#fleeting moments of attention and acknowledgement that aren’t so fleeting at all because they still existed and still do in a way.

[chilapis]

I think every moment is eternal in its own right and we hold no authority to deny it that status. Even if it is a forever that will escape our memories, it’ll still exist as a forever in the history of time. In the memories of no-one but the Earth itself. In the records kept and made by no-one, where everything is stored for all time to come. No love is lost and no existence truly unacknowledged.

[gofancyninjaworld]

Garou and the futility of heroism

.With much thanks to @the-nysh for the conversation.  I thought of making this longer and more detailed, but I know myself: it’ll turn into one of those drafts that hangs around for years.

 I've recently been reading the Epic of Gilgamesh as a part of reducing my terrible ignorance of the foundations of Western literature.  Cracking good yarn, highly recommended, but I’m not here to talk literature. The latter half of the story is dominated by Gilgamesh’s struggle against the idea that he was inevitably going to die.

Where this relates to Garou is not that he’s railing against the inevitability of death and the reality that everything built up over a life will crumble to dust.  What Garou is struggling against is the seeming futility of heroism.

His specific approach is all sorts of bad, but the reality he's struggling against is something brought up repeatedly in One-Punch Man.  One of the *big* themes in One-Punch Man is critically examining what a hero is actually good *for*.  No matter how diligent a hero is, no matter how strong they are, the world's evils do not disappear. 

It's very outrageous and painful to acknowledge how small and fleeting one's efforts are in the grand scheme of things. 

The moment we get a look into Saitama’s thoughts, it’s the very first thing he leads with.  Literally the very first sentence of his thinking.

Saitama might be the strongest hero ever, able to defeat anything in one punch.  Not only has the world not become a better place as a result of his actions, but the very neighbourhood he lives in has become depopulated as it’s become too dangerous to live there.  In its own way, having birdsong be the loudest sound in the morning is its own rebuke to Saitama’s ambitions of helping people.

Watchdogman is the most diligent hero ever, with a perfect monster elimination record.  And yet, City Q is as monster-infested as ever.  Should anything happen to him, it will be as if he never existed for all the good his previous efforts will have done its inhabitants.

however diligently he sits, the pedestal he’s on will crumble the moment he cannot do his job any longer.

 And that’s just talking about monsters.  There are a lot of very bad people in OPM world and not just of the cackling mad scientist variety, although it’s got plenty of those too.

The world of One-Punch Man also has evils driven by factors that are far too big for any hero by their action to stop.  Problems best addressed at the political or economic level aren’t going to be solved with a punch.

Even when the evil appears to be tied up with a single person, like the Ninja Village was established by That Man, getting rid of them doesn’t necessarily change affairs.  The Village stole the freedoms and lives of boys for a good fifteen years after Blast defeated That Man.  It was still too profitable to *not* do.

when you think about it, crime must really pay in One-Punch Man!

Even when you say you’re going to do something simple and heroic, like save a single child from the clutches of a monster... what do you mean by ‘saved’, exactly?  How brutally difficult it is to save even a single person, how easily it is that your best efforts to be turned to naught by an adverse event, like springing a rabbit from a trap only to have it swooped up by a hawk, is fully on display this arc. 

so many heroes’ efforts and yet Waganma went almost nowhere...truly like fetching water out of a river with a basket!

Other than Saitama, we see so many other heroes struggle with the reality of how little they can change things in the long term.  Very notable is the conversation that Snek has with Suiryu, where Suiryu challenges Snek to justify why he bothers being a hero at all? “No matter how hard you try, it’s just drops of water on burning rocks,”  Suiryu says, something done for self-satisfaction rather than because it actually creates meaningful change.   Snek’s thoughts mirror Suiryu’s as he considers whether heroes are actually necessary at all.

Let’s bring it back to Garou.  Garou’s Very Bad No Good Plan to Avoid Heroic Heartbreak he laid out in chapter 41.  Quite simply, heroes always have to wait for bad things to happen and then react to punish the evildoers and/or save people. 

I love how long this guy is...um, sorry I was supposed to be typing something insightful here

But what if it was possible to take the initiative instead, like a monster does?  What if people could stop wanting to be bad and monsters could stop wanting to attack people?  That’s where the Human Monster was born, the quest to create a persona so strong that no one could oppose it, and so senselessly evil that no one dared to do anything that attracted its attention.

punishing the good and evil alike, don’t make him come your way if you know what’s good for you.

I see a lot of readers read superficially, misunderstand and think Garou is punishing heroes in some way. That heroes are bad in some way.  Nothing like that: he attacks heroes because they’re good and devote their lives to protecting people.  After all, only a total monster would do that.  Also, if even the strongest heroes aren’t safe, what hope have the regular people of this world?

All throughout the arc, that Garou doesn’t actually want to be a monster at heart is clear to every actual monster.  It’s clear to us as we see his interactions with Tareo.  It’s clear to him himself as he tries to steel himself to take a life just to prove to himself that he can (thankfully it’s Saitama he tries to kill). 

It’s what makes Saitama’s bullshit-cutting words as cutting as they are.   Ultimately, his trying to scare the world into being good is his way of running away from the tough, heart-breaking work of being a hero.

there is a crazy confidence a hero needs to embody in order to step up, as if by doing so they can do something

The pathos that we can empathise with is that it’s hard to look on a world as messed up as theirs is and not feel that surely, surely there’s something more that one can do.  Garou’s struggle is absolutely legitimate.   However... I’m going to let the however hang a moment...

It’s childish thinking to frame heroism in terms of strength and it’s not much better to frame it in terms of being of exceptional virtuousness.  What a hero is, according to ONE, is someone who can look honestly at the cruelty and randomness of the world, who can acknowledge frankly the fleeting nature of any good they can do, feel the pain of this reality fully.   And then choose to reach a hand out to help anyway.  

In a world where feeling helpless in the face of impossibly large and complex problems feels inevitable, cynicism is too ready a refuge, and just looking out for yourself is common sense, the mere act of reaching that hand out is an act of courage.

not with illusions of good triumphing over evil, but the dogged determination to do the right thing even if the world burns down.  That’s what being a hero is about.

However...

...the way Garou worked out his inner conflict was not legitimate.  He picked the worst possible way at the worst possible time to wrestle with it. Which I think goes to a second theme: that your feelings may be valid.  But that does not mean that every action that follows from those feelings is valid.  Garou hurt a lot of good people and impeded their vital work at a time the world could ill-afford it.

One of the joys of fiction is that not only do characters act for reasons that make sense, but we get to hear and understand *why*. And at the same time, the external actions they take on the world persist. I’m very happy too that ONE isn’t glossing over the consequences of Garou’s actions.  Too many readers pick one or the other and lose half the joy.   

Thankfully, ONE isn’t a half-ass.

It doesn’t become okay for the heroes that Garou attacked that they were assaulted.  It doesn’t become okay for the world that so many people were needlessly deprived of heroes when they needed them most.  And it isn’t okay for Garou that he’s made an outlaw of himself as a result of his actions.   The ramifications on both personal and societal are going to be explored for the individuals involved.  I bless ONE for his conscientiousness and for creating so many excellent characters that make the enterprise worth the candle.

What kind of hero Garou will decide to be and how he’ll make it work in practice, ah that we’re waiting to see.

Coda:

Of course, that’s not the whole story.  There’s one other part.  Occasionally, by being the right person willing and able to step up in the right way at the right time, a hero can change *everything*.

[cozycryptidcorner]

Étienne the Fae, Part One of Two

This was commissioned by the illustrious and fantastical @monsterfolkandfiction​! Thank you so much, and I hope that everyone enjoys this story as well. A second part is being drafted now.

tw: disordered eating, manipulative and abusive mother

You shouldn’t have gone into your grandfather’s basement.

You shouldn’t have gone into your grandfather’s basement. .

There were voices. Lots of voices, and you thought that a show of brilliance might grant your grandfather’s coveted attention above your cousins’. The door was unlocked, how could you not sneak a peek down the forbidden stairwell? So you crept down, hand on the rail for safety, eyes wide in the hopes of spotting something.

You remember how to summon him. Always. You’ve blocked out everything else about him, but you always remember how to call him back, even if you never will. Only in an emergency, you would always think, glaring at your mark as though he can see you through the mottled purple flesh.

You wipe a bit of sweat from your face, chewing on your lower lip as you glance over your shoulder at the ticking clock—almost midnight. The little vagrant who caused the muddy disaster you’re cleaning is asleep already, hand clutching her rag still as she lays limp on the wooden floor.

Maria is a good kid. Troubled, yes, a mischief-maker for sure, but she’s good. She’s just the type who needs a little guidance, that’s all. You didn’t bother trying to wake her back up, mostly because you know it would do no good, and honestly, it’s probably easier to finish the mess yourself without dealing with a cranky, tired child. Besides, it’s not that big of a deal, it’s not like she hasn’t managed to clean up her messes before.

Just a little bit, you tell yourself as you scrub the rest of the mud from the floor,she’s lost.

It doesn’t take you much longer to finish up the mud, the water in the bucket sloshing an earthy brown the more you pollute it with the dirt slurry on your rag. None of the nuns have walked by the entrance, which is good, because you don’t exactly want to face them. You wouldn’t even have to come up with an explanation, they’ll know, especially the head of the abbey. The last thing you’d want is for Maria to be whipped with that reedy switch some of the nuns carry around to punish unruly children.

After dumping out the bucket of dirt, you wipe your sweaty palms on your apron, letting out a bated breath. The moon has already sunk behind the hills, the night only lit by the dim candles you managed to steal out from the servant’s noses. While one might think that a place of worship would have plenty of access to such supplies, it seems like everything is scarce in the days where the darkness licks and poisons like a snake.

“Are you alright, young sister?”

Though you jump, it’s only Sister Anya, a soft, young-looking nun looking down at you with the utmost concern.

Her pale hair is highlighted by the candlelight in the most martyr-like way that you feel the urge to fall on your knees and plead for her to pray for you. Everything about her is ethereal, almost almost horrendously beautiful, blue eyes so deep and dark your lungs fill with water as though drowning when you look at her.

Trying to steady yourself, you place a hand on the wooden bannister, then nod, shakily.

She glances at the bucket you’re holding, and her gaze softens considerably. “Were the children giving you a difficult time today?”

Since you know Anya isn’t one of the nuns who believe that pain is the path to godliness, so you’re more willing to express any frustrations you might have with her. So you shrug, then roll your eyes, trying to force your tongue to work but settle for gestures instead.

Sister Anya places a hand on your shoulder sympathetic gesture.” Your nerves are high today, hm?”

Thankful you don’t have to bother explaining yourself, verbally or through a thousand of different hand positions, you nod.

Sister Anya lets out a gentle sigh. “I’m so sorry, dove, the children ought to know not to press against your patience.”

Again, you shrug, walking over to the door in order to dump the muddied bucket, before passing it to her waiting hands.

“Again,” Sister Anya says softly, “I know that you’re not obligated to be here, but you know that the children love you. Even if they aren’t always so well behaved.”

You nod in acknowledgement, having had this conversation with her before. No matter the chaos the orphanage children might instil during sunlight, you always return, knowing that the kids truly mean well at the end of the day. Memories of blood bubble in your throat, your empathy digging too deeply in your past that you feel a sense of fear.

Quickly, you bid your leave, knowing that you should have long been back in your bed. God, if your mother finds out you’ve been loitering this late-

“Oh,” Sister Anya concedes, “of course, should I walk you back?”

Quickly, you shake your head, not wishing that she put herself at risk for your own sake. After once more asking over your assuredness, Sister Anya concedes, though her concern is not at all lacking. You know that the woods host a very numerous amount of creatures, though none have dared to ever bother you. The contrast has been so stark against the countless first-hand stories than you’ve heard that you’ve almost convinced yourself that you’re invisible to their otherworldly eyes, although you still hold healthy regard for what you might not understand.

Still, on the way back, all the negative attention you might receive is brief and fleeting, most crackling within the woods retreating as though you were about to set fire to the numerous dried foliage of the coming winter. Besides, your family estate is alarmingly close, you should be within the safety of its walls shortly after embarking, the sprites and critters almost obnoxiously ignoring your presence. Ever since… the incident, you haven’t needed to take the same precautions as the rest of your peers, and thus you manage to get yourself home earlier than someone might have estimated.

There is a lot to be happy about your life, you suppose, staring blankly up at the family portrait up on the wall. Happy mother. Happy father. Their absolute disgrace of an eldest child, which is you, unfortunately. You know that there are children in that abbey who would kill to have the same privileges you do, warm bed, food whenever you need, and water that doesn’t have a rusty undertaste of dirt, so you try not to feel… ungrateful.

You lick your lips, peeking out from the hall to check for anyone making their rounds, then quickly and quietly walk by the window towards your room. It’s late, so no one should be up, but that’s never stopped your mother when she’s in one of her worse moods, and just as you predicted, you hear her rapidly approach. Now entering panic mode, you move twice as quickly, slipping into your room and shutting the door quietly behind you.

Your muscles are stiff, fingers shaking, as you desperately try to pull the pins in your hair that kept everything marginally in place as you worked, knowing that you should be at least in your nightgown at this time. The scent of roses is thick, putrid, and always the choice of perfume for your mother. You suppose that it’s nice that you can at least smell her before she fully arrives, but now you can hardly look at those flowers without feeling a pinch of anxiety flowing through your chest.

The door wrenches open, your mother neither gentle nor willing to give you those extra precious moments where you might hide something. Your brush is in hand, and you are in the process of working through the knots that had accumulated through the day, but by the look of her face in the candlelight, your supposed innocence will be deeply in question.

“Where have you been?” Her voice is like nails on a chalkboard, it’s all you can do to not wince when she speaks.

I was at the orphanage, mother. You can’t even look her in the eye.

“I don’t remember giving you permission to work among those pathetic waifs, girl.”

Mother doesn’t even bother with your name, especially when she’s angry. And, judging by the tone of her voice, she’s incensed by something, only you don’t even know what it is she’s accusing you of, so you can’t even offer up any meagre defences.

“Did I say you were allowed to stay until the night turns to morning? What kind of a reputation are you trying to gain, you stupid, ungrateful child?”

The only ‘men’ in that orphanage are younger than eleven, but you know that this outburst isn’t at all over your chastity.

She raises her hand, and you flinch, but the strike doesn’t come this time. Instead, she walks up behind you, snagging the brush out of your hand and begins an aggressive grooming routine. “You should be grateful for what I give you and stop trying my patience. Everything I do for you is always met with silence, do you think the Bennet girls treat their poor mother like this? Or has the devil cursed me with you?”

You know that any attempt to escape her gnarled, rough fingers would be met with even more violence, so you sit still, digging your fingernails into the cushion of your chair. Everything in your body is on edge, your jaw is tight, your stomach still, all your muscles frozen in place to keep from crying out as the onslaught of your scalp continues. Silently resigned, you stare at yourself in the mirror, hating everything you see in the reflective glass.

“You would think that the gods would give me a child who shows a modicum of mercy for her poor mother, but no, all I get is this pathetic excuse of a lady. I know everyone goes behind my back and talks about what a joke you are, and yet you don’t even care enough about the person who put you into this world to even care enough to change.”

Your throat is dry, your eyes are not. Stubbornly, though, you refuse to give her tears, because she’ll only think that crying is a method of trying to guilt her into stopping. So you’re quiet, and you accept the onslaught of verbal terror, trying to let it all wash over you like water running over stones in a river.

“I should have never let you stay that summer with your grandfather, he put in all the wrong ideas in your head. And where did that get him, anyway? In a casket, six feet under.” Eventually, she tires herself out, as she always does. As she places the brushes back on the vanity, she notices the little jar of candies you like to keep around for both yourself and your younger siblings. Her brow furrows, and she takes it, “you don’t need to eat more than you already do.”

You don’t turn to watch her leave, letting the dull slamming of the door speak for itself. Once you’re certain she’s not going to come back for another round, you reach up and start braiding your hair for the night, fingers separating the strands and weaving them together. A strange sort of numbness takes over your body, a tugging emptiness draining your chest and veins of any life. When you lay your head on the pillow, there’s dampness on your cheek that you hadn’t noticed prior.

Luckily for you, in the morning, you are left to be ignored once more. You suppose that you are grateful that your mother only seeks you out when she is angry because that offers more freedom to do as you please when she isn’t. A strange thing to enjoy, but you are still willing to count your blessings nonetheless.

Every day goes by more or less the same. You pretend to be a fancy lady for the minimum amount of time, though thankfully you’re so often ignored you can slip away and head down to the orphanage. You have no official schedule of volunteering, since some days your mother is more persistently present than others, but the nuns are thankful for your appearance more or less.

And you tell yourself that you’re satisfied with everything. It’s a lie, and you know it’s a lie, but the moment you begin to move past that safe little untruth, you think your world will fall apart. So you wait. And you watch. And you’re silent.

The day your mother is uncharacteristically cheerful is the day you feel genuine fear.

She’s humming while going over the cook’s menu ideas. Humming. And she requested to see you… which… is rather unusual. As you walk in, you try to peek over her shoulder, though she shifts the papers ever so slightly out of your sight, offering a warning grunt in your direction. Still unsure of where she might be taking this nonexistent conversation, you take your book and sit on the other side of the table, trying to keep calm.

“There’s going to be a wedding,” she says in a sing-songy voice.

Normally, when your peers are wed off, she takes it like a personal attack, as though each girl is mocking your family by daring to marry before you. Now you’re even more nervous, trying to think over which of your siblings could be of marrying age. Surely they haven’t roped any poor waif into marrying your idiot brother, right?

“Tell me what colors you think would be appropriate for a spring ceremony,” she says, so dreamily it shakes you to your core.

You open your mouth, but your chest is so constricted by fear that it can’t possibly push air through your throat. Instead, you just look down and shrug, trying to steady yourself as you sit. God, you’re so hungry. That breakfast never really fills you up, but you never dare try to scavenge for more food in the daytime.

“I didn’t think you would have the good sense to know, anyways,” your mother dismisses your opinion with the wave of her hand. “A light lavender, maybe? Oh, perhaps daisies would be lovely, but that might seem too ‘country…’ or would that be fashionable?”

You nervously let her ramble, wishing you had it in you to just… get up. Leave. Go someplace where you would be alone and lie down. Your body itches to be surrounded by the greenery in the garden, let yourself become one with the earth. Never worrying about the court, about gentlemen of good breeding, or your mother again. She’s taking tea with biscuits, enough food on that platter to share, but you know better than to try to reach your hand over to grasp one.

But fate is a cruel mistress, and your mother even crueler. You don’t have much more warning than the click of your father’s office door as he and an unfamiliar person exit, and adrenaline laces along your veins. You don’t like how your mother looks at him, you don’t like how he looks at you, and you would very much like to no longer be perceived as a physical being. As your mother stands, you follow suit, just out of shock.

“Mr. Andreas,” your mother croons, a shiver of horror running down your spine.

The stranger nods, then glances over you with a critical kind of look, one that makes your insides squirm so uncomfortably you almost vomit.

“We’ve agreed to the terms,” your father says, then nods in your direction. “The wedding will be set in the spring.”

You’re dizzy, all the blood rushing from your head.

To make things worse, your mother is closer, the pungent scent of flowers invading your lungs with such a pervasive efficiency you can’t even breathe. She’s holding your hand, squeezing your pulse so tightly you know the blood is pooling out between her fingertips, and says, “say hello to your fiance, darling. Don’t be rude.”

It feels like a blink. A quick moment of absolutely nothing, your soul floating up above you like a spectre, and then you’re back. And in bed.

It’s dark outside, and a candle faithfully burns on the table by your bed. Leaning over, you blow it out, knowing that someone not nearly as blessed as you could use the precious light more. Your window rattles, a black shape writhing and clicking against the glass, but it doesn’t break through.

Your head feels empty, a thick, persistent kind of nothingness frying the different pathways to thought. Something important happened, something…. something you should be wary of, but it takes you quite a long time to remember the day’s events until a glimpse of that man’s smarmy face surfaces.

Engaged.

The word makes you gag, but there’s nothing in your stomach to retch. You have no clear idea of how long you’ve been in bed, but as you place your feet on the cold ground, a wave of empty dizziness fizzles through your head. It’s a hungry kind of dizziness, one where your body is at its last leg trying to keep itself upright.

There’s a hot, white pinching in your chest as you rise to a hand, legs and arms shaking like a leaf in a storm. Kitchen, you have to get to the kitchen, your vision blurry and faint. Still, you do your best to keep yourself together as you silently slip out of your room.

The halls are eerily silent, candlelight keeping the night’s terrors at bay. Servants occasionally make rounds to make sure the light doesn’t snuff itself out, but you’ve long timed the carefully coordinated efforts. Arms wrapped around your chest, you slowly make your way back to the kitchens, careful to dodge any straggling staff in the halls.

For the most part, the kitchen is rather modestly sized in comparison to the rest of the house, something the servants and cooks gripe about during the wasteful parties your parents throw to uphold some kind of ridiculous facade of class and wealth. But for you, in your occasional midnight snack, it’s just the right size to feel homely, but also with enough books and crannies for you to duck behind if someone unexpected makes a surprise cameo.

But today, it looks like the last person you wanted to see has been anticipating your visit though.

