#consider this the spring cleaning of my writing

[achaotichuman]

Five times Lucien Vanserra proposed to Tamlin, one time Tamlin said yes.

So, I wrote this like six months ago, put it on Ao3, took it down a week later. Now we're here. If you like sappy, totally, completely, undeniably in love Tamcien, then you'll like this.

The first time Lucien proposed to Tamlin he had barely known the male two weeks and had been completely off his face on Faery wine.

Their group of friends had decided to hit a bar on the far south side of the Autumn Court. Tamlin had happened to join them and Lucien was excited to get to know the male a little better.

They had first met when their fathers demanded a meet up after a mishap with some trade between the Autumn and Spring Court, both Lucien and Tamlin had snuck off and found solace in each other's company. 

The Spring gardens had been lovely to look at but not nearly as lovely at looking at the youngest Prince of Spring. Light golden hair that fell down his back and shoulders in soft waves, it was cut softly around the front nicely framing his face. He was not nearly like any other Prince he had ever seen.

Unlike the other heirs of the Courts, Tamlin had a softness to him that balanced out his warrior build. Along with an other-worldly sense of balance. Lucien had found him strolling through the dense gardens of Spring. The gardens were unlike anything, they were in a confined space, but seemingly left to their own devices, branches and flowering vines curled over each other in a way that would seem erratic and chaotic anywhere else but fit the Court so well here.

Tamlin had stood up on the tips of his toes and wrapped a hand around an unfurled rose. When he removed his hand the flower was in full bloom with specks of shimmering gold floating off of the petals.

Ground Magic they called it. The magic that allowed Spring Fae to control the growth and life of plants.

Lucien, in a moment of uncharacteristic clumsiness, stepped on a branch. Immediately the Spring Prince turned to him, and Lucien’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of those bright green eyes.

Tamlin narrowed his eyes and Lucien stood there dumbly. He wasn’t like this; he shouldn’t be like this. Normally he could easily fall into small talk, using his charm to woo people into connecting with him, but not with this male. Lucien felt like he was six years old again and standing before the whole Court, wholly on display and vulnerable.

“Who are you?” Tamlin asked quickly.

Lucien blinked, he opened and closed his mouth like a dead fish, just staring.

“What are you doing in my garden?” Tamlin asked, sounding more threatening, that snapped Lucien out of it.

“I was getting away.” Lucien said quickly, nearly smacking himself at how high-pitched and awkward his voice sounded.

Tamlin tilted his head slightly, then in two smooth leaps he was before Lucien.

Lucien, logically, didn’t have much to worry about if the lordling thought him to be a threat. Their builds were quite similar, even if the male before him was a good fifteen years older and taller than him. And Lucien knew he was quick enough to easily overpower those even twice his size. Still, he was intimidated.

After a moment Tamlin asked, "You're one of the Autumn Princes, right?”

“Um, yes, yes! Lucien.” Lucien stuck out his hand. Good Gods what the fuck was wrong with him?

Tamlin again regarded him with suspicion, then he tentatively took Lucien’s hand. His fingers were long and slender, with callous’ on his palm. 

“Tamlin, nice to meet you.” He said, eyes still looking him up and down but significantly relaxed.

After Lucien got past his original awkwardness, Tamlin and he began to talk. The Princeling showed him around the gardens, apparently most of it was allowed to run on its own, but occasionally a gardener would come through and trim it up, and Tamlin would often help. He gave Lucien a detailed explanation on what certain plants were and the meaning behind them.

They ended up staying out there for four hours. Lucien said nothing but marvelled at the garden, usually he hated it when people rambled and didn’t allow a word in, but something in him told him to shut up and pay attention to what this male was saying.

Eventually Eris came to find him. It was time to return to Autumn.

Lucien and Tamlin ended up meeting every morning on the border for the next two weeks. Catching fish from the river and talking till late afternoon.

Lucien didn’t quite know what got him so invested in the Princeling, but they became good friends quickly.

Which led him to propose to the Spring lord in a drunken state.

Poor Tamlin had just been sitting at the bar, listening to the music, conversing with one of Lucien’s many friends and enjoying the atmosphere when Lucien came stumbling up to him, barely being able to stand upright.

Tamlin had laughed and gotten off his chair to help stabilise the drunk Prince. Lucien laid eyes on that pretty face and got down on one knee.

Lucien took the metal ring off his own finger and showed it to Tamlin, slurring “Marry me!”

Not even a question, more of an outright demand.

Tamlin had stared at him for a moment, his face caught between shocked and incredibly amused. He then laughed and helped pick Lucien up off the ground.

“Alright, my Fox, that's enough wine for you.” Tamlin had laughed, starting to take Lucien over to the entrance of the bar.

Lucien leaned fully onto Tamlin, “Fox? If I’m a fox what are you then, Spring Prince?”

Tamlin smiled, “Well I don’t know, I guess that's for you to decide.”

He had meant it in a joking manner, but Lucien still took it seriously. He studied Tamlin long and hard before tapping his nose and saying “Golden ray. Because you like a golden ray of sunshine!”

Tamlin had been silent for a moment, before he burst out laughing, “Alright then, my Fox.”

***

The second time Lucien proposed to Tamlin, he had been completely sober and dead serious.

But Tamlin was not aware of just how serious Lucien was.

It had been the hundred year anniversary of Jesminda’s death and naturally Lucien had been feeling pretty shitty.

Tamlin had a memorial for her. It was the centre of the gardens, surrounded by every flower Lucien had ever said she liked. A park bench had been built, it was made of Autumn wood, and in the typical lesser fae country style. On the backing there was a golden plate with the words In memory of our dearest Jesminda Roseturn, whose sarcasm and teasing will be missed but never be forgotten. 

Lucien had laughed through the tears when he saw it. It was just what Jesminda would have wanted, she always hated the typical style of graveyards. Always thought them to be so morbid.

He had been sitting on that bench. Tears flowing freely down his face. He had long moved on from the deep sadness that made him never want to love another like he did her again. Still he stayed away from anything romantic during this week of the year.

Then Tamlin came out from the manor to him. Tamlin and his stupidly, obliviously, romantic whims.

He sat beside Lucien and pulled him into a hug. When she first died Lucien had avoided all touching but as the years went by, he found more and more comfort in his friends arms. 

Then, in such Tamlin fashion, he made a tub of chocolate ice cream appear from the pocket between realms. It was basically just a pile of ice cream absolutely smothered in chocolate syrup, cream and strawberries.

He made two spoons appear, along with a bottle of Faery wine and set it down between them, “I figured you’d just wanna get drunk and eat sugar so I got this stuff for us.”

Lucien once thought he could only ever love Jesminda, he was very wrong, because the next words out of his mouth were, “will you marry me?”

Tamlin had laughed, taken a spoonful of ice cream and shoved it in Lucien's mouth, who fake glared at him and snatched the spoon away, sucking it clean.

Lucien didn’t remember how they even managed to finish all that ice cream. They got extravagantly drunk and didn’t remember anything after that.

***

The third time Lucien proposed to Tamlin, it wasn’t really him asking for the High lords hand, more him expressing his desire to marry him.

Both of them had been laying on the rooftop of the Manor. Looking up at the starry night, the full moon shining brightly in the sky.

The cool Spring air was biting, it didn’t bother Lucien, the fire flowing freely in his veins keeping him warm.

That wasn’t the case for the High lord beside him. Tamlin shivered and cuddled closer to Lucien. The fire lord chuckled, Tamlin was resting his head on Lucien’s shoulder, Lucien’s arm wrapped around him, keeping him pressed against the fire lord’s side.

“It’s colder than usual tonight,” Lucien quipped.

“It’s fucking freezing you walking matchstick, not that you would know considering you’re the Fae equivalent of a fireplace.” Tamlin angrily snuggled closer.

Lucien pressed his lips into Tamlin’s hair. Rubbing his hand up and down Tamlin’s back, heating his hand so it warmed his friend.

Tamlin let out a small satisfied sigh, “I love you.”

The words sunk into his skin. Lucien nearly made his skin too hot for comfort.

Lucien freely expressed his love to Tamlin with his words, but the latter rarely used his voice to express his love.

Tamlin made up for it in the endless gestures that he only extended to those he held close to his heart. But Lucien always wished he would say it back.

And right now he had. Lucien basked in the feeling like the sun had just come out.

“I love you.” He whispered back, “so much.”

Tamlin laughed quietly, “How much?”

Lucien started drawing circles on his back, “So much so, that if I had to choose one person to spend the rest of my life with, the choice is obvious…”

Tamlin gave him a bright smile, Lucien then said, “Andras, all the way.”

Tamlin slapped his arm, laughing, “you’re an asshole, we were having a moment, how dare you!”

Lucien wrapped both his arms tightly around him, pulling the squirming High lord close, “No, Golden Ray, I’m sorry. If I had to pick one person to spend the rest of my immortal lifespan with, it would be you, without hesitation.”

Tamlin rested his head on Lucien’s chest, listening to his heartbeat, “I would choose you as well, always.”

The fire lord knew that Tamlin didn’t mean that romantically, maybe would never mean that romantically. But just for a moment, just for tonight, he let himself hope.

***

The fourth time Lucien proposed, it was after their whole lives had just come crashing down.

Fifty years to find a human woman who would love Tamlin despite a hatred of Fae. A joke, pure mockery of the High lord. Amarantha’s way of proving to Tamlin that only she could love him.

And Tamlin was believing her.

He was covered in bruises and blood as was Lucien. Both of them were locked away in Lucien’s room. Sitting on the bed, tears streaming down their faces. Their masked faces.

Lucien took Tamlin’s face in his hands. Even with the mask he knew what he looked like under it, he knew just how beautiful his friend was, and would never forget it even if these masks never came off.

“How am I going to do this?” Tamlin whispered, “how am I going to find someone to love me enough to break a fucking curse?”

Lucien rested his forehead against Tamlin. The gold of their masks clicked together, “how could anyone not fall in love with you?”

Tamlin huffed, “the only person to ever pursue me is the reason we’re wearing these godforsaken masks.”

“That’s not true-“

“Yes! Yes it is Lucien! We are in this mess because of me! Now because of me I have to send a sentry to his death! How can I do that?! How can I look any of my men in the eye and tell them to cross a wall knowing they’ll never return in some desperate hope of a maiden potentially killing them?!”

“Tamlin! This is not your fault! Amarantha is fucking insane! None of this is because of you! As for the sentries, we will give whoever we choose a send off worth remembering for centuries to come. This is for not just our Court but all of Pythian now.”

Tamlin was silent, those tears dropped off his face staining his shirt. Lucien took Tamlin’s hands in his.

“How am I going to get someone to fall in love with me?”

Lucien smiled slightly, “who wouldn’t fall for you?”

Tamlin shook his head, “No, no. No one would fall for me, besides that psycho bitch Queen.”

“Tamlin-“

“Lucien, I can't charm people. I can’t woo females or even flirt properly, that’s your domain. Even if we find a human that meets the criteria, she will hate me, I am just not loveable-“

“I love you!” Lucien shouted.

“It’s not the same!” Tamlin shouted back, “You’re my friend! We love each other differently than people who are lovers!” 

The words were poison, but at this point Lucien couldn’t back down. He was losing Tamlin anyway, what hurt would it do to finally say it, “No, Tam, it’s exactly the same. I love you, you are not just a friend to me and you have never been just a friend to me! I love you so much it hurts! And seeing you like this, thinking that no one could ever love you, breaks my heart more than you’ll ever imagine!”

Tamlin went completely silent at that. From the look on the High lord’s face Lucien might as well have said he was going to go over the wall himself to retrieve a maiden. 

“I… Tamlin I-”

Tamlin brought Lucien’s hands to his face, kissing them relentlessly, “Why would you say that?! Why would you tell me that now?!”

Both of them were shaking, Lucien was using every fibre in his body to not start crying right then and there.

“Why would you tell me that when I can’t love you?! When I’m doomed to never be able to love you?!” His words were near incoherent from the tears choking his words. Lucien understood him all the same.

Lucien lost the battle to his tears, he started sobbing, resting his forehead against the crown of Tamlin’s hair, “Because I can’t go another day without you knowing! Tamlin, I have wanted you forever, I will always love you!”

When the two of them calmed down enough, they both laid down on Lucien’s bed. Tamlin’s face pressed into Lucien’s chest. Their arms were wrapped tightly around each other.

“If… if we could start over, and this never happened…” He wanted to ask. At the same time he didn’t want to know the answer.

“Just say it, Luce.”

“... will you marry me?”

Tamlin didn’t answer, he never answered. Not that night, not the next day, not fifty years later. He just pressed himself harder against Lucien, more sobs falling from him.

One day, forty-nine years later, a Huntress named Feyre with light brown hair, piercing blue eyes and a pretty face came into their lives.

Lucien hated her with every piece of his soul.

***

The fifth time Lucien proposed to Tamlin he was turned down flat.

They had come out from Under the Mountain barely two days earlier. The two of them were sitting on the rooftop, like they had done so many years prior.

The moon was high in the sky, the stars settled above them like drops of sunlight scattered throughout the darkness.

“She’s Fae now.” Tamlin murmured, “She’s going to live as long as us.”

His tone was not said in the happy way it should be. It should have been said joyfully, it should have been an acknowledgement that the female he loved was going to be beside him forever.

Instead he sounded resigned, like the idea of Feyre being immortal was yet another curse.

“Yeah. She’ll be with us forever,” Lucien said.

The Fox couldn’t help it, he conjoined his hand with Tamlin’s, “She loved you enough to go Under the Mountain for us.”

Tamlin nodded, “We owe her every life in Prythian. She is our saviour.”

There was a beat of silence. One heartbeat, then the next. Tamlin said, “I can’t let that happen to her again.”

“Amarantha is dead, it will never happen again.” 

Tamlin shook his head, an opened envelope appeared from the pocket between realms. He handed it to Lucien.

The Fox was confused for a moment, he opened the letter and scanned over it. 

Oh… shit.

Tamlin spoke, “Hybern wants to establish a meet up. They want to weasel their way back into Prythian, now that Amarantha is dead, their puppet is gone. Hybern will be looking for a way back in.”

“Why us?” Lucien asked.

Tamlin’s eyes went uncharacteristically cold at that, “It may have something to do with Feyre being the cursebreaker. They may want to establish contact with her, and if they want to get into Prythian and create another Amarantha situation, they may be looking to eliminate her before she becomes a problem again.”

“You mean they want to kill her?” Lucien asked, it made him a horrible person, but the idea she might die and leave Tamlin all to himself made a tiny part of him light up.

No, she sacrificed her life for all of them. He couldn’t be so hateful of her anymore.

“That's what I’m thinking. We need to keep her here and in sight. There's no telling if they send in a spy, with the economy down and most of the Court in destruction it would be easy to send in a spy or assassin. Feyre can’t be left unguarded.”

“So what? You want a group of sentries to follow her around all day?” Lucien asked.

“For now… that's not a bad idea. Especially whilst she’s getting used to her new body.”

It made sense. Hybern was psychotic, it was where Amarantha came from, but they were intelligent. Most people had left Spring once the Bitch Queen was brought down to go see family in neighbouring Courts, so the grounds and Court were in chaos. It would be the perfect time for a snake to get into the hen house.

More silence past them. Lucien gripped the letter a little tighter. He glanced at Tamlin who was staring up at the moon, his eyes had fallen closed. It was like he was bathing in the silvery glow.

“Tam.”

“Yeah.” Tamlin replied, his eyes still closed.

“Are you going to marry her?” He couldn’t help it, the question slipped past his defences.

Tamlin opened his eyes and looked at Lucien. The fire lord cursed himself for ruining the peaceful moment.

“If everything goes according to plan, yes. Yes I will.”

Another heartbeat, then the next, “Do you want to?”

Tamlin sucked in a breath and looked down at the gardens, now surrounded by darkness, “She saved our lives, because of her love for me… Marriage is what's expected.”

“But do you want to?” Lucien pressed.

“She saved us, Lucien. She saved us-”

“Forget that! Forget everything about that! She’s because of Amarantha! She is a direct byproduct of that hateful witch! You can’t tell me you want to chain yourself to those memories!”

Tamlin snapped. Lucien knew he’d gone too far when the word ‘chain’ left his mouth. The High lord gave a low growl and that was the only warning Lucien got before he was being pinned on his back. Tamlin’s sharp claws punctured through his fingertips, digging into his arms, just not drawing blood.

“Don’t speak about her like that! We owe her a life debt, we all do and you are no exception!”

Lucien always marvelled at how Tamlin’s eyes glowed when he was angry. From a first glance the High lord was just that, royalty. He had a softness and grace to him that even Lucien couldn’t muster, but those claws… the eyes he had and the fangs that gleamed in the light revealed an animalistic side of him that Lucien hadn’t ever truly seen his High lord embrace. Almost like he was afraid of it.

 “I know, I’m sorry. I just… I’m sorry.” Lucien whispered.

Tamlin relaxed, his claws withdrew and his eyes dimmed. He sat back on his heels. Lucien just realised Tamlin was straddling his waist.

“I miss you.” Lucien revealed.

Tamlin looked back down into his eyes. There was a longing in them. Lucien’s heart selfishly leapt at the idea Tamlin still wanted him as much as Lucien did.

“I miss you too.” Tamlin murmured.

Lucien took the High lord’s hands in his, “Tam… will you marry-”

“No, no I won’t.” Tamlin said, his voice hardening.

He knew that would be the answer, his heart still shattered all the same.

“I won’t marry you, Lucien. I miss you, I do. I love you more than you’ll ever imagine, but you’re not worth the price I would have to pay. If I could do it all over I would marry you, I would spend eternity with you, I would have children with you, but I can’t. We can’t be wed, and there is no use in mourning what could have been.”

The fire lord nodded, “I know.”

Tamlin leaned down and brushed his lips against Lucien’s, he longed to lean up and kiss him properly, but he knew he couldn’t. He knew this was Tamlin’s way of saying goodbye.

“I love you, my Fox, and I always will.” With that Tamlin kissed his cheek, pulled himself off of Lucien and strided inside, never looking back.

Lucien waited until he heard the rooftop door close, before he let the tears fall.

***

One day. One rainy Spring morning, Lucien asked again.

Spring was restored. The people were back, festivities were under way. Years had passed since Tamlin and Feyre’s fall out, people had moved past it. The Court was thriving and Spring was three times the size it was before even Amarantha.

Kosechi had been eliminated. Vassa and Jurian themselves now wore wedding rings, their one year anniversary would be coming up in a few days.

With Beron now dead and Eris on the throne, Prythian was united at last. After Feyre and Tamlin settled their past with an exchange of letters the other Courts were far more receptive to deals with Spring.

Lucien no longer worked as Emissary to any Court. He stayed in Spring, helping his best friend.

Though he wanted to change that soon, he always wanted to travel outside of Prythian. But he didn’t want to go alone.

Now that Spring was all in order, with advisors and Courtiers they trusted running the place. Maybe Tamlin might want to give travelling a go.

Tamlin was currently standing out in the rain. It had been raining since early the night before. The ground was well and truly soaked, as was Tamlin but he didn’t seem to mind that.

Lucien snuck up behind him, either Lucien was getting better at sneaking around or Tamlin was losing his touch, but either way when the Fox grabbed Tamlin from behind. The High lord startled, throwing them both into the mud.

Lucien laughed, pinning Tamlin down into the wet dirt. Tamlin rolled his eyes, “great, now we’re both dirty, good job.”

The fire lord gave him a grin, “Thank you, Golden Ray. I will say you are still magnificent, even covered in mud.”

If Tamlin rolled his eyes any harder they’d get stuck, “You’re a suck up, get off of me.”

The Fox huffed, but stood up, grabbing Tamlin and pulling him to stand, Tamlin tried to brush the mud off of his green shirt, “Why would you do that? I liked this shirt.”

“You say that like it won’t wash out.” Lucien said, wrapping his arms around Tamlin’s waist and pulling him close.

Tamlin was significantly taller than Lucien when they first met, but Lucien had grown since that day, grown into his limbs and grown into his body. Now Tamlin looked up to meet his eyes. The High lord smiled up at him, wrapping his own arms around Lucien’s neck, “I guess you’re right.”

Lucien returned the smile and rested his forehead against Tamlin’s. Gently swaying them from side to side.

Neither knew how long they stood there, be it minutes or hours, either way Lucien didn’t want the moment to end.

“What are we going to get for Jurian and Vassa’s anniversary?” Tamlin asked eventually.

Lucien’s eyes had fallen closed, he hummed, “not sure yet, I know Summer does week long cruises to the islands across from it. We could get them that?”

“Maybe… you’ll need to remind Vassa as well. Jurian will run himself ragged, getting her everything romantic thing he can think of just for her to forget it's even happening.”

The fire lord laughed, “I’ve already sent her a letter, she sent me a very snappy one back.”

“She didn’t forget?”

Lucien laughed, “No she had. Didn’t thank me though.”

The High lord chuckled and pressed his face into the crook of Lucien’s neck, “Such Vassa fashion.”

“I know.” Lucien murmured, letting his chin rest on Tamlin’s head.

Everything was good again. Lucien wouldn’t fool himself into believing it was better than before. Tamlin still struggled day and night with the memories that were haunting him, though he was certainly getting better, his temper significantly calming down.

Lucien struggled as well. About a year ago he was invited to train with the newly formed Valkyrie. When he went there one of the girls, Roslin might have been her name, was accidentally shoved into him. Lucien had a horrific panic attack when she fell on top of him, all he could see were the priestess robes he tried so hard every night to forget.

He had since gone back there a few times and was finding it easier and easier, but Roslin, poor thing, was still incredibly apologetic even now a year later.

Regardless, he knew he was getting better, he knew they were both getting better.

There were some nights he wished to curl up beside his friend, to kiss him how he had once before. To feel his bare skin under his hands, to hear him speak in that loving tone he only gave to Lucien when they were alone. 

For the longest time, he didn’t push. Not while Tamlin was recovering, the last thing either of them needed was to worry about a romantic relationship.

But now…

“Tam…” Lucien whispered.

There must’ve been something worried in his tone because Tamlin pulled away from Lucien just enough to see his face, “yes, my Fox?”

Both were absolutely soaked through and covered in mud. They were surrounded by the wild flowers and vines of the Spring Court gardens. They were here, they were alive, they were home.

“Remember when we first met, and I stared at you like dead fish, barely able to speak?”

Tamlin gave him a sly grin, “yes, I was so confused because all the stories I’d heard of ‘that Lucien Vanserra’ painted you like some sort of seductive tempter and there you were… looking like a stunned deer.”

Lucien laughed, “You want to know why I was staring like that?”

Tamlin looked confused at that, so Lucien continued, “It was because you were the most beautiful male I’d ever set my eyes on.”

A deep blush spread across Tamlin’s face up to the tips of his pointed ears, he opened his mouth, presumably to deny, but Lucien interjected, “You were and still are the most stunning, ravishing male I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. You are the most beautiful person to ever walk into my life, and not just on the outside. You have a heart of pure gold that you give to everyone you meet. You are the most open and honest person I have ever met and even after you have been dragged through trial after trial you have never lost that.”

“For a while I thought I did lose you, I thought I had lost the light of my life forever, but I was wrong. Your flames came back, as they always do. And I have had the honour to watch them come back.”

“Lucien, you deserve everything.” Tamlin said.

Lucien’s smile couldn't get any bigger at this point. Tamlin was giving him that look of pure love that he had missed so, so much.

“Tamlin, I am selfish, and I want to love you forever, I never want to lose you to anybody ever again. I want to keep you all for my own self.”

“You have me, Lucien.” Tamlin said, it was hard to see in the rain but there were tears flowing down his High lord’s face, “you have always had me. You deserve everything of me, I have done nothing that would even begin to make me deserve you. I will spend every waking moment of my life trying to deserve you. Trying to atone to you for what I’ve done in the past. But I am always yours.”

“Well in that case… I want everyone to know you are mine, and that I am yours. So, Tamlin Fairburn, will you make me the happiest male to ever live…” Lucien slid down onto one knee, pulling out a box from his pocket. He opened it up to reveal a golden ring, encrusted with fire opal and emeralds. It was shaped like a vine with tiny, fragile golden leaves attached to it.

“Will you marry me?” Lucien asked.

Tamlin was covering his mouth, looking like he was caught between laughing and crying, he nodded. Lucien couldn't help the giddy grin that split across his face.

“Is that a yes?” Lucien laughed.

“Yes, yes it's a yes, you stupid romantic moron, yes I will marry you!” Tamlin said.

He laughed and stood back up, taking Tamlin’s hand and sliding the ring on. Tamlin marvelled at it, running his finger lightly on the gold.

“I love you.” Tamlin said.

“I love you.” Lucien said back, cupping his face and kissing him hard.

Tamlin wrapped his arms around his neck and stood up on the tips of his toes, kissing Lucien with the same passion.

This was it. This was happily ever after.

Lucien would never forget his first love, Jesminda. He held a special place in his heart for her.

And he forgave Feyre for the heart ache she caused.

But this was the male he loved. This was the life he loved.

Lucien finally realised that through all these years, he had been collecting the pieces of his heart and putting it back together. This was the final piece; it was complete the second he slid that ring onto his soulmate's hand.

[weidli]

okay one of my flatmates is really fucking starting to piss me off lmao

[farmerstarter]

The Bachelors on their Wedding Day

Hi Hello have this short list of my little Headcanons of the bachelors on their wedding day. Hope you enjoy it! Reblogs and likes are appreciated!!🌷🤍

ʚ🏈ɞ ˚ · . Alex :

🏈 Fiddles with his tie relentlessly and ends up ruining it. He runs to Evelyn to ask her to tie it up again. The only other thing he fusses over is his hair.

🏈 Alex keeps a rabbit's foot in his pants, wanting all the luck he can get.

🏈 Spent literal days writing his wedding vows. Ends up opting to wing it. It wasn't the most eloquently worded thing you've heard but it was sweet.

🏈 He gave himself a pep talk in his bedroom before the ceremony. You only know about this because George was complaining about how loud he was to you.

🏈 Dusty the dog is the mermaid pendant bearer, I decided.

🏈 Also, the song that plays during the wedding is the same tune from Alex's music box. 🥺

ʚ🪶ɞ ˚ · . Elliott :

🪶Beach wedding. You guys have a beach wedding. You've expressed your interest in one and Elliott, with the eager help of Willy, clean up the beach for your special day. Elliott's shoes would fill with sand but his discomfort is overpowered by his delight when he sees you all dressed up.

🪶 He reads you one (of many) of his poems about you. You later learned that he's got a whole book of poetry about you that he's been writing ever since you two started dating. The poem he read on the wedding day was the very first one and is the first page of the book.

🪶 He spent hours trying to make himself look good. Asking for Leah and Willy's input on what he should wear for a solid 3 hours.

🪶 Aside from him worrying over his appearance, Elliott is more excited than nervous. He's on the verge of creating a new chapter in his life with someone else. Gone are the days of his lonely shack and the empty (well, not as empty since you moved into town) beach. Honestly, to say that he's excited is an understatement.

ʚ🛩️ɞ ˚ · . Harvey :

🛩️ Gets awfully shy when reading his vows, stuttering his way through his words and being a blushing mess. He has no problem with the one-on-one check up sessions he does with the other villagers of Pelican Town, but to read aloud in front of all of them at once threw him off. But he kept his eyes on you and managed to power through it.

🛩️ He considered shaving off his mustache for the wedding at least twice. But he decided against the idea.

🛩️ Insisted that you eat Farmer's Brunch the morning of the wedding. Even during your wedding day, he wants to make sure you're feeling healthy.

🛩️ Holds your hands throughout the whole ceremony. Whispering apologies for how clammy his hands are.

ʚ🎸ɞ ˚ · . Sam :

🎸 He wrote a whole song about you and played it on your wedding day. He made it a surprise for you and the moments of him hiding his guitar and shoving music sheets under his bed when you visit his room were all starting to make sense to you.

🎸 Couldn't sleep for the whole night before the wedding. He worried over the ceremony and wanted to make it go smoothly. He's not one to meticulously plan every detail, opting to engage in spur of the moment decisions, but he tried his best to make everything as close to perfect as he can get.

🎸 Jodi tried to gel Sam's hair back, but no matter the amount of gel and hours, his hair would always spring back. Sam wasn't a fan of dressing up in a "dorky suit" but he did anyway, for you.

🎸 Sam didn't want to see you until the wedding so he got Vincent to play messenger for the two of you. He wouldn't do it at first but only agreed to do it because he likes you (Cue a dramatic gasp from Sam).

ʚ🐸ɞ ˚ · . Sebastian :

🐸 Ends up smiling through the whole ceremony, looking at you with such a brightness in his eyes.

🐸 He isn't one to wear anything fancy. The closest thing he ever wore that is considered formal was the suit that Lewis got him and the rest of the dancers to wear for the Flower Dance. He asks his mom to help him dress up for the wedding, asking her about it while she was building furniture. Sebastian doesn't want to admit it, but he liked watching his mom so happy over something that was so mundane to him. He makes sure to keep the suit in perfect condition throughout the ceremony because of it.

🐸 He tells his very heartfelt wedding vows. And while he does, you could hear the faint "that's good," from Elliott before a grunt, inevitably elbowed on the side by Leah.

🐸 You and him ride on his motorcycle after the wedding. He drives you two to the cliff overlooking the city, the same cliff where he confessed his true feelings to you. Under the full moon, the two of you would look at the stars with Sebastian occasionally pointing at a constellation that Maru taught him to find.

🐸 Consider: winter wedding.

ʚ🐣ɞ ˚ · . Shane :

🐣 Genuinely doesn't believe that you want to marry him. He thinks it's a dream at best and a prank at worst. It wasn't until you were tying his mermaid pendant around his neck for him to know that you do love him. He still has trouble understanding it sometimes.

🐣 Shane asked Marnie to teach him how to waltz for your wedding day. Sure, he's danced in the Flower Dance countless of times but he wanted to learn something new to surprise you. And he did. After dancing with you, he dances with Jas. Well, it's more of Jas standing on Shane's feet while he walks and glides around.

🐣 He gave his chicken, Charlie, a bow tie for the wedding and everything. Even got a picture of you and Shane with the little guy. The picture ends up being hanged on Shane's side of the bedroom for many years to come.

