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theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin · 4 years ago

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Hey, you once mentioned something about Tom Riddle being a little suicidal. Your new post reminded of that and I wonder why you think that. It’s the complete opposite of what the books want you to think.

Alright, it’s time, let’s do this.

My standard disclaimer whenever we venture into the dark pit that is my thoughts on Tom Riddle: I’m going to say a lot of controversial stuff that fandom generally doesn’t agree with, I will say so much of this shit that I simply do not have time to explain it all, I expect 99% of you to disagree with me and the other 1% to be so horrifyingly offended that I dare to contemplate a world in which Tom isn’t always an overly competent psychopath that they leave me notes telling me to take this trash out of their character tags.

We good? Alright.

So, when I say a little suicidal, I mean that he is suicidal.

Not on the level that he’s going to kill himself tomorrow, or even has plans to kill himself, but in that he makes very strange decisions for someone who desperately wants to live.

And yes, I realize I speak blasphemy given that Tom Riddle’s entire m.o. is supposed to be his crippling fear of death.

Oh man, this one’s going to be so long.

So, my reasoning comes down to a few things:

The location of the horcruxes and the nature of their protections.

The events of Deathly Hallows and Tom’s final actions in the novel

The nature of horcruxes and what it means to not only be able to create one but what it does to you (caveat that I am going to headcanon hard here and speak utter blasphemy)

So, let’s start in order this time, because I think the first two are actually far easier for me to explain.

The Location and Nature of the Horcrux Protections and the Trouble with Backdoors in Security

So, first, the horcruxes are all conveniently located in Great Britain. Not even just in Great Britain, all in places that Albus Dumbledore and later Harry Potter can track down with relative ease, all fairly close to each other.

Now, part of this is undoubtedly attributable to Tom’s overly romantic nature.

Yes, Tom Riddle is a giant romantic, though not necessarily in the traditional sense everyone thinks of. The film “Patton” and its treatment of Patton comes to mind. Tom Riddle is a man enamored by a sense of greatness, of being remembered in this world rather than fading into oblivion, by the significance of places and times in history not only of the world but of himself. He creates an entire, grand, persona for himself because to live an ordinary life for him is to be worthy of nothing.

So, given that, of course Tom places the horcruxes in sentimental locations that have personal meaning to him.

However, it also makes them perilously easy to find and collect.

By itself, this wouldn’t spark my notice.

The ability to destroy horcruxes are not easy to come by. There’s only one basilisk and it’s by chance/Lucius fucking up that Harry gains access to the necessary basilisk venom. Using Fyendfire is an incredibly dangerous thing to do and just as likely to blow up you and the next three towns over as it is to destroy a horcrux. And if there are other means of destroying a horcrux they’re just as hard to come by or just as dangerous.

It’s not quite throwing it into the fires of Mt. Doom from which it was forged but it’s pretty damn close.

So, really, without JKR’s convenient Deus Ex Machina giving both him and Dumbledore the means to actually destroy these things, Tom Riddle’s horcruxes are pretty damn safe no matter where we put them. As we see from the locket, which Regulus manages to collect but Kreacher cannot destroy even after several decades.

However, what does spark my notice, is that the horcruxes can be collected by someone other than Tom Riddle when it appears as if they were never intended to be. What do I mean by this?

From what we see, there’s no benefit to Tom if the original horcruxes are found by anyone. He doesn’t seek them out to restore his original body, they’re just anchor points that should be hidden at all costs. So, he’ll never need a Death Eater to go collect them for him should he be indisposed (indeed, to do so would require a tremendous amount of trust in people he has very little trust in).

So, why hide them in such a way that others can access them? There are canon based options which would have prevented anyone else from reaching them. Given the existence of age lines, I imagine Tom Riddle could make some arbitrary barrier keyed only to himself. There are mokeskin pouches, such as the one Harry is given in the seventh book, which we know can only be accessed by whoever they’re keyed to. There’s the Fidelius Charm which, true requires a secret keeper which Tom would be very meh on, but options exist.

Tom Riddle could wipe the locations of his horcruxes off the face of the map. He chooses not to. Which leads me to believe that, at least on some unconscious level, he wants the horcruxes to be found.

Then we have the protections.

Specifically, I’m thinking of the locket here.

Yes, the protections are very formidable, but they’re also goddamn weird.

Rather than make the horcrux simply inaccessible, kill all those intruding, instead the intruder has to go through a very “Saw” like puzzle in which they drown themselves in despair until they finally get the locket, at which point they likely suicide by zombie.

More, there’s no hint that there’s any other way to retrieve the locket.

Backdoors in security are a very bad idea. What they do is weaken the security as a whole and, if you can take a short cut is, it means that someone who is clever enough and motivated enough can to. Dumbledore is both clever and motivated enough, and I imagine if there was a way to get the horcrux that involved not doing this ridiculous task he would have done it.

More, we’d be back to the land of Tom making sure only he can access the horcrux by requiring a password, keying it to his magical signature, or something so that no one else could get it.

Which means, that’s right, if Tom wants to get the locket he’s drinking the goddamn despair juice just like the rest of us.

What kind of a person would do any of this?

I’ve gone over this before, but I don’t think Tom Riddle’s crazy. Rather, in this case, I think he’s driven by an unbelievable amount of nihilist rage and is also quite depressed.

Tom goes to collect his horcrux, “Ah, it’s time to remember what a miserable life I’ve led and the sheer awfulness of my own existence. Good, I was starting to feel a little too happy. Let’s see if I get eaten by my undead, vengeful, victims today.”

The Events of Deathly Hallows and Tom Riddle’s Death

I think Tom Riddle’s final death in the books was suicide.

Tom takes over the Wizarding World, finally, and it’s as miserable as ever.

He’s trapped in this sham, barely functional, probably very painful body. His Death Eaters are completely out of control and for all that he wanted society to burn it’s now burning and no one’s even learned anything from this. Children in Hogwarts are being routinely tortured and have now staged a rebellion in which he’s having to slaughter them (I have reasons to believe that this is not what Tom Riddle wanted, at all, but that’s best saved for another post), and then he learns his horcruxes have all been destroyed without him even noticing.

There’s so little left of him, he has accomplished nothing, and there’s Harry Potter back from the dead yet again, gloating at him that love conquers all and Tom Riddle will never understand.

And Harry’s right, Tom Riddle will never understand, the world is meaningless and flat to him now and he finally understand that there’s no point to it. I think Tom Riddle decides he’s done. He’s just done.

He enters in a duel with Harry Potter knowing the weird nature of their wands. Now, it can be assumed he used the Elder Wand, but we know they get locked in Priori Incatatum , and that makes no damn sense with the Elder Wand (well, wandlore in general is silly, but I’m working with what JKR gave me here). So I choose to take JKR at her somewhat established canon and say that, no matter what Harry thought, Voldemort was using his original wand.

He throws out the killing curse, despite having now witnessed Harry resurrecting twice to this thing, and within two seconds it rebounds and kills him.

Voldemort’s death is a lot like this scene from the recent, terrible, 2020 live action Mulan (10/10 do not recommend). Now, we’re supposed to think that this scene is the witch saving Mulan’s life and thus showing her hope for the next generation. In actuality, the witch literally flies into an arrow she could have easily deflected from Mulan’s path. It’s a suicide that Mulan is too stupid to notice.

Tom chooses suicide in the most ridiculous, flamboyant, and easily written off manner one can and no one even notices. Instead Harry crows that he has personally defeated Voldemort, with the power of love no less, HUZZAH!

And the castle parties.

The Nature of Horcruxes

I almost don’t want to include this because it’s so... well, I’m really drifting far from canon and fandom now.

However, with horcruxes, there’s always an overriding question of why Tom is able to make so many when we don’t see anyone else with these things around (especially as it’s clear that murder doesn’t simply happen for those that now have horcruxes).

Usually, you have fic authors just sort of shrug and go, “Well, he’s that evil, I guess.” Sometimes you have them go, “No one else is crazy enough to keep going, and that’s why Voldemort’s cuckoo bananas.”

One very good explanation I’ve seen is that it’s because most people, when they murder, feel remorse immediately. The soul split happens, but they’re haunted by the murder for the rest of their life, and thus the horcrux isn’t made. Voldemort, feeling nothing when he kills anyone, is thus able to make them even for when he’s only indirectly associated with the death in question.

However, to me that never really jived philosophically.

Mostly, I simply cannot imagine that tearing apart your very soul is an act of indifference. Here’s how I see it: to do something like that to yourself, you must care, you must care beyond all imagine and human endurance. Your soul literally cannot abide it and saws itself in half, purging what you cannot stand about yourself the most.

The remorse part is, yes, remorse for the act and the victim but more to the point it is the ability to forgive and reaccept the worst part of yourself. That part of yourself that you purged and destroyed, which is nearly impossible to do and might very well destroy the fabric of who you are).

In other words, while creating a horcrux is an abominable act of hatred, it is also one of profound self-hatred.

Tom Riddle loathes himself so much that he is able to do this over and over and over again.

As Tom Riddle goes on he makes himself into less and less and less of himself until he probably doesn’t even know who he is anymore. He just knows, whatever is left of him, he loathes that too.

And then, of course, he gives up, runs into the nearest flying arrow, and dies.

TL;DR: Tom Riddle’s is a miserable existence that ended in a miserable if unintentionally hilarious manner

#ask #anon #tom riddle #voldemort

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youryanderedaddy · 4 years ago

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I like your posts, it's always cool. May i ask a yandere concept between an innocent, protected princess and a prince who obsessed with her from the first time they met, and force against her will. Thanks so much, love your writing :3

Thanks, anon, that means a lot <3 If you haven't noticed, I am oBseSSed with royalty stuff so I rlly enjoyed writing this. It's slightly different tho, but the idea is there.

Title: We all fall down

tw: female reader, non - consensual touching, obsessive behavior, coercion, implied forced marriage, war mention, abuse of power

It was cold when you woke up, terribly so. The room was spacious enough, there was bright sunlight coming from all four windows on each wall and you were sure that your sheets were warm and puffy even without looking down at them, yet it still felt freezing. You soon realized the place wasn’t simply cold, it was different too. It looked nothing like your own room back at the Southern Palace with its countless colourful pictures, books shattered all over the ground and a fireplace just across the queen – sized bed. Before you had a chance to sigh in annoyance, a quick glance to the other side reminded you of the bigger problem. Him.

“Good morning, princess.” The man greeted you cheerfully, his voice still deep and husky from the early hour. He was laying against the wooden doorframe, the sly smirk you had grown to hate over the years once again adorning his red lips. You stared at him for a moment, then rubbed your eyes to chase the fatigue away, fruitlessly so. You were too tired and sleep – deprived to play – pretend, which of course didn’t go unnoticed by the nobleman.

“You don’t look too well, princess.” He teased with a cheeky grin and walked towards the bed, stopping just before his legs hit the edge of the frame. You puffed softly, but remained quiet just so you wouldn’t have to answer him just yet. “And look at your state, darling…” The heir continued, clicking his tongue in a mocking “tsk, tsk,tsk”. “Your nightgown is a mess, I can see all of your beautiful curves.” The heir paused to lick his lips in a disgusting, suggestive way, and you had to repress the need to vomit all over the beautiful yellow sheets. “In our kingdom such appearance counts as an invitation, did you know that?” He added, smiling sharply, like a wolf in sheep’s clothing, satisfied at the way his words made you embarrassed, flustered and jumpy so early in the morning.

“Your Highness, I would like to properly remind you that it was you who forced me to drink and dance all night.” You responded heatedly, all while fixing the straps of your silky dress to at least cover your cleavage. “You wouldn’t let go of my hand for a second. It’s your fault that I look like this.” You remarked, slightly offended by the man’s jokes, despite being used to his terrible humor after all those long years of shared parties and celebrations.

“If that is really so, my lady, please let me make it up to you.” The prince replied in the same smooth, carefree voice of his, the one he used before while talking to the maids and the peasant girls he wanted to bed. It made you sick to think of yourself as just another of his conquests, even though it couldn’t be further from the truth – you couldn’t stand the dark – haired male, his arrogance and absolute ignorance. “Join me for breakfast and I shall have our best cook serve your favorite meal.” The heir announced and winked at you before turning on his heels and finally leaving the room without hearing whether you agreed to his offer or not. You didn’t even have the chance to ask him how he knew what your favorite dish was or why he entered your room without permission, such a lack of manners was unsuited for a soon-to-be king. Perhaps you could use his inconsiderate behavior as an excuse to stay in bed until lunch but deep down you knew it was pointless. The egotistic little bastard knew you had no choice since you two had a lot to discuss.

---

The breakfast, if not anything else, was rich and delicious, each bite tasty and mouth – watering. The sweet aroma of cinnamon tea, vanilla and powdered sugar filled your senses with ease and a little bit of nostalgia for your childhood. The hardest part was yet to come, you wanted to deal with it fast and go home as soon as possible. As for Arthur, it was the first time you saw him serious with his brows arched and his thoughts all over the place. The uneasiness came back with full force.

“I think you know what we want, princess.” The male declared sternly after looking at the map for a while. His eyes were blue and clear, piercing in the way they were focused on you and you alone with no one else in the hall to act as a barrier between you and the monster. You understood why it had to be only you two, but these deals were always an open secret in both kingdoms, so there weren’t many reasons to keep the tradition going. “We want our territory back. We want you to surrender.” The heir hissed eerily under his breath, his pupils fixed on your frame, burning the skin underneath the thick layer of rough fabric.

You didn’t know how to respond to this – the dynasty’s requests had always been ridiculous and far – fetched, but never as impossible as this one. Yes, your land used to belong to the East centuries ago, but after several long, bloody, sacrificial wars where many of your men lost their lives, it was won fair and square. Now all your subjects lived there happily and freely, rightfully so.

“Your Majesty, please don’t dwell on the past. It will never come back.” You responded shortly after, laughing nervously at the end, hoping that would be enough for Arthur to drop the subject. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the case.

“Is that so, dearest? You have two weeks then.” The prince said coldly, narrowing his eyes like a fox. You opened your mouth to speak but quickly got cut off. “Prepare your troops, train the soldiers, announce the incoming war to your people.” The man chuckled darkly and threw the map all the way across the room. “You better get ready for a thunderstorm.” He added just to mess with you some more, just to see your face turn white from the shock and the panic.

“You can’t do that!” You shouted out suddenly and stood up from your chair, feeling cornered and suffocated. You hated the prince’s constant teasing and flirty remarks but you would have never guess him to be a cold-blooded conqueror. “This is too cruel even for you!” You screamed, the tears already blooming down your cheeks, hot and wet. Arthur spared you one condescending look before moving closer and trapping your body against the table, towering over you both physically and metaphorically, as if saying “Let’s see who has the stronger mind.”

“I will get what I want no matter the cost and there is little you can do to stop me, princess.” The heir pronounced slowly, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to meet his hard gaze, full of intense yet unreadable emotion. There was nothing left of the sly cheerful boy standing against your doorframe, teasing you about meaningless little things, and you almost missed him now. “But what you can do is stop the needless violence and bloodshed, Y/N.” You despised the way your eyes lit up at his words, but, as always, your duty was above your comfort and happiness. “What can I do?” You uttered quietly, a part of you too scared to hear the answer, the other anticipating it.

“Marry me.” The prince stated in a deep patronizing voice. His eyes were dark and sharp, just like before, and there wasn’t a trace of his usual gleeful smile. He grabbed your wrists in a painful grip and pulled them up, holding them against his broad shoulders. “We can unite the kingdoms and live our Happily Ever After. No one has to die.” The man whispered surprisingly softly, his chest heaving with each passing breath. “I can make you happy, dearest.”

You gasped in shock as soon as the proposal left his lips. Every fiber in your body was frozen still, your whole being shaken up by the unexpected offer.