“Really,” your mother says, arms crossed, the steady glare of rage on her brow, “you faint to embarrass me and then, instead of apologizing, the first thing you think to do is to eat more?”

You swallow thickly, knowing you’re about to get an apocalyptic lecture.

“Look at yourself, girl,” your mother makes a wide, gestural sweep over your body, “your obsession with eating is what made you so difficult to marry in the first place. No one wants to marry a whale! And now that you think you’ve landed a man, you can settle back to your old bad habits?”

You shake your head, clammy and afraid.

“Of course not,” she doesn’t raise her voice, not once, and that somehow makes everything worse, “I told you all you needed was to lose those flaps at your waist, but you can’t even adhere to the diet I’ve set you on.”

If you faint again, she’s going to claim you only did so to guilt her, so you hold your dizzying head together with spit and empty determination. There’s a half-eaten loaf of bread covered on the stove, mocking you with its closeness, laughing at your desperation.

“Everything I do for you, and all you give me in return is your spiteful attitude.” She sighs dramatically and shakes her head. “Go back to bed, girl, I can’t even look at you without feeling disgusting. I don’t know how you can live the way you do.”

You don’t. But you accept the out, shakily wobbling back to your room, hearing your mother call out behind you.

“The engagement party is three days away. You know the rules.”

No sneaking food. Of course you do, she doesn’t allow you to forget it. You go back to your room and lay down on the bed, trying to ignore the painful punches in your starving stomach. Breakfasts in the morning. Breakfast in the morning. Breakfast in the morning.

The party is the epitome of everything you hate.

Bright, gaudy, the food so rich and plentiful despite the nearly starving children barely a mile away. Already you’re mentally calculating how much food you can sneak out to the abbey as soon as the night comes to a close, figuring that you might even be able to make two trips if you truly had to. Sister Anya would protest against you moving through the night, but you’ve never had any issues with the sprites.

Folding your hands together, you try to remain present in the moment, but you quickly find your fingernails scratching invisible streaks down your arms, landing on the palm of your hand... to the mark on your wrist. The doctor speculated that it must have been some kind of chemical burn, mostly because there seemed to be no other explanation about it. A toxic liquid spilt onto your wrist when you were wandering somewhere you weren’t supposed to be, and so now you must bear the speculations and the whispers whenever someone new catches a glimpse of the marking.

It’s an odd kind of thing, all angles and thin lines, coalescing in a shape that seems too particular and sharp to be an accidental blob. When you press your thumb down and close your eyes, though, you can see the exact moment you received it, smell the harsh sanitized basement, but somehow catch a whiff of summer lavender.

Could this be your emergency?

Quickly, you try to fill your mind with a thousand other thoughts, flooding your head to the point that scent is once again a distant memory. Everything that followed that day was filled to the brim with misfortune and misery, and you don’t wish to relive it in the slightest. Not until you absolutely have to.

Your mother is right, the duke is only interested in the land your father offers. To her, though, that’s some kind of blessing. For you, however, seated at the table, it feels like the darkest wickedness. Only once does that man glance in your direction, and you can see his nose briefly wrinkle as he silently dresses you down, as though he feels that fucking you would be some kind of burden that he would skip if allowed.

Everything about him fills you up with a strange sense of terror. It’s the way he holds himself, you think, looking over his posture and general facial expression. Tall. High. He might not be the largest man in the room, but he certainly acts the part, stepping over those he doesn’t necessarily deem to be equal.

To your parents though, that’s just a sign of good breeding. Something that you somehow don’t possess, even though ancestry is theoretically squeaky clean. Through your eyelashes, you observe him, lips glued shut with the waxy lipstick smeared against them. You want to crawl out of your skin, melt into the floorboards, fade into the wall, but you’re stuck in place beneath your mother’s critical glare.

Knowing exactly what she might be thinking, you try to mingle, but everyone has long learned that you’re not the type for conversation. Your search for a discussion amounts to you wandering circles around the ballroom, doing your best to seem interested in what’s going on, but ultimately being ignored.

Eventually, you end up back at the table, filled to the brim with foods so decadent and delicious your mouth waters at the scent. Cautiously, you look over your shoulder as you reach down, to find your mother staring at you from a nearby corner. Your hand freezes, and you retract it, almost ashamed.

The mark on your wrist throbs, gently reminding you of a possibility you can allow yourself to have.

Biting down on your tongue, you merely pour yourself some of the lemon flavored water laid out to the side, hoping to fill your stomach if only for a few moments. Everything is too bright, too much, you’re drowning in the absence of everything you could possibly want.

Even though you know your mother will be at her wit’s end, you snag a champagne flute and decide to go back to your room. The bubbles burn as you drink the flute down faster than should be done, retreating back through the crowded hallway. On your way out, you see a servant carrying another tray of alcohol, and you recklessly switch out your empty cup.

Bitterness swells in your throat. You don’t fucking deserve this, you never have. A part of you wants to burn the mansion down and let the sweeping darkness devour the ashes, but you’ve never had the courage or smarts to pull such a feat off. You spot another platter of champagne and make the trade once more.

Just as you begin sipping the brightly flavored alcohol, you bump into someone sturdy. Hard, dark, tall… your fiancé, unfortunately, you notice. Quickly, you lose all confidence you had been building up and instead curtsy out an apology.

“When your father said you were as quiet as a mouse I didn’t think it was possible,” he laughs, almost good naturally, “I didn’t think a woman could be quiet even if her life depended on it.”

The tops of your ears flare.

“But this is a nice surprise, I think it might make up for your other shortcomings.” He waves his hand in your face, as though you are deaf, not mute, then laughs again. “I suppose we’ll see whether or not you can squeal on the wedding night.”

An almost extinct temper raises its ugly head, you’re furious, but above all else, you’re embarrassed. The alcohol makes your anger boil over more, and to add insult to injury, he doesn’t seem to take the hint to stop talking.

“At least you wouldn’t be able to complain. I hate it when women think they deserve to be heard.” And just like that, he abandons you, wandering off towards a group of people you recognize as your neighbors.

Angrily, you drink more of the champagne, going up the stairs and trying to keep yourself calm. But you’re not calm, you’re furious. At yourself, at your parents, and at that babyfaced ass who has the audacity to mock you in the middle of your joint engagement party. By the time you get to your room, your face is hot and boiling with rage, the empty champagne flute mindlessly left on some random surface, and you bury yourself in the bed. You’ve drunk a fat more tonight than you have in years.

You can’t call a servant to help you out of this satin nightmare, not without your mother being informed, so you’re stuck trying to dislocate both your shoulders in order to reach at the strings lacing the top together. Nothing seems to be working, and you are getting more and more frustrated with your progress, each fucking second wasted on your struggles, making you more upset at the overall predicament.

And then, a thought.

Your drunken mind thinks it’s brilliant. The last thread of your sanity warns you that it’s stupid. But both parties involved agree that it would be very, very funny.

Your thumb finds the mark on your wrist.

Call an eternal being forth just to untie your corset? Absolutely ludicrous. Stupid, even. But definitely hilarious. At least, your drunken mind thinks it’s funny. Slowly, you trace the mark around with your indent finger, your eyesight blurry with drink.

Touch the mark. You place two of your fingers against the pulse of your wrist. Recite my name. Three times, unbroken.

It’s not an incredibly complicated ritual. You’ve recited it in your head many times, staring out of your window, tongue making the motions in your mouth. One favor, you get only but one favor, and every single day you’ve had to deal with another one of your mother’s lectures, your father’s criticism, or some other critical motion from most other people in your life, you’ve thought of him.

But now, while drunk, and after the party, it seems like a fine time to bring him forth from the Otherworld. If only to cause a bit of much-needed chaos. You close your eyes, urging your tongue to move, and you say-

“Étienne. Étienne. Étienne.”

Nothing happens. There is an overwhelming silence, one that causes your body to collapse further into the mattress, your brain slowly shutting itself off in a desperate attempt to sleep off the inordinate amount of alcohol that you’ve consumed. Your tongue and mouth are dry, almost as though they were stuffed with towels and cloth, a hazy exhaustion blocking your vision from comprehension.

And you’re asleep.

You don’t exactly know how long you were asleep for, only that you wake up with a throat as dry as the Dark Desert, lips cracked and bleeding, wrist tingling almost painfully like a thousand little pins are piercing into your flesh, though your face is oddly wet. The candle flickers at your side, likely lit by a servant, illuminating red dampness left on your pillow. A headache pinches between your eyes as you try to process those different elements.

“Here,” a smooth, low voice says, a gloved hand offering up a linen handkerchief.

You accept it, then realize who the hand belongs to. Quickly, you scoot yourself back right up to your headboard, spine pressing almost uncomfortably against the heavy wood.

He’s silent for a moment, eyes so dark and blue you feel like they’re sucking you in as though they’re a whirlpool, and you’re adrift in an ocean clinging to a piece of wood. Then he laughs, shockingly youthfully, hand over his mouth as you yank the handkerchief out from his fingers, pushing it up to your nose to catch the continuous drip of blood. Your mouth tastes like hot copper laid out in the sun, and droplets of redstart swimming in your vision.

“My dear,” he says, cocking his head to the side, curiously, “you called me here.”

“No I di-” fuck, the memory of what must have been only a fe hours prior swimming upward in your mind. “Well, I didn’t mean it.”

“Unfortunately whatever your intentions are, I cannot leave until your wish is fulfilled.” Luckily, he doesn’t seem at all annoyed. Only mildly disinterested in what your problems might be.

“Can’t you just go back?” You ask, voice losing its rasp as you swallow a mouthful of blood.

“That’s not how this works,” he says, almost disappointed in your desperate attempts to make him leave.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

“You’re shaking,” He observes, settling on the edge of your bed.

It’s as though the spirit of your mother possesses your body, vomiting out a sentence about your chastity as a lady, “there’s a man in my room, at night, with no chaperone present.”

A perfectly manicured eyebrow pops up. “You know I cannot hurt you.”

“It’s not about you, it’s- it’s about my reputation as a lady-”

The other eyebrow follows suit, and he’s looking at you so sceptically it appears he thinks this is some sort of trick. He reaches over and grabs hold of your hand, drawing your wrist close as to double-check for the mark. “I don’t remember you being such a meek little thing.”

“I was ten the last time we met.” You say, trying to keep your voice even.

“And you bit me, if I remember correctly.” And he smiles, as though the memory of a precocious child is somehow a fond one.

This can’t be happening, you can’t be having this conversation with him. A conversation. Talking. You swallow thickly, raking your nails through your scalp, trying to breathe. “I was only trying to defend myself! You- you ki- you killed-”

“He deserved it,” he says, and you are unfortunately inclined to agree.

You can’t tell if the droplet of liquid running down the side of your cheek is blood or sweat. Taking in a shaking, angry breath, and you stare down at your hands, eyes stinging. Ah, tears, okay. This is fine. Everything is fine.

“Ah, darling, I’ve forgotten myself.” He reaches over, and you flinch, so he quickly retracts his hand. “Let’s try again. What do you want from me?”

You think back to all the tiny, ugly little pinpricks of insults you’ve garnered every goddamn day of your life since the incident. You think about your husband to be, you think about your mother, you think about your long-dead grandfather. Everything hurts. Everything is wrong. Slowly, you close your eyes and breathe, trying to keep yourself together, just for another few moments.

“I’m to be married to a nearby heir,” you say.

He cocks his head.

“I don’t want to be.”

[celticcrossanon]

I’m so sorry for the rant. I just needed to clear my head and got compelled to do it in your inbox. 🙇🏾‍♀️

Not a question just some thoughts. Sorry I’m spamming you so much. I just read your latest reading about the wanna be“tour” and all I can do is SMH. I think to some extent we saw this coming but they are dialing it up and expanding. Conscious humans would’ve called it quits by now. The Remembrance Day pap walk, Going to elementary schools, “donations”, writing letters like they are world leaders, etc. On one hand I can’t see this becoming much of a “thing”. I don’t think MM and Jarry will go on doing this for long unless they can get some Hollywood to pay attention and acknowledge them. I think another reason with the more public European Royals work so well in their media is because their countries are relatively small, like California and Texas are on the large side in comparison, am I right? So much can happen on one side of the country that I only hear of thanks to friends back in California. I can’t see these two visiting any farm in Montana as “royals” if ever. They got a Clinton and Perhaps more big names and “engagement” is to come (oh god 🤦🏾‍♀️) I’m sure they and the sugars are just loving it but it all looks, sounds and feels so incrediblly STUPID & ABSOLUTELY VAPID AND INSULTING. etc etc. I cannot stand entitled people and the fact that these two cut off, trashed, and demand from their own families for a fleeting moment in the spotlight is unfathomable. That’s a testimony to how strong narcissistic delusions can be. It must be the best high I could ever ask for. 🖤Im new to “Royal Watching” if you can call what I do ‘that’, so I don’t really care about all the other indiscretions. I don’t trust the media and I think it’s just the BRF turn in the hot sun to catch hell. See Andrew, see the Clintons and all the others. Whatever drama is going on with Charles, see the rest of big business. I’m a narcissistic abuse survivor and I still study on the disorder. Now here I am watching these two who make my skin craw, this train needs to SPEED UP . I think I’m just looking for a bit of JUSTICE in the world right now. Between this administration, COVID, my job and all my other drama (I’m sure we all have some, if not BLESS YOU and pass it on 🥺) I’m flabbergasted and a little sick in my stomach at watching yet another set of people be able to walk through life seemingly so unbothered. It’s like the world is closing in and I’m suffocating. 🖤Like, your telling me that just because he was born a Prince and she married him and found a way to have children they get to get away with all of this?. The entitlement, the lies, the forced Wokery, using heavy and important subjects like mental health and racism for a PR boost all just to get a⭐️ on the Hollywood walk of Fame? For a couple of royals they sure know how to dump cold water on ya, they are the epitome of LIFE ISNT FAIR. And I’m sure that all depends on perspective, for example; their sugars who must be going diabetic RN. THEY think they have suffered as well. Look at the Cambridge’s who have not put a foot out of place yet have to deal with these tantrums from all over their family. All families have drama and I can see how the Harkles and the rest could be a payback of the Firm and family as a whole. The Queen covered so much and never really saw that Henry and Andrew and god knows who else were set straight. Look what having so much privilege can do. But is there a limit, anywhere?🖤

🖤Anyways, another thought I had was, this could be the end for any thought of reunion. This Narcissist has worked her magic and this clueless tone deaf fool has really gone and done it. I was driving and I thought of Prince William and the entire remaining Windsors & Mountbatten Windsor’s and the whole Aristocracy cutting the Harkles off entirely because the BRF called a wrap (or had to) and the UK became a Republic after Her Majesty. MM get the privlage in her narcissistic head that she’s the last ever to become a Duchess, Cathrine wouldn’t become the Princess of Wales and it all came down in part because of her and Henry’s actions. Yes Andrew and whoever else aren’t helping but these two made it exceptionally difficult. I think they would take pride in that especially publicly but only when they are praised for it. I think the Cambridge’s would have an easier time with moving on with their family, free to live as they please with no pressure to serve the public. Cathrine can be “lazy”, sleep in, & raise her kids and Wills is free to🖕 the paps who would surely still follow them. A La “where are they now”. The two that would have it the worse are the Harkles as they last bit of what they had to separate them from the rest of Hollywood is gone, no more Royal sheen but they don’t have much now. It would be stupid to use the titles after an abolished monarchy but they’d do it and expose themselves further.🖤 If you made it this far, one last thing. I got cut off while driving. That’s not unusual in this Miami traffic and usually i ignore it but with my mental state I couldn’t help but to compare. it was a packed road and I just really wanted to know where the heck the fire was. Why did this person need to rush so much on a busy road that no one else mattered even though we all have somewhere to go? That’s how I feel about the Harkles. What’s the point, where are they going? They went to New England for Christ sake to play faux royalty, in more trashy outfits might I add. 🤦🏾‍♀️

I guess I do have a question, DOES THE WORLD REALLY BELONG TO THOSE WHO JUST Get UP AND TAKE IT?

Thanks for humoring me and providing this space. ✌🏾

Note: My apologies for this very long post, everyone. I can't put a page break in and the writer needs to let it all out. I am sure a lot of you will be feeling somewhat similar to them.

Reply under the cut, so this is not any longer

Hi april14vc,

You are welcome to rant here.

It sounds like you have a lot going on at the moment and it is all becoming a bit much to handle, as there is no relief anywhere. Is there something fun and relaxing that you can do for you sometime today, just to have a break from it all? I feel like you need to tune out for a bit and do something that is just for you.

I am so sorry that you suffered from narcissistic abuse, and so glad that you survived this. I think the Harkle shenanigans must hurt you in a more personal way than those of us who have never suffered under a narcissist. It is very hard to watch the Harkles seemingly get away with all their entitled abuse without any form of justice coming for them.

I think the Harkles are suffering. They usually are unable to get any sort of attention from the media unless they pay for it, and even then they don't trend - it is a 'blink and you miss it' situation. Look at what happened with Meghan's 40 for 40 program - it was dead in the water before the day was over, and she spent a fortune on PR for that. Compare that to the natural (not paid for) hype that surrounds anything that the BRF does, especially the Cambridges or HMTQ. That hype and attention is what Meghan wants, and she is not getting it.

What the Harkles are getting, and what they hate, is mockery. Look at the response to their Times 100 cover. Look at the comments on this pseudo-royal tour. They are a walking joke, and no narcissist would like that. They tried to cull all negative press while they were members of the BRF, were unsuccessful in stemming all of it, and now have no clout at all to stop any negative media attention. The Harkles may live in a delusion of success, but to the vast majority of people they are no more than very risible z-list celebrities.

The Harkles also have serious money troubles. They may be ignoring them, but those debts will have to be paid, one way or another.

What we are seeing now is the slow slide of the Harkles into obscurity, and their desperate attempts to reverse the process, which never work. They are no more popular and wanted now than they were at the time of Megxit, and in fact their popularity has declined since those days. They may look like they are winning, but it is all an illusion, caused by the amounts of money they are prepared to pay to give the illusion of wealth and star-quality celebrity. The paid for events happen, and then nothing. The paid for PR happens, and then nothing. Their slide downwards continues, and nothing that they do is reversing it.

Yes, at the moment they are on a high and beaming put of every report on their activities. Wait a week and then see where they are. This is like the Oprah interview all over again.

My next reading is going to be on the consequences of this pseudo-royal tour for the Harkles, so maybe there will be some justice for you there.

Edited to add: As for taking down the monarchy, I can't see that happening. For starters, the British government would have to put the matter to the people for a vote, and even if they are insane enough to do that, I can't see the British public voting to remove a beloved Queen because of the antics of two people who are despised that that country. The logistics of replacing the monarchy are also staggering - you have to rework the entire government of not just Great Britain, but of all the commonwealth realms who have HMTQ as Head of State, and that is not an easy task or a light undertaking. In addition, those Commonwealth Realms can keep HM as their head of state even if she is ejected by the British people (which would never happen, but I am stretching the bounds of probability here). After HMTQ comes Charles, who will have a short reign simply because of his age and health, and then William will be king, and he is also loved by the British public. I just can not see all that thrown away for the Harkles, who are rightly hated by the British public.

[sleeplessangelsgame]

Prompts company and tender for Delvalle pls? 😍 I love these so much.

I got way too carried away with this prompt, so enjoy! Delvalle is one of my favorite ROs. 🥺

The first monster that found me was the same one who scarred me.

Seeing Delvalle step onto the balcony was a hollow relief. This high up - nearly eighty dizzying stories - the lights of the street couldn’t reach us. Darkness swathed our little Eden in familiar affection.

Delvalle wore darkness well; it was dyed into their clothes and shining in their fathomless black eyes. It clung to their presence faithfully, so much so that if I wasn’t a vampire, I wouldn’t have even noticed that they arrived.

Until the faintest ruffle of fabric sounded, the cuff of their long sleeve clipping the embroidered hem of their cloak. I didn’t greet them, not even when they settled against the railing next to me. They crossed their forearms and leaned their full weight against the metal, staring out into the distant mountains where the wolves roamed in violent delight. I kept my eyes firmly on the streets below. At times, just like the ones as unfamiliar as this one, Delvalle felt just as unreachable - and dangerous - as the mountains.

“I heard you,” I said. “Before you tried to throw me a pitiful bone.”

Delvalle made a soft ‘hmm’ of acknowledgement. I took that without comment and focused on the pedestrians below. This far up, I couldn’t make out much detail even with my sharpened senses

The swishing dark fabric fluttering behind each pinprick on the street was a dead giveaway: only vampires wore cloaks in this city. They traveled in packs of three or four or six, which betrayed them as younger members. They hadn’t had time to make enemies, to fear the people around them.

They hadn’t yet lost their last shred of humanity, like sand slipping through fumbling fingers.

Next to me, Delvalle was quiet. Out of the corner of my eye, in fleeting glances, I watched them, too. They were motionless, but that was what I expected. Delvalle didn’t fidget and betray their feelings. When Delvalle was awake, they were poised on the brink of war: watchful, solemn, and deceptive.

They weren’t called the Beast of Anselm for nothing.

At that bitter thought, I turned my attention back to the wayward crowds below. How distant they felt, and how dangerous they were all the same.

“Dreamer,” Delvalle said. It wasn’t gentle or comforting. It was steady, though, and that was more than enough to send a jolt through my veins.

