#the way he dodges the eraser!!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pin-k-ink · 1 month ago

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BENEATH THE SURFACE ⋆✦⋆ urahara kisuke ft. hirako shinji

synopsis ➸ you’ve forgotten all about the lover you once had, memories of hirako erased as if they never existed. urahara, the man entrusted with your care, doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt for falling for you—or for keeping you close, far from the past you can’t remember and the man who still lingers in it

tags ➸ posséssive and obsèssive behavior, references to past traùma/memory loss, implications of infídelity, mastúrbation (m & f), dúb-con, fingèring, bitíng, making out, unprotècted sèx, bégging, dìrty talking, manhàndling, creàmpie, it’s pretty vanilla actually

wc ➸ 5.7k

"Oi, Kisuke." Yoruichi's tone was dry with the barest hints of mild exasperation as she spoke up suddenly beside him. "You're starin' again, old man."

Urahara blinked himself from his heated reverie, lips quirking at the familiar teasing rebuke. He didn't even try denying her accusation, letting his gaze linger a moment longer on the scene unfolding across the courtyard.

You danced and darted between Jinta and Ururu, laughter ringing out clear and sweet as you narrowly dodged whatever silly game was unfolding. The simple domesticity of it all shouldn't have twisted something primal and restless inside Urahara's gut as it did. But watching the sunlight gild your features, the wind toying with loose strands of your hair...it summoned forth hungrier, more wretched yearnings.

"Can you blame me?" he sighed, finally tearing his eyes away with obvious reluctance. "The sight is certainly a tempting one."

Yoruichi snorted indelicately. "Don't try that innocent bullshit with me, Kisuke. I know exactly what kind of thoughts you've been entertaining lately." Turning towards him fully, her voice took on a slightly lower register tinged with something almost like concern. "Thoughts you shouldn't fool yourself into thinkin' are harmless little fantasies, either..."

Urahara's grip tightened fractionally on his cup as the images she conjured battered the inside of his skull with uncanny clarity. Flashes of Hirako and the love he held for you in his heart, the adoration and tenderness he freely bestowed upon you. The way you'd so easily fall into his arms, the softness in your smile whenever he came around.

They were a matched set of thunder and lightning then - all explosive passion and white-hot desire detonated with blissful recklessness in those waning hours before Aizen's machinations finally tore both your worlds asunder.

"She remembers nothing of it now," Urahara murmured, aiming for nonchalance yet unable to quite disguise the bitter undercurrent of self-reproach lacing his tone. "Seems rather pointless to linger on twisted ghosts, don't you think?"

Yoruichi's lips curved in a slow, knowing smile utterly devoid of genuine amusement. "Don't feed me that weak shit, Kisuke," she chided, voice pitching low with quiet intensity. "You were the one who watched Shinji agonize over wiping away every scrap of memory she had left - even if it meant erasing their entire history from her mind forever..."

Unconsciously, Urahara's body thrummed in recognition at the visceral reminder, gut twisting hotly with guilt and lingering scraps of disbelief. Even now, decades after Hirako had appeared at his doorstep with you cradled limply against his chest - frail and wracked with hollow, gut-wrenching sobs - the memory still brought bile scorching up Urahara's throat.

"I can't...I don't have the strength to face her disgust or heartbreak if she remembers what happened," Hirako had choked out in a ravaged, trembling rasp that night under the dying throes of that summer moon. "What Aizen stole from her - from us... So please, Kisuke...wipe it all clean. Every scrap, no matter what it costs. For both our sakes."

The weight of your pliant, broken form pressed against Urahara's chest as Hirako relinquished his hold still haunted with searing clarity. More so than even the glittering sheen of anguished tears streaking your savior's anguished features - for amidst the storm of mutual devastation swirling between them, something deeper and more terrible had already begun unspooling inside Urahara's viscera.

An ember of wretched temptation he could scarcely bring himself to acknowledge even now, years after he'd set about systematically erasing your beloved from your memories at Hirako's request through shard after shard of scorching finality.

"She was everything to him, ya know?" Yoruichi continued, eyes gone hazy and distant as she no doubt dredged up her own recollections. "Shinji's light in all that darkness - the peace that kept him grounded while still being wild enough to match his passion step for step..."

Those words were nothing Urahara hadn't confessed to himself under the waning light of too many evenings, drowning in memories that weren't even truly his to indulge. He recalled with perfect clarity the way your eyes used to blaze so radiantly whenever Hirako strode into any space you occupied - luminous and unchecked adoration seemingly etched into every indrawn breath.

And Hirako, in turn, looked upon you as though his entire existence could be charted across the map of your satin skin and contours. A starved man kept alive solely by the reverence and hunger glowing from within your entwined embraces, that unwavering belief and camaraderie more sustaining than any physical fulfillment.

"It's why I've long suspected you kept her close here, all these years," Yoruichi continued in a softer tone, undercurrent of poignant understanding resonating between them. "It was never entirely noble sentiments or promises sworn to poor Shinji, was it Kisuke? At least, not wholly..."

Heaving a weighted sigh, Urahara let the truth slip free of its carefully erected cage at last through parted lips he could no longer fully control. "You know me far too well for your own good, Yoruichi..."

His gaze strayed inexorably back towards your radiant silhouette still dancing along the engawa in the fading daylight's warm glow. Laughter and innocent joys seemed to saturate every molecule of air you disturbed with your movements, leaving a sparkling luminescence shimmering like mirage in the wake of your passage.

"I kept her close because she made things less unbearable - " Urahara paused, searching for the words to encapsulate the sublime, impossible truth he often lay awake drowning in night after night. "After all the years spent in the dark, she was a reminder that not everything's a complete waste. When things started getting rough, it was enough to see her and remember there's still something out there worth holding on to."

Yoruichi remained silent for a long, suspended beat, absorbing the weight of his admission with that glittering, astute gaze that saw far too deeply into Urahara's tattered depths. When she spoke again, it was with a wry, almost wistful humor undercutting the latent concern.

"I get it now. The infamous Kisuke Urahara - disgraced Soul Society prodigy, princeling turned exile, humble candy merchant to the masses - secretly harboring an obsession for the shining embodiment of purity and innocence itself. Doesn't get much more blasphemous than that, eh?"

Her rich laughter rang out across the engawa, a playful yet unsubtle warning shot across Urahara's bow to finish airing his regrets before their charged nature compounded any further. He raised his cup back to his lips, allowing the scalding liquid to linger on his tongue for a fleeting moment of grounding respite before finally uttering his most damning truth:

"Maybe so... but the real sin is that I don't regret my obsession at all anymore, Yoruichi," he said, almost casually. "I know exactly what lines I've crossed, spending every moment wanting something I can never really have..."

The confession hung heavily in the air, laced with an undercurrent of unapologetic yearning that even Yoruichi seemed to pick up on. Urahara didn't bother masking the weight of his stare as it tracked back over to where you laughed and played carefree in the courtyard.

Because as much as he might want to deny it, Urahara knew he wasn't alone in succumbing to the forbidden temptations simmering between you both. No, he'd caught the lingering heat of your curious gazes far too many times to claim ignorance any longer.

Like that morning last week when you'd padded sleepily into the kitchen, hair mussed from slumber and yukata hanging loosely to expose tantalizing glimpses of bare skin. You hadn't noticed Urahara seated at the table initially, too busy stretching your lithe frame with a contented sigh that made his breath hitch audibly.

When you'd finally spotted him, a pretty blush had crept across your cheeks - though you made no move to cover yourself. Instead, your lips had curved into that secret little smile Urahara felt like he alone was privy to lately. Holding his heated stare, you'd quirked one delicate eyebrow in silent challenge before very deliberately dragging your gaze down the length of his seated form with clear appraisal.

"Good morning, Kisuke," you'd purred, the low timbre of your voice hitting him like a physical caress. "You're up awfully early."

He'd swallowed thickly, fighting not to let his eyes linger too brazenly on the tantalizing glimpses of thigh and cleavage peeking through the loose folds of your robe. "Couldn't sleep," he'd rasped out, silently damning how rough his own voice had emerged.

Your smile had only widened at that, eyes glittering with undisguised feminine satisfaction as you'd sauntered closer until the heady scent of your skin and subtle jasmine perfume filled his senses dizzyingly. Leaning across the table, you'd trailed one finger along the rim of his cold tea cup with blatant suggestion.

"Maybe I can help...relax you, Kisuke?"

The molten promise in your tone had very nearly undone him right then and there. But before Urahara could fully formulate a response - whether capitulation or restraint, he still didn't know - Jinta came barreling into the kitchen with his usual graceless racket. You'd straightened casually, as if that heated moment had never even happened, leaving Urahara to stew in his own frustrated arousal as the morning carried on.

Encounters like that were rapidly becoming the norm rather than a rare occurrence. Any shred of plausible deniability faded after Urahara stumbled across you touching yourself in the vacant training room one evening after most of the others had turned in for the night.

The sight of you splayed out wantonly, cheeks flushed and fingers buried knuckle-deep in the slick, welcoming heat of your own cunt...it had stolen what little breath remained in Urahara's lungs. He'd stood frozen, utterly incapable of tearing his eyes away from the mesmerizing display you'd unintentionally offered like the most obscene gift.

When your back finally arched in a perfect bow and those tantalizing lips fell open on a keening cry, Urahara had retreated with mortifying swiftness. But not before he was utterly certain you'd caught sight of his transfixed silhouette in the doorway, hand already working urgently to relieve his aching cock straining against his hakama.

Nights like that rapidly blurred together into an endless cycle of torment and stolen pleasure for Urahara. He lost count of how many times he'd spilled in his own hand after being subjected to another teasing display on your part, or the number of times he'd been forced to excuse himself when the need became too overwhelming.

Yet amidst each delirious high, an undercurrent of guilt and forbidden temptation gnawed with increasing ferocity. Because he knew they were not alone in basking in these heated transgressions, were they?

No, Urahara had caught the first whispers of Hirako's scorching reiatsu brushing against his senses far too frequently lately to claim pure coincidence. At first, he tried convincing himself it was just his guilty conscience manifesting in shockwaves of paranoia and self-loathing.

But then he'd turn a street corner or duck through one of the market stalls while accompanying you...only to catch a glimpse of tousled blonde locks before disappearing like a mirage.

Hirako was watching you. Lurking nearby while unable to fully tear himself away from the most important person in his world. Drawn like a man in the desert to the only source of water that could quench his thirst or deliver his demise in equal measure - because in witnessing Urahara's ultimate damnation, he would either find salvation or destruction.

The knowledge that his one of his oldest acquaintances still clung to whatever tattered scraps of you remained twisted Urahara's gut with scorching guilt. Yet rather than deterring his treacherous thoughts and urges, the forbidden element merely stoked them into an inferno of carnal heat.

Some wretched, masochistic part of him craved for Hirako to see how thoroughly he'd become undone by the radiant presence fate had bestowed into his care. To bear witness to every ounce of depraved worship Urahara was no longer capable of denying as he debased himself in reverent prostration before your intoxicating light.

Perhaps only then, when Hirako had been forced to consume every moment through his own haunted gaze, could Urahara find the absolution and release his blackened soul so voraciously yearned for. Because being the one to irrevocably desecrate that which was most sacred to your former lover would be the ultimate unforgivable sin he'd carry into whatever scorched afterlife fate deigned fit for wretches like him...

Urahara's steps slowed as he neared the entrance to the shop, senses picking up on a distantly familiar reiatsu signature just beyond the threshold. His grip tightened fractionally on the small bundle of provisions he'd ventured out to procure.

Hirako. Here again so soon after his last fleeting visitation.

Steeling himself, Urahara shunted his reiatsu down to virtually nonexistent levels and ghosted closer, every instinct sharpened to a razored edge. He slipped around the back entrance in utter silence, masking his presence entirely as he moved to observe unseen.

The soft cadence of your melodic laughter caressed his ears first, effortlessly guiding his focus through the open receiving area towards the source. Urahara felt his breath stall as his gaze finally found you seated on the engawa, radiant and at ease - and not alone.

Hirako knelt across from you, cocksure grin softening the hard angles of his face in a way Urahara hadn't witnessed in nearly a century. His old acquaintance's expression held terrible, wistful vulnerability as he drank in the simple sight of you animatedly chatting and smiling during what seemed a perfectly mundane conversation between friends.

Only those hauntingly familiar gestures and tender inflections betrayed Hirako's longing to anyone who understood their secret language from before the cataclysm. He leaned in unconsciously whenever you laughed, lips parting in silent rapture simply from your unbridled mirth washing over him. Fingertips traced idle, seemingly innocent patterns along the polished wood in movements Urahara knew were unconscious echoes of past intimacies once mapped across satin expanses with utmost reverence.

Yet despite all the visceral undercurrents simmering around Hirako's unguarded display, you appeared utterly oblivious - conversing and beaming at him as if thoroughly charmed by the roguish yet disarming company of one of Urahara's old contacts.

Urahara's jaw clenched hard enough to creak as a knot of primal possession twisted through his rioting gut. He should retreat, maintain his silent vigil from the shadows rather than infringing upon this rare, fraught reunion transpiring right before his unworthy gaze.

But something kept his feet rooted, compelled him inexorably closer until he could clearly make out the hushed cadences of your voices mingling in the tranquil evening.

"—such a delight as always, Miss [Y/N]," Hirako was murmuring in that velvety timbre that carried equal facets of seduction and soul-scouring guilt through every syllable. "Though I can't help but wonder why a fresh blossom like yourself insists on remainin' around something as tarnished as this shop?"

You laughed again - that high, windchime peal of uncorrupted joy that scorched Urahara's very marrow whenever he had the privilege of basking in it. "Shouldn't I be the one asking you that very same question?"

"Ah, touché my dear," Hirako chuckled, fingers drifting infinitesimally closer across the polished wood until they brushed the elegant swell of your hand with clear intent. "Though I think I know why I'll never be capable of straying far from this place for long..."

The lingering curl of suggestion in those final words made Urahara's hackles raise despite himself. Hatred and possessiveness tore through him in equal, blinding measure as he watched Hirako slant closer, knuckles tracing along the vulnerable underside of your forearm in familiar, intimate patterns clearly etched into memory.

Yet you remained oblivious, simply smiling that gentle, open smile that belonged solely to Urahara in his most ravenous late-night indulgences. "Well whatever reasons keep you returning, you're always a most welcome sight around here. Kisuke enjoys your visits."

The words were ostensibly innocent, but they still landed like a slap of ice water against Urahara's reeling senses. You turned then, as if sensing the sudden shift in his turbulent mood through whatever subconscious thread still bound you to the indelible scars carved into his very soul.

When your luminous gazes crashed across the fractal distances, Urahara felt every ounce of fevered possessiveness and unearned claim to your radiance flash to visceral life behind his irises. He stared at you with unguarded, ravenous hunger - every fracture and violation harbored between his anguished conscience fully exposed in that unraveling moment.