“Why do you want to marry me?” You asked frantically, squirming to loosen up his grasp on your hands just to feel it tighten up even more. This was going to bruise for sure. “Isn’t it obvious?” The noble exhaled slowly, staring at you, trying desperately to find the compassion and affection he hoped you had grown to hold for him over the years. His heart broke once he realized there wasn’t any, but it didn’t matter. Feelings could change in a matter of minutes.

“I’ve loved you since day one, my princess.” His attention drifted to your open mouth, especially your soft full lips. Oh, how much he dreamt of taking you and relishing in the whines and moans you would surely let out once he decided to claim you as his own. “All I’ve ever wanted is you.” The heir confessed, his face moving closer and closer to your own, forcing you to arch your back more and more until it hit the table. Before you knew it, he was pinning you to the hard wooden surface, caging you in, kissing you violently, furiously. You couldn’t breathe.

You couldn’t say no.

#yandere #male yandere #yandere oc #yandere male x reader #yandere oc x reader #yancore #yandere oneshot #male yandere x reader #yandere smut #yandere x you #yandere concept

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hurting-fictional-people · 3 years ago

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Betrayal Story - Part 6

Hii look at what I finally finished! sorry for taking so long to post this guys, I don't even have an explanation lol... I have something else already half written for the boys so hopefully I won't take so long to update the story again 🙃 anyways, I hope y'all like it <3

tagging @thelazywitchphotographer @swift-perseides @whump-it-like-its-hot @sunflower1000 @msrandonstuff @fromtheo-withlove @boxofsilence @lionhxartx @sometouchofmadness @paleassprince @livingforthewhump @1becky1 @shameful-indulgence @whatwhumpcomments @tropes-for-my-md-daydreams @starnight-whump @writingbackwards @noodlesandkareokee @mylifeisonthebookshelf @nightwhumpee

CW: forced sedation, manhandling, drugged whumpee, needle mention, aftermath of branding/burning

Part 1 here, continued from here

Liam can’t move. Every time he does, his arms do too and the mere brush of burned skin against pristine bandages is enough to get him on the verge of tears.

The room he’s kept in is too barren, too small to provide any kind of distraction from the constant pulse of pain – too much and never abating. No one listens or cares when he begs for medication, for anything to ease the agony. The doctor comes in to see him, give him antibiotics and check if there’s no infection, but barely looks at Liam when he whimpers under gloved hands.

The first time he takes a glance at the twisted skin underneath the wound dressing, a breathy, hysterical laugh slips out, quickly followed by a silent gasp as Chase’s initials weigh on his arms. He was always his, in the end, wasn’t he? Even after being betrayed and stabbed and kidnapped, he could never get the agent off his mind. Now he’ll be on Liam’s body as well.

It takes all of his willpower not to rip the dressings off once the doctor and nurses leave, just to stare at the hideous thing his arms are now.

But in the silent room, with nothing to do but think and despair, Liam can’t stop looking at the bandages.

He doesn’t know how long he spends staring at it – at the white itchy gauze, and the burns that hurt underneath it. At the C and the R he knows are forever burned on his skin. Like fucking cattle, marked with his owner’s name. Like the stupid boy who thought he could give his heart away to the beautiful, mysterious man that smiled at him. If nothing else, it is a good reminder of how big of a fool Liam is. If he lives long enough for it to be useful, that is. If Jonah doesn’t decide he’s had enough of Liam soon.

Horror floods him at the thought, and when his heart speeds up, Liam can’t hold it any longer. He pulls off the bandages in one swift movement, holding his breath when a wave of fire licks his arms. It doesn’t stop him from ripping out the second bandage though.

His hands tremble on his lap as Liam stares at the skin above his wrists, red with blood and raw skin disfigured into letters. It looks just as ugly as it feels.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until a tear drips on his thigh. And then another and one more, until he’s openly sobbing, chest heaving and stomach twisting.

Lost in tears and the sight of burned skin that sinks into his heart and burns everything there too, Liam only realizes there are people in the room when a hand grabs his forearm.

“What did you do? I just bandaged that,” the nurse complains.

This time, this one time, he moves. Liam yanks his arm away from their grasp and stumbles out of the bed, away from the nurse that stares at him with wide eyes and a startled frown.

“D-d-don’t touch me,” he hisses, holding his hands as close to his chest as he can, and hissing again when sore skin rubs against his shirt. “Stay the fuck away!”

But instead of moving back or so much as talking to him, the nurse calls for the guards and starts walking in his direction.

Liam takes a step backward and presses his back against the wall, wild eyes searching for an escape, a weapon, anything, but salvation is nowhere near. “Please, don’t. Leave me alone.”

When the guards open the door and enter the room, Liam slides to the ground, as small as he can make himself, elbows on his knees, arms protecting his head.

“Get off!” he screams when hands grab at him, and thrashes in the hold. His foot connects with soft flesh, his knee with someone’s chin, but there are too many men. Too many hands for too little strength, no matter how desperately Liam fights.

They drag him through the floor as Liam writhes with every last bit of stamina he has, panic driving him to fight like he wishes he could every time he’s hurt.

A different kind of pain blooms as he squirms uselessly in unforgiving grips – one deeper, familiar, warmer. Liam still doesn’t stop.

“Fuck, he reopened the stab wound,” someone shouts over the cacophony of pain and panicked struggling. “Hold him down, now!”

Liam is pushed to the floor, and when someone squeezes both his arms to keep him there, right over the exposed burns, the world turns red, and a scream tears its way out of his throat.

“No, no, no, get off!” he sobs, kicking out even when a needle sinks into his arm. “n-n-nggh off, get, get o-off,” he tries again, but the world is already slipping through his fingers. He kicks out and thrashes as best as he can, but it isn’t enough. There are stronger bodies over him and the movement is barely there at all.

As much as Liam tries to keep his eyes open, they weigh too heavy, the drugs stronger than he is.

What isn’t?

Liam’s body relaxes against his will, slumps under harsh hands and angry stares, and all he can do is whimper when they drag his limp body to the bed.

Chase moves through life like a ghost, only a shell of helplessness and worry, and for the first time, his team notices. He hasn’t slept in days, not with Liam’s face twisted in agony ready to wake him up each time he closes his eyes. Has barely eaten, no appetite left when all he can think about is the boy he loves being hurt on his account.

How can he be free when Liam is locked up? How can he be the one who isn’t hurting when he is the only one who ever deserved it?

“Come on, I know that there’s something wrong,” Zoey says, crossing her arms.

If he could simply flee, he would, but with the hacker standing right in front of him, Chase knows it isn’t worth it. Even if he did leave, she wouldn’t stop trying to get the truth out of him. So Chase sighs and looks down at the blond woman who looks ready to commit murder.

“We all know it. You look like shit. What’s going on?”

It takes all of his strength to plaster a smirk on his lips and lean against the wall with a casual tilt of his head. “You guys worry too much. I’m fine, Zo. Probably could do with a little more sleep, but who couldn’t?”

As convincing as he hopes he sounds, Zoey doesn’t seem at all impressed by his acting. If anything, her frown deepens. “I know you, Chase. And you know me, so you know you can trust me. You look even worse than you did after that mission with the newspaper boy.”

Newspaper boy. If that was all Liam meant for him, maybe Chase’s heart wouldn’t be this tattered.

“Zoey. I am okay, I p– I promise.”

I never lied to you, he had said to Liam as he bled out in Chase’s arms. I betrayed you, yes, but not once did I lie. Stay alive and I’ll prove it to you.

But that was just another lie, wasn’t it? Liam is as alive as ever, and all Chase’s done is cause him more pain than any of them ever imagined possible. All he’s proven is his failure to keep Liam safe.

What is another lie when he’s already filled with them? Maybe that’s all he was always meant to be, all he will ever be – a betrayer. A traitor. A liar.

With a casual shrug that makes his stomach twist, Chase sidesteps his teammate. Before he can move farther away though, she grabs his arm and pulls him back.

“You are good at lying, but I can see the way your eyes have gone dull. I’m not going to force you to say it, but when you get tired of pretending to be fine, I’ll be here. Okay?” When Chase doesn’t answer, she takes a deep breath and nods. Zoey leaves him standing there, feeling dirty and raw, something stirring inside his chest and begging him to tell her everything.

Chase opens his mouth, the truth one breath away, and takes a step towards Zoey’s back. And then his phone buzzes, and reality comes crashing back as he looks at the screen and she disappears down the corridor.

Wanna see him?

It’s the first message he’s gotten from Jonah in days, and Chase holds his breath and freezes for a second at the words.

He’s rushing to his car even before his mind has caught up with his legs.

He’s standing in front of Jonah’s building in a matter of minutes, heart racing but mind weirdly quiet. Static silence, fear building up.

Jonah waits for him in the lobby this time, leaning against the open door of the elevator with a smile on his lips.

“Chase! Long time no see.”

“Where is he?”

“Straight to the point, huh. Boring as ever,” Jonah rolls his eyes. “I was feeling generous today, thought you might want to say hello. I’m not sure our dear boy will answer you, but you can try for yourself I guess.”

“What the fuck did you do?” Chase hisses as Jonah nods for him to get inside and presses the button.

“Nothing bad. He was just fussing about the pain, so my nurses gave him have a little something to relax.”

Chase steps into the elevator, two guards close behind, and fears he’ll shatter his jaw from how hard he’s clenching it.

“He also doesn’t really like his new… adornments, I don’t think. Ripped the bandages earlier today, wet the whole bed with tears.”

Jonah’s voice is light as he says it, the tone one would use to talk about something meaningless, something that doesn’t make Chase sink his nails into his palms and hold his breath. The man’s eyes are the telltale, shining with dark glee, and Chase can see the way Jonah follows his every movement like a predator, reveling at the little cracks in his unruffled façade.

“So when I offered him something to calm down, he didn’t even think before accepting,” he continues.

The doors slide open before any of them can say anything else. A small mercy.

The walk to Liam’s room is as quick as it is infinite. They stop in front of the door so incredibly soon, yet so painfully late.

“Be nice to him, I think he’s going through a phase,” Jonah chuckles as he nods for one of his men to unlock the door. “And don’t forget that this is your fault, dear.”

He barely realizes he’s entered the room until the lock clicks behind him. And then Chase’s eyes find Liam, and the world stops on its tracks, just like it always does when they are in the same room together.

He’s lying on his back, arms open and hands hanging off the bed, bandages covering the skin from Liam’s elbows to his wrists. His eyes are open, but unfocused, slow blinks that lead to nowhere even when Chase takes the first step towards him. His chest rises and falls slowly, rhythmically, a shallow blow of air through parted lips, and despite everything, Chase is happy that Liam isn’t in pain.

It is only when he stops beside the bed that Liam’s head lolls on the pillow, a sunflower looking for the sun even though no real light can reach him here. Still, he looks, and half-lidded eyes roam around the room before finally stopping on Chase’s face.

“Hey,” Chase says, curling one hand into a fist while the other clutches the edge of the bed.

“Mmgh,” Liam slurs with a shuddering breath and a crease on his forehead before trying again. “I, mm, I’m not, n-uh not feeling… well.”

“How can I help?” Chase’s voice is hoarse and low, pained, but Liam hears it. He hears it and he whimpers, shaking his head no.

Make it stop, his mouth forms, but doesn’t voice.

I can’t, Chase wants to scream, I’d give anything to make it all stop but I can’t. Instead, he softens his voice and tries to smile. “What if I do something to distract you? I… I was told you are under some strong drugs.”

Green eyes blink at him, and Chase is happy there are only the two of them in the room. He might actually lose it and punch Jonah square in the face if the man was here.

“How about I tell you a story? You’ve always liked them.”

Liam swallows, eyes darting around the room again, and even though Chase knows he isn’t listening, not really, he sits on the edge of the bed and starts talking.

“It’s about a boy who thought he could change the world, but instead changed the person who was sent to stop him.”

“Sou-sounds like a shit story,” Liam mumbles.

“Depends on how you look at it. Or who’s the one telling it, I guess.”

There’s a pause, and Liam sighs softly before talking again.

“Are you… are, are you really… here?”

The words slam into his chest, shattering anything left in there, and though Chase holds himself firmly still and keeps his face carefully free from anything but tenderness, something collapses inside of him. Maybe it’s his heart. It feels like it, and he wants to cry, to grab Liam and leave, but he can’t, and Liam strains to focus on his eyes, so Chase smiles like there isn’t burning agony rippling through him.

“Do you want me to be?”

“I, I don’t, I don’t know.” It is only a murmur, but Chase knows he’ll hear its echo in his nightmares for a long time – the uncertainty, the fear, the sadness. The helplessness.

I’m here. I would be here forever if I could.

But the words are only that – words. He can’t be here forever, nor erase all the pain he’s caused and continues to cause. So Chase picks up the pieces of his heart and pretends it doesn’t hurt to smirk and brush Liam’s hair away from his forehead like he used to do so long ago.

If he can’t take Liam away from this nightmare, the least he can do is pretend it is a dream.

“Then you should stop dreaming about me.”

“Ca-can’t,” Liam frowns, staring at the hand Chase just touched him with. “Will, will you leave? Again?”

“Only if you want me to.”

Liam looks up again, and something is missing in those eyes. A spark of life that was still there the last time they saw each other, but isn’t now. As Chase searches for the hope he always loved in the depths of Liam’s gaze, what he finds instead is sadness.

“Don’t go,” Liam breathes. “I, I, my h-head, it it it feels weird, Chase.”

“I know, love,” Chase says calmly, nothing of the wild desperation that rages inside of him seeping through the words. Not when Liam is this lost, this vulnerable. Not when it is the first time he has called Chase by his name after the betrayal. “It’ll pass.”

“I’m scared,” he murmurs, shifting on the bed. “But, I, I don’t remember… why.”

“You are okay, Liam. I promise. You’ll be okay.”

Liam closes his eyes and shakes his head, and when he speaks, his voice is only a whisper, gone even before he finishes. “I don’t believe you.”

Chase bites on his lip and creases his forehead, but none of it shows when he takes Liam’s hand in his own and gives it a little squeeze.

“I know. That’s okay too.”

But Liam isn’t there anymore to hear it. His body sags on the bed, taken away by the drugs, and Chase is left alone in Liam’s cell, watching the boy he’d kill and die for fall asleep. As he does, all Chase can think about is that he needs to get Liam out of here. Somehow, he needs to get him away, no matter the cost of it.

An hour goes by, and though it is one of the worst hours of Chase’s life, is it the first time he doesn’t feel like a part of his heart is bleeding in days. Not when he can see the bleeding part right in front of him.

He wants to wake Liam up, to hear his voice while he can, before he’s forced to leave again. But there’s peace on his face as he sleeps, and Chase can’t take him back to reality when he looks like he used to, like he could wake up at any moment and kiss Chase with a smile.

And then the door opens, and the memories vanish as Chase reluctantly gets up. As soon as he does though, Liam stirs on the bed, frail hand reaching out and grabbing Chase’s wrist before he can move away.

“You promised me… a… um, a story.”

Liam’s eyes open for a moment before closing again, but he doesn’t let go. Chase shoots one look at the guards waiting by the door and knows that nothing good will happen if he waits. He has to play nice if he wants to get Liam out.

Chase looks down at Liam again, and when he finds half-lidded eyes struggling to stay open, he can’t stop his voice from breaking mid-sentence.

“It’ll have to stay for another time, okay? I’ll see you soon, love.”

Liam’s eyes flutter back closed with a soft sigh. His voice is soft as the tears that sting Chase’s eyes when he speaks. “You al–, you always leave in real life too.”

Chase can’t find an answer before he is dragged out of the room by a firm grip he knows better than to fight. He yanks his arm away as soon as the door locks him and Liam on different sides, and hears the words rattling around his head while he is lead to sit in Jonah’s office to hear what the man wants next. All the way back to his house.

He doesn’t think when he calls Zoey. All he hears is Liam.

All he can see is Liam’s lost gaze, the life fading out of his eyes. All he knows is that if he lets him in Jonah’s claws one more second without doing anything, he might actually, truly, crumble down until he can’t pull himself back up.

