#have you ever gotten a splinter on the inside

[cressidagrey]

Unknowing

Summary:

“If you need to fuck someone, go to a pleasure hall and pay for it, but stay away from her.”

What if… Azriel actually takes Rhys at his word? And does exactly what his High Lord ordered? With unexpected consequences.

This is the Inner Circle finding out about said consequences. Azriel is very good at keeping secrets

Warnings:

(This is a doozy.) Mention of Sex Work, Unexpected Pregnancy, Mention of Faerie Genocide, Mention of Faerie Wings being used as leather, Mention of Sex

Note:

This was a thought experiment that kinda started to grow a life on its own.

(super pretty divider by @saradika-graphics)

Azriel slid into the Dining Room of the River House nearly on the cusp of being late. Mostly because he hadn’t been able to pull himself away from what he had been doing that afternoon. 

Nobody in his situation would have wanted to leave. 

It had involved his wife and the flower field in their backyard… their daughter sleeping peacefully in her willow basket a few paces away, cradled in a bubble of her mother’s magic that would keep her asleep and safe from anything that could happen to her. 

Fed, changed and as happy as a clam to fall into her usual milk-induced coma, he knew that she would only wake up if she wanted more milk. 

Which meant that her parents had some quality time for each other…and they had made the best out of that. 

The result was a little shimmer of magic all over Azriel that he couldn’t get scrubbed away. Not that he had tried particularly hard either. He liked having that proof of his wife’s pleasure all over him. 

His wife, his mate, the mother of his child…his fucking sanity . There were many words he had for Embelia. 

She was the bright spot of his life, untouched by the darkness that leeched around him. A secret he gladly kept.

And if the glimmer of her magic followed him and showed everybody that he was hers…well, then that was the case. Azriel didn’t particularly care what anybody else thought of it. 

Azriel was out of fucks to give, to be honest. Had been, for the better part of two years…ever since that Solstice. 

He was pretty sure that something inside him had splintered apart at Rhys’ order. 

That fucking order had been the reason why he had ever even met Embelia though. He had taken Rhys literally. If you need to fuck someone, go to a pleasure hall and pay for it, but stay away from her. That had been Rhys’ words. 

Her had been Elain. 

Azriel had listened to Rhys. He had followed the order to the fucking letter, giving the High Lord of the Night Court to complain about. He had left Elain alone…who had figured things out with Lucien. Both now happy and ensconced in Day Court, with Helion, Lucien’s actual father. 

And he had gone to that pleasure hall.  He had asked for any female that wasn’t afraid of him…and then Embelia had claimed his hand with hers. And that had been that. 

 Granted, he hadn’t known her name then. For months, all he had known her as had been Blossom. That’s who she had been to him for months . 

Just Blossom. Every Thursday, he had gone to that pleasure hall and paid for her company. 

And then she had gotten pregnant. 

Not quite what either of them expected. 

He hadn’t even bothered with a contraception draught and while she had, apparently it hadn’t stood up to Azriel of all faes. 

He should probably thank the mother on his knees for that . 

But Embelia had told him about the pregnancy and had been very clear from the start that while she wanted the child, she wasn’t going to ask anything of him. Which was simply unacceptable. 

He had grown up a bastard. He was not going to put his child through the same if he had any choice in that matter. 

And he had been a little bit in love with her then already. So taking her from that pleasure hall and making her his wife…moving her into a cottage he found and making a life with her…that had been the easiest decision he had ever made. 

They had just fit together…

She had come to live with him, and had given up her job, though that wasn’t something that bothered her all too much. More than anything she was happy that she no longer needed to do that to keep alive, to make a living…

And he got to hear the story of how she had come to Velaris and to the pleasure hall.  

Embelia was a Floresco Fairie. One of the few survivors of that breed of Lesser Fairies. The rest of her family had been slaughtered in the Spring Court Centuries ago. 

She had escaped and had ended up in Velaris of all places, traumatised and alone. Still half a child to her people, not having a trade or anything of that sort. The natural ability of a Floresco Fairy made it possible for her to grow flowers and life wherever she stood but none of that particularly lent itself to a well-paid job. 

So the pleasure house it had been. With a glamour, of course. 

The first time he had met her, she had left the glamour fall away, showing him a pair of iridescent pink wings sprouting out of her back. 

Even then he had thought that she was the most gorgeous thing he had ever seen. 

That opinion had never changed. If anything…after the birth of their daughter, after the mating bond had snapped for both of them, sometimes between cutting the cord and pressing a kiss to their daughter’s blood-covered head, covered in downy black curls…and he had watched Emmie cradle the baby against her chest, watched her coo to her, not caring one bit about blood and sweat and anything else, because there was their little girl that they had hoped and prayed for…somehow at that point, love seemed such a weak word for what he felt for them both. 

Somehow…somehow they had become the light of his life, the only guide he needed. And he protected that ferociously. 

Maybe even more than was necessary. 

He kept them away from his job and from anything and anybody that may would know him as the terror of the Night Court. 

They were his. His. His . 

The first thing in his long life that was his and his alone . 

And maybe that was too possessive, but…he had never wanted to listen to anybody else’s opinions about his and Embelia’s relationship. 

And everybody would have had their opinions. 

He knew that.

Instead…he had kept them a secret. 

To this day, nobody knew. Not Rhys, not Cassian, not Mor, not Amren…not Feyre or Nesta. 

Though of all people, sometimes he thought that maybe Nesta suspected something. 

But even if she did…that was fine too. 

He had made Embelia his wife, and his mate and the mother of his child and nobody could take her away from him. Nobody but herself, and she was gloriously happy in their little flower-covered cottage, where she was…content to dabble at being a housewife. 

After the life she had, he could understand it. She revelled in the normal, in doing nothing but dote on their daughter and try and cook him dinner, which had started as absolutely disgusting but these days often turned out at least mostly edible…to tend to her garden of flowers, which were all she ate anyway…

To just exist there, in that little slice of paradise they built. 

And instead of being with her…he attended a family dinner at the River House that evening. He would have gladly just stayed at home, made himself dinner, or maybe let Embelia try to feed him, which never quite worked out and then walked their daughter to sleep. 

It would have been perfectly fine to him. To press a kiss to their daughter’s black curls and stroke her iridescent purple sparkling wings that were carefully folded and laid over her back…her heart-shaped mouth would open into a perfect o and she would yawn and he would fall in love all over again. It wouldn’t just be perfectly fine. It would be everything he had ever wanted. 

And then he could lay her in her crib and he could walk the few steps to their bed and crawl into it next to his wife, and she would give him that smile…and he could cocoon both of them in his wings and fall asleep, safe in the knowledge that she would be there the next morning.

Maybe kiss her some more and hear very perfect noise that left her throat and feel her warm body against his, skin like silk and small warm hands that could take him apart in seconds. 

But no. Rhys had ordered him. Like he was sometimes prone to be doing these days. Maybe because he didn’t know how Azriel spent his free time and clearly him being a loose cannon was way more believable than anything else. 

Oh well. Azriel wasn’t in the mood to clear that up. 

If anything he was in a brooding mood, wanting to go back to his afternoon in the flower field. 

“For cauldron’s sake,” Cassian complained, just as he started to violently sneeze. Multiple times. “Did you roll around in a flower field or something?” his brother demanded and Azriel was amused besides himself. 

“Yes,” he agreed drily, taking his seat next to Cassian who just glared at him and then grumbled under his breath, swapping seats with Nesta because otherwise he was probably not going to stop sneezing. 

“The Lord of Bloodshed taken to his knees by some flower pollen,” Amren drawled from across the table and Cassian glared at her. 

Nesta just snorted in amusement. 

Rhys and Feyre appeared at that moment and at least the discussion of flower fields was tabled for the moment. 

Which was just as well. 

Azriel mentally wondered if he could get away with skipping dessert if he cited some headache or something. He could get dessert at home. It promised to be much better than anything that would be served at the table anyway. 

Or maybe that was just going to make Rhys think that he was on the brink of some sort of breakdown even more than he already was. Who knew? 

Was it worth the mental berating that it promised to give him? All under the guise of worrying about him or checking in on him? 

Azriel had his own opinion about that these days. 

He couldn’t help but flinch as Nesta suddenly reached out to touch his hair. 

“What are you doing?” he asked her drily as Nesta pulled back her hand, Embelia’s glimmer sticking to it. 

“You have…glitter in your hair,” Nesta gave back. “What did you do?” she asked him with a grin. “Is that some kind of fashion choice now?” 

“It’s not glitter,” he gave back. It wasn’t. It was the flakes that Embelia’s wings shook loose when she trembled. It did look like glitter though. Sparkling, catching the sunlight…gorgeous, like every inch of her. 

“Az, I don’t know if you are ready to hear it, but it definitely looks like glitter,” Nesta told him with a snort. “Don’t worry, it suits you,” she said graciously, biting back a laugh. 

Mor was watching the whole thing. “It’s not glitter,” she finally said, mustering his hair with far too much interest. Azriel forced himself not to twitch under the assessing gaze of her brown eyes. Once upon a time, he would have given nearly everything to have her look at him like that, but nowadays…there was nothing there anymore. He would always lover her but sometimes during centuries of yearning for her it had settled into a deep and abiding friendship. Into loyalty. No longer the bright burning of desire, of…anything like that.  “Though I would really like to know where you found a Floresco Fairy to talk into your bed, Az,“ she said with a wink. 

Azriel didn’t react. 

“A what?” Feyre asked, curiosity piqued. 

“Floresco Fairy,“ Mor repeated. “They used to live in the Spring Court…centuries ago.”

“They don’t anymore?” Feyre wondered and the conversation around the table dropped. 

“Tamlin’s father had them slaughtered and used their wings for leather,“ Azriel said, his voice forcefully even. It was even more horrific than it sounded like. A whole breed of faeries was killed off because of their wings. Floresco Faeries had never been violent or a fighting breed. They kept to themselves, raising their families and growing their flowers and their crops…and then it had been ripped apart into a bloodbath. 

Embelia had been right in the middle of that. She had escaped, her youngest sister in tow…who had later succumbed to her injuries and all Emmie had been able to do was to bury her into the icy ground in Winter Court. She hadn’t outright said it but Azriel had known that for years she had wished to bury herself right there alongside her sister. 

Feyre just stared at him, blue eyes wide. “That’s horrible,“ she whispered, swallowing. 

“Yes,“ he agreed. It was. 

Horrific. 

“Not all died, a few escaped,” Mor said, trying to make it seem less horrific than it had been. “It happened a very long time ago. But still, they are quite rare. Where did you find her?” She asked Azriel, clearly trying to find something else to talk about.

He wasn’t stupid enough to lie to Morrigan, whose gift was Truth. 

“Today? At home.” He answered honestly. 

“Home?” Mor repeated, sounding amused beside herself. 

“Is she the same one you bought that solstice gift for?” Nesta piped up. 

He had asked her for advice, more out of desperation than anything else. She had been quite helpful though. 

He hadn’t been anted to ask Mor for obvious reasons, Armen would have probably bitten off his head and Feyre…well then Rhys would have known. But Nesta? Nesta had listened to him when he had asked politely and had then told him that if she liked him, she would like whatever he would buy her.

Not that useful but oh well. 

So he just nodded. 

“Which one did you end up picking?” Nesta asked him, curious. 

“I just bought both,” he admitted with a shrug. 

A hair comb that Emmie still wore nearly every day, silver and pink stones intertwined, keeping blush hair pulled back from her face and a pair of earrings that she also wore sometimes. 

She liked things like that, even when she never seemed to spend much money on them. And he liked buying her stuff like that because then she wore it and had that pleased little smile on her face, content and happy…

“Lucky girl,” Nesta told him with a secret smile, elbowing his ribs and he bit back down a smile for himself. 

“Az got a girlfriend?” Cassian asked, sounding shocked. 

“I do not,” he disagreed with a roll of his eyes. He didn’t have a girlfriend. He had a wife. Very different. 

“So you just buy…What did he buy, Nesta?” Cassian asked. 

“He was waffling between a jewel-encrusted hair comb or a pair of lovely earrings. Apparently, he got her both,” Nesta answered her mate with a sigh. “You should take some advice from him,” she told him drily, making Cassian roll his eyes. 

“So if you don’t have a girlfriend, you just buy hair combs and jewellery for any female you come across?” His brother asked him drily. 

He just shook his head, not saying a single word. His shadows tightened in response, crawling closer to him from where they had skittered away. 

They liked Embelia, though they had taken a special liking to his daughter, tendrils oftentimes coming to play with her or checking on her through the night. With Emmie they kept a respectful distance, though they liked to hide and play with her, like they basked in her pure presence.

It wouldn’t surprise him all too much if that’s what they did. 

“Flower and Bud are safe” they whispered at that moment, even when he hadn’t asked. 

Right. Safe. 

“Leave him to it, Cassian. Though maybe next time wash off the glimmer. Or don’t have one of your amorous adventures before you show up to dinner,” Rhys drawled. 

It shouldn’t have upset him like that. It shouldn’t have. 

It was harmless. Mostly at least, but Azriel couldn’t help but feel the icy rage burn bright in his chest at Rhysand’s words. At his brother’s words. 

He didn’t have many good things in his life but he had Emmie and he was not going to let anybody take her away from him. He was not. 

That was simply unacceptable. 

“If you try to forbid me from bedding my wife, Rhysand, we are going to have a problem,” Azriel snapped back icily. 

A real problem, because he was not willing to give up Embelia under any circumstances. Not her and also not the pleasure they shared. 

He regretted his words instantly. One could have heard a pin drop in the Dining Room of the River House at that moment because this was the last thing anybody had expected. 

The last thing. 

He had kept his wife and his daughter hidden and he had been completely content with that because it had kept them safe and secure and he hadn’t wanted to listen to anybody trying to talk him out of it or telling him it was a bad idea. 

It was his fucking choice and he had never regretted it once. 

“Your wife ,” Amren was the first that recovered. “Your wife?!”

“Yes.”

His wife. His daughter. His family. 

The family he claimed. They were his. 

“You don’t have a girlfriend but you have a wife ?” Mor repeated. 

He just nodded. 

“You got married. When?” she continued asking him and he met her gaze. 

“About a year ago,” he answered. It had been just the two of them…and well, the babe slumbering in Emmie’s womb, but that was the whole reason for the wedding in the first place, right? 

“You didn’t even invite us to the wedding!” Cassian complained, having suddenly recovered his ability to talk. “You got married and you didn’t tell us?” 

Clearly. 

“And you never thought that that was something we may want to know, Azriel?” Rhys asked, his voice icy but Azirel met the gaze of violet eyes with his own.

“If you believe it or not, I can just about manage my personal relationships or my amorous adventures without the input of you, High Lord,” he drawled. 

There had been no reason to tell anybody. Least of all Rhys. 

“That was not what that was about and you know it,” his brother hissed at him, but Azriel just shrugged.  

Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was. 

Maybe it had really just been a political worry for Rhys, but that didn’t mean that what he had done, hadn’t hurt…didn’t mean that he hadn’t pulled rank with Azriel in a way he had only done so very rarely. 

Rhys had gotten what he had wanted in the end. Elain and Lucien had figured it out…Day and Night were closer than ever. 

And Azriel…well, he was still pissed off about what had gone down in Rhys’ office that Solstice. Fucking furious, to be honest.   Even after Embelia had come into his life…even after she had married him. Even after the mating bond had snapped. He loved his wife, but he was still fucking furious about being treated like that. 

Furious and hurt. 

And maybe that had played into his decision as well. 

There was no reason to tell Rhys what happened. No reason whatsoever. 

Rhys must have caught that thought because the shimmer of night started to swirl around him, but Azriel wasn’t scared. He just raised a single eyebrow in question. 

“No reason?” Rhys questioned harshly. “You are the Spymaster of this fucking court, Azriel! You don’t think that maybe I should know who you are cohabiting with? Who you share a bed with? Who you married? How long did you even know this female before you married her?”

“A few months,” he answered drily. “What do you think I talk about when I am with her? Bring up the secrets of the Night Court as Pillow Talk? Oh, I tortured a couple of faes from Hewn City this afternoon, oh, harder, love? ” He questioned with a roll of his eyes.

Feyre choked out a laugh.

Rhys did not find it amusing. 

“Where did you even meet her?” he demanded. 

“Why, Rhys, I just followed your orders. You told me to go to a pleasure hall so I did,” he shot back. He had followed that order to the fucking letter. 

“So she’s a whore,” Rhys said and Azriel just looked at him. 

Embelia wasn’t ashamed of what she had been. Quite frankly, neither was he. She had done what she needed to do to survive. He was never going to give her the fault for that. The fault was on Spring for slaughtering her family and on the Night Court that they hadn’t given better support so that she would have never gotten into a situation like this where that was the only way out. 

But Embelia? She had been a whore. It was a simple fact. And she wore that proudly.  

“She was. Yes,” he agreed and he could see it on Rhys’ face what he thought about that. 

“You ordered Azriel to go to a pleasure hall?” Cassian asked. “Why?” he demanded. 

“Because he fancied himself in love with Elain of all faes and I couldn’t have him bring our court to the brink of war because he couldn’t keep it in his pants!” Rhys growled. “So I told him to go to a pleasure hall and pay for it to get it out of his system.”

“Rhys!” Mor snapped, shock colouring her voice

“Clearly, I was right, because your infatuation didn’t last long after you were told no. How long did it take you until you were in that pleasure hall?” Rhys demanded. “A Day? A week?”

“Around 6 months,” he answered, his voice even. “After it became obvious that Elain was going to give in to Lucien…Once it became obvious that she wasn’t interested in me. Then I started visiting the Pleasure Hall. I married my wife 4 months later.” 

“By the mother, Azriel, did all your good sense leave you?” Rhys asked him, shaking his head.  “What were you thinking?”  he demanded. 

“That I love her,” Azriel said calmly. “I love her,” he repeated. 

“Wow, she must have really been worth the money you spend on her,” Rhys drawled. 

She had been. Every gold coin. Every fucking clipped copper he paid for her company. Everything had been worth it, just for Embelia’s company.  

He didn’t even react to it. He had heard worse. But he could feel his rage grow with ever fucking word Rhys uttered. 

“She is worth more than you will ever understand,”  Azriel said quietly, his voice laced with steel.

Rhys glared at him. And then he said something so utterly inappropriate that the rage exploded. 

“So that’s what you needed all the time? Some pretty female that opens her legs and suddenly she leads you around by your prick?”

It felt like somebody had sucked all the air out of that room. 

Azriel’s blood boiled with anger and hurt, seething inside,  his control barely keeping the darkness at bay.

He wanted to kill Rhys at that moment. He couldn’t remember ever being this angry before. 

Having their relationship reduced to that…

Embelia’s face appeared in his mind, her smile, her laughter, the warmth of her touch. 

His sanity. 

He had made his choices, and he would stand by them. No one, not even Rhys, could make him regret loving Embelia.

“You can say whatever you want about me, but you say a single thing about my wife or my child and I’ll rip out your fucking throat, and don’t think for one moment that I won’t,” he snapped back harshly. “And yes, for the record, she was worth every fucking clipped copper, I spent on her. She was worth everything. I wanted to marry her. I asked her. I made that choice. She has done absolutely nothing but love me .” 

“You got a kid too?!” Cassian piped up. “Az?” he asked and Azriel ground his teeth.

“Yes,” he bit out. 

“How old?” Cassian asked quietly. 

“3 months tomorrow,” Azriel answered honestly. Cassian stared at him, hazel eyes harsh. 

“Boy or Girl?”

“Girl.”

“I got a niece and you haven’t told me?!” Cassian demanded. “How dare you! I owe her three months' worth of gifts and cuddles!”

“Cassian!” Nesta said sharply and Cassian started pouting. 

“Are you sure that the kid is yours?” Rhys drawled. 

