blade dancer. I believe there is a threat greater than any army that has come to our land.”

“Sirik.” The name sounded familiar, though most did to Irelia. She had fought by so many Ionian’s sides, and tales often spread quickly around Ionia to find her ears. She recalled hearing it at least a year or so ago, in a tale involving Fae’lar... Yes, it began to come together in her head. Noxians had occupied it and were drove out, yet something lay beneath it. A beast, Irelia was told, that had slept for many decades. When the war raged upon the land, the beast awoke and it had killed every occupant in Fae’lar and took it for itself.

Curiousity was piqued now, and Irelia nodded her head at the request. “Speak.” She finally said, a fine black brow raised to indicate her curiosities.

“I’m certain you have heard tales of Fae’lar--” Sirik began once more, diving right into the story as soon as she was granted permission. “I was there when it happened, my brother and I...” She paused, her features twisted; her grief was clear. “I knew what slept beneath Fae’lar, within Dael’eh Ahira.”

“The beast?” Irelia questioned, cutting Sirik off. “You have seen it?”

“It was no beast.” Sirik responded, clenching her fist. “It was a woman.”

A woman? If it was just a woman that caused threat to Ionia, that seemed far less intimidating than any beast. “And what of her?” Irelia then inquired, stepping forward slightly. What happened at Fae’lar? One woman was to blame for the massive chunk of Ionian soil being taken? There was some doubt, yet her curiosity was not yet sated.

“This woman... She had slept for decades within the Fae’lar, held in a stasis by Ionia itself.” Sirik recalled, her gaze met Irelia’s own. She knew what she said may be received as untruth with how ridiculous it may seem, yet she hoped only that Irelia would trust her words. “Guarded for the entire time, even the Noxians feared waking her. My brother and I had, well, we had went with the intention of ridding Ionia of this threat for good.”

Sirik paused, biting her lip. That day... It haunts her worse than any memory of the war. “When we arrived in Dael’eh Ahira, it seemed a Noxian had followed us. During the fight, I had tried to kill the sleeping woman. Yet...” Sirik unclenched her fist, sighing. “I had failed. In my failure, she was awoken. My brother pleaded with her to help us fight the Noxians, but his begging was met on deaf ears. She spoke in tongues, Ancient Ionian I believe. I do not think she had even understood him before she...”

Irelia stepped forward once more, this was a pain she knew well. The loss of a loved one, she knew now why Sirik had sought her out; she had given everything she could as well to avenge her family. A hand was placed upon Sirik’s shoulder, giving a squeeze. “I am sorry for your loss, Sirik.” She said sincerely, her tone made clear her own wound that had not yet healed.

Chocolate hues focused onto the hand that had been placed upon her shoulder, Sirik grateful for Irelia’s words; yet it did little to ease her own pain. “That is why I have come to you today, blade dancer.” She stated, and her tone dripped of a new resolve. “After our encounter, she had taken Fae’lar for herself. Ripped the entirety of it from the ground, and I watched her take it into the skies themselves. Some call it The Celestial Fortress, that is where she resides. I have to you with this so that I may ask that you rid Ionia of her for good.”

Irelia had expected the request, and already knew her answer. “The Celestial Fortress... I believe I have heard of it. From what I understand, it is fairly impossible to get inside it.” The only known Ionian to have seen it firsthand was The Master of Shadows, as far as Irelia knew. However, tales told that even he had regretted that visit. Now Irelia understood why.

“That is correct.” Sirik replied nonchalantly, knowing that would be Irelia’s first thought. “Beyond the obvious issue of it being a spec in the skies above, there is the issue that her power now runs through the entirety of it; a good mage can sense it even from the ground below.” It seemed she had done her research before seeking Irelia out, knowing that she would have to be able to offer a solution to such a thing in order for Irelia to actually carry out her request.

“That being said, if a mage was able to sense it from below; it is likely that with enough magic they would be able to teleport someone into it.” Sirik continued, it was as if she had already had this conversation one hundred times over in her head. She always did like a plan. “That being said, I have already sought after a mage with the ability to do so.”

“...You are certain?” Irelia questioned, skepticism dripped from her words. Such a feat seemed impossible, yet if Sirik was sure... She may not fully trust a stranger, but Irelia knew her duty to Ionia. If there was a way of diminishing this threat, she would do so.