You blinked at him, lovely features creasing momentarily in soft bewilderment at the raw intensity searing from his veiled stance. Then you smiled once more in that devastating, oblivious manner and raised your free hand in a beckoning wave Urahara felt sear straight through to his very foundations.

"Kisuke!" Your sweet tones rang out bright and clear, each lilting note bleeding resonantly into every crevice of the shouten. "Welcome back! You'll never guess who's just dropped by to pay us a visit..."

Neither of you noticed Hirako's full-body stillness as he absorbed the seismic shift of your attention now centered solely upon the ravaged creature your luminescence had chosen to orbit so mercilessly. Yet before your plush lips could impart the name unnecessary to voice aloud, Hirako was already smoothly rising to his feet.

"I ought to be going, actually," he rasped, the fractured rasp of his voice a deafening clamor against the oppressive silence now smothering the engawa. "Thank you kindly for the hospitality, Miss [Y/N]. As always, you are a true beacon in the gathering gloom..."

Hirako dipped into a flourishing bow reeking of archaic Seireitei formality and melancholy in equal measure. Then he straightened and aimed a loaded look in Urahara's direction, piercing through the veil of shadows as if capable of discerning every venomous temptation and violation now inexorably etched into his brother's shredded conscience with lurid permanence.

It felt as if hours passed suspended in that deadlocked confrontation between Urahara's rapacious yearning and Hirako's haunted resignation. Until finally, the stoic spell shattered and his oldest comrade turned his wizened, ruined features back to where you'd risen to greet him with usual gentle adieu.

"Goodnight, [Y/N]," Hirako murmured, shouldering past you carelessly as Urahara watched with bated breath. "Sweet dreams..."

Before you could respond or offer whatever brightly confused reply bubbled to your lips, Hirako took full advantage of your proximity to invade it unforgivably. In that moment, Urahara knew he was bearing witness to far more than a simple exchange between former lovers and trusted comrade. He watched, utterly transfixed, as Hirako nuzzled his face with intimate, liquid grace against that same succulent patch of bare skin Urahara knew to be one of your most sensitive erogenous zones.

It was a snatched, desperate movement executed with all the flayed desperation and regret of a dying man reaching out for succor one final time before surrendering to oblivion. Yet despite the furor searing Urahara's nerves raw from within, he remained utterly paralyzed in the wake of Hirako's final silent transgression against them both.

He could taste the bitterness of old, visceral jealousy on the back of his tongue - instincts he thought long buried threatening to lash free. This man knew you in ways Urahara could only fantasize about. Had tasted the divine ambrosia of your surrender and caressed every supple inch in the secret shadows of lovemaking. Owned parts of you utterly that Hirako clearly still mourned the loss of despite the veil of amnesia cloaking your interactions.

You startled of course, cheeks flushing becomingly as you stared at his retreating form in soft, bewildered surprise. Only when Hirako's wasting presence faded to a haunting echo once more did you finally turn your trembling features back towards the immovable specter of Urahara's presence lurking nearby.

"Well!" you huffed out in a shaky, affected chuckle of faint mortification. Your fingertips ghosted along the curve of your jaw in an apologetic caress that made Urahara's gorge rise violently. "That was rather...forward of him, wouldn't you say Kisuke?"

Urahara allowed himself to fully emerge from the concealing shadows then, immolating you beneath the full, ravenous intensity of his regard as he slowly prowled across the engawa like a predator seeking what rightful tribute it had been denied far too long...

"Oh, I'd say that and so much more, my dear," he rasped out in a tone husky and choked by a maelstrom of molten rage and desire too long denied its due. "So very, very much more to unpack from that little...reunion, wouldn't you agree?"

Your eyes widened further at the vibrant, corrosive inflections lacing his words. But Urahara barely registered your pretty bewilderment, too consumed by the righteous fury and twisted lust scorching a path towards his prey at long last.

"He comes by often, doesn't he?"

The seething accusation emerged from Urahara's lips before rational thought could intervene or exercise any semblance of restraint. His strides ate up the remaining distance across the engawa, movements tight and predatory in a way that had you instinctively retreating until your back met the unforgiving wall.

You stared up at him with those luminous, perpetually innocent eyes blown wide in clear bewilderment. "Well...Hirako-san has been visiting more frequently as of late, yes. He's an old friend of yours after all, isn't he Kisuke?"

Any other night, that reminder of your blatant naivete regarding Hirako's true reasons for lingering might have cooled Urahara's vengeful ardor back to a simmer. But tonight, spurred by his withering jealousy and volcanic need, your coy deflections only stoked the inferno raging through his marrow hotter.

"Friend?" He all but spat the word, allowing his reiatsu to flare in a barely restrained surge of crimson hostility. "You really wish to play such games after that display from the man, my dear?"

Urahara closed what little distance remained between your bodies in one measured roll of his hips - inescapably caging you between the solid brand of his torso and the sturdy barrier at your back. You actually flinched at the sudden, aggressive proximity as understanding started to glimmer behind your lovely eyes.

"Kisuke, I-I'm not sure why you're suddenly so upset..." You swallowed thickly, chest rising and falling in rapid pants as he drank in every shaky inhale with ravenous focus. "I...Hirako-san was simply bidding me goodnight as a gentleman would! If he was being too forward, I didn't intend—"

Whatever half-hearted denial you were about to utter dissolved into a breathless moan as Urahara slanted his mouth over yours in a punishing, all-consuming slant. His tongue demanded entry with no quarter for hesitation, claiming the honeyed recesses of your mouth with merciless possession.

He felt you immediately attempt to squirm away, startled and overwhelmed by the intensity of his onslaught. But with a growl of rebuke, Urahara simply crowded closer until the solid cage of his thighs had your lithe form trapped utterly in his scorching orbit.

One work-calloused palm shot up to seize your jaw in an unforgiving clamp when you still tried to twist away. Urahara enforced his unyielding claim with wicked intention until your struggles dissolved into the first shuddering capitulations of surrender.

When he at last showed mercy and broke away, you stared up at him with lips swollen and gaze already hazed by lingering shock and dizzying arousal he'd awakened so abruptly inside you. You started to speak his name again - a desperate attempt at regaining some thread of clarity.

But Urahara quickly silenced your plea by trailing the pad of his thumb over your trembling lower lip in a lazy, suggestive caress. "Don't speak, my sweet. Not when we both know whatever excuses you're so desperately looking for will only stain those pretty lips with shameless little lies."

He relished the way your eyes widened at the uncharacteristically seductive taunt, drinking in your shock like the finest sake as he continued to abuse your kiss-bruised lips lasciviously. Urahara canted his hips into yours in an insistent grind, smirking darkly at your choked whimper of blended dismay and aching need.

"You want this, don't you?" he rasped against the sensitive curve of your throat, stubble grazing in deliciously rough friction. "An opportunity to confess your hidden desires... to finally give in to what’s been slowly taking over that fake purity you hold on to."

His leisurely path of scorching kisses and swirling friction trailed lower with each lush syllable spilling past his taunting mouth. By the time Urahara's tongue dipped into the enticing hollow between your collarbones, you were shuddering with unbridled desperation against the brand of his body.

"K-Kisuke," you whimpered out in a broken, needy keen that stoked his ravenous desires into an inferno. "Please...I don't know what's gotten into you, but—!"

Whatever pathetic entreaty or deflection lingered on your tongue withered into mere shattered static as Urahara's questing fingertips boldly sought out the blazing apex of your thighs beneath your skirt. You cried out at the first searing friction, back arching against the unforgiving shoji screen in thoughtless abandon.

"I think you know exactly what's gotten into me, angel," Urahara growled against the soft swell of your breast now spilling so enticingly from its lacy confines. "You've been too lost in your endless little act to truly see what you've been unraveling all this time..."

With expert dexterity, his calloused fingers sought out your molten, soaked core. Urahara delighted in the ragged cry that burst from your pretty lips at the blunt invasion, hips already writhing against the possessive curl of his finger in a desperate search of more blissful friction.

"Look at how wet you are for me," he cooed, dragging the pad of his thumb across your slick, pulsing nub. You moaned at the friction, head lolling back against the wall with lips parted in wanton invitation. "Even as you try to deny what you've wanted for so long now...you're dripping all over my hand, aren't you, sweet girl?"

Urahara chuckled darkly, adding another thick digit to his wicked torture and drinking in the wanton cry that erupted from your throat. He knew he ought to show some small measure of mercy for how utterly debauched and wrecked you already looked after just a few scant moments of his carnal attentions. But he couldn't resist continuing to torment you, especially when he'd been forced to endure watching you fall apart beneath the tender touch of another for so long now.

"I'll ask again: you want this, don't you, my dear?" Urahara murmured, tone silken and lethal as he crooked his fingers inside you and watched your eyelids flutter shut with pleasure. "You want me, don't you? To finally take and fuck and possess what you've been denying us both for so long."

He punctuated his final declaration with a punishing thrust of his fingers - curling and seeking out your most sensitive spot until your thighs trembled and breathless pleas spilled from your lips. You were so close, and yet still struggling against the truth you'd never be able to escape any longer.

"Answer me, angel," Urahara hissed, sinking his teeth into the fluttering pulse of your throat in a mark he intended to linger long after this heated interlude. "I'll stop if you don't admit how badly you want this. How you've been dreaming of feeling my cock filling you, splitting you open until there's no going back..."

"Oh gods, Kisuke, please," you cried out, voice fracturing as he pressed even closer and let you feel the thick, straining heat of his erection digging into the soft give of your belly. "Yes, yes, I want it. I want you, please just take me already. I need—!"

That was all the affirmation Urahara needed. He surged forward and slanted his mouth over yours, swallowing your moans of pleasure and relief with the same possessive ferocity he intended to brand into your every cell and sense memory.

In the span of a heartbeat, Urahara was yanking down your underwear and freeing his throbbing cock from the confines of his hakama. You keened into the bruising crush of his mouth, hands tangling in his sandy locks as he lined himself up at your drenched entrance.

The first, blinding thrust stole what little breath you had left, forcing your walls to stretch and accommodate his thick, pulsing girth. Urahara swallowed your strangled cries of bliss with a feral snarl of his own, hips canting forward until he'd fully sheathed himself inside the tight clutch of your quivering heat.

"You feel even better than I dreamed, my love," he rasped against the salty curve of your neck, pausing just long enough for you to adjust before his hips bucked up again with merciless intention.

Urahara didn't allow a moment of reprieve, setting a punishing pace as his hands grasped your plush thighs and hiked them high around his waist. The angle allowed him to fuck you even deeper, spearing his pulsing cock into the molten recesses of your cunt and watching the ecstasy play across your features.

"Fuck, fuck, Kisuke, please," you cried, hands scrabbling for purchase against the unforgiving plane of his broad shoulders. Your hips rocked up into his punishing thrusts, the sinful slide of his cock filling you to the hilt over and over again sending stars bursting behind your eyes. "It's so good, gods, you're so deep, please, don't stop!"

Urahara's lips twisted into a predatory smirk, and he slowed his ruthless pace just enough to draw a breathless whimper from your kiss-bruised lips. His gaze devoured the way you were staring up at him, so utterly lost in the throes of pleasure and desire he'd brought you to with such wicked skill.

"You're so tight around me, angel," he cooed, rolling his hips against the slick, molten grasp of your cunt and drinking in the needy cry that tore from your lips. "I'm not sure how much longer I can hold on...but you've been such a good girl, taking my cock like this. Tell me, are you close, sweet girl?"

He punctuated his filthy question by dipping his hand between the rocking crush of your bodies, fingertips ghosting along your soaked, aching sex before finding the sensitive nub of your clit. The breathless cry that tore from your throat nearly undid him, hips bucking into your own once more as he watched your face contort in sheer rapture.

"Y-Yes, I'm close," you gasped, eyelids fluttering open as your hands grasped his biceps with white-knuckled desperation. "Kisuke, please, I'm s-so close, please, I'm right there, don't stop—"

Whatever incoherent plea was tumbling past your kiss-bruised lips melted into a ragged scream of pleasure as Urahara sank his teeth into the supple flesh of your neck and fucked his hips up into your own one last time. You came apart in the span of a heartbeat, cunt clenching and milking his throbbing length until the blinding coil of his release unraveled.

Urahara's climax crashed through him with the force of a tsunami, and he snarled out his release in a choked curse. He continued to buck up into the clutching warmth of your core, fucking his cum deep inside you until every last drop was spent and he collapsed against the shuddering give of your breasts.

Your heart hammered wildly against his ear as Urahara struggled to regain some semblance of control and sanity. He listened to your breathing gradually return to normal, fingers idly stroking your hips in a soothing caress even as his own reiatsu still rippled with the vestiges of his possessive rage.

When he finally mustered the willpower to lift his head from its comfortable perch, the sight of your face stole whatever withering remnants of jealousy and ire lingered within him. Your features were still flushed with the fading heat of pleasure and exertion, and you blinked up at him with the same trusting, dazed innocence that had always drawn him in like a moth to a flame.

"I'm sorry if I was too rough, my dear," Urahara murmured, the pad of his thumb ghosting along the faint indentations his teeth had left on your neck. "I didn't mean to hurt you, but I suppose my jealousy got the best of me..."

You frowned slightly, clearly confused by his words and the apology lingering just beyond them. But the soft, breathy sigh of contentment that slipped past your lips soon banished any lingering doubts.

"It's alright, Kisuke," you soothed, reaching up to gently card your fingers through his sweat-dampened locks. "I'm not sure what came over you, but I didn't mind. Not in the least..."

Urahara hummed a vague sound of approval, burying his nose against the hollow of your throat and inhaling the intoxicating scent of your skin and the lingering hint of his own release. A dark thrill went through him at the reminder that his cum was now dripping from between your thighs, painting the softness of your skin with his claiming mark.

"That's a relief," he mused, nipping at the sensitive skin just above the curve of your breast. "Because I intend to fuck you again the second we're back in my bedroom, and then once more in the morning before Tessai and the kids arrive."

You moaned softly at his blunt admission, hips bucking up against the insistent grind of his cock still buried deep inside you. Urahara smirked, allowing himself a few moments of indulgent pleasure as he drank in the way your eyelashes fluttered against your cheeks.

"But… can we sleep a bit first?" You yawned, voice soft and already beginning to slip away towards the beckoning embrace of unconsciousness. It was only then that Urahara noticed the fatigue lines bracketing your eyes, and he couldn't help but press a tender kiss against your forehead.

"Of course, my love," he whispered, gathering your pliant form in his arms and carrying you towards the safety and shelter of his bedroom. "We have plenty of time now to indulge every wicked fantasy you've ever harbored. There's no need to rush..."

Urahara smirked as your breath began to even out and slow into the steady cadence of slumber. He was looking forward to the morning already, and everything that awaited him once you awoke.

Just as he was about to follow you into blissful sleep, however, his ears picked up on one last, murmured confession slipping past your lips.