He is sitting on his couch, hands over his face and elbows on his knees just like they have been since he got home, when his friend opens the door.

“Oh, Chase,” she breathes as soon as she sees his face and sits beside him. “What happened?”

He doesn’t get to crumble down. Not when it’s Liam the one being hurt. The one branded and tortured and kidnapped and betrayed. Still, when Zoey’s gentle arms wrap around him, he hugs her back.

“It’s Liam,” he says, fighting to get the words out through his heaving breaths, trying to force his mind to put them together long enough for someone else to know it too because he can’t do this on his own. He thought he could, he thought he was enough, but he isn’t and he needs to get Liam out, no matter what, no matter how, he has to, he has to before the light goes out in that beautiful green gaze. “He, I, he’s caught and it’s my fault and I thought I could keep him safe but I can’t and now–“

“Chase, breathe,” she commands, and he answers. It’s all he knows how to do, isn’t it? Answer orders. Look at what happens when he’s left on his own. “Let’s start from the begging.”

So Chase does.

(next)

#whump #whump writing #drug whump #noncon drugging #forced sedation #hostage whump #needle cw #captivity #hostage situation #betrayal story #angst #manhandling #aw look at chase finally doing something :') go on babe stop sitting around and letting your boy be tortured #pity liam is not gonna remember any of this later :) and will continue to think chase left him there :) yeah such a pity :)))#so what do y'all think of zoey? i didn't want to introduce another character because who cares lol but chase really needs the help

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90stvshowgoth · 4 years ago

Text

—BREAKING & ENTERING

—ch.1 —ch.2

summary: after dabi was seen leaving your apartment complex last week, the commission has sent a lesser known hero to help guard the building until new cameras are installed. however, no security measures in the world could keep dabi out.

w/c: 5064

tags: dubcon, cuckolding, creampie, voyeurism, humiliation, exhibitionism, arson

a/n: this is the final chapter to this little duology, and the reason why its so much shorter is because the first one was really supposed to stand on its own, but i got so many requests for a sequel i couldn’t help it. so i just took the kinks i didn’t get to use last time and pay off some setup and voila. however, just ‘cause this is the last chapter of this story doesn’t mean i’m not gonna write a fuck ton of other stuff for him. ily burn man. plus i’m working on a huge, multi-chapter fic for him while i post smaller one-shots >:) that being said, enjoy.

The impact Dabi left on your life was far bigger than you thought it would’ve been on the night you snuck him away from the law. As he was running from the cops someone saw him climb through your window, and a different person also saw him climb down the fire escape. With witnesses like that, the other tenants were downright furious.

You almost felt bad for the landlord, it wasn’t his fault you were insane enough to willingly let a villain come inside both you and your apartment.

Your landlord and the police department came up with a solution. The apartment complex would be installing new state-of-the-art locks on all fire-escape adjacent windows free of charge. This wasn’t exactly an issue with seeing Dabi again, since all you had to do was purposefully leave yours unlocked.

It would take two weeks to install all the cameras, but until then, a community-assigned hero would be stationed to guard the complex.

His name was Kao, a middle-ranked hero with bright orange hair and a winning smile framed with dimples. At first you thought he might’ve been one of the better heroes, waving you off to work and walking you there the other day, but recently he’d begun to creep you out. The friendly conversations about a tv show you both enjoyed began to turn into invasive questions about your love life.

A week of lingering glances and uncomfortable prying culminated that Friday as he had flat out asked you to dinner moments prior.

“C’mon, I just— I said that wrong, lemme try again,” He stuttered, keeping pace with you as you marched towards the building.

“No, Kao, look, you’re cool and all, but I’m really not looking to date anyone right now.” You huffed, striding into the doorway and towards the elevator. That might not’ve been the whole truth but you obviously couldn’t tell him that you had the hots for a terrorist.

He groaned, rubbing the back of his neck, “Well you just got off work, right? I remember which room you stay in, maybe I can swing by tonight?”

You whirled on him, your jaw slack in shock at the insensitivity of his words. The reminder that he knew where you lived sending a shiver down your spine, “Kao, this conversation is done. I don’t want you following me around anymore, hero,”

Deep down, your words sounded familiar. If they were raspier and said behind a thin veil of indifference, you might’ve realized that you were talking like Dabi.

“What is that supposed to mean? We’re the good guys!” You slammed your fist down on the close-door button, your mouth a thin line, daring Kao to make a move and stop the doors. He didn’t, and soon the reassuring pull of the elevator set your shaking body at ease.

‘Who does he think he is?’ You were bitter, rightfully so, you think.

You were so frustrated that you had difficulty inserting your keys into the lock, twisting it with a growl and throwing open the door, ready to collapse onto your pillow and vent to whoever was online about your heroic stalker.

When you noticed the scent of cigarettes in the air.

“Hey, doll,” Warmth surged through your chest at the sight of him, the villain’s feet kicked up onto the coffee table.

You were hanging your coat on the hook before moving beside him to the couch, “What took you so long?”

“Not happy to see me? You seem a lot bitchier than I remember,” The crude edge of his humor was a breath of fresh air compared to the stifling niceties of work, and you smiled for what felt like the first time that day.

Shaking your head, you toed out of your boots and made your way to the frayed couch, “I’ll tell you all about him,”

That got his attention, “Him?”

“A hero,” Dabi’s frown worsened, an accusatory look in his eyes, “before you ask, no, you idiot, I hate this guy, there’s not a chance I’d sleep with him.”

The tensity in his shoulders relaxed, bring the half-finished Newport to his lips as you continued, “Since you broke in last week all my neighbors lost their shit. They threatened to sue if my landlord didn’t assign a hero to watch the building for a bit. I thought he was cool, but I’ve just decided that he’s a total prick.”

He hummed, nodding understandingly, “Want me to kill him?”

You gaped, hitting him on the chest, “Wha—No, Dabi, what the hell?”

He just shrugged, the intensity of his words almost funny to you, and as you recounted the last twenty minutes the ashes of Dabi’s cigarette fell to the floor. The dying lights of the sun streamed through your window, the smoke oddly beautiful in the glow as he handed you the last hit of his cheap cigar.

“You know why heroes are like that?” You shook your head, enjoying the numbing calm of tobacco, “It’s cause they’re spoiled. They go their entire lives being praised for everything they do so they don’t know how to take no for a fuckin’ answer,”

Apparently your smoking buddy was feeling talkative, much to your delight. His words made you pause, remembering the relieved faces of your neighbors whenever they’d see the gaudy costume Kao wore as he strode by.

“Shit... guess you’re right,” You mumbled into his side, not minding the ever-present aroma of burnt skin and smoke that clung to Dabi’s coat.

He scoffed, “I’m always right, baby,” His words earning him a pinch on the arm.

“No, you ass, just about the hero stuff,” He grinned, the staples on his dimples taut against his skin as he pulled you closer, his breath hot against your ear.

“Careful, doll, you’re starting to sound like a villain,” The drop in your stomach sent heat down your skin, yet somehow you were still shivering under his predatory gaze.

You shook your head, trying to will away the red that dusted your cheeks, “No way, my quirk isn’t strong enough to be a villain,”

He raised his eyebrow expectantly, broadly gesturing for you to go on.

“Well...” God, why is this embarrassing? “I can give people headaches.”

You didn’t know if he would laugh at you or belittle you for your meaningless quirk, but he did neither.

“Think you could practice it more? Get better at it?” He was serious, staring at you and expecting an answer.

You looked away, unable to hold his gaze, “I mean, maybe? It’s not hard to do, I guess,”

Dabi smirked, pulling you onto his lap. It felt as if the week hadn’t happened at all and you were right back where you started, your face flushing at the memories of that night. He dragged you close, eyes dark as he whispered something into your ear...

“Think you could split someone’s head open with a migraine?”

Your gut wrenched, flinching at the gory idea and making you sit up in Dabi’s lap. The atmosphere in the room hadn’t changed, his stare as menacing as before.

That is, until he started to crack up. Louder than you’d ever heard before, his fit filled the apartment until he had to cup his stomach from laughing too hard; the wheeze in his rough throat echoing around the room as your blush spread all the way down your neck.

“Oh, you asshole!” If anything, your shove against his chest only made him more giddy. The panic-fueled adrenaline was still surging through your body, unwillingly making the wetness between your thighs spread, even as you tried to wrap your head around the fact that Dabi had been fucking with you.

Your legs shook as he held on to you for balance, his cackling dying down but the shit-eating grin never leaving his face, “You were so freaked out, huh?”

“Yeah, no shit!”

He hummed, running a hand through your hair and suddenly yanking you forward, basking in the sharp yelp it brought from you, “You’re cute when you’re scared,”

You’d missed the way his scabbed lips felt on yours more than you’d ever admit. There was something about him that left you breathless, eager and questioning your life choices. Groaning into his mouth before pulling back and laving your slick tongue along his disfigured lower lip, you rolled your aching heat against him to force a truly pornographic moan from his mouth.

“Oh, fuck—” One of his hands slid down your back, grabbing your ass through your jeans, “Fucking hell, you missed me that much?”

You nodded dumbly into his shoulder, pressing chaste kisses along the ragged skin as he slid his finger past the band of your jeans, cupping your dripping sex with wide eyes.

“Goddamn, s’no way you’re this wet for me already,” His eyes were scrutinizing, trying to figure out why you were hiding into his neck, “What’s got you so worked up, doll?”

You couldn’t come up with a good excuse in time, Dabi thinking back to how your thighs had tightened up when he asked if you could kill someone, your eyes were frightened back then, yes, but there was something else. Something you wouldn’t tell him.

When the realization hit him, it hit hard.

“Holy shit, you get off on being scared?” He couldn’t believe his luck, the embarrassed groan you buried into his shoulder confirming his suspicions.

Dabi ran a hand through his hair, a childish wonder over his features, “Aren’t I fuckin’ lucky?” He sneered, pulling you back til you were at eye-level again.

“I’m gonna try something, baby,” there was an edge to his voice as he settled one hand on the small of your back, pressing your tits against his chest as he held your bra strap back with the other.

“What are you… Dabi, what are you doing?” The scent of fire and burning fabric filled the air, the ends of your bralette smoking between his fingertips, embers turning to ash and sprinkling down the couch until it was flimsy enough for Dabi to rip free, teeth sinking into your neck as he held you still to keep your skin safe.

It was jarring and a bit terrifying to be restrained against someone like Dabi without knowing his intentions. But nothing in you could deny the blinding rush of pleasure it ripped down your spine.

“It’s all starting to make sense, doll-face, I guess I was right the first time,” His hands tossed the smoking bra into hallway, reaching between you and torturously pinching and pulling on the rosy blush of your tits, “you do have a thing for villains,”

“Can’t wait to fuck that tight pussy again, doll,” Without warning he shoved your torso forward, your body bouncing against the couch, his hands flying to the button of your jeans.

“—Didn’t have time to take you right last time, didn’t get to taste you,” his words made you whimper in his grasp, keeping your legs somewhat raised as tugged down the tight denim.

You fully expected him to take you rough like before, make you choke on his cock before having his fill, but as he tugged off your black panties he crawled down the trembling body beneath him, slowly moving over your ribs, your stomach, and finally your drooling cunt.

He never broke eye contact with you as he pulled your thighs closer, keeping them spread wide as the hot fan of his breath on your pussy sent a thrill through your neglected nerves.

“I want you to scream my name,” It was an order, not a request. The unhinged tremor in his hands was unsettling, an unspoken threat hanging in the air.

Dabi’s tongue immediately found your clit, mouth wrapping around the glistening bead and sucking all at once, the moan it drew from your lips unholy. He moaned at the taste, hiking up your hips onto his shoulders.

“Christ, you’re sweet, doll, like fuckin’ candy...” He muttered in disbelief, more to himself that to you, licking a wide stripe along your drenched lips, diving into you deep enough to have your limbs spasming around him.

On instinct your hand flew to your mouth to muffle the sharp cry that the villain drew. He didn’t warn you before bringing his hand up high and slapping it into the bare skin of your thigh, a scream echoing through the living room. Distantly, you wondered if your neighbors could hear...

“Don’t you dare hide a single sound from me, slut, or this ends now,” his ultimatum was scary but the insult felt heavy in a way you’d never felt before, and you nodded without a second thought, breathlessly bunching one hand into the arm of the couch above you and the other into the ashy black of his hair.

You nodded down to him, silently saying to continue; the villain fixed on watching as your chest swelled in time with your breathing, a rush of blood going to the heat of his cock.

His pace was hungry, nipping at your thighs whenever he thought you were too comfortable, spinning circles into your clit with his tongue and chuckling at the noises it brought, “You gonna cum, princess?” You could only respond with a scream of his name, the plea music to his ears, but he needed you to be louder if he was to get what he wanted.

“Louder,” Dabi called your name like a prayer, moaning into your cunt as you practically suffocated him between your thighs, “Fuck—Louder, baby, scream it,”

“Dabi!!” Your orgasm was hot against his tongue and he drank in every last drop of your climax until you were wrenching away his greedy mouth, your pussy swollen and red from his care.

Just as you started to compose yourself, a frantic banging sounded on the door. Someone from the hallway was slamming down their fist, screaming your name.

“Hey! Did you just say Dabi?! Are you okay in there?” It was Kao.

Horror clawed away any kind of afterglow as you cupped your hand to your mouth, leaning up on your elbow and whispering, “What do I say?”

Dabi’s voice was just low enough to hide behind the pounding of Kao’s fists, “Do you trust me?”

Before you could answer the hero behind the wall called your name again.

“If you don’t answer me in five seconds I’m breaking this door down!”

Your gaze flickered from the front door to the villain that was wiping your slick from his chin.

“Yes,”

Dabi grinned, grabbing your wrists and holding you against his shirt, one hand wrapped painfully around your tits and the other erupting with blue fire in his palm.

“Come and get her, hero!” You made a confused squeal, thrashing around in his grasp, eyes wide and afraid as Dabi shushed into your ear, trying to calm you down.

‘Like hell if you’d calm down, he’d practically just signed your death sentence!’ you heaved against the fugitive, trying to shake yourself free to no avail.

All you could do was squeeze your eyes shut and imagine you were somewhere else as door was jolted in its hinges, the doorknob falling with a distant clang, and before you could beg Dabi to stop whatever stupid game he was playing, Kao ran into the room, eyes furrowed and fists raised as the door squeaked on the loose hinges behind him, blissfully unaware.

“Where are y—“ Kao’s voice paused mid-sentence, you flinched in Dabi’s hold, the heat of the redhead’s stare washing over you, naked and wet, making you tilt your head down, trying to hide yourself from the world.

“Isn’t she cute, hero?” Dabi rasped against you, the heat of his fire illuminated against the sweaty sheen of your trembling body. Kao didn’t know what to do, flustered and struggling to hide the tent in his latex costume.

You knew fighting back against the villain was pointless, falling limp in the strength of his arms as he chuckled into your neck, looking over at the bump in his pants, “You were right, babe, I think he likes you,”

“Get your filthy hands off of her!” Kao screamed, diving towards the couch with his fist raised back.

Dabi simply grinned, carefully hovering his flame ever closer to your now bare tits, you couldn’t help but scream at the proximity, and whatever plan Kao had in his mind died before his fist could make impact.

His novocaine laced voice spoke calmly beside your ear, “Any closer and she’s dead,” The hot rush down your legs wasn’t due to his flames, as one hand took to rubbing your sensitive sex, the sounds it elicited from you unintentional and mortifying under the presence of Kao in the room.

“What... what do you want, you bastard?” Dabi laughed at that one, tweaking your clit between his fingers and conducting the most beautiful notes from your pillowy lips.