“I am.” Sirik responded, head nodding firmly. “Every moment since that day I have spent trying to find a way to her, but I know that this is something I cannot do myself. I cannot kill her I... I’ve failed once, her power is too much. But you, all of Ionia knows of your dance. There would be no one I would trust more to snuff out this demon.”

More words that Irelia has heard before, and she knew that soon this conversation would come to a close. “I understand, if this is truly something you believe to be a threat to the first lands then I will do this for you-- and Ionia.” She responded, a known resolve was clear in her voice. A resolve known throughout Ionia. Certainly, if anyone were able to take on such a threat, it would be the defiant blade.

“For this, I owe you my life, Xan Irelia.” Sirik bowed, turning on her heel as soon as she lifted her head. “We have much to do, it is best we leave as soon as we can.” She then added, gesturing for Irelia to follow as she began to walk.

“I suppose I should ask before we continue...” Irelia spoke, beginning to follow behind Sirik. “What is this woman’s name?”

Sirik paused her steps momentarily, glancing back at Irelia. There was a touch of fear in her eyes. “Syndra.”

Irelia nodded, so that would be her new dance partner... Syndra.

[jungmoseok]

Can u write a fic where yoongi goes to tie his shoes but he cant bc his belly has gotten so big that it gets in the way and so his bf namjoon has to help and teases him? I’m so happy u started this blow btw 💞

Chubby Yoongi is my weakness ahhh. Also, cute bf Namjoon helping+teasing: omg. I had fun writing this, I hope it’s not too long. And, I’m not familiar with writing very big characters or verbal teasing, so I’m sorry if this came out weird. I hope you enjoy the fic, anon, and that it’s semi-decent. :p Aww, thank you so much!! I hope you like what I post in the future.