He didn’t even bother to answer that question. 

“Where are you going?” Rhys demanded as he stood. 

“Home,” he gave back clippedly. “I’d rather walk my daughter to sleep than listen to you insult her mother and ask if she’s actually my daughter.” His voice was dripping with disdain. “Like there ever were any questions about it. She got her mother’s wings and my colouring.”

***

Nobody followed him home. Which was a good thing because Azriel wasn’t in a particularly forgiving mood at the moment. He was still furious. Utterly furious. 

Even as he walked through the door of the cottage… right until he saw Embelia sit in the living room, in that overstuffed armchair and nurse their daughter. She looked up as he entered, smiling.

And suddenly, every bit of anger just went up in smoke, because he couldn’t care less. 

Not when his mate was sitting there nursing his daughter, and it was so easy to just cross the room and drop to his knees before her, to let her reach out for him and run a hand over his hair and jaw and he leaned into her touch, breathing in the smell of earth and home and love. 

Home. He was home, he was with her and that was all he cared about. He stared at his daughter, happily drinking…dark eyes closed in concentration, one pudgy little fist pressing against Embelia’s breast, clearly making sure that her source of milk was going nowhere and he pressed a kiss to her downy soft hair, breathing in the combination of scents of himself and Emmie that clung to her. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Embelia asked him softly and he just shook his head. No. No, he didn’t want to talk about it. He just wanted to be with his girls. He just wanted to…He just wanted to be right there. 

“You are the best things that ever happened to me,” he whispered hoarsely. 

A gift from the mother herself, and he still wondered every fucking day how he deserved both of them. 

Emmie ran a hand through his curls, staying quiet, as their daughter stopped drinking and he reached out to take her. 

Embelia happily relinquished her hold on her, but not before pressing a kiss to his cheek, and a soft touch to their daughter’s wings…iridescent black. 

Her wings. His colouring. 

No question about it. 

He walked her to sleep like he always did when he could be there, pressing her little body tight to his chest, a scarred hand holding her as carefully as she was made out of spun gold. 

Emmie had laughed at him at the start, at how carefully he held her, telling him that she was a baby and would survive it if he kissed and cuddled her. Still, he had been terrified of hurting her. 

She was so small, and his hands were so big and broad and scarred and…

But sometime during the last few weeks, he had realised that his daughter…his daughter would never look at his hands as anything other than the hands that had held her and comforted her. She would grow up with these scars…she probably wouldn’t even notice them. 

They would just be a fact of life to her. 

So he walked her, the slow swaying circles around their living room that he always made to calm her as much as him, as Embelia tidied around the living room, got ready for bed, and made herself comfortable for the night. 

He could hear the bath running as he felt the touch against his mind. It wasn’t Rhys. 

It was Feyre.

He was surprised enough that he let her slide in, just a little bit, and he knew that she caught a glimpse of the baby in his arms as he felt the surprise register. 

“She’s beautiful.” It was nearly a coo in which she said that, much to his amusement and pleasure, taking in the iridescent wings that lay folded over her back. 

“She got it from her mother.”

It was the truth. Embelia was the most beautiful fae he had ever laid eyes on. The kind of beauty wars were fought over, that brought males trembling to their knees…Azriel easily admitted that he also met that particular criteria. 

“You missed a knockdown drag-out fight between Rhys and Cassian…And then Mor and Nesta decided that they should also get a word in.”

That was not what he had expected, to be quite honest. 

He had half expected that he was going to end up taking his wife and his daughter and find someplace else for them to live. 

“Amren stopped them from levelling the city,” Feyre said drily. It should have amused him, but it didn’t. Not really. 

“You should have come to me after that solstice, I would have told Rhys that he was being ridiculous,” Feyre told him drily. “I’ll deal with him. I promise.”

“It’s fine,” he waved her off. It was fine. 

Right now at least. He never could stay angry when he got to be home when he got to hold his daughter. How could he be angry when he got to hold her? 

He didn’t want to be angry when he held her…He just wanted to breathe in her scent and feel every bit of tension bleed out of him.

A snuffling sound came from his daughter, then a heart belch…and her little body relaxed against his, clearly on her way to the land of dreams. 

“No, it’s not, he should have never done that,” Feyre cut him off. “Or talk to you like that for that matter. Neither on Solstice nor today.  I’ll make sure he understands that. It won’t happen again. You can expect an apology tomorrow.” 

Now he was amused. It bled all over Feyre, who just huffed. “What, do you doubt that I can make him apologise?” she challenged him. 

“Of course not, High Lady,” he promised her. If anybody could get Rhys to weaken in his stance, then it would be his mate. And that was exactly why he had never told Feyre, never wanted to bring her into a position where she was in disagreement with her mate. 

“So congrats on that wedding,” Feyre said suddenly. “We owe you a gift or two, I think…Who knows what Mor is gonna come up with…” He could just hold back the snort at that but could feel Feyre’s amusement leech all over his mind. “Can I…” she trailed off, unsure for a moment. “May I see her?” she asked, curious and delighted for him all the same. He could feel that. 

He pushed a memory at her, from that afternoon…of his wife and his daughter in that spring sun, in that flower field,  their wings glittering and fluttering, Embelia’s pink hair falling to her waist in soft waves and curls, their daughter with his dark hair and her wings, curled up in her mother’s arms, grinning gummily at her…Happiness was oozing from every second of that screenshot. 

“You are beyond lucky,” Feyre said quietly. 

“I know.”

He knew that with every fibre of his being. 

“What’s her name?” Feyre wondered. “She’s beautiful.” 

She was. Gorgeous in fact. And that wasn’t just coloured by the fact that she was his wife and his mate…but she was gorgeous. 

“Embelia,” he answered Feyre. “Family calls her Emmie though.” He called her that, some of her friends did as well. It was what she was most comfortable with. 

“And your daughter’s? What’s her name?” Feyre asked. 

It had taken them months to settle on a name, and then finally, it had been so easy. 

“Aster.”

“A Star and a Flower,” Feyre realised with some amusement. 

“Embelia thought it was just fair.” 

[pedge-page]

Joel Dealing with Preggo Wife: From Party of Two, to Family of Three

Sunday Surprise takes place right before this, but not necessary for this part

notes: you guys already know this is my favorite little crackhead family. While we've been enjoying Sarah's adventures out of order for a while, lot of people have been asking when we'll meet Ellie. Which I didn't feel it was right until we actually see Sarah's birth! So here she is. Please enjoy!

warnings: childbirth (not too graphic), a shit ton of language, comedy and fuff

- - - -

They say childbirth is a miracle. It's the single greatest, most amazing, most heavenly, life giving, breath of fresh air day of any parent’s life.

What they don't say (almost as if conveniently forgetting to even mention it) is that the moments leading up to the birth are the single most excruciating, marathon through the worst hell of a nightmare.

"YOUUU. YOUUUUUU MOTHER FUCKING--FUUCCKKEERRRR!!" The banshee (his wife, you) next to him in the car screeches directly into his ear, a death grip on his forearm.

He’s one handing these turns, blowing more red lights than he's ever yelled at Tommy for, while ready to lose his right hand to your talons and his hearing to your incessant wails.

"fuck YOU!OOOOWWAHAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"

You squeeze your eyes shut, head crouched down while another wave of contractions splinters your insides apart. Every muscle known and unknown in your body is engaged. 

"We're almost there, you’re gonna make it--"

"YouFUCKINGfuckSTICkofaFuCkFuckshitheadfuckingbastard mothershitstainfrigginFUCK!"

You'd bash his head against his window repeatedly if your other hand wasn't already occupied cupping your rupturing belly.

Joel’s never been simultaneously in control and losing it inside all at once. He’s got one goal right now: get you to the hospital in one piece.

 That goes for driver safety but also to ensure the baby does NOT come out prior that because lord help him he would not know what comes next.

The truck screeches to a halt at the parking lot in 3 spaces. Joel tumbles out of the seat, missing a step and stumbling clumsily to his hands and knees on the pavement. He doesn’t even brush off the bruises and dirt as he’s running to you. You’ve nearly thrown him over again by how fast you swing the door open.

Both his sturdy, reliable, big hands are there for you when you take them, hoisting yourself with an agonizing yelp.

“You’re gonna be okay, you’re gonna be okay, baby momma, you’re—“

“FUCK!!!!!”

You’re clutching your belly, now way lower than it ever has been. Each step feels like fire, with Joel cradling your back and trying to get you to the front door with quick steps.

“Baby! Baby now!” Joel shouts, pointing to you with wild and pleading eyes.

You let out a horrendous scream, stopping in your tracks. Your spine, your bones, your head, and especially your stomach, is all being hit by a truck right fucking now. And you’re crying, you’ve never cried like this. It’s not the fake shit he’s gotten so accustomed to when you want a cookie or milkshake or pussy eating. This is real.

They get you in a chair and wheel you off to the delivery unit, your hand squeezing the shit out of Joel’s but he’s never once let go. He’s gone so pale, running and running alongside you, trying to answer their questions about when it started, how long, what was due date, etc. 

He’s doing a million things at once, and you’re just fighting to stay alive.

Oh, you also would forget everything you were saying at this moment. But thankfully, Joel, and the entire fucking hospital, wouldn’t.

“YOU FUCKING, COCK—FUCKER—SHIT FUCKCUnt cunt CUNT! FUCK-OHM Y MOTHERFUCKING GOD FUCK.”

They manage to get you stripped to the papery gown, push your ass onto the bed, spread you wide so the doctor can take a look.

They’re all so calm, walking around and nodding, hooking you up like you’re just here for a checkup, like they’ve done this a thousand times before.

Joel feels the worst stabbing pain along his skull as your nails dig into his hair and yank him down to your face.

“MILLER,” you seethe, venom and sweat breaking through your clenched teeth and slitted eyes. 

“Y-yes?”

You force out harsh pants, groaning, but making sure he understands you clearly right fucking now. “Give me. A fucking. Epidural.”

“I-“

“NOW!!!!”

He looks around for some assistance. “Ep—is there an--”

“WHERES THE FUCKING EPIDURAL.”

Joel makes contact with the nurse, who checks below your legs again before resurfacing with the look Joel feared above all else. While you’re heaving and and moaning in pain, Joel receives the nonverbal confirmation she passes to him:

It’s too fucking late for an epidural.

Both Joel and the nurse also pass a clear, mutual understanding about how to pass that info on to you:

“ITS COMING!” He nods reassuringly to you, exceedingly over the top acting. “Right nurse? See she said it’s coming!”

“Any second now, we’ll get that epidural—“ she agrees, nodding and nodding with a thumbs up to you extra confidence.

“FUUUUCCCCKCKKKKKK,” you sink lower, back falling and head tossed as wave of new pain ripples through you.

“FUUCCKKING —Fuck J-Joel. Joel Miller—“

“yes baby, I’m here.”

“Im getting a fucking epidural.”

“Yes you fucking are.”

“You fuckers aren’t lying to me?”

Joel glances at the nurse again, who quickly shakes her head at you with her calm, straightforward, trusting voice of reason: “No ma’am we would never.”

Praise this woman, he thinks. “That’s right baby she’s telling ya, its coming—“

“I’ll FUCKING kill you, Joel Miller. Do you know that?”

“Yes-“

“I fucking HATE you right now.”

“Yes—“

“You shit—fuck bag motherfucker, I HATE you—you—you—“ and you start sobbing “—did this to me!”

“I did—“

“YOU!”

“ME.”

Back again to an angered, snarling beast, you growl, “I’ll rip your fucking cock off. I’m fucking you up so fucking bad when we get home, you can never FUCKIN’ do this fucking shit to me again. Balls in the fucking blender.”

“Balls in the blender,” he repeats with absolute conviction, not an ounce of protest in him.

“The FUCkING blender—you hear me fucker?”

“The fucking blender, for sure baby, anything you want right after this.”

“Ugh--oh dfuck Joel its coming!”

“Yeah?” He asks, and its the first time he hears his own voice waver. Holy fuck this is it. This is the moment for the last 9 months its actually here—

“Just another contraction,” the doctor confirms casually.

FUCK DOC HOW LONG DOES THIS TAKE I can’t feel my skull!

“CUNT SUCKER!” You scream, holding Joel’s head hostage as you chant through your breathing pants.

“Any where’s my MOTHERFUCKING epidural!”

“It’s coming! It’s coming!” Joel nods to his now best friend nurse, who’s also nodding dramatically to keep you distracted from the epidural that is absolutely not on its way.

“Miller,” you growl, shoving his nose right against yours. You stare into his very soul, like Death herself ripping his life choices out of his body and spilling them under your eyes. “I think that Bitch is lying to me. There’s no fucking epidural coming, is there.”

“There is, baby, she said it herself, I checked…”

“Are you fucking lying to me Miller?”

“Never baby, we’d never lie to you, right?” He gestures to the nurse again, who nods diligently again. “See baby, no lying, we’d never lie.”

He watches your jaw drop, voice disappear as another roar is ripped from your chest..

“I can’t do this.”

“You can, you can and will. I’ll give you anything you want, right after you do this.”

“I want you fucking DEAD.”

“Sure thing. Want a divorce too?”

“I’m CONSIDERING IT,” you bark a baritone lower like the devil. “FuuuUUUCCCKKKK!!!!!”

“I’ll get the papers printed right up. Favorite pen signed an’ all. But only after you have this baby tonight—“

The doctor checks the monitor again just as you let out a piercing scream. 

“Ma’am it’s time to push.”

“YOU PUSH!” You shout, waving your arm at him but unable to put a curse to the end of it. Your pains are coming through quicker, no longer waves but an unyielding rumbling as the baby kicks and punches and squirms and—

Joel is by your side, taking your hand in his. He’s prepped this speech in his head a million times, every night, every time he felt that baby kick or watched you struggle to tie your shoes, every single second, he’s perfected it:

“It’s here. Its happening. You’re gonna do this, we’re gonna do this together, you and me, right now—“

“Nope.”

“We—what?”

Your voice is calm and face plain. “Changed my mind. Not having this baby.”

“Yes you for fucking sure are.”

“Nope no. I’m returning it. Got the receipt.”

“There—there IS NO RECEIPT.”

“Yes—I got it—90 day warranty—“ your face tightens, clenching out the last word as if you’re mentally willing this baby to not pop out right now. But by god this baby is not taking your bullshit any longer.

“We are way past the 90 day warranty, honey, you’re having this baby, TODAY, Right NOW!”

“Nope, nope I’m gonna suck it back in!” 

It seems all ability to ‘suck it back in’ has failed, as the nurse shouts clearly “I see a head!”

Your voice breaks in the most heart wrenching “I CAN’T—“ you sob, terror in your voice.

You scream again, and it’s the worst thing Joel’s ever heard. He feels like a kid again, for the first time in a long while, when his parents fought, and the sounds of their voices carried upstairs to his and Tommy’s bedroom. He wanted to run, hide in the closet, cover his ears, cradling himself and rock back and forth, shut his eyes and his mind out, drain everything away. Instead, he held Tommy, he watched Tommy, he calmed Tommy. He bared the brunt of it, and the fear, he learned to control it.

The control is gone. He’s fearing again. And it’s not his parents having an argument over watermelon seeds, but his wife experiencing the most unimaginable pain right now, and it’s because of him, it really is, just like you said. Worse than nails on a chalkboard, glass in his eyes, fire on his feet. He’s so scared, everything he had tried to train for, for you, for this moment, is collapsing before him, and he’s not gonna make it—

Every fiber in his body grips your hand more tightly than possible. “You can,” he says, sturdy yet trembling. He’s scared.

He’s always known what to do, what comes next, how to make your pain and sadness and tears go away. He’s perfected it, knowing what to get you or what to say to make it all better, but now?  He doesn’t know what comes next. Doesn’t know how to make it stop, help you through it, take your worries and griefs—you’re on your own and he’s just next to you, and its not enough, and he can’t help, and he doesn’t know what to do—He doesn’t know what to do-Hedoesntknowwhattodo!

“Hey.”

He feels a gentle hand on his shoulder; the nurse who’s holding all the pieces of his heart and sanity together. She looks at him, focused, locked in from the moment your wailing, miserable self was wheeled in here, and has been doing everything he can’t.

“We’re right there. I need you to ground her,” she says. “Can you do that?”

He nods, tightening his lips. He remembers your hand in his now, remembers where he is, in this moment, and its all the matters.

He’s here. And he wants—needs you to know he’s not going anywhere.

He calls your name. “It’s time, okay baby?” Steady. Reassuring. Level headed. Strong. Rock. Crutch. Love. Everything he’s good at. Everything you know him by. “I need you to push.”

You shake your head again, eyes squeezed shut and teeth clenching hard. But he nods, because he’s gonna do the nodding, and the yes’ing, and he’s gonna take everything that’s ever caused you wrong or pain or sadness away because it’s what he does.

It’s what makes him keep going.

“FUCK! MOTHER———MOTHERFUCKER!!!!AHHHHHHHHH!!”

“Keep going!” The nurse encourages. “Dad, you’re doing great, keep getting her to focus—“

“I’M NOT GETTING MY FUCKING EPIDURAL!!!!!!!!!!!!” You sob in finality, the truth seeping into your bones. “YOU FUCKING—MOTHERFUCKING CUNNT SHIT STICK LITTLE BI—“ 

“For Christ’s sake, SHUT THE FUCK UP!” The nurse howls, and the entire room goes silent, even you. Joel stares at her dumbfounded. 

‘“The baby. Is HERE,” she huffs definitively. 

“Now fucking—PUSH!”

 - 

Joel’s heart has stopped. 

He doesn’t know where it is, but he knows it’s no longer in his body. 

Its not until he hears the first, most beautifully devastating croak of an angelic cry that he’s felt his heartbeat resume again, and its being cradled gently by the nurse as she pulls the tiniest, wrinkliest, most precious thing on this planet from between your legs.

“Congratulations, mom and dad. A healthy, happy baby girl.”

There’s no way this little—thing—this… bean—can be a baby. It’s the size of both his hands together, and so incredibly delicate, my god, weighing almost nothing and yet the sheer weight of who she is has him nearly capsizing at this very moment.

She’s wrapped delicately in cloth, face and nostrils wiped of fluids before landing gracefully in your outstretched arms. And it’s like the cosmos has realigned in harmony.

No amount of sweat, tears, crazy hair and braised skin, torn clothing and achy muscles could possibly deter the absolute love bursting from your chest as you hold the tiny baby in your grasp. “Hi,” you whimper with a big smile, eyes floating in a shiny haze pf exhaustion and happiness, looking down upon her. “Hi baby girl.” you laugh, tears falling freely as you shake your head and hold her closer, as close as possible, reabsorbing her into your bare chest, and you feel it. Her skin on yours. You’ve carried her this entire time, and yet it’s like you’re feeling her for the first time in your life.

Joel curls next to you, his big palm splayed over top her whole body, touching her. And it’s the first time, the first time he’s felt his daughter. He had been separated by the membrane of your belly, anxiously, excitedly waiting all this time to meet her, and now she’s here. She’s here. Neither one of you can believe it.

Your little baby wiggles, cooing noise stuck in her throat as she settles from her cries. she’s so wrinkly, skin still absorbing all that fresh air, working color into those cheeks and hands, fingers and toes. Her eyes are too swollen, not yet ready to say hi to this world. But that’s okay. Because her mom and dad are still going to be right here when she wakes up, the first people who will introduce her to the world around her. Because she is their world.

“Joel,” you whisper softly. He hears you. He’s here. He hasn’t left your side once. You know he’s here, you’re grateful. He’s here. He loves you. 

“Joel,” you hum again. “She’s beautiful.”

You tremble against him. Shaken from love and joy, more than your entire achy body can contain as you bring her little head to your lips and press the most fulfilling kiss to her.

