#trying to learn how to draw this godforsaken man

[thesketchystar]

beeg feesh

[gingerbreadmonsters]

wrapped up in clover

or: FOR YOU ARE MINE, AT LAST.

gn!reader, warnings for manipulation, unhealthy romantic relationships and major (canonical) character death, i’m really really sorry. the out-of-nowhere companion to here we are in heaven - look, this is just what happens when you leave me alone with a love song, alright? inspired by ‘at last’ by etta james. takes place pre-cataclysm, with major spoilers for ‘Worth Dying For’. you have been warned! damien throwing stones at glass houses in 1400 words or less.

once again, just to reiterate - warnings for imperium grimdarkness, heavily implied abusive behaviour towards the listener character, major character death, and heavy heavy spoilers for ‘Worth Dying For’. mind the warnings, and you are reminded that you can stop reading at any point if you feel uncomfortable. dead dove: do not eat. reader discretion is advised. minors dni. please consider yourself warned.

We’re happy together.

A crown is not a very easy thing to wear, to be honest.

It’s heavy, and it’s awkward, and it never really sits right on your head. It means that people look at you, and talk about you, and try to use you to get what they want. It means that you have to make speeches on TV, and live in a great big palace, and try not to tear your hair out at the endless stupidity of every godforsaken consul and advisor and High Councillor.

And, worst of all, it means he can’t ever be with you.

People have talked about him since the day he was born. It was to be expected. The only son of Queen-Imperial Sofia, the humanborn woman who rescued the Imperium from the collapse of Emile’s line, who in the most terrifying time of chaos in living memory found clarity. Strength. The foundations of a new age. A heroine of the people, an iron fist in a velvet glove. Turning outwards, ever outwards, from the son she should have loved to the people she claimed to.

What do you do when your mother’s a fairy tale? Pencil drawings can’t kiss you goodnight.

Since before he can even remember, there have been eyes upon him. Upon his face, upon his fate, upon the future of a world that by all known logic should have faltered and died decades ago. The Imperium is his by blood, by right, by determination. If he’s going to be a good king, a great king - and he is, make no mistake - then he might as well give them something to watch.

(That’s you, by the way. They’re watching you. Smile.)

How had you even met? He’s not sure. It’s hazy, the way that memories from when you’re very young tend to be. No matter who you ask, it’s always different - although, to be perfectly honest, it’s not like it actually matters. Semantics. These aren’t the sorts of things they write in history books. You’re here now, aren’t you? Good. Then the matter’s settled.

It is a funny story, though, don’t you think? A little boy with a heart made of sand, dry and coarse and crumbling, falling through his fingers and scraping against his skin. The smell of salt and the rush of the ocean washing over him, soaking through him. Bucket and spade in hand, a sunny afternoon becomes a beautiful palace, covered in shells and pretty stones, and the big round moat is scooped out with two pairs of hands.

How on earth had you managed it? Tumbling into his life, turning his head, teaching him all the things that he’d never thought to learn. One minute you’re his best friend, sitting on a gilded swingset in an ornamental garden. The next, you’re all grown up, framed in the mirrors on the ballroom wall, and he has to fight not to melt his cufflinks at the sight of you dancing with another man.

A sandy, empty soul, covered in grit and salt and seaweed - his palms flare with fire as the breath catches in his chest when you walk by, as the butterflies settle in his stomach when you hold out your hand for him to kiss. Hotter and hotter, until it’s molten glass dripping down his wrists, vitrifying right in front of his eyes. Sparking and glowing with passion, scorching little trails up his sleeves, a hissing chorus of mine mine mine in the furnace of his ribs.

It’s you. It’s always been you. Cool water running through a scalding heart, steam filling his aching lungs until it’s all he knows how to breathe.

Maybe it was all his mistake. It’s possible, you know. Maybe he’d given you too much, too quickly. Maybe he’d overdone it just a bit. Unempowered people can be unstable, unpredictable, reckless - and despite what he’d thought, it turns out you’re no different.

Was it inevitable? Was there anything, was there ever anything he could have done to stop things turning out this way? He isn’t sure. Ever since you two were little, you’ve never been one to keep your mouth shut. The lessons never stuck. Justice is a tricky business, but it helps to have a crown prince on your side - that is, until a coronation changes everything, and you’re both in over your newly-crowned heads.

You’ve always been good at games, no matter the rules. They’ve always said he’s the one with the sharp tongue. Yours, it seems, is made of silver.

Moonlight in your mouth, he’d thought he could save you. The isolations, the therapy, the sessions he wasn’t allowed to know about. You wouldn’t stop talking. The plausible deniability. You wouldn’t stop looking. The gentle hand under your chin gets hotter, harsher, until molten metal spills out over your lips and pours down your throat, coating your teeth and searing the roof of your mouth, but even now you still don’t stop.

It’s unfortunate. What’s the phrase? Morbid curiosity, maybe. You, wanting to see how far you could push before it all came crashing down on your head. Him, wanting to see just how you’d look when, one way or another, you finally broke. Can you really be a martyr if nobody even knows you were alive in the first place?

Stacks of paper crumble into ash, bridges burning in your wake. Justice isn’t blind, and the walls have ears. This isn’t the sort of court you were made for.

There have always been some rather… antiquated Imperial traditions, it’s true. Some are nicer than others, but most have stood the test of time. Old habits, old ways that he’s never really seen the point in arguing with. It would be more trouble than it’s worth, to waste time trying to get rid of them.

One of those traditions is that, depending on the magical race of the Monarch-Imperial, the practices of the Imperial government are changed accordingly. Most of the time it’s little things, like the embossments on the paper or the colour of the accents on the curtains. Insignificant. Inconsequential. What’s that saying again? If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

Ah, traditions. Watching them light the kindling at your feet, he’s starting to think that maybe he should have fixed this one.

(It could have been worse. Imagine if he’d been a shifter.)

It’s fine. You’re fine. Fire has always been kind to you, hasn’t it? Well. He’s always been kind to you, and as far as anyone here is concerned, that’s the same thing. That’s what this is, then. Kindness. Benevolence, of the sort he thinks you’d be proud of. The suffering of one for the good of many - and you’ve always been the type to take everyone’s burdens on yourself. You must have known. Wasn’t this what you wanted?

You won’t struggle, will you? No? Good. It will all be over soon.

A glass heart, cold and hard and utterly bulletproof. Perhaps you were right. Perhaps he really is too possessive. What does it matter now? Allow him this, just once more. Flames bite at the soles of your shoes, but you don’t say anything. You’d better be quick. You don’t have long. Looking at him, you’re looking at him, but not like everyone else does. They look, but you see. The boy he was, the man he’s become. What do you see now?

You’re mine, and I’m yours, and nothing in this world is going to change that.

No more second chances. Ashes to ashes and all that. You have always, always been his. What a shame, that this is how you choose to prove it. The element of his control, and the one thing he could never master. How poetic. Hotter and hotter - through the smoke, silver starts to melt, bubbling over cracked, blistering skin.

In all the shapes and forms that you take in my life.

The ultimate act of surrender. Glass bubbles in your blood - the smell of salt, the sound of the ocean, and a lovely sandcastle covered in shells. In life, you gave yourself to fire. One way or another, you were always destined to burn.

take a trip to the other side of the mirror?

masterlist

this is an original work by @gingerbreadmonsters - please do not repost or misattribute

[lovenona]

ON THE SACRED BONDS OF BROTHERHOOD.

synopsis; choso may be their beloved frat brother, but he’ll always be your brother first. (for the frat au collab.) 

pairing; frat boy! choso x f! reader

contains; stepcest, dubcon (reader is under the influence but having a good time), extensive descriptions of knife play and blood play, marking (choso carves his name into you), oral (f! receiving), borderline yandere/possessive choso (he loves you A Lot), choso goes from mean to Soft, consumption and romanticization of drugs and alcohol, (1) use of ‘angel’, reader is afab and uses she/her pronouns, this is essentially all foreplay and ends before the fucking because i got tired, minors do not interact or perish

word count; 6.5k

the yard outside is clean, well-kept. there’s talk that the house’s landlord is a retired gardener who receives great joy from keeping up the hydrangeas and peonies along the sidewalk. it’s certainly award-winning, that front yard, with its colorful blossoms and plush bees circling the mailbox. 

they’re so lucky, students bemoan on their way to and from class. i can’t believe the frat boys get to live there. i bet they don’t even know how lucky they are.

it’s a seemingly kind house from the outside – recently renovated with navy blue paint and white trimming, a large front porch and a few inviting windows. the place that omega lambda now calls home is, simply put, a dream. it sits just a few minutes from campus and it tells the street proudly, fondly, that there is no better place to be than here.

it’s true, in some respects, that omega lambda likes to see themselves as above the sweat and grime of their fellow frat brothers. they don’t spend their weekends “fucking and drinking” and tracking dirt across the carpet like animals. their fun is calm, refined: to be invited to a night with omega lambda means a night of smoke curling into the air, of gossip over olive-colored couches, of pills under tongues, of ease and relaxation.

it’s slower than the others, they say in the back of monday morning lectures, but no less extreme, no matter what those boys try and tell you.

i think i was tripping for days, the girl from psychology 101 boasted. whatever the fuck yuuji gets is strong. 

such stories amaze you: and even as you stand on the sidewalk outside the perfect blue house, petunias curling inward with the evening breeze, you cannot believe they are real. it’s hard to imagine the face of your beloved stepbrother tied to these antics. it’s hard to imagine that the boy who used to come home every winter and summer with bloodshot eyes and a beat-up skateboard also swore a loyal, unbreakable oath of brotherhood to a band of boys you’ve never met. 

it’s hard to imagine that your own stepbrother, choso, the one who taught you how to ride a bike and how to apply eyeliner and how to kiss without teeth, quite literally runs what has been dubbed the chillest fraternity on campus.

but yet, here you are, new to university, fresh-faced and eager, cowering outside the door of the omega lambda residence. your favorite skirt hovers around your thighs and you tug at the collar of your shirt, fiddle with the charm of the necklace choso gave you for your birthday a few years ago. 

he’d invited you here almost immediately after learning that you and your roommate had tried your hand at partying with beta pi epsilon. naoya is trash, choso’s fervent texts read the next morning. absolute dick – don’t trust him. come hang out with us instead. he’d attached the address of the blue house along with a reminder to have a snack and take some medicine for your godforsaken hangover. 

the message had taken you a little by surprise. choso’s always been sweet to you – doting, even, if you wanted a better word for it – but you hadn’t been sure how he’d handle attending the same university. your other friends all complain that they’d rather die than see their families; twins separate after orientation, brothers and sisters look the other way if they pass each other in the quad. you feared choso would be the same, that the omnipotent attention he gave you at home would completely dissipate the moment you moved into your dorm.

but his text reaffirms you, if anything. and although your roommate had opted to be wined and dined by the boy from calculus this evening, you don’t mind attending alone. her absence from your side only means you will be able to see your stepbrother without a distraction.

the music buzzes through the door as you knock and wring your fingers on the doorstep. should you just walk in? should you text choso and wait for him to fetch you? the ins-and-outs of frat etiquette cloud your mind until the door swings open and you’re met, face-to-face, with a young pink-haired man dangling a blunt from one hand and his phone, opened to his spotify playlist, from the other.

“hi,” you say, words foreign in your throat. “choso invited me?”

“oh, cool,” itadori yuuji says, shrugging his shoulders like he never would have questioned it. “come on in. you can put your shoes over there.” 

while omega lambda is not packed from wall to wall as your night at beta pi epsilon had been, the various couches propped against the walls and surrounding the living room coffee table are nearly packed to the brim with the frat brothers and their guests. the air, hazy with smoke and desire and drinking, shifts and swirls as it curls around purple LED lights before fogging up the windows and disappearing up the stairs. it is warm here, easy, like dropping into the depths of a pleasurable dream.

“there’s drinks in the kitchen,” yuuji is saying, voice thick with his high, “and we’ve got some other stuff on the table, although you’ll have to pay yuuta for those–” 

yuuji’s narration is cut off as a familiar figure crashes into yours, sweeping you into a hug so tight you fear your bones will snap from the pressure. choso smells like the cologne you bought him for his birthday, like fresh laundry and comfort; you breathe him in, deeply, and let yourself relax into the soft cotton of his black t-shirt.

“glad you could make it,” choso mumbles into your skin. he draws back slightly, drinks you in, your little skirt and your dainty socks that he’s always been partial to. he looks from you to yuuji, still vibing to the side with his playlist, and his eyes crinkle in what must be mirth.

“it’s good to see you,” you say. 

“you saw me at lunch with mom last week.” choso smiles, the black line across his nose crinkling when his eyes light up. 

“you get what i mean.” you tap his shoulder, lightly, as emphasis. the anxiety dissolves; it’s you, and him, like it’s always been. it’s your stepbrother choso who watches your shadow and wraps you up to keep the rest of the world at bay. 

but the tender moment is broken when someone, a tall blonde girl with the aura of a lioness, calls out to choso to ask him for assistance. he looks at you, a bit forlorn, before telling yuuji to help you get settled in and making his way to the other end of the living room.

“yes, this way!” yuuji grabs your arm and drags you across the floor like you’ve known each other forever. “i make some fucking good drinks if i do say so myself.” 

which, consequently enough, is how you find yourself losing your mind within the walls of omega lambda. 

it’s not that you’re a virgin to the world of cocktails and lime and pills: it’s that you’re too sweet to know when to stop. it’s hard to tell yuuji no more, thanks when his face is so bright, when he and the strange, blue-haired frat brother mahito are asking you to try this and try that and to let us know what you think. 

so you let yourself sway through the house, from couch to couch, listening to this mahito boy tell you about his latest philosophy courses as he dances cold fingers across your shoulders, listening to yuuji explain the very serious business of pulling an all-nighter without coffee, watching the LED lights shift from purple to blue and back again.

(you’re not sure where choso is. perhaps, in your altered state, he’s sitting just across from you and you don’t even know it. but you don’t mind, because his brothers get along with you just as well. you don’t mind, because you’re too drunk or too high to know any better.) 

“and how are you doing?” a dark-haired man slides into the empty couch space next to you. arms littered with various tattoos and dark hair pulled back into a casual half-bun, he could have been your beloved choso had he not exuded such finesse, such arrogance, which choso could never be capable of doing.

“i’m alright,” you say, but you’re more than alright. the room is so warm and your brain is so fuzzy that you might melt into the couch if someone looked away for even a minute. “i don’t think we’ve met before? i’m choso’s stepsister.” 

he simpers, a humid thing, one that coils around your eyelids and sets your insides alight. “ah! i’ve heard a lot about you. it’s nice to meet you.” he holds out a manicured hand; black nail polish glimmers in the dim light. “geto. i’m one of choso’s frat brothers.” 

his handshake might take your soul with it. his hands are smooth, refined. you swear he can feel your quickening pulse as you introduce yourself. he watches you like you might be the only person in the room, like you might be the sweetest thing to have ever crossed the threshold. and filled with rum and liqueur and confidence you take it, gladly, because you’re young and the thought of university still puts stars in your eyes. 

“so what are you studying?” geto is saying, prying you apart, picking through your history. he’s in his final year and you’re in your first and he knows all there is to know while you still have nothing. you latch onto him because he gets it, because he’s handsome, because you’re silly and desperate and drunk. somewhere along the way your thighs touch and his hand greets your shoulder and you think that you finally made it into his lap because mahito complained that the couch was too full. 

geto smells like expensive cologne. you smell vaguely of lemons and shampoo. yuuji jokes with you from across the table and you like it, the way these brothers’ eyes fall on you. 

so you spiral, further and further, into a daze you cannot escape from. you barely react to geto’s firm hand snaking up your bare thigh because you are too busy trying yuuji’s latest creation and asking mahito for more of whatever he gave you. it’s fun, it’s weightless; you feel beautiful, supreme, like the kind of college girl you’re supposed to be. you’re desirable, cute. you’re the girl to be in love with, the one who sets the scene.

those rumors were right. the party is certainly slower than the other frats you’ve visited, with more emphasis on sitting and vibing than on dancing and drinking games, but no less extreme. you’re so far out of your brain that you wonder briefly if it will ever be possible to come back down. maybe you’ll be her, on monday morning, the girl who’s still tripping.

“you know,” geto is saying, his breath eerily close to your pulse, a moment away from pressing a kiss to your cheek, your neck, “you should stop by more often.” 

“yeah?” you hope you sound sexier than you are. “i’d love to–”

“excuse me,” choso’s voice cuts through your lazy fantasy like the sharp fall of a guillotine. “i’d prefer if you didn’t hit on my sister, geto.” 

geto’s laugh reverberates against your back, your ears. his grip on you lightens immediately, and whatever words he’d saved for you die away. “i’m not,” he says, but his voice is too easy to be honest. “just keeping her company. right, sweetheart?”

you’re finding it hard to see straight. caught in this game of cat and mouse you find you can do nothing but sit lamely in geto’s lap and watch choso’s favorite necklace reflect the purple light. it’s only after a revolution around the sun you realize you haven’t spoken, that you’ve done nothing but hover, a lot of drunk and a little high and a little nervous, between one man and the other. you mumble a yes in affirmation but it’s clear from the tension that choso doesn’t believe it. 

“oh, for fuck’s sake,” choso sighs. “come on, then. you’ve had enough for one night.” familiar arms lift you off the couch and you stumble, much like a baby gazelle, into the safety of choso’s chest. the room spins with the sudden change; you cling to him like a lifeline as you abandon the party to head upstairs. 

of course, bedazzled out of your mind, you do not question when choso leads you to the end of the hallway and over the threshold of his bedroom. it feels expected in a way, safe, as if the party had always been meaning to end here. as if there was no other place you should be.

“so?” choso asks, casually, shutting the door behind him with a damning click. “did you enjoy being a little whore with my brothers?”

his words take a long moment to settle in your ears. you’re caught in the swirl of euphoria in your brain, the black t-shirts scattered across the floor, the small houseplant you once bought him seated on the windowsill. it warms your heart to see it there, after all this time.

“well?” choso demands your attention. he takes your jaw in his hand and lifts your eyes to meet his gaze. his silver rings, imposing and cool on slender fingers, burn into your heated flesh like embers. his eyes swim with distaste and you know it’s your fault, somehow, but when the walls tilt and your rationality fogs over, you can’t quite pinpoint why.

“i–” your words catch in your throat. it’s clear, from the darkness in his eyes, from the way his nails dig into the soft flesh of your jawline, that anything you say to defend yourself will be futile. it’s choso’s world, you’ve always known, and even now, you’re merely living in it. 

“i invite my sister to see me, because i miss her,” choso’s words nestle themselves deep into your bloodstream, settling amongst the brandy and wine, “and she chooses to spend the night bending over for my brothers. how do you think that makes me feel?” 

it’s a look you know: a look that has haunted you for hours and days, a look that you know better than any other. it’s the look that guides the hand between your legs at night and the look you recreate in your mind’s eye when your vibrator just isn’t enough. you’re crumbling already, like sand beneath his touch.

“i’m sorry,” you say to him, but the words are soft and whispered things, shy beneath the weight of your own guilt and disappointment. “i didn’t mean to–” 

“no,” choso admonishes. he steps closer, guiding you backwards until his bedsheets brush the backs of your knees. “of course you didn’t. you’re still too dumb to know what you’re doing.” his voice, evenly condescending, hardly matches the gentle brush of his fingers as he moves to cup your cheeks. you close your eyes against it, savoring the shivers he sends across you body with every heartbeat, every movement. “still need your big brother to keep you in check.” 

you do not respond: he does not intend for you too. instead choso presses you back until you fall onto his bed, crawling over you to cage your body beneath him like a predator and its prey. your brain falters with the sudden movement, with the lateness of the hour and the depravity of your position, but you can do nothing but look at him with your helpless doe-eyes while something saccharine pools in your belly. 

“look at you,” choso says. “high out of your damn mind. good thing i caught you when i did. who knows what would have happened.” 

you believe him, you do, especially when choso dips his head to kiss you and demands your subservience. his tongue licks the aftermath of your cocktails from your lips and claims the expanse of your mouth, your teeth, your sanity. you let him take you, body and soul, even when you’re clamoring for air and freedom. there is no safety but choso’s lips, flavored with his cinnamon chapstick, no sacred home but the warmth of his mouth. 

“there’s my girl,” choso breathes, nose brushing against yours as he pulls back for air. “going to be good for me now? going to make it up to your big brother?” 

he doesn’t wait for a response; fingers dance along the silk of your blouse as he undoes each button, one by one, letting his fingers dip slyly against the newly exposed expanse of your collarbone and your chest and your stomach. you make no move to stop him, caught somewhere between choso’s aura and reality and time. 

(and maybe in another life you would have stopped him. maybe in another life you would have been ashamed. but it’s choso, your sworn protector and god among men, and you would be a fool to try and stop the one who knows best. he is safety, protection. who knows what would have happened if he hadn’t taken you away when he did.) 

“is this new?” choso asks, studying the curve of your bra as he rests against your hips. “who are you trying to impress?” 

it’s thin lavender lace, choso’s favorite. your face warms at the observation and you turn your head away, nestling among the sheets, as if you could escape choso’s eyes: but his fingers still trace the material and you can still hear him breathing and you know he will never look away. 

“i just got it,” you answer, humbled and mildly humiliated and certainly a little fucked up. the words are slow and imprecise as you stumble over your own tongue. “i wanted to…treat myself.” 

choso’s exploratory hands move from your bra to the waistband of your skirt. “could’ve just asked me,” he says earnestly, intently. “i would’ve gotten it for you.” 

your affirmative hum is lost when choso mindfully pulls your skirt down your legs and discards it somewhere in the shadows of the room. he says nothing of it, of the thin fabric or the way it flattered you just right. perhaps he is jealous of it. perhaps he does not want to remember the way his brothers looked at you when you wore it, the way geto’s hands caressed the places no other man should go.

“they match, i see,” choso gestures towards your underwear. terrified and knowing and aware that you’re growing damper with each passing minute, you press your thighs together. “they’re cute.” 

“t-thank you,” you whisper. “i… i got them for you. your favorite color.” 

he smiles, a precious and glorious thing, a smile that causes flowers to grow and birds to sing. you electrify at the sight of it, blissful only when he is. 

“i’d hope so,” choso says, “because i don’t think i could take it if this was meant for someone else.” 

he reaches over to the nightstand while his words claw through you. choso smells like cinnamon and safety and pleasure; your heartbeat quickens as his t-shirt brushes against you, as your world collapses into nothing but choso’s profile, his butterfly hair-clips and his glowing skin and his power. 

when choso settles back over you, resting against your thighs until you think you might die of it, something silver and shiny rests in his palm. you’d recognize it even if your eyes were closed, if the room were so dark that you couldn’t see if you tried. a searing and insatiable sensation lodges itself in your veins; it is fear personified, it is anticipation of a behavior you cannot even name. 

choso twirls his beloved switchblade deftly between his well-manicured fingertips. it reflects the low-light of the room. it calls out to you, the beautiful and dangerous thing, a siren’s song that promises both your misery and your fortune. choso’s face is relaxed, serene, as the envy and the fury seemingly melts away from him and leaves only a disinterested vessel behind. 

he lets you study it, lets you study him, and you know he’s pleased when he can feel your thighs tense, when you try so damn hard not to let choso know just how affected you really are. he shifts, grinding gently against your pelvis as he moves, causing you to bite your lip in a desperate attempt to surpress the gentlest of moans. 

“well,” choso says, disregarding the state he’s slowly working you into. he shifts down your body and runs a lackluster hand across the lacy expanse of your underwear. shivers pierce your navel, silver rings poison your skin. it’s all you can do to watch him, his heartless eyes and his casual form, as his thumb prods at the place where you underwear crosses your hip. “let’s get these off. i’d hate to have anyone else see you in them.” 

you feel the blade before you see it. cold, unfriendly, it rests against the gentle skin of your hip, a killer ready to take a life. a humiliatingly choked whine is out of your mouth before you can swallow it; your gasp reverberates throughout the room, the sound of one who knows they’ve lost a fight. 

“choso–” you breathe, but you don’t know quite what it is you’re asking him for. 

he doesn’t answer immediately, opting instead to tease you further with the blade as he presses it against you until goosebumps rise in chorus. your fingers curl in on themselves, desperate for purchase, while fear and longing hum everywhere in your being. 

“don’t worry,” choso says. “i’ll buy you more. now be good and stay still.” 

you want to writhe, to lash out and squirm beneath the intensity of the moment, but you fear choso’s disappointment more than you crave such release. your big brother choso has never been afraid to hurt you: to pierce the skin where it hurts, to draw blood where he means it. if you move, the blade will move with you. you know this as you know every scar choso has left behind. 

it’s agonizing, this pace. choso’s tongue peeks out from between his teeth as he works with the ease of a great master. it’s like watching paint dry, like waiting for grass to grow or continents to shift. he cuts away at the expensive lingerie you bought just last weekend like he has all the time in the world, like he does not care if the sun rises and you are still crying beneath him.

(and he does it, you know, because you’ve never been one to be patient.) 

“choso,” you whine, drawing his name out, long and frustrated, as if in song. “go faster.” your legs twitch in protest and the blade comes ever closer. 

“no.” choso does not even spare the kindness to look at you, his beloved little sister. “stop whining.” 

the rest of your complaints lodge in your throat. you fear disobeying him, so you grip the comforter like a lifeline, exasperated tears pooling in the corners of your eyes as the blade cuts through your clothes and ghosts across the bare skin beneath. it’s embarrassing, really, the way you can feel yourself becoming more and more desperate the further choso drifts away from you, the more he refuses to indulge. 

you wonder if he can sense the arousal on you, feel it, smell it, even, like you’re nothing but his own little plaything in heat. 

after an eternity, the blade finally cuts through your panties with a satisfying rip. the torn fabric sits pitifully against your hips, a reminder of your own subservience, until choso peels it away from you with enough condescension to move you to tears. the cool air of the room hits your thighs, your cunt, like a ghost who’s taken up residence beside you. 

blissfully unaware of your feelings, choso studies the remains of your ruined underwear, the thin fabric and the obvious stain of your arousal. locking eyes with you, he bring it to his nose for a brief and pleasurable inhale before he discards it somewhere on the other side of the room.

