#every time mark hears about ashe in the news it breaks his fucking heart

[suckinitup]

i saw the words mark winters and like a spell cast over me i started thinking about him again. anyway mark winters hero and ashe villain in that villain oneshot. how does this happen. fucking EAsy. mark gives ashe up.

consider it. there has GOT to be some program with the WATCH for parents who are overwhelmed by their children's dangerous power and need help. this is basically what happened to william. there's gotta be different circumstances and different levels of interference- but ashe isnt even a teenager and he already has a kill count. there is NO WAY he's not being removed from the household for at least the majority of the year until everyone has a better understanding of what he can do and how he can Not Do That Again. in canon, of fucking course mark wouldnt do that. that's mark winters. he'd lose his entire family in less than a week and thats his kid. he cant be sure theyre taking care of him out there or if he'll see him again or whats going on. if ashe leaves, then what is there for him to live for.

but villains mark. hes still mark. he's still hurting. and maybe its not him who's got that heroic little spark- maybe it was his wife who thought they were cool, or he wakes up to ashe sobbing too many times after a nightmare, or he cant stop looking at that fucking book and hating it and he starts to worry that resentment will spread to ashe too. he wants what's best for his kid and the one thing he knows is that ashe won't find that here.

so he picks up his phone. and he calls WATCH.

its rough for both of them. theyve both lost their whole family now. they call every night, then ashe gets busy (because he has friends here, and every time some instructor is harsh with him or something is hard he resents his dad more and more. he knows why he was sent away, but it gets in his head that his dad was scared of him, and thats hard on him. why wouldn't he rather hang out with his friends) and stops picking up the phone as much so it's once a week. then once a month.

mark thinks about killing himself a lot. he lives in a shitty little apartment with horrible neighbours and he goes out to eat every night and he thinks about drinking but he has to stay sober tonight- what if ashe picks up the phone? he cant let his kid hear him like that. and i think he gets offered jobs here and there and he takes them because hey, ashe is gonna come back at some point. he's gotta make sure the kid gets a good present for christmas.

and he gets wrapped back up with overlord.

but the big difference okay. the huge difference. is that he is not responsible for keeping ashe alive. he can take more risks. he can hold grudges. he doesn't have to do the same things that canon mark does - he doesn't have to break his moral code down to its barest essentials (don't hurt kids) like he did in canon. he gets to be fucking PISSED at overlord, and the scientists who hurt him, and every motherfucker who has made his shit life even worse.

thats how he meets tide. they fight a few times, ofc, gotta have that tidalwave viciousness. but then tide has more information than mark does, and mark knows more about the power structures than tide does, so they start working together, and then they dont stop. mark does less and less crimes- tide is valuable as an ally, and his moral code is a fucking pain in mark's ass. he hides his crimes, and then it's more convenient to just stop doing them. tide more often than not has the resources that they need through WATCH and it means that mark gets his ass kicked less often. win/win.

even after overlord goes down, they keep working together. mark never officially agrees to join WATCH but tide quietly keeps giving him new gizmos and gadgets. he gets one of those weird fucking communicator bracelets and tide pretends not to notice how mark modifies it. in WATCH itself tide starts getting scheduled as "tide and wavelength" because where one fucker is the other is too. tide is mark's only friend.

fucking . the clinginess of villains au mark for tide paralleling the clinginess of ashe for the pd in canon ^^ consider. tide feels similarly too he's been lonely as Shit since he stopped getting along w his brothers. they find comfort in each other. they start having beers with each other after work and they start sitting next to each other all the time and they dont talk about it but things Do get more desperate every time one of them goes down in battle. tidalwave ‼‼‼‼

ashe, meanwhile, is getting more powerful. he has mentors who don't snap at him for using the book. they dont try to take it from him or destroy it. they let him keep notes, let him study it, let him learn what monsters are too dangerous and what he can handle. he's learning a lot and he's getting good at it.

and he misses his dad.

mark still calls sometimes, but ashe never picks up. mark sends him cards for birthdays and christmas, and ashe keeps them stashed away in drawers he's scared to look at. he is scared and angry and he is full of many emotions. canon ashe never had to doubt that his dad would help him but au ashe thinks that his dad abandoned him. he's a monster and his dad hates him. its a fuckin stack of dominos where things just fall into place to upset him more and more and more (including the guilt at never picking up marks calls and maybe its not marks fault. ashe Did kill his own mom. of course mark was scared. but ashe can control it now. ashe can protect mark from the book. he can leave, and they can leave, and be a family again and ashe will never have to think about WATCH ever again). so ashe runs away.

he follows the address on the letters and he walks inside and he doesnt see mark. he sees tide. he had been so relieved when he'd finally found mark's apartment- scared and guilty and excited and a thousand different teenage-drama scenarios running through his mind. his dad yelling at him or rejecting him or sweeping him up in this big bone-crushing hug or crying or running or- or- or. the one certainty ashe had was that he wouldnt have to deal with anything WATCH. not here.

but tide is on mark's fucking couch. and mark is asleep on tide's fucking lap. and tide's hand is in mark's fucking hair. ashe had never considered his father getting close to anyone after his mom, and now he's gotten close to tide.

now imagine a teenage tantrum with the power of Big Arms and Rage Without Direction and Abandonment and Hurt and Loss and Super fucking Scary Book. tldr: ashe tries to kill tide <3 mark tries to stop the fighting <3 ashe thinks that he's turned against him <3 tide gets capital h Hurt. ashe runs away again. mark is once again left in the ruins of his own life and just has to fucking deal with it.

[solitary-traveler]

A Wanderer's Prayer

It was like staring at a mirror and confronting a version of himself that he detested with every fiber of his being. In other words, he sees his past in you and wishes he could help.

Wanderer x Gn!Reader

Notes: Hiii, so this is inspired by a video I saw on tiktok by @dellabelle99. It had me sobbing for like 5 minutes. I swear I want to give him a hug so badly-

Art: @Coco_nikio (X)

Warning: Angst? (again yes), let's use all collectively give him a hug

Blue.

The sky was dark blue.

Settled on the ground, the tall patch of grass served as a mattress for the tired Wanderer. The days filled with deafening noises and taxing chores blur into a hazy memory, whisked away by the remaining orange glows of sunlight. He rests his eyes as the veil of silence nestles against him once more. Nightfall never failed to seclude him from everything inconvenient, in the best way possible. 

When he opened his eyes, the flickering gleam streamed onto his face, as a faint evocation pulsated through his thoughts. 

“The moon is beautiful isn't it?”

He recalled your words from a previous night, a night that continuously haunts him. The moon had cast a soft glimmer on your face, uplifting your features and framing that cheeky grin you have plastered on your annoying face. It was almost ridiculous how all he could do was stare and swallow the lump of words he’d been itching to say. In spite of the whirling chaos in his chest, he could only mutter a soft “I know”. 

“Just like you.”

He sighed, shaking his head. Nothing good comes out of reminiscing about that event. Just thinking about it made his cheeks flush. An utterly, absurd reaction. Maybe there’s a malfunction somewhere in his system?

A green pulse of light darted across his vision, eyes widening as his attention snapped to it. Much to his surprise, a dendro crystafly perched on his indigo hair. He raises a hand to wave it away, but your saccharine voice tugged on his wrists like a pair of handcuffs.

“I feel like my skin is on fire”

Wanderer paused. He caught a glimpse of the glowing rock above him for the second time, adorned by a tiny flitter of lights that washed the area with a green flicker, before a set of images burned across his mind. 

A crystafly had landed on you before too. The luster reflection of the moon strikes your face with such delicacy—the fluttering wings akin to a blooming flower tucked behind your ear—yet your features showed disagreement. The glint illuminated a new set of marks on your pale skin and the heavy bags under your pretty eyes. You looked pathetic.

“I wish I’d never been born at all”

He dislikes how his stomach lurched at your words. It was like staring at a mirror and confronting a version of himself that he detested with every fiber of his being. The tightness of his chest loitered, an impending reminder of the past etched in stone, unperturbed for all eternity.

He longed to smash that visage and pummel it until even ashes were forced out of existence. He wanted to break you, the shadow who’s lagging behind him and striding down his path. To impale every shred of innocence you have left back to your pounding heart.

But how could he offer you any assistance when he could not liberate his own from the repulsive tethers that bite onto his skin and refuse to let go?

A frustrated yelp escaped from his  throat. It was fucking annoying. The reality of his helplessness was slowly sinking in. Was that it? Was there nothing else he could do?

Drenched in desperation, Wanderer exhales to still till his raging thoughts. “To any god that can hear me,” he whispered, his gaze falling on the blatant light that blinked from the black canvas above. “Please offer them your protection.”

His eyes closed. What was he even doing? Praying to the gods as if they’ll fulfill such a foolish request?

“I can’t always spend every waking hour by their side. I can’t always save them if they need help” 

He saw himself dressed in a white kimono, running around the sandy beaches of Yashiori Island. He sees Niwa trailing behind him, out of breath as he catches up with the eccentric wanderer, holding a purple veil in hand. 

He was following him again.

“No matter what happens…”

“May they never lose,” his voice cracked. “May they never falter”

At that moment, his chest blazed with a crushing weight. Why did these words hurt so much?

“No matter how many times they cry.”

“You promised me we could be family!”

“No matter how many times they fall.”

“No! Anything but the gnosis!”

“May they have the strength to stand again.”

So that’s how it is. 

“May all the people he meets be kind and warm.”

“If all I wanted to do was use you, then I’d be no different from The Doctor.”

“I hear he has some pretty interesting ideas… Gotta have a chat with him sometime!” 

“Please protect them.”

He blinked. He gets it now. His prayer mirrored the words he’d been dying to hear. 

A prayer from one broken person to another.

[mandoinevarro]

WILL BUY STOLEN GOODS FOR LOWER PRICE

Rule Maker, Rule Breaker: Chapter 1

Words: 8.4k 

Rating: E

Warnings: shooting, non-descriptive death, SMUT, fingering, mentions of masturbation, AND masturbation now that I remember, penetration, creampie! just general filth, gambling?

a/n: SO literally nobody asked for this, but I decided to turn NO REFUNDS into the prologue of a short series (you don’t really need to read NO REFUNDS, it’s only for context.) Anywayyys heavy feelings, heavy plot, heavy smut. Have fun. 

……………

Maker, you need to start cheating. That way you wouldn’t be in the middle of a staring contest with your cards, like you can change their colorful drawings and numbers if you only glare hard enough. You’ve never been particularly good at sabacc, but a little luck wouldn’t hurt, especially since this is the third round in a row you lose.  Duma deals the last couple of cards across the coal black table and stacks the deck, signaling the start of the game.

Well, you suppose it doesn’t really matter; you doubt your sabacc buddies have better hands. These days, everyone in Nevarro is short on luck. Luck and food and water. Others are less pessimistic: As soon as Greef Karga glances at his hand he leans back on the carcass of a cantina booth and slaps his belly. “Ha!” he bellows, “by the end of this round, you filthy gutter womp rats will have to borrow from your womp rat mothers to pay me.”

“Quit bluffing, Karga. We know you don’t have shit,” Cara mutters. She picks up her cards and pulls a face like she bit on lemon, but still the veteran goes all in, pushes forward a couple of stabilizing coils, an identity beacon you could’ve sold at a decent price some months ago and—maker—even a pouch of nova crystal dust. Nobody here is stupid enough to gamble with food, but you’re surprised that even nova has lost its worth and been demoted to casino chip status. “This place smells like shit.”

“Bad bluff, piss-poor trash talk too,” you taunt. “Looks like all that time doing business with Imperials smoothed your brain, Karga.”

“Ex-Imperials,” he corrects. The ex-Guild leader slides a few more credits to the center of his ex-cantina’s table. “We live in a jolly Republic now, didn’t you hear? You’ve been liberated.”

“Fuck ‘em.” Duma turns her head, spits on the melted floor. “Can’t eat liberation, can I?” She throws a few more worthless credits onto the growing pile of nothing. At least, for now, it’s nothing. Credits and ship parts and every other type of currency haven’t meant anything but props in Nevarro for five months, when the siege began. That whole mess with troopers and Greef and Cara was bound to bring some repercussions—aside from making Karga’s cantina look like a volcano erupted inside. For five months, Imperial forces have surrounded the planet, and for five months, food and resources haven’t been allowed inside. They won’t let up, rumor has it, until they find the culprit: one particular Mandalorian with a valuable asset. They think he’s still hiding somewhere in the planet, but you know better. You watched the Razor Crest’s fly off-orbit and leave everything behind. Everything and everyone.

“This place smells like shit,” Cara repeats.

“Not shit,” replies Duma, “ash.” She picks up a card from the deck with long fingers. “You never did explain how that Mandalorian managed to torch this place.”

Cara’s sabacc face melts. Her fingers tighten and bend her cards as she exchanges a complicit look with Greef. “Never said it was Mando.”

“Who else? I was there in the first shootout. That hunter was fierce.” Duma dons a wolfish smile, because this is how she always wins: She plays with people, not cards. In fact, she abandons her hand face-down on the table and—oh no—gives you a once-over. “You knew him well, didn’t you?” You almost want to show her your garbage hand so she doesn’t bother trying to throw you off your inexistent game.

“Swung by the store a couple of times,” you answer as casually as you can manage and pretend the most interesting book is written on your cards. “But we weren’t exactly chummy, if that’s what you’re asking.” Creeping warmth attacks your face and there’s no stopping it. Shit.

“Funny, could swear I saw him leaving your store more than a couple of times.” You feel Duma’s eyes piercing into your forehead. “Pretty late at night, too.”

“Is that so?” Cara pipes with a lopsided grin.

“I thought you two were…friends,” Duma adds.

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, “you thought wrong.” Friends don’t leave friends to their luck in the middle of a fucking siege. It’s the same prickly thought that’s plagued you since you watched the Mandalorian take off triumphantly. It’s a stupid feeling. He was under no obligation to take you with him. You didn’t lie to Duma, you two weren’t friends. You couldn’t even call what you had a fling, even those require some degree of making-love-below-the-stars, quoting-passages-of-Naboo-Nights-to-each-other romance. Flings are shooting stars. No, your…thing, whatever it was, did not belong to the heavens. It was earthy. Human. It was counting credits and arguing about fuel prices or old modulators. It had weight—too much, apparently, to escape gravitational pull and fly away with him on the Crest. It was doomed to planets, both feet planted on the ground.  

Still, you remember times when earthy was good. There was never anything airy or celestial in the way he’d take you. The shoved clothes, the harsh grunts, the rough hands, the pleasure, it was all palpable and primitive; earthy was dirty. Your furtive encounters had beating heart of their own, and there was always hard evidence left behind in case either of you ever needed a reminder: marks on the skin, ripped clothes, stained bedsheets. The bruises he left always took too long to heal, as if his touch enhanced your mortality, made you more human. Stars, those moments are what you miss the most. Five months is a long time to be neglected of touch—six, actually: five months since the siege, six since he last came to you. Earthy expires.

It’s not like there’s nobody in the planet willing to help you soothe your needs; quite the opposite, actually. Lately, it seems like handjobs are the new Nevarran handshake. Just last week you caught Cara feeling up some pretty market girl in an alley. You saw her, she saw you, you rolled your eyes, she grinned and got back to work. You were almost offended. Everybody’s screwing their time through the siege, while you’re left with nothing but reruns of filthy memories with the Mandalorian. You just know nobody but Mando will do. You replay your moments with him like a sad, mental porno on the nights you spend trying to get yourself off. Trying and failing, like having to put out a fire by spitting on it, because the only person in the galaxy with a hose is too busy playing hero lightyears away.

“Last round. Place your bets,” Karga announces and pushes a few more trinkets forward. Cara follows, and you pat around your pockets for something to lose. It’s all just rusted metal anyways. Only…shit, the last three games drained you. And Duma reads it on your face like you’ve got “BROKE” written all over your forehead.

“All out, huh?” She reaches down the table for her bag and drops a beskar pauldron on the table with a thud. A Mandalorian pauldron.

Cara purses her lips and balls a fist, but Greef shoots her a warning look. As if cantina brawls could make this place look worse.

“Still can’t believe you didn’t take anything that day,” Duma continues, shaking her head. “Regret it?”

“I’ll regret it,” you answer and go fish, as if a new card—the right card—could fix a life’s worth of bad luck, “when you learn how to chew beskar.” That earns you a signature “Ha!” from Karga and a cocked eyebrow from Duma. She can arch her eyebrows all she wants, but that much is also true. You don’t regret leaving the Mandalorian covert empty-handed.

You were the first on scene that day. After the smoke cleared, the remaining imps left to lick their wounds, and the Crest flew away, you went to check on Karga’s child, his pride and joy. You were met with a gruesome scene. The cantina, Nevarro’s most sacred landmark, had been reduced to its black skeleton, third-degree burns all over, gone. It sounds dramatic, but the cantina used to be the closest thing to a place of worship on this planet. God Booze was dead.

You kicked around the bar’s guts, until you found a gaping mouth on a wall, leading down, down, down into Nevarro’s entrails. Finding purgatory would’ve surprised you less than what you stumbled upon: an underground tunnel, an abandoned covert, and a sinister, unguarded pile of Mandalorian armor. Stars, it would’ve been so easy. You could’ve hoarded the spoils and stashed them away for better days. That amount of beskar could’ve bought you a one-way ticket out of this dumpster and an early retirement. But when you lifted a helmet, it stared back. It was blue and definitely not his, but Mando was all you could think of while you studied the helmet’s unique curves and creases. You heard his exasperated sighs when you got on his nerves, his moans when you’d touch him. And you just couldn’t do it. You sat back and watched as this skughole’s scavengers crept into the tunnels to pillage. Easy as that, everyone in Nevarro but you and Cara now has a beskar toy or two. Soon enough, this planet will house the wealthiest corpses in the galaxy if the siege is not lifted before reserves run out.

Karga clears his throat. “Well, ladies first. Let’s see those cards.”  

Duma ignores him. “You know,” she tells you, “I’ve more beskar than I know what to do with. I’ll trade you a vembrance for a couple of ration packs.”

“And what am I supposed to do with a Mandalorian vembrance, play dress up?”

“The cards,” Greef urges.

“You’ll be rich.”

You snort. “The rich don’t starve.”  

“Give me a break, we both know you’ve got portions to spare.”

Elbows on the table, you lean forward and closer to Duma. She sniffs weakness like a Corellian hound, and if you falter she’ll sink her fangs. “I’m not interested in your fucking loot.”

“Cause it’s stolen? You never had a problem with that before.” She mimics your move and leans closer. Karga fiddles with a coinage of calamari flan, like you’re both Canto Bight slot machines and he’s trying to decide where to put his money. “What, did you grow morals all of a sudden? Or maybe, you’re too worried of what your Mandalorian friend would think.” You flinch. She smirks. “Oh my, what would the disgraced hunter, code-breaker, cult member say—”

The tiny noise of Karga’s coinage clinking on the table is not enough to distract you from the verbal beating Duma is laying on you. But his voice—like he got the air knocked out of him—is enough to grab your attention when he murmurs, “Ask him yourself.”

Cara, Duma, and you turn to Greef Karga, who stares saucer-eyed at the window. All three of your heads move simultaneously, guided by the line of his eyesight. Outside the window, on the deserted street, stands a trooper barking orders. It’s one of those in all-black armor, the extra trigger-happy ones with a side of god complex because they think the change of color magically makes their aim less shitty. His blaster is drawn (surprise, surprise), and on the receiving end of its barrel…

Maker’s fucking mercy.

You don’t even see the blaster shot, only smoke snaking out of a hole on the shiny breastplate. The trooper plummets to the ground like his puppeteer cut off his strings: no last steps, no resistance. Now, anyone else would’ve walked away from what’s clearly worm food without a second look, but one does not become the best bounty hunter in the parsec by taking chances. A mountain of unpainted beskar looms over the corpse and kicks the blaster off the imp’s limp hand. The Mandalorian sheathes his own weapon—that blaster you’ve tweaked and polished so many times you know it as the palm of your hand—and scans the perimeter for danger.

You don’t tell your legs to move, but they don’t need the command. You find yourself trailing behind Cara, Duma, and Greef, rushing for the door. Outside, all four of you stumble and stop on your tracks to blink stupidly at the Mandalorian, the way children stare wide-eyed at soldiers on military parades. But this warrior stands grander than any Republic or Imperial officer you’ve ever seen. He’s clad head to toe in silver beskar—except for one armorless thigh that makes his other leg look even bulkier. His old armor, the one you used to shine and buff, is gone. This one you’ve only seen from afar, on that day he crashed the imps’ safehouse, and later when the battle broke out. You know it’s him, but in this new getup it’s easy to doubt. Maybe he’s a stranger. Maybe he won’t recognize you.

The Mandalorian studies each of you one by one, his hand near the blaster in case he spots any enemy faces. The hand twitches when he sees Duma—she doesn’t have the cleanest reputation around here—but she’s shocked and unarmed, so his arm relaxes. To Greef and Cara he gives short nods that they return.

And then you. He actually takes a step back when he spots you, like you pushed him square on the chest. The helmet lingers on you and tilts, shamelessly rakes over every feature like he’s memorizing you. You hold your breath. It reminds you of the day you met, that weight on your chest from knowing you’ve been seen. That’s how you know it really is Mando: Whenever he stares at you, you feel it in your bones.

You realize the moment’s dragged out for too long when Karga clears his throat. The spell breaks.

You and Mando look bashfully away from each other. You squint up at the clouds, your hands stiff on your waist in a forced, generic, looks like rain! pose. He turns to his boss (ex-boss? enemy? You never asked for an update on Mando’s most recent status in the Guild) and mutters a short, “Karga.” To Cara he’s warmer, offers a comradely clasp of hands and a pat on the shoulder. “Good to see you again.”

“You too,” Cara drawls, as she stares suspiciously between you and Mando. You squint harder at the clouds. “Didn’t expect you back during a siege, though.”

“I have to…” he spies a furtive glance at Duma and lowers his voice, “I’ve something to do here.”

Duma rolls her eyes and clasps her bag across her chest. “Don’t worry, Mando. I’ll leave you girls to catch up on the hot goss.” She strides into the cantina (probably to bag the bets, the asshole), and goes back outside.

She points at the window of a crumbling building. “Careful with snitches.”

You glance back to the window. Nothing. Jerk. Duma’s not above a made you look moment, apparently. You turn back to her but she’s already disappearing into an alley.

Cara waits until she’s gone to grab the Mandalorian by the arm. “Mando, where’s the…” she glances at you and hesitates. You fold your arms and raise your eyebrows at the veteran. If she expects you to leave graciously like Duma she’s got another thing coming. You’re actually very, very interested on the Mandalorian’s hot goss. Especially it comes with an explanation as to why he left you stranded here. Even though he doesn’t owe you one. Technically. “Y’know,” she finally says and drops her hand. “The asset.”

“On the ship. I need to get back.”

“You, my friend, need to lay low,” Greef says with a raised index. “Every imp in Nevarro will be looking for you. Maker—” he spreads his arms “—they already are! And someone must have heard the blaster shot. You have ten minutes or so until an Imperial squadron gets here. The, uh, asset will be fine.”

“The asset,” Cara exclaims, “is a ch—is…is delicate. He can’t just leave it on the Crest!”

Mando interrupts their game of taboo. “Cara,” he starts, “you go to the ship and check on…the asset. Please. I landed where I did last time. I…I’ll lay low in the covert.”

“About that,” Greef mumbles. He looks at Cara for support, but she steps back and raises both hands: You say it. Greef sighs. “They…they found the tunnels, Mando.”

The helmet crooks slowly to study Karga.  “Who’s they?”  

“Everyone. Half of Nevarro is living down there, you…you can’t go back.”

Silence.

You imagine all four of you go through the same checklist: Even if Cara didn’t already have a top-secret assignment with whatever the asset is, she doesn’t have a place of her own yet. Every week, she crashes on one of her sweethearts’ couches. On their beds, more likely. There’s no way Karga is letting him near his house, not after what happened at the cantina. That leaves…

“Stay with me,” you blurt before you can really think it through.

≈

The cramped storage room you call a home sits a story above your store. It’s four walls and only the essentials: a bed, an armchair, a table, a stove, and the only detached room is the refresher. It’s enough for you. But the Mandalorian looks like he squeezed into a dollhouse when you usher him inside and close the door behind you. He stands in the middle of the room, all fighter’s bulk and grandiose armor, like he’s afraid he’ll break something if he moves. As if he’s never been here before, which couldn’t be further from the truth. The apartment may be small, but it’s so filled with memories you could turn it into a museum of your dirty escapades with him. And if you look to your right, you’ll see the armchair where he sat while I went down on him on a stormy night.  

“So,” you say and lean against the front door, “business or pleasure?”

He moves to stand to the side of the window opposite the front door and his glove moves the old washed out curtain to the side to peer into the street. The sun is setting, and the last streaks of light paint the beskar with warped yellow-orange streaks that stay as still as an undisturbed pond. So this is how he wants the evening to go: quietly and with a reasonable amount of distance between you. Disappointment knots in your stomach.

“Business.”  

You open your mouth to cut into the silence, but you’re all out of words. Maybe you’ve lost your touch. It used to be so easy to tease him, but now…a heaviness seems to weigh down on his shoulders, some heightened sense of duty. But also determination: He stands taller now, prouder, like he woke up one day and knew exactly what he needed to do and why. Whatever that purpose is, you’re pretty sure it doesn’t involve you. You’re a detour, and not even the fun kind, judging by the space between you. Maker, this man used to pounce on you. Has the siege really battered you up that much?

“Been busy?” The sudden question startles you. He’s never been one to break the ice, that was usually your job.  

“Sure.” Nope, not at all. “Store and all.” You closed the store three months ago. Turns out nobody buys equipment for their ships when they can’t fly past the atmosphere. “Plus, somebody needs to keep Karga distracted from his mourning. You owe him a cantina.”

“He told I did that?”

“Just a guess.” You move a couple of steps forward, like you’re approaching a nervous lothcat. When he doesn’t move away, you sit on the armchair, a little closer to him. “You like that flamethrower too much.”

“That what you four were doing in there?” The helmet moves to the side so he can spy deeper down the street. Always careful. “Assessing my damage?”

“No, just sabacc. Different kind of damage.” He’s making small talk. The Mandalorian, whom you’ve overheard have conversations solely based on grunts and sighs, is chatting with you. He’s not just answering out of politeness, he’s prompting you to go on, to keep running your mouth. That’s something he said once between thrusts, perched over you right on this floor: Keep running your mouth, see what happens. The memory warms your neck. Maker, not the point. The point is, before, he always said you had a smart mouth. Sometimes he’d chastise you for it, other times he’d encourage it. And you used to have the suspicion (or, let’s face it: fantasy) that he actually liked it. That somewhere hidden, beyond his pride and honor’s jurisdiction, he enjoyed the teasing and the banter, the challenge of having to deal with you. Better yet: More than once it crossed your mind that he got off on it, too. It’s been a long time, but some of that might remain. Maybe you’ll take his advice: keep running your mouth, see what happens.

You sit straighter, arch your back a bit just in case he’s watching. “You interrupted a round with your little stunt.”

“Yeah?” The helmet doesn’t move, but his hand runs up the curtain, considering. “Sorry. I bet you were winning.”

That makes you smile. It’s a dig at you. Far and wide across Nevarro, your uncanny ability to lose every single game of sabacc you play baffles locals and foragers alike. Yes, you know you suck, but the game amuses you anyways. You like the trash talk, the double-guessing, the bluff-calling. So much so that you forget to actually play. But what’s important is he’s teasing you, and that’s more than charted territory with him, a match you have a shot at winning. Okay. Game on.

“I was, actually.”

He huffs. “Don’t believe you.”

“Then I don’t believe you’re here on business.” Pause for effect. You can almost see a question mark form in a cloud above the helmet. You lean forward and lick your lips, lower your voice. “I think you missed me.”

You’re used to the helmet’s features remaining impassive, so you don’t look for clues on there anymore. Mando’s hands are more telling. You want to believe you actually see his fingers twitch and clutch the curtain a little tighter, that he takes too long to answer. That’s what trying to read him is all about—blind-guessing and wishful thinking.

“Don’t know about that. Six months and two weeks without your cons, I’m almost rich.”

Down to the week, huh? “Okay, if you want to make it about money we’ll bet on it. Twenty credits says you missed me.”

“Last time I was here you weren’t a compulsive gambler. Store’s doing that bad?”

“Last time you were here,” you coo, “there was a lot less talking involved.” You stare into the visor, and pray he can’t see the desperate hope in your eyes.

Your prayers are answered. In a way. Mando ignores you, doesn’t even look at you.  You hear your clumsy attempt at seduction buzz around him like a one-winged bee, crash into the unmoving, unmoved Mandalorian, and fall to the floor in a pointed-lined spiral. You’re so embarrassed you want to step on it. Well, that settles it. Six months is apparently enough for a Mandalorian to lose interest.

“And store’s doing fine,” you lie to try and sway the conversation away from that lame innuendo that missed its mark. He really just wants to talk, then. No big deal. It’s fine. “Nobody gambles for money anyways.”

“Then why?”

You shrug. “Why do you hunt?” He’s never told you, but you saw him chase down a bounty once. He was ruthless, sweating adrenaline and with far too much stamina to only be chasing a bag of credits. “For the risk. The thrill.”

He lets your words float for a second. “You get a thrill out of losing?”

You roll your eyes. “I only lose cause everybody knows my bluff.” That is, except you. “You need to know someone to know their bluff. Greef and the others already know me too well. You, on the other hand.” You smile. “If you and I played, I’d get to keep so much of your stuff you’d think I’m half Jawa.”

And, only then, he seems to tense. That stupid throwaway line is what makes his spine grow visibly rigid and his hand drop from the curtain to his belt, where the leather of his glove creaks with how tightly he clutches the buckle. White and blue streetlights that reflect on his armor glide around like it’s water instead of beskar, and they’re your only indication that he’s shifted slightly. Slowly, so slowly you expect his neck to creak like a door, the Mandalorian turns away from the window to look at you. He holds there quietly, and you feel ants running down your back…stars, you’re nervous. For the first time in a while, he makes you genuinely anxious.

“You’re saying I don’t know you?” he rasps under the helmet. No, not really, but if it gets a reaction out of him…

“All I’m saying,” you start, summoning all your strength to keep your voice from faltering, “is you’ve been gone too long.” You try to make it sound a bit playful, but the words come out tasting bitter when you remember the sharp little edge that’s been digging on your side. He left you here, it whispers, he left you here and didn’t bother looking back. But a heavy boot suddenly drops forward and you’re forced to stop nursing your grudge to try and predict what Mando’s next move will be.

With every step he takes, you’re instinctively swallowed deeper into your armchair, until he’s looming over you. Stars above, the sheer size of him is enough to block out most of the artificial light coming in, and you’re left to squint in the blue twilight. Maker, you don’t remember him this big, this intimidating. Five months ago you would’ve smirked and opened your legs wide. C’mon, I don’t bite unless you ask, you would’ve teased, but now…now you think maybe you are the one who doesn’t know him anymore.

But some things never change, and having him so near still makes your thighs press together. If anything, this new foreignness, the inherent threat of a bounty hunter in your home that never quite poked the right nerve before now pulls on your most sensitive areas. It propels your heartbeat on a sprint. His arm moves, and—oh, you want him to touch you.

Visor trained on you, Mando points to the floor instead. “You hide your credits here.” To illustrate (or just to rub it in that he knows) his boot presses down on the loose tile and shifts from side to side. The sharp sound it makes irritates you less than knowing he found the fox clever hiding spot you used to pat yourself on the back for. “You don’t keep them in the store because it’s too easy to break into. The security panel downstairs is broken, but the one up here works fine.”

You can almost hear his proud smirk under the helmet. There’s a reserved side to him, sure, but bastard can be arrogant when he wants to. And no, you have no idea how he found the spot, but you’re not about to admit it.

“Congrats, boy scout. You can spot a busted panel and you have flat feet. Want a badge?” Your irritation brings back some of your old snark, but you still flinch when he moves closer and his legs brush against your knees.

“You also keep expensive parts inside the stuffing of this—” he takes a tiny step forward and frames  your knees with his legs “—armchair.”  Your blood freezes at his words, but it abruptly runs hot as the city’s lava river when you realize how close he stands now. His legs press against the armchair and there’s nowhere to go. You’re cornered.