Joel cups her little head. He wants to hold her, but he’s gotta wait. Fuck after all this time, he’s gotta wait. And it’s enough. He can handle it because he’s so fucking overwhelmed that she’s finally here.

“She’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen,” he rasps into your hair, kissing you tenderly.

Joel steps outside the room, softly closing the door behind him. He watches from the glass window pane, with you perfectly framed in the center as its only subject. Just the way he’s seen the world every day since he met you. 

Only this time, you hold another part of you, and him, in your arms.  The two of you, together. Like the only things that will ever matter to him.

And suddenly, Joel lets himself feel it all.

He clutches his mouth with the entirety of his palm, his yelp buzzing in his hoarse throat. He feels his knees give way, tumbling to the ground, one hand holding the wall while the other grips his face to keep the cries at bay. And he cries. He cries harder than he’s ever cried, and they’re wonderful. They hurt like kisses, burn like candy, ache like love. 

He wants to go back in there.

Quickly wiping his face clean, he stands up, straightening himself.

“Hey.”

The nurse who had delivered his baby stands next to him.

“She did fantastic. You both did.”

Joel tries to clear his throat, but his face is so obviously still red, swollen and barely holding it together. She doesn’t question nor judge the tough guy facade, yet completely speaks to his soul, telling him everything he didn’t know he needed to hear. “She’s 7 pounds, 2 ounces. Ten fingers and toes. Brown eyes. Hearing is great, so is—“

“Thank you,” he interrupts.

She goes quiet but offers a gentle smile. 

As he stares at her, the literal saint that got you and his baby through this, from point A to B, he realizes  nothing is coming to his head.

“I’m sorry, I … I don’t even know your name.”

She laughs. “I would not expect you to. You had way more to worry about.”

“Well, I just … really, really wanted to say…. Thank you…”

“Sarah,” she responds.

“Sarah,” he repeats. He repeats it over and over again in his mind, as if its going to stick, and he doesn’t quite know why yet.

“I’ll give you two—three, some time together,” she says, gathering the checkerboard hanging by the wall. “Then I’ll be back to help get her ready to take home, and let your wife sleep some more.”

He nods, looking down then back up, just as she’s patting his shoulder reassuringly and turning away to attend her other duties.

-

When he steps back inside, you look up to him. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he whispers back. Now that the dust has settled, he can finally see just how exhausted you are. The absolute train wreck that has battered your body this last hour really settling in, and it makes his chest sore to see you like that. Your gown pulled halfway down to your ribcage, tousled hair sticking awkwardly to your forehead and back from all the dried sweat. And yet none of it, absolutely nothing, is getting in the way of that smile that hasn’t left your cheeks since the moment you heard her cry.

“She’s sleeping,” you hum, looking back down at your daughter, who’s coddled up in a wrap and little cap.

“You thinking about putting the baby down, getting some sleep too?”

“Never.”

He smirks, looking down at her again.

“You think about any names yet?” You ask, stroking over her little forehead.

The two of you had thought about it. A lot. You didn’t want it to be random, but you didn’t want it to be weird. It had to have meaning, but not so closely related to a family member that you’d always mess them up at thanksgiving. It had to remind you of someone strong, unique, purposeful but distant enough that she could to grow and make it her own. 

And this was a girl, after all, so it had to be someone that could put momma AND papa in their place whenever shit got too crazy. 

“I’ve got…one.”

-

Joel helps dress the baby from her swaddled blanket into clothes.

“They’re gonna be a little bit big at first—“ you say, giggling as the two of you realize that the smallest clothes in the world are still a little too baggy on your little—so fucking little—girl.

Joel doesn’t waver, helping put her bitty legs through the loose pant legs…

You see him wipe his lips quickly, swallowing a lump to clear his throat.

“Joel, are you crying?”

“No,” he rasps like a whimper. “M’just sweatin’ through my eyes.”

You let out a chuckle, and Joel tries to do the same, but then he looks down at his little angel again, who’s stretching herself out in the new cloth that’s practically a giant coat on her. Joel starts to tremble. “She’s so perfect,” he weeps, and the shine in his eyes are clear as day.

“Oh baby, it’s okay to cry! I’m gonna cry too—“ you bawl, and now the two of you cry over this little girl who’s just trying to figure out why this blanket is stuck to her.

Not a great first impression from mom and dad but she’ll just have to deal with it.

And just like that, the Miller family went from party of two, to family of three.

-

6 weeks later…

The baby monitor crackles to life, and Joel is already tossing the blanket aside before the baby utters her first cry. He’s already up, kissing your forehead with “I’ll get her," almost excitedly through the heavy lull of sleep. You barely get a noise out of your throat, already snoring away into the pillow. He’s exhausted too, but his feet carry him onward with droopy eyes as if on their own.

He’s still not happy about the pink paint color of her bedroom, but that hardly matters right now. Terribly dramatic cries echo from the crib ahead. He scoops his little bean—since that’s what she looks like all curly in her onesie—supporting her head carefully and tucking her into one elbow. 

He rocks her squirming, agitated body back and forth in one arm as he shakes the now warmed bottle in his other hand. Joel tries to get her screaming mouth to take the cap, but she shakes her head, avoiding him at all costs to her own detriment.

 "Oh you’re such a squiggly girly for daddy. I got ya bubbas right here, quick ya cryin’. You’re gonna wake up mommy." 

As if she understands how she wouldn’t want to cause YOU any problems, his baby stops crying and accepts the bottle between her lips. Once she finally has her snacking, she peacefully looks back up to him, studies him. 

"There she is.  Told ya." He grins, swaying back and forth as she stares back at him with those big beautiful brown eyes. You definitely got one of your wishes: Joel’s eyes. The rest of her, is yours.

He’s hypnotized, so in love with her he didn’t think it was possible to love something as much as you. He already knows he’s gonna get her the dog, the kitty, the pony, the car, credit card, dress, house, anything she points to really; he’s never going to be able to say no to those enchanting eyes.

All of her bitty fingers fist around Joel’s pointer, as if to anchor her, and she doesn't let go as she drinks safely.  

She’s only 10 pounds now, but he feels like Atlas, carrying the entire weight of the world all curled up in his arms right now. Ans he'd carry this weight forever if he could, would pump iron and concrete slabs and oceans just to stay in shape and keep his girl in his arms for eternity, never to tire.

“My babygirl,” he whispers with a grin, pursing his lips close to her. “My little baby Sarah.”

- - - -

taglist:

@harriedandharassed @lola8888673 @its-nebuleuse @zliteraturehoe @merz-8 @joeldjarin @pascalscoffin @pedroshotwifey @ghostslillady @innerpersonunknown @missladym1981 @mrsoharaxx @survivingandenduring @milla-frenchy @cockykookiee @fairytale07 @daddy-din @pedropascalsbbg @spookyxsam @somehopeatlast @millercontracting @pedrostories @mishala005 @theoraekenslover @animez96 @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @puduvallee @cassiecasluciluce @loohoop @himboelover @callsignwidow @wintersquirrel @fluffygoffpanda @picketniffler @bbyanarchist @jeewrites

[dreamweave01]

I just found this AU for a few days and is now really really (two really's) invested??? My God this separated AU is so fresh and unique?? (no offense to other separated AU creators, i love them sm y'all have no idea how many tears were shed reading them all <3)

Anyways i love the fact that the boys were yoinked from different timelines with majorly different experiences (and baggage ofc) and would love to know how that affects their dynamic with each other and their newly (re)acquired parents. And i wonder if Drax and Big Mama were the same in their own timeline? Like were they good with them, indifferent or straight up villainous?

Thank you for your time! <333

Omg thank you so much! I'm glad you're enjoying it, this au has had a lot of trial and error XD

There's a bit that's changed with how they act around each other actually.

Mikey was obviously very excited to have his brothers back, but his biggest issue is trying to learn how to have brothers. He lost his when he was just a baby turtle tot after all, raised as an only child his entire life.

Now he has three severely traumatized siblings. It's a very new family dynamic for him, and he feels that he has to be the one to help them through their issues. He's the "okay" brother, the one that doesn't have demons inside, and his self-assigned role of family therapist is a lot more draining than he ever lets on.

Leo was very ready to jump into a family again, very eager for a second chance. To any unsuspecting persons, he's still the fun-loving face man (albeit older and with less energy than when he was younger.)

But he blames himself so much for everything that happened in his timeline, and he never lets himself lean on others when he needs it. It's his fault his family got hurt, so it's his job to make sure that never happens again. Even if it hurts him.

He was a little hesitant with Draxum and Big Mama at first (especially Big Mama) given his history with the two. He didn't know if the two had gone good in Mikey's timeline, but the second he met them, it was clear that they weren't the villains of his childhood anymore. He's quickly learned to see them as much as his parents as Splinter is.

Donnie is really really hesitant with trust. It took him months to learn to trust his new family, and even longer to learn to trust anyone else. He stays closed off, emotionally detached, because he's learned that's the best way to stay safe. If you don't care about them, then it won't hurt that much when they stab you in the back.

He's slowly learning that his family won't abandon him, but some scars are harder to heal from than others.

Now the person in Donnie's family that took him the longest to get attached to would definitely be Draxum. Donnie kind of gave the poor guy the cold shoulder for a while, would never be in a room alone with him, avoided talking to him. It was really frustrating to say the least, but eventually Draxum earned Dee's trust.

Raph for the longest time was always on edge around his brothers. Everything he did was controlled, he thought about his every move before he made it. He was so terrified to hurt them again that it took forever for him to finally relax around them, a part of him still believing he's the bloodthirsty monster the Kraang made him out to be.

When it comes to the parents, Raph's gotten very attached. He wasn't so sure about Big Mama for the first couple of weeks, but it became clear quite fast that she was a kind and caring mother who loved her sons all equally.

Baron Draxum and Big Mama started out as villains, yes. But Michelangelo was able to help them change their ways.

Now, they are two very supportive parents along with Splinter, and the three have become very important figures in the turtles lives.

Of course, this is just in Mikey's timeline.

In Donnie's timeline, Draxum was killed by the Shredder. It was the same in Raph and Leo's timeline, just with the Kraang instead.

Big Mama on the other hand became a bit of a recluse in Donnie's timeline, was taken down by the Kraang in Raph's, (no one is really sure if she survived or not) and in Leo's timeline, she was a bit of a wild card, but eventually played the hero card to help out the Resistance.

[verysium]

『02』 出発: departure

ft. rin itoshi, sae itoshi

summary: a star's life is its counteraction against death, an endless deadlock against the brute force of gravity. in the constant struggle between space and time, rin cannot tell if he is being held up or held down. perhaps he has already dictated the terms of his own demise. cw: epistolary montage, mentions of blood in film, rin violently crying and throwing up, highly implied hallucinations, swearing, suicidal ideation, disillusionment and lots of hard angst. word count: 4.9k

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Two weeks after Sae took off from Haneda Airport, his words still lingered inside Rin's mind. His brother had left with a fiery flick of a grin—a gaping, white-hot maw right where his mouth should have been. It blazed then sputtered cold in his gums by the time he turned back around, but Rin still knew what he saw. The smoke never lied.

A triple tap of tongue against hard palate, the message moving fast as light. Something had flickered between Sae’s teeth. Something about split knuckles and brotherly love. Something about calling him back.

But Rin couldn’t hear over the boarding announcements, the roar of engines propelling out of the runway, the heat waves of people out in front. At half past noon, his brother had already departed from Tokyo, ten thousand miles westbound in a floating aluminum dream, reeling contrails through the sky. 

And Rin still stood on Earth, waiting. Like some dumb thing left behind.

It wasn’t until his mother laid a gentle hand on his shoulder that he finally tumbled back to reality, an empty gate at his feet, no arrival or departure calling. The afternoon sunlight had grown dim, splintering against the glass windows and whirring the blood through his ears. His chest felt strangely suspended.

It was in the backseat where it all began. Three floors down in the parking garage. Fumbling through his pockets, his coat had snagged between the door and car frame, ten digits on a crumpled paper sent fluttering to the ground. Looking back on it now, he should’ve thrown that damn thing away. But he was stupid then, drunk on a heat stroke and the beginnings of terminal grief. Right on the exit of the Shuto Expressway, he made his parents turn the car back around and drive ten miles down to the nearest World Mobile, a wretched inhale of hope stuck squirming in his chest. 

It took him several weeks before he finally decided to punch in those numbers, and then another several weeks to call after that. His body shuddered, sweat-faced and suffocating, as he trailed sticky fingers down the waiting screen. The phone rang once then twice. Then rang on forever.

Nobody ever bothered to pick up.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

2013 年 6月 17日 Nii-chan, 

It still feels like you never left. And I say this with a miserable lack of sincerity because you did in fact leave just two weeks ago. Kaa-san still makes your bed. Square corners and all. Your duvet goes in the pile with the rest of my laundry. 

Just the other day, I think I saw your shadow. I was sunbathing on the roof when I felt something brush against my back. Does Spain have big shadows too? I hope so. A country with so much sun must leave those poor shades short and stunted. Maybe they’re just a little shy. Be nice to them, will you Nii-chan? Not everyone can shine as bright as you do.

I hope you’ll make friends soon. Write to me often. I want to know everything.

2013 年 7月 7日 Nii-chan,

How are you? I didn’t receive anything in my inbox, and I checked with Kaa-san twice. She said you didn’t text me, but there is no way such a thing could have happened. Perhaps old age has finally gotten to her, or maybe something’s just wrong with this phone. Either way, I should’ve asked her to buy me a newer model.

On second thought, if you don’t text me, I will be very upset. But it will be a childish sort of anger. You wouldn’t be very proud. You will be pleased to know, however, that I have grown a total of ten centimeters this summer, and my bones are looking very strong and wide. My shots have improved too, and I scored three goals today.

Otou-san took us out to dinner for Tanabata this weekend. He told me it is about time I became a man. I smiled and said I didn’t want to disappoint. But then he said ten and three quarters is no longer a youthful sort of age, and I suddenly felt a little mad about it. I don’t want to grow up without you. 

The festival was crowded as usual. I ate every selection of wagashi then chased it down with some of the sake Otou-san lent me from his cup. Pretty sure that was illegal, so I threw it all up on the way home. But then we all went and saw the tanzaku, so I guess something went right. I wrote down a wish, but I won’t tell you. Otherwise it won’t come true. I hung it up on the highest branch though, so that someday it might reach you. 

Tell me what you think. Text back soon.

2013 年 8月 31日 Nii-chan, 

I did not receive your reply from last time. I think this phone must still be broken. Perhaps you should check on your end. Even if it’s just a greeting, I will be content. Anything from you is fine, really.

I visited the beach again. It was peaceful until the wind blew hair in my face, and I went blind for almost fifteen minutes. I tried cutting it, but Kaa-san got mad at me. After your disaster five years ago, she said she’d never let her sons hold a pair of scissors ever again. Don’t tell her, but I laughed. Inside, you know?

Sometimes I still see the waves in my sleep. The ones at Koshigoe Beach. They cradle me, and suddenly it feels like my head is floating even though my body isn’t. You’d probably think I’m crazy. But lately dreams are the only way I can reach you. 

I do watch the news though. And I train hard. Very hard. I can pass like you now, though not nearly as good as your highlights on TV. Coach says I still need to learn. You always said the same thing. But I am nearly as tall as Otou-san now and twice as strong. That must count for something, right? I hope the guys overseas will like this new me. When I finally come over there, that is.

Make sure you aren’t training too hard. I don’t want you to overstrain yourself. And if you don’t like it there, promise me you won’t force yourself to stay. You’ll pack your bags and come home early. 

Promise me. Please. 

That you’ll come home to me.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

For the second time in his life, Rin finds himself on his knees, heaving up everything that has ever made him whole. The bathroom mourns with every dry retch of his throat, and suddenly he’s laughing into the porcelain, clutching at the sides in a mad form of desperation. His ribs shudder—tough in their hurt—yet nothing of substance ever lies between them. He’d smiled out his guts a long time ago. 

Is empty space still a space or just the photonegative of presence? 

Sometimes Rin feels like his body can never truly filled, but it can never be completely emptied either. No matter how much he regurgitates, there will always be more to come. The space inside him widens until it hangs on a threadlike line of limbo: so much to give yet so much to keep. It tugs at him—a crude form of baptism—pulling him up for air and then crashing his head beneath the waves again. 

Another harsh hurl reverberates across the bathroom tiles, this time accompanied by the loud smack of spit. He’s emptied out so much his bowels might just prolapse at any second, the boy inside him turned into some sort of liquid slop, sloshing back and forth in his ribcage. It’s all over the front of his shirt now, the stomach contents soaked for hours in bodily brine, the grief his body tries to hold. No amount of bleach is going to erase the stench.

Some days Rin just wants someone to cradle him like a child does a bird, gentle and afraid to hurt. He had a dream about this once, many moons ago. After wringing himself out to dry, he had gone to work, looping the washing line around his feet until it resembled some sort of upside down noose. Once the wind picked up, he let go of the string like a pendulum, watching his body sway in third person: up and down and up and down. In this reality, he was a creature of feathers and clothespins, his body molting in the breeze. So long as he swung back and forth in this state of suspension, he would remain in the middle, not tethered down enough to live but not free enough to die either. 

He’d simply exist. 

Some nights Rin still can’t sleep. His eyes lay limp in their sockets, two dead weights sinking into bone. He tried to pry them out with his fingers, but they only pressed deeper into his face, rigid and wax-cool to the touch. No matter what he does, Rin knows he will be too late. He can never reverse this decay—the post-mortem withering of his own heart. 

Just this afternoon, he died once again, his body slumped with the hollow weight of disappointment, his spirit sinking like a fault line into earth. He had been drying his hair in the locker room after practice, the friction of the towel’s loops causing small pinpricks of static to echo along his nape. The static had carried over hushed whispers, trailing along his scalp down to his ears. God, he hadn’t meant to overhear.

“Damn it, we’re really done for this season, huh? I’m telling you it’s the striker. We could’ve won this match if it weren’t for him.”

“I mean, if Itoshi were here, he would’ve destroyed their whole team by himself.”

“You mean the older one?”

“Of course I do. Who else did you think I was referring to? The younger one’s just been blessed up until now.”

“Without his brother, he’s just an ordinary guy.”

“Oi, Haruto, shut up! What if he hears?”

“Hear what? It’s not like it isn’t the truth!”

Rin still remembers how his surname burned on their lips, the tip of the tongue caught raw between teeth, the vowels seared into flesh. Itoshi was a burden coming apart at the seams, a title for something he could never possess. They were right and it left him smarting, reeling. He hadn’t laughed a day since Sae’s departure, but in that moment he wanted to shove his whole fist up his mouth and choke for the first time in five resentful months. The laugh had been a silent one, with tears on his waterline and a smile bruised onto his face. 

Ha.....ha.....hah.....

There comes a point in every boy’s life when he simply exists. Still young but no longer impressionable. Salt in the eyes. Salt in the mouth. Take it like a man. When he hawks back the knife, it must come out breathing and clean. Living but not dead. 

His teammates had every right to blame him. 

He can’t score goals like he used to. Can’t run and bleed. Can’t love like before. There’s nothing but shame waiting for him when the realization finally breaches the bathroom air and his teammates scramble off the benches, cleats stained with guilt. They saw his reflection in the mirror, weeping right above the communal sinks.

“R-rin! W-we didn’t know you were here.”

“Y-yeah! You didn’t hear much, did you?”

Rin had never hated his name more in that moment. They uttered it like a euphemism, hand over his stupid bullet-riddled heart, the blood too runny to salvage. It only hurt him more. So he did what he knew best. He clenched his fist, the nails fisted into the meat of his palm, eyes caught on a hardened edge. It didn’t matter if Haruto was his senior. He’d beat him within an inch of his life.

“So you call me Rin now? Wasn’t I just younger Itoshi to you earlier?”

“I didn’t....We didn’t mean...”

“Then what did you mean?”