"Love you, Shinji…"

#bleach x reader #bleach smut #bleach x reader smut #urahara smut #urahara x reader #urahara x reader smut #hirako x reader #bleach #hirako smut #hirako x reader smut #kisuke urahara #bleach urahara #urahara kisuke x reader

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guilty-ff · 3 months ago

Text

𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐏𝐭.1

ᡕᠵ᠊ᡃ່࡚ࠢ࠘ ⸝່ࠡࠣ᠊߯᠆ࠣ࠘ᡁࠣ࠘᠊᠊ࠢ࠘𐡏 ˚⁎⁺˳ .

Wade Wilson, still haunted by the loss of his fiancée Vanessa, finds himself in a new relationship with Y/n, a bright and caring presence in his life. As the weight of his past threatens to pull him under, tensions rise, and buried emotions come to the surface.

This story takes place between the second and third movies (warning: not 100% movie/comic accurate)

Pairing: Wade Wilson/Deadpool x (fem!)Reader

Genre: Angst, revenge, Fanfiction, Marvel

Warnings: Movie Spoilers! Explicit content, swearing, torture, mental health, weapons

Word count: 2499

The night had started out like any other, with the hum of the city outside Y/n’s apartment filling the quiet spaces between her thoughts. She glanced around the room, the soft glow of the lamp casting a warm light on the scene she had carefully prepared.

Balloons and streamers, a playful nod to Wade’s twisted sense of humor, hung from the ceiling, swaying gently in the draft coming through the open window. She would laid out his favorite snacks- Chimichangas and an assortment of junk food that would make any expert on diet faint- and the TV was ready to blast his favorite old-school movies.

It had been a year since Wade had stumbled into her life, a broken man who had just lost the love of his life, Vanessa. But even in his grief, his pain, there had been something that drew her to him. His wit, his relentless, dark humor, and the vulnerability he tried so hard to hide behind that mask.

Over time, what started as a tentative friendship had blossomed into something more- a relationship that was complicated, messy, and sometimes painful, but it was real.

Y/n had always tried to be there for him, understanding that Vanessa’s memory still lingered in every corner of his mind. But tonight, she wanted to remind him of how much he meant to her, how much she loved him. She could not erase his past, but she wanted to be a part of his future.

She grabbed her jacket and hurried out of the apartment, excitement bubbling in her chest as she made her way to Sister Margaret’s, the dingy bar where Wade spent most of his nights.

The cold night air nipped at her skin, but it did not dampen her spirits. She could already imagine the look on his face when she brought him back to the apartment, the smile that would light up his eyes, even if just for a moment.

As she approached the bar, the familiar neon sign buzzing overhead, she slowed her pace, hoping to catch Wade off guard. But as she drew closer, she noticed something that made her pause.

The air was thick with the lingering scent of spilled alcohol, sweat, and the faintest trace of cigarette smoke, remnants of a night that had long since died out.

Wade sat hunched over the bar, his mask discarded to the side. His scarred face was partially emphasised by the dim, yellow light above the counter, the harsh reality of his appearance laid bare in the quiet gloom.

He was nursing a glass of whiskey, but the drink had gone untouched for the last hour, its amber liquid barely rippling as he sat there, lost in thought.

They were seated at their usual spot at the bar, but the atmosphere between them was anything but casual.

Weasel leaned against the counter opposite Wade, his expression a mix of concern and frustration. They had been sitting in silence for what felt like an eternity, the heavy atmosphere weighing down on them both.

“We need to talk, Wade,” Weasel finally broke the silence, his voice low but firm. “And I’m not letting you dodge this one.”

Wade did not respond immediately, his eyes still fixed on the untouched whiskey in front of him. He let out a slow, tired sigh, running a hand over his face, feeling the rough texture of his scars under his fingertips. He knew where this was going, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for it.

“Do you genuinely love Y/n?” Weasel asked, his tone more direct now. “Or are you still hung up on Vanessa?”

The question hung in the air like a noose, tightening around Wade’s throat. He could feel the weight of it pressing down on him, but he couldn’t bring himself to look up, couldn’t bring himself to face Weasel’s probing gaze.

“Come on, man,” Weasel pushed, his frustration seeping through. “You’ve been with Y/n for a year now. She’s been there for you through all your shit, but you’re still acting like you’re half in, half out. What’s going on in that fucked-up avocado head of yours?”.

Wade exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening around the glass. He knew Weasel was right. Y/n had been his rock, his light in the darkness. But Vanessa…her memory clung to him like a second skin, a constant reminder of what he had lost and what he could not let go.

“Why do you have to dig so fucking deep, Weasel?” Wade muttered, finally lifting his gaze to meet Weasel’s. His voice was rough, laced with a bitterness that he could not quite hide.

“Because someone has to, Wade,” he shot back, his patience wearing thin. “Y/n deserves better than this. She deserves to know if you’re actually in this with her, or if you’re just using her to fill the void Vanessa left behind.”

Wade flinched at the harsh truth in Weasel’s words. He did not want to admit it, but a part of him knew that Y/n was getting the short end of the stick. She was kind, funny, and more understanding than anyone had any right to be. But he could not shake the feeling that he was just going through the motions, too scared to fully let go of Vanessa, even after all this time.

“What would you do if Vanessa walked through that door right now?” Weasel pressed, the question like a dagger twisting in Wade’s chest. “Would you drop everything and go back to her? Would you throw Y/n aside like she was nothing?”

The silence that followed was deafening. Wade opened his mouth to respond, but the words would not come. He did not know what he would do, and that uncertainty was tearing him apart.

His hands shook slightly as he finally took a sip of the whiskey, the burn of the alcohol doing nothing to numb the ache inside him.

“Fuck, Wade,” Weasel’s voice was laced with exasperation. “Why are you still hung up on Vanessa? She’s gone, man. Y/n is here, now. But if you can’t let go of the past, you need to let Y/n go. She deserves someone who’s all in, not someone who’s stuck living in the fucking shadows.”

Wade felt like he was suffocating, the walls of the bar closing in on him as Weasel’s words echoed in his mind. He knew Weasel was right. He knew he was being unfair to Y/n. But knowing it didn’t make it any easier to untangle the mess of feelings he had inside him.

In her panic, Y/n stumbled forward, her foot catching the edge of a loose floorboard. The creak was loud, too loud, and before she could stop herself, her presence was revealed. Wade and Weasel turned their heads towards the sound, their conversation abruptly cut off.

Y/n froze, her wide eyes meeting Wade’s for a split second before the crushing weight of realization hit her. The pain in her chest flared up, sharp and unyielding, as the reality of what she’d overheard began to settle in.

She had heard everything.

Wade’s heart dropped to the floor, the reality of the situation crashing down on him like a big wave. He had not wanted her to hear that. He had not wanted her to know just how conflicted he was, how much of a fucking mess he really was.

“Shit…” he breathed, the word barely audible as panic began to claw at the edges of his mind. His hands shook, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps as he watched Y/n’s expression crumble.

For a moment, everything seemed to stand still. The air was thick with unspoken words, the tension between them almost unbearable. Wade wanted to say something, to reach out and pull her back, to explain, to apologize- but he was frozen, unable to move, unable to find the right words.

Before either of them could move, before Wade could say anything, the sound of footsteps broke the tension. Dopinder appeared at the doorway, his usual cheerful smile plastered on his face as he walked in.

“Weasel, I’m done cleaning the toilets. You won't believe me that I haven’t puked-” Dopinder announced proudly, clearly pleased with himself, his voice cutting through the suffocating silence.

Weasel’s eyes went wide with panic as he snapped his head towards Dopinder, mouthing frantically, “Shut the fuck up, don't you dare!”

He gestured sharply, his wide eyes practically bulging out of his head as he tried to silently communicate the gravity of the situation.

Dopinder’s smile faltered as he caught on, his gaze shifting from Weasel to Wade, then to Y/n, who was already backing away, her face twisted in pain.

“Uh… I’ll, uh… be going now…” Dopinder stammered awkwardly, his previous cheer vanishing as he quickly turned on his heel and disappeared back to the bathroom stalls.

The room fell back into a heavy silence, the weight of what had just happened crashing down on Wade as he turned his attention back to Y/n, who was already starting to retreat, her steps shaky and unsteady.

“Y/n, wait!” Wade’s voice cracked as he stumbled to his feet, knocking over the barstool in his haste. The sudden movement made his vision blur, his head spinning as the panic attack tightened its grip on him.

The world around her blurred as she shoved open the bar’s back door, the night air hitting her like a wall. She kept running, her legs carrying her further away from the bar, from Wade, from everything she thought she knew.

He pushed through the hallway, his heart pounding in his chest, the walls closing in on him with every step. His breath came in short, hectic bursts, his lungs struggling to keep up as he tried to catch up to her. The cold night air hit him like a slap to the face as he burst out of the bar and onto the empty street.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Wade cursed under his breath, his vision narrowing to a pinpoint as he spotted Y/n running down the street. His legs felt like they were made of lead, each step a monumental effort as he tried to push through the haze of panic that was clouding his mind.

Y/n was running blindly, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps as she fought to keep the rising panic at bay. The cold air stung her lungs, but she didn’t care. She just needed to get away, to escape the crushing weight of what she’d heard, of the pain that was suffocating her.

Her mind was spinning, her heart pounding so hard it felt like it was going to burst. Every breath was a struggle, the air thick and heavy as she tried to hold back the tears that blurred her vision. She could not breathe, could not think- the world was closing in on her, the shadows pressing down until she felt like she was drowning.

Wade was still chasing after her, his own panic attack crashing over him like a fucking freight train. His chest felt like it was being crushed, the air refusing to stay in his lungs as his vision darkened at the edges, the world spinning out of control.

The cool night air did nothing to ease the fire raging in her chest. Her vision blurry, dark spots dancing at the edges as her breathing became more erratic. The street was mostly empty, the distant sounds of the city muted against the blood rushing in her ears.

Y/n stumbled to a stop, her hands clutching at her chest as she gasped for air, her vision narrowing to a pinpoint of light surrounded by suffocating darkness. Panic had gripped her entirely now, her mind racing with the realization that she would never truly had Wade’s heart.

He was still lost in his past, in his memories of Vanessa. And where did that leave her? Nowhere, just a placeholder, a stand-in for a love that was never hers to begin with.

Her legs buckled, and she collapsed onto the cold, hard pavement, her body trembling as she tried to suck in air, but it felt like her lungs were being crushed under an unbearable weight. Tears spilled down her cheeks, her sobs echoing through the empty street, each one more desperate than the last.

“Y/n!” he shouted, his voice barely more than a rasp, swallowed by the night as he pushed himself harder, his heart hammering in his chest like it was trying to break free.

But it was too late.

As Y/n tries to stand up and moving back, her foot caught on the uneven pavement, sending her stumbling into the street. The blinding headlights of an oncoming truck cut through the darkness, the screech of tires filling the air as the driver slammed on the brakes-

But it was too late.

The world seemed to slow down, everything happening in agonizing detail as Y/n’s body crumpled beneath the impact. The sound of the collision echoed through the empty street, a sickening thud that made Wade’s heart stop in his chest.

“NO!” Wade’s scream was raw, filled with a pain that tore through him like a blade. He felt like he was being ripped apart from the inside as he watched the woman he loved be ripped away from him by death yet again.

He collapsed to his knees beside her lifeless body, his hands trembling violently as he reached out, his fingers brushing against her skin, still warm but rapidly cooling. Blood pooled around her, seeping into the cracks of the pavement, the red stark against the cold, unyielding concrete.

Wade’s vision blurred, his chest heaving with ragged breaths that did nothing to ease the crushing weight on his chest. The panic attack had him in its grip, squeezing tighter and tighter until he thought his heart was going to fucking explode.

“Fuck…no, no, no, no…” Wade choked out, his voice breaking as he cradled Y/n’s body, rocking back and forth as the reality of what had just happened crashed over him.

He could not breathe, could not think- the world was spinning out of control, the edges of his vision going dark as he was consumed by the panic, the grief, the overwhelming sense of loss that was suffocating him.

And as the night stretched on, the silence was broken only by Wade’s broken sobs, echoing through the empty street as he held Y/n close, the weight of everything he’d lost crashing down on him, leaving him utterly, devastatingly alone.

Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat echoing in her ears, drowning out the background noise. She felt her throat tighten as she strained to hear Wade’s response, the heavy words sinking deep into her chest. But there was nothing-just a deep, unsettling quiet.

#Spotify #deadpool #deadpool 3 #deadpool 2 #fanfic #story #wade wilson #marvel #angst #marvel angst #y/n #deadpool x reader #wade wilson x reader #marvel fanfiction

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niishii · 1 year ago

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you snooze, you lose—fraken stein x fem!reader insert

Summary; in which stein attemps to find you guilty of sleeping while grading papers.

Warnings; none, just fluff!

Authors note; ask and you shall receive. thank you all for voting in my latest poll! expect another one soon!

"Getting sleepy, aren't we?"

You lifted your head from the stack of papers on your desk that were desperately in need of being graded. "Not at all. I'm just resting my eyes," you said, picking up the red pen that had somehow slipped from your fingers.

Stein scoffed, rolling towards your desk in the chair he sat in backwards. "Yeah, right, sleepy," he said, poking your cheek. "I saw you drooling."

Lazily, you slapped his hand away. "In your dreams, cheater. At least I'm actually grading papers." Playfully, you snatched the unlit cigarette from his lips and tossed it in the trashcan next to you. "Also, there's no smoking in my classroom."

Like a lost puppy, he braced his chin on his wrists and pouted, easing forward until his chair hit the front of your desk. You were now face to face with him, though you lowered your head back down to the essay you were in the middle of grading - right before he could place a kiss on your lips.

"But, I finished grading," he replied in playful defense.

You lifted your head and looked past his shoulder at the numerous stacks of paper haphazardly towered over a smooth wooden surface. You lifted a brow at your opponent.

"Okay...so I only graded one stack," he added quickly, sitting up in his chair, blocking your view of the mountain of papers behind him. "But at least I haven't snored yet."

"I do not snore," you said defensively as he began to laugh. In the midst of his contagious laughter, he threw his head back, the ceiling light reflecting off of his glasses. Before he could compose himself, he slipped and the chair went down with him in a loud crash.

Smirking, you peered over your desk at your boyfriend on the floor. Your chin resting in your palm.

"Aha! So you were sleeping!" He pointed at you from below, adjusting his glasses as if the chair had packed a good punch to his face on his way down.

"You have no proof," You said simply before standing from your chair. You turned to face the blackboard and began erasing your notes in hopes of getting more energy circulating through your veins.

"Ah, but I do, pretty," he replied, pulling himself to his feet. He wiped the dust from his lab coat and clumsily stepped over the squeaky chair before making his way towards you. Wordlessly, he took your wrist, the one erasing notes from the board, and held it up. "Exhibit A."

His thumb ran over the imprint marks from you leaning on your spiral bound notebook. The marks ran from the back of your hand to your forearm.

"So?" You gently took your wrist back and faced the board again. "Doesn't mean I was sleeping."

"Exhibit B," he said, continuing his charade. He reached out to touch your chin, gently turning your head to face him. His thumb swept just below your eyes. "Large pupils, droopy eyelids."