A leather glove moves close and you hold your breath, before you realize he’s only toying with the tips of your hair. But his fingers dig deeper, tangle on thicker strands and, without warning, give a short but firm tug. It’s a tiny pull, but maker’s mercy, you feel your core pulse. And then, before you can regain some lucidity, his fingers dip lower, where the tips trace a slow line down your nape. He draws featherlight circles on that spot between your neck and your shoulder that he knows makes your toes curl, and—stars, it’s just been too long—you whimper.

“Still so sensitive here,” he whispers.  

Once, this shielded man knew his way around your body like it belonged to him. You thought that part of him was lost, that he forgot, that he’d truly been gone too long. Those fears dissipate when his palm curls around the back of your neck to hold your gaze on him, while the thumb of his other hand brushes your lips. You know the drill—you open your mouth and give the orange tip some kitten licks. Mando huffs: You can do better than that. Maker, it should be a red flag, how quickly you comply. That urgent need to please him that had never, ever felt so crucial. An O forms in your lips before you can stop them, and his thumb pushes down on your tongue deep and deeper. You should play hard, make him earn it, bite him. But his finger starts to retreat and you panic—no, he can’t change his mind, not now. You seal your lips, trap him inside your mouth and suck. But his grip on the back of your neck grows beskar stiff, and he forcefully removes his finger…only to glide the spit over your lips. Just like that first time.

The visor looms closer to your face, and you catch a ruptured sigh, the pleasured kind that these four walls know so well. If Mando wasn’t holding you down, your chest would balloon with satisfaction and you’d float. His thumb trails down your throat, wetting its path and no doubt feeling the vibration when you chuckle. He cocks his head to the side in a silent question.

“You owe me twenty credits,” you explain, your breath clouding the helmet’s surface. “You did miss me.”

Mando crouches lower, where his helmet brushes your nose, and gropes the tops of your thighs with those wide palms you’ve been dreaming about for weeks.

“Yeah? You like bets?” You’ve never heard his voice so coarse, scratchy like week-long stubble. Did he change the settings of his modulator? Or is it just rash, pent-up need? “Then thirty credits says you’re fucking soaked.” His fingers butterfly higher up your thighs, almost at the apex. Your legs jerk.

“That’s cheating,” you gasp.  

He takes one glove off and settles the covered hand on your hip, while the other disappears between your legs until—stars—he cups your core through your pants. You mewl and he hums when he feels the hot, damp fabric.

“I still win.” He presses the heel of his palm right into your clit and grinds it back and forth. Oh, if you thought you were wet before. The pressure, the friction, him—it all scalds you from head to toe like a fever, but you chase it, greedily push your hips into his palm. His fingers flatten along your slit and grope you tighter. “Gonna pay me? Doesn’t have to be credits.” He pushes viciously into you with that wide, hard palm, preening at the little gasps that escape you. Whimpering, you let your eyes fall shut and focus on something sprouting in your belly. Stars, you’re close—how the fuck are you so close already? It must be all the repressed desire, all that time. Fuck, you’re close—

The Mandalorian halts. You’re eyes flash open to see him straighten and step back, take his other glove off to stuff it snug between his belt and his hip, and remain still as a building. Still catching your breath, you study him head to toe, scanning for a sign of what went wrong. He’s clutching his belt, his stance is too smug. This isn’t him fighting temptation, he’s toying with you. Maker help him, you’re going to kill him. Some corner in your brain reasons that it’s kinda fair, as payback for all the times you messed with him. But in the forefront of your mind pulses the climax he just denied you, cast aside and angry.

Before you know what you’re doing, you push yourself off the armchair. “You—”

Mando beats you to it. A hand on your shoulder and a vembrance across your chest, he lunges forward and slams your back against a wall. He hovers over you, tightly pressed against your body. A fleshy, hard bulge covered by his pants throbs against your belly. Of course. You forgot how much he likes it when you look like prey; how much he enjoys the hunt, whether he admits it or not. The hand on your shoulder trails down to cup your breast. You squeeze your eyes shut and let out a shaky exhale.

“You need it bad,” he breathes as his fingers massage your chest. The movement shifts the fabric of your tunic, brushing it against your nipple. You roll your hips to try and stimulate him, to show you’re not the only one worked up. His erection twitches and you smile.  

“You—mmm—you’re projecting.” You grind again to prove your point, but he catches on to what you’re implying and retaliates by shoving his hand inside your cleavage. Stars, you have to punch down the moan surges up your throat when he pinches your nipple.

“You missed this,” Mando hisses, and whether he’s trying to convince you or himself, you don’t know. What you do know is he’s plotting to settle this stupid inkling of a bet in his favor. He wants you to admit you missed him so he doesn’t have to. You know, because it’s exactly what you are trying to do.

You sneak your hand down his torso, aiming for the hem of his pants—but before you can get even with him, he crushes his hips against yours and traps your palm between them. And he’s not done—he wedges his thigh between your legs and rubs it up and down, drags your clit just right. Your mouth gapes in a silent moan as white hot pleasure lights up your spine. You want to get away from it but, maker, his forearm is still stiff against your chest. Even when you grab the vembrance with your free hand it doesn’t budge. You’re trapped between him and the wall.

“Can take care of m-myself just fine,” you croak as a last attempt to hold on to your dignity. “At least when I’m alone I don’t have to fake any orgasms.”

Yeah, it’s a low blow. A dirty fucking lie too, but desperate times call for desperate measures and all. Good news is it gets you a reaction—he immediately stops moving, as if your words punched him off balance. Bad news is you hit a nerve—his breathing becomes harsh like a bull’s, so much so that you expect clouds of smoke to come out from under the helmet. The Mandalorian creeps closer to your face and his forearm digs deeper into your chest. There’s a promise of danger in the dark visor that makes your pulse race, and a primitive instinct blasts emergency sirens. Maker, this won’t end well for you.

Just as you’re about to backtrack and whisper you didn’t mean it, Mando lets go of you—only for a split second, before he grasps your shoulders and turns you around to push your front into the wall. You jerk back on instinct, but he flattens a palm between your shoulder blades and squishes you right back against it.

The helmet rests right next to your ear when Mando growls, “You expect me to believe that?” His hands drop to your hips as he replaces the pressure on your back with his chest. His body weight holds you in place, and he rocks the hard outline of his erection along your ass. “That I don’t make you cum, you little fucking—” You curl your back as much as his body allows so he can stroke himself tighter against you. He groans and kneads your cheeks, moves the flesh in tandem with his thrusts. “I shouldn’t let you tonight, t-teach you a lesson.”  

The mere suggestion feels devastating enough to let a pathetic whine tumble from your lips. Before, you could’ve turned this into a game, held out a little longer just to watch him break first. But you’re too pent up, too desperate, too sick of waiting. Your fingers hook on the hem of your trousers and push them down. Mid-movement, he traps both of your wrists in one hand and keeps them pressed against your lower back, while the other one gets your pants the rest of the way down, underwear too. You barely have enough time to step out of them before his free hand reaches between the apex of your thighs. You’re sticky, leaking around his fingers, and pushing back against his crotch like you’ll drop dead if he doesn’t fuck you.

“Fucking wet, fuck…” he mutters. His fingers follow the heat and your pussy clenches around nothing. Stars, if he just moved higher, a little higher where you’re hot and soaked and throbbing for him. But he takes his sweet time, molds the inside of your thighs like clay, pulls the flesh, squishes it together, until you’re writhing against him and leaking down your leg. Your vision blurs. “Can—can I…?” He lets his index finish the sentence, teasing at the edges of your outer lips.

Even with the side of your face against the wall, you manage to nod. “Yeah,” you breathe.

Two fingers slide around your folds and you gasp. Mando moves slowly, collecting your arousal and coating his fingers. Your breath catches when the tips finally push into your entrance—only a fraction before they slide back out, so the rest of his palm can cup along your cunt and drag more slick behind it. He’s strategically avoiding your clit, though, and with both arms behind your back and at his mercy, you can’t reach for it yourself. Fuck, you…you only need to hold on a bit more, he’ll get bored of his game soon enough. That’s it, just a little longer. You waited six months, no way he’s making you beg after a few minutes of teasing.

The Mandalorian eventually pulls his fingers away from your thighs and curses under his breath. You hear the familiar rustling of fabric and a divine zip that fills your eyes with tears of relief. Fucking finally. You brace yourself and relax your pelvic floor in preparation, but it’s barely necessary—you’re so ready for it. Your cunt is open and weeping, he can just slide it in. All this time, with nothing substantial inside you, your lower muscles pump and twist painfully with demanding want. Even with his size and in this position, you’re so turned on he might even be able to bottom out. Fuck, he doesn’t have to move much, a few good pumps and he’ll have you cumming, easy. Stars, what’s taking so damn long—

A modulated, battered moan and a wet noise make you turn your head over your shoulder and look for the source. The low light makes it difficult to make out shapes, but there’s no mistaking what you find below you. Hand wrapped solid around his cock, Mando is jerking himself off. With your cum as lubricant. While he treats you like a piece of furniture he’s only gripping for support. A chemical cocktail of lust mixed with fury spikes your blood.

“Is…wh-what are…what the fuck do you think y-you’re…”

“Say it,” he spits between his teeth, “say you f-fucking need me.”

No, no fucking way. As much as the words burn on your tongue and your clit tugs and begs, you’re not saying it. He left, not you. You waited for him. You turn your head as far back as your neck allows without snapping a ligament and look straight into the visor. And pointedly curl your lips inside your mouth, sealed.

Your act of rebellion lasts a good ten seconds.

“You’re so fucking difficult,” he snarls. He stops tugging on his cock, and for a moment you hope he might indulge you, push into you and stop the masochist torment you’ve talked yourselves into. But when it comes to Mando and you, it’s never that easy. Still not releasing your wrists, he grabs the base of his cock, glistening with your stolen juices, and rubs it up and down the swell of your uncovered ass. You gasp, let your lips part and your gaze fall to where he’s rubbing up against you and refusing to push inside.  

He's not going to last long. Swollen and a strangled purple, the head of his cock dribbles warm precum and smears it on your lower back. The veins on his length throb against your ass, and stars, they’d feel so much better inside you. The Mandalorian’s grunts and groans ring more frustrated than lost in pleasure; it’s not enough for him either. He’s torturing you and himself just to prove a point, while you refuse to speak the magic words just to keep your pride. Desperate tears threaten to spill, but you shut your eyes to push them back. Either of you could put an end to it, right now. Maker, it’s on the tip of your tongue: I need you. Spit it out, end it. I need you, Mando, I need you, do whatever you want with me. It doesn’t matter that you abandoned me in this shithole, that you discarded me like faulty equipment, that you didn’t even have the decency to tell me—

The thrusting stops. When you open your eyes, you find the visor fixed on you, cocked slightly to the side, like there’s writing on your face. Mando’s grip on your wrist softens, his frustrated panting slows. Maybe he sees the unshed tears, or maybe your face really is that transparent, because he takes pity on you. Gentle palms on your shoulders, he turns you around to face him.

Night has fallen. Fragments of fluorescent light pour inside through your worn out curtains and give the helmet a fuzzy silver halo. The rest of the armor is shiny black, smudges of light here and there. His head moves around the features of your face, one by one, taking its time. Showdown’s over. He’s not playing a game anymore, not trying to get you to break, he’s just…studying you. Staring his fill of you farewell-style, even though he just came back. It hits you that you don’t know how long he’s staying this time. You open your mouth to ask, but stop yourself in time. If he leaves, he leaves. He doesn’t owe you any explanations.

But when he curls an arm around your waist and holds you against the wall and his cold breastplate, it doesn’t feel like goodbye. It feels like old times—pre-siege, pre-battle, pre-everything—when he confidently grabs your left thigh, sinks his fingers into the plump flesh, and hooks it on his lower back. You drape your arms around his shoulders and hold him closer. You’ve always liked the bulk of him against you, it makes everything feel more real. Buried on the crook of your neck, you hear him sigh when he lets go of your thigh and blindly searches your cunt. With your leg around his back you’re completely open for him, so it takes him no time to find your bud. He presses against it and rubs it in slow but tight circles that make your legs cramp.

You push down on him, demanding more. He groans and complies, inserts one finger and continues rubbing on your clit with his thumb. Maker, this has no right to be so good. He’s doing pretty much the same you’ve done to yourself these past months, but with Mando there are never any ghost sensations, no what ifs. It’s all here and now, and you swear you feel the pleasure of his fingers picking up speed in every corner of your body. He has you moaning and rocking your hips, dripping down his hand, and when he starts rubbing you harder and tighter, you finally whine a tiny, “Please.”

The Mandalorian doesn’t need to ask what you want, but he moves his helmet to look at you square in the face, check if you mean it. You stare droopy-eyed into the visor and nod: yesyesyesyes. Mando groans and grips you tighter. Maker, he’s right, you need it—need the bruises, need his cock, need all of him.

“Fuck,” he breathes. His hand leaves you to grab his cock and guide it to your entrance. He moves it around your lips and brushes his tip against your clit as he looks for your hole in the dark. It doesn’t take long for the head to poke right outside where it needs to go. “Fuck, I don’t—don’t think I can hold back, don’t want to hurt you—”

“Stars, please,” you whine, “I want it rough.” You want it more than rough. After six months, you want it fucking depraved, but neither of you is going to last long enough to make it elaborate. Maker, you don’t care. Right now, you don’t care for risky positions or clever techniques, you want him.

He groans and pushes inside—only the head, still testing, but your walls immediately grip him tightly to hinder any attempts to move away. That’s not what you should’ve been worried about. Fingers tight around your waist, Mando pulls you down as he pushes up. Stars. The brutal thrust reaches the end of you and then some more. Fuckfuckfuck. The dull bam of your skull hitting the wall is suddenly drowned by a slicker, filthier sound coming from between your legs. His length begins to pull out, your pussy complains the whole way, and you can almost hear the Mandalorian gritting his teeth through the sweet torture of feeling you squeeze around him…and thrust back up—harder. He likes the pace and sticks to it—fast, rough, deep, repeat—while you make sounds like you’re choking on air. Stars, it has been long. Long enough to partially forget his size, his fucking girth, currently filling you to the brim and punching high little sounds from your throat.

“Mmmando,” you sob.

Mando groans in response, snakes a hand down to your clit and rubs with the same wild abandon as his pounding. Maker, your memory was never this fucking good. No matter how many details you recalled, there’s nothing compared to the real, human meat of his cock pulsing urgently inside you, hitting your cervix, making you whine. Nothing like his fingers around your waist, or knowing there’ll be bruises tomorrow. The pleasure has teeth, carries a painful bite, but it’s exactly what you need. That tangible grit in his thrusts and his fingers is the missing piece. Your muscles start cramping, you pull him tighter against you—Maker, right there, you can feel it. It reaches your head and makes you dizzy, sheds light on some hidden, shameful words.

“Mando, I…”

“I—fuck—I n-needed this,” he grunts and brings his hand down to feel where his cock is inching out of you, like he has to double check it’s actually happening. Thrust. “Used—used to d-dream about you.” Thrust. Three fingers now push into your clit and draw frantic shapes. You clench your jaw, feel the hot tide in your belly rise faster. Thrust. “Wake up so f-fucking hard—cum in my pants.” Thrust—thrust—thrust.

Maybe it’s his words, maybe the rough pace, but something holds a flame to the dynamite building inside you and it explodes. Maker, your head’s going to burst. You moan long and deep into the spot Mando’s ear might be. Your legs shake, your arms cramp. Months’ worth of frustration gush hot and wet around him, as he babbles encouragement: There you go, just like that, make it fucking good. Your walls are still fluttering, your ears are still ringing, you haven’t even ridden out the last of your climax when his hips pick up the pace.

“Let me—let me cum inside,” the warrior pants, “let me f-fill this cunt…I—I haven’t since—fuck, I didn’t—”

“Yes,” you gasp, “yes, please, Mando, cum, cum inside—”

There’s no space left between you, but Mando finds a way to squish you tighter against him as he pounds into you for a few last moments, until you hear a strangled grunt, and a half-forgotten warmth pools inside you. The extra lubrication drives his last thrust as deep as your body allows. A few more lazy thrusts inside you, short and stunted as you take his load inside you, before he stops. A warm string trails down your leg, and—stars, he’s leaking out. How much did he cum that it didn’t fit inside you?  Fuck.

You take turns panting, whimpering, listening to each other’s heartbeats slow to a semi-normal pace. The Mandalorian moves away from the crook of your neck to meet your glossy eyes. He doesn’t say anything, but you think will. You can almost hear his mouth opening, words boiling and rising in bubbles up his throat—

Zium!

It’s your imagination. It’s your ears ringing from that orgasm, your mind making stuff up. But. You could swear you saw a red flash glade right past your cheek. And from the way Mando’s helmet cocks to the side, you know he saw it too. You turn your heads in unison, to see smoke coming out of a hole a breath away from your ear. It takes both of you too long to put two and two together, and—before he can pull out—more of those red flashes are raining down on you.

…………

Edit: Chapter 2 let’s goooooooo

Taglist: @rosetophighlander​ @hellomothermoon @newyorksins​ @leo-moon​ @benedrylcumbersnatch

[in-tua-deep]

au where five found out about vanya's powers in the apocalypse? Like maybe he found Reggie's book or he saw the eyes of vanya's corpse?

oh man like. that would be interesting to be sure, if Five managed to find Reginald’s book in the apocalypse

(He doesn’t read it at first, not for a few months after he finds it. He opened to the page that detailed Reginald’s experiments with how long Deigo could hold his breath in clinical unfeeling words and has to put it away while he breathed - not too deeply though, he didn’t want to breathe in more ash than necessary)

But he eventually does. He sits Dolores up and rages and vents to her, cursing Reginald’s name with every new sordid detail, every new terrible sin he now knows to hurl at Reginald’s feet. He reads no great loss under his section and he’s too dehydrated to weep but something breaks inside his chest nevertheless

(He’d never thought that dad loved them, not really. He might have hoped, back when he was little but he knew better now. He was thirteen, old enough to know better. But he’d at least thought that dad found them useful. 

Five had tried to hard, trained so much, been so adaptable. Even then he was no great loss.)

Five finds out from Reginald’s book about Ben’s death. Cold words that describe the way his brother died. Reginald seemed to care more about Ben’s death than Five’s presumed death, but that could be becuase Ben’s power was always bigger than Five’s. More violent. More efficient. Of course Ben was a greater loss, Five’s power wasn’t even inherently useful for fighting.

(Klaus’s power wasn’t useful for fighting either. Reading Dad’s dismissive words calling Klaus a failure makes him bristle. Reading about Reginald locking Klaus away in the mausoleum for days make Five want to hurl the book against the wall.)

Finding out about Vanya is - it’s weird. Vanya was always so ordinary. He loved her of course, for fucks sake he was the only one who cared to interact with her half the time. He loves all of his siblings but he has no illusions about how casually cruel they could be to one another.

But he reads about her powers and clenches his fists and wonders what Reginald would have done if Five had stayed, if Five had kept on his path of rebellion. Would Reginald have drugged him, too?

(Reginald had the power to take their powers away. Five wonders what Klaus thought when he found out, if he had cursed and sworn and raged at the man who watched his son suffer and turn to drugs to deal with seeing things no child should ever see. Reginald had the power to help, and he tortured Klaus instead.)

Because - of course Five assumes that they know. He reads Vanya’s books as well when he comes across it, tucking it into his wagon. He wonders when the truth came out, because the rage that drips from those pages is very real. Vanya doesn’t mention her powers in the book of course, but she would have been what, in her 20s when she wrote it? 

Vanya said in her book that she left home at 18, which means she’s had years to get the drugs out of her system and discover what their father had taken from her. Did she think that they knew? That they had kept it from her? Is that why the pages of her book drip with bone deep hurt, making Five’s fingers shake with the ache of them

(Or it could be the hunger, a now constant companion)

Five keeps both books close, even though he wants to vandilize Reginald’s book half the time. It’s strange to see the insight on them and their powers from the perspective of a scientist, odd to see the written results of the torture they went though

(He almost rips the page on the effects of electricity on his warping powers out on principle, but he just ends up curled around Dolores as he trembles involuntarily at the memories)

Five has so few belongings when he is recruited to the Commission, or at least has very few personal ones. He leaves Dolores behind in the apocalypse with a heavy heart but she’s too big to take with him. Too big to hide.

(Five always learned to only take what you can hide, because what you can’t hide will always be used against you.)

He tucks Reginald’s notebook in the waistband on his pants, the hard edges against his back a constant almost reassuring pressure. Vanya’s book gets pushed into one of his deep pockets. The glass eye gets shoved into his sock the same way he used to hide scavenged bills and quarters he would then place beneath the floorboards of his room

(He wonders absently if his money stash was ever found, but it doesn’t really matter now does it?)

He goes through the Commission with the knowledge that he has a bomb hidden away. As much as he keeps the notebook around out of a sense of sentiment he knows he doesn’t want it to fall into the hands of the commission, doesn’t want them to have this dissection of his powers on hand

(he has so little of his siblings left, just the bitter words of Reginald and Vanya both - the irony is that no matter how much Vanya extolled being excluded she had constantly been by Reginald’s side to write down observations, listening to his words, by his side more than any of them. sometimes he reads Vanya’s vicious words and hears the echo of their father in them. It makes sense. He still hates it, just a little bit)

He writes his equations into Vanya’s book instead of Reginald’s. He doesn’t like to read the red book, only opens it to look at the photos included so that he won’t forget what his siblings look like, tries to ignore the words that detail exactly how much force it takes to pop Luther’s bones out of his oh-so-durable joints

He solves them one day, or at least comes close. Closer than he ever had before, and he figures why not? Time for another little experiment. Who knows? Maybe he’ll add this one to dad’s book.

He pushes, and pushes, and then he falls and he’s in a courtyard he hasn’t seen in decades staring at people he hasn’t spoken to in just as long. He looks at them all with wide eyes

(He looks at Allison and hears his father’s clipped tone stating how Allison in improving at overriding survival instincts, he looks at Luther and hears Vanya’s childish voice accusing him of caring more about being a hero than anything else in his life, including his family, he looks at Klaus and sees a face covered in ash and blood with unseeing eyes)

He looks down at himself and sees smaller hands with smoother skin, absent of the burn marks from the variety of fires he’d set in the apocalypse, absent of the crooked knuckles from when he’d crushed two fingers in some rubble trying to get to a can of food, absent of the cracked and brittle nails from malnutrition and food issues

“Shit.” He says, with feeling.

He can feels the press of the glass eye against his leg, the solid weight of Vanya’s book in his pocket, the edges of Reginald’s notebook digging into his skin as he hauls himself off the ground and into a standing position.

They have a family meeting in the kitchen.

Sort of. Five flits about, snagging bread and peanut butter and marshmallow fluff from the cupboard to make himself a sandwich, trying to avoid looking too desperately eager. He hasn’t had his favorite food in so long that the anticipation is actually insane.

“What’s the date?” Five asks, and learns that he doesn’t actually have all that long until the end of the world. But hey, it’s doable. Probably. Unless the reason the world ended was like, political nuclear war or something? But there would probably be survivors of that somewhere, so it was more likely something bigger scale.

(It has to be something he can stop, or this was all for nothing. He refuses to believe he doesn’t have a chance.)

“Cool, so like, the world is ending.” Five says, because why the fuck not? He has all his siblings in one room (except Ben, he has failed Ben, will always have failed Ben because he’s a coward who couldn’t return to a time when Reginald Hargreeves was alive) and he has Reginald and Vanya’s words pressed into his brain, “We have eight-ish days to fix that.”

“Five, what the hell are you talking about?” Luther demands.

Five waves his hand, “Dad sucked, I time-travelled, the end is nigh. I figured even you could grasp that.”

(His eyes ghost over Luther, skittering about the room. He can’t look at Luther’s body without remembering the cruel diagrams pain stakingly inked into the book as Reginald grumbled about failed experiments.)

“You went to the future?” Diego says, voice full of doubt that make his voice harsh. It’s so much deeper than when Five left, no more of the cracks of puberty.

“No shit.” Five says, and he’s so tired. “I was in that hellscape for forty-five years.”

“Forty-five years?” Diego squawks, as though he’s personally offended.

“That would make you... fifty-eight?” Luther’s voice also has doubt in it, and Five can’t really blame him looking at his squishy little barely teenage body.

“Dad was right,” Five manages to get out without gritting his teeth, “Time travel is a crapshoot and sometimes your body does fun and wacky things on you, blah blah blah trees and acorns.”

“Prove you’re from the future!” Klaus demands, eyes bright as he leans across the table, “What’re the lotto numbers, baby brother?”

“I think they’re ‘fuck you the world had already ended by the time I ended up stuck there,’ Klaus.” Five says, mock thoughtfully before tearing off a chunk of his sandwich.

It tastes like ash and peanut butter. Only Five’s genuine trauma regarding food waste and the fact that most things tasted like ash in the apocalypse have him still chewing his food and swallowing.

“Rude.” Klaus says, making a ‘blat’ noise in disappointment.

“Dad’s rich as fuck, wasn’t him kicking the bucket essentially like winning the lottery?” Five points out, and this time it is Luther squawking at him in disapproval.

“Don’t talk about Dad like that!” He demands, and Five has some more uncharitable thoughts about the way Luther’s arms flex just a little unnaturally underneath that big trenchcoat.

“I like this version of Five better.” Klaus declares, looking like Christmas has come early.

“Dad was murdered and you guys don’t even care.” Luther spits out, looking very offended.

“You were murdered and I care very much about that.” Five retaliates, and the entire kitchen goes quiet.

“Can you elaborate a little, Five?” Allison says, ever the diplomat.

(That’s a lie. Allison started more fights than Diego, probably. She just got caught way less often.)

“Well. I mean, I dunno if murdered is the right word considering everyone was dead. You might have just been collateral damage, who knows? Does murder imply intent?”

“Everyone was dead?” Vanya says, voice very quiet.

Five shrugs, then nods, then shrugs again. He doesn’t like thinking about it. “Yeah, but that’s not going to happen this time.”

“I don’t have time for this nonsense.” Luther mutters, and Five valiantly tries to ignore him. 

“Five, are you - are you sure you’re alright?” Vanya’s voice wobbles and she looks like she wants to reach out and hold him or something ridiculous like that. She looks at him with big sad brown eyes, “Dad did say that time travel could... mess with you a little.”

Allison nods and oh, Five does not have time for this bullshit. 

“I have proof.” He says, and he reaches back and pulls out Reginald’s red notebook and slams it onto the table.

“Is that Dad’s - ” Luther cuts himself off, looking at the notebook with wide eyes.

It is very clearly beaten up to hell and back. Ash has stained the edges of the pages grey and there may or may not be a gouge across the front from a near miss with a bullet while working at the commission. It is a book that has clearly been through hell.

Five also dig’s Vanya’s equally beaten up book from his pocket to dump on the table as well, equally stained with ash and barely held together after being read over and over again for decades, including being used as a notebook in the final years.

(Vanya lets out a little gasp, hand flying up to her mouth with the knowledge that at least one of her siblings read her book. Certainly not the one she thought it would be.)

Five reaches into his sock to pull out the glass eye triumphantly, setting it down on his small stack of treasures.

“What the fuck?” Diego is the one to ask.

“If I time travelled from that day in 2002 to right now, how the fuck would I have Vanya’s book?” Five says triumphantly, “It came out in 2015.”

“Why do you have an eye?” Allison sounds slightly horrified.

“It’s the key to figuring out who caused the apocalypse.” Five says, turning it over in his hands, “It’s gotta have something to do with it at least.”

“Why does he have Dad’s notebook?” Luther demands, sounding equally outraged.

“Found it.” Five shrugs, like the little scavenger he is.

(Emphasis on little. His suit still almost fits, and reading the numbers in Reginald’s notebook versus seeing how fucking tall all his siblings got in person is frankly unfair.)

“Oh my god, okay.” Allison says, throwing her hands up in the air like they’re all nuisances. It’s a familiar Allison look, and Five actually feels a little soothed by the memory. “So the world is ending, Five is back from the dead, and our only clue is a goddamn eye?”

“I was never dead.” Five points out, “But basically, yeah.”

“I don’t have time for this, I have to get back to my daughter.” Allison says, shaking her head.

“I mean if you want Claire to live I would think stopping the apocalypse would kind of be a priority.” 

This draw Allison to a halt from where she’d been gathering herself to leave, “You... know her name?”

Five makes the executive decision to not mention the torn out magazine cover featuring his sister and niece that is pressed between some of the pages in Reginald’s journal. “I’d like to meet her one day.”

Just like that, Allison has been won over.

“Do you think it has something to do with whoever murdered Dad?” Luther asks seriously, even if the question makes Diego groan like this is an argument they have had before.

“Who knows?” Five shrugs, “But if we’re splitting into investigation teams, I call Vanya.”

Vanya startles from where she has been sitting quietly, “Me?” She asks, eyes wide.

“Yeah.” Five nods, “I mean, with Ben gone you’re probably the team’s heaviest hitter.”

“What?” Several voices ring out in confusion.

Five blinks, a little confused himself. Unless - “Wait, did you never train your powers?”

“Five,” Vanya says slowly, like she’s explaining a simple concept to a particularly dim child, “I don’t have powers.”

This was - this was unexpected. Why did he not think of this explanation? It’s just - he has now known about Vanya’s powers for like way longer than he hasn’t. It’s almost second nature to think of Vanya as having powers by now. And she doesn’t know.

“Oh boy.” He says, picking up Reginald’s notebook, “This debriefing may take a bit longer than I first thought. Oh, and at some point we should probably cut the tracker out of my arm as well.”

“The what out of your what?”

Yeah the day doesn’t really get much better from there.

[ginanosakka]

We Were Kids

Masterlist

We’re Older Now | Next

“You’re going to make her disappear again, Bakugou!” Mina said, frustration breaking through the tone of her voice as they patrolled the streets together once again.

Ever since Y/N had made her grand appearance back into their lives, Mina and Katsuki talked more than ever. Katsuki needed help taking care of Ryu since this was obviously brand new to him so he’d ask Mina for help on how to handle him, and Mina wanted to be kept updated to make sure he didn’t screw anything up. They were both so unsure on how to help you, especially when you were so closed off about your side of the story. Being around eachother wasn’t as bad as either of them thought though, and they could thank you for making them find that out.

It was talk to Mina about Y/N or Kirishima and something about that didn’t sit right with him.

“She’s not that stupid,” Katsuki grunted in his defense. “I was trying to be fucking nice to her, she knows that.”

That was only kind of a lie, he was trying to be kinder, softer for her. That immense guilt that weighed down his chest everyday since you came back into his life only got heavier the more he chipped away at the walls you put up, because he was beginning to realize that he should have never been your hero. Every memory he had where he thought you were acting spoiled and trying to buy him like your father was, he was able to reevaluate it and see that you were genuinely naive and trying to love him. How the hell could he blame you for being spoiled when that’s how you were raised?

He did almost exactly what he did to Deku to you: project his insecurities.

“What did she say? Did she yell at you?” Mina pressed the topic.

The smile completely washed off your face, replaced with that cold expression he had been given before. Katsuki knew now that it wasn’t who you were — you weren’t cold hearted and ruthless like your father, but you were smart enough to pick up on his mannerisms and use them — but it didn’t fail to bring him back to the bigger picture.

The relationship between you two was severed, he was a thick branch on the root of your trauma, and you were strong enough to pretend it was okay, but you refused to forget.

“Yours? Don’t get ahead of yourself, Dynamight. I can build an empire from ashes, and I can easily turn this life you love so much into a personal hell. I don’t belong to anyone, and I owe nothing to anyone. You on the other hand, owe me your respect and your loyalty if you want to be in your son’s life. If anything you are mine, and from what I’ve been told, that’s not something to be proud of.”

He felt that sharp pain hit his chest again and his lungs tighten, “don’t worry about it.”

Mina rolled her eyes and threw her hands up as they walked. “Did you tell her about the press conference today? She hasn’t even considered staying at your place yet.” Katsuki stopped in his tracks as her sentence finished, his whole body frozen in step and Mina face-palmed.

“She’s totally going to kill you.”

The noise from the television playing Ryu’s favorite channel broadcasting hero events was barely audible over the sounds of him stomping and imitating noises of guns and his explosions going off. You expected that your wooden coffee table would once again have his footprints on them, and some of his toys would be scattered on the floor mimicking hurt heroes. Hopefully your couches would still be brown and without burn marks when you went back out there, but that concern was easily put to rest by the one who currently had his eyes on your son while you made them snacks in the kitchen.

