#visage. the wrench

[byeolyeou]

♡︎ tag dump | pt.1

[zer0genders]

I'm like, almost a month late but here's a post of some of the art I did in 2023, I really ought to upload some things sometimes because I realized that almost none of these are on here lol

Unsurprisingly, nearly all my art is of my blorbos, and I didn't really "finish" very many things. I really prefer sketching and flats, but this year I'd like to practice more line art and figure out how I would like to color things and use Krita better. These are not in any kind of order but I feel like it is kind of obvious which ones were at the beginning of the year compared to the end haha.

Happy New Year everyone~

[arachnidiots-a]

LIV HEWSON as LIAM KAZ & RONEN RUBINSTEIN as TK STRAND (@parameddic) Heart Found in Austin, 911: lone star verse

mutuals may interact , featured may reblog , everyone else dni

[the-crooked-library]

Nuance, Narratives, and Nosferatu

As of today, Robert Eggers' Nosferatu (2024) has only been in theatres for 4 full days; and, coincidentally, that is about as long as I am able to let my thoughts marinate before they demand to be communicated. Before going into any further detail, let it be known that this film was made by freaks for freaks; it exists for the goths, the gays, the monsterfuckers, the historians, and for all those who delight in moral and thematic complexity.

With that being said - spoilers under the cut!

There are two principal narratives running through the flesh of Nosferatu, both of them rooted heavily in the cultural and literary origins of the story. It is a nightmare; it is also an erotic fantasy. It is horrifying, and it is also achingly romantic. From what I've seen so far, the vast majority of discourse that has already emerged around the film is caused by people misunderstanding or deliberately ignoring the relationship between these different lines of analysis; so please trust me when I say, from the bottom of my heart, that this duality is the very lifeblood of the movie.

The reason for that is, quite simply, that Nosferatu is a gothic horror film, set in 1830s German Confederation; and its plot relies on the same (sometimes contradictory) complexities often displayed in Victorian gothic fiction.

From the beginning of the movie, we are given to understand that Ellen Hutter met Count Orlok - the eponymous nosferatu - psychically, when she was very young. They spoke, she pledged herself to him, and was horrified to realize what she had done when he revealed his true visage to her in their first visual (and sexual) encounter.

Here, under the lilacs, the paths diverge.

The first reading of the film is perhaps the more straightforward. A young girl is essentially catfished and groomed by a much older, dangerous man. When they meet for the first time, she is a teenager; the lilacs that bloom where it happens become a trigger. He is the source of her madness and "melancholy" (depression), she has nightmares about him regularly enough that her husband is aware of them, and it is implied that she has been institutionalized in the past. Thomas Hutter is the physical representation of her one desperate hope for a normal life - but as the story progresses, she finds herself being denied even that. Orlok's psychic connection with her verges on demonic possession; in chilling, The Exorcist-inspired sequences, she writhes and mutters, prophesying a city-wide reign of death and terror. In pursuit of his claim on Ellen, Orlok terrorizes her husband, murders her friends - and, eventually, she gives her life to take him with her to the grave, saving the city from the plague he caused.

That is the horror element of Nosferatu; it deals with an exploration of childhood trauma, of PTSD, of difficulties maintaining a social life after the fact. It is easy to understand even from a modern viewpoint, and it pushes the film to its conclusion with a bleak, heart-wrenching punch.

The horror is not the only element of Nosferatu.

To contextualize the alternate - though just as correct - reading of the film, it is essential to understand that Ellen’s society was extremely sexually repressed, especially in regards to female and queer sexuality.

Both were severely medicalized, demonized, and restricted; and as such, when these topics do make an appearance in contemporary fiction, they are often inextricable from disgust and fear.

Dedicated as always to historical accuracy, Eggers maintains the same setting-based narrative coding.

In anticipation of morality arguments vis à vis monstrosity, depiction, and modern purity culture, let me clarify: this is something that works within his chosen genre. Horror, and especially gothic horror, invites a deeper analysis in regard to morality and motivation, and in this case, Eggers' homage to the origins of that genre grounds the narrative in its time and location, as well as fleshing it out much further than a purely modern cultural lens would permit. In this context, the details of Ellen's connection with Orlok become paramount to the understanding of the film.

As bits and pieces of their background become revealed, the audience realizes that her psychic gift did not begin with him - and neither did her melancholy, or her isolation. She was born with her abilities, and throughout her childhood, she was a bit of a tomboy by her contemporary standards, running wild in the woods near her father's property; however, once she foretold her mother's death, and once she was too old to get away with eccentricities, her father became frightened of her abnormality. She was isolated, confined indoors, and that is when her melancholy had begun. Painfully lonely and aching for some form of companionship, she called out into the ether; and Orlok responded.

Over the course of their story, he becomes the physical manifestation of everything Ellen perceives as dark and sinful about herself.

He is psychic, he is vicious, possessive, and blatantly sexual; her sensual affection with Anna parallels the evident and physical attraction he displays towards Thomas; and the social power he so easily commands is the same that she lacks, being a woman in a rigidly patriarchal society.

In the end, the severely questionable age gap, the murders, the coercion, the betrayal - all of that comes down to respect. Throughout the film, that is the one thing that Ellen is consistently denied. She is young when she meets Orlok, yes; but she is aggressively infantilized by her surrounding society even when she is a grown, adult, married woman.

It starts from the beginning of the film, when the Hutters visit the Harding family. During those scenes, the men are shown talking business - while the women play with children in the parlour; and the same social framing persists into the body of the film. When Ellen is suffering from what appears to be some form of mental illness, she is referred to as a child by multiple different characters; and when the condition progresses, she is swiftly diagnosed with hysteria and drugged - thus being forcibly removed from the discussion of her own illness. The general reactions to that illness - which is, in fact, a display of her psychic abilities - range from annoyance to fear to curiosity; it is seen either as a disability or a curse, rather than anything entirely innate to who she is. Her fears are dismissed. Harding tells her to learn some deference. Even closer to the finale, when Von Franz admits that she could have been a great priestess in another age, he does so with pity rather than anything else; in their industrial era, he cannot help but see her only as a tragic sacrifice - horrible, but necessary to save the city from a plague. Brought in to heal her, he instead guides her to her death.

All these aspects of Ellen's circumstances find a direct opposite in her relationship with Orlok. Unlike all other characters in the film, he only ever sees her as his equal, which is made even more evident when his interactions with Thomas and Herr Knock are brought into consideration. With both men, Orlok insists on being addressed by his lordly title, "as his blood demands it"; and yet, Ellen never calls him by any title at all, be it "My Lord" or even a simple "Herr." She argues with him freely, and there is a familiarity between them that he is demonstrated to never tolerate from anyone else. Similarly, while he disguises the covenant he makes with Thomas, the terms of his covenant with Ellen are laid out clearly, in full. He does not hide from her; she already knows the worst of him, the same way he knows that she is intelligent, that she is powerful, and that she is not meant to be demure and deferring. Again and again, Orlok insists that Ellen is not meant for humanity - and the true horror, the horror she cannot bring herself to face, is that he is right.

In a sense, he is a mirror held up in front of her own face. Ellen is painfully aware that she does not fit in, and that she never has. The "normal" society, epitomized by the Hardings (wealthy husband, pretty blonde wife, 2.5 kids), has no place for her - and actively dislikes her.

The film makes this ostracism impossible for the viewer to ignore. As the story progresses, it becomes evident that the other human characters - even those that do sincerely care for Ellen - never truly know her. Anna loves her, but wishes she would not talk of dreadful things - and lashes out as a result of that discomfort, scolding her. Sievers finds himself bewildered by her; Knock sees her as an object to trade; Von Franz pities her, Harding hates her, and Thomas cannot truly satisfy her, even after being touched by the supernatural himself.

Seeing a flash of a monstrous face while they are together, he flings her away. To him, his experience with Orlok is merely traumatic, and he wishes for nothing more than to leave it behind. However, to her, it is something she cannot help but crave; and she continues to wear her lilac perfume.*

All that to say - Count Orlok is, simultaneously, everything Ellen wants and everything she is terrified of being.

That specific dichotomy reaches its climax during their mutual finale. As it is to be expected from a vampire wedding night, they rejoin in a sequence of sex, blood, and renewed vows - and what is particularly notable is that (unlike Murnau) Eggers makes it clear that this Orlok never intended to kill his Ellen, despite his inability to resist her blood. Though he drinks from her through the night, he stops at cock-crow; and she guides his head back down herself, distracting him long enough for the sun to rise. It is a duet of accident and intention. He drains her; and she holds him as the sun drains him. They cling together as they end - on a bed that serves their wedding and their death.

It is romantic. it is unquestionably romantic. However, that does not mean that the horror isn't also present; Ellen's consent, under these circumstances, is highly debatable, and Orlok is cruel, amoral, and murderously possessive. At the same time, the characters are also acting out folkloric archetypes, with precious little adjustment to that framework - which further removes them from a modern understanding of morality. He is Death, a Koschei the Deathless, a monster; she is the Maiden, a Vasilisa, a damsel. I hesitate to liken them to the Beauty and the Beast, largely because in the original premise of that story, the Beauty falls in love with the kindness that the Beast consistently displays; and it is essential to stress that Orlok has none. He does care for Ellen, in his own way, but he admits to being incapable of love as she defines it in human terms;** and, curiously, that seems to be her primary concern when it comes to the idea of accepting his proposal - rather than all the blood and carnage.

What I'm trying to say, I suppose, is that there are multiple ways of following a story, and multiple different stories in a film as nuanced as Nosferatu. Yes, it is about grooming and trauma. Yes, it is about finding love outside of the cage that is "polite society." I'm sure that it is many other things besides, with as many meanings as there are people in the theatres; after all, I am only one person, and the film grossed something over $40M in its first three days. The point is, really, that this is a story in which a rotting vampire is woken from centuries of deathlike slumber by a lonely voice asking him to be her friend; and whatever these two strange and aching souls do with that can go down any myriad of paths. The film trusts the viewer to interpret the narrative they choose.

* LILAC PERFUME - in fact, it is such a consistent favourite of Ellen's that Orlok smells it on her hair in the locket she sends with Thomas to the castle. Thomas never really learns the reason she likes that scent - even though he knows that preference well enough that he gifts her lilacs in the beginning of the film.

** ORLOK'S OBSESSION - this is a side note, but: the vampire wedding sequence reminds me strongly of the third season of NBC's Hannibal. I suppose that was to be expected, considering that Hannibal is also a Dracula offshoot, much like Orlok himself. When Ellen snaps at Orlok that he cannot love, he responds that "no; but only with you, I can be truly sated." Similarly - "Is Hannibal in love with me?" asks Will; and Bedelia responds - "Could he feel a daily stab of hunger for you, and find nourishment at the very sight of you?" I'd say if you liked that series, you should try and see the film. It works with a familiar blend of aesthetic horror.

