#they have blood and guts and muscles and bones

[phyx-m]

Beneath The Silk | True form Sukuna x Reader

🔗 Masterlist

Chapter 24: The Devil At Your Back

Content warning: Angst, vivid dream, wounds, blood, slightly suggestive.

🔗 Songs for this chapter:

House Of Self-Undoing - Chelsea Wolfe Bad Weather - Stomper (feat. Lucy Tops)

* * * * *

Chapter 23

* * * * *

You’re nine years old, and the cat’s fur beneath your hand is soft. It purrs affectionately as your tiny fingers trail its velvety coat, feeling the rounded bumps that make up its spine. You laugh softly, smiling, as it comes to—

A hand shoves into your hair and yanks you back. Your shuffling feet try to run, try to pull away, but your scalp is screaming. A cry pours out while your father’s face appears. The skin sagging at his neck wobbles with each angry exhale.

Hands that should protect take away so much.

“You stupid, useless girl! I should have had sons to carry this clan’s weight. Instead, I’m cursed with two fucking daughters!”

Crack!

The strike hits your cheek with a stinging burn, forcing your watering eyes shut. When they blink open, you suck in a breath. Your sister stands before you in the corridor, in the shrine.

“Sister, it’s time to go.” She extends a hand.

You reach for it but stop and look down.

A bone-white kimono with dark blue edges hangs around you. Matching him. The thing you’ll be bound to.

“No. I can’t. I can’t do this.”

You step back.

She smiles softly, taking your hand, skin to skin.

“It’s okay,” she whispers. “You must stay. You have to do this.”

No!

Somewhere, a baby’s cries reach your ears. You snap your head to the sound. It wails as if it were in pain. It wails as if it were frightened. 

Make it stop.

It doesn’t stop.

You shut your eyes and— 

Blink.

Opening them, your sister is gone. 

Down the darkened corridor, you start to walk, your body heavy, disoriented, not your own.

Reaching the end of the passage, there’s a door. You slide it open, a little ajar and slip in sideways.

Inside the room, is a futon, and there in the center of it lies your mother, split open, guts spilling from her swollen belly, eyes flickering, breath fast and shallow. She looks at you, mouth trembling, eyes wide, shock all over her face. A cry takes you over as she melts in a rupture of crimson meat and bone.

Nothing more than a pile. Nothing more than rot.

Somewhere, that baby still cries, and no one comforts it.

Blink.

There’s a glow on the horizon, and something’s burn—

Screaming. Homes on fire. People running in all directions. Bodies, so many bodies, some partially eaten, and others not. The scent of blood, searing fat and skin clogs your throat.

Blink.

From behind, four hands slide across your stomach, a black band encircling the wrists. One climbs to your breasts, another to your cunt, the next slowly comes to wrap around your throat, while the last presses flush to your abdomen.

“Let me see you.” A deep rumbling voice at your back, warm breath on your neck, before a hot tongue licks a path to your ear. “Let me see you, my winter flower.”

A nudge along the side of your throat before teeth sink in, breaking skin and muscle. Blood rolls down your neck to shoulder, soaking your yukata red. It doesn’t hurt. If anything, there’s only pleasure.

Leaning back into touch, into warmth and solidity, you moan, something denied for so long.

“Sukuna.” Your breathless voice reaches him, and fingers squeeze harder, gently choking you.

At your back, the King of Curses groans, shoving his face deeper into the wound he’s made, licking, sucking, trying to swallow skin and—

The air suddenly splits, breaks, and falls apart on a sensation that sends the whole world vibrating. 

Blink.

Walking with dirt on your feet, cool grass between your toes, you turn, pace, turn again.

“I killed her…”

You turn, pace, turn again.

“I killed her…”

Turn, pace, turn again, lift your head. 

Death is here.

It’s going to kill me.

A flame opens and slithers across your eyes. Muscles tense, muscles straining.

Red everywhere.

That’s all there is.

Red, red, red—

“Oi, brat! Time to wake up!”

CRACK!

“Mother!” you scream, pushing your body up, hearing the sound echo off the stone walls of the dark overhang.

Panting, your breaths arrive in short, small gasps, chest heaving, the world around you a blur.

Breathe.

You do.

Breathe again.

You do, and then blink.

It’s strange, but you must still be lingering between sleep and waking because four glowing eyes hover close, staring into your tear-streaked face.

But you’re not. You’re awake.

Sukuna crouches beside your mat, his upper right hand planted on the ground next to your hip, massive body leaning in, almost framing you, close enough for his warmth to seep in. The firelight from the dying coals silhouettes him, casting a small glow across the dim shelter.

It’s late, you realize—still the middle of the night. 

“What’s going on?” you rasp, finally coming to.

You hate waking like this. Screaming. But at least being awake means no dreams. Awake means no nightmares. Just… looking into the King of Curses’ face.

“My Lord,” you whisper, staring at him, eyes squinting slightly. “What are you doing?”

How long has he been next to you? And why does this feel familiar?

Sukuna pulls back a bit, staring down at you. Even crouching, he looms so tall that you must tilt your head back to meet his gaze.

“You were crying out in your sleep,” he grumbles flatly, clicking his tongue. “You know how I feel about that. It disturbed my rest.”

A sudden weight presses around your neck. His energy. It drags over it like a phantom hand—like in your dream, and it leaves a surprising amount of goosebumps in its wake, making you shudder softly, though not entirely out of disgust.

Far from it.

Sukuna’s scarlet orbs drift down, lingering on your throat and chest, then lower.

“Also, this fell.”

Swallowing a thick knot, your eyes drop to his second pair of hands, where he lifts your crumpled blanket from the ground and tosses it carelessly into your lap. Then he stands, rounds the fire and returns to his mat, settling himself with a glance at the dying flames. Quietly, he lies down, propping his upper arms behind his head, eyes drifting to the stone ceiling. After a moment, he turns onto his side, offering you his back.

You can’t help but watch him as the nightmare stays fresh in your mind—the look on your mother’s anguished face.

Leaning into a slouch, you wipe the dampness from your eyes, your nose stinging as fresh tears threaten to escape.

Was that what she looked like before you took her life? The dread that was there, the betrayal, the fear on her face.

Your heart begins to pound.

Why can’t you remember how that night unfolded? Not that you want to, but still. It’s all a blank space, forgotten and stripped away. Perhaps for good reason.

Because in that dream, she looked terrified.

A tremor runs through your hands. Throat thick, palms slick. The beating muscle in your chest pulses faster and faster.

Instinctively, you dig your index fingernail into the cuticle of your thumb, hoping the pain will ground you, but it’s useless.

Thankfully, there are still a few sticks near the fire. Needing a distraction, you lean forward, pick one up and push it into the coals. Sparks flutter up, the tip glowing a faint red. 

Better.

With your mind beginning to settle, you grab a bit of moss, pressing and rolling it between your fingers. It’s still damp, giving off an earthy smell. Fingertips pushing in more, you explore the texture—soft but slightly coarse, cold against your skin—until, all at once, it fades.

You stop and look down.

The tuft blackens in your hands—lush green fading to a putrid brown, then a brittle gray. Tiny tendrils shrivel up, curling and recoiling from your touch.

“What the… hell…” you breathe.

Hands flying apart, you quickly drop it to the ground, watching it disintegrate into dust on the stone floor.

Lifeless.

Panting softly, there’s a scent that creeps into your nose. One, you know well.

Rot.

Your eyes move to your fingers, and your heart trips over a beat.

The tips up to the knuckles are a bruising colour, with thin, web-like veins spreading from the cuticles, branching unevenly. It looks as if a creeping blight infects your skin. 

You rub your fingers together, scraping a nail along the surface. The sensation is still there, reassuring you that you aren’t decaying, that the flesh isn’t dead. Another rake, and gradually, the discoloration fades, your skin returning to normal.

You’ve never done anything like that before. Killing animals… people, yes, but plants? And it happened so quickly, with no sense of restraint.

The rocky walls of the overhang suddenly feel choking.

You rise quietly, moving smoothly despite the wobbly feeling in your legs, and walk past Sukuna. Judging by his stillness, he must have fallen asleep.

At the mouth of the hollow stone, you stop, needing air to steady yourself, feeling too out of control in your own body.

Tipping your head back, the clouds from the downpour are gone, leaving only the sky and its inky black curve and stars. You admire it for a moment, but the expanse and the moon sitting lonely overhead stir a familiar ache.

At this moment, you crave your mother’s presence, her comfort.

Dropping your gaze, you spot Ayana’s white-dappled coat in the dark. She rests beside Sukuna’s horse, whose massive form nearly engulfs hers. The two creatures stand so close that their nearness brings a small sense of ease.

Keeping your hands in tight fists, careful not to touch, you step toward her and rest your forehead against the soft surface of her neck. Her ears flick, and she lowers her head, sensing your tension, and gives a gentle nudge.

A trace of a smile tries to form on your lips, but it doesn’t quite settle.

Warmth suddenly flares at the bend of your neck—whether intentional or not, malicious or not—your eyes drift shut. You know Sukuna is not asleep but quietly watching you from behind.

You stay like this for a while until you sense him withdraw, and eventually, you do the same.

Turning, you move back to the shelter, catching his lower eyes as you pass but saying nothing. When you reach your mat, you glance down at the remnants of the moss once more.

You’ll have to worry about it later; there are other priorities above your own.

Sister, protector, tool.

Lying down, you pull the blanket over your body as the space falls into stillness. Only the soft hiss of the crumbling embers remain, lulling you back into drowsiness.

Your eyes shut.

A flicker of your mother’s dying face presses against your eyelids.

You snap them open.

“Lord Sukuna?” you suddenly murmur.

Silence follows, but then you hear him shift.

“What?” he grunts, sounding annoyed.

You pause, rolling to your side to take in his profile, the right side of his face, his mask. You still can’t quite place what it is.

“I never did thank you for the mare,” you say quietly, watching him focus on the stone ceiling.

The fire hisses again as it cools.

“Thank you…” you continue, the words sincere yet hesitant. “She’s perfect… and I’ll treasure her forever.”

The embers release one last dying breath.

His lower right eye slowly falls over at you. The upper one joins it a heartbeat later.

Even in the black, with only a pocket of waning glow, you catch the corner of his mouth twitching into the softest smirk you’ve ever seen on him.

Your foolish heart aches at the sight, and you mentally kick that feeling into some dark corner.

“Get some rest, brat,” he mumbles, rolling onto his side again. “You’ll need it for tomorrow.”

Pulling the blanket up, it takes a long time before you realize the corners of your mouth are curving into a smile. Smothering it, you roll onto your side, mirroring his back, and drift into a dreamless sleep.

* * * * *

The late afternoon sun hangs low in the sky when you and the King of Curses finally ride into the Kasai compound. Yesterday's weather delayed your journey, and when you arrive, the place is already bright with activity.

People—family members, guests, attendants, other clans. There’s so much noise, so much chatter. Laughter, singing, jeering. If you listen closely, you can even catch the occasional shameless moan of a man enjoying himself a bit too openly with his concubine.

It’s going to be a long night.

Your eyes wander ahead, trying to decipher what Sukuna might be thinking. When you woke this morning, he was already up—less agitated but still contemplative. His energy seemed more subdued, enough that even Ayana allowed him to water and feed her.

Something has shifted on your journey, though you can’t quite name it. Perhaps it was the time away from the shrine or the moments spent alone.

But the sense of something being broken between you two remains.

There’s also a nagging voice inside insisting that something is wrong despite the countless reasons that could explain it.

As you approach the stables, you watch him closely. He surveys the surroundings—the gaudy estate, the limestone barrier, the tops of the yew trees forming the grove along the perimeter—studying everything in great detail before finally turning his attention to the stables.

Inside, retainers and attendants mill about, drinking and chatting as they tend to a slew of horses—likely their way of passing the time while whoever they’re here with spends the day getting properly shitfaced.

But as you enter—more precisely, as he enters—everything comes to a standstill.

You expected Sukuna to draw attention—his reputation, appearance, energy. Today is no exception. As you ride further inside, every weary eye falls on the four-armed creature. Then those eyes shift to you. And any hope of going unnoticed while here, gone.

Your jaw tightens, muscles coiling.

When Sukuna dismounts, the stables fall into a cage of silence, broken only by the restless movements of the tethered horses. They sway and knock their hooves in agitation as conversations die to murmurs. It almost feels like that night seven years ago when deranged whispers spoke of a demon’s arrival in the north.

Now, that same demon is here again, but this time, he’s among them.

Sukuna’s red orbs sweep the stables, making most avert their eyes, a few bow their heads, and some turn away completely. 

“Fucking fools.” A deep cackle erupts from his chest, and from atop Ayana, you spot a grin sneaking across his face—pleased with their fear and likely pleased with himself.

Hell, this is going to be a long night.

With one last twisted flash of his teeth and a glare that skewers the onlookers, he turns, pushes back the strands of his wind-tousled hair and locks eyes with you.

One side of his mouth curves up smoothly. This man is a terror, but damn it, you were so blind before, only seeing the cruelty in his face. Terrifying, even.

Now, you couldn’t deny it—you see what else he is—breathtaki—

Gods, fucking take me. 

Large hands slide around your waist, fingers crowding into the curve of your spine as he lifts you from the saddle.

“Oy! I can dismount on my own!” you snap, feet thudding into the hay-covered floor.

Disregarding your protests, Sukuna draws you in until his mouth brushes your ear, a stream of warm breath tickling your skin. Inwardly, you curse yourself because, for a moment, your eyes flutter at the contact.

“Remember, we made a deal,” he murmurs, voice low, just for you. “We’re here now, and I want that name.”

Your heart pounds.

Impatient.

You’d barely touched solid ground, and he’s pressing for it already? What will he do once you give it up—or if he drags it from you? Though you might know the answer to this, and it’s bloody.

You turn, finding his face close to yours. Instinct makes you lean back, but he cocks his eyebrow and hauls you closer, unfolding to his height and gripping your wrist.

“Don’t make this harder for yourself,” he growls through his teeth, digging his fingertips into your skin until it hurts. “You may think you see me, but you have no idea what I’m capable of.”

“Lord Sukuna, in case you’ve forgotten, I’ve lived in these parts the entire time you’ve been destroying them,” you hiss quietly while flexing the hand he grips. “So I know exactly what you’re capable of.”

Or most of it.

You’re not sure you want to know the rest.

The pressure on your wrist increases while his jaw tightens as if he were gnashing your words around with his teeth.

“Yes. And isn’t fate just a cruel bitch that you were?”

Your nose wrinkles at his words.

“Lord Sukuna!”

Multiple footsteps thud inside the stables, and a loud, boisterous voice draws your and the King of Curses’ attention.

“Welcome!”

One of your father’s attendants steps forward and bows, lifting her head. Despite her magnanimous welcome, there’s a nervousness in her eyes.

“Please, this way.” She gestures toward the stony path leading away from the stables. “And my Lady, your father will expect to see you before you settle in.”

Great.

“All right. Thank you,” you reply.

She steps outside, leaving two other attendants to handle your trunks and tether the horses. Sukuna glances once more at the two mounts as if assessing them before stepping onto the path.

Following the attendant, she leads you through a screen of hedges. The route winding discreetly along the estate’s perimeter, skirting the front gardens and leading into the compound. No doubt she’s been instructed to bring you inside through quieter means, a poor attempt to keep the King of Curses out of sight as much as possible.

Once inside, the attendant brings you to a secluded room. Bowing once more, she slides the door open. You follow Sukuna inside, kneeling on the floor as the door closes behind you, sealing in the quiet, leaving you both to wait.

Seconds stretch into minutes. Minutes feel like an eternity. Your mind starts pacing like a chained dog. Every sound—footsteps passing by, distant drunken laughter—sets you on edge.

You pick at your gloves and shift your posture, knees bent, feet tucked underneath you.

“You’re tense,” Sukuna points out. Your eyes peek over at his relaxed stance. “Any stiffer, and you’re bound to snap in half like a twig.”

He sinks back into his lean, sitting casually, his upper arms resting at his sides, one knee bent, and his lower arm draped over it, fingers tapping idly.

“I’m fine,” you say, squirming to find a more comfortable position.

Sukuna huffs.

“Idiot.”

More time trickles by, and under your growing impatience, you begin to warm. The multiple layers of clothing draw sweat to the surface of your skin. You move your hands to your cloak, ready to remove it, when fingers clamp around your wrist and pull them away.

“Leave it,” Sukuna growls.

You shoot him a bewildered look, preparing to utter a curse at him, but he jerks his head to the door, listening intently, straining for something just out of reach. You’ve seen him do this before, and it’s never a good omen. The last time you saw that expression, a polearm had been hurtling toward you moments later.

Outside the room come soft sounds. Delicate footsteps and a whisper of fabric brushing against the floor.

A pause.

Four red eyes dart back and forth.

The hand at your wrist tightens.

The door slides open, and your sister steps inside. Sukuna’s hand slips away.

“Yuna.” A smile spreads across your face, lifting your cheeks until they ache.

“Sister!” White silk swishes at her ankles. “You came.”

She’s outfitted in a beautiful pale kimono, and her hair and makeup are perfectly done for the festivities. The gem of the Kasai clan, indeed. Compared to her, after three days on the road, you feel like a ragged, unkempt toad.

Grinning, you start to rise to your feet, ready to go to her and gather her in your arms, but a snag at the back of your cloak holds you in place—Sukuna’s lower right hand. You stop moving. It shifts, sliding up to the top of your spine before trailing slowly down, vertebra by vertebra, until it passes over your obi and settles at the small of your back.

The possessiveness of his touch has a shiver spiralling through you.

Suddenly but carefully, he unfurls himself to his towering height, pulling you up and not letting go.

Yuna’s eyes hover between you and the King of Curses, her expression one of rapt attention.

“Hello, my Lord.” She bows formally, eyelashes fluttering. Then she lifts her head, and a graceful smile touches her painted lips. “It’s always lovely to see you.”

Sukuna says nothing.

A horrible silence descends upon the room.

The three of you remain in place.

They stare at each other—her features unreadable, his a challenging one, head cocking to the side in a sharp, smooth motion.

You feel the muscles in his arm tensing behind you, his fingers gripping the fabric of your garment with more force.

Yuna’s smile widens, eyes brightening with a strange recollection.

And then, ever so softly—

“I knew it…”

“Ah! My daughter!” Your father’s loud announcement cuts through the increasingly crowded room. The pungent scent of alcohol reaches you even from where you stand. “You’ve finally made it. I was getting worried something may have happened to you.”

Lying to your face, how refreshing.

He turns to the King of Curses and bows. Sukuna doesn’t return it, making the balance of power unmistakably clear.

At the door, another figure enters, your attention swinging to them.

Onishi, with his swollen face and all.

Hideous bruises snake out from below the cotton strips, trying in vain to hold the nose you had broken into place. It looks hastily treated, an effort to appear decent in public.

A tinge of satisfaction curves your lips.

He moves across the room and takes a spot behind your father, leaning against the wall. His eyes meet yours, glinting probably from the memory of when he had you pinned against the limestone barrier, hands touching your breasts, invading your space. Almost as if reading your thoughts, the bastard gives you a discreet wink.

The fucking audacity.

Your hands curl into fists, leather gloves creaking softly.

Calm down.

Your eyes shift away, only to find Sukuna watching. A quick glance shows his lower eyes trained on you, while the others settle firmly on Onishi’s bruised, crooked face.

Knowing him, he’s bound to piece this together without a word from you.

With more pressure, the hand at your tailbone splays across the small of your back. Surprisingly, it grounds you.

“Yuna,” your father says, pulling your attention from the warmth flooding you. “Why don’t you go back to our guests? I’d like a small word with your sister.”

“Of course.” Yuna bows and heads to the door. Halfway there, she flicks you a look. “I’ll find you at some point tonight, all right?” she whispers.

You give her a soft nod.

“Oh, and daughter.” Your father adds, making her pause. “Send them in.”

A tight smile replaces her easy one. She leaves, but taking her place are three beautiful women, by their well-kept clothing they’re attendants or—

"Our guest should be made comfortable,” your father states, gesturing to the trio before turning his gaze to Sukuna. “They’re yours. Do what you wish with them.”

What?

A sour taste churns your stomach.

Sukuna eyes them as they approach. Their pupils odd, blown wide.

“This way, my Lord,” they chime in unison, coaxing him toward the door.

A sharp, needling sensation splits you sternum to chest, dragging with it an emotion you don’t want. Sukuna’s hand slips away from your back, and the entire room seems to stutter as you desperately try to catch his eyes. But he doesn’t look your way.

You’ve never been in a relationship—real or otherwise—but something is there. That sticky, unforgiving emotion that feels like swallowing fire, burning deep and spreading through your body, making your skin prickle with heat.

Jealousy. This is jealousy.

You watch, unable to tear your focus away. Their nimble fingers trace up his arms, gripping his clothing, smoothing it, touching the contours of his muscles. Cooing and preening. One of their fingers skims the ink on his wrist, peeking out from his kimono. And it's that touch, that brief skin-to-skin contact, so simple and insignificant, that stings more than anything else.

He claimed to regret what he did to you when you first met, and now here you are, stumbling all over yourself.

Pathetic.

Look away.

Your eyes shift to your father, who is watching you closely. Is this a test? A trap? A scheme laid out for you to fall into?

Has he charmed you, daughter?

His words ring out inside your head.

So what if he had? What if—

No.

But deep down, you knew you were well and truly fucked. This monster has started taking that tiny sliver from you that you once promised you’d never surrender.

A sudden urge to laugh squeezes your lungs fiercely.

One of the women giggles, and Sukuna’s mouth pulls into a sneer.

Say something.

“We’ll give you a bath, my Lord.” Another of them hums, making your heart lurch while they pull him towards the door.

Do something.

Brows pinched, Sukuna leaves, his upper arms folded across his chest while the lower ones hang at his sides, the women clinging to him like parasites.

A glance back and four fiery orbs find yours, brimming with intimidating annoyance, deepening the crease above your nose.

“I’ll see to you after,” he says, giving you a sidelong glance before he steps from the room, the women trailing closely behind.

“He probably won’t fit in the bath. My Lord’s body is too big,” one of them complains, their voices fading down the corridor.

“Perhaps we can use our mouths instead.”

More tittering, more giggles.

The door falls shut.

You stare at the spot he just stood for too long, long enough to hear your father clear his throat. You lift your eyes, pushing away those raw, unwanted emotions, though the place where he had touched your back still burns.

Focus.

You straighten.

Your father scrubs his jaw, his attention settling on you, and you keep your expression neutral. No cracks, nothing.

Onishi, still leaning against the wall, retrieves an object from his kimono to fiddle with. It's small, a box, and fits perfectly in his palm. He rotates it repeatedly, each side catching the light as it turns, his eyes never leaving yours. For some reason, you’re certain he must not have told your father about your encounter weeks ago; otherwise, you would have been reprimanded by now.

As he turns the object again, you notice the sides are decorated with hooded slits.

He turns it over again.

And again.

And—

“Well.” Your father’s voice pulls your focus back to him. “You’re here, and you managed to bring the creature with you. Well done.”

He pauses.

You can hear the unspoken words: Lured the creature here.

There’s a genuine smile on his face, as if, for the first time in his life, he’s proud of you.

Proud of you.

The thought leaves you conflicted because there’s another look there, one that’s not entirely tinged with contempt but carries a glimmer of care, as if he’s seeing you differently.

“You have your extra month,” he grants. “Your sister is safe once again.”

It’s a simple statement that should bring relief. A long time ago, you might have leapt at that look, like a dog waiting for scraps of affection. But now, all you feel is numbness.

“Thank you, Father.” The words carry no real sentiment.

You bow, and he smiles.

“Good. Now go.” He flicks two fingers toward the door. “Get washed up and dressed. And don’t forget to enjoy yourself.” His hawkish eyes lock onto you with an intensity that makes your skin crawl with disgust. “For once, you’ve earned it.”

* * * * *

Knock, knock, knock.

“My Lady? Are you decent?” A female voice calls from the other side of the door.

An hour has passed since you returned to your old chambers to prepare for the festivities.

It didn’t take long to bathe, slip into your new kimono, tie your obi, and slide your concealed scabbard into place. The makeup you applied—powder, kohl—was simple, nothing elaborate.

During your time alone, your mind continually replayed the earlier encounter with your sister, the three women, your father, Onishi… Sukuna.

Something feels wrong, but you’re unable to slide what that is into place.

Mind churning chaotically, you were in the middle of combing your hair when the knock interrupted your preparation.

Now, as the sun sets, a lantern sits beside you, it’s light flickering on the wooden floor. Red fires the edges of your garment to black.

“Yes,” you call out. “You may enter.”

Resting your hands on your thighs, comb in hand, your eyes shift to the door.

It slides open.

One of the women from earlier stands there, anxious, chin cast down. Your mouth twitches with barely concealed disappointment. She bows and quickly steps aside.

The King of Curses steps unexpectedly into view, blackening the doorway, his eyes locking onto you kneeling on the floor.

“Oh, Lord Sukuna.” You rise, the clack of your footwear echoing on wood.

A soft bow of your head, then you lift it. He’s dressed in colours matching yours: a deep, muted purple kimono, like a swollen bruise, nearly black, painful in its intensity, and perfectly moulded to him. Your gaze drops to his waist—his obi is a burnt umber, again, like yours, though his attire is stark, without embroidery. One more glance shows his hair swept back, all controlled chaos.

His eyes rake over you from head to toe, a muscle in his neck pulsing. At his side, all four of his hands tense, then release, as if he were restraining the urge to use them for something.

It’s hard to breathe when he looks at you like this—hungry. He is hungry.

“Leave,” he orders, flicking a hand dismissively at the woman. She bows and retreats, eager to put space between herself and him.

Without tearing his eyes away from you, Sukuna steps inside and shuts the door, dimming the room, making his scarlet eyes glow in the low light.

“Continue.” He grins, nodding his chin at the comb in your hand, then circles you.

Watching him, you sink back to the floor, resuming your kneeling posture and sliding the comb through your hair. His mouth twitches as he observes. This close, you catch the clean scent of him—no blood or ash, but something fresh. Cypress, perhaps.

“Did you need something, my Lord?” you ask quietly as he steps away, choosing to scrutinize your room in far greater detail than you’d like.

“Do I need a reason to see my wife?” He pulls a scroll lined with poetry from the shelf, inspects it, and makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a scoff before sliding it back. “Besides, I told you—you’re not leaving my side.”

But you did.

The image of the trio of women taking him into their mouths flashes through your subconscious. Anger has you pulling the comb through your hair with more force.

He glances over, catching your expression before you can look away.

“No, you don’t need a reason. I just thought perhaps you would be too preoccupied with other company,” you say, striving to keep the bitterness out of your voice. But it’s there.

The comb continues to move, your fingers following it.

A calm settles over the room, broken only by the soft crackle of the lantern's flame, until Sukuna chuckles. The sound breaks the silence, swelling into loud, insidious laughter that makes your teeth click together.

“You really are fucking stupid, you know that?” He steps around and comes to stand in front of you, the earlier grin on his face gone. “You can barely see what’s right in front of you, even when it’s still. It’s pathetic!”

You glare at him, the comb stilling in your hand before you set it aside and look away.

“I see just fine,” you mumble, picking up a hairpin with a pearl inlay.

Sukuna sinks to his haunches. Two fingers slide slowly across the underside of your chin, hooking and guiding your face to his.

“Oh, she sees just fine, does she?” he mocks, cruelly mimicking your voice.

A weight settles on your chest while your body silently begs you to turn away from him.

“She sees everything? Even what hides in plain sight?” he continues, then pauses.

Three heartbeats later, he tilts his head, squinting at you as his expression shifts from pity to seething hatred. The sudden flare of anger in his eyes disarms you.

“No… that’s not it, is it?” His gaze narrows, searching for something you can’t comprehend.

The air between you tightens.

Jabbing his fingertips into your chin, he forces you to straighten and lean toward him, so you must brace a hand against the floor between his knees.

“There are so many hooks in you…” he rumbles quietly, his thumb crawling up to smooth over the swell of your cheek. “So many pulling, all at once.”

He traces up to your temple, applying more pressure. Nervousness climbs into your throat, but despite it, you roughly pull your chin from his grip.

“What are you even rambling about?” you mutter.

A split breaks between his eyebrow and mask and his hands fall to his sides.

He clicks his tongue in agitation.

“Nothing, brat,” he grumbles, before reaching into his obi and suddenly pulling out a pear.

You quirk an eyebrow at it.

He takes a bite, the juice glistening on his lips as he leans back, letting go of your jaw.

You sit up straight, readjusting your posture.

“Where’d you get that from?” you ask, hands reaching to the crown of your head to part the silky strands of hair and twist a section, weaving the hairpin through it.

Sukuna moves to lean against the wall.

“The kitchen,” he replies, tracking your hands and the precise movements of your fingers. “I was hungry.”

As always.

He takes another bite.

“So, you’re just walking around here like you own the place?”

“Anyone who sees me coming usually shits themselves. Here, with all your kin wandering around, it’s easy enough to get a simple piece of fruit.”

Of course, they’re afraid. He’s been eating and killing them for years.

Another bite.

“I can understand why,” you say, letting your eyes trail down the length of his body.

His teeth flash.

“Nearly two months at my shrine, and my wife is still frightened of me?” he asks, amused.

Your eyes dart away, focusing ahead as the cool texture of the pin grazes your scalp.

“Your appearance… no.”

Your actions, yes.

With the hairpin in place, you reach for your comb and draw a few strands forward to frame your face—or to shield yourself.

“Oh? If my appearance doesn’t scare you, perhaps you'd like to share your thoughts about it.”

After tapping the pin one last time to ensure it’s secure, you lower your hands to your lap and glance over at him. The piece of fruit already eaten and gone.

“You want to know what I think about… your appearance?” You arch an eyebrow, features folding into soft confusion.

He crosses his upper arms over his chest, tapping a finger impatiently as he waits for an answer.

“You’re…”

A pause. He taps again.

You’re unwilling to admit how he’s begun to haunt you, how he’s slipping into your dreams, your thoughts, and worse into your—

“You’re adequate, my Lord.”

His chest swells, as if he’s about to burst into laughter, and you quickly turn away, grabbing your dark leather gloves from the floor.

“Adequate.” His voice fades into a condescending chuckle.

Through the curtain of hair, you see him push away from the wall and step toward you.

“Is that truly the grand assessment my wife can offer? Adequate?” He bends slightly. “But perhaps 'adequate' suits you just as well.”

You scoff.

“And here I thought I was uglier than you expected,” you mumble, fiddling with one glove as you slide it on, trying not to relive the first words he ever spoke to you.

Sukuna leans in further, forcing you to look up.

“I lied,” he hisses in your face, eyes flaring wide.

“What?” You shoot him an exasperated glare as you get to your feet.

