#something something 'i would carve a home for you in my ribcage if it meant always keeping you warm'

[kuroshika]

what do you mean you can't see how cannibalism is the purest form of obsession and devotion??? that love is all about mutual consumption??? that you can love without obsession but you can't obsess without love???

[winchesterxxi]

Urges of the Subconscious (Din Djarin x Reader) | PART 1

Gif by @keanurevees​

Rating: E (Explicit)

Type: Smut

Pairing: Din Djarin x AFAB!Reader

Summary: Stationed in Tatooine for the night, courtesy of Peli Motto, you and Din are forced to share a room. Thinking that it was more than obvious that the two of you weren’t together, you both expected to find two separate beds - that didn’t quite happen. Sleeping next to the person you’ve been having dreams about for a while now leads to some unconscious shuffling closer to each other - culminating in quite the interesting morning.

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: One bed trope, SMUT (wet dream, rubbing, blindfold, nipple play/breast play, fingering)

A/N: I haven’t written for Din in so long, god, I missed my favorite bucket-head. This is also a long one because my gears are oiled and working, so bear with me. Also, part 2? 👀

Buy me a Kofi!

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When Din had told you that there was a fault in the differential and exhaust manifold of the Razor, you knew that meant a trip down to Tattooine. You weren’t particularly excited about it – the scorching hot weather mixed with the sandy landscape always made you feel gross and heavy, sensations that you weren’t particularly fond of.

The child on the other hand, at the mention of a need for repairs, cooed in excitement, eager to encounter his adored Peli Motto, who he seems to have absolutely smitten. Nothing wrong with that, in fact, it was nice to see the kid being in someone else’s arms without fearing for his life.

Down on the rocky ground in front of her secluded shop, Peli looks up at the shadow that suddenly allocated itself in front of the sun, only to adjust her vision and catch the Razor Crest slowly descending closer, until its landing skids contacted the red ground and the large cargo ramp started to lower itself.

Into her vision came what she secretly nicknamed as “The Space Family”: You, with the baby in your left arm, and the imponent Mandalorian just a couple of feet behind, a gothic painting, some would say one that was slowly making their way towards her.

“We brought the Child!” You amusingly exclaimed, grinning as her smile immediately grew and the child was already trying to wiggle out of your embrace.

“Easy there!” she exclaimed as the child cooed and babbled in her arms, content with the reunion

“How much do you want for it?” she asks you “Just kidding. But not really.”

“The kid’s still not for sale. But I have a few repairs that need to be done.” Din intervenes. You know he isn’t being purposefully stern, but the man could sure use some lessons on loosening up and being able to understand a joke.

“Always a pleasure to talk with you, Mandalorian.” Peli greets with an expressionlessly sarcastic face that falls upon her as soon as she looks up from the child  “Point me in the direction.”

After a close inspection alongside the Mandalorian, they both returned to where you and the child stood before he reached for Peli once again and you laughed at his tiny attachment problem.

“ I can get you out of here tomorrow at around noon.”

“Noon? Peli, we can’t stay overnight. People need us.”

“People can wait. Can’t they?” She asks the question in a higher-pitched voice directed towards the kid who she bops in the nose before turning back to you and Din. “And sure you can! There’s a small holsterly just a few miles down the sand, an hour walk and you’ll be fine.”

“We only have credits for the maintenance.” Says Din from your right side.

Peli is about to throw a quick answer, as she always does, but something stops her. She closes her mouth and looks down at Grogu, who happily jiggles the tiny ball between his fingers. She smirks and looks up at you two again, adjusting the kid in her embrace.

“Tell you what. You let me take care of the kid for the night, you two go and have some rest, Maker knows you need it… and the maintenance is on me.”

“We’re not leaving –“ the Mandalorian starts but you quickly cut him off, placing a firm hand on his whistling bird, settling him.

“Deal.”

“Wh- What?” He shakes his helmet in your direction.

“Come on.” You tug him along your side, heavy beskar boots reluctant to move, as you wave back at Grogu and Peli who is smiling like two children who will, more than definitely, be up to no good in the following hours.

But he knows better than to make a scene with you when you are playing nice. So he waits until the pair that was left behind to be out of sight to pull you by your elbow to face him.

“Are you out of your mind?”

“No, but we are almost out of credits.” You reason with him, picking up on his sentence. “Din, she did a nice thing… not all people are out to get you.” Your voice is calm, and it takes all of your strength not to reach out and touch him, maybe caress the helmet of his cheek, or his hand. But he’s who he is, and you don’t want to cross any lines.

His towering figure lets go of your elbow and he walks ahead through the sand, talking over his shoulder.

“This is the first and last time we’re doing this.”

You grin and bit your bottom lip behind him, feeling victorious from having him wrapped around your finger in situations like this, before speeding your own stride to catch up to him, feeling the heat reflected on his beskar hit your skin.

It was a small inn, there was no doubt, more like a one night resting home for the looks of it, the offer ranging little above a few sleeping quarters along a hall and a shared bathroom at the end of it.

Once unlocking the wooden door, you and Din stepped into the now moonlit room, which ended up being more spacious than anticipated.

With Din closing the door and locking it once again, your eyes scan around the carved walls and the big window, the tapestry on the floor and then – the bed. The only bed. Not even a couch on the other end of the room. Only a bed.

Din seems to have noticed it too as you feel him come to a halt right behind you, helmet turning to scan the room.

“Why would they give us only one bed? I specifically said it was a two people bedroom.” You can feel his aggrieved tone sip through the helmet, frustrated with the situation.

“Two people. Not two beds.” You scoff and he looks at you, causing you to look away and avert your smile from his field of vision – how unskilled Din was with such mundane tasks always amused you. “I’m afraid this one’s on you Din Djarin.”

You walk over to the bed and start to peel the layers of your leather uniform, down to your undershirt and panties.

“Woah, what are you doing?” Din asks you, turning his helmet away once his helmet falls upon your bare legs.

“Getting to bed. You should too.” You state in a deadpan voice, before sliding your legs underneath the cotton sheet and laying your head in the fluffy pillow – something you haven’t had in months.

“No, yeah, I can see that! But I-… do you… Are you…?” he stumbles over his words, awkwardly still standing in the middle of the room at the bottom of the bed.

“Din, rest. Come on, it’s not every day you have a real bed to lay on.” The man huffs and walks over to your opposite side of the bed, before pulling the covers back, getting ready to seat down, before you shoot up on your elbow.

“Aren’t you going to take the armour off?”

“Why would I? Hostile planet, unknown people sleeping next door. Peli might contact us at any minute.” He has a big list of reasons, and he could more than definitely go on, but something in the way you are looking at him through the visor stops him.

“Din. Nothing bad is going to happen for one night.” Your eyes were honest and they pierced his soul melting his insides and kicking his usual hunter instinct out the window.

Not being able to resist, he drops his shoulders and sighs, before reaching for his chest pauldron and unclasping it while you grin victoriously.

“The helmet stays on.” He warns you, while pieces upon pieces of beskar and leather fall to the ground, placed against the foot of the bed until he is in nothing besides his fitted undersuit and beskar helmet.

Reaching for the covers once again, Din finally sleeps into the bed and as soon as his back hits the mattress he releases a quiet grown and you chuckle.

“Better?” you ask him, face turned his way and cocking your eyebrow up.

“Better.” This time, to your surprise, he’s the one that chuckles, the vibration of the modulated sound going straight to your stomach.

“Goodnight Din.” You whisper, turning your back to him and placing your body in your preferred position to sleep. With one look at you, the only nothing he can now see is the moonlit outline of your curves as your ribcage rises and falls at the rhythm of your quiet breath.

He’d be damned if anything happened to you. For as paranoid as he was the possibility of someone breaking in at the dead of the night and harming you, stopped him from turning his back to you and instead, settling with his chest up to the ceiling, helmet turned in your direction.

“Goodnight.”

For the first time in Maker knows how long, both you and Din managed to sleep during a full night with no sudden wake up calls or alarms beeping around. It was nice, he had to admit. So nice, that his body got a little too comfortable, his hands in his slumber reaching for your body and your own figure, unconsciously draw to his embrace let itself be held by him during the long hours of the dark – none of you being aware of such.

But somewhere along that time, in the wee small hours of the morning, your body rotated in his arms, back to his slowly moving chest and his hands, unbothered, had to keep touching you, they had to make sure you were there, hence gently palming your right boob.

It wasn’t until you felt an involuntary squeeze of his bare hands against your tunic, a definite sleep spasm that you were pulled awake and made aware of the situation.

Heat flooded your whole body once you realized the compromising position you both found yourselves in. Gently humming Din’s name, you don’t dare to move his arm, being very aware of his hunter instincts.

“Din.” You repeat again, this time louder and the man behind you hums. At the same time as the sound leaves his lungs, his fingers squeeze yet again. You suck in a breath and bite your bottom lip, preventing any sort of moan from escaping.

Din groans once, the sleep still gripping his system but he must’ve soon realized where his hand was, forearm trapped beneath your weight as he quickly pulls it away, sitting up straight in the bed.

“Kriff. I’m so sorry, I didn’t intend to-“ His chest is rising and lowering heavy, and you can see a hint of the red skin that heats on his neck and upper chest.

“It’s alright, I know.”

A heavy silence hangs in the air, you having since sat up in bed, back against the headboard, only your breathings and and heavy tension floating in the air. You were pretty sure your cheeks were still pink, as they still felt hot.

“I don’t want you to think that I wanted to do anything to you. I would never.” He says, coming off harsher than intended. It’s not that he didn’t want to be with you, Maker, he did, he had fallen head over heels a long time ago… But, maybe you didn’t feel that way. You were too good for him, anyway. A puddle of light in his life that he didn’t want to corrupt with his own being.

“Would it be so bad?” You whisper, afraid that he really didn’t want anything to do with you, slightly hurt by the words he’d just said.

Silence remains and you look to your side only to find the beskar helmet turning in your direction, your hopeful eyes and hung mouth pleading for a genuine answer.

Feeling bold, you reach for his bare hand that rested against the mattress and hold it up to where it was before and he is silently following your actions, but you can feel his muscles tensing at your actions.

“What are you doing, Y/N?” His voice is strained as he looks away but dares not to move his hand.

“Din. Please.” You whisper in a broken voice and that’s all it takes for his helmet to return to face you.

“If I start, I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop.”

“I don’t want you to.”

There is a moment there. One of silence, but that was heavy with unsaid words. A look into your eyes was all it took him to pull your hips gently down and lay you back on the soft mattress while his body shifted to be above you.

His rough fingers gently tugged at one of the straps of your tunic before pulling it down and off your arm, same as with the other one that followed, leaving the thin fabric still splayed over your chest, from where he could now see the hard buds straining through.

Your breathing deepened and you could feel heat pool at your core, shifting your thighs closer together, an action that didn’t go unnoticed to the masked man above you as your knees brushed his crotch.

“Mesh’la.” He whispers, looking down your body, his erection pressing against the fabric of his confined pants.

Putting all of his weight on his elbows, the Mandalorian slides the fabric of your tunic down, revealing your swollen breasts, courtesy of the arousal he was fabricating in you. His fists curled at the sudden need that he had, one that he couldn’t fulfil if there was the possibility of you seeing his face.

Sitting back on his knees, he reaches out to the floor on his side of the bed, where he remembers to have discarded his armour and other layers the night before. When he sits back up, you can see that he is holding one of his undershirts, the one that went directly under the leather layer, made of a soft black fabric.

He motions it towards your head as if asking for permission to put it around your head and all you can do is nod while bitting your bottom lip, eager to give in to the pleasure he intended to deliver.

You lift your head from where it was resting against the pillow and his gentle hands tie the fabric around your eyes, making sure that it was tight enough for it not to slip, but not too much so that it would hurt you.

In the darkness that you found yourself surrounded by, all your other senses tingled in anticipation, especially your touch and hearing as from somewhere lower above you, a hissing sound filled the air, followed by that of metal being placed on wood.

Still sitting on his knees, his eyes could now see you in all of your glory, without the darkening of the helmet. And you were a sight to behold. Hair splayed around your head on the pillow, lips parted in anticipation, breasts aching for him. To the latter he gave in first, lowering himself to attach his lips to your left nipple, his breath fanning over it for a moment before diving in.

You suck in a sharp breath and moan at his action, while one of his hands finds your free nipple, not wanting it to go unattended.

“Din, that feels so good.” Your head lifts up and then drops with a small thud against the pillow taking in shallow and quick breaths as his fingers and tongue continued to tease your sensitive buds.

His mouth and hands were equally skilled, the latter, rolling your bud between his thumb and forefinger, as quick jolts of pain and pleasure rushed through every nerve in your body.

He stayed there for a long time, switching sides every now and then, mouth sucking and tongue lapping and brushing against your nipples.

He sucked and moaned around it every time his tongue stroked the tip of your nipple and your hands fumbled between grabbing the sheets below you or his soft hair, body arching up wanting more. More of him, more of that sensation, just more.

With your tunic still draped over your torso the one hand of Din’s that wasn’t supporting his weight travels down to your core, thick fingers brushing against your clit and soon after trailing a path up your dripping slit, moaning when his digits became wet.

“Did that make you wet, cyar’ika? You like it when I play with your nipples?” his husky voice sent waves of arousal up your body.

“Yes, Din, you’re so good at it, please.” You reach your hand down to palm at his erection “I need you, please.”

Gently he grabs your hand from his crotch and places it down next to your head. “Next time. We need to get going in a few if we don’t want to burn under the midday sun. But I can still make you feel good.”

You moaned at his willingness to prioritize your pleasure over his, going as far as denying himself of an orgasm at this crucial moment, which would have him frustrated until the next time you could be alone together again.

His lips return to your nipples and, at the same time, he slides two digits inside your aching cunt, the warmth and clenching around his skin making him whimper around your nipple, making the pleasure skyrocket on your part.

The outer rim of his free hand now rested against the mound that was free from his mouth’s hold, as his middle finger flicked up and down against the tip of your nipple, making you cry out in pleasure as it synched perfectly with his ministrations against and inside your core.

It was all too much, and tears pooled at the outer corners of your eyes, leaving an eventual wet trail behind as they ran down your cheeks, until being soaked by his shirt that rested around your eyes.

Your body convulsed under his frame, arching against him as a wave of white pleasure washing over you like never before, the joined ecstasy of his two places of stimulation pushing you with full force over the edge you were chasing.

Din rode your high until he felt you could no more, never for once slowing his movement in between your legs as your cum dripped down his fingers and into his palm, and making the most of your sensitive nipples by bringing both your breasts together with his large hand, positioning them in a way that both nipples were almost touching, allowing him to lick and suck at the two simultaneously.

Once your body is spent and limp, chest rising and falling trying to catch your breath and trying to drive some oxygen up to your brain as you felt like being high, Mando finally lifts his face up to your own and, for the first time lets his lips latch onto something other than your chest. The kiss is deep and wet, his tongue roaming your lips before exploring your mouth.

Din then sits back up on his knees, chuckling as your head followed his once your lips parted, not wanting to separate just yet.

His bare hand reaches to the side table where he’d laid the helmet and puts it back on, coming away from straddling you and rather returning to his side of the bed, pulling you in by your waist to his side and sliding the shirt up from around your eyes

He watches you smile, still in the aftereffects of your orgasm.

“Hey.” You muse up at him.

“Hey.” He answers, the helmet preventing you from seeing the lopsided smile that adorned his beautiful face.

“That was…”

“I know.” He completes your thought.

“Was it so bad, after all?” You close your eyes as the question leaves your lips, the exhaustion of this morning activity starting to wash over you.

“Not even close.”

As if on cue, the first ray of sunshine makes its way through the window glass and you know that it means you need to get dressed and out of this place. Din notices it as well, patting your side before slinging his legs over the edge of the bed and standing up.

“Come one, mesh’la. We need to go.”

“I know.” You groan up to the air. “But this is so comfortable.”

“The faster we get there, the faster we can go into the Razor and the closer we are to putting Grogu asleep.” He tells you, hands on his hips, a teasing tone on his voice and damn it, he got you good.

“I hate that you know me so well.” You huff with a smile, crawling up to his side of the bed so that you’re on your knees on top of the mattress, still, he towers over you.

“Can’t wait to know all of you.” He whispers as his helmet comes closer down your face and his hands travel to your waist. He then gives it a little squeeze before patting your ass. “Come on now, let’s go. I have a feeling someone is waiting to make grabby hands at us.”

“I was about to say you have a stationed ship waiting to take off, but I’m glad to see you have your priorities straight.” You muse over your shoulder, walking to the small bathroom adjacent to the bedroom.

As you go, Din stays behind adoring the view of your hips swaying and ass jiggling as you walk.

“Oh, you have no idea.”

He really couldn’t wait to know all of you.

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PERMANENT TAGLIST

@blondekel77​  @pedrobreakmyback

DIN DJARIN TAGLIST

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@weirdowithnobeardo

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[thgreatestblue]

false god [part I]

➜ pairing: kokushibou x fem!reader ➜ warnings: mentions of torture, blood, prostitution. ➜ words: 4,7k ➜ a/n: hello everyone! I decided to split this fic in two parts or else it was going to be too much. I was so excited with this idea that I got carried away (as always). I even thought about only posting the ending, but i figured if i was really writing this concept, then I would commit to it! i hope you enjoy it! ➜ ao3

➜ false god [part II] summary: Turning a blind eye was easier when the money was enough to not send you to a brothel ever again, even if it meant looking away when blood was shed. Head above water and you will never drown. The mantra kept you safe for 3 years, but then six eyes pinned you down, and you found yourself swimming in an ocean you swore you weren’t ever diving in.

I.  

If it wasn't for the long and heavy curtains, the house would have been a really pretty and enjoyable place. However, you highly suspected that if it wasn't for the appearances, the house wouldn't even have windows to start with, so you weren't complaining. Although it was hard to see with only a small candle in your hands — the flame barely illuminating the few steps in front of you — you had grown used to the darkness by now. The last 3 years had taught you enough, and you knew the place like the palm of your hand. 

But what you didn't know was where Muzan’s daughter had hidden this time. It was a fairly common game you two played when her father wasn't home, one that allowed the poor girl to run free through the corridors with no fear of running into her father — that in the last few weeks has been more violent and angry than you've ever seen. If it was scary for you, that knew what Muzan truly was; you couldn't imagine what the girl felt seeing her father losing the facade; teeths becoming sharper at each smile, eyes glowing redder at each glance. 

You didn't know what had happened for the so composed and cold-hearted Muzan to start falling apart at the seams, as far as you knew, he never acted that way before; even the rest of the servants had started to gossip about his weird composure. Now, more often than not, you could hear screams filling the hallways like whispers from ghosts, haunting the poor souls that were still lucky to be alive in a place like this. It would give all your body goosebumps, a weird aftertaste that was bitter than any drink you could swallow down. 

You turn another corner, still trying to find the little girl. She was a sweet and well mannered girl, so easy to look after that you didn't think it was normal. How her eyes were always looking around, her tongue never daring to say more than the necessary, so quiet that most of the time you forget she was still in the room; her mother was the same. 

Two beautiful things that over time started to look more like paintings than real human beings, for society to appreciate, portraying a family that was as perfect as the colors Muzan chooses to show. And for their safety, you hoped they would stay just like that. Everybody at the house knew she wasn't really his daughter — you didn't want to think what happened to the real father, then. 

For the sake of their sanity, they didn't know what Muzan really was. Many of the servants didn't know either. And for some time, you wondered if it would have been a blessing being ignorant like that, not knowing what really took place in a house like this. Behind closed doors things could get even more terrifying, that even you couldn't imagine — no that you wanted, anyway. 

Turning a blind eye to the situation was something you had struggled with in the first year; the amount of blood and organs you had to clean was alarming, the unspoken fear that would be in the tip of everyone’s tongue but never daring to escape; it was heavy the air every time he walked in, but for most of the servants the fear was inexplicable. Not for you though, always going to sleep with the fear that your blood would be the next staining the floor of his office. 

It wasn't as if you had had a choice, neither Daki nor Muzan gave you one. It was keeping a secret or dying with it — and you wanted to live enough to see yourself out of this place, far away from these atrocities. Although it wasn't the best opinion, definitely wasn't the worst. Anything other than going back to the brothels of Yoshiwara; to the hands of strangers; to the dark nights where all you could do was scrub your skin until it was burning red. 

It was a time of your life you didn't like to revisit; it was locked away in the deepest of your mind, but somehow the key would always find its way back to your hand. It was inevitable to think about those years you spent on your knees, selling your body so you could eat the next day. Though, now that you worked for Muzan, those thoughts that haunted you as you laid your head on the pillow were replaced by blood, screams of agony and guts - you’re not sure which was worse. 

The candle burns quickly in your hand, you were running out of time to find the small girl. Although you had come up with a few rules to turn this game a little bit easier — like not entering any room, not hiding inside any closet — the child still put up a challenge; and again, you didn't want to think why she was so good at hiding.

“Ah! There you are!” You could see, even with the thin light, a silhouette that you were very familiar with by now. The dark hair almost blends with the background; she is gripping the candle with both hands, not looking at you even when you call her name, “I think this time you outdone your…”

As soon as you reach the little girl, you can feel the atmosphere change. There’s a dense feeling settling in your chest that spreads throughout your body like fire, almost pulling you down to your knees. The hair on the back of your neck stands up almost instantly, and you don't need to see what it is causing to know exactly what it is. The fear on the girl's face is enough to tell you that she had seen a Demon. 

“Stay behind me, honey.” You whisper as you put your body in front of her’s, eyes trying to focus on the figure by the end of the corridor. The little girl immediately grabs your leg, hiding behind it, you can feel her small body shaking against you. 

Not so far away, you catch a glimpse of a big silhouette walking towards you, it’s so massive that you can’t help but take a step back. It wasn't everyday you saw another Demon walking in those hallways, if ever. Besides Muzan, you only knew Daki by name; she has been the one who brought you to this place, after all. 

In the back of your mind you kept telling yourself if anything went wrong, it was still midday. You could open the curtains and stand in the sun; though you didn't know if you would be fast enough to avoid a tragedy. 

As the Demon stepped closer, the fragile flame from your candle trembles, even the fire was nervous at the change of events. The silence is maddening, all your instincts are screaming run! run! but you can’t move a foot. It takes only a few more steps for the figure to finally be illuminated by the light, the anticipation making your heart beat furiously against your ribcage. 

You weren't sure what you were expecting, but it definitely wasn't the man in front of you. His face is the first thing that the light reaches — and if you could hear the sound of your heart beating just a second ago, now it goes completely silent. 

His face is a shade so light that for a moment you thought it was transparent; so pale, but it looked soft to the touch. There’s a red mark that reminds you of flames covering half of the right side of his forehead, and another one on the left side of his cheeks, that goes down to his neck. However, what was more unsettling about him was his eyes. There are six of them, bright yellow irises surrounded in scarlet bloody sclera, staring directly at you. 

With only the candle light to illuminate the hallway, the scenario you found yourself in should’ve been a nightmare, but there was something about the Demon in front of you that made it tolerable. Maybe it was the way he carried himself, a polished posture you don't really see very often. How he didn't look like he was about to rip you apart - or maybe that was worse, because you didn't know what to expect from him.

It made you wonder who he was when still human. His hair was a shade darker than the shadows, perfectly framing his face; the ponytail was tied up on the top of his head, the rest of it falling graciously on his back, long and smooth. He was a very beautiful and elegant man; but even with the whole picture, those eyes were still unsettling, 

“I’m looking for Muzan-sama.” His voice is strong and heavy, cutting through the silence of the hallway like a thunder cuts through the night to announce the upcoming rain. The little girl yelps, gripping your thigh even harder. 

You immediately bow, prefering to stare at his feet than to stay under his intense gaze, “I’m afraid he’s not at home right now...My lord.” You decide to refer to him in a polite way, and he seems pleased by it. 

Not only was he a Demon, but he seemed important, more important than Daki for the looks of it. He wore a black and purple kimono; the material, even in the thin light, looked expensive. However, what made him hold such a powerful presence, was the katana attached to his waist. And if his six eyes weren't enough, there were more of them carving the handle of the sword. 

“And who are you?” The Demon asks, voice low and firm, making you shiver slightly. His eyes are fixed on your face, making you feel even more uneasy under his stare. He takes a few steps closer, the overpowering aura paralysing you right in the spot for a second. 

“I’m Y/N,” You answer, trying your best not to sound too scared. And quickly adds, not daring making him wait, “And this is Muzan-sama’s daughter.”

You put your hand at the top of the little girl’s head, her shakiness is palpable even from far away, and you can’t blame her. Despite living among Demons, you had wished she would grow up oblivious to what went down in this household. Apparently, an illusion can never last forever, only the truth remains untouched in eternity. You try your best to calm her down by running your fingers through her hair. Even though the wax of the candle burns your hand, you can stop gripping it, anything to help you stay calm. 

As if he was in a trance, he stops. Slowly catching your movements with his eyes, “Are you his wife?” 

The question takes you by surprise, and you have to blink a few times, raising your eyebrows in the process. Thank Gods I'm not, it’s the first thing that crosses your mind. However, the hesitation in his voice is concerning; and you have a hard time trying to swallow down what that could possibly imply. 

“No, I’m just a servant… My lord.” Telling him the truth was the only thing you could do right now.

If he decided to kill you because you weren't important, it was your fault for not trying to escape sooner. You had hoped this wasn't going to be the way you would end, but perhaps you had sold your fate on the day you saw Daki eating another girl.

The demon nods, and takes a few more steps closer. You involuntarily flinch, feeling his presence and intimidating aura hitting you like a train. Your breath gets caught on your throat as you watch his hand moving closer to your face. The nails of the little girl on your thing were definitely drawing blood right now. 

But instead of ripping your head off, he touches your cheek.

You didn't notice you had closed your eyes, but they snap open at the gentle touch. Your eyes grow wide at each suffocating second his fingers hover over your skin. Goosebumps spread all over your body as his strong fingers wrap around your chin, forcing you to look at him, at his six eyes. They seem to be studying you, hovering around your eyes, your cheeks, your mouth. 