You finished platting the carrots and grapes — Ryu would refuse to eat any snack if grapes weren’t included in the mix — and grabbed the two plates with varying portions of the snack you threw together before walking back out into the “war zone”. The moment you were in view with a plate Ryu was at your legs, hopping up and down in anticipation for his afternoon snack he probably desperately needed from all the constant running he did. You put his plate on the coffee table for him to sit on the floor and eat, hopefully without playing around with it, and took a few more steps to the couch where your unexpected guest sat.

“Thank, Y/N! You didn’t have to make me one too,” Kirishima grinned, flashing you all of his sharp teeth in appreciation.

You smiled softly, “it’s really no problem. You’re the only visitor I have that doesn’t cause me unwanted stress, so feel free to make yourself comfortable.”

Kirishima watched you take a seat on the floor next to your child, the one that looked nothing like you, but like the boy that broke your heart. He watched as you smiled at him eating, picking up the pieces of food he’d drop onto the tables, and running your hands through his hair and fixing it to your liking. It was so clear what your priority was — what your life centered around. It was nostalgic because he had seen that look on your face before; with Katsuki.

He couldn’t shake the realization now; you had always been a decent person. When Katsuki would talk down about you as if you were less than, it had nothing to do with who you really were, and had everything to do with the image he had projected on you. What made him feel worse is how he saw how much you loved Bakugou — not only Bakugou, but Mina too — and he still somehow believed what Katsuki was saying. He was the only one of his friends that didn’t feel right using you like that. He watched them all, Kaminari, Sero, Uraraka, and even Momo, but never voiced a single concern.

“I’m sorry.” He gasped as he tried to contain the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. He had to close his eyes and clutch his knees, but even that couldn’t stop the waterfall from pouring down his eyes. “I can’t imagine what you must have felt when. . how lonely you must have been. . “

“Red Rio-“ Kirishima cut Ryu off.

“I don’t deserve that hero name when I did something so unmanly!”

“Kirishima!” You scolded, standing up and guiding Ryu to go into the kitchen, giving him a look that told him to just stay put and you’ll speak to him later.

Going back into the living room, you shook your head at the crying man on your couch. This wasn’t something you expected from him, but then again he had more emotional awareness than any of the people involved at a young age. You couldn’t help but wonder what he uses to think of you, what Katsuki told him you were truly like when you two were alone. Seeing him cry and apologize in a fit of obvious guilt didn’t make you feel good, and the thought of it being Katsuki doing the apologizing didn’t bring you any kind of comfort either.

But why?

You took a seat next to Kirishima with your hands cupped together on your lap. “Growing up, I wanted to be just like my dad. . He was this amazing business man that was good at everything, and no one could tell him anything, you know? He made it seem like the only way to succeed was to crush someone else, to have more money than everyone else, and that shaped who I was.” You recalled, going back through your memory as best as you could the same way you did when you sat alone in a hotel room with nothing but pain and resentment.

“All of you saw me like I wanted to be seen, whether I want to admit that or not, it’s true. They did exactly what anyone would have done to me as soon as I stepped into my father’s shoes if I had stayed naive and believed that money and love were the same thing. If you think Katsuki could have done what he did in a lot better way, I agree, but if you think that I should have you all eternally in my debt like my father would have, then you still see me as the man I’ve been running from for a long time now. So. . whatever you’re apologizing for, thanks but that isn’t what I’m looking for.”

Kirishima had stopped crying midway through your life story, finding himself immersed in your point of view. It was absolutely flooring that you weren’t looking for revenge or even apology. Especially from Katsuki after hearing what he had told you all those years ago. He couldn’t help but wonder if you were the girl he knew that only wore name brand dresses and worried more about why her mother bought her ugly shoes than the world around her — the answer was both yes and no.

You were that girl, but now you weren’t mirroring someone else’s views.

His heartbeat picked up and he felt his cheeks grow red as he stared at you. It was wrong how his entire body seemed to steam up when you were sitting there in your lounge wear that wasn’t even close to you looking done-up. You were the mother of his best friend’s kid, it was so much more than just being off limits.

Kirishima turned away from you when you looked at him, and you chuckled. “Don’t start getting all sappy on me now. I may not want to bury Bakugou and Ashido like you guys think, but I still don’t trust their friendship, and certainly not a relationship with the blonde bombshell.”

Suddenly, Kirishima remembered why he came here in the first place, and the whole reason Mina had given him your address. He whipped his head to the television that had been playing the entire time in the background, to see the very thing that he was meant to prepare you for. You followed his gaze in confusion, but that quickly changed to dread when you saw that explosive blonde hair and red eyes looking back at you on your TV. . along with a picture of you and Ryu.

“They are my family, and there is no story for any of you. Where they are isn’t any of your concern, and because of recent events where their lives were threatened they will be relocating to a safe location. There isn’t any need to worry, because I’ll kill anyone who tries to hurt them.” Katsuki said, and immediately you could hear the press at the meeting talking and attempting to question him, but he walked off the stage with the same strict expression he had spoken with.

“Kirishima.”

“. . . You’re really pretty.”

“How pretty will I be with my hands around your neck?”

(A/N: Big thanks to @xwackk and @misssugarless for their help <3! I hope you guys enjoy, and I really can’t show how much I really appreciate all the kindness you guys show me on this book! ❤️❤️❤️)

Taglist <3 : @fandomgirllover @cloudsgathering @that-bipolar-renegade-romantic @jazzylove @that-chick212 @bonbonthedragon @misssugarless @insomniac-nerd-posts-things @bakugous-bakahoe @pinkykookie17 @animexholic @arielting @samkysnks @simpforeveryone @damnirina @deneuves @tsumuuumiyaaaa @ladybeautiful18 @vintage-teddyxo @regalmigraine @samvmgh @iamagalaxy @officialtrashbusiness @xwackk @videogameboiwhowins @marajillana @ellasdilemma @plutoneu @saucey-kneecapzz42020 @thestarsanctuary @dewdropwifu @star-light-imagines @kritiiiii @bakugosbottombitch @the2ndl @candybabey @simply-not-the-same @sam-i-am-1025 @mes-bisous @eternallyvenus @peppytine @chaelysian @definitely-yours @oikawarc @suneaterofthebig3 @m0na-l0ver @nkb0048 @losertsukki

[flowerflamestars]

I'm in a very angry-with-the-IC-and-Rhys-in-particular mood, and since I'm just rereading Daylight I was wondering, what is going through Rhysand's mind throughout the events of Daylight? Because it's basically his entire life CRUMBLING around him and I'd love to see the mental gymnastics he does to fit it all into his "I'm the good guy, actually" narrative. Or just his general reaction.

this is a FABULOUS question, thank you!

Daylight! Rhys is, in my opinion, the closest to a canonical (pre-acosf) character representation that I go for. He's so SO fucked up, and sublimating and burying all that trauma has, of course, failed, and it's all manifesting, in all these different directions.

To understand the level on which Rhys is losing his shit, it's important to go back to the very beginning: Rhysand, to Rhysand, is always, always the hero of the story. The down on his luck knight with truth in his heart. The struggling, just man.

He CANNOT seeing beyond himself for even a second. He casts himself in the most important role, as the only person whose personal consequences exist.

His mother, at probable great risk, takes him to Illyria to be trained- the precious, first-born, godly son of Night. To learn to fight- to learn, presumably, her culture- to see what that culture is reduced to, a harshness he will on day have the power to change. Rhys had to be, at some point, a great hope for Not High Fae denizens of the Court.

What does Rhysie learn? Illyria is harsh. Illyria is bad. Backwards and cruel.

He hates his father for...presumably, the crime of being a pretty traditional High Lord? Rhys hates the cruelties! the Court of Nightmares! the broken system!

So what does Rhys do when he has power? he fires everyone. He doesn't like them, he doesn't like whatever they did under his father...so instead of hiring new people, he removes himself entirely from a potential role in changing/mitigating those policies. See also: the Court of Nightmares, cowed occasionally, but not in any way governed by Rhys.

But he's the hero! He's destroyed the oppression! His Court of Just his Bros is made of women and Illyrians!

(Rhys removed the terribleness from his direct experience...because only his experiences matter)

So, Rhys in his head: the struggle, the hero, the man just trying to do it right.

Which brings us to Daylight....and Feyre. I know we can attribute the way the characters stop even remotely being sympathetic between acomaf and...everything else...to poor writing, but I also think there's some (maybe accidental but PERFECT) character work there: in acomaf, pre-acknowledged bond, Feyre is an important possession/ally- she's on the same level as the other members of the Court of Dreams, if the jewel of the collection, a high point in the story Rhys tells himself: HE saved the HERO OF PRYTHIAN

(which...let's not even touch on the fact that the deal he makes in acotar is CREEPY and he can only justify it later. she wasn't someone he wanted to work with in acotar- she was a vulnerable, hot young woman he fully took advantage of)

And then they're mates.

And then, slowly but surely, Feyre's personhood disappears. For two reasons: 1) Feyre is on a pedestal so sky-high it blots out everything. Good, pure, true hero Feyre whose adoration Rhysand needs like air. the happy end of his story, the prize and the salvation, the one who sees him.

and 2) ultimately, to Rhys, Feyre is an extension of him. A symbol: his happiness, his peace, his endless power, what he fought to keep.

She's his whole anchor staying sane, which isn't great, considering...ya know, everything. But the Story is Over. They are Happy.

Except- except- nothing is over. Post fifty straight years of torture, a freefall into war and fuckery, teen marriage and literal death, the consequences for all those things AND THE SHIT RHYS WAS PULLING LONG BEFORE AMARANTHA TURNED HIM INTO A CHEW TOY, are still present.

But now, he has something to protect. His golden future. His puppy Mate.

Because Feyre's safety is the safety of his power and vice versa. Anything he does is justifiable because the loss of Feyre is Not an Option. She is Happy. They Are Happy.

It bleeds into everything- and then it intensifies, because this is the breaking point.

The Az/Lucien thing and Feyre incredibly hurtful blindness? No Rhys isn't going to interfere- Az is so private anyway- if Feyre believes its a romantic bond, Feyre is right, she knows her sister, not that it matters because Elain is totally out of her mind.

Sending Cassian to Illyria? Illyria is a backwards shithole right? They're fierce fighters and that's what Rhys values them for- as the hammer of his power- and nothing else? why would there be anything else? Look at them fighting and hurting each other.

Nesta runs and Cassian is left throwing himself in battles actively trying to die and Rhys? Rhys is totally smug. A problem that hurt Feyre and his brother is GONE.

But it's not gone. Az isn't talking to anyone- and Rhys thinks this probably means Lucien is probably, finally fucking him- but even Feyre understands that Azriel knows where Nesta is. When this is proved (when Elain surfaces and they have the very fun kitchen fight) Rhys isn't happy- but he understands. Azriel has always felt responsible for broken things.

But thats not his job, it's Rhysands job, and Rhys has already made that tough choice for the safety of his own: Nesta has no place here. When she resurfaces inevitably, broke and wanting something, Rhys will stop her before she gets close enough to upset (hurt) Feyre. It's his job.

Cassian goes missing, and Rhysand sets upon what will become his eventual move: Illyria's value is strength. (a martial strength that belongs to RHYS). But they think they can take from him? They can destroy their own best chance? (Rhys recognizes Cassian's value to Illyria even while, you know, ordering him to slaughter Illyrians) They would threaten his power? hurt his family?

Rhys will not allow a world to exist where Feyre can be hurt.

If Illyria can't be controlled, Illyria will be put down, like the rabid creatures they are. (They were always backwards, Rhys thinks. Freeing my mother was the one good thing my father ever did)

But Cassian lives.

Rhys asks Azriel if he's been cursed. Az laughs in his face.

And Cassian is a terrible enemy to have. The strategies the loyalists are using? His, filtered through Rhys. The magical contingencies? Cassian and Az, trying to prevent bloodshed.

Feyre thinks, for a long time, that maybe the rebels have Nesta. What else could compel Cassian to even care? these people keep trying to kill him. they want to kill Rhys. the brothers suffered in the frozen mud at the hands of these monsters, what is Cassian doing?

And then the massacre happens.

And Feyre sick to her stomach, cries when she hears. Rhysand thinks about a little hazel eyed boy who'd never had a bed, a present, who'd been nothing until Rhysand plucked him up- a little boy who'd grown into a dangerous man, who'd just killed every person who ever contributed to his pain. Rhys thinks, knowing he'll have to punish Cassian for this, that it's over.

The camp lords are dead, it has to be over.

(Azriel hears and understands- because he knows damn well Cassian was something before Rhysand, and after despite him. That beneath those repeatedly broken ribs is a heart that was once so big so save him, grown strong enough now to save everyone who was like them: forgotten, abandoned, used.)

It's not over. The mountains are burning. Banners fly on northern wind in a language long dead. They're singing, the spies say, they call him dawn. Loyal-heart-as-dawn.

It's Cassians name. Not that Rhys, who never knew more than a few vile insults in the language of his mother's ancient, proud people, understood it then.

Rhysand, the long-suffering hero of his own story, has been betrayed.

He can risk no more- it's time to end this madness. It's Feyre's idea to use Elain- it's Feyre who is left crying, a betrayal Rhysand will never forget- when Elain, who they've given everything, Elain, perhaps just as broken and wretched as her eldest sister, refuses to help keep Feyre safe.

(Elain refuses to participate in what she sees as genocide, but as we've established, what consequences exist? the ones Rhys feels right in front of his face)

Azriel, Elain, and Lucien run.

Of course, if both Feyre's sisters are capable of betraying her, of course, both of Rhysand's brothers would as well. They are one in the same, aren't they? Marked by destiny, by fate for this hard and terrible work- of course it hurts. Of course- but Rhysand will stop it from hurting Feyre any more.

There's one force in the world that can stand in truth against Illyria. The Darkbringers- their ancestral, ancient conquers.

(Yes, I do think Rhys knows the shitty, shitty history of his court! He just doesn't care! He didn't do it. He's different. He's in Velaris with the common people. He has wings. He's not his father.)

(He is, in fact, far worse)

When he thinks of it, it seems perfect. Illyria will be destroyed- a loss, but a safe one. Keir, will, almost certainly, also be destroyed or at least critically weakened.

Rhysand will stand alone, the man who was willing to do anything for peace. He will rule over an emptied playing field, secure in a world where Feyre is safe.

The Hewn City empties, the armies march- Rhysand holds tight Feyre's hand, says nothing about the fact that nothing, nothing, will stop Keir from killing anyone in front of him when battle starts, and reaches once more for Cassian's mind.

His brother, his friend, his loyal right hand- he begs him to come back. To come home. That they can put down this rebellion and in his love for Cassian everything can go back to how it is meant to be, all of them together.

It does not occur to him to address the hundreds dead. The system he was complicit in and responsible for that ground a culture to dust and ash- what matters is brother against brother should never have turned, and Rhys, in his kindness, will offer Cassian this last chance for honor.

Rhys doesn't want Cassian to die- he wants Cassian by his side- but he will drown the world in blood before he'll lose his crown and hope and Feyre.

And when Cassian dies, falling to the earth in Rhysand's arms, Rhys thinks of penance.

A circle closed.

But of course- Cassian wakes. Death is not done with her right hand anymore than the contract between Lordship and land in immutable. Cassian brought the magic back, brought Illyria back.

Rhys is fighting for something personal- Cassian is fighting for a whole world and future, with everything in himself.

When the new border is drawn, Rhys doesn't despair- sure he's shaking, he's covered in Cassian's blood, his twelve thousand year old walls are smoking and the whole world smells like fucking Nesta Archeron- he's been the victim of curses before.

He won't let it keep him down. He'll be fine. He has Feyre, they're safe. Illyria is going to implode- and maybe, maybe, he'll save some of those that remain when the violence is too much, when they need a real High Lord.

They'll come home. Just like Feyre's sisters will. Rhysand's brothers. They fought for peace and Velaris has it- it is their home.

It's what they fought for, the happy ending, and it's all worth it.

It has to be worth it.

[cm-top-10]

C.M. Top 10: Most Dark & Gore Scenes &/or Characters in Cartoon Series

Warning: The following top ten may contain possible spoilers for those who haven't seen newer series. This post may also contain forms of graphic violence & some gore scenes that maybe too much for you to witness. So for your safety & others do not look unless it's at your own risk.

You've been warned...

We all discover at some point in time that not everything you know is allover the rainbow. Most times we see things we can't unsee or learn dark secrets of someone you thought you knew your whole life. & sometimes we learn things the hard way. Or the messed up dark way...

So for this 1st dark Top 10 features the most characters with a dark histories, secrets or just straight up dark/gore scenes. Which character did you not expect to have a dark side? Sadly you be the judge...

1. Invincible - Omni Man beating his son to a pulp.

After learning the dark truth that was revealed to Mark about his father's true intentions. Nolan tells his son the truth about why he was sent to Earth & why he killed the Guardians.

Telling him the reasons why he's here was so he could eliminate any potential threat to the Viltrum Empire. & that he was raising his son not out of responsibility or heroics, but to have him as a bred soldier of the Empire to kill anyone who stood in their way.

& he wanted Mark to join their cause with him.

After Mark angrily refused to help him conquer the planet. Nolan nearly beats the life out of his own son & yells to the top of his lungs saying how pointless it is to protect his home world. While killing millions of innocent people in the process of their brutal fight.

However before he could finish him off, Nolan suddenly realized what he did to his own child & fled the Earth in machspeed, shedding a tear.

They say fatherhood is complicated, but not like this...

2. Castlevania Lords of Shadow - Gabriel's dark fate

While on his journey to slay all three of the Lords of Shadow. Gabriel slowly learned they were the founders of the Order & told him the truth of his order's true intention from each Shadow Lord who too were being used by the Brotherhood of Light. Then when he finally reached the final Lord of Shadow, he learned about his wife's death & fell into dark despair.

Over time his heart grew darkened. & knew nothing but bitterness & sorrow...

But after defeating the three Lords, Laura appears to tell Gabriel that he awakened another ancient evil known as the Forgotten One. Who had plans to destroy all creation & they had to venture to the Brotherhood's fortress to find the entrance to where he was imprisoned.

However only dark begins can enter the realm. & the only way he can bypass it's effects & to defeat this ancient evil, was to become one himself...

So Laura asked him to drink her blood & free her of her torment. Hesitant at first he did what was asked of her & dranked every last drop of her blood, until she died.

He then defeated the Forgotten One & saved mankind. But at a cost of his soul & happiness.

Thus becoming a vampire.

A vampire the world would soon know & fear as Dracul the Dragon.

But that is another story...

3. Baki the Grappler - Yujiro Hanma

As most know Yujiro is the world's most unstoppable & cruelest warrior in the history of fighters. Not even the U.S. Military dares to go near him. Yes Yujiro the Orge has struck fear into many people, even military personnel of different countries. & he did it with no weapons & has turned the U.S. into his personal playground for death & battles.

But the most cruelest thing he's done was ripping the face of one of China's most respected Kaioh masters while facing him in battle, testing his worthiness. The reason Yujiro did this challenge was not to prove his worth but to show all of China & their leaders that they are worthless to him. & showed them all that he doesn't care about their hatred towards Japan noir their worthiness.

& he struck that fear into all who witnessed Ryu Kaioh getting defaced & brutally defeated. Yes this is one man who's definitely going to hell & is going to smile about it.

Because Satan himself would be pissing his buttflap in his sights in fear. While Yujiro fucks his succubus wife in front of his face knowing how little fucks he gives about his "sins."

4. Primal - Sauropod Massacre

After being infected by the Zombie Virus. The infected sauropod becomes a mad rouge & slaughters it's own herd in a bloody rage & massacre.

It left no survivors, ripped them apart & destroyed many of the herds' eggs leaving nothing remaining...

Truly whatever zombie virus this was it drove this poor creature mad & didn't stop until everything wasn't breathing.

Luckily Spear & Fang were able to run it into a dormant volcano. Where the infected dinosaur burnt to ash.

Hopefully now the poor beast is at peace...

5. Star Wars Rebels - Master Luminara's remains

In the search for Luminara to replace Kanan to be Ezra's new master. They soon learned too late that her remains were being used to lure any surviving Jedi out of hiding. So that any Sith Hunters like the Grand Inquisitor would slay them on the spot.

Sadly no one knows whatever happened to her corpse after they escaped. Or if the Empire even still has her.

Rest in peace Luminara wherever you are...

6. Legend of Tarzan - Death of Clayton

While battling in the trees, Tarzan defeated Clayton by tangling him into the jungle vines. But during his blind rage he angrily swiped vine after vine, until one wrapped his neck. Tarzan tried his best to warn him, but in his rage Claton cuts the vine that he was holding on to.

Then after it broke they both plummet to the ground. Tarzan landed safely, Clayton however was hung from above by one of the vines wrapped around his neck after it snapped it straight out from the fall.

There truly are things worse than fate...

7. RWBY - the Death of Adam Taurus

After weeks of stalking Blake & her group. Blake had no choice but to confront Adam for the last time with the help of Yang. The battle was harsh, but in the end they managed to out-think him by stabbing him from different sides. One in his chest & one in the back.

He then fell to his death over a huge waterfall after hitting his head over a ledge before plummeting into the water. Hopefully they've finally seen the last of Adam Taurus.

But let's also hope he doesn't pull a Cinder...

8. TFP Beast Hunters - Predaking beats the scrap out of Ratchet

After using Ratchet to wipe out mankind. The Decepticons threw him into the frails of a vengeful Predaking. Predaking then beats & claws Ratchet, throwing him around like a rag-doll. Until he was ready to finish him off, luckily Ratchet convinced him to hear him out. & told Predaking the truth about what had happened to his Predacon army.

After he told Predaking that it was Megatron who ordered his race's extermination. He asks why he did so & Ratchet replys--

Ratchet: Being on the receiving end of your might. One theory springs to mind, Megatron fears you & any like you.

In his blind rage Predaking stormed his way to Megatron, wiping out anyone who stood in his way.

Which led to his own demise, but that is a story for another time...

9. JoJo's Bizarre Adventure - Stealy Joe gets his ass beat by Jotaro

Now this slimy bastard got what he deserves. Not only did he try to humiliate & blackmail Jotaro into doing his bidding. This cocky motherfucker goes & threatens a random little girl out of the blue. If Jotaro didn't face him like a man & does what he says.

With him up to here with the man's assholeness, our boi Jotaro decided enough is enough & beats the ever loving shit out of this guy. & after punching him multiple times, he literally sends him flying into a wall & throws him his receipt.

Rest in Hell, Joe you worthless bastard!

10. The Falcon Captain America & The Winter Soldier - Captain America U.S. Agent gets his arm broken.

John Walker the former Captain America was given a mantle he wasn't worthy of. Don't get me wrong as much as I had my doubts of him, I was willing to give him a benefit of a doubt. That is until he soiled Steve's good name by using his shield to kill a man in cold blood.

During his blind rage of vengeance, he chased down one of the Flag Smashers & constantly beats him over-&-over with the shield. & then kills him with a fatal blow to the chest area in front of tons of people.

After he murdered one of the perps, Falcon & Bucky tried to ask him to hand over the shield peacefully...

You can take a wild guess what Walker's answer was. He then attacked them with rage & ego, losing his shit. However that ego died as soon as Falcon & Buck breaks his arm to get the shield back. He was then discharged by the U.S. government & was relieved of his duties as Captain America.

Not only that but he then found his way into a dark path he may not be able to uncross.

But that part is another story for another time.

Either way he got dealt some shitty karma.

[yee-fxcking-haw]

•Save Me Again•

Summary: Ouchies :/ some hurt+comfort with Kiri. Its a rough mission for Red Riot, his anxiety gets to him, you pick up the pieces.

Pairing: Pro Hero Kirishima x NBreader (both 18+)

Warnings: Angst, panic attacks, mentions of blood, death, grounding tactics (five senses method)

Word Count: 1,605

A/N: Wrote this with a big achey heart at five in the morning. It hurts. Sorry y'all lmao.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The images flashing on the television are nothing short of horrendous, they're devastating and gorey. It leaves you feeling painfully sick and hopeless. You cling to Eiji's shirt, crying into the fabric every time a life is lost. The anchorman is talking, but his words are lost somewhere between the speakers and your ringing ears.

A particularly gruesome death is shown, you feel your body sob, but again can't process any sound. Where is he? Where the hell is he?

The screen cuts to blue, some well worded message about sparing the audience of graphic content flashes on it.

You have to breathe, you have to keep moving, you have to focus. You can't though, your lungs won't fill, your body won't budge, and your brain won't settle.

He's ok. He's built for this.

-But, he's cities away, and you haven't heard from him or seen evidence of him on the news… so, what if he isn't ok?

Those villains weren't anything he hasn't faced before, but there were so many of them. More bloodthirsty than usual, more reckless. Now, with the stupid news cut off, you have to just wait and hope to whoever the hell is running this shitshow that Eiji is holding his own.

The secret feed. Fucking hell the secret news feed.

Being a loved one of a Pro, you're connected to a secret news feed that covers events like this uncensored. It's something his commission came up with, not long after you had your first severe panic attack from not knowing if he was alive or dead on a similar mission.

Your phone is torn from your pocket, thumbs flying with urgency as you pull up the feed.

With nearly supernatural timing, the camera pans to Eijirou, who's covered head to toe in ash, debris, and blood.

"Oh, baby…" You choke out, hand reaching for him subconsciously.

In his strong arms, wrapped in rock hard safety, is the limp body of a little boy. Blood seeps from an open gash on his head, it looks deep, it looks serious.

Eiji's face is hard to read, it always is when he's in mission mode. He looks focused, but shaken, resolute, but disturbed.

You watch as he brings the boy to a medic who promptly has him laid out on a stretcher. His pulse is checked, followed by a slow, mournful shake of the medics head.

Then Eijirou's face falls, you can see his heart shredding as if it's his own child laying there.

You cry for him, your heart cracks and falls apart as you watch him realize he was too late. You know what he's thinking, you know he doesn't think he's helping, or that he should even be there.

You know he doesn't think he's a Hero.

You watch helplessly as they stabilize the situation, capture the villains, and clean up the mess. Every time the camera is on Red, your heart breaks all over again. He's not doing well, the rock has been shaken.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

When the front door finally opens, you freeze completely. You should run to him, you should say something, but what would you do? What would you say?

So, you wait. You take in his battered form, the blood, the falling hair, the broken eyes. He shucks off as much of his hero gear as he can.

His eyes stay on the ground as he walks over to you with heavy feet. He slumps down on the couch, elbows on his knees as he buries his face in his filthy hands. He smells like battle, an almost offensive smell, but something you're used to.

After a tense moment of heavy silence, a trembling sob rattles through his exhausted body.

You want to throw yourself on him, wrap around him and coddle him, but you know you have to wait.

"Can I touch you?" You question softly, trying to remember all the steps you need to take to ground somebody when they're shaken up like this.

His only reply is grabbing you by the waist so he can pull you into his lap. His arms lock around your body, his face buried into your chest, and he just cries.

The cries turn to sobs that turn to screams. All sent somewhere deep inside you, somewhere dark and hopeless. Your fingers are in his hair, as soothing as they can be when you're shaking this much.

"I know, baby… I know." You whisper, tears covering your cheeks as you break with him.

"No." He chokes, he says it like he's fighting something, like he doesn't want it to happen.

"You don't know, nobody knows." It isn't accusatory, it isn't angry, it's just painful.

You wait for a moment, unsure of your footing, trying to calculate what to do next.

You have to diffuse somehow, you have to bring him back down. He's nearly hyperventilating, and you don't want him to go through a panic attack. You know you can handle him, but when Eiji panics, it does a real number on him.

"Honey, can you feel me?" You ask cautiously, digging your fingers into his matted hair, squeezing your body around his.

He nods as another gut wrenching sob rips from his throat.

"Ok, good, baby, that's good." You coax.

"You can hear my voice, right? Can I hear yours, please?"

He takes a moment to pull breath into the bottom of his lungs, pressing the side of his face against your sternum.

"I'm here. I'm right here." He answers, just like you practiced.

"Thank you, thank you for being here." You lean back slightly, a bit difficult with how tightly he's holding you. When he feels you shift away, his breathing picks up again, his hands hold on painfully and he shakes his head frantically.

"I'm not going anywhere. I'm here. I'm not leaving." You reassure him, reaching for the water bottle on the table beside the couch.

You guide his face towards yours with a gentle hand on his jaw. He's a mess of tears and snot and blood. His eyes are more bloodshot than you've ever seen them, lips quivering, eyebrows drawn tight with anxiety.

It makes you want to cry as hard as he is, but you can't. If you cry, he'll want to save you, and he's done enough saving for today.

You bring the bottle to his lips, tipping it up and making him drink. He closes his eyes as he takes in the cold water, undoubtedly dehydrated.

"You can taste that, right?" You ask as you pull it away after a few long drinks.

He'll want to chug it, but he can't, it'll make his stomach hurt.

"I can." He answers, almost like a robot, but it's better than nothing.

"Thank you, Eiji, you're ok. I'm here." You remind him.

"Can I take your shirt off?" You ask.

He nods slowly, following the lead you've taken on the situation.

Your shirts are both discarded, as soon as you're rid of the fabric you grab the blanket off the back of the couch and throw it around your back before pressing your bare torsos together.

You've learned that skin to skin is the best way to ground him. As you expect, he melts into your warmth, bringing you back down against him so he can hide his face in your neck.

"You smell nice." He whispers, picking up the senses where you left off, it makes you swell with pride.

"Good, thank you baby, what else is there?" You prompt, willing him to keep going.

"I see our home." He sniffles.

"That's right. You're home. You have me. You're safe." You repeat it a few more times.

Between gentle touches, soft kisses, and extensive reassurance, his breathing settles and his tears stop falling.

"I don't think I should be out there." He finally whispers after several moments of slowly breathing together.

You don't answer, you don't combat it. You both know he should be out there, but you know he needs to get this out, so you let him.

"I couldn't even save one k-kid." The heartbreak in his eyes is immeasurable, inconsolable, it makes you fall apart in a thousand different ways.

You don't speak, you don't fabricate comfort with sweet words. You just let him cry again, full bodied into your neck. He'll do this a few times, settle then fall apart again. You'll be patient, sit there with your glue and tape and piece him back together.

"You saved me." You remind him quietly, recalling how you met.

He truly did, you were almost collateral damage, just another tally mark on the wall counting lives lost to villains. However, one Hero, one brilliant Hero, saved your poor civilian ass.

He pulls away to blink up at you, eyes swollen and wet, broken and searching.

"You saved me." He breathes.

Your forehead falls against his.

"We save each other. That's enough. You're doing enough." You assure him, knowing he needs to hear it.

The push and pull goes on for a little while, you let him break, you stitch him back up. You wipe the dirt and blood from his body, kissing the bruises, reminding him you're real. You clean him up and talk him down, until his body is wrapped around yours in bed.

He cries himself to sleep in your arms, tears falling more slowly, the result of a dull ache that will linger for days. It'll stay this way for a bit, an unstable back and forth, but you'll be here. You'll reach down and pull him up, you'll save him like he saved you.

[talkfastromance4]

5. Trigger--Ashton Irwin ‘Lovers in a Song’ series

a/n: The final installment is here! I’m so sorry for the delay but I kept bouncing back concepts on how I wanted it to end. This is a rollercoaster. You’re probably going to hate me then love me, then hate me again. Thank you all for reading. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Word count: 11.5k

warnings: mentions of drug cartel/lords/paraphernalia, angst, heartbreak, sexual situations

Masterlist

LIAS masterlist

***

Cressida is awoken by two things, a loud peal of thunder and a combination of Ashton’s warm hands and mouth on her skin. For a moment she forgets that this is their last morning together. Ashton’s large hands lift up her nightgown and he curves his body to mold with hers as his lips kiss below her breast. His fingers rub at her skin in a tantalizing way, her body is humming. Then she hears him sniff and her eyes flash open. His cheeks are wet while he continues to kiss along her ribcage.

“Ashton?” she touches his hair and her heart shatters at the look on his face.

He’s pained. His cheeks are covered in tears, his pretty hazel eyes are bloodshot and his lower lip trembles. Cressida gathers his head against her chest, wrapping her arms and legs around his body so he’s crushing her, so that there’s no spaces between them. If she held him tight enough maybe they’d mold together and would never have to be apart.

His body shakes against hers, hot tears sting at her own eyes as he releases what he’s been holding in. The thought of losing her has finally come to life and it’s breaking him from the inside out.

“I’m trying to…get as much of you as I can,” he whines pressing his tear-stained lips to her neck. “I’m not ready to let go.” He chokes on the words as he tries to kiss her again.