Only the scurry of shoes answered—two scuff marks against the dirty floor, Haruto’s yelp in the distance. Rin was left all alone again, his thin shadow blown wide across the whitewashed walls of the locker room. 

“Damn coward,” he wanted to yell after him. “Run! Run and tell them how it’s not your fault!” 

But he was just talking to himself.

Is empty space still a space or just a pseudonym for absence?

He hadn't been thinking at the time. Within the liminal space of the abandoned shower stalls, he lent himself a moment of weakness. He let himself cry. The shower head was cold and dirtied, and he stood there for forty-five minutes, waiting to be filled with a warmth that never came. In the end, he let his tears mix with the brackish water, staring at the evidence of his failure before it swirled down the drain. 

He realized he must have been a mistake. There was no other explanation. The real Rin Itoshi was swapped at birth and replaced with someone else. Inside the four-walled confines of the shower stall, his imposter reared its head through the mist, long baby hair drowned down to the ears. He didn’t belong. Not in this body bathed in condensation. Not in this namesake crowned in tempered glass. But by the time the water trickled down to his nose, Rin was already knee-deep in self-doubt, wading his way into misery. What more did they want from him? No one could ever replace Sae Itoshi. Not even his younger brother. 

Not even him.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Six hours post-death in the locker rooms, Rin went home and passed out with his head on the toilet seat, two slick fingers shoved up his throat and his luminous guts buried somewhere down the pipe drain. Six hours later, his lids peel back scarlet, gelatinous with haze—a ringing in his ears. Some fucker is calling him again. 

He doesn’t answer. Twice. But the telemarketer is either underpaid or rudely insistent, so Rin finally picks up just to curse him out on the line. He doesn’t need any scripted intimacy. Doesn’t need other people counting his own losses. He just needs to be left alone.

At midnight, he staggers out of the bathroom, fingers absentmindedly flicking off the lightswitch before collapsing into bed. The sheets aren’t even his own. He doesn’t notice until he sniffs the pillow and stiffens. It smells god-awful. Like tiger balm and soothing menthol. Like somebody he used to know. And much to his chagrin, the images come stumbling back: knee-deep in the salted sea, shirasu swimming around his toes. What color were his eyes again? Blue ice between teeth. Sour like a bad star. Oh, what can he remember? Disappointment peeled into spirals. Happiness running down the back of his hand. The blood of an orange, sweet and dripping. He’s forever staring at someone’s back. Always a few steps behind.

Fuck you, Sae.

There’s haunting laughter coming out from the window panes, and he can hear the waves crash on shore in the distance. Two children run across sand. Muted footsteps. One soft thump then another. The vision is so close he can practically taste it. Salt in the wind, in the eyes, in his mouth. The seagulls pluck at his eyes, but he takes it like a man, breathing and clean. Living but not dead.

One of the children stands with his arms behind his back, face hidden by the shadows of the horizon. The ocean spray nips at his burgundy fringe, the hunger of a whole world engulfed in his gaze. In the distance, a younger boy shouts his name, dark hair framed by a cowlick, turquoise eyes smoothed over by water. He runs as fast as his little legs can carry him, his arms filled with bone-white shells.

“Nii-chan, wait for me!”

Sae’s face blurs before he can turn around, and Rin is left staring at the wooden slats above his childhood bed, resenting something he can no longer remember. Why did people have to go and change? Three years later and his brother had gone straight from stealing seashells to swindling stars clean out of the sky. Three years and he still had nothing to show for himself.

He imagines the look on Sae’s face when he tells him this. Conversations over Sunday dinner. The family gathered round the kotatsu, piss-yellow light slicing every dish into halves. He spoons pickled radish and chokes Sae’s teacup till it breaks. Would it be disappointment he sees on his face? His brother’s features crumpled mid-smile, blue-green eyes wounded into a porcelain state. Why? Why haven’t you done anything with your life while I was gone? 

Or perhaps it was anger. Smoke on the lips, bruised fists, and the heat of his mother’s blazing scream. Her son bares teeth and scrapes every syllable of their surname clean. Wrestles her other son’s shoulders down to the ground and shakes until the boy—the real Rin—gurgles and sloshes up inside. Do something, Rin. Do something! Or else you’ll never make it this lifetime.

Both, he could live with. But not this. The silence that burrows into his mind while he sleeps. The constant calling and the phone that just rings and rings and rings. It’s a circle, some sick sort of cycle. Every night he dreams of war—of sights and slights and stars. Things that end then don’t end then never end. He dreams until he wakes up screaming, on his hands and knees begging. Say something, will you? Anything. Fuck, why won’t you just say something?

Three years later and his brother still can't love him in a way he understands. 

But what did he expect? Sae was like that: pale and blistering, beautiful even when burning. Last dream cycle, his brother fell down three stories and erupted into flames, limbs compacted into fine dust. Should’ve screamed but didn’t. By the time Rin got down to him, Sae was already on his feet, sputtering soot from his lungs then flaring back up like nothing had ever happened. As if his hurt was merely bursts of light gathering and bunching, violence in free fall. 

And he was beautiful, Rin thinks. A boy of the blaze, man in the making, hair aorta-red, staring right back at him. By the time Sae opened his mouth, Rin’s arms were already open, ready to embrace the glittering shards. He crumpled before him as a building does a god, set alight on his brother’s palm. Strike me. He begged, blood around his mouth. Strike me anywhere and set me free. 

But that’s not what happens when you die. Not when his brother said it best.

I think I’d die and become a star. 

So he holds onto this life. Bunches it between fingers and twines it around his fist until he knows the person he’s dying for. Until he’s blacked out and dreaming in that damnable backseat again. Experiencing everything in the third person—the news, the screen, the slow-motion reels of an astral body wound up in constant replay. He can only watch as his brother slowly becomes a stranger in his own life again, and it guts him every time.

Sae Itoshi Dominates at Junior Championships, Secures Victory with Hat-Trick. Future Star? Sae Itoshi’s Sensational Performance Stuns Fans and Scouts Alike.

Who the hell is Sae Itoshi? Man, celebrity, celestial body? Not even his brother knows. But what Rin has learned over these past few years is that all stars are really just dead people, housed in a mausoleum of glittery beginnings and explosive endings. It’s binary—circling, really. A blinking eye in the sky, ticking time bomb, crying corpse, then everything wailing before its implosion. Sae could never comprehend this. The smoke-sputtering reality beyond tangible substance. This form of dying. 

But dying isn’t even the worst part of it all. It’s people like him who suffer. Unlucky stars are cursed with another, forced to revolve around each other. If one collapses, the companion gets ejected out the deep end of space and time—stumbling, groping, searching. 

Three years later and he’s still searching. 

Hey Google: Can stars still be seen from Madrid? 

The results for light pollution pop up. In a city of light, even light cannot be seen. How ironic, he thinks, that Sae is now a shining thing, flaring tendrils a million light years away. Post-nebula and he still loses himself in people who look exactly like him.

But that past has already come and gone, leaving nothing but the future behind. In the next dream cycle, Rin too will die, sputtering and choking, like a firework lit from within—violence in free fall. And when the time comes, he will leap off the fire escape, the city blocks spinning and spinning, every second a little death. The faster he falls, the more alive he’ll feel. He’ll drop all the way down until the only way he can go is up. And then he’ll ascend, floating past the skyscrapers, the streets, the sprawling metropolis. His toes curled, caught on the hook of night, the burnt flesh peeling back on bone. Floating until he disappears, his body nothing but white light.

Someday his brother will drown himself in his own artificial brightness. And Rin will follow, screaming, rearing, and set ablaze.

If you die Nii-chan, I think I’ll die along with you.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

There are rare moments when seasons die a sunless death, quiet and wilting into the earth. Rin’s final birthday without Sae falls on one such month—a red September during which nature bleeds, the autumn leaves rusting around Engakuji Temple. He’s taken up long walks during that time, pacing for hours around the park nearby. Something about taking his mind off things. Something about counting his own losses.

By late afternoon, his hands are shoved fist-deep into his coat pockets, on track to finish his ninth lap around the perimeter. The daylight has long pooled down his back, tiny dollops of brightness slow-dripping and honeyed, settling into the hollow divots of his spine. The mise-en-scène frames him in a languorous ochre—the kind of lighting reserved solely for an aged romance. And the wind plays his lover, its post-meridian breath tender as it brushes against his cheek. It’s all a range of motions from there. He takes another step, adjusts a stray earbud, then tugs his scarf all the way up to his nose. Ten laps now, and he still walks. The only time he ever stops is when he stalls mid-way to check his phone. 

Zero messages received. Message not delivered.

His thumb hovers briefly over the send button. The cursor at the end blinks with an almost human hesitancy before it opens its mouth, swallowing everything back up. The screen clears itself again, reduced to nothing but absence: a small square of light where silence reigns. Rin sighs before trudging home, a thousand words lodged into the back of his throat.

Nii-chan, I miss you. 

The kitchen is empty by the time he slides open the shoji, removing his shoes with practiced ease before padding across the soft tatami. His mother’s gone on an errand for groceries, her hastily scrawled note tucked under his door with a bowl of persimmons. The house is empty, the joss sticks still smoking in the living room, tips warm and powder-soft. He grows heady on their incense, locking himself away in his bedroom and drawing the curtains. His old Fujitsu laptop whirrs to life, propped up against two pillows and an oversized owl plush. This time he puts on a splatter film, splayed on his stomach as he reels through the opening credits.

He can watch without the subtitles now, even converse with tourists at the station in Enoden. He recalls his teammates’ faces last Saturday—breaths held tender, jaws slackened with faux horror—when he gave out directions in perfect English. Sae would’ve been proud, if only he knew how much it meant. But lately, there hasn’t been a single interruption to Rin’s nights alone, despite how desperately he longs for one. The most his English is good for nowadays is translating the kooky foreign films he puts on rotation, ninety minutes of runtime for thirty-one evenings.

He must have gone through a dozen franchises by now: Halloween specials, 90’s vintage, slashers, the paranormal. The American flicks still remain his favorite, mostly because of the chainsaws. Something about the suspense of disembodiment scratches an itch inside his brain. Like the adrenaline before a final goal, moments before he implodes—naked body slathered in pools of primary color.

In the darkness, the films weave together: a tidal wave of light that washes down his bedroom walls. The victim shrieks before she is bathed in an eerie swathe of red, pierced at the helm of a bloodshot lens. Something about her death is both alien and terrifying, and Rin feels himself come alive again. 

At climax, the light from his laptop is nothing short of searing, carving-knife intensity digging slowly into thin, rousing bodies. He can only watch as the killer sharpens his blade, each stroke a day-bright epiphany, cutting little wounds into the night. His figure is lit up from behind, illuminated in such a way that Rin can see his organs and count every one of his ribs. The scene peels back like water, reflecting montage after montage on the glass display case next to his closet. The trophies electrify themselves in the shadows, each silhouette splayed neatly on the shelf and serrated round the rim. The metal handles distort the characters’ faces in two-frame slashes, decapitating nose from ear, eye from mouth. Another scream rips through the background as Rin digs graves into his palm. This time the murderer chases a mother down the stairs, gleeful when her child fails to keep up. 

He’s seen this scene play out before—three years and eleven months ago, when he first got himself killed. It’s the final match against Tokyo Metropolitan Youth, and he’s running on fumes, ten minutes into additional time. There’s only a few more meters to the goal area, the footsteps fast approaching from his left. He has to make an escape. The opponent closes in behind him, knife in hand, and all he can do is run, body barreling straight toward the camera. 

The impact hits him right before the shot, his leg flaring out in some desperate attempt at a goal. The ball soars as he stumbles forward—violence in free fall, the boy inside him lit from within. In the final moments before he combusts, time stretches itself thin over his bones, smoking and exorcized from the fire. The shadow of his killer looms behind him, arm raised with the promise of metal and memory, the blade gleaming in sparse light. 

Got you.

The child on screen turns around, facial features contorted in dramatic horror. Rin can hear her scream before the lips even part. He can already predict this ending. He can predict the next one after this too. Plight of the final girl: last to die but forever immortalized in her own grief and helplessness.

In six months, he will be named the most valuable player for Kamakura United Youth. In another six, he will be hollowed from the inside out, cursed to feel only the loss inside every win. This motion picture has rewound itself one too many times, the credits rolling and taking him along with them. End scene and he’s standing there in a pool of his own triumph—the grass strewn with painted carcasses—a thousand boys dead at his feet. His knees make hard contact with the earth, nothing but penitence in his eyes. This is all he knows: love and its smoking aftermath, the weight of it iron-hot on his tongue. Victory has never tasted so bitter. 

But it always ends the same. For the final girl, the film star, everyone crucified by the crowd. All good auteurs come from a long line of men who have already run out of time, color pooling past their waists, crashing in over their heads. They don’t want to die, so they preserve their souls into billboards, spool strands of silence into substance. They only shoot what is in their blood: the sensational guts, glory, and gore. Because what better way to keep your memory alive than burn it onto the emulsion side of thirty-five millimeter filmstrip?

The red lights have begun to feel suffocating—the last of his breath now a belt around his neck—as the cameras pan down to a mutilated body. Rin secretly envies the child’s soaked shirtsleeves, the ground beneath her perfused in violent color. If only he could be filled with something that beautiful. But instead he was given the body of a pale child filled with longing, constantly waiting for a change and constantly wishing for something to flow out of him. 

Eventually the clock strikes twelve and Rin closes his laptop, the backs of his eyelids whited out, brain overstimulated from the psychedelic screams. His brother’s portrait blurs in his peripheral vision, overexposed from the red glow, staring up at him from the cluttered nightstand. And in the moment, he briefly wonders if Sae left Japan in search of a new image. Perhaps Spain was just ninety minutes of solid technicolor screen where people could scream without horror, where the protagonist could freely bleed. And in the end, there was no death. The audience remains seated in theaters, their memories replaying over and over, bodies forever housed in cinema.

At the director’s cut, Rin’s consciousness falls under, hand still clutching the frame. End scene and Sae’s blown-out face smiles just a little into the darkness.

© verysium 2024 / please do not translate, repost, or plagiarize any of my works

[beneathtreemomo]

Names Amongst the Dead

I got another commission from @sakura-rose12 of Kit!!! Beautiful boy and 3/4ths of his qpr (plus also his eventual boyfriend. No, I will never make a straightforward relationship. It's too fun to make them deep and meaningful, unable to be explained through words. Law is the last fourth if you were curious lol, he just didn't fit in with the theme) Have a one-shot to go with it :D -----

Kit's back hit the wall hard, causing him to stumble from the awkward angle as his and Alvarus’ legs found purchase on the steps.

Cold metal pressed against his skin; Kit froze, making the wise decision not to move.

"Oh?" Kit asked, fighting the urge to tilt his head. "I thought we'd gotten past you pulling a sword on me."

“Highness…” Alvarus breathed, a shaky awe to it that never really went away.

It made Kit huff as he smiled down at the ex-knight. “Hi, Alva.”

Brilliant sapphire eyes melted, Alvarus' sharp-edged smile turning into something softer. The distance between them was already small; Kit could feel Alvarus’ breath against his skin, knew that if Penguin or Shachi caught sight of them, he'd never hear the end of their teasing.

“Are you well?” Alvarus asked, without fail.

“Better than ever.” Kit replies, always.

A beat passed as Alvarus’ gaze studied Kit. He always made sure Kit wasn't lying to him, especially after the one time Kit had genuinely tried, and Kit could never find it in him to be mad about it.

He sighed as he determined there was nothing amiss; Kit chuckled as Alvarus seemed to collapse against him, knocking their foreheads together.

“Stop worrying me, please,” Alvarus mumbled, rubbing his nose against Kit's. His body was warm, a comforting blanket against the chill of the winter island's sea. “You’re one of few things I have left from our home. I don't think I could handle watching your vivre card try to burn a second time.”

“I’ll do my best,” Kit said after a moment, feeling the sword drop away as Alvarus sunk into the embrace. “But I can’t make any promises. You know that.”

Now that he could properly move again, Kit lifted a hand to tangle it in Alvarus’ hair, fingernails lightly scratching at the base of his neck. He returned the nuzzle, pressing his cheek against Alvarus' before pushing back his hat with a gentle hand.

Alvarus' eyes closed as he leaned into the touch with a soft sigh. “Why must all of you Lagthas be so difficult?”

Kit chuckled, pressing his lips to Alvarus’ temple. “Runs in the blood, I’m afraid.”

----

“Hey, Sabo, I—whoa!!”

As soon as Kit stepped foot into the room Sabo had chosen during their stay, a hand had wrapped around his wrist and yanked him inside.

The door was shut with a muted thud, though Kit barely managed to notice as he was slammed into the wall just next to it.

“You!”

For a moment, all Kit could see was Sabo’s jacket and the frills of his cravat. Then Sabo leaned down, caging Kit in, and his eyes were like fire.

Kit’s heart skipped a beat, unease settling low in his gut.  “…Me?”

“Were you ever going to tell us?” Sabo asked, voice low. “About who you really are?”

The unease turned into lead, sinking and pulling Kit down with it. “This is who I really am.”

“Liar,” He hissed, leaning in closer. Kit felt rather than saw Sabo’s hand moving, and with a jump he raised his hands between them to try and placate the fuming man. “I know that you’re a prince!”

Shit. He’d been afraid of that answer, even though he’d expected it. Kit really should start to know better.

“Well, sure, but—"

“Is this just a joke to you?” Sabo asked, hand pressing just enough into Kit’s side to keep him pinned. Something slipped in his voice, cracking and splintering with the confirmation his findings had been right; Kit hadn’t looked away from Sabo’s gaze at all, but only now could he see the grief and panic at the edges of his eyes.

Kit’s heart sank. “What? Sabo, no. Why would I be joking about any of this?”

“Because that’s what all nobles do in situations like this,” Sabo hissed, lips curling into a snarl. “Lie and trick us, just to hurt us behind our backs.”

“I’m not lying!”

“Then why didn’t you tell us?! If you hurt my brothers the way you hurt your people, Prince, I swear—”

Tears pricked Kit’s eyes at the low blow, heart hurting like he’d been stabbed. He shoved Sabo away and was, admittedly, a little shocked that Sabo let him. “What the fuck is your problem?!” He shouted. He knew it was too quick of a flip, but he'd thought Sabo of all people would understand, and instead he was being accused of wanting to hurt his friends.

Sabo merely stared at him, hands clenched into fists at his sides. Kit didn’t move away from the wall, but now it was his turn to snarl at Sabo. “Look in the goddamn mirror! You’re a nobleman from birth, too!”

“Watch what you say next.” The harshness in Sabo’s voice sent a shock of fear down Kit’s spine, but he didn’t stop.

“Oh, don’t be such a hypocrite.” Kit snapped back, standing tall even as Sabo’s glare sharpened back into something dangerous. “I’d already run by the time the kingdom fell; your research showed this, I know it did. Everyone knows Prince Rori disappeared three years prior."

He scoffed, feeling words he didn't want to admit spill from his mouth without his say. “What, would I be in your good graces if I had stayed to be Haesgard’s toy? Or gone back to be a lamb to the slaughter the second I caught wind of Valstasia’s fall? Forgive me for doing what my mother and Lavi sacrificed themselves for.”

He didn’t notice the way Sabo’s anger faltered as he spoke, eyes growing wide with dread as the implications of things not even the Revolutionaries would have found out slipped from Kit’s lips.

“I thought we were friends,” Kit continued, glaring at Sabo through watering eyes. “You said you trusted me because Ace and Luffy trusted me. Didn’t realize it was so easy to lose, too.”

Fed up with the conversation—annoyed because he’d actually been excited to see Sabo during this mission of his, only for it to turn into this mess of a shouting match—Kit shouldered his way past Sabo to the door.

“I’m not like those nobles you grew up hating. Don’t talk to me again until you figure that out.”

