#but they’ve never known a world beyond that pool

[orcinus-veterinarius]

I’m starting to feel like it’s a legitimate possibility that Wikie and Keijo will end up as the very first orcas to be transferred to a sea sanctuary. Combine the untimely deaths of Moana and Inouk and a financially troubled park with the blocked transfers to Japan (and the new park has already started taking in whales from other Japanese facilities, so I don’t think they’re waiting for them) and a government that’s eager to offload its cetaceans, and you’ve got the perfect recipe.

I hope it works.

[genevievemd]

Lover

Book: Open Heart (Beyond) Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Genevieve McClure) Word Count: 1593 Rating: M Category: Smut Trope(s): and there’s a birthday, and they were at a conference, and they went on vacation

Summary: Ethan spends the evening worshipping his wife on her birthday.

Warnings:  Strong Language and NS*FW content. Please use discretion and caution when viewing this work. By viewing of this work, you consent that you are 18+

A/N: A part of ‘tis the damn season, while Ethan and Gen are in London for a conference/her birthday, and right after they talk about him leaving for Brazil for two months. This is also now officially my longest smut, so enjoy lol

Final entry for @choicesficwriterscreations​ Naugthy or Nice event. Prompt in bold -- it’s the fluff prompt, too. So we’re naughty and nice in this one. 

The noise of the conference gala slowly fades as Ethan and Genevieve make it into their London hotel lobby and towards the elevators. The party had been no different than the other medical conference gala’s they’ve attended togtehr, until an old friend of Ethan’s offered him a temporary job they both knew he couldn’t refuse. 

He’d return to the amazon in two weeks, to spend the following ten weeks helping hospitals in need run as well as some of the world’s best. It was just the type of work Ethan loved and there was never any option for him to say no. 

And while Gen was proud of him, there was a small part of her heart that broke at the thought of being away from him for so long. He knew it, too — whisking her away from the ballroom and up to their room to focus back on her birthday and not on his impending departure. 

The elevator doors open, allowing a small group to entire the quiet lobby and the two entire alone. He pulled her into his arms the second the doors closed and she took the opportunity to nuzzle even closer. She looks up at him, expecting to find him lost in thought, but he’s already looking down at her. His ocean blue eyes as calm as the sea on a windless day, deep pools of blue that were reflecting every ounce of love he had back at her. 

It was enough to make her own eyes water, overwhelmed. 

“I love you so much.” Gen whispers into the silence surrounding them, tightening her arms around his waist. 

“I love you, too.” He lifts a hand off her waist, pushing a loose hair behind her ear. His fingers lingering on her cheek. 

“You also give the best hugs.” She smiles, the ache in her heart returning for a brief moment as she closes her eyes and lays her head on his shoulder. “How am I supposed to go two whole months without them.” 

“I’ll have to give you extra now before I leave.”

She can feel him chuckle, then pull away slightly. He takes her face gently in his hands, “I know downstairs you agreed, but I feel like I should ask again just to be sure. We can just lay in bed and hold each other if you’d rather not be intimate.” 

“I want to.” Gen stands on her tiptoes, even in three inch heels she is still too short to meet his eyes, resting her forehead against his. “I want to end my birthday making love to my husband.” 

Before she can seal her statement with a kiss, the elevator dings, thought it doesn’t deter her husband at all. He claims what has been his for almost as long as she’s known him, his kiss gentle but the promise of what’s to come lies just beneath the surface. 

Ethan guides her out of the lift, never breaking the kiss. His hands exploring every curve, their steps in sync as they walk down the empty hall. The warmth of his hands can be felt through the expensive fabric of her gown, dispelling the cold of his decision to leave her in sixteen days. 

In no time at all, they make it to the door of their hotel room. He presses her against the wall beside the door, his lips moving to her neck as he takes the key out of his pants pocket. 

“What would people think if they saw the ever stoic Dr. Ethan Ramsey making out with his wife in a hotel hallway.” Gen smiles as the door opens and he steps away, her skin prickles with heat at the look on his face. 

Kiss stung lips and disheveled hair, his eyes dark with desire for her. 

“They’d say he’s damn lucky to have a woman like you, Rookie.” Taking her hand, he leads her into the room, spinning her around as the door clicks closed. Her back to his chest, the harness of his body making her ache for him more. The way he towers over her, his broad frame enveloping, never ceases to amaze. 

His lips are back on her neck, sucking gently on every spot he knows makes her weak in the knees. She’s unable to quell the whimper that escapes, the sound halting his movements for the briefest of seconds. One hand then moves to grip her neck, while the other glides across her stomach and up her side, his fingers tugging at the zipper of her dress. 

“This needs to go.” He whispers the words against her shoulder, his beard tickling her skin.

The dress falls to the floor, and he pulls her even closer, as impossible as it may be. She can feel how hard he already is, and she moans in reponse. 

“Get on the bed, G.” His voice is deep and rough, commanding. 

Completely at his mercy, like she always is in moments like this, she listens. Moving to the king size bed, Gen lays across the middle, biting her lip as she watches him. Instead of joining her, he leans against the desk across from their bed, fingers slowing taking off his cufflinks and placing them on the desk. 

His eyes never leave hers as he works, his head tilted as he takes her in.

“Ethan.” She whines, petulant. 

The intensity of his gaze, his slow methodical movements as he takes off his tux jacket and then his shirt, has even more heat pooling at her center. Aching and wanting. 

“What do you want, Rookie?” 

“You know what I want.” She sits up, and moves to the edge of the bed as Ethan walks to meet her. She reaches for his belt and starts to undo it when he stops her, a gentle hand atop hers. “What?” 

“Not this time.” 

She pouts, exaggerated and frustrated. All she wants in that moment is to have him in her mouth. Feel his cock against her lips and tongue. “But I want to.” 

Genevieve shuffles closer, attaching her lips to his neck while her free hand moves to grip his hard length through his pants. 

Ethan grips the back of her neck, gently forcing her to look at him. “I know, but tonight is about you, birthday girl.” He pushes her back on the bed, then crawls on top of her, kissing his way up her body. “Save that thought for round two.”

“Yes, Chief.” 

“How do you make that sound so fucking sexy?” He groans against the skin of her chest, nipping at the top of her breasts. 

“It’s a skill.” 

“Mhm, perhaps I should show you mine then.” 

In no time at all, he has her legs draped over his shoulders and his mouth devouring her. His midnight blue eyes watching every expression of pleasure on her face. 

Like he can’t dare to miss a second of what’s he’s doing to her. 

A complete contrast to the only other man she knew like this. Ryan never did this with her, only every concerned with his own release. But Ethan…

Ethan drinks her in, laps at her like she’s ambrosia. He happily spend all night using only his tongue, never once thinking of himself and it heightened every sensation. Made her putty in his hands. 

“I’m gonna –” An almost embarrassing load moan cuts her sentence short, hands flying to grip his hair. 

“Good girl.” 

She falls apart at that, her body shaking with pleasure. The world around her going white. 

He helps her ride it out, kissing her inner thigh when she comes back down. 

“Come here.” Still desperate from him, Gen reaches for him pulling his face to hers. 

Their lips meeting in a fiery kiss, her legs wrapping around his waist as one of his hands takes ahold of her own and places it above her head. 

No words need to be said, both knowing exactly what the other wants. Ethan pushes into her, moaning quietly against her lips. Her arms wrap around his back, pulling him down on top of her as he begins to move. The fingers of their still clasped hands intertwining. 

They move slowly, savoring every second of being together in the most intimate way. There was no need to rush, to vigorously race to the finish line. Their lips stay fused together, only breaking to gasp for a breath or let out a quiet moan. 

“I’m close.” Genevieve whispers, opening her eyes to look up at her husband. “Come with me.” 

“Fuck.” He captures her lips in another breath taking kiss, picking up the gentle pace they had set. 

With only a few more thrusts, he finishes deep inside her. The sensation sending her over the edge as well, his name on her lips as she comes. 

He falls ontop of her, the weight of his body crushing and comforting. Gen lets go of his hand, holding him tightly to her with on arm and her other hand moving to his head. Fingers twisting through his sweat slicked hair. 

After a few more moments, Ethan rolls off of her and pulls her into his side. She lays her head on his chest, his heartbeat in her ear. 

“That was a much better ending to my birthday. Totally made me forget that you’re leaving me for two months.” 

He laughs quietly, kissing her head. “Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll make you forget again.” 

“You sure you’re up for it?” Gen tilts her head back, smirking. 

“I’ll take that as a challenge, G.” 

“Good.”

A/N: Development as been made, my dudes. I don’t feel like going off and hiding this time. lol 

(tagging separately)

[strawp]

We read, “The Tempest”, in World Literature class and this was originally an assignment my teacher gave us.

We were to create our own alternate ending on what we think should have happened.

I spent a whole ass week on this bitch and poured my HEART and SOUL into it. It came out to ten pages in google docs. I’ll be damned if only my teacher sees this.

———————————————————————

Let’s Pluck the Petals, One by One

( Exit FERDINAND and MIRANDA )

Once my daughter and Ferdinand left to go inside the cell, I turned around to briskly put some distance between us. Once sure that no one was around nor would hear me, I quietly called out for my most diligent servant.

“Come with a thought, I thank thee, Ariel: Come,” I muttered. I waited patiently for the subtle change in the air, signifying Ariel’s presence. Not a moment later, a semi-transparent figure appeared before me.

“Thy thoughts I cleave to. What’s thy pleasure?” Ariel had said in their raspy voice.

“Spirit, we must prepare for Caliban’s entrance. Where is it that you said you left them?”

“I told you, sir, they were red-hot with drinking. I left them in the filthy mantled pool beyond your cell.” They answered. I had to strain my hearing to catch what they said. Air spirits like Ariel are known for their drifting voices, so subtle you’ll wonder if someone was actually there. But just like the wind, their voices can be thunderous and strike as sharp as a whip.

“Well done, my bird,” I whisper. With that, Ariel vanished or perhaps they are still there. I never know. But that matter’s naught for soon, my long-awaited revenge will be set into place.

“I will plague them all,” I promise. I gaze upon the seamless blue sky, only looking away when I hear the quiet shuffle of several feet. I cloak myself in invisibility and wait for what will undoubtedly be the stealth mission of three incompetent cows.

“Tread carefully, we’re in his territory now,” Caliban warns. All three are soaked to the bone and stink to the high heavens.

“Monster, everything smells like horse-piss. I smell like horse piss! My nose would like compensation.” One of the bumbling idiots remarked, face scrunched in great displeasure. He had short brown hair and walked with a slight hunch. His hands cycled through different fidgets, from twiddling his thumbs to swinging them. Other than his short stature, there was nothing to write home about.

“I second that. You hear me, Monster?” Nitwit number three added. This fellow was taller than the other twit with a bit of a gut hanging out, surely due to his relationship with alcohol. From what Ariel had told me, this one planned to kill me, take possession of this island, and marry my daughter. Hah!-What a ludicrous dream!

What he said seemed to have struck a chord in that deformed slave of mine’s head as they stopped entirely to look back at number three.

“My lord, please place trust in me. Be patient for the prize shall make this worth it,” Caliban practically begged. It seems they’ve found a new master. No matter, if all goes to plan I won’t need them anymore.

“Fine. But to lose our bottles in the pool–” started Short-stack.

“Is disgraceful and dishonorable, Monster. An infinite loss on our end” finished the alcoholic. Both crossed their arms and sported disgruntled expressions. To be so affected by the mere loss of a beverage is pathetic.

“Quiet!” Whisper-yelled Caliban. “We are at the mouth of his cell now: speak none and enter.”

I rolled my eyes. “Too little, too late,” I thought. This is the most pitiful assassination attempt I have ever seen.

“If we succeed, this island will be ours forever,” Caliban boldly claimed.

“This, ‘Prospero’, won’t know what hit him,” the drunkard smirked. Like anyone would ever feel threatened by that.

They only managed to take two steps each before Ariel and I intercepted them. Ariel sent ferocious winds their way, strong enough for them to stumble, while I manipulated the very ground they stood on into something unstable. While they were preoccupied with the elements, I directed some of the surrounding animals towards them. Once they spotted the army of animals coming their way, they scrambled, tripping over one another in their haste. They were utterly clueless as to what was happening.

“We shall let the animals hunt them for now. Soon my labors will come to an end and you will be free,” I inform Ariel. I turn to them, now opaque enough for me to see them. “Say, my spirit, what is the state of the king and his followers?”

“They are the same as you left them,”

“Go release them. I will break the charms and restore their senses,”

“I’ll go fetch them, sir”

With that, I turn around to begin the process of making the magic circle with my staff. I draw one large circle big enough to fit four grown men and add a liner that is three inches inside the circle. Next, I carved out an upside-down isosceles triangle with an eye in the center. Between the inner and outer circles, I scrawl out the necessary runes to cast my spell. Once done, I stand back to begin the chant.

“U have bedimm’d the noontide sun, call’d forth the miltinous winds, and ‘twixt the green sea. And the azured vault set roaring war by my so potent art. But this rough magic I here abjure, and, when I have required some heavenly music, which even now I do. To work mine end upon their senses that this airy charm is for, I’ll break my staff.”

Not a second later, Ariel reappears with my captives: Alonso, Gonzalo, Sebastian, and Antonio. They stand frozen in the magic circle, dazed and confused. Finally, the time has come. Still under invisibility, I stand before all of them and lock eyes with Gonzalo, even if he does not know that.

“Good Gonzalo, my true preserver, I will pay back with my word and deed.” He was the only one to show me compassion and aided me in my escape from the mainland. He is a better man than anyone on this island.

I move on with distaste to Alonso, a grimace set. “Most cruel of you to use me and my daughter; your brother even more foul in action.” This is the wretched man who officiated my exile from so long ago yet so clear in my mind. Never will I grace him the respect I once held for him.

For Alonso’s brother, I greet him with disdain and repulsion to what he has become. “Your existence has deteriorated since we last saw each other, Sebastian.” Arguably the worst of the two siblings. His life was set, having been born into royalty, but he greedily wanted more than what was handed to him.

Finally, I face my brother. Merely looking at him fills me with a spiral of emotions, circulating between resentment and betrayal. I pointedly ignore the bitterness that bubbles in my throat like acid. He has shown what he thinks of me and I have no obligation towards him.

“Brother of mine, through flesh and blood, you and Sebastian sought out to commit a dastardly plan for your benefit.” And with that, I finally reveal myself. Once spotting my face, Antonio and Alonso go pale in the face, though the former flinches back as well. Sebastian lets out a gasp while Gonzalo widens his eyes tenfold.

“I am not sure if I am under an enchantment or not but I fear madness has taken over me! The duke I had resigned all those years ago, Prospero, stands before me! How is it that you are alive and before us now?” Alonso exclaims. I raise one eyebrow at his reaction before turning to Gonzalo.

“Gonzalo, my noble friend, let me embrace you for the help you gave me. Your honor cannot be measured for there are no bounds to it.” Gonzalo’s eyes have since returned to their natural size and he gives me a tiny smile.

“Whether this is real or not, my actions are not worthy of such high praise.” He responds. Always the humble man I see, even after all this time. A stray thought of what if he was our king instead of our current one pops up before I push it aside. What has been done cannot be undone after all.

With a snap of my fingers, I send a message via magic to Antonio and Sebastian. “I know.” Just those two simple words had them stricken with terror, blood seemingly no longer circulating in their faces from how white they had gotten. “I can tell His Highness of your attempted treason at any given moment.” I sneer. It’s truly entertaining to see them sweat like pigs under my power. I end my message there, not merciful enough to give them closure of my decision.

“THE DEVIL! The Devil has come before us in the body of Prospero to haunt us for our sins!” Sebastion wails. I scoff and roll my eyes. As if The Devil would bother with the likes of them.

“I can assure you I am not such,” I say.

“How? How is it that you stand before us?” Alonso persists.

I finally turn to look at him, looking deep into his still-widened eyes. “My daughter and I have resided here for years, ever since that fateful day you cast me out.” I keep my face as neutral as possible as I respond, giving no inch of emotion. We lock into a staring contest until Alonso looks down, shame is written on his face, shame that I relish in before his eyebrows shoot up.

“Have you seen my son? Earlier, our boat was wrecked by a sea storm, and my son, Ferdinand, has been missing since! He has short brown hair, a little bit taller than myself, and was wearing a purple tunic.” He exclaims in desperation.

Bull’s eye. I tilt my head and look to the corner of my vision, caressing my chin in fake contemplation.

“I do believe so.”

“Is that true? This is a miracle-”

“But whoever said I will return him to you?”

Alonso stops in his tracks, taken aback.

“Pardon?” he says, not believing his ears.

“Whoever said I will return him to you?”

“But why? Why are you doing this? Have you no morals to keep a man’s son from his father!”

“Tell me why I should return the man who exiled me’s son?” I place my arms behind my back and go through a series of hand signals, telling Ariel to bring over Miranda and Ferdinand.

The hope from hearing my confirmation was just as quickly snuffed out, my response leaving him in a state of shock. I know Antonio and Sebastian would not dare speak so that only Gonzalo was left. I turned to look at him once more, daring him to say anything. Gonzalo’s eyebrows creased in deep thought, taking one more look at my face, and he must have found something because he backed down. Finally, I turn back to Alonso, ready to give him a piece of my mind.

“You aided Antonio in usurping my title. Not only did you unfairly strip me of my position but had also exiled me from my home. You cast not only I but my daughter out as well, who had nothing to do with anything except for sharing my blood.”

Alonso looked like he wanted to say something, but I did not give him the chance. No longer will I be silenced. I grab him by the collar and get close to his face.

“For twelve years, I have lived on this island. For twelve years, I have kept my daughter in the dark. FOR TWELVE YEARS, I have pondered on why you did what you did. SO WHY? WHY DID YOU BETRAY ME?” I screamed the last bit.

Yet, all he seems to be able to do is stare wide-eyed at me, as though a deer caught by surprise. He opens his mouth but only a weak strangled noise comes out. With that, I let go of him. He falls ungracefully on his arse with a face as pale as paper and sweat absolutely oozing off of him. It’s as though his brain has completely shut off.

What a pathetic excuse of a man, let alone a king.

I bring my attention back to the other three men. After seeing what I did to Alonso; Antonio and Sebastian both take steps back while Gonzalo looks on with an unreadable expression. Just then, Miranda and Ferdinand appear, hand-in-hand. Ferdinand, once spotting his father, hurries over to him and kneels down to cup his father’s face in his hands.

“Father? Why are you sitting on the ground?” He asks in concern. For now, I’ll stand to the side, no point intervening when they’ve already seen each other.

“Son…?” Alonso whispers, voice soft and unsure. “Are you really real?”

“Of course I am real! Did the tempest damage your head when you went under? Do you need medical attention?” Ferdinand worried. Alonso’s bottom lip trembled before he engulfed his son in a tight hug.

“Do not worry for your old man, I’m just so glad you’re alright! When I woke up and you were nowhere in sight, I looked for you for hours but couldn’t find you! I-I really thought you had died!” They sat there on the dirty floor, huddled together in a hug filled with tears and disgusting snot.

Wow. How sad.

Suddenly, this emotional(awkward) moment was broken when Ferdinand jumped back from Alonso’s arms, eyes wide and eyebrows raised. Interesting.

“Oh goodness! I nearly forgot!”

“What? What is it?” A severely dumbfounded Alonso asked.

Ferdinand hurried over to us and took Miranda’s hand, practically dragging her over to his father.

“Father, I have found my soulmate! my Juliet! my apple-of-my-eye, my sweetheart, my darling, my dearest, my snuggles, my treasure, my sweetie, my-”

“YES, YES! I understand! This is amazing, who is this young lady?”

“Her name is Miranda and she is the daughter of the Duke of Miland, Prospero,” He cheerfully announced.

The amount of time it took, or the lack of it, for Alonso’s face to drop from a proud smile to mortification was absolutely hilarious. I pride myself on my poker face but there was no way I could wipe off the laughter wiggling on my lips.

“Oh…that’s great, son,” He said in a perplexed tone.

“Our time together has been the utmost joyous! Her laugh is like church bells chiming, her smile as blinding as the sun. She is a worthy chess opponent with a beautiful mind. She’s sweeter than honey but as stubborn as a mule. Isn’t she just perfect?”

Alonso has sucked in his bottom lip and a tight smile graces his aged face but he nods his head yes anyways.

“It was love at first sight, I just knew we would get along! Father, I wish to marry this girl.”

And there we go. Alonso has receded into his neck, strained smile still present, eyes glassy with unshed tears, and still nodding away.

“I’m so glad you approve, Dad!”

Well, it’s only natural. There was no other choice, not with me sending him telepathically promises of death via eye contact. At this point, I couldn't care less if I was given a high position due to my daughter’s marriage. Just the thought that I will forever be a thorn in Alonso’s side brings me pure delight-

A knife comes flying at me from behind, grazing my cheek but otherwise, misses. Adrenaline courses through my body and I quickly turn around. I step to the side mere seconds before a hulking figure pounces where I once was.

It’s Caliban.

Rid of his trench cloak, his grotesque figure is bared for all to see. Along his spine protrudes spikes. Scales meld with his skin atop of his forearms and the sides of his neck. Sharp points junt out of his elbows. Fingertips end in sharp talons but no nails. His legs are bent like that of a dragon’s hind legs but instead of toes, he has three webbed claws. His body, defined yet gaunt at the same time, limbs too bony in places to be natural.

He stands from his pounce, coming to his full height of seven feet. He turns around and the first thing I see are his too-sharp teeth and prominent bottom fangs. Around his eyes are more scales and his once white sclera has glossed over with black. His hair, normally flat and greasy, is pricked up like a lion’s mane. He lets out a low growl and his face is pinched in rage, eyes piercing right into my soul. I feel a full body shiver and cold sweat slides down my face.

He lunges towards me once more with great speed, hand outstretched to no doubt maul my face. Were I less experienced, I would have surely died. But I’m not. Just as Caliban gets mere inches away from my face, chains emerge from the ground to restrain his arms and neck. He kicks out his foot in a last ditch attempt to wound me but I step just out of reach. With his mobility compromised, he is powerless.

“Caliban…what is the meaning of this?”

“By God’s blood will I have your head!” He snarls.

“A claw mark for each breath, a bite for every material you’ve used, a burn for every cruel command, and broken bones for every year you’ve occupied MY island!” He roared, fiercely pulling against the restraints.

“Tch,” With a snap of my fingers, I create a muzzle and fix it onto his face with magic. No way would I come close to him in this state.

“I care naught for your feelings but if you must know, I won’t be on this island for much longer,” I say. I slide my eyes over to Alonso and with quick steps, I take his hands into mine.

“Alonso, isn’t it joyous that out children have found love with one another?” I tell him with a sickly sweet smile. I raise a finger to my cheek, “This is Miranda’s first love, she has never before been so enraptured in another individual.” I remark.

I peer down at him, “Despite our conflict, I do not believe that our children should be weighed down by our differences.” I grit out. “Why don’t we call a truce so that our dearest children may be happy, mh?”

“I-” I send him my most venomous glare, daring him to rebuke.

“But of course! Anything for Ferdinand’s beloved!” He desperately shouts, looking close to tears.

“Wonderful that you agree. We shall set out tomorrow to go back to the mainland.” I conclude.

“Hold it right there!” Caliban bellows, having chewed right through the muzzle.

“I ain’t just gonna let you walk scott free! I ain’t done with you until you’re a bloody mess on the floor and six feet below!”

“What a pity, that won’t ever happen,” I sing-song.

“That ain’t for you to decide. I won’t rest until-”

I cast a simple sleep spell on him. He drops unconscious as quickly as a fly, the sound of his head hitting the ground resounds in spite of how empty it is.

This whole ordeal has dragged on for so long that the sun has begun to set, our golden ball of heat slowly retreating into the ocean.

“Now, since it is becoming dark, why don’t we retire for the night?” I announce. The other’s agree without complaint so we start setting up camp.

I assign each person a job. Ferdinand and Miranda go to fetch water from my cell. Gonzalo begins making a fire for us, figures he’s the only one to know how to make one from the guests. I instruct Antonio and Sebastian to go fishing for dinner mostly because they are no good for anything else. Alonso and I are left to set up the tents, avoiding one another as much as we can. Once Antonio and Sebastian come back with their catches, I look over them for any signs of poisoning, finding none.

Dinner is a silent affair except for Ferdinand and Miranda who insist on feeding each other. After, we extinguish the fire and settle for bed. I go into the woods to take a leak before slumber. Over time, I have grown used to the night and have developed a sense of awareness of objects.

On the way, I bump into someone. He lets out a small scream and I instantly know who it is.

“Dramatic, much?” I say in a clipped tone. I don’t let him respond before I move past.

Once a good distance away, I press my back against a tree and palm at my racing heart. Everyday for twelve years, he has been on my mind. Everyday for twelve years, I held nothing but resentment.

Except that’s a lie.

A lie that I’ve built up to elude myself of my true feelings of hurt.

I hate him…that much is true. I hate him for what he did to me. I hate him for his betrayal. But I cannot deny the bitterness that floods my mouth with every thought of him. I long for the days of childhood, when we played tag with each other cause we only had each other. I remember the bright-eyed Antonio who looked up to me as his older brother, who begged for a piggy-back ride. I miss my brother, my sweet little brother who gave me half of his cookie to cheer me up.