She closes her eyes wishing it didn’t have to be this way. His lips on her skin are burned to her memory and after today that’s all it will ever be, a memory. She feeds into his desperation and sadness, their lips finding each other’s and Ashton presses into her.

Her cries turn to moans, her tears fall free, and Ashton’s movements are frenzied yet controlled. He wants this to last for as long as possible. She stabilizes his cheeks until he’s looking at her, his handsome face twisted.

“It’s okay,” she whispers tracing his brows, his nose, his lips. “It’s okay.”

He nods and slows his movements to a more controlled roll. Their kisses are bittersweet each time, a terrible reminder that their time is up. The storm has arrived. The axe has been swung.

“I love you,” he whispers on her neck lacing their fingers beside her head.

“I love you.”

They prolong the moment for as long as they can, one last thing they can do together, one last thing they’re in control of, but all good things must come to an end. And they arrived at that end together, sighing each other’s names. Soft caresses over shoulders and down hips are touches committing to memory.

“How did you find out?” she asks afterwards while petting his hair. Their legs are tangled, every part of him is touching every part of her.

The bad news he’s been dreading ever since Gavin and Cressida have been ‘together’ is coming into the light. Ashton and Cressida’s relationship has always had an expiration date but now that it’s finally here…it’s a lot worse.

“My assistant Phil and your assistant Chloe are yoga buddies and she told him you and Gavin will be announcing the engagement today,” Ashton responds sadly. His voice tickles her collarbone, and he nestles in closer to her, holding her tighter. “Did he actually buy a ring or is it a prop from your parents?”

“He bought it…I um…have it with me because after this I need to meet him at the Italian restaurant where we had our first ‘date.’” Cressida’s voice is oddly calm, but it doesn’t sound like her, it’s more robotic, monotone. “Paparazzi were tipped off we’d be there and that will be the first look.”

“Can I see it?” Ashton asks after a moment of shared sad silence.

“Ash, I don’t think that’s—”

“Please, Cressida,” he lifts his head, hair falling in front of his tired hazel eyes. “I need to see it.”

Cressida searches his face then finally nods and slips out from underneath him. She shifts through her coat that’s been on the floor since she dropped it there and pulls out a red ring box. Her hands are shaking as she hands him the box. They’re both naked, open and vulnerable to each other like they always have been but for the first time in their five-year long relationship, Cressida feels ashamed as he opens the box.

Ashton stares at the gaudiness of it. it’s a cushion cut diamond; the band covered in tiny diamonds. It’s much too large, so large that it looks like costume jewelry and although Cressida is a larger-than-life woman, she loves the softer things. She doesn’t need or want gaudy; this ring isn’t her at all.

“Hideous, isn’t it?” she tries to joke.

“It’s…” Ashton snaps the box shut, lifts his eyes to hers. Her hair is all mussed and her body is covered in love bites from him, his initials are still present on her belly. “We need to shower before you go.”

He leaves the ring on the center of their bed then grabs her hand leading her into the bathroom. Cressida’s arm loops around his naked waist as he turns the shower on, and they hug each other as the water warms up. The hot water stings their skin as they stand underneath it, she loves the steady stream on her head and the way Ashton’s fingers massage the shampoo into her scalp. She can’t keep her eyes off him as he rubs it out of her hair.

The water droplets roll down his cheeks and nose then disappear onto his lips. When her hair is rinsed out, Cressida grips his face and presses her lips to his. Ashton’s hesitant at first.

“We shouldn’t, angel, you might be late…”

“I won’t be,” she whispers dipping one hand in between them. She strokes him gently and he lets out a soft groan. “Please, Ash, I need you.”

“Fuck,” he moans then pushes her against the wall, his tongue stroking over hers.

Ashton lifts her in the air hiking her legs around his waist. She helps him enter her, biting his lip hard in the process by being filled again. He cups the back of her neck with a secure grip so when he starts to thrust her head won’t knock against the wall harshly. Her nails dig into the meat of his shoulders, his strong shoulders that embrace her so well.

Their breath is shared in heavy pants, lips knocking haphazardly as he thrusts, and she welcomes each one. Cressida whimpers as Ashton grunts, her toes curling in pleasure. Ashton’s tired of keeping his hand on the trigger of their love, so after she orgasms, he releases into her once more. When he pulls out and Cressida drops her feet to the shower floor, he can’t help but stare between her legs as his release drips out of her.

He knocks his forehead against hers. “That isn’t the ring I would have chosen for you.”

Her heart clenches at his words and closes her eyes. Does she dare ask what kind of ring he’d buy her? It would only twist the white-hot knife in her heart more.

“What kind would you buy me?” Apparently she wants to feel the pain.

“It’d be rose gold, a thin band with a round diamond. Not too big, not too small, but perfectly perfect, just like you.” He kisses her nose. “And I would have taken you back to that dive bar where we met and asked you to be the love of my life forever.”

Cressida opens her eyes to see Ashton already staring at her.

“You’ll always be the love of my life.”

*

The real goodbye is even harder as she tries one last attempt to fix the fall of their star-crossed affair. Her clothes are changed and she’s smeared make-up over the markings on her neck.

“What if I tell them I won’t marry Gavin?” she asks standing in the doorway. “He already knows about us and he doesn’t want this any more than we do.”

“If you don’t marry him, what will your parent’s do?” Ashton’s voice sounds tired because this is a conversation they’ve had many times over the last five years.

“I’ll be relinquished of my duties and cut off, but I don’t need the company or the money. I want you, Ashton. The truth is all I really want is somebody who wants me and that’s you. I want you.”

She touches his cheek, but all Ashton feels is the icy weight of her engagement ring on his skin. She put it on for the first time since the news will be broken to the world, but now its curtain call on their own love. The real show is to begin. It brands him in torture.

“I won’t have you throw away your future because of me, Cressida. This is how it’s supposed to be,” he replies sadly. “How it should have been, us making it linger only makes this worse.”

“We can change it! Please, Ashton,” she begs with tears welling in her eyes.

They stare eat each other, eyes having a silent conversation. She is screaming while he is silent in defeat and acceptance of their reality.

“You should go,” he kisses her palm then removes her hand from his face. “You’re the most valuable, the most precious, and the most beautiful gold in the world, Cressida. I’ll never stop loving you.”

Cressida breaks down burying her face in his chest. Her heart is breaking and even with Ashton’s arms around her, she isn’t getting fixed. Nothing can fix her now.

Six Months After Breakup—Cressida

Cressida’s walking along the aisles of flowers in the large nursery where she and Gavin are picking out flowers for their wedding. Their parents decided the wedding would be in the first weekend of May which fatefully falls on the anniversary of her and Ashton’s first meeting. It’s a cruel twist of fortune. She touches the smooth petals of a white calla lily, her engagement ring sparkling in the afternoon sun.

Cressida’s parents and Gavin’s parents are discussing a flower arch with the florist and Cressida decided to wander off. Her mind is on Ashton but when isn’t it? She’s always wondering what he’s doing, how he’s doing. Is she on his mind as well? She read in a fashion magazine that Lucinda broke up with him and is now dating some minor league baseball player claiming, ‘she’s never been happier.’ Cressida wanted to reach out and ask what happened to their planned marriage, but she decided not to.

Why add salt to a still open wound?

“I think these would look lovely in a bouquet,” Gavin says from behind her.

Cressida turns to see him holding up three marigolds, all of them a brilliant golden yellow. The plumes are lush and full, and the smell reminds her of summer. Cressida looks up to Gavin, his dark brown curls and even darker brown eyes. It’s taken them a long time but they’re finally friends. When Ashton told him to get sober, Gavin tried to but his footprint in the drug dealing world was too vast. She flashes back to that time three months ago.

After Cressida left The Golden Lion to meet with Gavin at the restaurant for their engagement appearance, his eyes were bloodshot, and his pupils made his eyes look like black holes. They made the photo opportunity short as possible, Cressida made sure to show off the engagement ring that felt like a weighted brick anytime she waved her hand around.

By the time they made it to her house, they were trending all over the world.

“I thought you were sober?” she asks throwing her bags on the floor.

“I’m trying,” he grumbles opening the fridge to take out a bottle of water. “Next time you see Irwin, I’ll be out of the ring.”

“I won’t be seeing him,” she mumbles pulling out her favorite bottle of wine from her wine cabinet. Her voice was back to the monotone.

“What do you mean?”

“You and I are getting married. It’s done. We’re done,” she pops the cork and walks outside to her deck by the pool.

Gavin disappeared for the next three days and at first Cressida didn’t care because then she could mourn over her and Ashton’s relationship in peace. Well, not really peace because she sobbed so loud in bed, in her pillow, in the shower.

It wasn’t until her mother called asking for her and Gavin to come over for brunch on Sunday to celebrate the joining of their families that Cressida started to worry. Both of his phones went straight to voicemail and it wasn’t until she got in contact with his best friend Jack that she discovered that’s where he was.

Cressida arrives at Jack’s place to find Gavin beaten up horrendously and lying on Jack’s couch. There’s so much dried blood and swelling on his face she barely recognized him. It took a few shakes and shouting his name before he opened his eyes, but even then they were tiny slits.

“What the hell happened?” Cressida asks in shock as her eyes roam over his body. His Armani shirt is torn and bloody, a very large red stain on the side of his stomach that is oozing onto the couch.

“Left the ring and they uh said this…” Gavin winces as he tries to sit up straighter, “was my farewell.”

“You need to go to the hospital, Gavin, you’re bleeding out.”

“No! I can’t let anyone know I was involved in—”

“You have enough money to keep this on the down low. I’m calling an ambulance,” she shakes her head and pulls out her phone.

While Gavin recovered for a week in the hospital, Cressida stayed with him. The cover story was that he got jumped outside of a hotel, nothing was stolen because he didn’t have anything of value, so they beat him up more for it. Everyone believed it.

The doctors wanted to give him morphine to help with the pain, but he refused because it would offset the other drugs that were still in his system. Cressida’s surprised and impressed that he actually means he’s going to be sober now. With the pain and the start of his withdrawals, he didn’t sleep very well through the night.  

On the fourth night he woke up gasping for breath, his body covered in sweat.

“Gavin! What is it? What’s wrong?” Cressida asks turning on the light to see his pillow wet from his sweat. His eyes are large as saucers.

“I’m…fine!” he grits through his teeth staring at the ceiling. “With—withdrawals that’s…. all…”

Cressida sat next to him on his bed and held his hand. His eyes shifted to hers and he grimaces.

“I don’t deserve your help…after what I did to you…”

“Shh, let’s not talk about that now,” she shakes her head. “Let’s get you through this.”

After that, she helped him each time he went through a bad spell. It helped distract her from thinking of Ashton, even though he was always on the back of her mind anyway. She went to meetings with him and helped him with other coping skills. After a month most of his wounds and bruises were healing and there was a new light about him.

When she came home from the office, the house smelled amazing, and he was in the kitchen cooking. His red wine sat at the center of the table and Cressida tried to force the memory of Ashton and that exact wine out of her mind.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“I am officially sixty days sober today,” Gavin grins, “and I wanted to make you dinner as a thank you for helping me. I made some appetizers, come taste.”

She stands next to him and eats the appetizer he made, some kind of meatball with a sweet sauce. It’s very delicious. While she accompanied him to his meetings they shared a lot of heart to hearts and became closer than before.

“I also wanted to apologize for how I treated you,” he says pouring her a glass of wine. “And for what happened at The Golden Lion. It sounds like a poor excuse, but I never, ever meant to hit you. I’m so sorry that I did, I think about it all the time and hate myself for it.”

“I know you didn’t mean to and if anyone should be apologizing it should be me. I didn’t treat you very fairly either, Gavin. I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry for…cheating on you.”

“It’s not cheating when our relationship was never legitimate. I wasn’t faithful either,” he gives her an impish smile.

“I still feel bad about it. I was so wrapped up in….it should have stopped when we started this fake relationship anyway,” she shakes her head and takes a drink of his wine. Her mind swirls and her stomach gets butterflies as memories of Ashton invade her.

“I know it hurts you to talk about him,” Gavin says placing his hand on her shoulder. “I knew this would never be real to you. I know it’s arranged and…I wouldn’t be upset if you’d still want to see him.”

“That’s not fair to you, Gavin, and besides, Ashton and I are over, remember?” she swallows a big gulp of the red wine. It tastes different, it’s not as sweet as it was that night with Ashton. “I won’t be unfaithful to you in our marriage.”

“Let’s start as friends then,” he holds out his hand for her to take.

“Friends after three years of dating,” she giggles shaking his hand.

“We never really got to know each other. We were always so busy and when we were together, it was forced and publicized.”

“Very true,” she purses her lips then lifts up her wine glass. “To a new friendship.”

Their glasses clink and they share a wonderful evening over good food and to finally getting to know each other. He didn’t ask about Ashton and she didn’t offer it up. A clean slate is a clean slate, even though she’s still branded.

*

“Cress?” Gavin asks pulling her from her quick reverie. He’s holding the golden flowers in front of her.

“They are lovely,” she smiles dipping her nose into the multitude of petals. “And wouldn’t look too bad in the lapel of your jacket.”

“I can make any flower pop,” he grins handing her the small bouquet.

“Gavin! Cressida! Over here!” Cressida’s mother, Maria calls from the front of the nursery.

“We’re being summoned,” Gavin reaches for her hand then pauses, his brown eyes looking up at her. “May I?”

Cressida smiles and takes his hand in hers; her ring twists a little on her finger as she squeezes his hand. “You know you don’t have to ask.”

“I know, but every time I do you get a little flustered,” he smiles.

The rest of the afternoon is spent by going over more wedding plans; the guest list that is always being revised, the food menu that is always being altered, but the one thing that remains is Cressida’s stress and worry. When she worries she twists her ring and only stops when Gavin places his hand over hers gently. She looks up at him and he nods as if in understanding.

“I think my bride-to-be is a bit overwhelmed,” he announces to their parents who are bickering about the silverware. “Can we continue this some other time?”

“Oh, yes of course! We can’t have you wrinkling my dear,” Maria, Cressida’s mother smiles.

“Why don’t you two head on over to Rouge and tell them I’ve sent you, so you’ll only get the best of the best,” her father, Mark beams at his daughter.

“Thank you sir,” Gavin rises from his chair and Cressida kisses her father’s cheek.

“Thank you, Dad.”

“Enjoy yourself, darling. No need to stress.”

Gavin and Cressida do enjoy themselves as they drink and eat at the jazz restaurant. They even get up and dance when they’re called out by the band leader who spots them. Cressida is impressed by Gavin’s fancy footwork; he even lifts her up and spins her around which has them both laughing.

“Wow, I didn’t know you could dance,” she says breathlessly.

“I didn’t either, you brought it out of me.”

His eyes flicker to her lips and Cressida feels her stomach tighten. His hand on her lower back bunches up the fabric of her dress, his fingers squeezing her closer to his body. They’ve never been this close before and it makes her heart pound harshly against her chest. Gavin’s breath slows as he moves forward, his lips ebbing closer. She’s not sure if it’s butterflies or fear at the thought of possibly kissing someone other than Ashton so she pulls away.

“I need to um, use the ladies’ room,” she excuses herself and runs.

More moments like that have happened as they both become a bit more comfortable being close together. Their acting of intimacy doesn’t feel so forced anymore when they’re with their parents. When Cressida tenses at the mention of the ever-growing guest list (she lost count when it surpassed 1,500) Gavin rubs at her neck in assurance. When they’re overlooking options for dining ware, Cressida doesn’t hesitate to place her fingers on his lower back to peer over his shoulder.

That’s as far as their physical relationship has gone, innocent touches that leave a large impact and her mind swimming in many conflicting thoughts and emotions. It keeps her up at night and when she dreams she sees memories of Ashton morphing into Gavin.

It leaves her in even more confusion.

**

There’s laughter and chatter from her mother and friends sitting outside the dressing room of the bridal boutique. It’s her last fitting before the big day. The big day that has been looming over her head for years. Cressida hasn’t seen what the dress looks like, she’s only been sized and measured multiple times and asked questions about different designs of dresses that she liked.

“It fits you like a glove, Miss James,” the consultant Wendy gushes and fastens the last button. “Are you excited to see it?”

“Yes,” Cressida smiles at her warmly but inside she’s screaming.

“I’ll go out and make a grand entrance for you, just step onto the platform and you’ll see yourself in your wedding dress!”

Cressida took the split ten seconds to mentally prepare herself for the big reveal, to her entourage and to herself. Wendy opened the door and everyone on the white couch gasp as Cressida steps out. The fabric is cool between her fingers as she lifts it up to step onto the platform, keeping her eyes on the floor and not on the mirror yet. Wendy poofs out the bottom of the dress.

“You look divine, darling!” her mother says dotting at her eyes delicately with her fingers. “Do you love it?”

Cressida takes another deep breath then slowly lifts her gaze and gasps. The dress is absolutely beautiful and fits her figure wonderfully, she’s never felt more beautiful in a dress before. It’s perfect. The design is to her taste and with the veil attached to her head, she’s the perfect bride.

“Gavin is going to lose it when he sees you!”

“He won’t be able to keep his eyes off you.”

“Or his hands!”

More giggles ensue and they continue with their banter as reality sets in with Cressida the more she stares at herself. The dress is exquisite, a perfect dream, but while her entourage were gushing about Gavin, Cressida was picturing Ashton.

Ashton waiting for her at the end of the aisle. Ashton holding her hand as the pastor spoke. Ashton slipping the wedding band on her finger. Ashton telling her the vows he wrote and spoke with conviction. Ashton kissing her.

Ashton Ashton Ashton Ashton Ashton

!!!!!!

His name repeats like a haunted hymn trying to keep time with her rapid breaths. She feels hot. Too hot. She feels like she’s suffocating, and although the dress doesn’t have a high collar it’s as if she’s being choked. She needs to get out of it.

In a few short months she’ll be standing in front of Gavin. There’s a high-pitched ringing in her ears, the voices of her mother and friends are muffled, the light is too bright.

It isn’t until Chloe, her saving grace, catches her right before she’s about to fall off the platform. The other women are crowding around her, but Cressida can’t breathe, she needs air, she needs to get out of this dress.

“She’s fine, she’s fine, she started this new juice cleanse. I guess celery isn’t the one for her,” Chloe laughs off the quick excuse but helps her stand up. “Plus, with pre-wedding jitters and all. Let’s get you out of this for now, hm?”

Chloe drags her back into the dressing room where Cressida is gasping for air and waving her arms trying to unbutton the dress.

“I got it, I got it, hang on…” Chloe works quickly to undo the back of the dress.

Cressida lets out a loud gasp when she feels the dress pull away from her skin, she pulls off the cold shoulder sleeves quickly and carefully as possible. When she’s finally free she collapses to the floor in the heap of her dress, her vision is splotchy, and she sees stars. Chloe drapes the bridal robe over her shoulders and hugs her tightly.

“It’s okay, you’re okay. Breathe…easy, easy,” Chloe takes deep inhales and exhales with Cressida.

“I’m sorry, I-I-I…it all came real so fast, and I was picturing—”

“Ashton?” Chloe asks quietly and Cressida nods. Chloe hugs her until her heart has slowed, all the broken pieces of it.

Later that evening, Gavin found out she had a panic attack at the dress fitting. He became worried instantly and held onto her shoulders searching her eyes as if he could see the replay in them.

“How are you now? Do you need anything?” he asks concerned.

“I’m all right, it all hit me so fast when I saw me in the dress, that’s all,” she tries to smile then looks down and away from him.

“Hey,” Gavin ticks his finger under her chin, so she looks up at him, “We’re in this together. I promise I will take care of you and be your friend and confidant throughout all this. We can do this, Cress.” He pulls her into his arms, his embrace is tight, and it makes her feel better, she feels put together for a moment. “Why don’t you go take a bath and go to bed early?”

“That sounds like a good idea,” she sighs.

“I’ll get it ready for you,” he kisses the top of her head, gives her one more squeeze, then heads upstairs.

Cressida feels herself walking upstairs into her bathroom but it’s as if she’s on autopilot or watching herself from a distance. Gavin’s reading the back of one of her bath salts when she enters, and she looks at him. Really looks at him. He’s tall and handsome, that’s a fact, but she never noticed before how the symbol tattooed on his back peeks out on his neck under his collar. Or how his hair curls into smooth waves at the back of his head, and how broad his shoulders are.

He’s speaking to her about bubbles or oils, she’s not really listening as she starts to undress in front of him. In her dissociative mind, she wants to experiment with something. The small seed of feelings for him keep nudging at her, if she waters it will it bloom into something greater? When she steps closer that’s when Gavin notices her half nakedness.

“Does the salt stick to—” his eyes take her in slowly, watching her movements carefully as she shimmies out of her pants and then her panties. He swallows audibly, the bottle of bath salts slips from his fingers and falls into the tub with a shallow bump. “What— “he clears his throat when she steps closer, “what are you doing?”

“Can we try something?” she asks reaching for his arms. She grips his forearms, feels the taut muscles underneath his skin.

She knows he can definitely hear how loud her heart is beating. He nods as she lifts to her toes, her hands moving to his neck. Hesitantly, and oh so slowly, she moves closer to him. So close that she can feel his breath on her lips, he smells like a spicy musk, which is very inviting and then her lips are on his. Gavin remains still, letting her go at her own pace.

His lips are soft but are definitely different from the pair she’s used to. His cologne keeps her in check that this is Gavin and not—

“We don’t have to do this,” Gavin pulls back, and she feels a little empty from it. “I know this is so much for you.”

“Can we try?” she whispers, her eyes begging him to say yes.

“Are you sure?” he asks cupping her cheek. His thumb traces her bottom lip, his warm brown eyes meeting hers.

“I’m sure,” she nods.

Gavin crushes his lips to hers and his other hand grips her bare waist, pulling her to him in a tastefully forceful way. He sits on the edge of the tub and she presses herself to him, her hands yanking up his shirt. His hair gets messed up and then she admires the tattoos on his torso, her fingers tracing the designs and lines.

“I didn’t know you had any of these.”

“They’re all a part of my life story.”

“You’ll have to tell me about them sometime,” her gaze is steady on his as she unbuttons his pants. He shuts off the water of the tub standing up.

“I’d be glad to,” he smiles then lifts her into his arms carrying her to her bedroom.

Gavin takes his time kissing her from her lips all the way down to the very epicenter of her. Cressida closes her eyes so she can enjoy the feeling she’s experiencing and not to compare his touch with another’s. Gavin is gentle, touching her like she’s going to disappear into thin air.

She’s exploring him just as much as he is, she likes tracing the large tattoo on his back that goes up both shoulder blades. When they finally connect, she gasps, both in pleasure and at the vast difference. He’s making her feel good, her body is humming and tries to move with his. This is new for the both of them, this is their first time together after all.

At one point, she’s transported to another bed with another man and her nails creating large red arches into his back, they almost look like angel wings. She’s flashing back and forth from memory to present. When her release nears, all she sees is white space behind her eyelids. Then it’s over and they hold each other, both of them lost in their own thoughts.

“Is that what you wanted to try?” Gavin lifts his head from her neck, and she nods. “Dare I ask what the…conjecture is?”

“It was…” she searches his eyes trying to find the right words that hold truth in them, “it was really good.”

Gavin smiles slowly and nods. “I’m glad to hear that, I thought so, too. Do you still want your bath?”

“I can go do it,” she nods brushing away a curl from his forehead then presses her palm to his cheek. “How about you go pick us up some ice cream? We can watch a movie before bed.”

“Mint chip, right?” he grins leaning down to give her a kiss.

“Right,” she laughs kissing him again.

Gavin slides off the bed and hops back into his pants.

“I’ll grab your favorite wine, too. Maybe I’ll join you in the bath,” he winks pulling on his shirt then exits the room.

Cressida feels herself moving again, going through the motions of turning on the water and adding the salts and bubbles. She closes the door and dims the lights, making sure her rotary phone is next to the bath. When she climbs in, the hot water burns the soles of her feet and her hands, but it feels good.

She feels different.

It’s been a very long and very emotional day and Ashton invades her mind yet again. Moving on their own discord, her fingers reach for the phone and dials the number she’s had memorized for almost six years. It rings and rings and rings until the automated voicemail lady comes on. Cressida pushes the disconnect tab in the center and dials again. There’s a click.

“Cressida?”

Her breath hitches at the sound of his voice, then she slams the phone back in its cradle. She sinks below the water level, her head submerging into the vapid silence of the water. How did hearing Ashton’s voice hurt worse than the silence of him not picking up? There’s a purpose for all of this pain, but what is it? She’s falling, but she doesn’t know if she’s falling in or out of love.

Ten Months After Breakup—Ashton

Ashton has been a loaded gun ever since he and Cressida ended. He’s quick to anger and frustration, snapping at people over the simplest of questions. A lot has changed since that last weekend with Cressida and yet it feels like everything is the same.

He’s flipping through his calendar on his desk for upcoming appointments he’s jotted down and pauses on the first weekend of May which is two months away.

In the past, he would already be preparing the secret weekend getaway with Cressida. He’d be confirming with The Golden Lion that his room and floor were reserved for him. He’d make sure the room is stocked with their favorite food and drink and that Cressida’s robe was firmly pressed. Now, that weekend is wide open, staring him in the face with its blankness.

For the first time in six years, the white squares are empty. The Golden Lion isn’t scrawled in his gold fountainhead pen, as if it’s been erased completely but the memories are still burned into his mind. She’s left her mark in him so deep.

Ashton had a very slow incline from the very deep valley of his heartache. His phone beeps and he presses the button with the flashing red light.

“Yes?” he asks through the intercom.

“Mr. Hemmings is here to see you, Mr. Irwin,” his assistant Phil announces.

“Send him in.”

“A package was delivered for you as well; shall I send it with Mr. Hemmings?”

“That’s fine, Phil. Thanks,” Ashton sighs. He leans back in his chair, his calendar still opened to his schedule in May.

Luke was the one who helped Ashton out of his deep ravine.

**

He watches Cressida walk down the hall and disappear into the elevator. She didn’t turn around once. He shuffles back inside and makes his way to the large windows overlooking the street down below. Cressida is easy to spot, she’s using his red umbrella then disappears into the backseat of her car and drives off. Leaving him behind.

The dark cloud has been hovering over them this whole weekend and he used everything in his power to keep it at bay, out of sight, out of mind. But now Cressida is out of his sight and he’s about to lose his mind, so he pours himself a double of his whisky. Before he knew it, the bottle was empty, and he called room service to send up some more.

He thought of the consumption as a form of poetic justice, or something along those lines. He wasn’t sure, Cressida would know. She always knows things like that.

Ashton stayed in the hotel room for a whole week until there was a loud pounding on his door. When he opens it, he sees Luke in his crisp Armani suit, his golden hair slicked back in a suave style. The smell of his aftershave was fresh. Luke wrinkles his nose in disgust.

“You look like shit, man.”

“Nice to see you, too,” Ashton mumbles using the door handle as a brace to stay standing.

“It smells like your distillery in here and it reeks off you. Have you been here this whole time?”

“Yeah, so what?

Luke glances behind him then asks carefully, “have you been drunk this whole time?”

“Nope. For the first couple of days, I was because I finished my whisky, but now I’m sober and angry.” He turns inside the room and pulls out a bottle of water, Luke follows him carefully by making sure not to step on dirty clothes. “Do you need anything?”

“Yeah, you. You need to get back to work. I’ve been calling and calling but your phone doesn’t even ring. Did you lose it?”

“It’s been in that drawer since about a week and a half ago,” Ashton nods to the dresser. His phone is right where he left it when he arrived for his weekend with Cressida.

“Fantastic. Pack it up and let’s get you clean shaven.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so?” Luke shoves his hands in his pockets, a golden brow arched upward. “Why not?”

“Because Luke,” Ashton sighs and stares at him with disdain and a far off look in his eyes. “The love of my life is no longer in my life and I’m trying to grab a handle on that.”

“I didn’t know you and Lucinda broke up.”

“Luc--? No! Not Lucinda. Cressida. She’s gone but if I stay in this room… it’s like she’s still here, like she’ll come back.”

“Hold on,” Luke holds up a hand. “Cressida James? How are you in love with her? Aren’t your families cursed or something?”

“No, we aren’t cursed,” Ashton scoffs, “we’re sworn enemies.”

“Ah, because that’s really a big difference,” Luke mutters.

“We’ve been seeing each other in secret for five years, coming to this room every first weekend in May.”

Luke’s eyes widen. “Five years? Okay, I need to be filled in on this but before I am, you need to shower and then we’ll get lunch.”

Ashton explained everything about his and Cressida’s relationship all the way from the beginning. Their first meeting on graduation eve, their months spent in Europe, the highs and lows, their secret discussions of work that made sales skyrocket, secret glances, everything.

“So, let me see if I got this right,” Luke wipes the corners of his mouth with his napkin then sets it on the table. He uses his hands as he speaks. “You and Lucinda aren’t really dating, Cressida and Gavin aren’t really dating, but you and Cressida have kind-of-sort-of been ‘dating’ for the last five years.”

“Correct.”

“But now, because somehow an arranged marriage is still a thing, she’s marrying Gavin and you two had to split up.”

“Yes.”

Luke stares at Ashton like he has three heads and Ashton stares right back, his face passive. He takes a drink of his water then raises his eyebrows.

“You look like you have more to say.”

“Ash, this is insane. You and Cressida are clearly meant to be together, for as long as I’ve known you, you have never been in a serious relationship. Hell, I’ve never seen you go out with someone until Lucinda came around.”

“It’s always been Cressida.”

“It can still always be Cressida! Ash,” Luke laughs dryly, “you need to stop this wedding. Confess your love and runaway with her!”

“Luke, this isn’t some romance movie, this is real life.”

“Real life where arranged marriages still exist?” Luke challenges. “This situation is fucked but you can get her back.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because she’d be disowned and lose the company. I won’t be responsible for that.”

“There’s no way she’d be free of the company. She’s the best CEO James Brandy has had in years, inflation and sales have been astronomical since she took over. Her family and your family are holding an old grudge that could have easily been a big miscommunication.”

Ashton sighs, he really appreciates his friend’s attempt at trying to solve his woes. Woes he’s brought upon himself, but he and Cressida will never be together, that’s just how it goes.

**

Ashton went back to work after speaking with Luke. He found it helped him not think about Cressida so much while he was in his office or walking among the floors of his distillery. He made sure Phil had him booked from dusk to dawn and when his mind started to wander to Cressida, he’d find another task to occupy himself.

Each day it got better; each week it became slightly easier. Although Ashton shut himself away, he had Gavin under a very confidential and watchful eye. When Ashton heard he still was involved in the drug cartel with a ton of debt, he decided to step in.

He went to Brazil where the drug lord resides; Ashton was welcomed warmly because they know how wealthy he is. Ashton discovered Gavin has been trying to get out of it, but he owes $1.2 billion dollars. He thought back to Cressida’s cheek and his mind is set.

“I’ll pay his debt in full. Expect the money to be wired tomorrow no later than four,” Ashton says then makes his way towards the door. No one questions him on the money because Ashton is known to being true to his word.

“What is he to you that you are willing to pay off his debt?”

“He owes me something as well, something way more valuable than money.”

“Hmm,” Homer strokes his mustache thoughtfully, “I see. We’ll need to kick him out like we would with the rest of them, debt paid and all. It will be painful.”

“I did my part, who am I to tell you how to do yours?” Ashton shrugs and then he’s gone.

**

While Ashton waits for Luke to come into his office, he peruses through his news app and sees Lucinda and her new boyfriend as they’re walking along the beach with their new puppy. When Ashton returned from Brazil on his little errand, that’s when he learned of his breakup. Lucinda was there at his house waiting for him. She said she couldn’t keep doing this and if it ruins her career then so be it, she didn’t want to lose Stephen.

Ashton was more than understanding and told her he wishes her the best, and he meant it. After she kissed his cheek on her way out, Ashton wondered if his and Cressida’s decision made them weak or strong. He didn’t want to dwell on it for too long and let a second woman walk out of his life.

Luke waltzes in Ashton’s office in a grandeur fashion and waves a rectangular box in the air.

“Delivery for Mr. Ashton Irwin, I accept tips in the form of largely written checks,” he grins tossing the box on Ashton’s desk.

“Watch it, what if that was fragile and you just broke it?” Ashton shakes his head as Luke drops himself on the blue suede chair.

“I didn’t hear anything break. Let’s go on a trip, Canada sounds nice and welcoming, doesn’t it?”

“Why do you want to go on a trip?” Ashton puts the box in his desk drawer and gathers his wallet and two phones.