It feels like you’re on display all over again. When men would come to the brothel and choose the girl they were going to use just by her looks; if she still had teeths, if they were still tight enough, if their good reputation was still intact. It made you want to choke each one of them, making them swallow down each word they had ever said until they were suffocating with their own nastiness. Right now, though, you just fell silent, letting him analyse your face as much as he wanted. You knew you would be dreaming with those yellow orbs from now on. 

“Tell him I’ll be waiting in his office.” He says, slowly easing the grip, giving your face one last look before finally letting go of your chin, and you averts your eyes as soon as his touch isn't on you anymore. 

The only movement your body manages to do is nod, all the rest goes numb with the tension that settles in your bones. Your breathing becomes shallow, body too paralized to function properly. There’s a growing pain on your jaw from clenching your teeth too hard. You and the little girl stay frozen in place as you watch him turning away, walking back from the direction he had come. 

A cold sensation settles on the pitch of your stomach as you watch the Demon walk away. If you were to trust your guts, this definitely wasn't the last time you would be seeing him. And for better or for worse, your guts were never wrong. 

II.

Walking through the hallways of Muzan’s house was different since the day you encountered that Demon. Each time turning a corner, you would hold your breath, take a double look at the shadows, looking for any sign of the man; as if he would appear from the dark and drag you to join him — no one was going to miss you anyway. Even after weeks, you could still feel his gaze hovering around your skin, the feeling of having so many eyes on you was maddening. But the worst was his touch, still managing to linger on your chin, ghostly haunting your days, and mostly your nights. 

Muzan’s daughter seemed to have forgotten the encounter; she didn't say a single thing about it, even after you took her to the kitchen to give her some tea. She was shaking so much you were afraid she would pass out. However, when you asked her about, she just shook her head, saying she was afraid because the man was intimidating. You wondered if her mind had just erased the few important details or if she was pretending that nothing was wrong for her own sanity. Either way, your heart aches for the little girl, but there was nothing you could do. 

Head above water and you will never drown. It has become your mantra since the first time you sold your body, since the first time you laid your eyes on a Demon - when you sold your soul to stay alive. It sure makes the food you eat taste bitter and the pillow on which you lay your head feels like a stone; but at least you are alive, right? 

You could only hope that the Demon Slayers were going to put an end to this, sooner or later. If the rumors were true, then things finally started to move, and by Muzan’s temper getting worse by each day, they were making some progress.

You just had to control your emotions, and pray that Muzan wasn't going to lash any of his anger on you; living with him for a few years made you realize that even the best servants could suffer a tragic destiny, no one was safe here. No one was ever safe around a Demon, after all. 

“Muzan-sama, do you need anything else?” 

It was still morning outside; a very pretty day from the glimpse you caught as you passed a slightly open curtain. As much as you wanted to leave the house and enjoy the sun, mornings like those were the worst for Muzan; where the small amount of light would make him so angry that you had lost account of how many times you had to clean his office after some unfortunate soul left a tiny ray of light enter the room. 

Muzan seemed to be in a good mood today; a rarity nowadays. He was wearing that same dangerous smile from the day he met you, plotting something in his mind and letting it show through his face; and if you were to guess, it wasn't a good sign. He had called for you, asked to pour him a drink — at this point you knew it was blood, just in some fancy bottle — and now was staring at you. 

“I heard you meet Kokushibou, Y/N… What do you think about him?”

“Who?” 

There’s a nagging feeling growing in the back of your mind as you watch Muzan dangerously smile at you. You had never heard that name before, but somehow your mind pictured the Demon from the other day straight away. If this conversation was about him, then you were definitely with a few problems. 

“Tall, long hair, six eyes… Does it ring a bell?” Muzan’s tone is playful, swinging the glass in his hand.

“He seems...” You hesitate, remembering his six eyes fixed on your face, his strong hand gripping your chin, and the intense threatening aura exhaling from him. You swallow down, but your throat feels dry, “...Strong.” 

“Always so observant,” He laughs, drinking a sip from the glass, “Of course he’s strong. He’s the upper moon one, stupid human.”

Wrong answer. Your mind screams, ready to push the alert button as soon as his features change in the slightest. The first time you encountered him you couldn't even speak, couldn't even breathe. The intensity of his threatening aura was so strong that you wanted to puke, scream, run away; but your feet never moved. It took you a long time to even manage to move a muscle when in his presence — all the time he acted amused, and you didn't expect less from a monster savouring the distress of a mere human.

You knew the Demon… Kokushibou was powerful just by his presence, but everything made sense now; the authoritarian semblance of dominance each of his movements seemed to carry, how different his aura was from Daki; even though she was powerful, she still acted like a self absorbed teenager. 

“But I’m asking about your first impression,” If he was angry, you couldn't tell, the way Muzan quickly changed emotions was scary, but most of the time, dangerous, “What do you really think about him?”

“He seems to be respectful and polite…” It wasn't a complete lie; Kokushibou did look like he was someone important in his other life, his clothes were clean and tidy. And not trying to kill you that day was a bonus, “And definitely more civil than Daki.”

Muzan laughs again, showing off his teeth, but seeming content with your answer. He studies you while drinking another sip from the glass, and you try to do your best by staying still, but under his gaze no one could ever remain calm, or sane. Your heart beats fast in your chest as the minutes drag by. It’s agonizing, staying in the same room as him for longer than necessary. 

“Well, I called you here to say that I don't need your services anymore.” He finally drops the bomb on your lap, and you can’t do much then stare at the explosion forming on your hands. 

“Did I do something wrong, Muzan-sama?” You ask, but your voice is weak. 

Panic starts to settle on your stomach, did you say something you shouldn't? Have you done something that he didn't like? Did he see through your facade and now was going to kill you? A torrent of thoughts starts to flood your mind as anxiety settles under your skin, making you sweat. 

“No, actually you're more than perfect.” Muzan says, rather uninterested “But i don't care about that child anymore, so i don't see why keep pretending”

A cold shiver runs down your spine as he says those words as if he was getting rid of trash. Somehow, in the back of your mind, you knew this moment was going to happen. It was a matter of time until Muzan decided to drop the act and move on as if nothing happened. 

He didn't care about anyone but himself. You could only hope he was merciful enough to kill them quickly, heart breaking with the thought of that little girl seeing him as the monster he truly was in her final moments before her death. What a nightmare, what twisted fucking world. 

“You've been great. It's a shame you don't want to become a demon, could be one of the best and easily one of my favorites.”

“It is an honor to hear that, Muzan-sama.” You don’t sound like yourself; you can’t even process what he’s saying while you think about mother and daughter, years trying their best to please Muzan only to find death by his own hands. Tears threaten to fall from your eyes but you hold them as much as you can, it would only piss him off seeing you being emotive, caring about someone. 

“Then why don't you want to turn into one?” 

When you don't answer, he sighs loudly, closing the book he was reading. The sound takes you out of your thoughts, making you jump; heartbeat on your ears. He murmurs something under his breath, you’re so lucky you don’t have any idea, before getting up. With his back to you, he studies the painting on the wall of his office. It’s a strange combination of flowers and blood, but it strangely suits him.

“Since you've a good reputation, I’ve already guaranteed another job for you.” Muzan turns his head, 

“Thank you so much…” You try to say between the cacophony of thoughts swinging around your head. It’s hard to keep the tears from falling down, it’s hard to think about anything else than the poor family being torn apart for his amusement. 

“Pack your things, you're going to work for Kokushibou now.”

There’s a painful pause on your heart, and you could swear you were going to collapse right in the moment. Your mind goes blank, fear crossing your eyes as you remember his touch on your chin, the cold yet burning feeling of his stare on each part of your face. 

“You just said you think he’s respectful, do you have a problem with him that you didn't tell me about it?” Muzan turns his head, red eyes glowing in the thin light of the room; it’s deadly.

“I don't, Muzan-sama. It’s going to be a honor.” You lie, because that’s the only thing you can do right now. 

“Well then, you're dismissed.”

You don’t know how you made it to your room, how you packed your things and cleaned the room you called home for years, one last time. It felt like you were numb to everything, still not being able to process what was happening, where you were going, and who you were going to be working for. At some point your cheeks were thick with tears but you didn't feel sad for yourself, not entirely, it was how abrupt the world was. How abrupt things changed and you couldn't have a single say about it. 

That’s why you never got attached to anyone, that’s why you never let your guard down. And even when you didn’t have any type of attachment, the world still manages to pull the rug beneath your feet. You don't even try to look for the little girl — not that you had the opportunity, either way. 

As you stare at the view from the window of the train, you can at least relax for the first time in years. Not being surrounded by the overpowering aura that Muzan always carried with himself was so relieving that you could feel yourself taking a few deep breaths, smelling the air of the mountains. Trying to enjoy the ride as much as you could, you didn't want to think about what kind of place Kokushibou lived, or how your life would be once you step in. 

It was night when you arrived at the designed station, it was far away from the city, and you were already missing the noise and the traffic, but maybe changing scenarios was something good - you had to keep telling yourself to be positive about this. It couldn't be worse than living with Muzan, right? Right.

You were welcomed by an old lady, she was waiting for you at the platform, waving at you as you got off the train. Since you didn't have many belongings, you only brought a small suitcase with you. 

“You must be Y/N, nice to meet you.” She gently says, smiling at you. 

“Yes, I am. Nice to meet you too.” You bow in respect. The old lady pats your head and you immediately feel safer. If the rest of the servants were like her, then maybe Kokushibou was indeed a respectful man.

The tension building up on your body slowly started to calm down as the servant explained what you would have to do. It was easy and simple, washing the bed sheets, cleaning the house, taking care of the garden. You never imagined yourself working under such a mundade setting like this; it was going to be interesting, to say the least. 

However, the odd feeling that something was wrong still lingered — your gut still poking you with worries and alerts — and you couldn't just ignore it, but for now, you tucked it underneath your hopes, wishing it was enough to keep them at bay. 

The wagon stopped in front of an elegant archway, and as you helped the old lady get down from it, you studied the beautiful front yard, with a colorful garden and a variety of trees. There was a pathway of cobblestones that led to the house; witch was big and very tradicional. 

Walking in silence towards the house, your eyes flew around, trying to enjoy each glimpse of nature. It has been so long since you have seen so many different colors, vibrant even under the moonlight. You touch a few flowers, fingers brushing against the delicate petals; the smell of them cleans your mind, making a tiny smile tug on the corner of your lips.

However, as soon as your eyes drifted back to the house, the tiny smile died on your lips, sending you back to reality. Kokushibou was standing right in front of the porch, his hand was resting on his sword. You held your breath as you finally arrived at the house, bowing as soon as you were introduced. 

Kokushibou studied you for a long moment before saying “Welcome, Y/N.” 

[clueless-grunt]

Ask (simplified): A poet/singer reader that gets kidnapped by pennywise and forced to tell stories and sing.

First public writing, please be nice.

Pennywise x gender neutral reader. Kidnapping tw. Don't like it, don't read it. For @charliedawn

The day had been quiet. The house had been still, not even the wind being separated by the eaves penetrated the deafening silence. Cobwebs hung limply from the ceiling, creating sheer walls that did their best to block anyone from entering.

You shifted slightly, and the floor cried out beneath you, warning you to leave now, before you discovered for yourself wether the legends of monsters and ghosts surrounding the house were true. You felt a weight clinging to you that you didn't notice before now.

Turning your head sharply to the left, peering over your shoulder to the door, making sure it was still there. But the dread that melded your heart and your stomach remained, and slowly, slowly you strained your eyes to look directly at your shoulder blade. You knew you wouldn't see anything, yet something about the home made you feel like you weren't alone.

You looked at the floorboards behind you, looking for a beast that clinged to your back like a myling, one that grew heavier with each step towards the heart of the house. You saw nothing.

Yet still the feeling of your sins crawling upon your back unnerved you.

Turning back to face the dark pit of the house, you consider taking heed to the advice of the legends, and turning around, running far and fast away from the dilapidated house at the end of an equally abandoned street. The only visitors to the street were lost or curious children and occasionally a morbid adult.

Your legs ached to move, to leave and never come back. But stubborn as you were, instead of turning towards the door, you steer yourself towards the living room. The light sound of crushed tin cans reaches your ears as you kick them aside.

The living room, although likely the best illuminated, was still dismal. Making your way further into the room towards the damask drapes, you wondered wether your fear wasn't of being alone, but rather the fear that you were here with someone, something else that was discreetly watching just past your line of sight.

Drawing the fabric to the side with a slight rustle, you were momentarily blinded by the light. Turning from it, you looked to the fireplace. Carved into the wood above it read the words, "Good cheer, Good friends".

You thought it ironic, since all cheer and friendly hospitality seemed to have left the confines of these walls with the last owners. You wonder what happened to them.

You sat on the crushed velvet of the sofa and pulled out a small journal. Looking at the floor, you observed how far the light from the grimy windows reached into the shadows before succumbing to the drab void that emanated from the far corners of the room.

Nothing came to mind. You had been sure that you would have found inspiration here. The few short poems you had wouldn't put food on the table for much longer, and you made next to nothing from your songs.

You closed your eyes, not wanting to think about your financial situation. You payed more attention to the uncomfortable feeling that you weren't alone.

"Ghouls and ghosts that crawl and climb,

That fly and slither, to seek and hide.

Creeping through the window,

and underneath the door,

dancing in the shadows,

Tapping across the floor.

They hide behind your jackets, underneath your bedded frames, waiting for their time to strike with hungered eye and fang.

Satisfied with this, you jot it down in your notebook and move on. You come upon a faded kitchen table and cracked ceramic tiles. Here the dust hung like a thick fog, weighing down anything within the confines of the rotted plaster and decaying wood.

The weight of the room was too much, if you stayed, you would end up running far away from this forsaken place, only to return once the last of your meager savings had been completely dried. Only then, it would be permanent. You would become another one of the slightly more believable tales meant to scare children.

Bracing yourself for whatever you may see next, you turn towards the staircase, and hoped the brittle wood could hold your weight.

The floorboards underneath you mourned your foolishness as you acended the stairs.

Upstairs, the first thing you come upon is a bathroom.

Reflected in the dingy mirror was yourself. Behind you, the hideous wallpaper clung loosely from the damp drywall. It's odor polluting the air.

You recalled as if from nowhere all the old superstitions that you had always blown off as nonsense. The ones that told young children that seeing their doppleganger was bad luck, that the mirror held a piece of the onlooker's soul, that the other side of the mirror was another world. And you wondered if you would ever find the truth to these tales. You wondered if you would ever watch yourself blink, or see someone walk by the doorway when you were certain you were totally alone.

Your double looked back at you, terrified.

Focusing on the legends, you thought for a moment, this is what you needed.

"The sound of the violin is clear,

The dancer's waltzing showed no fear.

Her heart beat faster as they drew nearer,

A single reflection swayed in the mirror."

Looking back to the mirror, the fear was too much. But you came here for a reason.

However, you had gotten a few poems down, and there were less terrifying places to find inspiration.

You let yourself move forward into the suffocating shadows, moving ever closer to being lost completely.

You come upon a solid ebony door. It's polished exterior gleamed even in the faint light. When you started to push, it easily, yet gingerly swung open with a soft sigh.

The room greeted you with a bright, but not harsh, light. It was softened by the yellowed curtains that concealed the room from the outside, warming the room with it's buttercup hue.

You passed the threshold, nothing but the sound of your footsteps following you inside. No boards creaked, the wind didn't mourn your insipid ways. Just the dust falling after being dormant for years, disturbed by your sudden intrusion, your boots on the silent hardwood, and your slowing breath.

You felt safe.

To your right, a lofted bed. The blankets looking half eaten by moths and rodents that plagued the walls with their festering disease, running up and down the plastered confines with their frantic pattering.

To your left, a large coal burning cook stove. The cylinder was blackened with soot and layers of dust. When you touched it, it stained your hands,turning them black as pitch, a reminder of this house's unclean repute.

Straight ahead, just under the window, was a desk. It was painted a faded emerald green, that showed the wood underneath through the chipped colouring. The top was littered with small jars and brushes. Also on the desk, reflecting the light into a colourful array on the wall, was a small mirror.

You turned it towards you, your reflection now calm and serene.

Then you looked behind you, directly at the door.

The one you swore you had left open.

You turned, certain that the light off the mirror was tricking your head into thinking that it was closed. And it could have been a trick, if there had been a door there at all.

In front of you, in place of the sturdy oak door that you had entered through, was a solid wall of light brown planks, shelves cluttering the surface, sparsely decorated with small trinkets and instruments.

You dashed up to where the door had been, and pounded, the vibrations throwing the odds and ends from the shelves, breaking the glass and making a horrid sound.

Your heart beat against your ribcage, threatening to break free. Panic hit suddenly, punching your stomach and weighing it down. You were hyperventilating, and we're quickly becoming lightheaded.

You felt as if you would pass out if you didn't get some fresh air. You turned, looking to open the window, and feel the cool, sweet air fill your lungs.

Your weakness and lack of breath made it a struggle to lift the curtains and the stubborn window. It opened with spastic jolts, opening only a few inches each time.

But those few inches allowed a gentle breeze to upset the curtains and let new air into the room. The ancient air left the room, breathing the soft, sweet smell of early summer in like a lung.

You stumbled over to the bed, hoisting yourself up to meet the stiff pillows and threadbare comforters.

Your mind races, thinking of how you would leave, of the fall from the window, and of your family. Thinking of these, you began to sing. Softly, gently, your voice ebbed and flowed like the gradual change of the seasons. Barely noticable, barely vocal in its words, a casual whisper just to guide you, you sang.

"Upon one summer's morning,

I carefully did stray,

Down by the walls of wapping,

Where I met a sailor gay.

Conversing with a young lass,

Who seem'd to be in pain,

Saying 'William when you go, I fear,

You'll never return again'.

My heart is pierced by cupid,

I disdain all glittering gold,

There is nothing can console me,

But my jolly sailor bold. "

Your heart slowed, bumping at a steady pace, accentuating each word you sang. You lay on the bed, catching your breath, listening to the whisper-quiet rush of the breeze through the window.

You opened your eyes to darkness.

How long had you been sleeping?

You looked around you. The house once again was quiet, formless shapes danced to the sound of wind, a discordant violin.

There was nothing recognizable to focus on on the lightless room. You could feel nothing but the coolness of the air and the scratchy feel of the blanket under you.

You listened, and waited, wondering what had awoken you. And then you heard the rustling of fabric from next to the stove. Frozen, hoping you had heard wrong, hoping you had moved without noticing, moving the fabric under you.

Hope however, is only there to be crushed.

A fabric covered hand covered your mouth, the thick fingers muffling your terrified and confused whimpers, the other wrapping its long digits around your throat. And the shape across from you was gone.

Struggled to no avail against the limbs pinning you to the bed. You became light headed, and your lungs ached, prying at themselves for air.

Sitting there for just a few minutes, knowing that a soft breeze of sweet smelling air was just out of your grasp.

You began to see colours, even in the deep dark. Blue, then green, then yellow, and then nothing at all.

You woke in a damp cavern. It's walls curved inward, creating a basin shaped room. In the center, a very old circus cart sat, covered with tattered clothing and toys.

Circling around the top of the pile, were children. They stared blankly, emitting only a soft song that dripped with melancholia. They were all in different conditions, from in tact to... unnatural. The words 'half eaten' come to mind.

The walls were slimy with mold and algae. It smelled of rot. Telling of something very old, and very slow.

The top of the basin, where the ceiling should have been, was a pipe that let in a cylinder of light that cast itself like a spotlight down onto the mountain of what can only be described as garbage.

The sound of rushing water struggled to reach your ears with its violent thundering. Somewhere, far away, there was an opening. You would never have the chance to persue it however.

A repetitive thundering boom drew nearer, and you scrambled to the centre of the room to the circus cart.

The door was open a small ways, letting a slim wall of light slip down onto the stairs. You threw the door open, All the while trying to make the whole of your movement as quiet as possible. The room was nearly empty, except for a few scrapboard props and a few oil lamps hanging from the ceiling. The deep yellow of the dancing and jumping flame gave the room a comforting, hearty glow.

The room around you began to shake and the deep pattering, booming footsteps became thunderous, ground shattering pulses. The shadows rushed and swayed with the swinging lanterns, darkening corners for mere seconds before inverting its course, only to return to its dizzy dance, unable to make up its mind.

A frantic and hurried melody drifted through the air, singing the highs without the slightest effort and bellowing the deepest lows with a thick and cool voice.

The jittering tune came from everywhere, surrounding the cart like the air itself was full of vibrant colours.

A childlike, tittering voice sent shockwaves through the air that made your stomach fall to its knees.

It was incomprehensible, a mash of all languages. Some you could make out, child, lost, afraid. Some were only understandable in foreign languages, and some didn't sound like anything you've heard before. Growls, chittering, whistles, and screeching rang through the air, bouncing off the walls like bullets.

Then there was silence once more. Nothing could be heard except for your erratic heart and deep, dizzy breath.

A light sound reached you, the cheerful twinkling of bells, a sound that made distant memories seem so close. It was almost comforting, or it would have been, if the sound wasn't right outside the door.

A quick knock on the door.

"Pretty thing... Such a bright young flower. Did you really think you could get away from old Pennywise?"

The lanterns blew out without a noise. No beat. No melody followed. Nothing broke through the dark. At some point, you were asleep.

You awoke in a large brass bird cage. You looked up to see a lock on the cage door, and a bell.

What a sick joke.

You couldn't make out much in the suffocating gloom, that could almost be smelled. And yet, in the corner, a silver form could be seen staring. Two bright green orbs could be seen though the dark. Then the beast who had been staring, the one who called itself Pennywise, spoke a simple demand.

"Sing."

You were stunned. You had no clue what had happened over the past hours. (Days, weeks?) You sat, staring back at the beast, returning their favor.

"If you don't sing for me, my little songbird, I can personally promise a fate far worse than this."

You wanted to scream, to run, but both would end terribly. So you straightened yourself, letting the wind pass freely through your vocal chords, and you sang.

It wasn't original, but even so, your voice came in waves, drifting though the rank air, bringing a sweetness that could not be smelled, but could be appreciated all the same, taking to the breeze and wandering through the chamber, seeking only a soft heart to settle upon, to give the strings only the softest of tugs.

The beast's eyes became a nearly slate coloured blue, less than half open as they reclined, their breath becoming as light as the fluttering melody that escaped you.

The song ended all too soon, much to the shape's displeasure. It glared at you with both the deepest anger and the most heartbreaking care.

"Why did you stop?"

You scrambled to explain yourself, to try to make it understand that you were trying. But nothing except a mess of pleas were loose enough to come tumbling from your lips.

The being stood up, and began to walk towards you. You tried to fit through the bars of the cage, to no avail.

They were standing at the cage door, seemingly amused at your attempt to escape. You looked over your shoulder at it, pleading without words, hoping that your life would be spared.

The lock fell off the latch and clattered on the floor with a deep rattle. The door swayed with a scream, slowing them inside. They wandered over to your quivering form, as if you were trying to shake the thing off you.

It crouched in front of you and took your arms from in front of your face. They forced your legs down from in front of your chest and into a crossed position. All of this surprised you, as although it definitely wasn't being rough, it was making a point not to test it. However, its credibility was immediately tarnished when it laid its head in your lap. It spoke directly to you for the fourth time, speaking its wishes once more.

"Tell me a story, or yours will end."

It didn't seem too serious with this threat though.

Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

[song-of-asystole]

Crime and Punishment - Soukoku oneshot

Summary:

A demon once whispered to him of crime and punishment. He hadn’t paid it much mind – how trusted can a demon be?

His crime, among others, was betrayal.

The only aspect of the crime he left overlooked turned out to be the most crucial one – the punishment.

And the demon stays amused by the most pathetic Raskolnikov in existence – Dazai Osamu.

or

The author being an absolute nerd for Dostoyevsky and overanalyzing Soukoku’s relationship. Enjoy Dazai’s late-night thoughts!

TW: death, implied suicide

Author’s note:

I’m taking a break from my usual writing (which I’m super insecure about), so I’m writing this little fic because I hope you will be kind to me. Also, I just needed some comfort and BSD is my go-to place for that.

There’s a couple of references scattered across the fic: the obvious one about Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment, as well as The Brother Karamazov and The House of the Dead. Yes, I’m aware I’m a huge nerd.

I actually got really carried away and I wrote 2 more chapters which I’ll post on AO3. Of course, this chapter will be up there too, I’ll put a link down below, so please give feedback. :D

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30342828

Enjoy!!

A demon once whispered to him of crime and punishment. He hadn’t paid it much mind – how trusted can a demon be?

Dazai Osamu’s crime, among others, was betrayal. He betrayed the miserable life he had led in Port Mafia, the life that had devastated him on the days he remembered he had heart under that cold, colorless ribcage of his. This life, if one may even call it that, deprived Dazai of a childhood, of innocence, of cleanliness: his hands stained crimson red and his thoughts painted pitch black. Would letting go wash away those dark colors, reveal the truth underneath, which was unknown to him? He did not know, but something had to change.

And so he escaped, with the night cradling him and the smoke of a burning car covering his treacherous silhouette. He had fled the winter of his life, days of bloodshed and sin out of sight and out of mind, looking forward to a promisingly bright spring. Betrayal is an ugly thing, but he had never cared much for looks.

The only aspect of his crime he left overlooked turned out to be the most crucial one – the punishment. Never had he dreamed he would feel guilty.

What am I really even guilty of? Wanting to see the light? Wanting to do good for once in this wretched life I lead? The days I spent swimming in the dark waters of despair deserved to see the end. Am I a monster for wanting happiness?

Hard as he tried to reason with his guilty consciousness, it never left him. It just kept gnawing at his thoughts, making him remember what, nay, whom he tried to forget.

The red-haired calamity.

The manipulator of gravity.

To Dazai, the giver of life.

Nakahara Chuuya.

At the time, Dazai could’ve never fathomed the concept of missing the redhead. Sure, Chuuya was important to him – as much as a person who knew everything about you could be. The two knew each other from the tip of the head to the end of the toes.

He could never not be important. Such noise is rarely ignored, Dazai mused jokingly.

