#nothing left but a scrap of that softness clutched so tight and buried so deep to keep it from being taken too...

[thedragonagelesbian]

head in hands this morning thinking about act 1/2 cyrus......

[rotworld]

4: Game of Chance

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

if you bring the prince of flowers an offering, he might grant you good fortune, a year of bountiful harvests or a magic seed that will sprout into a sprawling orchard with the most succulent fruits. he might just kill you where you stand. all godlings are fickle, but he is worse than any other. if you want to come back from this alive, you'll have to find out why.

->original work. explicit; contains noncon (transactional/extreme power imbalance/aphrodisiacs), murder, implied necrophilia, terato.

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She must’ve tried to run. You saw the fabric scraps, bits of woven shawl and the ragged remains of a dress caught in the thorn-claws of the forest. You saw her tracks, too, deep heel gouges where she ducked and spun, where she fought as hard as she could against something she was never going to beat. There’s a smeared spot, the telltale last stand. Like the final featherlight prints of a rabbit seized by a hawk. Like the place a deer stumbles, where a wolf pack descends with all their viciousness and hunger. She fell and flattened the grass, screamed and flailed and raked her fingers through the earth leaving desperate handprints and broken nails behind. The rest of the trail is wet and red. Still fresh, it glistens like dew.

You find what’s left of her in the heart of the forest. Eyes shut and lips slightly parted, she could simply be sleeping if not for where she’s been wrenched open and unraveled, torn more neatly than fang and claw should allow. Her ribs have turned to garden arches, small white trellises coiled by grasping stems. Wildflowers sprout in the fleshy seedbed beneath, heart and lungs tenderized into slick, veiny soil. Skin sloughs away and soft tissues vanish the lower your eyes wander until there’s nothing left but scattered bones. Plump, shiny berries grow on either side of a partially-buried spine. Mushroom bulbs peek through the spaces of a pelvis. 

You glimpse snaking movements. Squirming in the organic mush of her chest. Slithering shapes where she still has skin, the slow, worm-like crawl of something bulging in her throat. Dark briar tendrils wind possessively tight around her, thorns biting deep. 

There’s a terrible, stomach-churning noise, so quiet you wouldn’t have noticed if the sight of her hadn’t frozen you completely still. It’s a muffled gurgling. Choked, squelching rasps. A drowning death rattle. “Hhhhhnghgk…nnnnnhguuuuhh…” Bile crawls up your throat when her eyelids flutter and one finger twitches. 

“Oh my. Another one?” 

You tear your eyes away from her. You see him watching you where the trees cluster close and the flowers are always in bloom, where the stone-speckled path you’ve been following ends. Cherroveth, Prince of Flowers, smiles softly. 

“So many visitors today,” he muses, leaning against the trunk of an enormous tree. “So many gifts.” 

Like all godlings, he is breathtakingly beautiful. Earthy brown hair spills over his shoulders and down his back, adorned with spring blossoms and sweet-smelling summer petals. His pointed ears are pierced in several places, strung through with gemstones and a dangling, golden chain. His eyes change in light and shadow; sometimes graying pine, sometimes vivid shamrock, sometimes shimmery basil leaf or deep moss. He wears little, allowing you to see the squiggling lines and spiral markings adorning his divine flesh. Loose, flowing sashes tied around his waist barely conceal his toned backside, every movement threatening to reveal the apex of his firm thighs. 

You quickly return your gaze to his face but it’s too late. His eyes arch in amusement and his smile widens. “Won’t you come in?” he says. “You’ll have to wait. There are many who arrived before you. But I am eager to see what you’ve brought me.” You nod, clutching the burlap sack you brought all the way from the village. You haven’t offended him yet, it seems, and you think he’s in a good mood. Maybe you’ll survive this after all. Cherroveth slips between the trees and you follow, led to the shade-dappled ruins he calls home.

This place might’ve been a temple once. Some crumbling stonework remains, green with moss and climbing vines. The ghosts of greater structures linger in shattered plinths and disembodied arches, a half-sunken bas-relief wall depicting figures worn down by the ravages of time. A small crowd of supplicants welcomes you with wordless nods and commiserating glances. They come from distant villages, from port towns, from the halls of castles and humble farmsteads—all places touched by the forest where the Prince of Flowers holds sway. All clutching what precious treasures they could scrounge together in the hopes of earning a blessing.

Bones litter the ground they stand on. Scapulas. Smooth skull fragments. Whole skeletal hands, partially buried and scattered by animals. The flowers are thick wherever something has died. You join the others, listening to their whispers. He’s killed at least seven today, maybe more. The person who’s been here longest only saw three of them but she says there’s more bodies in the underbrush. He let an old woman go even though he scowled at her while she hobbled up to the altar and her bag of offered birdseed ripped open, spilling all over the ground. A shoemaker brought him animal bones and was dragged away screaming but an apprentice from a magic school gave him the same thing right after and was thanked for it. 

You ask each other questions, trying to solve a puzzle with no answer. Is it the gift? The quantity? The quality? The intent behind it? Is it the reason one comes here, the magnitude of what they ask for? Is it the age of the supplicant, their job, their means, whether they’re rude or kind? You can’t agree on a pattern. Everyone has their guesses and rituals. It matters if he’s smiling or not when he greets you, they say. It depends on the weather, the day of the week, the phase of the moon. 

At the center of everything, the altar waits. Cracked pillars and limbless statues surround it. The tangled canopy of three hunched trees casts a shadow across its flat gray surface. It might have been shattered once, some pieces missing. A crack runs down the center and the carvings in its sides, ancient symbols and floral patterns, don’t quite match where the halves meet. Blood, both old streaks and fresh trickles, stains every inch of it. A faded mural depicting a garden scene stretches behind it, chunks missing, the colors washed out. 

Cherroveth walks to the altar and all conversation ceases. He beckons one of the supplicants closer with the curl of his fingers and a trembling man steps forward, carefully setting a carving of a bear upon the stone. Cherroveth hums in consideration. He walks in a wide circle, examining the offering from different angles. When he passes behind the nervous man, his hand drags across his shoulders, slow and sensual. 

“Lovely,” the Prince of Flowers says, delighted. “Did you make this yourself?” 

The man hesitates only a moment before shaking his head. “No, I…a friend of mine, he makes these.” 

“Hm. And what would you like in exchange for it?” 

“A blessing for the fields, my lord. If that’s alright. Not much grew last year.” 

“Gladly.” Cherroveth’s hand slides from the man’s shoulder to his face, catching his chin between graceful fingers. He kisses him, long but chaste. He pulls away with a mischievous smile. “Thank you for your gift. You may go. Your fields will prosper like never before.”

The man bows low, nearly sobbing with relief. He rushes out of the ruins, leaving the rest of you wondering in his wake. Was it his honesty? His quickness to admit it wasn’t his own creation? Cherroveth plucks the carving from the altar and vanishes for a moment, sauntering away to some hidden place among the trees and stones. He returns soon after with a frown and furrowed brows, sighing deeply.

“Next,” he mutters. 

The next supplicant is wary. She whispers a prayer before she approaches. Her offering is half of a stone cracked open, the swirl of magic frozen in each jagged geode crystal. Cherroveth stares down at it disinterestedly. You wonder what soured his mood so badly. 

“What do you want?” he asks. 

“My father,” she stammers, flinching at his harsh tone. “He’s…he’s very sick. If it’s alright, my lord, if you don’t mind…” 

Cherroveth seizes her chin before she finishes speaking. He tilts her head, pressing his lips against hers. You see her relax, eyes falling shut. 

There’s a sick sound, wet and crunching. Her eyes fly open and she makes a choked sound. Cherroveth steps back and she falls to her knees, gasping, convulsing, clawing at her own throat. Something long and thin presses against her skin from inside, bulging in her neck. She tries to scream but only makes a shrill wheeze like a dying bird. Blood trickles from the corners of her mouth as she retches and heaves, a slow trickle to a thick, gushing torrent. A thick, thorn-studded vine slithers from the underbrush and wraps around her ankle. It snakes higher, over her calf, her knee, her thigh, leaving small, bloody punctures everywhere it touches. You can’t look anymore, sick to your stomach, but you hear the sounds she makes when another vine slithers around her other leg, and another around her torso.

Cherroveth picks up the geode and holds it away from his body like it’s sick and rotten, his nose wrinkled, scowling in disgust. He takes it away. The unlucky supplicant is dragged away soon after. The sounds of slow, agonized death as the thorns tear her apart from the inside gradually fade. Several minutes pass before Cherroveth returns, smiling brightly once again. 

It goes on like this for some time. A supplicant will approach, present their offering, and receive a kiss. Each encounter lasts no more than a few minutes, mere seconds for the most unfortunate. The Prince of Flowers is mercurial. Sometimes he will inspect an offering carefully and sometimes he will pass judgment with barely a glance at it. Sometimes he will call for the next person with a smile and a laugh. Sometimes he will stare listlessly. A young woman openly weeps when the kiss ends with the promise that her lost cat will return home safely this very evening. An older man staggers to the mural coughing and crying blood, leaving a red handprint on the stone as he topples over. He’d brought a carving, too. 

He stares, unimpressed, at a handmade toy meant for a child. But then he picks it up, turns it over in his hands, and his icy demeanor melts into a small smile. The woman who offered it is given a handful of magic seeds when she only asked for one, looking as though she might faint from surprise.

You watch the crowd in front of you dwindle with growing unease. There must be something. Some explanation. Some hint. You look at the ruins, the decorative arches, the patterns carved into old stone. The Prince of Flowers is depicted everywhere you look. His face in profile smiles serenely upon the walls at the ruin’s entrance, mirrored panels gazing at the spot where supplicants arrive. Little remains of the statues by the altar, one missing a head and arms, the other nothing but a lower half clad in a loincloth, but maybe it’s him. They match, the tilted stance mirrored but otherwise identical, the delicate curl of a flowers and vines wrapped all the way up each.

The mural, you notice, is not one image but two. Like the altar, there is a fissure down the middle dividing the paintings. You see supplicants depicted in the fashions of an ancient civilization, their arms raised to present colorful cloths, live animals, gold and gemstones and crystal figures. They approach from opposite directions, lined up before the Prince of Flowers who stands at the center. In one panel, he is smiling and surrounded by roses. In the other, he frowns, wrapped in thorns. 

Your eyes flick down to the altar. The crack in the stone. You look back up at the altar, Cherroveth shown in both of his extremes. Your mind races. Could it mean…?

“Next,” he says sharply. 

Your heart races. You’re the only one left. The ruins are empty and silent. Shivering, you look down at the bag in your arms. Fresh fruit. That’s all you brought. You find the godling glaring at you, tapping his fingers impatiently upon the altar. In the sunset, his eyes are soft and bright like the inside of a lime. You glance at the mural again. When was the last time someone noticed? “You might not like it,” you admit. 

“Let me see it. You’ll find out quickly,” he says.

Hesitantly, you step forward. You open the sack, setting the fruit down right on top of the crack splitting it down the middle. “Nobody really knows what you like. We’re all just guessing,” you tell him. “I heard you like the first fruits of the harvest, but maybe you don’t. Maybe it’s the other one who likes that.” 

His hand freezes, hovering over the offering. He looks at you, wide-eyed with surprise. 

“Oh? A clever one,” you hear. Cherroveth—another one, identical to the first—comes out of the trees. This is who first greeted you in the forest. Those are the same graceful footsteps, the same half-lidded stare and sweet smile. He stands on the opposite side of the altar, picking up a peach and turning it over in his hand. “You heard right. I do love the first harvest best. My brother doesn’t appreciate food offerings, unfortunately.”

Twin godlings. You look back and forth between them. They’re impossible to tell apart unless you look beyond their features and clothing. One stands taller, straight-backed and confident while the other hunches.

“I am Cherroveth,” the smiling one says. “Prince of Flowers.” 

His twin stares at you, entranced. “Therrovech,” he murmurs. “Prince of Thorns.”

“Why haven’t you told anyone?” you ask them. “The offerings would be better. We’d bring enough for both of you.”

“We did tell you. Humans forget things quickly.” Cherroveth shrugs, biting into the peach. He moans, his eyes fluttering shut as clear juice runs down his chin. “Mm! Just lovely.”

“The ones we told are probably dead,” Therrovech muses. “It was a long time ago. To them, at least.” His smile is different than his brothers. Smaller. Almost shy. He takes your hand, tugging you closer. “It’s nice to be noticed. What would you like?” 

“What? You’re letting them go?” Cherroveth’s smile falls and you struggle to tell them apart again. They’re both tense, eyes narrowed, bristling with anger. 

“I haven’t decided yet,” Therrovech insists, grasping your hand tightly. “It was my turn, anyway. They gave their offering to me. I get to decide.” 

“You don’t even like what they brought you!” 

“I can bring you something else,” you say quickly. 

“You already did,” Therrovech says. This smile is the same as Cherroveth’s, warm and wide. He shoves you back onto the altar, scattering the fruit across the ground. His hand lands heavily on your shoulder before you can sit up and then he’s crawling on top of you, straddling your legs. You wince when he starts tearing at your clothes with claw-like nails. Were they that sharp before? He nicks your skin and it makes him freeze, watching blood bubble to the surface. To your horror, the sight of the small scratch makes his eyes glaze over. He licks his lips. 

“Now you’re being petty,” Cherroveth argues. He stands on the other side of the altar, next to your head. “You just don’t want me to have them.” 

“You get everything you want all the time.” Therroveth unties the cloth from around his hips and drops it carelessly, leaving him completely exposed. You’re shocked to find him smooth like a doll between his legs, but it doesn’t last. His skin ripples like moving water. His flesh parts and peels, unraveling like unspooling thread. He’s nothing but thorns. Thick vines and thin, snaking tendrils, stiff and wooden, green and flexible, every inch of him is sharp and prickling. You watch the transformation in speechless, horrified shock, seized by his larger vines that hold you down against the stone. He ties your wrists together and your legs apart, the restraints biting into your skin painfully. 

“But they would be so pretty, Therro. Just imagine it.” Cherroveth kneels, his hair curtaining your vision as he strokes your cheek and smiles at the expression of pure terror on your face. “This neck. This lovely chest. Imagine, all of your thorns and all of my flowers. Inside them, Therro. Don’t you like how it feels to kiss a sacrifice? Such a fertile garden they’d make.” 

“They’re mine,” Therrovech growls. He slaps his brother’s hand away and hunches over you, covering your body with the writhing mass of his thorns. They couldn’t look more different now. His skin looks stiff and wooden, pitted with thin grooves and speckled with lichen. His upper half comes apart like the corpse you saw in the woods before, his chest open, his ribs, covered in spines, on full display. Everywhere he touches you burns and stings. “I always have to share with you. It isn’t fair. Maybe I want something all to myself for once.” 

“Fine.” Cherroveth scoffs. He caresses your cheek with the back of his hand one last time, a lingering touch that makes you shudder. “I’ll make sure none of our supplicants are lost in the woods. But you’ll change your mind, brother. Or you’ll make a mistake. I know you will. I’ll be more than happy to take them off your hands when you do.” 

He moves quietly. You have no idea he left until Therrovech shifts, no longer crushing you in his sharp branches. You see a cautious smile. Eyes like emeralds. Roses of all colors in his long, leafy green hair. He looks nothing like his brother but he’s still beautiful. The vines around your wrists are loose enough for you to reach up to touch his cheek. It’s softer than you expect, the wood spongy against your palm. Therrovech holds your hand there and nuzzles against it. 

“He’s wrong,” he whispers. “I won’t change my mind and I won’t make a mistake. I want you just like this. I like soft things. Warm flesh. I like that you saw me. I’ve wanted to be seen for a long time.” His hands frame your face and you squirm nervously, trying to get out from under him, but his grip on your limbs is too strong and painful. Even flinching makes the thorns dig deeper. “Don’t be afraid. You’re no sacrifice. I just want a taste. Just a small one.” He’s going to kiss you. You pull against the vines despite how much it hurts but it just makes him hum in disapproval. He cups your jaw, forcing you to open your mouth. His lips are warm against yours. 

It doesn’t hurt as much as you feared. His lips are soft. His teeth are like daggers and his lips are sandpaper rough but he’s careful, mindful of where he’s sharp and abrasive. He licks into your mouth gently and moans, his whole body writhing around you. It feels strange but you find yourself kissing him back. When you stroke the rose petals in his hair, he shivers and makes an almost wounded sound. 

Something warm, firm and bumpy grinds against your thigh. You can’t see it but Therrovech’s vines slither restlessly every time it slides against your skin. He breaks the kiss, hot puffs of breath warming your swollen lips. “Stay,” he begs. “Stay with me. See me. Talk to me. Cherro won’t have you, I won’t let him. I’ll give you anything you ask for. Anything at all.” Another vine wraps around you and then another, thick like snakes. Therrovech kisses you again and this time he tastes sweet. There’s something in his mouth, some kind of nectar, honey-thick and intoxicating. He pushes his tongue into your mouth. His thumb massages your throat, insistent. He doesn’t let up until you swallow the cloying sweetness filling your throat. 

“What…whu…” You try to talk but all that comes out is mindless noise. You feel dizzy and overheated, floating or falling or something else entirely. 

“Open up to me,” Therrovech whispers. His vines wrench your legs apart and up, as high as he can get them. “I’ll be all yours if you’ll be all mine.” That thing, that hot, pulsating organ, slides against your entrance. Your body fights it, your muscles tight and unyielding. Therrovech tilts your head and leans over you, something gold and dew-shiny sparkling in his mouth. He dribbles more nectar into your open mouth and your eyes roll back in your head. It’s good. Tastes good. Feels good. Makes your skin all buzzing and warm. Makes him feel good everywhere he’s pressed into you, nipping your veins. 

The vines quiver. Therrovech presses into you again and this time you let him. Not thorns, at least, but it’s thick and hard and studded with dull barbs that catch and pull on things inside of you. It shouldn’t feel good but the nectar makes it heaven. Therrovech’s body undulates, a strange, worm-like quiver rather than the thrusting mating motion you expect, but the result is the same. He throws his head back and groans as he fills you. You shudder in ecstasy. 

“More,” Therrovech whispers. He leans in close, his strange body pressed against yours. He kisses you feverishly. He pours nectar into your mouth and it’s more than you can swallow, sticky saliva dribbling down your chin. 

Sharpness jolts you out of your haze momentarily. It was a small, fleeting pain, just a pinprick. A thorn scrapes behind your teeth. You open your eyes and Therrovech is losing what little cohesion he has in his upper body, a spiked tendril unfurling from one of his cheeks. He could hurt you badly. He might not even notice. You pull away and he whines, surging forward, more nectar already on his tongue. You push weakly at his chest and he grows around you, trapping your hands against his warm, throbbing center.

He said he wouldn’t make a mistake, but godlings are creatures of impulse. You try to hold onto the fear, the clear-headedness, searching for a way out, but Therrovech’s vines constrict and he drives into you harder. A spurt of thick, creamy nectar fills your insides and every thought you have is obliterated. Nothing matters. Nothing but having more of this. You drive your body onto his organ and take everything he has to give. You’ll stay. Stay forever, if that’s what he wants.

Your head falls back against the altar and you see Cherroveth, upside down, standing against the mural. Embarrassment heats your face at being seen like this, but it’s quickly forgotten in the churn of heat and sensation. The Prince of Flowers smiles softly. He’s undressed, his fist wrapped around a thick cock, stroking himself into hardness. He’s waiting, you think. Waiting as for the Prince of Thorns to do something he shouldn’t. To lose himself. To unfurl sharpness into your body. To fill all the space inside. 

Therrovech nips at your lower lip just a little bit too hard and you taste blood. He sucks at the wound hungrily and all of his vines tighten at once. 

You wonder just how long Cherroveth will have to wait.

[notyetneedcoffee]

Date Nights 1

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, Smut

New Naughty Series

You pulled the etched glass jar from the gift bag. It was heavy, probably crystal, with a beautiful floral motif carved around the outside. The silver and enamel lid shone with butterflies and flowers. Antique. Looking up at Steve you smiled.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Open it.” His blue eyes sparkled.

Inside you found little notes, all rolled careful into little scrolls and tied with string. “What are these?”

“Pick one.” Steve chewed his lip.

Pulling one out, you unrolled it to see Steve’s clear handwriting. It said ‘Starlight Picnic’ in blue ink. Steve’s lips brush the sensitive skin just below your ear. His voice making your insides melt. “We don’t get to go out all that often, so I thought I would make a list stuff to do.”

“You made us a date night jar?” You giggled, cupping his jaw in your hand.

“Complaining?” He smiled against your lips.

“Nope.” You kissed him deep.

“Mmm.” Steve reluctantly pulled away, taking the scrap of paper from you. “Give me twenty minutes. Go put on something comfortable and warm.”

Steve came back into the common room of the compound to find you in leggings and one of his cable kit sweaters. He never told you how much he liked it when you wore his clothes, but somehow you knew. It showed in the warmth of his smile, the way his hand slipped over your body.  

“Perfect.” He held out his hand. “Come with me.”  

He carried a big duffel bag and a reusable grocery bag from the kitchens. Steve led you to one of the back service elevators. It went to the roof mechanical room. You’d expected Steve to take you to the rooftop garden above the office atrium.  

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere without camera surveillance.” Steve grinned.  

Leaving the mechanical room, the only light came from the few colored marker lights on the edge of the building and the stars above. He led you carefully, making sure you didn’t trip on any of the conduit boxes sticking up. On the back of the mechanical room a set of metal stairs led to the highest point of the compound.  

“Stay here.”  

Steve put the bag down and pulled out couple camp sleeping pads and covered them with a blanket. He brought out a plate and began to unwrap cheese, fruit, crackers and little pastries. The bottle of wine and stemless wine glasses finished the spread.  

“Okay, Sugar.” He came over to take your hands. You both toed off your shoes before lowering down to the blanket. In the dim light, his warm lips covered yours briefly before he reclined back on his elbows. “Look up.”

You mirrored his pose. Above you stars filled the clear night sky, brilliant and magnificent. You were a city girl, where the lights of buildings and streets drowned out the sky. “Wow.”

“Bite?” Steve held out a half a strawberry. You leaned forward taking it in your mouth, tongue brushing his fingertips. His lips fell open, eyes locked upon your lips. “Gorgeous.”

You swallowed just before his mouth crashed over yours. With a low moan, he lowered you back. You felt his body stretch along side yours, leaning his weight into you, hot and hard. Steve’s large hand cupped your face as he drank you down. His neck felt hot under your hands, fingers toying with the short hair at the nape of his neck.  

His hand slipped under the sweater to rest on the bare skin of your ribs. Steve brushed his nose along your face, mouth drifting toward your ear. “You’ve been in my closet again.”

“Can’t help it.” You purred. “I miss you when you’re gone.”

“You wear my clothes when I’m gone. Not just stuff to sleep in.” His teeth nipped your ear, sending a shiver down your body.

“Do you mind?” Your leg hitched over his hip as you ground into him.

His voice rumble low. “No. I like it.” Steve left a wet trail along your neck. “Let’s everyone know your my girl.”  

A quiet moan escaped your lips, his words turning your core molten. “How do you do that?” Your head rocked back as Steve nipped. “You say things like that, actually mean it,” you moaned again. “And god, it makes me feel so good.”

Steve’s head rose to look you in the eye. “Why is that surprising?”

You touched his face, fingertips tracing his beautiful lips. “I’ve always been so independent. The idea of anyone getting possessive, terrified me. But with you, I feel safe. It makes me feel desired and precious.”

His eyes softened, then closed as he leaned close. “You are precious.” His lips barely touched yours as he spoke. “I love your independence, and I’m so thankful I can call you mine.”

“Steve,” you sighed as he kissed you again, slow and deep. Warmth turned to heat as you wrapped yourself tighter around him. Steve rolled onto his back, pulling you on top of his chest. His hand slid up the skin of your back, finding nothing beneath the sweater.  

He smiled into your kiss before pulling it over your head and tossing it aside. The cold of the night a sharp contrast to the heat of his hands. Steve sat up, holding you straddled in his lap. He tossed aside his own shirt, too.  

Steve arched you back, massaging your breast, sucking and teasing your nipple. You gazed up, bathed in starlight, breath coming fast, nerves lighting up. You rocked against his hardness. The soft fabric of your leggings and his sweats doing nothing to hide the heat as you rubbed your clit into him.  