For reasons you can’t quite place, your instinct is to punch him in the throat, knee him in the cocks, curse him into oblivion—and judging by the smirk growing on his face, the bastard knows it.

“Tch, don’t look at me like that.” His orbs brighten, as if this reaction brings him pleasure. “Your fragile emotions are so easy to fuck with.”

Another scoff. You start slipping on your second glove.

“Then—” You don’t know why you’re asking, but the words come out. Maybe some self conscious part of you just wants to know, even from him. “What… do you think of me?”

His grin falters, and you avert your gaze, a flush of embarrassment shading your features at how vain you sound.

“Never mind, don’t answer that.” One last soft tug, and the leather fits snugly over your fingers.

Sukuna steps closer, exhaling sharply.

You turn back to face him.

His lower eyes stare at your hands.

“You’re—”

“A sickness?” Your barb interrupts him.

“Fucking trouble,” he growls roughly, stepping closer. The palm of his upper left hand moves to your waist and slides to your obi, making you jump at the contact

“A nuisance.” Softer this time. His fingertips slip beneath, finding the scabbard hidden there.

“Something unexpected.” The pads of his fingers trace over it slowly, his four eyes following the movement as if mesmerized.

“Perhaps… something pleasant.” His voice turns to a deep purr, and when his hooded eyes lift, your cheeks threaten to warm. Then, with a flick of two fingers against the scabbard, a sharp sting jolts your abdomen. You wince. It’s such a subtle tap, yet it carries so much force. Grinning, he thumps it again before pulling back and striding to the door.

“Come.” He slides it open and steps out, demeanour turning severe. “It’s time to go.”

A heavy exhale punches past your lips.

Spilling into the corridor, you watch Sukuna step into the throat of the right passage instead of the left, the one that would discreetly shuffle you into the festivities.

“Where are you going?” you ask wearily.

He stops and glances over his shoulder at you, then to the left corridor.

Understanding washes over him.

“You expect me to sneak in there?” He turns, his face twisting into one of annoyance. “Is that what you expect of me?” 

“No,” you say.

It's less about him and more about yourself—an unwillingness to face all those judgmental eyes leering at you. The last time you were here, the insults and gawking looks had been draining.

Demon’s whore. Cunt. Oni bitch.

“Ah, I see.” Sukuna folds his lower arms at his torso. “The little snake is afraid.”

Your mouth twitches.

He gives you a mocking pout, then raises his upper right arm.

“Left—” A finger points down the corridor ahead. “—and you can sneak in like a mutt, with your tail tucked between your legs. Or, you can go right—” Another finger points toward the passage where loud voices trickle out. “—and walk through those insects with your head held high.”

Doubt creeping in, you glance to the corridor on the right. The idea of stepping into the heart of the hall feels daunting. Years of being cast aside and mistreated keep you from doing something so rash.

But perhaps, just this once, you will be brave.

Eyes glittering, you look back at Sukuna.

He lifts his eyebrow.

“It’s your choice.”

My choice.

For so long, choices have felt like sand passing through your fingers, never truly yours.

Elusive. False.

A persuasion to live a life that isn’t your own.

With a controlled inhale, you lift your head and incline your chin. Your sandals tap softly as you step toward him, choosing right.

You pause.

“It’s only proper for you to go first, my Lord.”

Tradition dictates that men of his status lead the way, and you to follow. Yet the King of Curses steps behind you, bending down to lean over your shoulder.

“Mhm, no,” he husks calmly. “I prefer the view from here.”

A hand gently pushes into your hair, pulling the strands back to your shoulder and exposing the scar he left on your neck.

A reminder.

“I’d hate to miss the look on everyone’s face when they see you, of all people, march in there like you own the place.” He pauses, hand moving, he traces your nape with a finger before circling the bone at the base of your neck. “The dutiful daughter, the shadow of the Kasai clan—”

A beat.

“The one given to me so willingly.”

The hair lifts on the back of your neck.

Your eyes dart to him, catching the smirk in his voice.

The nagging voice in your head cuts through, louder this time, screaming that something is deeply wrong.

His other hand moves, curling under your chin and tilting your face up to meet his scarlet eyes.

“Besides,” he hums arrogantly. “I’ll be right behind you.”

* * * * *

All caught up! I hope you enjoyed the story so far. Next chapter expected November 25.

[blue-rose-soul]

I really love your Devil’s bastard and Raised Together AUs because there’s a lot of familial drama but also lore associated with Lucifer and just what he can pass down to his children that is so fascinating.

https://youtube.com/shorts/MV4InNo3zCY?si=qM459R9-jSxE-6jR

I can imagine a scenario where something like this occurs and both Charlie and Alastor are pushed to unlocking the sleeping demons that lay sleeping inside them.

Imagine Charlie with red and white wings and Alastor with red and black wings, the hellfire being appearing over their horns and insane power emanating from them

Appreciate it! The big fun of this AU for me is definitely how it throws a monkey wrench right in the characters' usual dynamics. Lucifer going from implicitly threatening to murder Alastor to awkwardly stumbling around him. Alastor trying to manipulate Charlie without letting her assimilate him into her idealistic fantasy version of a brother-sister bond. Vaggie waking up from nightmares of having Alastor as a brother-in-law.

But yeah, it's also interesting to imagine what effect Lucifer's angelic DNA would have on his offspring. We don't know much about what Charlie actually is or how she's different from demons in general - Hellborn or sinner - or from either of her parents. Sinners are human souls, but based on the fact that they eat and sleep have toilets, they do seem to have all the same gears and whistles as living breathing humans. At the same time, they can twist their bodies into impossible shapes, grow to enormous sizes, even pull themselves back together after being ripped apart by anything that isn't an angelic weapon. And this isn't even mentioning any supernatural powers they may have like Sir Pentious's hypnosis or Alastor's - [gestures to all of him] - everything.

The idea of Alastor and Charlie unlocking some greater power does sound pretty cool! However, as they're already pretty demonic at their base, I would instead flavor it as them unlocking their sleeping angelic powers. After all, angels are said to be more powerful than demons in-universe, and this is power inherited from Lucifer. Plus, I love love love angels as monsters. I think that Charlie did experience a more mild form of what you're talking about after Sir Pentious was killed.

Of course, it wasn't quite the raw explosion of power I think you're thinking of, and the end result is still pretty demonic looking. But this is still power she inherited from Lucifer. But we're still early into the story, and it's fun to speculate what kind of greater power Charlie may unlock in the future.

(Alastor agrees.)

But back to the AU, the thought of them manifesting wings along with their greater powers at a later date would be sooooo fun. Maybe while facing off against the person who owns Alastor's soul (who I will say is Eve for the purposes of this AU). The both of them manifesting wings would be a nice way to visualize their shared bloodline. Plus, the addition of wings to Alastor's design may call to mind the peryton; a mythical creature with the appearance of a winged stag. A not-so-minor pet peeve of mine is when people say Alastor is a w**digo just because his deer-like appearance, and the peryton feels much more appropriate to his character.

Granted, he doesn't have any cultural ties to the peryton either aside from maaaaaybe his name (the name 'Alastor' has its origins in ancient Greece and the creature seems to be either Greek or Roman), but it does make for a great visual pun if you take 'peryton' to refer to radio signals.

[golden-cherry]

deal - cl16 (39/?)

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Series Summary: Your whole life has gone to shit. Your boyfriend broke up with you, you just lost your job and the Monegasque, who suddenly stands in your doorway, claims that it’s his apartment.

Chapter Summary: Addicted is the only word to describe Charles.

Warnings: 18+ (mentions of sex, male masturbation, cunniligus, breeding kink and choking (if you squint)), angst and fluff

Word Count: 3.8k

series masterlist

previous part

A/N: tbh, I'd be on my knees for this Charles in a heartbeat. feedback is appreciated!

Your fingertips on Charles' naked thigh make his brain short-circuit. 

Your unexpected, gentle touch shoots like lightning through his skin like lightning and then through his veins until the heat spreads throughout his body and his muscles are on fire. His heart is beating so hard that he fears it will break his bones and jump out of his chest. He can hear the blood pounding in his ears, goosebumps are spreading across his skin – but when he looks at you, he can no longer think clearly.

He never would have expected you to be so close again. He could never have dreamt of it.

After the night before yesterday, he no longer believed that he would be able to feel your touch again.

The memory of you fleeing from the bed is as deeply ingrained in his thoughts as your touch and your expression when you came on his thigh. 

He had to hold back the whole evening the day before. To be honest, he had struggled with himself and forced himself to behave normally, even though all he could think about was you sitting on his lap and him rubbing you over his bulge until his damn phone rang. And even though he jerked off in the shower after his workout, it definitely wasn't enough to satisfy his craving for you. His hand is not you – and by God, he's addicted to your touch.

When you touched his hand in the car on the way to dinner with his family and played with his fingers as if it were the most natural thing in the world, it had taken him an incredible amount of strength and willpower to keep the car in the lane and not to pull over to the nearest lay-by or parking lot and rearrange your guts. 

He is extremely embarrassed by how much like a horny teenager he acts as soon as you are around. 

Since you first shared a bed and you unconsciously pressed against him in your sleep, he can no longer get the feeling of your body against his out of his head. The way you snuggled up against him, how your curves perfectly matched his. And you still had your pajamas on then. 

He feels very ashamed of how good you felt when you lay in his arms and cried. How soft your skin was on his, how warm you were – how perfect. He would have liked to give himself a slap or two because your dilemma had been so profitable for him personally. That he could hold you and protect you. That he could feel you. 

And your touch hasn't stopped since. Your fingertips on his bare shoulder, your palm on his stubbled cheek when he told you he was jealous of Lando and your friendship, even though that was never entirely true, of course. Your legs between his, your hand on his chest and your lips on his neck as you poured your hearts out at dawn and purple skies. 

But even though he is addicted to your closeness and the feeling you evoke in him like a drug addict, it's not as if he actively or consciously sought your touch. Like two magnets, you hadn't been able to separate after the night, whether it was at breakfast or when you were in his embrace when he told you how good your touch felt and that you shouldn't stop. 

And as if his prayers had been answered – you definitely hadn't stopped. You had intertwined your fingers, felt his heartbeat under your hand. And for a moment he had enjoyed it and let himself be carried away. 

His hands on your hips, his palms on your cheeks and his nose on yours. None of his touches had been conscious, but the result of his desire, which he suppressed so as not to jeopardize your friendship. How can a simple touch make his cock so painfully hard that he has to arrange his erection in his pants so that it is not visible to everyone?

He can't even imagine what would have happened if Pierre and Kika hadn't entered your apartment without getting a raging boner.

It would definitely be smarter if he at least made a reasonable effort to stay away from you a little and not look for your touch every second. But even when you were sitting in the car with Kika and Pierre, he had longed for you. And it had taken about three turns in Pierre's SUV before he had reached out for you and wrapped his long fingers around a calf. Thank heavens you even held out your leg so that he could grab it better. 

From that moment on, he became more shameless around you, even though he cringed inwardly every time. For example, when you were standing in front of the bed in the furniture store and he whispered to you that you should lie down on the bed so that he could see what you looked like in it before he bought it. And that he insists that you continue to share the bed. Of course, only under the pretext that you can sleep better if you fall asleep snuggled up together.

He didn't hesitate for a moment to lift you off the couch and onto Jori's terrace, only to lie down on it himself so that he could then pull you onto him with your full weight. He had seen the insecurity in your face, the way you shifted from one foot to the other, but he had also seen a sparkle in your eyes – desire perhaps? – and nothing in this world could have stopped him from feeling your weight on him. 

You felt perfect on top of him when he wrapped his arms around you and pressed you against him so hard that there was a chance you might leave an imprint of your head on his chest if you ever got up again. His lips found their place on the crown of your head and his hand found your bare skin under your shirt as you snuggled up to him and giggled that he was very comfortable despite his muscles. 

What went through his mind when he offered you that he could lie on top of you, he doesn't know himself. But something about being able to burn all the things that have caused him so much pain in the last few weeks had made him brave and maybe a little crazy. His hand in your hair, the other under your sweater on your spine. His lips on your nose and forehead. 

Then let's stay here. On this couch. It's not as comfortable as our bed, but at least I'll have you lying on top of me.

Charles fears he is losing his mind. 

He lost his mind when he asked you if you would snuggle with him and his heart skipped a beat when you assured him that friends can snuggle too. When he put your leg over his hip. When you pressed your face against his neck and inhaled his scent. He had to move your leg down onto his legs, otherwise you would have felt his hard-on. And all because you touched his neck. 

He didn't even know how sensitive his muscular neck was until you brushed your lips over the soft skin there. And as if there was a switch in his body, blood shoots to his cock every time you come anywhere near his neck. As if his body were programmed to react to your gentle touch. Just as his heart reacts to your closeness. 

He couldn't wait to introduce you to his family. The fact that his maman had already taken you into her heart had only encouraged him more to keep you close to him – in whatever way. Be it as a friend, as it was unspokenly agreed, or as more – as his family now saw you. 

Another crucial point that made him more bold. Because if you didn't want to address the matter and clarify it, then surely you have no problem with him leaning far out of the window and demanding your closeness? 

Are you a good girl, mon amour? 

He is so happy that you get along so well with his family and that they have apparently adopted you outright. The way they have taken you into their midst – even if it meant that he had to sit on that damn stool all evening. But every time he looked at your beaming face, it was worth the back pain. 

He would do anything to see you happy. And he definitely wasn't lying when he told his mom that you're “the absolute best thing that could have happened to him.” 

He has never felt so good or so loved by anyone else, even if you only consider him your best friend. This is a fact that he tries to ignore, but it is repeatedly brought to his attention whether he likes it or not. 

Every time he looks at you, he hears Joris voice in his head, whispering best friend to him, along with the question of whether he loves you, which he has left unanswered. He can't answer the question, he doesn't want to answer the question, because if he were to answer it in the affirmative, then – then – 

Your hands on his naked back, your ass on the back of his thighs, your palms on his chest. 

If you only see him as your best friend, how come you looked so indescribably divine when you came on his leg? Why do you assure him that nothing changes when he touches you intimately, when his whole world is shaken by the way you cling to him and moan when he runs his tongue along your neck?

He would have liked to throw you on your back and rip your shirt open to get to your naked skin faster. He would have sucked, licked, bitten, if you had let him. He would have pushed his face between your thighs and tasted you on his tongue until you came for him several times, burying your hands in his dark hair and moaning his name. 

But you weren't ready yet. And he definitely wasn't going to risk everything. 

Look at me, mon amour. Look at me when you come for me. 

Even if he suffered a severe concussion in the next race, he would never be able to forget the look on your face. What his hand looked like on your throat. How your ass felt in his hand. 

How you left the bed because you felt uncomfortable because of him. 

He doesn't know where it all went wrong. One moment you were moaning his name, his fingertips had felt the curve of your boobs and you had snuggled up to him – and then you were gone, unreachable and distant. He didn't buy the excuse that you weren't tired for a second. But why would you leave him?

Had he crossed a line? Did you feel pushed when he rocked you back and forth on his thigh to make you feel pleasure? What happened in the few minutes you were lying in bed cuddling that you found his closeness so unbearable that you had to flee the bed?

Was he too forward? Too – too non-platonic, that he frightened you with his behavior? Did you feel so uncomfortable about his touch, his comments, that you saw no other way out than to create an insurmountable physical distance that unconsciously shattered his heart?

He had sworn to himself that he would do everything to maintain this friendship. And if that meant giving you this space, not touching you anymore, not calling you mon amour, then he would do so without hesitation, even if it hurt him more than he would ever admit. 

Calling you mon ami felt strange and forced. Your cheek burned on his palm as he touched you one last time. A selfish move he couldn't suppress, that he had to claim for himself before moving away from you so that you wouldn't give up on this friendship. 

The night on the couch had been hell – and not just because the cushion was uncomfortable. Charles had barely been able to get any sleep because his thoughts revolved only around you, the look in your eyes and the tears that had rolled down your cheeks.

He would keep his distance, as little as possible and as much as necessary, so that you would continue to tolerate him around you. He would do anything to save this friendship, even if it meant swallowing his feelings. 

He didn't know what was happening to him when you brought him breakfast the next morning. Apparently, the night on the couch had been the right direction, the first right step to keep you around, which is why he invited you to his boat as a makeshift solution – under the pretext of having to take photos for his Instagram profile – but had forwarded the tickets he had booked for the two of you to Pierre so that they would at least not expire. 

There would be time to visit Paris during Christmas. Hopefully. 

The day on the boat went much better than he had imagined. Although he held back and didn't touch you under any circumstances, you had been as close emotionally as friends could be, which was certainly due in part to the alcohol. Or maybe it was his honesty when he called to you over the roar of the ocean that he was afraid that things between you would never be the same again. That he would lose you. 

And you looked so beautiful lying next to him on the sun bed. So carefree, as if nothing had ever happened between you. As if you had never been anything but friends. And when you assured him that you would like to work with him, he would have liked to kiss you until there was no air left in his lungs. 

You would work with him. Spend time with him – voluntarily. You would travel the world with him, see the most beautiful places and get to know different cultures – with him. And maybe, just maybe, you would fall in love with him at some point during your journey together, give yourself to him, just like you did once before.

An imagination he clung to as he touched himself in the shower a short time later. How your lips would feel on his. Your mouth on his cock, your tongue on the soft underside of his dick. 

He imagined you lying on the bed in front of him – his new bed – face down, ass up, while he slowly and deeply pushed into you, knocking you over the edge. How your skin would feel, naked and warm as he filled you up with his load, how it would run sticky and hot down your thighs, only for him to catch it with the tip of his tongue and lap it up and stuff it back inside you until you were crying with pleasure and overstimulation. 

He sincerely hopes that the walls of the boat were thick enough. 

What he had hoped for, but couldn't have imagined, was the moment when you smiled at him the next morning. After he had confessed to you, without thinking about what boundaries he would cross or what ocean he would cross, that he couldn't be without you anymore – and you had replied that you couldn't live without him either. 

Another step in the right direction. 

Another step when his mother told you that she had prepared your bed – singular – for you – and you didn't instinctively refuse to share the room with him. You could have gone home, you could have asked Charles to sleep on the couch or to get another room. 

But even when he looked at you and promised you that he would do everything in his power to fix this friendship and to keep you from turning away from him completely, you didn't push him away. He had laid his heart open to you as much as he could without having to answer in the affirmative to that lingering question. 

You are the first thing he thinks about in the morning. You are the person he looks forward to seeing most when he comes home. 

And even when he revealed to you that he couldn't stop thinking about how you feel, you didn't back down. When he confessed to you that you may be his best friend, but you're also so much more and that he craves you. 

You didn't leave. 

Quite the opposite. 

The thought that he carried around with him for a whole day, that you feel uncomfortable around him, that the distance between you is the right thing, is swept away with just one touch. Erased. Non-existent. 

He wants to kiss you, feel your skin against his, claim you for himself. But all he can do is stare at your hand lying on his. He doesn't even feel the tears of joy rolling down his cheeks. All he feels is your hand on his. 

He can't answer the question Joris asked him with words, without risking losing his heart to you forever, but the Monegasque can squeeze your hand. Twice. 

Your fingertips on Charles' thigh make his brain short-circuit, as your hand squeezes his. 

Twice.

[erwinsvow]

can we have rafe try to grovel ?? :((((( shy reader deserves better !!! <3 https://www.tumblr.com/erwinsvow/751213087399510016/what-if-rafe-ever-hit-shy-reader-from-built-up?source=share

he will grovel!! side note i dont know how i feel about this its just for the sweet anon who wanted part two

the moment rafe shuts the door and traps you in the room, between his body and the wall, you know some part of you has just broken that you'll never fully be able to fix.

everything in your body tells you to look up at rafe and do something. slap him back, push him away, turn around and storm out of the room and try to at least show him you're just as mad as he is—but none of that actually happens.

hot tears keep spilling down your cheeks, and you stay frozen like that for what feels like forever, staring at the floor of rafe's bedroom. the sound of rafe's heavy breaths fills the space, though you can barely detect it over the way your heart is pounding in your ears.

you want to leave. but you don't know where you even would go. before the events of the last hour, there was no where you wanted to be more than wherever rafe was. and now, staring at the floor instead of up at the boy who you had gladly given your heart to only for him to snap it in half with his bare hands and deliver it back, you stay frozen, waiting for rafe. you are always waiting for rafe.

"kid, i-" you finally look up, through wet lashes and almost painful eyes fluttering slowly, and rafe stops talking the moment you do. you don't know why, but it doesn't take you long to figure it out. there's a mark on your cheek the size of his hand, probably an imprint from his ring too.

it's such a shame—you always loved that ring.

you snap out of your thoughts when rafe keeps talking, though there's still blooding rushing in your ears. he sounds muffled, his mouth moving and expression looking, you can only imagine, somewhat close to yours—sad and angry all blended together. you keep blinking slowly, listening but not really listening, waiting for him to finish so you can leave.

how stupid you must seem to him, and to yourself, you think pathetically. he just hit you, and you're waiting for him to finish, so you don't impolitely interrupt. you should drive straight from tannyhill to a therapist's office—though you think not even a licensed professional could help you figure out what exactly is wrong with you.

the thought makes you laugh, corners of your mouth turning up and a rush of air leaving your throat. half a laugh, half a sob. the gutting realization has just hit you—whatever was wrong with you, rafe was the only one in the world who seemed to understand you.

"baby?" rafe asks, and you actually snap out of it this time—looking up at your boyfriend, wondering if he knows you haven't heard a single thing he's said so far.

"i think i should go home," you reply, wondering where your keys are and where your wallet is. you don't keep track of these things anymore, usually since rafe drives you everywhere and pays for everything.

"okay. i'll bring you, just let me go get-"

"no, i-" you stop yourself—about to apologize again. everything running through your mind makes you choose your words carefully. "i'm gonna go home."

"you didn't drive here, kid. i picked you up, remember?" rafe looks back at you and you feel a fresh wave of tears take over. you hadn't remembered.

"oh."

"listen, kid, i'm so-"

"i'm going home," you repeat firmly, mostly to yourself. "i'll just-i'll walk."

"y'not walking. it's dark and-"

"rafe, stop." the way you say it, he actually listens. you don't sound like yourself, you can tell from the way he looks at you, rafe's face doused with concern and apprehension. you look away, turning to face the door. "i'll be fine. i need to go."

"c'mon, kid, don't go," he says, and every bone and muscle inside you wants to listen, to do what he says like you always do. you feel more hot tears coming up, stopping them seems impossible yet you know crying is useless. it already happened and the damage is already done.

you turn around from your position, knowing it's a mistake. rafe gets closer, his hands coming up to cup your cheeks. he holds your face like he always does, except there's one big difference—you flinch the moment he starts moving.

"baby," rafe says quietly, and everything in you stops for a moment. brain lagging, breath catching, even the tears stop for a second while you look up at your boyfriend. "i'm so sorry. i am so sorry. i fucked up, okay? i know i did, but please don't go."

"rafe, i can't stay," it comes out just as quietly, a notch above a whisper. "you hurt me." it comes out wrangled in a sob. rafe wipes away some of your fresh tears with his hands.

"i-i know. and i'm gonna regret it forever, but-" rafe stops, and you stop too. you chew on your lip nervously, realizing it's going to bleed from how much you're biting down. "can-can i at least bring you home? please?"

"okay," you give in-but you shouldn't have.

you don't even know how you're gonna explain the mark on your face to your parents, or why you're home so early when you said you were sleeping over. every movement feels exhausting—grabbing some of your things and walking down the stairs to getting into rafe's truck. the drive to your place isn't very long, only ten minutes, and you stare out the window the whole time. it feels like hours with the way rafe looks at you at each red light.

rafe pulls into your driveway and you look up at him expectantly, though you're not sure why.

"can you-can you turn the headlights off? i don't want them waking up," you say, after what feels like ages of silence.

rafe turns the lights off but doesn't say anything. it's not until you reach for the doorhandle that he does—it's almost muscle memory for him. he leans over you to pull the handle and open the door for you, but you flinch so hard when he moves that he can't even get the door. instead he looks back at you while you stare up at him. without any words, you both know what the other is thinking.

"goodnight, rafe," you say, your own hand on the door now.

"wait, kid," he says, and you stop your movement immediately. even in this situation, you can't help but listen. "can i see you tomorrow? please?"

"i don't think that's a good idea."

"c'mon. we-we have to talk about this. i can't just.. not see you. i'm gonna go crazy."

"i need to go rafe." the second you say it, you start feeling bad about it. it's so engrained in you—trying to avoid hurting rafe in any and every way possible, that the very idea of not giving him what he wants makes your chest ache painfully. "i.. i have to think about it."

he leans over, slowly this time so you don't get scared again, opening the door for you like he always does. you climb out, getting your bag and trying to pretend everything's fine until you get inside your room.

"good night, kid. i'll talk to you tomorrow."

without replying, you walk inside. rafe's truck stays in your driveway until you lock the door, and he doesn't drive away until minutes after.

surprisingly, you make it to your room before you start crying. and you don't stop crying until the sun comes up.

[fuctacles]

Under pressure

For @subeddieweek Day 1 | M | 1177 | accidental subspace, non-verbal communication, sleepover, Steve-instinctive-Dom-Harrington | Ao3 Day 1 | Day 2 | Day 3 | Day 4 | Day 5 | Day 6 | Day 7 | Ao3

Eddie avoided fights because he was a coward. A pussy, even, he'll admit. But there was a whole other reason for him avoiding sports.

He wasn't a big fan of physical contact. 

But since he's become better friends with Steve Harrington, he's been discovering things about himself. Things he wished would have stayed hidden. Forever.

The first time, it was a tussle for the remote. Eddie refused to watch another episode of whatever the fuck capitalist media was trying to spoon-feed them, while Steve was adamant there was a plot that he was invested in. One elbow to the gut and some pulled hair later, he landed underneath the guy, his weight pinning him to the ground.

Melting his bones.

Soothing.

"You okay?"

Steve sounded concerned about Eddie's sudden silence, and his mind scrambled to salvage his dignity. All he could manage was a groan, which Steve thankfully interpreted as a sign of pain and not the sudden weakness that it was. 

He instantly hopped off of him, apologizing.

Eddie has been avoiding and yearning for the touch ever since.

He had never considered Steve like that, but apparently being sat on was the biggest turn-on for his poor little dick, and now it was all he could think of at night.

His doom comes when he has to sleep over after a night of drinking. Steve insisted they share a bed, that it was alright, and Eddie foolishly believed him. 

It is fine until Steve rolls over to put away his glasses. 

"Shit, sorry. I just gotta..."

They didn't think this through, because Eddie was the one next to the bedside table, the one Steve was trying to reach. He almost crawls over Eddie to accomplish it, his weight heavy on top of him, pressing him to the mattress and making his mind go blank. 

He bites his lip so hard he probably draws blood, but it doesn't stop the whimper Steve's body literally pushed out of him.  Steve freezes. 

"Are you alright?" He drops the glasses and shoots up. "Did I hurt you?"

Eddie can't answer. His brain is screaming at his mouth, but he can't manage a single word, all he can think of is Steve's body back on him, that weight pressing him down, immobilizing him. He could probably reach pure bliss with just that.

When he doesn't get an answer, Steve pulls on his shoulder to flip him on his back. Eddie whines in protest but doesn't have enough control over his muscles to stop him. His shame gets put on display and Steve's eyes widen.

"Eddie?"

His pupils are huge as he blinks owlishly up at his friend.

"You okay?"

Eddie nods.

"Do you need anything?"

You. On me, against me, in me.

He shakes his head slowly, not breaking eye contact. This seems to frustrate Steve.

"Eddie, come on," he groans. "Clearly something's wrong. Do you need water? I can bring you some." He moves to stand up, but Eddie's in the way. He has to throw his leg over him, and Eddie presses his eyes closed, begging his body not to react.

It's enough to alert Steve, though, and he freezes hovering above him, mid-movement. 

"Huh."

It's a soft sound, barely there, and Eddie decides to keep his eyes closed. Maybe if he does, whatever realization Steve has gets forgotten, and he moves on, brings him the damn water, and maybe throws it on him like on a horny dog. Maybe that would help him.

But no, the ‘huh’ is followed by Steve settling down on his hips.

Oxygen escapes him in a whiny breath, and his body presses up without his control, seeking that delicious weight of another body. 

"Want to make out about it?" Steve asks out of the blue like any normal person would in these circumstances. But Eddie doesn't answer him, he can't, and he doesn't know. He can only stare and writhe under him, making tiny sounds of need he can't comprehend. Steve frowns down on him, partially concerned, partially curious. 

"Don't feel like talking?" he asks. Eddie gives him a nod. He hums. "Can you answer some yes or no questions? Nod for a yes and shake your head for no."

Nod.

"You can blink twice if you don't know or don't want to answer. Okay?"

Nod.

"What do you do if you don't want to answer?"

Eddie blinks twice.

"Good. Great." Steve smiles, and Eddie mirrors it through his haze. "Are you feeling alright?"

Nod.

"Do you need water?"

Shake.

"Do you need the bathroom?"

Shake.

"A snack?"

Shake.

Steve considers him, perched on top of his body. Eddie tentatively reaches up, palms resting on his thighs. Steve's gaze follows his fingers, where they just rest with no ill intent, only there to touch.

"Will we talk about it more in the morning?"

Eddie hesitates. Does he want to talk about it? To bring his shame to the light of day, confess the budding crush on his friend? But Steve doesn't seem angry, he's not kicking him out of the bed. He's being soft and gentle and trying to understand. Maybe in the morning, they could understand it together. Tentatively, he nods.

That eases Steve's frown a bit, but he sighs when another problem hits him.

"I don't know what else to ask," he admits with a huff. 

Eddie wants to help, so he slides his hands up, towards his hips, and tries to convey as best as possible where he wants him. He stares into his eyes, begging him to understand.

"Want me to lay down on you?"

He nods furiously, excited to get what he needs. 

Steve looks down. It's a minuscule movement of his eyes, but it's there. He will know if Eddie's hard when he moves, but he needs the heads-up. The bulge in Eddie's sweats is noticeable but not fully there, to Steve's relief. Having his friend under him in such a pliant state is already overwhelming as it is, and he knows Eddie will feel his own chub when he moves. 

"We're just sleeping tonight, alright?" Steve clarifies and Eddie nods without hesitation. "And cuddle a bit, I guess." Eddie nods again.

He moves, watching his friend’s face for any sign of distress. Eddie’s hands slide around him in an embrace that's more comforting than Steve's ready to admit, and soon they're chest to chest, legs tangled, and he has to crane his neck to maintain eye contact.

"That alright?"

Nod.

Eddie's hands squeeze him minutely and Steve settles down against his shoulder, finally resting his full body weight against him.

