#tepid reflections

[recallingrealities]

Tepid reflections:

In the love of Many Yous

In remembering, these times I've recalled

are as embodying of cake as a recipe paper

as tasteless and enidible as it's card

long tucked away thoughtfully in a recipe book

completely intended to be re-read upon,

and enacted so thoughtfully

in a nostalgia of careful, sacred ritual.

The sourness of the past

yearned in the sweetness of recoil

for your full and bitter, braising touch.

We were never close

though there were moments you were close to me.

You; being this elaborate collective

of bodies, faces, spirits of people I've loved

faded far closer towards the past than the present

or that present connection.

The synchronicity of it

that on warm restless nights

Ill be drawn towards Google, wondering

where you are now, how you're feeling?

Craving to see the glisten of your eyes

And if it sparkles.

Are you happy?

I don't know why I am so invested

in these old phases, faces.

It's like your spirits haunted me

In the craving of a muse to brace

To draw my life, my creation towards

Perhaps, in my lostness, before.

I find myself braced, like in the breathlessness of a cliff side,

winded, wind struck, and gazing below

at the impact.

There is nothing there but space

gaps between where I know everything happens

in the experiencing of it.

It's interesting, I don't find myself bitter now.

Not slick with pain, or dry with anger.

Tepid in curiosity.

As if to honor, there was a time

I would have done anything for you.

The so many yous.

In the crumbs left of it all,

are hardly any trails.

No inkling to where you've led

except the inevitable drop from a far off surface.

It's gravitational.

Blunt, and finite, and poetic in the unknowing

yet certain.

Perhaps you're out there

but unable to be found

In the yous I once knew.

It is perhaps in this awakening, in this era

That I find myself in the rapture of selfishness

A gentle selfishness of self discovery and nurturing

of taking care with myself

and holding gentleness

that is present in my presence.

Im wishing to draw muse from my own skin

And search in my own eyes.

That I'm realizing

I'm breathtaken by the wonder of unknowing

Of a blank yet shapely surface that is my face.

I am just emerging now after all this time.

There will always remain an echo of love for yous.

A loud, long, bass toned echo

that calls me to search for your whispering name in the dark

on those fresh restless nights.

It leaves me to question, how far from myself I was then

and how new I am to myself, and the world now.

I am just beginning

and yet

before it all

in the love of many yous

There was somehow so much love

There

Before I was myself.

I am smiling.

It seems from that, this

unquenchable, unreasonable,

yearning love

I've been born.

[heynhay]

ok sorry

[sophie-looks-at-stuff]

As You Wish

Pairing: Aemond x wife reader

Summary: Aemond's new wife has a moment of reflection wondering if her new husband truly cares for her. Aemond is determined to prove to her that he is utterly devoted to her.

Warnings: smut, some slight angst? maybe idk honestly haha, Aemond loves his wife he just has issues expressing it lol, p in v, oral (f receiving) man is a champ when it comes to that, praise, 18+, vulgar language lol, slight breeding kink

AN: hey y'all! long time no see haha, I finally watched the season 2 hotd premiere last night and had to finally write something! this is my first go at a legit fic and not just headcanons so don't be too judgy haha. but I hope y'all enjoy it! :)

PS: it is unedited rn, but I was just too excited to post it, so I'll edit it later!

The rose-scented bubbles of the bath water lapped soothingly against your flesh. This had become your routine, after the evening's supper or feast you would call to your handmaid to draw a bath. Scalding hot water, warm enough to turn your skin pink upon contact. The boiling water and the familiar scent of the roses were one of the few things that brought you comfort after your marriage to Prince Aemond. Your family had come seasonally to court for many moons now, your mother being a friend of Queen Alicent. As your brothers sparred with the young princes in the training grounds, you took more kindly towards the gardens. Wandering around the maze of flowers and bushes searching for faeries and nymphs. Of course, you had been only a child then and had not yet known that such silly things don’t exist. 

It had been the Prince himself that informed you of such. You had been crouched on your knees before a bed of yellow roses, looking between the stems and leaves for the little creatures. The skirts of your dress soiled and stained brown from the earth beneath you. You had been so preoccupied with searching for them, that you hadn’t heard the crunching of grass and footsteps behind you.

“What in the Seven Hells are you doing?” Aemond had asked you, voice bitter but curious. You stood up hastily, nearly tripping on your own two feet as you spun around and curtsied clumsily. 

“I am searching for faeries my Prince. Mother said that they can be found amongst the stems of the most beautiful flowers!” Your small hands began to nervously dust themselves off on your already dirty skirts. Aemond’s eye followed the motion, his upper lip curling in disgust. It had only been a couple of moons since the young prince had lost his eye. The scar was still fresh and red around the edges, the eyepatch clearly bothering him. For it appeared to be fastened too tight around his head. 

“Don’t be absurd, such pathetic things don’t exist. All you’ve succeeded in doing is soiling your clothes.” He motions down towards your skirts, your cheeks heating in embarrassment. Feeling ashamed to be talked down upon by someone you hoped to be a potential friend. Even though his eye, or lack thereof, scared most, you had found it intriguing. Your father had told you stories of men in faraway places who wore their scars like badges of honor, like trophies of war. The marred skin being a testament to their victories in battle. Your father however did not return to tell the tails of his own scars, for he had passed in the Stepstones, aiding Lord Corlys and Prince Daemon in their war. 

“My apologies my Prince, for I-” you dared a look up into face, his brows knit together, arms crossed over his chest. You lowered your eyes in shame once more “I shall go change my skirts at once.” And with that you darted off, not waiting for a response from the young Targaryen. 

That had been many years ago though, and you were no longer a child, and nor was he. Prince Aemond had grown into a handsome man, not just physically, but intellectually as well. The water of your bath had grown tepid as you recalled the memory, a slight frown adorning your features. Why had he wanted to marry you? He hardly had shown any interest, more likely it was because his mother and grandfather craved the military prowess your family possessed. They needed it for the impending war. So a proposal for your hand had been made, and your eldest brother eagerly accepted. After your father’s passing, and your mother grew older in age he had taken it upon himself to attend to the coming and goings of your house. 

It wasn’t that Aemond was exactly an unkind husband, he just wasn’t present, ever. There was always a reason or excuse for him to leave a room once you arrived. The only full night you had spent with him had been your wedding night, in your marital bed. He wasn’t rough, nor was he gentle, but he possessed an air of duty and responsibility when it came to the consummation. For once he spilled his spend inside of you he had fetched a cloth for you to clean yourself. Then turned his back to you and slept, not uttering another word. 

The sound of your chamber doors creaking open drew you from your thoughts. The clanking of a sword and heavy footsteps made their way towards you in the bathing room. You were met with the sight of your rather disheveled lord husband. Before you could offer him a greeting, however, his eye lifted to your face, and he asked: 

“May I join you?” Taken aback slightly by the question there was a pause, the room silent. Then, you nodded, “Yes, yes of course you may husband.” 

Aemond had waited for your approval before stripping himself bare of his clothes, riding clothes by the looks of it. He must have been out on Vhagar. You observe him as he untethered his belts and the laces of his boots. The years of training had done him well, his arms and back muscles lean and corded. Sometimes you wondered what it would be like to drag your nails down them, as he fucked into you–

“Wife? Did you hear me?” Shit, he must have asked you something, looking up from the muscles of his arms to meet his eyes you shook your head. He chuckled a bit, smirking, you had been caught in your staring.

“I asked you, how was your day my lady wife.” A hint of amusement laced his voice, he had rid himself of his clothes, having placed them neatly over the back of one of the armchairs in the rooms. 

“Oh, well, it was alright. Nothing too exciting I'm afraid. I did have tea with your mother and sister though. That was quite pleasant, Helaena was telling me of the butterflies that come for the roses this time of year. She said we must go see them once they arrive.” As you spoke Aemond made his way around the tub, to behind you. It took an embarrassingly great deal of effort not to stare as he had presented himself bare before you. To look only above his waist and not let your eyes drift down towards his cock. 

“Mmh, yes we must see them then,” his cold hands met your shoulder blades, rubbing small, soothing, circles on them. This was his way of telling you to move forward, so that he may join you in the tub, taking his place behind you, and pulling you onto his lap. 

“You take such tepid baths wife. You’ll catch a cold one of these days.” He mumbled into your ear as he made himself comfortable behind you, his legs outstretched beside your own. It wasn’t that such small talk was uncommon between the two of you when he was around. Besides, you two did share chambers, so despite his avoidance during the day, he was bound to return to you at night. 

Turning fully to face him now, with a surge of annoyance, the water sloshing around the two of you with your sudden movements. “Why do you care? You are hardly even here to see me as is, I doubt you would even notice.” Aemond’s singular lilac eye widens, not from anger, but rather from surprise. His lady wife was always so sweet, so silent, this was new, and dare he say exciting. 

“A woman can only take so much you know–” You go to stand, to leave the tub, and go to bed, done with whatever this conversation is. Aemond’s hand shoots out to grasp your wrist, stopping you from doing so. 

“Wait!” It came out more harsh than he had intended. “I do care for you my lady, truly I do. I did not know that you–”

“Prove it.” You say interrupting whatever he is about to tell you. You keep your eyes level and voice steady. “Prove it to me then husband,”

Aemond says only one thing before attacking your lips, “As you wish,” He is not gentle in his kisses, he does not know how to be gentle. Perhaps you could teach him. His grasp on your wrist moves to your waist as he continues his assault on your lips. His hands roam the flesh of your waist, your hips, your thighs, his lips move down towards your neck. Biting and nipping at the flesh there, sure to leave a mark for all to see.

“Aemond–” 

“Shhh, let me take care of you tonight. Let me prove to you how much I desire you, my love.” He murmurs between bites and kisses. He pulls back, only for a moment, “You are beautiful, I am sorry I have not told you this enough,” his lips attach themselves to one of your breasts, suckling at the nipple. You let out a surprised breath as he bites down, a wave of pleasure shooting straight to your core.

His roaming hands have found purchase on your ass, his deft fingers kneading the plump flesh. Suddenly his grip becomes tighter as he rises from the tub with you in his arms, water spilling over the sides and onto the floor. You hurriedly wrap your arms around his neck, in an attempt to steady yourself. 

“Aemond! You’ve made a mess–” He laughs, fully this time, not just a chuckle. It’s a lovely sound you think.

 “Fuck the mess, the maids shall deal with it in the morning. I’ve neglected my dear lady wife and that must be rectified immediately. One of the hands on your ass pulls back and gives it a small slap. You gasp in surprise, tucking your face into his neck, peppering small kisses there, just as he had done to you moments before. You could get used to this side of your husband. Aemond lets out a hum of satisfaction at your ministrations, soon after playfully throwing you down onto your shared bed. 

“Aemond the sheets, they’re soaked now–” you began to protest cut off rather abruptly by his grip on your ankles. Pulling you down towards the end of the mattress, your cunt now level with his lips. 

“That should hardly matter, we have others–” he places a kiss on your inner thigh. “Besides the only thing I care to see soaked is your cunt after I am done–” Without another word or hesitation, Aemond licks a hot stripe up the center of your core. Then a second, and a third, until he loses all control. He devours you like a man starved. His strong arms wrap themselves around your things, pulling you impossibly closer to him. His tongue continues its assault on your cunt.

“You taste of the finest ambrosia–” the vibrations of his voice sending shock waves of electricity to your clit. Aemond is only spurred on further by the sound of your sweet moans. His name falling from your lips like a chant, like a prayer to the Seven. His lips find purchase on your clit, sucking and licking till you're writhing beneath him. Your hands shoot down, finding purchase in his long silver locks.

“Aemond, oh Aemond–” the words spill from your lips like nonsense. The only thing you are able to focus on is his lips and tongue lapping at your cunt. The man between your thighs devouring you like this is his last meal alive.

“Cum for me, cum on my tongue. And then I shall reward you with my cock. Cum for me my love–” As if on command, you feel the muscles of your lower abdomen contract, and then all that lovely pleasure overflows, and bursts from you. With a strangled cry of his name, you cum on his tongue. You look down at your husband between your thighs, his lips glistening in your release. 

“Good girl, my good, sweet, perfect girl. You did exactly what I asked,” he crawls up your body, stopping only to place the occasional kiss to your hot skin. His lips return to your neck, sucking love marks into the skin over the faint ones he had left before. A newfound favorite of his perhaps. He gives his cock a few strokes, his thumb collecting the beading drop of arousal from his tip. Wordlessly, he brings the digit up to your lips, pressing down gently on your bottom one. You open your mouth, sucking the essence from his finger, swirling your tongue around it, eager to please him. He groans in response, resting his forehead on yours, 

“Perhaps another night my love, I need to be inside of you now.” You release his thumb with a slight pop. 

“Fuck me then, husband–” Not needing any further encouragement, Aemond sheathes his cock inside of your cunt. The warm, velvety walls squeezing him perfectly. “Fuck–” he moans breathlessly as he slowly begins to thrust into your weeping cunt. The squelching noises from his movements turn your cheeks red, you move to hide your face in the crook of his neck once more, but a hand on your chin stops you. From above, Aemond’s lilac eye bores into your own, like a spell, you are unable to look away.

Aemond’s thrusting becomes faster, harder, like a man starved. The grasp on your chin returns to your hips. As Aemond rolls back slightly, sitting on his knees, he brings your hips to meet his, your back still on the bed. From this angle he has full control over your body, not that he hadn’t before. But now he could control his thrusts, making them sharper, harder. Beneath him, your eyes screw shut in pleasure, consumed by his ministrations. 

You look beautiful like this, he thinks. Cheeks red, hair a mess, sweat glistening on your skin. He had been a fool before, not indulging you more often. Not being by your side, it was a mistake he would make no more. He had been too afraid of your rejection, too afraid you would find him repulsive because of his scar. The scar that he himself found so disturbing. But clearly, the way his name fell from your lips, as your face contorted in pleasure, this was not the case. 

“Shall I cum inside of your perfect cunt? Shall I plant my seed, and watch you grow and swell with my child?” He barely recognized the words coming from his lips, too lost in carnal desire to notice. 

“Yes, yes Aemond, yes–” the words leaving your lips like a hymn, a prayer to your lord husband. Aemond’s fingers began to circle your bud as he continued to rut into you. 

“Together then, I can feel you little wife–” As if he possessed some kind of magic, you did as commanded. Aemond’s release coating your walls, both of you warm and well sated. Once more he leans down, leaving a small peck on your lips before resting his forehead on yours. 

“I have been a fool, a complete and utter fool. I am not a great man in many ways my sweet lady wife. But for you perhaps I could be,” He places another kiss on your lips. 

“I would like that very much Aemond,” you smile a bit as you say this because it is true and it would be unfair to not allow him to prove as much. After all, that is what you asked of him is it not? Without pulling out or away from you, Aemond rolls to his side, tucking you into him, desperate to keep you in his arms. 

“Stay like this with me tonight, please?” He asks, afraid you’ll send him away. 

“Tonight and every night if you behave,” you give him a slight pinch to add emphasis to your comment. You feel his chest vibrate against your cheek with laughter. 

“As you wish,” he says one final time, as the two of you drift off to sleep, held safely in the arms of one another.

[prettyundeadgirl]

Until the Night Turns

│Track Two of Strange Trails

Summary: Arthur couldn't keep his eyes off you during Sean's return party.

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female Reader

Wordcount: 1.4k

Tags: Fluff, Kissing

AO3 Link

A/N: I apologize for not updating sooner, I'm in college and I haven't had much time to write unfortunately :/

likes, comments, and reblogs are highly appreciated!

In the time of night when the oscillating red and orange ribbons of fire wavered and the abounding stars splattered across the sky flowered brightly, Arthur sat at an old wooden table, a silent witness to the ongoing party. The area was bustling with laughter and chatter, and the warm flickering glow of the campfire cast a golden hue over the scene. The tepid wind roused the trees, and the scent of freshly bloomed wildflowers was prominent in the air.

He took in the joy of his exultant family, bonded together by hope and the pursuit of a better life. The camaraderie was a temporary release from the baggage of an unimaginably difficult time they had previously experienced. Moments like this were rare for him and always bound to end in a trice, and he’d once again return to a life of bloodshed. 

Arthur believed himself to be a living, breathing embodiment of a tragedy, with an intrinsic reflection of worthlessness pinned from birth and condemned to a life of misfortune. His years would pass him by, slow as cold molasses and equally bitter, but when your paths crossed, those beliefs waned, and your saccharine nature made his life sweeter.

He took a thoughtful sip from his beer, and his gaze soon fell upon you, as it did multiple times throughout the night. While gossiping with the girls or grabbing a drink for yourself, you felt his eyes on you. You didn’t mind of course and rather relished in the fact that he spent his time admiring you, and you didn’t let it go unnoticed as you would return the glances with the warmest of smiles.

Your presence was serene amidst the revelry, sending an unwitting grin to appear on his face. All that was familiar to him disappeared, and he placed all of his attention on you, transfixing him in that untouchable moment and capturing the image in memory.

You held Jack in your arms and swayed to the music that radiated from the gramophone nestled in the heart of the camp, watching as Dutch and Molly danced beneath the euphoric light of the argent moon tucked away behind the dusky veil of clouds.

His thoughts stemmed from a more hopeful root, and he imagined what it would be like to have a family with you—if that were in your dreams. To get away from this life and give you the one you so rightfully deserved.

Unlike Arthur, you didn’t mind what kind of life you lived as long as he was by your side; that was all that mattered. Besides that, your thoughts ran similar to those of his, and as you looked at Jack’s large brown eyes and tousled chestnut hair, you felt immense happiness and like a mother toward him at times. As you spun around once with Jack, a rupture of small giggles rang out from him. 

By instinct, you looked ahead to meet Arthur’s gaze. “I’m going to see if Uncle Arthur would like a dance, okay?” 

“Okay!” He nodded, and you put him down, watching him run off toward his mother. You take in a steady breath as you strode to Arthur. His ruminations ceased at your approach.

“Would you like to dance?” Your gentle voice stirred emotions deep within him that refused to fade, and the crease between his brows had relaxed at your tone. He remembered the first time you had spoken to him, those exhaled words engraved into his wandering thoughts on that one summery day. He initially denied his love for you, stirring a thousand words unsaid in his morning coffee, letting it all dissolve at the base of his tongue, and swallowing it into inexistence. 

It took a while for Arthur to accept that you made him not feel burdened by the heaviness of his polluted soul anymore, and instead made him feel like the good man he never believed he was. Never thought he could be. You saw that goodness in him, even when he couldn’t see it himself, and you were the feeling of bliss that one would strive for in their lifetime.