I tilted my head in acknowledgment, and they seemed to hesitate.

“Do not get yourself killed,” they finally said. “I cannot lose two vampires within a week of each other.”

My throat tightened. “You really think Blue is dead?”

“I think,” Delvalle said plainly, “you should not trust anyone.”

“Not even you?”

“Never me, Dreamer.”

I didn’t know how to reply to that, so I didn’t. I simply let my gaze travel below, my thoughts tumbling into a fierce tempest. I wondered how Delvalle could say something like that - not to trust them with my death, my sister, and my everlasting eternity - when they contradicted it just a sentence sooner.

Despite ourselves, I was Delvalle’s vampire: I had their seal embroidered on the breast of my cloak in black thread, a badge of allegiance so very few could wield.

As my silence brewed, caught in the tangled web of my own mortal emotions, Delvalle slid their hand across the railing, the edge of their fingers briefly brushing against mine before they pulled away completely from the railing. It was so quick, my heart barely had time to skip a traitorous beat.

Their last words rang like a siren’s song in the back of my mind - Never me, Dreamer - and before I could stop myself, I reached out and snagged the edge of their cloak.

They paused mid-step, hesitated, then turned to face me. In the half-shadow, I caught the faintest flicker of regret cross their face before it faded back into solemn composure. My eyes were mistaken, surely, because Delvalle did not have enough of a soul to regret the monster they made of me.

If they did, they would have killed me when I was still a fledgling, too pained and weak to defend myself. Or even now, when a sudden push over the edge of the railing would extinguish my immortality as fast as blowing out a matchstick.

“You never answered my question,” I said suddenly. I hadn’t realized that was what I intended to ask until it came tumbling from my mouth. Delvalle’s expression didn’t change, so I added grimly, “Blue. You think they’re dead, don’t you?”

If they had any indication as to if Blue was alive, Delvalle would have been out looking on every street in Los Despiertos, traveling the Wayfare Distinct and beyond, a daunting shadow haunting every avenue. Instead, they were here with me, that shadow of grief hanging over our heads like an executioner's blade.

“Blue would not be the first vampire to die in this city,” Delvalle finally said, their dark gaze settling on my face, searching. “They would never be the last. Your hope will kill you, Dreamer, and I do not want to be the one to witness it.”

“Why?” I demanded, anger surging to life in the pit of my chest, fierce and bloodthirsty. I stepped closer, my fingers curling tighter into the fabric of their cloak until my knuckles paled. Delvalle didn’t move, still watching with steely eyes, so damnable in their stoic demeanor.

“Why do you think they’re dead?” I repeated. “What do you know? Why aren’t you trying hard enough to find them?”

Delvalle’s eyes were pitch dark, unreadable. Then, “Instinct is a formidable state. I do not have the words for it, Dreamer, but that does not mean I take Blue’s fate lightly. They are my ward, just as you are. If you...”

For the briefest moment, Delvalle hesitated. Then, “If you were to die, I would know it. Even if you were across the world, beyond my reach, I would sense the loss as severely as a stake through my heart.”

Our gazes met, and I was hyper-aware of my fingers still wrapped in their cloak, our bodies just inches apart, the night breeze ruffling their dark hair gently. In the glint of moonlight, I could see the vague outline of their symbol stitched in black thread onto the breast pocket of their cloak, a mirror image of my own.

“You felt that with Blue?” I asked, far quieter now. Maybe it was the grief settling into the chambers of my aching heart. Or maybe it was the way Delvalle’s smoldering gaze threatened to pull me apart, atom by atom, the pair of us shrouded in that starving darkness far above a vicious city. So far from the rest of the world, so far from anyone who could witness us.

“I felt pain,” Delvalle said. “And then nothing at all.”

I considered that for a moment, then released Delvalle with a sigh. Perhaps this was their way of telling me Blue was gone forever, and that aching hope would only strangle me. I would always be hunting, seeking a truth that never relented.

The desolation must have shown on my face, or perhaps Delvalle simply knew me better than what I chose to show, because they suddenly leaned in and pressed a whisper of a kiss to my temple, pulling back before I could respond, stunned to silence.

“Do not get yourself killed,” Delvalle told me, their voice tight with an emotion I couldn’t quite place. “Keep your head down, Dreamer, before it is far too late to regret it.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but Delvalle was already gone, taking all the warmth with them, leaving me shivering on the balcony with a sinking dread threatening to overwhelm me.

[raindrops-and-tubestops]

Fluff: 3. “Have you seen my hoodie?” “Noo.” “You’re wearing it, aren’t you?” /Lin-Bumi/, please.

Oooooh this is a new pairing for me! Thank you for the prompt anon ! I did change the wording…I feel like Bumi would wear a sweater…

I hope you enjoy 💜

——————————————————

He had to be going crazy. He knows he tossed his sweater somewhere as he was tripping over his feet on the way to the door this morning. He glanced quickly around the entryway once again.

Where did it go?

Bumi was trying to get to the market before Lin came home. He wanted to make dinner for them, they both needed the quality time after how hectic the week had been. They had been literal ships passing in the night, only acknowledging each other with a chaste kiss on the cheek or a soft pat on the closest body part. He had been spending a bit of time on the Island, Tenzin had given Bumi several classes to tend to himself.

And Lin, well she was being her normal self, diving into each crisis thrown at her with gusto. She had a few officers who were one medical leave, they had gotten injured in a raid turned ambush by the Triads the previous week. She had been working all different hours, each day a different shift, just to offset the work load. He would tell her that she needed to take care of herself…she’d in turn roll eyes affectionately.

Being the Chief doesn’t stop just because I’m off the clock or a little run down.

He could hear her voice, low and gravely, sticky like warm honey, as the words floated through his mind. A small smile crinkled the corner of his eyes as a soft chuckled rumbled through his chest. If there was one person, aside from his mother, that he was hopelessly devoted to, it was Lin Beifong.

As he turned slowly, surveying the room and it’s contents, his grey eyes were drawn to the pile near the front door. It looked suspiciously like Lin’s armor.

How did I miss that?

‘Babe,’ Bumi called curiously, the statement more of a question.

The pet name was a work in progress, more often than not she’d roll her eyes and ask him not to use it. Other days she’d indulge him, trying out some of her own, ‘darling,’ was a favorite of hers.

No answer was forthcoming, but his gut told him that she was indeed somewhere in the apartment. As he continued looking he registered a trail of discarded clothes. A pair of black uniform pants next to the kitchen table. A white tank top carelessly thrown behind the couch. Bindings draped over the high back of Lin’s favorite reading chair. Metal hair pins in a nest pile on the coffee table.

He tried again, ‘Linny?’

He waited a few moments, still eyeing the mess his Chief had made. The bedroom door opened with a creak that cut through the silence like a knife. Soon enough he could hear the soft tread of her bare feet, but he wasn’t ready for what greeted him as she emerged at the end of the hallway.

Lin Beifong, in all her glory, was an admittedly gorgeous woman. Her steel grey hair and sharp green eyes cut quite a contrast against her pale skin. Her frame was lean and muscular, with just the right amount of curves that most people would consider ‘feminine.’ Her cheekbones sharp, giving her a stern appearance, until her lips would lift in a shy smile. Her lips, round but not overtly slow, a soft pink that darkened as she became more excited.

Normally these features, and others her airbender lover was able to catalogue, were hidden under the previously mentioned armor. It was rare, even at events and parties, for Lin to forgo her precious metal, and even when she did, she was noticeably uncomfortable.

Not because she wasn’t confident, because confidence in her body was something Lin had in spades. No…she wasn’t sure she could adequately protect the people she loved if she wasn’t in uniform. Which would put her on edge, even with the metal accents she would incorporate into her formal wear.

Bumi knew exactly how lucky he was., that he of all people, was able…no PERMITTED to see her so relaxed. To see the esteemed a Chief of Police as the woman under the armor, under the facade.

This vision of her, rumpled and clearly still sleepy, just waking from a nap, was for him and only him to see. Her hair was curling slightly at the ends, having been freed from the pins that normally held it. She hated those curls. She had confessed this to him after one of thier first night s together, after he had seen her bed head, her face buried in her pillow. Bumi had merely drawn her closer and placed a soft kiss on those curls, nuzzling the back of her head slightly.

Her long legs were also on display courtesy of the spandex work out shorts she favored for at home. The strong muscles under the smooth skin gave Lin a graceful yet powerful appearance. His fingers itched run up and down her calves, maybe even farther if she’d let him.

As he continued his perusal of her body, he jolted with a start. She was holding up one side of the garment on her torso, hand gingerly rubbing at her hip as she tried to make sense of the world.

The sweater, his FAVORITE sweater mind you, was flowing down her frame. It was a present from his mother, from however long ago, different shades of blue, green, and greys swirled together in a dizzying pattern. Lin had said so herself many times that the pattern made her crossed eyes.

Bumi smirked and crossed his arms over his chest, hip leant against the back of the chair.

‘Hello sleepy head,’ he teased, ‘you haven’t seen my sweater have you?’

Lin dropped her fist from her side as the other scrubbed across her face, desperately trying to clear the sleep from her mind. She didn’t even remember getting to the bed…

‘No,’ she responded sincerely confused.

Bumi chuckled which drew Lin’s attention finally. She narrowed her eyes and crossed her own arms, she didn’t understand what he was talking about.

‘What’s so funny?’ she asked, clearly more awake.

Bumi shook his head slightly, stepping around the chair and closing the distance between the . She tracked her lover with her eyes as he came closer, raising her chin in defiance. Stopping inches from Lin, her head barely reaching his shoulder, Bumi forcefully tugged on the material of sweater.

Taken by surprise and finding herself off balance, Lin fell gracelessly into his chest. The airbender grinned as he wrapped his arms around the metalbender tightly.

‘You sure?’ He asked again, her cheeks turned a soft shade of pink as she realized her mistake.

His chief mumbled something, burying her head in his chest.

‘What was that?’

She sighed as she leant back, ‘I forgot ok?’

His hand snaked up to the base of her neck, stroking the fine hair. Bumi drew Lin closer, his hand urging her to relax into him.

‘It’s ok babe, looks better on you anyway.’

The kiss placed on her forehead and the steady pressure on her waist caused a gasp to escape her lips. Breathy and soft and promising all at once.

‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled again, ‘it’s soft…did you need it?’

Bumi could feel the steady beat of her heart, the fleeting pressure of her fingertips as they flexed on his own waist, and the puffs of warm air on his neck as she quietly spoke.

Overcome, he kissed her again, his breath ghosting across the delicate skin of her temple. He could feel her lips lift in a soft smile.

Prompts 💜

[beewolfwrites]

And When I am Formulated, Sprawling on a Pin - Chapter Fourteen: Half-Sick of Shadows

Hello again! This is instalment 14 of my Chishiya x OC/reader fic. You’ll also find it over here on AO3 too. 

Thanks for all the support so far, and all of the people who have gone through every chapter and liked them. It means so much to see that you’re enjoying this <3 

childlikeempress/mercipourleslivres - I have a feeling you’ll get this chapter title :D 

--------------------------------

By the time we made it back to the Beach, Kuina and I were too tired and overwhelmed to bother with the everlasting party. The teenage boy clung to my side, thanking me repeatedly for saving his life. I tried to tell him that there was no need, that anyone would have done the same, but I had to force the words out. It wasn’t true.

In this world, you’re supposed to look out for yourself.

He promised me he’d repay the favour, but I just shook my head and smiled, telling him to survive instead.

I retreated into my room for the rest of the night, and immediately hopped into the shower. The water swirled, washing away the remains of the pinstripe tent, the red water, yellow eyes and leathery skin.

Don’t focus on it. Don’t think about it.

The stained red scrunchie bobbed on the surface of the water as it spun towards the drain.

My legs collapsed beneath me. Sinking to the to the bottom of the shower, I finally wept.

------------------------------------------

The next morning, I awoke with a splitting headache. My eyes were pink from the night before, and my hands stung, irritated from the metal pull of the wire and the weight of the teenage boy. It was tempting to stay in bed and dream away the blood and guts of the Borderlands. But there was something I needed to do.

‘Don’t you want to thank Chishiya?’

Back then, Kuina’s words had been a lifeline, cutting through the fear.

Sitting up in bed, I took the copy of Wuthering Heights out of the bedside drawer, flicking through the pages. It was all in Japanese, meaning it was illegible to me. But there was something else; one of the page corners was turned over. Flipping to it, I found that a line of the text had been underlined in pen.

Did Chishiya do this?

It seemed unlikely, although he could have done it with the intention that I would translate it. It was impossible to tell, since he was such a closed book. But seeing the words acted as a reminder that I still needed to find him anyway.

Kicking back the covers, I got up and dressed, and while I still felt half-dead after the game, I somehow felt more confident approaching Chishiya. When I finally left my room, it was nearly noon, and I had a pretty good idea as to where he would be.

The hotel was mostly quiet as I slipped through the halls, following the same path Kuina had led me just days before. Having memorised every turn, I eventually came to the doors that opened up to the roof. A cold gust of air sent goosebumps across my skin, and rubbing my arms, I spied the hunched figure sitting, one leg bent, near the edge. Just seeing him alive and well was a huge relief.

He didn’t turn or react as I sat beside him. ‘I didn’t see you yesterday. How did your game go?’

There was silence at first, before he spoke, half-teasing. ‘So you’re speaking to me again? I see.’ When he realised the words had no effect on me, he added, ‘Eight of Diamonds – it was nothing.’

For him, it was nothing. Personally, I would have struggled with an Eight of Diamonds. Knowing myself, I’d second-guess every move. Chishiya didn’t elaborate on the game, or even speak at all.

‘Aren’t you going to ask about my game?’

He was idly watching the pool-goers splashing around and having fun, but his expression was apathetic. ‘I already know. Kuina told me everything.’ He glanced briefly at my reddened hands ‘Apparently you saved a boy. It was a stupid move.’

To someone like you, it would be.

‘I disagree. He lived because of it.’

‘And if he dies in his next game, then it was a waste of time,’ Chishiya berated. ‘It’s pointless to risk your life for a stranger.’

I spun around to face him fully, crossing my legs beneath me. ‘Okay,’ I challenged him. ‘What about if it was you down there? You’d want someone to save you.’

The question was shut down immediately. ‘That’s different. I wouldn’t be stupid enough to end up in that situation.’

I pouted. He wasn’t technically wrong. It was hard to picture Chishiya scared and hanging upside down on a tightrope. If anything, he wouldn’t hesitate to cross it. But he did get nervous. That much was clear from the Two of Spades game, when I’d felt his heart thudding as his arms tightened, pulling me into the darkness.

And now, as my eyes traced over his deadened expression and the thin hair that stirred in the breeze like spider’s silk, I couldn’t stop the question from slipping out. ‘And what if it was Kuina?’ I paused, whispering, ‘or me?’

Now I had his attention, as his lips twisted in that cruel, cruel smile that used to make me shudder. ‘Do you really want me to answer that question?’

No.

The answer was already clear, and for some unknown reason, it hurt.

I don’t want you to say it out loud.

I swallowed, instantly regretting bringing the subject up. ‘You were wrong, by the way... about what you said before.’ This prompted him to lift his brows in mock surprise. ‘You did end up in a similar situation. Both in the Tag game… and in the Two of Spades. Your injury… how is it?’

During our argument, it hadn’t been the right time to ask, but better late than never. I unconsciously reached for him, as if trying to make sure he was okay. However, Chishiya’s hand darted out, catching my fingers in a tight squeeze.

‘Don’t.’ His tone was icy, and it was the first time I’d seen him grow so cold.  

It hurt, seeing him so reluctant to let me in. But to him it was a moment of weakness, a reminder that he had lost control of a situation, even if only for a second.

‘At least tell me you’re okay.’

‘I’ve already told you it’s nothing.’ He clasped my fingers harder. ‘It shouldn’t matter to you anyway.’

I pulled myself free, rubbing my fingertips where they’d turned white and red. ‘That’s not true. I care, and that makes it relevant to me.’

For just a second, I thought I heard him begin to call me an idiot. But then he stopped. ‘You care too much about things that have nothing to do with you. You should focus on what’s in front of you.’ It was fleeting, the way his eyes washed over the bruises on my ankle.

I see.

It felt nice, knowing that in his own abrasive way, he was telling me to watch out. ‘You know what’s strange? Niragi hasn’t bothered me again. I thought he’d have killed me by now.’

Chishiya sighed. ‘That’d be too easy, and not as much fun.’

So Niragi did have his eye on me, but he was biding his time before coming after me again. It was a wonder he seemed to think that by attacking me, he’d be getting to Chishiya. Their rivalry had nothing to do with me, and Chishiya had all but confirmed moments ago that he wouldn’t even risk his life to save me in a game. Coming after me was pointless.

But that’s not what Niragi thinks.

‘It’s only a matter of time before he tries something again. You should watch your back,’ Chishiya warned. Then his face stretched into that familiar, all-knowing smile. ‘But you didn’t come up here to talk to me about Niragi.’

He already knew. He must’ve been waiting for me to track him down.

Mixed feelings swirled within me; embarrassment that he’d so easily predicted my behaviour, annoyance over the fact that he’d been smugly waiting, and something else I couldn’t identify.

Warmth, perhaps?

No, that wasn’t the right word.

‘I’m sorry.’ The words came out in a whisper. Grimacing, I cleared my throat and spoke up. ‘I want to thank you for the books, but I also want to apologise. Everything you said back then was true.’ The words were hard to admit, even to myself. ‘I’ve been living in a hole all my life and I got too used to it. And now the world seems terrifying. But if I survive here and make it back, I know that nothing my dad does will be scarier than these games. I’ll try and make my own freedom from now on. So, thank you… but also, I’m sorry.’

I waited for a response, some kind of acknowledgement. Anything. Instead, there was a rustle of clothes as he stood and began walking to the door. My heart froze over, and I blinked at the empty space beside me.

Did I say something wrong?

‘Antiseptic ointment and gauze,’ I heard him say, before the roof door swung shut.

I was alone, with nothing but the breeze and the distant laughter from the patio below. Looking down at my reddened hands, I smiled, finally understanding.

-----------------------------------------

It had been three days since our conversation on the rooftop, and I had been following Chishiya’s advice, using supplies I’d borrowed from the medical room to treat the irritated skin of my hands. The bruising around my cheek, neck and ankle had faded to a fainter yellowish brown. Kuina kept telling me that we’d find a way of getting back at Niragi for what he did, although I knew she wouldn’t want to do anything drastic without Chishiya’s input; she was just as nervous around Niragi as I was.

I spent all my time pouring over the Japanese language textbook and trying to translate the opening sections of The Metamorphosis. Twice, I’d picked up Wuthering Heights and attempted to make sense of the underlined words. But it was hopeless. There were complex kanji I didn’t know how to pronounce, meaning they were impossible to search in the dictionary I had, and Google was no-go in the Borderlands.

Closing the book yet again, I rubbed my temples, trying to ease the headache brewing after hours spent squinting at different characters.

I should just ask Chishiya.

I hadn’t seen him much since the rooftop, as he was always busy with executive work. And even now, with the late afternoon sun beating through the windows, there was no guarantee he’d be free to talk. But it was worth a shot.

That’s it, I’m going to go ask him.

Pulling on my hoodie, I picked up the copy of Wuthering Heights and left my room. The hallways were pretty quiet around this time, as people were either downstairs enjoying the party while they could, or tucked away in their rooms getting some last-minute sleep before the long evening ahead.

Heading down the hall, I tried to remember where Chishiya’s room was. I had only been there once, after Kuina had given me directions, but at the time I’d been nervous and distracted by the argument that ensued. The hotel was like a maze. No, not a maze – a labyrinth. And his room was hidden somewhere behind one of these identical doors.

I’ll know when I see it.

Rounding a corner… I immediately froze. At the end of the hall, Niragi and his thugs were dragging a man by his bloodied scruff. When the man thrashed wildly in their grip, they stopped to kick him in the ribs and jaw, sending speckles of blood up the wallpaper.

Niragi was a sight. The nail marks down his cheek had scabbed over, and beneath his right eye was a faint purple bruise from where I’d kicked him in the face.

My limbs stiffened in place. I couldn’t move.

And even when his eyes lifted, widening with fury as they locked onto me, I couldn’t move.

He began striding towards me, jaw clenched and hands readying his rifle.

Run, run, run…

As if struck by electricity, I bolted back the way I came, shoving past the occasional person I ran into. Niragi’s footfalls were close behind me. He was following fast, and I could hear his growls.

‘You fucking bitch, get back here!’

The words sounded faint and close at the same time. Everything was close but far away, and my legs had turned to rubber. I spied a familiar looking door and threw myself into it, panting hard as it closed behind me. Outside, Niragi’s footfalls grew closer and closer… then further and further away.

He was gone. At least for now. My relief was cut short when it became clear where I was.

Sitting on the bed with open first-aid kit, gauze held delicately in one hand, Chishiya was completely shirtless. His side was swathed in old bandages, spotted with red. And he was staring at me.  

‘Get out.’

[costellos]

Helloooo Toya!! I have a question: how would each Duwang Gang member react to be given their favorite flower (and what's their favorite flower)? Thank you for reading my ask!!

a/n: YELLS!!! anon this is SUCH a cute question! you’re the first to request anything with the Duwang Gang so bless u. thank u. there isn’t enough content for them. also I know you probably just wanted a concept but bc I love this idea I’m writing full headcanons.

tw: mentions of death in Okuyasu’s part

❥ ┋ ❝ duwang gang, what their favorite flowers are, & how they react when given it!

jotaro kujo.