He rolled you to the side, kneeling beside you as he pulled your leggings off. His hand wrapped around your ankle as he kissed his way to your knee. Running his hands over your thighs, spreading you wide, his mouth moved closer to your core. Steve breathed deep, a near growl escaping at his first taste of you.  

“Oh yes,” your hands clutched at the blanket beneath you. Steve’s tongue lapped through your wet folds, flicked against your sensitive clit. He suckled and hummed. One hand came around to hold your hips as you ground against his face.  

You looked down to see Steve pull away, eyes transfixed with awe on your sex, mouth wet. He slipped two fingers into your cunt, pulling another moan from you as he curled his fingers against the perfect spot. A wicked smile curled his lip as he latched his mouth onto you again.  

“Fuck,” you panted, fighting to move against him. His fingers pumping hard, but not fast enough. His mouth feeling like too much. You wound tight. “Steve, please!”

His head rose, hand pumped harder. “Wanna come for me, Sugar?”

“Yes!”

Steve spread one hand wide over your mound, thumb rubbing over your clit as his other hand drew sloppy wet obscene sounds from your cunt. You writhed. Coiled tight. He marveled, loving the sight. “Fuck, you’re beautiful. So, hot. Feel so good. Taste so good. That’s it,” he growled. “Come for me.”

You snapped, flushed with heat, body shaking, coming hard and flooding over his hand.  

“Yes,” Steve growled, mouth covering you again. You jerked, moaned, so sensitive. Before Steve you’d never been a squirter, but he could pull it out of you, leaving you lit up and floating. Your eyes rolled to the stars again, body singing.  

Steve crawled up your body, kissing and nipping his way. With a burst of energy, you wrapped a leg around him and rolled him over. He fell onto his back with a laugh. You felt his cock slip along your wet folds with delight. He’d managed to shed his sweats.  

Running your tongue along his broad chest, gripping his cock in you hand, you crawled lower. Steve groaned, his fingers combing through your hair. He watch intently. You looked up, locking eyes with him as you took him in your mouth. His thighs clenched and stomach fluttered.  

You took him deep, pressing against him with your tongue, humming low with delight. His fingers tightened in your hair as you sucked on his cock, hand moving in time with your mouth. He dropped his head back, relishing the feel. 

Steve curled up, pulling you away from him.  

“Come ‘ere.” He sat up, coaxing you onto his lap. Steve kissed you deep, arms wrapped tight around you. Rocking against him, you raised your hips enough so he slipped into you. Both of you moaned into each other’s mouths.  

Rocking, grinding against each other, heat flooded over you. Steve held you close, hands roaming over your back, shoulders to ass. His eyes closed, face pressed close to yours. “Need you so much.”

“Steve.” Your held him close, hand in his hair. Him rocking deep into you, you shook. You heart nearly burst. “Need you, always.” Something close to a whine escaped his throat as your nails scraped along his scalp. “I’m yours.”

“Yes.” His hands gripped your ass, pushing you into him harder. “Say it again.”

“I’m your girl.” You panted. Steve’s face lowered to your neck, lightly biting down. You shook. His hands moved you with more desperation. “Oh, fuck, Steve. I’m gonna…”

“Yes.” He growled. “Ah, so close.”

“Come in me.” You moaned, nails digging into his back. Steve slammed your hips to him, rougher, faster. You bit back a scream, shaking, quivering. Cunt clenching, coming hard. He groaned out his own release, filling you, crushing you in his hold. 

Steve held you close, lowering onto his back again. You panted, pliant in his arms. When you tried to move, he kept you still, kept himself buried. “No, please, don’t move.”

“Mmm” You closed your eyes, sighing. Steve was a heater against your front, solid and warm. The night air on your back coolly wicked away your sweat. You muttered contently, “This was a great idea.”

Steve lay staring at the stars, you lazily sprawled over him. His hands drew lazy circles over your flesh. Sex on roof the had not been the plan, but it was indeed a wonderful turn. All of the ideas he put in the jar danced across his mind. A smile crossed his face as he imagined all the wonderful ways those could turn passionate too.  

“Yeah,” He smiled. “Pretty damn good.”

You felt Steve’s cock twitch, hardening again. Your fingers drifted over his thick bicep. “Somehow I think you have even more in mind.”  

When you clenched your muscles around his cock, Steve gave a little moan and grabbed you ass. He teased, “You’d be surprised how much I have in mind.”      

You giggled. “Try me.”

Steve flipped you over on you back, hovering over you on his arms. He beamed down at you, smile warm and playful. “You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”

Your laugh bubbled up from your toes.

Date nights were going to be fun.

TAGS

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[putas-in-suffering]

A little EZ action on a hot summer day...

You wiped the sweat from your brow as you poured two glasses of cool lemonade. You could feel the A/C kick on and blow across your heated skin, offering some kind of refuge from the unforgiving heat. You let your eyes wander to the window facing the backyard, your gaze falling to the man who'd been helping you all day. 

EZ lifted the hem of his white shirt, using the material to wipe at his own face. He removed the heavy gloves from his hands, making his way towards the covered patio for some shade. You watched him, taking in the smooth lines of his biceps and forearms. He surprised you by removing hist shirt completely, revealing the sculpted planes of his chest and abdomen. You gulped, aware of the cartoonish effect he seemed to be having over you.

 It wasn’t the first time you’d admired his physical form. You’d known the Reyes family for years, your parents being old friends. And while both brothers were attractive, there had never been anything there between you and them. You grew up with them as friends, though your life took two very different paths. 

And now, here you stood in the house you grew up in, practically salivating over a man you’d known nearly your entire life. 

You shook yourself out of your stupor, blaming the blazing sun for your sudden fascination with the younger brother. You knocked on the window, pulling his attention. You gestured for him to come inside and he nodded, moving to the back door.

“Take a rest before you stroke out.” You teased as he entered the kitchen, white t-shirt clutched in his hand. You tried hard not to stare too long at his naked torso, avoiding eye contact all together. You passed him the glass of lemonade, making yourself seem busy with dishes in the sink.

“Thanks.” He said with a laugh as he accepted the beverage. He stood next to you, his proximity closer than you would’ve liked. 

“No, thank you. I don’t know how I would’ve helped my dad get rid of all this junk without you.” You motioned to the pile of scrap and trash that you both had spent the day cleaning from the backyard and shed. Your dad was a mechanic and the amount of random car parts you'd found in the yard could’ve rebuilt at least another three vehicles. And even though you had long ago moved out, it was nice to be able to do something for your aging parents.

EZ bumped his hip with yours, the smile in his voice present. “Its no problem, I told you that. Glad I could help.” 

He was silent for a beat before he spoke again, his tone more serious. “Its the least I could do after everything you help my dad with at the shop. I appreciate that.” 

His words were sweet and expressed just how thankful he was, but something in his voice made a shiver run up your spine. His voice had lowered an octave, the words coming out whispered as you felt him staring at you. It made you suddenly nervous, the air shifting. You silently thanked the universe that the house was empty, your parents out for the day so that you could work. 

“Of course. It's no trouble, EZ.” You managed to reply, finally turning to face him. 

His eyes were boring into yours, but a playful smile was present on his bearded lips. You averted your gaze, but ended up settling on his massive chest. You shifted your stare suddenly, instead trying to focus on the heinous wallpaper your mother insisted on keeping. 

“I saw that. You just checked me out.”

The words made you freeze, your mouth stuttering as you tried to think of a response to what EZ had said. He was smirking of course, enjoying the way you fumbled. The moment was embarrassing. 

“I did not.” You insisted, going back to facing the sink.

“Its okay that you did.” He continued to tease, his boyish glee making it hard for you to be annoyed with him. 

“Well, maybe you should put your shirt back on then.” You bit back, letting your embarrassment seep into your voice. 

“Why? Does it make you uncomfortable?” 

“EZ, put a fucking shirt on.” 

A tug on your arm pulled you to face him once again, although this time you were pressed into the naked chest you’d been accused of leering at. Your breath caught as EZ stared down at you, his features serious as he licked his lips. His hand traveled to your waist while his other tilted your chin up. You waited, breath held in anticipation. You didn’t know what the hell was happening, but it felt right...felt long overdue. 

“Can I kiss you?” He asked softly, his eyes flicking down to your lips. You licked them instinctively, his gaze seemingly heating at the move.

“Yes.” You said simply, not having to give the question much thought. 

He smiled, the kind of crooked smile that made your heart and panties melt. You leaned in to meet him, letting him take the lead as he tasted you. His lips were soft and full, caressing your own in a gentle embrace. His hand now cradled your cheek, pulling you closer to him. Both of you were still sticky with sweat, the cool air of the house having dried it onto your skin. Your bodies stuck together as the kiss deepened, tongues now tangling. 

The intensity shifted quickly, the delicate kiss soon transforming into a passionate duel. His hands now rested under the hem of your shirt, searing the bare flesh of your waist. Your hands traveled up the expanse of his hard stomach, nails digging into the skin ever so slightly. He responded with a push of his hips against yours, inviting you to push back. You did. The friction letting you feel his hardening muscle just beyond the denim. Your nipples grew tight at the notion of his growing arousal. They pressed against your shirt, reciprocating his lust. 

“EZ,” You moaned when he finally pulled away, attaching his lips to your neck. You let your nails run over his scalp, feeling him shiver at the action. He tasted your neck with the same fervor he did your lips, not leaving a single spot untouched. You felt him press you against the counter and you had a flash of an image in your mind. You wanted to be sitting on the counter while he fucked you. You wanted to wrap your legs around his waist while he hit so deep you saw stars. You wanted that so badly that you initiated the first move, sending a message you knew would be well received. 

You moved your hands to the hem of your shirt and raised it up, detaching from his hungry mouth so that you could pull the piece of clothing over your head. He stared down at you, breathing heavy as you revealed the white bra you wore underneath. His eyes flicked between your chest and face, the movements almost comical.

“You sure?” He asked, the gentleman never too far. 

“Yes...” You practically pleaded, pulling him to you once again. 

That was all you both needed. He didn’t hesitate. He locked you in another fierce kiss, hands now moving quickly over your body. You let yours travel to the button of his jeans, the white waistband of his boxers sending you into some sort of frenzy. You unzipped the material and dipped your hand in, stroking his cock. He jerked at the touch, a curse leaving his lips as you pleasured him. 

“When are your parents coming home?” He panted, forehead pressed to yours. The question made you giggle, making you feel as if you were sixteen again. EZ laughed with you, recognizing the ridiculousness of it all. 

“Not till later.” You answered, pulling your hand from his body and back to your own. You unclasped your bra, letting it fall from your shoulders and down your arms. EZ pulled the lace from your body and threw it behind him, his hands eagerly cupping your naked breasts. You moaned, head thrown back as he massaged them with both careful precision and untamed desire. 

You gasped when he bent down to take a nipple into his mouth, sucking gently. The sensation made your thighs clench, begging for friction. His mouth assaulted both of your breasts as his hands moved to your own button, popping it open and shifting your shorts down. You helped him, stepping out of the clothing with hurried movements. Even though there wasn’t a rush, you felt the absolute need to have him inside of you as soon as possible. Your walls demanded it, pulsing around nothing.

His calloused hands slid your panties down next, baring yourself to him. He helped you step out of them before letting a finger trace over your glistening lips. You whimpered at his touch, feeling him nudge your clit. He let his finger slip into your soaked channel, feeling how primed you were. 

“Ready?” He rasped though the question didn’t need to be asked. The evidence was there on his finger. 

“Fuck,” You cursed when he slipped his finger in further, scraping against your walls. “Yes, EZ...”

He lifted you, settling you on the cool counter like you’d envisioned. You wrapped your legs around him while he pulled himself free, holding himself to your willing pussy. You widened your thighs, wordlessly telling him what to do. You watched, fascinated with his entire form as he coated himself in you, his brow creased and his lips pursed in concentration. His arms flexed as he pushed the head in, the sensation already making you feel full. He eased in slowly, staring at your joined bodies as he did. 

“Shit,” He cursed, eyes squeezing shut at the way you gripped him. His hands gripped your hips once he was fully sheathed, digging into the flesh. He pulled you closer to the edge, his throbbing cock meeting your cervix. You clung to his shoulders as he began to thrust, the pace quick, but satisfying. 

The sounds of him penetrating you filled the kitchen, the A/C no longer cooling your hot flesh. He grunted and groaned above you as you buried your face into his neck, clinging for dear life. You were already so close. 

You both touched each other everywhere, leaving no visible trace of flesh free from your desperate hands. Your sweat-laced bodies moved against each other in a hungry rhythm, both chasing the ecstasy you knew would follow. His hands left a trail as they switched from tender touches to frantic clutches. Your back arched as he turned his attention to your clit, rubbing at the appendage in time with his hips.

“Yes, right there.” You urged as your toes began to curl and your limbs tingled. He sucked harshly at your neck as he doubled his efforts, intent on sending you into climax first. 

It worked. 

Unintelligible words and sounds left your lips as you spasmed around him, his strong arms anchoring you to him. You gripped him, your body unsure if it wanted more as it shook with such an intensity that it was almost painful. You could vaguely hear EZ groaning as he let your pussy careen him further towards his own end. You reveled in the feel of him releasing into your quaking depths, filling you to the brim. He burrowed into your neck as he moaned, hips stuttering in erratic thrusts. 

There was nothing but the sound of heavy breaths as you both fought to float back down to earth.

“You okay?” He asked once you both had caught your breath and your bodies had settled. His eyes were back to being soothing pools rather than clouded with lust. He was smiling and you found yourself returning the sentiment.

“More than okay.” You replied, enjoying the lazy hold you both had on each other. 

“Guess I should get dressed before your parents walk in and see my bare ass.” He joked, though he didn’t make a move to remove himself from your clutches.

You laughed, both amused and horrified at the idea. “Let’s not tempt the universe.”

His hand lifted you chin to his lips and he surprised you by capturing you in a sweet kiss. It was quick and nothing like the kisses you’d been wrapped up in before, but it was just as powerful. 

You both pulled away, dazed smiles both adorning your lips.

“Your place?” He asked with an arched brow, making a flutter of what felt suspiciously like butterflies go off in your stomach.

“Yeah.”

[you-can-call-me-wanda]

Dressed To Impress

Pairing: Nasty Suicide x Reader

Author’s Note: This is my first ever imagine, so don’t judge my writing skills too hard as I’m still trying to figure it all out. I hope you enjoy though!

You looked down at the address scribbled on the scrap of paper clutched tightly in your hand and then back up to the apartment in front of you. Yep, this was the place. Your brother, Andy, had invited you to come to London to stay with him for a little while. You were only a year younger than him and the two of you were terribly close, so you had jumped at the chance to come visit him. Plus, you would get to go explore London, a city you had always wanted to visit!

Pulling the strap of your bag up higher onto your shoulder, you raised your hand and knocked on the door. From just the outside, you could tell this apartment was going to be a complete mess. It did not look very well cared for and you knew that your brother and his bandmates were probably not cleaning as often as they should (or at all).

The door swung open, shaking you from your thoughts. You didn’t have time to even look up before Andy was tackling you in a hug.

“Agh! Andy!” you scolded playfully, as he caused you to stumble back and drop your bags.

He pulled away and laughed brightly. “(Y/N)! I’ve missed you!”

You smiled. It really was great to see him. It had been a long time since the two of you had gotten to see each other now that he was so busy making music and getting to play all around the world. “I missed you too,” you said.

Andy picked up your bags that he had knocked over earlier and brought them through the door. “Come on inside! I’ll show you around!”

The apartment was just as bad as you imagined it would be. Empty beer bottles were strewn on every available surface, stains littered the carpet and furniture, and dirty dishes and pieces of garbage were thrown about the place. You also could have sworn you saw a rat scurry past your feet and behind the couch which a blonde-haired boy was currently sleeping on, snoring lightly.

“Sorry about Michael,” Andy said, like that was the only issue you might have with his home. “You remember Michael, right?”

“Yeah, of course,” you said. You had met all the members of his band, Hanoi Rocks, at least once. You had gone and seen them play several times back home in Finland.

Andy just nodded and led you up the stairs where his room was. He kicked open the door and walked in, dropping your bags unceremoniously onto the floor. “You can stay in my room with me,” he said. “How long did you say you were staying for again?”

You shrugged your shoulders. “I don’t know. I haven’t really figured that out yet.” You had yet to tell Andy, but you were planning on staying in London for a while, maybe even moving there permanently. Obviously, you would eventually find your own place to stay, you just had to find your footing first.

“Well, you can stay for as long as you like I guess,” Andy said, smiling at you. “If I bring a girl back you might have to bunk with one of the other guys though.” He winked as you made a disgusted face and pretended to throw up, completely grossed out by the mental image of your brother having sex.

“Come on,” he laughed. “Let’s go say hi to the guys.”

You saw Sami first. He was in the hallway, having just walked out of the bathroom. “Oh, hi (Y/N). I forgot you were coming today,” Sami said when he took notice of you walking next to Andy.

“Hi Sami,” you greeted, enveloping him in a friendly hug. You’d known Sami the longest out of all the boys and saw him somewhat like another brother. “How are you?”

“Eh, could be worse, I guess,” he answered. Then, a weird expression came across his face. He smiled mischievously. “Say, have you seen Nasty yet?”

“No,” you said, genuinely confused. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Sami’s grin widened. “Like what?”

Andy butted in. “Like you know something we don’t,” he said, his tone laced with suspicion.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sami said, causing both you and your brother to groan. Sami was a terrible liar. He giggled before running off to his bedroom.

You and Andy looked at each other and laughed lightly before carrying on through the flat.

The two of you saw Razzle next. You and Andy had just wandered into the kitchen when he came in through the front door of the flat, calling out hello.

You and Andy had both responded in greeting and now the three of you were seated around the rickety kitchen table, talking and laughing.

Razzle had just finished telling you a funny tale about his latest trip to the record shop when Nasty came into the kitchen.

“Hey Nasty!” you greeted warmly upon his arrival. “It’s nice to see you.” You would never admit it, but you had a bit of a soft spot for Nasty. You didn’t know what it was exactly, but something about him gave you butterflies. Maybe it was his kind eyes or his rich voice that had made you fall for the boy some time ago. You had pushed those feelings aside though, worried about what your brother would think, and that Nasty wouldn’t feel the same.

“Hey, (Y/N),” he said, shyly. “It’s nice to see you too.” You could’ve sworn you saw him blush.

He looked a little awkward, standing in the kitchen so you beckoned him over, inviting him to join you guys at the table. “Come sit down.”

He smiled and made his way over to the three of you. He pulled out the chair across from you and took a seat.

Andy turned to him, about to tell him about some lyrics he had started writing when he noticed something strange about the guitarist. “Are you wearing makeup?” he asked.

Of course, wearing makeup was nothing new to the members of Hanoi Rocks. They were all known to dress and look quite glam during their gigs, including wearing makeup, but that was typically only reserved for shows. At home, they all tended to dress more casually and comfortably, trading in their shiny blazers and teased hairstyles for t-shirts and messy ponytails.

Nasty fidgeted in his chair. “What? No.”

Razzle squinted at Nasty. “You are!” he said.

Nasty ducked his head. “No, I’m not,” he protested weakly. “It must just be left over from last night. Maybe I forgot to take it off.”

You examined his face along with Andy and Razzle. He definitely was wearing at least a little makeup. The blue of his eyes contrasted dramatically against his dark eye makeup, though the eyeliner seemed a little too neat to have been slept in. You didn’t mention this out loud though.

Andy narrowed his eyes at Nasty, further examining him. “Why do you look so fancy? You have a date or something?”

Nasty’s eyes flickered to you before he looked down at his outfit. “I don’t look fancy.”

You agreed with Nasty. Sure, he was dressed somewhat nicely, wearing a button-up shirt and some tight jeans, but you wouldn’t necessarily call that fancy.

“Yes, you do,” Razzle said. He then leaned over to Nasty and gave him a sniff. “And you smell nice. Are you wearing cologne?” he asked, tone teasing.

Nasty just groaned and buried his head in his hands, frustrated and embarrassed by the constant questioning especially in front of you. “No,” he mumbled into table.

You laughed good-naturedly. “Guys leave him alone. So what if he looks nice?” You reached across the table to pat Nasty on the back. He lifted his head a little and gave you a smile. “Besides, Michael always dresses up too,” you pointed out, trying to defend Nasty.

Razzle rolled his eyes. “That’s different,” he said. “Mike’s different.”

The conversation about Nasty’s appearance could have ended right there, but something was bothering Andy. He thought back to what Sami had said in the hallway upstairs. How Sami had made such a big deal about Nasty seeing you. Andy glanced over at Nasty who was now watching you talk with Razzle. Nasty’s eyes seemed to light up as he watched you laugh and the expression on his face was one Andy recognized all too well. Love. Suddenly, Sami’s strange behavior made sense. Nasty had feelings for you! Andy’s jaw dropped.

“I cannot believe you!”

The conversation you, Razzle, and Nasty had all started drew quiet at Andy’s outburst.

“Can’t believe who?” you asked, puzzled. You looked around the table.

“You,” Andy said pointing his finger accusingly at Nasty.

“Me?” Nasty said. He looked at Andy with furrowed brows. “Why?”

You and Razzle just looked on, bewildered.

“Because you like (Y/N), don’t you?”

It was so silent you could hear a pin drop. Razzle was looking at Andy, you were looking at Nasty, Andy was looking at you, and Nasty, poor Nasty, was looking down into his lap, cheeks burning a bright red.

“Nasty,” you started, causing the raven-haired man to look up at you.

Nasty opened his mouth, trying to find words to explain, to try and say something that could remedy this, but his mouth just opened and shut silently.

Then, Razzle began to laugh. “Oh my god, this is golden!” he howled. He turned to Nasty, “Is that why you got all done up?”

“Shut up,” Nasty said, sounding genuinely hurt. He looked to you and your wide-eyed expression. It was clear to him that you weren’t happy with the feelings he had for you. He stood from the table and walked off quickly.

You turned to your brother, angry at him for revealing Nasty’s feelings in front of you and Razzle like that. “You’re an ass.” You said, getting up and following after Nasty.

The door to Nasty’s room was shut when you got upstairs. You raised your hand to knock but lowered it before you could build up the nerve to bring it to the door. You weren’t quite sure what you were going to say to Nasty. You had been shocked when Andy had called Nasty out for fancying you, but now that you’d had some time to process it, you were happy. You’d always tried to bury your feelings for Nasty, thinking that he would never want to be with someone like you, but now you had a chance.

You took a deep breath and knocked on his door, determinately.

There was no answer.

You knocked a second time.

Again, silence.

“Nasty,” you called, “it’s me. Can I come in?”

For a minute you didn’t think he was going to answer but eventually you heard shuffling on the other side of the door and a few moments later, the door was opened. Nasty stood in the doorway, looking upset. He frowned and bit his lip when he looked at you.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Hey, can I come in?” you asked.

He nodded and opened the door wider, allowing you entrance. You walked in and took a seat at the foot of his bed.

He sat down next to you but left a few feet of space between the two of you. “I’m sorry,” he finally said after a minute or so of silence.

“What for?” you asked.

He shrugged and picked at a loose thread on his quilt.

“Nasty,” you said. “Nasty, look at me.”  His sad blue eyes looked away from the bed and met yours. “You don’t have to be sorry for anything.”

“Yes, I do,” he said. “I never meant for you to find out, at least like that. I ruined our friendship and I’m really sorry (Y/N).”

Nasty looked so hurt and uncomfortable and your heart ached for him. You scooted closer to him and placed your hand on top of his. “Are you kidding? You didn’t ruin anything. I, I’m so happy to hear you have feelings for me. Sure, maybe I would have rather heard it from you instead of Andy, but that doesn’t change the fact that I still feel the same way.”

Nasty’s lips curled into a small smile. “You do?” he asked cautiously. “You don’t have to say all that just because you feel bad.”

“Nasty,” you said, lifting your hand and placing it onto his cheek. You leaned forward and pressed your forehead against his. You heard him gulp and chuckled. “I’m not saying this because I feel bad for you. I like you, Nasty. I’ve liked you since I first met you. I just, I didn’t say anything because I thought you wouldn’t feel the same.”

This time Nasty smiled for real. “God, we’re stupid,” he said, rubbing his nose softly against yours. The closeness was making you dizzy, and you looked down at his lips as he spoke. “I thought you wouldn’t like me.”

You chuckled. “Idiots in love,” you murmured, before pressing your lips to his in a soft but sweet kiss.

“Whoo! Go Nasty, get it!”