🐣 Has his pocket full of corn chips, let's be honest. He offers one to you before the ceremony starts.

[itadores]

thinking abt him modeling some clothes for reader .. this cutie needs a shopping day of his own ! - 🩺

note: wah thank u for the suggestion!! i was actually thinking about shopping for sakura as i was writing some of my other drabbles

pairing: sakura haruka x gender neutral reader

word count: .8k

tags: gender neutral reader, established relationship, fluff

sakura doesn't know how he ended up in this position- in a fitting room, trying on an outfit you picked out for him like some sort of doll.

sakura was initially under the impression that this shopping trip was meant for you. looking back on it, however, you never explicitly said it was. although, sakura thought it was implied, considering whenever you ask him to go shopping it’s so you can do so as he follows you around from store to store. he didn’t realize that this time you wanted to go shopping with the intention of picking out clothes for him.

he tried to protest when you revealed your true intentions, but they quickly died down when you gave him a look, batting your lashes at him and jutting your lower lip out in a pout, and said that it would make you really happy if he let you shop for him. even if sakura knew you were playing up your reactions and being overly dramatic, he couldn’t deny you and reluctantly agreed.

he thought that you would pick out a few shirts and maybe a pair of pants for him and that would be all. but sakura guesses he should have known better, considering he's more than familiar with your personal shopping habits. as you moved throughout the store, you ended up amassing a pile of clothes, which you handed off to sakura. he grunted under the weight of it. how could clothes be so heavy?

you plucked different articles of clothing from the pile, holding them up to your own body as you showed sakura how you thought they should be paired together. he didn't really understand the importance of matching certain pieces together, used to just making an outfit out of whatever was clean in his closet, but he did his best to follow along to what you were saying.

after you've gone through all the different outfits he can make with the pile of clothes gathered in his arms, you usher him towards the fitting room before he has a chance to process what's going on.

which is how sakura has ended up in the fitting room, dressed in clothes that you paired together for him. he looks at himself in the mirror, his reflection staring back at him. it's weird. the outfit isn't too far out of his comfort zone, a simple plain gray t-shirt and a pair of black slim-fit jeans, but he still feels strange seeing himself in the mirror. maybe, it's because you picked out the clothes for him. it makes him feel a little like a doll that you're playing dress up with.

and the fact that sakura has to go out into the waiting area and show you what the outfit, which you specifically picked out for him, looks like really doesn't help that feeling. sakura doesn't necessarily want to leave the fitting room, but he's been in your position many times and knows that you're probably getting impatient by now. sakura's been in the fitting room nearly as long as you typically are.

sakura shakes his head. what is he so afraid of? it's just you out there. he decides to stop being such a coward and sucks it up. he inhales sharply and exits the fitting room out into the waiting area before he can second guess himself.

you move at breakneck speed. you jerk your head up so quickly upon hearing footsteps that sakura thinks you must have pulled something in your neck. you spring up from your seat to approach sakura.

sakura doesn't know what else to do besides stand there awkwardly. he feels a little bit like a bug under a magnifying glass with the way you're looking at him.

“haruka, you look so good! like really really good!” you exclaim, looking him up and down appraisingly. "the shirt and the pants fit you so well! better than i expected honestly!"

sakura's face becomes increasingly red with each word that falls out of your mouth. you've never held back from complimenting him before, but the constant stream of praise flowing from you is too much for him to handle.

"okay i get it!" sakura abruptly says, unable to take much more. his face is aflame already. you appear to be startled by the interruption, but you quickly recover.

"oops, did i go a little overboard?" you rub the back of your neck, a guilty smile stretching across your cheeks. a little is an understatement. "i couldn't help myself, you just look so good, haruka!" you motion towards his body as if he's the one at fault for your reaction.

“i get it,” he grits out, ears burning. any more of this, and sakura thinks he might just die of embarrassment.

“okay, okay, i’ll stop teasing now.” you put your hands up in surrender, but the grin doesn’t leave your face. “the outfit’s nice, now go try on and another one for me!”

sakura doesn’t think he’s going to make it out of this shopping trip alive.

[digital-domain]

Retrieval

Alastor x Reader // word count 4.4k

Pt 3 to Spring Cleaning and Clean Slate

In which you attempt to leave.

Tags/warnings: yandere, intimidation, noncon kissing, choking, Alastor’s shadow doing things a shadow should not be able to do

A/N: Really thought this was gonna be a one-off but here we are. I usually don’t even write one follow-up, much less two, so this is unfamiliar terrain for me. Alas, I could not resist. Enjoy (or don’t. I’m not in charge.)

You remember a time when this was good. Well - no. You’re sure, now, that it was rotten from the beginning. But there was a time when it felt good. When you invited it in. When you wanted more.

Time for bed, my dear. 

He’s said this to you many times. Now, each repetition deepens the never-ending pit in your stomach. But the first time…how long ago was it? You don’t remember. You don’t even remember how long you’ve been here. Here at this hotel, or here, in hell - each one distorts hours and months in its own way. They tug at you until you slip through the fingers of time, and end up on a day you don’t remember arriving at, in a place that is only yours if you forget what has happened there.

It’s far too late for you to be thinking as deeply as you are.

You’d been sitting on the top of the stairs for a long time that night, however-long-ago, fending off the inevitable onset of your dreams. He’d been gone all day, and when he had finally returned (from where, you never found out), he’d seen you from the lobby. Called out to you, in a voice far too quiet and gentle to carry to your ears as well as it did. It wasn’t the first time he’d spoken to you, but it was the first time he’d spoken to you alone. And even if that wasn’t true, there would have been something different about it. 

And, in my opinion, far too fair a night for such misery.

From the beginning, you’d known that nothing about him was entirely unfiltered. The first time you’d met, he’d given a wonderful little performance. Shaken your hand, taken you by the shoulder, quickly escorted you away from the people who would soon warn you not to trust him. And you’d known it was fake. Of course you had. You weren’t, perhaps, the most excellent judge of character, but you knew no one acted like that by instinct. It was calculated. Not to be trusted.

It struck you oddly, then, to hear such an allegedly inhuman character talk about something as mundane as the joy of pleasant weather. It felt entirely real, even at an hour when almost nothing seemed real at all. Hell did have its decent moments, now and then; there were no seasons, so to speak, but very occasionally you’d get a day that felt like summer, and a night to match. It was nice, when it happened. Delightful, even. 

But, if you insist upon staying awake - and I admit, I do understand that impulse better than most - I suggest you do it somewhere with an open window. 

The realization had hit, somewhere in the middle of this, that he was being kind to you. You hadn’t wondered why at the time. You’d take anything you could get, in those early, confused days after your death, and receiving it from an unexpected source somehow made it better. He didn’t do things like this out of obligation. He cared, for some reason you could only guess at.

You’re still guessing, now. But that night, you hadn’t thought so deeply about it. You’d only stared back at him, and nodded almost imperceptibly at his suggestion. 

He’d paused, matching your silence for a long stretch. Considered your expression, in the way those unblinking eyes always seemed uniquely suited for.

Shall I escort you to your room, my dear?

You’d nodded mutely, and he’d ascended the stairs, offered you his hand, helped you to your feet, guided you to your door.

And then, a mistake. Grateful, exhausted, feeling utterly alone in a strange world - you’d invited him in. 

He’d opened your window for you, and lingered beside it for several quiet seconds before you asked him to sit down in your desk chair. He’d smiled strangely at that, softer than you were used to, and left quickly, almost hastily, after only a few minutes. But he’d stood motionless in the hallway for several seconds before you’d heard him walk away. 

After that night, you never invited him in again - you didn’t have to. He came of his own accord. Only occasionally, at first. Then, more often, until hardly a day went by without it. It was almost pleasant, at first, and then a slow, unyielding creep towards what you have now. Something you don’t understand. Something you only started resenting after it was too late to back away. 

You’ve spent a long time wondering why he chose you, of all people. Why he feels so entitled to your space, to your life, why he wants it to begin with. Why he holds onto you so tightly. You’ve even asked him, in roundabout ways, to no avail. But somewhere in your mind, a shoved-down place that only now rises to the surface, you think that it might be your fault. Your fault, for being so desperate for solace, for company, that you’d take it from anyone you could. For feeling proud to have gained his attention, long after the point where it stopped doing you any good.

Now, lying above your bed covers, you toy with the hem of your slip, which you’ve absently pulled up to mid-thigh. Perhaps you don’t need to be wearing it tonight. Alastor has been mysteriously absent from the hotel in the two days that have passed since his last appearance in your room. You doubt whatever’s called him away has left him much time for spying upon you. And still, you feel compelled to act as if he is watching. As if he might return to your bedside at any moment.

Your memory flashes back to two nights ago, and you try to yank it away. You don’t want to think about what he did to you then. You certainly don’t want to think about why. The way his eyes were fixed not on your body, but on your face, as if it was your shame he wanted to see, and nothing more.

It was unsettling. But perhaps not surprising. If it was only your body that he wanted, after all, he wouldn’t be trying so hard to control the rest of you. That, you don’t understand. That - it’s what really keeps you awake.

The light from your lamp, which you have no intention of turning off, stings beneath your closed eyes as you lie rigidly on your back. You barely slept the night before, either, so this day passed in a sort of stupor, the adrenaline of early morning giving way to a numb, heavy feeling as the afternoon dragged on.

But the numbness is good, in a way, you think. It lets you do things you wouldn’t otherwise. With your eyes still closed, you bring your other hand to the hem of the slip. The lace and the silk above it are delicate, and you pull hard with both fists. The light ripping noise that follows is beautiful, for a moment.

Then, the familiar dread snaps back into place, worse for your act of stupidity. 

He will be back, before long. His sudden absence has not been a reprieve, but a looming threat, a two-day stretch in which you have not taken one proper breath, and you have the feeling that he will know what you have done the moment he returns. 

If he does not somehow know already. If you haven’t already summoned him back by the rebellious movements of your hands. There is panic coursing through you, fear not of what is here now but of what has been, and what will be. It’s not the panic you’d feel at an immediate threat, like a wild animal baring down on you in a dark forest - instead, it’s the sort of inescapable head-buzzing sensation you experienced often in life, when you’d been in a room for far too long, and were not yet allowed to leave. An overwhelming feeling that you are trapped, not by physical bonds, but by the consequences that might ensue if you walk away.

If you were to walk away, to run away…what would happen? You do not know, and you don’t want to think about it. You want to leave. No - you need to leave. If you do not do it now, now, you never will. And the idea of never leaving, of this stretching on until he decides that it’s time for it to end - if he ever does -

You sit up, and swing your legs over the edge of your bed. He will be back soon. You’re sure of it. And you cannot bear the thought of being here when he returns. 

What can you do about it? You can do something. You can stand up. You can find the large backpack stuffed into the corner of your closet, and start shoving things inside. You don’t have many things at all, and most of the things you do have are not important enough to keep. You’re certainly not bringing any of these clothes with you. 

All these things, you do quickly, in a sort of daze, driven by a single motive. Get out, get out. It is easy, if you don’t stop moving. If you don’t think more than you have to, if you let this one idea drive you all the way out the door. One set of clothes, you do have to bring - the one that goes on your body. The only one that you feel even remotely comfortable wearing. Black trousers, red sweater. The contents of the small compartments of your dresser have been replaced, so you do not feel comfortable with the things you are wearing underneath these clothes, but they are quickly hidden. You are not in strong enough possession of your body to feel them clinging to your skin.

You’ve discarded the slip onto the floor, and with the way it’s crumpled, you can’t even see the small rip in the hem. It’s not enough. You pick it up and rip it further, until it is torn all the way to the neck, before dropping it like it’s on fire. Perhaps it would be better to take it with you, to get rid of it in a place where he won’t see the remains, but you do not want to have it for a second longer. It flutters back to the floor, and you cover your clean, white, unfamiliar socks with the ragged sneakers you’ve somehow been allowed to keep. 

Where do you go? Where can you go? For reasons that you certainly didn’t come up with yourself (reasons that seemed like cloying but utterly convincing advice, at the time) you barely speak to anyone outside of these walls. You haven’t even got a phone. And even if you did, you can’t imagine pulling anyone into this mess - your mess, a quiet voice in your head reminds you. This is your creation, and you will see it through alone. There is a motel, you remember, a shoddy building a few streets away that you’ve taken notice of every time you’ve passed. You will go there, and you will sleep, and tomorrow -

Tomorrow does not matter yet. Tonight, you only need to leave. 

You’re sure that no one in this building is awake. Or at least, no one is awake enough to check on the noises your feet make as they collide, painfully loud, over and over, with the creaking hallway floor. And yet, you advance as slowly and carefully as you can manage, barely keeping at bay the adrenaline that urges you to run. The night is pleasantly warm, but a shudder runs through you as you crack open the front door of the sleeping hotel. This, too, you keep at bay, instructing your feet to keep moving until you dislodge the disarming chill from your bones, and settle back into your skin. You are walking quickly, but not running, as you wade into the dark streets before you. It is a bad idea, being out here alone, at this hour, and running is loud. 

Then again, you think your breathing might be harsher, at this moment, than any noise the soles of your shoes could create.

You didn’t realize until now that you already had this route mapped out in your head, so clearly that you can follow it without thinking. It’s not far. Quicker if you slide through the little alley to your left. Quicker still if you speed up, just a bit, just enough that your breath catches oddly in your throat, exertion mixing with the faintest glimmer of hope. There is a breeze flowing out from behind you, gentle against the nape of your neck. The streets are mercifully quiet. 

You are not thinking. If you were, you might not be able to tell yourself that all was well. 

As it is, you buy yourself a few more seconds of hope. But your eyes are wide. Too wide and too alert to miss the strange thing that comes your way. Once you see it, you cannot look anywhere else.

Your stomach drops. You slowly ease your bag off of your shoulders, and let it fall to the ground beside you. You will not be taking it any further than here.

You know this, because there is an inexplicable shadow pressed against the side of the alley. It is cast by nothing, darker than the night that surrounds it. A long, abstract shape unfurls bit by bit, extends its tendrils across the worn brick, and drips down until it spills onto the polished boots that have appeared suddenly on the ground in front of you. 

There’s a horribly familiar sigh, but no words. No touch. Not yet.

Soon. Too soon, you’ll hear his voice.

But you find that you do not have the impulse to scream, like anyone else might in this situation. Nor do you want to run. You do not want to take so much as a step backwards. You do not do these things, because you are not scared like you might have expected. No. The thing that quickens your pulse is not fear, but anger. You were so close. You could have made it. And you should have made it.

You should not have had to run to begin with.

You answer a question that you didn’t realize you were asking until this moment. This is not your fault. None of it. Nothing that makes you feel like this could possibly be your doing alone. So, instead of looking up and apologizing, you stare at the ground, and imagine that your eyes shine as intensely as the ones above you. It’s a striking contrast, your worn, comfortable shoes toe-to-toe with polished leather. A victory, in its own small way.

You feel Alastor lean over you, and your hands curl into fists of their own accord. 

“Do you have any idea,” he murmurs, his voice deceptively calm, “what a terrible risk you’ve taken?”

“Some idea.” You’re seething, just as you know he must be underneath the surface - the only difference is that you aren’t bothering to hide it. “You’ll forgive me.”

“Oh…I’m not talking about my own impulses, my dear. Running was a terrible idea for many reasons.” His glove catches you beneath your jaw - you press back against it for a moment before following its guide. Before looking up into the eyes you never wanted to see again, and the grin that bears down upon you. “You might find it hard to wrap your head around, considering its current misguided state, but I assure you that I am far from the only threat that the nights of hell have to offer.”

“But you are a threat.” He’s shown his hand, you think. It’s satisfying to point out - until it’s thrown back in your face. 

“Only when provoked, darling.” His eyes are a brighter red than you’ve ever seen them, glowing with some intense emotion - whether it’s hatred or a deep appreciation, you don’t know, and will never know. He releases your jaw, runs his finger slowly down the line of your neck. “But you’ve no need to worry…it would take quite a lot of provocation for me to hurt you. Even now, I’m not even close to taking such drastic action.” 

Your teeth grind together, clenched as tightly as his pasted-on smile, as the fist wrapped around his staff. “You think you haven’t hurt me already?”

“Oh, my.” He laughs gently, dismissively - but it’s not quite as convincing as usual. He’s standing rigidly, pressing the bottom of his staff tightly against the ground, holding his free hand not behind his back, but at his side. Fingers stiffly curled, practically trembling with the effort of holding still, as if they’re itching to grab onto something.“You are feeling bold tonight. Not as if I couldn’t tell by the little present you left behind in your room…but it is rather strange to experience it in person. You’re usually such a sweetheart.”

You tune out the syrupy condescension of his voice. You’re done with listening to him. Done with beating around the bush, done with getting brushed aside again and again. “What do you want from me?”

“Cliches don’t suit you, my dear,” he intones darkly. “Especially not when paired with that expression.” He slowly raises his hand, and reaches for your face, as if he hopes to rearrange the features he finds so unpleasant. Without a second thought, you jerk backwards, and slap his hand away.

He holds it frozen. Poised in midair. The last time this happened, it was enough to make you tug back everything you’d just done. 

Not this time.

“What,” you hiss, taking another full step back, “do you want from me?”

The corner of his grin twitches so severely that you can almost imagine it dropping from his face. “At the moment, I only wish for you to return home.”

“That’s not what I mean.” You hold your fists at your sides. Spine straight, shoulders pressed back. Toes curled inside your shoes. You can feel the unfamiliar undergarments clinging to your hips, your ribcage - you want them gone. You want him gone. 

“Then pray tell, my dear”-

“All of it.” You hold his gaze as his head tilts slowly to one side. Listen to the cracking of bones, and press on, before you can think better of it. “You won’t let me go. You can’t. And I don’t even get to know why.” There’s a desperation in your voice, rising with the volume of it, quickly spiraling out of your control. “All I know is that you’re - you’re trying to control me, and that I hate it, and that I don’t fucking understand it.”

Images from two nights before descend upon your mind, and your train of thought comes entirely undone. It’s more than images, really. You can certainly picture him standing over you, his red eyes flaring as you stripped yourself bare in front of him, but you can also feel it, the awful heat under your skin battling with the chill of the air, the brush of his finger along your hip, the gentle kiss to your forehead. The hands pulled tightly behind his back. And the way you felt then, the thing you’d be afraid of, if it was anyone else.

“You - you don’t”- You feel strangely distant from your body, as if your mind is a separate entity, floating somewhere slightly outside of your skull. Your mouth takes a sharp breath, and more words cascade out before you can return to stop them. “I was fucking naked in front of you, and you didn’t feel anything. If you don’t want - that”-

Any other stupid words you might say are cut off by a rising buzz of static, which emanates from him as his staff disappears before your eyes, and his newly-free hand takes on the stiff, barely-restrained posture of the other. You wonder, in that detached manner your thoughts take on when you are frightened, if he’s doing this on purpose, or if it’s somehow leaking out in a way that’s beyond his control. 

You feel tears welling in your eyes, and try in vain to shove them back down. You don’t know where they came from. “I don’t understand.” 

For the first time, you see his grin drop - not all the way, but enough that the line of it changes, enough that it becomes a grimace. It’s so unsettling that you wish the usual, terrible smile would return. “That much is obvious, my dear. I wonder if you even realize how tragic what you just said really was.”

You freeze as your wrists are snatched by coils of shadow, smooth and inexplicably solid. Your arms are yanked straight down, and when you try to tear them away, you fail. Your hands are free to form fists, but remain trapped against your sides.

“That you can only fathom being desired in such a shallow way…”

His image flickers before you. You’re already half-turned around when he reappears behind you a moment later, but there’s nothing you can do to stop his hands from curling, one finger at a time, around your shoulders, far too close to your neck for comfort. You stare straight ahead as his face twists into the periphery of your vision. 

And he whispers in your ear, his voice bare of any effect, just the hint of some old, earthly accent slipping through. “I’m afraid that I want much more than that.” 

He slides around you at the same moment the bonds around your wrists release, and effortlessly turns you by your shoulders - he does not push you against the wall that now stands behind you, but you step back out of instinct and flatten yourself against it. He matches your steps with his own, traps you between himself and the rough brick at your back, and latches his gloved hand beneath your jaw, wrenching your face upwards. With his other hand, he reaches down, flips your palm so that it’s no longer facing the wall and interlocks his fingers with your own. His grin springs back into place, and oh - you wish you could run now. You would, if you could.

His eyes slide away from you for a moment as he puts something together in his head. “These little acts of rebellion from you…I think I ought to thank you for them.” He blinks slowly, and returns his gaze to your face. “I don’t think I would have realized just how close I wanted to keep you, if you hadn’t attempted to leave. And now…oh. I understand perfectly, now. I know exactly what I want.” He bows his head, lowers his lips to your ear, so that you can hear the shudder of his breath. “I’ll have your soul one day, my dear. A day when you’re already bound so tightly to me that such a contract will be a mere formality.” 

“And until that day comes…” He draws back from the side of your face, stares not into your eyes, but through them. His teeth part. His tongue flicks out from between them, and slides quickly over their jagged edges. “I feel as if I’m prepared to do anything, if only it will bring you closer.” 

The last vestiges of your anger burst forth, and you attempt to wrench your face out of his grasp. He lets you, and moves his hand to the back of your neck, his long fingers pressing harshly into the sides. You look up, eyes wide with terror, as the palm that has been flattened against your own releases your hand from the wall, and rises to curl tightly around your waist. 

He pulls you close. You do not see the moment that his smile disappears, as it surely must - your eyes are already closed when he kisses you, screwed tightly shut as his hot, rancid breath works its way into your lungs. There’s a hint of whiskey beneath the rot, and something metallic, the same taste that floods your mouth when you bite the inside of your lip a bit too hard. His hand slides around from the back of your neck, and closes at your throat - he keeps it there after he’s pulled away, and watches as you struggle against his grip. 

“You have a decision to make now, darling.” He takes a deep, satisfied breath, the tension leaving his posture even as you fight to breathe beneath his hand. “You can return all by yourself…” His fingers curl tighter around your neck, and tendrils of shadow lash at your wrists and ankles, slowly twisting their way up your limbs. “Or, I can bring you back. I imagine that would cause quite a scene..but the choice is yours.” He tilts his head, stares down at you through narrowed eyes, and - after another moment of watching you struggle - eases his grip just enough for you to answer.

You don’t hesitate for a moment. Even if you had the air to argue, you wouldn’t dare. “I’ll - come back” -

“Lovely.” He releases you, and takes a step back. Pulls one hand slowly behind him, as if doing so takes a tremendous amount of effort. “Since you’re so attached to your freedom, I’ll allow you to walk back unsupervised.” He traces the back of his other hand gently down your cheek, stopping only briefly to press the tips of his fingers against the hardened clench of your jaw. You let it go slack - only then does he pull his hand away. “But as I told you before, darling…there are many threats lurking in the shadows of these streets. So I do suggest that you watch your step.” 

His image fades away before you. In the same moment that you watch him disappear, there is a shift in the surface under your feet. You no longer feel the familiar soles of your shoes, but the ground beneath, rough with the texture of cracks and debris. Cold. Not damp, exactly, but carrying the faint suggestion of something wet having only recently become dry. 

Your toes curl inside your pristine white socks, which will soon be stained by the filth of the ground beneath them. There’s a new shadow against the wall - it slides along with you as you carefully retrace your steps home.

[cherry-titz]

HI GUYS @cherryjuiceblues here ! oof, this took me longer than i anticipated to finish, and for that i am sorry, friends! this is my installment to mine and @1800titz first collab :D if you haven't already read part one, written by titz herself, then you can do so here !!

some warnings before you read! following on from part one, this is dark harry. some very dark themes going on. and once again, as miss titz previously stated, harry is simply a faceclaim here. there is absolutely no intention to associate the real harry with this fictitious one !!

content warnings include: dom/sub themes, exhibitionism, light spanking/impact play, choking, name-calling, degradation, praise, threats of intending to cause harm (hitchhikerry is not a good man at all). generally, he's a bit meaner in this one!

word count is just under 11k (both of us had aimed to write a short and snappy 6-7k each but here we are LMAO) !! ENJOY :D

This bathroom is filthy. The slanted mirror swirls a little, in a thick, hypnotic puddle, as Y/N stares at the smeared reflection before her.

A new low, perhaps—this night, for Y/N (only competing with one other evening that springs to mind). In an unloved bar, in a dingy bathroom, fingers digging into grimy porcelain that no amount of suds from the muddy bar of soap could clean. (And, really—whose idea was it to have bars of soap in a public place?) Clenching digits in an attempt to wake up some from the wave of paranoia that skittered across her skin in the public eye of the bar.

Y/N swears her pupils fluctuate as she grounds herself in them. Recollects herself in this pigsty of an establishment. Forces some of the alcohol to evaporate off of her in waves as she sobers up to the thought of piss-stained tiles and sticky toilet seats.

Y/N doesn’t drink alone.

But she didn’t do hitchhikers either and look where that got her.

In a shithole—that’s where. In a shithole, on her lonesome, on a Monday night of all nights. Argued to be the worst day of the week to wake up, go to school, work—and most relevantly—get drunk. But she’d considered it important to force herself out—to maintain control over her actions whether they be sensible or not. It was rather unimportant to Y/N what day of the week it was. They’d sort of all merged into one since receiving the phone call—every day reduced to the same thoughts tick, tick, ticking inside of her head. Hours spent ping-ponging back and forth over every moment in which her life could have ended inside of that car.

She’d tried since; to phone him back. Each time met with the denying wall of a payphone. Y/N almost grew comforted by that failure—that safety of knowing no one would ever answer—until rationality kicked in and she blocked the number. A small, tiny ounce of power to hold.

And there’s a part of her, still, that doesn’t quite believe it. That surely friendly Harry—adorned in his soft sweatshirt, with his dimpled cheeks and yellow nails—could have only been laughing with his friends, all huddled around his phone that blasted on speaker, at the successful spooking of an unassuming girl. Despite the fact of all the evidence stacking up against him—that she’d heard only his breaths, only his voice, and the undeniable dead of night surrounding him. She needn’t even ponder over the possibility to accept it—lone stranger on the side of the road, in the dead of night, sleeping at a motel, so eager to manhandle and encourage Y/N’s struggle—

The door clatters, and then a body pushes it open, the heavy wood resisting some and disguising Y/N’s flinch at the sudden intrusion. She clears her throat, turning the tap on and pretending to wash her hands as she meets the eyes of a woman in the mirror, a small weak smile upturning Y/N’s lips, before she disappears inside a cubicle.

She’s retraced every single moment of that night. Looking back with shame and humiliation. Because (and it’s pointless to waste even a second on it now but) how silly—how stupid—does someone have to be; how lacking in common sense or respect for one’s self, to pick up a stranger on the side of the road. Harry was right to scold her over the phone, no matter the irony of it all. She might as well have served herself up on a platter for him to take. So easy, he’d said. 

So easy it hadn’t been fun, is all Y/N can assume.

The broken seal of the door reminds her of the outside world, shaking her head—an attempt to rattle her thoughts into submission, to collect herself and focus on the surface level image of her reflection. To remember the facts. That she looks pretty. Pretty and put-together—and ready to drown more of her sorrows in another cocktail mixed with her chosen spirit.

It’s as quiet as it was before Y/N slipped into the bathroom, a handful of lonely men scattered on opposite ends of the bar—the occasional group huddled around a table—or a couple sprawled against a sofa. The wall-mounted television has been switched on, subtitles an obnoxious fluorescent yellow as the news captures the attention of few desolate drinkers. Y/N doesn’t notice the extra body occupying a high-top table nearest to the bar, her back turned towards them, as she makes herself (comfortable would be an exaggeration) settled once again on a rickety, wooden stool.

She doesn’t notice. Not until she orders a Cosmopolitan and twists her clutch onto her lap, opening the zipper’s teeth, fingers pinching the familiar edge of her card just enough for it to peek past the confines, and is hastily denied by the bartender. He shakes his head, hands busy as he mixes her drink, nodding in some direction behind her as he says, “Gentleman over there paid for it.”

And that… that can’t be right. Gentle and man are two respected words in their own right but together? Y/N’s spine straightens and her muscles tighten. There’s no way she could know, but somehow she does—shutting her eyes, expelling a breath in preparation—as she twists around on her stool to see the man who she invited into her sedan all those days ago. There was nothing gentle about that night.

Or so she found out.

And he looks… the same. Of course he does.

Same chocolate-swirled curls brushing against the unperturbed smoothness of his forehead. Same strong line of his nose, same hard clench of his jaw dusted in scruff that she’d let him brush against her face as they’d kissed. Same plush lips that purse around the rim of a tumbler, cheekbones sharp as he tips his head back enough to allow the cool liquid to slick down his throat. Same rough, sinewy fingers—the subdued yellow of his nails (so far along the spectrum from the blinding fluorescence of the television subtitles) now chipped in a way that suggests it’s fashionable as opposed to scruffy.

All the same features and yet Y/N can’t help but picture them in a new, scathing light—those soft tendrils matted with thick, dark blood, splatters dripping down his temple and beading at his chin. Blush-tinted lips curled up in a sinister, satisfied smile—chilling enough to slow the blood in Y/N’s veins—and those hands; his fingers that had previously delivered so much pleasure, wrapping around the handle of a sharpened blade with the intent to inflict more than she could have bargained for—no sunshine yellow in sight. 

And the morbid image is hardly helped by the baggy garments that swallow his limbs, grey sweats and black hoodie selling one of two different visuals. Either that of a cosy boyfriend or a looming presence on a dimly lit street, late at night. Y/N’s brain opts for the latter.

Harry meets Y/N’s gaze with confidence—if he is surprised, or displeased, or worried by her presence then it shows none on his face. She watches the tick of his throat as he swallows the remainder of what looks like whiskey, before carelessly sliding the glass across the table in which he is slouching away from with arrogance, to meet its other empty friend as they clink together. His posture suggests complete ease—the sort of position you would take on a deep-set sofa—an ankle slung across a knee, an elbow propped behind you. Perhaps the type of arrogance only the person who had admitted their desire to murder you could have.

She blinks at him, unable to startle back around in fear. Not in order to preserve any sort of upper hand—but from a complete lack of said immediate panic; that fight or flight response. She blinks as she sees the screen of her phone behind her eyelids; as she sees every unanswered call she dialled to that payphone. The ringing in her ear as she waited, and waited, and waited.

