#was it the color of their skin that swayed opinion?

[lewis-winters]

I still remember that poll I did where I was like "who's the bigger war criminal speirs or snafu?" and then speirs won.

[h5eavenly]

Fallen Star┃Jake Sim

Twenty - you're pretty when you're mine. warnings: smut and angst yipeee

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“What do you think?” you ask, foolish perturbation coloring the cadences of your voice. Your teeth sinking into your bottom lip with vigor the longer Jake’s silence stretches, the slower his teeth chew on the piece of dessert you had given to him with a glimmer in your eyes, a plead for his opinion.

“It’s good.” He answers shortly.

You release your lip into a pout, shoulders slumping down with disillusionment at the lack of buoyancy in his voice, yet the bags that seem almost permeant under his eyes, evidence of his everlasting fatigue that is pasted onto his features renders you mute. Aware that your pining for his approval is merely a desire to feed your hungry heart, woven with longing.

Jake’s eyes flit to your face then, taking note of the adorable disappointment awfully out of place on your face, it has his own heart softening, his fingers brushing across the skin of your arm with susurrates of your attention.

“I mean it. It’s really good bunny.” He reassures, attempting to demolish through your sulking. And you, with a heart as fragile as glass, one that is easy to peek through just as fast it trembles, only shake your head at him.

“You don’t look like you enjoyed it though.” You mumble, your pout enriching with the sway of your feet like a kid complaining how they didn’t get a taste of their favorite candy.

Jake’s smile disperses across his lips with fondness you don’t notice, his expression melting into endearment at the way you can never keep your words lodged into your heart for too long, your thoughts lingering at the tip of your tongue, yet he always manages to prompt them to spill.

“Have I ever lied to you?” he urges with a hum, titling his head at you in strives to catch your eyes and it works right away.

“No.” you shake your head.

“Then believe me this time too.” As if to make a point he takes another bite of the red velvet cupcake and this time it’s you who breaks into a smile tinged with fondness, like glass refracting light into a rainbow.

It’s directed at his kindness, at his attentive comfort towards you despite the heavy burden of simply existing weighing him down. You don’t get enough time for gratitude to unravel through your words because in a moment of your eyes falling into each other, a brush of his fingers in between the slots of yours, Sunghoon is standing between you two, a look of horrified disgust dancing between you two.

“Can you two not in flirt in the middle of work?” he comments with a roll of his eyes, one that has the tips of your ears tinting pink.

“We’re not flirting.” You defend weakly, your own words holding little to no conviction even to your own ears as you bunglingly retract your hand.

“Alright,” Sunghoon raises his eyebrow at you, tone dripping with irony “Can you shoo? I still need to dress Jake for his photoshoot.” He trails off, your eyes fliting to the couple pieces of garment he’s holding in his arms “Some of us need to actually work you know.”

“Hey!” you deliver a light slap to his shoulder “I work really hard! Tell him Jake” you turn your head to Jake with a pout of offense clambering over your face.

“I don’t know to me it looks like you’re slacking off right now.” Jake says, a sly grin is thrown at you and your mouth falls open with an overemphasized shock.

“Wow you’re really gonna betray me like that?”

“mhm. Are you gonna cry about it, little bunny?”

“As if! Give me back my cupcake” you attempt to snatch the half-eaten cupcake out of his grasp, leaning your body over the chair he’s sitting down in and yet it’s all deemed a failure when Jake stretches his arm out and away from you, a teasing smirk dispersing across his lips, eyes gleaming with mischief as your chest brushes against his shoulders.

“Jake!” you whine with facetious annoyance “Give it back! You’re not worth my treats”

“I don’t think so.” He mocks, watching with satisfaction etched onto his face at your futile tries.

You don’t get to register his other arm sneaking around your waist with a firm grip, ensuring you don’t end up stumbling onto your feet and falling over with the way you’re leaning over him. It’s such a saccharine gesture, one that comes as silently as a fluttering breeze sighing through petals of cherry blossom. A tincture of warmth spreads across your chest and you only feel it when Sunghoon has separated you two with an annoyed groan, reiterating his need to dress Jake.

“Shoo! Now!” He chastised and you had walked away with an overly dramatic pout drawn on your lips, throwing puppy like looks over your shoulder at them.

It only earned you a middle finger from Sunghoon and a snort from Jake.

You only think about his touch protracted moments later, when you still feel the heat of his body radiating off your waist, as if his touch has seared itself upon your skin. A coat of infatuation you can’t seem to take off. It’s the sole reason your heartbeat is abidingly fast even when his touch is long gone, even when his eyes are no longer on you but instead focused on Sunghoon’s face as they discuss his look. You remain a constant in a field of overgrown affection, your fingers itch – tinged with compulsion to pluck them out, you don’t have the energy nor the time to water them and yet, you don’t. your gaze glistening with heedless wishes.

Just a little longer.

You had yearned.

Even as the day unfolds like it always does, congested with Jake’s busy photoshoots and you running around in hope of making anything flow a little smoother for him. It’s only at the very ending hours of your schedule, the night sky had settled with a frigid air circling through the streets. As you sit in the backseat of the van with Jake’s head on your shoulder, exhaling tired puffs of air, and eyes closed.

Somewhere along the ride and in between seemingly unmoving traffic, he had rested his head on your shoulder, with mumbles about how tired he is. Albeit the days that have passed by with you snuggled between his covers or him falling asleep in your bed as if it’s his own, your body still can’t grow accustomed to having him so close.

Yet you still linger in your silence, putting on a show of having it all together as you scroll through your emails, mindlessly while Jay sits opposite from you, scrolling through his own end of work.

“Do you wanna go back to my place?” He whispers right into the skin of your neck, it has your fingers pausing across the screen of your iPad with bated breath, a shiver of something akin to excitement trialing down the length of your spine with fervor.

It isn’t an aberrant question, it’s one that you have heard for more days than not, one that you memorized the action that follows right after, the taste of his lips upon yours and the cruelty of his hands across your body. Yet how come they feel so welcoming? When did his light no longer blinded you but rather pulled you in?

“Sure.” You reply after a few silent beats, clearing your throat and adjusting yourself on your seat.

Jake only hums, and you smile to yourself as the amiability of his proximity filtrates through your essence. You smile, unaware of the heedless wishes driving you into the deepest end of the ground with promise of suffocation, unaware of the way Jay eyes you two.

Your night unfurls like it always does whenever you’re close to him, although with a few different elements it all ends in the same way. Or at least that’s what you tell yourself as you’re standing in the middle of his kitchen and amidst attempts to make a warm cup of tea that Jake didn’t even ask for. You grew a proclivity to try adding any weights of comfort to him, whether that was between the walls of his own home or dreadful hours of photoshoots and interviews.

And you enjoy it really, within your days you have accepted the fact that caring for Jake comes to you with no duress, in fact it is him that had always pushed you away from doing unnecessary things for him you’re not sure if he wasn’t used to the way you looked at him with genial amiability rather than reproach.

You enjoy it until you’re forced to be faced with the reality that none of this means anything cavernous than two lonely souls stumbling upon tender succour in blurry lines and scraps of affection.

You enjoy it until nights like these have your insecurity bubbling to the surface, protruding every sense of certitude he had whispered in your ears even when he didn’t have to. It all crumbles with vast impetus only because you saw a framed picture of Soojin on one of the tables in the living room.

You’re not sure how you never noticed it before, maybe because you and Jake never really spend much time outside his bedroom walls.

but you wish you didn’t. you wish you had gone blind for a moment or rather you wish you didn’t care as much as you did, there’s so much you wish for and yet none of them can be breathed into life in the same semblance you have to tie yourself back from tripping on questions you want to ask.

Is what between you and I merely a comfortable lie?

But none of it mattered, not when your chest had tightened with prodding thoughts, like knives stabbing at your heart with reminders that you will never be good enough.

Because you were feeling so good until moments ago, floating atop the clouds as Jake had muttered to you about how he needs to shower first, you took it upon yourself to ruminate through his displayed pieces, fingers grazing the soft petals of forget me not and eyes lingering on the singular painting he had hung up on one of the walls. You had paused with a dilated gaze, stupefied by the way fate seemed to work because you didn’t need to look at the signature to know who it belonged to you.

The art style was one that you couldn’t mistake for anything else, yet your smile had fallen from your face with enormous force as you took notice of the pictures of Soojin. You had to reason with your brain that they are close, even if you hate it but perhaps it was the fact that she holds space you never will, perhaps it was that you’re not even anything remotely close to what she is to him. You will never leave evidence of your existence behind.

Perhaps it was the fact that you and Jake do not mean anything outside the walls of his bedroom.

“Bunny?” you swivel your head around with surprise on your face as if forgotten where you were “What are you doing?” Jake asks– now freshly showered- leaning on the doorframe of his kitchen, his eyes darting over your figure rapidly.

“Making you tea.” You blink yourself out of your thoughts.

“Why? You don’t have to.”

“I know,” your smile tilts up your lips with ease, warmth that’s only ever entailed with whispers of his name “I wanted to.”

It’s only moments later when the both of you are on the couch of his living room, the entire space enveloped with darkness if not the moonlight seeping in through his open window.

“You’re awfully clingy today.” You comment as his arms tighten around your waist with dripping affection, pulling you against his chest impossibly closer and rests his chin on your shoulder. You don’t give room for yourself to waver even when he buries his face in the crook of your neck. Vanilla and cinnamon engulf his being with you.

“’m not clingy.” He mumbles, halfheartedly and with no intent for them to hold any meaning over your ears, so you don’t let them, only humming as your fingers graze the length of his arm, tracing over his veins, your fingertips leaving a trail of blossoming life behind “I’m just tired.” He adds after a while, as if his exhaustion is not a see-through flimsy excuse to have you closer, his chest pressing into your back.

“Do you wanna go to bed maybe?” you ask, concern inscribed into every stroke of your voice, as warm as the tea you had just made him and it has him smiling against your neck, evoking your smile to raise melting into a giggle “What?” you ask and when he huffs out a chuckle, yours sync with his colored pink like the flush upon your cheeks.

“Nothing.” He shakes his head, hugging you tighter “I just wanna stay like this for a bit.” Your heart trashes around your chest, and you fail not to waver akin to spring air wisping through your hair in the daytime.

“We can stay like this for as long as you want.” You whisper and he hums in agreement.

As a tranquil silence settles upon the two of you, his humming continues, turning into a sweet melody that you don’t recognize evoking your curiosity from Paris to rise to the surface once again. Although it isn’t coherent singing it’s enough for your soul to perchinto a similar placid feeling akin to floating atop waters warmed by the unforgiving sun or maybe it’s simply the warmth that comes from falling in love.

“What’s that song?” you whisper, afraid to break through his tonality of serene.

“It doesn’t have a name.” he answers after a few beats of silence.

You contemplate on the urges arising to ask for more information. Your fingers itching with heedless wishes yet again, so foolishly selfish like unraveling parts of him, a heedless wish like diving into him, looking through every nook and cranny of his being, even the darkest place he wishes light never touches. You don’t really linger on why, on where this urge exactly comes from and instead your nerves take over, worried you might catch yourself too far in, so you hold your tongue instead.

Your eyes dart across the living room in rapid search for something else to talk about, as they land on the piece of art hung upon his sage colored walls and your eyes light up, reminder of the piece you share.

“That painting.” you start, and he peeks at it, looking where your eyes are glued.

“What about it?”

“It’s really pretty.” You reply, feigning ignorance as your eyes trail over the name signed on the corner.

“I bought it at one of those college expos. I don’t really care about art, but I liked this one I guess.” He explains and your lips curl up into a grin as your fingers smooth over the length of his arm.

“Why this one?”

“I guess I could see what the artist was feeling.” His voice is soft, almost getting lost in the folds of silence if not caught by your heart “and I felt the same at the time.” He continues, tone sliding even softer, abrading across the surface of your chest with warmth the same way your nails to his skin.

“What do you think the artist was feeling?” Your smile slowly melts off your face, your essence overtaken by curiosity.

The painting was darkened by colors of gray and black, leaning towards petrifying it was a figure with their head in their hands as if in the middle of an agonizing scream, a couple of hundred nails stabbed into the skin.

“Guilt.” He replies “I felt like the artist was really struggling to overcome his guilt. As if it’s a part of you that you can’t seem to shake off. A shadow that constantly follows.” He continues, tone vulnerable as if the same liability still bears his soul, as if that shadow still loiters behind him.

His answer has your chest tightening compulsorily, as your eyes flit across the splashes of paint once again the meaning comes to you the same. Unfurling from the depths of darkness you can’t help the pain of realization that settles, it floods your being with a similar laminate of guilt.

“Niki painted this.” You say, letting out a breath and Jake stills, leaning his head back to steal a look at your expression.

“Your brother did?”

“Yeah,” you answer keeping your eyes fixated on the painting, darting over every swivel of color “I never really looked at his paintings this deeply before to understand.” you let out a chuckle that lacks humor and Jake doesn’t answer but you feel his gaze on you, fits his fingers in the empty spaces between yours with a squeeze.

“He’s really talented.” He says after a few minutes with sincerity.

“He is. He’s always been amazing at everything he does.” Your gaze falls to your interlocked hands, the sight of his fingers in between yours stirs something cloyingly tender within you “I wish he didn’t have to feel that way.” You continue with a soft voice, as if unwittingly revealing the concerns haunting your mind.

“It’s not your fault. It’s not something you can take away.” Jake whispers back, his thumb brushing over your hand.

“I know.” You smile, turning your head to catch his eyes with yours and the benignity woven in them almost has you melting, the skin of your fingers craves to mesh with his.

I wish you didn’t have to feel this way.

You almost want to whisper to him, right in whatever blurry space has been built between you two.

“You’re doing everything that you could, and it's amazing.” His eyes are penetrating, filled with seas of truth that you plunge yourself into with no second’s thoughts, your heart trembles with each word, your eyes softening so marginally.

Will you

“Thank you.” your chuckle escapes you gravelly, tinting your cheeks with a blush along the way “in the past none of my partners liked how much I cared about Niki- i-it feels like no one understood” Jake listens intently, a smile twinged with incitement for your emotions to unwind, spilling with a hue of rare amenability “So thank you for saying that.”

Allow me

“I think you dated a bunch of idiots if they weren’t able to envelope your heart with the same kindness it radiates.”

A silly urge to cry takes over your being albeit no tears fill your eyes, and your lips slightly twitch upwards in a grin twined with nothing but warmth that comes from the glimmer present in his tired eyes or perhaps it’s the heat emitting from his body pressing against yours, maybe it’s in the sincerity that laces his voice so effortlessly as if peering through your veils comes as easy as breathing to him.  Whatever it is, it is in this fleeting moment that you feel no need to hide but rather strangely feeling safe enough to spill whatever substance have plagued your soul for years.

To stay

“Do you mean that?”

“That you dated a bunch of idiots? I thought that was common sense?” you roll your eyes with a chuckle, his own smile rising as you deliver a slight jab to his stomach with your elbow.

“Jerk.” His own laughter erupts with ease, stealing your heartbeat as you attempt to free yourself from his embrace, his arms tighten around you. denying you.

“Have I ever lied to you?” he whispers against the shell of your ear, and you squirm with a shake of your head “Then believe my truth this time as well.”  He continues plaiting his words with a hum, a squeeze of his arms around your middle as if he’s not the reason breathing grows harder and harder to catch. An endless chase.

By your side?

“Sometimes I feel like I barely have anything to offer maybe that’s why I end up with a bunch of idiots.” You admit after a while, hushed as if shameful of the insecurity coating your flesh “Yeonjun – my ex that cheated on me at work remember? Yeah-“you chuckle nervously, a bitter edge to your laughter as if the memory is still fresh in your mind “used to say that all the time- that there’s nothing particularly special about me.”

You’re silent for a few tantalizing minutes, your gaze turning hazy as if recollections of every painful word Yeonjun has ever muttered still surrounded you, they twirl around your mind with the same affliction.

“I wonder why do I crave to be something-“you pause with darting glances as if trying to find meaning in the gaping holes of your being until they catch his “special so bad?”

Jake’s have always known his incarnation to turn coarse, his propensity for honesty remains abiding and he never knew to sugarcoat his words, they come out harsh, sharpened like an edge of a blade. You are a paradox to his own existence, the complete opposite of him, a gentle soul with words coated in candied affection.

It’s baffling to him, how someone as extraordinary as you could feel this way.

So, he shouldn’t be surprised at the words of raising at the tip of his tongue, almost choking him with its sweetness merely because it is directed at you.

“Isn’t giving your heart away the most precious thing you could ever offer?”

“What if my heart isn’t good enough either?”

“How could it ever not be good enough when it’s yours?”

As your eyes dance around each other, his reveal nothing but pure, crude veracity. It dawns on your being so intensely you’re not sure you have even a mere moment to question the fastening beats of your heart. You’re not sure when was it exactly that your world has shrank to nothing but him. When was it exactly that chasing fleeing gazes and waiting for touches of lust upon your skin have turned into this?

“How could it not be special when every particle of your essence is you?”

You never knew comfort that comes so simple yet so vigorous with its weight, how could such a minuscule word have such a big impact on your glass heart, on your staggered breath and how could it water your hope so effortlessly?

Another seed of heedless wishes grows, venturous with desire like asking him if I gave it to you would you still think the same?

“I don’t know how you make words sound like that.”

“Like what?” he asks, even in the middle of his living room his eyes sparkle as if they hold specks of stardust, his lips twitch upwards in a smile like the glimmering moon.

You feel foolish with the transparent reverence flowing through every part of you, in the tips of your fingers and in the delicate sentiment of you. You grow sorry for the rest of the world for stealing the scintillates of the night sky, you’re in his arms and you’re awfully sorry because there’s no way for you to share.

“I don’t know how you make everything sound so magical.”

“I think you’re just soft for me bunny.”

“You wish.” You snort, your words lack meaning and more than anything power.

“Do you ever miss Yeonjun?” he murmurs after a few moments of quietness, and your surprise takes you like a storm passing by with vehemence, it has your eyebrow twitching with semblance of annoyance that you’re not sure why it filtrates through your thoughts.

You don’t expect it, maybe not when you’re on his lap and in between touches of tender affection.

“Do you miss yours?” you retort back, harsher than intended and bittered by his nonchalance.

“Sometimes.” He answers and your nails dig into his flesh lightly, not sharp enough to evoke his notice “But we ended on good terms and we’re still friendly.”

You poke your tongue in your cheek as your eyes trail over that picture of Soojin once again, you’re somewhat thankful he can’t feel the heat of your furious gaze as you glare at the unmoving picture, and yet you’re somewhat annoyed he seems unaware of your frustration the way it imbues your senses has you faltering with hesitation at an answer to give back, so you don’t. Instead, you dwindle into silence intoxicated by your rapid heartbeat and the feeling of his breath on your cheek.

It's only when your own chest starts heaving as his lips ever so slowly, softly pressing into your neck with a phantom of a kiss, almost imperceptibly. His fingers trailing under your blouse with purpose, his touch scalding hot as his fingers graze over your hipbone and your lips separate with an audible gasp.

“What?” he breathes out an amused chuckle at your response.

“I just wasn’t expecting that.”

“What were you expecting?” He whispers, his voice tinted with allure the same way his other hand travels up your jaw, denting them with his fingers as he turns your face to him, you grow breathless, stolen by how enchanting his existence remains to be.

“I-I don’t know.” You breathe out, your eyes unfocused on anything other than the soft looking skin of his lips, even when it tilts upwards in an all-familiar teasing smirk that manages to irk you each time.

The space between you grows smaller and smaller as he invariably inches forward, his exhales mingling with yours and your mouth falls open with a silent moan, his fingers – with desire emanating from them slip past the confine of your pants. Your body burns with the heat of his touch, longing colors your gaze the longer he doesn’t kiss you and his glisten with mirth as he keeps his lips atop yours, almost touching yet not close enough.

never close enough.

“For someone who pretends to be unexpectant you sure are wet.” Your face burns with a blush so deep you could only hope the dark aids in concealing it, even when Jake’s thumb is pressing onto your clothed clit and your throat bubbles with the threat of a whine.

His scorching gaze scouring over passing expression lingering on your face for not long enough, yet amply enough for his own breathing to rattle, for his own sanity to abscond, overtaken by an utter ache to have you, ache to have you falling apart it has his fingers moving on their own, with a losing battle trailing behind as he buries them in your underwear, your arousal coats his hand as it slips inside of you.

“Jake.” you fall apart as easy as the whine escaping your mouth, as easy as the groan he lets out when he slots his mouth against yours with a bruising kiss, his other hand trails down from your jaw to your throat and your heart reels.

“mhm? What is it baby?”

“I-I thought you were tired.” You mutter weakly throwing your head back on his shoulder as he works his fingers deeper into you.

“Never too tired to fuck you.”  he replies, eyes glued to the way your mouth falls open, your eyebrows scrunching up in pleasure.

Jake’s cravings seem to turn decadent whenever you’re in the picture.

It’s the same way he learns to press his cravings into your back that night, with touches and kisses that abide closer to tender love than the way he looks at you, the way you moan his name, his thumb trails over your spine with fervor, his lips press into your neck with purpose to imprint himself onto your skin, a desire for you to give him something diverting to wear beneath his blood.

“Fuck! Right there!” you moan loudly, your fingers gripping the sheets below you tightly.

“Yeah? feels good baby?” he still asks with a whisper drilling into the same spot as if you’re not falling apart with drool staining his sheets, you still nod with a whine.

“So- so good oh my god- I’m close, don’t stop!” your words are barely coherent, getting cut off by your whimpers.

“Me too baby- fuck you’re so good-“ you keen at the fallen praises from between his lips, the knot in your stomach growing impossibly tighter with the same way his grip tightens around your hips, his thrusts growing harsher, the slap of the skin sounds sinful, reverberating through the walls. A pleasurable groan escapes him at way the you squeeze around him after a particularly hard thrust.

“fuck-!" he growls fucking into you deeper, harder, faster anything to have you crying out "You’re so pretty when you’re mine.”

You’re not sure if you hear him correctly, if your mind had conjured up a couple of words to feed your delusions, convocation that they’re closer to reality than none yet your orgasm feels like it dissolves you into liquid with how hard it hits you, the sounds emitting from you are foreign to your own ears only increasing in volume when he follows with the same path, his come spilling into you.

You’re feeling hazy as he pulls out of you, the air heavy even when he kisses behind your ears with murmurs of needing to clean you up.

You have fallen silent the entire process and it’s not until the both of you had changed that he’s pulling you into bed atop his chest with a question lingering in his gaze.

“Are you okay?” he asks, voice soft with careful tenderness and you only nod your head with a smile.

“i’m just sleepy and tired.”

“My dick is that good?” You don’t need to look at him to know he’s wearing that same annoying expression he has whenever he teases you, a smirk and a glint in his eyes.

“Fuck off bro.” your hands react before your mind, grabbing one of the pillows and hitting him square in the face, the chuckle that erupts from his lips is otherworldly heavenly and your eyes soften, mind plagued with the words he had said earlier.

“Bro? What is wrong with you? I just fucked you.”

“No what is wrong with you?”

“A lot.” He answers and you arch a brow at him, biting back a smile when he rolls his eyes at you with endearment tinting his hands as he pulls you closer to him once again, your head rests atop his chest and you fall into tune with his heartbeat.

As he runs his hands through your strands, the both of you are quiet, something akin to a tranquil silence fills the room yet your mind races with everything that has happened the few couple of weeks, Jake remains unstable, days pass by with him saying a few words to you then fucking you only to fall asleep with the same silence between you, then other nights unfold similar like today, with you pulling effortless laughs from his lips, gentle kisses scattered on your skin.

you're so pretty when you're mine

Did he mean it? or did you imagine it? Have you finally gone mad?