“‘Course, though I ain’t much of a dancer.” He finally answered, and rose from his seat, abandoning the beer he once held to take your hand–your touch was warm, and he dipped his head down to hide the faint smile that formed on the corner of his mouth.

You assured him with a simple That’s alright, as you guided him beside Dutch’s tent, and he captured you in the circle of his arms, with one hand resting on your lower back whilst the other interlaced with your own. Your hand rested on the juncture of his neck and shoulder, fingers slipping beneath his undone collar. You pressed your ruddy cheeks to his chest—his jacket held the scent of gun oil, rich leaves, and a hint of musk that always attracted you. 

“I thought you said you weren’t much of a dancer? You seem to be doing good to me.”

His chuckle reverberated through his empty lungs, each rib chiming in harmony. “To you,” He emphasized. “Maybe not to others.”

“That’s true.”

His heart was sent into a fluttering frenzy as it beat fiercely against his ribs, threatening to break them as you pressed closer. It lasted longer than a moment before you moved your head away to glance at him with perpetual admiration. The simple way you looked at him, and truly saw him like no other had made him sink into the deepest peace he had ever known. And the gleam of stars matched that of your eyes as you stared deeply into his, and the melodic trill filled your ears.

The departing footsteps of Dutch and Molly were overlooked as you both were in wonderment, swaying in each other’s embrace. He spun you around once, your long flowy dress flaring beneath you. When you returned to his embrace, your eyes trailed over his features and landed at the seam of his lips. Arthur reaches for your face, his thumb brushing your lip, and all he can do is wait for that simple nod you give for him to close the gap between you.

♫ ♪ ♫ ♪

Your tent’s flaps were closed, providing you both privacy from the outside world as the party subdued. You listened to nature's symphony take over, the small crackle of the dying fire, the winds whistling, and the song of an owl you’d sometimes hear before you fell asleep. 

You had distanced yourselves from the party early, conversing with one another for most of the night. About life, the past, and each other. He preferred your company over any party, listening with much intent to your stories as you spoke with immense passion. Every other sound apart from your voice he tuned out. 

When the conversation had simmered and there wasn’t much else to say, you took the opportunity to finally thank him, hands folded in your lap.

“For what?”

“For dancing with me. I haven’t had this much fun in… awhile.” You finally looked at him after staring at your hands.

“Yeah, I know. Me too.” A deep sigh escaped him, and he took your hands in his, thumb caressing your knuckles. “I wish… I could give you something better than this.”

“Arthur,” You moved onto his lap. “Stop that. It doesn’t matter to me where we are. You’re here with me. That’s all.” You reassured his doubts, hand cupping his cheek.

He allowed himself to look at you and softened at your gaze. The dreaminess of your pretty features allayed him. It was apparent how much you both had wanted each other at this moment as the taste of longing glimmered in your irises, and the lack of doubts and reluctance within the warm space fueled your confidence to reconnect your lips with his once more. You gently wrapped your arms around his neck, feeling the ends of his hair prickle your skin. 

The simple motion of Arthur laying you on your back, and drifting over you, sent a swarm of flittering butterflies within your chest. His kisses were as delicate as the shimmer of moonlight on water. He moved downward to your neck, close to your ear as he whispered how beautiful you looked tonight. His hand trailed you with need, slipping beneath your skirt, and showing you how much you truly meant to him until the night turned day.

⋆

Tags: @yyiikes and @kirksluv (if anyone else wants to be tagged in future chapters let me know!)

[queenendless]

Chase (Darth Vader x Fem!Adult!Reader)

A/n: Tales of the Empire gave me ideas. Particularly on a snowy chilly planet ... it's a very open setting as to what is going on in this so bare with me. First time writing SW stuff on here.

So AU with unburnt Vader who's also kinda OOC in this, some fluff and steamy romance with some Anakin at the end, but it's a short ass piece cause of short notice for today.

PLEASE DONT REPOST, EDIT, COPY, PLAGARIZE, TRANSLATE AND OR STEAL MY FANFIC WORK. RATHER IF YOU DO ENJOY IT THEN LIKE REBLOG AND FOLLOW ME PLS N THNX.

And May The 4th be with you.

Your cloak blew from the chilly winds.

Your hood covered head raised up to meet at the top of the snowy hill.

Climbing up with the darkening gray storm clouds piling up, heighting the anxious tension filling you up inside, the helmeted figure coming into view struck through your core.

He had pursued after your wandering lost self.

You wanted to see how far he would go, as selfish as that was.

Your fear of the cold blooded, brutal Sith Lord becomes mingled with how you are lustful of his imposing presence.

Your cape fluttered in the blowing cold winds as you hurried away, straight to the ice cave entrance.

He knew you thrive off the chase.

And you knew he was relentless in playing along.

“You cannot run forever, Y/n."

His deep modulated voice bounced off the towering crystal ice walls, using the light shining from the high cracked ceiling to guide you.

“I've come this far.” Your tepid sweet voice echoing back at him had him growling a bit.

“You cannot hide from me.”

You didn't need to be Force sensitive to feel that he was honing in on you quickly.

Your flushed nervous face met your eyes as your bumpy reflection followed your side, his heavy footsteps sounding that much closer. “Doing good so far, all things considered.”

You should have figured uttering those words into existence would jinx your ongoing streak. The moment you stepped back from the dead end and spun around on your heel, you bumped into that armored chest.

You screamed a bit as his leather black gloves grabbed your forearms and pinned you to the wall gently but firmly.

His red lenses hid his eyes boring into your very soul, his giant frame enveloping you, pressing you carefully against the alien texture. His heavy breathing made your breathing go silent like a scared mouse, caught by the big bad beast.

“The game is over.” For some reason, he sounded so smug about it.

“You're unbelievable.” You pouted up at that obsidian face.

“You're foolish.” He scoffed.

“Says the man wearing the robot suit.”

The fact that he released his grip on you and leaned back a bit to actually take off that intimidating helmet still took your breath away.

“It helps with the image.” To hear that warm enriching amused voice again already had you giggling as your hands cupped his sculpted cheeks to pull his face down to peck those tempting lips.

His helmet clanked along the ground as his arms slithered around your waist to lift you off the ground, grinning slyly to you hugging his waist in response.

“It's working, my Lord.” You shakily spoke, weaving through that shoulder length darkened hair to tug him closer, pecking many a time quite desperately.

“This little ploy of yours has gotten us completely off track.” His husky tone was sheer evidence that he did not give a damn. Not one bit.

“Forgive me, Lord Vader, for my teasing.”

You squeaked as those giant leather hands of his cupped and squeezed your ass.

“I shall have to punish you, my dear. Quite thoroughly~” Those blue eyes were riddled with devious intention, marking your neck with ferocious bites along your delectable skin.

Your fevered gasps and lecherous cries traveled the caves as you became a mess under his wet steamy mouth. “A – Ani~!”

The former Jedi turned Sith Lord smirked, devouring your mouth with that needy tongue of his.

“Hush, my love. We're just getting started.”

[adickaboutspoons]

Fuck me, I have more to say about this moment:

And it's gonna get ugly, folks, so buckle in. As important as it is to understand this scene as a moment of Character Growth for Stede? It's also key to understanding Why Shit Went Down the way it did during the negotiation of the escape plan in Act of Grace. So Stede stands up for himself and draws some boundaries. Good for him! Love to see it. And how does Ed respond to "I don't like who you are around this guy?"

And what does he say when he chooses to leave with Jack?

It's a through-line. In this moment, Ed is calling back to the conversation on the beach. I don't think he is being intentionally cruel - to him, what he's saying is more of a reflection of his struggles with feelings of worthlessness - but how can Stede help but make the association; the ONE TIME he draws boundaries with Ed, Ed leaves. Not only does Ed choose to go, rather than stay and respect Stede's boundaries (which, I would argue are completely reasonable here; Don't wantonly kill innocent animals), he is aligning himself with the man that has spent the entire day tormenting Stede ("This" - Jack killing Karl - "is who I am"). Again, I'm not saying that he's being intentionally cruel; I don't think he fully understands how awful Jack has been to Stede. But, surely you can see how, from Stede's perspective, this is absolutely DEVASTATING - much more than JUST the heartbreak of the man that you had so recently made tentative plans to join your life with ("Co-Captains!") breaking up with you. But breaking up with you AND CHOOSING ONE OF THE WORST PEOPLE YOU KNOW OVER YOU.

So now we come to the Act of Grace and the scene on the beach:

No, AFTER that.

Ed proposes a plan to run away together. And Stede... doesn't say yes. In fact, his first instinct is to push back, THREE TIMES.

"But you said there was no escape."

"What about the English? They'll be all over us."

"China? That's quite far away."

Every time Ed dismisses his concerns - comes up with a reason to make the plan A Thing. Ed is clearly not going to take "no" for an answer.

And what happened the last time Stede told him no?

Ed left.

Ed broke his heart.

Ed sided with the kind of person that validates Stede's every insecurity about not being enough.

So is it any wonder that Stede gives in? And not even with enthusiastic consent. With the most tepid positive-leaning neutral responses possible.

"Yeah."

"I think so."

"Mm-hm."

(Which is to say nothing about his body language - the incredulous-bordering-on-disgusted face he makes when he talks about China, his lips pressed together when he says "Mm-hm", the way he starts the conversation leaning in toward Ed, his body twisted toward him, but quickly shifts so his body is angled straight ahead with his head awkwardly twisted to the side to look at Ed)

The seeds of tragedy were planted when Ed left Stede. Because, by doing so, he accidentally reinforced a lifetime of Stede being taught that his wants and needs are secondary to those of others, and that acceptance is conditional on compliance.

[inkonparchment]

Leon Kennedy x Reader - what a curious hotel in the middle of nowhere with a strange receptionist.

cw- blood, skulls, exposed bone, themes of drugging and kidnapping, dub-con if u squint. is this dead dove???😭

It's hot. The car's ac had long given up, blowing tepid air on your face. One hand gripping the steering wheel, you run your free hand around your neck, gathering perspiration on your palm and then flicking it away. The leather of the seats sticks uncomfortably to your exposed skin making you unable to relax, constantly shifting around, the unsticking sound making you grow more hot under the blaring sun.

You had been driving for so long now, the actual time gone from your mind. You weren't even sure where you were, the map haphazardly strewn about in the passenger seat of your old mustang. You grasp your empty water bottle shaking it dejectedly and then tossing it into the backseat.

You push up your sunglasses on the nose, sunlight reflecting from the road harsh on your features. You were driving on an abandoned single road, barren land on both sides, cacti dotting the faraway line of sight. Your throat was dry, lips parched as you continue on your journey, regretting not stopping over at the rest stop a few miles back.

You squint behind your shades, heat so sweltering that it was forming mirages of lakes right in front your eyes, so close in reach but disappearing in a moments notice. You breathe a sigh of relief when a lonesome signage greets you; "Hotel De La Mort UP AHEAD".

You keep your eyes peeled, leaning away from the leather of your seat, hair sticking to the back of your neck. You notice a tall, red building a little way down the road. You don't dare to blink in the case you blink and it disappears like the previous visions of lakes.

It doesn't and you can feel relief wash over you.

The sound of the handbrake is loud when you pull it, throwing open your door and clambering out, slamming it shut behind. You stand in its shadow, the red bricked building towering over you. You take off your sunglasses, holding them by the tips of your fingers, curiously looking at the peeling paint of the building the sign "Hotel De La Mort" a little skewed from its axis.

You shrug, walking towards the big brown doors, gold doorknob encrusted with glittering jewels, cool under your touch. You twist the knob, cool air bursting through the cracked open door, grabbing you in its embrace and lulling you inside. The door shuts with a loud click, the noise reverberating in the hallway.

Your jaw falls away. The room was huge, deceptively so from the humble look it had from the outside. Multiple grand chandeliers hang from the ceiling, various gems adorning the gold of the chandelier, the colours glittering down onto you. Large columns decorate the sides, drapes of maroon velvet curtains hanging from them, paintings on gigantic canvases littered across the walls. The furniture is almost Victorian, matching with the drapes in maroon and black.

You try to locate the air-conditioners or the vents, anyplace from where the cool wind was bellowing from, carrying a scent so sickly sweet with it. Despite the blazing sun outside, it was completely dark inside save for the lights from the chandeliers and the light fixtures.

A throat being cleared breaks you from your gawking, eyes searching for the source. You finally find it; a man standing diligently behind a desk with a sign that says "Welcome" on the dark wood just a few paces from in front of you. You eye the man who is looking at you intently, hands neatly folded in the front of him.

He's clothed in what you assume is the staff uniform. A maroon blazer, black collar shirt with a black tie and black trousers, stripe of gold on every article. The golden of his hair accompanied with striking blue eyes, glittering like sapphires is what catches you off guard. You approach the desk.

"Checking in?" He smiles wide and sweet.

You lick your parched lips, "I don't have a reservation."

He shakes his head, chuckling with a glint in his eye, "You don't need one here."

"Oh," You shift on your feet. "Yes I'd like to check in."

He simply nods, sweet smile widening but not reaching his eyes. The sickly sweet smell returns, a blast of chill air, you blink and the façade flickers; blood fills your nostrils, oozing from the walls, rips in the perfect curtains and the canvases. The receptionist's visage flickers, handsome angular, face replaced by torn skin one side showing a hollow skull staring back at you, clothes tattered, collarbones protruding from his flesh.

Before you can gag, you blink and it disappears. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up, goosebumps fresh on your skin. You look over your shoulder in fear but there is nothing to be afraid of, the state of the hotel still pristine. You look back at the man, still smiling, as he hands you keys.

"Your luggage will be brought to you." He steps back. "We hope you enjoy your stay with us." And then disappears behind the door at his back.

You stand there dumbfounded, staring at the keys he had given you, the bronze cold against your palm. Room 013. You shiver, hand against your forehead, owing the crazy vision to your dehydration.

You locate the elevators and walk towards them. The thirst grows on your tongue, the sweet smell greeting you once more, coming across a small table on your way. You stop to inspect it. Sitting on top of it is a bowl of pomegranates, a bronze pitcher and a tall glass filled with red liquid.

The sight of it salivates your tongue, hand moving on its own accord as your fingers wrap around it. You bring it up to your lips, ignoring the screaming voice in your head telling you to stop, and drink. The sweet and sourness of the juice floods your taste buds, the sickeningly perfumed smell filling your nostrils.

The world slips from your grip, glass crashing against the floor as your slump. But you don't hit the ground, encircled by a pair of strong arms pulling you taught against a muscled body. With heavy lidded eyes to look to see who it is who has saved you.

And its the man from the reception. Only he looks different. His golden hair is now pulled back, styled into various curls and waves, glint in his blue eyes, dressed in a sharp all black suit with golden cufflinks. He grins wide at you, nothing in it to warm you but to plunge you in icy waters.

He leans down, lips capturing yours softly, his tongue darting to run against yours, lapping up the speckles of the red liquid left behind. He rests his forehead against your, his breath fanning against your nose as your consciousness is pulled into the dark.

"My wife."

[randomwriteronline]

Water for Gali was a sister, a second half, an extension. In the water she was whole, embraced, with nothing to fear.

Water for Nokama was an escape, a bubble of respite. Somewhere nobody could snag her, bother her, search for her.

Water for Hahli was a home and battle ground. She was invincible within it, untouchable, unbreakable, unreachable.

Air for Lewa was a safety net, a support; a pair of outstretched arms always ready to catch him before it was too late.

Air for Matau was a vehicle, another means of transport; something he had to master lest he break his bones upon it.

Air for Kongu was a second skin, a third limb; he knew better than anyone its shifting secrets, its so quiet language.

Fire for Tahu was an old rival. It curled on him, molded itself in his image, quipping amiably as they fought together.

Fire for Vakama was a tepid gaze. It reached out timidly, barely still burning, asking to be allowed in his hands again.

Fire for Jaller was a solemn promise. One he would need to hold tight, strengthened by discipline, to do right by it.

Ice for Kopaka was a taste of wilderness, carelessness, freedom; it was howling alone, dancing wildly in the silence.

Ice for Nuju was a breath of stillness, study, tranquillity; it was gazing in endless white to decode the world on his own.

Ice for Matoro was a scent of expectation, fear, tenderness; he entrusted to it his footprints, hoping they'd last.

Earth for Onua was peace and quiet. The songs it rumbled through him soothed him like kind hands easing his worries.

Earth for Whenua was reflection and wait. The stories it had written on its skin kept him company like many old friends.

Earth for Nuparu was knowledge and innovation. He heard in it his own voice as he mumbled during tireless workdays.

Stone for Pohatu was a rough comfort forced soft; when he wrapped it around himself like a blanket, he felt safe, warm.

Stone for Onewa was a tough tool forced smooth; when he shaped it according to his vision, he felt in control, certain.

Stone for Hewkii was a lean muscle forced strong; a part of himself that he exercised apart, to carve it into its zenith.

[jadeslayter]

𝝑𝑒 ࣪ 𓈒・ 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐂𝐄𝐃 𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐘 ᐟ.ᐣ

★☆ --  MeanDom! Toji x Fem!Reader ☆★ -- In which Toji uses your mouth after you've ran it all day.

�� ⋆ ｡ 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. :

 nsfw content . slow burn, face fucking, degradation (a lot...), praise, dacryphilia, condescending Toji (ofc <3), slight dumbification, huge power dynamic, subtle suggestion of infidelity, dub-con, slight aftercare, pet names 'Honeycomb' 'Baby', oral (M receiving) w a plot twist :P

𓈒 ᶻ 𐰁 ﾟ˖ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐍𝐓. :

-- four-point-six thousand +

𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐄𝐃 as he strummed his fingers against the leather steering wheel, warm hide underneath calloused hands. Agitation lingered between the two of you. "You know I love you, baby," the man starts, and now it's your turn to sigh. You got tired of hearing the same line-- the same bullshit. His words always seemed to work a nerve only your mother could hit. 

"Toji, please," Your voice came out a harsh bite. "Don't give me that—that bullshit." A stammer passes you throat as your eyes lingered to the scar on his lip— a slit the length of a quarter— while it twisted in movement; a taunting smile. Out of all fairness, who was Toji if not a whore for agitating you; flustering you. 

Your cheeks warm with embarrassment, tepid like pollinated spring air. 

The belly of his truck grows eerily silent, radio muted; the lull of it all engulfing you, overwhelming your senses. "Bullshit," He repeats, easing his heavy boots off the brake pedal when the stoplight changes. "My love for you is bullshit?"  Your lovers expression read opposite of his retort, a cunning grin plastering his face. 

Even under the dim hue of the streetlights, you could make out the intention behind his roguishly sly smirk. He was toying with you; pushing your limits to see how far he could get. How far you'd let him get. 