-----

Namjoon wrapped his arms around Yoongi’s warm, vast frame. Namjoon squished into the older man’s plush body and nuzzled him. He played with the soft rolls of fat that cascaded on his belly and sides. Yoongi had gotten quite big since he started dating Namjoon. Yoongi was never very toned: with a slight, little belly and round cheeks. But now, he was massive. Before actively encouraging and helping Yoongi gain so much weight, Namjoon made sure Yoongi was okay with it. Yoongi was even more enthusiastic about the whole thing than Namjoon. With both of them in love with the idea of constantly stuffing Yoongi and making him fatter, Yoongi put on weight very quickly. They hadn’t weighed him a while, but as Namjoon ran his hands along the soft, pillowy flesh of Yoongi’s underbelly— testing how heavy it was in his hands— he guessed he must of been over 90kg. With Yoongi being a bit short and incredibly lazy, the pounds and pounds of soft, jiggly fat definitely took a toll on Yoongi’s mobility. It wasn’t anything drastic, though, and Yoongi said he was fine with it. In fact, it excited the older man even more. Yoongi didn’t tell Namjoon that, though, for the “sake of his pride”. And, “for the sake of his pride”, Yoongi insisted on getting out of bed himself and dressing himself. Namjoon told him he’d be more than glad to help, but Yoongi refused because he didn’t want rely on Namjoon for tasks like that, yet. Namjoon giggled at Yoongi’s addition of “yet”, but nodded, understandingly. He gave Yoongi’s soft belly one more squeeze before he kissed Yoongi’s lips and went off to get ready, himself. When Namjoon left their bedroom, Yoongi let out a whine. He hated going out. He rather be doing better things like napping, eating, or making out with Namjoon. Namjoon wanted to introduce Yoongi to a couple of his closer friends, Jimin and Hoseok. Yoongi complained about having to get up early and that he was awkward around new people. Yoongi’s whining was more to get affection from Namjoon than actual refusal. Youngi agreed, since he would do anything to make Namjoon happy. With that, Yoongi pushed himself to the edge of the bed with a grunt. He was a little surprised at just how difficult it was. After a few failed tries at hoisting himself from the bed, Yoongi finally got up on his feet; a bit breathless. He felt his member harden under his belly that reached down his thighs. He brushed it off and went to put on a sweatshirt. Namjoon didn’t care, but Yoongi wished he’d have nicer clothes to wear whenever he went out with Namjoon. Like, a button-up or something. Yoongi remembered he did, he just destroyed it on Namjoon’s birthday. Yoongi wanted to take Namjoon out to a nice restaurant, but didn’t foresee Namjoon ordering almost the entire menu and feeding everything to him in public. After Yoongi finished everything, he couldn’t even move, too heavy and full, and his belly pressing against the table. Right as Namjoon helped him out, all the buttons that were struggling to contain Yoongi’s massive gut finally popped off. Yoongi was utterly mortified, feeling stares of other people on him. Until he realized the dark lust in Namjoon’s eyes and found out this was exactly what he wanted. That night, Namjoon had both fed and rode him to the point where he was sore for two days straight. Young grew nervous thinking about it. He dreaded what Namjoon had in mind for his own birthday. Yoongi shook his head, focusing on pulling the size large, grey sweatshirt over his head. It caught at his soft, broad shoulders and flabby arms. Yoongi found it even more impossible to get the fabric to cover his overhang, yet alone his protruding belly. It proudly pressed against the fabric, the outline of his large, round belly was very obvious. Yoongi pat the dome of a belly fondly, causing it to jiggle. The size large he purchased only a few months ago seemed much too small, now. Oh well, Namjoon would get a kick out of it. Putting on a pair of jeans was even more of a struggle. Yoongi had to suck in his belly through the whole ordeal. Even then, it was extremely difficult to zip and button them with his fat belly in the way. The seams of the jeans looked like they were going to burst around his thighs and ass, not that Yoongi could see over his belly, anyway. Yoongi padded into the living room, finding himself very winded after getting his clothes on. He went to grab a pair of sneakers then plopped down on the edge of the couch with a small moan. He already knew he wouldn’t be able to get them on while standing. Yoongi’s belly turned to rolls when be bent over to put on the shoes. It was a struggle, but he managed to get both of them on. With a huff, Yoongi tried to maneuver his soft arms around the gut that filled his entire lap to tie the laces. After struggling in vain to get ahold of the shoelaces, Yoongi realized it was impossible. His belly was too big and heavy to get around. Yoongi sat back up, whimpering and breathing heavily, not only from exertion. He felt his cheeks grow hot with excitement and embarrassment. Namjoon came into the living room and asked Yoongi if he was ready to go. Seeing Yoongi red-faced and pouting, his clothes straining, made Namjoon gasp on