I hate his betrayal but I always wondered why he did so. Was it out of his own greed for power? Or was it because of me? Was I not good enough? Did something happen to him that I failed to notice? Did I fail him like I failed our parents?

These thoughts were always there but I banished them to the back of my mind, too cowardly to face them. I didn’t want to know the answer and now I’ll never know.

Earlier, I felt powerful seeing the fear in his eyes but now, acid forces its way through my throat. I inflicted that fear. I made him fearful. When we bumped into one another just moments ago, he flinched away.

My little brother is afraid of me.

My hands fly to cover my mouth and my teeth sink down onto my bottom lip to contain my sob. My legs giveaway and I slide flat on my arse, knees pressed close to my chest. My tears slide down my face like a waterfall and my face scrunches in anguish of what I’ve become. I muffle my sobs as best as I can but come to a complete stop when I hear faint footsteps and voices.

“Are you sure about this?”

My eyebrows shoot up. That’s Ferdinand’s voice!

“Yes, yes I am,”

Miranda! But what are they doing at this time? Everyone else should be sleeping.

“I just don’t understand why you are going through with this. Aren’t you at least a little angry at your father for putting a love spell on us?”

My eyes fly open and I stop breathing. When had the spell worn off?!

“No, I don’t.” Miranda spoke softly.

“But how? He manipulated you for his own benefit!”

“That may be true but my love for him outweighs any anger inside me. He tried his all in giving me a normal childhood. He called me his, ‘Little Princess’, and was the best father I could have asked for. So I want to return the favor. I want to make him happy, like he does for me.”

A fresh wave of tears fell at those words spoken so softly by my daughter. Her words break me in a way only a parent could understand.

I wish Miranda wasn’t my daughter. I wish she had a father who loved her unconditionally, who wouldn’t set her under a love spell for their own selfish desire. She deserves more than I am.

If only I was a better father, a better man.

But I’m not.

I sit behind the tree some more, reflecting on the past few years and today. I think of all the pain I caused, all the things I ruined in the name of my revenge. Finally, I stood up having made up my mind.

My reflection had taken the entire night as it seems as the sun began to peak above the ocean. I walk to my cell and retrieve my knife.

One last thing to do.

“My Ariel, chick, to the elements. Be free, and fare thou well! Please you, draw near.” I whisper

And with that, I collapse to my knees.

I breathe in. Once. Twice.

And I pierce the knife into my stomach.

[lovenona]

neptune’s hands

synopsis; they say his arrival on shore is like witnessing the end of the world. part one of the odyssey, a pirate! jujutsu kaisen cinematic universe; based on this drabble

warnings; mentions of blood, murder, general violence 

word count; 3.0k 

they say he arrives with the smell of sulfur.

it’s a symbol, they say, of hell. suffering, death, the afterlife – whatever you’d like to call it. it’s not a pretty thing. he likes to remind his prey, they slur over their words, coughing up ale and cigar smoke.

remind them of what? but the question remains unanswered.

he is, after all, a story: a wives’ tale, an anecdote taken from the sea to be presented with gusto in brothels and bars over the soundtrack of laughter and gambling and moaning. the name sukuna ryoumen suggests a terrifying story, but that’s all he is – a name in an endless competition for attention for the best tale, the most exciting adventure on the water.

some boastful visitors claim they’ve met him and survived, but you know that’s not true. every pirate who has ever uttered the name sukuna knows the truth: to meet him is to die. to look upon his face is to gaze into the depths of human suffering. entire fleets have fallen mercy to his indescribable power. once, the one-eyed pirate claimed that sukuna plundered the sea’s most powerful trading fleet before beheading the captains and sinking the ships.

he doesn’t use them? you’d asked. aren’t those good ships? wouldn’t a pirate want one?

but the pirate had only laughed at your naivety. perhaps a man would. but he is a curse. he does not need them.

the most fervent among you believe that sukuna is not a man at all, but some kind of deity – an oceanic demon or a god, perhaps, or a monster summoned from the depths to perform moral judgment on those unlucky enough to cross him. four arms, red eyes; when you step outside to take breaks during your apprenticeship, studying the ink underneath your fingernails, you try to imagine what he must look like.

but you shake it from your mind, of course. such gods do not exist in your little world.

so it goes. on your lackluster island, with your lackluster apprenticeship, surrounded by the tepid warmth of the sea, you watch the world go by in phases. time means nothing but the arrival and departure of the pirates that frequent your shores. a ship docks; the inhabitants drink away their fortunes; a ship departs; the sailors seek a new ship to ravage. they tell you that a universe exists beyond the horizon. for a moment, they might even keep you company. but then they leave, and you are left with the printing master and his wife who find entertainment in parading their countless lovers.

you were born here. the printing master was not. you have known nothing but the steadiness of the printing press and the shifting faces at the pubs on the dock: and yet you desperately want to know if the stories are true, if there really is more to your existence than the smell of ink and vomit and wild boars.

of course he’s not real, the master scolds you. i’ve sailed my fair share in this life and i’ve never seen anything like him.

but that’s the point, you’re always quick to defend. if you see him, he’ll kill you.

the master will scoff as he reads his proofs. they are drunkards. they don’t tell the truth. the only thing those pirates are good for is their money – now, help me set the type.

the conversation dies. and so it goes.

– –

it is a lazy summer afternoon when the one-eyed pirate’s ship returns to port. a particular stillness lingers in the air, stagnant, as if the island itself were perpetually paused in breath. in the oppressive silence you swear you hear the grunts of the boars in the woods outside town. slowly, tiredly, the one-eyed pirate’s ship vomits forth its contents: hungry sailors, bags of gold, stolen tapestries, spices, rolls and rolls of fabric. voices hang heavy in the air, piercing the thick humidity; sweat pools under shirtsleeves.

when the printing master releases you that evening, you quietly make your way down to the one-eyed man’s preferred alehouse as you buzz with the possibility of a new story. after months of solitude, you are empty: even at night, you have dreamt less about adventure and more about the whir of the printing press and the dirt stains on the master’s shoes.

so you think nothing of the chaos inside the pub. it is only a homecoming, you think. nothing new, nothing less. the shouts only signify the joy of returning to land. perhaps later tonight they will all visit their women.

but – wait – the one-eyed pirate barely recognizes you as you approach his table. he writhes inconsolably, desperately, as if he know longer knew he was human. beside him, another sailor pats his feverish skin and begs him to take a sip of his ale.

“i saw him,” the one-eyed pirate seethes, words slurred from alcohol, his crazed gaze looking somewhere just behind you. “but you don’t understand, i saw sukuna.”

“that wasn’t him,” the comrade attempts to soothe him.  he glances at you apologetically. “he’s been out of his mind these past few days, haven’t ya?”

the one-eyed pirate grasps your hands; his calloused hands tremor like an earthquake. “i saw him not three days ago. he looked right inside me.” he’s shouting now; you feel the eyes of the pub on your party in silent condemnation.

“he did no such thing,” the comrade says. he angrily waves away the looks from curious onlookers before explaining, “we passed an unmarked ship on our way here, and this fella swears he saw a monster on board. claims they were flying a cursed flag and everything. says it was sukuna.” he scoffs.

the one-eyed man shakes his head furiously, a salty tear falling into his untamed beard. his hands grip yours so tightly that his knuckles turn white. “his eyes were red,” he moans. “he looked right inside me.”

you try to comfort your friend despite the unease that grows in your stomach. burning uncomfortably beneath the attention of the others, you silently beg for the pirate’s expression to falter, for him to wake up and tell you all he was dreaming. the air is too still. there was nothing he could have seen.

“it will be fine,” you tell him softly, and you repeat it as if it were medicine. “you were probably imagining things. it’s all right. he’s just a good story after all.” somehow, somewhere, it hurts to admit it out loud.

but try as you might, the one-eyed pirate doesn’t believe you. “no one who meets him survives,” he whispers. “he is coming for me. i swear it.”  

– –

you smell it moments after making sure the one-eyed man made it to his inn in one piece. after another hour of howling about his own eternal condemnation, you and a few others managed to convince the one-eyed pirate to retire to the brothel and sleep away his worries. as you begin your journey home to the printing master, you watch a cloud swallow the moon. the humid air hangs still around you like a thick coat you did not ask for. it’s much too hot tonight.

you hear nothing, but you smell it just after rounding the butcher’s corner. something like rotten eggs floats in on the wind, congested and swirling, much too sour to breathe. it turns over in your stomach, unwelcome. he is coming for me, i swear it, you muse. you know sukuna is a bad omen, but can you be blamed for your mild interest? can you be blamed for dreaming about what is shrouded in mystery?  

sulphur. you recognize the scent as it finally chokes you, as the summer night makes it a mission to smother you before you can ever get home. you turn back towards the direction of the sea. there are no answers but the dark windows of shops, the echoes of the inebriated lapping at your heels. it is much too still; it is all too well.

a coincidence, you finally decide. or maybe?

five hundred feet later and you hear the first scream.

you don’t know who it is or where it came from, but your feet are moving before it registers: away, get away. you’re running without thought, watching your body move in ways beyond your control. run. run.

this is not the first time your little port has been threatened by vicious outsiders. but, as you register the shriek of another victim, this is the first time there have simply been too many coincidences in one night for you not to feel the fear..

the sulphuric smell is stronger now, and it mixes with the essence of blood, of violence, of horror. there are too many voices. someone shouts a defense strategy, but you are too far gone to participate. you pass the printing master’s home, pass the mayor’s house, pass the young folk sharpening their swords in anticipation of a fight against the unidentified enemy. perhaps once you would have joined them. but the smell terrifies you, electrifies you: it is the smell and the warning of the one-eyed pirate who saw sukuna and lived.

someone starts a fire down by the docks. you pause to watch the smoke curl into the air, watch the hordes of townspeople haul their treasures towards the woods. better to risk the boars and bury gold in the trees than for it to be stolen, after all.

and still the smell chokes you.

you do not remember where you ran, or where you gained your energy, or how you arrived without incident, all things considered, but you notice after nearly vomiting up your dinner that there is sand beneath your boots. the clouds swallow the moon and the night is too dark as you sweat profusely and catch your breath and smell the sulfur hanging in the air.

you pause. the beach. the port is being invaded and you ran to the fucking beach. in the distance, a mile or two down the shoreline, you see the docks and the pubs and the familiar inns bathed in an orange glow. you could laugh – you had not run away from the danger, but towards it. you knew. you knew you would not be happy if you could not confirm your suspicions for yourself.

a nightmare. another scream, somewhere off. the clash of metal. a yell.

deep down, you know the one-eyed pirate is dead.

something shifts behind you. a thick bead of sweat runs down your cheek, shakes hands with the humid air. slowly, holding your breath, you turn.

when you look back on the memory, you think the first thing you noticed is not his eyes, glowing red in the dark, but his hands: uncannily massive, spotted with someone else’s blood, filled with golden rings that he acquired from corpses. those hands would swallow you whole if you let them. they never mentioned the breadth of his hands in the stories. you cannot look away.

you watch him, and he watches you; the moon reveals itself, and you are bathed in a faint silver glow. beside you, the sea sways like liquid metal. his gaze freezes you to the spot, and somehow, you find that the prospect of dying does not seem so terrible if sukuna royumen is the one killing you.

“and what would such a little puppy be doing all alone out here?” his voice is deep; it moves something foreign within you. your stomach is warm, a combination of fear and nausea and desire and curiosity all in one. you know his endearment is not meant as kindness, but this does not hinder your childlike fascination.

you do not know how to answer.

“it’s always so boring when they forget how to speak,” he muses. “it makes it much too easy. there’s no fun in it.” he studies one of his bloody rings for a moment before gazing back at you knowingly. there’s a glint of an unnameable emotion in his eyes.

the one-eyed man was right, you think. those fucking eyes are looking right inside me. he’s split you open, sukuna’s examining your organs and bones and soul. and still you say nothing, thinking he must be reading your mind by now, but you can’t stop staring, can’t stop devouring those red eyes and those four arms and what you think might be tattoos adorning his body. sukuna ryoumen should not be here. he should not exist. and yet, and yet –

“have you never seen four arms before, brat?”

autopilot takes over and you shake your head, as if it was your fault that the printing master was only blessed with two.

he laughs, a sinister, mocking sound that would have made you cry under different circumstances. despite the oppressive heat, a cold chill licks your spine. “what is your name?”

your name slips past your lips before you can think twice about it, and then: “do you always ask for someone’s name before you kill them?”

he’s humored. “what makes you think i will kill you?”

together you listen to the dying shrieks that echo across the beach in a violent symphony. together you breathe in the smell of blood, sulphur, smoke. you would laugh if you were bolder. “it’s what they all say about you, i suppose,” you admit lamely. “and...my town is currently on fire.”

but sukuna politely ignores that last comment. instead, he steps closer to you, swallowing you with his impossibly-human stature. he breathes deeply; he smells distinctly like honey and spice. you wonder if you should be ashamed that your last thoughts on earth were nothing more than hazy contemplations of sukuna ryoumen’s enticing cologne. you wonder if you should be more scared.

“and what do they say about me, puppy?”  

you’re distracted by the broadness of his bare chest, the confirmation that there are indeed tattoos peppering his blood-stained skin. for one dizzying moment, you wonder if he is warm to the touch; the stories don’t say. the stories never mentioned any of this. but when his gaze threatens to burn you alive, you remember your words. “that...that you’re sukuna ryoumen. you take no survivors. you like to sink ships.”

he does not attempt to deny your claims. instead, sukuna studies you in turn; runs one of his hands along your collarbone, pokes at the buttons on your sweaty shirt, swipes a finger across your cheek so agonizingly slow that your knees grow weak. his hands are warm. you don’t dare look at his face, instead opting to keep your gaze level with his torso. you wonder briefly who will find your body, or if the boars will eat you first, or if you will be swept out to sea with the tide.

maybe he’ll eat you, you muse.

you do not know how long you stand this way; you let his hands explore freely, afraid that he will kill you sooner if you protest. for being murderous instruments, they’re surprisingly gentle. one hand moves to languidly brush the tension from your eyebrow, and goosebumps bloom on your arms. another traces the curve of your neck, stopping to analyze your pulse, quick and hummingbird-like. warm. for just a moment you consider closing your eyes.

“you’re not a sailor,” he states. you do not know how he knows this. you wonder if it means something. you hope it does.

“i’m an apprentice,” you say. you weakly hope he does not sense the mild pride in your voice at the admission of your profession.

sukuna’s reply reeks of condescension. “oh, an apprentice, i apologize.” a third hand thumbs the ink stain at your collar that you have never been able to remove. you do not need to see his face to know there is the ghost of a smirk on his lips. “let me guess – a printer. how noble.”

being even the slightest bit more offended by his patronizing tone would have been a gift. but you envision the print master’s face the way sukuna would picture him, think of the sweat on your face and the humidity swirling along your shirtsleeves, and can’t help but be ashamed of yourself as well.

“i like stories,” you defend yourself, surprised at your own incentive to protect your character. “i...i like to hear them, or read them, i guess.”

the hands on you pause. his breath sweeps across your forehead in an intimate wave. you bathe in the smell of him; you wonder how he maintains it, wonder if he feeds on the sailors he kills before he keeps the stolen spices for himself. you would like to know. the stories don’t say.

stillness, then –  “stories, huh?” sukuna laughs that sinister laugh again and steps back to study your figure in full. you miss his hands. you are small beneath his gaze; you are a game; you are prey. for a moment you wonder if he means to kill you with his red stare. at least, you think, it is hard to find regret when you have gotten the confirmation you asked for. you have seen him: he is magnificent. that is all you wanted to know.

“that’s why i...” you swallow, gesturing towards the sea. “i’m here because…”

“you what? speak up, brat.” his tone is humored but impatient. you want to melt beneath those red eyes. you cannot meet them; you look somewhere behind him, at his torso, at his feet, anywhere, anything.  

“i wanted to see if the stories about you were true.” it feels like poison to admit it, like you are an ignorant child again, caught in the reality of an adult’s world.

you blink in mild embarrassment, bracing yourself for a response that never comes. instead, you find sukuna holding out one of those goddamn hands for you to take. he smiles at you, and you are caught in those sharp teeth, that feral grin that promises not comfort but chaos. you know to accept him is to sign your own demise. his other hands gesture hospitably towards the sea. you turn; on the horizon, the silhouette of a single ship looms like a dark omen. his. you are filled with something scalding and curious and you realize in that moment that you are incredibly fucked.

his nightmare grin grows. “well, puppy, since you like stories so much, care to come witness mine?”

[wonder-womans-ex]

The Boys of Yesterday

Sometimes, Saint wonders what his younger self would think of the person he is now.

There are days where he knows that even a hint of the present would make Saint of the past try a little harder; keep going with just a little more hope in his heart. There are days where he’s sure that he’s always wanted to end up where he is now, even if he didn’t always know it.

There are days that he knows the boy from years ago would hate him for. Those are the days where he’ll stop dead in the middle of whatever it is he’s doing as cold, palpable fear grips him, a reminder of the knowledge that he’s a disappointment to anyone and everyone in his life, even himself.

And then there are days where he has trouble reconciling the two people in his mind. He’ll think about who he was then, and he’ll think about who he is now, and it’s as if there’s a line between them. A chasm, wider than anything, bottomless and endless and always there, no matter how desperately he tries to fill it. Sometimes, though—usually, even—he can imagine a bridge. He can find peace with the fact that he was one person, and now he’s another.

But once in a while, it’s like he’s watching someone else make mistakes, powerless to stop it or make it right or even feel guilty about it. He starts thinking about the boy he was then in the second person—me and I and mine turn to Sebastian and knuckles bloodied from fights and a heart full of anger he didn’t know what to do with.

That’s the kind of day today is.

He can feel it as something shifts. He tries to shield himself, but, too soon, it’s like he’s watching from a distance as an eleven-year-old boy named Bash is standing with his feet in the ocean for the first time in his life. He sees a gust of wind blow a lock of deep golden hair into the boy’s face, and then the boy is laughing, smiling, in a way he’s never really known how to before.

If Saint were that boy, not just a bystander from another lifetime, he would feel the sand, soft between the boy’s toes as he wiggles them. He would feel the cold of the water on the tips of his fingers as he crouches down, dragging them through a wave just before it breaks.

This is the scene that plays in Saint’s mind as he stands, hands pinned next to his head, against the side of the Lupins’ boathouse.

He hears the water lapping at the sides of the dock, beating out a soft, steady rhythm. He feels a spray of seawater pass through the air, dousing the left side of his body in cool droplets.

He sees the deep brown, one shot through with sea-green, of Luke Deveaux’s eyes as they stare at each other, neither daring to breath.

For a few long moments, it’s like the world is waiting for something to happen. Luke and Saint may as well be the only two people in the universe, as far as either of them is concerned—no voices are audible from beyond the shoreline, where their friends are playing beach volleyball and listening to music and falling in love; and, for once, the bright white triangles of sails are absent from the horizon.

Finally, Saint whispers, “What are you doing?”

Luke shakes his head minutely. Were it not for the distance—or lack thereof—between them, Saint wouldn’t be able to see it at all. “I don’t know.”

Saint wants to say that he doesn’t know, either, but he can’t bring himself to say the words. Instead, he smiles—one corner of his mouth twitches up, lips parting just enough to reveal the slightest sliver of his teeth.

He feels as Luke’s fingers tighten around his wrists. A tiny part of him thinks he knows why, and the rest of him hopes beyond hope that he’s not wrong.

“Why are we here?” he asks, instead, but the only response he gets is Luke’s jaw clenching as something shifts in his eyes.

After yet another long moment, he tries, “Tweedle?”

“Please.” There’s a note in Luke’s voice that says stop talking, but Saint can’t. He doesn’t think he even knows how.

“Please what?”

Three boys, young and burdened, two of them freer than they thought and one of them out of prison but still in chains.

“Just… just let me have this. Even if…”

A promise of something more; a hint of a life more than just survival.

“Even if what?” Saint’s voice cracks at the end, pitching up into a half-fearful whisper.

Sitting alone in the dark and watching a life he hadn’t lived yet flash before his eyes.

He doesn’t hear the reply—he doesn’t even know if there is one—because he barely has time to think before Luke’s lips are on his, warm and insistent and slightly rough. He kisses back without thinking about it, too, reveling in the way Luke’s hand slides through his hair and pulls them closer together.

They’re standing chest-to-chest, now, hearts beating frantically against each other. There’s some sort of symbolism there, Saint reasons, as he feels Luke’s pulse quicken more the longer they kiss.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wonders how long he’s wanted this—how long he’s spent looking at Luke and thinking there was something there worth loving. He suspects it’s a lot longer than he wants to admit.

Slowly, carefully, he lets one of his arms curl around Luke’s waist. His thumb slips under the hem of Luke’s t-shirt, sliding over warm skin and then coming to rest in the divot of Luke’s spine. There’s an intimacy to this—not necessarily to the kissing itself, but to the fact that neither of them has stopped the kissing, even though they both know they can’t be doing this. Not really. Not anymore—or maybe not yet.

Indeed, when Luke eventually pulls back, he doesn’t push Saint away. He doesn’t leave without explanation, the way he usually does when forced to deal with genuine human emotion. He just takes a deep breath, and then another, swiping angrily at his eyes with the back of one hand. Saint pretends not to notice the tears pooling there, one of which has already started to fall.

They stare at each other for a good ten seconds—maybe more; Saint can’t tell. It’s always as if time falls away when he meets Luke’s gaze, and now is no exception. Then Saint says, “You kissed me,” and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

“You kissed me back.”

Saint wants to make a snide remark about pointing out the obvious, but he catches himself just in time, realizing that would be vastly hypocritical of him.

“Why?”

They say it at the same time, then fall silent. To Saint’s surprise, it’s Luke who speaks up again first: “I think you know why.”

“No,” Saint says evenly, “I don’t think I do.”

“Well, I’m sure you can guess.”

A boy, black-haired and grey-eyed, who looked like love but tasted like loneliness.

This time, Saint lets his mouth curl up into a smirk. “Probably. But why don’t you say it?”

It has the opposite effect from what he intended. Luke’s eyes darken, brow furrowing into a scowl. “You’re mocking me.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” As he says it, Luke tries to push Saint up against the boathouse again, but Saint easily steps out of reach.

“Why would I be mocking you?”

“You fucker!” Luke is shouting, now; his voice is raised so much that Saint thinks the whole world must be able to hear. “It’s hard enough being in love with a… with a Hollow like you; you don’t have to play with my fucking emotions, too!”

That’s when he puts his hands against Saint’s shoulder and shoves.

Saint tumbles, practically in slow motion, off the end of the dock. He sees the anger drop from Luke’s face, replaced by an expression that looks to be part worry and part helplessness.

Splash.

The water is frigid—more so than he’d expect for this late in the summer—and it seems to envelop him completely, up and down and left and right fading away into a suspension that could last forever.

Just as quickly, it’s gone, and Saint’s head breaks the surface as he gasps for air. “Screw you, God!” he shouts, and, with a few strokes, he’s hauling himself back onto the dock. His shirt is soaked through, practically transparent, and his jean shorts are going to take hours to dry out, so he has no regrets about doing what he does next: grabbing Luke by the wrist and tugging as hard as he can until they both topple back into the water.

Dreams that felt like reality until he couldn’t tell the difference between flying and falling.

They’re underwater, now, hair drifting around their faces, and Saint registers that they’re still holding hands. Luke hasn’t let go, yet, and Saint isn’t about to, either.

Saint knows he shouldn't; they’ve just been arguing—but, then again, when aren’t they arguing? Plus, how is he supposed to not consider it, when their hands are still entwined and it feels like a crime to let go.

Luke's auburn hair is swirling around his face, defying gravity in the way only being submerged under water provides. His eyes are squeezed shut, which, Saint assesses, is probably a good idea, judging by the sting in his own. His gaze flickers down to Luke's lips—lips that were on his only moments earlier.

Suddenly, faster than he can think, Saint's self control leaves him and he leans in, connecting his lips to Luke's once again.

It’s even better than the first time. Fuck, it’s better than any kiss Saint has ever had. It’s passion and danger and something that feels a little bit like love.

At first, when Luke pulls away, severing the kiss entirely, Saint is terrified he’s done something wrong. But Luke only swims toward the ocean’s surface, pulling Saint along with him.

Saint, in his oxygen-deprived state, doesn’t understand—he wants to go back underwater, where Luke is his only tie to reality and everything feels like magic. Then he takes a breath, and the world comes back to him in painful clarity.

“Tweedle,” he says.

And, somehow, impossibly, Luke whispers, “I know.”

“But you don’t.”

Saint’s heart stutters at the way Luke smiles. “Why don’t you tell me, then?” asks Luke, and Saint can’t think of a good enough reason to disagree. He can’t think of anything except the way they’re as good as repeating their earlier conversation (and also the way Luke’s hair looks when it’s wet).

Two perfect eyes, full of a nameless emotion, staring at him from the other side of a bonfire and a bottle of beer.

Instead of saying anything, Saint leans in, closer and closer, until their foreheads are touching and he can feel Luke’s breath on his mouth and cheeks and nose. He hesitates for an instant, and then leans in, finally, finally, closing the gap between them.