"That isn't very nice, sweetheart, is it?" He shares his gaze between you and the lane ahead of him, stealing glimpses of your puffed cheeks. "You never take me serious," You groan in frustration, tears pricking at your eyes as the tips of your ears grew warm in anger. 

It agitated you how easily things rolled off his back; how immune he was to your attitude sometimes. It wasn't intentional, that was just how your lover was. That was his persona. Toji leaned forward in his seat, his heavy hands thumping up against the blinker bar. The bulb flickered as he merged into the left lane, slowing behind the flow of traffic once he merged successfully. 

"What?" He chuckled, his eyes squinting at the corners as he reeled his head back in disagreement. "I don't take you serious? Listen to yourself, Baby."

Every word he spoke dug his grave six feet deeper. It's was almost as if he was oblivious to your inclination. The bare thought of it boiled the blood in your veins. You hated how indifferent Toji presented himself when it came to situations of vulnerability; down to his place of work. 

He wasn't much of a talker, by default, but it seemed like he wasn't much of a listener, either. 

"I don't wanna talk about this anymore, Toji." You breathed bitterly, dancing around your words carefully as to avoid prying. 

But Toji hadn't pried any more than you allowed, only shrugged his shoulders. Indifference, once more. He raised his brows, corners of his mouth winding in a quick and dismissive frown. "About what?" 

Toji pulls the width of his truck into the incline of your apartment complex, punching the entry passcode into the number-pad before proceeding behind the metal bars. His bright headlights reflect off the matte black of the gate, blinding you temporarily as you pass. 

The entrance of your complex was all too familiar, and you wished for your bed to simply engulf you whole. You were the happiest in your moment of relaxation. It hadn't taken you long to flop face-first down into the plush of your pillows, relishing in the cotton sheets. 

Though you had asked for your space, Toji lingered in the back of your mind like the aftersting of an ant bite. A leech you were unable to get rid of. He wasn't demanding per se, and that was the issue. He dismissed you on account of your behalf. If you say you wanted space, he would give you space. It was at his discretion when he decided he had given you enough. 

A heavy thud; Toji's boots. They hit the hardwood with a *clunk*, reverberating through the hallway. Footsteps follow suit, trailing to the far left side of the complex. The kitchen. The apartment is silent for a beat, constant hum of the air-conditioning unit buzzing through the air vents. 

The water tap hisses to life; Toji was getting himself a glass of water. Silence again, and then footsteps. Approaching footsteps. His weight causes the floorboards to creak underneath him as he emerges from the depths of the living room, tone, muscular body slanted against the threshold of your bedroom door. He only stood, observing silently; disregarding to conceal his presence. Merely surveying you as you lay motionless. 

Toji sucks in a huff of hair, filling his lungs before speaking. "Anyone home?" A chuckle passes his throat as his knuckles rap at the soft wood adorning the threshold. "Brought you some water-- you know, cause you yelled for fifteen minutes.." His words trail as he examines you. Toji would be a fool to say you were anything but gorgeous-- regardless how subjective beauty was supposed to be. 

You were the embodiment of it, no matter the circumstances. He never got tired of looking at you, watching how your smile lines wrinkle at every joke that spills from his lips. He hated that you were upset with him, but he hadn't understood why. He only wanted to make you happy; he wanted to make you feel special. 

A muffled chuckle passed your lips, the pillow swallowing it. In an effort to display your slant, you're sure to keep your body plank board still. You hadn't wanted to give him the satisfaction of earning a giggle out of you. Call it petty, call it dramatic. 

"Idontwantit," Coyly, you mumble your resolve, face buried within the silk of your pillowcase. Toji was the incarnation of double standards, yes, but he knew right from wrong. It'd be uncivil for him to have accepted your spurn, knowing you two had just left off in this exact situation. If he were to act as if he hadn't cared, it'd seem as such. In any event— with any other person— that'd be okay. 

He knew you were vulnerable, whether you allowed him inside of that vulnerability or not wasn't up to him. He could only aid the process. Toji sighed heavily, his chest sinking as he breathed. "Baby, could you just work with me?" He sat the glass upon the dresser top, seating himself at the foot of the bed as he looked at you. "If my throat was hurting, I know yours was, too. So please, do the both of us a favor, and drink." He wasn't stern. His tone only wavered as he spoke to you in hopes of enunciating his resolve. 

You hesitated whilst Toji breathed beside you, his angular orbs gazing around the bedroom. You hadn't wanted to press him too much, regardless of how unforgiving you had been prior. You received no enjoyment from beating a dead horse; it was obvious Toji had no longer wanted to entertain the cat and mouse game��� he only wanted understanding.

Your arm rose from its idle position before extending towards the stationary glass of water. You sat up slightly, propping yourself on your elbows, before wrapping your slim fingers around the cup and pulling it closer to you. "Good girl, such a good girl." He coos, his rough knuckles caressing the supple skin of your thigh as you drink down the liquid, the coolness of it aiding your throat. Toji pecks your shin as you oblige his command.

As much as you hated to admit it, Toji was right. Unfortunately. And you despised it. 

You downed the rest of the glass quickly— to which your lover observed with a Birds Eye, staring as you drunk down the beverage with haste. "So thirsty, Baby. I knew you needed some water. See, what would you do without me, Honeycomb." He purred. It wasn't a question, he was stating himself; boasting, of sorts. 

You sat the empty glass into your lovers open palm. He took it, standing from his position before shuffling over to set the cup on the nightstand where it once rested. Toji returned to the foot of the bed; his footsteps dragging against the carpet.

You slumped your head against the cool of your pillow, eyelids shutting. The silk felt so heavenly against your skin— your senses felt so heightened after such a long, dull evening. It was apparent Toji was at the edge of the bed, but it didn't shift with his weight. He was merely hovering once again. 

Toji's hands trailed from the individual cuffed hems of your shorts down to the underside of your knees, squeezing at the skin between his hands. "You're just a lost puppy," He chuckled as he kneaded the skin, his hands leisurely streaming down your calves, to finally your ankles. "You wouldn't know how to get by." His words oozed with subtle animosity, and you weren't able to comprehend why. He was speaking to you as if you were below him. 

You mind was beginning to wonder, though. He knew you enjoyed being degraded, but you were unsure if he was being ungenuine. Did he really view you as vulnerable as a puppy? And if so, what did that make him? His complex made your eyes roll. Though he was acting quite the cunt, you weren't able to hide your indefinite arousal. It made you thighs clench— nasty girl. 

Your attitude had became harder to mask under his probe, but you hadn't minded. The sensation of his large hands exploring your curves had felt too good. Too real. Still, you remained silent. The bright overhead lights were beginning to beam through your eyelids, casting an uncomfortable orange static hue. It was unusual for the lights to irritate you as much as they were. In response, you shifted your face away from the light, aiding your sensitive eyeballs some relief. 

Toji noticed your stirring. You hadn't reacted to his previous statements, which intrigued him. You were the combative type, and he used that against you in the best circumstances. Fundamentally for his own enjoyment. For you to dismiss his lure was unusual. The only instance you'd do so would be if you happened to fall asleep. 

Toji hadn't wanted you to sleeeeeppppp. He wasn't finished toying with you. Your sudden lose of energy upset him. His lips downturned at the corners. How could you just sleep, after such an intense conversation? After he went out of his way for you? If you fell asleep, Toji'd have to get himself off, and that just wouldn't do. 

You owed him an apology, anyways. He'd get it one way or the other. 

His heavy hands latched around your ankles, the grip boring into your flesh. In one fluid motion, he yanked your mass to the edge of the bed, your torso planked and slack against his sudden jerk. Your hands instinctively flew above your head, your fingers clutching onto the quilt beneath you in surprise. Your eyelids shot open immediately; overwhelming yellow and white light blinding you. 

"Toji—?" You gasped, craning your neck quickly to look back at the man holding you above ground by your ankles, your breasts spilling halfway over the edge of the bed as you lay upon your arms. He released you just as quickly as he seized you— the weight of your lower half plummeting to the shag below. 

Toji took his place on the edge of the bed once more, watching motionlessly as you scramble to your feet, discombobulated by his sudden mistreatment. Toji seemed irritated and impatient, his body language wavering. His hands groped your waist primitively, the cotton of your shirt bunching underneath his fingertips. "You can't sleep for this, sweetheart," He sighed, running his rugged hands underneath the trim of t-shirt. "I apologize. Though you're the one who should repent."

Toji's warm hands skimmed the flesh of your hips, his fingers kneading at the doughy pudge. "I try my hardest to take care of you," His voice reverberates in his throat as a deep grunt, your lovers words thick in your ears. "Treat you like a princess— you know. Pay for your pretty nails," Fingers trail from your lower spine to the middle of your back, shivers kissing your skin. His hands wrap around your wrists. Slowly. 

Like snakes, entrapping their prey.  You were prey. 

Toji's calloused hands hold your wrists firm in place, entrapping their loot in a tight-knuckled prison; his grip imprinting the swirls of his fingerprints upon your skin. If one thing was certain, it was Toji's inability to withhold his emotions— especially when it came to you. He was a fountain. Overflowing with adoration; ovation deep-rooted in every sliver of his being. It was unethical for you to assume anything other than, Silly Girl.

"Spend my last dollar on fitted lingerie, tailored to one woman's curves," Dark green, intimidating jade bores into you, searching your worry filled eyes for the tiniest reaction; a sparkle of dirty acknowledgment. Lust. 

He was determined to get something. 

His intense grasp begins to leave handprints on your wrists, the flesh bruised from his subtle animosity. It was obvious his temper was rising fast, filling his tin bucket before it reaches its brim. A time bomb set to detonate. 

The man's tired eyes wrinkled at the corners as he observed you for an uncomfortably long amount of time, taking in every feminine detail of your pretty face. The pretty face he couldn't wait to fuck. Ruin, ruthlessly. 

Your heartbeat was consistent in your ears, heavy thumping against your chest reverberating in waves of intoxicating confusion. It wasn't unlikely that the silk lace of your panties— specially tailored LaPerla thongs, firm above your v-line— wasn't stained in your filthy arousal. How shameful you must feel, Toji would say, soaking through your underwear. And it was. Undoubtably so. 

One minute you hate his guts, the next you want him inside of yours. Thrusting his kids into them. It was pitiful how easily you submitted under his will; putty in his large, caring hands. The hands that yanked you into his lap in one fluid motion, startling you from your foggy high. 

Your face crashes into his chest as your legs buckle under your weight— and Toji's ready for your descent. His knees spread instinctively, the grip on your wrists guiding you to your knees. Your perfect perch, right where you belonged. He'd keep you locked between his legs all day if he could; using your mouth as a hole to fill as he pleased. 

"Course, that couldn't be you, right?" He spat, releasing your wrists and replacing the emptiness in his hands with your chin, gripping it tightly between a curled index and hard thumb. "You couldn't be the woman I come home to every night, could you?" A chuckle— guttural and tantalizing. 

His words melted in your ears, fizzy in your bloodstream like drugs; addicting. Toji was a bastard, that was for sure. But he fucked you damn good, and no amount of ADAC could cure your addiction. His arrogance radiated off of him like poisonous smoke, and you couldn't get enough of it. 

Not when he treated you so good outside of bed. You didn't mind being treated like a whore behind closed doors— and he had no problem obliging. "Course not." He says simply. Toji rips his gaze from you, averting his attention to the wall behind you in a seemingly disgusted way. Unsatisfied with your presence, almost. 

He adjusts himself on his sheeted post, shifting his hips towards you. Toji inhales deeply, filling his lungs with the faint scent of your perfume— your essence lingering underneath his nose. "Suck my fucking cock, and do not disappoint me, slut." His words slice your skin smoother than blades, Toji's sudden hostility puncturing layers of flesh. 

You obliged almost instantaneously, frantic hands working the leather of his belt out of its looped restraints. The clothing rested in its home somewhere among the dark recesses of your shared bedroom. "Good girl," Fond praise kisses your ears as you work him free from his layers of clothing, his boxers pooling around his ankles as his pretty red tip— free from the wretched bindings of cloth— oozed with milky white ropes of precum. "Do you even deserve to be called that?" 

You took Toji's impatient head into your mouth, tears threatening to spill from your squinted eyes. You weren't crying, were you? Not because of overstimulation, of course, not yet, but anxiety. Undeniable, palpable anxiety. He was a man of mystique and wonder— unpredictable in the best ways, and his antics never failed to amaze you; have you breathless. 

It wasn't unlike him to be... overbearing, at times. Outgoing, determined to prove a point. He was determined to prove just how resilient you were. Toji was determined to punish you—- as did you when accusing him of such offenses; Not taking you serious? How upset he must have been for you to suggest such a thing.

He wished to hurt you in the aspect you have hurt him— because karma's a dish best served raw and feral. 

Toji releases a low grunt, his pleasure hitching in his throat as he took hold of your hair; entangling his fingers. "I don't want foreplay, take it deep." It wasn't a command or a bark, but a statement. He was not waiting for your approval or competence, he simply forced your head down to the base of his cock. And held you there— drool, tears and all. Toji enjoyed you thoroughly. He enjoyed being the puppeteer to his own private show. "F-uck, baby— gagonit, yeah.."

And you did. You sputtered around his length as you struggled to take him, that vengeful cockhead of his jutting into the recesses of your trachea. Toji enjoyed watching you struggle to take him completely— your shivering hands stroking the several inches you weren't able to swallow. His pleasure was plentiful, too. Loud, grating grouses and huffs echoed through the still of your bedroom... and you loved it. 

You loved hearing Toji lose himself at your will. You loved being his free use holes. The dynamic shared between the two of you was as simple as night and day; you were needy, and he was a glutton for coition. He couldn't help himself, and neither could you.

It was undeniable that the both of you had an attraction like no other. Toji loved you— he worshiped the ground you walked on, day in, day out. "The woman I come home to every night," He started whilst he aided your neck, supporting the weight of your head with his palm underneath your chin as you worked him with your tongue. 

His words lingered in the air, pleasure coursing through his bloodstream as a moan interrupted his sentence. He continued his rant as his hands moved from your chin to the back of your neck, holding your hair in place. "She respects herself. A lot more than you do, right?" He chuckled, his green eyes staring daggers through your messy face. 

"I mean—fuck, baby— don't get me wrong," His eyes studied your overstuffed lips, full to the brim with his twitching cock. "You know how to use your pretty mouth, but that's all you're really good for." Toji sucked his teeth— his bottom lip snaking between his rows of pearly whites as he gnawed on it, keeping himself from bellowing in pleasure.

By the twitch of his cock, it was obvious he wasn't going to last too much longer, and you were okay with that. You were happy with whatever he gave you, despite his humiliating words. You were grateful he gave you attention, no matter how upset you were with him. 

Was it pretentious to lose your attitude so quickly? Considering you were so defiant prior, you felt a bit conspicuous being so... open and giving. So submissive. "Fuckinghell— C'mon, Pretty Girl, don't youhwhant.." He slurred, raven hair falling behind his reclined head as he rutted into your throat. Toji held you in place as he fucked your face. "Ahll this f-ucking cum, you whore? Work for it, baby," 

His edge was approaching, engulfing the males entire being in blissful euphoria— his cock overflowing with ecstasy as he plunged himself into your mouth; your fingers probing his tense thighs for leverage as you suffocated on Toji's oh-so grateful cockhead. 

"Godda-mnit— hohfuck, gonna cum, Love. Down that.. pretty fucking throat." He praised, rutting his heat into you with pure rapture. He thrusted into you as if his life depended on it— as if this were his last orgasm. As if he were completely and utterly innocent in his wrongdoings. As if he hadn't intentionally provoked you in hopes of giving you a false sense of authority. 

As if this wasn't a power trip for him. 

You knew Toji was a greedy man; for your affection, your praise, your attention. If he had things his way, Toji would work from home, and he'd have you all to himself, hidden away from lust-wridden eyes. Pampering and nurturing you— just you and him.

Regardless if he was guilty of infidelity, arson, or murder, he knew who he wanted to come home to. That's all that should've mattered, right? But women and their ridiculous need for restrictions. Defiance wasn't on his agenda. 

If smooth talking you wasn't working

It was nothing for Toji to slip the small pill into the glass; it was scentless, tasteless, and fizzless. He was doing the both of you a favor, really. Charity work, because he loved you so much. 

It was better this way; better if you submitted to him unbeknownst. It wasn't unusual, so there was no harm done. Toji was only being cautious in his effort to protect what he loved— and that was you, sweetheart. 

The side effects weren't a precaution he was too worried about, due to research. Dizziness, light sensitivity; blah blah blah. He'd never slip you something without knowing what'd it'd do to you. He wasn't a monster. 

He slipped the first Viagra pill into a fountain beverage he'd purchased from a corner store; ripping the drug from its plastic and plopping it right into the dark brown liquid of the styrofoam cup. 

Toji finishes down your throat quickly; roughly— yanking at your hair vigorously. His orgasm was a beast; shooting down your throat in warm, thick ropes. Your lover, his toned legs spasming in pleasure, was overcome in his surge of euphoria. So much so, that upon his attempt to praise your ability to swallow his seed, a low grumble only passed his throat— Adams apple bobbing tensely underneath his skin. 

His cum sat at the back of your throat uncomfortably with every swallow, his cock continuing to bury itself into your cavern as Toji rode his orgasm out at your expense. "Yesyesy-es, baby, swallow...e-verything.." His hips falter as he comes down from his orgasmic high. He's worn, and in the best ways possible. If he were to be shot graveyard dead, he'd have died a happy man. 

He knew regardless how many sinful acts he committed; messy situations he created sacrificing your peace of mind, that you'd forgive him. Because you loved him, right? Mistakes were temporary, but the love you had for him was endless. Toji knew this, and used your vulnerability for his own selfish benefit. 

"Ifuckingloveyou," He breathed, finalizing the abuse to your face with one soft thrust, pulling his sensitive length from your mouth— a 'pop' resounding as he exits. Toji huffed whilst closing his eyes, his robust chest heaved as he recollected himself. He cupped your jaw in his hands, slouching his spine as he rested his forehead against yours. The defined scar on his lip only inches away from your nose. 

"You alright..?" He chuckled softly, caressing the supple skin of your cheek with his padded thumb. Despite his feral disposition, he still had a heart. He still loved you, as he always has. His orgasm will never stop him from valuing your affection. Regardless of the hurdles he jumped through in order to maintain a stable lifestyle for the both of you, you were his priority. 

You nod your head stiffly, sucking in full gusts of air for the first time in all of 6 minutes. Toji replied with a hushed sigh, pressing his glossed cheek against your own. "Words, Pretty Girl. I need you to talk to me," Your cheeks heat in blandishment. Toji's tone was so contradictory prior to his orgasm, it felt foreign to be treated with genuine care. 