“Trips are fun, trips have class and culture. Aren’t you going to open that?”

“I will on Monday. I’ve been getting smaller bottle designs from a vendor that won’t take no for an answer. Who would want a small bottle of my whisky?”

They continue their chatter to the elevator in front of Phil’s desk.

“Mr. Irwin, did you receive the package?”

“I did. We’ll have to send something back. Can you do that for me, Phil?”

“Yeah!” Phil’s eyes widen as if in excitement, Luke and Ashton exchange a look. “I can absolutely send something. What would you like me to say?”

“Um, you can come up with the message. I’m sure you’d make it sound better than mine. Have a good weekend.”

Phil scrambles to his phone and quickly dials some number. Ashton thought he heard him faintly say a name that sounded like Chloe. Chloe is Cressida’s assistant. He shakes his head, he definitely heard him wrong and tunes back into Luke who’s talking about Canadian syrup. Ashton feels a picking at his brain, he can’t quite put his finger on what it is. It felt like he was forgetting something.

One Month Until Wedding

Cressida and Gavin are driving back from his property on the lake. They spent a long weekend laying in the sun, cruising on the water in the early dawn on his boat, and cooking meals together. On the mornings where they didn’t wake up early to go on the boat, the time was spent getting to know each other.

Cressida always feels like she’s in an odd déjà vu every moment she shares with him because it reminds her of some other time. She’s constantly having to only see Gavin in front of her and not a ghost of her past. They’ve continued to get closer and closer; a close friendship has formed completely.

Gavin knew this was the first weekend she wouldn’t be seeing Ashton, so he wanted to help get her mind off of it. She notices that whenever they’re holding hands, his thumb will be circling around the ring on her finger. She catches him staring at her from time to time and while it gives her butterflies, it’s also warning signs. Warning signs that Ashton is slipping away, and she doesn’t want that to happen.

“Can we get serious for a hot second?” he asks when he parks in her driveway.

“Yeah, what’s up?” she gathers up her purse, phone, water bottle, and sunglasses.

“I’m all in on this with you, Cress.”

Cressida stops her movements; she feels her cheeks warm up then looks at him nervously. He’s getting really good at reading her.

“I’ve…I’ve grown attached to you and those feelings are growing. I know you aren’t there yet, or maybe you never will be, or someday maybe? I don’t know. But I’m in this for you,” he stares her down, his eyes full of nothing but honesty. “And any way you’ll have me, I’ll take it. okay?”

“Okay,” she nods then touches his cheek, rubs at his skin. He places his hand over hers, his thumb rubbing over her engagement ring and he kisses the inside of her palm. “I’m sorry I have all of this…weight on me and it’s dragging you down.”

“You could never drag me down, you lifted me up in the first place,” he smiles.

Her heart tugs at his words. She hates herself for not knowing if it’s from flattery or an ache for another. She hates herself even more for being caught in the middle of her own feelings.

“Okay, serious talk over until some other time. Let’s set the bags in and freshen up before meeting your parents for Sunday dinner.” He gives her fingers one more kiss then exits the car.

“There you are! How was it, how did it go? Did you get the brace—OH!”

“Chloe?” Cressida’s in shock upon seeing her in her house. Not that it’s abnormal for her to be here but she didn’t have anything planned for her until Monday.

“Hi! What uh, what are you guys doing here?”

“We went to Gavin’s lake house for the weekend. I thought I ran that by you…” Cressida shakes her head. “What are you doing here?”

“Umm…I uh, there was a package for you but it…it’s the wrong thing. My mistake. I will return it,” she responds awkwardly and tries to scurry out the door.

“Oh, was it my shampoo? Let me take a look, I can see if I want to try it anyway,” Cressida drops her bags on the counter.

“You know what, I actually left it at the office. I’ll return it for you first thing tomorrow morning. I’ll see you Monday, bye!”

Gavin watches her leave the house in confusion; he turns to Cressida slowly.

“That was strange, wasn’t it?” Gavin points in her direction.

“Yeah… she was acting weird all week,” Cressida frowns. “I wonder if she’s going through a tough time or something…I’ll have to ask her tomorrow.”

“I’ll check on the plants and water them, then we can shower and head out?” he asks kissing her forehead.

“What do you mean by shower?” she cracks a smile, and he laughs.

“I didn’t mean it that way, I swear. But I’m open to it, always am,” he winks then heads out to her patio where her plants are.

Cressida chuckles watching him get the hose. Chloe had been acting giddy everyday last week, asking her indirect questions about her weekend plans, asking if she’s nervous. She made it seem like she knew where Cressida was going, so why was she surprised to see her home now?

The Big Day

Ashton already predicted this day would be horrible, but he didn’t imagine it happening right when he woke up. His coffee machine broke so he couldn’t have his first cup before stopping at his favorite coffee shop. Turns out that was also closed for renovations, so he messaged Phil to please pick up a new coffee machine and bring two coffees with him.

When Ashton arrived at his office building the computer systems were down which was just fantastic considering he’d be doing a video conference call with Japan at ten. He already wanted today to be over before he stepped in the elevator that seemed to take longer than normal to fly up to his office.

He had a migraine, and it was barely nine o’clock in the morning. Normally he’d be calling the hotel confirming everything. He hated today.

Phil comes rushing in with three coffees in a carrying tray and a box containing Ashton’s new coffeemaker.

“You’re a lifesaver, Phil, truly,” Ashton commends taking a drink of the first coffee. He already feels his headache subsiding. “Can we go over my meetings for today?”

“Yes, let me just…pull it up on my tablet here. Okay, so…”

Ashton listens to Phil rattle off times and names of who he will be dealing with today. While Phil talks, Ashton fixes his desk then opens his drawer and sees that rectangular box. The company hasn’t sent anything back so maybe they finally got the message, but now he wants to see what this bottle looks like.

He cuts it open, humming along to Phil, then sees another box. It’s maroon with a gold band running along the sides. It’s thin and that intrigues him, so he lifts the lid. Nestled inside is not a whisky bottle but the bracelet he bought Cressida three Valentine’s Days ago. Beneath it was a folded note that read, ‘meet me at our special place Friday. It’s important. I don’t think I can go through with it.”

“Phil, what the hell is this?” Ashton holds up the bracelet that is now looped around his fingers. Phil’s mouth is open like a fish out of water. “Phil?”

“I—you—didn’t you open that a few months ago?”

“No, I thought this was the whisky bottle from that company who keeps trying to partner with me. I told you to send them a message I wasn’t interested, but this is clearly not a whisky bottle. So…why is this in my possession?”

“You didn’t open it until now? I thought you did! That’s why I sent—oh no,” he groans and slumps into the chair in front of Ashton’s desk.

“Phil, what the hell is going on?” Ashton drops Cressida’s bracelet onto his desk, it clanks on the glass top.

“Chloe sent this from Miss James because she said Miss James was having reservations about the wedding. That she still loves you and…and you were supposed to meet at The Golden Lion, and you told me to send something back, so I sent your gold ring with a note saying you’ll be there. And oh my God, I thought you went last month but it didn’t end well so you were still angry this whole time,” Phil explains.

“But Cressida herself didn’t send this?”

“No, it was Chloe because she knows Miss James keeps the bracelet on all the time,” Phil pinches the bridge of his nose. “It was supposed to bring you back together and by me sending your gold ring…it was a sign you wanted her back, too.”

Ashton stares at Phil in complete surprise. He could have met up with Cressida a month ago and made up and they would probably be together right now.

“Did she go? Was she there? What did Chloe say?”

“I don’t—she didn’t go. Chloe said she went to some lake house with Gavin and now…she probably didn’t even get your ring…”

“What ring are you talking about?”

“Your gold one, with the ruby inside.”

Ashton’s mind is racing. His heart is about to combust. He’s connecting the dots and finding new ones that didn’t add up but make complete sense now. Why Phil seemed so excited that Ashton wanted to send a reply back. How he thought he misplaced his ring at the hotel but never got around to calling about it when really, it was delivered to Cressida but if she didn’t go to the hotel either…

“She never got the ring,” Ashton concludes and Phil wipes at the sweat on his brow.

“What?”

“You’re one hundred percent certain that Cressida received my ring?”

“I wouldn’t say one hundred—”

“Call Chloe now and find out.”

Phil scrambles for his phone, dropping it on the floor twice before pressing it to his ear. Ashton touches the bracelet before him, images of Cressida flashes in his eyes.

“Okay, thank you Chlo, yes I’ll tell him…yes…yes…well, it’s too late now. All right…yep…okay bye,” Phil ends the call then smiles at Ashton in relief. “She never got it. There’s still time to stop this wedding, sir.”

“If she went on a weekend trip with Gavin then she has to be over—”

“No! no, she’s not over you and you’re not over her!” Phil suddenly shouts jumping from his chair. “I’m sorry sir, if this gets me fired then so be it, but Chloe and I hated seeing you two act like you did. Your company will survive if you both were disowned but I highly doubt that would happen. We’ve seen you two together for six years. We couldn’t let you throw this away for some stupid arranged marriage.”

“Phil—”

“You have to stop this wedding. Two people who should be together and aren’t…that’s the worst kind of love story ever. I know your families are arch nemesis but that was how many years ago? And it’s not even your fight to begin with. Chloe and I think you should be together and it’s our faults that our plan failed but you can stop it today. Right now. I can—”

“Phil!” Ashton shouts causing Phil to shut up. “You aren’t fired. And this was very kind of you and Chloe to do but if Cressida didn’t personally—”

“She’s been on the fence about this wedding for the whole year! You have to go to her, sir, you just have to.”

Ashton sighs and plays with the bracelet. He thinks of the past year, how it wasn’t the best by any means because Cressida wasn’t in his life. She’s always said from the beginning that she didn’t care if she was disowned, that she’s only wanted him, and Ashton’s only wanted her. She’s the love of his entire life. Luke has told him to crash the wedding and he might just do that.

“Where is the wedding?”

**

Cressida is pacing in the bridal suite of the church. Her hair and makeup are finished, her dress is fastened to the very last button, and her heart has been in her stomach since she woke up this morning. Her hands feel clammy and she’s trying to focus on her breathing by taking deep shallow breaths. Her bridesmaids are drinking mimosas and enjoying themselves while the guests arrive in the large church.

The bridesmaids are discussing the honeymoon and placing friendly bets on if she’ll be pregnant upon the return. Cressida mentions she needs some air and moves into the hallway to continue her pacing. The door opens and expecting her mother, she starts defending herself.

“I’m fine, mother, I just need a minute to collect myself.”

“It’s me,” Chloe says, frowning at her boss and close friend. Cressida relaxes and steps in front of her, smoothing the skirt of her dress, her hands are shaking. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes, it’s just jitters. But I…I keep thinking of Ashton,” she whispers his name. It’s been so long since she spoke it out loud.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out at The Golden Lion, but you seemed so happy when you came home with Gavin I thought you were actually happy with him now.”

“What do you mean you’re sorry it didn’t work out at The Golden Lion?”

“I…what?” Chloe shakes her head in confusion. “You were supposed to meet Ashton at the hotel last month, he sent his gold ring and a note to go along with the one I sent him…with your bracelet.”

“My bracelet? Chloe, I didn’t get a ring. What is going on?”

“I placed the box on your desk and when you left for the weekend you seemed so happy, so I thought you were going to The Golden Lion to make up or runaway with him. I came by that Sunday to see how it went but you were with Gavin, so I thought you’d made your decision.”

“But I didn’t send him anything,” Cressida shakes her head slowly.

“That’s because I did,” Chloe fixes her fingers together in nerves. “I came up with the idea and Phil agreed to do it as well, we hated seeing you both so upset. We tried to fix it.”

“If I would have gotten his ring I wouldn’t have left with Gavin,” Cressida’s shoulders fall in sadness.

She starts pacing again, thinking of the good thing Chloe and Phil tried to do but fate seemed to have other plans. Did Ashton show up at the hotel? Was his heart broken even more when she didn’t show up even though she never got his ring and note?

“It’s almost time,” the wedding coordinator announces bustling down the hallway. She opens the door to the suite and orders the girls to get out and into line. “Follow me Miss James and I will make you a Missus.”

Cressida gulps but follows her. Chloe reaches out and grabs her hand, gives her a gentle squeeze. Cressida relaxes a little knowing that Chloe is with her through this as well. Gavin is a great guy; he’s been a good and patient friend with her through the wedding planning. She’ll grow to love him as time goes on, right?

Suddenly she’s in front of the doors and it’s almost her turn to walk down the aisle. How did the other girls go so fast? How does she not remember seeing them?

“You can do this,” Chloe assures her, but Cressida is very doubtful.

The music changes and she stops Chloe from walking down. Chloe looks at her in alarm.

“I need to speak with Gavin, please. Can you bring him to me?”

Chloe nods. “Yes, yes of course. I’ll be right back.”

Chloe opens the doors then slips inside running along the sides of the pews. The guests watch her run her way up to the alter where Gavin is waiting in a crisp suit, his hair perfectly styled, and a large marigold fastened to his lapel. When he sees Chloe running, he knows what that means.

“Is she all right?” Gavin asks when Chloe reaches him.

“I don’t know, I’m not sure. She wants to speak with you, I’m sorry but that’s all I know.”

“It’s okay, I’ll speak with her,” he nods then turns to the pastor. “It’ll be just a few more moments. The bride wishes to speak with me, I’m sure everything’s fine. I’ll be right back.”

The pastor stares after him in bewilderment as Gavin follows Chloe back down the aisle. He smiles and nods at the guests trying to look reassuring. He knows what this looks like, but his mind is focused on Cressida. When he spots her, she’s grasping onto a table, her knuckles white.

“Cress?” he touches her shoulder carefully so as not to scare her. She flinches anyway then turns to Gavin, her face pale and eyes glossy. “Talk to me.”

“I can’t do this, Gavin, I’m so sorry,” Cressida sniffles. She takes Gavin’s hands, and he feels the ring fall into his palm. “You’ve been so kind and patient with me, and you’re a wonderful man but I don’t love you and I don’t think I ever would love you how you properly should be. You deserve more than a woman who’s hung up on another man. You deserve to be loved the right way. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Shh, shh,” he swipes the tears from her face and forces a smile. “I know. It’s all right.”

“It is?”

“I have grown feelings for you, and I know you’ve been trying to find some for me and to be honest, I hate seeing you try so hard. You’re meant to be with Ashton, not me. Go to him.”

“I should tell everyone inside—”

“I’ll worry about them,” he shakes his head, “and I’ll tell our parents. I’ll take care of everything.”

“I’m a horrible person,” she cries, “this is all because of me.”

“Loving someone doesn’t make you horrible. I’ll be fine Cressida, I’d rather have you as a friend than nothing at all.”

“Thank you,” she whispers then flings herself into his arms. He hugs her tightly, breathing in her hair and holds her as tight as he can. She pulls away to look up at him. “I will be a little bit jealous who you end up with. She’ll need my approval.”

“That’s nice to know,” he laughs then kisses her forehead. “Go find Irwin.”

Cressida takes a deep breath, stretches on her toes to kiss his cheek then lifts up her skirt and runs to the main entrance of the church where Chloe is already waiting with her bag and phone.

“How did you--?”

“I had a feeling,” Chloe shrugs. “The car is coming around.”

“Thank you, you’re the best assistant and friend I could have ever asked for.”

Cressida bustles her dress as best she can in the back of her car, her driver is a little bewildered but then slams on the gas to get to The Golden Lion. Her heart is thundering in her chest, her left hand feels weightless without the ring, and she hopes Ashton is there. Should she call him? Just then her phone buzzes and it’s a text from Chloe.

‘He was on his way to the church, but I contacted Phil and diverted his course. You should get there around the same time. Good luck :)’

Cressida lets out a shaky breath and suddenly she’s very nervous again. The hotel is twenty minutes away from the church. What will she say? What will he say? Will he take her back? She’s trying to stay hopeful but what if he sees her and decides it’s better they’re not together?

It’s a very long drive where she has time to recollect their time together. Meeting that night before graduation, the endless mornings and evenings in Europe, secret glances and very well constructed touches at parties they both needed to attend, Bora Bora, each weekend at The Golden Lion. She’s loved him completely forever and she can only hope he’ll want her the same way.

She’s approaching the hotel, the building shines in the golden afternoon, the mane of the lion sparkling. She struggles getting out of the car with her dress and makes her way up the steps and sees the back of Ashton. He’s peering into one of the rooms where they’ve shared many parties together. His hair is longer in the back and he looks broader in the shoulders.

Cressida can’t speak so she walks towards him. Just as she’s about to open her mouth, he turns around and she forgets to breathe. His scruff has turned into a full-grown beard and it’s very well kept, it makes him look even more handsome. Standing in front of him she feels more at peace than she has in months. She feels whole and complete.

“Hi,” he breathes, his hazel eyes scanning over her in her dress. “You’re…you’re an absolute vision, angel.”

“Did you really send me your ring? Because I never got it, but I swear, I would have been here last month. I’ve never stopped loving you and I never will. I called it off. The whole thing. And if I get kicked out of the business then I’ll start my own and we can build our own partnership. It’s always been you—”

Not being able to stand it anymore, Ashton gathers her in is arms and kisses her deeply. His arms wrap around the home he’s been missing for 365 days. His lips are kissing the lips he’ll never get tired of kissing. Cressida’s fingers twist into his hair kissing him back with just as much enthusiasm. It’s like she can finally breathe. Their love is bursting at the seams.

“I’ll never stop loving you either, Cressida,” he mumbles rubbing his nose against hers lovingly. He stares into her eyes. “I don’t care about the ring or the bracelet or our bad timing, what matters is that we’re both here now. And I’m never letting you walk out the doors unless I’m right next to you.”

“I love you,” she smiles and strokes his beard, it’s soft under her fingers. “I’ve wanted to call so many times. You look different, I love this beard.”

“Yeah? I was thinking of shaving it,” he grins.

“Don’t,” she shakes her head, “not yet.”

“Although I’m glad to see you, what about your wedding?”

“Gavin’s taking care of it, he’s a really good man, Ashton. And he’s going to tell our parents the wedding is off, but I want to tell them about you and me. I don’t want to love you behind closed doors anymore.”

“And I’ll be right by your side. Luke made a very good point about our ‘disownment’ and we won’t be losing our companies.”

“It’s settled then,” she sighs but pulls away from him. Ashton looks forlorn from the sudden distance. “There’s only one thing left to do.”

“What’s that?” he asks trailing his fingers down her arm so he can latch onto her own. He’s not letting her go.

Her eyes dance, the gold in them sparkling. “Help me out of my dress?”

They kiss freely in the elevator as they ascend to their floor, to their room. But it feels different because of their decision to finally come clean about their relationship. Ashton’s hands are frantic as he pulls her from her dress, her lips never leave his skin as they fall onto their bed.

Murmured words of love are pressed to skin, their fingers grasp and lock together as they reconnect. This feels different too, it’s not a secret anymore and they never will be again. Whatever happens after they leave this room, they’ll handle it together.

In a rush they come together but they’re nowhere near done. Ashton kisses all over her chest, her neck, her throat, and her hands roam over the dips and valleys of his body. She finds the maps only she knows; touches the freckles she’s discovered time and time again.

“My love for you is pure gold,” he sighs before slipping his tongue in her mouth. “Beautiful, rare…”

“And precious,” she smiles rolling him over onto his back. “It’s me and you, baby.”

They fall and crash together, the golden sun setting on their love. It’s a promise for a golden morning, a new beginning and the start of their life being shared into the light. No more secrets, just Ashton and Cressida loving each other beautifully, gently, passionately. A golden love for the ages.

Taglist: @calpalirwin​​ @myloverboyash​​ @loveroflrh​​ @cxddlyash​​ @princesslrh​​ @spicylftv​​ @notinthesameguey​​ @itjustkindahappenedreally​​ @calumance​​ @thew0rldneedsmcreycghurt​​ @sarcastically-defensive17​​ @another-lonely-heart​​ @devilatmydoor​​ @thatscooibaby​​ @suchalonelysunflower​​ @dead-and-golden​​ @mymindwide​​ @blackbutterfliescal​​ @redrattlers​​ @karajaynetoday​​ @quasighost​​ @i-like-5sos​​ @creampiecashton​​ @calpops​​ @littledrummeraussie​​ @sexgodashton​​ @f-mu​​ @mystic-232

[amoosewritesfanfic]

One More Hit +18

[+18]

[I own none of the characters nor any art posted.]

[smut warnings: alcohol, sex, language, non-consensual, rough sex, mind break, degrading, light bondage]

[Bakugou Katsuki X Female Reader]

[Mafia Bakugou X Stripper Reader]

[Synopsis: You work at a strip club that is often frequented by a very well known mafia gang, they always had different girls every time, but it was one short almost always… but one day you were called into that room… it was an equal ratio of the dancers to the gangsters. You had no idea why, but the infamous Bakugou Katsuki chose you out of all the girls.]

─

In this bar the patrons got drunk fast, cheap drinks really have people excited, but the one thing they really pay for well was the girls, and fuck do they pay extremely well.

“C’mon Candy, I got more than usual tonight!~” you often get told as you worked the pole, before getting onto your knees so they could slip that large amount of money into your bra or in your thong.

You often gave them a little extra, touching every inch of your body to rile them up into them giving you more money.

Hell you even worked the pole as if it was their laps, moving up and down trailing your hands along your body and the pole.

And you were by far one of the most flexible girls in the entire club and you often showed that off, pulling your leg up high and even doing the splits working the floor too.

And on this night, the same mafia group walked in and asked for the usual amount for protection and ordered their girls for that night and as usual it looked like they were on girl short for the four men.

There was a red head who you’ve come to know as Kirishima, according to the girls he’s been with he’s gentle but always leaves little marks peppered on their skin.

There was another who had black hair, his name was Sero, he always was rough especially found of tying up his girls.

There was a yellow haired male who had a lightning mark on his hair, Denki… he was apparently found of having his girls do all the work.

But the final one… that final man with ash blonde hair and red coloured hues, he was a mystery, he was always just drinking at the bar talking to the bartender about business, but you noticed something odd, he went into the blue room.

Now within the blue room there were four other rooms just for the four of them to take girls into and fuck them senseless, of course they paid the girls very well so they never complained after all these girls are all trying to pay something off and you’re no different.

The ash blonde male… well he never ever used his room always saying he doesn’t need any girl to please him, well… that’s what you heard from the bartender, so seeing him follow his companions into the blue room you felt confused.

You finished off the last bit of your show and bid the patrons goodnight, but when you got to the changing room your ‘mother’ stopped you handing you a new set of clothes and she even told you to shower. You were confused, you never get called to the blue room, ever.

“Bakugou Katsuki wants you tonight. Don’t speak unless he gives you permission and give him the best service you can give, I don’t want to lose ya to that man.” Your ‘mother’ told you.

Of course, it took you a moment to figure who she was talking about, it was the ash blonde male with those piercing red eyes.

He wanted you…

Panic started to build up inside you, you never serviced any of the patrons in this way and the only reason this was happening was because well… You somehow caught the eye of one of the most infamous gangsters, he was dangerous and feared.

And he didn’t seem like the type to mess around with girls especially after everything you heard from the bartender.

Regardless you take a quick shower and reapply your make up, nothing too extravagant but not too little either, after you finish the makeup you slip into the outfit which consisted of one black laced bralette, a black thong with a green X in the front of it and it had a green outline on it.

It was accompanied by a pair of heeled knee-high combat boots and a pair of black thigh high stockings that hugged your thighs awfully well. Once you were done you made your way into the blue room, you were handed a tray with a bottle of the club’s finest whiskey and a crystal glass for the whiskey.

You knocked on the door lightly before you heard the voice of the male telling you to come in.

As you enter the room you are met by those bright red hues, trailing up and down your frame, you turned around to close the door which gave him a full few of your ass.

“Look at that. They even dressed you up for me just like a fucking present.” His voice before was muffled by the door, but hearing it now… it sent goosebumps along your skin.

“C’mere,” he motioned for you to approach him, which you did. Setting down the tray on the side table, because you couldn’t afford to drop the bottle.

“Smart choice Y/N.” Your heart dropped, when you heard your real name your body tensed up slightly, how did he know your name…?

None of the patrons no matter who they are should know any of the girl’s names.

“You scared of me Y/N? I mean it is only natural, a man who isn’t supposed to know your name…” a pause before he gripped your wrist and pulled you down into his lap, gripping your face so you could look at him.

“But I know everything princess.” He said smugly. “And I own you… since I own this club.” He growled as his hand wrapped around your throat, your breath hitched in your throat as his other hand started trailing along your body, stroking your skin in a sensual manner, it sent shivers up your spine and since you were straddling the male you could feel his arousal building up against your thigh.

“But I don’t have to have sex with you…” You said timidly, he had a gun and if you pissed him off he would most definitely shoot you. Laughter erupted from the ash blonde male.

“Baby, I could give a fuck less about your feelings, trust me by the end of this you’ll want me just as bad as I want your pretty little ass.” As he spoke, he gave your ass a firm smack which caused you to almost groan.

“Tough girl huh?” he hummed as he brought your face close to his so he could kiss you, but before his lips pressed to yours he spoke.

“That isn’t gonna last long princess, I’ll make sure I fuck that disobedience out of ya.”

With his lips now pressed against yours, you tried pulling back from him but his hand was squeezing the back of your neck forcing you to keep your lips against his, his hand trailed up your back before he groped your breast which earned a quiet muffled moan from you.

“Hmmn~” he hummed, pinching your nipple through your bralette which earned another muffled moan.

He broke this kiss trailing wet kisses along your jaw, his hand which rested on your neck moved up to grab a handful of your hair to pull your head back, trailing sloppy kisses along your neck before sucking on the skin, but as you tried to push him off his free hand which was tugging and pinching at your nipple immediately grabbed hold of your wrists pressing them to your back as he started leaving marks all over your neck and your chest.

“What a slutty body… No wonder all those men throw money at you.” He murmured against your skin before he bit your nipple over the bralette which caused you to gasp.

“N-no… please stop… I-… ah.” Before you could interject, he let go of your hair and grabbed you throat, pinning you down onto the couch, he was now in between your legs looking down at you with a smug look on his face.

“C’mon bitch, you gotta beg louder~ otherwise the big bad man is gonna fuck you silly.” As he spoke, he pulled out cable ties and tied your wrists to a pole that happened to be next to the couch.

You tried tugging them to get out but instead you felt them tighten around your wrists.

“Now let’s see more of that pretty body yeah?” he said as he raised his hand giving your cheek a firm smack causing you to whimper. His fingers trailed from your cheek, along your jaw and moved to your cleavage, his fingers leaving goosebumps.

The feeling made you squirm beneath him, it made him chuckle. With one hand teasing your nipple through your bralette the other hand slipped into his blazer pocket pulling out a pocket knife, your body tensed up and eyes widened as you looked between his face and the blade.

“Don’t worry princess, I won’t cut you… not unless you give me a reason to.” You felt the cold blade run along your skin causing you to whimper, he cut your bralette which instantly exposed your perky breasts, your face was flushed. You were use to people seeing your naked body, after all that was your job, but… with him it felt different, the way his hungry eyes stared at you as though you were prey sent shivers up your spine.

“Oh fuck princess what pretty tits.” He said as he groped both of them, squeezing the nipples before he smacked both of your breasts which caused you to whimper, you turned your head to look away from him.

His head dipped down, you felt his warm mouth take the erect nub into his mouth, his teeth tugging as his tongue flicked over it as his fingers pinched and tugged your other nipple, causing you to moan quietly, you’re hips almost bucking and you knew he was smiling from your reaction.

“What an honest body my slut has…~” he mumbled before he did the same to the other nipple. Once he was happy his tongue trailed down along your stomach causing your back to arch slightly.

“Let’s see what princess has going on down here…” he mumbled as he got face to face with that sweet spot, the blade trailing lightly against that spot, even bumping against your clit which caused you to moan again. “P-please not there… god please no not there… Katsuki…” He didn’t listen you your pleas, instead you felt him grip your panties, tugging them to press against your slick cunt making you whimper and gasp.

“Princess, your body really is fucking honest isn’t it? Your so wet for daddy~ I can’t believe it~” he teased. He cut the panty making you whimper again, nothing was hiding your wet pussy from his eyes, it made you flustered but your body was being too honest.

SNAP

He leaned in running his tongue along your wet folds, tasting your love juices, he almost moaned from the flavor, you couldn’t bite back from your own moans which escaped your lips, your back arched slightly at the feeling of his tongue flicking over your clit.

“What a sweet little cunt~” he cooed before sliding his tongue into you, his tongue swirling around your hole, pressing against every inch of your cunt.

“N-no… there…” you moaned pulling at the restraints his hand squeezing your thighs before he gave your ass a firm smack which caused your walls to tighten around his tongue this caused him to chuckle a little before pulling back.

SNAP

“My little bitch is so fucking eager to let me fuck her.” He said as he shifted remaining between your legs, his hands reached down and unzipped his trousers, pulling out his fully erect cock.

The sight of it… it scared you but it aroused you at the same time you didn’t know why.

“If you were a good slut and didn’t need to be tied up like a bitch in heat you would have enjoyed this so much better… I won’t lie… I really want to feel those soft hands tugging at my hair and leaving scratch marks all along my back as I fuck you senseless.” As he spoke, he rubbed his length against your soaked folds as means to lube himself up.

You couldn’t help but whimper at the sensation of his cock rubbing against you, he felt so big… was he gonna break you? It felt like he would break you with one thrust.

“Look at me kitten~” he cooed as his hand cupped your chin, forcing you to look at him, it caused you to whimper, but his expression was gentle which helped you relax you almost didn’t react to him slipping his tip inside you.

But with the size sliding into her hole it caused her to moan, her back arching slightly.

"Relax baby girl~" he cooed as he stroked your cheek, you whimpered quietly, but a moan soon followed as he gave one thrust, burying himself in the deepest parts of your pussy.

SNAP

It felt like your brain became mush in that moment.

You moaned out, he lifted your legs and pinned them up against your chest, it made his cock go deeper inside you.

"F-fuck...~♡" you moaned, your head tilting back slightly.

Your voice and body betrayed you, you were feeling nothing more than pleasure from his cock which started moving within you his hips moving back and forth.

"Look at you, I've barely started moving and you're a drooling mess~" he teased you giving your ass a few firm snacks before he really started moving, slamming his hips into yours.

Your moans had become louder every time he had hit your sweet spot, he would groan from the warmth of your hole.

"Jesus fuck... your pussy is so fucking tight... one would swear you're a virgin... but fuck tight pussies are the best... don't you think? I bet you love squeezing... my cock like this." He groaned as one hand smacked your ass before he put your legs on his shoulders.

"Fuck... I-its so deep.. I'm gonna cum... you're gonna make me cum...~♡" you moaned out.

"Yeah? Who's gonna make you cum princess hmm?" He growled slamming his hips harder against yours making your hips buck but soon your walls clamped down onto his cock.

"You... you daddy...~♡" you moaned out.

"Louder!" He said smacking your ass. He put your legs around his waist thrusting deeper into you as his hand wrapped around your throat.

"Y-you... daddy... fuck.. you... you're gonna make cum all over your cock!!" Your tone in moans had changed when his hand wrapped around your throat, but more so because you started cumming.

Squirting your love juices all over his cock and stomach.

"Look at that pretty pussy squirt... hmm baby girl, look at that slutty pussy~" he had the biggest grin on his face.

He pulled out and stood up, he watched your twitching legs and shaking body as you tried coming down from that high.

"Hmm I can't believe this after so long I can finally play with my pretty little toy~" he hummed.

Honestly at that moment you had no clue what he meant, you didn't think much of it.

You never did... you couldn't focus on it because of how much ecstasy he was putting you through.

He cut you loose and pulled you onto the ground, forcing you to kneel in front of him as he smacked your face, causing you to whimper, but somehow you managed to maintain eye contact with the male.

"Pretty princesses clean up after they made a mess~ c'mon princess clean up daddy's cock with that pretty little mouth~" he said taking a hand full of your hair and pulling your head back.

"Y-yes daddy...~" you answered plainly and then opened your mouth nice and wide for the male, he aligned himself with your mouth and thrusted himself inside.

You couldn't help but gag slightly, but as he started to thrust down your throat all you could was hollow out your cheeks, saliva dripping down your chin and onto your breasts.

Your mind was spinning you couldn't help but rub yourself as a means to get off from him fucking your throat.

"Oh look at that~ while choking on some cock you're busy fingering yourself~ how fucking cute~" he groaned feeling your tongue rub against his length, you whimpered as his pace quickened.