The reminiscence, the amusement in his tone—that switched as though controlled by one—to disappointment and disdain, to deliver a warning with such severity that only left Y/N with more questions. Why wait an entire week to call? Why tell her about his intention? How many times had he killed before? Why didn’t he kill her?

“—Police have found what they believe to be the body of twenty-five-year-old Ruby Wilcox…” Y/N doesn’t know why this specific statement is deemed salient enough to shove it’s way past all the other droning noise and embed itself deep within her head—but it is. As though Ruby Wilcox is her own name, Y/N feels a pit of dread churning around inside of her stomach, twisting and turning in a true derivation of discomfort, as she peers around to acknowledge that she’s heard correctly, skimming the subtitles with grave trepidation. The journalist goes on, “...reported missing six days ago…” but Y/N already feels as though she’s heard the story.

She turns back towards Harry, unsure as to why it feels necessary to do so—the moment their eyes met the first time, she should have bolted. Harry’s already looking at her, as though his eyes have never trailed away, and it’s telling—the quirk of his lips. The way his tongue darts out to wet them and he can’t contain the small bracket that they form into.

His left eye flutters closed in a wink as new droning voices of monotonous news presenters burrow deeper and deeper into Y/N’s skin. The fear is undeniable. It aches deep inside the marrow of her bones; a lingering, languishing throbbing that can only be attributed to embedded dread. But if Y/N can’t deny that she hasn’t run for the hills then she also can’t deny the way the fear dances atop her skin like little bolts of lightning. Displacing the panic with a desperate flush of rage—a desire for violence to be met with violence—in a less than chaste way.

The danger—it… excites her, it challenges her. To know why, and how, to learn the extent of what spared her life. To take more. It feels reckless; almost demanding of death. It feels belittling, and demeaning, and like everything every girl is ever taught not to do. Could Y/N really justify endangering her life for the perversity of something as insignificant as body-slumping sex? Could she ever look herself in the eye again?

…Did it matter?

It doesn’t seem to when Harry suddenly stretches his arms out above his head, cracking the bones from his strenuous period of sitting down, and pushes himself up from the creaking, groaning chair. It seems as though the decision is made for Y/N when she bolts to follow him without a second thought. Or she bolts in her mind—her body delivers a much more convincing performance of nonchalance—seemingly casual as she sifts through her clutch in a faux check of inventory.

And then, when Harry’s broad back faces her for long enough, weaving his way towards the steel door of the back entrance—that’s when Y/N jumps down from her stool, downs the entirety of her drink and relishes in the warmth that blossoms in her chest, and leaves the bar.

The heavy door screams on its hinges, slamming shut with a reverberating bang. Y/N peers left down the alleyway, dim light from a distant streetlamp casting shadows across gravel—

“Sneaky little thing.”

Y/N startles, whipping around to see her stranger (surprised but not understandably by logic) as he mutters, “No self-preservation.” Effortlessly cool, leaning against the exterior of the bar—rough brick undoubtedly frigid and scratchy. His jaw works incessantly, clearly nursing a flavour of gum that he can only just have popped into his mouth—and disgust gurgles in Y/N’s stomach at the sight of his demeanour—unsettling yet titillating, all the same.

“Y’following me?” he pushes forward off of the wall, height suddenly looming as his lip curls into a simper much less pleasant than that of the man she’d met last week. Though it fails to feel threatening, her mouth still runs dry, now faced with the opportunity to say… anything—to ask, demand, accuse to her heart’s content—but she… she can’t, too inundated by the possibilities as her brain splutters and jolts like an empty engine.

When Y/N doesn’t answer, Harry’s mouth crooks up, pulling back to reveal a deceptively pretty smile—before he purses his lips to blow a cool stream of breath directly into Y/N’s face. Her nose crinkles as the conspicuous scent of peppermint forces its way, no doubt into her brain—to associate peppermint with him for the rest of her life—may it be long or considerably shorter after tonight. “Minty fresh,” Harry smiles around a chew, impishly delighted by Y/N’s scowl. “Wha’s the matter? Don’t like peppermint?”

Sure—yes, sure, she likes peppermint but what level of absurdity— A humourless bark of a laugh fizzles between them, Y/N unable and unwilling to ignore the fatuity of the situation. Y/N could say so much, but it seems she chooses, “I prefer bubblegum,” clearing her throat to ignore the waver in her voice.

Harry nods earnestly—as though her taste in confectionery holds the same gravity as that of an embarrassing truth or a confession of crisis—jaw flexing on its hinges, “Mm, makes sense. Little—” his arm reaches out, finger uncurling to brush a knuckle against a loose strand of her hair, “bubblegum princess,” and Y/N wonders if he might be a little insane, body tight as the distance between them lessens. Distance that could only be described as valuable in such a situation, with such a person.

It strikes Y/N now, the difference in his temperament—gone is the charm of a man brimming with polite conversation to show his gratitude towards her—in his place stands the one who spewed filth inside the confines of her sedan. Shameless, smug, awash with a handful of complexes, she’s now sure.

Despite the blast of fresh air and biting peppermint encouraging sobriety, dregs of intoxication still prevalently linger in Y/N’s bloodstream. That boost of liquid courage she needs to say what she does, to be reminded of that vehement anger, and to ignore the pounding of her heart—the way it begs and pleads with her to go back inside—as her foot takes her a step forward. Her voice drops to a whisper as she tilts her head up, now intimately close, “Do you still think my eyes are pretty?”

And Harry laughs—the sound forced from his lungs as he fails to conceal amusement. “Christ, no shame…” he pauses, eyes darting back and forth between Y/N’s falsely confident ones, “‘f course I do, I meant everything I said... Everything.”

It’s those words that drive home the reality of the situation; a clear confession, a clear joy to remember—“I was going to kill you that night. Thought about draining the life from those pretty eyes the second you rolled your window down.”

Y/N’s tether to sanity unravels, hanging on by a mere thread as she throws her hands in front of her wildly. “I let you inside my fucking car!” The fury finally weaponised, despite the whiny defiance of her tone, that is only further fuelled by Harry’s wry smile, growing and growing. It sets something alight in Y/N; the defeating realisation of a true psychopath before her. Nothing she could say would allow sympathy to seep into his bones. 

Not that she demanded sympathy. What good would an apology do? An apology for what… scaring her? Disturbing her so deeply to her core that life felt bathed—drowned—in danger? The only real, tangible thing Harry had done to her was have sex with her and that— That was nothing to apologise for, no matter the embarrassment to admit as such.

So why… bother… Why bother to fight when he smells so inviting and the warmth of his body yearns to take the chill off of hers?

Harry dips down—peppermint again, mixed with the same pleasant cologne from the night he tainted her backseats, that had blotted itself in her memory unknowingly—eyes boring into her own. “You did more than that, pet,” an effort to get the words out without scoffing, “You let me fuck you inside your car. Begged me—”

She shoves demurely at his chest, coils of heat tightening at the memory, causing only the slightest of stumbles as Harry grips her hand to his chest and tugs her with him “—pleaded me—for it, in fact.” His breath fans across her face; close enough to still be warm and pebble her cheeks with goosebumps. Her lashes flutter innocuously—the perfect picture of doe-eyed and yet she has no intention behind it.

Y/N’s face is warm with the alcohol coursing underneath her skin and the tingling of Harry’s air dusted across it, that jacket of heat the only thing bracing her against the whipping breeze against her bare legs. Naturally, if it wasn’t for the existence of Harry, Y/N would feel perfectly content right now. Tipsy but not detrimentally so—surfing along the wave of intoxication with only an occasional plunge beneath the bracing waters. She feels good like this, most of the time. She feels confident, and sexy, and free of all of life’s burdens.

But now one of life’s more recent burdens is standing in front of her, simmering smile surely on the verge of snapping. Y/N wonders what she might do in order to make that happen—so be it, if that puts herself at risk. There's no such thing as risk when you’re a drink or two down. The anger feels subdued, the fear feels subdued—something in the back of her mind convincing Y/N of some faux sense of safety—however real or fake it may be.

“Didn’t you?” Harry nudges, sly fingertips catching her off guard as they tap sequentially against the curve of her waist, gently—subtly—manoeuvring Y/N’s body to rest against the harsh stone. She hardly realises she’s moving, too honed in on the whispering taunt of Harry’s voice.

Yes. She did.

But she doesn’t care to focus on that anymore—she doesn’t care to play the regretful part. Y/N has moved onto bigger and better things. She tilts her chin up, defiant in nature, as her tone takes on that of a snarky assertion, “How—how were you g’na do it? Tell me.” 

It doesn’t seem as though Harry needs a reminder; he knows what she’s referring to. He knows and he shows zero interest in humouring it—her perverse request. Tapping fingers trail their way up, up, up until they’re cradling her collarbones, vast palm spread out across her chest. 

He plays gentle, unknowing, as he shushes her, “It doesn’t matter…” he murmurs, hand slipping higher still until his long fingers can curl and wrap around her throat, the first indication of the whiskey having its desired effect clear when his eyelids flutter and syllables threaten to merge.

He doesn’t squeeze and it’s disturbingly unforeseen—the hold in which he keeps her in without pressure. But it’s not enough, and Y/N’s not satisfied with such an answer. No matter the desperation to surge forward and kiss him messily, or the eagerness to find out whether he’ll explore her mouth again or degrade her for his pleasure, Y/N doesn’t budge.

“Tell me,” she insists, voice teetering on the edge of too loud in the soulless alleyway. Her fist comes up in a weak thud against his chest, unable to display any other sort of physicality. “How were you gonna kill me, Harry—?” Her breath catches as he digs his fingers into the side of her throat—finally satisfied to see the edge of that smirk wiped off of his face. Piercing green holds her in place, sneer dominating her vision.

“Shut up—”

“When you were cumming inside me—?” 

“—Shut the fuck up.”

Y/N wheezes when he squeezes even harder, mouth dropping open in a masochistic smile—eyes half-lidded as the blood fights its way to her brain. The warmth of Harry’s palm against the column of her neck presses just as hard, taunting and tormenting her airways—daring her to breathe.

“What—did you—” a second of respite in which he loosens his grip, as Y/N inhales as much as her little lungs can take, “do to that—woman?”

He scoffs at her—almost annoyed that she would care enough to ask—that he even has to waste his energy thinking about it. “I didn’t fuck her if that’s what you’re worried about,” serrated ice in his tone, freezing over when he spits out, “sweetheart.” No attempt at denial, no reassurance of his innocence—just. I didn’t fuck her.

It comes barrelling out; the provocation, “Had to get your fix somewhere else, then,” Y/N accuses, swallowing underneath the weight of his hand. “Didn’t kill me so you had to hurt poor Ruby Wilcox, didn’t you?”

“—Don’t play detective, pet,” he expertly deflects, squeezing harder—disguising any sort of discomfort with the quirk of his lips, “it doesn’t suit you. Much preferred it when you were dumb around my fingers, barking f’me like a good girl. D’you remember that?”

Very well. Too well. Even still after learning the truth, Y/N had remembered it in great detail. “Why didn’t you kill me?” she whispers, numb now to the pads of his digits and the way they demand bruising against the delicate skin of her neck. Pointed indentations to aggravate with her own pressing fingers (assuming she lives long enough for them to form).

“Maybe I just wanted another taste,” Harry admits, eyes clear—surprisingly sincere despite the vulnerability of such a claim. “Maybe I wanted to hear about more of your bad dates—”

“—It wasn’t a date—”

“Maybe…” and Y/N starts to doubt that earnest expression, “maybe I got off on the idea of ruining something—of leaving this kind, sweet, generous girl… with something real to cry about.”

Something real? Something real?

“Why me?” She’s not kidding herself; there’s nothing special or unique that might have altered years and years of Harry’s personal psychology—but maybe, just maybe—Y/N might be given something to help her sleep a little better at night. A reason; valid or not, just something to roll around in the palm of her hands until she could make sense of it.

She’s granted no such thing.

“You stopped the car, Y/N,” he drawls in such a casual tone, sounding the same as the man who had told her his name, debated the importance of the rules of Uno, and breathed a sincere wish that she got home safe. “You let me in. I had nothing to do with it,” Harry promises. But it’s not a friendly promise, nor a reassuring one. It’s an assertion that leaves no room for interpretation, a cold, hard fact that can never be dissected. And unfortunately for Y/N, the fact of the matter remains that this is all her fault.

Cold fingers curl into the front of his hoodie, material scrunching between her digits. Harry tuts, “Hands off,” but Y/N only grips him tighter—knuckles tensing as she urges him closer towards her body by the baggy fabric. (When she’s sober she might berate herself for pushing him the wrong way.)

It’s discernible; Harry’s distaste—eyes sharpening as they slice into her own. He takes matters into his own hands, forcibly removing hers from his front and squeezing the delicate bones of her wrists as he presses them, less than gently, into the harsh bricks.

“Not so obedient today, are we?” Their hips dare to meet, twitches and nudges teasing the inevitable. Y/N can’t disguise the way she bucks a little, thin dress waiting to be bunched and moulded by bigger hands. She knows what he feels like—and it’s impossible not to yearn for it.

Her words are airy—breathless from no exertion—heartbeat drumming in her chest with anticipation. “I assumed you…liked a struggle.”

“I do,” Harry hums, a smile edging back onto his face, as he dips down enough for his breath to kiss her ear, “...but where’s my easy little stray gone?” he pouts, leaning back to tilt his head in a way that suggests simple curiosity. “Girl I met two weeks ago was already open wide f’me by now… Wanna show me your tongue again, pet?”

And it’s juvenile—but Y/N isn’t sober and neither is Harry—when she sticks it out in a way similar to that of a snotty toddler as opposed to the languid reveal she gave him in her car. She pokes it out and scrunches her nose, almost amusing herself in the process. In what is a ridiculous display of immaturity that far from pleases Harry.

He grunts, “Yeah, that’s funny,” patting the side of her face. Hard. Not a slap but something that makes her cheek tingle and her jaw loosen. Even more so when Harry’s fingers squeeze either side and manhandle her face left and right—moving her as he pleases and reveling in the dipping of her eyebrows and the rounding of her eyes. It’s pathetic, really, how quickly she can be reduced to insignificance with just a little pawing.

But he underestimates her ever so slightly. She’s not quite finished it seems, when—through the mush of her mouth—she gurgles, “Are y’gonna kill me this time?”

The amusement that dances so often in Harry’s eyes fizzles out once more. “Shut up, Y/N,” he shoves closer, the blushing tip of his nose daring to brush against her bridge. “Don’t make me say it again.”

She practically preens, rocking up onto the tips of her toes, forcing their chill-bitten skin to brush. “Or what? You’ll make me?” The question floats between them like a perilous snowflake, not for long enough before she jeers, “How you g’na do it? You’ll finally get to watch th—”

Harry’s had enough of her voice, surging forward, desperately capturing the end of Y/N’s exhalation and coalescing it with his own. It’s rough, and it’s dirty—his fingers still controlling every purse of Y/N’s lips—hips finally clashing in a grinding of bones. He lets go of her face, encompassing hands tugging through her hair as he holds the back of her head. The only gesture of comfort he grants her away from the wall; not for long before those same fingers roam and dishevel—nails pinching just on the side of too hard.

Every subconscious twitch of her own fingers has Harry alert—any attempt of Y/N’s made to touch him in exchange meets her swift return of each wrist pinned to either side of her head—knuckles brushing sharp bumps of brick. A small noise seeps out of her mouth and into his own, vibrating against his lips and reducing Harry to a deep, acknowledging sigh.

They’re uncoordinated; desperation dominating precision and finesse. Laboured exhalations blanket their cheeks, noses squished and lips swollen. Harry’s hands float back up to her face, pressing coolly against the sides, spanning the entirety as his thumbs bracket their mouths. He holds her like he wants to consume her—crawl inside her skin, swallow her down—tongue boldly stroking against her own in contrastingly lazy flicks. A dizzying enmeshment of fast and slow, hard and soft.

Y/N’s neck aches from the angle in which she’s forced to meet Harry’s mouth, strong palms nearly pulling her off of her toes as he cups her cheeks with almost too much chivalry, too much romance. It would be all too easy to forget his confession, encompassed in his warmth, his scent—too easy to pretend it didn’t matter.

She sinks her teeth into his bottom lip, pulling back as they clamp and opening her eyes just enough to watch the flesh snap back into place. There’s no time to smile with sadistic glee before Y/N’s head is yanked back by the roots of her hair, slender fingers wrapped in tendrils and tugging. Hard. A gasp is ripped from the back of her throat, cold and sharp against her tonsils. And Harry gets to experience the twitch of his lips and the amusement of winning as Y/N’s back bends to accommodate the sudden stretch of her neck. 

He peers down at her parted lips, the slight tension in her brows from the strain, and her heavy arms that slowly droop down against the wall. Small clouds of mist pass between them—the cold air kissing their recycled breaths—soaking in the chill the longer they stay outdoors. The stray street light bounces off of one side of Harry's back, casting a glowing outline around his body as he blocks Y/N in against the wall. The irony of such an image. She shuffles her feet atop the gravel, aching from lack of movement—twitching when a thick thigh nudges its way between her own—soft sweatpants stroking her naked skin.

“Bite me again, sweetheart…” Harry taunts, voice scarily steady, “see what happens.”

A choked laugh escapes from Y/N’s chest, forced through her open mouth. A delightful invitation. She pushes as far up on her toes as she can manage, pulling against the force of Harry’s hand—reaching as far as his chin before she eases the tension. He smirks down at her, wandering fingers teasing the hem of her dress as his thigh warms between hers.

“Pity I don’t get to rip another pair of little tights,” he tuts, trailing a digit up the inside of her knee. “Trying to make the old men happy tonight, were we?” tugging at the material, tight against the tops of her thighs. “Hoping one of them might take you to the bathroom and let you call him Daddy.” He tuts again, “How sad.”

“Would you have?” she pouts, eyes bright with mirth. “Let me call you Daddy?”

“Would I have let you? Would I have given you permission? I don’t think so, pet.” He squishes her cheeks together again—demeaning, degrading—leaning back down to ghost his mouth across her puckered lips. “I don’t think you deserve to call me anything at all.”

Her lungs are tight; desperate for more than just a shallow inhale through her nose, borrowed from another. He’d slowly, ever so slowly, meshed their mouths together once more—stopping her from replying with anything other than a scalding kiss, tongues overlapping in an erotic embrace.

But Y/N finds herself impatient—and Y/N falls short in the realm of manners, greedy hands sneaking down when she gets the chance—palming at the thick outline through Harry’s sweatpants.

“Ah—ah, hands off,” he echoes, fingers tugging at her scalp again, forcibly expelling the breath from her lungs. “Ask nicely. I know you know better than that.”

“I do,” she pants, lips tingling with the imprint of Harry’s own. “I don’t think psychos…deserve nicely.” A dangerous blow. One he doesn’t take lightly—one that makes Y/N think she’s hit a nerve when he grits out his next command, jaw tight and eyes stormy.

“Turn around. You’re pissing me off,” not granting her the option to do so herself before his spanning hands are forcing her waist in a squirming prod until her front meets the wall. She wants to push back but Harry is consuming all the space behind her, chest expanding against her shoulder blades. The heat against her ass is dizzying, tunnelling all of her thoughts to places dissolute.

Harry spits his next words, anger palpable, “Fuckin’ brat,” pulling her against his crotch by the small of her waist. Y/N gasps, ears momentarily filled with nothing but white noise. “I let you go and the universe brought us back together, isn’t that something?” A pause; clearly waiting for her snarky response but he gets nothing. She’s too overtaken by the buzzing between her thighs. “I thought so,” he sighs, “but you’re being such a little bitch tonight.”

A pathetic whine crawls its way out of her downturned lips, wisping between them like a sad trail of smoke. Her head feels thick, like she wants to let it fall back and rest upon Harry’s shoulder. What was she annoyed about again? It feels futile. 

The harsh emphasis of ‘bitch’ echoes in her ears about five beats after he’s gritted it out. And it burns deep within her abdomen, a searing coalescence of shame and arousal. “...Not a bitch,” she mumbles, eyes fluttering closed as her hands brace against the wall—willing herself to stay upright; to focus on anything but the heavy bump against her backside. But it is futile, because the insult doesn’t land the way it’s supposed to—it doesn’t upset or offend—and that’s when it becomes clear to Harry that the wall is crumbling. That his charm remains absolute.

“Oh, baby,” he coos, voice lathering her skin like thick globules of honey, “still so easy,” lips kissing the shell of her ear as his breath seeps into her hair, coating and warming. “My little bitch, how about that? Do you like the sound of that?”

She wants to shake her head but it’s too heavy, clogged with the fog of Harry’s voice—every nerve tingling as he glides his palms over her hips and down… across her pelvis and curling around the edge of her dress, teasing it, bunching it up just enough to dance his digits over her mound. Y/N’s hips twitch in anticipation, giving away what her words don’t say.

“Y’want my fingers…” an electrifying brush over her clothed clit, “here?” She exhales a shaky breath, trying to push back into him—it’s the only thing she can do, with her fingernails threatening to dig into stone and her forehead sure to come away with its imprint. Her heartbeat throbs between her thighs and a swallowed whimper seeps out of her mouth. “Got to hear you say it, pet. Say you want me to play with your hot, little cunt.”

“Mhm,” is all Y/N can manage, hoping—praying—that for once it might be good enough.

It’s not.

“Mhm,” Harry echoes, the pressure on her clit disappearing and the bulge nudging against her ass harder. Y/N pushes back—Harry pushes forward. A cant of his hips and a teasing reveal of more and more of her skin, the skirt of her dress manipulated high enough to brush across the small of her back and reveal the breadth of her underwear; less salacious than the purple thong Harry had admired previously. A soft white cotton and frilly pink decorating the hem.

“These are sweet, pet,” he mumbles. But it doesn’t fill her chest with warmth; it fills her with trepidation—waiting for the other shoe to drop—for Harry to tear them or rip them, defile them or taint them. But he never does. He doesn’t do anything aside from stroke his thumb across the hem of her panties, up and along the seam. Y/N exhales, trying to sway her hips in order to sway him but it seems he needs no persuasion.

“I’m waiting,” he scorns—much to Y/N’s distaste. Because waiting is not a luxury that either of them can afford right now. Time… Privacy… Two valuable assets that are not provided by the dimly lit alleyways between dingy bars and the rest of the population. The steel door barely a metre beside Y/N could swing open at any point—revealing a disgruntled worker tired after a long shift—or an impatient pedestrian could decide to try their luck exploring a shortcut and happen upon their preoccupied bodies. And surely there must be a view from a window somewhere, anywhere.

So Y/N says what she knows he wants to hear. “Please,” a whisper—unpossessing of the desperation Harry often desires. But she’s not finished. “Please. Please play with my— my…” his fingers drag down across the gusset, prodding at her fluttering hole through the thin material that’s far from dry. A motivating caress that wobbles Y/N’s voice, “—M-my hot, little cunt.”

Shame bathes in her skin, cheeks blooming with an imprudent heat. But Harry laughs at her compliance, no matter how pathetic or meek. He thuds the width of his fingers over her clit suddenly, Y/N’s knees buckling with the unforeseen impact but Harry grips onto her waist, holding her against the warm wall of his body as his fingers push at her underwear. 

The wetness is embarrassing, thick and glossy through the cotton. Harry seems to take pride in it, spending too long nudging his fingers over the slick at her hole instead of focusing where they both know Y/N wants. And then a slip to the side, fingertips prodding at the flimsy hem—manoeuvring it over and out of the way, just enough for the shame to coat his skin.

They’re cold against the radiating heat from between her thighs, pulsing and rolling in waves throughout her insides. A jolt; a twitch, the width of Harry’s chest against her back.

“Hold them—fuck, you’re sopping—hold them f’me,” he instructs, Y/N’s shaking fingers obliging before they even know what for, slinking down the front of her body and shucking the gusset of her panties aside enough for Harry’s liking, “Y’always get this wet or is it just f’me?”

And Harry must know the answer—well acquainted with her pussy once before—asking the questions he knows will satisfy him most. “Jus’ you.” A pathetic admission—even more so when Y/N realises it’s not even a lie.

She’s never been more sure of something. Not by her own hand, not by another cock; never has she been so ruined. “No wonder everyone you fuck bores you.” 

Yeah… she had insinuated that—she’d yearned for it to hurt, for it to be interesting—inadvertently matching Harry’s sick sense of pleasure. Because here she was, wetting his fingers—the same fingers he’d taken so much away with—and yet they felt so good.

“You need a bit of danger, baby?” Harry cups over her tightly. “Yeah?”

“—Mhm—”

He smiles, leaning forward into the back of her hair. “Need to pick strange men off of the side of the road? Need to fuck them in alleyways?” His palm grinds along her clit in slow, torturous circles, the tips of his fingers daring to dip inside of her but never breaching. “You gonna let me fuck you, pet? Gonna squeeze that cunt over me again like a good—” he retracts slightly, heavy hand slapping over her pussy and rendering Y/N immobilised, “—fucking—girl?” Each smack jolts her body, knees buckling, crumpled mouth whimpering.

“Ye-yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, please,” her tone borders on watery, thick with overwhelming urgency—coaxing him to warm his fingers inside of her—pleading with her grabbing hand as it reaches behind her and palms at the front of his sweats. And he’s told her no once… twice before already… so it’s only fair that he slaps down on her again. Harder. Louder. The sound of Y/N’s cry echoing out, just teetering over the edge of too pitchy. He doesn’t bother to smother it.

He’s terse, words forced through the gaps of his teeth as he grits, “Stop fucking touching me. Just…” he sighs, warm breath tickling the shell of her ear, “Jus’ be a… good… little hole, yeah?”

Yeah. Yeah. She can do that, she can— “Okay,” the breath trails out of her lips, wispy and frail, body tightening up when she feels… feels his middle finger circling the outside of her cunt—silently pleading for his touch—“O-okay,” she mewls again, dumbstruck as he pushes in—up to the first knuckle, and then the second, and the third.

“There you go,” it’s gentle, almost nurturing; far too soft for the stolen secrecy of an alleyway. Y/N keens, knuckles tightening around the gusset she’s still holding onto for dear life—empty hand flying down to cover Harry’s own. Delicacy coalescing with rigidity. She begs for his finger to sink deeper, to curl and to soothe—to be cajoled by another—to carve its path inside of her.

Harry wiggles it tauntingly, chest puffing out with a frustrated exhalation. “Give me your hand—come on—” he’s rough as he twists it behind her back, away from his skin and exposed to the cold air, “keep it there, stop—bothering me.” She’s not even rewarded with his bruising grasp around her wrist, just the aching chore of correcting each slip down her back as her arm tires.

His ring finger squeezes beside his middle, tip teasing Y/N’s achy hole, soft pads pressing into the spongy front of her walls. He scissors his fingers inside of her slowly, rubbing with virility as the backs of his index and pinky slap into the plush flesh either side of her wet cunt. And then he gets faster, grunting senselessly through every twitch and clench of her pussy. He finds that spot—and then he abuses it—Y/N unable to support her own weight when her knees start buckling and her tired bicep suffers behind her back.

“Can’t handle it, pet?” the cadence of his tone matches each punch of his fingers inside of her—the pit in Y/N’s stomach edged and taunted with every curl against her gummy walls. “S’it too good? Got you shaking all over th’place with just m’fingers.”

She thinks she garbles something unintelligent but it’s impossible to be sure when all the blood is rushing between her legs.

Harry murmurs, lips catching the shell of her ear, “I think you’re a little slut, baby,” biting down on her lobe with contrasting care. “Letting me ruin you in a dirty alleyway… Outside where anyone could see you—see your drippy pussy soaking m’hand.”

“Yes,” a sigh slips—agreeing to nothing in particular—an expression of pleasure, a plea for more.

A dark laugh stretches taut between them, powerful as his fingers speed up, palm slapping against her clit with each thrust. It vibrates and buzzes, twitches and pulsates. “You’re g’na cum for me, pet. Right now.”

It’s a simple demand. One that manhandles Y/N to the very edge—it dangles her over as the drop below taunts her. It beckons her like a siren call. Harry nudges her spot again, and again, and again—coaxing it, consoling it. Every curl of his fingers, every thud of his palm. It fills her up, breath catching, head falling back on her neck. And then she falls, plummets, cascades down—jaw dropped in a silent cry as her cunt convulses seismically around Harry’s fingers—clamping near violently. He rubs her through it, stroking her walls in heavy thrusts as he slows and forces her to feel it all.

“There you go, good girl. Filthy girl.” His hand glistens with her slick, pulling strings away with it. Y/N mourns his fingers, his warmth when he pulls away. Her hole flutters and her body suddenly feels cold—isolated and alone.

He exhales, “Fuck—put your hands on the wall, bend over a bit—that’s it,” crouching down, perverse in the way he inspects the glistening between her thighs. At least, that’s what Y/N assumes he’s doing as he nestles in closer to her cunt, close enough for his breaths to wash over her shaking form. 

One heavy forearm pins the skirt of her dress over the rounds of her arse, his free hand coming up to spread her open with the precision of a man who has much more time than either of them currently do. Y/N doesn’t see the way her slick creates ribbons between his fingers after he nudges at her opening and pulls away to scrutinise them. She doesn’t see the way his throat bobs as he tucks his digits past his blushing lips and laves his tongue around them salaciously. She only hears the muffled hum, and the harsh breath leave his nose as the man beneath her drools around himself.

“Sweet little thing,” he pants, voice gruff—gravelly—when he finally brings his fingers back to her centre. He pets at her, thudding the thick of them against her quivering cunt unnecessarily; from a want to render her even less stable on her aching legs. “Absolutely drenched f’me, aren’t you. Does that scare you, sweetheart?”

A whimper climbs out from Y/N’s throat, delayed in her response. Answering of the wrong question—the one she would lie about if she were sober. She needs more—she needs something more… something all-consuming. 

“Fuck—fuck me—now,” she pleads, hips pushing back as her neck cranes to catch a glimpse of the man below her.

He rises to his full height. “That’s not how you ask.”

“Please. Or I’ll… I’ll—”

“You’ll what, pet?”