Nonetheless, you knew Toji's conceited facade would waver once he was off his pedestal. And it did, as always. Insolent by design; poppet by heart. 

"I'm okay, Ji'" You peep meekly due to your throat being rubbed raw, which earns a healthy snicker from Toji's lips. A warm laugh, wholesome in nature. Completely opposite.

"You sure, hon?" He was true in his concern, massaging your neck as he spoke to you in his soothing manner. "I wasn't intending to be that rough, forgive me," It was a lie, but it sounded better than him saying he intentionally fucked your throat raw. 

"You are my everything," He grins, peppering kisses haphazardly across your face as he cups you between his palms, anchoring you in place. "So, so very much, okay, Baby?" He places one final kiss upon your lips, the seal lingering whilst he intertwines himself with you. 

You smiled lazily in the kiss, your jaw aching. Once the two of you separated, Toji stood in front of you, bending his knees to your level. He placed one sturdy arm behind your back— right underneath the curve of your spine— and the other underneath the bend of your knees, hoisting you up into his arms; your legs dangling over his biceps. "I just wish I could take it easier on you."

He cared so much for you, so much so that he needed to make sure you learned your lesson through and through. He'd take care of you— clean you up, dress you up, just enough to break you, and repeat the cycle all over. Over and over, so he can prove his point from all positions. 

Though he was guilty of being untruthful in some aspect, he hadn't believed so. He was guilty of being a hard working man. He provided for his family, regardless of how he did it. 

He worked the way he did in order to provide for you. Was it such a crime to bear the weight of the consequences? He'd carry the burden until his hands were sore.

© JadeSlayter , 2024 Tumblr

[yooils]

RUIN MY PLANS ! sae itoshi x manager! reader. fluff.

☆彡– really, he should have known better than to let someone in so easily– now you've ruined his plans and stained your muddy footprints all over his heart.

part two is out now!

even in the beginning, it was always just sae and soccer.

(wrong. there was also rin– who used to idolized him as one would a celebrity, and his supportive parents– who sent him snacks and supportive notes when he was abroad.)

nevertheless, there really was no one in the small world of sae itoshi; hidden beneath the bitter guise of frigid thunder and even icier storms– until you first came in as his own brand new manager, (slightly naive) smile differing strikingly from his indifferent countenance.

you've unsolicitedly trampled all over his once-tranquil paradise over the years, sae thinks, because now he can't imagine a future without you– it makes his skin crawl and it feels sickening. how mediocre of him.

and just as sae starts to slowly accept the unfamiliar whirlwind of emotions in his life after denying his feelings for so long, his fragile world collapses again.

"i'm going to resign soon."

oh.

sae's heart sinks to his stomach. he feels like his whole world is falling apart– just like in the movies– and he's infuriated. resentment always came easily to sae, after all; but the fact that it's you makes his stomach churn.

(you, who unexpectedly won a place in his life with your lukewarm anecdotes, stupid laughter and reckless work habits. really, he should have known better than to let someone in so easily– now you've ruined his plans and stained your muddy footprints all over his heart.)

the soft music thrumming through the speakers of an expensive restaurant fuels his rage even more, and you're still sitting there nonchalantly– calm and composed, expression showing no signs of discomfort nor awkwardness.

and it really pisses him off.

he's treated you so well over the years too; trying to be on his best behaviour on his interviews with the press (read: not walking off); listening half-heartedly to your ramblings on how to increase his popularity (though he couldn't care less); and even going so far as to mind his language sometimes.

upon further reflection, maybe he really was the jerk here.

but in contrast to his internal turmoil, sae's demeanour remains tepid save for the slight furrow of his eyebrows. "huh? what's wrong with you?"

it comes out a lot harsher than intended.

you've known sae long enough to read his minuscule body language, and that the slight wince at his own words mean that he's a little apologetic– not that his ego would have ever allowed him to admit it. (if anything, it makes you realise that you've stayed in this job too long for your liking.)

–it's absolutely unhealthy to be around him for so long, you affirm to yourself. that's why you're resigning after six gruelling years.

the way you shift in your chair almost makes him worry.

"it's nothing big, i just want to start a normal life." you respond, albeit tentatively. "maybe cut off travelling around for a bit, have a less stressful job, get a partner–"

he scoffs at that. (it's not due to jealousy, definitely.) "you could do that even while being a manager; it's just a little busier than a normal life. plus, it's not too stressful, is it?"

you work more than 17 hours on busy days– even answering his spur of the moment midnight calls. as much as an eye candy as sae is, you don't think your heart can handle him much longer despite how unaffected you look.

(little did you know, he would've long cut back on the immense workload if you had so much as mentioned it– he would have gone beyond limits to keep you by his side, because you're the only constant in his world of football. and he likes that.)

"i suppose so– i guess settling back into Japan might make dating a lot easier, as well as stop my parent's nagging." you sigh. "they're constantly pestering me on when i'll get married."

sae's had his share of flings in europe before– so he has no idea why his heart races so fast at the mere thought of a reckless idea.

"so date me."

you choke. his face stays stoic, utterly contradicting to the way he swallows thickly– he really is a mess. now he's ruined every single healthy relationship he's ever had in his life.

and never in your life did you think you would get to hear sae itoshi ask you out, even if it was just for his own benefit. "it won't hinder with your work, and it'll be easy to convince your parents, won't it?"

you hate how persuasive he is.

(that night, you end up making a decision that might just cost you more than your sappy feelings.)

1.8.23

[yourlittlebunnyy]

a court of shadows and darkness

masterlist - previous chapter - next chapter

chapter three

summary: Selaene, Rhysand's sister, Azriel's mate runs away after the High Lord of Spring tries to kill her.

warnings: death

enjoy! <3

"Mother! Selaene! Father!" Rhysand's voice echoes through the mountains, but the Illyrian Steppes remain silent before his prayers. With his hands in his hair, his grip so tight it tears them apart, the male's knees give way, and at this point, he does not care who sees him. Sobs shake his entire body as he slumps to the ground, and he does not even feel the frozen snow soaking his clothes. He feels nothing but the pain of that loss. All he can do is think, after his family was killed, that it was all his fault. His sister had tried to call him, but he did not arrive in time, and now they are all dead. He opens his eyes just wide enough to look at the patch of his mother's blood mixed with Selaene's blood smearing the white snow. The sight is almost poetic. He will get his revenge, whoever was the bastard who killed two of the most important people in his life. And his father.

He hears footsteps behind him but he doesn't compose himself, not caring who might see the future High Lord of the Night Court in that state.

"Brother...," it's Cassian, he realizes. He lays a hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort him.

"Get the fuck away." And as he has arrived, he leaves, silent. Around him, a gentle breeze caresses his face, the only uncovered part of him. It should be icy but tepid, as if it were a last goodbye, a last cuddle from his family before they leave forever. More sobs make his body shake. He takes off his gloves and slips his hands into the snow, the pain in his scalp fades and he immediately regrets it. But it's quickly replaced by the snow that is so cold it burns his palms. He deserves it, he thinks, he deserves it after failing to protect those he loves.

He stays there an indefinite time. His clothes are soaked and the sun is setting, now the air is so cold it freezes his bones, and Rhysand stands up shivering like a small child.

Before he leaves he makes a promise to himself. It doesn't matter how, only that no one he loves will ever die from his lack of attention again. He will never again fail in his task. With one last look at the blood-stained snow, an action he is not ready to do-but must, he leaves, leaving his mother, father, and sister for one last time. When he returns to the Wind House, he does not find Azriel. He enters and each step seems heavier than the last. He does not bother not to drag his wings, does not care about appearances. Even breathing becomes too strenuous. He finds Cassian sitting at the table, his cheeks streaked with tears. At the sight of his brother so grief-stricken Rhysand cannot hold them back himself. He sits at the table with him, the house so cold and empty without the laughter of the two females. He wonders if one day he will forget even the sound of their voices.

"Azriel?" he asks after what seems like infinity. The broken voice reaches Cassian's ears distantly. When he answers, his voice is a reflection of his brother's. "He... he's gone mad, Rhys."

A heavy silence fills the air with tension.

"I'm going to kill him, Cassian."

"I know, Rhys. I know. But Azriel may already be thinking about it."

Cassian looks at his brother in the eyes. His gaze dull, his eyes red and puffy. They make him look centuries older. The warrior believes that he himself is in the same condition as Rhysand. Selaene and her mother have also been his family, have been the only family.

"Do you know where he is?"

"No. He woke me up at dawn after he heard-he heard Selaene die from the bond. Goddamn, Rhysand." The brother's voice cracks so hard. They have never cried like this in the nearly seventy years they have known each other. Rhysand watches the Illyrian warrior, his brother, fall apart before him. Something in his gaze changes.

"Find Azriel. I'll take care of the bastard." At the change in his brother's tone, Cassian lifts his face in surprise. "Do you-do you know who-?"

"Who could it have been but Tamlin'." He points this out in a voice so distant that the warrior wonders how he can plan a murder under these conditions. "Brother, I don't think-"

"No, Cassian. Find Azriel and let me have my revenge."

The warrior can do nothing but nod. Before he goes, he takes one last look at his brother. The icy voice is not reflected in his expression, still heartbroken. When he is about to leave the room, he turns a small bow to him. Now, Rhysand is a High Lord.

"NO!", Azriel's screams wake Cassian. His brother did not scream, ever. Not even when he had nightmares, not even when he was being tortured did he ever scream.

He can do nothing but grab the dagger hidden under the mattress and run to his room. What he certainly did not expect was to see his brother kneeling, sobs wracking his entire body, hands clutching his chest at heart level. When he heard his brother enter the room and looked up, Azriel's eyes are of pure pain.

"Azriel... what's going on?" He approaches him and kneels before him, the dagger forgotten on the ground at the doorframe, two strong hands rest on his shoulders to give him support.

Azriel rises hastily, trembling knees not offering him too much stability causing him to stagger slightly. Cassian is worried-he has never seen his brother in such a condition.

"Selaene..." he manages to gasp and a pain expands in the warrior's chest. "Azriel. Speak, Selaene what? What has happened?"

"The bond. I don't... I can't hear it anymore, Cassian. It's empty." His brother's cracked voice shatters him.

"I-I thought you wanted to accept the bond."

"No, Cassian. I don't..." Azriel takes a short pause, a long breath, and Cassian has never been more agitated. If he is not suffering because he was rejected, what else could have happened that is so terrible? "I don't feel her anymore. She is..." But Azriel cannot finish the sentence. He can't. The sobbing that beats him is so violent that the warrior has to hold him up as the ShadowSinger cries on his shoulder. He himself cannot stop the tears. The situation is so surreal.

"Azriel." His voice is broken, like when he was a baby is crying in Rhysand's mother's arms. "I swear if this is a joke-"

" Fucking hell, Cassian. It's not a fucking joke." His brother's voice is so harsh that he feels guilty for even thinking it.

"I have to go." He suddenly breaks away from the comforting grip.

"Azriel, brother..."

But before he can even finish the sentence, Azriel disappears into his shadows.

463 years later

"I have never entered your room, Azriel. It is an honor." Feyre's voice and her little comment make Azriel smile slightly.

"I like to ... keep my own space." The Fae smiles at her words, and the Illyrian notices the female's gaze wandering around the room. Too much for his liking.

Her eyes land on a romantic book, one that Nesta has recommended to him and he is far too kind to tell her he will never read. The Fae picks it up and lifts it to show him, a feline smile breaks across her bright face. "Uh-huh. I didn't know the much-feared Spymaster read such impurities!"

An amused snort escapes his throat, but he doesn't respond further. He lets Feyre take a closer look at the room and comment on every single thing in it-not that he has many, fortunately. This is exactly why he does not like it when people enter his room.

As the young Fae continues to browse through his things, he heads to the real reason he brought Feyre to his room. The damned paperwork that his High lord desperately need for some reason.

"Fey. You're supposed to be looking for the reports, not the dirty books your sister lends me."

"Ah! But look at you going all defensive," she chuckles, and Azriel struggles to hide the smirk that lights up his face, "there's nothing wrong with wanting to read a little pepper every now and then." She laughs again after seeing the Shadowsinger roll his eyes.

"Oh...," Azriel pays no mind to whatever caught the Fae's attention, probably another piece of junk. "Az?"

"Yes?"

"Who-who is it?"

The Illyrian warrior's entire body stiffens at such words, somehow knowing full well what, who he is referring to.

"She is... it's gorgeous." The tone suggests to him that she is speaking more to herself than to him. But Selaene is still an open wound for him, and he is not ready to talk about it, and perhaps never will be.

After her death he simply ignored the pain, doing nothing about it. Rhysand became High Lord and he was made Spymaster, he begged his brother to send him on so many missions that he forgot about Selaene. Of course, he did not succeed. But at least he was busy and time made things better. But every time she is mentioned ... he still feels that unbearable emptiness in his chest, and it would hurt less if his heart was ripped out of his chest alive.

"Is that Rhys's sister?" Feyre's question brings him back to reality. He stares at her for a long time, and the Fae cannot help but notice the pain that flashes in his eyes, pain so fiery and burning. His eyes blur, as if inside his head he is replaying memories. When he does not respond, she speaks again.

"Rhys told me about her. But I didn't know you were related."

Azriel still does not answer, and Feyre realizes that he will probably never answer. She feels like a bad person for asking such intrusive questions, and feels the need to make up for it.

"I'm sorry, Az. I didn't mean to bring back bad memories."

Azriel wanted to yell at her, to get out, to not speak about her.

He wanted to scream that she was not a bad memory, but he could not. It had been decades since anyone had mentioned Selaene.

It had been decades since anyone had mentioned Selaene. Sure, above his bed there is a painting of her that he stares at every morning as soon as he wakes up and every night before he goes to sleep. Gods, there are days when he sits on his desk and stares at her for hours, unable to look away. But this is different. Someone talking about his dead mate in front of him is different. He is not ready to voice his thoughts, and perhaps never will be.

"Maybe ... maybe I should go. Don't... forget about the papers, I'm sure Rhysand doesn't need them that much."

Azriel watches her leave her room, and hates the look he receives. Compassion. The look he gets from his brothers whenever they see him alone at a ball, or the look he gets whenever a bond is mentioned.

He stares again at the painting of his beloved, and lets the memories he has of her calm his mind and the shadows obscure his vision, as if to put a wall between him and reality.

He wonders when was the last time he heard her voice, her laugh, her name on his lips. And when he tries to remember the sound of it, he can't. He has forgotten Selaene's laughter.

After almost a century of it not happening, Azriel lets tears flow freely down his face and sobs fill the room, careless of who might hear. The shadows themselves, who loved his female as much as he did, cry and call her name, as if at any moment, she might return. As if she simply went out on an errand.

He wonders how his brothers would look at him now, weeping for a lover lost almost five centuries ago. Who knows how much compassion he would find in their looks.

next chapter

[pixels-not-dreams]

reflection || sub!light yagami x reader

“Y/N.”

Light’s voice came crackling over the speaker. You press the microphone’s on button to reply.

“Yes?” you say, your voice clipped. Your overnight shift monitoring his cell is nearly over. You've thought of everything; you're not sure why he's contacting you at the eleventh hour after lying forlornly on his side for most of the evening.

“Y/N, I—”

“Is there an issue?” You ask curtly. You're tired, and you want to go to sleep; but his voice is thin and needy. You pull your legs up to your chest. It's starting to get a bit warm for your taste in the surveillance gallery.

“Uh,” he says. “N-not exactly.”

“Yagami-kun,” you sigh. “It’s nearly 3:00am. If the matter isn't urgent, I suggest you try going to sleep.”

He mumbles something unintelligible. The microphones affixed throughout the room are quite sensitive; he must really be trying to eat his words, you think to yourself.

You lean forward, hovering an inch away from the pop filter, and lick your lips. They're a little chapped.

“Could you repeat that?” You keep your voice cool and even. Something feels odd in your stomach; you chalk it up to exhaustion.

“Can you look away, please.” It comes out more statement than question. Light sounds exasperated.

“Yagami-kun,” you say, an edge creeping into your voice. “I don't believe you've earned the right to make such demands.”

“I–”

“If there is no issue that you can verbalize to me, I am going to take my finger off this button and end this conversation. Is that agreeable?” You press your thighs together. It's quite stuffy in the gallery, even at night; you'll have to tell Watari to call in an HVAC technician.

“Please,” he says quietly. “I know you can hear me. It's too much to be seen, too.”

Your breath catches in your throat. “I'm not sure what you mean, Yagami-kun.”

You haven't been looking at the surveillance monitor. You've been listening, but your eyes have been fixed on a New York Times crossword—a Sunday puzzle. Particularly difficult. You raise your eyes to the monitor. The CCTV is sharp for security footage. In past cases, equipment captured video so unclear it may as well have been a daguerreotype. Not so with these cameras. Light’s face is captured in 4K: his cheeks are red, and his eyes look watery. His chest rises and falls with a bit more heave than usual.

“What do you mean, Yagami?” In your frustration, you drop his honorific. You don't like repeating yourself.

“Please,” he says again. “I haven't had a moment unobserved in weeks. I have—you know. Needs."

You bark out a laugh. For all his intellect and moral character, he's only human. An animal like any other. Your eyes widen and you lean towards the monitor to confirm your suspicion: his right hand is, incriminatingly, hidden up to the wrist in his black pants.

“Unbelievable,” you breathe. With a start, you realize that your finger is still on the microphone's activator. You pull it away like it's a hot stove.

“I'm sorry,” he says quietly.

“You don't sound very sorry,” you scoff. “And you haven't stopped. You're not even trying.”

“You’re—you’re right. Y/N, I'm not even trying,” he says, his voice becoming more pathetic by the minute. “I couldn't stop, though, even if I wanted to.”

Your hand shoots out to unmute yourself.

“Yagami-kun,” you snap. “You have a problem.”

“Yeah,” he says. His voice has shifted from pathetic to content. It's like he's slipped into a dream.

“It's disgusting,” you say, your lip curling. “This is offensive. I'm offended.”

“Why?”

He's curling around like a cat waking up. You stuff your left hand under your leg. You'll deal with the tingling in your own nethers later.

You clear your throat. It suddenly feels as if you've swallowed a pinecone. You breathe in, out, and take a sip of the tepid water you poured yourself hours ago.

“Because,” you begin. “It's pathetic, Light. You're all alone down there. You could be bettering yourself. Learning another language. Studying discrete mathematics. And yet you have chosen to abuse your cock.”

You mute yourself to take another sip of water and fire off an email to Watari to fix the thermostat immediately; your hand shakes a little as you reach out to press the activator again.

“You're a stupid child, Light,” you say, trying not to grin. “You're a pathetic little boy who can't help but rut against his hand. What would your father say if he knew? Look at yourself.”