This time, there really is something different. Somewhere, somehow, something makes a little more sense.

'I love you,' Saint will confide for the first time, later that night. He’s never said it before, because, before now, it’s never been true.

Sometimes, things are truer in the dark.

Sometimes, it takes too much courage to say what you really want to.

Sometimes, it’s easier to live in yesterday.

But sometimes, you don’t need to say anything at all.

amazing characters by @lumosinlove

thanks to @im-oknutzy-trash for letting me brainstorm at them and also writing one of my favourite parts of this when I was stuck <3

[nonbinarychaoticstupid]

c or e (maybe both?) for the ask game

>:) (also he/they/she catra because i'm having too much fun with this hc)

this kinda fits the angst more than the fluff but i hope u like it nonetheless! (also. ending properly? who's that?)

Everything hurts.

Everything hurts, and he can't stop crying -

(Catra knows they're asleep, or dreaming, or dead, because there's no way any of this is real, there's no way Adora is real and Adora came back for her and there's no way Adora could possible be here right now and -)

"I'm going to take you home," she says, distantly, and if she could hear past the humming of the hive mind in her ears she might be able to -

Prime's voice howls in their ears, and it hurts, and Catra grits their teeth and forces out a choked whimper that somehow, somehow ends in "P-promise?" and oh, he's going to pay for fighting back like that, and the thought isn't their own - Adora -

"I promise," Adora says - no, sobs - and he wonders, somewhere in the closed-off portion of his mind Prime seems to have relinquished, if he'd be allowed to reach across the fragile space between them and fall into Adora's arms like he wants to, if the mind pressing hard against his own would allow him that small reprieve.

(They wonder if Adora would hold them back, if she'd let them sink into their arms like they've wanted to for years and never let go. They wonder if she'd - if she'd recoil at their touch - if -)

Something inside her lurches free of Prime's grip, that instinct that keeps her clutching at her arms and trembling and sobbing out here on this lonely platform jutting out into empty space, and Catra - stars, she just wants to be home again - Catra reaches out and chokes out a broken, soft, "Adora-" and -

It happens so quickly they barely have time to register it - pain lances up their body, they cry out, because it's - it's so much worse, it's so much more than when Prime drowned them in the pool, and then the world is white and blank and gone and they're floating in silence, in nothingness, devoid of thought and emotion and everything except vague, passive knowledge of the world trembling around them. And it's quiet, and Catra - and Catra -

When the world comes back to him, it's framed in harsh, blinding black-and-white-and-green light, in tears spilling from the eyes of the blue-eyed girl standing, frozen in terror, at the other end of the universe, in green-edged lightning and in the kind of pain he'd grown used to feeling almost every day of his life.

When the world comes back to Catra, they are screaming.

(And they could fill pages and pages of the notebooks they used to hide under Adora's mattress with every fragment of this pain, with every inch of their body being burned and turned into ash and electrified by the chip in the back of their neck. They could spend hours trying to pin down every heartbeat of it, magnified and so, so much more intense than what they grew up with.

But before Catra can form that thought properly, pushing at the barriers in her mind, before she can do anything except catch a fleeting glimpse of the cry pulling at Adora's lips through white-hot nothing, the brief flashes of the world she has been allowed to see vanish and she topples backward into nothing -

He topples backward into nothing, and he feels what fragile hold on consciousness he hand slip away, and he feels the breath rattle out of his lungs and thinks, desperately, echoing in the vast empty hollow of his mind Prime must have vacated, ADORA - )

-

Catra is dead.

She knows this with unbreakable certainty, knows this the heartbeat she pulls her broken, bleeding body against her and feels her breath stalling and shaking and shattering out of her body. And it tears something deep inside her apart.

She's trembling with the force of it, fumbling for the back of the head of the body in her arms, feeling the new ends of the hair she must have fought so hard to try and keep and the chip embedded in the back of her neck.

Catra is dead, and Adora is clinging to all that's left of her in the bottom of an impossibly vast spaceship, and in all her life she's never felt as alone, as - as desperately empty as she does right now, and -

And the pit of despair and the hole in her heart shatter wide open.

And Adora moulds that rage, that grief, into something - more.

-

It's beyond anything he's ever known. It's colder and brighter and darker and softer than anything he's ever known, and it's coursing through his veins and tugging at the fraying edges of his mind and -

Catra takes her first breath in what could have been forever and knows, instinctively, that she was dead.

She was dead, and the thing pulling at their mind and their soul and their body is what brought them back.

And said thing is holding them right now, cradling their head in her rough, familiar hands and - and crying -

Catra takes another breath, one that turns into something like a cough, and opens his eyes - and - and there she is, glowing and crying quietly and playing gently with the newly-cut ends of his hair , and it's been so long since they've been this close and smiled at each other like this and he opens his mouth and mumbles "H-hey, Adora," and she sobs and pulls them into her arms -

Stars.

They - they didn't think they'd ever be held like this again. They didn't think it was possible for someone to want to hold them like this. But Adora - Adora, who wasn't supposed to come for her, who saved her, who literally just brought her back from death - is pulling Catra against her like she's never held her before and she can't bring herself to do anything but wrap her arms around her and bury her face in her shoulder and let out a small, broken noise that turns into purring.

Purring.

Adora is holding them for the first time in years and crying into Prime's weird plastic-y shirt and Catra is purring.

You came back for me.

-

When Catra wakes up, Adora is in his bed. And his mind, for the first time in what feels like years, is completely and utterly silent. And - and there's a mess of scar tissue where the chip was, and he's warmer than he's been in a long time. (Not hot - warm, warm like falling asleep in a beam of sunlight, warm like being tangled up in Adora's arms again, warm like - warm like being home again.)

He opens an eye. Shuts it again, because Adora is staring directly at them. Mumbles, "You shouldn't have come for me, you know."

(And it's then that they realise that she's practically draped over them, head nestled in the curve of their collarbone, arms looped around their waist like they're 12 again and Adora is the centre of the world and she's holding Catra like she's her moon and -)

"I know."

She opens an eye again. It's dark in here, darker than she expected it to be, and Adora's expression is hopeful and stupid and she glows in the dark like she was when she healed her yesterday and oh-

"... Why did you?"

"Hm?"

Catra breathes out, long and slow, and shuts his eyes again. And just like that, the glow and Adora's weird bright expression and everything else is gone. And he can practically hear her thinking next to him, hand looping up to stroke his hair like they're kids again. "Why did you come back for me?"

"Oh." Adora pauses, swallows. "Well, I guess it's because I still -"

He laughs, feeling hollow. "Still care about me? After I, I don't know, tried to kill you multiple times? Almost destroyed reality?"

"Yes," she says, firmly, and rolls onto her back. Catra would mourn the loss of her warmth if their head wasn't spinning. "I told you. Yesterday. I never hated you. I never stopped caring about you."

She's lying. She's lying. She's-

"I know you think I'm lying," Adora murmurs. Catra tenses. "I know you think you're not worth being saved. I know you think I'd never come back for you, because you don't think you deserve it."

"I don't," he mumbles. "I hurt people. You aren't supposed to want me around. You - you weren't supposed to come back."

"But I did," she says, slowly, and takes his hand.

(Catra tenses again, and it strains muscles he didn't know could hurt like that, and he bites down hard on his lip and tries not to make a noise because - because then Adora would think of him as - as weak -)

"Does it hurt?"

The question - well, it sort of startles them into opening their eyes and glancing in Adora's direction, and then they have to squeeze them shut again, because she's staring at them with such a hopeful, wide-eyed expression that they -

"Huh?"

"Your neck, I mean." She lets go of their hand, hesitantly, and reaches up to the scars crawling up their shoulder blades. And, oddly, Catra doesn't flinch away when she touches them.

(Because - oh - it's been years since she was touched like that and she's almost forgotten what it felt like and -)

"Um. Kinda," she gets out, and Adora nods, like that makes sense. "Everything hurts, to be honest. Just - everything."

A moment passes, and then Adora lets out a small sigh and breathes, "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I'm sorry you're in pain," she mumbles. "I'm sorry I can't do anything to fix it."

Well, there's no nice way they can respond to that.

Catra shifts onto their side, gritting their teeth as pain bites at the base of their tail. Adora is still watching them, eyes half-closed, lying on her back on the mattress and biting her lip like she's - nervous.

Hm. Shit.

It takes them a moment, but - but they -

"Adora?"

"Yeah?"

She breathes in. Out. "Can you - um -"

"Go?" she fills in gently. "Stay? Do you need me to - to get off the bed or get you some food or water? Do you -"

"Stars, Adora, I was just gonna ask if you could hold me. You know, like you were when we - when we fell asleep? I - I mean, it's okay if you don't want to, it's not like -"

He's cut off by a pair of strong arms wrapping around his waist, a head settling on his shoulder, and Adora's soft laughter against his collarbone.

Oh.

Okay.

A heartbeat, and then she whispers, "Is this okay?"

"Yeah. This is fine."

[smallblip]

Deep sea baby

Levihan | Rated for mild swearing and mild deed-doing | This is a secret santa gift for @hanji-zoe103  💕

It’s on Ao3! https://archiveofourown.org/works/28429827

Hanji is born of white foam, where the heavens collide with the sea, and Levi loves her with a fierceness that would make the tides jealous. Levi knows little of poetics, but Hanji promises to find him in the next life and the ones after.

And sure as the waves crashing into shore, she does.

 Hanji is the sea. Uncompromising, untamable, painfully beautiful. Levi thinks she’s poetry in motion, the way she dances, barefoot across sandy beaches, the way she walks down towards the place where the sea meets land, unafraid amidst white waters. 

  He sits, like the shores, and watches her. Watches her bend towards the ground, hands dipping beneath foam, searching for shells. She holds them up against the sun to inspect them when she finds them. Treasure, she calls them. 

  When she’s waist deep in salt water she turns back to look at him. 

  “Come on Levi! The water is warm!” 

  ≋

  Hanji is born of white foam, where the heavens collide with the sea.

  And Levi is the most beautiful boy to have walked the earth, so beautiful he puts the gods to shame. And Hanji fears whatever love they have will be short-lived, because he loves her with a fierceness that would make the tides jealous. 

  It’s a long way from heaven, but Hanji comes to see him every day. She sits with him in a clearing in the forest while he works and he’s sceptical at first. Nothing good comes from associating with the old gods. But the hem of her dress is caked in mud, there’s earth under her nails, and she swears exactly like a sailor would. He teaches her to climb trees and she names all the sheep in his flock. 

  “Maybe it would be nice to stay here forever...” she says to him one day, and Levi understands the gravity of what she’s suggesting. The heavens would not allow for it. They would cut her up piece by piece and she would be returned to the sea. 

  But there’s a conviction in Hanji’s eyes, a severity that justifies the cult of mortals at her feet. The same determination that Hanji has when she’s pulling splinters from her fingers, when she picks wildflowers for Levi, when she holds him against her chest and challenges the gods. She balls her fists and curses the greys of the skies, yet she dances in the rain, giggling, pulling Levi to join her. He surprises himself when he relents.

  So Levi tells her she has his heart. 

  Each night he holds her close, and each night she falls into a deep slumber and she dreams of running barefoot through a field of white roses to reach him. She pierces her foot on a thorn and the field is stained red. A field of red roses. Each one blooming and dying at Levi’s feet. 

  ≋

  In a kinder life, they are childhood friends in a sleepy seaside town. Levi has a popsicle in his mouth, the last of it melting on his tongue. Hanji has long finished hers, and her fingers are sticky from the syrup. But it doesn’t matter because Levi is burying her in the sand so she can keep her filth to herself. He contemplates covering her mouth with sand too, but they’re going to turn thirteen soon and he’s tired of pretending that her talking annoys him. 

  “When I’m older I’m going to sail all over the world!” Hanji grins. Levi thinks it’s funny that now she’s just a talking head in the sand.

  But his heart sinks a little. He doesn’t know if his future is on a vessel bound to nowhere. But they’re still young and their plans have little structure and bearing, so for now Levi pretends he’s going to be there with her, sailing across the ocean.

  “Did you know it’s a myth that lobsters mate for life?” Hanji says, absentminded, part of her trying to distract from the heat, and another part of her already thinking about that ice cream they have waiting for them in her freezer. “Sad huh... Who knew you can’t trust everything on TV...” she laughs. 

  “Seahorses mate for life...” Levi says. He tries to stay nonchalant, but he’s a little embarrassed he spends his free time googling facts he thinks Hanji would enjoy.

  And Hanji knows. Of course she does. She has known him her whole life. In this life and the next he is her Levi. Her Levi with an endless capacity for kindness. She smiles. 

  “Seahorses huh...”

  ≋

  They meet on a ship sailing through uncharted waters. Levi joins the Royal Navy when it feels like he’s exhausted all other options. There's a hunger for power that guides their ship to foreign lands.

  It’s the middle of the night when hears shouting. He jolts awake and already the rest of the crew are reaching for their weapons. There’s no time to change out of their night clothes. The ship spirals into a frenzy. He spots the warning of black sails and white crossbones from afar. The ship is gaining on them. It’s clear they have to stand their ground and fight. 

  The pirates board their ship, and there’s a wild clash of knives and swords and the smell of blood in the air mixing with the metallic taste of gold and bronze and silvers. Levi lunges but his sword is halted midair by a cutlass. 

  “Not so fast Officer...” the pirate says. Past the eyepatch and greasy hair he sees her- he feels her. There’s a white rush by his ears calling for him to come home. 

  I found you, she whispers in his ear as she brings him aboard her ship. 

  The sea promises gold and riches beyond imagination, and Levi promises to follow her to the ends of the earth. 

  ≋

  Levi works in his uncle's bakery a small town in the middle of godforsaken nowhere. It's a family business, and they've been getting good reviews from travel blogs online looking for spots off the beaten path. 

  Levi is on a date to the aquarium and Kenny yells a “don't come back tonight if you know what's good for you!” after him. There are still customers in the bakery and everyone is staring at him. The teenagers in the corner snigger. 

  His date doesn't show, but he's not surprised really. The first date had gone by in a way that could be considered painless. But beyond nice pleasantries, there’s nothing much to look forward to. So Levi completely understands. Then again she could’ve at least had the courtesy to drop him a text. In any case, Kenny will be disappointed. He enters the aquarium anyway. Might as well. He had already purchased the tickets, and he hasn’t been since he was a child in elementary school. He watches the sharks swim laps behind the thick glass. He wonders if they feel unfulfilled, living in a tank, watching as people from all around take family trips to visit the aquarium. 

  “That one’s Bean!” Levi switches his attention from a particularly small shark to the person beside him. 

  “What?” He replies.

  “That one!” She points to the shark making its way past them, “she’s Bean. We rescued her from a fishing net.” 

  Levi watches her grin with suspicion. Maybe he should introduce himself. He's not usually one to introduce himself to strangers with wild hair and gleaming eyes behind thick glasses, but there's a first for everything, and before he knows it, he's telling her his name.

  "Date stood you up?" she says, and Levi glares at her. "Oh... Wait... That really happened?" she apologises, and the stranger with the wild hair and gleaming eyes becomes Hanji. There’s something about the lights in the aquarium, the blues and violets that reflect off the auburn in her eyes in a way that’s almost ethereal. 

  The things that conspire after are tricks of the light then, surely. Hanji invites him back to her apartment, and they talk and they polish off a six pack of beers and a few bottles of cheap wine between the two of them. "This is fun! I haven't gotten shipfaced in a while!" Hanji chuckles. 

  “No.” Levi says, he has little tolerance for bad nautical puns. But it only encourages Hanji to tell him more. There's a mix of "where ya fin all my life" and "you're whaley cute", and finally, when she's absolutely smashed, a "nice boat, wanna fuck?" 

  At that, the dams break and Levi laughs. 

  Hanji wakes up the next morning, killer headache, she shoots up and the headache splits her skull open. Too quick. 

  “Ouch...” she says, eyes blinking through sleep and haze. She grabs at the bottle of water by her bedside and shuffles through her drawer for ibuprofen. 

  “You idiot...” 

  Hanji snaps her head up, looking for the owner of the voice and there Levi is, leaning against her door, hands folded across his chest. Hanji’s jaw slackens. 

  “In case you were wondering, no, nothing happened...” 

  “But... but you’re here... in... in my room...” 

  “Tch...” Levi rolls his eyes, “you passed out and I stayed just in case you choked on your own vomit and died in the middle of the night...” 

  Oh...

  “Wait did I?” 

  Levi raises a brow, she’s still not all there. “Still alive aren’t you?” 

  Hanji shrugs. This could be hell for all she knows. “Fast acting pain relief” proving to be the biggest scam of the century. 

  "What a fucking shipwreck of a person..." Levi says and it takes Hanji a minute before she's doubled over in laughter, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes. 

  Levi half expects to never see her ever again, but there she is the day after, as promised, finger pressed to the glass, ordering herself a Pain au Chocolat, an Americano, and his number on a piece of napkin. He sighs, but he's writing it down for her anyway.

  "You really followed me home that night huh... Didn't it cross your mind that I could be a serial killer?" She says, examining his handiwork. 

  Levi scoffs, "you invited a complete stranger you picked up at the aquarium into your house, and then proceeded to get very wasted... Didn't it cross your mind that I could have been the serial killer?"

  Hanji laughs, and it startles her when it echoes throughout the bakery, "touché..." she says, "guess I am a shipwreck of a person..." she winks.

  The corners of Levi's lips betray a smile as he watches her take a seat by the window to read. 

  "That's not Petra..." Kenny comments. 

  "Who said I went home with Petra?" Levi answers.

  Kenny's face pulls into a smirk and he lets loose a deep rumble of laughter, “Levi you absolute dog!”

  ≋

  The sea is a passage. To a new life that Hanji can only pray will be fulfilling. She is the princess of a port kingdom- a people favoured by the sun and raised by the sea. 

  Her ships carry her to a distant land of frigid waters and snowfall, where her betrothed is king. When she sets foot on land, she's greeted by faces paler than hers and a mannerism befitting the heartiness of Northern kingdoms. There are skins being made into pelt, fish hanging out to dry, wines made from preserved fruit. Already, Hanji misses the white sandy beaches and the heat of the midday sun, but she's to be queen now, and she remembers this when she walks past the heavy doors into the throne room. She comes bearing gifts of glass beads, fine porcelain, and dried fruit and nuts- a reminder of Summer. 

  She takes her place beside her husband, and she smiles at the people who have come to see her- the princess from the other side of the sea. They are her people now. 

  And that's when she sees him.

  His expression doesn't change even when he kneels in front of her and kisses the back of her hand. He vows to protect her. 

  She calls for him later, and he tells her to call him Levi- he has never been too keen on formalities. Besides, Sir Levi doesn’t suit him quite as much. And she's Hanji, just Hanji. 

  It's Winter when they take a ride through the forest. She's not used to the heavy furs and wools and Levi has to remind her that the sun doesn't shine the same here. But Hanji knows. Her golden skin now mellowing. She hikes her dress above her knees and toes through the snow. The ground caves beneath her feet like powdered sugar, and Hanji thinks maybe there's beauty in her new home. She thinks maybe there's warmth to be found, as Levi catches her before she slips. 

  He shows her the lake, now frozen over, and they slide over thick ice like children. She pulls him down with her when she falls and they laugh. There's something in his eyes that Hanji recognises as fear. She feels it in the beat of her own heart, warning her against falling. But they’ve been treading on thin ice around one another, and falling seems inevitable.

  So Levi presses back against her and kisses her. Hanji feels a warmth coursing through her- the same fire she's promised in the lullabies her mother used to sing her. 

  "We should come in Spring. The lake is beautiful then..." Levi says as they make their way back to the castle. And Hanji promises to show him her home. The crystal waters; gentle waters. She knows it's a promise that may never be fulfilled, but nevertheless, this is a moment in time, and promises offer a glimpse into possibility. 

  Come Spring, they make love by the lake, under the cover of the sea of trees. Everything is beautiful in the Spring. 

  ≋

  In another life, the sea promises protection. 

  There’s only one rule out at sea near the white rocks-

  Beware the Siren’s song.

  Levi lives in a little house by the sea. Everyday he sails out near the white rocks to catch fish. 

  Hanji circles his boat. Her iridescent tail catching the light and reflecting deep purples and green. She sings her best song for him- the beautiful fisherman with the grey eyes. 

  "Don’t swim into the nets," he scolds and Hanji is taken aback. She thinks about her beautiful fisherman when he sails for home. And there's a familiar tugging that she feels in her gut. But the weather has taken a turn for the worse and she doesn’t see him near the white rocks. Not the next day nor the days after. She seeks the council of the waters and the waves carry her to shore. 

  There’s a storm raging. The windows are rattling against their frames. Lightning illuminates the skeletons of his house and there’s a persistent knocking that weaves in and out of the thunder. Levi takes the screaming kettle off the hobs. 

  He opens the door to her. She’s standing in the rain, hands wrapping around herself to shield from the cold. Levi’s gaze skims from the tip of her nose down to her bare chest, down to her long legs. He swallows thickly. She’s leaning against the frame of the door, shifting her weight from one unstable leg to another. Like a fawn learning to walk. He frowns but nevertheless, he leaves the door ajar for her to enter.

  “You’re gonna get the floors all wet...” he mutters. Rainwater he can manage. But seawater makes the floorboards a little sticky, and that annoys him deeply.

  “I told you I’ll come for you.” She says. 

  Levi shoves a towel in her face, “Dry yourself.” He pauses for a moment, taking in the shock on her face. “Please.” 

  Surprisingly, she does as she’s told, and when she’s done, she hands the towel back to him. 

  Levi finds her dry clothes, and she pinches and pulls at them, inspecting after she puts them on. 

  “I’m here to eat your heart lover boy.” 

  He considers her. It’s colder this time of year and the sea is relentless. But her skin is gold like honey, sun-kissed in a way that reminds Levi of summers and homemade jam and the grass beneath his feet. 

  “Levi.” He replies.

  Levi. she says, smile spreading across her face like butter on warm toast. 

  He shares his stew with her and she tells him her name is Hanji when her hands are warming by the fire. She looks at Levi, gaze washing over him like a wave. And there’s familiarity in the way his eyes soften when he looks at her. He looks at her like he's trying to call forth a string of memories tying her to him; him to her. But all he has is an affection for her that ripples through his consciousness. It's accompanied by the sounds of laughter- her laughter- and the pale shimmer of moonlight.  

  So she returns to him the next day, and the day after, and the days after that. 

  Hanji brings him little pieces of treasure. A conch shell, a dead sand dollar, bits of sea glass. Her legs grow stronger each time. She dances around his house. She pulls him flush against her chest and rests her chin atop his head and sways to a tune she’s humming. 

  Beware the Siren’s song, they say. 

  But they’re far from the white rocks and she’s laughing exactly like a lover would. The floorboards are creaking under their toes.

  He looks for her when he’s out at sea, and listens as she tells him stories of the depths, about the men who hurt her, about dying at sea, and about the promise of protection and rebirth.  

  When she wakes again, there's water in her lungs and she learns to breathe. To call the sea her home. 

  But maybe it's not by accident that she falls asleep in his arms one night, cocooned in white sheets that remind her of sea foam. 

  She kisses his nose in the morning and he blinks an eye open to look at her. “I’m gonna eat your heart lover boy...” Hanji teases, hair tickling his skin, the sight of him crossing the boundary between sleep and daybreak takes her breath away. 

  Levi smiles, pulling her closer, "stop moving so much..." he groans. It’s still early, they can still afford a little shut eye. He cradles her in his arms- a promise of protection. “You already have my heart,” comes his reply, in a moment of tenderness, and Hanji doesn't return to the waters. 

  ≋

  In others, the sea forces distance between them. 

  They don't meet in this life.

  But sure as waves reaching towards the shore, they meet in the one after.

  ≋

  They're in their second year of college but nothing really changes. 

  Except when it does, it happens so fast that Levi doesn't have time to breathe. The next time he takes a breath he's lying beside Hanji. They’re both sated and sleepy and Levi stills his breathing, coming down from his high. And Hanji thinks this life is nice. It's effortless in a way that reminds her that they are meant to be.

  The Marine Biologists have gathered for a nights out- a pub crawl to be specific. The entire course is decked in ridiculous outfits. There’s a merman somewhere, and a manatee, there’s even a sea snake (moray eel, Hanji clarifies). And Hanji is dressed as a shark. 

  Levi is there because he gets dragged along to everything that Hanji is a part of and he gets asked one too many times what his outfit is supposed to be. Because he’s in his jeans and a black top and he just looks- normal? 

  “He’s my next meal!” Hanji says and Levi pulls a face, he chokes out a, “shitty four eyes...” and he’s blushing a little more than he should because does she even hear herself?

  Halfway through the night Levi wonders why he’s so tipsy. This is really unlike him. He remembers meeting Hanji’s friend Moblit, whose Aquaman sends Hanji over the edge with laughter. He remembers hearing a round of “oh hey Levi!” (They all know who he is, after all, he’s often hanging around Hanji). Then the beer bong challenge. Oh right. The beer bong challenge... that’s why. Hanji won, at least he remembers that. 