Chuuya was what brought him life. The constant cheating, stealing and killing tramples the soul until you cannot make anything of what’s left. It’s what makes Dazai long for death – he’s seen the depths of this cursed city that squeezed his heart to the point he wanted to throw it away. However, Chuuya – just saying his name made Dazai feel warm – he saw it too. He felt it the same way Dazai did. He might act harsh with all his stomping, yelling, and destroying, but underneath all that is a gentle, nurturing nature that he hides. It’s a detriment in his line of work. Having someone understand meant a lot to Dazai. Maybe their partnership was even built on this silent understanding, among other things.

However, Chuuya was not nice. Don’t ever mistake Chuuya’s sensitivity with kindness. Sugar and spice was not to be in the same sentence as his name. He has always been… rough. Sometimes it served as a wake-up call to Dazai. It helped put things into perspective, but it also helped put things into bad perspective. Not a single morning did these two share without a fight – verbal or physical. Dazai didn’t mind it much at first. After all, teasing Chuuya did work like a drug for him. With time, however, the blade of their words never became dull. It only sharpened. Words like poison flung around the apartment, sentences like spider-webs sitting in hidden corners of the bedroom. Love – they never dared call it that, but, oh, what a burning love it was – love, the most sacred of all emotions, was a chore until it became a war. Eventually, Dazai couldn’t find his peace even in the arms of a lover.

So, his craftiness started turning wheels again and – he escaped. Not a word in the evening, not a trace in the morning, only confusion and hurt spelled over Chuuya’s heart.

Dazai knew it was cruel. He never felt right about it. He loved Chuuya, after all, so the best thing to do, he concluded, was to forget.

The demon laughs. Punishment has been passed.

Presently, Dazai Osamu spends his night awake, staring at the dirty ceiling of his room, as the most pitiful of the world’s Raskolnikovs.

Why can’t he seem to forget a man he once loved, a man he soon grew to hate, a man he betrayed in order to find happiness? What twisted force of nature is dragging his thoughts back to the time he was at his lowest? Why is it that now, when all hope of reunion between the lovers is lost, he finds himself longing for the infamous Port Mafia executive Nakahara Chuuya? Why did the ashes find their way back into a flame after he committed the worst of all sins – betrayal of trust and love?

The demon chuckles once again and in a sing-songy voice he says, I told you, Dazai-kun. To love thy neighbor is impossible. The man himself is the ugliest of all God’s creations – how could anyone love such a creature up close? Even the Father won’t cast a glance at him. It takes distance, Dazai-kun, and you’re not exempt from this rule of human nature.

It is irksome, yes, how right the demon seems to be. It is certainly irksome, Dazai feels, as the demon’s words carve into the left chamber of his stone cold heart. What even was it that made Dazai hate Chuuya? Hate Chuuya… it used to seem so impossible and yet, along with Odasaku’s death, it drove him to plan and execute a high-scale betrayal of the entire Port Mafia.

It would take years before Dazai could understand the intricacies of his past with Chuuya at Port Mafia. What mattered now – truly, the only real thing in this world – was the fact that he actually loved Nakahara Chuuya.

Oh. There. He thought of it. For some reason, he didn’t want to think of anything else but that. It wasn’t scary, as he thought it’d be, all those years ago. He finally broke the lock in his lungs and there it was: all that air he never let himself breathe. What was it about that mere word that made two Port Mafia executives shy around it, avoid it like the authorities, dance around it as if it was bonfire in the festival night? Why had they never let the simple four-letter word into their little sanctuary when it so obviously belonged with them? The fear he once felt seemed foolish to him now.

I guess we do learn as long as we live, he whispers in the dark room to no one in particular.

He felt a rush trying to sweep him up, make him stand. However, where would he go? To Chuuya? As if. He hurt Chuuya in unspeakable ways even during the time they spent together. He has no right to show up at his doorstep or in his life. Ever again.

Even if he did, how would that end? They squeezed each other’s hearts dry and called it love. Every day felt like torture, but they swore it was sweet. Why, why, why did they cause so much pain? Was it truly the only method to make them feel alive in the house of the dead? Did the right answer slip between their fingers at some point?

The question Dazai had been stuck on was, Is there any way he could forgive me? If, once in the future, I looked him in the eye and told him the truth – would there be salvation pouring from his lips? Or would he rightfully convict me for my crime?

Thus, Dazai fell into slumber, like every other evening for the past four years. The bed will never feel comfortable to him because it always seems to be missing something, but Dazai will keep denying it. His little room doesn’t even look like a home, but Dazai will tell you that he just can’t be bothered to unpack and decorate. His heart, cold like a Russian blizzard, has not known warmth in a while, but he will tell you it’s incapable to do so.

Those are the only three lies Dazai Osamu tells people and himself – until the night comes again and unlocks a little door in his brain.

[dancing-the-hellfire-rumba]

Tell Me Everything

Pairing: Chris Evans x Fem!Reader Word Count: 3k Summary:  Reader works as a costume designer in Marvel. She's currently working on Endgame, designing the costumes for each superhero (but especially her favorite one), when Chris stops by. Later, he tries it on. Mutal pining goodness and fluff all throughout :) Warnings: None :) A/N: It’s been a while. I’ve written for chris once only, and I already miss it. Here’s some fluff.

Earphones plugged in deep in her ears, blocking every other sound apart from her music. The side of her hand is dirty with pencil lead, leaving occasional smudges on the paper that she forgets to erase. It’s- there’s a lingering fatigue she can’t really shake off. She’s beyond exhausted, working so late in the night, still in her office, but doing this, right here, it feels so damn good. It doesn’t matter that she should be heading home, because all her repressed creativity is bleeding in the paper, flowing as if it’s pouring out of her veins . Finally, finally , doing the thing she’s great at, the thing she loves.

Her music is deep, dark, has a strong but slow beat to it, and she bobs her head along, uncaring of the strands of hair that are furiously escaping her ponytail. She gets lost in the design, vigorously making swooping lines and hard edges, scribbling to her heart’s content, erasing a line and coming back in. The tedious process of adding details makes her settle just a little.

These past few years have been incredible. Working for Marvel was a dream she didn’t even know she’d had, the opportunity of a lifetime, truly. During the time spent working with all these amazing people, she’s learned, she’s grown, she’d developed as an artist and as a person. She can say nothing less than she’s happy, truly happy here. She means, designing and creating costumes for this franchise has been a job she couldn’t have even dreamt of. It may get tiresome, sometimes boring and tedious, but right now, designing… she feels like she’s been born to do this and just this.

It’s been a while since she’d gotten so lost in a design. It may be the fact that this particular one, and the actor that’s supposed to wear it, is her favorite. She may be biased. But she’d had amazing ideas and she was so eager to just make them come to life.

She’s coloring the last of the star in the center of the chest, when fingers tap her shoulder. Having been so lost in her work and music, she feels like someone poured a bucket of water over her without warning, and she jumps, pulling her earbuds out by their wire and swiveling her chair to look at the intruder.

Chris smiles down at her, all teeth and soft eyes. His hands are in the air flamboyantly, It’s me!, dark grey, long sleeved Henley loose on his biceps, and dark wash jeans hugging his thighs tightly. His hair is grown longer, tucked behind his ears, his beard is… new , and very nicely trimmed. Her heart thumps a little louder at the sight of him. If anyone were to ask, she’d blame the jumpscare, but she knows better.

“Chris!” Excitedly getting off her seat and throwing her arms around his shoulders in a friendly hug. His own wrap around her tightly, squeeze her to him, if only for a second, and she exhales.

“Hey!” He tells her, just as excitedly, and she pulls back. “I’m sorry I scared you, I knocked and there was no answer.” She waves a hand to show him it’s okay and plops back on her seat unceremoniously.

“What are you even doing here?! I thought the cast was gonna show up next week, for the fittings?” A strand tucked behind her ear and she’s suddenly kind of self-conscious of her disheveled state. Chris leans his hip on her desk and crosses his arms over his chest casually, looking like one of those bad boys in 2000’s coming-of-age rom-coms. She tries not to stare, but it’s a struggle, and a funny thought crosses her mind. If she were looking at him for the first time, he’d be screaming trouble. He still does, but less because he’s scary and a heartbreaker, and more because she’s hopeless when it comes to being functional around him.

“I had some business up here in New York, and the Russo’s asked me to drop by. Something about paperwork.” He shrugs lightly and she ‘ah’s, accompanied by a nod and a brief eyebrow twitch to show her understanding.

“Well, I’m happy you dropped by. It’s been a hot minute, hasn’t it,” she smiles at him, and Chris nods, a bit of an apologetic, regretful almost, look in his eye.

“So,” he says and shifts his weight a little, “whatcha working on?”

“You, actually.” Lead-stained fingers pull the sketchbook under the light a little better, closer to him, and he gets off his hip, places his left hand on the back of her chair, leaning all his weight on his right, on the desk. His chest is suddenly so close to her face, her shoulder brushes his torso and she’s holding her breath , because he smells so good –cologne and aftershave?- she might fucking faint . She can feel her face heat up. She wonders if he’s doing it on purpose, if he knows at all. She watches his expression.

“Waddaya got?” It’s all interest in his voice, and he doesn’t seem to intend to move. Damn.

“Well,” she takes a shaky breath, “I figured, y’know-“ a mindless shrug, and his shirt is exceptionally soft and fairly thin, two layers between their bare skin, and- oh gosh, she's supposed to be explaining things. Focus! “Cap needs a new suit, and he’s a fugitive now, right? He doesn’t really care to get a new one tailored.” Chris exhales a chopped, amused breath and nods sideways, as if saying You have a point there . “So the old one would have to do.

“But it’s different now, because he can’t have the same exact one, completely untouched, and he’s a different man now anyways.” Scooting the chair closer to the desk on instinct- and fucking great , now she’s literally pressing into the bottom of his ribcage lightly with her shoulder. It’s getting harder to breathe. She can feel his exhales on her face, Jesus. “So basically,” a steadying, shaky breath, “I made it dirtier- that’s why the colors are darker. It’s supposed to be aging fabric. But it’s also more comfortable for you.

“The sleeves will end right here-” without giving it much thought, she traces a line under his right elbow, the one on which he’s leaning, and he follows the motion with his gaze intently, “and you’ll wear some fingerless gloves with buckles on them.” He nods, eyes still not off her design, occasionally flicking to glance at her. “But,” she begins.

“The detail I’m most excited for is this,” a tap on the star in the middle of the uniform- or rather lack thereof. The space where the plastic white thing once resided is now dark blue like the rest of the uniform. She grins up at him when his features twitch in interest. “I pitched this to Joe and he really loved it. Basically, my logic is that, as we said, Cap’s a fugitive, yeah?” Chris nods, attentive as ever. “He’s gone against every government official he knows, against a big chunk of his own team. The news have probably said awful things about him and painted him as a superhero gone rogue or something. So what does he do? He rips off the star.

“He no longer fits the Captain America title, in the sense that he doesn’t want to be associated with the government’s lap dog, their dancing monkey. Instead of faithfully following orders as a soldier, he’s his own self, still a Captain, but on his own terms. It’s symbolic! He’s carving his own  path, leading like he was always meant to, and he’s dramatic enough to have done this- ripped off the star I mean. The suit should feel more familiar to him now.”

She’s been rambling for a while, her mouth is drier, but she was so excited when the idea manifested in her head. A big sense of pride washed over her, she couldn’t wait to design and implement it in the costume.

And Chris, well… Chris is looking at her with this small little smile that grows the more he considers it. “I…” he shakes his head, a grin stretching his pretty lips, “I fucking love it,” he tells her, with so much genuine warmth in his tone. She’s never heard him this confident and proud , like a parent almost, glowing at her like she’s something brighter than a star. “That’s brilliant , Y/n, holy shit ! The fans will go nuts!” He leans close to inspect the design again with the new parameters in mind, shaking his hand as if disbelieving, smile remaining on his face. “You’re amazing .”

A hot, red blush spreads across her cheeks fiercely, and there’s a lingering urge to sit up straighter, to square her shoulders in pride and happiness, because she’s so happy he liked it¸ but she is now acutely aware of how close he is, still not having moved away from her since she pressed into him accidentally. She resorts to a one shouldered shrug. “Thank you,” her voice is meeker than she’d like it, but Chris doesn’t mention it. Instead, they share a smile.

=

“Ready?”

“I’m, unf, gimme a sec- I’m coming.” Some shuffling, and then the sound of the curtain being pulled back, and she puts her phone away, swiveling in her chair and- oh Christ.

“Chris… ” she says, eyes racking from the tops of his shoes, up his legs, his thighs, his belt. The way the comfortable material stretches over his fit stomach, up his curved chest, and extends up to the base of his neck- it’s, fuck, he looks so good. His veiny forearms are exposed to the warm lamp light in the room, and he’s not wearing the gloves, seeing as they’re sitting on her desk.

The dark blue of his suit makes his newly dyed hair look golden .

“How do I look?” He says with a grin, striking an exuberant pose just to make her smile, and she grins.

“I’ll give you like,” she pretends to think for a second, “a six out of ten.” A shrug and a bitten back smile, and his hand goes to his chest dramatically, thick eyebrows furrowing and blowing out a breath.

“Damn,” he tells her with a look in his eyes that she can’t really place, something teasing, but like they're sharing an inside joke of some kind. “Harsh critic,” it’s teasing and happy, and she chuckles, because yeah. This is quite  perfect. She grabs his gloves off her desk and gets off her chair, going up to him and holding them for him to squeeze his hands in. She tightens some buckles, smooths a hand over the leathery material, making non-existent creases disappear.

A step back, she inspects the way the material hugs his thighs so nicely, but is also still baggy, to give him some freedom of movement. His boots are almost knee high, and- it actually looks like it might be a bit tight in the neck. She steps closer to him, barely tests the two buckles in front of his shoulders, checking that there’s give for him to move in. “It’s good? Comfortable, I mean?” A finger dragged between the collar of his top and his neck, purely professionally she swears, it was a subconscious move to check how much space there is for him to breathe and move his neck. And that’s the moment stupid Chris chooses to hum and she feels it in the exhale hitting her face, the vibration of his throat.

God .

Her lips purse and she squints a little, pulling back her hand. I can make this better , she decides. “Don’t move,” she orders and heads to her desk, grabbing some needle and a thread that matches the color of his suit, along with a small blade. She walks back up to him again and, with a careful hand on his chest and the threaded needle carefully placed between her lips, she makes a few, strategically placed rips near the star with the blade.

“Don’t stab me,” he says, tone low for a reason she can’t understand but makes a shiver run through her.

“Don’t give me ideas,” she counters, and Chris’s stomach shakes a little with a short, contained laugh. Continuing, she distresses the fabric, and patches up the edges so they won’t tear further during filming, allowing a string or two to stick out.

She is absolutely, of course, not ignoring how she can feel every single one of his breaths, and how he’s so good and still, and his hands are only a handful of inches away from her waist, his face hellishly close to hers.

A released exhale and a nod to herself. “Perfect,” she says quietly. She wraps the threaded needle around the handle of the blade so as to not lose it and throws it back on her desk haphazardly, to put away later. Unmoving from her spot near him, she gazes at the rips and decides it was a good addition. For just a second, it seems she forgets exactly how close he is, and now she looks up to him for approval, finding that same intent stare, straight into her soul from only three inches away.

There’s a sudden urge to shrink and disintegrate, confidence gone. Clothes she can handle. Chris she really can’t.

Baby blue eyes are watching her, standing perfectly still for her to do her thing, but there’s a, dare she say , affection of sorts in his gaze, and she’s very much struck with it. “You look great, Cap’n,” breathy and quiet, because she can’t fucking sit in silence when he looks at her like that. Chris smiles.

“All thanks to you.” A grin at the praise, at the lowered tone of his voice, as if he doesn’t want to break the moment with loud words. She should step back, b- but she physically cannot. Her muscles are seriously unwilling to move. This is her being weird, right? She’s crossing a line by taking advantage of his proximity, right? Why- He’s not showing any signs of awkwardness or discomfort though.

She’d like to know how one stretches a moment to eternity, a piece of knowledge she'd most certainly use right now. His cologne is the same as last week, when he visited in her office, comforting and musky, and he’s- he’s just looking at her with his beautiful eyes boring into hers, his warmth just centimeters away.

“You’re very close to me,” what a stupid thing to say , she scolds herself, but she just- she doesn’t know what else to do. Is it normal to feel such heat radiate from his body, or is that her mind playing tricks? She wants to curl into him, into said warmth, bury her nose in his neck and nuzzle there. It’s an urge that hits her like a tidal wave, and it almost makes her stagger on her feet. Her heart beats faster, inflated and full, adrenaline coursing through her veins all of a sudden. Chris swallows a little and nods. “What are you gonna do about it?”

There’s almost no charm in his tone, he looks borderline nervous, but there’s still some confidence in his velvety voice for him to flirt with her, the bastard and- she’s not imagining this, right? She’s not dreaming or anything? Chris actually enjoys this proximity, this closeness, he’s not pulling away. He just- he just sort of gave her consent to do something, anything. The ball is in her court, a challenge, proving she actually can do something about this.

With a shaky hand, she presses her palm flat on his chest.

A mental barrier is broken by that  touch and Chris seems to curl closer, if possible. His gloved hand goes to her waist, holding her near him, his head dipping lower, and she’s standing on her tiptoes. Noses brushing together, a challenge, emphasized in the teasing curl of his lips, sharing the same air. Beard tickling her top lip as she inches closer. A small hand on his face, and she licks her lips instinctively, parts them a little- and closes the gap between them.

It’s soft and wet and everything she’s ever dreamt of really, and holy shit , she’s dreamt of this. It’s actually happening, right now. He’s in his dumb Captain America uniform, pulling her close so now their chests are pressed together, moving his lips against hers slowly, and his hands are in leather gloves with buckles on them. The thought makes her smile a little, to the point where now the kiss is all teeth, and he pulls back for a second, as if sensing her amusement.

“What?” he asks. Her forehead leans on his chest, a sad attempt to hide her grin. His arms, one wrapping around her waist, his other hand on her back.

“I’m kissing Captain America,” and Chris lets out a single, incredulous breath, eyes rolling to the back of his head as if to say, you’re unbelievable. She grins up at him, a challenging eyebrow raised. Am I wrong though?

Teeth trap her bottom lip and she worries it for a moment as they quiet again, lost in thought and looking at him absently. She wants to kiss him again. She likes how his hands are warm on her back, how his chest is lean under her. Leaning on her tiptoes again, she smiles softly and brushes her nose on his cheek affectionately, because it’s suddenly okay to do so, the hairs of his beard scratchy against her skin. Chris is not having it though, and he turns his head to capture her lips again.

It feels so good, she thinks, as she instinctively places gentle fingers on his jawline to keep him tilted to her. It’s like the world is blooming. Like her heart is bursting through the seams, chest far too small for it. She kisses him, and he holds her just this much closer.

She’s kissing Captain America. And it’s a damn good fucking kiss.

Tags: @thegetawaywriter​ 

[junie-bugg]

The Heartrender - Chapter One: Ashes

Hey everyone! Here’s my latest Enemies to Lovers Everlark fic. It’s a fantasy AU inspired by Leigh Bardugo’s Six of Crows duology, more specifically Nina Zenik and Matthias Helvar. You don’t need to have read Six of Crows to understand this story since I took ideas from Bardugo’s world and then made it my own. It doesn’t take place in the Grishaverse but is heavily influenced by it. I came up with countries, parts of a new language, and backstories for my witch!Katniss and witch-hunter!Peeta. 

All four chapters have been written and I plan on uploading every Friday:)

You can read here on Tumblr or here on AO3.

Rating: Explicit

Warning: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Sexual Content

Relationship: Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark

Tags: Enemies to Lovers, witch!Katniss, witch-hunter!Peeta, AU - Shipwrecked, AU - Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Explicit Sexual Content, Furs and Fires, Angst and Fluff and Smut, sexually experienced Katniss, virgin Peeta, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Loss of Virginity, Laughter During Sex, Blood and Injury, Imprisonment, Peeta has some prejudices to work out, Peeta also has an accent, Inspired by Six of Crows

Summary: 

He hated her. He hated her for what she was: an abomination, a demon sent to tear at the fabric of the natural world. He hated her for making him want to laugh. He hated her for being so brazen and sensuous and everything the women of his country were never allowed to be. But mostly he hated her because he realized he didn’t hate her. Not even a little bit.

After a shipwreck has left an abducted witch and a member of the ominous Order bent on wiping out her kind stranded on the icy shores of an uninhabited land, the two must work together to survive or face tearing each other apart in the process.

Chapters: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04

Chapter One: Ashes

Peeta had imagined his death many times. A slit throat or an ax in the chest. Perhaps run through with a sword and thrown from a cliff. A warrior’s death, a man’s death, as was expected of him in his service to Sjorkden. Never did he think he’d pass bloodlessly and without a foe to fight. Yet here he was.

Drowning.

The frigid water wrapped around his body like a salt casing, water-logging his shoes and pulling at the cloth of his uniform. He imagined clammy hands latching onto his limbs, dragging him down, down, down. In the harrowing moments before he ran out of air, he watched dreamy streams of moonlight filter towards the black bottoming out of oblivion that was the ocean floor. Below him gaped miles and miles of seawater, and he would be lost to it.

He prepared himself for what was to come, slowly counting down the seconds to when he would snort salt water into his lungs and end it. No use in prolonging the inevitable, though his dreams lay like air pockets in his stomach, lifting him to hope there was still time for him to change things. To achieve something with the life he would have had if not for this stroke of bad luck.

Water pressed at his lips like an unwelcome guest. He was truly out of air now and the suffocating vacuum in his chest was enough to burst him apart from the inside out. The tips of his fingers began to tingle painfully, oxygen deprivation or the effects of cold, he couldn’t tell.

His last thoughts before he lost consciousness were of the countdown to drowning himself.

Three… two…

And then nothing.

X

Peeta awoke to an embrace. Thin arms twined about his ribcage, hoisting him above the frothy crests of waves.

His people believed in Gratka, the valley of heaven, the holy place of worshippers, warriors, and the most pious of women. A divine world spun from light and cloud, flowing with rivers of honey wine and heavy with the scent of eternal orchards. Peeta was not sure if he had been worthy of Gratka, but surely the chasms of hell would have been hotter than this.

He jerked his head about, trying to get his bearings back. His lips dripped with saltwater and his lungs burned with every ragged inhale.

He and his companion were bobbing on the frigid waves. The sky wheeling above was full of black, ominous storm clouds and the ship, The Bloody Rose, was on fire.

He hadn’t meant to, but he must have let out a cry because suddenly the arms tightened around him and a pair of lips pressed against his ear.

“You can’t save them. Just help me swim.” Then a strangled grunt and a: “Gods, you’re heavy. What do they feed you? Horses?” The words were choked, spoken in the voice of someone who had swallowed too much seawater and was struggling against the current. She spoke in Krellian, a sharp language of hissing consonants and hard breaks, only punctuated by the occasional swooping vowel. He twisted to face her, his lip curling in disgust when he saw those flashing silver eyes.

The witch.

How had she gotten out of her cell?

Her eyes bulged in panic as he kicked away, ripping himself from the circle of her arms.

“No!” she screamed as she grabbed at him, but without her there to buoy him, his head quickly slipped beneath the waves once more. His arms felt sluggish and he realized with a paralyzing rush of cold that she had been keeping his blood warm with her magic.

He struggled to break the surface, coughing up a mouthful of seawater and thrashing about as he tried to find her once more in the dark. “Witch?” he sputtered, ashamed of the sharp edge of fear in his voice. They reached out for one another, barely holding on by their fingertips as a wave crashed overhead, but then it passed and they were righted once more. He didn’t try to get away this time, afraid of his dipping heart rate and the hazy rush of dizziness that quickly abated with her touch. He didn’t feel warm, but the numb ache in his limbs lessened. He pulled her to his chest, locking her body within his arms like a vice.

“We can make it to shore, but I need you to kick. I can’t swim and keep both our hearts beating.”

He blinked the water from his stinging eyes, already exhausted.

She pressed the back of her head into his shoulder in frustration. “Jųlaik, ” she begged.

Please.

He grunted in reply and then started swimming. In return, she kept their hearts beating despite the cold. They weren’t sure which way the shore was. For all they knew, Peeta could be bringing them further out to sea, but with every passing minute the blazing ship they’d escaped from grew smaller and smaller until it collapsed in on itself, a charred heap dipping below the waves.

Not only had Peeta’s brothers in arms been on that ship, but Peeta’s future had been on that ship. Seventeen witches, four of which he had captured and that he could claim, all dead, except for one.

In his service as a witcher, he had brought forty-six witches to court and he had witnessed them all, his bounties, burn at the stake. The sweet stink of smoke and the way that charred flesh falls away from bone were all too familiar. This was his country’s way. This was justice. Four more would have won him his freedom, his manhood, his honor. Four more witches and he would have held the world in his palm like a flowering bud ready for plucking. All the blood and sweat and sleepless nights spent scouring the wastelands of countries far from home would have been worth it.

Hours passed. The storm clouds released their last torrents of icy rain and then cleared to reveal a bright purple smattering of stars above, carving their ancient celestial paths across the sky. The only sounds were his labored breathing and the sloshing of waves. Peeta’s legs felt as if they were going to fall off, both burning from the physical exertion and freezing in the arctic water. His nerves didn’t know what sensation to succumb to, retreating into numbness. He felt as if he were kicking around two logs.

The witch hadn’t spoken since the ship disappeared, but Peeta could tell by the way she was gritting her teeth that it was taking everything in her to keep them from freezing to death. He almost laughed at the irony of the situation. The witch and the witch hunter. Not a pair destined for groundbreaking teamwork.

So why had she saved him?

Dawn peeked over the horizon, pulling it’s smoldering pinks and oranges upwards until the stars faded and the moon was just a paling ghost of its nighttime brilliance.

“There,” the witch whispered through chattering teeth, her voice weak with exhaustion. Peeta turned his head to see what she had gestured to.

A coastline with tall cliffs crusted in ice and snow, and there at the shore, a black stretch of beach. Peeta swam on against the surf, the waves pushing them back out as if the ocean wasn’t quite ready to let them go. Finally, Peeta touched bottom and they crawled to land, collapsing on the sand with water lapping at their ankles. The two were heaving and freezing and giddy with the fact that they were alive, against all odds they had survived, though the silent celebration didn’t last long. The air was bitter and their wet skin puckered beneath its needle-sharp caress. They needed to find shelter, and fast, or the witch’s magic wouldn’t be enough to keep them alive.