Light opens his eyes. He'd been sitting on his cot, back to the wall with his knees up, blocking most of your view.

“I said look at yourself,” you repeat. “There's a mirror right there.”

Shakily, he stands up, adjusting his waistband as not to humiliate himself further. He walks to the door, where a full length mirror faces one of the surveillance cameras; he faces it reluctantly and clasps his hands together like a fig leaf. He can barely look at his own reflection.

His eyes move almost imperceptibly, looking for the camera. Looking for you.

“Can I—”

“Shut up,” you bark into the microphone. “You can speak when I say so.”

“Yes, Y/N.”

You smile. Yagami-kun can be taught.

“Good boy,” you say. Light shifts nervously and looks again for the camera.

“Don't look at me.” You run your hand through your hair. It's really quite warm. You think you should maybe take your shirt off. “Look at yourself like I told you before.”

Light’s face burns, but he raises his eyes to his reflection.

“Repeat after me,” you say.

“Yes, Y/N.” His voice is weak. If you weren't so generous, you'd say he was whimpering.

“I'm a pretty boy," you prompt.

Light takes a sharp inhale. “I'm—a pretty boy.”

“I'm so pretty when I'm pulling on my cock."

“I'm s-so pretty when I'm pulling on my…my cock.”

“I heard Y/N’s voice and I couldn't help myself. ”

“I heard Y/N’s voice and I couldn't help myself.”

“Because I'm a stupid slut who loves attention."

“Be-because—oh, please, Y/N, can I?”

You sit back in your chair. You shouldn't let him. If you let him, it'll be over soon. There's no way he'll last more than a minute. You had hoped, secretly, that he would come untouched.

Light takes your silence as permission and reaches his right hand back into his pants, steadying himself with his left hand weakly on the wall. He's in the frame, still, but not directly in front of the mirror.

“You couldn't help yourself,” you murmur. When he doesn't reply, you look down to see you hadn't touched the activator. You swallow hard at the realization and press it anyway.

“You can't follow directions, can you? Your pretty head’s got no thoughts in it—just disgusting fantasies.”

“Yes,” he whispers. “Just—just disgusting fantasies.”

You're starting to lose your head. You press your thighs together. The friction feels good. But you're not a sorry little wretch like Light; you can wait.

“I bet you can't last ten more seconds,” you say. You meant it to come out derisive, but it sounded almost giddy. You press your finger to your mouth. “Light?”

“Yes? Yes, Y/N?” he gasps.

“Shoot your come onto the mirror,” you command. “I want to see yourself how I see you. Filthy.”

“O-okay,” he says. “I can do that.”

“Say ‘yes, Y/N.’ I liked that.”

“Yes, Y/N.” His eyes have begun to leak, and his hand is shaking. He's starting to come undone. You lean forward, so far that the desk bites into your belly, and you look greedily at the monitor.

Light barely lasts another moment before ropes of come paint the mirror. It's an impressive amount. He must have abstained for weeks.

He doubles over, panting as he works the last come out of himself. He pulls his waistband up and braces one hand on his knee. His breathing is labored enough to be detected by the camera mics alone.

You clear your throat and realize that you've been crushing your left hand between your legs for the last few minutes, hard enough to give yourself pins and needles. You rip your hand away and shake it.

You try to gather your thoughts, but you feel dizzy and lightheaded. There are footsteps coming down the hall—you must have lost track of time. Your shift’s ending.

You scramble to press the activator. “Goodnight, Light,” you say, trying to be authoritative, but sounding panicky instead. “Clean up, will you?” You all but smack your forehead in frustration. What were you thinking?

Hearing your reliever put his key in the door, you take a breath in, and let it out slowly. You hit one of the many switches and plunge Light's room into darkness. 

[tieronecrush]

102

frankie morales x f!reader

based on the song 102 by the 1975

rating: M

word count: 3k

summary: every week, you and frankie meet up at the same spot at the same time to catch-up and share a coffee. you’ve been his best friend for years. through thick and thin, always there. thing is, frankie’s been in love with you for nearly as long as he’s known you and hasn’t worked up the courage to tell you.

warnings: no use of Y/N, post-film timeline, au where frankie doesn’t have a kid, use of pet names (solecita, mi mejor), high school level spanish (mostly swear words), unrequited love, self deprecation, alcohol use/drunkenness, smoking

Bright, tepid morning light bounces yellow-white light off of the water in front of Frankie, the pond’s smooth glass-like surface reflecting the partly cloudy sky. The sunlight covers him like a heated blanket, the black sweatshirt on his torso soaking up the warmth. The chilled breeze ruffles the curls peeking out from under his hat, brushing them against his forehead. His knees are bent, elbow resting while he holds the paper to-go cup in both hands between his thighs, the coffee inside swishing with his subtle movements to settle on the large boulder next to the small man-made lake.

The trail that winds around the water and throughout the park is quiet, only a few passersby giving him a polite wave or a tight smile as they jog or walk past during their workout. He watches each one approach, looking for the familiar face of you that he’s been waiting for at this spot, for this time and day of the week every week since he’s come home from his last deployment with Special Forces. It was your idea, forcing him to check in at least weekly in person to make sure he was doing alright adjusting back home. You both knew that he couldn’t say no to you. You thought it was because you were best friends since the start of high school, your long history creating an unbreakable bond. The real reason, that only he and the boys knew after they coerced the confession out of him on a mission, was because he was in love with you. Has been for years.

This week feels different though. Part of him isn’t sure that you’ll show up after what happened the night before last. Anxiety swirls in his gut and his fingers twitch for some nicotine, his hands patting his pockets to pull out the crumpled packet of cigarettes and Bic lighter. The colored end rests between his lips while he clicks the lighter until the flame appears, holding it to the small roll of tobacco and inhaling around it to catch the dried leaves alight. He puffs out a few drags, billowy, thin smoke surrounding him as his muscles relax and his mind calls back to the night he last saw you.

He told the cab driver your address.

Of course, he didn’t realize he’d rambled it off until the guy kicked him out at the curb, turning around to get his bearings, and seeing the small three-bed townhome you shared with your roommates. The screen of his phone showed him the time, a slurred curse slipping from his lips when it registers how late it was.

1:02 AM

You would definitely be asleep by now. You had been texting him all night recapping stupid things your roommates’ friends said during a girls’ movie night at your place, making him smile at his phone often while out with the boys at the bar. Your messages slowed down and then stopped altogether around 11:30 pm, cluing him in that you’d fallen asleep. Their incessant teasing and the ache of his unrequited love drove him to drink a little too much, and he must have been so drunk that his subconscious took him to you.

He should go home. Back to his empty house, where he’d pass out alone and cold.

He always felt warm around you.

And his phone is about to die, which meant there was no chance he could call a cab or order an Uber.

Guilt crawled in between his ribs with each step he took down your front path, sighing softly to himself and lifting his hat to run a hand through his hair before he knocked on your door.

There’s no answer, so he succumbs to finding your contact through his messages, pressing the call button and holding the phone up to his ear. It rings three time before he hears a rustle on the other end, your sleepy voice coming over the line.

“Hello?”

“Hey, solecita.”

“Frankie? What’s up? Is something wrong?”

“Uh, not really? Well, kinda. ‘M a lil’ tipsy, actually more than tipsy, and accidentally told the cab driver your address instead of mine so I’m outside your house right now. And my phone’s abouta die.”

You take a slow inhale before exhaling a short chuckle.

“Hold on.”

You don’t hang up the phone and he listens to the sounds of you climbing out of bed and your footsteps echoing in the wood-floored hallway. The front door swings open in front of him, your drowsy grin calming his anxiety immediately. Butterflies kick around in his stomach and a grin pulls the corners of his mouth up when he sees you in your matching pajama set, white cotton with dainty pink flowers. You hang up the phone in front of him, and he drops his own hand to his side again while giving you a cringed expression.

“‘M so sorry, solecita. Woulda called another Uber if I could.”

“‘S fine, Francisco. C’mon, just stay here for the night.”

You wave him in, quietly shutting the door and locking it again, turning back to him and nodding up the stairs. He follows your silent order, climbing the stairs ahead of you and stumbling only a few times from his slightly impaired depth perception. Your soft hands find his shoulders at the top of the stairs, guiding him to your room. The door closes behind you and he turns to face you, a small hiccup escaping his mouth.

“I can sleep on the couch, mi mejor. Don’t wanna take up your bed.”

“Frankie, you’re like six feet tall. You’re not gonna be comfortable on that tiny ass couch. Just get in the bed, I’ll be right back.”

From across the small room, he watches you slip out of the doorway, shutting it behind you. He takes the chance to slip out of his jeans, discarding his Standard Oil hat on your dresser. He knows what side to lay on from the countless times he’s stayed the night after getting wine drunk with you or when you’d stayed at his after it’d gotten too late to drive home, insisting you use the same side you do at home. He plugs his phone into the extra charger you have, laying back against the headboard as he covers his face with his hands and drags them down.

“God, fucking idiot, Frankie,” he mumbles to himself, knowing you’ll probably sweetly retell this story at the next dinner with the guys and dreading the shit he is going to get from them. They all rag on him like brothers around you, and you laugh along when Frankie does, encouraging him to let it roll off his back when he gets annoyed. All he hopes is that you don’t think he’s as bad as what you’ve been told in the last few years. The pain of his heartache around you would only be compounded if you thought any less of him ‘cause of the stupid shit he’d done. Including showing up at your house drunk at one o’clock in the morning.

The door clicking close again pulls his hands from his face, an exhausted sigh expanding and compressing his chest. You cross over to the bed with your “backup emotional support water bottle” (your words, not his) in your hand, passing it over to him.

“Drink half now. Other half in the morning. And here’s ibuprofen for the morning, too.”

You drop the few pills in his hand and he twists to set them on the nightstand, unscrewing the lid of the bottle to chug half the contents. He closes it again, setting it down to the side next to the pills. The mattress sinks when you climb in on your side, returning your own phone to it’s charger and laying down on your side facing him. He mirrors your actions, laying down to look at you tenderly.

“Thank you.”

“Always, Frankie.”

You’ve never not been there for him. You’ve left work earlier to find him at home in the middle of a panic attack when Pope’s called you, picked him up from bars and random house parties. Even been his friend when he’d been using.

You’ve never not been there, and that is exactly why he can’t bring himself to tell you that he’s in love with you. He can’t imagine his life without you.

“Can we cuddle?” He sounds like a little kid, feeling his face fall into an involuntary pout.

A faint laugh hits his ears in the dark room, no direct answer comes from you. Instead, you scoot closer to him on the mattress, hands grabbing either side of his shoulders and shifting him to face the wall with your windows. An arm slides under his neck, the other pushing between his bicep and his ribcage to wrap him up as the little spoon. He relaxes against you, breathing in your scent from your arm under his head.

No other words are exchanged, your breathing evening out against his back when you’ve fallen back asleep and then he finally closes his eyes to rest.

He dreams of you. Not sure what exactly, but the warm fuzzy feeling he’s got told him you were around.

The next morning, early sunlight filters through the sheer curtains covering the windows. Frankie’s eyes slowly open from the brightness, a pounding headache immediately throbbing in his skull and radiating pain all over his body. The two of you have moved throughout the night, your head on his chest and his arm under you. The sight of you peaceful, relaxed, angelic tears at his heart, the pain doubling at the thought of facing you this morning.

He slips out of your bed, cowardly slinking out of the house and avoiding any possible situation that he would have to tell you how he feels about you. Outside of your house, he waits at the curb after he calls Santi to come to get him, shooting a message to you that he left to head home and sleep off the hangover for the rest of the day, but he would see you tomorrow morning for coffee like always.

When he’s about to give up and head back to his car with his tail between his legs, he spots you speed-walking up the path and waving wildly to him. He smiles to himself, taking one last puff of his cigarette before putting it out on the rock next to him.

He stands, stepping to the edge to offer you a hand to help you up, steadying you as you catch your balance. Wordlessly, the two of you sit next to each other, the small bag of duck food that you always bring set down between your sides.

“Morning, Francisco. How’re ya feeling today? Better than yesterday?”

Teasing is evident in your voice, a sly smirk on your lips. He rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, hitting his shoulder against yours.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am, solecita. So no need for the smugness. Took care of you way more drunk and hungover than I was so you got no room to talk.”

“Hey! I was asking out of the kindness of my heart. Someone’s sassy this morning. What’s got your undies in a twist?”

He laughs softly, looking out at the water in front of him and shaking his head as he shrugs.

“Nothin’ much, I guess. Reason I got drunk on Friday was ‘cause I had another shitty day at work. I really don’t wanna work at the airport anymore.”

Your head nods in understanding, swallowing your sip of coffee.

“Well, what would you wanna do instead?”

He peels at the seam of the cardboard sleeve on his cup, eyes not daring to look over at you as he quietly admits what has been toying over in his mind for the last few months, not spoken out loud to anyone.

“I wanna do private charters again. Be up in the air, flying,” a tired sigh escapes his lips, head dropping in shame as he turns it to look at you, “But can’t do that with a suspended license.”

“Yeah, that’s true. But the key word there is ‘suspended’, Frankie. Didn’t they send you instructions to schedule a hearing to start the reinstatement process? Have you done anything for that?”

All he can do is shake his head, turning back to the trail and the pond to people watch.

“We can take a look at it all together if you want. Maybe my brother can offer some legal advice,” his skin burns from your hand resting on his back, even through his sweatshirt and t-shirt over it, “We’ll get it figured out. You’ll be up in the air in no time.”

His heart sings at your use of “we”, his mind clearing his anxious haze and giving him the nerve to spill his guts to you at that moment.

When he turns to face you, he’s met with your wide, optimistic grin and it only swells his heart against his ribs even more, feeling as if the vital organ is going to explode out of his chest unless he says something.

Frankie opens his mouth, inhaling a sharp breath as he formulates the words to start with; as he’s about to speak, your smile grows brighter, eyes lighting up.

“Oh! I didn’t get to tell you last night cause we fell asleep so quick, but, um, I started seeing this new guy. We’ve been on a few dates, but it’s gone really well so far and I really like him…”

Frankie half listens as you continue to recount each date, a dull buzzing noise covering the sound of your voice in his ears as his stare unfocuses in front of him. The courage dies in his throat, feeling as if the lump there is blocking his airway and slowly suffocating him. He’s quiet for the rest of the catch-up, and if you noticed, you never said anything. The two of you part ways at your cars, you heading home to get ready for another date with this guy and him heading home to have a date with the twelve-pack of beers sitting in his fridge.

The next week, Frankie only leaves his house to show up for his shifts at work. When he skips out on guys’ night on Friday, Santi stops at his on his way home from the bar, pounding on the door until Frankie answers.

“You look like shit.”

Pope barges in and gives Frankie a once-over, shaking his head and flopping down on his couch, picking up one of the cans of beer on the coffee table and popping the tab. Frankie sighs, closing the front door and sitting at the opposite end.

“What are you doing here?”

“You didn’t show up tonight, haven’t returned any texts or calls all week. Needed to make sure you were alive, cretino.”

“Well, I’m alive. Now you can leave me alone.”

Santi shakes his head, clearing his throat and giving Frankie a sympathetic look.

“Did something happen on Sunday morning? Did you do something stupid and she’s not talking to you?”

Frankie stews silently, glaring at Pope before breaking in the silence.

“She’s got a guy she’s seeing. Been on a few dates with him.”

“Ahh. Makes sense why you’re been moping then.”

“She couldn’t stop gushing over this new pendejo. And the worst part is she told me right as I was about to tell her how I felt.”

“Why can’t you still tell her?”

Frankie looks at Santiago like he’s got two heads, scoffing at the ridiculous thought.

“Cause she’s happy?”

“You said they’ve only been on a few dates. Not like she’s married, or even engaged,” Santi says with a casual shrug, “You’ve been in love with her for years, estúpido. I think that trumps a few dates. She deserves to know. And you deserve to know if she feels any ounce of the same way.”

The two men sit with each other, watching the movie Frankie had on while he mulls over Pope’s words. After Santiago leaves, Frankie shuffles into his room and finds the shirt he wore last week at your house, picking it up and switching it out with the one he was wearing. As he pulls it over his head, all he can smell is you. He holds the collar up to his face a takes a deep breath, battling with his thoughts into the early hours of the morning before he finally decides to call you and confess everything.

1:02 AM

You pick up on the second ring, the same sleepy voice you had last Saturday morning muffling over the phone.

“Frankie? Are you outside my house again?”

He laughs softly, biting his lip before he responds.

“No, no. ‘M sorry to wake you, solecita. Just wanted to talk to you. Been thinkin’ a lot tonight.”

“About what?”

“I dunno. Life, I guess.”

“Tell me about it.”

He stalls, chatting with you and rambling about the proceeding forms he’d dug out from his desk for how to move forward reinstating his license. You listen intently, offering supportive comments, asking questions, and giving him advice. The conversation falls into a lull, and like last week, as Frankie works up the courage to say what he really called about, you speak first.

“Can I tell you what happened on my date tonight? It was really nice.”

The pain in his chest brings his hand up to press against it, a burning lump growing in his throat.

Frankie clears his throat and responds with a quiet ‘yeah’. You tell him everything, and all he can think about is how this has to be some sign from the universe or God or whatever’s out there that it’s not meant to be between the two of you.

You start to yawn repeatedly, and he lets you off the hook with a tender goodnight, thumb smashing the red ‘end’ button and burying his head in his hands while he sits at the edge of his bed.

After a few moments of silent tears, he picks up his phone, sending one last message before he goes to sleep.

TO: Cabrón

It’s never gonna happen.

tagging some mooties: @beskarandblasters @swiftispunk @joelsversion @lunapascal @addictedtotlou @death-wife @johnwatsn @pedgeitopascal @pedrospartner @atinylittlepain @soaringcloud @wannab-urs @javiscigarette @yazsos @northernwindd @pr0ximamidnight @theelishad @scrambledslut @thetriumphantpanda @dinsdjrn @midnightswithdearkatytspb @ladamedusoif

[dodger-chan]

Did I procrastinate by writing steddie fic again? Maybe. In my defense, I think this is very funny. Also on AO3.

Warning for non graphic but frequent discussion of sex.

Like a good number of things, it was Wheeler’s fault.

Under normal circumstances, Eddie would have no problem sitting back in his throne and staying above the fray while his little sheep had their silly arguments. Talking is a free action, etc. etc. And they’d wrapped for the night, were only delaying clean-up. But Wheeler, pressed by his friends to join in the defense of their favorite paladin, had gone with a very explicable but awkward choice of phrasing.

“I mean, Steve doesn’t suck.”

Eddie bit down on his tongue. He wasn’t going to say anything. He was not.