“—I’ll tell everyone…” she whines, trailing off when her words reach no conclusion.

“Yeah? You’ll tell everyone. You’ll go to the police?” She’s nodding mindlessly, head weighing her down. “And what will you say?” tone turning petulant and shrieky, “‘I let him defile me, officer. I let him stretch me out on his big cock, officer. I let him do whatever he wanted, officer—’”

“Please,” her voice is thick, full with a sob—and a wave of panic washes over her at the possibility of not having him at all. 

“Don’t know if you deserve it now,” drumming his fingers across the small of her back. “Threatening me, huh? Silly girl.”

No reasoning comes to mind—nothing smart or clever to wield as a rebuttal. Just a slew of pathetic sounds; only possibly attractive to someone yearning for power—someone like Harry. Her body answers for her, still desperately twitching and searching for his own and being rewarded with nothing. He stays stoic, mild palm smoothing along the expanses of her chill-bitten backside.

“Tell you what…” he starts, a sly smile morphing the sound of his voice. “You be quiet f’me, yeah? You be quiet and I’ll give you what you want. Don’t w’na hear a single fucking thing else from this bratty, little mouth, you understand?”

A trick—an attempt for her to slip up before they’ve even begun. She nods frantically, teeth clamped together, lips equally as shut. She’s ready to offer more than is wise, for him to fuck her—ready to give herself up completely just so he’ll quell that ache. The nerves of their exposition are really starting to buzz along the surface of her skin.

“There you go, not so hard, is it?” She shakes her head no, enthralled by the soft sound of skin rubbing against thick cotton, fingers slipping underneath elasticated waistbands. “Good,” Harry murmurs, so quiet that Y/N wouldn’t have heard it if it weren’t for her heightened senses. And then again, even softer, swallowed around a gruff exhale that she can only assume is in response to curling his fingers around himself. “Good girl.”

She feels him tug at the gusset of her panties—haphazardly skewed across her centre, unable to conform without the curl of Y/N’s prying joints keeping them astray. Harry stretches the stitches easily, forcing the fabric to adhere to his perversion, as his thumb strokes the skin adjacent to where she would really feel it.

The corner of a condom wrapper flutters to the floor out of Y/N’s periphery, landing by her achy feet, as the image of Harry tearing it with his teeth flashes behind her eyelids. He rolls it on silently—and for a moment she wishes she could see—picture the length, the girth that had scripted her deepest desires so dominantly.

He smooths his hand up, underneath her dress, shuffling in closer behind her as he nudges the head of his cock against her slick cunt. Y/N’s jaw drops open in a silent whimper—catching the noise, suffocating it in her throat before it ripples out around them. Sweat gathers in the palms of her hands, irritated against the rough brick wall when they’d much rather be buried in his hair. Her forehead dips down, willing Harry to do something… anything.

He strokes up and down her clit, smiling at every overstimulated twitch, dipping down to smear arousal. He teases her, letting the thick of his tip stretch her entrance before he pulls back. Once, twice, three times… And then he sinks in, fingertips creating divots in her hips, holding harder with each inch that he carves out inside of her. When his pelvis cushions against her ass, he sighs—a long exhale of breath—followed by a rumbling from within his chest, “Perfect little pussy.”

Y/N can’t help the little whimper that falls from her lips, brows scrunched, dipping towards the centre of her face. Either Harry has a change of heart or he doesn’t hear her—too enraptured in the feeling of every vein and ridge perfectly filling the space surrounding him; as though created just for him, his cock.

He doesn’t move, perfectly still—embedded deep inside of her convulsing pussy—feeling her out. Mentally (though physically too). Waiting and waiting, regarding her presence with a slight jerk of his hips that already press demandingly into her backside. Waiting for those words to fall off of the tip of her tongue, with a protesting or begging cadence, and redirect his little game. A game Harry doesn’t even know the rules to—the only importance serving in his right to manhandle Y/N every which way; however he may please. A single plea, or a frustrated curse… that’s all he needs.

But she holds on. She stays silent and her hands stay slipping down the bricks. Enough so to have the opposite effect; to rile Harry up, to have his digits curl tighter into her skin and pull out all the way—feel her clench around him in an effort to keep him inside—and then rock back into her. Harder. The thud of their flesh meeting rippling out around them. 

Y/N doesn’t think that’s very fair; physically forcing the sounds from her larynx—punching the air from her lungs in such a way that makes it impossible for her silence to remain. She cries out, quiet enough to suggest a desire for modesty but loud enough for Harry’s lips to curl up nefariously.

“What did I say?” His hand clamps around her mouth, fingers brushing her eyelashes if he stretches them out far enough. The grip forces Y/N’s neck to stretch, trembling body elongating as Harry straightens her out and melds her into the wall. Her forearms squish into her biceps and her chest flattens indelicately. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say he was trying to cast her into the bricks, grout and all.

His hips snap back into her.

“Fuck,” Harry moans wantonly—exaggerated as he amuses himself with the pleasure of her newfound silence—“that’s sexy,” teeth grazing her ear. “So much hotter with your mouth shut, you know that?” She opens it just to spite him, tongue laving over his palm. His hips slap harder against her in return, eager to manoeuvre and curl his digits along the flesh of her tongue—eliciting a harsh gag from her unprepared throat. 

It perturbs him none when she presses her teeth into his skin, clamping gently at first but losing the capacity to be anything when Harry slinks his other hand around her neck. The blood fights for its strength, struggling and forcing its way through to her brain as the periphery of Y/N’s vision darkens. There’s nothing scary about it—and if they weren’t outside she might feel a semblance of peace.

“You prefer it like this, don’t you?” Harry gruffs against the side of her face, lashes threatening to kiss over her temple. “Jus’ w’na be treated like a silly—little—slut.” His thrusts punctuate each word, short cries forcing their way between his fingers. Drool gathers in the well of his palm, shameful rivulets smearing against Y/N’s chin.

“Don’t you?”

“Mhm—Mhmn—” she garbles something thick, tongue heavy in her mouth—battling against the extra weight of Harry’s intrusive digits. She swallows around them. 

He’s everywhere—soft clothes baggy on him and swamping her frame as he swallows her up—sure that if someone were to simply glance down their alleyway she would not be seen. Heat plagues her, rolling out of her pores in thick, murky waves—the kind of heat she suddenly fears she will always be cold without. The presence against her back, the stoicity of his figure. 

Her noises topple out.

Sad, desperate, pathetic little whines—snappy with the way Harry pummels into her. No one would have to ponder for long to dissect the cause of such sounds. Flesh smacking, fabric chafing, laboured breathing.

“Yeah. Yeah. I know,” fingers tighten around her throat. “Shrieky thing, you are. Can’t stay quiet to save your life.”

The insinuation is not lost on her, no matter the delirium that she’s submerged under. And Harry relishes in it; of course he does.

He slurs, “Would you die happy? Right now? Right now, baby?”

And Y/N knows she’s deeply flawed when his words scratch a spot. When she doesn’t recoil in disgust, attempt to pull away and run—but instead melts even further into his grasp. Nodding in jerky nudges of her head. She’s not giving him permission to stop the beating of her heart but she supposes it doesn’t matter either way. 

Harry rips his hand from her mouth, trailing saliva down the front of her dress, squeezing his thick forearm between her abdomen and the wall as he searches cruelly to overstimulate her. She’s been so easy thus far, soft and pliable no matter Harry’s propensity for writhing. But when he skims over her clit, that…—that’s when she starts to struggle. To will her body away from the torturous pads of his fingers.

This only encourages her tormentor, deft digits pulling up the hood, allowing no room to hide as he applies direct pressure and tightens the barrier of his arm as her body spasms out of control. A sob rips from Y/N’s chest, loud enough to be deemed inappropriate—and no matter how much pleasure he might find in those sounds, she’s teetering on the brink of becoming dangerous. The grasp around her neck loosens, fingers slipping up to push past her lips again; the only effective method of muffling her at all. 

Y/N keens with the weight in her mouth, relishes in the way her lips have to wrap around his big, masculine fingers. “Fucking tight, pet,” Harry grunts, ministrations messy and uncoordinated as he rubs over her clit, bumping into his shaft with every thrust. And she is—clamping down so hard her muscles yearn to loosen. They yearn to melt into a softness, into a safety, into a slumber. But her brain is running away, and Harry’s not slowing down, the tip of his cock abusing the spot he already petted at so perfectly with his fingers. 

And he knows she’s nearly there, smiles into the crook of her neck and lets his teeth bite into her flesh for just a second.

But just as her orgasm starts to topple over the edge, he stops. He leans back, pulling her hips so her bum juts out and her back arches again.

“Come on, I’m tired, baby,” he teases, a slither of playfulness lost to the tightness in his voice, hips dragging to a still. “Long day of slaughtering.” Y/N is too far gone to find the joke inappropriate. To even register anymore that this whole affair is inappropriate. “Work for it a little,” Harry leans back, eyeing up the place in which they meet, shining in the glow of the streetlight. She’s still for too long, trying to process where his movements have gone—confused pants turning the ends of Harry’s lips.

“S’feel good?” Hands aid hips slightly—just enough to gain momentum, as Y/N fails to question why she’s suddenly the one fucking him—only chasing the return of the blissful prodding of her insides. Harry’s eyes are glued to her pussy, stretched deliciously around the thick of his cock, dragging back and forth with each nudge of her over him. The soft of her ass meets his pelvis and he delivers a squeeze in return, fingers destined to leave their presence known as he manhandles the flesh. Pulling and indenting, the other hand hanging heavily by his side as his gaze trails over Y/N’s bending body.

He deigns to let the saliva in his mouth pool in the hollow of his tongue, lips pursing as a line of drool drips down onto her puckered hole—the sudden sensation making Y/N convulse around him—twitch and gasp, stutter her hips and still for a moment. Harry thumbs over her carelessly, moving his thumb down to the stretch of her cunt around his prick; an unnecessary wetness. Somewhat possessed by the image below him, removed of all purpose except this one.

“Did I tell you to stop?”

Y/N shakes her head, a squeak ripped from her throat when Harry’s palm comes down on her ass, the sound reverberating through the silence of the alleyway. “N-no,” she cries. No, he didn’t. He never told her to stop.

“So keep fucking moving, sweetheart.” She nods mindlessly, head shaking up and down as her hips pick back up—thighs burning quicker with the exertion of it all. Her forehead scrapes against the wall, eyes squeezing shut with concentration as she focuses on the in and out, back and forth—every stretch against her walls dizzying—every nudge inside of her rendering more and more of her body to jelly.

She wants that feeling back; the one where she’s constantly on the verge of cumming. But there’s too much to focus on—her hands digging into the bricks, her thighs shaking, her clit untouched and overstimulated at the same time.

“I don’t have all fucking day—” Y/N would scoff if she could but the frustration spikes, “—come on. Fuck’s sake—”

Harry loses his patience, pulling out completely in a jarring sequence of motion, leaving Y/N panting—struggling to stay afloat if she were treading water. He physically turns her around and hoists her up as though she is made of nothing—slinging her thighs around the bumps of his hips.

And this is the first time she’s seen his face in… a while. The first time since he’d started dismantling her with his fingers, his cock. Y/N’s heart jumps, the stoicity in which he displays; unsettling and erotic simultaneously. She lifts her heavy hands, moving with the weight of a thousand tonnes, but Harry is quick to catch them. He yanks them overhead, grazing the stone, incarcerated within the circumference of his hand.

It hurts. The wall scratches up the delicate skin of her back, through the flimsy material of her dress. It hurts but it’s grounding—Y/N only thinks about the way her flesh will serve as a reminder of Harry, of this bar, and of this alleyway.

“Gonna make me do everything myself, hm?” gripping around his shaft, painting it across her slit with a harshness that makes Y/N shudder. He’s disrespectful, sliding in indelicately, rough palm yanking down the front of her chest to smooth over her neglected tits, squeezing and moulding between his fingers.

Y/N’s already there, she’s sure. The pit at the bottom of her stomach tightening, her eyes clenching shut, head falling back unceremoniously despite the view she has below her. Harry’s grunting, low, gravelly sounds that enmesh with her own whimpery exhalations.

“Fucking look at me—look at me,” pinching digits squish her cheeks together. A smirk tugs at the corners of Harry’s mouth, tongue darting out to wet his lips when Y/N stares at them. “Let me see that pretty, slutty face.” Her brows quirk when he rocks in particularly deep, eyes flitting around—unsure of what to look at first. Harry’s own face is flushed; perhaps the only indicator he can even feel her at all. That and the size of his pupils—the shortness of his breaths as they wash across her face.

She holds his gaze, mouth ajar with soundless cries.

“You’ll always be my filthy—plaything,” pressing in so close their noses touch. “Even after I’m… long gone—and… you’ve got some other man’s cock inside you,” his breathing shallows, “you’ll always have been mine.” Y/N doesn’t doubt him, she doesn’t even try. Not when he punctuates every word with a thrust so deep it lingers and blossoms inside of her, spreading through each limb and tingling in her fingertips.

Harry’s hand manhandles her face from side to side, grip immovable.

“When you go running back to—Cody… and he can’t fuck you properly… and all you’ll wish for is me—but you’ll hate yourself for it, won’t you, pet?” He pouts, eyes rounding out in a faux sense of sympathy. “For wanting a cold-blooded killer to make you feel good.” 

He hammers the final nail into the coffin, lips brushing her own in a sadistic contradiction, voice only a whisper when he says, “You’ll never feel this good again.” 

Y/N sobs audibly this time, cunt clenching from his words alone. She thinks he could talk her over the finish line entirely. The promise is dreadful, and it weighs heavy despite how perfectly it nuzzles against her sweet spot. But then he drops her cheeks and snakes those same fingers down, circling easily over her swollen clit. She convulses, weak wrists tugging against the constraints of his hand.

Harry’s close, desperate now to reach his peak. He sinks his teeth into her bottom lip. “Go on. Cum. Cum on your stranger’s cock.”

It’s a wonder Y/N doesn’t crumple to the floor as she cums—but somehow her thighs stay gripped around Harry’s hips. If anything they tighten, squeezing up to his waist, yearning to crush him between her as he pushes her over the edge again and joins her himself as he releases rope after rope into the condom, hips rocking all the way through. He’s moaning a slew of real pretty noises, and Y/N can’t help but pulse at every single one—orgasm begging to last forever—forcing her eyes open no matter the struggle, so that she can really see what he looks like.

It’s devastating—when he smiles. Pleasure written all over his face as his thrusts slow down, cock still dragging through her but no longer with a purpose. And Y/N finds it disorienting; the happiness in which she could be convinced he is feeling. As if it were all a joke—some twisted roleplay—that they were simply playing a fun, little sex game, of all things.

He pats her hip when he slides out, too gentle for Y/N’s post-orgasmic haze. She’s tired now. Too tired to be out at a bar, alone. 

Harry encourages her legs from around his waist. “That’s it, down you get, good girl.” Her legs wobble as her feet meet the ground, the centre of her thighs vibrating and pulsating. She only somewhat sees him tying the condom and tucking it back into the wrapper.

“Do you need some help getting home?” Y/N feels like crying. Of course she does. But not from him, never from him—that would be even sillier than letting him fuck her. And then fuck her again.

“N-no,” her voice dry and scratchy.

He’s not convinced but he doesn’t ask again. He simply crouches down and searches for the hem of her underwear under her dress. Y/N thinks he might fix the gusset back over the mess of her pussy but he doesn’t. No, he wiggles them down her thighs and lifts up each shaky leg to retrieve the fabric and twirl it around a slender finger.

“Let me have these, yeah, pet? A little trophy, hm?” Something screams from within Y/N to be scared. But she’s tired now. “It’s only fair… don’t y’think?—if I can’t have what I truly want.” She wishes to wonder why he can’t, but the thought doesn’t form fully. Perhaps he’ll kill her now, after all. She’s fulfilled her brief, performed her duties.

But he’s already taking a few steps back; a distance that feels gargantuan in her current state. She blinks, and then blinks again, mindless fingers fixing clothes and brushing hair from her face. The cold suddenly hits her like a freight train, bare legs littered in goosebumps.

Harry sighs, like he’s considering something in his head before shucking his hoodie from his body and letting it hang between them. An offer. “Keep it warm f’me,” he murmurs, eyes insistent. She takes it with a shaky hand, and hurries to drown herself in his second-hand heat. 

He’s already beginning to walk away by the time her head emerges from the fabric, eyes flitting in a panic as they focus back on his shrinking frame. Y/N is offered one final glimpse when he angles his head back to see her, a small smile upturning his mouth. His words fill no hole, quell no worries, heal no wounds. They add insult to injury, smirk morphing his tone.

“Why don’t you… go back inside, yeah? Have another drink for me.”

Y/N’s feet feel stuck—glued to the gravel, too scared to take her eyes off of him for even a moment. But he nods his head towards the door, silently repeating his assertion. “Go on.”

Slowly, she heads back into the bar, the heavy door squealing on its rusty hinges. She sits back down on her previously claimed stool.

She waits. 

The stranger never follows her inside. Y/N never notes his silhouette in her peripherals on the other end of the bar, yellow-polished fingertips stroking over a rocks glass as the two pretend not to know one another.

He never comes in and… maybe it’s for the better. 

Y/N never sees him again.

[inkblot22]

Give You Something To Cry About

Yay, my time management skills continue to be straight ass. Sorry to the anon who has waited so patiently for this, and thank you so much for giving me an excuse to write this depraved ball of snot. Headers by @/cafekitsune. Also don't believe everything you see on the internet, there's no scientific proof that certain things work for your skin. I think Vil would know that, considering.

This Fic Is For: Anyone who can handle it! Once again, I tried to make it as gn as possible, considering Rook's use of Franglais, but I'm delusional and will say I did exactly that. Reader is referred to with they/them pronouns, and no real allusions to specific body parts are made for them.

TW for DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT, forced dieting, non/dubcon, mentions of death, questionable use of magic, captivity, someone has a case of dacryphilia and a strong sadist streak, won't say who, Rook Hunt because he freaks me out, unhealthy relationship dynamics, abuse, forced BDSM if you squint, I feel so bad for the reader in this one, toxic relationships, possibly OOC characters.

“I am not going to tell you again, my love.” Vil bends down to get in your face, already wearing his ceremonial robe and heels. He points a finger in your face, like you’re a small child or a dog, “If you continue to pick at your skin, I am going to let Rook punish you this time.”

You swallow and look away, and Vil pinches your cheeks between his thumb and fingers, pulling your head so you’re looking at him again. His violet eyes bore into you, and you swallow again.

He looks offended, almost, “Well? Have you forgotten basic manners? Speak.”

Your voice sounds dry and weak, “Yes, Vil. I understand.”

He seems satisfied enough with that, moving around as he continues to prepare for whatever school-wide assembly is happening today. He elegantly tucks his hair behind his ear and sighs, scrolling through some page on his phone.

You remain standing where you are, turning your head to look out the window. It’s so pretty outside, but you only get to leave this room whenever Rook is watching you or Vil sends you on an errand. It’s always spring, never too hot, never too cold, but you’re sweating anyway.

Vil approaches you again and tilts your face back so you’re looking at him with a hand on your cheek. His eyes narrow a fraction.

“Your skin doesn’t seem to like this foundation. Make sure you discard it today; I’ll get you a new one.” He bends down again, this time to press a chaste kiss to your lips. He rubs his own together after pulling away and smudges his thumb over your bottom lip, “Hmm. What lipgloss is this?”

Your voice doesn’t sound so dry, but it still doesn’t sound like you, “Uh… The dark red one with the metallic purple? ‘Electric Berry’?

He’s silent for a second, just staring down at your lips as he cups your chin, and then he sighs and turns away, “It’s sticky. I’d tell you to wash your face and reapply your makeup, but that’d be a waste. Make sure you put on lip balm next time.”

You swallow, “Yes, Vil. I understand.”

“I have to get going now. You’d better be at least halfway done with that list by the time I return.” He breezes towards the door and gives you a last, long look. He’s completely silent before he leaves, closing the door behind him.

Your palms ache. You stiltedly wander towards the list pinned in the closet, glad to see it’s not insane today. All you need to do is tidy the bathroom and skim through Vil’s mail to see if it’s anything but hate mail or advertisements. Tack on getting rid of that foundation and that’s it, at least until he returns at lunch.

You relished this time to yourself, even if it was just cleaning or whatever else. Vil always said that motion is good for you, a structure does the mind good. You didn’t care much anymore. As you sat down to search through his mail, finding nothing but the usual hate mail and what appears to be a poem from Rook (why did he even mail that? He’s not even down the hall from this room,) you catch yourself craving something sweet.

The diet Vil has you on sucks. He has assured you that your body is lovely, and he is having you eat like this to help clear your skin, but really you just want something. Anything, you’d even take a breath mint over this lack of junk food. You’re young, what young person doesn’t enjoy gratuitously unhealthy food? A basket of french fries? Ice cream? 

You frown to yourself and toss the last of the mail into the recycle bin. You know he’s just going to check it over again anyway, but at least you’re moving around. That’s what he would say.

By the time you’re almost done scrubbing the tub, you hear the door open. You don’t want to go greet him, so you pretend you didn’t hear anything and keep cleaning, making sure to disinfect the non-slip mat that resembles a bunch of ugly gems glued together. 

You hear him clicking towards you, and his hand rests on your shoulder, “Going above and beyond today? I have lunch, come eat.”

You school your expression and stand up, pulling off your cleaning gloves and hanging them on the rim of the tub before you follow Vil. He ensconces himself in his desk chair, leaving you to awkwardly lift the stool near his vanity. He hates it when you push the furniture.

He clucks his tongue, not even looking at you, “Lift with your knees, darling. As much as I’d love to massage your back if you pull something, I simply don’t have the time.”

You can’t help it. You shoot him the nastiest glare you can muster as you lift with your knees, right as his eyes flick up to meet yours. You nearly drop the chair as his lips curl into a cold smirk.

“Do you have something to say?”

You hastily shake your head, “No, Vil-”

“Then don’t allow me to see that expression on your face again.” He bites, “Come sit down.”

You put the stool down a little harder than you mean to and take a seat beside Vil at his desk. He passes you your nice little container containing one of several things he gets you- a pile of leafy greens and chopped veggies on a bed of quinoa, fresh fruit, and a murky green smoothie topped with chia seeds.

 You don’t like chia seeds. They remind you of frog eggs- a bunch of slimy lumps, sliding down your throat. You accept the straw Vil passes to you and stir the smoothie before eating in silence.

Vil doesn’t mind if you don’t thank him for feeding you. Since he’s keeping you here, it’s pretty much the least he could do. Still, it doesn’t make up for hearing about his boring day.

“This morning’s assembly was complete and utter chaos, as usual.” He muses, sipping his own smoothie. It’s a soft purple. “It’s ridiculous. Those brutes never wear their robes correctly.”

You don’t respond. There’s two reasons: first of all, you don’t care, and secondly, there’s a knock at the door. Vil hums, as though he’s been waiting for someone, and turns to face the door.

“Who is it?”

That boisterous voice you are so used to hearing echoes past the door, “‘Tis I, Roi du Poison. I have come to join you for lunch.”

You can hear the smile in Vil’s voice, “Oh, of course. Come in.”

As Rook walks in, you feel a stab of jealousy in your chest. He takes a breezy seat on the loveseat in front of Vil’s bed and glances at you. You break eye contact and dully pick at your salad.

Vil treats Rook so nicely. He considers his feelings and opinions, although he doesn’t always listen. He speaks to him as though he’s a person. You suppose Vil’s obvious care for Rook trickles down to you in some capacity, but it hurts. Vil claims that the two of you are lovers, but really you’re more like a doll.

“Do you mind meeting me in the lab later on, Rook?”

Rook chuckles from where he is and you cast another glance at him. His eyes meet yours, again, and you look away, again.

“I can always make time for you, beautiful Vil.”

You lamely pick at the fruit, having finished the salad, before you decide to save it for last. You take a sip of your smoothie after stirring it again and openly recoil, trying not to cough. You didn’t smell it, but there must be ginger in there, because there’s a mellow burn alongside the bitterness from the kale. It makes your eyes water and settles in behind your nose.

“Mmm. Something wrong?” Vil smiles at you.

You shake your head, blinking rapidly so you don’t start crying. There’s not enough tears to fall, but taking your chances is stupid, “No, Vil. The ginger just caught me off guard.”

“Oh. My apologies, I should have warned you. I don’t want you catching a cold, and you’ve been a little irregular. The smoothie also has spinach, kale, avocado, chia seeds, and, of course, a little mango.”

You nod and force yourself to smile, taking another sip and soldiering past the rush of that aromatic pain in your sinuses. “Oh, thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, darling.” Vil turns away from you to speak to Rook again, “What else did you have planned?”

“I thought I might take a walk. It is a wonderful day, non?” There’s a slight mocking tone to Rook’s voice, “Hardly the type of day to be cooped up all day, hmm?”

Vil furrows his eyebrows as you choke down the last of the smoothie. His voice is curt, “You can say what you mean.”

“Est-ce que je peux? You are not very open to suggestion.”

Vil narrows his eyes at Rook, taking a deep sip of his smoothie before he places it on the coaster sitting upon his desk. He uncrosses his long legs and stands, walking over to sit with Rook on the loveseat. Rook watches him approach with a smile, the same pleasant one he usually wears before he shoots you a beaming grin and turns to look at Vil.

Their conversation is hushed, and you can’t really make out all of what they say. You can hear someone say your name, Vil’s tone swiftly turns vitriolic, then sweetens once more, and Rook chuckles under his breath. When their little meeting is over, Vil walks back over and finishes his smoothie before petting your head like you’re some kind of cat.

His hand strokes the crown of your head, then smooths over your cheek, he cups your jaw and thumbs over the swell of your lip, all while staring at you with a look you cannot read. And then he tilts his head, and smiles.

“Make sure you thank Rook. And you mistook a letter from my father as garbage.”

“Yes, Vil.” You reply obediently, “Sorry, Vil.”

He smiles. Your palms ache, and you have to bite back the urge to move, to peel at your cuticles or scratch the sides of your fingers.

“I’ll see you in class, Rook.” Vil says politely before he tilts your face up and pecks you on the lips.

You’re left alone with Rook. He doesn’t get up, not yet. You remain where you are, looking at your slippers. You hear Rook stand up and discard his garbage. You can feel him come up to stand behind you. 

“Has today been particulièrement difficile? My poor dear… You seem so sad today.” His arms wrap around you, looping them around your shoulders so they warm your collarbones like a scarf and he can rest his cheek against the back of your head. You hear him take a deep breath in.

With Vil, you don’t even try to speak anymore. You know he won’t really listen to you, because he knows better than you… But with Rook, as long as you wait a moment to make sure he is done speaking, he welcomes and even encourages you to speak your mind.

Your breath hitches and you swallow, “Uh, I mean… I guess I’m just having a bad day. It’s really been the same as usual.”

“Hmm.” Rook hums, completely devoid of emotion. You feel him turn his face so his nose is buried in your hair. He presses a kiss against your hair and sighs, “Ah, yes, the monotony of life is très épuisant, mmm?”

You wait for a second, then deliberately don’t answer the question in favor of asking your own, “Um, he said I should thank you?”

“Perhaps you should ask why more clearly. I have convinced our very own Vil to allow me to arrange a surprise for you.” Rook removes himself from your back and turns you around to face him, “And thus, I believe I have earned a kiss from you.”

“Wait, what?” You don’t get time to really back away or tell him to explain, as Rook squishes your cheeks with one of his gloved hands until your lips part.

His grip isn’t as harsh as Vil’s, but this is still something that only happens when you’re in more trouble than usual, so you involuntarily wince and close your eyes, cowering away from Rook as he dips his tongue into your mouth and slithers it between your teeth.

It is very easy to like Rook. He is passionate, and he’s far more kind to you than your supposed lover is. He’s intelligent and has an adonis-like form, and if not for the taste of blood on his tongue from whatever he ate for lunch or the grip he has on your face, maybe you would enjoy this kiss. But the big issue is that Rook honestly frightens you a little.

It’s absolutely not his fault, not entirely. Upon first meeting him, it was hard to tell if he was being genuine. He’s difficult to read, as he is often wearing the same set of expressions and his tone is always a bit melodramatic.

His hand releases your face to clamp around the base of your head, his tongue twisting in your mouth, pressing against the crevices in your teeth.

Not only is Rook hard to read, he is also uncannily observant and will not hesitate to ask somewhat invasive questions about his observations. The fact that he dresses in a way that conceals his mass is also disconcerting, as you were unaware that he had such a build until you saw him roll up his sleeve one time. You were aware Vil could do a lot of damage, but that was the day you realized that Rook was capable of doing about as much as Vil, if not more.

He purrs into your mouth, the vibrations feeling oh-so-wrong, and his other hand clamps down on your shoulder. He sucks your tongue into his mouth. It’s not a good feeling, as he is literally stealing what little air is in your mouth. When you feel something feather light flutter against your lashes and cheek, you feel a bit confused for just a moment, not even a second, before you realize that Rook just blinked. His eyes are open. 

He pulls away and sighs, almost dreamily. You suppress your distressed sputtering, holding your breath as Rook stares at you.

“Ah, enough time has passed. I will need to leave you, mon lapin. Thank you for indulging me; your kiss was divine and tasted sweeter than the finest fruits!” He presses something into your palm and adjusts his hat before he casts you a wave and shuts the door.

You stand there, your lips drying out from the saliva left on them and your cheeks feeling a little odd from the way he was holding your face. You’re processing, because, ever as always, Rook is simulated spontaneity. So many things just happened, and you don’t… 

You blink a few times and look down at your aching palm stupidly. The crimson cellophane crinkles as you unclench your fist. He gave you a piece of candy.

Just looking at it makes you start crying. One second you’re staring wide-eyed at the little lump of sugar, and the next your vision is blurring and you’re crying off your makeup, plump tears cascading down your face. Your nose begins to run and you sniffle. You can’t find it in yourself to sob, because you’re mostly certain that these are happy tears. 

Unfortunately, you can’t eat the candy now. If you threw the wrapper away, Vil would notice it in the garbage and you’d get in trouble for “breaking your diet plan.” So you hide it in the very back corner of the drawer of Vil’s armoire. You’ll be tidying it on your own anyway, and Vil never reaches all the way into the back of it.