Perhaps it’s that sole reason your hope climbs over every other feeling, perhaps is the heat seared onto your back with whispers of the words he muttered that have you slipping with a new devotion, one like foolishly wishing for your souls to intertwine.

Maybe that’s why you thought it would be okay for you to speak after a while.

A fatal fantasy -

“When we were in Paris.” You start with overflowing prudent, circling the air as you slightly tilt your head upwards with intent to steal a glance at him, his hum comes as encouragement for you to continue “you told me you want to love music the way you used to do but you never answered me when I asked you why.” Your voice is much quieter than before, and his body grows rigid in counted seconds, shorter than you could blink away your orgasm.

“I don’t want to talk about this right now.” He replies with a deepened sigh, tone monotone and you chew on your lower lip with evident nerves at the lack of emotions radiating from him.

“I’m not gonna force you.” you say, hesitating for a few seconds before speaking again “I know things have been tough.” You’re met with quietude from him, one that has the tips of his fingers ceasing atop the skin of your back as if warning you to tie your tongue into a knot, do not break through your vows that took you countless enticing stares to keep.

Your heart abides a trivial piece of glass, yearning for him cuts through like the light of dawn coming to life with increasing heartbeat and woven with feelings you refuse to plaster labels on. Perhaps deep down your soul seeks for everything to fall apart.

“I know you must feel very lonely with how things are. with your mom gone and then your undiagnosed ocd-“you don’t get to finish your sentence before Jake is flinching away from you.

“What?” He sits up on the bed with a furrowed brow and a fire lacing his gaze as it lands on you, the heat of his body abandoning you has you itching “Are you trying be my fucking psych?” his tone - albeit does not change in volume, it still has apparent venom tinting every syllable. It has your heart trembling in your chest with the fear of stepping in too far, tripping on a ticking time bomb that explodes with a bat of your eyelashes.

“No I just thought-“  with nerves aptitude in your tone, limbs. You sit up as well, your fingers trailing over his arm in searched comfort, a reminder that mere minutes ago he was still entangled with you “I’m just trying to help and I thought-“you stumble, on your words and on your quivering heart as you try to find the right words to say yet your cognitive facilities shut down at the disillusionment sneaking into his irises.

“You thought what?” He lets out a short solemn laugh yet long enough to have your temerity crumbling as if daring you to speak.

“I opened up to you earlier and I thought maybe you’d be able to do the same.” You clarify with a whisper, eyes widened with pure longing.

A heedless wish.

“So, you thought you could talk like you fucking know a thing about me.” he grumbles, annoyance evident in the way he pushes his hand through his disheveled hair, and you watch with a shaking heart as he trudges out the bed with slumped shoulders.

“What? No, I’m trying to get to know you, Jake.” You defend, albeit debilitated by the obstacles of ice materializing in his eyes, you follow with the sun in yours.

“By treating me like a fucking project?” He’s growing angrier, it’s so visible in the cruelty that drips from his voice, in the way his eyes widen with a scalding fire threating to take you both down.

“I don’t treat you like a project.”

“Oh, cut the bullshit yn!” he swivels around to face you and you still in your trail with a bated breath “You think I don’t know what the fuck you’re doing? We talk for one night and suddenly you’re talking as if you have the cure to all my problems! Like you can fix me.”

“I’m sorry if it came out that way.” You mutter, your irises shaking with sincerity he doesn’t get to witness, not when he’s overtaken by anger, not when fear trickles in just as intense “When I saw that you had Niki’s painting I just thought-I thought we would be able to relate to each other. That there are sides of us we could understand.” He scoffs at your words, shaking his head in disbelief and your chest tightens, as if callous hands have made their way inside you with abhorrence, squeezing your fragile organ.

“Relate to each other?” He speaks, low and more to himself with displeasure written all over his face “You didn’t even understand what that painting meant until I explained it to you yn how the fuck are you gonna understand anything about me?”

“I know but-“

“God yn do you ever just stop and think about the way you act? The things you say?” As if a monster that has been unleashed, the shackles covered in rust, and they crack with the lump forming in the middle of your throat with a threat for tears to burn your cheeks with scalding trails “Do you ever stop and think about how overbearing you act sometimes?” Jake cannot stop, he feels it in the way his blood burns as it runs through his veins “why can’t you fucking listen to me when I tell you to stop? Why do you need to push me past my limits?”

“I’m sorry maybe I worded it wrong but my goal this time wasn’t to push you.” your words are not getting through to him, instead something akin to hideousness he’s all too familiar crumbles inside of him.

“I feel fucking sorry for your brother he has to deal with this kind of shit from you on top of whatever lead him to make that fucking painting.” His tone is cold and low when he speaks you but they break through your bones harsher than anything he had ever said to you and they crack, extending all the way to your heart, forming scars on the surface he had so delicately soothed not long ago.

You almost want to scoff at yourself more than anyone, how could you be so stupid to think of yourself as anything more than trivial glass that stays unaware of its imminent fate?

Jake regrets his words the moment they leave his mouth, not because of the bitter taste they leave behind but rather over the broken look that seeps into your face as quick as he inhales. His anger for you flees, tumbles to the ground right next to your puddle of blood, woven with your heartbreak and caused by the bullets he aimed at you while he wavers, colored with remorse.

It only penetrates him deeper when you grow quiet, your eyes fliting everywhere as if trying to find meaning in his words somewhere other than his face, as if you didn’t look at him you’ll be able to find different facets of them, ones that aren’t directed at you with only for hurt to unfurls throughout every nook and cranny of you. but then your eyes dart up to him, this time your eye contact doesn’t transpires with desire nor hidden giggles from you. This time your expression completely crumbles with excruciating agony.

“That’s too cruel to say even to someone like me Jake.”

Your words come out choked despite the tears glimmering in your eyes none fall, and it feels like punishment that dawns on him right away, he blinks rapidly at you, too aware of the harsh words that he let slip. There’s real pain in your voice, albeit your pure ability to display your emotions carelessly, he had never seen you this hurt, not in this unadulterated form and he falls speechless.

“bunny,,” he’s not sure what to say, his mind empty but it doesn’t matter because then you’re harshly wiping at your eyes with your arm and in mere moments you’re turning away from him.

He doesn’t know how long he stands in the dimly lit corridor, but it’s long enough to feel the weight of his own words pressing him down until he feels close to suffocating, he stares at his palms and fragments of your broken heart stares back at him.

You should have known heedless wishes were meant to break rather than mend.

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[stevenssacrab]

Green Is Your Color

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ✧ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ*

Summary: Dressed in green lingerie you have one mission, make Wanda beg.

Rating: 18+ smut (minors, do not interact)

Warnings: Dry humping, swearing, nipple play, oral (female receiving), fingering (female receiving), sex toys (vibrator, dildo), orgasm denial, bratty Wanda, dom reader, squirting.

Word Count: 2.7k

a/n: 2.7k?! Sheeesh never thought I'd do it, Wanda is my weakness ladies and germs, hope y'all enjoy!

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ✧ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ*

"You're total today is $60 even," spoke the cashier at Victoria's Secret; you visibly cringed; you usually wouldn't spend this much on an item, but you wanted to surprise Wanda with something a little sexy; you paid with a smile, you can't wait to see the look on her face when she sees you in it. You open your door, anxiety creeping within you. Wanda should be home in a little while, just enough time to shower and dress; the entire shower, your nerves were getting the best of you.

"What if she doesn't like it?" you questioned internally, styling your hair in voluminous, bouncy curls; you sighed anxiously, blending the eyeshadow carefully. You were aiming for sultry bedroom eyes, something that would lure Wanda and turn her into putty before your very eyes; she's always taken the more dominant role in the bedroom. Tonight, your goal was to get her to beg for it, a challenging mission, you know that, and still, you had hope; you had a couple of tricks up your sleeve to achieve your goal; slowly, you massage your vanilla-scented lotion into your skin, sighing contently, inhaling the scent, vanilla always reminded you of your first date with Wanda and how nervous you were, and the feeling of butterflies in your stomach, the way your heart skipped a beat when you saw her for the first time, you've always known that Wanda was beautiful, she handled everything with grace, a force to be reckoned with, part of you was scared that you weren't going to be enough for her, in your opinion you were nothing special just, like every other average human. Still, she never made you feel that way, not even for a second.

You slipped into a mid-thigh length dark green silk dress with high slits that stopped at your waist, no panties, of course; you slipped on stilettos, and you ran your eyes over the whole ensemble one last time; you folded over, fluff up your roots for more volume, spray yourself with your vanilla bean perfume, and run your hands over the dress, smoothing out any imperfections, jingling of keys and dull footsteps fill your ears, "she's home" you uttered to yourself.

"Baby? Are you home?" concern layered in Wanda's voice; your bedroom door creaks open, "Baby?" she asks again.

"I'm here," you call out, trusting your nerves can't be heard through your voice, "I'll be right out, almost finished," quickly trying to straighten up the bathroom. You're stalling, but you don't care.

"Don't worry, baby, take your time," she voiced; you could practically hear the smile on her face; you sighed and attempted to shake off your nerves.

"She's gonna love it, she loves you, it'll be great," you chanted to yourself like a mantra and reached for the door handle and pulled before you could second guess yourself; your eyes land on Wanda sitting on the bed, aimlessly scrolling through her phone, she hasn't noticed you yet, you step forward.

"Hey baby, did you-" Wanda speaks, flicking her head to look at you; she met your eyes first, then flicked down; she widens her eyes slightly, raking her eyes over you slowly, observing and trying to memorize every detail, from the black stilettos that you know she loves, to the sexy eye makeup that puts her in a trance, hypnotized by the way the high slits elongates your legs, watching you intently, chin low, eyes hooded. You walk closer, one foot in front of the other, hips swaying with each step; you stop directly in front of Wanda, gently placing your hands on her shoulders; you smile down at her. Wanda breathes through her mouth, tongue dancing along her bottom lip; you slowly climb into Wanda's lap and groan softly when Wanda's hands grip your waist, capturing your lips in a hungry kiss.

"Mmm, you look so good," Wanda groaned in between feverous kisses, moving her lips to your neck, sucking dark circles into your skin; you moaned softly, tilting your head back, "What's the occasion?" Wanda asked, nibbling gently at the skin; you squeak happily, caressing the back of her head.

"Nothing, I just wanted to surprise you," you spoke breathlessly, lightly grinding your bare pussy against the rough fabric of Wanda's jeans, "do you like it?" you hummed, running your hands under Wanda's jacket, sliding it off.

"You should surprise me more often," she teased, gliding her hands under the dress and squeezing your ass, helping you grind into her slowly; you grip her shoulders, shamelessly grinding into her; Wanda gently traces her fingers up your arm; stopping at the straps of the dress and pulls them down over your shoulders, exposing your tits to the cold air, Wanda doesn't miss how you shiver, she cups them massaging them roughly she brings her head down, flicking her tongue over the bud, you whimper, watching opened mouth, she grins and captures your bud, sucking gently, she looks up at you innocently, you groan, rutting against her quickly you feel your orgasm building up, Wanda moans around your nipple, rolling your free nipple between her fingers, you moan loudly, picking up speed, you're so close.

"Oh god, I'm so close," you plead, eyes screwed shut, rubbing your clit against the denim; Wanda lightly nibbles your nipple, sending you over the edge; you cum hard, hips bucking wildly into her, digging your nails into Wanda's shoulders, when you open your eyes Wanda is looking at you with dark, hungry eyes, if looks could kill you'd be long gone, you gently push her back to the bed, her legs hanging over the edge of the bed, you climbed off her, your dress hanging on by your hips, you sit on the floor, resting on your heels, you unbutton Wanda's pants and lean forward to pull the zipper down with your teeth, looking up to her innocently, Wanda rest on her elbows, watching you closely, licking her lips slowly, you smile up at her mischievously, lazily dragging her pants down, littering kisses all the way down her legs, you slide your hands up her legs to her clothed pussy, you can already see a wet spot, you find her clit even with her panties on and slowly rub circles, watching Wanda's reaction, she sighs contently, giving herself over to you, you lick a hard stripe up her pussy, Wanda groans frustrated, shes over the barrier muffling the sensations, you smile and move her panties to the side exposing her swollen bud, you lean forward and blow cool air onto her wet pussy, Wanda groans, annoyed you won't give her what she wants, you press your tongue against her clit, gently kitten licking, still not delivering fully, she bucks her hips in search for more pressure but you pull back.

"Uh uh," you say with a smirk, slowly leaning back in and licking harder than before. She groans loudly, throwing her head back; she bucks her hips up shamelessly; you grip her hips and hold her still.

"We do this my way, or we don't do this at all," you say confidently, rubbing circles into her skin; she looks up at you in disbelief, under the impression that she would lead like always; she lets out a disgruntled groan and falls back onto the bed in defeat, you kiss her pussy "good girl, behave and maybe I'll let you cum on my tongue" you spoke, your lips capture her clit gently and suck, not nearly enough for her to cum, but enough for her to feel good, Wanda obediently holds her hips still, taking heed of your warning, you reward her good behavior with a particularly hard suckle, she gasps and closes her legs around your head, you moan, satisfied and pry her legs open, still suckling roughly, Wanda buries her hand in your hair and bucks her hips onto your tongue, you groan disapprovingly and smack her hand away, "don't make me tie you down," you say darkly, slapping her sensitive clit lightly, she whimpered loudly.

"I'll behave," she said agitatedly; you hook your fingers in her underwear and pull them down; she picks her feet up onto the bed, opening her legs, displaying her wet pussy for your eyes only; you lick your lips slowly and attach your lips to her clit, sucking roughly, running your teeth along her clit gently, she moans and quivers, trying her absolute hardest to hold still, you look up at her, she has her eyes tightly closed, fists clenched, knuckles turning white, you almost feel bad, she's trying so hard to behave, you reward her by sliding your finger inside, pumping slowly, you groan, it was so easy pushing in, not a hint of resistance, you curl your finger in search for that bundle of nerves, a moan rips from Wanda’s throat, her legs shake violently, you found the spot, you slowly pump your finger hitting it each time, Wanda is a quivering mess at your mercy and she wouldn’t have it any other way, arching her back, she speaks.

“Ugh, fuck, just like that,” Wanda barks through gritted teeth; grinding down onto your finger; the way her walls spasm around your finger, you can tell she's close; suddenly, you cease all movement and watch Wanda greedily try to fuck herself; Wanda moans frustratedly; you smile and reach under the bed and pull out a pink vibrator, Wanda’s face drops, she's in for it, and she knows it, your face twist in an evil grin and climb on the bed, seating yourself next to her, you flick on the toy and part her pussy lips and press the toy directly on her clit, Wanda cries out loudly; she grips your thigh tightly, looking at you, pleading without saying a word, you set the toy higher, she moans, digging her fingernails into your thigh.

"Fuck, don't stop," she pleads; you knew she would have a firm resolve; you had hoped that she crack by now, you set the toy even higher, and Wanda opens her mouth in a silent scream, determined to get her to break, you slide three fingers inside, curling your fingers expertly, hitting that sweet spot you know drives her crazy, she lets out a scream so loud you're sure she's going to lose her voice, bucking her hips, fucking herself onto your fingers, " mmm so close, I'm gonna cum," she grips the sheets braces for impact. Still, you lift the toy and pull your fingers out; Wanda growls loudly, "What the fuck?!" she booms, looking at you angrily.

"Just say the magic word," you tease; she knits her brows, confused for only a second, and then her face twists mischievously.

"No, make me," she bites back, smirking smugly.

"With pleasure," cockiness dripping off your voice, setting the toy to its highest, pressing it to her clit brutally, "OH!" she moans deafeningly, arching her back off the mattress; you sneer, rubbing the toy in circles; moans pouring out of her, she watches you abuse her clit cruelly, "fuck, so close," she squeals, you push in 2 fingers aiming straight for the g-spot, forcing her to the edge, viciously, you want her as close as possible so you can deny her, Wanda's moans growing louder and louder, blatantly grinding against the toy desperate to cum, and right when she's about to go over the edge, you pull away, smirking when she throws her head back against the mattress.

"Give up?" you asked, raising your brow. Wanda scoffs, "Never, do your worst," she hisses back.

"Suit yourself," you snarl, pulling out an 8-inch dildo. Wanda's face drops; she looks at you, panicked, her eyes flicking between you and the dildo, shaking her head slightly, "What happened? Cat got your tongue?" you asked egotistically, crawling like a predator stalking their prey; you set the toy to low and apply light pressure to her abused clit, Wanda sighs contently, closing her eyes blissfully, unsatisfied with her peace of mind, you slowly slide the tip of the dildo in, Wanda's eyes snap open, you smile and push the toy in deeper, Wanda groans, the stretch stings deliciously, you both moan as you bottom out, Wanda's chest rises and falls steadily, fully engrossed in all the sensations you're providing her, setting the vibrator higher Wanda reacts instantly, gripping the bedsheets, massaging her tits over her shirt, she mewls lifting her hips off the mattress, that familiar coil tightening, you pick up the pace, fucking her pussy quickly, she frustratedly rips her shirt off and pulls her bra down, exposing her tits, she's desperately pinching at her nipples, lips trapped between her teeth, you angle the toy, masterfully hit her spot, she moans loudly, clenching around the dildo, not slowing down, you ask.

"Ready to beg?" fucking her senselessly, Wanda cries out; she tries to answer, but every time she opens her mouth, you thrust the toy, and all that comes out is grunts and groans of pleasure; you set the toy higher and said "answer me," Wanda whimpers loudly, she's been dancing along the edge for so long, her heartbeat thundering in her ears, "no," she hissed defiantly through clenched teeth, "oh?" you questioned, setting the toy to the highest level, Wanda screams, thrashing about, you stop, "ready now?" you teased, "no," Wanda repeated, you turn the toy back on and fuck her ruthlessly, Wanda sobs loudly, tears in her eyes, she looks at you brows knitted together, "I'm-" she squeaks out, "yes baby?" you ask mockingly, still, you keep thrusting into her pussy mercilessly, she opens her mouth and attempts to say something, but all that comes out is whimpers and whines, she pants and watches mouth ajar as the dick disappears in her, you stop, "ready?"

"N-no," she spoke, voice strained, fists clenched; you scoff, turn the toy back on and ram the dildo back in fucking her mind-numbingly fast; a sob rips through Wanda's throat, all she can do is lay there and take it all, she doesn't have the energy to move, "I- so close," Wanda pants out, you pull back, and Wanda whines loudly "no! please I, please let me cum, I’m sorry, please" Wanda pleaded, eyes filling with tears, her lip quivering, you lean down and kiss her forehead. "It's okay, baby," you whisper affectionately and turn the vibrator on high, "Yes!" Wanda moans loudly; as you pump the dick in and out savagely, Wanda is reduced to a blubbering mess, babbling nonsense; the mascara she had on is running down her cheeks; her mouth hangs open, whines and whimpers spilling out before she can stop them. "Please, I'm so close," she weeps, her face contorted in bliss, her body shaking violently. You change the angle of the toy, and Wanda whines loudly; she cums, mouth open in a silent scream, her vision going white, ringing in her ears, gripping the bedsheets so hard it's coming off the corners; you slowly fuck Wanda through it, ceasing when she whimpers in pain.

"Oh my god," Wanda breathes, scoffing in disbelief; she picks her head up, looking at you, smiling from ear to ear, "that was amazing; I loved it," she laughs, sitting up on her elbows, "green is definitely your color."

"I can tell; look at the mess you made," you chuckle, gesturing to the end of the mattress. Wanda looks at you like you have two heads before looking down; there's a big wet spot between her thighs. Wanda squirted, and she didn't even realize it; a deep shade of red crept along Wanda's cheeks and onto the tips of her ears; she hid her face in her hands, groaning loudly; she wanted the world to swallow her whole. She's so embarrassed; you chuckle lightly and gently grab Wanda's wrists, pulling her hands away from her face. Wanda looks up at you, humiliated.

"It's okay, baby, it's natural; I'm impressed I didn't know you could do that," you chuckled, pulling Wanda in for a tight hug, "I didn't know I could do that either; ugh, I'm so sorry," she said, hiding her face in her hands again.

"Don't even worry about it; I'm not mad or anything; we just change the sheets, and end of story," you said, rubbing her back reassuringly. Wanda lifted her head up.

"Are you sure?" she choked up, hiding her face in your neck and wrapping her arms around your torso, "I'm positive, baby, don't worry," you whispered against her forehead.

"Now, let's get you cleaned up."

[solarmorrigan]

Under My Skin - Stranger Things - steddie

[Ao3]

In spite of the extensive skincare regimen that Steve will not admit to having, the fight with Jonathan Byers leaves its marks.

The cut on his lip heals no problem, and the bridge of his nose is left without much more than a faint line, easily dismissed. The split on his left cheekbone, though – that one sticks. It probably doesn’t help that he’d never sought proper medical attention after that fight, had never had any of the cuts or bruises properly seen to (he’d been considering going to a doctor once he finished cleaning up his mess, but then an interdimensional monster had dropped out of the ceiling of the Byers’ living room and Steve had kind of forgotten everything else).

It's not the world’s worst scar, just a little starburst of shiny skin stuck in just on the far side of the apple of his cheek, but it’s enough to make Steve frown whenever he catches it in the mirror. His looks are his best asset, he’s always been told; hell, aside from athletics, he’s been informed that his looks are pretty much his only asset, so it really won’t do to be messing them up.

He takes to wearing sunglasses whenever he can. They don’t really hide the scar, but they direct attention away from it, and he realizes quickly that the sunglasses also tend to lessen the number of headaches he gets (lights have been brighter since he got his clock cleaned, and they’re likelier to trigger a nasty pain right behind his eyes, and Steve thinks now and then that he probably really should’ve been to see a doctor, because he’s pretty sure he’d had a concussion). This works for a little bit, but Nancy keeps telling him to take them off, that they look silly.

Steve doesn’t want to tell her that they help with the headaches he hasn’t even told her he’s been getting (he doesn’t want her to worry, or to see him as any less) and he definitely doesn’t want to draw attention to the fact he’s sensitive about a little scar (nor does he particularly want to remind Nancy of how he got it in the first place), so he stops wearing them.

After all, Nancy’s opinion has become devastatingly important to him (and it remains so, long after it should).

Billy Hargrove does a far more thorough job of wrecking Steve’s shit than Jonathan had.

Steve’s last coherent thought before he succumbs to pain and then darkness is that he’s going to die here, and that he’s fucking failed to protect the kids.

(His first coherent thought upon waking, incidentally, is that he apparently hasn’t died, but that the kids are going to fucking kill him.)

When all is said and done, he doesn’t see a doctor this time, either (why start now?), just spends a few days throwing up and swaying dizzily any time he tries to move while under the watchful eye of Hopper and Eleven in their cabin in the middle of goddamn nowhere, before he’s deemed healthy enough to go home.

(Steve might fudge the truth a bit and insinuate to Hopper that his parents are definitely home and that they will definitely make sure he doesn’t slip into a coma in his sleep, but he thinks Hopper and Eleven deserve to spend some bonding time together that doesn’t involve Steve and his head trauma.)

Someone (he suspects the joint effort of Dustin and Max) had done their best to close Steve’s wounds with colorful cartoon bandages they’d dug out of the Byers’ medicine cabinet, but in the end, it doesn’t seem to have done much. The cut on his forehead had been short but deep, but it fades into something that doesn’t look like too much more than a dramatic pockmark. The gash on his jaw, though—which, he can’t say for sure, but he thinks was caused by the broken porcelain of the plate Dustin says Billy had hit him with—that one is noticeable.