Movement was hard. Peeta’s body felt as stiff as a piece of plywood and each attempt to stand left him trembling under his own weight. He looked back at the witch lying prone in the sand. Her hair was a tangled mess and clung to her face in dark, wet clumps. He almost thought she wouldn’t make it, that she’d just stay collapsed and never get up again. But she managed to rise onto her hands and knees, and then slowly to her feet.

They didn’t talk as they climbed a narrow pass up the cliffside. The rock was black and smooth, flowing magma that had cooled, dotted here and there with the greenish-brown blooms of lichen. Perhaps the land had once been volcanic, but that must have been a very long time ago.

As they reached the top of the cliffside, they found themselves marooned in a land of winter. Sharp white mountains jutted up in the misty distance and the foothills that spread out before them were dotted with boulders and stretches of snow and the shrubby, paling vegetation that hinted at a short growing season. It was a harsh land where only the most adaptable species could survive, and Peeta knew if they didn’t find a cave or some sort of outcropping to huddle in soon, they’d be done for.

Luckily, they stumbled across a cluster of circular lodges at the top of the cliff. The witch, shuddering so violently Peeta almost thought she could be seizing, disappeared past the thick curtain that acted as a door, shuddered one final time, and then collapsed onto a pile of discarded furs.

Peeta limped inside and scanned the den. It had been constructed and then abandoned by a whaling expedition, which were common this far north, though whaling was only done in the spring. The walls were layers of tanned animal skin and were held up by thin ashwood beams running from floor to curved ceiling. They looked like the bones of a rib cage bleached chalk-white in the sun. A thick column stood sentinel at the structure’s center so the roof wouldn’t sag and beneath it lay a small fire pit with a few half charred logs. The lodge was designed to house upwards of fifteen people, whalers with thick cloaks and packs full of food and supplies, but now just sheltered two shivering, salt-crusted water rats with nothing. The whole place smelled of wet fur and welcomed Peeta with open, shadowy arms.

“We should start a fire,” Peeta croaked, his throat ravaged by salt and exertion. He nudged the witch with the toe of his boot when she didn’t respond. “Are you dead?” A part of him wanted her to be. He hated owing her for his life, a debt he knew he would have to repay before this horrible nightmare was over. But if the swim had killed her, he wouldn’t have felt a shred of guilt.

As he circled around he saw that she was in fact very alive. Her eyes were propped open, wide and glassy, as if she didn’t have eyelids, shot through with red where there should have been white. She was chanting he realized. Praying perhaps.

It scared him.

“Hey!” He kicked her shoulder and the witch’s eyes cleared as if they were rising above a cloud line. “Stop that, it’s freaking me out.”

She glared up at him. “Never disrupt me again.”

“Why?" he sneered. "So you can curse me? Blind me or make me impotent? Cast a horrible death upon me and all my descendants?” Witches were known for curses. Pregnant women whose unborn babes had offered strong kicks days before, born bright blue and as limp as dead worms. Men cursed to wander the forests until they clawed out their own eyes and died of blood loss. Children swallowed up by thick mountain mists, never to be seen again. Death. Woe. Suffering. All at the hands of a wretched few.

“I have not cursed you. Your allegiance to a false god has done that.”

“And yet, we’re in the same predicament. Seems your gods have doomed you as well.”

This struck a nerve. Perhaps the same thought had been pressing on her mind. She narrowed her eyes, bunching her fists in the fur she lay atop of. “If I had the strength I would burn that blackened heart of yours right out of your chest.”

“Should I be worried about tomorrow then?”

“Very.” She rose to face him, hatred pouring forth from her eyes and twining about her head like a poisonous snake baring its fangs. He met it with a hardened look of his own.

“I’m still waiting on a ‘thank you’ for dragging you out of the ocean,” he said.

“And I’m waiting on a ‘thank you’ for keeping your tiny heart from shriveling up. Trust me, it was no easy task.”

He smiled coldly. “My, you have a big mouth for someone so small.”

“And you have a big head for someone with such little brains.”

He almost laughed, but they had been through a lot and Peeta was tired of arguing. He crossed to the fire pit and ignored the eyes boring into the back of his head.

“What? No response?” she goaded bitterly, but Peeta didn’t rise to her bait, focusing instead on starting a fire. After scraping two jagged rocks together, there was a spark. Thankfully the kindling was dry and after a few harsh blows and a prayer, Peeta was successful. The fire was delicious, like a tiny heart slowly beating life back into his frozen fingers.

He realized that this was the first time in weeks that he and the witch hadn’t been separated by iron bars.

As if in response to the shameful flush of heat that had radiated through his body at the thought, he heard a muffled sound, like a bird’s wings rubbing together, and turned his head.

The witch’s dress was off, her body bared to him. Her small, rounded breasts and jutting hips shone like caramel in the soft light.

Peeta’s cheeks flamed, afraid that he had been caught staring. “What are you doing?” he sputtered as he moved to shield his eyes.

She turned to pick her dress up off the floor and shot a look over her shoulder. Her very bare shoulder. “You don’t seriously think I’m going to spend the night in a wet dress, do you?”

“But you’re naked!” He winced at how petulant he sounded, how very much like a child he still was in some ways.  

She rolled her eyes at him, but he was too focused on avoiding the very sight of her that he didn’t notice. “You’ll get naked too if you have any sense. No use in wearing wet clothes when you can let them dry.”

“You’re perverted.”

“I’m being practical.” She twisted the seawater out of her dress and then snapped the damp fabric at his back. “Now strip.”

X

He had to admit, shucking off his wet uniform and wrapping his body in a pelt had made him feel much better, though he was careful to cover the flesh between his legs when he did.

“Aw, you’re blushing,” she laughed. The sound set Peeta’s nerves on edge. The witch lounged near the fire pit on a nest of pelts she had constructed, wrapped in a glossy black fur that reflected threads of reddish-gold in the firelight. As she sat, the weak glow of the flames cast her features into warm relief, deepening the shadows under her cheekbones and darkening her lashes. Her salt tangled hair was as ebony black as a night sky with no stars and her skin was flawless, the color of water beaten clay beds.

“Come here,” she beckoned.

Instead, Peeta took a step back. “I do not take orders from witches. Even naked ones.”

“It’s like you don’t want to survive the night,” she scoffed. “See this?” Her furs shifted as she reached out a hand, allowing a dark sliver of her inner thigh to catch the light.

Peeta tried not to stare.

She pointed a finger towards the dwindling fire. “We barely have any wood left, and when the fire dies while we’re sleeping, the only thing keeping us warm will be each other. Now get over here. I don’t plan on freezing to death when I have a big lump of muscle to keep me toasty.”

She made a good point, but still, Peeta hesitated. What if this was just a trick? A lure to get him close enough so she could pounce and gouge his eyes out. Or maybe she’d wait to finish him off when he fell asleep, his beating heart ripped from his chest while he cradled her against him.

In the end, he decided there was little chance of them surviving out here with no food and only three measly logs to keep a fire going. If he was going to die, he’d rather die warm. Besides, having his heart ripped from his chest would be over faster than starvation.

He moved towards the nest, and only after he had discarded his pelt and shimmied under hers did she speak.

“Closer, lieutenant,” she urged in a singsong voice.

He growled in response.

“Seriously, you’re acting like a blushing schoolboy.”

“I do not wish to lay with a witch.”

“This is not laying. This is surviving. If you had any experience pleasuring a woman you’d know the difference.”

Peeta’s body stiffened behind her.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re embarrassed by it,” she chuckled meanly. “I thought the whole point of your pious Order was that you prided yourselves on being virgins. That and murderers.”

He ignored the word murderers. Only a witch would consider what the Order did murder. Everyone else considered it justice. Shearing the rot riddled branches off the tree that was the human race. Magic was a disease, nobody should have that kind of power over another. It was unnatural and the world was better off absent of her kind, but he didn’t expect her to understand.

Monsters were always blind to their own evils.

So instead he addressed her derisive use of virgin. “We marry only when we’ve proven ourselves worthy to the Order.”

“Shouldn’t you only have to prove yourself to your wife?”

What a silly notion, Peeta thought. “A man does not have to prove himself to a woman. He has responsibility over her. Nothing more.”

“How romantic.”

“Do not mock me, slum scum.”

“I think I like ‘witch’ better,” she quipped. She was infuriatingly quick-witted and Peeta seethed in silence, unsure that he could contend with such a sharp tongue.

“Whatever,” she said after the silence grew too long. “Just know that there’s nothing to worry about. Even if I wanted to, I would never defile my body with the likes of you.”

“That’s reassuring,” he muttered.

Despite her declaration, the witch drew nearer. The goose flesh of her back felt clammy against his chest, but soon their body heat melded and all he felt was radiating warmth prickling against the chill that had settled into his bones.

“Why did you save me?” he asked lowly, unable to quiet his racing thoughts. A part of him wanted to keep her talking so he wouldn’t have to close his eyes and picture Yasser’s bloated body lost at sea.

“Because you’re a human being,” she murmured, her voice saturated with drowsiness. “And because I knew if you survived I’d have someone to cuddle with at night.” Suddenly, and with a rustle of fur, she turned to face him. He scooted back. “Relax, lieutenant. This isn’t where I have my way with you. I just prefer to sleep with my back to the fire.”

“Are you always so lewd?” he asked, the disapproval in his voice as clear as a church bell ringing across a courtyard.

“If you knew me you’d know the answer to that is yes.”

“I do not wish to know you, witch.”

“Good. You don’t deserve to.”

With these terse versions of “good night” exchanged, they settled against one another, though Peeta was careful to avoid the brush of her breasts. She smelled of sea and sweat and the musk of fur, but something sweet lay underneath all that. Lavender milk. A chamomile bath. Medicinal salves. Jasmine blossoms suspended in freshwater. Long tumbles downhill.

The smells soothed him, until he remembered she’d been locked in the brig for a month and shouldn’t smell anything but horrible. A spell then. He was surprised. He thought all Krellian magic was blood rituals and sacrifices, not a spell in place of perfume.

Despite himself, his eyelids grew heavy. The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was of slinging an arm around her waist.

[irwintry]

11 Reasons Not to Fall in Love

Warnings: swearing, mention of alcohol

Summary: Ashton is in love, and Y/N might be, too. There are a million reasons not to fall in love–– here are eleven.

Word Count: 6.7k

ONE: YOU MIGHT NOT EVEN KNOW IT

Ashton sprinted down the terminal.

His suitcase rattled behind him, the wheels sputtering as they hit the cracks in dirty tiles. And his shoulders ached from the weight of his bag carving into already-sore muscles. A pair of headphones had fallen from his pocket down near gate A3, but he hadn’t bothered to retrieve them. Not when his connecting flight had less than ten minutes until departure. Ashton couldn’t waste another minute apologizing to strangers for slamming into them during a moment of distraction.

Sweat accumulated under his arms and along his hairline. Long corridors awaited him, meanwhile, his lungs strained within his ribcage as he rounded corner after corner. He hadn’t remembered the airport being this large. Perhaps he had slipped into a Twilight Zone nightmare where every doorway led him to where he had once been. Time ticked away, and Ashton was too frantic to check the clock on his phone.

“Final boarding call for American Eagle flight 1683 for Los Angeles. Please make your way to gate D26. That is D for Delta. Again, this is a final boarding call for American Eagle flight 1683 for Los Angeles, located at gate D26. Thank you.”

“Shit,” Ashton spat, his knuckles curling in a firm grip around his duffle. The same duffle his mum gifted him nearly six years ago, yet it still worked like a charm. The duct tape held up well.

His feet skidded against the rug leading into gate D26. He opted out of the dramatics, slowing down his pace and walking calmly around the rows of seating before addressing the gate agents with a smile. They saw plenty of passengers like him–– late, damp, and a bit smelly as well. But that didn’t erase the scowls from their features. He sped down the jet bridge, dropped off his carry-on at the end, and boarded the plane with two minutes to spare.

“Hey, hi, sorry,” he mumbled to the flight attendants, but his breathy words hardly translated through his large gasps for air. It didn’t take him long to find his seat in first class. The large cushions enveloped him like an old friend. He sat back after placing his bag underneath the seat before him, and his eyes fell shut as a sigh left his lips.

Ashton’s phone vibrated in his pocket.

snail butt:

text me when u land!!!!!!

His cheeks burned. A smile stretched slowly on his cheeks, the kind of smile that wrote novels and lit up silver screens. It was a smile that could not be hidden no matter how hard he tried. Ashton’s stomach had been stuck with thousands of pins. And all it had taken was a single text from you.

“Only a fool who’s in love smiles like that.”

Ashton turned to face the person behind the voice, his eyes wide and watery as he shut off his phone. “Excuse me?”

The older man beside him chuckled. “I know a smile like that anywhere.”

“In love?” Ashton repeated, soon falling into laughter himself. “No, no, I’m not––”

The man winked and glanced away, but Ashton chose not to harp on a nonsensical conversation. Instead, he stared at the seat before him, mouth slightly ajar as he registered the older man’s words. Ashton had never been in love, at least he believed it to be so. He had no knowledge of the feeling. So, he rejected what he heard.

He spent the next few hours with his gaze locked on the clouds, wondering if what he felt for you was, perhaps, something a little like love.

TWO: IT’S ONE-SIDE

The lights had flushed out his skin. Every inch of it was warm and wet to the touch, a sensation he knew well but hadn’t quite gotten used to. Even after thousands of shows–– thousands of performances that kicked his adrenaline to new heights only to have it plummet by the time he made it to the showers. Ashton stood against the tiled walls and let the water pelt against his skin. The pressure was never how he liked it. And the water was never hot enough.

He liked to call you after shows. He liked to hear about your day. You told him about the customers that pissed you off and the ones that sweetly tipped you a little too much. You told him that Oatmeal had taken a poo in your bathtub again, and he’d laugh at the thought. He’d think about the faces you’d make, because while you’d be upset one moment, your anger never lasted long. You could never stay mad at your cat.

Ashton had yet to call you tonight. He sat on the bathroom floor instead, fingernails picking at scabs on his palms while the sounds of J. Tillman’s Cancer and Delirium echoed around the room. He didn’t have the option to sit much longer; they had to pack up and drive off to a new town overnight. He always thought about the what-ifs. What if he walked out right then and there? What if he left without saying goodbye? What if he hopped aboard a plane and moved to the other side of the world? What if he cut off all contact with everyone he knew? And, what if that included you?

The thing that scared him the most was the possibility of it all. He could do whatever he wanted. It was his life, his body, his mind–– he had the ability to walk away whenever he so pleased.

He had the ability to forget about you.

Ashton stared at your contact on his phone. A picture from your New Year’s Eve party faced him, your goofy, smiling face staring up at him, happiness permanently immortalized within a small circle. And he wasn’t sure what your contact name meant anymore–– it had been an inside joke from years before, but time stole the memory.

He could delete your number if he wanted. He could rid himself of the pain of loving you by losing you. He could end everything now.

Ashton called you instead.

“You’re eating away at my cellular data,” you said right away, and somehow, the sound of your voice always made him feel better. All of his previous thoughts melted away. “How was the show? How are your bloody hands?”

“Beaten t’hell,” he spoke, but his words felt lifeless. Ashton could no longer identify his exhaustion. He felt like a stale being, like the grimy tiles beneath his bum as he counted scratches on the bathroom mirror. “Tell me about your day.”

“Didn’t do much,” you replied. “Oh, but––“

You talked for a half-hour. About the dentist, about your cat, about the food you ate... and he listened with pleasure. He listened because it was the only thing keeping him from walking away. It kept him from wiping the slate clean.

And he wanted to. He didn’t want to love like this. It was one-sided, trivial in every aspect, and you had no idea how much it pained him to even think about you. His urge to leave it all behind grew larger every day.

You didn’t love him. You didn’t see him the way he saw you.

“Hey, bug,” he mumbled. You had been talking about a Tinder date, one that went oh so right, and Ashton gripped his thigh until he drew blood. His eyes screwed shut at the idea of you piled under bedsheets, arms tied around the neck of someone else. “’m gonna have t’let you go.”

“Aw,” you said.

He pictured your pout.

“Well, okay,” you continued. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow?”

Ashton forced a smile. He wished you could see the ache behind it. “Of course, doll. Love you.”

“Love you, too!”

J. Tillman’s voice filled the tile room once again. And Ashton sat wishing your words held meaning. He wished he could erase the casual and fill in sentimentality. Because he now knew what love was, and he knew you would never feel the same.

THREE: THEY LOVE SOMEONE ELSE

His kitchen faucet had been dripping for eleven days. The noise faded into the background, its constant drip, drip, drip like an unspoken rhythm to Ashton’s ears. He found himself tapping along and making up songs to the beat of these drips. They weren’t irksome–– not for the first eleven days.

He was lonely on the twelfth day. Beaten hands pushed back dirty and newly dyed dark strands of hair. Ashton hated looking at his appearance in his bathroom mirror. The dark circles were unfriendly, and he hadn’t seen his skin that sickly color before. He was malnourished at his own expense. And he was exhausted.

Tired of spending all of his nights staying up until four because being home felt like a prison. Tired of looking at pictures of you and your boyfriend while Ashton was stuck wallowing with a sore heart. A sore heart that failed to tell you how he felt sooner. Because now he saw your face when you were with him–– with your boyfriend, and you looked so happy. Ashton couldn’t help but feel sorry for himself.

It seemed as though everything was falling apart at once. The faucet, his relationship with you––or lack thereof, and suddenly his dishwasher was overflowing, and every meal he made he was burnt to a crisp. The twelfth day of his faucet leaking was the last straw.

But Ashton didn’t want to call a plumber. He took the matter into his own hands.

An hour later, he had flooded part of the kitchen and dented a pip with his wrench. The activity hadn’t gotten rid of stress or anger, and it certainly hadn’t distracted him from thoughts about you.

He sat back against his fridge, a few stray tears spilling down his cheeks while he avoided the ache in his spine. The leaking had only gotten worse, but Ashton decided he would worry about it on the fourteenth day. He wanted to curl up on his couch and stay there forever. He wanted to rot in his home (was it even his home?) and have everyone forget about him. To have you forget about him. He wanted to forget about you.

snail butt:

hey.

pls answer me

are u ok

Ashton kept the messages open on his phone, but he didn’t respond to them. He wasn’t touched by your concern right now. He felt numb, and he wanted to sink into the tiles and melt in with the puddled water. It wasn’t normal anymore–– to feel this way. He lost himself in the shape of his hands; they no longer looked like his hands. Did he even exist?

snail butt:

ash

can i call

His eyes narrowed. For the first time in his life, he didn’t want to talk to you. You were the last person on the earth he wanted to talk to. All because he did want to tell you everything, but he knew he couldn’t. You had always been a constant in his life, and the reason you no longer were had fallen upon his shoulders. Because he had fallen in love when he never meant to in the first place.

Suddenly, you were calling him, and his fingers stayed still. His thumb didn’t move to answer the call.

This wasn’t who Ashton was. He always answered your call no matter where he was, no matter what time of day. His eyes brimmed with tears, yet they refused to spill. No one said love could be this painful. No one said it would be like this.

You called again, a contact picture of you in minion goggles popping up only to disappear a half minute later. Ashton knew he was worrying you. He felt the fear creeping up into your chest while you tapped “voice call” over and over, meanwhile mumbling a few frustrated words involving insults you never meant. You had sensed his change in behavior long ago. He didn’t blame you for forcing communication like this.

That was why he wanted to pack his things and leave sometimes. It was easier than convincing everyone that he was okay.

Ashton:

Hey sorry I missed your call

Can’t talk right now

Love you

FOUR: EVERYONE KNOWS BUT THEM

A familiar feeling filled Ashton’s stomach. It knotted and twisted, but it never loosened. His grip on his phone tightened with every word he read. Knuckles ached while his fingers dug into the metal siding, and tension soon collected in the hinge of his jaw.

This had been his night so far. Stuck in between tables and chairs in the middle of a bar while you texted him about your boyfriend. But Ashton wasn’t mad because of that. His anger boiled because your boyfriend had mistreated you, and Ashton was hearing every little bit about the story.

He believed that he was seconds away from breaking his phone altogether.

“Ashton.”

His head shot up, small curls falling over his eyes as his jaw clenched. A bunch of worried eyes faced him.

“You okay, mate?” asked Michael. His voice was hushed and full of a certain comfort that his friend needed to hear.

Ashton swallowed, and he could feel all of the individual muscles in his cheeks strain. The gray dots on his phone appeared again–– you had more to say. “’m fine,” he spoke. His eyes said otherwise. They were watery and wide, filled with an easily read emotion, yet he hoped his friends would avoid the conversation.

Luke hummed. “Sure.”

“Is she okay?” Michael set his drink down on the table before them.

The words sunk in Ashton’s chest. He appreciated their concern. He appreciated that they cared about you. But he didn’t want to talk about it–– he never did.

He shrugged. “Yeah.”

“Convincing.”

“Well, what do you want me to say?” asked Ashton, voice raising in frustration while the sea of eyes blinked back in response. A cold silence met him, but the music in the bar carried on. He sighed. “Sorry. Fuck. Sorry.”

He gripped his forehead and wiped the sweat from his drink onto the table. His fingers trembled as he did so.

“Does she know how you feel?” Michael mumbled.

Ashton raised a brow. “Know how I–– what?” He began to laugh. He felt strange–– like anger was fighting with anxiety, and he knew he could no longer repress his feelings by this point.

“Ash.”

He turned to face Luke.

“It’s obvious,” said the blond. “We’re not stupid. We know you love her. We’ve known for the past like, six months.”

The frustration softened, and soon, Ashton deflated. His shoulders slumped as his frown deepened. “It’s obvious?” he whispered.

“Not that obvious,” Calum intervened. “You jus’–– you get really sad when you get feelings for someone.”

“I’m not––” Ashton straightened his spine. “I’m not sad. We’re fine. She’s fine. We’re both really fine.”

“I’ve never seen you guys this distant before,” Michael said.

“Friends grow apart.”

“Not like this.”

Ashton dug his fingernail into the wooden tabletop.

“Dude,” continued Michael. “You gotta tell her soon. It’s just gonna keep hurting if you don’t. And it’ll keep gettin’ worse and worse.”

“Or maybe it’ll hurt worse if I do tell her,” muttered Ashton.

“So, you do love her?” Luke asked.

Ashton waited a moment to answer. “Yeah.”

Silence washed over the group, and a beat later, Michael asked, “does she love you?”

Ashton stared at a neon sign in the distance. He could hear its buzzing from his seat. It gnawed at his eardrums and wedged itself under his skin. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “She doesn’t.”

FIVE: THEY ARE OBLIVIOUS TO YOUR PAIN

Ashton had been late to his own birthday party. He strolled in after forty minutes, heart heavy while he pushed through sweaty bodies that he hardly recognized. The stairs were his destination, and he could only fake so many smiles. He could only force empty hellos for so long before someone was bound to pull him aside. Their skin burned his.

Because it had been you, and every touch was a pain unlike any other.

“Hey, hey, birthday boy,” you said, grinning from ear to ear. “Miss me?”

Ashton stared at you in awe. Not because you looked stunning, which you did. You always did. But because he hadn’t seen you in four months. He had hardly spoken to you— he felt like he hardly knew you.

“Holy shit,” he muttered as he wracked his brain in search of something to say. Or rather, the right thing to say. Heat trickled up his neck and into his cheeks.

“I’ll take that as a yes?” you asked. The drink in your hand had hardly been touched. Meanwhile, your fingers toyed with the small plastic straw.

Ashton felt his smile grow. His stomach was on fire. “Yes— yeah. Give me a fucking hug.”

Your arms wrapped themselves around his torso, your head burying into his shoulder while he tried to memorize the feeling of you against him. He missed being held by you. It came with a sense of belonging–– like he was always meant to be here.

“Did Michael fly you in?” asked Ashton, and meanwhile, he kept his hands on your upper arms. His gaze on you was intense–– that he knew, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Had you always looked that beautiful?

You shook your head. “Wanted to surprise you myself.” A smile grew on your lips.

Ashton smiled as well, but it ached to falter. He just wanted to be happy around you.

The drinks poured on, night crawling with sweat and glitter and everything Ashton had wanted to avoid. As the hours passed, you stuck to him like glue. And the more alcohol in your system, the more you kept your hands on him. Unsteady fingers scraped down his arms whenever a good song came on through the speaker. You were in constant movement, and all Ashton saw was a gaussian blur of colors and smiles.

He locked himself in the upstairs bathroom.

He sat there for at least an hour, knuckles drumming against polished tile while the bass reverberated through the floor. It had been months since his last interaction with you–– he never knew when he would see you next. And then you were dancing with his friends, mind elsewhere while you tried to forget about the dried tears over your ex-boyfriend. You were swaying and laughing, looking like an angel kissed you just that morning, and he hadn’t been ready for any of it.

In all honesty, Ashton would have preferred not seeing you at all. Your presence taunted him. It reminded him of all of the mistakes he made, and it reminded him that you would never love him the way he loved you.

Before leaving the bathroom, he washed his face. He washed away the past couple of hours in order to prepare for the next few. In order to see you again, he had to forget all of his feelings for the night.

But he couldn’t. He barely took a step downstairs before retreating to his bedroom. It was his own birthday–– he could be miserable if he wanted to be. Did he even want to be?

Ashton changed into a pair of sweatpants and a plain t-shirt. He could still hear the music through the floorboards, but it no longer bothered him. His phone remained silent with no phone calls or texts asking where he was. And then the door opened, and you walked in.

“Uh oh,” you said. “Birthday boy went missing.”

“You found him.”

You smiled softly. “You okay?”

Ashton shrugged. “Tired, s’all.”

You kept your arms crossed as you looked at him. He felt like you were analyzing everything about him. Perhaps you could read minds. Perhaps you already knew how he felt about you.

“Ya wanna sit?” he asked you, motioning to the empty spot next to him on his bed.

Your smile grew. “Duh.” You rushed over, flopped down against the comforter, and nestled into him. He hadn’t expected that last part. “Missed you,” you mumbled against his shirt, and your arm twisted around his. You were warm–– it was a good warmth.