“I think It’s pretty obvious what I want, don’t you think?” Your name on his lips sent you keening against him despite the inferno roaring inches away from your skin. He couldn’t move without Dabi’s flames hovering ever closer to your heaving chest, and to Kao, you were very clearly about to die. Although you didn’t believe Dabi would hurt you, he had asked you to trust him before he got Kao’s attention, after all, the line between foreplay and conflagration was becoming blurry.

Kao backed up into the half wall that separated the living room from the kitchen, barely making an effort to try and hide his erection anymore, “I’ll send you to fucking Tartarus for this, Dabi.”

“Oooo, scary,” His unlit hand trailed down your jawline, tilting you to his side until he could slide his tongue into your open lips, humming into your mouth, “What do you think, doll?

“Dabi, please... wait,“ The strength in your voice wasn’t as heated as before, and even you had to admit it sounded half-assed.

Kao’s quirk must be no good for long range because all he could do was stand there, trying to avert his eyes from your drooling cunt in favor of glaring daggers at the coy villain pulling soft mewls from your lips, “I swear... I’ll see you rot in prison for this. You’ll be fucking executed, you rapist—“

“—woah, woah, that stings, hero. Doll, is that really what I’m doin’?” You groaned, not exactly answering because you couldn’t hear the question, your eyes still shut tight in embarrassment.

The growl in his voice sent another soaking rush towards your pussy, as his hand grabbed you jaw, pulling you up, “Look at me,” Your eyes widened at the sight of Dabi so close to you, his chest warm against your back, the aches of your last orgasm fading into something new.

“Tell me to stop, princess, your call,” Time stood still as Dabi kissed a soft pathway along your neck, weirdly gentle as he listened for your response, his clothed hard-on pressed firmly against your ass.

Too flustered to speak, you merely wrenched your arm free from his grasp, carding you hand through his hair and pulling him to your desperate lips. You could feel him tug into a smirk against you as your hips eagerly ground themselves on him despite the audience.

Kao choked on his own spit, stepping backwards, but stopped when Dabi aimed his ignited hand towards the hero who was having difficulty piecing together your actions in his head. “What,” His voice cracked when he called out your name, “are you...?”

Dabi pulled away, a feral glint in the blue hidden beneath his hair as he licked a disgustingly wet stripe along your cheek, chest rumbling behind you as you squirmed at the gross feeling, “I’m still gonna need you to beg, sweetheart.”

Your dignity was hanging by a thread, hinging on whether or not you followed his lead, but the insane buzz your anxiety had stirred up under Kao’s confused stare and Dabi’s aching cock was impossible to ignore. He rut himself into the dripping curve of your ass, his jeans soaked with your slick as you found the courage to speak.

“Fuh...” Carefully, Dabi pressed a loving kiss to your temple, his stare fixated on Kao’s as you strung the syllables together, “Fuck me, Dabi,”

The hero couldn’t believe his ears. She’d turned him down countless times despite his pursuits, yet she was somehow fine with this? Kao briefly thought that perhaps his crush was a villain this whole time, but that couldn’t make sense with her weak quirk.

You felt Dabi twitch beneath you, the shameless way you showed yourself off was as humiliating as it was hot, and he laughed in lightheaded disbelief against the back of your neck, taking your ass in one hand and slipping the other down his pants, tugging off the painful metal zipper until his boxers were pulled down just enough for his cock to finally be met with the soft warmth of your cunt.

“As the lady commands,” Dabi grinned, reaching around your waist to take his pierced dick in his hand, rubbing and tapping his swollen head deliberately against your clit, pre-cum drenching your pussy as you felt boneless in his arms.

“Ah-! St..S-top tea-sing, Dabi!” You babbled, squirming to try and find an escape from his grasp or maybe trying to force him inside you, but all your struggling did was make him harder. But before you could beg, you froze at the sight of Kao a few feet away, his legs bending into a sprinter’s pose. He was going to run?

Dabi was having none of it, a controlled jet of flame grazing Kao’s knee, scalding the skin beneath the latex. The hero cried out into the bite of his fist, collapsing into the wall a few feet away.

“Nah, hero. You’re not leaving just yet,” The villain rearranged you on his lap, “See, the thought of you jerking off to my girl? It kinda pisses me off, actually,”

The color in Kao’s face drained as he had no choice but to sit and watch as Dabi slowly sunk you down on top of him, one hand drawing soft circles into your stomach as you reveled in the feeling of his piercings hot against every part of you.

“Though, I’m wondering, what did you think about, huh?” Kao sputtered, unable to form words just like you, formless noises falling from your lips.

His scarred hands grasped at the flesh of your thighs, raising you up only to shove you back onto his cock, the flames that still extended to threaten Kao suddenly flared up in time with his thrusts, the weight of him felt so much deeper at this angle and it was hard to breathe, let alone speak.

“I... nothing! I didn’t—“ Another whip of fire cut through the room from Dabi’s fingertips, a cast of blue leaving bubbling skin in its wake, pain flashing across Kao’s face.

“Fuckin’ liar,” You yelped as Dabi shoved you down, moaning into your ear as you squeezed against him, sobbing his name into his chest as he picked up a steady pace in your guts.

Kao cried out, stuttering and gripping along the inflamed line of skin, “I-I thought— thought about her... fuck— I just wanted her to suck me off, alright? There, I said it! Are you happy now?”

He must’ve realized the mistake in his words as soon as he said them, squeezing your eyes shut but having no choice but to smell the stench of burning flesh and hear the sound of muffled screaming as it filled your apartment, “Can’t blame you though, her mouth is God,”

Your hands scrambled for balance against Dabi as the screaming of his victim made him downright feral, filling your tight heat so well it had you crying.

“Damn, you’re soaked for me, doll, I just knew you were a kinky fuck deep down. You’re a slutty little girl for me, aren’t ya?”

As much as it hurt to admit it, he was right. He was painfully right, and you told him so. The unhinged, unstoppable force that was Dabi ignited a passion in you that’d never been fed before. He was torturing the hero you hated all while taking your cunt in deep, harsh thrusts, the metal imbedded into his cock and his chest behind you were blisteringly hot against your skin.

“Tell him, baby,” His question fell on deaf ears, your tongue lolling from your mouth a bit at the pleasure.

It caught you off guard when he drew his hand back and slapped you across the cheek, a blistering red handprint in its wake, saying your name so softly, turning off his quirk to run his hands through your hair, he whispered, “Tell that fucking hero who you belong to,”

The world tipped over as Dabi gripped your shoulders, pushing you onto the wooden coffee table so your ass stuck in the air. In an instant he was on you again, pounding into your cunt with a glazed fervor, your words downright biblical in his ears.

“On-ly... Dabi ca—Ngh, Only Dabi can fuck me this good,” You forced the words from your throat, thankful for the table serving as an impartial shoulder to cry on as Dabi lined himself up with your cunt.

“More, princess,” The snap of his hips had you drooling onto the table, catching sight of Kao’s slumped body in the corner as Dabi’s breath sounded much louder than before.

“Fuck, baby—” You cried, craning your neck back to look at him. Sweat glistened at the crown of his dark hair, steam shading his breath as he took you hard, “Your cock is— shit its so deep in me,”

Your nerves were spent from exhaustion as he railed you, being more vocal than before as he choked at the feeling of your walls tightening around him, his fingernails digging future bruises into your hip dips, “Wanna feel you cum in me, want you to fill me up— Dabi, wanna make you feel good,”

“Fuck, doll, I can’t...” He ground his teeth together, making you squeal as he mounted you from behind, spreading your legs out wide so you had no way to hide yourself, “Gonna fuck’n cum-gonna cum in you- fuck, fuck, fuck—!“

You both hit your highs at the same time, Dabi accidentally digging your face into the wood as he held you as tightly to him as possible, his cum running hot due to his quirk as he pumped you full, that broken cry of yours like music to his ears, humping you a few times to ride out his climax.

You felt warm and safe, Dabi’s weight a comfortable blanket even with your shivering skin pressed naked into the coffee table. However, the quietly groaning hero in the corner made you quickly come back down to earth.

“Dabi... did you kill him?” Your voice was small beneath him, but he just shrugged.

“Nah, not yet, don’t worry,” He kissed your neck one more time, his thumb rubbing circles into your indented stomach, pulling you off the table and back into his arms.

He pulled out of you and grinned at the sight of his release spilling down your thighs, “Damn...” he whispered, taking in the sight with a satisfied whistle, “C’mon Doll, forget about him.”

You were grateful he carried you bridal style to your bedroom, your legs gelatin at this point, and as he laid you down to rest he grabbed one of your discarded shirts that hadn’t made it to the hamper and wiped down the remains of sex from your twitching cunt before leaving the cum-stained top ignored on the ground.

“You doing good, baby? Didn’t go too hard, did I?” His concern was diminished somewhat by the grin on his face, satisfied with the mumbling, love-drunk form he’d reduced you to.

Shaking your head, you burrowed into the warm blankets, peeking your eyes out from beyond the covers in a way that even Dabi couldn’t deny was pretty cute, “No, just... what are you gonna do with Kao?”

His face was unreadable as he leaned closer, “Do you really want to know?”

Truth be told, no, you didn’t, you were just a civilian, far removed from the complex fight between heroes and villains. You were only in this situation because you’d grown to care about Dabi. In some small, sarcastic way, he’d wormed his way into your life, and he hadn’t hurt you so far, only going as close as possible to bring you over the edge again and again.

“No...”

“Good answer,” he stood up, tucking himself back into his jeans as he went back into the living room. You heard a muffled thud and what sounded like Dabi cursing before he reappeared in your bedroom, Kao’s unconscious body slung over his shoulder. For such a wiry guy, Dabi was pretty strong. Moving to the open window he basically threw Kao’s body onto the outside metal grating, his lungs uneven after carrying him.

Just as he swung his leg onto the windowsill you shot up in your bed, hand outstretched, “Wait!”

He turned back to look at you, genuinely confused as to what you could want.

“Kiss me before you go?”

He froze, then grinned, scoffing at the innocent gesture you gave so openly to a murderer like him. There had to be something wrong with his little villain-in-training to make her okay with it, just like him. Dabi ignored that thought for another day, striding forward and finally giving you the goodbye kiss you’d been denied last time, his tongue trying to map out every detail in case he could ever forget before pulling away with a warm softness to his ocean eyes.

“I think I might be starting to like you, Doll,” A feint rush of color fell on his unmarred skin and you’re sure your heart stopped beating for a good three seconds.

His words were a worn record being played over and over in your head long after he crawled down your fire escape, the teasing, sated haze in his voice hidden beneath a rasp of smoke. You weren’t sure how much he meant what he said, but you’re sure that the first thing you said in return was exactly what he wanted to hear; at least judging from the boyish smile that lit up his face when you said it.

“Come back soon, okay?”

“Okay,”

@effmigentlywithachainsaw @touyasfatcock @thicchaikyuuboys @awritersometimes @chey-the-simp

#dabi x reader #dabi #dabi x reader smut #dubcon #murder #mha #my hero academia #dabi smut #touya x reader #touya todoroki

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bread-writes · 4 years ago

Note

Hi! Thank you for writing the lookism content I needddd. I was wondering if you could do s/o flinching during an argument with Johan, Gun, and Goo? I enjoyed the last one :)

I’m so glad you enjoyed the last one! I hope I did this one justice too.

Headcanons under the cut!

→ part 1

Johan, Gun, and Goo Reacting to their S/o Flinching During an Argument

Johan Seong

Johan can be very childish

selfish, even

after all, before you, he’s only ever had Eden and Miro

these kinds of arguments are a little common in the beginning of the relationship

but he tends to mellow out when he finally decided to trust you and open up

arguments with Johan can be about anything, really

that doesn’t mean he’s not trying to loosen up

he just can’t help it

he tends to snap at you without any ill intent

and usually, you’re okay with it

you understand that he’s not used to relying on anyone other than himself

however, you can only handle something like this for so long

on one particularly rough day for you, you just can’t handle his terrible attitude

he’ll probably hit a sore spot or touch on your insecurities when you confront him about his behavior

he’s initially shocked when you blow up at him

it’s all down hill from there

vicious words are spat without a second thought, neither of you willing to back down

his eyes are screwed shut as he begins to lose his already thinning patience

the fist clenched at his side begins to raise

only then do you come to your senses, flinching at the sight of Johan’s whitened knuckles

when he hears no response from you he slowly opens his eyes, mortified when he noticed the slight tremble in your stance

his fist falls limply at his side

apologies form at the tip of his tongue, but for some reason, he just can’t say anything

why does he always push people away?

he’s only pulled out of his thoughts when your hand gently brushes the lone tear that streamed down his cheek

out of desperation, he’ll grab your wrist and trap you in a hug

‘I’m sorry’s and ‘I’ll do better, I swear’ are mumbled into your shoulder

“Just please don’t leave me...”

Gun Jong

as I’ve stated in my relationship headcanons, arguments like these with Gun are few and far between so major ones usually happen at the beginning of the relationship or something horrible comes up

he just doesn’t see the point in meaningless conflict

unless it’s a fight, of course

much like Johan, he’s not exactly an expert when it comes to communicating

sure, he can read you like an open book and can tell when he can and can’t push boundaries

but when the topic comes around to him, you tend to draw a blank

(of course, he does get better with time)

he’s secretive; keeping his work separate from his personal life

as odd as it may seem, while he’s not the best at communicating his feelings (or anything about himself, in all honesty), he’s the master at shifting conversations into his favor

this has led to far more conversations about you then about him

at first you don’t notice

but when your friends brag and complain about their partners likes and dislikes, you begin to grow insecure

what did you know about Gun?

you fall so deep in your thoughts, trying to find something that you know about him

his favorite color?

you don’t know

his favorite food?

your mind comes up blank

maybe approaching him right after he got home from work wasn’t the best...

when you asked him about it, he only brushed past you and around the corner

you decided to try again at dinner

this time, his lips pulled into a small scowl

“Why the hell do you want to know about me so bad?”

you snapped yelling at him, your hand slamming painfully onto the table

throughout the argument, he remained calm

the only sign of his distress being the slight narrow in his eyes.

your throat dries up when he lights a cigarette, glaring at you through his lashes before turning back to his food

you’ve seen that glare before

it was a glare reserved for people he found annoying or was about to beat the shit out of

“God, you’re so annoying... Can’t you just shut up?

you flinched back, a cold shiver running down your spine and the hairs at the back of your neck starting to stand

he tilted his head back up at you after a few moments

he reaches out to you, his eyes widening once you flinch away from him

he blinks dumbly for a few moments raking his head through the memories and conversations he’s had with you

you sat up from your seat, mumbling your apologies while desperately trying to get away from him

he’ll give you space for a few days before deciding to approach you again

while he won’t open up immediately, he will over time, now dropping little facts about himself every now and then

Joon Goo Kim

god, why did you choose to date a literal psychopath

unlike the other two, Goo is very open with his emotions

too an extent, of course

he’s competitive, eccentric

and worst of all, very confrontational

he doesn’t give a damn if you or anyone else challenged him to a fight; a fight is a fight, and he’s in for the thrill

fucking sadist

he could care less about the consequences of his actions, sometimes coming home with a twisted arm or broken rib

all of which he would laugh off before counting the money he managed to smuggle off whoever was unfortunate to cross him

as his partner, you’ve grown used to seeing his battered face entering your home with a bag of money hung over his shoulder

but that doesn’t mean you don’t grow worried for him

of course, this type of behavior has sparked more than a few arguments between the to of you

though none could hold a candle to the one-sided screaming fest currently going on between the two of you

“All I’m asking is for you to be careful!”

he rolled his eyes behind his glasses, letting out an exaggerated yawn as he rolled his shoulder

“Thanks, but I never asked for you to care.”