  And he also remembers dancing with Hanji at the back of one of the pubs. “This is a good song...” he murmurs in her ear and she visibly shivers. But everything is spinning and the music is delicious, touching is also delicious, and they do just that. And at some point Levi must have just gone for it, because Hanji’s mouth is hot and inviting and Levi thinks he’s delirious so he surrenders to the feeling. 

  They’re back in Hanji’s room, only because it’s only a flight of stairs up and Levi is unzipping her ridiculous costume that surprising does little to ease his raging hard on. And Hanji, god forbid, isn’t wearing anything underneath. 

  His top comes off once they make it past the main door to her flat. Levi doesn’t even notice the mess in Hanji’s room as they navigate the narrow space and soon they're on the bed, hands moving in what is best described as a frenzy. 

  It feels so good and Levi finally admits to himself that he has been thinking about this for a while. And he’s almost relieved when Hanji kisses him and lets her want slide down his throat. 

  Levi wonders if they can still be considered friends. Last he’s checked friends don’t scream each other’s names the way Hanji is saying his name right now as she bites down on his shoulder. Plus, the whole best friends to lovers trope is just one big cliché. And yet, Levi doesn’t hate it. He has to admit it’s actually really nice. 

  The next morning Hanji finds Levi rummaging through her sink cupboard. 

  “My extra toothbrushes are the drawer.” She gestures towards the bottom drawer with her toe. They brush their teeth and they're sitting on the bed again, it's the only place for two to sit, really. 

  “So... Was it good for you?” Hanji says, a little amused with how the entire situation unfolded.  

 Levi clears his throat, face going red. “Would’ve been better if you weren’t wearing that stupid outfit...” He wants to say he's never felt this way with anyone before, but he doesn't. 

  “But hammerheads are cool!” Hanji protests and she’s pouting. Levi wonders if now’s a good time to kiss that stupid look off her face or if that’s too much.

  “Fucking one isn’t...” Levi mutters. Hanji throws her head back and laughs. 

  “So... What do we do now?” Levi asks. And Hanji shrugs saying a "admit we love each other and carry on with our lives?" like it had been obvious. 

  "Sounds good..." he says, smiling, and he thinks they deserve this effortlessness. 

 ≋

  Hanji comes back to him like ship returning to port. She thinks about meeting him when he's six and building sandcastles on the beach. He had ignored her attempt at conversation and Hanji had been a little annoyed.

  "You don't remember me do you?" She huffed, pout on her face, arms crossed. 

  Levi was confused, that definitely caught his attention, "do we know each other?" he asked. 

  "No," Hanji confessed, "no but... I know I'm supposed to meet you." She said with all the confidence a five year old can muster. Levi bickered with her. How can a five year old be so smug? He was a whole year older and he was by no means as confident. He didn't even know whether to pick sushi or pizza for lunch. 

  And she thinks about the night before she left. 

  "I like you Levi..." she had said. She willed herself not to cry, so there's a moment in which she's just chuckling humourlessly to herself. And Levi's scowls at her. "Inconvenient huh..." she added. She had to cross the ocean the next day on a voyage bound somewhere far away and this makes it that much harder.  

  Fucking inconvenient indeed...

  They don't make promises, but Hanji wishes they had. She wishes they would have at least addressed her little confession, because it's been eight years. Eight years of it gnawing at her brain and now it's just a little awkward. 

  Hanji takes a deep breath as she disembarks at port, her feet a little unsteady on dry land- like a fawn learning to walk again. But she sees him. And the knot in her chest unravels. Eight years. It's been too long. She takes tentative steps towards him, but soon she's running and enveloping him in a sweaty embrace. 

  He's whispering something, muffled because he's pressed into Hanji's clavicle-

  “Did you know seahorses mate for life?” 

  She smiles. Sure as the sun, he’s in her arms again. 

  Seahorses huh...

  ≋

  Hanji knows whatever life they've led, this is her favourite. 

  The one in which her and Levi see the sea for the first time together. 

  The one in which she’s the Commander, and him, her Captain. And between them, a river of words left unsaid threatening to break the banks. 

  One day they must cross the ocean, but today they visit the shores again, without the kids this time. And Levi learns why when he watches her peel at her clothes. Her harness comes off first, then her blouse, then everything else, like a little dance for an audience of one. Levi tries not to stare, but he’s already seen her by candlelight in the dead of the night. And yet she never fails to take his breath away. 

  She makes her way to where the white foams dredge the past up the shores of the present. 

  "Come on Levi! The water is warm!" she says, and he hears it like a call to come home- where the heavens collide with the sea. 

  He takes off his clothes and folds them in a neat pile beside Hanji's mess. He swims out to join her.

  The moonlight caresses her skin and this scene- this moment- is opulent. Levi unties the patch over her eye and lets the waters carry it away. She chuckles. "I'm never going to get that back am I?" she says, holding his hand and guiding him to shallower waters. 

  And Levi knows there's some poetry to the way she's kissing him. She tastes like saltwater and Summer all at once, and Levi thinks that he has never felt this way with anyone else. Will never feel this way about anyone else. Instead he glowers at her-

  “Hanji don’t you dare fucking die... I’ll never forgive you if you do... I swear I’ll-“ 

  Before Levi can continue, Hanji is laughing, sputtering as her head bobs below the surface of the water. 

  “Even if I do, you don’t have to say goodbye. I promise I’ll look for you in the next life... And the ones after...” She says, brushing the pad of her finger against his nose. The heavens and the sea bear witness. And Levi promises to follow her to the ends of the earth. 

  Treasure, he calls her, when the sound of white water crashing provide refuge for words that have little place in this life. Levi knows little of the words lovers say to each other, and even less of poetics, yet here he is with Hanji, sitting on the shores now, and watching salt crystal in her hair. He falls asleep that night to the sound of her breathing. And amidst dreams of roses and white foam,

  Levi is home. 

[timextoxhajima]

Playlist Feels: SHORT SERIES PART 4

PART 1 / PART 2 / PART 3

Member: Lee Juyeon

Genre: angst and smut i promise (how can i not write smut with this gif right)

A/N: idk if you guys read my A/Ns... but look for the ** in this chapter, and play the bonus track i’ve linked. i apologise in advance if it hurts... it’s going to be a long chapter, so sit back and relax

Taglist: @muvtharecca​

“you always try to hide the pain”

kevin is sitting opposite you in a 24-hour convenient store, the scent of kimchi flavoured instant noodles wafting through the air. the snow outside was only making this hot, late-night supper even more endearing as if it wasn't already on its own.

the chopsticks snap away from each other with bare minimum energy while you pull off the flap and greet the cloud of hot vapour.

the day concluded with kevin and the interviewer thanking juyeon, and they must've known something was wrong because you shook his hand without a word.

they've never seen you try so hard to force out a smile.

"go ahead and eat, kev," you jam your chopsticks into the nicely cooked noodles, shaking the strands apart. "do you need an invitation?"

kevin is accustomed to your work ethics; he knows you don't like to talk about work outside the studio or the office building.

so he deems it valid to ask when he decides that there was something more than "work" between you and the guest they had today.

"so, lee juyeon," kevin mirrors your movements, watching you in some corner of his eyes. "he's an ex-boyfriend?"

the food masks your need to throw something at kevin, and frankly, you weren't really in the mood to go against your kind-hearted colleague. not just that, you were spent from the day.

the vast amounts of strength you had to summon from the witch scratching your insides out was enough to drain you. it feels like you had to entertain more than a guest today, when you only had one.

any other day and it would've been an easy day.

but not when it is lee juyeon. not when he has his lips on yours in your studio. not when you still love him.

"you can talk to me if you need to, y/n. it sucks to see you like this, and we've been colleagues for two years."

the hot noodles leave a scalding sensation on your lips when you slurp it up, but instead, a sourness wraps itself around the nerves in your nose.

"for context, if our boss was in the studio, he would not have condoned your behaviour. you know that," leaning forward, kevin tries to meet your eyes.

"but he wasn't, so case closed."

he sighs, shaking his head gently as he takes his first mouth of instant noodles.

it is a few minutes of silence that brings you peace. every now and then, one of you slurps and kevin's lips began to pink with the heat and spicyness of the food.

yet, when kevin breaks the silence to return to the topic, it is both a relief from the tension and an added stress to the fact that you have no clue how to run anymore.

"i know he followed you into the storage room, did he do anything to you inside? are you alright?"

"i'm fine."

silence.

you look up through your lashes and see that kevin is slurping a lone strand of noodles extremely slowly, squinting his eyes at you and shaking his head.

"i think you should know you can't lie for whack."

a scoff runs your warm throat dry, and you shove another good mouth through your lips.

"i know he was talking about you in the interview, y/n. why are you denying a bad break up? most couples go through this. so what if he lost you to another man? he said he wasn't prioritising you over his work.”

kevin knows you are trying to avoid the topic and you weren’t one to be aggressive with him. 

he chooses to pry.

“from what i got from the interview, it sounds like he was the one in the wrong.”

sure, he started it. 

but you were the one who slept with someone else.

“any normal girlfriend would’ve been upset, and of course if there was another, better guy in the picture, i wouldn’t have blamed her for moving on. i wouldn’t blame you.”

but you didn’t move on, did you?

“i highly doubt any of that was your fault--”

your attention pulls to kevin from the bowl and lock eyes with him. 

“i slept with someone else, kev.”

the silence is deafening, only the jingle from the entrance of the store interrupting the still air between the two of you. 

“...while you were with--”

“yeah,” your eyes gravitate back downwards, and a frown gets cemented into your forehead. 

the food no longer looks edible; it looks more like a bunch of dead worms floating in a pool of blood. 

you hear kevin suck a deep breath through his nostrils as you push the bowl away, your appetite shrinking by the second and then it disappears completely like dust in the wind. 

“is it...” someone pays for a cup of coffee and leaves the store. “...safe to say that the two of you were already estranged when you did it?”

estranged. 

more like non-existent.

“it felt like we broke up and i didn’t know about it. i don’t know how great of an analogy or explanation that is, but i know that it felt like that,” you pause, because it feels like you were going to hurl out half the portion of noodles you had. “we were on edge for like... months. four, five months. it’s like his phone got thrown out into the middle of the pacific ocean and he never bothered to get a new one or at least save my number and i just...”

you look up from the bowl because your eyes were welling and your lungs were beginning to collapse in on themselves. there was a look of pity and sympathy in kevin’s eyes. 

his lips were pursed and brows slightly furrowed; he doesn’t know what to say and you don’t blame him. 

“the other guy was just there for me in that time of... vulnerability. i just let myself fall for that temptation.”

your colleague is stunned, but never does he once look at you like it was your fault. it was extremely out of character for you to crash and break down in front of him, and you were sure he could tell you were putting in effort to keep yourself composed. 

“sorry,” a tear falls without mercy, and you hurry to get rid of it, simply offering a weak laugh to hide your feelings. 

“i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to make you emotional.”

“it’s alright,” you shake your head and sit up straight, eyes looking to the fluorescent lights above and blinking away the layer of tears in your eyes. “saw this conversation coming anyway.”

kevin pushes out a tiny, bare smile by pursing his lips. 

you let kevin continue with his food because you couldn’t eat anymore, and your attention gravitates back to the outside world where the snow was gently falling onto the pavements. 

bright white lights reflected off the snow on the floor looking like crystals from afar, and you just can’t find enough strength to push the memory of juyeon out of your head. 

the gush of wind that greets your face would’ve been refreshing had you not just been on the verge of crumbling infront of kevin. 

he thanks the cashier behind you and follows you out onto the streets, pulling his beanie over his ears. he watches you close your eyes, snow falling into your lashes and your hair over the back of your coat. 

“i know it’s not in my place to say much, but if it’s anything i learnt from being in a relationship, it’s that you need to face whatever haunts you.”

his words sink into your skin like a cold blanket of truth, because you know it’s right. the tip of your nose numbs with the cold weather when you open your eyes and look at kevin, his presence alone enough to comfort you. 

there was probably no other person you’d be this comfortable talking to about the biggest mistake you made in your life. 

“i know.”

he nods, and turns to the left, expecting you to follow because you stay just about a ten minute walk from him.

but when he notices that you don’t budge from the spot you were standing on, and two passerbys were visibly confused with your lack of movement, kevin returns to your side and gives you a pat on the head. 

“call me if you need anything.”

like before, a nod shakes your head before you could process the movement, and kevin walks away, giving you one last look before he disappears around the corner of the building.

it is taxing to hit the button on the lift panel, watch the numbers on the display screen decrease number by second. 

it is overwhelming when the doors open, and snow falls off your shoulders when you stroll in, finger hovering over the button.

“i didn’t know i needed her until i lost her, and i lost her to another man. it was the biggest mistake then, and it’ll probably be the biggest mistake i’ll ever make.”

your lungs fill itself with a deep breath, the cold air piercing through your pores and nerves as the button lights up with a displeasing shade of red light. 

i’ll believe you this once, lee juyeon. 

we both found a chance to slit each other’s throats open and we both did. 

the gears of the lift doors grind open and a door along the corridor is wide open as someone walks in after pulling off his shoes. 

you step out without much thought, that is, until that person’s head sticks out beyond the door frame and the striped shirt is glaringly familiar to you. 

juyeon picks up his shoes and naturally, his eyes follow his line of movement. 

the eye contact seizes you in your footsteps, and it freezes juyeon the same. his back was slightly bent over, very obviously surprised that you were standing in the hallways of his residence. 

it takes him a few moments to process your face, your hands that were covered in gloves and the handbag you had dangling around your waist. 

your hair, lashes and brows were sprinkled with bits of snow; your grip around the straps of your handbag tight with tension. 

juyeon slowly resumes a proper standing position, each shoe hanging on each of his index and middle fingers as he blinks at you. 

he doesn’t say a word and the lift doors close behind you, but his door doesn’t when he turns and disappears into his apartment. 

just this once.

apologise, and you’re through.

he is not good for you and neither are you, for him.

his apartment is cozy; shoe rack, dining table on the right and a small kitchen beyond, living room. carpet, television, sofa, hallway to the private rooms.

you use your feet to get your boots off, carefully placing them by the shoe rack after dusting off the bits of snow from the wool outside the door. 

the apartment smells like juyeon and it makes you sick to your stomach when it haunts you like a dream you never woke up from; when it rips you apart all over again after five years. 

he walks into view from the hallway, arms crossed tightly across his chest and he looks at you like he was expecting something from you. 

just say what you need to say and go. 

you do not owe him anything. 

“are you here to gawk at my apartment like it’s a showroom or are you here because you wanted to do something?”

fool. 

it is surprisingly easy to contain the frustration now, because you were simply sick of it. there was no reason to remain annoyed with him, nor let him get to you all so easily when he was like this then; obviously he hasn’t changed that much. 

“i...” the neurons in your head struggle to piece the sentence together. “i came to apologise.”

kevin’s words repeat in your brain like a broken record when you look away, for juyeon was staring at you with slightly widened eyes now. he doesn’t even try to hide his surprise or shock -- or maybe he just couldn’t.

you apologising was probably the last thing he expected, yet you were here on your own initiative, spitting out words that he never thought he would hear. 

it requires a rather commendable amount of courage to look up back at juyeon again, his gaze tearing through you like a chainsaw through wood. 

“we had our differences and problems back then but i know it broke you when you found me... with sangyeon.”

you pause, thinking that he’d say something to piss you off or aggravate the situation, but his temples are tightened because he is hiding his feelings; his pain. 

“so... i’m sorry,” a pause. the muscles in your forehead contract and juyeon doesn’t move a single inch. “i don’t need you to apologise, because i don’t know what exactly happened... maybe something happened and i didn’t know but i know myself that i should not have slept with sangyeon, regardless the status of our relationship.”

at least say something, juyeon.

anything.

**  

a car honks outside, the snow getting heavier and falling like feathers of doves being shot down from the sky. the city lights outside the window were flickering with the snow blocking your view of them, but the still atmosphere was holding you by the neck; the cold temperature a knife at your throat. 

there was a kind of pain and trauma in his face that feels like paper cuts on your heart. you know very well he was playing that fateful day like a movie in his head, seeing you in bed with another man. 

you would’ve stopped him right there and then, tell him not to think about it, but that’s what you were here to apologise for anyway. 

gravity pulls your chin down to the ground with shame, your jaws clenching and your temples tightening under your beanie. the skin around your knuckles whiten with the amount of strength you were offering the straps of your handbag, 

a soft shuffle snaps you out of your blank, yet panicking mind that glued its eyes to the floor, and you watch juyeon’s feet with his socks on enter your field of vision. 

your lids squeeze shut, his voice rumbling through your nerves like an internal earthquake and you suddenly berate yourself for thinking this was a good idea.

“did you mean what you said today?”

his touch on your chin forces you out of your mental escape, your jaw being pulled upwards so you could meet his eyes.

i still love you, and i don’t want to break you again... so please don’t break me anymore.

it feels like all your motivation and confidence had drained into him through his finger under your chin, and if you weren’t already beating yourself up inside for saying that to him earlier today, you would’ve probably passed out. 

the layer of glistening tears in his eyes feels like boiling poison in your stomach, because the realisation of his truth only hits you now. 

but you don’t want to hear it.

the last time you were in love with him and he was in love with you, it was like pairing a matchstick with a wax candle: both eventually die out because of the other. 

denial washes all over you like waves during a thunderstorm in the form of an abrupt, shake of your head, even under his touch. it ached more than you liked it to have to deny the truth in what you said today, but you cannot break juyeon again.

“no, i--” your chin shifts out of his hold and your eyes dart away from his face. “i didn’t mean it--”

but didn’t you?

juyeon has your jaw in his hands again, lips cushioned against yours. 

it feels like a spear had been driven through your face when you taste his tears between your lips. 

it tastes like toxins and rotten eggs and saltwater and it makes you want to hurl; not because you hated it but because you hated how much it was hurting him.

“juyeon,” your hands push him away but he grabs both your wrists, the seizure halting you in your movements. 

“what are you so scared of?”

the question is like a dump of cold water on you, and you see nothing but remorse in his eyes. 

“...breaking you... it hurts me to know that i can, and i don’t want to do it anymore. i did it once, i don’t want to do it again.”

your voice cracks under the pressure and a tear rolls down his cheek. the urge to reach up and wipe it off his face was so intense, your hands started to tremble in his grip.

“i meant what i said during the interview today. and if you meant what you said, then it means there’s nothing to be afraid of anymore.”

life has just shoved you off an edge, an edge that you were standing on after running away from juyeon.

only for you to fall off and into his arms again. 

he shoves his lips between yours, almost violently, when he pulls you forward by your wrists. 

he guides your arms around his shoulders and behind his neck, while his hands find your waist and rest on your lower back, keeping the length of your body close to his. 

your hair under your beanie loosens when he pulls it off, and the next to go was your handbag that he slides off your shoulder and lays it somewhere on the ground. 

don’t make me close one more door

it still doesn’t feel too far for no return, until he takes your hand and rests it on his cheek while he kisses you softly. his lips part and so do yours, instinctively, but he doesn’t force himself into your mouth. 

i don’t want to hurt anymore

the warmth from his palm over yours on his cheek melts you like the snow outside, and before you knew it, he pulls away, looking to see if you were going to turn your back on him and run.

stay in my arms if you dare

yet, the want to run is no longer in control. 

or must i imagine you there?

there was no need to say anything, because it was written all over his face and in his eyes. 

he slots his lips between yours again like puzzle pieces, this time feeling much more whole, much less in pain, much more in love; in love again.

the supposedly dead doves on the street writhes to life as a familiar fire in your chest lights up again. 

don’t walk away from me

both his hands cup your cheeks and your hands are gripping onto the material around his elbows when he starts walking you backwards. 

i have nothing 

a wall meets your back, sandwiching you between the cold concrete and the warmth that was emitting from the length of his body.

if i don’t have you

his scent fills your nostrils like flowers in a field and it is almost nauseating to have it so near to you. not only were you smelling it, you were tasting it, and having it in your grasp was extremely surreal.

you break the kiss first and look at the skin on his neck before finding the courage to look back up at him. 

there is a mild frown on his forehead, his palms still holding your face so gently, it feels like you were cushioned in feathers.

“juyeon...”

the name rolls off your tongue like a song lost in time, and juyeon simply angles his head downwards to meet your lips again. 

you must’ve been a fool to believe that five years was enough for you to forget about juyeon, not when you’ve spent nearly the same amount of time being his significant other. 

either that, or you were just never meant to escape juyeon’s life, nor rid him from yours. 

maybe now you understand why people do stupid things when they are in love, because they just don’t think it’s stupid. they do it because their heart propels them to do so; they do it because nobody can replace the feeling that this special someone can offer, that only this person can offer.

so when he has you cushioned cozily into the pillows of his bed and your coat and winter wear long gone somewhere, leaving you in just the first layer of clothes you have on, you realise what he’s trying to compensate.

you couldn’t tell if juyeon was just childishly bitter about the fact that you lost your virginity to another man, or that he was still in disbelief about how he treated you back then. 

one thing was for certain though, he is showering you with kisses and caresses that you would’ve otherwise not expected from juyeon. 

the whines and sighs pouring out between your lips sound like a soft lullaby and  he was revelling in the fact that he should’ve given this to you sooner. 

instinctively, your fingers find the rim of juyeon’s top and riles it up, running your skin over the warmth of his skin and smelling more of his cologne when the material brushes across your face as he removes it. 

he looks down at you and his gaze causes goosebumps to erupt all over your body. 

they are loving and desperate for love. they are warm and cold with the memory of how you ended. they are full of desire and hungry for validation.

it doesn’t take him long to attach his lips to yours again once he’s done admiring the features on your face; features that he had lost for so long, he was worried he might forget them. 

as strange as it seemed, having him drag your clothes off you only to stop and stare at the shade of your skin makes you feel like you were truly exposed to him. it is alien and it makes you want to shrivel up under him, because he was not the person you slept with.

but before you could hide yourself away from him, he litters kisses all over your skin. your cleavage, your stomach. fingers brushing over the skin of your hips and thighs, encouraging your hand reaching down to look for his face.

when his cheek is brushed with your fingertips, he looks up through his lashes and it feels like this should’ve happened in place of sangyeon. 

the memory of sangyeon providing you the love and affection you needed engulfs you in flames and your chin tilts to the ceiling, silently begging the heavens to provide you enough strength to keep your tears in. 

juyeon, reading your body language, reaches to his nightstand and pulls out a black sash, something that looked like it belonged to his costume when you saw him at the club two weeks ago. 

“hey,” he leans forward and gives you a peck on the lips. pulling you upwards, he wraps his arm around your waist as he sits down. the position confuses you for awhile, until he pulls you onto his lap and lets you sit on his thighs. 

looking down at him while feeling the warmth of his legs under your rear is slightly unsettling; it has been way too long. 

“me saying sorry won’t cut it,” he slides the sash into your hands and brings them up to his face. “so i’m letting you do whatever you want.”

you decide that lee juyeon has lost his mind when he guides your hands and ties the sash around his eyes.

a frown draws itself into your forehead before you realise he can’t see your expression. 

your lips part in a bid to protest, to ask if he’s lost his fucking mind; but juyeon grabs your wrists and plants kisses into your palms.

your stomach is churning and your eyes are tearing up all over again when he starts trailing them down the inner side of your wrists and forearms. the intimacy of this entire ordeal draws a high on your consciousness, and you can’t help the sigh that escapes your lips when he pulls away.

if this is his way of earning validation, then you have no authority to keep him from being validated. 

your palms press flat against his shoulders, gently pushing him backwards until he’s lying down on the mattress with your knees straddling the sides of his hips. 

the scent that you remember wafting through your nose for so long, so long ago is strongest around his neck. fragile memory invites you to that very spot, dipping your nose into his skin and attaching your lips to the spot under where his jaw led up to his ear.

the heavy breathing from his inflated nostrils already sounds like frustration, and it begins to hurt in your chest that juyeon is punishing himself.

he’s letting you do it only because he thinks he doesn’t deserve it.

your fingers replace the spot where your lips were, and circles of innocent pain draws themselves into his skin. 

his adam’s apple bobs up and down when he gulps, and you try to contemplate your next move. 

it shouldn’t be this difficult.

it really shouldn’t. 

not when he deserves to suffer for what he did.

but you were the one who slept with someone else.

frustration builds up inside you like a pressure flask, or a volcano for that matter. 

juyeon and his affection were the only things you ever wanted.

punishing him would be as good as punishing yourself. even if it was valid, it was, unfortunately, driving a nail through your spine. 

it hurt to let the realisation of his self-punishment sink in. 

“juyeon,” you pull off the blindfold and shake your head at him. “i can’t.”

a muscle in his cheek twitches, and his bare chest heaving up and down under your palms allows you to feel his heartbeat. 

what was this? some dumb game of chess? were you too dumb to let up so easily or was juyeon just too petty about what happened five years ago? it feels like a game of push and pull that was never going to end.

that is, until juyeon opens his mouth. 