“Sami, don’t encourage them!”

“I think it’s cute.”

You and Nasty broke apart to see Sami, Andy, Razzle, and a sleepy, confused-looking Michael peering around the doorway watching you.

Nasty rolled his eyes at his friends whilst you got up to close the door. You stuck your tongue out at the eavesdropping boys before shutting the door in their faces. Turning back to Nasty, you grinned.

“Now, where were we?”

[owlespresso]

Tremble, Duck and Weave / 3

months and more than 5000 words later— also on ao3. Thank you to TenkeyLess and Nightmist on ao3 for beta-ing this for me.

Your senses return to you in a sluggish crawl. First, it’s the invasive sunlight that creeps in through the window. Next, it’s the awful taste of sleep in your mouth. You groan in protest as the world drags you to wakefulness, the sheets twisting and shifting around your fidgeting form. It���s beyond tempting to roll back over and delve back into slumber, but hunger claws ravenous at your stomach, and—nearly every part of you aches.

Raubahn’s arm severs from his body, the crowd screams, the water splashes dank around your ankles. The musky sewer air burns the back of your throat as you leave your allies, your friends behind.

The sheer force of the memories rattle your eyes open, lurching into a rigid, seated position. Where is Alphinaud? Tataru? The rest of the Scions? Your gaze shoots frantically around the unfamiliar chambers, fingers fisted tight in the blankets. It’s a bedroom, that much is plain. The mattress creaks as you begin to shift, inching towards the edge of the bed. Your muscles scream in protest, drawing your gaze down to the bandages that cover your body like patchwork.

Your escape had been hard-won. Even after emerging from the sewers, you’d been accosted by a patrol of soldiers. Though you managed to defeat them with Alphinaud’s assistance…

“Ah. I see thou hast awoken,” The door creaks open. A tall, broad elezen slips nimbly into the rooms, his dark robes swishing with each coordinated motion. The pale morning sunlight casts a vibrant sheen across his waves of grey hair. His gaze is tender as it lands on you, roaming your body up and down. “Take care not to strain thyself. Thine injuries wert most severe when thou wert delivered to me. I am Urianger Augurelt, an astrologian under the employ of the Holy See.”

A quick glance out the window is all it takes to confirm it. The grand spires of Ishgard grate against the cloudy, grey sky. The dull stonework and steel that makes up most of the city seems to blend together the longer you look, your mind fogged and disoriented.

Only when he clears his throat do you snap back from your discombobulated state.

“Thank you. For helping me,” Thanking him is the least you can do, right? Still, you don’t relinquish your grip on the bunched blankets. Having something to clutch so tight helps soothe the anger and the grief. It’s an anchor to the physical while the mental is lost in a tumultuous storm of emotion.

“My condolences,” his voice is a soothing balm and sympathy renders his expression something soft. He’s beautiful, really. He cuts a sharp figure, though his imposing stature is made elegant by the gentle swish and sway of his robes, inky black cloth with gold embroidery… the transparent, veil-like mask hides the lower half of his face, and you can’t help but wonder what his lips look like. “The guards who brought thee to mine chambers gave me a brief summary of the tragedy that befell thee. Rest assured that thou art safe here.” he strides to your bedside, placing a glass of water atop the mahogany nightstand.

Not a moment passes before you’re reaching for it. Gods, how long has it been? The back of your throat is as dry as the Sagolii, sandpaper feeling soothed by the cool water you gulp so desperately.

The muscles and bones of your arms whine with dull pain, left over from the terrible injuries you’ve suffered during your escape, as vicious and unnerving as the memories which accompany them.

“It will take thee at least a fortnite to heal from thy wounds. House Fortemps hath secured thee a place in the Holy See as their ward.”

“I…” It’s all too much to process. “What about the Scions?” The conversation slows to a stop as he carefully thinks over his answer, though his silence is all you need to know the verdict. Sudden nausea churns deep in your stomach, because you know. You were there. You heard the tunnel collapse. You watched Minfilia dash in the direction of the explosion. The allies you have come to know and treasure perished for your sake.

An aching coldness sweeps over you as your body curls in on itself, crushed. Alone, you realize. Alone. The support networks and bonds you’ve built ripped from your grasp in not even a bell’s work. Darkness envelops your vision as you bury your face in your knees, sobs beginning to rattle aching lungs.

What’s the point in being the Warrior of Light if you can’t protect those who matter most to you?

A large hand settles on your shoulder, reminding you of Urianger’s hovering presence. Your throat is hoarse and slick all at the same time, tears smeared wet across your cheeks, leaving you feeling even worse. Your lips part around a pathetic little gasp, drawing a trembling breath deep into your lungs.

“I’m sorry,” you whimper and laugh all in one. “I probably don’t seem like a Warrior of Light, right now.”

“‘Tis no trouble,” Urianger insists, offering you a white kerchief. The fine fabric glistens underneath the spare rays of sun. You almost hesitate to sully it, but you wipe your face down and blow your nose in it anyways, too far gone to feign humility.

“I can only imagine the depths of thou’s grief… but know this be a safe haven. Rest here as long as thou desirest.”

“Resting is the last thing I want to do right now,” you sigh. The grief, the doubt, the ‘what if’s’ press against you like a vice. You don’t completely believe it, still. That they’re gone. A part of you thinks perhaps Y’shtola or Thancred or any of the friends you’ve made along the way will walk through the door any moment, like nothing happened. But you know that’s not going to happen. That cannot happen. It’s that grim realization that spurs you into action. Your arms howl in agony as you press your hand to the mattress, pushing yourself out of bed.

The floor is cold against your bare feet. The plush robe you’re swaddled in shifts with the sudden movement, dangling over your shoulder to—

—to gift him a glimpse of thine exposed skin. Ne’r had he thought the day would arrive when a woman paralyzed him with her body alone, yet here he sat.

The ethereal sight was snatched away before he could truly savor it. Overpowering was the temptation to beckon thee hither and plead for another showing, but nay. Surely such a woeful and pitiful display from a stranger would gain him naught. A quieter, delicate approach must needs do.

He stood from his chair, hastening to your side.

“Prithee, allow me to run thee a warm bath. Thou hast been deep in slumber since yest’rday. T’would be advisable to clean and redress thy wounds.” His gaze rested upon thee, soft and imploring. A brief silence hung in the air, during which his heart thrums so passionately in his ears, so voluminous that he might have missed thy nod of agreement had he not been so focused on thine lips. “A seamstress hand-crafted a new shirt and pair of slacks for thy to adorn, alongside the proper smallclothes.”

He grasped the pile of garments from atop the drawers that rested against the far wall, delicately handing them to you. With great delight did he notice the petiteness of your hands, his heart set aflame at the difference in size between the both of you.

With eagerness did he escort you to the bathing chambers, endeavoring to keep his mind from wandering to the expanse of skin and plane that laid beneath that loose robe.

By his hand would your bond seed and propagate.

As hesitant as you are to trust a man you’ve just met, you allow Urianger to escort you to the bathroom. He slows his pace for your sake, the brief walk giving you a glimpse at the rest of his home… or at least just one, sprawling floor comprised of—well, you don’t get a look inside any of the rooms. The number of ornate doors that line the corridor on either side speak to his wealth and status.

“Forgive me,” he says as you reach the end of the corridor. His cheeks flush light pink, touching the tips of his ears. He doesn’t even look at you as he wraps a massive hand around the brass doorknob, tugging it open. “Dost thou require assistance disrobing?”

“I’ll be fine,” you assure him with a small smile. His modesty is likely a standard among Ishgardian society, but you find it sweet regardless.

The bathroom is wide open and lavish. White tile spans across the floor. The sink is surrounded by a marble countertop and the faucet shines near gold in the pale sunlight. Tiny windows are placed up high, so even the most determined of lechers can’t catch a glimpse inside.

“Thank you, Urianger.” You can’t even begin to repay his hospitality, and while you hate to impose on him further… “I might need your help with rebandaging, though.”

“Of course,” he nods. Perhaps, after you heal and get back on your feet, you’ll be able to repay the incredible kindness he’s shown. For now, all you can do is step inside to the waiting bath. “I shall retrieve the necessary supplies while thou bathes. Take as long as thou require.”

The door clicks shut behind you, leaving you to simple silence and the thoughts that accompany it. Plush fabric slides down your skin as you disrobe, and you take care to drape it over a rack affixed to the wall. Your borrowed raiment is a deep, inky black that shimmers underneath the light, several sizes too large for you. You realize it likely comes from his own wardrobe, making it more of a relief that you didn’t simply shuck it off and let it fall to the floor.

After everything he’s done for you, you’d hate to let even a speck of dust sully it.

The process of peeling off your bandages is both sluggish and painful, but there’s a strange sense of relief that comes with letting your skin breathe. After tossing the sullied scraps into the nearby wastebin, you run the bath and allow the warm water and soap to wash over you. You’re tender still. Each brush of soap over wounded areas makes you cringe anew. The pain, however, is a welcome distraction from the thoughts and qualms that flock so readily to you.

You throw yourself into the task, losing track of time until you’ve finished. It’s with great reluctance that you climb from the warm water. The cold air surrounds you near instantly and clings like a second skin, sending an intrusive shiver down your spine.

After toweling off, you debate how much you should dress. On one hand, being close to bare in front of the man you have just met, you know if you’ll get dressed completely, he might just ask for you to disrobe again. He can’t very well treat you with clothes in the way. Nervousness briefly churns in your stomach as you opt to only tug on the undergarments.

You poke your head out the door. Much to your surprise, he’s already waiting with an armful of supplies.

“Should I come out there?”

“I can redress thy wounds wherever thou art most comfortable,” he informs you, his expression twisting with sympathy.

“In the bathroom is fine, then.” Despite the permanent Ishgardian cold, your palms sweat as you open the door, allowing him to stride inside. There’s no reason to fear or doubt his intentions. He’s been nothing but the finest of gentlemen thus far. His gaze remains affixed to the floor as he bustles inside. He carefully unloads his armful of gauze, bandages and salves onto the kitchen counter.

“I shan’t look anywhere unnecessary,” he assures you—

—And he hoped he did not lie.

Still, he cannot deny the incredible thrill that danced down his spine when his fingers brushed across thine skin. Even while injured, thou attempted to maintain a firm, resolute demeanor. Only the slightest twinge of thine expression betrayed thy agony.

The sight of thou’s bloodied visage returned to the forefront of his mind.

What kind of spectacle had thou created on the battlefield? How many foes had thou felled? Werest thou as incredible and grandiose as thy reputation had told?

Thy’s body tensed and flexed as he rubbed the soothing ointment onto thine skin. He mapped out every wondrous plane and curve. A fleeting gaze glimpsed roguely at thine softer parts, idly admiring thy incredible form as he re-layered each bandage, treatment gentle and thorough, worshipful. As devoutly as a priest expressed his undying love to Halone.

The fire that you sparked within him grew to a steady inferno, and to the Twelve he prayed thou did not notice the sheen of sweat that had coated his palms. Never had he felt such zealous passion.

Hardly a bell had passed whilst in your waking presence, and yet he was absolutely intoxicated. He was not a man, but rendered a beast, a hound, desperate for the slightest speck of attention thou might bestow upon him.

He felt a twinge of relief as he fastened—

The last piece of medical tape affixes yet another patch of gauze to your skin.

“Thank you,” you’ve lost how many times you’d said that to him since waking. “For everything. I can only hope that I’ll be able to repay you, one day.”

“While thine’s generosity is most appreciated, rest assured I have received due compensation. The Holy See ensures my coffers are well filled, but even had they not, seeing the Warrior of Light hale and hearty would have been reward enough.”

Urianger moves away, taking his warmth with him. Again, he collects the supplies he had come in with, strolling towards the door. You hastily shrug on the shirt and trousers he’s so generously provided for you, wincing with each pull of muscle until you’re warm and clothed. The garments are too big for you, but better that than too tight.

You grab the robe from the rack. The fabric is warm and insulated, and covered in a spiced scent you’ve come to recognize as his. Idly, you shrug it on before turning to the door—

He stood in the doorframe, his eyes widening as he drank in thine intoxicating visage. On thy own, thou wert stunning, but draped in his robe thou wert astronomically, impossibly ethereal. The rich fabric draped over thine form, flowing down and bunching on the floor around thine feet. The edges dragged behind you like a bride’s wedding trail.

It took several moments to jolt from his enraptured state, though the sight remained, burned deep into his mind, a lovely picture he would sooner die than forget.

Would his cologne and incense cling to thou after? For how long? How—

How long would it be until you can return to the field? The Scions are missing, not dead. You refused to believe that for the sake of your own sanity. Not until you find their bodies and could deny no further. You will not rest.

For now, though… all you can do is trail after him. He leads you into the same bedroom that you woke in, urging you to get more rest while he fixes breakfast. Had the simple process of bathing not been so draining, , you would try to assist him. Instead, you topple onto the mattress and worm underneath the blankets. The curtains are drawn, leaving the room bathed in blissful dark. Bookshelves line two of the walls, a gap between them left to make room for a desk. It’s hard to make out any other details, not when your eyelids are so traitorously heavy, not when your mind and body coalesce in their desires to corral you into an unsteady, uncomfortable sleep.

There’s no way to tell how much time passes when you wake next. The room is undisturbed, and the stillness near agitates you as you stir. Whether it’s been only fifteen minutes or several hours, you’re quite through with being still. How can you be content to waste away in sleep when there’s still so much you don’t know? When there are people who still so desperately need your help?

Even if you don’t know where the Scions reside, Raubahn is still likely imprisoned. Tataru is out there with no one to protect her. You ignore the twinges and pangs of pain that assault you when you throw your legs over the bed’s edge. If nothing else, the flare of agony helps awaken you further. The polished wooden floor is freezing against the bottoms of your feet as you amble towards the door…

Yet, a strange apprehension takes hold you you as you stand before it.

Should you really be walking around Urianger’s house alone while you’re his guest? Perhaps it’s only been fifteen minutes. Perhaps you’re disoriented and paranoid. You feel like a child who’s stayed up much too late and has to make the perilous sneak up to bed to avoid a scolding. Even after felling gods and monsters alike, it’s still social interaction and customs that worry you the most.

What would Thancred say, if he saw you so baffled by something so simple? He’d probably laugh and tease you. Maybe pat you on the back before offering genuine words of advice—maybe he’d know the ins and outs of Ishgardian etiquette thanks to some bizarre and far flung mission. You don’t know. You can’t ask him.

You don’t like being left alone with your thoughts.

That’s what pushes you to grab the doorknob and stroll into the hall, taking in the long corridor that looms ahead.

“Urianger?” You call cautiously. Steps slow, your breathing quiet as you grab the first doorknob to your left. Upon giving it a cursory twist, you discover it’s unlocked. Of course it is! He likely hasn’t expected you to snoop.

The door creaks open, revealing another bedroom. It’s similar to the guest one you have been given. The bed is perfectly made, sheets black and white, not a single crease out of place. The smell of recently burned incense makes you wrinkle your nose, curious. A desk nestles against a wall, haphazardly covered in papers and scrolls. It’s enough to pique your curiosity, but not enough to make you actually enter and investigate. That honor goes to the familiar pile of clothes nestled in one of the crannies, between the nightstand and a dresser.

Your clothes. A strange, ominous feeling sinks to your stomach as you push the door open and step inside, crossing the room in a few, deft strides. Why does he have these? The garments aren’t clean, still smattered in blood and other stains that make you grimace as you grip your shirt. You guess it makes sense. He couldn’t treat you with your filthy clothes on, after all. But seeing your garments so casually resting in a practical stranger’s home unsettles you regardless. Even worse, his bedroom.

Your glazed eyes roam the length of your ruined clothes briefly before you set them back down, folding them the way they had been. The way you back out of the bedroom is hasty, but the closing of the door is done with the delicacy and precision of a master calligrapher.

Relief relaxes you somewhat as you continue down the hall, glad you haven’t been caught red-handed. It takes a matter of minutes to find him, still in the kitchen, having just finished cooking. Breakfast is delicious, though the food settles uneasily in your stomach.

You don’t know his intentions. Had you not discovered your clothes neatly stacked away in his room. Are his intentions really pure? Had he intended to wash your garments and return them to you at a later time?

Are you any safer here than you were back in Ul’dah?

You blink, and you’re suddenly back in the banquet hall, underneath the dazzling lights and immersed in conversation with some gaudy noble you don’t even know.

The scene changes all too quickly—

A disembodied arm, the screams of innocent servers and bystanders—the way the Elder Seedseer and the Storm General saw fit to merely watch as you and your allies were chased from the banquet. They let this happen, you realize while you sit on Urianger’s couch and drink some tea.

They let this happen. After you’ve chased gods out of their homes, after you lent your aid, assisting their people with everything you have. Cold. It’s so, so cold and the breakfast in your stomach threatens to resurface because-gods, how can you ever trust anyone again? Especially those in power?

It’s Urianger’s voice that distracts you, brings you back to the surface. He returns from his study and remains at your side for the next few hours, much to your surprise. Your memory is a blur from then on. Your senses fade in and out, lost in a daze for god knows how long. Only the gentle touch of his hand on your shoulder brings you back to reality.

How long had he been speaking to you? You do your best to piece through the conversation, half lost in your thoughts and half still in the present.

Isn’t he someone important? You can’t quite recall what he said–something about working for the church, about being a healer. Doesn’t he have something else to do? You imagine the Holy See needs all the help you can get with the ongoing war—but you don’t question him.

Conversation is slow and steady. Only every now and then does he ask questions, things that are easy to answer–

“From where dost thou hail?” “Was breakfast to thine liking?” “Would thou likest more tea? Another blend, perhaps?”

Calm, casual, yet you do not miss the looks he sends you when he thinks you are not aware. Something changes in his expression, the quiet, thoughtful calm touching a shade darker. Those keen, gold glances make your spine stiffen, your body curling in on itself, taking shelter in the robe he so kindly gifted you. The afternoon slopes by, time passing quicker once he grants you access to his incredible library.

The immense shelves line the walls and cluster around a single wooden table in rows. After grabbing an index of fairytales, you tuck yourself into a seat and mindlessly draw your gaze across the pages, taking in the immense detail put into each drawing.

It’s easy to lose track of time. By the time you finish combing through your chosen book, you realize the sunlight is darkened, the day beginning to come to a close.

Your legs cry out and cramp as you push away from the table, the chair’s legs scraping against the hard wood floor.

The hallways of Urianger’s home are lit by several floating orbs of light. They flounce through the air, casting the hall into patterns of warm glow and dim shadows.

You can pass through them without trouble–they part and shape around your body, making room for you to pass. A sudden jolt of stomach that gnaws your stomach prevents you from investigating the lights. Ah, you had missed lunch. Further, you venture, keeping an ear out for footsteps, breathing, any words said–

“Urianger, my good fellow! Too long has it been since we last saw each other!” A broad, familiar voice reaches your ears and draws you forward. You grasp a doorknob and pull it open to reveal the living room,the same as you left it bells prior. The front door on the far side of the room clicks shut behind Haurchefant de Fortemps’s tall, striking form. He’s abandoned the platemail and armor you’re so accustomed to seeing him in, instead donning a thick jacket, black pants and knee-high boots. A plaid scarf is bundled around his neck, checkered blue and white.

Haurchefant brightens at the sight of you, blue eyes widening, lips curling into the widest of smiles. He bustles past Urianger, arms outstretched to receive you.

“Oh, my friend! How glad I am to see you safe and sound.” His voice lowers to a soothing rumble as he wraps you in an embrace, swaddling you in decadent warmth. He’s soft and warm and alive, someone you actually know and can rely on in terrible, turbulent times. The tension dissolves from your body as you lean forward, slumping into his arms. “When I heard of what happened, I feared the worst. I would have stormed through the gates of Ul’dah myself had I not heard of your escape and timely arrival.”

His cheek nuzzles against your temple. There aren’t words to describe your relief, so you settle for curling your fingers into the back of his coat, tears burning at the corners of your eyes.

No, no. You will not cry again. Yda wouldn’t want you to cry.

Regardless, the tears break free and smudge against the fabric of his coat.

“After dinner, we’ll bring you home–back to Fortemps manor. My father and brothers are incredibly excited to meet you.” He pulls back, but keeps you within arms reach, a large hand perching on your shoulder whilst the other idles at your side. Had it been any other day, you would have flustered at his closeness, but now you feel hot shame well up within you. He shouldn’t have to see you like this–not when he praises you as the realm’s greatest warrior, not when he sings your praises as though you’re immortal.

Upon sight of your teary expression, he freezes. The smile on his face dims, expression contorting in the deepest sympathy. That’s what does it, your mind and body cracking like an egg as a sob breaks free from your chapped lips.

“Oh, do not look at me so,” he shepherds you close to his chest a second time, rocking you gently back and forth. His sweater smells like a warm hearth. The faint scent of chocolate clings to the thick fabric, bringing you back to Camp Dragonhead, to a place softer and simpler. “A smile better suits a hero.”

“I… shall begin preparations for thine dinner,” Urianger says awkwardly from the corner of the room. In the middle of the your emotions breaking free, you quite forgot his presence.

“Ah, as much as I appreciate your magnanimity, that will not be necessary.” You can hear the regret in Haurchefant’s voice. “I will gladly set some time aside for us to fraternize at a later date. However, I came with the intent to bring her to the manor. We already have a room prepared, you see.”

“I see’st,” There’s a tension to Urianger’s voice, like he wants to object, but he offers no argument, no refusal. He says your name softly, breathing out a tender sigh. “I left thine belongings in the guest bedroom. Permit me to retrieve–”

“No!” You break away from Haurchefant’s hold, voice impassioned, “I can get them myself.” Despite your injuries, you’re not made of glass. This constant state of inaction leaves you feeling worthless, helpless, even though you’re not. You’ve felled countless gods! You can weather the pain, you can do something as simple as climb the stairs to get your own damn belongings.

“As thou wishest.” Urianger nods, and Haurchefant allows you to fully break from his embrace to journey back into the hallway. You fumble in the dark of the guest bedroom until you find your staff and the bag of items you had on your person during the battle, minus… your old clothes. Before you leave, you cast off the robe Urianger so generally lent you, immediately missing its warmth. Perhaps you’d have taken a last indulgent sniff of it, but the sight that greeted you in his bedroom haunts you.

You want to get out of this place as soon as possible. Maybe the fresh air will help clear your head and relax you.

You shrug the bag’s strap over your shoulder, thanking the Twelve that at least one part of you was left uninjured. You don’t linger, ambling out of the room, journeying back down the corridor, coming to a stop before the living room door.

“I would prefer it if thou left her in my care for the time being. The nature of her injuries is severe. T’would be most advised to keep her close to a professional–” Urianger’s voice is imploring yet hesitant, as though smothering pure fervent passion.

“It is quite fortunate that House Fortemps has some of Ishgard’s best chirurgeons under their employ, then,” Haurchefant cuts him off, steadfast and assured. He leaves little room for argument. You’ve never heard him cut someone off so abruptly. “Pardon my assumption, but you seem quite flustered, my friend. Is there a reason she should be left exclusively under your care?”

“My simple wish is to see mine task doled to by the Holy See through to fullest completion, tis all,” Urianger dismisses him.

“Then on behalf of the Holy See, as a member of the Heavens Ward, allow me to assure you that this will have no effect on your standing nor your pay. Archbishop Aymeric was notified of my intentions and approved them.” A pause. The creaking of the floorboards underneath someone’s feet. “It’s unlike you to be so emotionally transparent, my friend. You usually covet your feelings like a dragon hoards its treasure.”

“Thou art jumping to conclusions in your theatrics, lord Haurchefant.”

“If that’s the case, then, I so humbly beg your forgiveness and thank you for your service. Your… attentiveness to my lady has been noticed. And appropriately appreciated.” There’s a sharpness underneath Haurchefant’s typically airy voice that you’ve never quite heard from him.

...You don’t want to hear it anymore.

You grasp and twist the doorknob, the living room falling silent as you enter.

“There you are! Come along, come along,” Haurchefant wastes no time in bustling over to you. “Allow me to take that. You’ll bear no such burden while I am at your side.” He tugs on the strap of your bag and you submit, allowing him to throw it over his shoulder. “You should also take my coat, tis cold without,” in an admittedly impressive juggling act, he both keeps grip on your belongings and shrugs off his jacket at the same time, handing you the heavy, soft garment.

“Are you sure?” you hold it up and eye it with a raised eyebrow, before looking to him.