Even after it heals, it looks pink and raw and stands out as it curls up over the sharp edge of his jaw, a glaring flaw on his face and a glaring reminder of his failure to look after the people he’d promised to keep safe.

He tries not to think about it—tries really, really hard—but Dustin inevitably catches him poking at it while looking in the mirror of his sun visor.

“You just make it redder when you mess with it,” Dustin says.

Steve snatches his hand away. “I do not.”

“Okay, but you do. You should just leave it alone. It’ll fade eventually.” Dustin shrugs. “But in the meantime, it looks, like… kinda badass.”

Steve turns to face Dustin, one brow raised in patent disbelief. Dustin tosses his hands up in defense.

“I mean, yeah, you got it getting your ass kicked, but it looks pretty cool. You could make up any story about it!” he says. “Besides, chicks dig cool scars, right?”

Chewing the inside of his cheek for a moment, Steve manages a smile (a real one, even) for the kid. “’course they do, Henderson.”

Steve tries making up various cool stories about the scar, but he’s never been the most creative, and when people ask about it—and they do, inevitably, because even after it fades, it’s still noticeable, and people are nosy bastards—he just brushes them off by saying it was a stupid accident with a broken plate.

Close enough.

It hasn’t even been a year since his last encounter with someone’s fists when Steve becomes acquainted with a particular brand of Russian hospitality.

The ugly j-hook of a cut that his interrogators leave under his lip is small potatoes compared to… literally everything else that happens that night (and for having been, y’know, technically tortured and all, Steve figures he got off pretty lightly; sure, his headaches have grown worse, and his hearing and vision are a little fuzzier on one side than the other, and he’s having a little trouble remembering fine details sometimes, but aesthetically speaking – yeah, he got off pretty easy). Still, in quieter moments, Steve can’t help but run his fingers over the texture of the scar and ruminate.

He can’t say he regrets how he got it, not when he’d at least been able to keep most of the heat off of everyone else, but he regrets that they’d gotten into that situation at all. He should have done better than to let it happen, he should have come up with a better solution to getting them out of there, he should have fought harder, he should have, he should have, he should have.

Besides that, combined with all the other marks Steve has been collecting over the last couple of years, he’s pretty sure the scar on his lip tips the scale from “badass” to “unpleasant to look at,” with regards to his face. He certainly doesn’t like looking at it.

He tries expressing this to Robin one evening, driving home after the closing shift at the video store, when the sky is dark and close, and the streetlights make everything seem softer– safer.

“Oh my god, you are not unpleasant to look at, you insecure dingus,” Robin insists, reaching over and giving him a shove, ignoring his protest that he is driving right now. “The scars make you look… rakish.”

“That’s not a word,” Steve says.

“It is so.”

“It is not. Don’t make shit up just to make me feel better.”

“I’m not! It means, like, sorta disreputable, but also dashing. Like a gentleman robber or something,” Robin says.

Steve shoots her a look before turning back to the road. “You’ve been reading too many of those romance books they sell at the checkout.”

“I am super offended you think I read those. That’s rude,” Robin says, but she sounds like she’s trying not to laugh.

“Anyway, I’m not saying that I’m unpleasant to look at as, like, a whole, it’s just… they don’t add up to an inviting picture.” Steve shrugs.

Robin reaches over the center console again, but this time she just pats his arm. “I promise your face is still perfectly inviting, Steve.”

He knows she’s not trying to be dismissive, he just can’t properly articulate why he’s so bothered, so he just doesn’t bring it up again.

He successfully doesn’t bring it up again for nearly a year, until after the deep scrapes from getting dragged across the dry lakebed and the cuts and bites from the demobats have put the final nail in the coffin of whatever physical appeal he’d probably had left. Steve can definitely say goodbye to swimming at public pools ever again, but keeping his shirt on isn’t going to do much for the ugly laceration that damned bat’s tail left around his throat.

It doesn’t heal pretty, and Steve would have said given up on the dating scene—on the prospect of a relationship—entirely if it hadn’t been for Eddie.

Eddie, who, in spite of Steve’s many obvious physical flaws (not just the scars, but the symptoms that accompany getting a certain number of knocks to the head, which, by virtue of simply being around all the goddamn time, Eddie has been privy to), seems to be completely into him.

And Steve’s not going to question it, the way Eddie always wants to be in his space, the way Eddie never seems to tire of him, all the ways he invites Steve’s touch, the way he seems to have room for all the affection Steve wants to give him – Steve just wishes he’d cool it with the pet names.

Some of them aren’t too bad (things like sweetheart and baby are standards that Steve finds he doesn’t mind at all) and some are so ridiculous that he can’t really hate them (he won’t pretend to understand Eddie’s obsession with fantasy books, but if he likes calling Steve sweet things in fucking Elvish or whatever the hell it is, Steve isn’t going to make him feel bad for it), but there’s one that never fails to rub him the wrong way.

“Good morning, pretty boy,” Eddie murmurs into the scant space between them, leaning up to press a kiss directly to the scar that runs over Steve’s jaw.

Steve goes tense, but does his best not to flinch. “Can you not?” he grumbles, shifting against the pillows. “It’s too early for that shit.”

“Too early to say good morning to my boyfriend?” Eddie asks, dark eyes sparkling in the morning light. “Because if I wait too long to do that, it’s gonna turn into good afternoon.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Too early to be calling me that.”

“What, pretty boy?” Eddie’s grin grows as Steve squirms a little. “But you are. Even covered in pillow creases and drool.”

Self-consciously, Steve reaches up to swipe at the corners of his mouth, and Eddie snickers.

“Sorry, sweetheart, but even this early in the morning, you’re still pretty.”

“Eddie…”

“But if you’d prefer something else, I could go with beautiful,” Eddie says, pressing another kiss to the corner of Steve’s mouth.

“Eddie.”

“Or handsome.” Eddie pecks a kiss to Steve’s cheek, just below the starburst scar, and Steve presses a firm hand to his chest, stopping short of shoving him away.

“Eddie, stop,” Steve grits out.

And Eddie does.

He stops and he pulls back a bit, looking entirely confused and more than a little worried. “Steve, what’s wrong?”

With a huff, Steve rolls so he’s not facing Eddie’s wide-eyed bewilderment. “Look, I don’t know if you think you’re only teasing, or if you’re trying to make me feel better, or what, but can you just stop?”

“Hey.” Eddie’s hand is gentle but very assuredly present on Steve’s shoulder. “Give me a little more to work with here, what the hell am I doing?”

“Calling me shit like that. Pretty. Handsome,” Steve spits out. “Whatever. It’s – you don’t have to keep saying it.”

There is a long, heavy moment of silence.

“Do you seriously think you’re not?” Eddie finally says, incredulous.

Twisting back around, Steve sneers at Eddie. “You cannot possibly have failed to notice that my face is kinda fucked up, Eddie.”

“Your face is perfect,” Eddie blurts, and Steve resists the irritable urge to shove at him again.

“My face is covered in scars, jackass.”

“So? Those are, like, surface-level imperfections. Literally skin-deep! Structurally speaking, your face is definitely perfect.”

When Steve moves to roll away from Eddie again, Eddie pounces, straddling Steve’s hips and using all his weight to keep him where he is. “No, no, I’m definitely right about this,” Eddie insists. “Besides this square jawed shit you have going on, your eyes are gorgeous.” He reaches up, cupping Steve’s cheeks and brushing his thumbs gently beneath Steve’s eyes. “And your smile is probably my favorite thing to look at.” Eddie lets his hands drift down to Steve’s jaw, then trail further, to his neck, his shoulders, his chest. “And the rest of you? I mean, are you kidding me with this?”

Steve is very much not kidding Eddie with this, but he can’t quite bring himself to say as much. His throat has gone tight for some reason; he’s been living with all these marks for years, so he’s not entirely sure why he’s getting choked up now.

“You don’t really think the scars make you ugly, do you?” Eddie asks softly, and Steve can only nod. “Steve… sweetheart, come on. I mean, look, I’m not gonna lie to you and say they’re not noticeable – and yeah, one or two even stand out, but they don’t take away at all. They add to the picture. I swear I am not fucking with you on this, you’re beautiful.”

Finally, Steve finds his voice. “They’re ugly because of what they stand for. It’s all my fucking failure carved into my fucking face.”

Eddie’s expression does something weird, getting stuck somewhere between anger and sadness. “That’s what you think they are?”

“Every time–” Steve’s voice grinds to a stop for a moment, but he pushes on. “Every time I’m supposed to be looking out for people, protecting them, they still get hurt. I get the shit kicked out of me and it isn’t even worth anything and–”

“You can’t take that all on yourself. You can’t,” Eddie breaks in. “You got all of these scars looking out for the people you love. Looking out for us. And I hate that you had to get them, but I gotta say – I love what they stand for.”

Steve doesn’t have a chance to get another word in before Eddie is leaning down and pressing a kiss to Steve’s throat. Steve flinches, just a little, because the skin there is sensitive now, but Eddie keeps it light – so soft it’s nearly reverent.

“This one was me, and Buckley, and big Wheeler,” Eddie murmurs, sitting up a little so he can brush his hands down the spiderweb scars on Steve’s sides. “And so were these. And I also kinda like ‘em because they match mine, if I’m being honest.”

One short sob of a laugh comes out of Steve at that, and he reaches up to run his fingers over the places on Eddie’s sides where the demobats had gotten a few good bites in before Vecna had been destroyed. Eddie smiles, then leans back down and kisses the scar that hooks under Steve’s lip.

“Buckley again, and Henderson, and Sinclair the younger,” he says. “I was terrified just listening to that story, but you– you kept their attention on you and off of everyone else.”

“I…”

Eddie doesn’t wait for Steve to find his words. Instead, he presses his lips to the gash on Steve’s jaw, where he’d started that morning. “Sinclair the elder. Red.” He moves up and kisses the smaller gouge in Steve’s forehead. “Henderson again. Small Wheeler. Standing up to a bigoted piece of shit who took his issues out on kids.”

You make it sound so much more heroic than it really was, Steve wants to say, but Eddie’s already moved on to the faded line on the bridge of his nose, and then to the little starburst scar on his cheek.

“You can’t possibly love that one,” Steve manages. “I didn’t get that one saving anyone, I got it for being a shithead.”

“Are you kidding? This one’s my favorite. This one was the eye-opener.” Eddie kisses the scar again. “This one saved you.”

If asked, Steve would say with a reasonable amount of confidence that he’s pretty thick-skinned. Harsh words don’t trip him up. Rough treatment might knock him down, but he’ll always get up, and he’ll come back for more as many times as he’s able. Steve can take a hit.

He can take many, many hits.

But it’s softness—the gentleness of Eddie’s hands and his mouth and his words—that finally manages to break him.

(“You’re even pretty when you cry,” Eddie says later, falsely aggrieved. “That’s not even fair!”

This time Eddie is definitely teasing him—nobody looks pretty when they cry—but Steve finds he doesn’t mind as much. It doesn’t seem as important, just at the moment. Instead of denying it, Steve simply sighs, “It’s a gift.”

Eddie snorts and presses a kiss to Steve’s cheek, where he’s scarred, and blotchy, and sticky with tears, but also entirely loved.)

[lazybutsmexy]

Rotten Apple

Ghost x fem!Reader (Canary) x Soap

A/N: This is set after the events in Bird Hunting, but is mostly centered around Canary (here [Name] due to her being in a civilian setting) and her parents. Just a lil' bit of lore for BH fans :)

Warnings: hurt/comfort, referenced past child neglect, narcissistic/abusive parents.

Summary: Sweetened apples turn sour when rotten apples are around.

Word count: 2100~

“...Yae think we should’ve brought a leash?” Johnny pondered, and Simon had no choice but to consider his opinion for the next time they went to the farmers’ market with [Name]. Only ten minutes had passed from the moment they arrived, and it only took her catching a whiff of sweetened apples for her to zoom away into the crowd. 

And it was crowded today, with a congregation of people, alone, in couples, or entire families that had decided to brave the unusually sunny weather to stock up on organically harvested seasonal fruits and vegetables, animal products, and other produce made by the same people that sold them in cute little stands. 

[Name] absolutely loved the farmers’ market - Simon wasn’t that keen on crowds, but both him and Johnny were easily swayed by her excitement. The initial plan was for them to stock up on groceries before spending a long-awaited long weekend at Johnny’s cabin in the north. But now she had disappeared to who-knows-where. 

Her stealth had been an important skill during missions, but now it was a problem. Is this how their enemies felt, knowing that she was around there but being unable to find her?, Simon thought, his eyes scanning the crowd from above - luckily, there weren't many people even close to his size. 

“There!” Johnny exclaimed, and took off in a random direction. Simon was hot behind his heels, refusing to lose another one of his partners today. Both men had to struggle to part the crows around them without shoving them aside, and not tripping into distracted kids that wandered around their parents. 

Finally, Simon saw her, but there was something off about her. He couldn’t quite place it before Johnny got to her, his hand brushing her arm. 

“[Na-]! Oh, sorry,” Johnny quickly retracted his hand with a sheepish grin, “I thought you were my girlfriend, you look a lot like her.”

The girl eyed him up and down and quirked an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, “That’s the most awful pick-up line I’ve heard,” she sneered at him, and Johnny couldn’t help but notice that she really looked eerily similar to [Name], from the color of her hair, the shape of her lips, to the scrunch on her nose when she looked at him in displeasure. “And by the way,” she continued dismissively, crossing her arms over her chest, “I already have a fiance, and you can’t afford me anyway.”

Both Simon and Johnny blinked at the woman, who was looking at both of them up and down. Johnny was getting rightfully annoyed at her choice of tone, and was about to turn around when she saw the woman’s face shift into surprise as her eye caught something behind them. “...[Name]?”

[Name] had been about to grab Simon’s shoulder, excited to show him her newly purchased jars of jams while munching away at a caramel apple, but the moment she noticed who was speaking to them, she turned around and shifted through the crowds again. 

Her heart was pounding in her ears and she felt her lungs constrict against her ribs for oxygen. The soles of her feet stung - although her burns were healed, the new skin was still sensitive. She had lost her treat somewhere, but she paid it no mind, eager to find the exit, and wait for Johnny and Simon by the truck. 

However, and she should already know this by heart, Lady luck sometimes is a bitch. 

“...[Name]? Is that you?” The voice made her freeze on the spot, right outside the parking lot, and she felt like a child all over again as she slowly turned around, her eyes meeting her mother’s. 

“...Hi, mom,” she sighed dejectedly, resigning herself to her fate as she saw her father turn around to face her, regarding her with an unimpressed stare, “Hi, dad.”

“Haven’t seen you in years, darling,” the woman spoke sweetly and smiled politely, but it didn’t reach her eyes. It never does when it’s for me, [Name] thought bitterly. It was no different than when she spoke to a stranger at the grocery store, definitely not how one would speak to a daughter. 

“Have you finally come to your senses?” her father was less subtle, crossing his arms over his chest, “Are you finally coming back home?”

“Ah, no, I’m actually on medical leave,” she cleared her throat and straightened her back, finally remembering she was not a teenager anymore, “I have my own place, had it for a while now, actually.”

“Really now?” her mother cooed, “When are you going to get the rest of your stuff from home, then?”

[Name] blinked at her, tilting her head a little in confusion, “you told me you were getting rid of my things years ago, you said you were going to use my bedroom for an office for Trish or something.”

“Oh, we did repurpose your old bedroom, silly girl,” the woman laughed, then shrugged condescendingly, “what we couldn’t give away is in a couple of small boxes in the attic, mostly your childhood photos.” [Name] said nothing - she had already expected her parents to get rid of all traces of her the moment she joined the military, she was only mildly puzzled about them keeping anything. “I'm sure you’ll want those, at least.”

“...You don’t want them?” she asked, although she already had an inkling of what the answer would be. 

“Well, it would be embarrassing to have people asking about you, you know?” her mother sighed, shaking her head, “What would we tell them? It was easier to pretend your sister was an only child.”

“You could tell them the truth,” [Name] retorted, and her father seemed to tense up at her answer.

“Tell people that we have a daughter who whores herself out for a living?” He grumbled, while her mother looked around to see if anyone heard, “what do they call them, barrack bunnies?” 

[Name] bit her lip, her mind unhelpfully replaying the disastrous argument that resulted from her enlisting years prior. “I thought you didn’t care if I died, anyway.”

“But you’re alive, and you owe us,” her mother chastised, her pitch dropping a few tones, “we raised you-”

“Grandma and Grandpa raised me, you were too busy raising Trish.”

“We kept you fed and clothed even though you always rebelled against us,” her mother hissed, stepping closer, “you turned our family against us!” 

“You did that yourself,” [Name] kept her voice down, calm, knowing from experience that getting herself fired up would only give them more power, “you’re the one who started pretending I didn’t exist when I turned ten, saying you wished Trish was your only daughter.”

Her mother huffed and turned her face away indignantly, “and I stand by that.” 

“...I know, you find it easier to pretend I don’t exist than to check whether I’m alive or not.”

“We should’ve left you at the hospital when we had the chance.” 

[Name] rolled her eyes at that. After so many years living away from her parents, the usual quips and threats from her mother hurt less than when she was a teenager. It was a small comfort, to know that she’d grown out of her parents' shadow. “Yeah, that wasn’t very smart of you-” she was stopped by a sound slap, her face turning from the impact. She slowly raised her hand to cup her stinging cheek, and eyed her father, whose hand was still raised.

“You will not speak to your mother in that manner, young lady,” he growled, and [Name] just blinked at him, unsure of how to react without getting herself arrested. 

“And you will not raise your hand against my corporal again, unless you’re ready to lose it,” Simon’s voice was low, dangerously low, and it sent shivers down both [Name]’s and her parents’ spines, although for entirely different reasons. She glanced over her shoulder, finding herself eye-level with Simon’s chest. Johnny stood by his side with a severe expression in his face, one she had seldom seen before. 

Her parents warily stepped back, taking in the two large men who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. “W-who are you?” Her father stammered - although he would later deny he did. 

“Lieutenant Riley, and this is your last warning,” he grumbled, although he didn’t need to do anything else to intimidate them. They already looked as if they were trying to find somewhere to hide. 

Knowing that her parents were - for once - the ones cowering in fear stirred a newfound sense of power in [Name]’s heart - what was it that Gaz called it? Ah, yeah, scary dog privilege. She found it easier to look at the people in front of them and realize that nothing had tied her to them for a long time. 

The branches of the genealogy tree can also be snipped to one’s content, her Grandma had told her on her twelfth birthday, when she couldn’t grasp the concept of her parents choosing to celebrate one kid’s birthday and not the other’s. 

She had found herself being dropped off at her Grandparents’ early in the morning, while her parents boasted about taking Trish to an amusement park for the day. Little [Name] was heartbroken, and had begged her mom to forgive her for whatever she had done to not deserve a birthday party. But alas, they were relentless, and a lot of screaming from her mom and a backhanded slap from her dad had broken her pleas and made her silent, just like many other times. 

At that time, [Name] couldn’t grasp the meaning of her Grandma’s words, but now that she had grown up, and disappointment had settled in a long time ago, those words rang truer than ever in her mind. 

Even when she was on the brink of death in the forest, seeing them again never crossed her mind, for she knew they wouldn’t care even to visit her grave. 

Keep up with that attitude, and you will die alone, because no one will ever love you, her mother had told her at thirteen, when she started openly questioning the difference in treatment with her twin. 

How wrong she was, she thought. She was far from alone, and she was very well loved. Although her Grandparents were long gone, she had Simon and Johnny right here with her, and Gaz was her chosen brother, and Price was a better father figure than the man in front of her had ever been.

“Burn those photos, for all I care,” she smiled at her mother. It was a calm, detached smile - a polite smile you give to a stranger at the grocery store, not to a parent. “Make it real, that I do not exist for you.” 

And with that she turned around, tugging on Simon's long sleeve as discreetly as she could. Johnny did notice, however, and smirked to himself as he followed after them - Simon would’ve gladly squared up to those two for hours if needed, but he easily relented to her touch. 

Simon opened the truck’s passenger door for [Name] and she sat in silence, still mulling over her thoughts. A warm hand rested on her knee and she looked up to see her favorite pair of blue eyes staring back at her. They looked at each other in silence - there was an unsaid question in his lips, but she could almost taste it. 

“...Let’s go home, okay?” She whispered, her hand stroking his knuckles. He simply nodded and shut the door before climbing in himself. Johnny was already sitting behind her, his lips pressed in a pout as he caught her reflection on the side view mirror, staring out of the window at the pair of strangers that once held her heart in their hands.

After a few silent moments as they pulled out of the parking lot, Johnny reached over, presenting [Name] with a fresh candy apple with sprinkles on top. She took it from his fingers, chuckling to herself at how easy it was for them to draw a smile from here, even though her heart still stung a little.

"Thanks, love," she hummed, pressing a kiss to his wrist and knowing that Johnny was grinning proudly to himself. Simon's hand was warm on her thigh, a welcome weight that grounded her in the present.

She could grow her own tree, if she so wanted, with the people she loved the most.

A/N: poor bby Canary deserved better parents :(

[thebabblingbrookenook]

From A Father To A Son

Pairings:  Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, Benedict Bridgerton & Edmund Bridgerton

Summary - Benedict has held his father’s words close to his heart for his entire life. The model of love that his parents provided set an uncompromising standard. All of the pieces to the puzzle didn’t fully align until he fell in love with you. Although his father is gone, Benedict gets to experience the love of his life through the lens of his father’s parting sage wisdom.

Warnings - This one is pretty tame. I toned down the angst and dialed up the romance. It is sickeningly sweet.

Word Count - 3.1K

Author’s Note - The song inspiration for this one was If You Love Her by Forest Blakk. It isn’t necessary to listen before you read, but if you want a soundtrack... This is where my brain was lol

_______________________________________________

Spring was always Benedict’s favorite time of year, in spite of the fact that it held some of the most painful moments of his life. The world was coming back alive. Colors brightened, days grew longer, and the sun soaked into everything it touched, greeting those in its embrace with a warm hello. It was a time for new beginnings. A time that embodied promises of better things to come. That’s probably why it seemed to be the time of year when the world fell in love. 

Wedding season was in full bloom. He had already watched three of his old friends from school tie the knot this year. Each time he witnessed a bride take her first steps toward the rest of her life, he would turn and look at you. You were always there, right by his side, looking more lovely with each passing day. He watched you, as you watched her. Your eyes would mist over with joy, and when you felt his gaze on you, your skin would turn the most alluring shade of pink he had ever seen. That was always his favorite part.

He could never resist the urge to reach over and join your hand with his, watching together, as the two people before you joined their lives in a sacred union. Naturally, it would always send his mind down a certain trajectory. With the warmth of your palm pressing into his, it was easy to imagine your future, and he would think to himself, some day. 