“there we are,” he says, as if he hadn’t just smelled yourself in front of you. “now no one will ever know about it but me.”

“choso,” you whimper, hot. it’s a gift and a humiliation to be beneath him like this, to shake with need and yet to be denied it, to ask for something, for anything, in a voice so unabashedly loud that anyone who passes by the door might hear it.

he ignores you, again, and turns his attention to your bra as it flutters against your fervent chest. you watch with wide eyes as the blade comes closer, closer, dancing against your ribcage and sending ice into your lungs until it slices through the front of your bra, down the center of your chest, like the thin fabric was made of nothing but water. 

“get rid of this,” he says; you listen. with quick and quivering fingertips you shimmy your way out of the delicate material and toss it over the side of the bed faster than the speed of sound. choso, pleased with your obedience, intently traces the curve of your breasts, thumbing your nipples until you find yourself arching into his touch. 

(choso, you mumble, eyes falling shut at the feeling. still, as always, he does not listen. he draws his hands away.) 

it kills you, the way choso’s eyes possess you, own you, dictate the movement in your bloodstream. it’s akin to being pulled along on marionette strings, a puppet of choso’s own design, made to dance for him and him alone. 

it’s the prize he deserves, your big brother, to own you and protect you, body and soul.

it’s that very intensity which moves you to misty tears, which causes your hands to fly out to meet him against your better judgement. choso lets you pleasure yourself for a moment with the texture of his t-shirt and the outline of his shoulders before brushing your hands away like unnecessary flies. 

“did you whore yourself out like this when you went to naoya’s?” choso prods. the patronization lies beneath feigned and genuine curiosity. there are no inflections, no signs of anger. this is how your big brother gets you, every time: it’s the neglect, the disinterest, that breeds your guilt. “are you really so easy for every boy that comes your way?” 

you shake your head and wish you could bury yourself further into the bedsheets. no, never. try as you might the first-year college boys here just haven’t been enough, the older ones too preoccupied with better cunts to look your way. 

“just because those guys are my brothers,” choso continues, shifting further and further down your body, spreading your legs until he can fit himself comfortably between them, “doesn’t mean i have to share everything with them.” 

“i’m sorry, choso,” you try again, “i’m sorry. i don’t want anyone else–” 

“that’s right,” choso interrupts. “you don’t need anyone else. no one is ever going to love you the way i do.” 

the way your big brother does, his eyes say, but he doesn’t have to voice it. you already know. it’s true that no one knows you better than choso does. no one understands your limits and your desires the way your brother has for as long as you’ve known him. no one knows how to caress you when you cry, how to run their tongue across your lips to silence you when you’re too eager. it’s always choso. it’s always been choso; but sometimes you’re just too much of a fool to see it. 

the blade, cool and demanding, presses against the soft flesh of your thigh, just below the hip. you twitch in surprise at the sensation and curl your toes to quell the ache in your cunt. it’s slick, weeping; you can feel it, the arousal, as it pools and pools and drips quietly onto the comforter. 

“choso, what are you–” you ask, breathily, pitifully, but choso’s quick glare reduces you into obedient silence. 

he licks the cinnamon chapstick on his lips. a stray hair falls across his eyes and kisses the dark line across his nose. he is love and danger, a cocktail of possession and surrender. “i think,” choso says, the words slow and thoughtful, “you need a reminder of who loves you the most.” 

a strangled cry escapes your lips when the blade pierces your skin just enough to draw blood. the sting travels up through your spine and fogs up your senses, causes your cunt to weep in horrible anticipation. it hurts, it does, the first cut, but still you find yourself waiting for more of it, more, in terror and lust and love. 

“choso–” you cry, a misty tear escaping out of the corner of your eye, but the call is met by another stroke, longer this time, drawn out, until your knuckles clutch the bedsheets so tensely they might as well turn to stone. 

“stay still,” choso admonishes amidst the burn of it. “you’ll hurt yourself.” 

as if you were the one in control. but you listen, obediently as always, and the alcohol from earlier combined with the need in your chest mixes together until your body is as taut as a desperate wire, until you no longer have control of yourself or your limbs. the knife cuts easily, choso’s hands as steady and precise as ever. you can feel the blood dripping onto his sheets like a series of hot tears.

it’s too much, all at once. it is a fire which destroys you, which renders every coherent thought into ash and causes you to sob nothing but drawn-out cries and pleads of choso’s name into the dark bedroom. he has you just where he wants you: pliant, dumb, obedient. if he asked you to fetch him a star, you would have asked him which one he needed.

choso’s tongue darts between his teeth as a steady hand continues its masterpiece. you sob unabashedly in reply with every stroke, with every flex of his fingers as he works his blade against your tender skin. and yet, as the pain grows, so does your need for something, for anything, for release; with every aching minute your cunt grows hotter and lonelier and emptier between your thighs. 

you crave something, anything, choso, perhaps even more than you wish for air.

“there you go,” choso says, just as you release another cry so piercing there’s no way even yuuji wouldn’t have heard it. “all done.” 

you sit up on your elbows to peer down at the masterpiece below your hip. smeared with blood, aching and raw from the blade, the word CHOSO spreads across your upper thigh in an uneven but heartfelt script. it makes you dizzy, this marking, this sign that no one owns you better than your sacred brother does. you wonder if it will leave a scar, if it will heal; and even more so, you wonder if choso will merely rewrite it, again and again, until every cell in your body knows that you are nothing without him.

you say nothing; a whine escapes your lips as your eyes flit from the mark to choso’s eyes, dark and possessive, as he looks back at you.

“you like it?” he asks, once again the sweet thing, the doting one.

“yes,” you whisper back, never one to lie to your perfect big brother. 

but you cannot hide the insatiability. choso notices the way your thighs twitch from the intensity, the way your cunt drools and your eyebrows furrow because you cannot relieve this ache on your own. you’re helpless, entirely at his mercy. choso tilts his head with a soft and unreadable simper at the sight.

“you’re really worked up, huh?” he pretends your distress is not blatantly obvious. he twirls the bloodstained knife between his fingertips for a moment before bringing the flat edge of the blade against his lips in a somber kiss. “this little thing’s got you down bad, i see.” he flashes the switchblade at you like a diamond. you watch, entranced, as choso slides his tongue across the metal until any traces of your blood disappear into his mouth. 

your belly’s on fire. the switchblade shines with choso’s spit and he smiles, your blood on his tongue, while he prods your legs apart, further, until you’re entirely open for him with nothing to hide. you whine lowly as choso’s eyes flicker between your eyes, dazed and helpless, and the slick on the bedsheets. 

“choso,” you repeat. “please, help me.” your eyes are wide and your voice is small and you crumble beneath the weight of your own needing, of your own body working of its own volition, of the high that collapses all over you. 

perhaps it’s the way you call for him, your big brother, in your time of need. perhaps it’s the way choso can never really deny you, even when he feigns disappointment or rage or neglect. he’s bound to you, your protector, and you can see in the way his eyes soften ever so slightly that choso will not deny you this request.

“sure thing, angel. let me clean this up for you.” choso’s voice is generous as he bows his face towards your hips with the reverence of one before the altar. he leaves no room for your answer. an eager tongue swipes across your thigh and laps at the blood which pools there. his movements are indulgent, refined, as he holds your legs open with intimidating palms and drinks you in like medicine.

“choso–” you gasp, unable to look away. his eyes flit back to meet yours in reply but he continues his ministrations, slow, teasing, as he ignores your cunt entirely and licks at the fresh wound until it’s finally, sacredly, clean. your newly beloved CHOSO glimmers with his spit when he pulls away. he smiles at you then, praying over your hips, lips stained red with your blood, with your being. 

“i may be their brother,” choso gestures towards the door, to the party which must still rage below, “but i’m your brother first, and now you’ll never forget it.”  

the words are followed by his tongue on your inner thigh, fervent this time, as he travels downwards, downwards from his name on your leg until his nose is a breath away from your clit. you thrust your hips towards him impatiently and he accepts it, gratefully, burying his face deep into your cunt like he’s searching for gold. choso lavishes your clit with plump lips and an eager tongue, drawing the bud into his mouth and kissing it until you cry, until your legs tremble as they ensnare him in your garden.

“choso–” you’re crying, voice transcendent throughout the frat house, his favorite song. there’s a tongue prodding against your hole and a silver ring on your clit and you lose yourself within it, within choso’s breath on your folds and the fire which erupts into chaos. 

when it comes to pleasing you, choso does not require air. he refuses to resurface as his tongue explores every inch, as he laps away at you with the passionate abandon only an older brother can provide. what you need, he needs, and what you desire most, choso is always willing to provide. he holds you steady as he works so you cannot escape him. he forces you into stillness as he abuses every sacred inch of your cunt, as he works you into a frenzy with his fingers and his tongue until you can think of nothing but wanting to cum. 

and then, then, at the precipice of pleasure, choso pulls away. you pause as you catch your breath, heartbeat like an earthquake, and recollect your shock. why has he stopped? where has he gone? you’re about to sit up, to feign sobriety, to demand what the matter is, when something cool and smooth presses against your clit.

choso’s cheek rests against your inner thigh as he presses the flat edge of the switchblade against your cunt. it’s cold and dangerous and sublime and you cannot help but think of the way it could ruin you, that if you shifted or choso wanted it everything could end here, now, forever. and it is this fear, coupled with the coolness of the blade suffocating your clit, with the alcohol in your bloodstream, that sends you into a place from which you may never return. 

the orgasm is as violent as a hurricane. the moment you tense and begin to quake with a strangled sob choso replaces the blade with his tongue and rides you through it, coating his lips with your cum and swallowing the vibrations and heightening the sensation until you are tortured by it, by the sting of pleasure and overstimulation and want. 

(“that’s it,” you think he says into your skin, but your ears ring too loudly to know. “cum for me, just like that.”) 

it takes some time for the waves to recede and for your body to become still again. with a head comprised of of jelly and limbs made of water you lie still, panting, as choso nonchalantly licks your slick from the switchblade with a hum and gingerly sets it back down on his dresser. you watch as he slides the belt out of his jeans and tosses it into the dark room, as he hovers above you like an angel and its lover. 

“better now?” he asks against your parted lips. you nod. he kisses you, deeply, a kiss made of iron and cum and blood, tongue swiping across your teeth before he draws the air from your lungs. your vision swims when he plants a kiss on the tip of your nose, your cheeks, your forehead, between your eyebrows. he plants his love until there is nowhere left untouched, until you are buzzing with the security only your brother choso can give you. 

“yeah,” you mumble back to him, content, satisfied. even the sting of his name on your body is a pleasantry now. 

“good.” choso wipes the perspiration from your brow. his jeans scratch against your pelvis, and it is only then that you finally register his cock, hard and eager, waiting patiently for its turn. it is only then that you realize choso’s lesson is not yet over, that your brother’s desperate need has only begun. 

“now,” he purrs, gently, lovingly, “can you show me how much you love me?”

(as always, forever, you do. you show him your love, endlessly, even when the party ends and the house falls eerily silent. you show choso everything, all of it, loyally, just as he asks, with an only you, choso, and a no one else loves me like you.

because although choso offers his love to the brothers downstairs, he will always, forever, be your brother first, til death do you part.)

[seiyasabi]

きつね (Fox)

(I wanted to try something different and write a few Romaji (ローマ字) words in Hiragana (ひらがな)! I promise it won’t be throughout the fic, but I thought it would be fun for those learning Japanese to practice :)) 

Here’s a !DARK! Kitsune (きつね) Kakyoin (かきょいん) x Female Reader story! Please proceed with extreme caution! 

TW: !NONCON!, !Foul Dirty talk!, !breeding kink!, !knotting!, !Size kink!, use of pepper spray!, you’re in the forest!,!no prep!, !gagging!,  !predator/prey elements!, violence!, mentions of blood and small wounds!, !mentions of drug use and alcohol! (Not you or in detail),  etc.. 

I’m sorry if this is too OOC!) 

“Go to the forest, they said, it’ll be fun, they said,” You grumble to yourself, nearly tripping over a stray tree root. All you want to do is get out of this damn forest and pass out in your dormitory bed, but it seems like Mother Nature has another plan for you. 

Currently, you’re regretting going into the creepy woods near your college. You’d only gotten to this college a few months prior, having transferred from your college in (prefecture/country) to one in rural Japan, and you thought this would be a fun experience. Your new friends claimed that the parties at a certain campground were wild and entertaining, but so far, you’d only seen a few drunken fights, you watched a girl snort a line off of another girls’ chest, and were almost shoved into the bonfire. After all of this, and the fact that your friends left you alone, you decided it was time to head home. 

But, as it turns out, you walked in the opposite direction of the parking lot, getting yourself absolutely lost in the hauntingly beautiful forest. Cursing yourself for your stupidity, you tried to bring up google maps, only to be stopped by that godforsaken icon of ‘no service.’ 

So, you opted for your phone’s flashlight, trying in vain to figure out where was North and where was South. 

“Fucking hell, I know I didn’t walk too far from the campsite, how did I get so lost?” Stumbling once again, you almost fall flat on your face, only to be stopped by a pale hand. The slender, long fingered hand grips the fat of your forearm in a firm grasp, holding you up. Seeing this, a horrified scream leaves your lips before you can stop it, thinking that the thing in front of you was an Onryō. 

Looking up, you’re suddenly face to face with a large, breathtaking man in a red and white kimono. His long, red hair is twisted into an intricate updo, highlighting his sharp jawline. That, in turn, shows off his dangling earrings, which just barely brush his cheek. His purple eyes twinkle in your phone’s flashlight, a small smirk quirking his full lips. 

“Hello there,” The redhead's voice is smooth, sounding like whipped butter personified, “Are you lost?” 

Knowing better than to expose your vulnerability, you shake your head no, “O-oh, no, sir. I’m just heading back to the party. I’m sorry if I bothered you,” You try to wrench your arm from his grip, but he seemingly grabs on harder. 

“There’s no need to lie, I heard your grumblings a few moments ago. I’ve also watched your sorry attempts of hiking through the foliage, and I’d be happy to help,” You eye him suspiciously, not trusting him for a second. 

“No thank you. I’m not so sure I trust a weird man alone in the forest. I hope you understand,” He laughs at your words, sounding like wind chimes. You shift your feet in discomfort, wondering what is so funny about your cautious words. 

“Don’t be silly. There’s a temple near here that I upkeep, and I was walking to the parking lot to head to a 7/11 near here. I’m heading in the same direction as you, so-“ He continues to speak, but you don’t hear a word. You never mentioned the parking lot, and if he was heading there, you’re pretty sure he would’ve just used a path that you carelessly disregarded. Noticing your sudden change of discomfort to extreme fear, he tries to comfort you, “Why that look? I promise I won’t hurt you. Here, why don’t you come to the temple and-“ 

You don’t give him time to manipulate you, suddenly whipping out your gel pepper spray. Chucking the cap in a random direction, you check that the nozzle is facing him, before spraying at full blast. A loud bark-like scream echoes through the air, as you’re suddenly released by his iron grip. Shoving him over, you start to sprint in the direction you just came from.  

“Come back here!” The red haired man yells, a deep growl reverberating through his chest. That urges you to run faster. Flashlight aimed at the ground, you leap and hop over foliage and debris, trying your hardest to evade the freak of a man currently after you. You can hear his footsteps behind you, the forest suddenly silent. 

Your body runs cold at the realisation; just what is this man, and why are the critters so afraid of him? 

Not deciding to find out, you then run in a zigzag fashion, trying to get him off of your tail. The crunch of sticks and leaves are constant, the loudest ones being the hulking man behind you. 

“You can’t outrun me, Pretty Girl!” 

Your chase goes on for a while longer, until you see the unmistakable light of a fire. This causes you to go faster, the idea of safety appealing. 

But, unfortunately for you, you didn’t notice the undeniable silence ahead of you. When you left, the music was practically earth shattering, along with the chatter of inebriated college kids and the loud noise of their cars and motorcycles. 

When you reach the fire, you’re greeted with the sight of a dark wooden structure. It’s a temple, but it looks a lot bigger than a normal Shintō one. In fact, it looks straight out of the fantasy anime your roommate made you watch with her. 

Taking your chances with the forest, you turn to run back into the dark green foliage, only to be tackled back first onto the stick covered dirt below. The twigs stab into your uncovered covered skin, drawing blood, as the kimono clad man above you pants in both pain and anger. 

He brings his face close to yours, making you turn yours away from his with a whimper. His warm breath fans across your uncovered neck, his purple eyes practically glowing down at you. The white around his irises are bright red and teary, showing the effect your weapon has against him. In the lightly you notice two flattened ears on the top of his head, making you gasp in surprise and confusion. Was this a guardian of the Forest? Or was this a demon here to steal your soul? 

“Why must you hurt me? I haven’t done anything to you,” He sounds somewhat hurt that you maced him, but who could blame you? If some creep approaches you in the forest, you fight first, ask questions later. 

“Why are you coming after me? There’s no reason for you to chase after me,” One of his rough hands grips your chin, forcing you to look up at him. His mouth is parted slightly, his sharp teeth glinting in the fire light as his face twists into a smirk. 

“It’s always fun chasing after prey,” He leans in closer, lips just barely touching yours, “Especially when the prey is as adorable as you. Now, we can do this the hard way, or the easy way; if you let me have you, we can go at your pace. If you don’t, I’ll take you however I want.” 

To say you’re shocked is an understatement, “Wha-what do you mean, ‘take me’? Didn’t you just say that you’re going to eat me?” 

“Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. I’m still quite full from the meal I had earlier. I should thank those villagers; without them, I wouldn’t have been able to eat those delicious friends of yours,” All blood leaves your face, did he just say that he ate-

Looking at his kimono, you realise that the red isn’t a pattern at all; it’s blood splatter! 

“Oh my god,” You place a shaking hand on his chest, trying to push him away, “What the fuck? Holy shit- is that why the forest is so quiet? They know it’s your feeding time? Holy fuck-“ He silences you with a heated kiss, practically forcing his tongue down your throat. Lithe hands grope at your cropped tank top covered breasts, trying to squeeze the fat underneath, only to be blocked by your push up bra. Shoving with your entire weight, you’re still unable to force him off of you. Without thinking, you bite down on his tongue, drawing out another bark of pain from the ginger. 

That gives you enough time to breathe and regain your composure. Trying to wiggle out from underneath the muscular male, you’re quickly lifted and flipped onto your front, face pressed against the dirty ground. 

“My mother always told me that females are hard to get, but I never knew it would be this painful,” He spits a mouthful of blood out onto the ground near your head, making you cringe away from that spot, scraping your chest against a particularly sharp twig. A small yelp escapes your throat at the pain, trying in vain to use your arms as a barrier against the sticks and stones below you, “Awe, did my pretty girl hurt herself? That’s okay, I’ll still think that you’re pretty.” 

“Get off of me! What are you trying to do? If you’re going to eat me, get over with it already!” Finally being able to push yourself up onto your forearms, you try to buck him off of you, only to hear a high pitched whine echo out from behind you. Freezing in surprise, you peek at him from, only to be met with a ruby red face. 

“Did you know that foxes go through a mating season?” 

“What the hell does that have to do with any-?” You’re suddenly shoved back onto the floor, tits practically spilling out of your top. 

“I’m going to breed your empty womb, and there’s nothing you can do about it. You’re going to bear me many cute pups, and you’re going to stay here with me until the end of your days.” 

“Go find some female kitsune! I don’t want to have your babies!” Your stomach scrapes painfully against stones below you, dripping more blood onto the dirt. 

“But that’s the thing- you don’t get a choice, Pretty Pretty. You clearly can’t care for yourself! You got lost in the woods, for Gods’ sake! Now, obey your mate, and let me in,” He looks down at your cute mini-skirt, and flips it over your ass, exposing your emerald green thong. His cool fingers ghost over your unblemished ass cheeks, a hitched breath echoing through the Kitsune’s chest, “Oh, pretty girl, did you wear this for me? How did you know my favourite colour?” 

“Get off of me! I didn’t do any-“ He suddenly rips your panties from your cute cunt, before shoving them into your open mouth. You try to spit it out, but are unable to. Tears gather in your eyes, as you start to cry. This strange man is about to do the worst thing a person can do, and he doesn’t seem to care about your feelings. 

“Don’t cry, I’ll take care of you and our pups,” He spreads your legs open, giving him easier access to your soft pussy, “Ah, there’s your pretty cunt. Everything about you is so pretty, aren’t you lucky? If it weren’t for that and your perfect fertile womb, I would’ve eaten you.” 

He kneels on your shins, shoving down your front, arching your ass up into the air. 

“You smell amazing. It’s like your body is just calling for my thick seed. Don’t worry, Pretty Girl,

I’ll give it to you.” 

You hear his kimono shift, most likely pulling out his cock. This makes you choke on your sobs, as you try to pretend that this moment isn’t happening. That some monster of the forest isn’t about to breed you full of his-

A scream escapes your throat the moment you feel his wet cock head against your unprepared pussy. You thought he’d at least prepare your cunt, but it seems that he’s trying to go in dry. He grunts when he feels you starting to thrash, using the hand that once held his cock to smack your ass harshly. 

“Stop it. You can’t change my mind! Jotaro will be so jealous when he finds out I got the most beautiful, fertile, and resourceful mate. Now, hold still,” You don’t understand what he’s talking about, but you can’t help but feel shame. You know his friend’s name, but not his own! The least your rapist could do is tell you his name! As if sending this, he rubs one of your ass cheeks reassuringly, “I suppose you’d like to know your mate’s name, huh? I’m Noriaki Kakyoin. There’s no need for you to say your name, I heard you introduce yourself to those… disgusting humans earlier. But don’t worry, you won’t have to deal with them ever again.” 

He releases your ass in favour of gripping his cock once more, pushing its tip into you with some trouble. You scream through your makeshift gag, the pain of him pushing in feeling like he’s tearing your pussy apart. 

“Awe, are you a virgin? My mom always said a female’s first time is painful,” You want to shove a stick up his ass unlubed! Let’s see how he likes getting something forced inside of him without preparation! “But don’t worry, you should feel good once I’m fully inside.” 

With that, he forces himself in until he’s fully seated inside of you. Another scream escapes your throat, as you feel a small rivulet of blood dribble from your now torn cunt. By this point, you’re hyperventilating in pain, anxiety, and fear. This man is so thick, that you’re pretty sure your pussy will never go back to its original size ever again. 

“Fuck, you’re so tight. I knew you were the right one for me,” When he starts to move, that’s when one of your hands claws at one of his that’s resting on your hip. You feel his skin break under your nails, as you try in vain to make him stop. It feels like he’s splitting you in two! “Does my pretty girl feel good?” You shake your head rapidly, drowning in your pained sobs, “Don’t lie, I feel you getting wet.” 

Can’t he smell that that’s blood? 

You hiccup and wheeze, tears and snot dripping down your pretty face into the dirt. When he starts to buck his hips, you feel like you’re going to throw up. His cock is so heavy inside you, that you feel like he’s rearranging your guts. 

“I feel the opening of your womb on my tip, it’s almost like you’re trying to suck my cock into it!” Kakyoin starts to move his hips faster, making your body go limp. It’s almost like your body is going into shock at the severe pain you’re in, “You sure want my pups, even if you claim you don’t. I’m so close to filling you with my seed, so you won’t have to wait any longer to be filled!” 

He bucks into you at top speed, his own hips crashing into yours harshly. His heavy sack smacks against your ignored clit, sending small jolts of pleasure through your body. But, it’s not enough to make this easier for you. Your pussy is barely producing any slick, making this a lot harder for you to handle. The next time this happens, you know there’s going to be a next time, you should probably explain to him how to prepare you for his horse cock. 

“Shit, shit, I’m gonna fill you up, Pretty Girl. I’m going to make you heavy with five pups, hell, maybe even fifteen! Then once you have them, I’ll fill you up with even more! Doesn’t that sound nice? Your womb will never be lonely again!” 

He thrusts into you with three more powerful thrusts, before slamming his entire length inside of you at once. The head of his cock is right up against your womb, so when his entire length starts to swell, you can practically feel it prying at your cervix. More fat tears rain down your face in this rivulets, your fingers digging into the dirt, cutting up your nimble hands. Kakyoin grunts and growls in a deep voice, savouring the way your walls throw around him in pain. 

Whilst his cock is fully swollen, he releases all the cum he has into you. The large amount of seed isn’t all able to force its way into your cervix, causing it to pool in the canal of your cunt, bloating your stomach out slightly. 

“I can practically smell my seed taking. Your perfect body is accepting me very well, Pretty Pretty. I told you that we’re mates, and this just proves it,” he strokes your head softly, trying to console you as you continue to cry. At this point, he starts to become concerned, why haven’t you stopped crying? “What’s wrong? Didn’t you cum?” 

When you don’t shake or nod your head, he releases one of your hips, in favour of yanking your panties out of your mouth, allowing you to breathe with ease and finally speak. 

“You’re such a Monster,” You sob, face pressed against the cool packed dirt below you, “I-I can’t believe you-if you were going to rape me why didn’t you prepare me?” He makes a small whimpering noise, not quite understanding your gripe. 

“What do you mean?” You start to cry even harder, almost making yourself sick. 

“My pussy is torn open! I’m bleeding! The only one who felt nice is you!” You start to gag, unable to catch your breath properly without somewhat choking on your spit and snot, “Now I’m pregnant with your rape babies, and-and it hurts so bad! Get out of me!” 

You try to yank yourself off of his inflated cock, but he quickly stops you, trying not to hurt you even more. Looking down, he sees a large pool of blood below the place the both of you are connected. He gasps in shock. Sure, he knew that some girls bleed their first time, but this doesn’t look right! 

“What-why are you bleeding so much?” 

“Because you tore me open! I hate you! I hate you! I wish you just killed me!” 

Whilst he’s still stuck inside you, you continue to cry, which makes him feel even worse. He can’t believe that he hurt you so severely. This was never his intention, after all, both parties are supposed to feel good, are they not? 

But now, he’ll never be able to make you love him. 

How could you love someone as monstrous as him? 