Once your tears have stopped, you stand up and go back to cleaning the bathroom. It’s spotless and smells like lavender and lemons about an hour before Vil gets back, so you decide to skim one of the books on the shelves. 

It’s not long before you’re bored with that as well. You carefully put the book back and wander over to the lattice window, staring out of it. The window, paired with your usual low mood, made you sort of feel like a bird in a very ornate cage. 

From where you are, about three stories up, you notice a familiar figure notching an arrow before he unnotches it and takes a knee. You blandly spectate as he fiddles with the bow.

Partway through him notching the arrow again, you see his hat tilt. He’s far away enough that you can’t see his eyes, but you can feel his stare. His gloved hand bends his brim and you jerk away from the window, only to bump into someone.

You don’t get to shriek, as a hand clamps over your mouth. It’s just Vil, but you don’t relax yet as he drags you towards the bed and deposits you there.

“How many times must I tell you to stay away from the window?”

He’s never once told you to stay away from the window. Not as far as you can recall, at least. Your lips tremble and you decide it’d be more wise to keep silent.

Vil glares down at you and you feel the rest of your body start to tremble. His lips curl into a displeased sneer, “You didn’t wash your face after crying?”

“N-no, Vil-”

“We do not stutter.” Vil hisses, bending to get in your face. He stares at you for a moment before standing straight again, “Speak up.”

You swallow and clench your hands into fists, “No… Vil. I… got rid of the foundation like you, um… asked me to. I wouldn’t have been able to redo-”

“Alright. Go wash your face.” Vil interrupts you again.

You jump up and rush into the bathroom, going through your skincare routine. You can feel Vil staring at you, your skin crawling under his gaze. As you rub moisturizer into your skin, Vil finally says something.

“Did Rook do something to you, darling?” His tone is soft, tentative.

You glance at him, blinking a few times. What does he mean by ‘something’? He did do something, but it wasn’t bad, or particularly different.

“Um… Not exactly.” You say, massaging your forehead.

“I see. What did he do?” 

You look down at the sink. You’re not saying anything about the candy. “Rook kissed me?”

“That should not be a question.” Vil says. You see him shake his head through your peripheral, “Would you like to change your clothes before I redo your makeup?”

You’d like to ask what he’s talking about, but instead, you look down at your clothing. You don’t have a proper Pomefiore uniform because you’re not a part of this dorm. You’re an interloper- or a caged bird.

You don’t know what to do here. You don’t want to say something wrong and unintentionally offend Vil. Your palms ache. You give him a confused look from where you are.

He doesn’t look impressed, but before he can say anything about you gaping at him, you speak up, “What… am I supposed to do?”

You’ve only seen Vil surprised a few times. He raises his eyebrows and looks at you as though you’ve grown two heads, then sighs, “Well, I suppose I’d like to see you in something else. I’ll choose your outfit.”

That’s nothing new, he always does that. You wait in the bathroom for him to return. He strolls back in with a mockery of the Pomefiore uniform. There’s a deep purple cloak and capelet, which Vil drapes on the bed before handing you the actual clothes. It’s a very ruffled dress shirt, the long, puffy sleeves cinched into more ruffles at the wrist paired with a pair of black bloomer-style shorts. The buttons are all white and gold, marbled together. 

Vil leaves the bathroom and you change, neatly tucking your previous clothing away in the hamper. When you leave, as usual, Vil picks at your clothing, making sure it looks as good on you as he pleases, and then he steers you to sit down.

For however vicious he can be, Vil can be oddly gentle. For every time he grabs you roughly, his touch is feather-light ten more times. He hums a soft tune as he puts light makeup on you, just your eyes and lips, and then he drapes the cloak around your shoulders and places his hands on his hips.

“You look lovely. Go put on the pair of gold boots with the black decals.”

You do as told. He very likely wants to just take pictures of you or something so he can ask that Mira app about it.

Except when you stop in front of him, he doesn’t tell you to go sit in the loveseat or on the table near his window, no, he scoops you up and presses his forehead against your jaw.

“Oh, when did you put on this cologne? What a ravishing smell on you.” He presses a kiss on the column of your throat and breezes out of his dorm room's door.

Almost immediately, you go limp in his arms, like a doll. He never gave you explicit verbal permission to leave this room, so the curse he placed on you when he decided you should be his smashes into you like a giant wave at the beach.

Vil carries you all the way outside and looks at your face, then happily struts along the path behind the dorm. Since you can’t turn your head, you can only go off of the view of Vil’s neck and chin, the sky, and whatever you can hear.

“Ah, I am glad to see you did not change your mind, Roi du Poison. J'aurais été très déçue et triste pour notre chéri.” You hear Rook say. 

You can almost feel Vil get a mite warmer, “Yes, well. Hand me the basket. Since you want to make out with them and make them cry, you get to carry them as an apology.”

Rook happily scoops you out of Vil’s arms, giving you a cloying look as he strolls along. He and Vil chat as they walk, something not really worth listening in on, just boring musings about class and “this teacher did x” or “that student did y”. An insect lands on your cheek and you are incapable of batting it away or expressing your discomfort. Its legs tickle the peach fuzz on your face and you remain still, like a corpse.

Rook slides you into a seated position, posing you like a toy before shooing the bug off of your face. Now you can see that you’re in a clearing in the woods, seated on a picnic blanket. There’s a few lanterns staked into the ground, and Rook and Vil are busy with whatever is on the floor. You can’t look down, so your best guess is that it’s a picnic.

Vil leans over and snaps in your face, smiling kindly at you, “Now. If I release you, you are not going to run. You are not going to so much as consider running. We are going to have a nice picnic with no shenanigans from you.”

You can’t nod, so you just stare at him, trying to telepathically communicate.

He looks pleased enough, “Wonderful. I give you permission to leave our room.”

Your muscles relax and you look back, finding that you’re leaned against a log. The picnic spread is very nice, as well. It looks like finger sandwiches. You’re not expecting to get to eat one, as you haven’t had bread since Vil switched up your diet. Vil passes something to you.

“Oh.” You mumble, staring at the plate Vil hands you. 

It’s a sandwich. A very wonderful looking sandwich, cut into triangles and with the crusts still on. You blink at it a few times and look back up at Vil.

“Don’t expect this to be a pattern. This is a treat for good behavior.”

You look back down, “Yes, Vil.”

“There’s no need to remind them. They’re being obedient.” Rook’s voice is more firm than you expected to hear him ever speak. Usually his tone is buoyant, and you’ve never seen him outright pick a fight with Vil like this.

“Please. You give anyone an inch, they’ll take a mile.” Vil cuts back, then turns to you and pets your head like a dog or a cat again, “Eat your food, beautiful.”

You take a bite. Bread is just as good as you remember it. The air feels thick, like you’re in a bubble as Vil and Rook communicate through eye contact alone. Before you know it, your sandwich is gone and your hands are covered in crumbs. Rook, still staring at Vil with that happy little smile, wipes your hands and places a glass in your hands. Whatever is in it smells sweet. You take a tentative sip.

Were it Vil, you would have never drank whatever this is. It kind of tastes like a mellow mixed berry juice. It’s very pleasant, actually. Better than the potion Vil used to lace your food and drinks with. You smile into the cup and Vil snatches it from you.

He takes a sip and frowns, handing it back, “Mmm. I have an even better surprise.”

Rook pulls your legs into his lap and gently kneads your calves as you watch Vil rifle through the picnic basket. What is happening? You sip your juice and Vil produces a triangular container. He places a fork on top and hands it to you.

You finish the last of your juice and accept the box, looking conspiratorially at Rook. Something you can’t put your finger on dances in his eyes and he digs his thumb into your shin a little strongly. You flinch and cautiously open the box. It’s a piece of fluffy white cake, with even fluffier meringue and an uncannily perfect cherry wedged into it.

You look at Vil, expecting some kind of trick. Not that he’s ever done that before, usually he’d just take it from you or make some snide comment, things like that, but he and Rook are acting really strange today, 

“I know how much you long for junk food, so I spent some time after club activities today whipping up some angel food cake. It’s got agave instead of sugar so it won’t completely break your diet and your skin won’t suffer as much.”

Yeah, this is weird. The cake is good, though, it’s fluffy and sweet. You pace your bites so that Vil won’t make a comment and you can savor this. You can feel both of their eyes on you and it makes your skin crawl.

You lower the cake box and look at Vil, who looks a bit offended for just a second. The fleeting expression is replaced by a pleased little grin, the mauve lipstick making the curve of his lips all the more sinister in the dimming light.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes, Vil.” You glance at the cake and then back at him, “I’m… I’m sorry, I’m a little confused.”

“Why?” Rook asks.

Your shoulders jerk as you turn your head to look at him. You weren’t expecting him to say anything. His chest swells in what appears to be a suppressed chuckle as he squeezes your knee. It seems his hands have climbed.

“Uh…” You swallow, “This is just… not what I’m used to.”

“The cake?” Vil looks hurt. Why does he look hurt?

You shake your head rapidly, “No! Oh- No, Vil. I… It’s just been so long since I’ve been out here…”

“Do you want to go inside, chéri?” Rook murmurs.

You do, but you also don’t really want to risk sounding ungrateful. Being outside has stressed you out more than you’d like to admit. You’re not really sure what to do because Vil has you trained like a dog, and none of what he’s hammered into you involves picnics. You’re scared.

Rooks eyes narrow as you just stare at him. Your chest hurts from how hard your heart is throbbing, and on the other side of you, Vil sighs.

“Well, I’ll start cleaning up, then. When we get back, I expect you to take a seat on the bed.”

That sounds like what happens every time you get in trouble. A terror shudders through you and your eyes water a bit as you gnaw on your lip. Your palms ache as you fight to keep from picking at your cuticles. Vil packs up everything and Rook offers you a princely hand to help you up.

You can feel the calluses on his hands through his gloves as he essentially lifts you to your feet. You keep between Rook and Vil as you walk back to the dorm.

It’s quiet, since everyone else is winding down for bed. For a moment, you think you spot Epel, but you’re not sure. It doesn’t matter anyway. None of your old friends talk to you anymore. Not since Vil started having eyes for you.

Just as you were told, after taking off your boots you take a seat on the bed and retrieve the silver ruler from the side-table’s drawer. You place it beside you as you look down at your feet. You look down at the streaky bruises on the lighter skin on your palms and try not to start crying. It’s always worse when you cry.

He adds smacks by twos. Depending on what you did, you start with four or six, and then any time you flinch or pull away or make a loud noise, he adds two more. Last time, you spilled one of his nail polishes, and after watching you clean it up, you ended up getting ten lashes.

At least Rook didn’t do it then. He tries to make it quick but that just makes it hurt more. A tear slips down your cheek.

You don’t even know what you did. You tap the tear track dry with one fingertip and Vil and Rook fully enter the room.

“Why is the ruler out?” Vil asks, and then his voice goes sharp, “Are you crying?”

“I’m… I’m sorry, Vil.” You sob.

“I don’t know why.” He grabs the ruler and shoves it away before you can raise your hands, “Go wash your face.”

You stand up and shakily do as told, returning to sit on the bed. Vil goes into the bathroom after you and Rook takes a seat next to you, his hand on your shoulder.

He smiles at you, rubbing your shoulder, “You are très précieux, chéri.”

You look at him in a state of hollow bewilderment as he brushes his cheek against yours and presses a soft kiss to the shell of your ear.

You hear the bathroom door close and a tired sigh from Vil, “Do you have no patience?”

Your head jerks to look at VIl, “Rook is…?”

“Yes, he’s joining us tonight.” Vil plucks the loop of his sleeve from his middle finger and loosens his belt. You get the feeling that the next words he says aren’t for you, “Well, go ahead.”

You feel Rook’s chuckle more than you hear it. With his lips against your neck, his hands begin to slide. The hand on your shoulder rests on the nape of your neck and his other hand slides down to your thigh, then up to your waist. You try not to cringe against his touch, but it’s difficult.

His hand slides down again as he trails his teeth against the back of your ear. His thumb hooks in your pants and starts yanking them down. You outright flinch.

“Wait-”

“Relax, darling.” Vil mumbles, hanging his clothing in the armoire.

You try. You absolutely try. Rook throws your bloomers aside and rests his hand on your lower belly for a moment. He sighs into your ear and reaches up to unclasp your buttons.

You feel stiff. You want to push him away but you can’t move. It’s as though your body is frozen. It’s not due to a curse, so the only possible solution is that you’re quite literally scared stiff. 

He pulls away your shirt and glances at Vil, “Are you prepared?”

“Please.” You can hear the smile on Vil’s lips as Rook turns back and kisses you again, his hand smoothing along your collarbone and shoulders.

Your underwear is the next to go. Of course it is. You fight to keep from breathing oddly, because you’re aware that if you pass out, Vil will get annoyed.

“Mmm.” The devil’s hand glides up your back and you fight back a shudder as Rook leans you backwards into his arms. “How are you feeling, darling?”

You’re honest, “I’m scared.”

“I thought you would say that.” Vil freely manhandles you, shifting you so you’re leaned chest to chest. He slides something off of the side table and passes it behind you, then cups your cheek, “You would save a lot of time and stress if you’d just learn to trust me.”

“I…” You hate him. You hate him so much. He keeps you here like a pet, and you don’t know how he’s supposed to expect you to treat him like a lover when he treats you the way he does. 

Before you can articulate an answer that pleases Vil, a wicked burn besets your sphincter and you clench your jaw. 

Vil’s voice is sharp, “Rook, please.”

You hear Rook make a noise underneath the harsh sound of blood rushing in your ears and your own heavy panting. Something cool oozes around the ring of your ass and you press your face against Vil’s chest. His robe is lazily tied, which is not particularly like him, and you can see his cock poking out where the fabric separates. You let out a strangled noise and Vil shushes you, rubbing your back soothingly.

“Relax. I know, you weren’t prepared. Relax.” Vil soothes.

“I don’t mind if you remain tense, chéri. Mon plaisir n'en est que plus grand. And your little cries and whimpers sont terriblement mignons.” Rook mumbles behind you.

Rook is better than Vil in most areas, but once he gets his dick inside of you, it’s as though he forgets to be caring and kind. The tables flip, with Vil acting the part of a caring lover and Rook becoming a sadistic bully. You let out a ragged sob as Rook rolls his hips and Vil hisses something that you don’t quite catch.

It almost sounded like he was telling Rook to slow down. That very well could have been the case, as Rook eases back a bit and only shallowly thrusts.

Vil continues petting you, coaxing you so your cheek is pressed against his thigh. He is always a perfect warm. He is always perfect, so it sort of makes sense, but his skin is a pleasant temperature. He feels alive, a perfectly human temperature that tells you he’s breathing and his heart is beating. As he fingers through your hair, Rook gives a harsher than usual thrust and you cry out.

“Rook, if you’re impatient then you’re going to hurt them, and neither of us have the time to take care of them all day.” Vil chides, and then his tone softens as he rubs the space between your shoulders, “Are you ready for me as well, darling?” “What…?” You ask, blearily. Somewhere in the back of your awareness, you know what he wants, but you can feel Rook’s thrusts growing impatient and seeing as you weren’t given any prep, you’re in a bit too much shock to think straight.

“Mmm… You’re awfully cute but I need you to be a bit more lucid.” Vil snaps in your ear and resumes his petting, “This isn’t the first time, sweetheart. I’m not going to hold your hand.”

The soft tip of his member spreads his pre like lipgloss against your lips. As you shakily open your mouth, you figure you’re lucky that Vil doesn’t have a chaotic, unhealthy diet like Leona or Ace, that he doesn’t drink coffee for fun or often like Deuce does. The taste of his skin is lightly floral and dominantly human, likely thanks to the body lotion he applies daily. 

He hisses and presses against your forehead, “Ah-ah. You’re taking enough from Rook. Just the tip for me is fine.”

From behind, you hear Rook grumble under his breath, “Je n'en peux plus de cette merde…”

“Watch your- unf- watch your language, Rook.” Vil snarls, massaging the nape of your neck as you carefully lave your tongue over his glans.

Rook’s patience breaks, his hands clamping down on your waist, just above your hips. You have the sense to pull Vil’s cock out of your mouth as Rook begins battering into you.

As much as you feel okay about Rook, he is not a doting lover by nature. He’s mean and brutal, chasing his climax, and only after he cums does he bother to think about you or your needs. Your palms ache as you grab Vil’s member and gently tug on it. Vil flinches and snaps at you to get your attention.

You look to the side and for a second, as the pain ebbs, you assume you’re having an out of body experience, and then you realize that you’re staring into his vanity mirror. Rook’s hair exaggeratedly sways with his motion. He removed his hat but just haphazardly displaced the rest of his clothing. He’s not smiling, he’s making some sort of smug expression.

It’s funny. As Vil is satisfied with you weakly jerking him off, his touch gentle, Rook is wild on your other end. Every time you just barely begin to relax, he thrusts harder, which makes you tense and a spike of pain batters through you. 

You endure as best you can. You endure every day, enduring through eating the same unfulfilling food, enduring through walking on eggshells around Vil, enduring getting your palms beaten to hell for the most human of errors, so what’s getting sodomized in the face of everything else you can handle?

You bite back a shriek as a harsh pinch on your bottom, followed by a smack administered by Rook. He leans down and blows in your ear, snickering as he leans back, “I thought you had given up the ghost for a second there.”

Vil sucks in a breath and you quietly mumble against his thigh.

“Hmm? I didn’t hear you, mon chou.” Rook’s voice is almost mocking, like before.

“P-please… Rook, I can’t-”

“You can. You’ll live.” He grunts, the steady clap of your ass against his body punctuating his statement.

“It hurts.” You sniffle. You’re not particularly prone to crying, but, then again, Rook and Vil usually prepare you before deciding to fuck your ass.

You sob and Rook’s grasp tightens on your waist, a ragged moan punching out of his chest. He pulls your body flush to his and jerks his hips into you, drilling a bit harder for all of four or five thrusts. And then he’s no longer on you, and you feel your body getting shifted so your head is still in Vil’s lap but you’re lying prone.

You tilt Vil’s dick down to massage the head with your tongue and something warm drips on your back. You hear a noise of disgust from Vil, capped by a quiet moan.

“Absolutely not. All three of us are getting in the tub if you don’t clean that up right now.”

Rook chuckles and coos, “Hmm, but it looks so lovely. My alabaster essence creates a wonderful contrast with their soft and supple skin.”

A flush of humiliation crawls up the back of your neck and you hide your face against Vil’s belly, using your own arm to hide the other half. Vil shudders as he pushes your head down a bit, but his voice sounds incredulous.

“That’s vile. It doesn’t have any proven health benefits, you know that.”

You felt Rook’s hands spreading his semen into the skin on your back and your palms ache as Vil cums in your mouth. He doesn’t do that often, so it hits you like a shock.

You gag but force it down and Vil shoots up, fretting over you.

“Did you just swallow that?” He bends down to look into your eyes.

“Yes, Vil.”

“You didn’t need to do that.” Vil snips, sounding much harsher than he might intend, “I’m going to run us a bath, alright, darling? I’ll make sure you can brush that icky stuff out of your mouth.”

It didn’t taste bad. Vil usually cums on your face as an incentive for you to wash your face very well after a day of wearing makeup, or he has you jerk him off until he cums, but the few other times you did taste it, it was the same as this time. It was mostly salty, not too bitter, likely from his good diet. Regardless, he breezes away and Rook gives your bottom a light tap. You stand up and glance at Rook, who is looking a bit disheveled but pretty pleased with himself.

“How are you feeling, cheri?”

“That hurt.” Your voice is quiet, and your throat is still lined with tears.

“Does it still hurt?” He smiles and tilts his head.

The sound of the tub running is thunderous even where you are. Vil would never tolerate you complaining, but Rook is amicable, “A little.”

“The bath will do you good, then. Come.”

You let Rook guide you into the bathroom, his hand on your elbow. As he undresses and joins Vil on the edge of the tub, you look down at your bruised hands and glance at the slowly closing bathroom door, then at Rook and Vil where they stand near the tub.

You can’t say you prefer either of them, really, but you don't get an opinion. Do dolls at tea parties get to ask for a different kind of tea?

[wickedscribbles]

if i get too loud you can shut my mouth ch. 4 (final)

Masterlist Ch. 1, Ch. 2, Ch. 3 The Poolverine Playlist Pairing: Wade Wilson/Deadpool x Logan Howlett/Wolverine

Rating: Explicit

Tags: misunderstandings, aftercare, mental health issues, fluff, chronic pain

Word Count: 1.4K

If you like what I write and can afford to do so, please consider buying me a coffee! It would be much appreciated. The final chapter! Thanks for sticking with me. This was an absolute BLAST to write and I so appreciate every like, comment, and reblog. ❤️

The little ugly ass dog is lying curled up right next to the bedroom door when Logan steps out. As soon as she sees him, she gets to her feet, tail wagging furiously.

“Yeah, hi, baby,” he says to her. “Hi. I see you.”

Dogpool – Mary Puppins – whatever the hell her name is – snorts and wheezes like he just told her she’s the best dog alive and he’ll never pet another dog again. (Not likely – she feels like a dead man’s ballsack.)

Shaking his head a little, he steps across the hall to the bathroom. After a brief search and an unnerving encounter with a gallon jug labeled daddy’s XTRA big lube jar (for all kinds of tight spots!!), Logan makes his way back into the bedroom with what he’d been after: a wet washcloth to clean them both up.

Wade is there where he’d left him, curled up in a tight ball, strangely quiet and motionless.

Something about that strikes him with instant dread, anxiety that he can’t put a name on. It doesn’t feel right to see him so still. This is the man who drives him up the fucking wall, who won’t shut up, who needs to have the last word, who needs to keep moving.

What happened?

“Hey,” he says softly, perching on the edge of the now-unstable mattress. “You, uh, want to get some of that off?”

His inner thighs are sticky and drying with come. Logan’s covered, too, and desperate for a shower, but he’s never just left anyone a mess after sex. This is a part of it.

Wade’s eyes flit to him, coming back to life with more of that coherence and energy that Logan recognizes. After a beat, his mouth pulls back into a grin. It doesn’t touch his eyes.

“Oh,” he laughs a little. “Ha. Yeah. Shit, yeah, sure, thanks.”

He reaches out for the washcloth, a little too quickly, the eye contact not quite there.

Logan is beginning to realize that he might have fucked up.

It’s been so long since he’s gone through the ritual of sex that he forgot to be delicate where it mattered the most. And with this being their first time, he could have just fucking said be right back. He’s an idiot, isn’t he? He’s a fucking idiot.

The white hot anger at himself springs up in Logan in just seconds, and pushing it down is so, so hard. He has to remind himself to breathe, breathe, to not let everything go to shit in his mind the way it so often tends to.

Remember what Charles used to say.

There’s a time and a place for everything. You are a good man who has had the curse of a bad life. Don’t let it define what you do. McDonald’s is shit and Nando’s will always be better, I don’t care what you say, Hank.

God, he misses that man.

Okay. He’s fine. This is fine. Logan doesn’t have to run away from this or destroy it. He can stay right here with Wade and talk through it, though his stomach is twisting itself into devastating knots and he feels like he needs a drink more than he needs air pulled through his lungs.

Logan places his hand over Wade’s. Water droplets fall between them from the washcloth onto the sheets, loud in the quiet.

“I can do that for you,” he says. “I – I want to.”

Wade blinks, and a few miniscule changes happen at once. First, Logan hears his heartbeat pick up. Next, blood rushes to his scarred face. An anomaly; Logan's never seen him blush. The satisfaction that comes with seeing it now wars with the rising feeling of affection for the man – that Logan could be the one to make such a rare thing happen.

Last, the scent that he’s always associated with Wade shifts ever so slightly. The smallest change. If Logan weren’t so close, or if they hadn’t just spent the last hour or so being about as personal as you can get, he probably wouldn’t have picked it up. Nonetheless, something is new. Sweeter.

“Sheesh,” Wade replies. “We just keep learning more about each other, don’t we, princess? Age gap, caretaker kink, how will they keep up with the tags you keep throwing at them?”

There he is – back online. Spouting nonsense and all. It’s a relief, to say the least; even if Logan has no clue what the fuck he’s talking about.

“Is that your way of saying I can clean you up?” Logan says dryly.

“Sure, sure. Whatever gets you hard, cupcake.”

Logan rolls his eyes as Wade wriggles back a little, spreading his legs. He spreads the washcloth over the other man’s skin in gentle up and down motions, pleased when he feels the stickiness breaking down. Nothing a shower can’t do better, and that’s likely where they’ll both end up soon anyway. But he likes touching base like this. Like a wordless way of telling the other person that this was important – they matter.

Saying something sweet doesn’t always come easy to him. Little actions like this do.

He lets his hands stop when the rag’s done all the work it really can.

“What now?”

Wade’s voice is a little gentler than he’s used to hearing it. A little younger.

Logan swallows past the fear and nerves, trying to recall the voices of all the people who have tried to cheer him on in the past few months as he’d hesitated and stayed away from this for so long.

Vanessa. Logan, sweetie. He wants you so bad. Let yourself want it back.

Al. Swear to God, if you two don’t get together soon. Y’all are grown men. I’m gonna be dead and in the ground before you get any dick.

Laura. If you like him, just say something. It’s hard, but not as hard as spending the rest of your life wondering what would have happened if you had just grown a pair.

They’re all right. He takes a deep breath.

“I was thinking we shower, sleep in, get breakfast.” Logan ticks each item off on his fingers. “And see where we go from there.”

Wade’s face lights up from the inside out, that real bonfire grin. Logan’s breath catches somewhere in his throat before he’s inevitably smiling back, leaning his forehead in to bump the crook of Wade’s knee.

“Yeah. Sounds like a solid plan, chief.”

After the relief of a long, hot shower, they drift back to bed. Clean and sleepy, with Mary Puppins at their heels, they arrange themselves in the blankets.

Though they start facing one another, there’s the problematic adjustment of limbs, and Logan ends up with his back to Wade. There’s only a second’s hesitation before he feels the other man wrap his arms around his waist, and Logan would almost be embarrassed at how quickly he shifts to wriggle back into the embrace if it weren’t for everything they’d just done with one another. Being held feels too good to even pretend to be stoic about it.

Wade chuckles quietly near his ear, but doesn’t remark on it.

For once, his mind isn’t racing. He’s mostly comfortable. Of course, Logan’s almost always in pain – the dull ache of a long life will leave you suffering, whether the pain screams or whispers depends on the day – but this isn’t bad. Wade’s touching him in a gentle, soothing way, almost mimicking how Logan had cleaned him earlier. Up, down. Up, down. His eyelids are so heavy.

He’s almost asleep when he hears one last thing.

“What?” Logan’s eyes aren’t even open, his voice muffled into the blankets.

“I said, you owe me 24.99 for the robe, by the way. Not counting sales tax, because I’m growing fond of you.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Logan can feel Wade’s body shake with laughter.

“35.99 for the sheets. I know, I know, that’s on the pricey side – but they’re cotton and you know my ass needs luxury.”

Still unmoving, Logan scowls. “I am not replacing your damn sheets. Get the stain out or live with it, diva. Do you think I’m made of money?”

“What about the cost of labor?” Wade presses, clearly beside himself with how entertaining this has become.

“You’re about to cost me my sanity. Go to sleep.”

They did. It was the start of a mutually kinky, violent, beautiful relationship.

[tw1l1te]

Your writing is sooo good, i especially love the suggestive's one. And the smut 🙈

I really loved your story with the reader showing skin et flirting. Do you think you could do the same with War (my fave) and Time pretty please? ✨💖

And sorry for any mistakes, english is not my first language

Anon 🐎

I love Time so much, he helps with the daddy issues

𓇢𓆸.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Wars

Being a Captain was difficult in so many factors.

He had to be precise, smart, authorative, put together.

And right now, he is the complete opposite of those things.

After a messy run-in with some enemies from Legend's Hyrule, most of the group was covered in blood, monster guts, mud, you name it.

So Time suggested they all go wash up in some nearby hot springs, specifically the more private ones for your sake.

By some blessing or curse, Wars was allocated the same hot spring as you, the hot mist of the spring already getting to him

You told him that you'll go on the opposite side of the spring to avoid any awkward eye contact or body's touching.

You both turned around to give each other privacy, stripping all of your clothes and setting them on the side to be washed after they were clean.

You got in first, sighing at the hot water encompassing your entire body. You kept your back turned as Wars got in, letting him have some of his dignity

At the go-ahead, you turned around propping your back against the rocky wall, lazily scrubbing away at the caked-on blood and mud on your forearms.

Wars followed your motions, trying to distact himself from the growing bulge under the water. It was impossible considering the curve of your breasts was very visible through the water and your bare shoulders looked a little too unmarked-

"Wars? Can you get the mud off of my back, you know how unflexible I am."

He nodded, knowing if he said a word his voice would crack, giving away his little problem

Just half a foot away from him, he gently scrubbed the mud off, not going any lower than the surface of the water, after all, he was a gentleman he didn't want to be

You suddently spinned around, your face meeting with his chest

"Why don't I help you out...?"

Pardon-

Did he hear you correctly?

Did you want to...

"Turn around! I'll get your back, you stink!!"

By the Three, he needed to keep his mind out of the gutter.

Time:

He wasn't sure the last time he saw himself wearing the Hero's Garb.

It must've been, what, 5 years ago? 10? He lost track of time.

So when Wild showed him the outfits he had stashed in his Slate, he was suprised to see that it was the very same tunic, and not a replica.

He was suprised a second time when he saw the whole set being worn by you: his Sunflower

You walked back to camp, entranced in a flower you were holding, too preoccupied to notice the eldest taking your form in

By the Three, he forgot how skintight those tights were... but you made them look tailored to you

You look up, a slight blush on your ears, "O-oh, hey! Wild gave me your old tunic to wear, I hope you don't mind."

"I don't mind at all, Sunflower."

He wish he could've taken a picture of how cute you looked, stuttering and blushing.

You walked up to him, the curve of your ass being just barely visible for him to see. Something about you in his clothes made his darker side ignite.

You were called by Wild, needing you to taste something by the fire. You jumped up, jogging up to wild as the short green tunic flounced at your movement. Your chest bounced slightly as you skipped to the cook, Time's eyes slightly lidded at your form.