He felt it the moment that vague, hazy some day, transformed into an urgent and sure, right now. He held you close, as you swayed together in time to a beautiful melody. He could see his little sister, Daphne, over your shoulder. She wore the smile of a radiant bride as she looked into the eyes of her new husband. He let the peaceful warmth of happiness wash over him and he knew. You were the one his father was talking about all those years ago…

Edmund Bridgerton’s words would forever be seared onto the soul of his second son. They were the words that shaped every decision Benedict made in life. The words that defined his understanding of love. That’s probably why it took him so long to find you. Nothing that fell short of the wisdom his father instilled would have been enough. 

~~~~~~~~~~

One spring morning, when Benedict was sixteen years old, he accidentally overheard an argument between his parents. His mother was pregnant and swollen, and behaving, in Benedict’s opinion, completely without reason. His father, while visibly frustrated, never once raised his voice to her. Instead, he pulled her into his arms, kissed her on the head, and apologized. Through her sniffled breaths, he heard his mother whisper, “I’m sorry too.”

It was the strangest argument he had ever seen. That wasn’t how things played out between his siblings when someone got into a row. There was usually a lot of yelling, and on occasion, maybe even some physical spats. Sometimes there was crying, but never hugs. And it most definitely didn’t end with mutual apologies. Not unless prompted by the staggering weight of disappointment dispensed by their mother. 

His father, always so aware of his surroundings, had known Benedict was there. Later that afternoon, he pulled Benedict aside and asked him what he knew about women. To which Benedict replied, “Absolutely nothing.”

An understanding smile spread across his father’s face, and he clasped his large hand affectionately on Benedict’s shoulder. “A stance of humility is the right place to start, son.”

They walked together through the fields of their country home and Benedict absorbed every word his father spoke. He didn’t know why, but something about this moment felt pivotal. He felt the need to see every detail of his father’s expressions, and hear every small inflection of his words. It was important that he never forget. He wouldn’t understand until later that it was because this was the last private moment they would have before he was gone.

“Benedict, women are a gift that we will never fully deserve. They are beautiful and strong. They inspire passion and embody grace. We think ourselves the brave ones, but can you imagine the kind of strength it takes to willingly surrender in vulnerability? To hand over any power you might have, and trust that it won’t be misused? They are brilliantly complex, but somehow breathtakingly effortless.”

Women had always been a mystery to Benedict. A riddle that he couldn’t quite solve. “But, what does that mean exactly? How can something be complicated and simple all at once? I can’t make any sense of that.”

“What that means, son, is that they should never be underestimated or undervalued. What they have to offer should never be taken for granted. They are not props to support our selfish ambitions, but rather partners to help build a life worth living. Everything you give a woman, she multiplies and gives it back to you. You give her ingredients, she gives you a meal. You give her intimacy, she gives you a family. You give her safety, she gives you a home. She gives you love. And that, my boy, is the effortless part. The innate way in which they love. If you love them, they’ll love you like that.”

Benedict was mesmerized by the way his father spoke. Even if he didn’t fully understand it, he knew that he wanted it. “How? How do you love them?”

“See her, Benedict. Truly see her. Set yourself aside and pay attention. Listen with more than just your ears. The beauty and the answers are in those small details. In one way or another, she’ll tell you exactly what she needs. Exactly who she is. Then you’ll know how to give her safety. You’ll know how to be a place of refuge. A place where her shame goes to die. Her trust is the most precious thing she has to give you, but it is also the most precarious. It has to be earned. You’re not entitled to it. If you’re the one she lets in, take it. Treat it with the reverence it commands.”

Benedict knew his eyes must have been wide in his face. His father laughed to reassure him. “What’s the matter, son?”

He replied in earnest, “That feels like a lot of pressure. What if I can’t do it right?”

“Yes, it can feel overwhelming at times. But with a heart built like yours, it will come as second nature. Of that I have no doubt. Once you meet her, once you know her, it will stop feeling like something you have to do and become something that you want to do. Something that you were made to do. No pain or burden will be too much to bear. You’d take on anything for her without a second thought.” His statement was a matter of fact.

Edmund’s kind eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled reflectively. “It won’t always be so serious. You will laugh harder and deeper than you have with anyone in your entire life. Oh, son… make sure you learn what makes her laugh and never stop doing it. Watch her light up the world around her. Learn to be childish together. And never, ever, let her forget how cherished she is to you. Don’t even spare her a second to doubt how much you want her.”

Heat rose to color his face, “How much I want her? You mean… uh…?”

His question hung silent in the air. When his father spoke again, his voice was gentle but stern. “Physical affection isn’t something you need to feel ashamed about. It’s important. It brings pleasure but it can also bring healing. You will crave each other. Ache for each other. Use it as an anchor point. Don’t wield it like a weapon. Touch is powerful. Sometimes it says what you cannot. Kiss her. Kiss her well, and kiss her often. Run your fingers through her hair just to remind her that you’re there. Touch the places on her body that she hates and worship them. After she meets you, she should never go another day without hearing how painfully beautiful she is. Watch her transform under your fingertips, showered in passionate words.”

Benedict gave a wry smirk, “That sounds nice.”

“Oh, trust me. It’s nice. Nice is putting it mildly. It’s euphoric. Addictive even.”

They were almost back to the house now. The garden was coming into view and Benedict could see his mother waiting among the hyacinths. He watched his father watch her and knew that everything he had just told him was coming from experience. The look in his father’s eyes as he took her in almost felt too private to observe, but he made himself look. He wanted to memorize it so that he might recognize it on his own face one day.

He had one last question he was dying to ask. “How will I know?”

“If she’s the one?” Edmund intuited.

Benedict nodded his head in affirmation and hung on his father’s next words. “Everything else will feel like hate in comparison.” 

Sensing his son’s trepidation, he said, “Don’t worry Benedict. It will be as easy as breathing.” He looked back up at his wife and smiled. “On days when it feels like the sky is falling, stand together and know that she’s the best thing that you’ll ever have. She’ll love you if you love her like that.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Your head was resting on his chest and he inhaled the scent of you. This was another moment he wanted to commit to memory. His father had taught him the importance of all those small details. It made sense now. The small things added up to the big things. They were the confirmation. The whole picture. The reason he knew…

Good and the bad, they added up to make you. You were everything he needed, but more importantly, you were everything he wanted. He loved your sense of adventure and your willingness to let him lead you into things that scared you. He loved that you trusted him enough to follow. It made him feel like a man. A man capable of loving a woman. A man like his father. 

He loved your sense of humor and how easily you could laugh at your own shortcomings. It made it easier to extend himself the same kindness. He watched you in awe as you picked yourself back up, time after time, and tried again. And when you couldn’t do it yourself, you came to him and let him help you. 

He loved your horrible taste in movies and how excited you got when he agreed to watch one with you. And he adored to watch you read. The way your eyes darted across the pages in wonder. He was desperate to know what words evoked a giggle or a tear. He wanted to understand your mind and know your soul. Sometimes after you had put the book down, he would flip through the pages and try to find you there.

There would never be a day when he would get enough of watching you interact with music. Everything about you stood at attention, devoted to the rhythms and notes. Your body would move in sequence, every chord an experience. You didn’t discriminate where music was concerned. If it made you feel something, you were all in. He found it unbearably adorable that you had two different answers when someone inquired about your favorite song. There was the answer you freely gave, and then there was the real answer. The one you kept secret, just for yourself. 

Sometimes at night, when you had trouble falling asleep, you would rub your foot back and forth in small circles on the sheets in an attempt to self soothe. And on nights when that didn’t work, he would reach out for you, pull you close, and you’d melt into his side. He would lay next to you in silence and wait for the moment when he could feel the tension leave your body. He liked that he could chase away what tormented you. 

He even loved your anger. It was magnificent to witness. You were an unstoppable force of justice, fueled by passion and grief. Sometimes the two would meld together, and in an instant you would go from yelling to weeping. Vulnerable and exposed in either state. And you let him see it all. Sometimes it was even directed at him, and the impulse to throw up his hands and walk away would be so strong. But then he would remember the image of his father pulling his mother into an embrace to confess a whispered I’m sorry. Instead of walking away, he would stay. He would listen. He would tell you how he felt. And in the end, the reciprocated amends always came. 

He could list all the reasons to love you until the day he died. But when it came down to it, the thing he loved the most was the way you loved. You loved fearlessly, and sometimes recklessly. You loved with your entire heart and then you loved some more. There were times when it overwhelmed him. There were times when it made him want to hide. Times that he preferred the company of shadows, afraid of what the light might unearth in him. Even when he found himself frozen by its magnitude, you were patient with him. You loved him enough to afford him mistakes. You left room for the ugly parts of him. You left room for him to grow. You encouraged him and challenged him. You inspired him and stoked the flames of desire in his soul. He could get lost to the sounds that left your lips when he touched your body. Drown in the ecstasy of the way you arched and pulsed around him. There wasn’t an inch of your skin that he could find fault in. When he was buried in you, he was home. 

Your outer beauty was undeniable, but the essence of you was unparalleled. It wasn’t possible for him to be in your orbit and not walk away a changed man. Everything about you made him better. You pushed each other forward. Built each other up. Forged a life worth living.

He knew by the way you loved your family that his would be immediately adopted into the fold. He was your heart, and to you, his family was simply an extension of him. You would protect them at all costs. Kill for them. Die for them. And all because he had the privilege to be loved by you. It was all stunning, but the love that held his every waking thought captive was the way you loved children. It was unadulterated, with no expectations or conditions. His favorite thing in this world was to watch you hold a baby. Your body could never physically contain the amount of love that erupted in you. It wouldn’t be ignored. It would flow out in the form of tears as you looked into the face of someone unbroken. He knew he would not be fulfilled in life until he saw you become a mother. A mother to his children. He needed to witness the miracle of your body creating and sustaining life. He wanted to give you the gift of intimacy and watch you multiply it until you gave him a family. 

Some Day was here. It was time. He needed you to be his wife. He needed you to be his future. He needed you to be forever. He had done it. He had solved the riddle. He had figured out how to love a woman. 

His father would have been proud. He would have congratulated him and welcomed him to the club of the hopelessly devoted. But most of all, he would have loved you. Of that much, Benedict was sure. 

As the song came to a close, Benedict broke free of his reverie. You were staring up at him with an adoring smile on your face. “What are you thinking about Ben?”

The words left his lips before he even had a chance to think. “I was thinking about how much my father would have liked you. I wish you had gotten to meet. I think you would have liked him too.”

You pressed your hand to the side of his face to hold his attention. “I know I would have. He’s the man who raised you. How could I not? I wish I could say thank you.” 

He leaned forward to press your lips together. When he pulled away he said, “I know how you can thank him.”

His expression was cheeky and it made your heart race. “Oh yeah? And how is that, pray tell?”

Two strong hands entwined into the back of your hair, tilting your head up and locking your gaze with his hooded eyes. “You could marry me.”

It took you by surprise. You weren’t ready for the intensity of what he had just unlocked in you. Tears were threatening to unleash themselves.

His knowing smile was so warm. “It’s okay, my perfect, perfect girl. You can cry. You can join right alongside me. It’s only a matter of time, no matter what answer you give.”

You laughed at his perfectly timed joke and marveled at the unshed tears pooling in his eyes. “It’s about time, Bridgerton. I was starting to worry you didn’t have it in you.”

His hand left your face long enough to wipe away a tear that had escaped down his cheek. His vulnerability was doing things to your insides. “So, is that a yes?”

You nodded, not sure you were able to trust your own voice at the moment.

He pleaded with you. “Please… I need to hear you say it. It won’t feel real until you say it out loud.”

Both of your hands came up to entwine with his long fingers that were still holding you in place. “Yes, Benedict. I will marry you.”

The heat from the breath he had been holding rushed across your lips before he kissed you. He kissed you deep and he kissed you well. 

You had been loved before in your life, but you had never been loved like that. 

He was the best thing that you’d ever have…

Tag List - @faye-tale , @angels17324 , @eleanor-bradstreet , @bridgertontess

[boethiah]

Do you ever feel like Boethia lied to all the Dunmer when she convinced them to leave Summerset?

I feel like she did, and everything, including the psyjic endevour, is a lie to further her own bloodshed and vanity. Like, this mf Boethia is called the "Prince and Plots" and "The Deciever of Nations." The question arises what nations did Boethia decieve, and what plot did they instigate? On both of those accounts I can only think of the followers of Veloth and the nation of Morrowind.

And literally no one in recorded history has achieved diefication through the psyjic endevour. The only ones to attain godhood were the tribunal, who explicitly ignored the advice of the Azura et all, and Tiber sentiment.

Thoughts?

"Boethiah showed them the lies of the et'Ada, the Aedra, and told them Trinimac was the biggest liar of all, saying all this with Trinimac's voice! Boethiah told the mass before him the Tri-Angled Truth. He showed them, with Mephala, the rules of Psijic Endeavor. He taught them how to build Houses, and what items they needed to bury in the Corners. He demonstrated the right way to wear their skin. He performed the way to walk to achieve an Exodus." (x)

-

Vivec says unto the Hortator remember the words of Boet-hi-ah:

We pledge ourselves to you, the Frame-maker, the Scarab: a world for us to love you in, a cloak of dirt to cherish. Betrayed by your ancestors when you were not even looking. Hoary Magnus and his ventured opinions cannot sway the understated, a trick worthy of the always satisfied. A short season of towers, a rundown absolution, and what is this, what is this but fire under your eyelid?

Shift ye in your skin, I say to the Trinimac-eaters. Pitch your voices into the color of bruise. Divide ye like your enemies, in Houses, and lay your laws in set sequence from the center, again like the enemy Corners of the House of Troubles, and see yourself thence as timber, or mud-slats, or sheets of resin. Then do not divide, for yet is the stride of SITHISIT quicker than the rush of enemies, and He will sunder the whole for the sake of a shingle.

For we go different, and in thunder. SITHISIT is the start of all true Houses, built against stasis and lazy slaves. Turn from your predilections, broken like false maps. Move and move like this. Quicken against false fathers, mothers left in corners weeping for glass and rain. Stasis asks merely for nothing, for itself, which is nothing, as you were in the eight everlasting imperfections. (x)

-

boethiah laid out the central tenets of velothi society-- the division into houses and the conflict embedded within their culture. she presented a coherent philosophy centred on rejection of the aedra and adoration of lorkhan and the world he'd created. the fact that nobody has achieved the psjjjic endeavour doesn't mean it's a false concept; the psjjjic endeavour was lorkhan's ultimate goal in the creation of nirn, she passed it on to honour him.

[bumblesimagines]

The Sun and Moon

Part 4

Request: Yes or No

Heyyyy hiiii how yall doing...

S/C: Skin color

E/C: Eye color

~~~

The candle provided just enough light to illuminate the page of the book, a warm glow casting on the young man as he read. He had chosen to opt out of attending the Bassets’ ball and instead picked out a book to read in the comfort of his home. The leather rubbed against his fingertips and the writing on the pages kept his attention focused on the book. Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen. Quite the read.

The social season would officially come to a close soon, and many families would be visiting their summer homes; The Granvilles among them. Relief was the only thing the painter felt in regards to the end of the season. No more desperate mamas and their overachieving daughters throwing themselves at him. And perhaps the best of all; no more Whistledown. Of course, the ton always had drama, but it occurred the most during social season. Lady Whistledown couldn’t possibly expect to get anything good out of business deals and screaming babes.

The sound of knocking drew his attention away from the book, brows furrowing. Setting the book down on the nightstand and rising from the bed, the young painter picked up the candle and left his bedchambers. He headed down the stairs and approached the front door, pulling it open. 

“Bridgerton!” My, was he alright? The candle gave off just enough light for (Y/N) to see his flushed nose and puffy eyes. “Anthony.. Are you alright? Come in, please.”

“My sincerest apologies, (Y/N).” Anthony sounded exhausted, movements sluggish and strained as he entered the house. Finding a chair, he collapsed onto it and blankly stared forward. “I did not mean to wake you-”

“I was reading, My Lord. Has something happened?”

“I wish you didn’t have to see me like this.” Anthony gripped the armrests and pushed himself up into a proper sitting position. God, he felt weak. He never allowed himself to be vulnerable infront of others, and yet...

 “But, I..” A sigh escaped the eldest Bridgerton. “I believe I am... heartbroken and utterly confused.”

A Bridgerton heartbroken? Hogs must be flying. Did rakes even have hearts?

“This is silly-”

“No, no, not at all.” (Y/N) dismissed quickly and set the candle on a table, pulling a chair closer to him and taking a seat on the red cushion. 

Heartbreak was no joking matter. He’d seen it on Lady Bridgertons face when she faced the ton after the death of her husband. Her once bright eyes had become void. It had taken months for her to return to her cheerful self. Even then, a part of her was missing. She no longer walked the streets with her husband at her side. Of course, death and rejection weren’t the same thing, but it could certainly feel like it.

“No, it is truly silly of me to come at this hour because- because I was rejected by some woman.” Anthony scoffed at himself and (Y/N) frowned. A part of (Y/N) wanted to focus on the fact Anthony chose to find comfort in his company instead of with his family. Perhaps he felt more comfortable unloading his burdens with him.

“She wasn’t just some woman to you, Anthony. I see it written all over your face. Talk to me.” (Y/N) coaxed softly. Anthony raised his gaze to meet his eyes and felt all the tension in his body dissipate.

“I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors about the soprano and I. Despite what they may say about me, I truly cared for her and I- I let the opinion of others sway mine, and when I realized she made me happy..” Anthony trailed off as he remembered her firm yet guilt ridden face.

“She put her happiness over yours, and she had all the right to do so. But it’s completely fine for you to feel heartbroken over it, My Lord. I am certain that one day, you’ll be able to reflect on what happened and do better for your future wife.” (Y/N) reached out and set his hand over Anthonys’ knee, letting his thumb draw circles into the black cloth, the sensation making Anthonys’ limbs slump in his chair.

“I’m sure you’ll feel quite moved by this in the next couple of days, and you’ll feel bitter as well. She will not lie in your arms at night, but rest easy knowing she’ll be with someone who makes her happy and keeps her protected. Love is.. bittersweet like that. Cherish the memories and look forward to making more.” 

“God, how old are you?” Anthony let his hand drop, a small smile stretching on his face. His dark eyes had softened. He truly understood why Benedict was so fond of the painter. “You sound wise beyond your years.” 

A soft laugh left the painter as he leaned back, retracting his hand. Anthonys’ leg twitched at the loss of contact, a twinge of disappointment sparking in the Bridgertons’ chest. But the disappointment vanished as he finally allowed himself to take in the man across from him.

(Y/N)s’ white shirt had been unbuttoned, showing his collarbone and the top of his (S/C) chest. His typically neat and tidy locks were now scattered and messy, yet Anthony couldn’t find the look distasteful. In fact, (Y/N) looked quite in his element. The slightest hint of sleepiness sparked in his (E/C) eyes and Anthony felt the overwhelming urge to hold him in his arms until he drifted to sleep. 

“What are you confused about, My Lord?”

“Pardon?”

“You said you were heartbroken and confused.” (Y/N) reminded him, propping his arm on the armrest and leaning on his side. With a tilt of his head, Anthony felt his throat tighten. 

“Uhm.. I..” Anthony began, the tips of his ears burning. Was he... embarrassed? Flustered? “I’ve been thinking..”

“Anthony Bridgerton actually using his brain? My, what a find.” The teasing words resulted in a soft scoff and chuckle. 

“You’ve been spending too much time around Benedict.” Anthony muttered playfully and straightened his back, pushing himself back until he was sitting in the chair properly. 

Clearing his throat, his lips parted to continue but the words refused to come out. Anthony let his tongue swipe over his lips and he dug his fingers into the fine detail of the armrest. Gulping down his nerves and fears, he finally spoke again. 

“Hypothetically,” The word caused (Y/N)s’ brow to quirk upward, an amused smile beginning to tug at his lips. “If I were to harbor feelings for... for a man, it would be sinful, right?”

“Certainly not!” The spat made Anthony flinch, eyes widening and shoulders stiffening. Too shocked to retort, he remained silent as the young man continued.

“Love is the purest thing one can feel. It is the very thing that keeps some alive. Yes, this form of love is frowned upon by a society that only hates... But it is not sinful nor wrong. You do not fall in love with a body, you fall in love with the soul, regardless of status or gender. Painting love as a curse is what causes misery, hatred, and- and death.” (Y/N) spoke passionately and Anthony listened to his every word, letting it soak in as if he were listening to a lecture at school. 

His parents were traditional; daughters had to be prim and proper, sons could do whatever they wanted, marriage happened between a man and a woman. But as he listened to the young man, he could only rethink his values and upbringing. He’d always been taught to be kind and open-minded, even to those beneath him.

“So,” (Y/N) exhaled and cleared his throat. “No, it is not sinful.”

“You speak quite passionately about it.” Anthony breathed and he could see a sheepish look pass over the painters face. Not many would dare to raise their voice at Anthony Bridgerton.

“Well, I believe judging people without first trying to understand them is.. It’s not right.” (Y/N) spoke, this time more softly and quietly, as if trying to make up for his outburst. Pressing his lips together, he rose and motioned towards the door. Whilst he didn’t wish to kick him out so suddenly, it was late and if his father saw any sign of the Viscount at his home, he’d surely get an hour long lecture.

“I’m sure the party ended a while ago. Your family may worry.” His words made Anthony nod and rise from the chair. He certainly didn’t want to overstay his welcome.

“Apologies for the unexpected visit, Mr. Granville. I’ll be seeing you around.” Anthony gave another curt nod and stepped outside, disappearing into the dark night. 

Releasing the air from his lungs, (Y/N) shut the door and rested his head against it, eyes squeezing shut. He gripped the doorknob tightly, leaning his weight into it as he processed the nights brief events. Anthony Bridgerton had confided in him and only mere moments later, (Y/N) had lectured him. 

“So foolish of me.” He whispered softly and pushed himself away from the door, returning to the chair and collapsing on it as Anthony had. 

Benedict was someone (Y/N) knew he could put all his trust in, and while Anthony was a trustworthy man, he was traditional. Anxiety clawed at (Y/N)s’ stomach like a feral cat and he bit down on his bottom lip, gnawing at it until he felt wetness. The taste of metallic made him inhale sharply and he shook his head in an attempt to push away his thoughts. 

“Lord Bridgerton is a good man,” (Y/N) spoke softly and nodded to himself. “He wouldn’t do anything to cause someone else harm.” 

                 ꕤ         ꕤ       ꕤ       ꕤ       ꕤ       ꕤ

The start of the new social season had come sooner than expected. (Y/N) had spent the last months like he usually did; perfecting his technique and keeping his bed warm with company of all sorts. Though there was a new addition to his routine. 

Benedict Bridgerton.

The two had spent their summer exchanging letters filled with all sorts of things. From Benedict keeping him updated on his family to him boasting about his improving talent. Never a dull moment with Benedict. (Y/N) could confidently say he had a new best friend.

“Dearest, are you listening?” 

“Of course, mama.” The young painter turned away from the scenery and smiled at his mother. The two swayed along with the carriage though it did nothing to pry his mothers’ eyes away from the pamphlet in hand.

“Right. As I was saying,” She continued. “With Miss Eloise Bridgerton officially joining the social season, perhaps you could-”

“Mother! She is the sister of my dearest friend! Benedict would have my head.” (Y/N) scoffed at the idea of marrying Eloise. He liked the girl, of course, but not enough to court her. It felt... wrong to even think about it. He enjoyed her company, even with her snarky comments, and if he was honest; she was more like a sister than a friend. 

“Is the idea that absurd? You spent so much time with them. I was merely making a suggestion, no need to be so defensive.”

(Y/N) exhaled softly. “I didn’t mean to raise my voice like that.” 

“I know, dearest.” Lucy smiled warmly at her son. The apple of her eye, the light of her light, her greatest creation.. Like any mother, she could never truly get mad at her child. (Y/N) had proven to be the best son one could ask for. With softened eyes, Lucy carefully moved across the carriage and took a seat beside her toon, resting the strip of paper on her lap.

“I would never rush you, darling.” Lucy spoke softly and gently, as she did when she soothed (Y/N) in his younger years. “However, like any other mother of the ton, I wish to have grandchildren to dote on.”

“Yes, I know, mama.”

“Will you give this season a chance?” Lucy asked and tilted her head, resting a gloved hand over her sons’. (Y/N) sighed and after a beat of silence, he nodded, watching a wide smile spread on his mothers face. 

“Thank you, darling.” She cooed softly. “Perhaps you and Lord Bridgerton can work together to secure this seasons best ladies.”