[raendown]

A story for @insaneflowergirl as part of the @madatobigiftexchange! Only took me six days to realize it’s June. A grand improvement over the last couple months. xD

Pairing: MadaraTobirama Word count: 4049 Rated: T+ Fandom: Naruto Summary: Trapped together by an avalanche in the middle of a mission, Madara and Tobirama make a passing attempt at dealing with the discovery that they are soulmates. And also the discovery that there is only one bed to share for the night.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

KO-FI and commission info in the header!

Warmth in Winter Hearts

“I don’t suppose if I happened to suggest laying down to rest you might actually listen?” 

“You’re not my mother!”

Tobirama pressed the bridge of his nose tightly between two fingers and breathed slowly. “Gods but I hope not. I have neither the parts nor the patience for that.”

Across the cavern Madara scowled, looking very much like he was only moments away from sticking out his tongue. If he were perfectly honest Tobirama would not have been surprised in the least to see that sort of childish behavior after the emotionally taxing week they’d been going through. Getting put on a mission together was bad enough; they fought like cats and dogs in the tower with separate offices to retreat to, how Hashirama expected them to survive an entire month out here in the wilderness together was a mystery. Yet the worst part had to be getting snowed in separate from the man they were meant to be escorting with no way to make sure the idiot was still alive. 

“When we get out of here,” Madara growled, “I’m going to tear out that asshole’s hair strand by strand.”

“I’m not sure how much of a threat that is.”

“Excuse you, that is a terrifying threat.”

“Not everyone is as attached to their hair as you are,” Tobirama pointed out. 

He was already turning away to build up the meager fire he’d hastily thrown together upon realizing they were trapped in here. Still, he could practically feel the weight of dark eyes glaring at him from across the cave, probably staring at the back of head and judging the hair that he kept short purely for utilitarian purposes. If he hadn’t looked so ridiculous the one time he’d shaved it all off he would just do away with the stuff all together. What good did hair really do him? Not much. If his head got cold he could always throw on a hat. Beyond that he’d never found much of a use for it. 

“Maybe if you took better care of yours then you’d understand.”

“I very much doubt that,” Tobirama murmured under his breath.

The glaring intensified but he refused to take the bait. Feeding the fire and making sure they stayed warm throughout the night was much more important than tending to the quicksilver emotions of a man who, until today, had been nothing but a thorn in his side at every turn. If not for this blasted mission he never would have been anything else. Tobirama closed his eyes and counted his breaths in and out, in and out, slowly, evenly, searching for the calm balance that so many people mistook for unfeeling cold. It hadn’t been so difficult to center himself in years. 

As much as he tried, however, calm remained far beyond his reach. He could keep a placid expression for the idiot across the room but on the inside his emotions were tumbling over each other like a business of ferrets all fighting over the same morsel of food. They were soulmates. Even in his own head that felt strange to admit. So many years spent glaring across the battlefield, several more glaring across council tables and mokuton sturdy desks, only now to discover their connection mere hours before they got themselves trapped inside a system of caves by nothing more than a raging blizzard. Honestly if he weren’t so angry at the timing of it all Tobirama might have been impressed by the sheer volume of snow Mother Nature had seen fit to dump over their heads without warning. More so than the weather he was angry at their client. When he’d told that fool to stay close it had been for his own safety, not to ruffle his overinflated ego without reason. Now he’d trapped himself somewhere else in these caves by dashing off just before an avalanche of snow collapsed over the entrance. Madara had offered to melt through it all but there was little point. There would always be more to come down on top. 

Either their client would be dead of cold in the morning or he wouldn’t. Being here with them wouldn’t do much to change that outcome when he’d already declared that he would rather freeze to death than seek body heat from, in his words, lowly shinobi types. Tobirama would rather lose the income from this mission than let such an asshole touch him after words like that. 

“Ugh.” Behind him Madara sniffed a couple of times. “These smell terrible.”

“Probably because you’re still bleeding inside them.” Tobirama didn’t even need to turn around to know what the other was talking about. He’d wrapped those bandages himself only hours before. 

“I should probably change them. But it’s so cold…”

Standing up to brush the snow from his knees, Tobirama nodded shortly. “Cold indeed. An excellent excuse not to care for your wounds. I’ll be sure to share that one with Izuna when he asks how I could allow you to come home with blood poisoning.” 

A smile flickered across his face when the snuffling turned in to barely muted grumbling, probably a bad mockery of him since that was usually Madara’s last defense against being told to do something he already knew he should have been doing. It only took another minute or two of waiting before heavy footsteps were thumping across the snow-dusted rock to pause just at his back. The hand that shoved itself in to his view looked like some child’s imaginative drawing of a zombie, covered as it was in off-white linen turned black in some places with drying blood. 

“If you’re so worried for me then do something about it yourself!” 

“Use your manners if you want help.”

“Fuck you!” Madara snatched his hand back. When Tobirama looked he was cradling it to his chest with a pout that looked all the more ridiculous than usual when set above a full suit of battle-worn armor. “I’ll just do it myself then!” 

“Will you now?”

A raised eyebrow sent his companion storming off to where they had scraped the snow off a few square feet of ground. Dark mutterings made a lovely background tune as Madara dug through both of their packs trying to find the rest of their medical supplies. When he found them he gave a vicious little noise of triumph and then flopped down on to a nearby rock to pick at the knot on the back of his injured hand. It was hardly the only injury either of them had suffered during the past week of escorting their jittery client through one of the most dangerous sections of the border with Yugakure, just the most serious since it hampered the grip Madara needed on his infamous gunbai. He’d trained himself to use the other hand like most shinobi did but his effectiveness in battle was markedly different when doing so, forcing Tobirama to take point constantly rather than switching out by turns. 

“Don’t forget the ointment,” Tobirama called over helpfully, not bothering to hide a snicker when Madara lifted his head to glare in response. 

“I know that!” 

“Ah so you were leaving it behind in the pack, what, to keep it warm?” 

Madara tore off a strip of bandage and hauled it ineffectually through the air, shouting, “Leave me alone!” 

He should. In truth he really should leave the man alone. Both of them needed a little time to process the discovery of their unexpected connection. Unfortunately Tobirama didn’t have nearly half the interpersonal skills his brother did, he’d never really learned when to leave well enough alone, so instead of giving them both a little space he watched the fluttering bandage until it hit the ground and then lifted his face with a smirk. 

“Very effective. I’m all but shaking in my boots.”

“You will be if you ever let me catch you on the training fields alone!” 

“Go on then, we’re alone right now.”

“Fuck off!” Madara grunted.

Tobirama peeked over his shoulder to make sure the fire wasn’t going to collapse on itself and then turned back to his mission partner. “I don’t think I will. You are literally my only entertainment right now.”

“I am not your entertainment!” 

“No, you’re right. You’re more like a natural disaster that I just can’t help watching. It’s human nature, you know? Like a morbid curiosity.”

Even as he spoke the words he knew he was being an ass but, as he’d said, it wasn’t like there was much else for him to do in this godforsaken cave. He might as well get a few licks in while he still had the energy. Watching Madara’s ears turn red with anger was just as fascinating as it had ever been, though having to force his mind away from examining why he was so fascinated was new. 

“If anyone here is morbid it’s you!”

“Well I’m not denying that.”

“Be more insulted!” Madara screeched. “I hate when you do that!”

Tobirama folded his arms and lifted one hand to tap at his chin. “Do what, pray tell?”

“You’re always so fucking unflappable! Just- just- it isn’t fair! Be...flapped! Or something!”

“Flapped?” He’d never heard anything so ridiculous in his life. It was perfectly reasonable that he should throw his head back and start laughing, thoroughly amused by his companion’s loss for words. Madara didn’t seem to appreciate his reaction but really that wasn’t far out of the ordinary. For the most part Madara had never seemed to appreciate much about him at all and until recently that hadn’t exactly bothered him. 

Right now the only thing flapping was Madara’s jaw as the man tried several times to come up with a response, any response at all. In the end he simply tossed the end of the bandage roll in Tobirama’s direction with lethal force and snatched the closest bedroll, storming off to spread it out across the space kicked free of snow. 

It was a shame to have his entertainment taken away so quickly, even more of a shame to know that if he also tried to bed down right now the only spot to do so would be within range of Madara’s vengeful hands, so Tobirama was left very suddenly with the echoes of his own laughter and little else. The grin on his face turned rapidly in to a scowl. Patient he might be when the situation called for it but he’d never been a fan of keeping the company of his own thoughts. Books were much more pleasant. Much less likely to spiral out of control in to dangerous places or earn him another lecture from his older brother. Not having his library at hand was certainly the worst part of any mission he’d ever taken, filled as they usually were with down time in which he had little to do but plan his next move or stare aimlessly at the surroundings. 

As much as it would probably be more interesting to wander off and explore how far back these caves actually went he didn’t think it was in his best interests to take the chance at getting lost. If nothing else Madara would definitely tell on him when they got back to the village. 

For a minute or so their little cavern was filled with the rustling of Madara settling himself down to sleep, wrenching the blankets off again when he realized he hadn’t put away all the medical supplies, then fussing at them to cover himself a second time. Once he finally settled down for good there was nothing but the sound of the fire crackling merrily away. Sealed off as they were from the rest of the world, the fire was their only source of light. If not for the fact that the caves obviously went pretty deep in to the mountain it would have been a very poor idea indeed to let it keep burning away all their oxygen. Tobirama was grateful he didn’t need to put it out. Aside from giving him something to listen to besides the inside of his own head it also gave him something to look at. Or rather it gave him a bit of light by which to stare off in his partner’s direction, studying the length of Madara's body and the shapes he made under the regulation wool blanket. 

Not a good idea. Definitely not a good idea. Tobirama jerked his eyes away as soon as he realized what he was doing. Better if there had been no fire. He’d rather be blind for lack of light and leave himself at the mercy of the Sharingan for seeing any possible threats than to sit here and stare across the snowy rock like some lovelorn maiden. No matter what discoveries had been made that day they were not some pair of star crossed lovers. There was no need for whatever dramatics his face had just been doing. 

Digging both hands in to his eyes with a sigh, Tobirama decided it was probably best if he just went to sleep too. It was still too early for him to be very tired but falling asleep would at least stop him from following wherever the hell his thoughts had just been trying to go. Somewhere much too thespian for his tastes. He wasn't his brother, after all, there was no need for him to sit here and analyze his feelings or some other such nonsense. If the fire burnt down while they slept and he woke to darkness, well, he did still have Madara with him; just because he was rightfully leery of the Sharingan’s powers didn’t mean he was above taking advantage of them when he needed to. Perhaps a little mean when the man was injured by, hey, he wasn’t the one who could see in the dark and that was hardly his own fault. 

Another sigh caught at the edges of his teeth and slipped out sounding more like a hiss when he pushed himself up on to his feet, striding over towards their packs with careful footsteps. There was no telling what sort of uneven ground could be hiding under all this snow. So far away from the dancing flames his already poor vision was even worse so at first Tobirama assumed that Madara had simply kicked everything out of place while looking for the bandages. It wasn’t until he gathered all of the packs together and dug through every one of them that he realized one very important item was missing. 

His eyes snapped over to the prone figure only feet away. Madara lay stretched out and perfectly still on top of his bed roll. Or, more accurately, the only bedroll. In all the kerfuffle of their client running off and the avalanche trapping them in it appeared they had lost not only some of the food they’d been carrying but also their second sleeping mat. 

If not for the snow on the ground it wouldn’t have been such a big deal. He still had a blanket and it wasn’t like he’d never bedded down for the night without something comfortable to lie on, catching a few hours up a tree whenever he had to and doing so without complaint. The problem was that lying down on frozen rock had only one outcome and with both of them already injured in various ways he certainly couldn’t take the risk of waking up with pneumonia when there was a perfectly viable - if crushingly embarrassing - solution snoozing peacefully right there. He really hoped Madara wasn’t too comfy just yet. 

“What?” his partner snarled when he was nudged lightly with one foot. 

“Shove over,” Tobirama demanded. 

“The fuck? There is literally a whole cave of space, go make your bed somewhere else.”

“Can’t. I have to share your bed so shove over, Uchiha.”

Madara snapped upright so fast they both heard something in his back pop, though neither paid it much attention. “You fucking what now?”

“There appears to be a distinct lack of a second bedroll anywhere so unless you want me sneezing all over your bandages when I inevitably have to change them you will shove the hell over.” Tobirama crossed both arms over his chest like they could hold in all the confusing emotions trying very hard to bubble their way to the surface. 

He wasn’t sure what to think of the way Madara’s jaw hung open wordlessly, couldn’t properly make out the nuances of that expression without more light to see by. Maybe if he weren’t standing at such an angle as to throw the other man in shadow- but to step aside now so he could see better would be to admit how bad his eyes really were and that was a weakness he’d never bothered to share even with his own brother. He settled instead for standing his ground until that rounded jaw snapped shut again for Madara to harrumph loudly. 

“Fucking- are you serious? This is ridiculous! Where did the other bedroll go?”

“Probably lost in the snow somewhere but I would honestly much rather be sleeping right now than trying to guess at things I may never have an answer to. So. Shove. Over. I will not say it again.”

Ignoring Madara’s voice shouting in his ear was as easy as tuning him out, a feat barely comparable to the task of tuning out Hashirama in the middle of high drama. Tobirama untied his armor and set it all aside carefully. By the time he turned back he noticed that, although the screaming hadn’t so much as paused, Madara had gone ahead and moved over a few inches anyway. He did give vent to a few choked noises when Tobirama slid in under the covers with him but it wasn’t difficult to parse out why. Tobirama was still up on one elbow when he paused to examine their situation.

Which way was he supposed to face? They would both be warmer if he faced inwards and curled himself around Madara’s back but such a position felt much too intimate. Facing away from each other would be blessedly less intimate but there wasn’t exactly a whole lot of space on the mat beneath them and it would take only a single shift for one of them to roll away from the other, taking all the blankets with them. Sleeping on his back was generally the way he preferred but, again, space was the main issue. He would have to lay half on the snow to do that. 

“Just...just pick something and go to sleep,” Madara grumbled.

“Eager to cuddle?” Tobirama snapped at him, a response born more of habit than any particular ire. 

“Fuck off!” 

Just for that Tobirama slumped down on to his right side and made sure to curl in as close as possible, grinning viciously to himself as the other man stiffened noticeably. He himself was far from immune to the awkwardness but petty spite had always driven him faster than any care for his own comfort. If Madara hated this then he would lie here awake all night before he rolled over to make them both comfortable. 

It would have been nice, he admitted silently after several minutes, having enough mercy in his soul to relent and just roll over. Tomorrow promised to be an absolute bastard of a day, not least because the task of digging them out of this place would undoubtedly fall mostly on his own shoulders. He definitely could use some rest before tackling that. Instead he lay there with eyes wide open staring at the back of Madara’s head and wondering what reactions he might get if he pulled on some of that bristling hair. Almost as though the man could hear his thoughts Madara curled in to himself a little tighter. The movement was an innocent one. The way it pushed Madara’s rump in to the cradle of Tobirama’s hips was most decidedly not an innocent result even if it was obviously unintentional. 

“Nnngg!?” 

“Very intelligent,” Tobirama breathed, not wanting to speak louder for fear the sudden rush of want running through him might be heard in his voice. 

“That wasn’t- I didn’t- fuck off, Senju!” 

“I will have you know that it is taking all of my energy not to instinctually respond with an implication you would rather I fuck you instead.”

Madara’s screech could probably be heard through the several feet of snow blocking their cave entrance. “It doesn’t count if you still say it you idiot!” 

Yet for all the screaming protests he went on to ring both of their ears with, Madara’s reaction notably lacked one thing. He never once tried to move away. Oh he waved the arm he wasn’t lying on and jawed until Tobirama began to wonder if he wasn’t wearing down the bones of his own skull from overuse but not once did he so much as tilt his hips in to a different position. 

Such telling body language gave Tobirama all the clues he needed to figure out exactly what he’d missed in their earlier conversation. It was possible these types of clues were something he’d been missing in all of their past interactions, body language he never noticed simply because he tried to look at the other man as little as possible. To his shame such a habit had been built entirely on the premise that Madara hated it when people didn’t pay attention to him. From now on he promised himself he would pay closer attention - even if he might not let Madara see such efforts. Just because he was begrudgingly interested didn’t mean he was willing to set that spite down just yet. Some habits took longer to break than others. 

And some would never fade but maybe that was more of a personal failing than anything else. 

“White flag.” The words were out and hanging in the air before Tobirama even realized his mouth had decided to speak before his brain had a proper sentence ready. In front of him Madara stiffened impossibly further. 

“The hell are you on about?”

“I...am waving a white flag. We both need rest. This is, ah, comfortable enough. Let’s just put any further arguments or conversations on hold until tomorrow and go to sleep.” 

Madara seemed to chew that over for a moment until he asked very quietly, “Like this?” 

“I am comfortable if you are.”

He half expected to have the man roll over and deck him in the face for such presumptions. When the silence began to stretch he wondered if he was meant to take it as agreement until he heard very quiet words drift back to caress his ears, a softer sound than he had ever heard from this man in his life. 

“Your arms’ll go numb sleeping like that. Might as well...might as well stretch them out.” 

“Ah. I didn’t presume-”

Tobirama cleared his throat before very carefully shifting back to make room for where both of his arms were folded tightly against Madara’s back. When he stretched one out neither of them said anything about Madara lifting his head to make room for it beneath the pillow they shared. And when he stretched the other out with very delicate movements they both remained utterly silent as he laid it gently across Madara’s waist. 

It was the subtle relaxing of all the muscles pressed up against his front that finally made everything click. Oh but he was a blind man. A very blind man with terrible vision to boot. If anyone asked he was going to blame every misunderstanding on the man in his arms with zero shame. 

Tomorrow they would wake to fight their way past the snow and put in at least a token effort to find their wayward client. Somewhere along the way they would search for the supplies that got lost in the shuffle. But as he closed his eyes Tobirama smiled to realize neither one of them was likely to put a whole lot of work in to finding that second bedroll they had lost, not when it seemed their newly discovered bond was something Madara wanted much more than he’d let on before. 

[hetahonda]

hetalia college AU headcanons

North Italy/Feliciano Vargas:

Fine Arts

Considered joining his brother Lovino in culinary arts, but wanted to try something outside of the Vargas family restaurant business, so here he is now

Feliciano’s favourite thing to draw is people, so his sketchbook is usually filled with drawings of his friends, family, and the occasional cat

Likes watching conspiracy videos on Youtube before bed, but scares himself to the point where he has to camp with Ludwig for the night

His Spotify playlist for when he’s working on coursework ranges from Monteverdi to songs from the Veggietales soundtrack

He’s usually really chatty, but is radio silent whenever he falls sick (which is pretty often, his immune system is terrible), and it’s unnerving as hell

Tells his professors that he’s ‘resting his eyes’ a lot to cover up for the fact that he can’t stay awake in class

Somehow, he’s friends with everyone on campus

Germany/Ludwig Beilschmidt:

Mechanical Engineering, because he’s a nerd like that

Ludwig’s notes are a work of art. He meticulously colour codes and binds all his material, and often receives offers to buy his notes during exam periods

Tends to forget to eat, so he eats a lot whenever he has the time to. His roommate Feliciano’s usually kind enough to share, his brother Gilbert not so much

President of the Student Council, and uses his Council privilege to get away with bringing his dogs into his dorm room

People call him a square - he’s a rigid, straight-edge rule follower to a t, but football season is when Ludwig is really in his element. That’s when he and Gilbert bust out the jerseys, beer, and go absolutely ham in front of the TV

Secretly wants to quit Council to join the football team

Japan/Kiku Honda:

Kiku deliberated between Digital Animation and the more ‘traditional’ route of engineering before deciding that if he was going to suffer for three years he was going to suffer doing something he liked

He only has the motivation to study at night, so he games all day and mugs all night. He lives off a diet of Red Bull and cup noodles

Roomies with Alfred. The both of them throw the sickest gaming parties every Friday night, just so that they can trash their guests at Super Smash Bros

Has a whole bunch of anime keychains and pins hanging off his bag that probably weigh more than the actual contents of his bag. Kiku’s cousin Yao’s hair got caught in it once and it took a lot of screaming before they managed to pull him free

Somehow manages to maintain that 4.0 GPA with that shitty sleep schedule/diet of his? How does he do it

America/Alfred F Jones:

ASTROPHYSICS ALL THE WAY BABY!

Al really loves his course but he also really loves putting work off until the last minute. You can usually spot him camping outside the printing room trying to print an essay minutes before submission time, but it doesn’t matter because he usually gets by with a B anyway

Overloads the fuck on extra-curriculars and clubs, so he’s quite well known around campus. He’s in the football team, track team, is Vice-President of the Student Council, and President of the anime club

He’s the poster boy of the school. College website? Alfred. College pamphlets? Alfred. Anti-smoking advisory that’s hung up in every godforsaken toilet in college? Alfred. What can he do? He’s just too damn handsome.

The biggest Halloween fucker on campus. He shows up to class every Halloween without fail in the exact same Captain America costume as last year’s

England/Arthur Kirkland:

Literature with Creative Writing

Tends to come off as snobby, but is actually really nice when you get to know him better. He’ll show up to your dorm armed with a kettle and a box of teabags if you need a study buddy or just someone to talk to

He’s also a terrible chef. The student dorms have had 6 fire scares in the past term, and they’re all Arthur related incidents

Talks big about only reading fine literature but writes fanfiction in his dorm room every night. It’s a secret he’ll take to his grave, especially since TheSlytherinGentleman is one of the biggest Harry Potter fanfiction accounts on AO3 right now

His room smells like tea and regret, because he opted for a four person dorm and now he’s living with Francis, Antonio and Gilbert for the next two years

Argues that his half brother Alfred’s GPA is higher than his because “Literary arts is subjective”

France/Francis Bonnefoy:

Film student

Francis’s favourite past time is renting out old movies and watching it on the library’s old VCR. Netflix just doesn’t have that same a e s t h e t i c

Among the four of them in the same dorm, he is the only one with a skincare routine and a 10pm bedtime

The mom friend of the house. He’s the one to call for hangover remedies (Antonio), or if something gets broken (Gilbert), or if something’s on fire (Arthur)

Resident heartthrob. Receives the most amount of chocolates and gifts every Valentine’s Day, and is always happy to share

Francis, Gilbert and Antonio have a “bully Arthur day” every year to commemorate the day Arthur moved in with them. It’s Francis’ favourite day of the year (apart from Christmas)

Goes all out on decorations for Christmas. The whole dorm is like a palace once he’s done with it

China/Yao Wang:

Business student, though everyone says he should’ve taken culinary instead (jokes on them, he’s starting his own restaurant empire after college)

Yao’s stuffed toys take up 80% of his bed space

Irregular sleeper, and wakes up at really odd hours of the night. There’s nothing to do until daybreak and it’s hard to fall back asleep, so he just wanders aimlessly around his dorm and scares the living hell out of Ivan from time to time

Listens to music at max volume. Likes to start his day with aggressive death metal in order to help himself stay awake for morning classes

He destresses by cooking. There’s always tupperware boxes of fried rice/egg noodles stacked in the dorm kitchens during exam season

Always has backache. He claims that the chairs in the lecture halls suck, but his kid brother Leon tells him that he’s just an old man with back problems

Russia/Ivan Braginsky:

Medical student, but doesn’t look like it

Ivan keeps really gross photos in his phone to help him reference back to the stuff he’s learning in class, and it tends to scare unsuspecting friends

Has so many stories from his time as a hospital intern. It grosses people out, that’s why he loves to tell them

“Did I tell you about the time I had to help sew a man’s fingers back one by one after his hand was crushed by a steamroller”

Likes the sun, but doesn’t really like sports. He’s the medic for a bunch of sports teams, and he likes to sit and watch the games

There’s also never a week that goes by where Alfred doesn’t get hurt. Seriously, can that Jones kid chill?

Roomies with Yao. They’re the most functional room in the entire campus. No noise complaints, no dirty dishes, no undone laundry, and they PRIDE themselves on it

[spiritclusters]

Fic Review-1

This is going to be an ongoing series where I read, review, and generally fan about SPN fics that I've read. Because it's one of the deepest desires of my soul to discuss fics in detail with people, and fan and generally just be a nerd, like you would with a original story Unfortunally, I really, really want to do this with the authors, but I'm shy and reclusive, and don't feel comfortable doing so. So instead, I'm going to make a giant tumblr post to describe how much I love their work.

So, no crit in these reviews, just love

*If you have a recommendation for a SPN fic (gen, preferably), your own or someone else's that you want me to read and "review", please leave and ask or DM me. (<20k for now).

Today's victim: Karma's Gonna Come Collect Your Debt

Set: S13

Parings: gen

Length: 35k

Main character: Written to be Sam, but I would also argue Dean.

Summary:

Sam is dead. Dean isn’t processing.

And then Sam is not dead, Lucifer is there, and they’re suddenly on a deadline- thirty one hours before their single way home literally ceases to exist. Jack needs to be kept away from Lucifer, Sam needs to be kept away from Lucifer, they need to get thirty three people through a rift miles away, and that’s not even mentioning the fucking war currently being waged all over this- literally -godforsaken planet.

But Sam is alive, (alive, alive, Dean’s brother is alive), albeit having one continuous panic attack. This is fine.

(It is so, so not.)

(EVERYTHING BELOW THIS CONTAINS SPOILERS!)

Reasons You Should Read This:

You know those writers that actually manage to take trauma into account, while pushing forward the story and not allowing this to get buried? this is one of those.

Sam and Lucifer content is just. mm. It's horrible, and it's treated like it's horrible.

Dean's anxiety is actually shown

Dean is traumatized by what happened to Sam by the vampires. his brother's throat gets ripped open, and Dean isn't like "oh, we're okay" after Sam walks up alive again, he spends the entire fic stressed about it

The pacing is lovely, no detail is spared

Lucifer shows up at the camp and no one goes "he's in chains, ergo, he's no longer a problem." He is the Devil, and he is treated as the untrustworthy, snake-like creature he is.

Cas isn't powerless, and he's not stupid.

Mary isn't amazing, but she actually tries to have some form of a bond. Sort of.

LUCIFER TORTURING SAM FOR 180+ YEARS IS NOT IGNORED!