[ervotica]

fix your head

pairing; perv!stepbro!rafe cameron x fem!stepsister!reader

warnings; stepcest, smut 18+ only, fingering, p in v sex, somnophilia, free use kink

a/n; just been having brainrot abt stepbro!rafe so here’s a lil drabble/thot abt him! (yes i am insane)

A rough palm presses to the small of your back as the covers lift, a chill twining around your suddenly exposed skin that has goosebumps raising even in slumber. You whine, brows scrunching as lax fingers loop around his wrist and you twist further into the sheets. Your eyes open and desperately try to acclimatise to the darkness of your bedroom, but all you can decipher is a looming silhouette that begins to crawl on top of your slack body.

"Shh, shh," Rafe soothes. His breath is hot against your prickling face. "'S just me. Go back to sleep. Just g'na fix your head a little."

"Mm, okay." You settle once you realise it's only your stepbrother, eyes fluttering closed once more. His touch immediately has your pert nipples hardening, the soft sheets beneath you enough stimulation to make you squirm even in your half-asleep state.

Bruising fingers curl around your hips, lifting them until your back arches and your face smushes into the pillows beneath you; he makes light work of your panties, pushing them to the side as his big palms knead the fatty flesh of your bum.

A finger sinks into your weeping hole and you gasp, pushing back into the touch as he curls it just right to rub over your g-spot. Your gummy walls contract at the newfound pleasure and an arm flies back in seek of purchase against Rafe's wrist.

"I know, I know," he coos, slipping in another digit and picking up the pace until the delicious friction has you stifling moans into the sheets. "Keep quiet for me, kid. Wouldn't want your mom finding us, would we?"

The feeling of fullness is gone as quickly as it appeared and you're still for a few moments, features crumpling in vexation.

"Don't get bratty on me now, you little shit," he chuckles, watching as your face falls once more when he lines his mushroom head up with your drooling entrance. You garble and gasp as your cunt parts and flares around him, fluttering walls hugging him and moulding to the shape of his curved cock.

Fingers splay against the base of your neck, effectively silencing you as he starts to rock his hips; fingernails dig into the delicate flesh there and you whimper, tears tickling at your waterline as he presses you further into the pillow to keep you quiet.

"Got this pussy trained f'me, haven't I, kid? Attagirl, nice and quiet for me."

He twines an open palm into the length of your hair and tugs to reveal your blissed visage, watching with rapture as your expression changes the more he toys with you.

You squeak as he reaches down to pinch and roll your swollen clit between two fingertips, teeth baring into a growl when he clasps a merciless hand over your whining mouth.

"I told you to be fuckin' quiet, slut. Too much of a whore to take it nicely, hm? Too ungrateful?"

You shake your head vehemently, tears pooling at the base of his fingers as his thrusts pick up speed, head of his cock kissing every spot inside of you until you can't think of anything but how good he's making you feel.

He wrenches his hand free and you sag like dead weight, a punched breath of air expelling from your lungs with every cruel rut of his hips.

"There's my girl," he croons with a wicked smile, satisfied now you're fucked too dumb to do anything but drool onto the pillows beneath you. "You just, relax, kid. I'll be finished with you soon.”

[cruel-hiraeth]

꒰ THE UNBEARABLE WEIGHT OF LOVE ꒱ RORONOA ZORO X READER

warnings ⟢ slight angst (though it gets resolved). hurt/comfort. mentions of death and dying. descriptions of blood and wounds. brief allusions to buddhism. reader is gn and described as “beautiful” once.

word count ⟢ 1086

notes ⟢ happy birthday to my most beloved! this fic is self-indulgent (i.e. full of my hcs about zoro’s childhood) and a labor of love. the three of swords design in the banner is from the rider-waite tarot deck. three of swords generally depicts a difficult, sorrowful experience.

So this is how it ends.

The midafternoon horizon is fathomless—a halycon ocean—the sun anchored in its depths. A cool breeze stirs, kissing his tawny flesh, rustling his hair, and chiming his earrings; whispering beachgrass casts sinuous shadows across his face, allowing his good eye to rest in partial shade. Nearby, the tide laps at the shoreline—tenderly, the caress of a lover. Foam glides across half-buried seashells and beached debris in a brief greeting before returning to the sea, heeding her call.

Where Zoro is, he can’t be certain (not an uncommon occurence, though he would never admit it). His robe was slashed off at some point, and fell to the ground in shorn tatters. He lies bare-backed in a slurry of sand and ichor, his swords beside him; weeping wounds litter his torso, the most gruesome of which stretches from his navel to his right side. While he had the wherewithal to cut his haramaki and tie it around his waist as a makeshift tourniquet, the fabric is sodden, metallic teardrops puddling in the sand.

Pain is a feeling he greets like an old friend. It’s comforting, almost, like a suffocating embrace. As a boy, he had to nurture that cold familiarity if he wanted to survive—be it fighting bigger kids for spare scraps at the orphanage, or taking lashes from a bokken at the dojo. Strength comes with a cost, as does physical and mental growth. Existence is suffering, and suffering is—in its purest form—pain. But the mind-numbing sting that currently radiates from his injuries is the last thing on his mind.

For the first time in years, Zoro is afraid. He shivers despite the scorching sunbeams, sucking in shallow mouthfuls of air, glistening beads of sweat sliding down his body toward the earth.

It isn’t the prospect of death that scares him; he has walked most of his life along the corpse-strewn path of demons, fighting against his fate as an asura. And he has peered into death’s grim visage before—too many times count. He even dived into hell and cleaved through its bowels to face Enma, emerging victorious as the king of souls departed.

Regret, however? Regret is a different beast.

It’s why he trembles now, covered in grime and gore, half-lucid. As dark thoughts slink to the forefront of his consciousness, he’s aware that dying here will mean failing. Not simply failing himself and his own dream of becoming the greatest swordsman, but also failing his captain and best friend, and failing to preserve Kuina’s legacy. Most gut-wrenching of all, he knows that dying here will mean failing you. There’s so much Zoro wants to do with you, so much he wants to say. He itches with regret, calloused digits twitching at his sides, desperate to claw his skin off.

Clarity torments him. Memories flit before his steel gaze, now wet—a tear-streaked blade. He sees you: the flicker of your eyes when you tell a story; the curve of your lips when you poke fun at him; the halo of your hair when you nap against his chest; the set of your jaw when you’re serious. More than anything else, he longs to tell you how he feels.

I love you.

Three simple words that he always struggled to string together. Perfect moment after perfect moment was presented to him on a gilt platter: inside the crow’s nest at dawn, or beneath the lush boughs in the tangerine orchard—even perched atop the Sunny’s bow to watch the sunset. He squandered each of these opportunities because he (foolishly) assumed there would be more in the future.

I love you.

If only he could muster the strength to breathe out the sweetness of your name once more—to taste each smooth, honeyed syllable on his lips, to feel it silken on his palate. Maybe then he could forgive himself. But instead, it dies on his tongue as his vision blots and blurs. Eventually, his world goes black.

I love you.

Zoro awakes to the muffled creaking of a hull.

His head pounds, his mouth is bone-dry, and his limbs are leaden and stiff; he feels like death, and suspects that he looks like it, too. Surgical gauze tightly wraps his frame, stifled wounds screaming in agony. When he glances up and sees framed pictures of the crew above his cot, he recognizes where he is: the Sunny’s infirmary. In his periphery, you’re sitting at Chopper’s desk with a book in your lap. He tries (and, to his frustration, fails) to shift into a seated position. As soon as you notice the movement—head snapping up in surprise—you rush to his bedside.

He waits for you to reprimand him for being so reckless while away from the rest of the crew. But you don’t—not yet, anyway. (Not until he’s mostly healed. And for that, he wonders if you may be an angel.) Instead, you kneel on the wooden floorboards to level with him. Your fingertips tentatively brush against his cheekbone, as though you’re testing to ensure that he’s real. Content with what you find, you cup his chin, allowing him to lean into the soft warmth of your touch, catlike.

“I was worried about you. Well, so was everyone else. But I’ll only speak for myself,” you murmur.

His voice is gravel, cragged from disuse. “Sorry.”

After a few beats of silence, he clears his throat. “Is Chopper on break?”

You nod. “I’ve picked up the night shift so he can sleep.”

“How long was I out for?”

“Roughly two days.”

“Fuck.”

That draws a chuckle from you.

Zoro swallows. “Listen, I—”

Your thumb grazes his chapped lips, forcing him to pause. “Save your energy, Zo. You don’t have to defend yourself; you’re safe with me. I promise.”

Tired but patient, your gaze breaks him, only to piece him back together. His heart aches.

He inhales deeply. Then—in a flood of emotion he can’t stem—the words flow out: “Y’know I’m not good with feelings…or words. But, uh…” A broad palm wraps around your wrist, your skin hot against his. Ignoring the heat creeping up into his cheeks, he sighs, “I love you.”

Before he can second guess his confession, your lips bloom and burst into a radiant smile, setting your features alight. He doesn’t think you have ever looked more beautiful.

“I know,” you admit airily. Leaning in, you dot a kiss to his scarred eyelid. “I love you, too.”

[route-to-evil]

Helluva Boss x Succubus! Reader

Sneak Peek: 422 Words

Synopsis: In which you take a foul mouthed imp up on his offer to teach you how to drive, knowing well that it’s just his convoluted way of ensuring you both go home together.

Pairing: Blitzø x Reader

Content: Swearing, Suggestive, Biting, Foreplay

“Fuckin-“ Blitzø cursed as he was jerked away from the heat of your body, the tail coiled possessively around the soft bend of your knee acting as an anchor as he turned his head to glare up at you. “Eyes on the road, bitch.”

Despite the harshness of his words, he reclaimed his spot by your side before he’d even finished uttering his admonishments. The spade of his tail continued its incessant tapping against the plush flesh of your inner thigh, smoothing over the pink skin every few gentle strikes while his breath fanned hot over the expanse of your neck.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you snarked, knuckles whitening as your grip tightened around the synthetic leather of Blitzø’s steering wheel, trying your darnedest to ignore the shudders of echoing pleasure threatening to pulsate throughout your body. The imp, who was supposed to be instructing you on how to maneuver his vehicle, instead chose to pour all of his efforts into peppering searing kisses and heated nips to the side of your throat, claws prying at your right thigh, trying desperately to wrench it away from it’s counterpart. “You’re supposed to be teaching me how to do this.”