Ah, yes, the news that had every mama in the ton buzzing. Anthony had finally decided to join the social season as an eligible bachelor. This time, instead of attending events to watch his sister, he’d be joining in search of his other half. The thought alone made (Y/N) smirk. There would likely be a repeat of last season; men would flock to whomever Anthony set his sights upon. It’d certainly be amusing to watch.

“Have you heard? He’s been interviewing ladies!” (Y/N) laughed as he spoke, leaning back into the soft cushions and raising a hand to his mouth. His mothers lip twitched into an amused smile but she gently smacked his leg.

“Don’t make fun of a Bridgerton, (Y/N).” 

“Oh, please. It’s my favorite pastime.” Looking away from his mother and at the Bridgerton residence as the carriage came to a stop, (Y/N) cleared his throat and smiled. He gave his mothers’ hand a squeeze and slipped out of the carriage, moving through the gates and up the stairs. (Y/N) only had to knock twice before a servant opened the door.

“(Y/N)!” A familiar squeal reached his ears and Hyacinth raced into his arms, ignoring her mothers’ protests on her unladylike behavior. With a sheepish smile and flushed cheeks, Violet gently tore her daughter away from the painter. 

“Apologies, (Y/N).” She breathed. “How have you been, darling?”

“I’ve been well, Lady Bridgerton. Is Benedict home?”

“I’m afraid not, but Anthony is in his office.” Violet pushed a frizzy curl away from her freckled face. (Y/N) smiled and nodded, patting Hyacinths shoulder and making his way toward the office. 

Ever since the fateful night, (Y/N) and Anthony hadn’t had much time alone. (Y/N) hoped to changed that in the coming days. He valued Anthonys friendship just as much as he valued Benedicts. 

Gently knocking on the door, he waited until he heard a muffled ‘come in’ before pushing the door open. Anthony sat at his desk, sleeves rolled up and coat discarded on a nearby chair. He looked exhausted, no doubt using all his time to work and see the ladies of the ton.

“What do you need?” His voice held a sharpness to it.

“That’s no way to speak to a friend, My Lord.” Anthonys’ head snapped up from the paperwork before him, eyes widening in the slightest at the sight of (Y/N). The painter shut the door behind him and took slow steps toward the Bridgerton, craning his neck to look at the papers. 

“Apologies.” Anthony breathed and set his quill down, rising from his seat and clearing his throat. He ran his fingers through his hair, combing it and fixing his shirt. He hoped he looked presentable, but by the concerned look in (Y/N)s’ eyes, he knew he looked tired.

“Did you need something? Benedict is-”

“Not home, yes, I know. Your mother told me.” (Y/N) offered him one of his soft smiles; the type of smile that put Anthony at ease and made him want to spill all his secrets and doubts. It was a dangerous smile, just as dangerous as (Y/N)s’ mischievous smirks. 

“Have any ladies caught your interest? I promise I won’t steal her from you if you tell me, My Lord.” He teased lightly and Anthony let himself fully relax. Sitting back down, Anthony allowed himself to take a break.

“No.” He answered and sighed. “All of them- Each and every single one I’ve met... They’re all eager to please. None of them have a single opinion on something that cannot be swayed. It’s almost.. Infuriating.”

“Well, I’m sure it’s what they’ve been taught by their mamas.” 

“Yes, I know. But I won’t just be marrying anyone. I’ll be marrying the woman who will become Viscountess. She needs to be perfect.” 

Rising from his seat, (Y/N) chuckled and shook his head. “Nobody’s perfect.” He reminded him softly and walked around the desk, stopping behind Anthonys’ chair and resting his hands on Anthonys’ shoulders. 

The contact made Anthonys’ throat tightened and he immediately tensed, a soft giggle coming from above him. Anthony could feel a hot wave wash over his body and there was no doubt his face had turned a shade of red. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears and when (Y/N) applied pressure, he couldn’t help the whimper that escaped him. 

“Perhaps,” Dropping his tone into a breathy, soft one, (Y/N) spoke, “If you relaxed, you’d be able to think clearly.”

Anthony almost laughed at that. Think clearly? Anthony could never do that with (Y/N) around. His scent, his smile, his voice. They plagued his mind. Every time the painter came around, he yearned for his attention. He wanted to be the one making him smile and laugh, to be the one (Y/N) wanted. 

A soft sigh left Anthony as (Y/N) gently massaged his shoulders, his body relaxing automatically. Had he truly gone that long without a break? When he peered up at (Y/N), he softened his gaze. (Y/N) gave him a sweet smile, one that made Anthonys’ heart want to leap out of his chest.

“You’re dangerous.” Anthony whispered without thinking.

“Oh?” A laugh left him and he paused the movement of his fingers as his shoulders shook. Anthony practically beamed at the sound of his laughter and he knew deep down that nobody should have that big of an effect on him. 

“I’ve been called many things,” Raising a hand to wipe away a tear, (Y/N) shifted to lean against the desk, careful not to move any papers. “But I’ve never been called dangerous, My Lord.”

“That aside...” Inhaling deeply, (Y/N) reached out and gently gripped Anthonys’ chin. The act was gentle yet firm and Anthonys’ chest twisting in all sorts of ways. “You need to take care of yourself, Anthony.” 

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“I’m aware I sometimes push myself too hard, but that is the burden I have to carry. My family needs me and-” Anthony cut himself off when (Y/N) dropped his hand from his chin, a frown pulling at the painters lips. It didn’t suit him. 

“You wouldn’t understand.” Anthony muttered and looked back at the paperwork before him. His burden, he always reminded himself. He carried it so his loved ones wouldn’t have to. 

“I’m my parents only child, Anthony. I know a thing or two-”

“But your father wasn’t the firstborn.” Anthony interrupted and scooted his chair forward, resting his arms at the edge of the desk and picking up his quill again. 

“As much as I enjoy your company, Mr. Granville, I’m afraid I must get back to work.” He didn’t intend for his tone to be so cold but the damage had been done. (Y/N) silently nodded and gave Anthonys’ shoulder one last squeeze, his footsteps echoing as he left the office.

[the-rewriter13]

The Sin of Lust: Asmodeus

Character Name:

First Name: Asmodeus

Last Name: N/A

Nickname (if any): Asmo, Mos (Lucifer)

Title(s): Sin of Lust, Lord of the Lecherous

Alias(es): The Limping Devil

Basic Information:

Age: ???

Gender: Male -He/Him/His

Date of Birth: ???

Place of Birth: ???

Species: Sin

Residence: Ring of Lust

Generation: 1st generation

Sexual Oriention: Pansexual

Vocals:

Normal: James Earl Jones/Rihanna

Singing: James Earl Jones/Rihanna

Non True Form/Human Physical Appearance:

Asmodeus has two forms, benefiting both masculine and feminine looks.

Height: 17'2

Weight: (?)

Build: A tall stature, broad shoulders and an athletic & muscular body type. Kind of like the average gym goer, not jacked/ripped but certainly has obvious muscle/Still tall, the height stays the same, slimmer/more slender in muscular sense but only because 'she(☆)'s more soft buff (think Korra from Avatar: The Legend of Korra) unlike the masculine form

Skin Colour: Bronze (hex: 733F17)

Hair Color: Deep lilac (hex: 9955BB)

Hair Style: Slicked-back short hair (think Porco from Attack on Titan), although when not slicked back, his hair is curled with semi-slack ringlets & when both slicked-back and not, his hair reaches just about below his ear/Typically wears 'her' hair in a low ponytail afro, but when not in a ponytail 'her' hair is left to be in the natural afro state

Eye Color: Crimson (hex: 980001)

Facial Structure: Asmodeus has upturned eyes, with softly arched eyebrows, his jawline is sharp with the structure slightly square alongside hollow cheeks, his lips a perfect cupid's bow with an almost crooked grin

Scars or distinguishing marks: Tattoos of his other heads, a bull & sheep, etched onto his neck (all forms minus the true form of course)

Extra: FRECKLES that are everywhere, especially around the cheeks, an overall opinion of many demons & Sinners alike is that Asmodeus is more rugged than handsome but, still handsome, but describe as gorgeous and ethereal when in the feminine form + a small hoop earing on his left ear & a stud earing + helix small hoop on his right ear

Typical Clothing: An amaranth (hex: 9F2B68) sleeveless turtleneck, topped with a violet (hex: 710193) leather jacket & beige (hex: D5B895) jeans with a black belt + gold buckle and finally, hot pink glittery converse/A amaranth (hex: 9F2B68) lace up crop top, with a violet (hex: 710193) leather jacket, beige (hex: D5B895) shorts with fishnet tights, with a black belt + gold buckle, still wearing the hot pink glittery converse (hex: FE019A)/

True Form Physical Appearance:

A creature of giant stature, with clawed (like a cat's paws/claws) hands with fluff (the colour of his hair) made of flame, a leg with the same features as his hands and the other made of metal befitting that of a human leg. His tattoos become the other two heads, splitting from the skin at the collarbone to grow and become true flesh. His hair lights into a flame of the same colour, billowing and changing size

Personality Traits:

Positive Traits: Asmodeus is charming, certainly one has to be as Lust personified. Good mannered, witty and hilarious, drawing in people of all types, able to swindle and sway at a moments notice. He's confident and unafraid, and very flamboyant & flirtatious, very flirtatious. Asmodeus is also friendly, he captures people with that attitude like a siren. Offering them drinks, dance or whatever it is they're lusting for. He's ambitious and intelligent, he runs a whole Ring after all

Negative Traits: However, he's cocky and brash, often ticking off people with his sometimes condescending tone or actions. Not like they can do much about it though. He's gossipy, need to know something? Go to either Asmodeus or Beezlebub. They're the ones people trust the most due to their images. Asmodues can be very judgmental, like he was/still kinda is with his son Oziel's choices in life, such as supporting domestic love. He's also manipulative & possessive, once he has his claws on (or in) another lover, he treats them semi-like a plaything, they're his now, nothing else should be concerned

Background and History:

Parents: God? I mean idk tbh

Siblings (if any): The other Sins, his favourite is none of them

Current Occupation: Asmodeus rules over the Lust Ring, the nightclubs and other variations of clubs or businesses that exist there (unless another Sin has more of a hold on them like casinos which belong to Mammon) alongside being in charge of things such as pornography. Asmodeus is also the keeper of the biggest library in all of the Rings, after all people can lust for many things

Career Goals: ???

Hobbies and Interests:

Hobbies: A hobby of his is actually reading! (Shocker) He enjoys the silence and ability to learn more

Interests: Pretty interested in movie making/acting as of right now, he's thinking of getting a larger company for it

Relationships:

Marital Status: Asmodeus isn't married, he instead has a lot of lovers

Romantic Relationships (if any): Who ever catches his eye

Friendships: He finds the company of all the Sins aside from Lucifer & Beezlebub enjoyable as those two are fighting which irritates him

Closest Friends: Asmodeus isn't specifically close to any of the other Sins right now

Dislike/Despise: Not fond of Lucifer & Beezlebub due to the stir they're causing

Strengths and Weaknesses:

Strengths: He's passionate, intelligent, likeable, friendly, resilient & artistic

Weaknesses: He has a prejudice against chastity. A bit narcissistic and arrogant. He's disloyal and dishonest, often lying and cheating on many partners. He craves attention, craves the feeling of being lusted over.

Goals and Ambitions:

Short-term Goals: Open a acting/movie company (possibly with endorsement from Mamzle Entertainment)

Long-term Goals: A long-term goal is to expand his reach into other Rings

Fears and Insecurities:

Common Fears: Fear of bugs, maybe a bit of a germaphobe

Insecurities: Perfectionism/insecurity of not being perfect

Quirks and Habits:

Quirks: makes a lot of hand gestures when talking, pretty much is always dating new people, doesn't like change too much unless it's at his pace, has a lot of freckles

Habits: Going to his library in the evenings, especially on weekends

Moral Code: Chaotic neutral

Favorites:

Favorite Foods: Crunchy foods like crisps or crackers

Favorite Books: Horror

Favorite Movies/TV Shows: Enjoys comedies and some romcoms

Favorite Music: Rock

Favorite Color: Loves sunset orange

Favourite Activities: Lustful ones, reading and going dancing

Dislikes:

Disliked Foods: Mango & watermelon

Disliked Activities: He really doesn't like 'all that domestic shit' as he calls it, lust is about passion and gnawing want and desire not that sappy stuff his son's into

Pet Peeves: He despises whistling, it's just so annoying (so Mammon does it 24/7 lol)

Miscellaneous:

Talents or Skills: Good at magic tricks and quite the dancer

Associated Song(s): Let Me Entertain You by Robbie Williams, Fun It by Queen, Let Me Entertain You by Queen

Motivations:

He wants to reform into The Devil so grows his power to hopefully be powerful enough to do so

Striving to find more things to learn about, the world is a growing place, ever changing

☆- The 'she' & 'her' stuff is to symbolise that the form may be feminine but Asmodeus is still a guy underneath (it's sort of like drag? Idk probably not)

[themysteriousauthor18]

PT. 1

1985 Louisiana New Orleans. The French Quarter.

“Good morning, New Orleans! My name is Alastor, and I’ll be your brand new host for this morning broadcast! We’ll be taking some calls later, but for now I’d like to play you one of my favorite songs. Please enjoy!”

An upbeat jazzy tune begins to play. A little outdated for the time period but hey, radio itself was pretty outdated.

The man crouching by the radio hums along to the tune. “Interesting.. He managed to do it.” He’d been hearing about Alastor a lot recently; an up-and-coming star in the radio industry. Only the age of 19, and he had already become a fan favorite.

            That singular thought in the man’s mind swept away as he closed his eyes, listening to the music. 

This man is Lucifer Morningstar. 

He is a young 18-year-old, and the heir to his family's fortune. Everything about his appearance screams privileged. He has short blonde hair that’s always gelled back, his white skin hadn’t a blemish on it; smooth as a newborn's skin. His amber eyes are soft, relaxed. His body’s dressed to the nines in a collection of gold and white. Although right now, in place of the full suit he’s shedded his overcoat to reveal the pink striped vest. Which is laying open. 

The music picks up a bit more. It had started off with upbeat piano, and now a blend of trumpets and saxophones were carrying the melody. An undertone of trombones added the bass, and soft drums kept the beat. A hint of clarinets top it off with the high notes. This goes on for a bit before a smooth yet fast-paced violin solo picks up the melody. Overall, it's a really fun song, considering it's from a time period that was over sixty years ago. Everyone nowadays prefers rock.

 He pushes off the dresser the crimson radio is sitting on and begins to dance with himself around the large bedroom as the trumpets take over again. It's way too big - in his opinion - to even be a bedroom. I mean, who needs a room the size of a gas station? Hell, this place was like his own personal apartment. He had his bed, his bathroom, his balcony, his..

Okay, yeah…this is too much room. Like, waaaaay too much. 

But when the radio plays, the music seems to take up all the unnecessary space. He likes music, he likes swaying to it. He likes using all the extra room to needlessly dance around. It’s…fun. 

A loud bang suddenly comes from behind him and he flinches. The large wooden doors were thrown open so hard they hit the wall. Lucifer turns to find his doppelganger staring him down, his nose wrinkling at the upbeat jazzy music. “Turn that off.” He scolds. “You're supposed to be practicing ballroom dancing, not…that.” He gestured to Lucifer’s random twirling around the room that he was doing.

 Michael Morningstar. Lucifer's spitting image…no literally. They’re identical twins - well, except for their eye color. They look the exact same at a first glance aside from Michael having dark eyes as opposed to Lucifer's bright blue eyes. Everything else, however, is the same. Their jawlines, their facial structures, their body types…Truthfully, the only way anyone could tell them apart without paying close attention - if they were to cover their eyes, of course - is their mannerisms. 

Lucifer sighs, “come on, brother. My tutor isn’t even here. How am I supposed to practice without her?” 

Michael’s posture is perfect, while Lucifer is slouched at the shoulders. His hair is gelled back too, while Lucifer’s is sticking out in random directions now. “I don’t care.” He states. “You know what you're expected to do. Now do it.”

Lucifer walks to his brother, and without warning he grabs his hands and pulls them towards him. The loud jazzy music is still playing through his room. “Come on, brother,” Lucifer says joyfully with a bright smile. “Come dance with me, let's have a bit of fun!”

Michael rips his hands away at the word fun, like Lucifer just said something foul. Lucifer watches in dismay as Michael shrinks back to the doorway. “Just turn it off. You have to meet with our father soon anyway. Clean yourself up and meet me in the dining room.” 

There isn’t another word on the matter because Michael is already closing the door. It roars with a louder slam than expected as it closes and Lucifer stands there, defeated. From the radio, the jazzy song starts to slow; yet to Lucifer, it's far away now. He’d been cruelly ripped from whatever fantasy he was just in. Dejected, Lucifer walks over to the radio and quickly turns the knob, silencing the radio and thus the room. 

Michael is the brother the family wishes was their heir. He’s everything they could possibly want. Perfect posture, perfect actions, perfect teeth, perfect manners. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect everything. 

Then there was him.

Lucifer. 

The odd child to the Morningstars. The one that acts as a normal teen, all things considered. The one that likes to have fun, play pranks, sneak out with friends and go partying. While Michael preferred to attend the business meetings, Lucifer wanted to go out and party. Where Michael preferred classical music, Lucifer liked loud energetic jazz and some rock. Where Michael wanted to eat a high-class lobster dinner prepared by the finest chefs, Lucifer would gladly take a greasy burger from a diner, or hell, some macaroni and cheese with chicken strips.

The point here is that while they look practically the same, they couldn’t be more different. If Lucifer was being honest, he does wish Michael was the heir, and he knows Michael wants to be the heir, too. If they had the same eye color, he would gladly agree to switch places - hell, even identities with him - if it means he doesn't have to be forced to do all this boring stuff. That he doesn't have to put up a front, to pretend to be something he isn't. Deep down, Lucifer knows his father would probably have switched them too, given the choice. If not for their one - very clearly different - physical trait.

Maybe Lucifer could have gotten eye surgery or something when they were younger to change their eye colors. If that was even possible? Or maybe he could've worn color-changing contacts while out in public? That would've been much easier. 

           But now, he’s sure it was too late to try anything. They’re older, and the difference in their mannerisms are too noticeable to the public. The public even knew Lucifer as the oddball to the Morningstars. The one who's more kind to the lower class, more goofy. Whereas Michael was the colder of the two - all business, all work, and absolutely no play.

In all honesty, the only reason Lucifer was the heir was because of their birth. They were twins, but Lucifer had been the first out of his mother’s womb. They were the only children of their father, twin boys. And he was the oldest - if only by 5 minutes, but still the oldest. 

Lucifer sighs, deciding to stop wishing the gods above for a second chance at birth. And to take his time and let Michael go out first. Honestly, if he could go back in time to the day of his birth he’d tell his unborn self. There’s no rush. Really. Being the first born sucks! Just take your time, enjoy the scenery of uh…Anyway- don't rush kid! Really. Dont. He swore Michael was practically pushing him to get out first anyway. He should have let him, if he was even conscious enough for that. Probably not he barely had a brain at birth. 

Lucifer groans loudly and shakes his head.

Okay no more stalling. He has to get cleaned up and meet his father in the dining hall. He knows there’s no way to get out of this position he’s literally born into. So he sucks it up and tries to make himself more presentable. Putting his white overcoat back on. 

…The halls of Lucifers ‘home’ are large. Towering above him. He’s always felt so small here. It doesn’t take him long to descend the spiraling stairs to the first floor of the mansion. And walk the Victorian styled halls. Their mansion and family came from old money. The mansion being around for far longer than Lucifer and his generation. So the interior design was never designed for the time period they were in. Not compared to friends of his who had their own mansions. Ones that were far more bright and colorful. Compared to his own that always held a dark and dready feeling to it.

Lucifer side eyes a particular painting hanging on the wall as he makes his way into the main hall that leads to their front door. He stops walking, examining it. 

Its a portrait of his father in black and white. There hallway is lined with portraits of each of the house masters. Or as he likes to put it…whoever is currently in charge of their fortune. And right now, that was his father. 

He stares down the portrait. 

His father is sitting in a large armchair, his face is a stern look. He’s frowning and staring straight ahead at the camera. His blonde hair is gelled back with wing tips at the earlobe. Lucifer is disturbed by how much he looks like his father, the only different is the that his father looks older. He has wrinkles under his eyes and frown lines around his mouth. But the portrait was painted when his father was only twenty. When he took over the house. 

Lucifer doesn’t deny the truth.  That the portrait is his future. That the man sitting in that chair will be him very soon. He’s eighteen and he knows whatever freedom he has, it's quickly drying up. He frowns, debating for a moment weather or not he could find some happiness in such a future. If he could truly be that kind of person. If he even had it in him. 

He shakes his head, freeing the thoughts of his mind. He briskly turns on his heel and walks down the hall to the dining room at a brisk pace. When Lucifer gets to the door he desperately pushes down the rising energy trying to push its way through his body. Urging his legs to turn and run. He doesn’t. He’s learn not to.

Pushing the door open welcomes that same loud and foreboding creak it always does with these old doors. Lucifer’s eyes immediately find the three bodies sitting at the table as he entered the large dining room. The fireplace is lit - even though its much to warm for it - and its warm glow is flickering off of the man at the head of the table. Dark shadows dances across his wrinkled and sunken face. His dark eyes hold no warmth and they find Lucifer immediately. Already looking at him with annoyance. A lecture on his tongue.

“You're late.” 

He was only a minute late. 

“I’m sorry father.” Lucifer apologies anyway. 

He and his brother are practically the spitting image of their father. Their faces just softer than their old mans. And were they have that bright blonde their fathers hair has already fully grayed. Something not uncommon for the head of their family. Its due to stress, Lucifer believes. For his father isn’t old enough to have full gray hair. But its something he doesn’t need nor have the time to ponder on. 

His father demands him to sit without saying it. Lucifer is already in his chair. When he’s had a moment to catch his breath he finally looks at the other two in the room. 

One is an older white man with dark short hair thats a comb-over. He has a small mustache and he’s a little on the heavier side. Beside him his a young woman appearing to be around his age. Or at least that’s his guess. She shares the same colored hair to her - presumably father? - her face is soft. Round. Her hair is long and delicately styled into a french braid. Her eyes are green but they aren’t particularly bright. She’s wearing a white dress, and sitting with perfect posture. 

His father doesn’t wait a second. “Lucifer this is Mr. Caleb. And his daughter, Eve,” He gestures to them. 

Eve holds her hand out expectantly. “It’s lovely to meet you.” 

Lucifer - trained like a dog - rises out of his seat long enough to take Eve’s hand and press a polite kiss to her knuckles. 

“The pleasure is all mine madam.” He returns, trying not to cringe as the insensirity between them. “And you as well sir.” He says, reaching out for a handshake from Mr. Caleb who returns it quickly. His hand is weak compared to the older mans. But it seems to suffice. He sits back down promptly. 

With pleasantries out of the way Lucifer’s father continues. “Lucifer, you are not engaged to Eve.” He says it so matter of factly that Lucifer barely registers it. His father doesn’t wait, simply going on. “You two will have a proper wedding in two months from now. You will begin making public appearances next week together.” He pauses, gestures to Eve and adds “she will grace you with her company from now until the wedding. That is understood I presume.”

Lucifer hopes the panic doesn’t show on his face. “Yes father.” 

That's the end of their discussion. Nothing more and nothing less. That’s the way of things in the morningstar manor. 

… 

…The next few weeks go by as you would expect. Lucifer is essentially ordered to spend time with Eve. He doesn’t mind it all that much. Eve isn’t annoying or rude. He’s just…not sure how to act around her. Their first meeting (alone) went about as well as he could hope.