The man underneath him sighs, and it's like his whole body deflates. He makes a content sound in the back of his throat, and Steve wants to cry. It's so endearing and so comforting to have Eddie trust him like that. To have him turn into mush in his presence. 

He hopes he's not overstepping when he presses his nose to Eddie's neck, inhaling him and softly caressing his skin when he murmurs a "goodnight, Eds."

[hurthermore]

I need rough sex (and praise kink reader) with human Alastor

»»------► 𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚎 (18+)

Warnings: 𝚁𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚜𝚎𝚡, 𝙵!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛, 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢, 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚔, 𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚘 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚝, 𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚔, 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜

A/N: 𝚂𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚕 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎; 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗'𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚏 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚏 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚑 𝙻𝙼𝙰𝙾 𝙴𝙽𝙹𝙾𝚈 𝙰𝙽𝚈𝚆𝙰𝚈𝚂 𝙸 𝙶𝚄𝙴𝚂𝚂??

You weren't expecting this from Alastor when he had come home from work at the radio station, only to see you having a cup of coffee with the neighbour next door; the neighbour who just so happened to be a man.

It never registered in your mind as to why Alastor was so obsessive about keeping you purely to himself; but as he pummelled himself into your wet slick, you found yourself loving how much he wished to possess you.

Moaning screams of ecstasy that left your throat as your husband - Alastor, held your head into the pillows that laid against your bed with a weight that had you crying, he forced your spine to curve at such an angle whilst he repeatedly hammered his cock into you from behind; his speed and harshness reduced you into a dumbed down whore. “You’re my wife.” His words laced with pure venom as continued to fuck you with reckless abandon. “Mine.”

Letting out a gut wrenching scream as Alastor’s thick cock slammed against the opening of your cervix, you couldn’t prevent the drool that left the corner of your mouth as your eyes rolled back. “You’re so beautiful, darling. All fucked out just for me” Alastor groaned as he slapped your ass with his free hand; a hit so hard that you were certain it had the potential to break bones. You couldn’t help the scream that left your lips as the stinging sensation hit you like a ton of bricks, nor the way the spank had caused your cunt to excrete more lubricate for you husband to cover his phallic organ in.

Despite your incoherent moans of mumbled words, you asked him to slow down; asked him to give you some room to breathe. In response, he only increased his harsh thrusts, plummeting his pelvis into the fat of your cheeks with haste, causing your whole body to thrust up the bed to the point where his sex almost left the walls of your core, only to push you back onto his fat cock at such a rate you thought he was going to damage something.

Your sex felt like it was in the pits of a fire as Alastor continued to spank you, each as hard as the last as he fucked himself into you; your cunt squeezing his length from every hit with such tightness it had him almost spilling his cum into you.

Groaning loudly with gritted teeth, Alastor's grasp on your neck tightened ever so slightly before retracting, only to pierce the tips of his fingernails into your back, shallowly tearing your skin as he dragged his hand along your spine; causing you to scream in pain and pleasure as he caused little drops of blood to seep through the torn flesh.

Halting his movements, he stilled his cock inside you, giving you a moment to relax from his rough and relentless pace as he leaned over your form. Pressing his chest against your now slightly bloodied back, he gripped your jaw; forcing your head to tilt awkwardly before he shoved his tongue between your gaping lips. Despite how dumb Alastor was able to make you whenever he made love to you; or fucked you with a passion like no other, as he licked every part of the innards of your mouth, you bit your teeth into his sloppy tongue, causing him to buck into you with a pained groan; his eyes rolling back as you inflicted pain back onto him. And as the familiar taste of metallic salt began to cascade onto the buds of your tongue, you began to suck on his oral muscle, drinking up the blood that left his wound.

With a curse on the tip of his tongue, he retracted from your mouth before kissing your temple with intense pressure. Flushing from his soft gesture despite his rough assault, Alastor adjusted his posture, giving you another harsh thrust before leaning over your back once more, only to lick the wounds he had inflicted onto you, feasting on the blood he had caused to drip from your flesh. Moaning at the sensation, you pushed yourself back into him, trying to recreate the ministrations he had fucked you with. 

Gripping his fingers into your hips, he guided your cunt to drag along his cock at a slower rate than he had previously gone, but one that went so deep inside of you, you thought you could see stars.

Sighing a staggering moan into the damaged skin of your back, Alastor's hair tickled you as he lifted his head from your back, your blood smeared on his lips as he began to fuck into you harder and faster; matching his previous roughness as he snaked his fingers along your stomach before pressing his fingertips against your throbbing clit.

Crying out as your husband strummed your blooming bud with such mastery that he had learned over the years as he had attuned his knowledge of your body and what pleasured you, you could feel his sweat and drool drip onto your back as he continued to slam his sex rapidly into you. It felt too much, and like a tidal wave, you could only squeeze your thighs as they shook from the sheer amount of pleasure your loving husband was pouring into you as your cunt began orgasm over your husbands cock, squeezing down on him with such pressure that forced him to thrust into you one last time with such harshness it caused his own ejaculation to splatter the innards of your core.

Panting as Alastor remained inside you despite coming down from your highs, he wrapped his arms around your stomach before placing soft kisses along your back and into your neck before he nudged his sharp facial features into the crevice of your neck and shoulder.

“The next time you talk to another man, I’m going to carve my name into every part of your beautiful skin, darling.” His word mumbled into your skin before he removed himself off of you; his cum slowly exuded from your core before he laid back into the bed, pulling you into him as he wrapped his strong yet slim arms around you.

Laying your head into his chest, you could only think about his threat.

Why did it make your cunt throb in pleasure?

»»------► 𝙼𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

[theambitiouswoman]

Supplements & Vitamins

Here's a list of some of the most commonly used supplements and their benefits. Please remember that while supplements can be beneficial for certain people, everyones nutritional needs are different. It's always a good idea to consult with a specialist before adding any new supplements to your routine, as individual needs may vary.

Multivitamin: Provides a range of essential vitamins and minerals to support overall health and fill potential nutrient gaps in your diet.

Omega-3 Fatty Acids: Promote heart health, brain function, and reduce inflammation. Typically derived from fish oil or algae.

Vitamin D: Supports bone health, immune function, and may have a positive impact on mood. It's commonly obtained through sun exposure, but supplements can be useful, especially in winter or for those with limited sun exposure.

Probiotics: Help promote a healthy gut microbiome, aiding digestion, nutrient absorption, and immune function.

Magnesium: Important for muscle and nerve function, bone health, and energy production. It may also help with relaxation and sleep.

B vitamins: Help convert food into energy, support brain function, and maintain healthy hair, skin, and nails.

Vitamin C: Boosts immune function, acts as an antioxidant, supports collagen production, and aids in iron absorption.

Zinc: Essential for immune function, wound healing, and cell division. It also supports normal growth and development during pregnancy, childhood, and adolescence.

Iron: Required for red blood cell production and oxygen transport. Iron deficiency can lead to anemia and fatigue, but it's essential to get iron levels checked before supplementing.

Calcium: Crucial for bone health and muscle function. It's often combined with vitamin D for better absorption.

Coenzyme Q10 (CoQ10): Plays a vital role in energy production within cells and acts as an antioxidant. It may benefit heart health and cellular energy metabolism.

Curcumin (Turmeric extract): Possesses anti-inflammatory and antioxidant properties, potentially supporting joint health and cognitive function.

Ashwagandha: An adaptogenic herb that may help reduce stress, promote relaxation, and support cognitive function.

Green Tea Extract: Contains antioxidants and may support cardiovascular health, weight management, and cognitive function.

Glucosamine: Commonly used for joint health and may help alleviate symptoms of osteoarthritis.

Chondroitin: Often taken alongside glucosamine, it may help reduce joint pain and improve joint mobility.

Probiotics for Gut Health: Certain strains of probiotics can help restore and maintain a healthy balance of gut bacteria, supporting digestion and immune function.

Melatonin: A hormone that regulates sleep-wake cycles, melatonin supplements can help with insomnia or jet lag.

Vitamin E: An antioxidant that supports immune function and may help protect against cellular damage.

Ginseng: An adaptogenic herb that may help increase energy, reduce stress, and support cognitive function.

Prebiotics: These are non-digestible fibers that promote the growth of beneficial gut bacteria, supporting gut health and digestion.

Magnesium: In addition to its previous benefits, magnesium may help reduce muscle cramps, improve mood, and promote relaxation.

Probiotics for Vaginal Health: Certain strains of probiotics can help maintain a healthy balance of vaginal flora, reducing the risk of infections.

Cranberry Extract: Often used for urinary tract health, cranberry extract may help prevent urinary tract infections.

Resveratrol: Found in grapes and berries, resveratrol has antioxidant properties and may support heart health and longevity.

L-theanine: An amino acid commonly found in green tea, L-theanine may promote relaxation, improve focus, and reduce anxiety.

[anakinstwinklebunny]

WAR OF HEARTS

TIME: February 1942

TW: it's inspired by a movie "Pearl Harbor" FLUFF

PAIRING: soldier!anakin x nurse!reader

Anakin laid on the medical bed, every broken bone ached with even the slightest movement. He was thirsty, hungry, and desperate to recover, but the relentless pain gripped his every nerve like a living nightmare, stabbing his spine with invisible knives

His ears were filled with the groans of fellow soldiers, all victims of the war - each sharing their own agony. His mind was haunted by images of the battlefield—the relentless gunfire, the screams of men in torment, the thick scent of fresh blood, and the cold, unforgiving rain.

The only solace in his hospital stay was the presence of his favorite nurse, you. You were the most beautiful girl he had ever seen; your kind and sweet demeanor coupled with your gentle touch made his time more bearable. Your voice was soothing and sugary, providing him with brief moments of comfort amidst his suffering. He thought of you as an angel, a true angel sent from heavens by God himself, to bring him back to health and ease his suffering—a reward for the sacrifices he had made for his country

As the days passed, Anakin found himself eagerly anticipating your visits every time. Every time you entered his hospital room, a sense of calm washed over him, as if you brought with yourself a piece of heaven.

He found himself captivated by your every move—the way you carefully checked his bandages; the softness in your touch when you adjusted his pillows..it all gave him a tingly feeling in his gut. Day by day he found himself falling for you even more and it was almost surprising for him how easily you could wrap him around your finger, by doing nothing but showing kindness and care

"How do you feel today?" your sweet voice rang in his ears as you came for your daily checks on not only him but every patient here.

Anakin turned his head to face you. He managed a faint smile, the most he could muster through his agony.

"Could be better," he admitted, his voice betraying the strain he was under. "But seeing you makes it bearable.” the last words dripping with the last braveness he could bring to offer

You offered him a smile while Anakin's eyes traced up and down your figure as you moved around, checking things and taking notes on a clipboard. Despite his pain, a different kind of ache stirred in his chest. Somehow he longed to reach out, to touch you, to draw you closer. But he knew better than that to not do it, at least not right now

"Thank you... for taking such good care of me, Nurse Y/N."

"It's my job..." you replied, this time forcing a smile as your fingers slowly untied the bandage on his arm.

His gaze lingered on your face during your work. His blue eyes followed your every movement, almost studying your expression– your delicate features, the way your eyes seemed to glow with warmth. Each glance only deepened the ache within him, a yearning for something more amidst the chaos of war. The pain in his arm flared as air touched his wound; however he tried to remain still, not wanting to make your job any more difficult. He gritted his teeth for a moment, then exhaled slowly, trying to relax his sore muscles.

Your brows knitted together. "Well, it is healing, but you're going to have a scar…”

Anakin glanced down at his arm, wincing at the sight of the raw, angry-looking wound beneath the bandage. The thought of a scar didn’t bother him; he had plenty of those already. He looked back at you, his expression a mix of resignation and determination.

"Scar or not, I'll be fine. I've been through worse,"

You hummed softly, gently changing the bandage and tying it up firmly. He kept watching you intently, to which you were now used to. His eyes tracing the delicate movements of your hands; the pain in his arm had lessened to a dull throb, thanks to your skilled care. Seeking a distraction, he initiated conversation.

"How long have you been here?" he asked. The curiosity was evident in his voice.

"Started a few months ago," you replied softly with a sigh, moving your hands to the bandage over his head.

He felt strangely at ease in your presence, as if her very essence had a calming effect on him. And he didn't know you at all. But maybe it's this magic of being an angel? That every person you're around immediately feels intense trust towards you?

"You're a natural at it," he said, a note of admiration in his voice. "You're always so... gentle."

"Well, this job requires that... Does your head still hurt?”

He winced as your hand accidentally touched a sensitive spot on his head, the pain flaring up momentarily. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply as he tried to control it. He managed to nod,his expression a mix of fatigue and discomfort.

"It does," he admitted, his voice slightly shaky. "But it's getting better, I think.”

You sighed, twisting your body to the near nightstand. You opened the cabinet, roaming over the different pills inside. Anakin's eyes followed your every move, once more, feeling almost hypnotized by you. Well, he also wanted to memorize every second you spend here, with him before he will lost you..He wanted to say something meaningful, something beyond the polite small talk you usually exchanged. His mind raced with indecision until he decided he had nothing to lose.

"Will you go out with me?" he asked out of nowhere, his voice suddenly serious yet gentle.

"What?" you scoffed, turning to face him

Anakin mentally cursed himself for his impulsiveness. Your response was not what he had hoped for. "You heard me," he kept going nonetheless "I want to take you out on a date. Once I'm discharged from this place, of course”

"I... but you will be sent back to the frontline."

Anakin's expression darkened, the harsh truth of your words hitting him hard. The idea of returning to the place he was taken from filled him with a mix of dread and resignation. "Maybe," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "But that doesn't change the fact that I want to take you on a date. A proper date, not just here in some hospital room."

Surprisingly for him, you chuckled, gently placing a pill on his tongue before holding his head so he could take a sip of water. "First, you need to get better.”

He complied, swallowing the pill and taking a gulp of water, his gaze remaining fixed on her. He hated how weak he felt, having to rely on you for his basic needs. It felt weird but at the same time, it's nothing bad. He was, now, fragile and vulnerable. Something, yes, he dreads, however your presence healed his self-consciousness "And then you'll go out with me?" he asked, a hopeful smirk playing on his lips.

You smiled warmly, leaning down to give him a kiss on the forehead, to which Anakin's eyes widened slightly. His heart skipped a beat, a mix of surprise and excitement washing over him "We will see," you whispered before walking away.

He watched your hips sway back and forth, a strange, happy flutter filling his stomach

In all his days he had never felt such excitement and building nervousness at the thought of you possibly agreeing on the date. Gosh, he was in heaven

A month later, Anakin stood nervously outside the hospital, already dressed in his uniform. He clutched a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of champagne, knowing he would soon return to the frontline. He exhaled the cold February air and waited for you to finish your work

Whereas you have just finished your shift. With giggling friends all around you, you took the step out of the hospital and the frigid air made you shiver. You wrapped your coat tighter around you hoping to shake off the cold air. Your eyes caught the visible in cold breaths before they lingered on the high man that stood in the darkness. Soon you acknowledged who it was and your cheeks flushed even more. Gosh, you didn't even know this man. You just took care of him, as your job required you to. But now, as you two made eye contact, you could see his face without all the bandages and small cuts. And only one thought crossed your mind;

He was divine

"What are you doing here?" you asked after your friends left your side, giggling to themselves after you've said your ‘bye’s’

Anakin smiled nervously, suddenly feeling self-conscious under the watchful eyes of your friends. He held up the bouquet and the bottle of champagne, his voice slightly shaky.

"I came to see you," he replied. "I wanted to take you out on that date I promised. Tonight.”

“Tonight?”

Anakin nodded, his expression serious as he took a step closer to you, holding out the bouquet and the champagne.

"Yeah, tonight," he affirmed, his voice earnest. "I only have a few days left before I…” he swallowed “.. have to go back. I want to spend every moment I can with you.”

your expression softened, accepting the beautiful bouquet "Well, I don't see why we wouldn't spend some time together," you replied sweetly.

Anakin's heart leapt at your response, a wave of relief washing over him. "Great," he said, a smile returning to his face. "I have a surprise for you. Come on.” He held out his arm, offering it for you to take. With a soft chuckle, you've accepted his arm

You couldn't help but notice how Anakin's muscles were toned and strong beneath your touch. It was a silent reminder of the physical demands he endured in his duty. He led you through the quiet streets, the night air chilly yet oddly comforting. A thrill of excitement coursed through not only him but you as well while you walked together, acutely aware of the limited time you had.

Finally after some time, you sat down on a bench. "Okay, so... I've never done this before, so I—" he muttered, attempting to open the champagne bottle. But unfamiliar with the process, the cork unexpectedly popped off and hit Anakin in the face. He grunted in surprise and annoyance.

"Damn it...!" he cursed, rubbing his nose. He glanced down at the spilled champagne that stained the bench.

"Are you okay?" you gasped, noticing the escaping blood

Anakin nodded through the pain, trying to play it off. "Yeah, just a little sting," he said, though the blood trickling down his nose betrayed his discomfort. He attempted to discreetly wipe it away, only managing to smear it on his glove

The difficulty in breathing began to distress him, his expression a mix of pain and annoyance. Anakin cursed silently, trying to staunch the bleeding.

"Damn it, I was trying to impress you…”

You chuckled softly, finding it adorable. Swiftly, you grabbed ice from the ground and gently pushed his hand away to press it to his nose. "It's okay..." you whispered

He winced as the ice touched his tender nose, but the coldness provided some relief from the throbbing pain. Anakin looked up at you, embarrassment mingling with gratitude in his eyes

"I feel like an idiot now..." he muttered, feeling his face heat up under your too gentle gaze. He felt bold again and settled his head on your lap, hoping you wouldn't push him away or feel uncomfortable. A sigh escaped him as the pain in his nose subsided with the cooling sensation of the ice.

"This is not how I imagined our date would go..." he mumbled

you couldn't help but chuckle softly in response. "It's okay," you repeated again to run your free hand through his curls

He closed his eyes, savoring the gentle touch of your fingers. It was a soothing sensation, distracting him from the discomfort in his nose. His body relaxed, tension draining away as he allowed himself to immerse in the moment.

"I'm really glad you agreed to this," he murmured, his voice quieter than usual.

"I'm glad you've asked me out.”

A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and he let out a soft exhale.

"Yeah, I was honestly scared you would say no," he admitted, opening his eyes to met your gaze, vulnerability and honesty shining through "But you didn't, and now I'm here with you, and everything feels..." he paused, searching for the right word. "... perfect."

You hummed softly. "Does your nose still hurt?”

He shifted slightly on your lap, feeling the lingering ache in his nose. Anakin let out a small sigh before answering; "Not as bad as before," he replied, his expression slightly pained. "The ice helped. But it still stings a bit.”

"The ice should stop the bleeding."

He nodded gratefully at your nursing knowledge. "Maybe you should kiss it to make it better," he suggested with a widening smile.

"A kiss will make it better?" you raised an eyebrow

"It's a well-known fact," he teased. "A kiss from a pretty nurse can work miracles.”

"Didn't know that," you chuckled softly, to which he did the same

"Well, now you know," he said, his voice taking on a slightly more serious tone. "And I wouldn't mind if you tested that theory out for me.”

You giggled again, leaning down to press a gentle kiss on his nose. When he felt the softness of your lips against his nose and he momentarily forgot about the ache. He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding while his heart fluttered in his chest.

"That definitely made it better," he said, his voice slightly more breathless than usual. "Though, I might need a few more kisses just to be sure."

"Oh, more?" You teased playfully.

He nodded, a playful glimmer in his eyes as he shifted on your lap to bring his face closer to yours. "Yeah, just to make sure the pain is completely gone," he whispered, his voice a low murmur. "A few more kisses on the nose, maybe a few on the mouth, just to be thorough."

Without much hesitation, you brought your lips to his once more. However this time you've heard Anakin wince slightly, the extra pressure exacerbating the pain in his nose. But the initial discomfort quickly faded, replaced by the sweetness of your mouth against his. He let out a small hum of enjoyment and deepened the kiss.

You leaned in, your breath warm against his skin. However this time you've heard Anakin wince slightly, the initial pressure intensifying the pain momentarily. But the discomfort quickly dissolved, replaced by the tender sweetness of your kiss. He let out a contented hum, savoring the moment as he gently deepened the caress.

The night air around you was cold, but the heat between you two created a cocoon of warmth and intimacy. And he couldn't be happier right now, not when he managed to have such an angel by his side

TAG LIST: @kingdomhate @ysrjune @divineani @erosmutt @haydensprettyprincess @mistress-amidala @catnipaddictt @slutforfinnickodair

(if you want to be removed or added then don't be shy and let me know 💋)

[morgana-ren]

Astarion going a little batshit and embracing his yandere side is all I've ever wanted. Especially if youre his spawn because you are truely fucked. I think the first time he makes you do something, he does feel a little guilt, but it's gone quick enough.

The first time it happens, it isn't even intentional. It happens automatically— like some dormant power suddenly awakened in his blood. There is no magic, cursing, or even intention behind it. Only an effortless aura of command that your body bends to, yielding to him as second nature.

There's an argument. Over what, it doesn't quite matter-- something senseless and a long time coming. It ends with you storming off, trying to walk away before things escalate and things turn ugly between you. Abandoning the conversation before he's managed to say his piece.

Needless to say, he does not abide this.

He demands you to return, and you do not. You keep stalking off towards the entryway, utterly ignoring his protestation. Back turned, marching off, indignant and furious, clearly indifferent to his words—

And you do not ignore your Lord.

"Stop right there!"

Your limbs stiffen as if your flesh has suddenly hardened into stone, and fear spurs icy tendrils through your brain as you realize you are locked in place.

You cannot move. Even as you bid your bones, they do not heed your command. Your muscles are rusted iron, and your will cannot bend them. Your body is not your own any longer. It belongs to him, awaiting orders with bated breath.

He realizes what he's done as he senses your fury. You cannot move, even desperately try. You are wholly under his thrall, body and soul. He recalls the horror of his first time losing his autonomy to Cazador with staggering detail. The misery. The betrayal. The terror of it all, a prisoner trapped within your own mind, utterly helpless against the dark, primal magics stirring within you that highjack control of your form.

You have brought it on yourself. Had you just been as obedient as you are pretty—

"Now come back," snaps his fingers, blinking slowly with an unreadable expression and watching with interest as your legs move of their own volition towards the spot he now points at directly before him.

He can see you fighting it. See you strain and thrash against your very mind, wailing to be set free from this ancient trick of nature he's wielding against you. He remembers miserable nights of it-- centuries of it-- begging for freedom or a miracle from the forsaken Gods or even the sweet, saccharine release of death. He imagines your expression looks exactly as his did when he first discovered the intangible chains: a portrait of true, unbridled horror.

Something within him stirs and there's a small crook ticking his lips upward. Only slightly, but still visible.

You approach him once more, and he can feel your rage. Oh, how you long to strike him down.

As if you could.

"There's a good girl," The taunting lilt to his voice is unmistakable, cruel in his mockery. "See? Was that so hard?"

Your lip curls, so ready to spit venom right back at him.

"Ah, ah! Hush now, darling. Wouldn't want to say something we'd regret, now would we?"

Your words stopper in your throat, forcibly swallowed back into the flaming pit of rage that burns in your gut. You can taste the vitriol on your tongue, but you can do nothing other than choke on it.

"You don't want to fight, little love. Do you? Of course not. We can let bygones be bygones--"

A sharp glint in his scarlet eyes that sets your teeth on edge. You've seen it before, but he hasn't turned it on you before-- not until now.

"--If you beg my forgiveness."

If you were expecting him to return your autonomy, you are sorely mistaken. Anything that forms behind your teeth is immediately forced down. He has not relinquished control, and it's now that you realize he doesn't intend to. Not until he's satisfied. This is a punishment-- an object lesson to remind you of your place and the power he wields over you, even as he claims to love you.

The only words allowed to pass your lips are those he wants to hear, and you can feel them crawling up against your will, a spidery reflex he has total control of.

And yet, even as you go to speak, he stops you once more.

"I'll need to know you're truly sorry, of course. Go ahead and kneel, darling. A little show of supplication."

You drop to your knees so suddenly that marble bruises bone, drawn down as if weighed by a thousand stones. In his magnanimous glory, you are still allowed to look up at him, bleary vision clouded with freshly forming tears at this heinous betrayal.

"I'm so sorry, Master. I'll obey. It's not my place to question you. I'll never walk away from you again."

The words are not your own, and yet, you cannot bite them back. They slip the confines of your lips, spoken into truth by his will. That is what he wants to hear, so that is what your voice speaks even as you scratch and tear at the walls of your brain to rend them apart in your fruitless battle with primal servitude.

"I forgive you, dear one."

Your head lolls against his thigh, and he reaches a clawed hand down to card through your hair, petting your head softly like you are a dog begging attention from its master. Your neck strains to pull away, but you are drawn to him as a magnet.

"Silly, foolish girl. It's as if you forget your place is here," He tips your chin upward with a long, slender finger, looking down on you from above. "But that's alright. I have as long as I need to remind you."

Roiling hate flows from your body in waves, indignant and painful in its power. And yet, it is hapless against his tide of control. Eclipsed entirely under by his shadow.

"Now tell me you love me."

You fight with all your considerable strength, but again, the sentiment is choked out between ragged exhales and a soft sob.

"I love you. I'll never leave you."

He smiles down at you, all fang and ferocity, fingers weaving into your hair and tugging just hard enough to elicit a gasp from you.

"You're right. You won't."

He laughs derisively, grin growing wider as he pats your hair.

"I love you so, darling girl, even as you test me. Now, how about we put all of this nasty business behind us and move along to making it up to me, hmm?"

[twilight-orchid]

Shower Suprise

Jason Todd x gn pregnant reader

Notes: So, I’m currently fighting a war against baby fever and baby daddy jason makes me feral so I decided to write a self indulgent fic. I’m working on a couple sequel fics so let me know if you enjoyed this and I’ll post the others too. I’m not a great writer and have never written for Jason before, so sorry if it’s shit lmaooo

Part 2

Word count: 1730

Contains cursing, unplanned pregnancy, mention of abortion, talk of adoption

Jason had gotten home a little after 4 am. He’d been patrolling the cold, rainy streets since 11 and Gotham had finally grown quiet. His body ached something awful from the numerous fights he’d gotten into that night, and exhaustion had crept into his bones making him feel like he could fall asleep standing up.

He climbed into the window of the dark apartment silently to avoid waking his lover and got out of his gear in the living room. The sound of clanking metal and ripping zippers tended to get noisy. Once in his briefs alone he slipped into your bedroom, pausing for a moment to watch the rise and fall of your chest with a smile on his face. You slept soundly, your hair a nest around your face and your soft snores like a comforting lullaby to Jason.

He reluctantly made his way to your shared bathroom. He’d love nothing more than to just go to bed, but you didn’t like it when he got into the clean sheets with Gotham’s grime on him. And, to be fair, he was pretty gross some nights. He showered quickly, enjoying the steaming water on his sore muscles, then hastily moved to brush his teeth. However, something odd caught his eye as he spat.

There were balls of what looked like clean tissue wadded up atop the trash, which was strange as he’d just changed it before he left. You didn’t have a cold or anything that would constitute using that much. He furrowed his brow, a weird feeling washing over him. Something white and shiny just barely peeked out from underneath, and he moved the tissue aside to reveal not 1 but 4 pregnancy tests. His heart froze, time seeming to stop around him. Dread built in his gut as he grabbed the sticks, and terror settled in as he picked up one positive after another. Holy shit, y/n was pregnant. He’d gotten you pregnant. Fuck.

Something pleasant stirred in his gut but he squashed it down. His child would be in danger every day having him as their father. If anyone found out about his baby, child of the Red Hood and grandchild of the Batman, they’d instantly have a target on their head. Aside from that, he’d be a terrible father. He was gruff without meaning to, he had a short fuse, and he certainly didn’t have any good role models. All he could think about were the ways he could accidentally fuck them up. He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t notice you until you were in the bathroom with him.

He was no longer tired, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he dropped to the floor. Fuck fuck fuck. He couldn’t be a father, he’s Red Hood. He had huge time constraints, anger issues, and most importantly, a lot of blood on his hands. How could those hands, forever stained red, hold something like an innocent newborn in his grasp? A baby, with chunky cheeks and thighs, perhaps with his hair and your eyes.

“Jay?” You asked tentatively. He realized he was hyperventilating. He tried to respond, but he found all he could do is stare at your middle. Your eyes slipped to the floor, taking in the discovered pregnancy tests as he watched your face turn. This is clearly not the reveal you were hoping for. You crouched to his level.

“Jay, can you breathe with me?” He was still lost in his thoughts, buried in his anxiety. But he looked up and met your gaze, your features worried. For him. He closed his eyes and nodded with a shuddering breath.

“Alright babe, in through the nose…. Out through the mouth.” He followed along with you, his hand reaching out. You grabbed it firmly with both of yours without hesitation, running your thumbs along his skin. He usually didn’t like to be touched when he was having episodes, but something about your warmth grounded him. He steadily felt his heart begin to slow down.

You let go with one hand to tenderly cup his cheek, smiling sheepishly at him.

“You’re pregnant.” He said simply. You bit your lip and looked away, but nodded.

“I made an appointment in the morning to get an ultrasound and make sure, but well, 4 positives. Plus, you know how sick and nauseous I’ve been. Emotional, tired, hungry for weird shit…” He cursed under his breath and noted how your shoulders sank. Your hand just barely moved to your belly before you caught yourself, returning it to your side.

“You want the baby.” He stated, though it was more of a question. You sighed in frustration and ran your hand through your hair.

“I don’t know. I don’t feel ready, but I can’t stop picturing a little baby that looks like me and you and I just… I can’t-“ Your resolve crumbled as tears began rolling down your cheeks. He took you into his arms instantly, pulling you onto his lap and letting you bury your head into his neck as you sobbed. He drew circles into your back and whispered reassurances, but his head was spinning.

“I don't know what to do Jay!” You whimpered. He didn’t know either, but he needed to come up with a solution. For you.

A baby. A fucking baby. Bruce would absolutely lose it.

“Well,” he started, his voice calm. He was freaking out, but you didn’t need him a nervous wreck. You needed him strong and steadfast. He took a deep breath.

“There’s allot going on in our heads right now, why don't we break down our options, yeah?” You nodded, still sniffling and sat in his lap to meet his eyes.

“No matter what, I'm not putting a baby in the Gotham foster system. No way.” He started. Gotham had a lot of kids entering its foster system and almost no kids being adopted. Bruce had been trying to help solve the issue for years, but Jason knew if they gave the baby up for adoption, they’d likely have a hard time finding a home. Not to mention the issue still stood that they’d be in danger if their parentage was discovered, except in that scenario Jason wouldn’t even know where they are to help them. You nodded in agreement.

“So that leaves…” you began softly.