With two very hard and fast thrusts, he buried himself deep inside your throat and let out his thick load.

You had now choice but to swallow every drop, but somehow you were happy about it. Your body felt thrilled.

When he pulled out you whined quietly sitting on the floor like a dog waiting for its next meal.

"Look at that... my little bitch in heat... is so eager for me~" he mumbled running his finger along your cheek.

"I think we're gonna have so much fun from here on out~" he said giving your face a smack once again, it earned a small groan, but you didn't stop looking at him.

"Let's take ya home yeah?~ don't worry I'll send some to pick up your belongings... from now on your my little bitch do I make myself clear?"

"Yes daddy... yes... anything for you~♡" you said eagerly.

"Dance for daddy little bitch~" he said, zipping his pants back up and pouring himself a drink before sitting down on the couch.

Motioning the stripper pole in the middle of the room, and you did as asked, gave him a show. Moving your body so he could see the pussy he stretched abd the mouth he violated.

Hell he could even see the bite marks and hand prints.

"Oh daddy's gonna have so much fun with you little one~" he cooed.

─

That was the last night you ever went back to the club. There was no need because you had become the person plaything of Bakugou Katsuki.

─

─

[If you liked this I'll try and make a part 2? Just dm me or something if you want a part 2 :3]

Part 2a

Part 2b

Part 3

Part 4

[lovehugsandcandy]

Jump (Colt x MC, RoD)

A/N: This was a request from @shondideaira-blog of Colt/MC getting pregnant young; thank you so much for the request but this is the reason that no one should ever ask me because 1) it will take 75 years and 2) it’s probably not what you want anyways. Thank you again for requesting this, I am so sorry it took so long, and I hope you enjoy it!

Length: ~5,400 words

Rating/Warnings: R (Swearing. Unplanned pregnancy.)

Summary: Colt’s path has taken some sharp turns but somehow, it takes him to the right place anyways.

Colt Kaneko is 42.

Colt is 42, and he feels every single one of those years bearing down on him when he slouches into his desk chair. Hours spent wrenching on an import have made his back tight, and even the sultriest of massages hasn’t loosened the knot that’s lived for weeks between his shoulder blades.

He rolls his shoulders, shaking out the crick in his neck, and squints at the numbers on the screen. Right as he focuses on the first row, his cell phone blares and he reaches over, grateful for the distraction, picking up before the second ring.

“Hello.” His voice is gruff, and he stands, pacing the 15 steps to the office door.

“Hey, Pop.”

“Well?” He paces the 15 steps back. “How’d it go?” Jackson sighs on the other end, and Colt’s heart lurches. “Well?”

“I…” The tone of his voice shifts, and Colt can hear the smile breaking over his son’s face. “I got the job!.”

“I knew you could do it.”

“I mean, I still need to finish my thesis so I really need to hunker down , but… I got it. Don’t tell Mom yet, ok? I wanna call her after she’s home from work.”

Colt smiles fondly; Jackson’s studious nature definitely wasn’t from him. Colt would have bailed on a thesis faster than he bailed out of university. He wasn’t the one who fought tooth and nail to graduate university; he wasn’t the one who would write out flashcards in one hand while rocking an infant in the other. “I won’t.” 

He looks at the darkened phone screen for long moments after his son hangs up. Every single one of his 42 years has been both eternal and fleeting; he can only shake his head with a chagrined smile as he turns back to the computer.

~~~~~~

Colt Kaneko is 6.

Colt is 6, but he’s not deaf and he’s not dumb, either. He knows his parents are fighting just behind the closed office door. His leg swing, clanging against the toolbox he’s perched on, and he drums anxious fingers against the metal beneath him.

He waits, watching the mechanics bustle around, watches the other people who work for his dad (they aren’t mechanics but he doesn’t know what they do but he knows enough to avoid them when they storm through the shop lugging briefcases and boxes). Every so often, he can hear raised voices, shouts from the office before the bitter tones become unintelligible. He doesn’t know what they’re fighting about, but it’s probably about him.

This weekend, he was supposed to stay with his dad but, as soon as his mom caught sight of the crowded shop floor and gleaming new sports car, she stormed right up to Pop and dragged him to the office by his wrist. His staff looked on in shock, like they couldn’t believe this tiny pipsqueak of a lady could force the great Teppei Kaneko to heel.

He wasn’t shocked at all.

People fear his dad. It’s obvious in the terror in their eyes, the way they rush to do his bidding and agree to his every suggestion. Even the mechanics who work the floor here, they stay out of Pop’s way, especially when he is angry. He’s seen his dad batter walls, slam wrenches into windshields, and, on one memorable occasion, punch someone in the jaw before he realized that Colt had crept downstairs. 

He still remembers the crunch of fist against bone.

It’s power, how his dad uses his brain and his brawn and his anger to force others to bend to his will, and Colt wants it, bad. He wants more than anything to be like his dad.

The door slams open, and his mother rushes from the office; her eyes are livid, wild, and Colt watches as she whirls on Pop again, stepping close to snarl up at him.

His mom is never scared of Pop, not even on his worst day, and, as he hops down off the toolbox and saunters to her side, he can’t hide the awe from his face. Her eyes narrow and she delivers one last barb, words so low Colt can’t hear them, but he catches the shock flitting across Pop’s face. It must have been something brutal.

“Colt, come on.” His mother gestures to him, and he frowns.

“But-”

“Colt, now.”

He bites his tongue, shooting one last wounded look at his father before following her past gleaming cars, out to the lobby. There, the receptionist sits, burly and oversized in a tiny desk chair, his one eye staring down where stubby fingers fiddle with metal, soft cloth rhythmically swiping over dark steel.

“Jesus, Rocco,” his mom growls. “Colt is right here.”

“Sorry, ma’am.” Rocco looks down at him, and Colt takes a step back. The man is hardened, imposing, tattooed biceps as big as Colt’s head and eyepatch covering a crater of puckered skin that haunts his nightmares. However, as fearsome as he is in darkness, now Rocco just nods, shuffling the metal into a giant lockbox; Colt can’t see what he was cleaning before he closes the lid, clang heavy and loud in the small room. “I’ll put it away.”

His mom nods and briskly walks out the front door; Colt follows, shooting a cautious glance behind her, and he needs to hustle up the street to catch up to her.

“What was that, Ma?”

“What do you mean?”

“What did Rocco have?”

She stops, turning away from the shop window to bring a soft hand to his forehead, running her fingers through his hair affectionately. “Nothing, baby. You don’t need to worry about him.”

He studies her, and her dark eyes glow warmly. He can’t help but smile. His mom’s not scared of Pop, and she’s not scared of Rocco either.

His mom’s not scared of anything.

Maybe Colt actually wants to be like her.

~~~~~

Colt Kaneko is 19.

Colt is 19 and his world is ending.

“What do you mean?”

“Colt, you heard me, come on.” Ellie bites her lip and stares at him, eyes imploring, and all he can think is that his life is over.

Technically, his life already is over. When his father immolated himself in front of his eyes, when the shop burned to the ground, when legacy and past and future all disappeared into raging flames that scorched his eyebrows and scorched his soul, it ended, in a blaze as hot as the anger that races through his veins.

But now he is cold, freezing, the shock chilling him to his core; when he exhales, he’s surprised that his breath comes out clear, not floating in grey tendrils through the air.

He always has a plan. Hell, he always has multiple plans, one to execute and then a few backups, and each of those plans has multiple escape routes. Fuck, half the time his backup plans have backup plans, timelines and contingencies mapped and traced in advance. He can leave nothing to chance. Nothing can be open to interruption. Every second, every step, hell, every breath happens precisely according to plan. 

But it’s hard to plan for something that, in your wildest dreams, you never, ever saw coming.

That Ellie Wheeler is standing in front of him is a shock. That she just said the three words he thinks she said is an absolute catastrophe.

“I can’t… I can’t have heard you correctly.”

“Colt! For crying out loud!” Her fingers pull through the curls surrounding her face and she looks uneasy, uncertain. Her eyes pool with tears and he would, he should close the distance and pull her into his arms, but his leaden feet won’t fucking move. “I’m… I’m pregnant.”

“How…”

She rolls her eyes. “You know how, I don’t think you need a recap.”

“But… mine?”

“Are. You. Kidding. Me?” Her eyes flash dangerously and he is reminded, for not the first time, that no one should underestimate her. Her brain and her fire attracted him to her most; to see them turn on him is disorienting in an already unsettled conversation.

“But… Logan?”

“Are you…” She trails off and it’s as if her fight dissipates into the night air, slim shoulders falling. “Colt….” She peers at him imploringly, shimmering eyes reflecting the moonlight. “I’m pregnant with your child.”

He continues to gape at her, mouth open, mind frozen, and when that continues for far too long, he shuts his jaw and stares at his feet. Somewhere in the distance, a car backfires, echoing like a shot against the concrete, and still he studies his boots, the scuff marks on his left toe, the shoelace on his right unraveling.

He doesn’t know what she wants him to say. He doesn’t know what he wants to say.

“What are you gonna…”

The fire in her eyes flares, positively scorching. “What am I gonna what…”

“Ellie, come on.” He rakes a hand through his hair; his stomach is dropping and the concrete floor underneath his feet spins. Colt makes plans; that’s what he does. It’s in his brain, his blood, but all of his quick thinking leaves him now (he imagines a toddler stumbling around the shop floor, he imagines a child being caught in the crosshairs of a rival, he imagines image after image after image and every single scenario flying through his head makes him sicker and sicker). “This… I… we can’t really…”

“We can’t really what,” she spits out.

He rocks back on his heels. “Ellie, I’m building up the crew. This isn’t exactly the time for-”

“Don’t you think this changes things?!?” Her voice cracks at the end, breaking pitch, and Colt winces. “Don’t you think this changes everything?”

He blinks at her, numbly; his plans have plans and he can see them all sliding away from him, slipping from his grasp while he stands there gaping. His plans of rebuilding the shop, brick by brick and board by board. His plans of rebuilding the crew, regaining the reputation and influence of his father and his father’s father and his father’s father’s father.

He can see all of them falling through his fingers like ash, grinding into the concrete at his feet.

She’s sniffling, tears welling and spilling over, streaks of moisture dripping down her cheeks, her jaw, skin he’s touched and caressed and kissed, now marred with sadness that he caused. “This messed up my plans too, but it’s like you don’t even think about that, it’s all about you and the crew-“

“All I fucking do is think about you!” He shouts and grimaces when her eyes widen; it seems far too close a reveal to scream raw into the night.

“If that were true, we would be together.”

“Ha. Like it’s that easy,” he scoffs. “Are you gonna stay here, build up the crew with me?”

“With a child?!?”

His eyes fall to her stomach; she looks exactly the same, but everything has changed. “With the future legacy of the Mercy Park Crew.”

“Ha. No.” She crosses her arms over her chest, chin raised. “I’m not staying, not letting that be our baby’s path, our baby’s life!”

“Then I guess you decided.”

“I guess so.” She gazes at him; her tears have dried and now something cold and hard fills her eyes instead. He shivers.

He watched her walk away before, returning to her sheltered life and her sheltered school and her sheltering father, but that hadn’t felt as final as this moment. Back then, he swore that she would realize her true path, and he was determined to build a legacy for her to return to.

But now, watching her walk away, it feels like the end-of him, of them, of every dream he had been working toward, of any legacy he wanted to leave, of every plan he wanted to run.

There was no fire here, but the wreckage was worse.

~~~~~

Colt Kaneko is 26.

Colt is 26 so, through his 26 years of life, he has developed a well-honed understanding of what he likes and what he dislikes.

And Colt hates camping.

He’s a city person, at home in a concrete jungle; the blare of frantic car horns and the savory aroma of food trucks are comforting, familiar. He’s in his element among traffic and skyscrapers and crowds of people bustling around; his blood flows like the transit system, racing with the practiced turns of Inglewood, flying down Western until the Pacific stretches in front of him, wide blue expanse of waves roaring and roiling.

He is not at home here. The woods are too still, a grim silence that is only occasionally punctuated by a forlorn bird call. The landscape is unchanging, trees and bushes immobile and dull, and both his brain and his limbs ache to go, to move, to act.

Ellie had insisted they do this. The first time she asked, he said no, along with the second and the third. But finally, she had worn him down, and the hope and excitement radiating from her almost made it worth it.

Almost.

Because here in the silence and the stillness, his thoughts are too loud and there is nothing-no car, no motorcycle, no job, no plan-nothing to distract him from the voices screaming in his head.

All he can do is sit with the thoughts and regrets, failed plans and shitty jobs running through his head, and he pouts, leaning against a fir tree and crossing his arms.

Across the field, Ellie and Jackson don’t even notice. They are huddled together on a chair intended for one, but his knobby knees and gangly arms bend and contort so he can curl onto his mother’s lap as she tries to get a burnt marshmallow off of a stick. Jackson giggles and Colt’s breath catches. The campfire in front of them wafts smoke into the night sky, embers dancing and floating until they disappear amidst the skyline, and the flickering flame lights Ellie’s face in a warm glow.

He can’t stop staring.

He’s not blind, he knew she was attractive the second he saw her, but she’s fucking gorgeous here, completely at ease, hair undone and tendrils curling around her beaming face, campfire reflected in her brown eyes.

Apparently fire doesn’t always destroy; it can illuminate, too.

When he inhales again, the smoke from the fire mingles with pine behind him. The branches over his head move softly in the breeze.

So he sits.

And watches.

And breathes.

And when Ellie motions to him, eyes sparkling and dancing in firelight, he smiles and wipes his hands on his jeans before he stands.

It’s warm by the flame, his son splaying out next to him while he gathers his wife in his arms. 

Soon, the fire burns down to ash, red glow still peeking through the soot next to him; Ellie dozes, nudging him with a cold nose, but he only watches the fire dim and dim until there is nothing.

~~~~~

Colt Kaneko is 19.

Colt is 19 but his fake says he’s 23, so it’s easy to slip into this dive bar and slide over to the bar for a shot of the strongest whiskey they have. He swallows it down, and it burns, caustic on his tongue and in his throat before angrily churning in his stomach.

“Another.”

The second shot goes down easier, as does the third and the fourth, and he’s debating another, head resting on an unsteady fist, elbow heavy on the grime that coats the bar top. The edges of the world are swaying and the bartender slides a bowl in front of him, free popcorn an obvious insinuation that he’s worried about Colt’s sobriety. He’s just about to ask for another drink out of spite when his phone dings. Again.

He pulls it out of his jacket pocket, two fingers unsteadily reaching in and easing it out as if it might bite him. The black case gleams in the dull bar lighting and his reflection shakes, his trembling fingers dropping it on the bar top as he stares at the blue notification light.

The liquor is starting to hit; he can feel the din of the bar recede, static in his mind growing louder, but it’s no comfort. That notification light is the reason he sped to the nearest dive, the reason he had to dull the ache with a succession of precisely poured shots in tiny glasses.

He doesn’t drink often; liquor numbs his mind, turns the world into blurry shades of grey, and he needs his mind: his focus is perpetually on the next job, the next hit, the next score. There is only time for action, movement, not feelings, and alcohol dulls his motions and brings emotions to the surface, intrusive and unbidden in the haze of this bar and his brain. 

Is he worried? Fearful? Longing, desperate amidst the solitude, and missing the one person he understands more than anything else in his life? 

Craving the one person who understood him?

He opens his phone and sighs. It’s only a text from a contact; the words sway in front of his eyes. Even though he squints, the text is unintelligible, and he needs to drop the phone on the bar, screen down.

Even though he can’t see it, he can still see the Instagram image every time he blinks, back of his eyelids taking the shape of Ellie’s smile, her arms clasped tightly over the shoulders of her college friends, stately building in the back, ivy crawling up over the bricks. And the tiny swell of her stomach, invisible to anyone else, everyone else. But he knew. He knew her body like the back of his own hands, knew every single inch, every single curve, concave and convex, head to toe, and everything in between.

She beams through the image, from his screen to his retinas, indelible and permanent; now that he has seen her, he has seen his child growing from thousands of miles away, he can’t think.

For once, Colt is unsure.

He had always made his plans and executed his plans, schemes piling up and winding down, cars delivered, reputation rebuilt, brick by brick, car by car. He could see his moves weeks in advance, opportunities unfurling in his mind like moves on an ever-shifting chessboard.

But now, all he could imagine was Ellie, alone at school, then juggling studies with an infant, then someone taking his place. 

All he could imagine was him, alone, consumed by job after job, hit after hit, eventually ending in a flaming blast.

And here, at this shitty bar, liquor clouding his mind, drumming his hands on the grainy bar top in front of him in a tense pattern that jostles the uneaten popcorn and the last drops of amber, that future was untenable, unacceptable.

All he wanted was a tiny hand nestled in his, a toddler with Ellie’s curls and his eyes digging into toolboxes and pretending to wrench on cars, a child with his drive and Ellie’s spirit upending his world in the most profound of ways.

All he wanted was her, in whatever way she would have him, wanted her under him and over him and by his side, always, their orbits paralleling each other through plans and schemes... and now a child.

And so he realizes, in this shitty bar with its shitty liquor and the world swaying around him, he knows. Regardless of his plans or his crew and his best scheming, without his input, his path had changed.

~~~~~

Colt Kaneko is 12.

Colt is 12, and this is the farthest east he’s ever been. The drive is never-ending; they left LA two days ago and it has been miserable every second. He hadn’t muttered a word as they inched through the city traffic and left the smog in the rearview; his throat still ached from the yelling, he wasn’t even sure he had a voice left, and apparently his words meant nothing, anyway.

He didn’t even get to see Pop before they left.

And then, they had just left, fled the city, rolling through mountains and motels and endless miles upon miles of concrete, on-ramps and off-ramps and potholes infinite as they drove further and further away from everything he cared about. 

The emptiness of the farmland mocks him; he crosses his arms over his chest and glares out the window, sullen and quiet, slouching as far into the door as his limbs will let him.

His mother sighs from the driver’s seat. “Do you want to play a game? ‘I Spy’?”

“No.”

Another sigh. “Do you want to pick the radio station?”

“No.”

“Come on, Colt,” she sighs and her fingers tighten on the steering wheel. He watches the divots deepen in the leather before he petulantly shifts in the seat until he can only see the endless rows of corn beside him, endless blue above. The car is small, stifling next to the expanse of the plains, and he is even smaller, insignificant, powerless, on this dismal drive.

“Can I pick where we stop tonight?”

“Sure!” His mother brightens momentarily, and a bitter flush of victory works its way from the knot in his chest.

“Back home.”

She sighs, her most aggrieved one yet, and his victory is short-lived. They drive in silence for a minute, maybe two, miles of corn fields passing in front of his eyes. The tears prick at his eyes and he blinks them away, focusing on the sway of gold out the window.

Finally, she reaches over, slowly, tentatively, as if calming a skittish animal, patting his forearm and gliding fingertips up to his shoulder before nestling in his hair, rubbing the short strands at the back of his head in a comforting pattern reminiscent of his childhood, when her hands were tender but Pop and the shop and Gramercy Park were anything but.

“I promise you, I promise… you will understand one day.” She sounds tired, exhausted, like the drive has aged her prematurely, like the miles they are speeding by have cost her years of her life. It’s only been 20 hours of driving but, for him, it feels like he is leaving his entire life behind, all 12 years, packed into the truck of this shitty Civic, rolling across the interstate. Her next words are forceful, sure. “You’ll know what it’s to leave everything behind for someone you love, I promise you.”

He wonders what his mom left behind and stares at the fields whizzing by.

~~~~~

Colt Kaneko is 19.

Colt is 19, so it’s been seven years since he made this drive, through Utah, Colorado. Nebraska seems like it will never end and, when he gets to the smaller states in the Midwest, he has no idea where he is, speeding past highway signs so fast that the text blurs in front of him and the only direction he can think is east, east, east.

He had called Ellie, three times in Nevada, four in Colorado, and on the chirp of her voicemail at his tenth call in Iowa, he threw his phone into the cheap motel room wallpaper, sliding against the wall until he plopped onto the floor, head in his hands next to the shattered glass and metal littering the taupe carpet. Once he finally makes it to New York, he’s exhausted, ass numb and knuckles cramping, but he still whips the bikes down the cross-streets and perpendicular angles until he slows to a growling stop in a back alley. He’s lucky he memorized the address, the high-rise dorm that served as his North Star over two thousand miles, and he glides past the loitering smokers armed with grim determination and a winning smile, through a propped emergency door and up four flights of stairs to a nondescript door, exactly the same as the seventeen he stormed by save for who was inside.

He takes a deep breath and knocks.

The rustling inside grows louder, but he’s still not prepared when the door is thrown open, all the words drafted on his interminable drive sailing from his mind when he sees her again.

Her greeting also dies on her lips when she opens the door, jaw dropping, and he uses the second of surprise to look her over. Her hair is thrown back in a sloppy ponytail secured with a felt-tip pen; while her features slide easily into a glare, he catches the exhaustion under her eyes, in the corner of her frown. She’s clad in pajamas, baggy t-shirt covering her torso, and his fingers itch to reach out to greet her and his child, but he’s lost that right; hell, he’s lost all rights.

“Ellie.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I wanted to talk to you.” She crosses her arms over her chest and makes no motion to slide away from the doorframe. “I wanted to apologize.”

“You? Apologize? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that in your life.”

He has to avert his eyes from the beam of her glare, laser-hot on him. “I apologize when I have something to apologize for.” Her gaze doesn’t soften and her stance doesn’t change. Fuck. “Ellie…” She raises her eyebrow. Fuck. “Ellie, I’m sorry.”

He waits.

She says nothing.

“Ellie…” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I needed to… I needed to think. I was an idiot.”

“Was?”

“Seriously?!?” He glares, anger flaring. “Are you gonna be a jerk or are you gonna listen?”

“I’m the jerk here?!?” He waits as they stare each other down, both strong-willed and head-strong and he doesn’t know if he’s ever loved her more. “Talk,” she growls

He takes a deep breath and rocks back on his heels. “You surprised me and I needed… I needed some time to think. I… I’m building up the crew and this completely changed my plans. I was focused on avoiding the cops and rebuilding and then I got…”

“Scared?”

“What?” He looks up sharply. “I’m not scared.” She stares through him for so long he fidgets before finally glancing away, abashed. “I was taken by surprise… Surprises aren’t really good in my line of work. I was shocked… and worried… and…” He trails off. The knot in his chest defies words, a tight coil of fear and uncertainty and worry, thick and throbbing.

“Colt...” She crosses her arms over her chest. “It’s ok. I was scared too. But it was worse when you freaked out. I...” Her arms drop, eyes falling to the floor, and what’s left of Colt’s heart crashes. “I felt alone.”

“I know what that’s like,” he mutters, eyes flickering to her torso. “But you’re not. We’re not. Not anymore.”

“Well, I knew that. But you apparently just needed a little reminder.”

He cocks his head, and when the realization hits, his shoulders drop. “You posted that picture on purpose.”

“Of course I did. Colt, I know you. I know how you are with the people you care about. With me.”

“I hate everyone.”

“You love me,” she fires back and he can’t find the strength to deny it. “I know we never talked about it but… I’m scared about a lot right now but I’m not scared about doing this with you.” She blinks wide eyes up at him and takes a deep breath. “You’re a better man than your dad ever was.”

“Not yet.” He once knew his path, could see every single step clear as day. Every move. Every steal. Every job. “But I will be. I fucking swear, I will be.” Now, the path wavers, blurring in his mind.

“Then…” The smile breaking over her face speaks of hope and contentment and love, everything he wants for himself, for his child, everything he ever wanted.  “You’re ready for a baby?”

He crosses his arms. “Are we ready? I don’t know if anyone really is. But sometimes you can’t get ready. Sometimes you just need to jump in.”

And, apparently, Colt can change his plan; now that he has a plan, a direction, a goal, there’s only one thing left to do.

She sighs, fingertips curling tight around the doorframe, but a glimmer of hope shines in her eyes. “Does this… does this mean you’re doing this with me?”

~~~~~

Colt Kaneko is 8.

Colt is 8, so he is just learning about acceleration and metric units of distance and the undersea ecosystem below his feet; however, he knows that the drop is long and far and dark.

“I don’t…” He peers over the edge, leaning forward as far as he dares, and pulls back when he feels slightly unsteady, as if the magnetic sway of the ocean could draw him forward into the abyss. “I don’t want to.”

“You will.” The lighter clicks and illuminates his father’s face in flame as he draws it close, taking an inhale to light the cigar, and a plume of exhale floats caustic and smoky around his face. For an instant, with the shadowed moon overhead and the flickering light in front of him, his dad looks more demon than man, smoke rising around him and eyes glowing impatiently in the darkness.

Colt swallows hard. “I can’t-“

“You will.”

“But Pop…” He hazards another look over the edge; he can make out the pale spray of the waves battering the cliff but, deeper into the Pacific, it’s only darkness, inky black, ready to swallow him whole. “I can’t see what’s down there.” His voice comes out as a whine and his face flushes; he sounds like a baby, weak and pathetic. He feels weak and pathetic.

His father slowly puffs the cigar, bud flaring in the night. He is calm, measured, certain. “Often, you know not what is before you. All you know is that you must leap.”

“What does that mean?”

His dad thunders, “It means jump, Colt!”

Colt pauses for a second, fingernails curling hard into his palm as the harsh command echoes through him. The darkness below is scary, but his father is terrifying.

He takes a deep breath.

And he jumps.

~~~~~

Colt Kaneko is 19.

Colt is 19, and he’s standing in the doorway of a dorm in New York City and the girl he would speed and fight and kill for stands before him and he doesn’t know how their life became so messed up but he knows that there isn’t anything that would pull him from her side, from his child’s side, no path more important than the one laid out for him by a girl in pajama pants and a baggy tee.