They’re meeting in his family's garden now. A large lush area (and probably the once place he liked on the property). It was the one thing on their property that had color to it. In his opinion. It was a large space with a gate around it. The perimeter is filled with rose bushes. The interior is paved with trees, a fountain and smaller bushes. There’s a brick path leading around the garden and at the center is a gazebo. Where Eve waited. 

When Lucifer steps into the gazebo she looks at him. She’s wearing white again, so is he. It seems they are always matching. He’s not sure if that's on purpose or an accident. “Hello, Lucifer.” She says and he feels…weird, at how robotic she sounds. 

He walks over and takes her hand, giving her that same greeting he had when they first met. “Hello Eve. Lovely to see you again.” He looks up at her, hand loosely in his. She stares at him and he stares back, trying to examine her face. She looks flat. Her expression that is. Like a blank slate. 

He takes his hand away and takes a step back. Feeling weird about being so close to her. But when he looks at the greenier around them she continues to stare at him. Keeping her hands on her lap. Lucifer’s outfit is a little lighter today. He’s just wearing a white vest and short-sleeved button up. He needed his skin to breathe a little. But now he feels a little too exposed. 

To say things were awkward between them was an understatement. For Lucifer at least. “Sooo…what do you like to do?” Lucifer isn’t sure when he started tapping his foot. But he is. 

“Whatever my father permits me to do, I enjoy.” Was what Eve chose to say. 

Lucifer frowns, rubs his nape. Its sweaty. “Do you like to wear the white a lot?” 

“My father says it's elegant. So I do.” 

Lucifer begins to walk around the interior of the gazebo. Tapping his fingers on the railings. Eve never seems to move much, just observing him. He pauses, looks at her then gets an idea. “Hey!” She does the most expressive thing so far, raising her brow. 

“Yes?”

Lucifer walks a little closer. “Do you wanna go get some food or something? I know this great pizza place! It’s kinda down near the slums…Buuut their pizza is really great. And if he throw on some disguises nobody will-”

“I’m not interested in such activities.” She says pointedly. But politely. It doesn’t have the same bite as his fathers words do when he refuses something. But it does have that same implied message. We are rich. We don’t associate with the lower class. 

“Oh…okay.” Lucifer deflated a little. He pauses, “then what do you wanna talk about?” 

Eve ponders the question, then says “Only what’s necessary.” 

All of their interactions after that were the same. Lucifer doesn't enjoy the feeling he gets when around Eve. She wasn’t a bad person herself. But he noticed whenever they were together, compared to her, he felt like…well like a child. He offered to go out and do fun things. Pizza, parties, dancing - the fun kind, not the boring ballroom dancing with poise and proper etiquette. But every time he suggested anything of that sort she would always promptly - yet politely - turn him down. Saying it wasn’t something they should be doing. Because they were high class people and they shouldn’t do such things as having fun…Okay maybe she didn’t say exactly that but he knew she meant it.

So while he tried to enjoy the time spent with Eve, he didn’t. He tried to watch her, examine her. Figure out what she was thinking. But she was impossible to read. So one day he simply asked, “do you even wanna marry me?” 

Eve’s always calm face falters for once, and she frowns. Something in her eyes becomes a little more distant. Her reaction throws him off a little and makes him think, maybe she isn’t a robot. 

“It's what my father wants.” Is what she tells him.

When she said that, he had added “do you even like me? Or like being around me?” 

She looks at him then, and thinks about his question..for once. “You're pleasant company to be around,” is the simple answer she gives. He takes that as her not liking him in a romantic way, but at least considering him a friend. At least that's what he sees it as. 

He isn’t offended, he is relieved honestly. Because truth be told, he didn’t like her either. Not romantically at least. She was fine to be around. And while it was super boring he had been around worse people. She wasn’t bad, she was just quiet and doing what she was told. He was fine being friends but he couldn’t consider there to be any chemistry between them. She was too mature, too…all business and no fun. She’d already grown up. And he was still a child. 

He felt worse because he knew deep down it didn’t matter how he felt. They had less than a month by the time he realized he could never love her. And further realized that a marriage between them would be more like a play they were forced to put on for the rest of their lives. He dreaded it honestly. It felt like he walked into a much larger cage. It was just now, he had a cellmate. 

By the time their wedding was two weeks away Lucifer had given up all hope of finding happiness in his future. He had spoken to his friends about it. And while Bee and Ozzy suggested he just marry her and do secret dating on the side he knew he couldn’t. Even if Eve agreed to it. Not for the fact of cheating, because they weren’t together. It was an act, so he knew she wouldn’t care. It was more for the sake of whatever person he chose. If he fell in love he wanted to share a life with them. One that was out in the open, not hidden away behind closed doors.  That was no way to live. And it would only add more stress to him. 

His friends understood when he told them this. They were freer than him. Don't bond too these old money rules of marrying people your parents chose for you. He envied them, he really did. 

His friends felt bad for him, and so it was for this reason they decided to whisk Lucifer away one night. Tangled style. Except in reverse. They came to his window and he threw a rope down, tying it down with something and shimming down the wall and out of his ‘palace’. And off the three of them went, him Ozzy and Bee. They took him to a night club down in the lower class area. Those were the best according to Bee. They knew how to have fun. Lucifer had gone with some kind of disguise wearing a brown wig (that Bee got him) and instead of his usual white that he was so known for. He was wearing black. He meshed well with the dark lights of the club.

So it was here he found himself, two weeks before the wedding. At a nightclub one night. Sneaking out to meet up with his friends Bee and Ozzy weren’t uncommon. But it has been more difficult recently because of the upcoming marriage. He wondered if he would ever be able to do these kinds of things after the marriage.  The club was owned by his friend Bee. And this one was located in more of the lower class area. The nightclub was noisy, crowded with people that all melted into white noise of endless conversations and chatter. 

It's dark - obviously - and multicolored lights light up the club. There’s a dance floor all lit up with a rainbow pattern bouncing around, that's where Bee and Ozzy are right now. Or last he saw them at least. As for Lucifer himself, he’s standing at a high table, leaning his elbows on it. The public in general aren’t really his thing, he’s never good at being social. He always comes off more awkward than he wants too but Bee and Ozzy always make him more relaxed. But tonight he can’t calm down no matter what he does. 

“Woo!” Lucifer jumps at the loud - although familiar - voice behind him. He peers over his shoulder and looks up, and up and up and upppp. Until he finds Ozzie behind him. He’s stretching, “damn they are killin’ it on the dance floor tonight.” Ozmodious is a bulky built black man who is very tall. His hair is braided into short dreads that came down to his earlobes, the tips were dyed blue and what looked like the beginning of a beard was starting to grow around his mouth and jaw. Although as intimidating as Ozzie looked, he was actually very laid back and the chillest man Lucifer knew. 

“Hey Lucy,” he said, swinging an arm around him. Nearly squeezing him half the deaf, he manages to lift him an inch off the ground - not on purpose - In his hug.

“Hey Ozzy-” Lucifer all but wheezes. 

Ozzy loosens his grip on the lord's shoulders. “You sure you dont wanna join me and Bee on the dance floor?” He pauses, inspecting Lucifer’s face. How it scrunches up slightly. “Or maybe go somewhere else? After All this is supposed to be your night.” Your last night of freedom. The truth goes unspoken.

Lucifer for his part offers a smile, it was in no way convincing but he tries anyway. “No, I’m okay, but thank you.” He has to raise his voice a little over the blaring music and crowd. 

Ozzy frowns, “are you sure?” He says loudly. Also talking over the music, it's a bass heavy song. 

“Yeah.” Lucifer maintains his smile. He’s used to it from all the public appearances over the course of his life. “Go have fun. I’m just gonna hang here and keep on drinkin!” He holds up his martini glass. It’s a pink fruity looking drink with an umbrella in it. Some would argue it's emasculating to drink something so pink but he doesn’t care, he can’t stand the more bitter alcohols he’s expected to drink at gatherings. Besides, he likes pink. It meshes well with his usual white wardrobe.

Ozzy shrugs,” if you say so. But if you need us you know where we at.” With that Ozzy walks off leaving Lucifer to his drink.

He keeps his smile up until Ozzy melts back into the crowd and he lets it fall. 

He turns his eyes back to his martini glass. And studies the pink liquid inside. This is his…5th? 6th? Glass? He’s lost track honestly. And while he’s not as out of it as he wants to be his senses are certainly dulled. His movements feel more sluggish. The music doesn’t feel so close anymore. He prefers it this way. Even though in the back of his mind, he knows he’s an easy target. 

Lucifer lazily traces his index along the rim of his glass, his eyes fall lidded and he frowns. There’s a part of his mind that whispers, like a temptress. That he doesn’t have to go back, he could run away tonight. Run away somewhere far were nobody knows his name. Its…an appealing thought. But only to someone half drunk and well on their way to being wasted. And he knows that while it’s an appealing thought now, it would probably come back to bite a somber him in the ass. So he ignores such an intrusive thought. 

He sighs, and pours the entire glass down his throat. It tingles and burns only a little but it's sweet. He sets it down on the table with a heavy clink. Great…his distraction is now in his stomach and well on its way to his brain. Now what? 

As if on cue, something snatches his buzzing mind away from his empty glass. Lucifer looks up hearing the loud cheers that manage to cut through the booming music. Was someone being murdered? Would they consider shanking him too? No? Too bad. 

  Thankfully nobody is being killed, rather it's just a small crowd around a table. They’re honestly too close to him. Being just a few feet away at another table. With their shoving and bumping he fears they might shove him too. With all the commotion he can’t help but see what the fuss is about. He doesn’t have to look far. The woman dancing on top of the table isn’t exactly hard to miss, even amongst the sea of people in the club. She’s the only person doing that he notices.

Lucifer stares at her.

She’s a tall slender white woman, her body is thin and curved all to viewable for the public through her form fitting black dress. That has an open back - all the way down to her waist, and cuts off at the mid-thighs. She’s dancing to the bass of the music - her long, waist-length hair swaying with every movement. Her hips move as if they are the ones producing the music coming out of the club. Her hair is long, blonde and her lips are coated in a black lipstick. Her eyelids are colored in a dark purple coating. 

The beat bounces and she bounces with it the crowd below her cheers.

It's definitely erotic. But she also dances in such a way that feels so…freeing. So, carefree. 

Someone hands her a drink, and she swallows it effortlessly before tossing the glass back to the stranger who catches it barely. She rolls her spine along to the rhythm, throwing her head back. Her hair falls through the air like an ocean wave. 

Lucifer is transfixed on her. 

She looks over at him, and their eyes meet for the briefest of moments. Shame rises in him,having been caught staring at her and he immediately looks away. His face burns. Ah what was he doing staring at some random stranger? He’s probably creeping her out. 

Lucifer suddenly feels an arm entrap his shoulders and at first he assumes it's Ozzy. But when he looks up he yelps at the sudden face alarmingly close to him. He backs up, stumbles. It's the woman, and she’s chuckling at his reaction. 

Lucifer catches his breath, she came over to him? Why?

Now that she’s closer though, he can tell she’s taller than him. Not by much but definitely taller. He doesn’t mind it. The base of the music burst to life once again threatening to pierce his eardrums. But it's as if he can feel the hammering beat of the base in his chest, as the woman walks close to him. He’s unsure of what she wants, what she wants to do. He doesn’t even know her name. 

He just can’t help but watch her. 

She moves so freely even just walking towards him. Never letting the music not move her body. She reaches out and grabs his arm and tugs him close. Lucifer for some reason, lets her. His pulse is climbing. It's racing. 

She drags him along and he doesn’t quite know what's going on, just that she shoves him into a nearby chair. And she’s letting the music take over her again. She’s dancing above him, her hands pressed against his shoulders, keeping him pressed into the back of the chair. Once she’s; sure he’s not going to move - how can he, really? - she takes her hands back and cocks her hips in a hypnotizing motion to the thundering beat of the music. Lucifer's eyes are dragged to her hour-glass like figure. Her hands continue moving across her large thighs, up into a dainty curved waist. She tries her hands over her thighs, up over his hips. Lucifer’s eyes follow. Her hands travel inward over her breast over the neckline and they shoot up over her head. 

Lucifer breath hitches in his throat.

            She’s…

“You're beautiful.” 

The woman looks at him, amused and a bit perturbed. She laughs. It’s a glorious sound, it's light and jovial. She leans into his space, placing her hands on either side of his chair. “What was that handsome?” She speaks. God she speaks and her voice is like that of an angel. It's low and silky smooth; it's like a goddess tempting him to do sinful things.

Christ he must be drunker than he thought if just one sentence from a stranger is enough to have his tongue tied.

“I-I said you're beautiful.” He stutters out, making his voice louder. She smiles - it looks like an honest smile. 

“Thank you. You're hot.” She bluntly states. Lucifer turns into a tomato and she laughs again. “And cute. For being Lucifer Morningstar.”

His brows raise, “you know who I am?” The brief instance of his name rather than being referred to as ‘my lord’ throws him off a little. But he doesn’t mind in the slightest. 

“Of course.” She says. “And the rumors were right, you're a lot nicer in person.” 

Lucifer flashes red for a whole other reason now. “What's your name?” He calls over the rising music. 

She looks surprised at the question. “Lilith.” But she leans closer to him, their chests almost pressed together. If he had been more sober the public display of…whatever this was probably would have put him off. But right now? His mind was too focused on the goddess who was now on his lap. 

“You're really pretty Lilith.” He giggled, fuck he is drunk. 

She smirked, eyes lidded.

Without so much as a warning or hint Lilith leans forward and captures Lucifer’s lips in hers. His eyes grow wide. And there’s a part of his mind that tells him it's not a good idea. But he immediately shuts that part down. He’s going to be throwing away his life soon. So he doesn’t care right now. Eve wouldn’t care. They aren’t married yet and it's not like she even likes nor cares about him.

Still his heart races because…

Well as pathetic as it is this is the first time he’d been kissed.

But his brain doesn’t focus on that, because Lilith is a good kisser. She takes control of his lips, abusing them with a practiced pace. She truly is a siren, for she gets his lips apart and slips her tongue in like a serpent. Their tongues wrestle for a moment, and it's a losing fight against the expert that Lilith is. Her tongue tastes like alcohol and it mixes with the sweeter alcohol he had been drinking. It tastes like heaven. 

His fingers twitch and something burns in him. Aching for more.

Lilith pulls back too soon in his opinion. But she doesn’t go far, keeping their faces close. She looks at him then, their faces inches apart. Her eyes look almost gold under the club lights but he thinks they are actually green? He’s not sure. He looks at her, her face is curved, her eyes narrowed and beautiful. Her hair long and waving freely, her dress leaving little to the imagination. But it restates the fact that she is pretty. “Wanna go somewhere private?” 

Lucifer eyes shoot wide open. “Uh-” his face burns and he glances around for his friends. He knows full well what she’s asking. He’s not an idiot after all. But… “I-I dunno. Uh…” He rubs his neck. He peers back at her. She’s waiting, and she’s tilting her head ever so slightly. 

“Don’t be scared.” She cooes, trailing a finger along his chest.

Lucifer frowns and raises a brow, “are you a hooker or something?” He doesn’t mean to sound rude. It's an honest question and one his mind has worked up to after seeing the way she dances around the club. Was this her ploy to get a session out of him? Seeing him as a dollar sign?

Lilith looks offended though, just a bit. “What?” She scoffs, “no. I have more class than those bitches.” She says waving her hand about. She leans back then, hands on her hips. “I just like to have fun!” She says with a wide proud grin.

Lucifer raises his brows, “I-I’m sorry I didn’t mean to offend. I-I just thought…” he trails off.

Lilith eyes him, standing straight up, above him. Towering over him. The club lights bathe her in a blend of different colors. The white light behind illuminates her figure. “You're hot. I’m not trying to get money out of you. I just think you're hot. I wanna fuck you.” 

She says it so…so bluntly. Lucifer is so taken aback at her boldness. God nobody has ever spoken to him like that. Besides Bee and Ozzy but…not even to this extent. He should be offended..but…

“So you wanna take this somewhere else?” She says, slipping into that sultrier voice once more. She leans down to his level, so she doesn’t have to be so loud. “Wanna see what's under these clothes?” She says, dragging a hand down her dress. 

Lucifer eyes her figure…it's nice but he looks up at her. At her face. At that mischievous sparkle in her eyes. 

How could he be insulted by such a bold, confident and beautiful woman? 

“Sure..” He replied; his voice is dazed and husky. 

They go to a nearby motel and Lucifer isn’t sure if he should be alarmed or surprised that Lilith already has a room in the run down place. With his mind both buzzing from the alcohol and an erection below his belt that was begging for attention, his mind decides he doesn’t care.

…Lucifer is pushed onto the bed. 

Lilith isn’t in any way shy or timid. She’s definitely done this sort of thing before. - Which makes Lucifer feel a bit bothered, but that's a thought for sober him. - She unbuttons his shirt with practiced effort. Their pace isn’t by any means slow. It’s fast and impatient. Which for a drunken aroused Lucifer? Is perfectly fine with him. In minutes she’s unfastening his belt and pulling his pants down before Lucifer can properly enjoy any of it. There is a sliver of his mind that feels embarrassed and nervous. But it's quickly washed away when Lilith strips her dress and undergarments off without any shame. Lucifer is still marveled by her confidence. And in that moment he stares at her like she truly is a goddess kneeling above him. 

“Wow…” He mutters dreamily. 

Lilith smiles and chuckles. It seems to be a genuine laugh. “Shh.” She says, pressing a finger to his lips. “Relax.” He does. “Goodboy.”

Lucifer flushes.

There are no more words spoken between them after that.

  …Lucifer honestly taps out after fifteen minutes, - which Lilith doesn’t seem to mind for she has her ways to get him started again - but the next hour goes by with him in a haze. He doesn’t remember when he falls asleep. But he does with him and Lilith on the hotel bed naked.

When he wakes…he doesn’t remember how he got where he is. Because he’s sitting on a park bench and immediately looks down, to find himself - thankfully - dressed. But he’s dressed more casually, dressed in a way he would prefer. Just a simple button down and slacks. He looks up, seeing a little girl swinging on monkey bars. Her face is blurred for him but he can tell at the very least she’s a child. With long blonde hair. He watches her for a moment and sees her hand begin to slip, he stands ready to go and catch this girl, but someone beats him to it. 

A man who he hadn’t even noticed was there shoots up from his seat and runs to catch the girl just in time. His hair is a bright and noticeable red. But he can’t make out his facial features either. Maybe that's her dad, he assumes at least. The man holds the girl in one of his arms and they share a laugh. They pause and turn to look directly at Lucifer, he still can’t make out their faces. But he can’t deny a blooming warmth flooding his chest. He’s never felt it before but one word cuts through his mind, clear as day.

Happy. 

He suddenly wakes up, his eyes flashing open into the darkness of the room. His heart is hammering and he takes a minute to breathe in. He feels his heart slow, into steady beats. He registers Liliths soft breaths and sighs. 

That was a weird dream. He thinks. 

His attention goes back to the sleeping woman. Lilith.. How beautiful she is. Even sleeping. 

Lucifer waits for her to wake. Maybe he's smitten, or maybe it's because she took his virginity. But he feels waiting is the right thing to do. When Lilith does wake it's almost morning. And Lucifer knows he could get in trouble. But to see her surprised expression when she finds him waiting beside her with some coffee from the motel lobby. It's worth it. 

Lucifer asks to see her again. To keep seeing her. Until he's to be married again. Much to his surprise, she says yes. It's enough to make Lucifer feel light as air. With that agreement he stumbles out of the room, smelling of booze and sex. Looking like it too. But he has no time left and has to get home. 

Lucks on his side because he makes it home before his disappearance is noticed. It's.. Sad, actually. But he's to happy and hungover to care. He calls his friends when he's able to let them know he's safe. They naturally both want details which he would provide. 

Time goes on, Lucifer and Lilith do meet up again. But sparingly. What with still being ordered to spend time with Eve. But what little time he does get to spend with Lilith - undercover - is usually under the cover of night and a blessing. 

Much to Lucifers dismay his snap fantasy life comes to an end. With the day of his wedding creeping up on him like death itself, he has to bid Lilith goodbye. Unsure and unwilling to keep pursuing whatever it is they have under in secret. 

So the day of his wedding comes. With the girl he wished was Lilith. Maybe he's crazy for having that thought. He probably is. But it's a pointless thought nonetheless. He knows his place, and he’s aware that the short time he had with Lilith was nothing more than a break from his reality. So here he stands, before Eve in her white wedding gown. Her face no less changing than the day they’d met. Stoic and calm as usual. So unlike Lilith’s bright and expressive face. He can’t help but compare the two not, even though he shouldn’t. 

The wedding is what would be expected of the morningstars. Its lavish and fancy. Set in a large park well taken care of. A park the rich frequent most often, but today is reserved for this occasion. The guests are not only consisting of Lucifer and Eve’s respective family members. But the other hundred people in the crowd are friends of the morningstars. Friends of his father. Bee and Ozzy are among them. But they aren’t as excited for this wedding like Lucifer’s father is. Excitement is actually…not the right word to describe his father in this circumstance. Eager is a better way to put it. He’s at the front row, sitting beside his mother. His arms are crossed. He has that same impatient look he always has on his face. Like the world is moving too slow for him.

Impatient.

That’s the right word to describe his father.

Lucifer looks back at Eve. He offers her a small smile, unsure why. Maybe to steady his own nerves. She returns the smile but it doesn’t reach her eyes. 

“We are gathered here today…” The priest begins. His words sound like he’s speaking underwater, to Lucifer at least. As he goes on Lucifer can’t help but glance at the crowd again, he’s aware that he should be looking forward. But can’t help it with his nerves growing. He sees his twin in the front row too, beside his - eager - mother and he looks jealous. Of Eve? He doubts it. Of him finally proclaiming his position as the new head of the home? Likely. 

He catches Bee and Ozzy in the crowd, and they find his gaze. And both nod to him. It's a condolence. He knows. A sharp clearing of the throat from his father snaps Lucifer back to attention. A warning. 

“Samiel Morningstar. Do you take Eve to be your lawfully wedded wife? To have and to hold from this day forward?” For better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish until death do you part?"

.

Lucifer hesitates, he glances at his father. Who gives him an icy look. He lowers his brows and gives one curt nod. Lucifer swallows, he looks at Eve who as usual is stoic. “I…I do.” He says, stuttering a little. When he glances at his father again he looks annoyed, but satisfied. 

The priest turns to Eve. Repeating himself. 

Lucifer in that moment, takes those final seconds to lament on his life. This…wedding, this ceremony. It doesn’t feel like a celebration of love at all. As it should be. It feels like he is being sentenced to prison and he’s signing away his freedom that he had with those words. 

This is wrong, he thinks solemnly. A wedding should not be held to force two people together. Two people who hardly know each other muchless love each other. Because Lucifer is certain Eve does not love him nor has come to love him in the brief month they had been introduced and then pushed into this wedding. 

He looks at her.

He was naive. He was naive to what a real relationship required. Lilith opened his eyes to that at the very least. While what he and Lilith had was in no way a relationship, it felt far more real than whatever he and Eve were supposed to have. What he did with her, being intimate with her. He…he couldn’t, he couldn’t do that. Not with Eve. Not with someone who didn’t even look at him like he was wanted. Looked at him with that same empty stare his father had. Someone he felt no attraction towards. Lilith was a star that shines and shimmers so brilliantly. Eve was an empty husk of a person she could have been. He knew what was expected of him. But he’s failed to realize how heavy that burden would be until now.

Lucifer looks Eve in the eyes.