“Of course. I have long adjusted to Ishgard’s admittedly inhospitable climate, whereas you have just arrived. The walk is short. I’ll be perfectly fine.” He’s wearing long sleeves, so you don’t push it. Instead, you slide into the coat, taking in the warm, soft fabric and enjoying the scent that clings to it. The heart and the home, warm hot chocolate prepared upon your arrival to Camp Dragonhead.

The sleeves cover your hands by a long shot and the entire garment is big enough for you to wear it as a dress. The weight of it, and how much it covers is comforting.

Comforting to the point where you don’t allow yourself to bat an eye as he wraps an arm around you, pulling you close to his body. You don’t want to read into his actions, don’t want to think about anything you overheard. Even the notion of having something else to worry about and lose sleep over nearly makes you break down all over again.

You say your last thanks to Urianger and promise to visit him. It’s the least you can do after he was kind enough to heal you. Perhaps he was being paid to do so, but you don’t imagine cooking breakfast was a part of his job. Nor was it his job to make you tea and fetch you new clothes, new shoes, most like.

A cold gust of air greets you as soon as Haurchefant opens the front door. The light has long died, leaving the street lamps to illuminate the grand avenues of Ishgard’s upper class district. This is your first look at the city’s interior, you realize. Your gaze draws over the grand buildings, taking in their steepness and structure. It’s grim, but beautiful. Deadset and stiff in its design but stable and confident in the face of the tragedy it regularly endures.

There is no moon, tonight, as though it too has decided to hide away with its own grief.

---

He apologized to you as he tread upstairs. He apologized to Minfilia, to the vast pantheon of gods and goddesses, to the Scions, to all those he hadn’t been able to aid in their time of need.

Urianger’s exhaustion burned him raw. He was not privy to the framing and ambush of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. However, that doesn’t alleviate him of his guilt and grief. Having thou so politely dropped into his lap by the newly appointed Archbishop had granted him brief succor. Knowing he had the chance to help the survivors of the incident was a soothing balm to the wound.

He had not anticipated the way he had grown so instantly attached. Neither had he anticipated the fervent desire that gripped him, nor the way his blood boiled when that rapscallion barged into his home and stole you away.

The guest bedroom did not bear your scent as he hoped it would.

He felt as though a hostage in his own body as he navigated to the bed, gaze fixed upon the robe thou hadst cast so generously onto the sheets. A mere piece of thee to tide him over until he saw thou next. The mattress bounced as he fell upon it, face shoved into the plushness of the garment, taking in a deep breath. His cock throbbed at the scent of you, blood rushing down whilst he parted his robes with a trembling hand.

Like a howling, braying beast did he rock his hips. The friction was painful without oil, but pain mattered precious little when he craved thou so. Moans rattled from his weary lungs, his mind corrupted with images of thee, so decadent underneath him.

Thy nails, digging into his shoulder as thou let thy voice ring free–crying and sobbing and begging for benediction by his hand, by his cock. That mattress creaked as he worked himself to completion, a final cry freeing itself from his parted lips as he spilled sticky and hot onto the robe.

He collapsed to the side, hot shame washing over him as he lifted his gaze to the window, contemplating a moonless sky.

[specialpatientedna]

This isn’t canon to my RP blog, but I thought I’d share a dark fanfic AU I’ve been working on for a retelling of Edna & Harvey: The Breakout. NOTE: this is only the first chapter and it’s not finished yet.

Outside, two children were playing. One, a shy and mostly quiet boy who often read books, kept a butterfly collection, collected stamps, but most of all, loved to follow the rules and do as he was told. The other was a girl no more than eight years old, who on the other hand, seemed to have a disdain for authority and rules, often finding ways to stir up mischief for the day. She played with firecrackers, smashed up her toys, tinkered with sharp objects, skipped school, blew up frogs in her backyard she’d catch, wandered abandoned buildings late at night while her father slept, but what really fascinated her, was fire.

The young girl loved to watch the flames dance around and crackle, it’s light so beautiful, bright, and hypnotic, consuming whatever it burned, the flames so full of life. She loved to burn wood, books, insects, toenail clippings, blades of grass, action figures, broken chair legs, leaves, trash cans, jars of old marmalade, broken old toys, scraps of clothing, marbles, bushes, almost anything within her reach. The girl wasn’t sure why or how she came to have this morbid fascination with fire, she just knew it was always there.

And so were those ugly and impulsive urges buried deep inside the back of her head that would worm it’s way up, turning into intrusive thoughts.

“Children! Dinner is ready!” a voice called from inside the house.

“Awww! But it’s too early dad!” the girl whined.

And she was just about to win at a game of marbles too. The boy stood up from the ground, picked up his bag of marbles, and ran up ahead, playfully laughing.

“Race you first!”

The girl brushed stray blades of grass and dirt from her skirt, picked up her half of the marbles that were left on the ground, grabbed her blue ragdoll rabbit she called Harvey, and began walking up the porch towards the backdoor.

“Oh boy!, oh boy!, oh boy! I can’t wait for the dessert Mattis will serve! All the cake! All the ice cream! And cookies! Yummy! Heehee!” an unusual and hyperactive voice giggled.

The girl’s violet eyes gazed at her ragdoll. There it was again, the voice that spoke through her rabbit. She smiled and hugged it close to her chest, it’s warm terrycloth feeling comforting. As a small child she always talked with her ragdoll rabbit Harvey, confiding in it whenever she needed to, seeking comfort when her father was busy working late night shifts again. One day when she was five years old, she was surprised to find her ragdoll had spoken back, greeting her cheerfully as if they had always known each other. The young girl felt she and Harvey were destined to be great friends, and they had remained close friends ever since. Laughing, playing, talking to one another, stirring up mischief together, cracking jokes, finding amusing ways to make her father swear, and, lighting fires.

The young girl opened the sliding glass door and stepped inside for dinner, gently shutting it closed behind her. The girl’s father, Mattis, had prepared an early dinner to welcome the boy and his father, Marcel, in their neighborhood, having just recently moved in. The girl took her seat, served her plate of food, and began to dig into her potato salad and sausage. Mattis and Marcel were busily blabbing about boring grown up topics the girl couldn’t be bothered to listen to, and the young boy was eagerly eating his sausages. The girl started to feel uneasy with a strange feeling in her gut, and a bizarre sense of deja vu.

“Hey! Edna! Alfred’s pretty boring, huh?” Harvey snickered as he sat in the young girl’s lap. “Shhh!” Edna shushed the ragdoll rabbit, glaring at him.

“Be quiet Harv, you know dad can’t see us talking, he’ll think I’m a loon.” “Sorry Edna...” Harvey apologized.

Alfred, Marcel, and Mattis looked up from their meal and stared at Edna with concern. Edna awkwardly stared back before her eyes slowly gazed over to her dinner plate again and she resumed eating her meal.

She felt like she was going to be sick.

Alfred, Marcel and Mattis went back to chatting away, but Edna could barely touch her food. She tried to listen in on the parent’s conversation but she couldn’t focus well. Their voices felt so distant, so far away.

“Hehehe! Edna!, Edna!, Edna! Look at this!” Harvey exclaimed in twisted delight.

Edna froze in her seat, but felt her arm slowly raise up over her head. When did she hold a glass of water? She didn’t remember grabbing it. Edna struggled to put it down, trying not to spill it all over Alfred.

“Harvey! PLEASE!” Edna angrily shouted, but it was too late.

It happened so fast. Her hand, as if being puppeted, attempted to pour the water all over Alfred, but spilled it all over her head and clothes instead. Everyone was now staring at her blankly.

“Is your daughter….always so maladjusted?” Dr. Marcel whispered.

“I’m so sorry for her behavior Dr. Marcel. Edna, go to your room.” Mattis scolded her sternly.

“But it wasn’t my fault!” Edna protested.

“Edna, I’m sorry, but I have to do this.”

Mattis reached in a cabinet, grabbing a bottle of prescription medicine. The label was marked as Chlorpromazine, for Edna Konrad.

Edna felt so humiliated, angry, and scared all at once as she tried hard to fight it, crying, shouting, struggling in her father’s tight grip as he grabbed her by the arm, forcing her to take her medicine before sending her off to her room. And then the world was spinning, pulling her away from consciousness.

She woke up in a cold sweat as her eyes opened in darkness. Gently, she pulled a thin white sheet off her and sat up. Where was she? What did these nightmares mean? Why was she in a locked bedroom in a hospital bed?

She wearily rubbed her eyes. Everything felt so confusing and disorienting. She moved her hand and felt around her bed before feeling a familiar soft material. Touching it, she picked it up, who turned out to be her ragdoll rabbit. At least she still had Harvey to get her through these awful nights. Edna softly stroked his blue terrycloth fur while humming to herself before she lied down in bed covering herself with her thin sheet, shifted into a comfortable position, and went back to sleep.

***********

Edna awoke at 5 AM the next morning to a needle rudely stuck in her arm as the nurse began drawing blood and taking samples, looking over test sheets and paperwork on her clipboard. Edna hadn’t slept well the night before and had dark circles under her eyes, her long violet hair an even bigger mess more than usual, those nightmares and odd visions plaguing her and still fresh on her mind. The nurse smiled sweetly, a genuine smile and turned to face her.

“Good morning Edna, how are you feeling today?” nurse Gretchen asked kindly.

Edna sat up in bed, clutching Harvey by the ears and hugged her knees. She didn’t look up at the nurse, but mumbled something the nurse couldn’t hear.

“It’s alright dear, we all have our bad days.” nurse Gretchen gently told Edna, soothing her like a mother would to her child.

Edna kept hugging her knees, rocking in her bed quietly, but turning to face the nurse, would slowly glance up at Gretchen now and then with one eye, still rocking herself holding on to Harvey with a tight grip. When she was finished getting Edna’s blood sample, nurse Gretchen cleaned and bandaged the wound, tending to it carefully. It reminded Edna of when she was a child and she scraped her knee after a kid pushed her at the playground, her mother Helene patching it up. The memory always felt comforting even though her mother vanished from her and Mattis’s life years ago when she was just five years old. Gretchen leaned against the wall and sighed.

“You know, I can’t even begin to imagine how you really feel. Losing your parents like that.. It must have been so awful for you, and so young. Eight years old..” the nurse murmured.

Edna stopped rocking. Still she spoke nothing, but she studied the nurse carefully with her eyes, moving her long violet locks of hair out of her face. She wanted to speak up, to say something, but she couldn’t find it in her to. Nurse Gretchen moved away from the wall and placed a hand on Edna’s head, gently rubbing the girl in comfort like she was her own daughter, if she had one.

Changing the subject to something more lighter, Gretchen said “Dr. Marcel will be seeing you in two hours, so try and get ready, okay? He’ll be taking you and the other patients to the cafeteria for breakfast. It’s free choice day, I know how much you like that. I’ll be on my way now dearie.”

Nurse Gretchen gathered her medical equipment and strolled out the room, shutting the door behind her, and Edna heard the lock click.

If anyone looked at her right now, they’d see Edna smiled for the first time in years.

***********

[woodelf68]

Trust

For the @sifkiweek2019  prompt “Ties”.  Bondage, pwp, set pre-Thor. (AND HEY, MAYBE IT’S AN AU WHERE THINGS DIDN’T GO ALL PEAR-SHAPED.) Rated E, 5098 words.  On AO3

********

“Do you trust me?”

Loki’s breath ghosted against her neck, his lips brushing her skin.

“Depends on the context.” Sif cradled his head, her fingers buried in his night-dark hair. “With my life? Yes. The truth of your words? Not always.”

Loki laughed, and pulled back slightly, conjuring three strips of green cloth to hand and showing them to her. “I would have you at my mercy tonight. Bound and blindfolded for my pleasure.” He brushed his nose against her cheek. “And for yours,” he promised, his voice soft and silky.

Sif felt her insides clench immediately, a deep throb of arousal that said yes before she could even think about it. She had no problem with the blindfold; they’d made love often enough in darkness, and she knew every inch of his body intimately by touch alone. But -- she wouldn’t be able to touch him, not with her hands bound. Wouldn’t be able to run her hands over his body, wouldn’t be able to feel the hard muscles moving easily beneath his skin, wouldn’t be able to bury her hands in his hair and urge his mouth down to wherever she wanted it. She wouldn’t be able to roll him onto his back and sink down upon him, her thighs straddling his lean hips, wouldn’t be able to control their pace or position or do anything except lie there and take whatever pleasure he deigned to give her. It went against her very nature, her need to be in control, but perhaps because of that, the idea thrilled her. Because, to answer his question, she did.

“I trust you,” she said, covering his hand with her own, feeling the silky scraps of fabric beneath her fingers, and  was rewarded by the smile which blazed across his face.

“Brave Sif,” he praised. “Lovely Sif.” He kissed her hungrily, letting the ties fall to the bedside table as he pushed her back onto the bed. It wasn’t until they were both naked some time later that he picked them back up, trailing them across her breasts and belly while she jerked up beneath him. “Shh, easy...” He let the strips fall between her legs, drew them up slowly while she squirmed at the teasing touch.

“Loki...” She was already wet and ready for him, and she feasted her eyes on him, on the sculpted cheekbones and strong jaw, the defined muscles of his chest and belly, the jut of his hipbones, his cock already standing up hard and erect between his legs. He was beautiful, and he was hers, as much as she was his, and that knowledge never failed to excite her.

He took one of her wrists, and looped the tie around it, Sif letting him draw it over her head and secure it to one of the bedposts. He repeated his actions with her other wrist, and she tested her bonds. They were snug but not uncomfortably tight, and she nodded when she saw him watching her with a questioning look on his face.

“They’re fine,” she assured him.

Loki took the third strip and placed it gently over her eyes, Sif lifting her head for him so he could wrap it around and tie it slightly off to the side, so that the knot of fabric wasn’t pressing into the back of her head when she laid it back down onto the pillow.

Her world went dark.  For a couple of minutes he left her like that, long enough for Sif to become aware of the sound of her breathing, fast with anticipation, to feel the vulnerability of her position, exposed and open, for her fingers to clench around her bonds, already fighting the urge to reach for him.   “Loki -- “

Long, cool fingers feathered across her hipbones, grounded her. They moved up, slowly, splayed across her ribs, molded themselves to her breasts. Sif jerked as his thumbs grazed across her nipples. rubbing up over them with a slow, steady repetitive motion as he kneaded her breasts. She arched her back, pressing up into him, her hips twisting on the bed as sensation rioted through her, feeling his cock brush against her belly. “Loki.”

“Hmm?” He tugged at her nipples, hard and swollen, and her hips tried again to push up beneath his weight.

“Talk to me.” His silence was unsettling, and if she couldn’t see him, then she wanted to hear his voice.

He chuckled. “Usually you’re telling me to shut up.”

“Only when you’re being annoying.”  

“What am I being now?” He plumped up her breasts, gave a twist to one nipple after another, and she moaned, undulating beneath him.  She looked glorious, her dark hair spilling across his pillow, her whole body straining up towards him.

“Good. Very good.”

“Are you sure you want me to talk? Or would you rather I find a better use for my mouth?’ He shifted forward, stretching out over her, and opened his mouth against her breast, suckling at her like a babe, and Sif keened desperately, her legs parting to allow him to settle between them, her one leg hooking around his, her foot rubbing up and down his leg,  He couldn’t help rocking forward, groaning in pleasure as his cock slid through her wet folds.

“Yes, like that,” Sif encouraged, and made an aborted movement to reach down towards him, forgetting for a moment that she couldn’t. She curled her fingers tightly around her bonds in frustration and tilted her hips in invitation instead. “Do it again.” He obliged, and began thrusting against her in short strokes, bumping against her clit at the top of each stroke before skidding away again. She felt her body tightening with the breathless, just-out-of-reach sensation of impending climax. “Loki,” she begged.

He glanced up, and the look on her face was enough that he was forced to reach down and squeeze the base of his cock tightly until he felt himself draw back from the edge. “Already?” Still holding his cock, he deliberately rubbed the tip against her clit, light and grazing, and she bucked hard, what he could see of her face flushed with desire. “What if I don’t want you to come yet?”

“Let me come and then fill me up with your cock and take your own pleasure,” she urged, squirming beneath him.

“i was intending this to last rather longer,” he admitted, stroking one hand along her leg.

“Think you I cannot rouse you again?” she challenged. “Take me now and I will suck you back to hardness soon enough.”

Her words sent a jolt of sensation straight through him. “Truly you have a filthy mouth, Sif,” he said, his voice a little rough. “Just one of your many charms.” He shifted her legs up onto his shoulders, exposing her further to his gaze, and smiled though she could not see it. “I should make you wait, but I’m inclined to reward such plain speaking and such a kind offer.” And he leaned in, dragging his tongue through her musky wetness until he could close his lips around the swollen nub at the top of her cleft and he sucked.

Sif’s mouth opened on a soundless scream, her thighs tightening about his head. He didn’t let up, sucking and lapping his tongue against her until her body spasmed, her heels digging into his back as her climax seized her, and still he kept going until she pushed him away with her legs and a gasp.

“Stop! Too much! I...” She drew a deep breath as his mouth left her, but had no time to relax as a moment later she felt the head of his cock against her entrance and he thrust in with one long, smooth stroke, seating himself fully, his belly against hers.

Loki’s breath caught as her body clenched hard around him, again and again, trying to milk an orgasm out of him that he wasn’t yet ready to give. Braced above her on his forearms, he squeezed his eyes shut and scrabbled for control, breathing harshly through his mouth, finding it as the aftershocks of her orgasm slowly eased up, lessening in intensity and coming further apart. Sif rocked her hips against him, urging him to move, and cautiously he began to thrust, drinking in the look of sated bliss on her face.

“You feel so good,” she murmured. “So thick and hard, so deep inside me.”

“Good.” Loki began to thrust with more force, rocking her back on the mattress. “Because I am far from done with you, Sif. You will take everything I have to give you this night and then you will beg me for even more.”

Sif thought of being bound and blindfolded for the entire night, nothing but a vessel to be used for Loki’s pleasure, and gave a full body shudder. She knew better than to say she wouldn’t beg for him, for she’d long since learned that it would be a futile fight, although always an enjoyable one when she wanted to make him work for her surrender. She grunted and clutched at the headboard with her bound hands as she was rocked back again, harder, and pictured in her mind the long, sinewy lines of his body stretched out above her, muscles bunching and flexing, his black hair falling around his face, his expression one of fixed concentration,  and she deliberately tightened her insides around him.

“Give it to me, then, Loki,” she urged. “Come for me and fill me up with your seed.” Loki made a small sound, and his rhythm stuttered. “Have you ever thought about it?” she crooned, picking up on it and pitching her voice low and husky. “Thought about your seed taking root and me swelling with your child? Everyone who looked at me would know. They would know that Sif, Goddess of War, deemed Loki Odinson worthy of fathering her child. You and you alone.”

Loki came with a shout, so sudden and so hard that his vision whited out for a moment as his body jerked and spasmed and he spilled inside her.

Sif felt the hot splash of his seed and wished she could see his face, wished she could touch him, stroke him and ease him down from his high. “That’s it,” she murmured instead with approval as he collapsed atop her, his breath hot against her neck and his breathing loud and ragged as his chest rose and fell, heaving, against her own. She tightened herself around him again to milk him dry, and heard him whimper as she felt his cock give another twitch inside her. “That’s my good boy.” He twitched again, and she grinned. Bound she might be, she thought with satisfaction, but she was far from helpless. If she could not touch him with her hands, she still had her words, and she had learned from the best on how to wield them well. “Are you sure that you would not like to free just one of my hands?” she wheedled, however, deciding it was worth the attempt. “I could touch you, stroke you.”

Loki gave a lazy hum, nuzzling against her breast as his body relaxed boneless and heavy in the wake of his pleasure. “I will deny myself the pleasure for a while yet, my lady. Unless you are uncomfortable?” He glanced up, concern in his eyes.

Sif sighed, tightening and then relaxing her shoulder muscles. “Not enough to matter.” She brought her foot up to rub along his leg again, glad that he had not tied her ankles and enjoying the feel of his weight upon her.

Loki laid his head back down again, although he shifted slightly to the side after another minute. His cock slid free, and he reached down to drag his fingers through the slippery mess that spilled out of her with its removal and held them up to her mouth, her nostrils flaring and her lips parting even before he said anything. “Suck,” he said gently.

Sif obediently drew his fingers into her mouth and sucked them clean without protest, well used to the taste of their mingled fluids.

“What you said. Is that something you want?” He pulled his fingers out of her mouth. “A child?” Uncertainty laced his voice. “My child?”

Sif had once thought she would never want any children. To be tied to hearth and home, when the battlefield called to her? Nay, such a life was not for her. But she had seen Loki surprisingly comfortable with Volstagg’s children, amusing both the babes and the older ones with fanciful illusions, the pleasure on their faces reflected on his, and she had seen how he gave them his full attention when they talked to him, and she had had the thought that he would be a good father. And then her brain had treacherously supplied the image of Loki curled up in a chair with a book, a black-haired babe nestled in the crook of his free arm, of a toddler learning to walk from his arms to hers, of a child with his magic sparking at their fingertips or her love of arms, and she had wondered if such might be possible after all. Men did not stop being warriors when they became fathers, why must it be any different for her? There would be a little while, certainly, when she would have to give up fighting lest the babe be injured, but...

“I think,” she said, her voice a bit wobbly, “That if we are going to have this conversation now, then I need to be able to see your face.”

Loki propped himself up on his elbows, looking down at her, and then carefully shifted her blindfold up so that she could see.

Sif blinked, the warm candlelight bright after the darkness, and focused on Loki, sweaty and naked and beautiful, gazing at her with an open, vulnerable expression that he belatedly tried to close off and guard. “It depends,” she said, watching him closely.  “Would you expect me to give up fighting and stay home all the time to raise a child?’

He thought for a minute, then shook his head.  “Nay, I know better than to seek to cage you, Sif. I would not ask you to stop fighting; it is as much a part of you as magic is to me. Although I would hope you would be more careful of yourself if we had a child to raise. But -- “ he smiled. “One of the benefits of being a prince is that there is a whole palace full of staff at one’s disposal. Thor and I had nursemaids to look after us when Mother was busy with her other duties as queen, and we could use the same. And I am sure Mother would not mind helping out and spending  some time with a grandchild when one of us cannot be there.”

Sif felt a strange sort of warmth flutter deep in her belly. “Well, then, while I am in no hurry to become a mother, perhaps one day, in the future, I would not be averse to having a child. Your child. If it was something that you would want.”

A soft look of wonderment spread out over Loki’s face and he splayed his hand out over her flat belly, a lump forming in his throat. “I think that I would, yes.” He leaned down and pressed his lips to her skin, reverently, and then a bright smile illuminated his face. “Of course,” he added lightly, “We would have to get married first. I would not have our children be born bastards.”

Sif swallowed hard. “Oh, of course,” she agreed, trying for the same casual tone of voice. “But -- this isn’t you proposing to me now, is it? Because if so, it’s going to be very awkward one day when our children ask for the story of how their father proposed.”

“Hm, ‘She was naked and tied up to my bed’ is perhaps a bit more information than I would want to share with my offspring,” he agreed wryly. “Or Norns forbid, my mother. I wouldn’t be able to look her in the face. Perhaps  we could consider this the promise of a future proposal, instead?” He ran his fingers down along her arm, unable to stop grinning. Children, he thought. More than one.  A boy and a girl might be nice, at least to start.

Sif relaxed, happy with the compromise. The idea of having Loki for her own for the rest of her life was a pleasant daydream, but she was not entirely sure she was ready to undertake such a major life change just yet. Not just the commitment, but even if he wasn’t the crown prince -- thank the Norns, she wanted none of the responsibilities of being queen one day -- she knew there would be certain things expected of her as a princess that she didn’t have to deal with now. “A promise, then, for the future.” She drew her knee up, bracketing his body on one side.

“Mm. Speaking of which, I believe you promised me something.” He pulled the blindfold back down and shifted up, straddling her chest. “Open your mouth,” he said softly, taking his cock in hand and brushing it gently over her lips.

He hadn’t bothered to clean either of them up yet, and Sif breathed in the pungent scent of sex, felt the velvety soft skin of the head of his cock. She parted her lips, allowing him to push inside, feeling aware of being, for the first time, truly at his mercy. She had no say in how deep he went, could not wrap a hand around the base of his cock or hold his hips still or even pull her head back the way she could if she were on her knees. Could not even speak, with her mouth full and stretched wide. She had to trust him not too push too deep, not to gag her. And she did, but she still felt the thrill of being powerless rush through her in a way that made her body begin to come to life again.