"Which indicate what, Stein?"

Stein smirked and whispered, "Sleep deprivation," before kissing your cheek.

You stifled a soft laugh and turned your chin away from his grasp. You playfully rolled your eyes despite the heat rising to your cheeks.

"And what's your final submission of evidence?" You asked before using your other hand to stifle an untimely yawn.

"Exhibit C," he said, pointing at you with a smirk.

Playfully, you swatted at him like he was a pesky fly, but he dodged your attempts easily. "Good thing you're a scientist," you mumbled in between yawns and giggles. "Because you'd be a terrible lawyer."

Nodding in agreement, he took both your cheeks in his hollowed hands and placed a kiss on your lips.

"Yeah, right. I'd be a fantastic lawyer, and you know it."

#soul eater fanfiction #soul eater x reader #soul eater x reader insert #soul eater stein #franken stein x reader #fraken stein x reader insert #stein x you #stein x y/n #niishii #soul eater #soul eater fic #soul eater fandom #stein x reader #anime fanfic #anime fanfiction #souleater #soul eater x reader #soul eater x y/n

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hanafubukki · 9 months ago

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“He’s so cute! Silver! Silver! Look!”

You and Silver were studying at a local cafè for your university exams.

Silver took a glance to the right, “That’s my dad.”

“There’s no way! He doesn’t look old at all!”

“Mhm, he gets that a lot.”

“The one next to him is cute too.”

“That’s my father.”

“Oh come on! You’re going to say the toaster is your mother next!”

Silver tapped you on the head with his pencil.

“So they are together?”

“They are not.”

You gaped at him.

Silver continued writing in his workbook.

“How?”

“It’s…complicated.”

You sighed, knowing you wouldn’t get anything beyond that with him so focused on his work.

You focused on your own.

“Soooo…do you think I still have a chance?”

You dodged the eraser sent your way, laughing at the look Silver gave you.

“Fiiinnnee~ I’ll focus.”

Silver watched as you zoned into your studies before looking at the counter where his father and dad are; you weren’t any wiser to the looks they gave you.

He sighed.

He’ll let you three handle whatever it was in the making. You were all adults.

…but he wasn’t going to call you a parent.

@coraldelusiondaze always says I have a thing for Silver’s dads and this came to mind 😂

Her video also influenced this 🤣🤣

#I keep forgetting to post this 😂 take it before I forget again 🤣#I like teasing and making fun of silver 😂 I think it’s cute #lilia vanrouge #twst knight of dawn x reader x lilia vanrouge #twst knight of dawn #twst knight of dawn x reader #lilia vanrouge x reader #twst silver #silver vanrouge #twst drabble #twst scenarios #twst fluff #ot3 coffee shop au

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leclercsainzz · 10 months ago

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RIGHT PERSON, WRONG TIME

— 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: not much, just a small series collection of taylor swift’s songs with the formula one drivers

in which they say that timing is everything when it comes to love, and that sometimes the right person can come into your life at the wrong time

➝ f1 drivers

→ → → → → → → → → → → → →

i. 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐋𝐄𝐂𝐋𝐄𝐑𝐂 - red

— “losing him was blue, like i’d never known … missing him was dark gray, all alone … forgetting him was like trying to know somebody you never met, but loving him was red”

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: as time passed and they went their separate ways, the intensity of that love faded into a dull ache of longing and regret

ii. 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐙 - champagne problems

— “she would’ve made such a lovely bride, what a shame she’s fucked in the head”

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: in the end, she couldn’t bring herself to say “yes” to his proposal

iii. 𝐌𝐀𝐗 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐍 - the way i loved you

— “you were wild and crazy … just so frustrating, intoxicating, complicated got away by some mistake”

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: despite knowing the fact that they aren’t good for each other, they can’t help but want each other

iv. 𝐋𝐄𝐖𝐈𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐎𝐍 - cardigan

— “i knew you’d miss me once the thrill expired”

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: in which memories of their time together come flooding back, making it hard to fully move on

v. 𝐆𝐄𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐄 𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐋 - my tears ricochet

— “and you’re tossing out blame, drunk on this pain crossing out the good years”

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: in which his bitterness and resentment erase the moments of happiness they once shared

vi. 𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐄𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐎 - i don’t want to live forever

— “i’m sitting eyes wide open and i got one thing stuck in my mind, wondering if i dodged a bullet or just lost the love of my life”

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: in which she might’ve dodged a bullet, but he certainly lost the love of his life

vii. 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐒 - i bet you think about me

— “i bet you think about me when you’re out at your cool indie music concerts every week”

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: they’re over, but that doesn’t stop him from thinking about her every now and then

viii. 𝐎𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑 𝐏𝐈𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈 - you’re losing me

— “my heart won’t start anymore for you ‘cause you’re losing me”

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: in which she’s slowly falling out of love

ix. 𝐏𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐄 𝐆𝐀𝐒𝐋𝐘 - mr. perfectly fine

— “how’s your heart after breakin’ mine?”

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: despite being the one who ended things, he’s more heartbroken than she is

x. 𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐁𝐀𝐍 𝐎𝐂𝐎𝐍 - the great war

— “i vowed not to fight anymore if we survived the great war”

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: many of them did not survive the great war of heartbreak, and unfortunately, they were among those who did not make it through”

xi. 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐋 - exile

— “all this time, i never learned to read your mind … i couldn’t turn things around”

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: “he was so focused on his own feelings and needs that he failed to notice the subtle hints she was trying to send

xii. 𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐗 𝐀𝐋𝐁𝐎𝐍 - right where you left me

— “you left me no choice but to stay here forever”

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: in which she’s still at the restaurant

xiii. 𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐀𝐍 𝐒𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐓 - happiness

— “no one teaches you what to do when a good man hurts you and you know you hurt him too”

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: in which they both deeply hurt each other

xiv. 𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑 - better man

— “push my love away like it was some kind of loaded gun”

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: she’d been hurt many times before and didn’t want to risk getting hurt again, so she pushed his love away and caused more heartbreak

xv. 𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐌 𝐋𝐀𝐖𝐒𝐎𝐍 - bigger than the whole sky

— “what could’ve been, would’ve been, what should’ve been”

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: what could’ve, would’ve, or should’ve been the one for her, but sometimes things don’t work out as you hope

xvi. 𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎 𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐎 - sad beautiful tragic

— “distance, timing, breakdowns, fighting … silence, the train runs off its tracks”

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: maybe it was the distance that kept them apart, or the timing that always seemed to be off

author’s note: helloooo! so i decided to start a new series:) i got inspired by some of @love-belle series of the drivers, so make sure to check her page out:))

i’ll still be posting request that you guys have sent in … if you have sent requests, don’t worry i’ll get to them eventually 😊

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specialagentlokitty · 7 months ago

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Aizawa x reader - let the world burn

A/N: another idea given to my by @nyxiethesimp ��

Standing just behind Aizawa, you kept your back to his, watching the villain in front of you while he watched the one in front of him.

“How adorable! Trying to protect each other!” The villain laughed.

You sneered a little, throwing a black flaming ball straight to the villain who simply dodged out of the way.

“We can do this all day.” Aizawa growled.

The other villain laughed slightly.

Vigilante and hero working together, who would’ve thought the day would come!” He snickered.

You narrowed your eyes a little bit, and you felt Aizawa tense up a little bit behind you at the mention of vigilante.

The villains both hummed a little bit.

“Didn’t the great Blazer, and the underground hero Eraserhead used to get along so well? I wonder what happened…” one of them smirked.

You felt Aizawa tense up again, and you kept glaring, flames crawling up your arms.

You kept your back to his tightly, eyes boring into the villain.

“Let me ask you this.” One villain said.

The other smirked.

“If you had to pick between saving the other, or saving the world, what would you pick? Remember there’s only one right answer.” The other villain smirked.

“A hero will save the world.” Aizawa spat.

You stood up a little taller, flames engulfing your body and his, he looked at the black flames warming his hands, it didn’t burn like he thought.

“I’d let the world burn…” you said lowly.

Your flames erupted around you even more as you took a step forward.

“I’d let the world burn for you.” You said coldly.

You lunged at the villain in front of you, grabbing him by his face, you spun around, throwing him straight into the other one, and you walked in front of Aizawa.

Your flames and taken over your body, he couldn’t see anything but your back, and your flames still surrounded him.

“I’d watch it all burn for him.” You growled.

The villains both smirked madly as they stood up, getting ready to fight.

Aizawa had to put a stop to this, before you did something you would regret.

He couldn’t erase your quirk, because that’s when the villains would attack you, and he realised they had him where they wanted him.

You lunged forward to attack the villains, jumping behind them and you placed your hands on the backs, tilting your head back a little.

“I’ll watch the ashes of this world fall if he asked me to… I’d set it on fire…”

The villains laughed even more, and behind you could kill them, you were thrown back by another hero.

You rolled a couple of times and stood up on your feet, Aizawa had erased your quirk and you looked at him.

He stepped forward.

“That’s enough.” He warned.

You pulled out two daggers from your belt and held them as you looked at him.

“I really would let the world burn for you.”

Aizawa sighed, putting his hands in his pockets, looking at you.

“I know… and that’s what scares me…”

He walked over, placing his hands over yours, pushing the daggers down.

You looked at him.

“Stop this…”

“Why?”

“Because this isn’t who you are (Y/N).”

You lower your hands a little bit more, and he stepped closer, his head next to yours as he whispered in your ear.

“I’ll keep the world safe, so you don’t have to let it burn for me…”

You smiled a little bit, resting your chin on his shoulder.

Two years it had been since you had last properly seen him, two years since you two had broken up, and you turned your back on the hero society.

Aizawa placed a hand on your back, gripping the back of your jacket.

“I’m sorry…”

With that, he swiftly knocked you out, catching you in his arms, lowering you to the floor.

He didn’t want to hurt you, but he couldn’t let you go back to being a vigilante, he couldn’t go back to trying to chase after you and trying to be one step behind.

Because what scared him was that one day you would actually burn down the world just for him even though he never asked you to

#my hero academia x you #my hero academia x reader #my hero academia imagine #my hero academia #mha #mha x reader #mha x you #mha x y/n #mha imagine #Aizawa #aizawa x reader #aizawa x y/n #aizawa x you #Aizawa imagine

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morganski-19 · 4 months ago

Text

The One With the Stupid Frat Boy

(flashback to how Steve and Robin became friends)

Robin’s not exactly sure why she showed up to this party. Or how she ended up smack dab in the middle of make out city. A mission that started out trying to get something not disgusting in her cup turning into dodging couples left and right.

She should honestly just go home. Back to her dorm room after finding the roommate that dragged her here. Said she had to get a life and not just study every day. Robin didn’t come to college to fuck around. And so what, she likes to study. Learning a new language was fun for her, she could already speak four fluently, what’s one more.

“You look lost,” a random guy with blond hair says to her. A slur to his words. “If you need help finding somewhere quiet to sit in for a while, I could help you with that.”

Robin swallows the want to throw up. “I’d rather you show me the nearest dumpster than go anywhere alone with you.”

“Woah, freaky.” The guy clearly doesn’t get the hint. He gets so close that Robin can smell the alcohol on his breath. “That’s ok, I’m into freaky chicks.”

“Ew, gross,” Robin pushes him away. “If your brain worked for two seconds, you would clearly see that I’m not interested.”

Whatever type of face the guy was trying to make before turns sour. “You didn’t have to be so rude about it, jeez. I was just trying to be nice.”

“You can be nice without trying to get in my pants. Which I have already said I’m not interested in. You can go fuck off now.” She shoos him away with her free hand.

“Hey, listen here, bitch.”

A hand comes between Robin and the guy, pushing him away from her. Another guy stepping between them, shielding Robin from whatever insults where about to be thrown her way.

“Back off, Chad, she’s clearly not interested,” the new guy with what appears to be a few braincells says. He crosses his arms, making himself into a calm but large presence.

Chad starts to say something, but cuts himself off with an eyeroll. Finally walking away and leaving Robin alone.

The new guy scoffs, whispering, “Asshole.” He turns around to face Robin, face softening in a way that makes her feel safer than she has all night. “You ok?”

“Yeah,” she says more shaken than she would like to admit. “Just another asshole, right.”

“Right.” He holds out his hand in front of him. “I’m Steve.”

Robin shakes his hand with an intrigued expression. “Robin.”

A group of people walk behind her and, accidentally, someone bumps into her. Making her trip forward and spill what was left of her drink down her shirt.

“Fuck,” she says, fruitlessly wiping the stain with the back of her hand. “Tonight really is a load of shit.”

Steve very gently puts a hand on her upper back, leading her gently to an empty bathroom. “Don’t swear it all off yet. You never know, you could meet a really hot girl that could turn it all around.”

The bathroom door shuts behind him with a lock. Steve immediately crouches down to look around in the cabinet under the sink. Giving Robin some relief as the situation finally registers in her brain.

She was locked in a bathroom with some random guy she just met minutes ago. Realistically, she should be freaking out about this. But she’s not. Instead, she laughs when Steve makes a little victorious sound and emerges with an almost empty roll of paper towels and a stain eraser. Handing both of them to her and turning to sit on the toilet.

No pressure, no expectation. Just doing something kind for a stranger.

“Is that hope for finding a hot girl for me or for you,” Robin says. Wetting a paper towel, starting to dab at the stain on her shirt.

Steve snorts. “Mainly for you. I’m sort of seeing someone right now and I’m not a cheating asshole.”

“How’d you know I liked girls.”

“I recognized you from the LGBTQ+ student alliance club. I try to attend meetings when I can, but my practices get in the way for most of them.”

“I thought you looked familiar. That makes so much sense now. If you were straight, I probably would have punched you in the face right now.”

That makes Steve laugh. “I hope you’d give me a better treatment than most. Even when I thought I was straight, I still respected people’s sexualities.”

“Who are you seeing, another member of the club?”

“No, she doesn’t have the time. You might know her if you read the school paper, Nancy Wheeler. She’s too busy trying to whip that into shape along with the million other clubs she’s in to be an official member.”

“And she won’t care that you’re currently locked in a bathroom at a house party with a random girl?”

Steve laughs again, like he’s talking with an old friend. “Like I said, I’m not a cheating asshole and she knows that. And you’re a lesbian, so I’d be doing a terrible job if I was.”

Robin abandons trying to get the alcohol out of her shirt. She leans on the wall, sighing and letting her head hit it. “As nice as this conversation has been, I think I’m going to head home. Try and beat my roommate there so she can’t bring any guys back and kick me out. Even though she will still try.”

Steve makes the most judgmental face known to man. “One of those?”

Robin nods with a snort.

“Could be worse, she could do it even if you were in the room. Not fun, let me tell you.” He stands. “Come on, I’ll walk you home. Don’t need any more frat guys hitting on you.”

Robin follows Steve as he breaks a path through the crowd. Feeling the intense relief when the night air hits her. They walk beside each other to the freshman dorms.

“How did you know Chad anyway? You don’t seem like the guy to hang out with assholes.”