Blitzø only hummed absently in response, the barest yellow glow highlighting the side of your face when he opened his eyes briefly in wordless acknowledgment serving as the only indications that he’d even registered your words. Neatly plucked brows furrowed as waning exasperation pleated across your visage, head tilting upward against your better judgement to give the golden teeth toying with the underside of your jaw better access, complaining petulantly of his behavior in spite of your wordless encouragements. “Not fondling me.”

“‘S called encouragement, ya ungrateful bitch,” he assured, head lifting briefly and lips abandoning your throat in favor of offering you a wry smile, the hand on your thigh squeezing gently. You rolled your eyes as an amused grin tempted the corners of your lips, opening your mouth to respond only for him to dive back into your side to latch his teeth onto the space between your neck and shoulder, tongue lapping at the tiny wound he’d purposefully inflicted upon your flesh, relishing in the stifled moan you bit back behind painted lips and clenched teeth at the beautiful sting, feeling the trapped noise reverberate in your throat against his mouth.

“Some positive reinforcement.”

Another rough kiss, quickly replaced by a harsher bite and a husky voice, sarcastic and condescending and mocking in tone, one that sent tremors of intimate anticipation straight to your core.

“You’re doin’ great, babe.”

[celebtf]

RED,WHITE AND THE ROYAL TWIST ( Scrapped)

Miguel’s obsession had twisted into something dark, unrecognizable even to himself. It wasn’t just about Alex anymore. It was about power, dominance, and erasing anyone who dared stand in his way. Henry was perfect—too perfect. His charm, his poise, his unshakable connection with Alex. All of it had to go.

Miguel’s search for a solution led him to the shadowy market five blocks down from West Boulevard. The air there felt heavier, suffocating, as though the place itself knew it housed things that shouldn’t exist. A man emerged from the gloom, his grin sharp and predatory.

“You seem... desperate,” the man said, his voice like nails scraping glass.

Miguel nodded, his eyes gleaming with a frenzied determination.

The man handed him a book, its leather cover cracked and ancient. “This will give you power beyond imagination, but it will cost you.”

Miguel didn’t care about the cost. He paid and fled back to his apartment, the book clutched tightly to his chest. He pored over its pages, his eyes devouring each word with growing excitement. The incantation he found—The Mirage of Identity—was perfect. It promised not just transformation but utter domination.

The night of the Peace Banquet arrived. Miguel slipped into the grand hotel, his stolen staff uniform granting him anonymity. He moved with cold precision, every step calculated, every breath steady. Finding Henry’s room was laughably easy. People trusted a man in a uniform.

Inside the room, Miguel hid, the spellbook clenched in his hands. His lips curled into a twisted smile as he rehearsed the incantation. He could feel the power thrumming in the air, the promise of something dark and irreversible.

The lock clicked, and Henry entered, humming softly to himself.

Miguel stepped out from the shadows, his eyes alight with malice.

“Miguel?” Henry said, startled. “What are you—”

“Quiet,” Miguel hissed, his voice dripping with venom. He locked the door with a click that sounded final.

Henry took a step back, his confusion turning to unease. “What’s going on?”

Miguel opened the book and began chanting, the words guttural and alien. The air in the room grew thick, oppressive, as though the walls themselves were closing in.

Henry’s hand flew to his throat as he tried to scream, but his voice cracked and failed. He stumbled, his body convulsing as if it were being wrenched apart from the inside.

His golden hair darkened, each strand twisting into Miguel’s deep brown. His sharp, regal features softened, reshaping into Miguel’s rugged visage. Stubble sprouted along his jaw, thickening into a coarse beard. His body shrank, his royal attire shifting into the simple, worn clothes Miguel wore.

“No!” Henry croaked, his voice now Miguel’s. “What—what are you doing to me?”

Miguel’s laughter filled the room, cold and jagged. “Oh, Henry, you’ll see soon enough. I’m taking everything you have. Everything you are.”

Henry clutched at his face, his hands trembling as he felt the unfamiliar contours of his new identity. “You... you’re insane!”

Miguel’s smirk widened. “Insane? No, Henry. I’m brilliant.”

As Henry’s transformation completed, Miguel felt the spell turn inward. Pain shot through his body, sharp and glorious. His bones cracked and stretched, his muscles shifting and contorting. His dark hair lightened to a golden blond, falling in perfect waves. His face smoothed and sharpened, taking on Henry’s regal features.

He let out a low, guttural laugh as his Spanish accent melted into Henry’s crisp British tones. His clothes shimmered, morphing into royal attire that fit him like a second skin. When he looked in the mirror, the Prince of Wales stared back at him.

Miguel ran a hand through his newly golden hair, his lips curling into a demented grin. “Perfection,” he whispered, his voice rich with delight. “I’m better than you ever were, Henry.”

Henry, now trapped in Miguel’s body, lunged at him. “You won’t get away with this!”

Miguel sidestepped easily, his laughter echoing through the room. “Oh, but I already have.”

He picked up the room phone and called the guards. “This man broke into my room,” he said, his voice calm and commanding. “Get rid of him.”

The guards burst in moments later, grabbing the real Henry—now Miguel.

“No!” Henry shouted, his voice filled with desperation. “I’m the real—”

Miguel interrupted with a mocking wave. “Take him away. I’ll deal with this... imposter later.”

The guards dragged Henry out, ignoring his protests.

Miguel turned back to the mirror, adjusting his royal attire. “Now, Alex won’t know the difference. And soon, I’ll have him wrapped around my finger. The crown will follow.”

He let out a low, chilling chuckle as he left the room. The world was his now, and nothing would stop him.

Hii I'm here with the first of the Christmas-pull stories... I also created a Discord-server if anyone likes that.

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

i had a heart wrenching idea that i absolutely need to tell you

reader with the purification ability through touch, so imagine this: not being able to hold or help or touch foul legacy cause their touch hurts him and you just see him whine

reader getting hurt/in the brink of death and foul legacy not being able to do anything cause their touch would actually might seriously injure him enough, so he has to look for others/lead others towards an injured reader. but the thing is, convincing terrified humans to follow them back as a big giant monster is easier said than done.

CONSIDER MY HEART WRENCHED AND MY TEARS SHED, YOU ARE BRILLIANT ANON

Foul Legacy has never been able to touch you, both cursed in your own right, him being born in darkness and you with light at your fingertips. not even the gods ever answered when you asked them why, perhaps burdened with their own Celestial secrets just as you were. no matter what you tried or did, you've never been able to touch Legacy without harming him like a burn piercing through his armor- it makes him yelp in pain, and your heart twinges. so instead you tie a ribbon around your finger and the other end around his claw so you're always connected, even if you can't physically touch one another. Legacy takes small delight in choosing the ribbon color each day, and you find that you come to have many shades of blue you didn't even know existed, for those are always his favorite

he whimpers as he kneels by you, talons digging into the soft ground with desperation. you're bleeding, you're bleeding so badly, yet no one comes to help. they all scream in terror over his monstrous visage, brandishing their weapons- he's had to move you somewhere safe a few times already, to the detriment of you both. but still, he has to keep trying, even if you weakly tell him that you're fine, because you're not, he can smell the blood and he knows you're not, and Legacy wants nothing more than to take you in his arms. he can't, though. not in this life. instead he tenderly covers you, makes sure you're as comfortable as possible before venturing out again, fluttering his glittering, star-speckled wings in determination

finally, a blue-haired man with an eyepatch answers his call, and Foul Legacy nearly sobs with relief

[argisthebulwark]

TES Summer Fest Day Six: Mirror/Abandoned

summary: After years of avoiding it, Miraak catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. gn reader/Miraak, no gendered pronouns or y/n used. warnings: themes of body horror (scars, multiple/misshapen pupils), themes of body dysmorphia/unease with physical appearance. mentions of injury & battle. angst with comfort. @tes-summer-fest TES Summerfest Masterlist

Somewhere deep in his chest a chasm tears open. Miraak is flailing, falling deeper and deeper as his sense of self crumbles at the sight. Too many pupils flicker to where his chapped lips part, eyes so unfamiliar they make his stomach turn. What color had his eyes once been? He claws for a memory that is long gone, breaths huffing out too quickly when he fights to recall - were they green or blue?

A jagged, poorly healed scar cuts across his face. Of their own volition Miraak's eyes trace the old wound and he relives that awful day - his mouth stings with the taste of blood, phantom pain shimmering over his jaw in a memory of that beast's talons raking over his skin. Gods, it had been a simple mistake - he's usually so careful to avoid even a glance into the grimy mirrors. One careless look and now he's stuck there, shaky fingers mapping out the planes of a face he does not know.

Miraak had never considered himself especially handsome but there is something terrifying about seeing the visage of the beast he'd become under Mora's influence; swirls of ink covering tattoos he'd once admired, eyes that long ago shone with power now lifeless without his patron. He takes in the streaks of grey shooting through once dark hair and cannot remember when that happened.

Combing a hand through his unruly locks gives him a fleeting glance of the man he once was. He remembers how carefully he'd once braided it away from his face, the way it used to curl around his ears and meticulously cropping it to frame his jaw. Miraak's heart sinks at the memory of that man who sincerely thought he could be a hero.

"My love." Your voice breaks him out of the reverie, cheeks coloring as you thankfully give him something else to focus on. You wrap your arm so easily around his waist and lean in to his side, a little divot appearing between your brows when you stare at his reflection. Miraak cannot fathom how you stomach being so close to him - perhaps if he still resembled that young man he would understand, but time had robbed you of that chance.

"What are you doing?" You sound cautious and he wants to apologize for making you worry but he cannot summon the words. That chasm in his chest has stolen away his voice, barely enough room for him to suck in a breath around the horrible weight of grief. There's hardly enough energy for his eyes to slide back to his own reflection, knees weakening at the stranger he finds there.

"I was also stunned into silence when I first saw you." You grin, a sweet kiss pressed to his jaw. Miraak's eyes fall closed against the litany of excuses he doesn't have the energy to say. You worm deeper into his robes and Miraak feels a bit of that weight lighten, suddenly guilty for causing you to worry.

"You're the most handsome man I've ever seen."

"Don't jest." Miraak snorts, though his voice sound deflated.

"I would never joke about such a thing." Warm fingers wrench his jaw upward and Miraak's eyes fly open, relieved to see an annoyed flush in your face.

"What do you think I see when I look at you?" You demand, a finger jabbed toward the mirror.

"A monster."

"Incorrect."

"My dragon -"

"Do you think of me as a monster?" Your brows furrow deeper when you glare at his reflection. He looks at you, taking in old scars and marks from the many selfish gods who have tried to lay claim to you.

"Of course not."