He’d pulled his foreskin back, and she swirled her tongue over the sculpted head of his cock, sucking him clean, tasting salty seed and smoky musk, the mixed flavours of their bodies. He was not yet hard again, but he was no longer quite soft, either, and it didn’t take long, as she sucked and licked at the encircling ridge and that spot beneath the crown that drew forth those soft sounds from him that she so loved, before she felt him stiffening and growing heavier upon her tongue. She smirked around him, fully enjoying this particular aspect of her lover. Having spent years surrounded by male warriors who rarely bothered to filter their words around her, she knew well enough that most men could not rouse again quite so soon after their climaxes.

“I strive to be better than most men,” Loki had said loftily, smirking, when she had brought it up the first time that they had made it to a bed with the luxury of time and the guarantee of uninterrupted privacy, after, instead of their, to that point, furtive coupling around the palace and its environs. Her galloping heart had finally calmed down, and she was just thinking she might be able to soon move her pleasantly lax limbs when Loki had rolled off his back onto his side and began nuzzling at her. She’d shifted to face him, running a hand over his hair and down his back as she’d pushed a thigh between his legs, and he’d hummed contentedly, lazily rocking into the pressure, and she’d been surprised to feel his cock stirring against her with renewed interest.

“Are you using magic?” she had asked curiously after he’d replied, more than willing to start again as she’d reached down to wrap her hand about him, liking the way his lashes fluttered shut in pleasure.

“No!” he had protested at once. “At least, I’m not using any spells or anything like that. But I suppose it is possible that my having magic might make my recovery time less,” he had said, thoughtfully considering the matter. “It is not something that I’ve conducted any research on. You’d have to ask some other male mages.”

“Shall I ask your father, then?” she had teased, Odin being the first male mage of any great power that she had thought of. Loki had looked horrified.

“I think not.”

“I could ask your mother instead,” she had mused. Loki had looked even more horrified.

“No! Promise me, Sif, swear to me that you will not ask her any such thing. I’d never be able to look her in the eye again.”

Sif had hummed thoughtfully. She had thought that she might be able, if she truly wanted, to delicately phrase such a question to Frigga, but then she thought about what having such knowledge would mean that next time that she was summoned before the king and she had shuddered. “I won’t; I promise. Forget your mother, I could never look your father in the eye if I knew anything about his sex life.”

Loki’s face had twisted in distaste, and he’d whined piteously. “Don’t make me think about my parents having sex, Sif, you’re ruining the mood.”

Sif had taken him firmly in hand, stroking to forestall any such thing happening, and grinned. “How do you think you got here, ninny?”

“Knowing something happened centuries ago and thinking about it now are two very different things,” he’d retorted.

Her mouth full of Loki’s rapidly swelling cock, Sif grinned at the memory and tongued at his slit, chasing more of his taste, then lifted her head a little, more than able to take more of him into her, and hummed with approval as his hand slipped beneath the back of her neck, offering some support.

“So good. Feels so good,” he murmured approvingly, thumb caressing the side of her neck. He braced above her, holding himself perfectly still, eyes half closed in pleasure as she sucked and worked her tongue over the head of his cock, muscles tense with fighting the urge to thrust, knowing how she would feel swallowing around him.

“Balls next,” he said breathlessly, moaning as her cheeks hollowed tighter around him, as if in protest, as he pulled free of her mouth, his cock fully hard and swollen and glistening with her saliva.

Sif hungrily mouthed at his balls as she felt them brush her lips, trying to get more of those sounds, every little noise he made, every hitch in his breath, amplified by the darkness behind the blindfold. She felt his balls shifting in their sack as she placed wet, sucking kisses against them, using tongue and lips as Loki panted above her and finally, carefully sucked one fully into her mouth.

Loki let out a deep groan, sounding desperate and wrecked, and Sif liked it. She hummed around him and his fingers tightened briefly on her neck before he drew his hand away. 

“Enough, Sif, let me go, I --” 

Sif opened her mouth and let him slide out. 

Loki slithered down her body, need suddenly urgent. “Part your legs, sweetheart.” He ran a hand up the inside of her thigh and they fell apart for him. “That’s it, good, you’re so perfect -- “  He could see that she was still more than wet enough from their previous coupling, and he gathered up some of the slick to coat his cock before positioning himself at her entrance and thrusting home, burying himself to the hilt in one long stroke.

Sif sucked in her breath, reflexively tightening around him, and got another sound out of Loki. “Good?’

“Oh yes. Very.”  He half-closed his eyes, taking a moment to simply enjoy being held snug and warm inside of her body and to regather the threads of his fraying control.  “You look so beautiful like this, Sif,” he praised. “All spread out and open for me. I should tie you up like this some other time, but with your legs apart, too. And I’d put a plug in you, and a nice thick false cock for you to clench around, and I’d make you come with just my magic.” He began an easy, steady thrusting that he knew he could keep up for a while.

Sif swallowed, hard, and squirmed beneath him. “Oh?” she said faintly, the image already painted on her retinas, of Loki sprawled nearby on a chair, smirking, his magic playing over her body.

“And jeweled clamps on your nipples, I think,” he said thoughtfully, shifting his angle, rocking a bit more upwards and judging he’d hit his mark by the way she arched into him, chasing more pressure.

“What colour jewels?” She knew the answer but wanted to hear it.

“Green, of course.  And gold chains connecting them, and maybe one going down to your clit. You’d be clad in my colours and nothing else. And every shift of your body would tug at the chains, pinching and pulling at you without me ever having to lift a finger.” He tweaked one of her nipples in example.

Sif jerked, her nipples stiffly sensitive just from hearing his words alone, his voice a low, seductive purr. New wetness gushed out to ease his passage even more.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He lowered his body upon hers, belly to belly and chest to chest, rolling his hips in a sinuous, lazy motion. He rested his weight upon his elbows and placed his mouth against her ear. “Will you let me do that, Sif? Could you take it, only my magic touching you, teasing you? How long could you last, I wonder?”

“No blindfold,” she said, rocking up into him, seeking more friction against her pubis. He felt good inside her, hard and solid, but it wasn’t enough to make her come. Although if he kept talking like this... “And I want you naked as well,” she added boldly. “Or at least your cock out, and I want to see you touching yourself  at the same time.”

Loki’s rhythm stuttered. “Agreed,” he said quickly, and picked up his pace, his hips snapping forward. Her legs came up to lock around his waist and keep him close and oh yes, that was good, and he decided that he didn’t want to try to draw this out for as long as possible, he wanted the sweet ecstasy of release again, and to find quiet rest in Sif’s arms afterwards. “Tell me what you want, Sif, tell me what you need,” he urged.

“Kiss me,” Sif panted, his cock hitting her just right now, and hungrily plundered his mouth when his lips slanted against hers. She felt his hands bury themselves in her hair, his nose brushing against hers, and he kept moving, his cock driving hard and fast within her, over and over and over...

“Touch me,” she gasped, arching to press her breasts against the firm, solid planes of his chest. “My clit. Please.”

She felt the fingers of his right hand twist, but otherwise it stayed where it was. Yet suddenly it was like a phantom thumb was rubbing inexorably over her clit, that light, brushing graze that made it harden and swell into the contact and start throbbing. She twisted and writhed beneath him, lowering her legs because she needed to brace her feet on the mattress. She was close, so close --

Sif screamed as a sharp stab of pleasure triggered her release, her hips arching high as she came around him, pulling another lovely sound from his throat as she clamped down hard on his cock, the muscles in her neck straining as she seized and released around him.

“Sif, Sif, Sif,” Loki chanted, feeling his balls draw up tight and aching, and thrust as deeply as he could, his orgasm starting at the base of his spine and spreading out to engulf him before it exploded out through his cock. He cried out and buried his face against her neck as his seed spurted forcefully within her, his cock jerking a few more times in lesser aftershocks until he sagged, a great wave of relaxation and exhaustion sweeping through in the wake of his release. He retained just enough presence of mind to make a gesture that caused the ties around Sif’s wrists slither apart and fall off before he collapsed at her side, utterly spent.

Sif reached up and dragged her blindfold off, then sat up and pushed an unresistant Loki over onto his back. “Clean us up?” she requested. 

His fingers twitched again without him even bothering to open his eyes, and the wet, sticky mess disappeared from their lower bodies. “Best trick ever,” Sif said with satisfaction, brushing his hair back from his face before following him down, draping herself over him with her head pillowed on his chest and one arm wrapped securely around him. She pressed her lips to the firm swell of muscle, breathing in deeply of his scent, before sighing contentedly and letting her eyes fall closed.  

They lay in a non-demanding silence for a while, Loki lifting a hand to rest across her back, thumb occasionally moving in an idle caress, but lacking the energy to do more than that. Finally he stretched languorously. “Well, that was intense.” He began to play with the ends of her hair. 

“It was.” Sif turned her head and kissed his chest again, bringing her hand up to smooth appreciatively over his skin and lightly circle his nipple with her fingertips, the bud tightening under her ministrations. “You do realise, however, that I will demand the chance to tie you up and have my way with you before I allow you to do it to me again.”

“Will you?” He couldn’t help sounding a little breathless at the thought. 

“I will. You do trust me, don’t you?”

He chuckled at that. “Sif, you had my balls in your mouth. I don’t know a way to tell you that I trust you completely any better than that.”

Sif grinned. “Well, I wouldn’t want to damage my future husband.”

Warmth unfurled in his chest at the reminder, a deep, giddy sense of happiness. “I am more fun fully functional.”

Sif laughed, and wondered if this was how you knew you’d found the right person to spend the rest of your life with. When you found not only pleasure in bed with them, but love and trust and laughter. She looked forward to finding out. 

[hello-imasalesman]

Can we please be blessed with headcannons of a pining Arthur? He’s such a soft boah 💕

Arthur puts pencil to paper and every time, the results don’t come out the way they’re supposed to. It’s not that he’s never seen something in his head and have it come out different on the page— that’s nearly every time, that’s what drawing was, trying to sketch his best approximation. But everything that’s coming out is wrong, a disconnect between his hands and his brain. The horses’ legs are crooked, the flowers look flat, the landscapes are lopsided. 

“You’ve had your nose in that thing for ages,” Marston calls, too close, behind his head. Arthur startles, perched on a covered crate in front of the fire, though he doesn’t close the journal in time, not before John’s gotten a good look. “Who’s that supposed to be, anyway?”

Arthur huffs in annoyance. “Trying to draw you, actually.”

He’s drawn John, Hosea, Dutch and even Grimshaw more times than he can count. They’ve been together so long, their faces are familiar, even when he’s not staring at them like he usually does when he sketches. But on this page, Marston looks lopsided and uneven, his brows furrowed and his scars lost to the smear of lead. 

“What the fuck, Arthur.” John responds first with anger, and then almost barks out a laugh as he leans over him to look closer at the page. “You made me look like Bill.”

Arthur shakes his head, pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to swallow a peal of laughter that threatens to escape down. “What?”

Sketch-John has a stern countenance, though with Arthur’s current inability to draw, its less stern than sour, like a child trying to act tough. His eyes are uneven, too. Arthur idly tries to correct it as John looks on, but it just makes sketch-John look like he has one black eye, his pencil scratching uselessly against the page.

“Yeah, yeah.” He tries to lean over, press a finger to the page, but Arthur’s sitting up and leaning away from Marston before he can smudge a greasy finger on it. “I ain’t that ugly and my beard don’t look like that.”

“What beard?” Arthur snaps his journal closed, looking over his shoulder at Marston’s frown. “You can grow one of those? I thought that shit on your face was from the dog.”

“I could say the same of you!” John shouts, unsuccessfully, because Arthur is staring at him with raised eyebrows and an amused smirk that’s just-visible beneath the mustache that’s in a sore need of a trim, before the hairs curl over and into his mouth. He doesn’t have to say anything, barely gets out a giggle before John’s hands are thrown up into the air, “Look, I don’t have to deal with this.” And he stomps off with Arthur’s laughter at his back. He keeps that sketch, at least. Will probably tear it out and leave it on John’s pillow, when he finds the time, just to antagonize him a bit; all in good fun, until Dutch tells him to play nice because his favorite son is cussing and stomping around instead of choring.

But still— as amusing as the doodle is, Arthur can’t draw. Or, at least, nothing is coming out well in his eyes. It’s been weeks now. Flat and lifeless, crooked lines. Between hauling bags of grain, he crouches next to the chicken coop, watches the birds scratch at the ground. He sketches one of the chickens, and then aggressively scribbles over it when the texture of the feathers looks, too on-the-nose, like chicken scratch.

“What’re you drawing?”

Kieran asks like he’s been rehearsing the simple sentence in his head for too long, and still, his voice cracks at the end as Arthur fixes him with a look over his shoulder. He always forgets how tall Kieran is until he’s sitting somewhere in Kieran’s vicinity, and he has to look up to meet his eye. He doesn’t carry his height well, perpetually slouching, unless he’s dealing with the horses. Then he has to draw himself up, if only to get them to behave.

“Nothing.” Arthur admits with a grumble, because it feels like he’s been drawing nothing over the past few days, just series of lines and shapes that don’t connect together into anything tangible. Kieran’s smile goes uneasy, baring his teeth with uncertainty as he takes a step back and away from Arthur. 

“Sorry to bother—“

“No, no, it’s fine.” Arthur rushes to clarify; he hadn’t realized his tone had been rough enough to have sent the other man almost scurrying off. Kieran flinches, stands and stares at his hands. “Frustrated with myself, is all. Nothing’s coming out right.” He hesitates, for a moment, before he turns and moves in closer, so that Kieran can see. His eyes go a little wide, glancing up towards Arthur’s face before he looks at the proffered journal.

“It all looks real fine to me.” Kieran says, almost sweetly, hesitantly flipping back to a previous page. Makes something in Arthur’s gut twist. “I- I think you’re being hard on yourself, is all. I could never get anything to look like that.” He taps below one of the sketches of the horses, careful not to actually touch it, “That’s a real nice one. Nell?”

“Yeah,” Arthur confirms, huffing out a chuckle. “Stands still long enough to sketch. Just like Uncle, actually.”

Kieran laughs, genuine, the corners of his eyes creasing, tucking strands of hair behind his ears. Arthur laughs, too, even if it’s not the funniest thing he’s ever said, but its infectious when he hears it from him. “It’s true,” Kieran says, “Oh, he can be real awful, even if he’s a sweet horse. Always rolls around in the dirt after I brush him through...”

Arthur flips through his journal, showing Kieran a past page of Uncle in various states of sleep around camp, his face an exaggerated, comical caricature, drool from his lips. Kieran laughs again, hides his mouth behind his knuckles pressed against his lips, setting the edge of his teeth against the cracked, rough skin there.

Kieran’s always busy working. Arthur is, too, even if Dutch don’t see it, browbeating him whenever he lingers too long in camp, the moments in-between where Arthur catches his breath. He stays for a day or two, at the cusp of outstaying his welcome, then heads off; hunting, carriage theft, house robberies, whichever the road takes him towards. Keeps his hands occupied with violence instead, hoping once he’s sufficiently wrought enough destruction he can create something again.

Camp pulls him back, like it always does; he cleans before he returns, for Grimshaw’s sake, but ice cold river water can’t rinse off the dark shiner he’s sporting before he rides into camp and leaves his horse in the pasture. He has to walk through camp to reach the stewpot, loading up the cleanest bowl he can find with Pearson’s pottage. By the time he’s finished eating standing  next to the fire, spitting the most inedible bits of gristle to the ground, someone’s left a salve by his cot. A metal tin promising pain relief, among a long list of other cures, the label blurred under the oils of nervous fingers ceaselessly worrying the paper. Arthur rolls it over in his hands. Mulls over who gave it to him as he smears the thick lotion around his eye, under his shirt and the deep bruises across his ribs. The greasiness sticks to his fingers, and is an easy excuse to blame when he settles back into his cot that night and his pencil slides uselessly over the pages, and it snaps in half between his fingers.

The next morning, Kieran leaves him another gift when he tacks up Arthur’s warhorse, tucked into his saddlebags. Arthur doesn’t notice the two pencils wrapped carefully in a scrap of fabric, pre-sharpened, until he’s nearly in New Hanover.

Arthur returns a week later with he sun at his back, his shiner healed. He doesn’t draw attention to himself when he makes his way to the tithing box, pulling a stack of cash and two watches from his satchel. He has a necklace, too, delicate and brilliant glass beads, but he puts that back into his satchel when it comes out tangled with the watches; that’s for Tilly.

With the sun setting, there’s precious few hours of light left in the day, though they’re longer and longer with each sunrise. Arthur hates the heat that clings to his brow, but loves the hours of daylight summer brings. Sweating oneself dry was a small price to pay for more hours in the day. But they’re running thin, the sun disappearing in a fireball beyond the water’s horizon; Arthur has only a few minutes to find Kieran. He wasn’t in the pasture when he dismounted his horse; he’s not at the scout campfire, either, and Arthur’s hands feel sweaty in his gloves. He almost misses him, on his second walk through the camp; near the chicken coop once more, sitting beneath the large tree there, quietly smoking in its roots.

“Kieran.”

Kieran looks flushed, the ember of the cigarette throwing his face into stark shadows. His eyes shift upward as he stubs it out against the bark. “Arthur?”

“‘Fore the sun sets,” Arthur starts, trying to calmly stress his limits, the strange feeling that their time was quickly waning. It doesn’t make much sense; Arthur could always show him tomorrow. But there’s an urgency that’s gripping his lungs, as he reaches for his satchel, “Look.”

Kieran stands, using the tree as support for his wobbly legs. Arthur opens his journal, paging to the ribbon holding his place.

He has to rotate his journal, and Kieran pulls in close, looking over his shoulder. It’s hard lines in some spots and soft smudges in others, thumbs and knuckles used, the side of his pencil washing shades of grey. The soft shadows mottled underneath Kieran’s eyes, purple and blue, somehow rendered perfectly in the soft smudge of lead across the page. The greasy knots of his hair. Kieran’s smile, crooked and easy. It’s all there.

“Oh.” Kieran clutches at Arthur’s sleeve, where he’s rolled it up to the elbows, in the folds of fabric there. Buries his fingers in and scrunches his grasp in tight. “Oh. Arthur, I—“

He sounds almost on the edge of tears, maybe. Or some other emotion swirling thick in the back of his throat. The sun slips slowly beyond the trees, the clouds drifting fat overhead speeding up the pace of darkness falling over Clemen’s Point. The campfire has been allowed to dwindle down further than it should, and it barely casts any light towards where they stand behind the coop and the shadows of the trees. Kieran steps forward and Arthur steps back, lets him box him up against the rough bark of the big oak before he grasps Arthur by the front of his dress shirt and kisses him. Kieran tastes like tobacco, mostly, when he parts his lips to let Arthur lick into his mouth, suck on his bottom lip until Kieran whines and his knees buckle against Arthur’s legs. When they part, Arthur’s eyes opening, it’s almost too dark to see Kieran’s smile, the redness splotching across his cheeks. Another picture to sketch, another page in his journal.

[littlemisssquiggles]

RWBY Squiggle Script #21: The Fox and the Farm Boy

Picture it.

The Anima Farmlands near the Kingdom of Mistral. The Past.

 A seven-year-old Oscar Pine, with his head held low and his face a perfect canvas of anxiety, walks across the front lawn of his home as he slowly made his way to the single barn shed housed on his mother’s property.

It is the aftermath of a squabble. Given that he was frankly the only boy around his age  in a small cul-de-sac populated by farm folk with mostly daughters, Oscar was rather popular with the girls his age who constantly made it a habit to eagerly encourage him to come play with them. Whether he liked to or not.

On this particular day, one of the neighbourhood little girls had tried to force Oscar to come play. Her name was Amber Potts---named for her striking golden eyes and equally golden blonde curls. However, around the block, Amber was known by another name by most of the neighbourhood kids: Big Am. 

At age eight, Big Am was a juggernaut; feared by most of the other kids. All with the exception of Rosaline Fox, who Big Am specifically disliked the most due to her burning jealously of her close friendship with Oscar.

Big Am was also notorious for having the biggest crush on Oscar with her pursuit of him being relentless. Today was no different. While playing out in the fields near Oscar’s home, Big Am interrupted Rose and Oscar’s playtime. She showed up with a matching pair of bigger boys claiming to be her older twin cousins from out of town; demanding that Oscar come play tag with Amber instead of Rose.

When Oscar refused, Big Am got surprisingly rough with the young farm boy. She suddenly grabbed Oscar by the arm and started painfully tugging him away with her twin cousins even chiming in to help her pull Oscar along when she barked at them to give her a hand. Let’s say that even her older cousins were intimidated by Big Am and her bratty demeanour.

This led to Rose immediately intervening, pushing Big Am off a distressed-looking Oscar; practically in tears from the pain in his arm. The next thing anyone knew, Big Am tackles Rose and both girls wound up on the grass tussling about. There was lots of screaming, hair pulling and slapping. All the while, Oscar is doing his best to stop the fighting along with Amber’s cousins who tried pulling her off of Rose as she began cuffing her shoulder violently.

At some point, Big Am even pushed Rose against a sharp piece of stone that left a harsh graze along Rose’s arm. This made Rose furious and in her feral rage; the Faunus girl bites Big Am in the midst of her aiming another slap to her while she was down.

This move took Big Am completely off guard. The bigger girl shrieked loudly as she recoiled, clutching her hand that was now bleeding profusely from the deep bite marks embedded in her skin.

Oscar stared horrified as drops of Amber’s blood stained the grass at her feet; the sound of her pained crying echoing throughout the lonely fields as her cousins made a fuss over her. One of them even turned on Rose aggressively while she was still seething from her savage outburst.

If it weren’t for Dorothy Pine intervening after hearing all the commotion, the situation could’ve gotten far grimmer. 

As Oscar entered the shed, he is greeted to the sight of an eight-year-old Rosaline Fox seated on a bed of hay where she had been patiently waiting for him to return from speaking with his mom. 

Though Dorothy had done a fine job patching Rose up, the Faunus girl appeared peeved as she nipped at the bandages wrapped securely around her arm. Normally Oscar would have laughed at his best friend’s flair for mischief and silliness like this. That day was begrudgingly NOT one of those days; unfortunately.

Young Rose: *chewing on her bandages* I think your mom tied this way too tight. I hate bandages! They’re the worse! So…itchy…and…annoying!

Rose smiled big and toothy as she finally succeeded in untying the knot on her bandages. Now the dressing slowly unravelled along her arm.

Young Oscar: *cautiously* Rose, you really shouldn’t take that off. You were hurt!

Young Rose: *nonchalantly* What? It’s fine. It’s just a scratch. See?

To prove her point, Rose removed her bandages entirely to show Oscar the scrap on her arm. Despite a couple blots of dried blood, the wound more or less seemed harmless.

Young Rose: *confidently* Nothing to worry about.

Rose flashed Oscar another toothy smile. However, to her surprise, her best friend didn’t return her cheery optimism. Instead Oscar stood hugging his arm quietly with his back hunched and his gaze far; appearing smaller than usual. This was a classic Oscar Pine stance that Rose knew all too well meant he was distraught about something he wasn’t telling her. Taking the farm boy’s hand, Rose gently guided him over to sit next to her on the haystack.

Young Rose: *concernedly* Hey, what’s wrong with you? Why so blue?

Oscar’s lip quivered.

Young Oscar: *uneasily* I…my mom…got a call from Amber’s dad. Said he was pretty mad about what happened. About what you did to Amber ---

Young Rose: *incredulously* What I did! She’s the one who was bullying you! I was just trying to help! Did you tell your mom that part?

Young Oscar: *nervously* I did but…Amber’s dad is still really, really mad. You know how his family feels about…you and…your kind of people.

Young Rose: *scoffs indignantly* Oh yeah? Which part still bugs him about me the most? The part where I’m a Faunus or the part where my human mom married a Faunus and had his lil beast baby?

Young Oscar: You’re not a beast, Rose.

Young Rose: Not according to Mr. Potts. Y’know he tries to hide his disgust but one of the great things about being a Faunus is my great hearing. Comes in handy when picking up all the nasty things people say about you and your family behind your back when they’re supposed to be your friendly neighbours.

Oscar’s expression drops apologetically.