Sabo stared at the door, almost wishing Kit had slammed it shut. It would make it easier to dispel the anger still thrumming in his veins, maybe even get rid of the guilt that started settling in his chest.

That… wasn’t what he expected to happen.

Looking back, it should have been.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, fingers lingering on his scar. “Shit... I just messed up, didn't I?”

....He really should have known better.

---

Kit headed back to his room, a slight skip in his step. He’d managed to convince Law to lay down and nap, finally, and Cora had promised to keep him there until their captain could form coherent sentences again. Tang had surfaced for a while, as well, to let in some much needed fresh air and get the crew some sun.

Mostly, Kit was just glad they were headed away from Wano, and he could spend one more day not thinking about the situation looming over his shoulders.

Except, now he was thinking about it. Dammit.

His steps slowed. It… was okay to wait a few more days, right?

It was too nice a day to think about existential dread, and he didn’t want to worry Law when he woke. After that whole mess of an island, none of the crew needed to worry about him and his decades-old problem. It had waited this long—it could wait a little more.

But there had been that letter….

“Hey, Kit, what’s got you all broody?”

Kit startled, a tiny little yelp managing to leave his lips before he shut it down just as fast as he looked up.

Ace stood there across from him, hands in his pockets and an easy smile on his face. “Cat got your tongue?”

“Ace!” Kit breathed out a sigh of relief, leaning back against the wall. “Don’t startle me like that!”

“Sorry,” He said, completely unapologetic, “Being a ghost does that to someone, I’ve learned.”

Kit laughed, having to admit he had a point. “That’s fair. But your fire’s usually a lot louder than that, so I’m surprised you hid so well.”

“Hm.” Ace came closer, concern creasing his brow. “I don’t know about that, Kit. I think you’re just… distracted. You okay?”

No, but Kit’s pretty sure he hasn’t been for a while.

“It’s nothing,” He promised, tasting ash on his tongue. “Just thinking, is all.”

“Ahh, I see.” Ace nodded, humming thoughtfully a moment later. Kit raised a brow as he stepped into his space, resting an arm above Kit’s head. “Well, how about I help you stop thinking for a bit, hm?”

As he spoke, Ace brought a hand up to take Kit’s chin between his forefinger and thumb, stroking Kit’s bottom lip. Kit huffed a laugh at the action, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Oh? And how are you going to do that?”

“I’m sure you could come up with something, eh, Enchanter?” Ace all but purred, eyes locked onto Kit’s. It made Kit’s heart race, excitement thrumming to life in his veins as Ace leaned ever closer—

Only for Ace to yelp as he suddenly fell through both Kit and the wall.

Kit burst out laughing while Ace let out a dismayed cry, covering his smile with his hand as Ace righted himself. He turned back to Kit, all charm replaced by a sheepish smile and heavy flush down to his chest that had Kit’s heart turning to mush.

“Guess that didn’t really… go well, huh?”

“No,” Kit disagreed, still giggling as he lowered his hand. “No, I think it worked exactly how you wanted it to.”

Ace pouted as he readjusted his hat where it had fallen askew. “But I wanted a kiss.”

With a smile Kit walked past, flicking the string of his cap up to Ace’s nose as he did. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you back in your body eventually. I’ve got a lead.”

“Wait—really?!” Perking up much like an excited dog, Ace cheered and ran to give Kit a giant hug.

Only to fall flat on his face as he, once again, went right through. Kit’s laughter was heard all the way up to the sundeck.

[hazelira]

frosted glass

The gymnasium was loud, with sneakers squeaking against polished floors and the crowd roaring in unison as Jake moved effortlessly across the court. He was flawless—every movement calculated, every play executed with precision. Your boyfriend was the picture of perfection, his jersey clinging to him in a way that only added to his undeniable allure.

And you hated it—not him, never him—but how his perfection magnified your flaws, and his world felt like it was suffocating yours.

The game ended, the buzzer signalling a victory for Jake’s team. His teammates swarmed him, slapping his back and congratulating him for another win. You watched from the bleachers, heart heavy, wondering how you’d gotten here—to this place where his presence felt like both a comfort and a knife to the heart.

Jake’s eyes found yours in the crowd, a fleeting smile tugging at his lips before disappearing into the locker room. That was his way—quick smiles, passing glances, and walls so high you’d stopped trying to climb them.

When he emerged, his damp hair fell over his forehead; his gym bag slung over his shoulder. He approached you with long strides and confidence like he owned the world. Sometimes, you thought he did.

“You ready to go?” he asked, his voice cold, devoid of the warmth you used to drown in.

“Yeah,” you replied softly, pulling your jacket tighter around you. The night air nipped at your skin as you walked side by side, a gap that felt like miles stretching between you.

Jake didn’t ask how you were. He didn’t talk about the game, either. You wondered if he knew you needed him to say anything to pierce the unbearable silence. But he was Jake, who didn’t have time for emotions and held himself so perfectly together that it made you feel like a mess just standing next to him.

He opened the passenger door for you in his car, as always. The gesture, once sweet, now felt like habit, like muscle memory instead of affection. You slipped inside, the leather seat cold against your skin.

As he drove, his hand rested on the gear shift, mere inches from yours. You stared at it, your fingers itching to reach out, but you didn’t. You couldn’t. Not when his touch felt more like ice than fire these days.

The words you’d been choking on finally spilled out as he pulled up outside your house.

“Jake,” you began, your voice trembling, “do you ever feel like... being together hurts more than it should?”

His jaw tightened, and his grip on the steering wheel briefly faltered. He didn’t look at you. “What are you talking about?”

You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “Forget it. You wouldn’t understand.”

Jake’s hand shot out, gripping your wrist before you could reach for the door handle. “Try me.”

You stared at him, at his perfect face, his stormy eyes searching yours. “I love you,” you whispered, the words tasting like saltwater, “but sometimes, I feel like I’m not enough for you. Like I’ll never be.”

His lips parted as if to argue, but he closed them just as quickly. The silence between you grew heavier, his grip on your wrist loosening until it fell away entirely.

You frowned. “Jake—”

“I don’t know how to love you, right,” he interrupted, his gaze dropping to his lap. “You deserve better than this. Better than me.”

Your heart splintered, the ache spreading through your chest like wildfire. “Don’t do that. Don’t decide for me what I deserve.”

He finally looked at you, his eyes darker than you’d ever seen them. “Then tell me how to fix this. How to fix us.”

You swallowed hard, your vision blurring. “I don’t know. But life without you... it hurts. And being with you hurts even more.”

For a moment, Jake didn’t say anything. Then he reached out, his fingers brushing yours hesitantly like he feared you’d pull away. You didn’t.

“I’ll try,” he said, his voice breaking in a way you’d never heard before. “I’ll try to be better—for you. For us.”

You nodded, tears streaming silently down your cheeks. His hand tightened around yours, his touch still cold but no longer distant.

It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t a solution. But for now, it was enough.

The car was silent, but the weight of your words lingered, hanging in the air like a thick fog neither of you could escape. Jake’s eyes softened, his thumb brushing the tear that had slipped down your cheek. Without a word, he leaned closer, his hand moving to cradle your face gently.

“Jaeyunie…” You whispered, voice cracking under the strain of all the feelings you’d been holding inside.

But before you could say more, his lips met your forehead, soft and tender, as if he were trying to erase the hurt, to wipe away the mess that had spilled from your heart. His lips moved down to your cheek, pressing a kiss to each tear-streaked line like he was memorizing every inch of you. His touch was different now, more intimate, as though the distance he’d built up was dissolving, brick by brick.

“I’m here,” he murmured between kisses, his breath warm against your skin. “I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

You closed your eyes, the soft press of his lips soothing some of the pain, but there was still an ache in your chest that wouldn’t fade. You didn’t know if it would ever fade. But with every kiss, every touch, Jake made it feel a little less unbearable.

“I’m sorry…” he whispered, his voice breaking ever so slightly. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I don’t want to be the reason you feel like this. I—” He paused, as if searching for the right words. “I don’t know how to fix everything. But I’ll try, I promise. I’ll try harder than I ever have.”

His lips found yours then, soft, tentative, as if testing the waters. You didn’t pull away this time. Instead, you leaned into the kiss, feeling the warmth of his mouth against yours, the reassurance in the way he held you. His hands cupped your face, tilting it gently so he could kiss you deeper, pressing against you with a tenderness that made your heart ache.

“I’ll be better,” Jake whispered against your lips, his words barely audible. “I swear. For you. For us.”

You nodded, tears still falling, but now they felt like something different—something lighter, a release. Jake’s hands slid down to hug your shoulders, pulling you closer as if you were the one thing in the world he couldn’t bear to lose.

You couldn’t find the words to express everything you felt. But with each kiss, each whisper, you didn’t need to. His touch was saying everything. It was the kind of reassurance you never knew you needed, the kind that calmed the storm inside you and made the world feel like it wasn’t so cold after all.

“I love you so much, sweetheart” he said quietly, as he kissed your cheeks, your eyes, your lips. “too much, too.”

“I love you too,” you murmured back, your voice barely a breath, but enough to remind you both that, despite everything, you were still here. Together.

And as his hands gently wiped away your remaining tears, you finally allowed yourself to believe in the possibility that, maybe—just maybe—things could get better. That the hurt would eventually fade. And that, with Jake, you didn’t have to face it all alone.

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[arctrooper69]

As Iron Sharpens Iron

"As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another" Proverbs 27:17

Beta-read by @dragonrider9905

Chapter 5:

Previous // Next

Warnings: Hurt feelings and misunderstandings.

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

You felt like you were going to throw up.

“....useful asset… reckless…. irritable… not a member of the team to me…”

You'd gotten back to the ship earlier than planned, entering quietly as not to wake Omega. You froze upon hearing your name in Hunter's voice and then in Tech’s. It felt wrong, listening in to a private conversation, but you couldn't stop the way your heart sped up, sending butterflies swirling about your stomach upon hearing Hunter's voice. He sounded confused, upset even. So against your better judgment, you stayed. Now you wished you hadn't.

Is that really what they think of me? Reckless, irresponsible. An asset.

Not even a member of the team. An asset.

You curled into the pillow, hidden away behind the thick curtains that Wrecker had hung around your bunk.

Probably so that they wouldn't have to see me - so that they can just forget I'm here until I'm useful.

Tears burned hot, soaking the pillow in a silent grief. It hurt. You thought you'd finally found a home - finally found where you belonged. Now you knew that was a lie.

First Hunter. Now the whole squad.

The jagged remains of wishful hope that still lingered in your chest fractured further, splintering like glass.

You could still see it clearly. Though it was only a glimpse caught in nanoseconds, the sight of it branded itself behind your eyes like a hot iron. Hunter and Tara, lips locked in a moment of passion. Her fingers tangled in his hair. His hand on her waist.

The datapad lying forgotten on the bunk at your feet chimed loudly, drawing you back into the moment with a start. Almost instinctively, your fingers curled into fists, hands shaking, nearly drawing blood as your fingernails dug against the skin of your palm, clenching ever tighter until the skin around your knuckles turned white. Another mission. Echo must’ve been out at Cid’s. You scrolled through the dossier he’d sent, annoyance flashing across your face. They’d already assumed you’d be ready and able like nothing had happened.

Nothing has happened - at least not to them.

It was so easy to forget that all the turbulence that boiled under your skin was simply a product of your own mind.

One more mission. One more day.

You’d give them this. One last mission because you couldn’t bear to let them down. No matter what they thought of you, the love you felt for this squad was still there scrambling in a desperately futile attempt to repair the shattered pieces of hope that stubbornly refused to leave. Hope like that was dangerous. You’d only get hurt again - yet it continued to fight back.

But what if…

No.

Could it have been a misunderstanding?

No. Stop.

Am I overreacting for nothing?

If you keep this up you’ll just end up worse than before. Just accept that you don’t belong here. One last mission then you’ll leave.

But I don’t want to go…

Yes you do. It’s better this way.

Taking a deep breath, you wiped your face and quickly headed to the fresher keeping your eyes down lest anyone see the telling red-rimmed, swollen eyes and splotchy patches adorning your face.

It’s all professional now. This is just another job. The mission comes before all else. Emotions get you killed.

The cool water soothed the heat of your skin. You stared into the mirror making no attempts to dry the wet dripping down your face, allowing it to wash away all evidence of hurt. It was surprisingly easy to allow yourself to slip back into the gruff bounty hunter facade you’d kept up for so long before joining the Batch.

Focus on the task at hand. Get the job done.

Sitting back down on the bed, you drew the curtains again and unlocked the small trunk that held what little belongings you had. Sitting inside was the trooper doll companion you were making for Omega - stuffed with one of Hunter's old bandanas. It was only half finished.

And probably won’t ever be now, you thought as you picked it up, fingers running gently over the soft material. The tears threatened to come again at the thought of a memory that was no longer yours to make.

Something stuck out from beneath an extra jacket. Against your better judgment, you pulled it out and sighed. A bittersweet nostalgia knotted your stomach. There you were beside Hunter - Omega squeezed between you, smiling proudly despite the grime that covered her tunic. It was her first training exercise. You smiled proudly down at her. Even Hunter sported some semblance of a grin.

The fingertips encroaching on the sides of the image denoted Wrecker as the camera operator. Tech and Echo engaged in ship repairs in the background.

What you wouldn't give to go back to that time. Everything seemed simpler then.

Swallowing hard, you put the holopic back at the bottom of the trunk, covering it fully with the jacket. You shoved the remainder of your supplies into your pack and shut the trunk, letting the lock click into place with a resounding finality.

Clenching your teeth, you took a deep breath. One more mission. One more day.

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

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[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Forget-Me-Not 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Loki

Summary: You return to your childhood home to put the past to rest.

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You never really thought of Hammer Ford as home. You only ever tried to forget it and the turbulent years of your childhood. You let the memories haze away with the chaos of the urban rush. Office doors and honking cars easily overwrote the map work of your mind. A less than glamorous life, but peaceful. That’s all you ever wanted.

Your return is inevitable. You knew that. For years, you outran that fact. One day, you would need to face those dusty rural roads and the whispers in the wind. That day has come despite your stubbornness. A week after the news came and you could find no other excuse to stay away.

Not home, just the past. A piece of you you can’t erase. A shame you’ll never fully shake.

The welcome sign, beneath an iron statue of a hammer on a cloud, marks the village edge. You grip the wheel tighter and swallow dryly. Your bladder aches from the coffee you chugged after the last rest stop. You still have some ways to go.

Funny to think that despite its sprawling roads sparse layout, that the populace is so tight knit, the small hamlet untouched by the world outside. The same red barn up on the hill, the gate of the Grove in all its resplendence, and the short strip of businesses before the earth rolls into hills and flattens to fields.

You steer off into the northeast. The Maps app stopped working a few miles back. You don’t need the automated voice to guide you. It all comes back to you so clearly. Just around this curve and behind the barn, there’s the old path behind the Berrys. On and on, behind the overgrown brush to the house by the river. 

Your tires mulch in the dirt as you brake. You shift and shut off the engine, looking out at the peeling wooden facade. The house was once a cottage in the glory days of the village, then it was passed along until your parents’ signed the deed. By that time, it was already derelict.

It hasn’t gotten better. The windows are cracked and dusty, the door splintered, and the front steps crooked. You get out and cross your arms, breathing in the damp forest air.

You feel nothing looking up at that shit hole. You thought the sight of it would bring the flood, but nothing. You shake your head. They said your mother was found in the kitchen, at the table with a bottle of vodka. You never expected anything different for her. At last, she’ll be happy. She’s off to see your father again.

You approach the porch but can’t make yourself climb the steps. There’s something blocking, some unseen wall. You just want to turn around, get in the car, and pretend it’s all a dream. Just like you had for all those years.

You lean your head back and blow out through your lips. Eventually you’ll have to go inside. You need sleep. You could curl up in your backseat again but your hips are ragged from last night. You’re supposed to meet Jan tomorrow. He’s got a casket ready and then you have to go to the church to discuss the service. You don’t think they’ll be much of one.

The hotel isn’t an option. Not for you.

As you glare up at the front door, you hear snapping sticks and the hum of another engine. You turn and watch the dark shadow slowly rolling between the trees. The forest green car turns in just behind your bumper and idles as you squint at the tinted windshield. 

A curious villager isn’t unexpected. Everyone probably knows old Nadia is dead. You just hoped they’d leave you alone, at least until tomorrow.

You cross your arms and steel yourself. The driver’s door opens and a tall man steps out, his imperious nose sniffing the scent of river water and crinkling. Your chest feels as if it might gave in as his emerald eyes meet yours.

Loki Odinson. The last person you expected. The last person you ever wanted to run into. He turns and opens the back door of the car, reaching in and pulling out a basket of flowers. Your temper curdles up to the back of your throat. How dare he?

“My mother and father send their condolences,” he shuts the door and strides across the dirt. You look down at his leather shoes, should he be dirtying them here?

You just stare at him. You have no words, not that you’re much of a talker. What is there to say? Your mother’s dead and you’re stuck dealing with this dirt hole.

“Hm,” he angles past you and puts the basket on the top step, “should brighten the place up.”

You keep your arms crossed as you stare at him. He looks at you again, his eyes flickering, as if he’s surprised by your gaze. He just remembers the girl who kept her head down, the one with no voice and no backbone.

“Very sorry to hear it. Rather sad way to go. All alone.”

“Tell your parents, it’s appreciated,” you turn and march up the steps, dropping your arms.

You hear a scrape and shift to peek at his silhouette from the corner of your eye. He has his foot propped on the lowest step. The porch groans loudly under your weight.

“And I drove all the way here,” he says.

You shrug. You didn’t ask or expect it. That isn’t your problem.

He’s silent, waiting. He’s just like the rest of Hammer Ford, he hasn’t changed. He’s still the spoiled brat awaiting his prize. Well, you haven’t got one for him. You have nothing for him, no tears, no anger, just indifference.

“I see,” he says at last, “you must be tired from the road, no doubt. Of course, you’ve just lost a parent, I can hardly expect glowing conversation… not that I ever did from you.”

You don’t flinch. You go to the front door and pull out the key you dug out of your old jewelry box. It still works. You let yourself in as the hinges whine loudly. You don’t look back as you let the door clatter shut behind you. 

There’s a lull before you hear the engine flip and hum. You stand, listening, waiting for him to be gone. Just like when you were young, hiding behind that door from that boy. Well, you’re both grown now.

[emwritesstuff]

as the world caves in | ch. 11 | bucky barnes x reader

synopsis: You are a ghost story. A former Air Force pilot who had her plane shot down by Germany in 1945, but here you were in 2023, alive and frozen in your 25-year-old body.

You haven’t seen Bucky since the 1940’s, before his fall, before you went on a suicide mission only to come back alive. You aren’t sure reliving those memories – and being a living memory of everything the man has lost – is the best for him.

But you and Bucky won’t be apart for long.

masterlist | AO3

notes: :') We've come to the final chapter. Short and sweet. I still want to write an epilogue (yes I've seen the Thunderbolts* trailer) but this is the official ending of the fic! Thank you for riding this ride with me. (warnings: fluff, angst, mentions of death, depressive states, wwii) (word count: 1.9K)

eleven: sunrise

The most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

His best friend, in a sundress, his jacket around her shoulders.

Bucky had dutifully ignored all of Sam’s quips and eyebrow wiggling as much as he could, but he couldn’t ignore this. As a familiar, melodic tune filled the summer air, his feet carried him half against his will to where she was sitting, his hand offering something he wasn’t sure he could deliver.

He hadn’t taken a girl to dance in seventy-some years.

But alas, a song was playing and he could feel the warmth of her body as they began swaying along the dancefloor, danger and elation wrestling for the main spot in his chest but finding no room. She’d taken all of it.