“i’m sorry.” 

your eyes dart around his, frantically searching for any sign of pretence or inauthenticity. 

but you are shocked when you see sincerity, and nothing but him wanting to prove himself. 

your heart is racing and thumping so hard, you were sure juyeon could hear it.

it feels like the weight of the world has crashed down on you, at the same time the heavens finally ridding you of the witch that has been peeling your insides and throwing them out of your body in the form of tears. 

the gravity of the apology sinks into you too soon, because you shove your lips between his before you could even process your own actions. 

digging his fingers into your thighs, he pushes you back so you were lying down again, never once breaking the kiss.

you wonder if you were giving in too easily when he slips his tongue through your lips without much effort, but feeling his heart rush against yours is a sensation to be reckoned with.

it does not feel real. it does not feel like you deserve it.

the friction of your pants being pulled off your thighs earns your attention, but he is drinking your moans and feeling you writhe under him. 

the cool air followed by a thud tells you that your pants are on the floor, leaving you in your lingerie and him in his pants. so your fingers run across his biceps and reach south, slightly aggressively undoing his belt. 

sparks fly when juyeon smiles into the kiss. 

oh, how much i missed you. 

he shifts around in a bid to get rid of his pants, breaking the kiss in the process. 

panting and trying to catch your breath from the excessive making out, juyeon slides his arm under you and flips you over carefully.

he doesn’t remove your bra, and maybe it was because he wanted to know he wasn’t doing this because he wanted sex, the way you accused him of it two weeks ago. 

chills run down your spine with every instant his lips are on the skin of your back, and then your inner thighs and you find yourself shaking under him.

not because you were scared, but because this was right. 

the mattress around your legs shift, a finger trails the skin near your core and the air meets your needy wetness you didn’t even realise was becoming prominent. 

the bedsheet gets crumpled in your hands when he pulls it off, lifting your legs for you to remove it. 

then his palms are gripping the back of your thighs and his tongue meets your entrance. 

a hiss runs through your teeth and you shut your eyes.

the bliss is overwhelming, and your entire body was tremoring from the sensation of him dipping his tongue into you. 

his fingers find your sensitive nub, making you pool more for him to lap up. 

just when it becomes too unbearable, he removes himself from your south. burying your face into the pillow, one of his hands grips the flesh of your rear.

it feels like a warm blanket when he leans down, chest against your back and his left arm supporting his weight next to your ear. “tell me if it hurts.”

he greets you at your entrance, prodding slightly and driving inappropriate thoughts into your head as if you weren’t already halfway there. 

so you nod, and he plants a kiss on your shoulder as he pushes into you. 

your temples tighten with the pain when you feel him stretching out your walls, your fingers gripping onto the bedsheet like you were strangling someone. 

his right arm is holding your stomach under you, his lips still leaving lingering dollops of love and care on your shoulders. 

he waits until the look of pain has vanished, and the thrusts start out light because you were still adjusting to him. 

but it doesn’t take long for the small winces of pain to turn into gentle mewls and moans of pleasure. 

you turn and bury your face into the pillow, trying to muffle out your own desperation. 

so it is a surprise when juyeon abruptly pulls out and flips you over on your back, and you provide him one extremely annoyed sigh. 

he smirks at you, and you don’t mind it one bit. 

“nothing to be ashamed of.”

he wraps his legs around his hips as he looms over you, arms on either side of your head against the mattress. the combination of him pushing into you and pressing his lips against yours is of immense bliss and satisfaction.

you have all of him now, and this was meant to be. 

hips hips roll against yours instead of rampant thrusting, so that he could maintain his lips on yours. he was careful and meticulous and he wants you to know that he still loves you.

if that is what he’s doing, he’s doing a damn good job at it.

his hips are grinding against your sensitive nub and the rolling was maximising the friction of his length inside you, so it doesn’t take much for him to help you reach your high. 

“juyeon--”

“i know,” he whispers to you, lips just about an inch away from yours when his eyes dig into your half-hooded ones.

you expected your body to regurgitate all the memories of sangyeon, but nothing comes to mind.

the only person in your head is juyeon, and you had absolutely no problem with it.

he helps you reach your high and your back archs off the mattress as he drinks the pleasure spewing out your throat. 

he pulls out, just after he helps you ride it out, and he releases on your stomach and your thighs with sweat sticking his gelled hair to his forehead. 

your arms slide under his pillows and your chest heaves from the intimacy. it takes you awhile to realise you are staring at his chest and collarbones and face before he crawls back towards you.

he angles his head to kiss you again, this time willingly smiling into the act of affection. 

“does this mean you accept my apology?”

you suck your lips between your teeth when he pulls away, his hands brushing your hair out of your face and stroking your cheek.

“yes,” you nod subtly. “but only if you clean your mess off me.”

juyeon jabs the inner side of his cheek with tongue and looks away for a second.

he leans forward once more, kissing you on the forehead this time. 

“i love you.”

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

to be continued (final)

[inb4belphienaps]

warnings: demon hunter au, monsterification (?), blood, gore, fighting (physical), death word count: 2028

Through the sounds of one man’s grunting and the clash of metal meeting hardened flesh, the ground of the forest shakes. Whatever birds had remained in the wake of the battlefield signal to one another (warning not just their own, but also the other inhabitants) that the current fight taking place could have devastating repercussions. More devastating than the smell of iron continuing to linger in the area.

As the earth shifts, flashes of bright light mingle with green smoke, creating a pool of fog that, were it privy to the eyes of outsiders, would hint at sorcery being afoot.

Magic holds its weight here in these lands. Depending on where your loyalties lie, you are either the hunter or the hunted. The former is normally trained in combat and taught to wield their powers as well as their swords. The latter, on the other hand, is feared, for the reasons that they are hunted are rooted deep in their very nature.

They go by many names – creatures of the dark, harbingers of evil, infernal bearers of sin. The list continues. And the stories grow. Generation after generation, children are taught to fear them. They are…demons. Children too in fact, of the King of Hell.

A royalty shrouded in mystery. The legend says that those who look upon his face never again see the light of day. And, since, no one has been able to confirm nor deny the numerous depictions of him, littering the books of those whose teeth chatter at the very mention of his title and covering the walls of the temples erected in honor of those who fight against him, he is better thought of as the very embodiment of your worst fears.

The soldiers are easier to motivate that way, more willing to be shaped into obedience. Whether that is seen as the mangled bodies of their loved ones or heard as the cries of the innocent, they are to never show mercy to the beings that do his bidding.

However, there are those who (baring the markings of a heretic), believe that these monsters were once human. That they sold their souls and gave into the darkness. That they were swayed by sweet words of promises unkept and in the end only saw suffering.

There are also those who, in the same manner, believe that these monsters take on the forms of humans. Either the humans they’ve converted or humans that they are to ravage, soon-to-be victims of a plague that cannot be cured or forgotten.

Dangerous thoughts like these are what make the difference between a good soldier and an immovable hunter. If there is doubt or a shadow of sympathy when facing these beasts, you may very well find your head removed from your body, and then, shortly after, consumed in its entirety.

(Yes...they feed on humans.)

Blood mars the surrounding trees and smothers the leaves, painting them an ugly copper. Where the dirt turns black, Simeon knows a struggle took place. How valiantly his brothers and sisters must have fought, he thinks. And how unsavory a death they must have met.

With this in mind, he steels his resolve and focuses all his energy into the magic materializing in his hands, imbuing it into his sword. He’d perfected his techniques. Trained until they’d become an extension of him and his will.

“Why”, the creature says, “they didn’t tell me they were saving the best ‘til last.”

Simeon neither flinches at nor acknowledges its voice. A voice that would otherwise send humans fleeing, pushes him to carry on, to increase his speed and thrust forwards with accuracy.

“But I suppose I should’ve known. The ones before you were far too weak to stand against me.”

He lunges, twisting half-way when he’s met with a swipe of a giant arm and a lash of a bright-green tail. Green. The color of evil. Green. The color of sin.

“They never had a chance.”

“Quit your blithering, monster. I have no intentions of hearing you speak.”

The creature smiles. Though its features are ghastly and covered with remains, Simeon can make out the ends of its mouth and how they curl upwards.

“You’ll have to cut out my tongue then, hunter.”

With each instance that their magics meet, the world around them becomes all the more obsolete. The serene landscape is instead transformed into an arena, of which only the strongest contender will leave from unscathed.

Simeon has hunted many of these puppets in his time. Cutting their strings and burning their shells, he’d gotten used to the smell of them. Except their appearance is another matter entirely. This creature that stands before him is a testament to that.

Its scales shine in the sunlight, like jewels beneath clear waters. Its limbs are strong and impressive. Its horns, like the antlers of a magnificent stag, demand his attention. Disregarding the loathing he feels; the creature is almost beautiful.

Almost.

He creates some distance between them, reconfiguring his stance and propelling himself off the scarped face of a mound of rocks piled atop one another just so.

The creature is quick to respond and close in on him, running on all fours at him head-first, like a raging bull. Its strides are far and wide, causing Simeon to abandon future attempts at discouraging close combat.

There is a menacing, contained kind of anger that permeates from the creature. He senses it every time its magic brushes against him be it the patches of exposed skin or his armor.  There’s a heat to it too. A hot measure of lethality that reminds him to be careful.

Demons are after all, tricky beings with a history of dabbling in the dark arts (necromancy was nothing to them). These are experienced fighters, unhinged and free to do as they please without their need for self-preservation or the need to maintain their dignity getting in the way.

The sheer force of their clash resounds, akin to a clap of thunder and the sparks that fly as its talons scrape against Simeon’s metal gives ode to the lightning that would normally accompany it.

When they part, following a further exchange of blows, Simeon is panting, and the creature seems excited by the notion.

“You are a creature of the dark. You take solace in the shadows, so you may attempt to flee from your sins but make no mistake, beast”, he hisses, jutting his chin out defiantly with a type of pride that the creature knew all too well, “I will have your head.”

The creature laughs and bares its fangs. Only…the hunter in front of him pictures how they’d glint on his neck, to serve both as a reminder and as a medal for his efforts.

Taking this monster down and fashioning his remains into something wearable? It was the least he could do for his companions who had sacrificed themselves and died fighting. Hell itself would have to freeze over before he’d admit defeat in any sense of the word so that their deaths would not have been in vain.

Suddenly, something splits in the air, the fractures dissipating in a myriad of pieces that could pass for shattered glass and Simeon is temporarily rendered immobile. His eyes widen, and he feels the creature within him. It was invading his mind.

Sentiments of nights spent practicing on his own and memories of harsh winters spent in front of crackling fires cause his shoulders to shake. There, amidst the confusion and horror, his friend’s cheerful visage startles him back into reality.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you?”, the creature chides. “It’s dangerous to go looking for the dead.”

So, the creature knew his intentions. To find his friend and give him a proper burial. His friend, who was probably now disfigured beyond recognition, was waiting for Simeon to find him. He could feel it. His friend, the one who had been there to see him through the hardest times of his life, was calling to him.

“Silence”, Simeon spits, venom coating his demand as he hurtles daggers and magic alike at the looming silhouette shrouded in mist. Each one ricochets off of its hide, and he clenches his jaw. He wasn’t focusing hard enough.

“I’ll give you two seconds to prepare yourself”, it says.

The creature then comes to a standstill and Simeon feels the first inklings of dread. A sentence like that meant that he was either going to be met with a resistance he had no hopes of fathoming or it had a trump card up its sleeve – another nasty trick it could use to its advantage.

“One.”

Wind rustles the foliage above and carries his scent towards it. He tightens his grip on his trusty weapon and tilts his head to the side to crack his neck.

“Two.”

With inhuman speed, it leaps, first into the thickets, disappearing from view, then to his side, grabbing him by the scruff as he’s rendered helpless.

Simeon squirms, his sword doing little to better the situation, and he kicks at the creature’s torso. The dull sounds of his foot colliding with its build send a rush of panic through him. And then-

And then he is falling. And the creature is smiling, eyes narrowing in satisfaction as he looks down at the devastation tainting his features. The creature stands at the edge of the cliff, watching him descend into the abyss.

“What a shame”, it says. “You put up such a good fight, little hunter.”

As the creature turns his back, its ears twitch and it swivels around in disbelief. Was there a humming noise? A buzzing? A ringing in its ears?

It doesn’t have the chance to come to a conclusion. Simeon surges upwards from within the depths, colliding with its giant frame, and crushes it to the ground, with the same foot he’d used to kick it just moments before firmly planted on its chest.

“You…you have wings”, the creature whispers.

Simeon resists the urge to shiver. He hadn’t known he’d had them. He hadn’t known he was even capable of conjuring such things.

In its moment of weakness, he plunges his sword into its chest, watching the expression in its eyes change from bewilderment to indifference. Perhaps this was its way of dealing with death. Upon realizing that it too, like him, is capable of it, perhaps it resigned itself to its inevitable fate.

“What is your name, hunter?”, the creature rasps.

He hesitates. It is said that once a demon utters your name, you are forever cursed. And yet, with the outcome of the battle decided, he’s willing to take his chances.

“My name is Simeon.”

The creature nods once and sighs, as if vaguely fatigued.

“And what do they call you? Do your kind even have names?”

It snickers, and Simeon removes his sword, the severe movement causing it to stiffen and clutch at the fresh wound, talons covered in its own sanguineous substance. He feels no remorse or contrition at the pitiful sight, and he digs his sword in once more, eliciting a grunt. The creature assesses his hands – vigorous and seemly, and baring a ring too.

“Satan. That is my name.”

.

.

.

As the sun sets on the horizon and bathes the scenery in twilight, a shadow emerges from the edge of the forest close to the border. His clothes are ripped, and his blonde hair is covered in mud.

He stands, taking a deep breath in, and closes his eyes. When next he opens them, they glow a vibrant chartreuse – its yellow and green hues mixing together to create an uncanny image. The dust has settled and so has the blood running through his veins.

A body lies beneath his feet. Its uniform indicates that the man was once a solider. And as he turns him over, a familiar-looking ring falls out of the soldier’s pocket. He stoops down to pick it up and admires it in the low light.

Yes, those seemly hands and those crystalline irises that’d shown unwavering tenacity.

He will return. If only to cradle that hunter’s pretty little head in his hands.

[seb-owns-these-tatas]

Puppet Strings

Please don’t police the shit out of me for this one (I’ve read and seen all of what’s happening in Tumblr with the talented authors 😭😫---either way, I DGAF if I get judged for writing this. Y’all are getting this for free. LMAO. Welcome to my freakin’ kinky world. 😭

MASTERLIST

Characters: Stephen Colley x Reader

Summary: You’ve had Stephen wrapped around your finger by using your family’s kindness to your advantage---keeping him guilty and complying over whatever wishes you wanted---he was giving it due to your manipulative, cunning persona. You were being head-over-heels for him that made you have your reasons, thinking that being the way you are was fine for your strong obsession. 

Warnings: NSFW 18+ Manipulative reader. Obsessed reader. This is quite dark for me because she’s using our puppy to her benefit (somehow?)---using Stephen as if he’s her boy toy. Spitting. Sub!Stephen. Porn with a plot. (Though, this was planned to only be porn without a plot LMAO) Dub-con. Exhibitionism. Angst? Thirsty ass reader. Not connected to the plot of the movie.

Words: 3,810+

A/N: I didn’t know what happened that this ended up this way. Please don’t judge my soul for this.I was all ‘oh my baby stephen’ to writing this filthy shit. Also, Stephen’s 20 in this and the reader is 19, okay? So, legal. (In my country it is) ENJOY, FILTHY LADIES! This made me pout because of how soft Stephen is and the reader is quite...Eh. 😭 I think this will be a 3-5 part fic. Heehee. Or maybe not----lmao. We’ll see. 

Don’t forget to REBLOG, COMMENT OR GIVE FEEDBACK IF YOU DID LOVE THIS PART! IT’LL MAKE ME SMILE! Sorry for the grammatical errors and such because English isn’t my mother tongue! PLEASE LEAVE FEEDBACK AFTER READING, BB!  

Disclaimer: PNG’s and pictures used in edits are not mine even the GIF’s too. However, the edits and this fanfic is definitely from moi.

MY WORKS ARE NOT NOT NOT NOT NOOOOOOT TO BE POSTED ON ANY OTHER WEBSITES. My official username in Wattpad is “TATATHEPOTATO” and that’s the only other site I have for writing aside from Tumblr. Thank you, Tater tots!

THE SMELL OF BLUEBELLS WAS ARDENT AND SWITH, it's scent thoroughly withstanding and wafting through your nose with the odor of sweat. Stephen's earthy and musk scent adding more stimulation to what was being given down south and around the canvas of your breasts.

An ample amount of slime trailed a path from the swell of your knockers through the meander of your neck, feeling a pair of soft, delicate lips having its way and paving to have a suck; thrilled and exploratory over giving you a mark that you surely ordered him around to.

You've felt the tiny nibbles on your neck, feeling full over being filled by the cock of your family's lackey who happened to be under your manipulative, presumptuous fingers. Stephen was having his way with you, as he was commanded to do so in the middle of harvesting crops; all sweaty, dirty and masking in his domestic labor as your fingers hooked along his belt hoops, pulling him away from the field towards a veiled place where bluebells were filled.

The first time you've had sex with Stephen, he was beyond hesitant. His rosy cheeks fueled as if it was on fire from the moment you've asked him for more of his services; to be the one to take your virginity rather than a rich, middle aged man who had terrible mustaches that crept the heck out of you.

Stephen and his pure innocence understood your favors of help by wanting him to accompany you in the city while you buy things for yourself or stuff that your mother asked to buy.

Much to your dismay for his lack of apprehension, It wasn't the type of aid you were asking for.

How pretty his face flushed a lot more from how you've frankly told him that you needed a different type of assistance to satisfy that curiosity of yours made you giggle, the desire pooling more in the pit of your stomach, filling in the prurient passion as if it was enough to stimulate you.

Stephen Colley was utterly pretty, beyond God's work as he was sculpted with a face of a Greek God as people have been saying. Your family even admiring God's work of art by how he was created; enough to be painted and inspired to be sculptured in the museums. He was the first boy in your fantasies and the only one that could make you breathe deep breaths in between rubbing the itch in your mound as you explored your body by yourself that nobody ever had yet.

He was your fantasy. The boy in your dreams that you would gladly want to have in your life for years end.

After welcoming the afterglow of an orgasm, such debauched thoughts came into your head in the same time you've wanted to rub onto that button again for thinking about him.

You were going to have him. You wanted him, you've mindlessly convinced yourself. Stephen was a plague that could infect your precious little mind---the facade of an innocent, kind and shy sweetheart that your family has been seeing from you was ruined when you've reached puberty.

It wasn't helping that Stephen walked around the house with clothes that you surely want to ruin. Your mind being influenced by your older sister's experiences with men and how her sex life have been.

She was a wild one and deep inside---no matter how much you tell yourself that it was a deed that people respectfully hold onto, the untamed part of you wanted to experience it with the boy who had adorable rosy cheeks and a gorgeous accent that could make you gush.

Being in line with the heavens, you were lucky Stephen was quite naive despite being a year older than you and with all the plans you had inside your head, being manipulative and guilt-tripping him till he would obey was the only answer for him to accept your offers because the boy was beyond nice and respectful, innocent---delicate as he may seem in being a rose without thorns amongst the bundle of daisies growing along the field.

You weren't his first to be honest; hearing that he had his virginity taken by a lady when he was taking a trip to the city, the woman being older than him and enamored by his beauty, she was very pretty as Stephen saw her the first time---growing a little crush before the lady has offered him a night filled with pleasure, leaving him alone the next morning and a ton of cash that has left him heartbroken by expecting a number or a sweet filled morning with her.

Was this obsession you had for Stephen? you couldn't tell while having the luck of being boffed by him no matter how tentative he may been. The phrase you've been telling whenever he was reluctant held a powerful will for making him capitulate over your wishes.

'You're working for us---I'm your miss. Shouldn't you always follow what I have to say, Stephen?'

Guileful and conniving for you, but you've had no other choice especially when you've heard your sister gossip about how he was starting to take a liking over a girl across the neighborhood, the lady living in a castle---going way back with him and her family because they've known each other since they were kids until they've moved away and came back to their hometown.

Cassandra. That was her name. It was a name that should be left forgotten in Stephen's mind.

Your boy shifted in between your opened legs, your dress hiked up and his trousers unbuttoned; stopping on the end of his derriere as he stuck his swollen cock inside your tight folds, kissing and licking along your throat and breasts that had you mewling beneath him.

Begging him to take you in the middle of the grass to relieve that fantasy only he could satisfy, you've laid beneath him and promised that he could take his time and do whatever he pleases. Exploring every inch and depth of your body with your dress being in a bunch and unfastened by Stephen. Today, you've just wanted to feel him, touch him and let him be inside you because of certain feelings that can't be resisted.

He was patiently taking his time, both of you basking in the afternoon glow before dusk and never bringing in a gas lamp before night even arrives. Stephen was licking your taut nub, his mouth close to your nipple as his hot breath was fanning along his own saliva, bringing pleasure and satisfaction. Another weak whimper erupted from your mouth, watching his eyes closed; tongue darting out to flick your other hardened nipple before deeply moaning out his approval as he devoured your breasts with a tight, strong suck.

The lewd action was enough to make your spine and toes curl.

You've flexed your cunt, tightening around his girth and you've heard him lowly groan with your nipple in his mouth. He immediately pulled his mouth off your breasts with a pop. Innocent, lust-filled baby blues stared above you, the flicker in his eyes asking and waiting for your next behest.

"Stephen," was the only word you managed to croak out, sounding like you were being choked as you felt him slowly pull out of your thirsty cunt. He leaned his head to the left, dipping his head and giving you a kiss which caught you off-guard; it was plain and enough to take your mind off his throbbing cock that has slithered in. After being explored by his mouth on your body, Stephen's lips that landed on you to give a peck surely felt unfamiliar because you both rarely do share kisses in the midst of intercourse.

His crimson colored lips on yours felt divine. The sudden smooch probably involuntary in his part because of how sexually intimate you were being with him. You've swallowed the moan forming in your throat by feeling him wholly pull out, moaning and whining from the lack of imbue and by forcing yourself not to have your way with his lips---wanting nothing but to dance your mouth with his.

You knew this was a one-sided affection and he didn't entirely adored you like how you do for him.

Your fingers gripped onto the grass on either side, it traveled and clasped around Stephen's neck that felt balmy beneath the pad of your fingers. Drops of perspiration smoothening out as you watched him pant above you, breathless and in a daze. His cheeks turning rosier and crimson from such scabrous act you've brought him in.

He was heavy and scathing on your thigh. His hand grabbing onto the growing base of his throbbing, uncut, hard cock as he looked between you both, a shaky breath leaving his lips as he was feeling his cock on his hands, fingers enclosing around his girth to give it one jerk that made you salivate.

His neck was sweating, drops of perspiration falling along his temples and to distract yourself, you've darted your tongue out to sweep the sweat off his face, catching him off guard that made him throatily groan and cast you a look, his eyes withdrawn and thoroughly focused on what taboo you tried to help him be accustomed with.

The place you decided to be ravished on was rather risquè but also getting you more thrilled to know that your sister knew this spot as a location you always spend time with whenever you were reading. You've heard tiny shuffling of bushes which made Stephen look away and observe whoever that was with his eyebrows knotted together---distracting him and pushing the worry away just like you always do, you've quietly whispered in his ear.

"Put that cock in me, Stephen. Please,"

At the sound of you pleading, it was enough to pull his thoughts away from being concerned over your family catching you both in such a raunchy moment. Their daughter laid amongst the land, being ravished by their worker who they've trusted for all their heart---a boy whom they didn't expect to be salaciously connected with you.

The both of you were in for a tough scolding if caught.

Pointing the head of his cock in your entrance, he'd swiftly drove in. You were wet enough for him to slip inside with the right tightness of your cunt that pushed him to grunt as he filled you in one go. Your back curled from the penetration, the thirst for sexual gratification being answered by Stephen when he started to thrust his hips, experimenting over the pace that could make you moan around his arms before pummeling like how he wanted to.

"Oh yeah---yeah---yes, just like that," you've choked in your own moans and pleasure, licking your lips and watching how he was defiling your cunt with his cock, your slick moisturizing his---the filthy sound of your juices coating his, thrusting in and out of your folds; becoming music to the sound of insects probably watching how you were both sending each other raptures.

Stephen knew how thrilled you were becoming by the audible sound of how filthy he was making you feel. Being aware of the obscene sound whenever he tries to fasten the pace, slowing down to let you both appreciate the erotic sense of debauchery has gotten you biting your lip up at him.

You were his miss and whatever you wanted was his job to give.

He'd slip a hand in between you, the pad of his thumb finding your clit and when he did, Stephen started rubbing that throbbing nub of yours in rough, circular motions making your core jerk, your hips chasing his hand with each thrust he gives; entirely accepting and embracing the sheer pleasure he was giving.

Your boy was deeply grunting with each shove of his hips, his cock befouling your scheming soul and you were loving every moment---cherishing the sounds he create that only you could muster.

Only you, not Cassandra---not anyone.

In the midst of such onslaught and currently trapped in your own bliss, you've never took heed of Stephen panting out your name; thinking that he was bemoaning his desperation for continuously prodding your hole in a greedy pace, his carping had a flicker of perturbation in his diluted, lust-filled baby blues as he tried to catch your attention.

"Miss---Miss," Stephen couldn't stop his smutty assaults. Too concentrated on reaching both of your highs as he peered down at you with his peepers growing larger when he heard your name being called from afar; being an echo of warning that what you were both caught up with was utterly unchaste.