“You’d might be surprised to learn that I am a reformed asshole. Different than the one Chad is, but still an ass. You can thank Nancy for knocking me out of that. But me and him met last year when I was looking to join his frat. We actually hooked up at a party last semester.”

“No way,” she gapes.

Steve nods. “Yes way. Not good, let me tell you. Way too cocky and full of himself.”

“See, this is why I date women. We have a much better track record of reciprocating pleasure.”

“Not all of us are terrible, some of us know how to give a good time.”

Robin comes to a stop in front of the door to her building. “Well, this is it.”

“Here, give me your phone for a second.” Steve holds out his hand, where Robin places her phone. He finds her contacts app and types in his number. “Let me know when you get back into your dorm. I’ll come save you if your roommate brings anyone back.”

“Don’t need you saving me twice in one night, I can handle myself.”

“Oh, I’m sure of it.” He pauses. “But, if you ever wanted someone to talk to, it’s there. Not going to force you or anything, but I had a good time talking to you tonight. I think that we could be really good friends. If you gave me a chance.”

Robin rolls her eyes. “And texting some random guy I met at a party is such a great way to make friends?”

Steve holds up his hands in defense, walking away backwards. “You said it not me.”

He runs into a bush behind him, cursing and making Robin laugh. She waves goodbye and scans her ID to get into the door. Immediately pulling out her phone when she gets to her dorm to text Steve.

Tag list (let me know if you want to be added or taken off) @slowandsteddie, @annieofhearts, @cacdyke, @ubpd, @captain--low,

@thespaceantwhowrites, @goodolefashionedloverboi, @anne-bennett-cosplayer, @lunaticparisianlady,

@apomaro-mellow, @dolphincliffs, @dragonmama76, @maggiebug417, @stevesbipanic,

@fearieshadow, @eightpackdiaz, @au79burger @bookworm0690 , @practicallybegging,

@potato-of-the-lord, @autumncrocusandladybug, @estrellami-1, @ilovecupcakesandtea, @gregre369

@my2amgaythoughts, @ellietheasexylibrarian, @emmabubbles, @eriquin, @grtwdsmwhr

@croatoan-like-its-hot

#morgan's friends au #stranger things #stranger things fanfic #stranger things au #modern au #friends au #steve harrington #robin buckley #platonic stobin #no matter the universe stobin will have an important friendship milestone in a bathroom #mark my words

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mi-i-zori · 3 months ago

Text

Lies of Apathy

CoD - Demon!AU - Demon!Ghost x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS : She should have started running a long time ago. But they’re one and the same. No matter how far she goes, she always comes back to him. And the demon knows how to find her.

WARNINGS : Heavy angst with very small comfort, allusions to self-harm, mentions of smut (with consent), blood, description of panic attacks. There are a lot of religious metaphors that come from many, many religions, but none of them is directly mentioned.

Author’s Note : This is something I originally wrote in my native language a while ago, but ended up getting lost in my files because I had no idea what to do with it. So I used it as both a translation and writing practice. Hope you like it !

I do not give anyone permission to re-publish, re-use and/or translate my work, be it here or on any other platform, including AI.

Word Count : 12k+

Run. Dodge. Strike. Kill.

Beyond the turquoise shine of the firmament, a mayhem hides.

Waiting to awaken.

It longs for destruction, wishing to make our world and its peace a crude copy of the original Pandemonium. Lost in the soft, spectral feathers of a Fallen, a crimson suffering leaks, drops and runs, engraving its cruel wails into the bones of those who dare hear them. Those who only see it as an incarnation of love.

Oh, how tragic it can be, that imitation of kindness forging those who are supposed to guide the lost souls to the other side of the river ! In the blood of an Angel dance the names of countless minor deities bathing in their corrupted altruism - something the Ghost knows too well.

Sometimes, he remembers how he’s not supposed to be, for the memories of his origins have been erased by a never-ending hatred and despair.

In front of him, the young Hunter falls to her knees, facing the ruins of her own happiness. A peculiar fear tears a whimper from her knotted throat, and the idea of praying before this dilapidated shrine, created by a merciless Divine, leaves a rotten taste on what’s left of her tastebuds. A nameless exhaustion claws at her face, tries to drag her down the abyss of her subconscious. Her heart crumbles upon a way too familiar weight, and her breath gallops erratically in her lungs, her chest threatening to cave in under the ever-growing despair tainting her tears.

Knowing said despair is akin to drowning in its breast, to familiarise yourself with its screeching song and bury your bloodied eardrums among its decaying notes. In this very moment, a monster holds her with a renewed form of frenesy, and something inside of her cannot seem to wriggle out of the thorns covering its arms.

Around her, a baritone voice echoes from the darkness.

- Beautiful sight, it says. Small, vulnerable ya, prostrated in a field o’ ruins. ‘Ow many statues of ‘ope did ya build ‘ere, only for ‘em to instantly be destroyed ?

A familiar silhouette emerges from the nothingness facing her. She doesn’t answer to its usual sarcasm - instead, she allows her heart to bleed one more drop on the cracks littering the ground.

- Wot are ya prayin’ for, this time ? The entity asks as he stops next to her, crossing his arms on his chest. Maybe I can ‘elp.

His words awaken a wave of uncontrollable shivers in her guts. An violent earthquake, cold and cackling. Its growls bounce around her vocal cords as her nails dig into her palms.

- I’m not praying, she says from in-between her clenched teeth, her eyes falling upon the remnants of something she can’t bring herself to recognize. The Gods will never lift a finger when it comes to listening to a Fallen Soul.

The Ghost kneels before her crumpled form, the skull covering his face glinting in the darkness. A long time ago, seeing him like this, lowered at her own level, would have satisfied her ; showered her in a grandeur a part of her has always wished to know, laced with a taste of Paradise. Now, it’s nothing more than sickening. His smile, given away by the obvious crinkling of his eyes, brings a storm of Chaos in her already fractured mind, and she wonders if she’ll ever be able to forget this feeling. Trembling hands rise to grip the short strands of blonde hair of the Fallen, dragging him down to properly face her snarl.

- You poor, pitiful bastard. Why do you keep laughing at me as if it’s all your life has been reduced to ?

She wants her voice to be sharp and cruel ; but it only sounds lifeless, washed away by her exhaustion. The rough edges of a laugh bark inside the abyss of her skull. Her muscles suddenly tense like bowstrings, tightening her grip on his hair.

- Ya think Beasts were once made to live the grandest o’ lives ?

Her jaw snaps shut. Before she even realises it, her arms fall abruptly to her side, their strength devoured by the demon’s words.

- Or do ya think your Destiny is only made o’ ruins ?

The smile dancing in his eyes is much softer now, and it’s as if he had lost the usual malice lingering in his heart. Her own heart skips a beat at the sight, so out of place among such devastating surroundings. It’s a terrifying thing to point out, she thinks, probably the most acrid of all.

Blood covered lips twist in uncertain disgust at the thought.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Kill.

She hates him. She hates him. She hates him.

A metallic flavour melts on her tongue, crude and molten, burning her senses through the gut-wrenching wish to fearlessly face his playful, mocking truths. She can barely feel her limbs ; but she feels the bruises blooming on her skin, born from the war and chaos she keeps tearing through on the daily. In the Ghost’s eyes, the mix of such somber colours, full of meaning and ache, holds a beauty he’s never been able to name.

Her clothes get heavier under the amount of blood pooling through their fibres ; but so do his, and neither of them could tell which crimson belongs to whom. The thought carves a smile behind his mask - doesn’it it make it all so much more interesting ?

- One day, she snarls, you’ll be judged.

An endless cacophony of whistles drills through her head. She knows nothing of the issue of their fight ; but it won’t stop her from clawing at both her freedom and her peace. She fishes her weapon out of the decaying puddles rippling around her knees, and holds it at his throat.

- And I’ll bury you a thousands times under the weight lining the Jackal’s scales.

The entity looks at the blade with mocking interest. A spark of danger dances in his lifeless eyes, only growing brighter as they lock onto hers. He notices the way her features are pulled tight by a bottomless rage. Disarming her is simple, done in the blink of an eye, and he wonders if she’s really going down the path that will lead her to surrender. If she’ll do it willingly, or if she’s still going to fight - if so, how long do they have left ? He knows this question has also crossed her mind, sees it in the tremble of her hands. Even like this, now laying under him like a mouse under a wolf, he finds the young woman to be more than a mesmerizing sight.

She could easily be mistaken for some kind of divinity, he thinks, and it almost makes him laugh. The sounds, unfamiliar and rough, mimics the memory of what used to be a beating heart in the depths of his chest.

How long ago was it ? The last time he ever felt alive ?

Did he ever ?

Now, he’s supposed to be close to death - or a vessel for it, even. A being of rage and torment, made for walking in a world of destruction and pain, for leaving a path of decay in his wake. He feels it all, yet he isn’t allowed to die. A part of him probably wishes he was ; but he forgot about it since the moment it was sent to lay dormant beyond his consciousness. He doesn’t even know if he’ll ever be able to find it again. If it still exists.

His attention zeroes back in on the desperate soul laying in front of him. The armor she keeps covering herself with is has once again been reduced to shreds by their never-ending fights. There isn’t an inch of her skin that hasn’t been covered in dirt. He takes in the sight before lowering his face next to hers, his rough whisper floating in her ear.

- Oh, lil’ Snowflake.

I can’t wait.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Fight.

Tonight, her favourite restaurant is filled to the brim.

The happiness of her family’s voice gets lost in the cacophony floating through the room. Everything around her is blurred with exhaustion ; but his presence is crystal clear. Behind her, sitting in the shadows of a decorative curtain, the Ghost is patiently waiting for an opportunity to strike. The more time passes, the more easily she can see him in her mind. It’s a stupid game - one they both keep playing, wondering who will break and speak first. Allow the other in.

Maybe the day will come when they finally become one - simultaneously taking a bite of the poisoned apple.

This cruel temptation may be the reason why she’s cursed, she thinks, an invisible wall slowly forming between her world and the one spreading in front of her, filled with the laughter of her loved ones. Her life is made of painful memories, witnesses of a will to live that never really was. The idea that her future could be the same, tainted with the kind of horrors nobody else can see, is terrifying - injects even more corruption in her veins, lungs and bones. A rusty sword dangles above her neck, ready to cut one half of her existence and leave the other to suffer through a ruthless agony, trapped under the weight of its metallic carcass.

She’s not yet ready to drown in her own damnation, but the somber waters never cease to rise. The black tide finds pleasure in torturing her, filling her trachea to the brim before throwing her back to the surface. It cackles madly as she drags her disjointed puppet of a body on the shore, proud of the violence it keeps subjecting her to.

When she thinks about it, the young woman often realises how far back in time this curse goes. It seems to plunge its roots in her very origins, as if vowing to forever haunt her dreams with visions of madness, horrifying and useless prophecies that could have made sense had she been born in humanity’s most ancient of times. But the old Oracles are no more. So she swallows the twisted sights piling in her soul, and fills her daily life with empty smiles. A normality that was never hers.

Her demons were born alongside her. And they will never meet their end unless she succumbs to her own fall.

She saw many strange things and fought an equal amount of nightmares ; she shouldn’t allow any of this to affect her so badly. But it’s in her nature to think and feel, way too much even, which makes her an easy prey to the eyes of Those Who Fell. One of them trails behind her, melts within her shadow. He wants to devour her life even more than any of the others will, and refuse to let her breathe. He knows which string to pinch in order to make her fall, which melody to play to stir up her rage. He forces her to run within his -her- darkness, to get lost in its endless expanse, to confuse herself until she doesn’t know which path she is following anymore ; abandon or redemption. Like an offspring of Eris, he finds pleasure in throwing the apple of discord between her and the world she desperately tries to belong to.

His very presence used to terrify her. But time decided to drop some hatred in the bottomless goblet of her fears, birthing a futile perseverance at the bottom of her guts.

A few seconds fly past her eyes before the vacant chair to her left silently creaks under the invisible weight of the entity. As always when he manifests himself in public, she barely spares him a glance. A part of her wonders if he would act the same, should the roles be reversed. She came to find a peculiar kind of comfort in his freezing presence and the familiar thoughts he brings.

In front of her, her uncle barks out a laugh at a waiter’s joke, tearing her away from her thoughts. Leaning forward to examine the enticing content of her newly-delivered plate, she feels the demon do the same against her back, reminding her of his presence through the cacophony of her thoughts. Usually, she would curse him without hesitation. But right now, this is not something she can afford to do ; not when she has to play pretend in front of her family’s peace.

An invisible hand settles on her wrist as her free hand rises a spoonful of rice to her mouth, allowing the Ghost to measure her tired heartbeat. It sometimes launches itself to a full gallop whenever she has to speak or a sudden crash emerges from the restaurant’s kitchen. Following the same rhythm as the drumming in her ears. The bloodied melody always takes its time to fall back to a steadier beat, and the thoughts that follows hold a suffering the Ghost likes to decipher.

A secret message. A call for help, written in the trickiest of codes.

What a beautiful song, he thinks, burning with chaos ; and the young woman barely restrains the twist of her features when his mockery echoes in her already overflowing mind, threatening to worsen the migraine lingering around her skull.

How good is it to fight anyway ? She sometimes murmurs to herself, shutting off the cackles echoing in the back of her mind. Is the darkness really that bad ?

Maybe her feelings are getting the best of her. Maybe the idea of surrendering to the enemy’s claws comes from the loneliness nesting behind her heart, the one pushing her to more or less willingly seek the Ghost’s company. Maybe she’s simply imagining the spark of sympathy that sometimes dances in his gaze. A part of her insists that there can’t be any light without darkness, and vice versa ; but maybe she’s just reading in-between lines that don’t even exist.

Maybe all these thoughts are the result of another manipulative ambush orchestrated by her demons.

To hell with all those beings made of impurity and fake divinity ! She exclaims silently while laughing at a story she didn’t really hear. Those monsters corrupting the innocents’ dreams, immolating them with waves upon waves of sinful flames, leaving a salty, rotten taste on the remnants of their tongues ! They find happiness in Their victims’ despair, cooing at the ruins of their broken hopes, recalling the misadventures of Icarus and the other mortals They disgraced with Their attention. Be careful to not burn yourself, they cackle and rasp. The phoenix went extinct eons ago ; it’s now impossible to come back from your ashes.

Lie, little dream, lie, the Divine laughs ceaselessly as she surrenders herself to a hopeless optimism. Why not hide yourself behind an illusion ?

Lie, little dream, lie. Why not become a nightmare ?

Run. Dodge. Strike. Fight.

Sometimes, she wonders if her throat isn’t laced with a red string - the kind that, one day, will inevitably be the end of her.

She often turns around to catch a glimpse of it, in an elusive reflection in the mirror, or in the corner of her vision. She read dozens of stories worshiping it as the proof that true love is far from being a myth, saying that seeing it means one’s soulmate is nearby. But only in dreams can such things really exist.

And, sometimes, even dreams can lie.

For the spectre of her destiny created the thread with a mix of love and hate, of strength and cowardice ; a foreign intimacy made to drown them as one. The kind of thing that, should she ever share it with the world, would only be the source of laughter and disdain. She would probably be punished for her lack of gratitude for the life she was given.