And he jumps

~~~~~

Colt Kaneko is 42.

Colt is 42 and his wife is 41 and, when he collapses into bed next to her, he feels like he has both lived for centuries and was born this morning. He rolls over to slide under her arm, breathing sleepy breaths against the warmth of her skin.

She looks up from her book, eyebrow raised. “Why were you working so late?”

“Urgh, crap day.”

She sighs, closing the book so she can thread calming fingers through his hair. Gradually, the tension ebbs from his shoulders, his mind, and all he can feel is loved. “Jackson called me,” Ellie says, breaking the silence and stilling her hand.

“Did he?”

“He told me about his new job.”

Colt smiles, lips dragging against the soft curve of her breast. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. He’s so excited.”

“I know.” His mind gets heavy, and it becomes harder to pull his eyelids open again.

“Are you sad he doesn’t want the crew or the shop?”

He glances up. “Maybe a little.” He drags his arm around her stomach to trace hazy shapes against her side.. “But this day was always gonna come; he wasn’t interested in the crew, the shop.”

“Yeah,” she hums, free arm dropping her book on the nightstand. “He was always interested in following his own path.”

“Yeah… he was...” Colt blinks. While his own path meandered and changed, wandering in and out of misbehavior, it had always wound its way back to her open arms. He watches her, settling into the sheets, curling into his arms, and her eyelashes flutter, movement slowing and finally stopping as each tiny lash lay featherlight against her cheek. 

His son always had been intent on blazing his own trail.

And just like Colt, that path would lead him just where he needed to be.

.

Tags (pls let me know if you want me to take you off)

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Colt

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[it-was-all-a-beautiful-dream]

It’s so dark - pt 2 (Spike x Reader)

Warning: Mentions of death, swearing, angst 

word count: 1,576

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You don't know how long you had been lying on the cold sodden cemetery ground staring up at the balls of gas in the sky we call stars. They were so beautiful. You'd never really taken the time to appreciate the little things in life. You were dying. 

You could feel you body getting colder, could almost feel the blood draining from your body and seeping into the earth beneath you. A tear slipped from the corner of your eye and you looked up blinking, staring into the eyes of your crying vampire. You shakily lifted your crimson palm to cup his stoney cheek. 

“Shhhh Spike, It’s okay, it’s okay.” You could hear Giles and everyone talking behind you, Willow and Tara were sat on either side of you chanting something gibberish and Buffy had just finished off the vampire that did this to you. God, you'd think with all your training or something you would have been able to stop this but it all happened too quick, you just had to save spike. You loved him too much to see him turn to ash. 

Spike brought you into his arms and cried into your hair, his firm hands gripping onto your bleeding body for dear life, you were crying because this was it, as much as you had hated your father in the beginning for being away with the slayer you wanted to get to know him and reconnect, you thought you had all the time in the world. Then there was Spike, your leather clad knight in shinning armour, the love of your life and you his. The greatest love in his lifetime. You cried into him as you felt your soul slipping away, your eyes blurry, looking up at the night sky, one last sigh. 

“I love you William.”

- unknown p.o.v.-

“Hybrid, you shouldn't be here, it is not your time yet, you’ve not realised your true destiny, born of Slayer lineage and Warlock, you harness great powers that with this love sacrifice will be fully realised when you rise from the earth re-born!”

You woke with a start. God what a weird dream…. until you realised, it wasn't a dream at all as you stared up at the lid of the wooden box that encased your very much alive body. You gasped and your hands flew to where the metal rod had once protruded from your skin. Nothing, no mark, no hole, like nothing ever happened. You started to panic.. You were in a coffin and everyone thought you were dead. What did that voice mean destiny? Slayer and Warlock lineage? You looked down, your body clad in your favourite black dress and on your chest.. spikes pendant he always wore around his neck. Your eyes welled up and you screamed as it started getting harder and harder to breath. You needed to get out, you punched the top of the lid with all the strength you could muster from your lying position and much to your surprise you heard a loud crack. You coughed and blinked as earth fell on your face, you hated to think what creepy crawlies were in the box with you. 

It had felt like a life time but you had managed to completely break through the layer of wood holding you hostage. The earth was hard and cold, your fingers racked the earth urgently, holding your breath as much as you could. It was like trying to swim to the surface of a pool but you never knew when you'd break through the top. You started panicking as the breath slipped away from you bit by bit. You just wished the ground would open up and let you out. You dug harder and harder and all of a sudden you felt a breeze, the earth had opened up…. as if by magic. Your fingers tingled, you watched what looked like purple smoke recede into your mud covered finger tips. Right now, you didn't question it, all you knew is you didn't like being buried alive. Your body squeezed from the hole in the ground and on tired achey arms you pulled yourself up and rolled onto your back, this time very much alive, and once again looking at the stars. 

You had tried to brush as much mud and leaves off as possible, but it wasn't worth trying. You stood slowly, scared your legs might give, turning, you glimpsed the white pearly headstone with your name engraved. Normally it would take a while to get a headstone when someone died, however, given Sunnydale’s reputation for people dropping dead every to minutes, there were a few places you could get one from around here. You gulped and held back tears, oh god, everyone must be out of their minds. How has this all happened. 

You didn't know where to go first, your heart knew where it wanted to go… to your platinum blonde boyfriends crypt, but you also didn't want to freak him out, and part of you wanted to find out what was actually happening to you incase this was all some sort of twisted trick and living wasn't the permeant situation… You found your legs carrying you towards your fathers house before your brain realised what was happening. You must have thought subconsciously that, surely, your father should know all about this? But what if seeing you alive puts him into shock… I guess it would be a risk you'd have to take unless…. there was always Willow and Tara… 

Before long you had changed direction and you were headed to the apartment that Willow and Tara shared. It was the middle of the night, the town roads lit up by nothing but the dull amber glow of street lights, the wind rustling through the bitter air and you, alone, barefoot, hopefully walking towards some answers and a much needed shower. 

Stopping, you looked up at the apartment building, part of you felt guilty that you were probably about to wake them but then you shook yourself remembering you just rose from the dead. Scoffing, you reached for the door handle that lead you into the block of apartments, locked. Of course it’s locked. You tried it again but no use… god, if the thing about having witchy powers was true then they sure would have been helpful now.. You felt stupid but you focused, placing your hand on the door knob, thinking and challenging some sort of energy into the door handle. You didn't have a fucking clue what you were doing but you had been around Willow and Tara to know a small thing or two. Before you knew it, the same purple smokey tendrils present at your gravesite, pulsed from your palm and the door flew open with a bang. Whoops… 

You'd only been to Willow and Tara’s apartment once, it was fairly new and they hadn't been there very long. You still remembered the way, following the grey marble tiles down the second story corridor to door number 3. You hesitated, you were nervous, scared… all of the above, but with a deep breath you took the plunge and rapped your fist on the door. At first you didn't know if anyone was in, no lights, no sounds of movement, but then a glimmer of hope as you heard a groan and the side light next to the sofa switched on. Here goes.. 

To say they were shocked was an understatement.. Tara was the one who had answered the door, she had screamed and knocked the lamp of the side table while staring at you with wide frightened eyes. Obviously all the commotion alerted willow who was in the other room, and she came out magic at the ready, poised to fight anything evil at the door. She too was shocked, disbelief fluttering across her facial features, then a grin and she was hugging you tightly and ushering you into the dimly lit apartment. 

After they had helped you wash up, brushed the twigs and dirt from your hair and sat you down with some coffee, you filled them in on everything that had happened. Explaining the weird voice, the prophecy, having to claw your way out of your coffin after you woke up again. Willow was healing your hands with some charms while Tara scoured through book after book, trying to find anything that might explain what had actually happened. But nothing. It had been hours and there was nothing. Yous sighed falling back into the sofa only one person on your mind. You sadly looked at Willow. 

“How is Spike?” She turned to you slowly.

“He’s not in a good way Y/N, Maybe you should go and see him, the last time I saw him he left your grave plot and went back to his crypt demanding to be left alone.” You couldn't help but let a couple of tears fall. 

“Theres nothing more I want than to go and see Spike, b-but what if this isn't permanent, what if this is some cruel joke and I see him and then I just die again..” You were really crying now, the full weight of what had happened setting in. Without saying anything Tara and Willow enclosed their arms around you and held you… for how long you didn't know.. all you knew was the sun rose and you were living to see another day.

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Okay so this is wayyyyy overdue.. but it’s here at least! Let me know what you think in the comments below and please tell me if you want to be added to a tagging list for future parts!  

[katsukikitten]

Pizza Night

A/N since 1am is an appropriate time to post. Here have some smut

You kick your heels off the second you get in the door, setting down your work laptop and keys onto the entry table with an angry sigh.

As you make your way further into your house you shed of your stuffy suit jacket before taking off your bra without taking off your shirt with a grace only a woman knows.

"Much better." You hum, tossing it onto the back of the couch. Turning on some soothing music before opening the fridge, spying the chicken quickly. You had promised to make dinner tonight before your man got home.

See cooking wasn't your best skill BUT you always kept your word.

Plus you'd been practicing, trying so hard to hone your skill because your boyfriend always cooked depsite his 12 hour shifts. Even making you meals ahead of time durning his 24 hour shifts. Paired with a sticky note of his angry writing telling you EXACTLY how to heat it best.

Guilt ate you alive although he told you countless times he *enjoyed* cooking for you, *loved* it really. So you took to your phone, scrolled through endless recipes on pinterest before you found the perfect one.

You had only made it once before using Kirishima as a Guinea pig. He had enjoyed it, although it was burnt. He walked you through how to cook it another two times before you finally could make it on your own.

It all started out normally but of course since you were making it for your favorite hot head things were starting to go astray.

Your pan was hot, butter melted like Kirishima had showed you but for whatever reason today some of the meat was not sitting in the pan correctly, charring the middle as the ends became neglected.

You lunged for your phone in a panic, video calling the only man who could help your right now. He picks up on the third ring with a yawn

"Eji! Help!" You cry, "Bakugou will be home soon!"

Time is lost to you as Kirishima instructs you to start over, music still softly playing in the living room but loud enough you do not hear the front door open and close.

Bakugou enters with a grunt, pushing off his combat boots toe to heel. Eager to get out of his hero suit, shower, feed you and maybe fuck.

His eyes spy your work jacket before they roll heavily. He takes the black garment with angry hands as he hangs it onto the coat rack behind the door.

He goes to shout at you for always leaving your jacket on the damned couch before he hears the low tones of a man's voice coming from the kitchen. The ash blonde freezes in place, rigid as he strains to listen.

He steps closer to the kitchen, not daring to turn down the mood music that floats out of the speaker.

"Kirishima I'm so nervous. Nnnngggnnn." He hears your whining better now that he's closer. Whining that sounds too close to when you're over stimulated, cheeks flushed with arousal. He narrows his eyes, telling himself that maybe it's a phone call. Maybe it's a mistake, until he spies one of his favorite work bras you have. A lacy nude thing that he's gotten in plenty of break time bathroom selfies via text just to tease him.

"Ah Kirishima it won't fit!" Another whine.

"Calm down, it'll fit. Just relax and readjust." Kirishima's voice soothes, causing Bakugou to see red as another sinful whine floats down the hall. He rushes into the kitchen, not even bothering to take off his gauntlets as he is hoping to catch you two in the act.

Or at least the act he thinks the two of you are in.

Deep down he is hurt, heartbroken over the fact that you've been sleeping around.

And with his best friend worst yet.

Or at least now his ex best friend.

"IMMA FUCKING KILL YOU KIRISHIMA EIJIROU!" He rounds the corner with popping hands, thinking better than to fill his gauntlets to unleash. Eyes looking for that damned red head.

But instead they fall on you, as you're the only body standing in the kitchen, hand clutched to your heart. It is then that scarlet eyes discover your phone. Propped up facing towards you and the now half burning half raw meal as Kirishima blinks on the glass with wide eyes.

"Baby...?" You ask softly as he huffs, eyes darting around the room before he lunges towards the phone.

"She'll call you back later." He snarls, tapping the glass trying his hardest not to break the screen. He drops his bulky gauntlets, tossing them onto the dining room table.

"Bakugou what are you....?" But he doesn't let you finish, pushing you into the counter, slamming both hands down to trap you.

Silence settles over the two of you as he stares angrily into your eyes.

"Bakugou?" You prompt softly for his hands to find your hips and squeeze until it hurts. You half wonder if there will be bruises by the time he is done.

"I seriously fucking thought I was going to walk in here and see you in a compromising position, *whining* like a brat to another man." He growls darkly leaning closer to your face.

"Suki...." You see the anger smolder in his eyes but you cannot help yourself, "What kind of compromising position?"

His eyes flash a dangerous warning that quickly becomes a promising threat as he turns you around, pushing you harshly onto the counter. One hand is holding you down by the nape of your neck while the other grips tightly onto your hips. He bucks into you causing the edge of the counter to bite into your belly as you try to keep the moan from your mouth.

"Like that little brat." He snarls harshly in your ear, when he sees your cheeks heat he nibbles on your ear, "I see you like it when I'm jealous huh?"

You don't answer although the truth is yes, just a little.

"Do you think Kirishima would pin you like this brat?" He grips tightly on the column of your neck, you feel him harden against your ass as he dominates you.

But often times one does not realize that it is the sub who controls the dom through strategic reactions. A devilsih smirk dances across your lips as you answer faster than you can talk yourself out of it.

"Yes, sir I think he would." Bakugou stills behind you, he knows bait when its presented.

What he should do is press his cock against you a final time and deny you both cumming and the ability to give him pleasure as his little fucking brat.

He decides in a fraction of a second that he is going to make you regret those words. His strong hand pins yours behind your back pressing you harshly into the counter as his toned arm comes into your vision grabbing a utensil from the marble holder.

Your eyes widen as he snatches the wooden spatula with three little slats that will be sure to leave odd welts. He places the handle of the spatula in his mouth as you wiggle to break free while his free hand rips away your skirt to reveal a nude laced thong that matches that abandoned bra so well.

"Oh and who did you wear these for?" He asks holding the utensil just above your ass, "Were you expecting your boss to explore?"

You don't answer, still squirming beneath his steely grip.

"Ah the cat has your tongue now huh kitten?" He brings the spatula up high just for it to kiss your ass with a ringing sound, "See I don't think Kirishima would be rough enough for you."

You let out a moany yelp before he brings the spatula back down again, your core heats as does your cheeks as you enjoy the punishment he brings.

"That's for calling another man with no bra on where he could clearly see the outline of your nipple ring." He growls, striking again and then again, "This is for using your damn breathy whine with him that you know drives me wild brat."

Then he brings it down a final time as you soak through the thin fabric, juices beginning to collect along your thick thighs.

"This is for is for the innuendos that made me think to find you like this little kitten."

You moan again, wondering how big the welts will be or if your cheeks are bruised as he tosses the improtu instrument onto the counter where you can see. The handle is charged and splintered from his grip, the sight of it makes your core clench as you think of him holding back. He smooths his heated hand over his new markings before he gives it a final smack with his bare palm.

Face leaning down low to give it the smallest kiss, his eyes catching onto your overly noticeable arousal.

"Tch. You really are a slut huh? So wet and from being *punished* too." He growls, fingers slipping past the fabric to find your swollen bud, he runs his fingers up your length before settling in on a brutal pace. Your hips buck against him, legs quivering as he begins to bring you up to the best high, your moans come out loud and breathy as he pushes you impossibly further onto the counter top, the edge pressing deeper into your solar plexus.

"So close to cumming already? We can't have that can we? Only good kittens get to cum." He slows just a tad before hearing you up again. Your moans climb higher as the coil in your stomach tightens. Just as it is about to spring he removes his hand completely as you whine in response.

"Bakugou that's..." You don't get to finish before his hand is gripping onto your hair, pulling you up quickly.

"That's not how a good kitten would address me." He growls, before his mouth finds the tender flesh on your throat. Kissing, sucking and biting every moan from you he can as you continue to grow slicker.

"Aaahh. I'm....I'm sorry, Bakugou-sama." He bites back his groan when you answer. His mind flashing back to you in a similar outfit you wore today the first time he met you.

A tight skirt and blouse, a tailored jacket but you must have worn only a bralette that day because all he could see was the outline of your right nipple ring. Winking at him, teasing him from the beginning hinting at the brat that you are. He thought of many dirty things he wanted to do to you.

He never thought they would actually happen, let alone you actually love him.

He slips his hand to give that nipple ring a tug to which you moan before he steps back, removing his hands from your wrists.

"Hands on the counter." He snarls as he takes you in, purplish welts bloom on your ass, making you that much more alluring. Instead of listening what do you do?

You try to pretend that you are in charge, getting up and turning to face him. The glare he serves you is hotter than any fire as he looks down at you, lip pulled slightly away from teeth. You look away as you speak.

"I don't think you're being fair denying me my..." Is all you get out before you catch his eyes again. You gulp as his gaze is now too intense, too heated and dominate to oppose. Suddenly the floor is much more interesting than your boyfriend. A deadly hand grabs onto your chin, he tilts you this way and that trying to catch your eye. Finally you glance at his face before looking away once more.

"I thought you were braver than that little kitten. But you can't even look me in the eye." He moves his hand to your throat as your knees weaken, "Pathetic."

All you can see is his smile as he squeezes, careful to avoid your larynx before he sends you into dizzying sub space. It washes over your body slowly, as if dipping yourself underwater. Your eyes flutter, body relaxes into his touch as many emotions flood your system at once while you engage fight or flight.

Your breathing is short and ragged before he let's go tilting your chin upwards to face him. He looks you over, assessing to make sure he does not need to stop this sudden session he has initiated. When you blink slowly up at him he continues his ravishing. Grip tightening as he leans in, lips hovering over yours before they are devoured.

Harsh kisses, tongues fighting as you gasp for air during it all. Happily giving in to his will before his mouth is at your ear.

"Now be a good kitten and do what you are told. Turn around and place your hands on the counter." You do as you're told, even wiggling your ass as some of your brat swims to the surface. Only to be swatted down by a sharp slap to your ass.

You hear the glorious sound of his belt coming undone before his hardened member is resting on your clit. Try to move for friction only for your hips to be crushed by strong hands. After a moment too long he runs himself up and down you. Before resting at your entrance.

"Please Bakugou-sama. Please." You whine, aching need driving you wild as you wait for him to plunge hilt deep. He slams himself into you and you whimper more than eager for the fucking that is to come.

But he hardly moves, smiling down at you as you look over his shoulder expectant. Bakugou knows he can wait you out. He knows in no time you'll be a needy mess, asking for pleasure. Telling him who owns you all without his asking.

Moments pass as he remains unmoving depsite your whining, clenching and even sad attempts at bucking. His smile becomes deadly as he pulls his final trick to send you buck wild. He twitches his dick and watches you unfold.

Trying so hard to fuck yourself on his dick as he holds your hips, only allowing you to get maybe a half an inch's movement before you slam your hands onto the counter in a huff.

"Sama. I'm going to get real bratty soon!" You voice raises an octive only for him to twitch again, "Please Kirishima wouldn't do this."

He slams your face down into the counter as he leans over you.

"What exactly wouldn't he do kitten?" His voice is dark and deadly, you need to be careful with your answer. You've pissed him off and pushed him too much to where he's left a session before. Leaving you high and dry.

Sure you could make yourself cum fast and hard but there was nothing compared to the edging Bakugou could do.

Plus it's always a harder cum with him.

"He would never be able to fuck me this good. Sama. Or have me beg like you can Sama." You cry out, still aching for the friction. He must not be satisfied with your answer as he keeps his hand on your neck.

"Maybe you should call him right now since the two of you are such good friends."

"But...you're..."

"I'm what? I'm using you to warm my cock. Call him, if you can manage to keep a normal conversation for three minutes while I'm in you then I'll forgive your disobedience and allow you to cum." He passes you your phone, unlocking it to dial Kirishima's number. He waits for you to hit the little green reciever.

"Better hit it before I do or I'll make you tell him who you belong too." He snarls as you fumble with your phone. You go to place it to your ear only for Bakugou to grab onto it. Placing the call on speaker while setting the phone close to you.

"Y/N? Are you and Bakugou okay?" His voice is laced with worry, you go to open your mouth only for Bakugou to pull all the way out just to slam into you again. You scrape the wood on the counter top to keep from crying out.

"Y..yes Kirishima. It was just a misunderstanding." Your respond as Bakugou slams into you again. Causing your eyes to flutter and making you miss everything Kirishima said.

Bakugou cocks his eyebrow awaiting your rebutle before you croak out.

"I'm sorry Eji-san. Can you repeat that my reception kinda sucks."

"I was just asking how dinner turned out but now I'm wondering if there is even a kitchen still standing." He laughs as you look over the burnt meal.

Bakugou ruts into you now with a steady pace. Sure to keep it slow enough that skin would not slap too loudly. You're beginning to lose the ability to think rationally as his fingers tease your needy bud.

"Ah well I'm.." You pause, swallowing a moan whole, "I'm surprised it's still standing too."

The conversation bounces back and forth as you struggle to keep quiet. You watch the timer as it steadily climbs closer to that beloved three minute mark before Bakugou finally gives you some mercy.

"Y/N, get off the phone. We still have to figure out dinner no thanks to you Shitty hair."

"Hey man I was just trying to help." He laughs, "Pizza is always a good alternative! Bye Y/N and Bakugou it was just a miss understanding. Bye friends!"

You barely have time to end the call before Bakugou is now mercilessly pounding into you, the sound of skin hitting skin echoing in the small kitchen melding in nicely with the sounds of your moans and his groans.

He pulls on your hair as he hits into you just right, the coil in your stomach returns as you think of him fucking you during your phone call, of his hands around your throat and the thought of him filling you up has you starting to see stars.

"S...sa...sama." You can barely speak with how nicely he is pounding into you, "I was good right?"

"Are you asking to cum?" He snarls, thrusts beginning to turn sloppy as he pulls on your hair. You nod slightly to which he delights, "You may come but you better scream who you belong to."

He increases the intensity and pace to help send you over the edge. You're screaming as he fucks into you, clenching around him as he sends you into yet another back to back.

All the while your voice goes horse with his name stumbling from your lips.

After your third crescendo he finally allows himself release, more sloppy thrusts as you mewl and moan beneath him. His eyes linger to your perfectly bruised ass, all the way up to your flushed cheeks before he begins to spill his seed within you, burying himself deep within you as he does.

The two of you pant for a moment before he flips you over to plant a searing kiss onto your lips.

"You're okay my kitten?" He asks tenderly as you nod. He notices the abandoned monstrosity that you called dinner, "You tried cooking for me?"

You want to burst into tears over your failure but instead you cling to him for comfort as you again nod softly. He laughs before planting a kiss onto your forehead.

"Thank you baby. It's the thought that counts. But if you have to rely on someone else to help rely on me since I'm the best damn cook there is." He teases wrapping strong arms around you, "Now let's order pizza like shitty hair said. Maybe if you're good I'll make you dessert after."

[itsomgitsgreenblogging]

Little Ceremonies: A Critical Role Fanfic

So I have a lot of feelings about Beau, and she has feelings too that she needs to work through. Honestly this fic just came from my desire to shake this girl and force her to talk about her issues with SOMEONE, literally anyone would do.

Alright BeauYashter fans who love a dash of hurt/comfort/angst/pining, come get your juice. Enjoy!

Read on AO3

Preview:

Before Beau almost fucking died she realized she didn't know what TJ's favorite color was. 

They had gotten attacked by some asshole bandits, which wouldn’t have been too big a deal if they also hadn’t had some wolves with them too. One of them was buddy buddy with animals Beau guessed. Things were going rough anyways, and Beau almost wasn’t surprised when she was full-body slammed by an orc and smashed her head on something hard. Another hit and she was out. So long, farewell, no one home, lights completely off unconscious. It sort of sucked, but it wasn’t like it hadn’t happened before. This time felt different for some stupid reason having to do with her brother. 

It was a stupid fucking last thought before she went unconscious, but you can't help what springs to your mind in your last moments of consciousness. And that was it. She saw TJ's face in her mind as she came crashing down, as her vision wobbled and went grey at the edges like she was tripping balls again or it was being eaten in a haze of ash. She realized she didn't know TJ's favorite color. And then there was nothing for a long moment. It wasn't unlike falling asleep in the way that there was nothing. Most nights Beau was so exhausted that she didn’t have time for dreams. (The other times she dreamed of impossible things she could never admit but wanted so bad she wished she could break open her own skull to inspect and commit them to memory. But she wouldn’t admit those ever.)

And then, just as quickly, she was jolted away from the depths of her sleep. Divine light pierced the darkness that had settled quiet and peaceful over her like the waves from the ocean lapping at her toes. She saved me, Beau thought literally breathless, she-

"Beau!" Fjord gasped. Beau desperately tried not to give in to her disappointment. And then immediately she resisted the urge to slap herself because no, she shouldn’t be thinking it. It wasn’t any of those things and she shouldn’t be thinking that way. 

“Oh Beau!” Jester cried as she rushed over. Her hands were first-snow cold against Beau’s suddenly feverish skin as Fjord helped to settle Beau more firmly against Jester. “Oh I’m so sorry, I don’t have...I only have Healing Word prepared and…!” 

Beau felt another jolt of the divine spread through her at the brush of her fingers that fluttered like snowflakes. They felt good...Jester felt good. She was soft and even though she was washed with rain water and gore, somehow, her arms felt safe. Beau wanted to feel more. She wanted to sag against Jester, to melt into her arms and never leave-

“It’s okay,” Beau managed to croak, her ribs still didn’t feel great by any means. It was more like when Dairon had first knocked the shit out of her with her staff. But she was feeling far less...almost dead so it was a marked improvement at any rate. She could just file this away into the same place that she had put all her recent horrible traumatic encounters and everything would be fine. “Just...it’s alright, Jessie. I’m okay.”

“You’re not okay, you look like shit!” Jester said, sounding half angry and half breathlessly relieved. It just made everything hurt even more somehow, though Beau didn’t know how that was fucking possible because she felt like complete shit. 

“Sorry, I’m fresh out of healing,” Caduceus apologized, hauling a ghostly pale looking Caleb with both Yasha and Nott’s help. Caleb swayed in their arms, looking like a bloodless ghost that haunted the halls in a shitty novel that Jester might read them all. Beau hoped she didn’t look as bad as Caleb, though she didn’t have much hope. 

“I’ll be alright,” Beau promised, gritting her teeth and forcing her legs up. Pain was a constant bedfellow. Usually she liked pain, it helped her feel alive and grounded, but this was a pain that was ripping deeper within her at places that she was refusing to face. Not now, Beau ordered herself. You can fall apart later. Not now-!

“Beau no-”

“I’ve got it!” Beau snapped at Jester, desperate to get out of her grasp. She was crawling out of her fucking skin. Jester flinched, and Beau felt her blood curdling in her veins because why? Why had she done this? Why couldn’t she just be good to those she loved instead of ruining it every time? 

“Okay,” Jester said, quickly rearranging her face so that the hurt dwelled somewhere deep where Beau couldn’t see it any more. It made Beau want to grab something with her hands and rip it apart right there and then. 

“There should be the inn a mile or two away,” Fjord said, voice even and as always the steady captain in the storm as he referred to the map. Lining up the troops, focusing them on an achievable goal. Beau could have hugged him for this gentle understanding. 

“I can help you into the cart,” Yasha offered both Caleb and Beau, her eyes dark and drawn with worry. 

“Ja, please,” Caleb asked, as Yasha better arranged him on her arm with Veth’s help. Veth kept glancing at Beau and Beau wanted to scream at her to knock it off. It wouldn’t change anything, none of this would, and in fact it was only making it worse. But Beau had always considered herself to be the worst kind of coward, so instead of saying all of that she set her jaw.  

“I’m fine,” Beau said gruffly to everyone, no one, and herself, gripping her side. “I’ll be fine.” 

As they walked along, Beau could feel Veth’s gaze digging into her skin. She pointedly ignored it. 

“I’m sorry,” Fjord murmured to Beau as they walked. He reached an arm around her to steady her, and rubbed her shoulder comfortingly as he did. Beau half wanted to punch him, and half wanted to turn her head into his shoulder and cry. 

“Why are you sorry?” Beau snapped though it felt half-hearted. She had always had a hard time arguing with Fjord, and even as wounded and skittish as she was feeling she couldn’t muster real anger at him.  

“You know why,” Fjord said as he continued to look forward and help her without saying anything. 

Beau knew why, but it didn’t make it any easier. 

“Are you mad at me?” 

They had found the inn and with little ceremony they had separated out to their rooms for the night. It was the usual arrangement, but Beau felt anything but normal. 

She was thinking about TJ again, thinking about her feelings that were all over the place, thinking about the stupid pain in her side that refused to just dim enough for her to sleep. Eventually all of those things had curled together until any outside stimulus had her startled half out of her skin. 

Jester’s voice was quiet in the darkness of their room. It stabbed into Beau like that shitty dagger the bandit had stuck into her not so many hours prior. Beau was wide awake now, curled into her side. Her breath was drawn so tightly that she was afraid that something inside of her would snap. And maybe it should. Maybe things would be better if they did. Maybe she wouldn’t have to deal with Fjord’s quiet concern and Cad’s long looks, and the quick glancing gazes that Veth peppered against her skin like freezing rain. It was because everyone knew the secrets that Beau was so terrible at keeping...everyone except the girl who could miss that point but tell she wasn’t asleep from the irregularities of her breath in a dark room. It would be hilarious, if it wasn’t so fucking tragic. 

“ ‘m not mad,” Beau said, hoping her voice sounded sleepy and that was enough to discourage this conversation. Beau could hear Jester shifting again in the darkness, and new that hope was a dream to be dashed on the rocks with the coming tide. 

“If I did something wrong…” 

“You didn’t, Jessie,” Beau said, finally rolling over. She didn’t have her goggles on and so she could barely see in the darkness, but the lump she assumed was Jester moved in tandem with her. Beau had spent enough time gazing at her to know the curve of her horns...her artist’s hands...the freckles that dusted her skin and nose. Beau colored in the lines like she was a child, and didn’t need her sight to tell her what she would see. “I was just upset at having been stabbed. It hurt. And it was lame.” 

“It was a little lame,” Jester said, a half-hearted laugh in her throat, a pout forming on her mouth. 

“Not just a little,” Beau said, self-depreciation a comfortable skin to slip into. This was charted waters, this was safe with Jester. This is what she wanted, she told her errant heart. She wanted her heart and her friendship to be safe. If it was safe, there would be nothing precious to lose. Beau didn’t think she would be able to stand that. 

“A lot a bit then,” Jester corrected. “But I am sorry anyways I...I’ll try to be a better cleric I swear.” 

“You are already the greatest cleric,” Beau promised her. “After all, there aren’t many clerics who make their own gods.”

“The Traveler and I are cool like that,” Jester said and Beau could hear the smile on her voice. She could see it in her mind’s eyes, the way it drew across her face and just brightened her and everything around her. She was precious and sacred and Beau was none of those things. Not for me, a part of Beau cried with hot, childish tears. Not for me, never for me. Why would she ever want me? She is a vessel for a power greater than I can understand...why would she ever want someone who uses all their strength to simply not fall apart?

“Yeah, you guys are,” Beau said as she drew in her strength to sit up despite the way her muscles and bones protested. “I’m gonna go for a quick walk. I’ll be back.” 

“Do you want me to come with you?” Jester asked her, sitting up suddenly. 

“No,” Beau said, doing her best to smile for Jester. After all, only one of them could really see in the dark. “I’ll be back.” 

“Alright...if you are sure,” Jester said, not sound happy about this arrangement. Just that was enough to almost send Beau back, but she didn’t. She steeled herself and moved forward instead. Beau fumbled for the door, groping for the knob in the darkness. She opened it and was out in the dark, empty hall. She almost made it all the way down the hall when the pain in her side forced her to stop. She crumbled against the wall, her eyes burning with tears that she refused to shed. She smacked her hand against the wall as she slid down, the dull ache doing nothing to distract her from the pain in her chest. No one else was there...it was far too late for anyone to be wandering the halls anyways, and Beau had never been more grateful to anything in her whole life. 

Make me understand, her mother had once whispered to her. Why can you not just behave? It will be so much easier, was what her mother hadn't said but it had been written all over her face. 

Marry a nice boy from a good family, have your dalliances quietly on the side, shit out kids because that's your job and it has worked for a million women before you and it can work for you. Why can't you just accept the things that are settled in front of you for the way they are, was what her father had meant when he refused to look at Tori as Beau was hauled from that jail cell that night. 

Beau felt the urge to cry again. How much more orderly...how much smaller was she going to be forced to make her feelings? She simply couldn't force them into any more boxes to be labeled and filed away when they were pounding at her ribcage...bleeding out all over her like a fresh wound. It was bad enough that she had fallen in love for the first woman who hadn't cringed at her touch, but now this? Where was the fucking justice in this? She was supposed to be made of stronger stuff than this, but apparently all she had done was gilded her ribcage without accounting for the things within it.

“Beau?” Yasha’s voice was quiet and worried as she peaked out of the door of the room she was sharing with Fjord and Caduceus. Her dark hair swept out like a curtain as she did, and Beau wanted nothing more than to tuck it behind her ear. Was Yasha’s hair soft? And though those thoughts were surely not practical at this moment, she couldn’t stop herself from thinking them. “Beau...are you alright?” 

Beau startled in spite of herself. She was usually so much better than this, but that night she was scraped from the bottom of a barrel. Yasha was standing in the hallway. Her figure cut imposingly, but as soon as she saw there was no danger she almost shrunk into herself as she usually did. Her shoulders rolled in on themselves in an attempt to be smaller...less obvious, despite the fact that such a thing was impossible. Beau had the urge to gather Yasha up in her arms and...no. It was bad enough that her heart was bleeding out for Jester, she didn’t need anything else confusing her already blurry perspective. 

And you almost threw it all away, and you think you deserve anything? What a joke, a vicious part of her snapped, tearing at her already shredded insides like she had swallowed daggers. You may as well just walk back to that hag in the woods and offer all of your happiness. 

Why couldn’t this just be a problem she punched away? It would make everything so much easier, Beau thought beyond frustrated with herself. She had more important things to worry about. She had almost died and left them behind, but she was crying over this? Pathetic. 

“My shitty cracked ribs fucking hurt,” Beau said sniffing as she angrily swiped her hand beneath her nose. Yasha looked down the hall, before settling next to Beau on the floor. Yasha held out her hand timidly, like Beau would shy away at the touch. When Beau instead settled her hand in Yasha’s they were both surprised. Beau felt Yasha’s magic move through her, hum against her skin the way that the scent of a thunderstorm carried in the wind on a summer night. This time, the pain substantially subsided, and Beau found she could breathe in deep and even hold it without her breath stuttering in her throat. Unfortunately, her breath caught on her jagged-edged sadness and she let out a half-sob half-chuckle. 