"---your family---ugh---they're seeking for you," he grunted with every word and plunge; his pace never stopping and his fingers reaching further down to polish your clit. Your leak being spread all over your folds as he licked his lips, admiring how you were writhing beneath his body---how you reacted to his ministrations.

Their voices echoed from afar, alerting you both that they were closer than you imagined them to be. It was the dead of the night already, the time after nightfall as you both welcomed the sins of passion that you have gotten Stephen to be involved in again. Being in the shadows of the night, the moment was easier to covert from your family as you laid to satisfy your mania. The ruffle of grass being stepped on repeatedly actually has been the sound of Stephen ardently violating your cunt along the land of dew.

You've both turned your heads to see light coming from the far distance. A buzz of incomprehensible words of unknown from your sister who was mindlessly telling her hunches as to where you both went; remembering that Stephen was also not around for her to ask if he could buy stuff around town because it was already night time.

"Oh, yes!---don't mind them!---just do me,"

He slowed down his pace, skeptical over being caught but never stopping his thrusts while his features turned conflicted over being dubious and also feeling like he was floating for the twist of elation written on your face from his drives. You've grabbed onto his hair, roughly turning his head to face yours as he loudly grunted and groaned above you, the sound made you slip a finger on his lips to shush his moans.

"You're not going to get caught---we're not going to get caught. Just stifle your moans. You can do that. You're a good boy---our good boy and you'll make me cum, right?"

The whispers you've managed to slip past your lips made him stare down at you, understanding what you were trying to point out and it has not been seconds before he'd nodded before you, starting his relentless pace that made you sigh as he was trying to build up your orgasm again, grabbing onto your ankle and hooking it around his hip as he continued to forge himself in you; his breath hitting your face with every push---grunts being uncontrolled from the actions.

You've heard a twig break from behind, not wanting Stephen to be distracted---you've grabbed onto his face and forced him to look at you; your heart beat never ceasing to run fast whenever he stares into your eyes. The fast heart beat also being the cause of your orgasm coming.

He'd shifted in between you, your hips bucking to meet every thrust he offered. Mewling out lewd moans whenever he hits that spot that felt so heavenly. Reaching for his hand, you've guided him back to where he has been flicking---your clit that he immediately rubbed on as you were approaching your high.

Loud, rough grunts came from his throat, feeling his own coming as your cunt gripped him hard for the sounds he was creating. Your mouth and face contorted in sheer pleasure when you've violently thrashed against his hold. Stephen's unconscious response was to grab onto you, keeping you closer to his lean, muscular body---a wiry sculpted body from all the hard work that he does for your family; convulsing in his arms as you gushed around his penetrative cock.

Rambunctious ugh's came from the both of you, especially from your boy who was in the midst of coming. Your sensitive cunt was jolting as Stephen went on in propelling himself, his face of bliss bringing you ecstacy as it was hot for a beautiful face to be debauched like that. You've forgotten your family who was in search for you when he wholly pulled out just in time for him to spill his warm seed over your torso, his load shooting out in spurts as he breathed heavily above you.

You've both shared silence after a moment of paradise. As a habit you've held Stephen accountable, he'd delicately held onto your jaw with his calloused fingers, pinching them together to set forth over opening your mouth. It was an understanding and idea that you told him about after an act of pleasure. He was against the idea at first before you've basically convinced him that there would be no moment as if you were being degraded. But, he somehow has become used to it after quite some time.

Besides, it was one of your wishes. His miss surely needed to have it when she wants it.

Gradually opening your lips, Stephen has lined his mouth on you. Drawing down a line of spit and aiming to shoot it inside; thoroughly not bothered about the fact of it already as he spat inside your mouth, making you grin as he gathered his spilled cum on your torso with a finger, slipping them inside your vermillion, his eyes in a daze as he concentrated over the mouth that has sucked on his cream-filled fingers---swallowing the mixture of his saliva and release like it was food for your tainted soul.

He certainly didn't expect you to be ribald and deceptive from such a religious family---But, considering your sister and her liberated moments, maybe it was probably in the blood.

"Was it how you liked it today?" he simply acknowledged, tone curious over the fact of being caught by your family was thrilling you which is why you've dragged him along the meadow while he was working, asking him for a quick frigging in a deserted, furtive space.

Stephen helped you wear your dress after snapping his breeches back, keeping himself decent. He still wore his white, dirt-filled tank top. Slipping over his suspenders on his shoulders, the latter remained sitting on the grass as you stood up. The expression on his face mixed with a look of a puppy who was blushing under the moon light, his hair utmost unkempt and clothes looking rumpled as if he had a wild night.

"It was everything, Stephen." you softly muttered, flattening the stresses of your dress with the back of your hand, erasing any proof or evidence that you had a nooky with your family's beautiful helper. A sigh left your lips as the ache of thirst was probing your spine, yearning for more than once today.

"---But, can you do me one more favor?"

"Anything, Miss Y/N."

Stephen waited and watched for your response, seeing you ogling at his beauty as he sat silently, catching sight of those suggestive flicker of your eyes under the night.

You've knelt before him, having your height differences obvious from how you tried being eye to eye as he was still taller than you. He'd simply studied your face, changing into an expression that he wouldn't get to reject---not that he ever does because he had no other choice but to follow what you wanted because you were still his patron.

"Can you visit my chambers after dinner?"

He was quick to become uncertain over the service being asked. His thoughts hastily going to what happened in the middle of fornication a while ago; the risk of being exposed by your family for what you both decided to tumble through the afternoon, "But, Miss---"

His protests were cut short when you've distracted him with a delicate kiss to the lips, using it to your advantage as it left seeing him swallowing his apprehension down in the pit of his stomach. Kissing you back with a soft peck that got you sighing when he pulled away to wait for your answer, his complains never being risked to be told. Currently disoriented from the kiss you've given him out of the blue and from the feeling of being confused over what he should feel for letting you have him explicitly.

"My family won't be awake in the middle of the night,"

"Would...you wish to be ravished again?" he understood what you wanted. Another part of his services that he only gives you because you were artful enough to manipulate him into thinking that the idea was fine---that giving you his body and soul was fine.

Stephen had his utmost respect for everyone in your family because he was thankful for them to be employed in the household. Which is why he was even helping you in this part of favor that he surely could have no say about.

"Yes. Can I have you for the night?---I need you tonight,"

He gave a small smile, his fingers reaching for a couple of bluebells from behind. Completely helpless to be under your demands, "If you are in need of it, then I suppose it is fine. Will it help you sleep at night?" the latter slipped the flower behind your ear, his beam so precious with a soul valuable enough to be exploited or influenced by your manipulative ploys.

"Yes---Yes, it does. It'll keep me in deep slumber rather than sleeping like I never have slept at all,"

"---Then you can have me again if you want to---all night if you wish so,"

You've let him tuck the flower, appreciating how handsome and charming he sweetly smiled when you've taken his fingers and kissed every pad of it.

"Thank you, Stephen. You're amazing,"

"Anything for you, Miss."

There will be no place for Cassandra or any other women in his mind. You were determined to swarm his thoughts with only you---where he would worship no other woman nor let him have the desire to feel pleasure over others. From the moment he came into your lives, you've already marked him as your person when you were younger; having this toxic affection for him from the moment you've seen his sweet, seraph face. His personality and characteristics being adding more to your fixation when he was so kind to be gullible---fastening him in a physical-venereal connection that would aid to your benefit.

Stephen Colley was only yours and a puppy---your puppy that you would gladly take care of forever even if it means to be the bad guy in the house.

So, what’s cooking? LMAO. Leave feedbacks to give me power to write the second part. HA!

General taglist for Henry and his characters: @agniavateira​, @iloveyouyen​, @rahdaleigh​, @silverkitten547​, @henrythickcavill​, @kaatelyyynn​

[traumatized-motherfuckers]

CPTSD and Core Beliefs (Your lens, built on traumatic fuckery)

Alright, so you know I have this Patreon thing that I try to make worth your while in return for your economical help. One of the benefits is the good ole’ monthly ask me anything. And I love it. Because the questions are great. And they push me to dig into topics that I was procrastinating. This month’s AMA is a particularly good one! A question that needs to be addressed, anyways. So it’s perfect. Let’s aim for two birds with one stone.

Our good friend Cassie - you know her by now - asks, how do you identify core beliefs and start to change them? Which is a very simple and very complicated question.

  So, to take a step backwards, what she talkin’ bout?

  Well, one of the internal issues that complex trauma sufferers have to rectify is their belief system. Between our core beliefs and our inner critic, we have a lot going on in between our ears to keep us downtrodden and destitute.

  We’re talking about what I call Fucked Up Core Beliefs here… which are your trauma-born core beliefs. Again, called FUCBs because when you discover them, you’ll likely whisper to yourself, “wow, that’s actually really fucked up.” These sentiments are like the lenses that you surgically stitched onto your face several decades ago in response to your upbringing, as your little mammal brain tried to understand its place in the global hierarchy and how to be chill about it.

 The framework you built from your early development and beyond, that all information still filters through today - both on the way in and on the way out of your head. The words that stream through your brain consciously or subconsciously to shape the ways you appraise… everything. Yourself, your life, your past, your future, other people, and everything that happens in between.

  So, essentially, talking about the ways you interpret your existence and the collected pool of knowledge from where you make decisions, and therefore the ways you act. If this is starting to sound like a big deal - it is!

But it don’t come with a big flashing sign. The Challenge

These beliefs are challenging to figure out because:

  One, they were adapted early on in your life in an effort to understand the circumstances around you or directly downloaded from the sentiments expressed in your environment. When you were first establishing your perspective of the universe and trying to figure out how to navigate it based on the clues presented.

  Plus, the harder part is… because of the early adoption, you’ve already accepted the idea for so long that it doesn’t even seem like a “belief” to you - you’re not choosing it and it’s probably not apparent to you - it’s just the secret narrative running in your head that corrupts all later data. Not cognitive thoughts that you’re directing on purpose. You probably don’t have recollections of the time before you believed such and such to question what you believe - these ideas are solidified in your head with as much certainty as the alphabet.

  So, you might believe you’re a worthless piece of shit as a function of the neglect and abuse you experienced, a way to explain the mistreatment to yourself from a young age… OR you might believe you’re a worthless piece of shit because mom, dad, sister, and society directly told you so. But either way, many years down the line, it’s difficult to pinpoint either of these originating factors as memories fade or to even question the validity of the thought… or to even notice the thought.

  Two, if your family of origin was always repeating the same sort of thoughts and you later associate with people who make you comfortable to be around (i.e. probably have some similar views of the world), you have nothing to compare your beliefs to.

  Your environment teaches you what’s normal. There’s no reference for what is and isn’t healthy, fair, or functional if everyone is drinking the same kool aid. And, unfortunately, in traumatic environments, folks seem to congregate around the fucked up beliefs to protect them with a mutual unspoken agreement. Accept the accepted narrative of the group or be outcast. The same story is replayed on repeat from all ends of your social circle, so why would you even begin to think there’s another way to look at things?

So, if mom, dad, cousin, uncle, grandma, neighbor, peer, teacher, and media are all telling you the same reality exists, how would you ever even begin to have the wherewithal to think otherwise? The thought probably never crosses your mind. The sky is blue, grass is green, and the world is a miserable place where everyone is trying to take advantage of you.

  Three, again, I cannot over-express how insidious, subtle, and generalized these things can be. Fucked up core beliefs affect how you see and process everything. Again, like lenses or an instagram filter permanently applied to your corneas. So, there’s not necessarily one life-effect linked to one-FUCB for easy detection or one event that will cause a clear-as-day defined belief to come shooting to the top of the pile. More like, you very slowly realize you have an unhealthy view or twenty about yourself and the world that have sorrrrrtof impacted every single area of your life now that you spend years considering it.

  Thinking you’re a worthless piece of shit, for instance, has led to you taking low-level jobs with chaotic schedules, living with an abusive partner, and settling for living in the same environment with the same behavioral patterns that you’ve known your entire life. It’s also allowed you to give up exercise, eating right, staying sober, and trying to make any life-improvements. Why bother spit polishing shit? And here you are, wondering why you feel awful about yourself and don’t enjoy anything you’ve created in your life.

  But. It’s not that simple to sort out, or else we would have done it already. You probably haven’t ever purposely considered how commonly this impression is operating below the surface of your actions. Realizing that the belief “I’m a worthless piece of shit who deserves nothing” and trying to change it would be like pulling out the wrong Janga block - everything it has been supporting suddenly comes tumbling down and you’re left with a real fucking mess to rebuild from the bottom up. And, to top it all off, no one ever even taught you how to create a sturdier structure in the first place.

  Fourthly, from some of my own learnings, I’ve come to the conclusion that the core belief, itself, doesn’t even have to present itself at any point to be making a difference in your life. They are so deeply ingrained in my brain that my thought center just naturally uses them as a jumping off point, without even directly touching on the words that might ping my brain as unusual. Just like we can subtly detect risks in our environment that set off our warning bells without ever creating a conscious thought to go with the arousal, I feel like I can apply a core belief to my world without ever noticing the accompanying stream of consciousness.

Sometimes I feel like fucked up core beliefs have become so accepted over time that they’re feelings more than cognitions. As if they’ve become so reflexive through repetition that you have muscle memory - an intuitive response that bypasses your logical brain recognition threshold and jumpstarts shittily-related thoughts… and those will actually register on your thinking scale. But at that point, you accept the novel-feeling thought and never note that it was actually spawned by a very old recording.

  Which is to say, you might have to work on identifying your fucked up core feelings before you can get to the thought deeply buried underneath. Taking a meta break from the episode to tell you, I’ve never thought about that so thoroughly before. But Fucked Up Core Feelings definitely sounds like a solid description of my world. I guess we also have FUCFs to go with our FUCBs from now on. Anyways.

  With all of this in mind, I’m sure you can start to see why these fucked up core beliefs are a big problem. Hell, if you’ve listened to this podcast for more than a few episodes, you’ve definitely heard that I’m still challenged by my own. Like, when I say that I’m freaking out because no one should listen to me and I feel like an imposter - I believe that I’m not good enough to share information with people. That I’m too flawed to even express myself. This is a problem for, say, podcasting. Or, living. And I have to fight it all the time.

  Long story short.

  Your core beliefs are sneaky, they can be comprehensive, and they are hardwired into your brain as your default system for analyzing everything on the planet. Again, kind of like looking for goggles strapped to your face, but in reality you had lasik surgery about 30 years ago.

  So, if you aren’t constantly on the lookout for core beliefs and actively working against your pre-programmed ways of assessing yourself and the world around you… they will get out of control, cause a fair amount of avoidance and defeat, and set you back several steps in your mental health management… plus, potentially your entire life, if you make any big decisions out of this unhealthy mindset. Which you will, because that’s how the brain works. I’m almost certain that you have some experience with this already.

If you ever think things like: The world is a dangerous placePeople are cruelI’m not good enough I’m not smart enoughI’m not enoughI’m brokenOther people don’t like meThere’s something wrong with my personalityI’m not allowed to… (live like others, have nice things, be happy)I’m not one of those people who… (has money, has good luck, gets what they want)Shit is just harder for meNothing ever works outLife is always hardI can’t.

Then you’ve had some fucked up core beliefs floating around in your head.

 These are some super broad ones for the sake of demonstration, so don’t disregard highly specific beliefs that might relate to your particular circumstances or upbringing.

  If you haven’t ever noticed yourself thinking these big shitty picture things… check again in all your deepest nooks and crannies. I think a lot of us TMFRs operate from some version of the narratives above - plus, much worse. Like I keep saying, these beliefs might not be in your conscious thoughts, so much as they’re directing the show from behind the curtain.

How do we pull it back? Discover the beliefs ........

Keep reading or listen up at t-mfrs.com

https://www.t-mfrs.com/podcast/episode/532f2b1c/core-beliefs

[tiesandtea]

I met two members of London Suede, Brett Anderson and Mat Osman, in the lounge of a major New York hotel. They were at the beginning of a four-city tour of the U.S. in support of their newest release, Coming Up on Columbia Records. I got a chance to talk to them about songwriting, performing and who they think can write a good song. Brett did almost all the talking and never took his sunglasses off. Hey, he's a rock star; he doesn't have to. This was my first time interviewing a British band and I couldn't escape the feeling of being Rob Reiner in Spinal Tap.

An interview with Brett & Mat by Dave Levine for Urban Desires, May 1997. The rest of the article under the cut. (x)

London Suede, or Suede as they're known in England, is at the forefront of the new Brit-Pop explosion that includes bands like Oasis, Blur and Pulp. They write lush poppy songs reminiscent of Bowie in the late seventies. As with many of the new British bands, success in America is hard won. They released their first record, Nude in 1993 and it went #1 in England but didn't make much sound on this side of the Atlantic. Why? well Brett thinks he knows, so read on.

UD: So have you guys been to New York a lot? LS: Yeah, we've been here quite a few times. UD: So what's the difference between London night life and New York? LS: I don't know really. I think every city in the world is pretty much the same, isn't it? I mean there's no difference between New York, and London. Everyone likes to think that they live in the biggest, baddest city in the world. London's just as big and bad as New York and Rio de Janeiro is just as big and bad as London. I think at this point in the twentieth century everyone is so well connected and the world's just become one big place... got tramps sittin' in the street and sex and sleaze and stuff like that. It's all the same, isn't it? UD: Except for the bars in London close at 11:00. LS: Yeah, but there are after-hours places. UD: What's your favorite place in the world to play? London? LS: Probably Thailand or Scandinavia. UD: Why? Because the crowds are crazy, and they just love it? LS: They're mad, especially in Singapore. They sing along with every word. UD: What about New York? To me, New York crowds are jaded. LS: Yeah, they are a bit. Last time we played here it was shit. I can't really get my hands around the mentality. I don't really know how to put this. I mean, I don't want to be offensive. UD: Go ahead be offensive, it makes good copy. LS: New Yorkers want to be shouted at or they don't respect you. They tend to assume that quietness equals weakness, which it doesn't. That's an assumption that I don't think anyone in the world makes. The first show we did here was really boring and the second show we were going through quite alot of bad times with the band. We were having alot of internal arguments and it was a real low point in our relations. We were so fucked up with each other, we absolutely fuckin' hated each other... I don't know how to put it.... UD: New York probably loved that. LS: Exactly, it came across in the gig. It was a real wild gig. UD: I read in your press release that when you first started playing, people hated you. Is that true? LS: (Both laughing) UD: Critically too, and then at some point it changed. Did you do anything? LS: No we just got better, that's all there is to it. We always were going against the grain, and so when you're doing something that is going against the grain and you're not very good at it, people hate you. When you do something against the grain and you're good at it, people start thinking it's something special. UD: So it was just experience, then? LS: Experience of playing live, learning how to sing and how to write songs.

UD: I want to give people here in the US that don't know much about you some background. How did you get started? LS: No one really fuckin' cares anyway. UD: ... Okay. Why do you think it's hard for modern British pop bands to break into the U.S.? LS: I know exactly why that is, 'cause the American music industry is obsessed with categories and things. And we aren't that happy with being categorized. In Europe we're just a pop band. We're #7, and George Michael is #5. You know, we're just a band. There is a song on the second album called "The Wild Ones." When we first played it for Sony they were doing somersaults. We thought it was like #1 and they took it to radio stations, and they couldn't get it played. They couldn't figure out if it was a love song or a rock song by a band with a bunch of guitars. We took it to alternative and they thought it was too mainstream, and we took it to mainstream and they thought it was too alternative. It's never been my desire to be neatly sectioned into some little box. Then you lose any mystery, any danger, any X factor that you might have had, and I don't think that many bands in Europe are happy being categorized like that. UD: Your press release touted you as the best lyricist of your generation-- LS: --I wouldn't believe anything it says there-- UD: --do you have any problem living up to that? LS: Do I have a problem with that? Yeah, I don't think it's true. I don't think anyone is the best lyricist of a generation. I should burn that press release. It's been the source of so much inflammatory rubbish. UD: What inspired you to start playing? LS: We just loved music and wanted to be in a band. LS: I wanted to be a song writer. UD: What songwriters do you admire? LS: Kraftwerk, Lennon and McCartney, Pet Shop Boys. UD: What do you think of Billy Bragg? LS: I think he's got a big nose. UD: (Laughing) I guess that would be 'not too much'. LS: Naw, I think he's alright. I like some of his love songs. UD: Yeah, he does write good love songs. LS: It's like Bob Dylan; I think all these political writers aren't as political when they are writing love songs. I think their political stuff stinks. Bob Dylan's political songs are so fucking one dimensional, and the same goes for Billy Bragg. UD: So you don't believe in the folk, socio-political commentary song? LS: Yeah I do. I just don't believe it's effective when it's put in that crass category. I don't think any of Bob Dylan's political songs were that moving. UD: ... What about "Times They Are A Changing"? LS: Yeah, I guess. UD: What about Elvis Costello? He's a guy who writes political songs. LS: Yeah I like "Shipbuilding." That's probably the best political song ever written. It goes beyond politics, and touches on the human consequences of politics, which I think song writing has got to do. I don't think you can just put numbers and manifestos within a chord sequence. I don't think it strikes a chord in the human heart. I think to actually say something to people you've got to say it with emotion. That's why I think that "Shipbuilding" is one of the best political songs.

UD: What's the worst thing about being on the road? LS: Standing in a pool of someone else's piss when you're on a fucking bus on a three-day journey. UD: Is there a story that goes along with that response? LS: No, that's an everyday occurrence. UD: What do you guys think about Tony Blair? LS: I think it's fucking great. I think it's the best thing to happen to England in a couple of years, wonderful. UD: In the United States they compare him a lot to Clinton. LS: A politician can never be one hundred percent great. I think a politician, as long as he inspires confidence in a positive way, then he's a good politician. And I think Blair and Clinton both do that. UD: What kind of press does Clinton get over there? LS: He gets good press. UD: He probably gets better press over there... LS: ... I'd rather see someone like him than some rejuvenated old skeleton like George Bush. You know what I mean? Some old man that looks like they've been revived, you know, dug up from the dead. UD: If you could just sit at home and write songs, would that satisfy you? LS: I don't think so, it's not boring enough yet to do that. There is part that is mundane. There are some low points but then there are some extreme highs and those highs can inform your writing. I think the point of it all is to actually let things inform other things, and let the whole thing become one big process. UD: Do you guys all get along on the road? LS: We've had fights in the past but not in the last couple of years. Although maybe we should start. LS: There is an idea. LS: Maybe I'll punch our bass player. UD: Head butt him? LS: Yeah, I want to give him a good head butt. LS: I might give him a hug. UD: No, don't do that. New Yorkers won't like it. Don't do the hug thing. Don't be nice or anything.

[twiceblackvelvet]

Soulmates?

requested! 

Early rises and strolls to work for the opening shift are far more pleasant than imaginable. The sun rising slowly over the horizon whilst the pathways are clear of other people and hardly any cars noisily taking up road space. It’s calming, beautiful, in fact, to see the change in hues in the sky from a deep orange to a lighter yellow once it’s high enough above everything else. A camera roll full of pictures taken with the beams blazing down could never possibly do it justice, but it does help take off some of the chills during the winter months just looking at them.

It’s quite an easy job, truth be told, the only complication that ever presents itself is through difficult customers and they are few and far between thankfully. Doing the rounds to turn on all of the appliances and the fridge lights is a welcomed routine compared to the never-ending cleaning that comes with a closing shift. It should be a world record how long it takes to hoover the floors, mop them, and then try not to mess up all of that hard work by creating a shoe path through the wet flooring.

For the last six months, Mina has been working at the convenience store, and taking on every single shift her schedule will allow whilst still trying to continue her studies. Serving customers isn’t the be-all and end-all but she is grateful to have been offered the position with no experience in hospitality whatsoever. The owners had recently had to let go of one of their original employees after he was caught taking money from the register thus she was hired before even sitting the interview out of desperation to replace him.

Whilst there are a few customers who are tough to deal with, there are also the locals who are always full of small snippets about their lives, or, will simply offer a courteous smile if their own day is not going as planned. Her favorite, however, is watching all the young and in love couples enter the store together, there’s something about watching their small yet romantic gestures toward one another, and whilst the green-eyed monster known as jealousy would rear its head for anyone else, Mina merely longs to feel what they are one day with her true love.

A soulmate is a difficult thing to explain to anyone which is why it is taught and told from such a young age. The idea that there is one single individual wandering this Earth who is meant to be just as in love with you as you are them, and no one else seems unreasonable or forceful at best. Every relationship in life is significant and can work if each of you put in the work to make sure that it lasts. Just look at how often people will get attached to celebrity relationships, only for them to break up a few years down the line and people are convinced love isn’t real. In fact, there are many people during her life who have told her it was a crazy idea to hold out for ‘the one’.

However, Mina has always been a hopeless romantic and never been able to grasp the concept of dating multiple people when there is a very clear sign on her right hand linking her to the one she’s meant to be with. The one who will offer her a tingling feeling in the pit of her stomach whenever they exchange so much as a glance. The one who she’ll meet for the first time and something inside of her will click, telling her that they are the one for her. The one who will offer her endless reassurance whenever things in life get difficult. She’s always wanted it all, and more. But, they’ve yet to enter her life and whisk her off her feet.