“Keeping it or getting rid of it.” He finished. Your lip twisted and fresh tears fell, but you wiped them away.

“I don’t… what do you want to do Jay?”

“It’s your body.”

“And it's your baby.” You responded. That was fair, and he thought about it. There’s no denying it could be dangerous, but there was also no denying that his kid would have the planets greatest protectors on its side. His family would call to arms for his baby in an instant, as would the friends Jason had made through his life. Hell, even the Justice League would defend Bruce’s grand baby. And he wouldn’t repeat his mentor’s mistakes and drag his kid on the rooftops with him. They belonged at home; safe, cared for, and loved. A feeling he reveled in when he was with you. He thought about you holding a toddler in your arms and playing with them, the sound of his child’s laughter echoing through the house. He just knew you would make an amazing parent. Feelings once again rose in his chest, but he didn’t push them down. He let them sit and, once he really thought about it, he kinda wanted to see the little guy live and grow. But ultimately it wasn’t his decision.

“I want what you want.” He finally responded. You groaned in frustration.

“I don’t want you to want what I want Jay. If I say I want it, I don’t want you to agree to make me happy and then feel trapped and then…” you trailed off, looking away from him. He furrowed his brow.

“And then what, leave you? Abandon you to raise my kid on your own? Do you really think I’d do that to you?” His tone sounded almost angry, but he didn’t mean for it to be. He wasn’t mad, he was hurt.

“No, Jay I-“ you sighed and ran a hand through your hair.

“I just don’t want to make you do something huge like this if it's not what you want. And I don’t want to force you to commit to me like that.” He scoffed at you.

“I think we’re well past worrying about me wanting to commit to you, doll.” You stared at him seemingly unconvinced, your fears and uncertainties visibly rattling around your skull.

He sighed. This wasn’t the circumstance he was hoping for, but his gut said it was time.

“You want to see how fucking serious I am about committing to you? Where the fuck are my jeans?” He gently pushed you off of him and told you to stay. He nearly chuckled at the cute, confused look on your face. He grabbed the pants he'd been wearing before patrol and fished his wallet out of his pocket.

“Look at this shit, I’ve been carrying this around with me for months.” You stared at him with a raised brow, wondering what the fuck he was doing. Out of the cash flap he pulled a small pouch of bubble wrap which produced a beautiful engagement ring. It was your picture-perfect ring; you couldn’t have picked a better one yourself. You froze, your breath catching in your throat.

“Jason-“

“No, shut up and listen to me. I love you. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone on this god forsaken planet. You are beautiful, and kind, and funny, and so fucking smart. You’ve been there for me at my worst and my best without judgement. You’re one person that I know I can rely on, and I am so proud that you rely on me. I am a lucky fucking man to have you in my life, and if you want this baby I’m with you. And I’ll be the happiest man alive. But if you don’t want it, you don’t. And I’ll be happy with that too. But either way, I love you and I want you to be my one and only for as long as you’ll have me. So, what do you wanna do babe?”

[thesightstoshowyou]

I heard Ghoul fuckery is wanted and I am HERE for it. So this was an idea a friend of mine came up with, just a little something, so maybe it'll work for you?

Imagine you were taught to hunt and skin animals so blood and guts aren’t anything to you, so you can imagine the Ghoul getting turned on by you covered in blood ♡

I’m literally kicking my feet and giggling at this prompt 😍 Thank you so much.

~~

Red

Cooper Howard x GN Reader (NSFW-ish)

Warnings: Animal death, blood, gore, knife mention, suggestive themes

~~

The crack of the rifle disturbs the hush of the forest. Crows take flight in alarm, rodents skitter though trees, but the doe doesn’t budge. She hovers motionless for one, two breaths before collapsing in a heap.

She goes down easy, bullet straight through the heart. Clean, painless. A yellowing grin is the only indication the Ghoul gives that he’s impressed, but you don’t notice.

Instead, you’re busy slinging the rifle over your shoulder and picking your way through the brush. That gunshot will have told everything in the vicinity that dinner’s ready. Best get to cleaning before something big comes running.

Your knees hit dirt, dust billowing up to speckle your pants when you kneel and draw your skinning knife. You waste no time in cutting away breast tissue before moving on to open up the pelvis. Bones snap, flesh and sinew part under your blade, and thick crimson wets your hands and soaks into the dirt. The scents of tangy iron and musky game fill the clearing as you diligently work.

Quiet bootfalls saunter up behind you. “Well, if I were a gentleman, I’d offer to do that for ya’,” Cooper drawls, “But it looks to me like ya’ got it handled.”

“This isn’t my first rodeo,” you quip. Gritting your teeth, you grunt with the effort of freeing innards from the doe’s body cavity. Prickling on the back of your neck tells you Cooper’s gaze is intent upon your every move.

Pausing, you glance over your shoulder to cock a questioning brow at the Ghoul hovering over you. Cooper crouches to get on your level. “Yeah, I can see that, darlin.” Leisurely, he reaches one, scarred hand out to pluck one of your blood soaked wrists from the pile of deer viscera.

From under the brim of his hat, he looks directly into your eyes as he brings your dripping hand to his mouth. Gnarled lips part and you squeak when they close around two of your bloody digits. Your teeth dig into your lip when he sucks them clean. They slide free from his mouth with a quiet pop.

He moves onto the next finger, then the next until your cheeks burn and your thighs clench. Cooper hums in satisfaction before finally releasing your wrist. Suddenly, the need for haste doesn’t seem so pressing.

The Ghoul reaches into the bloody mess between you to wet his own fingers. He brings them to your mouth to smear scarlet across your bottom lip. You taste iron when you wrap your lips around his thumb.

“Red’s a good color on you, sweetheart,” he murmurs. You watch the muscles in his jaw flex with his steadying inhale. “Let’s pick up the pace. I got other things than food on my mind now.”

[yandere--stuck]

AaaaaAAA I was so happy to see you already had a gore fic for Bill in the works! I have reread it like. 5 times. Your writing scratches my gore itch perfectly, and I just adore fics the intestinal stuff especially <33 and his mentions of your heart also… the romance!! I was inspired by what you wrote, I hope you enjoy it once again :D! (also im doing great, hope ur doing well too :D!!) - zagreus gore anon

Notes for anyone else: This contains gore!! So much gore!! Body horror— It’s Bill’s love language!! (intestinal trauma, mouth trauma, eye trauma…. Honestly ‘you’ here are violated in like every way possible.) No sexual content, but it’s suggestive to me. Bill Cipher is a Weirdo.

---------

You never quite get used to the pain. You wish you did.

In your memories, the sensation is dulled. You know it was painful, you know it was one of the most horrible sensations of your life, but the full extent of it… You can’t remember. Your brain must be protecting you from it. Every act of Bill’s love would constitute life-long trauma for anyone else, yet you live through another session of it day by day. No. Scratch that. They wouldn’t be alive to recall it. They wouldn’t make it half as far as you. For you, no such easy, simple fate can ever be attainable. The weirdness of his new world has conquered Death itself.

Bill had cradled his intestines in your arms, laughing as they helplessly twitched and writhed against his body, cooing at them as you howled in pain. “Aww, are you excited to see papa?” He’d said, and only the strangeness of it had kept you from repressing it. He talked to your guts as if they were puppies, as if blood smeared across his bricks were innocent licks against his skin instead. Another time, he’d wrapped your guts around his triangular body, and called it the ‘world’s most intimate hug’ as he whispered sweet nothings about how much he looooves you, and also the health of your gut bacteria. Somehow, he always outdoes himself.

Bill had dug even deeper, crumbling your ribs to smithereens in his hands, and held your still-beating heart in his palms as an object of reverence. “All mine, all mine…” He’d muttered to himself, his pupil momentarily expanding to a large, inky abyss. The pain had been so intense that you’d slipped into shock. A bad habit of yours, as Bill called it, would be your tendency to slip into memories of the past to escape the present. When you should be focusing on him.

That time, he’d jolted you back to reality by fire-hot pain slashing through your heart. All the time, it continued pumping, spurting blood in Bill’s direction with every pump. His powers were the only thing keeping you alive. When, once, blood sprayed right into his eye and he was forced to take a break, you smiled for just a moment. A lopsided, crooked grin. He’d used a mirror to show you his handiwork. In the outer flesh of your heart, he’d burned a little triangle. He’d already healed the skin. The lighter pink scarring stood out against the rest of your heart. Marked forever. Though he’s usually so talkative, at that moment, he’d been quiet for just a few seconds.

Then, he’d laughed, breaking all tension. “Wow, it sure smells like barbecue in here!”

On another occasion, he had hummed a little tune to himself, comically large saw in hand, as he cut off your limbs one by one. You could never forget the sound as the teeth sawed through your bones, bit by bit. Tearing through muscle. The clunk of your arm hitting the floor. Your leg. Rinse and repeat. You swore you could still feel your arms and legs, once you lost enough blood and your vision went hazy. Bill had hugged you against his smaller form. (He could change his body’s size, technically. But he always preferred appearing just as he was to you.)

“Without all those gangly, long limbs of yours, we can really cuddle now!” The next day, all of your limbs had regrown.

He’d cradled your face with one hand, and kept your mouth open with his other wrist. You could see nothing except for that giant eye of his as he pried your teeth out of your mouth, one by one. The taste of blood filled your mouth. He’d tug and tug and tug, not nearly using enough strength, and being entirely aware of it, until finally yanking it out once and for all. (Until it regrew, that is.) Under your gaze, he took your teeth one by one, drilled a little hole in them and strung them together on a necklace.

“Hmmmm,” he’d hummed to himself, a long, drawn-out noise. “I feel like it’s missing something. What do you think?” Before you could answer, not that you had any desire to, he snapped his fingers. “Oh! I know! For a sign of our undying love for each other, it’s a little plain with just teeth!”

In the next moment, Bill had taken out one of your eyes. You cannot comprehend how such a, relatively, small part of your face could hurt so unimaginably much. You wanted him to drape his guts all over himself again. You’re sure a point-blank gunshot to the head would’ve hurt less. Been less discomforting. His fingers had shrunk into paper-thin appendages and slipped past your eyeball, digging and cutting away at the nerves behind it. You cried tears of blood. If there was anything in your stomach, you might have thrown up.

Then, all at once, pain had blossomed into pure, mind-numbing pleasure. Compared to the pain, this is what you would like to forget the most. You’d gurgled out a moan through the spit gathered at the back of your throat. Your limbs had twitched helplessly against your restraints. When your optic nerve finally snapped, you’d whined as Bill took your eye out, exclaiming “Pop!” as he did so. For just a moment, he’d juggled your detached eyeballs in his hands, having left you panting.

“Yes, now this’ll make a good centerpiece!”

Pain had become just pain once again as soon as his touch left you. There is nothing good about a gaping, throbbing hole left in your face. You whine, sniffle softly, to get his attention. You hardly ever speak out loud anymore. Bill can read your every thought and is aware of your every idea. When speaking takes up more energy than it saves, why should you? In that moment, you had lacked the energy to think about it, your body desperately trying to recover itself.

Right now, you wonder why he’d make it feel good. Why, this one time. You don’t immediately get a response. Bill just laughs and laughs and laughs, running his fingers across the teeth of his necklace, poking the eyeball in the very middle. In your eye-socket, an exact replica of it has re-formed itself.

“You’re so funny! Why do you think I did anything at all? That was all you, baby!” His pupil transforms into a heart. It’s a blink-or-you-miss it transformation, and as soon as it happened, you think you’ve made it up. “I told you that you’d come around to it! Maybe we can even share in a little bit of pain next time, huh?”

You haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since, both his words and how mind-numbingly good it had felt. Maybe he’d simply lied to you, maybe it’d all been his doing. That would be the best outcome, right?… With time, you know Bill will ‘show you his love’ again— He always does. But this time, you await it with fear, largely fear, but with a little anticipation, too. There’s no need to tell him. He already knows.

ANON I AM BARKING LIKE A DOG!!!!!!!! BARKBARKBARKBARK THIS IS AMAZING!!!!! God, your descriptive voice is so good, it's so vivid!!!! Bill tricking reader into thinking they like it and them believing it...... Yummy yummy corruption in my tummy <3

Thank you so much for this, I can only hope what I write holds a candle to this!!! You never disappoint raaghh.

Bill draping your guts around as the world's most intimate hug. GOD. Also it's so fashionable! Gut scarf, teeth and eyeball necklace, literally wearing pants of your body to shoe his love and claim of you. Aaaa I'm kicking my feet!!

Thank you so much again holy smokes

[areyouwell]

Heliophobia

Noun: An extreme and irrational fear of light. Children or adults with heliophobia experience an extreme aversion to sunlight and may seek darkness in response.

Ch.8

Ch.7, Ch.6, Ch.5.5, Ch.5, Ch.4, Ch.3, Ch.2, Ch.1 <–

Pairing: Logan Howlett x F!Mutant!Reader

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence

Word Count: 15.8K

A/N: bejeezus this was a tough one to get through, crazy how i thought i might be able to fit these last two chapter in one it would have been like 30k words... insane behaviour from me. also i really like writing horror scenes :D

Taglist: @badbishsblog @reidsworld @idioticstar @toogaytofunctiondangit @ghostyv @wolviesgirl @over-bi-the-wayside @justice4billiam @holyhumorliteraturelight @cxptainbuck @sseleniaa @sadslasher13 @yallgotkik @whyamistillontumbler @maddiedinosaur @bethexo07 @pwpwppeepeoor @y08h

“Let me OUT!” Logan cringed as what he assumed was your foot collided with the oak door, thumping against the abused wood. You’d been at this ever since you’d woken up, throwing various objects at the door only for it to remain sealed shut, only succeeding in creating some kind of shattered glass trap after pelting a vase at the panels. Logan sighed heavily, checking his watch. Three hours. You’d been furiously screaming for three hours, trying every fucking trick in the book to get him or anyone else to open the door. Scott had to hold him back when you pretended to be hurt, whimpering and gasping behind the door as if you’d broken a bone. Only to scream in pure, unbridled rage when you realised it hadn’t worked. 

Devious motherfucker. 

You weren’t the only one either. They had Erin held in another room, only she was taking her isolation much better. It was the safest option whilst Charles worked on restoring each subject’s memories. They’d started with Morgana, and Logan didn’t think he’d ever be able to shake the image of crimson blood leaking from every orifice of that girl’s face as she writhed on the floor from his head. But the shift in personality hadn’t been too great. She was still pretty relaxed and unserious, but now she was a lot quieter. Subdued. Like she’d had the hope beaten out of her. 

It fucking terrified him. How much would you change after Charles restored your memories? Would you still smile the same? Laugh the same? Would you still want to be around him? With him?

Would you still love him?

Logan sighed. It was selfish of him, for that to be his most pressing concern, but he didn’t know what he’d do if, after all this, you never looked at him again. Not in the same way. His heart constricted in his chest, dread pooling in his gut. He needed to entertain these scenarios. He needed to prepare for every eventuality. Even if it broke him apart.

“She still at it?”

He’d been too wrapped up in his head to register the light footsteps from down the hall, curly red hair bouncing at Morgana’s shoulders as she approached with two cups of coffee. She’d cleaned herself up since her ordeal, even adding winged eyeliner on either side of her scarlet eyes. Logan bristled slightly, though he truly didn’t mean it. Instinct had his muscles tensing and his gaze narrowing, the night he lost you playing in his mind’s eye, Morgana’s blank expression as she slowed his heartbeat, her shining irises.

But he made himself relax. She’d proven herself a friend to you, her concern touching a part of him that recognised he could trust her with you. Releasing a breath, Logan nodded in answer to her question. “Yeah… Hasn’t stopped.” He tried in vain to keep the defeat from his voice, gratefully taking the coffee Morgana held out to him. “How’s the other one?”

“Erin? She’s… hollow, I guess. One of our friends we’d left behind, she was kinda seeing him but also kinda not. It was complicated between them…” Morgana slid down the wall to sit on the floor, crossing her legs at the knee. Logan joined her, exhaling as he took the weight off his feet. 

The silence wasn’t exactly comfortable, and Logan was acutely aware of Morgana’s guilt. Having her memories restored, she now knew she played a critical role in your capture, and if it wasn’t for her, none of this would have happened. She opened her mouth to speak, but Logan beat her to it. 

“Don’t. You don’t gotta apologise. You didn’t know what you were doin’.” An apology would mean nothing to him. Sure, she’d aided your capture, but she’d also helped your escape, and monitored your blood pressure on the flight back to the mansion. She’d taken care of you where Logan couldn’t, and he was grateful for that. 

Morgana simply nodded silently, unshed tears shining in her eyes as she tried to smile. “Yeah, I know. Doesn’t make remembering any easier though…” she paused, fiddling with the handle of her mug. “Don’t do this to her.”

Logan blinked. “What’dya mean?” He didn’t mean to growl, and felt a little bad when the girl tensed slightly, before taking a deep breath.

“Don’t do this. There’s shit Kreva did that wasn’t documented, Logan. Special assignments, he called them. She took the brunt of it, every fucking time,” Morgana took a breath, angrily wiping at a disobedient tear sliding down her face. Logan’s stomach hollowed. He thought everything was detailed in the file. He thought he knew everything other than the last two months… “She wanted to protect us. Where the rest of us would fight to get away, she’d fight to go. It was her way of making sure we were safe, or I guess, as safe as we could be.” Morgana drew her knees up to her chest, her arms hugging around her shins. 

He couldn’t breathe, the steel lump in his throat clogging his airways, making oxygen rare. Why did you always have to be a fucking martyr? Why did you always have to put yourself last? Did you not know how important you were? How loved you were? Did you not realise how much it fucking hurt to see you in pain? And now he knew he wasn’t the only one, Morgana’s tears solidifying the impact you made on her, too. “What happened?” he asked a little shakily, bracing himself for whatever horrors he was about to hear.

Morgana clenched her jaw, her eyes closing against the nightmarish memories of her own past. “Field experiments. No point in creating an army if you don’t know how effective they’d be, right? I… I only did a few, but they were the shit you’d read in hidden government documents, ya know? Send us to war-torn countries to tear apart their refugee camps and hospitals. Infiltrate rebellions and silence their leaders before the spark of change could fan into a flame. 

“And nobody was better than Phantom. Entire towns crumbled to dust in a night. Politicians were brought to their knees with nothing but a flick of her wrist. She was an instrument of chaos, Logan. Of death. It’s why Kreva fought so fucking hard to get her back. She was a scalpel he used to surgically remove anything he deemed a threat to his advances,” Morgana’s voice trembled slightly, her eyes rising from the ground to meet his. “You get it now? Remembering all that… what she was forced to do, the acts she was forced to perform, it would destroy her.”

Logan didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know what to think. None of that had been detailed in the file. How many layers of torment existed? How many secrets did he need to uncover to truly understand what you were put through? Was the cost of getting you back greater than the cost of leaving you untouched? If what Morgana said was true, would you even want to remember? You did before, but neither you nor him truly knew the depth of your torture. Fuck. 

“I– I don’t–” He began before Morgana cut him off.

“Yeah, I know. I don’t know what to do either. We need her back to stop him. I sure as shit can’t beat Rowan, and neither can Erin. I don’t know everyone who lives here but I’ll bet you’d be hard-pressed to find someone who can. But her? She could. Theoretically…”

“Theoretically? Ya mean they’ve never been pitted against each other?” Logan asked, finding that hard to believe. Kreva put you through hell and back, performed every experiment under the goddamn sun on you, but never thought to match you against your brother? Maybe it was his own dark and twisted mind talking, but that would have been one of the first things he’d do.

“Nah. Even with Naji’s mutation, remnants of those experiments still stayed with us, usually affecting our mood. Pitting us against each other wouldn’t exactly build a good rapport since we were supposed to work together.” Morgana shrugged, her eyes now dry, having pushed past her initial flood of grief. “I just, can your Professor restore partial memories? I dunno, I just– she shouldn’t have to go through everything again. Shouldn’t have to remember everything she was forced to do.”

He could. Charles could. But Logan didn’t know if that would be enough. Even Kreva had said in your file you needed a certain number or specificity of memories to fully wield your mutation. He had no idea which ones they were, and whilst Charles was incredibly powerful, there was no way of him knowing either. But before he could respond, there was another cracking thump against the door and they both snapped their heads to where you’d once again tried to break through. 

Logan couldn’t help his little fond huff, despite the situation. You were as persistent as always, and he could feel your furious determination from the other side of the door. 

“Wow…” he shifted his attention back to Morgana who was looking at him with slight awe. “You really loved her, didn’t you?” 

He swallowed, her use of the past tense grating slightly in his chest. “Still do…” he murmured, dragging his gaze back to where you continued to try and break down the door. 

Morgana shifted next to him, her legs extending back in front of her, crossing at the ankle as she sipped her coffee. “So? Tell me everything. She’s my best friend and I know nothing about you, kinda unfair if you ask me.” She shrugged and Logan cast her a withering look. 

“Yeah, well I didn’t ask ya,” he sighed, before dragging his hands through his hair. He didn’t even know where to start when it came to you. “What’ya wanna know?”

Morgana clapped her hands excitedly, turning completely to face him, and he felt himself die a little on the inside, already regretting his agreement to this. 

“Where’dya meet? How long’ve you guys been together? Who said ‘I love you’ first, that kinda thing.” 

Logan raised a brow. Were these seriously the kinds of questions people wanted to know the answer to? He couldn’t help but think Morgana would get along well with both Marie and Kitty and considering this girl was apparently your best friend, it made a lot of sense. He rubbed at the back of his neck, all of a sudden feeling inadequate. 

“We uh, we met here, been together for somethin’ like eight months, last two not included and uh, I said it first.” His words came out a little jumbled, barely able to look Morgana in the eye as her grin widened.

“How long did it take the two of you to get together after you met?” She asked and Logan couldn’t help snorting a laugh. 

“‘Round three days, I think.”

The red-head choked on her coffee and Logan took a long, slightly smug sip of his own. Not quite as good as the ones you make, but it would do the job.

“Three days?! I thought us lesbians moved fast.” Her eyes were larger than saucers as she chuckled heartily, glancing between him and the door, where you’d finally gone quiet. “Though I guess your bond must have been strong if it could push past Naji’s mutation, she’d still dream about you. Did things just click between you? Just like, that instant connection kinda thing?”

The corners of his lips pulled up as he remembered seeing you for the first time. He’d never fucking admit it to anyone, but he was excited to meet you. He’d heard so damn much about you, never being able to put a face to the name was killing him. He’d sort of had an idea of what you looked like from listening to various conversations, but he wasn’t prepared for you to steal the breath from his damn lungs. You smiled so easily, laughed so brightly. You had a glimmer of wicked mischief in your eye that danced with each teasing comment you quipped. You were utterly mesmerising. Ethereal. Logan knew he was in trouble from the very start. 

“Somethin’ like that, yeah. She called me a son-of-a-bitch when we first met, I sorta stole her teaching position cuz she’d been away for two years and I didn’t think she even existed, to be honest with ya,” He too had noticed you’d gone silent on the other side of the door and he had a strong feeling you were listening. “Rest is history, but there’s very little I wouldn’t do to get her back…” he trailed off, swallowing around the lump reforming in his throat. He missed you. So fucking much. You were right there, on the other side of the door, but you looked at him with such unfamiliarity it broke him apart. You were right fucking there, but you’d never felt so far away. So out of his reach. 

A touch to his shoulder brought him back, Morgana’s hand resting atop his skin as she nodded to the door. “Go,” she mouthed, flicking her eyes back and forth between him and the wood, and he understood what she meant. Draining the remaining coffee from his mug, Logan stood to his feet, sending Morgana a wary glance behind him. He wasn’t sure this was a good idea, to be honest. You’d been so hellbent on escaping, what if this was just another one of your methods to free yourself from the room?

As if reading his mind, Morgana nodded encouragingly. “Her heart rate has settled and her blood pressure isn’t as high. Just go.” She whispered, snatching his mug from where he’d left it on the floor to return to the kitchen. She wasn’t needed for this next part and she knew it. From that one conversation, she seemed to know that he would be able to get through to you. He may be the only one who could. 

Logan took a breath, the metal of the bolt cool against his fingers before he pulled it across, twisting the doorknob and letting himself into an almost completely empty room. Before you’d woken up, Jean and Hank had set up a lighting system that didn’t cast extensive shadows. All the furniture had either been taken out or separated, each shadow on the ground completely isolated. Logan hated it. Hated that these were the lengths they had to go to in order to keep you safe. They were treating you no better than when you were a prisoner. 

It ate at his mind.

The lack of your presence however didn’t alarm him. He wasn’t expecting you to be standing waiting for him, especially if you could hear the conversation beyond the door. Taking a few slow steps into the room, Logan scanned the walls and floor, as if he could sense you in any of the various shadows. His own silhouette crossed through darkness cast by one of the tables, but it wasn’t until his back started to itch unbearably did he know where you were. Smart, he’d give you that, but you didn’t remember doing this to him before. You didn’t know he knew what it felt like. Logan rumbled a chuckle, turning to the light behind him and that itching shifted to his front. 

“You’re not as subtle as ya think, darlin’.” He mused, feeling you shift down his body and bleed through to his isolated shadow on the floor. His expression instantly softened as you rose from the ground, watching his every move warily, eyes flickering with every micromovement, nostrils flaring slightly as you prepared to make a break for it. Logan raised his hands like he’d done so many times before. “‘M’not gonna hurt ya. Never gonna hurt ya, firefly.”

“Stop calling me that.” You hissed, taking a step back from him. You’d finally learned his name, only thanks to eavesdropping on his conversation with Morgan. What the fuck had they done to her to make her so mellow? So willing to accept this. Rage flared in your gut at the thought of her being harmed. “What did you do to her? Morgana. What did you do?”

Logan almost winced at the way you hissed and snarled at him like a cornered animal, furious terror reeking off you in waves. “We helped her remember, like we’re gonna help you,” even if the idea still didn’t sit right with him. “You’re safe here. You both are.” He soothed, watching as you narrowed your eyes at him as if searching for deception. He let you look, knowing you’d find nothing but earnest truth. 

“Okay…” you breathed, though you still didn’t fully trust him. You kept your distance as he took a seat, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his thighs. Questions burned in your mind, but you kept your mouth shut, not wanting to divulge just how clueless you were about what was going on. 

Until it suddenly occurred to you. None of this was real. 

You’d seen reality glitch and phase around you. You watched your flat disappear to nothing, your friends fighting amongst themselves. Maybe there was some truth in Joes’ words. Maybe nothing you’d experienced was real, and maybe this was a part of it. You nodded to yourself, laughing bitterly.

Logan’s brows furrowed in confused concern. “What?”

“You’re not real, are you? You don’t exist.” You bit, gesturing savagely to where he was sitting. Logan hummed a tired, melancholy smile, his eyes sinking to the floor and you blinked in confusion. “What?”

You really were the reflection of his own soul, your brows pinching in exactly the same way, head tilting in the opposite direction to his own. In another time, he’d be feeling the same electric hum he always did in the moments before he kissed you, but the absence of love in your eyes kept him at bay.

“S’just funny… I said almost the exact same thing when we first met.” 

You shook your head furiously as if to clear your mind. “We’ve never met…” You whispered, though your voice faltered. Logan raised his gaze back to you, hope flickering in his chest.

“I don’t think you believe that.” He responded with equal hush, rising from the chair he’d just sat down upon, his hand still braced on the back of it. You shook your head again, eyes screwed shut as if to wall off whatever was going through your mind. 

“I– Even if I didn’t, I don’t remember you. I don’t know who you are.” The way your voice cracked was mirrored in his soul, spiderwebs of fragility snaking across his heart. You were almost pleading with him. With yourself. And to see you so fragile, so fucking scared, it made him want to shred Kreva apart.

“Morgana said you dreamt of me.”

“That’s just a coincidence…”

Logan took a step forward. “I don’t think you believe that either.”

All the tension in your body exploded, the fraying threads of your emotions finally snapping, and your maelstrom of fear and confusion stormed through your mental walls. “I don’t fucking know what I believe! I don’t! You can’t honestly stand there and expect me to believe you. Expect me to believe that the last twenty-two years of my life have been a lie. Because that’s fucking insane and you sound insane!

“But then you look at me… You look at me and I feel missed. And it fucking hurts because I don’t know why. I don’t know why you look at me like that and I don’t know who or what to believe anymore. I don’t know what’s real and I’m really fucking scared.” You took a breath, hot tears burning your eyes as you finally confessed just how utterly petrified you were. You hated feeling vulnerable, even more so in front of people you didn’t know. Or you did know. Or you did know but didn’t remember. Or whatever the truth was.

Every other time Logan had stood to pull you into his embrace, you’d melted into him, willingly accepting his comfort and warmth. So to see you recoil from his sudden movement, flinch at the way he took a hasty step toward you, shining eyes wide with fear, he had to bite down hard on his lip to stop his own overwhelming sense of guilt from springing tears to his own eyes. He took a steadying breath, frantically searching his brain for something, anything, to convince you that this was real. He was real. He knew you were scared. Fuck, he felt your fear as his own, but losing you now simply wasn’t an option.

Then it came to him. 

Slowly, tentatively, Logan extended his hand for you to take. “Eight months ago, you taught me something. I want to show you if you’ll let me.”

He saw you hesitate, eyes flickering from his hand to his face, then back to his hand. This would be it. Irrefutable proof that he was real, and the time he’d shared with you was real. Time ticked by, the clock on the wall mocking him with each rhythmic click until you nodded infinitesimally, slipping your soft palm into his. 

“Okay…” you whispered, and he offered you a small smile. 

“I need you to promise you won’t run.” He slowly brought you closer to him, keeping himself open to your suspicious gaze with each uncertain step. You sucked in a breath, still incredibly unsure.

“Fine. But I can’t promise I won’t try…” your mouth quirked in a half-hearted smirk, and though he could tell it was forced, Logan couldn’t help but feel like maybe, just maybe, you were coming back to him, piece by piece, little by little. 

It was like nothing had changed, having you in the kitchen with him, the sun casting a firelike glow through the windows. Like clockwork, he’d chopped, diced, mixed and stirred. The sizzle of browning onions, the scent of searing meat, cooking like this was now simply muscle memory, his hands working with minds of their own. All the while you watched over his shoulder, suspicious recognition creasing your brows as he stripped a few leaves of basil from their stem, dropping them into the bubbling marinara sauce. This was your recipe. You’d know it anywhere. How the fuck did he know it? How did he know the exact timings? The perfect colour for the meat before adding the sauce? And how the fuck did he know about the basil…?

Your heart raced. What if he was telling the truth? How would you even handle that? How would you go about wrapping your head around the fact that the last god knows how many years of your life have been bullshit? He had to be wrong. He had to be lying. For the sake of your own mental wellbeing, this had to be some kind of fucked up prank. Or a set-up. Maybe by that weird fucker who had Naji. 