“Missed you, too, bug,” he whispered. He leaned back against the pillows and took your body with him.

You hummed. A comfortable silence settled in, albeit the soft music from down below, and all Ashton could feel was you. He felt your skin, your heartbeat, your smile... He felt the happiness he had been looking for since the night began. This was why he needed you.

You turned to look at him. “Why haven’t we kissed yet?”

Ashton raised an eyebrow at you.

“We’ve been friends for like ten years,” you said. “I’ve even kissed Luke. Why haven’t I kissed you?”

“You kissed Luke?”

You pressed your palm against Ashton’s chest. “Should we kiss?”

“I don’t think––“

“We haven’t even tried it.”

Ashton shrugged. His heart rate had doubled, and the temperature in the room spiked. “Yeah, well...”

“Do you wanna?” you asked.

His limbs felt numb as he sat up. “Maybe now’s not the best time, bug.”

“Oh.”

Ashton wiped his hands against his thighs, and when he looked over at you, a pout had found its way onto your face. The soft light from his bedside lamp reflected in your watery eyes and in the moisture on your lips. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. Shit.

“Why do you wanna kiss me so bad?” he mumbled.

You glanced down. “I’ve always wanted t’kiss you,” you said. You looked back up at him, and he saw something in your eyes that he had never seen before.

It gave him hope.

He nodded, swallowing thickly while he fought back conflicting thoughts. “Okay,” he said.

“Okay?”

Ashton nodded once again. “Yeah. We can–– we can try it.” He squeezed his eyes shut, meanwhile wishing he had let the whole thing slide. He wished he could turn back time and never let himself feel like this.

But then you smiled, and he thought that, maybe, it wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all.

You giggled as you wrapped your arms around his shoulders. He didn’t get the chance to think about anything else before you pressed your lips to his. It was quick, almost as if it had never happened. You moved away slowly, and he nearly pulled you back.

“Well,” you whispered, chuckling once more. The heat of your breath met his skin. With your arms still around his shoulders, you looked at him like he was the most beautiful thing you had laid eyes upon.

He wanted to believe it.

“Well,” he said in return. A small smile grew on his lips. He hardly remembered the kiss, but he knew he needed more. So, he placed his arms around your waist.

You leaned in again, this time capturing his lips gently between yours, but he held you close.

And then he pulled away. He pulled away because it meant too much to him. He pulled away because it didn’t mean anything to you.

SIX: NO ONE WILL EVER BE THEM

Ashton’s hands were numb.

The sun had only begun to rise. Its golden hue cast long rays through his blinds, the light taking shape and giving the dust a chance to shine. The colors washed against her back, but he wasn’t looking at that. He didn’t want to look at her.

He arose slowly, careful not to wake her before making his way to the bathroom. He kept his shower brief, and soon, the memories of the night prior infiltrated his brain. They had been together for a few weeks now. A few weeks of late-night hook-ups and early morning goodbyes. And last night, he called her by your name. She didn’t even notice.

Ashton wasn’t sure how he felt anymore. It was all numb. He could hardly feel the loofa as it scrubbed against his skin.

The morning was quiet around him. He thought about her while he spread jam on his toast. She was beautiful. She had kind eyes. But Ashton had to quit lying to himself. He never wanted to get used to the scent of her perfume on his sheets. He didn’t want to lose himself in the color of her eyes. He didn’t want to memorize her.

He grabbed his keys and drove off, skimming the coast with his tires as he dreamed of easier days. And then he called you.

“G’mornin’, Mister West Coast,” you said, and the stress of his mind eased with the tone of your voice. “You’re up early.”

“Yeah,” he mumbled. The sky was lilac above the ocean. He wished you were here to see it. “Mind’s racin’, and such. Miss you.”

“Aw, miss you, too,” you replied. He could hear your smile. “How’s Sophia?”

Ashton nearly slammed on the brakes. He readjusted his grip on the steering wheel to keep his knuckles from turning white. He wanted to say, “she’s not you”, but instead, he said, “she’s okay. A little sick.”

“Wasn’t she just sick?” you asked.

He bit his lip. “Dunno.” And he truly didn’t. He didn’t know much anymore. He felt like he was a floating entity. He felt like he was living someone else’s life. “I really do miss you, stinky.”

“Stinky?” You scoffed. “I’m not stinky. You’re stinky.”

“You can’t smell me through the phone, idiot,” he said, the corners of his lips quirking upwards.

“Maybe I should just come visit and find out for myself.”

Ashton’s smile grew. “Maybe you should.”

“Fine.”

“Fine,” he said.

You huffed. “Fine.”

Ashton was grinning now, cheeks burning while he stared at the road ahead. He still loved you. He didn’t know if he would ever stop.

SEVEN: IT WOULD NEVER WORK

“Don’t fucking skip my favorite song, you asshole!”

Ashton’s stomach burned from laughter. He held his phone high, yet the roof of the car kept it within arm’s reach. Meanwhile, you were fighting for dominance as he kept one hand on the steering wheel. You huffed once you gave up, and you fell back into your seat.

“C’mon,” he said, poking your thigh to earn a response. You didn’t budge. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Look, I’m changing it. Here. You control the music now.”

That pleased you. You grinned, taking the phone from his hands while he let out a laugh. This was how the week had played out. Back and forth playful bickering until you pulled out your infamous pout, and he had to keep himself from falling harder and harder in love with you.

It was a dynamic he had missed over the past year. His friends noticed as well. His feelings hadn’t changed, yet he was happy. He could finally allow himself to be happy.

You set his phone down in a cupholder and took his hand in yours. Ashton couldn’t deny the shift in energy between the two of you, yet he refused to let it overwhelm him. He refused to let his hopes get the best of his behavior. Instead, he just smiled at you and returned his gaze to the road ahead.

“Have your hands always been this big?” you asked him, holding his hand up in front of your face to examine it.

He laughed. “Are you–– are you flirting with me?”

You set your hands back onto your lap. “Maybe,” you mumbled as you traced his knuckles.

Ashton continued to smile, and a fluttering stirred in his stomach.

“Is that okay?”

His laughter quickly faded, and he cleared his throat. “Y-yeah,” he said, gripping your hand a little tighter. He traced his thumb along your thigh. A comfortable silence settled in, one full of smiles and unspoken words that kept his mind racing.

The next morning, he helped you pack your things. The security line at the airport was short, and you were already running slightly behind schedule. Your plane would begin boarding within the next half hour. So, he kept his goodbye brief.

And then you kissed his cheek, and he wanted to pull you back in and hold you forever.

“I love you, Ashton,” you said with a smile. A warm smile that held meaning. You spoke words that he had heard before, but they felt different as they settled in his chest. You turned away before he could say anything else, and he spent the drive home with tears in his eyes.

Because he loved you, and you possibly loved him, too. But he could never have you the way he wanted. There were too many miles in between.

EIGHT: YOU’RE NOT READY FOR COMMITMENT–– RIGHT?

His feet ached. His knees did, too. Sweat coated his forehead, and he carried on up the steep trail.

Ashton had been thinking about you for weeks. He was caught up in your smile and the soft words you spoke. He climbed mountains to get you out of his head. His muscles burned while his brain ached with the idea of you.

You left him with a thousand questions. Did you feel the same way? Did he still feel the same way? Is this what he wants? Does he want commitment?

Ashton was caught up in scenarios left and right. He was stuck on a house in the hills, or maybe a small town on the eastern seaboard with a mile to the ocean. He felt the waves on his shins, and he felt your hand in his with a silver ring imprinting on his skin. He saw children, and he heard their giggles. He saw his life with you.

But, even after all of these thoughts, he wasn’t sure if it was what he wanted. He still didn’t know. The mountain had yet to clear his head.

He set his keys in the bowl beside his front door. The cold shower felt like an old friend, and a familiar song echoed in the tiled room. Your favorite song. Ashton smiled.

He still loved you, even if you didn’t love him. He still wanted you. He wanted you for the rest of his life.

NINE: IT MIGHT WORK

snail butt:

hey what’s the address for mikey’s party

oh also!! surprise!

i'm coming to mikey’s party

Ashton’s leg bounced as he awaited your arrival. He felt trapped in some small room at the back of a club while his friends chatted around him. Michael wore golden party decorations around his neck, and he couldn’t stop smiling. Meanwhile, Ashton couldn’t hold back his fucking nerves. He hadn’t told a soul that you were coming.

When you stepped in, the room was yours. Your name was sung in a booming chorus, bodies making their way toward yours for one big group hug, and you were smiling, too. Ashton stayed behind. He felt like he couldn’t move.

Your eyes met his only seconds later, your smile growing while you shot him a wink. Michael talked about something that reminded him of you, and you laughed along. Ashton’s heart swelled at the sight of you. He wished he could have it every single day.

The night carried on slowly, and the conversations between the two of you were cut short. But the shared glances flooded the atmosphere. There was something heavy behind them, like a beckoning almost, but he couldn’t force himself to move in your direction. He wanted to look at you from afar.

“Stranger danger,” you said after approaching him later on in the night. You folded your arms and smirked, and Ashton was suddenly aware of how tight your dress was on your figure.

“Me?” he asked, mirroring your grin. “What d’ya mean? I’m the least terrifying person you’ll ever meet.”

“Say that to the fifteen-year-old kid who dressed up as Freddie Krueger to scare the shit out of his innocent neighbor,” you replied. You took a few steps toward him.

“To be fair,” he began and placed his hands against the small of your back, “you’re just an easy scary.” His smile grew. “Hi, bug. Missed you.”

You fell into him, arms wrapping around his shoulders while your breaths quickly fell into a rhythm. “I missed you,” you mumbled against his jacket. You pulled away suddenly. “I have a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?”

You nodded. “Come along,” you said.

The two of you said a quick goodbye to Michael, wished him a happy birthday, and made your way out into the chilly night. You had yet to let go of Ashton’s hand, even as he drove down streets that he hardly recognized. The address you gave him was one he had never seen before.

Ten minutes later, he was pulling up to an apartment complex fifteen or so miles away from his place.

“You gonna murder me?” he asked you.

You shook your head and smiled. “Nope,” you said.

A billion questions ran through his head as you led him up a staircase. But he stayed quiet. Even when you pulled out a set of keys and unlocked a numbered door, he still kept his mouth shut.

A lamp in the corner of the room lit up the small space. Boxes were stacked upon other boxes, and it hardly looked lived in. Yet, that didn’t matter. Ashton had realized what was happening. He felt sick to his stomach.

“I was offered a job,” you said.

He stared at the mess of boxes and mismatched furniture. Even through the clutter, it was thoroughly you through-and-through.

“And I was tired of having to constantly come visit you,” you continued with a laugh. “I didn’t wanna tell you until it was set in stone. But, yeah, welcome to my new home.”

Ashton turned to face you. You appeared nervous as you awaited his response. You were waiting for him to tell you it was a stupid idea, that you should have thought about this before packing up your life and moving to Los Angeles. But he wasn’t going to do that.

Instead, he cupped your cheeks and kissed you.

And you kissed him back.

TEN: THE FEAR OF FALLING OUT OF LOVE

He could hear the screams from backstage. A venue full of thousands of fans, all waiting to hear him and his band. He wished he hadn’t become numb to the feeling. It was his job–– it was normal. And the music he created no longer held the same meaning.

But he heard the songs differently now. He played with more passion, adrenaline rushing through his veins as his drumkit became a solace. Venues were his sanctuaries. Every night was filled with a new sensation he desired–– no, he craved.

His friends took notice. They fed off of his energy, and he wasn’t sure they had ever played this well before. It was something he wished he could share with you.

Ashton didn’t like remembering the thin line the two of you had drawn out. It was unexplainable, something unnamed that he was desperate to make sense of. Conversations were full of old jokes and stupid pictures he always saved into his camera roll. However, he never bothered to ask you how you felt. He never pressed about the one thing that stuck itself to his mind for well over a year.

He wanted to tell someone about how scared he was. Past relationships failed on his part–– he would flee instead of looking for reasons to stay. He chose to leave because he never saw things escalating further. Ashton had gotten used to the escape.

He felt different. He knew what he wanted, and he knew what he needed. Yet, the lack of reluctance created an unwanted fear. Ashton was afraid that, if you ever opened up to loving him back, then maybe he would stop loving you in return.

This fear showed itself in his performance. It fueled an anger that terrified him. But the shows were fucking phenomenal, he told himself. His hands bled after every night. And he still called you every night.

He was afraid of losing feelings. He was afraid of losing you. The idea of loving you was more beautiful than he could imagine–– the idea of you filled his heart with so much joy. That was where Ashton’s love for you differed from past relationships. He was used to falling in love with ideas, but this time, he fell in love with the honest you. He loved every little thing about you.

“Hi, bug.”

“Hey, how was the show?”

Ashton pushed sweaty strands of hair out of his face. His heart was pounding through his skin, fingers sore and shaky from an incredible set. His lips were numb. “Hi, um, it was–– yeah, it was good.”

“You sound out of breath.”

He inhaled as best as he could. “Sorry, yeah. I am.” Anxiety crawled up his forearms and into his chest.

“You okay?” you asked him.

He swallowed. He wasn’t okay, but it didn’t matter. “Yeah. I’m good. How was your day?”

“Oh, it was fine,” you said. “Didn’t do much. Watered your plants, ate your food, had a good nap on your couch, and then I––”

“I’m in love with you.”

You were silent.

Ashton’s throat burned. Everything was numb. His entire body had fallen numb. He wanted to end the call and never come home.

“You are?” you whispered a moment later.

His heart ached. “Yeah,” he said.

“Please come home soon.”

Ashton tried to laugh through the nerves building. “Can’t do that, bug. I got like forty shows left.”

“Poopy.”

This time, he could laugh. Maybe he had been nervous for nothing. Nevertheless, he now believed that he had nothing to fear.

ELEVEN: THEY MIGHT LOVE YOU BACK

The door to his home creaked as he stepped inside. A thick black night greeted him, not a single light to be seen as the white noise settled. He held his breath while he set his belongings beside the couch. It always felt like this when he came home. He was always welcomed by an overwhelming sense of loneliness. He would shower and crawl into bed, and he would spend the entire night in a restless state.

Ashton hadn’t expected to see you curled up in his sheets. That was where the night different from the many others. He hadn’t expected his heart to fill with such warmth at the mere sight of you. Two in the morning had never felt so good.

You held his pillow tight, and he wondered if it smelled like him. He wondered if you had spent the past few months here, and he wondered if it felt like home to you. Because you looked like home to him. It was like you were meant to be there, all curled up in his bedsheets with his shirt on your back.

Ashton knelt beside you, a smile etched on his features as he ran his fingers through your hair. He had never felt this much love before.

“Hey, bug,” he whispered, grazing his thumb against your cheek while your eyes fluttered.

You stirred beneath him and hummed.

“’m gonna shower, then I’m gonna hug you after,” he said. “Okay?”

You nodded, but a moment later, your eyes snapped open. “Ash!” you yelped. You tossed your arms around his shoulders and pressed yourself against him. “You’re fucking home.”

He chuckled, yet he didn’t reply. He held you tighter and took in your warmth. He took in your scent and the weight of your breaths. He wanted to hold you forever.

You were the first to pull away, a smile never fading as you rested your forehead against his. Your legs had wrapped around his waist, and your fingers twisted in his hair; it was a feeling he’d never let himself forget.

“You forgot to text me when you landed, asshole,” you mumbled.

He laughed again, raising his hand to cup your cheek before kissing you softly. And, like always, you kissed him back. Ashton had loved you for over a year, and perhaps, you loved him in return.

[lockawayknight]

kinsmen | creighton, magerold | 1416

(( a little birthday gift for @of-forossa~!! pls enjoy these two nerds babbling about how cool brom is :,3 ))

—

“Is everything alright?”

No, not really. But considering Magerold felt the need to ask, that was probably already clear, wasn’t it?

If anything, it’s certainly clear enough that Creighton doesn’t need to respond to the question with any actual words in order for Magerold to get his answer. The merchant’s smile is bittersweet as he places a hand on Creighton’s shoulder, patting his fingers there lightly. “C’mon, what’s on your mind?” he asks. “You been actin’ like this all day, gettin’ me worried. Somethin’ happen?”

Creighton shakes his head — no, not really. “Jus’... thinkin’ a lot.”

“Ah. Terrible choice on your part — you’re awful at tha’.”

“Shut up.”

“Mm.”

But Magerold doesn’t let it sit there — no, of course not. He’s got a bad habit of prying, especially when his friends are involved, and especially when Creighton is said friend. And this is absolutely no different. Crossing his legs comfortably, he scoots a little closer to Creighton’s side on the blanket they both sit. “Thinkin’ ‘bout what?”

A shrug is Creighton’s only response.

Magerold isn’t satisfied with that, either, though. “C’mon, mate, you can trust me,” he says. “What’s the matter?”

Well... ugh. It’s not like Magerold is gonna shut up any time soon just because Creighton tells him to. He might as well be honest. He probably should be for the sake of his social nature, anyway. “Well... Mm, y’know that big ol’ brutish-lookin’ bloke, the Cursebearer, Brom—?”

“Ah.” The one-syllable not-a-word is said with absolute certainty, like Creighton’s question had just answred one of Magerold’s own. “Gave ya a Brom speech, did he?”

Creighton quirks a brow. “A ‘Brom speech’...?”

Magerold snickers in return. “Mate, if you’ve ever gotten a Brom speech, you’d know exactly what I’m talkin’ about”

The thing is, Creighton’s pretty sure he does. And that’s exactly what happened. He snorts a bit. “Wha’, when he gets all poetic and starts makin’ ya question your entire bloody place in the world?”

“Oh, sure,” Magerold says with a few waves of his hand. “Him with his kind words and strong hands... Has he ever put his hand on your shoulder? Woof, makes ya feel like the world ain’t so bad sometimes.”

Creighton rolls his eyes at that, and the way Magerold fans himself as he says it.

But he’s not exactly wrong, is the thing. And that’s precisely the problem. That sense of belonging, of family, of home, of acceptance in a world that maybe isn’t as cruel as you’d once thought... That’s precisely what’s been gnawing away at Creighton’s ribcage like pinpricking rats’ teeth since last he’d seen the Forossan warrior. Belonging, purpose — it’s something Creighton’s always been told he wasn’t deserving of, and never, ever would find. It’s something that’s been torn open within him, a hole carved into his identity’s heart, hewn to bloody shape over years and years of torment. It’s something... that Brom’s somehow managed to begin filling with the sweet cedar saplings of his lessons learned from Forossa — a few “Brom speeches” about the way the tides of time are pulled by the moons of old, long-destroyed homes.

And, once again, Magerold’s smile turns bittersweet as he notices Creighton’s distanced gaze. “Wha’ didja talk about, then, eh?” he asks. “Must’ave been pretty heavy if it’s gotten you to shut the hell up.”

“You shut up.”

“Mm.”

But, again, he isn’t wrong.

Another few moments of silence fall between them before Creighton’s gathered his thoughts enough to figure out something to say. He breathes deep, then exhales on a sigh. “He, ah...” Pause. “Well, we started talkin’ about Lothian again—”

“Oh boy...”

“—and Forossa and all tha’. My axe came up, the dragonslayers and lion knights, y’know. All tha’ he’s so fuckin’ proud of—”

“Mm.

“—but... This time was... different, I s’pose. He had this sorta... pride in his tone what wasn’t about Forossa, a’least not about it as his homeland. It was...” Pause. “I... I think it was about me.”

Silence.

Creighton laughs nervously to fill the space between them, running dappled fingers through his tangled hair. “I can’t remember the last time I felt like someone actually... y’know, gave a goddamn about me—”

“Oh, thanks a lot...”

“Not like that, Maggie, shut the hell up.” He gives the merchant a hard elbow to the ribs at that. “Like... like pride, I s’pose, but like... somethin’ deeper’n a friendship’s sorta sense.” Pause again. “I dunno if... if I’ve ever felt like anyone’s been... been proud when they look at me before, ‘less it’s cos they’re lookin’ for a sword and see me like a fuckin’ weapon. Hollow pride, not... not whatever Brom has for his homeland. For his kin.”

Another pause.

“He called me kinsman earlier, s’all. And it got me thinkin’.”

“‘Kinsman’?”

“Yeah, like... like a brother, almost. Another child of Forossa. And...” Exhale. “S’pose it got me thinkin’ how I’ve, ah... never really felt like I’ve’ad a real home I belonged to before, y’know. Nothin’ solid and safe. Nothin’... nothin’ like what Forossa means to him. Tha’s somethin’ I been searchin’ for since as long as I can remember, but ‘ave never been able to find.”

And another.

“Is it... strange, to feel at home with someone you’ve just met? In a land you’ve never known...?”

Magerold listens intently to the knight’s every word, biting back as many of his little sarcastic interjections as he can, sensing the almost urgent air of seriousness in his friend’s darkened timbre. He nods along, he hums now and then, he taps a finger to his chin in thought.

The first thing out of his mouth, of course, is nothing helpful. “Sounds like you’re feelin’ somethin’ called an e-mo-tion, love...”

Creighton gives him an even harder elbow to the ribs for that one, making him snicker and bat him away. He turns serious afterwards, though. “Nah, I think I understand,” Magerold says. “So many of us ‘ave never really ‘ad a place what felt like home. I’m lucky enough I got me spot ‘ere in the Keep, but it don’t surprised me you don’t feel quite at home in Tseldora. You’ve always been a bit of a wanderer. Somethin’ we got in common.” Hm... “But... maybe s’jus’ cos your heart don’t got a place it feels it belongs in yet. Maybe Forossa is that place.” Another. “Maybe he just sees it in ya.”

“But tha’s the problem, Maggie,” Creighton responds quickly, curling further in on himself in his mild distress. “Forossa is gone. It’s been gone. How the fuck am I supposed to find a home in a place what doesn’t bloody exist anymore?”

“Well... you got Brom, don’t ya?”

Creighton looks over at Magerold with a quirked brow, though it quickly turns into a threatening sort of frown. “I’m engaged, Magerold...”

“Oh, tha’s not what I meant,” the merchant says, batting a hand aggressively. “I meant... well, there’s your tie to Forossa right there. He’s been there, lived there, loved the damned place to the grave an’ back, an’... sounds like he sees ya as a part of it. They always say blood’s thicker than water, don’t they?”

A beat. “I... don’t think that’s the whole quote.”

“Well, it is ‘ere.” Another bat of the hand. “Maybe you never knew Forossa, an’ you never ‘ad a real home without it, but... you’ve got him. An’ by that, you’ve got a piece of home right there in front of ya, fightin’ by your side.” A light shrug as Magerold leans back in his seat, arms crossed casually behind his head. “Maybe home’s been closer than you’ad imagined, all this time, wanderin’ around with that big ol’ sword a’ his.”

For a long moment, Creighton falls silent, his thoughts flitting between still images and fast words — tales of Forossa, of Lothian, of a history he’s never known but holds in his hands during his every fight. Of home. Of honour. Of himself. Of... his kinsmen. It’s an almost sickening sort of longing, but...

Well, suppose Magerold, once again, isn’t wrong. “Maybe so.”

The conversation seems to find a comfortable death within the grasses of those words, the both of them considering deeply the homes they’ve never had.

But Creighton, for one, feels like that hole in his identity’s heart has just been mended, sealed tight and tamped to the top with Forossa’s loving soil.

And there’s a name he can thank for its mending.

In fact... he may go thank him right now.

[ghafahey]

find a way ; make it right ; build us a better life. 

At Qiongqi Path, Lan Wangji makes a choice.

                                            __________________

A ripple goes through the cultivation world.

Words are shouted up and down Koi Tower. Voices tremble over words, gasping and full of red shades of rage.

Wei Wuxian, Wei Wuxian, the people spit his name like venom from their mouths.

Jiang Yanli knows they are wrong, they must be. A-Xian would never-

How cruel, how ungrateful, how dare he, Sect Leader Yao and Sect Leader Ouyang and Jin Zixun roar and turn their eyes to everyone else, trying to incite the same hatred.

Some nod, some join into the chorus of insults. Only a few avert their gaze, unsure and wondering and recalling moments they brushed aside until now.

Oh, brother what have you done, Lan Xichen thinks.

                                             __________________

Rain pours down, biting-cold and glistening like small drops of diamonds.

“Is this the promise that we pledged our lives to keep?” Wei Wuxian cries into the storm with such force, Lan Wangji feels it like a shove to his chest. He does not stagger but clutches tighter at the umbrella, at Bichen, at the feelings swirling in his chest.

Far away at the entrance to Cloud Recesses, on a wall and carved into stone in perfect calligraphy, withstanding all time, three thousand rules are displayed. Lan Wangji doesn’t remember seeing them for the first time when he was still a child with little knowledge of the world. But he remembers learning them all, repeating them out loud and in his thoughts, writing them down until his fingers hurt and shufu deemed them perfect. Over and over like the endless dance of night and day, until he knew every single one and their number. They are a reminder as much as a grounding force, a guidance as much as a cage.

Do not fight without permission. Do not wander out at night. Do not run. Do not make noise. Do not be wasteful. Do not speak ill of others. Do not act impulsively.

They are as much a part of him as his arms and legs, laced into his very bones and a consistent, insistent whisper of what is right and wrong.

But what is, Wei Ying had asked. And who says so?

Lan Wangji used to hold the answer, all the answers, he thought. Now, his hands cold from rain or fear, he is not so sure.

Eighteen years and three thousand rules and all of it undone so quickly, so thoroughly, by one person alone.

Rule 2311. Do not break promises, his mind whispers now, tugging at the memory the nighttime questions have conjured.

Then what promise am I to uphold? He wants to yell at the sky. What promise am I meant to break? The one I was born into, molded into from the day I opened my eyes by hands that dealt out more punishments than tenderness? Or the one I made, a young fool not quite aware yet of all the terrors of this world, with someone by my side who insistently clawed his way inside my heart?

In front of him, separated by a curtain of rain and unaware of his inner turmoil, Wei Wuxian raises his hand, his arm outstretched and holding out Chenqing like an offering, like a barrier, like a question.

“Lan Zhan, if I have to fight with them finally, I’d prefer to fight with you.”

Stop, Lan Wangji wants to say but the word is stuck at the back of his throat.