"Yet you expect me to find you unappealing? If you must hate anyone, hate me - I am responsible for many of your scars." Your nose crinkles when you smile at him, hand falling to rest on his chest. That awful pit in his chest seems so much smaller when you lean into him, lips ghosting over his cheek. He will never forgive himself for killing the young man he'd once been, for robbing you of the chance to love a version of him that had so much more to offer.

Despite all the grief and regret he cannot help but marvel at the sheer trust in your motions; your eyes falling closed against his chest, his arm draped around your shoulders, the content little smile on your face. Each day you've looked at him without fear, you've kissed his scarred lips and gazed into his eyes with no hesitation.

"I think we fit together." You murmur the words against his skin and something clicks. Your scars, your wounds, the terrifying power he's seen you wield - he would never fault you for these things. When Miraak dares to look in the mirror one last time he thinks you may be right, there's something magnetic about how you fit together. Those years of suffering and madness suddenly seem so miniscule compared to the peace of holding you, his dragon.

Miraak supposes that he was made for you.

[kumiaku]

Harness - Dottore x Reader

Kinktober Day 1 - Harness, Dottore x Reader, Genshin Impact

Masterlist

Misc. Tags - Established Relationship, Reader is implied to be Fatui/Fatui Harbinger, Lowkey hate sex ngl, CBT I think, gender neutral reader, dirty talk, degradation, slight sadism/masochism, foot job?? Lowkey implied toxic relationship, but that’s just onbrand for dottore, safe - sure, sane - no, consensual - absolutely.

WC - 1,049

Nsfw under cut

“Are you fucking joking Dottore?” You hissed the second you stepped into the Grand Gothe Hotel. The recruits around the two of you made themselves scarce, seeping into the shadows of the Hotel, as to not incur your wrath. 

“I don’t see the issue, dear.” Dottore, that son of a bitch, pretended like he hadn’t just made a fool of the Fatui in front of the Knights of Favonius, the Ragnvindr brat, and the Deacon from the Church. Yet, even with his farce, he didn’t dare challenge your grating gaze - instead having his face look to the side as if your seething would so easily steam away. 

You made a choked noise, somewhere between a growl and a laugh as you shook your head - reached up, and yanked at the harness around Dottore’s neck, sending him surging forward towards you. “Look me in the fucking eye and say that again.” 

His mask made up the vast majority of his emotional features, but his mouth always betrayed him, curved in particularly vexed visage. Despite his mouth opening in silent surprise, he remained speechless, his lips loose enough to reveal his teeth to both you and the fucking entirety of Mondstadt. Did he not realize how diplomacy was meant to work? 

Clearly not, as you tugged on the collar round his neck again, dragging him further down. “Fucking say something!” Yet he just limply followed your lead, knees buckling to meet the ground in some slapstick show of submission. 

And that’s when you finally noticed it. 

“Are you fucking for real right now?” Your exasperated voice leaves your body just as warmth begins to kindle - you stare down at Dottore. On his knees for you, lips pressed in a thin shaky line, pants perturbed by a prominent protrusion. “You're getting off on this.” 

The hand not firmly clenched around the black leather tight around his neck came up to rest on your calescent cheeks, you laughed, almost in despair over the fact - “I’m going to get nowhere with you.” 

“No.” He finally fucking opened his mouth, his expression shifting into a sinful smile and the little bits of his cheeks seemingly darkening with a reddish flush. “You’re not.” 

“Oh? So we aren’t gonna get into your bed again?” As if you could ever get rid of his warmth next to you in bed, it was all a lie, a farce, for the temporary satisfaction of hearing him backtrack on his words. To hear the usually arrogant Doctor lose his cool, even slightly, and concede his mind as well as his body to you. 

“Well,” Dottore paused, his lips curled up, revealing his canine teeth for a moment, “I never said that.” 

You leaned down, fingers tangling in the - now warm - metal circle in the middle of his neck, wrenching him up by the harness. The same harness that dipped under his clothing, just peeking out at his neck, always taunting you. 

Dottore sucked in some air - if he even needed to breathe nowadays. 

“Well you implied it - so it sounds like we won't be going anywhere.” Despite trying so desperately to make eye contact with his mask, your eyes kept slipping down to the place you were keeping him restrained, then lower, to where the pants were keeping him restrained in another way. 

“NO - no.” Dottore swiftly rejected, his voice initially straining in that needy way that always made you want to eat him whole. But he composed himself, even just enough to speak with only the slightest salacity hinging in on his tone. “We can -” setting his own pride aside, gritting his teeth like a cornered animal, “-we can go places.” 

How much power did you yield over this man to make the chronically deranged man in front of you nigh speechless. 

“How romantic.” You spoke, sarcasm slick in your voice. Again, you yank at his harness, letting him go to almost have his face plant into the ground - only if he didn’t catch himself. “Maybe if you beg.” 

Setting his pride aside wasn’t enough. No. Today he had to want it. With the bullshit he pulled earlier - this was the only way to get anywhere with him. To make him regret it. 

He made some stupid, shaky, strangle noise that wasn’t at all slutty or sexy. No, you weren’t enjoying this as much as he was. 

For a minute, you didn’t even think you heard his voice, until he repeated himself, a soft “Please...” leaving his mouth. 

With a grin, your fingers sifted through strands of his hair to grab at the back of his harness, pulling him back up onto his knees. “Spread and strip.” Fuck, now even you seemed a little lusty. 

But it was nowhere near the listless lewd look of his teeth sinking into his lips. He complied with ease, barely even grumbling as he slid off his white coat, letting it pool on the ground around him. His blue shirt shortly followed, but it was your breath that was cut short when his full chest was exposed. 

Fuck - you reached out and grabbed it from the front again - almost lifting him up if not for your boot swiftly being placed on his crotch, pushing him back down. But he didn’t back down, no he relished this treatment, his mouth scrunching - barely containing the noises he wanted to let loose. 

“You fucking whore - this entire time you’ve been taunting me - wearing this for what - so you were ready for me yank you around - to put you on a leash and walk you around like your my dog.” You hissed, continuing the pressure, pulling and pushing, it was an ebb and flow between the two of you. The flow of your boot grinding against his constrained cloth covered cock, and the ebb of his eventual egoistic personality returning. 

But for now, he was wrapped around your finger, or rather pressed under your heel. 

Pitiful strings of syllables slipped from him, escaping his red-bitten shaky lips, the only thing even remotely close to a sentence was a single word, “please...” 

Your ears burned from his whines and whimpers, he was going to make you soft, then break you down and build you up all over again, just as you were going to break him again and again.

[capt-mactavish]

Soap's "death" was the perfect opportunity. He recovers in secret and goes deep undercover on a solo assignment from so high up even Laswell doesn't know about it. It's years before he returns; older, wiser, hardened.

The 141 had mourned their fallen brother; Ghost, perhaps more than anyone, had carried the weight of his loss. They had solemnly spread Soap's ashes, a ritualistic farewell to a brother in arms. Grief had clung to them, even years later, leaving lasting marks on the team's collective soul.

Ghost can barely believe his eyes, he cant believe Soap is standing right there in front of him, after all this time. He had mourned. He had grieved. They all did. He was gone and the loss had shaken all of them to the core. They spread his fucking ashes for fucks sake! He doesn't know how to feel, see-sawing somewhere between elation and indignation, joy and fury.

But he's there, in all his glory, like a phoenix from the ashes. His Johnny, who had defied death. His gaze held the weight of experiences untold, and his every movement echoed victories won in the shadows. The scar on his temple a cruel reminder of what Ghost thought he'd lost.

He'd been promoted in his time spent away in secret, ascending the ranks and earning the title of Captain Mactavish. What that meant for the 141 remained to be seen, but in that moment the overwhelming joy at having him back overshadowed any uncertainty about the future of the task force.

Soap's eyes, sharper now, more intense, but no less warm, lock with Ghost's, and he extends a hand, a silent invitation to bridge the gap that time and loss had created.

Soap smiles softly at him, a familiar visage that tugs at Ghost's heart. And in that moment any anger dissipates, replaced by pure happiness, and he instead steps forward and tugs Soap into a firm embrace.

The tangible warmth of the embrace wrenches a choked sound from Ghost's throat, almost as if he expected his arms to phase right through Soap like some kind of specter. But they didn't. Soap is solid under his hands, and tears bead in the corners of Ghost's eyes, threatening to spill over at any moment.

Soap returns the hug just as fervently, rubbing Ghost's back soothingly. And he laughs, and it's the most beautiful thing Ghost has heard in years. It tips him over the edge and he buries his face into Soap's neck, unable to hold back his tears any longer, streaking down his cheeks through the grease paint and soaking into his balaclava.

In a deliberate act, he reaches up and pulls the balaclava off his head, dropping it to the floor unceremoniously, desperate to feel Soap's skin on his own, warm and alive, dispelling any lingering doubts.

As Soap holds him, Ghost feels himself shedding the weight of the grief that clung to him like a shadow all these years. And in the days to come, Soap's presence becomes a grounding force, for all of them. The 141- and Ghost especially-, rejuvenated by the return of their comrade, was finally whole again.

[itsanightmareisntit]

TW: very bloody gng

"BRUTUS YOU STUPID MOTHER FUCKER.

WHY COULDN'T YOU SAVE HER?!"

The forest loomed heavy with a palpable darkness, the sun’s feeble rays barely piercing through the thick canopy of twisted branches overhead. Brutus stood at the edge of a murky pond, a warped reflection staring back at him, and with it came the haunting visage of his father—a specter of shame and disappointment that clawed at the edges of his sanity.

The raw, ragged edges of his antlers scraped against the bark of the ancient tree as he thrust his head forward again and again, each impact sending a jarring shockwave of pain coursing through him. The tree seemed to absorb his fury, its gnarled surface now slick with the warm, crimson tide of his blood.

With every brutal collision, a sickening crack echoed through the air, followed by the sound of splintering bone and ripping flesh. His antlers—once symbols of pride, now jagged remnants of his identity—were mere tools of his torment. As he grasped what was left of them, a searing pain shot through his scalp, and blood gushed forth like a violent river, drenching the earth below him. The metallic tang of iron filled his nostrils, mingling with the rich, loamy scent of the forest floor, creating an intoxicating aroma of decay.

Brutus stared into the water, but it was no longer a tranquil surface; it had transformed into a grotesque mirror reflecting his inner turmoil. The visage of his father smiled back, but it was a smile twisted by malice, filled with the mockery of every moment he had failed. Rage boiled within him, igniting an inferno that consumed the remnants of his reason.

The forest around him seemed to come alive with the echoes of Artemis’s last moments—the despairing cries that had echoed in his mind like a ghostly refrain. He could still see her silhouette, a fleeting shadow, slipping into the abyss. He had failed her. The betrayal of that thought struck deeper than any physical pain. Each beat of his heart was a relentless reminder of her absence, her scream slicing through the thick air like a dagger.