Gabriel isn't useless or just there to please fans, he actually does something

The Cage is talked about.

Jack learns about the Cage

Upon learning about the Cage, Jack decides he doesn't want to talk to Lucifer anymore.

Dean is not ignorant to what Lucifer's presence is doing to Sam, or what it has done to Sam in the past. The fic implies that while Sam probably doesn't talk about it to Dean (Because PTSD and it makes sense), Sam isn't unaffected by what happened to him.

Dean is overly paranoid about anywhere he goes, trying to make sure that it's safe. (Such a small detail, but it always, always pleases me to read it)

Dean and Sam actually have a bond, and it's so very present and so very, very enjoyable.

Sam kills Lucifer

No Michael possession!

Protective!Dean

Sam speaks Enochian, which always gets a win for me.

++My Analysis of the fic:

Writing style and why it works:

The writing is very authentic to how I think Dean's brain works. It's anxiety riddled, fast with worry, and clearly shows the depth of how much hunting has affected him. Dean's brain isn't...smooth is the only word I can think of for this, it's not point A to B like other characters are and that makes sense. The writing focuses deeply on reactions, the way words are spoken, and physical sensations. Especially for Dean, there's little to 0 regard on how he's feeling. Which is something I totally see Dean doing.

But the reason that this frantic, almost skittering writing works is because this is a situation that you'd be thinking like that. Lines cut out because Dean, trauma riddled, doesn't want to think about something. There's jumping and processing and "well, crap" moments. My favorite thing about this author's writing style? they are very much into show not tell, which allows the readers to draw their own conclusions, but also makes it a much more enjoyable experience.

The focus on time, especially given these circumstances, was a beautiful detail to add. It kept a sense of pressure on the writing, because everyone knows that we are on a time limit.

There's also a deep sense of secrecy between Sam, Dean and Cas and the others in the story. They have and share information between the three of them that no one else has, and that makes sense because they have been working together for years.

But because, Sam and Dean especially, they are aware of each other, the characters don't feel like strangers. They know each other, and have been living with each other for a long, long time, and you can clearly see that with how attuned they are to each other. It was beautiful.

Character portrayal:

One of my favorite things about how the characters are portrayed here is that Sam is visibly uncomfortable in Lucifer's presence. Sam was disgusted by Lucifer, and when we're told that because Sam still has residual grace left in him and he can kill Lucifer, Sam is horrified. Sam is allowed to be as trauma riddled as someone who went through that would be. It's beautiful.

I also really appreciate how Dean is allowed to be freaked out about Sam literally getting his throat ripped out. Dean is allowed to not be this perfect fearless older brother. Dean is human here. He's a person with struggles who is concerned about Sam and others, but Dean still feels distinct.

I will also forever appreciate how the characters interact here. Everything is so subtle. If they're soft, it's not blatant, if they hate each other, then it's angry staring, but nothing feels explicit, and I love that.

Small details that make me go "mm.":

Dean always checking the "safety" of a room when they enter.

Mary not knowing about the Cage or John telling Dean to kill Sam

Sam's body language when he's around Lucifer

Upon 1 (one) glance at lucifer, Sam is completely aware that the chains have no effect on Lucifer and tells Dean

(pale face, frantic eyes, mouth open in an agonized scream)

Dean not knowing Maggie's name

Favorite scene and why:

This was hard, but man, the scene where Sam and Dean lay down to get some rest after Sam comes back to camp with Lucifer, and they just...don't sleep. There's something about this scene that just is so...deeply and utterly horrifying. Because Sam and Dean are supposed to be safe, right?

Sam's alive, Dean's alive, they're close to each other, neither of them are injured. They're fine.

And yet.

Yet...they're not. And you can feel that. Dean is tense and not-sleeping, and Sam is tense and not-sleeping. And there's something just so deeply haunting about that scene and I just. My love. <3

Favorite quotes:

“No,” Jack shook his head. “Why do they hate you?”

“It’s in me Dean, oh, god-” (“I’ve got demon blood in me Dean, this disease pumping through my veins-”) Dean shuts his eyes against the unwanted memory that had risen unbidden to the forefront of his mind. He firmly shoves it away.

"And now Sam was somewhere. Probably having a panic attack. Dean needed to find him."

"Sam, I know you will, I know you can, this isn’t me doubting you I swear. But, man, you don’t have to. You shouldn’t have to"

He hadn’t, not since the Cage. Maybe he couldn’t.

Because Dean will make time, damnit, because Sam shouldn’t have to f--ing schedule his panic attacks-

Dean can’t see it, but he knows his brother well enough to read the tightness in his shoulders and shifts in his elbows under the jacket that tell him Sam’s pressing into his palm scar again.

Because Sam never got angry anymore... not since the Cage.

“Heyyyyy Cassie! You’re back! Thank Dad.” Dean turned to see Gabriel trotting up to them, a scowling Lucifer in tow. “Take im’, please, he’s all yours.” He said, motioning to the Devil behind him."

Over all, I think that the story is beautiful. please be sure to leave a kudos and a comment if you read, because this author is dear to my heart and deserves them.

link once more

Author tag or link: @widowronin, Огромное спасибо! :D

[joeyglowy]

Bad Study Habits ft. Miya Twins

In which the Miya Twins learn not to waste your time when they are the ones that asked for help. That, and that their necks are surprisingly quite sensitive. 

(Call it a commemoration for Miya Osamu finally having his character designs introduced, even if it’s the fucking laziest but most beautiful thing I’ve seen all week)

Miya Atsumu x Reader, 1500+ words Miya Osamu x Reader, 1700+ words

(I promise, I love them, almost equally)

Miya Atsumu

“Why do I need ta know Avocado’s number? Unless he’s down to help a brother getting blue balled by his own girlfriend, tell him I’m not interested.”

“It’s Avogadro’s number and for once in your life can you not think with your dick? We’re not here to have sex; I’m here to make you pass your chemistry test so you don’t get another detention for slacking off in class!”

For the past eighteen minutes, you had been using your middle and index finger to rub circles into your temple, a vain attempt to soothe the hammering headache that jabbed your eyelids each time Atsumu opened his mouth.

When your boyfriend had come to your door, ‘begging’ you to help him with chemistry, you found it pleasantly endearing. For all the faults to which Miya Atsumu had—for which there were many—he had unfortunately perfected the art of looking just sheepish enough that it became adorable while still bristling his feathers like a proud peacock that just made you want to pull his chubby cheeks. He was the naughty puppy that still had his ravenous canines punctured in your favourite lita boots with his tail tucked between his legs. He was that one bad kid in every class who fooled around but all the female teachers doted on him anyways because he was charismatic in that childishly infuriating way that made them lower their standards when he finally put in the effort.

Miya Atsumu, put bluntly, is a godforsaken brat.

“[Name]-chan! My chem teacher’s threatenin’ me! He said if I fail one more quiz I’ll have to sit through at least three detentions just, doin’ I don’t know, symbiosis! You gotta help me; you’re my girlfriend, aren’tcha?”

Yet, you somehow fell for this idiot anyway.

Enamoured with his honey-lemon eyes, you decided not to tell him that what you were doing was in fact stoichiometry and symbiosis is actually a biology term. But with the way he had grabbed your shoulders, for an inexperienced lover like yourself, it was more than enough to trigger a visceral reaction that caused some internal organ to clog your throat. His subtle guilt-trip did not go unnoticed but with your brain short-circuiting, you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Instead, you had dumbly nodded, cursing your inability to deal with intimacy and members of the opposite sex as you allowed him to barge into your home.

Since he was always practicing, you thought it would be a chance to do something that couples do. Using your infinite knowledge collated from various fanfictions and shoujo manga online, you had constructed a seemingly infallible plan to make the most of your time with Atsumu. It involved having every excuse to stare at him without being teased for it and if anything, you would be in the rare position of the teaser, playfully pointing out his mistakes to which he’d probably pout and whine about before undoubtedly, once you were done, he’d demand a reward. Enter obligatory make out sesh. Which of course, was more than welcome in your book. You were a simple girl and he had cultivated excellently curved muscles from his years of volleyball, sue your transparency.

There was just one chink in your perfectly polished armoured plan.

Atsumu was a brat above all else. A horny one.

Tutoring him was like trying to make caramel for the first time.

At first, you think it’s going well. You’re simmering the white sugar, careful and attentive, determined to make it a success. Yet, as the browning starts to come in from the edges, a funny aroma that was not the scent of sweetness but one of something being grossly burned beyond recovery did you realise just how taxing the job was. Before you knew it, it was like having your kitchen on fire, the ignition source being the abomination that is Miya Atsumu.

As Osamu would say, “His mental age regresses by five years when he’s playing. . . but it plummets by ten when he’s, god forbid it, studyin’.”

If he wasn’t whining, he was trying to stroke your legs with his spider fingers under the kotatsu, creeping up your thigh only to be smacked away by your own hand to which he’d just go back to loudly whining. He had the attention span of a five year old and the attitude of a twelvie that equalled a near migraine for you. Least to say, you were far too annoyed to be turned on now so you had abruptly gotten up in a fit of annoyance, told him you were going to drink some water and left him in the living room.

You sighed, the water only granted a moment’s worth of reprieve as you headed back to the living room to see his honey coloured mop of hair from behind. Your eye twitched when you looked from behind to see him doodling an avant-garde penis on the page. Lovely.

He still hadn’t noticed you peering over his shoulder so you took the chance to admire the back of his head, watching how his hairline faded out from beneath his undercut, the roots of his old hair still left their stain. You wondered if his neck down ever got cold, with the constant exposure and all. The longer you stared, the more you felt your stomach lurch, toying with a lingering thought that just might get you what you wanted after all.

In a swift movement, with your lips gently planted on the supple flesh, beneath his hairline, you caressed the skin tenderly. Your lips quirked upward to hear a squeak from your boyfriend who had shuddered violently, his shoulders shaking as his penis drawing gained an unexpected gradient slope, his pen streaking in a straight line across the page. You chuckled into his neck; nipping at it playfully as your hot breath caused the hairs on his neck to stand up. Pleased with the pinkish hue that spread across the skin like paint, you pulled away as Atsumu snapped his head towards you, moon eyed.

Although you may have burnt the caramel, it looks like you’ve found some hidden strawberries to snack on instead.

You watched the way his pretty blush flourished to his cheeks while he looked visibly affronted by your sneak attack. “Wh-what do ya think yer doin’!?” he spluttered on the spot, his hand flying to his neck as if you had just bitten into it. You wanted to lick your lips at the thought before you narrowed your eyes sternly, trying not to let a wolfish grin slip through the cracks.

“I don’t know about you but personally, I despise wasting time, don’t you ‘Tsumu?”

You drummed your fingers on the kotatsu’s surface, slow and pronounced. His golden eyes zeroed onto them in anticipation. You licked your lips. All these food metaphors made you realise just how starved you are. Atsumu being someone who had always been observant, seemed to pick up on your hunger as well, his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, as he glanced up at you from under his lashes, anxious. You turned back to the paper, almost nonchalant, as if you weren’t aware of his clenched fists and tensed thighs.

“Yet, you seem to be taking advantage of my generosity, good boyfriends shouldn’t do that ‘Tsumu. You’re a good boyfriend, aren’tcha?” you drawled lowly, as you started glancing at your nails using your other hand, viciously using his guilt-tripping tactic from before.

Atsumu looked positively famished. His brows twisted up guiltily, that sheepish, puppy look on his face once more. Still, you could see his eyes shining too bright, still thinking that it’d go his way if he played nice. He was a mischievous imp that was a little too used to getting what he wants. You decided you weren’t going to fall for it this time.

“[Name], I didn’t--”

“Oh, but you did,” you sharply interrupted him and he winced. Your heart throbbed and as much as you loved teasing him, you did want this to end with him pinning you to the couch so you smiled softly. “Why don’t we finish studying, yeah? Then you can make it up to me.”

If Atsumu wasn’t getting blue balled before, then he certainly is now. He had no idea how the situation began to drip with sexual undertone but with the unbearable heat coursing through him, he could only nod helplessly, at your mercy. For the remainder of the studying session, while it had become increasingly harder for him to stay focused with his raging hormones going haywire, he clung onto every single word that fell from your mouth like it was a lifeline as the incomprehensible scribbles on the page finally morphed into numbers and words that he could understand.

You grinned victoriously to see the eager look Atsumu would get in his eyes, awaiting your praise and what he thinks is his reward once you had both finally gotten through the content. He really is just like an overzealous, whiny puppy that wants his treat. Well now, this will most certainly result into an exciting night for you, just as you had planned.

You smirked triumphantly.

‘All according to keikaku.’

Miya Osamu

“So, do you know how to use Avogadro’s number?”

“Mm? Avocado?”

You sighed. “No, can’t you stop thinking about food for a second, it’s Avo—Osamu!” you yelped, seeing your boyfriend barely stirring from the nest he’s made with his arms as he blinks blearily at you. The sleep in his eyes quite nearly breaks open every dam with the unparalleled force that is your love and affection and ability to just gush about how adorable this man is for hours and yet, you are forced to restrain yourself. As much as you adore Miya Osamu, he is unfortunately, just as much of an idiot as his brother—yet strangely manages to get within a range of 1 to 5 per cent higher than him on every test.

Osamu lets a little smile slip. “Avosamu? I thought it was Avogadro.”

You offered him a hard glare before deflating into the kotatsu, just like he did. He perked his head up to hear your muffled groans, his lips quirking up at how cute you sound. “Osamuuuu, you need to study for the test tomorrow! It’s worth a third of your grade!” you exclaimed, erupting from the cocoon of your arms to pout at him. Osamu grimaced just a little because every move he made was with restraint as he guiltily looked away.

“I know but m’tired,” he mumbled into his arms, burying his nose into them. “From practice,” he clarified with a grumble that faded out into something roughly incoherent. You had to stop yourself from smiling at his petulant tone of voice as you sighed, shaking your head. He was a kid, just like Atsumu too apparently.

“I know but . . .” you trailed off to see him in a sleeping position. You shook your head, unable to stop your smile this time as you gently raked your fingers through his hair. A sound rumbled from his chest and you snorted, of course only Osamu would be able to do the human equivalent of purring. His face resurfaced from the blanket of his arms as he leaned into your touch, sighing contently. You found your hand devoured by the dishevelled mess that was his hair as you fondly played with his matted grey tresses. Your love for this man warmed your heart beyond words as you could feel yourself relaxing—you blinked.

Wait a minute.

The way you ripped your hand out of his hair was like a splash of cold water to the face as he startled, bewildered by your forceful action as you glowered at him. “You fox!” you hissed. He blinked innocently in return as you shook your head adamantly. “I will not be an accomplice to your illicit sleeping endeavours! Nor the reason why you fail tomorrow’s test and have to stay back to do catch up work! Atsumu and the team would never let you live it down you know!”

You clutched your beating heart with a flush on your cheeks. ‘Ahh, that was close! He’s much more convincing than I thought but I won’t be fooled!’

You offered him another glare before sighing. You’d done that too many times this session you now realised. “Look, I’ll get you some tea, okay? But after that, you have to stay awake! You’ll be in big trouble if I come back and you’re asleep,” you softly reprimanded him although he looked completely unabashed as he nodded.

“Mm’kay.”

You were only gone for five minutes but when you had returned . . . he was definitely in trouble.

You gripped the steaming cup of hot tea by the handle; careful not to brush your knuckles on the actual cup so you don’t burn yourself and spill it like a waterfall. Carefully, you placed the cup of tea out of reach so he doesn’t knock it over before you plopped onto the cushion next to him, pouting. Really, coming over, begging you to help him study, only to fall asleep in front of you, what a tease. . .

“Jeez, I was hoping for some, fun times after we finished up too~” you whined to yourself, letting your chin fall to your fist before a movement other than your own caught you from the corner of your periphery.

You narrowed your eyes. His lashes flickered like a butterfly’s wings, elegant yet silent. Then nothing. You drummed your fingers slowly on the kotatsu’s surface before aptly concluding that your, apparently, asshole boyfriend, was faking his slumber. Your Sleeping Beauty was actually a Beast in disguise so it would appear. You pursed your lips, blowing air from your nose like a puffing, huffing steam train. He wants to play like that, does he?

You swiftly rose out of your seat before standing behind him, your shadow devouring him. You just might too if Osamu doesn’t tread carefully. You eyed his fraying hairline, beneath his undercut. You wondered how sensitive it would have now become, what, with it being constantly exposed to the frigid air all the time. A smile coyly played to your lips, as you hummed kittenishly before leaning down.

Tenderly, you placed your lips to the back of his neck, giving it a quick peck.

You looked up, gauging for a reaction but received none. You smiled daringly. Perhaps your dear boyfriend needs a bit more persuasion. You pressed another kiss into his neck. And another one. Accompanied by another. Before you began peppering his neck in searing kisses, from the roots of his hair to the brim of his collared uniform. You watched in delight as the skin gradually increased in heat while you continued to reap the benefits of your ravenous exploits.

You could feel the skin beneath your lips beginning to tremble but since he still wouldn’t reveal he was awake. . . it might be time to go exploring. You hovered over his ‘sleeping’ frame as both your hands slithered under the arms pillowing his face. They coiled around his waist and you found yourself licking your lips, suddenly feeling rather hungry. You could see him beginning to squirm yet he was adamant not to budge. A wolfish laugh escaped you as you plunged your fingers under his shirt to dance on his stomach before your teeth finally met his skin.

The last thing you heard was a sharp gasp that sounded like absolute heaven before your world turned on its axis. Your back met the ground with a thud and you suddenly realised you couldn’t move. Casually taking a quick glance, you craned your neck to see two calloused fists handcuffing your wrists and pinning them above your head. You looked up to finally see a panting Osamu, glaring at you.

“Oi.”

You blinked.

Osamu was every shade of grey. Every expression, every movement, although a little rough, it was done with minimal effort and restrained. He was always in control and always composed. He was a little slow and sluggish like that, but he could become a dynamic black, cool and confident whenever you pluck just the right strings.

Which is why it was all the more endearing to see a lovely peach pink speckling on his cheeks.

“What,” he breathed out, as if he had just sprinted in a marathon, you could see his torso trembling, “do ya think yer doin’?”

You watched him placidly and couldn’t stop admiring the pretty colour on his cheeks. You wanted to capture it, burn it in your memory until your final breath. You wanted to paint it, to smear the red all over his grey. You licked your lips.

“I told you, didn’t I? That you would be in trouble if I came back to find you sleeping. So pray tell, what were you doing, ‘Samu?” you purred beneath him, a playful smirk crawling to your lips as you felt a pooling sensation bubble in the pit of your stomach.

Osamu’s eyes widened and even though he had overcast a shadow on the both of you, you could tell that his cheeks had darkened. He suddenly looked like a deer caught in headlights and he could no longer meet your gaze. With an agonisingly slow movement, he tentatively released one of your wrists to feel the back of his neck.

“D-did you . . .?” he stammered, not able to bring himself to finish the question.

Picking on what he was insinuating, using your left hand, now free, you roughly grabbed him by the collar before pulling him down. He yelped like a puppy that had lost its footing, as he lurched forward like a tidal wave, almost tumbling over, quickly stamping his free hand to the ground, stopping him from knocking his head into your as you curled your finger under his chin.

“No, I didn’t. I warned you though, right? If you try to fall asleep again when I’m teaching you. . .” you slur, tracing your finger, teasingly let it tap on his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, his eyes now wide awake and focused only on you as you grinned hungrily.

“I’ll decorate your neck with hickies until you’ve got a goddamn necklace of bruises.”

Osamu shuddered as he fell to his elbows, barely holding himself up. Feeling his voice shake, he meekly nodded, trying to hide his arousal as he shakily—but briskly—flew back to the kotatsu, promptly hiding his face from you, just like a mouse.

You bit your lip, grinning wildly at the ceiling which although, was completely uninteresting, was the only excuse you had to not let him see your dorky smile.

‘HOLY SHIT THAT WORKED. Reading all those fanfics and manga finally paid off!’

You can’t let yourself come off as too desperate though. You realised that you had been waving the stick in front of him for too long now, it was time to finally bring out the carrot.

You propped yourself, being deliberately slow as to keep him waiting before you tenderly held onto his shoulder. You could feel him tense you brushed your nose against the lobe of his ear, your wispy breaths dyeing it pink as you whispered:

“When we’re done, I promise, you can eat whatever you want.”

While he didn’t fall asleep and actually got some proper studying in afterwards, perhaps it was him being petty or a vain attempt to gain back some control, he did not offer you his dick but went straight for the fridge to get some pudding. Still, it didn’t change the fact that you were hungry and Osamu found out that night that not only were you quite convincing yourself but you also really liked turning his neck red.

Hmm. And you called him a fox.

[the-hopeless-haze]

Someone to Know You Too Well (Being Alive Chapter 5)

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

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CONTENT WARNING: Mentions of domestic violence & homophobia

It’s easy again between the two of you when you come back from Massachusetts, but it isn’t the same. You’re in a much better mood, and Rafael’s glad you went, especially because you come back with good news about your brother - he should be finishing his GED in the fall.

But just because things are good - it doesn't mean Rafael is calm. On the contrary, that makes him even more nervous. Good things don't have the habit of sticking around.

But for whatever reason, you are.

Spring turns into summer - where did the time go? - and you’re always dragging him to the beach when your schedules permit. You seem to be more in your element there than anywhere else he’s ever seen you, what with the sun causing your skin to glisten with sweat and saltwater, the hot wind blowing your hair, the permanent smile on your face. He learns that your father used to have a summer house in the Cape where you spent your summers until he sold it after the divorce, but your love for the water never faded. And apparently your father’s never did, either, as his new house with his new wife resides on a lake. But the ocean is much more turmoiled than a lake is, and if Rafael were more of a poet, maybe he’d draw some resemblances between you and the ocean, but that’s overwrought. The world didn’t need another hackneyed poem about why his troubled object of affection reminded him of the waves. Clichéd comparisons aside, he can see why you love it so much.

Rafael isn’t as opposed to these dates as one might assume. Maybe it’s his Cuban heritage; in his blood after his ancestors spent so long working and living by the sea on that godforsaken island that betrayed them, but he feels a sort of kinship with the ocean, too. You tease him the first time you see him in shorts and sandals, saying you half-expected him to show up in his three-piece. He didn’t tell you, but he comes to the beach alone quite often, or there’s always yacht parties where he can nurse a glass of scotch, just keeping score between all the married couples there; who cheated on who, what wife wanted nothing more than to divorce her husband, what husband was calling their wife a bitch... Most days, he prefers the precinct for company over the stuffy culture law school brought him into...he swears marriage makes people crazy. It made his mother miserable, his father wrathful.

And maybe one could argue that his mother had an inclination for melancholy or that his father was just a mean-spirited man regardless. But the marriage vows certainly brought out the worst in both of them. An ill-fit, sure, but they’d thought it would work out when they met each other, didn’t they?

Another reason he’s anxious is that the squad is getting closer to figuring it out by the day. Rafael is good at concealing his emotions, he thinks, but it’s difficult to hide anything in a room full of some of the best detectives in New York City. Sometimes he even catches Olivia looking at him differently when he glances discreetly at you - and he’s dreading the day he gets the chewing out he deserves.

And third - you start remembering things he says. It’s almost frightening. Of course.... you had to have a good memory for the spoken word - you couldn’t take notes on everything a witness said. But still.

You remember dishes he orders in restaurants and attempt to recreate them in his kitchen. You bring him coffee, just the way he likes it, on your days off that he’s on, or sometimes you manage to sneak away to bring it to him during your breaks. You know he likes you in red and green and blue, bright, vivid colors that bring out the colors of your eyes and hair, and you make sure to wear them. Sometimes he thinks you’re psychic, or you have some kind of womanly sixth sense; because oftentimes you’ll wear the same color of his tie. One time Carisi even made a comment that the two of you were going to prom together, and you’d swatted him on the arm but smirked at Rafael the way you did; when you knew you had him down cold.

And maybe you did.

But you didn’t know everything about him, yet, how could you? It’d only been four months.

Rafael's hands tremble at the thought of telling you what was on his mind. He needs some liquid courage if he's going to tell you anything. He's had awful conversations with women concerning this topic, and he's prepared for tonight to go wrong, too, you screaming at him with tears running down your cheeks, and then work, oh, work would be a living hell. Maybe he'd transfer to another district. Jesus Christ, he couldn't handle that again, so soon. Maybe it was best to keep quiet. Maybe this is why he shouldn't have been so stupid to date a detective in his district, in a unit he worked closely with. What if this did go wrong? It was hard, being able to see each other outside of work sometimes, and it was hell trying to hide it from the SVU, but god, he'd miss you if you left even if he wasn't entirely ready to commit to you.

But you deserved to know, didn't you?

"Hey, Rafi? You doing alright there?" Your voice cuts in, clear as a bell, the way it always did when he lost himself in thought.

"Yeah, uh, I'm fine," he says, loosening his tie and taking it off. You were cooking again, fish, and it smelled heavenly, and god, he didn't want to lose this but he didn't want to tell you either and by not telling you, he could lose you. Weren't you supposed to know your partner? Did you really know him if you didn't know these things?

"You sure? You look like you're nervous," you say, an edge in your voice. God, did you think... maybe you thought he was going to break up with you. Fuck.

"Yeah. I'm nervous. Okay?" he snaps, but he doesn't mean to. He takes another sip of his scotch.

"Why the hell are you nervous? Afraid of some broccoli?" you joke, but your smile doesn't meet your eyes. He'd scared you. Fuck, he was such an idiot.

"I need to talk to you. Okay?" God, why couldn't he be normal like you and just spit it out?

"Okay. Then talk. But if you want me to leave I'll just get out. I don't need to hear the reasons why," you say, turning back to the food.

"No!" Rafael gets up quickly, hugging you from behind. "No. I don't... that's not what I want to talk about. No. This is going good, better than I thought it would."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Fuck me. I keep talking myself in circles," he mutters under his breath.

You turn around, but he keeps his hands around your waist. You're close, and he pecks your lips. You chuckle. "You're a dork. Just spit it out, Rafi."

"I don't want... I don't want this to turn into a fight."

"I don't either, whatever it is. But I need to turn the fish over or your smoke alarm's gonna go off," you say. “Hang on a minute.”