“Beau?”

“I’m sorry, Yasha,” Beau murmured and she settled her head against her knees. “It’s my fault, not yours.”  

“Being hurt is never fun,” Yasha observed, her expression smooth and revealing nothing. 

“No, being hurt fucking sucks and I hate it,” Beau said, not willing to admit she was talking about more than just her stupid ribs. From the look on Yasha’s face, she understood what she meant intimately. 

And of course Yasha did. Yasha wore her pain like a mantle of wings that spread out from her shoulder blades and cut across the sky. And she was beautiful for it. She was beautiful for how she continued to rise up and survive with such grace and fortitude, while Beau clawed and screamed and brought everyone else down with her. Beau broke the precious things in her life, while Yasha did everything she could to save them. And Yasha would understand...Beau knew she would. And the desire to spill everything was building in her throat hot and fast again. But with those feelings came others, and she wasn’t sure she was ready to face any of them yet...not when Yasha’s eyes were the blue-violet of a twilight in the darkness. Their eyes met, and the moment was alive. 

“Are you tired?” Yasha asked softly. Her voice had always been quiet and hushed, almost like the sound of the wind through the grass. But now in the quiet and the dark the tones of her voice were resonating deep in the marrow of her bones. 

“Yeah...I think I’m just tired,” Beau admitted and just like that the moment was past. Tired of this. Tired of her traitorous heart that swung like a pendulum between her desires and didn’t settle. Tired of the fact her family could still hurt her even though she was done with them. Tired of this love that would only hurt her. Tired of knowing that she wouldn’t give her love up for anything regardless. Tired of herself. Tired of everything and nothing all at once and the fact that this just kept happening. She would have hoped that something would be different this time. 

“Rest then,” Yasha said, patting her own shoulder. “You can rest here, and I’ll keep you safe.”

You can’t, Beau wanted to say as she met Yasha’s knowing eyes. You shouldn’t. It’ll just hurt us all. There was a heart breaking there and Beau couldn’t understand it. Why? How could Yasha keep giving despite it all? Though maybe it shouldn’t be surprising, Yasha had always been able to carry her and Jester and everyone else.   

“Okay,” Beau said instead, leaning against Yasha gingerly. “Thank you, Yasha.”

“You are welcome Beau,” Yasha said quietly in return. 

And so Beau drifted off again, but this time, the darkness welcomed her warmly into its arms. 

[lichlover]

Okay so this a balance headcanon, and it is technically one I saw in a text post somewhere on tumblr that has been lost to the scroll of my dashboard months and months ago, but. The concept that the reason Barry was on the starblaster in the first place... was because he was some kinda undercover death cultist trying to kickstart the apocalypse... but then it happened and he was like "wait shit this actually sucks" and then has to figure out what to do

please consider donating to my ko-fi!

This was how it was written: Sildar Hallwinter would end the world.

Before his departure, they’d etched his name into the first of the sacred texts; his true name, five syllables destined to strike terror into the hearts of all living beings and their menial existences. It would all perish in the Apocalypse, of course. Everything would. But he and his fellows would ascend in death, as would every record that burned in the Great Blaze of the end times, and the universe would know their history. The true history. The history he would go down in as the Catalyst for the End of All Things, the Second Revelation, the Midnight Prophet for the Last Downfall of Mankind.

The gnome in front of him peered over the angular frames of his spectacles and said, “Barry Bluejeans?”

Sildar Hallwinter had also lost a bet.

But it was no matter, for there was no meager chronicle that would remember him as Barold J. Bluejeans, chief science officer of the IPRE Starblaster. He would be survived only by the destruction set to ravage their world in a matter of months, a Dawning so terrible that it would leave nothing of civilization in its wake. No one would know the name Barry Bluejeans. Everyone would know the name Sildar Hallwinter, and the thought made his stomach knot with such anticipation that he had to collect himself before he could respond.

“That’s me,” he said, and grinned a different man’s grin at the gnome—Captain Davenport of the IPRE, unknowing Chariot to the Catalyst for the End of All Things, the Second Revelation, the Midnight Prophet for the Last Downfall of Mankind. “Reporting for duty.”

Sildar was well accustomed to the dank, ash-streaked tunnels of the Fellowship’s headquarters beneath Ascendant’s Peak, but the IPRE headquarters were sleek and warm, drawing him in with rounded walls and high, arching ceilings. Everywhere he looked, another enormous set of windows opened to the landscape below, as of yet untouched by the Cataclysm Foretold. He wasn’t used to this much natural light, and he certainly wasn’t used to people smiling and waving as they passed. “Another poor soul for the Big One, Dav?” someone called, and the captain waved them off affably.

For an organization completely aware of the end times, and completely unaware of the fact that he, Sildar, would be responsible for their failure, they were all terribly… cheery.

“We’ve already gathered the other crew members,” said the captain, when they came to a halt in front of a nondescript door. “They’re just, uh, through here. We’ll start our first briefing in the next—next half hour, but for now, feel free to socialize. G-Get to know them. We’ll call you when we’re ready.”

“Thanks,” said Sildar, and the captain mumbled something under his breath. “Uh, what was that?”

“Oh,” said the captain. “Nothing.” He turned, and it was only then that Sildar’s brain registered the words; it had sounded almost like good luck.

No matter. Sildar opened the door.

“Incoming!”

Sildar yelped—actually yelped—and ducked aside just as a chair flew over his head and exploded against the wall. A shower of wooden fragments and very magical sparks hit the ground in front of him, and he sputtered, wordless, on the precipice of reaching for his own wand—was this an ambush? Had they discovered the truth of his presence already?

“Oh, shit,” somebody said, and a silhouette appeared through the smoke and magical residue. Sildar caught his breath. Perhaps he was dead, then; perhaps one of the wooden shards had caught him through the heart, and the Avatar of Renewal through Annihilation had come to meet him on the threshold of the afterlife. She looked like divinity, at any rate: tall and elegant, with waves of hair that glittered like finely spun gold and eyes that blazed with the last vestiges of power. Eyes that settled on him, and softened instantly. No, Sildar thought. She couldn’t possibly be the Avatar of Renewal, because she looked kind.

“Shit,” said the divine being again. Her ears twitched downward with concern—an elf, then. “Lucky break, babe. You okay?”

Sildar blinked, and found himself at a loss for words.

“Leave it to you to fuckin’ scare the shit outta the newcomer!” A voice like hers rose through the smoke, and as it cleared, Sildar made out four other bodies, all draped in the ostentatious red of the IPRE and squinting into the gloom. The one who had spoken, another willowy elf with even longer golden locks, lifted a hand in the air and snapped his fingers, and all the smoke dissipated at once. “You had to launch it at the fuckin’ wall, Mags!”

His companion, a human who stood taller than everyone else in the room and looked battle-scarred to the bone despite his youth, gestured indignantly at the aftermath. “But did you see how fucking awesome that was? And that was a whole science experiment! Setup—uh, hypothesis, trials, conclusion?”

“Which is?” The elf unspooled two letters into a long, drawn-out drawl.

“That this room was totally used for magic shit! And now we can do whatever we want in here!”

“Um,” came another voice from the window, and Sildar looked over to see a dark young woman with a head of platinum-bright hair, gazing nervously at the set of admittedly impressive scorch marks over his head. “I think if anything, that proves we shouldn’t do what we want in here.”

“Agree to disagree,” said “Mags,” with undue confidence.

“That’s—but that’s not what science is—”

The final figure in the room, a portly dwarf with flowers woven into his beard, shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Look at the impression you just made,” he said. “Going around, trying to kill people you just met—what kind of monsters do something like that?”

The divine being made a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh and pushed a few loose strands of hair off her face. “You must be the chief science officer,” she said, and stuck out a hand. “Sorry for the accidental attempted murder. I’m Lup.”

Lup.

“I’m,” said Sildar. “Uh.”

This time she really did laugh—a lyrical, full-bodied sound that he felt deep in his chest. “Tell me we didn’t just knock your name outta your head.”

“Oh, no, it’s, uh—” Lup. She looked at him with a smile so resplendent he had to catch his breath all over again. What did she know of Sildar Hallwinter, the Catalyst for the End of All Things, the Second Revelation, the Midnight Prophet for the Last Downfall of Mankind? What did she know of anything beyond all the light she cast in every direction?

“I’m, uh, Barry,” he said. “Barry J. Bluejeans.”

.

Here are some things Sildar Hallwinter learns about Barry J. Bluejeans:

He has a penchant for getting into character. Maybe that’s more Sildar than Barry, but there’s something so intoxicating about the drama of it all, especially when no one else knows he’s playing a role. Barry is a bit of a thespian, if he does say so himself.

That said, he’s sort of awkward. More of Sildar’s influence. When you’ve spent your whole life preparing to fulfill your divine purpose in the End of All Things, it’s a little hard to adjust to things like game night and brunch.

He’s smart. Really smart. The Fellowship hadn’t really encouraged science—everything else came second to the teachings of the Apocalypse—but not only is Barry-slash-Sildar naturally inclined for it, he actually enjoys it.

He can’t swim. Sildar can, and rather enjoys it, but it’s a little bit of flavor text he can’t resist.

He’s not half bad at making friends.

The crew of the Starblaster were, of course, a means to an end, and he would develop no meaningful relationship with any of them beyond what was necessary to keep up appearances. That was his mandate, at least. But it was hard. Much harder than he’d expected, really. And despite himself, he—Barry—found it all to easy to laugh at the dwarf Merle’s gods-awful jokes and stay up late to hear Captain Davenport recount tales of grandeur. He let himself be roped into more magic-powered “experiments” (in the loosest sense of the word) with the human fighter, Magnus, who actually seemed to enjoy death-defying stunts with the zeal of someone from the Fellowship. He got to know the soft-spoken but brilliant archivist, Lucretia, and her remarkably meticulous transcriptions. On one particularly reckless night, he joined the long-haired elf Taako on a quest to fill a particularly uppity supervisor’s pockets full of pudding.

And as the Appointed Hour approached, Barry found himself spending late nights in the IPRE labs with Lup, testing and recording speculations on arcane theory and downing enough coffee to drive them to hysterics by dawn. They were all a little nervous, a little sad, a little desperate to sort their affairs before takeoff, but Lup tackled new problems with the kind of determination that demanded solutions. She was the most ingenious person Barry had ever met. And when she sat back from an arcane reaction gone wrong, her hairline blackened with soot and grinning like a caffeine-tripped maniac, he thought she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

This was how it was until the Apocalypse arrived.

Barry woke the morning of with a planet-shattering hangover.

He crawled to the mirror and squinted blearily into the glass; thanks to the IPRE’s constant offerings of complimentary coffee and cake and Taako’s singlehanded banquets, he’d put on weight over the last several months, and he’d started to love the gentle resilience his body had gained. Sildar was clean-shaven and angular, but Barry was soft and stubbly. A few nights before, Lup’s gaze had caught on his chin, and she’d told him how nice he looked with a five o’clock shadow.

He’d thought she was joking, but that was just how she was—kind.

He went to his closet and started to mull over which shirt to wear.

The day was dark and still, the sky an unbroken slate grey, and it was just what the sacred texts had imagined: not a living thing stirred for miles beyond the horizon. Even the grass beneath Barry’s feet, as he followed Davenport to the Starblaster’s gangway, had turned an off-color, metallic shade. They said their goodbyes to the Institute, and to the enormous crowd at starboard, and in the eerie light they all looked like corpses risen from the grave. There was something hanging over their heads that felt nothing like the terrible glory the Fellowship had promised; instead it was unsettled, and sickly, and wrong.

Barry swallowed the knot gathering rapidly in his throat and followed his crew up the gangway. There was but one thing left for him to do now—him, Sildar Hallwinter, the Catalyst for the End of All Things, the Second Revelation, the Midnight Prophet for the Last Downfall of Mankind. And then the Hour would be upon them at last.

He left the others on the bridge and walked to the Bond Engine.

The explosives tucked inside his robe were light, and branded with the sigil of the Fellowship, although no one would be able to tell in the ensuing destruction. It was certain to be localized, of course; they were meant to damage the engine and nothing more. He could never deprive himself—or anyone else, for that matter—the opportunity to witness the Terror as it began its First Assault on the world of the living. No one knew quite what it would look like, or how it would feel, but the Fellowship had promised a beautiful ascendancy for all its members. And now Sildar would seal his fate. He would seal everyone’s fate.

“Barold!”

Sildar fumbled an explosive, and it was almost the last thing he ever did. He whirled around, and there was Taako, waving him over from the bottom of the staircase. “What’re you doing?”

“Nothing,” said Barry, faintly. “Why?”

“Cap’n’port wants everybody on the bridge for the launch.” He flapped his arm at the bridge, looming above them against a wall of indiscernible storm clouds. “C’mon!”

“Uh,” Barry said. Suddenly the explosives weighed too heavily in his robe. “In a sec!”

“He means now, Barry! This storm ain’t lookin’ too good!”

No, no, no. Not yet.

But I don’t want—

What does it matter what you want?

Sildar Hallwinter gripped the hem of his pocket.

And Barry Bluejeans whispered a disarming spell, followed by a shrinking charm. Three marbles branded with the sigil of the High Fellowship of the Great Prophecy for the First Revelation rattled in his pocket as he jogged toward Taako and the bridge.

They escaped by the skin of their teeth. Sildar Hallwinter watched his world consumed by a force so uncaring, so unfeeling, that it couldn’t possibly be the Herald of Rebirth for All Things. He watched it rip everything apart—the IPRE headquarters where he’d met his crew, the ice cream parlor he’d braved with Magnus and Lucretia, the farmer’s market where Taako had taught him the difference between parsley and basil, the enormous lake Davenport had taken them sailing on for a weekend, the small garden Merle had kept just outside their dorms. 

The horizon, where he’d watched the sun set with Lup.

In the space between planes, Sildar Hallwinter was unmade. And when the threads of his body settled back into place, he caught his breath and thought, Never again.

This was how it was written: Barry J. Bluejeans would save the world.

[baekchelor]

𝕕𝕒𝕪𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕕𝕖𝕔𝕖𝕡𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟

pairings: George Mackay x reader genre: romantic comedy rating: pg13 synopsis: on the set of his new film, golden boy George Mackay learns a basic human truth: that the heart is deceitful above all things.

❝ have  you  ever  been  in  love? horrible  isn’t  it?  it  makes  you  so  vulnerable.  it  opens  your  chest  and  it  opens  up  your  heart  and  it  means  that  someone  can  get  inside  you  and  mess  you  up.❞                                                                                                                         ―neil  gaiman

ONE | SCRIPTS & BONDS ◄ ᴘʀᴇᴠ

The first read-through for Dharma happens three weeks later at a film studio in London. Although George allowed Daisy to sleep at his place last night, he didn't even say goodbye when he walked out on the girl deeply asleep on the wrong side of the bed. He wanted to be early as usual, and leaving coffee ready on the kitchen counter didn't fall bellow a No-Strings-Attached relationship, so he didn't bother. There are only Greta Gerwig and some staffers to greet when he's ushered into the venue.

"Y/N isn't here yet," George observes, tired blue orbs scanning the room.

"Don't worry," Alma smiles. She's already slipped a coffee cup into his hand, the way she always does in work mornings when she's well aware George is still half-asleep. The boy snickers to himself, his manager is so predictable. "She'll be here."

"She's probably still with Henry," George surmises. Y/N isn't known as The Witcher’s princess for nothing.

Alma shrugs, encouraging to slurp his Americano and mind his own business. George is well aware this chat makes him look foolish and inexplicably jealous. Thankfully, Alma gossips along, "I don't doubt for a second she may have slept with him last night. But she won't be sleeping in, I can guarantee you that." George tilts his head, asking for more in tell. Alma's red-stained lips stretch open in a yawn. "She always comes on the dot, apparently. Never early, never late."

More interested than he should, and with an amused grin, he consults the time on his phone. Nine o'clock. "Thirty more minutes, then." He places the iPhone on the table in front of him, next to his script. "Let's time her." Alma chuckles, shaking her head. George plays dumb, opting to dramatically smell his coffee before proceed and take another sip from his cup. He picks up the thick white booklet, lines already colour-coded per actor, and starts to read through it.

Dharma is set in 1857 India. Aakesh, a penniless Hindi boy —portrayed by Dev Patel, the main lead— has always known his social standing is a consequence of wrongdoing in his past life. Y/N plays Marina, a wealthy Spanish girl Aakesh believes to be his past life love and the trigger of his attempts to clean his karma. George's character becomes involved when Colonel Edmund Thorn (Michael Fassbender), concerned about the safety of his fianceé, Marina, assigns James as her personal guard. They fall in love.

Thumbing through the middle section of his script, where the plot starts to thicken, it suddenly dawns on George how much acting this movie is going to require of him. His character demands him to declare his devotion to Marina with mere gazes, words few. Still, each movement of his body vociferates a heartfelt love, deepest that any he's ever impersonated.

George closes his eyes, trying to get in character. He imagines himself having this conversation with someone he desperately loves. He pictures Daisy in his head. Her thick, ash blonde hair and smiling eyes, the pink warm of her cheeks and the heat of her mouth when he kisses her.

It feels like cheating, though, because his character is supposed to be in love with Marina, and although Daisy is a girl he enjoys spending time with, he is not in love with her.

George's sigh exits in a long, laboured stream of breath.

"Everything all right?"

The voice is sweet, with an upward lilt to it. It sounds hesitant too, but like it's trying not to be.

The boy looks up. Y/N is studying him, dark-haired and flushed, the expression on her face shy.

"Oh, hello there," George smiles, clearing his head of its haze. He rises from his seat and extends a hand. "I'm George."

"I know," she giggles, holding it. Her palm is cold, whereas George's is warm. "I'm Y/N. I really admire your work. I’m a big fan… Probably had seen all your movies."

George can't help feeling a little sheepish at that. "Thank you," he says. Their arms fall back to their sides. "Same here. Without the 'I'm Y/N' part," he jokes, and he wants to slap himself for being that lame.

"Geo’s friend is a big fan of your boyfriend," Alma quips from behind her. She's too practical to ever get star struck. "I'm Alma, by the way. Geo's manager."

Y/N smiles charmingly as she shakes Alma's hand. And George finds himself in a daze, he loves the way she behaves, how her voice sounds like and the welcoming aura she irradiates.

<< The fuck is wrong with you?>>

"Nice to meet you, Alma." She turns back to George and smiles wider. She has small, pink lips; like petals. "I can arrange a meet and greet if you'd like."

"Thank you," George says, smiling back in spite of himself.

Y/N's eyes twinkle as she coyly shrugs her shoulders. She's wearing a tight little skirt George is sure Daisy owns too. It just doesn't look as good on her as it does on the girl who's currently in front of him.

"Whoa! Look at us getting along," she cheers, eyes transformed into two crescent moons, "Must confess I came prepared to try to break the ice." She seems to check herself then, pursing her mouth and laughing all of a sudden. "Sorry, that made it sound like we're going on a blind date or something."

George laughs along because her giggles are contagious and it is kind of funny. "We kind of are? We're playing star-crossed lovers and didn't even do a chemistry test. I'm pretty much going into this thing blind."

"Aren't we?" Y/N looks like she's glad to find someone in the same boat. "I was just telling--"

"Henry" George quips. His mouth stills awkwardly over the last syllable. He's not sure why he's letting himself be so familiar with this girl when they've only just met.

Y/N doesn't seem to mind, though. "Oh, no, no," she rolls back on her heels, "Henry and I are kinda...well..."

It puts George at ease for some reason. "Oh I see," he says affably with absolutely no bite to it, and Y/N's soft smile flashes again. "You were saying?"

"I was saying," she continues, "I was telling Dev about the no chemistry test thing, and he goes:" her voice fakes a man's voice, heavy British accent and everything, "you guys don't need it. Look at you both! Would look so good together.'" Y/N shakes her head a little, chuckling as she exhales. "I wasn't sure how to react."

"My friend Dean said the same thing," a smile creeps without George's consent as he confesses Dean's mischief. Y/N lets out a soft Oh. "I guess we just, I dunno-"

"You just have natural chemistry," Greta pipes up out of nowhere. She softly squeezes Y/N's cheek fondly. "Still on time, uh? You never change."

"It's all on Vanessa," she giggles with equal fondness. Vanessa is her manager slash personal assistant. George thinks the actress relationship with Greta is reasonable since they've worked together before in a movie he can't remember the name, but she stared alongside Timotheé Chalamet.

The director strikes up a bit of small talk about Y/N's last movie, The Selection, where she and Tom Holland bring the book to life in Netflix's screens. If George remembers it correctly, Holland plays a prince and Y/N portrays a commoner who is selected to compete for the prince's heart. The movie seems a cringe, but for some weird reason, George has decided to watch it once he gets home. Hopefully, Daisy will be gone by then, and the boy would stop at the convenience store to buy beer and popcorn.

George picks up his phone. Stealthily, he checks the time. Nine thirty-five. He and Y/N have been talking for approximately five minutes.

<<On the dot>>, he thinks to himself, recalling Alma's words. Then he hears his name. "Pardon?"

Y/N is saying, "I'll go sit with Dev. Catch up with you later?"

"Yeah, of course," due to his actor demeanour George can hide the disappointment trapped between his words. He understands she has to sit with Dev, their characters interact throughout the entirety of the film. "Do what you have to do."

"Talk to you later then," she shoots him a bright smile, her pink gums gleaming inside of it.

Greta is calling for the rest of the cast to take their seats around the square actors' table. Call it luck, but Dev and Y/N's sits are right across the chair labelled Mackay. The brit places his phone back on the table and slides into his chair.

"By the way," she says, turning around again. "Do I call you, George? Or..."

"Or?" flipping back to the first page of the script, he folds the cover back neatly as he questions the girl with his eyes.

"Your manager called you Geo." Y/N returns her inquisitive gaze. "That's your nickname?"

"Sort of," George laughs. "Very few people call me that way."

"May I?"

He shrugs, "Sure." As he rubs his palm over the script, he decides, on a whim, to try something new. How James, his character, calls her: "Ms Marina."

The crinkles in the corners of Y/N's eyes make the risk worth it.

"Okay," she says, walking backwards with her hands entwined. "Let's have fun today, Geo."

"Flirty Thirty” A gleam of the eye, a quirk of the lip, and it isn't Marina talking anymore, is Y/N tittering.

The room erupts in laughter. George's laughing the hardest of all.

"Y/N," Greta scolds half-heartedly. "Don't break character."

"Sorry, G," Y/N apologizes sweetly. "I thought I would break the ice."

Somehow, George finds himself smiling.

Today marks the fourth official Dharma read-through, and the tenth time they've gone over the entire script. George gets why Y/N is antsy; he is too. He can't wait to start filming in Mumbai, to smell the air of the streets, hear the whir of traffic and fast-paced Hindi. He can't wait to feel James in his bones in every take, the character encasing him, flesh and blood.

Fact is read-throughs are boring. So d*mn repetitive. George is just glad he's got perfect girl Y/N Y/L/N around to make things bearable.

Gerwig sighs in resignation. "Let's break for lunch," she says, addressing the entire group, "Reconvene in an hour."

George catches Y/N's eye and mouths, Padella? Y/N nods vigorously, flashing two thumbs up and a bright smile. The one the boy has grown fond of.

"I'm dying," George tells her a few minutes later as they walk to the restaurant. Luckily for both, it is near the film studio.

"Same here," she agrees. "One last read-through then India, here we come!"

"But we go through the script three times each meeting," George is half-whining, half-sniggering at the way Y/N's eyes roll to the back of her head. "We'll probably take even longer than usual today because of your little adlib."

"Sorry..."

"It was fun, though." Quickly, George reaches out to ruffle the hair on the top of Y/N's head. He wants to touch her. He just doesn't know why nor how and he doesn't want to make her feel uncomfortable. He cares too much for her. "Not a lot of laughs in this love story of ours."

Y/N doesn't bother smoothing down the mess. "Can you imagine loving someone as much, Geo?"

"Uhm..." George brushes a fingertip against his own fringe. He needs to get it trimmed before they start the live shoots. "I don’t know. Their love is something out of this world.”

"Yeah," Y/N watches the movement casually. "It is."

They get to the restaurant and the waiter, who is clearly a fan of hers, greets them enthusiastically.

"You two are so good looking," she gushes, but George knows the compliment is directed at Y/N. The waiter, who's tag reads Flo, merely is trying to be polite by her use of pronouns. "You get more and more dashing every time I see you." Y/N gives her the prettiest smile, and Flo enthusiastically looks at George, beyond happy for the reaction she got out of Y/N. George would be thrilled as well if the prettiest girl at Padella smiled at him in such a way...

<<What?>>

Padella has become a familiar haunt. They'd gone after the first read-through —when George discovered Y/Ns favourite food was any type of pasta— and every read-through after that, always ordering a dish they haven't tasted before and two glasses of wine. Not exactly in keeping with the diets, but George reckons these cheat days won't hurt. He and Y/N have taken to exercising together too, fitting in the gym sessions between their Dharma meetings and other schedules.

"I gained weight when I was a teenager," Y/N admitted during one of their workouts. "I had to work out to keep the weight off. Not like you." She'd smiled her sweet, bright smile, and George could imagine her being just as likeable with double the meat on her bones.

"I grow a beer gut like that," he'd told Y/N, snapping his fingers. "So I have to work it off, too."

In record time, Flo brings their dishes, leaving a courtesy starter on the table. George grabs his fork and swirls it through the fettuccini. It makes a pleasing, gooey sound as he incorporates the Pomodoro sauce.

"Oh, right, if I may Ms Marina," George says, giggling. The actress hums in return, mixing the contents of her own plate. "Do you want to come over for dinner tomorrow? My sister is cooking carbonara, your favourite."

"Oh my god," Y/N looks up from her dish, mouth-watering at the mere thought of her favourite food. "She won't mind me crashing your dinner?"

"No," George replies, slouching over his bowl. "She asked me to invite you."

"Really?" her orbs go a little round. "Why?"

A mouthful of bolognese disappears into George's mouth with a slurp, "I might have mentioned your love for Italian food."

Y/N takes a sip of her rosé, "Won't you mind me crashing your sibling dinner?"

"Nah," he smiles. “We're friends." He swallows the food he's chewed into the side of his cheek and tries not to meet Y/N's eyes. "I kind of like hanging out with you."

"Oh," she answers instantly, so blasé, pink across her cheeks. George adores it. "I kind of like hanging out with you, too."

George glances up then, and they share a knowing smile before going back to their food. It's oily and red, a little salty. George knows he's going to have to wash his teeth and throw a box of mints into his mouth before they go back to the read-through, but he doesn't care. It's delicious.

Their comfortable silence is broken when Y/N's phone rings inside her Rebecca Minkoff’s bag. She pulls it out, glances at the screen, and gestures to George that she's going to take it outside.

"I'll be right back," she says; tongue running over her teeth. The boy nods, just as Y/N answers the call and turns.

"Hey, H," George hears her say as she pushes through the door. "What's up?"

Cavill, he thinks to himself, sucking up to another curtain of fettuccini.

Fleetingly, he wonders if he should tell Y/N to bring a date—as in Henry. But the idea is pushed to the back of his mind when Flo comes by their table to ask if they would want more wine, and it doesn't resurface, not even when Y/N strolls back in from her private call.

In her pale silk blouse and tight little skirt, the one Y/N owns too, Daisy looks every bit as gorgeous as she does in her Basic House ads. George gotta admit. Yet he feels a little itch when he looks at her, it bothers him, so he focuses his attention on the other Daisy in the room. His sister.

She's setting down a plate of sour bread on his dinner table, her hair tied back in a ponytail. Luhan watches her lazily, admiring the classy decoration of the table. It looks out of a restaurant. Much better than Padella's.

"Since when my sister's become a chef?" he says playfully. His sister giggles in response, her attention too immersed in the preparations. She wants it all to be perfect. Scratch that, more than perfect.

Only then George returns his gaze towards the other Daisy, and he notices she's staring at him, a pout on her pretty red lips.

"Why not?" she asks. George wants to roll his eyes, but he's too polite to do so. He lets her continue the tantrum, "You know I used to have a poster of Henry Cavill in my old dorm, right? The whole time I was in University?" George barely nods. "So please, please, please, please, please... Please, George. Let me meet his girlfriend, hmm?"

"No," he answers. The hurt in Daisy's green eyes confirms he's been too harsh. He reaches up to tuck a loose tendril of hair behind her ear. She lets him do it, wearing a small and sweet smile. "I'll get jealous, baby," he lies in an attempt to soften his previous words.

She laughs, hiding her face as it turns a flattering shade of crimson. She's always been flattered by stuff like this and George doesn't understand why. They're not a couple, to begin with.

"Okay," she circles the table, fingers lacing into George's as she sits on his lap. She plants a kiss against his lips, "I'll get going then. Call me later?"

"Yeah," he pecks her on the tip of her nose and her eyelashes quiver.

The moment Daisy leaves, her namesake, George's sister Daisy, pops his head from the kitchen.

"You know, Henry is my celebrity crush too," her feet express her enthusiasm in small jumps. "I'm so excited!"

"You what?" George's nostrils flare, "Why every girl I know is infatuated with him?"

The doorbell rings before George can retort any further. His eyes flick over to the wall clock on impulse. 8PM. Of course.

"She's here," Daisy smiles, hands flapping at her sides. She combs back her hair, pauses, and repeats the action two more times.

It reminds George of the time he'd run into Brad Pitt backstage at an award show in Los Angeles. He was already famous by then, but he'd still tugged at the sleeves of his tux obsessively, hoping the jacket was sitting squarely on his shoulders, right before he'd said hello.

He walks to answer the door as Daisy places the pasta on the table. Y/N's standing in the corridor with a bottle of red in one hand.

"Ms Marina," George drawls, "Is that you, in my humble home?"

Laughing, Y/N kisses both his cheeks in greeting. George chuckles, taking the wine, and suddenly, he feels his face burning hot. "On the dot, as always."

The girl blushes. At least he's not the only one.

"Come on in," George waves her through the door. "My sister is dying to meet you." He can hear the hissed Geo! like a whip slicing through the air.

Y/N snaps her knuckles, a smile pulling up evenly on both sides, "Hello, Daisy."

A demure, cotton-soft voice replies, "Hello, gorgeous. It's so nice to meet you.”

"Likewise,” the actress beams.

Save for a few bites of pancetta, the serving plates look as though they’ve been licked clean.

"That was so, so good Daisy. The best carbonara I've ever had" Y/N compliments the cook. "Thanks for letting me try it."

"Any time" she replies, looking like a kid who's just been handed a present. George smiles at her, pouring both girls another glass of wine.

The night has gone well. Being the outgoing type, Daisy wasted no time in making Y/N  feel comfortable in her brother's home. She'd seated her next to George at the table, fussing over them both as she peppered Y/N with questions about her last two projects. She'd let slip that she'd watched every season of The Tudor's and Y/N's smile had been bashful.

"I loved Henry's work," Daisy had admitted, and George couldn't help but giggle at how quickly his sister's face coloured in bright pink.

George offers Y/N the last bit of burgundy in the bottle. When the latter declines, licking at the wine-stained seam of her mouth, he pours it for himself.

"You don't have to be so formal with me," Y/N tells Daisy, her tone already fond. George can tell she likes that. "I'm a big fan of Henry too. I had the biggest crush on him before I even met him." Her face is still a little rosy. She blushes really easily, and George likes it.

“It still feels weird. Henry is your boyfriend!”

"It's totally fine. Trust me," Y/N reassures her. "We can fangirl over him as Geralt every time you want. I don't mind."

Daisy squeals.

"Okay, enough girl talk." It isn't jealousy what makes George scoff. At least that's what he tells himself. He reaches into his pocket for cigarettes. "I'm just gonna go for a smoke, okay?"

Daisy’s pretty face pinches, "I wish you'd quit. Those things are horrible for you."

"I'll just have one," he bargains, sweet as honey. He pats his belly, crafting a compact sound. "I need it. You fed me too well, sister."

Y/N sniggers and Daisy rolls her eyes. Pointedly, she asks, "Do you smoke?"

"Sometimes," Y/N answers. “But I agree, it’s nasty.”

George watches as Y/N —the traitor—agrees with his sister, "Anyways, you should come with me so I can show you around."

"You shall," Daisy encourages.

“I don’t know,” the actress murmurs but George has already hooked his fingers behind her elbow and is half-hauling her out of her seat. "C’mon, let's go."

"Fine. Lead the way, Geo."

They take the elevator down to the pool area on the fifth floor, where smoking is permitted. George puts a cigarette in his mouth, holding his lighter in front of it, so the flame ignites it.

Y/N takes a long sigh. "Daisy is great," she says quickly. "She's so much like you."

"Thanks. I guess?" George exhales, the smoke curling in a ribbon of diaphanous white. "You’re still seeing Henry, uh?"

The other smirks. "You say that like you know it for sure."

"Alma likes gossip” George licks his lips. They taste of wine and olives.

The girl shrugs. "It’s kinda..." she answers. "It's on and off."

"Oh?" George blows a few smoke rings, rounding out his mouth and flicking his tongue to create the hole in the centre. "Mind if I ask why?"

"No particular reason," Y/N rushes the answer. "I’d rather not talk about it. Sometimes it... it just doesn’t work, ya know?”

Without thinking, George makes an offer he didn't realize was on the table. "Whenever it doesn't work," he says, "you should just hang out with me," he quickly continues, a little freaked, words rushing out, "and Daisy. Me and Daisy."

Y/N laughs, just once: its all gums and perfect pearly teeth. "Do you feel sorry for me?"

"Hardly, Mrs Prettiest Face On TV," George retorts mildly. Y/N laughs again, and George can't tell if she's sarcastic or earnest. Not that it matters. "It's just you and my sister got along really well, and I–"

"Thanks," Y/N cuts in. Her eyes are particularly feline in this light, and her voice is a degree more gentle than it was before. "I'll take you up on that."

She watches him smoke in silence for a few more minutes, the night air clouding with the filmy exhaust of his cigarette. When Y/N yawns, George stubs it out. Then he loops his arm around her waist.

Unconsciously, she leans into the touch. "It's weird," she observes, "that we didn't know each other two months ago."

"Really weird," George concedes, slightly buzzed from the wine and only half-aware that something has lifted between them. "I’m glad it's two months later."

In the days leading up to India, dinner at George's become a regular thing. Every two nights, Y/N will show up with something to add to the table: wine, desserts and beer, a floury baguette wrapped in paper or a basket of fresh fruit.

Sometimes Daisy joins them, and the conversation flows like blood through veins. At around midnight, Y/N will excuse herself to give the siblings their space but not before George extracts a promise from her to work out or watch a movie the following day. (She happens to love cinema as much as him.)

Other times, when Daisy is out with her boyfriend and the other Daisy isn't smouldering George with text messages asking him to dine with her, go to the movies with her, come to the theatre to see her, bla bla bla; George will chat idly with Y/N until the wee hours of the morning. The ice in their drinks will crackle and melt, diluting their colour, as they discuss their childhood dreams and the trajectory of their careers. They recount their upward climb in show business, the slow decline of some of their peers, and the fear that they might someday be in the same boat. They joke about their management and how both companies have long given up on damage control when it comes to their love lives.

George tells her more about caring, candid Alma, and Dean, his co-star and now best friend.

"Blake and Schofield are real-life BFF's?" George’s companion asks incredulously, "I stan so hard."

In turn, Y/N confesses him Sam Mendes is her absolute favourite director, and George promises to introduce them. She also voices about Henry, their ups and downs and the fact half of their circle of friends categorize their relationship as toxic.

"Keep that to yourself," Y/N adds after a brief lull. "I've never told anyone about it."

"They won't hear it from me," George swears, taking a gulp of watered-down Pilsen. He doesn't even tell his sister.

Dharma begins its live shoots three months after the first read-through.

Y/N and George are scheduled to film in Mumbai for four weeks. Alma informs George it's likely they will extend to six due to Greta Gerwig's infamous obsessive compulsiveness. His actors often end up filming simple scenes over and over again for days, because the director doesn't think the natural light or the colour of a couch or the feeling is quite right.

"Already cleared it with the boss," Alma shares brightly. She means the head of his management, who happens to love George, as all CEOs love their biggest star.

"Fine with me," the actor says. "I don't mind staying in Mumbai a little longer." He's worked with less pleasant directors than Greta before, and a little OCD won't take the fun out of filming with Y/N.

He's pleased to discover that the other feels the same way.

"Let's press for six weeks," Y/N says as they climb into the luxury car waiting for them at the airport. She speaks in a natural tone of voice, as though there isn't a swarm of fans screaming outside the vehicle. "I had only been here once, years ago, I lived in a small city near Mumbai called Pune for almost two months.”

"How come?"

"School stuff... I can't wait to rediscover India. Have you ever been?"

"Nope," George says, sliding off his sunglasses and running a hand through his hair. "Count me in on the exploration."

The way Y/N looks at him like he's her closest person in the world right now makes George's insides warm.

ɴᴇxᴛ►

@loulouloueh​