Each breath is constantly filled with a bloodcurdling fear of simply existing. Her body never ceases to quake, trapping air in the expanse of her lungs and struggling to let it out. A thousand bear-traps snap at her flesh as she tries to keep pursuing her future, this vision she never really manages to see clearly. She sometimes think about tightening the string around her throat, deepen its colour with the moisture of her own blood ; yet it seems content with just grazing her skin in a satire of love, constantly feeding the frustration nestled in her breast. She never knows if it will ever be merciful enough to slash her neck open.

The Ghost holding the other side of the crimson line is dangerous, murmurs a voice resembling her own. One wrong move would be enough for him to send her over the edge. A clumsy step to the side. A benevolent mistake.

She often notices the small knot clashing with the dull porcelain of his skin. He likes teasing her by wrapping the string around his palm, adding enough pressure to have it leave a rugged caress on her neck ; to remind her of its presence. She loathes the cruel smile that carves his face open when he catches her off-guard, causing her to lift her hand towards her own knot.

She despises them all : him, the world, her Destiny. And she hates her own inability to get rid of the miasma plaguing her mind ; the way her empathy whimpers whenever her eyes follow the never-ending scars mapping the body of the Ghost ; the whispers that make her realise how similar they are to one another.

They are nothing more than two sinners looking for a reason to live.

Looking for redemption.

- Ya know we’ll always be bound to each other, Snowflake, the entity says, cackling in her ear. Why do ya always try to ruin whot canno’ be destroyed ?

Her blood boils as she presses her frozen palms against his throat with a snarl, as if trying to force him into silence by imitating the thread caging her own pulse. She knows how futile it looks, knows the fruits born from this endeavour will hold the bitterness of her failure. Yet she refuses to crumble under the mocking weight of his words, for it would be surrendering to the way this rotten world keeps trying to send her into exile.

The gravel of his voice resonates against her palms.

- No’ tired of fightin’ a ghost ?

Her teeth sharpen into her mouth as he coils an arm around her waist, locking her body against his. She can’t stop a shiver from rolling down her spine ; and, unable to decide if she can really allow herself to savour the frozen warmth of his skin, her fingers tighten around his breath. His Adam’s apple makes a mould of its own shape in the crevices of her hands.

Yet he doesn’t even flinch.

- ‘Ow many times did you try to run away from me, darlin’ ? To make me fall, only to fail ?

- Shut up.

- Wouldn’t take much for us to bend this world to our will. Think abou’ it : we could face ‘em, ‘and in ‘and, laugh at ‘em until our voices break. Take the clay they used to create their dreams with and burn everythin’ with ours.

- Shut. The fuck. Up !

Yet no amount of resistance seems to tarnish his fantasies of despair. She barely has the time to blink before he slips behind her back, his breath burning incandescent holes against her ear. His hollow heart beats silently against her spine - and her arms fall limp against her sides, getting tangled with the crimson rope circling around them.

- We could make our own miracles, he whispers, never letting go of his decaying thoughts.

A broken cackle tears through her clenched teeth.

- So now you want to play like a God ?

One of his hands, torn open by countless cursed knots, comes to circle the neck of his prey. His smile drips into the passion lining his voice, and she can almost feel him against her cheek as his massive frame leans over her shoulders. Their spines could fuse with each other without her even realising it, she thinks, feeling her back crack under her demon’s weight. She wonder if they are now worthy of the crumbling statues haunting the temple of her mind.

- Why no’ ? He says, and her legs suddenly go numb.

The Ghost breaks her fall without any effort, taking advantage of her now lethargic state to hold her tight against his heart. He presses a kiss against her cheek, slowly savouring the taste of a frustrated tear.

- Why couldn’t we be our own Divine ?

Crimson now runs towards the very center of her soul, and she can’t do anything but dive into the motlen marble of the Ghost’s eyes.

Another fight is coming to an end.

Her human heart pumps with an overjoyed frenesy as its end nears once more, but the Hunter is far from glad as she realises said end is nothing more than an illusion coated in sulfur. The entity can see the suffering dancing in her eyes, now reddened by the tears she refuses to set free. The Fates could slice their mutual despair open with a laugh whenever they want ; but they have yet to do so, and he wonders if they enjoy watching the both of them struggle to stay afloat.

- Slowly now, he whispers, slightly loosening his grip to erase the dull ache throbbing in-between her ribs. Wouldn’t be wise to exhaust yourself withou’ me.

A part of him would probably qualify this role of his of Apathy, or Disinterest ; bury himself in a litany of lies to play the perfect villain, always finding a new excuse to justify the satisfaction he gets out of it all. Try to convince himself of how none of this, her, Them, deserve even a shred of his attention. But he knows that, somewhere in what’s left of his angelic heart, slumbers the reality of a longing, a thirst for love and touch he refuses to see. And she knows it too.

He silences the feeling again, covering it with words dripping with his own broken kind of sarcasm.

- This world doesn’t make any sense if you’re not ‘ere.

A sickening growl shakes her guts as she takes in what she refuses to hear. It dies before reaching her lips.

- What a liar, she grumbles, her voice and mind fading more and more with each syllable. You’re just a fucking liar.

The smile he offers her is nothing short of carnivorous, and through it, she could almost make out the virtuous remnants of what used to be his soul. He presses a searing kiss over the bloodied foundation covering her shoulder, incredibly soft despite the sharp, mesmerizing coldness haunting his each and every word.

- C’mon, lil’ Hunter. Give up.

And this time again, the taste of victory flows bitterly against his tongue.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Choke.

When she opens her eyes, her room is nothing but silence, and the chaos of her bed seems covered in a thin layer of ice.

Her entire body is being crushed by an invisible weight as countless shivering waves run along her skin. A choir of ghosts dance in the corner of her vision, their laughter echoing through the walls of her skull. A frozen, corrupted substance flows through her still slumbering veins.

Why is it so cold ?

Her breath quickens as she fights to keep a semblance of control over the ruins of her mind. A sea of urchins is tearing her trachea apart, and she would love to feel her hands smash their spikes through her throat - yet nothing seems to even think of taking pity on her. A river slowly starts running down her frozen cheeks, its flow carrying her thoughts away like a hurricane would a twig, as if trying to drown her in her own mind.

An earthquake suddenly takes over the marble of her hands, and she doesn’t know if it is caused by the ambiant cold or the thunder wreaking havoc inside her ribcage. The magma that was once slumbering in her chest is now trying to escape through her every pore ; and it burns, scorches her insides over and over again as the volcano bursts along with her tears, threatening to carve a new rift on the surface of her heart.

Crushed by her ribs, her lungs refuse to work properly. A pungent breath bites through her bones, as if trying to corrupt even the marrow hiding behind their calcified walls. Her own existence is hoping to tear the guts out of her humanity’s rotting corpse. The decline of a heart filled with despair is tragic enough to become the muse of countless poets and their sonnets ; yet there’s no glory in the mourning of what we once used to be, she thinks, especially when Life itself drinks our tears with a crooked smile painted on its mask of comedy.

Next to her, the mattress sinks. Her eyes, burned by the salt of her tears, can barely make out the dark silhouette leaning over her ; but she doesn’t need them to feel and know who it is. The Ghost lays a burning hand on her cheek, and something inside of her desperately tries to anchor itself to this touch she subconsciously learned to look for amidst the storm.

A somber look covers the entity’s features as his fingers meet the ice of her hands. She’s a warrior ; one he’s used to fight almost every single day. Seeing her in this state is almost disturbing, for he quickly realises there is nothing left of her usual hostility. The Flood swallowed it all.

For once, he’s not the source of her distress, and this train of thought leaves a strange feeling in its wake. Is it rage ? Jealousy ? A mix of both ? It doesn’t matter. The Divine is not allowed to toy with a prey that isn’t Its own.

She barely has the strength to utter a single sound as he takes hold of the fragility of her fingers to bring them to his own neck. The mocking spectres dancing around them suddenly cease all movement. They even seem to disappear the second she starts feeling the echo of a pulse under the scars littering his skin, the confusing proof of the decomposing existence of a life filled with darkness. Its rhythm is slow, silent, ghostly. It gently lulls her mind, offering a blessed shelter against the violent winds.

Her own demon tries to hold her head out of the water ; a situation that would have made her laugh had her throat not be so parched.

- What did it taste like, she finally croaks out as her hand ghosts over his skin, the despair that made you fall ?

Was it similar to the fear haunting the surface of my lips ? Will you end up smearing it on my tongue to break what might be left of my humanity ? Will you be seated on the Emperor’s throne on the highest part of the infernal Coliseum in the middle of which I will inevitably be forsaken ?

Or will I be the one to guide you towards the light ? Will I be able to let you taste the ambrosia of peace I keep looking for ? And if it indeed ends up touching your lips, will I even realise it ?

- Like my own blood, the Ghost says, and she notices the peculiar softness that has replaced the usual sarcasm tainting his voice. Wan’ to try it ?

The kiss he offers her is like a cruel salvation ; a source of comfort immediately shattered by waves of chaos blooming into her soul. It leaves a sour taste on her tongue, akin to a tragedy leaving a trail of weeping arteries and broken bones in its wake. Like the smoking remnants of a battlefield, she thinks, witnessing the horrors she went through ; the nightmares haunting her sleep. A series of erratic visions displayed on the dark screen of her eyelids.

It tastes like the beginning of the end, murmurs a voice lost in the torn expanse of her mind, and she finds herself submerged by the need for more.

The warmth of his skin slowly melts the ice imprisoning her. Yet the tension running between them still has the red thread tightening around their throats, and a part of her refuses to see how good it could be to let him drag her down into his own flames. Let them be hers.

She only now sees the strange pattern they created, made from both violence and peace, love and hatred, as well as a guilty freedom tightening around her guts.

The Ghost probably noticed it too. Even when they exchange words filled with mockery and blood, he always ends up savouring the harsh touch of her hands pulling his teeth back towards her neck. And slowly, surely, he unwinds the knots holding her spirit together, only to tie them up all over again as she wakes up from a familiar anesthesia. A predatory smile carves itself against her neck, sharp teeth threatening to break both her body and soul - progressively widening the rift in the facade she desperately tries to keep in place.

- Relax, luv, he whispers, his abyssal timbre sending shivers down her spine.

His hands clutch every single one of her curves with a desperation she has yet to understand. His fingers seem to reach for her very soul, claws moulding her body to his will. Their hearts dance with each other as he holds her to his chest, exploring the expanse of her back as if he was discovering it for the first time. His breath leaves a scorching ache on her shoulder, and she wonders how his touch keeps getting even more delicious each time.

She lets out a cry as his fingers find her core. Her teeth coax a vicious growl from his throat as they sink into his flesh, and the Ghost drinks up every trembling breath dripping past her lips. A rumble echoes deep within his chest as she loses herself against him, her nails leaving crimson rivers down his neck.

The cold haunting her is now long forgotten. The ice shatters under the Ghost’s fangs, and, for a second, he draws his eyes towards the darkness of the room. They mercilessly pierce the remnants of the now silent spectres that tried to steal his perfect prey. Their silhouettes finally vanish completely ; at the same time, a shuddering whimper shakes the body resting in the iron of his grasp.

- Let’s show ‘em who ya belong to.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Choke.

She feels more than she sees the way her palms turn white under the assault of her own nails. Her heart never slows its erratic rhythm, forcing the mud coating the surface of her lungs to pulse along its beat. A few centimeters away from hers, the Ghost’s chest rumbles with a laugh.

The world could crumble so easily in-between her hands, he thinks ; she’d just need to strengthen her will. She could take over this infernal game and make it eternal, let the Divine Creations burn and burn, turn into a lake of sterile ashes. Ring the final bell and have its sepulcral cries echo in the bones of the Gods. Create her own version of a happy ending.

The world could crumble so easily in-between her hands ; for her determination is a synonym of destruction. And They know it. They are the ones who sent him to her, trying to make her fall. Did They even think he’d try to make her his instead ? To turn her against Their pathetic idea of glory ?

But he has yet to win. An infuriating reality. You should already be dead, he wants to scream, why do you refuse to yield ?

She only looks up at him through the darkness lining her eyes, ignoring the nauseating feeling of her life bleeding along her skin - leaving a series of darkening trails along the porcelain of her bones.

- What about you ? She says, and it’s like she’s reading his thoughts. It’s not like you’re doing much.

And it’s true. He torments her, brings her down over and over through countless excruciating fights. Strikes her weakest spots, both in her body and soul. Yet he knows it’s far from being enough. He wants to see how long she’ll last, what will end up being his coup de grâce ; but maybe a part of him wants her to live, achieve what his distant, decaying memory tells him he was never able to even touch.

His fangs scrape painfully against each other. Under the mask, his jaw is covered with the blood of the lives he took. Hers soaks through his clothes, skin, muscles and bones - but it has yet to taint his teeth, coat the walls of his stomach. He is the reason why his ideas haven’t been brought to light. He knows it well, perhaps he has even acknowledged it.

- You could reign over this world and you know it, she adds weakly, her voice breaking over the words she doesn’t even really need to articulate.

She doesn’t know if she’s glad to still be alive despite the fact that her body should already be lost six feet under, or if she wishes it would be the case.

- You have the power to bring your every desire to life. Make it a perfect reality.

Her muscles weaken with every second that runs through their fibres. Her lungs, filled with a dark, freezing darkness, beg to breathe in even the slightest amount of oxygen as her chest crumbles with exhaustion. Despite all of this, the Hunter refuses to sway, ignoring the waves of pain crashing against her bones. She tries to stand proud in front of the Ghost, feeling him watch intently as she fights against herself. But her legs crack and stumble ; and his reflexes are a perfect proof of his inhumanity when he launches himself forward to catch her, preventing her from shattering her already broken self on the rubble at their feet. He holds her tight against him, letting out a deep, mocking laugh - yet refusing to let her go.

They both know why.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Cry.

A flash of silver.

A familiar sting.

A salty tear.

Another wave of crimson crashes against the porcelain of her skin, violently, beautifully. The puddle swirling around her knees reflects the pathetic face of a broken doll. Her limbs are numb, unable to feel the rain hitting them as if it was trying to avoid her, only aiming for the floor. For a second, she wonders if a Divinity is crying for her Destiny, but the thought quickly falls quiet, silenced by a muted laugh. The Gods never pity their mortals.

Her soul falls into pieces once more on the marbled concrete at her feet, and the faraway echo guides her eyes up towards the sky. The adrenaline born from the usual fighting is slowly starting to fade. On the edges of her blurry vision, the Ghost draws his familiar silhouette out of the fog. The misshaped sarcasm she throws his way doesn’t make him flinch the slightest, making her wonder if this nightmarish entity didn’t place much more faith in her than she ever will.

What a stupid thought, they both whisper, the only thing breaking them apart being the usual snarky smile she forgot to wear to hide her ever-dampening cheeks.