“If I am doomed to death,” and here Wei Wuxian smiles, sadly but visible in the corners of his mouth, as if his death is such a trivial thing. “At least, I could be killed by you. That would be worth it.”

What a ridiculous thing to say within the midst of the storm. What a ridiculous thing to ask of the one you consider your soul’s mate.

There is a breath stuck in Lan Wangji’s chest, lodged beneath his ribcage, raging to be let out and make the choice expected of him. Step aside, let them pass. Or better yet, for the good of all the sects and their leaders, raise the sword and strike.

Eradicate evil, set up laws and then goodness will be everlasting.

Yet beneath the stream of rain Lan Wangji is nothing but a leaf tossed to the wind, free of rules and expectations and guilt.

There is a path, splendorous and bright and there for the taking, ripe with glory, filled with a future he thought he wanted. But maybe, after all, it was the expectations of others that made him think so. And then there is the darker route, the one that speaks of exertion and an endless climb, the one people will curse him for and frown and spit at; the one that he would not have to walk in lifelong solitude, the road one unafraid person will lead him on.

What an impossible choice to make at such an age, in such a moment with thunder roaring and rain pouring down and eyes on him that beg for something he cannot give.

The breath inside his chest releases, dead and trampled.

“You said, you took me as your soulmate in this life, the one who understands you,” Lan Wangji says, barely audible above the storm. But something, as lightning flashes, lights up in Wei Wuxian’s eyes too, understanding dawning. It is only because Lan Wangji’s gaze is so fixed on him that he sees his lips tremble.

I still do.

Lan Wangji takes a step, then another, slow and deliberate and calculated. One of the horses huffs, soothed by the hum of one Wen Clan survivor. Lan Wangji remembers their faces distantly, some of them at least, from Dafan mountain. He will have time to learn them anew now.

Wei Wuxian lowers his arm, the hand clenched around Chenqing trembling, his eyes wide as moons.

“Lan Zhan,” he whispers – or maybe he doesn’t say anything at all.

Lan Wangji swallows and stares up at him and tries to put all of the sincerity he holds within the cage of his body into his words. “I still am.”

Lightning crackles, illuminating for just a second, the surprise on Wei Wuxian’s features, carved into them like rules into stone. His throat works against a reply that never comes. There is no need for one.

There is no order without rules, Lan Qiren had said.

Eradicate evil, set up laws and then goodness will be everlasting, he had made Lan Wangji read and memorize and write and repeat.

What is the 52nd rule of the Lan Clan? he had asked again and again.

Do not associate with evil, Lan Wangji had replied dutifully every time.

But within the darkness of night, beneath showers of rain, he sees no evil. Only a man trying to save the innocent, only a promise that ties them together and an understanding that binds their souls to one another irrevocably.

The umbrella meets the ground with a thud, dull and swallowed by another crack of the sky. With a lift of his feet, more elegantly than should be possible with the shock of ice-cold rain soaking his clothes and skin and hair, Lan Wangji sits upon the horse behind Wei Wuxian.

It protests with a huff, lifting his forelegs slightly and shakes as if it wants to throw them both off. A gentle hand soothes through its dark mane, breathing a whisper to make it settle down again. Like this, it barely fits them both, pressed so closely together they can feel each other’s body heat, the wetness of the other’s clothes. The rim of Wei Wuxian’s hat brushes Lan Wangji’s hairline as he twists around as much as the limited space allows, his eyes flitting over Lan Wangji’s face as if to memorize each pore.

“Lan Zhan…. Lan Zhan, no. They despise me already but you—... your Clan, your uncle, your reputation…”

He keeps uttering words without sense as if he wants Lan Wangji to change his mind, turn around and leave or take the offer of a fight and end it all right here in the wet dirt of this earth. Words that prick at Lan Wangji’s heart with guilt – although he knows it would be tenfold if he turned around now to lead the easy life that is waiting for him just beyond this path, just beyond the crossroad intersecting their lives.

So, he reaches out to where Wei Wuxian’s hand rests on the horse’s mane and lets his fingers slip in between the spaces.

“Wei Ying,” Wei Wuxian tenses, at the touch or the sound of his name, brushed right below his ear but he does not turn away.

“We made a promise,” Lan Wangji says, so easily as if this is all the explanation anyone would need. “And you promised you would let me help you. So, let us fulfill them side by side.”

                                            __________________

The umbrella is what they bring back to Koi Tower, wet with rain and caked with mud and half-broken.

Wei Wuxian, how cruel, killing all those innocent people!

Wei Wuxian, traitor of the Jiang Clan! How low he must stoop to rescue the people that killed Jiang Fengmian and Yu Ziyuan! How little respect he must have for Clan Leader Jiang!

Wei Wuxian, how dare he! Choosing the crooked path and running from the law and kidnapping Hanguang-Jun, who only tried to do right and stop him!

An act of rebellion, an act of war!

Voices rise across Koi Tower, spreading farther to cities and towns and villages, words laced with the slow poison of tarnishing a reputation already crumbling.

Lan Qiren collapses in his chair, blood dripping from his nose.

Jin Guangshan huffs and adds a few well-placed words, oil to an already simmering fire.

Jiang Cheng grinds his teeth and balls his hands into fists until his knuckles crack.

Lan Xichen meets Jiang Yanli’s eyes and sees the same prayer written in them, the plea to some deity above to protect a younger brother on his path.

Jin Guangyao offers calming words and expressions of concern, then smiles into his sleeve.

Leagues away, the Burial Mounds bloom into a home.

[nightcityhqs]

case  file     ;  Maddox Kingsley

nicknames     ;  None.

associations    ;  The Entertainers

occupation    ;  Host of the Sunset Frequency, Owner of Persephone's Den.

birthdate    ;  November 22th, 1980

hometown    ; London, England

current  location     ;  Downtown

pronouns     ; She/Her

mirror image     ; Charlize Theron

IN CHARACTER INTERVIEW

the record stops, the player tape states, and the radio static is replaced with voices;

 — And our dear listeners are eager to know, how long have you been in Sunset Port? — Most importantly, why do you stay? 

"You know, I'm normally the one doing the questions," Maddox says, accent heavy on her tongue, blowing the smoke from her cigarette away as she watches her assistant tug on the collar of his shirt, visibly uncomfortable. She sighs, "I've been in Sunset Port for twelve years. Stuck in this studio for what? Eight years?" her accent is thick, and Maddox shifts on her seat, clearing her throat. "Why don't I leave? I think about doing it, often. But I made a home for myself here, despite how dull the city can be. And if I leave, who will be the joyful company for our dear listeners every night?"

  Of course! We can all identify with the sentiment. Well, at least some of us. [LAUGHTER] What do you do in Sunset Port? 

A brow is raised, and Maddox groans, half annoyed and half offended. "Is that how I sound when reading those questions? This script is badly made, you know! Who is responsible for this? They should — What? I wrote it?" There's silence, before a tongue is clicking against the roof of her mouth. "Ah. Well, I should rewrite it, then. Well — Isn't it quite obvious?" She leans forward, mouth close to the microphone and voice low and dark, full of mysteries as she repeats the well known quote, "Good evening, Sunset Port. You've tuned in the Sunset Frequency, 66.6. And I will be your company for the night. Here all night, every night." 

  Admirable! Now, I’d have left this question last to finish with a bang, but our listener is impatient, oh my! Have you heard of our little organization?  

Nothing but silence can be heard through the radio, long and uncomfortable. The cigarette burns as the fingers holding it tremble slightly, and Maddox sighs after some time, clearing her throat once more and taking a long drag of her cigarette. "Who hasn't?" The question escapes her lips with no emotion, no surprise. It's cold, and sharp as knives. "Why is that an important question?" 

  Oh my! — And if Isabella Castello came knocking at your door, what would you do?  

Maddox chuckles, the absurdity of the questions finally catching up to her. "Well, darling, I would tell her to go fuck herself." Her assistant goes pale as a ghost, his next words barely leaving his lips. 

  Interesting. Well, I think I’ve kept you here long enough! Thank you for speaking with our public! Which song would you like me to play for you, now?

"Let’s put something inspiring for our dear listeners, huh? How about The Other Side, by Woodkid."

BIOGRAPHY

Trigger Warnings; Violence, Murder, Guns, Drugs, Serial Killers Mention

Maddox Kingsley understands enough of human nature to perceive her morals; nor black nor white, but shades of grey. Most are darker than others, more prominent. Some are hardly noticeable, but the danger is still unmistakable. In hindsight, it should be said her morals are questionable, simply put. There is no wrong or right, for Maddox. Sides are of little importance, as the only side she cares for is her own. A selfish little thing, with only her well-being in mind; she doesn't partake in any activities if she is not gaining something out of it. Maddox is easily buyable, and that's where the trouble resides; her loyalty is not worth a penny, at the end of the day — Not if someone pays better for it. Betrayal is part of Maddox's nature; it's in her blood, her instinct. Not born with her, but shoved in her bones, carved into the space where her heart should've been. Survival had been the first thing Maddox Kingsley learned, forced into her veins by unpredictable events and painfully drastic circumstances — 

You see, Maddox Kingsley had not been planned by loving parents intending to start a family. She had not been imagined, had no one who had longed for her — who had dreamed of her. No. Maddox is the outcome of a series of unpredictable events and terribly, comical if not painfully drastic, exaggerated misunderstandings. A tale so entangled in lies and achingly raw sorrow it is hardly possible to determine the truth. Few things were undoubtedly accurate, facts people embraced without question or suspicion. But the truth, not in its entirety for many pieces of the puzzle were in possession of wrathful and indignant people who would not abide Maddox's questioning, laid dormant and guarded within the confines of her mother's broken heart, hidden from those who found fondness in rumors. Her mother bore the harshness of words in a selfishly selfless act to shield her daughter, and herself. A deed meant to reassure Maddox of her devotion, and thus devotion would be given in return. 

So Maddox knew she was not unloved, her mother’s love had been her only certainty amidst the turmoil, but she wasn't awaited.

At eighteen, Lucrecia Kingsley found herself aggravating her family's situation — once prominent but now sunk in a sea of disrepute and misery. Pregnant. Surprisingly, unseemly and in her father's perspective, undesired. To further his despair, orchestrating a marriage with the father would be improbable, as the man was to be engaged. Not to his daughter, thus saving the family from bankruptcy, but to a society lady. Maddox's mother was adamant about keeping her child, despite that her father threatened to disown her. Thankfully, the man she had slept with during a moment of intoxication and hurt provided accommodations, given she allowed him to share the child with her, and she willingly accepted in a moment of desperation.

The first few years weren't cruel to Maddox. They were not particularly kind, by any means, but the child was shielded from harshness and ruthlessness during most of her first years. Her mother was young, inexperienced, fighting to overcome an essentially empty bank account — but the woman was loving, in a way her own mother had never been before. Maddox was attached to her, clinging to her mother's dresses whenever the woman had to leave for work or when Maddox's father arrived to pick her up for weekends each Friday night. Maddox's mother gave her as much care and comfort as she could, but the woman couldn't preserve her from the distant home her father dared take Maddox to every weekend.

A psychiatry student, Bertrand was a man none dared challenge in fear of his influence and authority. Rumors of Bertrand fabled cruelty were shared in hushed whispers by those brave enough to speak words considered blasphemy, but no eyes had ever witnessed such evil coming from the man's hand. Cold, yes, but not brutal. The man adored Maddox, pampering, and doting on her whenever they spent weekends together, but his family did not share the sentiment. Maddox never met her paternal grandparents, before.

She was young, barely 5, but her first memory is of that night. 

Sat in the back of an ambulance, the police lights bright and vibrant amidst the darkness, Maddox hardly paid mind to the yells of an elder woman she had never met before, who was daring to disturb the ghostly silence plaguing the night. Her attention was solely on her father, his calm eyes staring at her through the car window. To this day, Maddox remembers the strangest feeling creating roots in her lungs at the sight of her father in the back of a police car, officers and agents crowding their house and invading their space.

Your father killed a bunch of people, the agent with kind eyes had informed her, and Maddox remembers how she struggled to speak the words - had to force each syllable and consonant out, her brain surely wondering how to best tell a young girl her beloved father was a killer — and that her mother would not be returning. Her blood continued to stain the blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and her father’s eyes never showed any sign of emotions — Maddox knows, now, if she was in the agent's shoes, she would’ve been struggling too.

When Maddox had been discharged from the hospital — an extraordinary child having survived the impossible — it was to the stern hands of nuns with kindness in their eyes, faintly. Taken to a countryside orphanage, Maddox Kingsley turned out to be a difficult case for the nuns and caretakers to restrain. It was to be expected, of course, with her father in jail and her mother murdered. But Maddox's refusal of cooperating, accepting the affections of candidate parents, and simply not speaking whatsoever — proved to be rather complicated. She went and came, a family never settling with her or accepting her into their folds, wishing for an easier child to love and support instead, and returning Maddox to the hands of desperate nuns had been Maddox growing years. Coupled with fights she would often get into with the other children, well — They couldn't do much for her. 

It wasn't until Maddox turned twelve that a man with a prominent glare on his face and few words on his lip finally sealed the deal, taking Maddox in and signing the adoption papers when they were ready. Unusually quickly, but the orphanage was thankful for the money the man provided and to see Maddox finally with a 'family'. Little did they know the man was nothing of a father, but a mentor of sorts; an assassin, one with quick hands and light feet. Maddox kicked and screamed, but soon she fell into her new routine. The man did not care about the fights she picked in school, as long as she kept her head down and the attention on her to a minimum — and every day they trained. Trained until Maddox bones were sore and heavy, until her lungs ached in her ribcage, her ears ringing from the gunshot noises, and her arms burned from the weight of guns.

Maddox and the men held no affection for each other, traded few words, but he shaped her to be a merciless killer, one who could survive the dangers of this world and would not be bound to the grieves and disturbances a heart might cause. By then, she did not remember her mother by face, and tried not to think of the woman — choosing to guard the good memories in a dark place of her heart, a place where the sun doesn't shine and her blood-stained hands couldn't cause such joyful things to root. Maddox and the man held no affection for each other, traded few words, but he shaped her to be a merciless killer, one who could survive the dangers of this world and would not be bound to the grieves and disturbances a heart might cause. By then, she did not remember her mother by face, and tried not to think of the woman — choosing to guard the good memories in a dark place of her heart, a place where the sun doesn't shine and her blood-stained hands couldn't cause such joyful things to root. By eighteen, Maddox started taking her own jobs, and proved to be quite adept at it. She was never caught, and never left witness behind. Fighting came as easy to her as breathing, and Maddox paid no heed to pain. She was a machine, good as they come. By twenty-five, she was running in with a partner, a man she met during a job who was paid to kill another target in the same party she had a target. It wasn't a life she was proud of; running credit card scams, killing for money, and never settling down in one place — but it was the life she knew. The only thing she had been good at. Perhaps it is genetics. Perhaps she is as rotten as her father. Thoughts that kept her awake at night, knowing them to be true. Everything she touched died, just like him. 

With her story and her past, it didn't take long for the Organization to contact her. They promised her the world for her skills, but it came with a price. She had to leave her partner behind, and kill a target that had been escaping the Organization grasps for some time. Maddox faked her own death, leaving London, and following the trail, she was given up to Bulgaria, where she found herself face to face with the man that had raised her, taught her. It wasn't an easy fight. But she came out victorious, and at first thing in the morning, was leaving on a plane to Sunset Port. 

After that, guilt began to settle in her bones. She continued to do her job, but the taste of blood now left a bitter aftertaste in her mouth, and when she turned 32, Maddox decided to leave this life behind. She couldn't, not fully, of course — one does not simply leave the Organization. But they offered her a retirement plan; take charge of the radio station, and be free to do as she wishes in her free time. She accepted it with no questions asked, and has been the radio host for the Sunset Frequency since then.

[evanbucklley]

here's an idea: eddie kissing buck's tattoos, all of them 👀 you can take it from there. we love some intimacy

this was a prompt right? because i wrote it lol i hope it’s okay.. 

In these small hours (ao3)

It was a quiet night, the tv volume was low, the glaring light brightening the dim loungeroom just enough to see the man sitting next to him. Eddie unconsciously stroked Bucks arm, his thumb leaving a trail of warmth with it. Eddie couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so peaceful; a time where he could just be. The outside world felt so far away, it was just them and they just were. Complete homely bliss. Eddie glided him thumb up Bucks arm, tracing the outline of his double banded tattoo, catching Bucks attention.  

Bucks focus switched between Eddies hand and his eyes – that deep hazel capturing him in a trance, the warm colouring like an old oak under the golden haze of summer.

“How many tattoos do you have anyway?” Eddie asked.

“Uh,” Buck paused and looked off to the left, mentally counting, “…six… No, seven. Why?”

Eddie smiled, “Just curious.” Eddie continued to drag his fingers over Bucks skin and licked his lips. He had always wondered about Bucks tattoos – whether they’d been the object of fascination or meaningful event, Eddie wanted to know everything. “Can I see them?” The question slipped out before he had the chance to catch himself. The unconscious thought was now present in the verbal world. Eddie mentally cursed at himself for his lack of tact – he would’ve asked Buck eventually… but in a way that meant something. For the both of them. The air caught in his lungs as he couldn’t quite bring himself to breathe.

Buck scratched his cheek, lines forming between his eyebrows before he spoke, “Uh, yeah, I guess if you want to.”

Eddie’s eyes widened only for a fraction of a second. He didn’t expect that he’d be so… open? Maybe? He knew Bucks tattoos were mainly scattered over his arms and torso from previous incidents of nudity; like when they went to the beach together with Christopher or when he’d caught him coming out of the shower. But never had he gotten quite close enough to look.

Buck leaned forward and grabbed the collar of his shirt, pulling it over his face then off his arms. A shimmer glistened over his torso, from the minute beads of sweat forming with the humidity. Eddie swallowed. The material was then discarded over the back of the couch.

Eddies face flushed; the memory no matter how wonderful, paled in comparison to the real time Buck without a shirt. God just the sight sent a tingling sensation through his body. His tongue darted out leaving a quick, damp layer over his bottom lip before his teeth sunk down.

“When did you get this one?” he asked, moving closer.

Buck paused, a sad smile meant only for him surfacing as he relieved a memory, “About 10 years ago now I think.”

“Tell me about it?”

Buck pondered for a second, caught up in the nostalgia.

“Only if you’re okay with it, I mean.”

“No, I wanna tell you.” Buck took a deep breath in. “When I was little my grandma used to look after me a lot – she was one of the most kind-hearted people I’ve ever known.”

Was? Eddie gave Bucks arm a squeeze.

“She used to uh, have this little vegetable garden out by the back porch.” His face lit up in the sweetest grin, “We used to plant things together you see–” Buck nudged Eddie’s shoulder–, “Oh! The strawberries were my favourite, and I would always get in trouble for eating them all before she had the chance to collect them.” He laughed heartily. This time there was no sadness, only joy at the shared memory of the past. “Anyway, just after I got out of high school, she… she died and it hit me a little hard, I guess. The very next day I was in the parlour getting inked. My folks weren’t too happy about that.”

“Must’ve been rough,” Eddie said. He knew he shouldn’t have been happy in that moment, but he was. Buck was sharing a story about himself. A rarity among rarities. This was something only he knew. And that felt glorious.

“I guess… She was a big part of my life but she passed away peacefully and that’s all I could really ask for, you know? She lived a long, happy life.”

Eddie’s heart melted. He couldn’t believe someone this genuine existed. Maybe it was the residual heat of the day, or the Santa Anas but Eddie had an overwhelming desire to touch him. To embrace him. His hand slipped to the underside of Bucks arm and he tugged it close to his face, lips brushing over the banded tattoo. His heart was pounding in his chest, his blood on fire as if he had been thrust into the sun. He couldn’t stop there. He pushed Buck down so he was lying flat on the couch, and hovered over top, trailing kisses up Bucks arm before landing at another tattoo – this one an overlay of geometric shapes, kind of resembling a star, situated on Bucks chest. To which he also placed a slow, sensual kiss.

Buck whined but didn’t resist. Oh God did that noise set Eddies heart ablaze.

“Eddie –” Bucks tongue caught in his throat as Eddie swiped his hand over his left peck.  

“Shhh… I’m counting,” Eddie whispered, his warm breath unleashing goose bumps over Bucks skin.

Eddie trailed his thumb upwards, gliding over the next tattoo, a squiggle-shaped three with a cross over top. He brought his mouth to Bucks burning skin, caressing it in a light peck.

“That makes three.” He looked up at Buck, eyes full of hunger.

There was this fiery desire inside of him, wanting, needing to caress every mark that ever had the blessing to grace Bucks supple skin. Each one, a moment or memory in Buck’s life that he hadn’t known. He ached to know every last detail about this man.

Buck writhed underneath him as Eddie raked his hands down Bucks torso. Buck desperately tried to cover his face with his arms to hide his reddening features, revealing another tattoo on the inside of his left upper arm in the process. Oh? One hand stayed synched on Bucks waist, but the other grasped Bucks elbow and pushed it down as his lips crashed onto the fourth tattoo. Bucks skin slightly salty, as Eddie swiped his tongue over the area.

“Four.”

Buck moaned then sunk lower into the couch. Eddie paused. Did he just find a sweet spot? Though unexpected it was a welcome surprise; Eddie loved hidden treasures. He smirked.

Eddie delicately withdrew Bucks hand from his face, wanting to see everything. The soft lighting hit Buck in every right way; as if the warm glow had cast a magic spell, he was enchanted. He caressed under Bucks eye, rubbing softly before cupping his hand around Bucks face.

It caught Eddie off-guard when Buck leaned into his hand and shut his eyes. Here he was, embracing the man that had filled his whole heart and thought there wasn’t a luckier man alive.

“I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free,” Buck whispered.

“What?”

“The one on my arm… it’s a quote from Michelangelo,” Buck responded, still flustered. “You know, the artist.”

Eddie chuckled, “I know who Michelangelo is, Buck.” Eddie raised his eyebrows, “He also happens to be Christopher’s favourite ninja turtle.”

“A respectable choice,” Buck grinned.

“You know he was 13 when he started his apprenticeship?”

“The turtle?” Eddie, of course, knew exactly who he meant but it was always fun playing dumb. He loved it when Buck told him of his passions, dumping copious amounts of information that he’d stayed up researching. And hey, he even learned a thing or two.

Buck giggled, shoving Eddies chest, “The artist.”

“Oh.”

“He wasn’t even the first choice to paint the Sistine Chapel, Raphael was – ” Buck let out a squeal as Eddie nibbled down his chest–, “But convinced the pope to hire Michelangelo to prove he didn’t have the range. He sure showed him – painted the whole thing himself. It may have taken 4 years but he did it.”

Eddie rested his chin on Bucks ribcage and stared up at him, eyes full with a soft smile. It was warm, but of the pleasant kind, and Eddie’s face rose and fell with Bucks chest as he continued his rambling adventure. The vibrations from Bucks voice like the pattering of rain on a tin roof, and his heartbeat like excited footsteps on hard wood flooring. If there were one meaning for his existence, it would be this moment.

Buck smoothed his hand over Eddie’s hair, giving it a tousle, and guided his arm into Eddie’s line of sight.

“I think you were at five,” Buck’s voice now low and gravelly.

Eddie could hardly contain himself – not only was Buck not rejecting his advancements, he was responding, initiating.

Taking this chance, Eddie held Bucks hand with a firm grip and trailed five kisses up the length of the quote.

“Five kisses for the fifth,” he whispered.

Eddie moved on from Bucks arm, still unwilling to release Bucks hand, and continued to kiss down Bucks torso. An outline of a head, with an anatomical heart was the next tattoo he found, on the lower left side of Bucks abdomen.

He had a pretty good idea what this one was about. Buck had always been an emotional thinker – he followed his heart wherever it took him. And that wasn’t a bad thing. Especially since that heart lead Buck here, to Eddie. Buck’s heart was and probably will always be, the best thing about him.

Eddie placed his lips over the black ink and he could almost feel it beating. Thump. Thump. Thump. Or maybe that heartbeat was his own? He nibbled the area then smoothed it over with his tongue, Buck squirming underneath him. This was by far his favourite. He placed his mouth around the centre of the heart and sucked for a few seconds before releasing. Bucks skinned reddened and Eddie smirked. The heart was now as vibrant as his own.

“This was number six… so there’s one more left.” He shot a look to Buck, prompting him to tell him where the last one was. Buck shied away, blinking a few times. Was the last one somewhere… indecent?

Eddie growled and grabbed the top of Bucks pants, ready to explore the hidden territory. Buck bit his lip and glided his hand atop Eddie’s and lead it down over his hip. Eddie took slow shallow breaths, like a predator ready to pounce. Buck continued to move their hands lower and lower until he reached the bottom of his left trouser leg. He dragged up the hem, revealing the quote scrawled in cursive over his calf. Eddie chuckled. Buck was teasing him. Oh, he was going to get him back for that later.

Eddie gave it a quick kiss before sitting back up.

“You sure you don’t have any more?” he said, almost sulky. He wanted to keep going.

Buck cleared his throat and looked away, feigning interest in the house now showing on the tv.

“Hey that’s pretty cool, I’ve always wanted to renovate my own house.”

Eddie looked to the screen, “It’s a lot harder than it looks on tv you know – whether you get contractors or do it yourself.”

Bucks gave him a look and sat up, “Can I put my shirt back on now?”

“If you must.” Eddie noticed the evasion of his question but that only made it more exciting. One of these days he would find out for sure if Evan Buckley did indeed have another tattoo.

[u-jin]

IT’S ALL DARK

status: headcanon ft. @lockekatirci  situation: first meetings location: somewhere near market zero time: hour unknown, the streets are swept black, even the late crowds have quieted TRIGGER WARNINGS: death, blood, mutilation, gore

DEMON CAT OPENS, POURING TERROR ONTO THE STREETS:

It’s like an animal bent over prey, a darkened image of a not-quite man bent over a not-quite corpse, a carving knife in one hand, fingers stained red and face sprayed, blood dripping from the ends of his hair as he works in the back alley of an abandoned pub. This, he thinks, is art. He reels back and slices down again, a horrible tearing sound, a dull thud. He leaves his knife protruding for a moment, bare hands reaching into a gaping crevice, past bone, past the squishy, slippery texture of human insides, seemingly searching for something, a growl of frustration. He pulls back again, the cold air freezing the wet texture of his skin, and is stopped by a feeling like ice, a slow prickle running up his back, a sensation familiar to one thing -- someone is watching him.