Unfortunately, something about the tepidness, the lackluster nature of Wheeler’s tone only encouraged Gareth.

“Au contraire,” he said, standing and making a gesture that Eddie chose to interpret as homage rather than mockery. “Harrington most assuredly does suck.”

Eddie bit down harder. He couldn’t say anything.

Gareth then began to list a number of harms done to the members of Hellfire that were, for the most part, merely tangentially related to the actions or existence of one Steven Harrington.

Perhaps it had always been a little unfair, to blame the social strictures of highschool on one individual who had no part in designing them and had done little more than anyone else in the way of enforcement. But what was the point of a figurehead if not to take the blame?

Of course no part of Gareth’s speech addressed the one way in which Steve truly did suck dick: literally. Steve had taken to oral sodomy like a duck to water. Eddie would love to claim credit by citing his excellent tutelage - largely by example - but he suspected his boyfriend was a natural.

Eddie tasted blood in his mouth. He couldn't keep biting his tongue. But he also couldn't set the record straight, so to speak. Even if he could tell all of Hellfire that he and Steve were dating, it would be beyond inappropriate to discuss Steve's cocksucking acumen with the freshmen.

“It's an interesting linguistic phenomenon, wouldn't you say?” Eddie interrupted Gareth’s spiel. “You are debating the merits and acceptability of one Steve Harrington, but using as shorthand a term that refers to oral sex. A phrasing that suggests people who give head are lesser than those who do not.

“Without making too many assumptions, I feel safe in saying that most of us would like to enjoy a bit of oral sodomy in the future. Now, I may not be the smartest guy in town, but it seems to me that preemptively insulting the people who might suck your dick is a good way to ensure they never will.”

He gave them a moment to digest his speech.

“So I should have said Steve doesn’t blow?” Mike asked, tentatively.

“Blow comes from blow jobs, so that’s the same thing,” Dustin corrected. A little less confidently, he went on. “Bites, maybe? Biting’s not a sex thing, is it?”

Eddie sighed. Surely there were insults that didn’t reflect some aspect of his sex life. Though biting was, at minimum, not related to oral. And it would probably be easier not to brag about the number of little bruises he’d left on Steve’s neck. And shoulders. And chest. All over Steve’s body, really.

Who was he kidding? He needed to shut this whole conversation down yesterday.

(this now has a sequel)

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Erin Reed at Erin In The Morning:

On Monday evening, Teamsters President Sean O’Brien made history by speaking at the Republican National Convention—the first time a Teamsters Union President has ever done so. The move, however, didn’t come without controversy. Union Vice President John Palmer called the decision “unconscionable.”

O’Brien then stirred more debate by tweeting in support of an article by Republican Senator Josh Hawley, which criticized corporate initiatives supporting diversity, equity, inclusion, and transgender workers. The situation then erupted when the official Teamsters Twitter account posted a statement condemning O’Brien’s endorsement, which was swiftly deleted. “Unions gain nothing from endorsing the racist, misogynistic, and anti-trans politics of the far right, no matter how much people like Sen. Hawley attempt to tether such bigotry to a cynical pro-labor message. The message this sends to Teamsters of color, Teamster women, and LGBTQ Teamsters is that they are not welcome in the union unless they surrender their identity to a new kind of anti-woke unionism. You don't unite a diverse working class by scoffing at its diversity,” said the now deleted tweet.

O’Brien’s support for Hawley’s views received swift backlash. “We get it. He promised you Secretary of Labor,” read a response by transgender writer Parker Molloy. “If you're a Teamster of color, are LGBTQ+, Sean O'Brien has just said he doesn't give a fuck about you,” said the Daily Union Elections account. “Scab,” said American journalist and labor activist Talia Jane. O’Brien’s speech at the RNC puzzled many observers. He used the platform to advocate for unions while also praising Donald Trump, calling him “one tough SOB.” Throughout much of the speech, the applause was tepid to nonexistent. Reports even indicated that at least one audience member shouted “right to work,” reflecting anti-union sentiments in the Republican Party.

Meanwhile, other labor union leaders were critical of O’Brien’s appearance at the RNC. Liz Shuler, president of the AFL-CIO, responded, “Donald Trump and J.D. Vance are on the bosses’ side… We won’t be fooled.” These critiques were echoed by members of the International Union of Painters and Allied Trades, the International Federation of Professional and Technical Engineers, and other union leaders. Even John Palmer, the Teamsters Vice President, weighed in: “A speaking engagement at the Republican National Convention by Teamsters President Sean O’Brien, regardless of the message, only normalizes and makes the most anti-union party and president I’ve seen in my lifetime seem palatable.”

[...] O’Brien’s support for a senator’s explicitly anti-diversity and anti-LGBTQ+ views runs contrary to Teamsters Union’s official documents and policies. One document on the Teamsters website states, “We are pro-union and pro-equality. In keeping with the labor movement motto, ‘an injury to one is an injury to all,’ we support a strong and progressive labor movement that promotes full equality and respect for LGBTQ workers and their families.”

Teamsters leader Sean O’Brien urinated on Teamster ethos of “an injury to one is an injury to all” by not only speaking on the RNC stage Monday but also giving praise to Sen. Josh Hawley (R-MO)’s anti-LGBTQ+ and anti-DEI comments. #RNC2024 #RNCinMKE

[blueraineshadows]

Blood Bound Part One

Sebastian Sallow 🔺️ F!MC 🔺️Leander Prewett

Sebastian is breaking the law around the Scottish border as part of a notorious crime ring, whilst budding Auror Leander visits Azkaban to question a surprisingly familiar, long serving prisoner.

11k words. Tags: Violence / Physical distress / Angst / Emotional Distress / Blood

Ao3 link

One: The Prisoner of Azkaban

MC

Blocking out the screams was second nature now. The wails and clanging of the other inmates were a distant clamour as MC held out her pale hand, her skeletal fingers angled upwards as though about to grasp something out of the air, and in a way that’s exactly what she was trying to do. She squinted her itchy, dry eyes, focusing on the point just above her fingertips, her brow creased in concentration as she willed the faint glimmer of power in her blood to gather and manifest.

Her arm shook with the effort, but she wasn’t about to give up, not after that tiny spark of bluish white had flickered into existence yesterday. She could do this.

Warmth sped along her veins, pushed along by the ancient power handed down through unknown generations into her body, born with the gift to summon this rare magic into existence. She allowed the feeling to fill her up, remembering the intensity of it crackling through her frame as she had wielded it with a wand.

No wands in here, though. Forbidden. Her beautiful wand had become an extension of herself in the too short a time she had been blessed with it, but now it was far out of her reach, like everything else she had gained from this world of magic.

Shaking, her breaths coming in quick pants through her chapped lips, MC willed the magic to spark into existence, a faint glimmer of blue and white beginning to form at the tips of her fingers. To feed this little spark, she tried to drag forward the memories of discovering her magic, the encouragement from Professor Fig, and mischievous brown eyes that reflected the glow of fire in the darkness of the Undercroft.

Warm feelings, happy memories. Her heart squeezed and the magic flared a little brighter. She was doing it. She was creating the magic with her bare hands.

So focused was she on her task that she hadn’t noticed the encroaching frost that was creeping across the filthy stone floor towards her bare feet, the walls spreading thick and fast with ice. Her slop bucket hardened, the tepid water in her beaker chilling with the impending arrival of the prison guardians.

The screeching of the prisoners became deafening, and then faded into horrified silence as black wraiths descended upon the corridor, the rattle of their decayed breaths echoing off the slick, dark stone. The warmth began to seep from MC’s body and her flesh erupted into goosebumps, her precious glimmer of magic sputtering out as her focus shifted towards the hated iron bars of her cell.

They had felt her memories, her glimmer of happiness. They were coming.

Panic seized her chest but she gritted her teeth and willed it to calm, closing her eyes and scooting back hard against the freezing stone wall as she slammed down the barriers around her mind. Her precious memories, the soft and warmth that she cherished of her time at Hogwarts were far too special to let those demons of death steal them from her.

She had quickly learned to shield her mind and thoughts in this lower depth of hell they called Azkaban. Those cloaked horrors were drawn to anything beautiful, like decimated magpies. They came and sucked the shiny, precious jewels of memory from your possession and left you with whatever was left. Knowing the darkness and horror that lived alongside her warmth, MC was not prepared to suffer the rest of her existence lost in that cold wilderness of her head.

Every touch, every smile, every lingering look that Sebastian Sallow had bestowed upon her, she wiped from the forefront of her thoughts, pressing them down tightly into a darkened corner of her mind as she focused on the text of her old school books. Counting to ten she began to recite nonsense through her head, such as the properties of the mandrake root. Anything to distract the Dementors from what she really held dear.

She wouldn’t let them take him from her. He was hers, and she was his, no matter the miles between them. No matter the thickness of the walls that held her prisoner in here for a crime she didn’t commit. He was in her blood, and she was in his.

It was all she had to hold on to.

The cold seeped into her bones, skin so pale from lack of sunlight turned frigid as her limbs began to shiver, her skeletal fingers gripping at the filth encrusted fabric of her prison garb. Her teeth chattered as she tried to grit them, a whimper growing in the back of her throat as she fought the urge to scream. Terror, like black tendrils of smoke, began to snake around her, squeezing her chest and sucking the air from her lungs.

No. She wouldn't succumb. She clung to herself despite the fear that she was already lost.

The glare of pure white seared the outside of her closed eyelids and she flinched against such brightness, dipping her head towards her drawn up knees. The rattling breaths of the Dementors filled her ears and she bit so hard at her lips she drew blood, the bitter taste tingling on the end of her tongue as the glacial feel of the room began to recede back to its usual damp chill.

Was that booted footsteps on the stone? Surely not.

Remaining tucked tightly against the wall as the bright light began to fade, she held herself tense as the echoing sound of those steps drew nearer. Had she caved? Was her mind finally gone? She licked her bloodied lip with a dry tongue and jolted at the sound of the lock clicking on her door, followed by the squeal of old iron as it swung open. She risked a peek, her eyes opening to slits as she peered through the matted locks of her hair that hung over her pale face.

There was a man in the doorway. Tall, long blue robes, his hair threaded with silver neatly kept. MC shuffled as if she could press herself into the stone of the wall and disappear, her bare feet sliding on the grimy floor. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen a human other than the fading souls behind the other doors in her wing. This man looked healthy and strong, a commanding authority about him as he stepped into her cell and turned to face her.

“Prisoner 2757. Still alive I see,” he said, stopping his large booted feet right before her blackened, bare toes. She stared at the shine of his boots as though she had never seen shoes before. “Do you remember me?”

MC didn’t look up, her back pressed tightly against the wall and her hair hanging limp and filthy as her hands fisted in her clothing, her breaths quick and shallow. The icy horror of the Dementors may have faded but she felt frozen, her suppressed memories locked tightly away, her mind stretched and filled with a buzzing that threatened to escape as a scream from her throat. She was clinging to the edge of her sanity and wasn’t even certain that this man was real, let alone familiar to her.

“Hey,” he said sharply, clicking his fingers in front of her face as he slowly bent into a crouch to get a better look at her. “Look at me.”

Her head shook in denial, jerky movements as her muscles clung to their stiffness. Firm fingers gripped the bone of her chin and tilted her head up, the touch a shock against her skin and her eyes flew open wide as she looked up at the stern face, his blue eyes assessing her with a calculating gleam that made bile rise in her throat. She yanked her head from his grasp, her skull cracking back against the unforgiving wall and she winced, air rushing through her lips in a hiss of pain.

He sighed and shook his head in exasperation, but withdrew his hand, subtly wiping his fingers on his clean blue robes. “Do you think you can talk to me?”

She eyed him like he was a carrion bird and she was a putrid corpse ripe for feasting, her eyes so tight, exhaustion making her eyelids drag lazily over the staring orbs. Her lips trembled but she didn’t speak. Hazy memories of his face came to her, the gloating smile as he had charmed the handcuffs about her wrists, Sebastian’s shouts of protest as she was dragged from his cottage in Feldcroft, the horror in his eyes as she was taken from him.

“Fuck you,” she spat, her voice hoarse and not much more than a rasp from lack of use.

He chuckled, low and cold. “Ah, so you do remember me,” he said, nodding. “Auror Harrington. You killed my old partner.”

No, she didn’t.

She stared at the Auror, her eyes dead pools of indifference as a memory curled out across her mind. The fire lit catacombs in Feldcroft, the blast of green that shot from Sebastian’s wand and ended the life of his uncle in a split second of enraged madness, and Anne’s bitter face as she glared at them both.

That memory would be forever locked tight in the walls of her mind. No matter the way this arrogant Auror looked at her, no matter how the days stretched into years in this cold stone fortress. She would never tell.

She couldn’t.

She clenched her hands tighter as she stared at Auror Harrington, her face a blank mask as she slowly blinked.

“You should have got life in here,” he said, his mouth twisting sourly. He shook his head and glanced around at the dim misery of her cell. “A reduced sentence because you were a minor, special treatment because they called you a fucking hero at school. But you’re not a hero, are you?”

His blue eyes were as cold as the Dementors' presence. “You’re a murderer.”

Had he come here to taunt her? Maybe he got a kick out of seeing the women in here, all filthy and boney, their eyes pitiful. It probably made him feel like a big, strong man, looming over her like this. Her lips twitched at the thought.

She had killed people. Lots of them. She had to live with that everyday, and she managed. Just. But she didn’t kill Solomon Sallow. Though, he would never know that.

That was their deepest, darkest secret.

She began to laugh. The sound was a broken wheeze, her throat cracking with the effort as her head rolled forward, the dull ache from where she had hit it against the wall not much of a bother as her withering frame shook with mirth. She hoped he was having his fun watching her crack open like this, but judging by the narrowing of his eyes, he was not amused.

“Stop it,” he hissed, his jaw clenching.

She looked at him, more laughter bubbling up to escape from her lips as she shook her head. “I hope…I hope Sallow…fucking burns…in hell,” she rasped around her giggles.

The blow knocked her sideways to the floor, her hand hitting the stone with a slap, her head colliding with dizzying force before jerking back up again as she blinked through the swimming haze of her vision. Her mouth flooded with the bitter warmth of blood where her teeth had sliced the flesh of her mouth at the contact of his fist. Her grunt of pain was followed by a large spit, her blood and saliva landing with a splat near her hand as she forced herself to get upright again. She was no longer laughing.

“Bastard,” she whispered, wiping her mouth with the back of a shaky hand as she glared at him. “You will burn right next to him.”

His face was hard fury as he glared back at her. “Filthy, little bitch,” he sneered. “Proud of your killing, are you? How many others did you snuff out before getting caught?”

MC shuffled back into a sitting position, lifting her chin slightly in a show of defiance despite the twisting fear in her guts. She was completely at his mercy here, alone, without a wand, and physically weak compared to his broad strength.

“Why are you here?” She asked, a dull throb at her temple mingling with the sting on her skin where it had smashed into the floor.

“Rookwood is alive,” he said, watching carefully for her reaction.

She stilled, refusing to dip her gaze as his words filtered through her head. That wasn’t possible. She had killed Rookwood. His body had disintegrated, exploding into ash and dust that had wafted on the breeze towards a star-lit sky. Ending him had rid the world of a dangerous man. All those she killed were bad, she never stole lives from the innocent.

“Why stand in front of the Wizengamot and admit to his murder if he wasn’t dead? You confessed to his killing, and yet you deny the murder of an Auror despite a witness putting you right at the scene. The Wizengamot are talking about reducing your sentence even further now that Rookwood is confirmed alive. It’s disgusting. This reeks of a conspiracy to me. You helped fake his death, didn't you? You and Sallow. Why?”

“You’re lying,” she said, lifting a hand to her temple, her fingers coming away sticky with blood. She stared at the crimson stain, rubbing her fingers together absently. Her voice was calm, flat, no emotion at all. “Rookwood is gone. I killed him.”

Auror Harrington shook his head. “Oh, Rookwood is alive alright. Alive and back to his scheming ways,” he said, rubbing his chin with his hand as he leaned in closer towards her, his lips curling in disgust. “And guess who has joined his little gang of thieving bastards? Your little sidekick from school, and lying son of a bitch, Sebastian Sallow.”

MC’s eyes flared at the mention of that name, her head beginning to shake her denial immediately. “No,” she breathed, hands clenched into fists. “Liar!”

“Young Sallow knows more than he ever tells, that's for sure. He whined for months after your sentencing to let you go, that you were innocent. A bit odd, don't you think?”

Harrington tilted his head to one side, eyes lit with calculating interest as he watched her tremble before him.

“You killed his uncle, his only guardian, and yet he defends you. What hold have you got on the Sallow lad, hmm? What keeps him loyal to you despite your evil ways? The lad was clearly soft on you. It was all rather cosy in that cottage when we came for you that day. Surely it's not just your pretty face, although this place is stripping that from you. I bet he will recoil in disgust if he saw you now, if he saw you for the wicked wretch you are. Look at you. You're fading away, losing your lovely softness. He won't want you now, will he? It's only what you deserve.”

MC drew air in through her nose and pursed her lips, spitting more blood and saliva onto his immaculate robes, her eyes slitted with her hate. He didn't even flinch, merely looked down at her filth, his mouth tightening subtly as he took out a handkerchief and calmly cleaned the mess away.

She didn't care if he struck her again. Let him. His words had scratched at the rawness she tried to hide from. The fear that Sebastian had forgotten about her in here, locked away from the world while he lived on in the sun, free to enjoy what the world had to offer while she faded into shadow.

There was no way Sebastian would team up with Rookwood. He wouldn’t. Not after what he did to Anne.

Hot, white rage coursed through her blood as the image of Sebastian’s twin flashed up behind her eyes, bile stinging her throat as she grimaced, her fingers curling like vicious claws as she imagined scratching them down that little bitch’s face. Her blood seemed to heat to the point of pain, needles of fire like lightning bolts shot through her limbs and crackled around her heart. A hoarse scream left her throat as her body bucked against the searing scorch of pain.

Anne Sallow needed to pay for what she did, the fierce and sweet desire for revenge was rich on MC's tongue despite the pain her thoughts inflicted on her.

Auror Harrington shuffled backwards, his brow creasing in confusion as she writhed, biting back moans of pain. Quickly, she shoved any thoughts of Anne Sallow aside. To picture her death was to hurt, the pain a reminder of her loyalty, her promise. The scorching pain subsided and she uncurled her left hand, wide eyes staring down at the thin red scar that sliced across her palm.

“What the fuck was that?” Auror Harrington asked, scowling.

Immediately, she clenched her hand over the scar and clamped her lips together. She had already risked too much. She needed to get a better grip on her wandering thoughts and deny the dark fantasy of bringing down Sebastian’s twin. To hurt one was to wound the other and the blood forbade it.