You leaned over, hands on your knees, giving Time the perfect tease. You looked back at him for a second before biting your lip, giving him the thought that you were doing this on purpose.

You were gonna end him-

𓇢𓆸.𖥔 ݁ ˖

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

The Lake

Steven Grant x GN!Reader • Rating:  Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • MK Bingo 2024 Masterlist •

Summary: You and Steven go for a walk on a cold January day.

🌛For @moonknight-events MK Bingo Spring 2024 Event🌜

A/N: Trying to get back into the swing of acutally finishing things and posting them. Already my brain is like a) this is too difficult and b) write a part 2.

Warnings: just self indulgent fluff really, COLD, reader is wearing a beanie, references to having sex outside

Word Count: 726

“It’s fucking freezing.” Steven laughed as you neared the lake. 

The whole landscape was grey, brown, and golden okra yellow, vegetation bleached clean by the dull winter and sharp frost. 

There were some geese, or at least birds of some sort, in the far distance. Seemingly the only other living things for miles. 

“This was your idea.” You giggle as Steven grabs hold of your arm and squeezes affectionately as he nuzzles into your freezing cheek. 

“It was, wasn’t it?” He grins and kisses your temple. “Why do you let me do these things love?”

“What, have ideas?” 

“Hmm.” He chuckles and jogs on the spot for a second, his breath coming out white and misty. “I didn’t think it would be this cold.” 

You laugh again. “You should have worn more layers.” 

He nods. Steven’s suggestion of a nice, crisp winter walk had been a good idea when you were both snuggled up indoors with the heated blanket on.

“You should have worn a hat.” His ears are painfully red, the tips a stark contrast against his dark curls. You touch his cheek with your right hand, which is currently sporting a fingerless glove over a glove, under a mitten. Your fingers were still bordering on numb. 

“I’m alright love.” He smiles, his eyes bright.

“Nah, I’m not letting you get frostbite.” You pull off your beanie and shove it on his head a little unceremoniously before he can react. You yank your hood up and pull at the drawstring quickly to try to stop any more cold air than necessary from sinking in. 

“Nooo,” he pouts a little, purposely being overly dramatic to amuse you, “now you’ll get cold.” 

“I have a hood.” You gesture to your head as if he couldn’t see the aforementioned clothing right before his eyes.

“Yes, but you’ll still get cold.” 

“That means you were cold.” 

“No.” He drags out the word, trying to sound sincere but it’s clear he’s lying. 

“You’re so silly Steven,” you smile and link your arm with his as you both carry on walking. 

“Am not.” He says playfully.

“Are too.”

“You’re silly.” 

“No, you.”

“You.” 

“You.” You poke him softly in the side, barely a touch. But he still reacts like you’ve electrocuted him, giggling helplessly. You grin and wait for him to calm down a little before you continue. “Besides, I can’t bite your ears if they’re frozen and fall off.”

You know that if you had said that to Marc, he would have just given you a not-so-impressed look (his speciality), and Jake would have probably tried to playfully nip at your ears then and there to prove a point, but Steven just looked thoughtful for a moment. As if he was really considering what you had said. 

“Hmmm, you think they could actually fall off in this weather?” 

You laugh again, “that’s what you gained from this conversation?” 

He grinned happily at you. “Alright, I’ll keep your hat on, but you gotta tell me if you get too cold, okay love?” 

You nod.

“Promise?” 

“I promise.” 

“Good.” Steven took hold of your hand in his and squeezed rhythmically. 

You both walked a little further down the frosty path, the earth solid and unforgiving under the soles of your boots, and came to a stop at the lake viewing point. 

Steven wrapped his arms around you as you both took in the view and natural stillness, as if the cold had frozen time itself. 

“It’s really pretty.” 

“It is…” Steven kissed your cheek, the tip of his nose was somehow even colder than your skin. “I’m still freezing my bollocks off though.” 

You snorted, breaking into a laugh at the sudden-ness, and blatantly painful honesty. “Come on,” you tug at his hand, headed back the way you came. “Let's get you indoors, I feel like a bollock falling off might be more of an issue than one of your ears.”

Steven giggled and followed, barely taking a few steps before he spoke again. “It's kinda a shame though.”

“Hmm?”

“I mean... if it was a bit warmer…”

You give him a slightly confused glance. 

“Out here, all alone, in nature…” He raised his eyebrows slightly and waggled them at you. 

“You’d definitely lose appendages to frostbite.” 

“Maybe it’s worth the risk.” 

You give him a playful shove as you both laugh. 

____________________________________

Thank you for reading!

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[wing-ed-thing]

... And the Beast (Yonji Vinsmoke x Reader) Part II

Synopsis: You thought your little crush on Prince Yonji was a well-kept secret. Yonji is mean enough to exploit your eagerness to please in the face of his unrelenting cruelty; the thought of actually developing a soft spot for you never even crossed his mind.

Word Count: 4.5k

Tags/Warnings: Naive!Servant!Reader, No Reader Pronouns, Canonically Mean Vinsmokes, But Reader is Kinda Into It, Eventual Romance, Slow Burn, Wall Punching, Language, Reader Falls First, Yonji Falls Harder

Part I Part II Part III

Notes: My draft of this story in it's entirety is over 14k... and I haven't even gotten to the scene I wanted to write.

The two of you met by mere happenstance, and it was even rarer that the library was ever docked onto an important area of Germa. Spring marked the time for a seasonal cleaning. So, like every year before, the laboratory grunts were to store old accounts in the library and perform an overhaul of laboratory references, guarded by one of Judge’s children. 

Yonji had been assigned guard duty this year, although the responsibility didn’t include much besides docking his fleet around the two storage snails. The men working in the laboratory would march back and forth carrying records and books, and you would assist in arranging your new inventory. 

Aside from the one bulky book tower, the library ship didn't comprise much. The impressive structure took up nearly the entirety of the support snail, sporting several conical turrets and a grand archway in the center. The stone arch formed a closed bridge-like structure connecting the two towers. The northern wing housed important but dated scientific records, while the southern wing stored traditional texts. 

With the bridge sitting near the eyestalks and the crew’s quarters located in the disconnected basement of the southern tower, paper took up more of the library snail than people did. 

Given how little traffic typically went through the library tower, inventory day marked your snail’s busiest day of the year. Approximately five ships anchored around you, not including the laboratory, which was attached directly to your snail. You considered yourself lucky to have soldiers and technicians helping with the sheer volume of inventory, which had been shipped in bulk and hauled onto the library snail via a lift.

Yonji’s ship had docked directly onto the library snail. You remembered when you spotted his green raid suit from the library’s grand window, barking orders and taking command of the troops below. The ensuing wave of emotion nearly knocked you off your feet, a pit of fluttering anxiety festering at the pit of your stomach as you retreated outside to greet him. 

You could recall every stone step down from the second tower and into the arch, and before you knew it, you were across the short yard. You greeted him formally and bowed. You were sure you were shaking. 

Every other member of Germa 66 had served as a guard for you in the past during this occasion. Ichiji and Niji had been assigned to you once each, while Reiju had been several times in the past. But Yonji, in all the time you had been acting as the royal library attendant, had never made an appearance before this past spring.

He didn’t regard you with much, his indifference a stark contract to your acute, starstruck trembling. You bowed politely, blathering something about your job and a promise to do it well. Yonji stared you down with nothing less than annoyance and slight disgust, which, unbeknownst to you, would mark a recurring theme. And that had been your unremarkable first meeting with the fourth prince of Germa. 

Like his siblings before him, Yonji didn’t involve himself much in your affairs. He seemed just about as interested in the reorganization process as he was in you, and you doubted that he’d even do a walkthrough when everything was finished, like Ichiji or Reiju. Instead, he busied himself with what you could only assume was his usual training regiment on the extended courtyard just outside the library window of the southern tower. 

You saw him occasionally, catching a glimpse of green as you walked back and forth between the northern and southern towers with the inventory. And to your surprise, Yonji and his men remained active from the time the library organization team began in the morning until sunset, far later than even the inventory team worked. (The inventory team rose early and stopped in the mid-afternoon.)

You sat in your usual plush chair by the window, the commotion just outside becoming a part of your nightly routine as you read your book in the glow of the sunset. You didn’t even catch yourself staring, drifting off in thought as you watched Yonji interact with the men outside. 

A little voice squeaked your name. You blinked to yourself, trying not to appear as caught off guard as you felt. The cook’s twin children sat on the velvet rug at your feet, eyes squinting in the setting sun's light. The little girl sat hunched, her hands gripping the ankles of her crossed legs, while the little boy lay sprawled out on the rug.

“Sorry, I thought I saw something outside,” you muttered a quick apology before clearing your throat to start again. “‘Well, Father, said Beauty, ‘as the Beast will accept either you or one of your daughters, I will give myself up to his fury, as it is on my account you have been involved in this trouble…’”

You continued to read aloud. Due to the archive ship’s distance from most of the larger snails, the library housed a single cook in a single, below-deck kitchen to support the small staff of you and a handful of soldiers and crew. And, like a surprising amount of non-combatant employees of Germa, the cook had children. 

However, children under the age of twelve were not allowed to roam freely within their respective parts of the caste, and once they were of working age, they were expected to learn servant’s skills. But considering the isolation of the library snail and the few staff members who stepped into the archive at all, you could afford to bend the rules a bit. But with a member of the royal family visiting, one of your many priorities was keeping the children quiet and occupied, especially after dinner.

By the time you closed your book, your voice was beginning to sound hoarse, and the sun had completely set outside. The kids on your rug yawned with drooping eyes. You peered at the clock. You had kept them for far later than you intended to, but you supposed it was better that they were a bit late to bedtime rather than getting into trouble around the ship when the prince was visiting.

“Why can’t we play outside? We usually play outside after stories, and we haven’t been outside in weeks.” the boy groaned, tensing his arms and legs in a full-body stretch before letting them hit the rug below. “We’re gonna get vitamin D deficiency and die.”

“Nice try. It’s been two days, and it’s nighttime.” 

The two children huffed. The girl stood and moved to the window to look out at the makeshift courtyard from the windowsill. She stood on her toes, barely able to peer out the glass. The boy rolled onto his stomach before pushing himself to his feet to join her. 

You quickly bolted up with them, ready to pull the two from the window. While you had no issue with the twins listening to a story in the library as the archive’s sole keeper, you anticipated that Prince Yonji might not take terribly well to being ogled at by small, unwelcome children as his battalion trained. 

But to your surprise, all of the soldiers were gone. You glanced at the clock again. You supposed that even people like Yonji had to sleep at some point. 

“C’mon, shark bites.” You set the book of stories on the round table next to your chair. “Let’s get you back downstairs.” 

The twins protested but were too tired to put up much of a fight. You scooped the boy up into your arms. He tucked his head into the nape of your neck, just about falling asleep instantly. You took the girl by the hand, ready to lead them out of the second tower and around the back to the two cellar doors leading to the servant’s quarters. 

Just as you pushed open the doors with your foot to corral the two into the hallway, you could have sworn you heard movement. You were too focused to pay it any mind.

***

It took several days for the books and files to be properly organized into their respective archives—and several evenings of extended, after-dinner storytime sessions—but as had happened every year before, the operation went smoothly. The moment he heard that everything was finished, Yonji immediately called all his men back to their respective ships to depart. 

“Master Yonji?” You trailed behind him, attempting to keep up with his wide-paced stride. Yonji paid no mind to you as he barked orders across the deck. “I don’t mean to insert myself into your affairs, but might I ask if you intend on performing a walk-through inspection? Mistress Reiju often likes to make notes concerning the new orientation to communicate with Lord Judge. And we’ve actually reoriented the delta files a level down this year—”

Yonji suddenly turned on his heel, causing you to smack into him. You recoiled, trying to resist the urge to grab at your nose. You might as well have walked straight into a wall. 

“I don’t remember asking for direction from you.”

The two of you stopped in the middle of the archway, his form barely shaded by its shadow. Yonji stared you down with his dark irises. You took a file out from under your arm. 

“I—” 

Yonji’s fist swiftly struck the wall next to your head. He had backed you up against the wall, now towering over you. The stone behind you crumbled as your knees locked together. Yonji hovered over you, letting out a steady stream of hot, irritated air from his nose. 

You were unaware of how his lips pulled slightly down and of Yonji’s rapid analysis of your face. Instead, your gaze remained solely on the gloved fist next to your head. 

That was the first time Yonji saw that spark in your eye. Your lips formed a passive line, but the shine of authentic amazement that glimmered in your gaze betrayed you. You held a crushing grip on the files in both hands, and neither you nor Yonji mistook the beat your heart skipped as fearful. 

He withdrew his fist, leaving the large divot in the stone. More fractured pieces fell, clacking on the solid ground below. 

Neither of you moved, nor did you say a word. 

You weren’t afraid of him, and Yonji should have been angered. If it were anyone else, he would have been. He stared down at you; his mouth contorted into a wolfish grin as he quickly decided he could make an exception for that stupid gleam of admiration in your eyes. You knew your place, Yonji considered, and it was marveling at his strength. 

Your fate was sealed.

***

Yonji hadn’t wanted you at his quarters the morning of his mission in Speleothem, nor did he call for you for the rest of the day. And so, for the first time in the last few months, you spent your time in the library, tending to the archive. 

You stood in the middle of the largest chamber of the southern tower, basking in the sunlight that flooded through the large window with a few books in your arms. You breathed in the smell of paper and sea air. It was a clean scent and one that you missed now that you spent so much of your time in the main castle. 

You wheeled over the rolling ladder, positioning it right next to the gap you could see a few shelves up. With the three texts tucked into your elbow, you climbed the rungs. The encyclopedias had been slightly stained by dirt and significantly roughed up by the Vinsmoke princes’ target practice, but the damage was nothing a rebinding couldn’t fix. 

The first book filled the gap on the shelf perfectly. Ichiji spent some time picking out his selection when the three princes entered your library. His intention to use the book as a part of his target practice didn’t stop him from picking out a pragmatic option: a collection of writings about early forms and types of gunpowder.

You ventured up the steps to the balcony, finding your next spot near the ceiling by the window. Niji had selected the bulkiest and hardest-to-reach text he could find within reach with the help of his jet-propelled boots. However, his efforts stopped at the very top of the stairs. Despite his intentions to torment you, his apparent curiosity seemed to fade with the effort of venturing up to the balcony. You placed the book in its spot, the compilation of weather patterns, maps, and navigational information making for a tight fit. 

Yonji had selected the last book, although his choice didn’t appear to have much reason behind it. You were sure he was going to take the book you already had out. A piece of the late queen’s collection, the completed set of folk stories and fairy tales from all four blues had a near-permanent residence next to your usual reading chair. You pulled it enough to read to the twins, if not to yourself, for nostalgia’s sake. 

You remembered how he stopped, head tilted downward, to read the book’s cover. With the two tips of his fingers, Yonji gently turned the book to face him. He had stared at it with his weight shifted to his back leg as he looped a thumb into the front belt loops of his slacks. He looked handsome, you had decided, as he stood posed in the afternoon light. 

But Yonji left the book be, instead opting for the first text he saw on the adjacent shelf: a detailed encyclopedia about birds native to the North Blue. It fit right into the space left for it. 

A gruff rumble sounded behind you. Your heart nearly jumped as you turned on your heel to see Yonji leaning against the open double doors. He cleared his throat again, pushing off the wall with his shoulder. 

“Prince Yonji!” you exclaimed, quickly bowing. “How might I be of service?”

Your heart pounded as you wondered if your eyes were deceiving you. You had been convinced that talking out of term had banished you back to the library for good, but you couldn’t help the deep pang of excited dread that came with Yonji’s rare presence in your archive. 

His eyes narrowed to the side as he approached you. The slightest pout played on his lips as he glanced around. His gaze traveled up the curved staircase to your left and along the balcony as far as his peripheral would allow. You rose from your bow.

“What information do you have on Rivulette?” he asked, and his question filled the air.

You replayed his words in your head, wondering if you heard him right. You tilted your head to the side, blinking as you tried to process what he asked of you. Of all people, Prince Yonji Vinsmoke couldn’t possibly be asking for a book— at least not in person or when he could easily search his own electronic database. (It was likely far more accessible than anything in your library, anyway. The library was extensive, but it was an archive at the end of the day.) 

“Rivulette, as in, the island?” you questioned. Yonji scoffed. With a few shakes of his head, his lashes fluttered closed. 

“Obviously.” He lifted an arm and rotated his shoulder backward to readjust how his usual white, short-sleeved button-up sat around his biceps. Yonji looked off somewhere into the room again with teeth gritted. “Do you have it or not?”

“I think we have some texts on Rivulette, but I don’t know if they’ll be what you’re looking for.” You scurried over to the rolling ladder. Yonji followed indifferently behind you, his scowl still ever-present. “It’s mostly basic geographical—”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he gruffed, standing directly beside where you moved the ladder. He did not hold it for you as you climbed the rungs. 

You stopped three steps up, conscious of his watchful gaze, as you pulled a collection of texts from one of the upper shelves. Yonji watched silently from below, although you weren’t too far above his head. At his height, you were sure that Yonji could have pulled the books himself even without the ladder. 

“I have a geographical account from about a hundred years ago, an autobiography from Rivulette’s eighth president, Brooke Waters…” You trailed off, tilting the shelved texts to allow Yonji to read the spines. You continued to rattle off the titles of the few books you had, all undoubtedly useless, especially considering the context. Yonji had to have a more extensive and relevant wealth of knowledge in his computer system. 

“What’s that one?” Yonji gestured to a text at the very end of the compilation. The spine was easily four inches thick and partially obscured behind a section of your ladder. 

“This one?” You pointed to it, glancing down at— or more accurately toward— Yonji, who rolled his eyes. 

“Yeah, that one.”

“It’s an encyclopedia with information on native geography, plants, and animals—”

“Give me a summary.”

You blinked at him. Yonji stared back at you, awaiting an answer.

Oh, he was being serious.

“A summary of all the landmarks and wildlife on Rivulette… from the beginning of time?”

Yonji huffed, shifting his weight to his back leg as he pivoted slightly away from you. He ran a hand up his face into his hair with a shake of his head. When he turned back to you, he appeared to do so reluctantly, folding his fingers on his palm in a waving gesture.

“Just… bring ‘em all down,” he groaned again. Yonji placed his hands near the back of his hips, rotating his torso to stretch as he waited for you to complete your task. 

You eyed the collection of books. While the amount wasn’t necessarily as extensive as some of your other accumulations, the sum of all the spines easily amounted to an arm’s length. You began at the far end, taking two sizeable texts in your hand. You collected them in the crook of your opposite elbow before reaching back for more. 

Yonji observed your efforts with a creased brow and a judgemental dip of his lip. His hands still settled on his hips, although they had balled into scrutinous fists. 

The ladder wobbled beneath you as you piled a total of five books into your elbow, balancing yourself only by the strength in your legs. You missed Yonji’s deep scowl as he stepped toward you. 

“This is ridiculous” was about all the warning you received before you were scooped off the ladder altogether. Yonji lifted you from below, wrapping a singular, muscular arm diagonally around your hips as he effortlessly placed you on the ground below. He did so unceremoniously and easily, like your body weight— along with the small mountain of books that you nearly dropped on the floor in shock— was nothing. 

Yonji moved the ladder out of the way and reached up to grab the rest of the stack with little exertion. Much like how he had forced you out of the way, his actions were straightforward as he supported the pile under his arm. He brushed past you toward the ornate table situated (and screwed down to the floor) just a short distance behind you. 

Yonji placed his sizeable stack on the shiny wooden finish, and you put your smaller collection next to his, seeming to be playing catch-up as Yonji took a seat at the head of the table. 

“Prince Yonji—?”

“Sit.”

You immediately did as you were told, pulling out a chair adjacent to his as Yonji began to separate the books. He appeared deep in thought, studying the covers briefly before spreading them across the immediate surface. Every so often, he would flick one open to thumb through the pages, grumbling to himself before placing the text in its designated pile. 

You studied him, trying to hide your acute surprise as he craned his neck over the encyclopedia from before, his eyes pouring over the glossary. He looked out of place hunched over a large book. For his appearance and general demeanor, you had never thought Yonji to be one for the quiet accumulation of knowledge. 

He was, after all, a physical being in all senses of the word. Yonji boasted a bulky build, which strained most of his clothes, and referring to him as tall was a drastic understatement. It wasn’t difficult to see how much pride he took in being Germa 66’s offensive tank, nor was it hard to notice his immense pride in his physical prowess above all things. You didn’t recall ever seeing Yonji eager to sit still very long for anything, more interested in finding nearly anything else as an excuse to test his strength and power.

You should know. You had been the one tending to his every whim for the past few months. 

And so he sat at the edge of his chair, his forearm reaching across the top corner of his book to grip the top open and flat with a wide, sturdy grip to read. Yonji slung an ankle over his opposite knee, tilting his head at an awkward angle as he sank further into his light research. 

“Commentary.” The word carried a downward inflection like a mix between a demand and a question, but you knew better than to take it as anything less than a command. 

The single word stalled your thoughts. Yonji glanced up, his posture gradually reverting upright as he gripped the page he was on to guide the book closed slowly. Your lips parted to speak, but nothing came out. Yonji’s dark irises stared curiously into yours.

“Commentary on…?”

He leaned back in his chair and coiled his arms over his chest. The hem on the cuff of his short sleeves strained on his biceps. The hems of his clothes were always a bit too small for him, but you supposed that Germa 66 went through too many textiles to put much stake into personal tailoring. 

“I bet you’ve read every book in this goddamn room,” he said, but his words were spoken like an accusation. Yonji gestured loosely with the bob of his shoulder, glancing briefly at the thousands of books that lined the walls. 

You stared down at the encyclopedia, eyes slightly widened as you pondered the best way to answer him.

“I can’t say I’ve read an encyclopedia cover to cover, Prince Yonji,” you spoke quietly. 

Yonji let out a bellowing laugh, letting his mouth hang open wide as he threw his head back. But he cut his laughter short, reassuming his almost hunched-over position at the table with a foxlike glint in his eye. Yonji slid the large book over to you before resting his cheek in his palm. His right hand gripped the armrest of his chair, his elbow creating a ninety-degree angle.

“What do ya remember about this one?” 

The corners of his lips were upturned, not too dissimilar to how he looked when he was up to something mischievous. But the milliseconds you spent trying to figure him out only revealed the true seriousness that lingered just below the surface. 

“Sparking sparrows,” you answered quickly, still unsure as to what he was getting at. Yonji’s frame visibly sunk. The upturned corner of his lips faltered as he glanced off to the side with a deep heave of his chest. 

“Birds?” he spat.

“They’re very small but have very sharp beaks,” you offered. Yonji grew less amused by the second, although you didn’t quite understand why. But despite his evident dismay, he motioned for you to continue. You flipped through the pages quickly, pulling up the entry you were looking for. “They let off little sparks, um, and they use this electricity to terrorize wild snails. There are several accounts of them sticking their heads into transponder snail shells. They’ll actually go out of their way to—”

He shook his head with a deepening frown.

“No, what do you remember about the geography?” 

You sat at the edge of your seat, your lips pursed into a slight line. One of Yonji’s brows twitched in annoyance, and while you weren’t quite sure what he was looking for, you knew at your very core that your answer was not it.

“It’s very pretty?” You unconsciously shrunk farther away from him, which only served to sharpen your posture. You held a death grip on the lap of your uniform, pooling the fabric in your fingers. 

“Ugh, forget it.” Yonji stood suddenly and harshly, causing you to to nearly recoil back into your seat. He slammed his chair into the table, the two hard wooden surfaces coming together with a loud bang before he stalked off. He gestured to the table behind him. “Clean this shit up.”

***

Yonji didn’t like feeling stupid, although he didn’t know what to do with that information other than work off the steam. After an evening of training that was a bit more destructive than it needed to be, dinner, and then a post-workout workout, Yonji finally felt like he had reached an equilibrium. 

Yonji didn’t know what he had been thinking. And your eagerness to please, the very trait that Yonji kept you around for, had vexed him that day. You tried to piece together his ambiguous requests, but each question only served to heat his demeanor little by little in annoyance. He didn’t even know what he was looking for when he visited you in the archive, and your simple questions did little more than call attention to how silly he felt in coming to you.

In fact, by the end of his last gym session, he was convinced that it had all been a waste of time. Yonji, a top commander in Germa’s military force, had followed a lead that turned out to be a fluke. 

He could make peace with a fluke, he decided. But he had wanted to listen to his gut, and with the memories of Speleothem constantly ruminating in his head since the job, Yonji had always followed his instincts. 

But now, he stood in the penthouse office on Rivulette with his siblings. Ichiji and Niji bickered over how to best crack the encrypted snails the client hadn’t told them about in the background. Yonji couldn’t help the heavy pang that reverberated through his chest as he locked onto the window on the opposite end of the room.

He thought he had been shot by something.

“Keep it together, Yonji,” Ichiji gritted. The room was still. 

Yonji hardly heard him. His entire focus was on the small bird he spotted perched just outside the window. The bird pecked at the glass, leaving slight scratches with its shallow electric sparks. He walked over to the window, stopping just before the glass. The bird continued to peck, undaunted by the figure that loomed on the other side. The hand that Yonji held over his chest slowly rose to his mouth and over his right eye.

“Oh, man,” he breathed, glancing behind him. Ichiji and Niji continued to bicker.

Yonji turned back toward the bird, and suddenly, a whole night’s worth of thought spiraled down the drain.

Yonji opened the window.

Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed, and supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.

Notes: It would be my honor and privilege to remind everyone that Yonji stands at a whopping 194 cm (6'4"), so no one better come at me for the size difference. That man is a beast (pun intended).

And I spent an obscene amount of time making gifs to use for this series. It's not even funny.

Also, I use a grammar checker that completely messed up and started deleting random words/parts of words in the middle of the text. Please let me know if there's a crazy typo somewhere.

Part I Part II Part III

[starshideurfics]

Thirsty Thursday - Ring my bell, part 5

part 4

steddie, omegaverse, flagging/signaling culture, there’s plot now, in the smut, mdni 🔞

Eddie is surprised when he walks up to his dealing table and sees Chrissy Cunningham waiting in her cheer uniform. He considers turning around then and there, not wanting to risk her jock boyfriend coming to look for her and going all feral on him and bashing his face in. But he really needs to save his money, so turning down a paying customer isn’t something he can do.

He considers walking again when she startles so badly, but mostly he’s worried about her. She’s got blockers on, so he can’t scent much from her, but the tension in her shoulders tells him enough. The girl needs weed, or some xannies. All Eddie’s got on him is weed though, so it’ll have to do.

She’s still so jumpy, so Eddie hams it up, trips over himself to get her to laugh because laughter is easy. He shifts enough that the guitar pick he wears around his neck sneaks out from his collar.

Chrissy’s been fiddling with her own necklace—a padlock, just like Steve’s—and she asks, “What’s that one mean?” and then turning beet red. “Sorry, I just- You’ve always had the rings, didn’t think necklaces were your thing.”

“They’re not. But… Easy to keep a pick handy.” He pulls the chain forward, revealing the pendant it came with, the guitar pick a convenient excuse. Chrissy’s eyes go wide at the little anatomical heart, pierced with an arrow, and Eddie grins. “Gift from the prettiest omega I know.”

“Oh…” She shrinks in on herself again, and he knows he has to get her laughing.

“Second I scented him, thwp!” He clutches dramatically at his chest, mimes being shot through the heart and falls off the bench. Eddie pops back up. “It’s like he just gets me, about everything.” He tucks the necklace away, swings his legs back around the bench, and pulls out his lunchbox, offering her a discount on the already jacked up price for an ounce.

“Do you have anything… stronger?” Chrissy asks, glancing over her shoulder again, like she’s being watched.

“Not with me. Possession is 9/10s of the law or whatever, so best not to have anything too hard on me. And really, you should start with the weed.”

She nods, blue eyes so big in her face. “But, what if it isn’t enough?”

He pulls out a pen, writes down his number on her hand. “It’s spring break, so you can’t drop a note in my locker. Gimme a call, and I’ll see what I can rustle up.” He knows he’s got some Special K squirreled away, for in case Steve gets one of his bad migraines and he wants to sleep through it. “Or check the medicine cabinet—see if your mom’s got a secret Xanax script. One of those will melt your worries.”

“Okay, yeah. Thanks.” She smiles, and it looks real enough. She pushes herself up to standing.

“So do you want the weed?” Eddie joggles the baggie in front of her.

“Right, sorry! Yes, I do.” She reaches into the band of her skirt and pulls out a couple fives, trading him for the weed.

Eddie schools his face when he takes them from her. “Pleasure doing business. I hope it helps.”

“Me too.”

He watches her leave, the bills sitting close enough to her skin and sweat that they stink with her scent. Eddie thinks it’s vaguely fruity, but it’s too covered over in acrid fear that he isn’t sure at all.

💍💘🐽

Eddie sees Steve across the parking lot, the basketball game getting out the same time as Hellfire, and he has to clench his fist to keep from waving. He wants to run to him, kiss him, sweep him into his arms and deposit him safely into his van so they can drive home together.

Instead, he bids the guys goodnight and drives to Forest Hills alone. He beats Steve by more than 20 minutes, since he has to give Robin a ride home. Which means Eddie can do a modicum of cleaning, including rearranging the blankets and pillows on his bed to be a little more nest-like for Steve’s comfort.

Steve doesn’t knock, just comes straight in, and Eddie races to him. “Hey, Puppy, how’d the game go?” he asks, kissing him hello, waiting for an answer before going total horndog on him.

“Lucas scored the game-winning basket, so please have the guys congratulate him next week.” Steve has already complained about Eddie’s refusal to hold the game for Lucas, even took away his pussy privileges for a week until he’d groveled and explained how he had the entire year planned out, he couldn’t skip a week since he was finally graduating. This campaign was his baby!

And Steve liked the sound of Eddie graduating, so he was willing to forgive this one discretion.

“Of course, Stevie. And Erica held her own. You should be proud of your youngest.” He grins wide, and Steve fondly rolls his eyes.

“Please stop talking about the twerps like I birthed them.”

“But that’s what you want, isn’t it?” He sinks down to his knees, puts himself level with Steve’s crotch. “Want a pup of your own,” he murmurs, hand coming up to cradle Steve’s belly, “Right here.”