Young Oscar: *disappointedly* Rose I…I’m so sorry. Mom did her best but…she still says Mr. Potts is going to talk to your mom about...you.

Rose frowns before shrugging indifferently.  

Young Rose: *nonchalantly* Well of course he’d talk to Mama instead of Papa. Story of my life, right? Now it was Oscar’s turn to frown.

Young Oscar: Rose, can you please take this seriously! You hurt Amber.

Young Rose: *huffily* Why? I didn’t do it on purpose! You know how I get when I get really mad like that. It’s not exactly something I can really control. It just…happens. My dad calls it ‘feral instincts’. It’s a fox Faunus thing, you wouldn’t understand. Besides, I did it for you, Oscar!

Young Oscar: *snappily; voice rising* Which is why you should NEVER EVER do that again! NOT EVEN FOR ME!

Rose’s eyes widened at Oscar’s sudden outburst; staring at him taken aback by his words.

Young Rose: …Oscar…

Rose started by Oscar shook his head interrupting her.

Young Oscar: *insistently* Promise me you’d NEVER hurt anyone like that again, Rose! Promise? PROMISE!

Young Rose: *caving* Okay, okay, I promise.

Oscar a shaky breath. Rose eyed him with a confused expression.

Young Rose: *cautiously*…Oscar…are you alright? How’s your arm? Is it hurting? Are you in pain?

Young Oscar: *irritably* How could you be thinking about my arm! That’s not important right now!

Young Rose: *crossly* Hey no need to bite my head off!  I just want to know if everything’s okay.

Young Oscar: *distressed* No it’s NOT! EVERYTHING IS NOT OKAY!

Oscar buried his face in his hands and it was then when Rose noticed his shoulders shaking. Rose’s shuddered a breath of guilt. As before, she also knew what this classic Oscar posture meant. As the Fox girl gently lifted the farm boy’s hunched form; her instincts were proven correct as she removed Oscar’s hands from his face to reveal the fresh tears of frustration pooling from his eyes in streams that stained his flushed puffy cheeks.

Young Oscar: *sobbing*This…this is all my fault! None of this would’ve happened to you if it wasn’t for me. I should’ve done something. I should’ve helped you stop Amber. I should’ve defended you! I should’ve fought for you but… I did nothing! I always do nothing! I’m so useless! I---I’m nothing but a big cry-baby that can’t do anything!

Rose shook her head; cupping Oscar’s teary cheeks as she looked him dead in the face.

Young Rose: *firmly* NOT TRUE! Oscar, listen to me. Those kids---Big Am and her stupid dunderhead cousins---they’re the real jerks and you know it. You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re wonderful and you know that. I know it too.

Young Oscar: *sniffling* I---I…am?

Young Rose: *smiles reassuringly* Yes. Don’t worry about it. You don’t have to fight.

Young Oscar: …I... don’t?

Young Rose: *confidently* Nope. Because I’ll protect you! Always.

Young Oscar: *doubtfully* But…don’t you wish I was…tougher?

Rose tilted her head, looking confused.

Young Rose: Why would I? We’re the dynamic duo, remember? I’m the scrappy one and you’re the sweet one. Besides I like you just the way you are, Oscar.

Oscar’s eyes widen.

Young Oscar: R--Really?

Young Rose: *grins toothily* Uh huh!

Young Oscar: Well…

A soft grin played at Oscar’s lips as he beamed at Rose.

Young Oscar: *smiles softly* I like Rose just the way she is too.

Rose returns the gesture; smiling big and toothy as she clapped Oscar on the back. Though he wore a smile, Oscar’s positivity didn’t last long as his expression fell again with him looking away tensely.

Young Oscar: *worriedly* Hey Rose? What if…what if we end up fighting someday? What if…I end up doing something or saying something really stupid and you get mad at me and then we stop being friends and…and---

Young Rose: *resolutely* NEVER gonna happen.

For a second time, Rose touched Oscar’s face prompting him to look at her.

Young Rose: You’d never do anything to hurt me Oscar. I trust you. Besides you know I don’t like seeing you cry so I’ll never make you cry. I’ll never hurt you Oscar. Ever.

Young Oscar: Promise?

Young Rose: Promise.

Rose reaches over and wipes a tear off Oscar’s flushed cheeks. A big smile of appreciation cracks across the freckled farm boy’s face. The two friends even share a small hug before Rose ruined the moment by rocking backward onto the hay. Rose laughed out loudly as she took Oscar plummeting into the hay with her; strands scattering all around them.

Oscar only blew a couple strands of hay in Rose’s face, joining her with raucous laughter of his own. There was a momentary period of mischief as the two childhood friends played together in the hay. After a while, their playfulness dissolved into quiet contentment as both kids settled down, now lying side by side close to each other. Rose turned her head to the side to smile at Oscar.

Young Rose: Hey Oscar?

Oscar tilted his head to meet Rose’s beaming face.

Young Oscar: Yeah?

Rose’s smile widened.

Young Rose: You're my very best friend.

Now Oscar smiled.

Young Oscar: And you're mine too Rose.

Rose then scooted close enough to Oscar so that their foreheads were touching. Despite his cheeks turning pink from the sudden close contact, Oscar couldn’t help but close his eyes with a comfortable sigh. Rose mimicked her gesture.

Young Rose: *whispering softly* We'll always be friends, won't we?

Young Oscar: *whispers back* Yeah, we're going to be best friends forever.

When a curious Dorothy Pine entered into the barn shed moments later with an anxious Marian Fox in tow, both mothers were graced with the sight of their children nuzzled next to each other; foreheads still touching closely as the best friends slept soundly with their hands intertwined.

Neither mother had the heart to wake them. So instead Dorothy and Marian exchanged warm smiles with Dorothy beckoning Marian outside. Quietly the mothers left Rose and Oscar in peace.

A few more minutes alone wouldn’t hurt, right? After all, what kind of mothers would Dorothy and Marian be to disturb such an adorable tender moment in their children’s friendship.

If only this moment could be savoured for a life time. If only Oscar and Rose could’ve kept their promise to one another. Best friends forever? Sure at the time, it seemed like the perfect possible wish befitting of any small simple soul that age with an air of hopeful optimism. If only things could’ve remained the same between the two childhood friends as it always did. As it always was and how it always should’ve been.

However; as a wise old soul once remarked: Time has a way of testing our bonds.

And scene.

Squiggly Scriptwriter’s Commentary:

Another Rose Fox themed script in the bag with another one to come. This was originally meant to part of a much bigger script. However I decided to split the script into two parts with the first installment sharing a memory from Oscar’s past with Rose; to provide you readers with an insight into the nature of their friendship as children. Plus I wanted a fine excuse to make a reference to The Fox and the Hound with Rose and Oscar.

In a way, they are like Copper and Todd. Two kids from two species known for their disputes who formed an unbreakable close friendship that, unbeknownst to them, would transcend years to come. Yep that sounds like Rose and Oscar for sure. Besides, pay close attention to Fox and the Hound inspiration. It’ll definitely come more into play in the next half of this script. Coming soon. 

In the meanwhile, hope you liked the new script.

Other Rose Fox Squiggle Scripts:

- His Two Favourite Roses

~ More Squiggles’ RWBY Content

 ~LittleMissSquiggles (2019)

[spiritprojectbook]

Chapter One

AN: First posted on Patreon with minimal editing. Hope you enjoy!

“I’m not doing it.”

Lily Pershing stared at the tab with a blue, round symbol on the bottom of her computer’s screen. Hovering in the upper left corner of the little box was an orange notification - a circle with the number 37 in it. It racked up a few more digits with a cheery beep.

“I’m not doing it,” she said again.

“You’re gonna have to,” her companion said. Lily turned and glared up at the hovering being behind her. He had the general shape and face of a person, except that his skin burned like something molten and he had a long, wispy tail instead of legs. What passed for his hair curled and wavered like a flame in slow motion. 

“You can’t make me,” Lily said. She jabbed a finger at her laptop’s screen. “I am not responding just to get yelled at.”

“Lily, you’ve already turned off your phone,” the being said, with the worn patience of an adult explaining a child’s punishment to them for the hundredth time. “Everyone’s probably panicking. The least you can do is talk to him.”

Lily grumbled a curse, but after a moment she moved the mouse to the blue icon. It hovered there for a long, long moment. Lily dragged her hand down her face and hit the button. She was immediately greeted with a long string of all-caps messages.

WHERE ARE YOU

GET ON HERE RIGHT NOW

TURN YOUR PHONE BACK ON

So on and so forth.

“Countdown to him calling me?” Lily side-eyed the being, who was now at her shoulder.

“Five,” he said.

“Four,” Lily said.

“Three.”

“Two.”

Both of them jumped at the shrill ring anyway. A black box with a white phone popped up in the middle of the screen. Lily inhaled and hit “answer”.

“Hello?” she said pleasantly.

“LILLIAN,” was the response.

Lily flinched and hastily turned down the volume. “Jesus. Hi.”

The boy on the other end of the video call was bristling all over. Even his sandy-colored hair was threatening to stand up on end. He swiped at his bangs until they were out of his eyes and scowled at the camera with all the fury a twiggy teenager like him could muster. Lily tried not to smile out of nerves.

“Where are you?!” the boy shouted. “Why did you leave that note? What does it mean?”

“What do you think it meant?” Lily said. “I was pretty clear when I wrote it.”

“Your parents are freaking out right now!” the boy continued on, as if she hadn’t said anything. “Ms. Merry was just sitting there with a white face! Your dad was yelling at everyone! Your mother fainted!” He leaned forward hard until Lily could only see his face. “She fainted, Lillian!”

“Well, that’s one thing I guess I can mark off the bucket list,” Lily muttered. “’Make mom faint.’”

“Lily,” her companion said warningly. 

“Oh, whatever.” Lily turned and gave him a stink-eye. “Pardon me for-”

“Is he there with you?” the boy said.

“Where else would he be?” Lily said dryly, glancing back at the camera.

“Put him on right now.”

“Tell him I don’t have anything to say,” the being said. He started to float backwards.

“No, no, no.” Lily shook her forefinger. “No, you come get yelled at too. Come on.”

She scooted her chair backwards, which proved to be rather difficult without wheels, and the being hesitantly lowered himself until he was directly in front of the laptop.

“Go ahead,” Lily said, loud enough for her friend to hear her.

“Aelith, what’s the matter with you?” the boy said. “You’re supposed to be making sure she doesn’t do stupid stuff like this!”

Aelith shot Lily a stern look. He typed “sorry” and sent it.

“Did you even try to talk her out of it?”

A moment of hesitation, then Aelith typed “sorry” again. Lily rolled her eyes.

The boy groaned and buried his head in his hands. They could hear a muffled “Oh my God” as he rocked his head from side to side. Lily returned to her original position while Aelith moved out of the way.

Lily looked at the image of herself in the call. She was a pasty, rather chubby girl with an oversized pink-and-black striped sweater. Her blond bangs hung just above her eyes, shading them, making her look almost hungover, with a strand of long hair on each side draped over her shoulders, while the rest was in a bun. The tips were dyed the same shade of shocking pink as her sweater. The lighting of the laptop in the dark room made her look considerably more tired than she felt.

“If it helps, I have money,” she said. “I’ve been saving up.”

“Oh yeah, how’s that gonna help you?” The boy glared up at her. “You’re travelling around in a stolen van with a limited budget. You’ll die on the street in, what, two weeks?”

“Adam, come on, that won’t happen,” Lily said. “I’ve got everything I need.”

“To do what?” Adam snapped. “You have a suitcase and a bunch of paranormal equipment!”

“And me,” Aelith said.

“And Aelith.” Lily leaned back as well as she could in the stiff wooden chair. “And really, could you ask for anything more?”

“I could ask you to come home.” Adam was now clearly trying (and failing) to reign in his anger. “You’ve scared the daylights out of everyone. Come back and the yelling will be to a minimum.”

“I can’t do that,” Lily said quietly.

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

“No one’s going to be upset about that,” Adam said. “It’s all-“

“If you say ‘it’s in your head’ one more time, I’m shutting off the computer.”

Adam went back to bristling. “Don’t you dare.”

“Then you best keep your mouth shut,” Lily said, with a sardonic sweetness. “I may turn it off anyway. I only came on to let you know I’m alive and well.”

Adam rested his weight on one elbow, looking at the camera through half-shut eyes. “And what about your parents?”

“You can tell them I’m alright.” Lily sat forward again and folded her hands. “I’ve got money, I’ve got gas-“

“Do you even have a plan?” Adam interrupted. “Where are you going?”

“Tell him where we are,” Aelith said, hovering just above the computer. “It’s the least we can do.”

“I’m in Weed,” Lily said. “We’re, uh, we’re going to Oregon. We’re gonna travel the country and… I dunno, go find Bigfoot or something.”

She muted the call just as Adam began yelling. She couldn’t read lips, but it was very clear by the wild gesturing that he didn’t agree with her plan. Lily deactivated her own camera and grinned up at Aelith, who looked less amused.

“Turn on the sound,” he said.

“Once he’s done.” Lily turned back to the computer. Adam looked even more furious, his normally tan face almost purple. He was pointing out somewhere to his right as he slammed his fist down on his desk. Lily waited until it looked like he stopped for breath to scroll the volume up and turn the camera on.

“You don’t seem too happy,” she remarked mildly.

“Are you listening to me now?” Adam growled.

“Of course!” Lily said. “I’ve been listening the whole time.”

Adam gave her a look that, in another person, would have shriveled all bravado and left blackened scraps behind. Being used to this look, Lily just smiled.

“Look, would it make you happy if I said I’ll come back if things get too bad?” she said.

“No,” Adam said. “Because you won’t.”

“Come on, I’m not stupid-“

“You literally stole a car and drove north at the start of winter to go find Bigfoot,” Adam said.

“And left all your best jackets at home,” Aelith said.

Lily pointed up at him and said to Adam, “He’s ragging on me too, just so you know.”

“Good.” Adam crossed his arms. “If he didn’t even try to stop you, the least he can do is give you a hard time.”

“I really think you’re too tense about this,” Lily said. “I-“

“You don’t even have a plan, Lillian!” Adam cried. “You have no idea what you’re doing!”

“I just told you that we’re travelling the country.” Lily motioned with her palms downward for him to relax. “We’ve got it covered. I even bought a road atlas today.”

“That makes me so much happier,” Adam grumbled, his hands clutching at his face. “You wasted some money on a road atlas.”

“It’s a great investment if you’re travelling,” Lily said. “Look, can you tell my parents everything will be fine?”

“Why don’t you just tell them yourself?!” Adam slammed his hand down again. “Or, hey, better yet, just come back and show them how fine you are!”

“No,” Lily said, her confidence slightly fading. “I’ll… I’ll talk to them later. I promise.”

Adam muttered something and leaned back, staring up at his ceiling. Lily looked at Aelith. He had his arms crossed with a finger tapping his bicep anxiously, but he said nothing. Lily looked down again and noticed that her battery was low. She got an idea.

“Oh, shoot,” she said. “Computer’s dying. Must’ve forgotten my charger. Well! Talk to you later. Say hi to Rose and my folks!”

Adam leaped forward again. “Don’t you-“

Lily hit the power button and her computer went off with a click. She pulled down the screen and closed it with a deep sigh.

“See, this is what I get for listening to you,” she said to Aelith. “Now he’s going to call dad and have him scream at me too.”

“If you’d just turned your phone on…” Aelith said wearily.

“Calling and driving is dangerous.” Lily stood up and stretched. “Besides, I left a note explaining the whole thing, didn’t I?”

“It was a little vague, truthfully,” Aelith said. He hovered horizontally above her, his arms still crossed. “But… I suppose no matter what you said, they’d be worried. Will you at least turn it on now? Give your mother a text.”

“And get yelled at all over again?” Lily sat down on her bed. The hotel mattress was stiff as a board. “That can wait until tomorrow. Right now, I’m sleeping.”

Aelith said nothing for a while. He turned over so that he was facing the ceiling and hummed thoughtfully. Lily went into the bathroom, changed into pajamas, and returned to the bed. She struggled with the sheets, which were packed under the mattress tight enough for her to have to lift the entire thing up to get them out, and slipped between them. The pillows, at least, were soft.

This settled, she stretched for the remote and fumbled with the buttons in the dark until the TV turned on. She flicked through the channels, which were mostly static or barely-visible people sitting at a table and discussing antiques, until she found what looked to be some show about cooking. Her eyes were closed before they got to the finished dish.

“Why did you say we’re in Weed?” Aelith said after a lengthy pause.

“Why do you think I said we’re in Weed?” Lily cracked one eye open. “So they don’t come to Yreka looking for us.”

Aelith leaned his head far back, much farther than a human could, and gave her an upside-down smile. “I suppose we couldn’t have just gone up the coast and saved ourselves some time?”

“You can just shut your mouth,” Lily said good-naturedly. She yawned. “At least we got to see Sacramento.”

“All of it,” Aelith said out of the corner of his mouth. “Especially that one roundabout-”

“Oh, shut up. We got out just fine.” Lily rolled onto her side. “Now hush so I can sleep.”

“Good night, then,” Aelith said.

“Night,” Lily mumbled.

She was asleep mere moments later. Were she conscious, she would have been happy to know that she dreamed of nothing. All of her worries had to wait until the sun rose to come back to her.

[minnieyoonie]

Today, We Fight| 09

Characters: Yoongi x Jimin (Yoonmin) / feat. BTS

Ratings: Mature

Words count: 4K+

Warnings: Character’s Death, Blood, Gore, Violence, Explicit language ,smut, light fluff, heavy angst.

Summary: One peaceful night, Yoongi receives a strange phone call from his best friend that he’s been in love with since for awhile now. Only to get a bad news of some sort of weird outbreak that is currently spreading throughout their country. Despite the panic and terrifying encounters with an infected, lies a deep secret that revolves around them. A burden that they were force to carry as a child, through sufferings and their strong bond of love, they both seeks answers for the truth with nothing but their past to move forward and survive the dead world with six more friends that they could trust their life with.

Chapter Index

Everything was dark and silent – morning seem like night and night seem like morning. There's really no in between, none of which he could have known of – being trapped within nothing but four bricks of walls with no knowledge of the outside world. The only thing he could hear was the echoes of painful screams, vibrating against the soundproof walls. He sits in a corner like a ball, knees pulled against his chest with his head buried in between them – rocking his body back and forth, suppressing the shudders and fears from just being able to hear the loud screeching screams. He didn't know how and why, was he here and what's the purpose of all of this. The only thing he knows now, he was scared and alone – whimpering every time he's awake on the hard and cold concrete floors with nothing but a pants. He just wishes he could escape this hellhole – nothing about being brought here was anything of a heaven field, he should have known better, that all those promises and hope were lies, he's just a tool; a mistake. Abandoned and thrown away – unwanted and worthless, just like how he wasn't of importance of existence.

Yoongi was startled awake by a gentle nudge on his shoulder and a soft deep voice, "Yoongi hyung, wake up. -Hyung, come one."

Yoongi groaned and rubs his eyes, peaking one eye out as Taehyung's face occupied his vision. "Taehyung, what-"

Taehyung quickly clamps on Yoongi's mouth to stop him from making any noise as the person next to him shifted slightly. Taehyung glance at the sleeping figure next to Yoongi and he can't help but to smile, his heart swell with so much warmth – noticing the heavy purplish marks tittered all over Jimin's body like a tattoo. He got to admit though, Yoongi did him pretty well. Surely, his claim on his best friend was too much of an evidence to even be ignored. Taehyung felt happy despite the news he's about to break. He straightens up and cleared his throat with a set of determination in his eyes.

"we need to talk hyung. Now."

Yoongi was confused at first but soon something clicked in his brain despite being rudely awaken from his comfort warmth of home – Jimin. Yoongi nods as Taehyung went out of the room to wait for him, after Taehyung left them alone, Yoongi pulls Jimin closer to his body, hugging him tightly for a brief moment and nuzzled against his neck and kissing him softly on the cheeks. Jimin whines in his sleep as Yoongi peck him on the lips, whispering that he would be back shortly – tugging the blankets higher to keep Jimin warm as he got out of bed and headed out of the room.

Upon seeing Yoongi out of the room, Taehyung who was pacing the hallway next to the leaning Jungkook on the wall with a passive look on his face, immediately stop and beamed at him with wide eyes.

"Hyung!"

"So, did you find out anything?" Yoongi asks.

Taehyung had a troubled look on his face as if he didn't know how he should start with the news but Jungkook was ahead of him, impatiently blurting out without any hesitance.

"we did. But it wasn't much and I think you should see it for yourself. - the security here is no joke, ever since Jiminnie hyung is awake, it's like-"

"They don't want him to escape." Yoongi deadpan.

Yoongi was right for one thing – that none of this is perhaps a coincidence. Yoongi had always have this gut-wrenching feeling ever since the military brought them here. Something about this place just doesn't feel right, especially with Jimin having a coma for two months despite waking up two days after they were brought here – the military had rushed and panic, bringing along a few doctors with them and immediately injected Jimin with something Yoongi can't get his mind around it – resulting in his boyfriend's deep slumber and the fact that these people had shown actual signs of fears when Jimin had woken up, was something Yoongi is certain of that something unpleasant is happening and he's not going to let this happen to Jimin – whatever it was, they have to find out and make their escape as soon as possible. Jimin won't be save and none of them would either and Yoongi wasn't about to go through any more painful memories, just the thought of not having Jimin in his arms again, terrifies him and if this people had any plans on stopping them – he's not giving up without a fight.

"so, tell me. What did you both found in that place you're trying to show me anyway?"

Taehyung's jaw clenched and Jungkook's entire body stiffened. They glance at each other faces before looking at Yoongi dead in the eye as the air around them became tense, almost suffocating and Yoongi knows whatever it is, he's not going to like it at all.

"Bodies."

He’s startled awake by the loud rattles of keys and the sound of metal scrapping against the concrete wall with a screeching noise that causes his body to tense and shivered of what’s coming. Heavy footsteps pounded against the floor and he brace himself when a tall figure stood in front of the gate that confines him in – a wide sickening grin greeting him.

“your turn is up kiddo, c’on don’t make me drag you up your damn ass.”

He flinched at the amount of venom being spat and without any fight, he struggles to get on his feet. The injuries and bruises he had the night before, throbs painfully. Even though it was almost gone now – only faint scars but he’d still felt the dull throbs in his bones.

After what it seem like eternity, he finally manage to stand and the tall man barely waits for him to balance himself on his wobbly knees when the tall man grabbed his arm with a tight grip and yanking him forward, causing his body to stagger and falls on his knees.

“tch. Why do they even bother with weaklings like you anyway. C’on we don’t have time for this. Stand the fuck up you little brat!”

He cowers, “I’m s-sorry!”

“I don’t need your fucking apology brat! What I want is for you to fucking stand up and get this over with. Do you understand?!”

He wince and nodded silently, but suddenly he couldn’t feel his legs. Everything felt numb and even if he tries to move, he can’t. He couldn’t feel it and he felt a shiver run through his spine as a dark menacing shadow hovers above his small frame. He looks up and dark black eyes glaring daggers at him with an impatient tapping of his boots, arms crossed.

“what the fuck are you waiting for!” the tall man’s voice echoes loudly as he shouted.

“I-I can’t f-feel my l-legs” he mumbled and winces when the tall man groans.

“are you saying that, that’s my fucking problem?!”

Without thinking he instinctively nods his head and flinches when a large hand grabbed his neck and pull him up like a ragdoll. He clutches on the tall man’s wrist, struggling to get free when the tall man tighten his grip, constricting all air in his lungs.

“how fucking dare you! You’re just a fucking kid! A fucking brat and you dare to degrade me?!”

“I’m s-sorry!” he manage to choke out but the hand on his neck tighten even more.

“what? You’re sorry? You damn right you are brat. Because now I’m gonna have to teach you a lesson – a punishment that’s well suited for a piece of shit like you!”

He didn’t have any time to react when he felt his small body hit the wall and shove against the floor – a sharp pain in his abdomen and the next thing he knew chaos breaks the hellhole – siren blaring loudly, signaling a threat, orders being shouted across the hallways which then, followed by running feet echoing loudly in the building and everything else became dark as he lost consciousness.

“fuck!”  