the spot. He felt himself fall even more in love with Yoongi, looking him over lovingly. Namjoon noticed Yoongi’s untied shoes and chuckled softly. “Did you need me to tie them for you, my precious baby boy?” Namjoon joked, coming over to sit on his knees in front of Yoongi. Namjoon kissed the roll of flesh that hung over the waistband of Yoongi’s jeans, acting motherly in a high-pitched baby-voice. Yoongi rolled his eyes and flushed deeper. That’s when the younger man realized he really did need Namjoon to tie his shoes for him. Namjoon felt himself flush, now. He felt something devious pool in his stomach. He gripped Yoongi’s big underbelly in his hand and shook it. Yoongi scolded him for messing around and pouted, saying they were going to be late. Honestly, Yoongi just didn’t want Namjoon to tease him about him not being able to do simple things like this. Well, maybe he did; just a tiny bit. “What happened to you saying you wanted to do things by yourself?” Namjoon cooed, pushing up the hem of Yoongi’s sweatshirt. Yoongi only huffed in response, making Namjoon’s smirk grow even wider. “No way you’ve gotten so fat you can’t even tie your shoes, right?” Namjoon mocked surprise in a dramatic tone. Namjoon fondled Yoongi’s belly, running his hands over his massive love handles. “You’re outgrowing your biggest clothes, now, Yoon,” Namjoon said quietly as he caressed the edges of Yoongi’s vast belly. He traced the newest stretch marks on the sides of the muffin top that pooled over Yoongi’s jeans. Namjooon swallowed hard before continuing, “you’ve let yourself go so badly, you can’t even tie your own shoes.” Yoongi didn’t say anything, half-ashamed and half-thrilled. He just whined and pouted, eager to hear what else Namjoon was going to say. “It’s all because of this.” Namjoon sent a small smack to the center of Yoongi’s belly, causing the entire mass to shake. Yoongi grunted softly, saying it was Namjoon’s fault. Namjoon giggled in response and said “I feed you sometimes, but you’re the one who eats everything. You’re the one who stuffs yourself until you can’t even move. Even then, you’re still begging for more. It’s not my fault you’re a pig with zero self-control.” Namjoon’s sweet, warm voice contrasted with his sharp words. Yoongi loved it, though. Namjoon was always a sweet and caring boyfriend, but Yoongi did have to admit, he enjoyed this. Yoongi felt his hard-on poke against his belly and he instinctively squirmed. Namjoon noticed then kept talking. “I should just let you meet them with your untied sneakers. They’ll be amazed just at how huge and soft you are. They’ll just assume you don’t notice, since you haven’t been able to see your feet for months.” Yoongi squirmed, again. He bit his lip and looked into Namjoon’s eyes, pleading. Namjoon’s softened, worried he’d gone too far. He was about to apologize until Yoongi shook his head. He was panting slightly and kept glancing down at his belly. Namjoon suddenly realized what he’d done to Yoongi and sighed, relieved he didn’t hurt him, but made him hard. His smirk returned. Namjoon gripped Yoongi’s underbelly with both hands and raised it, seeing his boner press against his jeans. Namjoon groaned, pleased. He let Yoongi’s belly smack back down onto his lap as he let it go. It wobbled for a few seconds before settling on his lap. Yoongi groaned at the sensation then shot a glare at Namjoon, still flushed. Namjon understood how desperate Yoongi felt and wanted to take care of him, right away. Namjoon was feeling very horny, as well. Namjoon said he would cancel with Jimin and Hoseok, but Yoongi said he still wanted to go. Namjoon laughed softly. “Getting off on other people’s reaction to your weight, now?” He was half-joking, half-serious. Yoongi suddenly looked offended. “No,” he said pointedly, lying through his teeth. Namjoon smiled softly and gestured for Yoongi to hand him his foot. Yoongi obeyed, moving each foot in front of Namjoon so he could tie the shoelaces. When Namjoon finished, he stood back up and pulled down Yoongi’s sweatshirt down from the crest of his big belly. It still failed to cover its entirety and Namjoon didn’t hide how much that turned him on. Yoongi gave a pouted “thank you” and was about to sit up before Namjoon put a hand on his belly, pushing him back down. “You know,” Namjoon went to whisper in his ear, his voice low, “I love you, Yoon. I’ll always take care of you and will support you, no matter what.” Yoongi was taken aback by Namjoon’s heartfelt little speech and blushed lightly. Namjoon was so sweet. Namjoon’s warm breath tickled Yoongi’s hair as he laughed into his ear for a moment. “Even when your belly gets so big, you can’t even put on your shoes.” So much for being sweet. Yoongi whipped his head around and scoffed, mock-offended. Namjoon pinched Yoongi’s round, chubby cheek and kissed him deeply. Namjoon held Yoongi’s hands tight as he tried to pull him up from the couch. Namjoon noted out-loud how heavy Yoongi was and how difficult it was to pull him up. Yoongi scoffed, again: “you love it”. Namjoon nodded with a bright grin. Namjoon still held Yoongi’s hand as he guided him out the front door, and Yoongi mumbled a quiet “I love you, too."