Her mother would often share tales about meeting her father when they were younger, both of them too scared to reveal their markings, both of which being on their legs in the shape of a tiny rocket, to confirm what they had believed to be true, that they are soulmates. But, one day her father invited her mother to a break from an intense study session by going into his pool. They had both completely forgotten about having not shown their markings but as it turned out, they were the exact same. It was always Mina’s favorite bedtime story to hear about how her parents fell in love with each other, their own firm belief in soulmates only furthering her desire to find her own.

There were plenty of people during her early years that Mina thought were going to be the one, and rather than following entirely in her parents’ footsteps, she’d find any excuse to look at people’s right hand, such as holding their hand as she grabbed a skipping rope from them, or even going as far as gifting the girl next door an orange every single day on the bus to school until one day she took it with her right one. All of which failed miserably but she never gave up hope that one day it would simply happen without her having to think too much about it.

A small four-leaf clover resting directly in the palm of her right hand. It’s beautiful, and Mina often finds herself tracing it back and forth whenever she’s bored. Her father had explained to her that it must mean her life with her soulmate will be full of luck, but finding them alone will require a lot of luck, Mina isn’t so sure she’ll be gifted any more beyond that.

Today is no different from every other morning shift, no one bothers to enter for at least the first hour which means restocks and ordering anything that appears to be running low. The higher shelves she has to grab the old wooden ladders from the storeroom in the back, which, she’s convinced are going to one day give way and break causing her to crash through the display behind her. However, the manager, Mr. Kim,  no matter how many times she asks him to get some new ladders simply states that he’s going to soon. When soon is exactly, Mina has no idea but she doubts it will be soon.

“Is anyone working?” A high-pitched voice calls out close to the counter. From her spot on the bottom rung of the ladders, Mina can only just say make out some brown hair.

The bell for the door to signal a customer had entered has clearly not done its job as Mina quickly rushes around to see who it is that’s waiting for her. Fortunately, it isn’t one of the angry customers who no doubt would have put in a complaint about her for not being at the counter, but instead, it’s Sana who works in the coffee shop just up the street and often calls in for a morning visit when they’re both on earlies. Mina thinks Sana has a sixth sense about this because they’ve never formally exchanged schedules with one another nor do they know each other beyond each other’s respective workplaces.

Sana’s own soul mark is directly under her left eye, a small golden star with sparks flying off of it. Mina adores it and finds that it makes Sana’s already beautiful eyes even more charming to look at.

“Ah, there you are Mina. Here, I brought you your usual. If the morning is kicking my ass, I know it is for you too.” Sana says as she hands over Mina’s usual order of an americano. Her eyes look tired and Mina can tell she isn’t fully present as of yet. “What were you doing? Do you know the bell is broken?”

“Restocks,” She quickly takes a sip of the piping hot drink, Sana subconsciously doing the same but regretting it when it burns her tongue a little. “Thank you for this. It was warm out on my walk-in but those clouds look threatening.” The pair of them look out the window to see the sky now lacking the sun-flamed sky that Mina adores and replaced by dark, overcast clouds. “No, I didn’t know the bell was broken until now, it seems everything is falling apart in here.”

“Did you get your new ladders yet?”

“Nope.” Mina pauses to look back toward where they’re just standing in the middle of an aisle and gives herself a mental reminder to move them once Sana leaves. “I’m thinking about just fetching my own in from home, we’re never going to get them and now, the bell probably won’t be fixed for the foreseeable.”

Sana’s eyes follow Mina’s toward the aisles and then drift up toward the bell above the door. She places her cup down onto the counter and taps Mina’s hand to get her attention back on herself.

“Don’t bring your own. I might know someone who can bring you some and fix the doorbell, you’ll still be here at 1 PM, right?”

“Yeah, I finish at 3, but you know he’ll never agree to pay for any repairs Sana, and especially not ones he hasn’t personally authorized”

“Don’t worry about it Mina, she owes me a favor anyway. Just take it as yet another act of kindness from your favorite and prettiest barista.” Sana chortles, fluttering her eyelashes.

“Oh, Jeongyeon is going to get some new ladders for me? I didn’t realize that’s what you meant.” Mina jokes knowing just how to make Sana a little jealous.

“Very funny, you know I meant myself, not her… Though now you’ve said it, you’re right, it could have meant her.” There’s a quick flash of Sana’s eyes unfocusing and drifting off likely to thoughts of her co-worker who she’s been dating for around a year. They aren’t soulmates but Jeongyeon isn’t a believer and Sana thinks she has too much love to give for one person. However, Mina has often caught Jeongyeon tenderly stroking Sana’s soul mark whenever they believe no one is around.

“Who is it?” Mina queries upon realizing Sana never said who it was that would be her savior.

“Hm? Oh… right. Don’t worry about it, just a friend of mine who can repair it for you.” Sana quickly looks up toward the clock on the back wall and picks her cup up from the counter before shifting toward the door, bell once again not working when she opens it.  “Okay, I gotta go but 1 PM, be here not hiding in an aisle, or next time I might just snitch to Mr. Kim. Bye!” She shouts heading out before Mna can say goodbye in return.

It’s a fairly easy day, the weather does indeed end up turning sour as a downpour quickly starts not long after Sana had left and doesn’t ease up even for a second. There are only a handful of customers who enter and the majority of them are simply trying to escape the rain, which Mina is supposed to ask whether they’re going to purchase anything or not but she doesn’t have the heart to force them out into the cold, thus there was at one point just a collective of people stood by the door hoping for a dry spell that never arrives. They do all fortunately shuffle off one by one, all of which running to their cars or the next building for shelter.

By the time 1 PM rolls around, Mina had completely forgotten about her conversation with Sana. The ongoing entertainment of watching people force their jackets up over their heads whilst trying not to walk into streetlights had provided enough of a distraction for her. So, when someone with their coat up over their head holding a pair of ladders enters the shop, Mina simply believes they’re a customer.

The coat comes down to rest around her shoulders and reveals a face that is small yet striking. Eyes dark and wide, nose bright red from the cold, and the rest of her skin an olive color. She’s tall, quite tall in fact as she stands above the very ladders she’s holding around her left arm. A toolkit rests in her right hand, it’s small but looks heavy, however, if it is, the girl doesn’t let on as she carries it easily. Her frame hidden by the huge coat slumped around her but Mina finds her breathtaking and can’t quite remove her eyes from her face.

“Um… hello?” The girl waves a hand in front of Mina’s face dragging her out of the hypnosis she’s sure this girl had just put her under. “Are you Mina?” Yet again, Mina drifts off elsewhere upon hearing her name exit this girl’s mouth so softly.

“Y-Yes... I am… Mina. Yes. Sorry. I’m Mina.” She stutters, quickly trying to make even a slight bit of sense.

“Yeah, I got it the first time. Sana told me you need some ladders and your doorbell is broke?” The girl poses as a question but quickly gets to work looking at the doorbell which isn’t far away from her head but Mina would struggle to get anywhere close to reaching it. “Those are yours, by the way.” She points toward the ladders. They’re brand new, metal. Far sturdier than the wooden ones.

“Thank you, um…” Mina hesitates, realizing she hadn’t asked for the girl’s name as of yet, nor did Sana tell her who she was.

“Tzuyu.” She states flatly, never bothering to look back toward Mina whose eyes are piercing through the back of Tzuyu’s head never moving.

It doesn’t take her long to fix the doorbell. The batteries inside had managed to corrode and damaged some of the inner-wirings but luckily, Tzuyu had some spare on hand in her toolbox and got it back to signaling the door opening and closing in no time. Mina has no idea what Tzuyu has just technically done as she’s never been the most gifted when it comes to repairs, however, watching her weave the wiring together and connect all of the pieces back together certainly looked impressive.

There’s an awkward silence for a second as Tzuyu steps away from the door to finally look at Mina once again, neither of them knowing how to finish off this unpaid transaction of services.

“Um… Thank you,” Mina starts, but is unsure how to continue, just knows that she wants to continue talking. “So, Sana said you’re doing this as a favor to her?” Mina tries to ask, Tzuyu, however, moves to retrieve her toolkit from the ground.

“Yes. She’s a good friend.” Tzuyu says coldly, turning toward the door to leave but then swiftly back to the counter. “It was… It was nice to meet you, Mina.” Her voice more upbeat this time, yet forced as she outstretches her right hand in front of Mina.

Without hesitating, Mina grasps her hand in her own in a handshake. However, her skin immediately feels an electric shock the second their palms connect with one another, and Mina is stunned into just standing there frozen. Tzuyu is the first to pull her hand away which startles Mina back to reality realizing she wasn’t alone in feeling it. But, before she’s given the opportunity to talk to the girl in front of her the small four-leaf clover resting in the center of Tzuyu’s palm quietens any words that were close to escaping leaving them stuck in her throat.

Tzuyu catches sight of Mina’s same soul mark and immediately rushes out of the door and away from her without a word.

A big part of Mina is telling her not to be stupid, telling her not to risk her job by chasing after her and potentially being seen as a weird stalker. However, the other side that desperately wants to figure out if this moment is the one she’s been searching for, the one she’s been seeking since the very first time she was even told about soulmates. With the consequences for her actions at the very back of her head, she dashes out of the door following Tzuyu and runs to catch up with her, stopping outside of the coffee shop where Sana works as she grabs onto Tzuyu’s arm to stop her, the same shock feeling coursing across her skin as she does so.

“You have it too and you feel it. Tell me… that you feel that.” Mina huffs out, breath struggling to catch up to her.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tzuyu blurts out hurriedly upon noticing some eyes starting to watch on, her own eyes refusing to look at Mina. “Let me go.”

“No, I know you feel it. I saw you pull away just before… and you have the same mark like me. You know what this means, right?”

The silence between them returns as both Sana and Jeongyeon exit the coffee shop together to watch the interaction between the two girls unfold, a few people stop in the middle of the street to eavesdrop in, one of them even pulling out their phone to record it. Jeongyeon moves to ask them to put their phone away and they reluctantly comply.

“Is everything okay, Mina?” Sana asks.

“Yes, Sana, everything is fine.” Tzuyu answers for her. “Go back inside.”

The two girls shuffle back into the coffee shop, however, they remain by the door just in case whatever is happening between Mina and Tzuyu goes further downhill than it clearly already is even if neither of them will say why.

“Please, just say something… I know you have it too.”

“Look, Mina… I don’t know what kind of fantasy world you’ve created for yourself inside your head that you so clearly live in… but just because you have the same tiny little mark as someone doesn’t mean anything. Yes, everyday people rely on such a silly little thing to determine their entire lives, and good for them if that’s what they want. But it isn’t for me. You’re not for me.” Tzuyu’s voice cold and without any emotion whatsoever, and yet Mina can feel every single emotion inside herself all at once fighting for dominance over which one will retort back to her.

“But…” Mina barely whispers, unable to form a full sentence.

“But nothing, we just met.. You can’t really believe that we’re now supposed to spend the rest of our lives together because of that one single moment.” Tzuyu pauses, waiting to see if Mina will answer before continuing when she doesn’t. “Plus… I already… I already have a girlfriend.”

For the first time in her life, doubt about who she is supposed to spend her life with has managed to creep up and break down all of the previous standards for love Mina had put. Her hand uncurls itself from around Tzuyu’s arm and she sinks down to the floor because she’s right. All this time, Mina thought that having a soulmate or one set person who you’re supposed to always be with was how life is supposed to be, giving it far too much control and power over her to the point where she has likely pushed away plenty of others who would have no doubt made her happy, made her fall in love, and made her look forward to her future.

Instead, she’s given all of the power and control to someone she hadn’t even met yet. Now that she has, she realizes her mistake because Tzuyu could never be the one for her, even if the mark is there. They are not compatible whatsoever, not at this moment. Perhaps, during different times in their lives, they could be perfect for one another, and perhaps they could live out all of the things Mina has dreamed about. But Tzuyu is taken, and Mina is too much of a fantasist.

Mina can feel Sana and Jeongyeon slowly raise her up off the ground, however, her entire focus is on Tzuyu’s retreating figure walking away from her down the street. She can hear them talking to her and asking what has happened but her throat is unable to produce sound. Everything feels so cold and as if she’s surrounded by emptiness.

Perhaps, there is no such thing as soulmates after all. Perhaps, there never will be.

[jamie-leah]

War of Wolves (12)

Season 1 

Episode 12 - Leave No Witnesses 

Bucky x Reader 

Summary: You have been on the streets for the past two years, ever since your accident that left you with the ability to tell if someone is lying. You work as an informant for the white wolf and his mob but you had never met him…until you overhear a phone call that leads you to saving his life. Now he wants you to work for him. Its an offer you couldn’t refuse…right?

Word Count: 3251

Warnings: Smut 18+ Only, Blood, Torture, Death, Swearing 

A/N: Sorry this part took so long, its longer than the others to make up for it! Enjoy Lovelies (btw, my bf says hi!). 

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You rush down the steps and towards the van. You see Sam get out of the back and into the driver’s side and start the van. You get inside and close the door as Sam drives off. 

Bucky lays a hand on your arm, “are you okay?”. 

You nod as Sam calls back, “did you get anything useful?”. 

That’s when you realise that they don’t know about whether that guy lied or not. You nod, “pass me the pictures you showed me. I think he was in there, but that guy told me he did the hit and he was telling the truth. Said that he got paid by someone else, but he wasn’t going to tell me who”. 

Bucky hands you the photos. You flick through them until you pass him the one you’re looking for. He studies it, “Gabriel Reynolds. He’s a pretty low-level mob. Deals at small levels and usually needs help from other small mobs to do it”. 

Bucky frowns at the picture a bit longer before looking at you, “it’s a lead though and its more than what we would have had if you hadn’t gone in there, so thank you”. 

You take the rest of the ride back home to yourself as Bucky and Steve talk about taking Gabriel out and finding out who paid him to do the hit.

Throughout the ride and all up until the moment you opened your mouth in Bucky’s room, Bucky was tense. When you did get up to his room you mention it, “you know the mission is over right? I’m safe and it all went okay”. 

He shakes his head like that’s not the point, so you ask him, “what is it Buck?”. 

You make your way over to him, “I had to watch and hear other guys flirt with you. They got to touch you. They got to enjoy you in that dress…I just don’t like sharing”. 

You hide your smile at the fact that Bucky is jealous, because in all fairness you wouldn’t like watching other girls flirt with him either. 

You lay your hands on his chest and wait for him to look at you, “now why would you want to enjoy me in my dress when you’re the only one that gets to enjoy me out of it?”. 

You watch his lips part slightly as he searches your face. You turn around and move your hair out of the way. Bucky pulls the zip of your dress down slowly. You let the fabric slip off your body and fall to the floor. 

You turn around again to face Bucky in your underwear. As soon as you’ve turned to face him, his hands find their way onto your body. He pulls you in for a kiss, but you pull back at the last second with a small smile. You whisper against his lips, “I’m yours, and you’re mine”. 

You kiss him then, your tongues meeting in the same dance as his hands travel all over your body. When you finally break you gracefully fall to your knees as you undo Bucky’s trousers. He steps out of his trousers and boxers as he takes off his shirt too. 

You stroke him slowly, watching his tongue dart across his lips and his Adam’s apple bob. You can see pre-cum start to leak out, so you lick just the tip, collecting it on your tongue. Bucky moans low in his throat. 

As you slip your mouth around him, Bucky collects your hair in one hand. You suck slowly, bringing your hand up and down with your mouth. You feel his hand tighten in your hair in frustration of how slow you’re going. 

You take your mouth off with a pop as you continued to stroke him with your hand. He looks down at you, “stop teasing me baby girl”. 

You give him a small smirk, “never”. 

He tips his head back with a groan that turns into a loud moan as you start to suck him again. You suck him harder as you start to gain speed. You swirl your tongue around on his tip every time you come back to it. 

His moans and pants fill the room like music to your ears as you feel wetness pool between your legs. You keep sucking harder as you hear his breathing hitch. It wasn’t long before he says, “if you keep going like that I’m gonna cum”. 

You keep going until you feel him right on the edge and then you stop. You give him a smirk. He growls as he picks you up and throws you in the bed. He doesn’t skip a beat as he rips your panties and bra off with his metal hand. 

His cool metal fingers find your clit and is relentless as pleasure builds hard and fast in your body. Before you know it, he lines himself up and sheaths himself inside you. Your hands grasp the sheets as your body arches up to meet his. 

He’s ruthless in his pace as he continues to play with your clit. You can feel your orgasm on the edge already as he pounds into you. Teetering on the edge, Bucky whispers, “cum for me baby”. It was all it took to push you off the cliff of pleasure as you squeeze his cock. 

As you orgasm around him you feel hot spurts of his cum coat your walls. He leans his body on yours as you both regain your breath. You kiss his jaw, “mine”, is all you said. And he twists his head to kiss you deep before saying, “mine”.  

You wake up the next morning with a note scrawled on the pillow next to you: Doll, had business that couldn’t wait, but I’ll send for you soon. Sincerely yours. 

While Bucky was away you decided to go and visit Winter. You open the door slowly and peek your head in. He looks up and then gets up to go and greet you. You come in fully and wait for him to come over to you. 

He rubs his body into your legs as you scratch his head and stroke his ears. You speak to him softly, “hey boy, I’ve been thinking about you”. He licks at your fingers before gently taking your shirt between his teeth. 

He pulls, and you follow as he brings you to the pile of blankets he was laying on earlier. You get the hint and slowly lower yourself on the blankets. You sit against the wall and put your legs out in front of you. 

He walks around in a circle for a few seconds before lowering himself, so his body was flush against your thigh. He then rests his head on your leg and you stroke him as you watch his eyes droop. 

You speak to him softly as he sleeps, “you remind me so much of Bucky. A dangerous animal with a kind heart. And despite the fact that you’re meant to be a dangerous animal I couldn’t feel safer”. 

You’re not sure how long you stay with him like that, but it relaxes you. You felt like nothing was beyond the walls you were in and that you had all the time in the world to think things over. 

Your thoughts were interrupted when you saw the door open slightly. Bucky walks in and smiles at you, “I thought you might be in here when no one could find you. No one else wanted to come in here and get you”. 

You laugh softly, “I don’t blame them really, even though Winter seems too tired to attack anyone”. 

Bucky watches you for a few moments, before speaking again, “we’ve got a plan to pick up Gabriel. We’ll take out any men he’s with and then we’ll take him back to the warehouse. Where you can come and help”. 

You stare at Winter, “I want to kill him Buck. Gabriel and whoever hired him. They didn’t have to kill your men. Our men…I don’t know, maybe it’s stupid but I feel like apart of this family-“. 

Bucky is quick to interrupt, “it’s not stupid. You are apart of this family”. 

You give him a small smile before asking, “did they have other family?”. 

Bucky looks away, “Alex hadn’t long been married. Charlie had a girlfriend with a five-year-old girl. Brian has a mum in a care home and Josh had a younger sister”. 

You’re quiet for a moment, “you know it wasn’t your fault Bucky”. 

He just shakes his head, “then why does it feel like it is?”. 

His voice breaks at the end and with it your heart. You get up gently from the floor and from under Winter. You make your way over to Bucky pulling his head down to your shoulder as your arms wrap around him. 

You murmur, “it feels like it is because you’re a good man. But listen to me, no one could have known that was going to happen. Not even you”. 

His arms come around you, pulling your body closer to his as you hear him take a deep breath of you. You pull back slightly, “what we can do now is get the son of a bitch that did it”. 

He gives a slight nod and kisses your forehead, “right, well we’re not gonna waste any more time so we’re moving tonight. As soon as we get him at the warehouse I’ll send for you-“. 

“I want to come”, you cut him off. You speak again as you see doubt fill his eyes, “I’ll stay in the car, I won’t get in the way, but I want to be there”. 

Bucky nods as he pulls away but laces his fingers with yours. He starts to pull you towards the door, but you also feel a tugging on your other side. You look around to find that Winter has your shirt in his mouth again. 

You let go of Bucky’s hand for a minute as you crouch down, “I’ll be back soon okay?”, you stroke his head until he lets go, “good boy. I’ll have a treat next time I see you”. You give him a few more scratches before taking Bucky’s hand again and walking out.

You were in the car with Steve, Bucky and Sam. There were two vans following behind you. You were all dressed in black. It felt more like a funeral than a hit. 

The hit was hard and fast as Bucky had gotten wind of a deal Gabriel was going to. We had caught them on the way back. Bucky blocked the road in front as a van blocked them from behind. Bucky and the men gave Gabriel and his no time to react as they all exited the car. 

Gunshots ring out into the empty night and you watch it all without flinching. You think about the men they killed and the people they’ve left behind, and you struggle not to go out there and shoot Gabriel yourself. 

You watch Sam and Steve hold Gabriel back as Bucky kills the few men that are left. Once he’s done Bucky turns and punches Gabriel in the face. He punches him again as Gabriel falls unconscious. 

Steve and Sam hand him off to some other men as they carry him and throw him into the back of the van. The boys make it back to the car and get in without a word. You hand each of them a tissue to wipe the blood they have on them. 

You also lay a hand on Bucky’s shoulder as you’re sitting behind him while he’s driving. It doesn’t take long for his hand to cover yours briefly as the warehouse comes into focus. 

When Bucky parks the car outside, you follow the boys into the warehouse. A few other guys follow in with Gabriel still unconscious. They set him up in the chair that Bucky uses for interrogations like this. 

The men leave, just you, Steve, Sam, and Bucky left. It doesn’t take long for Gabriel to wake up, only about twenty minutes. 

He groans and lifts his head and you swear it looks just like a movie. You stay back a bit, while the boys take a step forward. Gabriel takes a look around and looks at the boys in turn, his eyes then remaining on Bucky. 

He smirks despite the situation and the cut and bruise on his cheek, “you’re not gonna get me to talk. You should have killed me back there with my men”. 

Bucky nods, “there is a strong possibility that you may not talk, but I don’t particularly care. The only person that affects is you because I’ll make you a deal. Either you tell me and then I’ll kill you quick or you don’t tell me, and we’ll keep going until you give out”. 

Bucky grabs one of Gabriel’s fingers in his metal hand and snaps it back with a crunch. Gabriel screams despite his efforts not to. Bucky talks over his screaming, “either way, I get what I want”. 

Gabriel is panting from the pain as Bucky grabs another finger. Bucky speaks calmly, “tell me who paid you to take my drugs and kill my men”. 

“Fuck you”, is all Gabriel manages through heaving breathing. Bucky doesn’t hesitate to snap his other finger back. Gabriel screams again, louder this time. 

Bucky holds his hand out to Sam who gives him a pair of pliers, “let’s switch it up a bit”. Steve holds Gabriel’s head from moving while Bucky uses his metal hand to pry his mouth open. You can just about make out Gabriel’s muffled, “no”, as Bucky put the pliers in his mouth. 

Bucky twists and then pulls as a crack can be heard. Gabriel screams again as you watch blood pour out of his mouth. Bucky holds up the pliers which holds a tooth with the root. 

Steve lets him go as he steps back. Bucky speaks as Gabriel tries to get a hold of himself, “just tell me who paid you and I’ll give you a bullet, quick and painless”. 

Gabriel speaks through clenched teeth, “I don’t know who he is”. 

That’s when you speak, “he’s lying”. 

Gabriel looks over to you sharply. You watch his eyes narrow as he tries to place why he knows you. You speak to him, “picture me in a red dress and you might get there faster”. You give him a smirk as you see realisation dawn on his face. 

His face practically twists into a snarl, “you fucking bitch! I should have taken you when I had the chance. You wouldn’t be smiling then, you worthless cunt”. He finishes his verbal assault with a spit of saliva and blood that just about misses you. 

Before you can even react Bucky strikes. He delivers blow after blow to Gabriel’s face as the sounds fill the warehouse. You and the boys watch for a while before Steve cuts in, “Bucky”.

But still Bucky won’t stop until Steve raises his voice, “Bucky!”. 

Bucky only stops to grab Gabriel by the throat as he says with venom, “if you ever talk to her like that again I’ll make sure you see your intestines before I shove them down your fucking throat”. 

Bucky lets him go harshly as he walks away a bit to calm down. Gabriel is left moaning as bruises already form on his face and his nose drips blood. 

It takes a few minutes before Bucky walks back, but he just seems to be a quiet angry instead of calm. He walks over to a small table behind Gabriel. It takes you a few seconds to register what he walks back with.

As he approaches Gabriel he grabs a finger in his metal hand, “I’m done playing games with you”. Bucky holds a thin needle in the other hand and places it under Gabriel’s fingernail before pushing it underneath it. 

The most piercing scream rips from Gabriel’s throat as he tries jerking in the chair. Bucky keeps his hand still with his metal hand as he continues to push the needle slowly. It doesn’t take long for Gabriel to yell, “stop! Please…Stop!”. 

Bucky lets his hand go with the needle still under his fingernail, “are you gonna fucking talk now or not?”. 

“Yes! Just please take it out”, Gabriel shouts. 

Bucky pulls the needle out and puts it back on the table, giving Gabriel time to collect himself. When Bucky comes back he just stares until Gabriel starts to talk, “I don’t know the guy well. I wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t paid me the money”. 

Bucky was growing impatient, “I just need a name”. 

You watch Gabriel fight with himself about telling them the truth. But when Bucky starts forward Gabriel lets out the words, “his name was Isaac. I don’t remember his last name”. 