He grips the counter for support and he hates you so much, it’s rage he’s feeling now, and he has to swallow it down, tell himself this was good for him, this was happening for a reason, and that you were different the men and women that had walked out on him before. Or what about those he’d never felt close enough to tell? That was a longer list.

You finish the fish in a few minutes, tell him the potatoes are going to be a few more in the oven, and you start the broccoli on the stove.

“Okay. Talk to me. I’m listening,” you say, smiling at him, but he can tell you’re still scared, still wondering what he’s going to say.

“I’m bisexual,” he blurts out, and he doesn’t know if it would’ve been better if he beat around the bush.

You’re silent for a few seconds, then you smile at him. “Oh, honey, that was it? I thought it was something bad. Jesus, you scared the hell out of me, Rafi,” you say and hug him tight. He hugs you back, somewhat in awe of your reaction.

“You... you... don't care?"

“Rafael, I'm honestly offended that you think I'd be that prejudiced. Of course it doesn't bother me.” You pull away, still holding onto his arms, looking at him that way you did now, that look that doesn’t feel too different from a punch in the gut. "Why did you think I would be upset?"

Rafael shrugs, still at a loss for words.

“Well... for the record, I’ve hooked up with a woman, you know,” you say, turning back to the broccoli.

“Y-you have?” Well, that was a surprise.

“Yeah. I don’t know if I’d ever date a woman, but... I gave it the college try, had experiences. It was fun. It was a coping mechanism if you think about it too much, but it helped me, I think,” you say, and shrug, turning to your side to better face him as you sauté the broccoli. “I mean...we were friends in college. And she took her time with me, you know...in ways college boys wouldn’t.”

“Mm,” Rafael says, raising his eyebrows suggestively. “Bet she did.”

You blush beet red, laughing nervously. “That’s not what I meant... although, yes... she was thorough. But no. I meant she respected me and didn’t get upset when I wasn't ready to put out, you know? She let me set the pace and she was the first person I’d been with that gave me that. But... anyway... enough about that. I really appreciate that you trust me enough to tell me. Do you feel better?” you ask, looking up at him.

He nods. “Believe it or not, you’re the only woman that hasn’t flipped out on me when I said this.”

“Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. No one should feel that way about that.” You lean up, kissing his cheek.

Yelina was the first woman he told, and she didn’t take it well. Immediately, she flew off the handle, accusing him of wanting to leave her for a man - but there was no man. It was just something he'd come to terms with after fighting with himself for so long, and he wanted her to know because he thought he loved her. But he backtracked for her, he pled with her, they both cried, and their hour-long phone conversation ended with Rafael saying that he was just confused, and wasn't really bisexual. He’d never felt more lost in his entire life than when he hung up the phone that night, and it took him a long time to be assured of his sexuality in the same way as he was before he called her.

Some of the women were better than others, but he hadn’t told all of them and he’d never been met with outright acceptance...until you. And maybe it’s a byproduct of the politics of your generation or your own dalliances in same-sex affairs... but whatever it is... you’re still taking him in with open arms, and he feels like he doesn't deserve that.

“You hungry? It’s all set.”

“Yeah. It smells great, (y/n),” he says, his mouth watering at the potatoes you pull out of his oven. God, who knew how good an apartment could smell when you used it to cook?

He has memories of his abuelita cooking, of his mother, but he never stayed in the room and watched them work. His father always said it was a woman’s job, and it went on the long list of things he could never forgive him for. Watching you cook, he realizes it’s an expression of caring and that his father had ignored the league of male chefs there were in the world in support of a chauvinist ideology. Rafael wishes he could cook more than his embarrassing repertoire of eggs, grilled cheese, and boxed macaroni; he wishes he could do something for you.

He swallows it down. This was too much too soon, wasn’t it? What was he doing?

He doesn't have any idea. A relationship should tie you down to the earth, make you remember you inhabit it, but he's been in his head far too much lately. So dinner is quiet, almost painfully so, because he can't stop the thoughts racing through his head and manage to make conversation with you.

Evidently, you realize that too, kissing him deeply after you both cleaned up the kitchen. "Are you okay, honey? You still seem stressed."

"I'm fine." God, you calling him “honey” went right through him. No one really ever used pet names on him before, probably because he was too stiff. How did you know the simple use of that melted him to the core, made him momentarily forget his reservations?

"You certainly don't seem fine. Did something happen at work?"

"Just stop," he murmurs, avoiding your gaze. Why did you care? Why should you care? You were starting to get too close for comfort - but god forbid you start pulling away.

But you do, physically, at least. You let go of his hand, and hurt flashes through your eyes. "Do you want me to leave?"

"No. But I don't want to talk, either."

"Rafael--"

"Don't."

"Okay," you nod, pursing your lips, and you take his hand back in yours. "Do you want me to just sit with you?"

He nods wordlessly, topping off your scotch glasses and meeting you on the couch. You don't touch him at first, but then you take his right hand back in both of yours, massaging through the cramps in his palm from writing scrawled notes on his legal pad. "You don't have to," he says quietly.

"I want to," you respond, pressing your lips to his cheek. "Let me take care of you. Turn around so I can massage your shoulders."

"(Y/n)..." he protests, but he has a feeling you know what he needs better than he does, so he doesn't argue with your firm glance.

You're tentative at first, but you find a rhythm, and he feels the tension dissipate as you work your hands across his shoulders and upper back, and all he can think is that he never did one thing in his life that would warrant this tenderness.

And then.... you run your hand across his side, featherlight, until he's chuckling in spite of himself. "Jesus, (y/n), stop it," he says through laughter as you tickle him with more intensity, your fingers skittering across his stomach.

"I think you should make me," you challenge.

And he's breathless, trying to catch your hands in his own, but he can't stop laughing, either, as he tries and fails to gain leverage against you. You dodge him every chance you get, but at this point, you can't tickle him as much you jab at his sides and stomach. Eventually, his fingers dig deep into the flesh of your waist, and you let out a shriek - and it's then that he enacts his revenge, his long fingers dancing across your thighs and up your stomach until he looks up at you. You're giggling and blushing, your hair splayed out across his couch... and you look back, your laughter slowing as he leans down to kiss you. All he intended was to brush his lips against yours, but your hand comes to the nape of his neck, and your tongue slips past his lips, and you're seemingly still intent on leaving him gasping for air. "Trying to kill me?" he pants, smirking against your lips as he pulls away.

"No. I just know you needed the laugh," you say. "I know you said you don't want to talk, Rafi, but I... I think you should. I want to listen."

Rafael sighs heavily, gently moving off you and helping you sit back up. "I lied to you,” he says softly, not meeting your eyes. “I lied. SVU is difficult at times... for more personal reasons. I didn't go through anything like what you had gone through and believe me... I'm not trying to draw comparisons. But..."

“It was your father, wasn’t it?” you ask softly.

Ah. You know. You read him like a book. He nods. “Yes. He wasn’t a good man.”

“I didn’t... I just, you rarely talk about him, and I just assumed there was a reason why.”

“There was.”

“Do you want to talk about it?"

Rafael nods, finding the strength to meet your eyes again. “He... he would hurt my mother. I didn’t face the brunt of the abuse, she did, for me. But he... if I... he’d hurt me, sometimes, too, hit me if I talked back. He’d never hurt me the way he hurt Mami, but he was abusive toward me as well. I spent a lot of time at my abuelita’s apartment because of this, and she is...she’s the best woman I know. She did all she could to keep me safe. Ultimately, though, in high school... I came out to my mother and her. They didn’t understand it, really, and gave me some good old Catholic shaming. I still loved them, even if it was hard at the time. They didn’t dare out me to my father. They didn’t know what he would do. Well... I had a boyfriend that last year of high school, and my father saw us... and... you can guess what happened.”

“I’m so sorry, Rafi,” you whisper, scooting closer to him.

“I had to go to the hospital,” he whispers, unable to fight the tears. It feels like something’s closing in on his throat. He takes your hand for support, running his thumb over your fingers. “He somehow managed to break one of my ribs. I... he kept saying, ‘I pay for Catholic school for you to end up being a faggot?’ And I... kept thinking, kept saying, ‘no, Padre, you don’t understand,’ kept begging him to stop. He didn’t until he heard my rib crack and... I think he understood, then, that he’d crossed a boundary. It was one thing to him to hurt his wife, he hated women, but his child, his only son? I never told my mother what happened, because it would’ve just worried her and I was terrified. I just... I just said someone at school beat me up. My father... he was never good to me or my mother, let that be clear, but after that, it was almost like he was ashamed, I guess, because I had something over his head that he knew my mother would leave him for. Anyway... he died about 15 years ago.”

You tuck your legs underneath you, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “I’m sorry,” you say softly, kissing his cheek. “No one should have to go through that. Your mother is a strong woman, you know that right? Didn’t you tell me she runs a charter school now?”

“Yes. She does. Single-handedly, really. I owed it to her to make something of myself.”

“You did, Rafi, you did. I know she’s proud.”

“I hope so,” he mutters.

“You’re a better man than your father,” you murmur, rubbing his back. How did you know that was what he needed to hear? Even still, it didn’t feel real. What basis did you have for that?

“The jury is out on that one,” he mutters. “I haven’t had a child to destroy.”

You pull away from him, sit back on your side of the couch. “Rafael. Look at me.”

He exhales slowly, and does, meeting your concerned eyes, the ones all the victims that have come through your precinct have seen, and he hates that.

“Did it hold you back? Is that why you haven’t had children?”

Your voice is small like you almost don’t want to say it, don’t want to put a voice to it, and he wishes you didn’t, he wishes you stayed quiet. He leans back against the couch, a few silent tears leaving his eyes of their own volition.

But you knew him. You knew why. You’d hit the nail on the head once again.

“I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry, Rafael. Please,” you say, and he looks over at you to see your eyes welling up too. “It’s not my business. I’m sorry. D-don’t be mad at me.”

He doesn’t say anything, just leans over and grasps you in a hug. You start crying, murmuring your apology over and over again. Your whimpers in his ear could kill him if he let them. You pull away from him with shaky hands on his shoulders, gripping on his suspenders for support. “I’m so stupid. I shouldn’t have—“

But he kisses you and he can feel your shock as your body tenses up against him. “Don’t you ever fucking say you’re stupid again,” he murmurs against your mouth. “You’re too smart for your own good.”

“Rafael, I overstepped.” You move your hands back to your lap.

“Maybe you did,” he shrugs, wiping his eyes with his shirtsleeves. “But you were right.”

You’re silent. He can tell you feel guilty; you’re wringing your hands and only looking at him when he’s not looking at you.

“I’m not mad at you,” he says, and you visibly relax, leaning over to hug his waist. “I never realized it... until... this woman I dated, her name was Yelina. She wanted a whole white picket fence deal, lawyer husband, three kids, money. And I... I couldn’t give any of that to her at the time. I didn’t want to get married, I was terrified of having a wife. I didn’t want to have children... I was afraid I’d turn into my father and hurt them the way he hurt me. So she left me for my best friend at the time.”

“Oh, honey. You’ve had bad luck,” you say, your voice slightly muffled against the fabric of his shirt. You rub his back comfortingly. “She wasn’t a smart woman. Couldn’t she see you were in pain?”

“I...guess not. Maybe I didn’t even really know I was then. She wanted kids, marriage, all of that, right away, and we were young, then, younger than you. But she didn’t want to wait for me to work out my issues. I can't really blame her. I still haven’t now, so maybe she was right to leave me. Who she left me for... well, that didn’t exactly work out in her favor. I prosecuted him for child pornography about a year ago.”

“Ah. Perhaps she should have learned about delayed gratification before leaving you.”

Rafael chuckles at that. “Why are you saying that?”

“Look who you turned out to be. She knows she made the wrong choice now.”

“I don’t know about that. Maybe neither of us were the right one for her. I’m still my father’s son. I could still turn out...how I feared.”

“I don’t see that in you, Rafael,” you say softly.

“My mother didn’t see it in my father, either,” he says, rubbing his face with his hand. “Part of it is genetic. It has to be.”

“People throw down the deck that they’re dealt and demand a new one all the time,” you tell him. He wraps his arm around you.

“But do they get one?”

“I think so,” you say. “If they fight hard enough and they have the resources. Some of it is luck, no doubt... But you can.”

He feels guilty, because he knows you’re thinking of your brother, who can never outplay the cards he was dealt.

“Well, I guess I never wanted to play the game and risk it," he says bitterly.

“Well, what about now?”

“Who’s going to marry me now, have kids with me? I’m an old man. That ship has sailed,” he says, hating himself and you, a little. Maybe you’d leave now like Yelina did. You were young and pretty, and you could find a man closer to your age that would father your children if that’s what you wanted.

“Do you really believe that?” Your voice is small again, treading lightly. Maybe you were scared for your own future if you stayed with him. Maybe you should be.

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” he murmurs. He knows what he can’t believe: the fact that you’re still here, still holding onto him like your life depended on it. And you knew him, now, you knew what kept him up at night... and you were still here, acting like he was all you wanted.

“I just want you to know that I’ve been held back, too, Rafael. Abuse does that. I couldn’t have meaningful relationships with anyone for a while, and sex scared me. It still does, sometimes. You’re...you’re one of the few who’s waited this long for me to be ready and not gotten upset. I just want to thank you for that. And that’s how I know you’re not your father because from what you’ve told me, I don’t think he would’ve been as forgiving toward me. You can break the cycle, Rafi. You can if you want to.”

“You shouldn’t be thanking me for that. I’m not going to force you into doing something you’re not ready for.”

“Proving my point, Rafael,” you say, squeezing his arm. “Would your father have that same mindset?”

“Well...no. Probably not.”

“Would your father go to law school with the intent of helping the helpless?”

He shakes his head. His father didn’t do anything to help anyone. "That's not why I went to law school, either. I went to get the hell out of that barrio."

"Why'd you choose SVU then? There are much more lucrative paths you could've taken with a law degree. Why is it every time I try to show you that you're a good man you insist on fighting with me?"

"Because I don't deserve to be put up on a pedestal, (y/n). I'm just trying to survive," Rafael says, shrugging. "I'm not some martyr for a cause, or a Christ figure or--"

"I didn't say that you were. But you’re also not your father, Rafael, and I don’t see any danger of you turning into him, either,” you say and he hopes you’re right, he hopes you know him better than he knows himself, and that you see something in him he’s never seen, something all the men and women before you never saw either. “You still have time.”

“Not as much as I used to,” he says, but that’s the thing, isn’t it? Rafael sighs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. Look at the two of you, both damaged, both broken by what the world threw at you, but here you were, together. Were you healing each other or hurting each other? He can’t tell, at the end of the day.

You sit up a little, and he loosens his grip around your shoulders. You kiss him softly, comfortingly.

All his anxiety about this night is gone, but it isn’t replaced with relief like he’d hoped. Instead, there’s this gnawing ache, this need to tell you to leave, that he was bad news and was going to break your heart, that he was over 40 and didn’t know how to love anyone that wasn’t his family. Why couldn’t anything scare you away?

Part of him knows he doesn’t want you to leave despite all this, even if he’s terrified. You must know, too, because you stayed.

Tags: @caked-crusader​ @thatesqcrush​ @law-nerd105​

Want to be added to my tags? Let me know!

[love-sapphirerose]

Yashahime: Princess Half-Demon Episode 16 Review

https://www.animenewsnetwork.com/review/yashahime-princess-half-demon/episode-16/.168486

I got a bad feeling about "Double-Edged Moroha" from the moment it started. You'd think, given that last week's episode randomly decided to break away from the story to have a flashback story time with Riku, that the show would take even a scant minute or two to establish things like context and pacing: Where the girls are. Why they are there. Some vague idea about how long it has been since that godforsaken misadventure with the Rapey Mountain Arsonist. You know, the simple stuff that helps the audience figure out what the hell is going on. But no, it doesn't even take a couple of seconds for Yashahime to start screwing up the most basic rules of “How to Tell a Coherent Story”, as we're plunged right into the middle of some anonymous mountain valley or something, with Moroha staring down Yawaragi, telling her cousins that there's some major beef going back three whole years that needs settling. If you don't recognize who this woman is, she's one of the Wolf Tribe members who has appeared exactly one time in the series before now, in a single frame from the very end of last-week's episode.

It honestly feels like something got supremely screwed up in the show's pre-production, and the Yashahime staff realized that they needed to cut an episode right out of the middle of the run, so they took the final scenes from the episode that led up to this climactic showdown between Moroha and Yawaragi, cut everything else that came before it, and slapped it on to the beginning of “Double-Edged Moroha”. Maybe that would explain the seemingly arbitrary placement of the Big Reveal episode from last week? The way it was written meant it could have been aired at almost any time and made an equal amount of sense (read: Not a whole lot), and the only information from “Farewell Under the Lunar Eclipse” that ties into “Double-Edged Moroha” at all is that Moroha ended up with Kouga and the wolves when her parents got sucked into the Black Pearl. If we hadn't gotten that single shot of Moroha being left to the wolves by Hachi, then “Double-Edged Moroha” would have come across as completely nonsensical. As it stands, it's now only 95% nonsense, which is technically an improvement. Good job, I guess?

If you couldn't tell, this was yet another episode of Yashahime that made me absolutely furious with how poorly written and executed it was, but in order to fully explain why, I'll need to cover the events of “Double-Edged Moroha” in chronological order, because the flashback-structure of the episode is stupid and pointless. We begin with the very last flashback, which shows us how Yawaragi attempted to train Moroha in the art of mastering her demonic transformations. We later learn that Kagome apparently placed a seal on these powers in some scene that we never got to actually see because the show was too busy failing at Towa and Setsuna's backstories, but Yawaragi decided to give Moroha the power to transform into Beniyasha with the rouge. Yawaragi then spends years yelling at Moroha for relying on the rouge too much and warning her about how too many transformations will result in her becoming a permanently bloodthirsty monster, so, uh, great call there, Yawaragi. Really thought that one through.

Anyways, one of the days Moroha goes berserk with her Beniyasha self and ends up calling down the wrath of a horde of

terribly-animated Birds of Paradise

before passing out. Instead of doing the logical thing and running away, Yawaragi just sort of stands there and decides they're screwed. That's when a weasel man (who is very helpfully named “Weasel Man”) wanders into frame from literally nowhere and offers to sell Yawaragi the Armor of the Iron Rat he's wearing, so that she can blow up the Birds of Paradise and whatnot. Not only is the completely random appearance of this obviously sketchy weasel not draw Yawaragi's suspicions at all, she also doesn't seem to find it odd that the guy can't even remove the armor himself without getting another person to unlock it with a key. Keep in mind that, for the entire duration of this stupid, stupid conversation, Yawaragi could have very easily just run away from all those birds and hid in a cave or something, but no, she casually takes the armor from the weasel, and wouldn't you know it, the darned thing is cursed to eventually crush its wearer to death unless they pay an exorbitant fee to the smithy rats for another key.

This is, to put it mildly, a very silly chain of events that do not paint Yawaragi in the smartest light, but we just have to roll with it, because that set of Iron-Rat Armor is precisely why Moroha has found herself sold into indentured servitude for the last three years. You see, Yawaragi decided that Moroha needed to complete the “crucible of Kodoku”, which has the eleven-year-old fighting a horde of demons in a spooky cave by herself to…get stronger, and master fighting without relying on Beniyasha, somehow? Yawaragi claims that Moroha needs to absorb the powers of the strongest demon in the cave, but she definitely did not do that, and we've never seen any of these so-called disastrous consequences of the Beniyasha transformation so far, which makes the entire venture basically pointless for our little heroine. For Yawaragi's part, the whole thing seems to have been an excuse to do some gambling with Jyubei, because she previously lost a bunch of ryou in the demon gambling house, which one apparently has to travel through in order to even get to the Crucible of Kodoku; also she needs, like, thirteen Ryou in order to buy a key for the armor that is going to eventually kill her. All of this leads to Jyubei offering to buy Moroha as his own little bounty-hunting slave, which Yawaragi accepts instantaneously, and there you have it: The ridiculous, contrived, and ultimately meaningless explanation for why Moroha has been trying to buy her way out of debt for three years.

Then, the second flashback, which is actually the most recent chronologically, shows us how it took Yawaragi three whole years to get to that damned hidden village of rats, only to discover that Konton arrived just beforehand and killed all of them. Whoopsie! We even get a nice shot of a dead rat mother cradling the corpse of her rat child – a weirdly dark moment that Yashahime certainly hasn't earned or anything – just to remind you that these Four Perils are super evil and powerful (despite the fact that they keep getting their asses kicked by a trio of teenagers who can barely be bothered to acknowledge their existence). Konton makes a deal with Yawaragi that he'll hand over the key if she kills Moroha and the others, and she accepts. “But!” Yashahime then asks, “Is she really going to betray her adopted daughter figure? Or is Yawaragi preparing Moroha for the final and most important lesson of her training?”

The answer is clearly supposed to be that second one, but Yashahime is just so goddamn bad at even the simplest character writing that the point doesn't land. Throughout all of these flashbacks, Moroha and Yawaragi have been dueling one-on-one, with Towa and Setsuna being told to sit uselessly on the sidelines, and Yawaragi keeps insisting that Moroha use her “creative imagination” to beat her, instead of relying on the rouge. This kind of falls flat when Moroha's victory just comes from her busting out a new special move, the Crimson Dragon Wave, which is neither a creative or imaginative resolution to the fight. Every Yashahime fight boils down to some combination of the girls' different special attacks, so why is this any different?

Way late in the episode, Konton suddenly teleports into the fight to gloat at Yawaragi. Nobody else really notices or acknowledges Konton's arrival, though you'd think this is the point where Towa and Setsuna would get off their butts and do something, because it isn't like Moroha's honor would be besmirched by kicking Konton's ass again. The show even forgets to include Konton in the next couple of shots of Yawaragi reacting to Moroha's attacks, even though it is absolutely critical that he be standing right behind her, because when Moroha unleashes the Crimson Dragon Wave, she whips behind Konton to hold him down in an act of self-sacrifice.

Here's the kicker, though: The guy can teleport. Yawaragi just saw him do this, and not thirty seconds earlier! So it shouldn't be surprising to anybody when Konton uses his Rainbow Pearl powers to teleport out of Yawaragi's arms and escapes anyways while the other girls throw some useless attacks at him. So, to recap: The audience learns that Yawaragi created the whole issue of Moroha's Beniyasha transformation in the first place, and she then spent years fruitlessly attempting to undo the problem, including purchasing a deadly set of cursed armor from a random weasel that was traipsing about the forest one day. All of this led to Moroha being sold to Jyubei, which was ultimately pointless because Yawaragi just ended up being coerced into attacking Moroha by Konton, and the one thing that might have made this entire cavalcade of terminally stupid decisions worthwhile – killing Konton – ended up being foiled by random Rainbow Pearl Powers. In other words, absolutely nothing of importance was learned, the girls are not one step closer to any of their goals, and Moroha inadvertently murdered Yawaragi for no reason. It is positively stunning when Yawaragi dies, and the show has the gall to play the moment off like some huge, emotional payoff…except Moroha is more or less fine by the time the credits roll.

Good Lord, this show is continuing to outdo itself in all of the worst ways. I won't damn it with the non-score of Episode 14, because “Double-Edged Moroha” at least has some halfway-decent looking action to try and distract you from how bad everything else is. I did, however, spend far too much time teaching myself how to use image-editing software so I could slap together this dumb meme that perfectly sums up my feelings about Yashahime at the moment. That said, it was probably more time and effort than anybody working on the show spent going over its sorry excuse of a script.

[mcfreakin-bxtch]

Survival

Pairing: Ezra x Reader

Warnings: NSFW (soft, secret/quiet smut. Some thigh riding. None too graphic), death, blood

Word Count: 3.1k

A/N: My first Ezra fic! I was gonna wait until tomorrow to post this but I’m really impatient and just said fuck it, it’s 2020. Hope you lot enjoy! As always, requests and prompts are open.

Masterlist

You didn’t want to be stuck on this godforsaken moon.

The Green is what most called it due to its forestry nature. It was beautiful, but deadly all the same. Being the oldest to Cee, it was your responsibility to look after her and show her the ropes.

Damon was not your biological father but took you in anyway after the death of your mother. You didn’t particularly like the man; he was just as cold and distant with you (which you didn’t mind) as he was with Cee. That was what bothered you.

Cee was a very intelligent girl, and you always encouraged her to keep writing her book despite what Damon said otherwise about it. The smile you would receive after was worth all the fights and arguments you would have with Damon over her.

This kind of life wasn’t suitable for a young girl like her. You weren’t related to her by blood, but you always felt like a sister to her. She looked up to you more than she did her father, relied on you for any piece of humanity and comfort. Every decision you ever made was always in Cee’s best interest, because she mattered more to you than anything else in the world.

But it was hard to depart from Damon. Cee still loved her father despite their differences, and so the only thing you could do – while you bided your time to eventually leave and take Cee with you – was to stay and deal with Damon.

His greed was also something you could never stand. Yes it was nice to be rich and plentiful, and you were not oblivious to the realities of the world you lived in; but Damon’s greed was starting to become dangerous, and it was putting Cee in danger as well.

So when you’re standing in the middle of a draw, the man you had learned to be Ezra and his silent partner trying to negotiate, and Damon robbing them point blank as they had tried beforehand, you couldn’t help but feel that this was all a very bad idea.

You rob anyone and it always results in a firefight. You were prepared for it, but yet when the mute and Damon both fired at each other, both you and Cee stood there with blank expressions. Shocked and scared, Cee started to panic as Ezra, the last man standing, quickly went for a weapon.

“Go!” You said to Cee, pointing your thrower at him.

Cee hesitated before making a bee line for the lander. You only hoped that she would be able to get there in one piece.

Ezra smiled and shrugged as he watched her run away, eyes still trained on yours.

“I don’t believe I got your name,” he said.

You hated the fact that despite the situation at hand, his accent – even through your helmets – sent little trembles through you.

“You don’t need it,” you said gruffly. “And tell me why I shouldn’t shoot you down where you stand?”

He huffed. “Well, I think you would’ve by now if that’s what you really wanted sweetheart.”

Your firsts tightened around the grip of your gun. “Don’t call me that,” you growled.