How can I ever have children with this woman? How can I ever try to love her? Someone Who looks at me with not an ounce of love or even a person in those eyes? 

A chill runs down his spine.

“I do.” He hears Eve say, and her words for the first time carry an ounce of trepidation. 

Something in him snaps. And he feels like that sliver of fear in her is what pushes him over the edge. 

“Then with the power invested in me, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may now kiss the bride.” 

Lucifer's hands curl.

Don’t do it.

You’ll regret it.

He looks at Eve, her eyes hidden behind her veil. She’s defeated. She’s surrendered. 

“I can’t.” His thoughts come out of his mouth far too late for him to take it back. And his eyes blow wide as a gasp rushes over the crowd like a wave. 

Dread pools in Lucifer, it's cold and frozen over. It's icy. 

He hears his father stand from his chair. “You will.” He states. That’s all he says.

Lucifer can feel his throat tightening. He can’t…HE CAN’T GODDAMMIT!

“No!” He shouts looking at his father who looks downright appalled. He’s shocked, registering what his son said to him. 

The crowd is deadly silent. Lucifer feels his heart in his ears. “No?” He repeats like he’s never been told that word. “No?!” He repeats once more like he’s never heard it. “You do what I tell you Samiel!” 

Something boils in Lucifer, in this second he thinks of Lilith. How free she is, how confident she is. He wants to be that confident. He wants to be free. Free with her. “I refuse! I don’t love her! And she doesn't love me! I won’t marry her.” 

His father growls “I gave you an order.” 

Lucifer stares his father down, every ounce of his body is screaming to stop. To get on his knees and beg for forgiveness. But no, not this time. “I refuse.” 

His father takes a step forward, pointing an accusatory finger at Lucifer. He could see the red rising in his cheeks. “You listen to me right now Samiel or you are OUT of this family!” 

Lucifer swallows. He looks at his mother, who is staring at him with a pleading look. At his brother, who seems satisfied. Happy. At his father, the seething man looking his usually well composure at a wedding. Then at Eve.

She’s frowning, she looks…sad. She is looking at the floor. He feels for her, but he can’t free her. Only she can, But he won’t be her captor, and he can’t remain a prisoner himself any longer. He wonders, if his mother wanted him. His brother. If that was a willing choice, or one his father pressed on her. He can’t imagine she did, when he looks at them. 

Lucifer sighs, and says calmly “then I guess I’m done here.” 

Its all he says. As he walks down the aisle, alone. 

Eve is at the alter, a look of pure shock on her face. The strongest display of emotions she’s ever displayed. Lucifer wishes her best, hopes she can break free from her own shackles one day. 

His father is screaming at this point. The angriest he’s ever been with him. He’s swearing, cursing, telling him all the things he is. How broken he is how wrong he is what a failure he is. 

But Lucifer keeps walking. 

He doesn’t even get to say goodbye to his mother, or his brother. But he wishes them best, knowing that with him gone his brother will get his place. Its for the best. He never wanted it in the first place. 

He refuses to live his life as someone he’s not. He refuses to end up like Eve, to become a shell of himself. He can’t do it. He might have, if not for her. 

As he walks the city streets, he slips the ring out of his pocket. The ring meant for Eve, the ring he managed to take before leaving. He’s young, he’s only eighteen. But he’s free, free to make his choices and maybe this is a stupid choice most would argue. But for him, its the only one that feels right.

He walks into the motel, and climbs the stairs to the room he’s memorized. The one she’s been living in. He knocks, and waits. When she opens the door, she is surprised to find him there. “Hi.” She greets, “weren’t you supposed to be getting married?” She asks confused.

Lucifer is still in his white tux. 

He looks at Lilith like she’s something to be worshipped, the smile that breaks onto his face isn’t forced. Isn’t fake. Its never with her. “Wanna do something crazy?” He asks her instead, with a grin threaneing to slip his lips.

She raises her brow. 

Lucifer pulls the ring from his pocket, and he kneels before her. Lilith eyes blow wide. Lucifer simply says with hope in his eyes. “Wanna get married?” 

He’s crazy. He’s known her less than a month, He is absolutely nuts. He knows that. But he also just swore off a lifetime of fortune and his family. But they had never given off the same warmth Lilith had. A stranger. 

Lilith laughs. “Sure, why not.” 

Lucifer grins, she grins. 

They are both insane, surely they both must be insane. Right? 

It doesn’t matter…not to Lucifer. 

All that matters to him is that he’s finally gotten to make his own choice for once. And he chooses Lilith. Maybe there’s a chance at being happy for him afterall. 

[separatist-apologist]

Right Where You Left Me

If our love died young, I can't bear witness

Chapter 14: All Good Things

Read: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | AO3

Summary: All good things must come to an end

That first, wailing cry pulled Lucien from bed. Just beside him, Elain lay face down on the pillow. He knew she’d only just fallen asleep an hour before. She lifted her head, searching in the dark for the source of what had woken her. He heard the softest moan of horror slip past her teeth.

“I’ve got it,” he said, already padding towards the door. 

“You have to be up in the morning,” she protested, not moving from her spot beneath the blankets. With his mother managing Elain’s bakery, she was taking the maternity leave she’d been denied with Ivy. Lucien was learning what it meant to be a father…and Elain was doing her best to let him help. It was a strange push-pull between them. Elain was so used to doing everything alone that she merely went back into that mode, and Lucien often felt as if he were in her way. 

“Go back to sleep,” he urged, not bothering to offer a rebuttal to her assertion that he had to work. Of course he did. Why did she deserve exhaustion and he a robust night of sleep? They’d made this baby together.

And Lucien wanted to make more. God, he wanted more kids, and thus, felt he had to prove he was worthy to do it again. That meant creeping past Ivy’s room for her wailing brother, thrashing tiny fists against the undone swaddle he was wrapped in. That, he supposed, was the source of Soren’s anger—he wanted to be tight in his blanket, if only to pretend he was still tucked up inside Elain.

Lucien scooped him out of the crib, pressing his nose along the vibrant red curls dusting his head. Elain had given him a bath after he’d puked up half his dinner. Soren was a messy–but happy–baby. 

“Give me a second,” Lucien urged his son, who settled the moment he realized he was pressed against someone's chest. Lucien was quick to pull his shirt off with one arm so Soren could rest his chubby little cheek against Lucien’s skin.

“Mommy says we’re not supposed to sleep together,” he said, padding down the hall for the living room. Soren would be up again in two hours to eat. If Lucien merely stayed awake, he could also fit in a morning bottle before he had to go to work. He’d be useless, but he had no cases that day, which meant he could lock his door for half the day and sleep at his desk.

“What she doesnt know won’t hurt her,” Lucien declared, plopping into a chair in the living room. He took the opportunity to re-swaddle Soren before perching himself in the chair, the baby in the middle of his chest. Soren was already asleep, his little lips shaped into a small oh as he breathed.

Lucien ran his fingers through that silken hair, mesmerized that something so tiny could exist at all. He could hold the baby in just the palm of his hand, could fit Soren’s whole body on his upper chest. Lucien caught himself staring sometimes, drinking in the little creature with parted lips.

They’d made this. 

He felt a pang of yearning that he’d missed all of it with Ivy. By the time he’d met her, she’d been a big girl who could write her own name and had more opinions on the color pink than Lucien did about politics. 

“Daddy?”

As though his thoughts had summoned her, Ivy stood at the bottom steep clutching a little white unicorn in one hand while she rubbed her eyes with the other. Her red curls stuck up at odd angles and her little body was clad in matching pink and white unicorn cat pajamas, of which Ivy affectionately called unicat jammies. 

“What are you doing up, baby?” he asked, beckoning for her to join him. Soren’s swing was sitting in the center of the living room and Lucien very carefully—and quickly—slid the swaddled baby into the center basket before turning it on to sway gently.

Ivy took Soren’s place in Lucien’s lap, chin tilted to look up at him.

“The baby is loud,” Ivy told him, allowing Lucien to drape a blanket around the two of them. “And you said I wasn’t allowed to wake up mommy.”

Lucien pressed a kiss to the top of Ivy’s head. “That’s right. It’s important we let mommy sleep.”

Ivy grunted, her disapproval plain. Ivy loved waking up Elain, though not to be mean. She was merely a little girl who liked her mom’s time and attention, and was, perhaps, feeling a little left out now that everyone was paying so much attention to her little brother.

“Did you do this when I was a baby?” she asked him.

Lucien’s chest constricted. He didn’t know what to say—his first instinct was to lie, to tell her of course he had. She knew he hadn’t. Lucien pressed his nose against her hair, drinking in the sweet scent of the strawberry shampoo Elain had used earlier that night.

“I wanted to,” he finally settled on. That was the truth, and simple enough he thought Ivy would understand. 

“Why didn’t you?” she pressed. 

It would have been so much easier to blame Elain. To lay it all at her feet, to say that Elain had taken Ivy and kept her a secret so Lucien could have a life he just barely wanted at the time. And it would have been a betrayal of his soon-to-be-wife, who’d given him a gift, even if she’d been forced into it. 

Lucien could give his family all the things they deserved because Elain had let him go. He could take care of them the way he’d wanted when he’d been that stupid teenager dreaming about his life one day. Elain could stay at home, or work at her bakery without worrying about bills, or money. 

“I was in school,” he finally said, because that was true too. “But I was always thinking about you.”

She smiled, snuggling closer. “Can we watch the cat show?”

She’d be asleep in twenty minutes, assuming Lucien didn’t fall asleep first and the lure of the pantry pulled her from his lap. That was a real risk, given how tired Lucien was and how Ivy did not seem to need the same amount of sleep other humans did. How many times had she fallen asleep in the backseat of his car for twenty minutes only to then be awake until midnight? 

Too many. 

Lucien turned on the television, careful to keep the volume just low enough Ivy could hear without disturbing Elain and her superhuman hearing. He swore she could hear a cat sneeze down the block—could practically hear the thoughts in his head.

Lucien didn’t know which of them fell asleep first. He did know that he didn’t wake up to an alarm, given his phone was upstairs. And it was his five am alarm going off upstairs that brought Elain down looking for him.

He was startled awake when her knuckles brushed over his cheek. Soren was still passed out in the swing, Ivy sprawled over his lap while the television played another episode of the cat cartoon Ivy had requested. 

“Wild night?” Elain teased, looking far too pretty for the early morning. Lucien tried to remember how long he was supposed to abstain from sex. Was it six weeks? Eight? If he just used his mouth, it didn’t count, right? 

Elain, blissfully unaware of the slant of his thoughts, tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “Want breakfast.” “

Yes,” Lucien said, well aware there was far too much heat in his voice. Elain rolled her eyes, not bothering to dignify him with a response. Lucien was careful not to disturb Ivy, he laid her in the chair, head propped against the cushioned arm and tucked beneath their heavy cream blanket so he could chase after Elain.

“I’m being serious,” he whispered, catching her around the waist. “The kids are asleep. What if we went upstairs—”

“The minute your pants are off, the baby is going to want to eat,” Elain reminded him.

“I’ll be quick, then,” Lucien grinned, lowering his mouth for a kiss. 

She shook her head, fingers tangling in his hair. “You won’t be. You know you won’t. You’ll get distracted and then you’ll be alone in the shower with nothing but thoughs of me.”

“I’m willing to risk it,” Lucien murmured, kissing her again. She smelled sweet, like vanilla and something he couldn’t put his finger on. Lucien was all too happy to just prop her up on the kitchen island and have her here. He’d forgotten for one blissful moment that they were parents, his hand groping her breast through her night shirt. Elain arched, moaning softly into his mouth.

This was happening. Lucien was already far too excited, and that excitement was like a beacon to their children.

A soft wail pulled Elain away before they’d ever done more than a little making out. Still—given how most nights they fell face first into a pillow, asleep before they could even say good night, Lucien counted it as a win. 

“Still got it, babe,” he told her with a grin, slapping her ass lightly as she turned away from him. 

“This is how we keep becoming pregnant,” Elain complained, her cheeks stained pink with delight. 

“That’s my charm,” Lucien informed her, turning for the kitchen. She’d offered to make him breakfast, but Lucien now found himself in the unique position of being able to make Elain a meal—a rare thing, given how often she shooed him out of the kitchen. 

“You’re a menace,” she replied, his voice a loud whisper. 

Lucien tied his hair back off his face and turned for the fridge. Elain had made filling for what he assumed would be cream puffs—Ivy’s favorite—and had cookie dough chilling for a later project. Lucien shuffled some things around, pulling out linked sausages and debating on if he’d made waffles or he’d make eggs.

He settled on waffles. 

He had them both going by the time Elain padded back in, holding a bright-eyed Soren in her arms.

“Hey buddy,” Lucien smiled, earning a gummy smile in return. “Are you awake?”

He garbled out a response, little fists flailing to punctuate his point.

“You didn’t have to do this. You’re going to be late,” Elain chided. Lucien kissed her cheek first before blowing a loud raspberry on Soren’s cheek. The baby giggled with delight. 

“I wanted to,” Lucien told her, scooping the baby from her arms. “Go take a shower. Go. I’ve got this.”

Elain hesitated for a second, still holding Soren while Lucien prayed she’d leave. 

You can trust me.

She handed him the baby, in a fresh diaper and a clean onesie. “I’ll be quick.” she said. 

Lucien sighed with exasperation. “I’m already late, baby! Take your time.”

By the time Elain returned, Lucien had Ivy dressed for school, her lunch made, and at the table, coating her face in syrup while he pulled her hair off her face in an attempt to keep her pretty curls from the sticky mess. Elain had taken her time, floating down the stairs looking like his every fantasy come to life, despite being fully clothed. In his imagination, they dropped the kids off at his mother's and he fucked her against every surface in their home until he was pregnant again, but that could wait. 

“Your turn,” Elain told him, kissing him on the cheek while Ivy loudly ewwww’d. Lucien pulled the second twist tie around Ivy’s hair, creating perfect little buns on her head. It had only taken him four tries to get it right. He’d leave Elain to clip the pink bows into her hair.

He was four steps from the steps when Elain, with a sly smile on her face, called. “I was thinking about you up there.”

He turned, his whole body igniting at the suggestive thread wrapped around those words. Elain winked, picking up a hair bow.

“You think about daddy?” Ivy exclaimed. In his little swing just beside the table, Soren chewed on one of his unsocked feet, brown eyes wide as though he, too, wanted that question answered.

“All the time,” Elain agreed sweetly. 

Lucien smiled.

She wasn’t the only one.

ELAIN:

“Mommy,” Ivy asked impatiently, picking at the lace on her dress. “Are we going to be late?”

“No,” she lied, because they absolutely were. She’d made her own wedding cake and all she had to do was pick it up, put it in her car, and drive to the venue. Instead, Elain was separating dough for cookies and portioning out macaron filling because she apparently couldn’t help herself.

She’d only just started working again, and Lucien was about to whisk her away to the Caribbean for a week. She wanted everything to be perfect. 

Ivy didn’t believe her.

“Daddy is going to be worried,” Ivy reminded Elain, stomping her little heeled feet. “I heard him tell Uncle Eris he thought you’d change your mind. Are you?”

“Am I what?” Elain asked absently, only half listening to Ivy’s recriminations.

“Going to change your mind?”

Elain looked up. She was going to wreck her wedding dress if she wasn’t careful, which in turn, would forever spoil the pictures Lucien had paid so much money for. Elain glanced at the clock. Lucien would panic when Arina informed him she wasn’t there, given she had ten minutes to get to the museum they were to be married in and that seemed too cruel given how excited she was to marry him.

“Of course not,” Elain told Ivy, putting away her filling with only a small pang of regret. Work would be here when she returned, she reminded herself. And if Elain was honest with herself, she was, perhaps, testing Lucien one last time. Would he wait? If she came late, would he still be waiting for her, or would he finally realize it was all too much and leave? 

Not that Elain could say that to Ivy, who was annoyed she’d been roped into this last minute errand when what she really wanted was to be sandwiched between Grandma Amera and Grandpa Helion, fawned over and showered in gifts. 

“Do you love daddy?” Ivy continued. It was her favorite question. Did they love Soren, did Lucien love Elain, did Elain love her? Elain bit her bottom lip.

“Of course I love daddy.”

“Then let's go,” Ivy said. Elain offered her a smile before carefully balancing the box that held her cake in one hand. Elain used the other to hold up the length of her ivory gown, not wanting to dirty the train that trailed like spilling sunlight behind her. 

Elain and Ivy stepped onto the sidewalk, making their way around the brick building for Elain’s car. As they walked, a man across the street hollered, “Hey pretty mama, where you headed!”

Ivy whipped around before Elain could roll her eyes. Her vivid, auburn curls gleamed in the early afternoon light as she screamed, “She’s not your mommy, she’s my mommy!” 

Elain burst out laughing. Ivy looked ready to throw down, her little hands curled into fists. She was the spitting image of Lucien just then—russet eyes wholly focused on the subject of her ire. Her nose—Lucien’s nose—was scrunched, forming two little lines on her forehead just like Lucien’s when he was flustered. Her golden brown skin seemed to glow, and not just from the glitter she’d painted all over her cheeks when Elain wasn’t looking.

“When my daddy finds out you said that, he’s going to be really mad!”

“Okay, get in the car,” Elain laughed, ushering Ivy into her seat. “You’ve avenged me.”

“He said you were his mommy!” Ivy declared, still indignant. Elain looked up at the man who’d tried to pay her a poor compliment and found him walking away, smiling to himself. He’d found Ivy just as charming as she had, which Elain decided was a good omen on her wedding day.

Ivy chattered as Elain drove, one eye on the clock, the other on the road. She was late by a minute by the time she pulled into the circular drive in front of the museum and handed her keys over to the valet. 

Eris Vanserra was strolling out, eyes narrowed. “You’re late,” he said, his voice rich with recrimination even as he crouched to scoop up Ivy in her pretty, flouncy dress. “Lucien is in a panic.”

“I had to get my cake,” Elain lied, well aware Eris saw straight through her. “It’s only a minute.”

“It’ll be ten by the time you get that cake to reception and—”

“Oh thank God,” Arina interrupted, coming down the front steps of the museum as Elain, Eris, and Ivy came up them. Arina was holding Soren in his little tux, unaware of how Eris’s mouth slackened for a moment.

“Lucien is panicking. I’ve been stalling, but—”

“It’s just a minute,” Elain protested, even though she knew that wasn’t true. She’d done this on purpose and now she was paying for it. Lucien, who’d never done anything but love her, was just as afraid Elain was going to walk away. 

“Here,” Eris readjusted Ivy so he could take Soren from Arina. Elain caught the eldest Vanserra sliding his nose through the baby’s curls and wondered if he was hoping for a family someday, too. “Take the cake upstairs. Go quick,” he added, not needing to tell Arina twice. 

Arina flashed Elain a dazzling smile, holding the white box in both hands with the same gentle care she’d held Elain’s baby. Eris’s cheeks darkened, though whether that was from Arina’s pretty smile or holding two children as he made his way up those stone cut steps, Elain didn’t know.

Didn’t ask. 

Not as they were ushered into the large atrium filled with regular patrons, all staring as she swanned in wearing that simple, ivory gown. She’d pulled half her hair from her face with delicate pearl pins and kept her make-up light and easy given she was certain she was going to break down sometime before the night was over. 

“Give Arina a second,” Eris warned, pushing the button to the elevator that would take them up to the private ballroom. “I’ll let Lucien know all is well.”

Elain nodded, running her hands nervously down the side of her dress. The mirrored doors pulled open and Eris, in a rare moment of vulnerability, asked, “Were you planning to leave?”

Elain looked up at the eldest Vanserra, a child in both arms. “No,” she said.

She meant it. She might have been late on purpose, but Elain had always meant to come. Eris nodded.

“Good. Because ah…” he cleared his throat and pushed the number four that would take her to Lucien. “Because we love you. Not just your kids. I ah…I thought you should know that.”

Maybe she’d start crying now. 

The doors pulled open and Eris strolled out, taking Ivy with him. Ivy was supposed to throw flowers to the floor, and the only explanation Elain could think of for why Eris had taken her eldest was to reassure his brother that Elain had arrived and everything was going to continue as planned. 

She made her way down a long hall made of marble and gold leaf, with windows that stretched the length so she had a perfect view overlooking the immaculate grounds. There was a little dressing room Elain did not need, but offered her one last moment to take a breath and remind herself that this was what she’d always wanted.

What she’d always hoped for.

Too afraid to ever admit it, even when Lucien had left and she’d been alone, she’d still dreamt of him coming back and making everything right. Of telling her he would have stayed, that he wanted the family, the small life—her. 

It was surreal to realize in just a few short moments she’d get it. Elain took a breath, and then another. 

Arina knocked on the door. “Crazy, huh?” she asked, sweeping a blonde curl off her face. “Remember when we were trying to get rid of him?”

Elain smiled. “Yeah.”

“Called Nesta and everything,” Arina laughed. It was funny, now, considering Elain hadn’t put up much of a fight before she was inviting him back to her place, desperate to touch him one last time. 

“And now we’re getting married,” Elain murmured, looking back out a window.

“If you did want to run, I wouldn’t stop you,” Arina told her. “Though, I don’t think Eris is giving back your kids.”

“I’m exactly where I want to be,” Elain assured her best friend. Arina nodded, pulling Elain in for a hug.

“Then I’ll see you out there.”

Elain had been right that she’d cry. She started the second she saw Lucien standing there, his hair tied neatly off his face, body clad in an immaculate suit that fit perfectly. He saw her first and swiped away a tear, laughing with a mix of embarrassment and awe. Elain hadn’t expected Lucien to show such an open display of affection and by the time she reached him, she was grateful for the waterproof mascara.

“You look beautiful,” he’d whispered, which started a fresh round of tears. Elain cried through Lucien’s vows and her own, and she cried again when he put that gold band around her finger. Their officiant declared them married and Lucien, instead of kissing her first, pulled her against him in a rough, tight hug. Fingers digging into her skin, he held her like he expected her to evaporate.

And then he kissed her, laughing the entire time, not because anything was funny, but because he couldn’t believe what was happening. It was all a blur, then—signing the paperwork to change not just her own last name, but Ivy’s (of which, Eris whisked away and tucked into his jacket pocket as if to say no takebacks), pictures and dances, and so much food.

By the time Elain managed to catch her breath, it was all over. Ivy was passed out on Helion's chest, her shoes discarded somewhere on the dance floor. Arina had Soren cradled in one arm, her head on Eris’s shoulder. Elain’s sisters had their legs in their husband's laps, flushed and sweaty and more than a little drunk. 

They’d go home alone that night, their kids split between the Archeron’s and the Vanserra’s. Elain trusted their new, combined family would take good care of the baby’s, though she kissed them both awake all the same. 

Lucien, stone cold sober and bright-eyed as he drove them home. “Are you happy?” he asked her when they pulled into the drive. Elain grinned, unable to respond given Lucien had jogged from his door to hers so he could not only pull her out, but sweep her up into his arms. 

“Sorry I made you wait,” Elain told him instead, kissing the side of his cheek, smooth from his careful shave that morning.

“I would have waited my whole life if I knew it was leading to a night like this,” he replied, not realizing she’d meant she was sorry for making him wait on the wedding. Elain started to explain herself, but Lucien had gotten the door open and had rendered any further apologies silent with a sweet kiss. 

“I would have waited a hundred lifetimes,” he added, keeping her in his arms to take her up the stairs and to their shared bed. One of Ivy’s stuffed toys—a massive elephant Elain remembered from before Lucien—lay over the neatly made bed. Elain kicked off her shoes and reached for it, setting the toy on the nightstand beside her bed.

Lucien joined her, not bothering to undress. 