Jimin woke up in a sweat, panting for breath. What was that all about? Jimin thought to himself. It’s just a dream. He tried to convince himself, even though his heart was beating rapidly fast. He knew it was just a bad dream but he can’t help feeling slightly disturbed by it. The dream had felt real, its like he’s there physically. Jimin closes his eyes with his hand rubbing soothing circles on his chest to calm his rapid heartbeat and inhale a deep breathe. After a couple more of deep breath, his heart finally calms down. Opening his eyes again, he notices for the first time that the room seem awfully familiar and when he reach out a hand next to him, Jimin frown, realizing that he’s alone in the room and no sign of his boyfriend. The only thing there was to indicate Yoongi’s presence was the blanket, that’s warmly curled against his body.  

Jimin wonder where he had gone to and thought that perhaps Yoongi might return soon but when he’d waited for almost half an hour for Yoongi and there’s still no sign of his boyfriend. Jimin decides to search for him, somehow feeling uneasiness starting to build up in his nerves. He got out of bed and look around the room for something to wear since he’s naked – grabbing his previous pants on the floor and Yoongi’s discarded sweater, he fixes himself and headed out of the room.

“hyung, are you sure about this? What if we got caught?”

Yoongi pauses mid-step and turn around to face Taehyung, who had a worried look on his features. He’d convince the two younger men to show him where they’d discovered the bodies and Yoongi is convince that whatever this is, he would get the answers if he could see what the two men had seen. Because Yoongi is not going to waste any more time spending to stay here if that means that their life is at stake. He's not taking any risk. He’d rather be out there with those infected’ rather than being here with humans who might just be as worse than those mind-dead creatures.

Yoongi sighs, running a hand on his face. “Tae, I know you’re scared. Hyung is scared too-“ Yoongi spoke gently, glancing at Jungkook for a brief moment, who was standing quietly next to Taehyung, his eyes staring blankly ahead of them. “-Jungkook is scared too. We all are and..” Yoongi trails off, he wasn’t good at this, wasn’t good with words and somehow he wish that Namjoon was here. Even though Yoongi was the oldest among them, Namjoon’s wisdom never fails to encourage them.

“It’s okay Tae, we have each other. We will protect one another and I’ll protect you so don’t worry.” Jungkook smiles, not really reaching his eyes when the others turn their attention to him. “it’s gonna be alright. Besides, what’s much more worst than facing a brainless walking corpse?” Jungkook laughs nervously when two pairs of eyes staring at him with a frown on their faces and he can’t help but to feel flustered about it.

"Not unless you're about to let those brainless walking corpses, eat your brains out. Dumbass." Taehyung retorted, rolling his eyes. Yoongi sighs and quickly cuts them off when he notices Jungkook's mouth open to start another snarky remark.

“right… c���on then, let’s go.”

Jimin didn't know how he got here, he'd blindly let his legs move his body along until he stops at a huge metal double door and above it, there's a sign of 'Authorize only' on it. Jimin figures he should just by pass it and walk along to another hallway on his left but something stops him. He'd heard something through those thick doors. Something awfully familiar and it creep him up a little, his entire body were engulfing with goosebumps and a shiver run down his spine when he'd reached out a hand to touch the coldness of the metal door. Jimin swallowed, debating whether he should let his curiosity overwhelm him or just ignore it and walk away to find his boyfriend instead but decide against it as he took a deep breath and push the door open.

Jimin gasped at the darkness, squinting his eyes a little to look around and soon his vision adjusts to the darkness. He walked cautiously around the room, feeling around him with both hands roaming blindly against anything that could guide him in the darkness. His fingers brushed softly against something cold and firm as he search further, his hand came across a small bump. Jimin slowly and cautiously caresses it, feeling it in his hands. He frown at it, it felt like a torchlight and when his fingers finally found a switch to it, he switch it on without a second thought.

The room suddenly became much more visible to his eyes even though the small stray of light wasn’t enough to lit the whole room but at least, he could maneuvered around more comfortably. He look around the room and somehow, finds himself in a sort of kind of laboratory of some sort, he didn’t know what to call it except for a place that you would usually conduct experiments or surgery. Everything around the room was neatly place – it seem ordinary and what caught Jimin’s attention the moment he could see better wasn’t the furniture in the room but the see-through metal door at the corner of the room, that’s barely hidden behind three rows of shelves that contains way too many chemical components.

Jimin’s curiosity perk up even more when there’s a slight rustling in the said room and a flash of shadowy figure moves in it. His entire body scream for him to get out and run but he remains rooted to the ground as if attracted by it. Slowly he took a caution step at a time, his breathing starts to quicken at the anxiety slowly building up in him. Every seconds seems like an hour or so. Jimin took a deep breaths and reached a hand out near the door and something suddenly flicker in it, making Jimin gasp out in shock, momentarily pausing in his step. His heart hammering loudly even for his ears, he swears if there’s anyone in the room with him, could probably have heard it too.

Jimin waited with bated breath of any signs or sound that could make him jump out of his skin but when the only thing that bring chills down his spine was the drawl out silence and his ragged breathing, echoing in the room, he takes it as a sign for him to move forward again, angling the torch slightly to his left and that's when he caught a sight of another hidden door to the room. Jimin would definitely questions himself for the number of doors hidden in the room if the sudden approaching sounds of footstep echoing outside the room hadn't distract his attention.

Jimin quickly glance around the room as panic starts to kick in when the footsteps and muffled voices became closer from where he is, trying to find a place to hide himself – not even daring to find out what would have happened if he'd been caught snooping around and he'd just have to prepare himself for what's to come when there's obviously one-way out of the room. Jimin's head snapped up when the door became slightly ajar and light slowly starts to seep in the room and-

They walked quietly through the narrowed hallway with Jungkook leading them along, the silence around them was too deafening and it starts to creep them out slowly. Taehyung shivered next to Yoongi, wrapping his arms around himself and finally breaking the intense silence that none of them dare to break.

"is it just me or the place just became ten times creepier than we first came here?"

"It's not just you, Tae. I felt it too." Jungkook responded, glancing behind his shoulder and smiling softly at Taehyung.

"Hyung?"

"hm?" Yoongi hummed despite his mind being a mile away from his body. Part of him was afraid of what the future would hold for them and another part of him was glad that Jimin is back in his arms. The thought of Jimin's warm smile and eyes turning to crescent, the way his lips felt against him, soft and plush, makes his insides swell with warmth.

"Hyung?"

"What?" Yoongi snap, Taehyung was staring at him worriedly and Jungkook was frowning slightly in question. Yoongi blinks, once, twice and thrice. Finally, he realized that they've stop walking and that they've reached their destination and obviously had missed whatever either one of them was saying to him.

"Are you alright, hyung?" Jungkook ask, one hand on Yoongi’s shoulder.

"I'm fine."

"but-"

"it's fine.. It's just – let's get this done quickly, I don't want to make Jimin wait any longer."

Both of his friends nodded and Taehyung gestures toward a double metal doors in front of them. Yoongi turns to face it and reaching a hand out towards the handle. Slowly he push it open, not realizing he’s holding his breath. Yoongi thought he was prepared of what’s coming when Jungkook had mention about finding bodies and he’d prepared himself for the gruesome sight of dead people or bloods or even worst – untangle flesh of limbs and rotten smells of death but then, Min Yoongi definitely wasn’t expecting the sight that welcomes him the moment he slide his head in.

Yoongi’s eyes widen a fraction, a silent gasp escaping his lips. “Ji-Jimin?”

“what?!” taehyung’s eyes widens in disbelief, he might actually heard it wrong but when he’d shoved Yoongi away and barreling through the door, he gasped. Jungkook was the one who spoke first.

“Jiminnie hyung, how did you get here?”

Jimin stood rooted to the floor. His brain going 360 degrees. He didn’t know whether he should feel relieve for not getting caught by their saviors or he should actually felt guilty for roaming around in the middle of a night that would probably causes worries for his friend but he figures the most appropriate thing to do now is to be curious as of why were they here in the first place. How they’d happened to be here to be exact. Did Yoongi leave him alone in that room to play spy or-

Suddenly Jimin felt warm engulfs his entire body, and Jimin takes a moment for his brain to register what was happening when Yoongi’s deep gravel voice spokes in a whisper against his ears.

“I didn’t leave you – I promise I wouldn’t. Its just for a short moment. I swear-“

That’s when Jimin understood. He had actually voice it aloud. Jimin smiles and hold him tighten, nuzzling against Yoongi’s neck. “it’s fine, I’m just worried.”

Yoongi pulls away slightly and kisses Jimin, just a chaste kiss on the lips and then on his forehead. Jimin sighs contentedly.

“so.. how did you get here chim?” Taehyung chides in, breaking the lovey-dovey atmosphere in the room. Jimin blinks, looking at Yoongi, Taehyung, Jungkook and then back again at Yoongi for several times before he shrug, “I was having a bad dream-“ Jimin starts, feeling Yoongi’s fingers tighten slightly on his waist. “-I woke up and notice Yoongi wasn’t there, I waited for him to come back but he didn’t.”

“I’m so sorry baby.” Jimin heard Yoongi whispered before kissing Jimin’s cheeks in apology. Jimin shakes his head and smiles up at him, hoping it would comforts Yoongi. “I figures I should look for him and the next thing I knew, I’m here.” Jimin gestures with his hands in the room. “I heard something moving in here and I was curious..”

Just when Jimin said those words, they heard guttural noises. All of them flinched. “that’s what I heard before.” Jimin mumbles under his breath, hands clutched in Yoongi’s clothes and pulling him closer. Jungkook’s gaze flickers to Yoongi, catching the older’s eye and he tilted his head slightly towards Yoongi’s back. The room beyond the closed metal door was dark and there’s nothing they could see through it despite the door having a see-through glass in the middle of it. Yoongi grabbed the torchlight Jimin was holding and before he could move towards the said door to inspect it, he felt himself being pulled back by a firm grip on the back of his hoodie. Yoongi looks back, noticing Jimin’s fear-stricken face, begging him to not go with the shake of his cotton candy hair, lips pressed in a straight line.

“hyung, we should probably ignore it. This wasn’t what we came for anyway.” Taehyung pipes up suddenly. Yoongi glance at Taehyung’s face and then at his boyfriend’s. He sighs dejectedly.

“alright. Let’s just go. – Jungkook?”

“right, follow me.” Jungkook instructs as he walked pass the metal doors and turn towards the hidden door that Jimin had found earlier before. They watch as Jungkook turns the door knob with ease and disappears through it. They follow suit, walking down the stairs – apparently that door had been a passage toward an underground basement with two hallways connected towards the other side. It was dark but Jungkook easily finds a switch and the lights above their heads turned on, brightening the room. They followed him when Jungkook took the left hallway, leading them to another open hall that fills with an opened glass window room. Each room similar with the one upstairs. Their eyes wander around the room in awe and curiosity – it feels like they were in those movies that keep hidden labs on the basement to conduct illegal research and experiments.

“here.” Jungkook suddenly halted and gesture towards a room and when they enter it, their eyes widened comically at the sight. This is what exactly Yoongi was talking about. The room they were in was like a balcony that overlooks the room below them, the only thing that separates them, were the glass panel and the sight that greets them was much worst than what Yoongi’s brain had come up with.

“holy fuck.” Yoongi breathes, pulling Jimin closer to his body and wrapping an arm around Jimin’s waist protectively.

“that’s what Taehyung and I said too when we first discover it.” Jungkook says, his voice quiet. Taehyung stood next to him with a grimace on his face, “I wonder what they were trying to do. This is much more gruesome. I feel like gagging my guts out.”

The sight  below them was a mess of bodies lump together in one corner – if you could call that bodies though. Every flesh were torn apart, limbs scattered around the room, bloods splutters around the floor and walls. What used to be sockets for the eyes, were just an empty hole. Yoongi swears he could see the remains of what’s left of it in it. Jimin suddenly gagged next to him, a hand on his mouth and Yoongi quickly snap his attention on his boyfriend, worried plastered all over his features.

“Jiminnie baby, are you alright?”

Jimin’s face became pale and sweat started forming on his forehead and soon he was crouching on the floor, his hand clutching his stomach while his other hand supports his body on the floor. Jimin never felt any more worse than he could get. His entire body felt like it's burning, his head was throbbing so painfully that his eyes shut tightly, his abdomen felt ten times worsen as if someone just pulled out his insides. The pain was so agonizingly painful that his throat started constricting his airways. Jimin cough and cough his lungs out but nothing seems to came out of him. Everything seems to whirl around him, even the ground doesn't feel as solid as he'd felt and the constant worried voices around him started to dim in and out-

"-Someone is coming!"

"Shit! We need to go-"

"Jimin? - Baby, can you hear me?"

"hyung! Come on-"

"no! - Jiminnie baby, wake up!"

Jimin could barely hear the pleading in Yoongi's voice, the desperation for him to wake up. He wanted to, but he couldn't. Every part of his body felt paralyzed. Jimin willed himself to open his eyes but failed miserably as every second, his consciousness slowly slips away, the voices that was desperate and pleading was slowly fading out of him-

"Well, well what do we have here, hm? Naughty boys roaming around without supervision, tsk. - I guess it's time for punishment, hm?"

A/N: so.. what's up with Jimin? who's the boy in the dreams? hmm, wonder what's gonna happen to them though. will they escape on the next chapter? who knows. lmao anyways thank you for reading :)

[haunting-kind-of-high]

Mirror on the Wall

Warnings: Lots of angst, crying and possible heartbreak. That’s about it.

Tag list: @musicphanpie-b, @imin-loveanon, @ordinary-chaos, @sandersandthesides, @ajumbleofwords, @demonickittykat, @zadi-jyne, @serenefreakgeek, @fandons-mangoes, @leesacrakon, @gayfagg, @tree4life25, @loverofpizzaandallthingssweet, @ilovemyspoopydad

Notes: Inspired by this post from @that-space-gay-writes. (And the addition from @tinysidestrashcaptain I hope this was angst enough (: )

Read on AO3 here

Roman hadn’t been in the common room for a few days and the other sides were starting to worry about him. Not only had they missed his presence for these past days, Thomas had a creative block and couldn’t come up with any idea for a video, short or YouTube. Roman had officially clocked out. That had never happened before.

At first, the three remaining sides had thought it would pass after a day. That Roman needed a day off, away from all the pressure his job forced onto him. But a day passed and the prince didn’t return. In fact, four days had passed. Roman had never confined himself to his room for this long. Something was wrong.

And so, on the fourth day, Patton decided to check on the creative side. He entered his room and while he did not know what to expect, this wasn’t it.

The fairy lights that usually bathed the room in light were flickering on and off, hardly giving off any light. Playbills were scattered across the floor. Some posters barely held on to the walls and others littered the ground. It was like the room had seen an apocalypse.

And in the middle of it all, sat Roman. He sat cross-legged on the floor, his head buried in his hands. Patton could see the prince’s shoulders were shaking from the muffled sobs, and he felt his heart breaking. He carefully stepped closer to the creative side and crouched in front of him. Roman hadn’t noticed the moral side yet; he was too busy with his own thoughts and his own pain.

“Roman,” Patton whispered as he placed a hand on Roman’s shoulder. The prince flinched and stiffened at the sudden touch. He almost felt embarrassed that he was caught like this and he tried to stifle his sobs.

“Roman, kiddo,” Patton tried again, “what’s going on?”

The creative side shrugged and dropped his hands to his knees, still not looking up to meet Patton’s eyes. Patton noticed Roman’s cheeks were red and blotched, and his eyes were bloodshot.

“Do you want to talk?” The prince shook his head and bit his lip, trying to stop another wave of tears from spilling. This failed, however, and a hand shot up to cover his mouth.

Patton saw this and immediately wrapped Roman in a tight embrace. One arm wrapped itself around the prince’s waist, while the other supported his head. Roman reacted by wrapping his arms around Patton, holding on to the side as tightly as possible as he broke down in this safe embrace.

Patton’s heart broke as he noticed how devastated Roman was, how much he was hurting. The creative side never showed his weaknesses or his pain, while on the inside, he was slowly falling apart. Until it became too much.

The fatherly side rubbed Roman’s back soothingly, whispering words of encouragement or singing parts of Disney songs he knew the other loved. He continued this until the other had calmed down again.

“I’m sorry,” Roman whispered hoarsely as he slowly pulled back from the hug. “I-”

“Don’t be,” Patton interrupted the prince, “there’s nothing for you to be sorry about.’

“But I-”

“No buts, there’s nothing you should be sorry about,” Patton repeated. He slowly got up and looked down at Roman. “You should go sit on the couch, I’ll get you some water, okay?”

Roman nodded, not meeting the other side’s gaze, and moved to get up while Patton headed for the kitchen. As he got a glass and filled it with water, his mind wandered to something he’d missed in Roman’s room. He had never been here before, but Patton had imagined that Roman would at least hold one mirror in his room, even if it was a handheld one. Roman was Thomas’ ego, after all. He always carried a hairbrush with him and he’d even started wearing make-up. Then why weren’t there any mirrors? It might have been just a small issue, but it was enough to make Patton think.

With these thoughts in his mind, Patton took the glass back to Roman and sat down next to him as Roman drank the liquid, his hands trembling more than they ever had before.

He sat there in silence as he waited for Roman to finish his drink. As he waited for the other side to start talking. Patton grabbed Roman’s free hand in his and softly hummed a few tunes he remembered. Finally, the prince had emptied the glass and he put it down. Roman turned his head and shot Patton a careful smile. He looked like a mess. His hair looked more like a purple bird"s nest and his face was red and tear-streaked. The bit of mascara and eyeliner he wore had left a deep black trail.

“Do you want to talk?” Patton asked, as he brushed a few strands of hair out of Roman’s face.

“What is- what is there to talk a-about?” Roman responded, looking down at his lap again.

“What happened?” Patton inquired. “Why is your room like this? Why are you crying?”

“I… don’t know,” the prince answered. Lies. He knew what happened, but he wasn’t going to tell Patton. The man had already seen him cry, that was enough weakness for today. He couldn’t tell Patton why he had broken down. He wasn’t supposed to show weaknesses anyway. He was the prince, he wasn’t supposed to be this weak. All he was supposed to be, was the romantic and cheerful type.

“Are you sure?”

Roman nodded in response.

“I’ll go get your make-up, you need to reapply that. Where do you keep your make-up and your remover?”

“I-In the bathroom, but-” Before he could finish his sentence, Patton had already left for the bathroom.

When he got there, the moral trait moved to open one of the drawers, when something caught his eye.

A deep red blanket was draped around something on the wall. Patton knew he shouldn’t, but his curiosity got the better of him and he removed the blanket. He was faced with a giant mirror. It was mostly covered in dust and a number of cracks - seemingly, someone had punched the object on multiple occasions. Patton looked at the broken mirror and his heart ached. Obviously, this was Roman’s doing. Something was going on with the creative side and no one had noticed, because he chose to hide his pain behind a façade of confidence. But surely, this did not mean that Roman was the confident, untroubled side he pretended to be. He was not as okay as he wanted the others to think. 

With difficulty, Patton managed to cover the mirror with the blanket again. Now, he only had to find the make-up and go back to his friend.

“Roman,” the moral side started as he entered the living room again, “may I ask… why did you cover your mirror?”

That was the question Roman had feared would come. He had covered up the mirror ages ago, when he got sick of seeing his own face every day. Every time he saw himself, he was reminded of what he was. A failure, a disappointment, a pretentious jerk who couldn’t do anything right. He couldn’t look at himself anymore. He’d only use his mirror when he’d apply his make-up. And that never took long; Roman had trained himself to finish his make-up as soon as possible, so he wouldn’t have to look at himself any longer than necessary.

Roman let out a soft chuckle in response to Patton’s question.

“So I don’t have to look at myself anymore,” he muttered softly.

“What do you mean with that?” Patton asked worriedly as he rushed to the couch, to sit next to the prince again.

“Exactly what I said,” Roman repeated as he felt tears threatening to spill again.

“And why would you not want to look at yourself anymore?” Patton questioned. He softly placed a hand on Roman’s shoulder in an attempt to comfort him a bit. The prince turned his head and looked at the hand as he replied:

“Why would I?”

“Because you look handsome!” the moral side said. “You look amazing! And… aren’t you the one who always brings up self-love?”

“Yeah but… that doesn’t mean I… love myself.” Roman’s voice cracked at the last word. He had told himself he would not talk to Patton about his emotions and insecurities, but with the position they were in and the words Patton had uttered, he couldn’t keep it to himself anymore. Patton embraced Roman again and rubbed circles on his backs.

“Do you want to talk about why you feel that way?” he tried softly. Roman wrapped his arms around Patton and rested his head on the fatherly side’s shoulder.

“I,” - he took a deep breath - “I just… can’t help but… feel like I’m constantly disappointing you and- and letting you down.” Patton frowned as he looked down at the man in his arms.

“Why would you-”

“I never gave Virgil a chance, I was so horrible to him, I keep distracting Thomas by thinking about his ex too much, I upset Logan, I… can’t do anything right.” Roman’s voice cracked again and he buried his face in the grey fabric of Patton’s cardigan.

“Roman, that’s not true!” Patton said incredulously. “You’re not disappointing me, or anyone else! You admitted your mistakes, right? You’ve seen what you did and you’re kinder to Virgil now. You’re trying, Ro, and that’s all you can do! You could never let me down!”

“But-”

“Never.” Roman clutched onto Patton’s shirt like it was his only hope, like he was drowning in a sea of his thoughts and Patton was the only one that could keep his head above the water. The past few days had been so hard on him. He had spent these days all alone in his room, alone with his thoughts. And as his mental state got worse, so did his room. At first, it had been a comfort to look at the posters, the playbills and the soft light of the fairy lights. But as time passed, the lights grew darker, the posters fell down and the playbills were just scraps of paper.

Patton whispered soft encouragements and compliments in Roman’s ear as he tried to calm the other down. They sat like that for a while, until Roman’s sobbing had ceased and he felt like he was void of all liquid. Patton reluctantly released the prince from his embrace and left the room to bring him another glass of water. He wanted to help the other so badly. Seeing him this… broken, it hurt. It hurt him so much. And he wanted to do anything he could to help, but he didn’t know how he could help. Compliments don’t make someone love themselves. Funny comments and references don’t magically make one feel better. And not permanently. Encouraging words didn’t clear one’s mind. All he could do was talk to Roman and take care of him until he felt better, but Patton wanted to do so much more. He wanted to take away all and every pain the prince felt. Every troubling thought he’d ever had and ever would have. Patton would inflict it all on himself if it meant that Roman would be spared the pain. He’d do anything to make that happen. Anything.

[davidelizabethbowiestrider]

Blood Runs Thick

A feeler for my Disney Descendants Jaylos trash fic I’m writing…

Auradon had always seemed like a dream, far away and so much brighter than anything he’d ever seen on the Isle of the Lost, so much cleaner and purer and simply better than what he had. Now- three weeks after the debacle with Uma- he couldn’t shake the feeling that even if they had left the Isle, left their parents death tight grips and unholy expectations, they would never truly be free. Mal still sometimes felt the pull of doing the wrong thing, still felt that she had to live up to expectations beyond her capabilities. Evie still pushed herself to be the fairest, still had days where she couldn’t look in the mirror for fear of hearing her mother’s voice pointing out her every flaw. Jay still had a hard time controlling his sticky fingers, still cased every room they entered even if he had no intentions of stealing anything. And Carlos himself still jumped at little things, still felt a wave of unadulterated fear roll through him whenever someone raised their voice unexpectedly.

Someone had whispered, when they’d first arrived from the Isle, that you could take the kids out of the Isle but you couldn’t take Isle out of the kids, and Carlos couldn’t help but wonder at the truth of the words.

It was late; Jay had spent extra time in the amphitheatre practicing Swords and Shields plays in preparation for the semi-finals, unwilling to let Lonnie down now that he had given her the title of Captain; Carlos had insisted that he help him, stating that his duty as best friend listed ‘sparring buddy’ right along side ‘causing mischief’. They’d returned to their dorm room just at the edge of curfew, unwilling to irk Fairy Godmother any more than they usually did by being out later than allowed, and Jay had offered him the shower first. Carlos had slipped into the bathroom, pajamas clutched to his chest to drop onto the counter before stripping off his t shirt, dropping it in the laundry basket wedged between the counter and the toilet. He paused as he caught sight of his stomach, flat and freckled and littered with scars. Slim fingers pressed along the most prominent of his morbid collection, wincing at the memory that the numbed sensation pulled from him. Too many nights had been spent nursing wounds such as the one that had left the marking, too many nights spent in fear that his mother would finish the job while he drifted off to sleep. He took a steadying breath, turning from the mirror to finish undressing, moving to turn on the shower to warm up the water.