Ezra put his hands up in surrender. “Alright. But I’m serious. You seem like a reasonable person, and I’m willing to negotiate.”

You hesitated. Could you really trust this man? He was partly responsible for Damon’s death, although Damon was just at fault for the whole situation breaking out the way it did, and you had Cee to protect. Ezra hadn’t moved a muscle, watching you with trained eyes.

“We follow through with Damon’s plan,” Ezra continued as he saw you contemplating. “I help you with the girl, offer my protection for the both of you. Not that I think you need it,” he added with a small smile.

You chewed on your lips as you contemplated his offer once more. You eventually aimed your thrower down, glaring at the man.

You told him your name, which brought a shiny grin to his lips as he tested it out with his natural drawl. You hated the way your heart flipped at the sound of it.

“Well then,” he stepped closer to you, and you couldn’t help but take a step back as he did. His smile faltered, just a little. “Let’s go find your girl.”

It didn’t take too long to find the damaged lander. You gave a pattern of knocks before calling out to her. Cee quickly rushed to the hatch, eyes meeting yours in relief but wavering at the sight of the man partly responsible for her father’s death.

“He’s going to help us,” you told her. “We came to an agreement. We’re going to try and find a way off this fucking moon but we gotta move now.”

Cee looked back and forth between you and Ezra. You could see the internal turmoil she was having and hoped like hell she would cooperate with you.

“Okay,” she finally said. You thought for sure she was going to say more, and she most likely wanted to but bit her tongue.  

…

It had only been a week now. You knew time was precious, but the three of you had been monitoring The Green. You weren’t surprised to find other diggers and mercenaries; it was to be expected. Outnumbered, it was your suggestion at biding time and scoping them out, making sure you all had at least a good chance at making it out of there alive.  

You made Ezra promise that if anything happened to you, that he would protect Cee. Their lives didn’t matter, only hers.

“Of course,” the conviction in his voice settled you, as did the firmness in his eyes as he promised you.

Ezra was not only incredibly handsome (which you would’ve fought tooth and nail to dispute), but he was also smart. He knew when to keep his mouth shut, how to dig, fight, track. You figured he had been at this lifestyle for quite some time now, and the old, tired look in his eyes seemed to prove your theory.

Cee wouldn’t give him her name at first, and he – much to your appreciation – did not push it. Eventually, however, you heard her blabbing away about her book to him; your heart swelled at the soft smile Ezra held as he encouraged her to continue.

It was rocky at first, your little partnership. You only answered his questions when it was necessary, and always kept your thrower in your hand just in case. Ezra was nothing but patient with you and overtime you had begun to open up to him.

“Sometimes I wonder if I’m enough,” you said to him. Cee stayed behind to rest in Ezra’s tent while you and Ezra went out to scout. “For Cee, I mean.”

Ezra, who was walking in front of you, stopped to turn around, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“What do you mean?” He asked.

You looked down, suddenly shy. “I- I mean that I’m not doing enough for her.”

He nodded then in understanding, turning back around to lead the way. “You’re tryin’. Putting her wants and needs above yours, it’s the best you can do for a young one.”

You nodded. You knew he didn’t see it, but you were so deep in thought you didn’t even realize he stopped dead in his tracks until you literally bumped into him. He caught you before you could fall, and you wanted nothing more than to melt in his arms in that moment.

“She obviously cares about you very much,” he assured, arms still settled around your forearms. You looked up at him, fighting hard not to trail your eyes down to his lips, which you desperately wanted to feel against yours. You wondered if they would feel soft or chapped, what he would taste like against your tongue.

“And I can see that you do too. Now I know that we had a rough start, but I gave you my word. The girl will see off this moon alive, no matter what.”

You clenched your jaw. “Yeah,” you croaked. “She will.”

You also couldn’t deny the sexual tension that coursed between you and Ezra. He didn’t miss the way you would quickly avert your eyes once he caught you staring at him, or the way you would hold your breath when he was close to you, fingers twitching as if you were desperate to feel his touch.

Being the man that he was, he teased you. Little brushes against you, blowing it off by reaching behind you to grab a bar or a tool. Throwing you little smirks when you explain something to him. It was driving you crazy, and you wanted nothing more than to jump the man. The only thing that stopped you, really, was that you had Cee.

You knew Cee had detected the flirting, and she rolled her eyes every time Ezra cracked a joke at your expense. It felt like your skin was crawling. The thick, fiery boil in your stomach coiling and coiling until it threatened to explode. The ache in your core was one of the worsts of all; it had been so long since you felt the intimate touch of another.

While Cee was dead asleep, you had decided enough was enough. The next sunrise was the day to finally make a move for the Queen’s Lair, and there was no guarantee for anyone’s safety. It was now or never, and if the feelings were mutual between you and Ezra, then you refused to die without feeling him. Pushing your small excuse for a blanket back, you tip-toed across to Ezra’s bunk. He looked so peaceful, and you could see now his age, but it only made him more beautiful in your eyes. It was enough to almost change your mind. Almost.

You gently shook his shoulder. His mouth, which was slightly open in a quiet snore, quickly shut, eyes opening wide in slight panic.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you whispered, hand still on his shoulder.

Ezra glared up at you, sleep washing away from his eyes. “Okay?”

You hesitated. He kept staring in puzzlement until it finally clicked. Your flushed state, the embarrassment, chest heaving silently in eagerness. He grinned, opening his blanket to you.

“I’ll take care of you,” he whispered huskily.

You inhaled sharply before practically jumping onto the bunk. Your hands sat awkwardly between the both of you, now enclosed in his warmth.  

Ezra covered you both, arms wrapping around your waist to bring you closer to him. You gasped, one hand on his covered chest and the other just under his chin. He brought a hand up to your face, brushing your hair way before cupping your cheek. Your lips were barely touching now and it was electric, breaths mixing together as you looked into his dark eyes; they were blown wide, and it only made you clench your thighs together for the friction you desperately craved.

“Tell me to stop if you want me to,” he said against your lips.

Such a foolish thing to say. You never wanted him to stop. He hadn’t even kissed you yet and you were already a puddle at his feet.

You answered with a clash of lips and teeth. Ezra had to hold back the groan that threatened to claw its way out, exhaling sharply through his nose instead. It had been a while for him as well.

His lips were better than you imagined. They were rough, slightly chapped, but somehow still soft all the same. You were convinced only Ezra could pull off such a distinctive and alluring spell with only the touch of his lips.

The hand that was wrapped around your waist slowly trailed down to your ass, groping it and kneading the flesh, earning a gasp from you; he took this opportunity to explore your mouth, both of you sighing at the taste of each other.

He slipped a thigh between your legs, bringing the other leg around his hip. You couldn’t help but to start grinding against his thigh, knuckles tightening around his arm as his lips trailed down your neck. You closed your eyes in bliss, his hand ghosting over the skin left uncovered by your shirt. Your stomach clenched, pulling back to pull the shirt over your head. Ezra looked at you in awe.

“Use me,” you whispered.

He gulped. It was all a blur, and suddenly he was on top of you, tearing down your pants and working on his. You shuddered at his thick girth, slapping against his stomach. You both looked over to Cee, still sleeping comfortably with her back turned as he pulled the blanket closer over the both of you, making sure to cover up your nakedness.

He kissed you again, palming your breast in one palm and tweaking your nipple in the other. Your back arched up into him, legs opening wider for him. His hips shifted against yours, the head of his cock brushing against your clit; Ezra had to bite back the moan, body shaking from restraint as he broke the kiss to look down.

“Please,” you begged. “Ezra.”

Ezra pressed his forehead against yours as he pushed into you. A moan would’ve escaped you if it hadn’t been for his lips. His breaths were shaky as he bottomed out, hips pressed firmly against yours. Your walls clenched from the fullness, making him close his eyes tightly and bury his face in your neck. The both of you knew you weren’t going to last long.

“Shit,” he whispered in your ear.

He started to move once you shifted your hips up, starting as slow and quietly as he could. He felt divine inside you. You trailed kisses down his gorgeous neck, biting down softly when he hit your sweet spot. He gripped a handful of your hair, tightening his grip as he started to move a little faster. His mouth stayed firmly planted on your collarbone as your hands trailed up and down his back, feeling the muscles ripple with every thrust before finally settling in his hair and back.

In that moment there was nothing else in the world but you and Ezra. You would die a happy woman if it meant having this moment with him. In the short time you had known him you grew attached, which you realized this to be a dangerous thing.

Where he was hard and calloused, touched by the harsh years, you were soft, sweet. The combination only fueled the desire, the need for each other. Where he was fire, you were ice, forming together in perfect harmony and creating something terrifyingly beautiful.

It felt as though Ezra felt the same, because when he pulled his head back to kiss you as your orgasms started to peak, you felt all the words he couldn’t say bleed into you like pure air – nothing like the sterile, recycled oxygen you were so used to.

You feel so fucking good around me.

I’ve wanted you since day one.

We have to fight through this together.

I can’t let you die.

I won’t let you die.

Every molecule in your body sang with euphoria as your walls tightened around his cock. His thrusts had turned harder now, not enough for it to be loud, but enough to bring that delicious ache you know you’d be feeling for days. You bit down harshly on his shoulder as you came, nails digging into his back. Ezra gritted his teeth and dug his short nails into the tender skin of your thigh, releasing himself into you.

You didn’t let go of him as you tried to catch your breath. You looked over to see that Cee had turned a little but was still otherwise very asleep. Thank god she was a heavy sleeper.

Ezra kissed your forehead, nose, then lips before pulling out with a small hiss. You grabbed your shirt to put on, watching as he pulled his pants back up. He reached over you, fumbling underneath the bunk until he found what he was looking for. He gently cleaned you off with the cloth, throwing it back under and pulling you into his chest after helping you with your clothes.  

“I apologize,” he said after a few moments of silence.

You frowned. “For what?”

“For…” His eyes trailed down, and it took you a second before your eyebrows raised in understanding.

“It’s okay. I liked it.”

You felt the rumble of his small chuckle, smiling softly.

“I’ll remember that then, sweetheart.”

…

“Go!”

Ezra was bleeding from the stab wound in his abdomen, pushing you towards Cee. The whole thing had gone to shit. Bodies laid out around you, their blood seeping into the patchy ground. And now there were mercenaries after you and only one pod to your ticket home. It was so close, but Ezra was already pale from the blood loss and you couldn’t find your fucking kit and you were crying and you can’t lose him.

“Ezra,” your voice shook. “Come on.”

“I can’t,” he panted. “You need to go. Don’t die because of me. Take Cee and leave.”

Cee. You had to protect Cee. Your chin trembled. You pressed your helmet against his before whispering an apology.

Ezra watched as you grabbed Cee’s hand and ran. He closed his eyes, struggling for air. But, oddly enough, he was okay with his death. Because it was to protect you and Cee. He wasn’t the definition of noble or good by any means, had killed plenty of people himself just for the precious gems alone. He did what was necessary to live. But if he could do this one right thing, if he could die knowing you were alive and safe, then he could accept it with open arms.

He suddenly felt an intense pressure against his wound, eyes going wide and mouth opening in painful shock.

You sat over him, patching his stab wound to the best of your ability before looping his arm around your shoulders and yours around his waist.

“C’mon!” You grunted.

Ezra stood up, grunting at the pain but letting you carry him – as much as you could anyway, even dying he was still mindful – towards the pod. Cee helped you carry him in and closed the hatch.

You and Cee sighed in relief once the pod had successfully taken off. You made sure Ezra was patched up properly and relaxed as you sat down next to him. He looked at you in amazement, offering a gently smile in thanks.

You smiled back as you grabbed his hand, reaching to your right to hold on to Cee’s. A new sense of hope coursing through the three of you. You survived.

  Tags: @scarlett-berserker​, @justlovetoreadfics​, @lil-baby27​, @mando-vibes​, @beepbeepyabitch, @that-void-witch​, @im-the-music-whore​, @certifiedhunter​, @outlawers​, @hejahockey​, @okaydacre​, @lemongrove​, @appreciating-chase-brody, @iwontforgettheapplepie, @mybabyboytony​, @olyamoriarty, @pcrushinnerd​, @elusive-ivory​, @dizzydazed​, @bluejeancntrygrl​, @our-mrlangdon, @parody-the-emi​, @evalynanne​, @purplewaterbird​, @angel-hunter-winchester​, @pascalisthepunkest​

[auroras-blend]

Playdate Bonus Chapter

*Small excerpt of Leo's POV from the Playdate chapter. All of Mazzeo's dialogue is spoken in Italian but given the amount and length (cause he talks a lot), I translated it into English.

Leonardo was a picture-perfect host with a genuine-looking smile on his face. Anyone who saw him would immediately feel welcomed with open arms into his home, ready and delighted to receive his hospitality. If only he felt as generous on the inside. Vittoria was bouncing beside him, a true happy grin brightening her face. It was the happiest he had ever seen her. Unfortunately for him, it came at his expense.

He had put off arranging a playdate with Signore Mazzeo’s granddaughter for as long as he could, but eventually, he had to give in and concede to a date and time. That morning, he had just stared at the top of the fridge at the little note that said: “Playdate with the Mazzeo's” that taunted him with the knowledge that while his daughter got to entertain herself with her new friend, whom he still had reservations about, he had to endure Franco’s long-winded conversations. "Conversation" was a polite word given that Franco did all of the talking, never taking a moment to breathe. Currently, he was giving his unsolicited parenting advice as if he were the finest father in the entire world. One of the things he hated about parenthood was the unsolicited advice people felt entitled to give to him.

“Of course, my parenting experience began before I was ever even a father. I always knew what type of father I wanted to be. Perfect in every sense of the word. There for my kids, never letting our work distract me. My own father…”

Was absent...unaffectionate...yes, yes. You’ve told me already. Leonardo subtly looked over at the grandfather clock, watching the minute hand move so slowly that he could swear it was doing it on purpose. Forty-five more minutes until I have three hours left…

“Then I became a father. Giulia, my firstborn, was an absolute angel. I didn’t want to mess her up so I made time for her, more than I could afford in our line of work. The baby years were such a wonderful time. A true shame you missed out on them, but that’s life. Anyways, I wanted to be a perfect father but that idea faded away. Everything you’ll think you’ll be as a parent fades away when you face the reality and I’ve learned that that’s okay. For instance…”

All I asked was “Would you like something to drink?”...that’s it. What have I done to deserve this? His eyes averted for a moment to see Vittoria and Nicolletta crank the music box again...Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name...He was incredibly resentful that Signora Bianchi bought his daughter that godforsaken music box. She played it nonstop and all he wanted to do was throw it away, but of course, Vittoria always put it back where it was supposed to go. The first and only time she put her toys away, it had to be that damn music box.

“Then Sofia was born and regretfully I wasn’t home as much. I wonder now if I had been home more if they would have turned out differently. Sofia was always the wild one. It’s a night and day difference between her sister and daughter. Giulia was always so even-tempered and Nicolletta causes no trouble. Anyways, I think Sofia was resentful. So I indulged her and that was my big mistake. Indulging your child is one of the worst things you can do. I warn you now…”

Do I indulge Vittoria too much? He knew the answer was yes, but she was always grateful. Vittoria understood and respected the word no, so he figured if he said no then she’d listen. Overall, his daughter was a good girl with a kind demeanor. I can hardly believe that bitch raised her.

“Giulia was the biggest disappointment. I haven’t heard from her in twelve years, not since she left Emilio with me. That blasted girl had the nerve to get herself knocked up with a Mick and then leave him with me. I don’t know if she’s dead or not, but I consider her so. I have to move on for the sake of my grandson…”

Leonardo had known Giulia and from day one knew she was nothing more than a whore. He had seen her twice and was merciful enough to spare Franco the knowledge of what had happened to his eldest daughter. Her body was disgusting. The smell was awful and oh...I need to have the upstairs sink unclogged. I’ll have to add that to the reminders list on the fridge. His fridge had gone from spotless stainless steel to an honorary bulletin board covered with tiny handprints, a hand-drawn picture of Vittoria and him, Principessa Snowbell, several notes, and Vittoria’s school agenda. It looked so drastically different, though he supposed that was how his life had turned out recently.

A loud thud against the seat of a chair startled him out of his thoughts and back to the conversation with Sig. Mazzeo. “Of all people, a MICK! Then there was that good-for-nothing girl. Sofia, I bailed her out too much, and look what happened. She married that good-for-nothing Cardarelli scum. I should’ve had him eliminated when I had the goddamn chance,” he said quickly, his volume rising.

Don’t you need to breathe? For Christ’s sake… “Do not let Vittoria marry whoever she wants. You’re her father, you know who’s best for her…”

Leo opened his mouth but Franco cut him off before a sound could even be formed, “Arrange something. It’s what I should’ve done. Sofia that dumb girl! If her husband had stuck to our traditions, then she wouldn’t be where she is now. I wouldn’t bail her out this time. I draw the line with what she did! Vinnie has respiratory problems now from inhaling that devil’s substance,” Franco continued, taking a moment to cross himself.

Vittoria would never do such a thing. “Which brings me to my next point…”

Murder in front of the girls’ would be unadvisable but he’s making it seem like a more appealing idea. Leonardo’s eyes drifted to the clock again. It’s only been six minutes? Cazzate! The clock must be broken. “I’ve learned from my mistakes and I’m making a better effort to raise my grandchildren. The loves of my life. I miss our work but retiring is the best option. I won’t let my wife do it on her own, no sir. Four children at our age are enough. Our job, our families...it ages you,” the man laughed, “I can see now that fatherhood has graced you with a few extra pounds.”

Excuse me? Leonardo opened his mouth but before he could say anything, that damn man spoke over him, “Nothing to be ashamed of, of course. It was after Sofia when I got my belly. Sig. Donisi lost his hair…”

It was only a couple of pounds. Leonardo had hardly seen a difference in his appearance with the exception of needing to move over a notch in his belt, but that was it! And something had to give in his routine because there were only so many hours in a day. He at least tried to exercise three times a week instead of every day like he used to.

People are over-dramatic. Inside he was seething. The meat cleaver is right next to the stove. “Which reminds me of this one time…”

Jesus Christ! The things I do for Vittoria. I can handle her crying, tantrums, the need for piggyback rides, and almost anything and everything but this? He remembered feeling semi-fortunate that her playdate with Emilio hadn’t worked out, because that meant he didn’t have to invite and entertain Sig. Mazzeo over again. Of course, she just had to make friends with Nicolletta.

“I think you are doing an exceptional job with Vittoria. That poor child, seeing the things she’s seen. You keep her sane when most would go mad,” Mazzeo said, his eyes softening sympathetically.

Before Leonardo could even say thank you, the man continued. He’d do anything to protect Vittoria from madness and madhouses. And anyone who thinks she should be there. Alessia wore scarves quite frequently for the past few weeks as her bruises around her neck faded from blue to yellow. It was her own fault. Suggesting I place Vittoria in a madhouse. Technically she suggested Vittoria see a psychiatrist but that was the same thing in his mind, knowing that they’d try and have her committed. Hell will freeze over before I let that happen. His mother had perished, he’d be damned before that happened to his daughter.

It wasn’t her, nor anyone’s place, to tell me what I should do for my daughter. I know what’s best for her. “Of course when I was a boy things were different…” Sig. Mazzeo began, his voice having a trace of nostalgia.

“Papa!” Vittoria cried, coming running in with Nicolletta hot on her heels, “Can we go outside and play jump rope now?”

Oh thank God, I can speak. Praise Jesus. “Of course, principessa,” he smiled, happy to use his voice for the first time in a while.

And for the last time in the next hour.

[fangzeronos]

Love Lost Birds

This is all @xaphrin‘s fault for getting me to love this ship. Seriously, you guys go read her Shadows series. It’s so damn good! Hope this is enjoyed!

The rainy and hellishly loud nights in Gotham City drove Damian crazy. In his teens, he’d been a Titan, fighting with the people he had come to consider a family. As much as he bitched to Grayson, and even Drake on occasion, Damian missed the Tower. What made the Tower bearable was her. The way her eyes sparkled in silent laughter at something Logan or Reyes would do, the small smiles she would give him, or the way they worked together.

 Then she disappeared, days before her birthday with nothing explaining why or where she was. He’d felt her disappearance before not seeing her, and even knocking on her door before bursting in confirmed the empty feeling in his stomach. He had sat in the dark of her room for over an hour, his fingers around a note he’d never read, her handwriting perfectly done on the front of the envelope.

 He had called every magic user he knew, from Constantine to Zatanna, even in contact with Tala or even Nabu, but none of them could or would locate her. Two years of looking, trying to find his way into side dimensions, or pocket universes, always being rejected and flung back to the cold darkness of the Tower at the mention of her name.

 Retreating back to Gotham and choosing to ignore the Titans worked for a while, but when Kori was around he was forced to talk. Sometimes he despised the Tamaranian, but he could tolerate her for Grayson’s sake.

 “Damian, you know she had to have had a reason to leave,” Kori had said one night on a patrol, her flaming hair sending steam into the air in the rain.

 “Without saying anything? Least of all to you or I? I do not buy it, Starfire. I will not stop until I find her,” Damian said, dropping onto a rooftop and sliding some thanks to a puddle on the roof. He slammed his hand against the wet bricks, anger surging through him. “Why? Why did she leave?”

 Kori landed beside Damian, putting her hand on his shoulder. With his hood over his face, she couldn’t see his eyes, but she knew talking about their missing friend was troubling him and causing him grief. “I don’t know, Damian. I don’t have the answer you’re looking for. I wish I did, but…she never confided in me her reason to leave,” she said.

 Damian growled, shaking Kori’s hand off as the sound of sirens pierced the thundering skies. He jumped off of the roof, thankful for the distraction.

 Deciding to hell with the city, Damian returned to the Batcave, tugging his cape off and pulling his domino mask off at the same time. He changed out of his suit, hanging it to let it dry. “Four months of rain in this godforsaken city. I am starting to wish Freeze would just ice it over and be done with us.” He started for the stairs to the library, deciding to walk to clear his head.

 “Master Damian, you know that is not a thing to wish,” Alfred said, looking at the young man as he turned in his chair from the computer. “Oh, Master Damian. You received a message from a Jaime Reyes."

 Damian froze, turning back to Alfred. “Reyes? What does the Beetle want with me?” he asked. He stepped off of the stairs, heading to the computer. “What was the message, Pennyworth?”

 Alfred handed Damian a sheet of paper with Jaime’s message on it.

 “Hey, Damian,

 It’s been a long time, and I’m sorry we never got in touch with you in the last few years. Dick said it’d be easier to message Alfred to get to you. You may want to sit down before you keep reading, because you’re going to collapse if you don’t. Sitting down? Good.

 She’s back. She’s been back two days, and she asked us to wait two days to contact you in case she had to go again. She wants to see you, amigo. How quickly can you make it back here? Let me know.

 Jaime”

 Damien’s blood ran cold, sinking into a chair as his knees gave out on him. She couldn’t have been back. He’d have felt it. He’d have felt her again. They were so attuned to each other, he’d have known. “Thank—” he started, his voice thick with emotions. He swallowed the lump in his throat, licking his lips softly. “Thank you, Alfred.” Forcing himself out of the chair, he took the elevator to the library, heading for his room.

 Once alone, he set Jaime’s note on the desk before opening a drawer, taking the letter out, his fingers tracing the letters on the envelope. Sitting on the floor, Damian turned the envelope over and broke the seal, his heart hammering his ribs. Pulling the slightly yellowing paper out, he unfolded it and started reading.

 “My Damian.

 I can hear you yelling at Dick and Kori about where I am. Just know that I’m safe so that you all stay safe too. Please don’t hate me for leaving. It’s something I had to do in order to keep Earth safe from my father. I have to go to Azarath, learn from the Monks and hopefully find a way to stop Trigon for good.

 If I know you, you’ll look at this envelope and say that I’m coming back soon and that I’ll be there quick, and you won’t open this until you know I’m home. I don’t know how long this will take, but I hope that you find peace after my leaving. I have loved every minute we’ve spent together, from carnivals and busting up bad guys to just quiet nights watching the rain or fireworks in one of our rooms. I don’t have enough time to write out everything I wanted to say to you, and I hope that once this is over I can say them face to face.

 We’re both going to be different people when we meet again, Damian. I hope you forgive me for not telling you I was leaving, but you’d have insisted on coming with me or protesting and try to get me to stay. I wish I could stay, but doing that would endanger the world, and I can’t lose you.

 I’ll see you again. Just know that, even though I never said it before, and reading it in a letter is not the right way to say it the first time, I love you, Damian. I always will.

 Love,

 Raven”

 The letter was marked with a kiss, the same shade of lipstick Raven would wear in her suit. “Raven…” Damian closed his eyes, taking a shaky breath as he pressed the letter to his forehead, drawing his knees up. He sighed, feeling like a weight was lifted off of his chest and dropped into his stomach. Looking up as a knock sounded on the door, Damian got up, wiping his eyes.

 “What?” he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.

 Bruce opened the door, looking at his son. “Damian? Are you alright? Alfred said you were less bitchy then usual after patrol.”

 Damian nodded, explaining about Jaime’s letter and finally opening Raven’s. “I’ll take the jet to San Francisco, meet up with the Titans again. If Raven really is back…I have to go, Father.”

 Bruce nodded, putting his hand on Damian’s shoulder. “I’ll make sure it’s fueled and ready for you for in the morning. We can cover Gotham until you get back.”

 Damian nodded, sighing softly. “What if this all goes to hell?” he asked. “Raven and I? I…I don’t think I could handle losing her again, Father.”

 Bruce smiled softly, sitting on the edge of the bed beside his son. “If you love someone, you’ll fight to keep them. When you found out she disappeared, I got a continuous stream of calls from Jason Blood, Zatanna, Constantine, Doctor Fate, even people like Tala, Black Adam, and Faust saying you were desperate to find Raven. You spent two years trying to find her, and if that isn’t love, Damian, I don’t know what is.”

 Damian looked at the letter, shaking his head softly. “I had the answer in my possession the entire time, but I never opened this. I thought if I did, she’d be gone for good. The fact that she’s back, after four years…? I don’t want to lose her again.”