Jotaro’s favorite flowers are wisteria (though holly is a close second).

he’s not much of a flower guy. he typically finds them to be too much, with cherry blossoms getting everywhere and the memory of Suzie Q’s gardenia perfume being  unbearable. if you asked him for his favorite, he’d say wisteria.

he wouldn’t elaborate if you asked why. truthfully, he doesn’t know. but between you and me, it’s because he saw a wisteria tree in full bloom before he, Joseph, Kakyoin, and Avdol left for Egypt. it’s the last thing he saw as his house faded over the horizon, with the cab Joseph ordered pulling the group away from the lives they knew.

the idea strikes you while looking through travel guides. being a Morioh native, why not make the most of Jotaro’s visit? there’s a wisteria tree at the Morioh Botanic Garden; being a sucker for botanics yourself, it’d be nice to do a little two-in-one. you get to enjoy the view while bringing Jotaro to his favorite flower.

but when you lead him to the tree, the reaction he gives you isn’t what you expected. he’s quiet. not a mad or sad kind of quiet, just... silent. even after months of dating, you can’t tell what he’s thinking. but judging by his face, whatever is running through his head is something he’s made peace with. he only puts his hand on the top of your arm, pulling your figure close to him. ↳ “I’m surprised you remembered.” a beat, and then a sigh. “thank you, [Name]. but let’s keep moving, I don’t want to linger here.”

rohan kishibe.

Rohan’s favorite flowers are moonflowers.

he dislikes any flower that’s associated with manga. red spider lilies, roses, cherry blossoms (which is heightened thanks to Josuke), you name it. he thinks it’s a lazy way to draw symbolism.

it’s why he finds moonflowers so fascinating. there’s no grandiose meaning to them, they’re just a peculiar flower. they only bloom at night and when they do bloom, they die shortly thereafter. it’s a fleeting moment of beauty. lovely and slightly tragic.

he’d never expect you to get it for him. moonflowers aren’t native to Japan and the Japanese climate makes it difficult for them to grow here. that’s why he finds it odd that you’ve been spending an unusual amount of time outside. toiling away, saying it’s nothing more than a little gardening project to pass the time. he’d ask more, but he’s busy himself. it’s not until you drag him outside at night under a full moon that it hits him.

it takes him a moment to process it. there’s a trellis with moonflowers carefully laced between. emerald green leaves tell him that you’ve taken impeccable care of the plant. his first thought is “how?”; there’s no way you could house a tropical flower in this climate. but he brushes the thought away ― he’d rather not waste time on dumb questions like that ― and sighs, donning his signature smirk. ↳ “pfft, you’re that desperate to impress me? ...I’m teasing, obviously. I’m... honestly speechless, [Name]. you really are something else.”

josuke higashikata.

Josuke’s favorite flowers are cherry blossoms.

to be honest, if you asked Josuke what his favorite flower was, he wouldn’t know what to say. he’s not a big flower person. hence, cherry blossoms would be the first thing that come to mind. and while it sounds like a half-assed answer, it is true. sort of.

cherry blossoms remind those early spring days when his mother would take him to the park as a child. to Josuke, cherry blossoms are warmth and laughter. they’re the pink petals his mother would collect and drop on his hair. they’re the milk pudding his grandfather would bring him when he’d come home early from the station.

that said, he wouldn’t react much if you gave him a bouquet of cherry blossoms. he’d be flattered ― a gift is a gift ― but it wouldn’t go much further than that. you quickly realized that when you took a cutting and placed it behind his ear. (he was really confused; maybe best to save the theatrics to him.)

it’s not until you gave Josuke cherry blossom-flavored pudding that he melted. it’s favorite flavor! how did you know? all those memories would come flooding back to him, all teasings from his mother and evenings spent with his grandfather. and now, a new memory: sharing his favorite dessert with you. ↳ “whaaat, you got this for me?! gah, you’re too sweet... here, let’s share it. I can’t eat this alone.” 

okuyasu nijimura.

Okuyasu’s favorite flowers are forget-me-nots.

like the other boys, Okuyasu never really had a favorite flower. he could acknowledge that some were prettier than others, but his botanical knowledge didn’t extend farther than identifying roses. that is, until you pointed out forget-me-nots to him while walking to school.

something about the name just... stuck. it really resonated with him. sure, the flower is pretty and all, but now he feels a pang in his heart whenever he passes by them. forget-me-not. he thinks of Keicho and his father every time he sees those baby blue petals.

it wasn’t hard to pick up on his silence. every day, there and back from school, his mouth would shut as you walked past the raised bed overflowing with tiny, blue flowers. and with his visiting Keicho’s grave more often, you could easily put two and two together.

needless to say, he cried when you placed a bouquet of forget-me-nots near his brother’s headstone. “so he’s never really gone,” you murmured, taking his hand in yours. you didn’t look at Okuyasu’s face. you didn’t have to. his squeezing your hand and his quivering breaths were enough. ↳ “th-thanks, [Name]... he... he would’ve really liked you, yanno.”

koichi hirose.

Koichi’s favorite flowers are camellias.

he’s the only boy who can name his favorite flowers off the bat. he can still remember seeing red camellia petals dance across the panels of his favorite shonen manga. a female samurai was confronting her evil brother, and despite all stakes being against her, she defeated him once and for all. it’s for that reason he thinks camellias are so. cool.

needless to say, Koichi associates camellias with being cool. sometimes he wishes he had a flashier stand to recreate the drama he’s read in manga, but he’d never admit it out loud. still, it’s not hard to tell. Koichi is used to being unnoticed. he still doesn’t understand why you’d pick him over guys like Josuke and Jotaro.

you try to show him your appreciation by slipping him small letters in his desk before class. some are notes of encouragement, some are long compositions of why you love him. this one is a drawing of him looking extra cool, with exaggerated bishonen features and a red camellia you clipped from Mrs. Tamura’s garden taped on. “to my favorite hero” is scrawled across the bottom.

Koichi is floored. you did this? for him? he can’t even comprehend that you were paying that much attention to his rambling. yet here he is, minutes before class, staring at a ridiculous picture of himself and his favorite flower taped on. ↳ “pfft, that [Name]... they really know how to get to me, huh?”

like this piece? here are similar works! 🌑 🌒 🌓

[elliethesuperfruitlover]

Dew Covered Rose

A/N: So we’re ignoring the fact that I haven’t written in like......two, three months. I honestly just haven’t felt like it, and my brain has been busy thinking about writing, or getting back to my daydreams, or thinking about Midnight. Comfort character tingz. But yeah, I’m bringing Topazi back (i also forgot when juneteenth was, I was supposed to do something for her then, I missed the day, but here I made up for it :) This is mild hurt/comfort, except my OC is tired, not hurt. Also this is probably time to mention that Topazi is a gardener, and goes to clients houses to plant things for them! Enjoy!

Tag List: @joz-stankovich, @misskittysmagicportal, @badsext, @super-unpredictable98, @the-freckled-luba, @magic-multicolored-miracle, @ghouls-buddy, @maerenee930, @frogs--are--bitches, @neuroticpuppy, @forenschik, @bisexualnathanyoung, @robert-sheehan, @firstpersonnarrator, @salvador-daley

Warnings: kinda unsafe driving bc sleep deprivation, brief mentions of nudity, swearing

  Topazi had a bit of a tiring day. The house that she’d been working at had almost no shade. The customers were as nice as they could be.....but it seemed as though every tulip that she planted correctly, they would request it to be put in a different place. Even though there was an extremely limited amount of space that she had to work with. It was very frustrating to her, to be honest. However, she got the job done. It took hours of her digging things back up and wiping sweat off of her face to be happy with the result. She was sure to make sure that everything was as good as it could be before the left for home. Even the thought of having to get back in her car and do something other than cuddle up and or sleep was killing her.

  It was late into the night, and the owl in the front yard stared at her as she pulled into the driveway, eyes barely open. She took multiple deep breaths and rubbed a calloused hand over her face before stepping out of the car, not even bothering to take her tools out of the trunk. She trudged her way into the house, carefully unlocking the door, as to not disturb Klaus, who should’ve been close to sleep, or in bed at that point. She tossed the keys into the bowl by the door, and hung her coat up, silently grimacing at the soreness already developing in her arms. 

  Not having the energy to call out to Klaus, she walked into the kitchen, finding one of the cats on top of the kitchen island, fast asleep. A small smile found its way onto her face as she gently pet it, smoothing down the fur on top of her face. She made her way over to the fridge, which she opened, very slowly, to find leftovers of spaghetti that Klaus had cooked for himself. She could never stand the noodles and sauce together, so she looked around for more things. Canned soup in the pantry....she’d have to heat it up, and she needed something instant. Juice wouldn’t be filling enough. She began to nod off, looking at the fridge once more, and she found a solution that she’d looked over. A sandwich.

“Thank fuck for bread.” she thought to herself as she grabbed the bologna, mayonnaise, and cheese slices from their respective spots before grabbing a knife and paper towel. By the time she put the bread back, her sleep levels had reached almost the maximum, and she began nodding off, head on the side of the fridge. She quickly came to her senses, and trotted back over to the island, joints creaking.

  She sat down on one of the stools on the kitchen island. (”Klaus, I need the stools, if my legs don’t look like a pretzel, I’m not sitting correctly.”) As she took a bite of her sandwich (crust first), her brain decided to shut down temporarily, and she almost fell asleep eating. The suds episode of Spongebob Squarepants, however, prevented her from doing so. She slowly ate the sandwich, grateful for the purpose that it served. After she finished her first bite, however, she completely knocked out. The cat woke up, looking at her owner, before hopping off of the counter, and walking up the stairs.

  Klaus had heard Topazi come home, but it’d been a while since he heard her open the fridge last, so he went to check on her. He avoided Minnie on the steps (as in Minnie Riperton, not the mouse) and walked into the kitchen, to find his lover fast asleep, small snores coming from her mouth. He smiled, almost letting a chuckle past his lips when he realized his task.

 “She looks fucking wasted.” he thought, before gently shaking her awake, resulting in a groan of annoyance.

“Come on T, you gotta get to bed.” he whispered, rubbing her back. She leaned against his chest, and shook her head into it, too tired to utter a rebuttal.

  Klaus chuckled lightly, and put Topazi’s used paper towel in the trash can, and her utensils in the sink, to be washed when he eventually came back down for his late night (and sometimes morning) snack. He gently picked her up, leaning down to press a small kiss to her forehead. He thought back simply how much he just loved her. He didn’t know how, as he said that “I can’t fall for someone completely. At least not again.” but he did. Although, it wasn’t completely all at once though. 

 Klaus made his way up the steps (once more avoiding Minnie), and into their shared bedroom where he gently laid Topazi down on the bed. He figured that she may want to be clean when she slept as well, but was somewhat confused how he was to go about the entire “my partner is half asleep and I’d hate to disrespect her boundaries”. So, he settled on simply getting rid of her outer clothes, and bra, then placing nightie over her form. It was one of the newer ones she’d bought. She would go on and on about how “there’s tiny flowers on this nightgown Klaus, I need to buy it”.....ah he loves Topazi with all of his heart.

  He gently tucked his lover into bed, making sure that she’s close enough to her phone that she won’t be grouchy about having to move from her spot in order to reach it. Topazi stirred in her slumber, but only a bit, and Klaus went down to the kitchen for his meal, which was going to be a good old fashioned lover boy nutter butter. Klaus thought back to when he first met Topazi as he ate his sandwich. It had been right after he met his....other siblings...like other other siblings. She was quietly sitting in a coffee shop, where she had her knees to her chest, reading a book. She was deep in concentration, but when Klaus found nowhere to sit, he had no choice but to ask her. (or to leave the shop and drink his hot chocolate elsewhere, but nah)

“Um, can I sit here?” he asked, pointing to the seat. She nodded her head without looking up, making a small noise of affirmation at the back of her throat. Klaus sat in the booth across from her, his shoes making a squeaky noise on the tile below. He awkwardly crosses his legs, taking small sips of the drink.

“What are you reading?” he asked, eyebrows quirked upwards. She gently lifted her book, and it read “The Human Anatomy, Down to the Bone Cell” He hmmed in acknowledgement, and resorted to looking out of the window. 

 The drops of rain raced each other on the windowsill, determined for few seconds at a time, only to puddle together in the end. Klaus stared at a single corner outside, where nobody seemed to be walking over. It was the crack where the sidewalk met the much smaller border of the sidewalk. He watched the rainwater trickle into it, and he felt himself start to zone out. But that was alright...he needed time to think.

  This, in turn, was perfect for Topazi to stop reading her book and stare at this stranger. New people aren’t really her thing, as they’re usually below her standard of who she liked keeping in her circle. She peered at the way his curls were somewhat tussled, like he’d been caught in a windstorm of some sort. (Although it’s been rainy all day, no wind whatsoever.), she thought to herself. His eyes were beautiful, but so tired, it seemed. Wonderful shade of green, she thought, too. She pondered the different shades of green that she could remember, which lead to her thinking of the floating diamond of Sims’ characters. (plumbob, she repeated, overenunciating the first syllable). She went back to the thought at hand, and looked at the hand clutching the cup of hot chocolate, still seeming to be warm to the touch, judging by the steam coming from the mouthpiece of the top.

  His hand was veiny, somewhat red, (maybe because of the heat). His fingers looked very pale though, almost as if they’d recently been subjected to extreme cold, or flashes of it. (the rain, she thought) His chest was partially exposed due to the.....vest that he was wearing (maybe he’s some sort of performer, he does have a cowboy hat) She paid more attention to his face, also tired, and glanced at his lips, but only for a moment, as she didn’t need to get exceedingly horny in a public space over a complete stranger.....again. She softly gasped when he looked back at her, and she softly smiled, getting back to her book.

“Were you just staring at me?” Klaus asked, looking back at her.

“Yes.” she replied, eyes skimming over her paragraph on metacarpals. She had a fleeting thought to wiggle her hand in front of her face in order to properly label everything, but she could do that back at home.

“Why?” he asked, his tone giving off the fact that he wasn’t in fact upset, just curious.

“Eye contact isn’t my favorite thing, neither is small talk, especially if I’m preoccupied, so I sometimes stare at people in order to get a better understanding of them.” she explained, glancing at Klaus.

“Oh, well, don’t mind me then. I won’t bother you.” he said, looking at the table. Topazi put her book facedown on the table, apologizing.

“You’re fine! You didn’t try to talk to me, and you respected me when I didn’t reply with the name of my book, verbally at least. I like that.” she replied, deciding to look Klaus in the eye.

“Oh, thank you. Care to tell me why you’re reading about human cells?” he teased, a smirk coming to his lips. Topazi panicked for a moment, because she thought “fuck....he’s a charmer”

  She did tell him about why she was reading about human cells. And why she kept scratching a portion of the book as she read. He even noticed how she bit her lip when she read, which lead him to think that she was actually reading some sort of cell erotica, only to remember what she had previously told him. They talked for hours, it seemed. For once, Topazi found someone that she could talk to and not get tired. Interests, parents, everything (maybe a bit too much). They eventually had to separate, but not after giving each other their numbers, and Klaus found a small feeling of joy in his chest as he walked out of the coffee shop. He walked back into the Hargreeves (uh.....Sparrow) mansion with a small smile on his face. His face hurt, not from too much sun, or biting his lips too much. From pure excitement and joy, he found. Bubbling out of him, steamrolling its way out into the open. His fists shook in glee, and he squealed, and he didn’t care. For once. He needed something good, and she was it. Beautiful Topazi. Wonderful Topazi. That’s the answer.

  Klaus came back to his senses as he realized that some of the marshmallow fluff had leaked its way onto the counter where he scooped it up with a finger, tempted to put it into his mouth. A few moments of thinking gave him his decision. He imagined Topazi’s look of disgust when she caught him doing that once, and stuck his finger under the tap for a few moments, wiping the water off on his bare thigh. He finished his sandwich, and went back upstairs (once again avoiding Minnie). He snuggled next to his partner in bed, breathing in deeply. Yeah....she’d need a bit of a shower when she woke up, but that’s alright. That’s alright though. She would spend the rest of the day at home, to rest from being on her feet and knees for hours the previous day. And he’d tell her how important and beautiful she is, and think about how he’d almost went to the pizza shop across the street. But he didn’t. And he chose right, so right. With no regrets, for the first time he could think of in a while.

Masterlist

[lilacerull0]

Scrapbooks of flowers

the third photograph: scrapbook of lotuses

"Story to story Building to building Street to street We pass each other on the stairs" - The Stairs, INXS

Revelius Sparks looks pleasant enough. His smile that tries almost too hard not to be a smile, his hands in his pockets and his eyes occasionally offering her an unreadable look. His sweater, on the other hand, looks rather disturbing. Improper. Disheveled. Messy. There are tiny colourful stains all over it (paint?) and there's a little hole on his shoulder. A hole revealing a bright yellow shirt he has underneath. Audrey Claire finds it weirdly comforting unacceptable. Her coming here was also unacceptable. But then again, wasn't that the idea? Wasn't she supposed to be doing something drastically different? And Revelius Sparks is someone she normally wouldn't have crossed paths with. There were days when he would come to school with his longish hair sprinkled with glitter. There were days when he would attend classes in mismatched shoes. Sometimes, he would come wrapped in a giant, ridiculous, red scarf that looked like it came straight out of his grandma's closet. As opposed to that, there were days when he would look completely normal. Jeans, shirts, jackets, neatly crafted hair (suddenly cut short), no glitter in sight. She knows these things because everybody knew them. Everybody might not have particularly enjoyed Revelius Sparks (he seemed to be... too much of... everything, you know?), but everybody knew who he was. Although, apparently, life goes on after high school and people usually turn out to be much more than one dimensional paper dolls once given a chance (at least that's what she's heard and she's trying out new things). So, Audrey Claire stands up from her recently found seat at the coffee shop and softly taps the shoulder of the so called Revelius Sparks, who's the last one waiting in line to order something. Three times, three times barely grazing his improper, disheveled, messy, unacceptable sweater. One. Two. Three. - Hi, I'm Audrey Claire, we used to go to the same high school. It's utterly absurd, the statement, considering how they were the souvenirs of that very same high school weeks not decades ago. Revelius Sparks doesn't seem to acknowledge the absurdity. His eyes are glossy and his cheeks are lightly freckled, she notes. - Oh, hi, I'm so happy to see you. Another absurdity, she thinks. How could you be happy to see somebody that you never properly met? Were never properly introduced to? - Nice seeing you. She mutters and turns around, ready to leave (and avoid any further discomfort). She hears him say something in response, but she's already out of the foreign lands. Task: (technically) failed.

*** She tucks her hair behind her ear a lot. The right one. Or she's been told. She's never actually picked up on it herself. Her hand holding a pen, a paper in front of her. She's only doodling various dresses, dresses she would like to own, dresses she would like to create. She might have been a designer if things were different, but even then, she isn't sure if that would have been the right thing to do. She's supposed to go to law school in the fall and be a lawyer because that's what she was always supposed to do. You are most certainly coming up with assumptions now, something like: "her parents are forcing her into it" or another cliched idea like "she's doing it to honour her late late grandfather Walt who was a lawyer back in the day". Guess what? She isn't doing any of that. Her grandfather's name is not Walt either. It's only something she's always talked about, the only thing she could see herself doing. Fancy blazers, marvellous court rooms... It all seemed extremely Audrey-like. At least, that's who Audrey Claire was at school. She never picked up on it before, just like she never picked up on the hair thing, but Audrey doesn't know how to be Audrey without school. You must think she's mad. Well, she ought to be. Who in their right mind misses school assignments and studying for exams and writing three page essays? Yes, she's going to college to learn, but it's not the same, isn't it? It's more about her future and less about getting gold stars for the sake of her future. And now, when she earned her future, she doesn't have to earn any more gold stars. That's supposed to be a good thing. That is a good thing. The drawings are nice. Fairly simple, but quite nice. She picks them all up and throws them in the pink trash can beside her desk. It's not like anybody is coming to check them out. Audrey crosses her arms, let's herself fall even deeper into the chair and closes her eyes. Next thing she knows, she's dreaming of stars. *** "She's spinning and spinning and spinning. Her dress swirling around her, her feet barely touching the ground. The grass is so green and the sun is so bright and she is spinning. People have forgotten about the beauty of the natural world but she never did. She's coming from whenever, breathing in wherever, she's dreaming of a different age. She's spinning and spinning and spinning and whole, entire, wonderful worlds are spinning along with her." Audrey Claire doesn't know why and how she ended up here. The only thing she's aware of are the words that Revelius Sparks is sharing with her and the rest of the room. She's surprised that the town theatre is open this late in the night, but then again, she's never been to one. Not as a (theoretical) adult at least. Revelius Sparks is sitting on the very edge of the stage, his leg rhythmically swaying to a beat she presumes must be the one only he is able to hear. She can't quite figure out if he's singing, reciting or acting. It might be all three. Once he's finished with his little performance, he gets up, adjusts his funny colourful scarf and smiles. The few people that are in the room are clapping, but it's obvious that he's not smiling at them. It's not that he's smiling "at no one in particular" either. It's more like he's smiling at something that should be there but tragically isn't. Audrey doesn't get up from her seat. Not even when everyone else is gone. She can't move. All she can do is think about these people and how they all were in here together for one fleeting moment. All breathing the same air, all hearing the same words. And now they all went home. They all went home to hear different words and breath different air. They all went home a tad bit different. They all went home and she's still there. *** Audrey keeps visiting the theatre. Her appearances aren't scheduled. Her legs simply decide that the only correct option is to bring her there and she goes along with it and she comes and each time she discovers another way to listen. Another way to be.