Just like with the Dementors, MC slammed down the barriers, closed off her thoughts and her stare was blank as she looked up at the Auror who was taking up far too much space in the confines of her cell.

“Don’t even think about pulling the madness stunt,” he warned. He reached to tap his finger against her forehead. “You’re in there, I know you are, and you’re going to talk. I don’t care how long it takes. We’re going to get everything you know about Rookwood and Sallow out of that head of yours, and we’ll do it by any means possible. Mark my words, sweetheart.”

“I’ve got nothing to say,” she said dully, her lips barely moving.

“It’s not like you’re going anywhere soon, there is no escape. You might as well just get it over with and talk.”

Water dripped down the wall in the corner, the damp chill had long since found its home in her bones after four years in this cell, but the ice that slid down her spine at his words was very real.

Any means possible.

The truth was locked behind her lips, and there was no way she could start spilling it. Under pain of death, she had to remain silent, and she owed this smug bastard nothing.

Her finger tips twitched with the urge to feel that glimmer of magic. Four years of trying to manifest it without a wand, and she had only managed a pathetic little spark. All that power in her blood and she was useless without her wand to channel it. The frustration of it was enough to threaten tears at the backs of her eyes, but she blinked them slowly back as she stared at Auror Harrington.

He had caught her out once, wrapped her in chains and brought her to Azkaban. He had said they were going to reduce her sentence. Rookwood was alive and therefore there were no charges to pin on her. She knew nothing about his gang that they couldn't find out for themselves.

He could be lying, though, tricking her to make her talk. Maybe she would never leave here, doomed to die from madness like countless others.

She wasn’t going to be caught out again. Not this time. She kept her mouth firmly closed, her face void of emotion.

What was the worst they could do? She was already in hell. If they killed her they would merely free her from the horror of being trapped in the dark.

Sebastian

The rhythmic roll of the waves was soothing, the tide washing in and out against the pebbled beach not far behind him as Sebastian lounged casually against the stone wall near the harbour’s boardwalk, eating an apple he had swiped from a wagon seller earlier. The breeze lifted the tumbled locks of his hair from his freckled forehead, and his brown eyes lifted to a gull as it soared across the blue sky, its loud cry joining the other birds gathering near the fishing boats. He breathed the fresh, sea air in deeply, the hand inside the pocket of his jacket fingering the letter he had received earlier that day from Ominis.

It had been the usual vitriol about making an effort to talk to Anne, to come to London and visit them in their home, no doubt to suffer under their pleas for him to give up his lifestyle and settle into a dull as fuck marriage with some woman he couldn’t care less about.

His brow furrowed until his eyes were dark with annoyance. There would be no marriages, or stiff upper lipped women on his arm this season, or any season for that matter. No, thank you.

He was grateful that Ominis took care of Anne, tending to her when the pain of her curse pulled her down, even marrying her after graduating from Hogwarts. Anne was his twin, the other half of him, and more than anything Sebastian wanted her to be safe and well.

But, he wasn’t about to forgive her. Absolutely not. Her betrayal had been too deep, no matter her reasons for what she did, even after four years it still had the power to tighten his chest and churn his guts whenever he thought of it.

Like the previous letter Ominis had sent, this one would go unanswered, too. He much preferred it when he got the chance to speak to Ominis alone, and he knew Anne would read any letter that he sent to his old friend, so there was no point in wasting perfectly good parchment and ink.

“Look lively, Sallow. The ship is docking.”

Fellow gang member, and his tent mate, Leo Rosier, nudged his arm with a grin. Dark blonde hair in a loose comb-over style and jovial, blue eyes made Rosier a right handsome bastard. He had admirers all over the place and made sure he reaped the benefits of them, always ready with a smile and a wink, his infectious laughter and charm unavoidably pleasing.

Sebastian quite liked him. He made some of the grittier tasks much more bearable with his light-hearted demeanour. It took a lot to bring his mood down, and that’s just what one needed when doing dirty work for the boss.

Sebastian glanced over his shoulder at the small steamer mooring up at the far end of the harbour, the crane and winch for the storage crates already prepped and ready to unload. Time to get to work.

“Why the frown, mate?” Rosier asked. “You look like someone pissed on your bonfire. Was it bad news in your letter?”

“Just the usual bullshit about me moving on,” Sebastian sighed.

Rosier lifted his eyebrows with interest. “Moving on from what?”

Dragging his gaze back from the docking steam ship, he eyed Rosier warily. He liked the bloke, but make no mistake, he wouldn’t share his secrets with him. Those Sebastian kept very close to his chest, especially in a gang that was cut throat, every member ready to use whatever information they could to edge a little closer into Rookwood’s favour.

The fact that Victor Rookwood was still alive was shocking enough, the slippery coil of hate curled in Sebastian’s guts twisted as he thought about the gang leader’s smug face. The thought of watching the light go out of his cruel eyes was one that Sebastian savoured often, a longing to avenge the misery that had been inflicted on his twin over the last 5 years. An act he had thought avenged when MC had taken Rookwood down 4 years ago, earning her another charge to her sentence for murder.

He forced his face into one of blank indifference, lifting his shoulders into a casual shrug as he grabbed a hold of Rosier’s shoulder. “My misspent youth,” he smirked. “Come on, let’s investigate these crates we need to loot. We’ve only got about 3 hours of daylight left, and then it’s show time.”

“If we hurry we can grab a beer afterwards while we wait for sundown,” Rosier said, his grin sly. “There was a particularly fetching wench in that pub over there that I’ve got my eye on, if you get me.”

“Oh, I get you,” Sebastian said with a grin of his own. “Crates first, then you can get your dick wet. As long as you’re all sated by sundown, we need to get the goods back across the Scottish border before morning.”

Rosier chuckled and rubbed his hands together. “Maybe there will be a fine young wench for you, too, Sallow. I’ve not seen Lulu around our tent for a while.”

“There’s a reason for that,” Sebastian said with a grimace. “She was getting far too familiar for my liking.”

“Treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen, eh? I like it,” Rosier laughed, shaking his head. “Lulu is not so bad. You could do a lot worse.”

“I could also do a lot better,” Sebastian muttered, wanting an end to this discussion.

Memories of bewitching eyes and soft lips filled his head, precious memories that were sadly so few, and the fear of them fading as every year passed was very real. His first real deep connection for a girl, and she had been torn from his life, currently sitting in a cell in Azkaban serving a sentence for a murder she didn’t even commit.

Guilt hung like a heavy stone around his neck, the late nights he had spent poring over tomes about wizarding law looking for any loopholes he could use to try and find a way to get MC out of there had been to no avail. His pleas to their professors and any Ministry aid he could get a moment with fell on deaf ears. As a boy of 16, nobody was willing to listen to him.

His sister’s cunning betrayal had cut deep, shaken the foundations of their bond to the point that he had almost abandoned her back then. But, then he would have been truly alone in the world, because Ominis would always choose Anne over him.

He had tried to put things right, he worked so hard to finish his education, to atone for his actions in the catacombs, but the darkness in his soul had festered. Despite her lingering pain from the curse, his bitterness towards Anne still clung to him, and it had been two years since he had set eyes on her. Both of them were far too stubborn to be the first to breach the chasm that had opened between them, their correspondence made through the determined attempts of Ominis.

Once out in the real world, the rumours that Rookwood was still alive made Sebastian’s hopes of curing Anne of her pain rise again. With the wicked gang leader not dead, it made sense why her curse lived on. With Rookwood dead, it would likely be lifted, a hope he stubbornly clung to. It was getting close to the bastard that was the problem. The only way in was to infiltrate Rookwood’s gang, become one of his lackeys and earn his way into the inner circle.

Ever since all the trouble had gone down with MC and Ranrok, Rookwood was craftier and more cunning. It had taken two years for Sebastian to get this close, and he was not in the inner circle just yet. He had to prove his loyalty for that, a bitter thing to swallow when you wanted to watch him die a slow and painful death.

His mouth tightened as he focused his mind on today’s task, striding confidently towards the harbour master with the aim of distraction while Rosier charmed symbols onto the crates they would be pilfering later this evening. He needed to pull off this job and get one step closer to being in Rookwood’s circle. The closer he got, the better his chances of bringing that fucker down.

The harbour master looked up as he approached and Sebastian’s lips curved upwards into his most charming smile. He'd always had a way with people.

“Good afternoon, good sir. Might I have a word?”

The harbour master nodded, lowering his clipboard as he returned Sebastian’s smile. Sebastian placed a friendly hand out in greeting, subtly turning so that the harbour master shifted his back towards where Rosier was inspecting the crates.

“What can I do for you?” He asked.

Sebastian’s smile was golden. “I'm glad you asked…”

…*...

The hour was late and most were in their tents sleeping, the camp quiet and subdued under the light of a quarter moon. The hulking peaks of the Highlands surrounded them, the air pleasantly chill against the skin and fresh in the lungs. Scotland would always be his home, Sebastian knew it deep in his bones, despite not returning to the cottage in Feldcroft in quite some time. The memories there were just too raw for his liking.

Home was wherever the gang set up camp, and he followed the gang, set on his course. Tonight, he lay on his pallet, his book discarded on the scratchy, wool blanket beside him, his fingers twirling the silver amulet that hung on a silver chain. He brushed a finger tip over the blood-red stone in the centre, the hum of its power thrumming under his fingertip, and felt the old, familiar squeeze in his chest.

Four years was a long time. He had been a boy the last time he had seen MC, clueless about matters of the heart, and discovering the joys of sharing a girl’s body. Kissing her had been his favourite thing, until she had let him touch her under her clothes that is. His blood burned just thinking about it. He’d taken a few girls to bed in the years since leaving school, but the sated lust was just that, there was never that connection, that need to go back for more. Not like it had been with her.

Missing her was an ache he’d had to learn to live with, and despite the familiar longing that still held him in a tight grip, he feared that his memories of her would fade as the time went on. Her smile, the sound of her laugh, the angry little tilt of her mouth when they bickered, the feel of her breath on his neck.

Closing his eyes, his hand clutching the amulet in a fist, he tried to conjure the image of her face, wishing he had a photograph of her to look at when loneliness called to him on nights like this. All he had was the amulet, and whilst powerful, it wasn’t enough.

How many times had he thought about going down to London and handing himself in? Countless. He could confess to his crime, the murder MC was serving time for, and then she could be free. But, then he would be in Azkaban instead, still separated from her and unable to complete his mission to destroy Rookwood.

Maybe that made him a coward. As much as he couldn’t stand being anywhere near Anne, he still needed to fix that blasted curse. Nobody else was going to do it, and he still couldn’t just sit back and just ‘make her comfortable’, even when angry with her. Anne was his blood, his other half, his twin. Putting himself in Azkaban wouldn’t help her, he was the only one who could.

Thinking of Anne made his mind drift to that night in Feldcroft, when Anne had come home after being missing for weeks to find MC in her bed, both of them in a state of undress that had revealed what they had been up to. Anne had been furious and the argument had spilled out into the yard. He had begged Anne to stop, but she wouldn’t listen, insisting that MC had been the root cause of everything bad that happened since her arrival.

Why couldn’t Anne see it? MC had tried to help, she had supported his desperate search for a cure, and had taken down the man responsible for her terrible curse. At least, they thought so at the time.

MC wasn’t a villain. He loved her.

Anne had Disapparated. She left. Again. Why did the people he cared most about find it so easy to always leave him?

Despite their bickering, and the dangerous situations they had found themselves in, MC hadn’t left him. She had stayed. Why would he push her away just because Anne was having a tantrum? He couldn’t.

So, Anne had made the decision for him, and he had ended up losing both of them.

Lost in his memories, it took a minute to realise that someone was calling him. He lifted his head from his lumpy pillow, tucking the amulet safely back into his pocket as Rosier appeared in the entrance to their tent.

“Nodded off, did you?” Rosier smiled, beckoning him up with a wave of his hand. “Get up and look lively, Sallow. The boss man wants to talk to you.”

“Gregor?” Sebastian frowned, fluffing his tumbled hair. He’d only spoken to him about an hour ago to pass on the details of their successful loot run earlier.

Rosier shook his head. “Nah, not Gregor. Rookwood. He’s here, and he wants to see you.”

Sebastian sat up immediately and rubbed his face. He needed a shave, there was two days worth of stubble on his chin and he needed a haircut. Grabbing his waistcoat, he shook it out to try and relieve some of the crinkles from where he had carelessly discarded it to one side.

“Did he say why?”

Rosier shook his head as he flopped down onto his own pallet. “Nope, but he didn’t look angry, so maybe you’re alright.”

“Thanks,” Sebastian said, his smile wry as he shrugged on his waistcoat and buttoned it up.

Gregor’s tent was the largest in camp, a faded scarlet with torn fringes, the entrance flap shifting in the cool breeze as Sebastian made his way past the camp fire. The flames were burning low, and he couldn’t resist a swift Incendio as he passed, the fire surging into life and casting hues of orange and gold around the vicinity.

On entering the tent, Gregor stood, nodding at Rookwood before passing Sebastian at the entrance with a pat on his shoulder. Rookwood was wearing a long dark coat, his waistcoat and shirt clean and neat, a solid gold chain hanging from his waistcoat pocket, no doubt holding a rather fine pocket watch.

“You wanted to see me?” Sebastian asked, stepping further into the tent.

Rookwood turned shrewd blue eyes on to him, his greying beard neatly trimmed, his fingers slowly stroking down his chin. “Yes, I did, Mr Sallow. Take a seat, would you?”.

Beside a table littered with goblets and maps, abandoned quills and bowls of fruit there was a wooden chair with curling arms. Sebastian moved to sit in it, keeping his eyes fixed on Rookwood as he did so. He sat back and casually leaned his elbows on the arms of the chair, assuming an air of relaxed confidence that was emphasised by the subtle tilt of his lips.

“What can I do for you?”

“Yes, what indeed?” Rookwood said dryly, his gaze assessing him. “I recognise you, you know. I’m pretty good with faces. In fact, I pride myself on it. You’re a man now, but I can tell you’re the same boy who was in The Three Broomsticks that day when Sirona threw me out. I’m sure you remember it. You took down a troll, didn’t you? You and your little ancient magic wielding friend.”

Years of practice kept Sebastian’s face in its calm, slightly smirking position as he stared at Rookwood. He remembered that day. Of course he did. MC had proved to be a much more interesting witch than he had first given her credit for, and he was fairly sure he’d started falling for her over their foaming mugs of Butterbeer. A moment this prick had interrupted.

“I do remember,” he said smoothly, nodding slightly. “Although the troll slaying was mostly MC.”

“Ah, yes, MC,” Rookwood said, his eyes narrowing slightly over a cold smile. “A powerful little thing, wasn’t she? Pretty, too. Rather adept at slipping through one’s fingers when trying to catch her, though. Until she was caught, of course.”

Sebastian stiffened slightly and Rookwood caught the movement, his smile widening as he stared up at a spot in the roof of the tent.

“Rather amusing when you think about it. My murder was one of the charges that got her sent down in the end,” he said, looking far too pleased with himself. “Obviously, I’m still alive, but your dear, little friend is still rotting away in Azkaban.”

“How did you manage that, by the way?” Sebastian asked, his fingers now clutching the ends of the chair arms. If Rookwood was trying to rile him up, it was working, and he was struggling to keep a rein on his temper. “MC seemed fairly convinced she had killed you, enough to testify in front of the Wizengamot that she had done you in.”

Rookwood’s chuckle was low and dark. “Polyjuice potion,” he said with a flash of a sly grin. “I sent one of my best duelling wizards to her in my place. It was a shame to lose him at the time, but a sacrifice worth making.”

Sebastian huffed air through his nose and shook his head. “Your best duelist? There really is no loyalty amongst thieves, is there?”

“Ah, and now we come to the point, Mr Sallow,” Rookwood said, aiming a long finger at him. “I’m so glad you brought it up. Loyalty. Where do you stand on that one? Considering how chummy you were with the little witch who supposedly killed me, now you are here, with my men. You can’t blame a man for wondering just what it is you are up to, Mr Sallow.”

Holding his hands out as though it was obvious, Sebastian shrugged. “Just trying to earn myself some coin, and this kind of work seems to come easily to me.”

“And MC?” Rookwood drawled, one eyebrow raised.

“What about her? She is in Azkaban, and the last I heard she will be there for at least another six years. She’s served four of ten.”

“Keeping count are we?”

Sebastian sighed and chose his next words carefully. “Considering she went down for killing my uncle, I think I’d know about her prison time.”

“Oh, but of course. How could I forget? Your uncle, the ex-Auror. Your guardian, too, wasn’t he? I remember reading about it in The Daily Prophet. That must have been rather awful for you. Your own uncle being taken down by your little friend.”

The words on paper might have looked to be sympathetic, but the oily, mocking tone in Rookwood's voice put them on a whole new level. Sebastian was not fooled by this cosy little chat, and it reminded him that he needed to tread carefully.

The heavy ball of guilt that lingered in Sebastian’s chest seemed to sink down into his stomach and he swallowed hard against the watery feeling in his mouth. He fought for control, all too aware of Rookwood’s crafty gaze on him. His words of sympathy had little impact when the gleam in his eyes suggested he was rather enjoying this.

“So awful, in fact, that I can’t imagine you would be too happy about MC getting out of that shithole?”

Sebastian stilled, staring at Rookwood. “What?”

Rookwood’s sly smile was all together too smug and Sebastian longed to delve for his wand and wipe it from his face, but he kept his hands still as his heart thudded behind his ribs.

“You see, that little witch is the most powerful little thing to walk the earth right now, if only she were out here to wield it,” Rookwood said, long fingers back to stroking his neat beard. “How would you feel if we were to recruit her into the gang? Would that bother you, Mr Sallow?”

“You want MC to work for you?” Sebastian’s mouth dropped open, his eyes widening. “Why would she?”

“Well, she hardly seems opposed to a little murder, on Aurors no less,” Rookwood smirked. “If we got her out of there, a little prison breaking perhaps, she could join our ranks here.”

“Nobody breaks out of Azkaban,” Sebastian said, shaking his head. All the reading he had done on that place, all the research into Wizarding Law, he had found no successful cases of escaping the fortress. It didn’t even have a plottable location on a map, just a generic mention that it was somewhere in the North Sea.

Rookwood seemed unconcerned, in fact his smugness intensified. “All it would take is a whisper into the right ears,” he said, holding Sebastian’s gaze. The man had too much power and influence. “The question is, can I expect your loyalty in the matter? You have a personal reason to hate her, and make no mistake about which one of you I would choose should things turn nasty. I hear you are a hard worker, you have impressed my men with your efforts, but as I have already proven. I care little about throwing my best men into the fire should the need arise. Piss me off, or try to ruin my plans for MC, and I won’t hesitate.”