Then he looks up, red up to his elbows as he draws the knife out of the body's ribcage, the air moving and transforming, a face somewhere in the darkness. He stands slowly, making the shadows writhe and shift around him, the light cascading into the dark, his own person being revealed like a feral dog, eyes wide and face beautiful in it’s stoicism, it’s in freedom from hunger in the one moment after hunting, covered in blood and chunks of flesh. He finds him, a being more wraith than man, appearing as if conjured. The knife hangs loosely in Ujin’s hand, curious and open, he takes several steps towards the shadowed figure, face cast like the undead in the way the darkness hangs over his eyes. He pushes light closer, plays with his own mind in the form of illusions, the slow, clandestine drip, drip, drip of scarlet falling past his arms to the concrete, a mutilated corpse lying motionless in the background.

He’s curious, treacherous, he creates the illusions and yet he isn’t sure if he conjured it himself, sanity sometimes slipping in his ache for blood, his draw to the macabre, then the light reveals a face and he realizes that it cannot be a creation of his own because he doesn’t make beautiful things. He draws closer, eyes narrowed, knife heavy in his fingertips, something in the back of his mind saying that he must take this one too, that he has to reap every last creature he sees, he has to devour, consume. He can’t stand the sight of something that appears so clean despite the way the blackness clings to him, something untouched despite the intensity in his stare, but there is no fear, not exactly, instead something that looks as starving as he is, and Ujin wants nothing more than to slice him open and chew on his bones.

The shadows are domain to the beasts and the butchers, and the man appears well at home, he steps closer, eyes molten gold and tinged velvet, narrowed and curious. Who are you? What can you do for me? How he loathes pretty things, hates those that mirror himself, delicate features and dark dispositions, is it possible to be this empty? This angry? He sears molten lava, mouth spitting ash, the ground rumbling with the tightening suture of an oncoming storm, a building intensity in the locked stare of two monsters, two unholy creatures, one caught feasting in his right and the other a watcher, an onlooker, an uninvited guest.

His head turns carefully to the side, his mouth opens his mouth as if to speak, reaches out as if to touch when behind him there’s a clatter, and he turns, paranoid and sharp. He sees a rat scurry from beneath a heap of trash and just as quickly he turns back, greeted with only the image of a brick wall and, for a moment, he appears thoughtful. Eventually his tongue clicks behind his teeth, as if this occurrence was nothing strange, as if performing for an audience of one. He still feels the presence nearby, but worse things have burdened him, far worse has happened, and he turns back around, head cocked and smile returning, wild and wrathful. Another monster in his midst, one he does not recognize, one he’s surely meant to hunt. The features linger, transparent, almost crystalline, not solid or definable but just as vivid.

He’ll be back, he decides, before drawing his knife up and returning to his art project.

AND SO RETURNS HELL HOUND ( @lockekatrici ) , WATCHING FROM THE SHADOWS:

Through static darkness; suspended in the shadows like an invisible fly on the wall; obscured by all living creatures, Locke almost becomes the dead in the way existence no longer stands tangible. Only the nearly inaudible breaths whisper his presence in amongst the night and he’s simply watching. It’s not clear how much time has passed, but in the veil, there’s a weightlessness that keeps time as an illusion; a figment of reality that no longer cares for such trivial cogs in a clock. Not even the metal hands under the steel of Katirci’s watch can attract his attention when such a display of vehemence captures his admiration. A sickening snap echoes; evidence of tendons tearing from tissue, an explosion of liquid bursts from the hacking of meat where silver carves deep, splits open the disfigured animation like a fountain and allows arteries to spurt red and paint the streets in colour. Like a mosquito that pierces with the same necessity to thrive; saps life; energy from a being, a strange obsession with needing to inch closer starts crawling under Locke’s skin. It’s as though that craving for a knife to cut open his own flesh overpowers reasoning; he wants to be in the place of the canvas currently being maimed to forge a new entity. It evokes a memory, the harsh sound of bones cracking a small boy’s shoulder blade in youth; a wail that’s fast silenced when another comes down and drives deep the venom that in elder years swarms the man’s veins like a parasite; a poison that builds him to something beyond becoming ruination.

He’s the god of the night and deities like to be seen; worshipped and offered sacrifices as favoured by most sentients; Lokman as a divinity is an image formed entirely of delusion, though, diluted by his own deep rooted belief he is greater than his own beasts.

Because he stares in awe at the one before him; sees everything in the hues of the man – if he could be called such a thing, the frenzied ghoul that appears to be the reaper of offerings; such a beautiful thing that Katirci’s own false illusion of playing silent spectator falters and he steps out to meet the other; as if only to see his face close up, marvel in the features that are blessed with the sangria that peppers warm skin, melts down perfected features; a jaw that even belonging to something with ferocity; untamed in the actions of the blade he holds can only belong to something of primal nature. Would you take my hand if I wiped red from your face, if only to see deeper? A madman’s misconception, because he already sees it all.

And above that, the stranger sees him. A kind of outlandish stare that’s a myriad of perplexion and the hunger behind the man’s eyes; matches Locke’s own if only by a single shade, so he believes. There’s no shift of eyes to the knife in the other’s hand, knowing that Locke’s own is sheathed in the rear of trousers; a personal measure, opposed to that of protection. For a moment, both men are still, admiring each other and any third eye could assume a standoff, but it’s nothing of the kind; there’s only a drawn need to the grisly and Lokman’s lip ticks in one corner, not as a taunt, but as an unorthodox manner of greeting. It might have been as prominent as firing a bullet, the only shift that begins the shift of the two that’s evident past the two heaving chests that indicate they’re alive.

An abrupt clatter of tin resonates, tears the other’s gaze away, offers Lokman opportunity to disappear; create a new diversion in the beams of black that shape inconsistent waves between the pub’s alleyway. He’s become a ghost again; once more opportunist, stealthy in becoming absent to the other who’s own speed is admirable. But it’s never quite fast enough, he can see the momentary flicker where lowlights project amber street lights over the features of the stranger. It could easily be a dream manifested from hauntings; memories that plague Locke’s head from years prior. But it’s far too real, he can sense it like a false sixth sense that is all in his mind, the need to still capture a streak of red on his own fingertips if only to become closer to the man; so Lokman can be seen by him as Katirci plays witness to his misdeeds.

Then, like it never happened, the brief encounter of two monsters in the dark, the other begins hacking at the mutilated mass, unhinged and ignorant perhaps to any ghosts gracing him. It seems so pitiful to be disheartened, that Locke’s not accustomed anymore to feeling forgotten so swiftly in situations with such merciless intentions. The stranger’s got something better in the dead in front of him. A demon in the rear of Locke’s head, coaxing lies; truths? Into him like sweet pumps of that delicious poisonous venom he’s drowned in.

The briefest emotion, unrecognised – entirely unfamiliar; so fast to fleet from his body like a powerful force uses him as a conduit to another world for just a split second. More so that it’s such an old feeling, he’s forgotten what it’s like; rejection; being unknown once more to the person he’s spent perhaps hours staring at in the mists for the other man to only see him for seconds.

Unlike the stranger who’s hijacked his thoughts; all rationality – if there ever was any, Lokman does not forget such a moment and there’s no denying the bloodied face that he’s memorised isn’t the last painted picture he’ll leave with; a promise. He’ll be the ghost that haunts the man.

[ultraklll]

Tony Miller as a Gun For Hire! Tagged by the lovely @envyfelled ! Ty! This was super fun! Also, I'm on mobile, so sorry for the garbo formatting! (Fun fact, tonys voice claim is laura bailey as fiona/fem!boss)

Paired With Fangs For Hire:

Boomer - "Heya buddy!" followed by excessive scratching behind the ears | "Fuckin' love this dog, can sniff out a peggie like shark sniffing out blood. Good trait to have! Awfully convenient too…" | [patpatapatptpataptap] | "Atta fuckin' boy Boomer!" When she sees him get a kill | "Who's a good boy! Who wants to kill some cultists!" | "Wanna play fetch? Rip out their necks?"

Peaches - "Good girl…" | stealth gang stealth gang | peaches: mows down peggies/tony: a baby!" | "I jus' think it's funny that when we went to the Henbane, we picked up a cougar, Addie, an actual cougar, Peaches, and joined a crew called the Cougars… Just'a thought," 

Cheeseburger - "This reminds me'a Vegas pride, saw plenty'a bears there too" | "Kinda ironic to find you in Jacob's region, all things considered," [snickers to herself] | [PATPATPATPATPATPAT] | "Get outta my pockets! These snacks are mine, not yours!" | "You remind me of those like, beware of dog signs, but the dog is always a sweetheart who'd rather play with a home invader rather than attack them," 

Paired With Other Guns For Hire:

Jess - stealth gang stealth gang stealth gang | Jess has a MASSIVE crush on Tony. Everyone can tell. Tony knows | jess: guns are fucking lame and the sniper rifle is the cowards weapon/ tony: uses a sniper rifle/ jess: actually sniper rifles are cool as fuck | "Good shot Jess!" "S-shit, um, thanks, Tony," 

Grace - sniper gang sniper gang!! | [steals a headshot Grace was lining up] "Cmon Gracie, thought you were meant to be Olympic level!" | highly competitive, do a shot whenever they get a perfect headshot to die instantly | smug top solidarity | also heavily depressed solidarity 

Adelaide - [acts like she's not sleeping with her nephew even tho Addie knows she definitely knows] | Tony is either constantly laughing or constantly face palming over the shit addie says | have gotten into an argument once bc addie said john was a top 

Nick - "What's up eye in the sky?" | [flirts over radio] [flirts over radio] [flirts over radio] [fli | Nick: speaks/Tony: god I just love the way you fucking talk | often talk about kim together | "Can we have a barbecue at your place once these fuckers are dealt with?" | [pretends not to be bitter the Deputy got to help deliver Carmina and not her]

Sharky - "Heya baby!" | [constant back and forth flirting. It's embarrassing] | any second they're both not talking is a second they're making out | Can and Will go john wick on some peggy ass if he gets hurt badly | "Do you wanna have a sleepover?" "Lemme ask my momma," | she calls him Charlie :> | loves him so so much they're just constantly talking about anything and everything | literally like A Comedic Duo. Have together for certified funnies

Hurk jr. - "Junior! This'll be just like Kyrat!" | competitions about who can shotgun a beer faster every 4 seconds | WILL tell you stories about their time in Kyrat together | Tony has punched Drubman sr in the nose before and she'll do it again | "Hey Tony? You still in contact with Ajay?" "He sends me a royal postcard every now n' then. Apparently it's boring being king, and his only solace is that his new bodyguard is cute," 

In Combat: 

Seeing an enemy - "Fucker in my sights," | "I got a bullet with your name on it… actually I don't, who the fuck has time to carve names in bullets, but you get the idea- im just gonna shoot you now" | "You're dead on arrival, shithead," 

Sneaking - "You'd think me sneaking is counter productive because I'm 6'4 and have a very loud gun, but you're the boss Dep," | "Shhhh… we're huntin' shitheads… Heard it in a game," | [shoots alarm boxes] "You ain't allowed to call your friends, you're all grounded," | *peggy triggers alarm* "Fuckin snitch!" 

Killing an enemy - "SKULLCRACKER!" | "I just don't miss!" | just fucking headshot after headshot after headshot | [sucks in breath through teeth] "God damn I'm good," | when shes not using her Wifle (wife rifle, a 45/70) she's being FUCKING EFFICIENT with her ak-ms or just blasting ribcages open with her shotgun

Reviving - "Up you get, baby," | "You ain't dying on me that easy, Dep" | "Not today Satan!" | "You gonna let some unwashed asshole kill you?" 

Hurt - "Motherfucker!" | "That's another scar I'll tattoo over," | "Thank god people find scars sexy," | "God fuck that's smarts!" 

Downed - "Dep! Give me a hand?" | "Clean up on Aisle 4 needed!" | "Don't worry about me, just bleeding out over here, no rush," 

Revived - "Drinks on me when this is over Dep," | "Thanks babe!" | "I'll kiss you when we get outta this mess," | "I owe ya!"

Driving: 

Entering a vehicle - "Lemme take over I'm a way better driver than you," | "Floor it!" | "Hang on I've got a mixtape, just hope I havent fuckin' crushed it," | [takes the opportunity to roll cigs] | *peggies roll up* "Keep her steady!" [leans out the window and headshots the peggie on their ass, causing them to crash the car, like that isnt the coolest shit you've ever seen] "Aight cool,"

Reckless Driving - "Watch the fuckin' road asshole!" | [desperately tryna grip the wheel so she can take over driving] | "STOP THE CAR! I'LL JUST FUCKING WALK!" | "Are you tryna kill us?! Fuckin' swap seats now!" | tony is the designated driver bc one she's fucking good at it and two shes also a really bad backseat driver. Just let her drive 

Changing Radio Stations - "Now don't tell Charlie I said this but some of the peggies music is actually good,"| "John's a prick but his music taste is fuckin' good," | [punches radio in when Only You comes on] "...Sorry… Force'a habit…" | "Bold and brave my ass, John looks like he needs help getting spiders out of rooms and wears fuzzy pink bathrobes," 

Idle: 

"Man, John's a freak, and yeah I mean that in the sexy way. Someone who demands so much outward control whilst being a shithead little brat likes to get trussed up like a thanksgiving turkey and stuffed like one too. Don't give me that look Dep, I'm right and we both know it," 

"That dude Jacob ate was called Miller?? God, that could've been me if I was much older and way uglier!" 

"Faith just makes me fuckin sad man. She's been manipulated and groomed into this life by fuckin Joseph- she's so goddamn young too. I'm not gonna tell you what to do Dep, but that's just my two cents,"

"Joseph's the worst kind of man- a manipulator. He tells you what you wanna hear, targets the misfortunate who have nothing left to lose, builds a fucking army out of em. The other heralds I'm ok with arresting, but Joseph's got to go,"

[Lights cig with either her fancy lighter or by striking a match on the bottom of her shoe] "Don't start smoking, Dep,  bad for your health," 

Location Specific: 

Testy Festy Aftermath - [pinches bridge of nose] "Not again…" | "Anyone got a water and like, 3 aspirin?" | "Ain't the first time I've woke up passed out in a field, won't be the last," | "Did we at least get a photo from the night? I've won the competitions here for the last 3 years in a row now, I'm not fuckin missing one cuz of these peggies," 

Falls End - "Fuckin shame to see Falls End like this, but Mary May and Jerome will take good care of her now weve got it back, they always do," | "Think we'll get free drinks for life at the Spread Eagle when this is all over? Actually, we probably won't even get free drinks for week, so for life is wishful thinking," | she enjoys playing with the singing fish on the front of the speed eagle and keeps tryna convince Mary May to let her take it for herself bc tony goddamn miller has the biggest singing fish collection in the entire county 

Seed Ranch - *loud whistle* "this place is swanky as fuuuuck… Not that big a fan of all the dead animals though…" | "IS THAT WEED ON THE TABLE? Johnny boy you fuckin' hypocrite!" | "Oh he's definitely got a secret room behind one of these bookshelves, like a home torture room? Oh my God, what if he has more than one...?" [starts frantically pulling books off shelves] | regarding his shelves with peggie memorabilia [takes baseball bat to it] | [pretends she's never been here as she frantically stuffs any of her own belongings she might've forgotten here into her bag]

Entering the Henbane - "Don't trust a goddamn thing you see here. You think you see something you're not supposed to, hit it," | [swinging at bliss induced angel/animal/faith visions] | "Can we try savin' Faith? Don't feel right killin' her, she's so young…" | "Can we go to Sharky's place? I left some stuff there that could be worth picking up,"

Hope County Jail - "Sheriff Whitehorse has always been a good man to me, Dep. Would appreciate it if he lived through this," | "I always feel like a giant whenever I come here, everyones like 5'3. Virgil, Tracey, Charles, all shortasses," | "I think it's cute they gave you a little pin! You're part of their Pride now! Or whatever the cougar equivalent is to a lions pride… do Cougars even travel in packs? Aside from when Addie used take the girls out for drinks,"

Entering the Whitetails - "Always feels like something's watchin' you in these woods. Keep your eyes peeled," | "Always felt like there's something in these woods that there ain't supposed to be…" | [Shifting from foot to foot] "Can we get a move on? Aint'a big fan of standing around waitin' to get shot by some fuckin' sniper with a bow," | [watching Jacob's video punishing Pratt] "I'll fuckin' get you outta here, Stace… you just gotta hold out a second longer," | [about all the dead bodies and 'you are meat' graffiti] "Love what Jacob's done with the place," 

The Wolfs Den - "Eli Palmer is a good fuckin man. Kind, smart, careful and ruthless against peggies. We've made a good friend here, Dep," | "Heya Wheaty! Got a few more vinyls for your collection! They're all my own though, so be careful with em," | "I don't think Tammy likes you that much Dep. I don't think she likes much of anything anymore, other than attaching jumper cables to Peggy's nipples… Oh god, my piercings hurt thinking about it," 

Joseph's Island - [hand firmly on rifle grip] | "Creepy, evil motherfucker, had him pegged right from the start. Well, not pegged. I'm not pegging Joseph. I'd rather stick my dick in a ceiling fan then go anywhere near him- I'm just gonna stop talking," | "You know what? No one else has asked it so I'm gonna- where the fuck does Joseph sleep.  In the church? In one of these houses? In the dirt somewhere? What if he hangs upside down from trees like a bat?" 

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, CLAUDIA! You’ve been accepted for the role of OTHELLO with a FC change to Chadwick Boseman. Admin Minnie: Claudia. Wow, Claudia. This application won me over. I got extremely excited in a matter of seconds just from your first paragraph alone — just ask the other admins, I can even send you a screenshot of my message: “ok i've read one paragraph and im in luv”. From your clean and precise analysis of his core (”learning that love and terror were not the antithesis of each other but an echo of the hunger that comes with being alive” YOU DID THAT) to the incredibly story you weaved in your para sample... you completely won me over. And so did your Othello. I cannot wait to see your plot points come to life, because I’m positive that you’re going to bring a storm to Verona. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Claudia

Age | 23

Preferred Pronouns | She / Her

Activity Level | 7

Timezone | GMT+11

How did you find the rp? |  I’ve known about DiVerona for a while now but it’s been some time since I was active on the rpc scene. Stumbling upon it again after all this time and seeing Othello open feels a little like serendipity.

Current/Past RP Accounts |  Here and here.

IN CHARACTER

Character | Othello. And if I could please request a faceclaim change to Chadwick Boseman.

What drew you to this character? |

Othello is a study in dichotomies – a man torn between polar extremes. Between savagery and nobility, brutality and kindness, love and war.

His very existence was borne of a war waged between his mother’s warmth and his father’s cruelty. He grew up in a house that felt more like battlefield than home, learning that love and terror were not the antithesis of each other but an echo of the hunger that comes with being alive. He feels everything: deeply, intensely, like an open wound half-healed; it’s his greatest strength and it will be his ultimate downfall. Odin is a man capable of a vast and terrible rage. There’s brutality sunken deep in his marrow, something black and rotten in his birthright, an ancient violence. He feels it in his blood like a beast that’s slept dormant all these years, lying in wait, watchful, preying on his worst instincts. He hears it singing in his veins, can taste it climbing into his throat, when he sees a guilty man’s blood spilled on fresh dirt. He thinks he sees glimpses of his father in the mirror, sometimes, when his mind is adrift and steeped in shadow. His eyes, soulless and quiet, his knuckles blooming with bruises.

Suffice to say, I love this broken, conflicted, contradiction of a man. There’s nothing more compelling than a tragic hero and the thing about Othello is that he has every inkling in him of someone who could so easily be tipped over the edge into monster. I love that discrepancy, I live for that sliver of doubt, the seduction of l’appel du vide and the terrifying realisation that he has everything in him to slip beyond that edge.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

ONE MORE SUCH VICTORY WOULD UTTERLY UNDO ME  |  Odin has survived the maelstrom of scandal and ruin that would have meant a fall from grace and high standing, the destruction of all that he has built for himself. And in doing so, he’s lost the only thing he has every truly loved in this life: Delilah. All of the love and devotion and pleas for understanding could not deny the rage and ruthlessness that came with her infidelity. With the heartbreak of knowing the one person he’d let into the deepest parts of his soul, who’d seen him bare and unstripped of all artifice, had betrayed him. He’s burned all their bridges, performed triage to save his reputation and his pride, but what of the love that still sickens him when he thinks of her and how she’s suffering? He has set fire to all traces of her inside his heart but it isn’t so easy to burn her out of his mind or his dreams. These are the places where man has no dominion. And what of the peace he knows he will never find again without her by his side? What of the treacherous slivers of doubt beginning to eat away at him that till now, he has tried to kill and smother with green-eyed reason? He couldn’t possibly be wrong, could he? He couldn’t have abandoned his happiness and his honour with the one woman who has loved him for all his flaws and vices at the turn of a whispered deception?

AM I MY BROTHER’S KEEPER?  |  Ivan is the closest thing Odin has to family. To blood. Ivan has stood at his side through everything, his left-tenant, his confidante, his greatest source of comfort and familiarity. Call it a blind spot, a weakness, but Ivan has earned his faith and unquestioning trust. It was Ivan who came to him when he first heard of Delilah’s betrayal, and it was Ivan who gave him the strength to do what had to be done. But now he has lost his greatest love, and his brother seems more and more a stranger to him by the day. Ivan has always been smarter, sharper, hungrier, hiscunning forged out of necessity and survival. It is the flicker of doubt, the silhouette of something far more treacherous and unforgivable that stains his dreams like nightshade. He is not a man of halfway, or half-done. Odin absolutely cannot abide the grey area of hesitation. If there is more than speculation to the idea that Ivan has somehow exaggerated, or misconstrued Delilah’s transgression… There’s nothing more dangerous than a man who has nothing left to lose.

WHY ARE YOU FULL OF RAGE? BECAUSE YOU ARE FULL OF GRIEF  |  Despite his well-crafted attempts at appearing to the contrary, Odin walks a finely wired tightrope between chaos and control. His ego is bruised and battered, and his heart is worn thin with humiliation. He was once a man that wore the hearts of Verona’s people on his sleep. Now, a whisper follows him everywhere he goes. A whisper that becomes a murmur, rising and spilling into a crescendo of rumour and disgrace that hounds him day and night. Odin is quicker to anger, more belligerent and unruly, a humming drum beat of shame and dishonour ringing in his ears every time he turns away and pretends not to hear the outrageous lies they spin. And with his beloved gone, cast out of his heart and soul, there is so little left to keep his worst instincts at bay. All it would take is one bad day. One simple push is all it would take to plunge him down the path into darkness. A push, or a drip of well-timed poison in his ear.  

PROMETHEUS’ GAMBIT  |  Before Odin swore himself to the Capulets, he was a man of the people. A hero. A saviour. Someone who fought to protect those who could not protect themselves, who strove to uphold the law and to push for reform when, at times, it failed to protect Verona’s people. Why, then, would such a noble, virtuous man like Odin Bello, choose to fall in with the mob? Odin is idealistic, but pragmatic. War and injustice have taught him that the law is not enough. Verona runs on blood and money, and if that is what it takes to wield the power and influence in this city necessary to do genuine good, then so be it. Becoming a Captain of the Capulets was an act of necessity, and political savvy. He is a man of his word, and therefore loyal to their cause. But if there ever comes a day when he must choose between the Capulets and the life of an innocent, Odin’s sense of justice may cause him to waver.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? |  Absolutely. Preferably in some manner of tragedy and disaster befitting the very embodiment of tragic irony.

IN DEPTH

In-Character Para Sample:

It is always the same dream.

The same endless plunge into nothingness, a black chasm void of any light or air or sound. It could be sinking, or rising, and Odin wouldn’t know the difference between the sky and the ground. Suffocating. Drowning. Either way, it is a slow, and terrible way to go.

The vice around his neck, coiling tight around his throat, tighter with every breath, crushing any frenzied hope of salvation. He scrabbles wildly at the noose (not a rope but smooth, sleek to the touch, and cold), knuckles paling with desperation as his lungs scream. He fights. But the end is always the same. The hand (when did the noose become so clearly defined? Are those fingers?) clenches around his throat, grinding down against his windpipe with unrelenting pressure. It metastasizes – liquefying with the metallic consistency of blood, or perhaps smoke, as it fills his mouth and his lungs and his chest, pouring into his ribcage and filling every fissure and crevice inside of him.

It tastes like death. It tastes like inevitability.

He drowns like this, suspended in time between shadow and purgatory, for what feels like an eternity. And then either his mind snaps, or the dream does, and he’s released, hurtling into reality with the speed of a sniper bullet.

—

He wakes like a dying man drawing his last, shuddering breath.

In his dream state, his sweat-streaked brow tightens with the anticipation of a brush of warm, soft lips. Ah. But she’s gone now, isn’t she? She is gone and he has carved her out of his chest like a pound of flesh he still holds clutched in his bloodied fist. The proof of her betrayal beating in his palm, visceral and raw as a slaughter.

Odin wakes from sleep every morning like he has survived a death. He moves as if his body is exhausted to find itself alive and begrudges him the audacity of enabling the very breath in his lungs. But years of military regimen has been beaten into him like sandstone worn smooth by a millennia of moon and tide. He drags himself out of bed, dresses, makes his bed squared with perfect angles, shaves, slips his gun out from beneath his pillow and into his holster. The barely risen sun casts everything in a dull tinge of faded indigo like day old bruising. He pads through the house, the hollow echo of his footsteps winding down and down the stairs.

A rap of knuckles upon his door splinters his reverie, his attention snaps to the entryway. Sharp. Alert.

It’s Katarina. She swirls through the door, out of uniform but armed to the teeth, gaze chilled as black ice.

“It’s the rat,” she hisses, eyes flashing like chips of steel in the dark.

The word has an affect akin to an electric shock: he’s awake.

“What did he do now?”

Katarina’s gaze narrows in disdain. “What rats are wont to do: lie and squirm and betray.”