Sometimes, she doesn't even pay attention to the meaning of the words spoken by whoever is on stage. It all sounds wonderfully interesting, and the chairs are so wonderfully comfortable and she's so wonderfully there. She isn't the one to explain it, but it feels quite important. Doing something without a clear purpose. Revelius isn't always present. But when he is, he talks? sings? recites? about endless fields full of flowers, souls too free to be kept away and voices too long forgotten not to be heard. Those are all his descriptions and she remembers them because she's good at remembering and she even writes some of them down. She doesn't try to understand them and never does she go through them once they are written. But something about notebooks filled with various little words makes her feel happy and content. Revelius refers to himself as a "wanderer of flowery youths and incadescent hearts". Audrey thinks his "stage name" has no right being that long and of course she finds it (almost) unbearably preposterous but it's also kind of funny and pronouncing it out loud, when she's all alone with nobody but herself to hear, brings her immense joy. It reminds her of all those poems she had to learn for school. She never properly meets Revelius. They never talk, she never looks for him and he never notices her (or anybody else for that matter) while he's fulfilling his duty as a wanderer. They never randomly run into each other. They never have a deep conversation that magically resolves all of their respective issues. They never watch the sunset, buy each other sweet unnecessary expensive things or kiss in the rain till they're both out of breath. They never fall in love. The truth is, Audrey doesn't feel the need to meet him. She's just really really glad that he's around. *** She's dressed in black, but her freshly discovered scarf is screaming in bright yellow. The sidewalk is wet and slippery. People are walking, shouting, running, talking and exchanging. Moving. Her sparkling red suitcase is following her and her brand new shoes are ruined. Her feet are completely soaked. Her hair is a bit messy. She can feel tangled strands of it all over her face. She wasn't expecting rain today. But then again, she didn't exactly plan on paying a visit to the train station, let alone catching an actual train. The city looks different once fall comes. The leaves are crunchy and dressed in various colours. The air is colder. Everyone's cheeks are flushed. Once fall comes, people turn into portable paintings. Audrey takes a few seconds to admire the unlikely art exhibit. Her hand moves to position the scarf around her neck. Too tightly wrapped and a bit crooked it was, she thinks. Exactly three minutes pass and she's in the train, glittery notebook in hand. She doesn't open it, but she recalls the coordinates of each and every word gracing its pages. "What a wonderful collection of incadescent hearts...", she mummers under her breath and the woman across from her shots her a confused look, but Audrey doesn't notice any of it. She's too busy experiencing creations much more pleasant. She lets her head rest against the window frame.

And when her gaze welcomes the glorious landscape on the other side of the glass, her eyes are full of gold coloured stars. "You are beautiful and sad" I said finally, not looking at him when I did. "Just like your eyes. You're like a song I heard when I was a little kid, but forgot I knew until I heard it again." - Maggie Stiefvater

[kurosara]

Hongjoong x Reader

I didn’t proofread this or anything. I just wrote some middle of the night comfort I needed. 

Angst, sad

I felt my spine unconsciously shiver as yet another cool breeze fluttered heavily past me. A quick glance at my phone told me it was nearing 3 in the morning. The dim light of the screen faded, as my eyes cast back to the bare sky. It was a new moon tonight, and there weren’t many stars out either. There wasn’t anything interesting in the chilly fall weather, unless you counted the never slowing raindrops falling down my cheeks.

Why was I even crying again?

I couldn’t remember. I’d been crying that long. It hadn’t felt like it, but I’ve been sitting on the balcony of my bedroom, suffering in the chilled air, for nearly 6 hours. How long could such an overwhelming feeling last?

An eternity…

A cynical voice taunted me further with evasive thoughts similar to this. It’s dark, and lonely. I’ve whispered curses and wishes to no one. I’ve replied to… no one. Because all I could wonder was if anyone was really listening. The neatly decorated interior, fit with (f/c) furniture and various art pieces and large photos of me and my boyfriend hanging on the wall, felt eerily cruel the moment I walked in. The fleeting thought of my boyfriend stuck for a moment, like the breath hitching in my throat as I visualized his soft smile, a bit of nervousness from smiling at me for the very first time. The happy thought turned sour, the smile fading into a blank stare.

“I’ll be home late…”

The image dissipated with his words. I could barely taste the remnants of the ramen bowl I’d forced down before coming out onto the balcony. The taste was bitter and dry as I forcefully swallowed the growing lump of anxiety. My fingernails, or rather the remaining nubs since I’d chewed off all my nails earlier, felt sticky as they scratched nervously at the cold concrete I was sitting on. I could only assume it was blood from the scraping contact. The balcony’s railing taunted me similar to bars of a jail cell. But at least in prison there are other people.

But here? In this dark and lonely space I created for myself? There is no one. I’ve self-isolated. And every attempt to escape has never been followed through. If I unlocked my phone you’d see the contact pulled up where I’ve nearly called him. And before that a lengthy text that boiled down to one thing; I need you. The text was never sent of course. However, even now as I describe these feelings and sensations, I don’t feel them. They aren’t processed in my mind or my physical body. I simply sat in the corner of the balcony, knees pulled to my chest, staring into pure dark, as my body and the world continued past my racing thoughts of how this is where I should be.

I deserved to be alone.

Keys jingled in the background and it was painfully obvious the individual tried being quiet, but it wouldn’t matter. He could’ve kicked the door in screaming, and I wouldn’t budge an inch.

Hongjoong removed his shoes and hung up his coat on the nearby rack. His bag made a soft sound as he tried to gently slide it onto the couch, hoping his partner was sleeping peacefully, and trying not to disturb that. As he typically did when he ended up home this late, he trekked to the kitchen for a bottle of water to carry to bed. As he exited the kitchen, a cold breeze caught his attention.

Where’s that coming from?

Just like Hongjoong. He knew how much I hated being the slightest bit cold, so the house was always a warm temperature. He narrowed his eyes slightly as he gazed around the empty living room, noticing the cracked balcony door. Cautiously, he approached the door, peering out just the slightest bit and hoping there was no intruder lurking around.

Though he’d really hoped for that to be the case right now versus the sight he was met with.

His eyes barely made out my trembling figure in the corner, huddled against the wall. Immediately Hongjoong turned on the outdoor light and rushed to my side, carefully kneeling beside me.

“Y-y/n?” The worry was so thick in his voice, yet sweet. Like honey.

There he was. My boyfriend. Acknowledging my presence as he always does, yet I hadn’t heard a word. There was no light, though he very clearly turned one on. For a moment Hongjoong panicked. His eyes worriedly scanned my body, searching for any signs of hurt or reason for my being like this. He saw the bloody fingers and the tears still flowing. He knew what was happening, for sadly he’d seen it too many times even before they were dating. At least more times than I’d like. By now though, Hongjoong knew almost how to help. He adjusted his position to sit in front of me, his knees pulled up like mine. He touched his knees to mine, gently pulling my hands from the concrete as he rubbed soothing circles with his thumbs.

I felt the tingling of sensation from the touch, still all I saw was a never ending tunnel of darkness. Hongjoong brought my knuckles to his lips, placing gentle kisses on them before resting them onto our knees. His thumbs didn’t stop caressing the top of my hands as he simply stared into my eyes and mustered the kindest smile he could as he looked at my broken state.

“I know you probably won’t process what I’m saying right now, and that’s alright. Just focus on my voice ok?” He took a shaky breath, feeling his own tears well up, “You’ve been having a hard time lately haven’t you? I know you’ve been eating well and everything because I’ve seen it, but that doesn’t mean you’re alright. And it’s ok to not be ok. It’s not your fault.”

There was a flicker of light, like a shooting star passing across my vision. I swallowed another lump, feeling a bit of warmth from the original tingling sensation.

Hongjoong squeezed my hands, trying to urge warmth into your shivering body. Just the thought of how long you could’ve been freezing made him sick to his stomach. Nonetheless he continued to talk as calmly as he could.

“Just remember that there is someone here for you. I know you don’t always believe that, but it’s true. I am here. Right here.” A single tear rolled down his cheek unwillingly. “I’ll help you pick up the pieces you feel are broken and hold them together for you. I’ll be here to hold you steady when you’re shaking and keep you warm when you’re cold. I’m sorry I was late this time. There’s no telling how long you’ve been here.” Another tear. “But I’m here now baby. I love you.” He squeezed my hands gently once more.

Like a thread, his words formed a silver lining in the dark tunnel. My vision corrupted from pure black, to blurry shapes and images. The feeling of being frozen to my core was slowly warming in the places where his body touched mine. And finally, his beautiful, kind smile. So bright, and such a contrast to the dark space I’d been suffering in. There was a soft ringing that slowly got louder, as I realized his lips were moving. Hongjoong was speaking, yet I could only hear the ringing. Hongjoong saw the way my eyes scanned his face just the smallest bit. His smile grew a bit.

“There you are. It’s ok. Take your time.” He leaned forward, never breaking eye contact as he kissed the back of my hands lovingly.

I squeezed his hands gently, the feeling, or void of feeling, was quickly fading, and in its place a crushing weight on my throat and lungs. My chest heaved at my increased breathing pace, worrying Hongjoong as he realized the anxiety was setting in more than the previous emptiness. Without releasing my hands, he scooted to sit beside me. He let go of one hand to wrap his arm around my shoulder, leaving a gentle kiss on my temple as he whispered sweet nothings.

His voice trickled in like a small river, every other word registering before his kindness fully processed. My beating heart didn’t slow, but it became easier to breathe as I buried my head in the crook of his neck silently. He pulled me closer with one arm, resting his forehead on my hair.

“Do you want to go inside and get under the blankets?” The first full sentence I’d registered in my mind.

I absentmindedly nodded, but before I could attempt to move, Hongjoong was picking me up bridal style, careful like I was an expensive glass or diamond jewelry. Once in our shared bedroom, he placed me on the bed before tossing back the covers and tucking them around me like a child. With a reassuring smile he left the room. Although I knew where he was going, I gripped the covers tightly anxiously waiting for his return.

In a matter of minutes Hongjoong returned with two cups of hot chocolate with small marshmallows, and a pack of hershey’s kisses tucked under his arm too. He set one cup down and offered me the other, which I had to fumble from under the covers to shakily take the cup. The warm liquid felt comforting, with just a splash of caramel the way I loved it. A soft melody played as Hongjoong connected to the bluetooth speaker on the dresser, playing soft instrumentals he had been working on the days prior. Hongjoong climbed into the bed, careful of me and my drink, and opened the chocolates, feeding me one as he grabbed his own drink.

He took the drink gently from me, and pulled a small first aid kit from his pocket, beginning to tend to my wounded fingers. He tried to be as gentle as possible, though I couldn’t stop the involuntary flinching everytime there was direct contact to the broken skin. He continued mumbling soft apologies and comforting words nonetheless. Once he finished wrapping my fingers, he continued with his early motion of serving me my drink and feeding me hershey kisses.

I’m not sure how long we sat like that. Hongjoong rested his head against the headboard, one hand gently playing with strands of my hair, while the other held my own hand. Originally, he had alternated between feeding me chocolates and bringing his now cold drink to his lips. The time on Hongjoong’s phone read 5:52 am. I had long since finished my drink and passed out with my head on his shoulder sometime after 4 I think. Hongjoong hummed softly to the still playing music, like a soothing lullaby. He wanted to make sure I was fully asleep before deciding to move.

Hongjoong gently laid me on the pillow, going to turn off the lamp he’d had on and turning the music down a little more, before crawling back into bed. He cuddled me from behind, his warm chest pressed against my back as he pulled me closer to him in a tight embrace.

“Goodnight my love. Have sweet dreams. When you wake, I’ll be here. I promise. I won’t let you be lonely in the dark if I can help it. I love you. So I hope you use that love as a light. It’s not too late. So don’t give up, ok? We can do this. I love you.”

With a simple kiss to my head, he nuzzled closer, leaving me with floating thoughts.

It’s not too late. I’m not alone.

[moonbeamsung]

CRΣΣKS

Love, a second glance, it is not something that we need.

member: jeno

au: guardian angel in disguise!jeno x gn!reader, guardian angel au

word count: 3.4k

genre: angst

warnings: character death/loss, profanity, no happy ending, mentions of religion, questioning/loss of faith

recommended song: 715 - CRΣΣKS by the nor’easters

author’s note: Please be very careful with volume when listening to the song (above) that inspired this story! But even without reading the lyrics/listening, the fic will still make sense, and happy reading :)

network tags: @kpopscape @neo-constellations @starryktown

The wind is whistling, weaving in and out of the tall river reeds like an invisible needle and thread, stitching itself into each and every crevice of the world’s gift called nature.

Another one of its many gifts is the young boy that’s resting beside a rushing brook, toes dipped into the cool water and face illuminated by the sun as it beats down onto the earth with celestial strength.

Well, a gift from the heavens, that is.

Sent from the endless skies above, Jeno is your guardian angel, assigned with posing as a humble peasant boy in the village, all to keep a watchful eye on you from afar. In his human form, he spends his days wandering the cobblestone roads and narrow alleyways between the quaint buildings, with no family to return home to at dusk. A sunny meadow on the outskirts of town becomes his home, and he takes refuge in the shelter that the overgrown grass provides.

Everything is going smoothly, and he’s doing his job just as he should be. It’s routine now, waking up and rising from his earthen mattress, curtains of copious plant leaves letting in the sun’s rays. He finds you, observes at a comfortable distance, and that’s that. At its core, being a guardian is really an easy job. A predictable one.

A monotonous one.

Until one day you approach him, youthful eagerness in your eyes piercing and nearly painful, even to his invulnerable body. He’s never seen you up close before, only on the near horizon as you’ve gone about your daily chores, tending to the housework just like any obedient child should.

“...Who are you?”

Now, Jeno is faced with a decision more challenging than any that us mortal beings have to make in our entire lives. Engaging with one’s assignment is an extremely dangerous path to take. Unimaginable punishments await, should the guardian make a wrong choice. But Jeno was careless, and he had allowed himself to be discovered by the only human on Earth that the divine forces permit him to be seen by.

He makes the fatal error of answering you, ultimately shattering a future he’ll never get to live out, one that he doesn’t even know he would’ve had. Like a sharp rock being thrown at a church’s stained glass window, the meticulously carved pieces of his worldly existence fall to the ground with a deafening crash, broken beyond repair.

“I’m Jeno,” the strikingly majestic cadence of his words is like that of angel trumpets, the sound ringing in your head and making you dizzy with both fascination and infatuation.

And just like that, in three short syllables, you’re both fated to fall before you can even spread your wings.

From the moment you hear his name tumble from those beautiful lips, you’re hooked, and he knows it. He sees it in the way you look at him, in the way you act, the way you talk. A child experiencing a first and a forbidden love all at once.

It breaks his heart, because he knows it can’t, and shouldn’t last. The churning rapids of the creek nearby weep for him, for they know that in a matter of just a few short years, their waters are destined to mix with the salty tears that will steadily cascade from your trembling chin.

Jeno remembers, although vaguely, the brief amount of time he spent living amongst the clouds, being prepared by the heavenly elders for this expedition of a lifetime, quite literally. He remembers the scriptures, the strictures, and all the times he’s been warned of the severe consequences that come with immorality.

But even the purest of young angels aren’t infallible, still susceptible to compulsions that lead them to sin and defy their creator.

Relishing in the fading daylight, you join him by the water’s edge, listening to his soothing tone as he answers your ceaseless inquiries with harmless little lies as white as heavenly robes and cherub wings.

Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor. The first sin.

It’s interesting, he thinks, that despite looking after you in the endeavors of your youth for quite a while now, he knows next to nothing about who you truly are. Actions may speak louder than words, but how can he know that if he’s never heard your voice to begin with?

As the quiet, languid conversation shifts from his purpose there to yours, Jeno learns that you’re very content with your life, taking pride in helping your family with daily tasks as well as assisting your neighbors in the close-knit village with theirs.

Just then, all the smears of dirt and scattered scratches adorning your face catch his attention, gained after hours of hard work. No amount of water is ever enough to scrub them off of your skin at the end of the day, no matter how hard you try. Sometimes, you feel tears prick your eyes as you try to fall asleep at night, frustrated with your lowly appearance and how it never seems to match your relatively optimistic outlook on life.

But Jeno doesn’t care. You’re breathtaking even in his eyes, the eyes that belong to an actual angel. If that fact alone isn’t enough to boost your confidence, he doesn’t know what else possibly could.

Like a fool, he lets himself drown in your sublimity for a moment, marveling at the ethereal glow of the sun on your smooth, ageless face. The faint noise of wisps of air blowing gently through the meadow and rustling the flora makes him drowsy, but the sight of a pure white heron landing gracefully on the opposite side of the riverbank brings him back to full consciousness in an instant.

The bird, an omen of sorts, had been sent down from Heaven, conjured up from a fleeting idea and into a physical reality, by the holy beings looking down upon the earth, indicating that they’re well aware of the threat he poses and just how close he is to making an irreversible mistake in regards to you, his assignment and assignment only.

The heron abruptly unfurls its delicately feathered wings, as if frightened, before taking off and floating away on the breeze, both of your gazes inexplicably drawn to it as it flies until it’s out of sight altogether.

It warns him of just what he’s messing with, exactly.

This is not a part of the creator’s plan for you, for him. Falling in love with the one an angel is supposed to guard is an appalling crime to commit in the eyes of the elders that inhabit the sky, in the eyes of God. Though it doesn’t explicitly go against a commandment or biblical law, it’s just an understood rule. It’s wrong.

Jeno tells himself this, and continues to do so over the many years that he looks after you, never acting on his emotions, only acknowledging them before sending the less-than-acceptable thoughts into the depths of his conscious mind. He only wishes he had a key to lock them up and forget he even felt them in the first place.

Even as an angel, he ages just like anyone else, the both of you going from kids to teenagers and then nearing the young-adult stage of life, with you remaining blissfully unaware of Jeno’s true identity all the while. It’s a miracle he’s managed to keep his secret for this long, honestly, but like grains of sand in an hourglass, your time together is running out, whether you like it or not.

Not even a year before your entire world, your entire reality comes undone before your very eyes, Jeno feels as if his has already done just that. Because you’ve found someone. And that someone isn’t him.

He hates the feeling of jealousy, despises it with every fiber of his heavenly being. But he can’t shake it, can’t bear the way it clings to him like an unwelcome visitor. An unrecognizable emotion, one so foreign that he can’t even put a name to it, is stirred up at the sight of you in their arms, so pure and so unworthy of this person. Boy, if he didn’t know any better, Jeno would swear that you were the angel.

With each day that passes, he begins to feel the final shreds of both his dignity and his self-control slipping away, lost to the familiar breeze that whips through the village, stronger than ever these days. He can no longer contain it within himself. He wants you.

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s goods. The second sin.

How ironic that a Sunday, of all days, is when everything falls apart.

The sun is hanging low in the sky, just barely grazing the horizon with its bright beams of warmth as it steadily rises, bathing the world in a soft yellow glow. You can also see the moon leftover from the night that ended not so long ago, fading fast but visible nonetheless. Two complete opposites, so close but prevented by the laws of nature for coexisting in the same space, at the same time.

Maybe, just maybe, if you knew just how much you had in common with the celestial objects above, you would have clutched the hand of Jeno a bit tighter yesterday, intertwined your fingers a little more closely with those of someone who had become the closest thing to a best friend that you had ever known. You admit that you wish he could be something more, but you know better than to push your limits.

You got tired of waiting to see if he felt the same way, choosing to fill the void with someone else that you liked, yes, but who just wasn’t the same as the boy who had always been there, waiting in the meadow every morning without fail. Still, your emotions are ever-alert and always searching for any sign of reciprocation within Jeno.

He’s nowhere to be found when you reach the water’s edge, the edge of the creek where you wasted away endless summer days and frosty winter nights, colorful spring afternoons and brisk autumn evenings.

This morning would seem no different than the rest if not for his absence. The knot in your heart loosens, but not by much, when you spot him at the forest’s edge, looking weary.

Jeno notices you and calls out your name with a smile, but something about it isn’t genuine. It’s pained, desperate, like he wants to hold onto this moment forever, unwilling to carry out the plan he’s already regretting. It’s too late now, he thinks to himself, but he’s wrong.

It’s been too late for years.

“Jeno?”

“This way!” He chokes out. It’s somewhere between a sob and a plea, but there’s no time to figure out which is the more appropriate term. He disappears between the trees and amidst their mossy branches, blending in with the shadows cast by the thick canopy of leaves, and you break into a sprint, afraid of losing him to the merciless wilderness and what lies within.

Thankfully, he’s not too far gone. A small clearing greets you less than a dozen strides in, and in the very center of it stands a glass gazebo, run-down and covered in so many twisting vines to the point where the small structure is almost fully consumed by the nature surrounding it.