Eddie smells it when Steve slicks his pants, his sweetness sickly with his desperation for that little dream.

“Want you to shut up and fuck me already,” Steve moans, gripping Eddie by the collar and pulling him to his feet. He’s sloppy as he kisses him, and Eddie purrs.

He loves Steve and Steve loves him, and they both see their future together. He’s really getting sick of waiting for that future to start. But at least he gets to take Steve to bed right now.

🍃🍃🍃

The next morning, the basketball team wakes up in the shell of Benny’s Burgers. There’s blood and black on the ceiling, and Chrissy Cunningham’s broken body on the floor. It takes nearly an hour for the boys to stop screaming long enough to call the police.

Part 6

[fruitcoops]

In the Beginning

Going back to my roots this year with some pre-Coops PT fluff :) This is definitely going to turn into a short series (with exceptions for Leo's birthday, of course) and I'm really excited about it! Hoping for some more time to create this spring <3 Character credit goes to @lumosinlove

TW canon injury (Sirius' ankle)

“Sirius.” Despite the whiteboard with his name scrawled next to 11:00, Remus still managed to sound pleasantly surprised. “Hi, how are you?”

“Fine.”

God, he sounded like an asshole. Remus’ smile didn’t falter. “Glad to hear it. Come on in, take a seat wherever.”

Was this it? The first test? Sirius glanced between the chair by Remus’ desk and the exam table. Hell, maybe he was supposed to sit on the stool. Was he? Was that a ‘Remus spot’ everyone else was smart enough to not even consider?

He picked the chair. Lowered himself gingerly to the cushioned seat, crutches propped on the armrest next to him. A spot on his ankle itched under the Velcro of his stiff boot.

“Thanks for making the time today,” Remus continued, as if Sirius had been any sort of friendly or welcoming. “I really appreciate it. This’ll be quick and easy—just a check-in, figuring out what’s going on and where we want to be. Sound okay?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Sick.” Remus dug around behind his desk for a moment; Sirius could hear papers riffling. Remus’ brow furrowed for a second before relaxing with satisfaction as he pulled a sheet free. “Alright. Sirius Black, meet your new best friend.”

Sirius blinked. “You?”

“Ha! No, I think Pots still has me beat,” Remus laughed, sliding a clipboard across the desk. He pulled his own chair around as well, even though Sirius could see him fold his knees out of the way of the desk. It couldn’t be comfortable. “I don’t like sitting back there when you guys are in here,” Remus said, as if he could read Sirius’ mind. The side of his nose scrunched. “Feels…bossy? I dunno. Can’t really write upside-down, either.”

“Ah. Ouais.”

“But that’s—” Remus waved a vague hand and picked a pen from the broken-handled mug tucked by his computer. “It’s not important. This, on the other hand, is your two-week chart. Decorate it, marry it, I don’t care. As long as you know it’s yours and can find it in that—” He pointed to a wire bin by the door. “—box. Capische?”

Sirius shrugged one shoulder and readjusted his ankle under the table. “Sure.”

“Shweet. There are some forms under the top sheet, if you can fill those out for me real quick.”

Remus stood as Sirius bent his head to write; he puttered in Sirius’ periphery, collecting tape and bandages and a handful of other things from the drawers lining the walls before moving to the exam table behind him. Something spritzed, filling the air with the faint scent of lemon. When he glanced back, Remus was wiping down the exam table with a washcloth.

The table. Of course. He should’ve known. “Do you want me to move?”

“You can if you like.” A lopsided smile found him over Remus’ shoulder. “I’m just cleaning, though. Take your time.”

Feels like I’m taking nothing but time, he thought with no small amount of bitterness. At least Remus meant well. Arthur kept telling him he could have all the recovery time he needed, but Sirius could tell he was getting impatient. He hadn’t even been allowed to think about physical therapy before the six-week mark was up. On some teams, that was long enough to justify rumors of a trade.

Ink smeared under the side of his hand. Sirius cursed under his breath and licked his thumb to smudge it off, but only succeeded in blurring it more. He gave up and scribbled it out, leaving the check mark next to the box instead. Remus’ handwriting was at the top of the page. Sirius Black, printed with a gentle slant to the right. Numbers looped, their tails snagging into one another. Sirius had never met someone who wrote their ‘2’s that way.

“Done?”

He jumped.

“Ope, sorry,” Remus half-laughed as he rolled behind his desk again. The wheels of his chair squeaked. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

Sirius shook his head. “You’re fine. And ouais, here.”

“Thanks.” Remus flipped through the clipboard with easy neutrality. Sirius had expected him to take this a little more…well, seriously. “Looks good. Like I said before, today is just getting the boring stuff out of the way. Forms, building your exercise plan, making sure you don’t run screaming from the room.”

Sirius frowned. “Why would I do that?”

“Hopefully, you won’t.” Remus gave him a look—a joke, he realized a second too late.

“Oh—yes, no, not at all.” Great recovery. It took everything he had not to roll his eyes at himself.

Again, Remus seemed unaffected by his awkwardness. Did he just not see it? Did he think Sirius was playing along? But Remus was always like that, with every one of them. Unflappable and infallible. The world was smooth and calm for him, like a lake on a windless day in the dead of summer. He was wearing a shirt of the same blue-gray as the pond in the park by Sirius’ house.

“How’s your ankle feeling today?”

Get out of your head. “It’s…fine.”

The side of Remus’ mouth pulled up. “Gotta give me something to work with here, Cap.”

“A little sore?”

The light caught his sandy hair as he tipped his head back and forth. “Sore how?”

“Just…” Sirius shrugged. “Sore. Like normal.”

“Stabby? Dull? Lightning-y? Can you feel your heartbeat in it?”

“Um.” The cool air of the PT room siphoned into the small gaps of his boot when he wiggled his toes. “Mostly dull. Sharper when I take the cast off.”

Remus nodded. “You haven’t been putting weight on it?”

“Non.”

“Good. That sounds about right for this point of recovery. Is it an ‘all the time’ kind of pain, or just when you do certain things?”

This was a lot more talking than Sirius had anticipated. He had assumed Remus would sit him on the exam table, poke around, and then send him off with some ice packs and stretches. More time, he said when Sirius had imagined it. You just have to give it another week or two, and you’ll be fine. A hopeful part of him figured they’d let him back on the ice as soon as the bone was healed.

“It’s sore a lot,” Sirius admitted. “The dull kind. It gets worse when I move around, I guess.”

“Even with crutches?”

“Ouais.”

“Do you sleep with it on?”

“…my crutches?”

“The boot,” Remus snorted, though it wasn’t mean. He was rocking slightly in his chair, back and forth. Sirius could see the armrests turn with each light push of his foot behind the desk. The tense thing in his belly eased. If Remus was this casual, maybe he was allowed to take some deeper breaths.

“They gave me a different one for the night,” he said. “It’s softer.”

“Are you more of a back sleeper, side sleeper…?” Remus trailed off, gaze darting across Sirius’ face, and gave a sheepish grin. “That sounds super invasive, wow, sorry. I promise I’m just trying to figure out if you’re sleeping on it weird.”

Sirius tried to school his expression. He didn’t want to know what face he had been making at Remus’ question—they knew each other well enough to not fix him with a media glare. “Uh, my back,” he answered. “Usually. The doctors said to put it up on a pillow until it healed.”

“Cool, cool, sounds good.” Remus nodded again, then drummed his hands on his thighs. “Alright. Those are all the questions I have. Any on your end? Concerns, preferences…?”

How fast can you get me out there? Something told him Remus wouldn’t have an answer he’d like. “No, I’m good.”

Remus had a dimple on his left cheek. It made a divot with his small smile. “Great. Ready to hop on the table so I can take a look?”

It took a moment for Sirius to get to his feet; he reached for his crutches, only to find Remus already holding them steady for him. He hobble-hopped the five or so feet from the desk to the exam table; six and a half weeks in, and the crutches still did their best to stymie him at every turn. Horrible fucking things. His underarms were rubbed raw after fifteen minutes. Clunky and awkward and—

“Hold on.”

Sirius paused.

Remus was frowning at his leg. “Those don’t look right.”

“Quoi?”

“You’re…what, six-three?”

“About.”

“Sit, sit.” Remus ushered him to the edge of the table, but took the crutches as soon as Sirius perched himself on the cushions. He pressed a small button near the base; aluminum squeaked as the foot shortened by a few notches. “That’s better,” Remus muttered, almost to himself. “These pads are all worn out, too. Did they give you towels?”

What the fuck? “Uh, no?”

A disgruntled exhale made Remus’ nostrils flare. He leaned the crutches against the wall with a similarly irritated tilt to his mouth. “Remind me to give you some before you go, or the tops are going to wear the hell out of your armpits. I reset the height, too. They were two inches too tall.”

“Oh,” Sirius said helpfully.

“It’s not, like, a huge deal or anything, but it’s uncomfortable.” Remus cocked his head. He regarding Sirius with a critical, but not harsh, eye. “Has your back been hurting?”

Sirius shifted in his seat. “…yes.”

“That’s probably from the height issue.” Remus’ nose twitched with clear displeasure. A pen turned between his fingers, glimmering in the pale light. Sirius hadn’t noticed the bandaid on his knuckle before. The pen stilled with a sigh, then vanished into Remus’ pocket. “Sorry, I just—Moody and I have been trying to get the guys to come in here sooner, because of shit like this. Crutches at the wrong height, no towels, not knowing you’re allowed to wash braces. You’re already uncomfortable, you know? No need to make it worse.”

“Sorry.”

“Oh, god, it’s not your fault,” Remus said immediately, pumping hand sanitizer into his palm. “Just sucks that we have to ask permission. It’s not like we’re going to do anything stupid while bones are still healing.”

Sirius swung his legs up on the table while Remus rolled a stool across the speckled linoleum; his ankle twinged, but he managed to keep his wince light.

It was no use. “What was that?”

“Hmm?”

“Face.” Remus pointed at him, arching a brow. “You’re in my rink now, bud. You made a face. You can either lie about it, or get out of here on time.”

Perhaps Sirius had been a bit overconfident in how well he could hide pain. “Just sore when I lift it.”

“Where?”

“Uh. My ankle.”

“Right, I—” Remus broke off with a short laugh. “Sorry. Is there pain in other places when you lift it?”

He let Remus wave him further onto the table before answering. “I can feel it in my calf and foot. A little into my knee.”

The plastic was sticky from cleaning solution, but the cushions were perfectly firm on his lower back. He let his head rest back against the wall with a slow breath and wiggled his toes again. It was nice, being able to do that without lancing pain. Remus tapped his thumb against the edge of the table a few times before moving to stand by Sirius’ feet. “Can I take your shoe off, or do you want to?”

“Oh. Um…” He sat up further, but his fingers just barely brushed the hem of his pants. With a grind of his back teeth and a quick flash of pain, he bent his opposite knee and pulled the shoelace free. His ankle began throbbing faintly as he nudged the shoe off—sock too, thanks—and a puff of air slipped out when he finally leaned back.

Remus was watching him with a sad sort of wariness. “Can I make a request?”

You could ask me to do literally anything. “Yeah, sure.”

“Please don’t ever do that again.”

If he didn’t look so sympathetic, Sirius would have bristled. “What?”

“That—” Remus gestured at him. “Looked painful as fuck. This is an anti-pain establishment. If you think something’s going to hurt, we’ll work around it. No judgement.”

The thing was, Sirius hadn’t actually done this before. He knew where the ice packs were kept, and that the big steel container in the corner held heat pads in boiling water. He knew where the support bandages were, where Remus kept extra stick tape, and that the set of small drawers next to the desk would each be labeled with the name of a teammate so they could find specific gear. Remus had given him stretches for his sore back and arms and legs and whatever, but this—the shoes, the touching, the gentleness—there was no rulebook. No captain’s log to rattle through when he needed guidance.

“Okay,” he finally said. “That’s cool.”

“Cool.” Remus gave him that half-smile again. “Can I take your boot off?”

“Ouais.”

Remus was a lot nicer to the Velcro than he was. The rip was quieter than Sirius thought it could be, peeled off by practiced hands. He felt the pressure on his skin release immediately and took a breath at the tender feeling. Not pain, but something close. It made his heart spike every time. “Hurting?”

“Non.”

“You sure?”

“Just—makes me nervous.”

“Makes sense,” Remus agreed. “You’ve had it all wrapped up. Feels safer in there, right?”

Right. Exactly right. Something tightened in the center of his chest. “Yeah,” he said. “Something like that.”

Remus nodded. “Is it okay if I take it the rest of the way off? I can do most of the exam like this if that’s better.”

“You’re asking me a lot of questions.” He tried to sound wry. He wasn’t sure it came out that way.

“Lot of people don’t like touching,” Remus answered easily. He hadn’t moved to touch the boot again, hands flat to the maroon plastic covering the table. “I’d rather you tell me to step off now than make something hurt more.” He gave Sirius an apologetic sort of grin. “Plus, you’re probably sick of people grabbing at you. Don’t really want to be one of them.”

Sirius was sick of it. Hands and fingers and grasping through slivers in plexiglass while he was trying to move, goddamnit, when he just wanted to go back down the tunnel and finally be able to catch his breath. People grabbing him on the ice, pushing. Snape’s body against his own—a shoulder in his sternum. Fingers digging into his skin. A tight grip on the back of his neck.

“You can take it off.”

Remus had a crooked canine tooth. Had he noticed that before? “Thanks.”

Sirius’ fists clenched at the touch of warm hands on his heel and calf. It was…fucking strange, but not painful. Not unpleasant, either. Remus had calluses in the bends of his knuckles and on his palm when he carefully transferred Sirius’ foot to one hand and set the boot up by his hip.

“I’m sweaty,” he blurted. “Sorry.”

Embarrassment flooded him before Remus laughed. “Dude, you have no idea how nasty your boys are when they roll up here. Did you know I had to send a reminder to shower before seeing me? And to wear clean clothes?”

Sirius wrinkled his nose. “Ugh.”

“They don’t cut their toenails, either.” Remus’ eyes flicked up to his face, bright and teasing. “I’m not telling you who, but if you can throw a little captain-y weight around…”

“I’ll try.” It almost came out a laugh. Surprise tingled in his lungs. “But seriously, you don’t need me. They listen to you like gospel.”

“Oh, please.”

“They do,” he insisted. Remus rolled his eyes. “Non, non, I’m serious—”

“Yes, I know.”

“—fuck off—you could tell them to brush their teeth four times a day and they’d be at it. They listen to you more than me.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Remus informed him. “And I also think you’re healing really well.”

“I—what?” Sirius looked down; his ankle was back on the cushion, cradled lightly between Remus’ palms. It jolted something in him. Had his skin always been that pale? He could see the line where the boot ended halfway up his calf. His foot looked ghostly in the light and everything else looked…thin. Skin and muscle, even bone.

He propped himself up on the heels of his hands. The angry, puckered scar from surgery had faded to a narrow line. When had that happened? Surely not overnight. It had looked so ugly in the shower yesterday, which was exactly why he tended to avoid looking at it. He glanced up at Remus’ patient face. Was he grossed out? That wasn’t how Sirius’ ankle was supposed to look. The knobbly bones on either side were practically gray in comparison; they stuck out, as if someone had stuck two marbles under his skin. His stomach turned.

“Sirius?”

He hummed.

“You okay?”

The joking tone had gone from Remus’ voice. The pit of Sirius’ stomach was heavy. His ankle looked weak; his calf, skinny all the way to the weird lump of his knee. “Mhm.”

“We can be done.” Slight movement caught his attention as Remus ducked to catch his eye. There was the solemnity he had expected. It was odd to see it now. “Any time. Just say the word.”

“The exam?”

“I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to do.” Firmness had never sounded so kind. “These first steps are visual, anyway.”

Am I done? Sirius looked back at his foot, the strangeness of it, the sickly mirror of his healthy one. “Keep going.”

“Are you—”

“I’m okay.” He mustered a deep breath. “I’m good. Keep going.”

“Okay,” Remus said quietly.

They sat in relative silence, but it wasn’t bad. Sirius was glad for a break. It was easier to watch Remus work than hold a conversation. The tenderness faded somewhat under the gentle touches of Remus’ fingertips—a tap here and there, faint pressure in the soft spots. Murmurs of feeling alright? and tell me if this hurts filled the buzzing static in Sirius’ ears.

“Ow.”

“Here?” Remus’ first two fingers hovered at the arch of his foot. Sirius nodded. “Cool, thanks. Your swelling isn’t too bad. I think I’m going to hold off on big exercises until Monday, okay?”

Disappointment, bitter and tacky as molasses. “Yeah.” He couldn’t keep the sigh out of his voice.

“We’ll get there.” When he remained silent, Remus poked the peak of his kneecap. “Hey. We’ll get there, I promise. I want you to work on the rest of your flexibility this week. Keep the boot on, but stretch out your legs and back. Your other muscles have been compensating for this and I don’t want anything to get strained.”

“Okay.”

“I’m going to do everything I can to get you back on the ice.” Sirius could hear the but in his voice before he even finished speaking. “But I won’t rush through this and throw you out there just to get hurt again.”

Hurt again. Pain, cold and consuming, flashed in his memory. “Okay.”

“If anyone gives you shit, I want you to throw me under the bus, alright?” The last strap of Velcro fell into place. Remus was even careful with that part. The pressure on his skin was familiar and welcome. He felt a light pat to the table. “Tell them it’s all my fault. That I’m being overcautious and mean and keeping you here, whatever. If the coaches have a problem with your care, they can talk to me and Moody about it. Not you.”

“Okay.”

Remus let him get up unhindered. That was nice. Sirius was pretty sure he’d lose his mind at one more helping hand. He waddled back to the desk chair at an incline of Remus’ chin and was once again relegated to watching while Remus taped some small, folded towels to the tops of his crutches before joining him by the desk.

“You did great.”

Wasn’t that a thing to imagine. Could barely get my shoe off, but alright. “Merci.”

“It’s hard to get people to come in here and actually want to get better.” Remus scribbled a few things on the chart. His forehead crinkled in the middle with concentration. “Lotta guys think they’re fine as soon as the doctors’ visits end. But this is the part that’ll make a difference in the long run.”

The chart slid across the table, followed by a smaller, far more sparkly sheet. A smile pulled at Sirius’ mouth in spite of himself. “Gold stars?”

“Very serious stamps of completion, actually.” The corners of Remus’ mouth were tight with restrained amusement. He couldn’t keep the laughter out of his eyes. “You can pick a different theme if you want. Talkie’s got Lisa Frank, which was kind of a power move.”

Sirius snorted—it was over from there. It took a minute for them to collect themselves, and as much as he hated to admit it, he did feel better after peeling a star from the sheet and sticking it in the first box. “Regarde,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Success.”

“Perfect.” Laughter still lingered in Remus’ voice. It was a nice sound. It was nicer when he looked up and smiled, like Sirius had put one of those heating pads right in the valley of his ribs. “Alright, well, that’s all I need. We can do the same time tomorrow, or you can check out the schedule. We technically have office hours, but you can shoot me a text if we need to find a different one. Number’s on the board. Make sure you give your name in the first message.”

“Okay.” Those ‘2’s again, in green marker this time. That weird feeling in his chest was softening. “Yeah, okay. I think tomorrow works for me.”

“Awesome, see you then.”

“Awesome.” Why can’t I talk? Sirius stood and took his crutches back with a slight stumble. He hoped it passed off as broken-ankle unsteadiness, not—whatever else was going on. He breathed an audible sigh of relief when the tops didn’t immediately begin to chafe his inner arms. “Oh, wow, thanks. This is great.”

“Yeah?” He could hear Remus’ smile before he even turned. He looked pleased, fiddling with the edge of Sirius’ chart. “I’m glad. Sucks to not have what you need, and not even know it.”

“Lucky we’ve got you then, eh?”

Remus’ cheeks flushed. It was rather warm in the room. “Nah. I’m the lucky one. Best job in the world.”

“Got you beat, there.”

Another laugh made Sirius’ chest squeeze pleasantly. It was good to see Remus happy, with all he did for them. “Guess you do,” Remus admitted, then shooed at him with the chart. “Get outta here, your boys are waiting. And check the box by the door for this when you come in tomorrow, got it?”

“Très bien, Loops.”

Maybe it was the adjustments to his crutches, or the promise of something like progress on the horizon, but Sirius didn’t feel quite so awful as he made his way down the hall. He almost felt good, actually. Almost hopeful.

[cafeinthemoon]

Ever Dream (Apollo x reader)

Chapter 1/1

Wordcount 7,3k

Title Ever Dream

Fandom Shuumatsu no Valkyrie / Record of Ragnarok

Symbols ✔ . 1️⃣ . 💛

Warnings: Apollo is extremely inconvenient in the beginning; angst with a soft, bittersweet ending

Tagging ? (If you want to be tagged in any of my stories, just leave a comment on this chapter or send an ask or a message)

N. A. Finally I can fulfill my promise and post this little story with Apollo!

At first, he wasn't appealing to me at all, but as his character was developed, I found myself liking him (I basically understood that my lack of interest in him and his fight was due to me not moving on from Hades' loss, since snv doesn't feel the same for me anymore) Also his personality is a bit weird in this one bc I've started to write it before his flashback came out, and since I've wrote so much it would be a waste to restart my work to adjust his depiction to something more "pleasing", so I just kept things this way. But I hope you have fun with it :)

“Come out, come out

Wherever you are [...]

Give in, give in for my touch

For my taste

For my lust”

(Nightwish, Ever Dream)

Summer days might be the favorites among the mortals, for they were long and favorable to the body and the heart, as a good presage for the ones who needed it, but that didn’t apply to you. Yes, as many, you appreciated cheerful encounters of friends under the shadow of a tree on a warmth afternoon, as well as playing games in the city’s lake with your sisters, but none of these small delights were enough to make you enjoy Summer above the other seasons. Honestly, you would be happier during Spring, when the beauty of the flowers would be in its apex, or during Winter, when you would stay long periods at home, in front of a good fire, with warm food and crafting to occupy your hands; even Autumn had a special place in your heart, with its meadows of red leaves and winds whispering mysterious tunes.

The thing is that you used to work as a gardener during Spring and Summer, and this latter was always the most difficult one, for the land where you lived was always too hot for any activity to be possible under midday sun, so you would adjust your routine to work at early morning or when the sunset approached.

It was a hard work: the plants would suffer with the heat, and you must know the right moment of the day to pour water in them, in order to not burn their roots; some of them would even become dusty with the lack of rain, only to be harmed after sudden, summer storms, and it would take an entire day for you to clean the fallen leaves, broken branches and garbage brought by the wind – not to speak about the mud; and, as if none of this wasn’t enough, you would have to fight against seasonal infestations.

It was a lonely work, also: there would be days when you would stay in silence for so long that hearing your own voice after going back home or speaking to yourself during work brought a sensation of strangeness. But you enjoyed the solitude, using it to perfect your abilities and organize your thoughts.

Some would say that you should start thinking seriously about your situation, that is, that you couldn’t live only for the plants and that you were already in the age of considering marriage, but you would just escape from their demands inside the labyrinths of the garden. Not that you would get angry with them, though. You understood their preoccupations, but you were aware of where they came from: they didn’t understand that happiness could have many sources in human life beyond building a family.

And, as long as your own happiness came from the garden, you would stay inside it.

***

If the humans who knew you were the only ones watching your steps with what you’d call an abnormal interest, you could deal with it. But fate wanted things to be complicated for you, so your peculiar, solitary routine hasn’t caught only the mortals’ attention.

It happened that, close to your garden’s location, upon a greenish hill, a temple was built centuries ago. A temple to honor the deity whose powers were always strong across those lands – Apollo, Son of Zeus and Guardian of the Sun, Master of Poetry and Music, and owner of more titles than you could remember. You’ve never seen him in person, though it was said that he used that building as his temporary residence on summer days, which explained the intense temperatures during that time of the year; it also explained why the lights of the temple would be fed until late hours and why there would be sound of chords, drums and high voices all day. You respected the work of the people living there, of course, but you’d appreciate a bit of silence during a period that was so difficult for you, and there you had another reason to show up only when the sun wasn’t shinning in all its splendor.

Little you knew that, from the highest spot of the temple, upon a parapet only accessible to himself, the Lord of that house, to whom all those honors were directed, has been observing that lonely, little mortal who would come every day to take care of her flowers with the same dedication as Heracles by the time he had to fulfill his twelve tasks.

He couldn’t remember when was the first time he saw you: the only thing he knew was that, while he stood at that temple, he couldn’t spend one day without seeing you. Every morning, before his worshipers woke up, Apollo would walk up the stairs that led to the private space where the highest balcony of the temple was, and he would sit at it, with his back leaning on a column, to witness the girl’s arrival and her preparations before work; he would stay there, watching in ecstatic silence as she separated her tools, touched each plant with those delicate fingers of hers, examined each spot of them and gave them the necessary treatment, smiling and, sometimes, mumbling to herself.

Not only he noticed your diligence and dedication, but it didn’t escape him how much you were beautiful. Yes, you were surrounded by appealing fruit trees, flowers of the most interesting shapes and shades, all of them between intricate green walls that only added in majesty, yet your figure caught the man’s eyes above all of them – eyes that were trained to not miss anything that could be pleasing to one’s sight.

The god would cheer at himself with the fact that you were oblivious to this, while he, at that height, was completely out of your sight. It was like in the old days, where he would observe the mortal realm from his spot at the Olympus, except that this time there would be no difficulties in reaching you: as one of the city’s inhabitants, you were basically his neighbor, and knowing that building like the palm of his hand, he knew the secret shortcuts that would lead him to your garden’s gates.

At first, Apollo would state that his morning observations were just a hobby, and that with all the work to keep him occupied at the temple and the attentions he would get from the worshipers – particularly from the priestesses – he would soon forget about you and your flowers. However, he wasn’t fool to the point of lying to himself for too long, and soon he would admit that he was interested in you. Well, he was already desiring you, in a way that didn’t happen since… a few centuries ago, maybe by the time of that temple’s inauguration, when he would lure some of the city’s mortals into it. And now, there he was, leaving the comfort of his bed every morning, sometimes even before the sun came up to greet him, for anything but to catch the exact moment when your feet stepped into that garden, wondering how your voice would send shivers all over his body in case you whispered in his ears with the same docility you did to the flowers, how soft your skin would feel if he caught your frail form between his arms, and the heat he would sense once his lips touched yours.

This extended for days, until he finally had enough.

That morning, he watched you as always, but this time something inside him awakened, and he just let his body move away from the parapet and reach for his private chambers, where he caught his best garments and a pair of golden sandals, and then wandered to outside the temple, to the narrow path behind the hill, covered in stones and sand, only known by himself, and in one minute or two, he was standing at the garden’s entry.

Today is the day. The day when I shall make you mine.

***

It should be a pacific, ordinary morning of work at the garden.

You arrived at the usual hour, reached for the spot of the garden where you started working the day before, separated your tools and went to take care of your tasks.

You’ve spent one hour, maybe two like this, so concentrated in what your were doing that the sudden rustling between the leaves somewhere behind you made you startle and drop your garden shears. You turned around…

And found quite a spectacle for that time of the day.

Coming out of a narrow space between two green walls, you saw a young man dressed in garments that you supposed to be only appropriate for the Summer Festivities, not so far in the land’s calendar: he had a white toga around his body, which hems and details appeared to be sewn with golden threads; golden were also the strappy sandals he had on his feet, as well as the laurel wreath on his head. The first rays of the sun reached the space between you at that hour, and the golden light poured itself over the man’s figure as the hug of a beloved one, revealing that the metallic ornaments he carried were, in fact, gold, and conceding a singular glimmer to his eyes, which you thought to be of the same shade. But that wasn’t the only peculiarity seen in his appearance: his hair, falling on straight strands to his waist, were of a soft pink that reminded you of some of the flowers in your garden, but a comparison wasn’t possible, since they were out of sight at that moment.

Yes, the visitor was a beautiful man, though eccentric, so your first thought was that he was the son of a noble family that came to the city to honor the god of the Sun at the temple beside your garden.

He’s probably thinking that the garden is part of the temple’s territory. I must clarify this mistake and lead him back through the right path.

And you were going to do that very thing, but he was faster.

Without waiting for an invitation or at least a question about his presence there, the man approached your spot and stopped in front of you, observing your tiny person surrounded by flowers and tools with a mixture of curiosity and disbelief: was this girl really engaging in physical work this early?, his eyes seemed to ask.

You stepped behind, closer to a bush of wild roses, but glanced over your shoulder before touching the thorns – something that made the stranger giggle. You didn’t like that at all.

The first words said between you were his.

– I’ve always said that wild roses were not my favorites, but the truth is that they’ve scared me and charmed me at the same time, and I just couldn’t deal with it – he stretched an arm to touch a spot above and behind you; not disguising the feeling that he was closer than a stranger should be, your eyes followed his movement and found his fingers reaching for a flower of the bush – A ridiculous mistake from an arrogant heart… – and, turning his golden eyes to you, – Don’t you think, my flower?

Your eyes widened, but you managed to control your mouth to not scoff at those words: you’ve been working at that garden for too long now, and from time to time there would be one and other man who would come to celebrate the Summer Festivities at Apollo’s temple, many of them from privileged houses… and about whom you’ve already had a clear opinion.

Let me see… Extravagant clothing at this time of the day, bad sense of direction, abnormally elevated self-confidence and no regard for personal space. Of course, another womanizer who relies on cheap flirting to win innocent hearts. He knows that this type of chatting only works when the speaker is young and beautiful like him, but things would be very different if we had an old, naughty man in his place.

You knew that, if you didn’t do anything to get rid of him, he would bother you for the rest of the morning, and you wouldn’t be able to complete the works of the day, but fortunately you also knew how to deal with this kind of situation, so you decided to act right now...

By moving aside and bending down to grab the garden shears that he made you drop. You stood up again and started removing the small, green leaves from its blades as you spoke.

– My Lord, I suppose you entered here by accident – you started; and, looking into his eyes, still with the shears’ blades up – Because, you see, despite the proximity, this garden doesn’t belong to Apollo’s temple. No festivities will happen here.