- Ya know you’ll have trouble hidin’ those blood stains, right ? The demon says, kneeling to her side.

A soft sound escapes her lips, scorching hot compared to the rain.

- It’d be useless anyway.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Cry.

She wakes up with a start and a silent scream as sweat runs coldly down her chest. There’s a dry, violent pounding in her skull, enhanced by a laughing tide of cramps tearing her bones apart, its echo bouncing around her sleeping muscles. Despite the confusion lingering in her brain after what is probably her third nightmare of the night, she registers a warmth laying next to her, one she’s surprised to see at this hour. A part of her expected him to come and go as he pleases like he always does - never taking the time to stop, even for a moment. But in the end, him being here isn’t that surprising. Just like her, he’s never been able to leave her side for too long.

Maybe they’ve become each other’s haven among the mayhem of this world.

She shivers violently has she buries her face under the covers once more, ignoring the sweat lingering on her skin. Her hands whiten with the strength she uses to scratch at her scalp, hoping to lose her thoughts among the apocalyptic landscape of her bed. Find an anchor outside of the dreamworld.

- It’s impossible to fully heal, isn’t it ? She whispers more to herself than anything, even though she knows how light of a sleeper the Ghost is. No one can really forget.

Almost immediately, she feels him move against her shoulder, silently turning around to meet her form ; small and trembling under a nameless terror. Pathetic, he would usually laugh, but his own scars burn so viciously that he can only clench his teeth as he faces her pain. Is that empathy twisting his guts ?

What he would do to forget that thought.

- If ya want to forget tha’ badly, I might ‘ave a solution or two.

The Silence is loud as she nods slowly, tiredly. Seeking refuge in the sulfur of his touch.

- Please, she says, quaking as his hand smears layers upon layers of charcoal upon her hips, don’t you wish for the same ?

His lips fall upon the curve of her neck, barely restraining the fangs hiding behind them from piercing the already bruised skin ; reveal the raw pulse hiding underneath.

- Yes, he answers, barely daring to break the erratic rhythm of his breath - and, once more, feeling her melt through the peculiar love of his hold.

When traitorous Morpheus finally takes control over her mind, the sun has already broken through the night, painting the firmament in blinding hues of blue, devoid of any cloud. It claws mercilessly at the Ghost’s eyes, tears a low growl from his chest. On the other side of the window, the world rises to a mix of car engines, footsteps and voices, involuntarily celebrating the light that is constantly trying to burn him to ashes.

The sky has no reason to be blue, he thinks as his forehead meets the window pane, just like his Snowflake has no reason to sigh so serenely in his presence. The atmosphere is soft, warm ; dragging a wave of shivers down his back. A frustrated growl escapes his throat, the night of his eyes sparkling at the taste of a familiar rage. That celestial blue is silently looking down on him, mocking his darkness.

He loathes it.

He loathes her.

A second is enough for his knee to dig into the covers once more, giving him enough support to guide his fingers towards her face. They slowly dance along her skin as the weight of his very existence makes the mattress whimper, before roughly circling her neck. Her blood pumps peacefully under his touch, and his own voice screams in the back of his mind, distorted and rough.

Do it. Take her. Rid us of this nuisance.

His tongue soothes the cracks covering his lips, and a twisted smile eventually slices them open once more as the words settle in his thoughts.

But in her sleep, the Hunter moves - and his excitement dies as quickly as it came to live. She breathes in deeply, her head lolling against the pillows. Instead of braving for a fight like she usually does, she lets her subconscious raise a hand to his wrist, as if she was trying to offer him her silent support.

But that’s not what he wants. That’s not what he is.

What happened to this poor human that fought mercilessly against him, fueled by an endless determination ; the one who bared her broken teeth in his face through a bloody sneer, ready to turn his words against him and burn his entire being to ashes ?

He loathes the way his own mind whispers those words in his ears, exchanging it’s usual coldness for a dry melody made of anger and fear that makes his hold tremble around his Snowflake’s throat. The peculiar understanding they both came to. The doubts this small, vulnerable thing keeps planting in his soul. The fact that he can’t make any sense of the abyss bubbling in his head anymore

So he staightens up, ignoring the way his spine crackles as he makes his way out of this way too-familiar room. He almost expects a knife to dig through his back, to whistle in retaliation for engaging in an unfair fight. Give him a taste of his own medicine, in a way. A painful warning. So he waits.

But nothing comes.

A glance over his shoulder shows that the Hunter hasn’t moved a single inch. She still lays there, swallowed by a capharnaüm of blankets, her sleep-laden breath so slow it barely disturbs the quiet of the room. Her favourite plushie is curled on top of her head, like a guardian trying to keep its treasure from the merciless claws of a nightmare. A fitting description, he thinks, realising it’s probably been months since she slept so soundly.

His teeth strain under the sudden pressure of his jaws. This is the exact kind of peace he is starting to see in the eyes of his prey - as if she was in the process of surrendering, giving up her life to his now familiar hands. He doesn’t understand how she can bring herself to look at something like him and feel so serene. It makes him want to keep her for himself even more, taint the corrupted purity of her soul. He knows she can feel it ; so why does she treat him with so much tenderness ? Even more so after the hell he’s been dragging her through while laughing at her tears ?

A sour smile loses itself to the her sleepy silence as he turns back to sit on the edge of the bed. Perhaps the only reason why he wants her to be his is to understand her better. And once he does, he might finally be able to grasp how similar the chaos brewing in their hearts is. Forging their souls from the same steel.

Or perhaps the roles will change, and he will become nothing than a frail and vulnerable lamb. An easy prey caught in the destructive jaws of the Hunter.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Think.

Above her, a string of neons blink.

The young woman has no idea of what pushed her to once again get lost in the smelly bathroom of this nightclub - the one her friends keep dragging her to. Her eardrums haven’t stopped ringing violently ever since she stepped foot through its doors - perhaps because of the music that’s way too loud for her senses, the multicolored lights tearing at her retinas, or the uncontrollable amount of blurry faces swinging way too close for her comfort.

She doesn’t belong here.

Despite the nauseating swaying of her vision, she notices a more-than-familiar silhouette lingering in a corner of the room. He seems way too big for fit comfortably in the small space, engulfing it completely with his darkness. A stark contrast to the colorful graffiti littering the walls.

- ‘Ow many times do ya plan on makin’ tha’ back an’ forth between the dancefloor and this shithole ?

If the mockery in his tone only serves to irritate her more than she already is, the young woman doesn’t have the strength to meet the Ghost’s eyes. Instead, she stares at her own reflection among the suspicious dirt covering the mirror dangling on the wall, akin to a failed portrait made by a drunk painter. She thinks about taking a picture and submit it to the first museum of contemporary arts she stumbles upon, to top it off with a ridiculous title. Who knows - with a little bit of luck, she could maybe earn a little bit of money. Make it easier to reach the end of the month.

As that thought runs sarcastically through her mind, she ignores the dry chuckle rasping from the corner behind her.

Somewhere beyond the door, the DJ makes a poor transition to another music she barely recognizes. All that’s left in the tired void of her mind is the struggle of her own existence and the calm breathing of the entity, wafting against her neck despite the small distance between them. Her eyes meet once again the cracked lights in the mirror, and she can almost see it pulsating against the wall along the beat coming from the next room. The music keeps screaming in the rancid air, and her blood almost crystallizes in her veins when it’s joined by a chorus of screeches and whistles.

- I need to get away from here, she says, knowing the Ghost heard her despite the ambiant chaos.

She can feel him shift behind her as she reaches towards the dilapidated door with a trembling hand, desperately trying to shut off the pain lingering in her marrow.

- Let’s fuck off then, he answers almost immediately, and she wonders if he, too, hopes to get rid of a loud ringing in his ears.

She barely has the time to step out of the bathroom that she’s assaulted by the sounds, the smells, the touches. The singing voices and bodies burnt by an impossible amount of toxic liquids and smokes, a violent choir telling her to get away, away, away - GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE ; and she has no idea of which is stronger between the screams of the nightclub or the cries of her heart. Almost instinctively, she reaches behind her, seeking a destructive yet familiar contact in the hand of the entity following her. But her pride is a powerful force, and her arm stays stuck to her side.

Yet the Ghost knows her well. He feels what she does as if he was the one living inside her head ; and he kind of is, in a way. Perhaps he is the one feeling all of this, and not her ? He quickly silences the thought, enveloping her hand with the charcoal covering his own, squeezing so tight it’s almost painful.

It soothes an ache in his own non-existent heart. He wonder if she knows, feels, everything about him too.

Another nightmare comes running down his back ; a memory, the laughing spectre of what used to be a majestic pair of wings, which he used to fight in the Divine’s name until It abandoned him to his own abyss, tore his feathers apart to burn them to ashes in the flames of Its arrogance.

He almost feels the need to throw his eyes into another mirror shining below the erratic lights, as if the crevices running along its surface could give him what he lost ; a new kind of feathers, way too sharp for the immaculate hands of the Gods. But the Hunter keeps walking, dragging him along.

And the Ghost follows. For she’s his only shelter in this bubble of suffering they both unvoluntarily insist on sharing.

Run. Dodge. Fight. Think.

How do you mourn a devastating loss when you’ve never had anything to lose ?

Tell an Angel a tale of love, and they will carry it in their dreams. Listen to the beating of their heart, akin to a bird’s song celebrating the rising sun. Watch the molten gold reflecting off the ink of their blood drop from the wounds their longing for such a feeling caused. Realise how beautiful the depths of their darkness is, abyssal and mesmerizing ; how empty it all is, devoid of any sense.

The Ghost isn’t too different, he who lives thanks to those who unknowingly need him, who convinced himself that he was made to serve their torment. His very existence is proof that, if he can’t find a soul to pull him forward, he is nothing ; which is why he looks for his redemption through countless paths made from wounds that aren’t his. He dips his feet in puddles tainted by the blood of mortals, the crimson life -and death- of those whose hatred and suffering only serve to fuel his own.

A long time ago, he forgot what it’s like to love.

Maybe he remembers the meaning of caring for someone. But does that mean his feelings were once given back to him ? The thought is both ridiculous and horrifying ; a description that fits him well, too. It has become impossible for him to get rid of the impression that, if he one day decides to let go of the his Snowflake, these shreds of memories would also slip through his fingers.

So he holds on, so strongly that his knuckles whiten and crack under the corrupted ink of his skin. He doesn’t know whether or not he could speak of love - if he should. Behind the deformed skull covering his face, the entity hides a terrified snarl.

Sometimes, alone in his own darkness, all of this makes him laugh. How lucky he is to have something to fear, something to drive him forward ! And how undeserving he is of it, Fallen that he is, he who fell so long ago in a bottomless well of which he will never get out !

During his most vulnerable moments, laying down next to the Hunter among the chaos of her bed, he lets his doubts break through his voice.

- You’re mine, aren’t ya ? He asks, and she murmurs something he can’t catch before clearing her throat.

- Yeah, she answers sleepily, I’m yours.

Her hands get lost in the gaping scars littering his back, and he allows himself to be lulled by such a light touch, devoid of the usually anxious trembling interrupting her days. Among his sighs, now peaceful thanks to this intimacy they barely think to share, his muscles tense periodically. She feels more than she sees the earthquake hidden behind the baritone notes of his voice ; and she knows his fears too well, these nightmares that keep trying to shatter the pieces of her heart. She can almost see his eyes look for an answer she might not really dare to give him, for she almost knows him better than she knows herself ; and vice versa. Or maybe not, whispers and echo that sounds eerily close to a mix of their voices, but she refuses to torment the already too twisted soul of the Ghost.

What made you like this ? She sometimes yearns to ask. Who made you into those ruins of a man, constantly trying to drown you in a bottomless abyss ?

But she knows she will never be brave enough to loudly articulate those questions, even if he might already know about them. So she settles for snuggling against his peculiar warmth, covering the tangle of their bodies with a toasty piece of her covers, not really knowing which one of them she is trying to bring comfort to. A yawn escapes her lips as she holds him against her chest like a damaged, oversized plushie - not unlike the one sleeping peacefully next to her head.

- And you’re mine.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Dream.

The era she lives in is made of corruption and greed, she thinks, its horrors rivalling with the ones found in the deepest pits of Hell itself. Or perhaps it’s a form of Paradise ? Maybe she’s nothing more than a demon hidden in a masquerade filled with pure, ancestral beings, her flaking skin gripping the velvet of her costume, threatening to tear it apart like the Gods did her soul. Maybe she’s one of the few who see the Truth hidden behind this never-ending show, this cacophony in the middle of which she’s forced to survive despite the fact she’s not meant to be there in the first place.

In a world covered in scorching waves and deadly shores, where is she supposed to find herself a halo ?

Sometimes, she wonders if the Angels of today pray when the sun rises, kneeling in front of the loud cries of their coffee machine. If the remnants of what were once sacred melodies dance in the ashes if their memory, disappearing behind the echo of the last drop falling into a cup they will never empty completely.

She wonders if their now blunt teeth break cigarette after cigarette, their ends piling up on the cold and dirty tiles of public restrooms, the walls around them covered in holy quotes they have long since forgotten. If their tongues happen to trip on the syllabes of a language they can no longer understand.

She wonders if their mouths are still filled with ambrosia, tainting every other food with a flavour they now know as forbidden. If they still remember lazing around in the middle of starry clouds, once upon a time when their glasses were never empty and their laughter ran along the skyline.

And she wonders if they would still be able to recognise their brothers and sisters behind the corrupted aura surrounding them, the foam born form the Lethe that lingers in their eyes. If they meet each other under the noses of the mortals species they now belong to, their sanded claws tearing the silky skin covering their bones, as if trying to find an illusion of peace in the ocean of confusion they are doomed to roam.

Are there even such beings, nowadays ? She murmurs. Remnants of sacred ruins destined to sway forever between their forgotten paradise and the hellish grounds they always feared ?

- You’re overthinkin’ again, a voice echoes at her side, and she can almost see two dots of dried blood light up at the edge of her field of vision.

She doesn’t even think about turning her head towards the sound, her own eyes focusing on the darkness of her ceiling.

- Would you be able to answer any of my questions ?

Her mattress suddenly caves in under a weight she now knows too well. The Ghost leans over her, a foreign expression carving his face behind the skull of his mask.

His silence is as somber as it is eloquent.

- Your fall, she insists, did it hurt ?

- ‘Course it did.

Of course it did, echoes a smiliar voice floating in the darkness. I felt my wings decompose as I tried to slow my fall down, the stars burning my fingertips over and over. My hands have been torn open by the lightning crawling around the atmosphere, and the clouds cried waves upon waves of salty tears upon my wounds. My scapulars tore the muscles of my shoulders apart, and my feathers burned among a sea of flames I once came to admire.

This nightmarish moment still haunts my entire being. I can still hear my own screams bounce around my skull, refusing to quiet down despite the passing of time and the crevices that line its walls.

Of course it hurt.

- Of course, she repeats once more with a pale voice, as if the memories twirling in her mind had always been hers.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Dream.