“Yeah--Well what if you die--?!”

a hand slammed next to your head, nearly shattering the wall

“Are you fucking underestimating me?”

you shook under his now blank gaze, flinching as his hand moved from its position beside your head

the hand caressed your cheek gently whilst Goo sighed from above you

he’s not as soft as the other two, but he is sorry for scaring you

also unlike Johan, he won’t ask for forgiveness right away

he’ll shower you in so many gifts and so much affection that you eventually relent and forgive him

he won’t make any promises about his habits but he will try to keep them under control mostly

haha not proud of this one at all. I literally cannot write Goo--and for what?? Gun’s is so longggg lmao

#lookism #lookism x reader #johan seong #johan seong x reader #gun jong #gun jong x reader #goo kim #goo kim x reader

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ashasmonsters · 4 years ago

Text

The Middle Prince

Male reader x Male Tiefling (Amon)

Citrus rating: Lemon

Content: Detailed wet dreams, alcohol

Words: 8k

Note: Some MLM goodness for Pride Month! This took me longer than I intended, but only because I wrote it way too long and had to break it up into parts! Expect more in this series.

The dreams started assailing you a little over a month ago. During the first week, you couldn't remember anything. You would awake in your bedchamber covered in sweat and panting as if you had just finished a sparring session. These nights, a name danced on the tip of your tongue, escaping just as you attempted to sound it out and make it real. Confused and alone you would promptly go back to sleep after flipping over your pillow. As time passed, the dreams grew both in intensity and clarity. Though still more mysterious than normal dreams, little details here and there coalesced in your waking memory: a soft touch followed by a rough one, the smell of lavender, your fingernails gliding over shallow ridges, the color of aquamarine gemstones. These dreams visited you every night without fail.

The determinations made by the court oneiromancers were limited in scope. After spending the night in the care of one such dream diviner, they found these dreams to be coming from somewhere else. The dreams were not your own, at least not fully. Beyond this, they had no more revelations. Anything more was conjecture; one stated that if magick was involved, it was either massively strong, thus able to conceal its origin, or so fleeting and ephemeral that even the oneiromancers couldn't trace it.

Your father's concern waxed but mostly waned. Perhaps if you were the eldest crown prince instead of the middle one, the answer would have been willed into existence by his command. He simply asked that the oneiromancers track your condition and report any findings to him, but no more than once each week. Though dismayed that little was being done to solve this mystery, you were used to being far from priority. Even years ago when an attempt on your life left one of your legs still and unresponsive, a leg brace allowing you to stand at public appearances was issued and the problem was declared solved. You vividly remembered the look on the assassin's face when he realized he had accidentally struck third in the line of succession rather than first. His reaction was not dissimilar from your father's when you mentioned your dreams: a mildly amused but primarily disappointed visage. The spot where the dagger had pierced your spine no longer ached but your discontent was as raw and fresh as the day the realization struck.

With the oneiromancers essentially told to only report something unquestionably threatening to your life or the family's honor, you shared very little with them. Several times you had dismissed them with little more than a hand wave. None of them ever protested. To their knowledge, no new developments within these dreams came to light. It was just another little curiosity that came with the court.

To their knowledge, anyway. In truth, there had been a quite substantial development that you withheld from them.

The night air was cool and crisp. From your bedchamber's veranda, you let the gentle sound of the garden's fountains below soothe your nerves. This had become your regular nighttime ritual; your last chance to feel relaxed and cool before waking up overheated and frantic. You enjoyed the last of it before sliding under the sheets and waiting for the dream to visit you.

This was the clearest dream to date. The scattered sensations and feelings from prior episodes came into focus: the touches came from smooth, tender hands, the smell of lavender from purple cups of herbal tea. Your fingers played over short, filed horns. That bold aquamarine color like a burning emerald belonged to a pair of eyes, their pupils narrow and catlike. The overall plot of the dream remained unknown to you. What came next, however, was new. Very new.

A pair of hands caressed your body as whatever clothing you had dissolved into the air. Your mind reeled from the realization of what was happening, yet you were relaxed all the same. Though surprised, you didn't wish for it to stop. Even as the tender hands had you at their mercy, one playfully pinching a nipple as the other reached lower in between your legs, you welcomed their touch without knowing why. You just did. It felt right. The hand between your legs started confidently stroking your shaft; making you moan. Their touch was expertly coordinated as if they knew everything about you. Not long after, the building pressure within you was too much to bear, then...

"AMON!" You cried out, the name that had eluded you all those nights finally woven from syllables into a complete utterance. You were no longer dreaming, your own hands reflexively covering your mouth in a futile attempt to take back the exclamation. In the dead of night like this, you most certainly alerted someone.

"My Prince, are you alright?" Your chief courtier, Petra, had burst through your bedchamber door. Guards with polearms at the ready had her back.

"I'm alright," you caught your breath, "it's the dream again. No cause for alarm." As usual, you bore a sheen of sweat and your heart was thundering in your ears.

"You've never called out like that before," Petra noted, not yet dropping her guard.

"I called out?" You lied, wincing as you felt something viscid and slimy on your groin under your dressing gown. Deep embarrassment came to the forefront of your mind, your face helpless to hide it. "Bring me my washbasin, please," you quickly uttered.

"At once, my Prince." Petra left the room as the guards resumed their posts. You peeled back your dressing gown to inspect the damage by moonlight. It was worse than you thought. Undoubtedly this gown would have to be thrown out. You groaned, disappointed in your own body for betraying you like this.

"Your washbasin, Prince." Petra returned and you hurriedly covered yourself up again. The moonlight was too dim, or perhaps she pretended not to see, but she was soon at your bedside without pause, brandishing a sponge and towel.

"I can do this myself," you said, taking the implements from her. She looked at you with intent to interrogate.

"Prince, if there have been changes with your dreams, you must inform the oneiromancers."

"No need," you said, eager to fully clean yourself. "You are dismissed, Petra."

Petra held her tongue. Her eyes told you she only did so because she was eager to return to bed. When she departed your bedchamber and closed the door, you finally discarded the soiled gown and did your best to cleanse yourself of your nocturnal emission. You donned a new gown and welcomed an ordinary slumber.

When morning came, so did Petra and a bevy of assistant courtiers. From the accoutrements they wielded you identified them as the "fashion corps," your nickname for the hairdressers, wardrobers, clothiers, and makeup artists whose arrival portended a formal event you were required to attend. As the squad of aesthetes communicated amongst each other, Petra drew you a bath. While the tub filled, she came to your side and took your shoulder on hers to help you hobble into the bathing chamber.

"What's the occasion, Petra?" You unfolded a privacy screen, dividing your bathing chamber in half. As you stripped and entered the balmy water, you heard Petra pull up a chair on the other side of the screen.

"The biannual alliance gala, Prince."

"The alliance gala?" You asked. Your appearance had not been required at one for quite some time. "Why me?"

"Your father has requested that the entire court attend. From what I've heard, there is quite the number of fiefdoms and baronies joining the kingdom at this one."

"Grand." You sighed and resigned yourself into the water until it met your chin. You imagined the great hall of the palace, teeming with strangers from far-off lands all speaking in such meaningless platitudes that they needed alcohol in hand to tolerate it.

"If it makes you feel any better, Prince, most of the night depends on your elder brother and your father. You have the freedom to do whatever you like once your father's opening speech is concluded," Petra said with a mild tone.

It didn't make you feel better. Your father built a kingdom that, apparently, smaller domains were scrambling to join. Your elder brother was the crown prince with hordes of suitors seeking his heart. Even your elder sister, with no direct claim to the crown, was quite sought after. Then there was you, with permission to get as drunk as you like at the gala. You seriously considered exercising that privilege.

Your ruminations were interrupted by the clatter of hammered metal and leather straps from beyond the screen.

"I've got your brace ready, Prince. Let me know when you're dry," Petra said. You reluctantly finished scrubbing and soaping yourself before heaving your body onto the lip of the bath and toweling off. Sat there, damp with dripping hair and a towel round your waist, you permitted Petra to attach the brace to you. She respectfully averted her eyes as she affixed the contraption to your immobilized leg. With it attached, you traded comfort for the ability to limp and stand unassisted.

Next came the gauntlet of clothing, hair styling, and makeup that the fashion corps employed. Even for today, which was merely a rehearsal for the true event tomorrow, they gave no mercy. They encircled you and passed you around as they worked like a knight being suited by his squires. The process was grueling. Your hair was tugged and the breeches squeezed your brace into your leg. With the freedom to choose your own clothes removed from you, there was no choice but to deal with the feeling of metal biting at your skin.

Bound in the tight, ceremonial clothing, Petra took your arm for the long walk to the great hall. It was full of palace staff and buzzing like a beehive. The ceiling, high as a cathedral's, let in beams of sunlight through its many massive windows. Tables were being arranged with the intent to give each attending guest a view of the stage: the stage where your father and elder brother would be giving their opening speeches tomorrow. The two of them were behind a podium, your brother reading a piece of parchment over your father's shoulder. Behind them towards the back of the stage was a row of ornate seats; not quite thrones but just as uncomfortable. Your elder sister met your gaze as she sat on one. She beckoned you over.

"That will be your seat for the rehearsal, Prince," Petra said.

"Rehearsal for sitting?" You quipped, walking towards your seat anyway. Resistance was futile no matter how silly this all was.

"I'll undo your hair and get you into more comfortable clothes as soon as I can, Prince," Petra said apologetically. "Bear with it. I must attend to the other staff now."

With that, Petra disappeared into the crowd of scrambling staff arranging the great hall into order. You limped to your seat, your brace clicking all the while.

"You look excellent, little brother," your sister said. She was attempting to alleviate your sour mood, but she still hadn't figured out how. Neither had you.

"I look like an idiot. And my leg is killing me," you snapped.

Your sister merely sighed and leaned back in her chair. Her hair, in a high bun, bumped the bejeweled headrest and made her curse.

"You used to love these events when you were smaller. You had perfected waving to the crowd before you learned to talk," she said.

"That was a long time ago. Things were different; I was naive, none of us had official duties, the assassination attempt hadn't happened, I wasn't bedeviled by these dreams... mother was alive." You cast your gaze downward, examining your buckled leather shoes. You heard her sigh.

"Not all change has to be bad. And to be fair, you still don't have any official duties to worry about." She placed a hand on your shoulder.

"That's a polite way of saying I'm useless." You looked up at your father and elder brother. They were discussing something about their speeches, annotating and marking the parchment before them. A small audience of pages stood in front of the stage, listening to them run through portions of their speeches. They hadn't yet paid you any heed.

"It's a blunt way of saying you're free," your sister said firmly. "Every week I'm fielding suitors from all over the world, and not one of them has proven to be anything but repulsive. I'm terrified that one day strategy and diplomacy will land me with someone like them."

Your eyes widened at her open disdain for the matters of the court.

"I'm sorry," you said, reconstructing your vision of who your sister truly was. "I had no idea you felt that way... I thought—"

"You thought I was traipsing about with handsome men from far-off lands every day?" She smirked.

"...yes." You blushed.

"Hah! I wish!" Your sister flinched at her own exclamation, then relaxed when she realized the monarch and the crown prince hadn't noticed. "But you don't have to wish for that. You're free to traipse with whomever you please."

You blushed harder. Turning away from your sister, you saw your brother and father finishing up their speech revisions. On cue, Petra emerged from the throng of staff to conclude this "rehearsal."

"Looks like Petra's coming to get you," your sister noted. "I know you'll be free to retire to your bedchambers as soon as the speeches are over, but I want you to try and enjoy yourself tomorrow night. It's what I would do if I could." She gave you one final smile before getting up from her seat.

"I will," you said, finally cracking a tiny smile in return. Petra had your arm soon after.

"Your presence is no longer required, Prince." Petra helped you up. "Shall I take you back to your chambers?"

"Yes, please," you said, giving your sister a thankful glance. She returned a similar expression as Petra whisked you away.

When you had finally returned to your chambers and changed into less constrictive clothing, you asked Petra to stay awhile to converse. Your sister's advice had forced you to re-evaluate your approach to the gala. Your priorities had shifted just as much as your notions of her personality had.

"You mentioned there were many newcomers to the kingdom? Quite a few tables were being set up in the great hall," you quizzed Petra.

"Yes, from what I've gathered, it's expected to be the largest event we've hosted all year. We're expecting guests from as far as Ankara and Nubia," she answered matter-of-factly. Perhaps she was a little proud, too.

"Are there any specific guests I should know about?" You asked with the grace of a war elephant. Courtship had crossed your mind for the first time mere minutes ago. "Anyone of high repute?"

Petra picked up on your clumsy intent immediately. She knew you too well.

"Prince, it would be quicker to list the attendees not worth approaching than those with stellar accolades. If it were me..." she drew in air through her teeth as if expecting to be reprimanded, "I would consider tomorrow's gala an excellent time to court someone."

"I'll try to take that advice to heart, Petra," you said.

"I'm pleased, Prince. Your matters are your own, but if I may speak unequivocally..."

"Speak your mind." You gave her permission. She hesitated, then sighed.

"You strike me as lonely, Prince. Ever since the Queen passed, your social life has suffered." Petra paused again, considering her words carefully. "You deserve love of that measure once more, whether from a partner or a good friend."

"Thank you," you sighed as if she had given you permission to use your heart. "I appreciate the advice, Petra."

"Of course, Prince." She glanced out the window towards the setting sun. "I recommend you retire early tonight to be invigorated tomorrow, lest the dreams strike again."

You nodded.

"They will." You avoided her eyes as you remembered what happened last time. "Have a washbasin ready. For the, erm, sweat."

"Of course, Prince," Petra said, her face remaining unmoved. You didn't bother trying to discern whether she was oblivious to last night's gown-soiling or if she merely extended you the courtesy of pretending. "I'll leave you be. Get some rest."

You watched her exit your chambers without another word, finally exhaling the breath you held. The idea of having to clean yourself up again was hardly appealing. Standing on the veranda and enjoying the cool night air was only prolonging the inevitable.

The aforementioned inevitable reared its troublesome head as soon as you surrendered to sleep. Your consciousness materialized somewhere, a location unidentifiable but still more detailed than you had ever encountered before. You glimpsed kaleidoscopic carpets, hammered brass, and vines growing freely about the place.

"Welcome back." A man's voice like sweet honey floated through the warm air.

"I missed you." The words left your mouth without you knowing them. You were merely an observer to your own actions. "Amon."

"My sweet prince." Lips on your knuckles. The smell of lavender tea. "Tea?"

"No thanks. We must keep this quick," you uttered again, breathless and surrendering to a desire that was both yours and unknown to you.

"Tut, tut. What's gotten into you, my prince? I've never seen you so impatient," the voice teased. Your head spun.

"I need my energy," you gasped, something warm and wet lapping at your member. "For tomorrow." The ministrations paused.

"Of course. Tomorrow will be very special indeed." The tongue on your shaft resumed, making you squirm. You reached out into the nothingness, your fingers grasping at frayed carpet tassels. Your other hand reached in between your legs and found a head of hair. You grasped a smooth horn that curved neatly behind an ear. It bobbed up and down at a tantalizing pace.

"Amon, I... I shouldn't..."

"Shouldn't what?" Another pause in the pleasure. You caught your breath. Those eyes again, burning into yours with the hue of warm ocean waters. "Say no to me, my prince. I implore you to try."

Caught in the stare you were helpless. You quivered with need, your manhood twitching and drooling. Only a high whine left your lips.

"Thought so."

You shot up in bed, crying out and spasming. Once more you had spilled yourself into your gown, your entire body slick with sweat. As a small victory, your cries remained nondescript rather than referential to this "Amon." In the dream, you had felt a sweet warmth in your breast each time you spoke to him and even warmer when he responded. In your waking memory, this name was empty. There was no connection and no feeling of belonging. If you hadn't heard your own voice leave your mouth in the dream, you would have had no way of knowing those experiences were your own. Your dreaming memory and conscious recollection were severed, at odds with one another. What did he mean when he said tomorrow would be special? Did he know about the gala? You didn't know how much you knew.

"The washbasin, Prince," Petra uttered as she carried it into your chambers. She stowed it at your bedside. "Shall I leave you like before?"

"Yes, please... but would it trouble you to return afterward?"