The scene is beautiful, so much so that it makes you uneasy. What’s going on? Why did he bring you here? Why does he seem so sad? Jeno is never sad, maybe he could be described as brooding or solemn on the rarest of occasions, but never this melancholy, never so utterly hopeless in his expressions and his aura.

None of these questions are answered, even as he takes your hands in his own and leads you inside of the gazebo, its see-through panels catching the light with elegance and ease.

“I need to tell you something.” Just like it did the first time you heard it, his voice still shocks you like a bolt of electricity, your blood pressure and heart rate skyrocketing. All of this is heightened, though, by grim tone he’s speaking to you with.

“What is it, Jen?” There it is. The nickname you made up for him that, although simple, makes him feel like he’s on top of the world. Actually, scratch that: it makes him feel like he’s floating in the sky, up past the clouds and even further away from this cruel planet than the heavens are from Hell.

You’re only making this harder for him. He might as well just spit it out, because all this waiting is agonizing for the both of you.

“We... we can’t be together.”

The sentence that leaves his lips is two declarations wrapped up in one singular statement, the first being that he wants to be with you in the same way you want to be with him. It’s much too hopeful, misleading your emotions down a path of elation instead of dread. The second is unpleasant, a bitter taste lingering on his tongue once he says the words.

“...Yes, yes we can, Jen, because I don’t really love them and all this time it’s been you—”

“You don’t understand,” he tries to stop the confession spilling out from your heart before it overflows, drowns you. “I’m not who you think I am.”

Stunned to silence, he gives you a moment to drink in the implications of his words. “...I’ve known you for over half of my entire life, and you’re trying to tell me I have no idea who you really are? Not a chance,” you laugh softly, shaking your head and glancing down at the wooden gazebo floor, old white paint peeling under your feet.

“But haven’t you ever wondered why I’m always there by the creek every morning? How I turn up throughout your day at the perfect time? How I’m suddenly right by your side when you need me the most?”

You have wondered. Many times, in fact. But the possibility of him being anything other than human was not at the top of your very rational list.

“...Don’t you see? I’m your guardian angel.”

He sees you blink, realization dawning on your face like the sun and stretching your features. “There are laws—” He begins, but your reaction is not the one he anticipated you would have to that information.

Too overwhelmed, you can’t respond with anything other than physical actions, no matter how unreasonable, and you press your dry lips to his soft ones, sealing your fate. Standing there, with beams of golden light infiltrating the space and illuminating your unsteady figures, Jeno is petrified not by your kiss, but by the fact that he doesn’t push you away, and his hands hold onto yours even tighter than before. Nothing has ever felt so right in his entire life. Not when he was in Heaven, and not in all the years he’s spent on Earth, either.

You’re his Heaven, this moment is his eternity. Jeno has endured enough temptation, the undeniable thrill that a deliberate sin promises has become too much for him. If he pulls away now, everything would still be okay, you could both go back to normal and pretend this never happened. But alas, he was doomed to kiss you back from the beginning, and so he does, and you have no idea what the universe has in store when you feel his lips finally respond to yours in the most unholy way possible. For the first and last time, you indulge in each other’s touch and taste, and it does not please the ones watching from above.

The third and final sin, one sin too many for him to remain in this world without consequence.

Several things happen all at once. A clap of thunder sounds overhead, though there are no clouds in sight. Jeno is painfully ripped from your grasp and thrown out of the gazebo by some invisible force of nature, into the grass and dirt on the forest floor.

And inside of you, a piece of your soul is torn from your being, bile rising up in your throat as you comprehend the excruciating sensation that racks your body with pained whimpers.

Stumbling to his feet, Jeno heaves, hunched over and close to tears. Suppressing the agony you still feel, you hurry over to him only for the boy to charge away, heading back towards the open meadow. With a broken shout of his name, you follow.

You didn’t notice before, but now the blinding light reveals the condition he’s in. He looks almost normal, but the edges of his form are becoming fainter by the minute, blurring with the rest of the world around him. He’s fading away before your eyes, and it’s all your fault.

It’s a torturous experience, watching him slowly meld with the emptiness of the air. Making him disappear into thin air in an instant would have been an act of mercy, a mercy that’s apparently beyond the capabilities of the spectators in the sky.

Struggling to maintain your composure, you force a question out. “What’s happening?” You ask, though you know he doesn’t have an answer himself.

He’s obviously panicked, though he tries not to show it. “I... I don’t know, I knew that it was forbidden for us to fall in love but I didn’t think I’d be robbed of my existence like this...”

“What?! No, Jeno, please don’t go...” You beg the gods and angels above, if any exist. You don’t know anymore.

If there is a God, how can he be good if he’s taking Jeno away from you like this, depriving you of the one constant source of joy and comfort in your life?

It’s far too cruel to bestow such a kind and generous heart upon someone who isn’t allowed to love in the first place.

Even Jeno’s touch is faint, making you feel like he’s not there at all. You just barely detect the pads of his fingers smoothing over your cheeks, trying to stop the water spilling from your eyes. He smiles sadly, “Don’t cry for me. I’m not worth the tears.”

“You’re everything to me, Jeno. You’re worth every drop.”

“Remember me like this, okay? By the creek,” he gestures to the turbulent waters a short distance away. Walking slowly, he begins to take steps in its direction, but as he speeds up you’re no longer able to match his pace. “Jeno, turn around...”

Glancing back at you for the final time, he whispers a goodbye that the breeze carries away with it, the sound something only the two of you would hear, one that could never be replicated.

“Goddamnit, Jeno, don’t you dare leave me!” But you know you can’t hold on, you’re not strong enough. A greater force wants you two apart, unable to be overpowered by one human, a relatively insignificant being in the grand scheme of the universe. He vanishes completely.

You fall to your knees, the pain from the pebbles digging into your legs and feet underneath the surface of the creek numbed by your sorrow. The water drenches your clothes, splashing up onto your skin and becoming one with your relentless tears. You’re left all alone, with only the cattails to keep you company. You wish the waves would just swallow you whole so you don’t have to feel this suffocating isolation.

In an unnecessarily harsh trick of the light combined with the dancing shadows generated by the water, you swear that you see Jeno again for a second, sitting on the riverbank like always. You sob louder.

It takes forever for you to find the strength to stand up again, water running over your soaked shoes and threatening to topple you over. You wouldn’t mind if it succeeds.

Inconsolable even to your closest friends and family, you reluctantly return to the village, unwilling to leave behind what you’ve just been through and unable to explain just why you’re crying so hard. Maybe if you stay there forever, spending each day and night waiting among the reeds and the flowers and the grass, he’ll come back someday, but no. He’ll never return, but you simply can’t bring yourself to accept this fact.

You’re never quite the same after that. Part of the curse that haunts you for the rest of your life is this: no matter how hard you try to retain your memories, you’re destined to forget Jeno eventually, leaving vast gaps in your brain when it comes to the years of your youth.

You’re left with only a feeling of inexplicable nostalgia at the sight of the meadow and the creek running through it, the waters still as violent as they were on the day you lost him.

[lilbabycee]

may we be blessed with a smutty birthday drabble w Steve where he has everyone pretend they forgot readers birthday when in reality there’s something big planned 🥺👉🏼👈🏼 never had a big bday so I will be living through this lolz

change of plans // steve rogers 

↳ pairing: steve rogers x reader

i’m actually sorry this took so long and sorry that it’s so long too lol:

you don’t know if you’re ready to face today.

it’s your birthday and you’ve never done anything big or extravagant - you think that maybe you’d like to keep it that way, though you’ve never had a big celebration before so you don’t even know how that’d feel. maybe there’s something comforting about the predictability of how today is going to go, but you can’t help the part deep inside of you that longs for something new.

waking up to an empty bed, you brace yourself for some kind of over-the-top present from tony but as you head out of your bedroom, you find the rest of you and steve’s apartment entirely unchanged. you tentatively walk through empty hallways into the kitchen and everyone is standing around aimlessly, chatting to each other about insignificant things and attempting to make themselves breakfast.

“hi guys,” you smile at all of them and they return the sentiment. “what are you making?”

steve breezes by you to press a brief kiss to your forehead before shoving a piece of burnt toast into his mouth. his voice is muffled when he says, “mornin’ doll.”

“looks like it’ll be cereal cause none of these idiots know how to cook,” natasha sidles up to you, narrowing her eyes and shaking her head playfully at the group of men crowding the kitchen. “sam’s still working out and we don’t wanna have to wait until he’s done. we probably should’ve though: he’s the only one who knows how to make anything decent in here.” she nudges your shoulder, “any plans today?”

you’re momentarily thrown, blinking in confusion because natasha always remembers your birthday. 

“uhh,” you shake your head and plaster a smile on your face, “no, nope. not up to much really. how about you?”

bruce strolls by and waves at you while natasha plucks a grape from his bowl, popping it into her mouth. he gives her a look but she just smirks as she chews slowly, ignoring him and turning back to you. 

“actually, fury called not too long ago. he’s got some important mission lined up for us somewhere in alaska... surveillance or something.”

“oh,” you frown, brow furrowing because you thought that you would’ve heard about it. “should i go suit up or...?”

“actually,” natasha swallows her grape and stands up straight, “it’s only some of us going. sam and bucky are staying here with you: the rest of us are heading out in about an hour.”

your heart sinks at the thought of not being able to spend your birthday with the whole team, though it seems as if they’ve forgetten anyway so maybe it’s not that big of a deal. but the thought is fleeting because you realize that you’re going to be able to spend some quality time with two of your favorite people who will definitely have remembered your birthday. 

when the quinjet takes off an hour and a half later, sam, bucky, and yourself are all left standing on the launchpad, bucky’s hair blowing dramatically in the gust of wind that it leaves behind.

“so,” bucky rocks back on his heels and stares at you with a mischievous smile on his face. “what do you wanna do?”

“neither of you have any plans?” you look at them skeptically but they both shake their heads. you look down, disappointed because they always do something fun for you on your birthday. sam always bakes a cake and bucky always lets you win when you’re sparring but since neither have happened today, you’re assuming that they’ve forgotten... just like everybody else.

sam shrugs noncommitally.

“nope,” he adds, giving you a charming gap-toothed grin. “i mean, i’ve got some paperwork to do and i’m sure bucky’s got some knives to sharpen or something-”

bucky pins him with a glare but then looks back to you. “-but otherwise, we’re totally free...so, doll?”

“we could watch a movie?”

“yes!” sam exclaims excitedly, already sprinting inside. you and bucky are still staring at the door he burst through when you hear him call out: “i’ve got dibs on the first pick!”

that makes bucky’s eyes go wide and he quickly starts to chase after him. 

“fuck no- sam!”

you’re sandwiched between your two heavily muscled best friends, cuddled up on the sofa with your body spread across the laps of both sam and bucky. a thick blanket is draped over all three of you while die hard plays in the background, but none of you are paying attention because you’re all making each other cry with laughter which drowns out the sound of the movie. 

“we should go out tonight,” bucky casually suggests during a lull in the conversation, grabbing a handful of popcorn from the bowl on the table.

“true,” sam agrees, nodding his head. you look at him in shock because his default state is to always disagree with bucky. “the others aren’t supposed to be back for a couple of days so i don’t wanna stay all cooped up in here. you down, sugar?”

“yeah, i’ll go,” you nod, playing with your fingers because you’re still so shocked that they’re just casually making plans like today isn’t your birthday. of course you’re not going to point it out to them - you don’t want to make a big deal out of it, but you think that it’d be nice to be wished a happy birthday at least once today.

hours later, you’re wearing your favorite outfit - “we’re going to dinner, darlin’,” bucky let you know earlier - and just touching up your face when bucky and sam pause their incessant bickering to call you downstairs. at this point, you’ve come to terms with the fact that not a single person in your life has remembered your birthday. you’d shed a couple of tears in the bathroom not because you are dying for a huge birthday celebration, but rather because it goes to show that you don’t hold a lot of relevance in these people’s lives. 

nobody on the team has ever forgotten a teammate’s birthday, so it cut deep this morning when they all went about their day as normal and barely even acknowledged your presence. you tried to brush it off but the moment you were alone, it all hit you like an oncoming freight train. 

ready to forget this disappointing day and move on, you come down the stairs as quickly as you can and head to the front door only to see sam and bucky dressed impeccably and... still arguing. they stop when you stand in front of them. sam whistles loudly which makes you roll your eyes playfully while bucky just nods his head.

“you look great, doll,” he smiles at you and not being able to take any more compliments, you clear your throat loudly and step in between them.

“let’s go,” you say and grab a coat, stepping into the garage. once you all pile into one of tony’s many cars, you take off into the night. 

you’re too distracted by your racing thoughts to notice the moment that you pull up outside of an extravagant hotel. you frown as you get out of the car because you thought you were going for dinner at the restaurant on the other side of town. 

“change of plans, lil bit. tony recommended this place to us a few weeks ago and we just never got around to going.” sam smiles at you, offering you an arm as bucky flanks your other side. when you step foot inside of the luxurious building after handing the car keys to the valet outside, a well-dressed usher leads you down a hallway to an entirely separate part of the ground floor. you don’t think much of it because you’re used to private dining when tony’s involved, but you manage to lose both of your friends by the time you’ve made it through the labyrinth of hallways. 

“excuse me, have you seen the two men i was with just a second ago?” you ask the usher kindly. he looks back at you and just smiles.

“this way, please,” he gestures for you to open the doors however, something doesn’t feel quite right. you’re on high alert but you tentatively push open the heavy gold doors anyway, hand ready to grab the knife that’s resting snugly in your thigh holster.

what you’re not expecting is a lounge filled with balloons and a chorus of “surprise!”, so loud that your bones threaten to jump out of your skin.

the room has been decorated in all of your favorite colors, lights strung up everywhere and banners in bold letters that say happy birthday, y/n!, as well as all of your favorite people with beaming smiles on their faces. sam and bucky are standing with rhodey in the corner and as you stare at them disbelievingly, bucky just throws you a wink.

“wh-what,” you stutter, teary eyes round with confusion, “what the fuck?”

“happy birthday, angel,” a very familiar voice comes from behind you and you spin around to throw your arms around your boyfriend’s neck in glee.

“all this?” your voice is muffled in his shoulder. “for me?”

“all for you, baby,” steve murmurs, rubbing his hand up and down your back. “you didn’t think we’d actually forget, did you?”

“i- i mean,” you exhale, shaking your head, “maybe? i just didn’t know how important it was to you guys-”

“y/n,” he takes your face between his hands and stares at you solmenly, “you are the most important thing in my life-”

bucky clears his throat in protest but steve ignores him.

“-and i would be a fool not to celebrate you everyday. it really got me thinking when you told me that you’ve never had something big done for your birthday. you deserve something extravagant and over-the-top because you deserve to be appreciated every second of your life because you’re so loved by everyone here. are we clear?”

you can’t help but kiss the stupid lopsided smile off his face because you love this man more than you’ll ever be able to articulate. to give the two of you some privacy, everyone else has started drinking and dancing, speaking to their friends animatedly as they avert their eyes from you and steve’s private moment.

when steve slips his tongue in your mouth and his hands wander down to grab your ass, you moan into the kiss only to pull away seconds later, blinking up at him as you both try to catch your breaths.

“steve, we’re in a room full of people,” you remind him.

“then let’s get out of here,” he presses you into his front and you can feel the hardness of his cock against your stomach. 

“but i haven’t said hi to anyone else yet,” you whine, not wanting to be rude. 

“we’ll come back, baby,” he brushes his nose against the curve of your jaw. “just a couple minutes. you look so fuckin’ good right now i don’t know if i’ll be able to last any longer without getting my cock in that tight little-”

“steve!” you gasp, swatting his arm and then looking around to see if anybody’s heard him, but he just chuckles low in your ear, soft lips dropping kisses on your even softer skin.

“c’mon, doll,” his teeth catch on your earlobe and your bite your lower lip, contemplating whether or not you should give in to your horny boyfriend. “they won’t even notice we’re gone-”

“uh, we definitely will,” tony strolls over and butts in with a smirk on his lips and a drink in his hand. “happy birthday, babe.”

“thanks, tones,” you give him a one-armed hug because steve still won’t let go of you. 

“your real present from me is over there,” he gestures vaguely to a huge pile of presents that makes your eyes go wide again, “but out of the kindness of my heart, i can also give you the gift of my wonderful storytelling so that people won’t notice that you guys have gone off to f-”

“thank you, tony!” you kiss his cheek quickly and proceed to drag steve towards a hallway that you assume leads to the bathrooms. you wave to your other friends briefly as you walk out, finding that the hallway you’ve gone down doesn’t lead to the bathroom, but rather a set of elevators. you and your boyfriend both pause, taking a minute to look at each other and you can almost see the lightbulb that pops over the both of your heads.

steve presses the up button and then his lips are on you, hands roaming your body eagerly against the closed doors of the elevator. slowly, his fingers travel underneath your clothes and start to massage your bare skin. you do the same, one hand gripping his hair and the other undoing the button to his slacks, shoving your hand into the band of his underwear desperately to palm at his manhood.

he hisses, stopping his assault on your body to throw his head back at the feeling of your deft fingers stroking him like that. you’re about to pull his lips towards yours again when you hear a chime and promptly stumble backwards, taking your supersoldier with you. 

you cry out a laugh as you fall into each against the wall, drunk on desire and your adoration for the flustered man in front of you. chuckling, steve stabs the first button on the panel and is immediately kissing you again, tongue delving deep into your mouth as his large hand tightly grasps your jaw. 

as the doors close and you start to move upwards, steve wedges one of this thick thighs in between your legs, pressing the muscle of his leg into your core. 

“ride it, darlin’, c’mon,” he breathes into your ear, leaving wet kisses down your throat and framing your hips between his hands. you do as you’re told, pushing your hips down onto his thigh to get some friction to relieve the heat that’s building in your stomach.

“so good for me, that’s it sweetheart.”

it’s a quick ride to the top but with steve rutting against your hip with your hand down his pants and you against his leg with his fingers in your underwear dancing over your center, the two of you gradually push yourselves to a climax, almost there until there’s that same chime again. your boyfriend swiftly picks you up and you squeal, wrapping your legs around his waist and arms around his neck. his hands massage the globes of your ass as you walk across the roof, onto the edge of the balcony that overlooks the upper east side.

he rests you against the ledge and you keep one of your legs around him as he gets both of your clothes out of the way so that he can run the tip of his hard cock along your needy hole.

“shit, baby,” he spits right onto it, slapping his cock against your swollen skin, and you groan loudly, involuntarily clenching around nothing. “m’not gonna last.”

“neither am i,” you reassure him. “please steve, i need it.”

“i’ve got you, doll.”

he doesn’t say anything else because his eyes are glued at the mesmerizing way that his bulbous tip gets swallowed by your tight entrance. he rocks his hips back and forth, burying himself deeper and deeper into you until he bottoms out with a loud moan.

there are tears in your eyes from how good it feels; the open air on your nipples and the fact that someone could see you like this, vulnerable and open with a cock buried deep inside you, makes you shudder, trails of water spilling onto your cheeks. 

“oh my god, sweetheart,” steve murmurs reverently. usually he takes a minute to let you adjust to his size, but the two of you are so close that he just goes for it, the sound of your lovemaking echoing into the night sky. 

“yes, yes- fuck, steve, please,” you blink up at him and he uses his thumbs to wipe the tears off your face, pressing kisses to both of your cheeks. 

“i know, baby, i know,” he reassures you, his own skin slick and cool in the evening air as he continues to drive into you relentlessly. you ignore how uncomfortable the exposed stone on your naked body is because you’re almost there and you know he is too.

“m’gonna come, honey,” he tells you, hands coming up to pinch your nipples at the same time he bites into your neck. “you gonna let me come in you? give you my birthday present?”

you can barely speak, babbling incoherently as your eyes almost rolling to the back of your head but you nod eagerly, nails digging into his back as he uses you to chase his orgasm.

“come for me, baby - c’mon, milk my cock, s’all yours.”

his words push you over the edge, your entire body convulsing as your breath is snatched from your lungs. you contract around his length and he stills entirely as he spills his release into you, the guttaral moan that leaves his chest raw and animalistic.

“fuck,” he drawls as he presses his forehead against yours. 

“right?” you agree, looking right into his pretty eyes, brighter than the lights behind you.

he presses a chaste kiss to your lips.

“happy birthday, baby.”

“thank you,” you kiss the corner of his mouth and run your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, “i love you.” 

as his chin rests on your shoulder, you take a minute to appreciate how thoughtful the big blonde man in your arms and you don’t think you’ve ever loved anyone this much in your life. 

“can we do this every birthday?”

you laugh at his suggestion and tug lightly on his hair, heart about to explode from adoration.

“sure we can.”

“hey, lovebirds!” tony’s voice makes the two of you jump in surprise. “i’m not gonna turn the corner because i know for a fact that you’re not wearing any clothes, but i should definitely warn you that bucky and sam are on their way up with their phones... so unless you want a pornhub feature, i’d haul ass and get back downstairs if i were you. happy birthday, y/n!”

you both look at each other and then the mess that is your pile of clothes, and in unison you both realize that you’re fucked either way. but you know that it’s worth it since you’ve had the best birthday surprise ever, but you still don’t know how much steve is gonna love having his ass on display for his best friends.