That was something else you hadn’t allowed yourself to dwell on. The fact that your entire fucking flat simply disappeared. That you hadn’t seen any of your family since Naji tried to invade your mind. 

Naji…

You clenched your jaw. You couldn’t think about that right now. You couldn’t think about any of them right now. You didn’t know where they were, how they were. If they were alright if they were safe. If they were alive…

Here you were feeling so fucking scared, but so far none of these people had done anything to try and hurt you. Were the rest of them in similar positions? Was Atlas okay?

Was Rowan…?

Logan spared a glance away from the bubbling sauce to gauge your headspace, his brows pinching when he saw your eyes slightly glazed, lost in a mental spiral. Removing the wooden spoon from the sauce, he held it up to your mouth, snapping you from your dissociated daze. “Here. Recognise it?”

You looked at him slightly warily, watching his hand shift to cup just beneath the spoon, preventing spillages. Logan noticed your hesitation, your trepidation, and understood.  Even though you’d watched every step, you were still mistrusting. He couldn’t blame you. His gaze softened slightly, before bringing the spoon to his own mouth and tasting the food, proving to you there was nothing in it that could harm you. 

As per usual, it was fucking delicious. He couldn’t help but feel a little proud of himself for nailing it so well. The suspicion in your eyes faded slightly, and you nodded in consent as he offered it back to you, and you let him feed you your own recipe.

It was uncanny. 

“How did you…?”

Logan smiled slightly, placing the spoon back into the sauce. “I’d only known you for a day or so before we made this together. Actually, you made it and I just kinda watched.” The way he huffed fondly made your heart stutter and the realisation struck you like a punch to the gut. 

“This was real, wasn’t it…?” You asked quietly, and Logan stopped altogether to take a steadying breath. You were coming around. Finally, you were coming back. Not completely, he’d need Charles for that, but you were getting there. 

“Yeah. It was. I–” he paused, eyes trained solidly on the pan of spaghetti adjacent to the sauce. “It was my fault. I couldn’t keep you safe. I was fuckin’ helpless that night. I let them take you and couldn’t do anythin’ to stop it…” The memory still haunted him. Your bloodstained lips, your eyes fading before you dissolved, the way Kreva fucking laughed. It haunted every waking moment. 

A jolt of electricity bolted up his arm when your hand came to rest atop it. He thought it almost laughable. You comforting him whilst you didn’t even know who you were. Who he was. Managing to tear his eyes from the stove, his gaze met yours, finding only forgiveness. 

“What happened?” You asked quietly, finding warmth in the way his hand settled atop your own. 

“There was a raid here one night. That piece of shit Kreva came lookin’ for ya. Didn’t take you, but left somethin’ behind. You weren’t safe here, so I took you somewhere you were. Stayed there for six months before we had to come back. They ambushed us on the road. I was immobilised, and he took you from me and fuckin’ laughed as he did it.” He hissed, and your hand tightened on his arm. Not out of fear, he realised, but to ground him. To remind him you were there. It shattered and mended his heart at the same time. 

“Why you?” It was a loaded question. You knew that. But you needed confirmation. What you’d suspected from the moment he’d escorted you kicking and screaming into that room. From the moment you woke up. 

Logan drew in a breath. He didn’t know if telling you would make things better or worse. Whether it would help you or break you. He searched your face, finding nothing but gentle curiosity and settled on showing you instead. 

Turning back to the stove, he switched off the heat for both burners, before stepping from your touch and over to the radio. It had been a long time since you two had done this, but he couldn’t think of a better way to answer your question. 

Your head tilted in confusion as you watched him flip through the stations, pausing as if he’d seen a ghost when a song you knew crackled to life. You recognised this tune, but from when or where, you couldn’t tell. Logan turned back to you, his hand extended, vain hope glimmering in his hazel eyes. 

‘Pass me that lovely little gun My dear, my darling one’

With no small degree of hesitation, you slipped your hand into his, holding your breath as you stepped into his soft embrace. It felt familiar, like a smile from an old friend, or a spoken phrase lost to time. It felt nostalgic.

It felt like home. 

‘The cleaners are coming in, one by one You don’t even wanna let them start’

You let your arms snake around his neck, melting as his hands met your waist. Turning your head, you settled against the centre of his chest, his heartbeat steady against your ear as you swayed with him.

“We’ve done this before, haven’t we?”

‘They’re knocking now upon your door They measure the room, they know the score They’re mopping up the butcher’s floor Of your broken little hearts’

Pieces of Logan’s soul started to slowly knit back together, his arms encircling your waist to hold you tight against him, settling his cheek atop your head. 

“Yeah. Long time ago, but yeah.” He answered, his eyes stinging as you nestled closer into the dip between his collar and neck.

‘Forgive us now for what we’ve done It started out as a bit of fun Here, take these before we run away The keys to the gulag’

Your eyes closed involuntarily, basking in the unfamiliar familiarity of his smell. The dreams you had, weren’t dreams at all. They were memories. You realise that now. You were remembering a life you didn’t know you had. You were remembering him the only way you could. 

‘Here comes Frank and poor old Jim They’re gathering ‘round with all my friends We’re older now the light is dim And you are only just beginning’

Logan let himself believe if only for a moment, you remembered him. He let himself sink into the alternate reality where nothing had happened. Where you were simply with him and you were safe. Where your brother wasn’t lost and you weren’t terrified anymore. Where he could hold you without being afraid it could be the last time. Where Jade wasn’t dead but just merely an ex of your past. Where you had complete control of your mutation and weren’t afraid of yourself. 

He let himself breathe you in, your distinct scent wrapping around his mind and heart. Fuck he’d missed you so fucking much.

‘We have the answers to all your fears It’s short, it's simple, it’s crystal clear It’s roundabout and it’s somewhere near Lost amongst our winnings’

“I know why it was you…” You murmured gently, raising your head from the home you’d made. Logan’s hand slid from your waist to cup the side of your neck, keeping you there. 

‘The cleaners have done their job on you They’re hip to it, man, they’re in the groove They’ve hosed you down, you’re good as new And they’re lining up to inspect you’

Logan didn’t dare ask. Didn’t dare prompt you to continue. Could barely whisper to you in fear of his voice cracking, the growing lump in his throat making breathing suddenly much more difficult. 

‘Poor old Jim’s white as a ghost He’s found the answer that we lost We’re weeping now, weeping because There’s nothing we can do to protect you’

Your eyes flickered between his, the sting of unshed tears lining your lashes as you swallowed thickly. “I loved you. Didn’t I?”

O, children Lift up your voice, lift up your voice Children Rejoice, Rejoice

Logan closed his eyes, fighting against the urge to sink to his knees. The past tense speared his heart, but he nodded nonetheless, taking in a shaky breath. “Yeah, you did.”

Your hand skirted from his neck to the side of his face, thumb gently smoothing over his cheekbone. “And you? Did you love me?”

His eyes fluttered open again to find slight, broken hope glittering in your irises, those windows he’d come to love so fucking much. 

“Sweetheart,” he breathed, bracing his forehead against your own. “I still do.” 

The moment his lips graced your own, you felt the tears in your eyes spill down your cheeks, a lost piece of your heart fixing back into place. You felt whole again, here in his arms, kissing him to the beat of the music.

‘Hey little train, we’re jumping on The train that goes to the kingdom We’re happy, Ma, we’re having fun The train ain’t even left the station Hey little train, wait for me I once was blind but now I see Have you a seat for me Is that such a stretch of the imagination?’

Your breath caught in your throat as you tightened your arms around his neck, his hold around your waist responding in kind. You loved him. No. That didn’t feel right. 

You love him. 

Logan released the leash he had on his emotions, allowing liquid heartache to slide down his cheeks. All the fear, all the doubt, every single thought of losing you washed away as your tongue softly swiped at his lips, and he pulled you home. 

Home.  ‘Hey little train, wait for me Was bound in chains, but now I’m free I’m hanging in there, don’t you see? In this process of elimination Hey little train, we’re jumping on The train that goes to the kingdom We’re happy, Ma, we’re having fun Beyond my wildest expectation’

The music faded and you pulled back a little, eyes fluttering open to find him already gazing at you, longing dancing in his eyes, damp trails lining either side of his face. “What now…?” you queried softly, and Logan sighed slightly. 

“You gotta make a choice. Charles can help you remember everythin’ but… it won’t be easy for ya. I don’t know what you’ve gone through the last two months, but I know everythin’ you went through before. And Morgana filled me in on some shit Kreva didn’t note down…” 

Your heart skipped a beat. “Morgana? Is she alright?” 

Logan nodded, the relief on your face worth all the stars in the sky. “Yeah, she’s fine ‘n safe. Charles already helped her, so she remembers. Erin’s here too but uh… she’s less cooperative.” 

You snickered, and Logan thought he’d have to die before he heard that sound again. “Yeah, sounds like Erin. Is Rowan here? I should probably see him, let him know I’m alright.” 

Your heart dropped with the way Logan’s face fell, dread pooling in your gut. 

“We’re gonna get him back, ‘kay? All of them. We’re gonna get ‘em all back. I promise.” Not even the conviction in his voice, nor the way his hands smoothed your hair, brought you any comfort. 

“Where is he…?” You asked, though utterly terrified to know the answer. 

Logan sucked in a breath, bracing himself. “We’d managed to get you, Morgana, Erin and Rowan out before we had to bail. Kurt can teleport too, but his last trip was Rowan before it became too dangerous. We were already in the air, and we thought we were safe. But Joes came out of nowhere and took him back to Kreva.”

You gasped a sob, attempting to wrench yourself from his grip but he held you fast. “L– let me go! I– I have to get him. I can’t leave him.” You bit between stuttered breaths, panic rising in your throat. “I can’t– I can’t leave him there. He’s my brother. Logan let– let me go!” You fought against his hold and took every weak punch, every struggled pound against his chest.

“I know darlin’, I know.” he hushed as you went limp in his hold, your shoulders shaking with each strangled cry. “Shh, it’s okay. We’re gonna get him back, firefly. I promise,” he whispered into your hair as you fell to pieces in his embrace, sinking to the ground in his arms. He pulled you in tight, bracing you against his chest. “I promise. It’s okay, shh, shh, it’s okay.”

He held you as you cried, having the distinct feeling you weren’t just crying for Rowan. And he was right. Everything had hit you all at once. Your lost life. Your forgotten memories. The lies. So many fucking lies. And the one person who had told you the truth you didn’t fucking remember. 

How long you’d been sitting in his arms, crying into his chest whilst he whispered soothing nothings into your hair, you’d never know. But when your sobs reduced to nothing but hiccups, you raised your head, taking a long, shaky breath. 

Logan’s palms instantly cupped either side of your face, thumbs wiping away the stains of tears from your cheeks before he offered you a small, empathetic smile. You slowly blew out the breath you were holding, brows pinching against another wave of anguish. “You said I had a choice. What was the other option?”

“You stay like this,” he began, his thumbs still smoothing over your cheeks though the tears were long gone now. “We try help you with your mutation and you don’t remember everything you’ve endured. We tell you what you need to know and you start again.” Both options terrified him. There was no easy way forward, and he knew that. He knew you knew that too. 

“So, I’m spared of whatever shit I’ve been through but I won’t remember anything else?” you clarified and he nodded. “I won’t remember you?” Logan nodded again, though his time it was slight. “And you’re okay with that?”

No. He wasn’t. It was agony to think that you wouldn’t remember the last eight months you’d spent with him. “That doesn’t matter here–” He started before you cut him off. 

“It matters to me. I want to remember you, Logan.”

His jaw tensed, eyes lowering to the floor. “I don’t wanna be the reason you’re in pain. I don’t want you to remember for me just to regret it after you remember everythin’ else. Your past wasn’t kind to you, sweetheart.” He couldn’t help the way his chest inflated when your hand softly cupped the side of his bearded jaw, raising his head back to look into your eyes. 

“I’d want to remember anyway. I don’t wanna be some vacant shell who doesn’t know who she is. No matter how fucked up. No matter what I went through, it made me who I was. It made me who you fell in love with. I wanna be her again.” 

“You already are.” He murmured, before capturing your lips in another gentle kiss and you smiled against him. “There isn’t a version of you I won’t love. Whether you remember everythin’ or nothin’,” he whispered against your lips. “I’ll always be right here.”

You rested your brow against his as if you could communicate everything you were feeling through touch alone. “I think we need to go and see Charles.”

You don’t think you’d ever been this nervous. Your heart beat like a freight train in your chest, nails digging into the palms of your hands as you stood outside Charles Xavier’s office alone. Logan had entered before you, telling you to wait whilst he spoke to the headmaster, about what you could only assume. 

Your breath came quick, unsteady. You’d already agreed to get your memories back before Logan even brought it up. You wanted to know who you were, but now you were standing outside Xavier’s office, you weren’t sure you made the right choice. What if restoring your memories made you a completely different person? You didn’t know if they’d been restored before, had they been restored when Logan met you? Is that who he fell in love with? Or were you just as clueless then as you were now? You had too many questions and too few answers to feel calm about what lay ahead of you. 

Your biggest fear was remembering that you agreed with Kreva, and whatever he was trying to do. From what you knew, he was pure fucking evil, running experiments on mutants for whatever sick and twisted gains he got out of it. You didn’t know his end goal, but what if you agreed with him? Surely that was how you wound up there in the first place, no?

Or were you taken? Or sold? You couldn’t even remember your parents. Did you have parents? Were you grown in that fucking facility?

Too many questions.

Your teeth gnawed on your bottom lip as you waited, savouring the slight bite of pain as you peeled a layer of skin into your mouth, sucking the blood from the hurt. This was taking too long. He’d been in there for too long. You didn��t know exactly how long, but it was only supposed to be a quick conversation, not whatever the fuck this was. Having just about enough of waiting, you’d resolved to knock on the door and not wait for an answer before heading in. That was until the door opened slowly, a dark-haired girl poking her head from the room inside. 

“You uh, you can come in. Sorry it took so long…” she mumbled, avoiding eye contact. You tilted your head to the side. When the fuck had she arrived? You’d been standing outside this office since Logan went in and you hadn’t seen anyone enter or exit? She opened the door a little wider, revealing five other people, your eyes widened as you saw the familiar auburn curly hair of your best friend. 

“Morgo…” You breathed, before rushing through the door and past the makeshift bed to wrap your arms around her, holding her tight. Morgana reciprocated, her hands braced against your back as she squeezed you in her embrace. 

“Hey, freakshow. How’re you holding up?” She asked, pulling back slightly to give you a once over, making sure you weren’t hurt.

It warmed Logan’s heart to see you interact with your friends like this. The raw relief etched into your features brought him a kind of relief of his own. Morgana was safe, and that had somewhat set you at ease.

“Yeah, ‘m’okay. Upright and not crying.” You shrugged, and Morgana laughed slightly. Clearly, that must have been some kind of inside joke between the two of you. Logan didn’t fight to hide his smile, earning himself a sweet look from Ororo and a look of utter shock from Scott. He rolled his eyes at the latter.

“Sounds about right,” Morgana’s eyes fell to the floor as she thought about what she wanted to say next. “Look… if you’re gonna go ahead with this–”

“I am, Morgo. Why is everyone trying to convince me not to now? Surely the whole point in getting me back was to restore my memories, now you’re all questioning it?” 

Logan could understand why you were so irate. Everything was so fucking confusing right now. It was hard to know what the right thing to do was. But you’d chosen, and he needed to respect that. As did everyone else in the room.

“I get that. I just… you need to prepare yourself. Mine wasn’t exactly pretty and I didn’t go through half the shit you did,” she continued, empathy flooding her crimson eyes. “I just– you went through so fucking much. For our sake. You were… different to how you are now.”

Logan felt the blood drain from his face. “Different how?” he asked lowly, prepared to drag you away and hole up with you somewhere safe. 

Not that it had helped last time.

“Nothing bad! You never worked for Kreva willingly…” she paused, glancing at each mutant in the room. “You were just… scarier if that makes sense. You scared the shit out of us. Not because you did anything! Fuck I’m explaining this so badly…” she sucked in a breath, holding it for a beat before exhaling. “You were real good at sealing away your emotions. Most of the time we wondered if you had any at all. It was always Rowan who was the emotional one. You were just kinda… stony, about the whole thing. The only time you spoke out was when you volunteered yourself for certain things, and that was to protect us. You weren’t a bad person, you were just… yeah. Different.” She finished, leaving the room in stunned silence. 

It didn’t come as too much of a surprise to Logan. You didn’t want to share your emotions at the best of times, at least at the start of your relationship. And knowing you had to do that almost your whole life, not because of lack of option, but because of self-preservation? It burned him.

“Okay… but I wasn’t like, fucked up or anything. Like, I didn’t kill a bunch of people, right?”

The silence was so loud you could hear it echoing against the walls of the room. You refused to let it scare you. You weren’t about to be intimidated out of this. No matter what you’d done in your past, it would stay where it belonged. 

In the fucking past. 

“This is taking too fucking long. Can we just do it?” You grit, folding your arms in irritation. 

“You’re certain this is what you want?” Your head whipped around to who you assumed was Charles Xavier. Honestly, he wasn’t what you were expecting. You were expecting someone a little more intimidating to be the head of the school and the mutant everyone kept banging on about. Not just some older dude in a wheelchair. 

“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.” You responded curtly, casting a glance at the others around the room. The girl with the brown hair stood close to Logan, her brows pinched in subdued fear. For you or of you, you couldn’t discern. Were you really that scary? 

Charles exhaled a sigh. “Very well then. If you could all leave the room.”

“I’m stayin’.” Logan wasn’t about to leave you alone with this. He’d seen what had happened to Morgana. Watched as she writhed and contorted on the ground, blood streaming from her ears and nose. He wasn’t about to wait in ignorance whilst you were in agonising pain in here. He didn’t think he had it in him. 

“Logan… this procedure is extremely difficult. Any distractions could cause further damage to her subconscious.”

“Then I won’t be distracting.” His tone left no room for argument, and you honestly felt a little better knowing he wasn’t going to leave you. He cast you a slight, encouraging smile and you nodded in gratitude as Charles huffed in defeat.

“Fine. If everyone else could leave the room.” He said pointedly, and Morgana enveloped you in another hug.

“I’ll see ya on the other side, girlie. You’ll be fine. You got your big strong dream man with ya.” She winked and you couldn’t help snorting a laugh, though you could tell by the look in her eye she was terrified for you. That one you could distinguish. 

The woman with white hair placed a hand on your shoulder as Morgana left through the door. Though you couldn’t recall a single time you’d ever met her, she looked at you as if you were an old friend, though said nothing. Her hand squeezed slightly before she too headed out. The man you knew to be Scott strode passed you wordlessly, refusing to even look up at you through his sunglasses.

What the fuck was his problem?

“Kitty?” Charles prompted, and you turned to look to where the girl was staying completely still, her sad eyes still trained on you. You raised a brow, and she winced slightly, before running to pull you into a crushing hug. 

“I don’t care who you are after this. I don’t hate you anymore. It wasn’t your fault, I truly understand that now. I’m so, so sorry for blaming you.” You held your hands up as her hold on you tightened, shooting Logan a panicked glance. 

“Kitty…” he started, and she took a step back from you, angrily wiping at the tears down her cheeks. 

“Yeah, right. Okay. You got this, yeah? Come find me after and we can have tea or something. We got a lot to catch up on…” She gave you one last hug before almost running from the room, closing the door behind her. You watched the closed door with complete confusion. Logan chuckled slightly behind you, placing both hands on either of your shoulders.

“She’s missed ya. We all have.” You leaned back, your head resting against the back of his chest as he pressed a kiss to your hair. 

“You won’t have to for much longer, right?” You looked around Logan to where Charles had taken his place at the head-side of the bed. It looked like some kind of medical bed they’d dragged from a hospital. Did they have one here? You supposed it was useful if things were to go wrong. 

The thought had your gut twisting. Just how wrong could things go…?

“Hey,” Logan caught your attention, a hand guiding your face to look at him. It’s like he had a sixth sense for whenever you started to spiral, noticing the moment your eyes looked even a little distant. “You’re gonna be okay. I’ll be right here, yeah? Not gonna leave ya.” He soothed, slowly wrapping his arms around your shoulders, a broad hand cupping the back of your head as you nuzzled into the crook of his neck, savouring the contact.

“Okay…” you breathed, steeling yourself before pushing back from him and turning to Charles. “Let’s just get this over with…”

Charles nodded finitely, patting the surface of the medical bed. “Just lie back and try to relax. I know it’s difficult considering the circumstances, but if you could keep your mind as clear as you can, it will greatly help the process.” 

You sucked in a breath, hopping up onto the bed and swinging your legs over, lying back against the hard surface. They really hadn’t tried to make it particularly comfortable, but you supposed they didn’t have time before they tried this with Morgana.

Morgana.

You concentrated on how she was even after this procedure. She hadn’t all changed that much. Maybe you’d be the same. Maybe you’d still be you but with very little noticeable change. Thinking of her filled you with courage, even more so when Logan took your hand and knelt by your bedside. 

“You ready?” He asked, trying his fucking best not to let his overwhelming concern leak through his voice. You nodded a little shakily as Charles’ hands came to rest on either side of your head.

“See you on the other side.” You smiled weakly, squeezing his hand slightly, before you felt a slight pressure inside your head, growing and pushing, rearranging, and your vision faded to black.

You were falling. Wind whipped your hair and face, arms flailing to catch yourself on something, anything, trying in vain to save yourself from the inevitable landing. Your stomach lurched up into your throat, guts writhing and flipping as you failed to control your descent. Mouth agape in a silent, wrenching scream, you plummeted down, down, down. Flashes of light burned against your closed eyes, colours singing your retinas as you clawed at nothing, deafening voices ringing in your ears, crashes of explosions, and bloodcurdling screams cut short. Your heart raced in your chest, your breathing ragged before everything stopped.

You plunged into an ocean of pitch black, lungs burning as you fought to breathe, only resulting in an intake of water, mocking bubbles rising from your mouth, legs kicking fruitlessly against the anchor wrapped around your feet. Cracking your eyes open, you looked down.

Not an anchor.

A hand.

A shadowy, skeletal hand gripped your ankle, seven more rising from the obsidian depths to grasp at your legs, your waist, scratching against your skin, tearing at your clothes as you struggled to free yourself, writhing and twitching to reach the surface. 

You screamed again, muffled, jagged, noiseless in the muted depths of your own mind. Your vision tunnelled, oxygen scarce as your brain started to shut down. This was it. This was where you died. Trapped in the sea of black, drowned by your own fears.

Until everything stopped. Your feet touched solid ground and the ocean started to drain away around you. After being so weightless, your body felt like lead as you lay on the surface, coughing up inky liquid, your chest heaving with every strangled breath. Taking just a moment to remind yourself you weren’t dead, you roughly swiped your soaking hair from your face, lifting your head to at least try and take a look at your surroundings. But your eyes were met with nothing. Absolutely nothing. You couldn’t tell where the floor ended and the sky began. There was no divide. You were completely lost and for the first time, you found yourself wishing there was some kind of light to guide you. 

As if on command, a flicker of white appeared ahead of you, illuminating the pit of nothingness and granting you the vision you sought. Shakily struggling to your feet, you looked down and froze slightly. What you were standing on wasn’t solid. Or at least, it shouldn’t be. Ripples shifted beneath your feet like water, the light reflecting in irregular patterns with one small step forward. Taking one knee, you pressed your hand against the surface, pulling back as it shifted with your contact, your own reflection looking back at you quizzically. 

Releasing a determined huff, you wiped your wet hand on your soaking t-shirt, looking back to the pulsing light ahead of you, drawing you in. And you let it, your legs moving as if on their own, footsteps echoing in the emptiness. Some kind of chamber, then, if your footsteps bounced back to you. 

Your eyes squinted the closer you got, your hand shielding your face from the light, before it dulled for you, as if understanding. You blinked away the spots behind your eyes, leaning closer to the orb, and tilting your head around it. Images flashed within the surface, faces you knew well, and faces you didn’t recognise. This was you, you realised. This was everything you were missing. Everything you’d been through, everything you didn’t remember was right here in front of you. Who you were. Who you are. 

Reaching up, you lightly tapped the surface of the glow with your finger, watching as it started to pulse faster, light growing more intense before your vision exploded with white and you were thrust forward, the environment around you shifting and changing like ink in a glass of water. 

Falling to your knees, you barely caught yourself before you struck the floor, your hands biting against a cold, steel surface. Shaking your head of a slight fuzziness, you inhaled, almost choking on the thick scent of sweat and fuel. Your heartbeat spiked.

You knew this. 

Fear laced your blood as you raised your head, taking in the all too familiar interior of an aircraft, and your breath froze when your eyes landed upon a lone figure sitting against the wall, her hair bound behind her bowed head, fingers laced together, dressed in all black. 

You knew her. Fuck did you know her. You knew her incredibly well.

Because it was you. 

But it wasn’t you at the same time. You were sitting dangerously still, various knives and blades strapped across your back, your legs, and the sides of your combat boots. A black mask settled over the entirety of your face, two thin slits cut into the metal for you to see out of. You remembered that fucking thing. It stank of blood and fear.

“You’ve got your orders?” 

Your attention shifted to a burly, broad-shouldered man who stood in the doorway between the hold and the cockpit, his arms folded across his chest, a gun strapped across his back, a similar mask concealing his features. But you knew who it was. Of course you did. It was the same motherfucker who’d held Naji by the throat not two days ago. 

Your past stayed silent, simply wringing her hands together as if to resist wrapping them around his throat.

“Not feeling talkative, Subject Eight?” his voice lilted with mocking as he leaned against the doorway in a way that told you this must have been one of the first interactions between them. 

Silently, the shadows in the craft started to shift, tendrils winding up his legs, around his waist and neck, and he only seemed to notice when they started to constrict.

“H-hey, what’re y–”

“Don’t fucking call me that,” your past hissed, slowly rising to her feet, her fingers flexing as darkness extended from her fingertips, sharpening into five long, razor-sharp claws. “I can show you things not even Kreva knows I can do.” With deadly quiet, she stalked across the floor, raising her hand to the man’s face, a claw pointed dangerously close to his eye. Those tendrils around his body tightened further, and you watched as he struggled to draw breath. 

Kreva.

Even hearing his name sent ice through your veins.

“It was– just a joke, Phantom.” He managed through strangled breaths, struggling to free himself as he started to rise from the floor, Phantom taking a step back from him as if to admire her work. 

“Drop zone in– what’s going on here?” another faceless soldier stepped through the door, sounding almost irritated at what he was seeing. Phantom’s head turned to him almost robotically, the shadows dissolving in an instant. 

“Just joking around.” She responded flatly, her voice devoid of all emotion. Was this seriously how you used to be?

“K, what did Doc say about pissing her off?” he asked his companion who had crumpled to the floor, a hand braced around his neck, his breaths strained and harsh. “Fucking idiot. Drop zone in five.” was all the newcomer said, before turning on his heel and marching out, K now scrambling to his feet to follow, muttering something that sounded like ‘crazy mutant bitch’ under his breath as he went. 

You watched as your past sighed, sitting back down heavily and bracing her head in her hands. You knew what she was doing. She was remembering why she was here. Who she was here for. This was one of the missions you’d volunteer for to save them. To save the rest of NLMO from the mental torture you were about to endure. Because that’s all these missions were. Mental, emotional torture. You didn’t want to hurt people. You hated how he made you hurt people. So many innocent lives would suffer because of the things you would do. 

It made you wonder which particular mission this was. 

Red lights flared to life, a deafening siren blaring as the doors to the hold opened and Phantom stood, checking her equipment one last time before another figure appeared through the door, and you felt yourself freeze in place.

Unnaturally skinny, tall, and had a pair of thick, round glasses perched on the end of his crooked nose. Terror stilled your breath as Doctor Kreva walked through the doors, placing two hands on either of Phantom’s shoulders.

She stiffened.

“My darling Eight. I wanted to wish you luck before your mission,” he drawled, relishing in the theatrics. “This should be easy enough for you, but in case you forget, Subject Five is primed and ready if you decide you want to stage another little rebellion.” 

Phantom released a shaky breath, her eyes closing behind her mask. It was your punishment. It was always your punishment. If you acted out, if you even thought about fighting back, they’d torture your brother to tighten your leash and force you to cooperate.

She stayed silent, and Kreva’s hand clawed into her shoulders and you felt the pressure against your own before he released her and took a step back and said nothing else as Phantom opened her eyes and took off at a run towards the open bay door, leaping into the dark sky beyond. 

You followed, copying her exact movements and dissolving into the dark before either of you struck the ground. You had a sneaking suspicion you couldn’t be hurt or killed within a memory, but you also didn’t particularly want to risk it. 

Rising up from the shadows, you took a moment to look around, spotting your past lightly jogging towards a dirt track. Bile rose in your throat. You knew what this mission was. Even in the dead of night, you’d recognise this location anywhere. Breath flew from your lungs as you tried to call out to yourself, beg her to stop before she did what she could never undo. But no sound left your mouth. You were mute, powerless to do nothing but watch and remember as Phantom stood in the centre of the track, statue-esque, silent. 

You followed at a sprint. If you couldn’t stop her verbally, then you’d take her out by force. You could stop this. You could change your past. This didn’t have to happen. Lowering your head, you lunged forward toward her, arms outstretched to tackle her to the floor.

Only, you passed straight through her, landing harshly on the other side of the dirt track. Though you felt no pain. Only the sharp jolt of coming to such a sudden stop. You looked back in terror as headlights shone from ahead, the low hum of engines cut through the silence of the night as four trucks approached your location, each with a silver caduceus painted into the back doors. 

These were medical trucks. Transporting supplies to the refugee hospital a little further away. Your head whipped around. How had you not seen the small, twinkling lights in the middle distance? This was a camp for those who had evacuated the small local town after the airstrike. 

Hundreds of children were taking shelter there. So many innocent lives you were about to snuff out. 

The trucks trundled to a stop, engines stuttering, and you watched as Phantom raised her hands in faux fear, slowly backing out of the cones of light. Four gunmen rushed to the front of the convoy, fingers braced on the triggers of their rifles, though hesitant to shoot. These weren’t soldiers. They hadn’t been trained to kill people. You realised they were more likely fathers, sons, brothers of those who had been injured or killed in the attack. The town was the centre of the uprising, and in one fell swoop, it had been completely obliterated.

These people were just trying to survive. Trying to recover.

Voices rang out in a language you didn’t understand, and you know your past self didn’t understand either. You watched as she bowed her head in submission, backing up a little further until she was completely out of the light. You remembered this. 

You knew what happened next. 