 “Then don’t,” Bruce said. “When you see her, you talk. You find out how she’s been, what she’s been doing, tell her what you’ve been doing and how you’ve been. Then you work for your future together.”

_____________________ Leaving before dawn the next morning, Damian sighed to himself as he flew the Batwing toward San Francisco. After eleven hours in the cockpit, thankful he’d had Alfred’s meals to keep him company as well as a book from Grayson, the Titans Tower came into view.

 “Batwing to Titans Tower. Requesting permission to land.”

 “Like you gotta ask, Birdboy! Lighting up the roof!” Garfield’s voice said.

 “Thank you, Garfield,” Damian said, shutting the communication line back off before flying down and landing on the illuminated helipad, shutting the engines off as the landing struts hit the concrete. He opened the cockpit and grabbed his bag and trash, jumping down and letting it close up before he jogged across the rooftop and walked through the door.

 Walking into the main living room of the Tower, Damian was hit with the sounds and sights he’d been missing for over four years. Garfield and Jaime were playing games on the massive wall length television, Tim was on the computer and looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. He was the first to look over and see Damian.

 “Hey, man,” Tim said, getting up and shaking Damian’s hand. “Good flight?”

 “Alfred’s cooking and a book made it more bearable. If I admitted how nervous I was the entire way, none of you would believe me,” Damian said. “Where’s--?”

 “Her room,” Tim said. “Asked us to tell you and leave you two be, and only to come running if one of you stormed out and disappeared.”

 “Glad to see everyone still listens to her,” Damian said. “Thank you.”

 “Good to see you, Damian,” Tim said with a genuine smile.

 Damian smiled a little, waving to Garfield and Jaime before heading for his room. He didn’t even pay attention to where he was going, his feet on autopilot before he ended up at his door. He pushed the door open and tossed his bag on the bed, pulling his mask off and changing into civilian clothes before he walked out, sighing as he headed down the hallway. Making his way to Raven’s room, the ethereal raven emblem on the wall. Reaching his hand up to knock, the door slid open.

 “You don’t have to knock,” Raven’s voice said, a light turning on and illuminating the room. She was floating over her bed, cloak on the mattress and her legs crossed in her usual pose. Her hair was longer and drawn into a ponytail, her cloak the same but in white, and she’d lost the leggings, leaving her bare legs to the elements.

 “It’s polite,” Damian said, walking in and letting the door shut behind him. “Especially after not seeing someone for four years.”

 Raven nodded, floating down before letting her feet land on the floor. “You never read the letter, did you?” she asked, meeting Damian halfway in the room.

 “Not until last night,” Damian said softly. “If I read it…it would have made it permanent in my mind. I thought if I didn’t read it, I’d wake up and you’d be here. But every day for a year, that dream was always shattered. I couldn’t stand it after two years, moving back to Gotham and leaving all of this behind.”

 Raven smiled softly, putting her hand on Damian’s cheek softly. “I thought about you all the time,” she said. She watched him close his eyes and lean into her touch, the tough as nails Grandson of the Demon turning into a gentle giant around her like he always did. “Never went a day without hoping you were okay or thinking about a rainstorm and sitting here watching the lightning, tea in our hands.” She reached down and took his hands, feeling his warmth spread through her. “I missed you.”

 “I missed you,” Damian said softly, squeezing Raven’s hands. “Four years and nine months, Raven. Four years I wondered if I’d done something to you, something to make you leave without explaining. I thought you hated me.”

 “Never,” Raven said, shaking her head. “I could never hate you, Damian. I left to keep you safe. You and the other Titans. When my eighteenth birthday came, I woke up with a burning on my skin. I knew exactly what it was, and I knew I didn’t have time to explain. I’d written that letter the night before, knowing you’d find it the next day. I packed and left the minute I’d woken up. The burning was my father’s mark, signaling the day arrived I was supposed to destroy the world.”

 Damian sighed softly. He didn’t know why, but he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Raven’s waist, pulling her toward him. He felt her arms go around his neck, and he buried his nose against her shoulder, the familiar scent of jasmine and lavender filling his senses. “Don’t leave me again,” he said. “Please.”

 “Never,” Raven said softly, tightening her arms and closing her eyes. “Four years was long enough without you.” She smiled, holding tightly to Damian.

 After a few minutes, the pair stepped back, Damian putting his hand on Raven’s cheek. “You were right about one thing.”

 “Just one?” Raven asked with an amused smirk, cocking an eyebrow.

 Damian rolled his eyes and smiled softly. “The letter. Reading it on a page isn’t the same as hearing it,” he said. “I love you, Raven. I always have, and the last four years have been torture on my heart, not knowing if you were dead or alive, or even if you were safe. I’d gotten so used to feeling you around me, that when you disappeared I was empty. I was never satisfied or happy without that connection. Nothing I did filled that hole in my chest.”

 Raven smiled, putting her hand on Damian’s and turning her head softly, kissing his palm. “I know,” she said. “I wish I had explained before abandoning you for Azarath.” She took his hand and intertwined their fingers, enjoying his warmth against her skin. “I love you, too. I won’t leave you behind again. Not ever.”

 Damian smiled softly, leaning forward and kissing Raven, pulling her against him again and looping his arm around her waist. “Good,” he growled lowly, his tone sending a shiver through Raven’s spine that settled in her hips. “You do, I will not stop until I find you and I will punish you.”

 Raven kissed Damian back, her chest heaving from the force of the kiss and his threat of punishing her. “Mm…what did you learn in four years?” she asked with a smirk, backing up toward the bed before sitting down, watching him stalk forward.

 “You’ll have to find out,” Damian said, leaning down and kissing Raven again before she pulled him onto the bed, flipping him to pin him to the mattress. “Gotten stronger, my love.”

 Raven smiled, straddling Damian’s hips before leaning down and kissing him again, threading her fingers through his. “I also learned some new ways to play with my magic. Nights on Azarath got very boring,” she said, grinding her hips against Damian’s slowly, cocking an eyebrow as she teased him.

 Damian laughed, looking up at Raven. “Well. Looks like we’ve both got some new experiences to share with each other.”

 “That we do,” Raven said, kissing Damian.

 Neither Damian or Raven knew what the future would hold for either of them, but as long as they were together, they knew they could face whatever demons, both figurative or literal, that came their way.

[lovenona]

I just haad to say thank you for the free serotonin that you have provided me with through the last artist sukuna post

it's just... ✨beautifull✨ we are slowly building up this au

BUT CAN YOU IMAGINE HIM GETTING MORE AND MORE FRUSTRATED WITH THE LACK OF ATTENTION WERE HE'S KIND OF POUTING

and then there need to be a project done in which you have the option to work in groups and NO MATTER WHAT this proud cherry haired idiot WILL work alone but geto won't he came to y/n and they really need to work in a group if they want to get this done so of course y/n is happily gonna agree to the offer of geto to work together they do be viben after all which ultimately leads to the fact that y/n is gonna give sukuna even less attention (it probably doesn't even get on his nerves that much that y/n works with geto its just the lack of attention and ultimately time spending with you that result from it)

ah i am sorry I was rambling again😂

anyways hope you have a nice day and don't stress yourself too much with answering always happy to see you post❤️

babe let me just say ur brain is massive and i thank u from the bottom of my heart – anyway here’s the original post for everyone about to embark on this godforsaken journey with art student sukuna and our new friend pretentious fuck geto suguru 

if you thought you were pitiful at drawing, your sculptural skills are on another level of true and utter shit. you cannot, for the life of you, create things out of clay. you despise carving anything into wood. your pottery faithfully collapses on you whenever you try. you hate working with glass. you would have dropped the class, honest, if you didn’t desperately need it in order to fulfill your major requirements and graduate on time. 

all in all, it’s an awful class created solely to tank your gpa – you don’t understand what you’re doing, you don’t understand what anything is supposed to look like, and you sure as fuck don’t understand how anyone else seems to have their shit together all the time. when you glance around the room, no one, not even the famous ryomen sukuna, has trouble making their materials turn into something recognizable.

(and, in true sukuna fashion, he loves to make sure you know how fucking untalented you are.) 

so when anthropology-and-ceramics king geto suguru asks if you want to be partners for the next big art project, you agree without a second thought. you’ve been talking to him recently, small talk before class, and for all his pretentious faults, you think he’s delightfully hot as fuck with a smooth voice to match. he wears those crisp, expensive button-downs that he bought at overpriced local craft markets. he always smells like cedar and eucalyptus; he brings a different tote bag to every class, his favorite being one he got as a gift for subscribing to the new yorker. he shops organic only and throws around the words “fair trade” and “bourgeoisie” and “means of production” with the ease that sukuna throws around the words “fuck” and “shit.” 

you think geto is fascinating. and maybe he talks down to you when explaining his anthropology knowledge, he absolutely does, but when he gazes at you with those warm eyes and offers to help you learn how to sculpt and raise your grades, you can’t help but agree with a pair of big pathetic doe eyes. 

why wouldn’t you? you’re just here for a good time, after all.

so when you giggle as geto places his sinfully smooth, manicured hands over yours while teaching you how to use the pottery wheel, you don’t think much of it. you think he’s cute and warm. you’d be a fool to notice the dark annoyance radiating from the other corner of the room.

ryomen sukuna always works alone. but what he didn’t count on was that you wouldn’t be working alone with him. 

it’s not that you’re working with geto, he swears. it’s that you’re not working with him. his ears feel strangely empty without your argumentative quips, without the way you tell him he’s infuriating and annoying every time he tells you something lewd just to fluster you. it’s strangely empty without you both arguing about the difference between great artists and sell-outs – were you here, in his corner of the room, maybe sukuna would have tried to tell you michelangelo was a loser just to see what you would say. 

but you’re not with him. you’re listening to geto tell you about the time he went to study abroad in germany and how he took a trip to morocco where he tried some amazing food you’ve never heard of. he’s telling you about the time he helped make tampons in botswana after his senior year of high school and all of the other deliciously precocious things he has done for the sake of human rights and anti-capitalism. 

(you’re killing the environment, you know, geto often admonishes you when you stumble into class with your cup of coffee. that cup is going to end up in a landfill. he always taks a sip from his hydroflask for emphasis. it’s sleek and black with an oxfam sticker on it.

and sure, you know that your cup is going to become trash. geto doesn’t have to be an annoying fuck and tell you when it’s only eleven in the morning and he drove a literal moped to campus. but still, with that silky man-bun, everything he does is okay.) 

but understand that sukuna doesn’t hate geto. sukuna craves attention, and he absolutely cannot stand being ignored. he’ll pout without realizing it, pursing his lips and wondering what kind of circus act he needs to perform to win back your presence. should he get another tattoo? cuss out the professor? offer to fuck you senseless in the third-floor bathroom? he’s not sure – he’s never not been seen before. ryomen sukuna doesn’t know what it’s like to come in second. 

so he intercepts you after class; in a manner that is both sukuna-and-not-sukuna, he’ll casually throw one of his heavy arms over your shoulders, subtly pulling you away from geto’s aura, wrapping you in his scent of earth and leather and sex appeal. “come on, puppy,” he says, sultry and annoying and condescending all wrapped in one, tapping his ring-clad fingers against your arm. “you’re supposed to help me write my paper, aren’t you?” it’s not a question, it’s a demand, one you know deep down that you would rather die than shy away from. 

you might not like sukuna, you tell yourself, but there’s something about him, the way he talks and moves and exists in the world, that makes you unable to shy away. there’s something about him that always makes you want more without you quite knowing why. 

(he kissed you, once. sometimes you wonder if you would like it to happen again.) 

and you’re still nestled under sukuna’s arm, trapped in his orbit and following him to his favorite empty classrooms, when geto calls back to you, wondering if you’re still interested in going to the avant-garde poetry reading with him tomorrow night. 

he’s going to present a poem he wrote on the terrors inflicted on south america by the united states, geto had explained earlier when his hands were on yours. it was going to be some real, hard-hitting poetry, none of that “rupi kaur bullshit.” he thought it might enlighten you to join him, perhaps in more ways than one.

you pretend you don’t notice the way sukuna’s arm tightens around your shoulders when you tell geto with a flirtatious smile that you can’t wait. 

[captainkingsley]

Logan finds himself lying awake. It's not an uncommon occurrence for him — since his time in Aurora, he's lost more nights of sleep than he would like to recount. Most of the time, he finds ways to occupy himself: redividing his troops, thinking up new training regimens for them, checking in on the funds he'd gathered, waking his assistants and advisors in the night to talk things over with him. 

But some nights. 

Some nights he finds nothing that can soothe his mind. So he lies awake, staring up at the canopy of his bed while trying to trace where things had gone so wrong. 

Was it when he'd gone to Aurora in the first place? Perhaps the Darkness would have left his people alone if he'd never tried to help Kalin. Perhaps it was when he went through that godforsaken temple and his men had been picked off one by one, his force of elite guards reduced to one survivor. 

He shuts his eyes, covering his face with his arm. In his head, the voice of the Crawler whispers to him the things that he knows to be true: he's not strong enough, his people will never believe him, they must be forced into safety. 

Would it not be better for them to die in the comfort of their homeland than in the clutches of something so horrific as the Crawler, as the Darkness incarnate? 

"Why can't this be easy," he breathes, speaking to none but himself, "I am a failure of a king."

His mind trails to his father. 

He'd know how to handle this, Logan thinks, he'd know what to do. 

If only he could go back, back to before he'd led his men into danger. Before he'd allowed his mind to be sullied by the Darkness. 

Logan heaves a sigh and rolls onto his side. Eyes slipping shut, he lets himself drift into a light sleep that slowly deepens until his mind is free of the Crawler's voice scratching at his thoughts. 

--

He wakes to the rocking of the sea, and for a moment Logan believes himself to be dreaming. But then the sharp tang of seawater hits his senses, the smell filling his nose and bringing him into reality. He touches the sheets, feeling rough linen under his fingertips. 

Sitting up, the rocking of the boat assures him that he is not, in fact, dreaming. 

Were the last few years a dream? 

He stands.  

Logan waits a beat, and then another, feeling his heart skip as he realises that the whisper of the Darkness has gone from his mind and for the first time in ages he's no longer plagued by doubt and fear. Something of a laugh crawls up his throat and before he can stop himself he's laughing for the first time in years, laughing until his eyes water and he's doubled over, holding his abdomen. 

His breath catches. Logan heaves a gulp of air down, his throat still throbbing with the effort of laughter. 

What is wrong with me, he thinks, and his mind provides him with the fact that he's been unable to feel anything but fear, and emotions are new and raw all over again. Standing straight once again, Logan wipes at his face, ridding himself of the tears that had rolled down his cheeks during his fit of laughter. He clears his throat, squares his shoulders, and prepares to leave the cabin just as a knock sounds on the door.

“Come in,” he says without thinking, as though he’s already been through these steps before. 

The door swings open and he’s greeted with the face of the captain of the ship, a tall, tanned man with long brown hair. 

“We’re almost near the land,” the man says, “But we’re hitting some rough water. Should we give the trip another few days and go ‘round?” 

Logan opens his mouth to speak, almost ready to tell the man to ignore the storm and go straight ahead, but pauses.

That’s how they wound up at the temple.

He feels his heart in his throat as he tells the captain to take the longer way, and heads up with him to look over the map. 

They avoid the temple this time. The long way around proves to be more difficult to navigate, but Logan counts it as a blessing as they avoid the place so many of his men had died the first time. A second chance, he realises, to get things right. To avoid the way he’d messed up before.

“Sir,” the captain says as they’re pulling into the docks to the city of Aurora — the real city, not the edges or the outskirts. A few Aurorans have gathered to see the commotion, but in the distance, the captain points out a cloud.

Slowly crawling its way over the city from where the temple lies, deep in the desert, the cloud grows as the sun sets.

Logan swears under his breath, grabbing his sword and urging his men to form up. The Aurorans are shouting warnings at them. Logan assures them he knows what he’s doing as he steps off the ship, but each person looks more worried than the last. Most are fleeing back into the safety of their homes. A few stand outside, watching the sky, knowing what’s to come.

Darkness crawls over the city. Logan draws his sword, ready to act.

But it happens much the same as the last time.

His men fall.

Logan watches as they beg the Darkness to get out of their heads until they stop speaking altogether.

Cornered once again by the Crawler itself, Logan feels fear crawl up his spine as it studies him. It knows — knows that he’s done this once before. It laughs at him, grabbing his chin with its sickeningly long claws. Its thumb draws a deep gash down his mouth, just as before, making him taste his own blood as he swims in his own fear.

--

Logan finds himself lying awake.

He tastes blood in the back of his mouth.

Had it been real? 

He shivers and pulls his blankets over himself, huddling into himself. It felt real. It had taken days to get to Aurora, days on that ship, there was no way it was all a dream if it felt so intensely real that he could remember the feeling of the saltwater on his face and the cries of his men.

Logan puts his hand over his mouth, feeling nauseated. 

Go back.

The phrase hits him in the stomach.

Go back.

Go back.

He feels his eyes slip closed once again.

Back.

Just how far back, he wonders.

He wakes with a start in his bed in Albion. Logan looks down and pats his chest, then the bedsheets, and then he stands. A strange dream, he tells himself, a strange dream that has simply left him doubting and anxious. The clock on the wall tick, tick, ticks, over and over. 

He dresses. Nobody comes to disturb him as he prepares for his day. 

Just as he’d told them early on in his reign, and just as it has been for some time.

Logan goes to the mirror in the adjoining room, pulling a shirt on, buttoning it slowly from the bottom, his hands still shaking. Fumbling, he misses the buttonhole three times before grumbling, breathing one deep, heavy breath, and finally the button cooperates. 

He leans in to adjust his hair.

And then he notices that he’s missing something.

His fingers hesitantly touch his face.

His scar.

Logan pales, rubbing at his face, his skin turning red with the force of the friction. It leaves his skin tingling similar to when a hand or limb falls asleep. 

Turning on his heel, Logan goes to where he keeps his itinerary, his log of events, and realises—

He’s supposed to leave for Aurora in a week.

He curses, wringing his hands. Still half-dressed, Logan goes to the door and waves to a maid, who he tells to fetch Walter, please, right now, thank you.

Finishing dressing, Logan adjusts himself until he’s mostly presentable — save the exhausted look on his face and his obviously-shaken demeanor — and Walter steps into the room.

“You needed me?” He says, curious. Logan can tell he’s on edge.

“Cancel the voyage to Aurora.” Logan says. Walter’s mouth stays shut for a long moment, his mustache twitching.

“We’ve spent ages making sure our supplies are ready, our men are trained and ready, and you—” Walter starts, and Logan fixes him with a stare that can only be described as distraught. Walter pauses, his voice lowering. “Has something happened?”

Logan hesitates. He clenches his jaw. 

He could tell Walter.

He’s supposed to be able to trust Walter.

But he'd betrayed Walter before. 

It doesn't feel right to try to be honest now.

“It’s—” He starts. Logan feels something like dread in his stomach. “Complicated.”

“Can’t be too complicated to explain to me.” Walter says, urging him on. 

“A gut feeling.” Logan says. “Aurora isn’t safe.”

“A gut feeling.” Walter repeats. Logan nods.

Walter doesn’t argue with him. Logan watches as he leaves, saying something about how he’ll inform the men and cancel the trip.

Logan breathes a sigh of relief and falls against the wall, sliding down it until he’s sitting upon the floor and cradling his head in his hands. 

-

The next few years pass slowly. Agonizingly slowly. Logan has a pinch of fear in the back of his mind as he watches Albion grow, watches the people learn to function with the slowly furthering technology of industry. Slower than before, than when he’d handed control over to Reaver, but better. The people are happier.

Maybe this is what was meant to happen, he thinks, looking out at the sea from the castle’s highest tower. Maybe he was meant to ignore Aurora’s problems so the Darkness would never sense their presence.

-

Oh, how wrong he was.

-

He wakes again, the taste of blood in his mouth from where he’d been slashed across his lips. Logan feels his face and finds no scarring and sighs, knowing he’s back once again to just before the trip to Aurora. 

With a frustrated huff, he rolls over and goes back to sleep.

Walter pounds on his door later in the morning. Logan tells him to go away.

-

Back.

Further back, he reasons.

Another attempt. 

And then another.

He loses track of how many years pass in his attempts — they blur together as he fails over and over. Some attempts get him barely past leaving for Aurora. Others, he sees his younger brother overthrow him. 

Cedric is always a kind ruler, but he tries to make everyone happy. Can't he see that he can't uphold all of his promises? To make one group happy, he must disappoint someone else. Logan tells him as such the first few times. 

In one, he appoints Logan as an advisor. The people turn on him, throwing his slow-earned trust out the window. 

In another, his brother has him executed. It's very unlike him, Logan finds himself thinking as he's led onto the platform.

-

He wakes up. 

He always wakes up with blood in his mouth.

Sometimes he simply gives up and tries the most outlandish things: at one point he hands control of Albion over to Reaver. Why he thought that would make any sort of difference, he'll never understand. 

He winds up getting his scar from one of Reaver's machines, that time around. He also meets his end on the same machine, a year later, saving a child far too young to be near such things. 

It’s amazing how much compassion one gets after seeing so many disasters.

He wakes up.

-

This time he’s in a different room in another wing of the castle. Logan stares up at the ceiling, noting the pattern of the delicate carvings of lion’s heads and cherubs, and realises just how far back he’s been thrown.

He stands, heads for his wardrobe, and dresses.

With energy he hasn’t had in years, Logan bolts from his bedroom.

If he’s gone this far back, he realises, then that means —

He turns the corner and sees his father, Sparrow, his long hair braided down the back of his neck. Sparrow has to stop before Logan runs headfirst into him, turning in a dramatic sweep to avoid his son.

“Dad!” Logan shouts, and he ignores the shock on Sparrow’s face as he throws himself at him. Clinging to Sparrow, he tucks his face against his father’s shoulder. He has him back, if only for this chance, and he’s not going to waste a second of it.

“Logan,” Sparrow says as his son lets go, “Are you alright?”

It goes without saying that Logan hasn’t shown such enthusiasm toward hugging his parents — either of them — since he was a young child. To Sparrow, it’s a strange and out of character occurrence for Logan to show such affection. 

To Logan, however, it’s seeing his father for the first time in so, so many years.

He almost blurts out that he missed him, but catches himself.

“I’m fine,” Logan says, wiping his face with a sleeve. Damn it, he thinks, he can’t cry in front of his father. Not now.

“You don’t look fine.” Sparrow says, and ushers Logan to follow him. 

The tension in the air would have been overwhelming if not for Logan’s entire focus being on the fact that his father is alive and walking with him through the castle. His hair is almost entirely grey, the crown sits on his head as nobly as Logan remembers it, and he walks with power that Logan remembers imitating when he was first coronated. 

Strange that he has these memories, he thinks. He’s barely eighteen but with the experience of an entire history’s worth of failed kingship behind him. 

Sparrow waits until they’re in a quieter place to encourage Logan to speak. 

And suddenly — unlike with Walter — Logan finds himself explaining the entire situation.

He expects his father to be confused, or brush away his experiences.

But he doesn’t.

Sparrow sits and listens, taking in every word. He’s patient and seems to believe everything from the start. Likely he’s heard other strange stories, Logan thinks, knowing that his situation is no stranger than some of the other things Sparrow has been through.

Logan finishes his story with minimal distress, though not for a lack of emotion on his part. He’d had to stop a few times to pause and collect himself — mostly after the times witnessing his own death. Silence falls over the two of them as Sparrow processes what he’s explained, and then he rubs his beard and frowns.

“When did you say this darkness first attacked Aurora?” Sparrow asks. Logan swallows harshly.

“I —  I’m not sure. It’s always already been present… I think I heard whispers of the Spire, and I know you had your time there, but I can't be sure—” He says, and Sparrow nods along. He goes quiet for a few long moments, his brows furrowing as he thinks things through. Logan notes the way his face is set with deep lines.

Had his father always looked so old?

“I think I may have to plan a trip to Aurora.” Sparrow says.

Logan feels his heart drop.

“No, no, what if—” he starts, but Sparrow cuts him off with a raised hand.

“Then you’ll do it again. I know you’re capable, Logan. If what you’ve told me is true, and I believe it to be, then I know you’ll find a way to get this right.” 

-

The first attempt with his father doesn’t go as planned. 

Logan doesn’t tell him about that the next time he wakes up in the castle.

This time before they leave, he’s sure to see his younger brother, Cedric, stooping down to his level to assure him that he’ll be back. Cedric grabs his hand and nods, staring at him with dark, intense eyes that make Logan think that maybe he knows.

He keeps that look in his mind as he and Sparrow set sail for Aurora. 

His little brother deserves better than all of the failed experiences Logan has had to deal with. 

-

The second time, they avoid the temple and head straight for the capitol. There, the land is only partially ravaged by the Darkness — only a few cities in the distant desert have fallen, and the city of Aurora is thriving. It’s fascinating to Logan to see the city cast in bright sunshine and with all varieties of people and things he’s never seen in full. They meet Kalin’s father, a tall, withered man with a thin body and dark hair. Logan stares at Kalin, and Kalin stares at him with something in her eyes — something that makes him think that she knows.

He gets the feeling that Cedric knows more than an eight year old should due to his Heroic blood, but Kalin, he wonders. What does she know?

Sparrow makes plans with Kalin’s father. 

They stay in Aurora for some time, bringing Albion’s troops over in small groups, stationing them around the cities of Aurora in preparation.

When the Darkness crawls over Aurora, they’re ready.

-

He watches as his father brings down a too-large hammer onto a shadow, dispelling it with a surprising crunch. He'd fought them before, yes, but Logan always forgets how solid they are before they crumble into nothingness. His father swings again and again, but as Logan watches, more swarm him. Humanoid figures are joined by larger monsters, snarling as they attempt to wrestle the hammer from Sparrow. 

Logan moves without thinking. 

Unlike the last time, he wants to make a difference. He wants to ensure that his father is safe.

He hears his father yell to him, telling him to stay back, but before he can even register his own body moving, Logan throws himself into the midst of the fight, stabbing his sword through a humanoid made of darkness. 

The next thing that happens leaves Logan and Sparrow both stunned for several moments.

Logan throws his free hand out as though to reach for his father, and his hand sparks.