There would be time for that. Sliding his fingers over her forehead to brush errant strands of hair from her sticky face, Lucien looked like a man discovering the sun for the very first time. 

“You mean everything to me.”

Elain leaned up, just enough to kiss him back. “I love you, too, Lucien.”

She’d been waiting for him, too.

[lowerthanapplebottomj]

They never believe me

“why are you this way, what happened to you?” They ask.

As I flood their minds with infinite possibilities of someone they want me to be

“Give me a chance, I’m different”

— I can’t.

My brain is endlessly bleeding colors

Like deep forests trees

oozing sap, I pour out my emotions in dark shades of green

Then dark shades of blue

Dripping black into the waters that I so effortlessly let myself drown in.

My skin drags across the floor

My fingertips bloody clawing myself back to shore.

My body drips in thickening dark red

The ground is soft and white as I lay there catching my breath

With my hands on my chest- I feel nothing

This isn’t familiar, I’m scared and I need to feel something

So with all of my strength I get up and start to embrace

Watching the deep shades of blame spill down my face— to the floor.

While dragging my feet, the feeling of crimson heats. Blistering charcoal and the scrapes on my knees.

Twisting a smile as I watch it all burn.

Then back to the waters of the deep shades of blue

Floating in the abyss until I am consumed.

You are not different,

and if you really were—

You’d be painting with every shade of my worth -

loving me just as I am.

You cannot change me, you cannot save me.

My colors are always chaotically swaying.

Please let me be, I don’t need my life in your hands.

I don’t need your insecurities

I need a love reassuring

I’m allowed to take my time

but they never believe me

Always projecting what they’re perceiving

Telling me it’s all in my mind.

I feel what I feel and I am enough

How easy it was to make me feel that hard to love?

Fuck you.

I’m messy and flawed.

I’m opinionated and proud.

I want to be joyful, outspoken and loud.

You say you love me lilac, magenta, while bleeding euphoric youth.

what about the red in my eyes? The dark circles in the blackest of blues?

Would you paint with those colors and still admire the views?

Would you hold my hand but still let me dream?

While we hold spaces for beautiful things.

Where you can be you and I can be me?

[calamitaswrath]

While other height options saw moderate success, none of them came close to the votes that maximum height got. So, with our Cross now officially a tall queen, it is time for:

(Link to male version of the poll)

(Since there are a ton of color options for skin, I decided to simplify it by just going with the different brightness settings of one particular tone. If anyone's unhappy with that, I'm open to rerunning the poll with different options, when a good argument is made. The last option winning will results in a complete redo with several unnatural skin colors.)

(Since the lightest skin color really doesn't go well with the default hair style for this base face, I also decided to include a preview of what it looks like with another hair style, in case that ends up swaying any opinions)

[cevans-is-classic]

18+ only please, language, nudity mentioned, tooth aching sweetness and kissing

My Masterlist

My Pedro List

It’s the soft string of lyrics near your ear that wake you up, drawing you to the surface to see Javi leaning against the headboard with his ukulele in his lap.

In lieu of asking him anything, you carefully roll over, smiling when he glances down his fingers slowly, his soft strumming, "Buen día, cariño."

The tune changes for a moment, going even softer as he sings low, whispered lyrics that crack and pitch, a sheepish smile on his lips. The little curl over his forehead moves as he softly nods with the rhythm.

He’s adorable.

He’s perfect.

He can’t sing worth a damn though, but it doesn’t stop the swell of your heart as he sways with the music.

“Can’t you see that it’s just raining,” He smiles at you, “Ain’t no need to go outside.” The song changes as he switches languages, his voice going in and out of Spanish and English.

It makes you want to close your eyes and lose yourself in it.

Except for the crack with each note that makes you bury your face in your blanket, cheeks red to keep from laughing, eyes following the up, down, up, down movement of his right hand.

“Pretend like it’s the weekend now. We can pretend it all the time -” Javi slowed for a moment, eyes casting over the room, gray light coming through the sheer curtains. The sound of rain hitting the windows created a cocoon of tranquility as he started strumming again, “- can’t you see that it’s just raining? Ain’t no need to go outside.”

He closes his eyes, and you watch him.

Javi is mesmerizing.

A force of nature.

Something beautiful, sweet, and kind wrapped up in warm colors and caramel hair. His smile rivals the sun, and most days, it takes a herculean effort not to get lost in the brown of his eyes.

You knew if you brushed your finger across his cheek you’d feel the heat of him. That if you curled your fingers behind his chin and he’d lean into it, rest his cheek in your palm and wait.

He’s wonderfully unreal.

His voice cracks, once again, on the next note, and you laugh — airy, covered by the blanket pulled up to your chin. Javi glances down at you, cracks a grin wider than the universe, and keeps right on singing, off key and all.

“But the telephone is singing, ringing it’s too early. Don’t pick it up-” You sat up, scooting closer, the blanket falling from your shoulders. The air on your bare skin was startling, causing you to gasp, and Javi looked then kept on looking. His fingers playing, up, down, up, up, down, as he sings, “but baby you hardly even notice, when I try to show you this, song is meant to keep ya, from doing what you’re supposed to-“

Your lips hovered over his, every note he sang, brushing them against yours.

Breathe for breath.

He kept strumming, humming now and then, singing words he knew in Spanish, then back to English all while staying there. Head cocked, fingers playing, lips faintly chasing yours.

The rain outside added to the ambiance, suffocating the sound of the world around you. All that mattered was Javi, here and now. Javi's voice, Javi's lips, his eyes, the curve of his nose that you kiss once, twice, three times, then down his cheek going from one to the other.

"And we can pretend it all the time, can't you see that it's just raining, ain't no need to go outside."

A quick glance shows you the time, hardly seven in the morning.

Is he allowed to be this beautiful at seven in the morning?

(You might have a biased opinion, and little sleep, but Javi was heaven come to life.)

The strumming stops for a moment, a crinkle between his brows as he mouths along with the noise in his head before flushing and shaking his head.

"I forgot the words." Ah, his ever running mind.

“Well-" Your voice is rough and Javi blinks at the sound, cheeks reddening even more when he catches sight of your bare chest and the marks he'd left the night before.

(and the night before that.)

"Try a different song."

With a slow nod he looks up at the ceiling, Whispering lyrics from a variety of songs, idly picking at the ukulele chords.

"I'm not sure to be honest."

"Hmm." You slid down, crossing your arms behind your head, "Try playing Banana Pancakes again from the beginning."

The strumming started up once more, up, down, up, down, his knuckles rocking against the slick brown wood as he hummed along with it.

"Can't you see that it's just raining?" Your voice wasn't any better than Javi's.

You wondered how a man, with a bedroom voice meant for the radio, sounds strangled when he sings.

"Ain't no need to go outside."

He winked after singing, the Spanish rolling off his tongue making your cheeks burn as you start the next line.

"But baby, you hardly even notice."

"When I try to show you this."

"Song that's meant to keep ya, from doing what you're supposed to." Javi was smiling again, brighter than before, turning his body towards you.

You slide a hand up his arm, across his chest, resting it over his heart as he sings. "like waking up too early. Maybe we can sleep in. I'll make you banana pancakes. Pretend that it's the weekend now."

Coming in at the crack of his note, you joined him again.

"And we can pretend it all the time."

"Can't you see that it's just raining? Ain't no need to go outside." His voice dropped, low, smooth, dark eyes holding yours as his fingers pick at the chords and slide along the frets.

It's intoxicating watching him like this.

"Javi-"

He stops playing, "Yes?"

"What woke you up?"

An embarrassed look took over his face, "I had a dream. Nicolas Cage stopped speaking to me. I could not go back to that time, that life, before him. I had to call him."

"Oh, baby."

He set the ukulele aside, moving to rest his head against the wall behind you, "Afterward — he was very generous to talk to me for three hours before the sun rose for him — I watched Con-air and started listening to How Do I Live — I thought of you."

"So you started playing our song?"

"Sí, I knew it'd wake you up, but I couldn't resist watching you sleep as I played."

Your hand moved from his chest to his cheek, feeling the stubble beneath it, brushing your thumb beneath his lip.

Javi leaned into it, closed his eyes, sitting the ukulele on the bed to make room for you to climb into his lap and capture his lips with yours.

It's sweet.

It's slow.

Javi's hands move over your back to your waist, gripping your hips for a best before moving back up and wrapping around you. There is no space between your bodies, chest to chest, lips to lips, he's everywhere you are.

Kissing Javi felt like falling. It's air stealing, a rush of adrenaline with each swipe of his tongue, and how wonderful he feels when he gives in.

"My baby boy." You pull back for air and Javi pants, his mouth on your collar, fingers gripping you.

"Come back to bed." You murmured, lifted his chin for another kiss even as you moved off his lap.

He follows you, "I'm in bed."

"No," you lift the blanket as he slides in, "beneath the covers, baby, with me."

Javi hums a tune as you wrap yourself around him and close your eyes.

@coulsons-fullmetal-cellist

Just cuz I wanted some sweet Javi music

[world-of-virbrisk]

"String of Stars"

Before there were stars, there was only the moon. But before there was the moon, there was only an empty night sky and a lonely goddess.

TW- implied abuse near the end

-2.1k wip-

written by @invisiblehoman

Mori sometimes could still remember when the night sky didn't have any stars. She remembered the emptiness of it all. The long time that nothing occupied it the way the sun did for the day. The darkness that filled the land, making it near impossible to see. Something was missing but she never knew what. It pestered her as she stared into the void of the sky. Stared as it changed colors into her beautiful morning, colors she created filled her eyes. Every night she watched, waited for her solution to cross her mind on why it felt wrong. Surely her day sky wasn't this empty?

She can't remember when it happened, but eventually, there was light one night. A soft, light, gentle, it almost rocked her to sleep with how calming it was. It was comforting, just enough dark to encourage rest, and just enough light to bring a sense of safety.

Sitting in the grass fields that swayed at her very breath, she stared off into the distance. The horizon line went on for miles.watching as the grass formed waves among itself. To one side lay a warm figure in the cool, crisp air. Damir, She could see the soft light that emitted from his eyes faded under his lashes. The middle of his back pressed against her hip as she sat. Her knees pulled up to her chest. The fabric of her dress bunched up with goosebumps across her arms.

She remembers Damir always seeming so peaceful during the night. Instead of the furrowed brows and crossed arms, he lay relaxed. All tension gone, his face becoming soft and tranquil. Something that she only saw of him when he thought neither she nor Suwon were looking. She smiled at that, a warm memory of its own.

But it was at this moment she realized that her vision of him was much clearer than before. What was once only a small portion of his face illuminated from his own light was now nearly his entire side. With shadows that hid away from something. Something from above her. In quick realization, she looked up, but this time, something stared back. It was pale and quite round. It emitted such a soft glow. Near impossible to look away from, and yet she felt that she didn't want to.

månsken is what she called it, Lunae lumen even later on in her life.

In her opinion, it was beautiful, and even thousands of years later, she finds herself gazing at it. Highlighting the white snow caps of her mountain.

The memory of being sad when it finally lowered was one she could remember clearly. The rise of Damir telling her that the night was officially over. It would have been a shame if not for the fact that just lightly, she could still see it. Faded behind a translucent curtain of soft blue. It didn't leave, and she hoped it'd stay like that forever.

That next night was when she finally saw Suwon again. He sat beside her as Mori watched her Luna, or måne at the time.

Suwon was a cold creature, chilling to the touch but thrumming with life and magic under his thin skin. He looked a little different than her or Damir, but in her opinion, it was just as delightful. His face was long, parts of it hollow, instead of eyelids and lashes his eyes were sunken. The only thing visible was a small dot that moved around in its dark cavity. His hands were different, but so were Damir's. While she had rounded fingertips with what she dubbed nails that stayed transparent to a degree, Suwon had pointed ends, a hard nail thicker by three times her own. His hands were thinner, quite elegant compared to Damir's strong and wide ones. Damir nails layer like her own, just on top of boxy fingertips. But his nails are a solid black color. they matched Suwon and her hair almost perfectly.

They felt familial in a way,she knows they've always been there, can't even remember a moment where it was just her in the lonesome space of void and matter. Even long before, there was a ground to stand on.

A soft nudged to her shoulder cause Mori to look at her brother (she doesn't remember when she started calling him brother)

"Do.. you like it…?"

His voice was soft, filled with a sense of worry. She could feel the buzzing of his head as he waited anxiously for her response. She couldn't help but smile at him, a full joyous grin of teeth, her eyes squinting close as she looked at him.

"She is lovely, I don't think I could go back to existing without her again"

The hard line of Suwon's back dropped almost immediately, Mori could feel the energy of his nerves come off him in massive waves. He hadn't misjudged her desires, and for that, he allowed himself to relax.

As Mori turned to look back at her Luna, she could see Suwon reach behind her, and a gentle hum from her other side was made. Damir didn't care much for the sky the way that she and Suwon did. His developing domain resided underneath hundreds of layers of vegetation and rock. At first she thought he was strange for this, but as she visited his home, she understood why he chose it. While not completely comparable to her sky, the caverns had their own beauty. The way the water flowed down the cliff like edges, past layers of colorful stone. Strange but vibrant plants filled out areas. It was nice, exciting sometimes, so Mori never judged his disinterest in her sky.

Ignoring the small movements from both behind her and to her other side, she turned back to Suwon. Damir let out a small huff as he gently sat up himself. His long limbs were not quite sure what to do with themselves. He also turned to Suwon.

Suwon’s magic was always strong, Mori could feel it even as he simply sat next to her. And it was clear he wished to show them both something.

"I was thinking about how to fill out the sky within my domain and I discovered something" As Suwon talked his hands started squeezing the air, at first he did it carefully but then as he pressed his palms together a small surge of energy was created. He began squeezing harder before a small ball of light was formed. It grew until it was just smaller than his palm.

A quiet huff before he spoke was made. "I discovered that I can make these, and that they can be made huge, even float extremely well once they become a certain size."

"They float?" Damir was the first to question, his body now leaning closer just over Mori's shoulder.

"Yes! It's what I did to create that!" In quick movement, Suwon pointed to Mori's Luna. He then continued his explanation.

"That is made of a solid rock, but this," he looked down at the ball of light in his hand. " It's like your sun, it would be called a stjärnor ,and instead of being super big and close they can be far away and-" The ball was pushed in the woman's hands as Suwon began to spin out a fine thread of magic. He then took one and wrapped it around the sphere in his sister's hands. "I discovered that if I attached it to another one I can make what I call consolations, the threads won't be visible but I saw that for the few that I placed my Valdarin started making shapes from them!"

Suwon seemed to almost shake with excitement. This explained where he had been for the past few days.

"They connected them?" Was Mori's question.

"Yes, yes! And then they started creating stories! Some of them even began using them to navigate the abyssal sea."

There was a pause. He seemed to remember he needed to tell them something.

"When I was figuring out how to make your måne I realized it would look lonely by itself, so I started coming up with other things" another small pause before he held up the thread with the ball of light on it.

"Once I realized that it would take a long time to fill both yours and my sky, I thought we all could do it together and make the shapes for our creatures to discover."

Suwon’s voice wobbled just a bit near the end of his sentence. It was clear he put much thought into this but was afraid of being shut down.

"I bet I can make better-looking consolations than you both can." Mori jabbed at her companions.

Damir jumped at the sudden excitement in his sister's voice. He looked between the both of them. They stared back at him with pleading gazes that he had joined them.

A puff of air left him as he chuckled at their antics, moving himself closer to the smaller man.

"You both and your skies are something else. Alright, show me again how you did that"

Mori pulled her hair to one side as she began mimicking Her middle brother's motions from before, listening to Damir's quiet exasperation of struggle, forcing his own magic to behave. Laughing out loud as she watched him use too much physical strength and completely crush his first attempt. Even Suwon had to turn away and giggle as their eldest sibling dusted the magic powder off his face.

Not even Damir could hide his own amusement at his goof up.

~~○~~~○~~~○~~~○~~~○~~~○~~~○~~~○~~~○~~~○~~

Thousands of centuries later, and their constellations still stand. Except now as Mori sits next to her window, a book lays on her desk filled to the brim of human stories about the stars. Across from her sits, a woman who she never thought would be willing to be this close to her.

Wendy.

She watched as the young woman tried her best to compress the air between her hands. The solid force that would just barely start forming would crumble mer seconds later and disperse into the air again.

Mori could feel the frustration building within Wendy, but what confused her was the feelings of sadness, fear, and guilt that came off in various waves. She did her best to remain positive as an attempt after an attempt failed. Each time, Wendy seemed to become more and more distressed.

"Wendy honey, it's okay. If you want, we can try again tomorrow. Maybe today is just a bad day for your magic."

Instead of calming down her guest, Mori's words seem to cause even more distress. In one last attempt, the girl started pressing the air, trying to concentrate her magic into it.

Finally, a small speck of light started forming. It grew very slowly, but it was enough that mori truly believed Wendy might actually make a star today.

Until her hands collapsed on it, and small sparkly dust went everywhere.

The emotions from Wendy hit Mori hard. When she expected anger, she was met with fear and guilt. It was when she noticed Wendy shaking as she kneeled on the floor. Her voice cracked as she tried to apologize to Her fellow goddess.

"I.. can do..i-it, I can..please.. I can….I-"

There were tears forming at Wendy's hollow eyes, her white pupils growing in sizes as she seemed to become fearful of her surroundings.

Mori got off her seat and knelt in front of Wendy. As she went to gently wipe tears away from her eyes, she froze.

Her guest had flinched almost aggressively, her ears pinned back, and her face turned away. As if she was expecting to be hit. Her pleas continued but much quieter.

It was then that Mori remembered something the eldest God told her about this young woman.

Changing her hand position to an open palm and holding it just a few inches from the younger goddess face. Mori waited gently, cooing Wendy into looking at her.

After a few minutes, Wendy finally did look at her, ear pensively pinned, eyes clearly searching for something that wasn't there. Mori felt her heart ache just a bit as she watched the goddess study her and then look down at herself, then the hand near her face. Her breathing labored, but still restrained, as she finally looked back at the elder goddess. The white dots of her eyes faded as she very carefully allowed her cheek to press into the offered hand.

The tears streamed almost non-stop, quiet whispers of I'm sorry and I'll do betters were lost to the rooms, books and carpets. Her body shook as a hand reached forward and grabbed Mori's dress.

Wendy's face was brought into the taller woman's neck. Her own face is framed by the tall antlers. Her other hand gently rubs the top of the girl's back as the girl's hands clutch and claw as the fabric between them.

Making stars could wait until tomorrow.

[mysteryinkkat234]

Let’s Dance (Eddie Munson x Reader)

Happy Halloween Gamers and Gaymers, fun to post on Halloween (of it’s scheduled on halloween and also doesn’t get shadow banned. This is a story based on the place I worked that I talked about last story. Oh course if you have any request, I will always have my DMs open (I’m popular enough to get bots to DM me again. Also if you like my writing, here’s is my masterlist. Hope you enjoy! 

Gender-Neutral Reader (You/Yours)

Let’s Dance - David Bowie 

“Let's dance Put on your red shoes and dance the blues Let's dance To the song they're playin' on the radio Let's sway While color lights up your face Let's sway Sway through the crowd to an empty space”

(fun fact this is the actual roller rink I work at)

The entertainment center in Hawkins came out of nowhere. The owner of it didn’t make a big ceremony for it, it just now exists. This place has everything: a bowling alley, go-kart track, arcade, and a roller-skating rink, which you sadly work at.

You’re behind the concession counter, giving people pretzels, cotton candy, and whatever other food they’ll waste. It was a busy day, the line for concession almost felt never-ending, and it’s only you, no one to help give people what they want, just you, you have to do both.

It’s 8:15 pm, you let out an exhausted sigh, putting your face in your hands. . “Please,” you whined, “I just wanna go home.”

“You and me both, man.” A voice comes out of nowhere, you look up to see a man, around your age you presume. 

You get embarrassed, scuttling to go back to your position, dropping a pen you were fiddling with. The man laughs. “I am so sorry,” you said pathetically, you weren’t sure he even heard you because the DJ decided to play the music at max volume tonight, “what can I get you?” You ask, pretending you didn’t have the biggest fail ever.

“No, I’m not getting any food,” he said, still a laugh stuck in his throat, “you looked bored so I’m deciding to keep you company.” You sigh in relief.  

You laugh awkwardly, even if most customers are fine and understand you are flustered, it still catches you off guard. “Ok then, thank you, I guess?” You don’t know how to respond to something like that, a stranger doesn’t just come to you just to say hi. “Why are you here?” He said that he also wanted to go home, who was he with?

“It’s my friend’s birthday and they wanted to go roller-skating. I’m not saying I’m here against my will but I’m not into the whole skating thing,” he explained, looking over at the rink where dozens of skaters, young and old, going around the circle, “but I didn’t want to hurt their feelings so I’m here.”

“At least you’re a good friend,” you said smiling, “but judging from what you’re wearing, you don’t look like you’re enjoying the music they’re playing.”

He groaned, leaning his head back, you both laughed. “I know right!? Why can’t they play Bon Jovi, or Dio, or any good music instead of this garbage.”

“I mean, you can ask the DJ for a song request. But, in my opinion, I don’t think rock or metal music really fits the rink’s vibes.” 

He shrugs his shoulders and sighs. “Well, I’m stuck here til this place closes, I doubt you want to talk for three hours straight.” 

You giggle, covering it with your fist. “You might hog up the line if you do,” you try to get it out, you see him smiling, “I don’t really know you either.”

“Eddie, it’s nice to meet you,” he holds out a blinged-out hand, almost every finger has a ring on it, you take his hand to shake, they’re cool on your skin. Once he retracts his hand, Eddie looks down at the paper menu in front of him, “Hmm, you know what? Can you get me a medium Coke?” He asks, pulling out a wallet.

You give him his drink, he gives you two dollars as a tip which you take graciously (every dollar counts), and he walks away, back to his seat, which was closest to the rink and the concession stand.

~~~~

As the night comes to an end, one last song plays as you spray and clean tables: Let’s Dance by David Bowie. You know the moment it starts that your hips and feet move to the beat…kind of. As everyone was packing up to leave, you were there shaking your butt off, some of the patrons were smiling at your strange dancing, others giving you a look, and one in particular was smiling ear-to-ear. 

Your ‘dance cleaning’ was absolutely adorable to watch, you mouthing the lyrics as you skip table-to-table. Eddie couldn’t help but smile like an idiot. He puts his head in his hands, making sure his friends don’t notice that his cheeks are getting pink.

As you were getting closer to Eddie and his friends’ table, you make eye contact, you stop your movements immediately, looking down at the floor, gripping your rag. 

~~~~

“Alright everyone, sadly this will be our last session tonight. Please return any rental skates back to the counter, make sure you throw away any garbage, and return any pitchers to the concession stands. We hope you guys had a wonderful night and stay safe.” The DJ announces. 

Almost everyone is gone, except Eddie, he wasn’t with his group, just by himself, waiting at the exit. You check everything and make sure from your manager you were good to go, it was almost midnight and all you wanted now was to fall flat on your bed. 

As you walk up to the exit, Eddie stops you in your tracks. “Shouldn’t you go home? We’re closing up,” you asked.

“I am, I am driving everyone home. But I think you dropped something while you were cleaning,” Eddie hands you a slip of paper, “have a goodnight, sweetheart.” He winks and finally leaves.

You’re confused at first about what he meant by that until you look at the slip of paper. It was a phone number, and something was written under it. ‘See you soon, dancing machine’. You’re taken aback. 

All you can do for the rest of the night is look at the piece. Remember when you said you would fall asleep right when you landed on your bed? Well thanks to this man, you were up all night.