"Not at all, Prince. I'll return at your word." She slipped out of the room. You took the opportunity to cleanse yourself of the evidence before permitting Petra to return.

“Petra, would it be possible to acquire a guest list for the gala?” You asked.

“Possible, yes. However, it will be quite long without any qualifiers. As I mentioned previously, this is one of the largest events of the year.”

You considered simply asking her if the name Amon was among the attendees, but Petra would likely alert the oneiromancers and in turn, your father. You doubted anything would happen at all if she did, but this was a matter you wanted to confront on your own. Like all other decisions made for you at your father’s behest, your own interests would unquestionably be cast aside if he decided to involve himself.

“I’d like to know the first names of all the male guests scheduled to attend,” you said. Petra raised an eyebrow.

“That doesn’t narrow it down much, Prince,” Petra answered. The sweet, honeyed voice from your dream remained in your mind. It was the voice of a young man, one likely of your age.

“Only the male guests around my age, then,” you specified. Petra raised her other eyebrow, making her expression one of surprise rather than skepticism.

“Ah. That kind of list. I see...” Your cheeks burned; though you didn’t know where this inquiry would take you, you also felt the conclusion Petra came to was not wholly inaccurate. “Shall I make, erm, other arrangements as well?”

“Arrangements?” you asked. It was Petra’s turn to blush.

“The standard things... extra pillows, oils, skins—”

“Yes, of course, Petra,” you cut her off, not wishing for her to extend the list of amenities any further. Searching for a suitor was a favorable charade. If nothing else, if this search for the mysterious Amon proved fruitless, then you would at least have the means, motive, and opportunity to bed somebody... if you had the audacity. The look on Petra's face said she didn't think so.

"I’ll have the list and the... goods brought in before sun-up,” Petra said. “Is there anything else you need?”

“No, Petra, that will suffice.”

“Good. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Morning arrived and so did Petra's promises; the chief courtier herself was nowhere to be found, but a neatly transcribed list of names and a box tied with a bow sat atop a chaise lounge when you awoke. You already knew what waited inside the box, so you went for the list. Though only containing the names of guests that fit your qualifiers, the parchment was both long and double-sided. Your eyes began to tire just as they fell across what you were looking for:

Amon II - Eparch of Nobatian Lower Makuria and Alodia

You were puzzled. Makuria and Elodia were names you hadn't heard since you were tutored. Even your father's kingdom with its diplomats venturing far and wide rarely mentioned them. You only knew they were small kingdoms far away from this one. There was not one but two oceans between here and there, they spoke a language no tutor in the palace taught, and both titles of "Nobatian" and "Eparch" were unknown to you.

Then the fashion corps arrived. You dropped the parchment and pondered the new information as they manhandled you into the appearance they had crafted for you yesterday. Perhaps due to more practiced hands or being lost in your thoughts, the process seemed to go much faster than previously. You almost didn't believe it when they told you they were finished, but the shifted sun and your appearance in the mirror confirmed that the gala would soon begin. Your hair was fashioned into an unnatural shape, your face was dusted with powder, and your clothes were so form-fitting that you appeared sewn into them. The bulge of the leg brace through your breeches peeked out at the ankle; the leggings were so tight that your overcoat preserved more of your modesty than they did.

With Petra absent and likely scrambling to put last-minute touches on the gala, you walked to the great hall with the assistance of the fashion corps, who likewise made hasty repairs to your appearance as your gait jostled things out of place. When you arrived, the great hall was even busier than at the rehearsal. It seemed there was a member of palace staff for each seat at every table, all of them fastidiously arranging cutlery, plates, decorative vases, placemats, and myriad other things you didn't know the names for.

“Little brother!” You turned your head and spotted your elder sister within a parade of her own fashion corps regiment. She waved at you from one of the great hall’s entrances.

“Sister,” you responded with a nod, your own cavalcade parting to allow her approach.

“Have you given tonight any consideration?” She asked.

“Yes, actually...”

“You’re not going to retreat to your chambers?”

“...not immediately,” you said, noncommittal.

“I’m glad.” She smiled gently. “I’ll likely be busy most of the night, though if you’d like me to send anyone your way, let me know. Who’s on your list?”

“My list?” you sputtered. “Petra told you?”

“Petra? Goodness, no,” she chuckled. “I just figured you’d have one. It’s standard practice for these sorts of things; I’ve a list as well. So... who’s on yours?”

You lowered your head and examined your shoes.

“Well... it’s quite long.”

“How scandalous!” she gasped exaggeratedly.

“I’m just casting a wide net is all! I don’t intend to bed every single male my age!” Your cheeks burned again. You considered dropping the charade if it meant this level of humiliation.

“I expected my mild little brother to have a rebellious phase eventually, but this...” she said, ignoring your cries.

"Sister, please," you pleaded. The tone of your voice convinced her to return to normal. She extended a hand to ruffle your hair but stopped herself when your fashion corps hairstylist glared at her.

"Apologies, little brother. I had to jest a little," she smiled at you, this time without intent to tease. "They're going to start letting in the guests soon. We should take our seats."

You nodded and followed her to the stage. The fashion corps fell away from you and went to help elsewhere. You sat in your uncomfortable pseudo-throne and waited, eventually joined by your other siblings save for your eldest brother. They greeted you as they took position at your side, but there was very little to talk about. This was the first time you had seen them in a while.

Then came the guests: the table-setters had cleared out some minutes before the floodgates burst and more staff escorted groups of people to their tables. The cathedral-like great hall was full in mere moments. Sorted by table, there was a sea of people in colorful finery all conversing amongst themselves and giving you and your siblings the occasional glance. You tried to pick out Amon from the crowd but quickly realized half-remembered fragments from your dreams wouldn't be enough to pick him from a sea of hundreds. Even finding his name on the list took a considerable amount of time.

Then the hall fell silent, or something close to it. A lively conversation between hundreds of people dropped to hushed whispers. Your father and brother had entered the hall and begun their walk to the podium, silencing the crowd with nothing but their appearance. When your father reached the podium, he extended both arms palms up and the previously subdued crowd erupted into cheers. If not for the applause, he would have heard you groan. Your sister said nothing, only giving your hand a gentle squeeze.

When the speeches started you practically willed your ears shut. Perhaps you would have built a tolerance to them if you had appeared at more of these events, but you couldn't bear to listen to your father and elder brother boast of their achievements to a sea of complacent, nodding heads. It was like a reminder that within the kingdom your father built, you served your purpose by distracting that assassin some years ago and now outlived your usefulness. At this gala, you were decoration only a few ranks higher than a potted plant.

You thanked any and all higher powers when the speeches were over. Father and his crown prince had left the stage to begin their targeted commingling with VIPs, prompting you and your siblings to stand from your seats. They all dispersed before you could look to them to follow their lead. When you stumbled off the stage and distanced yourself from it by leaning against the wall as you walked, hardly any attention came your way. Thankfully, the attention you did receive was from Petra.

"Prince, are you alright? You look troubled," she said, sidling up to you.

"What do I do, Petra?" you asked, intimidated by the sheer size of the room and the attendees within it. Each table was like its own little kingdom with strangers you didn't know and faux-pas to stumble over.

"See how each table has an empty chair or two?" She pointed to the tables nearest you, one full of scaly Sāmm-abraṣ emissaries and another with human diplomats bearing the flag of Bavaria. You nodded. "All the guests are expected to stay seated while dinner is served. They won't get up to dance and drink until the meal is concluded. Right now, only people from the host kingdom— like you, me, your siblings, and other members of the court— will be walking around."

"So I just sit at whichever table and introduce myself?"

"If you even need to. The fact you're walking will show them you're hosting. They'll pay you proper respect without you saying anything at all."

"Hm," you mused. That sounded like a lot of work, especially since you weren't aiming to meander. Finding Amon would be immeasurably more difficult once the crowd was disorganized and inebriated, though, so now was your best chance.

"I've a copy of your list, Prince. Shall I help you navigate it?" Petra asked, holding up parchment.

"Yes, let's," you said. The lengthy document threatened to touch the floor. "Let's begin alphabetically."

"Alphabetically, Prince?"

"By first name."

"Of course, Prince. That means we should visit Aariyeh, Sardar of Anatolia, followed by Abdul II, Knez of Smederevo—"

"Any Eparchs on that list?" You winced at your own forwardness. The charade was wearing dangerously thin.

"...Eparchs?"

"I'm in an Eparch mood at the moment," you explained weakly. Petra looked at you as if checking for signs of illness.

"I see. There's one: Amon II of Nobatian Lower Makuria and Alodia."

"He sounds splendid. Take me to him."

Petra, either from exasperation, deference, or both, folded up the list and took your arm without another word. She led you through the clusters of gala attendees. You could feel every one of their eyes watching you as you caught their attention. Just as the scrutiny was starting to become too much, your eyes found a target of their own. A warm shiver ran through your spine, a sensation the French would call déjà rêvé: a dream made real.

His verdigris eyes locked onto yours. They peered at you from behind short, white curls of shiny hair. His skin reminded you of the bluebells in the gardens, and his pert, curled horns were a shade darker. He flashed something between a grin and a smirk at you, revealing pearlescent teeth with canines that could be mistaken for fangs.

Amon was breathtaking and he knew it.

If your arm wasn't in Petra's grasp already, you never would have made it to the chair. She struggled a bit as she plopped you into it, your leg brace protesting with clicks and creaks. The other tieflings at the table, all varying shades of azure, stopped what they were doing to acknowledge your arrival. You gave them a weak nod while you regained your composure.

"Greetings, delegation from Lower Makuria and Elodia. I'd like to introduce you to our Middle Prince," Petra said from over your shoulder, upon which she planted a firm hand. She squeezed hard.

"I'm pleased to meet you all," you managed to get out. Your audience of tieflings nodded and muttered.

"As am I, Middle Prince." Amon set his cutlery down and rested his chin on interlaced fingers. His voice was high and carried a boyish, scheming air; you envisioned him stealing lumps of sugar from a pantry. "I didn't think my kingdom warranted such a visit. What brings you to my little exclave of Nobatia?"

"A whim."

"How quaint," he said, still smirking. His gaze shifted as he eyed his all-tiefling entourage. The intent was to communicate something, though you didn't know what.

"I am the middle prince, after all. I've few obligations. None, actually," you said.

"Hm," Amon said, looking decidedly amused. "We may have more in common than we thought." His retinue nodded along with his observation.

"Surely you are a busy man? You are Eparch of not one, but two territories."

"Do you know what the title 'Eparch' entails, Middle Prince?" Amon said, more as a targeted quip than an actual question.

"I... am not familiar, I admit," you ceded.

"An Eparch is a figurehead. Makuria and Alodia have long been ruled by invaders and rebels, respectively. I'm kept in a symbolic position to preserve what's left of Nobatian culture," Amon sighed. "In fact, I was sent here in place of the true rulers since they thought it so unlikely that you would have anything important to say to us. Anything other than absorbing us into your hegemony, of course."

You averted your gaze. He clearly was not happy with his status, and while his discontent wasn't targeted at you, it hovered about him like a cloud. He picked at the remainder of his meal while the cloud dissipated and you plucked a topic from the clearing air.

"How was your journey here? You've come a long way," you said.

"It was pleasant enough. Your trains and... horseless carriages are quite impressive," Amon said, pausing. "What's your name for them again?"

"Automobiles," you answered.

"Yes, automobiles." He rolled the word in his mouth as if tasting wine. "Though you have such a fine river and only use it for cargo. A felucca would have made my journey quite enjoyable."

"A felucca?"

"Ah, it's my turn to inform you." Amon smiled. "A felucca is a sailboat we use on the Nile. It's built for comfort, with carpets instead of hardwood decks. Some even come with a kitchen, and it's unheard of to sail without finishing a pot of tea."

"It sounds lovely," you said. "Lavender tea, I hope."

Amon raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, my favorite," he looked amused. "How did you know?"

"A whim," you answered. "The same one that brought me over to your table."

"I see." His eyes locked with yours for a lengthy pause. His retinue shifted in their seats at the uncomfortable silence. He was thinking hard about something, but the subject of his thoughts remained unknown to you. If he truly shared the dreams with you, surely you must have gotten the point across by now?

"It was lovely chatting with you, Middle Prince." He broke the silence and straightened his posture. "But I would hate to keep you when you have other guests to see."

"I really don't—"

"Nonsense, my prince," he interrupted, "go on and mingle. Perhaps, if we're lucky, our paths will cross when the festivities begin in earnest."

You couldn't believe your eyes. Did he wink at you?

"Of course..." you said, slowly realizing he was scheming. "Enjoy the gala." He locked eyes with you again.

"Oh, we will."

You had resumed hovering with Petra on the edges of the great hall. More staff had filed in to take away dirty dishes and the remains of the guests' meals. The dance floor had been opened, the musicians were in position, and staff bearing silver trays readied drinks for the merry and hors d'oeuvres for the peckish.

"How was your visit with the Eparch?" Petra asked.

"Enlightening," you answered cryptically. The need for secrecy hadn't passed, but now you were unsure of what charade to uphold. You only knew Amon was in on it as well.

"I trust that means it went well?"

"Yes, I think so." You scanned the crowd of attendees, which had now gotten up from their seats and begun to mix and intermingle. Amon disappeared like an ace into a shuffled deck. Petra flashed you an impatient expression.

"Prince, do you want me to help you get with him or not?" She said with folded arms.

"Petra!" You gasped. "You're rather forward."

"It's quite literally my job to make sure you end up with him if you wish it, Prince," she assumed a stern tone as if you refused your vegetables. "Give me a yes or no."

You stewed under her gaze. It seemed the pressure and time-sensitive nature of the gala had started to affect her as well, though for different reasons to you.

"Yes." You muttered. She didn't ask for confirmation, instead slipping away into the crowd with nothing more than a nod. Was this part of the charade, still? You had no idea what Amon even wanted, or frankly, what you wanted from tonight.

The musicians started and the small groups that had formed on the edge of the dance floor produced couplets of dancers. They were eager to begin the waltz, a somewhat contentious dance that had only recently come into popularity. You hadn't been practiced in it, instead learning of court dances like the cotillion. As you watched it take place, the dancers seemed awfully close. They were practically pressed against one another!

While you tried to discern the intricacies of this new style of dance before you, that familiar azure face peeked at you from the crowd. Amon smiled and raised his drink in your direction. It was a small gesture but you were helpless to do anything other than join him. Before you knew it, you were at his side in the sea of people and some sort of libation had been thrust into your hand.

"You know, I'm starting to grow partial to this stuff," Amon said, sipping on a duplicate of the drink you held.

"I was under the impression your faith disallowed the consumption of alcohol," you said, watching him finish the glass.

"An easy mistake to make." He handed off the glass to a roving staff member. "Modern Makurians and Alodians don't drink. Nobatians like me do. It's one of the holdovers of my dead culture."

You looked at the glass in hand; it was a clear, cold drink with a slice of lime. As you expected, the taste was bitter and unwelcoming.

"You like gin?" You asked, one taste enough to identify it.

"As I said, it's starting to grow on me," Amon chuckled. "It's not good enough to stop me from missing home, but it'll get me through the night."

"Speaking of home..." you started, looking around. You were unable to spot any other blue-skinned tieflings in the crowd. "where has your retinue gone?"

"I told them to enjoy themselves. As my courtiers, that means they're likely hovering by the exit, waiting to escort me out of here when I leave."

"They seem like a serious bunch."

"They're overprotective," Amon hissed. "As I said, my culture is long dead. They see it as dying. They think they can save it by putting me in a glass case for future generations to study."

"You've given up on Nobatia?"

"Pah! Of course I have!" He deftly procured another drink from a passing waiter. "Nothing will bring the old country back. Nobatia is a minuscule region; I can say with certainty I'm the youngest one left. When I'm old and infirm, Makuria and Alodia will reject the idea of a royal family entirely and I'll finally be allowed to be forgotten."