With a primal roar, Brutus wrenched his antlers free, tearing flesh and sending a fresh wave of crimson cascading down his face. The pain was a sweet relief, a momentary distraction from the emotional agony that festered in his chest. The blood mingled with the earth, a macabre offering to the forest gods, and he felt a dark connection to the very ground he stood upon—a pact forged in pain and fury.

[wordy-little-witch]

Transfemme Buggy who never realized until a certain disease is transmitted and spread on an island she and her crew visits.

Blackboard and his ilk had been there before, and Buggy had just so happened to show up within a week of the other leaving. Damages were minimal overall but the marks of their presence was there, everywhere, in the pale faces, the new graves, the sickness and fear.

It was a typical stop, supplies and information gathered in equal measure. Tasks delegated, Buggy is among a group chatting up the locals, and that layer of ignorance self consciousness is there, as it always is, when eyes catch on the captain's visage, but way that Buggy is being watched changes between one minute and the next. Someone comes into the shop, a young woman at a glance, who sneezes. Buggy doesn't think much on it, a charming smile and offered handkerchief the only response. The gazes go from wary, warming up to them, to suddenly wild and fearful and there's a shout and-

Buggy chokes on air, feeling the moment something latches in his lungs. His Devil Fruit is useful in ways few can fathom, in ways he cannot explain, but the introduction of something Foreign and Unapproved is a feeling the jester knows well, one which is often a mere reflex to Chop off of his cells, but this one adheres, latches, and Buggy can feel it seep and spread and-

Between one moment and the next, Buggy blinks past the sudden vertigo, genome shuffled and reverted and inverted until the swimming in his vision pauses, Cabaji's wide, panicked face swirling into focus. The blue haired pirate squints, confused tilts a dizzy head, and then freezes at the ambient wave over sensitive Haki, terror and guilt and panic which chokes and screams and wails.

Buggy moves to stand and freezes.

He looks down.

That is... definitely new.

A gloved hand touches his chest, the breasts straining under the striped top. "Huh," the clown captain says after a moment. "I did not have 'Sudden Sex Change' on my 1565 bingo card."

There's laughter, and Buggy preens a little as the negative emotions begin bleeding off, replaced by cautious amusement. Once tempers have calmed enough, there's a moment of questioning, where clarity is sought and then relatively received.

It's a change, certainly, and one which is yet another echo of Teach's group having been on that island. Buggy isn't upset - it isn't their fault after all, the town is just as hit by this as he is - but he is.... contemplative about it.

The crew is overall relatively calm about it. Gender equality is something Buggy does enforces heavily on the crew, assigned sex at birth or otherwise. Barring a few others, some more well renowned than most, the Buggy Pirates are the most progressive and open minded of pirates.

So after a quick explanation, things are back to business as usual - and Buggy is happy about it, obviously, the respect is there and it's perfect, the normalcy is fine.

It's the way he feels that throws a wrench in it all.

It takes a while to realize, because it's There, but it's just beneath the surface.

It starts when Buggy puts on a little weight.

All in all, that's not a big deal - but to Buggy who has a long standing problem with food and eating, it's notable. It's not uncomfortable. It's not like there's an Issue with eating or bodily image issues, it's the lack of time, of desire, of enjoyment in it. Buggy had always been on the slimmer side, never packing on muscle the way of the men and women in his life early on. Buggy was built slim and willowy, no less strong but less visibly jacked. It suited him just fine, that method of muscle, suited to aerials, to agility and speed. It fit and Buggy was adaptable.

Only now, Buggy isn't as preoccupied. There's less of a desperate, cloying need to fill his every waking moment with tasks and duties and activities. It's subtle. It's the slightest of shifts. It starts when he gains a little weight.

Then it becomes casual comments from the crew. "You look so healthy," some say warmly. "You look happy." And Buggy is. Buggy IS happy. And Buggy feels healthy. And it's strange, so strange, and it's wonderful and confusing and amazing, and it all comes to a head as things do with Buggy by sheer happenstance.

They dock at an island. Buggy and Alvida are restocking on makeup. A clerk calls them "ladies". Buggy waves it off, both the butterflies and the referral, and then that same clerk responds to a question the captain asked with a warm "yes, ma'am, absolutely"

And Buggy is having a realization in a small cosmetic shop on a tiny no-name island in the New World.

As they leave, she catches Alvida's sleeve and he - she - asks a question. "Could I... be a woman?"

And Alvida, sweet Alvida, blunt and brutally honest Alvida, snorts. "Fuck if I know. If you want to, sure, but your body doesn't determine that. If you're a woman," she pokes her friend in the chest, above the clown's heart, "then this is all that needs to be a woman. Is it?"

And Buggy breathes shakily. "I... yes. Yes? Yeah. I. I think so."

"Then you're a woman. Now come on, sister, we still need to find a foundation for me."

Buggy comes out to the crew casually though not without nerves. They get back and she just drops it with all the finesse of a bull in a China shop. "Surprise, it's a girl! And by it, I mean me."

The only response for a moment is silence, then someone asks about pronouns. And Buggy is bathed in the cacophony of her crew screeching their happiness for her, thanking her for trusting them, singing her praises, and she's a puddle, truly, she is melting into a pirate puddle.

Accepting it makes things fall into place a little easier. She's comfortable in this body in a way she never was before. The center of gravity fell in a more natural way to her senses, lower and steadier. She isn't any less strong, and she's not at all interested in the stick-thin-sensational body type, though more power to people who rock it. She is herself, and she never expected to be all that different. She's still got the musculature of an aerialist, the corded muscle of a knife fighter, no amount of hormone changes will take away that. She distributes the weight differently like this, filling her clothes in a way that looks and feels better to her. It's like she was assembling a puzzle in her heart, blindfolded, and she never knew a piece was missing until it fell into her hand, knocking the rest into place like a domino effect. Unexpected but undeniable, she was happy.

She felt beautiful in a way that she never had before, she felt more confident, more at home, more at ease in this skin of hers now that it finally was molded into a better form.

And with that contentment came freedom that she hadn't had the time for in what felt like eternity.

Freedom to experiment, to train, to explore. She felt better, so she could be better, could do better, and so she became better.

And the Seas quaked as a result.

[certifiedskywalker]

How You See Me - Aemond Targaryen

Anonymous asked: hi i love you're writings so much, you have a way with words that makes you're stories so mesmerizing, i dont know if you are accepting requests right now but if you do will you write an angst one with aemond targaryen or daemon somerhing that has to do with betrayal or choosing the other side of war thank you.

You have always seen Aemond, seen past his title, and, for a moment, you thought he was finally seeing himself too...

He brought the rain in with him. Puddles gathered on the floor of his chambers, channeled in grooves between the packed stone brick. The little rivers rushed toward you from where he stood by the ironwood door, the peaks of his frame cast in the dark of the dim-lit space. If not for the shine of his silver hair and the ghastliness of his pallor in the torchlight, he would have been unrecognizable. Even sure that it was him, you found yourself calling out warily.

“Aemond?”

“Aemond.”

His name fit in your mouth too well. You liked the feel of it, how it felt rolling off your tongue. In a place like King’s Landing where all sensations, sights, and smells, were new, Aemond felt familiar. Perhaps it was simply the shock of seeing another child at court. Let alone seeing a child with an eyepatch. 

“Prince.” At the sound of his stern whisper, you peered up at your father, a decorated Lord, in question. “Prince Aemond. Title comes first, just as we practiced.”

You nodded quickly, nervously, as if you got caught sneaking a sweet past curfew. “Yes, Prince Aemond.”

“And,” your father continued, “the Princess Helaena to the King’s left. It seems that Prince Aegon is absent from court. A strange thing for— Oh! Now, remember.”  

His rushed, last-minute tutelage was cut short as the Lord and Lady in front of you moved from the sword-studded start of the Iron Throne. In their place was a spot for you and your father to greet the members of the Royal Family present. You swallowed hard at the sight before a guiding hand set on your back and pushed you forward. 

The closer you got, the more you saw of King Viserys’ mangled features: his grey face sunken in the cheeks and eye sockets with sores dotting his every stretch of skin. Though, it looked as though his maesters went to some effort to obscure the bloody splotches with salves made to match what you assumed was the pale color of his flesh before sickness claimed it. When the King opened his mouth to greet you and your father, you saw that his teeth were grey too, at least where they weren’t missing.

“By the Gods! How good it is to see you! The last time, I do believe, you were still Daemon’s squire, yes? And— Why, is this your little one?”

“‘Tis indeed, your Majesty.”

King Viserys beamed and you stayed as still as stone, unwilling to show fear despite the state of his smile. “Well,” he continued, “I do hope our children will grow close, strengthening the bond between our great Houses. Hmm?”

“Yes, yes, your Majesty, as do I.” Your father nudged you and your mouth immediately went dry. It took everything you had to wrench your gaze from King Viserys and look to the left. Helaena seemed unresponsive, light eyes dancing about the room, looking everywhere save for you.

“It’s customary to bow.”

Your eyes shot to the right, to Aemond. Prince Aemond. He was scowling at you, his face turned up in seeming disgust; but unlike the visage of his father, Aemond’s face, the jagged scar, still red with relative freshness, did not frighten you in the slightest. Your father, on the other hand, made a mortified rasping sound.

“Already a stickler for pageantry, my Aemond,” Viserys flattered.

“Prince Aemond,” you corrected. “Title comes first.”

The King laughed, though, with his throat full of phlegm, it came out more of a cough. “Why, what a match you two are already.”

At his father’s words, you watched on, pleased, as Prince Aemond’s scowl faded, albeit slowly, away.

“Aemond?” 

You called out to him again, stepping towards his shadowy figure. Closer now, you saw his eye gleaming in the limited light, how it was fixed on the floor, the racing drips in the tile. He did not raise his head as you grew close enough to touch. The untraceable distance between you was suddenly insurmountable and it made your stomach twist.

“What is it? What happened?”

Even after eight years of it, you never bored of the dance: sneaking through the Red Keep, tracing alleys down to the training yard. Your spot was always saved by the squires, who, faces ruddy with work, were too worn and watchful to make note of your presence. Hidden enough behind their slim shoulders, you could safely watch the Sers spar. Though, it was not for their cacophony that you made such moves.

It was for the music made by Aemond’s singing blade.

“Can you see back there?”

“Yes,” you hissed, barely looking at the squire in front of you hoping he would hold his craning neck back with the ask, likely assuming you were some other yard hand watching on. You perched yourself on the tips of your toes and caught a glimpse of racing silver. The crowd rose up in turn and you heard the dull, heavy thud of a leather-armored body hitting the packed dirt. Hoots and hollers resounded about the yard, bringing a wide smile to your lips.