And that had been a pleasant surprise the first time he had turned on the bathroom tap. Heated, clean water, as much as he liked, any time he liked. The Isle had plumbing, of course- King Beast had given them that much, along with basic electricity and the scraps of whatever Auradians felt they no longer had a use for- but the sewer system had no place to go due to the barrier, backing up into their water supplies and causing all their water to be a murky, muddy brown that had to be boiled before any use. Back, before he had met Evie and been taken under Jay and Mal’s protection, Carlos had started to put together designs to make a water filtration system; three years into the project, the then ten year old had given up due to being unable to have access to any of the equipment he would need to do so. Yen Sid had been impressed with the blueprints he had shown him, and Carlos often wondered if the old magician had been the one to suggest that he be taken off the Isle at Ben’s proclamation. Stepping into the now steaming shower, Carlos let out a relieved sigh as the hot water hit his sore shoulders, turning his back into the water stream as he tried to exhale the stress of the day. Classes were easy enough for him, the subjects an interesting change from the lessons taught at Dragon Hall, but there was always that chance that he wouldn’t be proven good enough and he had taken it upon himself to learn as much as possible of the new world Auradon opened up to him before the possibility of his potential future was taken from him like everything else in his life. And it could; there was nothing saying that Ben couldn’t change his mind. That the people of Auradon wouldn’t demand they be sent back, that he be sent back. The others had captured the hearts of the people in their own ways- Jay’s Tourney skills, Evie’s clothing designs and Mal’s relationship with Ben gave them worth, in the eyes of the princes and princesses around them, but Carlos had nothing to offer to the masses, nothing that had made him stand out on his own. They could send him back alone and no one would even notice, he imagined. He’d be sent back to his mother, who would…

Inhaling deeply, he shifted to press his forehead against the wall of the shower, cool tile slippery under the water dripping from his hair as he tried to steady himself. He could feel the tight, clawing feeling building in his chest that usually preceded a panic attack, the sticky heat at the base of his spine threading it’s way up into his ribs and through his chest as his breathing caught in his lungs as though his mother’s thin, spindle sharp fingers had wrapped around them and squeezed. The water helped, minorly, and he reached to grasp the shower tap as his breathing became more stuttered, more thick and difficult to draw in. He was suffocating, he had to be- he’d never had an attack so bad, not since coming to Auradon, not even before. His fingers slipped on the slick surface of the tap, and he felt himself waver as he tried to remember what Jay always told him to do when the rushing tide of anxiety and fear swept over him, threatening to take him under and wash him out into nothingness.

Jay. Jay was just outside, just beyond the closed door and the shower curtain, and he could help. He could fix the spotted darkness creeping into his vision and the overwhelming crushing pressure that was pressing him down.

“Jay!” His voice was cracked, wet and dry and every contradiction that swirled inside of him, too loud and not loud enough even as he attempted to pull the curtain from blocking his exit, his vision swimming as he tripped over the lip of the tub to crumble to the floor, the dull thud of his impact with muffled in his own ears. He curled into himself, trying to remember how to breath as everything pressed in on him, before suddenly warm hands pressed to his back.  

“Carlos. Carlos, it’s okay, I’m here.” Jay’s voice helped, drawing some of the darkness away as he struggled to turn his eyes to his friend whose soft smile barely covered the look of concern hidden just under the surface as he wrapped a towel around Carlos. Strong arms wrapped around him, lifting him off the floor to carry him into the bedroom and deposit him gently onto on of the beds (Jays, his mind caught, Jay’s bed was closest and softer than his own, the ex-thief preferring to sink into the mattress in the familiar way his body has sunk into the pile of rugs that had served as his bed back on the Isle) before disappearing again. Distantly he heard the water in the bathroom shut off before Jay’s presence returned, slipping onto the bed beside him to wrap a blanket around his still damp body over the towel before pulling him close. “Deep, slow breaths C, c’mon. I know you can do it.” Jay’s voice was soft, quiet in the night in a way that wrapped around Carlos and soothed the tightness in his chest a fraction more. Following his instructions, Carlos tried his best to draw in a slow, deep breath; the air caught in his throat, thick in a way air shouldn’t be, and he panicked further with a hiccupping sob. He was going to die, he was going to suffocate and Jay wouldn’t be able to help.

“Carlos, hey. Hey, here, feel me, feel me breathing and follow what I do okay?” Jay’s voice remained calm as he pulled him closer, flush enough to follow the exaggerated rise and fall of the older teen’s chest. Carlos struggled to follow along, pushing air from his lungs even as the urge to draw more in as fast as possible washed over him. It was like drowning, but in reverse; his lungs loosened with each breath, his chest and throat opening up to take in the air as the trickle of heat at his spine receded slowly. Jay’s words trailed into soft, soothing noises, calloused fingers rubbing along his chest in an attempt to urge each breath in deeper than the one before as his body relaxed slowly into the warmth of his friend’s body. Several moments passed, and when he no longer felt as though he was at risk of washing away into the roiling darkness that had previously threatened to take him under, he shifted to wrap ice cold fingers around Jay’s own, not pressing hard enough to stop the older boy’s movements but enough to let him know he was calming down.

“Thanks, Jay.” His voice sounded harsh even to his own ears, as cracked and reed thin as he felt his own skin to be, and he swallowed noisily as Jay pulled him closer still, burying his nose at the base of Carlos’ neck to breath softly against the freckled skin there.

“What caused it?” Jay’s voice was soft, almost a whisper, and Carlos let out a shaky breath as he thought back to what had triggered the attack.

“I don’t want to go back to her, Jay. I’d rather die than go back to her.” Jay’s arms tightened around him, and he curled his fingers, his nails biting into the soft skin of Jay’s hand.

“You’re not going anywhere, Carlos. You’re here in Auradan, you’re safe here. No one is making you go anywhere, dude, I promise.” He let the words sink in, his breathing finally coming under his control as he let his eyes close.

“I’m just here, and everyone’s going to realize that I’m not good. I’m not good at doing this, Jay, I can’t.” He couldn’t hold on to the feeling of goodness like the others seemed to, couldn’t stop comparing himself to the others around him and finding himself wanting. There was a huff from behind him, and he found himself suddenly shifted to lay chest to chest with his friend, the older teen giving him a warm smile.

“Dude. You’re the goodest person I know. Uh. Most good? Best. You’re good, Carlos. Trust me.” Rough hands rubbed along his back, their warmth spreading along his spine as he swallowed around the thickness in his throat at Jay’s words.

“I’m not.” He whispered, fingers curling into the material of Jay’s shirt, tight enough to cause his knuckles to whiten against the dark fabric. “I’m broken, Jay, more broken than you guys. I can’t do this any more. It’s so hard, I keep hearing her every day. I can feel her, like she’s crawled under my skin and is prying me apart from the inside. I keep thinking none of this is real.” Jay’s smile slipped into a frown as Carlos continued to speak. “Like I’m going to wake up and look in the mirror and not recognize myself. That I’m going to wake up one day and be just like her.”

“Carlos. You’re the furthest thing from Cruella. Look at me.” Carlos let his eyes meet Jay’s, blinking owlishly as Jay pressed their foreheads together. “You are a good person. You’ve always been a good person. You’re the one who helped Evie out, when she first came back from exile, right? And you were the one who Dude chose, yeah? You are never going to become her. Never. Okay?” Carlos gave a shallow nod, and Jay tightened his arms around him slightly.

“Genetically speaking, I’m on a high risk end of mental illness, Jay. I’ve…Auradon has so many books on our parents. On my mother. On her illnesses. On why she’s the way she is, what caused her to want to steal and skin over a hundred innocent animals, animals that were people’s pets. And do you know what those books say?” Jay shook his head, frown deepening as his brow furrowed. “They say that your dad, Evie’s mom, even Maleficent were brought into their evil ways due to nuture, how they were raised or circumstances outside of themselves, situational evil that they let shape them…But Cruella? My mom would have gone crazy regardless. Genetically she was set up for mental illness and then no one helped her. Genetically speaking I could become just like her, Jay. Histrionic personality disorder? That’s what they call it, her being the way she is, how everything is about her, everything needs to be her, her, always her. And it doesn’t set in until early adulthood. What if I become that?” His cheeks flushed, eyes squeezing shut as his fingers tightened in Jay’s shirt. “What if I can’t stop it from happening?” There was a long moment of silence between them, Dude’s soft whine the only sound as the dog paced in the space between their beds, before Jay let out a small huff of breath.

“We are not our parents, Carlos. And you…are the smartest person I know. And I know you pretty damn good, if I do say so myself. So I’m gunna make you a pact, right here, alright?” Carlos nodded, pulling back slightly to watch Jay’s face. “If you start going crazy? I’ll tell you. I’ll do everything in my power to help you.” Carlos nodded, and Jay offered a small smile. “But I don’t think that’s going to happen, C. I really don’t think it will.” Squeezing his arms against, he shifted to pull the younger teen on top of him, and Carlos rested his cheek on Jay’s chest, letting the slow rise and fall of his friends chest lull him to sleep.

[nny11writes]

Fictober 30- Peace

Fall not to emotion, but to peace. Spread not ignorance, but knowledge. Find passion within your serenity. Create not chaos, create harmony. Fear not death, there is the force.

That was the path of a Jedi.

Of course when Ahsoka thought of it, her mind always whispered to her, “Path of a Jedi, this is.”

That voice, warm and heavy and full of wisdom shattered her attempts peace each time. A feedback loop of the worst kind. I am emotional, I must find peace, path of a Jedi this is, I am emotional, I must fall into peace, path of a Jedi this is-on and on. It hurt.

Even when she could have claimed the title of Jedi, back when she’d deserved it, wanted it, Ahsoka had always struggled to not love. Or at least not love in the way Jedi weren’t supposed to love. Love without dependance, love without jealousy, love without fear. She’d probably had so much love stuffed into her body that the force itself had been at odds of what to do. Ahsoka loved every single person she thought of as a friend or as family. Secretly harbouring them, knowing that by having them be her friends and her family that she was failing. Fear blossoming from each bout of awareness. Afraid that she wanted to possess them, afraid because she was afraid. Most Padawans would have simply turned to their Masters and asked for help.

That was a lot harder to do when your Master was Master Yoda.

By the time Ahsoka had been concerned that she’d discovered a bad habit, the war had been in full swing. She’d been so happy to see him that she’d stuffed it down, down, down. Was it more important that she release her emotions or more important that she learn what her Master deemed important for her survival in this conflict? It was a weak argument. She sat and listened at his feet, letting the tone of his voice sooth her. Letting the authority of his position calm her. Loving him because he was her Master, he was Master Yoda.

For years after leaving the Order and leaving his side, Ahsoka had tried to avoid her Jediness. She buried the proverbs, the songs, the codes that had centered her for so long. She’d refused to observe holidays and memorials. She shunned anything that even looked like it should be used by a Jedi. Ahsoka felt desperate to be free of it. So she hacked at every grounding tether until she was left with nothing left to stand on. It had been terrifying to feel so unbalanced but she wouldn’t, she wouldn’t be like them. Ahsoka didn’t hate, no, she didn’t hate, but she was angry. She was hurt. She was scared. She felt stupid and small and foolish. She was confused.

She could solve much of that last one with a single comm call. The handwritten request to talk from her (former) Master was still tucked away in her bedside drawer. Something she’d pull out at night when the weight of it all threatened to drown her, something she’d stare at convincing herself that she shouldn’t call. That if she did she was forgiving him. If she did she was condoning the Jedi’s actions. That she’d be perpetuating a cycle. That if she did she was weak.

For years she tucked it away.

Slowly Ahsoka had allowed parts to come back to her. The stories that she’d always loved, the songs that had filled her heart, and a code that could help ground her. It was still terrifying some days-most days. She wasn’t alone but Anakin had never felt the way she did. When Ahsoka spent her name day meditating and fasting, reflecting on where she had come from and where she was going, Anakin spent his celebrating twice as hard to make up for hers. In so many ways he was fearless now, truly fearless now. Even with the little shards she’d pieced together, Ahsoka was still afraid.

It had been a bad month. Everything seemed to go wrong. Half the days she lived in dread and the other half she lived in a haze. Ahsoka found herself sitting more and more with that scrap of flimsi, looking at all the little swirls in his writing. A promise to speak, but only if she wanted to. Did she want to?

Her stomach was lodged somewhere in her throat as she bounced her legs up and down. Waiting for the call to connect. Fall into peace, path of a Jedi this is. Ahsoka swallowed thickly. Was she a Jedi? She didn’t know, she worried that maybe she’d never know again. This was one last tether to cut away. One last connection to the Order she could scrub clean. Peace through closure. Or it was something she could chose to nurture again, on her own terms. To find answers and prove to herself that she was growing again. Peace through knowledge and action. If she didn’t get an answer, and some peace real soon, Ahsoka thought she might end up calming her stomach by throwing up. Her mind was another issue that she honestly couldn’t handle thinking on.

There was a click, a flashing light warning her that the call had connected and her cheap holographic unit was doing it’s utmost to synchronize with Yoda’s unit in the Temple.

She could still hang up. She could end the call before it started, right now.

Ahsoka took a slow breath in, held it for a moment, and released it. Letting her fear float on her breath like individual strands of spider silk. The light stopped blinking and the small holographic image of her Master was there.

Master Yoda looked...he looked so old and frail. He had always been ancient, already closing in on 900 years old when she’d become his Padawan. Maybe time away allowed her to see it for the first time. Ahsoka clutched at her knees even as she stared. To be fair, Master Yoda only stared back as well, his ears pulled high and tight in surprise and his eyes wide. She was terrified of him. She was terrified he’d end the call. She loved him. Ahsoka latched onto that with all her might. For all she was angry with him, she’d missed him. She’d missed him.

“Hello Ahsoka,” Master Yoda finally broke the silence, his voice was rough and soft.

There, in the Force, she felt the smallest tap. Not a demand, not a request. A greeting.

“ ‘lo Master.” Ahsoka cringed. Former Master. Not her Master. What was she even supposed to call him now? Everyone called him Master Yoda.

His smile was warm and infinitely kind. It helped to banish some of her fear, and doing the rash thing, Ahsoka reached for him in the Force. Though she hadn’t travelled that path in nearly a decade, Ahsoka moved with confidence. It wove one way and another, branched and overgrown as it ended at the stone door to his mind. Open. It was open. He didn’t have it closed. He would let her in if she wanted to enter. It was open. Ahsoka padded softly to it, peeking through into the wild jungles and finding a path cleared just for her. Slowly, slowly she put her hand on the door frame.

Waves rippled from where she touched, low pitched echoes racing into him, bouncing back to her. Disappearing into the vastness of the Force. It returned gently, in a puff of humid air. Ahsoka’s nose twitched as she took another deep breath. Fire blooms, moon lilies, and soil. Safety. Her greeting returned with a welcome. Ahsoka grinned, a literally warm welcome that was also literally on the nose.

He didn’t hate her. She hadn’t been sure until this moment that he didn’t hate her. She could feel it there, deep somewhere inside of him. Regret and sadness, currently shadowed in his joy and his love. Something wiggled loose in the Force between them. The bands around her chest loosened.

In a way she hated that it meant so much to her. A bitter part of her still hissing from his betrayal was smothered under her relief.

Ahsoka couldn’t bring herself to enter, not now, not yet-maybe never. Just knowing that the option was there though, just knowing that he had meant it when he’d written her that note. He cared, at least somewhat.

“An apology I owe you. Unfairly I treated you. Acted in fear I did. I...if there is anything I can do?” Yoda’s face scrunched as he awkwardly ended his sentence. It wasn’t nearly enough. It wasn’t nearly enough but it was also more than she’d ever thought she would get.

“I was...I was just, uhm.” Ahsoka cringed slightly. What had she really wanted out of this beyond what she’d received? Even if she didn’t forgive him yet, he had apologized and admitted he’d been wrong. He was offering to do anything she’d like to help her. He’d left the door open, unsure how to prove his sincerity but earnestly wanting to. What did she want from him? An explanation, not right now when Ahsoka felt like she was already about to shake apart at the seams. What then? What then?

“Troubled are you?”

Ahsoka ducked her head, heart kicking oddly against her ribs. Of course he’d notice. Despite what people always thought, her Master had always looked for ways to help her. He’d always been kind until the day he hadn’t. Her breathing hitched as she whispered, “It’s been a rough week.”

He frowned, one hand rubbing at his head. “Mmm. Perhaps, hrm, breath with me would you?”

It wasn’t what she wanted but perhaps, in this moment, it’s what she needed. Her mind supplied memories from when she was eight and struggling to keep her emotions in check under the weight of her changing responsibilities. Half a day spent working on her ability to balance with Master Yoda poking at her with the force. Balance you must find, peace can you find if unbalanced you are? Difficult this would be. Balance starts, as all things, in the breath.

She nodded and breathed. The first breath burning cold against the back of her throat. The second breath shuddering slightly on the exhale. The third, the fourth, the fifth, all slowly prying the bands around her chest apart. She lost count, breathing in and out, watching Yoda who had closed his eyes as he guided them. Suddenly, it was like she could breath for the first time in years. She thought on the phrase she’d relied on for so long. Fall not into emotion, but into peace. Perhaps she just needed to adjust it. Ahsoka had always found her peace and her balance like this, not alone and aloof. With people she cared about, that she cared what they thought of her, that she loved. Perhaps she could find peace through emotion. It would take a lot of work and practice, but the idea was appealing to her. Tears welled up in her eyes as she looked at the man who had become so much to her. A mentor, a teacher, a confidant, a friend, a father.

What did she want from this?

She wanted to forgive him. She just needed to give it time. Slowly, she could come to terms with this. This one thing that had haunted her. Then she could move on to the next big thing. The next and the next, there would always be a next. She could start here. With this one call. She could work from here.

The clarity was a like a cool glass of water when you didn’t realize you were thirsty.

She took another deep breath, one last look at Yoda’s face as he counted down to the exhale. She closed her eyes on one, exhaled, and found a small pool of peace to float in.

[fairylights101writes]

Hi!!! For the angst ask, could you do 20 with an Iwa pairing of your choice please? I love your writing!!!

20. “For once, stop pretending you’re okay! Just talk to me!”Read on AO3

Iwaizumi’s hands were shaking.

He buried them into his pockets and walked a little faster, breaths puffing out, too hard for the pace, even if he’d just worked out. The world was swimming a little, sliding in and out of focus as he moved, legs threatening to give out, practically boneless. He swallowed. Ran his tongue along his teeth. Clenched his hands and tried to find the ability to breathe. Nothing came. But he carried on, nearly jogging, brushing blindly past people, no care for who or how many he brushed. Bokuto’s call had carved out a sliver of worry in him, something about Akaashi and being sick, about needing him, and it had sliced right through the constricting vines of black that had woven tight around him, strangling him.

Iwaizumi’s nails bit into his hands and he bounced on the balls of his feet as he waited for a light to change, then sprinted across the street, barely able to breathe. He made it to the complex quickly, far more so than normal, and he burst in, darted upstairs, breathing a little harder, barely seeing. He wasn’t sure if it was because the anxiety attack that had started coming on before, or from Bokuto’s call.

He fumbled with his keys, managed to unlock the door with shaking hands, and slipped in. Froze. Akaashi and Bokuto sat on the couch, both of them looking perfectly fine - no bandages, no flush, no ice packs. Nothing to indicate that either were sick, that anything was wrong. His stomach dropped. He managed a weak smile. “Keiji’s okay?”

“Hajime,” Akaashi said instead, voice soft, “Sit down. Please.”

He felt his heart stutter in his chest, but he nodded slowly and crept forward, face carefully blank. They can’t know. They couldn’t know about the fresh waves of self-hatred that had formed, gathering like dark waters and rising, threatening to drag him under, steal his breath, and drown him in all the darkness they brought. Weak. Stupid. Worthless. An endless mantra in his head that left him wanting to do nothing more than bash his head against a wall. Or the anxiety attacks, the ones he’d hidden so carefully, because, with everything going on, they didn’t need another thing to worry about, let alone him and his ridiculous, overblown problems.

“What’s up?” he said.

Akaashi frowned, Bokuto’s face twisting into a soft, sad expression, and he took the lead, edging forward a little, fingers tangling together in front of himself as he stared Iwaizumi down. “Something’s been bothering you.”

Iwaizumi’s limbs locked up, eyes flickering away for a split second before he turned back, shook his head slowly. “No… I’m-”

“Hajime, listen to me for five minutes,” Akaashi said, nearly a snap, and he flinched back, pressed himself into the chair as he stared at them. Bokuto’s fingers slipped over, curled into Akaashi’s sweater, and he brushed their fingers together, but otherwise didn’t acknowledge it as he shook his head. “Hajime, it’s obvious. Something has been bothering you for weeks, and all of us can see it. This is worrying us, okay? You just-”

“You look so sad all the time lately,” Bokuto broke in, lips wobbling, a flush invading his cheeks as his tear-filled golden eyes snared Iwaizumi, inescapable. He swallowed hard, throat bobbing and tongue working, but Bokuto barreled on before he could say anything. “When you think we’re not looking you get this expression, like you’re about to cry, and I don’t know why, and I want to ask you and help you, but every time I do it feels like it’s not helping! A-and I know it doesn’t because sometimes I pull away and you just have this look, like everything’s about to break, and- and- a-and-” Bokuto broke off with a choked sound, buried his face into his hands.

Akaashi’s lips twisted and he slid an arm around Bokuto, glanced back at Iwaizumi. “Hajime,” he said softly, “Whatever is hurting you right now, we’re here for you. We’ve always been here for you. You know that. We’re your partners, your friends.”

Iwaizumi’s world was spinning, darkness sucking at his lungs, leaving him trembling in his seat. His hands twisted together on his legs as he bit his tongue and smiled. “I’m okay guys, just a little-”

Bokuto shot up, red-rimmed eyes glaring at Iwaizumi as he clutched at his chest. “For once, stop pretending you’re okay! Just talk to me! Talk to Keiji! Stop shutting us out!”

They all froze, Akaashi with his arms outstretched for Bokuto, who stood there, tremors working through his body, fingers biting into his chest. Bokuto tore away a second later, feet slapping the floor as he darted back to their bedroom, agonizingly loud sobs tearing through the apartment. Iwaizumi’s chest hitched, all the air viciously torn from him as he stared after, the fainter sound of his wails breaking through the quiet. He slowly turned, eyes sliding to Akaashi.

Gray eyes blinked at him slowly, nothing showing behind the shroud of impassivity he’d pulled around himself.

Akaashi pressed his hands to his knees.

Rose.

Turned his back.

Iwaizumi lunged up, grabbed Akaashi’s wrist, the skin cool beneath his fingers. Akaashi whipped around tore his wrist from Iwaizumi’s grasp and turned a flinty glare on him, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. “You can sleep in the guest bedroom tonight.”

Iwaizumi’s hand fell back to his side. His shoulders sagged. “Okay,” he whispered, pathetically quiet, and Akaashi jerked his head in a nod before he turned and stalked away, down the darkened hallway to the even darker bedroom where sharp cries still punctuated the quiet.

Helpless, he stared at the door, fingers twitching, but legs immobile. He wasn’t sure if he was breathing. He could barely feel the beat of his heart. His hands clenched tight, head tipping down until his chin touched his chest. Why am I such a shitty person? He had been for so long, enough that everyone thought he was mean and cruel to his best friend, that he was just a violent man with no hope of getting better. He’d hurt so many, and now he’d hurt Bokuto and Akaashi too - the two men he loved the most, with every fiber and scrap of his soul.

I hate myself. A breath shuddered out. “I hate myself,” he croaked to the empty living room.

No response came.

He closed his eyes. Slowly moved through the apartment, toes dragging on the floor as he crept through a place that no longer felt quite like home. He pushed his way into the guest bedroom. Shut the door. Pressed his forehead to it for a moment before he stripped down to his boxers and crawled into the bed, curled up tight and pressed his front to the wall. Another breath shuddered out. I can’t blame them if they hate me.

He was just so tired, an exhaustion that lay bone deep, sunk deep and impossible to remove, no matter how much he slept. Everything hurt, left him weak and trembling, and it was all he could do to breathe, to function. Iwaizumi pressed his hands to his face. Let a wry laugh bubble out as the tears finally flowed, just a scarce few.

From there, it was a swift descent into the slick self-loathing that welcomed him with open arms, familiar from the recent weeks and months.

And from there, somehow, sleep.