“And what’s the word from Sloane? Rafaella?”

“Dispose and send in the cleaner.” Casual murder, discussed just like that. It’s not even seven in the morning yet, a time when normal, human citizens of Verona could be having their first cup of coffee.

“No use disposing of a rat if we can’t get something out of it first,” Odin deliberates. “Catch him for interrogation.”

Katarina snorts indelicately. “Shouldn’t be too hard, the way he’s been hitting The Dark Lady every night like the world is ending.”

The barest smirk toys at the corner of Odin’s mouth. “Maybe he’s not as stupid as we thought then.”

Those that lie to the Capulet Mob are usually exactly as slow-witted as they appear on the surface. Lying and betraying the Capulets is akin to signing one’s own death sentence in blood.

“Oh, I highly doubt that,” Katarina drawls, the syllables velveteen on her tongue.

“Tonight. Nine o’clock in The Orchid Room. You can handle getting him there on a work night?”

“Can I get a Veronesi police officer to slack and indulge their vices at a glorified whorehouse? Please.”

“Alright, then.” Odin gives a small nod, a subtle seal of approval.

“Well, I have to go see a gentleman about an exterminator.”

There is something to be admired in how efficiently a malvivente can get away with murder. The science and precision it takes to orchestrate a killing floor, a crime scene, a clean-up. In many ways, Cosimo Capulet is a virtuoso of his craft, if homicide could be considered an art.

“Have I mentioned how much I hate disappearing bodies from the precinct? Remind me to recommend that we accept external transfers only from now on.”

Katarina flicks him a smile sharp enough to cut through bone. “Here’s hoping third time’s a charm.”

––

The city is restless with fevered boredom. A sinister hush before a summer storm. Odin is alone on patrol this morning; Bellamy has begged off their shift with some falsified story about an elderly neighbour in crisis. In other words, a convincingly tedious tale to spin to cover the tracks of covert Montague business.

Odin doesn’t pry; there will be a time to play his cards and reveal his hand but today is not the day.

A crackling comes on over the radio, a standard 10-62 from dispatch. When he arrives on scene on the very outskirts of south Verona, it’s to an unsettling quiet. He steps out of the car, hand slipping cool over the grip of his gun. He heads round the back of the building, passing soundlessly down the winding cobblestone path that leads to the back entrance. His second cause for concern comes with his discovery that the door has been left unlocked. A push of the frame sends it swinging open. Odin’s hand flexes instinctively, curling tighter around his gun as he moves, barrel-first, into the house. With a slight exhale through his teeth, he raises his fist and hammers it into the peeling wood.

“Polizia,” he cries out. “Is anyone there?”

No answer.

No signs, even, of a breaking and entering.

He releases his fist, and heads cautiously on into the house. He clears one room after the other, swiftly and methodically, finding no signs of forced entry or illicit trespassing. The only remaining room left to scour is on the upper floor facing northward. Odin steps forward and reaches to open the door.

Of all the things Odin could have anticipated finding here, the rat they’ve have been hunting for over a week wouldn’t have made the list. But here, in the center of the room, sprawled on the floorboards like a tableau vivant, is Luca Salvatore. His nose and upper lip are smeared with quicksilver, and there’s powered gold, faintly gleaming, dusted around his collar. Ambrosia and il sangue di Faerie. An ironic harmony of Montague and Capulet – perhaps the only time the two sides have ever known true balance. How bittersweet, Odin muses as he lowers into a crouch to expect the body, he betrayed the Capulets and yet it is Montague poison that helped to seal his death. The foam gathered at the corner of Salvatore’s blue-tinged lips glimmers in the light, specks of chrome and liquid gold catching the sun seeping in from the window. Someone made damn sure they shoved enough fae blood and ambrosia down this man’s throat that he’d never live to draw another breath.

Odin sighs, a muscle tightening in his jaw as he pulls out his phone to send a message: Our rat’s been poisoned.

“Dispatch, 10-45D. I’ve got a body.”

Whatever secrets this man was harbouring, whatever danger or temptation drove him to fuck the Capulets, dying of borderline madness was a mercy.

Fool them once, they’ll kill you twice.

––

The night spirals on an endless loop at the The Dark Lady, time and space wrapped around a mobius strip of warped deception and illegality. The walls always look like freshly painted blood from the shadows of the lowlit stage. Unlike many of his fellow Capulets and officers – men are all the same, honourable or not, noble or not – Odin has never been seduced by the promise of The Dark Lady and her Sparrows. So long as his wife held his heart, he was hers in mind and body and endless soul.

Now, he is unchained. Adrift. But the thought of another woman, in her place, whispering the words she once whispered in his ear, physically sickens him. And perhaps it’s pathetic that the very idea of being unfaithful to his cheating ex-wife is anathema to him. Foolish, ignorant, blindly loyal Odin. That’s him. Besides, his purpose here tonight lies with business, not pleasure. If anyone knows who would have the most probable cause to poison their little rat, it’ll be the illustrious queen of the Sparrows. Of course, she’s kept him waiting. Her word and will is law within the dark walls of this establishment.

From his vantage point at the bar, he sees everything clearly through the haze of lust and debauchery. Men reduced to their base, animal selves, led by beautiful Sparrows with their fingers wrapped around their wallet. Gambling, prostitution, solicitation – technically, being here at all goes against the premise of his very existence as an officer of the law. The Dark Lady is one of the most profitable businesses on Capulet territory for good reason, however. Even if it weren’t for Odin’s interference, Mona has her hands in the pockets of every high-ranking officer within the police force. Or around their throats, with the numbers of untold secrets she has in her gilded arsenal.

He’s close to calling it a night and returning in the morning to reschedule when the piercing shatter of glass cuts through the music and hushed conversation.

“Jesus fuck, now look what you’ve done.”

A Sparrow, one of Mona’s girls, her long scarlet hair spilling loose down her shoulders, gives a soft yelp as she’s yanked from her position in a patron’s lap. Like the bird of her namesake with a broken wing, she’s tugged by the force of the man gripping at her wrist. Hard enough to bruise by the judgement of the man’s sheer height and build.

“Stupid little bitch,” the man hisses venomously, brushing furiously at his pants and the patch of wetness growing from spilled liquor staining the left leg. His grip on her tightens, the effect immediately visible from the lance of pain that flickers across her face, pointed and urgent.

The world goes very quiet, and very still. Odin tenses, every muscle in his body going rigid.

The walls here are red, the little Sparrow’s hair is red – vermillion, the colour of a sunset on fire, Bordeaux wine – and his vision bleeds red.

Odin moves without conscious thought: one moment he is at the bar, and the next his arm is slamming into the man’s gut, crushing the air from his lungs and forcing him to release the Sparrow out of shock. His hand, formed in a knuckled fist, fingers wrapped around thumb and the ring on his fourth finger that he keeps fucking forgetting to take off (or burn, or throw into the river, or melt down into scrap metal), swings forward in a brutal uppercut. It makes contact with a resounding snap of bone and cartilage, blood spraying forth in vivid, violent streaks of red.

“You crazy fucking bastard,” the man howls, staggering on his feet as his hands fly up to clutch at his face. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“There is one and only one rule in this club.” Odin widens his eyes a fraction. “Are you an idiot, or just in the mood to be skinned alive fully conscious?”

The man’s face twists into a snarling contempt. Naturally, he ignores the question entirely. “I know you,” he says, voice low and lascivious, swaying precariously on his feet. “You’re Odin Bello.”

Odin’s mouth flat lines, unimpressed by the drunken display before him.

“The man whose wife has fucked half the city.”

After, the reports will say that the man was found near dead: 6 broken ribs, dozens of broken, fractured bones, internal bleeding, contusions on his chest, arms and face, comatose.

After, they’ll say that Odin Bello lost his mind.

(Have you seen him? He doesn’t look like someone stable.

His wife was cheating on him for months with every member of his precinct, the poor fool. Who could blame him?

Bello’s insane. He’s completely lost it.

Did you hear the man he attacked is in a coma? Who knows, maybe he deserves it. Maybe he was asking for it.

I feel bad for the wife. Good thing she got out while she still could.)

––

After, Mona finds him in the alleyway with a cigarette dangling from his fingers, his hands and arms soaked in blood to the elbow. He smells like the inside of a slaughterhouse, and ash. She stalks over on stiletto heels sharpened to a knife point and slaps a black dossier against his chest. The Dark Lady’s insignia is debossed, an imprint, a shadow of an elegant swirling sigil.

“This isn’t a favour, Bello. I expect repayment in full, and then some.”

Her hand shoots out to grip him by the chin, manicured fingernails digging into his jawline as she drags his face down towards her eye line.

“You pull that shit in my club again and I’m blacklisting you for life.”

Odin shakes her hand free like her touch is nothing but air and straightens, presses the cigarette back to his lips and lets the smoke coil and spiral from his fingertips. Even the smoke tastes of something raw. Like fresh blood, metallic and veined with rust. There are flecks of it clinging to his cheekbones, splattered across his shirt like an abstract impressionist rendering of violence. The afterimage of it seared into the black and white negative of his silhouette. He looks like an old god, covered in the grime and filth of modernity. A bloodied relic of an ancient religion built on the altar of human sacrifice. He inhales, black smoke swirling in his lungs, the faint glow of eyes like ritual fire as he turns to face her.

“Do you think she knows?”

Bewilderment, then disgust as understanding dawns on Mona’s face. “How the fuck would I know, Bello?”

Odin watches her, unblinking, utterly motionless, his gaze deadened and hollowed like the heart of a black hole. A yawning abyss of unending nothingness with no horizon.

Am I only a monster if she knows what I’ve done?

Extras:

ORIGIN: Standing at 6’5” since he was 18 years old, Odin cuts a striking figure. His presence commands gravitas without him ever having to speak a word: a simple nod, a tilt of the chin. Soldiers fall silent when he speaks, higher-ranking officers defer to his cool judgement and lateral insight. He is a man born for leadership, marked for authority and the steady ascent to power. They say that those who deserve power do not want it, and in Odin’s case, at least to begin with, this is true. He enlisted at 18 to find an escape, a lifeline. A pathway to an existence free of his father and the brutal legacy he’d built for him — the only thing his father had ever given him other than his name. It was of little surprise that being primed and honed for war came easily to him. Odin rose swiftly through the ranks, impressing his superiors with his discipline, resolve and relentless potential. If anything, he was a little too disciplined, a little too resolute. Too intense and dead-eyed even when his fellow recruits were pushed to the brink of physical and mental collapse. Odin never seemed to tire, never seemed to even approach a tangible breaking point. He was utterly in his element: consistently ranking first in all his classes and dominating thr basic training activities with his physical advantages. But he was also charismatic, distinctly likeable, and always willing to help and shoulder someone else’s burden if he saw them struggling. As much as the other recruits would have preferred it, he was impossible to hate. At 24, he was promoted early to Lieutenant and led a squad of nine men who were willing to fight and die at his word. Out there, in the desert, they would have walked open-eyed into a minefield if he had given the order. Five years later, he was honourably discharged with the end of his tour. At least, that’s what his official military transcript says. What the transcript doesn’t say is that Odin Bello was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder, chronic insomnia and major depressive disorder following his return. This will do you good, the Lieutenant Colonel had said. You’ve fought this war for long enough but now it’s time for you to go home, to find a little peace for yourself. He returned to the country, battle still burning in his blood and his head full of quiet demons, and immediately left in search of a place that did not feel like a graveyard. So he found, Verona, wartorn, streets red with blood, a monster lurking behind the face of every man, and felt for the first time in a very long time, at home.

HEART: Odin has a great love for animals and small children. When he was young, he would feed what little food he had to the local dogs and strays. They followed him around the streets like a loyal pack of guard dogs and one time even chased off a gang of older children harassing him for non-existent money. Odin was a single child but he often played with the other children in his town and helped to look after the youngest ones when needed. His heart is most visibly softest when he’s around children. To this day, he ensures that a significant portion of his pay – as a law enforcer and Capulet – goes to the local orphanage of Verona. He spends at least one day a week in his time off-duty feeding the stray creatures of Verona – be they beggars, street ruffians or stray dogs.

SOUL: It’s a hypocrisy of the highest order to be an officer of the law, and yet a Capulet. The Capulets are the source of half the rife and warfare in the city, the beating heart of the black market that funnels contraband and weaponry through the illicit networks of the underground. The Capulets liken their legacy to that of Robin Hood, a legendary tale of David defeating Goliath. Now, however, the Capulets are fat and glutted on their gold and wealth. Just as filthy rich and corrupted as the aristocrats they overthrew in the name of liberty and equality. Joining the Capulets was a means to an end for Odin, an opportunity to oversee the inner workings of the Capulet crime family, and to use it for his own quiet purposes. A thief that slipped away with the life savings of a dozen families he swindled could be dealt with in shadow and silence. A rapist plaguing the city with no proof to his accusations but the blood and tears of his victims could be found dead in the morning, his throat slit in retribution. A murderer could be caught, and punishment dealt in a manner befitting his crime, not by the corrupt, unjust systems of the court. It does not sit entirely well with the balance of Odin Bello’s soul, that he works for the Capulets and paints his hands in blood for them. But as long as the good he can do outweighs the evil, then he is willing to stretch his soul a little thinner in the name of what must be done.

HAMARTIA: Odin does not do anything in halves. It’s all or nothing with him. He loved his mother with all his heart, and he hates his father with the very same heart. He has never known a middle ground. The love he knows is a double-edged sword – all-consuming, and therefore, destructive. For Odin, there is no other way to love than to give everything of himself until here is nothing left. Even if it means his ruin. He gave everything to Delilah when he swore himself to her – his heart, his name, his soul, his life. He would have ridden into hell for her and beyond, if she had asked. He would have plucked the moon from the sky and given her the stars to light her smile, if she had asked. At the time of her betrayal, he had believe his rage equal to his love. Burning like wildfire from inside of him until it consumed all the good and warmth he had associated with loving her. Grief, he has since realised, outlasts rage. He placed Delilah on a pedestal and made her his god. Casting her out of Eden meant leaving behind a hollowness nothing else could fill. So he clings to the only other person who has ever worn the shape of love in his life – his comrade-in-arms, his brother, Ivan. Ivan, who has never abandoned him or given him cause for pain or doubt. Ivan, who has always understood his rage and darkness, and stands by him in the light nevertheless.

[pendragonfics]

It's Not The Knife That Hurts, But The Wound It Leaves

Paring: Loki/Reader

Tags: gender neutral reader, no pronouns used for reader, set after Avengers: Infinity War Part 1, post canon, alternate universe - canon divergence, character death, heavy angst, triggers death, fake character death, angst with a happy ending, fluff, reunited and it feels so good

Summary: Loki being dead to the world, to the Avengers, to you; it wasn’t real. It never had been, why would it be now? He never stayed dead for long, and if he was in hiding, you’d find him. 

Please do not read this if you are triggered in any way, shape, or form by Avengers: Infinity War Part 1, the theme of character death, and, heavy angst. Please know that if you have suicidal thoughts, there is help for you out there.

Word Count: 2,554

Current Date: 2019-01-13

There was a notion that there was something freeing, in the idea of death. Perhaps even the event of it, too. But this was to other people, surely, to those who had stared it in the face with their own eyes, a bullfighter to a bull, and choosing to fight onward. To you, death was…a place. A destination? Yes, that was more like it. If life was a train journey, one stop after another, death was the end of the line, simply another place.

Loki being dead to the world, to the Avengers, to you; it wasn’t real. It never had been, why would it be now? He never stayed dead for long, and if he was in hiding, you’d find him.

You just hoped not at the end of the line.

You try your best not to think of what happened, because when you think of it, you dwell, and your thoughts become cloudy, dark. Unsavoury. You try to think of anything else, but like everything else in your life, you keep coming back, to face the facts.

Number one: you survived the curse that Thanos put the Earth under, the snap.

Number two: you weren’t there in Wakanda to fight him, unlike the rest of the Avengers. The cabin you and Loki chose, secluded from society had few ways to contact someone there, and by the time that you heard, it was too late. If only you had been there…

Number three: despite these three facts, none of them would have helped Loki.

It didn’t matter to you that there was no Asgard, no Heimdall to hail you to space to search the Yggdrasil of the nine realms for your lover. With the help of stealth technology, exploitation of weak-link employees of Stark’s own labour, you impersonated him, stole a prototype spaceship Quinjet, and booked it out of the stratosphere to the coordinates that the Hulk had hailed from, before -

But when you got there, there was nothing. Just orbiting space junk that you had to assume was remains of Thor’s ship, lingering, a reminder of the damage caused by the demon who destroyed so many lives. The cold carnage of war left no favours to the losing side.

After that, you flew everywhere. Planets, both artificial and natural, inhabited asteroid belts, ships that were willing to dock with you - all places that your wildest imagination could never have concocted as a child. But no matter what, when you asked if anyone had seen, heard of or knew word of Loki, brother of Thor, the King of Asgard, there was silence that met your ears. It would seem that people did not care for him, nor wanted to care for him, but desperate, with low credits and lower fuel in the tank of your vessel, you spoke another name.

“What of Jötunheim, then?” you proposed.

The rowdy bar went silent in a matter of seconds upon the utterance of the planet of the Frost Giants. You were about to leave when a man, of dishevelled appearance; crooked teeth, patchy hair, wild eyes, approached you.

“Don’t thank me,” he said, speaking in a thicker accent than motor oil, or molasses.

He passed you a note discreetly, folded within your palm, but when you went to ask what he meant by those words, or thank him, the man was gone, disappeared into the crowd of the intergalactic creatures.

Once returned to the Quinjet, you opened the note, imploring, hoping, that it was good news. A lead. But like the last lead, it was simply just numbers, scrawled on the page; coordinates. You tried not to feel so let down; it would have been a long shot if the stranger had written Loki is XY. Like the good soldier you were, you followed your new lead, like the train of life, another stop.

It led you to a place where there was no mistake of the fact that it was Jötunheim. As soon as your ship landed, you felt the strong winds batter the sides of the Quinjet, the insulation doing little to protect you from the outside. But as soon as you made it to the outside, suited up in what extra layers you could find, you found that both you and the ship were surrounded by Frost Giants. Cautiously, you complied, unsure how you felt at being at the other end of the weapon as they herded you like a prisoner. You were an Avenger on your planet, a solider. Here? Fodder for these creature’s wills. A speck.

As you were herded, you had time for your mind to wander, as your body got colder and colder as you moved with the Giants. In the little time that you and Loki had had together, you had heard all his stories, of places like the ones where you had been. From himself, from the mouths of others, it didn’t matter. Perhaps because they were all stories in the end, just like now, you were becoming one. An unwise decision, to escape Earth without telling anyone, just to die on Jötunheim. You had heard stories of Thor the King, the grubby speakeasies and relaxed crime across the galaxy, the planets like Musspelheim and Knowhere, like Niflheim and Jötunheim.

To think that you had thought you were a regular person. Before S. H. I. E. L. D., of course, picking you from your college alumni for your brain capacity, and training you to become one of the best unassuming undercover operatives they had on payroll. From being a spy, you become a soldier, never questioning, always acting for the good of Fury and Coulson. From being a soldier, you became an Avenger, after they formed, and since, life was never the same. You were always helping others, never yourself: the good soldier.

All of this ran through your head as the Frost Giants marched you toward a place that looked nothing short of sinister.

This is how I die, you thought. You had no doubt about it - this was the last stop on the train for you. We’re at the end of the line.

The Jötuns tossed you onto a sheet of ice, your palms catching you sharply as you fell. You looked up at what you were thrown before, and all you could think of, was the word throne. It soared high above you, carved into the snow and ice with shards that caught the light in a terrifying display of defiance of the temperature. There was a Jötun who sat at the top, looking down at you with a red-eyed glare, and frightened, you shivered in anticipation of your fate.

“I know of your kind,” the creature spoke garbled words, but it was in English, and it was loud enough to vibrate your ribcage. You shook once more, this time, you were sure it wasn’t the cold. “Human. What brings your kind to my domain?”  

“I have been searching,” you tell him, unsure if the wind carried your words away, or not. You kept your eyes to yourself, out of fear, and respect. “Across the galaxy.”

The Jötun King laughed, a booming threat. “What makes you think that I care to hear of the words of a human?” the creature retorted, harshly. “I am a King.”

“Evidently,” you reply, the words rolling from your tongue before your mind can think not to, “but humans rarely stray from their planet, if you know. And yet, here I am, searching for the man that I love.” You reiterate, and cautiously, you add, “From what I gather, few visit your ‘domain’, and fewer stay to talk, and that would make anyone lonely, let alone miserable.” You say.

“Bold words,” the King said.

“Please,” you plead. “I looked everywhere, and this planet, it’s…it’s the last place I have to search, it’s…it’s the last place I can be before I run out of resources. “After this,” you sucked in a deep breath, your chest hiccupping in emotion, “I’ll have no choice.”

“My land might be frozen, but not my intrigue.” The King responds, “Leave us be, my Guards. Now, human, your tale. Go on.”

“The man that I love, he is not like me. Like anyone. He has seen Hel itself and yet smiles to me so sweet. He speaks with a tongue to silver and can command all with his words.” You speak carefully, choosing your words with caution. “He…he came from this place. He came from Asgard. And if we had had more time together, he might have called the Earth his home too…”

“What of this man, of yours? Lovers have no cause to flee.” The King spoke up.

You shook your head, “Yes, but he was a warrior. A prince. He would never flee or cower. He hated to think he was noble, and yet he was…my love, he died.”

“Dead men go nowhere.” The King’s words cut you deep, and you felt a fury course through your cooling blood, your numbing hands.

You shook your head. Defiant. “No. He never stayed dead. First, he fell into the abyss on the cusp of Asgard, and yet, he returned. He nearly died at the hands of the Dark Elf, Malekith, but he did not, and with time, we reunited. And Thanos -,”

“A war criminal, unwelcome here.” The King spat.

“He - he can’t have died.” You speak up. “When he survived, he would have been weak, weaker than usual, suspended his Asgardian glamor and appeared to be Jötun, but not a Giant.” You resist the urge to look to the King, but your words, they implore him. “Please, have you heard of him, his legacy? Word, tale, news…?”

The King guffawed, and from the sounds you were hearing, he was dismounting his throne, coming toward you. “Have I, heard word of a small Jötun, who cannot die? Whose tongue is metal, who is noble?” the hope you held so very close to your heart quivers, optimistic despite all circumstance. “No.”

The word parried at your heart, and it shattered in your chest. “No,” you repeated - a whisper, a curse, a plea. From where you sit on the ice, it touched you, yes, but now it crawled inside your bones, into your mind, and seemed to sit on top of all feelings, numbing all but misery. “He - no. No!” you cry out, burying your head in your hands.

“No one survives Thanos.” He says, grim.

You shake you head once more. “I did. And yet, he didn’t. It’s my fault - if only I -,” you squinch your eyes shut, the cold air freezing your tears as they fall. “If I had his seidr, or Doctor Strange’s magic, I could go back, save him -,”

“The dead are dead for reasons,” the King huffed. “And unlike your love, they stay dead.”

“But he - no…” you gape. “I’ve come all of this way. I did all the right things, I was a good soldier!” you exclaim. “This can’t be fair!”

As you open your eyes, you see his feet before your face, close enough to see the markings upon his skin. Scared, you recoil. You feel like all the denial of all of it is floating away, and it’s settling in. Finally. Loki is dead. So many of your friends, so many of the Avengers, so much of your family, so many humans who called Earth their home are dead.

And there is nothing that you can do about it.

“King of the Jötuns, I ask one thing of you.” You shake, the grief breaking you down.

“Only if I can ask the same of you.”

You nod; a simple bargain. “I want you to strike me dead.”

“An odd request, but…only if you tell me the name of the man you love.” The King asks you. A beat passes, and he adds, “Today is momentous. If I have heard your tale, I want all of it, before you die.”

“His name was Loki,” the words tumble out, but you speak his name with care, cradling it with all your heart, like his name could break at any mishandling. “Loki of Jötunheim, of Asgard, of…of my heart.”

The King does nothing, and swaying, you let out a moan, pained, like a wounded animal. “Please!” you screech. “I kept my end of the bargain -,”

“I want to ask another thing of you.” The Jötun King demands. You tremble. “As I do the deed, you must look at me.”

Slowly, you raise your head, eyes closed. You know that he is right before you, and when your head is at the right angle, he will carry out your wish, and you will be looking at the terrifying Frost Giant. Your chin raised, your eyes flutter open, the world beyond your eyelids coming into focus. You expect the breath in your throat to be your last, the same as these thoughts in your mind.

For the train of life to reach its final destination -

To be with Loki. At last.

“Look at me.” He says, and you comply.

Except, standing before you is not the Jötun King that you were expecting. He has dark hair and with every second passing his skin pales from blue to ice white. He has green eyes and bright marks on his neck that look like they hurt still. He wears tattered clothes unlike what a King would wear, and in the corners of his eyes there are tears that have fallen, and threaten to fall again. There is an ache to his soul that you can feel, like he has been to Hel, and survived it.

He was Loki.

“You…” your breath is gone, your whole body without strength to go on. “You bastard.” You might whisper the curse, but there is no malice behind it.

“My love,” he says, taking steps toward you, and you rise only to sink into his chilled embrace. He holds you tight, and hearing his heartbeat, you relax into his chest, “My world.”

“I found you,” you murmur, covering him with kisses. “I - I did it. I flew to the stars for you, and all my wishes came true.”

“I had no strength to return to Earth, to Thor.” Loki tells you. “I heard the news of what Thanos did to Midgard…I had no hope that you survived. He kisses you deeply, cradling you close, your bodies so very near that you might meld into one. “I feared you to be an imposter as soon as I saw your face…please forgive me for my interrogation, my love.”

“I can,” you whisper. “And I will.”

“I would never strike my lover dead.” Loki adds, kissing your forehead. It’s then you feel a tingling sensation throughout your whole body, like every other time that Loki used his magic upon you. There was warmth to your limbs again, and revitalised, you shared it with him. He slides his hand into your own, and the both of you walk toward where the Frost Giants escorted you from your ship. “Let’s go home, my love.”

There might be something freeing in the idea of death. But to be reunited with the one that you love? To live another day with renewed purpose? That was better - a thousand times better.