With a flick of her hand, a tendril of shadow whipped out from the darkness, wrapping around the first gunman’s neck and dragging him screaming into the tree line. Gunshots were fired, but none of them met their mark. These people barely knew how to use their weapons, let alone accurately. A jagged spike erupted from the night, spearing another through his spine with a wet squelch and raising him off the ground for the other two to watch, before slamming him back into the dirt, knives of obsidian rising from his own shadow to pierce through his back. 

Make them fear you. That was Kreva’s orders. Make them so terrified the thought of uprising was synonymous with pain and death. With loss and grief. 

With utter, paralysing terror. 

The two cowered back, a stray bullet firing into her shoulder. She took a single step back, the shadows in the gunman’s chest dissolving, leaving him choking in a pool of his own blood. Holy fuck he was still alive. 

You watched with sick awe as darkness wound up her legs to cover the wound, sifting through her skin and mending it flawlessly, leaving nothing but a small spot of blood. With a tilt of her head and a flick of her fingers, two humanoid figures rose from the shadows on either side of the track, stepping fearlessly into the light to flank the two remaining men. Your stomach convulsed as one of the figures disappeared completely into one man through his own silhouette, flinching as his neck snapped back, a black hand exploding up through his mouth, blood raining onto his face as he stood in a horrific exhibition of your forgotten mutation. He slumped to the floor, the shadow figure remaining standing as he twitched before falling completely still. 

The final gunman fell to his knees, muttering quickly and breathlessly and you realised he was praying. Several thorned whisps rose up from his shadow, snaking around his body, across his forehead, before Phantom’s fist started to tighten, and those thorns dug into his skin. Trails of crimson leaked down his face as they continued to constrict, his voice raising as he prayed, though for what or to whom, you didn’t know. Her fist closed completely, and with a sickening crunch of snapping bones, the shadows sectioned his body into pieces, his head split in two. 

Blood soaked into the earth as Phantom stepped back into the light, her eyes trained on the remaining people inside the cars, each too terrified to make any kind of move. Tears trailed down your face as five more figures formed from nothing, almost floating to each truck to silence the screams of the terrified until one remained. He was dragged through the dust by two of her puppets and thrown at her feet face down. Phantom crouched, raising his head with the tip of her finger beneath his chin, obsidian solidifying once again to arm her other hand with five sharp claws, shadows extending beyond her shoulder blades into two broad, black wings. 

She was every part the demon you used to be.

Dragging a razor down the side of his face, the man whimpered, flinching as she drew a line of scarlet over his brow and down his cheek. A mark. She was going to let him live, so there would always be somebody to remember what happened to those who fought back against the powers of the world. 

“Run,” Phantom whispered, and the man scrambled to his feet, slicing his chin against your claw, before taking off at a sprint in the direction he came, his footsteps fading into the deathly silence. She watched him go, flicking her wrist to the figures before they set to work dragging the various trucks into the shadow, tyres dissolving, medical equipment disappearing as if it were never there, lost to the darkness.

Phantom took a breath before her shoulders shook and she sunk to the ground, her conjurations dissolving into nothing as she was left in total darkness, sobs wracking her chest. You felt her anguish as your own, hot tears still leaking from your eyes as you stood. You wanted to tell her this wasn’t her fault. She didn’t have a choice. He made her do this. And if she wasn’t the one here right now, it would be someone else she cared for so fucking much. 

But you couldn’t say anything. Couldn’t do anything but watch as she tried to stifle her sobs, knowing her job wasn’t even close to being done yet. With hiccuping breaths, your past stood to her feet, sparing a glance at the carnage she’d left in her wake before her head turned to the camp in the distance. Her hands balled into fists, and you remembered the way you had to gaslight yourself into continuing. ‘This is the last mission.’ ‘He’ll set you all free after this.’ ‘Rowan will be safe.’ ‘Jade will be safe.’

Jade.

You felt your heart crack as you thought of her. How could you have forgotten about Jade? Why had Kreva erased everything of another one of his own subjects? Clenching your jaw, you shook your head slightly. 

Not now. 

Phantom had already started striding toward the camp, and you found yourself following her, despite the fear pumping through your blood. You didn’t want to remember this. You’d made a mistake. You didn’t want this. It hurt. It hurt so fucking much. The things you’d done. The people you’d killed. Was this all you were good for? A weapon for Kreva to use at his disposal? A tool to inflict the same amount of agony as those he would use on you in that fucking room? 

You didn’t want this.

You didn’t want this.

Your surroundings started to stutter and glitch as you started to fight against remembering. Fight against Charles hold in your mind. You couldn’t do this. You were happyer forgetting. Happier not knowing who you were and what you’d done.

The darkness swirled like paint mixed on a palette, colours blending and twisting around you, your hands clawing at either side of your temples, clutching your head tightly as if to withdraw him from your mind. 

You didn’t want this.

You didn’t want this.

You didn’t want this. 

You didn’t want this.

Logan’s heart started to race as Charles grimaced, his hand clutching yours ached from the weight of your tight grip, your nails digging into his skin. His other hand came to brush your hair from your forehead between Charles’ hands on your temples, attempting to settle your switching head, swiping his thumb against your brow.

“It’s okay…” he hushed, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “‘S’okay firefly, you’re okay.” His soothing became more desperate as you started to writhe on the table, your back arching as if you were possessed. “The hell’s going on?” he asked, panic rising in his throat.

“She’s… she’s fighting it.” Charles grit, eyes screwed shut as he attempted to navigate your battling mind. His fingers against your head tensed, applying more pressure to either side of your temples. “I’m losing her.”

“Then get her back!” Logan cried, wild fear beating his heart like a warning drum. He couldn’t lose you. He just got you back for Christ’s sake. He couldn’t lose you again. And he was so damn useless when it came to this stuff. He didn’t know what the fuck to do. If you needed somebody taken out, sure, he’s the guy. But mind shit? Brain shit? He was floundering in the same darkness he imagined you were. 

“What did I say about distractions?” Charles barked curtly in response, his neck flexing as he fought to keep you in his grasp. All Logan could do was continue to smooth your brow, whispering sweet nothings as you continued to twitch and bow. A whip of shadow lanced into his peripheral from the corner of the room, and he was barely able to lunge forward in time to shield Xavier from the spear before it lashed through his head.

Pain shook Logan’s system from his shoulder, blood leaking from where your mutation had pierced him and stuck there, sharp, thorny barbs preventing him from breaking free. “Y’alright?” He asked, voice a little strained as his entire body sang with pulsing agony. You must be remembering your mutation. 

Charles nodded, though his eyes still closed, still focused on taming your hurricane of a mind. 

Logan grit his teeth against the wild thrashing of the vine through his shoulder, his arm tensing as it pulls against his strength in an attempt to drag him back. But moving wasn’t an option right now. He knew the intention was to take out Charles, to stop whatever it was he was doing, and he had to remind himself time and time again that this was for your benefit. This was to help you, no matter how much it shattered his heart to see you in so much pain. Not only was he fighting against your own mutation, but he was fighting his instincts not to tear Xavier away from your head and shred him apart for doing this to you. 

Another vine burst through his other shoulder, droplets of his blood staining your skin as you bucked to free yourself. He cried your name, terror lacing his tone as a third vine plunged into his back and through his chest, whipping slightly before pulling back and tugging.

He felt his weight start to shift, his feet grinding against the wooden floor as he struggled to win over the contest of strength. How was something seemingly made from nothing so fucking strong? Barbed thorns sank deeper into his skin, a grunt of pain flying from his lips, sweat beading his brow. 

Jean burst through the doors, either having heard the commotion or after being called by Charles. 

“Logan?!” She started, horrified by the display, but he waved her off quickly. 

“‘M fine. Help Chuck.” He instructed harshly, though Jean hesitated a moment, her eyes wide. He knew why. Of course he knew why. After what happened three years ago, everybody was so damn afraid of you and what you could do. Fear had her glancing frantically between your possessed form and Charles’ struggle. “Jean, please. I– I can’t lose her again…” he admitted shakily, gritting his teeth against another sharp wave of pain from yet another savage tug of the tendrils in his body. 

It seemed to be the push she needed, scrambling forward and around the foot of the bed to stand by Charles’ side, covering his hands with her own and closing her eyes. 

Agony coursed through his system as his knees buckled, looking down to bare his teeth at another frantic thorn that had burst through the space between his joint and kneecap. He’d take it. Fuck, he’d take anything if he knew he was helping you in some way, even as the shadow wrapped around his leg, tearing at the flesh beneath his jeans. He’d endure it if it meant he’d get you back.

Everything was too loud. Like the centre of a tornado, your memories ripped and tore at your brain, slashing through your consciousness, ripping at your brain. Shards of agony, both physical and mental, had you sinking to the floor, hands clamped over your ears, head buried between your knees. Your hair whipped around your hidden brow, a cacophony of screams and torment bursting your eardrums. There was no happiness here. No comfort. Even memories of your brother were laced with poison. Every image of Jade followed up by the night of her death. Her death was brought by your own fucking hands. You’d seen how you’d torn her apart, desperation to help clouding your senses, seeing her as yet another adversary in your way. In a roaring cloud of shadow, you’d shredded her to nothing, and even as you flayed the skin from her body, she smiled. She told you she loved you.

And you’d left her skeleton in your wake. 

You killed. You maimed. You hurt. You’d caused pain. You’d caused anguish. Heartbreak. Agony. It was as Kreva had said. You were a machine. An instrument devoid of any semblance of humanity. You had to be. The things you’d done… you couldn’t have had an ounce of empathy in your body. 

You’d killed the woman you loved.

And you’d tried to kill the man you love. Memories of that day's training had circled your mind like a carousel of torment. Fighting tooth and nail to claw a path out and escape. Landing blow after blow on the man you’d fallen in love with, every strike flung to kill. 

‘He forgave you.’

You tensed, waiting for the following punch to the gut that was taking far too long to arrive.

‘We forgave you.’

A sob wracked from your chest, your head pressing further into your knees. You just wanted everything to stop. The noise, the damn noise, you wanted everything to end. 

‘You’re not alone anymore.’

Your breath shuddered from your mouth, tears and saliva staining your t-shirt. You knew that voice. Her soft cadence like a balm.

‘I forgive you.’

Slowly, and with no small degree of trepidation, you raised your head. Your lungs froze, eyes stuck on the woman before you. Her pearly smile. Her smooth, bronze skin almost glowed in the lack of light. Black hair cropped short by her ears, bright blond highlights making her look like some kind of alternative angel. 

A gold locket shone brightly at the hollow of her throat, a beacon in the void. You shook slightly as she took a step toward you, taking a knee in front of your curled form. 

“Jade…?” You breathed her name like a question, unsure if this was real or yet another nightmarish scenario in which you’d have to watch her die yet again. But the moment her fingertips grazed your cheek, you found your answer.

“Hey, Shadow.”

Tears flowed freely down your face as you looked into her cerulean eyes, so full of earnest forgiveness you felt yourself shatter. The nickname you hadn’t heard in so long breaking down every part of yourself you’d held together by a thread. You surged forward into her arms, finally finding something you could connect with in the warmth of her embrace. 

“How… how’re you here?” You asked shakily, tears saturating her black shirt a few shades darker before you pulled back, shaking your head in disbelief. “How–”

��I’m a part of you, numbnuts. Of course I’m here.” She said it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re focussing on the shit Kreva put us through. Focussing on the pain you’ve brought. So now I have to drag your sorry ass through a bunch of happy memories to remind you how much of a rockstar you actually are.” She punched your arm lightly and you laughed a little, the sound split by the lump in your throat. 

“First time I see you in three years and you punch me?” You asked, wiping the tears from your face with the heel of your palm before taking her outstretched hand, your knees groaning at the release of pressure as you stood.

“Yeah well, someone had to slap some sense into you, and since your new boyfriend isn’t here, I guess I’m the next best thing.” She winked, though guilt spiked through your gut. 

“Jade… I–”

“Shadow, I’m dead. If you spent the rest of your life single and sex-less because of me, I’d be so mad at you. Though I wasn’t exactly thrilled when you tried to forget about me, but I get it.” She shrugged, holding your hand in her own. You’d forgotten just how blunt she could be, though it was a breath of fresh air from everyone tiptoeing around you in regard to her death. 

“Can’t argue with that, I guess…” you huffed a small smile, finding a calm sense of contentment simply being here in her presence again. 

“Speaking of your new man, I think he’d be a great place to start.” She grinned at you, waving her hand as the glitching images of your past started to shift and change, settling on a scene you knew extremely well. It wasn’t so long ago you were there, reading in the little window seat of the forest cabin, watching whatever Logan was up to outside. 

The colours of the cabin separated, morphing into the kitchen and lounge, and you watched the ghost of your past self materialise on the sofa, the tartan blanket covering your legs, your nose buried in a copy of Ghosted, the paranormal love story you’d been so hooked on in your first month moving there. Though from the way you were devouring the pages, you realised this must have been your re-read.

Jade raised a brow to you as if to say ‘seriously?’ and you snorted a laugh.

“What? It had a good plot. Sad ending though…”

“‘M’not judging.” Her voice told you anything but.

The occasional crackle of the hearth and swish of flipping pages broke the calm silence before the door to the cabin pushed open and Logan stepped through, toeing off his shoes at the door before closing it swiftly, preventing any further heat from escaping. Your brows furrowed as you tried to remember this specific memory. How had you instantly understood all those times where you’d killed so many and yet this was something you had to strain yourself to recall? Your eyes fell on a small, wrapped package he held in his hands.

What was this?

“Stop thinking so damn hard and just watch.” Jade elbowed you and you shot her a look of faux irritation but acquiesced nonetheless. 

You watched your own ghost look to the door, her eyes lighting up instantly when she saw him, placing her book on the coffee table and rising to lean over the back of the sofa. “Hey Lo’! All done?” She asked, and Logan’s expression softened when he saw her.

Did he really look at you like that?

“Yeah. Should be good for ‘another month or so, weather depending. Come over here a sec, wanna tell you somethin’.” You could see the subdued excitement in his eyes as your past stood from the sofa, draping the blanket over her shoulders, a brow raised in suspicion. 

Logan set the package on the table before his hands cupped the sides of your neck and he stooped to press a lingering kiss to your lips. Your past smiled against him, arms snaking around his neck as he pulled back from you, cheeks pursed as he tried to suppress a grin. 

“What’s up with you?” She asked, eyeing him with amused scepticism. Logan turned her in his arms, resting his chin on her shoulder as she huffed a small laugh. 

“Open it.” He ghosted his lips against her ear, and she leaned back into him, a hand holding his arm around her waist, the other picking up the little, strangely shaped package, brown paper crinkled in odd ways. 

She cast him a glance, Logan nodding back to your hands with encouragement, before you started to slowly tear the paper from whatever was hidden inside. Your heart surged as your memory slowly returned, a fond smile pulling at your lips as you watched your past suck in a soft gasp.

“Logan… this is gorgeous.” 

Paper now discarded, she held a small, delicate pinewood carving of a miniature cabin in her hands, accurate to the exterior of the one you were in right now, log pile and all. Her eyes filled with awe as she turned it gently in her fingers, tracing the artistry with the tip of her thumb. “Is this what you’ve been doing?” She asked, turning to face him, though still looking down at the carving as if she couldn’t tear her eyes away.

“Kinda. Been prepping for the weather too, but most of the time, yeah ‘ve been doin’ this. Happy birthday, firefly.” 

Her head snapped up to look at him, confusion etching her features. “Wait, what? I don’t even know my birthday, how did you–”

He silenced her with his lips moving languidly against hers, his hands falling to her hips, thumb tracing smooth circles against the sliver of skin where her hoodie had risen up a little. 

“I have my ways.” He murmured against her, taking the carving from her hand and placing it down on the table before lifting her against him, her legs instinctively locking around his waist. 

“He found it in the file…” You breathed, the memory fading from view to shelter both you and Jade in muted darkness once again. “From the first time he read it. The first page had all my information, including my date of birth. He didn’t tell me because he didn’t want to bring it up, but I realised after we read it together. That was how he knew.” You explained quietly as Jade’s hand settled on your shoulder.

“You know… he’s out there now. Waiting for you. He loves you so much, Shadow. I know because he looks at you the same way I did.” 

That all too familiar lump started to form in your throat, your hand crossing your front to hold your arm. “He does now but… how can I face him, Jade? Knowing what I’ve done, knowing how much pain I’ve caused. I– I killed you… I ripped you apart and I didn’t even remember doing it.”

Jade’s hands cupped the sides of your face, forcing you to look at her even when you begged to look away. “It was an accident. You saw what they were doing and your subconscious snapped. You felt their pain as your own and you couldn’t fight the urge to save them. I’m not about to hold that against you. Nobody should. You never wanted anyone to go through what we did, and the fact you volunteered for every goddamn mission solidifies that.

“You have saved so many. You have helped so many. And you are cared for by so many. And nobody cares for you more than Logan. You’ll face him because you love him. And you’ll forgive yourself because he forgives you.” Her thumb swiped against a tear sliding down your cheek. “Just like I forgive you.”

Her words splintered through your resolve of self-loathing, shattering every conception you had of yourself and leaving room for something new. Something unfamiliar. 

Hope.

“Now c’mon. This isn’t the only thing I wanted to show you. In case you still need convincing, you have an arsenal of memories to prove me right. And there’s nothing I love more than proving myself right.” She grinned widely, and you nodded, words failing you as she waved her hand again, the colours of your mind swirling and settling to the image of the danger room, and she took your hand again as she showed you every forgotten part of yourself. 

Logan steadied his breathing as your body settled back on the table, the thorns in his body retracting and slinking back into the shadows with your newfound calm. Whatever Jean had managed to do was working, his skin itching slightly as it knitted back together. Though he stayed in place out of fear of making things worse. He didn’t know if approaching you would spark up your torment again, so he stayed still, his knee against the floor, watching cautiously. 

He didn’t know how long it had been since you fell unconscious, but his arms ached to hold you again, to have you pressed against his chest, your face buried in the crook of his neck. He fought every urge to move back to your side, knowing that staying was most likely for the best, and gave you the best opportunity of coming back to him. But that didn’t lessen the longing to feel you. 

“So? Thoughts and prayers?” Jade asked the final memory she wanted to show you fading into the background of your mind. You sighed heavily, unable to deny it anymore. You’d done good in your life. Perhaps not quite enough to outweigh the bad, but you were getting there. She’d shown you the memory of when you first met Marie, forced you to watch as you tried so damn hard to convince her. Sure, you may have failed that time, but that didn’t take away from all the other times you’d succeeded. Besides, she’d found Logan not long after, so that had all worked out for the best anyway.

“Yeah, alright, maybe you were right… just maybe,” you admitted reluctantly, much to the girl’s triumphant laugh. 

“Fucking knew it! Ha-HA! Told you I’d convince you. God, I’m so good at this.” She grinned wildly, and you huffed a fond smile. Though you knew this couldn’t last forever, you were so fucking grateful for the time you’d had with her now. The weight of unspoken words between you had lifted from your chest, though another had settled there.

You had to say goodbye. 

“Jade…” you began, only to trail off instantly. Her grin shrank slightly into something of understanding companionship. Taking both your hands in her own, she squeezed slightly.

“Yeah, I know. Can’t last forever, right? Besides, I don’t think we would have lasted very long anyway. Not if tall, dark and broody had waltzed in a couple years later,” you chuckled tearily, knowing she was absolutely right. 

“I was never blind to how you looked at Ororo, by the way.” You shot back lightly, and Jade shrugged in faux innocence.

“What? She’s gorgeous. Sue me.” She winked again, and a comfortable silence settled between the two of you. “Oh, right. I wanted to give you this. Since you chucked your away and everything and I don’t really need it…” her hands fiddled with the clasp of her necklace behind her, and your heart skipped a beat as the locket fell into her hands, before she placed it in yours and closed your fist around it. 

“I can’t take this.” You muttered, searching her face for anything that would tell you she didn’t want you to have it. But your search came up short. 

“Of course you can. What am I gonna do with it? Not sure it’ll come with you when you wake up, but let’s just give it a go, yeah?” Your breath choked as you saw her own eyes well up, and you realised this must be just as hard for her as it was for you. You wished you could have both. You wished you could take her with you.

But she was just a memory. Sure, she was real, but only in here. 

“Okay…” you nodded slightly, and she tilted your head up with her finger beneath your chin.

“Don’t get stuck in the past. You have a family out there waiting for you. You’re not alone anymore,” tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear, your soul cracked as she started to fade. “Oh, and when you take on Kreva, kick his balls for me, yeah? Bastard deserves what’s coming for him.” She grinned wickedly, and you nodded again, your voice caught in your throat. “Give ‘em hell, Shadow.” 

Jade punched her fist in the air as her image faded completely, the rest of your surrounding mind fading into white.

With a sharp gasp, your eyes flew open, seeing nothing but light before you blinked a couple of times, your vision returning as you registered both Charles and Jean looking a little worse for wear.

“Welcome back.” Xavier smiled tiredly, and you sucked in a breath. You were back. You were home. You remembered everything, from the start of your torture eighty years ago to the moment you lay on the bed. Steadily, you pushed your arm beneath you to rise into a sit, bracing a hand on your forehead as it to stem the slight headache from remembering over a century of memories. 

“You feeling okay?” Jean asked a little hesitantly, leaning against the back of Charles’ wheelchair. You didn’t remember her being in the room when you started, but you guessed what had happened in your mind had been reflected in the conscious world. 

“Yeah… I’m okay.” You responded, cricking your neck to the side before a voice you didn’t know you needed to hear called your name from your left. 

Tears lined your lashes as you took in his appearance. Spots of blood stained his white singlet, a large rip had torn through the knee of his jeans, a bloom of scarlet had drenched the fibres. You didn’t need to ask what happened, you already knew.

But the way he looked at you, terrified hope dancing in his hazel eyes, you couldn’t stop the way your legs swung from the bed and you all but leapt into his arms, holding him so impossibly tight as if he’d disappear into thin air. 

But he wouldn’t. Because this was real. He was real. And just as Jade as promised, he was waiting for you.

“Logan…” you breathed in his scent, comfort blossoming where it wrapped around your heart. And Logan swore he’d never let go of you, not as his hand braced the back of your head, his other pressed against your spine as he held you. And held you.

“Thought I lost you for a minute there,” he tried to play off just how utterly petrified he was when Charles said he was losing you, but the way you nuzzled closer into his neck told him you saw right through him, and he didn’t hesitate to press his cheek to the top of your head. Wordlessly, Charles nodded to Jean, and the two of them silently decided to leave you in peace, closing the door behind them as they left. 

Logan shifted you so you were cradled completely in his lap, your legs straddling his bended knees as he basked in your presence, in your touch. He had you. You were back.

You were home.

“What happened in there?” He asked, his tone hushed as you pulled back slightly, only far enough to look him in the eye, his hand on the back of your head skirting to rest against the side of your face. 

“I was focussing on the shit I’d done…” you explained quietly, leaning into his palm. “I was so wrapped up in the pain I’d caused I couldn’t think of anything else.” 

Logan rested his brow against your own, empathy pulling at the strings of his heart. He knew that feeling so damn well, and to know you had experienced that exact same thing tugged at his very soul, harder than anything your mutation had done to him earlier.

“How d'ya get out of it?”

Only then did you brain register the warmth of metal in your closed fist, the slight dig of a dainty chain in your soft palm. Removing one of your arms from around his neck, you opened your hand in the space between you, a smile of fond disbelief creasing your brow as you looked down at the gold locket nestled in your palm. You didn’t question how it happened. Didn’t question how she’d somehow made something materialise from nothing but your memory. That wasn’t even part of her mutation. 

It was something that wasn’t meant to be questioned, even as Logan’s head tilted in slight confusion. 

“Ran into an old ex.” you said by means of explanation as recognition dawned on his face. He knew he’d seen that locket before, and gratitude filled his chest. He’d never get to meet Jade, but he hoped she knew, somehow, just how thankful he was for her. “She approves of you, by the way.” You grinned, and Logan wondered how he’d gone even this long without kissing you.

“I’ll have to find a way to thank her, then,” he whispered, before pulling you in and sealing his lips to yours, pouring every ounce of sheer, raw love he had for you into the way his tongue danced with yours, savouring how your arm returned around his neck and held him there, your chest pressed against his own, his heart almost reaching out to yours. 

He had you back. 

You were home.

[eldrith]

ғʀᴏᴍ ᴇᴅᴇɴ ; ᴘᴀʀᴛ ғᴏᴜʀ.

ɪɴɴᴏᴄᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴅɪᴇᴅ sᴄʀᴇᴀᴍɪɴɢ ;

jacaerys velaryon x fem!reader words: 9k synopsis: jacaerys falls for a woman in aegon's garden. notes: sorry abt the delay but here is part four! def an introspective chapter but things are ramping up for the last part chapter warnings: freaky ass dreams — death. allusions to smut, finger sucking, making out. lore. religious imagery/symbolism, slight suicidal themes surrounding death as a concept (message me if u have questions), manipulation, tarrgaryen slander(my fav), arguments, creepy imagery, blood & gore. food as allegory. basically everything as allegory atp.

THE VOICE FINDS HIM IN THE SHADOWS OF SIGHT. 

“Jacaerys?” 

It lurks; not unlike those looming memories which throb in the back of his mind with each passing day, eyes sullenly cast out the casement of his window upon the breathing garden below – it lurks within some hidden recess of his mind, waiting for him to stumble so unwillingly into its notched crosshairs. 

“Jacaerys,” the voice calls. It is a voice he knows well. 

Blanketed by a sky of bruises, Jacaerys looks up to those thundering blemishes which impede low into the air; He is here for something. 

Returning his gaze to the earth, he stalks with burning muscles, lungs cinched by the brutal kiss of iced wind. 

There is a sharp snap to his left; a twig, some withered old limb of a growth long past felled – it echoes sharply along the field, into the empty bones of those which litter upon the wildgrass. The gasp falls from his lips and plumes out, trickling into the cold night air.

With a spin of his gaze, the garden lurches – no – the battlefield; no, indeed some apprised paralyzation of both. 

Jace stares incredulously at the scorched earth, smoldering shards of burnt stakes and wrought iron – and the smell, some decaying rejection of earth, some burnt and putrid soil which still squelches when he drags his boots over mangled fallen vines. 

Crimson leaks from wounds within the thickened tendrils of vined earth; bloody gashes which ooze with some putrid ichor, thick with the unmoving wind as they glaze over the sharpened blades of fallen soldiers, bearing black or verdant sigils. 

Bodies lie, mummified in overturned black – matted with rotten leaves, blooms kiss the corpses which twitch with the final rattle of esse. 

A yelp from a skeletal mass below the curving hedges, and Jace lurches in fear: Hair of silver, a gown of gold, a third eye between her brow; the familiar shadow of his youth is petrified under the curling grasp of blackthorne before his very eyes, a malicious whisper in the unmoving gloom as her eyes glaze with some ancient kismet. And with a sickening turn of her head, paled lips move, beetles crawling and scuttling into the shadows. “The fruit is poisoned from the tree of kings,” his aunt whispers to him from lifeless lips; her third eye blinking, bloodshot, pained. 

He staggers back, though quickly schools himself, ignoring the sharp pain in his head and the clench of fear twisting his gut. He is here for something. 

A thick dread curls in his stomach when he eyes the smaller shapes of three boys – two pure of hair, and one with the very same mopped curls which sprout tangled with the vines of earth; and a young woman, slumped and scorched, her hands outstretched in protection of them. He does not allow himself to glance any longer at the bodies. 

Jacaerys’s heart thunders, his shoulder catching on a sharp thorne as he bursts through a corner, gasping for breath as it chokes him. You await him, somewhere in the depths of this battlefield, and Jacaerys fights his own mind from conjuring visions of you, slumped and decaying just as the rest of them – just like each of the spoilt veins which spill and fertilize the soil below. 

Your voice comes to him as clear as a whisper in the corner of his mind. Boots sink into the soft black soil – vines, dark and sharp things, wrap around the weary leather of his boots; crimson armor disappears beneath the decay, swallowed in the yawning gluttony of fate, whispers whistling through the hedges which tower around him. “… And what you made, what we’ve made… look at it all. It is art. A stroke of brush upon my kind, used soul.” 

The hair upon his nape stands once more; the voice, curling around each bend of his mind, leaking hunger, enticement. An unnatural rhythm in the shadows; serpents, scales emerald and venomous, within in the depths – they blink with a single eye, gaze mocking in a glint of cobalt sapphire; and he runs.

The garden stirs with his dreading heart; littered bodies scalded and ashed, billowing in irrecoverable bursts below his footfall when he staggers past. Daisies sprout, jagged and thorned, from scorched wildgrass; peeking their shy petals through slats of disintegrated armor, singed by death. 

The voice follows him, though when his gaze snaps to the statue, The Thorned Dragon looms larger than he’d recalled. A ragged gasp escapes his throat. 

There, its spiny throngs are curved rather unnatural – bent into a labored revolve, the dragon swallows its own tail; horns jagged and unforgiving, piercing into its own soft underbelly with a silent, deafening roar. “Your blood – come in fire, leave in ash.”

The words scrape within the pounding agitation within his mind – and, unable to cast out such unpropitious omens, Jacaerys staggers towards the iron casting, eyes widening in a thickened breath. 

And it is then that he discovers a lump of darkness curled upon the base of the Thorned Dragon; with a jagged lurch towards the fineries which litter the vines below, a crawling horror builds within his throat. 

Pale skin, finer than his own – a necklace of Valyrian steel, a gown fine and black with scorched marks of death – and that very crown, swallowed and corroded below a stiffened grasp, stilled marks of clawing fingers through the earth. 

Ravens black as the night peck at the flesh of the very body he once came from.

It is sickening – bone splinters beneath such scrutiny, a terrifying crack which leaves Jacaerys with a drop of dread spreading through his body. “You breathed life into my breast…”  

The Thorned Dragon watches the Prince stumble away; the end of the garden nears, its fallen horses singed with banners of the very beast which brought about their end. Jacaerys retches, but is met with a river of red, blue, green; pouring in a sickening slip from his lips unto such a pale palm – with a panicked gasp, he sputters. 

Slithers of white flicker in the shadow; a cleansed breath, as his heart leaps – some safety from the poisoned earth, from the poisoned resolution of the very blood running in his veins. 

 “And I bleed because you feel the pulse within my veins, within the roots below.” 

And then, after a moment of frozen muscle, a familiar laugh from the depths behind him – he knows better than to turn, instead leaping with a gasping panic, lurching towards the gates which slink away from his fingers with a sickening leer. 

“They await your lead. Go to them, choose them…” Dread tugs his gut, shaking as he chances a glance behind his shoulder – but it is no longer Aegon’s Garden. 

Flashes of mountains, of sprawling moors, of valleys and seas and Keeps of red and hearths dying out; of stony cliffs, of the frigid, withered talons of death from afar – “Jacaerys Targaryen. The King Who Will Be.”  