[eclare-logan]

Some dramatic writing I did one lonely winter night last year, take a read

You’ve been searching for love your entire life.

As a child, you found yourself acting up when you were lonely and couldn’t find the words that would allow you to be held. You spent years bottling up emotions and tears because it wasn’t right, it was weak, and you had no reason to be crying. Only spoiled brats cried, right?

You found that it was easier to just accept the loneliness and move on, spending the nights silently pleading for someone, something, to help ease the ache in your heart, the fear that welled up inside as you tried to sleep through the nightmares.

When you were six, the boy you liked kissed you on the cheek and held your hand at the back of the line. You fell into an instant, deep love as the teacher threatened to call your parents. The next year, you wrote him a love letter, telling him your darkest secret, the seven kinds of dogs you would own, and the names of all eleven of your children. You even drew him a picture. You left the entirety of your love neatly packaged on his desk before recess, then watched as he read it and threw away your heart.

You decided that it was easier to find the love in your own mind, spending your days within your head with the characters that could understand you far beyond anyone you could interact with.

You discovered that taking care of something made you feel important and loved and needed when the world refused you, so you started a garden of sunflowers on the roof, using your time to read and sing to them, tending to their nonexistent hearts. They could only love you back by flowering, but then they had to leave you too.

You found comfort online with role plays and forums that let you dive into a world where you were loved no matter what, and your flaws were just as beautiful as the most precious treasure. Here you could be whatever your heart desired, and those you loved were still alive and you could escape the pain for a while, a manifestation of the daydreams you found yourself living in.

At age fifteen, you felt more alone as ever as you slowly distanced yourself from your friends who wouldn’t care to listen to your cries for help. You tried to tell them that you couldn’t bear the weight of life anymore, and they laughed and told you that that was the reason no one wanted to be your friend.

You found yourself online, first sending pictures of your underwear, then of the underwear on your body, then of nothing on your body, making sure to keep your face out of the picture so they couldn’t see the tears streaming down your face. “Love me, love me, love me, please,” you begged as you sent the photos to a man twice your age, then to another whose face you never saw. He told you how good of a girl you were. How mature and lucky you were. How beautiful your body was. How you weren’t like other girls your age. He called you queen, dear, my sweet, my one and only, and you wondered how many other children he was telling the exact same thing to. Your face lit up anyways, then he finished without acknowledging any affection. You told him that you felt bad sending him these pictures because you were too young. He said it didn’t matter because you had the mind of an adult. You hit send again.

And again.

And again.

And again for two years until enough was enough and he lost interest in your young body.

You went on a date to a soccer game once. It wasn’t really a date. He shared his chips with you. Your mom gave him a ride home. He smiled and said you should do this again sometime.

You didn’t.

You made playlists upon playlists filled with songs about love and dreams, and you could pour you heart into a ballad that you could not relate to any personal experience, yet you understood completely as your heart yearned for the life of the one writing the lyrics.

You learned how to ballroom dance with an invisible stranger in your room, spinning in circles, then being held tightly by the weightless arms of the air. You would giggle to yourself and fall back on your bed, staring at the twinkling lights above your head as the tears streamed down your face. “Am I really that unlovable? That ugly? That annoying? That unwanted?”

You went to prom with your friends because you loved them, but watched as they danced with their boyfriends and the one boy you could have loved danced with a girl who made your skin crawl.

At age eighteen, there was finally a boy not only willing to kiss you, but to send his hand up your leg and under your skirt in a movie theater. You pushed away because you knew you weren’t ready, but realized that if you didn’t let him, no one else might ever do this again. You kept seeing him, and he kept you busy with his body and he with yours, but there was no love. He called you panda bear and lucky charm, but you knew that the “I love you”s carried as much weight as a breath and were meant to keep you coming back for more. The drug of his lips turned to pot, and suddenly, you were crying in a car as you pretended to take a hit just to ease his pressure. He was too high to notice. You found yourself tangled in his limbs on his couch, pressed up against something you didn’t want to be pressed against. When he asked if you wanted it, you nodded, tears streaming down your face because you knew it was the only way to keep him coming back. Your intuition was correct.

You spend hours on dating apps, swiping left on every single boy, knowing they won’t be able to give you the pet names, the love, and the life that you crave.

You make eye contact with a cute boy at the grocery store. “Say something,” you tell yourself. “Ask him what his favorite kind of oreos are. Tell him you like his shirt,” and in your mind, you do, and you get his number. Then he’s coming over every other night, and you’re going over in between and you fall in love and you see yourself in a white dress in the middle of fall, holding a bouquet of sunflowers, and walking up to him and kissing and then you have three kids, two dogs, and a cat named Bumble -

and then you walk by, smiling awkwardly. He smiles back.

You never see him again.

You find love every day in the tone of his laugh, the way the water dances in the sunlight, the way steam rolls off your tea. You know that you could be good enough, kind enough, warm enough to be loved, but you know that leaving the protection that you’ve found in yourself would be too much to risk. So you pull on a sweater. You put your hair up. You glance at the sticky note on your mirror. “I would sooooo date me!” you say to yourself. You smile. You accept that today is going to be another day of being unloved. You’ve given up the search.