If only Rookwood knew the truth. Sebastian couldn’t hate MC if he tried. If anything, Rookwood was handing him the equivalent of a gift. Get MC out of Azkaban, and a chance to prove his loyalty. If he was to get into his inner circle, he would have access to all the treasure, all the forbidden relics that were stashed away in various undisclosed locations. Sebastian’s mind swam with the possibilities of what could be discovered in such a collection, and he wanted to get his hands on it all before killing the smug prick opposite him. With MC at his side, it would be even easier.

“You have my word,” Sebastian said easily. “I won’t cause you any trouble regarding MC, and if you’ll let me, I’ll even help you break her out.”

“Now, why would you do that?” Rookwood asked, his head tilting with interest.

Sebastian grinned. “If you break her out and she decides not to join your crew, you’re going to need me there to convince her otherwise. Trust me.”

Rookwood’s eyes narrowed as he considered that last statement. “Alright, Mr Sallow. Consider me intrigued. Don’t make me regret it.”

Leander

The formidable fortress of Azkaban was huge, a dark stone monolith of a building that soared upwards from the raging North Sea. Leander had only seen the outside of it once during his training, when they brought the cadet Aurors for an exercise in suspect questioning, showing them the location so that when they graduated they could Apparate in at will.

The unforgiving cold of the place had lingered in his bones for ages afterwards, and he had no idea how anyone could stand to spend a considerable amount of time in such a place. The cells were full of criminals. Souls who had earned their place within these solid walls, and one would think it hard to feel even a little sympathy for them.

As he Apparated into the Auror chamber with his colleague this morning, Leander realised that he might feel slightly sorry for the long termers. The cold was bone deep, the dimly lit chamber making him blink as his eyes adjusted to the fire sconces on the black stone walls. He straightened his long, dark coat, his suit beneath impeccable, and his tie neatly knotted.

He had been paired with a very experienced Auror for this particular assignment, and he felt the need to impress even more strongly than usual. He was still relatively new to this job, and it didn’t hurt to make a good impression. He had even polished his Auror badge this morning, just in case he was required to show it.

Just ahead of them was a long desk, unmanned, the wall behind it covered in wooden boards that hung from large nails, each one with a prisoner number and their cell location. Leander scratched his finger against the tip of his nose as he watched Auror Harrington step towards the desk and slide the huge book that lay open there towards him. Using the quill and ink supplied, he signed his name into the book and then handed the quill to Leander.

“Here you go, son. Sign your name just here underneath mine,” he said, pointing to the available space. “I’ve already filled in the rest.”

Leander took the quill and moved to sign his name into the visitor roll, his eyes sliding along to see the number of the prisoner they were to question.

“Prisoner 2757,” he said, replacing the quill into the pot. “What are you hoping to get out of them today? I wasn’t given a briefing before meeting you this morning so I have no idea who this prisoner is.”

Auror Harrington levelled him with a serious look, rolling his lips between his teeth as he appeared to search right into Leander’s soul with his cool, blue eyes. Leander resisted the urge to fiddle with his collar, a flutter of nerves teasing at his ribs as he determined to maintain eye contact with the respected Auror.

“I’m going to be straight with you, Prewett. I deliberately kept you in the dark about who we were visiting this morning because I thought that if you knew, you might decline the visit given the time to think it over.”

Leander’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

“You could still leave if you wanted to, I won’t hold it against you, but it would serve you well in the future if you take this on and handle it well,” Harrington continued, his face firm and controlled as he studied him. He nodded, seemingly satisfied. “I’ve heard good things about you, Prewett. You’re keen, you have an eye for detail, and that last case with the smugglers down on the south coast was a great bust. I wanted to give you an opportunity to get in on a really big case. It’s just a little unfortunate who we need to speak to.”

Flushing under such praise, his spine straightening a bit, Leander found his curiosity piqued. “Who is it?”

Harrington paused and Leander felt the silence of the chamber stretch between them as he waited. The distant roar and thunder of the crashing waves felt like they were a million miles away, the black stone of the solid prison unshaken by the tumultuous force of nature that raged around it.

“Prisoner 2757 is an old school chum of yours,” Harrington said, and there was almost a hint of sympathy in his eyes. “It’s MC we are going to question today.”

Leander could only stare, his mouth trying to form words, but nothing would come as his mind raced. MC. Images of her flooded his thoughts, everything from the very first time he saw her to the times spent laughing together at school. She had been captivating. She’d had him spellbound from day one, and he had always tried to impress her. Not only was she bright, she was charming, a habitual tease that had made him blush so many times, but he would always go back for more.

When he had heard she had been taken and sentenced for murder, her picture appearing in the Prophet along with the account of how she had murdered Sebastian Sallow’s uncle, the shock had been overwhelming for all the students, but Leander had been particularly crushed. His affection for the beautiful witch had blossomed into something maybe dangerously close to him fancying her, despite the fact that she was enamoured with Sebastian.

Falling for a girl who was capable of murder had ripped the rug from under his feet. It was one of the reasons he had signed up to become an Auror, determined to serve the British Auror Office in delivering justice to those who threatened their peace. He had sworn not to let himself be duped again, his strong belief in doing what was right became something to cling on to when he faced the difficult trials that he went through in order to earn the shiny badge that sat snug in his pocket.

Now, he was about to come face to face with a girl who had sent his moral compass spiralling, because even though the facts had been printed in black and white, and Sebastian’s face had been one of pale misery long after she had been sent to Azkaban; Leander’s soft heart had still tried to cling to the memory of MC’s warm smile and the hand of friendship she had extended towards him.

The two images were a struggle to marry up. His beautiful friend, and the cold hearted killer. How could you ever really know a person, or trust that they were who they portrayed themselves to be? She had fooled him. He had believed the pretty picture, and maybe a tiny part of him still hoped that he was right. A fool's hope.

The distant roar of the ocean seemed to fill his ears, thoughts spiralling and his heart racing. He put his hands to his face, trying to absorb the shock, reeling at the thought of seeing her again. It had been, what, three years? Four?

“Are you alright?” Harrington asked.

Leander nodded automatically, blowing air through his lips as his long fingers dragged down his cheeks, the skin there no longer flushed but pale under the smattering of freckles. “I’m fine, just…I need a minute to process.”

“Like I said, you don’t have to do this,” Harrington said, watching him carefully. “I know how difficult these kinds of cases can be when personal feelings are involved. Nobody expects you to jeopardise yourself, but sometimes we have to leave our personal lives at the door and get on with the job. Can you do that, Prewett?”

Leander’s heart raced as he considered leaving. That would be running away, though, and he didn’t want to even think about facing the other Aurors in his team knowing he had turned down an opportunity to work with Harrington.

Closing his eyes and taking a steadying breath, he nodded at his colleague, flexing his hands and eyeing the door that led out into the rest of the prison. MC was out there somewhere, inside these impenetrable walls.

“I’ll do it,” he said, his voice firm.

Harrington smiled and put a hand on his shoulder, his grip substantial, their eyes almost level with them being of similar height. “Good lad,” he said. “I knew you had it in you. I will warn you though, don’t expect her to be anything like you remember her. This place does things to a person.”

Leander felt the apprehension settling at the back of his neck as they walked towards the Wand Weigher, his teeth beginning to worry at his lower lip.

“I’ve already paid her a few visits and she isn’t very cooperative,” Harrington continued, placing his wand in the scale and waiting for his slip of paper. “All I need you to do is get her talking, Prewett. She really doesn’t like me, and I thought a friendlier face might make a difference.”

Leander hoped his hand wasn’t going to shake as he took his turn to place his wand on the scale. So, Harrington was going for the good Auror, bad Auror approach with MC, and he was to be the good guy. There was a worried crease on his brow as the machine pushed out the slip of paper for his wand. He took it and looked at Harrington.

“What is it you want me to get out of her?”

“Information about our newly resurrected friend, Rookwood, and another old school buddy of yours. Sebastian Sallow,” Harrington said, giving him a sideways glance.

“Sallow?” Leander frowned. “Why do you need information on him?”

“Because he has been seen with some of Rookwood’s henchmen, and we think he is in league with him,” Harrington scowled, leading Leander down a long corridor. “Your little friend here knows something, I know she does, and that is where you come in because she isn’t talking to me.”

“Do you think this has something to do with the murder of Sebastian’s uncle?” Leander asked, a cold feeling like dread beginning to spread over his skin as they entered a cell wing, the huge ceilings stretching upwards towards where black, wraith-like figures floated ominously in the shadows.

“Maybe, I’m not sure,” Harrington said, ignoring the catcalls of pale faced prisoners leering against their bars. “All I know is that Solomon Sallow was my partner years ago, we solved many cases together, and that little bitch killed him. I don’t know how involved the nephew was, but something stinks there, Prewett. We still aren’t sure of her motive. All we have ever got out of her was that it was self defence. Now, Sallow is in league with one of the biggest dark wizards in Britain, a man who was supposed to be dead by the very same girl that killed Solomon, and yet Rookwood is alive and causing havoc in the Highlands. His gang members are spreading down as far as London, thieving, killing, illegal beast movement and underground duelling rings. I’m convinced they faked Rookwood’s murder to cover something up, and she knows something. Why else did she confess to killing him?”

Leander scratched his head, his mind reeling from all of this. MC’s crimes appeared to go much deeper than he had ever imagined, and now Sebastian was caught up in it all as well. He sighed and shook his head.

“I’ll do my best, Harrington,” he said. “Let’s hope she is willing to talk to me.”

Harrington paused and put a hand to Leander’s chest. He almost cracked a smile. “She should remember you. I'm hoping it gets a better reaction out of her than what I've experienced so far. Go with your gut, son. Do whatever you think feels best. I've got your back.”

Despite Harrington’s warning that MC might not be as Leander remembered her, nothing could have prepared him for what he found when they unlocked her cell door and entered the barren room that held her. The chilled damp of the walls and floor was evident, the air reeking of it along with the stench of unwashed humans and despair. Leander fought the urge to press his fingers to his mouth as his eyes scanned the room. There was a slop bucket and a bed that was just a ledge of stone along one wall with a filthy blanket, a pale stream of light coming through a slit high up in the wall to allow air to enter the stagnant space.

The misery of the place was compounded by the sight of the emaciated figure sat hunched on the stone ledge, her hair long and matted, slick with oily filth and clinging to her scalp before hanging in strings about her face and shoulders. Leander remembered a time when it had fallen like silk and begged for your hand to stroke through it.

The prison issued uniform hung on her boney frame, filthy and frayed at the edges, the collar open enough to reveal the skeletal jut of her collar bone. She looked so small, so withered. It was a shock and it no doubt showed on his face.

He almost whimpered at the pitiful sight of the girl he had once stared at with longing across a Hogwarts classroom, her skin now pale and waxy, drawn tight over the bones of her starved frame. The shadows that darkened the sockets of her eyes seemed to highlight the ghostly orbs that stared up at him as he paused in his step, his resistance failing as he pressed the back of his hand to his mouth as he met her gaze.

She looked…haunted, lost, a wisp of drained sadness, and it pulled sharply at the softness that he sheltered behind his ribs.

“Merlin,” he whispered, his heart breaking. He could almost hear the crack and tear of it as the backs of his eyes burned.

Surely, this wasn't the same girl. That couldn't be her. It was horrifying. His stomach twisted and his eyes glanced at the bucket in the corner, wondering if he needed to make a dash for it before the remains of breakfast forced its way up his throat.

“I've brought someone to see you, MC. You remember him, don't you?” Harrington said, leaning forward to peer at her.

She hadn't moved and her sunken eyes were fixed on him, unmoving and glassy in the low light. Her dry, chapped lips parted slightly, and a flicker of tongue darted out before she spoke.

“Lee,” she whispered.

Leander had to bite down on his lower lip to stop it from trembling. His nickname. She remembered him.

Harrington gave him a look that said it was over to him before taking a step back, offering him the floor. Swallowing uneasily, Leander took a step closer towards her, remembering that she was potentially dangerous before he pushed that thought away. Looking at the thinness of her arms, he figured he could handle her if she made a lunge for him.

“Hello, MC,” he said softly, taking another step so that he was right in front of her. Her head tilted back slightly so she could look up at him, the sharp angle of her jaw almost painful to look upon it was so harshly wasted away. “Do you mind if I talk to you? Just for a little bit.”

Her eyes slid towards Harrington, narrowing slightly, the glimmer of hate vivid and real before she returned her gaze to him. The hate faded a little, but she sure as Merlin didn't look like she trusted him.

“Here to do his dirty work, are you?”

Her voice was a dry rasp, a hoarse sound grated through her vocal chords that was nothing like the soft, melodic sound that he remembered. More rips rendered through his heart and he almost winced before he remembered his training.

“I just want to talk to you,” he said, keeping his voice calm and low. “You might be able to help me with the investigation. I have some questions, but we can get to those in a moment. Maybe you have a question you'd like me to answer first. I will try to answer as best as I can.”

She stared at him, the faintest wobble of her lips distracting him as her face seemed to shift with what could have passed for sadness. There was dried blood on her lips, and a smear of it on her arm too. His gaze wandered over what pale skin he could see trying to work out where the blood had come from.

“You're one of them, aren't you?” She rasped. A huff of what could have been a laugh wheezed from her throat and her head tilted back further to lean against the wall, her filthy hair slipping back to reveal a nasty scrape at her temple, and purple bruising near her ear. “You're a fucking Auror now.”

“Yes, I am,” he said, a frown creasing his brow. He leaned closer, assessing her injury and he pursed his lips. “You're hurt, MC. How did this happen?”

Her eyes widened slightly before the empty expression returned to her face. Her gaze swung towards Harrington with a sour twist of lips. “Your mate over there has an interesting way of trying to make people talk.”

Leander turned to Harrington, incredulous. “You struck her?”

Harrington merely shrugged. “Don't be fooled by her. She's no innocent victim. Remember that.”

Leander looked back at MC, the sight of the bruising and blood not sitting well with him at all, but Harrington was right. He needed to remember why she was in here.

She met his eyes again and he could have sworn there was a glimmer of something soft, a brief, fleeting look that pulled at his heart strings. Then she was gone, MC the girl was replaced by this haunted wraith-like creature, seemingly empty and drifting.

No. He couldn't do it. Harrington had told him to go with his gut, and she was not going to talk to him if she didn't trust him.

He shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out a white, neatly pressed handkerchief. The cleanliness of it seemed almost grotesque in this cell as he held it up in front of her before moving closer, his hand trembling as he slowly lifted it up towards the wound on her head.

Her eyes stared, pupils enlarging as he carefully began to try and clean the blood from her skin. This close her skin looked almost transparent, the blue spidery veins at her temple vivid against the waxen white.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered. He didn't care that she was dirty, that she was covered in filth. His fingers brushed back her hair, the strands clumped and unpleasant to the touch, but he ignored that, carefully wiping at the crusted blood as best as he could.

He paused when he saw a tear escape the corner of her eye. The droplet shimmered in the dim light as it tracked through the grime on her cheek. She didn't even attempt to wipe it away.

Very conscious of the stern-faced Auror who was watching all of this, Leander withdrew from her, folding the now dirty handkerchief and putting it back into his pocket before stepping back.

“That's the best I could do without clean water,” he murmured, shifting slightly on the spot. “Does it hurt?”

“Do you honestly really care if it does? Or are you just trying to make me warm up to you so I will talk?”

So cold. So indifferent. He fought back his disappointment, shoved it down so hard he clenched his hands into fists. She watched him and then her eyes dropped to her lap, but not before he saw that flicker of something soft in her face again.

“You know me, MC. Of course I care, and I know I am a fool for doing so,” he said, shaking his head. “You don't have to talk to me today. I'm not going to force you, but maybe one day you will be able to look at me and know I am not your enemy.”

She stiffened but didn't look up, her fingers gripping at the filthy fabric of her clothing.

He looked at Harrington who was watching him with narrowed eyes. Leander nodded towards the door and gave MC one last, long look before turning towards it.

“Goodbye, MC,” he said, his voice still calm and soft, but there was a note of sadness to it this time. “I hope your head feels better tomorrow.”

Harrington locked her door and they began to walk back down the wing, screeching and clanging coming from the cells as they passed. The cold, dreadful horrors that hovered above their heads made Leander shiver, but neither of them spoke until they were in the corridor leading towards the Auror Chambers.

“What was that in there?” Harrington asked as he opened the door.

Leander paused and gave him a hard look. “You asked me to follow my gut, so that's what I did,” he said firmly. He kept his face determined, but his pulse raced. “Don't lay another hand on her. Striking her is not going to make her talk. She is stubborn, but there is a softness in her. Trust me. I know what I'm doing.”

To his surprise, Harrington smiled. He nodded and gestured for Leander to enter the chamber so they could sign out.

“And that is why I chose you to come here today,” Harrington said, a satisfied gleam in his blue eyes. “You've got the case. I want you on my team. Come here again tomorrow. Alone this time. See what you can get out of her, if anything at all. She's all yours.”

Leander gaped at him. He had got nothing out of her, nothing at all. It was almost a wasted trip. “Are you joking?”

Harrington’s eyes narrowed. “I don't joke about stuff like this. I saw the way she looked at you. The cleaning of her wound? Genius. You almost broke her with that gentle touch of yours. I can't wait to see what you manage to achieve with this one, Prewett. Just keep on coming back here until you've cracked it. Meanwhile, I can start questioning the other damned soul in here.”

“And who might that be?” Leander asked, his eyes glancing over the many numbers hanging on the wall.

“Theophilus Harlow,” Harrington replied. “A cruel son of a bitch, and Rookwood’s old right hand man. He will definitely require a tougher approach.”

As Leander signed himself out in the ledger, he looked at the empty slot beneath on the parchment page. Tomorrow he will return. He would see her again.

Was he really a fool for hoping? He had come here today with the idea of making an impression, eager to please the battle-worn Auror, and yet he had fallen easily into his soft hearted manner, forgetting the gruelling training he had successfully completed. He hadn't earned his badge with soft touches and pity, and yet he had managed both on his prisoner today. Somehow it had earned him a place on Harrington's team. He was now working on the Rookwood case. The biggest case of his career so far.

He couldn't afford to fuck this up, and yet his flickering hope was already sealing up the cracks in his heart. Tomorrow he would see MC again, and maybe, just maybe he would get her to trust him.

To be continued...

This fic is dedicated to my Discord family, who keep me inspired by our shared delulu craziness, especially @eternalremorse and @slytherin-paramour who have spent AGES discussing this with me. 💗

Taglist: @evaslytherpuff