It is not a name he has been called before you – and it is a name which now splinters into shards of glass within his lungs, piercing his heart and seizing him with some lick of doom. 

Sick, Jacaerys stumbles away – the circle turns, some ominous and self-abhorrent whisper within his mind reminds him; The circle turns, yes – 

 Limbs above him, bowing low in a weep; and those very fine fruits, glistening and blushing in the moonlight. Their scent, heavenly even in such a fuzzy state – and a memory of lips, salaciously pressed to the flesh, tongue darting out… 

His hand shakes as he reaches towards it, heart thundering as he hears footsteps approaching; a panic within him, knowing he has not enough time. 

Not enough time. 

But he stops short: 

From the blossoms come something thick – blood, no, ink – no, something which stains the earth with sin. Emerald and crimson, staining upon the blooms which wilt and curl away as if struck by a bout of chilling breath. 

The footsteps arrive behind him. 

JACAERYS JOLTS WITH A SHARP, DRIED GASP. 

Tallowed wax has weeped hours in wait of his silenced patience; a slumber rather calm in exterior, though when he awakes he drives a kneecap into the bottom of the table, gasping in a sharp, drowned way.

Syrupy, gasped blinks – Jacaerys inhales the breath of a man submerged in some iced seas, alone and choked of any respite from the final wink of existence.

“Taking a catnap, are we?” 

He jolts once more; and a laugh, hearty and trickling, echoes in the stone drum – it is not a haunting sound, nor is it in any notion a fetching one – but rather one as familiar as his own kin. It is his own kin. 

Baela rounds the stone table, regarding Jacaerys’ stirred frame; he, with tired and rather disturbed eyes, glances with a fainting stare of vexed provocation. “Gods,” He finally breathes, the whispers of dreams far too present in his sharply pained mind. “I can’t even recall falling asleep.” 

She wears her dragonriding gown – an invitation to accompany her of which he’d turned down earlier this morn. 

The days grow on and so does, it seems, Jacaerys’ blistering headaches; indeed, Vermax has taken ill as of recent, and it would be a poor choice to try and take him flying under such circumstances. Scale rot, they’d said – a quite rare instance, recorded only one other time by a maester many, many years before and ruled farce by account of him turning mad and taking the black not a moon after. 

Jacaerys fights quite hard to avoid her stare. 

There is a worry in Baela’s gaze that has long since befallen the faces of many who walk such halls; but Jacaerys knows well, it is a superficial concern; it is the worry of a soldier falling ranks, of a lady retaining her favor as a knight mounts for jest, of a stableman watching a horse with a limp. 

And still, she says nothing of it. 

“Well,” She mutters instead with a light smirk; Jacaerys meets her stare with a blink. “You act as though you saw a spectre.” 

It is only with her words of innocent jest which he recalls the depths of his dreaming torment; Perhaps I have, he reminds himself – in a flash of Lucerys, curls shining against hedges of bursting green and pink, of slithering vines. Or, perhaps, he sees it each day – in gowns snagged around branches, in the glinting hunger of a gaze, in a sharp smile curling around the juices of a ripe fig. 

He clears his throat, eyes returning to the parchment softened with age– tracing over the mark indented where his cheek had rested in a fitful slumber moments ago. His mind has grown numb in the battle against the aching pains; he has rendered himself, in the days since that fateful night under the fig tree, rather recluse and solitary. And with time came confusion, then acceptance, then bewitchment, and now… some paranoid, brewing anger. 

“I suppose I grew weary with Maester Layn’s prose,” Jacaerys attempts for a joke; yet when his gaze reclaims the handscript scrawled in increasingly maddened flutters, droning on and on for pages until the final third of the journal is left blank, there is a deep unsettling stir within his stomach. 

“-Layn?” Baela repeats – she truly is a well-studied girl, Lady Laena made sure of such a thing with both her daughters – and her brow furrows. “The Mad Maester?” 

Jacaerys nods absently, closing the leather rather abruptly in a flash of wariness, thumbing the page he’d earmarked in haste. “Apparently so.” He affirms rather distractedly. There is a paranoia which rises from its dirt grave within his chest – grasping with hands unseen, his stomach and throat begin to tighten. 

With a gentle nod, Jacaerys stands once more; bones tired and weary, he grasps the Old Maester’s journal with a jolt and excuses himself from Lady Baela. “I should retire. Such reading has rendered me spent.” 

It is clear that she is unused to his curt discussions as of late – though never quite close, the cousins have spent considerable time together in the days of their siblings’ absence, and Jacaerys has never been one for much recluse. Times change, perhaps. 

Jacaerys minds to not brush her as he walks past, though her words stop him. 

“– And?”

He slows to a halt, blood churning and words of confession dancing on his tongue; the journal is heavy underarm – it pulls him towards the sinking stone floor, below it, down to where the beasts, ancient and warm, stir underfoot. 

Half-turn of head when he glances her way – Baela needs not elaborate; He has known her a good part of this life to understand the words which lie unsaid within her throat. 

The words burn through the parchment within his arms; Truth, they whisper – but he merely clenches the journal closer to his chest. “And… It was as they say.” He lies through his teeth, and is surprised to find no remorse within his heart. 

Jacaerys can only think of one thing; one laugh, one smile, one voice which tells him of love and devotion – of the voice which lives in the very garden Maester Layne studied and then lost his mind over those many years ago – and so Jacaerys nods towards the wall of stone, unable to face his cousin behind him: 

“He went mad.” 

THERE WAS ONCE A TIME JACAERYS WALKED THE HALLS OF HIS HOME. 

Halls of warmth, where any such whispers of doubt or dishonor would slide off the backs of boys much younger than Jacaerys is today; where he and his brothers, dark of hair and high of chin, would spar in yards, would laugh at feasts, would bow to their grandsire, would toss small bits of venison to their maturing mounts. 

And it is not necessarily the shift of land beneath feet – of bay harbors of blackened water shifting to sliding dark sand and island-whipped wind; for no matter where he rests his head to slumber, the scent of ancient smoldering smoke lies intrinsically tied to his bloodline – eternally. 

No matter the name he bears, nor the blood pulsing in his veins, nor the castle he walks; Jacaerys cannot any longer find that home. 

Halls long and empty; cold, unbearingly so in those moments he sees a flash of his brother – the face carved from his own –  in the mirror, in passing hedges, in the shut of eyelids. 

And long past are days where glory was within reach – what gods so austere would allow for a bastard to follow her place, now that any with a drop of Valyrian blood might stake a claim? These days, it has grown quite clear: unreal are the dreams once so very tangible – when the throne was occupied by a rather lively grandsire, when Jacaerys was placed upon his knee, was told whispers of glory and fate; when he watched dragons dance over the horizon of King’s Landing no larger than the nail of his last finger, patiently awaiting the day Vermax might grow fierce enough to carry him into those very clouds. 

Dragonstone is his birthright, just as much as King’s Landing is; and he has long watched over this small dominion, long wondered how it could be that such a place of blood and ash could yield any other result than just that. The circle turns, after all; The dragon eats its tail. 

And just as such, Jacaerys sits with Aegon’s Garden in the periphery of his vision. 

A stray breeze blows curls to tangle in the curve of his lashes – a sweep of shaking fingers, and the words of Maester Layn seem to dance upon the parchment below. 

In some desperate fear a few nights past, Jacaerys had ripped and scoured Dragonstone’s histories for any mention of the Garden; and such search has yielded merely the ramblings of a maester to the second of Targaryen kings, a maester who went mad and took the Black not a year into his time upon the Island. 

And yet remains his personal accounts in the library – easily left out of such gilded Valyrian histories – a dusted old tome, one which likely has not seen the light of day since Aenys I was a young boy. Some old crone’s ramblings; though Jacaerys feels his skin crawl as the words worm their way into his mind and whisper into his memory. 

The Dragonlords settled these lands when the bailey was merely a plot of saplings; and Aegon’s Garden not yet a Thing but a overturned burial plot of the old gods, volcanic ash and sprouts of wildgrass. 

And their own gods, heavy with the weight of wings which crumble towers and burn ships – things meant to remain untouched by hands so human and tainted with sin. 

It matters not what I might try to guide in the ears of men who believe themselves more than such; From the first, they have been marked for suffering. 

And what greater curse is there than to eternally live and yet still to die? They leave the lands to take more; and yet with each victory, their souls wither. 

This garden watches; it sows, reaps, sows. 

Their fate, I fear, is that of slow decay. 

Philosophies of men long before his own time is something Jacaerys has studied twice over in his preparations for the crown – and yet a most unsure settling feeling, the offense which simmers in his Valyrian veins cools only with the uneasy sense of verity through words so sharp. 

The handscript, from moons after the last entry in the journal; scribbled, uneven – written in maladies and interspersed with recipes for tinctures, and cures for maddening headaches. 

An inkling of fear worries down his spine at the observation; and though the words instill some ominous cognizance in the back of his mind, his hungry eyes continue on. Ravens call shrilly from above; a short breeze gusts the scent of fruit from beyond the wall to the east. 

…And as the star reminds us, it was through the Stranger's envy which death and decay entered the realms of the Andals; still, perhaps, that hatred lingers in the soil foreign and familial, growing within veins of those who dare believe themselves any step above others.

That is to say, those who pulled themselves unto the backs of ancient beings, who deem themselves of the very same molten flesh – and who will, in circle’s turn, eat the flesh of their very own to stay upon the helm. 

The fruit of their seed, oh that cursed fruit – it falls, and will always fall, from that tree of kings; will always bloom rot across the lands. 

Yes, each drop of spilled blood from the wombs of dragonlords bear the mark of fate. A curse, yes — yet what is a curse but the gods’ way of shaping fate into flesh? 

Jacaerys startles as a raven lands upon the stone bench beside him, watching with beady eyes of black; when he glances back to the parchment, the words seem to tremble and pulse with his own heartbeat. Unease drips through his mind, the iced shock of the mad words written before him dousing him entirely. 

Targaryens. Gods among men, they say to themselves – but gods do not bleed. 

Gods do not rot.

The words swirl, their tendrils dragging down the parchment and staining Jacaerys’s fingers; they spin, they bloom, they whittle, they die and are reborn in his mind; a circle forever turning as he looks up towards the open casement of his chambers high, swallowed in half by the storming of clouds which gather above. 

Is he going mad? 

There are naught but a plethora more questions he must ask now; but to whom, he wonders – the raven beside him wails, fluttering before taking flight, towards the garden to the east. Dread welcomes him, a sharp friend. 

Jacaerys watches the bird’s dark shadow become swallowed by the mass of overgrowth which curls and climbs atop the gate ahead; it is clear, now, where he must go. 

There are no more people left here to answer his questions; his mother, too locked upon in her own horizon – Baela, measuring her own squared shoulders to fit into the mould of their Queen; Daemon, far away in the riverlands doing whatever he may please; Maester Gerardys, too enraptured by the foolish beliefs of an aged past. You are no more affected by this than the blooms are affected by a blink of clouds over the sun; you, in your slinking shadows and wild words, your beckoning laughter and spinstry dreams. 

Jacaerys knows in a corner of his mind; as a sower knows when it is to snow, Jacaerys knows it is you who has sent him mad, who spins your web of death and life and whatever monstrous thing lies between. You understand, this taunting limbo which suspends him between a life long-dead and a life unreachable. 

The journal is abandoned upon the bench. 

Crows screech; the gates to Aegon’s garden creak. 

THE ANCIENT ROT SEEPS IN.

It curls in a way he’s never quite taken note of; dirt paths which twist and gnarl, vines which ooze with a sweet scent once so enticing – Jacaerys stalks warily through the strangely thick air, ignoring the prickle on the nape of his neck as he walks. 

A familiar waltz, this has become – though he is not, as it seems, in the mood for a dance. 

It is not long before the garden settles with him. A slow breath, an exhale as he passes the entrance and comes across the Thorned Dragon; a beautiful thing – as beautiful perhaps as you are, in that odd way. 

Your name upon his lips, he wonders if you hear the way his voice trembles, how the fear and worry and resentment leak through his tone. 

He sees first a snag of your hem; slinking around a corner, a snap in the twigs that sends his heart thundering. 

A faint memory of hunting in the woods with his grandsire when he was just old enough to hold a bow; the final look within the gaze of a stag before it was taken from the realm. Its heart, faster and faster until it slowed and, finally, stopped. 

He follows the sound of swishing fabric, of footprints long lost in the rotted earth; blinks within his mind, words written in a panic unto parchment a hundred year’s past. What greater curse is there than to eternally live and yet still to die?

He calls your name. Once, twice – on and on, but still you evade him, disappearing just as he catches a glimpse of you, snapping twigs and slithering past vines as he stumbles blindly, seeking answers to questions not yet formed upon his tongue. 

Anger pulses in such a pathetic chase; though still he gives in, desperate to hear it from your lips, just if only to confirm the truth: That he has no one. That you are no one. 

The rot finds itself within his bones – and, when he brushes his hand against the leaves of a passing vine clung around a woman half-devoured by the sun, a soft giggle floats through the shrubbery. 

A delicate, almost musical rot – a giggle he knows so well by now, one which sends a pang of anticipation and some deep horror through him. He remembers that stag, the way its eyes watched, unmoving down the point of the arrow; and the fluid snap on its neck when it crashed into the wood with an arrow through its throat. 

His grandsire’s laugh, delighted, amused. A life, once more rotted away by that tree of kings. 

Joints within his neck pop once more when he whirls to the sound, unease drifting into his bones when the laugh finds his ears again – but brighter, much more familiar; his stomach drops. 

Luke. A laugh once more, as if they were once more lost in that youthful catch-and-seek game, a rustle from a hedge, the drowning cough of lungs long since failed. But Jacaerys is no longer a young boy – and neither is Lucerys. 

Rage, that long-hidden beast, stirs. It is a cruel, cruel twist for you to play such tricks upon him. It is one thing to plague his mind with silly visions, to haunt his lips or his fist or his heart; though it is not the same to taunt such grief over his head. 

Enough of it; just ahead, the wisp of a shadow moves, and he sees you dart into the brush. 

Rage – that sharp, sudden, ancient rot; it pulses through him, just as harsh and true as his own heartbeat. He’s upon your trail in a moment; though the twists and turns grow confounding, and Jacaerys feels an ache of worry grow within his chest. 

Another glimpse of shadow; you, arm-in-arm with a boy; Lucerys is before him. 

Lucerys walks with you – he is tangible, as fleshed, as smiling as you. 

It is then that he stumbles into the clearing. 

The olive tree, once more; and there, looming above his heaving chest, are the watchful eyes of the woman in the statue, her lover torn and dying within her arms – an arrow through the shoulder, one splintered and rotting from his throat. 

And yet there, at the roots of that very tree, you alone repose – eyes closed as if in a dream, bathed by the light of day broken through the looming branches twisted and gnarled. 

Anger surges at the sight of you, calm with a near smile upon your lips; yet still you have it, he thinks. You still carry the resentment, sorrow, that loneliness which seeps through your visage, which plagues even a face as brilliantly haunting as your own. 

“This is how low you might go, then?” He calls out into the garden, fuming. “You lure me here with memories of the dead? Playing your little tricks, to bring me here?” 

You stir at his sharp voice, a whip in the calm of the day; the crows have long since flown, and only you remain. 

You sigh into the tree above you, eyes opening in that pearled absence before returning to your lovely hues; he is struck with your raw beauty, how you seem to coax his footsteps towards you even in his ire. “Life, death…” 

Your voice is faraway once more, as though pulling the petals from a flower and watching them flutter to the earth. “Sometimes I wonder if they’re truly so different.” 

“You’re cruel,” He spits; pain, grief, anger swirling raw in his heart - you’ve heard the tales - of course you have. Everyone on the island knows of his brother’s fate at the hands of the Kinslayer. It is a cruel thing, to play tricks on him in the way you do. 

You do not flinch at his outburst; a shifting shadow, you stir somewhere beneath the tree. “Jace,” you nearly purr, the pity in your tone stoking the fire within him further. He shakes his head. 

“I did not come to be led through this wretched maze like a fool.” He snaps, and his voice nearly echoes in the eerie calm of greenery. 

Your eyes snap to him, nearly shocked; as if you were not the figure leading him through the hedges and rows of wilting anemones. “Jace-” you begin once more, as if retrying for your first attempt to console him, rising upon your bared feet; a memory past of nights ago, that poisoned sweet of your lips, the kind stutter of breath as he’d pulled you closer to him, felt that heart beat – however falsely – against his palm. 

“–Enough.” He snaps, taking a step back as you float to him, blinking your doe-like eyes at him, tilting your head. A predatory thing, he realizes with an ache of his gut – your mimicked, shy pose so perfected from hours of standing alone in such a garden – a perfect view of his casement from here, perhaps lying in wait for his company, just as he does yours. “What cruel jest is this?” He spits, eyes searching the pits of your own, watching your face slide from disoriented to distressed. 

“What do you mean, Jacaerys?” You wonder – that sweet, worried way you bite your lip, sickly hands outstretched towards him; it broils the anger which festers sharp within him. It is incredulous that he stares at you, rage knotting in his chest at your soft, unassuming tilt of head – a practiced innocence gleaming in the daylight. 

The stuttering heart, the barely-present touch; all which once sent his heart thundering, which now sets his jaw rigid and tense. 

“No,” He hisses, stepping back from your outstretched palm, “I am not some foolish boy, fresh and untested, to be swayed by the honey-sweet looks of some– some serpent.” He spits, voice breaking as the wound beneath his anger slips. 

There is such pressure; that sharp ache which has festered in his inconsolable worries of the Dragonseeds and word of their claimed dragons; the dooming presence of fate which grasps at his collar, which threatens to drag his mother and their line into the depths with it. In circle's turn, they will eat the flesh of their very own to stay upon the wheel. 

The voice jolts him from his thoughts to find you, wide-eyes, and parted lips. A falter, some falling from that delicate mask to something raw, something glinting between a dark hunger and a maliciously deceiving kindness. 

“You should not dare call me such vile things.” You utter, face downturned, dark. And your hand drops; a murmur from you, cold and sweet as winter’s breath. “You’re being cruel. Serpents should be the least of your worries, my Prince.” You whisper. 

It is ominous, the words you mutter; as though you know some ancient thing, some thing which breathes with the pulse of life below soil. A flare of disbelief, his mind numbing and muddling by the moment as he stands, staggered under the olive tree, sweet blooms lulling through the afternoon air. 

"I, the cruel one?” he trembles; words spilling, half-strangled in his throat. “Do you think me blind? That I don’t see what you do — how you laugh in the shadows, whisper in my dreams? That I don’t feel your hands, each night, when I-” He shakes his head, “I…” He trails off, watching as you sway before him, defeated, head low as a chastised child. 

And that faint voice he does not yet seem to have known – yet fervent, insistent: it was through the Stranger's envy which death and decay entered the realms of the Andals. 

In his grief torn mind, he wonders. Is it his name? Is it the legacy of his House, so tall it scrapes the heavens; the stories of old, of Valyrian magic which pulses somewhere faintly in his muddied veins? Do you bewitch him simply for the chance at the riches piling upon the throne, of his future seat – of the fine fabrics, the reach beyond even the kingdoms? Do you, after all he’s told you of his mother, of his father – of the realms; do you truly wish for anything other than to take what he has, all that he has? And that name – that blood, that lineage so cursed; Is that truly all he is? 

“What is it you want from me?” 

What do you want, he pleads – though his mind whispers, soft and sullen, do you want me? 

“I care not for any such things you carry to offer,” Your voice, melodic and haunting as you bite away at beading tears that slide down your smooth cheeks; a faint inkling of alarm in the back of his mind, straining to recall if he’d even spoken any of it aloud – but as you wipe a heavy tear from your lashline, the thought dissipates.

“I want to…I wish to have you.” Your voice warbles, lip wavered; it is a glassy thing, such a gaze, and his heart begins to soften wearily with the small sniff you allow yourself in your wilting figure. 

And gods above strike him, Jacaerys’ heart skips; a warmth of want, of love – the thing he’s yearned after for the better of his young life.  It is with effort that he swallows down the anger which has bubbled up with fear and foreboding; Because you are still a slight, sweet thing – a kind being, a sprouted blossom in a field of ashes. There is no fear here, he understands. There is just loneliness. 

And, always so willing; your lips press together in wait as he gathers his thoughts with a shaky sigh, knowing such anger misplaced will be a burden to all. It’s only a fig, Jace.

But it can’t be; in his heart, a twisting truth – you could not love such a broken man; nameless, unwanted by his own kin, untrusted to fight the war being waged for his own birthright. Forgotten and lonely. He inhales shakily, nodding in some dreadful acceptance. 

“I am not yours to torment.” His heart still thunders with the agony of glimpsing Luke just moments ago; some heavy acceptance lifts from his chest, a burst free from unknowing. An acceptance warm and chilling alike. He sniffs, clenching his fists so they do not begin to tremble.

 “If you’ve lured me here to bury me in specters and shadows, then… you may do as you please.” He levels you with his own watery gaze; in which you swim, haunted and despairing. Perhaps his words are a final leap, some grasp of hope that perhaps you will confirm what he knows in his very heart to be true: that you have love, and that you hold it only for him. 

“-But do not come to me with lies dressed as love.” He whispers.

And your face falls; softness in your eyes growing fragile as the petals upon the flowers which wither near your feet. Your shoulders, slumped as you let out a shaky breath, some dejected misery which sprouts from your frame and blossoms into a pitiful shutter. 

A moment until you straighten, eyes meeting his wetly and trickled with a spark of disbelief. 

“You truly believe such lies spun by men long since in the past?” Your voice shakes – each word, a draw of blood that seems to spill from your raw, tender heart. “That I would bring you pain, that I– that I would wish such suffering upon you? All you’ve done, I-” you lip trembles in that awfully disheartening way; Jacaerys represses such urge to gather you in his arms under the midday sun, to press his lips to the soft glint of your hair. 

You shake your head, leaning upon tipped toes as if to tell him a secret, your hands clenched by your side until they rise to wipe the tears from your wettened eyes. “I do nothing by means of envy or greed – I just – I wish to be with you.” 

Pain, that icy sting; it cowers him, breaks him until a tear slips from his lidded gaze and skids over his cheekbones, fertilizing the rotted earth below his feet.

 And though he believes your very truthful words, there is a sapling which was planted those many years ago when he stepped foot unto the island; that very warning whisper that has tried to break free from the recess of denial and ignorance, that has danced on the tip of Maester’s tongues and perhaps anybody else who dare open their eyes enough to see. 

The truth is that there is something unnatural about Aegon’s Garden; there is something unnatural about you. 

“This place… it’s rotten.” He finally speaks it, and it is as if the word goes silent; away are the crashing of waves, merely the rattling of your bones when you inhale sharply, blinking at Jacaerys with wide, piercing eyes. 

And in that fear, that germinating sapling which turns upon itself under the watchful glare of the outside world, Jacaerys continues. The words fall from his tongue; leaves of a felled oak. 

“The garden, the tree – even you, hiding, lurking in the shadows – It’s…” He shakes his head, unwilling to continue such cursed words; but still it lingers in the back of his mind, pressing at his tongue and stirring the dread in his gut. 

 And that journal, so hastily concealed for generations of Dragonlords rising from the earth and leaving to the capital; years upon years of upturned earth, of that circle which eats its own tail – that hatred lingers in the soil, growing within veins of those who dare believe themselves any step above others. 

Jacaerys faintly begins to wonder when he started having thoughts which were not his own; and, indeed, when these vines began to slither overtop his boots, piercing their thorns into the leather worn with time. Have I gone mad? he wonders – not for the first time. 

“Say it.” You snap. “If you mistrust me so, then say it.” 

He is brought back to the garden by your icy, venomous glare – bristled, perhaps, by his such accusations in the disturbation of your day; and he, in a strike of defiance, in the last grasp of honor towards his duty, his life, his destiny – says it. 

“You are rotten.” He finishes, chest light at the heavy drop of his words. 

Whatever snarl you’d worn drops immediately in a sickening slate of blank visage. 

The world stills once again; he is sharply aware of your stare, eyes gleaming – and the air so stagnant, so earthy, of the fact that you’ve not drawn a single breath since; and a dread slowly creeps into his gut as you level your own gaze upon him.  

“Am I?” You whisper, the faintest twitch of fury within your sharp gaze. “Does the decay not spread from its roots, Jacaerys?” 

You take a step forward, and Jacaerys finds himself suddenly pressed against the statue behind him; a glance and a sharp, startled fear that pierces him as two pairs of lovers’ eyes meet him, stony and cruel. 

You press on towards him, stalking with a viciousness that begins to cloud his rationality. “Tell me, where is your mother? Where is your father? Where is that Kinslayer uncle of yours? Where is the Queen Who Never Was?” 

His throat is thick with a lodged breath; dread stirs within him, that sickening truth as you continue, slinking towards him with the practiced pace of a huntsman with a bow. “You spread like disease – all of you. Children burn, homes crumble – the world a crushed flea under your boot, a decaying whisper of power they all quarrel to grasp.” Your words are a whip in the wind that has gathered – and the stormy roll of sky has plagued the shoreline, boasting of a disastrous storm upon nightfall. “And all for what? For some fate that was written long before even this garden had a name?” 

Jacaerys stares at you; the way your fingers twist – gnarled and as thorned as the vines themselves – around his forearm; when, exactly, had you grasped him? 

“And Jacaerys… you, sweet Jace. You will be a fine king. The finest of them all, perhaps.” You promise and the words are golden and gilded in glory; your eyes shine with the reflection of a throne leagues away, of a life after this island, forgotten under layers of rotting overturned earth. 

He lurches, fighting the bile within his throat at the thought of the word – the word he’s known to one day inherit for his whole life: King. 

He shifts, pulling away from the trancelike gaze that spills from your visage and begins to infect his mind. Fuzzy, he swears he sees figs growing fat and juicy from the olive tree behind you; that he spots a shadow lingering high above the hill in the distance, watching from a windowscape. 

A conscious return of that very hunger, that salacious, depraved craving for the sharp pain of the words you leverage; that same desire which curls and licks its maw at the thought of the figs, of you.  

“They see you for what whispers have rumored behind your shadow all your life, don’t they?” Your words are treasonous; Jacaerys’ jaw clenches. “And is it true – you do not let the words taint and disrobe you, do not let the truth unravel you until all that is left is your kind, used soul?” 

His throat is thick with fear, with dejection; what inkling of truth, what window into his mind have you struck that lets his own thoughts spill from your beautiful lips? “You do not know of what you speak,” He fights meagerly; though he is weak, and your words are as harsh as they are soothing to his lonely heart. 

“Dragonlords,” You spit ruefully, and Jacaerys is struck in a hazy trance of fear and hunger. “Rotting this world from the inside out – and the people are left to wither in the ruins.” 

An image in his mind’s eye – Sharp Pointe, smoldering and dusted in ruins. A garden, a battlefield; all, desecrated. And that hissing sharp from your lips, that aching pulse which triples when you level him with a stare so very hateful. “I am free from all of that here. Here, it is sacred – names matter not. It is only peace, and sweet blooms of eternal summer. Here, the earth feeds itself, the circle turns, the blood comes in fire but leaves in ash-” 

Stopped dead-cold, Jacaerys starts. “-What did you just say?” 

You blink up at him, as if gone from some odd trance – and plush lips flounder, some flickering amusement dying in your gaze under his stare. 

“Repeat it,” He urges, mind swimming in fear. 

And in a horrifying moment, you smile – too wide, too sweet, too hungry. 

You smile, and a burst of crows scream through the sky; you smile, a sinister lurking glint within; you smile, and the roses surrounding you begin to wilt away. You smile and his heart stops cold. 

But just as it came, it drops – and with a blink, that filmy haze that had overtaken your rigid muscles melts, and you’re left; the delicate petals of a flowered girl, shaking your head slightly up to him as the sun beams down a chilly breath of light unto your face. 

 “I don’t… I can’t recall.” 

With a blink, your eyes meet his and they are pure, free from any such emotion, nor turmoil; instead, you float before him in your sweet sway. 

Jacaerys feels the shift within the air, watches as you slip on some masque that you hope he does not detect – but his hair stands on end. 

You smile ever so kindly, eternally; his hands tremble, though still, after it all: Still, he wishes to remain there with you, in that smile. 

“Forgive me, my Prince, I- I seemed to have lost myself. I’m so terribly sorry.” 

The sun has clambered its way out from the sheets of clouds above; in a ray upon you, your hair glows – and despite the dread, the dubiety which swarms his mind, Jacaerys cannot help the small smile which crawls upon his lips, weary and hesitant as it is. 

A cursed girl, you are – this, he cannot deny; but, a voice whispers in his mind, what is a curse but the gods’ way of shaping fate into flesh? 

And gods, your flesh, so alive and shivering under his touch; you, your cursed smile and that flickering laughter that follows through the garden. That tantalizing fear, the unease which grips him and makes him feel alive – which makes him bloom. 

With that slip, fades the memory of why indeed he was so upset in the first place; scared, perhaps, of some small spook? Your eyelashes flutter atop your cheeks, you breathe the fresh air as a painter does to canvas, your fingers playing with his own – and he dares chastise you for it? Guilt swirls in his chest, and he knows that he must gather himself lest he do something unbecoming. 

The thought of such strikes him. He must return to the castle, it is much past the hour. The council waits. 

“I must go,” He murmurs, jaw tensing as your eyes flash in that possessive jump; though you meekly nod, eyes casting towards the earth, where vines have retreated to the statue behind him. “I’ve to go to council.” 

The breeze carries the floral scent of your hair. “Come back later.” You ask – though it is more of a command, one which sends a chill down his spine. And perhaps it is simply that; being wanted, to be loved or cared for simply because he is himself – it causes him to nod gently, caressing your icy cheek with the back of his fingers. 

Jacaerys shivers at the devotion in your eyes, that swimming, searching gaze of eager affection. His palms find your own, and that distinct hunger – for the fruits which linger throughout the garden’s smells – reclaims him. 

“I wish not to frighten you, Jacaerys.” You whisper – and it is in this sentence that he finds some kind of understanding – for you, nor he, wish to speak aloud what harrowing things he knows to be true; this garden rots, and somewhere within it, so do you. 

“I only wish for some company.” 

A pang of regret echoes within his chest – what sharp tone and tongue he’d taken with you today, when all you wished for was a hand to hold and a voice to speak with. When all you wished for was him, as he wishes for you. 

“You do not frighten me,” He lies through his teeth, and perhaps he looks away intentionally when he sees that sinister grin flash over you in a shadow of a moment; though when he returns to your visage, it is clear and sweet as the day is bright. “If I could…” A swallow, biting his lip in knowledge of what he is about to admit. “If I could, my love, I’d stay with you.” 

You shake your head with a slight desperation. “You can,” You whisper, a sudden, light pressure of something held up towards his chest – and Jacaerys needs not look into your palm to see the handful of fruits within your grasp, held out in offering. 