While they were like this, muscle memory kicking in as Bucky led them as a pair across the dance floor, it was like 1945 and beyond had never happened. He wasn’t the Winter Soldier, or the ghost of it. She wasn’t a WASP WWII hero with too much baggage and responsibilities. Just a boy and a girl, how it should’ve been if things were simple and fate wasn’t cruel.

He could’ve found the courage to ask her to dance, again and again, and ruin their friendship with a romance. They’d have a little house by the coast to go for the summer, and she’d laugh at how much sand he’d gotten in his shoes. Jimmy Barnes would’ve given her his last name, and by 2023 they’d both be not much but memories in their grandchildren’s heads.

“Buck.”

Her voice brought him back to a reality where two people who should be memories from the past were still alive and kicking. And what a blessing it was, to have her be more than just a memory or a photograph.

What a curse, to want to kiss her so badly and spoil the one good thing he’d gotten out of all of this bullshit.

He took Sam’s interruption and ran with it, literally, leaving her standing alone on the dancefloor as shame and self-consciousness creeped in. Because he could handle losing everything else, but not this. Not her.

Seventy-something years and Bucky was still a damned coward.

He reflected again on this many hours later, staring at the rising sun as if it was mocking him. A new day so he could do exactly what he’d been doing: eat around the edges, careful not to take too much but never really savoring anything.

He’d almost done it back at her house, her having the grace of smoothing over the awkwardness like the good diplomat she was. It was like he never learned; here we was again, being pulled in her direction like a magnet, his body aching and his insides burning for her in a way he didn’t remember ever feeling.

What used to be a sweet teenaged infatuation evolved into a ground-splintering love, not for the girl she used to be, but for the woman she was now.

It’s what drove Bucky up the stairs, leaving the laughing sunrise behind him, as if a new day wasn’t to come and the chance of his world being shattered wasn’t imminent.

He should be content with the bickering and the gentle, lingering touches; he should be fine with meeting once in a while to catch up on each other’s lives, admiring her from afar as if she was a star he could only wish upon. He wasn’t.

Bucky wasn’t content with much, lately.

Any doubt was vanished when he stepped into the corridor of rooms 302-316 and found her still standing there, wide eyes mirroring his, wet with longing and desperation.

In the spam of seconds, he took her face in his hands and did something he should’ve done seventy-something years ago: he kissed her.

Your fingers found his wrists, seeking leverage from them as a lifetime of fantasizing turned into reality and threatened to make you float away. Your name fell from his lips in a shaky whisper and he almost dared to pull away, but you didn’t let him. You should’ve kissed him that day in English soil, before you both died to the world and the time you belonged to. You kissed him in the present for your younger self, as if you were running out of time.

You weren’t. You knew you weren’t. But rational thinking could not reach you, not there in between his arms. You kissed him for your present self, who loved him so quietly for so long you forgot how loud your heart could be. He took it in stride, tangling his fingers in your hair and making you sigh.

He whispered your name again, pleading, but you shook your head, unsure what you’re denying him of; you tasted the salty tears before you could feel them on his face, or yours, it’s all the same at this point.

“Sugar, please look at me.” He said, still holding your face and planting kisses over your closed eyes. “Please,”

You looked up at him and his silver-rimmed eyes, your own spilling over despite his effort in wiping the emotion off your cheeks. “Bucky—”

You needed to tell him that you could not bear to have him explain himself; that you understood, that you would never hold this moment against him, but he didn’t let you. He ran his thumb over your trembling bottom lip, and you quietened.

“I should’ve done this such a long time ago. I’ve been so afraid to lose you I couldn’t bring myself to tell you how much I love you. I love you like crazy, because that’s what I am,” You’d be ready to disagree but sobs filled your throat, your hands fisted on his shirt the only thing tethering you to earth. “So much has changed but not this— never this. If anything this only grew. I’ve loved you for a lifetime, so please, please, be mine.”

Your hand reached up, tracing the line of his brow, his nose, his lips. He leaned into it, free from any previous inhibition. You’d been so blind in your fear. In your denial. Bucky Barnes now laid open on your palm, crying like the boy he once was and asking you to do the very thing you’ve been doing all of these years.

“There hasn’t been a single minute in this in this life where I haven’t been completely yours, James Barnes. I’ve loved you for a lifetime,” His shoulders sagged in relief, and he smiled brighter than the rising sun. Brighter than two suns, even.

Early morning bled into afternoon. The heat of the New Orleans air made your bare skin feverish and sticky, but neither you nor Bucky could bring yourselves to untangle your tangled limbs or move. His metal arm was the only solace against the heatwave, running up and down your back and making you shiver.

“This feels like a dream,”

 “I don’t think we’d be so sweaty if it was, Sugar.” He tightened his arm around you. “This is real. ’Sides, it’s so much better than any dream my fucked-up head could have concocted.”

You hummed a protest, raising your torso to look at him. “Don’t say that.”

“Mean it,” He cupped your face with his human hand, and you sighed. “I’ve got permanent damage. There is going to be bad days. This is why it took me so long. I just don’t wanna be more trouble than I’m worth,”

“Bucky…”

He insisted.  “I know you’re stubborn enough to stick around, I just—”

“I spent two weeks in bed when you resurfaced as the soldier.” You blurted out, sitting up fully. There was concern in Bucky’s eyes, and he kept you in place as you searched for a piece of clothing to cover up. Your eyes burned with the promise of more crying. “I’ve worked for S.H.I.E.L.D for decades and you were right under my nose,”

Your voice broke, then you finally found the shirt Bucky discarded early on the floor. “I took orders from the people making you a slave. I couldn’t find you because they kept you from me. Peggy, Howard, everyone. If I’d known—”

“None of that was your fault.” He said, urgent hands reaching for you to get back in bed with him. “You were just as much a weapon as I was. I never held that against you and I never will,”

“I felt like a fraud. Steve had to come and help me bathe, eat, brush my hair.” You mumbled, wiping the stray tears with the back of your hand. “I felt like I didn’t deserve the privilege of having you in my life again. And I was terrified that you wouldn’t want to be. I’m so sorry, Bucky.” He shook his head, sitting up with you. Leaned close so he could rest his forehead against yours. “And I was a coward for not saying I loved you before you went on that fuckin’ mission in ’42. Acting like a prick because I was too scared to lose you.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad I didn’t listen.”

If you had, you wouldn’t be here. You’d never take the serum, and both Bucky and Steve, your boys, would be too further in time for you to catch. You’d be nothing but a face in each other’s memories.

“You never listen…”

You both chuckled, a pathetic, half-drowned thing on your end. “Exactly. So quit saying I’m too good for you. We’re exactly the same,”

Bucky shook his head again but gave in, kissing you sweetly then placing a kiss on your shoulder. You doubted he’d truly let that go, and you were ready to argue with him about it for the rest of time. He wrapped his arms around you and you did the same, staying like that for a while. Doing nothing but breathing in one another and allowing the past and the guilt to dissolve away.

“That’s why I’ll still complain about your terrible coffee.” Bucky scoffed at that, tightening his hold on you as if it was a punishment and not the best thing ever. “And make fun of you for being terrible with technology. Help you through the bad days and enjoy every minute of the good,”

“My coffee’s not that bad,” He grumbled, not addressing anything else and knowing you’d read between the lines. You both laughed.

“Just because this is going to be a long, winding road, doesn’t mean I don’t want to walk it with you, James.”

“’Till there’s two suns in the horizon?”

You hummed.  “I don’t think this world is caving in anytime soon. You know it, people’ve tried.”

He grimaced. “Yeah.”

“Then let’s live, Bucky Barnes. You and me. Just… live.”

Bucky’s eyes were warm under the dim lights of your motel room. This moment wasn’t the world wasn’t at its end. It probably never would.

This… this was just the beginning.

He smiled. The crooked, perfect show of teeth Bucky brought from the past just for you. “We ain’t getting any younger, Sugar.”

[croxxbow13]

Writing Prompt #747:

“Where were you when I needed you?”

Chosen by @comfygreycardigan

Summary: Merle doesn’t understand why Daryl is angry at him when he comes home.

Merle, Daryl, pre-apocalypse.

Word Count: 707

Warnings: allusions to child abuse, though none is described. Language.

-

His footsteps crunched loudly against the fallen leaves as he stormed through the dense underbrush.

The chill of the night bit at his bare arms, but he didn’t feel it. The heat of the anger that threatened to boil over inside of him outweighed everything else right now.

Some fuckin’ nerve. He expects to just waltz back through the fuckin door and what? I'm supposed to be happy he’s home?

Footsteps crackling behind him in the distance confirmed what he already suspected. Merle was following him.

“Bet you didn’t expect to see me, now did ya baby brother?” He’d said with that same smug smirk he’d seen plastered across his face a thousand times, if he’d seen it once.

Daryl had been in bed when the front door creaked open. He’d assumed it was his old man, stumbling in from the bar, like most nights. And just like most nights, he’d pretended to be asleep.

He didn’t seem to pose a threat if he was asleep.

But when his bedroom door eased open, the sharp light from the kitchen splintering across the darkness, it was his brother’s boxy frame that had been silhouetted in the doorway.

Merle’s footsteps were closer now, he knew these woods just as well as Daryl. Though, knowing him, he’d probably say he knew them better. Like he didn’t just up and disappear four years ago.

Daryl had gone to every dealer he’d ever known Merle to use— he stopped counting after the 6th— trying to find any trace of him before he’d finally gotten a letter postmarked from Camp Lejune.

Gonna go make somethin’ of myself. He’d written. The letters stopped after the first month.

Daryl was barely a teenager when he’d left. Still not having hit puberty, he had been an easy outlet for his old man’s anger.

It had been Daryl’s fault that they’d lost their mom and house in the same fire. It had been Daryl’s fault that his brother had left them too.

“You gonna make me chase you all night?” Merle’s voice broke through the quiet from the bushes behind him before he stepped into the small clearing. The beads of sweat across his brow glinted in the glow of the moonlight that streaked across his face.

The anger he’d been trying to tamper down boiled over at that point, and he spun to face him.

“What’er ya even followin’ me for anyways?” His growled through clenched teeth.

“What’s with the hostility, little brother? You mad I didn’t bring you a souvenir or somethin’?” Merle grinned, his teeth shining brightly between the shadows.

Daryl’s eyes narrowed, his hands balling into fists at his sides. He let out a shaky breath before he spoke.

“You just left. Didn’t even say nothin’, just up and fuckin’ left me. I didn’t even know where you were.” His voice shook and it only made him angrier.

“What the hell you talkin’ about? I told you, I went into the Corp. I needed to do somethin’ with my life. Wanted to...”

“Yeah?” Daryl spat, cutting him short. “And where were you when I needed you?” Daryl felt the sting in his eyes, and he turned away from him then. He wasn’t going to give his brother the satisfaction of seeing him like that. Not after everything.

Merle’s face twisted, his cocky bravado slipping as he eyed his baby brother. When he spoke, his voice was lower. “Daryl—“

“No. You just left! You knew how he was and you still fuckin’ left me.” his voice cracked again and he dug his nails into his palms. “Like it was so easy for you. At least you got a choice.”

Merle held up his hands, his voice even softer now, “I didn’t know it was that bad, man. If I’da known—“

“If you’da known??” Daryl snapped, his voice dripping with venom as he spun back to face him. “You fucking knew. That’s why you just dipped. You were just too much of a pussy to look at me and tell me yourself.”

Merle opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. He dropped his hands to his side, and this time, when Daryl turned and stormed off into the darkness, he didn’t follow.

[secretlovezz]

omg can you elaborate more on the reader making kaz nervous?? like, she loves to tease and he gets so flustred but he secretly loves it?? tyy

I am so sorry this took for-fucking-ever and that it's so short I've been struggling to write 😭, but yes, of course, here's some more of the reader making Kaz nervous 🫶

Kaz Brekker knew he was a strong man. It took a lot to crack the barriers of someone like him and he was proud to say only a handful of people have ever gotten past the facade of his furrowed brows and down turned lips.

When he first met you he was shocked by your very public advancements towards him. You made him feel a certain way and he couldn't understand why. You weren't frightened of him and it was almost like you couldn't take him seriously; it thoroughly aggravated him.

He loathed the way you made him feel with your incessant teasing. It had a way of pulling on his heartstrings so tightly that it made him ache with a need he'd never felt before. Your ceaseless stare made him wriggle and twist in his seat with an almost delightful uneasiness; it made him clench the head of his cane so hard you swear you could hear the crackling of wood splintering.

Sometimes, you'd make a point of being dramatic about it just to piss him off. You'd lean your cheek against the palm of your hand and sigh dreamily as you stared into his bewitchingly darkened eyes. You'd sensually move your hand up his cane fingertips gently grazing over his gloved ones leaning in close behind him, so close to his ear he can feel your breath fan his face, can almost feel the cracked pink skin of your lips on the pale-ness of his skin whispering sweet nothings to him just so you could watch him shutter and let out a shaky breath.

He loathes everything about the way you act with him.

At least that's what he says out loud seemingly to convince himself because no matter the number of sighs that fall from his lips filled to the brim with faux annoyance, complaining on top of brazen remarks, and fiery glares you know deep down he finds everything you do enthralling.

You know thanks to the way he very obviously takes a deep breath as you sway and smirk your way past him -moving in a way that could distract any man if they were to even glance in your direction- savoring the way he can smell your perfume. The way he stares when you giggle in response to his dead-faced witty comebacks when in an irritating conversation with Jesper; that sound shakes him to his core every time he gets the pleasure of hearing it. You can see it in his face when he feels like his lungs give out and collapse from inside of him when you teasingly let out the most beautiful noise he's ever heard, the softest of moans while you stretch your arms above your head. Running his hand through his dark hair and clearing his suddenly congested throat in response.

One of your favorite times to tease him was when going over plans and strategies with everybody. You wanted everyone to lay their eyes on the cracking facade that was Kaz Brekker. The urge to get his heart racing so fast and hard Nina could hear it. You wanted him to twitch and shift so Inej and Jesper could quirk their brows in confusion at his sudden discomfort. Wylan and Mattias tilting their heads at him. It made you smile, the effect you had on him, the way others noticed.

You'd even started taking extra things when on a heist (the others had noticed this too). Picking up amazingly shiny little jewels, ruby-encrusted rings, golden necklaces, anything you with your crow-like nature could pick up for the man you wanted. When said things ended up in a bag on the boss's desk (usually with little notes alongside them) he knew they were from you and you knew his cheeks heated at the gesture without even having to look at him open the gifts.

He swears your smile is the biggest he's ever seen when he wears what you get him. Maybe it was just the thought that he was wearing something that you had given to him or maybe you liked to see him wear things that were yours because it made you feel like he was yours. Yours in a way he's never belonged to anyone. (He liked to think he was yours too once he had some time alone not that he would ever admit to that). Kaz wanting you is why he gave hints as to how much he liked the way you treated him. Sure he said rude things every once in a while but the smirks -becoming more like real smiles- made the passive-aggressive comments worth it. The glances at your lips then quick scoff in disbelief when you spoke in your usual persiflage manner made you stop to bite your lip at his flushed ears the tips red as cherries.

Kaz Brekker had known he was a strong man but you knew you had made him weak in every possible way a girl could.

[magua-vida]

[Death's Mercy excerpts] A Death Jester Spares A Guardswoman + Outcome

(art is probably by AKIMBLYA just like the art for A Deadly Wit, but I couldn't see in the gallery)

Context: Harlequins encounter an unarmed injured guardswoman while on the hunt for humans invading Nequofendi, the main characters being: a grounded but sadistic Death Jester named Adroniel, a forgetful but bold Troupe Master whose name is Duruthiel, and a cryptic Shadowseer called Echo who's often high. They banter about many things in the story, but one of the arguments that stood out to me is whether a "mon'keigh" is worth sparing.

[...] Duruthiel: ‘There’s scarce a patch of unsullied floor to place my feet. Bodies everywhere.’ Adroniel: ‘If you’d been precise, you are stepping on parts of bodies, not whole corpses.’ Echo: ‘And yet in the carnage stirs a soul.’ Duruthiel: ‘What do you mean?’ Echo: ‘In the search of fear a spark of hate…’ Adroniel (enthusiastically): ‘Look! Oh! Oh! This one! I can see it is still breathing, ahahah! (grimly) But not for long.’ (FX - ECHO PREVENTS ADRONIEL FROM SHOOTING) Adroniel (angrily): ‘Ah, what is this, Shadowseer?! Do not interrupt me at the moment of releasing death’s mercy.’ Echo: ‘By your own admission it is spite that moves you.’ Duruthiel: ‘This conversation bored me the first time. I will have no further part of it again.’ (FX - WOUNDED GUARDSWOMAN MOANING FROM PAIN ON THE FLOOR) Echo: ‘Did you see? The eyes desire life and so by your argument it would be spite to end it.’ Adroniel: ‘Did I ever assert that I was above spite?’ Echo: ‘The splinter of your past life can never be fully drawn while you harbor this mood.’

Echo and Adroniel continue to disagree with one another. The guardswoman vocalizes pain. The Shadowseer asks the Death Jester if she's afraid that the human's words would spark her conscience. Adroniel denies, aiming her weapon at her. The wounded person begs to be spared as she is without a weapon, but the Death Jester calls her an animal. She and Adroniel have a brief sass exchange with the former angrily asking the latter to just kill her already. Adroniel is amused by the feisty sass. Echo chimes in that the "blade that hangs is worse than the one that drops swiftly".

A distant explosion sounds off in the distance, signalling that the fight is still going on.

Adroniel: ‘Events are moving on without us. It is time to rejoin the company so I must end its miserable life.’ Echo: ‘Or… spare it?’ Adroniel: ‘Why?’ Echo: ‘Must there be a reason? Think of possibilities, of endless fates yet unplayed. A simple act, the execution of which costs you nothing, might one day bring great harm to She-Who-Thirsts. It is in your gift to deliver a deadly fate, but equally to grant extended life. Is that not powerful to you?’ (FX - WOUNDED GUARDSWOMAN SOBS ON THE FLOOR) Echo: ‘Act without reason for we are the Harlequins of the Laughing God. As a spirit is snatched at whim from damnation, why not spare this life?’ Adroniel (thinking that over and finally taking the gun away): ‘Hm, you may go back to your companions. If our paths cross again, you will die.’

The guardswoman stands and runs away. After just having taken out a Titan from the inside and having gotten out of it, the trio receives a battle report from the Autarch of Yme-Loc and spy the same human they spared returning to her fellow people.

[...] Adroniel: ‘And see there, scrambling through the mud? A lone trooper of the foe, the one I spared?’ Echo: ‘A ripple on the skein set free to the embrace of Morai-Heg once more.’ (FX - IMPERIAL GUARDSMEN REJOICE AT THE ARRIVAL OF THE SPARED GUARDSWOMAN) Duruthiel: ‘They are pleased for your gift, Adroniel.’ Adroniel: ‘Indeed, I… Wait, I spy one among them… garbed differently. See the black coat and gold decoration?’ Duruthiel: ‘A leader of some kind?’ Echo: ‘The others draw back. I smell fear more than duty.’ Adroniel: ‘Why does it raise its weapon towards its own? Ahahahah, do they think it cowardly perhaps?’ Duruthiel: ‘Or tainted by your mercy.’ (FX - DISTANT GUNSHOT) Duruthiel (angrily): ‘Kin slayer!’ Echo: ‘Truly the ways of the mon-keigh are barbaric. What of you, Adroniel? To see your choice made mockery?’ Adroniel: ‘Ahahah, I hope you see the truth now. I am the Death Jester. There is nothing of me that is turned to life, only its ending. My work shall never cease until I claim myself and another steps up to the role.’ Duruthiel: ‘You are not saddened?’ Adroniel: ‘Why should I be sad knowing myself, Duruthiel? Does the rampant ego of the Red Swan depress you? And I am glad for fate has guided me to my next target.’ Echo: ‘To avenge the slaying of the one you spared?’ Adroniel: ‘Do not be so sentimental, Shadowseer. It is merely a glimmer from the skein that has caught my eye. Perhaps, it is a sign, the will of the Laughing God... but, probably not! Ahahahaha!’