“Aemond fell Boric the Beast?” You asked, already knowing the answer.

“Prince Aemond,” the squire corrected, his head turning to look at you, eyes wide in appalled surprise. You noted the scarlet cloths he adorned, the scattered ten pellets that echoed the growing reach of House Cole. “The Prince fell the Beast.”

“Yes, Prince Aemond,” you echoed, suddenly feeling a bit too seen and far too memorable as the squire studied you with disgust. He had marked your face for the ‘offense’ you committed against the royal family, but before he could tag you for it, the ramble of the crowd swallowed him whole. The men bounced and bobbed, eager for the next match, shouldering one another towards the center. You took advantage of the bustle and slipped back into the shadows of the Red Keep.

You set your back against the sun-baked brick and took a trembling breath. Eight years and simply slip of a name could—

“What are you doing here?”

On instinct, your body straightened, ready to greet a man of higher rank, to put on airs of simply being lost somewhere unfit for one of your station. You watched as the shadowy visage approached, all slow and suspecting. Quick to please by the grace of your father’s lessons, you bowed, folding your nerves in your stomach until they were nearly nonexistent.

“My Lord,” you said, dipping your form. “I find myself a touch turned around and-”

“I’m no Lord.”

Prickling fear licked your face until it started to sting. “I-”

“I’m your Prince.”

The figure grew close, allowing the stink of sweat and blood and smoke filled your nose, filling you with a strange sort of relief. “Aemond.”

You immediately melted in him, so fluidly that he had to quickly raise his arms up around you. The leathers of his armor squeaked slightly as Aemond moved, just as the sharpness of nerves eeked out of you with a sigh. At the sound, his hold on you tightened.

“I did not mean to frighten you, only play.”

“No, no,” and as you spoke, you finally met his eyes. With your head craned up against his chest, you were greeted with his jaw and lips first. That was, until, that he tilted his head down, and his bright blue eye drank in the sight of you. For a moment, you forgot you were speaking. “I- Cole’s squire, in the yard…he saw me.”

Aemond raised a brow, lips pursed in question. “And?”

Before you could respond with a biting urgency, he cut you off with a kiss, a ravenous thing that had you backed up against the brick once more with Aemond’s hands guiding your hips. You gasped at the roughness but found yourself leaning into it, letting any worry melt in the warmth of his mouth. Aemond nipped at your lower lip before trailing down the column of your neck.

“Aemond-”

“I will have him dealt with,” he grumbled, pulling away. “Even if he decides to feed the rumor mill, who will the people believe? A nameless face from a lowly vassal or the Prince?”

He held your gaze as the question floated in the limited space between you both. You thought of the squire, House Cole, your own family. A lowly vassal. The Prince. Yes, who would the people believe?

And it was like you were small again, standing in front of the Iron Throne, looking up at ten-year-old Aemond as he, so high upon the unreachable steps, scowling down at you.

Only, in the present, the wound that took Aemond’s eye was no longer raised and red. It was as pink as his post-kiss flush that roared in his cheeks. You reached out and let your fingertips trace the right peak of his face. Immediately, Aemond tilted into your touch. His lips grazed your palm, his eye closed, and you were back in yourself, all too aware of the tightening in your chest.

“My Prince.”

Aemond opened his eye slowly and a smile made his mouth into a curl. 

“My love,” he corrected.

“My love,” you echoed in a sigh, welcoming the easy breath.

Your hand reached up to Aemond’s cheek, but he jerked his head from your reach. 

He was already crossing the room away from you, his pace leading toward the small table nearest the window. There, perched on the marble top, were chalices and bottles of wine that glimmered crimson in the torchlight. You saw how his pale hands wrapped around the neck of one of the bottles and pour the Arbor Red into the nearest cup. You saw how his pale hands trembled as he took a drink.

“My love, you are soaked to the bone, let me undress you and-”

“No,” he barked, turning his back fully to you. “I need you to-”

He made a choked sound and shook his head, the damp, silver strands cascading down his shoulders. You watched his arm move, bringing the chalice of wine back to his lips. His hesitation made your stomach twist painfully and your breaths grew shallow.

“What do you need from me?”

“Stay.”

“It’s nearly dawn.”

Aemond moved then, his bare chest pressing against yours as he propped himself up on his hands to loom over you. Pinned between him and his bed, everything felt like silken sheets. “Do you answer to the sun?”

You bit back a laugh when Aemond ducked his head into the crook of your neck, his breath tickling the sensitive skin there before he kissed it. With him in such good humor, your reply was a teasing one: “I answer to no one.”

“Mmm, no one?” Aemond asked, pulling back. His head is cocked to the side, a smirk playing on his lips so deliciously. “I recall you answering to me last evening.”

You grinned and pressed a hand against Aemond’s shoulder, trying to push him off. He doesn’t budge, and his smirk widens with all the mischief of a young man enraptured. “But that is you.”

“The Prince.”

You push again, but Aemond stays still and smiling. Seeing no other recourse, you craned your neck up and kissed him. He hummed again, and you pushed in time, letting his bare back fall against the sheets. There was no sound of surprise, no break in your joined mouths. When you did pull yourself from him, Aemond tried to hold you close, your hips against his.

Any move you made was a move he allowed. “Aemond,” you pressed, warningly.

“My love,” he replied, his tone mimicking yours. You shook your head at his teasing, blamed yourself for letting his play chip away at the moment.

“I love you,” you said, redirecting your mind by focusing on his eye, how the blue shown in the early slivers of sun. “Not the Prince. You, Aemond. You know this.”

“Dōna run,” he breathed, High Valyrian dripping easily from his tongue. “How charming it is that you see the two as separate.”

“They are. You are different at court, in the yard, with your family. With me you are honest and unrehearsed,” you brushed your thumb along his lips, tracing his expression, “true.”

“True.” He chewed on the word before frowning. “Then, I fear I do not recognize myself.”

“Well, I see you.”

You leaned down and cupped his face in your hands. His jaw was hard against your palms and itchy with silver stubble. With your thumbs, you pushed Aemond’s lips into a smile before you let the corners of his mouth fall again. After a second time, the smile stuck without your holding it in place and you laughed.

“There you are.”

Aemond flexed his abdomen beneath you and moved to sit up, capturing your lips with his in a searing kiss. His hands rose up from your bare hips to your sides, before racing up to your neck. Against your thighs, you felt his body roll up towards you and the sensation sent a shock through you. A gasp parted your lips and had Aemond grinning like a fool.

“There you are,” he echoed, before kissing you again. “Now, tell me how you see me.”

His hips ground against yours as his mouth continued on with the teasing the skin of your neck. “Aemond.”

“Listen to your Prince- your love.”

“Go.”

“Go?”

You watched as he took another gulp of wine before he threw the empty chalice to the cold floor. It clattered and your stomach lurched in fright. Wine droplets dripped off the lip of the cup and melded into the rain storm Aemond left on the stone tile. Rivers of red raced about the room then, echoing gruesome tourney’s past. Or those to come.

“Leave,” Aemond said at last. “Go back to whatever middling plot your father was gifted by my King Father to buy his silence regarding my Rogue Uncle’s doings and leave.”

“Aemond-”

In a rush of silver, he spun on his heel and faced you. His eye was bright blue, burning from within itself as if dragonfire were his flesh. Through bared teeth and with a pointed finger, he growled, “do not. Do not- Address me as befitting your station or I will have the guards remove you.”

An ache filled you and tightened about your chest. “Ae- My Prince, have I done something to offend you so that you wish for my absence?”

Aemond’s flared nostrils shrank with an unsteady breath, as did the twitching of his eye. He dropped his pointed finger and straightened his stance. How different he seemed from himself moments ago, though, even then, unrecognizable.

“I am to wed a Lady of Storm’s End.”

Tears sprung from your eyes. “Do you not even know her name?”

Aemond answered with silence and the ache grew inside you like a tree. Its thick roots anchored you to the floor and wrapped around your throat. All you had was your mind and it was tangled, trying to find reason when there was none. You could not even find Aemond’s gaze as he kept it fixed to the ground, waiting for it to fall out from under you, you imagined bitterly.

“What,” you choked out, shaking your head, your tears adding to the small flood. “What happened? Please, let me see you.”

After a long beat, Aemond lifted his head then, his eye, no longer ablaze, found yours. “I am ordering you to leave.”

The ache began to change, burning itself into a plague of frustration. You dared to step towards him, and when he did not say a word, you took another. Then, another, until finally you could feel his shallow breaths and smell the storm that clung to him. “Let me see you.”

He took a breath and you saw his shoulders sink slightly as he replied, “war is brewing, and you- I need you to leave.”

“And your marriage secures the Baratheons as your allies,” you realized, taking a step back. “You’re playing Prince again.”

“I am not playing Prince,” he growled, his brows furrowing and anger returning to fill out his deepening voice. “I am the Prince, I was born for this. You simply elected to be blind to it, to my duty. Blind to this,” he gestured between the two of you, “and its predestined end.”

You nodded. “A lowly vassal.”

“What?”

“When the Cole squire saw me, you asked me who the people would believe: a lowly vassal or the Prince. I believed in you.”

“The me you thought you saw,” he spat, stepping towards you, closing the gap. You could feel the heat of him emanating off of him like the stink of a feral boar.

“I saw you,” you reached out with a shaking hand and pressed your palm against his chest before you brought yourself closer with one last step. “And I fear I always will.”

You leaned up on the tips of your toes and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. When you backed away, you saw red in the whites of Aemond’s eye, a glimmering threat of tears. Tears you knew he would not let fall, even after you had gone. Yet, you still believed in him, that maybe he saw himself, who he could be, and would allow himself the grace to move.

“I wish you good fortune in the days that come,” you murmured and made your way towards the door. As you stepped out into the halls of the Red Keep for the last time, you heard the thud of knees against stone and a bitten-back cry.

[genyawritesshizz]

A Hum of Time. Toshinori Yagi x Reader

Part 4

Summary: An innocent relationship between two workaholics could not possibly be that eventful. Just two individuals finding comfort within each other's company and the occasional cup of coffee. What happens when a secret that could ruin both of their careers brings the whole thing crashing down? In a heart wrenching decision, you must do what is best for all three of you and brave the future alone. Will you ever tell the truth? You might not have a choice.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Tigger Warning: This chapter contains graphic depictions of violence, blood and gore! Depression and unhealthy coping mechanisms.

4550-word count

Unleashing the angst MUHAHAHHA >:)))))

He could not just let you go. 

The night his personal world stopped spinning burned itself into his mind. Replaying the memory on a repeated loop until he was inevitably pulled into another mind busying task. All in attempts to shun it from his visage, yet it always came back. Vivid and raw the memory played. 