“y/n! stevie! wh- oh fuck, are you kidding me?!”

that’s bucky, sounding traumatized as he sees the two of you stark naked. 

“wh- damn, i didn’t expect you guys to actually be fuckin’.”

sam sounds genuinely shocked but simultaneously looks impressed. you close your eyes in amused mortification because steve’s body is shielding yours entirely and now, sam and bucky have a full view of his pale backside.

“guys,” he groans, blood rushing to his cheeks. 

a flash goes off and steve cries out in protest. you laugh in disbelief, staring at bucky holding his phone up with a grin.

“happy birthday, y/n.”

[ofathcns]

The Courting of Narcissus

Alternately titled “Dionysus, again?!” 

Rated PG-13 for mentions of wink wonk

Ft. Mentions of @dorianxagapetos, @mylesxdelian, @kairosxevander, @elenepetrakis, @penelcpes

There is more to do in Elysium, he realizes. He is not an anomaly for keeping up with his training, but he does take longer than the rest to actually enjoy his afterlife. Sometimes he goes to heroes, other soldiers touched by gods, and he requests a match simply because no one has come to him. He finds the people of Elysium lounging, drinking wine in various stages of undress. More than once he’d stumbled upon poor Achilles and Patroclus, sometimes even joined by who he believes to be the lover of Apollo himself. It’d been the hero who’d slayed Hector who had told him to find a lover or two of his own.

It is not as if courting in Elysium is quite a thing, but there are many of them there without their lovers, Theseus thinks Achilles got rather lucky in that department. His dear Pirithous is still lost to the Underworld and Ariadne…

He tries not to think of her.

Helen was granted Elysium, she is there somewhere and it does cross his mind to perhaps try wooing her now that they are older. In life he’d wanted to marry her simply for the status. She’d been too young when he and Pirithous had gathered her up the first time, she was meant to stay with his mother, have a happy life in Troezen until they were ready to marry. But even as a youth, he’d been more interested in doing whatever would get Pirithous’s attention. And his attention was kept with their adventures, with challenges.

If he were to ever step foot past the threshold of Helen’s door, it’d be to apologize profusely for the folly of a lovestruck boy.

So he set his sights on people he saw decently often. Wrestling with Odysseus got heated, combat felt more...There was a tension there that he couldn’t quite ignore and perhaps Achilles really was onto something.

Of course, being king of Athens, being a hero, he cannot have just anyone as a lover, he needs a challenge, he needs an equal.

And what bigger challenge than someone in love with themselves?

He doesn’t mean for it to happen, but it does.

People forget that Narcissus is a hunter, or perhaps they simply see him and are so taken by his appearance, that they do not think to fear him. But the moment that Theseus first lays eyes on him, he is perhaps a little afraid of him. He’s truly beautiful basking beside a pond, a basket of fruit beside him. It is ridiculous, he has fought many man, he has fought many beast, and yet there’s this apprehension coiled tight in his gut and he finds himself speechless.

Aside from rattling off his titles.

Which don’t seem to impress Narcissus in the slightest.

And so Theseus, ears burning just a little, hurries back to his training grounds and tells Asterius all about it. The beast seems to give just a solemn nod as he recounts the exploit and if he weren’t so embarrassed, he’d have gone to Achilles.

“I am a king, Asterius! And yet I looked at him and I felt like a boy again!” His companion nods again, arms crossed over his chest as Theseus paces the field. It’d been like looking at Pirithous again for the first time, Ariadne even and perhaps Achilles really is onto something, he is absolutely lonely but he refuses to acknowledge such a thing out loud. So instead he sighs and stops in his tracks before the minotaur.

“You will try again.” The beast says in his somber, thoughtful way.

So he does. Not once, not twice, but several times he approaches the most beautiful man he’s ever laid eyes upon without feeling like he is making any progress. Until one day one day Narcissus asks him if he’d like to go hunting and of course, he jumps at the chance to perhaps finally show off a little. It doesn’t quite go well the first time, but it doesn’t go...Terribly. It’s a lot of traipsing through the wood. Some days they don’t see anything, other days it’s a deer, a pheasant, a rabbit in a snare.

They talk on days when it seems they won’t find anything, though often Theseus just finds himself listening. It takes time, he wants to meet all of Narcissus’s stories about his life with tales of his own accomplishments, but he finds the other will not listen to his boasts. If he does, he doesn’t seem all that impressed and at first it is frustrating and then one day, it isn’t. He is a king, he brought democracy to Athens, he doesn’t need to boast, and he finds that he actually likes listening. There’s something about his voice that he finds just as pleasing as his face.

The first time Theseus kisses him, it is to shut him up. They are among the many flowers that surround Narcissus’s home, the ones named after him, and he doesn’t know if he does it because he’s been watching the other man’s lips move or if he wishes to get him to just stop talking.

Achilles and Patroclus had a fair point, he did need someone. But the hunter was often visited by another, and not just any other person, but Dionysus himself. It spoils something for a few days, when he first glimpses the two. Dionysus had stolen Ariadne from him and now he was in the home of the man who he had affection for. He waxes about the matter only to Asterius and when Achilles asks him how the impossible is going, he simply smiles and tells him that not everyone could find their Patroclus.

It isn’t a deterrent for long though, he’s a hero, he’s a king, and there’s many more kisses to be had. They have them, he stops wondering if the other man is simply entertaining him, it does not matter. It does not matter until he is back at home alone or with Asterius gazing out at the water and then Theseus thinks about Phaedra, about Hippolytus, Aegeus even. And when he is done thinking of them, when he is done mourning them for the day, sometimes he thinks of Athens, the kingdom he’d let down.

It never lasts, those moods. He is good at picturing his worries upon the shores and mentally watching the Aegean wash them away. He likes to think it’s both of his father’s telling him not to worry.

He doesn’t worry the first time he has Narcissus. The hunter’s house is full of mirrors, there is not a single room that their reflections aren’t watching them. And watch them they do as muscles ripple and lips collide again and again and again. Time is a funny thing in paradise, he does not know how long they go about such a dance and Theseus does not care. For he has the most beautiful man under him, sometimes over him, and it is hard not to get wrapped up in such a thing in what could be a matter of weeks, months, years even. He has never cared much for aesthetics, it’s a trivial thing, but seeing the two of them together is so pleasing and he thinks Narcissus thinks so, too.

Things change, Patroclus and the Spartan prince Hyacinth that is often with him leave Elysium, leaving Achilles alone. Theseus watches the world with him; they keep an eye on Corinth together or he views it through one of Narcissus’s many mirrors as they lounge amongst the flowers. They banter about it, about the gods, about magic, about how funny mortals dress nowadays and how unfortunate this whole thing must be.

But when his father comes to call upon him, the god of the sea himself, the thought of himself and the hunter, the phantom feeling of him coming undone under his hands, it isn’t enough to get him to stay. Theseus jumps at the chance to do right by Poseidon, but he makes a point to say goodbye to those he’s met in paradise.

First is Odyseuss, the man who is always up for a story, a tale of the sea, or his clever wife. It’s one last sparring match, one last story, and he wonders what the other hero would do in his shoes. If he would seek out his Penelope, if he would continue his adventures. But he does not ask, instead he goes to see Bellerophon, his brother. They talk and they drink and muse about their father, their many siblings. He promises to tell him tales of them if he meets any of them again.

It pains him to leave Achilles when his house is already nearly empty. Theseus still half expects to see Patroclus flanked by Hyacinth, but there is just aristos achaion. Much like Odyseuss, they spare a final time and Theseus promises to return to him, ensuring him that he will do right by Patroclus, even the Spartan prince he’s so fond of. They embrace the way men do, hands clapping at shoulders and he is on his way.

He is half expecting to be met with the sight of the god of wine, and yet it’s just Narcissus and his many mirrors. Somehow, he thinks that makes it worse, makes it harder. He tells him he is leaving, that he is going to Corinth to put a stop to all of the madness there, he thinks. That Poseidon himself had asked him to go.

What feels like the most important part, is that Theseus tells Narcissus he will miss him. With his hand upon his face, he tells him that he will miss him, that he’ll return triumphant. He’s a king, after all, he’s a hero, and he will do what heroes do. It is a fleeting moment, but wasn’t all time in Elysium fleeting? The kiss he gives the other man isn’t. It is perhaps firm and desperate and leaves him wanting. He leaves quickly, not because he doesn’t want to hear what the other man has to say (and he imagines it is a lot), but because Narcissus is perhaps the one who could convince him to stay.

It is just a way to pass the time, their tryst. Narcissus will still have Dionysus, he will still have whoever else comes to call upon him, and he will be just fine ‘living’ amongst his hall of mirrors. But even as Theseus tells himself this, he finds himself already missing the other.

When he goes to say goodbye to Asterius, the beast regards him the same way he always does. “You will return, Theseus.” Is what he tells him in that steady baritone. Not ‘King of Athens’, not ‘Son of Poseidon’, but he calls him by name. For he is his friend, and Theseus responds by embracing him the way men do.

Except as they part, the minotaur presses something into his palm. It’s a narcissus, colored gold, petals soft and familiar. It’s from the hunter’s own garden and something in his chest seizes at the sight of it.

“Do not forget us.” Asterius states, voice perhaps a little far away.

“How could I ever?” He smiles up at the beast, closes his hand carefully around the flower, and then he turns towards the sea. He’d press it when he got to Corinth, he thinks. There it would sit on a mantle and wait for him in a way he wished Narcissus would.

[mandadoration]

all-consuming

(gif by astreamidnightgifspam)

summary: What brutal efficiency Paz Vizla carries himself with, and what brutal efficiency he shows when he’s fucking you against the wall. 

word count: 5,173

pairing: paz vizla x reader

tags: smut, against the wall sex, choking, face fucking, cumshot, very rough sex, dom/sub for SURE, awkward aftercare

a/n: Thank you all for being so patient while I tried to get this out! It has been definite Horny Hours on this blog with little actual content for a while, but hopefully the wait has been worth it! Enjoy it, ya filthy sinners.

Read this on AO3

Paz Vizla is nothing if not all-consuming. From his hulking stature that fills up the door frame to how the room quiets when he walks in, high tension trailing behind him, he makes himself present and known. He doesn’t need to verbally command a room when all it takes is a sweeping gesture, a too-tight turn of his head and a fist at his side before spines straighten and chins raise. The line between fear and respect blurs to the point it might as well be non-existent.

Even you aren’t quite sure where you are. He swallows you up in his shadow, and you just know that he revels in that fact. You can’t see his face-- and you highly you ever will-- but you get a feeling it’s something that adds to the puff of his chest. You know because he seems intent on letting you know whenever he calls in.

And the people in the room next to yours.

And the people down the hallway.

Maybe the entire star system.

He certainly seemed intent on that the first time he met you.

As far as first impressions went, Paz’s could be much better. He’s the one that gives you the impression that maybe Mandalorians aren’t taught manners, like to knock before entering a closed room, because he barged into your reserved room just as you took off your underwear for a leering client, pulling him off of you and off the bed by the scruff of his neck. The client makes a choked-off noise that has you pulling a face, scrabbling at the silken sheets with dirty fingernails as he tries to gain some traction. He has no chance compared to the large bounty hunter. If you had to guess, he was twice the client’s size, maybe more if you accounted for the armor. No contest.

You just watch with mild interest as the large Mandalorian knocks him out and slaps cuffs around his bounty’s thin wrists, barely even looking at you during the whole thing. As if you weren’t even there. The brutal efficiency in which the Mandalorian had carried out his actions had intrigued you. You had witnessed a fair share of violence in your life- just comes with not having the security of funds or status- but the Mandalorian in your room had done it so casually that you had started to really wonder if there were some malicious intentions, some deep-seated anger that manifested because the last you heard, knocking someone’s lights out wasn’t a prerequisite to bringing a bounty in.

Once the bounty was hauled over his shoulder, he had given you a curt nod, the only acknowledgement he had given you thus far, and stepped towards the door, intent to leave. That is, before you pouted your lips and called for him, asking for the name of your unconventional savior. You really hadn’t looked forward to having to service your client after all. Far too old and hungry like a starving strill for your tastes, lips perpetually pulled back in a sneer. The least you could do was offer what you were best at.

For a moment you think that he’ll ignore you and keep walking out the door, but he stops. Gives no name, granted, but least now you have his attention.  

You hum, and trail a lazy finger up the outside of your leg. “You know, he’s already paid for the full hour,” you purr, making a dainty motion at the unconscious man, leaning forward and pushing your elbows together. You can’t tell where his eyes are looking, but from how the hand at his side clenches into fist, you have a small inkling of where his gaze lands. “Be a shame if it went to waste. I’d much rather have fun with you,” and your panties are already off anyways, so you lean back and relax against the cushions, lifting your legs into the air and batting your eyelashes at him. To top it all off, you bring your hands around to spread yourself open for him, and give him a winning smile like a pin-up girl worthy enough to be painted onto the side of the best starship in the galaxy.

It’s funny that all it takes for you to derail a Mandalorian and convince him to spend the prepaid hour with you was to spread your legs and look pretty for him. He shoves the man unceremoniously into the wardrobe and absolutely pounced on you. It was too bad you couldn’t tell the other girls that you had snagged a Mandalorian of all people. A Mandalorian that had reduced you to a shaking mess within the first half hour. A Mandalorian that managed to go two rounds and a half before your room’s sound system had chimed to let you know the hour was up.

As you lay in the bed, panting still and rubbing the fingerprint-shaped bruises on your shoulders long after he had gone, you thought that that would be the last you ever saw of basically the best lay of your life; but a few months later, he asks for you by name, much to your surprise, seeing as you never gave it before he left. You had started to think that maybe he wouldn’t even spare you a second thought while he was out there doing whatever it is Mandalorians do. But he walks in, without knocking, again, and grumbles about how much it was to rent you for an hour.

He seems to forget all about the expenses when you take him all the way down until your nose nestles in the coarse hair at the base.

He should.

This Mandalorian was entirely proportionate after all.

No small feat.  

Most definitely not a small cock.

After all is said and done, you help him strap his armor back on. Previously he had taken off strictly what was necessary, but this time without a bounty waiting in a closet, he had the luxury of being a little more comfortable. Suiting him back up was an oddly tender moment, working quietly to make sure everything was in its place, fleeting touches so gentle compared to what had transpired moments before. You stretch back across the ruined sheets, wonderfully sore with tear-streaked cheeks, he gives you his name without prompting just as he leaves.

Paz Vizla.

You don’t actively try to remember the names of your clients, but his sticks with you.

With how he doesn’t linger or converse with you, you gather he isn’t one to be too sentimental about his affairs, and even more when it’s paid. Although you didn’t really need those small moments before and after the hour to know that. He’s rough and unforgiving, fucking more than actually having sex, pushing your face into the sheets to muffle your sobs or a firm hand around your throat, pressing and pulling and making you beg with each swat on your ass with his large hands.

So yeah. You remember Paz Vizla’s name, but don’t hold too much hope he’ll be back for a third time.

You think a girl, worn down by the world and turning bitter, once said to you that the key to happiness was low expectations, or something along those lines. You try to take her advice, but when you get back from a round around the club to check your data pad, a time slot has been filled up. No name. Just an hour. Highly unusual, but you can guess what kind of person could set up an appointment with and not provide a name. Although the words of low expectations and not getting invested in this line of work knocks around in your head, you’re antsy for when his hour rolls around.

You skip all the preamble of clothes to go for just a simple robe to protect yourself from the steady chill of the air, and wait. You hate to say it, but you find yourself even more excited for him to come back. It’s no lie that you do have regulars, people who have grown used to you and prefer your type, but you never really felt as anticipatory as you did now.

You then learn that he still hasn’t learned how to properly knock.

Paz Vizla practically kicks down the door to your room, stripping off his weapons and unbuckling his belt with his sights set on you. “C’mere,” he grunts, and he scoops you up off the bed where you’ve been waiting for him, and he shatters the demure act you’ve put up when he slams you against the adjacent wall.

“Rough day?” you tease him, and gasp in a stuttered breath when his gloved hand grips your throat to pin you against the wall. There’s that brutal efficiency again. Paz’s free hand starts ripping off the sheer, satiny robe you had on, and starts roughly groping you wherever he can reach, groaning when he finds that you’re bare underneath. You feel cowed by his actions, but you’re just defiant enough to keep running your mouth. “Th-that a yes?” He chokes you off when he tightens his grip, and he leans in close, close enough that you can see the reflection of your eyes in his helmet, pupils blown wide and swallowing the color around it.

“What do you think, you brat?” he grits out, voice tight with tension, and deliciously low. You can feel the frustration emanating from him, and you wonder how much of it you can direct at yourself. Grinning, you roll your body against his, grinding your naked pussy against the cold beskar of his cuisse, and put your arms around his neck to pull him forward until your forehead rests against his helmet.

“I think,” you purr, “you should relieve some tension, Paz.” His thumb rubs against the flushed skin of your throat, right over your racing pulse almost pensively before he pinches your nipple, making you inhale sharply.

“Yeah?” he asks, tugging on your nipple into a stiffened peak. “I think I will.”

Like a trained dog, when he lets go of your throat, you jump up high enough to wrap your legs around his waist, his hands coming to your hips in that bruising hold that never fails to leave marks, and presses you back against the wall, hard enough to knock some of the breath out of you, but soft enough that your head doesn’t crack against the wall. He brings one of his hands up your mouth where you obediently bite on the glove, and he slips his hand out, grabbing the glove and tossing it behind him somewhere. He slides the hand between your bodies, and starts rubbing at your clit in slow circles, dipping down to your slick and back up, and you sigh in pleasure. “You think you can take it?” Paz’s voice has dropped, and something bottoms out in you.

“Is that even a question?” you ask him, resting your head against the wall as you look at Paz through half-lidded eyes. The rough pads of his finger working your clit send small shockwaves down to your toes, warmth traveling all through your veins and curling in your belly. He doesn’t bother with teasing around your clit, instead going in and opting to alternate between short, quick swipes and slow circles. A shiver runs down your spine when you realize just how easily Paz his holding you up with one arm. You know he’s strong; you’ve known it since day one, but it still makes your toes curl at the thought of how easy it would be for him to break you, and that’s when you toe that blurred line between fear and respect again. Paz laughs, rough and wickedly when you shake in his arms.

“True,” he says. “If you can’t take what I give you,” Paz leans in closer, “then what do I pay you for?” He slides in a finger, relishing your gasp as you pull him closer still, and you can feel his amusement radiating off of him in waves when you press open-mouthed kisses along his helmet, leaving perfect lipstick marks on the metal almost desperately. “Pretty thing,” he murmurs, and graciously tilts his head so you can reach other parts of his helmet. The beskar is cold, but quickly warms up under your mouth. “And all mine .” His possessive tone curls around the base of your spine and leaves you warm, preening under his careful attention. You draw back and smile.

“Only for an hour,” you tease. You know that before he leaves he’ll go to the refresher to wipe all traces of your encounter away, and probably go actually clean his armor wherever he goes after; but for the time you have with him, you’ll leave what marks you can with the barrier of armor. “It’s extra if you go overtime.”

“I’ll make good use of the time I have then,” Paz growls. He adjusts his hold on you, digging his fingers into the soft flesh of your ass before he slips in another finger. A high whine escapes before you can smother it, and you flush deeply as Paz huffs a laugh. “You gonna sing for me?” he coos, condescending as he slowly drags his fingers out, against your walls, pressing your clit with his thumb as he does. You make a show of catching your bottom lip between your teeth, smiling at him coyly as you run your hands over his pauldrons, scraping your nails across the metal. Although most of your lipstick has been kissed off, your lips are starting to redden again from your biting. Paz gives you a harsh twist of his fingers that makes you rock forward, but you stay quiet. “That better be a yes,” he warns in a low voice. Paz curls his fingers in you, and you choke down a moan. Even still, you know he heard it catch in your throat because he does it again, stroking up against your clit at the same time. You can’t stop the next one, but you narrow your eyes at him instead.

“Or what?” you counter, challengingly. His fingers still their movements in you.

“Or…” he says, and pulls his fingers out of you, and shoves them into your mouth before you can protest. “I’ll leave you.” You look up at him through your lashes, curling your tongue around his digits and letting spit drool down your chin before you turn your head to pop his fingers out of your mouth. A weak threat you already know he won’t make good on.

“You can’t,” you say sweetly. “You paid for the hour.” Paz grabs a hold of your face, fingers pressing the flesh of your cheek against your teeth to the point you wince.

“Doesn’t mean I have to stay for the hour.”

“Then you’d be wasting your money,” you bite back at him through squished cheeks. You reach down to smear your wetness over the palm of your hand, then feel around blindly until your hand wraps around Paz’s cock, running your deft hands over the velvety-smooth skin, rubbing the pad of your thumb over the head. Your fingers barely touch each other when you reach around, but you try your best to hold him in a slick grip.

“Fuuuuck,” Paz groans, voice turning breathless at the end as he lets your face go in favor of holding the back of your neck. The heat of his hand is searing, but it just spurs you to tighten your grip. “Just like that.” You squeeze him root to tip, twisting your wrist and drawing a moan from him in response. After a few strokes, you pause, and let go off him, letting his cock bob in the air as you slap your wet hand against the front of his armor.

“Did you come here just for a handjob?” you ask him.