"That's quite a bleak outlook, Eparch," you gently chided. "Perhaps in war, things would be on a fixed course, but matters of diplomacy are more malleable."

"Perhaps," Amon said, sipping his gin. "But that's enough about me. I'd like to know more about you."

His eyes looked into yours as if he would magick the information he wanted straight out of you. No incantations were uttered, though, and you took a pragmatic sip of gin to fill the pause.

"What would you like to know?" You said.

"I'd like to know about this 'whimsy' you have," Amon probed. "To be frank, my prince, I expected to be out the door by now. Instead, I'm here, conversing with you. It doesn't make sense."

You finished your gin. This was as good a time as any to explain yourself.

"What do you know of oneiromancy?" The question left your lips and slapped Amon across the face. He chuckled.

"The school of magick so vague and unmeasurable it's not even officially recognized?"

"It seems you know the same as most," you said. "Oneiromancy is real. At least, real enough to give me the same dream night after night."

"I see..." Amon was mulling something over.

"In each one of these dreams, though my waking memory is hazy, I remember one thing they all had in common." You took a deep breath. "You."

"We should discuss this in private," Amon interjected, gently brushing your hand against his. You had been so caught up with telling Amon that you forgot you were in the middle of a crowded gala. Concern crept into the corners of his face. "Do you have a place we can go?"

You nodded and grasped his hand in earnest. The spot you took him to was one of the many balconies that overlooked the palace gardens. The sun had set fully at this point, and waltz music lazily floated out of the great hall. A few revelers who had over-indulged caught the fresh air in the hedges below. You and Amon rested on the cool marble balustrade, momentarily admiring the mingling of crickets, music, distant conversation, and the night air.

"I've been having the dreams as well. All of them involving you in some... capacity. I wasn't sure it was you at first. The dreams were so vague..." Amon kept his gaze fixed on the gardens below.

"Were the dreams... um, did you wake up... well..." you stammered. He looked at you knowingly.

"Yes, a few times," Amon answered. He didn't seem nearly as embarrassed as you. "You suspect oneiromancy is at play?"

"The court oneiromancers determined the dreams are being intentionally created. They're not a coincidence."

"Court oneiromancers?" Amon nearly spat out his drink. "My, you do have everything in this kingdom."

"Yes, we have court oneiromancers, but your surprise is beside the point." You had finally found the mysterious Amon, and you didn't want to waste any time on tangents. "Surely you're just as curious as I? Do you know anything about these dreams?" Amon drained the remainder of his gin in response.

"When I was a child..." He paused and shook his head. "When I was a child, my mother told me folk tales. The standard stuff: damsels in distress, slaying horrific beasts, that sort of thing. But she also told me tales of lovers who met in dreams. She said that was how she and father met."

"Something tells me you don't believe in that."

"When I grew too old for fairy tales, I saw it as her way of helping me keep hope that the one would be out there. With Nobatia falling and no suitors left..." he trailed off, setting his empty glass on the balustrade.

"So what if she's right?"

"That's a rather large 'if,' my prince. She was the only one that believed in that stuff... Aside from an uncle who would tell more dreamers-to-lovers tales, but only after drinking too much boukha, and always with a sarcastic tongue. They're just that: tales."

You felt Amon's cloud of discontent precipitate once more. His words were scathing, but not towards you; they spoke to a painful past and familiarity with disappointment. He saw something hopeful, happy, and promising, then cast it down in order to never feel the pain of losing it. You rarely had such clear insights about people, but with Amon it was different. It was as if you had known him for a long time and learned the language spoken by his brow, posture, and eyes. You knew what you had to do.

"Amon," you sighed, placing a hand on his, "even fairy tales originate from some truth, even if only a little. Don't be afraid to entertain the notion that your mother might be right."

You tried to look him in the eyes, but he cast his gaze down to the gardens below. His quick tongue failed him and silence ensued. His hand had reluctantly surrendered itself to your grasp, resting warm and limp.

"Look at me," You commanded with a firmer tone than expected. Reluctantly, he swiveled towards you and his aquamarine eyes found their way to yours. "Think about what you truly want. Don't be afraid to take it."

He swallowed. After a pause of a few heartbeats, his free hand grasped the back of your head, entwined his fingers in your hair, and pressed your lips to his. Your hand that held his grasped even tighter. The two of you were entwined in your own scandalous waltz. You could feel his hunger just as clearly as you felt his discontent when he parted your lips with his tongue. You reciprocated, catching fleeting impressions of his sharp teeth. He tasted like gin and figs. Short, passionate gasps and moans escaped the two of you and joined the chorus of crickets. You pulled away only to catch your breath.

"Amon," you gasped, his name sweet on your tongue. He looked at you with a bewildered expression and flushed navy cheeks. Neither of you could believe what just happened, yet surprise gave way to familiarity. Kissing Amon made your heart race but your shoulders relax. Being breathless and panting in his embrace was as recognizable to you as Petra's morning wake-up calls, or the smell of the gardens, or the feeling of your bedchamber floor on your bare feet. Déjà rêvé.

"I..." Amon sighed, "I shouldn't. I've had too much gin. I've been foolish." He released you from his arms and took several steps backward. Your jaw hung agape as he jogged inside and disappeared from view. Too shocked to try to catch him, you remained outside and alone on the balcony with only the sound of crickets and distant strings to keep you company. Just as silently and perceptively as a cat, Petra crept from the doorway a short while later.

"I saw Amon run away and came to check on you." She looked at your expression and reciprocated with a downtrodden look of her own. "Are you okay?"

"I don't know. Probably not." You sighed and buried your face in your elbows until all you could see was the balustrade. You sensed Petra take a few steps towards you.

"What happened?" She asked delicately.

"We kissed, passionately. Then he said he was foolish and ran away," you mumbled into your self-embracing arms. Petra rested a hand on your shoulder.

"Some people just can't handle the fast pace and the pressure at galas like this. I'm sure it wasn't personal."

"I know..." you sighed. To Petra, your attempts at flirting simply failed to land. She didn't see the dreams. She didn't see the look in his eyes. She didn't hear the fear of hope in his voice. There were not enough hours in the night to explain to her the true extent of your sorrows.

"There's always tomorrow, Prince."

"Tomorrow?"

"Tonight is only for the Gala," Petra explained, her tender tone turning slightly optimistic, "anyone attending will be staying at least until tomorrow night for the treaty signing."

"So Amon is still here, then?" you asked, finally pulling your forehead from its resting place on your folded arms.

"He was likely running to the guest wing of the palace, where all the other dignitaries will be. If you truly wish to meet with him again, breakfast tomorrow morning would be an excellent opportunity."

You considered things for a moment. If Amon were to stay one more night, then that was one more dream to share. Tonight, you and Amon would spring awake in bed at the same time after another shared dream, but he would be only a few corridors away.

"Petra, get me an oneiromancer." You commanded.

"An oneiromancer? At this time of night? They're probably attending the gala with the rest of the court."

"Petra, this is important," you said. "I haven't exactly been forthcoming about everything in these recent days, and I'm sorry for that... but I need an oneiromancer before I sleep tonight. If you can do this for me, I promise to explain everything soon."

Petra looked at you silently, deciding whether or not to press you for details now rather than later contingent on your promise. She chose the former, nodding and silently fast-walking inside.

Alone once more on the balcony, you leaned on the balustrade and studied the stars. The moon's halo of illuminated night sky was the same color as Amon's lips. With any luck, you'd be seeing them again soon in tonight's dream.

#exophilia #monster x reader #monster x human #romance #male reader #tiefling #male tiefling x male reader #monster love #mlm #monster romance #monster fic #mlm romance

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draculeo · 4 years ago

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As a muslim Iraqi American with a significant tumblr following, I feel as though I should let it be known exactly where I stand when it comes to Riordan’s statement about Samirah. I have copied and pasted it down below and my reaction to it will be written down below. This will be the first time I have read it. If you want to engage with me or tell me that I’m wrong, I expect you to be a muslim, hijabi, Iraqi American, and from Baghdad. If you are not, I suggest you sit down and keep quiet because you are not the authority on the way I should be represented.

Like many of my characters, Samirah was inspired by former students of mine. Over the course of my middle school teaching career, I worked with dozens of Muslim students and their families, representing the expanse of the Muslim world and both Shia and Sunni traditions. One of my most poignant memories about the September 11, 2001, attack of the World Trade Center was when a Muslima student burst into tears when she heard the news – not just because it was horrific, but also because she knew what it meant for her, her family, her faith. She had unwillingly become an ambassador to everyone she knew who, would have questions about how this attack happened and why the perpetrators called themselves “Muslim.” Her life had just become exponentially more difficult because of factors completely beyond her control. It was not right. It was not fair. And I wasn’t sure how to comfort or support her.

Starting off your statement with one of the most traumatic events in history for muslim Americans is already one of the most predictably bad moves he could pull. By starting off this way, you are acknowledging the fact that a) this t*rrorist attack is still the first thing you think of when you think of muslims and b) that those muslim students who you had prior to 9/11 occupied so little space in your mind that it took a national disaster for you to start to even try to empathize with them.

During the following years, I tried to be especially attuned to the needs of my Muslim students. I dealt with 9/11 the same way I deal with most things: by reading and learning more. When I taught world religions in social studies, I would talk to my Muslim students about Islam to make sure I was representing their experience correctly. They taught me quite a bit, which eventually contributed to my depiction of Samirah al-Abbas. As always, though, where I have made mistakes in my understanding, those mistakes are wholly on me.

As always, you have chosen to use “I based this character off my students” in order to justify the way they are written. News flash: you taught middle school children. Children who are already scrutinized and alienated and desperate to fit in. Of course their words shouldn’t be enough for you to decide you are representing them correctly, because they are still coming to terms with their identities and they are doing this in an environment where they are desperate to find the approval of white Americans. I know that as a child I would often tweak the way I explained my culture and religion to my teachers in order to gain their approval and avoid ruffling any feathers. They told you what they thought you’d want to hear because you are their teacher and hold a position of power over them and they both want your approval and want to avoid saying the wrong thing and having that hang over their heads every time they enter your classroom.

What did I read for research? I have read five different English interpretations of the Qur’an. (I understand the message is inseparable from the original Arabic, so it cannot be considered ‘translated’). I have read the entirety of the Sahih Bukhari and Sahih Muslim hadith collections. I’ve read three biographies of Prophet Muhammed (peace be upon him) and well over a dozen books about the history of Islam and modern Islam. I took a six-week course in Arabic. (I was not very good at it, but I found it fascinating). I fasted the month of Ramadan in solidarity with my students. I even memorized some of the surahs in Arabic because I found the poetry beautiful. (They’re a little rusty now, I’ll admit, but I can still recite al-Fātihah from memory.) I also read some anti-Islamic screeds written in the aftermath of 9/11 so I would understand what those commenters were saying about the religion, and indirectly, about my students. I get mad when people attack my students.

And yet here you are actively avoiding the criticism from those of us who could very well have been the children sitting in your classroom.

The Quran is so deep and complex that its meanings are still being discovered to this day. Yes, reading these old scripts is a must for writing muslim characters, but you cannot claim to understand them without also holding active discussions with current scholars on how the Quran’s teachings apply today.

When preparing to write Samirah’s background, I drew on all of this, but also read many stories on Iraqi traditions and customs in particular and the experiences of immigrant families who came to the U.S. I figured out how Samirah’s history would intertwine with the Norse world through the medieval writer Ahmad ibn Fadhlan, her distant ancestor and one of the first outsiders to describe the Vikings in writing. I knew Samirah would be a ferocious brave fighter who always stood for what was right. She would be an excellent student who had dreams of being an aviator. She would have a complicated personal situation to wrestle with, in that she’s a practicing Muslim who finds out Valhalla is a real place. Odin and Thor and Loki are still around. How do you reconcile that with your faith? Not only that, but her mom had a romance with Loki, who is her dad. Yikes.

First of all, writing this paragraph in the same tone you use to emulate a 12 year old is already disrespectful. “Yikes” is correct. You have committed serious transgressions and can’t even commit to acting serious and writing like the almost 60 year old man that you are. Tone tells the reader a lot, and your tone is telling me that you are explaining your mistakes the same way you tell your little stories: childishly and jokingly.

Stories are not enough. They are not and never will be. Stories cannot even begin to pierce the rich culture and history and customs of Iraq. Iraq itself is not even homogenous enough for you to rely on these “Iraqi” stories. Someone’s story from Najaf is completely unique from someone from Baghdad or Nasriyyah or Basrah or Mosul. Add that to the fact that these stories are written with a certain audience in mind and you realize that there’s no way they can tell the whole story because at their core they are catering to a specific audience.

Yes, those are good, but they are meaningless without you consulting an actual Baghdadi and asking specific questions. You made conclusions and assumptions based on these stories when the obvious way to go was to consult someone from Baghdad every step of the writing process. Instead, you chose to trust the conclusions that you (a white man) drew from a handful of stories. Who are you to convey a muslim’s internal struggle when you did not even do the bare minimum and have an actual muslim read over your words?

Thankfully, the feedback from Muslim readers over the years to Samirah al-Abbas has been overwhelmingly positive. I have gotten so many letters and messages online from young fans, talking about how much it meant to them to see a hijabi character portrayed in a positive light in a ‘mainstream’ novel.

Yeah. Because we’re desperate, and half of them are children still developing their sense of self and critical reading skills. A starving man will thank you for moldy bread but that does not negate the mold.

Some readers had questions, sure! The big mistake I will totally own, and which I have apologized for many times, was my statement that during the fasting hours of Ramadan, bathing (i.e. total immersion in water) was to be avoided. This was advice I had read on a Shia website when I myself was preparing to fast Ramadan. It is advice I followed for the entire month. Whoops! The intent behind that advice, as I understood it, was that if you totally immersed yourself during daylight hours, you might inadvertently get some water between your lips and invalidate your fast. But, as I have since learned, that was simply one teacher’s personal opinion, not a widespread practice. We have corrected this detail (which involved the deletion of one line) in future editions, but as I mentioned in my last post, you will still find it in copies since the vast majority of books are from the first printing.

This is actually really embarrassing for you and speaks to your lack of research and reading comprehension. It is true that for shia, immersion breaks one’s fast. If you had bothered to actually ask questions and use common sense, you would realize that this is referring to actions like swimming, where one’s whole body is underwater, rather than bathing. Did you not question the fact that the same religion that encourages the cleansing of oneself five times a day banned bathing during the holiest month? Yes, it was one teacher’s opinion, but you literally did not even take the time to fully understand that opinion before chucking it into your book.

Another question was about Samirah’s wearing of the hijab. To some readers, she seemed cavalier about when she would take it off and how she would wear it. It’s not my place to be prescriptive about proper hijab-wearing. As any Muslim knows, the custom and practice varies greatly from one country to another, and from one individual to another. I can, however, describe what I have seen in the U.S., and Samirah’s wearing of the hijab reflects the practice of some of my own students, so it seemed to be within the realm of reason for a third-generation Iraqi-American Muslima. Samirah would wear hijab most of the time — in public, at school, at mosque. She would probably but not always wear it in Valhalla, as she views this as her home, and the fallen warriors as her own kin. This is described in the Magnus Chase books. I also admit I just loved the idea of a Muslima whose hijab is a magic item that can camouflage her in times of need.

Before I get into this paragraph, Samirah is second generation. Her grandparents immigrated from Iraq. Her mother was first gen.

Once again, you turn to what you have seen from your students, who are literal children. They are in middle school while Samirah is in high school, so they are very obviously at different stages of development, both emotional and religious. If you had bothered to talk to adults who had gone through these stages, you would understand that often times young girls have stages where they “practice” hijab or wear it “part time”, very often in middle school. However, both her age and the way in which you described Samirah lead the reader to believe that she is a “full timer,” so you playing willy nilly with her scarf as a white man is gross.