Angels are sacred beings, spells a voice lost in the young woman’s mind, whose wings have been carved in a block of purity, and whose feathers sway along the rhythm of a virtuous wind. It’s easy for them to lose it all. Remember this, for the next time you catch the eyes of a Fallen.

Inside the Ghost’s ribcage, a somber void sits where a heart once was. The cracks of the Genesis hide a bottomless abyss, cruel and bathed in despair. She never knows how to resist to its alluring call, the loving whispers twisting her soul and turning it into a palette of rotten watercolours.

She’s been standing in her bathroom for a long time now, watching her reflection in her foggy mirror. Her hair clings to her face, still wet from the heat of a way-too-long shower, yet she does nothing to move it. Truth be told, the reflective glass only shows her a vague, colorful shape ; but she knows herself well, so much that it has become impossible to ignore the marks lingering on her body. She’s the reason behind many of them, guided by the honeyed words of her nightmares, always so cold against the invisible flames licking at her skin.

She should run. She knows that too well. She should have started running eons ago, even, but something inside of her refuses to get rid of her chains. She could escape to the other side of the world - yet nothing could stop her from coming back to the entity that, despite their constant fighting, somehow keeps her head out of the water.

Migh’ be our Destiny, is what he always says, persuading her to stay by his side. And it could be true, for the Fates are vicious and cruel, always looking for a way to laugh at their pathetic efforts to stay afloat.

He used to be an Angel. Everyone is to meet at least one during their life, and another one after their death ; no matter its nature. The Divine no longer cares about the purity of the entities It sends to the mortal world, and might even find some pleasure in seeing the consequences of Its own failures, convincing Itself that none of them is Its fault. The Gods will always see Themselves as better than anything else, and the Ghost hopes she never forgets it.

- And there she is, he says as he steps closer to her exhausted form. Back again.

The echo of his footsteps sends shivers down her spine. A bitter taste haunts the dried walls of her throat, soon taken over by a nauseating sweetness - the kind that makes her want to hold even more of it between her teeth.

Run, the voice whispers once more. You poor little thing, it might not be too late to escape him. But she knows this regret will soon go silent, making it even more easier to stay. So she stays, unmoving as he gets closer and closer, until there’s barely an inch left between their chests.

- Tha’ was quick. Missed me tha’ much ?

His smile is impossible to describe. Her reflection is clear in the bloody lake of his eyes ; showing her the peculiar fascination that paints her features, sometimes broken by rays of doubt and desire. Their lips barely graze each other as he leans in, yet the touch is so vivid compared to everything else that the Hunter wonders if it wasn’t just her imagination.

- Your ego knows no bound, she mumbles, her voice lacking its usual sharpness.

The Ghost smiles, knowing too well how captivating his inhumainty is. She constantly tries to get rid of this malicious attraction that chains the both of them, dipping her finger in the spectral thoughts whispering how much better she is than all of this, than this Fallen who knows nothing about the depths of love. It’s all an illusion, a dream created by an infernal fever. A trap. She’s aware if this - so why does it all seem so real, sometimes ? Could it be that all these silent, vulnerable moments are nothing more than the sparks of futile hope she thought was real ?

She should run. But she wants to know if there isn’t even the smallest of truthful lights hidden behind this never-ending nightmare.

- You always say that Destiny’s the reason why we’re constantly brought together, she murmurs weakly, dropping her head against the Ghost’s torso as he holds her there, hands coated in a silent tenderness. But how could that be, since I always do my best to avoid you ? How do you keep finding me ?

For a moment, the entity feels his eyes widen with surprise. He quickly hides it behind a sly smile, cruel and warm. This time, he dives even deeper to really meet her lips, and she can taste the rust that seems to haunt his every touch.

She should run. But she doesn’t. She never will.

- I jus’ follow those who are waitin’ for me, Snowflake.

She sometimes wonder if she’ll ever be able to forgive their mutual sins ; and the voice in her head cackles. You’re bound to a being that lives for this, it says, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten ? The laughter refuses to stop as she realises again and again that she’s far from being Holy - something that the Ghost knows too.

- You always save me from my demons because you want to kill me yourself, don’t you ? She asks, her words bouncing strangely around her dried throat. You’re the only Death you’ll allow me to have.

He sucks in a breath, the darkness of his features twisting under his mask. Those questions -or statements ?- rouse an unknown feeling from the void ; new, complex, indecipherable. She can almost feel his usual arrogance quiver in her own heart, abruptly hidden by the melancholic sigh crossing his lips.

After a moment of silence, the entity places a kiss on her shoulder, light as a buttefly. Something loud echoes from his thoughts, a conflict lost eons ago to the abyss, while his own silence offers no denial or confirmation. So she keeps herself quiet, holding her certainty in a corner of her blurry mind.

And in her dreams, when Morpheus laughs as he asks her if she’s found herself to be seduced by his newfound vulnerability, the exhausted Hunter simply offers him a bitter smile, drinking her own tears from a golden cup.

She no longer has an answer.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Hope.

Among the universe in which she lives, the Hunter never knew a single end ; only strings of never ending realities and gargantuan burdens holding the cruel thoughts that keep laughing at her misery. Destiny has never been on her side. Which makes her laugh ; maybe she stopped believing in it too long ago to care.

She couldn’t say when exactly she lost the taste of happiness that came with the old memories of her youth. Instead, her tastebuds tremble whenever a tired and distressed breath invades her mouth in the hopes of being set free, twist under its sour flavour as she tries to swallow it. Some times are not made for sighing.

The Gods decided that she was made to wither in Chaos, but she’d rather see things differently. She doesn’t like the idea of the cruel, broken concepts They make, those that never hesitate to unleash waves of suffering on thousands and thousands of innocent souls. She tries to focus on the positive things they sometimes leave in their wake, no matter how difficult it is to find them, how easily they can crumble in her hands.

For now, she’s stopped fighting. But the cascades of her own blood are now weaved in her soul, constantly retelling tales of the wars she’s been through. She can do nothing more than to wait for the next storm. Which she does.

Among the uiverse in which she lives, comfort comes and goes however it pleases. More often than not, it goes down a path drastically different than hers, so far away that she loses sight of it. Those periods of time stretch out for so long that when this peace comes back, meeting its almost unknown silhouette triggers her reflex to fight - her soul screaming at the potential enemy standing in front of her.

Fight ! It pleads. Fight ! Fight ! Fight !

Survive !

Yet she silences it for now.

Outside of her window, the city still hides behind a thick veil of fog. As always, it should be too early for her to be awake ; but her eyes refuse to stay closed, and her mind focuses on the heavy feeling crushing her waist. The Ghost lays beside her, still fast asleep with an arm slung over her frame, his body easily engulfing hers. It’s a good opportunity for her to observe how his short, blond hair fades into the porcelain of his skin, shattered by countless scars of all colours. She dares run a hand through the blond calamity of his hair. How strange it can be, she thinks as he sighs against her breast, to sometimes boil with hatred and disdain for the other, yet still share those quiet moments of intimacy whenever the fight ends.

She used to wish for him to disappear. And yet now, she finds peace in his presence.

What happened ?

In her eyes, the entity did nothing to deserve even an ounce of kindness. He dragged her down over and over again, enjoyed building her back together only to break her again, drew tears and blood from her very soul to savour the taste. But so did she.

The Divine keeps laughing at their pain by offering them fake opportunities of redemption. But they both know they can only find their salvation in the other’s soul, walk side by side towards a new world of their own creation. If the thought leaves a bitter taste in her mouth, she still sees how attractive it can be to slowly burn out in the heart of the Ghost while cradling him in hers - free both of their souls of the miasma haunting them.

This is a fantasy based on nothing, cackles a distorted voice in her head. And it’s true. No matter how much they try to redeem themselves, how many times they tear their own knees apart while praying, and how many rebellions they go through in order to cut their own strings, the skies will never allow them to leave Their grasp. But they stopped caring a long time ago.

Raising a trembling arm to her eyes, the Hunter smiles. Exhaustion weighs heavy on her lips as she silently follows the too-many marks littering her skin - a familiar sight, with an ever-growing number. She realises how similar her scars are to the Ghost’s. The canvas of their bodies is covered in white lines, rugged burns and deep, purple bruises that never stop appearing, and her vision sways before she can finish counting.

Yet she can’t stop her eyes from following the crevices lining the entity’s back. They rise and hide among a valley of broad muscles, holding the memories he refuses to share. The visions he can’t forget. Her own back is probably the same. They are covered in the painful remnants of what used to be their wings, the spectres of their freedom weighing heavy against their bones.

- I know you’re awake, Ghost. Stop pretending.

She immediately feels him smile against her skin, his fangs threatening to catch on the red lines crossing her chest.

- No’ pretendin’, he answers with a low and cheeky voice. Admirin’ my work.

- Oh, fuck off.

That drives a cackle out of his throat. He could have followed up with one of his usual snarky comments, but he chooses to nuzzle the crook of her neck instead as she slowly rakes her nails along his scalp. The gesture is soft, tender - so different from the times she claws at him instead, either during their fights, or their rougher moments of intimacy. An empty glance to her face, one she tries to avoid, tells him that she probably had the same thought.

The atmosphere is strange during this morning, bathed in a shy light, but the Ghost doesn’t pay it any mind. The room is perfectly silent, and it would be a shame to ignore this opportunity to get a glimpse of her beautifully complex mind.

How many times did he see his Snowflake’s eyes hold the darker hues of a violent rage, an abyssal despair, or any other feelings she couldn’t decipher ? He reads her like an open book, so satisfyingly transparent. How beautiful it is to watch how her story writes itself to the rhythm of her thoughts, of the days they weave together ! For now, all he sees is a slow melancholy digging in-between the lines, akin to a storm brewing on the horizon. An infinite tiredness that has him silencing the teasing he was tempted to articulate.

- You miss it, don’t you ? She finally says, interrupting his observations.

She hesitates slightly, pausing in her train of thoughts. How could she summarize the entirety of their mutual struggle in one sentence ? Her own saliva becomes painful to swallow, dragging against the dry walls of her throat. It’s like a marble of lead is blocking her oesophagus, leaking the poison of doubt in her system.

- The Chaos, she continues, her voice sounding incredibly raw. You keep chasing it, but it’s getting away.

The Ghost rolls onto his back, grunting as the rust of his bones hinders his movement. She isn’t wrong. Just like Violence has tried to break her soul, his is tainted by a visceral need to ruin all order. All is boring when Peace settles in ; silent, clean. Unsufferable.

But when he looks at the Hunter and her milky scars highlighted by the rising sun, the entity thinks this moment of rest -which will obviously be too short for her tastes- isn’t that bad. He appreciates the calm floating in the air, and her presence too, even if their relationship might be far from ideal. To stay here, bathing in the misty morning glow without holding a blade to the other’s throat, is something he finds himself to enjoy quite well.

He slowly sits up, allowing his head to stretch lightly to the side. The smile he gives her is full of harmless malice.

- Ya’d miss me, eh ? If I left to pursue tha’ Chaos.

- Oh no ! Not at all !

- Always so shy, he sighs as if her reaction offended him. Neva’ sharin’ whot ya really think.

He leans above her, voice lowering, and his arm twisting in a way that can barely support his weight. It wouldn’t take much for him to fall into his previous position.

- Bu’ maybe we could create our own Chaos ?

- We already do that quite a lot, she quips back while rolling over to turn her back to him. It’s enough for me.

She feels more than she sees the way his smile now leaves his fangs on full display, showing how much he enjoys troubling the morning peace with his dark and honeyed words. He softly takes hold of her wrist, where his lips come to follow a path he now knows more than well.

- Bu’ didn’t I hold your hand ta guide ya towards peace, multiple times ?

Face halfway buried into the pillows, the Hunger grimaces. These words reflect a twisted truth, ensnare her throat like the red thread that runs along her skin.

- You hate Peace, she breathes.

- And ya know nothin’ o’ it.

Sometimes, she thinks, « dangerous » isn’t powerful enough to define the Ghost - especially when his thoughts get so close to hers. When she finally decides to meet his gaze, she finds the usual spark of arrogance dancing behind his pupils. Yet there’s also a hint of laziness and sincerity, one she seems to see more and more as time passes. Body still heavy with sleep, she raises herself towards him, and languishly runs her thumb across the traitorous curve of his lips.

- You know your offer is tempting.

Among the universe in which she lives, the Gods like to play like cowards, binding them together as one tormented soul. They both despise Them for giving them so many feelings they will never control. On one side of the coin, it’s freeing to be carried by the dangers they hold ; but on the other side, constantly standing in the eye of the storm is exhausting. Like fighting with bare hands against a raging fire.

- And I know you’re gonna refuse, Snowflake.

She simply cackles.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Hope.

She doesn’t remember much about the happy times of her childhood. The earliest memories she holds are already painful, filled with an almost visceral need to survive against the infernal obstacles that Life keeps throwing in her path. They keep repeating that it’s like this for everyone, forcing her to reduce her own armor in pieces and tear out the heart beating behind it, showing this corrupted world the gaping wounds it has to beat with ; the searing edges she had to cauterize herself in order to not bleed out on her own ; the cries she swallowed into silence to avoid being treated like a stranger to her own existence.

Maybe they’ll come to see how difficult it is for her to keep going, she thinks, to hold her head high when everything tried to drag her down.

Her eyes, circled by her tired pain, get lost in the phosphorescent stars haunting her ceiling. Their pale, green light has always been a guide, a sturdy anchor protecting her against the merciless currents of her thoughts whenever she feels like giving up. Being a Celestial must be tiring, she sometimes whispers while imagining said creatures flying among clouds and comets. She can’t imagine what it takes to bear the weight of the hopes and dreams of others when one’s has already left this world to wander in another.

She always thought she never believed in Fate ; yet when she lets herself be carried away by the abyssal timbre of her Ghost, that demon she now knows more than herself, she remembers that it’s impossible to escape its languid clutches. Sometimes, a part of her wonders if she wasn’t wrong to listen so much to her doubts.

Her body is covered in scars she is ashamed to wear. But her fight is still far from whatever ending it might follow, and something in her mind murmurs that they can’t be that bad, those white marks she shares with the Fallen she’s come to love.

Her bones crack as she turns her pillow over to meet the cool fabric of its unused side ; but it’s the touch of the entity laying on top of her that keeps making her shiver, and a light laugh escapes her when his charcoal-covered claws brush against her ribs. It’s a rare melody, and it convinces him that, somewhere, the firmament must be torn by the miraculous and silent dance of a shooting star.

His thoughts only quiet down when she slides a hand along his scalp to feel the softness of his hair, the clarity of her voice echoing through the silence.

- Don’t you want to see it from up close ? She asks, causing him to raise a curious brow.

- See whot.

- The shooting star.

The Ghost smiles, littering her skin with butterfly kisses filled with reverence. To see the one he gave his love to so eager to do the same is a beautiful feeling, and he realises how lucky they both are to have met each other while looking for a new kind of ataraxia.

- No need, he whispers, nuzzling in the crook of her neck.

I already have one.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Kill.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Live.

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