The Death Jester readies her cannon.

___________________________________________________________

This is one of those times where we get to see Aeldari-Human interactions that aren't totally negative (roughly), but I do like how much nuance they're given in certain stories like this one. Compared to A Deadly Wit (and likely also because the Death Jester is the main character this time), Adroniel has shown special sadistic spite towards humans that seem to stem from her past compared to when she was slaughtering Orks.

Not art this time, but I just want to share some Harlequin lore that isn't brought up much.

[storytimewithtibby]

warnings: ADULT CONTENT fingering (female receiving), implied abusive history, implied cheating past partner, handsy interaction (consensual), facial disfigurement (past injury) word count: 3000 work - one shot prompts from @creativepromptfills - adventure (x) and @scealaiscoite - a green duffel bag (x) may lists a/n - Matisse belongs to my friend Anna who offered him up to be put to work. do not make use of the character as it is not within my rights to give permission. thanks!

     All you wished for was a damned breeze, something that could shift the heavy air around so it didn’t settle on your skin like a wet sheet. Not thick enough to smother you, but enough to make moving uncomfortable. Maybe if the rain finally fell that would make it easier, hearing movement and grabbing your green duffle to move upstairs. 

     Worse up here, despite the open space, the rafters coated in dust and threatening you with splinters like prickly beasts. It didn’t help that you weren’t supposed to be there, tucked away in a church, hiding from worse than the law. But you’d gotten out, even if it had meant minimizing your belongings to be able to carry your life over one shoulder. 

     But you had made a new friend, one you didn’t have to share with anyone else. Which was nice considering you’d had to share everything, even things that were supposed to be just for you. Broken promises tinkled like glass in the back of your mind even as you shoved the thoughts away, staring up into the slowly darkening area. 

     Dark was good, a smile curling your lip as you found the stairs and began to climb. Given how big the church was, you’d have thought that you would have been caught before now. All those years being quiet, and hiding in the background of everyone else’s story was paying off. Crawling out onto one of the small platforms meant to assist the maintenance crew in cleaning, you tucked your second most important item tight against the brick. 

“Trying to catch me indecent?’ 

     You couldn’t help the grin that curled your lips, hands settling on the forearm that wrapped around your middle to pull you close to the massive chest. His skin was so warm, feeling a gentle scrape of fang against your jaw as he nuzzled you. It was damned uncomfortable considering the outside was no cooler than it’d been in the non conditioned inside. 

“When are you ever decent, Matisse?’ 

     His laughter felt like it shook the marrow in your bones as his other hand wandered shamelessly, sitting on the slanted roof and pulling you to sit on his thighs. For all his pawing at you, his hands never really went anywhere they shouldn’t, and while he was very much a big boy, he wasn’t “happy” to see you. Not that that couldn’t change in a moment. 

“I’d say during the day, but that’d be a lie.’ 

     Despite the sun setting, the sky was still bright as the city lights blossomed like a field of sunflowers brightening the landscape. It wouldn’t have been your first choice, which would have been to stay, but you’d impulsively decided to just stop running. And why not? Life was supposed to be one adventure after another wasn’t it? You’d already been through a dungeon crawl crafted by an absolute sadist for the first section of your life. 

“Did you bring me anything?’ His tone was hopeful, though he made a token effort to hide it. “Something creamy in the middle, sweet, dripping…’

     Even knowing that he was alluding to chocolate eclair, you had to fight the urge to squirm as his voice kept dropping octave by octave with each word. One massive paw of a hand was smoothing along your thigh, squeezing just above your knee and slowly sliding upwards. When your head fell back to offer him a glare, even knowing that it didn’t have near enough heat to dissuade him, he lifted his head to arc over yours and settle on your right shoulder. 

“It’s going to rain tonight, do you want to be wet before then?’ 

     It was one of his favourite games, seeing how far he could push before you gave in. Or, which had been the go to, said no. Sometimes you didn’t have to, just tensing could make his hands stop in their wandering. Massive forearms would cross over your middle as he nuzzled against the side of your head and murmured consoling nonsense in French until you relaxed. 

     Well it was nonsense to you, having taken Spanish in high school because the French teacher hated you on sight without ever having entered her classroom. But what if you said yes? What if instead of saying no, and shutting him down you let him? Waiting for your guts to twist uncomfortably in your indecision, you were surprised when all you felt was nerves.

“You think I’m not already?’

     The bold volley back to his court startled him, you could tell by the way his hand flexed on your thigh. The pressure this side of pain before it relaxed, giving a happy little squirm in his lap at having managed to throw him off his own game. His muzzle shifted, as if he were weighing the options, deciding on whether or not you actually meant what you said or if you were just testing the waters. 

“Tease.’ He growled into your ear, deciding that you weren’t serious, his hand still in the same place it had been. “If you meant that…’

“What if I did?’ 

     Cutting him off, you tilted your head to the side in order to be able to look at him, putting a smug smile on your lips. The shortened muzzle wasn’t quite lupine, at least not what you’d seen on any wolf. It was like those medieval paintings you’d see in history books. Where it was definitely supposed to be something recognizable but it took work. 

     That was fair considering you weren’t sure who had carved the gargoyle currently trying hard not to gape at you. Sure he pawed at you, and sometimes you let him, but you’d never really encouraged it. It was… unkind of you to briefly take in the horns and think they looked like exclamation points rising from the crest of his forehead. But it wasn’t your fault that he seemed to be at a loss for words.

“Then I might just take you up on it.’ 

     His voice was a caress over your skin, thick and rich like imported chocolate. You could almost taste it on your tongue as his arm loosened just enough to let you turn to face him. At least face part of him, his head canted to the side as he offered a carefree grin with brittle edges. He knew that you’d been to the roof during the day, sometimes it was unavoidable, but he still wasn’t comfortable. 

“I think I’m going to.’ You announced like you’d decided to go to a restaurant to try new food. “If you can.’ 

     Said the very overconfident train wreck that had only just managed to drag itself back into any sort of semblance related to functioning. You deserved a treat. Your left hand lifted to cup his jaw, feeling the exposed bone there and lightly scraped a nail over it. It made him shudder, which in turn made you shake like you’d been caught in a low richter earthquake. 

     Before the giant mass of rock hard everything had taken residence ontop a church in New Orleans he’d been guarding Notre Dame. If prodded into the right mood, he could be coaxed to talk about it, but it was rare. Remembering his former perch also reminded him of the clumsy hands that had left half his face deformed. PIeces lost that couldn’t be recovered, and humans who murmured it wasn’t too bad. They were meant to be ghoulish in order to scare away demons.

“That’s a bold challenge considering you’re on my lap.’ He resisted the less than subtle attempts made to turn his face completely towards yours. “You can feel just how able I am.’

     You were feeling a lot of things, actually. One of those things was the shameless way his hand was moving to cup your ass. Which did make you shiver. If his hand was big enough to cover you from hip to hip, there couldn’t be a good chance that he’d be small enough to fit easily. A treat and a challenge. An adventure!

     Your silence, though comfortable for you, apparently began to make him feel self conscious. Which took you a moment to realize, hand resting on his stomach, slowly moving upwards to cup the other side of his jaw. Teasingly you pushed you thumb under his upper lip and dragged the pad of it along the sharp fang to the pointed tip. 

“You get stranger each time we meet.’ He mumbled, careful not to bite down on the invading appendage.

“I could say the same thing to you.’ 

     His head turned sharply and then stilled, realizing that he’d been played, the lilt to his mouth fading as you skimmed your fingertips along the “scarring” on his right cheek. Humans didn’t scar like this, as if someone had simply broken away the flesh leaving it look as though it needs smoothing. The tendons that held his jaw shifted, his left eye unusually bright. Especially in comparison to his right which was dead, a cool slate colour bisected along the center. 

     Unable to resist, you wriggled to kneel on top of his thighs and looked closer at it, watching the lid shift but not quite close. You realized how rude you were being and flushed, trying to figure out the best way to apologize. Non human did not mean unfeeling, you berated yourself even as you leaned in to kiss his cheek. The scarring didn’t feel like tissue, or stone, but somewhere in between. 

“But I won’t.’ 

     He seemed confused, head canting to the side in a too cute maneuver to not have been practiced. It also forced the light to shift and allow shadow to settle lightly over the broken features. 

“I’m confused, do you want to-’

“Yes!’ Clearing your throat, you were pleased to see the left side of his muzzle lift. “I meant I wouldn’t say the same thing about you. Getting stranger, I mean.’ 

“Ah…’ 

     Amazing what a small movement could do, watching his confidence build now that the old injury wasn’t so exposed. His middle finger slid between your thighs and skimmed along the seam of your jeans. The rasp vibrated gently, but that didn’t stop your body from jerking in surprise. Pleased with himself, he did so again, and again, before putting on an obviously fake look of surprise at the sound of tearing. 

“Matisse!’

     The audacity to shrug at your outrage settled in your chest attempting to stoke itself into more than irritation, but the feel of the tip of his claw carefully skimming between your labia stopped you. Doused it really, your eyes wide as he continued the slow back and forth that he’d started over your previously clothed cunt. It was sheathed by your underwear, though given how quickly denim had given way it wasn’t going to last long, but the tip still scraped the delicate flesh. 

“I hope that’s not how you’ll sound later.’ The tip of his tongue skimmed along the line of your throat. “Though I do think you’ll be surprised a few times more.’ 

     What did that mean? Head falling to the side as your entire body remained tense kneeling on his thighs. Sharp points scraped over the skin, a sharp point also toyed with the rapidly growing dampness between your legs, curiosity pricked and poked at you too. It was just a sharp moment all around, you tried to lighten your own mood, and the flickerings of anxiety as you began to realize you might have taken a rather large bite of your treat. 

     A bigger one than you’d previously thought, realizing a few things had slipped your mind when you’d decided to sleep with your handsy friend. Said handsy friend was a very large friend, all over that you’d seen. And on occasion felt, though you hadn’t really been focused on the particulars, which you were only just now realizing might be a bit important. 

“Have you ever had sex with a human?’

     Casual, keep it casual, that would keep the flicker of anxious realizations to a low spark. Asking him directly what exactly he was packing was absolutely out of the question. There was no way of telling how he’d answer. He might answer back just as directly, or coo for you to find out yourself, or use some ridiculous turn of phrase that would make you hit him.

“Yes.’ 

     The amusement he felt over the question should not have been so clear in so small a word. A small clack of his teeth accompanied the hiss on the syllabant s. Which did something low in your belly, as did the feel of him giving a brief sharp tug with his claw to tear the gusset. Learning new things about yourself, you inhaled sharply as his knuckle worked up towards your clit and gently brushed across it. 

“And other things.’ A low noise in his chest when you rocked your hips seeking a bit more pressure made you clench around nothing. Learning so many things. “If you’re interested I can tell you about them.’

     Fingers toying with the stiff hair that covered the nape of his neck, you traced it down and felt it narrow slightly as it continued down between his shoulders. Absolutely massive, was the thought, pressing a kiss to his muzzle on the left side. When you moved to do the same on the right his head shifted before stilling. 

“I don't know. I think they look kind of dashing.’ 

“Did you just compare my face to sandals?’

     The fact he’d recognized the line, butchered thought it was, made you grin. And it yielded the reward you’d hoped for, pressing a kiss to the striated muzzle feeling pleased. He’d seen you on a few very bad days, and had helped lance wounds you hadn’t realized you were still protecting instead of allowing to heal. That you managed even this much for him filled you with a warmth that chased away the last of your anxiety.

“I’m not sure if that’s better or worse than what I thought your reaction would be.’ He muttered, playfully nipping at your shoulder. 

     He let you continue to kiss that side of his face, his blind eye shifting as he tried to look at you with his left. As if he felt it necessary to remind you as sweet as this moment was, the intention had been a bit more… serious, Matisse dragged his finger along your slit and slowly slid the digit in. 

     Holding very still, you felt the way you slowly stretched around the digit which was thicker than two human ones. Both of you were surprised by the low hum in your throat as the back of your mind began to do math. That was still doable, feeling him pull the finger out to press it back in with a bit more confidence. 

     When he pressed a second one in to begin to stretch you, you pressed your lips tightly together feeling a gush of fluid spill out onto his hand. The low rattling noise that escaped him made you clench around his fingers, dropping your head to his shoulder. His jaw nudged the side of your head, and you reluctantly lifted it again to stare into his left eye. 

“I want to watch you.’ Unable to think of a response, his ministrations quickening was unhelpful in crafting words into coherency. “I want to see you come undone.’

     The emphasis on the word come managed to bring a small smile to your lips as his fingers moved faster, working deeper, and finding that spot inside you that made your thighs clench around his hand with a whimper. There, right there, feeling his breath hot and insistent against your nape, another nudge to the side of your head forcing you to straighten. 

“I don’t think there will be much to see.’ You whispered, hips rocking slowly, shifting as you repositioned your knees. “It’s dark, and-’

     His laughter rumbled out of him, fingers grinding against that spot mercilessly, paired with the sharp ache of the tips of those claws pressing. Dangerous, very dangerous in a very delicate area that thummed with the mixture of tension and pleasure. 

“I could see you even if every star in the sky were to go out and the moon feared to show her face.’

     You couldn’t quite put your finger on why that was almost to send you tipping over the knife’s edge you were balanced on. But the low whimper that escaped you made him smile, the amount of teeth almost ghoulish. But instead of unsettling you, you could feel yourself clench around him as the lust swelled inside you. 

“Touch yourself, petite lumière.’

     The words were settled on your skin like fur, soft, warm, fizzling as they sank under your skin. But you were close, the orgasm tugging at you with eager fingers, gripping you and trying to yank you into the low roar you could just barely hear. Grappling with the fastening of your jeans, you finally managed to get them open and slid your hand inside.

“Like that, come undone and let me feel you unfurl.’

     Easier said than done, feeling taut as piano wire, your fingers skimming over pubis mon to clitoral hood. The softest of glancing touches against your engorged clit, the pulsing bundle of nerves that screamed at that little contact. But it wasn’t until his mouth rested against your throat, a hint of teeth pressing into your skin that your metaphorical footing betrayed you. 

“Lovely…’ 

     Your body shuddered, nails digging into his shoulders and it was like gripping unyielding stone, the tips of his teeth scraping as your body jerked. Even knowing that it was only a matter of moments and deliberation, you still mourned the loss of his fingers when he pulled them free. 

Ao3 || Tip Jar || Accepting prompts

[angelcakedz]

vodka, vengeance, & velvet

chapter two

previous chapter

fashion industry matz au

‼️: male masturbation , slight edging , sexual dialogue, enemies to lovers, post nut clarity

author note : i got so many positive feedback on chapter one so here is chapter two!! i love you guys

The buzz of his phone felt like a gunshot in the dark quiet of the tinted SUV. Seonghwa’s fingers hovered over the screen, and the contact was just a string of numbers.

J.YH - Hwa? Where did you go?

J.YH - That Off-White party was crawling with people asking for you. You okay?

His chest tightened. Yunho

Of course, it was Yunho. His best friend. His oldest confidant. The only person who knew how easily Seonghwa’s well-manicured control could splinter under pressure and yet, somehow, still didn’t know the full extent of just how badly Hongjoong had gotten under his skin.

Seonghwa stared at the message, then exhaled sharply through his nose, coming up with a believable lie to tell Yunho because he knew damn well he wasn't telling his best friend how he wanted to either have passionate sex with his enemy or destroy his enemy's hopes and dreams with a simple flick of the wrist.

P.SH - I had to leave. Migraine. Fashion Week is draining the life out of me.

J.YH - Bullshit. I heard from like three different people at the party that you dipped right after talking to Hongjoong.

Seonghwa stared at the screen, his eyes rolling his eyes.

P.SH - i’m don’t know what the hell you are talking about Yunho…

J.YH - Don’t fucking gaslight me, Hwa. Two stylists and some lousy Vogue intern told me you left after speaking to Hongjoong. They said you looked pissed.

J.YH- So please come up with a better lie.

Seongwha sighed, rubbing his temples, as he began to develop a migraine from Yunho’s questions. It was annoying that Yunho could read him so easily, so it made it significantly harder to keep secrets. But if we were all honest, Seongwha wasn’t the best liar either.

P.SH - Nothing.. he was just being.. you know him.

J.YH - so….what did he insult your fall couture collection or the fact you have non-existent sex life.

J.YH - I’m just trying to see how low did he stoop?

The driver turned onto 77th. As Manhattan blurred by, Seonghwa stared out the window, his reflection ghosting in the glass. He stared at his phone trying to type out what had happened with Hongjoong in the least humiliating way possible.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t stop thinking about what Hongjoong said. His words still clung to him like smoke engraved into a jacket

“You’re not as composed as you think you are, sweetheart.”

P.SH - It was the usual.. the catty back and forth until he got in my face. Like super close…it was so close I could feel his breath.

P.SH - Now i can’t get his annoying bastard voice out my head..

J.YH - honestly maybe you need this? you know? have a little fun! let loose! we all know you need it and hongjoong is the perfect person to try it with!

J.YH, you would finally be getting action after your awful ex, who, in my humble opinion, was the ugliest guy you ever dated.

J.YH - I’m surprised you got with that Gotham villain 🤮

P.SH - to be fair…i was native and desperate for love.

P.SH - but I’m definitely not going to sleep with Hongjoong I would rather shit in my hands and clap

J.YH - you are being dramatic! you told me to go after Mingi and look where we are now!

P.SH - This is completely different from you finally confessing your undying love for Mingi! I’m not in love with Hongjoong!

J.YH - but you wanna stick your tongue down his throat…yeah ok.

Seongwha left Yunho on read with annoyance as his chauffeur pulled into the private parking garage under his building, and Seonghwa exited the black SUV wordlessly. The concrete echoed under his Louboutins, each step sounding more desperate than he liked.

Inside his apartment, everything was pristine. Cream-colored walls. Minimalist furniture. A view of Manhattan’s skyline you could only see in the movies, and yet, as he stood alone in his living room, he felt… unsettled and still sexually frustrated.

He made it to his bedroom, undressing until he was left only in the custom-made slacks he had made for himself a couple of weeks ago. He then walked to the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. Trying to regain his composure, he splashed cold water on his face, but it didn’t help; he still felt that sickening feeling of hatred and lust brewing in his gut.

He pushed his hair back taking a big deep breath in.

Giving in wouldn’t hurt right?

Plus it’s not like it would ever happen again?

This was a one time thing and at this point this was something he was gonna take to the grave.

He went to his bedroom, sitting on the edge of his bed as his mind replayed the moments with Hongjoong. His cock twitched in his boxers practically begging to be stimulated.

He couldn’t take it anymore. The feeling was eating at him. He couldn’t push down this feeling anymore like he was earlier, and for months, he needed that release. He was stressed and tired. I needed something.

Unfortunately, Seongwha was desperate

Seongwha slipped off his boxers massaging the tip of cock slowly teasing himself imagining it was Hongjoong’s hands around his cock with his pretty Chanel rings adding friction.

Seongwha was a professional. He didn’t immerse in things like this. He had an appearance to uphold the clean-cut precision that he had in his artistry carried over to his real life, but now he’s in his penthouse, desperately jacking off to the most narcissistic man he has ever met

Maybe Hongjoong is right…

Seongwha was cracking.

Seongwha’s breath hitched as his back arched slightly. His hands were trembling over his sensitive, slicked cock.

“Hongjoong ah~” Seongwha moans croak out of him as he pumps his cock, slowly edging himself as well. He wanted this moment to last as long as possible. This couldn’t be a sick fantasy, right?