For someone who claims to have read all of these religious texts, it’s funny that you choose to overlook the fact that “kin” is very specifically described. Muslims do not go around deciding who they consider “kin” or “family” to take off their hijab in front of. There is no excuse for including this in her character, especially since you claim to have carefully read the Quran and ahadith.

You have no place to “just love” any magical extension of the hijab until you approach it with respect. Point blank period. Especially when you have ascribed it a magical property that justifies her taking it on and off like it’s no big deal, especially when current media portrayals of hijab almost always revolve around it being removed. You are adding to the harmful portrayal and using your “fun little magic camoflauge” to excuse it.

As for her betrothal to Amir Fadhlan, only recently have I gotten any questions about this. My understanding from my readings, and from what I have been told by Muslims I know, is that arranged marriages are still quite common in many Muslim countries (not just Muslim countries, of course) and that these matches are sometimes negotiated by the families when the bride-to-be and groom-to-be are quite young. Prior to writing Magnus Chase, one of the complaints I often heard or read from Muslims is how Westerners tend to judge this custom and look down on it because it does not accord with Western ideas. Of course, arranged marriages carry the potential for abuse, especially if there is an age differential or the woman is not consulted. Child marriages are a huge problem. The arrangement of betrothals years in advance of the marriage, however, is an ancient custom in many cultures, and those people I know who were married in this way have shared with me how glad they were to have done it and how they believe the practice is unfairly villainized. My idea with Samirah was to flip the stereotype of the terrible abusive arranged match on its head, and show how it was possible that two people who actually love each other dearly might find happiness through this traditional custom when they have families that listen to their concerns and honor their wishes, and want them to be happy. Amir and Samirah are very distant cousins, yes. This, too, is hardly unusual in many cultures. They will not actually marry until they are both adults. But they have been betrothed since childhood, and respect and love each other. If that were not the case, my sense is that Samirah would only have to say something to her grandparents, and the match would be cancelled. Again, most of the comments I have received from Muslim readers have been to thank me for presenting traditional customs in a positive rather than a negative light, not judging them by Western standards. In no way do I condone child marriage, and that (to my mind) is not anywhere implied in the Magnus Chase books.

I simply can’t even begin to explain everything that is wrong with this paragraph. Here is a good post about how her getting engaged at 12 is absolutely wrong religiously and would not happen. Add that on to the fact that Samirah herself is second-generation (although Riordan calls her third generation in this post) and this practice isn’t super common even in first generation people (and for those that it DOES apply to, it is when they are old enough to be married and not literal children).

As a white man you can’t flip the stereotype. You can’t. Even with tons of research you cannot assume the authority to “flip” a stereotype that does not affect you because you will never come close to truly understanding it inside and out. Instead of flipping a stereotype, Rick fed into it and provided more fodder to the flames and added on to it to make it even worse.

I would be uncomfortable with a white author writing about arranged marriages in brown tradition no matter the context, but for him to offhandedly include it in a children’s book where it is badly explained and barely touched on is inexcusable. Your target audience is children who will no doubt overlook your clumsy attempt at flipping stereotypes.

It does not matter what your mind thinks you are implying. Rick Riordan is not your target audience, children are. So you cannot brush this away by stating that you did not see the harm done by your writing. You are almost 60 years old. Maybe you can read in between your lines, but I guarantee your target audience largely cannot.

Finally, recently someone on Twitter decided to screenshot a passage out-of-context from Ship of the Deadwhere Magnus hears Samirah use the phrase “Allahu Akbar,” and the only context he has ever heard it in before was in news reports when some Western reporter would be talking about a terrorist attack. Here is the passage in full:

Samirah: “My dad may have power over me because he’s my dad. But he’s not the biggest power. Allahu akbar.”

I knew that term, but I’d never heard Sam use it before. I’ll admit it gave me an instinctive jolt in the gut. The news media loved to talk about how terrorists would say that right before they did something horrible and blew people up. I wasn’t going to mention that to Sam. I imagined she was painfully aware.

She couldn’t walk the streets of Boston in her hijab most days without somebody screaming at her to go home, and (if she was in a bad mood) she’d scream back, “I’m from Dorchester!”

“Yeah,” I said. “That means God is great, right?”

Sam shook her head. “That’s a slightly inaccurate translation. It means God is greater.”

“Than what?”

“Everything. The whole point of saying it is to remind yourself that God is greater than whatever you are facing—your fears, your problems, your thirst, your hunger, your anger.

337-338

To me, this is Samirah educating Magnus, and through him the readers, about what this phrase actually means and the religious significance it carries. I think the expression is beautiful and profound. However, like a lot of Americans, Magnus has grown up only hearing about it in a negative context from the news. For him to think: “I had never heard that phrase, and it carried absolutely no negative connotations!” would be silly and unrealistic. This is a teachable moment between two characters, two friends who respect each other despite how different they are. Magnus learns something beautiful and true about Samirah’s religion, and hopefully so do the readers. If that strikes you as Islamophobic in its full context, or if Samirah seems like a hurtful stereotype . . . all I can say is I strongly disagree.

I will give you some credit here in that I mostly agree with this scene. The phrase does carry negative connotations with many white people and I do not fault you for explaining it the way you did. However, don’t try to sneak in that last sentence like we won’t notice. You have no place to decide whether or not Samirah’s character as a whole is harmful and stereotypical.

It is 2 am and that is all I have the willpower to address. This is messy and this is long and this is not well worded, but this had to be addressed. I do not speak for every muslim, both world wide and within this online community, but these were my raw reactions to his statement. I have been working on and will continue to work on a masterpost of Samirah Al-Abbas as I work through the books, but for now, let it be known that Riordan has bastardized my identity and continues to excuse himself and profit off of enforcing harmful stereotypes. Good night.

#*#og #rr crit #samirah al abbas #rick riordan

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coffee-and-quill · 4 years ago

Text

Birthday Wishes Pt. 2

Stucky x Reader: You have been feeling neglected lately, but Bucky and Steve promised they would be there for your birthday. When they don’t show up, you are left feeling broken, and they are left wondering how they will every make it up to you

Authors Note: It took a long time to figure out how I wanted to end this. Relationships are hard, they are constant work and give/take. It takes communication and understanding for all parties to feel heard and loved. I hope y’all enjoy, and please let me know if there’s anything else you would like to see from me!

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It had been three weeks since Steve had seen you, talked to you, held you in his arms. Three weeks of radio silence, and it was killing him. He and Bucky had gone to your parent’s house the morning after they discovered you were missing. As if they weren’t feeling awful enough, the icy look your mother had given them so different from the warm, caring smile they were used to, sent shockwaves through their chests. Steve had begged to talk to you, but your mother had told them that you had left early that morning. You were going somewhere they couldn’t find you or bother you. When Bucky had tried to get more information, she had slammed the door in their faces.

It took two more days of searching and desperation to figure out that Tony had helped you go completely off grid. “It’s not my place to tell you where she is, you shouldn’t have fucked up this bad,” the billionaire had told them when they tried to force your location out of him. He wasn’t wrong, and that set a heavy weight on their chests like nothing they had never felt before.

Steve tried to go back to work, but every time he tried to buckle down and focus, or to accept a mission, he thought of your face. What if you wanted to talk to them? What if you came back and he was so caught up in his work again that he lost you for good? He might have already lost you, and the thought alone was enough to bring him to his knees gasping for breath. He felt small, smaller than he’d ever felt in his life. He would take being a sickly, scrawny kid in the 40s over these feelings any day. It got to the point where Fury told him to go home and not come back until his head was in the game again. “At this rate,” the director had grumbled, “You’re likely to get yourself or someone else seriously hurt if you continue as you are.” Steve didn’t argue. Instead, he slumped home, collapsed on the couch, and sobbed. Pain and heartbreak were the only things he knew anymore.

Bucky was no better. After the acceptance that there was no finding you until you wanted to be found, the former assassin completely shut down. He barely ate and never slept anymore. How could he when there was the constant reminder that you were no longer in his life, no longer snuggled safely between Steve and him. The nightmares came back full force. He had almost forgotten what it was like to wake up screaming in a cold sweat. Now, instead of visuals of Hydra and the chair, and the blood and death that followed him like a storm, he had nightmare of you telling him you were done with him. You told him with a stone face that you’d never loved him, that you could never love a murderer, and you left with him begging and screaming on the floor. During the day he stayed in bed. He felt useless and weak, so, so weak. He was used to suffering, used to the constant weight of guilt on his chest. But this, this feeling, this guilt was far worse. People are constantly telling him that his actions as the Winter Soldier were not his fault, but this was all on him. There was no scapegoat, no evil organizations pulling the strings, no excuses, no one else to blame but himself. He was the reason you were gone, and it was destroying him.

()()()()()()()()()

Three weeks, and you were feeling like absolute shit. You barely slept, ate only what you could unwrap in seconds, and you’re pretty sure you haven’t showered in at least a week. You couldn’t tell what day it was; time seemed to slip and slide together in a meaningless fuzz in your mind. Most days found you on the small couch of the cabin Tony had so graciously offered you, the TV on a low hum in the background playing some sort of celebrity reality program. Not that you really cared. Nothing really held your interest for long anyway. Your thoughts were stuck back in your apartment with your boys. You kept replaying the better times over and over, trying to figure out where you went wrong.

Back when you first got together, Steve and Bucky had been so sweet, so shy when bringing up the idea, so afraid that you would turn them away and they would lose the best thing that had happened to them since they were reunited. When you told them you wanted to give it a try, they had been ecstatic. Their excitement was infectious, buzzing around you like two overenergized puppies who had just been given the best treats of their lives. Those first few months had been blissful, none of you willing to be parted from the other longer than a day or so. You went on dates, ate crappy Chinese food together, snuggled up to each other on the cold nights.

You were crying again thinking about those times. You missed being with your boys more than ever, missed the connection and the feeling of safety and security. You missed the two people who knew you better than you could ever know yourself. You had been stuck on a loop for the past three weeks. Where did it go wrong? When did it happen and how did you not notice? Was it you? God, if you could only talk to them. You had so many questions, so many concerns. Mostly, however, you just wanted a hug. You just wanted to be held between your Stevie and your Bucky and you wanted to feel loved.

It had been around midday, after shoving down a lukewarm hot pocket, that you heard the front door of the cabin click open.

“Damn,” came the snarky voice of Tony Stark, “You look worse than I did after that one Easter party I threw.” Even through the fog in your brain, you couldn’t help but smile.

“That was your own fault, Stark,” you sassed, “Who the hell takes that many tequila shots at a brunch party?”

The billionaire scoffed. “Obviously you have no sense of danger, babe.” You flipped him the finger. “So,” he said, lifting your feet up so he could make himself comfortable on the cushy couch, “It’s obvious to me and to literally everyone else that something went on between you and the two super stooges back home. And by the way they have been moping around the tower and by the grease buildup in Barnes’ hair, they are fairing about as well as you.”

Your ears perked up at the information. You should feel satisfied that Steve and Bucky were feeling miserable for what they did. You should feel relieved that they are getting a taste of what they put you through. Instead, you just felt your heart sink into your stomach. No matter how angry you were at them, you could never stand the thought of them in pain.

“I’m not saying the two don’t deserve it,” Tony continued, “I’m just saying that if your going to make them suffer, at least do it in a way that you aren’t suffering as well.”

“I don’t want to make them suffer,” came you soft reply.

“No?”

“I was hurt.” The tears that had been gathering in your eye dripped down your face at your watery tone. “I was hurt, and angry, and I just felt like I had to run to escape those feelings, so I came here. But the longer I stayed, the less hurt and angry I felt. And then the sadness and loneliness came and I felt like I was drowning, and all I wanted was to be back with them. But I had already stayed away for so long. What if they don’t want me anymore? Or they think we can fix things? What if they realize they aren’t willing to try, Tony? I don’t think I could handle that.”

Tony scrubbed his hand over his face and let out a huge breath. “I can’t answer those questions for you, sweetheart. Lord knows if I could take the pain away, I would. But nothing is going to happen with you sitting here and refusing to talk to them.” You nodded, knowing that what he was saying was logical. You couldn’t solve anything by sitting around and moping, and lord knows you won’t solve anything by running away.

You took a deep breath “Ok. I’m ready to come home.”

“Good.” Tony stood up and adjusted his suit. “Because honestly, the boys have start loitering outside my lab looking like a couple of drowned kittens, and it’s depressing everyone.” He held out his hand for you, which you graciously took, standing and hissing out your cramped muscles. Tony took one step towards the door before stopping suddenly and turning back. “Maybe you should shower first. You stink like that casserole Clint tried to make for dinner that one time.”

Tony barely dodged the chipped mug thrown at his head.

()()()()()()()()()

When you showed up to the apartment you shared with Bucky and Steve, your nerves had been on fire. Steve had opened the door looking he hadn’t slept since you had seen him last. His eyes widened and his arms twitched towards you instinctively, wanting to wrap you in in them and never let go. He held himself back, though it left a deep ache in his chest to do so. You wanted nothing more to go to him, to card you fingers through his hair and reassure him that everything was fine, that you were here and you would never leave again. You had to clutch the straps of your bag until your knuckles were white to stop yourself.

“We need to talk.” Your voice was small, fragile. You wanted to run and hide all over again, but you knew this needed to be done. Steve nodded jerkily, widening the door to allow you to enter. Visually, everything looked the same; the couch was in the living room, blankets thrown haphazardly across the back, and the table sat in the kitchen with its three mismatched chairs and well-loved surface. However, as you moved further into the space, you noticed a staleness to the air that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t a home anymore, and the thought made you frown deeply.

Steve closed the door softly behind you. “I’ll go get Bucky,” he murmured, and you shivered. God help you, you were so in love with these men. Even tired and beat down, Steve’s voice still had an effect on you. It reminded you of soft kisses over bare skin in the early morning hours before the rest of the world was awake, of tender love and honey sweet words spoken between breathy moans.

You pushed the memory to the back of your mind as Steve reentered, Bucky following close behind. You felt your breath catch at his appearance. He looked broken. Dark circles fell under lightless eyes, the grief and despair that sat heavy on his shoulders was visible in the hunch he wore, as if he was being physically crushed by its weight. You could have honestly cried if it were a different situation.

At the sight of you standing in the living room, he cracked a smile that looked almost painful. “Hey, Doll. I missed you,” he rasped. Hi voice was scratchy and rough from crying. Despite the somber tension that hung in the room like mist, you felt a sense of peace wash over you at the presence of your boys. Despite your nerves, despite your fears and reservations, you smiled at them. The tension melted from Bucky and Steve’s shoulders, and you knew everything would be okay. You could do this.

()()()()()()()()()

The three of you spent hours talking. You told them everything: your fear of being left behind and forgotten, your frustrations with always feeling second place to the duties as avengers, the anger of that night and the emotions of the last three weeks. In turn, they shared their guilt and frustration at their own actions. They told you how they felt that being avengers was the only thing they could do to help people, it was the only thing they knew, and they had been scared to deviate from that routine, even when it had started pushing you away. They shared the fear they felt at finding you gone, and the terror and grief that had set in when they realized you might not come back and that was it for the three of you. Finally, they shared their confession that nothing they had done or would ever do as avengers would be more important than you. They wanted to change, to get better. They wanted to do it for you.

What started as you sitting across from them quickly transitioned into the three of you cuddled together on the couch, seemingly one entity. Weeks of no contact had starved the boys of your touch, and they couldn’t remove themselves from you if they wanted to. Bucky lay across you legs with his head in your lap, his arms wrapped around your waist. You hand was tangled in his hair, massaging the base of his skull. Your other hand was gripped tightly in Steve’s as you leaned back into his broad chest. His blond head rested comfortably on your shoulder, turned inward to whisper his apologies into the exposed skin of your neck. Every once and a while he would leave a lingering kiss there, the skin tingling nonstop from the feel of his lips. You felt more relaxed than you had in weeks. That night you fell asleep in your bed, bracketed by the two most important people in your life. You would be okay.

#stucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #steve rogers x reader #tony stark

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