Coming back from a late night at the office with eyes battling the sting of sleep he wandered into the safety of your shared apartment. Far too tired to think he contemplated collapsing on the couch, yet a growl from his stomach pushed him past the cushions. He had not eaten today, something you’d surely scold him for. A sickening wet crunch under his shoe when he entered the kitchen caused his eyes to fully open, his consciousness returning. Finally taking notice of his surroundings the area was akin to a homicide scene. Shattered glass littered the tiled floor. The wooden door to the cabinet lay splintered. At first glance his frantic mind feared blood smeared on the walls, but as the stinging pungent stench of alcohol and fruit penetrated his nose it was thankfully wine.

“(Y/N)?” He called, voice higher in pitch with panic. The sound echoed through the house yet received no reply. Cold sweat of dread ran down his forehead, his intuition screaming in unease. Calling for you again he paced the hallway towards your shared bedroom. Maybe you��d fallen asleep? Maybe you had partaken in too much wine and passed out? His heart hammered against his chest; adrenaline coursed through his veins as he flung the door open. Eyes scanning the room, his anxiety swelled to a peak at seeing the room in disarray. Clothes littered the floor and storage boxes once hidden under the bed lay strewn about. Running to the conjoined bathroom as a last hope, it too was barren. With labored breath he pulled his cellphone out, fingers hammering against the numbers as he prepared to call the authorities until the buzz of a text made his heart stop.

(y/n): ‘I can't do this anymore Toshinori. Please, take care of yourself.’

“No..” 

“Your call has been forwarded to an automotive voice mess-””

“NO! NO! NO!”

“Your call has been forwarded to an automotive voice messaging system. At the tone, please record your message.” His fingers lost their grip around the device. He soon joined it. Fallen and broken on the bathroom floor. 

‘She’s gone? She left? Why?’ 

Through grief he pondered why. Why did you leave? Why did you not talk to him before making such a drastic decision? He knew the answer, any fool with half a heart could understand why. When was the last time the couple genuinely had a moment together? When has there ever been time to discuss it? Guilty and heartbroken at knowing he had failed you he curled in around himself. Laying on the cold tile floor until the sun arose anew and the duty that had taken him from you and in turn you from him, called once more. 

The real world stopped for no one.

A transfer request from an American agency sitting atop his desk two weeks later solidified it in his mind, you were truly gone. Off to America to continue being a hero, back on course to living your dream, without him. He pushed you away, just like everyone else.

In reality your life had been anything but a dream. Your own heartache grief had set in upon watching the life you’d spent years creating grow distant from the window of an airplane. Anything you had to show for it had been stuffed in a carry on and two suitcases. Finding comfort only through rubbing the small swell of your stomach, all of this was for them. It did not matter how you felt, as long as Toshinori and this child could continue living on, it would all be worth it.

‘Do it for them.’

Those words pushed you through the hellish ensuing months. 

From the cold nights sitting homeless in the streets desperate to find rest to signing a lease on a dilapidated studio apartment. From anguished job searching and inevitably failing due to awaiting international credit transfers to suiting up once again ready to hit the streets for patrol. From anonymous women's health clinics being subjected to hours of lecturing on the danger of continuing this path to the announcement of his gender. From redesigning your suit to hide the growing bump to taking a ‘leave of absence’ as your baby boy prepares to make his debut. From the broken amniotic sac to pushing alone. From your crying to his as he was birthed into the world. 

Through all the pain and hardship, you forged a new life for them. 

To some you were Siren, a young Japanese hero who decided to adventure out into America for the thrill of crime fighting. To others you were (y/n) (y/l/n) the single mother who worked overtime just to put food on the table. A double life. 

Determined to make it work you pushed yourself above and beyond, plus ultra, for them.

It’s been years since you left, two to be exact. Yet he still caught himself coming home in the early hours of the morning after a long night of crime fighting in his sleep deprived and battered state expecting you to be curled up in your shared bed asleep. Sometimes he’d instinctively open the microwave expecting a plate of dinner you always left out for him. Only to stare blankly into the appliance, the rotating plate stained with splats of dried noodles and spilled soup from his countless cups of instant ramen. Any hints of your cooking lost in the charred remains. 

He’d just go to bed hungry, not like he had much of a stomach anyways. 

The oversized costume slid off his boney shoulders with ease plopping into a heap on the floor. He did not bother to hang it up. Without you there to cook and badger him into eating actual meals coupled with already being on a downhill slide post injury his physic deteriorated drastically. Outside of flexing to be All Might he was skin and bones, any muscle or stored fat had eroded rapidly.

The bed was, as always, abandoned. Sheets still crumpled and thrown to the floor from when he had previously rolled out hours ago. Feeling far too large, too cold, too… empty; He lay awake, insomnia plagued.  Even before your relationship he struggled to rest, now without you to coax him into laying down and calming his mind within your arms he slipped back into old habits. More often than not he laid in silence, mind wandering into the abyss of what ifs. Either the phone or computer were his only distractions, though they only fueled his obsession. 

“Holy shit!” The live feed cellphone footage currently playing on his computer had his full attention. 

Toshinori watched, his hand gripped tight into a white knuckled fist. Eyes locked onto the computer screen volume blaring through the speakers. The flashing brightness from the screen illuminates the darkened room. He’d been keeping a close watch on any and all of your heroic activities since you had left for the states. He initially told himself it was for ‘research purposes’ that the agency could somehow possibly benefit from this. But deep down he knew it was simply for his own mental stability. He’d search your hero's name, sometimes your personal name. Though any of your true accounts which you managed had been privatized, he was removed as a follower long ago, he still checked. 4am in Japan meant 12pm for you, he could almost always catch live feed of either interviews or street footage of a battle. If not, the latest articles or reruns would have to work. His go to being your first interview.

‘Just a few minutes’ he’d tell himself, a lie of course. He always ended up doom scrolling, anything to avoid the inevitable void of his own mind. He knew he should not be so invested; he should have let you leave and cut all ties. But his need to know of your well-being had a mind of its own. Even the most minute of detail never lost on needy eyes. From your confusing costume redesign debut to the media’s comments on your weight gain and even the fan-made blogs; he absorbed it all. He distinctly remembered a time when he thought he’d lost you, when it had been announced that you’d taken a leave of absence. Fearful that he had lost his only way of seeing you he asked his entrusted ally and friend David Shield to keep tabs on you. It was bordering on stocking, yet he had to know. David reassured him, offered an open ear and allowed the broken man to voice his woes. However, at the mention of therapy he swiftly declined, he did not have time for such nonsense. He’d be okay, as long as he knew you were. Sympathetic to his friend's bleeding-heart David agreed.

It was wrong but he could not stop. 

Definitely not now. 

Tuning into another live feed a man holding a cellphone ran through the debris field. A large-scale attack had left the bodies of both civilians, heroes, and villain's littering the ground. Some crushed with rubble others fallen in combat, the scene resembled an old war movie. The camera man's labored breath puffed against the recording as he crossed no man's land. Occasionally zooming in when recognizing a body with a slew of swears. Crouching down behind mounds of concrete he steadied the phone to face the ensuing battle. 

You were the last one standing. 

Already taking out four smaller opponents, fatigue begged your body to retreat. Yet as the man before you stood strong any hope of rest would have to wait. With smooth, languid swipes of his fists you struggled to defend. Their combat style was telling that they were trained and trained well. As well as their quirk, whatever it was it somehow allowed him to withstand several of your ear-piercing cries and punch with enough force to crater the ground. Some kind of enhancement.

Whoever this was, they were strong and clearly outclassed you.

You were not a close combat-based hero, your quirk worked better at distance. But as he continued advancing the unavoidable fist fight ensued. Sweat beaded down your forehead, heart pounding and chest heaving. 

Overuse of your quirk and the never-ending bursts of evasions were pushing your already exhausted body past its limits. He had managed to graze you a couple times, even mostly dodged, the attacks crushed the bones beneath. Swallowing back a thick mouth full of blood you pushed harder. 

“You heroes are nothing more than slaves to the government. Cogs in the machine.” Whipping his body around with full force his left fist slammed into your defensive body. You smirked, 

‘Finally!’ He had used this exact move pattern two times before. ‘Left jab, advance then he’ll try to swing again.’  You were finally beginning to memorize his fighting style. 

On the offense you began targeting his unguarded areas. Opening your mouth, you launched a screech to flinch and stagger him. Then began landing crucial blows. Even if it could not directly damage him the cries force still allowed much needed leverage. Though weak, in quick succession your punches would break down his defense. Just had to keep it up. If you kept staggering him with your quirk and chipping away, you could win. Even though your throat burned, and thick hot liquid again pooled into your mouth you had to push through it. It will heal eventually. 

Toshinori smiled, seeing you succeed filled his chest with bittersweet pride. This was unlike anything he’d seen you involved in over the years. A true brawl, much like his own encounters.

You got too cocky.

A fatal mistake. 

As you rushed to attack again the foe had grabbed your fist mid punch in one hand. With a tightening grip the fragile ulnar and radius bones snapped. 

He too had memorized your predictable pattern. 

‘How.. How'd he grab me? I thought he was at least a li-’

It happened within milliseconds; with unyielding strength he slung your body forward as if you weighed nothing and into his other hand aimed right at your abdomen. The steeled fingertips pierced through the soft skin with a sickening snap and pop. Obliterating through the organs and protruded out of your back. 

“NO” Toshi’s desperate scream was drowned out by your horrifying cry echoing through the speakers. The sounds bounced off the walls and pounding into his eardrums.  

This was unlike anything he’d heard from you before. He was accustomed to your ultrasonic cries as that was your quirk, but this… this was from deep within your soul, screaming in excruciating agony. 

You had fallen into the foe's trap. One move out of place, one misjudged situation, and now the villain's hand had practically disemboweled you. 

Toshinori’s smile had vanished, and his heart fell through his partially removed stomach. His mouth now hung open in shock. He could do nothing but watch as your face twisted and contorted in pure torture as the scream howled through your body. He felt queasy.

You could not move, held in place, speared, in shock. Your scream died out and with what little energy it had left your body convulsed and flinched against the intruder. Until it inevitably gave up, slumping onto the villain, your forehead falling to his collar. The amount of fluid pouring from your lips and nose ran like a river coating his chest. Black gripped the edges of your vision; it was getting harder to breathe.

You always imagined that when you died, you’d be held by someone you loved, to hear their heartbeat against your ear, their breaths falling down on your face in soothing comfort. Instead, the man ending it all stared down at you, a twisted smile on his face as he took great pleasure in your suffering.