It was with a bit of diversion that you observed the bright smile fading from his pretty face, but you remained impassible, for you were aware that this one was an experienced gentleman and wouldn’t give up so easily.

And he didn’t.

– I must be indelicate and disagree with you, Miss – he moved his hand away from the flower, but, with an eye on your shears, he hid both hands behind his back – For a garden is a never-ending festivity itself, and the one that is going on right here owes all its beauty to the work of your hands.

You swallowed. He did have a way with words, then. But not even this would be enough for you to allow delays in your routine, and you made that very clear.

– If this is the case, my Lord, I must make use of the same indelicacy and interrupt our conversation here – in a swift move of your hands, the shears closed and opened twice with a metallic whisper – And keep working on the garden’s beauty.

And, without waiting for a response, you turned your back on the man and restarted to prune the bush with the roses, just as you were doing when he arrived.

Not even this was able to shake the young man’s confidence, for he just stepped aside and continued to talk, caressing the flowers at the same time. No irritation or offense was sensed in his tone.

– Then I must leave you to complete your mission – and, after a pause, – But I’m trapped here, and you’re the only one who can release me... by letting me know your name.

Your hands stopped and you turned to him again. You weren’t willing to reveal it to him, but if that was going to make him go away, you would do it.

– Y/n s/n.

The young man opened a satisfied smile. But, instead of saying his own name in return, he just stepped back and nodded.

– For this I will be forever grateful, my y/n. I will make sure that Apollo’s blessing falls over you and your work concerning this celebration of beauty.

And without waiting for a response, he turned away and left.

***

If only the Festivities in honor of the Lord of the Sun were shorter, or if your garden was located in somewhere else, the strange events of yesterday involving that extravagant individual would be just a funny story to remember in an encounter between your friends, or even something you would forget after a week.

But, unfortunately, things don’t always go as we plan, so to your surprise – and exasperation – the situation happened again in the next day.

You were pouring water on the soil, in a spot of the garden not so far from the one where your first encounter happened, having only the sounds of the water falling from the can and the early birds singing on the trees as your company, when the rustling noise of indiscreet steps upon the grass caught your attention.

You turned around… and found the shinning figure of the young man smiling at you, his right hand leaning on the tree at his side, his golden eyes upon you with the same enthusiasm of the last day.

You bit your lip.

I can’t believe it. Did he forget everything that happened yesterday?

If he noticed your displease or if he chosen to ignore it, you didn’t know, but he started a casual conversation without waiting for an invitation.

– Good morning, dear y/n! – he left his spot beside the tree and walked toward you with no sign of embarrassment – As I can see, the festivities continue today.

You just gave him a silent nod in reply. The man’s smile widened in contentment.

– That’s good to hear, for today I bring you something that you might appreciate…

Only then you noticed the object he was carrying on his left hand: a bracelet made of gold, in the shape of a vine and with a white gem in its center, with rays surrounding it as an imitation of the sun. You looked at the object and hesitated.

– My Lord, it is not…

But when the words were still crossing your lips, you felt a strong hand holding your wrist and pulling it forward, making you drop the watering can; before you did anything, the man put the bracelet around your wrist and spent a moment admiring it, with your tiny hand between his.

You even tried to pull it back, but the he held you in place. You swallowed.

Heavens, his appearance is the most deceiving thing I’ve ever seen! I don’t know many soldiers who possess this strength!

Because of this, you understood that you might have been in danger since the other day, so that time you kept your mouth shut and waited to see what his next step would be.

And you didn’t know if you should feel relieved or shocked when you found it out.

– Now you were granted the necessary permission, my dear – he spoke with softness; and, pulling you closer to whisper in your ear, – The way to the Summer Festivities has opened to you at the Temple of the Great Apollo.

You had no time to respond, to move away or to show any form of refusal. The man, still holding your hand, pulled you with him and started running between the green walls and trees, rushing toward the depths of the garden and not allowing you to stop.

You glanced behind and your heart ached when you saw your work unfinished and the watering can forgotten on the spot it fell, the remaining water leaking and soaking the soil.

***

The path through which he led you, as well as the environment you found when you entered the temple was what you would sense in a dream: in one moment, he was carrying you by the hand through the green labyrinth, in a pace that defied time; in the next one, you were inside high walls of white, imposing columns with marble flowers surrounding them from their highest to their lowest spot, and countless tables of gold with goblets, jars and trays full of fruits, sweets and other tempting treats that were taken by uninhibited, joyful people dressed in flowing fabrics and barefoot, running, hopping and dancing between themselves to the frenetic sound of chords, flutes and drums. The place was a mixture of sounds, colors and smells that confused and numbed your senses, in a way that you were only able to stand thanks to the strong hold of the young man.

Despite that, you still noticed how strange was that those people seemed to move to the music as if they were just one, yet they acted like they weren’t seeing each other, lost in their particular world, to the point you wondered if they knew what they were doing or if they were just caught under a spell.

Are they really happy, or are they forced into this? It’s unsettling...

The people only showed a believable reaction when you arrived… Well, actually, when they put their eyes on the young man, and started reaching for him with no regard for your presence, pushing, bumping and even stepping upon your feet.

In a way you couldn’t understand, he opened his arms wide to receive them without letting go of your hand, with a satisfied smile on his face that seemed to light up when the first rays of sunshine entered the place, embracing him with the same passion as the people around.

It was when a thought crossed your mind as fast as those rays, and you stared at him with a knot in your stomach.

Could it be that he…?

The chorus around you, chanting the same words in delight, was the confirmation for it.

– Apollo! Apollo-sama! You finally arrived, Apollo-sama! Please don’t make us wait this long for you again, Apollo-sama!

His face brightened up with the call of the humans, as if it absorbed their joy and turned it into vital force, returning it to them with the warmth of the sun; to them, he was god, father, husband and master, and he was more than happy in taking all those roles for himself, in what you saw as a hungry, even predatory way. Though you still found it a beautiful thing to observe, you no longer saw any resemblance with a man in his figure.

He was something else.

Feeding himself with their energies and keeping them gravitating around him is like a diversion to him. How scary.

And with the same diversion, he pulled you to a tight embrace, giving you no choice to walk away, for many people came to him and were no dismissed, so that you were trapped between him and them, and you didn’t know for how long you would be able to breathe.

Somehow, he managed to walk among his worshipers and take you with him before you in fact were smothered, and without decreasing in enthusiasm, he looked around and chanted:

– My children, my flowers! Another day of Summer came to bless you! Enjoy it, cherish it like it’s your last!

Immediately, the people obeyed him and, as if slowly forgetting about his very presence, restarted the celebration, dancing and jumping around and opening the way for you two at the same time, not really realizing what they were doing.

Not wanting to join them and not being able to release yourself from Apollo’s grip, you had no choice but to follow him.

***

You walked up spiral, white stairs with golden banisters, ran through a corridor and ended up in front of an enormous pair of doors, which he opened with a slight touch of his hand.

They revealed a wide room that, even in your lack of experience in these matters, you knew to be worthy of a god: everywhere you looked, you saw comfortable chairs and couches, covered with satin sheets and surrounded by trays of sweets and fruits, and countless jars of wine; there was also a small fountain pouring water, with a jar and cups around it. You also saw books, parchments and musical instruments ready to be used. Everything there was arranged to display beauty and pleasure, as expected from its owner.

Once you stepped inside, you heard the sound of the keys turning to lock the doors from inside and shivered.

– My y/n, will you follow me to the balcony? – Apollo passed to your side – There’s something I need to reveal to you, but it has to be in an appropriate place!

And, without waiting for your response, he tightened his grip around your wrist and pulled you across the room, to reach the said balcony.

You passed under an arc with a pair of curtains of a peach shade and found yourself in a place that could serve as a common room of a human house by its largeness, except for the fact that it was uncovered; on it, there was wine, fod and water as well, and a couch twice the size of the ones inside the room, yet none of those objects interfered while you walked among them.

Apollo stopped at the parapet with you by his side. With his arm stretched over it, he indicated the entire view.

– Let your pretty eyes enjoy what’s in front of them with no shame, my dear – he laughed – Trust me, the view of your lands from the Olympus is no match for this!

And you were, in fact, impressed with what you saw.

From there, you were able to spot various things, from the mountains that surrounded the city, passing through the town itself, with its marketplace and daily movement, to nearer places… such as your garden, its open fields and the very spot where you were working this morning when Apollo arrived and abducted you.

Your face burned with the thought.

He has been spying on me from here? Since when…?

You never had the opportunity to inquire him on this, because he had no shame in telling you the whole story.

– Since this Summer started, though I cannot precise the day, I’ve been trapped in this balcony, just as I am now – he turned to you with a strange glimmer in his eyes; you sensed his hand letting go of your wrist and wrapping itself around your waist, bringing you closer as he spoke – I’ve been trapped by you, my flower, for I couldn’t spent one morning without seeing you from here, cherishing with your whole figure, your steps, the work of your hands, all for your precious garden…

You put your hands between you and him, in an attempt to prevent him from approaching even more.

– My Lord, with all the respect, this is my work – you managed to speak – I would never be able to properly take care of a garden if I refused to pour my heart into it…

The god’s response was to widen his already present smile, giving to it a hint of something that would be called presumption if he was a mortal man.

– I know it! I know well how these things work, and for this I am jealous – he caressed your face for an instant, his eyes swallowing each traits of yours with greed – I am jealous of your flowers, of your trees, and everything that has been blessed by the touch of your hands…

You gasped.

– My Lord, I think this is going too fa…

Your words were cut off by his next act, which consisted in wrapping his arms around you and lifting you from the floor, taking you to the couch you saw before, not so far from your spot on the parapet. There he sat you down, then knelt to take off your sandals – of course, without missing the chance to let his fingertips wander through your feet and legs. With no visible ways to escape this situation, you could only observe the scene in silence.

The door is locked, I don’t think I could open it as fast as he closed it, he’s too strong for me to put a physical fight and is too lost in his own fantasies to hear a word I say. I see no solution besides climbing up the parapet and jump.

While this thought was still crossing your mind (and your eyes glancing at the parapet), Apollo was already climbing the couch. You tried to move away, but he was faster: holding your jawline, he pulled you close to him, his lips brushing yours as he spoke.

– I beg you, my little flower… stop making me jealous… pour your heart to me… be mine…

You opened your mouth to speak, to reply, to try and reason with him one last time, to ask for his divine favor and beg him to let you go, but Apollo didn’t even give you the time to breathe: convinced that actions would teach you better than words, he covered your mouth with hungry kisses, his tongue reaching for yours in a hurry, his hands grabbing your body with voracity. With the lack of air, your lungs started to burn and your eyes got filled with tears.

Your hands, still free, pulled him away by his chin; he stared at you in incredulity.

– Please… my Lord… – you forced your words out, alternating them with gasps – Please… reconsider…

For the first time, Apollo seemed to have his patience tested, and the slight twist in the color of his eyes instilled fear in your heart like you’ve never felt before.

– Too late to think, my y/n… It’s time to act.

He pushed himself upon you on the couch and a second kiss happened, longer and hotter. Now that your attempt to stop him failed, desperation was taking over you, leaving you with two choices: letting him continue or dying for opposing to a god’s will.

The latter seemed less painful for you, so you opted for it.

Beside the couch, just like the other seats at that room, there was a small table with a metallic jar on it; you glanced at it when Apollo let go of your mouth and brought his kisses to your neck, and supposed that it was full. An idea came to you, but you had to be careful.

If I fail at this, it’s over for me.

With slow movements, you managed to bring your body closer to the table’s side, taking the god with you, leaving him too occupied in his caresses to notice anything around. You even reciprocated some of his touches to disguise your nervousness, and waited until you were sure that your hand would reach the jar’s wing.

When the moment came, you stretched your left arm… and your fingers closed around its wing, lifting it from the table with all the strength you could find.

Everything happened too fast for your eyes to follow: catching him in a surprise was your only and greatest advantage, and you managed to do it. The jar flew from the table and hit Apollo’s head, forcing him away from you and dropping the laurel wreath from his hair; confirming your prediction, the jar was full, and the water spread all over the place as the metal clanged against the floor.

You wasted no time: you dragged your body out of the couch and fled the balcony, leaving your sandals and a paralyzed, dismayed Apollo behind. You crossed the room like a ray and somehow unlocked the door easily despite your shaking hands; not only this, but you had the nerve to take the key with you and lock the door from outside to slow the man who would certainly come after you.

***

Your feet barely touched the stairs while you walked down. Behind your back, there was still silence, but you knew it wouldn’t take long until Apollo reached the door and found a way to open it, so you wouldn’t stay to see what was going to happen.

You soon were back to the wide room where his worshipers were celebrating, and it was with no surprise that you found them as happy as before, and that, as you joined the crowd to reach the exit, they barely remembered you. Still, you couldn’t help finding it scary to be squeezed and pushed to all sides by those strangers, who screamed, sang and danced with no regard for each other and for themselves, as victims of a sinister spell.

***

The image of you running away from him was the most terrifying of the nightmares.

Apollo could have ran after you, grabbed you and pulled you back to the balcony. He could have also stretched his hand toward you and used his golden threads to wrap your body and force you to stay, to submit to him. He even managed to raise his hand while you turned your back to him and moved away, passing under the arc that separated the balcony to the rest of the room… but he didn’t do anything.

He just stood there, paralyzed by the surprise with your reaction and the resulting dizziness in his head, his vision darkening as he came to the shameful conclusion.

What I did… there was nothing beautiful about it.

***

The sun was higher in the sky when he regained his consciousness and left the balcony. It must have been one hour or two, judging by its position now – long enough for the effects of the strike to diminish. His head hurt so much that he was sure he would be dead if he was human.

He left the balcony and passed by a mirror, not so far from its entry. He spotted the bruise on his forehead and flinched: it was darker, deeper than he first imagined. Not that he should be worried about having a permanent scar, of course, but it would ache for days.

The god crossed the silent room and stopped by the doors. One look to the lock and he noticed the absence of the key; the shadow of a smile came to his lips.

Clever girl. Trying to slow me down.

He raised his left hand and, working with his golden threads, he involved the doors and pushed them out of their hinges, destroying both with a thunderous sound. He walked out of the room in firm steps, the wreckage cracking under his golden sandals as he approached the stairs and walked them down.

In a minute, he has reached the first floor, where his worshipers continued to celebrate, yet this time a wave of uneasiness has spread silently among them, clearly provoked by the sound of wrecking materials upon there.

Of course, he was eager to leave and start chasing after you, but he was empathetic with the ones who were there just to love him, and made sure they were all calmed down by his words; with this, they were free to go back to their worshiping, knowing that their Lord would be back in a few moments.

He left the temple and rushed to the garden, as his feet were led by instinct to the place that first connected you, but it was with no surprise that he saw you weren’t there; you didn’t even use the garden as escape route. Still, his heart didn’t ache less with the sight of your tools on the soil, and your flowers abandoned, for they meant only one thing.

Not only you were gone, but you weren’t coming back.

***

Autumn came sooner to those lands that year.

The Temple of the Sun closed its gates long before the last week of Summer, and the worshipers returned to their homes with a strange weight in their hearts; it was clear that their god wasn’t content, but the reason was only known by himself, and perhaps as an act of mercy, he protected them from his wrath by sending them away, assuring them of their innocence and promising a warmer season of festivities for the next year.

The days quickly became short, and the winds of the new season were colder than they were in the previous years; the city’s inhabitants were caught in a surprise, and even feared what Winter has reserved for them. The streets were empty, the markets saw their clientele grow thin, the richest traveled to distant lands and the common people were hidden inside their houses. In the wild, the beasts and the small creatures were sharing the same difficulties, and just as it happened with the humans, there was no guarantee that they would make it through the longer period of cold.

Apollo, on his turn, stood in that house alone, instead of traveling back to his place and his divine fellows at the Olympus: he missed their company, but had no strength to face them after the ugliness he created; it has been a monstrosity and a shame, and this was something he must endure all by himself. And so he did it, spending his days and nights wandering among the cold walls of marble, inside which the sound of chords, voices of adoration and the wine being poured in the goblets wouldn’t be heard, and the echo of his own steps were his only partner; the fires lightened by his followers stopped making him warm even before they turned into smoke and cinders, the sweetness of their incense made him sick and the golden altars and objects of devotion turned gray to his eyes.

All because of what he did to you. Because in his eagerness to make you stay, he ended up scaring you away, and the sun that should have kept you content and safe almost burned you to death. How, he asked himself, how did he deprive love from its natural beauty, he who lived to exalt the beautiful? But silence was the only thing to reply.

***

Apollo visited your garden every morning, staying there for a while before returning to his temple and to his dark meditations. Protecting his physical form from the cold with a gray cloak, he wandered through the natural walls that were once green, but now had only brown and red to offer to his sight; the grass was now a shadow of what they were, just dried vegetation that would crack and whiter under his feet, and the flowers came undone to the touch of his fingers.

Many times he passed by the spot where he abducted you, and tears would fill his eyes as he looked at the watering can and the tools rotten on the cold soil, useless after so long time without executing their functions. One morning, he even considered touching them, but when he approached his hand no remnants of your spirit could be sensed in them, and he moved away.

Well, your presence just vanished from the garden itself, and even from the town: sometimes, he would disguise himself among the mortals and seek for your face in the corners of the streets, but he knew the search was worthless. You were long gone.

Actually, you left and hid on the other side of the land, and even your acquaintances haven’t heard about you since Autumn began. But even you couldn’t deny that the season was less merciful that year… and it didn’t take long for you to realize it had something to do with the episode at Apollo’s House. Maybe he couldn’t accept that a mortal woman defied him, and decided to punish her entire land in return; or maybe he just decided to leave sooner, and with him Summer has left. It was hard to be sure when it came to the gods.

However, as much as you weren’t willing to try and seek for his favor against your will in order to save the people of the city, innocent and defenseless against Nature, your heart has been yearning for your garden, your true house, where your happiness and strength and life purpose were. You’ve been struggling to stay in your hideout and wait until the god’s wrath was over, but you just couldn’t take it anymore.

One morning, despite the cold and the adversities, you dressed up and traveled back there. You had no idea of what you were going to find once you stepped into your beloved garden, and a thousand nightmares haunted you while you were on your way, and the times when you thought of giving up and return to the hideout weren’t few…

But all of this noise disappeared when you found yourself, in fact, standing before the garden’s gates. A breeze passed by you at that moment, coming from inside the garden, and sent a chill through your body – a chill that reached your heart.

You forced your feet to move ahead.

As you walked, farther from the entry and closer to the depths of the garden, you noticed that the sensation of loneliness that you were anticipating didn’t come. Yes, the flowers were dead, the grass was dry and the birds disappeared from the trees, but you had this strange feeling telling you that you weren’t the only living being wandering among the reddish vegetation.

A sudden instinct led your feet to the very place where your watering can and shears were left the day you were taken away by Apollo. Were they in the same place, still waiting for your return? You’d only know if you reached there.

And you did. And they were there. Covered in dirt, dead leaves and ivy.

But they weren’t alone. Someone was watching them in silence, standing among the desolation as if they were just a part of it that was waiting for you to come back as well.

And, perhaps, they were, for when they turned to you, your heart dropped.

It was him. It was him, there was no way for you to be mistaken.

The golden bright in his eyes has faded away, and so was his smile. The pink of his hair was no longer glowing, and the paleness on his skin was unsettling. He was still the god of the Sun, but the Sun just settled.

Suddenly, you were scared. What if he was there waiting to cease your existence in revenge? What if that was just a vision to deceive you, and you were now in a new trap, from which you had no chance to escape like the first one?

You tried to move your feet, but they wouldn’t obey you. Your heart ached inside you, and your eyes were getting filled with tears.

Is this how I’m going to die, then?

Apollo left his spot and walked toward you. He was still silent, but no sign of his intentions could be sensed, and you were too scared to try and guess them. Still, something wasn’t right – and when you finally had the courage to look straight to his face, you understood what it was.

From his eyes you saw tears rolling. And in his expression there was only room for incredulity and pain. It was when you knew: it wasn’t a vision; it was really him. And he couldn’t believe you were there.

Apollo stopped before you and you flinched, not knowing what to expect. You shut your eyes tight… and no touch, no extravagances nor punishment came.

You opened them again and found the proud god kneeling on the dirt soil, taking his cloak from his shoulders and leaving it beside him on the ground, his eyes glued on you all the time, as if you could disappear at the slightest distraction.

You didn’t know how long you stood like this, having only the winds to voice your anguish, but the silence became unbearable, and you opened your mouth to speak – but, as always, he was faster.

– Forgive me.

Two words only, but enough to shake your spirit and think of how strange reality could become. A god apologizing? When would you imagine such a thing?

– Forgive me, my flower – he repeated, since you stood quiet – For those things I’ve done weren’t but terrifying.

He stretched his hand to touch your clothes, but gave up on the gesture as to prove his feeling of shame.

Again, your heart ached, and your mouth dried out. You couldn’t just stand there with no reaction, no word, after traveling for so long to reunite with your beloved garden. But you didn’t know what to do or what would be right, so you just let your body decide.

You knelt on the soil too, before the astonished god, and didn’t try to stop yourself when you saw your arms throwing themselves around him, your head resting on his shoulder, and your skin shivering to the warmth of that embrace. You should be scared, you should be aware of any spell working at that very moment, you should be disgusted to see him there – but you weren’t.

– Yes, Apollo-sama – you murmured, not recognizing your own voice – They were terrifying. But I’m no longer scared.

And that was true. All your fear was leaving. And with the first signs that the Autumn was going away with it, you were strangely in peace.

[6okuto]

hello!! hi. i hope you are not too busy. i have been enjoying your 'falling in love' hcs for the ts characters, and i was wondering if i could ask for the same concept with kuras? if possible? please take your time with it. ^_^ i thinjk he would be silly with it but would also want to biblically smite the reader with his mind (/affectionate) . or you two are psychoanalyzing each other from opposite sides of the room FAR away from each other. I Dont Know. packingf my suitcase and leaving

KURAS FALLING IN LOVE

gn!reader | didn't realize how poor a read i have on his possible plot until writing this. my bad. good job red spring studio U and ur mysteries and kuras's identity in the overarching lore got me this time...

this is going to be the most normal start of a relationship of the LIs. like he's just ('just') a doctor. you're about to strangers -> friends this through coffee and chatting

kuras doesn't...seek you out? not at first. that's not to say he isn't interested by you, but he has a job (and secrets) to handle. but he welcomes your visits as long as he has a break!

it starts with offering to grab or buy something, then staying and helping, learning about a random medicine he has on the counter, and then you're a semi-regular presence at the clinic, and you know which cabinets to check for the average sickness/bandaging. his practiced smile turns into a genuine one when you come through the door. he's asking how your trip was, catching you up on what's been happening lately

one moment i feel might happen is you finding yourself in his clinic, needing his help again,, hopefully your clothes are in tact this time. he jokes about how he'd rather not see you on the cot if you wanted to visit again.

little pranks...!! the senobium or him. roleplaying to throw guards off your trail y'know. getting to see that playful side of him :3

if it's him, he pranks you back, shooting you the same 'innocent' smile he does the guards. be careful about spilling that ink. you've been misplacing papers and pens all day too, haven't you? are you feeling alright?

another moment is. it's hard to say what, but you unknowingly say something tied to his situation. you casually drop your opinion on guilt and atonement—smth smth how guilt will rot and your atonement will never end if you don't let it smth smth the evil that others do with your kindness does not corrupt you smth smth—and it gets him.. Thinking. ! maybe you find those stories about a teacher and harbinger of chaos, and after bringing it up to kuras, he asks you for your opinion on them.

!! one moment i hope we get is kuras 'letting loose' or being silly. laughing really loud and apologizing as it lessens to a chuckle. trying to eat food because you don't know he doesn't eat, and it goes terribly wrong so he gives up and lets you laugh at him

LOL the psychoanalyzing. you say something and he has a weird reaction like Hm. sure, of course. and you're like ??? and he tells you it's nothing, just that that makes sense for you. and you're like Woah you wanna talk about My observations about You? and kuras looks at you like [ !! ] [ ?! ]

there's also small things that suddenly feel more intimate—him cleaning up a wound on your face and holding eye contact, his fingers lingering as they brush your cheek. you instinctively reaching for him when someone bumps into you, and him making sure you're alright.

kuras starts taking more initiative by inviting you to join him places and talking about himself. (cue joke about how information is power and him saying he'll make an exception for you.)

but it won't be all sunshine and rainbows considering he's an incredibly old angel and he has. shit going on.... who knows what shit honestly

you notice how he still doesn't share everything, which is fair enough—you're not spilling your entire life story either. but you still don't know basic things about this guy, you don't even know how he's kept his clothes clean all this time or how Old he is

that distance kuras keeps between you grows again because he doesn't want you to get in harm's way, and it's inevitable if you stick too close. he's an expert at dodging questions, answering just enough to keep people satisfied, but what does this mean for you? someone he's unexpectedly grown fond of, and who keeps calling him out for it?

you voice what you're both thinking. he has a frustrated expression when you point out you both like each other, and you want to help him for once, because ??!! he doesn't know what to do here.

something something, kuras's true form, him invalidating all the good he's done for the chaos and ruin he's brought, the world before, being the one to help him find forgiveness, the divine as neither good nor bad, kuras defining himself outside of a teacher and sinner Something Somethigngggaaghhh

Honestly. i've been messing with both ideas in my head and i haven't picked one i enjoy more so.

there's kuras, who's never been in love and is suddenly fumbling for once, trying really hard to 'do it right' and figuring out what it means to be in a relationship and in love (he's overthinking) (he was doing alright) (he asks ais/mhin for their opinions)

and then there's kuras who goes with what he was doing before, just with more affection/intimacy, because seriously he was already doing a great job at being a good partner :sob:

i think kuras's feelings are a slow burn themself. like, he takes the time to get to know you, to open up, etc, and he wouldn't define what he feels as 'being in love' for a while ?? he knows you're incredible important to him, and know him better than...probably anyone else. but he thinks "i love you" is a very significant thing to think and say out loud and he wants to make sure he knows for sure.

if you wait for him to say it first, i think he'd make it a really special moment! ^^ he thinks for a while about how to do it and, maybe uncharacteristically, gets nervous. his face lights up in its own way when you say it back (not a huge face-splitting grin, but his smile does grow and it's obvious he's relieved/happy)

it isn't often that the doctor is thrown off his game, especially not for longer than a few minutes, so if you ever casually, and Very Quickly*, say "love you" while you're leaving, it's a Sight to See. imagining ais coming to see him and going ...?? when kuras opens the wrong cabinet for the most basic medicine. he applauds your work the next time you see him

*very quickly because if you're in a situation where you're alone and he isn't needed, he's going to stop you?? like what?? can we have a conversation about this (not mad just stunned and values communication and also in love with you and)

[sillygoosealert]

Can you write about Smoke finding out his significant other has been harming herself and has been depressed for sometime but would try to hide it from him so he wouldn't worry?

They’re just Cat scratches I swear

Tw self-harm by cutting, pretty self-indulgent as my own experience but also like this is pretty much everyone’s experience combined, hope whoever sent this is okay, I hope you all are doing okay

Tomas angst, you might die at the end if I'm Feeling Silly

You're training with Tomas in a black long-sleeve

An odd choice considering you're training at the Shri-Ru-Yu but he doesn't question your fashion choice

Afterward, he tries to take you to the hot springs so you don't rot after training

You decline and insist you want to just go to bed

‘How come? We never hang out anymore, did something happen?’

A grim expression covers your face and you excuse yourself to bed

after you train you don't even shower, you just sleep

You sleep a lot, its like you hate being awake

So he desides to get you a sweet treat to cheer you up

That's how he cheers up, little acts of service

He gets you a small cupcake with pink sprinkles

But when he gets to your door, he hears muffled crying

It's like you're sobbing into a pillow

Afraid you are hurt- or something worse, he rushes in

The sight before him is horrific, blood-smeared across your arms and thighs

You're shaking harshly too

He goes over to the bed confused

‘What did you do?!’

Then he notices the razor blade in your hand

And then you notice he noticed the razor blade

Then you start crying even harder

And then he has to put the cupcake down

Then you drop the razor blade, nicking your thigh in the process

And then he has to quickly grab it, putting it on a flat surface to get it away

‘What happened? Why did you.. why didn't you tell me?’

You start to babble incoherent things, curling into a ball and sobbing

Maybe you're having a crying spell

He crawls into bed with you, wrapping an arm around you to pull you in

‘What happened? Talk to me..’

You just cry into him, blood-smearing onto his uniform

Now he's holding you close while rubbing your back

‘Baby I don't know what to do, let me clean you up, please’

You calm down enough to nod and let him drag you away to the bathroom

Its so much worse is good lighting

The cuts are close and long, covering the majority of your thighs

They are sloppy on your arms, not as close or neat

He's shaking with you

And crying

You're both crying a lot

Then he starts a bath

‘I'm going to clean you up, okay? It's going to be fine..’

You don’t know who he’s really saying that to

He places you into the bath, the water lightly changing its shade

‘Gods.. why would you do this? I would have helped you through it.’

‘I’m sorry’

That’s all you say, the time he spends bathing you is spent in silence

The world is cruel and incredibly unfair, you both knew that

But how could someone like Tomas, who has experienced it firsthand, continue to go on when you couldn’t?

He lost his family because he was supposed to, and he still wakes up every morning and lives

But you weren’t like him.

Something neither of you could quite grasp

But that made him scared

What happens when it gets bad again?

Who’s going to save you from the disease that is death

Though, you could also call his love for you a disease too

But that is something he wants no cure to

He cleans your cuts with tears and sobs

Then drys you off without a word

Holding your arms with a firm grip, he stares into you

‘I won't be telling anyone. But I hope you know you aren't going to be leaving my sight anymore.’

You nod your head quickly ‘Okay’

Then he places his head on your thighs

‘You can't leave me. Not yet, not soon..’

Then you run your fingers through his hair, his slightly bloody hair

He doesn't wrap your wounds, letting them heal on their own

But he does take you to bed and lays on top of you, making sure you can't leave

‘Why didn't you tell me?’

‘You have enough on your plate, you didn't need to stress about this.’

‘I want to worry about you, to remind you that I care. I'll always care’

‘Thank you..’

‘I love you’

‘I love you too’

Silly 🎀