You speak this time, shocked, “Williams? Isaac Williams?”. 

Gabriel looks over at you, fury still evident in his eyes, “yeah, that’s the name”. 

Steve speaks next, “but why?”. 

Gabriel gives him a look, “I don’t know. He wanted the drugs. I didn’t ask questions, I just wanted the money”.

Bucky’s voice rings out across the warehouse, “if it was just the drugs he wanted then why the fuck did you kill-“. 

“He was very specific about causing the most damage we could. He paid me more for it. Plus, I didn’t want to leave witnesses”, Gabriel cuts him off. 

You can feel the rage in the room as Bucky pulls a gun from behind him. Bucky doesn’t give Gabriel a chance to react as he pulls the trigger. You watch the blood spray as Gabriel’s head lolls downwards. 

The room is quiet for a moment, everyone lost in their own thoughts. Bucky is the one to break the silence first, “I’m gonna kill him”. 

Sam pipes up, ever the sarcastic one, “you just did”. 

Bucky gives him a sharp look, “Isaac. I’m gonna kill him”. 

Bucky starts to walk out the room like he’s about to do it now, but Steve blocks his path, “you need to stop Buck. We need to think about this and plan it properly. Isaac is a much bigger boss than Gabriel was. It’ll be harder”. 

Bucky goes to step around him, “I don’t care. You heard what Gabriel said”. 

Steve nods, blocking him again, “yes, we all did, and I’m just as angry as you are-“. 

You can see Bucky about to cut Steve off, but you beat him to it, “Bucky”. The boys look at you, but you keep your eyes on Bucky, “Steve is right. We need to think about this more rationally and plan. We keep underestimating Isaac. We didn’t think he would be at Darren’s party and we weren’t expecting him in Frank Black’s gallery opening. And now we find out that he was the one that ordered the hit on the drugs and our men. He’s more than just some weird guy that we all thought he was. So, we need to try and find out who the real Isaac is first before we go in all guns blazing and lose”. 

Bucky studies you for a few minutes before putting the gun away and nodding his agreement. He gives a look to Steve that seemed like his way of apologising before speaking to everyone, “let’s go. Get some sleep and we’ll talk about what we’re gonna do tomorrow”. 

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[miqojak]

Wish

(( In which @ketsuchikotetsu​ inspired a bevy of emotions Jak doesn’t really know how to process, so of course she handled it in the weirdest/kind of endearing way possible.))

His words sting - though, perhaps, not for the reasons he wants them to - I’ve touched a wound, and it’s only natural that he’d snarl and snap. I don’t know, really, how the topic came about, but we end up here, again. The way he speaks of himself hurts me, though - it’s like a gut-punch that takes my breath away. He’d rather forgo any attempt at happiness, and moving forward, and just...stagnate until death claims him. He’d rather sit and punish himself for matters long since beyond his control, than even attempt a single step forward, at risk of having it all stripped away yet again.

It hurts me...and yet, who knows that feeling better than I do?

It’s not as though I don’t know the taste of his grief; I may never have held a lover as close as he held his late wife - after all, it’s not like I’ve had that many - but I lost all of my immediate family, save one, at the hands of the Garleans. Slowly, and painfully, at that. I know what it is to spend every single day punishing yourself; I know what it is to beg death to take you next; to demand of the world to know why you lived, and not them; to devote yourself to your family...and have absolutely nothing left to show for it in the end as they’re ripped away from you.

But I also know that...he helped me drag my head above water, and see that there’s more than just pain...if I let myself do so. The twisted irony of it is coming to care for the man who won’t let me care for him - who refuses to live, in the shadow of death.

We have to try, don’t we? To live, because the others didn’t get to.

He leaves me reeling - working hard to steady my breath, with an oncoming headache from the slammed door, and withheld grief that stings my eyes. I’m not much better off emotionally, than he is. I’m just...afraid of wasting a life that I feel like I only have at the expense of others. If they died, and I lived, I have the responsibility to do something with it, right?

I don’t know what to do with myself, and my chest hurts - I’m angry. I’m mad at him, for refusing to take even the first step. I’m mad at her, for leaving him - strange as it may sound, for one who’s grown to care for him as much as I have. I’m mad at me, for not knowing what to do for him; at the sheep, who sleep soundly in their pens knowing nothing of the grief that the two of us wrestle with every moment of every day.

I find myself on the doorstep of a flower shop, in the Lavender Beds - it’s what he and his wife had planned on, right? Settling down into something like this, before that flame of hers flickered out too soon. I don’t know...why, but I just...it seemed right. I don’t even know her name, but I don’t need to, really. She meant everything to him, and still does - and the genuine sorrow writ on his features when he speaks of her death...

I don’t know what to do with this grief...for me, or for him. So I fumble around the shop, feeling more the fool with every second that passes...I hate flowers, really. They’ve never been my thing - beautiful for a heartbeat, but they’re wilted and dead before a day is out.

It’s not really about me, right now, though.

I’m a bit overwhelmed - by the colors, the smells, and the variety of flowers in all shapes and sizes. The Lalafell that runs the shop asks if I need any help, and I stare down at her blankly - the silence stretching on a bit too long, and I begin to feel more and more as though I don’t belong here. I feel like this little woman can tell I don’t belong in this place, like an ugly, red blemish. I can likewise tell that this compulsory grief won’t give me long, so I mutter something vague and tell her it’s fine - I’ll take these purple ones here, and it’s okay, I can get them myself. It’s a spur of the moment decision...but purple seems right. It’s his color, after all. She’d probably appreciate that...but who knows? It’s the thought, right? I hurriedly pay the little woman, red in the face the whole while, and carry the bouquet from the shop as if it were an infant - carefully, gently...awkwardly, as if I might crush it if I’m not hyper-aware of its existence in my grip.

It takes some time to find a suitable spot - the moon high overhead before I settle in beneath half a towering, over-turned log. It’s heavy, grief. Heavy enough that even my paranoia, and fear of the forest, is forgotten, this night. 

“I was going to go to the burial mounds, but...that seems too...clean. Too boring for you or me.” I feel small, here - with the night sky full of diamonds, stretching on forever, alongside towering trees that would make even a Roe feel like an ant. I feel a bit silly, talking to no one, but from what he’s told me...and from what I’ve gathered from her decor left behind in his home...she’d have liked it around here. It’s peaceful - even a desert-dweller like me can admit to a serenity that steals over you in the night’s chorus of insects, burbling of water, and the general ambient sounds a forest makes as parts of it fall asleep, and other parts only just begin to awaken.

“I don’t really know what to do for him...or me, if I’m honest. It’s hard to argue with him, and tell him he’s wrong for not wanting to have such a hurt again; for refusing to budge from the bottom of such a deep well of grief. How can I, who’s not even out of the same seemingly bottomless pit, hope to shine a light in darkness that feels like it goes on forever? He helped me up, but won’t take a hand up, himself, so what is there to do?”

No response comes, save for the far away crack of wood, as the forest settles in for the night.

“I miss my mother’s strength, and my father’s wisdom. I miss my sisters’ laughter. I miss racing across the desert sands, and laughing in the heat of a bonfire.” It’s a crushing weight, and one that bows my back even here. I drop my head into my hand, as its twin continues to cradle those purple and white blossoms, “I suppose his grief has become mine, as well, by virtue of proximity and affection alike. I hate that he hurts for you. I hate that you’ve left him so hollow. I love that he smiles, however, when he speaks of you, at times...I just wish that...” My visions blurs, but I turn my eyes to the stars anyways, and the twisting nebulas that paint the dark canvas of the sky. Wishes are for fools, just as much as flowers are.

“I wish that he cared about himself even a fraction of as much as either of us have, and do. I wish he smiled - for real - more often.” I shift those flowers in my lap, and trace the pad of a finger over the velvet of one of those indigo petals. “I don’t know if it’s true, that some piece of us lingers on, in the lifestream, semi-aware of the world - but if so, I find that I hope it doesn’t hurt you, to see him so, as it does me. I find that I...admire the specter of you, as much as I resent that he seems to cut himself on the memory of you. The way he speaks of you, I almost wish I’d known you, even.” 

For a time, I simply watch that little purple flower spin and drift away, before it’s lost behind a rock, tugged towards that bottleneck that will carry it into the heart of the forest, “I don’t expect him to stop��hurting, or stop thinking of you. I just wish he could learn to live with that grief, and accept that he’s allowed to be happy. Honestly, I’m working on that too, even if I don’t really know how to be happy. But there’s something like it, with him.”

I slide off the mossy stone, pluck a purple flower from the bouquet, and leave the rest of them atop the rock on which I perched; I then take that flower, and squat next to the nearby pool that leads back, and away, into another creek that joins yet another river - there’s something to it that makes me think of the lifestream, and the souls adrift in it. “I’m trying, I suppose, to take care of him, in my way. But he’s stubborn...and I’m pretty bad at it, honestly - I feel I failed my family the same way he feels he failed you. Realistically, I know neither of us are failures - life is simply chaotic, and beyond our control. Death is a force beyond any of us. By his own logic, we both waste time in blaming ourselves for things long past that were never within our control to begin with...but it stands that no matter how hard I’ve tried, no matter how much I’ve loved...it’s never enough, really. I fail, and I fail, and I fail. The people around me that I’ve held close either die, or leave of their own volition.”

I let myself enjoy the little flower’s scent briefly, before I set it adrift, to be gently pulled back, and away, where it will join with the rest of this forest’s lifeblood. “I think...I think I love him, - ” It gives me goosebumps, to say it out loud...and just the twinge of a bellyache, “ - and I hope that’s okay with you, at least. I don’t think either of us want to look it in the eye, but it doesn’t change anything. I won’t let him die, though, if it’s within my power to prevent as much. I guess I’ll promise you that much. He’d probably hate me, if I gave my life for his, whether or not he actually gives a shit about me. But I’ll protect him, hm?” I dust myself off, and re-claim my legs, “As much as a man like him needs protecting, anyways. He’d scoff at me, for that one...but no one is immortal.” 

When I look at the stars, it’s my family I think of - how these are the same stars we looked upon years ago, in a desert far, far from here; how these stars existed then, and now, and will continue to wink down at the Spoken long after I’m gone.

No matter how many calamities, this star of our own keeps spinning - so why can’t we?

“I’d bend the laws of magic - the laws of life and death itself - if it’d light his own fire again...but I’ll have to settle for what these little hands can do on their own, I’m afraid.” I look at them, for a quiet moment - hands that have stitched wounds, torn out throats, and traced his every scar. They’re capable of much...but perhaps they’ve met their match, in one just as hard-headed, and broken as I am.

It’s never stopped me before, though - I’ll simply have to keep trying.

[rons-hermiones]

Come Find Me

Come Find Me

by rons-hermiones

Summary: Unplanned, Hermione is forced to spend Christmas at the Burrow due to her grandmother falling very ill. After being ignored by Hermione for weeks, Ron is determined to show her how much she means to him. Just before he gets the chance to tell her, Bellatrix Lestrange shows up with other plans for Hermione. Can Ron get to her before it's too late? (Ron/Hermione Half-Blood Prince AU)

Rating: M for language & dark themes in later chapters.

Chapter Twenty Nine

Narcissa anxiously paced the expanse of her bedroom, trying to talk herself into speaking to her sister. Her deranged, disturbed, sister. But her sister nonetheless. 

It was a mess. Save for the poor battered girl in her basement, Narcissa felt completely alone, despite the fact that both her husband and sister occupied this very house. 

Because neither of them saw it. 

They couldn’t see how wrong, how monstrous it was to treat Hermione, Muggle-Born or not, as an object. To be used and abused day after day and for what? 

After all this time, she still couldn’t fathom what they wanted from her. She doesn’t even think Bellatrix knows what she’s demanding of the young witch half the time, making it all the more awful. 

She was weighing her options. Lucius was on thin ice with the Dark Lord, not that Narcissa wanted to engage in conversation with him, especially as of late. 

Bellatrix was frankly her safest bet. As horrible as it sounds, Bella is so invested in herself that even if Narcissa said the wrong thing, she could easily twist it another way. And again, they were sisters. 

She wasn’t expecting her older sister to understand or even be sympathetic. Bellatrix has always been set in her ways and since the first war, Narcissa thinks she’s incapable of such emotions. 

Sighing, she decides to just nip this in the bud and descends down the steps. 

As her left foot left the grand staircase, she soon spotted bushy hair puffing out from behind an armchair. 

Narcissa suppresses the urge to roll her eyes. Bellatrix has taken to camping out in that seat. The Dark Lord usually appeared only feet from it. 

She was obsessed. 

“Bella, we need to talk.” She said in the strongest, steadiest voice she could, as she drew her sister from her daze. 

The mad witch eyed her for a moment, adjusting her legs to drape over one of the arms on the chair, “talk.” She responds, fingering her wand. 

“What is it that you’re planning tonight?” At this Bellatrix sits up, “I’ve heard you, you know. After all, this is my home.” The younger of the two states before she can help it. 

“You should stay out of it Cissy. Some things are bigger than you and your poor excuse of a husband.” Bellatrix bites. 

Well, Narcissa couldn’t argue with her on the last point...

“This is my house and I demand you tell me.” She stomps her foot for effect. 

The brunette jumps from her chair, “oh!” She squeals, “you demand it of me, do you?” Bellatrix taunts, like Narcissa is one of her victims. 

She doesn’t waiver, “that’s right.” 

“Why, oh why, should I tell you? And don’t tell me it’s because this is your home.” Lestrange questions, rounding her like a hungry shark. 

Narcissa turns so her brown eyes pierce the other woman’s, “because I’m your sister.” 

Bellatrix stops. 

“You are.” She says, just about as soft as she can physically manage. 

Seeing she’s getting somewhere, Narcissa nods, “you are, so I hope you listen to me when I tell you that what you're doing and whatever you’re planning, is wrong.” 

“Wrong?” The mad woman responds, the word sounding bitter on her tongue. 

“That’s right, that girl down there, she’s Draco’s age. She’s his classmate!” Her anger crumbles into sadness, “they have the same professors and they’ve been to the same Quidditch matches. They’re both prefects.” She says, tears pooling her eyes. “It’s so wrong, imagine if that was Draco.” 

And without a beat, the brunette has her answer, “no.” 

Malfoy thinks she heard it wrong, “no?” 

“No.” Bella repeats, “it would never be Draco. Ever. He’s a Pureblood. He’s sworn his allegiance to the Dark Lord. He never stole someone else’s magic and tainted himself further by befriending Harry Potter!” She shouts. 

“She’s just a girl, like me and you were. We were just her age when you, me, and Andi went down-“ 

“Andi? Andi is it now? Don’t be so naive Narcissa! That woman is dead to me. Dead to me!” Bellatrix shouted, stepping closer. 

“She’s our sister!” She screams back with equal fervor. 

“Sister? Don’t make me laugh!” She cackles a bit for good measure, “the second she married that-that Mudblood, she became the furthest thing from family!” 

“Bella, how can you say that?” 

“What! It’s not like we even speak to her! Not that I’d want to.” 

Narcissa bites her tongue. She’s secretly corresponded with Andromeda more times than one through the years. 

“And if her marrying that disgusting filth wasn’t enough for you, what about when her daughter started seeing that Werewolf? Disgusting half-breeds.” She spits. 

“Why does all this matter so much to you?” She finally asks. 

“Because Cissy, they’re thieves, all of them! We couldn’t do half of what we did had we not come from the Black bloodline. You think we’d even still be alive if we were pathetic Mudbloods? No! We’re all magic. Through and through. I value that. Your sister doesn’t. You should too.” 

Bellatrix steps closer so her breath tickles Narcissa’s nose. 

“Even if that thing in the basement didn’t have dirty blood, it doesn’t change the fact her best friend is Potter. The very boy trying to destroy the very world the Dark Lord is building. A world where people like me and you.” She pauses, “like your son, can have more power then you can imagine. And we deserve it.” She whispers darkly, making the other woman shiver. 

Narcissa gulps, “that girl in the basement, she won’t change this whole war. We don’t need her.” She throws in the ‘we’ for good measure, hoping it’ll give Bellatrix some ease. 

“Maybe not. Maybe so. That’s not for either of us to decide. The Dark Lord wants it to stay, so it stays.” She finishes, then smiles mischievously, “plus Muddy is so much fun. Several people around here agree.” 

Narcissa stumbles back, suddenly feeling sick. 

When did her sister, her own flesh and blood become so vile? She’s known she’s had her problems. She’s always had them. And she’s seen her kill, beat, curse a plethora of wizards and witches, but never like this. 

Never a young girl. Never offering up someone the very same age as her own son up to filthy men to have their way with her. 

Not long ago Bellatrix, Andromeda, and Narcissa were Hermione’s age. Young girls caught up in the brewing storm. 

Now, all these years later, in this very moment, it dawns on Narcissa that maybe she’s chosen the wrong side. 

“How can you even say that?” She manages. 

The brunette huffs, “you better watch yourself Cissy, I see you stalking off to the dungeons. I’ve only let it go on for this long because as you said, we are sisters, but know this,” she leans forward, “after tonight, nothing, nothing, you do in that dungeon will save the Mudblood from what’s to come.” 

“Tell me Bella, please tell me.” She practically begs. 

Bellatrix seems to think about it for a moment, “no, I don’t think I will.” She says venomously before disapparating.

… 

She isn’t sure how long she stands in the now unfurnished foyer for. The crack of her sister dissapparting still rings in her ears, as the heavy weight of what she is doing gets heavier by the second. 

Sighing, Narcissa decides to check on Hermione. Bellatrix is gone anyway, so now's as good as ever. 

Sauntering down the stairs, her eyes flick to the faint glow now erupting from the enchanted candle. Squinting, she can make out the exposed girl clutching that book to her chest. 

“Hello dear.” She says softly, crouching in front of the bars. 

Sighing like she always does when she realizes it’s Narcissa, Hermione shifts to meet her eyes. 

Beneath her nose she can make out fresh blood. 

“Oh she’s already seen you today has she?” The woman asks, despite knowing the answer. 

Slowly, Hermione nods. 

Flinging open the doors, something she used to be weary to do, Narcissa piled in and sat down right next to her. 

“Here, let me see.” She whispered, pulling a handkerchief from her pockets. 

Hermione scooted forward a bit, though she winced as her leg scraped along the floor. A few days ago Bellatrix had blasted her with something that threw her up and across the room, hitting her leg squarely on an old stone statue. There was no doubt to her, or Narcissa, that it was broken beyond a point of magical repair. 

The brunette tilted her chin as the woman began gently rubbing the blood from her face best she could, mindful of all the cuts and bruises. 

“I’m going to be honest with you.” Narcissa whispers after a moment. 

Hermione’s brown eyes widen at her words, scared for what's to come. 

Is this where she says she's done helping me? That she’s no longer on my side? Will she curse me? Wait, no. Narcissa has been nothing but kind to me, but yet again-

Her jumbled thoughts don’t wander long, as the woman breaks her silence. “It’s happening tonight.” 

Dread builds at the base of Hermione’s stomach, but she had a feeling. She should've expected it. 

‘Someone will die.’ That’s what he said to her. 

This morning even Bellatrix mentioned it. 

“Best rest up for tonight Muddy. It’ll be killer.”

“What?” Narcissa says, taken aback, stumbling a bit. 

At this Hermione’s hands flew to her mouth, though the motion was a bad idea. The sudden jolts made them burn as one was surely broken and the other terribly bruised. However, she couldn’t pay any mind to the pain. Not when those words left her mouth unwillingly. 

The first sentence she's managed not to stutter over in weeks. 

What the hell is happening to her?

Seeing the look of fear in Narcissa’s eyes, she pushed back frantically to the corner. Like a scared animal avoiding lingering prey. 

Sensing the fact Hermione was just as confused as she was, Narcissa extended a hand. 

“It’s okay, I know.” She cooed to the crying girl, “it’s the curse, you didn’t mean it. It’s just the curse.” She reminds steadily holding out her hand still. 

Mrs.Malfoy knew that many crucio’s can take all sorts of tolls on one's mind. Never did she think it would live in Hermione as some demented form of her sister. 

Wanting, no needing, to chase those parts from the girl's head, she croons her on, “tell me something, please. Anything.” She departley asks the younger girl, “It’ll help you forget about her, please. You won’t hear her anymore.”

Slowly, Hermione peels her hands from her face and eyes Narcissa with blurry eyes. It takes another comment, but soon, she's gently sliding her palm into the womans. 

“That’s it dear.” She encourages, giving her hand a small squeeze, not wanting to irritate the bruising. “Say something, please.” She didn’t realize until now that there were tears building up in her own eyes. 

‘Rest up for tonight Muddy. It’ll be killer.’ 

Hermione’s voice echoes in her head. So venomous. So wrong. She needs to erase it from her mind. Not only for the young witch's sanity, but she thinks for her own as well. 

“Th-” She starts, sounding as much like herself that she can manage. 

“You’ve got it.” The older woman says gently, leaning forward to wipe her hair from her eyes with the hand not holding the brunette's small fragile hand. 

“Th-thank y-ou,” Hermione says, struggling over the words, but something tells the cell's other occupant she’s not done. “N-Narcissa.”

The tears burning in her eyes flow down her cheeks. There is nothing she should be thanking her for. It makes her sick even the smallest humane gestures are considered large feats to the now prisoner. 

The promise of getting Hermione out of here solidifies more than ever at her words, at these thoughts. At all of it. 

She pushes her head into the crook of her neck and speaks softly, “It’s Cissy to you dear, it’ll always be Cissy.” Narcissa drops a small kiss onto her matted hair. 

“Ci-Cissy.” Hermione repeats softly. 

...

Bellatrix stumbles a little in her heels when she lands. There she is meant by two familiar faces, but frowns as one is missing. 

“Where is Rabastan?” She asks, annoyed. 

“Said he ran into someone from the order, got hit with a natsy curse. He said he’ll be fine, but wouldn’t be any good here tonight.” Greyback exapins, as it was his responsibility to summon the other man.

She curses under her breath, “It’ll take me half the time to take whatever wards down, had he come.” The witch spits. 

Feeling like he needs to make up for his action, the werewolf goes on, “Dolohov will be here.” 

She turns, brown eyes widening, “Antonin?” The taller man nodded in confirmation, “I thought he was to stay behind. This can become much too personal for him. We must be in and out before anyone from the Order gets wind we’ve broken the wards.” She sounds off in a venomous whisper. 

“Yes, but it is my understanding that the Dark Lord himself has allowed Dolohiv to join us tonight in Rabastan’s absence.” 

At the mention of Voldemort’s approval she visibly calmed, “Oh, well I understand now. It’s for the best anyway, I know Antonin is rather good with counterspells for instances just like these.”

As this was all going on Scabior stoof confused, eyeing the two of them funnily. Greyback had approached him earlier that night saying he was needed. For what? He still wasn’t sure. 

“You.” Bellatrix pointed to the mangy man, “Make yourself useful and be sure no one sees us.” She demanded. 

Fumbling a little, he began the incantation that would hide them from any passerbyers, as well as a silencing charm. 

“Should be good miss, do-” 

Before he could finish a nearby crack sounded as Dolhov appeared from behind a nearby tree. 

“Ah come, to join the party, did you?” She said with a small laugh.

The man had a dark look in his eyes as he eyed the house from a distance. 

“The time will come. Soon.” She told him, noticing his expression, “for now, help me with the protective charms. They’re standard for The Order, nothing you aren’t used to. Surely Albus Dumbledore wasn’t casting these.” Bellatrix said as she pointed her wand to the invisible fence. 

Dolohov joined her as he began whispering a few incantations that made small bursts of light emit from the end of his wand. Greyback was perched against a tree whistling to himself, as Bellatrix proceeded to wave her own wand. Scabior however, still had little regard to what was actually happening. 

“What are we doing here? Raiding an old Order Member’s house?” He asked Greyback what he thought was a quiet whisper. 

At this, the werewolf let out a low laugh, “you think they’d send that one,” he pointed vaguely to Bellatrix, “for some old wizard?” 

He shrugged, “Dunno, this is a muggle neighborhood, didn’t reckon he’d send us on a muggle raid, they don’t exactly put up a fight.”

Having heard the conversation the witch stopped and rounded on him, “these aren’t any Muggles, you see.” Bellatrix told Scabior cryptically as a curtain of blue light fell, indicating the dropping of the wards. 

“I don’t understand, miss.” He said back, watching her step past where the veil just was with a smile. 

“Come, come.” She waved the three on, as they stood a little ways behind her. “You see this lovely house here, Scabior?” 

He nodded, still unsure of the proper response, “quite nice, I reckon.” 

“It is, isn’t it.” She agrees with a hum. The witch speaks again after a moment, “do you know who this house belongs to?” 

He eyes Greyback and Dolohov wearily, the pair of them wearing matching grins. 

“No Miss, I don’t.” He told her timidly. 

“Well let me tell you,” Bellatrix  spun around and threw her arms up as if presenting the brick structure, “this house here belongs to Hugo and Jean Granger.” 

The long haired man thinks on it for a moment, but the name draws no realizations. 

“I don’t...” he began quietly. 

“This house here belongs to Muddy’s parents and soon enough,” her voice dropped dangerously low, “it’s gonna be ours.”