Glancing over with dazed vision your eyes made contact with the small group of citizens huddled together. A little girl stood out amongst the crowd, Clutching onto the pant leg of her mother. Her face dirty and bloodied with tears stained her puffy cheeks, she shook in terror. No child should have to witness such atrocities. No child should fear for their life. No child should be without their mother.

You are a HERO goddamit. You must fight until your last breath. You CANNOT give up. 

For her.

For these people. 

DO IT FOR THEM .

Adrenaline coursed through your veins; the once mind shattering pain dulled into a distant buzz. Reaching both hands up you grabbed the shocked villain's head and pushed yourself forward, now face to face. Sucking in air you filled your lungs to the point of bursting and expelled the strongest ultrasonic scream you could belt. Bits of bloodied flesh, most likely parts of your larynx, sprayed along the sound waves. Yet there was no pain.

Any window within the five-block radius shattered, and car alarms blew. The phone camera Toshinori watched from vibrated and quality blurrely faltered.  Even if this villain had a resistance to your quirk at such point blank range nothing could withstand such raw power. His eardrums shattered and head felt on the verge of bursting. Capillaries shattered and skin threatened to tear from bones.

Letting go of his now limp body he fell backwards. The hand forcefully dislodged from your abdomen as he collapsed in a convulsing heap. He would never recover from this injury, you’ll surely have a strike on your license for this… if you survive.

Your body waved and staggered, stumbling to find solid footing. The adrenaline was running out, so was time.

The crowds remained silent, staring in awe and horror as you finally stood straight. The gaping hole ripped through your torso threatened to spill your internal organs, a few weeping strands hung loose. With one hand you attempted to cover it, the feeling of your own entrails squishing within your hand was unable to process. Out of body. 

Shaking but standing, your other arm slowly lifted, spasming you held it above your head, fist clenched. A pose many had come to know and love. A symbol of victory. 

‘My pose’… 

As the cheers began you could not hold the dam within your throat, in a splattering cough the pavement ran with your blood. 

Slamming to your knees you fell, body going limp and falling face first into the soaked concrete. 

No, you cannot die now. 

Your son needs you. 

You need to get up.

You have to.

For

Them. 

Fighting away the cold that threatened to swallow you as long as possible with one final breath it consumed you in seconds. 

The bystander recording dropped his phone and ran away. Audible sobs snuffled as his heavy footsteps grew distant. The phone continued recording for over thirty minutes. Sounds of police sirens and support hero’s arriving at the scene could be heard in the background before the live stream abruptly ended, the battery ran dead. Toshinori could not look away even as the screen blackened. His mind spiraled, failing to realize what he had witnessed. 

Did he…

Did he just watch you die ? 

He needed someone there, now.

“David”

“I know I saw, I'm on my way”

Opening your eyes yet surrounded in darkness. A heavy weight placed over your face. Opening your mouth nothing more than rushed air escaped, something thick had lodged itself into your throat preventing the sound from escaping. Panicked, your hands began flailing, desperately trying to grab the foreign object. Grasping it you tugged, retching as it slid halfway out of your throat. Going for another tug until another set of hands gripped onto your arms, trying desperately to hold you down.

“Ma’am please calm down, you’re in-” 

You tried to yell, again garbled behind the plastic. Words could not form, your throat felt as if you had swallowed glass. With all your strength you whipped your head side to side, the device finally dislodged.

“You’re in a hospital, I’m a nurse. You’ve suffered life threatening injuries, please-”

Hot bloody saliva splattering across your bandaged face and trickling down to pool into your matted hair as you thrashed, Screaming loud echoes of broken sentences. Fragments of your quirk activating ricocheted round the room. As you continued thrashing, the feeling of something ripping within the depths of your abdomen gave birth to white hot pain. Only amplifying the howls.

The hands let go, a door opened and closed. A few moments passed before the sound of it repeated again. Heavy footsteps approached your bedside, followed by the sound of rusted wheels scraping against a hard floor.

“Ripped out the endotracheal. Incision site reopened.”. 

“It’s going to be okay,” An unfamiliar male voice called.

The world turned blank once again, sounds became distant, fading from consciousness.

“Can you hear me ma’am?” The world spun an endless loop of muted colors before shifting back to reality. The face of an unknown woman filled your vision, her deep skin wrinkled into a smile as she looked down to you. “My name is Natasha, I’m your nurse. I’m glad to see you’re finally awake!” 

She leaned away from your bedside and began typing on her laptop.

You did not try to reply, her words finally registering. Staring into the white painted wall your mind felt like a vast ocean of emptiness, all ships of thought crushed under the waves, except one. As if reading your mind the nurse glanced back down.

“You should not try to speak but, you’ve got a couple guests waiting on you, would you like to see them?” 

Your head whipped around, eyes burrowing into hers with silent pleases. She smiled. 

“I’ll go get them. Just be sure to keep the blanket above your chest, wouldn’t want to scare the little one.” 

The door opened and her footsteps trailed off. Lifting the blanket in curiosity the sight of several tubes entering the dressing covered gap parted in the once smooth skin of your abdomen filled you with horror. Before beginning to dwell on the marred sight footsteps returned, this time tiny shoes ran close behind. 

The one thing on your mind, the one person you needed most right now, ran through the door.

“MOMMA!” The child screamed, his small hands gripping at the sheets trying to climb into the bed with you. Your wrapped hand met his tiny set, rubbing gently at his smooth skin. 

“...en..o” You cried to him. His forehead wallowed into the white sheets, wiping his tears. Your heart felt heavy, seeing your once always smiling baby deduced to hysterics all because of you. His mother, his protector, did this to him. Guilt.

That was close. 

Too close. 

Never again. 

Your hero career is over.

They can fix you up, heal the broken bones and bruises, close up the wounds, but…

The thought of having actually died and leaving your four year old son to face this cruel world alone was far worse than the shame of such a public beat down. Far worse than even death itself. 

You can not do this anymore. 

The delusional thought that you could somehow live in the best of both worlds simply was impossible. Nana was right, balancing both was impossible. The life of a hero was your fantasy, but you had already lived it. Raising this child and being there for him was your new dream.

As of now, Siren is dead. She died on the concrete saving the people. At least that’s what was told to the media. 

To live a life free from that career you had to lay low. Uproot and leave again and start over. Abandon it. 

It had run its course.

A cough from the doorway caught your attention, looking over a man you had heard so much about from your former lover stood. His back leaned against the wall as he watched mother and son reunite. A face of penance drawn onto downcasted aqua eyes.

“We’ll talk later.” Taking a seat facing away from your bed he waited. 

‘ I can’t go back.’ The engineer looked from the yellow notepad held in your hands, the words on the page scribbled in haste, to the little boy sleeping beside you. Your son's hands clung to your gown, careful of the tubbing flowing from underneath, his under eyes dark and dried snot clung to his reddened skin. No child should feel this way.

“He’s Yagi’s isn’t he?”

You nodded ‘yes’. 

“Does he know?”

 Sighing deeply you shook ‘no.’

The brunet took in a deep breath, his head throbbing with the weight of his upcoming actions. Taking your notepad you wrote another note; ‘No one can know.’

“I know.”

The government could cover anything up. Falsifying documents was light work.

‘KIA’

The bold red letters under your hero name only caused the already endless black hole in Toshinori’s stomach to plummet deeper. With no reply from David, he had spent hours searching for an update, anything regarding your condition. News articles had reported on the gruesome scene yet held nothing in regard to your well being, instead focusing on the trauma such a sight made for civilians.The sun had already risen above the skyscrapers hours ago yet time held no meaning for him. 

Pulling out all the stops he tried to bypass all encryptions to read the full report the moment it had been posted. First as the head of the All Might Hero Agency, Yagi Toshinori.

Permission denied.  

Something wet hit his hands as he furiously kept typing, his fingers practically hammering the keys in half. 

Finally a new page loaded. As the world's number one symbol of peace, All Might, he could access almost anything relating to heroes. Several links loaded onto the page.

What he saw made him nauseous.

‘Postmortem Examination Report’ ‘Autopsy Report’ ‘Death Certificate’  

His hand had a mind of its own, shackly double clicking on a link . He refused to accept this.. 

‘it couldn’t be…’

He wished he hadn’t. Yet he could not go back.

‘ Autopsy Report conducted by; US FEDERAL GOVERNMENT DEPARTMENT OF FORENSIC SCIENCE.

Patient name: (y/n) (y/l/n) - Siren. Quirk; Voice

Manner of death; Homicide.

How Injury Occurred; Heroism.

Anatomical Summary:

Blunt Trauma.

Blunt trauma of head.

Multiple lacerations to face, scalp, and neck.

Multiple fractures of skull and face.

Evisceration of larynx.

Blunt Trauma of Chest and Abdomen, Fatal. 

Multiple fractures of ribs.

Traumatic injuries on the neck.

Evisceration of internal organs. Fatal. 

With both fists clenched he slammed them down on the keyboard. With a loud crack the hard plastic splintered, sending letter tiles flying. 

“God damnit!”

Toshinori shook, his body trembling. He’d read more than enough autopsy reports, yet he couldn’t hold back the vomit mixed blood that now lurched out of his mouth. Caring not as the mixture ran down his face and onto the desk. He heaved over and over until no more came.

He accepted the break up, he accepted you moving, he accepted that you were no longer in his life. But, accepting that you had died in battle? He couldn’t-wouldn’t. 

If he was stronger, if he had more time in his Might form he could’ve helped, could’ve done something, anything! Even if you were halfway across the world.

 if he just had more time…

If he had not driven you away…

If he had not…

He cried loud billowed sobs until his eyes burned red and his head woozy from dehydration.  

His phone rang, buzzing on the counter. The ringtone far too loud, too boisterous.

He didn’t have time to grieve. 

He had to pull himself together. 

The world stopped for no one,

And it still needed him.

This however could not stop the outbursts, the accidents, nor the mask from slipping from time to time. He felt as though he was losing his mind, not that it was completely sound before, but now more than ever he felt the edges of insanity encroaching. Try as he might to appear unfazed, Toshinori Yagi, All Might, was broken. 

Out in the streets until his body gave out, he on more than one occasion found himself failing to pull his punches, accidentally using far too much force to take down a villain. Landing convenience store robbers in the hospital for months of recovery with broken ribs and mangled appendages. 

The media was beginning to notice this shift in their symbol. He was losing control.

Inside the office was where a whole other beast was unleashed. Dozens of broken laptops and computer screens lined the recycling bins, destroyed in a moment of reminiscing. The long hours turned overnight as his caffeine intake and workload skyrocketed.  The cafe was his cesspool of self loathing, he drank coffee there almost as a form of torture at this point, each freshly brewed cup a slap in the face as the scent and scenery only reminded him of something that will never be again. 

He was truly a shell of his former self. Empty, Hollow, Broken.