Paz doesn’t hesitate to answer. “I sure didn’t come here just to listen to you mouth off to me,” he says, but he loosens his grip and you get down, leaning against the wall and playing with your breast as he starts stripping himself of his armor from the waist up. He makes record time getting undressed, even going as far as to neatly put it down instead of dumping your ass, but it seems like ages before he swoops in again, lifting you back up and putting your knees to your chest, one arm under your ass and the other holding your waist. It’s a little uncomfortable, Paz seemingly wanting to get closer to you, but ending up making your knees squish your tits, but then he’s pressing in, in, in , popping the head of his cock into your hole, and stretching you until he bottoms out and you forget your discomfort.

You feel so full.

You don’t even realize that you’ve closed your eyes and left your mouth hanging open until Paz orders you to, “Fucking look at me.” You flutter your eyes open, and you feel them well up with tears as he drags his cock out, tortuously slowly, and slams back in, punching a high-pitched squeak out of you, and you knock your head against the wall. The pain of it is quickly washed over with pleasure as he steadies his pace.

“You know,” you gasp out, hands scrabbling at his shoulders in an attempt to ground yourself somehow, “we have a bed for a reason.”

“You talk too much,” he grunts, and brings the arm around your waist up to wrap his still-slick hand around your throat, squeezing the sides and making the blood roar in your ears. You teeter precariously in his one-handed grip, but he’s pinned you to the wall enough that you won’t fall. Still, something in your stomach flutters at the fear of falling. You wonder if he can feel your pulse jump under his fingers, but those thoughts are driven out of your head as he speeds up out of nowhere and pounds into you, the obscene slap of his hips against yours almost overtaking the faint beat of the music in the main area of the club. A broken whine escapes your throat, pitched up with every thrust. It’s almost too much too fast, and you end up holding onto Paz with a white-knuckled grip in an attempt not to immediately hurtle off the edge. The heat builds up in your belly into something devastating, and you feel your face turning redder and redder with every passing second. You look at Paz with pleading eyes, tears welling up, and a few spill over when he shifts a little, hitting that spot that makes you see stars. You need to move, need to outwardly express the sheer pleasure rocking through you, but the way you’re being held up makes it impossible. “ Maker , your pussy is clenching around me; you like it when I choke you?” He tightens his grip. You barely register that you’re babbling incoherently at him, little choked off sounds that barely constitute as Basic. The energy between you is charged, and keeps rising with every second that passes. “I bet you do.” You look at him pleadingly again for that relief you’re aching for.  

“Aww,” Paz coos, “you wanna cum, is that what you’re trying to say? Poor, pretty little thing. And so soon, too.” Condescension drips off his words and stings you like acid, but you frantically nod anyways. That coil that’s been winding up inside is ready to snap at any moment, but you know, you know that Paz likes it when you hold off until you get his permission. If it weren’t for the helpless position he’s winded you up into, if it weren’t for the fact that it was him of all people, you would’ve done it as you pleased. But you want to please him. You want this dangerous man to approve of your actions and you know how to play him to get the response you want. The fact that you can barely think or string together any words doesn’t stop you, and you fix him with the most pleading, sorry look you can muster through your tears. So many years of your life building up a thick skin, so much of it in this profession, and he manages to slip by them. “Then do it. ”

If you had any breath left in your lungs, your orgasm would’ve punched it out of you, but instead you’re left with your lips tingling and eyes rolling back as your toes curl as you cum. Your vision nearly whites out you clench around Paz’s cock, his pace still at that constant, invasive speed despite the way you tighten around him. He releases his hold on your throat to hold onto the meat of your shoulder. Always, always too much of him, of everything, and you don't want to let go. But eventually you start trying to push him away, your pleasure moans turning more into uncomfortable whines, still too incoherent to form proper words.

When Paz finally lets go of you, you’re still shaking, and your knees give out from under you without his support. You gasp in a deep breath, head reeling and tears still slipping out of your eyes as you try to gather yourself, but before you can do anything, he threads his hand through your hair and wrenches it back, and shoves his cock into your mouth while you’re trying to recover, forcing a choked off noise of surprise. Paz is merciless, hitting the back of your throat and growling deep in his chest with every thrust as you look up at him with glossy eyes. At this point, you can’t do anything but keep your jaw slack and try not to gag around him, but then he’s burying himself into your throat, keeping your head down as he wipes the tears running down your face. You gag hard around him, and that’s when Paz slides out, slapping your face with his spit-soaked cock as you hiccup through your tears.

Despite already having cum, your core is throbbing with need again, and you reach up to softly put your hands on Paz’s muscled thighs. You lick your swollen lips.

“Please,” you rasp, leaning forward as much as you can with that firm hold on your hair to try and capture his cock back in your mouth. You manage to wrap your lips around the head, swirling your tongue. “Paz--” He draws his hips back, and you let out a pathetic whine. His hold tightens, making your scalp sting.

“Hm?” He pulls on your hair until your neck strains, making you tilt your head back to look up at him. “What is it, baby?” Your lips are parted, glistening with spit as you try and formulate a coherent thought. “What do you want?” You don’t want to see what happens if Paz gets impatient with you, so you opt to open your mouth and stick your tongue out as far out as you can, looking up at him with shiny eyes. You can see when he physically freezes, then he’s gripping the grip of his cock and pressing it back against your tongue.

Paz hisses through his teeth when he sinks his cock back into your mouth, looking at your red-rimmed eyes glazed over with arousal, and his dick twitches in your mouth when you blink up at him with your tear-soaked lashes. “Pretty thing,” he groans. “Pretty, pretty thing.” You moan around his cock as his words make your cunt clenches around nothing. “Let me do anything, anything to you.” It becomes too tiring to try and keep your hands up on his thighs, and despite how awkward it feels, you drop them to your sides, hanging limply as Paz fucks your mouth.

Truth be told, you space out a little, eyes slipping half-shut as you suppress your gags and instead focus on how the low, ever-changing neon lights of your room reflect and bounce off the surface of his armor. His pace starts to become erratic, more frantic as he chases the sweet warmth of your mouth. You wonder if he's going to cum in your mouth or buried deep in your throat as you swallow around him, but instead Paz pulls out just in time for him to cum over you, half in your open mouth and half on your face, moaning deep in his chest as he hunches his shoulders inwards, almost curling into himself as he continues to pump his cock, slick with your spit, and ride out his orgasm.

You’re not really seeing when Paz releases his hold on your hair, and you slump against the wall, heaving in breaths as his hot cum drips down your face. Your jaw is aching and you’re sure that you’ll feel the effects of being essentially fucked in a fetal position pressed against an unforgiving wall, but your head is still spinning as oxygen finally circulates to your brain unhindered. With Paz not so close to you, not radiating his nearly suffocating warmth, you feel yourself calm down a little more, breathing evening out as you swallow his cum and sigh.

Paz just watches you for a little bit, and you can’t tell what his expression is because of the damn helmet with your kisses still smeared all over it, but his hand is clenching and unclenching at his sides as his shoulders slow their rapid up and down. You blink slowly up at him, darting your tongue out to wet your lips and ending up tasting more of the cum on your face. Trying not to cringe, you croak out, “If you don’t tip,” and Maker, your voice is ruined, “I’ll be pissed.” The only indication that Paz heard you at all is a slight tilt of his head and a staticky noise you suspect is a huff of laughter. You shift, and wince when your knees shoot up in pain. You were not looking forward to getting up. Sighing, you duck your head down to rub at the reddening marks on your hips. His boots come into your line of sight, and before you can ask what else he possibly wanted to do, he’s scooping you up, an arm under your knees and the other cradling your upper body to his chest, and he gingerly puts you down on the bed.

You don’t really say anything, and you think to yourself that this is the first time he’s rendered you speechless without shoving his cock or fingers into your mouth or choking you. He’s gone before you can make a remark about it, ducking into the refresher as you lay on the bed. When you said that you had a bed for a reason, this was not what you had in mind.

Well, at least he’s utilizing it.

Or more accurately, you are.

You can already feel the exhaustion settling deep in your bones as you sink into the soft bed, muscles aching as you vaguely listen to the thrum of music that floats through the club. You have about 15 minutes before your hour with Paz is up, and another client coming in an hour. A bath is in order, and a short nap. Luckily you don’t have to work the floor tonight, so a small blessing from the Maker.

You’re jerked back to the present when a warm, wet rag runs up your leg. You lift your head up, just enough to see Paz lift your leg to make it bend at the knee, and wipes at the mess between your thighs. Most of the lipstick marks have been wiped off his helmet, but you can see little smudges where he’d failed to get rid of it completely. You swallow.

“What are you doing?” His motion of swiping over your thighs stutters the slightest. You could’ve missed it if you weren’t hyper aware of his every movement right now, if his touch didn’t fail to burn your skin.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he grumbles after a brief pause, and resumes wiping away the sticky remnants. You wanna press it, tease him about the awkward tenderness that he’s demonstrating, but you know that if you mention any other word about it, he’ll leave.

The care is… nice.

You can’t say that any other clients have gone so far to treat you so kindly after a session. Maybe brief cuddling, a word or two of praise or pat on your ass, but not this. Not the hesitant press of Paz’s fingers into your forming bruises, not the way his shoulders tense when you hiss in pain, not the way he refolds the rag to make sure he cleans you up as much as he can. So uncharacteristic of someone his profession, you think. So uncharacteristic that the brutal efficiency has stepped into the background to make way for… whatever this was. The reserved, almost guarded and guilty way Paz is treating you.

It’s uncharacteristic of his character again when he speaks up.

“You can take a lot,” he says. You quirk a corner of your lip, and slip your eyes shut as the rag runs over your nose.

“That’s- that’s what you pay me for,” you respond, parroting his words back at him. Paz huffs out a short laugh.

“Little brat.” He places the dirty rag on the nightstand next to the bed, giving you one last lingering glance before he heads over to the pile of his armor, slowly strapping it on. You sigh, and reach over to tug a pillow towards you, tucking it under your head. You open one eye lazily.

“Want help?” you ask. He shakes his head.

“I don’t think you can even get up, pretty thing,” he says. You won’t deny it; you feel pretty boneless right now and that nap you were thinking about becomes more and more enticing, but your data pad lights up with a notification. You manage to overcome the urge to just roll your eyes and go to sleep, but you drag yourself far enough to reach the other nightstand and unlock it as you read the message. A slow smile spreads over your face, and a flutter of anticipation swells in your chest despite the pleasing ache between your legs and despite the slight tremor still running through your legs.

“Don’t put your armor back on yet,” you say to him over your shoulder. “My next client just canceled.” Paz hums for you to elaborate. “ Prepaid. And non-refundable.” As it always is at the club you work at, but you want to convince him to stay. You succeed, and Paz stops strapping his cuisse back on, instead straightening up and settling his body weight onto one leg. He tilts his head, and you can feel the grin that is no doubt playing under his helmet.

“His loss.”

Maybe you can reapply your lipstick before the second hour begins.

---

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[isolctions]

THE MUSES + love.

this may or may not be me respectfully requesting some romance.

ASPEN MEADOWS is more of a reserved kind of lover, meaning that public displays of affection (such as kissing, hugging, and eventually sex) are things that she’s not always going to be willing to do, especially in the beginning. but this doesn’t mean that she isn’t a fulfilling lover! when she does have feelings / eventually fall in love with someone else, she’s very attentive to them and affectionate towards them in her own way. she enjoys companionship — so reading in (more or less, depending on how good the book is!) complete silence, window shopping together, watching television and movies together (psst, babe has never been to a movie theater before...), coloring together, and if she gives you her favorite kind of stuffed animal or comfort object because she ‘happened to buy extra’? she’s buying it for you. so when she can, gift giving is largely a love language she embodies and practices whenever she can. once in a committed and fulfilled relationship, there may still be times where kissing or touching can overwhelm her, and sex will probably not be a heavy constant throughout the duration of the relationship, but that’s okay! as long as she’s with you, aspen is a very happy camper.

ILYSSA is a very volatile lover. she gives me red. she’s over-protective, can be aggressive, and largely possessive over what she believes is hers — not in a toxic, no-one-else-can-have-or-talk-to-you way, but genuinely because she acknowledges that anything can happen. it’s rare that she falls in love with pure mortals (meaning, no enhanced abilities or supernatural blood ties whatsoever. just a straight up, plain as day, regular degular human.) because majority of her lifespans saw them as either food sources or play things, but if she does? that over-protectiveness grows tenfold because she knows that humans are fragile beings that don’t live very long. so she’s going to want to spend as much time with you as earthly possible, wants to understand you, wants to immerse herself in the things that you do, while revealing the extent of her true self to you so that you can understand her as well. she’s also very sexual, very affectionate, and absolutely will kill anyone and anything that appears as a threat in a heartbeat. so, y’know...don’t tell her that you have issues with someone unless you 100% want them eviscerated. ilyssa’s love also appears with a lot of hunger attached to it. she has a desire to be whole and does not have an identity, so to have a lover can often make her view the lover as something to be devoured. it’s something that she cannot get enough of, something that she can nearly obsessively crave (again, not in a toxic way i promise. but this is a supernatural creature with no actual identity for herself anymore, so she can sometimes take love to an extreme measure simply because of how fulfilling love can be for her, and how much she wants to obtain it at a constant.) and something that she believes to be the closest thing to making her whole. as much as she will have a desire to ‘devour’ you, she wants to be devoured just as much as well and she wants a love that’s just as intense and passionate as hers could be.

ZEPHYR BRIGHAM is very much a playful yet devoted lover, even if that means making fun of you along the way. literally. she doesn’t like to admit that she wants affection and reassurance, and heavily pretends to gag at displays of public affection and confessions of love, but that’s mainly due to past relationships that were toxic in nature and thus, she doesn’t like to outwardly wear her heart on her sleeve. (she also very much dislikes sudden professions of love — why? her first instinct is “what the fuck did you CHEAT on me?” she was truly in the trenches in her youth.) but when in love, even if she isn’t saying it or she’s calling you a loser 95% of the time, she’s still subconsciously affectionate towards her lovers. always wanting kisses, wanting to be under them, always wanting to speak to them and be there with them. she loves spending time with you even if she acts like she’s being held hostage. gift receiving is a large love language with her because she likes being shown that she’s valued and important to the person she’s interested in. she’s also big on physical touch — kiss her cheeks! rub her booty! caress her cheeks! have sex with her, dammit! and if neither of you can laugh at each other throughout the relationship, it’s a no go for her. she likes the excitement, the never-ending talking stage, just feeling so comfortable with each other that she doesn’t mind having her wig off and no make up around you.

RUE CASTILLO is also more of a reserved lover. she is extremely hard to warm up to, very guarded, and most of the time, she can be hard to please / hold herself and you to what feels like impossible standards. this is due to the very unfortunate fact that throughout her career, she’s been placed in falsified relationships and situations with others with mutual career boosts in mind, rather than relationships where the person actually desired to be with her. and even during the rare cases where she is in a genuine relationship, it’s difficult for rue to gauge whether the person is interested in who she really is, or who her persona is / how she is presented to the public. she will not make it easy for you. she will not open up to you immediately. she is not outwardly affectionate towards you, especially not in the early ‘getting-to-know-you’ stages of the relationship. as complex as she is, rue does show her affection in ways that aren’t always immediate — she will check on your well-being often! she will make sure to spend a necessary amount of time with you that her schedule is allowed! she will perform moments of spontaneous affection, such as giving you a gift or taking you on a secluded trip! rue is a very traditional gal at the end of the day, nevermind the sexual symbol that she’s viewed as in the public eye, so she views sex as a very delicate thing that definitely makes her feel very out of place. (she also has an unhealthy view of sexual intimacy in general, but we can blame her early career managers for that.) overall it can be very difficult with her due to circumstances throughout her life, and she’s honestly not even sure how to navigate a healthy and honest relationship most of the time because her expectations are always set to “they want something from me”. but! if it’s genuine and true, a relationship with rue is something that requires a lot of patience with. once you’re over the hurdle, she’s with you all the way. she’s going to want to show you off from time to time obviously, but she is a very private person and wants to spend all of the important moments with you outside of public perception.

JAIRA BLACK is a traditional, yet reserved lover. listen, she has lived many a life, with many a people coming into her life as well as leaving them, so love is something that she unfortunately tends to feel a disconnect towards simply because she’s lived for so long and doesn’t really want to open herself up to potential partners again only to lose them if mortal. if she does happen to be enamored by someone, however, keep in mind that she was raised in the 1910′s and 20′s and can occasionally reflect that in the way that she prefers a courting process. she wants to take things slow and test the waters, and sometimes that involves jaira intentionally not putting a label on things. (meaning, yeah she’s thinking about you. yeah, she wants to spend time with you. no, this is not a date, i just wanted to see how you were doing damn!) she also typically avoids relationships with pure mortals, because the death of one of her mortal wives in around 1980 did hit her kind of hard and she absolutely does not want to go through the process of outliving a partner again — nor does she want to turn them into a vampire due to the lifelong connection that involves. jaira is complex in the way that she avoids, yet desires intimacy and affection. sex has become more of a casual thing for her, yet even with that detachment, she may not voice any feelings that she has for you simply because she won’t want to come face to face with what it means and how the dynamic of that intimacy will change. so if you’re interested in jaira, a rebuff of advances will occur only because she has a fear of opening herself up to something that could be fleeting — but when she does, she becomes a very devoted and attentive lover. she will try to be more consistent in communication and displays of affection (again, public displays are only unnerving to her because she is not used to that, what are you doing) and she will try to spend as much time with you as possible. she can often be a playful lover after her fear of intimacy has been established and worked on, and she will always want something to remind her of you in the long run. jaira can be a very intense lover and romantic as well, not necessary in a aggressive or volatile way but simply because she wears her heart readily on her sleeve once her feelings for you are recognized. (i also feel like sometimes...love for her reads as more of a tragedy than anything. she gives me lots of cool colors like blue and grey — but she’s still a good lover! just old and tired.)

IZIDORA BANKS is also a more volatile lover, with some aspects of reservations here and there. she’s very aggressive, extremely guarded, and doesn’t pursue relationships often so she’s frequently unimpressed with any suitor that actually shows interest in her. (it’s the trauma, babe!) trying to pursue izidora does often come with a number of rejections and rebuffal of advances, so if you’re genuinely interested in her, don’t expect her to say yes to your date offer without her questioning your every intention — why? when? what time? to do what? for what? what if i say no? it’s an unintentional mind game with her, but only because izidora has already experienced things that no one should ever have to as far as intimacy goes, so she’s a pendulum when it comes to those topics. when she eventually begins to let her guard down with a person genuinely aiming to be with her, that’s where the volatility comes in — she will be protective over hers, she will often try to protect you and knowingly (or even unknowingly) use magical intervention to keep you safe. she absolutely, without a doubt, will kill a bitch for you, and she gets very aggressive behind that! one thing to keep in mind is that sexual intimacy is an extremely traumatic subject for her, so it’s really unlikely that sex ever comes into the relationship until she decides for herself that she wants to open herself up in that way. to make up for that, she’ll show affection to you in other ways — despite her aggressive exterior, she does like cuddling. she likes date nights and public displays of affection, she likes pet names, she likes being taken care of just as much as she will love to take care of you. she might go over the edge a little bit with her aggression, but once mutual understanding of her behavior & discussions of her past come into play, she’ll actively try to keep and have a fulfilling relationship. she also doesn’t mind being a playful & goofy lover, bc this bitch really does desire having someone to spend the rest of her elongated life with!

APPLE MARKOS is a very warm lover. she gives me pinks, yellows, oranges, a little bit of reds. she’s extremely doting and energetic, and loves to be affectionate any time and any place. she probably would embody just about all of the love languages the most, just because she wants to keep you happy as much as possible and will literally do anything for the person that she’s focused on. due to lore, she will probably have more than one person in her life that she shows favoritism towards before she has a true “lover” — soulmates and pairs are a very one and done thing to her, and it’s very unlikely that she’ll decide that until much later in life or go back on who she chooses. but when she is with someone she’s interested in for the time being, expect lots of gifts! she will absolutely gift you with little plants, or hand you things that remind her of you (more than likely a flower or a mushroom, occasionally a jewel that she comes across.), she will buy your favorite routine things if she knows you like them (lattes, smoothies, snack items, etc.), and occasionally will use magical intervention to either improve your life, or to just impress you because she finally perfected something and wants to show it to you. she’s so affectionate too, y’all. hugs, kisses, cuddles, hand holding, nuzzles, caresses, name it and you’ve got it. she will even size herself down to fit into the palm of you hand if you want her too. she’ll want to spend as much time with you as possible, even if it’s not always practical and rather impulsive — and she will especially do this with pure mortals because again, their life tends to be much shorter than hers, and she wants all of the time to be squeezed in now rather than later. once she acknowledges what it is and becomes more used to it, omg the sex? a desire to please you? loving to make you feel good? mwah. apple is very much a lover, and she is heavily a romantic. it’s also worth mentioning that she can occasionally be possessive of her favorites and may even get a lil’ aggressive depending on the circumstance bc hello, she is still a fae. but overall, i feel like apple’s love is the kind that fills you up to brim and never leaves you second guessing, and it’s a feeling to be amplified upon having a one true love to fixate on. (and truth be told? apple is one of the muses that i really want to write romance for, simply because she can be so fcking INTENSE with it! like, some real poetic shit!)