A shadow screeches as it’s impaled by a silvery light, and Logan feels a rush of something through his arm.

Sparrow’s eyes go wide, and before Logan can vocalize his confusion, he’s back to swinging his hammer, this time with renewed vigor. 

“What just—” Logan shouts over the slamming, the sound of gunshots around them. Sparrow finds his way closer, standing by Logan’s side as he readies a spell to defend Logan and himself.

“Will,” Sparrow says, “And a good spell, at that!”

“But I don’t know how to use—” he starts, and he hears Sparrow laugh.

“You’re my son!” Sparrow shouts, and Logan feels his hand pat his shoulder. “You’ve got Heroic blood, Logan, you don’t need to learn to use it, you need to learn to control it!”

It’s a rush, using Will, Logan realises. He watches as Sparrow uses his own, watches the way he moves his hands and arms to direct the flow. Logan copies him, looking all the more like a mimicry of his father as they work beside each other. Will is easier than the sword, Logan finds, and as he flings another spectral blade he realises enjoys it.

He hits a Shadow directly between where its eyes should be. He shouts, delighted, and his father spares him a proud grin.

Perhaps he enjoys it a bit too much.

-

"I know what you're doing," is the chilling phrase that hits Logan's mind. Backing up, he moves until his back is against a wall, giving him cover on one side. Eyes frantic, he looks around through the haze of nighttime, searching for the source.

And then it hits him. 

Quite literally. A clawed hand pins his shoulder to the wall and causes him to shout in pain, the impact sure to bruise.

"I know you're trying to use your Will to change the world into your ideal one."

He’s cornered by the Crawler again. Its claw drags down his face, scratching open his lip, and Logan is overwhelmed to a point where even his newfound magic is out of reach. Breathing heavy, nearly hyperventilating, Logan panics, thinking again that he’ll be thrown back, thrown back, back to the beginning where he’ll have to start all over once more — 

"You're weak, little king, having to call on your parents to fight your monsters for you."

— But then a bolt of ice slams into the Crawler’s eye, forcing it back. Logan looks up to see Sparrow drawing his hammer from its place on his back, his teeth bared in a snarl unlike anything Logan has ever seen from his father.

“Get the hell off of my son,” Sparrow says, swinging his hammer as the Crawler slides backward. Its many faces turn, not expecting the sheer determination radiating from Sparrow as he follows it. 

The whispers from the Darkness begin finding their way into Logan’s head. He slumps against the wall as he covers his ears, forcing himself to keep his eyes open as he watches his father drop his hammer in favor of using his hands to grab the Crawler’s limbs and tear.

Why his nickname is still Sparrow, Logan figures he will never know, as he looks more reminiscent of a bear or a lion in battle.

Despite covering his ears, the screeching coming from the Crawler as his father tears into it is like nothing he’s heard before. Logan feels tears welling up in his eyes as he tastes the blood dripping from his lips and he shuts his eyes as the din of battle overwhelms him.

Later, Sparrow lifts him from the ground and pulls him against his chest. Logan tries to ignore the ichor and the blood spattered against his armor.

“It might come back,” Sparrow says, “But not for a long time.”

Logan nods, leaning against his father.

“Something like that, it speaks of its children,” Sparrow continues, helping Logan out of the chaos and the mess that’s been strewn around them, “But it doesn’t realise just how far I’d go for my kids.”

Logan chooses to look away from the fact that his father’s hands are stained black and red. 

-

They return to Albion with hope. Hesitant hope, but hope nonetheless. The queen, Logan’s mother, sees his new scar and fusses over him, something she’d never had a chance to do in previous times. He should be upset about it, he thinks, being a young man with the world ahead of him, but he doesn’t push her away. He lets her prod at his scar, tutting at him that he should have cleaned it better, should have helped it heal so it wasn’t so deep. He shrugs the suggestion off, saying something about how he thinks it makes him look more daring.

“Daring?” His mother laughs, “What, are you trying to impress someone?”

Logan pushes his mother’s hand away, trying his best to hide the grin that’s slowly drawing across his lips. He can’t help it — he has his mother back, and she’s still the same as he remembers. 

“No, no,” he says, “Nobody in particular.”

“Not trying to find a wife, Logan?” 

“No!” is the immediate, stuttering reply. His mother eyes him.

“A husband?”

“Mother,” he says, his heart jumping to his throat. 

“So long as you’re happy,” she says, reaching to push his hair into place. 

It hits him, then, that he had never told his mother the first time around. He's sure she knew — why wouldn't she? Cedric had him found out the first time around by the time he was thirteen, poking fun at how he hoped Logan found a good husband before he became king. 

He never did. Of course not. He didn't have the time for that.

But now? 

Maybe. 

Maybe, if things continue on without the hiccup of starting over. 

-

He hopes this time he’s doing things right. 

It feels like he is: the people are happy, Cedric is growing up and he's doing his best to be closer to him this time. Their parents take note, finding time to include both of them in lessons. However, the toll of fighting so hard at his older age is evident in Sparrow, who has to halt their Will lessons on more than one occasion to rest his body. 

There's an instance where Logan is learning how to direct an intended spell after it's flung where Sparrow has to stop and lean against the fence in the garden. When he takes Logan and Cedric inside once more, Logan props himself up against his father to keep him steady. 

The next day, Sparrow begins walking with a cane. 

Logan feels guilt well up inside his chest as he watches his father walk. 

He'd be healthier if Logan hadn't been so selfish, hadn't wished to reset his chances and have his father there to help him. 

But, he reasons, his father is a Hero in every sense of the word. He's stronger than he lets on. 

-

He gets another seven years with his father. It's the longest one of these younger starts has gone on. 

Logan hopes it's the final one. 

His mother takes over as queen for a little under a year, giving Logan time to talk to Cedric about his plan.

“I think you deserve the throne.” Logan says, and Cedric stops, halfway through putting his sword up from their sparring match. He’s still full of energy, his hair out of place. Cedric attempts to push his hair from his face as he comprehends what Logan has just said. 

“Excuse me?” Cedric says, his eyes wide, “Logan, you can’t be serious.”

Logan raises a brow.

“Is it that difficult to believe I’d just hand it over?” He says, and Cedric seems unable to form a proper response for a few moments, his throat tensing and untensing as he tries to find the words to use.

“Why?” Is all that he can manage.

“Because,” Logan says, stepping closer to his brother so they’re able to see eye-to-eye, “I know you. I know you’ll be a good king and that I am not cut out for it. You can be the king Albion needs.”

Cedric stares at him, dumbfounded. Logan continues, his voice soft.

“You have a good heart and you know the people well. You will do so much better than I could ever hope to.”

“This isn’t something I can simply accept, you know.” Cedric says, “We’d have to talk it over with Mother, and…”

Logan clicks his tongue.

“I’ve already brought it up to her. She wanted me to talk to you before she made any sort of decision for us.”

-

The year passes. Cedric eventually accepts, though not without hesitation. Their mother is laid to rest beside Sparrow, the crypt below the gardens once again opened and shut. Logan almost wishes to turn back time again, just to get some more time with her, but —

He doesn’t will it too strongly. She deserves the rest after all of this. 

Cedric is coronated, much to the surprise of the people, and Logan watches as the crown is placed on his head. Rumor spreads as to why Logan refused the throne — some say he’s not mature enough, others say that it’s because he can’t give an heir. He pays them no mind, knowing the truth: that he’s not meant for it. He’s never been good at being king, even before the Crawler first took his mind. Kind, yes, benevolent to the extent that Sparrow was, sure — but the planning, the money management, the constant socialization and ability to keep track of who’s doing what and where…

Cedric is better at those things. He’s able to juggle multiple conversations at once, he’s good with money, and he knows when to put his foot down to the demands of people like Reaver. 

He’s proud of his younger brother for being the king he can’t be.

The first year of Cedric’s rule is hectic, for sure, but he manages to befriend many of the same people Logan remembers from the previous times he’s seen his brother at work. Page winds up coming to the castle with a request for additional school funding, and Cedric befriends her faster than Logan can say her name. And then Benjamin Finn, plucky soldier that he is, shows up with a report from the Swift brigade and Logan sees the connection between Cedric and Ben before either of them have a realisation of their own.

He knows, of course, that long ago, in ages past that are no longer ‘real’, that Page and Ben and Walter were part of a resistance against himself. That he’d hurt each of them in turn, they’d lost their families, their trust — everything. They’d lost everything because of Logan.

But now?

Now he hears Page talk about her family with excitement as he walks the halls of the castle with her, he hears Ben tell stories about his family’s business and his brothers’ antics. 

He even gets a nudge from Ben about the fact that one of his older brothers is looking for a man. Logan shrugs it off, telling Ben as politely as possible that he’s not interested, sorry, but did you know Cedric is? 

“You’re about his age, aren’t you?” Logan says, and Benjamin sputters.

“He’s the king, and I’m just a soldier, and — you’re ridiculous.” 

Logan tries to hide his grin. 

And then, Logan meets Thomas.

At first, it’s a meeting in passing. Thomas, a bookkeeper hired by Cedric’s new team of advisors, works long days and far into the evening in the castle’s library. He’s not someone that Logan plans to meet with very often. His work is quiet, and he prefers the solitude of the library to meeting with people. Something that Logan understands and agrees with wholeheartedly — while he’s been taught from a young age how to interact with nobles and commoners alike, Logan prefers to have time to himself.

But … 

But, sometimes time alone is just as fine when that ‘alone’ is with one other person.

He wonders, as he sits in the library with the gentle glow of a lantern on the pages he’s scouring, where Thomas wound up in all the times he’d failed as king. Was he, perhaps, in the Brightwall academy? Or at home, stricken with some illness or injury from working long hours of physical labor that his delicate hands couldn’t handle? 

Was he alive at all when Logan had the throne?

Lost in his thoughts, eyes unfocused, he doesn’t notice Thomas sidling up to the table he’s sitting at until his hand taps the page of the book Logan as open in front of him. 

“You’ve been on that page for half an hour, now, my lord.” Thomas says, amusement in his voice that breaks Logan’s trance. “Do you need it read aloud to you, or are you simply tired?”

Logan blinks at him.

His ears feel warm.

“No, no, I…” Logan starts, clearing his throat. “I am… distracted, is all.”

“Perhaps you should get some rest and resume your…” Thomas glances at the book, a smile creeping across his lips, “Study on Auroran perfume industry tomorrow.”

That’s the book he pulled off the shelf?

Logan rubs the back of his neck, avoiding Thomas’s gaze as the man chuckles at him. 

-

He goes back to the library. Thomas apologizes for teasing him, but Logan shrugs it off, content to forgive and forget. An hour is spent, then, as Logan helps Thomas sort books and find duplicates, making a log of how many of what is currently in the castle. For the most part, it’s quiet save for when one of them makes a quip about a book they’ve got in their hands, or a note on just how many of one they have.

“Really, I don’t see why the castle has thirteen copies of What Your Choice of Dog Says About You,” Thomas says, “I know your father liked dogs, but really?”

“Funny thing is, his old mutt was a stray he found.” Logan says, “My father didn’t know Phoenix’s breed any better than he knew the difference between a daisy and an aster.”

“Really?” Thomas replies, his eyes wide. “The way people talk about that dog, I’d have thought he was bred by the gods themselves.”

“Might as well have been,” Logan laughs, “My father claims he saved his life multiple times.”

“Now that I will believe,” Thomas says, leaning against the bookshelf he and Logan are sorting through. “All the stories I’ve heard…”

Silence passes over them. Logan puts another book up, making sure its spine is lined up with the ones beside it. He presses a finger against the textured cover, the gold leafing on the lettering glittering in the dim light.

“Do you think,” Thomas says, tapping his chin, “That your father would like to have a book written about him? About his adventures?”

Logan turns to look at him. He studies the way Thomas is staring at him, like he’s hiding some eagerness behind his eyes.

“I think he’d like that.” Logan says, and Thomas beams.

-

Somewhere in-between his getting to know Thomas, Cedric winds up married. To Benjamin Finn, just as Logan expected. He tries to keep the wedding small, but word gets out through Bowerstone and the entire city is lit up in bright lights and dancing, and Logan finds his hands itching as he catches a glimpse of Thomas in the gardens.

-

He watches Thomas's face in the lantern light, his copper hair turned fiery red in the gentle glow. There's something he can't read behind his eyes, something sly and curious that is tempting Logan to ask him what he's thinking. But he doesn't want to be intrusive — he'll wait until Thomas is comfortable speaking, himself. Minutes pass in a strangely comfortable silence, Thomas's pen scratching across paper and Logan focusing on his breathing, conscious of how loud it is in comparison to the sound of writing. 

Finally, Thomas looks up again, a lock of his hair falling in front of his face. 

"Alright," he says, a gentle, almost melodic lilt to his voice, "I think my hand needs a rest. You've been quiet — is something on your mind?"

You, Logan almost blurts out, but holds himself fast.

"I'm simply curious about how your work is going," he says instead. 

Thomas smiles at him. Logan feels something in his chest go tight.

“Slow, but steady. I’ve been trying to revise some of the latest chapters, but … I think I need a rest, the words are starting to make less sense than your father’s choice of fashion in his younger years.”

Logan laughs, casting his eyes down to Thomas's hand. It's stained with ink from his pen where he's forgotten to lift his wrist enough, dragging his left hand through the ink. Smudges on the paper are small, the text still legible. "So you’re close to being done?"

"Oh, not quite." Thomas hums, his pen now left abandoned on the table. He runs his ink-stained hand over his hair, tucking it behind his ear. “Though Walter has been very kind to tell me of Sparrow’s adventures. And he pointed out where your father left all his journals in the library…”

Logan smiles. 

-

He kisses Thomas sometime later that week. It blurs together, really.

-

Cedric tells Logan that he and Benjamin have added another to their relationship. 

It’s not something that Logan ever saw coming, nor had it happened in any of the previous lives he’d lived. They introduce her to Logan and he decides that she’s good for them, excitable and confident in herself. 

-

He becomes an uncle.

Cedric’s kid is so much like him, energetic and bright. Logan decides that his priority is going to be to help her have the life she deserves. 

Thomas asks if he wants to have children. He shakes his head and assures him that having his brother’s family is more than enough — thankfully, Thomas seems to have the same opinion. He’s grateful that they can agree on the the important steps in their lives, and after some discussion and agreement on the venue, Thomas agrees to marry him.

With it being Logan’s turn, Cedric goes out of his way to make the party as bright and delightful as his own. It’s embarrassing, being the center of attention, but Logan winds up not minding it as he sees the way Thomas smiles at him, the way Cedric and his partners look so happy for the two of them.

-

“Hey, hey, slow down, you!” Logan shouts, watching as his niece runs down the hallway, her tiny feet taking her faster than he realised she was capable of. Thankfully, Walter is there to stop her from going too far too fast, lifting her off the ground in one sweep of his arms. Logan catches up to the two of them as Walter hefts Myra onto his side. She grabs at the collar of his overcoat, and Logan goes to voice his concern.

“It’s fine, Logan, she’s just happy to see me!” Walter says, “With a grip like that, I think she’ll wind up being a better fighter than you or her dad.”

Myra does, in fact, wind up being a good fighter. Her first lessons are given by Walter, but as he gets too old to fight — even fake fighting against pretend enemies — Logan takes over. And with it, he begins to instruct her on proper rifle usage and Will.

She struggles with the latter skill, but her brother, Alistair, grows up alongside her and winds up showing promise with Will. So Logan makes sure that he gets proper education on how the skills work, on how to control it despite the fact that sometimes Logan worries that he’s going to reset all that he’s come to have simply by thinking about it too hard.

But, then again, the powers are called Will, and Willing something into existence means wanting it.

The Crawler’s words drift into his mind, late one evening, as he’s contemplating usage of Will.

"I know you're trying to use your Will to change the world into your ideal one."

Is this his ideal world, he wonders, watching Myra and Alistair as Myra swings her sword down against Alistair’s, the sound of scraping metal filling the room. He thinks for a few long moments, thinks about Cedric and his spouses, about Page and her school, about Thomas and the way his hair is slowly beginning to show signs of greying, just as his own is.

Of course it is, he decides. Why would he ever want anything more than this?

-

He wakes up in the dead of night. Logan stares up at the canopy of his bed, his mind flickering from memory to memory as though reviewing a dream just before it's forgotten. 

Was it all a dream? 

The thought makes his throat go tight. His niece and nephew, his husband, Albion’s thriving population and culture, Aurora...

Maybe it was all a dream, maybe he's still trapped as king with the Darkness soon to encompass Albion —

He feels the bedsheets shift. Logan looks to his left and sees a mess of red hair peeking from the edge of the blanket. 

His lips turn upward into a smile. 

The memories fade — what was he just worried about? 

A bad dream, he supposes, and tucks himself against his husband. Thomas's arm tightens around his middle. 

Albion moves in the night, guardsmen make their rounds, and the stars shift overhead. 

Things are alright. 

[retvenkos]

mosaics // draco malfoy

Harry Potter - A Draco Malfoy Story.

A/N: i said that one day i would rewrite my older stuff to make them better, and this was originally that. dramione no longer - i took the eight part story therapy session (2016 - a few months before cursed child) and revitalized it, taking it in a completely different direction. it’s draco centric, and i hope to have two more parts to it, but i want your opinion: should i make it a reader insert? i’ve been toying with the idea i’m still deciding where i should take this, so weigh in! also, i deleted the og therapy session because of some weird bugs with how it was formatted and the links.

Summary: Draco had been living this way for too long - tortured by the past and trying to fix the broken pieces the Wizarding War had left him with, making mosaics out of fragmented people and shattered relationships. It was only a matter of time before Astoria would leave him, unable to live with a remorseful sinner who lived for his past more than the family he had. But how does he move on, when his world becomes just another broken piece of glass, a part of some mosaic he has yet to envision?

pt. 1 // pt. 2

Draco stared at the floor, his eyes unblinking and still, his hands clasped in front of him as he leaned forward, his head bent. Short, unkempt hair fell forward, almost creating a curtain from which he could hide behind. He could close himself off from the world, then.

He almost looked like he was praying.

His sorrow was bitter, drowned is self-pity, thick in what could have been. If he were a different man he would have smashed every mirror in his godforsaken Manor, shattering the glass until it was grinding between his teeth, cutting his knuckles until they were bleeding out, spilling all that he was on these fine rugs and satin couches.

As the hours passed, he could fool himself into thinking he still saw her.

He pushed himself out of his father’s chair and staggered into their bedroom - his bedroom, now. The floors were cold - had he always carried such a chill? He used to hold his mother’s hands in these halls - they were soft but firm. He had thought, sometimes, that Death had  touched her. It was the cold, clinging to her skirts and weaving itself into her fine hair. The chill in her hands had been warmed, after the war. When Narcissa held Scorpius, there was in life in her once more.

When had that heat left? Did it slowly drift away, replaced with this pervasive chill? Or had it been ushered in when his wife had walked away, the door left ajar behind her?

No, this cold was at home, living in his chest and embedded in his bones. This cold was his. This chill belonged to him.

The early morning sun filtered through the window of his bedroom, pushing through the heavy curtains to illuminate the bed’s thick quilts and heavy blankets.

Was it morning already?

There had been a time when Draco had woken in those sheets, naked limbs tangled in the soft fabric, his hands intertwined with Astorias. He would turn his head and see her dark hair spread across the pillow, curling around every dip of the mattress, every crease of the blankets. She would look so peaceful, in sleep. In the early days, he would almost mistake her for an angel - her skin glowing, her dark eyelashes thick and long, her lips slightly open as she breathed deep and slow.

The sheets weren’t rumpled, anymore. They were neatly folded and undisturbed. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept in it, let alone laid with her beside him. The bed belonged to ghosts, now. It was inhabited by memories.

Something glinted in the light, catching the rays of the sun and glaring in his eye, drawing him forward until he stood at the foot of the bed.

A silver band with a dark green jewel in the middle, the silver wrapping around it like snakes, ornate and poignant. Draco reached for it with shaking hands.

It had been Narcissa’s before he had given it to someone else. His mother had been so happy when he said he was going to propose to someone he truly loved. She had been so proud, taking the ring that had once been hers and pressing it into his hands. He held it now and felt it’s gravity pull him down.

He had let her down. He always let his mother down.

He closed his eyes and a hot tear slipped down his cold jaw.

✧ *:･ﾟ

“Astoria, please…” he was pleading with her, again, his voice almost tired from how routine it all felt. “Don’t do this.”

He rounded the corner into their bedroom, expecting her to be sitting on the bed, her hands folded in her lap as though posing for a portrait, her expression far away from him and cold. When he saw her, though, she was standing with a bag on her arm and the sight of her stopped him in his tracks.

“You can’t talk your way out of this, Draco. Not this time.”  He heard her voice, this time, and he felt his heart constrict in his chest. “I’m not begging you to stay, anymore.”

Silence drifted between them as Draco grasped at his thoughts, trying to formulate some argument, some reason for her to stay.

“I’ll be better.” His voice shook and his eyes flitted across her stony, emotionless face. “I’ll go to those therapy sessions you’ve been wanting. I’ll cut back on my hours at work. I’ll be here. Just… don’t.” Draco willed her with his entire being, trying in vain to reach her, to make her change her mind.

He loved her. He really did. His soul was just heavier, now, dragged down by this cruel, unforgiving world.

“I don’t love you anymore,” and Astoria was sincere. “A year ago? Four years? That’s when you should have been telling me this. It doesn’t matter anymore,” and there was something like sympathy in her gaze. “You can work yourself into the ground. You can go to therapy for the rest of your life. I’m not worrying anymore. I can’t care anymore.”

Astoria turned away from him and Draco stared at her - her dark hair, her curves. He could feel her words carve themselves into his skin, but he couldn’t believe it. She loved him - she had to. Astoria was all he had left.

“Astoria, please.”

The woman ignored him, just gazed around the room as she slipped on her gloves, saying goodbye to the memories within those walls. After a moment, she spoke, her voice sounding like honey, it’s thick lilt masking the poison within. Draco felt it slip down his throat and stick to the roof of his mouth. “Scorpius is fifteen, now. He’ll understand.”

“I’ll do anything - everything you’ve ever wanted.”

Draco pleaded with her, and when he looked into Astoria's eyes, he saw that he had already done enough. She walked to the bed and leaned against it for just a moment, her palm pressing onto the mattress, her fingers splayed across the dark cover.

She was leaving, her charm enlarged bag already buttoned closed. She turned to face him, and he could see it written on every contour of her face - she was leaving, and if Draco knew Astoria (he wasn’t so sure, anymore), she’d never return.

She walked past him.

She wasn’t crying, but Draco was. But the pity on her face betrayed her, showing her sweetness. She had been him, years ago. She had cried, once, when she still loved him.

“I’m sorry, Draco.”

She left the Manor. He heard the door open and never quite close. Draco didn’t chase her, just stood there, his eyes glazed over, his arms like lead, his heart still and cold - a cavern where no light reached, where echoes called out to people who were no longer there.

A sob ripped through his throat, but it was foreign and didn’t sound like himself. The floor was hard and unforgiving when he met it, and he wished he had something like gravel to dig into his palms and scrape at his being. Things were too soft, here, for the reality that he faced.

Draco pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes and when his breathing evened out, he could pretend he was praying, a sinner showing remorse.

✧ *:･ﾟ

It was Pansy who found him in his sorrow. She unlocked the door to Malfoy Manor with a spell of her own design. She had created it when Theo, Blaise, Draco, and she had tried to get into her parent’s drinking cabinet during the summer before their sixth year. She had learned, then, that Draco was a sad drunk.

He cried to the only friends he had, his tears like crystal, shining against his pale skin. The world saw something tragically beautiful in Draco Malfoy, that night, and ever since, the man vowed only to drink in the solitude of his home, where no one could see his tears.

She found Draco drawn into himself, a bottle rolling nearby, his cheeks blotchy from crying, his eyes glassy with tears. Pansy knelt down beside him, smoothing his hair off of his forehead, looking at him with those guarded eyes, her concern showing in her knitted brows.

His eyes met hers and she pursed her lips, determining which approach would be best, given his state.

“She was all my goodness.” Draco spoke and his words were hauntingly clear. How long had he sat here, curtains drawn and doors locked? How long had he sat here, feeling the alcohol wear off in his system, leaving him weepy and alone? “She’s not coming back.”

Pansy sighed, her shoulders falling. She picked up the discarded bottle of firewhiskey and found a bit still swimming on the bottom. Draco reached for it, but she tipped it back, letting it sting her throat and she drank the last drop. Draco tried to scowl, but through his tears, he looked like a kid, again, trapped in that war he hadn’t asked for.

“It’s ill mannered to drink alone.”

“And I suppose you would know about manners, Parkinson?” And his words didn’t carry the bite they used to. He sounded tired, old. This world had dragged him down, and the weight of it was showing, his voice betraying that cool air that he paraded around this world.

“Look at us - lonely after all this time.” Pansy settled herself beside him, crossing her ankles and picking at the sleeves of her sweater. Draco leaned his head against her shoulder, more in a sigh than anything else.

They sat there - together in their misery.

“That war changed everything.”

“Things were going to change, somehow.”

Pansy didn’t ask about Astoria. She didn’t mention the wedding ring curled in his grasp, or the photographs sat down on their face, so that no one could see all that Draco had become. She didn’t need to ask to know what had happened. Things had been bad for so long, it was only a matter of time before she left, leaving something cruel in her wake.

It was only a matter of time before they would sit here, on the floor, coaxing the last drops of liquor out of a bottle, talking about their misery but never mentioning what caused it. It was only ever a matter of time before Pansy and Draco would sit together the way they had through their fifth and sixth years, cradling those arms that carried those terrible marks, crying over what they had done and who they would become.

All things stemmed from that war. They had been born from it, and it had never quite left them. It still laid dormant beneath their skin, permeating the flesh and tainting their souls.

Draco let his tears soak into her thick sweater. “That war killed us. We’re just walking to our graves.”

“I take it amends are easier said than done.”

Draco scoffed, something raw and cold that scratched his throat and made it bleed. It was painful, but nothing he didn’t deserve. “You’d understand, Parkinson.”

                    -- taglist: @musicallisto​, @babyplutoszx2​, @locke-writes, @randomfandomimagine​