Still a hunger, a desire courses through him – here, it is only peace – but he instead shakes his head once more. “My mother needs me,” He whispers, chest burning with a decision; though gods ruin him if he dares leave you alone again. A clench in his heart at your rejected nod, though you smile smally.

Your palm, cool as winter’s kiss, cups his jaw; with a sweet kiss to the corner of his lips, you whisper to him. “You are quite wonderfully made, Jacaerys. Your mother is lucky to have such a son.” You whisper dreamily; a faint memory tugging in his mind as some daze settles the ache of his mind. “I am truly quite fond of you.” 

His eyes flicker, and when you press up to kiss him upon the lips, he feels a torn longing to remain with you, just a moment longer. 

There is a war to be fought, he reminds himself – and he chooses his family; he chooses his mother, as she would choose him. 

And he leaves you in the garden. 

IT IS UNNATURAL, JACAERYS THINKS, TO LEAVE HIS MOTHER’S CHAMBERS SO OFTEN WITH TEARS IN HIS EYES. 

Perhaps, any other night, he’d have remained to continue his plea; though now, his hands tremble and his throat burns with unshed emotion, legs carrying him quick through the suffocating walls of the Queen’s apartment. 

There is no true beauty to the end of the day – not now, not after he’d left each bruised, battered word within his mind upon the cold stone floor before her. There is nothing left for him now. 

Perhaps on a sunnier eve, Jacaerys would think with a smile wry and amused, how he seems to find the garden when there is nowhere else to go; yet tonight, he knows. 

You are the place to go – and the garden, with its whispers and watching eyes, with its churning familiarity; that is what he so seeks as he stumbles once more through the gates, too beside himself to brother with pretense. 

The sharp gathering of his mother’s visage after his watery plea; a choice, one which twists a rusty dagger and pulls the final thread of sanity which he’d so foolishly clung to. 

He calls your name for only a few moments before you appear.

Just as the day he met you, at the end of the hedgeway, lingering in that odd, half-standing lilt you oft regain when you suspect nobody is looking; and your hair wild and loose, covering your visage as you hide. 

A relief it is to see such a face, even as you slither from the shadows with a breath of his name. 

A relief it is to finally be where he wants to be. Where he is wanted. 

His knees crumble to the earth before you, and you go down once more with him. 

Your hands fall to his arms, pulling you to him; and in that motion, in the lack of breath he takes in pressing himself into you, he wonders if you know. Somehow, you know what he is feeling – for you wipe his tears with an anguished expression, as if you’d been within those walls when he’d begged his mother not to pursue it. 

A beg, delivered as some grasp for what once was, what may now never be - a gaping anxiety, one which has festered and built his entire existence - and has just spilled over and bled onto the thin tapestry of life stitched and remaining between him and his mother. 

And his mother - the Queen - staring back at him, face hardening with each breath he took, trying to repress the sting of choice. She’s made her choice, he thinks - she has chosen herself.

He has chosen her time and time again, forsaken everything for her; and she has made her decision. 

It is with barely a few words Jacaerys chokes out, whimpered and anguished, any semblance of explanation; though you sit with him through it, brushing his curls back and letting him gather his thoughts in the quiet dying light of the peaceful garden. 

The fiery death of the sun lingers even as night sky begins its flirting tease; streaks of fading plum which kiss into the ocean far away. 

Time passes with quiet peace. 

Jacaerys’ breathing is calm. A numbing tranquility seeps through him, his breaths falling from his lips with your own, humming a gentle lull under the statue. The vines have fallen to their sleepy, weeping ways; the night comes, and after some time, you rise in your white gown and offer a hand for him. 

The sun sinks its bloody bite into the coastline when you lead Jacaerys into the winding path; a mournful glow, with leaning flowers and wilting willows of vines which weep with his own sullen emptiness. 

His hand shakes within yours – but your grasp is strong and sure, squeezing just once as he lingers past the maiden statue, the serpent coiling up her leg. 

She is so very tragic in the waking moon’s light. His voice is raw when it comes, wistful, absent. “It always seemed as though she was made in your eyes.” 

Your gaze slides from the statue – a serene visage with a lilt of envy – and your grip tightens upon his own. 

“Men see what they wish to see.” 

Your words, a distant echo of a long-forgotten conversation – you pull him along the path with a small glance back at the statue, as if wary it follows behind him. “If I may speak truthfully,” Your tone wilts with the betrayal of envy, “I would find it rather lonely, lying there moon after moon.” 

Jacaerys is rather accustomed by this time to your odd words; and though he registers the odd resentment with which you spit the sentiment, he only watches you – perhaps concerned that, in a way, you might be fading to the clutch of time as well. 

And so he leaves your words in the floral air of the garden; a stronger smell than most at this hour; and the blaring ache within his mind eases when you finally lead him to the clearing he’s dreamt of ceaselessly since his first visit. 

The fig tree blossoms as if it is the first spry wink of spring.

Flowers blooming, dripping leaves of ambrosial scent which yield to plump fruits, even in the mooned night; divine, he thinks with a slow churn of pleasure within his veins. This place is divine. 

 A cloak of warmth over his shoulders – the weeping branches as he ducks below, staggering fuzzily under the alluring hunger which churns within his gut. 

And in some miserable way, perhaps Jacaerys clings to the promise you’d laid: He comes here, you’d said, to the fig tree. Lucerys. Though his brother does not appear before his eyes, nor does the pain of fate – instead, a pleasant calm which placates his edged nerves. 

A place rather tucked away from the harshness of fate, the fig tree seems to keen into his frame; and though his grief has spilled over, in your gaze he finds a warmth, a patience.

Your hand, slow as if approaching a wounded stag, brushes away a strand of hair which tangles within his lashes – a pang in his chest at such unknowing kindness, at such genuine, aloof acceptance. The proof is there for all to see – and yet, you, seeing; you do not mind. You never have. 

Whatever composure he’d managed to hold is shattered within the raw affection he now feels; and with a shaky breath, he slumps against the trunk. 

“What troubles you, my love?” Your voice a melody, the vision behind his closed eyes of a sickeningly hungry smile unmatched by the sweet tone of voice. It clutches him; to be wanted. 

And what if one of your baseborn, silver-haired dragonriders decide that he wants to rule the Seven Kingdoms? 

“My mother,” he confesses in a whisper, voice tight; wounded flesh of heart bleeding raw from his lips. “She willingly strips my claim to legitimacy in search of her own war.” 

Your brows furrow in that way he has etched to memory – and with a shaky lift, he soothes away the furrow with his thumb, swiping his fingers gently across your visage. 

It is with the blossom of nightshade with which you keen into his touch; a bloom of affection, desperate as you sigh. Just as so, your fingers press gently into his scalp, carding through his curls; the ache in his mind is eased, a fuzzy hunger, some euphoria washing through him. 

“Jace,” you murmur, voice incredibly distant, “She is blinded by the fate of… distant songs, of distant omens. But I see you. I’ve always seen you.” 

There is something odd about your tone; some revel, an ancient knowledge that brings hairs to end upon his nape – but he closes his eyes, leaning into your touch for some comfort. 

A shaky breath as his lips press to your palm, fighting the sting of emotion. “Vermax has fallen ill inexplicably. Joff is gone. Luke…” His voice fractures at his brother’s name, the memory so sharp; some laden innocence he’d clung on to in his grief. A life, slipping thinner than sand through his fingers. 

A familiar urge, one he cannot tamp as tears fall unbidden from his eyes; and you, with a soft gasp as he presses his forehead to your own cold one. 

There is an itch low in his mind; a humming, a distant hunger which leaks through the cracks splintered in the remnants of his headache. The fig tree branches sway – above your head grows a beautiful purple fruit, heavy and bursting with rich life, with the churning cycle of soil, with earth, gods, fruit. Your skin freezes his own. 

“I’ll do it.” 

An unsettling urge within him – one not entirely his own, perhaps. Your eyes widen larger than the narrow sea.

A slow wettening of your lips as you shake your head, plush lips glistening and pinkened; Jacaerys yearns to see such pure sweetness dripping with the juices of those fruits once more, to feel your body writhe with his own, pleasure and hunger and you, you, you. You and him. 

“Jacaerys,” your voice, gentle, wary; though your eyes scream otherwise, a sickening smile crawling across your faint features under the moon. 

Your fingers, icicles upon his feverish skin, a balm over the hatred which coils dejected in his gut. Your lips part again, and he must resist the urge to bite upon such soft flesh, some monstrous hunger growing and spurting and whispering to eat, eat. Eat. 

“You should not act so brash. Not when–” 

“Just a taste, my love.” He interrupts, trembling yet unconvicted – desperate in his plea, as though a drop of the fruit’s nectar might heal the gaping misery that has spread at the harsh of the world’s truths. 

Trembling palms slither around his shoulders, grasping him as you gather an untainted inhale, unspoiled. 

And his eyes, glued upon your worried lips, your eyes blown wide in hunger, in that stirring way he felt last time he reposed under this very fig tree. 

A sin, perhaps – but the most delicious, the most innocent of sin in a world so rotted and decaying. 

There is a moment long suspended in air, in which your gaze burns into Jacaerys’ own. His heart races, growing more hungry by the moment, fingertips aching as he lets his hands explore your pliant flesh – over each soft fold of fabric, over each frigid expanse of skin. A divine touch; otherworldly. 

Otherworldly. 

He does not see you reach above you for the fruit – he does, though, see the flickering gleam in your eyes as you split apart the dusting blush of flesh; and he, forever enraptured with his desire for you, with your beauty, blinks as you hold up half the fruit. 

Earthy, rich, forbidden – a sweet scent that lulls him forward, binding him with you as his eyes trace the glisten of the fruit’s nectar down your soft, sweet hand. 

In a blink, he sees that horrid vision once more; shrouded silver in the moonlight, dark streaks blossom and spread upon your pristine dress with each breath you take; from your breast and stomach, it leaks out and begins to tremble your fingers. Blood, his mind whispers – no, dirt. 

But your hand is held out, and in a blink the vision is gone; you’re before him with hopeful, hungry eyes and a bitten lip, unbreathing, unblinking. 

Coiled, lying in wait. 

He takes the fruit into his own grasp, marveling at the soft sensation, how hungry your eyes cling to his grasp. 

Fingers milky pale in the moonlight glisten with the blood of the fruit; and he raises it, slowly until he can feel the chill of your breath kiss along his knuckles, see your tongue dart out in salacious hunger as you gaze moltenly between the fruit’s flesh and his own. 

That hunger, that longing devours him whole as he stares. It is all he can do to swallow a thick rise of arousal as he desperately presses the flesh of the fig to your mouth, fingers lingering; firm. 

You part your lips easily – so easy – and taste the sweetness; a cold sensation shivers down his spine, mind fuzzier with each moment as the juice drips and runs over his knuckles, chasing the tributaries of veins which split and run down his forearm. 

Your hand catches upon his wrist, chilling as you moan at the taste. 

His lips part, a burst of desire spiraling as his mind clouds, a ravenous hunger as you slowly slide into his lap with slithering skirts. 

 Jacaerys groans into the silence of the garden, unable to maintain his composure as you lean forward, pressing his fingers further into your mouth. Upon your tongue is the kiss of winter; and he watches, helplessly entranced as your tongue catches the last traces from his fingers – a simmering invitation when your eyes meet his own hungering gaze. 

The rind of the fruit falls forgotten into the soil.

Your lips glisten so dark, he almost believes it is blood. 

Your lips find his own. 

A burst of pleasure, unbidden within his groin when your tongue presses to his – familiar, yes, euphoric; but satiating that hunger, yet multiplying it. 

Jacaerys pulls you closer by your hips, fingers sticky with the remnants of the fig, his mind reeling with ecstasy at the taste of you, the taste of the fruit; the taste of the Garden. 

In the heartbeat of silence when you pull away, his chest rises sharply – your breath kisses his own and he makes one final decision; with a glance back towards the castle, Jacaerys leans towards you once more. 

His breath fans in a plume of fog – it is cold in the garden, with you so precariously in his lap, yet Jacaerys burns. 

You wait for him with bated breath, the fruit hovering just before his parted, covetous lips. 

Jace’s gaze does not leave yours when he leans forward and slowly takes the fruit against his lips, bursts of heat flickering with stabs of ice as you gasp, watching with eyes maliciously ravenous, glistened lips parted. 

He breathes you in, gaze half-lidded as his tongue presses gently against the fruit within your grasp. 

Your whimper is soft and yet it sets him ablaze; an ambrosial taste, one which leaves his mind spinning, any anguish previously thought melts away – it is difficult, he realizes, to determine where you end and the fig begins. 

Softly, at first; grazing his teeth along your skin, shivering through his very spine when you shift your hips, sucking in an inhale of pleasure yourself – and the juices which slip down your own hand, which flood his mouth unlike anything he’s before felt. 

Though it is not enough to break the skin of the fruit, and you grow impatient; if his eyes were any less lidded, perhaps he’d have seen the malicious hunger swimming in your sweet gaze. 

You press the fruit into his mouth. 

He bites. 

taglist: @useralba @dipperscavern @softspiderling @lukehughes43 @rhea-ripley @writtenapoiogy @fyrewept @oldtowrs @bryscorner @chloe-petrichors @jottositto @earth4angels @divinesolas @hxtd @astrxq @housetargaryenloyalist @house-celtigar @v3lary0ns @vee-mage @princessvelaryon @princessbellecerise @still-jon-snow @elaena-aerrin @mckennah123 @smurfelle @alyssa-dayne @uhnanix @ficlovegirlie @cregan-starks @manhandlememando @inkandarsenic @cuntlips42 @franzelt @chimmysoftpaws

[frannyzooey]

On The Green: 1

Ezra x f!reader

Rating: Mature (violence, slight gore, killing - typical Ezra 😌 — will be explicit in later chapters)

Summary: Two strangers meet.

a/n: New series alert! Man alive first chapters are hard, and so I am going to yeet this into the universe before looking at it anymore. I owe everything to @bageldaddy for educating me hardcore and for being so extremely kind and thorough, and to @the-ginger-hedge-witch for her Ezra eyes and inspiration and to @familyvideostevie for her support and enthusiasm and notes. It took a VILLAGE to get through this one. Enjoy meeting our stranger. :)

--

You come to surrounded by unnatural stillness.

An absence felt in the air surrounding you, there is something about it that tugs at the foggy corners of your brain, beckoning you closer to the surface. You try to listen for anything beyond the ringing in your ears, and there is…something.

A beeping sound emerging through the fog, its incessant chirping grows clearer. You blink slowly, your limbs made of lead when you try to turn your head. Instead of trying to investigate, you let yourself slip slowly back into the lush darkness, closing your eyes.  

But the strangeness of the silence tugs at you, and the beeping gets louder. 

Splices of memory come through in sharp flashes: 

The deep, bone-shaking tremble of turbulence. 

The grating sound of tearing metal. 

Beeping - so much fucking beeping, every sensor in the transport pod going off - and the whole cabin jerking to the left, your body weight pushing against the fabric restraints, your dad’s voice raw with hoarseness as he screams orders at you and –

Oh shit. Your dad. 

Your eyes pop open, and you sit up - or rather, you try to, but every muscle resists. Battered and bruised, you fumble at your harness with clumsy, shaking fingers. Looking up as it finally clicks open, you’re about to leap from the chair when you freeze. 

He’s there next to you, unmoving. 

Dead. 

“Dad?” you whisper. 

You can see without even checking for a pulse that he’s gone. That’s the feeling that pulled you awake, the vibration of life gone from the air. The stillness weighs heavy in the small space, and the beeping gets shriller somehow, more noticeable in the utter silence. 

The pod shrinks to a claustrophobic dome, and your breathing starts to come fast. Harsh, rapid exhales out of your open mouth and then you’re vomiting, right onto the floor. A cold sweat breaks out under your thermals, and you swallow hard against more bile that threatens to come up. 

There is blood splattered on the dash, pooled around the buttons. A deep gash gouged across his temple, his left eye already swollen beyond recognition. You stare at the dark, pulpy wound that runs with blood and with a heave, lose the remaining contents of your stomach. 

To have hit his head like that, he must have unbuckled and tried to fix something mid-crash, but why? Why the fuck would he do that? He knew better than that. You try to think about the sequence of events, but there is only a blur. A foggy, black spot in your memory, hazy images obscured by panic. 

You remember pieces: watching Puggart Bench grow smaller as you ascended through the atmosphere. The vague details of your father’s latest scheme, along with promises that this would be your last job. The frustration you felt at those words – ones you’ve heard a million times. 

You remember rolling your eyes and slipping on your headphones, and then scolding you for not paying attention after he jabbed you in the shoulder to take them off, and then…this. Somehow this. Guilt settles deep in your gut. 

Keeping your dazed eyes glued to the floor, you ignore the blood and beeping and the dead fucking body. You crouch low in the safety of your chair, winding your grip around the harness strap as an anchor and you sit for a moment, trying to steady your breathing. 

You sit. 

And sit. 

–

“Think she’s got anything left?”

The words spread condensation across the lower half of his visor, and Ezra listens for an answer he already knows isn’t coming. 

He always asks anyway: a constant dangling bait, in hopes his partner will bite. 

He hasn’t yet. 

Ezra bends back over the rough dug pit, his fingers splaying through the loose dirt. Anything worth digging for is sealed in his case already, but he stalls, thinking. 

He had watched the pod streak across the sky; the sight not unusual on the Green. Mercs and prospectors landed here every day to try their luck on the uninhabitable planet, but the speed in which the pod broke through the sky was unusual. Ezra could tell it was going too fast, even from the ground. His dark eyes had tracked the potential opportunity’s descent from behind the shield of his visor, and when the ground shuddered with the impact, he felt it through his gloves. 

If it had landed safety, protocol would be to keep his distance – no use needlessly engaging in a potential threat. However, he doubted that was the case after watching it fall to the earth like a stone. If he had to guess, the occupants were probably dead, and therefore, in his favor. 

His old pod flashes through his mind; nonfunctional and by now, probably stripped bare. If he doesn’t get there quickly to stake his claim, this one could fall to the same fate. It didn’t look sizeable by any stretch of the imagination, but he doesn’t need big. 

He just needs enough to fit one man, and his case. 

Ezra keeps his voice light and conversational. 

“Did you feel that?”

He looks up at his silent partner, and is met with a blank stare. Or at least Ezra assumes it’s a blank stare, with the man’s visor blackened. He can’t see his face, and has never been able to. He’s had many offers of partnership while on the Green - some out of desperation, some through coercion, some forced upon him – and though his current partner is one of the latter, he had been secretly pleased at the sheer size of him. Brute strength a valuable commodity; the hulking man is more of a utility than a partner. 

“Think it’s worthy of our time to investigate, or do you suppose there won’t be much left after a landing like that? If you want, I can go it alone?”

Met with more silence, both from his partner and from the unforgiving atmosphere of the Green, Ezra grimaces with annoyance when his partner starts to walk in the direction of the site without him. 

“Hang on now. We approach together.” Climbing out of the pit, the loose soil slips under his boots. He scrambles up as quickly as he can, unwilling to see his chance at the remains slip through his dirt-crusted fingers. 

“Now then,” he breathes heavily. “I think it would be befitting of us to use caution in our approach. The passengers may still be alive, and feeling panicked enough to pose a risk. I think –”

The hulk appears to listen to half of what Ezra says, and then turns abruptly mid-sentence, walking away. 

Snatching up his case, Ezra switches off the comm link in his helmet and his expression falls from tactful to annoyance. His eyes narrow on the man’s broad back, his fingers itching for his thrower. 

Grumbling, he follows. 

“Fucking idiot.”

–

You’re going to have to touch it. 

You wonder what it will feel like – stiff with rigor? Still pliant with traces of warmth? Heavy and impossible to move?

In all the ways you imagined you’d probably find your father dead, you somehow hadn’t thought about the logistics of actually moving his body. You imagined someone else would be the one responsible for it. Medical staff, most likely, who were used to the clammy skin and the stiff weight of death. 

Not you. 

Yet another thing you’ll have to do unwillingly for him. 

The reason you’re on this godforsaken planet in the first place, he’d forced you along to help him pay a debt owed for those fucking drops he relied on to get through his days. Days that bled into nights spent waiting for him, more his parent than his child. A freefall into the nomad life since your mother died, you’d been trailing behind him for years - an afterthought, only remembered when he needed something. 

A reluctant digging partner when he forced you to be, but also a navigator, a cook, a laundress, a caretaker. You were a lot of things to him, but never the one you wanted to be the most. 

Never a daughter. 

Your eyes slowly scan the disarray of the cabin, taking in the damage. For all the things he asked you to do, he had kept you in the dark when it came to any actual useful skills that might help you in this situation. Prospecting, digging, self-defense – anything that would have afforded you a glimpse at the possibility of independence – all of those were kept from your reach. 

Never a mechanic either, unfortunately for you. How the fuck you’re going to fix this thing, you have no idea. The manuals for it were tucked away somewhere, but they required at least a basic understanding, and you have barely that. 

You could stick with the harvesting plan he had vaguely outlined to you on the way here (assuming you could even find the gems, let alone dig them up), try to come back and fix your pod during the evenings (assuming you could even figure it out) and then try to catch the next slingback home (assuming you could even get off this planet). 

Your other option would be…none. There are no other options. 

The entire situation expands into something overwhelming, each step far outside your base of knowledge and your breathing starts to come fast again. You scold yourself, willing it to slow. 

Panicking again isn’t going to help shit. 

Wrestling with your emotions, you take a deep inhale and close your eyes, focusing on the first step. 

Before anything else, you have to move him. 

–

Through the edges of lush greenery, a pod. 

Ezra tries to tamp down his excitement, kicking his senses into high alert to scan for whomever it belongs to - but there is nothing. 

Fucking silence, the bane of his existence. 

Though in this case, a good sign. 

His own pod taken from him months ago in a standoff between himself and his former crew, this off-white piece of rubbish appears as treasure to him. It’s banged up for sure: one of the engines loose from the frame and the metal surrounding the bottom crumpled from hard impact. Unlikely that anyone survived the crash, anticipation thrums through him at the harvest in front of him. 

Keeping his expression measured, he beckons his partner to approach with him, silently advising caution. 

The idiot doesn’t though. Instead, he stomps forward and punches at the hatch button with force. 

Ezra frowns deeply, anger slipping into his tone. “Hey,” he reprimands sharply. 

The man pays Ezra no mind as the ramp slowly opens. 

–

One hand extended towards your dad’s shoulder, it hangs hesitantly in the air for a moment. Inching forward, you try to summon every ounce of bravery that you have and just when it’s about to touch— 

A loud thump sounds outside the pod, and your hand jerks back. Crouching low along the side of the pod, you crawl through the ship's scattered contents all over the floor and grab the thrower, trying to desperately wind a sufficient charge for a shot or two. The rummaging outside grows louder, and you crouch behind your chair, gripping the weapon in your sweat slick hands. Panic floods through your veins, the sharp stink of fear oozing from your pores as your body shivers with adrenaline, and you flex your hold on your weapon.

The door to the pod opens with a hiss, and two men emerge. 

One slighter than the other, which isn’t saying much—anyone would be slight compared to the size of the second man. You aren’t even sure how he managed to get into the pod, between the width of his body and his height. 

Rising swiftly, you point the weapon at them. 

“Stop,” you force out, trying to mask the tremble in your voice. 

The lithe man freezes, surprise showing on his face for a split second before disappearing. Tilting his helmet in thought, he speaks. 

“Now this is something I’ve never seen in all my time in the Green,” he muses with a drawl. “A little girl.” 

A statement, not a question, and you bristle while he continues to study you curiously. 

“Leave, or I’ll shoot.” 

Your finger flexes on the trigger, and he raises his hands in front of him. 

“Calm down, little bird. My partner and I merely ventured this way to see if all was okay after that crash we heard.” His eyes scan the cabin, a scattered mess. “Seems it was quite the landing.”

Shuffling your stance a fraction closer, you keep the thrower trained on them. “I’m fine. Now please. Go.”

“Doesn’t look like you’re fine.” He sounds completely unbothered, like you aren’t pointing a weapon directly at him. Taking a slow step forward, he peers around you. “Your partner sure doesn’t seem fine.”

“He’s not my partner. It’s my –” You freeze, scolding yourself for immediately volunteering information and his gaze drops down to your father’s lifeless form. The stranger's face sobers, and he looks back at you. 

His jaw shifting in thought, his partner seems to grow bored of the conversation and takes a heavy step forward, advancing on you. 

“Stop,” you try to order, panic creeping into the command, but he doesn’t. He keeps going, his large arm reaching towards your thrower. His massive grip choking the barrel, he rips it clean from your hands before you can even think about stopping him, and you crouch back behind your chair, trembling.

“My apologies for my partner, little one. He’s not keen on having weapons pointed at him. You can understand, I’m sure. Why don’t you come out from behind that chair and let’s talk. A deal, if you’re open to it.”

You don’t want to strike a deal with them. You know that any deal you attempt to broker on your behalf is going to be in their favor no matter what the conditions are. Your father never taught you the skills of negotiation – those were always done out of sight. Your mouth dries, sweat beading along your nape. What fucking deal could there even be to make that doesn’t end up with you dead? Or worse?

With so much happening in the last two hours, it’s hard to process anything, let alone a negotiation with deadly strangers on a hostile planet. How you handle this situation could be literally life or death for you, and you beg your brain to pick up pace. 

Please. Please. Come on, think.

Your mind still struggling but knowing you’re running out of time, you force yourself back up. 

“The deal was leave, and I won’t shoot.”

He only grins at that, and rage at the unfairness of it all flares bright through you.

“Besides, why should I believe anything you say? You’ll probably just kill me the first chance you get.”

“Why would you assume I intend harm?”

You don’t have anything to say to that, instead looking at his partner. Fear at his sheer size displays clearly on your face no matter how hard to try to mask it. “Why else would he steal my gun? Shoot me first before I can shoot, right?”

“If that was the case, he would have shot you already.” He lets a beat pass, his eyes narrowing in their focus on you. “Still could though, I guess.”

There is something behind the indifference in his voice, something in his eyes that begs you silently to listen to him — but then his partner raises his thrower, and several things happen at once.

You whimper, dunking behind the tattered chair. 

The smaller man whips his railgun from his hip, pulling the trigger.

You scream, and the bullet hits his partner square in the chest. 

The larger man stumbles forward as if to grab him but the smaller one shoots him again, the second shot landing in his gut. The force of the close shot pushes the larger man backwards, his heavy body slamming into the pod wall. 

He slumps down, collapsing into a lifeless heap.

There is a beat of weighted silence; your form frozen. 

The roguish man’s profile faces you: dark features partially obscured by the dome of his helmet, you can see closely shorn brown hair in matted disarray with a shock of white that smears just above his temple. Black eyes that glimmer in the fluorescent light, the edges lined with age. Tanned skin, a strong nose, plush lips under a mustache. 

He stares at his dead partner with something akin to satisfaction, and it turns your stomach to think of not only how quickly he resorted to violence, but also how much he seems to enjoy it. 

“Well would you look at that. Now we have two to move.” 

Still in shock, the violent scene in front of you startles you just as much as his nonchalance does. You watch as he turns to face you; a hooked scar marring the skin under his eye. 

“Now little one,” he says with seeming politeness. “You ready to hear that deal?”

[lieutnt]

kinktober - #13

monsterfucking w/ simon "ghost" riley x vampire!top!male reader kinktober masterlist

Your gums ache, hunger settling deep in your gut and you can almost taste the blood pumping through Simon’s veins, a thin layer of flesh separating you. All it would take is one bite-

His hand tightens on the back of your neck, pulling you back so he can look at you eye to eye. “Not yet.”

You make an inhuman growl, fangs itching to burrow into his skin. It sends a rush through Simon, the animal hunger in your eyes as you listen to his command, leaning back to rest against the couch and away from temptation.

He shuffles slightly, thick muscled thighs encasing yours as he draws his hips up only to sink back down, hole stretching around your cock. He’s maskless this time, pretty neck on display for you and you can’t help being hypnotised by the way his throat bobs with every swallow and moan.

Simon stares as your tongue runs across your lip, laughing at the way you watch him like a predator watching its prey. “That hungry for me?”

“No, I was thinking of drinking someone else’s blood,” you snark back, patience running thin. You’ve been at this for a while now, Simon not letting you feed from him until he’s had his fill, thighs slightly burning from how long he’s been riding your cock.

He sinks down all the way on your cock with a moan, head thrown back, “No you weren’t, love.” He knows the hold he has on you - how much sweeter his blood tastes when given willingly.

You huff slightly, shifting your body to a better angle as you start thrusting up into Simon, fist curling around his cock and stroking him simultaneously, pleasure rapidly pooling in his gut. 

He’s already close again, previous orgasms staining your stomach. He enjoys this game more than he should, offering himself up for you to feed on in exchange for the countless orgasms you pull from him, leaving him empty-headed and bone-tired afterwards. It makes something possessive curl in his chest that you only do this with him, sticking to blood bags and animals usually, but the only human you feed from is him.

The climax comes tumbling into him like a tidal wave, knocking him off balance as he covers your chest, body trembling above you as you lift him up and down, punching your cock against his prostate.

In the haze of his orgasm he hears you moan his name and tugs you into his neck, giving you all the permission you need. Your fangs pierce his skin, a groan leaving your throat as blood flows into your mouth, Simon’s hips lazily grinding forwards and backwards as he smears cum on your stomach. 

The pleasure and relief is too much, your cock pulsing hotly inside him, twitching as you pump him with your release, one hand cupping his hip to keep him moving while the other holds his neck to the side, leaving you room to take as you please.

It’s the worst kind of addiction - the desire to take and take and take as you swallow mouthfuls of his blood, yet you only take enough to satiate your hunger and leave Simon coherent afterwards. Your fangs leave his flesh, tongue quickly soothing over the sting left behind.

When you pull away Simon slumps against you, panting into your neck as drowsiness clouds his senses, the draining of his blood leaving his mind buzzing as you draw mindless shapes into his skin, holding him while he recovers.

He soon shuffles back with a wince, hand cupping at his neck where the holes left by your fangs have already closed up, no trace of your feeding left behind. You at least look slightly sorry, fingers moving to massage his hips as awareness returns to his eyes, pools of brown becoming brighter.

Simon says nothing for a few moments before his thumb presses against the wet corner of your lip where blood had escaped. He trails his thumb across your lip and pushes the tip into your mouth, humming when your tongue swirls around the digit, wiping off his blood. Once it’s clean he pulls it from your mouth just in time to smash his lips against yours, groaning at the slight metallic tang of your mouth.

You stay like that for a few moments, lazily kissing until your hips shift and Simon feels how hard you still are and pulls away with a smile. “Another round?”