All he wanted was to see Hongjoong down on his knee jerking him off and possibly giving him a sloppy blow job.

“Fuck~ just like that, you stupid cunt” Seongwha grumbles as his pace intensifies. His cock slowly leaked more pre-cum and desire with each stroke. Seongwha’s mind was slowly blanking. His stomach was knotting as his orgasm began to arrive.

“I’m gonna- fuck Hongjoong fuck ah~” Seongwha whimpers as he comes into his hand, pretending it is Hongjoong’s mouth. His cock jerked as his cum slowly spilled on his hand and partially on his bedroom floor. He felt back on his bed resting his eyes for a few minutes riding out the high of his orgasm.

After about ten minutes of deep breathing and orgasmic bliss. The feeling of what had just happened hit Seongwha like a freight train. Seongwha slowly sat up, looking at his hand, which was covered in his fluid, cringing slightly.

He quickly got up and went to his bathroom, took cleaning supplies to clean the rest of his fluid from the floor before getting in the shower, and cleaned himself up. After cleaning himself up, he practically sat on the floor of his shower, realizing what he had just done.

For most people, this wouldn’t have been an issue. It’s normal to fantasize about somebody while jerking off. What’s not normal is fantasizing about someone who you would call an assassin to help take them out.

After 30 minutes of dissociating in the shower, he finally got out, put on some comfy clothes, and went to bed, hoping sleeping it off would fix that looming feeling he had in his body

“i’m so screwed…”

seongwha says as he stairs at his ceiling.. contemplating what the hell he’s gonna do in the morning

[lady-wallace]

Whumptober Day 24: Radiation Poisoning

More Vampire AU today's @whumptober prompt, but it's Giorno whump.

Prompt: 'I never knew daylight could be so violent' Fandom: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Part 5 (Vampire Hunter AU) Character: Giorno

~~~~~~~

Read on Ao3

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Too Close to the Sun

Vampire Hunter AU—Giorno accidently comes into contact with a serum that makes his weaknesses as a dhampir more prevalent.

~~~~~~~

Sounds of crashing could be heard behind the door as Mista put his shoulder to it, trying to force it open.

“It’s probably barred,” Giorno said. “We need to try getting him to calm down before we get him out of there or this could become a very dangerous situation.”

“Because talking went so well earlier,” Fugo snapped.

Giorno clenched his jaw, but couldn’t deny Fugo had a point.

They’d been asked to look into a young dhampir who had taken it upon himself to become a nuisance to the vampire society of Napoli and talk him down before he did anything he would really regret. However, as soon as they had gotten there, he had gone off on some rant about taking down the vampire aristocracy and ran off to the upper story of the house where he had locked himself into one of the rooms.

Mista looked between his companions with a shrug obviously deferring to their opinion.

Fugo huffed. “We need to get in there.”

Giorno stood back, arms folded over his chest. He still would have liked to go with a less violent approach, but it did seem like they wouldn’t get anywhere otherwise.

Mista took out his blunderbuss and pressed it against the lock. “Stay away from the door!” he shouted into the room as he fired.

Parts of the door splintered off and Mista and Fugo gave it a couple firm kicks to open fully.

Giorno rushed inside after them, stopping for a moment in shock at what he saw.

The room was covered in laboratory equipment. Liquids boiling and distilling in tubes and beakers. There were glass shards on the floor as if some equipment had broken.

The dhampir spun around, facing them with a large knife, glowering.

“You’re just the same as all of them!” he snarled. “You’re all on the side of the vampires!”

“That’s not true,” Giorno said, trying to put his hands up calmly, stepping in front of Mista and Fugo who were both carrying weapons at the ready. “It’s a Hunter’s job to be unbiased.”

“Then why are you coming after me?” the dhampir demanded.

“Because we’re worried that you’ll hurt someone who doesn’t deserve your wrath,” Giorno told him. “We just came to talk.”

“Then tell them to put their weapons down!”

Giorno shook his head. “They can’t do that. But you can just talk to me, okay? I’m a dhampir as well. Your name is Marco, right?”

The young man eyed him warily, before his face contorted in rage. “If you are a dhampir then you should understand more than anyone what it’s like, and yet you defend those who oppress us!” He threw an arm toward the beakers. “I have been trying to find a way to make us stronger, so that we at least have a chance to go up against them. Don’t you see, Hunter? The future will be ours. You should join me so we can take down the ones who wish to grind us into the dirt.”

Giorno felt a deep sadness at the desperation on Marco’s face. “I can’t speak for you, Marco, and the life you’ve lived, but the one thing I have learned is that for every bad person in this world there is a good one who is also seeking change. I know it’s hard to see it this way, but flashy displays of violence only hurt a cause like ours. I know it can sometimes seem that there will never be a light at the end of that tunnel but that light isn’t going to be made with an explosion either.”

Marco seemed to contemplate his words for a few moments, before his fists clenched again. “Have you ever thought that you’re just a coward for thinking that way?”

Giorno tried not to let that bite at him, but he could feel Mista and Fugo’s impatience behind him, their unease as the dhampir got more and more agitated. He needed to stop this. He stepped forward.

“Marco, you have two options here. Either come with us quietly or we’ll be forced to take you down to the prison.”

Marco sneered. “You really are just like all of them, aren’t you?! Why don’t you all just go to hell!”

He rushed the Hunters, and grabbed Giorno, flinging him to the side. Giorno crashed into one of the tables tipping over a rack that contained multiple vials of liquid. The vials crashed to the floor with Giorno and shattered. He hissed as glass from one dug into his hand.

“No!” Marco shouted, clenching at his hair, distraught. “No, no NO! That was my serum! That’s all I had!”

He tried to rush for Giorno, grabbing for several of the unbroken vials that rolled around the floor when Fugo and Mista managed to grab hold of him from behind, dragging him backwards as he screamed and fought like a madman.

Giorno pushed himself up, removing the glass from his hand. He had no time to think about what might have been in those vials and now consequently in his body, because Fugo and Mista were struggling to restrain the dhampir who was spewing curses at them.

“You alright, Giorno?” Mista called, barely avoiding a flying fist.

Giorno plucked a couple more shards of glass from his hand. “I’m fine. We need to call the constables.”

“Well, do it quick,” Fugo snapped as he and Mista finally wrestled the dhampir to the ground and started to tie restraints around his wrists and ankles before tying them together.

Giorno tied a handkerchief around his hand as he hurried out of the room and down the stairs. His footsteps clattered uncomfortably loud in his head for some reason—must be the emptiness of the house.

Their carriage driver was waiting outside and Giorno planned to ask him to run to the police station in town.

However, as soon as he stepped from the shade of the house, his body burned as if he had suddenly caught fire.

Giorno let out a shocked scream, staggering backwards as he stared down at his right hand, seeing it red and blistered. His whole arm, up to his neck and that side of his face also felt raw and painful.

The driver leapt off the carriage and hurried over to him.

“Signore Giovanna! Are you alright?”

Giorno gritted his teeth, wincing at how loud the man’s voice was, his heartbeat so much more prominent than it should have been. “I-I’ll be fine. We need you to run for the police now.”

The man looked skeptical, but Fugo burst out the door in a second, staring at Giorno.

“What happened, why did you scream?”

He trailed off as Giorno turned to him and his eyes widened, crouching next to him. “Giorno! You’re face, what…?”

“I’ll go get the police,” the driver promised, seeming satisfied that Fugo would help Giorno now as he hurried off down the street.

“What the hell happened?” Fugo demanded again.

Giorno cringed. “Please, be quiet,” he pleaded. “My head….everything is so loud.”

“Was there some kind of booby trap?”

Giorno shook his head. “Just…the sun. I don’t…I don’t know what happened.”

Fugo took Giorno’s good hand and helped pull him to his feet, allowing Giorno to lean on him as he helped the dhampir back inside. “I’ve only ever seen these kinds of burns on a vampire who got exposed in the sun.”

Giorno nodded, wincing as Fugo sat him down at the base of the stairs in the foyer. “Stay here for now. I’m going to go see what the hell that little bastard put in his ‘serum’.”

Giorno sat there, slumped against the railing as Fugo headed back upstairs. He could hear everything they talked about from where he was.

“What’s in it?”

“I told you,” Marco snapped. “It was meant to make a dhampir more powerful.”

“It doesn’t seem like it worked,” Fugo replied.

“It simply magnifies our senses and abilities.”

“You realize it also magnifies your allergy to sunlight, right?”

Giorno furrowed his brows. The serum was interesting in theory but it did seem rather counterproductive even if it seemed to work the way it was intended, more or less.

“How long does it last?”

“I don’t know, I’ve only done one test run. Not very long.”

Giorno wished his body wasn’t in such agony at the moment. The burns pulled against his clothing—it really hadn’t done much to protect him. Was this what it was like to be a full vampire?

The police showed up and took the dhampir into custody as he continued shouting threats. Then Fugo and Mista hurried to help Giorno up and get him out to the carriage.

“We’ll get the driver to pull it as close as possible,” Mista promised. “In the meantime, take our coats. We’ll use this umbrella too.”

Mista and Fugo settled their coats over Giorno’s head and Mista held the umbrella over him as Fugo helped him to the carriage, shutting all of the windows as soon as he was inside, leaving them all in darkness.

“How bad is it, Giorno?” Mista asked him worriedly.

“I’ll…be okay,” Giorno grunted. He thought, anyway. Every mild bump the carriage went over jostled his body painfully, and his increased audio sensitivity was really starting to make his head pound on top of it.

They repeated the procedure of getting him out of the carriage covered as much as possible. Giorno could still feel the uncomfortable heat on his lower body, but the house was blessedly cool since the maids kept the curtains drawn for the most part with so many supernaturals living in the mansion.

“Infirmary,” Fugo said.

Footsteps sounded and Giorno could see Trish heading down the stairs.

“Oh, you’re all back? I assumed you would still be at the police station. Bucciarati just headed over there.”

“Giorno was injured,” Mista said.

“What?” Trish demanded, hurrying over to them. As soon as she saw Giorno’s face, she gasped. “Did you get burned?”

Giorno cringed and Fugo turned to Trish. “Try to keep your voice low, he’s overly sensitive right now.”

They explained what had happened as Trish followed them to the infirmary.

“Trish there should be some salve on that shelf over there for burns.”

Trish headed over to look and Giorno slumped onto one of the cots as Mista and Fugo helped him take his coat and shirt off.

Giorno hissed, the burns stinging abysmally as they were exposed to the air.

“Here, I found it, oh—Giorno those look awful.”

Trish looked horrified at the sight of the burns. “Was that holy water?”

“The sun,” Giorno said, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose against the headache.

“These are pretty bad,” Fugo murmured. “Hopefully the salve will help a bit but it will probably take a few days for you to recover fully.”

“I’ll let you have some of my blood fresh for extra nutrients,” Mista promised.

Giorno nodded and slumped there on the cot as Fugo started on his face and neck, spreading the salve on thickly and following it with gauze Trish helped to wrap on.

The pain of any pressure at all on the burns made Giorno nauseous and he swayed, trying to resist the urge to pull away from Fugo completely.

“Here,” Trish gently coaxed, sitting down on the cot beside him and helped lower Giorno down until he was lying on his good side with his head in her lap. Giorno stiffened in surprise and Trish flushed slightly, but stood her ground as she turned to Mista. “Could you get him a cool cloth for his head?”

Mista nodded and hurried to fetch the cloth as Fugo continued.

Giorno was tight with pain. The burns were getting worse as they traveled down his arm to his hand and Fugo’s ministrations were quickly becoming agony.

Trish seemed to see how much he was suffering and reached for his good hand, squeezing it gently.

Mista brought the cloth back and Trish placed it over Giorno’s eyes and forehead, giving him something blessedly cool to help ease his headache.

“I just need to wrap your hand now,” Fugo said, carefully twining the bandage around his fingers.

Giorno let out a small sound of relief as Fugo finished and settled his hand carefully down on the bed.

Mista came over with a freshly drawn cup of blood.

“Can you drink?”

Giorno nodded and Trish and Mista helped him sit up to drink before laying him down and tucking him into bed.

“I’m afraid that’s all we can do for now,” Fugo said. “I’m going to have to go to the station to make our full report.”

“We’ll keep an eye on him,” Trish assured him.

“Thanks,” Giorno murmured. He felt a little better after drinking the blood, but he was mostly exhausted. “I think the serum is already wearing off. Nothing is as loud as it was before.”

“Good to know,” Fugo said. “I guess next time we corner someone so delusional we need to be more careful not to do it in his lab.”

“Is he really so delusional?” Giorno couldn’t help but ask. “All he really wanted was to be equal. Isn’t that what everyone wants?”

“Most of us aren’t okay with murdering for it,” Fugo pointed out. “What you said to him back there was true—essentially that it’s better to make small changes for good, instead of big changes for bad.”

Trish nodded. “And hopefully in a world without Diavolo in charge, we might have a better chance of those small changes being impactful.”

Giorno smiled slightly. “Yes. You’re all right. Thank you.”

Trish pulled a blanket over his waist. “Get some rest. Let me know if you need anything.”

Giorno let his eyes slip shut as his companions left and dreamed of a brighter future.

[tunethehearts]

Alastor goes to the ruins of his broadcasting station to mourn his dead staff. Lucifer trails behind him, and offers him a deal.

Radioapple Week - Day 3

Prompt: Deal/Blood

The shattered ruins of his broadcasting station were a pain to witness.

Glass shards scattered over untouched dirt. The foundations have toppled from touching the bloody sky to now meeting their grave’s hands, clasped in its fists. The fluorescent lights that once flickered with a hint of life have been completely wrecked below the layer of glass, soul torn from its lifeless body. It’s gone, his reputation, and what he had built it upon.

Though, he must thank Charlie for rebuilding it, but they have not gotten rid of the clatter beside it, a painful reminder of his loss against Adam.

The trapdoor was swung open, to crash against the rotten wooden floor. He climbs inside, clothed knees scratching on splinters, and perched on top of the desk was his broken staff. Its shaft was snapped in half, the ends, its point of impact, bent and curled. He hadn’t found a way to repair it, for regular scotch tape wouldn’t work, and it’s certainly not going to be fixed with a hammer, for within it contained magic, and therefore physically putting it back together was of no use in terms of usage.

“Good evening, Alastor,” A voice creeps behind him, low in pitch.

He jolts, and turns around. Lucifer, standing there in that suit he found himself in the bar last night with, only this time it was rid of its stains. Inching closer and closer to him, floorboard creaking every time he does, his hands reach behind him to support his body when Lucifer looms over him.

“If this is your way of telling me you want to be close to me, I’ll let you know it isn’t working,” Alastor tells him, annoyed and petrified.

“Oh, come on, you think I’m that horrible? Wow, I guess nothing has changed since last night,” Lucifer pulls himself away from Alastor, and a part of him wants to reach out to the arm that flows past his face when he turns his back against him. “I want to make a deal with you.”

“You came all this way just to make a deal?”

“What’s going to be a better time to do that? Don’t be so hard-hearted, you slept in my—”

“Okay, okay, goodness, tell me what your terms are and get out of here.” Alastor pushes himself upright. Reminders of last night hurt him. They hurt him with thorns of flowers and wilting petals. They hurt him with flames when he was promised heaven.

“I’ll fix your staff, and you better stop trying to run away from me every time I get close.”

“That last part was awfully vague, can you explain more so that I don’t get myself twisted in something which wasn’t clarified before?”

“I want you and I to become close together. To be friends. It’s not as if it’s going to harm anyone. In fact, I think Charlie would enjoy us finally getting along.”

Oh no.

“Do you think I’m stupid enough to accept that deal? What makes you think that I would ever want to befriend you?”

“Last night—”

“I was drunk, you fool. You’re talking to the sobered up Alastor here.” An insult slipped past him, and it made Lucifer seethe with anger. He didn’t know what came over him, maybe it was because Lucifer is poking himself in places where he shouldn’t be, or matters involving his vulnerability aren’t something to toy with.

“Well, then,” Lucifer paces around. “Would you want to have a broken staff for the rest of your life?”

Fear rattles his core. His staff, which initially helped him in the battle, but he was tainted with a life-threatening scar when it broke. A part of him he didn’t need broken. A part of him that helped to raise him in strength, in power. He couldn’t let that part of him go. They were two intertwined souls.

“Would you want to be helpless for the rest of your life? I’m sure that when you fought Adam, you used your staff for the majority of the fight, correct? That means, you won’t be able to fight if you lose your staff, right?” Lucifer taunts him. The condescending tone hits him in all the right spots, pushing the right buttons.

That’s it.

“So, would you—” Lucifer starts, but Alastor cuts him off.

“Fine, fine. I’ll make the deal,” Alastor sighs, and reaches out his hand.

As their hands locked, light sprung across the room—he was sure it would push through the window in fierce rays, haunting anyone who stumbled upon their wretched mess. His hair pushed backwards, against his forehead. He squints. His teeth graze chapped lips. When they pulled their hands apart, Lucifer had a wide grin that he couldn’t tell if he wanted to stay on his face or slap it away.

“Give me your staff,” Lucifer puts his hand out.

The broken parts of Alastor’s staff were handed to him, and he held them ever so gently in his fist. He turned around, and a green light burned from his hands. It decorated itself on Lucifer’s attire, until he let go and it clattered to the floor as he screamed in pain.

“Gosh, this—” Lucifer grumbles. “Ow…”

“Be careful with that staff.” Alastor rushes to pick up the staff, checking for any dents made. It was fixed, put back together, and seemed as though it was unharmed from the start. “Why did you—” he stops himself when he sees Lucifer.

Golden blood trickled down his palms, cascading down his fingers to puddle and seep through the cracks of the floor. Lucifer was almost teary-eyed when he caught him, murmuring insults to the staff and the overall process of fixing it. “Why is your staff so powerful? It burns,” he sobs, and Alastor feels sympathy bubble within him.

“It’s magical, what do you expect? Is it going to be as stupid as your little cane? Of course not.” He scoffs. “Here, let me help.”

“What—” Lucifer pulls his hands away. “Don’t hurt me.”

“It’s part of our deal, right? To be friends?”

“I…” Lucifer scowls at the thought. “Fine.” His hands were placed in front of Alastor, but he rushed off to the side to grab something from under the desk. “What are you doing?”

“Getting what I need to fix you, obviously.” Alastor comes with a cloth and two strips of bandages. He puts them on the floor while he holds one of Lucifer’s hand, first picking up the cloth and wiping his palm, much more gentle than he’d like to admit. Lucifer’s teeth are overflowing with pain as he grits them, and Alastor does his best to minimise the amount of time the cloth touches him.

“Your cloth is dirty.” He points out, and Alastor chuckles.

“It’s cleaner than the rags that are sold here in half of the shops.” Once he’s done, he puts a small plaster on the area. It was a small cut, not seeming to be deep as the Mariana Trench but with the way it overflowed with blood before, he knew that he couldn’t keep it open for much longer. He needed to close it up before it rained everywhere.

He starts cleaning up the second hand, and Lucifer yelps with pain. “Slow down, oh my gosh.”

“This is as slow as I’m going. Do you want me to press hard?”

Lucifer grimaces, and shakes his head. His hands were an odd warm feeling in Alastor’s hand, and taking care of him in this way gave birth to a bud he never thought he could ever handle. Though, with their new deal, she supposes he could give it some sunlight to bathe in, let it thrive for as long as it can.

He puts the last plaster on his palm, and Lucifer peeks down at it. “Thanks,” he mumbles.

“No problem. So, does this mean we have to be close?”

“Not necessarily. You just don’t get on my nerves every chance you get.”

“Okay,” Alastor sighs. It’s the end of their bitter rivalry, and though it’s something he’ll miss dearly as he had a lot of fun toying with the King of Hell, he is looking forward to what comes next.

~~~

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